Comments - Well, my friends, this site is gradually grating on my nerves. OK, no-one is perfect and everything and I respect that they have a lot of traffic, but the endless dehabilitating pop-ups and lack of upload-ability are really...
I will not rant. I won't.
Anyway, here it is, a little late as usual. Trust me, there will be more to come and at more regular intervals as I am now not working everyday :D
Chapter Three
"Hey Az. I'm presuming you're in bed or reading a book or doing something else inane, so when you get this, give me a call, OK? I've got a bottle of wine sat here with our names on it. So call, OK?"
"You need to get a new answering machine, Aziraphale, if you didn't get my message. Call me when you get this."
"Aziraphale? Look, I know you're there… Just answer the ruddy phone, will you?"
"Come on angel, answer the phone. Are you mad at me or something? Gads, how am I supposed to talk to a damn ansaphone? … just pick up!"
"Angel? Are you there? … Come on, please Az, pick up the phone. … I'm coming round, OK?"
"…Hello?" he called quickly into the receiver, hoping the ring-off tone wouldn't sound. To his relief, and dismay, the connection stayed.
"Angel!" The tone of Crowley's voice was both annoyed and strangely relieved. "Where the he- on Earth have you been?"
Aziraphale opened his mouth, debated his chances on re-entering Heaven if he lied, and then was saved by an almost-panicking demon.
"I've been calling you for hours and you don't pick up the phone – I thought something had happened! I am getting you a ruddy cellphone, are you hearing me angel? And I'll give it an annoying ringtone!"
"Crow-"
"Honestly, we nearly have the end of the world, and then you don't answer your phone for hours – what am I going to think? Well!"
"Cr-"
"I left loads of messages on your answering machine, you can't tell me you didn't get them! Did it not occur to you to call me at all? When I specificall-"
"Crowley!" Aziraphale called loudly into the receiver, moving the earpiece from his ear so that the piercing tirade was not harming his eardrums. When a celestial being wanted to be heard, they didn't even have to strain their pinkie. Not that Crowley, as a demon, would ever admit to having a pinkie. He'd have a small finger, damn it, possibly dipped in three-chocolate sauce.
"What?"
"I just wanted you to stop yelling."
"Oh."
"So," Aziraphale replied, sitting down on the stool behind the counter. Rubbing a hand over his face, he yawned, feeling like someone had dragged him backwards through a hedge, pulped the remains and sucked it through a straw. Or maybe he was just tired. "You wanted to talk to me."
"Er, yes."
"…What about?"
"Let me think – you interrupted me," the demon replied, a hint of biting reproach in the words. Aziraphale couldn't resist retorting.
"Well sorry if I didn't want my ears blown off by your dulcet tones, my dear."
"Sarcasm, Az? I didn't think you knew how."
"Must you call me by that infer- stupid nickname? I sound like a seventeen-year-old thick-brained gang-member." He could almost hear Crowley's answering smirk, so he continued. He was tired, damnit, and his bed was looking more inviting by the minute. "So, you rang me up to break my eardrums, threaten me with the most annoying product you invented this century, insult my sense of humour and call me by some ridiculous monosyllabic moniker?"
"Good grief, angel, what has got into you?" Crowley actually sounded surprised. "Right, I'm gonna grab some of that vintage '57 I've got lying around…"
"Actually Crowley, I was going to go to bed," Aziraphale replied, closing his register and leaning forwards. He pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand as he'd seen some humans do, but it didn't seem to help much.
"Oh."
"Yeah, so if you don't mind…"
"I'll take you to breakfast then," Crowley jumped in with a tone that brooked no protestations. "That little café in St James with the bacon sandwich you like. Pick you up, say nine o'clock?"
Aziraphale sighed quietly. "Fine. Night Crowley."
"Goodnight angel."
"…This is your morning wake-up call, it is nine o'clock and I am your host, A.J. Crowley! Thank you for tuning into our station, it is a bright and beautiful Wednesday morning and it's a good day to be alive! Next up, we have 'It's a Sin', that old favourite by the Pet Shop Boys-"
"Crowley, shut the fuck up." Azriaphale lifted his head above the pillow slightly to glare at his demonic antagonist, before giving in and dropping it back to the soft warm bed. "And stop grinning – you're making my plants suicidal."
"Swearing?" Crowley checked his watch. "That's a new personal best, angel. Blasphemy before one o'clock. Get up, or have you completely forgotten you promised you'd have breakfast with me?"
Aziraphale commented mentally that he was sure he hadn't promised as such as he staggered into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. Dripping, he grabbed a towel and glanced at his reflection in the mirror, then glanced away just as quickly. His eyes looked bizarre now they were just blue, and instinctively (six thousand years having taken their toll) he expected the bright unbelievable colour they were, no matter how many times he saw his reflection.
He shook his shoulders and shooed Crowley out of his bedroom, shirking on some clothes.
Outside, the demon leant against the wall nonchalantly, waiting almost as if he had all the time in the world. His expression was one of utmost serenity (with just enough of a hint of malice to avoid being angelic), hiding his personal musings. Though he would maim and torture anyone who even looked like they were going to say it, he was, to be honest (a rare trait in a demon), worried.
There, he'd said it now. In the privacy of his head, that was.
But the thing was that he had good reason. He'd lived around the angel on and off for most of human history, and he'd never seen him quite like this. He'd seen him sad, pained, bored, happy, nervous, panicked, disappointed, annoyed, angry – the lot. But listless? Lonely? Tired? Depressed?
Never. Angels didn't do depression. It was probably bad for their halos or something.
As Aziraphale opened the door, he stood up from his slouch.
"Take your time," he said lightly, hoping for some sort of response. To his dismay, the angel just sighed and walked down the stairs, not even bothering to see if he would follow.
They got out of the shop in silence (though Aziraphale's eyebrows rose when he saw that Crowley had unlocked the door, instead of just smashing the windowpane as usual).
They got into the car in silence.
They drove in silence.
Well, Puccini's 'Innuendo' could hardly be classed as silence, but they didn't talk.
At all.
Crowley frowned, glancing sidelong at the angel sharing his Bentley. By now they'd have argued about his speed, or swerved to miss some 'on-coming innocent' by now, even on their off-days. Heck, even when they'd had that long dispute about the witch-burnings, Aziraphale had insulted the cut of his ruff.
But silence?
Damn he was worried. Really worried.
He pulled the car effortlessly into the parking space, not even bothering to do it badly in his agitation. Well, some poor sod's day just got less-awful. Shame, but it couldn't be helped.
They got out in silence.
It was really starting to grate on Crowley's nerves.
"Sss-" He cleared his throat, and continued. "So, 'bagels and sophistication', or 'bacon and fried'?"
Azriaphale shrugged. Crowley decided that someone Downstairs had probably invented the movement - it was so damned annoying.
"Bacon it is then," Crowley stated, pocketing his keys with the sure-fire knowledge that no-one would dare steal his car.
They didn't walk in silence, but this was only because Crowley decided to take out his anger by yelling at a few offensive (and inoffensive) drivers/pedestrians/pigeons, in between trying to start a conversation all by himself.
They took a corner seat in the small café, sliding into the plastic chairs in silence. Crowley snapped his fingers to attract the waitress' attention. Finally, as he finished ordering them both some food, he put down the menu. He stared at his nemesis-come friend. He took of his sunglasses.
Wait…
He took off his sunglasses.
With a quick flick of his hand that stopped people from looking too closely at him (though the all-night-diner was of the kind where no-one really looks at anyone so that they didn't a) recognise them in a line-up, b) noticing something they didn't want to see (for example shifty eyes) or c) come down from the peculiar chemical high they were experiencing), he leant forwards.
The momentous occasion finally caught the angel's attention. Finally.
"You've taken your sunglasses off." Aziraphale frowned, glancing around. "Won't someone notice?"
"There is a reason no-one notices demons, angel. It's called magic."
"Really?"
Crowley shrugged, then mentally blasphemed and tried to turn it into a roll of the shoulders. "Might as well."
"Oh."
"I ordered you a cocoa and some toast," Crowley ventured. He was losing the angel's attention again. "With butter. And jam."
"Thanks."
"This isn't the best place for a chat admittedly, so I thought we'd eat and then go for a walk in St James-" he looked at the downcast face of the ex-angel and continued flawlessly, "then we could jump in the fountain, get soaking wet, run around throwing grass down each others tops before flopping down and settling in for some good plain temptation."
He finished stirring his coffee and took a sip, grimaced and subtly adjusted the bitterness of the tepid liquid.
He waited.
"…What!"
"Thought that might get your attention," he commented coolly, sitting back. "I've been talking to, sorry, at you for the past half an hour, I nearly killed three small children on the way here, I took my sunglasses off and I just suggested we both 'do the deed'. Somehow, I expected more of a reply than that."
There was a short, almost embarrassing pause as the innocent waitress lay plates and mugs in front of them, before moving off to serve someone else.
"I've a lot on my mind," Aziraphale replied vaguely, poking at his toast as if it had insulted his great-grandfather and had then spontaneously combusted into a small, toast-shaped mess.
"I hadn't noticed," Crowley drawled sarcastically. "Look, do you want to talk about it, or are we going to sit in this go-ruddy awful café for another twenty minutes while you pretend to eat and I pretend to not notice, followed by me driving you back to your bookshop and going and getting myself completely sloshed?"
"There is nothing to talk about," the angel stated, pushing the plate out of his personal space. It was an affront to bread everywhere. "I'm tired and got a lot to think about at the moment."
"You slept about twelve hours last night and by the look on your face, there's nothing of any importance going through that head of yours," Crowley hissed bluntly. "You forget, angel-"
"I am not an angel!" Aziraphale exploded, leaping up. Thanks to Crowley's intervention, none of the patrons noticed, though the blonde's shout was enough to make even the mice think twice about coming out of the security of their home under the cupboard. "In case you hadn't noticed, Crowley, my wings were clipped the other day. I am most entirely not angel, so stop it with your pet-names!"
'Well, at least he's talking,' the demon thought to himself absently as he stood to face his friend.
"Surprisingly, I had noticed that you were sitting practically comatose, and I think I noticed that I carried you to bed so maybe I have noticed that you're currently wingless! But will you just tell me what exactly it is that I have done that makes you act like I'm less than dirt on the bottom of your shoe?"
"I don't think that." The words would've been soft and comforting, but the mood wasn't right, so they sounded more begrudging than anything else.
"Then why are you acting like it?"
"You wouldn't understand," Aziraphale replied quietly, glancing once at Crowley's face before looking away again.
"What wouldn't I underssstand?" Crowley asked, still fired up. "Is it the pain in your back that feelss like it's on fire when you know full well it isssn't? The way you feel like ssomeone cut off your arms and still expects you to feed yourself? Is it the way you want to crawl back and beg, plead for anything – anything! – that would make them give it back? The lonelinessss, the crippling loneliness that feels like your entire world is ssilent and empty and nothing seems to fill the hole?" Crowley swept his sunglasses off the table and placed them over his eyes in the manner of one buckling on armour. He was breathing heavily – he must've picked that up from the humans – as he turned to leave.
"You're right, Aziraphale," Crowley spat, not daring to look at his friend. "I'd know nothing about that."
Mouth open slightly, Aziraphale just watched the demon go, not noticing that he was drawing attention from the now curious patrons. He felt like he'd just been punched in the gut, and he felt cold – the words burying themselves in his mind, resonating with the rare emotion he'd just heard, and the realisation of how big a fool he'd been.
Listlessly, he dropped into the plastic chair, staring unseeingly at the cold plate of toast sitting forlornly on the discoloured table surface.