Chapter 2 : The Tiniest Rebellion and the Stages of Grief

~~Aziraphale~~

Aziraphale picked up the last file in the basket and flipped through the files before slotting it into its place. He turned back and was surprised to see that no more files had appeared. He almost smiled as his shoulders slumped, and he let out a breath of relief. The moment only lasted briefly before a quiet, lilting voice interrupted his repose.

"Excuse me, Aziraphale?"

"Oh, hello." He hadn't used his voice for what felt like an eternity, and he was relieved it still worked. The angel before him wore a nervous expression, and Aziraphale smiled at them to put them at ease. He didn't know when he would get another chance at company, and he was going to take advantage of it as long as he could.

"I was sent to give you this."

The angel held out a scroll towards him. Aziraphale looked at it like it might explode for a moment, and then thought better of it and took it.

"What's this then?" he asked, hoping it wasn't going to be more filing.

"I'm … not sure?" they answered, their head bobbing like one of those little toys Aziraphale saw on people's car dashes. "I was just asked to bring it to you."

Aziraphale looked down at the scroll in his hand. There was no weight to it, like everything else; there was no guessing what it held.

"Well, thank you then," he said, gesturing with the rolled paper. The act effectively dismissed the other angel, and they left as quickly as they entered.

Sighing, Aziraphale let the scroll drop open, and an exasperated sound fell from his lips as the parchment rolled out, covering most of the floor of the room. The list was files to pull and put back into the basket for distribution. Aziraphale scanned the list only to find several file names that he had just reshelved.

He made a frustrated sound and wondered if he just made a run for the elevator if he could outrun them all. He would need to get to Crowley, and they would need to disappear …

What had The Metatron said to him? Stay in Heaven; this is where you belong. The words alone weren't threatening, but the sentiment behind them was. There would be no Crowley if he left, and no more Crowley meant no more him. He couldn't chance running; however, he could test things out carefully.

Surely, staying in Heaven was broader than just logging an eternity in the file room. He used a small miracle to roll up the scroll, and then he left it on top of a filing cabinet and walked out of the room.

Aziraphale felt fear and excitement. He wasn't disobeying exactly, but he knew the implications of what he'd been told, and spending the next few hundred years with files didn't guarantee his or Crowley's safety in the long run. He had to know more about what The Metatron had told him. He had never heard anything like it, but it had felt so true that he'd not questioned it at all.

Aziraphale hadn't spent much time in Heaven. Sure, before the creation, he was there, but things were different then, no offices, no stars, just angels and God. He had been happy then, but the thought of it now, it seemed very dull. Then when the plans for creation came, it was exciting; everyone was buzzing about, preparing things. It had all appeared so wonderful, and of course in the end, Aziraphale found it so wonderful he risked everything to save it. His place had been on Earth. It still felt like it was.

He knew where to find some things. It's not like he'd never been to the offices, but it turned out as he walked through the halls, he noticed that there were a lot of rooms he had never entered. He hadn't really had a plan when he left the filing room, but he suddenly found himself in front of the floating orb that represented Earth.

This was how they had seen the miracle that he and Crowley had performed together. They could zoom right in and see whatever he was doing. What a terrible lack of privacy. He couldn't very well …

Aziraphale didn't make the choice so much as his heart took over, and he began zooming in. He started at the bookshop, even though he expected that would be the last place Crowley would be. And maybe he wanted to see his books first, something to centre him. Something he loved only a fraction as much. If he could handle seeing them, then perhaps he could try looking at Crowley next.

Alas, there was no preparation round for Aziraphale because sitting in the bookshop, whiskey glasses in hand were Crowley and Muriel. A new emotion pulled at his chest. He had never felt it, but he'd read enough books to know it to name it. Jealousy.

He knew Crowley hadn't replaced him. It wasn't romantic jealousy. He wasn't blind enough not to notice the tightness in Crowley's face, the tense hunch of his shoulders. His demon was hurting just as badly as he was. But Crowley still lifted his glass and even once touched Muriel on the shoulder. Aziraphale would never get to sit down for a drink with his friend again. He would never get to tell him with words how he felt. But he could check and make sure Crowley was safe. It would be enough. It had to be.

He watched as Crowley stumbled into the Bentley, and Aziraphale chanced the miracle, starting the Bentley and driving the sleeping demon home. Eventually, Crowley would be okay without him. He didn't have the same hope for himself.

Aziraphale reset the display on the orb and gave it one last lingering glance before leaving it. It would do no good to be sentimental, but it felt unavoidable. Seeing Crowley, knowing he was safe, gave him a bit of calm. Unfortunately, it also gave him that familiar ache in his chest that had started the moment Crowley had kissed him and had spent every minute since ebbing and flowing in its sharpness.

The hallways were empty; they were nearly always empty. The angels didn't bustle and hurry about like humans did. They only moved around when they had a task to do. There was no water cooler, no one to have a casual conversation with. It lacked life.

Aziraphale had never been to the room he was now looking for. There would have never been a reason to. Files on angels. He knew they existed, but he'd not wondered what would be in them. His, had he ever stopped to think about, would probably have the deeds he completed and failed on Earth. He smiled, thinking that some of those accomplished goals would have actually been Crowley. Curiosity had him wonder if there was a sister file in Hell that he featured in unknowingly.

Doors in Heaven were not locked; after all, they were all working together toward the greater good. The rebellious angels had already been thrown out, so there was no reason to lock things up. Slipping into the room, Aziraphale was slightly surprised to see the room was empty of anyone else. The lack of security made it feel less like a clever caper and more like waltzing into Maggie's shop to pick up his latest record.

Pulling open a drawer, Aziraphale peered in. There was no alphabet when it came to the sigils of angels. He could miracle out what he was looking for, but he didn't want to draw any attention to him being in this room. He flipped through a few files before realising he was in the 22nd degree scriveners and closed the drawer, looking around, and then choosing another a few steps down.

Hours passed, or what felt like hours. Aziraphale was still trying to mark his moments in the Earthly way. Time had not felt like such a bother—save during the apocalypse—when he was on Earth where it was actually being marked. Now, time was the space being wedged between him and Crowley. Every second pushing them farther apart. The thought made Aziraphale double down on his search.

He found Crowley's sigil before he found his own. He hadn't expected Crowley to still have a file, and if he did, he would have assumed that it would be in a fallen angel section. But there it was, just mixed in with all the other angels, like he still belonged there. Aziraphale's face twisted. His file didn't belong there. Crowley wouldn't want it there.

A quiet click-clacking alerted Aziraphale to the footsteps of approaching angels. He shoved Crowley's file into his jacket and made his way to the door. He exited the room, and then the angels rounded the corner. Tilting his head up, he fixed his face into a steady calm and moved past them, giving a polite nod, which they returned.

Once he was secure back in the room with the scroll, Aziraphale pulled out the file. Crowley's sigil lit up on the front, causing his fingers to instinctively reach out and touch it. Like everything before it, it had no feel. Aziraphale had hoped he would have felt something tangible when he touched it, but the only thing he felt was lonely.

The file opened for him; the password encoded into him had stayed the same. The angel that Crowley used to be looked back at him from a projected image hovering over the folder. Below his name read: Starmaker, Troublemaker. Aziraphale smiled at the second part. He hadn't fallen in love with him as an angel, but the things he fell in love with were there. It had always been only a matter of time, no matter what side Crowley hung his hat on.

They had only met a few times in Heaven before the fall. Aziraphale had always been drawn to him; he would have liked to spend more time together, but his duties kept him away. There wasn't a lot of time for fraternising between angels. He didn't wish anything different though. No matter how much he hated that Crowley had been hurt, it was what gave them those six thousand years together on Earth. They had to have been on different sides.

Aziraphale's eyes skimmed down the writing, looking for anything that might help him figure out what was going on. He frowned when he landed on Crowley's creation data. The composition of angels was known, universe dust, divine essence, hydrogen, helium, ect. They had minor differences in their make-up, subtle things that would result in different appearances, but Aziraphale had never heard of anything like what he was seeing. Crowley only had about half of what he was meant to. Angels were created without matter and had only been issued a body after Earth was created, as to be able to pop down there to give a message or do a smiting.

He had to get his hands on his own file. Aziraphale felt anxious, wanting to accomplish the task right away, but he had another list of chores to complete, and if he spent any more time not doing them, he feared he wouldn't have the time. He reluctantly closed the file and slid it back in his jacket, resting it between his vest and his shirt. He would keep what he could of Crowley next to his heart until he was able to see him again.

~~Crowley~~

Crowley wasn't moving through the stages of grief; more, he was playing Plinko with it. Hitting every stage equally—save acceptance, that was nowhere near to be seen—hard on the way to rock bottom, and then picking up his puck and starting again. There was no prize for him, just the repeat of the steps with no solace to be found. Some of the steps hurt less than others; for instance, denial had worked for him the day before, mostly. He spent the day driving around to secure a first edition for the bookshop; he pictured the way Aziraphale would smile at him, all sparkling eyes and white teeth. He hadn't felt the sting of pain until he walked into the shop and all that awaited him was Muriel, who was less impressed with the book but still took it to add to the collection. The evening was followed by depression and drinking. Muriel held a glass in solidarity again while Crowley finished three bottles on his own.

He woke up on the floor of his flat the next morning and flushed the last of the alcohol out of his system. Then he promptly moved to anger. This was an emotion Crowley was intimately familiar with. What he wasn't familiar with was not knowing where to direct it. His usual target was God, and he couldn't blame Her for wanting Her angel back. On that point, they were in agreement. Muriel was far too innocent to direct any of it at. He didn't want to add guilt to his list of awful feelings if he made her cry.

That left Aziraphale.

Crowley had been angry with Aziraphale before. A lot actually. But it was more frustration than real anger. Now that he thought about it, Aziraphale had been angry with him far more than the reverse. That would have been as good a reason as any for him to have left. It would be easy for Crowley to be angry with him if he believed for a second Aziraphale left him because he didn't want him. No, the angel was just doing what he thought was the right thing. Which had often been a bone of contention between them. But they had always been able to talk those moral quandaries through. This didn't feel like it would be one of those times.

Crowley picked up a vase and hurled it toward the daVinci that hung in his apartment. Tiny pieces of glass stuck into the canvas, tearing at the sketch. It wasn't enough, and Crowley grabbed a piece of the broken glass from the floor and stabbed at it until it was nothing but shreds.

Crowley hadn't noticed the gash in his hand until he felt the blood sliding down his arm. The anger seemed to drain out of him like it was escaping through the wound. He could close the cut, but the wound inside would be harder to miracle away. He dropped the piece of glass and went to snap his fingers—to right everything he had destroyed—but he thought better of it at the last moment.

"Why bother?" he mumbled to himself.

Intending to be dramatic, Crowley thought about wrapping his hand with a bandage but quickly realised he didn't have any medical supplies and chose to close his wound with a quick demonic miracle.

In the following few days, Crowley took up showering. Usually after waking up around four in the morning from dreams he'd rather not think about and a hollowness in his chest he couldn't name. He would abstain from the cold water knob and turn the heat on fully and step in, letting the blazing hot water trail down his body. He found he liked the way the water brushed through his hair, almost like a touch. Occasionally, he would find himself sitting down and letting the water fall on him like rain. It wasn't the way a person showered, but he found this comforting. Mostly, it was just a way to pass the time. Plus, he did enjoy using all the hot water up in the building, leaving the other tenants complaining and sullen. He was still a demon after all, and misery does enjoy company.

Fifteen days after Aziraphale had left, Crowley was beginning to get used to his new normal. A fitful night of sleep, an extra long shower in which the moisture on his face was purely from the shower, and an ungodly amount of whiskey in his morning coffee.

Crowley didn't quite know what to do with himself after that. When he'd worked for Hell, he had assignments, quotas. He avoided doing as much as he could, but there was always something to be done. And then after the apocalypse didn't happen, his time was mostly spent with Aziraphale. Whether it be dining at the Ritz or just enjoying each other's company in the bookshop, he had never been bored. He wasn't sure if he was bored now, but being stationary did make that throb in his chest worse, and so he decided he needed a hobby.

Demons, as a rule, didn't have hobbies. Lost at what to take up, Crowley fell back onto the one thing he had enjoyed when Aziraphale wasn't around. Annoying people. He was always down to cause a bit of mischief. He was never malicious to Hell's disappointment. It wasn't any fun if anyone got hurt, which is why Hell hadn't always been on board with his choices. But their thoughts mattered even less to him now than they did before. He wasn't doing anything for them.

Crowley started in the local Tesco, wheeling a trolley through the aisle. He parked it at an angle just back from the end of the row. He knew his precision was exact when he heard a crash and a frustrated swear as he wheeled the next trolley down the adjacent row. This one he filled with cans, and then gave it a little push toward the pyramid of cereal boxes. By the time the shop-boy came to find the mess, Crowley was already walking out the door.

Crowley waited for the feeling to come in and replace the emptiness he felt inside, a glimmer of enjoyment, but the emotion never came, and Crowley climbed back into the Bentley, feeling defeated. He let his head fall back on the seat and stared upwards.

"I'm very cross with you, angel. You're better than the choice you made. That place doesn't deserve you." He left the words unsaid that he didn't believe he deserved him either.

He hadn't felt this lost since he had fallen. And while the torture this time wasn't physical, it felt just as bad. He hadn't had any hope when he was falling; he knew the moment he was cast out that there would be nothing good for him ever the Earth had been created, and he had been sent there. He'd met up with Aziraphale, the friendly but overly cautious angel he'd known in Heaven. He hadn't expected anything but vitriol from his new nemesis, but instead, he was treated with respect, possibly even fondness, and the seeds of hope had been planted. All it had taken was a wing over his head to shelter him from the rain, and he was never the same.

Over the following six thousand years, Aziraphale had only stoked the hope in him; first for camaraderie, then friendship, and finally something more. The hope had burned like a flame in him, but when Aziraphale left, it was like he'd thrown holy water on it, and now it sat burning in a very different way in Crowley's chest.

Crowley had been so sure the angel loved him back. Was he still sure? He was suddenly sure he wouldn't be able to rid himself of the ache if he didn't find out for sure. He could wait Aziraphale out; he wouldn't last in Heaven. He wasn't made for there; he was made for Earth. Made for me, Crowley thought defiantly. But waiting for Aziraphale could take far longer than Crowley could stand the pain of it.

Crowley started up the Bentley, ignoring the thumping beat and Freddie's vocals. He was singularly focused as he drove himself to the bookshop. A snap and the door flew open the moment before he approached it, and it swung shut as he took the step inside.

Muriel was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, facing the door when he entered, as if unsure of what to do but wait for a customer to walk in.

"Mr. Crowley!" They stood up, clearly surprised. "I had hoped you'd be back."

"Did you?" Crowley answered back, searching somewhere for some charm. It felt less like a second skin now and more like a wet blanket, but he knew he needed Muriel.

"Yes! There are a lot of things I don't understand. I was hoping you would help me with them." They looked so earnest.

"Yes, I'm sure I could. I'm hoping you can help me with something too."

"Oh?" Muriel perked up, looking like a worker who had been waiting for someone to notice them for a millenia, which they were.

"I need you to take me to see your new archangel."

Muriel's face fell. "New archangel?"

"Yes. Aziraphale."

Their face lit up. "Oh, did he get the job? Good for him."

Crowley frowned. "Did they not tell you?"

"I'm afraid I haven't heard anything since Mr. Fell left. The Metatron told me to wait here and take care of the bookshop, so that is what I've been doing."

The lack of communication didn't surprise Crowley. In fact, he and Aziraphale had taken advantage of both Heaven and Hell's lack of skills in that department more than once. But still, something tugged at him. If Aziraphale was in charge, surely that would be something he'd change. But he'd only been gone a short time, and Crowley hadn't expected any real change to happen.

He didn't trust Heaven, but he still trusted Aziraphale. And he needed to get to him to talk.

"Will you take me?" Crowley asked again.

"I might get in trouble," Muriel hedged.

"Did you get in trouble last time?"

"No," they answered, considering.

"Excellent; it's settled," Crowley exclaimed, and he gave them a tiny punch on the arm and led the confused angel out the door.

Steering Muriel to the lift was similar to guiding one of those toys where you pull back on it and let it release. It may start going off course, but you just pick it up and face it in the direction you wish it to go. Muriel had tried to change directions, doubting herself and taking them both back to the bookshop, but Crowley wrapped his arm around their shoulders and set them back on the correct path. His path.

"You're not going to change this time?" Muriel asked halfway up the ride, motioning at Crowley's signature all-black look.

"Nah, no need," Crowley responded. "I'm invited, remember?"

Crowley could see the doubt in their mind, but they weren't used to questioning. An obedient angel who had done everything they'd been told. Crowley would have felt bad if he didn't feel like he was liberating them. Even if just a little.

Crowley wondered what it was he would find up in Heaven. Would Aziraphale have taken to the job already? Did he hate it? Or worse, did he love it? Would Crowley's second declaration in a month be romantic or pathetic? At this point, he didn't care, as long as it worked. He needed his angel.

The adrenaline pushed the stabbing in his chest away, but as the lift dinged for the final stop, it was replaced with a sense of dread.