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Crowley was wrong, Aziraphale decided. Aziraphale was offering him everything and Crowley had the outstanding audacity to throw it back at him. Aziraphale didn’t need Crowley. He’d get on quite well without him. He’d have all of heaven to look forward to after all. A mission that would finally give him some purpose to this existence he had been leading.
But the look on Crowley’s face. The sound of his voice. They had never abandoned each other before.
And suddenly, it stared at him, a gaping, gnawing void of nothing. Of nothing but loneliness. Aziraphale has never known loneliness. Not truly. He’d had millions upon millions of years with just us.
He thinks back to that cliff face all those years ago. I lied, Crowley had said.
There is a pain in Aziraphale’s chest now as he looks back at Crowley.
I LIED.
The thudding is growing much louder now and he can’t exactly tell where it’s coming from. Distantly, he thinks the Metatron might be saying something to him and really, he should be listening. He is the Metatron afterall.
THUD.
And who exactly is Aziraphale to question the Metatron. The Metatron is the voice of God herself and God herself is always right. Except for that business with the Flood, anyway. And perhaps with Job. And the apocalypse, but nobody’s counting really. It’s all in the ineffable plan and all that. When had he lost sight of that again?
But Crowley.
THUD.
Oh, but Crowley was being ridiculous. Just us? He couldn’t possibly understand what he was saying, or what Aziraphale was offering. They could be together, up in heaven where they should be. And all would be well in the world, just as it had once been. He could help heaven for once, and set them on the right track once and for all.
I’ve always been able to count on you, angel.
He needed to stop this madness. To refuse the Metatron of all the heavenly hosts. It was worse than treason. It was blasphemy.
THUD.
He had already accepted the Metatron’s offer. He was going to heaven. He was going to be an Archangel, for heaven’s sake. THUD. He wasn’t looking at Crowley anymore. THUD. He was following the Metatron to the elevator. THUD. Crowley would just have to change his mind. He’d see.
THUD.
“Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale couldn’t hear much, not over the thudthudTHUDDING in his head. But he just couldn’t ignore that nothingness as it loomed over him, a predator patiently waiting for its prey to stumble into a trap of its own making.
Was he walking into a trap? Well, he couldn’t possibly be , Aziraphale thought. This was heaven. A heaven that had once tried to kill him, a distant part of him reminded. THUD.
“AZIRAPHALE,” the Metatron urged. Aziraphale’s eyes snapped up to look at him, looking wild. His feet were planted solidly on the curb, just outside the elevator doors, he noticed somewhat remotely. “What are you doing?” the Metatron demanded. He was looking somewhat disturbed as he eyed Aziraphale warily.
“What am I…well, I mean-” Aziraphale spluttered. “I’m following you of course.” THUD.
“You’re not. You’re standing there like a complete fool, Aziraphale.” He eyed him once again before settling his gaze to the left of his breastbone. “It’s your heart, Aziraphale. Angels don’t use hearts. They’re accessories. Needless, pointless things.”
Aziraphale knew he was right. So why was his heart thudding so loudly? He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe, even though he didn’t actually need to.
Just us, angel.
“Perhaps I say no…” Aziraphale pleaded, suddenly doubting himself. “Perhaps I’m not the right angel for the job. There’s always Michael, or Uriel. I’m sure they’d be happy to rule the heavenly hosts in Gabriel’s absence.”
The Metatron scoffed. “I chose you for a reason, Aziraphale. It can only be you. We have much to plan, you and I. The Second Coming needs an angel like you.”
“The Second Coming?” Aziraphale echoed. The thudthudthudding wasn’t just in his heart and head anymore. It was everywhere, and that nothingness was positively looming now.
“Of course, the S econd Coming. And you’ll help me, won’t you, Aziraphale?” The Metatron extended a reassuring arm just as Aziraphale took a hesitant step back, looking distinctly uncertain.
“Do-do you mean…that is to say, you mean to start another Armageddon?” Aziraphale questioned, voice unsteady.
“Why, that has always been the plan, Aziraphale. Surely, you never understood differently?” The Metatron asked incredulously. Thud.
“I see…” Aziraphale let out, almost soundlessly. “I can’t-no, I won’t help you in this. You must understand. I cannot turn my back on Earth like this.” Or Crowley, his thoughts whispered helpfully.
“You’re refusing me?” The Metatron was looking steadily more furious by the second, and Aziraphale had the rather decided feeling he should possibly be stepping back even further right about now. He did, and suddenly that looming wasn’t so…loomy anymore. And that thudding was finally dimming.
Rather suddenly, the busy noise of the London streets and shoppes filtered back into his consciousness, slotting into place like a puzzle piece he hadn’t quite realised he’d been missing. “No.” Aziraphale said firmly. “My place is here, with the humans.” With Crowley. Oh, he’d been such a fool.
“You realise what you’re deciding, Aziraphale? Refuse me, and the heavenly host will have no choice but to respond accordingly. One angel on the fritz is bad enough, but two? We won’t stand for it.” Threats then, and not empty ones by the sound of it. Right, then. He’d be grovelling at Crowley’s feet for centuries by the end of this.
“I’m quite certain, Metatron. It really was a lovely offer, but I can’t possibly accept. Too many earthly duties and all that. You understand, of course.” The Metatron was looking as if he most certainly did not understand. “Right, then. I’ll just be going. Thank you most sincerely for the oat milk latte by the way. Simply delicious. You should try one sometime. My treat.” He laughed nervously, distancing himself on unsteady feet even further from the fuming deity.
The Metatron took a menacing step toward him and Aziraphale didn’t waste another second. He turned tail and he ran. Ran straight toward Crowley, who was looking at him from his perch against the Bentley with a somewhat slack jawed expression.
“Just us?” Azirahale gasped out as he shuddered to an abrupt stop in front of the demon. “Promise me, Crowley. You and me and the nightingales singing. Promise me.”
Crowley was still staring at him, glasses hanging askew enough that Aziraphale could see glimpses of those golden eyes underneath. “Well?” Aziraphale demanded.
“Yeah,” Crowley breathed out. “ Just us, angel.”
Good. The fool he was, to think he could ever give this up.
“Then drive.”