The New Office
Heaven is as cold and empty as Aziraphale always remembers it being.
He forgot the way the air up here chills you the core, the way God's light was replaced by florescent bulbs when the roof was put on. The air conditioning hums from nowhere in particular, no matter where you are.
"Here we are," Metatron says, stopping in front of a large window, just like all the rest. The clouds outside are thick and sluggish. Pristine white. It never rains here.
"Will I have an office, Metatron? A desk?" Aziraphale's voice echoes in the cavernous space.
He wonders what Crowley would say if he'd come, if he were here, if he understood. If he'd warm the space like he'd always done in the bookshop, just with his presence, his wit, and the affection plain in his bare, beloved eyes.
"Whatever for?"
Aziraphale chuckles nervously and wiggles his to-go cup, miraculously still warm against his fingers. He's barely taken a sip.
"I thought, well, it might be convenient to have a place to set my coffee."
Metatron smiles kindly. "You've been gone a long time, Aziraphale. You'll want to settle in. Remember how things work around here before we get started. Welcome home."
Metatron disappears, leaving Aziraphale alone with his cup, the endless sky, and a growing sense of dread.
Aziraphale still feels the ghost of Crowley's lips on his own. The salt of his tears on his cheek.
"Right," Aziraphale says, suddenly feeling very alone.
