Chapter Text
They won’t even let him near any exit from Heaven, there’s always someone who needs his attention whenever Aziraphale wanders out of his office. He refuses to think of this as imprisonment, but he does feel rather trapped here. The few angels he trusts and who might be against the Project Second Coming are not, how to put it, enlightened enough to even begin to understand what is actually unfolding. He used to be like them.
The Metatron is the Master of Puppets, Aziraphale suspects. Some days, he still hopes Heaven is Good. Other days, he resents himself for being so naïve. That part of him, the one who tells him what an idiot he is for being a Desperate Disaster of a Stockholm Syndrome, sounds like Crowley. It’s not like that, he explains to it, on yet other days, I was never kidnapped nor abused by Heaven.
“So the Holy Son will arrive in three days?” Saraqael’s voice sounds from Aziraphale’s phone.
His heartbeat speeds up, his glum thoughts scattering, leaving space for excitement. And dread. Already?
“Precisely. On Good Friday, at midnight.”
“And we’ll be there for the Judgement?” Sandalphon asks, tone eager. Aziraphale feels sick.
“Yes, on Saturday. Making sure the damned feel the Wrath of Heaven,” Uriel says, completely unaffected, and that makes Aziraphale feel even worse.
How can they―?
“At Easter, the final destruction of all life on Earth and the Universe itself,” the Metatron continues, as if they’re discussing the weather. And it seems that they talked about it many times before.
The irony of the day they chose is not lost on Aziraphale.
“What about... the demon?”
“Oh, he won’t be a problem,” the Metatron says, sounding ominous. “Crowley poses no real threat without his precious angel partner.”
This single statement hits Aziraphale like a speeding train, loaded to bursting with dynamite.
Finally, finally, he sees it all. Reliving his conversation with the Metatron – every single carefully chosen word, every lie, every expression, down to the slightest twitch of the smallest muscle. All the unsaid threats (take the coffee, or take... death) that Aziraphale absorbed, unconsciously, so unaware of their impact on his thoughts and behaviour.
The Metatron knew. He knew exactly what Crowley’s reaction to the idea of coming back to Heaven, as an angel again, would be – he knew Crowley better than Aziraphale did. And he used Aziraphale to bring the demon to this unthreatening state of dull indifference slash impotent rage. Sitting there in his flat, covered in a blanket, and surrounded by dead plants.
And it’s all Aziraphale’s fault for not seeing it, because he didn’t want to see it. He still wishes he didn’t hear what he just learned, because if Heaven is not Good, then what is? And if Heaven, the way he wants to see it, has never existed, then what exactly Aziraphale himself is?
The archangels and Metatron are still talking, discussing the details. All of them.
Crowley’s home and the bookshop are under observation, Aziraphale learns. They want to begin in London. Hell will gladly cooperate with Heaven on this one. The less vindictive angels will stay to welcome the Good souls. There will be no mercy for the sinners. Apparently, Satan said that Hell is going to get so much bigger than Heaven, to contain all of them – and they find it amusing.
None of it can be a part of the Almighty’s Ineffable Plan. But why is Almighty allowing―
Best not to speculate... Well, I suspect that would be considered inappropriate.
The eavesdropping is once again interrupted by a demonic phone call. This one from Crybaby.
“Hello, Furfur.”
“―And another thing!” the demon yells, as if they were arguing about something three minutes ago, not weeks.
“...Yes?”
“You attacked my buddy Shax, you bloodthirsty monster!”
“I’m not sure that I know what you’re talking about,” he admits. It’s his usual line when talking to the demons, apparently.
“The halo!”
Oh. That.
“I see you’re very protective of her,” he points out, teasing.
“I― That’s― Go to Hell! I mean, to Heaven! Oh, right, you’re already there...” the demon stumbles over his words. “You’re wrong about the statue,” he adds quickly and hangs up.
…Well, since the Metatron is busy planning the Universe’s utter destruction, it is time for action.
Aziraphale stands up, fixes his bow-tie, and prepares to leave Heaven.
Forever.