Chapter Text
It is surprising how quick it all is. One moment, torrential rain, then a sunny, cloudless sky, as if the storm had never existed in the first place. But, Crawly’s skin still prickles uncomfortably, and he knows it’s not just from the heat. There’ll be another storm, that much is certain.
The angel—Aziraphale—tucks his wings out of view, and stretches. Crawly quickly steps away.
“So, that was rain,” he says.
“Indeed.”
And, alright, it’s not the most encouraging reply in the world, but it is a reply. “What’s your review? Marks out of ten?” Crawly asks.
Aziraphale hums, considering. “Well, I suppose… six. No, five and a half.”
Crawly blinks. “Hardly a raving endorsement, angel.”
“I’m not a fan of what it does to the sand,” Aziraphale explains. “Makes it awfully easy to stick in between one’s toes.”
Crawly looks down. The angel actually wiggles his toes by way of demonstration. “Thought your lot were supposed to love everything.”
Aziraphale gives a sanctimonious sniff. “Well, I can’t love everything to the same degree, my dear fellow,” he says, as if were painfully obvious. “Otherwise I wouldn’t appreciate the truly magnificent things.”
Crawly is about to tease him, saying how that doesn’t exactly sound like it came from Heaven’s Handbook, when Aziraphale looks at him with a start. “Oh,” he breathes. “You’ve caught the sun.”
He keeps staring with an awfully curious expression on his face, like conflicted fascination. Crawly suspects the angel does not somehow know about his highly unauthorised (wickedly fun) cosmic game of catch.
Aziraphale gestures hesitantly. “Just there—your cheeks and your nose,” is all he says, as if Crawly is supposed to know what that means.
White wings unfurl into existence, one outstretching towards Crawly in invitation. It feels unreal. Once is a fluke, but twice… What is a demon to do with that?
“Shouldn’t you be… doing something else?” Crawly says, masking concern with scepticism.
Aziraphale sighs. “Not at the moment, I’m afraid.” He gives Crawly a rather pointed look. “Nothing left to guard. And, in any case…” He ruffles his feathers. “These will take a little time to dry.”
Crawly waits a moment longer. No storm comes. Still, the angel stands beside him. He shuffles closer, and steps into the blissfully cool shade.