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2023-09-28
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Prayer for the Lost (and Things that are Left Behind)

Summary:

Heaven receives an unlikely prayer. A prayer accountant is having a strange day.

༻❁༺

Or: Crowley is drunk, and heartsick, and hurting, and he does what any human does best when facing off adversity.

He prays to Aziraphale.

Notes:

Cheers to Choice, who may very well be an irl prayer accountant. If anyone enabled this story to fruition, it's her. Here's to more fic screamings at 1 AM with you.

And to everyone who has followed the progress of this lil invocation on Twitter: Thank you. Really.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Sariel, 35th Order Accountant & former Watcher, of the Prayer Sorting and Inventory Department, is quite good at their job, actually.

 

It's the kind of job that, to an angel in a more respectable position in the pecking order - say a Virtue or higher - would find rather tedious and dull, except it is perfectly essential by all accounts. Sariel is not persuasive and charismatic enough to go on Earthly assignments, and they are not beatific enough to try to be on the Welcoming Committee of Paradise Requisitions. But they are a dab hand at Celestial Accounting, and someone has to keep track of the daily prayer transactions, human-savvy or not.

 

It goes without saying that prayers, like every other aspect in the world's 6000-year history, have become as messy and entangled as - Lord, forgive their language - a Seraphim's wings on molting day. It was alright in the beginning. Humans were few and sparse, and communing with The Almighty consisted of an altar table, a slaughtered ram, and some lovely incense for the offerings. Sometimes The Almighty required more, like a first-born son — but that always became null and void after the first knife plunge, anyway. (Some Divine, cosmic humor for you. The Almighty especially loves jokes like these ones. Or so Sariel has been told.)

 

But then - then came blokes like Joseph and Gideon, Aaron and Samuel. Priests, prophets, psychics, saints, who seem much more adept at communing with the Most High than other mortals. It took the whole debacle with Aaron's sons, plus some begging of an Earthly operative who oversaw Amram’s family before the Exodus, for a newer system to be devised. To Sariel's knowledge that System has not changed, and they had been in Prayer Sorting and Inventory longer than anybody else.

 

The System is fairly easy to grasp. All Sariel's Department does is send off the prayers to who they are for. There are intercessions now. People would pray to prophets and saints with intercessory functions. To Sariel it's all a rather complicated game of human telephone. In fact, it's no better than sending prayers directly to God, whose line is — if not dead, then eternally beeping to tell you that it's eternally busy, sorry. Come back if you have a ram or a first-born son, maybe. (Hallelujah, praise be.)

 

That's what makes the System so reliable in the first place. Sariel is nothing more than a Heavenly switchboard operator. On whether or not the prayer is answered — well. That's out of their scope of responsibilities now. Stroke of Divine Providence, and all that.

 

(Word in the office says that a human got the System right, once. That Marvin O. Bagman. Charming fellow, though Sariel's colleague on Earth holiday had once brought back a tape of his songs, and they think he could use more Heavenly Chorus and less plagiarized tones.)

 

On the day the System becomes flawed, Sariel is auditing prayers from the Eastern Altitude Region - some human conflict that needs to be settled. It takes them two more missives sent to different Patrons (there are so many Patrons) for Sariel to notice the pleasant Heavenly notification. Or indeed to parse out that the tinny tinkling meant that something was wrong.

 

There's a new prayer being received. Somewhere along the North Temperate Zone, location pinged around Embassy X. Sariel frowns as they check the monitor readings, which is increasingly going haywire, and their peacock eyes go wide.

 

They push away from their desk. Deeply, deeply disturbed.

 

And after a moment's hesitation begins crafting a concerned email.

 


 

There is no sound in Heaven's pristine corridors except for the lone click-clacking of angelic heels. On Sariel's arms are files and read-outs of their monitor's recent chaotic breakdown, printed in haste after their Supervisor stiffly tells them they've been granted audience by their boss: the new Supreme Archangel — Prince of Heaven, He Who Seats at the Left Hand of God — himself. 

 

Sariel's earlier notes of concern have now evolved into a deep-seated apprehension; its foreign tendrils are currently running up and down all over their body, an uncomfortable sensation Sariel is helpless to stop. Usually when there's an anomaly worth reporting the Higher Ups just ask them to write a narrative report and fax it over. Their Beatitudes never did quite learn the art of slumming it up with their underlings, unless it was time for Chorus with the Heavenly Host. No, they are too busy singing their hosannas and their excelsis deos in whatever celestial sphere they are assigned to for the last millennium, or concerning themselves with celestial matters and enacting the Great Plan. Matter of fact, it has been... gosh. 

 

The last time Sariel has seen Gabriel, Supreme Archangel of all Heaven, Shemhazai and his gang had been casted out. (And Sariel had only avoided that catastrophe because they had more sense in their secondaries than Shemhazai had with his whole head.)

 

Sariel shakes off the memories: no use dwelling in them now. They round the corner, and reach the Supreme Archangel's office.

 

Suddenly they feel wrong-footed again.

 

There is... A door. In Heaven. Heaven - which had always been spacious, and wide, and open. Heaven doesn't have walls, and it doesn't have doors, let alone double, mahogany-aged ones. Walls and doors mean things hidden, secrets kept. 

 

What is it that they are trying to hide ?  

 

"Hello, my dear!" says the new Supreme Archangel — Prince of Heaven, He Who Sits at the Left Hand of God — his smile marred by a slight wince when Sariel had decided what to do with the door ('Knocking' was banging on the lintel with a flat palm, wasn't it? They're sure of it; they've skimmed the Earth files.) "How may I be of assistance?"

 

You have to see it in Sariel's perspective, is the thing, before you see it in anyone else's. Heaven doesn't do rumors - certainly not - but there are whispers that creep up on the grape vine (that doesn't exist) that even the most junior recording angel would know about. And the not-rumors about the new Supreme Archangel had spread faster than wild holy flames. Supposedly because there isn't supposed to be a new Supreme Archangel. To everyone's knowledge this has been the highest leap of a promotion since old Enoch ascended to become The Voice of God. No one knows where Gabriel is — if he handed in his two-week notice (is that even allowed?), if he went AWOL (not likely), or if he got the sack (but for what?) It's all rather... uhm... muddled, is all. 

 

(Sariel does not say all of these out loud, because Sariel is not an idiot.)

 

Whatever happened, though, one thing's for certain: the new Supreme Archangel must be a force to be reckoned with, if they get to replace Mr. God-is-my-Man-and-my-Strength. 

 

The angel that greets them, however, is a far cry from the angel in Sariel's expectations. He wears the same sleek, grayish, lavender turtleneck that Gabriel sometimes prefers, but underneath his centuries-old coat and worn trousers it just looks badly mismatched. His face is gentle and sincere, white-lamb curls ridiculously tousled; he would have glowed anywhere else except underneath Heaven's bright, clinical glare. Instead the harsh white lights make him seem pale and washed out, a distinctly opposite effect of what the warm beiges and tones were going for. He has the look of someone who stands out in whatever line-up of the Celestial Sphere he had been assigned in, and if Sariel didn't know any better they would have said the new Supreme Archangel felt horribly familiar: here is someone who knows what it's like to not belong. 

 

Huh.

 

"Uhm. Hello!" Sariel gives a half-wave, already flustered. They wish the new Supreme Archangel cannot read minds. "It's...erm... Sariel? From Prayer Sorting and Inventory. You asked me to come here.... for the report? About the Prayer Anomaly, I mean."

 

"Ah, right!" The new Supreme Archangel beams and opens his door wider. His diffidence is open and approachable, and against all odds Sariel can feel themself warming up to him. "Well, if that's the case, do come in. I've been expecting you."

 

Another thing Sariel will learn about the new Supreme Archangel that day: his office does not look like a regular Heavenly-issued office. 

 

No glass desks, or sleek computer models, or file organizers stacked to the nines. No, when Sariel steps past that mahogany-aged threshold, their corporation's eyes are first assaulted by the absolute clutter. Everything is positioned in some sort of stuffy, ordered chaos. Chintz armchairs, Persian rugs with - somehow - a thin layer of decorative dust. Lamps scattered in varying nooks and niches. Desks with tartan coasters. An oculus right at the center, and God knows how he got that there.   

 

Oh, and books. So many books. On desks and bookshelves and lecterns. On nooks that only exist if you look for it. The place is positively drowning with books — it would have made the Official Heavenly Stenographer of the Books of Life and Death erupt in hives. 

 

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

 

Sariel starts. The new Supreme Archangel is staring at them expectantly, and Sariel is mortified when they realize that they had been gawking. "Sorry?"

 

"It is a custom that I am attempting to reintroduce to Heaven," the new Supreme Archangel tells them eagerly. He leads Sariel to one of the chintz armchairs, and they are surprised at how terribly comfortable it is. "All in the rules of hospitality, you see. You come to my office, and now you are my ward, and it is therefore my responsibility to serve you, and - and offer you the necessary refreshments." There is an erratic kind of brittleness to the new Supreme Archangel's enthusiasm, and Sariel wonders wildly if he is as nervous as they are. "I'll put the kettle on, then, if you wish it." 

 

"No!" Sariel says, who panicked at the thought of being served by the new Supreme Archangel — Prince of Heaven, He Who Sits at the Left Hand of God. They flinch. "No, erm. Thank you. That's very kind. It's just that... Well. The tea, I mean. Isn't that - uhm. Gross matter?"

 

Sariel could never sincerely say that they had ever seen anyone's face fall – until now. The new Supreme Archangel's shoulders have deflated, and any remaining color on his face has leached out, leaving it hollow and pallid.

 

"Oh. Right," the new Supreme Archangel says, voice small. His mouth twisted oddly, and Sariel wanted to kick themself. 

 

And then, as if a mask has shuttered underneath his crestfallen expression, he shakes his head and smiles, snapping back to the role of gracious host — the change so quick it unnerves Sariel right down to their feathers. "Right. Yes, of course. Dreadfully sorry. Would — ambrosia be fine?"

 

It wasn't like they could turn down a cup of ambrosia, which everyone knows is an angel's choice beverage. Sariel chews on their lip, tentatively accepts the offer.

 

 (And all the while they try very hard not to think too much of the look of pure relief on the new Supreme Archangel's face when they did). 

 


 

"Thank you, Your Beatitude," Sariel says gratefully, as soon as the new Supreme Archangel settles on the armchair opposite theirs. The cup of ambrosia was good; they are already halfway to finishing it. "Thank you for seeing me, as well. I know you must be terribly busy."  

 

"Not at all!" The new Supreme Archangel says, earnest. "And please. I am no more Your Beatitude than anyone else's. Call me Aziraphale."

 

"Oh. Okay." That's a trick, right? Must be. Sariel decides not to risk it, and pointedly looks away from the Archangel's face as they rummage through their files. "It's.... erm, the system, you see. For - for prayers and their inventory and such. When human mortals pray, their prayers enter the system, and ultimately they get redirected to the entity assigned to intercede for them - either to the whole communion of saints, or straight to the Sapphire Throne, etc., etc. Do you follow me so far?"

 

"Ohhh, yes. Yes, I'm well aware. In place since that particularly awful incident with... Aaron's boys." He shudders. Sariel has never seen any Archangel shudder before. "Nadab and Abihu, correct?"

 

"Yes."  Sariel tries not to show too much of their surprise. Anyone above a principality had a hard time grasping concepts as human as historical records and narrativity, Messenger Archangels notwithstanding. "Yes, right, so! So. Exactly thirteen hours ago the system received a prayer. Only - it wasn't your normal prayer? The system's reading says it shot past way beyond the Danii metric. And if you convert that to its miracle potentiality, you got something with at least over 10 Lazarii!" Resurrecting people was nothing to sneeze at. Even the Living Creatures who bear the Holy Throne need a leg-up when it comes to raising the dead. Sariel shakes their head in wonder. "I don't want to exaggerate, but it's possibly one of the sincerest, most powerful prayers we have ever received in recorded human history!"

 

"Well, that's good!" Supreme Archangel Aziraphale says encouragingly. "Oh, that's splendid news, Sariel! You might have just identified a mortal vessel for God's Great Plan." Already he has sprung out of the armchair. "We better send them a dream of sorts, while it's early. That always puts them on the straight and narrow. It worked marvelously for Joseph—" he pauses and frowns. "Well, both of the Josephs. It did take quite a while for the two of them to divine the phantasm, so to speak—" 

 

"Uhm - that's the thing?" Sariel wrings their hands. Here comes the anomaly part. "The prayer did not come from a mortal, you see." They brace themself.

 

"It came from a demon."

 

There is a long silence.

 

The Supreme Archangel's smile is strained. He tries to laugh, and it comes out fragile and wrong.  "Terribly sorry, my dear, but I must have misheard you. You said the prayer – came from a demon?" 

 

"You can hear it for yourself," Sariel offers, and before the Supreme Archangel could answer, before Sariel could even register that their boss, the head honcho of Heaven himself, had gone - if possible - even paler, they had selected an audio file and projected it unto the ether. And then they pressed play.

 


 

Prayer #AD2.23.887.178.291.199

Classification: S

Location: Embassy X; North Temperate Zone - 51.5136° N, 0.1365° W

 

Audio Transcript: 

 

[Static.]

 

[Inaudible Noise.]

 

Right. Fucking - right. 

 

I don't suppose you'll hear me, you bloody tuft-haired bastard. Don't reckon She ever really heard me either, not even since from the Before. Got the sack before I really got to ask, didn't I? Barely got the questions rolled out, let alone that sodding suggestion box. Nonononono - just the Fall, and then the pits of sulfur. D'you know how much they hurt, sulfur? Smelled like absolute shit, sting's even worse. You'd probably know. 'Snot like you ever let me forget what I was. How much of a travesty my nature was to you. 

 

But I've already Fallen, so I can fucking ask now . Can you hear me, you Go-Sat-Heaven forsaken arsehole? I don't miss you. I DON'T miss you, and I hope I never see you again.  But since you're such a git for divinely ordained responsibilities I figured this will reach you eventually. It's got to. 

 

Because I did not get it before. How humans would rather overdose on laudanum than face this fucking agony. Turns out no mortal with half a damn mind would dare break a demon's fucking heart. No one but you, angel. No one but you.

 

I - shit. S'not like I ask for much. But I'm short on miracles, and my holy water stash has run dry. Nothing else to do but drink, is there, except no amount of alcohol could drown this one out. Not by a long shot.

 

What I'm saying is: you caused this suffering. You caused this pain. So alleviate it. Make it stop. You figured it all out, haven't you? Nothing lasts forever. Then make me believe it. Make me believe that all things end, and that this agony your absence caused will someday cease.  

 

You owe me that much, at least. 

 

[Static.] 

 

[Inaudible voices.] [Muffled knocks.] "—Please, Mr. Crowley, will you just come into the booksho—"  

 

XXXX End of Transcript XXXX

 


 

There is no sound in Heaven's pristine corridors and immaculate offices - it's always perfectly silent, perfectly serene. No sound... except, Sariel is realizing, for a quiet hitching of breaths, though it has been a while since they have heard that much diaphoresis.

 

The Supreme Archangel's glazed gaze had not left the firmament where the prayer recording was projected. There is a hand on his lips, fingers pressing onto them as if he is desperately remembering a half-forgotten sensation. His eyes, the color of sea-change, are wet. So are the cheeks of which the tears - they are tears - had rolled down from.

 

The Supreme Archangel is crying.

 

"Your.... Beatitude?" Sariel asks, uncertainly. And when he does not respond they gather their courage to address him in the only other way they know how. "A-Aziraphale? Are you alright?"

 

This tethers him back from wherever it is he's gone. The Supreme Archangel looks away, hand leaving his lips to dash at his eyes. 

 

"So sorry," he chokes out. He tries so hard to hide the tremble in his voice, and underneath all the confusion Sariel feels something in them break a little for him. "It's just... You know how it is sometimes."

 

"Of course," Sariel says, who really didn't, but figures that isn't what the Supreme Archangel needs right now. "I cry a bit, too. When I listen to prayers. It's beautiful, isn't it? All that faith in something they cannot see. Something that they don't even know is there." 

 

That makes the Archangel laugh, and Sariel cannot discern if this is genuine laughter, or the brittle one he uses to clench his jaw and cover up unwanted emotions. They are learning a lot of things about the Supreme Archangel that day.

 

"Yes. Quite," he says. A shake of the head, a flutter of hands, and just like that his face is dry, the anguish gone. The mask is back up again. 

 

He smiles beatifically at Sariel. "Excellent work, my dear. Your punctual report of the anomaly will allow Heaven to investigate the matter even further."

 

"Hey, just doing my job," Sariel says, standing up and gathering their files. Dismissal they can recognize in a star's twinkling. The archangel, ever the magnanimous host, leads them to the door.

 

"Thank you. Truly," he is saying. "Oh, and - Sariel?"

 

"Yes?"

 

It is a tiny moment, missable by human standards. But Sariel is no human. Their peacock eyes are keen, and they have seen the tears; seen his hand, pressed on his lips. Hard enough to bruise.

 

In that moment there is a trembling of the Archangel's chin. A crack in the mask. 

 

"If there are any more prayers like this — please." He swallows once. Twice. "Send them to me directly." 

 

Sariel does not ask why the Archangel would want another prayer defect to be sent to him immediately. Why does he think the anomaly is addressed to him, when the demon does not mention who he wished would intercede for him? Why did he shed tears for a demon begging for succor?

 

Sariel does not ask, because asking would mean not knowing the answers.

 

And Sariel is not an idiot. 

 

"Of course." 

 


 

Sariel does not see the Supreme Archangel for a little while after that. The (non-existent) grapevine says he is off to facilitate negotiations with the Governor of Dreams. Some permits and licenses, authorizations to operate in the province of Night and Sleep. Dull logistic and external affairs that were once the duties of the now-missing Gabriel.

 

Sariel spots him back in Head Office a week later: pale and wan, but determined. Deals closed, negotiations signed. Clutching his victories tight, as a woman who clutches her lost drachma close to her chest. 

 

And if Sariel wonders whether the Supreme Archangel included a certain demon's nighttime peace into the bargain – well. No one needs to know about that, either.

 


 

Sariel sees the Supreme Archangel a lot more often, now. 

 

He hadn't been messing around when he said he was going to implement some Heavenly reforms and changes. On the seventh day of his return from the Province of Dreams, handwritten and personalized memorandums are sent to the various Celestial Departments, encouraging “cordial and amicable interactions amongst and in between the Angelic Spheres.” 

 

"It is high time that angels revert to their companionate nature," the memorandum reads, as if the angels had ever drifted away from their companionate nature in the first place (the difference between the Supreme Archangel and Sariel is that Sariel would never have admitted this out loud). It was all emblazoned in a neat, copperplate script, and looked so painstakingly made. "Informal caucuses, amiable discussions, and idle chats around the Office’s corridors are not only welcome, but recommended.  T'is harkening back to the Days before the Sundering, and must ideally be done regardless of the order, class, or choir the respective angels are affiliated to." And then, as if in afterthought: "if you may ever be so kind." 

 

The memorandum was met with some confusion, but angels are nothing if not obedient. Suddenly Heaven is filled with angels toing and froing from one office to another. Corridors are filled with angels striking casual conversation with each other. Heaven becomes a little more bustling, and a lot less empty. A lot less lonely.  

 

The only ones who seem displeased by this development are the Archangels themselves. Despite the memorandum, Sariel does not see them often – and, when they do get out of their offices, their noses are always wrinkled, lips curled in distaste at the number of angels loitering about. Sariel can almost hear them, the lion-toothed, honeyed voice they use when talking to angels that are a choir below them. “Why on earth are you engaging in frivolous, slothful chatter when you should be upping your miracle productivity and soul count?” 

 

Sariel does not mind the new changes, though. Increased interactions mean increased office visits, and more and more Sariel finds themself looking forward to visits with the Supreme Archangel. His once stifling office has evolved into some sort of cozy safe haven. After the initial bout of confusion Sariel becomes fascinated by the baubles and treasures the Archangel – Aziraphale, he would correct them gently, patiently, and in time the name stuck – stashed inside. A library, perhaps, that desk-bound, pencil-pusher Sariel itches to uncover and explore.  

 

They don’t ever ask about it, of course, because certain niceties must be observed, but. There’s a strange comfort, somehow, in that treasure trove of a room, with all the mess and clutter. Sentimentality comes to angels as naturally as brown bears do with driving automobiles (Sariel once excitedly asked Raphael  about good ole Tobit’s healing, and the archangel looked at them like they had bird droppings on their eyes and said, “who?”) But if there’s an exception to the Laws of the Universe Sariel learns it is bound to be Aziraphale. Cramped and surrounded with objects he holds dear enough, can’t stand to let go… and it’s…

 

 It’s… nice. It’s nice.

 

So they cannot help gasping when, on the sixth day of the third month of the new Supreme Archangel’s administration, Sariel steps into his Office and thinks they’ve gone into the wrong room. Or on another plane of existence entirely.  

 

“Hello, Sariel!” Aziraphale is there; still the gracious host, the benevolent leader… but his smile is too tight, and his downturned eyes are shadowed, and he looks more worn down than ever. “How may I help you today?”

 

“What happened to your things?” Sariel demands, before they could stop themself. The Supreme Archangel’s Office looks like it had been scythed into oblivion. It now resembles your run-of-the-mill, regularly-issued, Heavenly workspace: cool and clean and empty. It immediately sets the molars of Sariel’s corporation on edge.

 

“Ah.” Aziraphale looks around, distracted. “Right. Well. The Angelic Board decided that the Office… needed shaping up. They advised that the clutter did not contribute to a conducive work environment, and they very kindly assisted me in the tidying.”  There’s a pinched look on his face, and it remains, no matter how much he hides it behind a falsely cheery voice. “All for the better, really.”

 

“For the better!?” Sariel cries. “But – but your office was marvelous! All those wonderful trinkets, and books, and… and things! They can’t just do that!”  They clap a hand to their mouth, mortified, and backpedal before they commit further blasphemy. “I mean… can they?”

 

Sariel thought the pinched look would never go away. Instead it morphs into an expression so kind and understanding it almost burns like a hellfire-forged shiv. Oh, but God above, they know angels are supposed to be kind, but he might be the kindest one yet.  

 

“It’s quite alright,” he says, softly, patting Sariel’s hand. “Don’t you worry about me. It’s all a matter of – examples that must be set, now that I am Supreme Archangel. A renewal of sorts, things left behind… all part of the process. Completely tickety-boo.”

 

“Tickety-boo?” Sariel says blankly, as the Supreme Archangel takes the files and ushers them out.

 

“Besides,” he says, looking like he’s been shot in his stomach, “they were just gross matter.”

 


 

The next prayer anomaly comes as expected, but the pleasant tinkling tone still surprises Sariel, who is used to the calm whirring of Prayer Inventory’s efficient Auditing System. Sure enough, the sender line of the recording tells them all they needed to know: Incoming Prayer. Received from: The Demon Crowley.

 

What makes these prayers anomalous isn’t just because they exceed the metric the Department devised for a prayer’s miracle potentiality. (Quick side note to the young ones and other non-ethereal beings: simply put, a miracle potentiality is the equivalent of how likely it is that a prayer will be answered. The scale ranges from a vague sense of fulfillment, to downright resurrection.) No, it’s the stark fact that it is a demon who sends it.

 

Granted, it is a demon that seems to have been branded as persona non grata in Hell’s ledgers, but demons are demons. They are, by nature, not a prayerful lot. If there was any praying to be done, it will be addressed to Satan. Who, unlike God, always answers, as long as the price you pay is a handsome one .

 

(Deep down Sariel believes that despite their inherent wretchedness, some shriveled-up, moldy, locked-away part of a demon’s mushy entrails still long for the presence of the Creator they shunned, and who shunned them. That’s how Hell works for humans, doesn’t it? It wouldn’t be such a potent eternal punishment otherwise, if a mortal is not haunted by could-have-beens and should-have-dones. One of them had even written about it. What power would Hell have if those here imprisoned were not able to dream of Heaven?  Weaponized guilt, or something. Sariel thought they were very wise.

 

Demons were usually not so blatant about it, though. All except for this one.)

 


 

Prayer #AD2.23.19.997.234.406.623

Classification: S/?

Location: Embassy X; North Temperate Zone - 51.5136° N, 0.1365° W

 

Audio Transcript: 

 

Az- [Heavy Breathing.]

 

[Static.]

 

Angel.

 

D'you remember – that first time I tried getting you drunk? In Uz, wasn't it, weathering the wrath of the Almighty on Her darling favorite. Wrinkled your nose and turned away before I got a sip in you. Dressed like an absolute ponce then, too. You lot always had, but you especially, with your neat white robe and your stupid gold trimmings and your ridiculous white-lamb curls. Fucking hell. And you had the nerve to think you'd Fall dressed like that.

 

You had always been a prat. Still are, mind. Biggest one there is.

 

Today Police Officer Inspector Constable held what they called 'an intervention' for my 'drinking problem.' You'd be proud. Honestly didn't think they had it in 'em. Enlisted coffee shop girl and record store girl to help. Nina and Maggie. Nina's what you'd expect, but it's what the other one said that stuck. That Mr. Fell wouldn't want seeing me like this.

 

Bless her. As if Mr. Fell hadn't been a glutton for some good Malbec. Or some aged Château Lafite. Fuck's sake, you'd have topped off my glass before enthusiastically downing your nth daiquiri. Numerous Bacchanalias together and you'd think you know how much a bastard drinks.

 

What I thought, anyway. Dunno. 

 

Point is. Point is. I remember that other first time. Us getting drunk together. In that wall in Beit She’an, after Nob, and Endor, and… and Gilboa. Didn’t even hesitate when I passed you the wineskin, did you? Just drank it all in one go. I hadn’t seen you that heartsick since Uz. You loved all your wards, but you especially loved Jonathan. You told me all about him, and about David, and about the covenant that they made, and the grief the shepherd was now weaving into his laments… and I thought, Shit. If this is how love ruins you, then love can go fuck itself.  

 

But then…

 

Then you put your head on my shoulder. Then you stayed there, letting your tears fall on my sash. And you whispered, “how do you bear it?” as if I’d fucking know. As if a couple thousand years of loneliness on earth would make me immune to the pain. As if I could make the hurting stop. 

 

So I told you, “as best I can.”

 

 

Sod this. I don't know why I try. I don't know why I keep reaching out when She never answers me before. I don’t know how you bear with the loneliness, angel. Someone knows I’m not faring any better.

 

Just hope that, wherever you are, you’re bearing it the best you can, too.

 

[Static.] 

 

XXXX End of Transcript XXXX

 


 

Aziraphale is not in his Office when Sariel comes to deliver the prayer file. Trapped in another board meeting inside the Holy of Holies, no doubt. Sariel suspects that’s how the Archangels keep him on his toes: entangling him in one transcendentally boring board meeting to the next. 

 

No matter. Sariel does not think they could face him, anyway. It’s their job, but listening to that last prayer felt like an intrusion. Like cutting off the second pair of a Cherub’s wings to expose their nakedness. Being a prayer accountant meant that Sariel never even considered meeting whom prayers – a wildly intimate and incredibly private act – are about. Until now.

 

It takes some chatting with Raguel, the colleague who went on earth holiday, to visualize what Sariel is looking for. It takes a little less than 0.005 Lazarii to summon and manifest the materials that they need.

 

By the end of the day, there are three things on the Supreme Archangel’s empty desk.

 

One is the file recording of Prayer #AD2.23.19.997.234.406.623, a.k.a. Prayer Anomaly #2, stored in a crystal prism.

 

The second is a golden box, filled with what Raguel said were tea packets flavored with oil of bergamot. Earl Grey, she called it, and told Sariel that’s the tea she thought humans liked best. And if there’s an archangel who has any humanity embedded in him, it’s Aziraphale.

 

And the third is an intricate bottle made of hand-blown glass. Inside is a perfectly acceptable Château Lafite, aged since 1875. (Sariel didn’t know how the Supreme Archangel liked his Château Lafite other than the prayer’s vague hints, but they willed the wine to correspond to the former principality’s tastes. And so it is.) 

 

Then Sariel sends a little prayer. It wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular, so it will probably get lost in the backlog as the system sorts itself out. A good thing, now that they think of it. Sariel does not know the limits of material objects in Heaven. If they violated a terrible rule, or if it’s utter blasphemy to grant prayers of which they are not the assigned intercessor. And for a demon, no less.

 

Still, they pray.

 

They pray that if there’s any gross matter the Angelic Board would let the Supreme Archangel keep, it will be this.

 


 

There’s a constant that you need to know about prayers, and it is as follows: the in-flow of prayers will always be greater than the outflow of prayers answered.

 

The new Supreme Archangel asked them about this, once, in the early days of his administration, just after the occurrence of the first anomaly. Sariel, ever present on soul-count seminars and prayer-audit conferences, parroted the answer they got back to him.

 

“Imagine a man who has all the lamb, and sheep, and cattle in the world. Imagine his family – a wife that he loves, and children that he dots on. Then imagine a miserable man, with boils and scabs on his skin, and who begs for his supper on the streets. Which of them do you think will call upon us more?”

 

“Gosh. I’d imagine the happy one.”

 

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” Sariel explained. “See, a happy man would be too sunk in his riches, and his gold, and the prosperity of his livestock, and the love of his children and wife. He will be content for all his life. But if you take all of that from him – if you curse him with boils, and kill his wife and children, and send a plague to his livestock – then the prayers start coming in. That’s why miracle-outflow is so low – so a believer’s faith is maintained, and Paradise’s soul count goes up.”

 

"Oh. I see.” There was a flinty look in the Supreme Archangel’s eyes, and when he spoke his tone was flat and defiant. “So it’s Job all over again, is it?"

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Nothing.” He paused to seemingly mull this over, then huffed in frustration. “But surely you have to grant some prayers sooner or later. Or they will see through the prevarication, curse God, and be done with it.”

 

“It’s not a prevari-what's-it,” Sariel had said, a tad defensively, though they were not sure why. They never had strong feelings about that part of their Department in the first place. “It’s just… you know. Faith.”

 

The Supreme Archangel – Prince of Heaven, He Who Seats at the Left Hand of God – stared at them, and Sariel realized with a growing, gnawing dread that he is desperately beseeching them for another answer. Worse, that there was none Sariel could give him… because they never questioned it themself.

 

Shame, thick as tar, bubbled at Sariel’s throat.

 

“Good heavens,” Aziraphale muttered. "Dangling a blessing above a supplicant, all to fulfill some quota... Maintained by cruelty and conditions...." He shook his head in disbelief. "What kind of faith is that?" 

 

Sariel wished someone could tell them, too.

 


 

C:/Heaven_Server//PrayerS&I= Deut.6:4_lost_stream//= ℵ Ω ω∞//

 

Prayer #AD2.24.23.005.431.666.70??

Classification: lost_stream

Audio Transcript: 

 

[Static.]

 

Aziraphal

Azira

Angel, I –

 

[Static.]

 

[Muffled Noise.]

 

XXXX Transcript Incomplete XXXX

 


 

Prayer #AD2.24.29.013.824.749./??

Classification: lost_stream

Audio Transcript: 

 

Angel, if I could go back if I could tell you all the words we’ve…

If I… Hmgrrrgggh.

 

[Static.]

 

[Static.]

 

Fuck this. Fuck this.

 

XXXX Transcript Incomplete XXXX

 


 

Prayer #AD2.24.46.7?2./?1.603.???

Classification: lost_stream

Audio Transcript: 

 

If I had kissed you sooner, would you have stayed?

 

XXXX Transcript Incomplete XXXX

 


 

Prayer #AD2.24.93.143.609.874.912

Classification: A/T/S/?

Location: Embassy X; North Temperate Zone - 51.5136° N, 0.1365° W

 

Audio Transcript: 

 

[Static.]

 

[Static.]

 

[Static.]

 

Aziraphale.

 

It's been a year since —

 

It's been a year.

 

I'm doing well, I think. As well as you'd imagine. Inspector Constable hadn't been fucking around about the intervention, though their plan of attack mostly involved ordering me about in the bookshop. Didn't think anyone's fussier than you when it comes to deliberate disorganizational upkeep, but there you go. They've already taken upon themself to randomize the shelves' arrangement on three separate occasions. Every bit the book-hoarding bastard you are. Something in the shop's water, probably. Or the dust.  

 

I don't think you would be displeased on how the bookshop is now. They're good, Muriel. Reminds me of you, only with a style that actually locates itself to the most recent epoch, and not pinging back to the bloody 1800s.

 

Nina and Maggie hit it off, and they had the good grace to tell me they would have hit it off sooner if we hadn't interfered. Cheek. I'm strike two on turning down lunch with the both of them, because my dignity isn't that much tattered to become a bloody sodding third wheel. I'd rather be put down.

 

Hell, this friends' business is a lot of work. Shouldn't have left all the wittering to you. Don't say I didn't try.

 

So much has changed in a year. Life on earth, hey? I wouldn't have minded before - you told me in 1967 that I go too fast, and it wasn't a moot point. Instinct, I s'pose. Figured if I keep running and running, I wouldn't have to... to confront what had been taken from me. To realize that the pain never really stopped after the Fall.

 

Fat lot of good speed did, anyway. Most of the time it felt like pushing the Bentley past its limit just to crash straight into a wall. Almost did, too. When you left I thought the Universe had abandoned me for good, so I don't know how I ever survived the benders. Answering a demon's prayer, the very thought. Whichever wanker Up There who took pity must have had their work cut out for them.

 

Can't help yourself, can you? You bloody, soft angel.

 

But it's got to be worth something. That I'm still here. That even after everything else this corporation's blasted sinew of a heart is still beating. And if there's just.... a slightest chance that Someone out there is listening... That YOU are somehow listening....

 

If prayer is the only way I can get the words out to you, then I'll take my chance. I've got nothing left to lose.

 

What I really wanted to say is: I love you, Aziraphale.

 

When you gave away your flaming sword to protect Eve, I knew. When you sheltered me from the rain; when you trusted me to protect you from the Fall; when you wept for Saul and Jonathan in that wall in Beit She'an, I knew. You asked me then, how I bear it, and the answer is, I bear it because of you. God, you’re wonderful – even when you infuriate me, even when you are the most insufferable bastard in all of existence. You make it so easy, angel. Being with you, Falling doesn’t hurt as much. Doesn’t feel like it’s such a sin to be damned. It’s not salvation, either. Just… just a - a possibility, however infinitesimal, that someone as terrible and as unforgivable as me could love, and be loved in return.

 

[Static.]

 

And… and if I could have gone back… if I could have told you all this sooner… stop you from getting into that lift…

 

But it would not have mattered, even then. You would not be the Aziraphale I fell in love with if you hadn’t left.  Ready to risk everything you have just to stand for what you believe is right. Even if that meant leaving me, too. 

 

If this is how love ruins you… but of course I would have loved you still. How can I not?

 

Fuck. You deserve everything, Aziraphale. And if I can’t be the one to give it to you I hope you find it in another. I can be content with that. After six thousand years on this planet there’s little else that matters to me than you being happy. That you know you are worth so much more than what you can give to anyone else. Even to God.

 

So… So. Wherever you are, I hope – I pray that you’re happy. 

 

I pray that you find the love that you deserve.

 

XXXX End of Transcript XXXX

 


 

They send the prayer file through email after the tears. No use going to the Supreme Archangel’s Office: he isn’t there, anyway.

 

(It occurs to Sariel, while wiping their eyes dry, that it was not the Creator’s presence and grace that the demon Crowley prays for.

 

It was Aziraphale’s.

 

It is, was, and always will be Aziraphale’s.)

 


 

There are no doors in Heaven, so Sariel sees the Supreme Archangel approaching from many cubits away. That is a rare enough occasion - Archangels usually don't visit Prayer Sorting and Inventory - but rarer still that it would be Aziraphale. Plans for the Second Coming are already underway, which meant numerous droning sessions with the committee and project heads. The scarce times the Supreme Archangel gets away from the Holy of Holies he looks horribly wan, horribly conflicted. Like he’d rather Fall than bring about the destruction of the world.

 

He does not seem so washed out now though, Aziraphale. He is coming to them with an unsure but determined expression, and only then does Sariel understand, when the demon Crowley says he makes it so easy. The kindest angel they’ve ever met.

 

"Sariel, my dear," he says as a greeting. He offers a tentative smile. "I-I realize that this might be an intrusion, so if you wish me to come back some other time –"

 

"Oh, please don't!" Sariel exclaims. "It's no intrusion at all. You're more than welcome here, Your Bea – Aziraphale."

 

He relaxes immensely; he must have been fretting on whether or not he should speak with them. The thought worries Sariel and warms them all the same. "Thank you. I was wondering if we could have a word."

 

“Of course. Oh!” Sariel snaps their fingers, and a steaming cup of delicate China appears in their hands. They offer it to Aziraphale, who beams. "Would you like a cup of tea?" 

 

He accepts it. There are crinkles at the side of his eyes when he smiles. Sariel hadn't noticed that before. “It’s a comfort to know that, if there is any legacy I leave as Supreme Archangel, it will be this.”

 

“Well, you did carve out quite the impression,” Sariel says happily. They gesture at him. “I like the new outfit.”

 

It was leagues better than the gaudy turtleneck, or the bespoke cashmere jacket he started to wear. Now the ensemble consists of a peeling leather waistcoat over a powder-blue dress shirt. It fits well with his signature worn trousers, the centuries-old coat. And a tartan bow tie, God above. The effect is immediate: fussy but compassionate; stuffy yet kind; every bit the cheeky bastard the prayer anomalies have described. 

 

He looks more comfortable in these clothes than he had during his whole stay in Heaven.

 

“Yes," Aziraphale says. Softly. "I quite like it, too.”

 

They sit in companionable silence for a bit, Aziraphale sipping his tea and sighing contentedly. When he is halfway finished he puts the cup back in its saucer and turns to Sariel.

 

“I won’t be long,” he starts. “I’ve been assigned to an… er… mission. On Earth, that is. I need to leave as soon as possible – you know, mighty plans afoot! – but I cannot in good conscience go without ever expressing the gratitude I have for what you’ve done.”

 

“Aziraphale—” Sariel protests. Aziraphale holds up a gentle hand to stop them.

 

“Please,” he says. “Allow me, at least, to say thank you. You have no idea just how much you’ve done for me and for the…sender of those prayers. What it meant to the both of us...” A keycard has suddenly appeared in his hand, and he places this carefully on Sariel’s outstretched palm. “I may never repay in full the kindness you have shown… but perhaps this can suffice for now.”

 

Sariel frowns as they examine the card in their hands. Their eyes widened. “Is this a—?!”

 

“Level-10 Divine Clearance,” Aziraphale smiles at her. “Yes.”

 

“B-But this is insane!” Sariel yelps. “I thought only Archangels can get Level-10 Clearances… To go wheresoever in the Universe I want … Oh, Aziraphale, I can’t—!”

 

“You can,” he says, voice firm. “I insist on it. Like I said, plans are afoot. Watch therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour. But the Scripture never said anything about contingency plans within contingency plans.” 

 

Sariel stares at him, the implications of the sentence deafened by the ringing caused by the gift.

 

“And,” he adds, kindly, “if you wish, you can stop by at my bookshop, and we can have a nice cup of tea. I can’t think of any other angel who deserves a holiday more than you.” 

 

“It’s really nothing,” Sariel says weakly. “Just… just doing my job.”

 

Aziraphale’s expression softens. “Lots of angels only do their jobs too, but I am not so certain any of them would have done it with the same compassion and discretion that you had.” He clasps both of Sariel’s hands. “Thank you,” he says. “Really. I can’t be grateful enough.”

 

Still clasping hands, they both stand. And, after a half-second’s hesitation, Sariel, 35th Order Accountant & former Watcher, of the Prayer Sorting and Inventory Department,  embraces the Supreme Archangel. Prince of Heaven, He Who Seats at the Left Hand of God. But most importantly, their newfound friend.

 

"I hope you're someone's answered prayer, Aziraphale," they whisper. “And whoever he is... I hope he is yours, too.”

 

When it comes out, Aziraphale’s muffled voice is choked with emotion.

 

“I’ll certainly try.”

 

They break apart, Sariel’s heart almost fit to burst.

 

“Well,” Aziraphale says. He fixes his bow tie and squares his shoulders, shooting a bright grin at Sariel. “Heigh ho.”

 

He walks away from the desk. Sariel watches the cubits between them increase and increase… he turns back once to wave, and Sariel enthusiastically returns it back.

 

And then he gets into the lift, and is gone.

 


 

They will only realize later the real reason why the Supreme Archangel left. And if they didn’t, the blaring of the alarms would have told them. A full security lockdown: papers missing, files destroyed. The whole of Heaven in Shambles. The Archangels simmering in wrath and fury. A vicious hunt will be organized for the Supreme Archangel who turned traitor, along with his demon accomplice. The last rumor that will ever creep on the grapevine will say that they are in America, trying their damnedest to stop the Last Judgment. The Coming of Christ Himself.

 

It will take Sariel three more days before they desert Heaven completely. Another two to join the rogue angel and demon’s side. Humanity’s side. All of us, against all of them .

 

For now, though, it is quiet. Aziraphale has left them a keycard, and Sariel turns it over, lost in their thoughts.

 

They stash the keycard in their drawer. They pause, still thinking, then make up their mind.

 

They grasp their hands in front, and descend into the solemnness every angel is capable of. (Every being, really. Demons included.)

 

This is the prayer that the Angel Sariel prayed.

 


 

Prayer #AD2.24.99.134.502.668.668

Classification: S

Location: Head Office; Prayer Sorting and Inventory

 

Audio Transcript: 

 

Oh God, may You bring comfort to those who are lost.

 

Be the lamp in the dark when their lights go out; the shelter in the rain when the storm clouds gather.

 

In their wanderings do not desert them, and when the path forks, guide them. Lead them not to roads unfamiliar and unkind. And when the wilderness overwhelms them, unburden their load, so their footprints may become Yours.

 

Console all those they left behind, and everything that they have missed. For it is in loss that reveals the true meaning of grief. And for it is in grief that permits the continuance of love.

 

Because there is nothing that is truly lost if it has been cherished. And nothing is gone for good if it has been loved. 

 

And when the ship hits the harbor, anchor their boat safely to their motherland’s shore. And when they walk the well-treaded trail, make it feel like coming home.

 

Welcome them with the arms of their beloved, and let them find their peace in the place that they dwell.

 

And when the feasting comes for their return, let it last for forever.

 

For once dead, they have come back to life;

And for once lost, they are now found.

 

XXXX End of Transcript XXXX

 

Notes:

I am always, first and foremost, a Companion to Owls Enthusiast, but if there's any other biblical events I'd like Good Omens to cover it will be the succession crisis between King Saul, his son Jonathan, and the shepherd boy David. The tragic love story of David and Jonathan is chronicled in the first book of Samuel in the Bible.

"What power would Hell have if those here imprisoned were not able to dream of Heaven?" is a quote from Neil Gaiman's The Sandman - though the target audience of this fic would probably already know that.

Come holler at me on my tumblr @ennas-aesthetic and twitter @MJJoyceCrowley if you wanna, and thanks for sticking around!