Welcome, dear reader, to a celestial roller-coaster of emotions. Brace yourself for the perfect blend of angst, comfort, and fluff—a much-needed respite after the events of the second season. Get ready to soar through a story that will tug at your heartstrings and take you on an unforgettable journey.
Fair warning, the confort and fluf doesn't start until chapter 5. I'm sorry.
"I find myself rather confused about this 'second coming' and my role in it.
1. I Want to Break Free alternate
In the vast expanse of Heaven, Aziraphale's path remained uncertain. Guided by The Metatron, he treaded through pristine corridors, a visage of celestial grandeur. Yet, beneath his composed demeanor, Aziraphale's heart weighed heavy—he had left Crowley behind. As they advanced, his facade of cheeriness failed to reach his eyes, the nagging thought of Crowley lingering like a specter.
Caught in a whirlwind of thoughts, doubts clashed against his long-held convictions. The burden of past memories pressed down, Shax's words about Crowley risking destruction because of him. The determination to set things right for Crowley's sake—free from peril on either side—loomed large. Time pressed upon him, with Crowley's presence and the impending 'second coming' gnawing at his resolve, things would be much easier with Crowley there, by his side.
"I must admit," he 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.
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 had been difficult and painful. Staying would have been the easy option, the option that would not ensure Crowley's security. He vowed to find a way to make things better for the two of them, to fix the situation so they could be free and safe.
Amid his contemplation, Aziraphale remained oblivious to the surroundings, distracted by his thoughts. Unbeknownst to him, a sense of foreboding clung to the air —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 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 of work must I do here?" he said.
"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 as 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 forward only to collide with an invisible wall, a barrier both invincible and unyielding.
"Metatron, you…" He searched 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 head-like form.
"Ah, Aziraphale," the voice intoned, dripping with a mix of amusement and condescension. "I can't think of a better angel to wrap things up, and to set into motion the next step in the great plan. I have told you no lies. You have merely heard what you wished to hear."
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 and 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 chose 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 hardly stood 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 have 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 hellfire. How their conjoined half-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 course of action. That Heaven had won.
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 favored 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."
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.
He left the car intending to get himself very drunk. That afternoon marked the first anniversary of Aziraphale's abandonment.
You're the bad guys. Crowley took a drink, because he was not enough, and then another.
His bleary eyes caught sight of a group of girls occupying a nearby booth. They huddled together, laughter and whispers punctuating the air. Crowley paid them little attention, his focus on the memories that played in his head.
Nothing lasts forever. He had emptied a bottle, because Aziraphale was his forever.
However, if he had been more alert, he might have noticed that their attention was directed toward something that lay on the table before them—a leather-bound journal with ornate lettering. Handwritten words spilled across the pages, and their voices took on hushed tones as they read aloud.
I forgive you. That was the worst of all. He drank again, emptying the second bottle, gesturing for a third one. I forgive you.
"It's like something out of a romance novel. Full of heartfelt confessions and emotions." one of the girls said, leaning in closer to get a better look at the pages:
August 29, 1940:
Today has been a day that will remain etched in my memory for eternity. I found myself within the walls of an old church, with Mr. Glozier and Mr. Harmony, the Nazi agents with nefarious intentions, and who I thought was Captain Rose Montgomery, who was a Nazi agent. I was alone and about to be discorporated.
The situation took an unexpected turn when a familiar face made his presence known –Crowley. My dear, defying convention and expectations. His timely intervention, a testament to the agreement that had formed between us over the millennia. I couldn't be happier to see him.
His humor, his audacity, and the way he dismissed the danger we faced with such smugness, he even made a point to warn the Nazis so they could leave the building in time, and they didn't. As bombs fell around us, I couldn't help but notice the contrast between the surrounding turmoil and the unmistakable affection in his acts. He had intervened just to save me!
Crowley had maintained the bag of books intact despite the chaos, his actions spoke louder than words ever could. The way he retrieved those books, the care he took to preserve what mattered to me, was eye-opening.
As we stood amidst the wreckage, I found myself looking at Crowley with newfound clarity. His unorthodox approach to life, his uncanny ability to surprise, and the genuine concern that peeked through his sarcastic demeanor were all facets of the demon I had grown to care for so deeply.
The realization struck me with a force that I couldn't ignore any longer. I finally accepted the truth that had been lingering beneath the surface for so long. My affection for Crowley is not merely camaraderie; it is love. It has been love for a long time. A love that surpasses the weight of my celestial obligations. Though I couldn't let my feelings be known aloud, the realization was a relief of sorts.
Crowley had emptied the fourth bottle of Scotch and was being denied any more alcohol. He decided to leave the pub, his mind empty of horrible memories, and full of bitter hope, the idea to pay a visit to the bookshop, just in case Aziraphale had come back.
"What do you think, Fiona? Isn't it romantic?" one of the girls mused, a wistful smile on her lips.
"Absolutely, Lydia," another replied, her eyes dancing over the words. "Whoever wrote this has such a way with words."
"Yeah, seriously! And get this— yellow eyes. Can you believe it?" Fiona's voice carried a note of excitement.
Crowley's steps faltered as he heard those words, a distant recognition pulling at the fringes of his consciousness. But the weight of his own despair weighed him down, and he continued on his path, oblivious to the significance of the scene he had just witnessed.
Had he been more sober, more aware, he might have realized that the journal was Aziraphale's, a private record of thoughts and emotions never meant for anyone else's eyes. He might have grasped the depth of the words scrawled across those pages, words that spoke of a love he now thought he had imagined.
But for now, the girls' voices faded into the background, and Crowley's internal cacophony drowned out any potential revelations. The night stretched before him, as he plopped down in his seat and 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 made sense—his angel could be back. Once he slept and sobered 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 a haunting presence in his own narrative, lost in the shadows of his own despair.
But little did he know that sometimes, if the first plan of destiny fails, there may be another chance again, a revelation that would challenge the very fabric of his existence and offer a light in the darkest of times.