Chapter Text
Aziraphale rarely dreamed.
He didn’t sleep, so that already made it exceedingly unlikely. But one didn’t necessarily have to be asleep to dream.
Sometimes – when his mood struck him just so, when the here and now was just the right combination of distressing and dull – his mind would start to drift, to ponder possibilities and roll out fanciful scenarios, and he experienced what humans would, eventually, name daydreaming.
Seven days ago, the floodwater had lifted the Ark and borne it far from the patch of desert where it rested. Seven days of floating, bobbing along, no sound apart from the snap of sails or the groan of rope and the constant, ceaseless fall of rain. No sign of land or life except what existed here, on the ship. His thoughts kept tugging in terrifying directions, paths they should certainly never go down.
Normally, he would throw himself into his work, focus his entire mind on the task, leaving no room for – for the unnamed emotions that, as an angel, he certainly didn’t feel.
But, after seven days…nothing remained to be done.
And so, Aziraphale rested, leaning against the rail, watching the waves bob up and down. It was dry where he stood - an easy enough miracle - but all else was wet and grey: slate grey waves below a coal grey sky, and silvery mist in between.
It was the height of summer. There should be sunlight. There should be…birds of some description. Geese, perhaps. Pelicans. There should be marsh weeds with storks browsing for fish, river otters paddling across the current.
There should be people. Little flat boats drifting downriver to the city, filled with traders or fishers. Women with baskets on their backs loaded with dates and pistachios harvested from the groves. Children splashing on the banks, covered in mud and happy for it.
A creak behind him – possibly a footstep, possibly beams of wood settling against each other – and suddenly long arms wrapped around his waist, pulled him back in an embrace. His shoulders bumped against a narrow chest, a sharp chin rested lightly atop his head. Streamers of red hair - curling in the damp - whipped past his face, blowing in the erratic wind.
“S’not your fault, Angel,” a rough voice said. “Nothing you could do.”
“Yes, there was. There must have been.” His hands tightened on the rail of the ship, even as the arms tightened around him. “Why, why would they give me so much warning if not to do something?”
“What were you supposed to do? Change the Almighty’s mind?” The chin brushed across his hair, as the being behind him shook his head. “Think what happened last time we tried that.”
“I could have evacuated the villages. Sent the children away. Something.”
“Were you ordered to?”
“I…I wasn’t ordered not to…”
“Aziraphale.” Another wave of red hair across his face, as lips dipped down to his ear. A whisper all but lost under the wind and the waves and the thunder. “Those are dangerous words for an angel.”
“I can’t just stand by and watch. That can’t be my purpose.”
“Don’t do this. If anyone hears you…”
“No one can hear me, Crawly.” He took a deep breath. “Because none of this is real.”
Aziraphale turned around and gazed across the empty deck. No tall dark figure lurked in the shadows, no golden eyes dancing with a joke only they could see.
Just as well. What had Aziraphale been thinking? Of all the creatures in creation to confide in, why had he imagined a demon?
He brushed off his robes and went to find something to do.
--
“No one can hear me, Crawly. Because none of this is real.”
Crawly woke suddenly, limbs jerking, and sucked in a deep breath.
The child in his arms mumbled in surprise. “Shhh, s’alright,” he soothed, lulling her back to sleep before she could make too much noise.
Even his demonic eyes could hardly penetrate the complete darkness below the lowest deck of the Ark. The children were little more than shadows, hunched on narrow shelves he’d quickly miracled into the empty space. Bilge water sloshed below them, bracken and sour.
Twenty kids. He hadn’t expected to get that many. He could only hope they’d last, that he could keep miracling up more bread and fresh water until this blessed rain ended.
He sat up carefully, moving the smallest child to rest safely back against the beams of the hull. She’d been afraid of falling into the water, and still might if she moved too much, but Crawly needed to tend to the rest.
A young boy huddled nearby, a deep scrape on his knee. Didn’t look infected; Crawly couldn’t spare the miracle to heal it unless it was an emergency. But he paused to kiss the boy’s knee, rubbing his thumb over the scab, and got a weak smile in return.
Standing up, Crawly rolled the stiffness out of his shoulders, thinking of the dream. Why had he imagined that?
Wishful thinking, maybe. Back at Eden, Aziraphale had seemed…open to real thought. Not entirely convinced by Heaven’s rules. But he’d seen nothing of those doubts outside, as the rains started to fall.
He wished he had. Wished Aziraphale had said even one word before boarding the ship and leaving the people to their doom.
I can’t just stand by and watch.
He wished it were true. That there was one other being in the world that felt as he did.
But what could you really expect from an angel?
Crawly shook his head and stepped from one makeshift shelf to the next, where a brother and sister huddled, sucking on an empty waterskin. “Let me refill that.”