Chapter Text
Heaven is one of the cleanest and tidiest places in the universe, which is entirely due to the tireless efforts of the Heavenly Custodial Management Department, where upon seeing a sight such as, for a completely random example, the messy desk of a Supreme Archangel, will proceed to arrange the papers on said Supreme Archangel’s desk and promptly file them away, completing their duty so thoroughly that even the Supreme Archangel himself can’t seem to fathom where they’ve gone. Muriel is not a member of the Heavenly Custodial Management Department. They are the sixteenth deputy of the Blessed Stationery and Documents section in the Holy Lost and Found Department, and as such, they are the first angel called upon for general finding-of-lost-stationery-and-documents duties, which is a duty Muriel lives for because honestly as a 37th degree scrivener they don’t really get to have much fun, and finding Mr Fell’s—er, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale’s missing plans for the Second Coming is a much more interesting task than correcting the data entry for the genealogy of the tribe of Zebulun. Though all Heavenly work is good, of course.
Actually, Muriel is very sure that Aziraphale is supposed to be in a meeting with the Metatron by now, a big meeting for that matter, which Muriel assumes because every meeting with the Metatron is a big meeting, given that it’s the Metatron, and which Muriel knows is happening because it’s Aziraphale and Aziraphale desperately needs someone’s help to keep to a schedule, and who will take up that mantle if not Muriel, so Muriel tried their best to search for the plans quickly, as quickly as one can search an infinite array of file cabinets, anyway.
“Muriel,” Aziraphale started, “I’d like to know how things are going with the bookshop.”
“The bookshop?” said Muriel. “I’ll be honest, Mr– Archangel Aziraphale, is it possible to not bring up the bookshop right now? It’s just that the bookshop and the Blessed Stationery and Documents section have two completely different classification systems and it’s hard to find your plans when I’ve got them mixed up with each other.” Really, the Dewey Decimal System is a work of art, with its simplicity in arranging books by topic, but the Heavenly Classification System – sorting books by the alphabetic order of the first letter of the first sentence, now that is elegance, true elegance, and — ah! Here’s the first binder. Muriel handed it over to Aziraphale.
“Sorry, I just wanted to know if there were any…customers.”
“Customers? Of course not,” said Muriel, swiping their gaze to the next file cabinet, where they suspected the second binder would be, but was it labelled under “Second Coming: A Peaceful Resolution” or “The Second Coming: A Peaceful Resolution”? That would change their searching strategy entirely. “I was given very clear instructions from Mr Crowley to never let customers into the bookshop under any circumstances. Frighteningly clear instructions, actually.”
Aziraphale perked up. “Crowley said that?”
“Ah! Here it is!” It was actually “The Second Coming: The Peaceful Resolution”. Muriel plunked the binder on top of the first one in Aziraphale’s arms, Aziraphale seeming to stumble under its weight for a moment before straightening up, and with the binders retrieved, Muriel’s job was complete. “Did you need anything else, Mr Archangel Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale let out a sigh. “Just one more thing. How is he? Crowley?”
“To be honest, I really haven’t seen much of him. I did say hi to him the other day, but he was a bit…wobbly.”
“...Wobbly?”
Muriel nodded. They remembered it clear as day, maybe because it happened during the day, Muriel popping in to give the bookshop a quick lookover, spotting Crowley coming out, or stumbling, really, out of the shop, Muriel giving him a big “Hello!” and waving, and only being met with a kind of undecipherable grunting before Crowley wobbled away from the bookshop and into his car, which is where he seems to take his naps these days. “Completely wobbly. Now, I don’t want to keep you from your meeting that started three minutes ago, Mr Archangel! Am I dismissed?”
“Oh, of course. Thank you, Muriel.”
“Thank you, Mr Archangel!”
“...Whatever for?”
“Well, you’re the nicest any superior officer has ever been to me!” He was much nicer than Gabriel, that’s for sure, (and it was okay to think these things because Gabriel defected from Heaven, no longer on our side, but not quite on the other side though, is he. On Alpha Centauri’s side?) was never mean in his words, actually gave Muriel real, useful things to do, like helping to look for his Second Coming plans and helping to keep him accountable to his schedule, instead of tasks for projects no one cared about, like correcting the data entry for the genealogy of the tribe of Zebulun, as a completely random example. Though all Heavenly work is good, of course. “You’re the nicest person I’ve ever met, actually! I mean, how many other angels would make an effort to check up on Mr Crowley, even though we all know he, alongside all the forces of Hell, will be destroyed forever in the Second Coming?”
Muriel immediately sensed that they’d said something wrong, as Aziraphale’s smile seemed to flicker, like a lightbulb you know you’ll have to change soon, but then his smile returned back in full force, and just like that hypothetical lightbulb, Muriel decided not to worry about it. “That was the first draft of the Second Coming,” insisted Aziraphale. “But if the Metatron approves my new and improved version,” said Aziraphale, gesturing with the binders in his hands on the words new and improved, papers within threatening to spill over and onto the floor, the threat of creating another job for the Heavenly Custodial Management Department imminent, “If he approves this draft, no one has to die. And I’m sure he will approve of it, this time. Crowley won’t have to die.”
Muriel smiled sincerely. “47th time’s the charm!”
This time Muriel’s very, very sure that they’ve said something wrong, and quickly took advantage of the dismissal previously afforded to them to get back to the genealogy of Zebulun.
—
Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap. Not many angels outside the upper echelons of Heaven may ever know this, but this is the official knocking pattern an angel is required, no, strongly suggested, to use when knocking on a superior officer’s door, which is a fact that Aziraphale has been told, in detail, and against his will, several times by Sandalphon, alongside the fun fact that it is the preferred pattern because of its significance, its meaning, for you see, the first two knocks signal the confidence of a warrior, a true angel of battle, as all archangels this high up the rung were preeminent generals, well, all except one, but anyway, the first two taps convey that ruthlessness, that ferocity, but then the next two taps, and make sure you’re listening, the next two taps also acknowledge your inherent inferiority, your submission to your superior officer’s authority, and your submission to the authority of God, a duty which no angel, no matter how high up the rung they think they are, no matter how much power they may think they have, should ever forget.
The last tap just makes it sound nice.
And Aziraphale completely understands, even though looking back he suspects that was more of a thinly-veiled threat than an educational lesson, but he completely understands that that is the official protocol, and that knocking on the Metatron’s door any more times would be a breach of that official protocol, and that opening the door when he’s not been asked to enter would be a serious breach of that official protocol. It’s just that he’s been standing here for fifteen minutes and his feet are starting to hurt a little. And also the Metatron’s door is slightly ajar. Peculiar.
It’s also a breach of protocol to speak before being acknowledged by your superior officer, but–”Hello? Sir? Are you there?” No response.
Well, surely this is the most unusual behaviour, Aziraphale reasoned, and unusual behaviour may beget unusual behaviour, such as stepping into the Metatron’s office without permission. What if the Metatron was…having a heart attack? He looked old, that seemed plausible. With his excuses secured, Aziraphale opened the door…
To no one.
He wasn’t there, just an empty desk, in front of an empty chair, in an empty room. Aziraphale has always found it a bit odd that the Metatron projected a live recording of himself in the background when he was in here, but now that the Metatron wasn’t here, there was nothing but a recording of some nondescript galaxy forming and collapsing in the window, his celestial screensaver.
Aziraphale wanted to think that the Metatron had just stepped away from his desk for a moment, popped down to Earth for a cup of coffee, but if he listened to something deep in his soul he knew, something felt unnatural here, something was not right.
The Metatron was gone, and whether he was vanished, dead, kidnapped, spirited away, that did not make itself clear, but the fact that he wasn’t here and wouldn’t be here again, that is what made itself clear to Aziraphale’s spirit.
Or maybe he was just overreacting?
Goodness knows he hated when he got like this, fretting over what to do and what not to do, and it was in these times, when he was at a real loss, in these kinds of times he really missed Crowley, an even deeper and more painful longing than the usual missing of Crowley, one where he couldn’t pretend to forget how much he missed him anymore. Sometimes Aziraphale just wanted to drop everything, go down to the bookshop, moan about his current affairs and receive some unsolicited advice, the quality of said advice depending on the quality of the wine at hand.
Aziraphale really thinks that if Crowley was here he’d go around the room, inspecting every corner, touching the bits and doodads that Aziraphale wouldn’t dare to, before contorting his legs and arms into some impossible configuration to figure out how to lounge in a desk chair. Well then, he’d say, conspiratorially, legs swinging tantalizingly over the armrests. If he’s not here in five minutes, let’s just tell them he approved it.
Aziraphale would roll his eyes, because obviously he’s not going to do that.
I mean it, angel, he would insist. If he won’t respect your time, don’t respect his authority.
Here Aziraphale would blush, or not blush, he would smile, he would smile normally and platonically, and he would of course not mention the fact that Aziraphale was also late to this meeting. “You’re being silly,” he would say. “I’m going back to my desk.”
And how many people are going to die because you had to wait centuries for approval?
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “We have protocols. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t just go ahead with the plan without Metatron's approval.”
“Why not?”
“What do you mean, ‘why not’?” Aziraphale looked at Crowley, incredulous. “The Second Coming certainly can’t go ahead without God’s approval, and the Metatron is the only one who can grant that approval.”
Crowley shrugged, rolling the chair back a few inches with the motion, precariously teetering left and right. “And if the Metatron isn’t around?”
“We don’t know that he’s not around.”
“But if he isn’t?”
Aziraphale thought deeply, considering all the protocols that Sandalphon had hammered into his brain, protocols that ran with the assumption that everything would be the same as it was yesterday today and forever, protocols with no contingencies or backup plans.. “I…I don’t know. Perhaps the next person down the ladder takes the reins. But that would be…”
Crowley smirked. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
Aziraphale’s head began to swim. Him! The voice of God? He just got here three years ago, he doesn’t know anything about anything, and, and, this is all jumping the gun isn’t it, the Metatron could still be around, even though Aziraphale is starting to realize he’s kidding himself on that one, and—”Oh, this is ridiculous, Crowley! All I know is that the Metatron is missing, and the logical next step is to call a meeting with the archangels and figure out what’s going on. And that’s exactly what I'm going to do.”
Crowley stared at him for a moment, face unreadable behind his black glasses, before shrugging and casting his gaze to the galaxies visible behind him. Aziraphale suddenly felt bitter. Here is a demon who would never get to see the planets he laboured so hard to create ever again, while the ones who cast him out sit with their backs to it, as if it’s a forgettable backdrop, as if it’s beige wallpaper. “If that’s what you think is best, angel.”
“It is,” said Aziraphale, as he brought out his company-issued cell phone, the transparent glass glowing in his hands, waiting for instructions, waiting for him to call the meeting.
“But the thing is,” said Crowley. Suddenly he’s sitting on the edge of the desk, much closer than before, and, oh dear, much closer indeed, or perhaps Aziraphale has wandered closer to the desk by accident, but who can blame him, with Crowley’s sunglasses sliding a bit down his nose to reveal a sliver of amber eyes, captivating in its scarcity. Good Lord, he really missed his eyes. “What happens to you?”
“Sorry?”
“I mean, you do know the other archangels don’t like you, yes?”
Aziraphale scoffed. He is very aware that the archangels don’t like him, yes, and that water is wet too, if we’re throwing around curious tidbits. “But they can’t do anything to you because the Metatron hired you,” continued Crowley.
Aziraphale considered this fact, turning it over and around in his head. “To attack me is to attack the Metatron’s judgement,” he concluded.
“Yes, exactly, angel,” Crowley said. “Now what happens if the Metatron is gone?”
Oh, he would be a dead man walking, wouldn’t he, the other archangels would descend like vultures, eager for their revenge, casting him down to Hell at best, hellfire at worst. But surely he couldn’t keep it a secret forever. Something really did need to be done about the Metatron’s disappearance, and lying about these kinds of things for personal gain didn’t feel angelic, even the consideration of it alone fills him with guilt.
“And what happens to me?” added Crowley.
Aziraphale’s eyes snapped back to Crowley’s, finding he’s taken off his glasses, the full force of his eyes in full effect. In real life, it would be at this moment when he’d realize Crowley was trying to tempt him, huff in indignation, and walk away, but this is only his imagination. He can’t tempt himself, surely.
But also, Crowley is right, if Aziraphale isn’t protected, that means Aziraphale can’t protect Crowley, either. It’s not right to expose him to danger like that, not after…
Aziraphale sighed, conceding the point, watching the smirk reappear on Crowley’s face. “What do you suggest?”
“You don’t need to lie, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I would never suggest that you lie.”
“You’d never dream of it.”
“But if you…bent the truth?” Crowley spread his hands outwards, as if offering his suggestion up for Aziraphale’s appraisal, and magnanimous as he was, he kindly offered another suggestion in case Aziraphale didn’t like the first, “Omitted key details?”
Aziraphale let out a heavy breath, and sat on the edge of the table next to Crowley for stability, for his head to stop swimming, not caring that he was sitting on his superior officer’s desk because good Lord, was he really about to do this? “This is high treason. I could Fall for this. I could be destroyed for this.”
This close to him, Crowley’s voice feels like it’s being whispered, almost hissed, into his ear, and not for the first time a burst of sympathy rose in his heart for Eve, because in that moment he would have had a bite of that apple too, if they were in the Garden. “You wouldn’t have to choose anymore,” whispered Crowley. “Me or Heaven. Us or the Second Coming. You could have both. Isn’t that nice? Isn’t that perfect, angel?”
It was nice. It was perfect. Convenient, even.
“It’s like God Herself made it that way.”
Aziraphale brought out his phone, the glass brick of a thing, glowing at him, waiting for his commands, waiting for him to call the meeting.
He sent a message to the group chat titled, “Archangels Only (Muriel, Stop Adding Yourself)”.
Hello, fellow archangels and Muriel! I’d like to call a meeting as soon as possible. I have some big news.
He hesitated, index finger hovering over the screen, feeling the weight of the empty room, constricting him, prodding him to type on the on-screen keyboard. Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap.
I’m proud to announce that Operation “The Second Coming: A Peaceful Resolution” is a-go!