One - Three Weeks Later

Crowley was in the middle of the busiest roundabout in Cairo when he decided to stop the car for the first time in three weeks.

He parked in the middle of the road and flexed his fingers, noting for the first time how numb they were. He hadn't let go of his manic grip of the steering wheel once, not even to turn on the radio. His shoulders were rather tense too. He'd spent the past twenty-one days hunched over the wheel, eyes on the road, alternatingly muttering to himself and telling himself to shut up, enough, you're driving yourself crazy.

Standing still in the middle of the roundabout, the world rushing on around him, he wondered if he had succeeded at that. He certainly didn't feel sane anymore. Then again, had he ever been?

'Clearly not,' he said out loud. After all, no sane person would ever have gotten attached to a self-absorbed, fickle, gullible idiot of an angel. Or let himself believe that said angel could be independent, because he wanted it. Or kiss him in a desperate attempt to save what they had, and destroying it in the process.

I forgive you.

'Go to Hea–' Crowley cut himself off. Aziraphale had gone to Heaven. It was over, whatever Crowley might wish or swear.

He sighed and started the car again. Slowly, under the furious honking of the other road users, he began to drive out of the city.

For a moment he considered taking the road again, but he was weary. There were only so many times you could drive around the world before it got boring, when you were alone.

Time to go home. Not to London – the very thought of it made him want to shed his skin. But he knew a place or two around here.

.

He'd built the villa in the middle of the desert sometime in the 80s. The 80s AD, that is. All other Roman buildings in this part of the world had mostly crumbled, but this humble abode had remained miraculously intact for two millennia.

He drove the Bentley into the atrium and draped himself onto a couch. Dust clouds billowed up. He hadn't been here in ages.

'I'm going to so enjoy watching the world go to ruin under your celestial guidance,' he said to the ceiling.

He hauled himself off the couch again and went to look for the cellar. In the meantime, he intended to get himself thoroughly inebriated.

Aziraphale had always thought malicious compliance had been an invention of the Other Side, but after three weeks of working with Michael, he was starting to suspect he had been wrong.

'What do you mean, the records are gone?' he asked.

Michael's face remained utterly expressionless. 'They are no longer here.'

'Yes, I know what "gone" means. How are they gone? These were the lists of women who had declined to receive Christ or were otherwise deemed unsuitable! I asked you to keep them safe!'

'And they are safe,' Michael answered. 'No prying eyes will ever read what was not intended for them.' A flicker in her eyes. Aziraphale knew what that meant. He sighed and rubbed his temples. He suddenly felt too tired to deal with this.

'Oh, very well. Go to... to your duties. We'll discuss this again soon.' He tried to make the last words into a stern rebuke, but he really just wanted her to go. This would give him a day or so without her presence, which, at the moment, sounded heavenly.

When the door closed behind Michael, he rested his head on his desk. This was going nowhere. In three days' time he would have a meeting with the Metatron, and he dreaded it. He had barely made any progress. And if the Metatron decided he wasn't good enough, if it fired him... This time, Aziraphale had nothing to go back to.

The last moments in the bookshop came back to him. Unbidden, as always. The thought of going back there, to the painful pieces of a life six thousand years in the making, made his wings want to turn themselves inside out. No. He had to succeed here.

A knock on the door saved him from his reverie. 'Yes?' he called.

It was Uriel. Aziraphale straightened in his chair. Uriel made him nervous. He never knew what they were thinking. There was nothing of Michael's hard hatred in their eyes, nor any of the crowfeet-kindness of the Metatron – in fact, he couldn't read them at all. Uriel always did what Aziraphale said, but he couldn't shake the feeling that they were secretly building a bomb under his desk at the same time.

They're toxic! Crowley's voice resounded in his head, like an echo of a sound that had never really been away. Aziraphale forcefully shoved away the memory. It was true, working in Heaven wasn't what he had expected, but that wasn't a bad thing, he reminded himself. If it was difficult, that only meant he had more opportunities to do the right thing and persist.

He smiled. 'Yes, Uriel?'

The Archangel made a brief nod. 'I have excellent news,' they said. 'Phase B of the plan has commenced. Christ has arrived.'

.

Christ had arrived, it transpired, not on Earth but in Heaven. Where He had been for the past two thousand years, no one seemed able to tell Aziraphale. But ah well, it didn't matter. He was here now. And as Supreme Archangel, Aziraphale had the honour of speaking to Him first.

The Son of God was lodged in a small room on the top floor. Uriel had assured Aziraphale that these were the best quarters in Heaven. That was only right, of course, but when Aziraphale looked around the room, he couldn't help but doubt Uriel's words a little. There were no cosy little nooks, no carpets or curtains, no armchairs. Just two straight white chairs opposite the window, which looked out over the distant and hazy world. And on one of the chairs sat Christ.

He looked up and smiled when Aziraphale entered. Aziraphale smiled back, his hope strengthened again. At last, there was some progress.

'Aziraphale,' Christ said. His voice was soft, with a hint of a Nazareth accent. Some things apparently you didn't lose even in two thousand years. 'I am told you are the new Supreme Archangel in My father's service.'

Aziraphale's heart made a little skip. 'Yes, that's me.' He laughed nervously. 'May I be the first to welcome You back, my Lord?'

'You may,' Christ smiled. He gestured to the other chair. 'Please, sit.'

Aziraphale took the chair. 'So, er... are You looking forward to Your return to Earth, my Lord?'

'Yes,' Christ said serenely. 'You know My previous experience there was one of suffering. But I will return, so that the people can rejoice in My coming. They shall be glad and grateful to worship Me.'

Aziraphale opened his mouth. Closed it again. 'Yes, I'm sure they shall,' he said after a moment.

Christ inclined his head with a gracious smile, the kind that adults use on small children who proudly inform them that the world is round.

'They shall all bow down in worship. And the dead in Christ shall rise, and the living faithful shall join them, and they shall ever live with their Lord,' Christ mused, staring out of the window.

'Yes, ah, yes,' Aziraphale said. He took a deep breath, then asked: 'And, er, what of the people who do not... worship You?'

Christ looked aside at him, slightly puzzled. 'The people who do not worship Me?' he repeated, as if Aziraphale had spoken a different language.

'Yes, like... Jews, and Muslims, and Buddhists. There's all kinds. These days there are even people who worship a Spaghetti Monster – which is not as silly as it sounds. Spaghetti is delicious, you know,' he added, chuckling.

Christ did not laugh. 'Those people who reject Me will be blinded by the sight of Me, and I shall destroy them when the faithful rise.'

Aziraphale's laughter died on his lips. 'D-destroy?'

Christ nodded seriously.

'As in... properly, really destroy?'

Christ frowned a little. 'Yes.'

'I... I thought only the bad people would be, uhm, dealt with,' Aziraphale stuttered.

The frown deepened ever so slightly, and Christ raised a hand. Aziraphale blanched to see the wound on it. You would think that after two millennia, it would have healed. 'No wicked person is truly in Christ,' He said. 'Worry not, all humans with evil in their hearts shall be annihilated.'

The word fell like a stone on Aziraphale's stomach. His heart sank. He opened his mouth, but he had no words. Christ was still looking at him with that slightly confused expression, as though He couldn't possibly imagine what was wrong.

At length, Aziraphale smiled. He could feel his face straining with it, and suddenly realised he had not smiled a genuine smile since... well, he knew exactly since when. A familiar pang went through his chest at the memory. 'Well, then,' he said, faltered, then went on: 'Then we should... prepare.'

Christ smiled His serene smile again. And Aziraphale got out as quickly as he could.

.

'I don't see a problem here,' Michael said.

The Council of Archangels had convened in the main meeting room. They were all looking at Aziraphale with the same confused expression. For once, they all seemed to agree on something.

But Aziraphale did not agree. 'No problem? He is going to kill indiscriminately...'

'Hardly indiscriminately,' Uriel said. 'There are very clear rules as to who shall enter the Kingdom of God, and who shall not.'

'But only Christians can enter!' Aziraphale said, exasperated.

'Obviously,' Michael said coolly.

'They have all had two thousand years to convert,' Saraqael remarked.

'But... but... I thought it was about people who do good,' Aziraphale stammered. 'What about people like Gandhi? Hippocrates? There are so many good people – there's Mr and Mrs. Cheng from the Chinese food stand on Wickber street, they're... I don't know what exactly they believe, but at any rate, they're not Christians, and they're good people, and –'

'And your point is?' Michael interrupted him.

'Well – well, they don't deserve to be destroyed!'

'Are you questioning the word and will of our Lord?' Uriel said sharply.

Aziraphale's stomach clenched. The memory of Gabriel's fate flashed through his mind. The only reason why he had this position now, was that Supreme Archangels were not untouchable. 'N-no,' he said quickly. 'I'm just... I...' He took a deep breath. 'Are we certain that this is what we're meant to do?'

'Yes.' Saraqael moved their wheelchair back from the table, done with the discussion. 'We are certain.'

.

Alone in his office, Aziraphale sunk into his chair and buried his face in his hands. His heart was beating like mad.

This couldn't be. This wasn't right. He knew it with a quiet certainty that he had learned to trust over the centuries. It wasn't right. It couldn't be.

How could Heaven have come up with such an evil plan? Aziraphale shook his head. He couldn't fathom it.

Unless... it wasn't a Heavenly plan. What if it really was a scheme of Hell? What if they had manipulated the angels into believing it was a plan of their own creation?

He recalled the uniform expressions of confusion of the other angels. He'd seen examples of hypnosis, most recently on the BAM, the British Assembly of Magicians, where someone had managed to make a woman believe she was a donkey. All tricks, of course, but he suspected Hell would not hesitate to resort to such measures.

And if he was the only angel that was not affected, what was he supposed to do?

He leaned back in his chair. It was a comfortable armchair, much better than the straight chair in Christ's room. He'd made sure to decorate his office in a cosy way. But that was what it was: decoration. It was all immaterial. The chair didn't creak when he sat down in it, the desk – a nice replica of a desk he'd seen in 1734 and had never been able to find since – did not feel like wood against his fingers. And none of it had a smell.

God, how he missed smells.

He sighed. There was no way he could find a solution here. He got up from the silent chair. He knew where to go.

.

He opened the door to the bookshop, closed his eyes and breathed in. The sharp, sweet scent of wood, old books and incense enveloped him like an embrace. For a moment he just stood there, breathing, forgetting everything that had happened since the day he had moved upstairs. If he just lost himself a little more, Crowley would come sauntering in and – and –

'Oh, hello,' sounded a familiar voice.

Aziraphale opened his eyes. Muriel stood in front of him, beaming, a book under her arm.

'Hello,' he said.

'I thought you said you shouldn't come here so often,' she said.

'It's an emergency,' he admitted. There had, in fact, been several of these emergencies in the past three weeks. Each time it had been slightly worse than before, justifying his coming here. This time it was not slightly worse. It was much worse.

'Right,' Muriel said. 'Do you want hot chocolate?'

He found that he did.

'So, what's the emergency?' she asked when he was sat down in his own chair, which had greeted him with a joyful creak. She handed him the hot chocolate and sat down in Crowley's chair with her own cup.

Aziraphale laughed shakingly. Where to begin? He clasped his hands around his cup. His eye fell on Muriel's book. 'What are you reading?'

'It's called Norse Mythology. It's about all manner of gods and their adventures!'

He smiled in spite of himself. 'Do you like it?'

She nodded enthusiastically, then quickly caught herself. 'I mean, they're all just stories, of course. There is only one God and anyone who thinks otherwise is wrong,' she said hastily.

Aziraphale's smile faltered. 'Aren't they just,' he said quietly.

'What's wrong?' Muriel asked, concern creasing her brow. Aziraphale looked at her, at her bright eyes, her innocent smile. He made a decision.

'What I'm about to tell you is top secret,' he said. 'No one outside of the Archangels knows about it. If it comes out, we'll have a real problem on our hands.'

'Really?' she said. 'Oh, I'll promise I won't tell anyone! Not that I have anyone to talk to here,' she added.

He took a deep breath, and told her everything.

Muriel listened with wide eyes. He watched her face, but it didn't cloud over with confusion the way all the others' had. She nodded thoughtfully when he recounted Christ's intentions and his problem.

'That's... not good, is it?' she said.

'No, it isn't,' he said miserably.

'Perhaps you could make everyone Christians?' she suggested. 'You're the Supreme Archangel now. I'm sure you could do a miracle like that. Then everyone would be saved.'

Aziraphale stared at her. 'No, no, I couldn't. I mean, I could, but that would be wrong. It would take away their choice. Their choice was the whole point.' He thought of Christ's words. They shall all bow down in worship. In a flash he saw Mrs. Cheng, kneeling in a mass of people, her eyes empty but for a burning veneration. Adam and the Them, bowing down in synchronous supplication. Nina and Maggie, faces lit with adoration but completely ignoring each other.

Crowley...

'No, I can't,' he said again.

'Oh,' Muriel said. 'Okay. What are you going to do then?'

Aziraphale sipped his hot chocolate. He knew the answer to that question. He'd really known it from the moment Christ had said the words. He had just needed to come here to realise it.

If Heaven wasn't going to do the right thing – and Hell for sure also wasn't – then he needed someone else.

There were only three people he could turn to now, and he didn't know which of them scared him more.