Chapter Text
It had taken Aziraphale all of ten minutes to realize, with dawning horror, the sort that sent his feathers into all kinds of terribly ruffled, that he had – to use that penultimate mortal phrase – fucked up. He contemplated, staring at the pearly wall of a Heavenly Waiting Room, that this was rather like Noah's arc and that Flood– except then, of course, he had Crowley to ground him.
Now he had gone and done it and there was certainly no more Crowley.
Or luncheons.
Or museum dates.
Or kis–
Well, no use dwelling on the past, yes, that was what Aziraphale always said. There was little room in Her plan for angels still stuck in the 12th century. Even less space in a Waiting Room, with all its righteous egg-wash white walls, for cramming in pointless regrets. Not that it was pointless, per se, but rather that he was relatively hopeful he could convince Crowley to his side of things. Eventually. Perhaps after another century-long nap.
Aziraphale shifted in his seat. It, like all the Heavenly furniture, was smooth and slick, with rounded edges that threatened to tip one right off, should they lean too far one way or another. More of a stump in the wall than anything else, really. He carefully balanced on the center, glaring at the curve of his gut. Surely, he thought, Gabriel had never had such struggles– although he was uncertain whether Gabriel had ever spent any actual time in the Waiting Room. It had always been Aziraphale alone, during his stays.
Quietly, Aziraphale wondered if the Waiting Room functioned like the Heavenly Halls. Did they customize for the being in question? What did this cream sterility say about him? What would Crowl–
Discreetly Aziraphale pressed the edge of his fingernails into the soft skin of his wrist, just below the end of his suit jacket. He pressed as hard as he could stand without tensing the rest of his body, carefully maintaining his posture. Breathe in, breathe out. Human pain, he thought, demanded human solutions. He waited for the ache in his chest to fade.
For the first time since his arrival, Aziraphale looked up to the door. It, unlike the rest of the Room, radiated warmth. It was oaken, carefully carved, with detailed wooden vines and leaves and blossoms. There were tiny birds on tiny branches, a gleaming sun hanging in the sky. The edges of the door seamlessly blended with the wall, and were it not for the door handle along one edge, Aziraphale might have thought it a mural.
He tried to imagine the Metatron walking through the door, or swinging it open with an inviting paternal grin. He tried to imagine walking through those doors himself, away from the egg-wash office of stumped seats and insistent lighting. He couldn’t quite summon the image. Not for the first time, Aziraphale dreamt that he stood up and walked out of the Room, all the way down the escalator and into the bookstore or maybe the Bentley.
He pressed his nails deeper. This is for Crowley, he reminded himself. So that there’s no more running through the escalator or sheltering in the store or threatening to run off to Alpha Centauri. To build a Heaven that will let them rest, that will leave Earth alone, that won’t make anyone worry about “sauntering vaguely downwards” ever again. The bubbling regrets – why hadn’t he tried just that bit harder to convince Crowley to come with him? – they would be rendered useless once he gained Crowley’s forgiveness.
He imagined opening that wooden door for Crowley, bringing him out of the icy Waiting Room and into a sitting room somewhere sunny, somewhere rather like St. James Park. There, yes. That was much easier to envision. They’d have tea, and there would be nightingales, and they’d be them again.
He must have closed his eyes, though, because when he opened them, the Metatron was leaning over, snapping his fingers. “Are you done?” he asked, pursing his lips. “Honestly, Aziraphale, it is your first day on the job.” The edge of his lips quirked, a chalky smile. He straightened, and turned towards the door, flicking it open with a swivel of his wrist. “There’s work to be done.”
The door slammed shut behind him, silent as snow and twice as quick.
Aziraphale bolted upright, wide eyed. He firmly boxed away thoughts of Crowley, into the same corner he kept the Ark and the business with Adam and the half-dozen nightmares that shook around his head when books weren’t enough. He doused the mental Crowley-box in kerosene, set it alight with holy-fire-ablazing, and buried the ashes.
Right-o, he thought, it’s time then, isn’t it?
Subtly, he tried to swivel his wrist like the Metatron. When nothing happened, he rose, joints aching – how long had he been in this Room? His wrist throbbed bright red, his chest faintly ached. Time blurred here, he thought, grasping the door’s handle. The metal burned where he held it, the weight of Her burnished-gold bronzework. Gritting his teeth, Aziraphale swung open the door.
And so, praying that he was accomplishing – for once in his long, sorry, subservient life – something truly and honestly good, Aziraphale took a leap of faith.