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“... will be the first order of business.”
I am sorry, Crowley. I know I've asked far too much of you.
“Excuse me? I must have misunderstood. The first order couldn't possibly be...”
I am afraid the days slip away like sand. The light doesn't dim in Heaven, as I am sure you remember. This might take much longer than I'd initially assumed. I couldn't possibly ask you to wait for me. Not after
“No, no. You heard quite right,” Aziraphale interrupts.
If the 'worst' of the demons and the 'best' of the angels can change their minds that quickly – then the rest of them can do it too. I'll be damned if I don't try, at least.
“This is ridiculous. The Metatron will not stand for this.”
… you would disagree, as you so often are prone to do. There have been plenty of times in the past I've been more than glad when you were proven right.
“He is more than capable to correct me himself, if he happens to agree with you. Until then, you do as I say. You know as well as I do that I've been tasked with preventing what happened with Gabriel from ever happening again,” - and Aziraphale planned to do just that, since he wasn't going to let anyone delete memories again (or order any removal of clothes). It wasn't his fault that their wording was so open to interpretation - “Team building activities like this will be strictly necessary to increase your discipline, mutual respect and perhaps your humility. It's all sorely lacking. To be quite honest, I am not convinced you even have any.”
I dare hope this is not one of those times. Scream and shout at me all you want when I return.
“We- Angels don't dance!”
In fact, please do.
He smiled. It's a cold, ugly thing, pulling at his lips and deforming his cheeks, but he doesn't have the energy to infuse it with kindness – or true politeness. Luckily his co-workers likely can't tell the difference – yet. Someday, maybe.
“Your lack of manners are a case in point. You will find that they do now. New management, and all that.”
'Dear God, this would be so much easier with Crowley here.' It's not the first time the thought has crossed his mind, and it won't be the last, despite how utterly selfish it is. Mostly misses talking to him as well as just about everything else. The paperwork alone – to become 'Supreme Archangel' (oh, how he hated that title, it couldn't sound more conceited if it tried) – had almost driven him to permanent despair during the last couple of days- hours- weeks-
It was all a blur. A blob of nothingness and irritation threatening to consume his entire mind with a vicious headache.
Still, I am too much of a bastard to let this one go, regardless of how it may end. I am sure you can at least agree with me on that, love
The letters he writes, mostly in his head, rarely on paper, remain unsent. He wouldn't be sure where to anyway – perhaps if he could sent them directly to the Bentley, he'd consider it. With Muriel at the shop, and whatever replacement demon at Crowley's flat, his options are … limited. Non-existent, really. Miracles are out of the question.
“What is this God-forsaken noise?” one angel asks in the back. They are assembled in rows upon rows of angelic rigidity.
This particular letter, however, he can never write. If he did, he'd have to burn it seconds after finishing. It would contain too much information. Should either Heaven or Hell ever find it, it'd be a catastrophe. He doesn't think he has ever felt this utterly alone before. Tries not to dwell on how much worse Crowley must feel.
“That would be music. Give it a bit of time, it grows on you. … Some of it. We will start with the Gavotte. You will learn to dance-” so help me God, “-and you will-” have fun for once in your miserable long lives, “-learn quite a few new things about humanity in preparation for the Second Coming. Believe me. So. I will go slowly. Watch what I do and mimic it whenever you are ready.”
Meanwhile, he will listen very closely during the meetings. If humanity's finest inventions, arts and dance moves aren't enough to win the war, he will be sure to find another loophole, another opening to take a shot. Crowley has been a good an influential teacher.
An angel stumbles and crashes into the one next to them. It triggers a chain reaction, and within seconds five more topple over like bowling pins. It's a bit like watching newborn foals take their first steps. Outwardly, Aziraphale winces with practised sympathy at the sight. He is mildly surprised to note that Saraqael is one of the few that already appear to be enjoying themselves, perhaps armed with the knowledge that it's impossible for anyone to step on their toes.
Inwardly, conflicted feelings are battling, as they so often do. Stifled amusement, lonely melancholy, bitter contempt, budding hope, nauseating homesickness, guilty yearning, biting loss, crushing regret, … all those fun ones he'd rather prefer to drown in alcohol.
… and if there's some spirited vengefulness among the mix, no one really has to know.