Chapter Text
He tried as hard as he could to keep looking at Crowley, determined to convey all that he hadn’t said, should have said, had wanted to say for so long through his smile, even when his body started to disintegrate.
His last thought would be “I love him so!”, and his last feeling would be one of contentment and peace. He put every last ounce of will into this, and he nearly succeeded.
Then everything faded to black.
…
…
…
“Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, wake up!”
Out of sheer awe he obeyed.
This pressed him into continued existing, followed closely by recognizing that kind, amused voice and then, subsequently, by somehow opening his eyes.
He found himself in a vast void, nothing, not even black, all around him, and nevertheless a warm circle of light from somewhere above him illuminating said nothingness.
“Lord?”, he ventured, unsure if he was allowed to keep existing, but fearful to go against the command “Wake up!”, which surely implied existing in a way, right?
“Aziraphale, where is the demon I gave you?”, the voice continued, not unkind.
Aziraphale frowned. He couldn’t remember exactly. “Must have mislaid him”, he mumbled, distracted by having a body again.
“Aziraphale, Principality of Earth, where is the Earth you were given to guard?” Again, not unkind.
The angel concentrated. Memories trickled into his consciousness, swelled up, became a flood, an avalanche...
“Oh god!”, he gasped, overwhelmed by remembering everything, the Burning Book of Life, the impossible choice, the tearful yellow eyes.
“Yes, child, I am your God. Of which thou shall not make grave, unkind images, I would like to add. Now go along, find your demon and bring him this!”
Aziraphale suddenly noticed that he had been holding a strangely bent piece of metal, a – a – a - wotsitsname, a crank! He stared at it.
And thought about it.
And started: “Oh, Lord, he will not accept a universe started by an angel.. or demon.. or, or … , well, he was quite adamant!”
“Angel of Earth, his heart was oppressed into a diamond. But consider Jemimah!”
He remembered the little pot she presented them. He remembered Crowley’s trickery, his plans, his goals, his deeds. Before that fateful day.
He remembered after.
Mrs. Sandwich.
The sleeping bag.
The first sentence he had said to…
“Oh, god! Oh, no, no, this can’t be right! Oh, Lord, how could I have done this to him! How could I…”
A deep pit had opened in his stomach, and a deep frown on his forehead.
The light twinkled.
“Aziraphale, Supreme Archangel. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, but whose fault is it? Don’t condemn you. Go, find your demon and sin no more! And it will be all good!”