Chapter Text
It had been going rather swimmingly, Aziraphale thought. They had finally made it to New York City, their last stop before the real work of Judgement was set to happen. The Second Coming began Earth side with a tour of the world to get the Son of God reacquainted with humanity to ease him into the Judgement process. He had luckily convinced The Metatron to allow them to begin in the far East and work their way West. Aziraphale wanted to limit the risk of running into Crowley for as long as possible. He could not, and would not, run the risk of Crowley getting himself in the middle of this mess. He kept an eye on Crowley for as long as he could get away with, sneaking off to the globe when no one was looking. He’d been caught, of course, and claimed that he wanted to check on Muriel in the bookshop or his Whickber Street neighbors.
They had descended by silver plane instead of the usual lift or escalator ride, Heaven insisting on pulling out all the stops for their grandest plan yet. Much to Aziraphale’s relief, the Messiah was not a baby this time. Since they had personally witnessed the failure of Hell’s use of an infant Antichrist, they thought they should bring Christ back as he was, 33. He retained all the memories of his first life, as well as his sentience in Heaven. He had not, however, experienced anything firsthand in the time since his resurrection and ascension. He was given reports on the advancements of humanity and how his life impacted future generations. This is where Aziraphale came in. It had been quite some time since Christ had been around humans, and while he had kept an eye on Earth during his time in Heaven, it would be good to get his sea legs reacquainted to dry land, so to speak. Since Aziraphale had been on Earth the longest, and was now Supreme Archangel, he was tasked to guide Jesus on his tour.
Starting in Australia they made their way up through the Pacific to Asia. Aziraphale was able to show Christ one of his favorite restaurants on their stop in Japan. It was a small place less frequented by tourists, but they had some of the finest sushi he’s ever tried. The Sultan Mosque in Singapore was one of Aziraphale’s favorite stops on that leg of the trip. They wanted to show Jesus more than just Christian religious sites, as they were not the only ones who believed in his teachings. They worked their way across Southeast Asia and into the Middle East. It had been quite some time since Aziraphale had been to Baghdad, but he had always loved the city. Jesus was quite hurt to see what had happened to his homeland of Palestine, to his people. There was conflict in his time there, but never on a scale like this.
“I was there, you know.” he said to Jesus as they passed through the site formerly known as Golgotha.
“Really? I was a bit too busy to notice.”
He remembered his life Before, but often resorted to coping through humor. Aziraphale couldn’t blame him, he went through quite a lot in his short time Earth side. Being back in Palestine brought up memories for Aziraphale, too, feeling the void on his left just as much as he saw it, hands clasped behind him as he looked out over the Mediterranean. And if Jesus felt an absence in that moment too, well, that was no one’s business but his own.
They headed up the coast into Africa, Aziraphale reminiscing on the time he performed magic for Queen Nefertiti in Egypt. Victoria Falls were just as breathtaking as he remembered, and the coast of Ghana was beautiful, as was the food. He had yet to find a good local spot back in Soho. Not that it mattered now. He dreaded making his way to Europe. This was the longest he’d been away from London since officially settling there, and especially since the bookshop opened. He had nearly been sent to Heaven that day too, he never found out why they changed their minds, though. He was grateful that their stint in London was brief, as it did not allot him any time to make his way into Soho. He knew Muriel was taking good care of the shop in his absence, but he missed the smell of the books, the chatter of passing pedestrians, the rumbling engine of…
And anyway, he wouldn’t have known what to say about his abrupt absence had he been recognized by any of the Whickber Street residents. They continued through Europe where he was always happy to get fresh crêpes in France and enjoy Black Forest gateau in the Black Forest. Rome is lovely in the springtime, although the drivers there make him terribly anxious. They made their way down to South America. Jesus was quite taken with Christ the Redeemer, the likeness they had constructed of him in Rio, and marveled at the views from Machu Picchu. Aziraphale was less pleased with all the hiking as his suit would get terribly dusty, but the views were, indeed, marvelous. They had finally made it to North America, beginning in Mexico.
Aziraphale was quite fond of their stop at Insigne y Nacional Basílica de Santa María de Guadalupe. He hadn’t been since its refurbishment was under way in the 19th century. He had been sent as a field aid in the Mexican War of Independence, during which their renovations had been halted. They then headed up the west coast, zigzagging between the United States and Canada. They didn’t have time for all fifty states, but they made their way to a few from each of the major regions. Jesus was very confused by the billboards across the Southern stretch of the United States.
“I didn’t say any of that, Aziraphale.” Jesus said with a furrow in his brow as they passed an advertisement for a local mega church.
“Quite right, my dear boy.”
Aziraphale recognized a billboard for a popular television program he had once interrupted by mistake. It had taken him a few tries to find a suitable host after being mistakenly discorporated, and quite a few poor host choices before landing on Madame Tracy.
“Did they listen to anything I said? How many versions of the Bible are there now?”
They passed more signs, most of them being entirely ridiculous.
“Time is short,
Hell is hot,
The King is coming,
Ready or not!”
“Jesus Christ: It’s best to know him before you meet him. Stop, drop, and roll doesn’t work in Hell!”
“Jesus is a master mechanic, let him fix your life!”
“Your name might be on a Coke bottle, but is it in the Book of Life?”
That last sign sent a chill down Aziraphale’s spine.
Making their way up the East Coast to New York marked the end of their journey. They were staying at the Walker Hotel in Greenwich Village, which had taken Aziraphale quite a bit of insistence to make happen. He was able to convince The Metatron that staying too close to Times Square would disrupt Jesus’ sleep schedule, and that staying in Greenwich Village was the better option. In actuality, he just wanted to revisit some of his favorite spots in Manhattan, but that was no one’s business but his own.
They had a few days in New York City, so he decided to take Jesus to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to enrich him on some of the artistic marvels he had missed in the time since his death, resurrection, and now Second Coming. He seemed quite excited, even asking to bring along a friend.
“Hey, Aziraphale, do you mind if I bring a friend with us today? They said they’ll meet us there.” Jesus had asked that morning.
Aziraphale looked up from his breakfast, trying not to look too terribly taken aback by the question. “Of course! That’s a splendid idea.”
It wasn’t that he had been having a hard time making friends along the way, he is incredibly charismatic and kind. But he had not yet had anyone join them on their ventures, so this was a pleasant turn of events. The Metatron will be pleased to hear that his tour is working, and the Son of God has warmed up to the masses of humanity nicely.
Their cab pulled up to the museum at 10:00 sharp, right outside the 82nd Street entrance on 5th Avenue. The exterior of the museum is stunning, a marvel of the Beaux-Arts style. Light limestone compositions of Corinthian columns, Roman arches topped with the face of Athena, lions and gargoyles and women in headdresses, all framing the grand staircase. As they climbed the stairs even more art came into view, bronze statues in the gaps of the columns and portraits of master artists to frame the Roman arches. Aziraphale recognized most of them; he had spent a summer with Michelangelo as he was developing his ceiling design for the Sistine Chapel, whose design was proposed by Bramante.
The line for entry was miraculously short and they made a quick entry, showing the door attendants their tickets and making their way through the scanners. Being Supreme Archangel meant less scolding for what they would have previously called frivolous miracles. The museum is just as beautiful inside. The Great Hall continues the limestone of the exterior, as does the style. Columns beneath the second-floor balconies, high arches leading the eye up toward the domed ceiling, a mosaic of yellow, pink, and tan marble composes the floor. The central information desk and main pillars around the room host fresh flowers, bringing a sense of new life to a place full of history.
“He said he’d meet us here in the Great Hall, he should be around here somewhere.” Jesus said, looking up from his phone. Aziraphale still refused to get even the most basic Smartphone, opting for a pager to keep in touch with Christ while they were out and about.
“How do you know this friend, again? Are they someone you’ve met on our tour?” Aziraphale asked, watching Jesus scan the crowd.
Jesus’ eyes were moving methodically across the room, searching, “Nah, he’s an old friend of mine. Ran into him the other night, actually.”
“The other night? When were you out?”
As far as Aziraphale knew, Jesus hadn’t left the hotel without him. He'll have to press their guards about it later, he cannot go out on his own, especially in a place like New York City. Heaven forbid, and he meant that most literally, something happens to him when they are this close to the finish line. If he's done his job correctly, the Messiah will be merciful in his Judgement of humanity. If he failed…well, he doesn’t really want to think about that possibility.
“You know, he took me on a tour once, sort of like this. Ah, there he is! Excuse me.,” And Jesus was off, shouldering his way past the person to his left.
Aziraphale was taken aback, unsure that he heard Christ correctly over the murmuring of the crowd. He issued pleasantries and apologies as he weaved his way after him. Someone with red hair flashed in his peripheral vision, and he did a double take. It was just an employee of the museum, but Jesus had gained ground ahead of him. Aziraphale turned over what Jesus had told him, about going on a tour once, and his stomach suddenly dropped.
“Jesus, wait! What did you say his name was again?”
He was frantically trying not to trip over anyone’s toes or lose sight of him in the crowd, but he got trapped behind a family with a pram. He could hear the thrumming of blood rushing in his ears, his heart threatening to crack his ribs open. Sweat was beginning to perspire on the back of his neck.
“Crowley, there you are! I’m glad you could make it today!” Jesus said, stretching out a hand to shake.
“Jesus, long time no see, eh? I’m glad we could get together again after the other night. Small town, apparently. Small world,” Crowley said, flashing a smile, “And who’s your—” Crowley’s arm stopped mid-shake as he turned slightly to Jesus’ right.
“Oh, sorry! Crowley this is—” But the sentence was finished by Crowley.
“Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale was sure he would discorporate on the spot. He felt as if he had been doused in icy water at the sight of Crowley. Here. In the flesh. Shaking the hand of the Messiah. Crowley hadn’t noticed him at first since Jesus had called his name from the crowd, and Aziraphale had been trailing behind.
Even behind the sunglasses he could feel Crowley’s gaze as he took in the sight of him there, back pin straight and face nearly as pale as his hair. His hair was mostly the same as when he last saw Crowley, just a smidge longer. But he had developed a short beard, framing his face quite nicely, he thought anyway. He was wearing a dove gray three-piece suit with a slightly darker gray checking throughout, almost giving the illusion of a tartan or gingham. The silk pocket square and bowtie were a light seafoam, close to Aziraphale’s eyes in the right light. His dress shoes were the only part of his attire he'd been allowed to keep from his time on Earth, everything else being requirements of the position. They were light brown and shone to perfection by hand. His white dress shirt was freshly pressed and wrinkle free, and his trusty pocket watch was attached to the third button of his waistcoat.
“Crowley.” Aziraphale managed to get out, taking him in as well. He was dressed largely the same as always. Sinfully tight black skinny jeans, black snakeskin belt and ankle boots. He wore a black button up with the top few buttons open under a waistcoat. The leather jacket was a new addition, sleekly draping off his frame. The finishing touches of his thin gray scarf, stylish watch, and of course sunglasses. His hair is a bit shaggier now, but the top is still pushed up and over expertly. Aziraphale can’t breathe.
“Oh, you two know each other then? What are the odds!” Jesus was pointing between the two of them, clearly missing the tension hanging in the air thick like a morning fog.
He couldn’t have known that they hadn’t seen each other in nearly three years. It was the longest they’d gone without each other since the birth of the Antichrist. They had spent eleven years in proximity between gardening, nannying, tutoring, realizing they had the wrong boy, and then the right boy preventing the apocalypse. Even during the pandemic, they spoke over the phone regularly if Crowley wasn’t napping. It wasn’t the longest they’d ever been apart by any stretch of the imagination, but it was the most painful.
“Anything you need to take with you?” The Metatron asked, almost as if he's testing him. Pressing to see if Aziraphale is going to change his mind.
“No, nothing I can think of.” Aziraphale said, turning back to the window, brow twitching as pedestrians began to block his view of Crowley across the street.
“Ah,” The Metatron turned on his heel and left the bookshop.
Is he really going to do this? Throw away the life he and Crowley have spent 6,000 years carefully crafting? The chance to be together in a way that was impossible 20 minutes ago? Gabriel and Beelzebub got to run off together, to the star system Crowley had offered to him during the Apocalypse. The heads of Heaven and Hell had confessed their love to each other and weren’t obliterated on the spot.
Crowley had said…well he didn’t say love. But then again neither did Aziraphale. Crowley said what he said, and they didn’t get destroyed. They kissed and didn’t get destroyed either. It wasn’t a romantic kiss; it was a desperate kiss. He felt it in his bones, rattling with the force at which Crowley pressed their lips together. It felt like a betrayal.
Aziraphale hesitated then, rushing away from the window and toward the exit after The Metatron.
“I think I—” but it was too late. The Metatron was already outside, out of earshot and waiting for him on the sidewalk.
As much as he wants to stay, he know that The Almighty needs him. He had lied to thwart Her will on more than one occasion, and still had not Fallen. If Her plans are truly ineffable, then every choice he has made thus far is part of those plans. Every choice Crowley has made is part of those plans. If Crowley came with him, allowed himself to be reinstated as an angel, he could protect him. They could be safe, together. They could work from the inside to make changes in how Heaven ran. All those critiques Crowley would throw at him when he came to Heaven’s defense, they could change those. And they could find out what Heaven is planning next and stop it.
He doesn’t want Crowley to change who he is, not really. He didn’t fall in love with the angel Crowley was. He fell in love with the demon he is. But they would never be safe if they ran off together now. They had just been threatened with the Book of Life, and with destruction by Hellfire and Holy Water before that. He wouldn’t risk Crowley’s safety again. Gabriel and Beelzebub only got away with it because both sides wanted to keep things quiet to prevent an uprising.
The past few years, all the time he had spent with Crowley, Gabriel finding his way to the bookshop, it all must be ineffable. And if all that was ineffable? Then this must be, too. If Crowley won’t join him, then this is a journey he must face alone. He may not have full faith in The Metatron or the other Archangels, but his faith in The Almighty is unwavering. And if he knows anything at all, it’s that there isn’t any choice here. She holds the cards.
He looked out the window one last time and took a deep breath before plastering a smile on his face.
“Nothing at all.”
That, of course, is when The Metatron told him of the Second Coming. He knew, then, that despite the pain he felt from his heart shattering, he had to go. There were times where it felt as if a string connected him to Crowley. When they went too long without seeing each other he could feel the tension growing as the string was pulled in opposite directions. Something would eventually bring them back together before it could snap, but over time the string had begun to fray from the repeated ebbs and flows of tension between them.
He could feel Crowley’s sunglasses-obstructed gaze burning on his skin as he stood outside the lift and couldn’t help himself. He looked to his left one final time to see Crowley there, leaning against the Bentley, face unreadable. He turned back to the lift and stepped inside. The string snapped.
“Crowley, what are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked, feeling the color returning to his face.
“Obviously I’m here to view the art with my friend, since he so kindly invited me,” Crowley said, gesturing to Jesus, “It is a public museum after all.”
How does he seem so calm? “You know that is not what I meant, Crowley.”
“He said he had someone with him, I wasn’t expecting it to be you,” Crowley crossed his arms in defiance, “Thought you’d be too busy pushing papers or going over the cleaning roster Upstairs.”
“Well, it is me, sorry to disappoint. New York, why are you here in New York?”
“Not much left for me back in London, is there? Hadn’t been across the pond since, what, the 1980s? Needed a change of scenery, a change of pace. I could ask the same of you but that’s been answered for me.”
Jesus, however, had been looking between the two of them like a tennis match as they bickered back and forth.
“Oh, you know him from London! Was he one of your customers in the bookshop you told me about?” Jesus asked, feeling like there was something nagging in the back of his mind.
“Do I look like I read books? For someone’s sake, why do people keep asking me that?”
“Crowley and I have known each other for a long time, is all,” Crowley groaned at that specific wording choice. “Right! Should we get a wiggle on? Things to see and do today.” Aziraphale said, plastering on a smile and hoping Jesus wouldn’t press it any further.
Seeing as there was no way he could make Crowley leave without some form of explanation as to why, he took a deep breath to calm himself. It will be fine. They will tour the museum and then Crowley will surely leave. It'll be fine.