Chapter Text
DING! Heaven. Doors opening.
“Right, let's introduce you to the team shall we?”
Aziraphale stepped out of the lift alongside the Metatron, and began walking into the vast emptiness of Heaven; the too-white interior already making him nauseous.
“The team?”
“Yes, your fellow archangels: Michael, Uriel, Saraqael, and I believe Sandalphon is back too.”
“Oh, where did Sandalphon go?” Aziraphale asked, immediately getting distracted from the current conversation.
“He didn't cope very well with Armageddon not happening, kept trying to start his own war, which, whilst I admit was amusing at first, quickly became rather annoying.”
Aziraphale smiled a little at the idea of an unhinged Sandalphon running around, trying desperately to start a one person war. Never in his life had he wished to see Sandalphon, but he did wish he'd seen that.
“We found some paperwork for him to do - long, boring stuff - until he'd calmed down. He finished it all just after Gabriel went missing, which he also didn't take very well, but he seems to have mellowed now. Got it out of his system I guess?”
Aziraphale nodded, giving a small, awkward laugh before remembering the original conversation they were having.
“So why do I need to meet them?” He asked, not particularly keen to engage with the archangels any more than necessary. “I mean, I've known them for millions of years, and I saw three of them only twenty minutes ago. I think we're past needing introductions.”
“Oh no, an introduction is most necessary. You see, you need to be introduced to them. They've only ever known you as Aziraphale, Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate, but you've been promoted, remember. Time for them to meet Aziraphale, Supreme Archangel.”
The Metatron smiled like his words were supposed to be positive and encouraging, but they just made Aziraphale feel more uneasy. Besides the fact you couldn't really say no to the Metatron, even if he did claim to be giving you a “choice”, Aziraphale really did want to change things, to transform Heaven into the fount of truth and goodness he always believed it to be, but that didn't mean he actually wanted to be in charge; to yield that much power. He faked a smile to the Metatron and tried to remind himself of the good he could do, the lives he could save, and the safety he could ensure for himself and Crowley.
Crowley.
Beautiful, chaotic, wonderful Crowley.
The thing Aziraphale loved more than anything in the entire universe, even God Herself. The obedient angel in him no longer bothered with trying to find the desire to repent, for the only desire left inside of him was for a demon.
A demon that had just kissed him.
A demon he longed to kneel before and worship. How he would pray, oh how he'd beg. Do it again. Please. Kiss me again. A demon for whom he'd committed the highest of sins - to love one more than The Creator, and yet he was powerless against it. He'd spent six-thousand years trying desperately to fight it, yet he stood now in Heaven, tasting that very sin on his lips, wanting only to be consumed by it; aching to have every inch of his body and soul forever marked by Crowley's kiss.
Aziraphale was a master of denial. He'd spent many millennia practising it to perfection, neatly stacking his boxes upon boxes of feelings in the DO NOT OPEN section of his brain, ensuring each and every one had been carefully sealed and locked. Over the past few centuries though, Crowley had somehow begun unlocking them, seemingly oblivious to the internal unravelling he was causing, and with that kiss, he'd managed to open the last box. It was freeing, in a way, for Aziraphale to finally admit his feelings, even if only to himself.
He was an angel who had fallen in love with a demon.
He guessed that was one thing he had in common with his predecessor.
The irony of him being Gabriel's replacement was not lost on him, and he realised it didn't really make sense that Heaven would try to punish Gabriel for his relationship with Beelzebub, but would promote Aziraphale to the very same position, despite knowing of his extensive “partnership” with Crowley, as the Metatron put it. He had no idea what the punishment would have been, but it must have been pretty awful for Gabriel to have removed his memories and come seeking sanctuary at his bookshop. He felt like there was more to the whole Gabriel issue, but before he could properly start theorising, Michael's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
“Your Grace, I must apologise for the miscommunication that-”
“No you mustn't.” The Metatron interrupted. “We have much more important things to discuss than your obvious want for power, Michael.”
Uriel tried her hardest not to smirk. (She failed.)
“With Gabriel gone,” The Metatron continued, “we can now move forward and begin preparing for The Second Coming. I will need you all to work hard, and as a team, and hopefully things will run smoothly this time. Now, exciting news,” he said, turning towards Aziraphale, “say hello to your new Supreme Archangel.”
“Aziraphale?” Michael said, her eyebrows lifting as though she was asking a question, but from the way her voice lowered at the end of his name, it sounded more like an are-you-fucking-kidding-me kind of statement, disguised as a question.
“Correct. Anything you'd like to say, Aziraphale?” The Metatron gestured towards Michael and Uriel.
“Um, yes.” Aziraphale said nervously, addressing the two archangels who, for the first time since, well, ever, were now below him. “Hello! Um, well, let me start by saying what an honour it is to have this title bestowed upon me,” he said, looking at the Metatron, who nodded, whilst Uriel rolled her eyes and Michael smiled in pain. His hands were gesturing nonsensically, moving almost as rapidly as his darting eyes. “As I’m sure you're aware, what with, you know, Armageddon and- probably best not to dwell on that. Anyway, I'm sure you both know by now that I have lots of ideas about, well, everything! Lots of jolly good ideas, if I may say so myself. And, um, I think this will undoubtedly be our best project yet! The bees knees, as they say..."
From what can only be described as a polite grimace on Michael's face and a kill-me-now look on Uriel's, he guessed he may have overdone it a bit on the enthusiasm, trying desperately to counteract and ignore the pain inside of him at leaving Crowley so heartbroken.
“And I, er..." He cleared his throat. “I look forward to working with you both,” he finished reluctantly, “and with Heaven, of course.” Aziraphale looked at the Metatron as if to say, okay I'm done now, please take over, and thankfully the Metatron obliged.
“How great it is to have a Supreme Archangel so eager for The Second Coming.”
Michael nodded, and, without a hint of sincerity, smiled. Uriel exhaled. That was it.
Could have gone worse, Aziraphale thought; he'd much rather be faced with an annoyed silence than a repeat of the screaming match earlier. After all, he no longer had his bell.
He no longer had a lot of things, he realised, already feeling homesick for his bookshop (and the demon so often found inside of it).
At the distinct lack of response from either archangel, the Metatron gave up on his attempted team meeting (much to Aziraphale’s relief) and clasped his hands together. “Right then, shall we get to work?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back down on Earth, Crowley drove in silence back to what he hoped was his flat again. He could tell the Bentley had been trying to comfort him by playing ‘A Nightingale Sang In Berkley Square’, but hearing that song, their song, only made it worse. He thought back to that night in 1941, and felt his heart break even more.
He arrived at the flat and sure enough, it was his again. He should have been pleased, but he was too miserable to care. At least Shax hadn't really changed anything in the few months she'd lived there.
(Hell hadn't bothered to send a replacement for a few years as the pandemic was causing enough misery that Beelzebub didn't see the point.)
Wordlessly, Crowley put his plants back where they belonged, too emotionally tired to berate them or yell. He no longer had the heart to inflict feelings of inadequacy upon them; they didn't need to feel as shit about themselves as he did.
To put it plainly, Crowley was devastated. He was embarrassed, too. All those years he'd spent hoping that maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale could love him back, that the angel might actually want to be with him, had clearly made him delusional enough that he'd started to believe it. But no, obviously that wasn't the case.
He was a demon.
Aziraphale cared for him, he knew that, and he had no doubt that he enjoyed his company, but all of that was in spite of him being a demon. If Aziraphale could change him, he would.
And boy did he jump at the chance.
Aziraphale’s pleas for him to rejoin Heaven as a reinstated angel kept ringing in his ears, and he needed to drown them out. He wandered into the kitchen, looking for anything alcoholic. He assumed (correctly) that Shax wouldn't have consumed human beverages, so he still had a half bottle of whiskey to drink. He downed it, trying to numb himself, but it was no use. His deepest fear had been confirmed: he was unlovable. No amount of alcohol was going to erase that.
He miracled himself into his pyjamas and sat down on the bed. He really had missed his bed - the Bentley was not a comfortable place to sleep. Aziraphale had offered him the bedroom above the bookshop after Shax had arrived, but in true Crowley-style, he'd immediately self-sabotaged. He wasn't even sure exactly what he'd said, or why, all he knew was his heart screamed YES, his brain immediately panicked, and his mouth said some shit about how he felt living in the Bentley for a while would be good for him. Aziraphale hadn't mentioned it again, so neither had Crowley.
In hindsight, he figured it was for the best anyway, seeing as he now knew for definite that his feelings were unrequited. All he'd ever wanted was to experience the same unconditional love he had for Aziraphale, but today he’d learnt for certain that that wasn’t possible. He could only be loved under one condition: he had to be an angel again. In his current form, he wasn't worthy of Aziraphale. He'd tried for so many years to earn Aziraphale's affections, to prove himself to his angel, but he should have known better than to believe he could deserve the kind of love he yearned for.
He replayed the kiss in his mind; the moment he'd felt Aziraphale's hand briefly rest on his back, prompting Crowley to pull him in closer, hold him tighter, kiss him harder, trying with everything he had to show his angel how desperately he wanted him, how much he loved and adored every single thing about him. But it hadn't worked, and he couldn't stop thinking about Aziraphale's face as he'd said “I forgive you”. There was something there he hadn't seen before. He instantly began brainstorming the worst case scenarios (or as Crowley put it, logical and rational explanations) for what that look on Aziraphale's face could mean. All he could come up with was disgust.
Disgust.
He'd pondered for over four-thousand years how Aziraphale would feel if he was ever brave enough to kiss him, and he was now left to wonder if the answer all along was repulsion.
Crowley wished he was good enough exactly as he was; not an angel, not a fallen angel, not a demon. Just Crowley. But he wasn’t, and the saddest part? He agreed. Of course he wasn't worthy of Aziraphale. Of course he wasn't deserving of his love.
S’your own fault for getting your stupid fucking hopes up.
Crowley did consider for a moment that he may be overdramatising the situation a little bit. Maybe it was just a very strange, very stressful day, and emotions were high, and after all, he and Aziraphale didn't get a chance to relax and talk things through properly. Maybe he was just interpreting things through his own self-loathing lens that always reared its ugly head whenever he tried to be vulnerable. Maybe Aziraphale would come back, tell him he changed his mind, that he's left Heaven, that there's a reservation at the Ritz awaiting them.
Maybe.
Or maybe he was just unlovable.
And delusional, he thought bitterly.
Crowley went and said goodnight to the (incredibly shocked) plants, something he had never done before but felt compelled to do now. He would never admit it, but he just didn't want to feel completely alone. His plants and the Bentley were all he really had left now Aziraphale had gone.
He wondered if they’d prefer him as an angel, too.
He climbed into bed, removed his sunglasses and closed his eyes. All he wanted right now was to sleep for a while, being conscious for much longer would inevitably mean him crying, and he really didn't have the energy to pathetically weep. He figured he'd sleep for a few days, just to take the edge off, then when he awoke he could cry to his heart's content (and then hopefully get a grip and decide what to do next). But for now, he needed rest, and to escape his mind for a bit. He might even be lucky enough to meet his angel in dreams. After all, he could be wanted in his imagination.
As he slowly drifted away from reality, Crowley hoped that this time, Aziraphale would finally choose him.