The Interlude-Chapter 3 (Good Omens Fanfic)

“Get it off your chest, get it off my desk!”

Aziraphale was fairly certain the bebop woman had never been faced with the deluge of a heavenly suggestion box, but the lyric was rather apt for this moment. The funny thing about giving angels a suggestion box is that they’re not, on the whole, a creative bunch. Most of them were repeats or changes he had already implemented that the suggester had apparently not noticed. Like this one requesting to use different shades of white in their uniform. He’d already put out a proclamation that any color other than black or dark grey was acceptable, including a helpful chart of how dark a grey was unacceptable. He wrote out a gentle reminder of this rule change-after all, the poor dear had probably been threatened out of wearing even a slightly ivory uniform for millennia.

Now that that was done, he settled into his armchair with some tea and manna to read a good book. His office and living quarters had initially been the sterile white of everything up here, but changing that was the first item on his agenda after the Glorious Ascension. He had explained to the Metatron and the Archangels that many righteous souls wouldn’t love the stark minimalist look, so if this Kingdom was meant to be for them, there ought to be some variety. He had agreed to keep the hallways clean and some office space for the Archangels, but there were now rooms for any sort of environment one might want…open desert, bustling city, Caribbean beach. Some contained various human houses, from simple ancient tents to Victorian mansions to modern flats. He’d also attempted to get the cafeteria to try some new recipes, but manna was really the only thing they could get right, sadly.

He found that he had been staring at the same page for the last five minutes, so he gave up and reclined the chair so he could see the ceiling, a projection of Crowley’s nebula. The bebop woman’s voice came back into focus.

Looked up and the sky and it was…the burgundy on my T-shirt when you splashed your wine into me and how the blood rushed into my cheeks so scarlet it was…

Scarlet, like the hair he had always wanted to run his fingers through, but couldn’t. Except he could have, after the apocalypse that wasn’t. After they held hands on the bus back from Tadfield, he’d carefully tested the waters-a brush of the shoulder here, a feigned stumble so the demon could help him rebalance there. No resistance, but also minimal reciprocation. Oh, if he could have gone just a tad faster, maybe a peck on the cheek before borrowing “our car” or a nice shoulder massage after a long day of doing whatever a retired demon does, he could have made it clear that he did desire a physical relationship and their first kiss would have been in private and after asking first. He had always assumed Crowley would take the lead on that, being a demon and all.

“You move too fast for me, Crowley.” His own words from over fifty years ago suddenly came to the forefront of his mind. How could he be so stupid? Of course the demon would retreat after that whole mess. Aziraphale thought it obvious that the rules had changed after Heaven and Hell agreed to leave them alone. In his mind, the giant “DO NOT TOUCH (or dance with, or hug, or kiss, or marry, or have carnal relations with)” sign around the most attractive being in the universe had finally shut off, but said attractive being had assumed it was still on because the angel had never told him otherwise.

While writing the letter, he realized he’d done that so often, expecting Crowley to do all of the pursuing, to always come back, to take the lead on things without discussion. It was as if Crowley had given him everything, and the most he gave back was just existing and smiling and saying “thank you”, but far less often than he ought to.

“Half moon eyes, bad surprise, did you realize, out of time…”

Well, yes, he did now. “Nothing lasts forever”, as he’d said on the day of his Glorious Ascension. How had he thought they’d have more time? Also, how did the bebop woman do that mind-reading thing? He hadn’t understood her appeal at first, but then she sent some exclusive signed vinyls to Maggie’s record shop-the “London Boy” (Soho drinking in the afternoon edition). Maggie made enough to pay all the rent she owed in a single day, but then she disappeared. Nina had tried reaching out, but no response. Sad. Anyway, he felt he ought to give this Swift woman a chance after that. Muriel miracled up some versions with a more classical background arrangement, much more palatable to Aziraphale’s ears. Now it felt like the singer was taunting him, saying all the things he and Crowley might have said, but didn’t.

“Break up, break free, break through, break down…you would break your back to make me break a smile...”

Crowley would break his back for Aziraphale in a heartbeat. Granted, he could also heal himself instantly, but that was beside the point. Did Crowley have that same faith in him? The way things had always flowed in their relationship, Crowley had done most of the sacrificing, and Aziraphale had let him leave with the false assumption that he needed to give even more, change his very nature and become an angel, in order to have that love returned to him.

At that moment, an alarm bell rang in Heaven. Code Black, Muriel’s voice rang out. That meant one thing. Crowley was back in the shop. Of course, he could have sensed that without an alarm, but he had chosen to leave Crowley alone until he returned of his own accord. As long as he was on Earth and not in imminent danger, it was none of his business. Except now it was.

He checked the moon phase calendar-first quarter. He could have Muriel try to summon him outside the full moon, but that wasn’t always the most accurate. The last attempt, his body had gone to England, but his mind ended up on American television. In the head of a televangelist who had some…curious ideas about the End Times. No, best to wait it out until at least the waxing gibbous. He hated to keep his beloved waiting when he’d already waited for 6,000 years, but Muriel and the Letter would help smooth things out in the meantime, he was sure.

The Letter detailed several of his ruminations about time, and how much they might or might not have, and how all of that applied to what he would like to do going forward, if Crowley wanted to stay after all that had happened. He chose to write it down because, despite the fact that he had read the majority of all human stories that had ever existed, he didn’t believe he’d find the right words at the right time. The letter also had the added advantage of being static. The demon could get all tetchy about one word he misread, then come back and reread for proper comprehension without them having to talk in circles. And if the whole thing was too long or too much for one sitting, that was quite alright-it would be there when he was ready again.

Also, as much as his corporation would like to simply embrace Crowley and redo that kiss one or two or ten thousand times without saying much of anything at all, there had to be rules. Partially because he was an Archangel now and making rules is just what Archangels do, but also for his dear demon’s sake. For one thing, he didn’t want Crowley to feel backed into a corner like he had felt that dreadful day. Also, based on his first few Descents where he had been stomping around and yelling like a giant unintentionally, his Archangel form was much more powerful physically as well as metaphysically. He’d gotten a grip on walking, talking, eating, and drinking, but hugging and kissing might be another matter altogether. A simple peck could literally smother his demon, so he’d have to be absurdly gentle at first. Hopefully not too long. However fast they ended up going, he wanted the speed limit agreed upon together.

“What if I told you none of it was accidental and the first night that you saw me I knew I wanted your body…I laid the groundwork and then just like clockwork the dominoes cascaded in a line…what if I told you I’m a mastermind…”

Aziraphale was not, historically, much of a mastermind, and a great deal of his encounters with Crowley had indeed been accidental, but this time, he’d thought of everything. Well almost everything. The “too fast” conversation was a terrible oversight, but perhaps that was a conversation better held in person. The point was, he was the Supreme Archangel now, and nothing was going to stop him.

Well, two entities could stop him, but one had been mostly silent for millennia and the other had promised to check up in seven years (which was now two years) to make sure all was going according to The Ineffable Plan, but hadn’t actually outlined The Ineffable Plan. So he’d built his own plan, which could, he reasoned, very well be part of The Ineffable Plan, and with Crowley’s return, the dominoes were starting to fall. 

(A/N: Taylor Swift songs quoted, in order, "Lavender Haze", "Maroon, "...Question?", "Labyrinth", and "Mastermind". While she has written more fitting songs for our favorite Ineffable Idiots, Aziraphale has no clue what a "shuffle button" is and wouldn't use it if he did.)