Chapter Text
“Properly good.” It bounced around Aziraphales head, that phrase, ceaselessly. Accompanied, in turn by flashes of Wee Morag’s body, of the tumour in a jar, of Crowley being pulled down where Aziraphale couldn’t follow, of Elspeth’s face realising she has a future. He tried to just go back to his bookshop, to return to the bland normal that stretched between each time he got to see Crowley. His days, as always, filled with books, with repetitive miracles at the behest of Heaven… with longing. Now the days filled with those, as well as obsession over the impossible-to-avoid beseeching Crowley had directed at Elspeth, but that had splattered onto Aziraphale, and the way he had felt giving that money to Elspeth. The understanding that sometimes “bad” choices were a stepping stone on the path to goodness slowly clawed its way into his consciousness. Eventually he began to consider that--maybe--there were ways that he could bring good to the world, starting at the root of the problem, evening out the playing field so humans could avoid the need to make those “bad” choices. There were lots of ways to convince humans to choose good. He read every book he could on any subject he felt was even remotely relevant. One evening, memories of another time he had spent with Crowley, not all that long ago, resurfaced. He remembered the word “aristo,” finally linking it to his reading. The need to be in Paris hit him like a freight train.
Convincing Heaven took just the smallest bit of conniving on his part. He played into the idea that right now the French weren’t particularly happy about the idea that someone could be ordained by G-d to rule. He could drum up support against the Divine Right of Kings by encouraging people to truly study the Word, to choose the goodness inherent in that. He told them that there would be demonic forces abound, drawn to the scent of dissent. He argued that people can’t properly choose between good and evil if they are not free. They need the autonomy that isn’t provided in a monarchy. Perhaps Heaven just agreed to his plan to get him out of their hair, but he might have to get used to the ends justifying the means.
He later thought that he needn’t have tried as hard as he had, but he had wanted to be absolutely sure. This is where he would start anew. He didn’t know when- or if- he would ever see Crowley again. The best he could do to assuage his guilt for the death of Wee Morag, and of Crowley doing good when he himself hadn’t, was to be properly good.
Choosing a new name was easy enough, a fun little play on the French pronunciation of "angel," although in his head it was always in Crowley's voice. He got the house while appearing middle aged. However, in his research in the city, he realised just how many of the righteously indignant were either students- those who, after, coming of age seeing a despot replaced by a king willing to compromise, were unwilling to go back to yet another despot- and labourers- those hit hardest by the recent economic decline. Upon determining that he most definitely didn’t have the skills to join the labourers, nor did he want to acquire them, Aziraphale set his sights on the students, making himself younger to blend in. He missed the mark a little, not quite knowing what he was doing, and ended up looking younger than he intended, and perhaps a bit more delicately feminine than he would usually tend towards. His hair became just a bit darker, more of a naturally occurring human hair colour. He was going to immerse himself in this as deeply as he could. Later, as this younger Enjolras, he built the pretense that his reclusive father had simply passed away and was buried privately, with no other family around.
The first years were hard. He spent a few of them focus on continuing to learn and tentatively making connections. Then all too fast, there were proper barricades going up and he was finding others to join up with. He hadn’t let himself get close to humans like this before, but he told himself that they’d be able to tell if his heart wasn’t in it, that they needed to be able to trust him. He morphed into a new, braver version of himself. At the center of those connections were The Friends of the ABC. He liked that the name of the group is a pun, like his current moniker. They spent the next year and a half meeting. He learned more and more, things he knew he never would have understood locked up in his little bookshop. He gave away what he could, earning favour among his friends who approved of how far below his means he lived, seeing it as commitment to the cause. He still stayed a bit removed from them, not wanting to get close enough that--should their dreams of giving their lives for the revolution come to pass--the pain of losing them would be more than he could handle. Not with Crowley still gone.