Aziraphale gazed at the cosy hotel room, a contented smile graced his lips, like sunlight on a quiet morning. He was seated at the bed, his back rested into the headboard, a picturesque scene of domesticity. The aroma of freshly baked cake, coffee, and spiced tea filled the air as he waited for Crowley. Crowley, dear to him, had gone out to buy breakfast, and Aziraphale immensely appreciated the gesture.
Aziraphale's thoughts meandered back to the previous hour. The way Crowley had relented, his eyes turning completely golden with affection as all of his emotional barriers fell, still warmed Aziraphale's heart. Their laughter, their kisses—it was all so different from the centuries of careful distance they'd maintained. Now, they were truly together, and it filled him with a profound sense of happiness.
"I love you," Aziraphale whispered to himself, the words carrying a sense of security he hadn't known before. He remembered the way Crowley's lips had met his own, the tenderness of that kiss, the profound connection between them.
Disrupting his reverie, Crowley entered, carrying a tray laden with breakfast goodies. His golden eyes sparkled as he set it on Aziraphale's lap. There was a steaming cup of coffee with a swirl of cream, a fragrant pot of spiced tea, slices of moist carrot cake adorned with delicate cream cheese frosting, a colourful Battenberg cake neatly sliced into perfect squares, and a generous portion of Caraway seed cake, its aroma blending with the others in a tantalizing dance. Crowley's playful grin tugged at his lips. 'I hope you're hungry,' he purred.
Aziraphale chuckled, feeling warmth spread through him at Crowley's presence, the change in his stance, the way his smile wasn't leaving his lips. And the adoration in his oh so amber eyes. "You've outdone yourself, my dear," he murmured, a sense of warmth and contentment settling over him as he prepared to savor this delectable breakfast spread.
Crowley flopped into the chair, and, much to Aziraphale's surprise, picked up a slice of Caraway seed cake and began to nibble on it. It was rare for the demon to eat something sweet. Inexplicably, that seemingly insignificant gesture melted Aziraphale's heart a little more.
Once they had emptied the tray, mostly Aziraphale's own doing, both of them turned their attention to the pressing matter at hand. The Book of Life that lay ominously on the desk in the next room, its pages a stark reminder of the impending threat.
Aziraphale cleared his throat, setting down his fork with a gentle clink as he turned to Crowley.
"Crowley, my dear," Aziraphale began, his voice soft but earnest, "We need to work in the Book."
Crowley nodded, his smile faltering as the moment of comfortable routine ended. "I'll wait for you in the other room." He said as he got up and bend down to pick up the tray. He stopped there, hesitantly. Aziraphale saw how his fingers curled around the edges of the tray; he looked up at Crowley's serious face, who leaned in and placed a quick, tender kiss on his lips, almost like the soft flutter of a butterfly's wings. And then, waltzed out of the room as if nothing had happened, swinging his hips.
Aziraphale smiled non-stop as he dressed, wondering why they had wasted so much time. He exited the bedroom still smiling. Until he saw the Book of Life. "We need to figure this out. We can't let the Metatron's tampering continue."
Crowley nodded in agreement, his serpentine eyes fixed on the ancient tome. "Right, angel. We have to find a way to erase that ink."
Aziraphale tried every conceivable method, from chemical treatments to mechanical abrasion. Each attempt had been met with failure, the ink stubbornly clinging to the parchment.
"It's celestial ink." Crowley said as they shared a knowing glance. "It won't bulge."
Aziraphale sighed. "It was worth the try." He exhaled, unsecure. "I suppose we'll have to resort to our most powerful source," Aziraphale suggested. "A combined miracle. It's our best chance."
Crowley growled, "No" his nostrils flared, "I'm not risking you Angel."
"It's our best chance and you know it Crowley." Aziraphale reasoned.
"Hear me out," The demon paced the room, visibly agitated, stomping his feet. "I'm not rissking it." And proceeded to add something more, completely unintelligible.
"Crowley, my dear, calm down my dear." Aziraphale pleaded, getting up and grabbing Crowley by the sleeve of his jacket, effectively stopping him.
Crowley snorted, holding the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "We could try it, if we move while doing it, it would be more difficult to detect it."
"You mean outside the hotel?" Aziraphale asked, seeing that Crowley's breathing was returning to his usual pace as he made up his mind.
"No" Crowley said. "We would need to leave… to Oxford?" Crowley's eyes were fixed on the ceiling of the room, as if reading the script of his ideas, "We make the miracle already on the move, so if Heaven detects us, we can move quickly and the Metatron will lose track of us."
"It's a wonderful idea, but…" Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the room, filled with fond memories of their time there. "Crowley," he began, a hint of reluctance in his voice, "I must confess, I rather feel at home in this little hotel. Safe, cared for, happy." He paused, his eyes searching Crowley's. "I don't want to leave just yet."
Crowley's response was immediate and reassuring, his voice taking an uncharacteristic soft tone as he spoke. "You'll feel just as safe and happy in Oxford, angel. I'll always be by your side, if you want me to."
"My dear." A rush of affection surged within Aziraphale, and he couldn't resist to stand on his tiptoes to press a tender kiss to Crowley's lips, cupping his face.
Crowley's arms surrounded him, bringing him closer while reciprocating the kiss, a delicatessen he didn't expect. Aziraphale held his breath, the suspended air caught at his throat as he closed his eyes. His lips parted of his own volition ever-so slightly, tingling; the angel's hearth fluttering in unison. Crowley took gently his lower lip between his soft warm ones and applied a hint of pressure, and then, to Aziraphale dismay, Crowley exhaled a soft and warm hum, recuperating the space between them. "Let's go." His voice was low, raspy and broken.
As Crowley began to gather the few belongings they had acquired, he smiled again, softly. And that made Aziraphale happy.
In the bustling Edwinstowe bus station, Miniel patiently awaited her next move, her eyes darting around the lively surroundings. The station teemed with travellers, and the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted from a nearby café. Seated on a well-worn but cosy bench, her demeanor remained tranquil, but her resolve burned brightly.
Hours had drifted by since her arrival from Edinburgh when, out of nowhere, waves of love enveloped her. This time, it was different. Love moved in powerful, mingling currents, making it challenging for Miniel to distinguish between Aziraphale and Crowley. It was as if their affections had not only endured but fused into something even more potent than she'd ever sensed before. A cocktail of jealousy and astonishment stirred within her as she grappled with the mystery of how their love had thrived during three years of separation. Her determination to locate Aziraphale and Crowley only solidified.
With unwavering certainty, Miniel approached the ticket seller at the station's counter, her voice carrying unwavering determination. "A ticket to York, please," she requested. It was evident to her that they were in York, and she was resolute in her quest to find them.
As the guardian of Heaven's archives, Saraqael knew her way around finding exact information. With every step she took into the past, she felt the void left by Phanuel, her beloved, as if a piece of her essence had been erased alongside him. Nevertheless, her unwavering determination drove her to uncover the truth behind the Metatron's schemes, as well as the intricate history that entwined him with Satan and their enigmatic alliance.
With a mere thought, she delved deep into the annals of history, meticulously sifting through ancient texts bearing Phanuel's unmistakable script. Phanuel, the celestial scribe of Good, had once chronicled all deeds, both good and bad. Since his erasure, lesser angels had taken up the task of documenting events, but their bland texts paled in comparison to the beautifully written parts Phanuel had crafted.
Saraqael couldn't help but wonder if those texts had been altered, erased, or corrupted as the memories of the erased archangels were systematically wiped. She selected one text in which Saldalfon was surely mentioned in the context of Sodom and Gomorrah, then accessed it:
"...the outcry against its people has become great before the Lord, and the Lord has sent us to destroy it.' Sandalfon the archangel said".
Summoning an angelic scribe, she beckoned him to read aloud:
"...the outcry against its people has become great before the Lord, and the Lord has sent us to destroy it.' The archangel said."
Saraqael sighed, stirring with unease. "Which archangel?" she inquired.
The angel who had been reading looked at her wearily. "I don't know."
She dismissed the angel, aware that only those who knew the names of those erased could perceive the full text. A disquiet, akin to a distant spiritual ache, gnawed at her essence. It was the closest an angel could come to experiencing unease.
Accessing Phanuel's final entries, Saraqael uncovered a revelation that shook her celestial core. After the bet involving Job had been won, the Metatron had been entrusted with a divine message that had never reached anyone else's ears intact. Phanuel had been the sole keeper of this knowledge, bound by duty to chronicle it, not to share it.
It was a profound insight into the Almighty's intentions in the Great Plan and how it faded into the Ineffable Plan– She was testing the Humans' ability to save themselves. It was an ineffable test, one the humans passed. The second coming was a contingency plan, intended to safeguard pure souls should humanity fail, to ensure the well-being of the righteous.
Continuing her search, Saraqael unearthed a chilling entry dated before 70 CE. It recounted the rise of an unexpected voice in Heaven – not an archangel or a throne, but a mere guardian angel who had heard Rabbi Elisha ben Abuyah, a Jewish law teacher, speak of the Metatron as if he were a minor deity. The Metatron had reveled in this blasphemous adoration.
Concerned archangels, including Saraqael, had resolved to prove to the Jewish people that a second deity could not exist. So it was decided to subject the Metatron to 60 strokes with fiery rods to demonstrate that he was not a god, but merely an angel, and as such, could be punished.
Desperate to evade this punishment, the Metatron implored Phanuel to erase the name of the insignificant guardian angel from the Book of Life. Phanuel, bound by divine law, had refused the request, asserting that only God held the authority to decide who should be erased. This entry marked Phanuel's final record before his own erasure. The Metatron had never endured the 60 strokes.
Tears welled in Saraqael's eyes as the truth unfolded before her – her beloved Phanuel had been erased from existence for the Metatron's cowardly escape from punishment.
Unable to contain her discovery, Saraqael called upon Michael and Uriel to join her.
"I've uncovered proof of the Metatron's betrayal," Saraqael asserted, a papyrus clutched in her hands. "His actions imperil the very essence of Heaven. It is our divine duty to expose his deceit."
They read in silence, tension thickening in the air as their eyes traversed the text.
Michael, visibly shaken, sat on the glass desk. "We must uphold God's true plan," he implored, gesturing helplessly to convey the tumultuous mix of emotions within him. "We have to publicly reveal the Metatron's treacherous actions to all the angels in Heaven."
However, Uriel, still gripping the papyrus, hesitated. "Hold, my comrades. We must proceed with caution." His measured tone hinted at doubt. "Phanuel's erasure has left us with incomplete records. Satan's role in this..."
Michael interrupted him, ripping the papyrus out of his hands. "Uriel, our allegiance is to the Almighty's Great Plan. We cannot afford to keep this hidden."
With a sense of urgency, Uriel spoke. "We need information from the Metatron first."
Saraqael raised a hand, quelling their disagreement. "Uriel is right. We don't know what weapons and tools the Metatron possesses. He's lost access to the Book of Life, but he may have other means to eliminate us. We must proceed with caution."
Amidst ongoing celestial discussions, each archangel shared their perspective. Eventually, a consensus formed. Uriel, the boldest among them, summoned the Metatron.
Appearing in his ethereal head form, the Metatron seemed composed and curious. "Tell me, Uriel, how may I assist you?"
Without a word, Michael handed him the papyrus. The thin material hung in front of Metatron's face. As the Metatron read, his composure visibly wavered. "Who discovered these records?"
The papyrus rolled up on its own, vanishing into thin air as Saraqael returned it to the archive with a graceful gesture. "It was me," she replied, her expression stoic.
The Metatron's attention shifted to her, thinly veiling his anger. "Thank you, Saraqael, for your findings," he praised, his words tinged with an unsettling and menacing undertone. "If you were to disappear, no one could manage these archives or uncover such valuable truths."
His words hung like a promise, and as if on cue, the Metatron closed his eyes. Saraqael was certain he was attempting to summon the Book of Life. With a look of sheer astonishment, he opened his eyes, his once-confident demeanor now replaced with frustration.
Uriel sat on the desk next to Michael, his arms crossed. "We need answers."
Desperate to maintain control, the Metatron altered his strategy. He admitted that he had once embraced the Great Plan and worked diligently to fulfill it. He acknowledged that, the World has been ridden with evil during millennia; and the Ineffable Plan – a fragile balance that might bring peace between Heaven and Hell – was unattainable, primarily because humanity had yet to prove itself worthy of the Almighty's gift. In response, he had formed an alliance with Satan, capitalizing on the Enemy's resentment of the love and care the Almighty had shown to humans and the world.
Their alliance was straightforward – prepare for the End of the World and the Second Coming, as dictated by the Great Plan. War would ensue, Heaven would triumph, and paradise would reign.
In the face of this revelation, a stunned silence enveloped the archangels. Saraqael did a quick assessment of the situation, Michael and Uriel were clearly grappling with the shocking truth of their superior's betrayal. Saraqael, seizing the moment, focused the Metatron's attention on her.
"I understand your decision, my Lord," she lied candidly, her intent to maintain a dialogue with the Metatron.
The Metatron gazed intently at her. "You do?"
Saraqael glanced at Michael, who was being subtly held down by Uriel. "As the voice of the Almighty, you comprehend the Great Plan better than anyone."
Uriel, gradually grasping the gravity of the situation, added, "We must tirelessly work to ensure that any impending war is won by Heaven."
Suddenly, the celestial realm was thrust into chaos as alarms blared, their shrill cries painting the heavens in an ominous shade of red.
Aziraphale and Crowley sat together in their cherished Bentley, parked on a patch of verdant grass by the side of the A64 road. The engine hummed gently, providing a serene backdrop to their unique undertaking. In this quiet moment, the world around them seemed to fade into insignificance. Aziraphale cradled the Book of Life open in his lap.
Their fingers were entwined, fingers interlaced in perfect harmony. Their gazes locked, and an unspoken understanding passed between them. Crowley couldn't help but feel a surge of affection for the angel at his side. He turned his head to meet Aziraphale's gaze. "You're absolutely sure about this, angel?" he inquired, concern tingeing his words, his thumb gently caressing Aziraphale's hand. "Are we going to try to get Sandalfon back first? Remember that he enjoys converting into salt poor humans."
"Crowley," Aziraphale began, his voice filled with a sense of resolve, "I am positive, my dear. We have every reason to believe it will be the easiest, given that he was the last to be crossed out." His eyes met Crowley's, a silent plea for reassurance.
The demon brought Aziraphale's hand to his lips and placed a tender kiss on it. "I love you," he whispered as he looked into those earnest blue eyes and gave a soft smile.
With a deep breath, Crowley began the countdown, his voice steady as he spoke. The anticipation hung heavy in the air, their hearts beating in sync. As the numbers dwindled, they focused on the Book of Life before them, hand clasped tighter.
"Three, two, one." Crowley's voice was a low murmur, almost lost in the sound of the wind rustling through the trees that lined the road.
Then it happened. The combined miracle surged forth, with breathtaking intensity. The pages of the Book quivered as if alive, the black ink that marred Sandalfon's name smoking and curling upward. A distant roll of thunder echoed through the sky, heralding a storm.
Then, in a flash of brilliant light and a resounding crack, the black ink dissipated entirely. It was as though Sandalfon had never been crossed out at all. The archangel's name stood proudly once more, restored to its former glory.
Crowley smiled triumphant at the angel, Aziraphale's eyes, heavy with exhaustion, fluttered closed, and his grip on Crowley's hand loosened. Aziraphale slumped against the car window, his head lolling to the side. The Book of Life slipped from his lap, disappearing under the glove storage compartment with a soft thud, as his hand felt limp and cold in the demon's one.
"Ngh!" Crowley panicked, worry edging into his very soul. "Aziraphale!" He shook him, twisting his body over the gear shift.
Crowley's heart raced with concern as Aziraphale's lifeless form slumped beside him in the car. The miracle they had just performed had taken a toll on the angel, and exhaustion had claimed him. Fear gnawed at Crowley's insides, and he knew they couldn't afford to linger. They had surely been detected by now.
With trembling hands, Crowley initiated another miracle, this time channelling his power to heal Aziraphale. Anxiety coursing through him as he willed the angel back to health. He couldn't bear to see Aziraphale in such a vulnerable state.
Aziraphale stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He looked at Crowley with a weak smile, gratitude shining in his gaze. It was a relief to see him conscious, even if he was still exhausted.
"We can't do that again," Crowley murmured, covering his eyes filled with concern with his dark sunglasses. "It's too much for you."
Aziraphale nodded, his voice a mere whisper. "You're right, my dear."
With that settled, Crowley steered the Bentley back onto the road, the purring engine carrying them forward. Aziraphale, still weakened, drifted into slumber beside him.
As a few miles passed beneath the tires, Crowley couldn't shake an ominous feeling. They passed by bus going in the opposite direction, a chill ran down his spine, but he pushed the thought aside, focusing on the road ahead.
Several miles later, as they sped through the countryside, Crowley saw Maggie. She stood on the roadside, her thumb extended in a friendly hitchhiking gesture, her blue skirt and gold curls moving with the wind. Crowley's eyes met hers, and she smiled, beckoning him to pull over. Crowley felt a knot of unease tighten in his chest. He speed up forcing the Bentley to roar. They passed Maggie, the reflection of her smile receding in the rear view mirror.
But as the landscape rolled by, Crowley noticed her again. It was as though she had appeared out of thin air. Panic surged within him, as they passed by, Maggie's expression remained friendly. Crowley accelerated, putting more distance between them and the persistent hitchhiker.
Again, they passed Maggie, and this third time, her smile seemed almost ethereal. Crowley's grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles turning white. He had to lose her. He couldn't let her catch up with them, couldn't let her get any closer.
They raced through Leeds, Crowley's driving becoming increasingly erratic as he attempted to shake off their pursuer. They passed Maggie a fourth time, she wasn't smiling anymore as a pedestrian bumped into her.
Crowley wove through traffic, took unexpected turns, and pushed the Bentley to its limits. Crowley's nerves were on edge as he sped through Leeds, determined to shake off any lingering uncertainty.
Finally, Crowley was certain they had lost Maggie. He pulled the car into a secluded spot, his heart pounding in his chest. He let out a shaky breath, his nerves on edge. He cast a worried glance at Aziraphale, who still slept beside him.
With trembling hands, Crowley reached out to check on the angel. He brushed a strand of hair from Aziraphale's face, his touch gentle. He was grateful to see Aziraphale was still sleeping peacefully.
He returned to the road at a good pace, continuing to check that both the horizon and the rear view mirror were free of unexpected visitors. As the first of many Queen songs played in the background, danger receded.
I'm all tired of tears
I'm a happy man
Don't it look that way
Shakin' dust from my shoes
There's a road ahead
As the Bentley rolled to a stop in front of the inn, Crowley couldn't help but reminisce. The name of this place had changed over the centuries, but in 1777, it had been known as 'The Jolly Trooper.' Aziraphale owned the coaching inn, he was the best dressed in Oxford. He grew tired of it and moved to London to open the bookshop in 1800.
Crowley could still recall those visits he made to the inn, a desire to keep the angel company even in those days. The inn, now sporting a different name, had transformed yet retained its charm. Its ivy-clad façade, exposed oak beams and sturdy stone walls exuded warmth and cosiness. It seemed like the kind of place Aziraphale would still appreciate.
The demon glanced over at Aziraphale, still deep in slumber. The angel's face held an expression of serene tranquility, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of events they had faced. It was moments like these that made Crowley cherish the centuries they had spent together.
He made his way to the inn's entrance, stepping into its welcoming interior. The scent of polished wood filled his senses, triggering memories of the evenings he had spent alongside Aziraphale drinking and playing chess there. The hotel's restaurant had garnered some awards for its food, and Crowley was sure it would satisfy the angel's discerning palate.
After renting a room for the night, Crowley returned to the car, his gaze softening as he looked at Aziraphale. The angel looked like a work of art, he couldn't help but smile at the angel's peaceful expression.
With gentle care, Crowley scooped Aziraphale into his arms, cradling him as if he were the most precious treasure. He carried the sleeping angel up the creaking wooden staircase, their combined weight making each step groan in protest. It was a slow ascent, but Crowley didn't mind. He cherished this tangible closeness.
Their room, awaited them at the top of the stairs. A four-poster bed with rich, dark wood dominated the space, its drapes pulled back to reveal a plush mattress. An en suite bathroom offered modern amenities, and a well-stocked minibar stood in the corner.
Carefully, Crowley laid Aziraphale on the bed and took off his shoes, arranging him with tenderness. The angel's form seemed to fit perfectly within the antique surroundings, as if he were a timeless masterpiece.
Crowley headed to the door to collect their things from the car.
"Sod off!" He mutterer under his breath. He couldn't bear to be apart from Aziraphale now, he didn't want to. He didn't need to.
Crowley slipped into bed beside the slumbering angel, his long limbs tangling with Aziraphale's. It was a slow, deliberate motion, an instinctive response to the need for proximity, Crowley smiled, it was as natural as if they had been intertwined like this all eternity.
As Crowley settled against Aziraphale, he basked in the tenderness of Aziraphale's body, delighting in the fondness of his warm body, seeping into his own. Aziraphale's breathing was easy, calm. It was a comforting sensation, like a balm to his weary soul.
Crowley pressed a soft kiss to Aziraphale's forehead, his lips lingering in a gentle caress. "I love you," he murmured smiling. He knew that Aziraphale couldn't hear him in his sleep, but it didn't matter, being able to say it out loud was reward enough. Some things didn't need to be spoken to be understood.
As the inn's walls enveloped them in a protective embrace, Crowley held Aziraphale close, their intertwined forms a testament to the enduring power of their love. In this moment, Crowley found solace in the knowledge that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would face them together.