In the beginning, Aziraphale hadn't expected to spend much time on Earth. He was an angel, after all, and angels belonged in Heaven, Doing Heavenly Deeds. Not that Heavenly Deeds could not be Done on Earth. They could, and had been, at times. But Aziraphale was fond of Heaven, of warmth and light, and song. When he'd been told he would be sent to Earth, he had stared down through the clouds, and gulped.
It was an all right world, he'd thought, but not something he'd like to get used to. Eden had been nice, but Eden was gone. And even the garden carried aching, sad little memories. Memories of the tree, and the fruit, and the poor woman who had wanted Knowledge, of all things, and of two sad little figures retreating into the distance. And, of course, the "misplacement" of Aziraphale's sword.
Could angels do wrong? he had wondered. Had he been wrong to want to help? Was this cold and sharp world to be his punishment?
But, when the time came, he took upon himself the human body that had been created for him. Once his newly created feet touched soil, they remained in that spot for a long, mesmorising time, as Aziraphale's blue eyes stared at his soft, pale hands.
He'd never had hands before. Not really.
Angels were like breath on the winds, delicate, but unbreakable. There was no form to break.
Suddenly, he felt very, very fragile.
This feeling never receded, not for the first century or so. For many years, a thin, whispy voice screamed in the back of his oh-so-human brain to shed the breakable shell of a body he had entered. But he persevered in his earthly surroundings, because he was an angel, and angels do not shirk their divine duties. Not often, anyhow.
Years later, Aziraphale would wonder if just a little shirking might have been a good idea.