Chapter Text
In Heaven, it is so very quiet. All that Aziraphale can hear is an echo of horrified silence. It rings between his ears, and he is dizzy with it. He sways as if with vertigo, and has to lean his palm against the crisp, white wall to steady himself. The wall is cool against his skin, but his anxiety feels so overwhelming that the cold does nothing to ground him to the moment.
Aziraphale takes a deep breath, but that oppressive silence lingers. How awful this quiet is, he thinks, so hollow and void. He wants to break it with a furious scream.
There is one word in particular that Aziraphale would like to yell into the vast emptiness of Heaven, and that word is 'fuck'.
"Twenty years." Aziraphale hisses to himself, instead. The words are strained, forced out through gritted teeth. The tension in his voice matches his furrowed eyebrows and his clenched jaw. All of his angelic being is tightly wound, knotted with despair and fury. "Twenty years without a hint of a problem and then just two weeks before-"
If Aziraphale were someone else, he might slam a hand against the wall, or perhaps throw the pen and clipboard in his hand at the next angel who dares to approach him. His anger swirls like a ball of fire in his chest, burning him up from the inside out, and if he were not so practiced at containing it, he fears it may explode. But he is an ancient being, and he has repressed so many things throughout his long existence.
But still, still...
"Oh, why can't it ever be easy?" He despairs out loud, his anger fading now into pain. His voice cracks around every word. Even now, after everything, he glances upwards as if waiting for God's reply, but she does not grace him with an answer. She never does.
The question, it seems, is one that he has been cursed to ask since creation. Why does life have to be so hard? Attending to his angelic duties on Earth took up so much valuable reading time; Armageddon, though it was mercifully avoided, was such a burden; even those precious years before his appointment as Supreme Archangel were disturbed by Jim. This time, for once, Aziraphale had believed something was going to go smoothly. He should’ve known better than to hope it would.
Aziraphale closes his eyes, and tries once more to breathe. Through all of this turmoil, there is one thought that he attempts in earnest to push away, but it lingers anyway:
I wish Crowley was here.
Oh, how many times he had thought that over the past two decades! Muriel was sweet, which eased his loneliness somewhat, because at least there was someone in Heaven he could talk to without wanting to strangle them. But Muriel, Aziraphale must admit, is not Crowley. Aziraphale's time in Heaven has been torturous, because quite frankly, planning the Second Coming is boring without him. Crowley's wondrous ideas and sharp wit would make everything brighter; every time Aziraphale yawns during meetings, or daydreams when completing paperwork, he cannot help but miss Crowley.
Regardless, until the Metatron disappeared, Aziraphale may have been bored, but he was also on track. Everything was planned in intricate detail, with no possibility for error. Now, however, Aziraphale is spiralling, because things are a complete mess, and he is miserably alone, stuck here without the angel who was meant to be by his side through all of it, and he doesn’t know what to do next-
Fuck, indeed, Aziraphale thinks. He glances at the door to make sure no one is going to interrupt him, then he runs a hand over his face and allows himself a moment to crumble. Tears burn behind his eyes, and his heart cracks with the force of his feelings.
Aziraphale has never felt truly loved by God. She has never whispered kind words to him, held him in Her arms, but he so dearly wishes She would embrace him now. One encouraging word from her, or even just a smile, would reassure him he was on the right path.
But Aziraphale is completely alone, and every turn he takes feels like the wrong one.
A sudden noise of conversation on the other side of the door makes Aziraphale startle. He hears Michael’s voice, its low hum drifting into the room, and he quickly pushes away his emotion. He opens his eyes, and smooths his expression into one befitting of Supreme Archangel Aziraphale.
Embarrassed by the force of his feeling, Aziraphale steadies himself. He decides, then, in a moment of strength, that he can fix this by himself. He does not need God’s reassurance. He will find the Metatron, and get the Second Coming back on track, and everything will work out perfectly.
Aziraphale straightens, and raises his chin. He grips his clipboard to his chest with a confidence he desperately wishes he felt. Smiling now, he strides back to greet the fearful angels waiting for him on the other side of the door.
By the time he is back in the main meeting hall of Heaven, facing the other archangels, his smile feels more comfortable, and his breaths come steady and even.
"Have you found him?" Uriel asks, immediately upon Aziraphale's entrance. Aziraphale keeps his chin high, and meets Uriel's sharp gaze without flinching.
"Well." Aziraphale says, his voice slow and controlled, "Not quite. But I'm, ah, I’m sure he'll turn up soon enough."
"I don't think so." Saraqael says, as they wheel through the doorway and into the room. They speak very solemnly indeed, their eyes cast in shadow. "I've just checked, and the Metatron isn't just missing from Heaven. There's no trace of him anywhere in the universe."
"Ah." Aziraphale says. Much of his false bravado slips away now in the face of such a morbid statement. "That doesn't sound good."
"Not good at all." Muriel pipes up in agreement.
Aziraphale sends the scrivener a fond glance. Even at a time like this, they are so endlessly enthusiastic. It is one of the reasons Aziraphale has survived up here for two decades. His first speech as Supreme Archangel was met with a round of applause from Muriel.
"Is that even possible?" Uriel asks.
"In theory," Saraqael says, "See, the only thing that makes sense - in fact only way at all the Metatron could have disappeared from existence entirely - is if-"
"If he were erased from the Book of Life." Michael cuts in. They turn their gaze to Aziraphale, and there is a glint in their eyes that startles him, something cold and afraid. "I fear the Metatron is dead, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale blinks. The other archangels take a moment to digest this. Michael's words echo around the halls of Heaven like a solemn prayer.
"Dead?" Aziraphale asks. "But- Surely not. The Book of Life- is it really so powerful?”
"Michael is right." Saraqael sighs. "There's no other possibility. In fact, he's not just dead - he never even existed. We'll forget him soon enough."
Dead, Aziraphale thinks, and eternally forgotten.
There’s a moment of silence as Saraqael’s words sink in. Terror stirs in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach. It is deep and dark, and it feels as if it’s going to swallow him.
Goodness, Aziraphale thinks, as he begins to digest the morbid truth. If the Metatron, God's spokesperson, can perish, so can he, and there is something about facing mortality that makes him feel sick. Stricken, he swallows, and wonders what he would feel in his final moments if he were erased from the Book of Life. Would he be happy with how he'd lived? Which of his memories would flash before his eyes as he faded away? And more importantly - what would he regret?
Suddenly, Aziraphale thinks there is a great deal he would regret. He is struck with that knowledge, and it sits uncomfortably in his chest.
He is not the only angel in the room struggling with the news, either. They are all afraid, Aziraphale realises. Uriel's expression is empty and cold, but their eye is twitching. Sandalphon is tapping his foot on the ground. Michael is pale, their eyes flitting around the room and their fists clenched. Saraqael, for all of their logic, seems lost for words. Even Muriel, clueless angel that they are, looks stressed, and is rapidly writing in their notebook as if they are studying for some sort of test.
"But if he were erased from the Book of Life-" Sandalphon says, his hard voice startling all of them from their contemplation, "That means he was murdered. Who would want to kill the Metatron? Or steal the Book of Life in the first place?"
"And why has God not cast them down into the fiery pits?" Uriel adds. Aziraphale tries to follow the conversation, but he is very much stuck on the fact the Metatron is dead, and the next angel in the hierarchy is himself, and if he is erased from existence-
It doesn't bear thinking about.
What will be will be, Aziraphale reminds himself. If that is his fate, part of God’s Great or Ineffable plan, then it should come to pass. But even as he tells himself this, Aziraphale cannot help but dwell on the permanence of the Metatron’s fate. If he were erased in the same way, he would be forgotten. His bookshop would no longer bear his name. Whickber Street would not remember he ever lived there. And Crowley-
"I mean, surely the culprit came from downstairs." Michael says, as Aziraphale tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth, "So they may have already been punished by our Lord. I can check with the, er, the back channels. That don't exist, of course."
"Of course." Aziraphale says, faintly, while his mind races. For Crowley to just forget him, after their terrible argument-
Goodness, what fear this is. Aziraphale has never been so scared before.
“If that is what Michael is doing,” Uriel asks. “Then what are the rest of us to do? Surely you have a plan of action?”
This question, of course, is directed to their leader. The archangels turn their heads to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale hesitates, scrambling for some sense of logical thought that isn’t I don’t want to die, with so much left unsaid.
"I, ah-“ He stumbles over his words, panic making his throat thick. The silence is awful, until-
"Well," Muriel pipes up, "I suppose if we're making plans, someone will have to investigate the Metatron's disappearance. Properly, I mean. Like a real detective.”
"Yes." Aziraphale agrees, relieved to be rescued.
"I'm the perfect angel for the job." Muriel continues. "I mean, I think I am. I was an inspector-constable not long ago, and I've also read every single Sherlock Holmes story. I can solve the mystery!”
"Certainly." Aziraphale says, not even biting at the Sherlock Holmes reference. Usually, he would talk for hours about Arthur Conan Doyle, but alas. "Jolly good, thank you Muriel."
"Great!" Muriel says. "Okay, this is a super dangerous operation, so I'll have to get right to investigating. I'm sure I still have my magnifying glass somewhere..."
They give each archangel in turn a long, exaggerated stare, as if assessing them for any sign of guilt, and then they're gone. Probably off to look for footprints, or something else unhelpful, Aziraphale thinks fondly. He turns back to the archangels.
"Good idea," Saraqael says, "Keep Muriel occupied. They're too... naïve to be caught up in all of this."
"They'll just make everything worse." Michael adds, far less diplomatically. "So, you didn’t answer Uriel’s question, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale. What's our approach to this? The Second Coming is scheduled for a fortnight's time, so we have no time to waste."
All of the angels look at Aziraphale expectantly, as if he holds all of the answers. He supposes in the absence of the Metatron, he is the highest authority, but he really doesn't think that's fair, because he originally accepted the role thinking he would have Crowley there to advise him. Indeed, if Crowley were here he would not be fazed by the Metatron’s disappearance. He would spring right into action, already miles ahead of everyone else, coming up with something ridiculously brilliant that probably shouldn't work, but almost certainly would.
Aziraphale doesn’t quite know how to do this without Crowley. They’ve always tried to fix things together. Is it foolish to wish Crowley would rescue him, now that this has all gone wrong? If only he would burst through the elevator doors with a sharp grin, clad in some ridiculous angelic disguise, charming and wonderful as his eternal saviour.
It is a fantasy that is pleasant, but not realistic. Aziraphale has to deal with this alone.
“…Is something wrong?” A gentle voice asks. “I thought we were all booked in to meet at the Globe. It’s in the Heavenly Calendar.”
Aziraphale looks up to see Jesus striding towards them, his expression as delicate as his voice. Jesus has been a calming, helpful presence, through the last two decades. Though upon his manifestation he was anxious and confused, Aziraphale managed to win him over with stories of Earth and its people. He told Jesus about food and books and all sorts of wonderful human things, and reminded him of the wonders that Crowley showed him that surely cannot be destroyed, and Jesus, satisfied by this, began to work in earnest towards the Second Coming.
Jesus was one of the only beings who actually liked Aziraphale’s ideas, and Aziraphale found him to be sweet and clever. It was also much easier to be in his company now that he had learned not to mention Crowley so often, though every now and then he would bring up the wonderful angel he’d met with red hair and funny eyes, and Aziraphale’s eyes would mist over. Jesus’ fondness for Crowley never stopped taking Aziraphale off guard. Crowley was so very kind to Jesus, so very kind in general…
Oh, Aziraphale does miss him.
“No, no.” Aziraphale lies, quickly, smoothing his face into something he hopes is reassuring. “There’s no problem at all.”
Uriel and Michael glance at each other. Jesus, who is warm and sweet but also incredibly perceptive, seems to pick up on the tension. His eyebrows furrow.
“…I see.” He murmurs. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can help with?”
Aziraphale considers this. Jesus, now that he has adapted to his new form, has proved he is intelligent and helpful, but if Aziraphale reveals the truth, he fears it will frighten him. Worse, he worries would let Jesus down, after promising so much. It would hurt to admit that their plan was going wrong.
In the end, it's Michael who gives Jesus a gentle pat on the shoulder. They offer him a reassuring smile, and steer him with an arm linked through his towards the door.
“Oh, everything’s just fine.” Aziraphale hears Michael murmur, “Why don’t you come up with another of your little stories, hm?”
Aziraphale cannot help but be relieved that Michael dealt with the situation, but he at the same time, he feels ashamed. Twice now Aziraphale has been rescued! But no more, he decides. Aziraphale stands up a little straighter. He has run this operation for twenty years, and he has done a damn good job of it. He can manage this.
“Right. Delegation! Here is the, er, plan of action.” Aziraphale announces, once Michael has returned from distracting Jesus. “Let’s see. Michael, you are to check the, ah, non-existent back channels, for any clues-“
“Already on it.” Michael says, pulling their glass phone from their robes. They tap at it, then hold the phone up to their ear. As they walk out of the room, Aziraphale hears them whisper to someone on the other end of the line.
“Uriel, Saraqael.” Aziraphale says. “I do adore Muriel, but perhaps you could do some, ah, more thorough investigating into what happened to the Metatron. Comb through the archive, ask around with the other angels, and see what you can find.”
“That should prove useful.” Saraqael says. “Come, Uriel, I know just where to look…”
“Ah, but first.” Aziraphale stops them with a palm in the air. “Saraqael, as the archangel who oversees divine law, I am sure the Metatron has spoke with you extensively on the Book of Life. I need to know everything you know. We cannot proceed any further if we don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
“Ah.” Saraqael says. They seem impressed by his perceptiveness, and tilt their head, considering him. “Where should I start?”
“At the beginning, I presume, like any good story.” Aziraphale says.
“Well, the Book of Life is exactly as it sounds. It holds in its pages every single atom of existence, from us angels to humans on Earth to each individual star in space.”
“I see.” Aziraphale says. “And to erase something or someone from the book…?”
“You could take out a page of two, and erase them from existence in this manner, but the book wouldn’t let you do more than that. It is heavily fortified to prevent this sort of thing from happening. To destroy more, you would have to burn the pages in the Eternal Flame.”
Aziraphale freezes. It has been a very long time since he heard that phrase, even longer since he came face to face with the Eternal Flame. The Great War was millions of years ago, but even now, at the mention of the flame, Aziraphale falters.
“Oh, how terrible. To rip a page from the spine of existence, and burn it in that dreaded flame...” Aziraphale shudders. "How did it come to this?"
Aziraphale often wonders why so many terrible things have come to pass. He may be an ancient being, but part of him is still the angel he was in the very beginning, naive and gentle and so very hopeful. It does not matter if he is Supreme Archangel now. He was once a child. And that child is inside of him now, aching to be held.
“The Metatron’s page was destroyed in this manner, then?” Aziraphale asks, quietly.
“In theory.” Saraqael says.
“So if a page can be burned.” Aziraphale says, “Then can the book itself be destroyed? Would it be possible for someone to burn the book as a whole. After all, burning trillions of pages… It would take an eternity.”
“If a page can be burned, the Book of Life itself should be able to be destroyed in the Eternal Flame also.” Saraqael says. They hum thoughtfully. “One need only drop it onto the fire, and the entirety of existence would just... fade away."
“Ah, I see.” Aziraphale says, disturbed. “How pleasant.”
“Aziraphale.” Saraqael says. Their eyes glint with curiousity. “Do you think our… murderer aims to destroy the universe itself?”
“I think it is far more likely whoever took the book is using it for blackmail.” Uriel says. “Hell just wants us to be afraid, they wouldn’t destroy everything.”
“Ah, but see, they could.” Aziraphale says. He feels more sure of himself by the moment, certain he is on the right path. “We do not know what the thief’s motivation is. Do they want the Book’s power? Do they want all angels to perish? Or do they simply want the destruction of everything? Evil is chaos, after all. Satan himself could have the Book!”
“I see.” Uriel hums. “So whatever their motivation is, they still have the power to destroy the universe.”
“And that cannot come to be.” Saraqael says. “It is not part of the Great Plan.”
“Exactly.” Aziraphale says, gratified. “So our priority before we do anything else must be to protect God’s universe, and all of the people in it, as much as we can. We are angels, remember?”
“But how can we stop any of this from happening?” Sandalphon says. “We don’t have the Book, we don’t know who took it-“
“There is a way.” Saraqael says. “You see, Aziraphale is right. Navigating the book and finding certain pages - especially for someone downstairs - would be an arduous process, so we do have time. And our first action should be…”
“To ensure the book isn’t destroyed, and no more pages are burned.” Aziraphale says. “So if this… villain’s plan is utter destruction, it does not come to fruition."
“That makes sense.” Uriel agrees.
“So we must defend the flame.” Aziraphale decides. His voice strengthens with confidence. “I will.. fortify it, somehow. Perhaps a few of us could perform a miracle to hide it from existence? Or- could we create some sort of… pocket universe?”
Ah, here it is again, that troublesome ache. Aziraphale so dearly misses Crowley, because he knows Crowley would be impressed by him right now. He would drawl aren’t you brilliant, and it would ought to be sarcastic but it would really just be proud.
Crowley aside, Aziraphale thinks he is being very brilliant. If he keeps being so decisive, maybe he can sort all of this out himself.
“It could work.” Saraqael agrees. “At the very least, it bides us some time. But how does that look in practice?”
“Sandalphon.” Aziraphale says. “You are to come with me to the center of the universe while the others are investigating. With your spiritual power as archangel of prayer and music, and I as Supreme Archangel, we should be able to combine our miraculous power to hide the Eternal Flame until this is over.”
Calling Sandalphon a ‘heavenly ruler of music’ feels wrong. More accurately, Sandalphon is in charge of celestial harmonies, Earthly hymns, and in general more mellow rhythms, which apparently encourage piety. Like the Sound of Music, for example. Aziraphale shudders at the thought.
“Come with you?” Sandalphon says, “To the center of the universe?!”
“Yes, yes, do keep up.” Aziraphale says, irritated despite himself. “I trust your wings are in working order?”
“Well, yes, but-“
“There we have it, then!” Aziraphale claps. "Everyone else knows what their roles are? Yes? Fantastic!"
The archangels mutter their agreement, which is enough for Aziraphale. He has no time to give another lecture on enthusiasm. He feels more himself as he addresses his fellow angels.
"Sandalphon and I are in for quite the journey, so I do hope we have made some progress on this awful affair by the time we return. Good work today, team!”
Uriel rolls their eyes, Saraqael looks skeptical, and Sandalphon looks incredibly unhappy about the idea of a long-haul flight to the center of the universe, but it can’t be helped. Aziraphale is not ecstatic about it either (he can think of much more pleasant company than Sandalphon for such a trip) but someone has to perform the miracle with him. His usual partner-in-crime is out of action, down there on Earth doing goodness knows what without him, and so Aziraphale must settle for less than the best. Which is anyone, really, who isn’t Crowley.
At least a flight to the center of the universe with Crowley would have interesting conversation, and a quick detour to get cocktails on Alpha Centauri. For a moment Aziraphale is struck with a vision of them amongst the stars again, laughing and clinking their glasses on a distant planet, but then casts the particular image away, because it is no good dwelling on such sweet, impossible things. He turns his mind back to the task at hand.
“You are all dismissed.” Aziraphale says. “Except for you, of course, Sandalphon.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sandalphon grumbles, as the other archangels disperse.
“I would suggest, after putting your physical body into storage, that you stretch your wings.” Aziraphale says. “This is not going to be a short trip.”
Space, just like Heaven, has no air or atmosphere. It is a vacuum, vast and endless. Yet despite all logistics, the moment Aziraphale is outside of Heaven and amongst the stars, he has the peculiar feeling that he can breathe again. It is impossible - his body is still in Heaven, ready for him to occupy again when he returns - yet it is true.
To stretch his wings wide in the darkness feels wonderful. For a moment, Aziraphale just takes it all in: the glitter of distant planets, the stardust in the air, the cosmic rays and the radiation and the pull of magnetic fields all around him, tugging at the edges of his wings. Sandalphon, already light years ahead, does not wait for him, and Aziraphale must admit that he is glad for the quiet. Alone, he can simply observe the universe around him.
The last time he was out here, wings stretched out in the infinite starry sky, was the final day of the war. Aziraphale remembers looking out at the universe around him and mourning its beauty, as if it were already dead. After such awful battles, faced with devastation and destruction everywhere he turned, the universe seemed even more beautiful to Aziraphale, and yet more devastating, too. It was doomed to end, as written in the Great Plan. It would all be over soon enough.
Aziraphale finds that the same bittersweet feeling overcomes him now, over six thousand years later. It took him a little longer than Crowley to see the universe's beauty, but he found it all the same, and now he is stunned by its wonder. He never quite understood anything Crowley told him about space, when they were both angels. He didn't ever get a grasp on star systems or nebulae or whatever other space-jargon Crowley threw at him. But he saw the smile on Crowley's face, and saw all of these strange, miraculous things through Crowley's eyes, and now he can't possibly imagine this universe ending. It is too beautiful, too intricate, too well-made and well-loved.
But with the Book of Life being abused, the end of the universe is surely a possibility. Aziraphale steels himself against the surge of emotion that overcomes him. He cannot lose his focus now, not with the universe at stake.
Motivated now, Aziraphhale begins the journey to the center of the universe, and becomes lost in the joy of flying. He soars through galaxies at the speed of light. The more he flies, the more wondrous everything appears to him. A black hole to his left, pulling everything inside of it, captivates him. A meteorite ahead breaks apart in flight, and Aziraphale stops to watch its pieces float off into space. He has spent decades in Heaven, surrounded only by white walls and solemn angels and celestial harmonies, so the colour and the texture around him feels like magic.
Perhaps it is magic. When Crowley cast light upon the universe, maybe he cast the very first spell, too. Aziraphale cannot help but become sentimental as he makes his way towards the center of the universe. He wonders if Crowley has visited space, recently, and marvelled at his creation. He hopes that Crowley has. He hopes it made him smile, even just a little, and that a feeling of pride and joy warmed him for a moment.
In the peaceful quiet of space, it's difficult for Aziraphale to cast thoughts of Crowley aside, though they are light years away from each other. He has no distractions, only reminders of him everywhere he looks. As Aziraphale flies, he imagines the angel he once knew flying beside him. Crowley was vibrant and joyous and hopeful. Back then, he grinned like he'd never known pain. When Aziraphale finds something particularly beautiful on his journey - spinning light, strange clusters of stars, colliding galaxies - he wishes Crowley were there to explain it to him. Without his enthusiastic ramblings, it all just seems like a pretty picture that Aziraphale doesn't have the words for.
With all of these conflicting feelings overwhelming him, it feels like an age before Aziraphale comes upon Earth. As he approaches the Milky Way, he pauses a moment to stare at the planet, smiling at the place he called home for 6000 years. He reaches out a hand in front of him, as if to touch it.
If only he could hold Earth in the palm of his hand. Perhaps if he could gather Earth to his chest, and keep it safe from any harm, he could prevent any further destruction from happening.
"I won't let anything happen to you." Aziraphale promises. He gives Earth a lingering look, and then he flies away again. As he leaves, he feels as if there is a weight in his chest, heavy and aching, weighing him down like a gravitational pull.
Then, just past the Milky Way, is something more painful than Earth.
It is a star system.
It should be unremarkable. Aziraphale has flown past millions of them. It is nothing special, nothing new. The Supreme Archangel, with such a fearsome mission ahead of him, should not even notice it.
But upon seeing this particular star system, Aziraphale stops, hovering in the air as if frozen. He feels a surge of sorrow, and it hurts like a wound. Oh, how it bleeds and stings! It is too much to bear, too much to feel. Aziraphale presses a hand to the center of his angelic grace, and tries to push the pain down, but it lingers.
Here, in front of him, is Alpha Centauri.
Aziraphale's wings flutter, but he does not dare approach. Amongst the clusters of stars is a planet, one that Aziraphale knows from Crowley's explanations is Proxima B. It's an Earth-sized planet, nearly habitable. It's surrounded by wondrous light and it is beautiful and this, this is where Crowley imagined them escaping to.
Well, Aziraphale thinks. He cannot help but feel wistful. In another reality, he knows this star system intimately. It is his cosmic home, a place for an angel and demon to live safely amongst the stars. Would they have made a home here? Could they have ever dared to be happy?
We could run away together, Crowley's voice whispers to him, bouncing from star to star and enveloping him. Aziraphale cannot help but wonder if Gabriel and Beelzebub are dancing on Proxima B's surface, while Aziraphale stands so close and pines for something he cannot have.
Just the two of us, Crowley's voice whispers to him again. Of all the wondrous things Aziraphale has come across in the sky, this tiny little star system is the thing that makes him lose his breath. It makes him feel unsteady, as if he is about to drift off into space like a broken piece of a meteor.
For all of Crowley's assertions that he understands everything better than Aziraphale does, Aziraphale knows he is wrong about one thing. Running away together and hiding here was never a possibility. As much as Crowley said they should leave Earth behind, Aziraphale knew him well enough to know they never would. They love the world too much. Though they can be a little lazy at times, it is not in their nature to be so selfish.
After all, they are angels.
Or- Crowley was an angel. Aziraphale has to remind himself of the past-tense every day.
Regardless, deep down, sometimes an angel wants to do the wrong thing. They are able to fall. They are all capable of being selfish. In this moment, faced with what he has lost, Aziraphale so dearly wishes he had been.
Alpha Centauri, Aziraphale thinks. What a ridiculous fantasy. It is easy to imagine their life if they had indulged it, and carved a place for themselves amongst the stars, with no one here to disturb them. There would be no Heaven or Hell, no duty or guilt. Just stardust on their wings, glittering in the light as they dance. Just star-lit cocktails and ruminations on the beauty of the universe and billions of years of peace. Oh, that glorious peace, and glorious joy, and the intimacy of knowing that it is just the two of them here for eternity…
"In another life." Aziraphale murmurs. It is an admission for just himself, but he hopes that Crowley, light years away from him, hears it.
Then Aziraphale drags himself away from Alpha Centauri, in fear he will never leave. He does not look back, only ahead, to what comes next.
The rest of the journey passes in a blur. Aziraphale, now, only wishes it would go faster. No longer does space feel beautiful. Though he meets no obstacle, he feels very much as if he is being dragged into a black hole, and torn apart atom by atom.
When he finally approaches the center of the universe, Aziraphale feels a sense of relief. Just a little longer here, and then he can return to what he knows. As soon as he's back in Heaven, with all of its dull familiarity, all of these pesky feelings will go away again.
"Finally." Sandalphon grumbles when he sees Aziraphale flying towards him. "I thought you were lost."
"No, no, the journey went very smoothly." Aziraphale says, "Did you enjoy the scenery?"
Sandalphon gives him a blank look.
"Can we just do the miracle?" He asks. "There’s no time to chat.”
Aziraphale frowns. This seems an unnecessarily rude comment. He likes chatting.
"Well." He says. "How... succinct. You know, Archangel Sandalphon, I am your superior. I have the power to demote you for such insubordination."
"You are... joking, aren't you?" Sandalphon says. To Aziraphale's satisfaction, he looks a little worried about the prospect of being demoted.
"I should hope not." Aziraphale says, very seriously indeed, "An archangel's status is no laughing matter."
"Indeed." Sandalphon says. "Not a laughing matter at all, er... sir?”
"Not sir. Supreme Archangel, please. But much better." Aziraphale claps. He is slightly aware that over the last twenty years, he has come to enjoy having this much power, but he has been the silly little angel at the bottom of the pedestal for so long that he can't help himself. He smiles a little as he takes in Sandalphon's chastised expression. "Come, let's complete the miracle, we've no time to waste. This way, please."
Aziraphale leads the way to the Eternal Flame. It is as the angels left it after the war, bright and blazing and rather ghastly, if Aziraphale is truthful. He eyes it skeptically.
"Well." He says. "I suppose we should just hide it, yes? Pop into a little cosmic pocket, where no one can find it?"
"If you say so, Supreme Archangel." Sandalphon says, obediently. Aziraphale huffs out a laugh.
"Right, then hold out your hand- yes, yes, like that, jolly good, thank you." Aziraphale takes Sandalphon's outstretched hand gingerly. "Now, use as much power as you physically can, yes? This has to be a perfect miracle. Are you ready?"
Sandalphon nods, his eyes focused on the flame ahead. Aziraphale turns to it too, and prepares himself.
"Okay." Aziraphale says, "One, two, three- Go!"
He imagines all of the power inside of him as a ball of light, flowing out from his grace and wrapping around the Eternal Flame. He envisions it in its own little pocket of the universe, hidden out of sight, ready to emerge again when the danger has passed.
There is a little pop. When Aziraphale opens his eyes, the Eternal Flame has disappeared. He lets go of Sandalphon's hand, and flies towards the empty space where the Eternal Flame used to be. Grinning, he surveys their work, buzzing with excitement.
"Oh, wonderful!" Aziraphale exclaims. He's giddy and exhilarated to have achieved something. He spins, his wings fluttering around him. "We did it!"
There's a sound of someone clearing their throat. Aziraphale turns back, expecting Crowley to be there, lit by starlight and grinning back at him proudly, but it's just Sandalphon. Of course it is. The archangel stares at him as if he's grown another thousand eyes, and Aziraphale's face falls quickly.
"Ahem." Aziraphale clears his throat. "I mean, good work, Archangel Sandalphon."
"Let's just get back to Heaven." Sandalphon says, grumpily. Aziraphale agrees with this wholly, so decides not to chastise Sandalphon for his tone.
The journey back, mercifully, is less eventful. Aziraphale takes a detour, avoiding Earth and Alpha Centauri completely, because seeing them once was quite enough. He thinks his heart could not bear another look.
By the time he has landed in Heaven again, Proxima B and all of its lovely stars are a distant memory, like a dream that is quickly fading as he wakes up.