Hello everyone,
It's probably safe to say that if you're reading this, the end of Season 2 destroyed your fandom world as well. With that said, this is my take on where Season 3 could go because I can't stop thinking about it and I'm hoping this helps for now haha. It involves the Metatron's plan, the Second Coming, and the fate of our favorite ineffable husbands.
With all that said, I hope you...
Enjoy!
Time Out of Mind
A chaotic explosion of color caught Aziraphale's eye, startling him out of his harried flight. Clutching the stack of memos to his chest, he squinted into the darkness of space. Had it always been so dark? Another crash of color flashed, and redirected his attention to a small pocket of swirling matter in the not too distance. Looking around, he considered exploring, an inexplicable urge encouraged by a coalescence of blues and purples into a nexus. The papers scrapped his fingers and unflinching duty reasserted itself, he had all these orders to get out before God spoke Her greatest creation into life. Something about getting back on schedule after the Fallen had been banished. His shoulders slumped in disappointment, and he made to turn, before another detonation – golden yellow, this time – shown off to his left, painfully unique in the exquisite way the colors blended and crashed. Creation in its purest form.
Aziraphale was awestruck. If that was what it was going to be, it would be a shame to allow such a stunning display to happen without a spectator. Curiosity won out and Aziraphale darted over to the nebula. Now, where have I heard that before?
He couldn't really be late anyway, time was more of a ball – moving backward and forward and rubberbanding around – surely, She'd give it real meaning eventually, but for now, who'd know? He stopped shy of the loose ring of dancing dust and watched as matter and gas merged; twirling, colliding, and collapsing into bright pinpricks of light.
It was mesmerizing.
And inexplicably comforting, even if the reason for the feeling was as out of reach as the individual particles flicking at the far edges.
But most confusingly, it was excruciatingly familiar. Where comfort flitted harmlessly on the edges of his mind, familiar knocked about his soul without finding the place it fit.
Aziraphale shook his head at the realization and nervously looked back to the path he was meant to be taking. No pinprick of angel light betrayed his dereliction. He turned back to the nebula, determined to enjoy it's creation. It's what he had come over for in the first place. A churning storm of whites and golds provided a distraction as a silent, concussive burst showered the area with streaks of light. Momentarily forgetting his struggle, Aziraphale marveled at the exhibition. "It's gorgeous," He breathed out conversationally, glancing to his left. No one answered. His brow furrowed, why'd I say that out loud? Nervously clutching the stack of papers closer, the angel watched another swirl of gas expand and pop, throwing sparkling gold dust across the expanse. He surveyed the star factory around him, quietly enjoying the delightful explosions.
He would never be able to say how long he had watched, but when he finally got back to rubberbanding deadlines, it was difficult to shake the bittersweet pang that bothered him for the rest of…there wasn't really a word for it yet, but for a long time after.
The Garden of Eden
A snake seemed the most devious of creatures. Or at least it sounded like the most devious of creatures. Even the rhythm of the word evoked its devilish nature. They were quiet, and sneaky, and didn't have to bother with something as exhausting as walking. Plus, it was the only animal's name he had actually paid attention to and Crawly quickly realized that he liked slithering – seemed like a thing a demon should do.
His first few – what were they called? Oh yes, days – in the garden, he stretched his new senses. The prospect of exploration sparked an intentionally quashed sense of inquisitiveness. He had learned painfully that Heaven wasn't too keen on the characteristic and there wasn't much to explore in Hell so the chance to be in a world where they were only somewhat in charge encouraged the ingrained trait. Plus, the chance to smell and hear anything that wasn't the burning pits of sulfur, and the depressing cries of torment was a welcome change. It was quite dreary, Hell – obviously there was a point to it – but the fact that a couple of questions had landed him there chaffed worse than the shale he had quickly learned to avoid at all costs. He still had time – weird concept that it was, the sun went down now – before he needed to tempt someone with something, so he took the opportunity to satiate at least some of his curiosities. It couldn't hurt.
He tried eating. Plants first. It was what the other creatures had been doing, but not many were to his liking. The best was a small, round thing that grew in bunches and had a quite springy shell around a slightly biting pulp. He had spent two days following Adam and trying to learn its name but he missed it when the Satan-forsaken human took too long naming everything else: oranges, apples, pears, and on and on and on. Crawly resolved to figure it out eventually. Once he had eaten all the plants, some of the smaller animals caught his attention. What would they taste like? None of the others seem to be eatin' them. That experiment ended quickly when the first thing he caught – a small, furry creature with a naked tail – tasted disgusting. And to add insult, when he had spit it out, it whacked his eye with that tail. It didn't so much hurt as it was annoying.
Done with the eating experiment but still liking the concept, he started flicking his tongue out and found he could taste the air. Pick up on the smell of bright petals and green leaves same as fruits and trees as it were. It was a nice habit.
Exploring went along with all the rest of his experiments and he eventually learned the ins and outs of the Garden. Knew which trees were the best for climbing and which ones had the weakest limbs – even if they looked heavy enough to hold his weight – and where the edges of the Great Gate actually were. It was a massive construction with smooth walls that looked almost like they could reach Her if they just stretched a little farther. Or maybe he was just a bit smaller – and far lonelier– than he remembered being in a long time. That thought set him off and for multiple – days, months, years, he wasn't sure – he found a sunny spot high on a hill and fell asleep, all curled in on himself.
It only felt like a moment and when he woke, he stretched slowly, working the knots out of his muscles, and surveying the Garden below. It seemed like more was moving than had been before. He tasted the air. New smells that he didn't recognize wafted in on the breeze. A spark of excitement flickered through him. Blinking to clear his misty gaze, Crawly caught sight of a hill that wasn't there when he fell asleep. It was shorter than the one he occupied, with far less foliage, the exception being a thin tree that seemed to vaguely glow. Crawly shivered at the site of it.
It wasn't just the tree either, on the top of each wall, an angel stood stock-still, a flaming sword clutched in their right hands. Crawly hissed at the heavenly intrusions. Of course, he couldn't just tempt in peace. His attention was drawn back to that weak sapling. He slithered out of the warming sun and into the shadows.
The mysterious tree grew on.
Crawly spent the next few days watching the angels on the gates. One thing he quickly realized was that they couldn't actually see each other and not because they were focused on the Garden or because weren't trying, but because the walls were just too big. They could maybe catch glimpses of each other's swords, but no one seemed to notice when one would sit or leave his post entirely.
The one that would, by the way, was the Angel of the Eastern Gate.
It was because of that angel, Crawly realized how thinly spread they were. One day when he was crawling beneath the wall, he happened to see a pair of feet dangling over. It was different and intriguing and, once he had climbed into a high enough tree, he realized that the angel was sitting on the edge of the wall. He was gently kicking his feet against the stone, the extinguished blade rested next to him, and all the while a small smile curled across his face as he surveyed the greenery below. Very unangel-like. Crawly tipped his head, his tongue flicking unconsciously.
The tree sprouted its first full leaves and budding flowers pricked on the limbs.
Crawly could feel its pull to the depths of his cartilage, but it was the Eastern Gate that demanded his attention.
As the days slipped by, he spent increasingly more time near that Gate because there was something comforting about an angel that didn't act like an angel. That and the others were boring. Always on guard, flaming swords at the ready. Yet, no matter how many times he slithered past, Crawly could never quite figure out what they were guarding, he was already here, and the humans couldn't climb the wall, but there they stood all gleaming and alert and not seeing anything in front of them.
Not like the Eastern Angel. He liked to walk among the trees. Once he had even told Crawly that his scales were quite beautiful. It had meant more than it should have, but he quickly sidestepped that when he thanked the angel. That was the day Crawly realized snakes – or at least he – had a voice. It was a bit raspy and hissing, but it worked.
The next time they ran into each other, they found a sunny hill and talked until the sun went down. Angels and demons were of the same stock after all, they just dressed a little differently. And acted a little differently. And demons asked a few more annoying questions. But the Eastern Gate Angel, Aziraphale as he had introduced himself, didn't seem to mind and Crawly appreciated the conversation – the other snakes were so dull. Eventually, Crawly gave up exploring the whole of the Garden and stayed exclusively at the Eastern Gate.
Given the numbers of times Aziraphale ended up in the Garden, Crawly had to imagine none of the other Angels realized it. Or if they did, they didn't seem to care. Altogether, they seemed like pretty terrible guardians.
The first blossoms fell off the Heavenly tree.
Present Day
Numb.
He was numb.
And exhausted.
And heartbroken.
His feet carried him forward, and he accepted congratulations offered through gritted teeth, but it was all he could do to keep what he hoped was a convincing smile on his face. This was what I wanted, he told himself for the hundredth time since he had gotten into the elevator. He wanted to be in Heaven. With Crowley. Aziraphale squashed the traitorous thought and focused on the Metatron's suddenly monotone voice - he had been much more animated at the table, surely – as he led him through the various interior spaces he had never before been able to access.
They were dull – all white walls and snappy white marble floors – empty things that held hints of promises and miracles that had long been moved out for the sake of a sleek image.
His cheeks hurt from smiling when he was sat at the right hand of the Metatron. Around him were angels he recognized and others he didn't, but all of them were wearing smart white and cream suits, closer to the current human fashion than his dated jacket and tartan bowtie. Aziraphale self-consciously straightened his vest.
"Ranking angels, may I have your attention," The Metatron spoke softly, but with barely a self-assured utterance, he commanded the room. He gestured to Aziraphale, "I would like you all to meet the new Supreme Archangel, Aziraphale, formerly the Angel of the Eastern Gate of Eden and wielder of one of the famed flaming swords." He cleared his throat and folded his hands before him seriously, "For those of you who are unaware, Gabriel has stepped down from his position to pursue…other endeavors. Aziraphale has agreed to take his position." The Metatron smiled calculatingly at Aziraphale before he continued, "He has a unique understanding of the humans, and we will need his expertise as we work to achieve Her ineffable plan."
The meeting continued apace, all pleasantries and names and titles. Aziraphale's attention slipped until he could hear Crowley scoffing at the increasing ridiculous designations – Dominion of the Mount, Holder of the milk tooth and tears of Jesus. Angel, does your lot have nothing better to be doing? He could hear the familiar voice like the demon was sat behind him, but when he instinctively glanced over his shoulder, it was bright sunlight with no hint of a shadow. His smile fell into a blank expression as he tried his best to focus and appear engaged but when the Metatron had to say his title three times to get his attention, it was clear he failed. Seemingly to save face, the Metatron asked, "Is there anything you would like to say Supreme Archangel Aziraphale?"
Aziraphale cleared his throat and straightened. Plastering on the fake smile, he raised his voice, "I thank Her for all Her blessings, few angels have the opportunity to serve closely with the Voice of God and I appreciate the chance. Thank you for all your well wishes and I hope I'm able to live up to Gabriel's high standards." Yours are higher, Angel. Aziraphale blinked a few times, holding back the tears that threatened.
The Metatron narrowed his gaze slightly, his jaw working before he turned back to the gathered Angels, and said with faux kindness, "I appreciate the time you all took. If everyone but the archangels could excuse us, there is much to discuss." A choir of dominions, thrones, and empires stood and exited the space, seemingly disappearing into the scattered illumination that served for windows in this perpetually glowing world.
As the others filed out, Aziraphale glanced to his left and had to squash the feeling of sorrow when he saw Michael's impeccable posture and sharp white suit. The feeling of profound loss knifed through his soul, cutting dangerously close to Her love. He turned his attention to where his clutched hands rested on the table. He could feel her seering gaze but couldn't muster enough care to meet it.
Once all the lower ranking angels were gone, the Metatron raised his voice, "You will need to be more attentive, Aziraphale." His words were far kinder than his withering tone, "We need to discuss the Second Coming and that cannot be done unless all those with an important role to play are committed." He glanced across the table at Uriel and then to Michael, before landing again on Aziraphale, "Are you up to the task or would you prefer your bookshop and that demon?"
Yes. The simple answer lingered on his tongue before the slamming of a door and the Metatron's disgust at the suggestion broke his distraction. Sick to his stomach, Aziraphale cleared his throat, and put on a determined smile, "I'm up to the task, Your Grace. It is still shocking to imagine being asked to step into Archangel Gabriel's sandals and I'm not sure I've completely come to terms with it."
"Of course," The Metatron said with all expected understanding and biting disappointment. He looked to the others, "Let's end here for now. There is still time before the Plan begins in earnest, and discussions would be most beneficial when all are present. Perhaps we should allow Supreme Archangel Aziraphale a chance to settle into his position." The threat of displeasure was clear in his words, but instead of continuing, he stood and left.
Aziraphale caught Michael's vague appraisal, somewhere between mortification and disbelief, before she pushed back from her seat to follow. Uriel did the same.
And suddenly, it was quiet. The sun was still blazing through the opaque windows, but Aziraphale felt so very tired. His arms felt too heavy for his shoulders and his heart too leaden to continue to beat. He had never understood Crowley's propensity to sleep, but as the lethargy settled in, the need for a darkened room where he could read by lamplight while a certain demon dozed next to him, felt almost like the listlessness of weariness Crowley had always described.
Looking around and finding no one, Aziraphale slumped over the table. Pillowing his head in his arms, he could no longer hide the wave of exhausted tears. As he sniffled into his sleeves, the first inclination of his horrific mistake started to take hold. While he cried, the oppressive silence settled around him. There were no nightingales here either.
Crowley drove. No destination in mind, just anywhere that wasn't Soho. Anywhere where he would never have to see a book or a cup of hot chocolate, or a specific type of tartan again. His knuckles tightened as he gripped the wheel hard enough to dent the leather – damn the humans and their proclivity to sentimentality – he should have never said anything.
You go too fast for me, Crowley.
How many times had he seen that played for truth?
Repeatedly was the god's honest answer. He growled at his own idiocy as the first strains of another song started on the Bentley's rebellious radio, "There's no time for us. There's no place for us. What is this thing that fills our dreams, yet slips away from us."
"Oh, shut it." Crowley growled as he snapped the dial off for the third time since he had left London. "It's not changin' anythin'. Might as well quit tryin'." The M25 was still a mess of a roadway but Crowley simply drove in the berm. A few cheeky drivers tried to block his cheating, but there was little a car that had survived the flaming ruins of the same roadway couldn't get away with. If his time-saving antics burned a bit of rubber and scratched some paint, he could fix it later. Pushing the speedometer beyond what it could measure, Crowley drove.
And that's the first chapter :) I hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to let me know what you thought in the reviews!
I hope you all have a wonderful night/day and stay creative!
- Lily
