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go_exchange2006-12-19 11:19 pm
waxbean.livejournal.com) wrote in go_exchange2006-12-19 11:19 pm
Entry tags:
Happy Holidays, Dreya_Uberwald!
Title: Up Above It's So Fair
Gift Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dreya_uberwald
gift from:secretgatepoems (aka htebazytook).
Summary: Aziraphale goes home for Christmas. Or at least back to heaven.
Author's Notes: "Then [Jacob] dreamed, and behold, a ladder was set up on the earth, and its top reached to heaven; and there the angels of God were ascending and descending on it." Gen. 28:12. I'm afraid I've taken the prompt and run away with it, but I swear it all started with what Aziraphale's idea of a big night out would be. I also seem to have caught a case of the footnotes in this.
Aziraphale didn't often go "out on the town." He didn't often go out at all. By and large, he only ever went away from his shop when forced to acknowledge that chefs and atmosphere could not be ordered in, that the Royal Opera would never fit in the dusty little back room.1
But it was Christmas, and he always made a point of showing up at Christmas and Easter, at least.
It was unkindly cold outside. Aziraphale made sure his fur coat was buttoned up warmly, his tartan scarf in place, and that there were gloves in his pockets that had been the peak of fashion during the Roosevelt administration.2 He would much rather have stayed in sipping a favourite tea and reading about angels instead of socialising with them. He couldn't help preferring the notions humans had of them, sometimes. Real angels were as far a cry from Precious Moments figurines as televised poker was from a sport.
The bell on the door to Aziraphale's shop wasn't particularly merry—it was, in fact, a rather intrusive and unfriendly sort of bell, but Aziraphale had draped sleigh bells over the doorknob, so the sound was warmed somewhat by a festive, tinkling chorus. There was also a wreath with a cheery red bow, and he invaded its personal bubble to lock the door.
He took a bracing breath and started off toward the Ladder.
It is difficult to explain where exactly the Ladder is, but to put it in layman's terms, the Ladder is more or less synonymous with latitude lines, which are, in accordance with popular belief, like the rungs of a ladder. It isn't visible to average humans, although some of God's chosen few3 have been allowed to glimpse it. Presently, Aziraphale saw it hovering over Cavendish Square and made for it with a sigh.
It took him less time than he'd hoped to reach the foot of the glowing, golden ladder. He noticed as he began to climb that every rung was carved intricately—it was the sort of thing angels did to pay homage to God (somehow). The carvings were different every year; Aziraphale wondered who it was that designed them, and whether they put hard, detailed work into them or merely waved them into being. He peripherally glimpsed other angels, points of feathery light, farther down the Ladder. They were all inevitably moving far more quickly than Aziraphale was. Blast biscuits and cake and Crowley's temptations to more dessert.
Unused muscles straining, Aziraphale wondered if heaven's budget was really so stingy it couldn't afford to replace the Ladder with, say, Stairs. A Stairway to Paradise. The song dissolved into his head.
It's madness
To be always sitting around in sadness,
When you could be learning the Steps of Gladness,
You'll be happy when you can do
Just six or seven.
He was compelled to move in tempo, his feet gaining a new gleaming golden rung with each downbeat.
Begin today, you'll find it nice:
The quickest way to Paradise.
When you practice,
Here's the thing to know,
Simply say as you go:
I'll build a Stairway to Paradise,
With a new Step ev'ry day . . .
His internal soundtrack stopped short. Yes, a Stairway to Paradise would've been nice. An Escalator to Paradise would've been rather better. In fact, thought Aziraphale half the arduous way up the Ladder, lifting the ban on apparation into and out of heaven would've been a lot better. 4
His wings were out, although he didn't think they would do him much good if he fell from this height. Flight was disabled somehow, on Christmas Eve, because the Ladder was Tradition. 5
He finally reached the top, swinging his sweaty human body over onto the cloudy ledge that served as heaven's doormat. Everything beyond the Gate was obscured by more mysterious, shifting cloud.
The Gate itself was ornate to the point of eccentricity. It was pearly, and upon it were carved so many flowers and twirling trails of ivy it resembled a flowerbed choked with weeds. Situated immediately inside the
Gate was the Throne. One would think that God's Throne would be located on a golden dais in the centre of the city, but in recent millennia the Seraphim had convinced Him that this location provided easier access for the judging of newly arrived souls. 6
Seraphim stood around the Throne all night and all day, presumably watching over it. They were the highest choir of angels, and they considered standing around looking menacing and snobbish the most paramount job in heaven.7
Aziraphale approached the Gate. He rapped cautiously on a strained-looking cluster of pearly sunflowers.
"Yea, verily, what do you want?" flickered an irritated voice. The clouds obscuring what lay beyond the Gate lifted, and Aziraphale was met with the fiery gazes of the Seraphim.
"O, it's thee," said the Metatron. He sighed exaggeratedly to the angel standing beside him. The Metatron had never let that incident with the Antichrist go, and tried his best to demean Aziraphale ever chance he got. Mostly the other angels ignored this and favoured Aziraphale with apologetic smiles.
Uriel, who was standing in front with the Metatron, had such a smile pasted onto his burning visage. "Hail, Aziraphale. If thou wilt kindly follow the holy Light of the Star o'er yonder, there the Mass will commence," he said, managing to sound both helpful and condescending. Aziraphale peered around him into the City and saw it, thinking how old this Holiday got after so long, how sick he was of all these proper nouns, and that the night had only just begun.
Uriel cleared his throat. The Metatron sighed again and gestured at the Gate. It swung inward, somehow creaking melodically, and Aziraphale walked through it. The clouds swirling around his feet could have been dry ice.
"Thanks."
The three of them stood there. Seven pairs of wings rustled. Someone let loose a firebreathing cough.
"I, ah, I take it He's in the Great Hall already, then?" asked Aziraphale, nodding at the Throne.
"What is't?" Uriel asked softly, seeming startled out of doing something important. "Forsooth, Aziraphale, that is most true," the Seraph smiled. "If thou wilt kindly follow the—"
"Yes, I know. Yes. All right then." The Seraphim continued staring in front of them, although the Metatron was wearing a glare just for him, Aziraphale well knew. He edged away, down the silver sidewalk, realised he was still uncomfortably overheated from the climb, and made his coat and scarf vanish. He didn't understand why the Seraphim needed to guard the Throne when He wasn't there, but was nevertheless secretly glad they wouldn't be at the Mass. They were disconcerting enough where they were, and he suspected the other angels quite agreed, and were also a little embarrassed by them.
The Great Hall didn't actually have walls, and so Aziraphale wondered why it wasn't called the Great Gazebo. It had a beautiful roof made of transparent shimmering light through which the stars were visible. 8
The Hall was decorated with golden garlands and golden pine trees with golden ornaments. The angels were all wearing gold or silver robes and jewellery made of light. Azirphale was wearing a green corduroy jacket, white trousers that had seen better days, and a slightly crooked red bow tie. He was also wearing trainers.
Aziraphale nevertheless tried to blend in with the crowd, but despite his best efforts, Michael eventually caught sight of him. "Well, hello there—and Merry Christmas! How lovely it is to see you, again, ah . . . what was it?"
"I'm Aziraphale." No dawning recognition. "I'm a Principality. I was the one who lost the flaming sword." As much as Aziraphale hated bringing that up, it always seemed to jog Michael's memory.
"Oh, not Aziraphale," someone said. Aziraphale recognised the voice, and, sure enough, Gabriel was leaving his own conversation and wending his placid way over. "My, how you've grown," he said fondly.
"It's . . . the same kind of body I've always had, actually."
"Oh, we haven't seen you in absolute ages, Aziraphale!" said Michael.
"He was here at Easter, you know."
"My dear Gabriel, I believe I would remember if—"
"You forget, dear fellow, how big a celebration there was last year in Our Lord's honour."
"Oh, come now, Gabriel . . ."
"So," said Aziraphale. "What have you two been doing all year?"
Michael's already rosy angelic face seemed to darken in hue. Aziraphale blinked. Um . . .
"Oh, the usual," Gabriel said smoothly. "But we want to hear about you, Aziraphale. How is life on Earth?"
"Oh, quite fine, thank you. It's, you know, it's earthy. Hm. There's . . . well." Both archangels' attention fastened onto him. "It's really much the same as it's always been, give or ta—"
"Greetings, gentlemen! Salutations!" That was Raphael bearing exuberantly down on them. "Do you not find this to be a most delightful party? Certainly it is the most impressive turnout we've had in years!"
"Party? Hardly a party, I should think, Raphael," Gabriel pointed out mildly.
"Oh, Gabriel, you old stick-in-the-mud!" Raphael laughed. "Of course I refer to this holy Mass as a party because that's how enjoyable it seems to me. Is there anything more magnificent than honouring Our Lord on this Day of His Son's Immaculate Birth?"
"Surely you mean immaculate conception, Raphael?" Michael said and rolled his eyes at Gabriel.
"Which in any event wasn't today," Gabriel said.
"Birth, conception! And what is birth, I ask you, if not the conception, the very realisation of life? I might furthermore go on to say, Gabriel, that the exact date of The Son's emergence from—well—the date of His Emergence is irrelevant to our most joyous celebration of His Glory."
"Why, certainly, Raphael," Gabriel said indulgently.
"Oh, I say! Can that be Azrilpale?" He peered at Aziraphale.
"Merry Christmas, Raphael," said Aziraphale.
"Oh, dear," Raphael said darkly, ignoring him again and addressing the other archangels. "I do hope we don't encounter any of that Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays nonsense again this year."
"I really must to agree with you on that," Gabriel said.
"Hear, hear!" Michael said. "Any idea how that began, in the first place? Was it Below?"
"That's what the Cherubim were saying. And you know how they are, arguing amongst their other heads about every damned scrap of information that slips down from Higher Up. That 'Happy Holidays' debacle was prime gossip with them for months afterward."
Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. He hadn't thought the "War on Christmas" had made such an impact on heaven, but really shouldn't've been surprised—heaven loved titles and labels and considered them very powerful. He should've been more wary of the gleam in Crowley's eye when the demon had proposed it. But Aziraphale had gotten equally free reign over this year in exchange.9
Nevertheless, Aziraphale felt vaguely pleased that it was Crowley's work, of all trivial things, that managed to get under their skin.
"Goodness me, I'm thirsty," Raphael said suddenly, and left them for the buffet table.
"Oh, dear. I hope he doesn’t get too terribly drunk."
The archangels laughed.
"I'm missing something funny," Aziraphale said in confusion.
"Raphael doesn’t drink, Aziraphale," said Gabriel.
"So he's . . . like that all the time, then."
"For what it's worth, Aziraphale, I don't believe it for a second, either." Michael winked.
A penetrating noise, like a mellow sonic boom, dominated the sensitive hearing of the congregation of angels. It was the equivalent of the chiming of a clock. The Mass itself would begin shortly. Shimmering angels started meandering toward a stage area, not halting their yearly cheerful gossip for the life of them.10
"Dear Aziraphale, I don't believe you write nearly enough reports for us concerning Earth," Gabriel admonished gently. "We've quite resorted to deriving our own entertainment from the humans without your insight."
"Well, you see, I put a lot of time into my reports and want to be sure they're polished enough to send Up," Aziraphale lied. "And the postal service is atrociously slow."
"He is right about that, Gabriel," said Michael, who was steering them in the direction of the stage. Angels of every rank made way.
Aziraphale found himself in the section of the crowd that was clearly set aside for those who would be speaking. It wasn't strange to be dragged to the more privileged areas of heaven by Gabriel, but Michael was an unspoken movie star Above, and Aziraphale had just landed himself at the Oscars. He was alerted to Raphael's presence by a punctuation of brash laughter elsewhere in the little herd of Very Important Angels and surreptitiously hid himself behind Michael's muscular bulk. He could hear the first blocky chords of a song in the air. There were only two actual chords in the entire thing, and some musically unfulfilling, albeit (overly) passionate, singing.
"What is this?" Aziraphale asked. "I don't believe I'm . . . familiar with this."
"Oh, it's one of those modern chamber groups! They told me they were going to play a piece entitled 'Christian Rock,' and I rather like it so far don't you? The symbolism in the name alone! And it does sound like a proper minuet, doesn't it?" Aziraphale gaped. Michael adopted a look of dreamy pride. "It's been Ages since we received such 'mainstream musical talent' Up Here. It's really quite a nice change of pace, wouldn't you say, Aziraphale? It's—oh, what's the phrase?—out of the World!"
"Is it? Oh, good," Aziraphale muttered.11
"Michael!" A frazzled-looking angel scampered over to them. "There you are! The guest speaker is asking for you. He says he needs harnesses stronger than the ones we gave him wrought in the depths of Time by the strength of God's Love?"
"Right," Michael said distractedly. "I'll be along." He shooed him. The page retreated into the crowd.
"We have a guest speaker?" Gabriel inquired. "Who?"
"That crocodile man."
"Ah."
Aziraphale felt it best not to ask. In backdrop to the unmistakable chatter of many angels all together12, the atrocious song had ended. However, another one, virtually indistinguishable from the first, had begun. He bit his cheek and tried to block everything out.
"Tell me, Aziraphale," Michael was saying. "Do you live in the Holy Lands? Or, wait a moment, are you one of our agents in the New World?"
"I'm from England."
"Oh, of course! Silly me. And where is that?"
"Never mind, Michael," Gabriel said, patting his arm. He addressed Aziraphale: "I'm sure you'll understand if we talk business for just one moment, Aziraphale? I've been meaning to ask after that Korean fellow. The one who's ill, I believe I heard. Anyway, you wouldn't happen to have received word over in Engla Land concerning him?"
"Good thinking, Gabriel!" Michael said. "Yes, Aziraphale, we have been most anxious as to whether he's set off those nuclear weapons. He has, hasn't he?" he pressed anxiously.
"I . . . do seem to recall something concerning North Korea exploding a bomb. Very big to-do, I'll have you know."
"I knew it!" Michael cried. "You will be owing me, again, Gabriel."
Gabriel sighed. "We weren't the ones who gave him the bomb. I suppose I didn't think it would actually work if he procured it on his own. Alas! I'm afraid I am forced to concede defeat, dear Michael . . ."
The archangels went on to recount their various wagers on the way humanity went, and Aziraphale felt suddenly uneasy that he'd influenced their little game with his own work13 on earth. The unintelligent music was unceasing but precisely as unoriginal as the beings listening to it. Aziraphale didn't know when he'd grown apart from the flock. As the years piled thickly up he saw the flock as sheep who didn't get out much and didn't know any better, and who hadn't ever really lived. Crowley thought, rather vocally, that Aziraphale shut himself inside too much, and got frustrated when the angel was reluctant to experience new things, and certainly didn't believe he was capable of "going out."
Aziraphale went out rather often for an ethereal being, thank you very much.
"When will He get here?" complained an archangel whose name Aziraphale didn't know. "Does He know how long we've been just standing here? Oy, Michael! Any idea where He is?"
"Oh, I don't expect He'll be arriving until later," Gabriel said kindly, smiling the other angel away.
Michael snickered quietly. "What does it matter whether we wait for Him to begin or not? Really, some people have no patience . . ."
No, Aziraphale definitely didn't fit in with the angelic crowd, but he was finally starting to realise that he liked it that way.
~*~
[1] Crowley was the one who fancied the opera. It was boisterous and unrealistic, and the demon seemed to revel in its sheer overblown drama. It is also worth mentioning that opera, namely German opera, was Crowley's fault.
[2] Teddy Roosevelt.
[3] And/or cartographers.
[4] He tried not to acknowledge how similar heaven was to Hogwarts in this.
[5] I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, Well, then, if Aziraphale knows enough about popular fantasy books to make that Hogwarts allusion to himself, surely there is something along the lines of Balrogs, wings, and whether they actually have them in order now. But you are incorrect in this assumption: Aziraphale, like so many before him, couldn't make it through The Council of Elrond, and stopped halfway though. For shame!
[6] They were sick of having to fly back and forth between the Throne and the Gate with paperwork that spilled and became lost Forever in the clouds.
[7] The Queen's Guard of Upstairs, only easier to mock, Crowley said.
[8] Aziraphale was seriously worried about how many ideas Ms. Rowling seemed to be getting from heaven, but avoided saying anything about it (at least until the seventh book was written).
[9] Crowley had argued that it was unfair. Aziraphale had replied that the past six years had been more than unfair. Fine, Crowley had said, and even helped the Democrats take Congress in the US.
[10] Yearly gossip at Easter being somewhat less cheerful—angels do have some taste.
[11] It wasn't.
[12] Better known as Juicy Gossiping, with Broad Gestures.
[13] "Non-interference," he called it.
~*~
Gift Recipient:
dreya_uberwaldgift from:
secretgatepoems (aka htebazytook).Summary: Aziraphale goes home for Christmas. Or at least back to heaven.
Author's Notes: "Then [Jacob] dreamed, and behold, a ladder was set up on the earth, and its top reached to heaven; and there the angels of God were ascending and descending on it." Gen. 28:12. I'm afraid I've taken the prompt and run away with it, but I swear it all started with what Aziraphale's idea of a big night out would be. I also seem to have caught a case of the footnotes in this.
Aziraphale didn't often go "out on the town." He didn't often go out at all. By and large, he only ever went away from his shop when forced to acknowledge that chefs and atmosphere could not be ordered in, that the Royal Opera would never fit in the dusty little back room.1
But it was Christmas, and he always made a point of showing up at Christmas and Easter, at least.
It was unkindly cold outside. Aziraphale made sure his fur coat was buttoned up warmly, his tartan scarf in place, and that there were gloves in his pockets that had been the peak of fashion during the Roosevelt administration.2 He would much rather have stayed in sipping a favourite tea and reading about angels instead of socialising with them. He couldn't help preferring the notions humans had of them, sometimes. Real angels were as far a cry from Precious Moments figurines as televised poker was from a sport.
The bell on the door to Aziraphale's shop wasn't particularly merry—it was, in fact, a rather intrusive and unfriendly sort of bell, but Aziraphale had draped sleigh bells over the doorknob, so the sound was warmed somewhat by a festive, tinkling chorus. There was also a wreath with a cheery red bow, and he invaded its personal bubble to lock the door.
He took a bracing breath and started off toward the Ladder.
It is difficult to explain where exactly the Ladder is, but to put it in layman's terms, the Ladder is more or less synonymous with latitude lines, which are, in accordance with popular belief, like the rungs of a ladder. It isn't visible to average humans, although some of God's chosen few3 have been allowed to glimpse it. Presently, Aziraphale saw it hovering over Cavendish Square and made for it with a sigh.
It took him less time than he'd hoped to reach the foot of the glowing, golden ladder. He noticed as he began to climb that every rung was carved intricately—it was the sort of thing angels did to pay homage to God (somehow). The carvings were different every year; Aziraphale wondered who it was that designed them, and whether they put hard, detailed work into them or merely waved them into being. He peripherally glimpsed other angels, points of feathery light, farther down the Ladder. They were all inevitably moving far more quickly than Aziraphale was. Blast biscuits and cake and Crowley's temptations to more dessert.
Unused muscles straining, Aziraphale wondered if heaven's budget was really so stingy it couldn't afford to replace the Ladder with, say, Stairs. A Stairway to Paradise. The song dissolved into his head.
It's madness
To be always sitting around in sadness,
When you could be learning the Steps of Gladness,
You'll be happy when you can do
Just six or seven.
He was compelled to move in tempo, his feet gaining a new gleaming golden rung with each downbeat.
Begin today, you'll find it nice:
The quickest way to Paradise.
When you practice,
Here's the thing to know,
Simply say as you go:
I'll build a Stairway to Paradise,
With a new Step ev'ry day . . .
His internal soundtrack stopped short. Yes, a Stairway to Paradise would've been nice. An Escalator to Paradise would've been rather better. In fact, thought Aziraphale half the arduous way up the Ladder, lifting the ban on apparation into and out of heaven would've been a lot better. 4
His wings were out, although he didn't think they would do him much good if he fell from this height. Flight was disabled somehow, on Christmas Eve, because the Ladder was Tradition. 5
He finally reached the top, swinging his sweaty human body over onto the cloudy ledge that served as heaven's doormat. Everything beyond the Gate was obscured by more mysterious, shifting cloud.
The Gate itself was ornate to the point of eccentricity. It was pearly, and upon it were carved so many flowers and twirling trails of ivy it resembled a flowerbed choked with weeds. Situated immediately inside the
Gate was the Throne. One would think that God's Throne would be located on a golden dais in the centre of the city, but in recent millennia the Seraphim had convinced Him that this location provided easier access for the judging of newly arrived souls. 6
Seraphim stood around the Throne all night and all day, presumably watching over it. They were the highest choir of angels, and they considered standing around looking menacing and snobbish the most paramount job in heaven.7
Aziraphale approached the Gate. He rapped cautiously on a strained-looking cluster of pearly sunflowers.
"Yea, verily, what do you want?" flickered an irritated voice. The clouds obscuring what lay beyond the Gate lifted, and Aziraphale was met with the fiery gazes of the Seraphim.
"O, it's thee," said the Metatron. He sighed exaggeratedly to the angel standing beside him. The Metatron had never let that incident with the Antichrist go, and tried his best to demean Aziraphale ever chance he got. Mostly the other angels ignored this and favoured Aziraphale with apologetic smiles.
Uriel, who was standing in front with the Metatron, had such a smile pasted onto his burning visage. "Hail, Aziraphale. If thou wilt kindly follow the holy Light of the Star o'er yonder, there the Mass will commence," he said, managing to sound both helpful and condescending. Aziraphale peered around him into the City and saw it, thinking how old this Holiday got after so long, how sick he was of all these proper nouns, and that the night had only just begun.
Uriel cleared his throat. The Metatron sighed again and gestured at the Gate. It swung inward, somehow creaking melodically, and Aziraphale walked through it. The clouds swirling around his feet could have been dry ice.
"Thanks."
The three of them stood there. Seven pairs of wings rustled. Someone let loose a firebreathing cough.
"I, ah, I take it He's in the Great Hall already, then?" asked Aziraphale, nodding at the Throne.
"What is't?" Uriel asked softly, seeming startled out of doing something important. "Forsooth, Aziraphale, that is most true," the Seraph smiled. "If thou wilt kindly follow the—"
"Yes, I know. Yes. All right then." The Seraphim continued staring in front of them, although the Metatron was wearing a glare just for him, Aziraphale well knew. He edged away, down the silver sidewalk, realised he was still uncomfortably overheated from the climb, and made his coat and scarf vanish. He didn't understand why the Seraphim needed to guard the Throne when He wasn't there, but was nevertheless secretly glad they wouldn't be at the Mass. They were disconcerting enough where they were, and he suspected the other angels quite agreed, and were also a little embarrassed by them.
The Great Hall didn't actually have walls, and so Aziraphale wondered why it wasn't called the Great Gazebo. It had a beautiful roof made of transparent shimmering light through which the stars were visible. 8
The Hall was decorated with golden garlands and golden pine trees with golden ornaments. The angels were all wearing gold or silver robes and jewellery made of light. Azirphale was wearing a green corduroy jacket, white trousers that had seen better days, and a slightly crooked red bow tie. He was also wearing trainers.
Aziraphale nevertheless tried to blend in with the crowd, but despite his best efforts, Michael eventually caught sight of him. "Well, hello there—and Merry Christmas! How lovely it is to see you, again, ah . . . what was it?"
"I'm Aziraphale." No dawning recognition. "I'm a Principality. I was the one who lost the flaming sword." As much as Aziraphale hated bringing that up, it always seemed to jog Michael's memory.
"Oh, not Aziraphale," someone said. Aziraphale recognised the voice, and, sure enough, Gabriel was leaving his own conversation and wending his placid way over. "My, how you've grown," he said fondly.
"It's . . . the same kind of body I've always had, actually."
"Oh, we haven't seen you in absolute ages, Aziraphale!" said Michael.
"He was here at Easter, you know."
"My dear Gabriel, I believe I would remember if—"
"You forget, dear fellow, how big a celebration there was last year in Our Lord's honour."
"Oh, come now, Gabriel . . ."
"So," said Aziraphale. "What have you two been doing all year?"
Michael's already rosy angelic face seemed to darken in hue. Aziraphale blinked. Um . . .
"Oh, the usual," Gabriel said smoothly. "But we want to hear about you, Aziraphale. How is life on Earth?"
"Oh, quite fine, thank you. It's, you know, it's earthy. Hm. There's . . . well." Both archangels' attention fastened onto him. "It's really much the same as it's always been, give or ta—"
"Greetings, gentlemen! Salutations!" That was Raphael bearing exuberantly down on them. "Do you not find this to be a most delightful party? Certainly it is the most impressive turnout we've had in years!"
"Party? Hardly a party, I should think, Raphael," Gabriel pointed out mildly.
"Oh, Gabriel, you old stick-in-the-mud!" Raphael laughed. "Of course I refer to this holy Mass as a party because that's how enjoyable it seems to me. Is there anything more magnificent than honouring Our Lord on this Day of His Son's Immaculate Birth?"
"Surely you mean immaculate conception, Raphael?" Michael said and rolled his eyes at Gabriel.
"Which in any event wasn't today," Gabriel said.
"Birth, conception! And what is birth, I ask you, if not the conception, the very realisation of life? I might furthermore go on to say, Gabriel, that the exact date of The Son's emergence from—well—the date of His Emergence is irrelevant to our most joyous celebration of His Glory."
"Why, certainly, Raphael," Gabriel said indulgently.
"Oh, I say! Can that be Azrilpale?" He peered at Aziraphale.
"Merry Christmas, Raphael," said Aziraphale.
"Oh, dear," Raphael said darkly, ignoring him again and addressing the other archangels. "I do hope we don't encounter any of that Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays nonsense again this year."
"I really must to agree with you on that," Gabriel said.
"Hear, hear!" Michael said. "Any idea how that began, in the first place? Was it Below?"
"That's what the Cherubim were saying. And you know how they are, arguing amongst their other heads about every damned scrap of information that slips down from Higher Up. That 'Happy Holidays' debacle was prime gossip with them for months afterward."
Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. He hadn't thought the "War on Christmas" had made such an impact on heaven, but really shouldn't've been surprised—heaven loved titles and labels and considered them very powerful. He should've been more wary of the gleam in Crowley's eye when the demon had proposed it. But Aziraphale had gotten equally free reign over this year in exchange.9
Nevertheless, Aziraphale felt vaguely pleased that it was Crowley's work, of all trivial things, that managed to get under their skin.
"Goodness me, I'm thirsty," Raphael said suddenly, and left them for the buffet table.
"Oh, dear. I hope he doesn’t get too terribly drunk."
The archangels laughed.
"I'm missing something funny," Aziraphale said in confusion.
"Raphael doesn’t drink, Aziraphale," said Gabriel.
"So he's . . . like that all the time, then."
"For what it's worth, Aziraphale, I don't believe it for a second, either." Michael winked.
A penetrating noise, like a mellow sonic boom, dominated the sensitive hearing of the congregation of angels. It was the equivalent of the chiming of a clock. The Mass itself would begin shortly. Shimmering angels started meandering toward a stage area, not halting their yearly cheerful gossip for the life of them.10
"Dear Aziraphale, I don't believe you write nearly enough reports for us concerning Earth," Gabriel admonished gently. "We've quite resorted to deriving our own entertainment from the humans without your insight."
"Well, you see, I put a lot of time into my reports and want to be sure they're polished enough to send Up," Aziraphale lied. "And the postal service is atrociously slow."
"He is right about that, Gabriel," said Michael, who was steering them in the direction of the stage. Angels of every rank made way.
Aziraphale found himself in the section of the crowd that was clearly set aside for those who would be speaking. It wasn't strange to be dragged to the more privileged areas of heaven by Gabriel, but Michael was an unspoken movie star Above, and Aziraphale had just landed himself at the Oscars. He was alerted to Raphael's presence by a punctuation of brash laughter elsewhere in the little herd of Very Important Angels and surreptitiously hid himself behind Michael's muscular bulk. He could hear the first blocky chords of a song in the air. There were only two actual chords in the entire thing, and some musically unfulfilling, albeit (overly) passionate, singing.
"What is this?" Aziraphale asked. "I don't believe I'm . . . familiar with this."
"Oh, it's one of those modern chamber groups! They told me they were going to play a piece entitled 'Christian Rock,' and I rather like it so far don't you? The symbolism in the name alone! And it does sound like a proper minuet, doesn't it?" Aziraphale gaped. Michael adopted a look of dreamy pride. "It's been Ages since we received such 'mainstream musical talent' Up Here. It's really quite a nice change of pace, wouldn't you say, Aziraphale? It's—oh, what's the phrase?—out of the World!"
"Is it? Oh, good," Aziraphale muttered.11
"Michael!" A frazzled-looking angel scampered over to them. "There you are! The guest speaker is asking for you. He says he needs harnesses stronger than the ones we gave him wrought in the depths of Time by the strength of God's Love?"
"Right," Michael said distractedly. "I'll be along." He shooed him. The page retreated into the crowd.
"We have a guest speaker?" Gabriel inquired. "Who?"
"That crocodile man."
"Ah."
Aziraphale felt it best not to ask. In backdrop to the unmistakable chatter of many angels all together12, the atrocious song had ended. However, another one, virtually indistinguishable from the first, had begun. He bit his cheek and tried to block everything out.
"Tell me, Aziraphale," Michael was saying. "Do you live in the Holy Lands? Or, wait a moment, are you one of our agents in the New World?"
"I'm from England."
"Oh, of course! Silly me. And where is that?"
"Never mind, Michael," Gabriel said, patting his arm. He addressed Aziraphale: "I'm sure you'll understand if we talk business for just one moment, Aziraphale? I've been meaning to ask after that Korean fellow. The one who's ill, I believe I heard. Anyway, you wouldn't happen to have received word over in Engla Land concerning him?"
"Good thinking, Gabriel!" Michael said. "Yes, Aziraphale, we have been most anxious as to whether he's set off those nuclear weapons. He has, hasn't he?" he pressed anxiously.
"I . . . do seem to recall something concerning North Korea exploding a bomb. Very big to-do, I'll have you know."
"I knew it!" Michael cried. "You will be owing me, again, Gabriel."
Gabriel sighed. "We weren't the ones who gave him the bomb. I suppose I didn't think it would actually work if he procured it on his own. Alas! I'm afraid I am forced to concede defeat, dear Michael . . ."
The archangels went on to recount their various wagers on the way humanity went, and Aziraphale felt suddenly uneasy that he'd influenced their little game with his own work13 on earth. The unintelligent music was unceasing but precisely as unoriginal as the beings listening to it. Aziraphale didn't know when he'd grown apart from the flock. As the years piled thickly up he saw the flock as sheep who didn't get out much and didn't know any better, and who hadn't ever really lived. Crowley thought, rather vocally, that Aziraphale shut himself inside too much, and got frustrated when the angel was reluctant to experience new things, and certainly didn't believe he was capable of "going out."
Aziraphale went out rather often for an ethereal being, thank you very much.
"When will He get here?" complained an archangel whose name Aziraphale didn't know. "Does He know how long we've been just standing here? Oy, Michael! Any idea where He is?"
"Oh, I don't expect He'll be arriving until later," Gabriel said kindly, smiling the other angel away.
Michael snickered quietly. "What does it matter whether we wait for Him to begin or not? Really, some people have no patience . . ."
No, Aziraphale definitely didn't fit in with the angelic crowd, but he was finally starting to realise that he liked it that way.
[1] Crowley was the one who fancied the opera. It was boisterous and unrealistic, and the demon seemed to revel in its sheer overblown drama. It is also worth mentioning that opera, namely German opera, was Crowley's fault.
[2] Teddy Roosevelt.
[3] And/or cartographers.
[4] He tried not to acknowledge how similar heaven was to Hogwarts in this.
[5] I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, Well, then, if Aziraphale knows enough about popular fantasy books to make that Hogwarts allusion to himself, surely there is something along the lines of Balrogs, wings, and whether they actually have them in order now. But you are incorrect in this assumption: Aziraphale, like so many before him, couldn't make it through The Council of Elrond, and stopped halfway though. For shame!
[6] They were sick of having to fly back and forth between the Throne and the Gate with paperwork that spilled and became lost Forever in the clouds.
[7] The Queen's Guard of Upstairs, only easier to mock, Crowley said.
[8] Aziraphale was seriously worried about how many ideas Ms. Rowling seemed to be getting from heaven, but avoided saying anything about it (at least until the seventh book was written).
[9] Crowley had argued that it was unfair. Aziraphale had replied that the past six years had been more than unfair. Fine, Crowley had said, and even helped the Democrats take Congress in the US.
[10] Yearly gossip at Easter being somewhat less cheerful—angels do have some taste.
[11] It wasn't.
[12] Better known as Juicy Gossiping, with Broad Gestures.
[13] "Non-interference," he called it.
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I love the footnotes! (German opera is /so/ Crowley's fault.)
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This is lovely!
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Real angels were as far a cry from Precious Moments figurines as televised poker was from a sport.
Is espeically wicked<3 I love it. And Heaven=Hogwarts? *dies laughing* You're really too much!<3
Poor Aziraphale, he seems real worn out about this whole proper noun, proper angel thing. It's quite delightful to see in action. And is it just me, or do Micheal and Gabriel seem to have a thing? Quite scandalous! But hah I like your Raphael. Anyways, very nicely done and now I will go scrounge up more of your work<3
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Hee. I like it!
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he finally manages to politely excuse himselfthe mass ends). Am glad that he realises that fitting in with Heaven's most parochial is not somewhere that he wants to be.I really liked the Hogwarts comparisons (the Celestial Gazebo does actually sound rather picturesque), and am sure that if Aziraphale ever decided to make said comparisons outloud while discussing matters of a theological nature with the most enthusiastic of the Potter fans, his annual Souls Saved figures would go right up.
Thanks again for a lovely fic.
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Excellent piece!
W
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