Chapter Text
“Beautiful nebula. Look at that. I helped build that one.”
[Before the beginning, mid-creation]
There was a lot to create, so much that, despite the beauty of it all, it had become repetitive. Most of the creatives involved were fed up with quiet yellow G class stars, and please do not even mention red dwarfs to aides, eighty-ineffable-five percent of every star to be made. Red tape has been named red for a reason, though when someone tempted humans into it, he said it was after his hair color.
So, when a mightier display was proposed, every top designer fought to be on board. What was to be known as the Carina Nebula, was meant as a centerpiece, much like the Pleiades. Of course, aides were to make the usual bulk of lower mass stars… but that would just be some glitter around the true jewels: a slew of glorious and blinding giants, worthy of the Almighty.
The plan was neat.
A first generation of star was made, standard work for aides again, and then exploded into a cloud of every other element needed to start the actual work.
Each designer would make their signature giant stars out of the cloud, and then their powerful combined stellar winds would wipe away any leftover dust, leaving only the brightest and purest light sources to be admired against a clean sterile background. Ultraviolet and blue giant stars, many in close pairs, scorching Wolf-Rayets and even rare luminous blue variables, there, made and placed.
The plan was neat and orderly, and it went down like a lead duck.
For unknown reasons, the leftover gas clouds didn’t dissipate, coalescing instead into darker globules and pillars. They tried accelerating time, in the hopes that the stellar winds just needed to pick up speed, only to have some of the giant stars burning through their fuel even faster, blowing up and spitting out yet more clouds… an open clusterfuck, which generated enough blame shifting to start the inflation phase in the early universe, as everyone tried to distance themselves from the mess. It abruptly ended when one Gabriel from planning launched the Magellanic clouds project: a neat way to distract the elite workforce far enough from the now multicolored smear to pretend it never happened, an even neater way to land himself a promotion. Archangel did ring so good.
Aides were left alone to finish… whatever is that aides do. Among them, the one that didn’t have his questions answered during kick-off meetings and had decided to get answers on his own. With innocent tests like stopping time around gas clouds, which led them to become too thick to be wiped away when the big stars were switched on.
Well, he was meant to get some practice. One day, he will need to stop time in a very difficult circumstance.
It went down quite well if you ask him. Twirling shining nuances against spooky darker clouds (bit like an angel wrestling with a demon): that’s a proper centerpiece.
[Present time, among the floating pages of Crowley’s astronomy book]
Whatever aides did, as far as one red-haired aide is concerned, included hiding newly minted stars inside thick clouds. That’s exactly what you can see on the same page Crowley is looking at. The top end of a pillar in the southern part of the Carina Nebula, dark dust illuminated by the giants stars outside, blasted by their radiations and, seemingly, with no light of its own.
And yet, if one was to look carefully, there are twin jets coming out of the pillar. The telltale sign of a very young star with its accretion disk, safe from the winds outside. It will grow planets from the leftover elements in the dust, like metals. And someday, someone will dwell there, and will dig them out to make lurex, which will be used as the mane for a toy unicorn, and a child who had a hard day will beam a happy smile as they comb it. A smile light-years in the making, and yet worth it, born from a spark that was given a chance to survive.
It’s not neat, nor orderly. But if someone was to ask to be shown a Great Plan, I’ll have an editor print that nebula on a new astronomy book, prominently featured in the gift ideas section of the catalogue they send out for Christmas to every bookseller in the London area, and just to make sure the hint will be noticed even by the most oblivious storeowner, the book will happen to be bound in a stylish black leather cover, and the ad will be positioned so that the circular stain from the cocoa mug that will be forgotten over it, will in fact encircle it when lifted.
The caption will say the star buried in the obscuring dust is classified as HH 666 IRS [1]. A star that has to grow its world in the dark, because outside with the other stars, it would be stripped away. The rumor that he did invent selfies, is therefore correct.
[Heaven offices, a few months before the beginning]
Gabriel (Archangel Gabriel, if you please) raises an eyebrow at the new project just delivered from on High. Looks like… a zoo for new creatures? Some unfinished beta judging by the fancy codename Eden, and the Archangel is all in favor of keeping experiments in strictly segregated areas.
Nothing like sandboxing to prevent issues from spilling among their ranks. Again. So, let there be a sandy desert all around, and then a tall wall. Two gates for maintenance (which can include emergency smiting) one facing East and one West - sunrise and dusk metaphors pair well with everything.
And a couple of guardians to watch over them. Could spare more, even with the shortage of wings after the ‘pruning’, but then… there’ll be more policies to be put in place to guard the guardians… The planned creatures seem so far lesser than any of them, won’t require much to be kept in check. Vast sun scorched dunes as far as the eye can see, should be message enough if these new pets can take a hint.
Which is all well and good. After the mess with the Fallen ones, after Creation has been wrapped up, there were worries the Almighty may decide Angels… weren’t up to Her needs anymore. And go and make something mightier to replace them. But this is clearly not what’s happening here, so, Gabriel relaxes and readies a neat and orderly schedule for building the whole thing, like the productive right-wing Archangel he is.
He gets back his plans approved and some feedback. Enough to know his work has received the proper attention, little enough to confirm his plan was good to begin with. It’s mostly about some odd tree to be placed in the center, and the choice of the two guardians.
The position of Guardian of the Eastern Gate is to be entrusted to the Principality Aziraphale.
Which confirms, not a big project. Middle rank angel, only reason Gabriel remembers him, the embarrassing number of footnotes in his reports. Maybes, but alsos, shoudn’t wes… there’s a reason why forms have binary answers. Compliance is a yes or no business and nuances are just a waste of everyone’s Grace.
Sure, Gabriel can’t exactly picture Aziraphale policing creatures, but probably the Almighty can’t too, and that’s why he’s going to be issued a sword. Which is not really for him, but this bit, I didn’t write it down. Gabriel wouldn’t understand anyway, and Aziraphale would know it himself. Sometimes, there’s simply no point in putting plans into words.
The blade is to be a flaming one, so Gabriel assumes it’s the sword that’s meant to do the scaring, but since it can’t swing itself, it’s been issued an Aziraphale to be carried around. Well, the Principality has training as a soldier, one right arm and two legs. Checked.
The position of Guardian of the Western Gate is listed as “to be provided by another department, when the time comes”. As far as Gabriel is concerned, that’s a checked too.
[Eden, the last days before the beginning]
Aziraphale is supposed to guard the Eastern Gate, not to leave its position. Leaving a gate unattended would be bad.
But oddly enough, there is no one guarding the gate on the western side. So, he’s taken to traverse the garden to patrol the other side too, from time to time. Strictly because leaving a gate unattended would be bad, certainly not for the daisy bouquets, the fruit drinks, or the new melodies the humans are humming or dancing to.
He’s to observe, not to interfere.
But wouldn’t smiling at them make them feel more secure? That’s what a good guardian does, radiate safety.
And may not a little chat prove useful, to spot any issue before it becomes a problem? Being proactive, that’s what it is.
Also, humans are tasked with assigning names to everything Eden holds, doesn’t that imply someone has to listen to keep records of it? Must be it.
The border walls are sterile enough for Aziraphale to keep finding new reasons to wander and wonder in the garden instead, but at this point of the story, he’s still a beginner at this game, spending most of his time watching over his assigned gate to please the procedure.
This leaves time aplenty for another being, one who had to learn faster to survive, to slither around unseen.
He’s to interfere, not to observe.
Nor to stare. But, that’s how gathering intelligence on the enemy is done, if you want to know when to strike unnoticed (he’d like to be noticed, but that will have to wait until the job is done). And if it takes him more days than it should, can’t fault him for taking the assignment seriously. (For longing for voices that do not scream, for a warmth that won’t burn into the flesh).
Cannot delay forever, though. Just another day. One last day to bask in the sun, and when it starts to lower on the horizon, he crawls from the garden to the wall, climbing up and up, until he’s over the gate at the western end, where the sun still reaches.
Looking out, all black scales and coiled questions. What would it be like, for them, to eat the fruit? Would it give answers? Or just trouble? Could not knowing be any better? Cage you cannot see, still a cage.
His slit eyes keep scanning the dunes, looking farther. What’s past them? This planet is so much bigger than the walled garden, must be a reason for it. He’s always looked farther. Crafting celestial bodies that span for light years, farther came with the job, and stayed even when that job was gone.
He keeps watch while the sun grows redder and softer. He keeps watch as the stars begin to sparkle - they don’t in outer space, it’s funny how they look different when seen from a planet – trying to spot his ones. Can’t go back. Would he, if he could? Stop asking to not fall? It’s always questions, never answers with him. Good thing probably his new job is only about the questions. Tomorrow, he’ll ask the humans. The time has come, for them to seek their own answers.
[After the Ritz, and a very good but now rather depleted pub]
Free now, meaning, he can do as his heart wants. Can he, really?
Because they are at his bookshop’s door, thanks the Bentley, and what his corporation’s presently very rapidly beating organ wants, is to nail the keyhole without sobering up, stumble inside, double tell the sign to be on the closed side, pull down the curtains, lock the world behind them, lower the lights, slam his (his, his, his) demon against the closest vertical surface (bonus points if it’s under the eastern mark) for stability, which they distinctly both lack at the moment.
And kiss him till Kingdom tries to come again.
Aziraphale focuses very hard on this very soberly conceived plan and goes through the above list in meticulous order – Heaven’s hammered into him the notion that nothing like strict adherence to a procedure ensures no doubts could creep in before is all said and done - but the very same alcohol that allowed him to hatch the plan is now causing it to take a bit more time than he had accounted for.
So it happens, an unplanned glitch right before the slam against vertical thingy milestone.
There’s no closest vertical surface.
Because his demon is very horizontal. He’s apparently headed straight, or whatever the best impression of moving straight a completely plastered snake brain could pull off, to the couch and crumpled all over it, leg over the back cushions, another on the far end, shoes and socks and jacket and necklace and belt randomly miracled across the floor alongside one forgotten hand still holding his glasses, the other arm twisted under him. Snake brain, again, not the best at limbs, especially after a whole lot of too much.
Completely asleep. It is so odd to see him still. He looks thin, without his usual puffing-up-my-cool-demon-feathers act. He looks easy to hurt.
Aziraphale’s plan comes to a screeching halt. What on… on… well, Earth, was he thinking, anyway?
Crowley deserves so infinitely better than a drunken make-out session, without a word beforehand about, oh Someone, what he’s ended up saying at the bandstand? What he’s left him to deal with? “Forces of hell figured out it was my fault” Crowley’s said, and it truly registered only when Uriel pointed out the demon was in trouble, not off in the stars. He’s been so focused on his call upstairs that he’s left Crowley with no other option than.
Go home alone and unscrew that cap.
‘I rather made a mess of things’, subtitle of his whole existence.
‘And here you are, planning to start taking from him again, because you know he’s going to give you anything if you ask, and even when you don’t, while for all your love, holy and earthly, and in spite of all your books, you’ve never been able to find the words to keep him safe without hurting him yourself, you pathetic excuse…’
An emergency sober up initiates before things could spiral worse. No. He is definitely not going to repeat to himself a single sentence Heaven has spit towards him. Enough of that.
Half a mile away, a pub owner will find that his missing stock is back in half-filled, oddly warm, opened bottles piled on a single table, none of the contents matching the labels, but smelling rather heavenly. He will decide it best not to speculate and schedule a blind tasting contest for Sunday to make some earnings out of the leftovers.
In the bookshop, tea is made.
“To gross matter” the angel toasts quietly, a pale smile back on his face, then slowly sips, finally realizing how completely drained he’s too. Nowhere near the state of mind he needs to properly Talk Things. Not today, not for a while. So much happened, they just powered thought it all trying to keep their world in one piece, no time to elaborate. Maybe it’s been a grace. Would have been way scarier otherwise, wouldn’t it?
They’ve never been free before, not once in their several millennia long existences.
Free. He ought to let Crowley be free, feel free, not to bind him. Let him have time and space to understand what he could want, he has choices now.
There’s a sound of fabric against fabric, and Aziraphale steps back toward the couch. Crowley has curled up, legs and arms folded tightly against his chest, the closest his leggy corporation could get to the coiled ball of spires his other form feels safer to sleep in. He seems to loosen up a tad as the Angel comes closer. They can feel each other’s presence, their senses wider than the earthly plane. Would Crowley sleep better if he could feel him nearby?
Or, how about he drops the excuses and acknowledges how much he yearns to stay close to his demon?
This, he could let himself have now.
He breathes deeply, hand pressed against his mouth to hush a lone sob, he isn’t going to start weeping and wake Crowley up. He slowly gathers his armchair, softly placing it right in front of the couch, not even thinking about fetching a book. He already has everything he wants to look at, and finally, time to, in every detail. The fiery shade of his hair, the way the ends are beginning to relax out of his precise hairstyle to fall into his natural loose curls, his angular face that can wear so soft expressions when he thinks no one is looking, the lines of his collarbones and the planes of his shoulders, slender fingers he would very much like to hold within his own again.
His quiet breathing, just like the humans he’s so similar to. Creators, all of them. Every being Aziraphale has fallen in love with, has been a creator. And every spark of theirs, it doesn’t matter how important, the whole universe or a garden, a star or a new excuse for lunch, a rare book or a roll of sushi, Aziraphale cherishes it.
Especially the silliest ones. No one of all his academic friends over the ages, if asked about debate topics between immortal beings, would have guessed “plant misters”. And yet, a week into their “godfathering” in the ambassador’s residence, that’s what they’ve spent an evening just going on about, with Crowley trying to drill some basic gardening notion into Aziraphale (gardens, not really what he handled best)… and there’s been dolphins, ducks, crêpes, all the silly things that made a language for just the two of them to say without voicing.
Aziraphale never slept much but would often rest reading his favorites books over and over, savoring every line, tracing every illuminated detail, mulling over each thought that made them. He keeps watch over Crowley in the very same way [2], rising from the armchair only four and a half days later, to brew a cup of coffee to a stirring demon who’s throwing around his long limbs, all six of them, like a very uncoordinated baby pigeon, and yawning like he’s reading his jaw to swallow an aardvark whole.
[2nd of July]
He’s left Crowley time and space, and the only use he’s made of it so far has been to stick around, thank Her for that, whether or not that’s the proper holding address for a gratitude he hasn’t been able to deliver to the intended recipient yet.
He has delighted in every night Crowley has spent in the bookshop, in his so-done face in the morning before coffee, in the book fair in Paris he’s decided to visit just to give Crowley a chance to have time alone, only for the demon to start planning the itinerary using a ‘we’.
And he has thoroughly enjoyed their growing collection of tactically arranged cacti, Crowley’s answer after he’s made clear no plant that needed misting was allowed near the bookshelves (but they were very welcome to be coddled upstairs, ngk).
Nothing deters customers like a spine into their grabby fingers.
But Aziraphale has also mourned, more than he likes to admit or show, for a family lost. And felt so stupid for counting as loss people who wanted him dead and lies he has tried to live up to for so long. Maybe he was mourning what Heaven could have been, should have been, and his stubborn hope for them to listen, to change. All dead when the Metatron answered “War” and the only response in his mind in that moment had been “Crowley”, filling up all his cracks and keeping him going.
He’s lost his home, both, only to realize his demon has kept their side ready for him all along, to catch him before he could even feel a fall, guessing an angel that collected books and prophecies, was bound to find answers, and need a new home for it, one day. His flat, his side.
He doesn’t know how he could have faced it alone, he doesn’t know how Crowley has faced truly Falling alone, and he doesn’t know what though is more painful. What he knows is, his demon always has ideas for new places to visit together as soon as he sees the angel stare into a mug of cold cocoa.
All places that seem to be reachable only through long, winding roads, incidentally.
It’s an artisanal brewery on a hillside today, old walls and a long cast iron pergola, covered in wisteria that has just been ordered to bloom, or else.
Over the lovely turquoise vintage tables, among leaflets for snacks and souvenirs, there’s a most interesting advertisement. It’s fashioned after a formal invitation, golden embossed lettering over a black and white checkered background. It promises picnic baskets, a variety of drinks, a vintage car show, a rock & classics gig, and fireworks, on the seaside under the Seven Sisters, South Downs, two days from now.
It seems just perfect. And it rather is, the plan may be ineffable but sometimes a little bit of it can be tempted into motion by properly formatted human words.
And Aziraphale needs something to interrupt the standoff between his demon and the wisteria, which is calling the bluff. The vine has not bent to newlyweds’ whims all spring and it’s not going to start with those two.
It works. Crowley drops his call upon locusts [3], along with his jaw and the use of vowels, the instant the angel utters “picnic”.
Oh dear, time to ask it seems.