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Crowley billows in on a gust of wind and rain, shutting the door harder than necessary, while glaring back out onto the street.
“Brrrr, cold as... cold as...”
“Winter in England?” Aziraphale pokes his head out from around a bookcase, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose.
“Exactly!” Crowley waves his hand and the raindrops on his clothes evaporate. “So, what’s the disaster? You were, not unusually vague on the phone.”
Aziraphale’s face falls and he sighs heavily. Pushing a burgundy leather bound book back into place, he beckons Crowley to follow him into the back room.
“I was dusting, would you believe? And polishing. It’s been a few years and I thought it was time.”
“Hmm, right, yeah.” Crowley nods, running his finger over a shelf and inspecting his finger. He wipes the grey fluff away before Aziraphale turns around. “Nothing to have a breakdown over.”
Aziraphale turns and pouts. “I did not have a breakdown when I telephoned you. I was distressed.”
“About dusting?”
“No, no.” Aziraphale sighs again and steps to one side. “Look.”
On his desk, the angel wings mug that Aziraphale treasures, is broken into three pieces.
“Ohhh,” Crowley says, lifting his glasses to get a better look before taking them off completely. “That’s easily fixed though? Or is it another coat thing?”
“When some things are broken,” Aziraphale replies mournfully, ”they’re broken forever. Even when they’re fixed. I still know it’s broken. When they mean something to you, you just know, forever.”
Crowley frowns and sits on the edge of the desk, picking up the pieces of the broken mug one by one. Clean breaks, but even if they weren’t, it’s nothing that a simple miracle wouldn’t cure.
“What’s this really about, angel?”
Aziraphale does a little wiggle, wrinkling his nose like Crowley is being absurd.
“I don’t know what you mean. Wine, my dear?”
“Hmm,” Crowley responds, absently. The ceramic clicks together and a molten gold stream of liquid flows along the hairline of the crack. He’s always admired the Japanese art of fixing broken vases and bowls, not by hiding the damage, but by showing their beauty.
“I think I’ll put the fire on,” Aziraphale says, standing by the small fireplace on the opposite wall to his desk.
Crowley joins him, settling down on the well loved, yet extremely comfortable sofa facing the fire. He holds the mug up in one hand, the gold glowing in the flickering light.
“Good as new,” Crowley says, passing Aziraphale the mug and accepting a glass of ruby dark wine in return. He takes a sip, observing his friend carefully.
“Oh yes, quite right. Good as new.” Aziraphale smiles, but it’s weak. Sad almost.
He puts the mug down on a small table piled up with books and pages, bringing the wine glass to his lips and pausing for a few moments before he drinks any.
Crowley leans a little further back into the cushions, his legs stretching out enough that his knee knocks against Aziraphale’s. Something more is bothering him than just a broken mug, and Crowley has a suspicion about what that something is.
“What that needs,” Crowley says, putting emphasis on the word ‘that’ and nodding in the direction of the mug, “is a proper makeover. It fell off the desk?”
“Yes, I knocked it off with my elbow.”
“Dusting vigorously were you?” Crowley smirks, but then remembers he’s meant to be cheering Aziraphale up not annoying him.
“Let’s talk about something else,” Aziraphale says, reaching for the wine bottle.
“Uh-huh, uh-huh, or you can listen to me.” Crowley puts down his wine glass and snaps his fingers, turning the white mug jet black. He picks it up and turns it this way and that, holding it by the wings that act as a handle. “Does it leak?”
Aziraphale frowns.
“Pour your wine in it.”
“Crowley, what’s all this ab...”
“Pour the wine, Aziraphale.”
“Fine.” Aziraphale empties the wine into the mug. “I knew it wouldn’t leak.”
“Hmm, so... now you have a fallen mug, but it still works just fine.” Crowley leans back, and Aziraphale does the same, the crackling fire surrounding them with calmness. Their arms press together, and Crowley visibly sees some of the tension fall away from his friend. “It’ll still hold your cocoa. Even those tiny squidgy things you like. Differently, more stylishly maybe, but nothing ever spilled from being different.”
Aziraphale’s brow creases, his eyes focused on thought. Crowley wonders if he’s missed the mark in not being direct in getting Aziraphale to talk about his fears, about how cut off he feels from the faith he’s had for millennia, unable to be fixed after being cracked like his angel mug. Aziraphale may not be fallen like Crowley, but he’s had the veil of heaven pulled from his eyes once and for all.
“I never thought about it like that. I should have.” Aziraphale looks guilty, glancing at Crowley. “Fallen things, well... they can be good, can’t they?”
“Right!”
Crowley puts his feet on the coffee table, satisfied.
“What would you do without me, eh? Now, that bottle isn’t going to drink itself, is it?”
Aziraphale smiles and pours them both more wine, leaning back a little closer to Crowley.
“Marshmallows,” Aziraphale says, after some quiet, companionable moments.
“Hmm?” Crowley swirls the wine and takes a sip.
“The squidgy things. They’re marshmallows. They’re so delicious, surely you’ve had them?”
Crowley’s lips turn down. “Don’t think I have, no.”
“Oh, well, you must. Let me tell you how they taste...”
***
A few days later Aziraphale receives a parcel.
“Amazon? I didn’t order anything from amazon.” He glances over at the ancient pc, which works just fine for keeping his stock in check and doing the accounts, but he’s never gone in for internet shipping.
Carefully opening the box, Aziraphale removes the packaging. Inside is a brand new, white angel mug.
“Oh!” Aziraphale takes it out of the box, noticing a small card tucked inside it.
On the card, it says -
One can’t exist without the other
Like cocoa and marshmallows
A J Crowley