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The light was far too bright. Too bright for Aziraphale to see, hurting his eyes as he squinted against it. The room was spinning as well, all around and tilting side to side. His head throbbed with pain and his legs wouldn't quite hold him.
Strong arms wrapped around him and guided him to a chair, into which he flopped with all his weight. To sit down brought Aziraphale a modicum of relief, but not much. His hands weakly closed around a glass of water, his knuckles white from the effort of not dropping it. He took a few clumsy sips.
His vision cleared a little. Enough for him to see who'd helped him. The Metatron. Aziraphale had forgotten he was there. Or had he? Hadn't the Metatron been talking to him about something? It was something important, probably. The Angel wasn't sure. He'd stopped listening when the headache started.
"Are you alright, Aziraphale?" the Metatron asked, easily pulling the glass back out of his slack fingers.
Aziraphale? That was his name, wasn't it? He should probably reply to that.
"Hmmm," Aziraphale said. His throat felt like sandpaper when he made a noise. He didn't like it and reached for the glass again, hoping the water would save him.
"Don't worry, it's just the withdrawal." The Metatron let him take the glass back and drink his fill.
The water was liquid relief pouring down his throat, icy and soothing, restorative. He drank it down so fast he almost coughed it back up again. The Metatron merely tutted.
Aziraphale placed the emptied glass on the table beside his chair, hands still shaking but getting better. "What's wrong with me, I don't feel at all well."
"It's the cyanide in the coffee," the Metatron explained. "It's wearing off now. Welcome back."
"Cyanide?" Aziraphale repeated glumly. Cyanide didn't sound good.
"Do you think you can stand? We haven't got all day, you know," the Metatron said.
The Angel shook his head. "Need a minute or two."
"Very well," the other Heavenly creature said with a sigh.
Aziraphale's headache began to pass and with it, so did the fuzziness. His mind cleared like clouds parting for a hot summer’s day and the past few hours crashed over him like a collapsing building.
Crowley.
Oh, dear.
That hadn't quite gone the way he'd hoped.
The dizziness and the sickness came back full force at the memory of earlier. Of Crowley's face as the hope drained from it. Of the way he slipped his sunglasses back on to hide that he was crying. It was all so unbearably... unbearable.
"I'm coming back. I won't leave you on your own."
But he had left him on his own. Rather pointedly and deliberately. And Aziraphale felt it right to his very soul.
How could he leave so easily? They had been through so much together, been so much to each other, how could Crowley walk out on him so... so... callously?
Crowley wanted to be with him, yet he'd declined Aziraphale's offer for them to be together. He wanted to do good, yet he'd declined Aziraphale's offer for him to be an Angel. He wanted Heaven to be better, yet he'd declined Aziraphale's offer for them to make it so.
He was offering Crowley everything he'd ever wanted on a plate—forgiveness, a suggestion box, himself—so what could possibly have been wrong?
Trying to understand it made his head spin, and truth be told he was still a little angry at the Demon. He wanted this, but when he had the chance he left Aziraphale out in the cold.
"You idiot. We could have been... us."
This wasn't like Crowley. The Demon was protective of his Angel. There must be something he was missing.
He remembered Crowley saying something about wanting to get away from Heaven, about it being toxic. But surely that was the point of fixing it? You don't just run away from things that are broken.
"We've known each other a long time. We've been on this planet for a long time. I mean, you and me. I could always rely on you. You could always rely on me. We're a team, a group... a group of the two of us. And we've spent our existence pretending that we aren't. I mean, the last few years, not really... And I would like to spend..."
The words rattled around in his head like marbles in a washing machine. Round and round, bruising his synapses with the desperation and hopelessness in the Demon's voice. But not so much as the kiss.
Aziraphale pressed his fingers to his lips again. But the feeling of Crowley had long gone, lost even as a ghost. He had wanted Crowley always, since the beginning. From the day they met. To finally know how it feels to kiss him, to know at last how he tastes...
He could never have enough, his heart would never be full enough of him. He could only ever need more.
But now...
Aziraphale felt the tears trickle down his cheek before he realised he was crying. Big fat tears he couldn't explain to those around him, now he was more alone than he'd ever been.
"That's the point. No nightingales."
"Oh, for goodness sake, stop sniveling. Whatever do you have to cry about?" The Metatron loomed over him. "We really do have to get on, you know. The sooner I've explained everything to you, the sooner you can take up your new position, isn't that what you want?"
Aziraphale frowned up at him. The words he was hearing didn't seem to follow on from each other in his head, and trying to keep up was bringing back his headache. "I don't know."
The Metatron sighed a put upon sigh. "Then talk to me. I am here to make your worries go away."
Aziraphale frowned. "Why did Crowley turn me down? I don't understand."
"I'm rather afraid I do, and you're not going to want to hear it," the Metatron told him.
"What?"
"Well, what did he say? What did you say to him?"
"I told him we could be together here, and that we could make a difference. He wanted us to run away together, leave all this behind. I-"
"Well, there you are, then. For six-thousand years he's had you isolated on Earth, without our support. Now you're back here, surrounded by your own. He only wanted you when you were vulnerable, all by yourself, when he could use you-"
"No!" Aziraphale interrupted, anger clearing his mind out like drain cleaner. Crowley may have abandoned him, but he wasn't going to let him be talked about like that. "I've never heard such nonsense!"
The Metatron was clearly irritated by the interruption. His face darkened and his tone lost a little more patience. "He's a Demon, Aziraphale. You can't change nature. Whatever he told you, he is a Denizen of Hell before anything else."
"You don't know him."
"I think I know him better than you do, if you think he wouldn't use you. He was never one to work with anyone, after all. He was never one for having friends. He always had such delusions of grandeur, always thought he knew better than the Almighty. Always making suggestions. I'm sure he feels corrupting you isn't beyond him. Has he ever asked you to perform some temptations for him, for example?"
Aziraphale felt the blood drain from his face, and his expression of shock and guilt were enough of an answer for the Metatron.
"Yes, I see he has. And that you did as asked. Well, we shall have to keep that quiet, won't we. We can't have the other Archangels discovering that little truth, not to mention the lesser Angels. But you get my point. Without us he could corrupt you at his leisure, he could not do so here. He turned you down because he was cutting his losses. You were no longer of any use to him. You escaped him. Well done. You should be proud of yourself."
Aziraphale didn't know what to say to that. He didn't believe a word of it, not for a second. But he'd never felt so lost and alone. And the room was still spinning a little, and his head was hurting again, and he just wanted to go home to Crowley.
There was something he was supposed to do—the right thing—but he had no idea what it was, only that things were currently very wrong. He felt it first when the Metatron handed him the coffee, and it had only gotten stronger.
He hadn't really been able to think that much, not beyond the Metatron's words. He couldn't even consider what Crowley was trying to say. There had to have been a reason for that, and the dizziness, and the headache. "What did you do to me?"
"I don't know what you mean?" the Metatron glared.
"Why couldn't I think? In the bookshop when I was talking to Crowley, everything he said was like water off a duck's back. And now my head hurts and I feel like I'm going to be sick."
"I rescued you, aren't you grateful?"
"There was nothing to rescue me from!"
"But there was. The Demon had his claws in you. Now you're away from his influence we can unpick them."
The blood of Aziraphale's corporation ran cold. They couldn't possibly take his feelings for Crowley away, could they? "How are you planning to do that?"
"I thought showing you what he's done to you might do the trick. There's no sign of him using miracles to twist your mind, or Demonic temptation for that matter. So he must have used simple manipulation. We will rectify this easily. After all, we can't have two Angels corrupted by the infernals below, can we?" The Metatron paused. "Do not worry, you are forgiven your little mistake. You're home now. You're safe."
Rage boiled in Aziraphale's blood, thawing the ice out and forcing him to his feet. The rage brought with it the strength and energy that had been robbed of him, and he found himself able to stand and look the Metatron right in the eyes.
"No, I'm not. And Crowley is no mistake! I want no part of this anymore, as you well knew. I resign from my position and will return to Earth at once." He turned for the lift but a frail, old hand gripped his elbow, pinning him in place with deceptive strength.
Aziraphale turned back to the Metatron and found him to be quite displeased.
"This may take more effort than I anticipated. I'm afraid you cannot just walk away from your duty, Aziraphale," he sneered. "You signed a contract."
"Whilst under your influence. I was not of sound mind. The contract isn't legally binding."
"You're in Heaven now. We have little mind to pay to petty human legality. You may have signed the contract under the influence of cyanide, but-"
"Cyanide! You put cyanide in my coffee!" Yes, something had been said about cyanide, hadn't it? He'd forgotten about that. It explained a lot.
"-you are still Supreme Archangel, and it is too late to change that. Crowley is a thing of the distant past. Forget him."
He couldn't. It wasn't an idea he could even entertain. The Demon was seared into his very being like a brand, like an owner’s label. He couldn't take it off now, not ever. Although, it was becoming increasingly clear the Metatron wouldn't see it that way. "And if I don't?"
"The Almighty will not allow me to remove your memories, I have tried. They also forbid his name to be deleted from the Book of Life, for what reason I can't fathom. So, I shall just have to talk some sense into you myself."
"Oh."
"So, um... the Metatron, you know, I don't think he's as bad a fellow... well, I think I might have misjudged him."
Crowley drove without a destination in mind. On and on and on, for hours on end, uncaring. He took random road after random road, and likely ended up going in circles.
The London scenery changed to countryside without the Demon noticing. He didn't have the space to process it. It didn't matter, only that he kept moving. He was like a shark, stopping would kill him.
It was all too big to fit into his head, that over six-thousand years of friendship could end like that, in a matter of seconds.
He'd been so full of delight and excitement. He was finally going to tell Aziraphale he loved him and then they were going to go to the Ritz for breakfast. Perhaps they'd've gone to a show after, or taken a nostalgic stroll through St. James' Park, or probably both. Then drinks in the bookshop and maybe talk properly for once, to work out their new reality now they were together.
Those dreams had crumbled to nothing faster than it had taken him to even think of them. What was he meant to do now? Aziraphale was all he'd had.
"Oh, Crowley. Nothing lasts forever."
He had been such a fool to think the Angel, faithful to Heaven through everything, could ever love a Demon as he loved him. Fanciful, stupid, optimistic. Absolutely ridiculous. It was almost laughable.
He'd been chasing a shadow all those years, believing a love purer than any other was waiting for him, like a pot of gold at the end of a self-righteous rainbow, if only he were patient enough. If only he gave enough.
Stupid, fickle Demon.
He could never be good enough for Aziraphale. Could never be nice enough. Never enough.
"You could come back to Heaven and... and everything, like the old times. Only even nicer!"
The words were like needles in his heart.
He was brought out of his mind by the Bentley radio coming to life on its own, and the sound of Freddie Mercury singing springing from the speaker.
"Love of my life, you've hurt me. You've broken my heart, and now you leave me-"
Crowley couldn't switch it off fast enough. He wasn't listening to that.
"I'm not listening to this!" Aziraphale bellowed.
The Metatron watched him pace back and forth across the open space of Heaven. The Angel wasn't taking his change in circumstance well, but that was to be expected at first. The Demon Crowley had had many years to do his damage, thus it would take a lot of work to put it right. But Aziraphale was stubborn, and it was tiresome work.
"Clearly," the Metatron replied, advancing on him until he was right in his personal space. "But I'm on your side, Aziraphale. Truly. That's why I have to say all of this. I only want what's best for you. I know you want to believe Crowley told you the truth, that he cares about you and about doing the right thing, but the simple fact is that he didn't and doesn't. You were a toy for him to play with and manipulate to his will, and to be tossed aside when you no longer were of any use to him. He is the vilest of the Hordes of Hell, a disease working its way beneath the skin, distorting reality into what benefits him. He was probably laughing at you for being so stupid as to believe he cared about you. He isn't laughing anymore."
"No, he isn't laughing," Aziraphale spat. "Because he's devastated that I-"
"That you left him when he had you right where he wanted you, eating out of the palm of his hand."
Something bright and curious flashed in Aziraphale's eyes as a blush bloomed across his face. "Oh... that sounds rather nice, actually."
That brought the Metatron up short. Everything he intended to say shot right out of his head to be replaced with the most horrible image ever imagined.
"I don't want to know," he said, brushing the idea away with a wave of his hand only for it to be replaced by another, even more unpleasant thought. What if it was already too late in that sense? What if they hadn't got to him before that Demon corrupted him? He had to be sure. This could be quite serious. "He hasn't known you, has he?"
Aziraphale's blush deepened. "No, he has not."
The Metatron let the relief wash over him. He couldn't bear to think of a Demon of all things touching an Angel of the Lord in such a manner. It was degrading and... unthinkable. Worse even than a human doing so.
"Not yet," Aziraphale amended.
Honestly, death would be a better option. Perhaps it would have been kinder to kill him. "It appears we got you out of there just in time."
"I'd rather it if you hadn't," Aziraphale muttered under his breath. He looked so fragile and weak, a breath away from breaking down. The Metatron felt an uncharacteristic flash of compassion. What had that Demon done to this pathetic, little Angel?
"He's ruined you." The Metatron pointedly ignored Aziraphale's look of deep longing at that statement. To think an Angel even capable of lusting after a Demon... he was shaken to the core. "He's made you a shadow of an Angel, ripped everything you should be out and left only an echo. All that potential lost. And he wasn't even worth it. He tossed you aside the minute you asked anything of him, walked away when you offered him all this." He gestured around him at Heaven.
"You weren't really going to let me make him an Angel again, were you?" There was a resigned tone to Aziraphale's voice that weighed it down and made it sound quite deep and hollow.
"Of course not. The fallen stay fallen. There is no place for the likes of him here. I needed you to see him for what he truly is. His selfishness and cruelty. He's a thing, Aziraphale. A putrid, rotting thing-"
The next thing the Metatron knew, his head was hitting glass as the floor rushed up to meet him. A sudden pain bloomed across the back of his head as it struck the tiled floor. More pain spread across his cheek.
He looked up at Aziraphale who was nursing his fist, looking stunned. The stupid bugger had hit him!
"I... I..." It all went black.
Crowley had to pull over as the pain finally crashed over him and the sobs welled in his throat. They wracked through him as though they wished to disassemble him, as though he'd sick up all the nothing he'd eaten that morning.
Aziraphale was truly gone. He was gone and he wasn't coming back. It was too late, Crowley had lost. And he would have to live with that.
Or would he?
Why should he? Why should he have to live on through all this? Who was making him? No-one, that's who. The only bastard mad enough to care about him buggered off, there was no-one left to do that job. And there was nothing, no-one left to live for.
So what was the point?
Crowley pulled a gentle breath in through his nose and let it out through his mouth, over and over until his breathing calmed. Stupid, really. Didn't even need it, but there you go. That's what living on Earth for too long does to you.
Gradually the tears lessened and the shaking subsided. He let himself have a quiet moment to recover before anything else.
He had to come up with a plan. It couldn't just happen any-old-how. If he was going to go, he was going to go with style.
There were many ways it might happen, but it soon dawned on him that there was only one way it could.
And only one place it could, for that matter.
Crowley started the car up again and carried on driving along the road to Oxford. He'd find somewhere to turn around and get back to London eventually.
The Bentley cottoned on faster than he would've liked and once again the radio sprang rather urgently to life. This time it was The Show Must Go On that blared from the speakers.
Crowley kept driving, and soon the song changed to Keep Yourself Alive.
Crowley turned the radio off again.
He was nearing Oxford city centre by then. There had to be a pub about somewhere, they usually had them in places. If he was going to die later that day, he was going to have a last drink before he did.
He found one not two minutes later. He parked on the double yellows outside, patted the Bentley's dash affectionately, and got out of the car.
The door squeaked as he pushed it open, revealing the inside to be nothing unusual. Some bare stone walls, but mostly plastered and painted red with wooden floors, celings, and furniture.
The pub was deserted. The only other person was the barmaid, who busied herself with polishing the taps.
And the music playing on the pub radio was just as bad as in the Bentley.
"And I thought of an Angel with a smile on her face as she thought that I should be with you..."
James fucking Blunt.
With a click of his fingers it changed to Billy Joel's Piano Man.
The barmaid didn't even notice the song change and greeted him with a warm, genuine smile when he reached her. "What can I get for you, sir?"
Crowley scanned the shelves behind her, looking for something that might stand out to him. He gave up after a few seconds and sighed. "Something nasty with a high alcohol content."
The barmaid gave him an understanding look. "Bad day?"
"Hmm." He considered leaving it at that. There was no reason for her to know about it, after all. But something in him wanted to cry to someone, and the barmaid was a someone so he carried on. "My friend left me."
Her brow creased with concern. "I'm sorry to hear that. Did you know them long?"
Crowley nodded. "Six-thousand years. More."
She chuckled. "That's a long friendship to walk out on. Do you want to talk about it? I'm Juliet, by the way."
He shook her offered hand. "Crowley."
"Delighted!" She let go of his hand. "So, what's your story?"
Crowley made some indistinct noise. "We had a fight. He wanted me to be something I'm not and can't be, and to go somewhere I couldn't possibly go. It was..." he trailed off, staring off into the distance.
"Take your time," she told him as she took a cheap bottle of local whiskey off a shelf. "And I'll get you a glass of this. It's shit but it knocks you out."
Crowley grinned weakly. He liked her already. "Thank you."
Aziraphale found a quiet corner to cry in. He curled up in it and sobbed for all it was worth until the sobbing died down.
Oh, he'd been such a fool. Crowley had been right. About everything. Heaven was toxic and rotten, and they could never have been happy there. They should've run for the hills the moment they had the chance.
He truly had made a mess of things this time, hadn't he? Aziraphale dreaded to think what state he'd find Crowley in when he finally got back to him. If he ever got back to him. Whatever, it was going to take more than a little dance to fix this.
That didn't matter just yet. Crowley was too important to him. He needed to get back to him whatever it took. He would watch Heaven crumble before he let it hold him back again.
He'd put his happiness aside for thousands of years for this place, and it hadn't been worth it. How much time had he wasted, thrown away out of devotion and fear because Heaven wouldn't like it otherwise? How much more could he and Crowley have had if Heaven hadn't had such a hold on him? Far, far too much. It wasn't fair.
And now he might never know that happiness, all thanks to Heaven and his own stupidity.
Aziraphale was so lost in his grief that he didn't hear the footsteps coming his way.
"Hello!"
The sudden voice startled Aziraphale. He looked up to see that it was Muriel's. They were just as bubbly and happy as he'd ever seen them, grinning from ear to ear as they stood several paces in front of him.
"I'm sorry, what was that?"
"Hello!" they repeated.
"Oh. Hello," Aziraphale replied.
This was the last thing he needed. The sooner he could get them to leave the better.
"The Archangel Uriel sent me." This was a fact they were clearly pleased about. "They said I should ask you about the bookshop. The Metatron has left me in charge of it now."
Aziraphale sat up a little straighter against the wall. His books! His precious books! This child of an Angel might sell them! He'd have to put a stop to that. That shop wasn't opening until he got back to it. Those books were staying put!
Then a thought struck him. If Muriel was down on Earth and considered far too stupid by the other Angels to be worth monitoring, then maybe they could get a message to Crowley. Maybe they could keep an eye on him for him, and stop him getting too lonely. He could but ask.
"Yes, of course." Aziraphale put on his friendliest smile and patted the floor next to him in an invitation for them to sit. "I have an awful lot to tell you."
"Wonderful!" Muriel crossed the floor and sat next to Aziraphale where he'd indicated, grin never slipping from their face.
"Before we begin, I would like to ask a favour of you, if I may?"
"Oh, anything!" they giggled.
"Now, don't agree before you've heard it, I'm not going to force you into anything," he warned them. "And I'm going to need you to keep very quiet about it and not tell the other Angels about it, especially the Metatron. Can you do that?"
They nodded.
"Good, good," he continued. "It's Crowley, you see. I am awfully worried about him. Would you find him and give him a message for me?"
"Of course! I like Crowley. He's... not what I expected a Demon to be like."
"No, he isn't. He's very special like that. And safe. You know you're safe with him?"
They nodded again. "He was kind to me."
The corners of Aziraphale's mouth pulled up into a fond smile. "That sounds like him. Now, don't you tell anyone else, but this is the message I want you to give him..."
Crowley and Juliet were sitting at a corner table in the empty pub. He'd bought her a glass of dry white which she sipped gently, unlike Crowley who knocked back glass after glass of whiskey.
"He was th' best part of me, ya know?" he slurred. "He was good 'n' kind 'n' lovely, 'n' he was always there. With 'is cute, little face, 'n' his higher moral standards."
"Did he explain why he left?" she asked. She was a good listener, that Juliet, he had to give her that.
"Nahhh. Didn't need to. 'M not good enough for him. Wants annn Angel, like him. Some poor, deluded, giggly bastard."
"What makes you think that?" she prodded, and Crowley raised an eyebrow at her in query. "Well, if he didn't explain, how do you know you haven't just completely misunderstood each other? What if he thinks you left him."
"He knows I'd never... 'n' he asked me to be an Angel like him. To go with him." Crowley stared mournfully into his empty glass. "When I said no, he went without me."
"What does that mean? How did he ask you to be an Angel?" Her brow furrowed. She didn't understand. Humans couldn't.
"Just that." He shrugged.
"Does he know why you said no?"
Crowley frowned at that. "Didn't ask."
"Perhaps you should talk to him. If it's this important to you, it's worth one last try. Sit him down and explain your reasons to him and ask him to do the same. Perhaps you could work it out?"
Crowley wasn't convinced. "Little too late for that. He's gone."
Juliet's face paled, like something horrible had just dawned on her. "Please tell me he's alive."
Crowley hummed noncommitedly. "Bloody better be."
She let out a sigh of relief. "Then it's not too late. And you shouldn't waste any of the time you have. Life's too short. Go get him."
Another patron entered the pub and young Juliet had to go to serve him, leaving Crowley by himself with her apologies.
He wasn't drunk enough to deal with her words of comfort. She had no idea what she was talking about, she couldn't have. Angels weren't like humans. There was no way he was going to get Aziraphale to give up Heaven for him, and he couldn't talk to him now even if he could. He was out of reach.
Crowley drained the last of the bottle and slipped out of the pub without Juliet noticing, leaving behind a demonic miracle to ensure things picked up for her.
The air was a little colder now than before, and the sky looked like it might rain. It was as though the weather was trying to match his mood. In that case, a downpour was coming.
Crowley miracled most of the alcohol out of his stomach and into the drain so he could drive, then got into the car.
There was a church font somewhere in London with his name on it.
The Archangel Michael regarded Aziraphale with a stern expression. The Metatron stood to the side, attempting to hide his amusement and failing.
"I have ruled that the discorporation of the Metatron was an accident," Michael said. "Since you tried to stop him falling through the table and smashing his head open on the floor. You're in the clear."
It was obvious from Michael's tone they didn't believe a word of it.
"Oh," was all Aziraphale could say, blindsided.
When he had been called to Michael's office about what happened, he'd thought that would be it. Falling to Hell, his plans to return to Crowley in tatters. This was not what he expected at all.
"You don't sound pleased," Michael stated, menace dripping from their voice.
"What cleared me?" Aziraphale asked.
"The Metatron told us what really happened."
Aziraphale squinted at him. "I see."
"Well, if that's all over now, I will continue explaining to Aziraphale his new duties," the Metatron said before stalking away. "Come on, Aziraphale."
Aziraphale didn't even glance back at Michael, he just turned and followed the Metatron out. He knew what the monster was up to now.
Once they were in the privacy of a wide, open corridor, Aziraphale stopped him.
"What was that about?" he asked. "Why did you clear me?"
"Because you made a foolish mistake you needn't have to pay for. You were rather overwrought and hardly in your right mind. Now we can move on."
"You're using it to manipulate me, aren't you?"
The Metatron looked appalled at the suggestion. "Have you any idea what I've just done for you? Have you any idea how many hours of paperwork I've had to fill out? Have you any idea of the humiliation I've suffered admitting I discorporated myself falling over? All for you, in order to protect you from the consequences of your actions. I have gone out of my way for you. I'm giving you a second chance, even after what you did. And this is how you repay me? Accusations and slander!"
Aziraphale could see it now. The manipulation, the gaslighting. Now Aziraphale could recognise the pattern, he knew this had been going on for a long time, since the beginning. He'd known there were problems in Heaven for a few years now, but hadn't suspected how much that was true, or how deep it truly went. Aziraphale had never seen it so clearly.
This could go on forever, he knew. Because it already had, it was systemic. He couldn't fix this, certainly not on his own. Not even with Crowley.
There was only one way to get out of this with himself intact. To play along, to let them believe Crowley's 'claws' were slowly releasing their grip on him, to make them think he was becoming one of them again.
The very thought left a vile taste in his mouth. He would have to do it anyway.
The Metatron must've taken his musings as him finally becoming receptive to his words as he appeared pleased. Good, he could work with that.
"I'm sorry. I've rather made a fool of myself, haven't I?"
"Yes, you have," the Metatron agreed. "But not to worry. You've already made progress, and I'm proud of you for it. I'm looking forward to seeing what you do with your new position."
'So am I,' thought Aziraphale. And whatever he did, it would have to be very good indeed.
Aziraphale kept his eyes fixed on the Metatron's retreating back. If they wanted a war, then a war was exactly what they were going to get. But Hell would have no part in it, and Heaven would never be the same again.
The Bentley pulled up outside an ugly, brick building in London. It was the perfect image of post-war architecture in that it looked cheap, boring, and depressing. It was a church.
Crowley climbed out of the car and stared at it blankly. So, this was the dump where it was all going to end. He sighed with what little energy he had left and headed for the door.
It was almost pitch-black inside, the only light bleeding in through the door and windows from the streetlamps outside.
Crowley peered into the gloom, looking for the font he knew the church ought to contain. He saw it at the far end of the room. It was wooden and just as featureless and dull as the rest of the building. Crowley had hoped for a more dramatically themed departure than this, but never mind. It had to be this one.
This church was special, to Crowley at least. It was built on the remains of a much older church, one that had been bombed in the war...
He put a foot down on the consecrated ground and tried not to flinch or cry out in pain as it burnt him. That first foot was followed by its partner, and before long, the Demon was hopping down the aisle to the holy water in its boring, wooden plinth. And with each hop, his release from this torment grew closer.
He felt the energy fizzle in the air before the light appeared, drowning him in its divine purity. It was Them.
Crowley froze in the beam of light, shocked. So shocked he stood on the carpeted floor without realising it had stopped burning him. He gaped up at the Almighty like a fish.
"Crowley?" They asked, and Crowley wasn't sure how he was supposed to respond.
He had spent millennia trying to talk to God, to get answers to his questions, and he had received only millennia of silence for his troubles. And now was the moment They chose to show Themself. Crowley decided anger was probably the right response here.
"What?" he spat. "Suddenly decided I'm worth talking to?"
There was the sense that the light smiled sadly. "What are you doing here?"
"Why shouldn't I be here? Not good enough for your stupid, ugly church, am I?"
"You should go back outside," They told him, and Crowley scoffed.
"Since when have you cared? I think you've lost the right to tell me what to do." Crowley eyed the font. He couldn't wait around there all night. He had a death to die.
"If that's how you feel. But this is not the answer to your problems, Crowley. There is hope for you."
Crowley dismissed the notion as soon as he heard it. All hope was lost to him the moment those lift doors closed behind Aziraphale as the Angel left his life forever.
The font was only a few feet ahead of him, it wouldn't take much for him to get there.
With a glance upwards at the source of the light, Crowley stepped towards the edge of his safe circle, towards the dark and painful carpet, and towards the font of lethal death.
He felt the pressure in the safe circle shift, as though God were raising Their eyebrow at him.
"Fine!" Crowley gave in with a growl, followed by the most broken voice ever heard. "He left me."
The light felt as though it sighed without making the noise.
"Gabriel and Beelzebub could have a life together, why not us? Well? You gonna tell me what all this is about? Why he had to go? That it's all part of your Ineffable Plan? Well, I hope it's worth it to you, because it's taken everything from me!"
Another soundless sigh. "Go outside, Crowley. There's something you don't know."
"What's the point?" Crowley grumbled. "There's no point to anything now."
"Maybe outside there is hope."
Crowley frowned up at Them. "Hope? There is no hope. And unless Aziraphale is outside right now waiting for me, don't bother."
"Not Aziraphale. But you still need to see."
"What does that mean?"
"Walk with me." The beam of light moved back towards the door, inching along and making it safe for him to step on.
"Why are you even here?"
"Walk. With. Me." The sound of the last thread of patience near snapping.
Crowley gave in and followed the light. He couldn't find the energy to believe any hope for him existed, but he was just curious enough. And anyway, he could always die when God fucked off again, couldn't he?
God's light reached the door and Crowley stepped out through it into the cold night. The light promptly disappeared, leaving him on his own.
"No, wait!" Crowley called after Them. "Can't you just tell me...!"
It was too late. They were gone. Typical.
Crowley sighed in defeat and turned back to the door. Time for attempt number two.
"There you are!" Came a voice from behind him. It sounded as though they were running. "I've been looking everywhere."
Crowley turned to see Muriel barreling towards him at full speed. They stopped just before they crashed into him.
"What are you doing here?" Crowley complained.
"I've seen Aziraphale-"
"I don't care." Crowley made another attempt to turn to the church but was stopped by Muriel's hand on his elbow.
"Then why does he make you more grumpy? He made you less grumpy before."
Crowley didn't have an answer for them.
"He says he's sorry-" they began, but he interrupted them.
"Still don't care."
"The Metatron spiked his coffee with cyanide, he didn't want-"
No. Crowley's mind filled with white noise as those words bounced about in his cranium, making him feel sick with worry and hope.
"WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SO BEFORE!" Crowley ran for his Bentley, ripping the door open so fast he almost bent the bodywork.
Muriel was already climbing into the passenger seat as he fumbled to put the key in the ignition.
"What the Hell are you doing?" Crowley spat.
"There's more that he wanted you to know-"
"Well, he can tell me himself once I get him out of there." Crowley turned the ignition and took the handbrake off.
Muriel was startled by the car moving as he pulled away from the church and onto the road. "What's happening?"
"I'm going to Heaven to get my Angel back, and you're going to help me," the Demon explained.
"No, you can't!"
Honestly, they were worse than Aziraphale. "Why not?"
"Because he doesn't want to be rescued!"
Crowley did an emergency stop as his heart shattered all over again. The hope he had suddenly found dashed to pieces in a second. Despite it all, despite everything they'd done to him, Aziraphale was still choosing Heaven over him.
Crowley would talk some sense into him if it killed him.
"He's leaving by himself," Muriel continued, saying each sentence as if they were remembering a list of items and using all their brain power to do it. "He's choosing you and he wants to prove it. You always come back for him, even when he didn't deserve it, even when it should've been him coming back for you. This time he will come back for you."
Oh.
That wasn't as bad as he expected it to be. His heart even warmed a little.
But there was still one problem: it meant leaving him up there. How was he supposed to do that? It was a horrible idea! Impossible! It burnt worse than the bloody church carpet.
It was against every instinct, but Aziraphale wanted his moment.
Crowley sat limp in his car seat. He wasn't sure what to do now. Should he let Aziraphale show him what he needed to, or should he go and snatch his beloved angel from under their very noses?
It was a conundrum and a half. He needed to think.
"So, I'll just... um..." Muriel turned to the car door, frowning at the different handles and switches. "How do I get out?"
"That handle there, but you don't have to rush off." He didn't want to be on his own again so soon. "Can I... can I drop you anywhere?"
They looked startled. "Drop me?"
"Drive you. In the car. Is there anywhere you want to go?"
Muriel paused as they thought about it. "The bookshop?"
Oh, of course. Of course it would be there.
Crowley drew in a breath for strength. "Okay, I can do that."
"Excellent!" Muriel giggled obliviously.
"Put your seatbelt on. It's that thing there, and you slot it into that." He helped them with it. These sorts of things confused this Angel so much.
Crowley drove the car away and tried not to think. He tried not to think of all the times he'd asked his angel that very question and gotten the same answer, only with a little more certainty and the promise of a few glasses of wine once they got there. All the surreptitious glances Aziraphale probably thought he couldn't feel the heat of. All the words of thanks and hours of companionship that followed.
This time, the drive felt a whole lot emptier.
He drove too safely for his liking, and Muriel's trepidation at the moving car soon passed. They spent most of the journey gawking at the world around them through their window.
Crowley could sense Muriel's disappointment when they reached the bookshop, as though it had ended far too soon. He himself refused to look at it. The wounds still too fresh, the lack of Aziraphale still far too painful.
Muriel tried to get out of the car with all the grace of a baby walking their first steps. They forgot to take off their seatbelt and were surprised when it forced them back into their seat. They managed to get out the door eventually though, much to Crowley's amusement.
Heaven couldn't possibly leave this Angel on their own on Earth. They wouldn't last five minutes.
But they weren't on their own, were they? He was there, unfortunately at a loose end. And that realisation crashed over him as though he'd just done the ice bucket challenge.
He was the only one who could help this Angel survive on Earth.
Fuck.
Okay, at least it gave him something to do until Aziraphale came back, if nothing else.
"Thank you for... erm... dropping me," Muriel said through the open car door. "That was very kind of you!"
The words were said with a different inflection to what he was used to, but they still stung. "I'm not kind."
They frowned. "Aziraphale said you were."
"Aziraphale would," Crowley replied. "Do you want to go somewhere tomorrow?"
"Go somewhere?"
"Mmm. If you're going to stay on Earth for a bit, you'll want to understand the people better. And you'll never do that if you don't get out and experience the world. I could show you, if you like."
"I'm supposed to look after the bookshop." They wanted to go out and see everything the world had to offer, he could see it on their face.
"Did he tell you to keep it closed?"
"Yes, yes he did!"
"Then there's no problem, is there. If there's anything he wants you to do, you can do it when you get back."
A pause while they thought about it. "That's true."
"I'll pick you up tomorrow, then? At 10am?"
Their smile lit up their face. "Okay!"
"I'll see you tomorrow, then."
The car door closed as an animated Angel pranced up the steps of an old London bookshop, but not the bookshop's usual Angel—at least not yet. And once they were gone from sight, a Demon drove off into the night, planning what the next day would bring.
The museums seemed as good a place to start as any.
And as he drove away, the Bentley's radio flicked itself on for the last time that day. And for the first time that day, Crowley didn't turn it off.
"That certain night, the night we met, there was magic abroad in the air. There were Angels dining at the Ritz, and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square..."