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Angels invented violence. They took to it like ducks to water once the opportunity presented itself by way of Lucifer and the Rebellion.
The war had been brewing for some time, if time had existed at that point, before it broke out across the still-developing expanses of space. It was slow at first; just a few angels who inquired after the point of all the work and all the planning (after all, why put in the effort just for it to be tossed aside in a few short millennia?) but from there it caught fire, descending quickly into chaos. Heated debates broke out across Heaven about the ethics of thought experiments and sentient life forms, and occasionally, about the quality of the food.
It was a difficult time to be a… what was that new word… pacifist. As if there had been any other alternative until recently. Aziraphale pushed the thought aside, as even that was a bit too daring. He was an angel, but certainly not one of the instigators of this… this… disagreement. In fact, if the Almighty would just–
No.
Certainly not.
Aziraphale knew better than most not to question these things, and what trouble one could find themselves in if they did as such. Not that he had ever prodded about after anything… Well, except to once make an appeal that he might be permitted to test at least some of the work being prepared for the humans. Strictly for quality assurance purposes, of course. Surely someone had to understand what moods felt like, what empathy did, how creativity functions… You know; so they could explain it all to the humans.
He had been relegated to scroll duplication for quite some time following that incident.
Eventually though, the Archangels relented and reassigned him to the responsibility of a herald; a messenger. A being more familiar with the concept of middle management might have suspected that they wanted to wear him down. But this courier had already learned not to ask. So instead he did as they commanded; he delivered the orders, transcribed the responses, committed them to memory, and started the process anew again. An endless cycle of near-painful monotony. The one saving grace was that it meant he was generally too busy to join the skirmishes. That suited him nicely. Aziraphale did not intend to kill anything.
And Heaven was indeed training the angels to be Soldiers. To win. It wasn't a Utopia. It wasn't even the place he thought it was, or what he had fallen in love with back when he was helping to design the Humans. And yet, the pale-blonde cherub certainly never thought Heaven capable of the threats they bandied about the rebels now; pits of sulfur, loss of grace, a permanent schism from the Almighty… It was altogether too much. Perhaps that's why the war had started in such earnest; no one had seen anything even close to the Hell they promised.
But of course he couldn't say all that. Not to anyone. So he settled for silently taking a break. Quite simple, really; a break. A rest. A perfectly innocent respite.
Aziraphale sighed, his fingers leaving worried red marks between the knuckles. Perhaps he was a coward after all. And perhaps that's how he found himself seated on a rock on some frigid protoplanet orbiting a twin-star system not terribly far from Earth itself. Maybe there was something wrong with him. Maybe–
A pink-red streak hissed in an arc overhead, driving Aziraphale to his feet again. He smoothed out his robes, anxious to not look quite as sedentary as he had been only moments ago and hoping against hope that it was one of the more lenient archangels.
But it wasn’t. It was someone else entirely.
The other angel circled Aziraphale, eyes wide with amusement as they studied his face. Oh no. Not him. Not like this.
“Terribly sorry; I was just leaving. Back to – well, work… and all that. Mind how you–”
"Hang on, hang on… I know you. We've met."
"Ah, hmm. S– surely not."
"We have! Uh… Ah… Aziraphale, wasn't it?" The words were light and cheerful, for someone wearing the dark robes of the Rebellion.
Aziraphale was on his back foot, wings still but raised and ready. The truth was he would've already left if not for that smile. He remembered that smile. Well, surely the flashes of recognition had more to do with the flame-red hair that matched one of the nebulae he had created quite long ago. When Aziraphale was feeling most generous, he considered that he had also contributed something to the process. That they had kick-started an act of creation together. Back then they had stood side by side. But now…
Now there was an unspoken chasm between them, underlined by the dark sheath and sword worn slung across the rebel's back. Aziraphale's gaze darted between the weapon and that damned lopsided grin, but he couldn't find it within himself to move. Some help all that war training was, in a situation like this.
The other angel’s eyes were still investigating, noting every movement. It didn't take long to connect the dots and in one smooth motion he swung the sheath up over his shoulders and sent the weapon spinning into space, far from their reach.
"Not much one for fighting." He grinned sheepishly. "Same f'you?"
Aziraphale set his jaw, betraying that solid foundation of stubbornness that tended to hide so well underneath his polite nature. It was as if something had shifted underneath his feet, leaving him vulnerable in a way he hadn’t expected. They probably had that in common.
"The last thing I intend to do is fight in any war."
"Just so." The other’s words came with a lilt, amusement dripping from his lips.
"I-If She should will it, anyway," Aziraphale flushed, realizing a moment too late how his words could have been interpreted. He has thought of his excuse so many times, that to him it has become truth and reason. "I am simply… taking a rest while on my way to deliver the next set of orders."
"Orders. Right. Holy orders?"
"Quite."
The rebel quirked his lips, catching Aziraphale's gaze again. Pinks and blues washed across their faces in a warm glow and Aziraphale was brought back to before in a rush of memory that nearly knocked the wind from his lungs. He stumbled to recover his train of thought. Or any moral high ground.
“Are you not worried that I might…” He searched for the words. “Turn you in? Report you formally? To the… higher authorities?”
“You? Nah.”
“Well. Whyever not?”
“Easy. You didn't, y'know… back then.” The answer came with a shrug.
“Ah.” Aziraphale looked down at his twisting fingers as they turned over and over without his express permission. Silence fell between them, although it came with some degree of comfort. Maybe even a chance of familiarity. But it lacked warmth. Heaven had taken that, too.
"Did you get to ask after all your… inquiries?" Aziraphale finally asked quietly, settling on the safest words he could seem to find. "Did you speak to the Almighty?"
It was a long time before he heard a reply.
"Funny thing; questions. Everyone always seems to take them the wrong way." His eyes were dark, unfocused and settling into the expanse of space in front of them. In the far distance, they could both see the orange-bright sparks of explosions.
He turned to Aziraphale.
"Lucifer was the only one who listened, y'know."
Slender fingers tugged at the badge on his robe, at the stray threads that had worked their way loose under the pressure. He faltered, stuttering before giving up completely. "I didn't… I didn't mean to start all this … I just–"
Another hiss tore through the sky, louder this time. Aziraphale followed the twin trails in the distance; one teal, one blue. How did they find h … No– No time. He reached out, catching the rebel’s wrist and pulling him behind a rocky outcropping.
“Oi!”
“Shh!”
Their backs pressed against stone, cold setting in to their white wings. What would they say– What would they do to him when they saw … This was beyond questions. This was desertion. And he had no weapon.
One of the scrolls Aziraphale had previously copied had explained in great detail the human need for breath. And what they called breathing. Seemed terribly inconvenient. Especially in a situation like this. His chest was still; silent.
He met the rebel's eyes, but couldn't hold the contact. This smarted of rebellion, in its own way. Talking to the enemy was one thing. But helping them? Hiding them? What was he thinking? Or maybe he wasn't thinking enough. His grip tightened, as the other shot him an optimistic smile from underneath worried brows.
'Please.'
But his hopes crumpled under thoughts of the consequences as a loud crack reverberating through the craggy landscape. That was it. They were here.
“You can come out now.”
Typical of Heaven; wording an order as if it were a request. The cherub’s shoulders sagged. Running was out. Hiding was evidently out. Next time they met, they would both be wearing black.
He felt the other angel tug gently against the white-knuckle grip of his fingers. There was a smile on the rebel's face, but it felt… wrong. It felt…
“Come on then.”
“Stop!” Aziraphale pleaded with him in a hushed tone. “Please!”
But the other was already stepping out, shrugging his arm to show Aziraphale’s hand still clenched around his wrist.
"He's already arrested me." The red-headed angel was speaking through the side of his mouth, the words quick and almost melodious. And far too loud with bravado. "He said the words – blah-blah-blah – and everything."
"I– I…" Aziraphale stammered, before hissing under his breath. "What on Earth do you think you're doing?"
“At least I won’t have to fight,” he winked. And when that didn’t work, he grew somber. "Trust me."
It was a whisper, a secret between just the two of them, accompanied by that lopsided hint of a grin. An expression so familiar from when they had met long, long ago. But Aziraphale still remembered.
'How much trouble could I get in just for asking a few questions?'
The herald’s feet shuffled ahead of his thoughts, both weighed down by hesitation. He was all out of plans. In fact, he didn’t have even one single better idea.
'I wouldn't want you getting into any trouble.'
The rebel's hand pulled out of Aziraphale's grasp, leaving him cold.
"Go on, then." He stretched his arms out in front, offering the archangels his upturned wrists.
Golden handcuffs closed around the other's wrists, marked with the sigils of Heaven. Color drained from his face, and Aziraphale knew in that very instant that they were in too deep.
Miracle blockers.
"Saraqael, take him down for processing and the memory wipe."
The rebel's face fell as his dark eyebrows shot up in alarm, meeting Aziraphale's panicked gaze. The messenger's stomach twisted in knots, drowning in a cold rush. An avalanche of words came to him; ones that he had never understood before now. Dread. Regret. Anguish.
"W-wait!"
But it was too late. It was always too late.
Saraqael disappeared with the rebel, leaving Aziraphale alone and terrified with Michael. Shame. Another word came to mind.
"The Cherub Aziraphale. You've shown exemplary work in locating & securing the traitor. This will not go unnoticed by the Archangels." She looked at him with an expression that was ever as near to approval as he'd seen on her and nodded curtly. "Expect your commendation shortly. Perhaps even a promotion is in store."
His hands were shaking.
Aziraphale could still feel those slender fingers slipping through his own.
He hadn't even known his name.