When he came to, Andrew Lloyd Webber's 'Variations 1-4' was playing quietly in the distance. He was lying down again, and his first thought was to check he wasn't on the floor. He wasn't.
He was actually rather comfy considering he felt like his bones had turned to lead and his skin had been pulled off his body, thrown under a bus, dragged backwards through a hedge and then haphazardly sewn back on. Without anaesthetic.
He wondered if he should groan. He'd heard it was usual practise in these sorts of circumstances (or read anyway), and he did rather feel like it.
Aziraphale groaned. It didn't make him feel any better.
However, someone was listening, and so when he opened his eyes, they focused blearily on the little bedside table he recognised from his room. Oh, so he was in bed. That made sense.
He blinked. A cup of something hot appeared, sitting on the little table innocently as if it had been there all along.
"Here, it'll make you feel better," Crowley said, lifting the conjured cocoa and watching as the angel sat up slowly. Once he was sure that Aziraphale was as comfortable as he was going to get, he passed it across. Sipping cautiously, he found it was, as usual, perfect temperature – warm enough to warm him and yet cool enough not to burn his tongue.
"Thanks," he muttered eventually. Then he looked down.
"Where's my shirt!" He paused, and then in even more perturbed tones, "And my trousers!" He looked up at the demon currently sprawled over an expensive chair he'd never seen before, the epitome of relaxation and suave sophistication.
"Your shirt would've rubbed against your back," the demon replied evenly. "Honestly Az, you should invest in silk. What use is it being six thousand years old when you wear threadbare cotton all the time?"
"Humility is a virtue," Aziraphale replied automatically. Then, hearing what he'd actually said, he coughed, his throat feeling strangely constricted.
"Anyway," Crowley continued, studying his nails, "Do you usually wear trousers in bed?"
"I don't actually need to sleep, Crowley," Aziraphale pointed out.
"Oh," Crowley drawled, looking over the top of his sunglasses to meet thin-irised, yellow ones with his. "That's why this thing is so worn in. Because no-one's ever slept in it. Right."
Aziraphale couldn't even find the heart for a proper glare. He just sipped some more cocoa, still thankfully maintaining temperature. He wondered briefly if it could be considered a sin to drink demon-make cocoa, but the light-hearted humour was sinking as his mind finally started to wrap itself around the realisation.
His wings were clipped. He was no longer an angel.
He was, for lack of a better word, indeterminate. They had obviously deemed that what he'd done was not harsh enough for a Fall, but was that really any worse? At least then he'd be on a side, so to speak. Like this, he was alone.
Alone.
The word echoed in his mind. It was so true though. Usually, an angel's head was so full of thoughts, prayers, the whispering presence of holiness at the back of the mind – reassuring and comforting. But it wasn't there any more. After six thousand years, he suddenly realised just how silent the world could be. How lonely.
He shivered. Or at least, he guessed what that strange shudder was, the feeling of cold electricity tickling your spine provoking the reaction. He'd never shivered before – angels didn't shiver. They didn't feel cold or pain. They didn't get lonely.
"Az?"
He looked up. Crowley was looking at him, that indecipherable look he sometimes wore, and though his shades perfectly covered his eyes, he seemed to be looking straight at him, and into him.
"I'm alright," he replied quickly, finishing his cocoa. He couldn't hold that gaze for long, though he couldn't understand it. Over six thousand years he had only felt this uncomfortable around the demon a few times, mostly when they were still trying to get used to the Arrangement, and normally, it had been when Crowley had suddenly, casually announced something shocking, like having to skip country to start an Inquisition or two. The demon acted so, well, normal around him that these splurges of evil he had seemed almost out of character. Not completely of course, he knew perfectly well that Crowley was capable of causing low-grade harm, but the bigger stuff?
He realised his mind was babbling. He told it to shut up and let him think.
"Well, I appreciate this Crowley," Aziraphale began, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and placing the empty mug on the bedside table. "But I have got to get this shop sorted, as it's now my only source of income. I dread to think what's happened to the stocklists…."
"Right," Crowley replied abruptly, standing in a swathe of perfectly tailored black leather. "I'll see you around."
"OK."
For a moment, both of them avoided looking at each other, feeling something had to be said. Then, turning, Crowley settled for slamming the door. Not enough to be painful to the ears or entirely angry, but not quite comfortable either.
He listened as Crowley skipped down the stairs like he usually did, the tread a heavy patter even through the threadbare carpet. Then he sat back down on the bed and quite calmly rested his head in his hands.