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Aziraphale supposes it must have always been them. From Eden, where the angel stood guard and the snake walked beneath his feet, to Armageddon– the end times– it's always been them. Two halves of a whole, angel and demon, heaven and hell. Two representatives, two Earth-tainted friends. They spent 6,000 years together on the same planet; thousands of lives lived together. 6,000 years and hundreds of lives of love. Lives where God watched with a smile on Her face.
It's so sudden, yet so tangible that it will be over soon. A literal blink before nothingness overtakes them. Crowley made his decision. He made it for Aziraphale, too. It was an unfair compromise, to say the least, but the only possible one.
“What do you want?” God had asked– too much like a human, too much like something fair below her. Satan beside her, sitting the very same way that she was, a perfect picture of a demon holding hands with an angel in front of her.
Aziraphale is not entirely sure what Crowley had said, too lost in his best friend's face to dare focus on anything else. It doesn’t truly matter: a blur of movement, a small motion of a kiss from his strong, bare hands, and it tumbles over. They said their goodbyes, their ‘until we meet again.’ Even then, they both knew what was happening, how they would fade away, how there would be no more of them nor of anyone they knew. They knew what was going to happen, the certainty of it. Aziraphale doesn’t think it truly hits his own mind until he’s already gone, or close to it.
He’s still here, kicking it for the moment. Soon enough, his pause will cease and he, again, will be dust until light hits the universe again. If it ever does. He’s not sure if reincarnation will happen, if it could, if he even wants it to, but he hopes. He hopes with all his soul that Crowley will return to him, that Aziraphale can taste food again and drink wine and read books to his content… and there’s a reason why its just hope. Soon enough, his hope will cease, too, but not now. He has a few moments with himself, a limbo in between peaces, to analyze if anything went wrong. If they were salvageable, or if their death was a waiting fate.
He supposes it was Eden, first.
He remembers the sun against his wings. He remembers warmth, how alien and how wonderful it felt in contrast to the starkness of Heaven. He remembers selfishly wishing to stay forever, and, now, he supposes he did– in memory, of course. He remembers wanting to be good. It’s a bit laughable, now; he’s just not sure why. The irony of the thing.
He remembers the snake, the scales boiling against his ankles as it crawled along its belly. He remembers the instinct to smite, to kill. He remembers his Heads wanting to burst from his skull and show the demon the Right wrath of an angel. He remembers wanting to guard as he had been ordered to. Perhaps that was the first wrong decision, to not bring down the demon where it stood. It is a far greater possibility, however, that this was the first right decision. He remembers looking at the lean thing beside him, watching, protecting, and seeing the very same fallen angel he helped at the flame. And Aziraphale remembers, above all, how the demon looked back. Crowley was unafraid, even casual. He remembers the rain against his wings, how the holy water did not touch the snake, did not fall through the angel’s wings– simply because the demon trusted him enough not to allow the rain to.
He remembers everything. He remembers the wall against his feet, the cool tile beginning to slick with the first rain. He remembers the first sunset, the first sunrise. He remembers how similar it was to every other sunrise and sunset. Blue, pink, yellow, orange, the colors all fading so inevitably into black. He remembers looking up at the untouched sky, without pollution and without clouds, understanding that the demon beside him was their creator, and he remembers thinking nothing of the unfairness. He remembers looking at Adam and Eve, Eve punished for a natural tendency, and naming it God’s plan– ineffable. He remembers excusing God to Crowley; in turn, he remembers taking in Crowley’s annoyed face for the first time, watching the crease of his jaw, the slight upturn to his lips and the narrowness of his pupils. If nothing else, if not the first sunset, if not the first night, if not the first rain, if not the Eden being left behind, he remembers thinking Crowley was beautiful.
After that, It was the great flood. They’d met before then, of course– as two immortal beings on a planet where all humans die in just about a blink of the eye, it was natural to want consistency. Aziraphale remembers the choice in the great flood, however. He remembers that the most well.
Crowley, she hadn’t been aware of God’s decision. She lurked, she watched and looked at the boat and animals and the preaching and wanted answers. Aziraphale had understood the moment Crowley had opened her mouth and asked what was going on with the big zoo. Aziraphale remembers how she had looked at him, the curiosity in her eyes difficult to break.
“How kind,” She had said, after the explanation, after the predictable heartbreak of knowing that God was going to destroy these innocents, understanding the certainty and unescapability of it. He remembers looking at her after the blow, he remembers watching not the boat, not the people bumbling around in confusion and disbelief, but her. He remembers watching her snake eyes calculate how many kids, how many people are surrounding her, he remembers being confused before feeling the shift in the other plane as her wings are, again, measured in size, double checked, then triple checked, and he remembers the feeling he gets as he understands what she is trying to do– what she is going to do.
He didn’t truly need to breathe, but he had gotten used to it; and so he was so familiar with the feeling of breath being taken from him, either by his own hand or by another. He couldn’t breathe. “Oh, Crawley,” He remembered whispering, scared half to death, for both himself and the demon beside him. How wrong was that blasphemy? He remembers the anxiety in his bones, and he remembers the urge to protect. It reminds him of Eden, just protecting the enemy instead of protecting from it. “I can’t let you do that.”
Crowley was as angry as she could be. Frustrated at not Aziraphale, not at her angel, but, impossibly, every one else: heaven, hell, Noah, and Noah’s family.. “But you can, Aziraphale… angel, they’re just babies. Toddlers,” Crowley had pleaded, soft and low. So undemonlike that Aziraphale could forget, just for a moment, and pretend this was just another human that was pleading for life. Pretend she was pleading for herself, for selfish reasons, instead of wanting Aziraphale to let her save others.
Aziraphale remembers every emotion going through his hive mind. He remembers being angry, more angry than he was at Eden’s gate, angry at their situation, angry at Crowley for making him choose between his faith and his urge– his order– to protect. He remembers being lost, being scared that someone would find out, that someone would hurt them, hurt Crowley, and then he remembers his fear for the little kids surrounding him. He remembers how large it was, how natural it was. And he remembers his decision. “I can’t help you,” He had said, watching Crowley’s shoulders drop in relief and absolute grief. He remembers taking a long look at the tension in her face, the determination in her eyes, the wide quality of her pupils. “But I will turn a blind eye.”
I’m not going to thank you, Crowley had once said, and Aziraphale did not want to hope for anything different. He stood beside the patient Crowley, stood until his back ached and stood until his back went numb– stood until the rain began and until the children’s laughter had turned to tears. He had left as soon as Crowley had begun to soothe the worried mothers and they, together, had begun to herd the little ones. With the rain on his wings, the droplets rolling down in cascades as they just kept coming, faster and faster with no relent, he remembers hearing a baby’s cry as the angel fled, hearing it loud before seeing the babe swept away in a flood of black wings. “God’s plan,” he had reminded himself, wondering if it was her will for Crowley to save the little ones or if it was simply a fault in the system.
Now, thousands of years later, he knows. It was always Her will, She knew, and therefore did not act.
He remembers Job. He remembers his sin just as well. It was a blip in the scheme of things, but he certainly remembers what happened after that sin. He had all but begged Crowley to take him to hell, to deliver him into where Aziraphale had believed he belonged. He remembers the fear, the idea that he had failed humanity, just by indulging. And Crowley, his enemy, his other half, his partner on Earth, had told him no. He had assured Aziraphale, under a pale blue sky, that no hell was going to touch him; Aziraphale remembers Crowley’s small words, truth, that no one had to know. That this would remain between them. This, he remembers. He remembers the comfort Crowley brought, how wrong it had felt to give in to a demon, but how much he had wanted to, how good it felt to be understood.
He remembers the bookshop opening. He remembers Gabriel, he remembers the terror that shot through his body as Gabriel gave him an award that should’ve meant only good for him. He remembers feeling wrong as Gabriel looked worriedly at him, seemingly looked right through him, right to his biggest secret–his only secret. He remembers the fear of looking at Crowley, the demon just about to march into the bookshop, how he had almost gotten hurt because of Aziraphale. He remembers the way Crowley had looked at him after Gabriel had left, looked at him with relief, looked at him with a lazy smile on his face, and looked carefully, gently, at him like he had fought for Aziraphale. Maybe he did; Aziraphale never got around to asking the demon about Gabriel’s departure– it didn’t seem like it mattered. He had his demon beside him, and they were safe.
He remembers 1941. He remembers what they did, how they tricked FurFur, how freeing it had felt. He remembers his, quite frankly, horrible magic tricks, and he remembers how Crowley had trusted him enough to point the gun at his face. He remembers the books, the blitz, the church, how much the floor must have burned for Crowley; he remembers sitting in the Bentley with Crowley, flying away from the scene of their crime. He remembers the warmth in his stomach, the familiar feeling of love. He remembers how he felt it, how Crowley was sitting there– not unaware, just moving along, acting in the ways he did. He remembers how gorgeous he was. He remembers sitting there, reminding himself that they have time.
It was a reminder that followed him through each dinner, each wine date, each vague explanation of stars and books they’d trade. They had time, they had forever– until they didn’t.
It wasn’t a sudden reminder, either. They just wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening until it was. But they dealt with it. Aziraphale remembers the countdown they had, the moments Crowley pleaded for Aziraphale to just leave it behind. To leave their dinners and their books and their car and their livelihood’s behind because at least they would’ve had each other. He remembers that decision, too. He remembers the anger in Crowley’s eyes, the wide, inflamed yellow of his iris, the frustration steeping of his demon. He remembers putting his foot down, remaining sentinel on a dying planet. He remembers how good it had felt, how wonderful it was, to be right. It had been fine in the end.
He remembers the beginning, the end, and everything in between. He remembers being stuck in a bookshop, his bookshop, one he was forever saying goodbye to, with his demon, who he was going to the grave with, and God and Satan. He remembers now, the specifics of the deal. How Crowley wanted free will, how he wanted to forbid any ‘true’ religion, anything of the like. How he wanted it so bad, how he made Aziraphale want it enough to the point that they would be willing to give up all they knew for it.
Here, he realizes that he doesn’t have long. The limbo is, well, simply a limbo. Not forever, only a transition in the scheme of things. He can feel God, too. He’s felt Her before, felt Her doubt, felt Her humor at his lie, and felt Her mercy. It’s familiar: the unfair, dealing hand ghosting over his thoughts, his soul, his world.
He feels Her humor again–and at the same time, a thread builds through him, tearing him halfway into dust. “One last change. A fate…” She prophesies, a bit spirit-like. Hope springs its delicate vines through Aziraphale’s fading heart again, although its twin Worry is not too far behind. A change to their contract, and what that means. He almost wants to pray,to pray that Crowley’s sacrifice was not a waste but instead simply just a means to an end. He knows God cannot be kind, but he’s hoping that She at least makes a kind decision. It's as though time slows down.
“Oh, Aziraphale,” She drawls, a bit giggly. She understands him, understands each memory as it flies away into both nothing and dust. He almost laughs at the small detail. Dust– the foundation for their universe, and soon the next. They would be the beginning of the world.
“You two always were my favorite.” She teases, but Her presence soon fades, either from distance, death, or both. The latter is the most favorable– to him at least. He’s going to trust her, to have a little bit more faith than would be expected of him. He allows himself to hope in his final moments: time itself slows down, each moment like centuries under his feet,
Another thread, more threads. Dust, his dust, goes flying towards the beginning of the universe– the centre. It’s somewhere, far, far away from the possibility Earth. He laughs, now, a single little chuckle as his voice is soon stolen. Maybe She’ll allow them another chance– one not doomed by Heaven and Hell and Great Plans–- just like Earth is allowed another, too. Instead of enemy and enemy, an impossibility, something rare, perhaps they can just be in love. Distantly, because his hearing is just about flying away into dust as well, he can hear his dying God’s laughter follow his own laughter out. “Soon, Aziraphale, soon…”