Chapter Text
Far, far later, Aziraphale will think back to this moment and finally allow himself to be angry. Plasma-hot, incandescently--and, to Crowley, bafflingly--furious.
The Metatron, on the other hand, will reach that level of fury much, much sooner. He's not used to losing, you see, and to absolutely no one's surprise, he'll turn out to be a terribly sore sport about it.
He's so unused to the idea of losing, in fact, that he won't recognise it in the moment. If he had, if he'd cut his losses, things would have turned out differently. There probably wouldn't be an Earth anymore, for one. So, as annoying as "can't even fathom being outplayed" levels of arrogance are, it really is for the best that when Aziraphale firms his jaw on the patio of that little French café, the Metatron doesn't fully appreciate it as the harbinger it is.
"I don't think he'd care for that," Aziraphale says, faux-morose. He knows a threat when he hears one, knows a divide and conquer tactic when he sees one. The Metatron must know full well that Crowley would never accept being an angel again.
The Metatron feigns mild bewilderment. “You don't think he'd care to return home? He’d be in the Light again. Restored. Perfect.” As good as dealt with.
"The thing is...," Aziraphale starts, fiddling with his coffee cup. A fussy, disgustingly human habit, the Metatron thinks. "The thing is, as you must have seen, Crowley has been of perfectly splendid help as he, well, is. I don't see why that should need to change."
Arrogant as he may be, even the Metatron would admit in that moment that, if nothing else, Aziraphale certainly has some balls to say something like that to him.
After a pointed pause, the Metatron says, in a perfect, practiced balance of incredulity with a hint of chastisement, the sort that can make children--or in his case, angels--shamefaced for so much as having had the whisper of a thought of disobedience: "Surely you're not suggesting we allow a demon, the Enemy, access to Heavenly projects."
“A retired, former demon," Aziraphale counters. As if the Metatron could give a single, solitary fuck.
“Restoring a demon is one thing. Allowing one to run amok in the Celestial Spheres is quite another."
And here: the firming of the jaw.
“You said you want someone who won’t just tell you what you want to hear. I can’t think of a better person for that.”
The Metatron grits his teeth. The absolute gall of this soft, pathetic, barely-an-angel. He knew, of course, that Aziraphale is a traitor. But he would never have imagined him to suggest that the Metatron, the Voice of God Herself, should care what a literally God-forsaken demon has to say. If Aziraphale hadn't been asked for by Name, the Metatron would be all too happy to deliver a well overdue smiting to the rabble-rousing pair of them. Traditional methods of execution may not work on them, but the Metatron can be quite creative when properly motivated.
But he has his Orders, and Heaven is the Metatron's domain. Let the demon come. He'll be no more than a nuisance.
“I can see this is non-negotiable for you.”
The Metatron pauses to allow Aziraphale the opportunity to remember his place and to whom he owes his allegiance.
However, Aziraphale is crystal clear on that front. He has exactly one card to play here: for some ineffable reason, the Metatron needs Aziraphale in Heaven. If there's anything worth pushing that edge to its precarious limits, it's Crowley. Crowley will hate Heaven, and Heaven will hate him right back, but that's not so very different from how it will be for Aziraphale, is it? If there's one thing Aziraphale is rock solid on, it's that they're always best together.
“This goes beyond irregular, you understand. Possibly blasphemous. I may not be able to protect you if it goes awry.”
Aziraphale, who has not for a second been under the illusion that the Metatron has any interest in protecting him, says nothing.
The Metatron affects a put-upon sigh, devoid of course of his new determination to see to Aziraphale's demise at the end of all this nonsense. Crowley first, though, so Aziraphale has to watch.
“Very well.”
And the Metatron--vainglorious and condescending as ever--thinks this is merely a means to an end, not a capitulation, not a defeat. And certainly not the first step to his defeat.
As humans say, ignorance is feeling mildly inconvenienced.
Everything that had been warm and aflutter in Crowley drops and shatters like ice.
“He said what?”
Aziraphale fusses with his hands, remorseful but determined. He has to tell Crowley this part for the compromise to have any chance of appeal.
“He said I could appoint you to be an angel.”
Crowley could have sworn his corporation used to have a stomach. He's going to need it in a minute to drink himself blind.
“Right. And you told him just where he could stick it, then?”
Something complicated—maybe a few somethings—flicker across the angel’s face before settling on an uneasy smile.
“Er, not quite. He’s the Metatron, after all, and talk about being smited—”
Crowley cuts him off before he can get settled into a good ramble. He doesn't miss the change of grammatical heart, though, and a whisper of warmth returns.
“What did you say, then? ‘No’? Tell me you said ‘no'.”
The staunch plea in Crowley's tone could break Aziraphale's heart. He'd give almost anything to get them out of this. But this isn't about just them, so he tugs his waistcoat into place and meets Crowley's eyes.
“I…negotiated.”
Ohh, Crowley does not like the sound of that.
“Negotiated,” he prompts flatly.
“He’s agreed to allow you to work with me as you are. No angel status necessary.”
‘Day can’t get any weirder,’ Crowley had said. Classic tempting of fate, that. May as well have counted himself lucky it wasn’t raining for all that he'd practically begged for a bleeding hurricane.
“Why on earth would I— Why would you—” Crowley huffs in frustration and shifts his weight to reorient. Maybe it'll make more sense an inch to the left. “Look, Hell asked me back, and I said no. I’m not joining their team and I’m certainly not going to join bloody Heaven’s, and neither should you!”
“But—”
“When Heaven ends life here on Earth, it’ll be just as dead as if Hell ended it,” Crowley presses.
“Yes, exactly!” Aziraphale cries with a touch of desperation.
“Exactly! Good!” Crowley pauses. They're doing that thing again, aren't they. “What does your ‘exactly’ mean, exactly?”
“We’ve always known Adam only delayed things. You said so yourself. If Hell’s too understaffed to track down Beelzebub and only sent a small crowd to hunt down an archangel, then maybe we don’t have to worry about them just yet. Heaven, though. Heaven will try to destroy this place--our home, Crowley--and everything and everyone on it unless they’re stopped again. You saw how quick they were to try to kill Nina and Maggie just for being in the same room.”
Crowley hasn't taken his eyes off Aziraphale, so he's well prepared when the angel crosses into his personal space, such as it is. He is not prepared to suddenly find one of his hands cradled in both of the angel's. Although, to be fair, even if Aziraphale had outright said, "I'm going to hold your hand," in warning, Crowley would likely still have bluescreened at the soft, warm reality. The jumble of consonants Crowley had been barely keeping back spill out anyways the moment he catches Aziraphale's downright beseeching gaze.
"If I'm in charge with any authority to speak of at all--and if you help me, Crowley--maybe we could make a difference? We have to try again, don't we? If we are not for ourselves, who will be for us? If we are only for ourselves, what are we?"
Crowley can't think with Aziraphale practically glowing at him with earnestness. Closing his eyes helps a bit, but there's still the matter of Aziraphale's hands on his. Not that Crowley's about to pull away. He'd probably hiss at the mere suggestion.
And--eugh--Crowley wishes with every iota of his existence that Aziraphale didn't have at least half a point. But Heaven is gung-ho enough to have Super Fired Gabe, so what kind of snowball's chance do he and Aziraphale--kind, soft, fierce, but only a bit of a bastard Aziraphale--stand? There's no one else this time, though, is there?
Fuck, fuck, bloody quadruple fuck his life.
"Crowley." Aziraphale couples the soft call with an even softer squeeze of Crowley's hand.
Crowley tilts his head back and groans. He's going to die on this kamikaze mission. It'll finally do what eons of risky decisions and loathsome coworkers didn't quite manage. He's going to die, and then he's going to find a way back just to tell Aziraphale off for getting him killed.
"If I'm going to agree to THE worst plan I've ever heard--which is saying something when you've worked for Hell for millenia--I am not doing it sober."
When he opens his eyes again, it's to find Aziraphale beaming at him. Ah, there's his stomach, nice of it to return, although he could have done without the embarrassing flip.
Aziraphale sublimates his urge to do something entirely foolish and dreadfully forward into simply bringing Crowley's hand closer, just over where Aziraphale's heart would be if he were human. Crowley blinks down at their hands like he doesn't understand what he's seeing. Looking up doesn't seem to help much.
The bit-lip smile Aziraphale is giving him is resurrecting that nervous, fluttery warmth with a vengeance. Crowley takes it back; stomachs are definitely overrated.
“I had Things to Say, too, y'know,” Crowley grouses with a half-hearted glare.
"Say them," Aziraphale invites.
“And if we're doing this, I have demands--"
"Tell me," Aziraphale entreats.
"And you, dear angel," Crowley seamlessly continues past the interruption because if he pays that tone of voice any attention at all he may never finish a sentence again, "are going to listen to each and every one of them. No more derailing or, I don't know, tangents. Things. Do you accept these terms?"
The soft sincerity with which Aziraphale effuses, "Anything you want," could make the stiffest upper lips tremble.
Blushing, Crowley decides, is also overrated. Aziraphale of course finds it--and the wordless sputtering--absolutely, hopelessly charming.
“Great,” Crowley finally manages to croak out. He clears his throat and angles towards the backrooms before he can embarrass himself further. “First order of business, then: what've you got that will get us smashed the fastest?”
A few minutes into Muriel blathering on, the Metatron is starting to wonder if his especially thin patience is due to his corporation. Odious, distracting things, bodies. He can feel the breeze, the heat of the pavement, the hard seat under him. Why other angels are fond of this place continues to baffle him.
Once he'd explained Muriel's assignment as new occupant of the London Outpost, the conversation had quickly devolved into exactly the kind of enthusiasm about Earth that makes him itch in anticipation of finally being rid of this overcrowded rock.
Shortly after the half-hour mark, the Metatron makes his excuses and takes to pacing the pavement outside the bookstore. He doesn't like how long this is taking.The demon should have jumped at the opportunity or there should have been a falling out. Neither of those should take so long.
Neither of them are visible through the shop windows anymore and his displeasure at still being on the noisy, rotting planet steadily climbs as he makes his circuits around the front of the shop. Eventually he takes up a post a few feet from the more advantageous window and begins thinking up contingency plans for whatever spanners the pair are sure to try and fling into the Plans.
And there he stands for just over an hour.
The instant the demon at long fucking last emerges, the Metatron is in motion. He beckons for Muriel and catches the shop door before it can close.
The faint glow radiating from Aziraphale as he shuffles through papers at his desk is 1: unexpected and 2: faintly nauseating.
There's something...different in the air. Or more. Like the metaphysical equivalent of someone having sprayed an over-generous amount of obnoxious air freshener when the first lot had barely settled, let alone faded. It promises to give his corporation a headache.
“So? How did he take it?”
Aziraphale doesn’t startle, just shoots a rosy, distracted smile over his shoulder.
“Quite well, I’d say, considering. He’s just gone to fetch his plants and see to the car.”
“He's agreed to come work for Heaven?” How unfortunate.
“He's agreed to come work with me,” Aziraphale affirms distractedly.
The change in phrasing does not escape the Metatron’s notice.
“Bit surprising, I must say. He’d always wanted to go his own way, asking all those damn fool questions the whole time. I trust you’ll have the courtesy to keep him on a tight leash.”
“I need to contact someone to look after the shop, then we’ll be ready to go so long as Crowley's settled everything,” Aziraphale says as if the Metatron hadn’t spoken. He's well-versed in passive aggression and he knows when it's best not to indulge it. The Metatron is rarely aware of his wings, but right now they itch with the urge to just smite and be done with it.
“No need. I’ve entrusted it to Muriel. Best to leave it to one of our own.”
Speaking of, where is that dimwit--
The door flies open to reveal the demon half-hidden by greenery, Muriel on his heels with a box as well. Less than a week stationed among the rabble and they're already letting a demon sidetrack them from their actual, angelic duties. Disgraceful.
The Metatron does his best impression of relaxed amiability, pretending to browse the bookshelves while actually keeping an eye on the three as Aziraphale and Crowley take turns inundating poor Muriel with instructions the scrivener is bound to forget the bulk of within a day or two. Luckily, Aziraphale has written a list and Crowley slips it in their pocket where the Metatron can't see.
As soon as Muriel is able to get more than two sentences out uninterrupted, the Metatron makes his way over.
“All sorted and ready to go, then?”
The Metatron ignores the demon’s stony glare in favor of answering Aziraphale’s nervous expression with a genial smile.
“Yes," Aziraphale breathes, "I do believe we are.”
Aziraphale sweeps his gaze across the store as if to memorise it, until it lands on Crowley. Even though not even an hour ago they agreed to be as "on the down-low" as possible, Aziraphale can't help that he melts a little.
The Metatron almost doesn’t catch the flicker of a smile on the demon’s face before the eye contact breaks. Almost doesn’t catch it, but he does, and his corporation goes cold and shaky with indignant revulsion when it clicks what the differentness is. Damn this assignment, damn Aziraphale for having been specifically Asked for, and fuck them both for not letting themselves be executed as they should have years ago.
It had almost been lost beneath the already undignified amount of love that suffused the bookshop, but these two are just like Gabriel and the former Duke of Hell. Possibly worse if for no other reason than at least those two had had the decency to piss off. Tolerating a barely-angel and demon being "friends" had been hard to fake, but the Metatron had been confident he could pull it off. But this. If they're going to be polluting his Heaven with the oppressive, cloying stench of multifaceted love like a pair of humans, he's going to need to be much less hands-on than he'd planned. He has limits to what he's willing to put up with.
This is a disaster—just like the prospect of Gabriel Falling. One angel-demon pair was a distasteful fluke. Two is a scourge. If he’d known about this, he would have worked even harder to lobby for a different angel to fill Gabriel's position. He would have made sure to “accidentally” put Aziraphale out of the running for good. He absolutely would have never agreed to let the demon in his realm without being able to control it like other angels.
For now, the Metatron is forced to watch Aziraphale complete his slow turn and tug on his near-threadbare waistcoat. What is it with him and Gabriel and clothing? Physical forms and clothing are so...redundant. So mortal. Maybe that's where the demon-loving corruption starts. The Metatron isn’t about to wait around to find out.
“Shall we go?” It's a point of professional pride that the Metatron's voice comes out solid and friendly.
Aziraphale turns another look at the demon, who shrugs.
"If not now, when?" Crowley agrees mildly.
Aziraphale gives him a small smile bolstered with fresh confidence. The Metatron experiences full-on nausea for the first time. He doesn't care for it.
The Metatron receives a determined expression and a sketched bow inviting him towards the door.
“After you.”