"Perhaps once your memories are cleansed and you're restored to your former self - the noble, good, well-behaved angel that once created nebulae- you'll be more eager to assist us."
CHAPTER 54 Negotiation
Amidst the bustling college corridors and the soft patter of spring rain outside, Crowley's office stood as an island of tranquillity. The soft hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a subtle glow on the yellowish-grey surface of Crowley's desk. Unseen to the eye, the tension in Crowley's muscles betrayed his anticipation, the rhythm of his tapping fingers the only audible sign of his restless energy.
If not for the soothing cadence of Aziraphale's voice flowing through his phone, the demon would have paced restlessly. Crowley's eyes constantly flicked toward the wall, seeking solace in the knowledge that Aziraphale was on the other side. It transformed the small, orderly space into a haven amidst the chaos that was surely to come.
"Crowley, my love, I must admit I'm feeling rather uneasy about this whole situation," The subtle tremor in Aziraphale's voice traveled through the phone, a delicate dance of nerves revealing his unease about the situation.
Lounging in his office chair, Crowley's long legs sprawled out before him like a discarded ragdoll. Papers were scattered haphazardly across his desk, the edges curled and dog-eared from frequent handling. "Come now, angel," he said with a smirk, his voice smooth as silk to put Aziraphale at ease, "We've weathered stormier skies than this. It's just a minor setback, a tiny hiccup in the grand scheme of things. And besides, we've got everything under control."
Aziraphale let out a hesitant chuckle, his voice laced with a touch of nervousness. "Oh, I do hope so, Crowley. Dealing with archangels can be such a... well, you know."
Crowley's response was immediate, his tone playful and lighthearted. "I know, I know. They're a bunch of stuffy, self-righteous prigs. But don't worry, my angel. After it's all over, we'll celebrate with a nice dinner at our favorite restaurant. That should take your mind off the drama."
The suggestion seemed to ease Aziraphale's apprehension, if only a bit. "Dinner does sound lovely, my love. Perhaps the linguini at that quaint little Italian place?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of the Ritz," Crowley replied, his voice dripping with charm.
The line filled with static for a moment before Aziraphale's voice returned, his interest piqued. "The Ritz? Really? Oh, that sounds wonderful!"
Crowley shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, you know. You always did fancy dining at the Ritz, didn't you?"
Just then, the door to Crowley's office burst open, and he shot an irritated glance at the unwelcome visitors who had barged in without so much as a knock. "Sorry, angel, I've got to hang up. It appears I have some unexpected guests who require my attention."
"Good luck, my dear, I'm right here." Aziraphale whispered through the speaker.
Crowley let one of those smiles he kept for Aziraphale alone and crooned at his phone, "Love you too, angel." With a feigned casualness, Crowley pressed the button to end the call, but instead, he slyly activated the speakerphone, leaving the phone face down on the table. A mischievous smile played on his lips as he faced the archangels.
The ambiance changed instantly, tension replacing the calm that had filled the space moments ago. Raindrops pattered softly against the window, creating a backdrop to the impending storm within the room. Saraqael and Michael had already entered, their presence filling the room with an air of authority.
Despite the invasion, Crowley remained seated with a facade of nonchalance. His limbs askew behind the cluttered desk, he maintained an air of casual indifference, the intensity in his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.
A single eyebrow arched in irritation, a silent protest etched on Crowley's features, the lines of his face reflecting the annoyance that lingered beneath his sunglasses. "Well, look who decided to drop by uninvited, despite I rejected the proposal to collaborate," he quipped, sarcasm dripping from his words. "To what do I owe the pleasure, your name was… Saraqael?"
Saraqael's response was stern, a practicality that contrasted with Crowley's playful demeanour. "Crowley, we've been through this before. We need your help, and it's not up for negotiation."
Leaning further back, Crowley propped his feet up on the desk, maintaining his defiant stance. "I think I made it clear the last time we spoke that I'm not interested. What makes you think anything's changed?"
"I'm not here to play games, demon. This is serious, and Heaven needs your assistance. We have a crisis," Saraqael asserted, her disapproval clear.
"A crisis? I know about that; I'm working on it. But I'm still not in the business of all the foolishness you requested from me. So, unless you've got a really good reason to stay, I suggest you leave," Crowley retorted, a subtle defiance in his tone.
The wheelchair moved forward as Saraqael frowned angrily, "We know you have your memories. You must help us; I'm sure you wouldn't want Earth destroyed either."
Palms up, Crowley fought back a smile, "Nothing this poor professor can do about it." He wasn't going to give them anything for free; the plan was to secure Aziraphale and his safety.
Michael, with an air of cold authority, stepped forward. "Crowley, we know you've regained your memories. You made Aziraphale's underwear disappear." They wrinkled their nose while Saraqael's shuddered, "There's no use pretending otherwise. And we need your knowledge and skills to fix the meteor mess." Michael went on leaning over the desk in an attempt to loom over the demon.
Crowley's mask slipped for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he gazed at Saraqael. "Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It seems you've finally figured it out. I must say, I'm impressed." He sighed, resigning to the reality of the situation. "Fine, I have my memories back. A meteor will destroy Earth, and why should I care?" He waved dismissively, a smirk playing on his lips for good measure.
Undeterred by Crowley's attitude, Saraqael sneered at him, "You live on Earth, serpent!"
He leaned back in his chair, his smirk growing wider as he folded his arms across his chest, "It takes a special kind of idiot to realize that the world is about to end and decides to threaten me with it." His smile widened as Crowley maintained eye contact with Saraqael, ignoring the other archangel looming dangerously over his desk. "I can whisk Aziraphale and go to Alpha Centauri; I'm sure Gabriel would be delighted to see us."
The room grew quiet, the tension between the three of them palpable. Saraqael's eyes never left Crowley's face, her expression dark and foreboding. "We'll erase your memories again," she warned, her voice low and calm. "And you'll lose Aziraphale forever."
Crowley's grin wavered for a fleeting instant, but he quickly regained his composure, letting out a robust laugh that resonated throughout the cramped office. "Go ahead, try if you must," he challenged, his eyes sparkling with defiance beneath his shades. "Erase our memories a thousand times, and we'll still find each other. Our souls are bound, an unbreakable tie."
Michael's countenance turned stern, their voice laced with a veiled threat. "Perhaps once your memories are cleansed, and you're restored to your former self - the noble, good, well-behaved angel that once created nebulae - you'll be more eager to assist us."
The air grew heavy with tension as Michael's menace lingered, sending a shiver down Crowley's spine. The demon's eyes widened beneath his sunglasses, watching as a cunning plan took shape in the archangel's mind. Michael's lips curved into a sinister smile, their eyes gleaming with malevolent intent.
Saraqael, practical and obedient, extracted a sleek, crystal-clear phone from her light grey suit. Its surface glimmered ominously in the fluorescent office lighting. "Shall I proceed, Michael?" she queried, her tone infused with a sense of duty.
Crowley's heart raced; it was not a threat, nor bravado. It was a soldier asking his superior if he should pull the trigger. The weight of impending loss pressed heavily on Crowley's chest, the fear of returning to the emptiness of forgotten memories clawing at his consciousness. He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't let that happen.
Michael, towering above the desk with unyielding authority, gave a curt nod. "Proceed, Saraqael."
As Saraqael's hand moved over the phone screen, Crowley felt a chill run down his spine. He watched in horror as the archangel's finger hovered over the device that would erase his identity forever. Time seemed to stretch out like a rubber band, each second feeling like an eternity, as Crowley's mind scrambled to find a way to halt the inevitable. The threat of losing Aziraphale and himself became a possibility, a reality he was unwilling to face again.
But before he could even formulate a plan, Crowley's body took matters into its own hands. With a fluid grace that belied his panic, he launched himself over the cluttered desk, his long limbs unfurling like a striking snake as he closed the distance between himself and Saraqael. The room around him blurred into a haze of chaotic colors and shapes; the only thing that mattered was reaching Saraqael before it was too late. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins like a raging river, fueling his determination to save himself and Aziraphale from the brink of annihilation.
Saraqael looked up, taken aback by Crowley's sudden attack. But Crowley didn't give her a chance to react. With a strength born of desperation, Crowley lunged at Saraqael, his hands outstretched to grab the phone and prevent the irreversible act from occurring. The sound of their bodies colliding was like a thunderclap, the impact sending shockwaves through Crowley's body as they toppled to the floor.
The two of them struggled, their hands locked in a fierce battle over the sleek crystal-clear device. The sound of crumpling paper and rustling folders filled the room as they fought, their bodies straining against each other.
Aziraphale's heart raced as he listened through the phone, his grip on the device tightening with every threatening word from Michael. The intensity of his love for Crowley deepened the fear of Crowley being stripped away from the ethereal bond they had forged.
"Perhaps once your memories are cleansed, and you're restored to your former self—the noble, good, well-behaved angel that once created nebulae—you'll be more eager to assist us," Michael's distant voice threatened, sending a chill down his spine.
The familiar fear from a past Aziraphale thought they had left behind returned with a vengeance. The idea of Crowley losing his memories, of being forced back into the mold of a 'good' angel, sent shivers down Aziraphale's spine. The thought of losing Crowley again was unbearable.
Saraqael's voice followed right after, reaching Aziraphale's ears with a piercing intensity, "Shall I proceed, Michael?" the archangel asked. Aziraphale's eyes widened, and he clutched the phone tighter, his breath catching in his throat.
Aziraphale's heart skipped a beat. Was this a dire situation? Should he intervene? The decision hung in the air like a heavy fog, and Aziraphale couldn't bear to be confined within the suffocating walls of the office any longer, knowing Crowley was in danger. He stepped out, the weight of dread pressing down on him, blood drained from his face. He couldn't lose Crowley again, not now after they repaired everything.
"Proceed, Saraqael," Michael ordered.
With the decision made, Aziraphale couldn't stand idly by. Hastily stepping out of the office, he felt the weight of dread pressing down on him. The corridor was eerily quiet, with the faint rustle of students' footsteps and the distant murmur of classrooms blending into a hushed hum. Two swift steps, and Crowley's office door swung open, the sight that met him only intensified his anxiety.
"No!" Crowley's defiant shout resonated through the room, his voice filled with determination. "You won't take this away from me! Not again!"
The struggle unfolded before Aziraphale's eyes as Crowley, in a burst of determination, tackled Saraqael. The two figures crashed to the floor in a tumultuous collision, the sound of the overturned wheelchair reverberating in the room along with Crowley's hisses and Saraqael's grunts. Aziraphale contemplated the scene with trembling hands, a tightness in his chest, and a chilling sensation down his spine.
The office, barely spacious enough for a couple of angels—let alone three—and a demon, descended into chaos. Papers fluttered through the air like rebellious spirits, folders cascaded from the lonely bookshelf, and the wheelchair crashed sideways against it, dislodging forgotten files and celestial tomes. Aziraphale, caught in the crossfire, narrowly avoided a visitor chair sent careening by Crowley in the midst of his wrestling match with Saraqael.
Outside, the storm raged on, the gentle patter of raindrops against the window transforming into a relentless downpour, mirroring the internal tempest within the office walls. Amidst the bedlam, Aziraphale's eyes fixed upon Michael. The archangel exuded an air of calculated detachment as they retrieved their celestial phone from the inner pocket of their finely tailored grey suit.
Aziraphale's heart raced with trepidation as he comprehended the gravity of the situation. The mere thought of Michael erasing Crowley's memories sent a wave of dread washing over him. He knew he had to act, and act quickly, to prevent such a calamity from occurring. But how? The question pulsed through his mind like a mantra, demanding an answer.
The sight of Crowley, defiant and determined, fighting to protect their shared memories, fueled Aziraphale's resolve. Unable to stand idly by, Aziraphale could no longer contain himself.
Aziraphale's eyes darted around the room, searching for anything that could help him stop Michael. His heart raced in tandem with the chaos unfolding before him. Fear for Crowley mingled with determination, creating a turbulent storm within his being. His gaze fell upon the scattered papers and files, and he quickly realized that they were no use to him. He needed something more substantial, something that could give him the upper hand against the powerful archangel.
In a split second, he scanned the room for a weapon, a lifeline. His eyes locked onto the bookshelf, and without a second thought, he seized a nearby folder. The action was instinctive, driven by a primal need to protect Crowley at all costs.
With a fervent cry of "No!" that cut through the cacophony, Aziraphale hurled the folder with all the might he could muster, a precise throw that collided with Michael's outstretched hand. The celestial device, gripped firmly moments ago, tumbled from their hand, its crystal-clear surface now shattered into a spectacular explosion of fragmented pieces, scattering across the floor.
The struggle momentarily halted. Silence momentarily claimed the office, broken only by the rain that drummed relentlessly against the window. The shattered remains of the phone lay at Michael's feet, its once-crystal-clear surface now fractured and powerless. Aziraphale, heart pounding, met Michael's gaze with unwavering resolve, a declaration that Crowley and he were willing to fight, come what may.
The disruption caused by Aziraphale's intervention drew a sneer from Michael, "What are you doing?" Michael's stern voice sliced through the tension, laced with anger. "This is for your own good."
"My own good?" Crowley's defiant words cut through the atmosphere like a blade, igniting both comfort and worry in Aziraphale's soul. As Crowley straightened himself, shielding Aziraphale protectively, the angel felt a mix of gratitude and apprehension. The stakes were higher than ever. "Do it, erase my memories. My angelic self will not help you either. He will have too many questions, too many to be answered in the short time Earth has."
Michael's sneer remained, an unyielding expression that belied the archangel's certainty. "We are Archangels. We know what's best for everyone." Aziraphale couldn't help but bristle at the arrogance.
"Yes, that's why your lot needs me?" Crowley spat out, his words laced with sarcasm and disdain.
Visibly offended, Saraqael snapped her fingers, righting the wheelchair and standing up. She straightened her suit, dusted it off, and sat down, clearly affronted. "I'm tired of this nonsense." Anger flickered in her eyes as she slid her finger over her celestial device.
A glow emanated from Crowley's chest, revealing intricate sigils.
Then else nothing happened —absolutely nothing. Aziraphale recognized the sigils immediately—symbols of protection, connection, and true love. They were the remnants of the intimate night he had spent tracing them on Crowley's skin, an unconscious display of love and devotion for his husband. It was a testament to the strength of their connection.
"I'm still here," Crowley stated, a mixture of surprise and smugness in his voice.
"Try with the other one," Michael commanded, impatience creeping into their tone.
Without warning, Crowley lunged forward, snatching the phone from Saraqael's hand, "You're not going to erase his memories," Crowley declared, his voice firm and unwavering. "Not without a fight. Not if you want my help."
Michael gripped Crowley's wrist with an air of superiority, like a cat toying with its prey. With a serpentine twist of his own, Crowley reversed their positions, freeing himself from Michael's vice-like grip, and holding Michael's arm in a controlled lock. Thunder rumbled outside, punctuating the tension that crackled in the air, as a new demonic aura made its presence.
"Release them, Crowley," demanded a deep feminine voice from behind Aziraphale. Turning, the angel saw Dagon, the Master of Torments, closing the door with a resounding click. Her eyes shone a luminous blue. "Don't dare to hurt them; Michael is mine."
Feeling Dagon's arrival adding a new layer of intensity to the already charged atmosphere, Aziraphale noticed her eyes glinting with a dangerous intensity as she faced Crowley, her shark-like teeth bared, revealing her demonic nature. The office, already cramped, seemed to shrink even further as thunder roared in the background.
Taken aback by Dagon's sudden entrance, Crowley involuntarily released his grip on Michael's wrist. The archangel, rubbing their wrist, shot a glance at Crowley that held a mixture of defiance and annoyance.
The dim light from the storm outside cast eerie shadows on Dagon's fair, bluish skin. She sauntered closer to Michael, her movements confident and deliberate as she pushed Crowley aside to stand in front of the archangels. "If you want to hurt them, you'll have to go through me," Dagon declared, her voice low and dripping with a teasing undertone.
Michael, seemingly unpleased by the display of loyalty, placed a hand on Dagon's shoulder, gently pushing the demon to the side. "Everything was under control," Michael assured, their voice carrying an air of authority.
Watching the scene unfold, Aziraphale flicked his eyes to Saraqael, who in turn looked bewildered. "Why is the Master of Torments… protecting you, Michael?" she demanded with barely contained frustration, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.
Dagon hissed at Saraqael, glowing blue eyes still fixed on Crowley and Aziraphale. "Because Michael is mine," she spat, her words carrying a possessive weight.
Saraqael's gaze flickered between Dagon and Michael, searching for confirmation. "You're in alliance with a demon?"
"Indeed, we have a unique... understanding," Michael smirked, glancing briefly at Saraqael.
Fury simmered in Saraqael's eyes as realization dawned. "You too? You've been lying to me, to us," she stated, her anger barely contained.
"I've never disregarded any of my duties, Saraqael. I'm on Heaven's side as much as you are," Michael coolly replied.
"The Almighty would be disgusted by your association with a demon," Saraqael retorted, her voice filled with outrage.
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at Saraqael's proclamation. Inwardly, he couldn't help but ponder if the Almighty might find delight in such unconventional unions. She had blessed their marriage after all. "Perhaps the Almighty appreciates a little rebellion now and then," Aziraphale mused aloud.
"What's it going to be next? Sandalfon and Shax? Uriel and... and... Hastur?" Saraqael exclaimed, taking small sips of air.
"Nuh, uhh," Crowley interjected, "Hastur and Ligur were a thing for millennia."
Dagon's eyes gleamed brighter. "Yes, and you took it upon yourself to kill Ligur, not that I care, but Hastur has been unbearable ever since," she added, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. "But I can see Sandalfon and Shax."
Two conversations were happening at the same time, voices rising to be heard over the pouring rain outside, thunder rumbling, and wind billowing.
"I'm surrounded by traitors," Saraqael's eyes ablaze with fury as she almost yelled to the other archangel.
Michael clapped her hands together, "A touch of chaos keeps things… interesting." Dagon and Michael shared a knowing look.
"Interesting? You're jeopardizing everything we stand for!" Saraqael's voice cut through the air.
Aziraphale sensed tension building, the negotiations slipping away from the problem at hand.
"Enough!" Aziraphale's authoritative voice cut through the cacophony. "This is pointless."
Michael and Saraqael ceased their heated exchange, casting incredulous glances at Aziraphale. Michael, in their elegant grey suit, maintained a facade of composure, but a flicker of annoyance betrayed them as she asked, "Why won't you collaborate with us then?"
Aziraphale sensed Crowley tensing next to him, his spine getting suddenly taut as a bowstring, and a low pitched hiss accompanying the movement. "In exchange for?" Aziraphale prodded, taking charge of the negotiations.
"Offer Crowley a deal, in exchange for his help," Dagon proposed, her boldness cutting through the tension like a shark's fin in turbulent waters.
Aziraphale seized the moment. "We want to be left alone, at our own devices, to be able to live on Earth as we please," he declared, his voice steady.
With a mischievous grin, Crowley chimed in, "And you do not erase our memories." Aziraphale flashed him a reassuring smile, their hands intertwining.
A charged atmosphere crackled in the small office; Michael's typically cool and calculating eyes now revealed a hint of frustration. "And why would we grant you such leniency?" they questioned, their voice a sharp edge cutting through the tension. As tension rose, Aziraphale instinctively tightened his grip on Crowley's hand, silently urging for patience.
As their eyes locked in a steady gaze, Aziraphale stated, "Because it's what we desire—a peaceful life on Earth, free from interference. Surely, you understand the value of personal freedom." Aziraphale's voice remained steady, but a flicker of concern flashed in his eyes as he addressed the stakes involved. He knew Michael and Dagon were in a similar situation.
Tightening his grip on Aziraphale's hand, Crowley, with serpent-like eyes fixed on Michael, added, "And as for the memories, let's just say we've grown rather attached to them. Erasing them would be... inconvenient." Aziraphale couldn't help but feel a surge of protectiveness towards their shared memories, and he shot Crowley a supportive glance.
Dagon shot a conspiratorial look at Michael, "Well, it seems like a fair deal to me."
Observing the exchange with a skeptical eye, Saraqael challenged, "You can't make that decision alone. Granting those traitors a free pass… just to ensure their cooperation?" Her tone was filled with doubt.
Earnestly nodding, relief flooding through him, Aziraphale stated, "Our cooperation is contingent on these terms. We don't seek to cause trouble. All we want is to live our lives as we see fit."
Pressing on, still unconvinced, Saraqael asked, "Aren't you going to consult this with the other archangels, Michael?" Her eyes narrowed.
With a predatory grin, Dagon interjected, "I need the rest of the Dark Council to grant them such a deal. After all, decisions in Hell are not made unilaterally."
A sigh escaping them, Michael extended their palm towards Crowley. "Give me the phone; I will call Shax and the rest of the archangels." Aziraphale's heart picked up its pace again as he observed the exchange, uncertainty lingering in the air.
Hesitating for a moment, Crowley's eyes fixed on Michael's hand. "Alright, have it your way. But don't expect us to go down without a fight if you try anything funny." With a slight smirk, he handed the phone over to Michael. Aziraphale's heart picked up its pace again as he observed the exchange.
Taking the phone, Michael dialed a number, their eyes locked onto Crowley's. "Shax, it is Michael. We have a situation…" There was a pause as Shax replied on the other end. "Dagon is already here, but the rest of the Dark Council should be there too." Michael listened intently, their expression unreadable. "Yes, it is about the Second Coming, stopping it." Finally, they spoke again. "Very well. We'll discuss this further."
The mention of the Dark Council added a layer of complexity to the negotiations; Aziraphale's mind buzzed with concern. Their involvement introduced an element of unpredictability. A thread of concern for Crowley slithered through Aziraphale's thoughts. The demon, despite his devil-may-care exterior, faced scrutiny not only from Heaven but also from his infernal kin.
With that, Michael hung up the phone, and walked behind Crowley's desk, casually sitting on the demon's chair. Adopting a pristine posture, they made a second call. "Uriel? Aziraphale and Crowley are requesting a deal in exchange for their cooperation. You should come here with Sandalfon." Aziraphale's gaze lingered on Michael, a mix of gratitude and trepidation in his eyes.
Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging slightly. "Thank you, Michael. I appreciate your understanding."
Seemingly pleased with the outcome, Dagon nodded her head in approval. "Good. Then it's settled." She paced around the desk, and perched herself sideways on Crowley's desk, next to Michael. Aziraphale's eyes followed Dagon, a sense of wariness lingering beneath his composed exterior.
Thunder rumbled through the college corridor outside the office, each reverberation echoing the tension within. The door swung open, and in marched Uriel and Sandalfon, followed by Shax and Hastur. Their glares bore into Aziraphale and Crowley, accusing them of hideous crimes.
Shax's intense gaze fixated on Michael and Dagon. Michael, maintaining an air of calm authority, subtly placed a hand on Dagon's knee; the demon responded with a smirk of satisfaction, reveling in the subtle power play. Aziraphale's pulse quickened, a silent plea for diplomacy echoing in his thoughts.
Seating herself behind the vacant desk, Shax maintained her eyes trained on Michael's hand on Dagon. Hastur followed Shax and positioned himself behind her, emanating an aura of hostility Aziraphale knew was directed at them. The air was charged with the clash of celestial and infernal energies, and Aziraphale could almost see the sparks igniting between them.
Uriel and Sandalfon also stared at Michael, confusion written over their faces as they exchanged subtle but telling glances. Michael maintained proximity to Dagon. Uriel, with a furrowed brow and a disapproving expression, regarded the scene with thinly veiled disdain. Sandalfon, on the other hand, responded with a mixture of skepticism and subtle disapproval, looking intently at Saraqael, who just struggled in defeat. Aziraphale's emotions churned as he braced himself for the unfolding confrontation.
"So…" Shax began, hands neatly folded over the desk, head canted slightly to the side, barred incredible devilish pointed teeth lacing menace to her words. "…what's the problem, Michael?"
Michael, undeterred by the animosity, began to relay crucial information. Their face, usually a mask of calm authority, now bore a faint furrow between the eyebrows, a subtle indication of the gravity of the situation they were about to disclose. "The Metatron is orchestrating the Second Coming."
"That's not new." Hastur barked out.
"The Metatron is acting at his own volition, out of the Almighty's plans. He's stealing sinners' souls from Hell to bolster his power." Michael continued. A tense silence followed, punctuated by distant thunder. Aziraphale felt a shiver run down his spine, a visceral reaction to the revelation.
Shax, unable to contain her anger, erupted. "I've been reprimanded by Satan for a mysterious decrease in sinners sent to Hell!" Her accusatory tone hung in the air.
Michael continued, undisturbed by Shax's outburst. "A meteor is hurtling toward Earth, set to destroy it in a few months. This cataclysm is not part of the Almighty's plan, and it's in our best interest to prevent it."
Hastur dismissed the urgency with a wave of his hand. "This sounds like a Heaven problem, not ours. We were explicitly told not to interfere with the Second Coming." Aziraphale exchanged a concerned glance with Crowley, their shared apprehension unspoken but understood.
Dagon interrupted, her voice dripping with contempt. "Our orders were not to aid the Second Coming, but protecting Hell's souls and interests is a different matter altogether." She shot a quick, conspiratorial look at Michael, a subtle communication of understanding that Aziraphale saw as the relationship Azira had seen growing between them.
"Once the Earth is destroyed, there will be a war." Dagon continued calmly, "With our hordes diminished, and fewer souls than we should..."
With a grimace, Shax raised her gloved hand, "I get the picture."
Saraqael, in her usual grumpy demeanour, rolled her eyes. "We tried pressuring Crowley to help, but he's a stubborn one."
Seizing the moment, Crowley reiterated their terms. "We'll help stop the meteor and the Second Coming, but only if Heaven and Hell promise to leave us alone. No harm, no memory erasures. Ever."
"I could make that flashy bastard collaborate with something more than pressure." Hastur offered, Aziraphale sensed the genuine anger that permeated the demon's words and moved closer to Crowley unconsciously for support.
Saraqael shot back, "We tried pressuring him, as I said. It didn't work."
Crowley, standing firm, added his conditions. There was a protective instinct evident in the way he held Aziraphale's hand, a subtle yet powerful declaration. "I, we won't help until you promise not to destroy Earth and leave Aziraphale and me alone."
Visibly angered, Hastur smashed a fist against the desk, "He was condemned to death, then to memory erasure... you can't pretend to let him go unpunished... he destroyed Lingur, a Duke of Hell. There must be consequences."
"Aziraphale's alliance with the serpent is a blight on Heaven and Hell. They should be condemned." Sandalfon had a fierce glint in his eyes, his jaw clenched in resolve. Aziraphale couldn't escape the weight of judgment, his marriage scrutinized by both celestial and infernal forces.
Aziraphale's gaze shifted between the opposing forces, his heart heavy with the weight of impending decisions. His only hope was that they needed them more than they seemed to hate them.
Lips pressed into a thin line, Uriel nodded in agreement. "The fact that angels and demons are contemplating collaboration is disgusting. There must be consequences."
Hastur's head bobbed in enthusiastic agreement, their eyebrows furrowing as they spoke. "Absolutely. We can't let him get away with this."
As the debate raged on, Michael suddenly stopped the discussion in its tracks. "Wait a minute," he said, his voice calm but firm. "If this alliance is truly forbidden, then shouldn't we also punish Gabriel and Beelzebub?"
The room fell silent, the weight of Michael's words hanging heavy in the air. The angels and demons exchanged uneasy glances, their minds racing with the implications of what Michael had just suggested.
For a moment, it seemed as though time itself had frozen, as though the very fabric of reality was waiting for someone to break the spell. And then, as though unable to bear the tension any longer, a general shiver seemed to pass through both demonic and heavenly forces.
"And Dagon and me," Michael continued, his voice unwavering. "If this alliance was truly forbidden, wouldn't the Almighty have made us fall? Gabriel, Aziraphale, me?"
The question hung in the air like a challenge, daring anyone to answer it. The angels and demons shifted uncomfortably, their eyes avoiding each other's gaze. For they knew that Michael was right - if this alliance was truly forbidden, then they were all guilty of sinning against the Almighty, and they would have fallen.
Pondering the argument, Shax leaned back in her chair, fingers lacing together. "I suppose that's a fair point," she admitted finally, her voice measured and thoughtful. "I don't see why this... pastime should be a cause for concern. As long as everyone does their intended work, what's the harm?"
Aziraphale released the breath he had been holding, feeling a subtle sense of relief wash over him. Beside him, Crowley gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and they exchanged a quiet smile. Despite lingering skepticism among some, Aziraphale remained hopeful they would grant their request.
Michael stood before the assembly, their eyes scanning the room as they gathered their thoughts. The archangel took a deep breath, their chest expanding with a sense of purpose, and began to speak.
"It is time to refocus our attention on the task at hand, the problem that threatens to tear apart the very fabric of our existence," they declared, a pregnant pause allowing the weight of the words to settle. The room was silent, except for the faint sound of rain outside the office.
"The root of the problem is the Metatron," Sandalfon stated, his voice laced with conviction. "He has orchestrated all of this—the meteor that threatens to destroy Earth, the Second Coming that continues despite God's will."
Michael gestured expansively, their eyes blazing with determination. "The Metatron seeks to ensure Earth's downfall and secure victory for the heavenly Hosts. He desires nothing less than to be worshipped as a deity for all eternity, the sole ruler of a new Eden where only a select few humans will survive, and even fewer angels and not a single demon."
The archangel's words hung heavy in the air, casting a somber mood over the gathering. The gravity of the situation was not lost on anyone present, and a collective sense of urgency settled over the group.
Breaking the silence that followed Michael's pronouncement, Aziraphale asked, "So, what can we do to stop him?"
After remaining silent during the long exchange, Uriel spoke up, "We should ensure the heavenly Host doesn't protect the Metatron; he has been training them for it."
"Crowley, it seems, was the last one to know the whereabouts of Hell's untouched copy of The Book of Creation. A book that contains the detailed plans of God herself, outlining the destiny of Earth and all who dwell upon it," Michael's voice was steady, their tone measured and deliberate. They held up their hand, index finger tracing an invisible line in the air. "With it, we can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Metatron is manipulating the Book of Creation, twisting its words to suit his own purposes."
There was a pause; even the rain had stopped thumbing against the window panes as all eyes were, once again, on the demon. Crowley's voice cut through the silence like a knife. "I still have the book," he declared, his words dripping with smugness, "I won't give it to you if you do not commit to our terms."
Michael's gaze lingered on Aziraphale and Crowley, contemplating the implications of their requests. Finally, with a decisive nod, they conceded, "Very well. Do we agree to their terms? Earth is not destroyed. Their personal freedom and preserved memories in exchange for Aziraphale and Crowley's assistance." Michael paused, their eyes narrowing slightly, "And they relinquish the Book of Creation?"
One by one, the assembly voiced their agreement, the word 'yes' being repeated by all of the angels and demons gathered there.
Hastur, the last of the group to respond, hesitated for a heartbeat before voicing their decision. "Yes, I prefer being alive, I suppose," he said with anger, voice barely above a whisper.
With a deep breath, Michael nodded once more, their hands weaving intricate patterns in the air as a scroll materialized before them. "Then it is decided." The parchment was adorned with elaborate symbols and markings, each one representing a different aspect of the agreement that was about to be sealed.
One by one, the members of the gathering stepped forward to sign the scroll, their names written in bold, flowing script or dark trembling incandescence. When it reached Aziraphale's turn, Crowley approached too, only releasing the angel's hand to hold the other side of the document. The terms of the agreement were clear, laid out in plain language without any hidden clauses or subterfuges.
Concentration etched deep lines on Aziraphale's brow as he meticulously pored over the document. His breath, drawn in deeply, exhaled a quiet satisfaction as he signed his name with a flourish, a palpable sense of accomplishment settling over him.
Crowley watched with interest as Aziraphale applied his signature, his eyes gleaming with fierce intensity. As his turn arrived, Crowley ran his tongue over the tips of his fingers, generating a shower of sparks that danced across the surface of the scroll. With a mischievous grin, he signed his name in bold, cursive letters, the embers from his fingertips leaving a trail of fire behind them—a touch of devilish flair in every stroke.
As the final signature was added, the scroll glowed bright red, the ink drying instantly. The agreement sealed, its terms binding all parties involved. Michael meticulously rolled up the scroll, tucking it away with a definitive air, marking the conclusion of the deal.
"We need a strategy and must pray that the consequences won't be disastrous," urgency threaded through Uriel's voice. "Our first step should be to prevent the meteor from continuing on its destructive path. What is our next step in this plan?"
Fear tinged Saraqael's voice as she spoke up, "If Crowley manages to divert the meteor, the Metatron will certainly realize that something is amiss. And once he knows, we'll be helpless against him."
The group fell silent, considering Saraqael's warning. Aziraphale could feel the collective fear at the Metatron's wrath. Shax broke the silence, offering a solution laced with a grin that showed far too many of their pointy teeth. "We could try using hellfire to destroy the Metatron. It might just work."
Uriel shook her head. "I don't think that's a good idea. We can't guarantee that the hellfire would be powerful enough to eliminate the Metatron completely."
"What if we tried turning the Metatron into salt? It's a simple yet effective method," Sandalfon suggested another option.
Hastur snorted. "You want to turn the most powerful being in the universe into a pile of salt? That's absurd."
"How about we just zap him with a bolt of lightning? It's quick, painless, and would leave no evidence behind," Shax chimed in again.
Uriel sighed. "We'd be lucky if it even fazed him. No, we need something more...permanent."
The group fell silent once more, each member lost in thought. Finally, Hastur spoke up. "I have an idea. What if we cut off his wings? We could then banish him to another galaxy, far away from here."
Saraqael shook her head, not a glimmer of hope in her eyes. "That would just discorporate him. He would come back."
"What if we could erase his memories?" Aziraphale spoke up. "Make him a simple angel, an archivist perhaps, somewhere he can't do harm to anyone. Where he could not be tempted by power."
Saraqael countered, "But how can we be sure that would work? If we couldn't make Crowley forget, how can we expect to make the Metatron forget?"
Aziraphale's expression turned sheepish, his voice taking on a defensive tone as his hand searched Crowley's again, "I… I drew some sigils on Crowley, without even thinking, just pouring all my love into them. I don't think anyone has done so to the Metatron, so…"
With a dismissive smile, Uriel snorted derisively, "For something as simple as a sigil to protect the demon, it would have to be made of pure love."
Michael stepped forward, his voice calm and measured. "Actually, Uriel, when we tried to erase Crowley's memories, there were sigils glowing under his clothes."
"I doubt anyone could love the Metatron enough to do that," Dagon pointed.
Saraqael shook her head, her expression unconvinced. "Even if that's true, it doesn't necessarily mean that the Metatron will be affected by it. It's a powerful entity, remember?"
Shax leaned forward, her eyes burning with intensity. "Listen, we all know that the Metatron is basically indestructible. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. If erasing its memories fails, then we'll just have to resort to Plan B. We'll throw everything we have at it, every last bit of power and hatred. We'll fight it with every fiber of our being, and we won't stop until it's gone."