Chapter Text
“Ah, oh… Supreme Archangel! I’m so sorry, I w-wasn’t expecting…” The flustered cherub who nearly runs into him dips into a low, awkward curtsy, nearly losing their balance. The poor thing looks rattled, even scared.
Aziraphale winces, almost looks around, almost expects to hear Gabriel’s smoothly sarcastic drone. A shiver of anticipatory dread dances down his spine, a tap dance of quiet terror. After thousands of years, it is pure instinct. Any encounter with Gabriel has only ever shown him two things. How utterly cold Heaven is, and how strongly the Archangels believe Aziraphale is an oddity at best, a failure at worst. “Pathetic excuse for an angel…”
Thus, it takes him a moment to realize that the nervous cherub is addressing him, Aziraphale. He is the Supreme Archangel now, and it takes his breath away, a peculiar mixture of dread and hope. No more humble submission, no more strongly worded notes about ‘frivolous miracles’. He had expected to Fall, and instead, this — this…
By God, he is going to change things.
Oh, he won’t be distracted by power struggles and petty office politics; changes are needed at the most fundamental level. What is Heaven, if it is not love? No one should have to feel cold, alone and worthless in these Heavenly halls, not ever again. He will restore Heaven to its true purpose, a place of faith and love and joy. A place that is worthy of — worthy of…
“I thought we’d carved it out for ourselves,” echoes through his mind, and he stops himself from anxiously flapping his hands. Straightens instead, puts on what he hopes is a warm smile.
“None of that, my dear! No harm done, and I can see you are very busy and doing an excellent job. Don’t let me keep you; off you go!”
He sends them on their way with a blessing and a pang of sadness. They remind him of Muriel, and what he left behind.
“Let’s have a natter, shall we?” the Metatron says, all jovial tone and crinkled smile, beckoning Aziraphale to follow. “What are your thoughts on the next phase of our plans?”
Blimey, it is bright. Too bright. Aziraphale fights the urge to shield his eyes from the cold celestial light. It is too silent, too clean, too sterile. As the Metatron walks beside him, the only sound is the heavy echo of their footsteps, booming in the vast white halls like portents of doom. And oh, isn’t that a ridiculous thought. And yet, there’s no mumble of conversation, no music, no laughter. Nothing that sparks joy, or any kind of emotional response, really. Hope tries to slink away like a thief in the night, leaving only its ugly twin behind.
Grasping for any sense of homecoming, of rejoicing, Aziraphale finds nothing but regret coating his mouth, a bitter aftertaste. His fingers twitch at his sides, a faint instinct to smooth nonexistent creases from his pristine coat.
No, Heaven has not always been like this. He remembers a time when angels would have friendly, spirited discussions. They would sit together in cozy nooks and crannies, grooming each other’s wings; they would embrace or take leisurely flights, holding hands for the sheer joy of it. The light was golden, the air warm, and there was love… Oh, so much love. “Where charity and love are, there God is.” What a lovely human hymn. Paulinus von Aquileia, wasn’t it? No matter.
Where charity and love are, there God is. There God was. Until the War. Until the Fallen were cast out of Grace. The conflict tore Heaven in two, and trust and warmth bled from the wound.
But what once was, must it be lost forever? Aziraphale will need to navigate the currents of Heaven’s politics with care, steering the ship with a firm, but gentle hand. At long last, he is in a position to make meaningful changes.
He clears his throat. “Now, about the Second Coming. I’ve been giving it considerable thought, and I must say, I have a few reservations! Surely the first Armageddon was enough to demonstrate that Her Ineffable Plan is, well, ineffable? Adam Young, while technically the Antichrist, chose a rather unconventional path, didn’t he? It seems unlikely he’ll return in any active capacity for a second round.”
The Metatron stops walking and turns, fixing Aziraphale with a considering look, accompanied by a nondescript hum. His smile is so benign, so impossibly pleasant, that it comes full circle, transforming into something far more like a polite threat. For a heartbeat, there’s a subtle shift in the atmosphere; the air is heavy and charged. Don’t be ridiculous, Aziraphale scolds himself. He waits, waits until the silence clogs his airways, threatens to bend his spine.
“Y-Yeshua! Have we asked Yeshua what he thinks about this, what he wants? He was very fond of humans, if you recall; I cannot fathom that he wants to destroy them now. D-Don’t they deserve a chance to live, to grow, as part of Her great and beautiful creation? What would destroying them accomplish? I can’t, can’t help but wonder if we are misinterpreting God’s will.”
Oh no, he’s babbling, isn’t he?
His skin all but vibrates with anxiety now. It takes gargantuan effort to stand tall, reminding himself that he is not a lowly principality anymore.
“With all due respect, you told me I was the right angel for the job because I don’t just tell people what they want to hear. And I’m telling you, I have concerns. As Supreme Archangel, it is my duty to ensure that Her will is done, but can we be sure this truly is Her will?”
He throws down the gauntlet with a quote from the Book of Isaiah: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord.” In a softer voice, he adds: “You are Her Voice, couldn’t we, well, simply ask Her?”
For a heartbeat, something dark flits across the Metatron’s features. Then the open, benevolent expression returns, bright as a sunrise, and Aziraphale’s doubts melt like snow.
He does not hear the soft chime. He does not sense something taking root.
“Oh, there is no need to get in a flap,” the Metatron chides, eyes twinkling, twinkling. “Once you’ve taken up your new role as Supreme Archangel, Aziraphale, you will naturally have the opportunity to seek God’s guidance! A perk of the job, you might say.” He leans in, voice dropping to a low, confidential tone. “In fact, once you complete the purification process, you will be granted an audience with Her! Yes, you will be able to present your case directly to God Herself. I assure you, all your questions will be answered then.
Aziraphale’s heart is pounding so hard that his chest hurts, a deep ache tempered by fresh hope. To speak directly to God! Never, not even in his most desperate dreams, has he dared to set his hopes so high. “And until then, the Second Coming is delayed?”
“Oh, don’t look so worried! Everything’s above board; we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. There’s no rush.” The Metatron beckons for Aziraphale to pick up his pace. “But we do need to start the purification process, the final and most essential part of your inauguration. As you ascend to your new role, you will be stripped of anything impure, selfish or otherwise unworthy of Her Divine grace. You will be tested, Aziraphale, not by others, but by yourself.”
“And what does this process entail, if I may ask?” Again, Aziraphale fights the urge to worry the trim of his new, pristine white shirt, longing for fabric smoothed and worn by ages of anxiety.
“That depends entirely on you, Aziraphale! You see, this is a deeply personal journey, different for every Supreme Archangel to be. It will adapt to your needs and reflect your own unique relationship with God.”
The Supreme Archangel to be fidgets, and the Voice of God chuckles, eyes wrinkling in a benign smile. “Oh, don’t fret; it’ll all be splendid! An angel with your unwavering faith has nothing to worry about. Come along now, have a gander! You will see, there’s absolutely no reason to get the collywobbles.”
Old-fashioned idioms and congeniality… charming, familiar, soothing. For the briefest of moments, Aziraphale wonders if the Metatron is lulling him into a false sense of security, but the thought comes and goes, fleeting like a cloud before the sun.
—
“This is your personal prayer room, your sanctuary for the time being,” the Metatron announces, and Aziraphale finds himself speechless. His breath hitches. Not in apprehension this time, but in blessed relief. He lets out a soft sigh, allowing himself, for a breath and a prayer, to believe that this is Heaven’s way of embracing him, of saying, ‘You belong here’.
The room feels familiar, like a cherished place untouched by centuries. A thick rug muffles his steps as he crosses the threshold; the warmth of a lit fireplace envelops him immediately. There’s a well-worn armchair, draped in what looks like the coziest blanket, next to a small table holding a steaming cup of tea, a plate of biscuits, and a stack of leather-bound books. The room smells of aged paper and strong tea, lightly seasoned with the fragrance of candle wax and burnt firewood. There is the merest touch of cinnamon and nutmeg, of old-world cologne. Classical music is playing faintly in the background.
The room seems tailored to Aziraphale’s needs, his comforts, and his quiet pleasures. Perhaps, he ponders, he can really make a difference here. Briefly, he allows himself to relax into the warmth, and he cannot help a pleased wiggle.
“For now,” the Metatron drones, “you must relinquish all control and power. Only until the process is done, mind you! No need to get in a flap. Miracles will not bring you closer to the divine; only your willingness to embrace humility will.”
Happiness grown stale, Aziraphale swallows, forcing a smile that feels stretched tight over his face. “Of course, yes. Humility, in-indeed, I quite understand. ‘She has cast down the mighty from their thrones and has lifted up the humble,’ and all that.” His voice falters, f-falters slightly before he quickly adds, “I shall do my very best.”