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Since reporting back to headquarters for his promotion, Aziraphale had been riding wave after wave of conflicting emotion. But he was stubborn and he would ride every wave that threatened to knock him down.
Gabriel had just been banished for falling in love with a demon and rejecting another apocalypse, and yet The Metatron had offered Aziraphale’s demon ‘friend’ the option to Rise from perdition. Not to mention that Aziraphale was infamous for his part in derailing the last apocalypse. The contradictions spoke volumes of the corruption running rife in the halls of the Almighty. Aziraphale was not fool enough to trust The Metatron, nor the other angels. He knew that he was not the logical choice for Supreme Archangel, especially with the rollout of the Second Coming project apparently in its planning stages.
All he knew for certain was that he and Crowley were in danger and rather than live in fear of a sudden strike from the unknown as he had for his entire existence, he chose to seat himself in the centre of the fray. Fear of the unknown was much worse than facing the threat head-on, in his opinion. He had wanted Crowley to join him because he knew that wherever they were, they were safer together. And happier. Would they ever prioritise their happiness?
Heaven had thought him expendable once and he doubted that had changed. So it was likely that The Metatron wanted a puppet in the role, well then so be it! What the fool had yet to realise was that this particular marionette had severed his strings a long ago.
After his first Archangelic board meeting, he retired to his office where he miracled himself a chair to relax in. He wondered if Gabriel spent his entire existence on his feet. Come to think of it, he had never seen him sit! Well, there was new management now and he sits in comfortable seats. In time he would create more creature comforts but it wouldn’t do to rock the boat too much, too soon. He had already caused such a ruckus after refusing to change his clothes to something ‘more suited to the Supreme Archangel’. They could jolly well swallow their tongues! This position and place was already wildly uncomfortable and he would not be moulded into a makeshift Gabriel. He was Aziraphale and he would not sacrifice any more than he already had by submitting to the status quo.
He lounged back in the wingback he summoned and let the incomprehensible weight of the situation escape in a great sigh. Sighs were a fantastically underrated form of catharsis, Aziraphale was a big fan of sighing. You could say so much without a word.
He withdrew the one thing, other than the clothes on his back, that he managed to smuggle into Heaven. From his inner coat pocket, he produced a small photograph. A treasure that he had kept close for almost 90 years.
Doing his best not to cry, he swept a thumb over the monochrome faces. The most transformative time of his very long life was immortalised in ink. He was almost grateful to the insufferably bitter demon and his merry band of undead Nazis.
The memories of smoke, rubble and a bag of books after Crowley saved him in the church. The way the silly, suave demon had motivated him whilst rehearsing his magic act, blindly trusting him. How he had ultimately realised that he was unbearably in love with that maddeningly beautiful creature. Crowley believed in him when no one else did, and loved him for all the reasons that others looked down on him.
No matter what was going to happen, this talisman would stay by his heart to remind him. It would remind him that shades of grey were important, that balance in all things was beautiful. So if he had to be a bastard to ensure that their world would keep turning, then he would be a bastard. Crowley’s bastard. Always.