Chapter Text
Aziraphale could still feel the touch of Crowley’s lips lingering on his.
His hand reached up and brushed the place where they had met, softly, scared that he could wipe the memory away. He tried to recall exactly how it felt, but all that he saw was the look of utter despair and heartbreak on Crowley’s face. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind.
Heaven, when did everything go so terribly wrong?
He started pacing around the room again, his hands in the pockets of his coat. It was a habit he had unintentionally picked up from Crowley over the years. Not very angelic of him, but at the moment he was too nervous to care.
In the past few hours (Days? Maybe only minutes?) since the Mettaron had guided him to this room and told him to wait there until further instructions, Aziraphale had had more than enough time to go over what had happened over and over again. Every time, he tried to come up with an alternative ending, a version in which he didn't have to do what he did, but he couldn’t think of one. He had to remind himself that all he did was to protect Crowley, and he would do it all over again if it meant seeing him safe.
Still, when he saw Crowley’s eyes welling up with tears like he had never seen before, unable to meet Aziraphale’s gaze, he had just wanted to take his hand, apologize for everything, and run away, where neither Heaven nor Hell could find them.
But he couldn’t. And he knew that if it came down to it, he would do the same thing again. For him.
He fidgeted with the ring on his pinkie while pacing around the empty room. He started replaying the conversation he had had with the Metatron, right before everything had gone downhill, trying to pick it apart in hopes of finding information he had previously missed.
“I give you a choice”, the Metatron had told him. “Coffee or Death.”
Aziraphale had looked down at the coffee the Metatron gave him, confused. “I’m sorry?”, he asked, staying blissfully unaware of what was to come for a few more seconds.
“Well, the human in the coffee shop told me that her guests never chose Death. But I thought I should give you the option at least.”
“Between what?” At this point, he had been beginning to get anxious. Something about the monotone voice of the Metatron unnerved him.
“Heaven has heard the rumours about you and your… friend. Over the past centuries, there had only been whispers about a, let’s call it companionship between you two. But in the years since you averted Armageddon, we have had more than enough proof of it.”
“I can assure you that what is between me and Crowley will not get in the way of the greater Good.” His voice sounded as if it came from far away.
“I’m sure it won’t.” The Metatron cleared his throat, even though Angels never needed to. “Heaven needs a Supreme Archangel now that Gabriel is out of the picture. And we thought, who would be a better candidate than you?”
“Me? But I don’t want to-”
“Uh-Uh.” The Metatron leaned forward and it took every bit of willpower in Aziraphale not to edge back. “Heaven needs a Supreme Archangel. And it will be you. Heaven needs you in Gabriel’s place. And should you refuse your civic obligations to the Almighty, then your companion in the bookshop will face severe consequences. You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?”
That was when Aziraphale had realised what the Metatron was offering, Coffee or Death. Be Supreme Archangel and lead Heaven under God’s orders, or Crowley will pay the price. Yes, Aziraphale was still a part of Heaven and acting under God’s orders is what he had been doing for most of eternity (at least, usually), but being Supreme Archangel meant giving up Earth, Hell, and aiding Heaven in ruling over humanity.
Which apparently, according to a throwaway sentence by the Metatron, was supposed to happen through the Second Coming. Aziraphale had met Jesus, a lovely man, but he knew that his return would signal the start of Heaven’s final triumph over Hell and their rule. And Heaven’s rule over Earth would mean the destruction of everything associated with Hell. Including Crowley.
Not even just Hell. They would destroy everyone on Earth that had done anything slightly wrong, picked the wrong decision once, had lost faith at some point - and that was basically everyone. That's what being human meant.
But they surely wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t do that. She created them, She wouldn’t have Heaven rule over an empty Earth.
Her Great Plan also included the complete destruction of Earth just to defeat Hell.
Aziraphale shook his head once more, wishing that he had a watch - or that time moved the same way in Heaven as it did down on Earth. It had been too long since the Metatron left - right? And what did he even mean, wait for further instruction? Whose instructions? Shouldn’t Aziraphale be the highest ranking Angel now? There was no one to give him instructions.
He stopped in his tracks. If he had needed to breathe, it would have caught in his throat.
There was someone above him. But the Metatron wouldn’t really consult Her, would he? Perhaps She needed to be present and appoint him Supreme Archangel personally. Had it been like that for Gabriel too? He couldn’t remember, as always when he tried to remember details from before the Creation.
“Aziraphale.”
The sudden sound in the pressing silence of Heaven made Aziraphale jump and he turned to face Michael, simply miracled into the room. Surprised, Aziraphale straightened his bowtie. “Michael. What are you… Shouldn’t you be, well…” He gestured around vaguely, not quite daring to voice his thoughts. He had assumed that Michael and Uriel would face some sort of consequences, especially Michael for trying to take over the position of Supreme Archangel without authorisation. At least he thought they wouldn’t be seen for a while.
“So”, Michael said, their eyes darting to the ring Aziraphale was still turning on his finger, and he immediately dropped his hands. “God decided you should be the new Supreme Archangel. Didn’t think you would accept the position. I thought you had had your fair share of Heaven.”
“Well”, Aziraphale said, trying to keep his voice calm. Apparently no one knew about the Metatron’s ultimatum. “If the Almighty wishes it, then so be it.”
“Hm”, Michael simply answered. “Come with me.”
They didn’t turn to check whether Aziraphale was actually complying, but he figured he had no other choice and followed Michael through the many planes of Heaven. That was one of the things that made Aziraphale so deeply uncomfortable here. Even though Heaven was so vast and almost infinite, it was so empty of… everything. Of life. He had never understood why Crowley kept his flat so minimalistic. It still had more personality than Heaven - which wasn’t difficult - but it still felt almost bare. Perhaps he wanted to have something that couldn’t in any way remind him of Hell. From the few minutes Aziraphale had spent down there in disguise, he had seen how cramped, small, and crowded everything was, and though it was the complete opposite of Heaven, they still both conjured up the same feeling inside him.
He didn’t know how Crowley had managed it in Hell for so long.
Michael came to a sudden halt and only now did Aziraphale realise where they had led him the whole time.
They were in Heaven’s court of law, where punishments were carried out and legal matters concerning other Angels were resolved. Through the high windows, Aziraphale could see several of Earth’s monuments, the Eiffel Tower right next to the Pyramids of Giza. This must have been where Crowley had stepped into the Hellfire in his place. He had never seen it being used for official ceremonies. But then again, he could not recall any important official ceremonies since most of them took place before the Beginning.
The room was empty, just like the rest of Heaven, safe for the Metatron, Uriel, and Saraqael, the latter of which had a stack of files on their lap.
“Thank you, Michael”, the Metatron said, chin held high.
“Uriel, Saraqael.” Aziraphale nodded in acknowledgement while Michael made their way to the Metatron’s side. “Nice view you have here. I didn’t know that ceremonies like this are held in-”
“If you could please bare your wings, Aziraphale”, Michael interrupted him, their hands clasped tightly in front of them.
“Wha… Whatever for?”, he stammered. From all the things he had imagined they could say to him, nothing like this had even crossed his mind. He couldn’t quite explain it, but baring his wings in Heaven, in front of the other Angels, felt intimate and there was almost a feeling of uneasiness about it.
“It’s all part of the process, nothing to worry about”, the Metatron said calmly. Something about his tone caused Aziraphale to worry even more, but there was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go. And anyways, what should be wrong? He had never witnessed this process, it was probably all according to a protocol he wasn’t aware of.
He tensed and almost sighed at the familiarity of the weight on his back. Though he rarely had an occasion to show them, he regularly groomed his wings to keep them smooth and clean, and he always felt more at home in them. He stretched them out, savoring the feeling coming back to them, the wind ruffling his feathers.
The hairs on his neck stood up. There shouldn’t be a wind. They were in Heaven, there were no disturbances allowed. His wings twitched nervously and he looked around, trying to find the source of the wind.
Not a second later, golden chains snapped out of the ground and wrapped tightly around his wings, squeezing and pulling until he was forced to the ground. He let out a yelp of surprise and pain as his knees hit the floor. Panic took over and he started twisting and turning, trying to shake off the chains that held him down.
“What - What is happening? Why?” He looked pleadingly up at the Angels watching him. Neither of them were moving, all simply staring at his pathetic tries to free himself. “Why are you doing this? I did everything you asked!”
“Did you, Aziraphale?”, Uriel asked, tilting their head. “Was everything you did always in Heaven’s best interest?”
“I… I don’t… I can assure you I only ever worked for the greater Good”, Aziraphale tried to reason, but the hope was slowly leaving him. Something was seriously wrong.
Something that could be passable as a laugh escaped the Metatron’s lips. “Is lying to Heaven and to God Herself for the greater Good? Is consorting with the enemy, a demon, for the greater Good? Is keeping valuable information that could be useful in an upcoming war from Heaven for the greater Good? Not to mention directly thwarting God's Great Plan, preventing Armageddon and therefore the great victory of Heaven over Hell.”
Aziraphale was too stunned to answer. He had done all of those things, not for the greater Good that Heaven was envisioning, but for what was best for Earth, for humanity.
Or for Crowley and himself. Them.
Us.
— — — — — — — —
Something was terribly wrong.
Crowley jerked awake and grumbled as his head hit the window. As usual, an initial sense of panic overcame him when he realised that the silent humming inside him, the feeling that he was on Earth, had disappeared. But then reality slowly came back to him and he laid his forehead on the steering wheel and closed his eyes, wishing to go back to sleep again.
Not that his dreams were any better. But at least they weren’t real.
Still, something lingered. Something had urged him awake and Crowley looked up, his eyes adjusting to the darkness around him. He looked out the window, but there he only saw the soft yellow glow of the street lights of London and the flickering lights of the bar he had parked the Bentley in front of tonight. Or several nights ago. He wasn’t quite sure how long he’d been asleep.
So it hadn’t been anything around him. Then what woke him up?
He stiffened. There. Not outside, but inside him. A slight tugging right where a human’s shoulder blades would be. Or a demon’s wings.
Crowley adjusted the rearview mirror to look at himself, but only his wingless self stared back, his eyes, which weren’t covered by sunglasses, bigger than usual and entirely yellow. He hadn’t bothered trying to pass more for a human. He only spent his nights (and days) either in the Bentley or in his apartment, utterly alone. And it’s not like he actually went to bars to drink himself senseless. Could very well do that where no one could see him.
The only one he occasionally saw was Muriel. But no need to pretend in front of the young Angel. Not like they know human anatomy, anyways.
He twitched. There it was again. This time more defined. It was almost as if his wings were twitching and twisting, but they weren’t even out. And there was something else, this feeling that came along with it…
Panic. Pure, unfiltered panic. In an instant, he knew when he’d felt it before. Panic, comparable only to the one he felt when he thought he had died in that fire.
And the one he felt right before he fell.
“What is this?”, he muttered, turning on the engine, but not really knowing what he should do. Was Hell sending him a warning? Heaven, perhaps?
He doubled over, clutching his chest as a sudden sharp pain shot through him. And that’s when he knew. When he felt him.
“Aziraphale.”
— — — — — — — —
“For your unholy crimes against Heaven”, Saraqael started, “your collaboration with a representative of Hell, and your active involvement in the foiling of the Divine Plan of God, our Father, you are hence-”
“No!”, Aziraphale shouted, pulling at the chains that kept him contained. “You mustn’t! You cannot do this!”
“Oh, but we can, Aziraphale”, Michael said, something resembling a grin on their face.
Aziraphale’s wings fluttered anxiously inside their restraints as he saw what they were holding, what he didn’t see before, what Michael must have miracled into existence: A shining sword, the hilt decorated with gold and jewels while the blade shimmered in both gold and silver. It looked more like a decorative piece someone with a unique sense of style would hang on the wall, but even though he had never seen it before, Aziraphale knew that that blade was soaked in blood. Blood of angels.
“Please!”, he croaked out, panic closing up his throat. “I will do anything you want me to do! You can give me orders, I’ll carry them out as Supreme Archangel!”
Within a split second, Michael was crouched down in front of Aziraphale, grabbing Aziraphale’s chin in between two fingers. “Do you still think Heaven could have a liar such as yourself as Supreme Archangel? A traitor?” They spat out the last two words and roughly shoved Aziraphale aside. The sword scraped over Heaven’s hallowed ground as Michael slowly made their way around Aziraphale.
“But…” Aziraphale racked his brain, trying to find a way to get out of there. Nothing. In a desperate attempt to save time, he asked: “But what about Gabriel? He collaborated with Hell. He ran off with a demon, the Prince of Hell, even! Why isn’t…” He tried to gesture with his head, though his movements were greatly limited.
“They were granted immunity from Hell and from Heaven”, the Metatron replied, with a tone and look on his face that implied that he wasn’t the one who had made the decision and he wasn’t entirely happy with it. “The Almighty decided it was best to leave the two alone. The highest ranking angel and the highest ranking demon could cause a lot of trouble if provoked.”
“I promise you, if you let me, I will do anything you ask of me, I won’t tell anybody, I promise, I will-”
“Shut it!”, Michael shouted from behind him and Aziraphale instinctively raised his chin as he felt the blade of the sword on his throat. “We know what you’re trying to do. But no matter how much time you save, no one will come for you. Your friend”, they spat out, “can’t reach you now. He’s hated by Heaven and by Hell. But even if he could reach you…” They clicked their tongue. “I don’t really believe he wants anything to do with you, does he?”
Aziraphale was getting warmer and warmer, and if he had been human he would have started sweating as wave after wave of panic rushed over him. He couldn’t imagine how in Heaven Michael knew what went down in their final moments on Earth, but the most terrifying thing was that they were probably right. Crowley hated him now. And as much as he enjoyed saving Aziraphale, he couldn’t and he much less wanted to.
“Don’t hurt him”, he whispered.
“Oh, no, no, we won’t hurt him”, the Metatron answered. “It is for Hell to decide what to do with him. But you, Aziraphale… you belong to us.”
Something like a smile appeared on Uriel’s lips. “Not for much longer.”
He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t think. He knew what was happening, what was going to happen, but the full effect of it didn’t quite reach him until Saraqael spoke once more.
“For your unholy crimes against Heaven, your collaboration with a representative of Hell, and your active involvement in the foiling of the Divine Plan of God our Father, you, the Principality Aziraphale, former Angel of the Eastern Gate, are henceforth sentenced to Fall. Due to the severity of your crimes, your wings will be taken from you. You will endure your future as a demon of Hell and will never set foot into the Holiness of Heaven again. Amen.”
He had heard of it. Apparently, some demons had their wings taken away from them before they fell. Not every demon that fell survived the landing, but the ones without wings allegedly almost never did. He thought it was a myth. But now….
“My…” He couldn’t even finish. Though he didn’t need air, it was as though it was stuck in his throat. He couldn’t let that happen to him. He wouldn’t survive. And even if he did, he didn’t want to survive, not like that, not in Hell. “You can’t take my wings”, he said in a whimper, hating himself for the way his voice trembled.
“I’m afraid we can”, Michael said.
The blade disappeared from his neck and Aziraphale only had a split second to prepare himself before it came down on his wing and his whole world exploded.
— — — — — — — —
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”
He was driving. He didn’t know where to, but he had to do something. Right?
“Who wants to live forever?”, Freddie Mercury sang through the speakers. Immediately, Aziraphale’s face appeared in front of him, staring up at him with a look of pity.
Oh Crowley. Nothing lasts forever.
Crowley hit the button on his radio and silence fell. It was disturbing his thinking anyways.
Aziraphale had left him. He chose Heaven over him, thought Crowley was not good enough. He thought he had to change Crowley, bring him to Heaven, make him an Angel again, because him as a demon wasn’t enough.
And he really thought there had been something between them. All those years, those millennia they had spent together, ever since Crowley had slithered up that wall in Eden. Probably since way before, even. He knew that they knew each other, though he couldn’t remember any specifics. What they had been feeling…
It didn’t matter now. Aziraphale was gone. Crowley didn’t even know why he bothered, why he drove like his life depended on it. If Aziraphale had gotten into any trouble, that was his problem. Crowley wouldn’t always be there to save him. Not anymore. He wasn’t good enough for that anyways, was he?
Then why did he still care?
He grunted and reached over to the passenger seat to grab the half empty bottle of whiskey, which miraculously hadn’t spilled. But before he could open it, a searing pain shot through him, starting right on his back. He gasped, twisting the steering wheel, and if the Bentley hadn’t liked him so much, the car would have flipped over. But instead it simply skidded to a halt, right in the middle of the luckily empty street, while Crowley clutched his chest, trying to control the pain.
When it had receded again, as quickly as it came, he got out of the car, his mind racing as the fresh air ruffled through his hair. Could it be Hell? Or was it Aziraphale, toying with him from his new position?
He stared at his reflection in the windows of the Bentley, his dark wings mere shadows in the rays of the early morning sun. They had come out instinctively, but as far as he could tell, nothing was wrong. The feathers fluttered in the wind, and Crowley stretched his wings, his mind and body actually relaxing and slightly calming down. There was something familiar about his wings, that even though they had changed after his Fall, it was one of the few things he got to keep.
Apparently, others hadn’t been that lucky. He had heard a rumour once that one demon survived having lost their wings during their trial, though no one knew who it was or if they were still around. At those odds, Crowley had been quite lucky that his crimes hadn’t been “severe enough”.
Not good enough for Heaven. Not bad enough for Hell. How ironic.
He was about to get into the car and ignore it, when the pain burned through him once more, right where his wings were connected to his skin. He immediately checked his reflection in the window, but through the pain, he could only see blurry, dark spots.
“Let there be light”, he grunted, and a soft glow illuminated him and the area around him in a perfect circle.
As the pain receded once more and his vision focused, something caught his eye. Just in the middle of his right wing, almost hidden under the dark layers, was a light spot.
Crowley reached behind him and pulled it out, his eyes fixed on his reflection until he held it in his hands. Something he hadn’t found on himself for over 6000 years.
A single white feather.
— — — — — — — —
He was certain he had never felt such pain before.
With one slice, his right wing was gone. He lost his balance as the weight disappeared and the chain didn’t hold him anymore, but he could barely move. Angelic ichor flowed down his back and pooled on the ground where he was crouched over, his screams of pain echoing through the vastness of Heaven.
But the excruciating pain was not even the worst. It was what he felt inside. With every wave of pain that rushed through him, he felt all his hope leaving him, his happiness. All the cheerful moments of his life seemed to disappear from his mind. That is what must have happened to Crowley. He hadn’t been the same after he fell.
Would he forget Crowley now? Would he forget all their moments together, all that was between them?
He tried to picture Crowley in front of him. His smile. His wings. His gorgeous yellow eyes.
Michael slowly walked to his left side, raised the sword once more, and struck.
He didn’t even fight back anymore. He tried to brace himself, but nothing could prepare himself for the agony that burned through him as his second wing dropped to the ground.
He couldn’t even scream anymore. He fell forward, only just able to catch himself on his hands, a sound barely more than a whimper escaping him. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t need to breathe, but now he felt as if his lungs were aching for air.
Crowley. That was the picture in his mind. Why he had to push through. He just had to make it back to him.
He tried to speak, but instead a choked grunt came out of him.
That was it. How could he ever feel anything other than pain and terror again? All his body knew was the burning agony that never stopped.
He shouldn’t do it. He shouldn’t make it harder on him than it already was. But he had to see them, one last time.
Through gasps of pain and very slowly, he turned his head and looked down at what remained of them. The once beautifully white wings were soaked in dark golden ichor, the edges of the feathers charred and black as they burned against the hallowed ground of Heaven.
He tore his eyes away and looked up at the Angels standing so incredibly still around him, at the ichor that dripped from Michael’s sword.
Through the previous pain he hadn’t noticed it, but now that it was receding ever so slightly, he could feel something else. He wasn’t just getting warmer, as he had thought earlier, because of anxiety and panic. He was literally burning.
Heaven’s consecrated ground had burned through his clothes almost entirely, leaving only scorched shreds hanging from his body, on which blisters had started to form wherever he touched the ground.
His tears were starting to burn on his face.
He opened his mouth and this time, actual words came out.
“I’m sorry”, he whimpered. “I can be good.”
I forgive you. The last words he had said to Crowley to make him believe his lie. Oh, how he wished to hear those words being said to himself.
The Metatron stepped forward, his hands folded in front of him, his voice as still and calm as ever before as he spoke.
“You are unforgivable.”
He raised his hand and a pit opened beneath Aziraphale.
And then he fell. Fell through the darkness and into further darkness, fell forever, fell to a place where there was nothing and no one to comfort him. He didn’t scream, didn’t struggle, because what good would it do? All the hope he had held inside him, that kept him sane when the world was ending, had now left him. Not even Crowley’s face was any comfort to him anymore.
The darkness was his only companion on the long way down.