Cowritten by Arthur Albion
The nightlife of Soho flowed like a current around Aziraphale. He stood motionless beneath the flickering neon halo of light, watching the black car rush away down the busy street until it vanished. He wasn't sure how much time passed before he moved, walking slowly in the opposite direction toward his bookshop. The way was well lit by bright lights and colourful signs, people's voices and laughter filled the air, music oozed out of the clubs and bars as he passed.
Everyday, it's a gettin' closer / goin' faster than a roller coaster / Love like yours will surely come my way
Aziraphale almost tripped as he sped up his pace slightly, dodging around the traffic of people bottlenecking the doorway of a bar letting the music burst out to mock the retreating angel.
Come what may, do you ever long for / true love from me?
The music faded behind him as he made it to the end of the block. It wasn't very far to the bookshop where Aziraphale snapped the door shut behind him and walked deeper into the comfort of his dark, silent shop. Not allowing himself any time to think, the angel swept an armful of books off a random shelf and plopped them onto his desk.
Aziraphale decided he would need to take inventory of his books as well as reorganise them into a new shelving system, even though he knew every book sitting on each shelf by heart. It would take him months of work to accomplish, hopefully. He set himself to the task, not needing to stop for rest or food. He never stopped to think, to check the time, to bother with customers wandering in and out of the shop whenever he happened to flip the sign on the door. He simply moved automatically, letting his body take methodical action, let his mind entertain itself by cataloguing his precious books.
In what felt like a blink of an eye, Aziraphale found himself sitting at his desk with his new inventory list held completed before him. Uncomfortably, he fiddled with the pen in his hands. He couldn't recall picking it up. He set it neatly beside the stack of papers and stood to make cocoa. A thought flashed through his head, a wonder, the memory of a face looking at him desperately from behind dark glasses. Aziraphale lost his constricting hold over his conscious and the mental floodgates burst open, too quickly for him to fight for control again.
The angel came to an abrupt stop and inhaled sharply, making a strangled noise in his throat, hands fluttering to catch himself on the nearest bit of furniture. The hurt in those yellow, serpentine eyes looked at him accusingly from the past, as vivid as if Aziraphale was standing in St James's Park with the note in his hand all over again. The same rush of unforgiving fear raged through his corporeal body.
Unable to deny himself any longer, he turned in place and sorted the pile of newspapers on the couch where he had carelessly discarded them every morning after taking them off his doorstep. He found the latest date then checked the time on the grandfather clock. Two months had passed since the night he gave Crowley the thermos. Aziraphale exhaled slowly, dread flooding him. Only two months. It was a depressingly short amount of time for an immortal being.
He looked at the rotary phone sitting near his desk, his hands itching to dial the number to Crowley's flat.
You're being silly, he chided himself.
Forcing himself to look away, he tossed the newspaper back on the couch and went into the kitchenette to make his cup of cocoa. As the kettle warmed up, Aziraphale wondered what Crowley had done with the thermos. If he had opened it. The angel shut his eyes and commanded himself to stop thinking.
A shrill whistle pulled him back to the moment. Snapping to attention, he tsked aloud and sheepishly took the kettle off the heat, looking about at his mess of ingredients for cocoa lying about mixed with his tea things. This wouldn't do. He managed to keep his mind from wandering as he made his cocoa and opened the cupboard to retrieve his favourite mug. Crowley, though he refused to call it a gift, had gifted it to him recently. The white wings serving as a handle had obviously reminded the demon of Aziraphale. The angel carefully reached past the winged mug, took out a plain one, and filled it with his cocoa.
Walking back to his desk, warm mug in hand, he allowed himself to look around the bookshop and really take in his surroundings. Despite his efforts to reorganise, the shelves looked as haphazard and clustered as before. The shop was cosily overstuffed with knowledge and the unlimited imagination of humanity. The paned windows reflected the neon lights outside, lit in the dark but thriving night. Aziraphale crossed the shop and began pulling down the shades to block out his view of the street. As he returned to his desk, he plucked a book at random from a shelf. He sat, failing to read and cocoa going cold on the desk. His eyes kept drifting from the pages to the phone within his reach.
He couldn't call Crowley. It was in the middle of the night and that aside he had no conceivable reason to telephone. It wasn't unusual for them to go months, sometimes years, without speaking and Aziraphale was determined to act as normal as possible. As if he hadn't handed his best friend a suicide pill.
By the time the neon lights flickered out and Soho finally slowed into what passed for a semblance of slumber in the early dawn hours, the telephone line in the bookshop had been torn from the wall and the angel inside was sitting with his back determinedly to the useless machine, staring at the same page and his cocoa forgotten.
A few days later, Aziraphale began to get complaints that his phone line was down. He apologised without sincerity and assured his customers that he would have the issue looked into. Another few days passed before, begrudgingly, the telephone was functioning again. The angel would answer the phone as he used to, except it took longer for him to reach the phone since he had stationed it as far away from his desk as possible.
He ate, but only because it was what he usually did. He went out for lunch and late dinners, tried the newest restaurants in the area, went through the steps to taste and savour without real pleasure. If he was honest, he didn't have much of an appetite, but it felt necessary. Not to survive. His corporation could easily last as long as he willed without food. It was simply routine, a part of his life. It served as a nice distraction, at least.
A few more months went by before Aziraphale began to sincerely enjoy the simple things again. Discovering a new book, or stumbling upon a fascinating little restaurant he had previously overlooked. If he could not bear to think, he would simply follow the steps. Waiting until unacknowledged anxieties quieted themselves, and continuing as if nothing was amiss. His routine was effective.
About a year had gone by before Aziraphale allowed himself to think about what he had done that night. The fear never truly left. He had simply ignored it. He had shut it away in a dusty corner in the back of his mind, but it was there all the same. Lurking. Aziraphale knew he would never be rid of this worry. The horror that, one day, Crowley would be gone. He had thought, hoped, they could carry on as they always had in the past. Staying out of each other's way, lending a hand when needed. But it was not to be. Everything had changed. Aziraphale could no longer bear the thought that each second, each day he spent away from Crowley was precious time wasted. Time he could be spending at the demon's side, and protecting him from harm.
He forced himself to wait another day after this revelation before finally giving in to the need to dial the demon's number. He listened to the ringing with bated breath.
The phone rang four times before the ansaphone caught it.
Hey, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style.
Breath catching in his throat, strangling him, Aziraphale gently caught himself against the desk and struggled to pull himself together. Even if it was just a machine, hearing his voice was a comfort and torment.
"Ah, yes," Aziraphale started suddenly, then flinched as he cleared his throat. "Hello. It's me. I was wondering if, perhaps, you'd like to have lunch with me. I've discovered a new sushi restaurant I think you'd enjoy. I have also heard they serve a very nice range of sake."
He paused, momentarily floundering for more words. The line clicked over.
"What?" Crowley's voice was no longer a recording.
"Oh," he said automatically. "Hello."
Then Aziraphale froze. He slammed the receiver onto the cradle.
"Oh...fu- blo- oh, hell."