Work Text:
Aziraphale ascended to Heaven with the Metatron at his side. Heaven still wanted to end the world, even skip Armageddon and go straight to the Second Coming. They expected him to cooperate, help, and follow orders. Being the Supreme Archangel only went so far. He should have realised this from the start. Their only problem with Gabriel was his resistance to ending the world.
“Everything alright, Aziraphale?” the Metatron asked as the lift doors opened, other archangels loitering nearby.
“You’ve brought him back?” Michael asked, obviously confused.
The Metatron didn’t respond right away, and Aziraphale fought the urge to turn and leave. But he was there to change things. He would get the Metatron to change his mind. Maybe Michael, Uriel, or Saraquel would change their minds too. He could do this. This was his chance to make things better.
“He’s now Supreme Archangel, you are to follow his lead just as you did Gabriel’s. I think he’ll be a great help with the Project.”
Michael and Uriel both stood there, stunned. Saraquel glanced at them before looking back at Aziraphale. “Well, let’s get started.”
“Already?” Aziraphale chuckled nervously. “What’s the rush? I just got here.”
The Metatron stared at him for a moment before nodding. “Of course, we’ll need to get you settled. It’s been a long time since you’ve been in Heaven full-time. You,” he said, pointing to Saraquel. “Show him where he’ll be working.”
Saraquel led Aziraphale through the bright, white halls of Heaven, taking him to a door that already had his name on it. He touched the embossed letters and turned to Saraquel. “Can I stop it?” he asked, turning back to the door.
“Stop what?” Saraquel asked as she turned and left him.
Aziraphale sighed and pushed open the door, and gazed around the room which was lined with white bookshelves full of books. He traced his finger over the spine of Le Morte d'Arthur and Genji no Monogatari. So many other books he’d never seen before, he’d never read. In the centre of the room was a large roll-top desk, almost an exact copy of the one he left behind in the bookshop.
He sat down at the desk, his fingers lightly touching the bare wood. There were no years of receipts, drawings, photos, nor anything else he had on that desk. That desk held his life for the last two hundred and twenty-three years.
“This is your chance,” he said to himself. “Nobody’s going to help you this time.”
Each day, Aziraphale did what he could to stall the plans of Heaven. He made a few staff changes and wanted to be able to trust Michael, Uriel, or Sandalphon, but he wasn’t stupid. He sent them away with things to do. It would be a century before he saw them again. It would be a century before he saw anyone again.
“It is done,” The Metatron said, a disembodied head floating over a pile of books spread out in the centre of the office, cell, whatever it was.
“Sorry. What’s done?” Aziraphale asked, looking up from the reports he’d received from Sariel, Remiel, and Raguel.
“The Christ child has been returned to Earth,” the Metatron stated, satisfaction apparent on his face.
“I didn’t—That wasn’t supposed to happen yet.” Aziraphale’s stomach dropped as he skimmed through a list of names, the angels that had proclaimed their loyalty to him as their leader. Praising the changes he’d brought to heaven, all the good he’d done. The angels worked for others, instead of themselves. It still wasn’t enough; he’d missed the most important thing.
“But it’s done, Aziraphale. You had your work, who was I to interrupt you?”
With a click of his fingers, the angels were gone, and Aziraphale was alone. He drew a piece of vellum from a drawer and began to write. He should have reached out to Crowley sooner, but he had been so busy, so distracted. He could only hope that it wasn’t too late.