Hey everyone,
Thank you to everyone who read the last chapter. I hope you all enjoy this chapter!
That's about all I have in terms of an author's note so I hope that you...
Enjoy!
Angels rarely had to be anywhere. When there was a human event that needed influencing, time was a bit more rigid, but for the most part it was a fluid concept. And yet, even without anywhere to be, Heaven's Archangels walked with purpose, striding through the glowing white halls seemingly for the sake of moving. It was a circuitous walk, passed a few well-meaning dominions, and through a throng of lower level angels, but it still ended in a quiet portion of Heaven, at one desk in the middle of an unwalled room. Settling into their chair, Michael flattened her hands on the desk and looked up at Uriel, "Well, that was useless." She gently folded her hands.
Uriel leaned on the desk, their voice only slightly more angelic than a hiss, when she asked, "What was he thinking? Bringing Aziraphale on like that?" Pushing back in apparent frustration, she huffed, "What's he going to do that we couldn't?"
Michael steepled her fingers. Her lazy gaze passed over a magnificent view just out the window as she considered their new predicament, "Does he have knowledge of Hell we don't?" Michael was clever for an angel, but linear thought always made the most sense.
"Because of the demon? I doubt it." Uriel leaned back into a shrug as she offered, "One traitorous demon doesn't give Aziraphale any more access than you've already had. I don't know that he's ever even been in Hell." She smirked as she crossed her arms, "In any case, the Metatron said he had knowledge of the humans that would be useful."
Michael sneered at the acknowledgement and muttered, "Seems it would have been easier if we had just gotten rid of both of them. It was the price of their continued deceit." Her voice teetered on duplicitous. Clever and combative. Slipping back into the conversation, she conceded, "You're right though, he did say that." She looked up in controlled annoyance, "It is a point of knowledge we lack. We can't forget our last Detective Constable brought a demon into Heaven." Sneering Muriel's disguised title, she flicked her gaze back to the floor, "Maybe he is here for a reason…" She trailed off.
For a moment, the comforting silence that permeated Heaven's halls settled over the pair until a now-familiar voice broke their musings, "Never let it be said that angels have imaginations." The Metatron stepped into the room without warning. It was as if he had opened a door to an office without knocking, and then slipped through a completely empty boardroom without anyone noticing. Thankfully, no one else seemed to have followed.
Uriel spun and Michael pressed to her feet. Guilty, deferential apologies spilled from both,
"Please forgive us, Your Grace."
"We do not intend to doubt Her plan."
The Metatron's brow furrowed as he asked, "What's there to forgive?" When neither archangel answered, he continued, insouciant, "Are you apologizing for not having an imagination? You aren't human." When neither angel answered, he shook his head and his voice waffled somewhere between disappointed and resigned, when he reprimanded their slight, "But you are correct about one thing, you are incorrect in questioning Her decisions." He straightened, rolling his shoulders back before he said, "Her plan is flawless and Aziraphale is right for the job of Supreme Archangel, even if we do not fully understand his elevation."
The trio fell silent as Uriel and Michael shifted under the Metatron's thoughtful gaze. Awkwardly, the two angels shared a look before Uriel cleared her throat and asked, "Is there something you require, Your Grace?"
As if he had forgotten he was standing with them, the Metatron's gaze shifted pointedly to Michael and he asked, "Why would you have discorporated them?"
Michael choked in surprised, and dropped her gaze – guiltily would have been the assumed reasoning given the unangelic suggestion – but it didn't reach her tone when she said, "I believe, regardless of his assurances, Aziraphale's loyalties will be split." She flicked her gaze to Uriel's disapproving look before she stood straighter and defended her position, "They've worked together for hundreds of years. We have evidence of their continued collaboration on Earth."
The Metatron nodded along at her assessment but poignantly asked, "You're questioning another angel's commitment to Her?"
Michael's eyes went wide, as she sputtered on an indignant reply, "No, of course not. I wouldn't question another angel's devotion."
The Metatron furrowed his brow as he needled her, "I do not understand your concern then, Archangel Michael. If you do not question Aziraphale's commitment to Her, why would you have decided to permanently destroy them both, risking a war with Hell in the process?"
Dropping her hands behind her back deferentially, Michael explained, "Aziraphale and the demon stopped the Apocalypse." Even saying it sounded weak and she crinkled her nose in annoyance as she worked to justify her position, "That was said to be the Great Plan. Not the ineffable plan, of course, but a plan we had been preparing for, for centuries. What if his understanding of the situation is so skewed, he harms Her final plan?"
The Metatron narrowed his eyes, and his voice betrayed his disbelief, "You believe that an angel, even the Supreme Archangel would be able to derail Her Plan?"
Michael sputtered at the suggestion, "N…no. No. I didn't intend to suggest that."
The Metatron crossed his hands thoughtfully before him. He regarded her for a quiet moment before he met both their expectant gazes, "The demon, Crowley, and Aziraphale have a role to play." The Metatron pressed his fingers to his chin, "Although it still has to be revealed is what that is." His eyes sparkled as he looked between the pair, "The mysteries of Her wonders always are exciting."
Uriel raised an eyebrow and Michael knit her brow, but it was Uriel who spoke, "Your Grace, I'm not sure that we follow your reasoning."
The Metatron exasperatedly sighed before he explained, "You were here when the twenty-five lazari miracle was recorded, yes?"
"Of course, all of Heaven heard that." Michael said, looking over at Uriel as if questioning the conclusion they had all come to. She hesitantly said, "Aziraphale initially told us it was him – something about making humans fall in love – but the demon mentioned they performed that together."
The Metatron nodded along with her conclusion, "They did perform it together." He folded his fingers, "It is indeed a mystery. While working with the demon, Aziraphale was able to perform a miracle larger than anything we have ever seen done by a lone angel. It is something long thought to have been impossible." The Metatron explained, pressing his fingers to his chin as he continued, "That is an unexplained message."
Michael and Uriel shared a puzzled look before Uriel pressed for clarification, "What?"
"Part of the ineffable plan." The Metatron said assuredly, "A message about the power of Heaven and Hell combined, perhaps? In any case, the demon was able to harness a significant amount of power, and Aziraphale called power well beyond his ability. A lesson for the future, I'm sure."
"She hasn't told you, Your Grace?" Michael hadn't meant it to sound disrespectful, but the insinuation that the Voice of God didn't know the Plan was inherently so.
The Metatron smiled in a surprisingly human way, but it never reached his eyes, as he gracefully explained, "I am at the mercy of the Plan, the same as all creatures who are not the Creator." His voice held something indescribable, "We are acting on our Her-given beliefs. We are made to be Her messengers, Her representatives, as long as we act in our natures, we will be carrying out Her Plan to the letter." He looked up at the pair of them, "In keeping with that belief, I have a duty for the pair of you. I was speaking to the Supreme Archangel after the meeting, and he and I are of the belief that we will need artifacts for the trials that are to come."
"Artifacts, Your Grace?" Uriel asked skeptically.
"Yes," The Metatron said without hesitation. "Apparently, the humans find significant value in religious artifacts, and to begin to bring them into Her fold, the more we can collect, the more persuasive we will be. At least that is the Supreme Archangel's understanding of human nature." He crossed his arms behind his back as he looked up at the pair, "It will take you time, but you will need to recover as many holy relics as you can."
"There is no way we could just miracle items that look like these relics." Michael asked, her lip turned up in annoyance at the suggestion of going down to Earth.
The Metatron smirked, "Perhaps I underestimated your creativity. But no, they will need to be the actual item, as it were."
Both Archangels inclined their heads in appropriate deference.
"You will want to get started on that as soon as you can." The Metatron said with parting authority before he stepped out of the wall-less room.
Once he was gone and assuredly out of earshot, Michael and Uriel relaxed. Michael fell back into her chair and Uriel leaned forward on the desk. They were quiet for a long moment before Uriel snapped, "What were you thinking?"
"What are you talking about?" Michael retorted; her hand pressed against her forehead as she rested on her elbow.
Uriel widened her gaze in disbelief, "You just told the Metatron that the angel he picked to take over Gabriel's responsibilities might as well be Fallen."
"He asked me a question." Michael countered, "I cannot lie to him, and it's information worth having."
"Did you have to be so honest?" Uriel muttered a moment before she added, "Do you honestly think he didn't know any of that?"
"After Gabriel, do you want to worry about a systemic problem?" Michael shot back. "You don't think that the last Supreme Archangel leaving Heaven for the Grand Duke of Hell could bode ill for the next one doing the same? Especially when they've already been collaborating or relationship-ing or whatever it is they are?"
Uriel sneered at her question, but conceded the point as she turned her attention to the window.
Michael followed their lead, but her mind was still turning over some of the information the Metatron had given. She hadn't truly heard it in the bookshop but with the renewed focus, she couldn't help but consider it. "An angel and a demon performing a miracle together." Michael mused, "What do you suppose that means?"
"I have no idea." Uriel conceded. Her attention was still out the window when she said, "But I suppose we should go talk to a scrivener about holy relics."
Michael turned on her heel, as she quipped, "Shame we couldn't just ask Aziraphale for his expertise."
Uriel scoffed as she followed her fellow archangel out. Apparently, they had a time-sensitive job to see to. They walked with purpose.
Tires kicked up loose gravel as Crowley tore into the weed-ridden lot in front of the dive bar he had inadvertently found careening around some hairpin turn east of Edinburgh. It was as good a place as any and he was tired of driving. Haphazardly throwing the Bentley into park, he slithered out of the driver's side, slamming the door harder than he intended. Wincing only briefly at his aggression, he strode to the opaqued door. Yanking it open, he pointedly headed to the bar. Leaning on the counter, without waiting for acknowledgement he called, "Talisker." The grizzled bartender at the tap flicked his fingers over his head, acknowledging the order. A sticky menu had been left on the counter next to him and as he waited, Crowley dropped his fingers on the plastic and pulled it toward him. He scoffed as he finally made out the name of the bar. Under the dingy plastic cover "Cromwell's Head" was plastered over a caricature of the brutal leader. Dropping his head into his hands, Crowley groaned with the dawning realization of where he had stopped.
He held his head in his hands until the clanking of a glass against the counter demanded his attention. Crowley looked up at the grimacing bearded face of a man who had talked to too many people in his lifetime. As he made eye contact, the bartender raised an eyebrow and poured a bit beyond a normal double. Well-versed in his craft, the man didn't say anything, just poured the drink and looked to the man a few seats down from the demon. The problem was that as he moved away, he took the bottle with him. Annoyed at the assumption, Crowley barked, "Leave the bottle." He looked up as the man backpedaled, "And bring over another."
The bartender gently set down the bottle and asked conversationally, "Rough day?"
Crowley scoffed and downed his drink with an exaggerated sigh of faux-satisfaction before he snarled, "Understatement of the millennium."
The man raised an eyebrow, "You plannin' on drownin' in here?" Well-trained, indeed.
"Wrong water for that, I'm afraid." Crowley said darkly. At the man's confusion, he explained with slightly less clarity, "Can't drown, as much as I might want to." Crowley closed his hand around the base of the bottle and pulled it to him.
Given how he flicked his fingers over his head, the bartender's name had been called from another patron down the row. He leaned into Crowley's eyeline and offered, "How 'bout I give you one now, and if ya' need another, I get it then?" He pushed off the bar, looking at Crowley expectantly.
Crowley poured another large drink before he flippantly said, "Whatever makes you feel better." As the man stepped away, Crowley snapped his fingers. The bartender wouldn't remember how many bottles he was handing over. And Crowley had no intention of letting him figure it out. He would drink and he would pay until the heartbreaking, soul-crushing weight sitting coiled on his chest was a drunken memory. Until he found a way to rebury the shattering pain of loss that was threatening, once again, to break him. And then once all of it was a memory, he would keep drinking until it stayed that way...
he tried to ignore the fact that it was six thousand years of memories he was trying to erase.
And as he downed another glass, he desperately pushed away that creeping feeling of unworthiness knocking at the edges of his mind.
At some point the bar closed. The kindly bartender offered to let him sleep it off in the back room, but Crowley had somehow refused and stumbled out into the cooling Scottish air. He had nicked another bottle as he had left and as he stumbled up the road, he continued his memory erasure. By his inebriated estimates, he was through the sixteenth century. "So much left to forget," Crowley muttered to himself as he staggered toward the sound of waves crashing against the shore. There was a pull, something vaguely familiar about the sound and in his stupor, it seemed right to figure out what it was. The unholy reality of his decision only dawned on him when he saw the placard in the eerie blues of dawn's promise. Sickness roiled his stomach as he turned toward the remembrance stone. Falling to his knees, Crowley traced the familiar inscription with his free hand,
"Here took place the brunt or essential agony of the Battle of Dunbar. – Thomas Carlyle"
Sighing heavily, he laid his head against the stone, and muttered, "What'd we do, Angel?" He stared at the cracks in the stone for a long moment, reveling in the discomfort of drunken sickness. The sensation hadn't been one of his, but it felt deliciously appropriate for how badly he had ruined his world. In the painful truth of insobriety, Crowley realized he should have tamped down his discomfort, ignored his concerns, done whatever was necessary to stay with the one being who mattered, but he had been too wrapped up in his own fantasies to even consider it. He closed his eyes tightly to stop the painful thoughts only for his head to roll under the alcohol's influence. He listed sideways. He tried to correct back to both knees, but he ended up under-corrected and collapsed on his side instead. The bottle spilled across the stone base and Crowley's eyes rolled back as he muttered, "Too much of a good thing."
1650
"Angel?" Crowley called, peeking into the husk of the burned barn on the edge of town. He nudged a beam out of the way, turning up his nose at the way it crumbled slightly before falling over what Crowley belatedly realized were the remains of a burned body. He pulled his head back in disgust before he pushed farther into the rickety husk. His voice rose in urgency, "Angel? Where are you?" His foot cracked through a ribcage. Shaking it off with an appalled grumble, he stumbled farther in, "Aziraphale, I swear to Go…Satan that if you don't tell me where you are right now…" The threat died there. If pressed, both the angel and the demon would know why. But there would be no one who would press them on it.
"Angel! Answer me, dammit." Crowley swore as the creaking of the floor and support beams echoed over the crackling remains of the fire. One step sent his foot through the floorboards. "Aziraphale!" Crowley ordered, yanking his foot free and brushing off his shoes.
A crunching at the back of the barn caught his attention. Crowley stalked over, snapping his fingers when he was close enough to see a lip of wood shifting under the weight of a few ruined rafters. Once the obstruction was gone, the trapdoor flipped back and a soot smeared Aziraphale climbed out. Grimacing at Crowley, he shook his head and leaned back down. His voice was all angelic reassurance and kindness when he promised, "It's alright, give me your hand."
Curious, Crowley crept forward, leaning around the angel. He watched in equal parts pride and horror as a small hand gripped Aziraphale's. He pulled small blonde girl out of the basement and even in the dim light, Crowley could see the tear tracks that had cleaned streaks of her dirty face. His stomach flipped as he muttered under his breath, "Oh God." As Aziraphale pulled the young girl into his arms, gently hushing her tears, Crowley stuck his head into the cellar. He met another ten sets of eyes. Glancing back at Aziraphale with a sickened look, but only getting an affirmative nod, he turned back to the trapped humans. His stomach knotted tighter as he lifted child after child out of the barren cellar to Aziraphale's comforting voice until six were standing behind him. The other four were older and pulled themselves free.
Soon eleven dirty, shaken children stood facing the pair. Deadly silence stretched through the decrepit barn as it creaked on charred hinges and a prayer before one of the older boys breached the tension, "Suppose we should say thank you for the help." There was nothing behind his gaze and little more than resignation in his tone.
Aziraphale smiled brightly, but the normal shine never made it to his eyes as he self-consciously said, "It was no problem at all." After a beat, he patted at his pockets before pulling out what little money he had on him. Crowley saw his expression fall and he hurried to cover the deficit, miracling another cache of coin, and silently handing it to the angel. He watched in silent support as Aziraphale handed everything to the children. There was a smattering of thanks, but little else was said. Short of sending them anywhere else in the world, this was the best they could do. Crowley and Aziraphale followed the group out of the barn and watched as they disappeared into the smoldering countryside. Once they were out of sight, Crowley looked at the angel. Careful to keep his voice a gentle hush when he asked, "What happened, Aziraphale?"
Aziraphale's face crumpled and he dropped back onto a felled tree, "I only came up here for a bit of tartan. Nothing significant, but…"
"We're near Dunbar." Crowley muttered, sorrow slipping through every syllable. He settled next to Aziraphale, nudging his leg in understanding. He'd barely been paying attention, but he'd heard news of the battle, it hadn't been kind to the soldiers or the civilians.
"All those kids…their parents." Aziraphale muttered. He looked up at Crowley, suddenly desperate, "I tried to save them. I swear I did."
"Of course, you did, Angel." Breaking their unspoken pact, Crowley laid his arm across Aziraphale's shoulders, pulling him close. He whispered assuredly, "You saved some of them."
Accepting the comfort, Aziraphale turned toward him in a rare display of actual need, "Not enough. I had no idea what was coming." With a heavy sigh, he rested his head on Crowley's shoulder, "How'd you find me?"
Crowley frowned at the exhaustion in his friend's tone, but sidestepped the issue for the moment, "I was coming up this way for a bit of mischief with a local clan leader. He's got a horde of North Ronaldsay sheep, and I thought that if they skedaddled in the night it could make for some interesting antics." He dropped his tone to referential, "But after I saw what happened, it didn't seem right. I was planning on leaving when I sensed your presence out this way. Figured I could use some company on the way home." Crowley privately admitted it had been a particularly selfish errand. But one he was now thankful for.
Aziraphale hummed his acceptance, but when he spoke again, his voice was thick with tears, "Why would they do all this?"
"Free will." Crowley muttered, closing his hand a bit more securely on Aziraphale's shoulder.
"What?"
Crowley's voice was a gentle insistence, "Humans are supposed to have free will. Technically, my fault, remember?" The urge to take on that burden deepened as he continued, "Giving them the knowledge of good and evil gave them a chance to make decisions. They can anticipate the outcome and still make the choice, it's their curse." He knew Aziraphale knew all this, but he seemed to need to hear it.
"But Cromwell, he seemed like such a decent fellow." Aziraphale countered. His voice almost settled on a whine; it would have if not for the heartbroken tone underlying everything.
"I know you helped him, Angel." Crowley shuffled a bit on the charred beam, "Influencing his opinions in office, improving the region he represented, but it's been a long time since he was a junior MP, he's changed." Without thought, he passed his hands over the ruin of the countryside before them, "He took the belief that he showed you and twisted it for his own ends."
"Like you said he would." Aziraphale concluded, sorrowful.
Crowley rolled his head away, "Well…I thought he was just going to be a bit greedy, maybe steal from the Crown or anger some prickish lordlings, I never thought he'd do this." Crowley tipped his head back down to the charred grass and admitted, "If I'd had even an inkling, I would've told you."
"No," Aziraphale muttered, "No, I supposed no one could have known."
They sat in companionable silence on the felled tree, watching the sun fully set on a still smoking horizon. Deep in thought, Aziraphale muttered, "Free will." Without warning, he slammed his hand down on his thigh and pulled away from Crowley, a look of horror and anger cut across his expression, "You did this!"
Crowley jumped at the sudden movement; shock written across his face as the accusation settled in. He leaned forward on his knee and growled, "I did not."
"Yes, you did! You saw what I was trying to do for a man of God, and you corrupted him!" Confusion was written on Aziraphale's face even as he spoke with authority. He jumped to his feet.
"I did not!" Crowley insisted, standing to meet Aziraphale's thunderous gaze. "Why would I do that? Why would I want any of this?" He threw his hands in a wide arc.
"Oh, you tricky demon," Aziraphale sniped, "You lost with Job and this is how you decide to even the cosmic scales, as it were."
"I do not kill kids." Crowley hissed dangerously, his eyes narrowing in abject anger. Leaning into Aziraphale's face, he spat, "You should know that by now, Angel. That's what your lot do." He rocked back on his heels, his voice suddenly calm as he said, "I came to help you, but if this is what I get for it, you're on your own." He stormed off into the darkness.
Aziraphale found Crowley a few days later holed up in the small hovel he'd been retreating to every night to sleep. It was little more than a bed and a door, but the demon needed even less. Aziraphale took a deep breath and closed his hand a little more securely around his gift before he pressed the door open.
"Forgot to change the locks, did I?" The dejected tone echoed out of the darkest corner followed by the crinkling of a straw mattress.
Dropping his gaze to his feet, Aziraphale said, "I believe I owe you an apology." Keeping his voice deferential, he asked, "Would you mind a little light?"
Crowley ignored his question, "Better be a damn good one."
Aziraphale took a tentative step and held out a bottle of whisky, "I brought your favorite." He cleared his throat and added, "You could see it better if there was a little more light in the room."
A sharp snap cut through the awkwardness as a dim orb floated to the ceiling. It illuminated the small space, and Crowley's eyes shown like a cat's in the demonic light. He lazily pushed up on his hip and tipped his head to the side, with a flippant retort, "It's a start." Rolling the rest of the way into seated, Crowley held out his hand.
Aziraphale smiled sadly and handed over the bottle. Looking around for a seat, he settled on a small barrel. He didn't have to pull it far to sit in front of the demon and as soon as he was settled, he looked down at his hands. Closing them in a tight knot, he took a deep breath and said, "I'm sorry for what I said. I was angry and I felt so betrayed by what he had done, that I lashed out. None of it was your fault. I was wrong to imply otherwise."
Snapping his fingers to remove the wax seal, Crowley took a few long drags, revealing in the burn of the peaty liquid. Wiping his hand across his lips, he held the bottle out to Aziraphale and asked, "Why'd you think it was me?" There was a note of sorrow in his tone that couldn't have been the whisky.
The angel took a quick sip, wincing at the taste as he focused on the dirt floor. He shook his head, and admitted, "I didn't. As soon as I suggested it, I knew it wasn't true, but I just couldn't believe that someone who professed to love Her so deeply would be so brutal." He took another deep pull and turned his still heartbroken expression to Crowley, "All those kids. They'd done no one any harm."
"I know it, Angel." Crowley agreed, accepting the bottle back. Settling forward on his knees, he added, "They never do." His gaze wandered away as he held the bottle in loose fingers, "None of those people deserved it." He pressed the bottle to his lips and drank a few more gulps.
"Do you even taste that?" Aziraphale asked, his expression puckered at the thought.
"'course I do, why do you think I like it?" Crowley asked with a a smirk before he took another long drag and offered it back to Aziraphale.
The angel accepted and took a longer drag. His expression eased a bit. He tipped the bottle back. "Why can't we stop it?" Aziraphale asked in indignant petulance.
A wet pop echoed through the room as he pulled the nearly empty bottle away from his lips at Aziraphale's question. Crossing his arms over his knees, he muttered, "That is the question, isn't it?" Holding out the bottle, he philosophized, "We can't stop it because then the humans would have no control over their actions, but we also can't bear to endure it because we know what they can be." He pulled the bottle back and took a few more swigs before again offering it to the angel, "Why can't they all just be human? Not fully bad, not fully good, just human?"
"That's what I thought he was." Aziraphale conceded, taking the bottle back. "I didn't think he'd do this." He finished the rest with a grimace.
"Neither did I." Crowley furrowed his brow at the empty bottle. Exaggeratedly looking around, he absentmindedly said, "Should've grabbed a few more bottles…" Trailing off, he snapped his fingers. Four more bottles – two wine and two whisky – appeared between them. The weight of their shared reality had settled heavily in the small space, but the trusting companionship helped to ease the pain. The alcohol helped too.
They continued to drink, easing the memories until only half of two bottles remained - Crowley's whisky and Aziraphale's wine. Bolstered by that same alcohol, late into the night Aziraphale confessed, "S'ill do'n't feel like...hiccup...deserve fergi'eness." He held the last of his bottle in slippery fingers as he leaned forward on the barrel, giving Crowley a begging look.
Crowley rolled his head like his spine didn't exist. Finishing off his bottle, he met his friend's gaze, "Really do'n't need to appo…apolo…say sorry. Bought al…co…hol." He flicked his fingers between them and muttered, "Juss do a dance or somefin. Don't care. Know yo-u didn't mean it. Juss hurt." He rubbed a lazy hand over his eye as he blinked his focus back to his angel.
Emboldened by the mix of whisky and wine or the chance to apologize, Aziraphale jumped to his feet. And wavered. And stumbled backward. His hand flew to the side of his head as he looked up at Crowley with a pathetic whimper, "Bit too muc, seems."
"Too m'u'h, ang'l." Crowley snickered at the uncoordinated display.
Aziraphale righted himself and took a shaky breath. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly before he drunkenly flicked his hand to the wall, while his other fell on his hip, "You were right."
Crowley chuckled.
Encouraged by the humor where there had been so little, Aziraphale continued pulling both hands up and kicking back his foot, "You were right." He spun into a finale of sorts with a somewhat tempered, "I was wrong. You were right." But instead of stopping, he spun a little too far and clattered back into the barrel. In an impressive display of drunken coordination, he caught the barrel mid-tip but kicked the empty bottle at its base. As it spun away as Aziraphale clutched the wood.
Crowley barked a laugh, his eyes smiling as he lurched forward and grabbed Aziraphale's arm to steady him. "A'rite, Ang'l?"
"Maybe. Forgi'n?" Aziraphale asked, pressing his hand to his head as the bottle blessedly stopped spinning against the stone floor.
Crowley's face scrunched in concentration as he managed to articulate, "Forgi…burp...ven." Well, almost articulated it. He helped Aziraphale sit back on the barrel before he fell back into his bed. Knocking his head against the wall, Crowley found a hint of sobriety and looked intentionally at Aziraphale, "'m sorry for Crom…Cromwell. Not you'r fault, ang'l."
Aziraphale looked through the hand pressed to his forehead, "'hanks, Crowley."
Crowley's head was pounding when the sun's piercing rays cut through his eyelids. Groaning, he tried to sit, but his hand fell on the bottle and he tried to push up, it rolled and he floundered. Unable to catch himself, Crowley knocked his chin on the stone, cutting his lip on his teeth. His eyes snapped open at the pain. Only for him to slam them shut again. He collapsed into the dirt. Pulling his hands up, he covered his head even as he reveled in the pain of the hangover. It was pain he understood. His world had broken, and he needed to deal with it.
Just not until his head stopped spinning.
That took until the noonday sun started to bake his black jacket. Only then did he feel steady enough to attempt to get to his feet. It was an experiment in missing balance but eventually, with the help of the monument, and a well-meaning tourist, he got on his feet. Wobbling slowly down the road, he found the dive bar from the night before, the Bentley still parked haphazardly in the gravel. As badly as he didn't want to, he needed to get back to London.
They had acceptable alcohol there too.
Aziraphale had no idea how long he sat in the room with his head in his hands, but it was long enough for the feeling of derision to rise up in his mind. He had shattered the world he had on Earth. He had lost his only friend for a chance to make Heaven better. This was all he had left. And moping about in a conference room wouldn't accomplish anything.
Standing, Aziraphale straightened his vest. He had not gotten off to a good start, but he had a chance to change that. Maybe if this works, we can revisit the question, there was a note of hopeful desperation in the intrusive thought. Crowley didn't like Heaven because of what it had done to him, maybe if Aziraphale could prove it would be different...finishing that thought proved nerve-wracking and impossible if he didn't get moving.
Rolling back his shoulders, Aziraphale stepped away from the table. He had a job to do and the sooner he got started on it, the better. The Metatron had mentioned the Second Coming, which meant he had some reading to do.
And that's all I have for right now! Please feel free to let me know what you thought in the reviews.
I hope you have a wonderful night/day and stay creative!
-Lily
