Hey everyone,
For those of you who are still reading, thank you so much. I feel like this fandom right now has so many amazing stories out there and I appreciate you choosing to read mine. I've been having fun writing this, but at the same time, it's been one of the most frustrating pieces I've written. There's just so many ways to interpret what happened and I find myself going back and rewatching everything. Needless to say, it's been time consuming. But I'm babbling at this point so I just want to say that I hope you...
Enjoy!
Lizzie looked out over the expanse of the dark ocean and took a shaky breath. The waves lapped over her feet, burying her toes in a thin layer of sand only to wipe them clean again a few calming moments later even while the whole of her foot sank. The smell of salt on the light breeze was almost as comforting as the familiar motion, if only it didn't bring a chill that cut through her light fleece. Glancing toward the house and contemplating getting something warmer, the shiver that shot up her spine had nothing to do with the temperature. She crossed her arms over her chest instead and surveyed the clear sky through a hazy gaze. A shooting star streaked quietly across the midnight blue, and Lizzie brushed trailing tears off her cheeks, as she asked, "Can you make him stop saying those things, please?'
Unwanted but painfully unavoidable, her dad's vicious, angry words echoed loudly in her head, Why can't you be better, like your sister? I never had to deal with any of this shit from her. Are you really that stupid?
Tears filled her vision again, blurring the stars into expanded blobs of light. Sniffling into her sleeve, she wiped away the snot and tears and hiccupped back a rising sob. She couldn't let it break her anymore. She couldn't.
Your sister never needed fucking help with anything. Schoolwork, done. Laundry, never a thought. Dinner, on the table. Everything was always done around here when she was here. But now she's gone and you're all I got left. You're as useless as your whore of a mo…
Squeezing her eyes tight and throwing her hands over her ears, she screamed. Vengeful and heartbroken, the shattering wail of the tormented rent the night's peace. Her voice cracked as the power of her pain forced her to her knees in the surf. Burying her head in her hands, she sobbed. She was so exhausted. A whispered urge to swim out into the waves dropped like a flash in a pan. He would miss her then.
But she didn't. She couldn't let him break her. Trapped in the sinking sand, she stayed where she was. As her tears quieted, she rolled her head, and fell onto her back. The wet sand soaked into her clothes, but at least it felt like something. She couldn't let him break her. Turning her teary gaze up, she took comfort in the stars. They changed and rotated, all things did, but there was a sense to their movements, a reliability to their appearance at the same time every year. They bore out stories of resiliency and heartbreak, but they never wavered. They never broke. Lizzie silently traced the constellations she loved.
Capricorn.
Delphinus.
Aquila.
She tracked the lines that created Pavo as the waves continued to ebb, already at her hips. She shivered but refused to go back inside. Her mother's voice reminded her this was how she always got sick as a child, but her mother wasn't there. Not anymore and she couldn't let him break her. Another shooting star flicked against the midnight blue backdrop. Turning her head in the soft sand, she muttered, "Can you make him go away all together?"
Another shooting star flared off to her left. Then her right. And overhead. As if an answer to her request, multiple flashes streaked through the sky, then more and more. Building, building until the sky was as bright as the noonday sun. A meteor shower?
Lizzie shot upright, her hands falling into her lap as she watched the bright sky in awe. It seemed like every star was falling. Like the forces of the universe had suddenly snapped into nonexistence. Like the world was crying with her.
And for a few heartbeats it was comforting.
Until one of the bright lights streaked just next to where she was sitting. It slammed into the beach. Instinctively, she flinched away from the burst of sand, covering her eyes, but once nothing jumped out of the hole, her curiosity got the better of her. Picking up a thin piece of driftwood, she dug out the hole to reveal the small meteoroid where it sizzled. Carefully, she rolled it out of its crater and stared as it caused the sand around it to sputter and pop. A part of her wanted to touch it, but she paid enough attention in science to know that she would burn herself if she did. Instead, she leaned onto her elbows and watched in fascination as it jumped every time it touched a new grain.
Looking up, she watched the lightshow. It was only then she realized not all of the meteors were burning up in the atmosphere. A heavy thud up the beach caused her to jump as she saw thin smoke rising out of a far more significant hole than the one she had extricated. More thumps hit the beach at a quickening pace. Like the Earth was suddenly pulling every piece of space debris toward it, and many were making it through the atmosphere.
Lizzie jumped to her feet and took a few steps back, her feet hitting the shoulder high grass that grew in the softer sand. Another asteroid hit the beach where she had just been standing.
Then another.
And another.
They started to pepper the ground with holes, many small but some frighteningly large. Lizzie took off running toward her house. She needed to get inside. A small part of her knew that it wouldn't make much of a difference if something like that hit her roof, but at the same time, it was the only logical decision. She leapt over broken driftwood and ignored the way her legs burned as she tore through the soft sand.
As she got within sight, a resounding crash and flash of light spun her round. Lizzie fell to her knees as she watched the small house explode in a burst of falling debris. Tears sprang again to her eyes as she curled her hands around her knees, becoming as small as she could. In the light of the meteor shower, she could just make out two walls of her house still standing. Surely, she was just looking in the wrong place? A small voice in her mind told her she wasn't. She pulled her knees so tight to her chest, it was hard to breathe. The thuds of space matter continued around her and, doing the only thing she could, she squeezed her eyes shut as every star in the sky slammed into the ground around her.
Did you miss me?
Don't get too excited, I'm not going to be long. I just wanted to remind you that nature has far more to do with nurture when it comes to making decisions than any other influence, especially when it comes to creatures that have free will. I know that psychologists still want to argue about it, but the curmudgeons who refuse to acknowledge it just haven't caught up. And probably never will. I can't say I haven't tried. Maybe I was just too vague?
Actually, scratch that, nurture has far more to do with nature for any sentient creature. And, interestingly, some rocks. You don't think the Himalaya's are growing every year because that's what their nature tells them to do, do you? They grow every year because they've been told they're the tallest point on the globe and they want to keep it that way. See, nurture is more important than nature.
Oh, but I've lost my train of thought, haven't talked to anyone in quite a long time...Just know that six thousand years is a long time to nurture a nature. Or to prove that nature is really more about nurture.
Does that make sense? I'm sure it does.
Diniel held his hand through the doorway. Aziraphale followed his invitation, acknowledging his effort with a quiet "thank you" and nod as he strode into the quiet room. If the fourth, unoccupied chair was any indication, he was the last to arrive. The Metatron watched him intently as he took a seat, but Michael and Uriel were slower to turn. Straightening slightly and flattening his expression, Aziraphale squashed the nervous butterflies in his stomach. Well, he shooed them away with a great effort. He inclined his head to the Metatron and looked to Michael. His eyes narrowed as he looked to Uriel.
Only to immediately look away. They were uncomfortable. Or pleased. It was difficult to tell. But both shared hard-set smiles, their shoulders held back rigidly as they met Aziraphale's gaze with unwavering intensity. It was unnerving. Aziraphale did his best to keep the concern off his face.
The Metatron pointedly glanced at the pair before settling his gaze on Aziraphale. His voice was a quiet demand when he asked, "Are you prepared to take on the responsibilities of your office, Aziraphale?" He raised his eyebrow in challenge and added, "If you are not, we will need to find someone who is."
Aziraphale's eyes widened only slightly – determination flared around his concern, he couldn't fail – but he only inclined his head, "I am ready, Your Grace." He didn't know all the problems yet, but he would fix them, and he needed to be Supreme Archangel to do that.
The Metatron smiled with his teeth, an enigmatic expression at best that didn't quite fit for no particular reason. His voice was an even temper when he said, "Good. That's good. Because the conversation of the duty roster needs to be finished, the quarterly rotation of principalities needs to be organized, and discussion of the approaching Second Coming still needs to be had."
Michael and Uriel both inclined their heads.
"Yes, you have mentioned that before," Aziraphale raised his voice authoritatively, "What is the Second Coming?"
"It is the final culmination of the Ineffable Plan." The Metatron said simply.
"Ah, yes. Of course," Aziraphale said, leaning forward as he unconsciously tried to encourage a bit more information. When the Voice of God was not particularly forthcoming, Aziraphale straightened and asked more pointedly, "But what does that entail? The Apocalypse was started by Hell-incarnate. What starts the Second Coming?" He internally winced at his ignorance, but no one had really given him much to consider.
"It has already started." The Metatron smiled that inscrutable smile. "And it will end with the restoration of the perfection She started with."
He couldn't decide if the Metatron was being specifically obtuse, and playing him for a fool, or if he didn't know any more about the event than the others did and was attempting to obscure that fact. Or something else entirely. It didn't help that Michael and Uriel nodded along with everything wearing almost manic smiles. Aziraphale inwardly sighed. He conceded to his ignorance, for now. He just needed to get up to speed, as the humans would say. Clearly, they weren't used to dealing with someone who didn't have the same information. Maybe they don't even know, Angel. Gabriel and Beelzebub didn't know anything about the Apocalypse, Crowley's sporadic monologue slipped in. He added the query to the list already in his mind and focused on the task at hand. He cleared his throat, "I suppose we should start with the duty rosters then." He smiled invitingly.
By the end of the meeting, Aziraphale's head was spinning. It had taken an eternity to get through the relatively short agenda. The duty rosters turned into an hours long discussion about who was on latrine duty – an asinine question given the fact that none of the angels used the lavatory – and who had to clean the dominions' offices when they were doing, whatever it was they do. None of the three were particularly forthcoming with that answer either. Aziraphale had suggested just miracling the problems away, but that apparently was too simple, for some reason. Again, no real reason was given.
The rotation of the principalities was worse. Too many wanted to come back to Heaven, but there weren't enough already in Heaven to replace them so they had to stay for another fifty years before they could reapply for furlough. Aziraphale suggested promoting some of the lower angels into principality roles. It would take them time to learn the quirks of Earth, but they would be able to do it. Muriel's awkward, but relatively quick appreciation for humans was a good piece of evidence of that fact. The others had agreed to table that discussion until the next meeting. They had instead agreed to extend the assignments, leaving everyone on Earth and rotating out no one. At least Aziraphale had waited to suggest getting rid of the roles altogether, he had a feeling that would've been ignored even quicker.
For a moment in the discussion, he couldn't remember when, a pang of pain hit him as he looked to his left for support and only saw Michael. He snarled. And quickly covered it.
It was all so very pedantic that when the conversation of the Second Coming finally came up, the little information felt like a godsend because it meant that the meeting was almost over. The flash of annoyance at his own impatience was quickly replaced by a torch of frustration when the only new information he gleaned was that a meteor shower on the western coast of the United States was one of the first signs of the coming…reorganization? Annihilation? Rearrangement? He still wasn't sure the form the final plan would take. But then the meeting ended with amens.
Michael and Uriel stood and strode out, a small bounce to both of their hurried steps, leaving only Aziraphale and the Metatron. The newest archangel looked to the Voice of God, who spoke first, "You clearly want to make changes in Heaven, Aziraphale, and She has empowered you to do so. Instead of asking for permission, start asking for forgiveness." The thinly veiled suggestion was quickly followed by an almost kind, "It is what we do, after all." Without waiting for Aziraphale to acknowledge the statement, the Metatron stood and disappeared out of the room.
The suggestion felt oddly disobedient, strangely slimy, and altogether tempting, but he still didn't know where to start. Aziraphale dragged himself back to the room he had coopted as his office, dropped into the chair, and grabbed another file off the stack. The need to understand what was going on kept his eyes open.
The starry blue-eyed gaze was clouded by tears, but the hand that held the flaming sword was as steady as his voice was vicious, "You have been judged wanting, demon."
The flaming blade cut into his corporation's neck as divine flames licked up the side of his face, blistering his skin. The air around him stunk with the acrid singe of hair. He wanted to defend himself, to say something, to beg for the return of some small tenderness but to the heart of him, he was afraid that if he said something now, his angel would go away. And he would take any level of agony to stay right where he was.
Aziraphale's face screwed up tighter in anger, but his eyes shown, cleared by the tears that tracked down his cheeks, "Say something!"
"I miss you, Aziraphale." Crowley admitted, stepping closer, his hands held still in supplication, even as he winced at the price the holy blade extracted.
"You can't." Aziraphale stormed, "You can't miss something you never had." His expression cracked, the tears falling quicker, but the sword didn't drop.
The words rent Crowley's already shattered soul, grinding the larger pieces into dust and the numerous fragments into oblivion. His own tears joined the angel's. He stilled and quietly swore, "I won't fight back." He grimaced causing the charred skin on his cheek to crack and crumble as the tears evaporated before they could fall. He choked on his next words, "Do whatever you need to do, Angel."
Crowley wasn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't the scorching burn of a blade through his stomach. It cut easily through his corporation, searing, and cauterizing before too much blood could leak out. Instinctively, he closed his hand on the blade, ignoring the way the holy fire scalded his hands. It burned like hellfire, but the cooling kiss of radiance only served to deepen the pain. He choked on his words, "Why?"
Aziraphale's hand finally started to shake as he let go of the blade as if the hilt had suddenly caught fire. Or he realized what he had done. Tears streamed from his eyes as he watched Crowley sink to his knees, all semblance of strength sapped out of him. The Supreme Archangel sank after him. His hands found Crowley's shoulders. Pulling him forward with exaggerated gentleness, he pressed a kiss to Crowley right cheek, his left, before laying his hands on the side of the demon's face and holding his gaze. "I forgive you."
The lingering hope that had sat coiled fragile and tight in Crowley's chest, maintained by the few remaining fragments of his soul, cracked and dulled. There never had been a them. Crowley slumped over the blade, his hands falling to his knees as his gasping breath came with more effort.
He was so exhausted.
Unable, or unwilling, to see the implication of his words, Aziraphale was suddenly in motion. With lightning quick movements, he pulled the sword free only to plunge it back in, cracking through Crowley's ribcage and skewering his heart. The demon choked, the taste of iron coated the back of his throat, and blood bubbled out of his mouth. Clearly, it was what he deserved. As his consciousness slipped away, he tried to internalize Aziraphale's tearstained face, he would never see it again. He knew he would never see anything again. Against his will, he fell back; he was looking up at the stars for the first time since he had fallen.
They shown in a blue light…
Crowley startled awake, rocking the bar chair onto two feet. One foot. He tried to balance it, but drowsy as he was, he couldn't find it and the last foot slipped. He followed the chair down. Crashing into the tile, he hissed at the pain that shot up his back. "What the hell was that?" He asked no one in particular, his hand falling to his spine as the cold fury and sorrow in Aziraphale's eyes stared at him from an ethereal plane.
His hand fell to his chest, unconsciously sure there would be a deep wound torn through the heart of him. He didn't find anything more than the stickiness of dried liquor, but that didn't stop his heart from hammering against his ribs like it was desperately trying to avoid skewering. "At least it's working?" he tentatively asked as he pushed up off the floor. Righting the chair, he slithered into it and dropped his elbows on the bar and his head in his hands as he tried to hold back inexplicable tears. He was decidedly unsuccessful. His back hurt and his legs kept spasming, but the phantom pain in his chest left him wanting to claw at the heavenly blade surely still embedded in his form.
Crowley never dreamed. For all the times he slept, for as imaginative as he was, Crowley never dreamed. But now, head in his hands and eyes closed, he couldn't push away flashes of the dream if he used all his demonic power. It was like it was a memory.
And he wasn't sure if he wanted to push it away. Aziraphale's tearstained face hung just behind his fingers, the searing punishment of the blade as it melted his flesh and cut through his bone lingered, shortening his breath, and tightening his chest. But even with all the pain, the stars were such a balm that he couldn't open his eyes. Instead with painstaking slowness, he pieced the dream together. Saw the anguish and anger on his angel's face, reveled in the pain he surely deserved. Dropping a hand, he rubbed at his chest, feeling the hollow hole the sword had left behind, as if it had cut something free.
Tears dripped onto the counter.
"How'd ya' get in here?" A voice echoed over the bar.
Crowley sniffed back his tears in surprise. Choking on the interrupted emotion, he split his fingers enough to grimace at the bartender only to slam them closed as the man flicked on the lights. Exasperated at the intrusion, Crowley's attention snapped to the mirror behind the bar. His eyes were red, and puffy, making his golden gaze more distinct, but he had no idea where his sunglasses were. His shirt was rumpled and his hair askew. Footsteps inched closer and Crowley panicked, snapping his fingers. The man abruptly veered away toward some ill-defined backroom. Crowley slumped onto the bar and tried desperately to scrape the pieces of himself into a box he could hide.
The man wasn't gone long, but it was enough time for Crowley to revert to his unbothered expression. He loosened his limbs and slumped over the counter like the drying tears under his arm weren't his. He was staring ahead in disinterest when the bartender leaned into his space, "Look, don't know how ya' got in here, but ya' clearly didn't take anythin' so next time, juss ask."
Caught off-guard at the suggestion, Crowley asked, "Are you offering to let me sleep here?" His brow furrowed under his miracled sunglasses; sure he had misunderstood the gesture. Humans didn't tend to like it when he broke into places, he wasn't meant to be in. Well, most of them didn't.
The bartender nodded, looking Crowley up and down with a look of pity that made the demon want to burn the entire bar to its foundation and dance on the ashes. The perfectly normal, demonic desire shook him to the core.
Unperturbed by Crowley's crisis of conscience, the bartender continued, "'no I keep askin' 'bout it, but are ya' sure there's nothin' ya' want ta' talk 'bout?"
Crowley sighed and finally dropped his hands on the counter with an exaggerated thud, looking the man in the eye, he said, "What's your name?"
"Ed."
"Well, Ed…" Crowley drawled, covering his panic in a bid to buy time as he figured out how to answer the very astutely asked question that a large part of him just wanted fully answer but not really to this human, and flipped the question, "What do you think is going on?" Crowley didn't expect an actual answer, he hoped, if challenged, the man – Ed – would just walk away.
Instead, Ed fixed him with that stare that Crowley had seen him do a few times before as he leaned away in thought. After a beat, he tipped his head and threw his chin forward, asking, "How long were ya' tagether?"
"What kind of question is that?" Crowley said in exasperation. Why did you tempt that?
"' been bringin' ya' drinks for two…" He scrunched his face and corrected, "three days now. Never seen ya' in here 'fore tha' and yo've said ya' were havin' a bad time." He nodded along with his assessment and explained, "Been doin' this long enough to put two 'n two tagether."
"Maybe he's dead." Crowley said flippantly.
Ed narrowed his gaze for a long moment before shaking his head, "Nah."
Crowley flicked his tongue against his teeth before he finally leaned forward and tipped his head toward the bar, "Gimme that Talisker and I might tell you."
Ed turned around in surprise, "' don't remember orderin' tha'…" He trailed off and pulled the bottle off the shelf. Dropping a mostly cleaned glass in front of Crowley, he poured a drink. It was less than a full pour. "Still early," he said by way of explanation. As he recapped the bottle, he elaborated, "Not early enough to not, but not late enough for full."
Crowley snatched the drink and downed it in a gulp before tapping the glass expectantly.
Ed put the bottle on the counter next to him instead. He pushed, "Ya' slept in my bar las' night, yu'r drinkin' whisky I didn't know I had, gonna tell me wha' happened?"
Crowley smirked with every intention of making up some ridiculous story just to prove the man wrong...only to be betrayed by his own tongue. He told Ed everything, edited only for the supernatural occurrences. The story, shortened as it was, took far longer than Crowley anticipated, but Ed listened, nodding where appropriate and asking clarifying questions when they were needed. He listened. And Crowley responded.
Until he was finished. For a long time after, the bar slipped back into its ancient creaking and Ed was quiet. He pulled at the ends of his stiff beard as his gaze drifted in thought. Abruptly he turned, poured himself a shot of tequila and downed it before leaning back on the counter. Fixing his gaze as securely as he could on Crowley's eyes, he asked, "Why'd ya' walk off?"
"Excuse me?" Crowley hissed. He leaned in, his gaze flicking under his glasses, as he snarled, "Did you listen to anything I said?"
"Did." Ed said unphased, "nd it sounds like ya' played a part, same as him. If he meant so much, why'd ya' leave like tha'?"
"There wasn't anything else I could have said." Crowley said, pouring himself another drink.
"Always sumthin' left to say until there isn't." Ed insisted, pouring himself the last of the Talisker. "Sounds like there was a lot more ta say."
Crowley growled at the assumption.
Ed raised an eyebrow, "Struck a nerve, did I? Seems ta me, ya' walked away without listenin' to what he was sayin'."
"He wasn't listening to me!" Crowley snapped, slamming the glass onto the counter so hard it cracked. He grumbled at the empty bottle between them as Ed took the pieces out of his hands.
Setting another on the counter, he asked, "So, what if he wasn't?" Ed shrugged; "Ya' weren't either. How're ya' blamin' him for the same thing ya' did?" He tipped his glass in Crowley's direction, "Ya' said ya' wanted to say what ya' wanted to say but he cut you off, did you listen to what he said before ya' said what ya' said?"
Crowley sputtered at the implications, but then Aziraphale's argument slipped through his mind, Oh Crowley, nothing lasts forever. He had done what he could.
Ed turned up his nose, "Seems like ya' need to talk fer real." He finished the whisky with a half-smile and quipped, "Maybe then ya' can stop hangin' 'round my bar like a lump."
Crowley sneered but before he could say anything else, the door opened to a few laughing voices. The four men, still wearing work uniforms that were only marginally brushed clean, threw their hands over their heads in greeting before taking seats at the other end of the bar. They kept talking amongst themselves, seemingly content to wait for their order.
Ed tapped the counter in front of the demon. "Think 'bout what I said." He looked him in the eye for a time that could be considered uncomfortable before he moved down the bar.
Crowley grumbled at the clearly wrong insight. What good had it done him to even bring it up? He angrily snapped his fingers, and the bottle before him refilled. Pouring himself a large drink, he sipped it as he watched people trickle in. Ed glanced in his direction a few times and Crowley shivered at his slinking unease. Choosing to hide from it, he ensured no one would remember him and no one would bother him.
It left him free to sit in the chair and drink as the world moved around him. And as the last people left for the night and the lights flicked off, the thought of putting his head down and sleeping terrified him; instead, he poured another drink.
The lingering starlight of two blue eyes ground a bit more of his soul into dust.
For four more days, Crowley haunted the bar, doing his best to drink slowly enough to keep from thinking between human occupations. It left him continually tipsy, uncontrollably jittery, and unbelievably bored, at least until he realized the sheer joy of introducing drunken humans to drunken, demonic mischief.
After hours, it quickly became habit for him to slither around the bar and plant small traps for the humans to come across: a chair leg that was centimeters too short, a table with a few screws pulled free so it wobbled annoyingly, a few pool cues that were only held together by the stickiness of the bar, and rows of glasses precariously placed on a slightly tilted shelf.
Then he would watch with overblown glee as the humans found his tampering, roaring with laughter as a drunk patron toppled out of the chair or abandoned the pool game all together; beaming when the shelf finally gave way, and everything shattered. But as the practice dragged on and the laughter felt more forced, he caught himself considering far more violent incitements. Only Ed's kindness stemmed those. And for all the manic façade, as the humans left, there was little left to do but drink in the dark and avoid blue starlight.
After nearly a week, Crowley finally went too far. His vision wobbled more than he intended, the whisky and wine he had been drinking blended a bit more intensely than he imagined they would. The candle that he assumed would only sputter against the man's sleeve jumped up it instead, scaring him enough that he threw it back into the wooden wall. The wall immediately caught fire. It was put out relatively quickly, but it still singed the ceiling, a few tables, and a woman's hair. Not a few hours later, the slap-stick fight that he tried to start quickly spiraled out of control and by closing time, thousands of pounds of bottles and chairs were broken, multiple prides had been damaged, but, miraculously, no one had been seriously injured. Crowley took it as his cue to leave.
Gathering up his glasses, miracling some money on the bar, and stumbling off the chair, he slunk toward the still-black Bentley and started the engine.
If he had to sit through one more of those procedural meetings, Aziraphale thought he was going to go mad. Or start buying into the absolute absurdity of the place. Every day he learned new intricacies of function, especially around the forms. He had always hated paperwork, but the sheer amount of it kept him busier than he had ever been. Three forms of this had to be paired with four forms of that and all of it had to go down to the scriveners (apparently, Gabriel had devised a system where files were simply deposited on desks, without the need for any trips down, but Aziraphale didn't particularly appreciate the method, finding it too callous), before it could be filed and then completed. It seemed like complication born out of boredom.
It wasn't only the forms, Aziraphale realized that few angels actually talked to each other. Many moved quickly through Heaven, but few ever had anywhere to be, and no one talked about their jobs. There were quite a few angels who would simply twiddle their thumbs until they were told to do something. He mentioned this to the other Archangels, to Saraqael, even to the Metatron, but all of them had brushed it off as how they had always done it. It was frustrating to say the least. There was so much good they could be doing on Earth.
After the third time being told they would talk about it at the next meeting, Aziraphale decided to simply start assigning lower level angels to tasks. He pulled scriveners and scribes, actuaries and analysists, gave them a list of expectations of what they would see on Earth and what they could do to help, and sent them down while bringing up the principalities who wanted to return. It had bruised a few feathers, especially with Michael and Uriel, but at least it would be better for the humans. And all of the angels he had chosen seemed pleased by the change. Still, it had been an exhausting slog.
Between all that, he had only managed to sort through about half of the reports that led to Armaged-didn't. It had gotten a bit easier for a time around the eleventh century before the First Coming. Apparently, Gabriel had decided to pull a good number of the assigned angels back to Heaven for an unknown reason and the reports thinned out for about three hundred years before the stack picked up again.
All of it meant he hadn't made it as far as he wanted, but the worst distraction was the list now buried under pages of notes. The list of the Fallen. He really needed to be focused on fixing the problems he could and finding clues for the Second Coming, but his mind kept wandering back to the scratched names. He leaned back in the facsimile of his chair and pressed his fingers into his eyes. The chair squeaked as it shifted leaving him just slightly off balance from where he should have been. He grumbled, adjusted the seat, and picked the file back up. Only for his eyes to go cross.
It was frustrating and he desperately wanted someone to talk to about it.
If it were possible, his head would surely hurt. He looked back at the report he was reading about the influence of an angel on Zoroaster, but his attention kept drifting back to the list of angelic names. Dropping the file he was working through, he pulled the list out again. He hadn't added any more since the first day, seemingly all of the angels who fell had already done so and those who were left were just meant to be angels. He squinted at the list, wondering if he had missed Crowley's name. He hadn't, but this clearly wasn't an inexhaustive list. He contemplated it for a long moment before he pushed back from his desk and snapped his fingers. As had become custom, the papers disappeared into a space where no one would find them and Aziraphale began the familiar walk down to the scrivener's office.
"Nakir?" Aziraphale asked as he stepped up to the familiar desk.
The waif of a scrivening angel scurried into the room at Aziraphale's voice. He stuttered to a stop by his desk and bowed low, speaking to the floor in his quiet voice as he asked, "Supreme Archangel, what can I do for you?"
"You could stop bowing," Aziraphale quipped. Sighing, he raised his voice, "Can you please collect all the information on the Fallen, Nakir?" He had taken to using the scrivener's name as often as possible and standing as unimposingly as he could, trying to encourage some kind of comfort. All the while, ignoring the twinge of irritability that tended to come with their interactions.
"All the information, Your Grace?" Nakir asked, jerking upright even as he kept his gaze on the floor at Aziraphale's feet.
Aziraphale heard the anxiety in his tone and slowly affirmed the request, while he considered Nakir's response for a moment before continuing, "Why do you ask it like that, is there a bit of information?" Aziraphale visualized the pile he already had hidden on the desk in his room. Much more like that and he would be forced to miracle another surface to work on.
"N…no. Nothing like that, it's just…those files are…well…protected."
"Would you get in trouble for summoning them?"
"No…yes…I'm not actually sure." Nakir twisted his fingers before him as he spoke to the ground.
Aziraphale tapped his fingers to his hand before he finally said, "What about reports on the nature of Fallen? Or records with names? Do you have anything like that?"
"Yes, of course." He closed his eyes for a moment, located the file, and pulled it down. The file itself fell onto the table, a wisp of smoke rising off. It wasn't nearly as large as some of the Armageddon files, but it did look quite charred. He finally looked up at Aziraphale, "That's all I have."
"That's alright, I appreciate any information." Aziraphale said sincerely. He reached forward and pulled the file off the desk, trying to hide the hint of morbid curiosity that came with finally answering a question he had long been denied an answer to. Guilt followed quickly on its heels, maybe there was a reason Crowley never told him?
"Supreme Archangel?" Nakir's voice interrupted Aziraphale's thoughts and he turned expectantly. The scrivener looked at him through hooded eyes, but there was a level of strength in his tone that hadn't been there before as he less than sheepishly asked, "Why are you so interested in all this? Haven't you been on Earth for most of it?"
Aziraphale put on his most disarming smile, and tightly clutched the file, "Of course I have, but I need to know it from Heaven's perspective as well. We need all possible information to ensure that we do the job correctly."
On his way back to his office, Aziraphale was caught by one of the newly appointed Earth angels asking for advice on counteracting the advancing temptations of a demon on the coast of Majorca. Aziraphale whittered through something that sounded useful, if distracted, and sent the angel on their way. They would figure it out, he always had, and he wasn't ever the most effective angel. He hurried back to his office and shut the door behind him. Aziraphale sat at the desk and stared at the still smoking file. He had other things to be working through, other tasks he should be doing, but the incomplete list whispered it's presence. He needed to know. Trepidation tightened his throat, regardless of how impossible that was.
Putting on his glasses and taking a deep breath, he opened the cover. Only to snap it shut at the otherworldly scream that emanated from inside. He pressed a free hand to his chest as his other started to burn where it lay on the perpetual heat of the material. He hadn't noticed that before.
Looking around in a panic, he was only partially relieved when no one came running and no alarm bells sounded. Aziraphale steeled his will and opened the file again.
The scream didn't last long, only a handful of seconds, but it was the guttural vocalization of horrific pain and loss. It was a sound that would haunt him for the rest of his days. But the impulse to understand was too difficult to ignore.
A Report on the Process of Falling
- Dominion 2nd class, Iaoel
The process of ridding Heaven of the Fallen was a long debated one that was ultimately solidified by the votes of Supreme Archangel Gabriel, Archangel Michael, Archangel Uriel, Dominion 1st class representative Vretiel, and Throne 1st class representative, Remiel. Only Scrivener Head Saraqael stood as opponent to the motion. As punishment for their rebellion against Her perfect plan, all former angels would be stripped of their positions and cast down into the newly created Hell...
Aziraphale turned up his nose at the descriptions but continued to read the dry record. It wasn't long, only two pages, but it was the worst report he had read. The final line read:
With the expulsion of the unworthy, we will now be able to fulfill Her will without failure, without distraction, and for the good of Heaven.
The tears that had pooled at the end of the first page finally rolled down his cheeks as Aziraphale pressed his fingers to his lips and closed his eyes tightly. The notes had been sickeningly detailed for as callous as they were. In academic terms, it explained how the Fallen's wings had been painstakingly stripped of every individual feather. Thrown from the highest point of Heaven they plummeted through creation, the momentum pulled free covert and second feathers, but as they hit Earth, the rock and stone of the newly formed planet wrenched free the primary feathers. Their wings were useless things before they ever made it through Earth, ensuring they picked up speed before they slammed into the lowest point of creation.
According to the report, the Fallen fell so far and so fast, that when they hit the volcanic surface of Hell they created craters that backfilled with any number of wicked things: sulphur, lava, hellfire. But the Fall had shattered their bodies, and none could die. Instead, they lay trapped at the bottom of that crater, drowning in their proscribed wicked liquid until their arms or legs healed enough to be used. Once they could escape, one by one, they pulled themselves free into nothing. They were colonists in a truly desolate land.
The scream Aziraphale had heard when he opened the file was only a rendition of the raw cries that had been physical pain morphed into existential loss as those thrown into this torment were unable to truly remember what they had possessed, only having enough of a shadow memory to know it was worth wailing for. It had warped and broken so many of them, maybe even more than losing their connection to Her love.
It was cruelty for the sake of it. And it was Heaven's doing.
Bile rose up Aziraphale's throat. He had asked Crowley to come back to this.
He retched.
And that's all I have for right now! 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
