Aziraphale dithered. He stood, walked across the room, straightened a book that was only marginally crooked, walked back to his chair, and sat down. He crossed his legs. He took a sip of his tea. He uncrossed his legs. The afternoon sauntered by, petulantly.
It had been three days since, well, That Thing That Happened, and Aziraphale was reluctant to admit that he was not coping as well as one might hope. In fact, dithering aside, he had managed to accomplish a startling amount of nothing since the last time he saw his associate. He'd averted a minor traffic accident the day before, but he wasn't even sure that counted since he was the one about to be struck by an automobile, and all he did was step out of the way.
No, it was not going well at all, this independent operations thing. Funnily enough, he'd never realized how much time he spent with Crowley until suddenly all those hours were heaped upon his lap, looking empty and forlorn. There'd been dinners, naturally, and lunches, and ducks to feed, and arguments to have, and wine to drink. In the wake of the apocalypse-that-wasn't, in particular, they'd developed a routine of practiced nonchalance, hoping that if they acted like nothing had happened, the universe would be too embarrassed to correct them. But now, well, that was certainly out of the question.
It was, wasn't it? He'd thought about it—a lot, actually—and there didn't seem to be anything for it. It'd been one thing for Aziraphale to loiter in Crowley's general vicinity without much effort at redeeming his soul (assuming he had such a thing), but it was quite another when his halo was on the line. Suddenly, Aziraphale felt quite selfish. He'd been perfectly content with Crowley's existence at stake, but as soon as the wings were on the other back, Aziraphale had given up his only—oh, for Heaven's sake—friend without a second blink.
Aziraphale decided that hot chocolate was in order, and so his teacup turned into a mug, and its contents took the hint.
But why, then, had Crowley not had the same reaction? They'd gone on for weeks with Crowley knowing full well that Aziraphale's Purpose ran counter to his interests, but he hadn't complained about it. He'd trusted Aziraphale to keep his flaming sword to himself, only Aziraphale hadn't returned the favor.
Oh dear, it was all terribly unnerving. So unnerving, in fact, that Aziraphale had just decided to reorganize his receipts for the fifth time when the phone rang. Assertively. Somehow, Crowley's calls always managed to sound more insistent.
"Hello," Aziraphale said hesitantly.
There was a cracking noise on the other end of the line, followed by the unpleasant sound of a receiver being dropped.
"Crowley? Crowley?" Aziraphale called out. Something in his chest felt hot and urgent, sprung to life after a long and leisurely hibernation.
The line went dead, but Aziraphale was already out the door.
