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"And here... a few more signatures, if you would be so kind, oh Supreme Archangel," Michael slammed another huge pile of papers onto his desk with a not-so-successfully concealed contemptuous sneer.
"Oh yes, of course," Aziraphale smiled at her. "In a jiffy. I'll get on it right away. As soon as I'm done with this," he gestured towards the mountains of papers his desk had almost disappeared under.
"No need to read it," a sharp voice broke the silence. "Just sign it."
"Well... but... but I need to know what's in it, don't I?" Aziraphale's smile still didn't falter. "To keep me in the loop, so to speak."
"Are you saying you don't trust your celestial brothers and their work? Do you want to undermine their authority?" Michael's eyes blazed with icy steel. "An excellent example to the other angels, indeed."
"But..."
The sound of Michal's clicking heels had already begun to fade away, until there was nothing but a deafening silence.
Aziraphale collapsed from his perfectly upright sitting position onto the unhappy heap on the tabletop. He buried his head in his hands with a sigh.
Will this never end? It was supposed to be wonderful! He was supposed to be a leading angel, improving Heaven, bringing joy to all men and angels alike! But instead...
He looked around at the endless white corridors, the walls, the desks, the sterile emptiness of white light. No books. No overstuffed shelves and comfortable, tattered armchairs, no statues and rugs and paintings, no candles and mugs of cocoa. Just bare, cold walls.
His stomach growled. He waved his hand with a stern expression and, with a decisive flick of his finger, put an end to his body's demands. He's an angel. He's in heaven. He doesn't need to eat or drink, he doesn't need cocoa or biscuits or wine. These things are over for him. Done forever.
He has tried. To have a coffee here in heaven, you know. The very first day he sat down at his pristine new desk, all excited to roll up his sleeves and get to work. And a big job needs a big cup of coffee!
He sent one of the lowest ranking angels down to Earth to fetch it, which had two purposes - one, of course, was good hot coffee, and the other was to stop Earth being something strange, unknown and frightening to the angels. To get them to know it a little.
He decided that they should be rotated daily, to give them a chance to look around the Earth a bit, to learn more about the mortals and, ideally, to grow fond of them. Armageddon is a lot harder to pull when you see people - real people, instead of just nameless pieces on a chessboard. Smart, funny, crazy people whose imagination knows no limits.
He was so happy with his plan - until a young angel brought him his coffee with a disgusted look on her face, accompanied by disapproving frowns from the higher angels. Well, change takes time, no need to worry!
So he continued to do things his way, sending angels to fetch drinks and snacks, and even offering biscuits to anyone who passed by. Who can resist chocolate chip cookies, right?
Turns out, everyone can.
And then Metatron appeared in a beam of light in his office. "You know, Aziraphale," he began urgently, "you're doing a wonderful job. Great. We all appreciate it here."
Aziraphale smiled, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. He suspected a big "but" was about to come. And he was right.
"As the supreme Archangel, you can do things your way, of course... that's your right. But there are also certain... traditions to consider. Values, so to speak. Values that are to be honoured."
"Oh, yes, traditions. I always honour them, I..."
"Heaven is not Earth, Aziraphale. We are superior beings, the highest, pure energy, wonder of Her creation. We stand high above inferior matter. We have no need of it, to be involved with it is considered vulgar by many, and to bring it here to Heaven..." He paused with a sigh. "Some angels have their doubts, Aziraphale. Doubts about whether you've become too domesticated on Earth, whether you're the right one to lead this place. I know you are, but... it would be... unwise to stir up needless discord. Especially now, when we all need to stand united and not compromise the harmony of Heaven at any cost. Don't you agree?"
Aziraphale nodded, a lump in his throat.
No more coffee. No biscuits, no inferior, disgusting matter. He looked regretfully at his immaculate desk and his spotless, barren office. How it could use some flowers. A carpet. Some bookshelves, maybe his favourite chair...
Initially, he'd wanted to bring it all in here, gradually transforming at least this little piece of Heaven in his own image, but he'd soon been forced to abandon the idea.
They didn't trust him. The higher angels looked down on him, he was a stranger, a traitor who had wormed his way back into Heaven by some unfathomable trickery, and they weren't going to just accept him into their midst.
So he tried. Did his best to allay their fears. Not to be different. To fit in. To be the most exemplary of exemplars, obedient, hardworking, mindful of his duties. He tried so hard to show that he has the purest of intentions, that he is one of them. Always has been...
In vain so far.
With a sigh, he opened a new file.
Adjustment of quota for small miracles in the field of octodon degus breeding concerning sections 4973/758a - 8615/643q
His eyes scanned the first line, not really taking in what he was reading.
If only he could visit Earth for a moment! Just for a few minutes! To see the bookshop, to see his books, who knew if Muriel was handling those sixteenth-century prints properly when he hadn't had time to explain it to her, to see Soho and London! Soaking up all the smells and tastes and bustle, sitting on a park bench for a while, watching ducks gorging themselves on peas and children on ice cream, love-struck couples embracing and friends laughing together.
He had tried to visit Earth just once, when he couldn't stand the white emptiness any long... er... when he had to make sure that everything was working as it should in London, that is. He was walking down the endless corridors to the lift when Metatron appeared around the corner.
"Praise to the Almighty, Aziraphale. Where are you going?"
"Well. I... I mean... I'm going to... er... London, sir. See if everything's in tip top shape over there!" He smiled nervously, wringing his joined hands.
"Have any alarms gone off?"
"Alarms? Er... no, sir."
"Do you sense any disturbance to the status quo?"
"Well... not really," his eyes slid over the walls and he chuckled again awkwardly, "but you know how it is. You can never be too careful!"
"Hm. In that case..." frosty gusts flashed through the kind voice, "isn't your job here more important?"
"Y-yes, of course, I just wanted to..."
"Exactly," Metatron patted him on the shoulder in a rather odd way, not really touching him, and began to lead him back down the corridor to his office. "I'm glad we agree. We're about to embark on great things, my dear boy, the greatest things. And I need you to be at your best!" He smiled at him once more, pushed him through the door and left.
He never tried again.
Oh right. Degus.
He blinked hard to keep the words from being a blur in front of his eyes.
Everything is all right. Absolutely great. Marvellous. He's fine. There's nothing wrong with him. He's among his own... Home. Where he belongs. Not missing a thing. If only... if only...
A pair of yellow eyes peeked out at him from behind the letters. A mischievous smile, full of white teeth with prominent canines - not the polite, cold smile the Heaven was full of, but a wide, heartwarming grin, radiating impishness and kindness, a smile that could light up the sharp-edged face, a whole room, a street, a city.
"Oh, Crowley..." he exhaled softly.
How he wished Crowley were here with him. If only he hadn't rejected him. How different everything would be, how wonderful! They could work and talk and laugh together, the endless whiteness around them broken by Crowley's lithe figure draped over the back of the nearest chair and the silence by his cheeky voice.
The demon's help would be invaluable - his keen judgement, his unerring grounding in reality, his inquisitive, imaginative mind with its many probing questions...
And company, he reluctantly admitted to himself somewhere in the back of his mind. His company alone would be treasured.
Crowley would not be intimidated by tradition, angels or Heaven; Crowley would bring so many plants into his heavenly office that he would turn it into a jungle; Crowley would smuggle in bottles of wine and boxes of sushi from Earth under his snow-white robes, which they would then secretly share, chatting and laughing. Crowley would have no regard for holiness and would always find something to amuse himself. To amuse them both.
Instead of carefully tiptoeing through the pristine corridors of heaven, Crowley would probably be roller-skating through them and would by trying to hit some moustachioed, pompous horse-riding dictator with a wine cork from the Celestial Terrace and...
Crowley wouldn't stand five feet away from him. Like everyone else around here. Always distant, always so far away...
Aziraphale unconsciously wrapped his arms around himself.
There was no touching in Heaven. No embraces, no fleeting touches, no friendly reassurances of each other's presence. There was no reason to, after all, the physical manifestation of their essence was not important. It was just... it was just that he could acutely feel how much he missed those small gestures and expressions of affection. How his body grew tenser and starved.
How it kept leaning instinctively to the left, where Crowley used to be, how his hand would time and again rise up to touch a smaller one, or arm or shoulder, only to drop back down in defeat when all it found was empty air. How his whole body was always unconsciously searching for tiniest of contact... finding none.
Why, oh why did Crowley abandon him? Why did he reject him?
He offered him everything - the perfect solution to all their problems. They could be together, both angels, both happy! It was more wonderful than he'd ever dared to dream... and Crowley threw it away without hesitation.
Why would he do that? Was his wounded pride really more precious to him than being together?
He wiped his eyes with an embroidered handkerchief and quickly looked around to see if anyone could see him. He was angry at himself for such a display of weakness, but even angrier at Crowley. Why couldn't he just put his stubbornness aside for once? Just for once. For his sake.
He says he doesn't want to be an angel. He doesn't want to! What nonsense is that? Is there a better, purer form of being than an angel? Infinitely good, righteous and pure? How could anyone not want to be one?
He says he likes being a demon. Oh, please! Does he really expect Aziraphale to believe that? After all those thousands of years? After the endless sadness in the yellow eyes with every I'm a demon. I lie. I am a demon. Evil is what I do! ? Is he really supposed to believe that with Crowleys reluctance to do real evil, with his compassion for human suffering and his willingness to do good whenever there's the slightest chance that no one will find out?
He says he doesn't believe in good and evil, in black and white, in the glorious Heaven and the terrible Hell, but he's still afraid of not being evil. At least to appear so. He's always looking over his shoulder, still can't stand words of thanks or praise. Always pretending, living in fear. And he claims to be himself? To be content? Happy?
Why on earth couldn't he accept going back to heaven? The freedom to finally be who he is? A kind, compassionate being? Why did he choose the life of an outlaw instead? For the both of them? To never be free, never be safe, with Heaven and Hell threatening to destroy them at any moment? Why didn't he let him explain, and instead...
His fingertips brushed unconsciously over his lips.
Their parting... their parting was pure agony. Even now, the memory of it still hurt more than he could bear. The naked pain in Crowley's eyes, the despair in every feature of his face, the broken voice, and then those lips, Crowley's lips on his own, hot, determined, the intoxicating taste of wine and smoke, fingers clenched convulsively in his jacket…
A kiss. Their first kiss. His first kiss.
It should have been glorious, he should have been overcome with joy, but he was so stunned, so shocked and it felt more like an attack, an attack out of the blue, a violation of all the unwritten rules of their friendship, not a confession, but an ace pulled out of Crowleys sleeve, an unfair ploy and under-the-belt blow to force him to surrender.
Unacceptable. It was unacceptable.
And yet he'd wanted it so badly, he finally admitted to himself. He had longed to embrace him so much, to hold him close, gently explore those soft lips feeling him tremble and savouring the fragile, budding intimacy. But not like this. Not like this.
It is not as if an angel could love a demon. Even if it's Crowley, even if he's in fact a kind being and has done a lot of good... he's still a demon. By his very nature. He can't help it.
And an angel can't love a demon, Heaven won't stand for it, Hell won't stand for it, it's against all the Divine Principles.
No, an angel and a demon can't be together.
This was their only chance to be together. They got it, they got it against all odds... and Crowley threw it away.
Crowley, who had said he wanted to spend eternity with him, that they could be "us", didn't even think twice and immediately destroyed their only chance at a future together. So much for his friendship. So much for his love.
He sobbed softly, then rubbed his eyes with determination and stuffed the embroidered handkerchief into his pocket, returning his attention to the open file.
Enough of the self-torture. Enough of the demon. He had more important things to do now. For Heaven. For his home.