The light faded and left him, like a door being closed in the depths of the night, sheltering a lamp behind. Aziraphale looked after it for a long time. When he found he could move again, it was slow and jerky. Unpracticed and undeveloped.
He looked about The Bookshop. Nothing had changed. Nothing but the feeling of being utterly, and completely, alone. It was like... It was... being cut away from an endless, ageless tie after a million years. And... It broke his heart.
He suddenly felt very empty, and, seeking comfort anywhere he might find it, he wandered among the shelves and shelves of books. They had changed when the boy replaced them. Some the same, but many, very, different. Some he'd never even heard of, and oddly, that pleased him greatly.
Slowly, he'd begun to sell what he'd been granted and buy back what he could find of what he'd had. But every so often, Aziraphale found one which was worth taking a second look at. Like this one, he decided, removing a small, neatly bound book from where it was wedged between two much thicker tomes. It was covered in leather. Red as the apple-candles he'd used in the circle. On it's cover was inscribed in unnecessarily curled letters, "Would You Believe I Can't Remember?"*
Blinking at it, he allowed himself a small, half hearted smile, and took his meager prize to the back room, where he settled a few minutes later on the bed with a cup of hot cocoa.
The cocoa, in and of itself, was a rather good omen for the book. Most frequently, whenever he felt the urge to make the thick silk textured drink** he completely forgot it even existed by the fourth page. It seemed it might be a romance. Or a comedy. Neither of which were particularly Aziraphale's fancy. However, the best thing at the moment, he decided, was not to think about it.
Any of it.
Or he might well and truly go crazy. And that was the last thing he wanted. It wasn't as though he'd had some lovely connection with Heaven and the ineffable, which he was at pains without. It was the knowledge that things were about to change for him.
And that they were about to change, a lot.
~*~*~*~
Crowley frowned at the phone. Debating.
Since the Almost-Apocalypse he'd put distance between himself and his angel. Hold on. Did he just think 'his'? No, bugger, not HIS angel. THE angel. Damn it all. He was quite convinced that it was simply because he'd had quite enough of the Other Side for a d'cade or so, thank you. And that while Hell was pretending he didn't exist at the moment, he knew they'd be poking up to give him some embarrassing punishment sooner or later, and he had no intention of letting Aziraphale have the pleasure of smirking behind those damnamable spectacles of his about it.
When the truth might have been, that after several thousand years, he was finally running out of excuses about why he didn't actually mind that smirk or those spectacles at all.
~*~*~*~
Aziraphale sneezed.
It was a small, quiet sneeze, which for all the world might be described as cute. And he blinked, looking wide eyed before him as though he might catch a glimpse of the offending sniffle. But after a moment, he gave up, and took another sip of his cocoa.
It was alright, and the book had a surprisingly addictive quality to it. He was just beginning to forget that he was so troubled when the tele rang. Disrupting the silence and scaring him half to death.
To death. Yes. That was right. He *could* die now, couldn't he?
But, never the less, he stood, shrugging off the blankets wrapping his slender form and setting the small volume carefully down beside the hot chocolate before dashing across the room to the counter and answering.
"Good," quick check of the watch, "Evening?"
"Angel."
Zira felt his heart jump. Oh dear. That wasn't exactly the reaction he was supposed to have, was it? His pause seemed to upset the being on the other end, who tried again.
"Aziraphale."
"Yes." He admitted to an all too farmiliar voice for the second time that day.
Now the hesitation stemmed from the other end of the line.
"Crowley?"
"Lookit." Came the brisk sound of the demon's voice. "It's been a bit, hasn't it? It gets boring with no one to pester. From the Other Side, I mean. Meet me at the Ritz at, 3, maybe?"
The former angel nearly choaked, causing a pause he could readily identify as an arched eyebrow from the other end. "Uhm. You know, I, don't think-"
"Angel." He was interrupted. "What is wrong?"
It was quite deftly disguised as irritation. Even Crowely was somewhat unaware that it was, in fact, actual concern.
"Not a thing, Dear boy." Aziraphale answered too quickly. Then blinked in surprise. He'd... just lied. Admittedly not very well, but it was a lie none the less.
"Angel." The tone from the other end of the tele warned him that this fact had just skipped right over Crowley's head, and that he was, apparently, in no mood for games.
And so he sighed and made another attempt. "I just. Get rather tired of the Ritz. I mean. Don't you? We've been at it for so long and all and..."
An unimpressed silence.
"And yes, I have something on my mind. Angel business, my dear."
It seemed to do.
"Alright." The demon conceded, "So the Ritz is old. I know a, nice, place. I'm not sure if you've been yet. Meet me at my flat at 2:30 and we'll go together. Sound alright?"
"Yes. Yes, quite." He agreed.
"Good. See you then. Ciao."
And the reciver went dead.
Typical Crowley.
Aziraphale made up his mind right then, that under no circumstances was he going to tell the demon what had happened. Because telling him what had happened, would mean telling him why. And he couldn't tell him why. For the briefest of moments he wondered why it was he couldn't. But the answer came unwelcomingly quick: It would hurt the demon. Maybe just a little. But it would hurt. To know his companion, and, perhaps, friend, had suffered on his account. And besides... Aziraphale was proud.
You might never have known it, beneath the course suit, and the perfectly manicured nails, and the prim and proper British attitude, there still lay the battle angel of old. Who had held a flaming sword, and done battle in the name of the Lord and His people. Who would never submit. And who would not, could not, admit, how utterly helpless he had become over the course of a few seconds.
Now there was only one problem left.
How on earth would he get to Crowley's flat, when he barely knew where it was?
~TBC~
*Who said shameless promotion for friend? Mee?? O,o Ne'er I say!
**Mixed from actual powdered chocolate, and a lot of it, milk, and a single, crushed, raspberry. It made the entire thing much more enjoyable in his opinion.
He looked about The Bookshop. Nothing had changed. Nothing but the feeling of being utterly, and completely, alone. It was like... It was... being cut away from an endless, ageless tie after a million years. And... It broke his heart.
He suddenly felt very empty, and, seeking comfort anywhere he might find it, he wandered among the shelves and shelves of books. They had changed when the boy replaced them. Some the same, but many, very, different. Some he'd never even heard of, and oddly, that pleased him greatly.
Slowly, he'd begun to sell what he'd been granted and buy back what he could find of what he'd had. But every so often, Aziraphale found one which was worth taking a second look at. Like this one, he decided, removing a small, neatly bound book from where it was wedged between two much thicker tomes. It was covered in leather. Red as the apple-candles he'd used in the circle. On it's cover was inscribed in unnecessarily curled letters, "Would You Believe I Can't Remember?"*
Blinking at it, he allowed himself a small, half hearted smile, and took his meager prize to the back room, where he settled a few minutes later on the bed with a cup of hot cocoa.
The cocoa, in and of itself, was a rather good omen for the book. Most frequently, whenever he felt the urge to make the thick silk textured drink** he completely forgot it even existed by the fourth page. It seemed it might be a romance. Or a comedy. Neither of which were particularly Aziraphale's fancy. However, the best thing at the moment, he decided, was not to think about it.
Any of it.
Or he might well and truly go crazy. And that was the last thing he wanted. It wasn't as though he'd had some lovely connection with Heaven and the ineffable, which he was at pains without. It was the knowledge that things were about to change for him.
And that they were about to change, a lot.
~*~*~*~
Crowley frowned at the phone. Debating.
Since the Almost-Apocalypse he'd put distance between himself and his angel. Hold on. Did he just think 'his'? No, bugger, not HIS angel. THE angel. Damn it all. He was quite convinced that it was simply because he'd had quite enough of the Other Side for a d'cade or so, thank you. And that while Hell was pretending he didn't exist at the moment, he knew they'd be poking up to give him some embarrassing punishment sooner or later, and he had no intention of letting Aziraphale have the pleasure of smirking behind those damnamable spectacles of his about it.
When the truth might have been, that after several thousand years, he was finally running out of excuses about why he didn't actually mind that smirk or those spectacles at all.
~*~*~*~
Aziraphale sneezed.
It was a small, quiet sneeze, which for all the world might be described as cute. And he blinked, looking wide eyed before him as though he might catch a glimpse of the offending sniffle. But after a moment, he gave up, and took another sip of his cocoa.
It was alright, and the book had a surprisingly addictive quality to it. He was just beginning to forget that he was so troubled when the tele rang. Disrupting the silence and scaring him half to death.
To death. Yes. That was right. He *could* die now, couldn't he?
But, never the less, he stood, shrugging off the blankets wrapping his slender form and setting the small volume carefully down beside the hot chocolate before dashing across the room to the counter and answering.
"Good," quick check of the watch, "Evening?"
"Angel."
Zira felt his heart jump. Oh dear. That wasn't exactly the reaction he was supposed to have, was it? His pause seemed to upset the being on the other end, who tried again.
"Aziraphale."
"Yes." He admitted to an all too farmiliar voice for the second time that day.
Now the hesitation stemmed from the other end of the line.
"Crowley?"
"Lookit." Came the brisk sound of the demon's voice. "It's been a bit, hasn't it? It gets boring with no one to pester. From the Other Side, I mean. Meet me at the Ritz at, 3, maybe?"
The former angel nearly choaked, causing a pause he could readily identify as an arched eyebrow from the other end. "Uhm. You know, I, don't think-"
"Angel." He was interrupted. "What is wrong?"
It was quite deftly disguised as irritation. Even Crowely was somewhat unaware that it was, in fact, actual concern.
"Not a thing, Dear boy." Aziraphale answered too quickly. Then blinked in surprise. He'd... just lied. Admittedly not very well, but it was a lie none the less.
"Angel." The tone from the other end of the tele warned him that this fact had just skipped right over Crowley's head, and that he was, apparently, in no mood for games.
And so he sighed and made another attempt. "I just. Get rather tired of the Ritz. I mean. Don't you? We've been at it for so long and all and..."
An unimpressed silence.
"And yes, I have something on my mind. Angel business, my dear."
It seemed to do.
"Alright." The demon conceded, "So the Ritz is old. I know a, nice, place. I'm not sure if you've been yet. Meet me at my flat at 2:30 and we'll go together. Sound alright?"
"Yes. Yes, quite." He agreed.
"Good. See you then. Ciao."
And the reciver went dead.
Typical Crowley.
Aziraphale made up his mind right then, that under no circumstances was he going to tell the demon what had happened. Because telling him what had happened, would mean telling him why. And he couldn't tell him why. For the briefest of moments he wondered why it was he couldn't. But the answer came unwelcomingly quick: It would hurt the demon. Maybe just a little. But it would hurt. To know his companion, and, perhaps, friend, had suffered on his account. And besides... Aziraphale was proud.
You might never have known it, beneath the course suit, and the perfectly manicured nails, and the prim and proper British attitude, there still lay the battle angel of old. Who had held a flaming sword, and done battle in the name of the Lord and His people. Who would never submit. And who would not, could not, admit, how utterly helpless he had become over the course of a few seconds.
Now there was only one problem left.
How on earth would he get to Crowley's flat, when he barely knew where it was?
~TBC~
*Who said shameless promotion for friend? Mee?? O,o Ne'er I say!
**Mixed from actual powdered chocolate, and a lot of it, milk, and a single, crushed, raspberry. It made the entire thing much more enjoyable in his opinion.