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Aziraphale never thought he would end up in a situation like this.
One day in his new job as “Supreme Archangel” he took the elevator, this day the button didn't work, he was accidentally sent down.
To hell, to the basement, where all the demons gathered among bad paperwork, reptiles, mice, desks, weird motivational posters.
Dressed in white, gold chains around his wrists and ankles, four pearly white wings, thousands of feathers dipped in sacred gold, a halo that can destroy everything tenfold.
“Look who's there?” Say the staring demons, whose character is mixed with reptiles, and vermin curious about the misplaced appearance of one of the highest angels.
Aziraphale his heart pounds, his throat squeezing. Hastur and Ligur, he recognizes, with the toad and the chameleon, further hidden behind desks and a bulletin board. A black-haired female demon, with rat ears, looks at him eagerly.
Aziraphale swallows the fear, raises his hand, trying to stop them with an “Avaunt, foul demons!” gesture, while the elevator is gone. But there is no holistic light shining in this demonic basement.
The female demon hisses, comes dangerously close to him and caresses his wing tips with her long fingernails, sharp as claws. The face is full of pimples, the eyes are reddish-brown, like a rat.
Furfur with his shaggy, frizzy hair and grumpy expression approaches, brushes his stately suit against Aziraphale's.
Aziraphale stands frozen, uncertain about action, trapped in the lion's den, with no way back. The demons laugh with bared razor-sharp teeth, their eyes shine like approaching death.
“Lost angel” the demon whispers hissing, her nail grazes Aziraphale's cheek, his skin burns. Aziraphale's lilac eyes, looking down, see a viscous golden emulsion, his own blood, running down his chin, staining himself with official sanctity, tainted as the depraved soul he has yet to become.
As the demons crawl their way over to the newly appointed Supreme Angel, one sits alone in a dark corner, yellow eyes watching the events in front of them unfold.
Part of the demon wants to scoff, all of the new glitz and glamour making the angel into an absolute spectacle. The gold alone… and those eyes? Still, he keeps to himself as he leans back in the chair he’s finagled for himself. More of a throne really.
“Never lost, foul fiend,” the angel Aziraphale states with more confidence than any of the demons in the room care to hear. “One is never truly lost when doing the Lord’s bidding. And if that sent me here today, well, then-“
“Then what, precious angel?” Hastur hisses.
The demon in the corner can’t help but watch the angel squirm, just slightly, just enough for only one other being to have noticed. More of that golden blood drips down Aziraphale’s cheek, watched carefully by golden eyes as the crowd of demons grows ever larger around the brilliant being.
A huff. “That is something for me to find out,” he starts, eyes narrowing and growing colder by the second. “And for you to back away from before you all find yourselves in a mess.”
Those words paired with the face from yesterdays would have been met with giggles from this group of demons. Today, the angel seems to grow bigger, fills more of the room, and the demon in the corner feels the presence all the way in the darkness he finds himself in. He carefully watches the reactions around the angel, watches to see what will unfold next.
As the standoff between the groups of beings grows, the tension rising, he finally sighs and pulls his lanky body out of his chair.
“That’s enough, you blights,” he casually says as they walks out of the shadows. “You lot all know that’s not how we really greet an honored guest.”
Humans often assume that in order to take up a room, you need to be the strongest, or the loudest, or the most dominant presence. That assumption is wrong on every level.
The Duke of Hell is neither broad-shouldered nor loud. In fact, his voice is little more than a hiss, shaped by a split-tongue that matches his slithering swagger.
But Hell has never stilled faster than now - the crowd is a freeze-frame as he steps out of the shadow.
In the midst of rats, reptiles and amphibians, the Golden Angel gasps. The sound whips through the silence.
It’s Furfur who recovers first. Eagerly, he stumbles towards the serpent. “Grand Duke Crowley, we did not know he was- he was your guest!” He grins. “Is there something we can do to - uh, to properly welcome him? Would you like me to prepare the torture chamber? I can set it up, just leave it to me!”
Crowley raises an eyebrow. How pathetic. “I don’t appreciate you advising me on how to handle my visitors,… sorry, what was your name again?”
Furfur’s grin vanishes. “It’s Furfur, your Evilness.”
“Right, right.” The duke shrugs. “Anyway. I don’t need your help. Unless you possess the ability to obliterate yourself. That would save me some trouble.”
Furfur whimpers and retreats back, settling next to Shax in the crowd.
“Alright, anyone else wanna speak when they aren’t supposed to?” A set of fangs flashes in Crowley’s grin as he steps closer. He looks at all the demons, one by one, reveling in their fearful faces.
“Thought so. Alright, piss off, then.”
It’s only after the last low-ranking demon has vanished that Crowley looks at the angel.
Aziraphale shakes his head, his hair sending small gold particles into the room.
“I should have known you tampered with the elevator.”
Crowley tries to hide a sneer and fails — Hell brings up the most feral characteristics in every demon, turning it almost impossible to control his tongue, his fangs and his claws — his hisses fill the room.
Leave it to the angel to put the blame of whatever this is in his back. Leave it to the angel to not see the truth. Leave it to the angel to… well, leave.
"What are you doing here, Aziraphale?" He asks, sounding like a threat.
"I should ask you that. Why did you bring me here, Crowley?" He sees Aziraphale raise his eyebrows, his eyes travelling over his body. If Crowley didn't knew better, he'd add the 'appreciatively' adverb. "And — a Duke of Hell now?"
"The Duke of Hell. Someone had to fill the spot after Beezebulb fucked off to have a honeymoon. Thought you'd know the sentiment, supreme archangel."
Crowley watches his mouth open and close, watches him avert his gaze, watches the fight leave his eyes.
He starts to wring his hands, and Crowley's heart clench despite everything.
Aziraphale clears his throat.
"You didn't answer my first question." His voice is almost a whisper, shy and small.
In that second, Crowley wants to know the answer, wants to be him who tampered with the lift, to have brought the angel directly to him, but it wasn't the case — and that hurt more than it should.
The fact was that Crowley hadn’t been thinking at all how to bring him back, or how to talk with him again. He'd been to bitter to do that. He had only wanted distance, and he had thought Hell would be the most far he'd be able to get while being able to do something against this stupid second coming plan.
Really. The humans didn't need any help destroying themselves.
"I don't know what the heck you're talking about."
A deafening alarm siren starts blaring in Hell, the lights flicking to red.
“One moment.” Crowley walked over and stuck his head out the door. “What did I say about the alarm?”
“It’s only to be used if Heaven’s moving against us,” said a voice.
“Is that happening?” asked Crowley.
“No, but the Supreme Archangel is down…”
“Put us on standby until we have more information!” Crowley slammed the door shut before opening another, whose hinges gave a protesting squeak. “Whatever you have to say can wait until my office. The walls around here have ears, and demons love spreading gossip.”
The flashing lights changed from red to yellow, which became a neon shade of chartreuse in the sickly green light of Hell. The sirens stopped blaring.
Aziraphale fell in step with Crowley, nearly trotting to keep up with Crowley’s long stride. He was thankful it wasn’t long before they reached a room with a window looking onto a hallway and a couple of imposing chairs topped with ram skulls.
Crowley gestured to one. Aziraphale sat himself on the very edge of the tattered velvet seat. Crowley stayed standing, his nervous energy making him shift constantly from foot to foot.
“I don’t have time for this, angel. I have a limited window to convince ten million demons to fight on Earth’s side when Heaven again decides to try ending everything. As Supreme Archangel, you know about Heaven’s plans, don’t you?”
“I…”
“I don’t care. Make yourself at home. You’re staying here until Heaven can send someone to collect your goddamned arse.” Crowley pulled his phone from his pocket. "We’re not playing the runaway Archangel game again. You chose your side, now live with it.”
“Damned, Crowley?” Aziraphale raised his chin in defiance. He would not be spoken to like this by an angry demon, even if that demon was Crowley. “No, I think you’re mistaken exactly who here is damned.”
Crowley turned around, stormed up to Aziraphale, grabbed his lapels and slammed him against the wall.
"Shut it, Angel!", he snarled.
Although he used the formerly common nickname, it sounded wrong, poisonous, full of contempt.
"You don't get to walz in here, all high and mighty and tell Me who's damned!"
Aziraphale breathlessly stared up at the demon in disbelief. "How da.."
"Enough!", Crowley almost shouted.
The demon looked into the eyes of the Angel who he used to be so close to. The Angel who just walked into hell trying to show off his authority. The Angel who was so full of heart and such an idiot and who was still bleeding.
Crowley gently passed a hand over Aziraphale's gold-stained cheek, healing it in the process. He lingered for a barely noticeable moment, looked into Aziraphale’s eyes, then let him down and turned away.
"Sit down! I have to make a call", the demon said with a sigh.
*
Aziraphale fought to catch his breath. Crowley had been entirely too close! What with his hands on his lapels and all, just like when he…when they last saw each other and then to heal him! The duke of hell healing the supreme archangel! Unspeakable!
Aziraphale was about to work himself into another argument when his eyes fell on something on Crowley's desk. His eyes widened in surprise.
The duke of hell had his back turned to him and so he quickly walked up and made his discovery disappear into his sleeve. This would certainly become important later.
Crowley rested a fist on his desk, and shook his head. The call, that’s what he needed to do but he couldn’t find his phone. He was about to round his desk to look for it properly when there was a sudden knock on his door. Both demon and angel jumped.
“Ah, sir? We have a problem at the front gates…”
Crowley narrowed his eyes, shooting a glance at Aziraphale. “Okay, I’ll go check it out.”
“Problem?” The archangel said, raising an eyebrow.
Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. “Come with me. I can’t leave you alone, I don't trust the other demon’s not to try something.”
Aziraphale said nothing. Once outside the dungeon’s office, he stared in horror. “Why.. Why is the Bentley down here? The tires are on fire Crowley?!”
Crowley ignored that last comment. “You expect me to walk everywhere? Just get in the damn car. It’s feral enough as it is being down here.”
Aziraphale did so, and when Crowley turned the ignition, the Bentley started crooning. “Love of my life, you’ve hurt me!”
Crowley smacked the dashboard. “Don’t start. I know he abandoned us both.”
Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest but Crowley was already driving at his normal speed, forcing the angel back into his seat and once again gripping available surface like his life depended on it.
Aziraphale frowned at the large dire wolf snapping at souls as they passed. “Why is Fenrir here?”
Crowley chuckled. “Loki owes us a favor. He’ll be useful soon enough.”
Reaching the front gates, both angel and demon froze. “Fuck.”
Angels poured in from the burst gates. Flaming swords raised high in the air.
The Bentley crooned louder. “We're caught in a trap, I can't walk out, because I love you too much, baby…”
“They need to get out of here,” Crowley said hollowly.
“Crowley, I didn’t—I can’t—”
Aziraphale was drowned out by a heavenly chorus sounding their battle cry: harmonies that rang through your bones, beautiful and terrible, each note piercing your soul with the fear of God. Crowley shuddered, slamming his hands over his ears.
Aziraphale looked at him, eyes squeezed shut and face paler than he’d ever seen it, doubled over against the steering wheel. He took a breath and opened the car door.
Crowley shouted something that sounded like “not safe”—and then there was only chaos, sword flame and hellfire mixing together in horrible red bursts. Aziraphale stumbled forward and called out to the angelic host. “Please this is all a—misunderstanding—”
A surge of demons rose like a wave behind him and swept him along, hissing and shrieking, toward the gates. He couldn’t see Crowley or the Bentley anymore, only a golden light growing brighter and sharper ahead, until it finally resolved into a familiar bearded figure holding a flame-tipped spear.
The Metatron locked eyes with Aziraphale and smiled. Effortlessly, as if flicking away a fly, he launched the spear.
-
Crowley couldn't think, couldn’t breathe through the angels’ divine song. It was everywhere, in the skin and teeth and blood of his physical corporation, filling the dark hole of his hellish essence, prying its way into planes of existence where it had no right to be.
And then Aziraphale went out into the warzone.
“Fuck!”
He forced his hands away from his head, holy melodies pounding through him. Gritting his teeth to stop their chattering, he snapped open the car window and grabbed out at the demons rushing past. Missed. Grabbed again.
Finally, he snagged one by their torn shirt, and yanked them in close. He spoke into their ear in a voice he knew would be heard above the cacophony. “Get Fenrir.”
A slimy hand pulled Aziraphale along, and he fell, fell, fell. The ground was hard as it embraced him with grimy fingers, and there was laughter in his ears. Pain erupted in his right thigh, bright and shining and all-encompassing. There was a scream. Maybe, it had been him. "Not so fast," somebody, or something, sneered into his ear. Aziraphale blinked, looked down, and blinked again. His stomach swooped downwards fast. Flames licked at the wound in his holy flesh, nipping and scrapping. Indecisive.
It wasn't like he shouldn't have expected this. The Metatron was dangerous. He knew this. It was quite the different thing however, to stare at the spear in his thigh, and to look up and see the Archangel's glare for himself.
The demons around him poked and prodded, snickered and stabbed. A needle against his skin, a painful tug in his hair. Laughter. But still, they didn't quite dare. Slowly, Aziraphale stood, facing the Metatron. A bloodcurdling howl echoed over the battlefield. The Supreme Archangel pressed his lips together in anger and narrowed his eyes.
Before he could open his mouth, however, something huge and soft ran by. It growled, and snarled, and opened its mouth to swallow the Metatron. The archangel, however, seemed not disturbed. He simply raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
It all happened too fast. Aziraphale's eyes widened in horror. The wolf's jaw snapping down. Huge, white fangs against red. A scream lodged itself in the angel's throat, never to end. As if trapped in a nightmare, his feet stuck to the ground. And make no mistake, this was a nightmare.
Confusion sparked in Crowley's eyes, quickly replaced by alarm and fear. Aziraphale cried. The red hair caught on the fangs. There was light reflected from that lovely face, and he shone in darkness like the moon. Beautiful, tragic. Nothing more than cold, dead stone. No. No, no, no. Finally, his feet moved.
And then, there was a hand between the wolf's jaws, holding it open.
Crowley surges through the tumultuous sea of angels and demons to find his felled angel and get him to safety. I should have known that big headed waker was involved, he thinks as he nears Aziraphale and The Metatron. With a massive leap from behind, Fenrir's sights are aimed at the archangel, but instead of clamping down his mighty jaws on The Metatron his fangs sink into Crowley's flesh.
Are you fucking kidding me?! He's supposed to be on our side! Crowley thrashes inside the monstrous wolf's mouth, kicking and grasping at his lacerating teeth trying to escape before he's swallowed whole. Blood and saliva mixing together as every inch of the Grand Duke of Hell's body is flayed.
Suddenly from inside, Crowley can see two hands prying open Fenrir's powerful jaws, a golden wing adorning the right hand.
Oh thank, someone. “A-Azir-a,” Crowley chokes, coughing up blood in the process.
“Crowley! I-I don't know if I can hold him. My abilities are weakening. Can you grab onto me?” Aziraphale pleads.
The demon, using both of his long, lithe legs to hold open the wolf god's mouth, reaches out for Aziraphale–with the hand that wasn't attempting to wrangle the pointy bits. Their hands touch ever so briefly and then slip apart.
“I-I can't reach you,” Crowley shouts through the gnashing of teeth. Demon and angel reach out to each other once more, and through the slick of blood and spit, Crowley's hand slips back with that all too familiar golden ring clutched in his fist. “Angel!” His eyes are pleading.
Aziraphale's arms begin to slacken, and Fenrir's jaws are closing. “NO, CROWLEY!” the angel screams, trying with all of his might to keep Fenrir's mouth open and reach for his demon. His demon. The one he left behind. To save…
Crowley sees the moment Aziraphale loses his grip on Fenrir's jaws, and in those final seconds he gives his best attempt at a smile, “I-I love you, an-angel.” Fenrir's jaws clamp down.
The archangel bristled, charging towards the voice of God with righteous anger.
"Do something," he growled in his face, fists wrapping tightly around the Metatron's collar. He tried not to think about the saliva still coating his fingers or the thick, red liquid seeping into the other's pristine white clothes.
To his chagrin, the Metatron only smiled. "I did. Something that should have been done years ago."
"What did he ever do to you?!"
A pale, thick eyebrow rose carefully. "Please, he's always been a nuisance."
Pushing him away, Aziraphale turned to all the demons and angels that watched the scene unfold, utterly stupefied.
"Somebody take me to this beast's keeper." His voice echoed in the damp room despite how overcrowded it was. "Did you hear me? Who is its keeper? Somebody bring me to them or I swear to- someone I'll gut this thing myself."
Just then, a voice rose from the crowd, lilting and cheerful as a tall man with golden horns on his head stepped forward. “Wooooah, what is all the yelling for? You want his keeper?” The man grinned, spreading his arms. “You've got me.”
Aziraphale's eyes grew wide, chest rising and falling with every heavy breath. “You're this monster's keeper?”
The other raised his eyebrows, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He's got a name. He's Fenrir.”
“Well, Fenrir, just devoured my- the-” Aziraphale's jaw tensed, his hands balling into fists at his side. “Crowley.”
The man seemed momentarily taken aback . “Oh, angel,” he said softly, shaking his head.
Aziraphale marched to him. “Don't you dare call-” His hands reached out to grab the man's lapels, but the moment he got to him, he slipped through his fingers. He stared at his hands in disbelief, his heart nearly jumping out of his throat.
“Loki is right, it never gets old.”
Azirpahale turned, finding Crowley standing behind him, wearing his usual smug grin and cocky attitude.
“Missed me?”
The urge to either slap Crowley or hug him tight filled Aziraphale, it was a toss up which one would win. With a half choked sob the archangel’s arms wrapped around the grand duke of hell’s thin frame.
“You foul fiend! I thought! I thought!” Tears flowed from his ocean colored eyes as his corporation shook from the force of his crying.
Crowley held him close and rocked him, heedless of the shocked expressions that ringed the two.
“Shush angel, it’s ok, I’m ok.”
“How? How were you able to escape? What just happened?”
“I told you angel, Loki owes us a few favors, I called one in.”
Aziraphale gave a very unangelic snort and sniffed before drawing back, he still had dozens of questions but now was neither the time nor the place to ask them. A loud tsking not only made him jump but drew his attention to the silence that surrounded them, all the angels and demons had stopped fighting to watch the hereditary enemies embrace.
“Is that appropriate behavior for an archangel Aziraphale?” The Metatron asked in a censorious tone. “Hugging the grand duke of hell? Do you really think he cares about you?”
Aziraphale felt fear twist his corporation’s heart like a knife.They were in danger, terrible danger yet despite it his pink lips turned into a wildly triumphant smile. His demon had said ”I love you angel”, everything might be dissolving around them but that precious truth was a bedrock upon which he could stand.
He leaned close to whisper into Crowley’s ear, “I love you my dear, whatever happens next I want you to know that.”
Squaring his shoulders he reached up his sleeve and pulled out the scroll he had stollen from his demon’s desk. Crowley’s eyes went wide with shock as he recognized it.
“Angel no! You can’t!”
“Angel, this is a demonic spell, you will–”
“Will you still love me if I do?”
Aziraphale stared at Crowley, at his face deformed by his distress, by fear. And suddenly the demon seemed to calm down, as if they had just reached an understanding. He let out a sigh and casted a furious look towards the Metatron and the Archangels.
“I’ll protect you,” he said, placing himself between Aziraphale and the crowd. “And, angel?” He glanced above his shoulder with a smirk. “Don’t fall away from me, alright?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes as his demon cackled and faced their enemies again. This infuriating being couldn’t resist a one-liner. The angel focused on the conjuration spell, trying to ignore the tremor shaking the ranks of angels and demons facing them.
He felt the scroll burn in his hands, and ignored that too. He ignored the sharp pain in his head, splitting it in two, the nausea, the sore muscles. He focused on his love, and only that, as he read the words, bending his lips around demonic incantations, each of them taking away a bit of his grace.
It didn’t matter. He pictured Crowley. Pictured his eyes. His hair. His hands. His voice.
Ignored the demon’s screams as his own spells – and Fenrir – kept the waves of enemies away. Some demons had joined him in defending the falling archangel. But Aziraphale couldn’t see any of it.
He pushed away the despair to focus on the love again. On the smiles, the touches. On the kisses. The one they’d shared already, and the many that were to come.
At the end of the spell, he fell on his knees with a scream, holding his head in his hands.
His wings manifested on their own accord. No more white.
But not black either.
Something… new.
Crowley glared at the Metatron as Aziraphale began to read the incantations from the scroll. He was not going to fall; Crowley would never let that happen. The Voice of God simply stared back, mouth curling into a vengeful smile as the air swirled, turning hot and black with demonic power around them.
Crowley blinked. It should have been agony for anyone from Heaven to be in the presence of a spell of this magnitude but the bastard was completely unfazed by any of it. But Crowley refused to break contact.
Because. His. Angel. Would. Not. Fall. Not today, or any other day. Crowley would not allow it.
So he pressed his will into the words swirling around him. He was the Duke of Hell, more powerful than he’d ever been, so he pulled it, balled it up, and pressed it into every syllable from his angel’s mouth.
It was the agonizing cry that broke him, making Crowley turn his attention away from his enemy and to the angel he loved more than anything in existence.
What he saw made him falter where he stood: Aziraphale, bright and bold and beautiful as he ever was, on his knees, head in his hands, wings outstretched behind him. His wings were shaking, trembling slightly as a glint of light appeared at the edges - shimmering and brilliant against the darkness of hell - and began to spread. Slowly, a sheath of radiant silver spread and encased his angel’s wings entirely, turning them to an armor plate, transforming his feathers to blades.
Aziraphale’s breathing slowed as he looked up, eyes narrowing past Crowley and locking with the Voice of God’s. Crowley felt the pull of power - not angelic, not demonic, a different power - and watched as Aziraphale’s sword appeared in his hand. When he flicked his wrist, a brilliant blue flame engulfed the blade.
Walking past Crowley, Aziraphale pointed his sword at the Metatron as he spoke; the power in his voice shaking the very foundations of Hell.
“Now, old man, it’s time for us to end this, once and for all.”
Aziraphale didn't wait for anyone's opinion about his lack of proper decorum in addressing the Voice Of God. He moved like a gust of metallic wind, lunging above the Metatron's head and slashing the air right where the Metatron's wings would be if they stood in the current plane of existence.
"You missed by a fair amount." The Metatron had a condescending smirk on his face as Aziraphale landed back on his feet behind him.
Unfortunately for him, he had never bothered to learn the technicalities of the weapons he sent his soldiers to battle with, so he was unaware of the fact that the edge of the flaming swords of the Guardians of Eden cut mercilessly but quite painlessly (they were heavenly, after all) through all the realities on their path.
Wings materialised on the floor between the Metatron and Aziraphale.
They were black as tar.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"What's happening? Is the War cancelled again?" A few low ranking demons were trying to check what was going on with the big shots gathered in the center of the circle of demons and angels that had formed at the gates.
"Fuck if I know. I hope they make up their mind soon because I really want to fuck those fucking angels up. Nasty buggers, the lot of them."
"Oh, they're not all bad. I fucked an angel once. It was nice."
"You what? For corruption you mean?"
"No, just, she asked me and I thought why the heaven not."
"Oh shit!"
"What? Can't see anything with that big bugger from Damnations standing in front."
"The Metatron is Fallen!"
"THE FUCK?"
"Angels, hah. Not so different from us after all, am I right?"
The demon sighed. He didn't like it when the Enemy wasn't clearly labelled, and he had the distinct feeling this War was about to get complicated. Why bother with a War at all, he thought.
The Metatron’s wings fell to the floor, tar-colored feathers leaving smoke in their wake.
Suddenly, everything screamed - the demons, the angels, the air, Crowley’s brain. It was agonizing, all-consuming, as if the universe was tearing apart.
If Crowley weren’t already kneeling from the overexertion, the sound would have knocked him over.
He covered his ears to no avail, but oddly enough, it seemed like nobody else was affected. The crowd cheered and gasped like visitors at the Globe Theatre, feasted their eyes on the tragedy unfolding before them as if it were a performance.
“Oh shit!” A demon shouted.
“The Metatron is Fallen!” rejoiced another.
“Get away from him! He’s a demon!” cried an angel.
Little by little, the internal screaming subsided until the serpent could finally stagger to his feet. He hurried by Aziraphale’s side, whose blade-shaped feathers glinted in his sword’s blue flame. The angel looked horrified.
“I fucking knew it!” Crowley’s voice was shrill with hysteria. “All this time, you pretended to be perfect. When in reality, you’re no better than me! She punished you too!”
The Voice of God regained his composure with a single blink; momentary fear was replaced by ice. “That’s hardly accurate,” he smiled. “We may have started off in the same place once, but that’s all.” He stepped closer towards Crowley, but was stopped by Aziraphale’s wing cutting his path.
“You were the one who told me my questions were valid!” Crowley screamed. “You helped me build God’s fucking suggestion box!You agreed with my concerns!”
“There’s a difference between suggestions and orders, old friend,” the Metatron said coolly. “I realized this after some time. And when I finally came to my senses and stopped questioning Her Great Plan, God was gracious enough to give me a second chance. But you still thought your own ideas were more important than God’s will. You never knew when to submit and admit defeat. Even now.”
“That’s quite enough of that,” Aziraphale interjected, his wing still extended protectively in front of Crowley. He squared his shoulders and faced the Metatron directly. “You have no cause to invade Hell,” he said, making sure his voice projected to the watching angels and demons. “Your…status…as Fallen or not has no bearing on this. Leave this place.”
The Metatron gave Aziraphale a pitying look. “I knew you were compromised when I promoted you, but I had hoped to bring you back to the side of Righteousness. It is clear now that it was a futile effort. Just as Gabriel before you, you have refused to carry out your responsibilities and must be removed from office.”
Crowley took that moment to step around Aziraphale’s protective wing. “Sounds like an institutional problem,” he said, purposefully echoing the words from the recording of Gabriel’s trial. “Your top brass decide they don’t want to follow you blindly, and so you remove them. That’s not ‘refusing to carry out their responsibilities’ – it’s bad Management and shitty policies.”
The Metatron’s pitying expression mutated into one of abject rage for a split second before he once again controlled his features.
Aziraphale felt a fear-tight knot wrap around his lungs as he watched his demon step closer to the Metatron. All of his eyes focused instantly on the two beings. His wings shivered, ready to carry him forward in case Crowley’s safety became compromised.
“Careful now, demon,” Metatron responded, threat disguised in his deceptively calm voice like sweet-smelling poison “let’s not make any hasty decisions.”
Crowley straightened up uncharacteristically, his spine a bowstring ready to snap. Aziraphale couldn’t help but admire him in this moment. His demon, always present when it mattered the most, the safe island in the middle of stormy waters.
“I think it’s time for a retirement, grandpa” Crowley spat out, his hands closed in fists, turning the knuckles white.
Metatron’s fake smile sharpened. Something unpleasant pierced the angel’s ethereal senses.
He stepped forward, standing arm in arm with Crowley.
“Don’t even think of harming him” he threatened. He couldn’t recognize his own voice, steely and assertive, a complete contrast to the warmth of the demon next to him.
The Metatron’s calculated expression twisted into something different. The ugly grimace emanated pure rage and sent shivers down Aziraphale’s wings. He took a step to once more stand in front of Crowley just as the demon rushed to do the same for the angel. As they bumped into each other, a different kind of static burst around them.
Love. Stronger than anything else Aziraphale had ever felt in Crowley’s presence. The purest essence possible, all the strands of their mutual affection twisting tightly around each other until they became something else, something solid.
Something powerful.
When Aziraphale looked up, he knew that the demon felt it too.
It would be enough. No one other shared a connection this strong. With such force on their side, they could do anything, end this conflict once and for all.
Perhaps even get rid of the Metatron.
The energy between them sent waves through the battlefield making the demons and angels who were still trying to end each other at the gates to hell shiver and stop in their movements.
No one had felt a power this strong and pure since the early times, an unimaginably long time before anyone would ever fall and this kind of energy would become forgotten in the neverending routine of spreading "good" or "bad".
There were screams of agony, helpless cries, confused shouts asking for order and a leader who would tell them what to do.
A couple of them however, angels and demons alike, recognized the feeling. They looked up from the fighting with a fondness in their eyes and a name on their lips said with the uttermost care one would only gift a dear one, before they opened their wings to rush to the being they saw when love radiated through hell.
*
Crowley and Aziraphale focused their every being on the metatron. They had a lot to talk about and figure out and make right but in this moment they faced the same direction, had the same goal, were on their own side and weren't going to lose it.
They raised their hands in a motion ready to snap and with the determination of an angel and a demon who finally breathed as one they cast the last miracle the metatron would ever witness.
Hands, not raised in action, blindly reached and intertwined. Palms kissed, crushed, and held, pressing so close to one another that the very essence of their beings began to merge. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, as hell and holy fire flickered, while ears echoed the slow beat of wings.
Their hearts, which once shook with fury, calmed to beat in rhythm with their connected pulse. Despite the chaos around them, they felt calm. Safe. With a deep breath, they allowed the energy to suffuse them. It was the fragrance of a verdant garden and the first scent of petrichor before the rain. Like sand falling on glass, the metal blades that encased Aziraphale’s feathers began to flake away and turn to dust, revealing the silvery lustre of his downy feathers. Simultaneously, Crowley's dark wings tore through their dimension and shone like a clear night sky.
Their shared energy expanded- containing every song, every tear, every kiss, every disaster, every war, every life lived or lost. Feathers that blocked the first drops of rain or the first solar flare. These memories, like firing synapses shook the firmament. All fighting ceased as all these elements extended further to encase everything in a nebulous wave of feeling and memory.
As if holding a cellist’s bow, in unison Crowley and Aziraphale gracefully dragged their hands through the air. The movement conducted a symphonic sound that reverberated through particles flitting in the atmosphere. The vibrations resonated through their joined hands.
Standing just beyond them, trapped in the slowed crawl of time, the Metatron's pale face stretched in recognition and then slowly into terror. His lips moved in a silent plea. The first true prayer to leave the Metatron’s lips in 6000 years.
"No. please no. My God!"
One voice layered and repeated on top of itself, forming a single choir. A Song of words spoken in the beginning before all things. It permeated the air in a whisper that rang in the ears of all present who had once heard her voice.
The Angel and Demon held each other in this space, their throats burning with the power of the words. They knew what would finally end it all. Somehow, they have always known.
The commandment left their lips. Two voices harmonised into a third. They spoke as one…
"Let there be... Love.”
The light, similar to that of a bolt of lightning, turned everything white, striking The Metatron where he stood. Angels and Demons, still enraptured in the situation between the leaders of Heaven and Hell, watched in stunned silence. It was loud, almost deafening, the crackle of hell fire and souls screaming could only be heard.
The Metatron, gasping as he was struck, reached out a hand uselessly towards Aziraphale, before falling to his knees, clutching the ground below him.
His essence began to fade, “Aziiiiraaaaphaaale…”
Like Crowley’s body before he was sucked into the answering machine, breaking into thousands of little dust particles that got swept away by a sudden miraculous breeze.
No one had dared to move as they all stared at the spot where the Voice Of God had once occupied.
Aziraphale squeezed the Duke's hand. “He’s gone…” he said. The angel's voice was so soft that Crowley felt the same pull of emotion roll off him when he had handed Aziraphale the leather bag of books in the church.
Angels and Demons parted to the sound of music, "I don't think you trust, in my self-righteous suicide, I cry when angels deserve to die..", followed by a dangerous roar as a sleek black vehicle and heavily furred black wolf raced into the clearing.
Crowley looked at Aziraphale, his head tilted as a grin curled over his lips "Oddly fitting." before tugging on his hand.
“Come on, Angel, they can sort this mess out themselves. I’m done.”
The angel looked around. “I love you, just so you know.”
Crowley grinned. “I know.”
With heaven and hell now in shambles, another ineffable pairing departed. Heading South to a little coastal village.
It ends as it started, in a garden. Love always wins.
"I should've gotten a hellhound!"
"Crowley, no."
Obsidian • Ao3
[ Contribution 1 ]
[ Contribution 2 ]
Star • Ao3
bellisima_writes • Tumblr• Ao3
[ Contribution 1 ]
Shade O Grey (TheSleepParalysisDemon) • Tumblr• Ao3