Behind the wheel of a sleek 1933 black Bentley, parked outside The Windsor Castle—the Westminster pub, not the actual castle—lounged Crowley, a yellow eyed demon in an abyss of despair.
The pub capital of the capital, Westminster, was a product of Crowley's past meddling. With 430 pubs, the borough thrived due to the demonic trickery that ensured pub permits were always granted.
In this oasis of earthly chaos, Crowley, his car, and his plants sought refuge from a world that teetered between sanity and chaos, indifferent to their presence. Intoxication was his favoured refuge, a way to drown his troubles, even if it often only magnified them. A sad, bitter chuckle escaped his lips as he mused, "Well, at least I'm consistent."
He left the car intended to get himself very drunk.
—-/—
Meanwhile in the celestial realm, Aziraphale had yet to reach its destination. Guided by The Metatron, the duo strolled along the hallowed white corridors of Heaven. Aziraphale's heart was heavy, a tangled web of emotions tugging at his being. His mask of cheerfulness failed to reach his eyes as he battled the storm of feelings raging beneath the surface.
He found himself caught in a maelstrom of thoughts—doubts and uncertainties clashing against his long-held beliefs. The weight of his past actions, his connection with Crowley, and the impending 'second coming' bore down on him, threatening to unravel his resolve.
'I must admit,' he finally ventured, his voice a mix of vulnerability and courage, 'I find myself rather confused about this 'second coming' and my role in it.' His words hung in the air, a fragile bridge connecting his hesitation and his yearning for answers. The uncertainty gnawed at him, like a relentless itch he couldn't scratch.
For a brief moment, Aziraphale's eyes flickered with an internal battle—a struggle to decipher his true sentiments. Was it his duty to follow the path laid out by Heaven? Or had he underestimated the depth of his connection with Earth, with Crowley? His heart seemed to race with conflicting desires, a symphony of emotions that resonated deep within his core.
The Metatron, the embodiment of divine bureaucracy, offered nothing but cryptic words, a master of enigmatic answers. "The tapestry of fate is woven with threads of intrigue. Your role is vital, though the details may elude you for now," the voice stated, a touch of irritation apparent.
Their footsteps echoed through the ethereal realm, the silence between them stretching like eternity.
Aziraphale's heart ached, his thoughts consumed by Crowley's kiss and the haunting question of what could have been. Stepping into the elevator has been difficult and painful. Stay would had been the easy option, the option that would not ensure Crowley and his security. He would find a way to make things better of the two of them. He would find a way to fix the situation so they could be free and safe.
If he hadn't been so consumed by his own thoughts Aziraphale would had noticed that there were no other angels, the ceilings were lower and the usually white blinding lights of paradise were dim shrouding them in a secluded corner of Heaven.
"Here we are," The Metatron announced. "Step inside."
Curiosity tugged at Aziraphale, prompting him to inquire, "Where exactly are we?"
The The Metatron's response was as maddeningly vague as ever, every inch of kindness replaced by mere disdain. "You may refer to it as your 'desk,' if you so desire. Your workplace"
"Ah. Hmm. Nice." Aziraphale commented, his unease growing as he entered the room. "What sort work must I do here?" said Aziraphale.
"Your vital role, Aziraphale, shall be to remain here and do absolutely nothing as the currents of prophecy sweep over you." Said the Metatron with a touch of wickedness, retreating.
"What?" he protested, the unsettling feeling growing stronger.
The Metatron turned away, a wicked smile curling his lips, he murmured, "This, shall be your fate – an eternity of inaction, while the world stops spinning."
Aziraphale felt like a pawn in some cosmic game, uncertain of the rules or the stakes. In the midst of this surreal tableau, a desperate determination ignited within Aziraphale. Crowley was right, I was wrong, I can't change heaven, I need to go back! With newfound strength, he moved with purpose, marching forwards only to collide with an invisible wall, a barrier both invincible and unyielding.
"Metatron, you…" He looked for the words "…deceitful fiend!" Aziraphale's voice rang out, tinged with a mix of anger and betrayal. "How could The Voice of God tell lies?"
As the words echoed in the air, The Metatron's presence returned, his form materializing in his usual threatening form of a head.
"Ah, Aziraphale," the voice intoned, dripping with a mix of amusement and condescension. "We have told you no lies. You have merely heard what you wished to hear. That you could change Heaven and stop Armageddon."
The Metatron's revelation struck Aziraphale like a thunderbolt, unravelling the very fabric of his assumptions. He stared at the celestial figure before him, his voice quivering with a mix of disbelief and defiance. "But... but I thought..."
A chuckle escaped the Metatron's lips, a sound both soothing and chilling. "Heaven is a perfect creation of good, Aziraphale. It is not meant to be altered by the whims of any being, not even you. It's the Great Plan," said the Metatron flatly. "You are well aware. There shall be a world lasting six thousand years and it will conclude."
With newfound determination, a hope in his eyes Aziraphale's resolve ignited again. "Crowley will find out. He will come to my rescue." Aziraphale spoke with conviction.
The Metatron's response was laced with a touch of somber wisdom. "Crowley knows, Aziraphale. He knows that you came here willingly. You choose Heaven. Even enduring bonds can be severed by time. Nothing lasts forever."
"But Crowley..." Aziraphale's voice wavered, a single tear tracing his cheek as realization hit.
He crumbled, muttering Crowley's name like a lament. As Aziraphale's tears fell, the room seemed to close in around him, a prison of his own choosing. The Metatron's words hung in the air like a haunting echo. Nothing lasts forever. He hadn't meant Crowley and him.
The Metatron vanished, his mission accomplished, the temporary inconvenience that Aziraphale and Crowley had been, had hardly stand in the way of the ultimate good.
In whispered conversations amidst the celestial tapestry, angels of lower ranks talked about the new supreme archangel, about the miracle Aziraphale had done and how it had set off the alarms; the fieriest infernos had failed to destroy him, he was powerful and intelligent beyond any other, and that he was now deciding the course of action.
They didn't know any better.
If the Metatron were the kind of Voice of God to speak out loud, he would had added much: how Aziraphale and Crowley could not be erased from the book of life because both had had too many interventions in the world and it would change history as it is. How the angelic forces tried to destroy them but couldn't, not even with the holiest water and the hottest hell fire. How they're conjoined half a miracle had achieved the biggest Lazarus in history yet. The Metatron would have added that dividing them and locking up the angel was the only curse of action. That Heaven had won.
—()—()—
Crowley's existence had become a symphony of misery, complete with its own chorus of sorrows. In a car that seemed as tired of life as its occupant, he wallowed in self-inflicted gloom. Pondering what to do next—sleep, drive, or drink?
The once flamboyant demon, renowned for his swagger and self-assuredness, now resembled a mere ghost of his former self. Empty bottles littered the backseat, scattered without care next to nearly lifeless plants. He was drunk enough to not care about the plants but still be able to drive.
Crowley pointed to the ignition key. It turned. He snatched a tape from the passenger seat where twelve tapes waited out of their brittle plastic boxes for their metamorphosis.
[The tapes now took more time to turn into the Best of Queen, and sometimes they just never did, staying classic. It bothered Crowley because it made him think of the Angel].
Freddy Mercury's sang Crazy Little Thing Called Love, he scrunched his nose, "Better than Vivaldi"
He drove his Bentley past the bookshop, as he did so often. Of course, it had seemed even natural, despite whatever common sense dictated. In his drunken state it make sense- his Angel could be back. Once he sleep and sober up, he always promised himself to never go back.
Crowley, as a demon was lying, to himself.
The rumble of the engine going ninety miles an hour in Central London was a lullaby that couldn't lull, an attempt to drown out the cacophony of thoughts that haunted him ceaselessly. He speed more, the two miles covered by the time Who Wants to Live Forever began.
There's no time for us
There's no place for us
What is this thing that builds our dreams,
yet slips away from us
A flicker of movement caught his eye – a glimpse of Muriel, left in charge of the bookshop. Crowley's lip curled slightly, a mix of disdain and annoyance, as he muttered, "She's like a walking, talking rainbows-and-sunshine cliché."
His visits to the bookshop had become torturous rituals. He would drive by slowly, his eyes looking for his angel. He'd see Muriel smiling from the window, stiff and rigid, definitely not looking human.
He used to be happy there. A pang of bitterness would clutch his heart as he observed her waving at him from Aziraphale's beloved haven. Nothing lasts forever. It was a reminder of all that had gone wrong, a reminder of the happiness that once danced within his grasp.
He could almost hear her earnest voice, a sweet lilt in her words, saying something along the lines of, "Hello demon!" Crowley scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "Oh, the endless charm of angelic greetings. Lucky me."
It should have been infuriating, but somehow, he couldn't quite hold a grudge against her. "Bet she thinks being a bookkeeper means dressing like an Aziraphale clone," he muttered, a wry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Good luck with that."
Again, his angel was nowhere to be seen- Aziraphale was never there. And so, he never lingered, never allowed himself to stop the car. Each passing day brought the same cycle of despair – a cycle that he couldn't seem to break free from.
It was like a record stuck on a loop, playing the same melancholic tune over and over again. "Here's to heartbreak and unrequited love," he muttered, raising an imaginary glass in a mock toast. "Who needs happiness, anyway?"
In the midst of this desolation, every time, he drove away, parked the car and let the alcohol take over as his mind drifted into a dreamless sleep. The world around him carried on, blissfully unaware of the turmoil that consumed Crowley's soul.
And so, Crowley's days blurred together, a monotonous cycle of drifting, drinking, and driving again. He had become haunting presence in his own narrative, lost in the shadows of his own despair.
But little did he know that a twist of fate awaited, a revelation that would challenge the very fabric of his existence and offer a glimmer of hope in the darkest of times