"Azsiraphale, you bastard, get back to me this instant. This is getting ridiculous. Where are you? I haven't gone to the Ritz in five months. You haven't been back, in five months. Don't listen to my other messages, by the way. I'll be in St. James Park once every-so-often if you ever decide to drag your sorry ass over there."
The answerphone beeped and the light flickered off.
- _ - _ - _ -
The forest was beautiful, Aziraphale noted. In some sort of hungered, delusionary daze caused by his body simply following suit of his mind, Aziraphale was watching the rays of light filter in from the forest's canopy. He wondered if God used to appear in those because they looked like hope. He decided against it later, though. How could God exist there? In Vietnam?
"Is there anymore of that peanuty stuff?"
Aziraphale glanced at the boy and nodded. He took a container from his pack and handed it to the young boy, who ate it earnestly with his friend. It was the last one. Aziraphale wondered if they should have been hastier in their travels to the next village. The children would need more food, and soon.
He suddenly heard shouting
And gunshots.
And more shouting.
"Quickly! Here, get behind those bushes by that tree and make yourself as small as possible." Aziraphale did his best to try to hide the children from view, hoping that a few extra miracles would help.
"I'm scared," whimpered the boy still clinging onto the peanut-butter container. Aziraphale held his hand for a moment to calm him down, hiding himself with them.
"Hush now. That's a dear."
The shouting was louder. In a period of time that seemed both painstakingly long as well as surprisingly short, soldiers were rushing through the area, shooting almost blindly. One of the boys nearly let out a cry of fear, but Aziraphale put a hand on his mouth. It was the politest mode possible to keep them alive.
"I could have sworn I saw a couple go through here!" The voice was in English. American soldiers, no doubt.
"Keep your eyes out then! I don't wanna be shot by no Cong 'cause you was too stupid to pay attention to where they were."
A bird landed in the tree above where they were hiding. It squawked. Aziraphale heard a curse, a gunshot, and the muffled, frightened cry of a young boy.
"There! I heard one!"
Before Aziraphale could even stand to try to prevent the gunshot it went off, and the boy he had hushed slumped in his arms. The other boy gave out a chocked sob and started crying, nearly screaming as he grasped at the body of his now lifeless friend.
"Hey! That ain't sound like no Cong!"
"Because we ain't no Congs!" Aziraphale stood up angrily, but the lines in his face and the fatigue of his body made him appear much less authoritative than he had hoped for. He huffed, glaring. He felt something gather at the corners of his eyes.
"Then why were you hiding out in the bushes then!? How could we tell? You shouldn'ta hid in the first place!" One of the soldier's replied.
"How could we know what side you were on? In fact, does that even matter? You probably would have just shot us anyways!"
"How do you know if we woulda or not? In case you haven't noticed, this is a damn war we're in! What are you doing hiding out here if you're afraid to get shot? Go back home, you Brit."
A loud slap rang out. For a moment, all was silent save the wailing of the young boy. Aziraphale glared at the soldier. He called over the remaining child. When the child didn't come, Aziraphale called once more before using a tone that dared to be opposed. The boy got up, still crying. He looked positively dreadful with the tears combining with the dirt and the blood and the peanut butter.
"Now," he said, taking the boy's hand, "you're going to take care of this boy, and you damn well better make sure that nothing happens to him."
The soldier nodded blindly. There was another moment of silence that the soldier's friend decided to interrupt.
"How 'bout we get the hell out of here before we get shot?" Aziraphale nodded. They left, leaving the body of a young boy to rot with a container of peanut butter still in his hands.