Chapter Text
9 December 1980
3 am
New York City
Aziraphale stands out of view of the slowly dissipating crowd outside the Dakota Building. He has been standing there for some time; keeping watch, reminiscent of his duty in the Garden.
He’s never really seen the need for sleep, but right now he is exhausted down to the marrow of his very existence and wants to sleep for days, weeks, months. A vague voice in the back of his mind wonders if this is why Crowley takes so enthusiastically to sleeping, sometimes even for decades; to avoid whatever it was he has been running from for so long. For the moment, he pushes it away for the more pertinent matters in front of him.
Not only is he tired, he is angry. No, he is furious.
He wants to rend his garments and scream in Her face, make her take it back, to change it, rewind the past twelve hours. He wants to stop time and shout until he is hoarse and can speak no more.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone 1
He’s thought, often enough, that America is the embodiment of both heaven and hell; of all that is good and bad in the world. He’s not quite sure he likes it. He wonders how worse or much better it could be.
Imagine, indeed.
He has often questioned (to himself) why. And while he knows why, it most certainly does not help right now to believe in the bloody great and ineffable plan. Right now, the ineffable plan could fuck right off.
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong2.
Aziraphale sighs heavily, pulling his coat more tightly around his body. It is absolutely freezing, and his corporeal body is cold. He has long lost the feeling in his toes, so he moves around a bit to try to regain feeling in his extremities. He finds himself standing in front of a pool of blood, now nearly dry.
In the end, as he is an angel, he does what he knows how to do best; he closes his eyes, bows his head, and prays for the little boy who will never know his father. He prays for the soul of the dearly departed as tears course down his face. He prays until both prayers and tears are answered in a torrent of rain, gushing down from the heavens. He accepts it for what it is, a reminder of his own covenant.
Aziraphale raises his head heavenward, in hopes of being cleansed by the weather, but all he can see are feathers; dark, ebony feathers protecting him from the sudden and icy torrential downpour. Crowley.
Crowley holds his wing up above the angel, protecting him, until the rain fades to a soft drizzle and as fast as it began. They both watch in silence as the drizzle changes over then to a light flurry of snow.
Once again that evening, Aziraphale is reminded of the garden, only it was he who sheltered Crowley. Perhaps they have come full circle now, but that is a thought for another place and time. The angel watches, eyes still shining with unshed tears, as the demon’s wings slip back to the ethereal plane with nary a sound; merely a soft flutter only audible to them both.
Crowley remains quiet, almost as if he is terrified to break the silence. Aziraphale wonders if he can feel the anger and sadness radiating from within his heart; he’s broadcasting it on such a high frequency- it’s both intoxicating and frightening at the same time.
Shivering, the angel hunches his shoulders to as if to ward off the cold and stares back down at the ground. After a few minutes of silence, Aziraphale feels Crowley move, as he reaches out to take his hand in his own. It’s shocking to feel that the demon’s hand is warmer than his.
“Come on Angel. I’ll buy you a drink,” Crowley says softly. The snowflakes dance around them, and scatter across the pavement until the stain is hidden from view.
Only after the blood is no longer visible, Aziraphale nods and allows himself to be slowly led away to somewhere warm.