A/N: Okay, so this is far from my best work (not that that takes much), but it's been lurking on my computer far too long and I just couldn't ignore it any longer... Just some random semi-A/C with archangels. As usual.
Archangelic Avoidance of Unnecessary Heartbreak
Crowley stared at the angel. "A transfer?" he asked. "You asked for a transfer? Where?"
"I haven't asked for anything," Aziraphale sighed. "And it's not really a transfer – more of a reassignment, or so I was told. Though I have no idea what else I could do after being assigned to Earth for so many millennia."
"So who is your boss now?" asked Crowley. "When you were a Cherub, you answered directly to Michael, right?"
"It's still Michael, although there are a few more steps of management between him and me," Aziraphale replied. "I don't think I'm suitable for his forces anymore, though. Apparently they have finally noticed that as well." Sighing, he added, "The best I can hope for is a comfortable desk job."
Crowley frowned. "I hope not," he said. "I'd hate to break in a new guy after all those millennia."
"Well, it can't be helped," Aziraphale said, shrugging. "Could you try to make sure they won't just destroy all my books right away?"
Crowley almost said that he hardly could stop an angel from doing whatever they wanted with the bookshop and its contents. However, as he saw the angel's absolutely miserable expression, he reconsidered and finally nodded. "I'll keep an eye on it," he promised vaguely.
Somehow, Crowley thought as he closed the door to the bookshop for what could very well be the last time, he felt like getting very, very drunk.
Aziraphale approached the Heavenly Front Desk quite nervously. As the angel working behind it looked at him, he flushed a bit. "Er – I have an appointment, I believe," he said. "I don't know who I'm supposed to meet, though."
The other angel nodded, adjusting her glasses. "May I inquire your name, rank, and position?" she asked.
"Aziraphale, Principality, Michaelite, Presider over Earth," Aziraphale sighed. His position sounded much more glamorous than it actually was.
"I see." She wrote the information down, then looked at several papers until she apparently found the right one. "Right. Go to the blue corridor and through the third door on left. There should be somebody there to welcome you."
Aziraphale muttered his thanks and headed towards the blue corridor. Wandering down the apparently endless hallway, he wondered who would be waiting for him. Probably somebody a step or two above him, he decided. They wouldn't waste anybody higher on him.
He reached the third door on the left wall of the corridor and stopped, staring at it. The door was huge. He could have easily been twice as tall as he was now and still not got even close to touching its frame. Too nervous to simply open the door and step in, he knocked.
After a moment of waiting, he heard an invitation to come in. Muffled by the massive door, the voice was not one he could recognize. Still no wiser as to who was waiting for him, he carefully opened the heavy, richly engraved door.
Against all expectations the room he walked into was not very large on heavenly standards. It was mostly empty aside from a table in the middle, a teapot on the table and five chairs and teacups set ready. One of the chairs was already occupied. As Aziraphale recognized the angel sitting there, he froze even more completely than when he'd seen the massive doors.
"Now, don't just stand there," Raphael said, smiling pleasantly. "I'm afraid the others are a bit delayed, but I'm sure they will arrive soon. Would you like some tea? You look like you could use something to help you relax."
"Um – thank you, Sir," Aziraphale muttered. After a moment he managed to get his body moving well enough to make his way to the table and sit down.
An archangel. They had send an archangel to greet him. And three people were yet to come…
"Don't 'Sir' me," Raphael admonished him gently, pouring a cup of tea for him. Then, he frowned. "I wonder when the others are going to arrive," he said.
"If you don't mind me asking," Aziraphale started, biting his tongue just before adding 'sir', "who are the others, exactly? And why are they delayed?"
"Why, the other archangels, of course," replied the Healer. Ignoring Aziraphale's shock, he continued, "And as for why they aren't here yet, well, Gabriel is probably busy with something. Michael is always late – I think he still hasn't fully recovered from the shock that the creation of Time caused – and Uriel has most probably just forgotten about it. I'm sure he will show up eventually, though."
Now, Aziraphale blinked. Michael's tendency to be late was nothing new to him, and neither was Gabriel's busy schedule, but Uriel had always been in time as far as he could remember. Well, whenever he wasn't painting, that was. And he definitely would have never expected Raphael to say such a thing aloud! It just wasn't... diplomatic.
His musings were interrupted, however, as the door was thrown open and Michael marched in. There were a few beads of sweat on his forehead and he ran a hand over his short hair, grinning in embarrassment.
"So sorry, so sorry," he said. "I got carried away while training. I didn't miss anything important, I hope," he added, glancing at the three as of yet empty seats.
"No, you didn't," Raphael said, smiling. "Beware of Aziraphale, though. He called me 'sir'."
Michael grimaced. "Look, Aziraphale, respect is not in the form of address," he said. "It's in whether you obey somebody or not. Have you truly forgotten that in only six millennia?"
Aziraphale flushed. Now that he thought about it, Michael had never let any of his men call him 'sir'. He had indeed forgotten that. And besides, the archangels were to decide his fate. He couldn't help but be wary of them. If he wanted to have any hope of retaining his current position (since he really didn't want to be reassigned anywhere) it wouldn't do to appear too disrespectful.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm just nervous…"
"Now, that's definitely understandable," Raphael said, smiling. Michael didn't say anything, just grinned as he dropped down in a chair beside Aziraphale and accepted a cup of tea from his fellow archangel.
"A word of warning, though," Michael said after sipping at his tea. "Uriel probably won't care one way or the other, but don't forget the proper form of address with Gabriel. He's not too pleased with you, I think."
Aziraphale's blush just deepened. "Well… We aren't exactly on the best of terms," he muttered. For some reason Gabriel always irritated him, and he feared he wasn't always as polite as he should be. Well, most of the time he was about as impolite as he could get away with. Every New Year he made a resolution to get rid of this habit of his, but he hadn't made any progress yet.
"Oh, and another warning," Raphael said. "Just recently, Uriel managed to get Gabriel to make a bet with him. Unfortunately, Gabriel lost. You'll probably see the result rather soon, but try not to comment on it, okay? Gabriel is very sensitive about it." Seeing Aziraphale's expression, he added, "You'll understand when you –"
'See it,' was probably what he had intended to end his sentence with, but he was interrupted as the door was again opened. Another figure rushed in, this one even more hurried than Michael. It was Gabriel.
Despite the warning, Aziraphale had to work hard to stop his jaw from hanging open. Instead, he just stared at the – apparently rather irritated – archangel, his eyes wide. Well, this was definitely something he hadn't seen before.
Gabriel was mostly just like he remembered. Stern expression, dark hair, flawlessly white robes flowing around a slender figure. Even the steely glint in the silver eyes as the archangel glanced at him was still the same.
However, something had changed. A very important something.
Gabriel was, against all odds, female.
If this was what another archangel could get into by agreeing to a bet with Uriel, Aziraphale decided, he would do everything he could never to give the Angel of Arts that kind of power over himself. Gabriel had never, for as long as he could remember, assumed a female shape. The human speculations that Gabriel was in fact the only female angel had irritated the Messenger to no end, so much so that he had seriously considered appearing in flesh on Earth just to prove them wrong. And now Uriel had actually tricked him into being female?
"I apologize for not being here in time," Gabriel said, a bit snappishly, sounding not apologetic at all. "I was delayed due to extreme amounts of work. It seems I'm not the last one here, though," she added, glancing sharply at the last empty chair. "Not that I'm very surprised."
"Now, don't be like that," Michael chuckled. "I'm sure Uriel has some very good reason for being late."
"Oh, I'm sure he does," Gabriel snorted. "He always does." Her tone indicated that she usually didn't find these reasons 'very good'.
Just then, right on cue, the door was opened for the last time, and, as expected, Uriel walked in. It was closer to dancing, really, only that angels didn't dance, so it had to be called walking. In a clear contrast with Gabriel's half-hostile attitude, he was smiling happily, apparently having no care in the world.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" he exclaimed, and actually sounded like it. "I really didn't mean to be late, I swear I didn't, but I got so caught up with arranging a new hymn of praise to our Lord that I didn't notice the passing of the time. Can you ever forgive me?"
Aziraphale, Raphael, and Michael smiled, Aziraphale a bit uncertainly. Gabriel, however, just snorted. "Sure you did," she muttered. Apparently she really wasn't pleased about losing the bet.
"Do you doubt my words?" Uriel asked, sounding genuinely hurt. "I can prove it! Just listen to it!" Taking the last seat, he started to sing. Although he started with just one voice, he was soon singing with a hundred voices, each of them following a different melody, with at least three sets of lyrics. It was massive, overwhelming, and very, very beautiful, and it had Aziraphale completely enchanted.
Gabriel apparently wasn't as impressed. "Knowing you, you could just as well be making that up as you go," she commented.
"I thank you for your trust in my talents, my dear Gabriel," Uriel said cheerfully, "but I must say that you are mistaken now. This little piece is indeed what kept me so busy that I couldn't make it in time." Aziraphale found it rather disturbing that, even as he spoke, Uriel didn't stop singing.
"So. Let's get to the matter at hand," Michael said, his lips curling in amusement. Now, Uriel stopped singing, leaning back in his chair and looking at Michael. After a second Aziraphale realized that the Angel of Arts was actually tilting his chair. Gabriel glared at him very disapprovingly. "Aziraphale, do you know why you are here?"
"Vaguely," Aziraphale said, clutching his teacup to hide the fact that his hands were shaking. Very slightly, but still. "All I was told was that something has come up that would require me being reassigned to a new position."
"Well, that's about it," Michael said, smiling. "Do you have it, Uriel?" he asked, turning towards the other archangel.
"I think so. I'm sure it was somewhere here…" Uriel put his hand in the sleeve of his robe, apparently looking for something. After a little frown, he grinned. "Ah, yes. Of course, I can't find it in this form." Still grinning, he suddenly became much smaller, his robes hanging on his frame, now too large for him. Or, rather, her, if the general form of her body was anything to go with. "It wouldn't fit when I'm in my usual form," she said cheerfully. "This way, there's more room in the sleeve." Now, she drew something from her sleeve that Aziraphale was quite sure had not been there before.
Aziraphale stared. He didn't have time to wonder why Uriel would ever assume female form (aside from irritating Gabriel, or course). He didn't even notice the glare Gabriel was sending to Uriel's direction. All he could see was the object the brightly smiling Uriel had just drawn from her sleeve, holding it up for all to see.
"That's… That's…" he tried, but couldn't complete his sentence. Trying again, he managed to say, "That's my sword… isn't it?"
"Oh, yes! The sword you 'misplaced' back in Eden." Uriel beamed. "Would you like it back?"
"But – where did you get it?" Aziraphale asked, still unable to comprehend the fact that his sword, his flaming sword had been found. "I – I lost it –"
"So I've been told," Uriel replied, smiling. "However, I found it. It's truly a piece of art," she then said adorably, running a finger down the flat side of the blade. "It is rare to see such beauty in a Michaelite's sword."
"Um – thank you, I guess," Aziraphale muttered. "But could you please give it to me?" He felt the same kind of eagerness as when faced with a very rare and valuable book. Only now, he was even more interested – this was not a book, after all, but a long lost piece of himself.
"Sure!" Flicking the sword into the air in a way that looked rather dangerous, Uriel took hold of its blade, handing it to Aziraphale hilt first. All the while she was smiling, apparently thinking nothing of her quite risky act.
Hastily, as though fearing she would withdraw the weapon from his reach, Aziraphale made to take back his sword. As he grasped on it, a strange warmth spread into his hands and then through his whole body. Without even thinking about it, Aziraphale reflected the energy back into the blade. At first shining with a brilliant light, it then suddenly burst into blazing fire.
Michael nodded approvingly, Raphael smiled, and Gabriel merely scowled. Uriel, however grinned happily. "Excellent!" she said. "You were indeed telling the truth, Michael!"
"Now, when have I ever lied to you?" asked the Warrior in mock innocence. "Now that he has his sword back, he is again a Cherub."
"It is truly beautiful," Uriel chirped then. "I wish I could paint that right here!"
"Well, you aren't going to paint it right here," Gabriel sighed. "Any Cherub can show you their flames at some other time. If we could get back to the matter at hand?" The other archangels turned towards her, as did Aziraphale, who sheepishly let the flames on his sword fade away. Really, he shouldn't have got so carried away. "Now. Michael has expressed his concern about the fact that, due to your regained Cherub status, you are quite overqualified for your current post."
"Yes?" Aziraphale said, half nervous, half surprised. He had come here expecting to get demoted, but apparently he was getting a promotion instead. Not that he dared to hope, however. He'd done too many things to displease Heaven to truly earn that.
"However, there is this little issue with the Apocalypse." Ah, yes. There it was. "Many of the higher officials have expressed their returning you to your former position with its duties of instructing less experienced warriors might be bad for the moral, as it might encourage younger angels for... questionable... actions of independence where absolute obedience is needed."
"So, as you understand," Michael said, "we can't return you to your former position. And we can't keep you in your former position. So, we had a bit of a problem here."
"A good solution would be transferring you into another section of the Host, where your actions might not be quite as well known," Raphael continued. "However, not only would that still encourage rebellion where it is unsuitable, but also you have... well, to be honest, you have no skills aside from swordfight. Your healing skills are inexistent."
Aziraphale nodded mournfully.
"Your way of delivering messages," Gabriel said, "is far more likely to cause the recipient to panic, misunderstand, or not believe you an angel of the Lord than actually get the message through."
Again, Aziraphale nodded. He had a bad habit of messing things up and forgetting what he was supposed to say, or, when the contents of the message weren't a problem, at the very least being impolite without meaning to be so. A messenger had to be a diplomat, and that had never really been one of his skills. (Besides, he would have hated to work under Gabriel.)
"And, however enthusiastic it may be," Uriel said with a wistful tone, "your singing doesn't really leave much to hope. It sends the hearer into such a state of hopelessness that Hell would rejoice were you to join the Heavenly choir."
Aziraphale hang his head. So he couldn't sing, either. Was it his fault that he had been created absolutely tone deaf? "Then what can I do?" he asked quietly.
"Well," Michael said happily, "we have come up with one solution. Uriel, if you would?"
"But of course." The Angel of Arts smiled brightly. "Now, I have been keeping an eye on you for a while – out of pure curiosity, not for any other reason. For some time now I have had an idea I'd like to see fulfilled, but that hasn't been possible yet due to the restrictions of what tasks are allowed for each angelic class."
Aziraphale raised his head. He couldn't remember many restrictions dealing with the angelic power classes, except that...
"Now that you are officially a Cherub, you can be named as a patron angel."
Not daring to hope, Aziraphale simply stared at the archangel, waiting for her to continue. She couldn't possibly mean to...
"What do you say, Aziraphale? Would you like to work under me as the Angel of Literature?"
For a moment, he couldn't say anything. Finally, he managed to get out, "I would like that very much."
"Don't agree yet," Uriel warned him. "If you do accept the task, you will also have to follow the development of new literature. You will have to read new books and write long, tedious reports on the current trends in human literature that I will or will not read myself. This is all really just because I don't want to waste my own time on literature, as I much prefer visual arts."
"I think I will still have to agree." Aziraphale beamed. If he was the Angel of Literature, he could stop keeping a bookstore and just call the books there his private collection. He could stand a few wizard boys and blasphemous mysteries to be able to avoid dealing with any potential customers who would separate him from his books.
Then, he actually happened to think about another aspect of his job. And about the fact that his books weren't perhaps entirely safe yet. "Ah... to keep up with the current literature, I would have to also form a collection of the more recent books," he said tentatively. "Surely you agree that both the acquiring and storing of these books would be significantly easier if I were to operate on Earth, right?"
"I have to quite agree," Uriel replied, grinning. "Have no fear, Aziraphale. I have no intention of separating you from your precious books."
An embarrassed flush rose to Aziraphale's cheeks, but he hardly even noticed. He had got his sword back and he would get to keep his books. And he would no more have to write false reports about battles with Crowley!
Crowley... If he was the Angel of Literature, he wouldn't be Crowley's counterpart anymore, would he? There would be somebody else assigned in his place. And then Crowley would be all busy with the new angel and have no time for him at all. Or perhaps – perhaps this angel would try to discorporate Crowley all the time, like Aziraphale himself had down in the beginning of times. The Arrangement had been such an easy, well, arrangement. He would miss it.
...And he would miss Crowley...
As he some time (and lots of paper work) later left Heaven, Aziraphale did so with mixed feelings. On one hand he was overjoyed about the regaining of his sword and his new position. On the other hand, however, he did not want to be separated from Crowley, like he feared would happen. They'd had such a great time together. The demon truly understood him.
"Name, rank, and position?" asked the receptionist again. Well, at least she didn't try to get away with just rewriting the information from when he had entered.
"Aziraphale, Cherub, Urielite, Angel of Literature," replied Aziraphale. He saw how her eyes widened, and smiled faintly. Well, it probably was something of a change.
Still, he wished he could have been happier about it.
When Aziraphale returned, Crowley was not in the bookshop. Not that he had really expected the demon to be there, either. He wished he'd have thought of asking who was going to be assigned in his place, at least. It would have been fairer for Crowley that way.
Then, he found a piece of paper. "Got recalled suddenly," it told. "Will hopefully be back. –C"
Feeling suddenly very tired, Aziraphale sat down, one hand clutching his sword, the other the message. The numerous books on the shelves all seemed to look at his sympathetically.
For the first time ever since he had bought his first books Aziraphale didn't give a single thought to them.
Crowley did return, although it was significantly later. Late the next evening the door of the bookshop-under-process-of-being-turned-into-private-collection was opened and a demon walked in. Something was different, Aziraphale noticed, although he couldn't say what it was. Something in the way Crowley moved had changed.
"Guess what, angel!" he announced. "I got promoted!"
Aziraphale's eyes widened. "What, you, too?" he asked happily. If Crowley had been promoted, he might not be stuck with some stupid new angel and they could actually meet every now and then.
"What do you mean, too?" Crowley frowned. "I thought you expected to get demoted?"
"So I did." Aziraphale beamed. "However, Uriel had found my sword. I got back my Cherub status, and after that, I was named the Angel of Literature!"
For a moment, Crowley just stared at him. Then, the demon's lips twitched. "Talk about fitting," he muttered. "I, myself, just got lucky in Hell's politics." He sat down on the corner of Aziraphale's desk. There was a slight dent on the wood from the countless times he had done so before. "They decided that although I did go against Hell's intentions, the only thing anybody ever saw was me confronting Metatron, and that's good for the morals. So, they decided to finally overlook that little bit about accidentally working for the Ineffable Plan back in Eden and gave me back my original status and a new position."
"So what are you now, then?" asked Aziraphale. A horrible thought entered his mind, and he swallowed. "You – you won't be stuck in Hell, will you?"
"Oh, no." Crowley smirked. "I'll be working quite comfortably on Earth." His smirk got even wider. "You are currently looking at the demon of TV! My speciality being reality shows, of course."
Aziraphale stared at Crowley for a while. Then, he semi-seriously formed a cross with two of his fingers. "Be on thy way, you vile beast," he said. "I never want to see you again."
"Sure you don't," Crowley said, smirking. "You up for a dinner, or are you too busy drowning in dust?"
Aziraphale thought for a while. He remembered thinking he'd never have dinner with Crowley again. It had been a horrible thought.
...On the other hand, those reality shows...
In the end, though, six millennia of slowly developed companionship won over the absolute horror of a much shorter time. "Let's go," he said.
Somewhere up in Heaven, somebody was drawing. There were two figures in the picture. One of them had white wings, the other black ones.
Uriel glanced at a note on his desk. The message wasn't long; in fact, it was only seven words, counting the signature.
Uriel,
Hope you're happy now.
-- M
"Oh, I'm very happy indeed, Metatron," he said, grinning. "Give my thanks to your dear Beelzebub as well."
He no more had to deal with books and could concentrate on visual arts, which was great. He had managed to push the job onto Aziraphale's shoulders without any unnecessary heartbreak, which was great also. And Gabriel was still extremely annoyed about having to be female, which was absolutely priceless.
The best thing, he decided, was still the fact that Michael and Raphael had also lost their bets.