Chapter Text
There’s a tender spot here, an area where the barrier is less a wall and more a membrane. It lets some things pass easily through and blocks others. Aziraphale knows how to make it do what he wants. Gently, carefully, he presses a fuzzy hand to it, and it dips away from him, soft and stretching. Slowly, he pushes until a digit slips through the tiny hole it’s made, followed effortlessly by the other three. Then his upper leg and shoulder cross over, and the opening accepts Aziraphale fully.
The great cocoon that surrounds Aziraphale’s world has several areas where it's thin. Portals, windows, maybe doors. It's not forbidden to go through them, but it’s strongly discouraged for anyone but scientists or scouts to go, and even they are not allowed to contact the locals or interfere in any way.
There are stories of those who cross over and never return, and of those who return so changed that they don’t fit in with the community anymore.
But Aziraphale already doesn’t fit in.
He likes to rest near one of these thin spots and watch the other world. Sometimes the membrane is completely transparent, other days cloudy or even opaque. It’s never been obvious why.
Sometimes pieces of the other place come through, little bits of matter or pulses of energy. A few nights ago, a vision came.
It’s evening, and Aziraphale is munching on some fruit, holding it between the four thick digits on the right hand of his top-most pair of arms. His legs and second pair of arms cling firmly to the trunk of a tree, rough bark rubbing pleasantly against his belly. Sticky with the juices of the sweet, iridescent fruit, he’s enjoying the cool air when a signal comes through.
It starts with a strange vibration; his antennae twitch and flitter with the tingling sensation that precedes knowledge of the future. Still, he’s never quite prepared for it when he gets a message, hearing a thing that will happen or seeing a thing that might be.
Tickling all of his extremities, it’s static at first, as it dances across his soft, fuzzy wings. Then it flows through his whole body, cold and electric. Impressions accompany the sensations, images of intelligent creatures dying in a terrible disaster. Although he would mourn for them regardless of their intelligence, Aziraphale notes it nonetheless. They are sentient beings.
He witnesses a large structure collapsing into a river. The creatures seem trapped, unable to fly, or both, and their screams echo in the icy dark.
The images taste sour, which means they aren't guaranteed to come about. He could be wrong; he could always be wrong. These could be inevitable, ineffable events, but he has to try. If no one else will save these strange creatures, Aziraphale hopes to. Although he never interacts, Aziraphale has traveled to their home before, observed them from afar, and he doesn't want them to suffer.
It’s clear that if he doesn't help—if he does nothing—many will die.
Underneath all the suffering there's a bright, warm light. Something good awaits him if he intervenes to save them, although he cannot yet say what.
As the vision fades, Aziraphale drops the fruit, and it hits the brush below the tree with a thud dulled beneath the crunch of leaves. Apparently he’d been squeezing the pit of the fruit hard, leaving an indent on the tips of his digits.
It’s not really a choice. Stay where he is supposed to belong but has never quite fit, live a comfortable yet boring life, perhaps hatch some children. Or travel to another dimension, where the lifestyle is foreign and everything is new.
Arms and head first, Aziraphale eases his body through the stretchy membrane, keeping his wings tucked in close. At first it bulges out and looks like a bubble, surface tension holding out as long as it can. Once a tear forms it keeps spreading wider until he can pass fully through.
A moment later, he stands on the other side, unfolding his wings in a completely different forest than his home. The membrane heals quickly, knitting itself together until no one could tell anything slipped through. Aziraphale spends a moment assessing his surroundings. The trees look young, and many of them have shed their leaves for the season. It’s gray and cold.
Aziraphale’s big, black eyes search urgently for anyone who might listen.