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“Angel, you’ve got hundreds–”
“I have read them.”
A flutter of activity. Crowley had never seen Aziraphale clean before–there was a thick layer of dust in the bookshop, which never seemed to affect the books, just the customers–and he wasn’t sure he’d call this cleaning either. Not exactly. The angel kept anxiously rearranging piles and clutter. He had been for days. It had exactly zero effect on the actual appearance of the bookshop.
Crowley, personally, was fucking around on his phone. Social media. The online equivalent to nervously rearranging. He’d have loved to anxiety-clean, but the angel would probably discorporate him if he tried.
“Re-read. Which one of us says you find something new every time you–”
“I should be helping.” Ah. Here it was. The rehashing. “I should be laying hands and keeping up spirits. Surely some of the hospitals could use the extra help about now.”
“Yeah,” said Crowley. “I know. We went through it in the eighties. We went through it in the twenties. We went through it in the fourteenth fucking century.”
“I know.”
“What happens when you go help?”
Aziraphale was quiet.
“Angel.”
“I run myself into the ground,” Aziraphale recited. “I blame myself for those I cannot help.”
“You hate yourself for the people you do. You ask yourself if you made the right choice. You start trying to guide them over their lives–”
“I did that once–”
“And no human deserves that type of pressure.” Crowley met his eyes. The sunglasses were off–no need for them in quarantine. Gold met blue. “And honestly, angel, the hospitals aren’t where they need help right now.”
“No. No, this isn’t a bad one at all. Pestilence isn’t what she used to be.”
“So stop fidgeting.” Crowley took a deep breath and deliberately went back to his phone. Twitter. He could do Twitter in his sleep. “The problems are systemic. It’s the economy that can’t handle this. Humans are gonna be fine. It’s just… you know, growing pains.”
“Growing pains?”
“You know, like human children. They grow too fast and sometimes it hurts them, or something. I don’t know. Human race is growing up, that’s all.” Crowley sighed. “Anyway, they need, you know, more masks in the hospitals, more respirator valves, more money in their coffers. No laying hands, just… low-level miracles.”
“Then we should–” Aziraphale paused halfway to the door, hand already on his coat. He considered. “You’ve certainly thought it through.”
“Mmhm.”
“How many?”
“What?”
“How many miracles have you performed already, my dear?”
Crowley shrugged. “Neh.”
“Crowley.”
“I dunno.” Never mind. He needed the sunglasses. Out they came from his pocket, ready to hide his face. “Just been fucking about on Twitter, really.”
“Doing what, exactly, on Tweeter?” Aziraphale approached. He plucked the phone from Crowley’s hand, and at this point he knew enough to scroll, to look through what he’d been doing. “Ah.”
“They go to social media to complain. Listen, I just… suggest new corners they could check for supplies, send ‘em links to giveaways they all seem to win. They’re the ones who share whatever they find. Or buy each other pizzas with the new money. Or…” Crowley shrugged uncomfortably. “Low-grade good.”
Aziraphale had an odd look on his face. His hand found Crowley’s shoulder. “There’s no such thing as low-grade good.”
“Well.” Crowley extracted himself. From the hand, from the couch, from the situation. “I’ll make a cuppa and show you how to use Twitter.”
“I’d like that.”
“Never thought I’d hear those words.”
“This is something of an extenuating circumstance, don’t you think?”