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Aziraphale took a deliberately deep breath and held it. After a slow count of three, he exhaled. The tightness in his chest subsided, but only slightly. The tie he had begun knotting around his neck still felt too tight; reluctantly, he tugged it loose and dropped it on the dresser, and unbuttoned his shirt-collar when that, too, proved to be too constricting.
By God, he was tired.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go to lunch with Crowley. He would enjoy nothing more, in fact, and there was a rather delightful apple tart newly introduced to the menu that he had been looking forward to sampling for weeks. But the thought of food now only made his stomach churn. Not to mention the prospect of being around people in general in his current state was, well.
“Get ahold of yourself,” he muttered, steadying himself on the bedpost and squeezing his eyes shut against the unpleasant image that flickered in his mind. It took a moment for him to imagine crushing the thought into oblivion beneath the rails of a speeding train, and once that bit of mental gymnastics was over, his shoulders were stiff with tension. He forced himself to relax. Breathing. Right. That was… well, not strictly necessary for him, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt. And if his next few breaths were shakier than usual, no one else was there to know.¹
[¹ Except God, of course. But Aziraphale thought, with some irritation, that if She truly was as omniscient as She claimed, She would know well enough when to give a fellow some blessed privacy.]
Aziraphale quashed down the shame rising in his throat and sent a quick text to Crowley, cancelling lunch. Spending years on Earth had, at the very least, given him a sense of his limits and when they’d been crossed. He didn’t have to be happy about it, however.
The urge to curl up in bed and sleep the rest of the day away was also ruthlessly pushed aside. Indisposition was one thing, but he disliked being so cooped up. Five minutes and a change of clothes later, Aziraphale burrowed into the cushions of the sofa in the bookshop’s back room, pulling the sleeves of his favourite jumper over his chilly hands. He wanted tea, but the kitchen was all the way down the hall, an impassable distance for the sudden heaviness in his limbs. Miracling up a cup could work, but it never tasted right that way.
He had worked himself into a proper sulk when something akin to a plump, fuzzy football² barrelled right into his ribs with breathtaking force. Dorian seemed oblivious to his near-death-by-startled-angel, and he meowed loudly and made himself comfortable on the softness of Aziraphale’s belly.
[² A soccer ball for the Americans out there, but technically this scenario could also work for an American football.]
Despite himself, Aziraphale chuckled. “Nearly scared the life out of me,” he said, stroking Dorian’s ears. Dorian stretched in the smug manner only cats can achieve, kneading his paws into the angel’s jumper. Aziraphale tried to extricate his claws from amid the knitted wool, but discovered, to his unpleasant surprise, that his hands were shaking too much for the task. He blinked down at his trembling fingers, then scowled, and lifted Dorian bodily off his chest.
“I’m afraid I can’t entertain you today, Dorian,” he said, setting Dorian gently but decisively down upon the floor. “I’m hardly fit for company in this state.” Foul mood returned, he slumped back down and rolled over to face the back of the settee. Perhaps it would be best to resign himself to bed after all, and simply pray for a better tomorrow.
A careful paw prodded his shoulder. The seat cushions dipped as Dorian clambered back up and draped himself over Aziraphale’s side. When Aziraphale didn’t try to stop him, Dorian nosed beneath his arm and curled himself into the miniscule space between the angel and the sofa’s back.
Aziraphale felt wretched. “I’m sorry, darling,” he whispered, running a hand down Dorian’s back. “I’m out of sorts, but I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
Judging from Dorian’s rumbling purr, he had already been forgiven. Aziraphale focused on the texture of downy fur beneath his fingers, and Dorian’s company was enough to keep his tumultuous mind at bay until Crowley returned to the bookshop a half-hour later, carrying an untasted apple tart in his hands.