It was a dark and stormy night (1). In the light fog, anyone gazing out a window could see a vague figure striding across the avenue, looking (presumably) straight ahead and clad in a billowing black trenchcoat. Certain people, passing by the aforementioned window, might have been reminded of a certain Chosen One from a certain movie franchise. Coming to the sidewalk, the figure surreptitiously turned his head left and right -- funny, did he look both ways after crossing the street? -- and entered through the door of one of the adjacent buildings.
Had anyone been watching the street who also happened to possess X-ray vision, they would have seen that the stranger was as inexplicable to the employees of the establishment entered. Donning sleek, impenetrable sunglasses and several layers of black, nearly sweeping the floor with the trenchcoat, the man oozed assassin. Maybe a fashionable Russian spy. No, no -- dark, tragic Renaissance man with noticeably chiseled cheekbones, clearly. A blond teenage girl at register three smiled faintly, putting her peripheral vision to good use.
The man turned suddenly, the coat swooshing behind him. The girl -- "Amanda," her nametag claimed -- immediately snapped out of her reverie and tried to look as though she hadn't just been imagining him, her, and a romantic lighthouse setting. Or tried to look intriguingly disillusioned, at least, although she wasn't quite sure exactly how that worked. All she was definitely certain of was that he was currently striding towards her.
Amanda beamed and attempted to blink coquettishly, although it came off more like she had something in her eye. "Hi! How are you?" she nearly hollered. The man ignored her, which was just as well. After being ignored by roughly 45 of customers, one got used to it. Ignorance of the cheery greeting was as much a part of the routine as the greeting itself.
She scanned the sole item and dropped it into a bag, smiling with a disgustingly large amount of pep. "That'll be five pounds."
Tossing a five-pound note onto the counter, Crowley seized the bag and walked out.
Aziraphale was brushing his teeth (2), thinking about nothing in particular and looking at himself in the mirror. He hadn't really looked at himself in a long time; he couldn't recall when he had last paid attention to the face staring at him. And why should he? It was merely a physical form; a house, if you will. Where he actually lived was somewhere inside, huddled in a corner.
He gargled with some mouthwash and, spitting, gave himself a last look in the mirror -- for some reason, it was difficult to look away. And then, in the back of his mind, it clicked into place that he didn't recognize the face there. The blond hair, combed back neatly? The round blue eyes and straight Roman nose? The small chin? The only thing he visibly recognized was the collar of his flannel pajamas, poking up from the bottom of the frame. Those were reliable pajamas. As for the rest of the image? He wasn't so sure anymore. The eyes stared at him like miniature circles of sky: blank, pale and hinting at something much bigger than the human mind could comprehend. And although Aziraphale was undeniably ethereal, one couldn't spend much more than three centuries in a human form without taking on some of its characteristics.
Padding down the hall he could have sworn he heard a soft twang of strings -- harp music, perhaps? -- but shook his head. He was overtired, undoubtedly. Franz dropping in unexpectedly had put quite a strain on his hospitality. The flat had only one bedroom, and being a gracious host he had given it up to his cousin; not that this mattered much, since he still didn't sleep all that often. But still. Franz technically didn't need to sleep either, being a employee in Purgatory's Initial Adjustment Department, but he had lived as a human for nearly forty-two years and habits were difficult to break (3). So, therefore, Aziraphale was relegated to a cup of midnight cocoa and a blanket on the couch. Well, he supposed, that was the angelic thing to do. Giving up your bed to a distant relative was exactly the right thing to do, and he shouldn't feel any twinge of ill will about it. That being said, however, he would have preferred it if Franz had called first...
There was no mistaking it this time; there definitely was music floating down the hall. And what was more, it seemed to be coming from his room. Aziraphale snuck over to the doorway and into the room, over to the radio, where the soft sounds of guitar strings emanated. He glanced at the lumpy silhouette of the bedcovers. Franz was most certainly asleep. Turning back to the radio, Aziraphale's hand was on the dial when he paused. "If Heaven and Hell..." He withdrew his hand slowly. "Decide that they both are satisfied, and illuminate the NO's on their vacancy signs... If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks, I will follow you into the dark." The song continued but Aziraphale didn't hear it, pressing hard on the switch. Well, that was a bit jarring. The angel tiptoed out of the room and closed the door quietly on the sleeping Franz, shuffling down the hall in thought.
Humans were quite tricky beings. One could spend thousands of years among them, and they still managed to turn around and surprise you. This was one of those times, Aziraphale supposed. Just the mention of Up There and Down Below had disturbed his personal sense of peace. Or of tranquility, anyway, which was nearly as good. He sat down on the couch and pondered the Crowley situation, pulling on a blanket. It had bothered him, that was undeniable. In general the entire concept of it made him feel a bit squirmy and troubled. And guilty, of course; not only for turning the demon away, but for even having acted in a way that made him think it was possible, however unconsciously.
Aziraphale glanced hesitantly at his perfectly manicured fingernails. He'd never done it himself of course, but he'd seen countless humans do it when distressed, which he most definitely was. Cautiously he brought his hand up and tried biting his nails, but it was no use. Disgusting habit. Now they were probably ruined.
Another wave of guilt washed over him. Not simply washed, in fact, than splashed him in the face and left him soaking. He was worrying about his nails, for Peter's sake, when Crowley was who-knew-where. Perhaps he had been a tad too harsh last night. There was no other way to say it, really, but Crowley had been drunk. Absurdly, obliviously, completely drunk. He probably hadn't even realized what he was doing. To think that the demon had been aware... well, the idea was preposterous. And where was Crowley now? Aziraphale was worried. The last time they'd gotten in a fight was in the fourteenth century; in the end Crowley wound up in Sicily and had been inconveniently discorporated by a man named Don. That was his recollection of the incident, anyway. For all he knew the demon could be in Egypt by now. Or his apartment, murdering poor innocent houseplants. Or Hell. And whose fault was that?
Aziraphale sat there in silence. Crowley must hate him.
Crowley hated himself.
He sat straightbacked on the cool white leather sofa, forcing himself to listen to the James Brown album he'd bought and specifically not dancing. This was his punishment.
As he leaned into the cushions the strains of "I Feel Good" floated through the flat. How ironic. James Brown might've been feeling it, but Crowly was outraged. He was a bloody idiot, wasn't he, going around and hitting on Aziraphale. Aziraphale, of all people! And, to top it off, none of it was true! That was the kicker. Sure, Crowley had kind of come on to him, but that had been done before. On multiple personae -- at one point he'd even hit on Zeus as a joke (4). But Aziraphale? The angel wore tartan, for somebody's sake. No wonder everyone thought he was a poofter.
And he didn't even know -- he didn't know that people saw him that way. Or any way, come to think of it. Aziraphale may have had angelic intelligence, but he didn't have street smarts. Obviously. He didn't know how to read people; he could feel for them, he could understand their emotions, but he could not understand them socially. A sarcastic comment about the way he said "bebop" could completely miss him. Or he could merely ignore it; he was hard to read himself sometimes. Crowley was a master of almost any social situation, but occasionally even he had difficulty distinguishing whether Aziraphale was being dumb or just ignoring what had been said. It was because he was angelic, Crowley supposed, that it was difficult to get him now and then. Most of the time Crowley simply laughed at the way he said "bebop."
Bebop. The angel was hopeless.
And so was he. He was a stupid, stupid person who enjoyed partaking in drink.
(1) Somewhat Tepid Outside, Raining Mildly, and just generally Yucky.
(2) Technically, being ethereal, he could just wish them clean, but he rather liked going about things properly.
(3) Anyone who was around him when he had a bit too much Scotch could vouch for that. He had been in an (unsuccessful) barbershop quartet in the '70s and tended to break into doo-wop routines when tipsy.
(4) The conversation went something like this:
"I heard about the cow thing -- bummer. Animal lover, eh, Z?"
"Mmm?"
"Sssnakesss your fansssy?"
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