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Aziraphale had looked back. In spite of his anger, in spite of his certainty that he was doing the right thing, he had looked back. There Crowley had stood, stock-still, one arm slung over the Bentley. A pose that a passerby might view as casual, but Aziraphale knew Crowley, and even at this distance, he could see that his affect was rigid and cold. Well. If Crowley could be cold, after everything, after that kiss, after Aziraphale had forgiven him for it, so could Aziraphale.
When he stepped into the lift and the doors closed, he wavered for only half a moment before a feeling came over him: not peace, not assurance, but something like a giddy resignation. This job wouldn’t be what he had expected when he had been offered it, but he could still make a difference. Couldn’t he?
Who would he ask in Heaven? Who would he confide in? Who would make him feel like he was more than a pawn, that he was someone who only went along as far as he could. Who would help him find that boundary, beyond which he could go no further?
Even while he doubted, his smile never wavered. No one must know, especially not the Metatron, that he was anything other than the picture of a perfect Supreme Archangel, that he was controlled, and in charge. When the lift reached Heaven, the Metatron gestured at him to step off first. Aziraphale nodded, a stiff nod, one of acknowledgement of this reverence for his new exalted position, and stepped out. The Metatron followed and the lift doors closed with a soft sfft that somehow rang out like a klaxon in the blindingly white corridor.
Aziraphale turned to the Metatron with head held high, smile fixed. The Metatron gave him an inscrutable look. “I’ll show you to your office. This way.” He began to walk and Aziraphale followed, not behind, but at his side. Heaven, of course, did not have offices per se; there were no walls or doors. But there were designated spaces, and the Supreme Archangel’s space was more secluded than most. One needed permission to access it. Aziraphale had never been in it, he had always met with Gabriel in communal spaces.
They walked for what seemed like an eternity. Aziraphale had a million questions, but he couldn’t decide which he should ask first. Finally, he landed on one: “About the Second Coming,” he began, but the Metatron interrupted as if he hadn’t heard him. “Ah, here we are,” he said genially. “Please, make yourself at home.” When Aziraphale turned to look at him, the Metatron was gone and Aziraphale was alone in…his own bookshop. Replicated exactly, down to the last speck of dust. A sob welled up in him, unbidden. He fell to his knees. He wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or terrified. This felt like the dirtiest of tricks, for someone to recreate the home that he loved, the one Crowley told him he could not leave, in Heaven. He crawled to one of the shelves and reached out, to touch one of the books. His hand went straight through. It was all an illusion.
With great effort, he got to his feet, straightened his waistcoat and dried his eyes. He waved a hand and the bookshop disappeared. All that remained was his writing desk. With a thought, his own imagination, he made it substantial. He sat down at it and took out a piece of sketch paper and a pen and began to draw without intention. Before long, Crowley’s face began to take shape, but not the Crowley he had just left, the one he had first met all those eons ago. The one who made the stars. A sweet, guileless face, untouched by thousands of years of pain. The face Crowley might have had again if he had only come with Aziraphale. Aziraphale put his head in his hands, and the paper slid to the pristine white floor.