Blessing

The trace of the farewell kiss doesn’t burn the lips with demonic seals. But in it, Aziraphale somehow doesn’t feel love. Only a thousand years of anger, pain, and despair. They burst out and splash all over the little shop, now flooding it up to the roof. Books don’t sink. But Aziraphale is sinking — completely lost, a sailor not knowing how to set sails in the midst of a storm. Would the demon, who had done more good deeds than many angels, really give up the chance to fulfill his true purpose so easily, without caring about what Hell would think? “He never looked back,” the inner voice sneeringly reminds him. “Except maybe at you.” Yes, perhaps. Crowley always managed to slip away from the clutches of Hell, showing the bosses a forked tongue in farewell. But he had never done that to him before. Never left at the last moment, never left Aziraphale alone with mortal danger. And it’s not that he, Aziraphale, couldn’t stand up for himself if the angels dared to oppose the will of God (and he somehow doubted that those who wanted to challenge his purpose would be lacking). He couldn’t, simply didn’t have the right to refuse the chance offered by Metatron for redemption and to correct all the mess that Heaven had been making for the past centuries. But he desperately wanted to walk this path together with Crowley — just as they had walked thousands before. And even more desperately — to see again the bright-red curls crowned with a golden halo. They could be together — as Crowley wanted. They could do what they believed was right. And no one dare to punish them for it. Is it really better to run, to hide, to give up such common little wonders, fearing retribution? Yes, Gabriel and Beelzebub had enough courage or foolishness for that, but who knows if they’ll regret their decision in a couple of hundred years? Aziraphale would definitely regret it. But Gabriel and Beelzebub had no one but each other—at least, after they disregarded the rules of their “sides.” In addition to Crowley, Aziraphale had Earth, filled with people to whom he had long since become attached no less than to Crowley, and whom he could certainly help much more effectively as an Archangel. He wouldn’t allow wars and earthquakes. He wouldn’t allow unrequited love. He wouldn’t allow… A firm hand rests on his shoulder, and Aziraphale startles, returning to reality. In which, unfortunately, there are no more black glasses, red hair, and sarcastic smiles. Only Metatron’s slightly sympathetic gaze. “I knew it would be like this,” he says calmly. “But you would never forgive us if we didn’t give a chance to take him too. Now you know the truth. There’s nothing angelic left in this demon. Nothing that deserves forgiveness or salvation.” “He saved me dozens of times,” Aziraphale bitterly remarks. “And I couldn’t save him.” “Oh, Aziraphale, only God knows how many times you repaid him,” Metatron conspiratorially winks and smiles. “How many times you lied—to other angels and to Him—to save your friend. It’s not your fault that his selfish demonic nature just doesn’t want you to help us instead of spending your potential on drinking… I guess humans call it wine?” Aziraphale gazes thoughtfully out of the window. “Give me coffee or kill me,” mocks the sign. The irony is that Nina managed to do both to him. He would be supposed to be angry at the girls who dared to enter their lives and completely break everything that had been built for millennia if it weren’t the perfectly fair response from the Universe to their own actions. Karmic boomerangs never missed their target. “Before we leave… may I be allowed one small blessing?” Aziraphale asks, somewhat timidly. Metatron looks at him attentively, studying him—but finally nods in agreement. Aziraphale closes his eyes and envisions his cozy quarter. Blesses the scattered books on the floor, the coffee machine, the record player, the deck of cards with four jokers, and the silk sheets on which the lovely girls neatly sew torn outfits in the heat of passion. And also—carefully, so as not to hurt the demon behind the wheel—blesses the reliable Bentley. The car responds by winking its headlights, and Aziraphale takes it as a promise to be more careful even on the hardest turns. “Don’t you dare sell the books,” he gives his final instructions to Muriel, who has already comfortably settled in Crowley’s favorite chair with “Emma” in her hands. “And if he decides to drop by… make him a cup of cocoa from me, okay?” Muriel nods understandingly and assures him that not a single book will leave the store—at least until she reads them all. And she’ll try to figure out the cocoa too: it smells much more appetizing than green tea. And Aziraphale steps over the threshold, sadly thinking that he himself wouldn’t mind to get a blessing. But the only angel in the whole world who could put enough strength and sincerity into it is already rushing away from Soho, from London, from Britain. And that means it’s time for him to move forward—even if every step burns more than the flames of hell. He still has to deserve the easy path to Heaven.