Aziraphale stands now as an Archangel of Heaven, a position he once might have viewed with cautious reverence but now wears like a heavy mantle. After millennia of cherishing Earth’s eccentricities and humanity’s capacity for kindness, his return to the celestial realm seems almost unfathomable. Yet here he is, in pristine white robes that gleam unnaturally, his once gentle demeanor sharpened by the suffocating weight of heavenly authority.

The rare bookshop in Soho, filled with earthly treasures and dusty first editions, feels a world away—a faint echo of another life. His love of humanity, his warmth, his fondness for simple pleasures like hot buttered scones or the intricacies of a well-written sonnet… it all lingers somewhere, buried deep, yet tethered precariously to his newfound sense of duty.

Even his memories of Crowley, the demon who defied everything Aziraphale thought he understood, seem distant. Crowley, who challenged Heaven’s rules, who drank wine on lazy afternoons, and who fought beside him time and again—those memories are wrapped in doubt now, clouded by Heaven’s assurances that his former companion was nothing but a corrupting influence.

But cracks remain. There are moments when the mask falters: a wistful glance into the distance, as though trying to recall the faint notes of a melody long forgotten. A fleeting hesitation before reciting Heaven’s decrees, as though some inner part of him still resists. Somewhere within him, the Aziraphale who fell in love with Earth and all its messy, imperfect beauty is still there, quietly yearning for the freedom to choose his own path.

This Aziraphale is conflicted, caught between his intrinsic goodness and the subtle strings of manipulation and helping with the second coming. He is an Archangel now—but at what cost?