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There’s something he’s forgetting.
It tickles the back of Aziraphale’s mind, like he’s inhaled a feather — a problem he hasn’t had to deal with in many millennia. It’s familiar, too, when he mentally prods at it, but it doesn’t carry any other information. There’s nothing but the sense that there’s something important that he’s forgotten about, and that something should be familiar to him.
Helpful, he thinks sardonically.
He can’t dwell on it for too long, though. As the new Supreme Archangel, he’s just so busy that there isn’t time for anything except work on The Plan. A different Plan, mind you — this one is neither Great nor Ineffable. It simply is.
Or at least that’s what the Metatron had said.
Aziraphale can’t dwell on that for too long, either. Michael, Uriel, and Saraqael were very pleased to learn that he had been promoted, and as such, they’ve been assigning him all sorts of interesting work. Omniscience is one thing, but actual experience on Earth is simply irreplaceable, you see. So, as Heaven prepares for the Second Coming, he’s been given reports to write and maps to annotate and human prophecies to decode and celestial calendars to modify and meeting notes — so many meeting notes — to look over.
Heaven is very fond of meetings. He had forgotten that.
What else is he forgetting?
It tickles the back of his skull, like he’s inhaled a feather. Privately — as privately as anything can be in Heaven, that is — it worries him. He’s been given the power of a first-order archangel, second only to the Metatron, who is second only to God. For his mind to have forgotten something is just not something that should be possible. He’s an angel, for Heaven’s sake. Isn’t he meant to be perfect?
He is, of course. The Metatron had said he was the angel for the job. Which is why they’re keeping him so busy, and why he can’t afford to waste time wondering about the strange feeling floating in the space behind his nose. He has things to do! He’s got to sit back down and get back to work.
Metaphorically, of course. Heaven is the sort of workplace where they only have standing desks.
He turns his attention back to his inbox, which has grown an inch taller in the time that his mind has been wandering. Ah, paperwork. He should tell—
It tickles the back of his throat, like he’s inhaled a feather.
Paperwork.
There’s someone who would appreciate the joke.
Can’t be an angel. Angels don’t understand humor.
He can hear his own voice, laughing nervously: “no paperwork, for a start.”
Who was I with?
He sneezes.
The sound echoes through the empty Heavenly halls. As he draws his elbow away from his face, he fervently hopes no one heard; sneezing is such a human action that he suspects these parts of Heaven have never encountered such a thing before. And if he knows anything, it’s that Heaven does not like things with which it is not familiar.
The tickle has moved frustratingly to the tip of his nose. He scratches it mindlessly—
And like the worst magic trick in the world, he removes a feather from his nose.
Now that is unusual.
The feather is smooth and glossy, perhaps four inches long, with deep black vanes and an iridescence that he can’t look away from. Holding it in his hand, he knows immediately that this feather belongs to no Earthly animal. The structure — it could be one of his own, if it wasn’t for the color. Aziraphale is no fool. This must be a demon feather. Pretty as it is, he’s going to have to file a report.
More paperwork.
Paperwork. Bad magic trick. Black feather.
Jet black feathers paperwork magic trick black feathers paperwork bombing magic show paperwork showgirls demon paperwork magic shop with Crowley paperwork bullet catch Crowley paperwork Crowley paperwork Crowley Crowley Crowley
“Crowley!” he shouts. It vibrates through the air, bouncing off the nonexistent walls, echoing back at him until all he can hear is his own voice calling Crowley’s name.
He’s forgotten Crowley.
How?
The coffee. It must have been the Metatron and his coffee. Aziraphale had no reason to accept it — he doesn’t even like coffee, for Heaven’s sake. But there had been that something telling him to accept it, so he had, and now he’s here, behind this damnable desk, being buried in meaningless paperwork all while the only thing that really matters is languishing on Earth, alone, probably (understandably) convinced that Aziraphale hates him, and it’s all Aziraphale’s own bloody fault.
Anger bubbles acidic in the pit of his stomach as he touches his lips. Once again, Heaven has ruined something for him. They almost—
He could have had—
He has an apology to make, and this time, he might even do the dance. But first, he has to get out of Heaven. If he was still Aziraphale the Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate, this would be much harder said than done, but now — by Heaven’s own doing — he is Aziraphale, first-order Archangel, answering to no one but God and the Metatron. If the other archangels have something to say, they’ll have him and his holy angelic fury to contend with.
Stop me, he thinks. Then, perhaps a little unangelically, I‘d like to see you try.
And he walks away from his idiotic standing desk without even thinking about looking back.