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Aziraphale should not want for anything, and in general, he doesn’t. Tries not to, anyway.
Eden was a sought after position, and the flaming sword he carried was bestowed upon him by God directly. He knows full well that more than a few Archangels were confused at the choice of his assignment, though they never said so aloud of course. At the time, he felt immensely blessed. Blessed and, if he were being truthful, a little intimidated by the amount of responsibility, but he made do as best he could.
And then all of
this
happened; the snake, the apple, the banishment. He gave the sword away out of concern for the humans’ safety, omitted a
tiny
portion of the whole truth when asked where the sword was, and has rather been an anxious wreck since.
As much as it hurts to think about, he knows what the other angels think of him; that he’s soft, too soft by far for the position he was appointed. On occasion, he catches himself thinking they might be right. He dithers, and stammers, and comes far too close to asking risky questions for anyone’s comfort, sometimes even his own. His faith is intact for all his wondering, but at the end of the day he knows no other angel cares much for his company. He knows, walking through Heaven’s bright white halls, that he isn’t imagining the whispers or muffled laughter as he passes, politely greeting the others and doing his best to wait until he’s well by them to fidget and duck his head.
It’s.. lonely Upstairs, sometimes.
A friend,
he thinks now, standing on the wall of the Garden and watching the humans make their way into the desert.
Someone who understands, or might try to. Who won’t mock me the moment my back is turned. Just someone I could talk to, even if only for a little while.
What a gift that would be.
“Well,” drawls a voice from his left. “That went down like a lead balloon.”