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On Aziraphale’s final day on Earth, he accepts the position as Supreme Archangel and he frets that he has finally broken Crowley’s heart beyond recognition.
As Aziraphale steps onto the elevator carrying him to Heaven, his stomach twists in knots at the memory of the hurt on Crowley’s face after the kiss. The kiss. Crowley had kissed him! He could hardly believe it.
Not only had Crowley kissed him, he had done so in an act of Love.
He had sensed the Love just as Crowley grabbed him by his lapels and it stunned him. The feeling radiated off of Crowley with the strength of the Sun and the intensity it was almost too overpowering for Aziraphale to handle. He had been so distracted that he felt the absence of Crowley’s lips as a cold, empty void before he had even fully processed the warmth of them pressed against his own.
Aziraphale had loved Crowley for so long and so deeply his love had become entwined with his very being. But he never expected Crowley to be capable of loving him back. Demons were not beings of love, after all. He had expected any kiss offered by Crowley to be given in an act of Lust. He was fine with that, really.
On any other day, he would be absolutely giddy with excitement at this new and wonderful development, but not today. Not with the weight of the world on his shoulders, the world that he and Crowley hold so dear. He knows that humanity is counting on him to do the right thing, feelings be damned.
If Aziraphale were being completely honest with himself, he does not want the position in Heaven. At this moment, he wants nothing more than to slam the Earth button, run home, and sweep Crowley into his arms; holding him close as he whispers words of love.
He fantasizes about an eternity with Crowley; an eternity filled with domestic bliss.
He imagines a scene from their life together: Crowley prunes the rose bushes in their cottage garden and rants about the neighbor kids running on the lawn. He supportively nods and offers him a refreshing drink.
He thinks about furnishing his library with two comfortable armchairs, seated side-by-side, and finally getting around to reading through his backlog of novels.
But Aziraphale is rarely honest with himself. And so he finds himself standing next to The Metatron, the latter’s face stoic and unreadable, during a painfully quiet ride towards Heaven; having convinced himself he, alone, needs to manage it.
Aziraphale’s thoughts drift back to Crowley, and his stomach churns a second time, far more violently than before.
He has to think about the bigger picture, he decides. That would reassure him.
Aziraphale had long decided that The Almighty had made a terrible mistake when She cast Crowley out. He worries that She made a lot of mistakes, really, but he knows under his leadership Heaven will change for the better. Not that Heaven was bad, of course! It was simply mismanaged by the existing Archangels and it is in desperate need of someone who really understands what The Almighty had intended all along.
Gabriel’s abandonment of his post had opened a door for him, a wonderful opportunity to Do Good on a scale almost unimaginable for Aziraphale. This would be far better than simply forgiving rent or influencing individual humans to be kind.
Perhaps, he even dared to believe, The Almighty had planned it this way. After the debacle with the Antichrist, She had realized that Gabriel had almost destroyed Her beautiful Earth and so she had influenced Beelzebub to lead him astray. It was unheard of for The Almighty to interfere so directly, but it was certainly plausible.
And how could he say no to such a gift? He just needed time to explain the situation with The Second Coming to Crowley. Crowley will understand eventually, he reasons. Crowley always understood him better than he understood himself. And he would make it up to him a thousand times over.
The second Aziraphale could steal away from Heaven and his new duties as Supreme Archangel, he would Miracle a table at the Ritz for himself and Crowley. They could talk and laugh like old times and he would remind him how much he meant to him. Crowley would smile and take his hand. I forgive you, he would say. And Aziraphale would never have to think about the haunted look in Crowley’s eyes again as he watched him walk towards the elevator.
Aziraphale silently curses himself, Gabriel, and, above all, The Metatron. He despises The Metatron, as blasphemous as it may be, and he does not trust himself to make conversation. He worries that the only words capable of tumbling out of his mouth would be an immediate resignation.
After several more quiet minutes pass, The Metatron turns towards Aziraphale. “I have to say Aziraphale, this was far easier than I expected. Would you like to know why?”
Aziraphale smiles politely and tries his best impression of thoughtful contemplation. The Metatron leans in conspiratorially.
“I never expected you to leave your pet demon.” A wicked smile curls the corners of his lips. “I’d say he thought so, too.”
Shock courses through Aziraphale at the harsh words and he feels himself flush while tears involuntarily prick the corners of his eyes. He quickly looks down, hoping The Metatron would not notice his burning face. How could this cruel being call himself The Voice of God?
He would not cry. He refuses to give The Metatron the satisfaction.
Aziraphale lets out a breath in a calm, measured exhale, then turns his gaze upwards. He confidently tilts his head and gazes back at The Metatron, who watches him with an expression bordering on glee. “He will understand,” dismisses Aziraphale, his tone chilly. “Now, as Supreme Archangel, I expect…”
The words die in Aziraphale’s throat as he is hit with a sudden wave of nausea. He feels sick. Far sicker than he had ever felt before. He places a hand on the railing for support as he struggles to maintain his train of thought. The physical sensations in his body were not helping matters and he attempts to push down his growing disquiet.
Something is terribly wrong with his corporation.
After a pause, The Metatron snides, “You were saying? Supreme Archangel? ”
Aziraphale’s brows furrow momentarily in confusion at The Metatron’s sarcasm. Wasn’t his promotion The Metatron’s idea? His head was swimming.
Everything had moved so fast. Aziraphale had hardly even greeted The Metatron and registered his new corporation before he was suddenly leaving again to discuss the leadership vacuum. The amount of change Aziraphale was exposed to in those few minutes was incredibly overwhelming. He had been rushed into drinking a beverage he would normally be disgusted by, rushed into unwanted conversation about the ideal candidate for Supreme Archangel, and rushed into accepting a position coordinating the Second Coming; an event he didn’t even want to experience, let alone be held responsible for. How could he be expected to cast judgment on sinners when he wasn’t even sure he could be found worthy? He was often more sure of Crowley’s divinity than his own and it did not prevent him from Falling. And he could never allow the Second Coming to proceed as Michael had envisioned it. The Almighty would surely take issue with final judgement being issued rather than forgiveness being offered.
The Metatron clears his throat and Aziraphale’s attention snaps back to him. His new employer was staring at him expectantly with an eyebrow raised, clearly still waiting for a response.
Flustered, Aziraphale babbles, “Ah, yes. I, uh…”
Aziraphale concentrates but is mortified to find his thoughts completely derailed, without the foggiest notion what point he was just trying to make. He was beginning to pour sweat and his heart was pounding at a frantic speed.
He gives up on his speech and hoarsely whispers, “F-forgive me. I am not feeling well at the moment.”
The Metatron scoffs, “No, I don’t imagine you do.”
What? Aziraphale’s fevered mind races as he tries to match his mysterious illness with a triggering event.
Could it have been the loss of his Halo? No, it couldn’t be. He had wielded it before, a weapon he used during the Great War, and the discomfort was transient. As uncomfortable as it may be to pull the halo from the aether, the Halo begins to regenerate almost immediately.
Did Crowley’s kiss do this to him? He violently rejects that theory almost immediately. Crowley would never hurt him. Besides, they had shared food and drink countless times.
Now, food and drink, that was an interesting idea. Aziraphale was confident he was immune to the effects of food poisoning but he had never explicitly tried to test that theory. And what had he consumed recently, anyway? Other than the cup of coffee.
Aziraphale’s blood runs cold.
The coffee. He had wavered when it was first offered to him, but The Metatron insisted and he had been desperate to make a good impression. He had eagerly watched him choke the unpleasant drink down. The cloying sweetness of the almond had coated Aziraphale’s tongue and nearly masked the bitterness of the drink; a bitterness he was unfamiliar with but he shrugged off as typical of coffee. He had never liked the beverage, anyway.
“What did you do to me?” Aziraphale’s voice remains quiet but his words are cold and hard, spoken with steel beneath the surface. He is grateful his voice does not wobble.
The Metatron responds calmly, “Poison. Cyanide, specifically.” He shrugged, “Dreadful thing, poison is, but we needed you to come back to Heaven without your corporation one way or another.”
Aziraphale is momentarily dumbfounded at the betrayal before the rage begins to build within him. How dare he do this to him? Was this The Metatron’s idea of a joke; a hazing that would unbalance him and undermine his authority before he even made it to Heaven? Aziraphale had given everything to Heaven, everything including his own happiness, and he had been repaid by becoming the laughing stock of The Metatron on his very first day.
A small part of Aziraphale’s intuition whispers that he should feel afraid, that The Metatron is conniving and above such cheap humor, but he is too caught up in his own righteous anger to heed the warning.
A vein begins to pulse in Aziraphale’s head as the rage bubbles over. He booms, “This is highly irregular! The Supreme Archangel needs a body for Earthly reconnaissance—“
Aziraphale is stunned into silence as The Metatron barks out a laugh, a sharp and harsh sound devoid of the typical mirth. Aziraphale sways on his feet, growing weaker by the moment from the poison, as he chokes out an unsure, “W-what?”
The Metatron’s eyes gleam with pride. “I am the Supreme Archangel, chosen directly by The Almighty. You were never going to hold this position.” He shakes his head and reprimands, “What did you think? A troublemaker such as yourself would be allowed to run rampant? Please. The Second Coming is well underway as it is.” His gaze bores holes into Aziraphale. “The war is imminent and Heaven’s victory is assured without you and that creature to make a mess of things.”
Aziraphale feels cold and hollow as he processes the reality of the situation he finds himself in. He is trapped in an enclosed space with evil, hurtling into enemy territory, and he feels his corporation is nearing its last legs. He was never going to be able to make a difference from Heaven. He was a fool to think otherwise.
Aziraphale’s eyes dart around before coming to rest on the control panel of the elevator, the Earth button shining temptingly behind The Metatron. If he could just return to Earth before the poison had run its course, Crowley would heal him and they could stop the Second Coming together.
Together.
That’s where it had all gone wrong, Aziraphale realizes. They were a team. He and Crowley were meant to be together. The Second Coming could only be stopped by the two of them, working in perfect harmony, just like they had when they had hidden Gabriel from prying eyes. Aziraphale’s heart hurt. How could I leave him behind? We needed each other and I left him.
He would remedy that mistake immediately. Enough was enough.
Aziraphale makes his decision and staggers towards the button. With a grunt of effort, Aziraphale reaches towards the button but his movements are uncoordinated and sluggish; and he feels like he is fighting through quicksand.
The Metatron makes no move to stop him and simply watches, curious amusement etched on his face.
With little warning, Aziraphale’s knees buckle under him and, suddenly, he is falling to the floor. The Metatron sidesteps his falling form and he hits the ground with a sickening thwack . The pain flashes through Aziraphale, pops of light dancing before his eyes, and leaves him dazed. He rolls around in pain and a whimper breaks out of his chest before he stills himself.
The Metatron rolls his eyes at the outburst. “Enough with the hysterics, Aziraphale. You’re not actually going to die.” The Metatron pauses, seemingly carefully choosing his words, and says, “You may think of this as more of a… reassignment. There are only a limited number of angels, you see, and The Almighty likes to keep her manufacturing costs down. I’m sure you understand.”
Aziraphale’s teeth chatter as he hisses, “C-Crowley will find you. There is nowhere you can h-hide.”
The Metatron ignores his threat. “And before you attempt it, know I am aware of your little possession trick. That will not help you this time.”
“He l-loves me. He’ll know you're keeping me away.”
The Metatron smirks. “Oh, will he, now? I beg to differ.” The Metatron sighs contentedly. “No, I dare say there will be no rescues this time.” He turns away and clasps his hands in front of him.
Fear finally grips at Aziraphale. He knows The Metatron is right. How would Crowley ever realize anything was wrong when he told him that he wanted to be alone in Heaven more than he wanted to be together on Earth?
Aziraphale breaks down, his pride fleeing him. He pleads, “I c–can’t leave him. Please, take me back. Please. I’ll do anything.”
No response.
“I’ll Fall. You can throw me in the Pit. I w-won’t make a fuss.”
The Metatron hums a tune and watches the floor numbers light up.
“We’ll go to Alpha C-Centauri. You’ll never hear from us again. P-please.”
The Metatron glances down at his watch and taps his foot impatiently.
Aziraphale falls silent as he accepts there are no words The Metatron could hear to convince him to send him back home. He shakes in fear as he desperately hopes for a new idea to free him; for inspiration to hit him in the form of a final gambit he could execute. No such miracle is found. He briefly considers praying but he knows that neither God nor Satan would help him find salvation.
The elevator slows, then dings to announce its Heavenly arrival.
The Metatron glances back down at Aziraphale. “I would advise you to adjust your expectations for your station, Aziraphale. I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.”
The doors begin to glide open behind The Metatron’s form.
Aziraphale cries, “Cr-Crowley. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Crowley. I love you. Please, please find me—“
The Metatron chuckles and says, “Maybe you’ll finally be happy here. Never say never.”
The doors glide open and The Metatron strolls out without a second glance, passing by two hardened angels entering the elevator. They gaze down at Aziraphale’s crumpled form, then wordlessly stride over and grab him by his arms. He is far too weak to resist.
The last thing Aziraphale thinks about before he is forcibly dragged over Heaven’s threshold is a set of beautiful, golden eyes filled with unshed tears.
Crowley spends much of the first year without Aziraphale waiting. He stands and watches the entrance to the bookshop for hours and hours at a time. Without the human need for sustenance or rest, Crowley knows he won’t ever risk missing a moment without Aziraphale. Nina frequently invites him for a cup of coffee, her expression pitying, and Crowley can’t stand how she looks at him. He does not want to be pitied. He does not need to be pitied. Aziraphale would be back at any time, after all. Aziraphale always comes back.
He turns her coffee down so many times she stops asking. One day, she walks over to him and silently places a hand on his shoulder. He flinches away and flees, nearly knocking her over in his haste. She does not bother him again.
Crowley spends the second year without Aziraphale in a drunken haze. He knows that Aziraphale is angry with him and he knows he deserves it. But Aziraphale will forgive him eventually. Aziraphale is wonderful at forgiveness. Crowley, however, not so much. He tries and tries every night to forgive himself for forcing his venomous lips against Aziraphale in a selfish act of desire. The sensation of Aziraphale’s beautiful, angelic body stiffening against his wretched, wicked form haunts Crowley.
Was it disgust that caused Aziraphale to freeze? Or horror?
Crowley is filled with a sinking feeling as a new idea occurs to him.
Perhaps Aziraphale’s reaction could best be described as fear. The concept that Crowley deserves be feared wedges itself deep within his psyche and no amount of drinking or sleeping makes it go away.
During the third year without Aziraphale, Crowley’s temples begin to incessantly itch and burn. He ignores it for as long as he can. When he finally works up the courage to drag himself towards a mirror, he discovers the scales that cover him in his serpent form have begun to creep onto his human corporation. He can’t even bring himself to be surprised. The yellowing of his eyes is worse than ever and the hiss that creeps into his voice causes most humans to instinctively shy away; a behavior he recognizes as prey fleeing a predator. He Miracles away humanity’s ability to see him and isolates himself even further. It is unclear to Crowley if this is more of a kindness to humanity or to himself.
By Crowley’s fifth year without Aziraphale, the realization sets in that he will never see him again. He had gone too far this time and Aziraphale has finally seen him for what he is. He sobs and screams and smashes wine bottles against the walls of his apartment.
Crowley hates himself so deeply he feels as if he is drowning in a sea of his own misery. He desperately treads water and breaks the surface every so often, gasping for air, but he is so very tired that the moments of rest are getting further apart. Crowley is silently slipping beneath ice-cold waters and the shoreline is so far away he can no longer even imagine it.
Without humanity, Aziraphale, or even Beelzebub to talk to, Crowley is lonely. He tries to visit Muriel at the bookshop but they scream in terror and Crowley realizes they no longer recognize him. He is monstrous in appearance, more serpent than man, and all but the most grizzled of demons avoid his gaze. He turns tail and leaves, never looking back.
After a decade without Aziraphale has passed, Crowley accepts the position as the Duke of Hell. He loves the Earth but he knows there is no place for him here. He let the last shreds of his humanity slip from his fingers some time ago, falling as uncountable and undefinable as individual grains of sand on a beach. If the Second Coming was really on its way, only the Duke of Hell could harness enough power to stop it. He, alone, would be responsible for protecting humanity from Heaven.
Alone.
That’s what had happened, he realized. He had made a mistake when he had proposed that he and Aziraphale were a team. They could never be a team. Crowley is a creature of Hell and Aziraphale is a being of Heaven and it was as simple as that. They were always more far apart than he had allowed himself to recognize.
On Crowley’s final day on Earth, he makes the decision to visit St. James Park to say goodbye to the most important part of his life. He slithers past a well-loved bench and feels his icy heart crack at the memory of the hours spent there. He curls up near the pond and watches the ducks swim in circles for hours.
He is so caught up in his regrets that he misses the sweet, mournful notes of a nightingale perched in a tree, high above.