Work Text:
Lending a Hand
Aziraphale knew that this was the most embarrassing thing he’s done in his whole existence as a Principality. Not only had he stumbled over absolutely nothing, but he also dropped the new foodstuffs that he was tasked to deliver to the Archangel’s banquet.
In front of the Archangels.
A few of them chuckled, like Sandalphon and Michael, and others like Uriel and Sariel just moaned or growled in annoyance. The Archangel Gabriel just tilted his head at the scene with a confused look, but otherwise, did not react.
Aziraphale’s face heated up in shame and embarrassment as he knelt to pick up all the tiny orbs of the green foodstuff. He only managed to pick up two or three before a slender hand appeared in his peripheral view. Looking up, he gasped at the sight of one of the Archangels leaning over him, arm stretched out as if to help him stand. Aziraphale didn’t actually recognize this one.
This Archangel had long flaming red hair and a slender, angular frame. If it wasn’t for the multitudes of halos, Aziraphale might have never had known he was an Archangel in the first place. He must have been one of the ones that was always out in the depths of nowhere making those shiny ‘star’ things, if the slight smattering of stardust twinkling around his halo was anything to go by.
Aziraphale didn’t know exactly what the Archangel wanted. It looked like he wanted to help him up, but the thought itself was preposterous. Archangels were perfect and did not stoop so low as to pick up a lesser, clumsy angel off the ground. Perhaps he wanted Aziraphale to give him something? It was hard to tell with the blank look he was giving him.
But then he saw the Archangel’s hand move. He curled his fingers in towards his palm quickly; twice. Come on, it said. Aziraphale was in no position to refuse. Slowly, so that the Archangel could shift away in case Aziraphale read his gesture wrong, he placed his hand in the Archangel’s and was promptly hoisted up to his feet. Once Aziraphale got his bearings, the Archangel removed his hand from his. (Something in Aziraphale missed it already.)
Aziraphale, stunned by the fact that an Archangel just touched him, turned his hand palm-side up to look at it. He expected that perhaps there may be some residual stardust remining there, or maybe some sort of powerful energy that had rubbed off on him, but there was just his hand, normal as it always was.
Until there was a snap, and suddenly the plate of foodstuff was back in his hand, perfectly set as if he’d never dropped it in the first place.
Aziraphale looked back up at the kind Archangel, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to find the words he wanted to say.
“Th-thank you,” he managed eventually, his voice barely above a whisper. For whatever reason, his face was still burning.
“’Course,” said the Archangel. There was the briefest tint of pink on his cheeks for a moment that Aziraphale was fairly sure wasn’t there a moment ago. The Archangel then calmly turned around and returned to the banquet table to rejoin his siblings.
Aziraphale was somehow able to get the plate to the table without stumbling again, which was a miracle in itself considering the fact that his gaze never left the sight of the beautiful, kindly Archangel on the other side of the table.
It was impossible to hear anything over the roaring of Gabriel’s lightning. The battlefield was lit up with purple bolts as the Messenger lost himself to the will of God. They just needed one final push to rid Heaven of the rest of the Fallen, and so She commanded Gabriel, effectively turning him into a mindless storm, nothing more than a weapon in the shape of an angel.
Aziraphale had been given a task as well, and his troop had spread out in search of any stragglers that had managed to escape Gabriel’s God-induced rage. There were hardly any of them left, but those who remained were easy to see with their blackened wings standing out against the white of Heaven.
Aziraphale spotted one that looked to be downed if its lack of movement was anything to go by. He easily swooped down from the air above to land next to the beast. He wanted to get in a killing blow if he could. He didn’t want to let the poor soul suffer any more than it already had.
He approached the black mass after landing, holding his sword up, ready to bring it down on the enemy. If he struck the demon right between its wings, the fiend would be finished in a heartbeat. No additional suffering needed.
Once he got within attacking range, he was somehow able to hear the demon over the thundering of Gabriel in the distance. It was hissing, though not in the way Aziraphale expected a demon to hiss. It was hissing in pain, crouched over on itself with its hands hovering over its scaled leg like it was trying to use its powers to heal itself.
It wasn’t working.
Aziraphale knew what he had to do. It would be best to attack the beast while it was distracted and end its life and pain in one fell swoop. It is what any sensible Principality would do. It was his duty to his fellow angels and to the Almighty to destroy the very thing that threatened them and their home.
And yet the thought barely crossed his mind as an option.
Instead, he switched his sword to his offhand and approached it. The demon heard his footsteps and spun his head quickly towards Aziraphale. It took in a sharp breath at the sight of him and immediately took a defensive position. On its knees, it folded in on itself with one hand still pressed to its injured leg and the other held up in an attempt to protect its head. Its eyes were squeezed tight, just waiting for that final blow.
It waited and waited, but the strike never came.
Aziraphale had instead bent his knee and leaned forward to offer his hand. (He would, unfortunately, have no explanation for this when asked by Michael later. This would subsequently result in him getting assigned to Earth as the Guardian of the Eastern Gate.)
After a few moments, the demon opened one of its eyes and peered at the angel offering his hand to one of the Fallen. It eventually sat up enough to get a good look at him.
Their eyes met, and they both made a quiet gasp.
Aziraphale recognized the former Archangel immediately, regardless of the golden, slitted eyes that looked back at him. By the look of the demon’s face, he recognized Aziraphale, too.
Aziraphale simply leaned forward a bit more, keeping his hand stretched out. When the demon did nothing but gape at him, he curled his fingers in toward his palm, twice, in quick succession.
After another moment, the demon cautiously took his hand and let Aziraphale help him to his feet. Aziraphale pushed a little trickle of power into the touch, and the bruises and cuts on the demon quickly began to heal. Once every injury to his body was healed, they eventually let go of each other. (Aziraphale could have sworn the demon looked disappointed by that.)
In the distance they could hear Gabriel’s thunder getting louder and louder. They both knew that Gabriel wouldn’t be able to stop until he exhausted himself of Her holy wrath. There was no stopping the Storm.
Aziraphale turned back toward the demon and whispered as loudly as he could, “Go!”
The demon gave one final forlorn look at Aziraphale, nodded, and ran off to the only place there was to go:
The Edge of Heaven.
“D’you remember anything from the War, angel?” Crowley asked curiously from where his body slid off the couch like the snake he was. Perhaps he’d been a bit too relaxed in the angel’s bookshop. How could he not be though, when his new life as a free agent granted him so much peace? No, the floor was fine for the moment being. After all, he could still see his angel puttering around the shop from down here.
“I’m afraid not, my dear,” Aziraphale said distractedly. He was reaching up to slot a book into one of the higher shelves, giving Crowley a nice view of his bottom as the angel stood on his tip-toes. “They made most of us forget the War after the Earth was made. Something about not wanting us to ‘bear the trauma,’ as it were.”
“’S probably for the best.” Crowley shrugged even though Aziraphale couldn’t see him. “Probably nothing that was worth remembering anyway.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed Aziraphale, nodding to himself at the new placement of the book. It was probably one of his first editions that he believed wouldn’t be found by customers if it was too difficult to reach.
“But you know what is worth remembering?”
“What’s that, my dear?”
“That the new bistro way down the road opens today. I’m sure they have some crepes that need to be tasted for authenticity. It’s about lunch time, anyway.” He grinned at the little excited gasp that came from his angel.
“Oh, my dear, you’re right! It does open today!” Aziraphale quickly fished his timepiece out of his pocket to see that it was indeed almost lunchtime. “We should go immediately so that the queue doesn’t get too long! Let me just close up the shop, and we can go.”
Crowley chuckled softly to himself as he watched Aziraphale bustle to the front door to flip the sign. He took a deep breath and grumbled when he propped himself up on his elbows, not ready to face the arduous task up getting up.
But then a soft, round hand came down in front of him. He traced his gaze up the arm, past the shoulder, and to the bright and absolutely glowing face of his beloved angel beaming down at him.
“Come on, my dear. There are no crepes waiting for us down on the floor.”
Crowley glanced from the proffered hand to the angel’s face and back down at the hand. He slid his own into Aziraphale’s, feeling his heart pick up at the warmth and familiarity of it all.
“Yeah… Uh, thanks, angel,” he said quietly. He was still getting used to offering thanks, but he felt like the angel really deserved this one.
Aziraphale pulled his demon up with no effort at all. “Of course, my dear.” He beamed that beautiful warm smile at him again. “Now off we go.”
This time, neither one of them let go. They held onto each other’s hand and set off into their marvelous world.
Together.