Chapter Text
He had forgotten what it was like. The sheer monotony of it all. White walls, white floors, white desks and white clothing. There was no way of telling how many days or eons had passed since Aziraphale had left Earth, for there were no time pieces in heaven. No filigreed pocket watches, no dawn or dusk, no sleep to drift into and no music to listen to. Certainly not 21 minutes of Shostakovitch. Crowley was right about the nightingales. Just white. An endless sea of white.
Somehow though this extreme minimalism was a comfort in its own way, for Aziraphale knew that all souvenirs of earth would only serve to remind him of Crowley and of the pain he had caused them.
The angel had regretted his decision almost immediately, but what was he to do? Especially now he was certain that whatever was being planned had to be stopped from the inside.
“Oh, my dear, dear Crowley”, he sighed. “I said you were part of the bad guys. If only you knew what I do now.”
Heaven’s elite hadn’t taken to Aziraphale jumping up the ranks. They resented him and he knew it. Michael and Saraqael voted against almost every decision he tried to make, while Uriel voted in favour purely to undermine Michael’s authority. There was therefore a stalemate in every decision and heaven hadn’t changed one ounce for the better. The Metatron had announced Aziraphale’s appointment as archangel, plopped him in front of a desk, proclaimed ‘best of luck!’, then promptly abandoned him.
It was left to Michael to proclaim that all angels that rise or fall require a change of name. Though Aziraphale tried in vain to keep his, it was but the first he had to concede since going ‘up’.
“But I like my name! Surely, it’s up to me whether I keep it or not?”
Michael looked at him with utter disdain.
“Up to you? To change a 6000-year tradition? To change heavenly rules? You may think that because the Metatron appointed you archangel that you are suddenly better than those of us that have been working up here while you slummed it with that demon of yours” but that doesn’t give you the right to mess with a system that has been in place since before the beginning.
That was the first time he had been reprimanded for doing what the Metatron had apparently sent him up to heaven to do, and it didn’t take Aziraphale long to realise the Metatron sent him up here to do nothing remotely like creating positive change.
“So, what do you propose I name myself then?” Aziraphale had thought to suggest something incredibly witty. But that was always Crowley’s forte.
Michael evoked a scroll, blew off some extraordinarily old dust, and opening it proclaimed: “The next pre-set name on the list is Raphael.”
Upon looking up from the scroll, Michael could have sworn this up-start angel was laughing at them.
“You do realise all you are doing is shortening my existing name? Does that mean I get to call you Archangel Micky?”
Raphael was incredibly proud of himself for having made what he assumed was the wittiest joke uttered by an angel in heaven for at least a century or two. His grin evidently annoyed Michael more than the witticism but that in itself was worth the expression on Michael’s face.
Having been bound to desk duty much of the time since his name change, there was little chance to get used to it.
The monotony was excruciating. It turned out that by “running heaven”, what the Metatron had meant was “doing the paperwork”, which was all he ever did until called for a council vote. Raphael had started by planning a succession of changes to be proposed in each of these meetings but after dozens of stalemates he had realised these attempts were futile.
Once however, while stretching his legs along the long corridors of heaven’s offices Raphael witnessed Michael carrying a small, ornate chest towards the Metatron’s personal office and followed behind to listen beside the open door. Leaning over the edge he saw the chest placed onto a desk. It all looked so obscenely out of place. The office was like all the others. White walls, floors, doors, devoid of decor or character. Yet there stood one of the most beautiful items Raphael had seen in the 6000 years of his existence.
Though the sheer shine of it resembled gold at first, the chest was in fact comprised of highly polished bronze. The surface of which was embossed with winding plants and flowers. Each edge was decorated with delicate statuettes of angels with wings unfurled, carved in what appeared to be marble. In the center a large keyhole was bordered by writing too small to make out. The detail of this artistry was made more impressive by the small scale of the chest itself, which left most of the desk uncovered.
“Ahh, Michael. Thank you for fetching this for me. I assume you remember it’s importance?” Metatron spoke with all the authority of a CEO to a secretary.
Michael gave a half bow and spoke flatly.
“Of course, my Lord. It may have been a few millennia since it was used but I cannot forget what was trapped inside the ark. It always does amuse me how those humans managed to get the description of it so wrong”.
“That’s what you get for not appointing angelic proofreaders for that ‘Bible’ of theirs. The mistakes made in the first draft only got worse with each translation, transcription or amendment”.
Michael conceded that not taking the time to properly overlook such a popular compendium of heavenly deeds was an oversight larger than initially thought but knew better than to question how heaven was supposed to know this was to be the most popular when so many were being composed at the time.
The Metatron rose from their chair and circled the desk towards Michael. Raphael thought he saw an expression of concern on their face, while Michael stood rigid and expressionless. The perfect soldier standing at attention for their master.
The Metatron lowered their voice, but Raphael could just make out the words that shouldn’t have shocked him.
“How is our little archangel doing then, Michael? Has he realised the futility of his so-called high office yet? Or do we have a bit longer to wait until he realises he’s an exalted secretary?”
Michael gave the slightest smile before responding.
“He seems to have given up trying to make changes. Though admittedly that would be more enjoyable if Uriel didn’t make a point of voting with him in their vain attempt to undermine my authority. They really do think they could someday usurp the leadership”.
The Metatron hesitated, then continued,
“You know I would never let that happen Michael. You are leader of the angels in all but name and you know full well I only brought that idiotic traitor back to separate him from his pet demon. That miracle of theirs was far too powerful for my liking and I do not want them getting in the way of the second coming. You know this already.”
Michael gave another slight bow.
“TI am grateful for the reassurance my Lord. Truth be told it is taking a lot of constraint to not just summon Shax up here to try with more hellfire. I’m certain there was a trick behind his survival last time that he cannot recreate without that demon of his”.
“Patience is a virtue as you well know Michael. That runt is useless on his own. No spine at all. Once the second coming is past the point of intervention, he’ll get his just deserts but until then he is kept safely up here where we can keep our eye on him”.
“Pardon my questioning sir, but wouldn’t it be safer to just have done with it?”
The Metatron started to look bored of this conversation and explained the situation in a tone spoken to a child.
“To put it simply, Crowley would know. I don’t know how or why they are tied together but they are. Since the only one who could tell me exactly why has resided in this box for most of existence, I don’t intend to satisfy my curiosity. Do you have anything else to add Michael, or do you remember what happens to heavenly beings that ask too many questions?”
Raphael managed to pull himself out of shock in time to skulk away as the conversation was finished. He did not know what or who was in that chest, but he knew he had to find out before the second coming. Why did they call it the ark? What ark? He wished to God he had stayed on Earth but home, and what ever faced him there had to wait. He was still confused by Crowley’s actions the last they met. He had heard the ‘Alpha Centuri speal’ a thousand times before.
“Let’s run away and forget our troubles” was the preset for Crowley every time something forced them to choose sides. But why had they acted so.... human? What made them force a kiss on them when kisses were made as a way for humans express their attraction to one another? Why was this time different?
Raphael ran his hand through his hair.
“All these bloody questions Aziraphale” (for he would never get used to his new name) “will get you in more trouble than you’re already in."