A/N

This is my first foray into a new Fandom and I am so excited to be here. My heartbreak from season 2 lingers. If yours does too, I hope this helps.

This fic is completely written and I will post the updates as it is edited.

Thank you to Kris who is my obsession buddy and fic wife. If you haven't read her new work, it is amazing! Go check it out.
archiveofourown works/50204599/chapters/126796237

Thanks for not only encouraging me, but also editing for me.
Thank you to Tanya for catching my Prepositions, even when I ignore you and leave them there anyway.

Ch 1 Angelic Cursing

The long ride up the lift was silent. Aziraphale kept a tight smile on his face even as the doors opened and The Metatron motioned for him to step out. Heaven, he was sure, had always been this white, this empty, but he never really thought of it as cold, until now. Perhaps bringing in a candle to set on his desk might help, but earthly objects were not found in Heaven. It was simply not done.

The Metatron led him down a hallway, if it could be considered as such. The rooms just bled into one another until the previous one was no longer in view. He passed by an empty desk and wondered absently if it used to be Muriel's. She wouldn't be needing it for a while. No, she would have the bookshop, and everything he'd left in it.

Aziraphale touched his lips absently; as soon as his fingers made contact he dropped them down again and straightened up. There was work to do. Crowley had tried to tempt him from doing what needed to be done, and even though he had already forgiven him completely for that, it didn't mean that he wasn't still hurt that he'd refused to come. Together they would have done so much good. But now he would have to do it alone. Everything was harder alone. It was partly why they'd teamed up in the first place, but he presumed that was over now.

"This will be your office, Aziraphale. I have taken the initiative to have the file of the Second Coming put on your desk. In it you will find God's will clearly stated and the role She wishes you to take in it."

"Yes, very good," Aziraphale said as he walked around the desk, choosing not to make eye contact.

"If you need anything…"

"That is quite alright. I think I'll just get myself settled." He tugged at the hem of his vest. Fidgeting was an earthly habit, but he didn't think he would be able to kick it. There was comfort in it and he needed that right now.

The Metatron made a non-committal sound. "I will leave you to it." And then he was gone.

Aziraphale sat down in his new chair at his new desk. He'd never worked in the offices of Heaven before. He had visited them for staff meetings and to check in on his progress throughout the millennia, but at base, he had always been a field agent, first in the solar systems and then when he'd been sent straight to Earth. While a chair had suited him well there, this hard rolling one was a far cry from the one Crowley would perch on the arm of.

Aziraphale closed his eyes. He had never quite understood Crowley's desire to sleep until now. He felt tired. Angels were not supposed to feel, well…anything, but that ship had long sailed. He sighed a weary sigh and focused on the folder in front of him. He rested his hand into it and it opened in several images in front of him, projecting into the very air itself.

He was surprised to see the first image was of him, standing in a crowd as the cross was erected and the people cheered. His face was bent towards a woman's, her back turned to whatever was capturing the image, with only a few locks of red hair flowing out the side of her hood. He couldn't see Crowley's face in this picture, but he remembered it clearly. They were the only two in the crowd who looked away. His own face he could see clearly and it was filled with doubt. He remembered wondering, how had this been part of the great plan?

As he swiped through the images, events displayed in front of him. Some he had been at but plenty he had not. Each projection showed anger and sin, people behaving their worst. To another angel, it would have been clear that ending the world was the right choice if they only had these to judge on, but Aziraphale had seen so much good in people in the six thousand years he spent on Earth.

He stopped on an image. If his senses hadn't been so attuned to Crowley, he might have missed it. In fact, he had missed him the first time around. It had been a simple riot, nothing as serious as a war, but the scene was the same as the others. People with hate on their faces and Aziraphale standing around trying to calm everyone. But off to the corner of the image, as plain as day, was Crowley. His glasses slid down his nose and his golden eyes peered not at the chaos, but at Aziraphale. A small smile was on his face, clearly amused that Aziraphale would try and talk down an angry mob. Aziraphale hadn't seen him that day. In fact, he didn't remember Crowley ever smiling at him that way back then. Why had they wasted so much time?

Aziraphale huffed, his heart too fragile, the feeling of Crowley's kiss still on his lips. "What is it you want me to do?" he whined out, frustrated.

The projected files shuffled themselves, reorganised at his command, and left only one.

Assemble the angels, go to earth and return with the righteous. Leave the rest for Jesus.

Aziraphale had only sworn twice in his life, and while this one stayed in his head, he counted it as number three.