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By the time the lift reached Heaven, Aziraphale was ready.
He wasn’t thinking at all of a certain demon slouching around back on Earth. “Idiot,” hmph. No, his prodigious mind was focused entirely on the Second Coming, and how things would look quite a bit different with him as Supreme Archangel. No glorious final battle, to be certain, and surely no need for a brand new Earth. The old one was perfectly lovely, with its private opera booths and gilt tea sets and that new Ethiopian restaurant down the street where he’d been meaning to bring—
He winced. Shook his head. The lift doors opened with a tasteful ding, and he stepped through them with shoulders squared and ready.
A shivery ripple passed through him. He blinked and turned to the Metatron, who was following him out of the lift. “Did you feel that?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what—” The Metraton met his gaze, and stopped short. “Well. That is... unusual.”
Aziraphale froze too. The Metatron was peering at him without a hint of his earlier kindliness. In fact, he looked distinctly irritated. Had Aziraphale managed to do something wrong three seconds into the job? With... his face? “Erm. What is it?”
The Metatron cleared his throat. “Your eyes have changed. In colour.”
Aziraphale sank a little. “Oh. I suppose the violet will take some getting used to.” He should have anticipated this, the mantle of Supreme Archangel bringing with it those eerie purple irises. But changes to his physical appearance had never come easily to him. Not like... well.
“That’s the thing,” the Metatron said. “They’re...” His nose wrinkled, almost imperceptibly. “...yellow.”
Oh.
Oh.
Aziraphale fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out the ancient round watch he kept there, opening the brass latch with shaky fingers. In the glass of the clock face, he could just make out the reflection of two bright gold spots. He brought his hand to his mouth. Touched his lips.
No wonder the Metatron was displeased.
“Ah, Supreme Archangel.” The Voice of God spoke starchily, and Aziraphale looked up from the pocket watch. “I’m afraid Heaven is not a place for material objects. That will all have to go.” He waved his hand in a small, dismissive gesture.
Aziraphale felt that cold shimmery sensation once again, and the watch vanished from his grasp. When he looked down at where it had been, he saw that his Earthly clothing had been replaced with a crisp white suit. The material against his skin felt stiff and chilly and impossibly, ethereally fresh. “Oh—” His empty hand closed in a fist, neat fingernails digging into his palms with Heavenly painlessness. He itched to tug at his old waistcoat, worry the buttons, adjust his bowtie—hand-stitched back in 1828—but there was only the unsatisfyingly immaterial new suit. He shut his eyes against the sight of it.
In the darkness, he saw two luminous yellow eyes, shining back at him out of his own familiar face.
Something to remember Earth by. And a certain demon keeping vigil there.
Aziraphale took a long breath in and opened his eyes. “I suppose you’re right.” He clapped his hands, mustering a smile and turning to the Metatron. “Well! New beginnings are always a little bumpy, but here we are. Could you show me to my office, please?”
The Metatron returned a smile that looked the way shoes feel when they’re several sizes too small. “Of course, Your Beatitude.”
As they walked through the cheerless void, Aziraphale made a mental note to miracle himself up a small mirror. Something that could be easily tucked away in a white suit pocket. And just as easily brought out when he needed it.
He passed the floating Earth and stole a glance at England. It was overcast there, pale clouds swirling gloomily above the globe’s surface.
But there was brightness, too, he knew.
If you knew where to look.