10. Observation
The steps on the stairs are quiet. Gabriel looks up from the computer only when the door opens.
Beelzebub walks in, shuddering with the sight of bottomlessness they are seemingly going to step into, but not stopping. They are holding a pair of silvery bracelets, carefully polished and open. The bracelets fall on Gabriel's desk with a clang that resonates in the whole room.
Gabriel observes them as they jingle for a moment and then go still. He raises his eyebrows wryly. "That's going to be terribly hard to censor, you know? I'm only finishing the second part now, and it's being a nightmare. Can't you make some suggestions to your Boss at least? Look, I made a list, let me…"
"Have you been watching?" Beelzebub asks without the usual arrogance underlying their tone.
"Yes, of course. Hard not to…" Gabriel points to the ground, where in the room beneath a lone disheveled demon is sitting huddled in the corner, the expression in his face vacant. "Can you imagine how hard this is going to be, logistically?"
"But have you been watching ?"
"What, like, observing? Don't really have time for that, I've got hours of footage to edit, if you didn't notice. I'll observe more than enough when I'll have to dig out something useful from that one."
"I zzzee. Nevermind." Beelzebub turns to leave.
Gabriel turns back to the screen, but then tilts his head. "Wait. Why do you ask?"
Beelzebub stops, the flies buzzing in annoyance. "No reazzzzon," they snarl.
"You know you can always talk to me." He smiles with those words. But it's a phrase and smile meant to show off his leadership qualities and understanding to his subordinates, not one of genuine interest.
Beelzebub rolls their eyes. "Sod off, Gabe."
"Now, that's the spirit." Gabriel's smile is pleased now, with just an infinitesimally small increase in genuineness.
Beelzebub storms out, a swarm of flies buzzing around them.
Heaven is quiet after the second part of the show ends. Having their wings burnt would be a nightmare of every angel, if they slept and were able to have nightmares. The Management was considerate enough to blur the tools and burns, but they still saw it, could imagine how it would feel: the red-hot metal pressed to smoldering feathers. Sixteen times. A not-so-subtle reminder: this is what the demons would do to you, if Heaven let them. It would be foolish to make yourself unworthy of Heaven's protection like Aziraphale did.
"It's been quite a success," Michael will report to Gabriel later. "I think it's really going to keep them in line, should any of them get ideas."
But Michael doesn't notice the little flaming swords that some of the angels are wearing pinned to their jackets and blouses. It's not unusual to wear the military insignia. For many angels, their participation in the War is their most significant achievement, and a certain two beings made sure that it stays so for the foreseeable future.
There are not many of them, either. Certainly not as many as the silver roses, golden arrows and other insignia of the more famous platoons. Very easy to miss. But one of them works in the celestial archives and sneaks out Aziraphale's reports from the last few decades. They are carefully written in calligraphic script or typed on a typewriter, but most of them have never been read, just filed away into their proper place.
The flaming swords just want to understand. They have no reason to doubt what they saw with their own eyes. They know that Aziraphale is a traitor who fraternized with a demon and went against the Great Plan. They heard it from his own mouth. But having known Aziraphale, even if thousands of years ago, makes them wonder. Why? The Aziraphale they knew would not do such a thing without a reason.
They don't know what they are looking for as they exchange the reports to read secretly, the image of a branding iron pressed to trembling wings haunting the spaces between the letters. They don't have enough experience with Earth and humans to find the answers they are looking for. They find something else, though.
They find Aziraphale's fascination with humanity.
It's in the way he describes the people that he met and influenced or didn't influence sometimes. It's in the little miracles that he sometimes got reprimanded for, those that he had no authorisation from Heaven to do and yet performed for the sake of a bullied kid in some back alley or an old lady whose family lived far away and had no time to visit her.
It takes them a bit longer to see it in the other kind of miracles that he mentions in his reports sometimes, in an apologetic tone. Their purpose is mostly stated as blending in with the humans. A bottle of wine (he does mention the vintage, but none of the angels are familiar with those). Filling two glasses with it. Repairing an old music record so that it sounds exactly like the concert he has been to, when young Mozart played that piece. A honey cake, just like they used to make it in that inn near Prague in 1850. An antique statuette in a miraculously good state. Things that have no real purpose for an angel.
Sometimes the reports are longer and loneliness can be felt behind the carefully crafted words and sentences. He writes about the lady who owns the coffee shop across the street and that her children are doing well now, after the older one had been ill for a while. He writes about a new book of poetry and the way humans can use words to stir and wake emotions. He writes about a theatre play about some historical event that somehow felt more touching than witnessing the event himself (which he did). He writes about many little insignificant things that together create a kaleidoscope of humanity. It is rather hard to understand, but it's fascinating reading.
It does not yield anything helpful in understanding his reasons, though. Not that they can grasp at the moment, at least.
"That couldn't have been poison," mantis says to Musdur. "No poison does this to you."
Reluctantly, Musdur has to agree. They have the feeling that their reputation of the torture expert is slipping between their fingers.
The last part was a little unnerving to watch. Not because of the angel, though. Satan has been doing solid work with that one. A bit too rushed and messy, but still satisfying to most demons whose taste in torture was not as refined as Musdur's.
But watching Crowley felt strange. As if recognizing this, the camera had been focused on the angel most of the time, bringing many close-ups of Satan's handiwork to the eager audience. But sometimes, it captured Crowley in the background as well. And it was impossible to leave him out of the shot when Satan invited him as a guest star.
The reaction to that in the crowded hallways of Hell was confused. There were a few cheers from those who didn't hate Crowley completely and saw him as one of them again. Some were frowning and gnashing their teeth, jealous that Satan would give such an honour to that laughable excuse of a demon who was supposed to be punished right now. And there were some, including Musdur, who were not watching the branding iron connecting with the angel's chest, but Crowley's face instead. Those were feeling strangely puzzled and even shaken. It felt like something was wrong on some deep level, but they could not put their finger on the reason why. And so they turned to the expert.
Musdur scratched their chin. "It was his Lordship's purpose all along, it would seem," they said, trying to sound confident where they were as puzzled as everybody else. "Let us watch further. I feel I am close to figuring it out."
Facepaint scoffed, but turned back to the screen. Most of the demons were turned to the screen. It was now unusually quiet in the halls of Hell. Just the normal background sounds of dripping pipes and snarling hellhounds interrupted the silence. And in that silence, Crowley was screaming and sobbing and calling Aziraphale, who had discorporated at some point before that. It was disgusting. Only it was also touching something deep inside them and nobody knew what it was or why it felt so strange.
Now there is not much to look at. The angel's body has been taken away and the blood and feathers finally cleaned so that the camera can get a good view of Crowley. He is not doing anything, though. He is just sitting in a corner, embracing himself with wings that are soaked with the angel's blood. He is staring into the middle of the room, but not looking at anything in particular.
"No poison," Musdur agrees with the mantis. "Maybe an illusion or even temptation. This is weird, really. Can't wait for him to be tortured properly and do something predictable, like screaming at the proper times."
Several voices are raised in agreement. Good proper torture, that's what is needed. Not this weirdness, causing them to feel all sorts of strange things inside, like a badly digested meal.
"Duke Musdur!"
They turn immediately, together with all of the little group gathered around them.
"Lord Beelzebub?"
Being addressed by the Prince of Hell publically is either very bad or very good. They hope for the second, feeling their reputation rising again.
"Yeah, I'm here about the job."
"Ah. Did you find my demonstration satisfying?"
They did not tell their followers about it, not wanting to look like a fool if nothing came out of it, but twice already, Beelzebub has called them into a room with green walls and had them demonstrate their torture techniques on a dummy. It only irked them that they weren't allowed to use their own, but were shown the record of Satan's previous session and had to follow the same moves as closely as possible.
"Yes. In fact, you got the job. Congratulationzzz."
Musdur allows themselves a satisfied smile, but they are still bothered by that. "Will I be allowed to get creative or do I have to…"
"Get creative as much as you want. All the way. His Lordship is taking a break and would like someone to give the folks what they have been waiting for." Beelzebub says and Musdur beams with it. Finally a proper torture.
"I'll give them exactly what they are waiting for."
The cheers around them make them feel very good about themselves again. Almost making them forget that weird expression in Crowley's face.