Angel of the Morning: This Impossible Year
"Something told him that something was coming to an end. Not the world, exactly. Just the summer. There would be other summers, but there would never be one like this. Ever again.
Better make the most of it, then." —Good Omens, p. 367
The kitchen was bright, its walls bathed in muted gold. The sun continued to shine. Birds filled the early hours with their cheerful refrains. Despite all that had happened in the first half of the year, life continued beyond their sealed doors.
Aziraphale reached across the table and grasped Crowley's hand. Without looking up from his plate, the demon smiled and offered a gentle squeeze in reply.
It was a day much like any other—they had slept in, and were enjoying each other's company over a spot of breakfast. Very little had changed in their small corner of the world, and quite often, Aziraphale wasn't sure what to make of it. On one hand, rather selfishly, he missed having a sense of traditional normalcy. Petulant thoughts occasionally barged into his mind, demanding to know when an end to this misfortune would appear. Everyone, everywhere seemed to be hurting in some form or another, and on their behalf, he pined for a reprieve. But then again, on the other . . .
Sales had never been better. That is to say, they were nonexistent. Foot traffic in London, Soho had picked up in the last few months, due to tentative health safety improvements, but the doors of A.Z. Fell and Co. had remained shut. With both his beloved book collection fully intact, and his beloved demon living with him at the shop full-time, Aziraphale found he couldn't be bothered to reopen. It was premature, he told himself. The situation could worsen, plunging the nation back under full lockdown. He wanted to be part of the solution, after all—certainly not the cause of trouble.
After all, rules helped him thrive. Rules provided order. They offered stability. With their help, chaos was kept at bay, and right and wrong were clearly categorized.
Or so he had always believed.
Crowley's fork fell with a clatter. "Bollocks," he stated in a surprisingly even tone. "We're idiots, angel."
Aziraphale chuckled through a sip of coffee. "As I understand it, a myriad of beings would be inclined to agree."
Crowley brushed the deprecation aside. "No, no, I mean, about this whole pandemic business."
"Oh?" Aziraphale set his mug back down, delicately, with a hint of trepidation. "In what regard, my dear?"
There was a creak as Crowley shifted and resettled into his chair. His eyes were round, alight.
"Look, we never meddled too heavily in human affairs before. Wasn't our place—Head Office decided when we got involved, and how deeply, if you will. Now, granted, we weren't the best at following rules to begin with, but we did alright. Never changed the natural progression of things, or the course of human history. But now . . ." Crowley leaned forward, arms folded on the table. "We're unemployed, angel. We can be as involved as we like."
Aziraphale listened, quite keenly focused on his fingers twining around the handle of his mug. "What exactly are you suggesting?" he mumbled, eyes fixed on its interior.
Crowley reached up to scratch the back of his head, shrugging. He combed a few knots from his mane of auburn hair, drawing an embarrassing amount of Aziraphale's attention. "I'm not sure, really, but we can do something, angel! You said it yourself—we're not going to get ill, or spread the disease. We could go outside and do things that the humans can't. Or shouldn't, at any rate."
"And . . . what would that entail? You don't mean to go about healing people, do you?"
"Satan, no, 'course not! I didn't say 'abandon all subtly.' I just mean that . . . we could . . ." Crowley frowned."It could be like Notre Dame," he hedged. "Only properly this time."
Aziraphale winced. His heart had broken that day. Seeing such a glorious piece of history fall prey to human error . . . craftsmanship that had withstood centuries, crumbling, as the entire world watched in horror. . . . Yet, somehow, the phone call from Crowley had been an even greater shock. The demon literally could not set foot in the cathedral, yet he had rung the angel up to formulate a plan. To casually stand amongst the crowd and reduce the blaze with a miracle or two. Aziraphale had stood with the telephone receiver pressed to his ear, mouthing silently, incapable of speech. It was too much of an intervention. Head Office would never permit it, and it was too large a violation to go unnoticed. Discipline tightened its grip around his wretched heart.
I can't do it, Crowley. I simply can't.
To this day, he had no idea if the demon had journeyed to Paris without him. If he had gone through with his foolhardy attempt to lend humanity a hand. He had never asked. But now, listening to his darling serpent propose, yet again, that they step outside their normal responsibilities, or lack thereof, for the sake of humankind. . . . Emotion clogged his throat like a poorly baked scone. Something told him he had his answer.
All the while, Crowley had been studying him across the table, gauging his reaction. He rose from his seat and sauntered to the back of Aziraphale's chair. The angel beamed, defenseless in his demon's arms.
"I know it's a big ask," he crooned against Aziraphale's hair. "A break in our new status quo. I mean, don't get me wrong, angel. Having you all to myself for almost six months, with no work, no distractions, no other people popping in to speak of?" He nibbled Aziraphale's ear, grinning. "'S been like our own little slice of Eden. Rest of the world can sod off, for all I care." His lips wandered along the angel's jaw, nuzzled his neck. "But, don't you think, if we have the means to help . . . maybe we should? Every now and again?"
Aziraphale placed a hand on Crowley's forearm, caressing the skin beneath his sleeve.
"Oh, my dear."
You pathetic excuse for an angel.
How, pray tell, could he be anything else, when, of the two of them, the one who had Fallen was a far better angel than he? Crowley wasn't hesitating, nor was he second-guessing what was or was not the right thing to do. While Aziraphale felt no shame in dubbing himself the "nice" one, he wasn't Crowley. No—Crowley was good. He always had been, since the very beginning—far better than Aziraphale could ever hope to be. What he aspired to be. If he could learn to become a fraction of the angel Crowley was, then perhaps he could begin to think of himself as a success.
". . . I admire you so very much, my darling," he whispered, finishing the train of thought that had somehow found its way to his tongue, to Crowley's ears.
Crowley tensed, and, in a moment of panic, Aziraphale swiveled where he sat, in search of the demon's expression. The sheen in his golden eyes did little to assuage Aziraphale's concern.
"Angel . . ." As if the air around them had turned to molasses, Crowley slumped, slowly, until his forehead rested against Aziraphale's temple. His body trembled. "Thank you."
Heart aglow, Aziraphale cradled Crowley's face and pressed a fervent kiss to his brow, his cheek, any handsome feature on which his mouth happened to land. "Thank you, my love," he breathed.
For everything.
In time, Crowley straightened, his hands placed protectively, lovingly on Aziraphale's shoulders.
"So . . ." he began through a shuddering sigh. "Was that a yes? To the whole getting out of the house . . . thing?"
Aziraphale laughed—a hearty, genuine sound that began low in his belly, and set his corporation quivering with mirth.
"Yes, Crowley dear." He laid his head back against Crowley's torso, listening to the steady sound of his breathing. An unnecessary, utterly human habit. A grin spread across his lips. "Absolutely."
The angel and demon watched the world turn outside the bookshop window. It was impossible to say what would happen next. The only certainty to cling to was the knowledge that the future was more unforeseeable than ever. But, once again, they would do their part. Earth was partially their responsibility, theirs to cherish.
And cherish, they would.