Chapter Text
Aziraphale pushed the button, and the doors closed. His hands were shaking. It wasn’t fear. Oh no, he wasn’t afraid, he was angry. Rage had been burning inside him ever since he’d found out what had happened. So that was why he hadn’t been able to locate him since he was up there.
The lift began its way down at an agonisingly slow pace. The words of his last conversation with Michael and Uriel were still ringing in his ears. Although, ‘conversation’ wasn’t exactly the right word. For a conversation, it had involved a lot of yelling and threatening, not to mention an extraordinary amount of self-control for Aziraphale to not burn the whole place down in an instant. He couldn’t remember ever being so angry.
Becoming an archangel had been the biggest mistake of his long life, not that he’d had any choice in the matter though. Nothing he did was good enough, both of them were constantly on his back. He wasn’t made for bureaucracy, he’d always hated paperwork. He foolishly thought he could make a difference. Set a different course for an outdated institution in which he didn’t really believe anymore. He wanted to believe in heaven. He wanted to make it a good place, a fair place. But evidently, he was too late. He then tried to remember what —or who— he’d done it for, but today had been the last straw. After what he’d discovered, he couldn’t do nothing and let things slide. Not anymore. Technically speaking, no one could prevent him from doing what he was about to do. Well, not no one. “She” could do it, but from what he’d observed, “She” didn’t seem to mind… or care. If She did, he wouldn’t be standing where he stood. So be it. He’d take matters into his own hands.
The lift stopped abruptly, and the doors slowly slid open. The change of scenery was astounding. His five senses were attacked all at once, in an instant. Everything was dark, and it was unbearably hot. He felt a sheen of sweat already forming on his forehead. There were no windows, just neon lights that cast a sickly greenish light onto everything and everyone. The tumult of thousands of voices almost overpowered the announcement over the PA, which seemed to blast nothing but a copious amount of profanity. The smell was putrid, a mix of sulphur, dirt, and sweat.
Aziraphale had never set foot in hell, but he hadn’t imagined it any other way. He should have been way more terrified. He was an angel after all. Well, technically, still an archangel. The likes of him were never really welcomed in this place. But he wasn’t scared, not in the slightest, even with all those demons watching him get out of the lift. He went past the reception desk, where a female-shaped demon —old prejudices died hard, even in hell— seemed busy with a long line of freshly damned souls. He looked around and noticed a familiar face at the end of a dark corridor on his left. “Shax!”
Shax slowly turned around. She was grinning, as if she were expecting him. He began walking towards her, but a demon came to stand in his way. “Move, please,” Aziraphale said calmly.
“Or what?” the demon grunted.
“You don’t want to know, believe me.”
“Prissy little angel, what are you going to do to me, uh?”
Aziraphale closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. When he opened his eyes again, they were glowing purple. He took the demon by the throat and threw him out of his way. “This.” The demon landed on the opposite wall, wailing and sizzling from the angelic touch.
Aziraphale straightened his bow tie and looked around. “Any more takers? I must warn you, it is not the day to enrage me!”
The dozens of demons that had begun to crowd Aziraphale instantly stepped backwards, giving him full access to Hell’s representative, who was apparently waiting for him, enjoying the show. He never thought he’d had it in him. He wasn’t violent. He wasn’t mean. He always avoided fighting when it wasn’t necessary. The only time he would have been prepared to fight was when humanity was in danger. But this time, he would have fought anyone that got in his way; heaven, hell, or even humans. This time, it was personal.
“I knew you’d come.”
“I demand to speak to your boss this instant.”
“Oh, he’s waiting for you, too. Your lot warned us.” She extended a hand, and before Aziraphale could avoid it, she grabbed him by the arm. In the blink of an eye, they were standing in a completely different room. This one looked exactly like the entrance, except it was empty, save for a massive black desk and a throne.
“Wait here.” She disappeared as quickly as they’d both appeared.
Aziraphale studied the room. There was no door. No escape possible. He started to doubt his decision. Was it wise? He walked around, looking for an exit strategy. He’d never seen Lucifer again after his fall. It’d been so long. On the ceiling, the lamps were lazily swaying from the thousands of demons stomping above. Of course, Lucifer’s “office” was on a lower level. A voice brought him out of his thoughts.
“Aziraphale, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Aziraphale turned around. A man was sitting, well, sprawled would be a more accurate term, on the throne. He looked so… human. He was tall, thin, and wearing a black suit. His demeanour reminded Aziraphale of someone else, with the nonchalant swagger and the unmistakable smirk.
“Lucifer. I think you know why I’m here.”
“It’s Satan. Lucifer doesn’t exist anymore. Hasn’t for a long time, now.”
Aziraphale huffed and deliberately ignored Satan’s answer. “Where is he?”
“Straight to the point, eh? Well, it’s not your problem anymore, is it?” Satan followed Aziraphale with his eyes as he came closer.
“Where. Is. He?” Aziraphale clenched his fists. He felt blinded by a rage he’d never experienced before.
Satan chuckled. “He’s on earth. He’s leading a… somewhat human life, now. Well, for all he knows, at least. He’s a dormant agent.”
“A what?”
“He’s dormant. He’s nothing but an expendable foot soldier now. In case your side wants to start a war again.”
“Ex…expendable?”
“Yup. He’s damaged anyway. He’s been up there for too long. He’s gone native. And it’s your fault.”
Aziraphale winced. Deep down, Satan was probably right. “Let. Him. Free.”
“Or what?” Satan smirked.
“I swear to g… I swear, if you don’t let me get him back, I’ll wreak havoc on your little haven!”
“How would that do any good? Even if I tell you where he is… he won’t remember you. I told you he’s dormant. He doesn’t even remember he was a demon.”
Aziraphale stopped pacing. He hadn’t considered the possibility of Crowley not remembering him. Six thousand years couldn’t certainly be erased like that? Could they?
“Let me try.” His voice was less assured than he’d wanted. He was almost pleading. He was here, now. He had to try something. This was unfair. Crowley didn’t deserve this. He wasn’t a soldier. Aziraphale was pretty sure he’d never killed anyone or anything in those six thousand years. A foot soldier, with no memory. Aziraphale’s chest tightened at the thought.
“Fine. I’ll let you try. But…What’s in it for me? If you fail, I mean.”
Aziraphale blinked. ‘Think, Aziraphale, fast.’ “Me.”
“You? What would I do with you?”
“Whatever you wish. If I fail, I’ll surrender. A supreme archangel, think about it. Leverage,” Aziraphale blurted.
Satan grinned and pretended to think about the proposition. But the look on his face was unmistakable. “Alright, supreme archangel. But let’s spice it up, okay?”
“What? No! What do you mean?”
“Well, I might lose a soldier today, so let me get something out of it. A few rules.”
Aziraphale nodded, uncertain. “I’d do anything.”
Satan pouted. “Aw, how sweet,” he said while pretending to put a finger in his throat and puke. “First, I give you until midnight. Second, no miracles. Finally, no touching.”
“I… I don’t understand.”
“Come on, supreme archangel. It’s simple. If at midnight he doesn’t remember you, you’ve failed. You’re ours. You can’t use miracles on him. Too easy. If you use a miracle, you fail. And … my personal favourite… you can’t touch him. You must get him to touch you first. If you do it first, you fail.”
“Why… why the touching?”
“Call me sentimental. I’ve always known there was something …” He gestured vaguely, “…like that, going on between you two. If you want him, work for it. To be honest, I really don’t care. I just need a little distraction. It’s been quite tedious around here lately.”
“Whatever. Get me to him, now.”
“Is that a yes? Do we have a deal? You know how it is. Bureaucracy and such like.” Satan extended a hand.
Aziraphale’s breath hitched. It was not the time to have second thoughts. Remember who you’re doing this for. They shook hands, and Satan arched his eyebrows. “Brace yourself, supreme archangel.” He snapped his fingers.
The world around Aziraphale began to spin. Time seemed to slow. As he tried to steady himself, he felt pushed and pulled in every direction at the same time. What had he done? He was going to discorporate, for good this time. He shut his eyes tight, struggling against disorientation and dizziness. And, just as it had appeared, it stopped.
His eyes were still shut, but he could sense that he wasn’t at the same place anymore. He felt a cold breeze brushing against his burning cheeks. The muffled sounds of demons above seemed to come from all around him now. But what had sounded like background noise was slowly becoming clearer and interspersed with … traffic sounds? He opened his eyes, panting. He was in the middle of Trafalgar Square.
The familiar sound of Big Ben tolling echoed through him. Aziraphale shivered and looked at his watch. Six o’clock. He had six hours. Where to start? He turned around to face the National Gallery but was instantly overwhelmed by a splitting headache. He turned back to avoid the puzzled looks of some passers-by. No headache. Gone. As quickly as it had appeared.
“What is happening?” Aziraphale whined. He needed to sit down. He began to walk towards the fountain, but the headache reappeared. He winced and staggered. The pain was almost unbearable. He was practically unable to move forward. Each step was excruciating. He turned back around, he needed a temporary retreat. People were starting to look at him. Again, the headache stopped. Aziraphale took a careful step, still unsteady. Still nothing.
The urgency of the situation forced itself back into Aziraphale’s mind. He couldn’t lose more time. He had to find him. He had no choice. He continued in the only pain-free direction, straight ahead. He crossed the road and hesitated. Left or right? Only one way to find out. It seemed that left was not the right direction, judging by the pain that had come back. But apparently, nor was right. Aziraphale choked back a sob. This couldn’t be. He had already lost ten minutes. He bent forward, hands on his thighs, breathing deeply, but was quickly interrupted by a group of people exiting the pub in front of him. The pub? In front of him? He looked up. The Gilded Coil. It couldn’t be that simple. It couldn’t be that obvious.
Aziraphale took a step towards the pub’s doors. Still no headache. He reached for the handle with a shaky hand and entered. It was a traditional London pub, with wooden floors and exposed beams. There were booths against the frosted glass windows and tables scattered in the centre of the room. The ceiling lights shone bright, adding to the vibrant atmosphere of the place, quite busy at this hour. The imposing bar dominated the left side of the pub, with dozens of different liquor bottles against the wall and what seemed like twenty different taps of beer. Aziraphale looked around, at the tables, at the booths. Nothing. His gaze wandered around the bar. He gasped.
There, behind the bar, a familiar dark, red-haired silhouette. Crowley! He was bending over the bar, apparently chatting with a customer. He was wearing his customary black blazer, but the sleeves were rolled up. He seemed so… relaxed. Crowley laughed heartily while brushing an unruly strand of hair away from his eyes with his fingers, and Aziraphale’s heart sank.
He wiped the tears forming at the corners of his eyes and walked towards the bar.