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The Metatron presses the coffee into Aziraphale’s hands in a gesture that seems so utterly normal that Aziraphale can’t do much more than accept it wordlessly. Before him, the angel’s mouth is moving, saying something that Aziraphale really should be focusing on, but the burn of the coffee through the cardboard and the steady presence of Crowley behind him swell until they seem to take up his whole world. What is happening?
“Shall I…” Aziraphale trials off, trying unsuccessfully to keep both Crowley and The Metatron in his eyeline at once. He feels like he’s on a cliff, growing dangerously close to the edge, to some kind of horrible revelation that will shatter everything.
“Drink it?” The Metatron responds, giving a half smile. His manner is easy, familiar in a way that should relax Aziraphale, but really just sharpens the anxiety in his mind. What is he doing here? Aziraphale won’t stand for another angel coming between him and Crowley again, and that’s the only reason he can think of for why The Metatron is standing here, in his bookshop.
He wants him gone.
He wants… Crowley. Alone. These last few days have held far too much excitement, and Aziraphale wants nothing more than to have an extremely alcoholic meal with the demon and fool himself into thinking he’s not staring into Crowley’s eyes the entire time.
But, that’s not a particularly polite sentiment, so instead Aziraphale holds his tongue and plasters on a vaguely pleasant expression. It’s one he’s practically perfected by now.
The Metatron continues, “Well of course! I’ve ingested things in my time, you know.”
Right. Aziraphale actually dislikes coffee, but he can’t see a faster way to make the angel leave, so he bites the proverbial bullet and sips the drink. It’s… actually surprisingly nice. Overpoweringly almond flavoured, yes, but not as awful as he was expecting.
An automatic ‘thank you’ is on his lips, when a memory rises up behind his eyes. It’s… Crowley. From 1941, in the Blitz. He’d handed Aziraphale those books in the ruins of the church, and sauntered off without a care in the world, oblivious to how Aziraphale had just realised that nothing would ever be the same again. Oblivious to how Aziraphale realised he had loved him.
Aziraphale’s heart clenches and he glances away, trying desperately not to turn back to Crowley, to take in every inch of an appearance that he’s already memorised a thousand times over.
Get a hold of yourself, Aziraphale, he scolds himself, now is not the time.
Is it ever the time? An even smaller voice whispers, and he firmly squashes it back down, forcing a smile. The cliff in his mind grows closer; a sense of inevitability grows.
“It’s-” Aziraphale flounders for a second, feeling the burn of Crowley’s stare onto the back of his coat. The demon better not leave scorch marks there again, or Aziraphale is going to have words. He masters himself. “It’s very nice.”
“Yes, I jolly well hope so! Well. We have things to talk about- would you like to take a little stroll?”
Aziraphale blinks. No, no he does not. He turns to Crowley a little helplessly- the demon is lounging in his favourite chair, the one the Aziraphale moved into the sunny spot a decade back when he realised his friend favoured it. He’s sprawled in such a way that gives the impression of almost being half asleep, utterly unbothered, but in reality, Aziraphale can see the subtle tension that lines his body, clear as day.
Crowley shrugs, “go on. The day can’t get any weirder.”
Aziraphale supposes he’s right. He doesn’t want The Metatron anywhere near him, or Crowley for that matter, not while that same feeling of wrong, wrong, wrong, pervades. He can hear him out, politely tell him to leave them alone, and everything will go back to normal.
Everything will be just as it should be- Aziraphale’s own little ineffable plan.
The Metatron ushers him out towards the door and Aziraphale obliges. As his hand touches the door, he can’t stop himself indulging in a last look back at Crowley, still lounging as if determined to prove just how unbothered he is. Out of the corner of Aziraphale’s eye, he swears that The Metatron does the same, only his glance is so full of malice and such utter hatred that even Aziraphale finds himself taking a step back.
But then the moment passes and Aziraphale is left convinced he imagined it. He feels shaken, unbalanced, and, as the door shuts behind him with a distinct finality, the cliff edge in his mind pulls him closer, falling away into depths that Aziraphale can’t- and doesn’t want to- see.
Outside, the day is stunningly beautiful, despite the attack of demons only a few hours prior. A perfect day for the park with Crowley, he thinks, but the rays of sun slanting across the street are cold and brilliantly empty.
Aziraphale shivers; the coffee burns his hands.
Across the street, a table outside Nina’s coffee shop is miraculously vacated and again Aziraphale is shuffled over, feeling rather like he’s been herded- he bites back a sigh and sits anyway.
“Thank you.” Aziraphale’s smile is tight as he looks over The Metatron. The black of his suit is unnerving on an angel, Aziraphale can’t help but remember the last time they spoke, The Metatron booming down from a beam of light just days before Armageddon.
The point is not to avoid war, it is to win it, he’d said, and Aziraphale’s lips purse even more.
“Oh, that?” The Metatron responds, “no need to thank me. I’m not going to be reprimanded for any of my own frivolous miracles.”
Aziraphale hums, waiting for him to get to the point.
“Though I note on your record that you have been. 1792, Paris, a three year old fell out of a balcony unscathed. 1895, London, all the potholes in Oxford Street vanish overnight. 1935, Reading, a failing Crepe shop wins £2000 in the lottery- and that’s just to name a few. All of this, all these miracles, all this angelic, heavenly power, for… them.”
There’s a silence as the two angels watch the hubbub of London unfold. This feels like a trap, and one that Aziraphale is willingly walking into, but he can’t help himself responding.
“I’m an angel,” he says simply.
“So is Gabriel.”
“Grabriel… sees humans as primitive.”
The Metatron looks at him, pointedly, as if he’s waiting for Aziraphale to continue.
“Humans… have the capacity for great kindness, but also great hate and destruction. And yet, over and over again, I see them choose good. Not choose heaven, but choose just to be kind, or honest, just for the sake of it. Just because they can.”
On the table opposite them, a teenager is pulling faces at a baby, trying to make it laugh. Aziraphale smiles.
“They are so brilliantly surprising.”
There’s a look in The Metatron’s eyes at that, putting Aziraphale right back on edge. He clears his throat and looks back down at his coffee.
“What do you want? Why are you here? I’ve made my position quite clear.”
“There is a vacancy open in heaven.”
Aziraphale stifles a sigh of annoyance. Ah. “Oh. I can assure you that I’m not remotely-”
“A vacancy for Gabriel’s position. An archangel’s position. And I… happen to think that you’d be perfect. You understand them. The humans, I mean. Too long we have looked down at them without truly understanding them. Times are changing.”
For one exhilarating, heartstopping minute, Aziraphale actually has to check his wings have not appeared and lifted him into the sky, he feels so light- he feels alive with possibilities, the chance to make a difference, a real difference. To actually help humanity, rather than watching them from the sterile perfection of heaven. He could- he could do so much good.
And then he remembers Crowley, sitting in the bookshop, alone. Alone with him for thousands of years, his only friend, maybe the only person who’s ever really, truly, understood Aziraphale. The demon that makes his heart ache in a way he’s never experienced before- the demon who, out of everyone on this planet, in this universe, in heaven or hell, Aziraphale has chosen.
The demon who Aziraphale is certain would never choose him back.
Because Crowley is cunning and carefree and kind, even if he protests that last one. And Aziraphale is, well… just an angel. But what would Aziraphale even be without Crowley?
Reality comes crashing back down around him and Aziraphale schools his expression back into neutrality. What is he thinking? Abandoning Crowley, it’s- it’s unimaginable.
“That’s… a very kind offer, but I’m afraid I can’t possibly accept.”
“I think you should have some more coffee.”
Aziraphale has been threatened enough times to know one when he hears it, and coming from The Metatron, knows better than to fight it. The tight smile is back as Aziraphale takes another sip. This time the coffee has barely touched his lips when another memory bubbles up.
It’s the two of them- because hasn’t it always just been the two of them- staring out across the sea after Aziraphale’s lie with Job. Crowley lounges on the rock overlooking the cliff edge, somehow managing to make the stone look as comfortable as the plush furnishings in Job’s home.
“That sounds…” Aziraphale had said, unable to tear his eyes off the horizon. For the first time in his existence, the earth had seemed so large, and he so small. The crushing vastness of the ocean stared back.
“Lonely? It is.”
“But you said…”
“I’m a demon,” Crowley had said, and Aziraphale had thought his heart might have been breaking for him, “I lie.”
They had sat there, silent, almost entirely alone. Almost.
By the time the memory fades, Aziraphale’s heart is in his throat and his sentiments are redoubled. He’s not leaving Crowley to that existence, not even for heaven’s open arms.
The Metatron clears his throat, and Aziraphale’s gaze shifts back to him. Deliberately, he places the coffee back on the table. He’s not entirely sure what’s happening, but he knows he doesn’t like it.
“As I said, Aziraphale, there is a vacancy, and we think you should fill it. Now-” He holds up a hand to stop any of Aziraphale’s protests, “now, I understand you don’t want to leave the demon-”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, voice as sharp as he dares.
“Crowley. And this is highly irregular, but if you were to take this vacancy, it would be in your authority to reinstate his angelic status.”
Aziraphale blinks. He- what? His brain isn’t working, struggling to comprehend the words. Never has a demon been welcomed back to heaven, and now Aziraphale- Aziraphale can quite literally shift the heavens for Crowley.
They can be safe.
They can be happy.
There will be no more lonely cliff edges, no more hiding, or fighting, or peace that feels like you are walking on a knife’s edge to maintain. They can just be.
It’s everything he’s ever wanted. He can show Crowley how much he cares about him, how much he loves him. Because damn him to hell, Aziraphale loves Crowley with all his being.
The Metatron eyes his shock, the conclusion that he’s being dragged towards. Ever so slowly, he pushes the coffee back towards Aziraphale. A container, that’s what Gabriel had said about his fly, and suddenly Aziraphale understands. This coffee is the same, it contains his… memories? Sensations? Something that ties Aziraphale to Crowley every time he takes a sip.
If it was any other situation, Aziraphale would be so deeply offended by this violation, but as it is, he simply takes another drink.
This final memory is of Crowley, from Before. The nebula - Crowley’s nebula - rises up before them, the absolute joy on his face enough to take Aziraphale’s breath away. And, behind him, his wings rise up around him, a perfect mirror to Aziraphale’s own: angelic white.
And Aziraphale can give that all back to him. He can actually do the impossible.
That sheer drop in his head, that cliff edge that leads to the unending drop, the awful sense of inevitability- Aziraphale topples over the edge. And he’s falling, so fast, but he can swear that it feels like flying.
“Okay,” Aziraphale says, and he sounds breathless, exhilarated. “Okay.”
The Metatron smiles, and it doesn’t quite meet his eyes, “Perfect.”
The bookshop stands on the other side of the street, Crowley waiting inside, and in a moment, Aziraphale is there, hand on the wood of the door. He takes a single, steadying breath in.
And pushes open the door.