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Aziraphale stood before the Archangels, his hands clasped tightly behind his back in a desperate attempt to hide their shaking. He was fairly certain that it wasn’t working, if the look in Sandalphon’s eye was anything to go by, but he still ought to try. He was an angel of the Lord, after all, he needed to be– to be good.
To be better.
“We tallied up the numbers from the Flood, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, after a long enough pause that Aziraphale’s corporation had almost begun to sweat.
“O-oh?” Aziraphale said, forcing a smile that felt just as shaky as the rest of him. “A-and how, ah, how did that– how did that go?”
“There were twenty souls missing from the final count,” Michael said cooly.
Aziraphale froze. Twenty–
Crawly, in their serpent form, curled around the twenty sleeping children, deep in the belly of the Ark. They’d raised their head warily as Aziraphale approached, as he sat down on one of the crates nearby and said, as quietly as he could manage, “I’m under orders to protect everything on the Ark. It, ah. It’s supposed to last forty days, and I’m not sure I can get away with miracling up provisions.”
Crawly had uncurled, then, shifting back into their more human shape, looking at Aziraphale with something he couldn’t quite decipher in their eye.
“Won’t you get in trouble?” they asked quietly.
“As I said, I’m meant to protect all the creatures on the Ark,” Aziraphale said. “You all are on the Ark, now, are you not? And– well. I doubt that they would even think to ask.”
Aziraphale swallowed nervously. “Might, ah. Might they have gone…?” He pointed downwards, then quickly squeezed his hands together again.
“They didn’t,” Michael said.
Oh, no. “I, ah, I’m afraid I don’t know–”
“There were also,” Gabriel said, “traces of a demonic presence on the Ark. You were on the Ark the whole time, weren’t you, Aziraphale?”
“I– I was, yes.”
“And you didn’t notice any demons while you were there?”
“I– they must have– must have been doing something to mask their presence. I don’t think– I, no, I didn’t see them, I–”
Gabriel sighed heavily. “Oh, Aziraphale. What are we gonna do with you?”
“This is the second time you’ve let this demon– not just any demon, this specific demon– ruin the Almighty’s plan,” Michael said.
Aziraphale was beginning to properly panic now. “I-I– I assure you, I never meant– I’m sorry, I am, really, I don’t–”
“It’s all right, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, and Aziraphale couldn’t quite hide his flinch as the Archangel’s hand landed on his shoulder, a little too hard to be friendly. “You’ve been down there too long. You just need to spend some time Up Here. Relax, decompress, pray. It’ll be good for you.”
Aziraphale’s blood ran cold. “Y-you mean–?”
“Come on, I’ll walk you there myself,” Gabriel said, not letting up on Aziraphale’s shoulder as he steered him through the brilliantly white halls of Heaven. Aziraphale stumbled along beside him, panic building in his chest. No, no, nonono, he’d been put in the Room a handful of times already and it was just– it was–
But then, he had disobeyed, hadn’t he? He hadn’t smote Crawly, when he most definitely should have. He had… he had let those twenty children live. And– and, yes, three of them had been less than a year old, and none of them were older than fifteen, and they– there was no way that they could have been responsible for the sins that the Almighty had condemned the humans for, they were so young–
Aziraphale almost shook his head in his effort to dislodge those thoughts. No. He couldn’t think like that. Didn’t dare. That was a path that led in only one direction, and merciless as Heaven could sometimes be, Aziraphale knew that Hell was worse.
Hell had to be worse.
“Right,” Gabriel said, stopping in front of the door– the door– and pulling a stone tablet out of nowhere. “I just need you to sign this form for me, here, and then you can get started. I’ll come get you when you need to get back to work. Got it?”
“Of course,” Aziraphale breathed, signing his sigil onto the tablet with his finger. It glowed briefly, a bright beam of angelic light, and then Gabriel had vanished the tablet and opened the door.
Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This is for my own good. I disobeyed. I questioned. I did the Wrong thing. I was a bad angel. I have to do this. I deserve this. This is good. This is Good.
He opened his eyes again and stepped inside, and the door swung shut behind him.
The Room was bright. Brilliantly, blindingly, perfectly white, glowing faintly with the light of Heaven at all times. It was– it was a tad overwhelming, and he’d never quite managed to make his eyes get used to it, not in all the time he’d been in here.
It had never been terribly long, before. The first time– the first time had been a year, just after the Garden, and Aziraphale… he hadn’t known what to expect. Hadn’t known what it would be like. It was… well, to be perfectly frank, it was rather awful. But he understood, now. He knew that this was good, it was Good, it was good and right and just and he was just– it was further proof of his failings, that he spent this time waiting for it to be over rather than contemplating the majesty of the Almighty and the perfection of Her Plan. It was– it was his fault. It had to be.
Aziraphale sighed, pressing himself up against one of the walls and sliding down to the floor. He knew better than to take his wings out– the space wasn’t quite large enough for it, and he couldn’t put them away again once they were out– but there were other things he could do to pass the time.
The count had already started up in his head, counting how many seconds he had been in the room. He’d learnt that trick the third time he’d been in here– just over three weeks that time, as it turned out. It made it easier to keep track of– of everything, really, if he had the count running. He’d made it to about two minutes now– no time at all. With a soft sigh, Aziraphale settled himself a little more comfortably against the wall, closed his eyes in a futile attempt to protect them from the glare of the Room, and waited, just counting.
###
Seven million, six hundred and eighty-four thousand, three hundred and ninety-two.
That made it the longest he’d been here, since that first reprimand after Eden (though, he hadn’t known that at the time, of course, he’d only learnt it after he’d been let out– after they’d come to fetch him from his, his time off, his meditations, he may have technically been trapped in here but it wasn’t– to call it letting him out implied that he didn’t want to do this, which would– it would be absurd). Nearly three months, now. He’d thought– he’d hoped–
No, he scolded himself. You were– you were simply dreadful. A wretched angel. You need this time here, to contemplate, to pray. You are simply being ungrateful to the Archangels’ understanding and mercy. Do you think that, if you were to disobey Hell’s orders, they would simply let you sit alone in a perfectly safe room and contemplate what you had done wrong? You must do better. Be better. That is the only way to fix this.
Seven million, six hundred and eighty-four thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five.
###
Sixty-four million, four hundred and twenty-six thousand, eight hundred and forty-seven.
There were people whispering, somewhere.
Aziraphale could hear them, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying. They had been talking for quite some time, now, and didn’t seem any closer to letting him out, so he tried to ignore them. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure whether they were real or not. He wasn’t entirely sure whether he was real or not, though when he twisted the hem of his robe around his fingers tight enough to hurt it certainly began to feel as though he was. Perhaps that was enough, for now. Perhaps he would need to do some further experimentation later. Once he got out. He would get out soon, he knew it. They would let him out soon. Any day, now. Any minute. Any second.
Sixty-four million, four hundred and twenty-seven thousand, two hundred and nine.
###
One hundred and twenty-seven million, sixty-two thousand, nine hundred and ninety eight.
Aziraphale had his eyes closed again, blocking out the image of Crawly that lurked in the opposite corner of the room. It was an illusion, he knew that, Crawly themself would never set foot in Heaven again if they could help it, they had said so much themself, but Aziraphale was no longer certain whether it was an illusion conjured by somebody else or by his own mind.
Weak, he scolded himself. A good angel would still be all right. A good angel would be patient. A good angel wouldn’t conjure up images of their adversary across from them.
A good angel wouldn’t be so very tempted to open their eyes right now.
Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut more firmly, which did nothing to block out the glow of the Room but did very well to block out the Crawly-shaped image still staring at him. He just… he needed to be Good. Surely they could see him, in here. Surely they would come. If he was good enough, if he was really, truly Good, they would come for him. They would let him out again. Everything would be all right, they’d let him go, and everything would… would go back to normal.
He just had to be Good.
One hundred and twenty-seven million, sixty-three thousand, four hundred and two.
###
He’d lost the count.
Aziraphale had lost the count. He’d been arguing with Crawly, explaining why this was good, why this was right, why he had to stay here, and he’d gotten upset, and he’d fumbled the count, and forgotten where he was, and– and now, there was nothing here, really. Nothing keeping him tethered to this place, to his corporation.
He twisted the worn-through, tattered, torn hem of his robe around his fingers, but it no longer hurt like it used to, no longer provided that grounding, that feeling, that desperately-needed anchor. He was floating away, lost and confused and desperate, lying on his back, his thoughts circling over his head like vultures.
How could he have lost the count?
###
The Room was cold, always cold, so so cold, but Aziraphale was hot, sweating, burning.
He dragged his robe over his head, threw it across the Room, and it fluttered to the floor accusatorially.
“Don’t,” he breathed. “I’m not– I’m not. I’m not. I’ll be Good. I’ll be Good. I won’t Fall. I won’t. I won’t.”
Because if this was how Aziraphale struggled under the mercy of Heaven, then there wasn’t even the faintest chance that he would survive in Hell.
###
His stomach itched.
Aziraphale scratched at it through his robe, humming tunelessly to himself.
Perhaps I ought to count again, he thought briefly.
But then– what was the point? He’d lost track of the days quite some time ago, now. What was the point of counting?
Still, he thought. It might be something to do.
He scratched at his stomach again, still humming faintly.
###
People were laughing.
Aziraphale pressed his hands to his ears, trying to block them out. Block them out. He had to–
Gabriel, his laughter booming.
Sandalphon, his laugh not-quite-right in that way it always was.
Michael and Uriel, sneering through their laughter.
Crawly, their laugh bright and loud as it always was.
Aziraphale whimpered, curling into himself tighter, the brightness of the Room stabbing endlessly through his eyelids. The laughter was getting louder, and there was nothing he could do against it. Nothing he could do. Nothing.
Nothing.
###
He was dreaming.
He had to be dreaming, because he was outside.
Outside, on Earth.
Crawly was there, smiling at him.
There were humans. Sights. Scents. Sounds. Motion and activity and a breeze on his face.
No one was watching him.
No one cared.
It was wonderful.
And then he opened his eyes, and the brightness of the Room pierced them once more.
###
There was a sharp, bright pain on his stomach.
He blinked, squinting down at it. There was– red. Red, on his fingers, on stomach. Under his fingernails.
He’d– he’d scratched enough to draw blood.
The pain was– it shot through him, clearing his head of the fog that had built up over the past… however long it had been. And the blood– when it dripped down onto the floor of the Room, it vanished, the Room was unchangeable and always had been, but he was not, he was not.
He pressed his thumbnail into the edge of the largest cut and scraped.
###
His prayers had changed.
He used to pray for… for clarity, for understanding.
Now it's…
Let me out, let me out, let me out, let me out, letmeout letmeout letmeoutletmeoutletmeout–
He didn’t pray much, anymore.
###
He paced in circles around the Room, around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and–
It hurt to breathe, so he didn’t. His fingers were red. So was his stomach. It still hurt, a sharp, pulsing pain, but even that had begun to fade in and out, in and out, in and out.
He paced, around and around and around and around and around and around and around and…
###
There were footsteps.
Footsteps, outside the room.
His head snapped up, panic catching in his throat. He scrambled for the robe he’d tossed aside some time ago. He had to put it on again. Had to hide. Hide himself, hide his stomach, hide his soft weak pathetic useless failure bad angel body, just in case, just in case.
A faint line appeared in one of the walls. A tiny sliver of darkness. Marring the perfect brilliance of the Room.
This was real. It had to be. The Room was perfect. Unchanging. Bright. He’d never seen it any other way.
The sliver grew. The door swung slowly open.
A figure stood on the other side.
“Aziraphale!” the voice said.
He cringed back (loud too loud too much too big someone else can’t can’t can’t).
Then he paused.
Aziraphale. That was right. He was Aziraphale.
He pushed himself to his feet. Wobbled dangerously. Nearly fell. Caught himself.
“Hello,” he said. His voice was wrong. Rasping. Hurt.
The figure (violet eyes hand on his shoulder Gabriel) grimaced. “Right. Well. Vacation’s over, sunshine. Time to get back to work.”
Aziraphale (Aziraphale, Aziraphale) nodded.
Gabriel raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you… gonna come out here?”
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. He… he was leaving. He was leaving. He was leaving the Room. He was out.
He stumbled forwards. Nearly knocked into Gabriel. The Archangel caught him. Steadied him.
Heaven was dim. Dark. Shadowed and strange, after the light of the Room.
“Whoa there,” Gabriel said. His hand was tight, on Aziraphale’s arm. Too tight. It hurt, and not in a good way. “Little unsteady, still?”
Aziraphale took a deep breath, forced the words out. “How– how long–?”
Gabriel sucked a breath in through his teeth. “Let me think... about... I think it was about seventy Earth-years? Not too long. Here, I’ll do you a favor, drop you off near your next assignment. I’m gonna need a report by the end of the month. Got it?”
Aziraphale nodded, too fast, too long, but he couldn’t stop. Seventy– seventy–
Gabriel snapped, and then he vanished– no, Aziraphale had vanished, vanished and reappeared on Earth, in the middle of a vast, empty desert.
It was night.
Aziraphale stood, frozen, his heart hammering. The desert extended all around him, out and out and out, as far as he could see and farther, and there was sand soft and shifting under his feet and wind on his face and stars overhead and darkness, finally, finally it was dark, and Aziraphale legs gave out beneath him and he tumbled into the sand and curled up into a ball and closed his eyes (dark, dark, it was dark, the light was gone and it was dark) and sobbed.
###
The sun rose and fell three times before Aziraphale managed to sit up and heal the scratches on his stomach. Some of them had healed already, of course, over the course of the seventy years he had been in the Room, leaving scars behind that it simply wasn’t worth the effort to try and will away, but the rest of it vanished quite quickly once he actually made the attempt.
He was fine. He was fine. He’d spent quite some time up in Heaven (more than half a century, he’d been alone for so long–), and now he was refreshed and ready to face the world again. He would be good, this time. Properly Good. The kind of Good that Heaven approved of.
Aziraphale stood up slowly, closed his eyes, and cast his senses out, looking for the nearest hub of humanity. There was a city nearby, about a day’s walk away, shorter if he flew (though he didn’t want to do that, not at all, and wasn’t entirely sure why), and so he set off towards it, humming to himself once more.
He was perfectly all right. Heaven was Good, it was just and right, and so their actions were good and just and right, as well. And if Aziraphale couldn’t see that, well, that was no one’s fault but his own.
He would do better, this time. That’s all there was to it. He just had to be better.
How hard could that possibly be?