Abide: an Azirafeast 2007 memory ficlet
(I truly meant to write about Aziraphale enjoying tiramisu or something, but this happened instead. No worries, there is tiramisu, it's just eaten off-screen. Apologies for not editing, I wrote it all this afternoon. Happy Azirafeast to all who celebrate!)
"Good bye, Aziraphale." Gabriel's drawl was dripping with irritation and command, his words loud and insistent, but oddly flat. "Go now," he meant.
"Ah yes. Good bye, Gabriel. Michael. Uriel. Sandalphon." Aziraphale caught the look on Sandalphon's face before angling his eyes humbly downward, tightening the grip on his hands behind his back slightly, and bringing his eyebrows just a bit closer together with worry. His partly-unconscious but subtly derisive hesitation before the last name was not meant to be noticeable. It was even deniable. But this wasn't the time to make enemies.
(Remember who you are here)
He knew.
He had known for so long.
And for all that time, he had been cultivating, as much as he had ever cultivated the Garden, when he helped populate it with glorious flowers, sweet smells, and shady trees.
His image would not recover as quickly as a plant could. It had to be kept consistent.
So, he spun quickly to his left and strode away from the group of archangels– quickly for Heaven, but somewhat slowly for a being so used to London crowds and impatience.
After debating using the lift, he decided the main entrance was still best, headed in that direction and patiently waited as the steps came to the ground floor, then hurried the entire way to the book shop with the same empty, pleasant expression on his face, only belied by the nuances of expression he had purposefully left in forehead and fingers, now unclasped for walking, but still partially balled up in fury, or at least frustration.
He felt the fury, and the frustration as well (mostly but not exclusively at himself for being so–).
Pouring just a trickle of the overwhelming emotion into his expression was easy.
The well-known shop door opened well ahead of his approach, and closed immediately behind him. He didn't trust himself to close it himself today.
As soon as the protective wards and disguise closed up behind him, Aziraphale finally allowed himself to show his feelings on his face, made a sound of great irritation, and then silently sent out a sharp, strong sensory-search for Crowley, and waited to hear back.
He took a breath. A small one, his chest and throat constricted.
He moved to put the kettle on.
Nothing came. Crowley was not there.
He had known that Crowley wasn't and hadn't been in the bookshop from the second he left Heaven, but that was to be expected.
It was rare to find him there midday, but then it hadn't always been midday. In fact, the papers informed him that this most recent Heavenly grilling had lasted some 3 days, Earth time, so it was possible that Crowley could have dropped by one evening.
However, Crowley had not. And it was worrying that Crowley didn't seem to be there or in his flat, or in fact anywhere in London. Aziraphale immediately set his mental net wider as he waited for the water to boil, and used the intensity of his emotions to send the signal far and strong. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Crowley was much better at casting out to find someone. Demons usually were, due to more intense motivation and greater practice. But Aziraphale knew his signal was strong, spreading out all over the Earth, and with a stronger coverage than ever, just in case Crowley was hiding (not from me, surely? he thought, this worry hitting higher in the chest than the Heavenly worries from earlier. Intriguing.)
Right.
He poured the hot water and left the tea to steep, the unconscious motions remarkably calming after mere centuries of practice, stilling much of the shaking of his hand that now, having left the Archangels, he had become unaccountably unable to control.
"Bless the humans," he mumbled, "tea rituals are surely one of their best inventions! Every single tea ritual is genius." His chest felt looser and he could breathe properly now.
He crossed the room to his telephone and dialled. Beep beep… beep beep… beep beep.
No joy.
Crowley, so far as he could ascertain, wasn't on Earth.
Again.
He breathed again. For an unnecessary action, it was rather satisfying, especially being in Heaven. The scent of his books, his dust, his items from throughout time, was wonderful!
Better thoughts.
"Probably giving his reports as I gave mine. It's happened before, more than once," he told himself aloud, then shook himself physically. Any way to affect the doubts, the worries that were boiling into terror.
He had done this before.
So many times.
1827 was, of course, the worst of the times of Crowley's disappearances. He had known without a doubt that Crowley had been pulled down into Hell, and the fear and guilt had been– best not to think on that.
But there were so many other times that Crowley had disappeared for days, weeks, or even years. It was harder to find beings who were not awake, so Crowley would run off and sleep when he wanted a break from his duties, from the despair of the worlds both above and below when they got too heavy. Often, even Hell couldn't find him unless one of the higher-ups was extremely motivated.
This didn't feel like that time, though.
Crowley hadn't been in trouble. He wasn't angry with Aziraphale, nor was he likely to cause unnecessary trouble.
As it happened, he had recently acquired a device he proudly, if agrammatically, called an I phone. Or was it an eye phone? In any case, it was a Very New and Exciting mobile phone just debuting in 2007 that Aziraphale wasn't convinced was going to benefit him any more than Crowley's previous phone, so he wasn't very interested in the device per se, but Crowley had insisted on sharing all of the information about it, and Aziraphale had tried to feign interest, while secretly enjoying the enthusiasm the demon was displaying much more than the device itself.
He remembered the rare, unguarded smile.
In the end, the fact was that they had The Arrangement and Crowley was happy and energetic and unlikely to be attempting one of his hibernation-adjacent naps on such a balmy day.
(What a wonderful day it would be to feed ducks together!)
Without any conscious thought, Aziraphale finished brewing the tea, added milk, and took it over to his armchair. He started some music–relaxing, but not TOO relaxing.
If he put the most relaxing music on, it would bring him back to those early days of the gramophone, when he tried (and failed) to calm himself from Crowley's refusal to engage with him after 1862.
The late 1800s had been such an unpleasant time, culminating in that time in the Club! Such a hedonistic time, often thrilling and energetic, surrounded by great minds and men willing to live with a freedom that Aziraphale found unimaginable and appealing, but ultimately so unsatisfying.
Those times. The 1800s (amazingly, such a time for local literature!) were some of the worst of his long life, decades not just alone, but alone and full of fear and guilt, unbearable, day after day. He'd got commendations.
Unbearable. And yet…
Yes, he had endured despite it all.
Something moderately challenging in terms of music was better, as it didn't carry the association of the times without Crowley that made all of his previously comforting music now carry only regret and melancholy.
That sorted, he moved to the bookshelves– the ones he secretly stocked with the books he was most likely to need on a day like today. Nobody else knew how he organised his books, and they never would have guessed.
Austen– no, too focussed on the consequences of our faults. Wouldn't bear remembering that– imagine reading _Persuasion_ today! "All agony, no hope." No, stop thinking like that.
Thackerey– oh! The cynical tone was too reminiscent of–
Homer– too warlike. Gods being harmed. Didn't bear thinking-
Cervantes– What was he tilting at? No…
Genji– tempting, but too much, perhaps, for the brain right now.
He picked up Huck Finn and set it by the chair, carefully walked back and opened the biscuit tin.
Soon, he was sat by the fire with his tea, biscuits, book, and a lovely fire.
Fire always reminded him of the old days, the thousands of campfires and hearths he'd sat around, telling and listening to stories, playing and hearing music, with hundreds of thousands of humans. Sometimes, fortunate enough to be watching Crowley's eyes flickering all of the colors from yellow to red as they (and later his lenses) reflected the flames.
The echoes of the millennia always brought him a semblance of peace, as if thousands of years of things being all right– or rather, things being always not right at all, but of Crowley being all right, which is what was important– meant that they must be all right now, if only he continued.
He sipped the tea and nibbled on a particularly nice (but oddly unsatisfying) biscuit, breathing in the familiar scents as he set his eyes on the page. Twain was not a favourite really, but neither was he completely frivolous. And he was easy to read, when your brain couldn't keep to the page properly, and the scenes he wrote could be diverting.
But not today.
His eyes were on the whitewashing scene, but his memory was louder. He tried to breathe, clear his head, suffuse himself with calm.
His memory, however, refused to be fooled:
"Aziraphale, hasn't that bookshop of yours outlived its usefulness?"
"Aziraphale, your daily blessing numbers are abysmal. Are you holed up in that shop reading and eating pastries and ignoring the world outside, full of people you could potentially–"
"Aziraphale, we're thinking London needs new blood. A series of new angels with the energy and motivation that–
"Aziraphale, where were you in October? We got no reports for you in–"
"Aziraphale, you travelled quite a bit this year. And who is watching the embassy. Do you need an assistant?"
"Aziraphale, when was the last time you successfully thwarted the demon Crow–"
"Aziraphale, your reports are–"
"Continuing to consume gross–"
"Insufficient–"
"Incompetent–"
"How stupid can you–"
"Going to need weekly reports and they had better–"
"Show improvement or–"
"Reassignment!"
A log in the fireplace fell and Aziraphale jumped so much that he spilled his tea, which had gone cold not even half-drunk."
The fire was not helping him at all with the pressure of the emotions, pushing everywhere on him from the inside, turbid and bleak. The music was not helping. His brain wouldn't let him carry himself out of this world and into a book.
Reassignment.
They had thwarted this before, and they could. Probably.
He and Crowley could–
But where WAS Crowley?
Did he have to do this himself again?
Time was so much longer now, and decades were so very empty!
But no–
He stood up, leaving the cup on a coaster with a flyer about a book sale on it, set the book on the chair, and was out the door before he realised that his clothes were still covered with cold tea.
But did he feel horror at the ruin of clothes he had kept pristine for decades? Even the waistcoat that Crowley had recommended, and he wore every day he could justify it, until it was frayed with a love he would never admit to, so comforting to his anxious hands?
That waistcoat? Stained.
For all he tried to care, it all felt hollow. Everything.
And you can't do that, if you're an angel. You can't remain hollow. You have to find something to feed you so that you can heal others, and you must find some joy, no matter who is gone, no matter how it feels surrounded by beings who can't understand.
You will be alone, maybe forever, but you can't despair.
So he walked.
Balmy or not, walking to St James's Park from Soho in the late afternoon in November without any seasonal outerwear was perhaps unwise.
He should go back and get something warmer.
Of course he did not.
Instead, he kept walking. He turned the corner, and the breeze became wind, and the wind blew straight through his clothes.
But it wasn't enough to cool the pain..
By the time he made it to the park, the sun was going down, and his human fingers were numb, but he didn't put on gloves. His only concession to the day was to pop into a shop for a bag of frozen peas.
"The frivolous miracles, Aziraphale. Still!" Gabriel's anger echoed in his dull, empty head.
He set the peas in his large pocket and walked on briskly. Brisk, like the weather.
Briskness was what he desperately needed.
Walking would bring clarity. It always did. The clarity he needed. He would walk until he had reached that state and made a plan.
He was so tired, but he knew that he could find a way out, because he always did.
(but what if they were right about him?)
Aziraphale turned, the duck pond coming into view, setting off hundreds of memories like explosions in his brain– some sad (1862 was as clear today as that!), some happy (watching Crowley discover a queue of ducklings on the water one afternoon and grin in pure delight before he remembered he was a scary demon).
All of the memories carried messages of sadness or worry right now, but he had a plan.
Tearing open the bag ("like a Philistine!" he remarked to himself, then remembered that the Philistines had been quite unfairly maligned, of course, and why did he even say phrases like that?), he grabbed a handful and concentrated on the ducks.
To scatter the peas, he flicked his hand exactly, as he had learned when he sowed grain over thousands of years. It landed precisely where he wanted it to.
He smiled a genuine smile, noting that most of the peas had landed in front of the smaller, shier ducks. The big, strong ducks that had come up loudly demanding a snack were frustrated and unable to get to the peas before the others had gobbled them up.
"You Gabriels!" he whispered under his breath, a bit of a smirk quirking his lip up. "Sandalphons! Get your peas elsewhere, you bullies."
He continued his game, dispersing the peas to his favourites and frustrating those he disliked, watching their expressions, their squabbles, collisions, observing people around him as they watched him spread the snacks, small children running and laughing amidst the chaos.
His mind, which music, firelight– even tea and biscuits!-- had not quieted, finally succumbed to his focus on the antics of the ducks. He was able to forget himself enough to know only them, to feel only the cold and not the shame, the worry, the aching of his heart at the thought that this might all be over.
The relief was immense.
The sun dipped below the horizon, and he thought of all the words in all the languages that he knew for yellows, reds, and browns, and how each was insufficient for the beauty that was a sunset.
Black invaded the colours, somehow leaving them unchanged. How did it do that? How could the sky be orange and black, and blue and black, without being a different thing, an intermediate?
How rich the world was!
He drank it in.
The evening of pain and emptiness became perfect in its wild beauty.
Having finished the bag, he stuffed it unceremoniously into a pocket and sat on the bench.
Their bench.
He could do that, now, although he still sat in his spot. He would do that anyway. It felt right.
The wind was fierce amidst the darkness, and the clouds encroaching at speed. A few drops of rain stung his cheek, and tears formed in the corner as they protected against the cold blowing straight on them, on his hands, face, and neck.
Aziraphale had a million scarves gifted him from all throughout time, in every fabric and colour, reminding him of friends from all over, and the short moments they'd spent together.
He had brought none of them.
Right now, he wanted to be without his memories. He needed to plot.
He could outsmart all of the archangels. Of course he could! He was an angel of Heaven, but also of Earth, and he knew not only angel lore, but also the lore of ducks and sunsets and the currents of air.
He was unstoppable.
Aziraphale stood up, unsure how many hours had passed, feeling clarity seep through the stormy, roiling anger and fear and shame that had held him, threatened to detonate mere minutes before.
He breathed in again, feeling the familiar sting of cold in his nose, eyes watering more.
(you know that humans find tears to be a physiological stress relief. It shouldn't work for angels, but perhaps it did. Any tear in a wind.)
(The archangels aren't right!)
(I can fool them, and I will. I won't lose this, even if I have to do it by–)
"Angel!"
He spun around on the gravel so quickly that he almost fell over, but he didn't care. Joy overshadowed even the new resolution he had grown this evening, and an uncontrollable smile shone on his face before he was aware of it.
"Crowley!"
Indeed, the demon was lounging on and over the bench in his usual desultory way, despite the fact that he had definitely not been there mere seconds ago when Aziraphale had stood up.
"Where have you been?"
It slipped out before he could realise he sounded like a nag and stop it.
(he couldn't have stopped it. He wanted desperately to know)
"Oh, you know. Here. There. Hell, mostly. Quarterly report time. Went rather well, if I say so myself. Looks like I'll be well set for a nice long nap. At least when the weather turns." He shivered a bit to demonstrate that, warm daytime temperatures notwithstanding, it was turning already.
Aziraphale, despite his earlier happiness and resolution to fool the archangels, felt a spike of dismay laced with shame that Crowley was only showing up to go away again, and to remind him that his own report hadn't gone well, and perhaps he should have–.
"How did your report go, anyway, Angel? You were gone days before I was."
"Ah yes, my report. Jolly good. Yes. Um. Well, it was quite long, you know, dull. You know how Gabriel can go on and on, and Sandalphon, and sometimes even Michael. But they are quite excited about the possibilities of the bookshop, and–"
"Angel."
The one word, said quietly, stopped Aziraphale.
"Yes?"
"Come with me. I'm buying you dinner. Italian?"
"Oh, you needn't! I've got–"
"I need indeed, Angel. And you're going to tell me everything those wankers told you, and then you're going to share the devious plan you've no doubt concocted to thwart them, and we're going to drink 2 bottles of their finest wine. To start, anyway."
He had stood up as he spoke, and gestured with his left hand toward the path, his right hand almost touching Aziraphale's lower back to propel him forward, but stopping at the last second as it realised what it was doing.
As he stopped his arm, so close to Aziraphale, he did a double-take. "And Aziraphale, you! Out of the house with tea spilled on you and a plastic bag in your pocket?!"
"Well, I– I mean…"
"Where are your standards, Aziraphale?" He performed a rather impressive flourish, and every offending particle was banished, the clothing once more spotless. "Now, unless we need to replace the tea that spilled when it should have known better…"
Aziraphale smiled and started to walk, the two falling into step immediately.
"I'm thinking rather of a nice bottle of red, if we can manage to not spill that, perhaps?."
"It wouldn't dare! Yes– red as blood, Angel. And I think the finishing of the final reports and the thwarting of the archangels is going to require some chocolate as well."
"Possibly a tiramisu, I should think."
"Very probably. Which would go down a treat with an affogato."
"Ooh yes, we'll want plenty of caffeine. Best to have a sharp mind when you're planning."
"Plotting, rather. Was Sandalphon at that review you're so worried about?"
"Indeed." He shivered at the memory in the way he didn't shiver in the icy November wind. "But I never said–" (Crowley shrugged. Aziraphale didn't have to say anything. It was etched in every attitude, every movement, the intake of his breath. And Crowley could read it all. "Well, yes. They all were. Michael. Uriel. Even Saraqael, and I know for a fact Gabriel forgot to invite her."
"Multiple affogatos, then?"
"Possibly multiple tiramisus."
"And quantities of additional wine after? Perhaps?" Crowley popped the "p" ostentatiously.
"Oh yes, I'm absolutely bringing out a case of something nice. And I'm charging it to my expenses in a way they'll never work out!"
"Why, that's quite devious of you."
"I've learned from the best!"
"Well, you might have learned a thing or two in your time."
"A thing or two? I'll have you know, Her Majesty's Revenue is completely convinced that I've lost so much money consistently for 200 years that I needn't pay taxes, yet Heaven is convinced I've made them enough money to keep Gabriel in bespoke menswear till Armageddon!"
"Ah yes– Armageddon," mused Crowley, "Might not be that far off. Let's hope they've forgot about it. Not quite ready to stop drinking wine and coffee, much less driving."
"Oh, I'm sure. Haven't heard a thing, and after three days, you'd think they would have brought it up.I can't think of anything else they didn't mention."
"Bit long-winded, you say?"
"Oh, even Uriel had words. Blessings not done on the date requested or in the proper city. Some were done early! But does she care? No. Just wants her forms tidy and–"
"Sounds like you were ready to end it all then."
"Oh, I certainly had some thoughts about them." He stopped for a moment, " And you? Are you sure you've heard no hints? We are 6000 in, you know. The first inklings could be coming up any time, if we're not careful. Have to figure a way to guide them in another direction if and when…"
"Why, Angel. Here you are in the cold and wet and wind. Aren't you ready for brightness and dry and celestial melodies?"
"I'm ready for Italian. And a lovely red. And a tiramisu. And, ah– here we are!"
"Shall we?"
Crowley opened the door and ushered Aziraphale inside, following closely after. They both rubbed bare hands together and breathed in the warm air scented of garlic and olive oil, and Crowley watched contentment seep over Aziraphale's features, the smile now bright as it should be, his eyes sparkling in their mysterious seawater depths.
"Let's spoil ourselves a bit tonight, Crowley! I fancy we deserve it."
"We do indeed, Angel. Now, what do you say? Next to the window but away from the door?"
"Sounds lovely."
A couple sitting next to the window stood up immediately in a panic, letting their waiter know that they had to leave urgently, their child being suddenly and extremely ill.
Crowley leaned next to Aziraphale and whispered, "All the signs of appendicitis, but it's really just gas."
Aziraphale giggled, "Bad luck. They hadn't even ordered."
Crowley smiled at him, and went to the podium to inform the lady there that perhaps it was their lucky day, and was the table now free?
It was.
The two sat down and ordered their first bottle, looking around, breathing in the scents again, and warming their hands as the sommelier recognised them and hurried over immediately.
"You know," Azirapahle said, after both of them had completed the complicated rites of surveying the wine, having it opened, tasting, and pouring, "they really haven't a chance, you know, 5 archangels against us."
"Not a one," agreed Crowley. "We'll have them sorted by Thursday."
They clinked glasses and smiled.
Tonight was going to be one for the record books!
