It was never supposed to go this far.
There was a certain decorum most angels were expected to uphold, after all, and this...wasn’t that. Aziraphale regarded his recent behavior with a distinct feeling of embarrassment. He’d just gotten carried away, surely anyone would understand that.
He stared for a long time at the seventy-two blackcurrant scones. He counted them again just to make sure. Seventy two. Yes. Ah. Bother. He’d perhaps gone slightly...a bit...a smidge overboard.
He was self isolating in a bookshop, not a kitchen, what was he thinking?
This cramped, dusty place was not suited to accommodate this kind of comestible madness. For one thing, it was closed until the pandemic relented. Nobody would be able to eat all these scones. Besides, the baking setup he had was both unconventional and probably a disaster waiting to happen. Cooling racks were balanced haphazardly on piles of expendable books (he’d been looking for a use for the Jeffrey Archers, after all). The scones lay at slant angles that would’ve stressed out any perfectionist. The place did smell heavenly, though, if that was any consolation.
There weren’t enough biscuit tins to fit all the scones in. After about an hour of digging through his cupboards, Aziraphale gave up trying to find more storage containers. He certainly wasn’t going to miracle up some Tupperware, he had standards.
In the end, he just set them out on plates, hoping perhaps some irresponsible person would try to enter his bookstore, and Aziraphale would have to tell them off for not staying home during a pandemic, that was just unkind and also would you care for a scone or five, dear boy?
It turned out that the hopes of an angel were often a bit more potent than the idle wishes of human beings. Which is to say, Aziraphale perhaps influenced the events of his evening simply with this simple desire to get these seventy two scones off his hands.
There was the scrabble of a lock being picked at the back of the shop, and then someone...three someones... entered. Aziraphale froze where he was, tucked into an armchair while balancing a plate of the scones on his lap (he’d run out of tables to set them on). The strangers were masked, but Aziraphale could still tell that the sight of him surrounded by his baking shame was not what they were expecting to find. It seemed they’d expected the place to be empty.
“Oh good,” Aziraphale said to them with genuine cheer. “I’ve been hoping for a scenario like this. Please help me get rid of these scones.”
The discussion that followed was rather tedious, offset somewhat by a bit of screaming. Aziraphale had to back up a bit, you see; start off with some “be not afraid” speeches. Then he explained that not only were there seventy two scones, but also three devil’s food cakes, and two tortes, and one enormous Victoria sponge. He scolded the lads for their misdeeds, of course, but was so relieved to pass off his supply of confections onto them that the juxtaposition of harsh words and sweet treats didn’t bother him nearly as much as it might have otherwise.
“We can’t take all of this for ourselves,” said one of the would-be-robbers, nonplussed. “There’s too much.”
“Well it certainly can’t all stay here. Your penance is to give it to people in need,” Aziraphale said, ruffled and a bit put out. “You brought this upon yourselves when you decided to take advantage of a global crisis, you know.”
There were a couple apologetic nods. “We’ve seen the error of our ways,” sighed one of them. He sounded truly regretful.
Aziraphale gave him a rather casual thumbs up, then looked at his hands, horrified. Was he doing colloquial gesticulations now? Was this what he was like when he was alone for too long? Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Crowley in...
And then he had an idea. “Actually, are any of you passing by Mayfair on your way home?”
“Not today,” said another of the young lads. “But I’m volunteering at a food bank four days from now, so I could be, if you needed something.”
“Come by before you do,” Aziraphale advised, writing something down and leaving it on the table for the boy to pick up without getting too close. “I’ll have another batch ready by then. Take some to the food bank. And then take a delivery to this address. Goodness knows he could use it.”
“He a friend of yours?” asked one.
“And what are you gonna bake for him?” asked another.
This was quite a personal question.
“Oh, tshh, begone, you three.” Aziraphale waved the group off, insisting they depart with their baked burdens. “No more thievery, understand?” he admonished them as they disappeared into the darkening city.
The echoing “Yes, Mr. Fell” responses brought a smile to his lips.
He was still thinking about the question as he closed up the shop again. He thought about it over the next few days. He thought about it after he called Crowley and told him about the break-in incident. He thought about it every time he eyed Crowley’s usual spot on the couch, which would be vacant for quite some time still.
He thought about it as he perused recipes, muttering to himself.
What was he going to bake for Crowley?
“Something tempting, I should think,” Aziraphale mused aloud as he preheated the oven. “It’s what he’d expect. But what should it be?” His eyes then caught a bookmarked page in an old cookbook, and he finally had his answer.
The end result was an angel food cake. Delectably divine and airy, with a sinfully delicious sweetness. Aziraphale sent it off to Crowley in his last remaining cake tin, with a tartan ribbon tied around it.
These might have been dark times they were living in, but they weren’t the End Times. There was a light at the end of it all, and to stave off the worry until they all reached it, Aziraphale would do what he could. He baked and he hoped, the way an angel hopes, that one day all would be well.
