Chapter Text
Aziraphale-
All he could think about was how bright it was.
The bookshop had been full of warm tones, ones that give the place a softer, more manageable feel in contrast to the glaring lights of heaven. brown furniture, beige carpet, yellow-
But it’s pretty
No. He couldn’t think about that now. Ignoring the pain in his chest and the dampness in his eyes, he stepped out of the elevator and carried himself forward, the sound of his shoes squeaking against the spotless floor.
Aziraphale had been to hospitals very few times in the last six thousand years, but this is certainly what they felt like. He felt like he was being laid out, paralysed, exposed for all the world to see. Although he didn’t need to breathe, he started taking in quicker, shorter breaths and stood up straight, suddenly hyperaware of all the eyes on him.
He hadn’t even realised the metatron had started speaking to him until he was being subjected to a questioning look.
“Sorry, what was that” Aziraphale managed to breathe around the tightness in his chest.
“I was just discussing your involvement with the second coming, archangel Aziraphale. I will show you to your office and then you will meet with the other archangels to discuss your new position when you have settled.”
Aziraphale forced down the discomfort that came with the words archangel Aziraphale and felt a taught, plastic smile plaster itself onto his face.
“Yes, jolly good. Lead the way!”
The metatron seemed pleased with this response. Good, Aziraphale thought, He wasn’t here to make enemies.
***
Some moments later, Aziraphale found himself in his office. It was hard to gauge time in heaven, what with there being no day and night, so one had to measure time in a fluid sort of fashion.
Aziraphale played with the hem of his waistcoat, smoothing it down a few times. It had always calmed him down when he was nervous, but this time it didn’t seem to quell the fear rising in his throat. His office was about as private as the middle of a high street, but heaven was surprisingly empty. Taking a quick look around to assess there was no one around, he dipped his hand into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a polaroid. It had been worn from age and touch, but still displayed the picture of the magic trick clear as day. Raising his other trembling hand to the picture and caressing Crowley’s side, showing past oil stains from where it had been touched before, Aziraphale raised his hand to his lips and briefly pressed them again, closing his eyes, allowing himself to indulge in the feeble imitation of Crowley’s kiss. He would never forget the hot, hard press of Crowley’s mouth against his and how for a second he had allowed himself to kiss back. But even breaking away, the temptation had been accomplished and now his body ached, yearning for Crowley’s touch.
Before he got too swept away by emotion, he folded the picture back into his pocket and wiped away tears that he hadn’t realised had formed in his eyes.
He was doing this for him. He had to.