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Surges of holiness set ablaze and crackle as they burn and melt the charred essence in their path. These surges are constant, setting off reshaping and reinforcing that newly forged essence.
It’s a sacred process, and Metatron observes it with reverie. It is an art piece for the ages, searing itself into his very core because he will always cherish it for the rest of his eternal existence. The satisfaction he feels is discernible, and it threatens to burst from him.
The picture of what’s in front of him – the darkness of the form collapsed on the shining, bright white surfaces of Heaven, seizing and flinching violently from the repeated, increasing increments of holiness – is something that he revels in every time he returns to this room to monitor the project’s progress.
The anticipation in the air is palpable as he steps into the mysterious room, each time feeling like a new, thrilling adventure that he gets to watch unfold before him.
Yes, this process is gruelling and tedious and requires more of his attention than he’d like – the Second Coming is just so fast approaching now – but this pet project has been somewhat enjoyable and cathartic for him. Besides, this is the only way to ensure his success and that Heaven remains victorious.
Despite the rebellion brewing, Metatron is confident that this project will provide the necessary means and sanctions to guarantee that Heaven reigns victorious. The traitorous ethereal and occult forces, led by Aziraphale and the Son Himself, who have turned against Heaven, will not be able to match this, he assures himself.
The Metatron takes a step forward, looking at the dial that controls the settings of holiness. He reaches out a hand, his fingers barely brushing it, and turns it up to the highest setting.
“Not long now,” he says to himself more than anyone, folding his hands in front of him neatly. “Not long.”
And the agonising screams that burst out from the heightened levels of holiness are music to his ears.
Oh, how Metatron is ready for this to all be over, for the big showman reveal, a grand unveiling of his plan, and to see the terrified, shocked, confused looks gracing all of those traitorous faces. It will undoubtedly be worth every bit of trouble throughout this past year, and Heaven will reign supreme.
━━━━━━━
Aziraphale leads them on his own as they march to battle against Heaven to prevent the Second Coming. Even with the support of the Them, Anathema and Newt, Tracy and Shadwell, Gabriel and Beelzebub, multiple angels and demons, and even the Son on their side, he is alone.
Why is he alone? Because Crowley is missing – gone.
It’s been almost a year since Aziraphale came back to help plan to stop the Second Coming. Throughout their preparation to do so, any spare moment that could be secured was directed towards trying to locate Crowley. But he wasn’t anywhere on Earth that they had scoured, nor was he in the stars – it’s like he vanished without a trace.
(Aziraphale can recall how empty and lifeless Crowley’s flat had been. Despite the fact that Crowley hadn’t lived there in almost six years, Aziraphale wanted to check everything over as many times as he could. Crowley would search everything as many times as it took, and so Aziraphale would do the same. And while the flat hadn’t housed as many memories between the two of them, there was still something special about it. It was there that for the first night of the rest of their lives of those four years, they were on the same side.
The first time, they truly got to be almost one with each other.
However, when they found the Bentley, it was worse. They discovered it hidden away in a field in Scotland, wrapped up in vines and a mess on the inside – scratch marks across the leather seats, a thin layer of dust coating everything, and plants wilting and dead in the back from a lack of water, light, and care. Crowley's sunglasses cracked on the floor of the Bentley, pieces of the lens threatening to fall off.
Aziraphale slapped his hand over his mouth to prevent a wretched sob from tearing out of his throat.
It broke Aziraphale’s heart into millions of little pieces…because that meant Crowley wasn’t just missing; it meant that Crowley had been taken .)
Aziraphale wants to hide and mourn the loss of his beloved Crowley – because it’s too much for anyone to deal with.
Since this whole ordeal started, he hasn’t had a moment to process anything. He’s had to power through everything constantly, suppressing any emotion that threatened to boil over.
They enter into Heaven as discreetly as you can with such a big party of beings following you. Each group splits off to do their designated task to ensure that they disable the Second Coming as quietly and without as much violence as possible.
Aziraphale’s group – Anathema, Newt, the Them, Tracy, Shadwell, Muriel, Maggie, and Nina; Jesus was also supposed to be with them, but He had vanished to do whatever He’d decided was best – are searching Heaven for the Metatron so they can remove him from the equation entirely.
The fate of the world hangs in the balance, and as long as the Metatron is a factor, there is a very high likelihood that the Second Coming will still commence.
The never-ending blinding walls of Heaven make Aziraphale shiver and remind him of his time there. Every tedious memory, every tortuous moment, rushes back to him. But again, he pushes it aside and locks any fear or thought that threatens to drift away from the focus of this into a cabinet in his mind. He’s compartmentalising - something he’s done for years, and it’s so easy to do.
He needs to focus and be able to function if they’re going to stop this and locate Crowley.
They need to be efficient; they need to be prepared.
(Aziraphale tells himself that he just needs to make it through this, and he can be at peace. He needs to push through, and then he’ll never have to worry about not having Crowley by his side again.
We can be together. )
So he keeps the group moving through every hallway and door, through everything that threatens to tear them apart. His determination to keep the group together is unwavering, and he’s not going to lose anyone else. This is a promise he plans to keep, no matter what – a silent promise he made to Crowley.
They reach the very back of the hallways and stumble upon a door. It looks to be in pristine condition and should lead them to where Metatron spends his time. Aziraphale takes a step forward, throwing a back glance over his shoulder at the others behind him. He takes the sight before him in all of them together. Many of their hands are interlocked with encouraging looks gracing their faces.
Their encouragement pushes his instincts into action, his hand shooting out to brush against the door knob. And then, for a split, significant second, he hesitates. He pulls his hand back, fingers curling into a fist, as he trembles with a sudden terror, shocking every inch of his body.
(There are so many what-ifs about everything going wrong.
People could die. Crowley could—
Everything could cease to exist as they know it.
But then, there’s a flood of memories of every time he felt Crowley’s presence, every brush of their corporations against each other in a way that should have meant nothing, but it means everything to them.
Through the ages, they grew and fostered this relationship, this trust, this reliability that made everything seem possible. It was more than they could allow it to be, and yet they cherished it in more ways than either of them truly knew.
It meant the world to them; it was the world to them.
And Aziraphale wants to help preserve the life of that relationship.
So he will find Crowley and make sure they can fix everything together.)
He inhales once, trying to let the tension ease out of his corporation. They’re going into this completely unaware of what Metatron has up his sleeve – even with numerous assists from the Archangels and Lords of Hell themselves, they know very little about what Metatron has been up to.
So, with one last look, he opens the door, and they step inside into the unknown.
And this is when everything starts to feel wrong.
━━━━━━━
It’s constantly humming in his mind now. The holiness – at least that’s what he assumes it is, he can’t tell anymore. He’s so tired in every aspect of what remains of himself – swarms through his mind like a bunch of furious bees. He can’t focus on anything half the time, so he tries to stay as still as he can.
It helps.
It calms the holiness from its never-ending battle against everything that makes him himself – he assumes that’s the evil and occult fundamentals that were forged into the very core of his being when he Fell.
But still, he feels wrong . It’s like every bit of what makes him himself has been shoved deep down and buried under mountains of holiness, leaving only what Heaven commands. The already crushed fragments of who he is break down more by the minute - already broken from when Aziraphale tore his heart in two back in the bookshop. I n a spare, fleeting moment, he feels like he’s resurfacing and can breathe as himself again – these moments are less and less common these days, minutes, or years; time eludes him now, even in his mind. He has always believed himself to be an optimist – glass half-full – and yet, he cannot seem to find a way to make the best out of anything in this situation.
For all he knows, the others don’t even know he’s missing; all of them have probably assumed he’s off wallowing somewhere, desperate to remain undisturbed in the fragile peace he has in a bad break-up bliss.
(What does it matter anyway? He has never significantly mattered to them in a good, angelic way.
You’re the bad guys.
All he does is spread pain and fester evil and sin. He corrupts everything and everyone he touches.
You’re a demon…
I’m a demon, I lied.
Are you… trying to tempt me?
I won’t be forgiven – not ever. That’s part of a demon’s job description – unforgivable. That’s what I am.
Unforgivable.
That’s.
What.
I.
Am.
And why should he fight back? Why should he fight to preserve the remains of a nasty, unforgivable demon who asked too many questions and was nothing but a nuisance? He is nothing more than a lowly insect that deserves to be squashed underneath anyone’s boot.)
As his fleeting moment of clarity fades, the haziness of the holiness settles in as it has many times before, continuing to wage its war against his occult presence. And there is a voice – a cold voice, detached in the way it drills its commands into his very being. He sinks further and further down underneath the mountain of holiness, and as he does, he has one final thought: whatever Heaven is using him for, he hopes it’s worth it. And when it’s over, he hopes it’s a swift and painless end for him.
(Whoever makes a practice of sinning is of the devil, for the devil has been sinning from the beginning. The reason the Son of God appeared was to destroy the works of the devil.
And with it, it will destroy me.
I hope.)
━━━━━━━
There is an absence of light, which usually shines throughout every pristine room of Heaven; this room is instead cast in darkness, covering every inch. The chilled room is charged with a sweltering heat that singes and blisters against their skin. Aziraphale takes a cautious step forward, summoning a miracle to cast this room into some sort of light; as he does this, he also casts out his other senses, allowing them to search every inch of this room, poking and prodding.
Let there be light.
(It reminds him of the stars bursting into life, the nebulae exploding in swarms of colour, and the proud, joyous look that had crossed the angel that Crowley had once been’s face as he preened at his creation. The awe that had emanated from him and how much Azirapahle had cherished it, wanted to protect it.
It was a similar joy that he rarely saw in the demon Crowley was now. He often wondered if Crowley's opportunity to experience pure joy had been replaced by nothing but pain and sorrow when he Fell. Still, when it burst forth, Aziraphale marvelled at it and wanted to pepper his demon’s face with kisses. And hold the demon in his arms again as he whispered sweet nothings into his ear.
I want you to know that you are loved. Unconditionally. Eternally.)
Even as the room is lit ablaze with a warm, comforting light, Aziraphale continues to search for any other presences besides the ones beside him, particularly a threatening one – the Metatron. However, he doesn’t just find a trace of Metatron’s presence; there is another. This one is shrouded so thickly in clouds of ethereal and occult power that they can't discern who it likely belongs to. But it’s clear to Aziraphale – and to every other celestial being in this room – that both presences were in this room recently, and that means the Metatron and this mysterious presence cannot be far off.
Aziraphale spins around, attempting to get a better bearing of what could be waiting for them in this room, and notices Gabriel, Beelzebub, and Adam eyeing him. All of them shake their heads in unison in a way that is almost creepy to him. They’re trying to tell him something, something meant to help, to correct an earlier error.
There is a pragmatic pause. Aziraphale casts his awareness out and checks again. The presences are still in this room but stifled, appearing to be hiding or waiting for something to enter.
“Aziraphale,” calls Anathema softly.
He turns toward her and watches her point a finger down to something on the floor.
Scorch marks unfold across the floor like a flower blooming, but they are not petal, but lightning cracks – and there is a clear remembrance of the agony that occurred within this spot, so strong that it almost overwhelms Aziraphale’s senses with its familiarity and the shredded, raw, broken screams echo in the memory.
Something definitely occurred here, and it couldn’t have been pleasant. But before he can even dare to fathom, dare to conjure any of the nasty horrors from his mind – not as twisted as Crowley’s, but he still has an imagination – there is a gentle hand settling on his shoulder.
It startles him entirely. Touch has been scarce over this past year; he’s avoided it as much as necessary since the Kiss with Crowley. And it scares him because what or who would touch him now unless they were foes? He jumps into the air, muscles tensing, hand reaching out to summon his flaming sword. No matter what he faces, he will battle, and he will fight to protect the ones he has left.
His sword doesn’t touch anything, and he’s lucky because Jesus has returned, regarding him and appearing somewhat amused. The way the Son looks at you is very similar to how Adam does; he sees through you and all of you, all and any truth ever-present.
“Aziraphale,” says the Son gently, in an apparent attempt to try and ease the tension that shrouds Aziraphale in a thick, worried fog – not once since He’s been helping them has He raised his voice or sounded angry in a way that would terrorise them all; a genuinely Kind being to His core. The Son’s hands lower Aziraphale’s sword from its threatening pose but prevent Aziraphale from returning it to its resting place. “You should keep it on you. While I prefer to avoid violent acts that create terror, I wish you to be prepared and able to defend yourselves if it calls for it.”
“Are they here?” Aziraphale asks quietly.
Jesus does not answer in words but simply stretches out an arm and casts it around the room in a circle. A tense pause – one during which they all question how and why things are the way they are and how they ended up here – ensues before one of the many white walls of Heaven evaporates into mere cinders.
It leaves them with the Metatron glowering at them. “Certainly quite the drawn-out process to get you all here, eh?” comments the Metatron, whose voice is no longer even in the stratosphere of kind or angelic – all it is is cruel and bitter, with signs of sheer madness out of an overflow of power consistently throughout an extended period. “And as fun as observing your little rebellion has been, I’m afraid that it is over. You will find that every single one of your rebels has been caught and detained.”
There’s some sort of blurriness or static surrounding the Metatron, outlining his figure.
Despite that, the cruelty never leaves his face.
“I ask that this foolishness end now. There are two Supreme Archangels present by technicality.” It almost feels like a spotlight is being shone upon Gabriel and Aziraphale, and it burns. “And while both of you have vacated your position, Heaven still recognises your status and implores you to do your duty before anyone else must be hurt.”
Aziraphale wonders how the Second Coming could start without Jesus being fully onboard. It doesn’t sound like it would go over well, so he doesn’t even dare hesitate as both he and Gabriel answer the Metatron in firm unison: “No.”
Aziraphale fully expects everything to go bollocks up right there and for chaos to erupt like it’s being shot out of a volcano. All that happens is the Metatron’s lips pulling back into a cracked, forced image of what should be a triumphant grin; it’s terribly frightening and something that he wishes never to see again.
(Except it will haunt his dreams if he ever chooses to sleep.)
“Pity, though I did expect this from you both. Fallen so low, haven’t you?” sneers the Metatron. “But to start the Second Coming, the participant must be aligned with Heaven’s will.”
The static surrounding the Metatron is moving, tugging away as if it’s trying to separate itself into its form.
“And lucky for me, I found someone who can just as easily do your job,” mocks the Metatron. “It took a little convincing, but now he’s more than willing.”
At that point, the static entirely removes itself from behind the Metatron, where it’s supposedly been hidden. As the static turns around to face them, it takes on a familiar dark colour scheme and a flash of fiery red hair returns.
Aziraphale feels frozen in place as if his corporation has lost all of its ability to function.
(As his gut wrenches and twists into complicated acrobatics that dare him to question everything for the millionth time today, his mind dares to wonder how the form that was significantly taller than the Metatron can hide behind him successfully. Seriously, this is what he’s choosing to think about right now ?)
“Crowley,” he chokes out, feeling more and more each moment like he’s going to be sick, like Hellfire is tearing apart his essence and then shoving it down his throat.
Why?
Because the being standing in front of them is most certainly not the demon he knows, the demon he is in love with and has been for millennia.
Everything is the same, and yet everything is wrong.
The Crowley who looks at him now has golden eyes that look more like heavenly metallic gold than their usually warm golden honey colour. They narrow like he’s a predator observing prey, and when Crowley clenches his jaw, they can see cracks across every bit of his flesh, flashing with the pure light of holiness.
How could I not have known? Aziraphale thinks, tilting his head up and biting his lip to prevent the tears from falling.
“Just to think that for all these months, you were searching for him,” crows the Metatron, looking more smug with each passing moment. “And he was right under your noses here in Heaven from the beginning..”
Aziraphale tilts his head, confused. He left Heaven a long time ago. He’s been on Earth for months – and then he remembers how the Bentley had looked when they’d found it in that abandoned field in Scotland. That meant…that the Metatron took Crowley not soon after Aziraphale took up the title of Supreme Archangel. He’d expected Aziraphale to defect, to try to prevent another war, and he’d planned accordingly to stop Aziraphale in his tracks.
Because there was only one thing – one being – that could do so, and he’s staring Aziraphale down like he’s ready to slit his throat.
(Aziraphale’s heart aches in a wretched way – he misses how Crowley and he were before this all happened. They may not have adequately communicated, but they were together, and they were getting there.
He misses the meals they shared, the way they could look at each other and tell what the other was thinking, the jokes they shared, the moments that were little but meant the most.
He misses it all.)
Crowley is an unknown variable with tricks up his sleeve that no one’s ever seen or knows about – not even Aziraphale. To have wrangled him into submission is an apparent decisive factor in what will allow a side to win the war.
“He’s a demon,” snaps out Gabriel nervously, clearly grasping at straws to try and buy them all the time to gather as much information as possible. “He wouldn’t be…”
“Able to?” the Metatron asks, snapping his fingers. “I thought that as well until this came to my attention.”
An image projects in front of them of Crowley sneaking into Heaven with Muriel to find out what happened with Gabriel, and every single one of them watches Crowley access the files on Gabriel – something that should be impossible for one of the Fallen.
"I carefully examined and discovered that this demon's True Form was subtly imbued with a hint of holiness," the Metatron explains, his smile faltering with disgust as he stares Crowley down. "I simply augmented it to the point where the system could correctly identify him.”
Aziraphale only processes a little of what else follows after that because his thoughts are on Crowley, how Crowley had clearly been tortured for months with extreme exposure to holiness. Crowley had to feel something that wasn’t meant to be able to exist within him as it battled against everything that made him himself. The exposure had driven him to a teetering point, burying him so far from what he had been before to the point where he was nothing more than a literal puppet for Heaven.
Oh, Crowley, my dear heart. I am so terribly sorry. For all of it.
Chaos erupts around him now.
While Aziraphale was caught up in his mind, Crowley carried out the purpose that he’d been commanded to do. The Second Coming had begun, and so had the war. The forces that had been waiting on every front were battling now, on Earth and in Heaven.
Before Aziraphale could even prepare himself or think about how he could handle this without harming his counterpart, Crowley launched himself into the air and tackled him to the ground.
It seems Metatron had assigned Crowley one last task, and it's one of Aziraphale’s worst nightmares come to life: fighting Crowley. Crowley's movement is frantic and coordinated. Every blow he strikes against Aziraphale – the strength he possesses startles the angel, given how lithe and lanky the demon has always been – is not being pulled or marked. No, they’re meant to maim, meant to hurt, meant to kill and destroy.
“Crowley, please,” Azirpahale pleads, voice breaking and threatening to catch in his throat. He tries and fails to dodge another one of Crowley’s hits, and pain sears hot through his shoulder. “I don’t want to fight you.”
“Pity,” snips Crowley, launching himself at Aziraphale again. "Because I want to fight you! For everything that you did!”
Azirapahle focuses all of his effort on pulling Crowley and himself away from the others as they battle – Crowley attacks and Aziraphale tries to defend himself the best he can.
The others are handling the rest of it reasonably well.
Jesus managed to subdue Metatron with the combined effort of Adam, Gabriel, Beelzebub, and the rest.
Very quickly, the rest of the battles are dying out, leaving only Aziraphale and Crowley in their shielded bubble above them all.
“Aziraphale, you have to fight back!” shouts Gabriel, flying over to the bubble with Beelzebub by his side. “He’s not going to stop. You have to subdue him somehow.”
“I don’t want to hurt him,” Aziraphale cries out, grunting when Crowley makes contact again.
“He’zz is going to kill you,” warns Beelzebub. “No way out of that. There’zz nothing holding him back, angel. Thizz izz not your Crowley.”
“I don’t want to hurt him! He means too much to me.”
And suddenly, it feels like Crowley’s next hit comes a little slower, almost like he’s hesitating somehow. Aziraphale watches from behind his arms, which he raises reflexively to defend himself. He lowers the bubble back down to the ground, trying to give them more of an area to fight on.
“Maybe you don’t have to,” Adam says suddenly.
Aziraphale dares to glance at him. “Whatever do you mean?”
Adam smiles at him and taps the bubble right over Aziraphale’s heart. “You told me you swapped corporations six years ago,” he says. “That’s what left actual holiness in Crowley. But really is that the two of you have inspired the opposite force to culminate within each other – holiness within Crowley and Sin within you.”
“What?”
“You guys love each other,” says Adam impatiently, still annoyingly wise for his age. “There are many kinds of love; pure and selfish are some of them. So use that to cancel it out.”
“Love, really?” asks Aziraphale incredulously.
“Unless you’d rather fight him.” Adam shrugs, putting up his hands in defeat.
It’s not like there’s any better ideas. He and Crowley begin to circle each other. Crowley draws closer, a clear indicator of planning to attack again.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts weakly, watching as the demon across from him tilts his head in curiosity. “I’m not going to fight you. I love you. And I want you to come home to me.”
Crowley stands still for a moment, expression indiscernible.
“We have so much to make up for with each other. But we can’t do that if one of us is gone,” Aziraphale continues, observing for any sign of incoming attack. “I have never been very good at expressing my love for you. I have moved too slowly, and I am sorry about that. But if you come home, I promise to show you how much I love you every day.
“I promise you lazy mornings in bed. I promise you conversations about anything and everything. I promise to let you hold me when I’m at my lowest and return the favour when you’re at your lowest. I promise you crazy adventures, to read to you until you fall asleep, and every morning, afternoon, and night, and eternity together.
“I love you so very much, my dear, and I am sorry for making you think that I didn’t or that I wanted you to change. I want you exactly as you are. You’re my Crowley. All you need to do is come home – come home to me . Fight to come home, my heart.”
Conflict is painted across Crowley’s face; clearly, he’s trying to break free from Heaven’s hold, and it is not easy.
“I promise my patience, my empathy, and my admiration. I promise you your stars,” Aziraphale shouts, voice breaking. “You’re almost home…Crowley, my Crowley, you can’t leave me now – not after everything. I want a life with you. We still have so far to go.”
And then…it’s like the holiness that lights up Crowley’s veins recedes, and it all exits his body in a plume of holy fire.
Aziraphale does not care what happens to it – Jesus intercepts it and spreads it out across the universe into the stars – because he is watching Crowley. After merely a second, Crowley, clearly exhausted from the whole ordeal, collapses towards the ground.
Aziraphale catches him before he can make contact with the floor. He cradles Crowley close in his arms, trying to convince himself that this is really happening.
“Crowley,” he whispers, reaching down to cup the demon’s cheek.
The demon’s eyelids flutter a bit, his eyes the right colour – the one Aziraphale loves – and a lazy smile stretches against his lips. “Hey, angel,” he says weakly, his hand reaching up gingerly to touch the hand on his face. “Need something?”
Aziraphale thinks, Damn it all, and then draws Crowley into a kiss.
It’s nothing pretty. It’s fierce and chaste, full of desperation after so long apart. Hands pawn at each other like they need to make sure that the other is still there. They don’t care that everyone is watching them because what matters at this moment is each other.
They come up to breathe for a moment before kissing once more because Aziraphale never wants to stop. Too long has he denied himself the right to admit that…Crowley’s lips feel like home .
He’s home. They’re both home.
There will be time later to talk and sort out everything that went wrong between them. But for now, Aziraphale is content to have his demon in his arms and to be sure that he’s alive and safe.
They have eternity together to look forward to. So they kiss for the second time, and this time, it’s reciprocated on both ends, just as it should be.
━━━━━━━
An angel and a demon live in a cottage hidden amongst the lush beauty of the earth. They’ve chosen this place together and built upon it in many ways to make it their own.
A place forged by their hand in their love now expressed openly and freely. And while it hasn’t been easy getting here, it was worth it. They still have a long way to go; habits don’t break easily – especially not ones practised for over a millennia.
This cottage is everything they ever wanted, and they can spend their future here together. So, now that they’re free and learning how to be happy, they hold each other close, dancing to an old tune that they hold dear, and they kiss lazily and slowly just because they can for as long as they want – perks of not being required to breathe.
They know that when they say I love you or they touch you in any way, neither of them is holding back anymore, and it makes their hearts warm. They can love every part of each other as much as they want, for as long as they want – eternity.
It ends where it started, in a garden, with a nightingale singing amongst many other birds.
These two will never have to be apart again unless they choose.
They can be together, as themselves, just as they were intended to be, experiencing each other’s love for the first time. Because love can be pure, inspiring the holiest and best of acts, and it can be selfish, inspiring wicked and sinful, lustful acts carried out in its name. For them, it’s both because their world has been forged through their brand of love, through shades of grey.