Chapter Text
Aziraphale expected many things from his new position in Heaven. When the Metatron offered it to him, Aziraphale saw the opportunity to change everything that was wrong with his employers. He hoped to make things better for angels and humanity alike. Dreamed of showing his fellow angels how amazing people on Earth can be, what they're capable of and how deserving they are of love and protection. Planned the grand future of humanity...
What he didn't imagine were constant long meetings over the most inconsequential details of their work. Angels arguing and speaking over one another. Charts and graphs that meant nothing to him and probably to anyone. Paperwork, loads and loads of paperwork to be filled out, copied, filed, stored, shredded and created all over again. No wonder he tended to cancel all that white noise (because everything surrounding him was white and he hated it). No wonder he caught himself staring into the white void and wondering how he got there in the first place. No wonder on such occasions, his mind would drift elsewhere and his fingers would touch his lips, his eyes closing, his lips slowly moving against his fingers. We could have been us. Nothing lasts forever.
"Aziraphale?"
"Sorry, must have dozed off. Won't happen again." The truth is, it did. It happened a lot more than he cared to admit. Closing his eyes, remembering Crowley's lips on his, his confession and how he failed him. Facing the new reality of his position, he couldn't help but notice how much he had given up for... nothing?
"Can I talk to you in my office?" The Metatron asked and Aziraphale was glad for the offer. The talk was long overdue.
The office consisted of a bright white desk in a bright white void. Of course it did. Everyone in Heaven lacked the imagination for anything else and it was making Aziraphale sick. He would give anything for a shade of beige like his favourite attire, light brown like his favourite biscuits he ate with tea, auburn like the colour of Crowley's hair, yellow like the depth of his eyes and onyx black like the velvet hue of his wings.
"You're doing it again!" The Metatron woke him up from his dream.
"I'm sorry, I'm a bit distracted as of late."
"I've noticed and that's why I wanted to talk to you. You can't..."
"You're right. I can't go on like this. It's not working out. I don't know if it's the bright white I can't get used to, the lack of food and tea I need when I'm working or the meetings..."
"What are you going to do about it?"
"I thought that maybe I would work better on my own, being given assignments to do in my own pace and space..."
"Are you suggesting...?"
"Humans have something called "a home office". It's been quite popular since the pandemic. They sit at home with their phones and computers and tea and cake and do everything that needs to be done... why are you laughing?" Aziraphale felt offended by the Metatron interrupting his speech.
"A home office? Really? And where is your "home" might I ask?"
"Well, in my bookshop, of course!" Aziraphale was proud of his two hundred years of hoarding books and nice things.
"You want to keep the position in Heaven while staying on Earth like you used to?"
"I would love that very much indeed." The angel was so pleased with himself, finally standing up to the stupid rules of Heaven, until
"No, that won't do. It's funny you thought we would allow such foolishness."
"Well, I'm afraid you give me no other choice. I quit!"
Aziraphale stormed out of the "office" and towards the lift because he was afraid he might change his mind. To his surprise, nobody tried to stop him and when he pressed the button on the lift, he felt Metatron's gaze on his back and couldn't wait to be gone. Couldn't wait to be back in his bookshop. To dance the apology Crowley deserves, get his forgiveness and finally kiss him and live happily ever after. He pressed the button again, his other hand reaching to touch his lips. He felt a small tingle run down his spine, but he didn't turn around, didn't look back, just entered as the door opened.
When he stepped out into a busy Soho street, his fingers were still on his lips, but he had no idea why. As if in a dream, he walked through the streets, navigating them on autopilot, heading straight for the bookshop. His bookshop. He put the kettle on and sat down on his favourite chair. He felt at home.
Crowley, on the other hand, didn't feel anywhere at home. He'd spent those weeks after Aziraphale had left him trying to forget. Forget that his friend of six millenia left him for a better job, forget that the past few years since the birth of the Antichrist were the best years of his life, forget the emptiness breaking his heart over and over again, forget the smell of the bookshop, the smell of his angel, the taste of his lips, the way he melted against him and kissed him back before pushing him away forever.
Crowley drank to forget. He slept with whomever was blond and willing. He drove to Tadfield and back a thousand times listening to The Queen.
At one point he stopped eating because it reminded him of the angel. Stopped going to St. James's park to avoid the ducks, stopped going to the theatre because who would he share it with?
But despite all the effort, at least once a week he found himself standing in front of the bookshop, staring at the golden A. Z. Fell above the door and listening to the sound of his own heart breaking a bit more.
Only this time, the bookshop wasn't silent. Its door was open and people were coming and going, leaving the bookshop with books! they'd just bought. And inside, the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen was sitting on his chair behind the counter, sipping tea and chatting with customers as if that was a perfectly normal thing to do.
Before he could stop himself, Crowley burst into the bookshop, customers making the way for him on instinct. He winced at the sight of people touching the books, picking them up and putting them in their bags.
"You've got to be kidding me!" He hissed at Aziraphale.
"What seems to be the problem, my dear?" The angel smiled at him and took another sip of his tea.
"What do you think you're doing?" Crowley asked, leaning forward over the counter.
"Selling books. This is a bookshop and it is my job. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"For me? Oh, you've done enough. I don't even know where to... you know what? Drink your tea, sell all of your precious books and pretend any of this makes sense! I'm done playing this game. You know where to find me."
Crowley stormed out of the door, jumped into his Bentley and drove through London traffic, so that he could focus his rage on the other drivers and not on his own stupid trecherous heart. Because of course his broken heart still skipped a beat when he entered the bookshop. Of course it wanted him to sweep his angel into a hug, of course it wanted him to ask him out for dinner as if nothing ever happened.
"I had an ex like that once. Toxic, if you ask me." One of the customers remarked as he was paying for the pile of books he'd chosen. But Aziraphale gave him a puzzled look.
"The guy who's just stormed out?" The customer reminded him, pointing at the door.
"Oh, I've never seen that man in my life. I have no idea what got into him." Aziraphale waved it off.
"That will be 30 pounds."