Chapter Text
Quick Note: Thank you to everyone who read my last fic Telling Tall Tales. You've really inspired me <3 Anyway onto the next one:
“Jesus Christ!” Crowley shouts. His eyes open wider than wide, taking in the almost black hooded silhouette with the floating half a skull right in front of his face.
As his eyes adjust he starts to make out the movements of the skull set perfectly inside its hooded cloak. It’s standing directly above him draped in huge swathes of some sort of tattered black material. No eyes, no mouth. Crowley looks down, no feet. How is it standing? Swaying? Well, technically it’s floating. Crowley gulps and shakes his head. Is this someone's idea of a sick joke because, fucking hell, they’ve put some effort into it?
And Crowley’s nonsensical thoughts are suddenly bitten off when it speaks to him:
“Why do people always say ‘Jesus Christ’ to me? I look nothing like that lunatic” it replies in a haunting melodic old man's voice. Crowley scrabbles back in a panic, his heart beating like the clappers, but his fingers struggle to find purchase. He can’t feel the floor beneath him. All he feels is - nothing? Like cold air brushing through his fingertips. Like dry ice? but he can’t look now. Couldn’t possibly. Not with this talking skull thing in his face. Look away and it might do something weird, like those weeping angel things from Doctor Who. No, he needs to keep his eyes on it.
“Fuck” Crowley swallows “You talk? What is this? Am I dreaming? Did Eric put you up to this? Because if he did…” and then the thing pulls away from him slightly with a chuckle and Crowley chokes, taking in the full outline of it. This thing, being- skull thing is enormous and it’s stretching out a hand… wait no, a talon to him “Fuuuuuck”
Crowley feels the gentle force of it tugging at his insides and his stomach flips. It isn’t touching him but he feels it anyway. It’s reaching inside of him, pulling him forward. He squirms. It's taking him somewhere. He's being pulled, stomach first. And it isn’t an uncomfortable feeling. It’s like the swooping butterflies you get when you travel up in a lift, but it takes Crowley’s breath away all the same. He can’t do anything but look at it.
What is going on? Eric has really outdone himself this time if this is a prank. He feels his lip begin to tremble. The darkness suddenly becomes searingly white as he takes in the surroundings that brighten around him. He has no clue how Eric could have engineered a prank like this. Not just the costume of course but the whole overall feel of it.
For once in Crowley's life he can hear absolutely nothing but the thoughts in his own head. It's eerily quiet. No constant choir of London traffic that he's used to, blinking red brake lights and heavy smells of car fumes to choke him. He inhales sharply. Nothing. Is his mind playing tricks on him? Even this thing doesn't have a smell despite being in close proximity. He involuntarily drops his head into his hands and presses his fingertips to his temples. He's starting to get a headache and then when he remembers to keep his eyes on the thing and he snaps up quickly. Thank fuck nothing has happened. Then his attention immediately diverts to a glint reflecting off of some sort of metal. The thing is holding it close to him and he flinches away quickly “Fuck me, is that a sickle?”
“Of course it is. I'd be a pretty shit Angel of death without it, wouldn’t I?”
“W-what?” Crowley blinks rapidly “Death? Am I d-dead?”
“Clue's in the name, genius” Death cocks its head towards him.
Crowley is taken aback. He doesn’t know what in the holy-loving-mother-of-fuck is going on. He can't decide whether to panic or to ask - if this is the Angel of Death, like they say they are, then why are they being such a jackass? and why do they sound suspiciously like David Attenborough? All he manages through the tightness of his throat is a “Really?”
“Yep!”
“No that’s not true…” Crowley bargains.
“Yeah it is”
Crowley blinks a couple of times thinking he might be seeing things. Is he on something? Had Eric spiked his drink before they left the pub? Whatever it is, it’s powerful stuff. But closing his eyes does nothing “And y-you’re… you are…”
“The angel of death” they say in unison.
Crowley pinches himself hard, thinking it may well wake him up from this, well whatever this is. But once again it does absolutely nothing. Death tilts their head to watch him and makes an amused sound. They have no eyes, just the dark holes of a withered grey skull, no jaw and therefore no expression. It’s very unsettling. By all rights, Crowley should be shit-scared right now. This is either the best bleedin’ cosplay Crowley has ever seen or it's the actual Angel of Death, with a massive sodding sickle and they’re telling him he’s dead. So why isn’t he running for the hills? If he’s dead why isn’t he screaming, crying, throwing up? Not all in the required order.
“And you’re real? You're actually real?”
“Yeah and I’m here to help you”
“Help me?”
“Yeah I'm here to move you on to a better place”
“A better place?”
“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?” Death asks.
“Oh uh” Crowley stammers “Well excuse me for trying to take all of this in. Am I really dead? As in actually… dead?”
“Yes you are”
“H-how? What happened to me?”
“What do you think?” Death says.
“I dunno” and he genuinely doesn't. He remembers being in his Bentley. He remembers humming along to Queen - Fat bottomed girls and noticing the derriere of a nice looking cyclist. Then he remembers going to switch the tracks to Queen's - Bicycle Race and that's it. Then it all goes black. Crowley’s head spins with the enormity of it all.
And then they release their hold on Crowley and he gasps and looks around. They've come to a stop. He brushes himself down like it’s any old regular day. At least he still has a body, a warm body. Oh thank someone! He can feel it under the fabric of his suit. Still intact under his fingers too.
“Crowley you can't do 90 miles per hour in Central London and live to tell the tale…” Death drawls.
Shit . Crowley's heart feels like it’s sinking “W-what about…”
“Just you” Death interjects “No-one else got hurt, don’t panic. But yeah you’re dead as dodo”
“Well maybe I’m…”
“Nope” Death replies quickly.
“But what if I’m in a coma…”
“Noppppee. Not a chance. You’re dead, mate. There’s no way you could have ever recovered from that”
Crowley looks at the Angel of Death who shakes his head at him and the panic starts to set in “Quite funny actually…”
“W-WHAT?” Crowley splutters.
“Yeah” Death shrugs “You know, besides being dead an’ all. When I plucked you up from Earth to bring you here, I saw your arm. I bet all the police and medics on the scene, did too” Death laughs.
“Fuck” Crowley growls and rolls up his sleeve to check and yes it’s still there plain as day, written in permanent ink on his forearm. That bastard Hastur wrote it on him when Crowley got drunk and passed out round at his on Saturday night ‘begging for a pegging’
“Listen, my mates are dicks…”
“You’re mates are hilarious” Death observes his arm and breaks out into another laugh “I had someone die with a monocle drawn on them in sharpie before, a zigzag moustache an’ everything but never that…”
“Well I’m glad I can amuse you” Crowley quips.
“Yeah, too bad you’re stuck with it forever now”
“What???” Crowley shrieks and Death laughs themselves silly.
“Haha, mate you are too easy. Nah, listen, the angels will sort it out for you when I drop you off. They can fix you up”
“Fix me up?” Crowley feels his lip start to tremble again and wills himself to look down. He needs to see what happened to him in this so-called ‘car accident’ he must have had. He lays his palms flat on himself and glides them over his arms and legs with a vice-like intensity. He's anxious, checking himself for injury. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He feels fine really. 1, 2, 3, 4. He counts all his limbs and fingers, complete. He runs a hand through his hair, it feels okay, no different than normal and then he has a quick mild panic over his nether regions and reaches a hand down to his front. Oh what sweet relief. He’s fine. All intact down there.
“Hey pretty boy. Can you stop touching yourself up for a minute please? I'm talking to you”
“S-sorry” Crowley stammers “I'm just trying to take it all in… I'm definitely dead?”
“Yeah. Sorry kid. Life's a bitch”
Crowley feels a bubble of irritation emerge through his throat. He frowns and faces them “Excuse me but aren't you meant to be comforting me, mate? If I've literally just fucking died?”
“Not ‘if’ and yeah I know. I don't always sound like this. It changes depending on what my charge finds reassuring”
“And this is ‘reassuring’ is it?”
“Yep, because instead of thinking about how ‘mangled around a steering wheel’ your human body was 10 minutes ago…” Crowley winces and watches Death casually pick at the fingernails of his talons “you're now a lot more comfortable because I’m being sarcastic like this. It’s making the transition easier for you” the Angel of Death says with confidence.
“Is it?” Crowley raises an eyebrow “So you appear in different ways to different people do you?”
“Yeah”
“And you ‘acting like a dick’ is meant to comfort me?”
“Eyyy you got one right” Death shrugs and holds their hands up in defence “What? Not my fault you prefer me like this”
“Alright. Say I believe you? Say that this sarcastic David Attenborough impression is meant to reassure me… Why couldn't you do anything about your face?”
“What's wrong with my face?”
“You haven't got one” Crowley stares slack-jawed and raises an eyebrow “It's not reassuring is it? It's unnerving”
Then Death chuckles, finding the whole situation hilarious. Crowley stares at them, motionless. After a beat goes by, Crowley feels a smile start to tug at the corner of his lips. At the absurdity of it all.
“You’re funny” Death laughs and claps his talons together with glee “Wait till War and Pollution hear about this. You've been dead less than half an hour and you're already smiling and joking with me. I’m fucking great at my job, I am”
“Yeah well I hate to rain on your parade but can you tell me why you're here and where you're taking me?”
“Oh right yeah. You might want to put those glasses on, pretty boy. You're about to see white”
“Sounds like a pickup line…”
“Title of your sex tape” Death chuckles “No? Too early for Brooklyn 99 jokes? Anyway, Heaven is bright as balls. It's hard to get your eyes to adjust to all the blinding light at first”
“Heaven?”
“What do you think happened to my eyes?” Bad jokes already? The Angel of Death laughs sarcastically and punches him in his arm.
“Ow” Crowley cracks a smile and then squints as lights begin to flash before him “Wait, what? Am I really going to H-heaven?”
“Scared?” Death cocks their head and Crowley can hear the grin in their voice.
“W-well yeah. No. I d-don’t…”
“Weirded out?”
Crowley nods rapidly.
“Wanna hold my talon?”
“Oh fuck off” Crowley forces a grin and Death laughs back at him “But me? Heaven? Look at me, I’m not going to fit in in Heaven, am I?”
“That’s true” Death observes him “You look like Wednesday Adam’s butler”
“What?”
“What’s all this goth get-up all about anyway? Are you trying to look like that on purpose?”
“What do you mean I look like fucking Lurch? This is a proper look” He looks down at his crisp black suit jacket and tight jeans. The silver scarf-like chain dangling precariously between the dip of the low cut black henley he chose to wear under his jacket today.
“Lurch! Yeah that’s it! It's a proper something . You sort of look like that Edward Cullen guy with your hair like that. Wait, is that what you’re going for? Are you trying for a shiny vampire look?”
“I don’t know which insult is worse” Crowley scrubs a hand through his hair.
And then as if by magic Death steps out of his field of vision and Crowley can’t see anything but white expanse. He squints and covers his eyes with one arm “Wait, where are you going?” He feels his breathing quicken and the blood pump through his ears.
“I’m not going anywhere” Death croaks “Walk with me”
“On what?” Crowley’s eyes widen and he looks at the floor. There is no floor. He can’t feel the floor under his feet and he can’t see anything. All he sees is white. Pure white. Like those scenes in the movies where God (or Morgan Freeman) walks through the afterlife wearing a dazzling white suit. Death huffs at him.
He tentatively takes a step forward and is surprised to feel a little pressure under his feet, even though it looks like white smoke curling around his shiny black snakeskin shoes. He’s moving and he can walk on it. It's surprisingly stable. Oh, so there is a floor there.
“That’s it” Death claps “Good boy, keep going. One foot forward”
“Can you say that without making it sound like I’m a dog who just learned to fetch you the remote?”
“No. The two achievements are equally admirable. Though if pressed, I'd have to give a slight edge to the dog”
“Fuck you” Crowley snorts with laughter “Where am I going anyway? Which way? I can’t see anything”
“Your eyes will adjust soon, just keep walking”
“...and what?” Crowley throws his hands in the air, panic mode starting to set in as he feels the pressure on the balls of his feet. He’s walking normally, like you’d glide over a smooth marble floor, but he sees nothing, no directions, no way to go. Just white, pure brilliant white before him. Like a Dulux advert. And all of sudden he’s claustrophobic, which is odd because he’s never felt claustrophobia before and there are no walls, just expanse. Cold, characterless, white expanse.
“This is all too much” Crowley feels himself start to babble “I don’t belong here, I shouldn’t be here, this is Heaven? I don’t understand and I certainly never thought I’d qualify for…”
“Oi, Marilyn Manson, keep walking…”
“It makes no sense” Crowley continues “I still feel warm and alive. How can I be in Heaven? I thought I’d be going straight to…”
“And yet you’re here” Death stops him abruptly, holding a cloaked arm in front of him to make him look up. And he almost bumps into him. Why have they stopped? His mind swims with way too many revelations and then his eyes shift into focus as he finally looks ahead. And it takes Crowley’s breath away for a moment, to be presented with a pair of floating wrought iron white gates in the distance, or what Crowley assumes is distance. They're intertwined with foliage and pink roses in full bloom, wrapped tightly around the spokes of the gates like strangling vines. The gates themselves don't seem to be anchored to anything. No walls, no floor. Where have they even appeared from?
He removes his favourite steampunk sunglasses from his pocket and finally places them on his face before flexing his fingers into fists by his sides. This is it. This is actually Heaven and it's right in front of Crowley’s face. It isn't a prank, it can't be. It's way too elaborate. Too many fine details. He walks a little closer taking in the curved shape of the gates. Beautiful, plain beautiful. Exactly how artists have painted them for years but with more detail and intricacies. Incredible. And if it wasn't bright enough, the sun beams from behind the gates, cascade shadows in the white smoke of the floor before him. Crowley can finally get his bearings.
But so not for him. This is mad.
He feels like an intruder, seeing this for himself. He can feel a lump form in his throat. He shouldn't be in Heaven. And his mind scrabbles for something to say but he can’t think. “Of all the people in the world I never thought I’d see this?”
“You’re a good person, Crowley” Death interjects softly, standing a few paces behind him to his left.
Crowley startles at the admission, so out of character for his version of the Angel of Death. Is his subconscious trying to tell him something? He feels the tears prick at his eyes. Someone had finally called him a good person. Was he good? Crowley had never been told that before. He was always told he asked too many questions. ‘He hung out with the wrong people’. He questioned authority at every turn. He questioned politics. He questioned religion.
Crowley could never believe in one God. He could never accept one version over another and he believed in science, in proving things. He never denied God but he certainly avoided religion and his parents told him he was wrong for it and it became a source of friction between them as soon as Crowley voiced his opinions growing up. A lot of people told him he was wrong for it, for being so outspoken and unafraid. They told him he’d regret it all come judgement day. But now judgement day is here…
And though Crowley would never be unkind to his family in response to their ideologies, one day they’d tell him he’d go straight to Hell for being gay, which makes this even more - strange? To be stood here, looking at the actual gates of Heaven. If only they could see him now. If only they could all see him. This gay, lanky, red-headed goth. He went through his life taking care of the people around him, but let's face it - he wasn't the Dalai Lama or Florence Nightingale. He was kind of a nurse (not technically), he cared for people. But still, he’s mouthy and he swears way too much and definitely not a Christian. And now he’s being told he’s a good person? A good person. He lets that sink in for a moment. It doesn’t sound right “I was a good person?”
“Yeah you were very ki…”
“Shut up” Crowley croaks and smirks, uncomfortable with the praise. It's all too much. But really it’s all just overwhelmingly emotional to be faced with an afterlife. So Heaven is real? Actually real? The Angel of Death is real? That must mean God is real? And angels… and Hell? Blimey, Crowley rolls his shoulders and kicks his feet psyching himself up “And I should just…” Crowley looks back at Death and gestures forward.
“Yeah whenever you’re ready”
Crowley takes two steps forward, willing himself to stop trembling, but then he stops “Wait what happens when I go through these gates? What about the ‘me’ down there?”
“There is no ‘you’ down there anymore”
“What about what’s left of me and…?”
“Oh they’ll definitely have to cremate you”
“Not what I meant” Crowley’s brow furrows. He meant what would happen to the people he’d be leaving behind? The old folks he used to care for? His mates from the pub? All his exes “But go on. Why are they going to cremate me?”
“Well I could tell you or I could make a joke to make you feel better, because you won't like the answer”
Crowley gapes.
“If they cremate you it’ll be your last chance to have a smokin’ hot body” Death laughs.
“These jokes are terrible” Crowley croaks and walks forward. Maybe it's best he doesn't know. It’s feeling easy, walking forward with Death, the gates in front of him starting to get bigger. It shouldn’t be but it’s easy “Nah I’m not sure into that” Crowley replies.
“What do you mean?”
“Never was much of a smoker” Crowley shoves his hands in his pockets and smiles a side smile at Death.
“Eyyy” Death replies and smacks him in the shoulder. They chuckle “Good one”
“Hey, I can still feel pain you know” Crowley rubs at the offending spot on his arm.
“You urned it” Death laughs “Get it? ‘Urn’ed it?”
“Jesus” Crowley rolls his eyes.
“Smoking and non-smoking. Good terms for cremation and burial aren’t they?”
“Are you done?” Crowley laughs and sways into Death as he walks keeping his hands timidly in his pockets.
“You can’t walk in a straight line, can you?”
“Nope”
“Or drive in a straight line, evidently”
“Apparently not” Crowley feels a lump form in his throat. They keep walking and Crowley has no sense of distance. He makes out a couple of human shaped figures near the base of the big gates but who knows if they’re actually human. Who knows how big these gates should be. He blinks “Are we almost there?”
“Yeah not far”
“So let me get this straight. I - Anthony Crowley, I'm dead. And you. The Angel of Death are taking me - Anthony Crowley - to Heaven?”
“Wait a sec…” Death manifests a list right in front of Crowley's eyes making him jump. They lick their talon as if to sift through the paper “I have… Your name is Anthony Crowley? You mean to tell me you aren't Count Percival Wigglecock?”
“What the fuck?” Crowley gasps, almost falling over his feet.
“Relax Crowley, I have the right guy” Death chortles “Definitely you. Yes, I'm taking you to Heaven”
“Bastard” Crowley grits his teeth in amusement, his heart in his throat. He takes a few deep breaths to himself “I didn't plan to die this quickly”
“Nobody ever does” Death replies solemnly, matching Crowley's tone.
“There were things I wanted to…”
“I know” Death replies “But you made a difference, y-know?”
“I did?” Crowley raises his head towards Death, disbelievingly.
“Yeah ‘course you did. Your human life - however short it was - it was good. You had a huge impact on those around you”
“But I never… I mean I wanted... Oh I could have done so much more. SO MUCH MORE!”
“It doesn't matter, Crowley. Your small acts of kindness were enough”
“How?” Crowley asks incredulously.
“Remember Mrs Henderson in the home with dementia? Convinced she was the host of the Ladies of Camelot show in 1941? Everyone told her it wasn't real, even her family made her feel shit telling her she was batty…”
“Y-yeah I remember…”
“But you didn't. You sat with her and sang war songs. You even brought her a feather boa and a whiskey and you tried to organise a magic act for her show, didn't you?”
“Yeah I mean, it made her happy so why wouldn't I? There's no harm in it. But that wasn't an act of kindness, I did small things like that everyday”
“Exactly” Death raises a finger in the air.
“Exactly” Crowley agrees “What does your exactly mean? Because I feel like your ‘exactly’ and my ‘exactly’ are different exactly’s?”
“I'm helping you understand”
“I feel like I'm missing the point here. I still don't understand”
“I don't know how to say that ‘you're on your way to Heaven because you deserve it’ any clearer…” Death replies with a hint of irritation.
“Alright…” Crowley concedes. For now .
“How can you not believe that?” Death mumbles and then stalks ahead mimicking Crowley’s ‘alright’ “I’m trying to say this in an idiot-proof way but they keep sending me better idiots”
“Y-know you tell a lot a bad jokes” Crowley grins, catching them up.
“And you ask a lot of questions, Kelly Osbourne”
“Was that another joke?”
“Was that another question?”
Crowley and Death laugh together. They can't do anything but.
“Do I really look like Kelly Osbourne?” Death huffs and Crowley raises his hands in a placating gesture “Fine, no more questions”
And they walk together in silence.
“Are those ‘human’s’ up ahead?”
“Blimey”
“Sorry, I can't help it. So many weird things are happening today”
Death cocks their head and Crowley interprets it as sympathy “Not anymore, but yeah they were”
“Oh. Oh right yeah” Crowley swallows.
“And there’ll be an angel checking them in. I don't know who's on shift today. Hope it's not that twat”
“Right” Crowley stares nervously towards the white smokey floor and wills his legs to keep carrying him forward. He feels himself wobble, but his legs are still moving, surprisingly. He hasn’t buckled or fallen over once. Maybe a small part of him is feeling okay about this. Just keep walking forward Crowley. You can do it.
“Hey it’ll be fine” Death shrugs “I’ll walk you up to the gate but then I’m on my break”
“What?” Crowley’s brow furrows “The Angel of Death gets lunch breaks?”
“Lunch breaks? No, but I still get breaks” Death scoffs “This is the 2020’s y’know”
“Alright I just never thought…” But if Death could give him a sassy side eye, it’d be so evident right now “Well anyway” Crowley shrugs “So these are the pearly gates then?”
Crowley stops in his tracks and surveys the huge gorgeous gates towering above him now, hands on both hips trying to look confident, covering the trembling in his knees. A surprising sense of giddiness bubbles up in him despite how wrong it feels to be standing here. I mean, it’s Heaven for crying-out-loud. It feels wrong if he’s honest. It’s just so goddamn weird.
“What happens when I go in? I’m not sure I want to, if I’m honest”
“Ey? What’re you talking about, you’ll love it, it’s HEAVEN! It's paradise” Crowley looks towards the Angel of Death who then cracks a laugh “People are dying to get in there”
“Pun intended?”
“What pun?” Death cocks his head. Crowley giggles through the nervousness and he gets clapped on the back “Ahhh you’ll be fine, you belong here. The angels will look after you”
“Angels?”
“Yeah, over there” Death points to the smaller gate inset at the bottom of the big set of gates. Cute little rectangular thing. So they don’t open the big gates?
And then his breath catches as he sees the back of a blonde angel gesticulating wildly to some other beings walking through the gate. A dark-haired man with glasses maybe? Crowley can’t see him well. But woah! that's definitely an angel before him. This is the first non-human human-looking being he’s seen in his life. From the back you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart, apart from the massive drooping feathered wings elegantly trailing along the curling white smoke of the floor. Magical. He looks the angel up and down waiting for them to turn around, wishing he could see their face.
They look almost cherub-like, from behind. Exactly the personification of an angel. Long white robes, gold trim, a halo of platinum blonde short curls coiled on their head, delicately lit up by the glittering sunbeams surrounding them. Crowley gulps. Okay he’s definitely going to look out of place here. A black smudge walking around the heavenly halls? Nah, this isn’t for him.
But he’s curious. Oh so curious about this angel who’s still gesticulating wildly to whoever they’re talking to. And they’re speaking English. Well that’s good news. At least he’ll be able to understand them when they tell him there’s been some sort of mistake and he should rightfully be on his way to Hell.
“Should I leave you here?” Death asks as Crowley continues to step forward carefully, trying to hear this angel’s voice and what they’re saying without alerting them. They sound almost… British? Yes they’re British and definitely from a posh part of Britain where they speak the Queen’s English. Crowley smiles and clucks his tongue at Death. He’ll casually disregard how attractive and sultry he finds the angel’s voice. Which is weird considering their voice alone could pass for someone who's most definitely a Tory.
Even without the accent, even if this angel was Welsh or something he imagines he’d sound good. Not so much angelic, more a low musical voice with a hint of gravel to it that (if they were human) gives Crowley the impression of a nice flamboyant man who would be of a similar age to him. But this isn't a man, is it? It’s an angel.
Crowley wonders whether this is his subconscious imagination again? He’d already conjured a sarcastic cynical version of the Angel of Death, maybe his mind is tailoring the angels around here too. He no longer knows if this is a good thing.
“You alright there, Morticia?” Death asks after Crowley doesn’t speak for a few minutes. They huff impatiently.
“Y-yeah” Crowley snaps back to the moment at hand. At least the insults are getting somewhat better. Morticia, easily the most beautiful fictional character on Earth. Crowley will take that one “I’m just observing it all… it’s wild. These are the actual gates of Heaven” Crowley exhales.
“No they’re not” Death exclaims.
“What?”
“Well I mean they are. They’re the gates of Heaven but not THE Gates of Heaven. This is the overflow area”
“The the the what, the overflow area?” Crowley dithers. Slightly horrified.
“Yeah they’re pretty busy at the main gates today, so I brought you ‘round the side. This is the Eastern gate”
“The Eastern gate?”
“Back to repeating again are we?” Death chuckles “Yeah, this is the Eastern gate, and that Principality over there is Aziraphale - Angel of the Lord and Guardian of the Eastern gate”
“One moment please” The Angel of the Eastern gate with the singsong voice calls over without turning around. They hold up a finger directly inviting Crowley and Death to wait as they continue talking to the man going through the gate. Death huffs impatiently once more.
“Heaven has an overflow area?” Crowley’s hands fly to his hips “This is madness”
“You haven’t seen the half of it” Death says under their breath. They stand next to Crowley mimicking him, with their talons folded against their cloak.
“And who’s that prat?” Crowley croaks pointing to an easel in the entrance way of the gates. Some sort of poster showing a picture of a human male presenting being. All dark hair, perfect teeth and chiselled features. Devastatingly handsome by human standards, but they look like they know it. What a wanker, Crowley thinks. And it’s only confirmed when Death almost falls forward laughing.
Busting a gut, the Angel of Death grabs onto Crowley to steady himself “Mate, I can’t believe he did it! He actually did it. I’ve won the pool”
“He did what?”
“That’s Gabriel. He’s a real… well lets just say he’s definitely a prat as you said. We had him on, telling him he’d make the perfect poster boy for Heaven, telling him he should do some marketing for it, offer a free trial or something and I can’t believe he’s gone and done it!” Death claps and snorts through wheezing laughter. Crowley tries to suppress a giggle at Death’s reaction and this Gabriel guy who they’d apparently been betting on. The expression on that poster boy’s face, candidly raising an eyebrow in question. Pointing a finger like that famous American ‘We need you’ poster. He reads the title above his face ‘Try our four week trial today’
“Heaven has a four week trial?” Crowley asks, eyebrows raising all the way to his hairline.
“Y-yeah I thought it was a joke too, but it's a new thing, I guess they need the souls” Death is still vibrating next to Crowley with laughter “Sorry I’ll calm down in a mo, I just, I can’t believe he’s gone through with it. I’ve won the bet! It was bad enough when he had that statue crafted of him in that cemetery in Edinburgh, but this is brilliant. Let me take a quick photo”
Death holds up a talon and some sort of holographic smartphone manifests in between their grip, almost silver and sparkling. Crowley scrubs a hand over his face. This is a day of firsts.
“I need to go, I need to tell the guys about this”
“Wait, stay!” Crowley panics trying to hold onto the Angel of Death a little longer. Oddly he’s only known them for about 15 minutes but they were right, they’re definitely comforting and he can’t bear the thought of Death leaving so quickly so he tries to keep the conversation going “What guys?”
“Y’know; Pollution, Famine, War? They’ll love it. I’m going to upload this to the group chat” Death looks down to their ethereal version of a smartphone and Crowley smiles nervously. The Angel of the Eastgate brushes down his white robes looking exactly like he’s finishing up with his conversation, but Crowley can’t see past those magnificent feathered wings, half of them trailing elegantly along the floor towards him. Surprisingly close.
Crowley checks Death is still there and then he takes a few tentative steps forward to get a better view of the details within the feathers. A perfect mixture of beautiful large flat feathers sculpting the wings thoroughly, curved and graceful. Exactly the way he’d imagine angel wings would be. But then he gets even closer and smiles. The odd fluffy downy cream baby feathers peak through, ruffled in places, frayed near the edges. His heart leaps up through his chest and he takes a deep breath, resisting the urge to reach out and run his fingers through some of the fluffier ones and set them back in place. He wonders what they’d feel like under his fingers. Would the plumes be as soft as they look or would they be coarse? Would he be able to feel them at all? Are angel’s touchable? He gulps and bends lower down to look closer whilst Death teeters away on his phone.
A grin overtakes his face, the feathers look too soft to be birdlike. He looks in-between them both, a stark contrast to the fully black outfit and shiny patent scaly shoes he put on today. Yeah, he’s not going to fit in well here. A black smudge within a perfect white canvas. It's tooth-rottingly obvious he doesn't belong.
And he’s not even through the gates yet.
“HA you’ll never guess what Beelzebub just wrote back!” Death shouts “Brilliant”
Beelzebub? “What?” Crowley turns his head to the side, remaining crouched. And then he feels a huge draft waft over his cheek and he closes his eyes quickly. A large whooshing sound overtakes his brain and the blinding whiteness of it all almost knocks him over. Impossibly soft feathers brushing across his face in one movement. Apparently Death doesn’t observe any of this as they’re rambling on behind him.
Crowley looks up slowly and can no longer find any feathers within reach. Oh how he desperately wanted to touch them properly. In fact the Angel of the Eastern gate now stands before him facing him, strikingly supple human hands clasped before his eyes with a small gold pinky ring on his right hand.
They're so close to him. Crowley would only have to tip a scant few inches forward to bury his face in the fabric of those long white robes. Crowley’s heart hammers in his chest and his stomach quivers wondering what to do next. He's never come face to face with one of the Lord's angels before. He didn't even believe they existed. Should he get up? Should he bow? Should he kiss that pinky ring? What should he do? He feels his face flame.
He looks closely at the gold ring, a lion shaping the head of the ring, glinting in the bright light. Interesting choice. Perfect soft pink looking hands that haven't seen a day's labour in their life and pretty manicured nails. Crowley stares forward, eyes wide and fear spreading through his chest, as he hears Death approach from behind. He's fucking this up already. He feels small and alone. Hopefully there'll be some other ex-humans around soon that he can talk to. Someone to lend an ear. Maybe a bar? Crowley was never much of a talker, or one for hugging. He always needed Dutch courage for casual displays of affection and intimate conversation, but right now he finds himself craving someone to cling onto.
“Aziraphale, you're on shift today. Got a new human for you”
“Oh tickety-boo” the voice startles him with his closeness. Crowley blinks rapidly. Get up, you idiot. “Is there something wrong with him?”
“No nothing wrong with him. He chose to look like Frankenstein” Death laughs “It’s a thing humans are doing now. I don't really get it. Sign here”
Crowley wills himself to meet the angel’s gaze and wobbles as he tries to plant his feet. And if his jaw could have hit the floor it would have. He would renounce his atheism, right there, on the spot. The Angel of the Eastern gate has a smile that could capture the attention of every onlooker in a room full of people. Absolutely stunning. Huge blue grey eyes full of sparkle, resembling a storm that he'd gladly be lost in, framed by long dark blonde lashes set in a beautiful wide open inviting face. Crowley’s heart quickly falls into the fast paced rhythm of oh-shit-he’s-cute. He tries desperately to banish the thought. Then the bastard licks his lips - licks his bloody lips - and Crowley watches as the tip of his pink tongue glides over the perfect Cupid's bow of his angelic top lip, shining with perspiration. Only shadowed very slightly by a large gorgeous upturned nose. Crowley involuntarily licks his lips in response. Great .
Only Crowley would be attracted to an angel, wouldn't he? The guy’s not even the same species as him. Far too good for the likes of Crowley to be around. He’s, he’s damn handsome.
Mind you, is Crowley even human anymore? Who knows at this stage. But how is he supposed to have any sort of collective thoughts with this gorgeous creature standing right there looking like that? Crowley tears his vision down away from the angel's face and that certainly does not help as he catches sight of subtle white blonde curls peeking out delicately from the top of the gold trim of his robes, cascading over large shoulders. And there's an inviting softness to them that's in stark contrast to the swell of the angel's strong broad chest. He could place both his hands on that chest and spread his fingers wide, and he would probably still have space to flatten his palms over the shape of the muscles there.
Fuuuu-fooey, Crowley corrects his internal monologue. He wobbles, falling over his own feet and the angel raises a hand to catch Crowley’s arm, steadying him. Stifling a groan, Crowley has about 0.5 seconds to get his shit together and say something vaguely coherent to the guy.
“That’s not what I meant… oh” and then the angel's gaze finally meets Crowley’s face and he can’t speak. Time feels like it stops. And for a moment Crowley wonders if they're both there together, enraptured, alone in the universe, floating on clouds high above the calm of the ocean. Just the two of them. His eyes widen and his mouth feels like the sahara. He swallows. Nothing comes to mind to say, nothing of any use anyway. His fingers clench into the fabric of his pockets. He's transfixed. Pinned by those angelic eyes seering into his.
Little gorgeous flecks of honey brown frame the angel’s pupils almost swallowed by a sea of blue grey. Crowley swears he sees those pupils dilate for a second and it causes a thrill to thrum through his spine, but he must be wrong, right? However human this angel looks, he's not. He's probably not even a ‘he’ he just presents that way.
“You good here?” Death laughs without looking at Crowley “They’re messaging me, frikkin brilliant that poster. I need to tell them about it”
“The poster?” Aziraphale smiles innocently between them not quite understanding Death’s reaction, which makes Death find the whole thing even funnier.
“Wait” Crowley squeaks as the Angel of Death vanishes from his sight, only a puff of black smoke remains where the being once stood seconds ago. Crowley whimpers and feels a heady rush overtake him as the pads of warm fingers press into his arm.
His wrist trembles in the Angel of the Eastern gate’s grasp. Fear and a million other feelings flooding through his extremities. He's pretty sure the angel can feel his rapid pulse under his skin. Mercifully the angel loosens his grip away to slide further up his arm. He isn't letting go and that's probably because he can sense Crowley is about to shake out of his skin.
“Mind how you go” The angel before him calls to no-one, their eyes crinkling in delight. Crowley looks at the grasp of the hand on his arm, warm like a human’s hand. Fingers that could leave a pleasant mark and Crowley would be okay with that. And then he snaps himself out of staring as the angel says “Hello, I’m Aziraphale” the angel says delightedly “Welcome to Heaven”
Somehow the soothing voice takes the edge off his jitters. He looks into Aziraphale’s eyes and swallows down the jolt of electric attraction that quickly thrums through his veins as blue eyes pour into him, drinking him in. This magnificent soft but strong angel holding him steady so the weak little human that is Crowley, won’t fall from his grasp. Probably fall all the way to Hell.
Crowley swallows thickly once more, trying to speak. Words, any words will do. But all that comes out is a very low expletive from the back of his throat “fuck”
And that was most certainly the wrong thing to say in the presence of one of the Almighty’s most glorious soldiers? angels? guardians? Because he watches in slow motion as the angel’s crinkling smile fades into more of a curious look. Wispy blonde brows creasing before him into concern. And the steely unrelenting grip on his arm slides cautiously away leaving a ghost of grounding touch in its wake.
Shit .