Chapter Text
It was a nice day.
The sky was blue and fairly clear, there was no blaring horns from outside, and the two women noted the pleasantly warm temperature as they walked into the apartment building to make their way up to the only flat in the place.
The odd and unusual layout of the place had often been remarked upon by the neighbours over the years, seeing as they only ever saw one tenant go in and out at a time. It seemed a waste of prime real estate space in London, they noted, and the resident always kept the strangest hours. For the last four years it had been that horrid unpleasant woman who looked at everyone as if they were mud on the bottom of her shoe. Before that it had been the man who didn’t seem to know how to walk properly, making most of the street convinced he had some sort of horrible spinal injury in his past. Previous to that… well, no matter how hard even the eldest street members tried to wrack their brains, no one could remember anyone else ever living there.
Over time they’d learned not to make a fuss about the odd goings on of the place. They did, however, keep a watchful eye, which is how the street had quickly learned that the old resident of the flat had returned just over three months ago one grey afternoon. He’d carried in nothing but the plants he’d taken with him and, as far as the neighbours knew, he hadn’t come out of the place since.
A few had been scared that something horrible had happened to him, and one had almost called the emergency services. However, before they could, the two women had arrived and let themselves in, staying for quite a long time and taking out a few large garbage bags to the bins before quietly departing again, and thus easing all worries and suspicions.
Now they were back today, the day with the lovely weather, which seemed to be their next chosen afternoon for a visit; and while the women seemed cheery and the neighbouring tenants were relieved that at least somebody came and went from the apartment regularly and gave them proof of life, the being living in said apartment was not quite in so high of spirits. He hadn’t been for quite some time.
Three months, give or take a few hours, to be exact.
The doorbell ringing makes Crowley groan and turn over onto his other side so that he faces the back of his uncomfortable black leather couch. The action muffles his aggravated shout somewhat, but the sentiment still gets across crystal clear.
“I said go away!”
“Not until you let us in!”
Crowley groans again and pulls the tartan blanket up over his head to burrow into in an attempt to hide from the two women currently attempting to gain access to his apartment.
“We haven’t brought food this time!” Maggie’s voice adds on after Nina’s fades, and the demon squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to ignore them further. “We learned our lesson from before!”
Last time being when he mistakenly gave in and opened his door to them last week only to herd them back out of his apartment with the food pan shoved hurriedly back into Nina’s arms.
“It was a lovely quiche by the way.” Maggie continued. “Nina really outsold herself. You missed out.”
“Not bloody likely.” Crowley mutters bitterly from under his blanket into the stale air his cocoon has made.
“Come on Crowley!” Nina says, audibly losing patience. “Do we really have to do this every time? We bang on your door for ten to twenty minutes once a week only for you to eventually let us in anyway. Can’t we skip this part now?”
“Can’t you two get the message that I don’t want you here?”
“We can’t just leave you alone!” Maggie cries. “We’re worried about you!”
“Maggie!” He hears Nina hiss from the other side of the door.
“Well it’s true!” The other woman insists back.
Crowley snarls and whips the blanket off to stalk to the door, wrenching it open so that he can stand seething in front of them both, teeth bared and dark glasses boring holes into the two unintimidated women before him. “Go home.”
Neither of them blink so much as an eye at his black turtleneck and joggers combination, or at his ever-present sunglasses that both of them think it’s odd he wears when he’s inside his own home completely alone. They’ve long since grown used to it, and though the disheveled appearance was concerning the first few visits, they seem to have accepted that as well.
“Oh wonderful, that was two minutes quicker than last time.” Nina says while appearing completely at ease and stepping around Crowley to make her way familiarly into his flat. “And your plants are doing better.”
“Much better.” Maggie agrees as she wanders over to the fern in the corner and inspects the verdant green leaf. Her blue polka dot dress rustles lightly as she bends slightly to get a closer look.
Crowley stands in the doorway for a moment contemplating a lot of his life’s choices before turning around and slamming the door behind him cross his arms and glare some more. Nina gives him a look right back from where she stands in the center of his living room, her grey knee length cardigan bunching where her arms are crossed.
Failing to think of anything else to say, Crowley reuses an old argument. “I don’t know why you both insist on continuing this farce.”
“Because we’re friends and that’s what friends do.”
“We are not friends.” Crowley hisses at Maggie. “I don’t have any friends.”
Not anymore.
When they exchange a look he has to clench his teeth, resisting the urge to growl again. Deep breaths, that’s it. Or counting. Is he smoking again?
After a long moment of them saying nothing and letting him sit in his lie he looks away, swallowing. “Anyway, I didn’t even care about you two until- until it became a matter of life and death. Less than a week, if you want it tallied.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’ve mentioned.” Nina replies, finishing her quick survey of his bare and dark apartment, toe nudging a wine bottle lying on the floor and making it roll across the room so that it loudly breaks the silence. “I see you still haven’t cleaned up in here.”
“My place, I can do what I want.”
Both women give him identical looks of disapproval and Crowley shuts his mouth and looks away again.
See, the problem is that the first time the pair of them had come visiting Crowley had been several wine bottles deep into his attempt to either get himself mind-numbingly drunk or give himself alcohol poisoning, whichever ended up becoming a reality first. Due to his defences being down they’d heard an abridged and disjointed account of the basics of what had happened between him and Aziraphale. The night had ended with them taking his wine and forcing him to lie down before covering him with the miraculously there tartan blanket on his couch and sending him off to sleep.
When he’d woken up well into the afternoon the next day with a truly astonishing headache his plants had been watered, his apartment tidied, and the two women were long gone. He’d almost managed to chalk the whole thing up to a drunken daydream only for them both to appear the next week all over again.
And every week since for the last three months.
“I do not need you here.” He repeats to them again, the words an unfriendly snarl and clearly enunciated in the hopes that will help them understand. “More to the point, I don’t want you here.”
“Yeah, so you’ve said. Sadly for you, we don’t care, because we don’t believe you.”
“Argh!” He throws his hands up in frustration. Just because lying happens to be in a demon’s job description doesn’t actually mean he does it all of the time. “Fine, do what you want. I’m going to sleep.”
“Good, you look awful.” Nina answers again and Crowley gnashes his teeth at her before stomping to the couch and throwing himself down on it to hide under the blanket again, pretending to have a nap.
He feels one of them move closer to him and can picture Maggie perching on the edge of his dark metal coffee table with the concerned and hesitant expression she wears so often during these visits. Sure enough, it’s her kind voice that reaches him through the blanket next. “Have you been sleeping alright?”
He doesn’t answer, feigning unconsciousness.
Not that it’s any of their business anyway, he thinks viciously to himself. He’s not sure where these two humans get their nerve, showing up here and acting concerned for him. Wanting to check in. He’s a demon and they have no business waltzing around the place all unafraid of him and saying ridiculous things such as that they’re friends.
They’re not. Decidedly not. Crowley has come to the conclusion that he doesn’t go in for that kind of thing. Not in a demon’s nature and all that.
Now don’t be ridiculous, a posh lilting English accented voice says in his mind, and Crowley snarls and whips the blanket off from himself in disgust at its reappearance. He’d been doing so well too. Nearly a full half hour that time.
“Oh, Mr. Crowley.” Maggie hadn’t even startled from her place on the coffee table at his sudden movement, and her big wide eyes look at him sadly. “Is there nothing we can do?”
You can stop coming round, he wants to tell them. Stop with the sad sack act and just let me get on in peace. Crowley has lived through destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, two world wars and atomic bombs, a Great Depression and every other atrocity committed on this planet’s surface. This is just- a blip. Something new, yes, but manageable.
“Listen, I know better than anyone how hard it is to get over someone-”
“Shut it.” He interrupts Nina, absolutely not in the mood to listen to anything along those lines. Not again. “No, there’s nothing you two can do because this has nothing to do with you. Now for the last time, get out of my apartment.”
The two women exchange a look that seems to say, I know he’s in a right state but everyone copes differently and he has managed to take care of his plants this week. Hopefully that means progress, and when we come back next time he might be in more of a mood to talk. It’s not as if anything serious can happen to him in the meantime.
Not wanting to do anything to disabuse them of that notion, Crowley simply sits there expectantly, relieved when Nina and Maggie share a small nod and the latter rises from her spot on the coffee table.
“Well we’re glad to see you’re a bit better. You’re doing very well.” Maggie tries.
“Just go already.”
“We’ll be back next week.” Nina informs him needlessly as they walk towards the door, and he just waves a listless hand at them without turning around to watch them leave.
When the door closes behind them he lets out a bone-weary sigh and tries to tell himself to get it together already.
It’s the same bit of advice he’s been repeating for three months now however, so the idea that it will work now is laughable to the point of ridiculousness.
Despite all of his denials to Nina and Magiie, Crowley’s never had to deal with anything quite like this before. This feels like a very human thing and Crowley is appalled at both the fact that he’s let himself get into this state and also the idea that humans just walk around feeling like this all of the time.
They really are hardy things, people. He has to hand it to them at times.
But him- he’s not got much practice with this. Even though Crowley has come to realize that he has grown quite adept at loving Aziraphale from afar, even when the angel isn’t actually around, this feeling he has now- it’s different. It’s sickening and wretched and he just wants it to stop.
It’s retroactive, this realization that he’s gone through missing the angel for extended lengths of time before because he loves him, and an absolute pain in the backside if he’s being honest. He’s pretty sure he would be feeling this bad from Aziraphale being gone even without the added realization that the being who chose Heaven over him also happens to be the bastard he’s in love with.
But you know: Maggie and Nina just had to go and open their mouths.
He’s grown very good at repressing a lot of memory associated with that day. The points the two of them had made about him and Aziraphale never really talking to each other despite all the time spent together. The tremor of Aziraphale’s voice. The look in his eyes. The way Crowley’s own body had seemed to rebel and turn remarkably and painfully human at the worst moments, if his pounding heart and aching stomach had been anything to go by.
The way Aziraphale had come back so excited from his walk with the Metatron only to freeze in- what? Horror? Shock? Revulsion?- at Crowley’s last desperate attempt to plead with him to stay and be with him.
Another thing he’s determinedly not thinking about: the way it had felt for him to kiss Aziraphale.
(He’s not sure they did it right, honestly, but it doesn’t matter. It’s ingrained into his memory and never leaves his thoughts for too long anyway.)
Now here he is, three months later and doing just swell. The bookshop is open and running and so far surviving Muriel’s caretaking. Maybe books are even being sold there. Or they would, if a demonic intervention didn’t mysteriously hide the exact book the customers were looking for when they dared enter, leaving each and every one too dejected to select anything else. Poor Muriel has been quite baffled by the entire thing if Maggie and Nina are to be trusted.
Still, what does Crowley care? It’s not his business. Whatever happens to the abandoned bookshop is up to Muriel, and if anyone disagrees or finds cause to be upset by that, then, well, maybe they shouldn’t have left it in the first place.
But that’s just his opinion.
Oh, what’s the point, he thinks to himself. Not as if there’s anyone around to pretend for anymore, is there? He may as well admit it, even if only in his own thoughts.
So he feels horrible, so what? It’s just because this time around he and Aziraphale aren’t together because Aziraphale is up in Heaven. Out of Crowley’s reach, further than he’s ever been. Anything could be happening to him right now and Crowley would never know. It’s the distance that’s unusual, that’s making him feel so awful. Nothing else.
Or maybe it’s good. Maybe Aziraphale fit right back in with the other angels and is busy smiling at them and laughing with them and being good and kind and spreading love-
The point, Crowley redirects his train of thought, is that he doesn’t know. He might never know again. Never see the angel again.
And that’s- it’s not even the rejection that’s making him feel this way, though that’s certainly part of it. It’s the fact that the being he cares about most in the universe is just gone. Just walked out of his life as simple as it was for Crowley to say the words don’t bother.
Which he doesn’t regret. At all. Or worry was a mistake. It’s not as if sometimes, in his lowest points, he wonders whether Aziraphale might have been right about the whole changing things from the inside plan. Or as if he’s wondering if he’s managed to actually make progress and do it.
Even if that’s true, it never takes Crowley long to remember that even if the angel had been right, Crowley’s not the person to do it. Not the person Aziraphale has wanted him to be all along.
Which is-
-something. It’s something. A thing he just has to live with now.
Something in his chest hurts and he pushes himself up from the couch to pace the floor of his living room, hurriedly snatching at another topic to think of something else.
He should really get away, he thinks. He’s been in England too long, in London too long. Acting as if there was something tying him here. He had Hell rent an apartment, for Someone’s sake. That’s definitely a sign that he’s gotten too comfortable around these parts for the last hundred years given that before this he’s always been something of a nomad. No permanent residence to speak of.
That’s obviously been a colossal mistake, so a vacation it is. A very extended, perhaps eternal vacation so that he can get away from this blasted apartment and this bloody city and just… forget.
Three months ago he would have packed it all up and gone to Alpha Centauri. Maybe. Probably. It at least would have been an option, something to consider if the idea didn’t prove too painful. Annoyingly, his old boss and Gabriel firmly squashed that idea. Crowley’s pretty sure he never wants to see either of their faces ever again.
So Alpha Centauri is out. Traveling the rest of the universe might not be so bad, but it sounds like so much work. Perhaps a smaller trip to start out with.
Venice might be nice this time of year. Or Barcelona. Lots of beaches at least, and he could do with a nice hot sandy beach. France is out, he’s not in the mood, and as for anywhere across the pond… well it’s quite a long way to go, isn’t it?
He can think about it, he decides. Not as if he’s spending his time doing much of anything else. One day Maggie and Nina will show up to knock on his door and find that he’s not here. He can get away from their looks and the dripping notes of pity in their voices and get back to living his own life.
Get on with living his own life. And figuring out how exactly to do that.
Yes, he thinks. Yes, that’s a plan.
Now, having come up with that, he flings himself back onto the couch, blanket firmly pulled over his head, and doing his best not to think anything at all.
Heaven is… different than Aziraphale remembers.
Not in looks; he’s been up here enough times in the past 6000 years to remember the sights and colours- or lack thereof- that makes up their celestial headquarters. Or in smell, as the sharp antiseptic odour is unpleasantly familiar. No, the general layout is nothing new. He hasn’t been hit with anything too unexpected yet in his time back here.
But the feel of it all is… lacking. Somewhat.
He doesn’t remember that from before The Beginning.
Everything just seems a bit emptier up here, that’s all. Echoey.
Lonely, one might say, but not Aziraphale. Oh no.
Except that’s exactly the word he would use.
He’d thought, for some reason, that being back in Heaven would bring him closer to feeling God’s Love. It’s a feeling from before The Fall, one that all angels used to have at all times during the acts of Creation. Then Lucifer and- and the others had done their whole bit, Heaven had been split in two, and God’s Love, while staying with the angels, had considerably dimmed.
Somewhere along the way during his time on Earth Aziraphale’s forgotten what it feels like and a part of him had hoped- that is to say, when he’d agreed to return here, he’d wanted-
-oh well. Doesn’t matter now.
Another thing he’d forgotten was the office politics.
It hit him very forcefully in his first week back here just how used to the last four years he’d gotten. How wonderful it had been not having to look over his shoulder or seek Heaven’s approval or worry about their disapproval and a note from Gabriel. It had taken a few days for it to sink in back after the failed Apocalypse as well, of course, the new freedom and peaceful life they’d fought to have, but he had. Quite quickly, really, and with much enjoyment.
Only now it’s gone and now he’s back here, with remarkably less freedom than he’d envisioned.
Truthfully, and he’ll never say it aloud to anyone except- to anyone, but he’s rather unhappy.
“Are you sure about that Aziraphale?” Michael sounds reluctant, in that I-know-more-than-you way they have. It makes Aziraphale grimace and rock back on his heels ever so slightly as they pin him with their stare in their grey well-fitting suit. “Only, I don’t see that going over well with the others.”
“Of any ranking.” Uriel seconds from Michael’s side, stoic and disapproving as ever.
“Whatever do you mean!” He cries. “Who wouldn’t enjoy having a bit of a break now and then- just a few minutes to relax, have a nibble, a quick drink. A moment to gather by the water cooler as they say.”
Both Michael and Uriel’s eyebrows furrow. “Who says that? The Almighty?”
“No, not They they, I mean- oh forget it.” Aziraphale shakes his head at Michael’s question. “I’m just suggesting that a communal are for chitchat or a snack or drink area up here might boost morale! Bring in better cooperation among the ranks. I mean even Hell has a place they can go for a break. I believe they call the substance they drink Fireball.”
Michael’s lips purse. “Well we’ll hardly be bringing that here.”
Meanwhile Uriel continues to stare judgementally and says almost at the same time, “Did your old friend Crowley tell you that?”
Aziraphale wishes he could say he’s gotten better at masking his emotions at the barbs the other angels make at him about Crowley after all this time, but truthfully he suspects he fails colossally. He feels it, the way his expression wavers at the familiar jolt of hurt and sorrow that lances through him from the sound of Crowley’s name, and he also sees the way Michael and Uriel exchange a look at his reaction.
It’s not exactly a thing everyone up here approves of, his previous… fraternization with Crowley.
Still he makes an effort to be casual, keeping his voice light and looking away as if hardly bothering about Uriel’s words as he smooths down his crème coloured waistcoat unnecessarily. “He did yes.”
“Well if Hell is doing it then that’s not exactly a good reason for us to begin to, is it?” Michael asks and Aziraphale gives up, his excitement turning sour as quick as it’s taken to have this conversation.
“I suppose not.” He agrees reluctantly, and the two archangels nod.
“Now then, if there’s nothing else we really must be getting back to work.” Uriel smiles suddenly. “Saraqael doesn’t get to have all the fun after all.”
“Oh, that’s right, of course.” Aziraphale grimaces at the reminder of Heaven’s latest project. Mustering an attempt at feigning enthusiasm he makes an effort to inquire, “And how is it- um, he, coming along?”
“Marvellously.” Michael enthuses. “Saraqael is just working on his memories and knowledge now and after that… well, it won’t be long. We’ll give him a few months here in Heaven to adjust, to meet the troops, and after that we can begin.”
“Lovely.” Aziraphale says a tad faintly. “How wonderful.”
Uriel, perceptive as ever, narrows their eyes. “Not getting cold feet, are you Aziraphale?”
“Hmm? Oh no, of course not. This is what we’ve been waiting for after all. The Second Coming. Judgement Day.”
“Good’s Triumph Over Evil.” Michael agrees. “Our defeat of the Enemy.”
The reminder makes him swallows. “Of course. Just so.” He straightens slightly. “About that, actually. Is there any update on the status of my request?”
“You mean your application for the demon Crowley to have immunity in the upcoming End of Days?”
Aziraphale meets Michael’s eyes with the last scraps of his self-control, his smile forcedly pasted on his face, small and trying to come across as unbothered while failing spectacularly.
Luckily when it comes to Crowley the others always seem happy to gloss over the subject as quickly as possible. Aziraphale gets the distinct impression that the whole business makes them uncomfortable.
“Yes, that would be the one.”
“No word yet I’m afraid, but you will of course know as soon as it’s been denied. Or approved.” They tack on quickly, their smile just as insincere as his.
Unease crawls down his throat to rest in his stomach like a scalding cup of tea. “I see.”
“If there’s nothing else?” Uriel asks again.
“No, nothing.” Aziraphale offers them a smile that isn’t returned. “Busy day, you know how it is.”
“Quite.” Michael replies before the two of them turn on their heels to march away, leaving Aziraphale to stand by the window beside his desk, quickly lost in his own thoughts.
After a few minutes he shakes his head and goes to sit down listlessly, biting his lip as unhappiness fills him. With several quick blinks he breathes in deeply and reaches forward to open the box innocently sitting on his desktop.
It had been one of his first changes around here, adding a Suggestion Box. The Almighty hadn’t been keen but he’d eventually worn the Metatron down and gotten one in place for himself. He’s still working on getting one for Her but for now, he supposes, the one on his own desk is at least something.
However, every day he’s looked and every day he’s found himself disappointed when he opens the lid only to find nothing but the bottom of the box inside. Today is no different.
Nothing. Not a single complaint or question. He’s used to having his ideas shut down by the Metatron and archangels, but when it comes to real, knowledge-seeking inquiry he’s been sharply let down. No venture into open and honest discussion has been made in his entire time up here.
He’s finding it all a bit difficult to adjust to, to be honest.
Going from 6000 years of being on Earth with humans and… other people, people who challenge each other and push buttons and are willing to accept both the good and the bad but who at least listen… to go from that to this starkness is not altogether pleasant.
Aziraphale misses food. He misses cocoa. He misses alcohol. He misses-
But those are easy enough to miracle up when he likes, and nobody can actually tell him no when he does. So he still has sushi while sitting alone at his desk, only without a lovely itamae to prepare it for him, and he still drinks cocoa in the disposable cups they appear in, not his angel mug which was left in the bookshop along with his other belongings.
He hasn’t touched alcohol in quite a while.
Nor has he listened to records or any music, really, that isn’t snippets from The Sound of Music. The majority of his clothes were left on Earth so he’s been wearing the same outfit for the last three months (more out of obstinate pride than anything), despite the odd looks he gets from the others even after all this time. Everyone wears the same thing every day here however, given the fact that germs and dirt know better than to dare and venture their way up to the levels of Heaven, and the odd looks aren’t because of his lack of outfits but rather, the peculiarity of the one he’s chosen.
Aziraphale sighs, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. It’s transparent and so unlike his old armchair that he sometimes prefers to just go without.
He hasn’t seen a human being in over three months. Or a bird. Or any weather that isn’t sunshine coming through the windows.
No rainstorms or nightingales.
Nothing but angels and office space up here. Empty and blank.
Perfection and purity, supposedly. And that’s all well and good, but when it comes to his own personal space Aziraphale has decided to do things a bit differently. Apart from the chair, which has stubbornly refused to go along with his wishes, he’s at least managed to do something with a few items of his office space.
He’d wasted no time in miracling the transparent glass desk that had been given to him into a nice cherry wood one instead. It has drawers, which he’s filled with sweet packets, his current book of choice and the old polaroid from 1941 that he’s taken to using as a bookmark, along with his personal diary.
On top of the desk there are a few files scattered about, a few half-drawn up plans for the return of Jesus Christ to Earth, and a yellow hibiscus flower that is miraculously always in bloom.
He uses words of affirmation and tenderness to keep the poor thing alive, and despite being in Heaven it’s doing remarkably well.
It had been an indulgence, but Aziraphale refuses to get rid of it. He’d wanted to have something yellow around, as it’s his favourite colour. The dash of red in the center is natural for the plant as well, nothing to do with him, and provides a lovely contrast. The fact that he’d chosen a plant with those colours was just… pure chance.
And yet, despite all of this, despite him being the only angel who dares to go this far and personalize his things, he still finds himself unsatisfied.
It’s no secret as to why, of course. He’d known the minute the Metatron mentioned the Second Coming in that last second before getting on to the elevator that he wasn’t coming up here because he thought he’d enjoy it. He hadn’t even ended up coming because it was the right thing to do. In fact, there’s a very good chance that what he’s planning isn’t the Right thing at all.
But someone has to and he’s not about to bet on Michael and Uriel mustering up the gumption to carry out what’s required.
Despite the fact that he wishes he wasn’t doing it alone, there are times he’s glad no one is around to see him scramble to figure out just how to stop Armageddon for the second time.
Going into this he had thought the Metatron’s offer genuine. During their discussion at Nina’s coffeeshop and the subsequent… events at his bookshop, Aziraphale really had pictured returning to Heaven with everything he’d needed to fix the corruption and right the system that’s been broken all this time.
Those hopes had crashed down around him while staring into a pair of dark sunglasses, and then they’d been obliterated completely just before he’d joined the Metatron in the elevator that had temporarily replaced The Dirty Donkey after God’s Mouthpiece mentioned Heaven’s plan of The Second Coming.
Still, Aziraphale had come; and on the ride up, through the turmoil of his thoughts and the feeling on his lips and the broken hurt that had been originating from his heart, he’d clung to what he had to in order to help him keep his composure.
He had entered into an agreement without reading the fine print and checking the requirements. Fine. A mistake on his part, to be sure, but one that might end up working out for the best in the end. He’d been wrong and he’s able to admit that.
Now Aziraphale is determined to end up making it Heaven’s problem.
Which means a bit of malicious compliance, a long game plan, and whatever little things he could miracle up to remind himself of exactly what he’s fighting for.
With a final stroke of his fingertip over the yellow petal he turns his attention to the papers on his desk and gets back down to work.