Aziraphale awoke with a start.
It was dark. Dim light from the streetlamps outside cast deep shadows in the bookshop. Aziraphale's face was buried in the crook of his arm; he was slumped on his desk.
He sat up, disoriented. He didn't fall asleep often. Sleep wasn't necessary for angels, of course, though every once in a while he felt in the mood for a nap on the couch, in the sunshine. He typically felt refreshed afterwards. He didn't feel refreshed now.
The hall. The shelves. Gabriel. The orb.
His hand, the hand that had held the orb, was slack in his lap. There was something in his palm, and his heart leapt when he felt the cool glass. He brought it up to the dull light of the window.
It was a lightbulb. The one he'd been replacing.
His heart slowed. He shook the bulb, pressed his ear against it, then his cheek. No warmth. No light.
He stood and tilted the lamp towards him, rescrewing the bulb and flicking the switch. Nothing.
He unplugged the lamp and carried it across the bookshop, to another outlet. He knelt and plugged the lamp in, then tried the switch again. No light. He kept flicking the switch.
Nothing. It was out.
"Just a dream, then," he said to the empty shop.
It didn't answer him. All he heard was the sound of outside; horns and engines, people heading home in the evening rush hour traffic.
Aziraphale yanked the cord from the wall and, with a yell, threw the lamp as hard as he could down one of the shops aisles. The delicate lamp shattered and the bulb exploded into sparkling glass shards, peppering the spines of ancient books.
"What was the point?" he bellowed at the ceiling. "What was the fucking point of all that?"
In a rage, Aziraphale grabbed whatever books were nearest and hurtled them. It didn't matter where he was throwing them—he wasn't throwing them at anything in particular.
Still not satisfied, he ran to his desk and grabbed the pack of bulbs. One by one he threw them at his feet, though they didn't shatter—he'd bought the shatterproof kind. Furious, he kicked one as hard as he could, and it spun across the floor like a top.
And then the fire was out, and he collapsed in his desk chair. He grasped handfuls of his hair and leaned on the desk.
He couldn't believe he'd just done that. Screamed at Her like he was some down-on-his-luck human. Or demon. He'd pay for that, someday. He didn't care. Not at the moment, at least.
It wasn't just that he'd, in a sense, lost him again. That was bad. But it wasn't something he was unfamiliar with. Many times in the past month he had forgotten that Crowley was gone. He'd have a moment where he'd make a mental note to tell the demon something, or he'd get hungry and reach for the phone to plan a lunch, and then he'd deal with remembering. It wasn't new, that pain.
No, he had felt something else this time, and the new, unfamiliar pain was deep—almost as deep as the grief. It was the ache of a primal hope shattered. As he had run through the white expanse of Heaven, he had thought, for a few wonderful moments, that he hadn't been wrong in what he'd said to Gabriel—that this had, indeed, been a part of Her plan. That She had wanted Aziraphale to succeed. That She had wanted Crowley to live again. That She had seen the good in the demon, and what he and Aziraphale had done together. For a single, blinding moment, Aziraphale wasn't a traitor, and Crowley wasn't unforgivable.
And then, Aziraphale had woken up alone. More alone than he had been in his entire existence.
He thought about what Gabriel had said, earlier. That God had only spared Aziraphale to save his punishment for Herself. Perhaps that's all this was—Her punishment. He wondered if he would ever know. He somehow doubted it.
Perhaps one day he would see the wisdom in all of this. It was possible. But it was more possible that he wouldn't. Maybe this was simply the final cut off—they on their side, he on his. A side of a single angel.
The ringing in his ears gave way to the muffled sounds of the street outside. Aziraphale wiped his eyes, feeling foolish.
Then he froze.
There was a rustle from behind him. And then, someone spoke.
"That," said the familiar, drawling voice, "was the most terrifying thing I've ever seen."
Aziraphale twisted in his chair and saw Crowley, picking his way through the books on the floor as he circled around a bookcase. He bent down and picked up the lightbulb Aziraphale had kicked, examining it with a bemused expression. "What is this, plastic?" He put it to his mouth and bit it, then gave it an impressed look before fixating his yellow eyes back on Aziraphale.
Aziraphale stood. "You…" he said, then swallowed—the word had barely made a noise. "Where did you come from?"
Crowley blinked, then held up the lightbulb as an answer, then gestured to the book aisle behind him. "This month has been an odd one."
"Quite," Aziraphale said, turning quickly to his desk. He didn't want Crowley to see his face. "Would you like some tea, or coffee?" He started shuffling things around on his desk, just for something to do.
"Yeah, sure." There was a long pause. Aziraphale continued to organize his desk. Then Crowley spoke again. "Come on, angel, what kind of greeting is that?"
Aziraphale glanced up at him. "I need some time to process this, Crowley. I'm in shock, you know."
"C'mon." Crowley looked delighted. "You missed me, didn't you? Admit it, an angel missed a demon—"
Aziraphale's wall of reserve crumbled. In the next moment, he found himself crossing the room and embracing the lanky form. "Of course I did, you idiot," Aziraphale said tightly.
"Oh. That's good." Crowley's voice cracked.
They broke apart. Crowley looked a trifle punch-drunk. Aziraphale didn't blame him; in the six-thousand years they'd known each other, Aziraphale had restrained touching to a simple tap on the shoulder or a handshake, and even that took a while—there was a time where he'd been afraid of his hand burning up. He felt a little embarrassed at his own lack of restraint—he knew his face must be bright red—but figured that they both would get over it eventually.
Crowley had picked up a random book and was staring it with great intensity. Aziraphale walked to the desk and retrieved the pair of sunglasses from the drawer, holding them out, and Crowley dropped the book and took them. He studied the glasses for a long moment before donning them and clearing his throat. "So," Crowley finally said. "Done anything new while I was gone?"
"I very nearly changed a lightbulb." And he had broken his favourite lamp. This unpleasant recollection made Aziraphale glance at the spot on his desk where his lamp usually sat. He froze.
"You really do know how to have fun—"
"My lamp!" Aziraphale reached forward and touched the lamp, which sat fully-formed and perfect in the familiar spot on the desk. "Look, Crowley! Did you do this?"
"Do what now?"
Aziraphale reached for the switch and flicked it. The room was suddenly bathed in warm light.
"It's fixed," Aziraphale said. He turned around, beaming.
"Hallelujah," Crowley said, leaning down to study the lamp. "But if it were me, I wouldn't fix it, I'd get you a new one. You need to redecorate, angel."
"Not in a million years," Aziraphale said softly, smiling at the lamp.
The bulb inside flickered, almost like a candle flickers in a sudden wind. Almost like an answer.