MineGeorgi: Hmm . . . this seems to be sounding different than to how I'd planned in my head. Does some of it feel rushed to you? Oh! And can someone tell me how to properly insert the footnote symbol on please? It won't transfer properly to look like it does in the Word document, so I had to make do with brackets. Oh, well. All will become clear soon, folks!
Aziraphale wandered through the streets in an almost drunken state. The signposts and street names he passed gave him no further inkling as to where he could be; indeed all he could figure out was that it was a rather quiet, pleasant place.
His physical senses, those that belonged to his body, told him that the air was clean, the pavements uncracked, the grass unlittered, and that his feet were beginning to hurt. His angelic senses, however, told him that all was right with the world. There were low levels of sin in this area, but much higher was the overall aura of contentment. It reminded him of Tadfield.
And then he realised what it was that really disconcerted him. This was a good place. Even though Crowley was here.
He leant against a wall to steady himself. He couldn't deal with the world turning upside down on him all of a sudden like this.
Across the road he spotted a quaint little tea shop.
Deciding that there was still one thing left in the world he would trust to never let him down, he went in.
Anthony Crowley, Business and Financial Manager of Phale&Crowley Goods, finally stumbled into Madam Crup's Teashop at half past eleven, his shirt still only half done up and one shoe unlaced.
Aziraphale looked up from a table in the corner, teacup in hand, where he had been reading a newspaper to try and glean some information as to where he was.(1) The distraught expression Anthony had seen earlier now appeared again on Aziraphale's face as he hurried over.
He dropped into a chair opposite the angel, looking quite harassed, and rather worried. This, more than anything, unnerved Aziraphale.
"Look," said the person who looked like Crowley but couldn't possibly be Crowley even though every sense Aziraphale owned was telling him it was Crowley, "is it something I've done?"
Aziraphale stared at the impostor for a while, then hung his head. He didn't now what to think. Not even tea could help here.
". . . how did you find me?" he mumbled to the tablecloth.
A small smile graced the other's features. Aziraphale finally realised what else had been bothering him since he'd walked through the door. Crowley wasn't wearing sunglasses, and the eyes that looked imploringly at him now were normal, but so abnormal to Aziraphale. His distress almost escaped his lips as a sob.
"Mrs Crup called me, love. You worried her, coming here in only your pyjamas. She said you downed five cups of tea straight after the other." The smile faded, and was replaced by a look of honest concern. "Love, are you alright?"
Aziraphale sat, frozen. The situation was just too surreal.
The impostor held out a hand.
"C'mon," he said. "Let's get you home."
1) He'd found out he was in Burlsbury, which didn't help because he had no idea where that was either.
Aziraphale found himself being pushed gently but firmly towards the embrace of an open wardrobe, back in the room he had woken up in. Anthony – as he'd insistently reminded Aziraphale was his name – left him with instructions to change into something nice for lunch, to be quick because 'they' would be here any minute, and a promise to talk with him about why he was upset as soon as they got a minute alone together.
Aziraphale couldn't say he cared much for the clothing he was faced with. None of it was tartan, or even a recognisably late nineteenth century fashion. He picked up the suit Anthony had first pulled out for him. It looked streamlined.
He made a few adjustments, and put it on. Somewhere downstairs a doorbell rang. A door was opened, and then closed. A few greetings rang through the house, and then the sound of Crowley ushering everyone into the living room.
Looking in the mirror, Aziraphale made a few more changes. Well, a few dozen, perhaps.
Then he went downstairs.
He approached the living room door cautiously and lifted a hand to knock, before realising it might be more appropriate to just enter. He did so.
Six faces turned in his direction and all the chatter died. Aziraphale wrung his hands nervously. From the corner of his eye he saw Crowley bury his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with some unknown emotion.
"Anthony," a young girl sitting on the floor broke the silence, "you know your boyfriend's an absolute poofter, right?"
Aziraphale opened his mouth to sharply reprimand the girl and explain to her that he and Crowley were not involved in such a way, but a bark of laughter halted him.
"That's right." Anthony was doubled up laughter, his eyes shining with amusement. He turned to Aziraphale and gestured to his suit. "You must have been hiding that thing for weeks! And after I spent all that money trying to rehabilitate you for your tartan addiction!" He continued to chuckle and patted a spot on the sofa next to him. Aziraphale sat, feeling even more disjointed from reality.
Things made a little more sense now, but in a disturbing, end of the world kind of way.
Crowley had called him 'love' in the tea shop. He seemed to think they were in a relationship, and so did all these people around him. This wasn't . . . fair.
He wasn't sure where that last thought had come from, but suddenly it seemed oddly fitting. He was in a strange place surrounded by strange people and the only familiar person in all of it was a complete stranger.
"It's not fair," he found himself whisper, but the statement was lost amid the conversation that floated around him.
He kept quiet, and daren't meet anyone's gaze.
After about fifteen minutes, Crowley's hand grasped his own, and Aziraphale's eyes were met with a reassuring smile. It really was too much.
He cried out, a strangled, hurt sob of indignation at the Universe and pulled away as Crowley reached out for him.
"A-Azira . . .?"
He batted away Crowley's hands and pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve to dab at his eyes. He felt truly miserable.
Crowley was making apologies on his behalf now, asking the others to excuse his boyfriend's behaviour as he really wasn't feeling well. He stood, and pulled Aziraphale with him, out of the room.
In the hallway the world felt less dense and Aziraphale finally felt like he could breathe freely. Crowley was shaking him, asking if he really was ill, if he wanted a drink or anything like that.
Aziraphale held up a hand to silence him. He fixed Crowley with a look as close to a glare as he could muster.
"Crowley. What. Is. Going. On?" He enunciated each word carefully and kept his tone sharp, trying unsuccessfully to convey a sense of 'No more funny business'.
"I. Don't. Know." Crowley shot back.
"Why are you doing this, Crowley? Or has someone else done this to you? Why are you human? And why are you acting so strangely?"
"I wasn't aware I was. And for goodness' sake why do you insist on calling me by my last name. We've known each for so l-"
"Exactly!" exclaimed Aziraphale. "We've known each other a very long time indeed. Over six thousand years, and that's just since time was invented!"
Crowley's eyes went wide. ". . . Have you gone insane, Azira?"
"No, I most certainly have not, dear boy!"
"Well, you sound like you have."
Aziraphale huffed in irritation.
The two glowered at each other for several minutes. The angel was shocked to find that Crowley crumbled first.
"Look, you know I'll always cave in if there's something you want, but you only have to ask. You don't need to pull a stunt like this . . ." Crowley sighed, looking a bit dejected and Aziraphale immediately felt ashamed. He patted Crowley's shoulder in a vague gesture of comfort, not quite sure what else he could do.
"Listen," he said. "You're human now, so I don't expect you to understand all this. Quite how you became human is something of a mystery to me, but I'm sure we can get it fixed. I-"
"Please don't," Crowley muttered. "I've heard enough rubbish." He flashed a glare at Aziraphale. "You could have at least waited until my family were gone. They're putting me through enough hell as it is already!"
He really . . . doesn't remember, Aziraphale realised. He really is a stranger to me. Or rather, he would have laughed bitterly if Crowley weren't there; I'm the stranger to him!
A sudden sadness overwhelmed him and again the unfairness of it all struck him in the face. Crowley didn't remember being a demon. He didn't remember Aziraphale was an angel . . .
An idea occurred to him. It was a desperate, far-fetched and maybe even a foolish idea, but if it made Crowley remember then he didn't care.
He grabbed Crowley's arm to tow him up the stairs, but found said arm wrenched from his grip angrily.
"What now?"
"I need to . . . I need to show you something. But it's best if we're not disturbed."
Crowley looked at him suspiciously. It was obvious he didn't believe him, and that hurt Aziraphale even more.
The hurt must have shown on his face though, because Crowley sighed wearily and agreed to go up with him, but only for a moment otherwise his family would start to think they were being rude on purpose.
Aziraphale practically bounded up the stairs in his hurry, Crowley following.
Once in the bedroom Aziraphale cast around uncertainly, before closing the curtains and telling Crowley to sit on the bed.
He gave him a worried smile.
And unfolded his wings.
