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It built up like droplets. It was hardly noticeable, at first. The rivulets were a little slippery, sure. One hated to get one's socks damp but it was easy to ignore. But soon enough there were waves rising up, crashing together, pulling her under.
Aziraphale couldn't quite pinpoint what the catalyst was. Perhaps it was how quickly the brief warm spell had disappeared, leaving the city feeling all the more gloomy in its absence. Partially it was the length of time she had gone without seeing Crowley. One of her favourite treats had been taken off the menu at a local bakery, too. And then of course Ollie—one of her wards—was sick and she could only do so much in light of the government's failings.
And that made her think about all the cold, hungry, lonely children in the world. At times like this, Aziraphale felt all of her five thousand and some years and they were all her children. She tried her best to change things, to fix things, even to get upstairs to take a damn interest. But her latest review with Gabriel had not gone very well. No, not very well at all.
Subsequently, Aziraphale had only a faint recollection of how she had made it back to earth and to the safety of her bookshop in which she was currently panicking. She had locked the door with shaky hands then drawn the blinds with a miracle, not wanting to dally any longer. Only then did she feel less exposed, yet the overwhelm still persisted
She wrenched off her coat—which was also complicated by the lack of control over her corporation. Usually she worried more over her clothes but she needed to get warm and away from all of these reminders. Once Aziraphale managed to get it on to the coat hook she strode to the kitchenette in the back.
Another miracle to set the kettle to a boil as she hunted around for where she had left her slippers. They weren't at all dignified and clashed something awful with her waistcoat and yet, they were so comfortable she couldn't bear to get rid of them. Another struggle with her shoelaces and Aziraphale bit her tongue in order to suppress a scream. Why couldn't anything be easy?
As the kettle began to whistle, stoking her burgeoning headache, she stopped and forced herself to pause. Aziraphale even took a few rare breaths as she had seen the humans do to calm themselves.
"You're alright," she murmured to herself, eyes drifting close. "It's alright."
It did help her to feel less out of control and she succeeded in putting on both of the shoes and taking the kettle off of the stove without throwing something. Aziraphale then decided to turn her attention to the small tasks in front of her. Teapot, tea leaves, water. Sugar bowl, milk jug, spoons. Biscuits. Cup, saucer. Sigh.
This particular set had been a gift from Crowley, from Paris some centuries ago. Aziraphale’s eyes watered at the thought of the demon. After a moment she forced herself to move from gripping the counter to rest on the infinitely more cozy chair she kept tucked away from potential customers. She placed the tea tray down within reach on a side table and settled into the chair. It was but a moment for her to put her feet up and tuck the blanket just so over her lap.
Aziraphale smoothed the blanket a few more times than necessarily required and her eyes began to sting. It was so soft, unlike so many things in the universe. It was soft, like she was. And she began to weep.
At first she attempted to quiet herself, to keep the sobs small and contained. But it was no use. One couldn’t hold back a flood, she knew that quite well.
Everything bubbled to the surface, then, as she let it go, as she let herself feel things. Aziraphale did not hold onto any one particular thought—instead she allowed them to drift in and out as they needed.
She wrapped her arms around herself in a hug. Aziraphale was surprised that it did wonders to comfort herself. She tightened her arms in a light squeeze and sniffled as her current bout of crying came to an end. As she did so, she noticed how awful she felt otherwise.
Her face was hot and tacky where her tears had dried. Itchy, too. Aziraphale’s nose was stuffy and her head had begun to pound from her frowning. Most unpleasant.
The issue was that now she had gotten herself settled she was reluctant to move. She sighed and snapped to produce a dish of water and a flannel. Aziraphale dabbed at her face, mindful of not making the situation worse.
Once completed, she blew her nose. Although that did remove much of the stuffiness it worsened the ache in her head. She thought it best not to miracle it away, lest she did further damage with the shock.
Aziraphale sighed and realised she would have to move somewhat in order to relieve the stiffness she felt. It took some moments for her to gather the energy before she began to stretch. Her movements pulled at the ache now inside her that was left behind by her tears.
Glad she had the forethought to make a pot, Aziraphale removed its tea cosy—another gift, although not from Crowley—and fixed herself a cup.
The warm liquid was a soothing balm to her irritated throat. It travelled down and hit her stomach, radiating cosiness throughout her body. Pleased, Aziraphale relaxed back into the cushions, biscuits in her other hand.
Emotionally she had begun to feel much better, despite the lingering discomfort in her corporation. It was like releasing a pressure valve, Aziraphale mused. Particularly as she had finally allowed herself to let everything she had been worrying about come to the surface, instead of pushing it all down and away.
All that aside, Aziraphale still had her worries. Nothing was suddenly fixed, after all. She frowned and considered the biscuit in her hand. She truly ought to eat something, as faint as she felt, but she wasn't quite sure if she could stomach it. Another bad sign. She took a dainty bite and had another sip of tea, then waited to see how she would react.
Usually food was a source of pleasure, comfort, joy. Something to look forward to, indulge in, share and seek out. It was most upsetting when it no longer held an appeal.
The biscuit hadn't been too awful, at least, and so she took another bite.
The issue was that Aziraphale still felt ungrounded in a way she knew was only akin to hunger.
Minutes passed as she sipped her tea. It took some time but she miracled up her collection of takeaway menus. Her brow furrowed at the myriad of options available. How was she to make a decision?
Aziraphale shuffled through the pile of menus, briefly reading each one to familiarise herself with the possibilities. Then she closed her eyes once more as she held the cuisines in her mind and let herself be drawn to whatever it was she might be craving. Hmm.
Pasta it would be.
Another minute to work up the courage to telephone the restaurant. Aziraphale’s usual confidence in the domain of food had been drained by many things, but particularly the review with Gabriel. She tried to let those thoughts just drift past and focus on the present. She simply had to put one metaphorical foot in front of the other. She dialled the number.
Aziraphale managed it, even if conversing with another person made her further ungrounded. She found it hard to concentrate and understand what they were saying at the other end of the line. Once she hung up, Aziraphale poured herself another cup of tea, then took a few slow, deep breaths.
Aziraphale realised how much better she felt than when she had initially returned to the bookshop. Although quite tired, there was a steadiness to her being that had been sorely lacking earlier that day. It was easy to berate herself for falling apart at all but regardless she was pleased with how she had handled things and put herself back together.
As she continued drinking her thoughts shifted to considering what book should be her evening companion. She wouldn’t let herself begin until the food had been delivered, lest she get distracted, but as usual there were a great deal of options available to her.
It needed to be something comforting, nothing that would add to her burden of considering all the harshness of the world….
Half an hour later, Aziraphale was settling at the table, steaming plate of food in front of her. Not only had she chosen the novel to keep her company—Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland—but had formed a mental plan for the rest of the evening. That, too, had aided her to relax. Now it was time for dinner whilst she listened to the radio. Then dessert and some reading. If she had enough energy later she would indulge in a warm bath. Yes, it was a very good plan indeed.
Aziraphale had dished out half of the serving, mindful of her sparse appetite. She placed the napkin over her lap and began to eat, tuning in to the radio show in the background. The food was delicious, the creamy sauce comforting but not too heavy. Aziraphale chose to focus on the taste, rather than how much or little she was capable of eating.
The background conversations helped, too, in not entirely distracting her but not preventing those pesky thoughts from popping up and ruining her evening again. It helped that the program was funny as well and it did much to lighten the mood.
Sometime later, Aziraphale had finished her meal. She was satisfied and comfortable, warm and full. She took a few moments more to savour it before she stood to tidy up. With dinner done she considered changing into night clothes. Despite Crowley's questioning to the contrary, Aziraphale did possess items that weren't her usual suited fair. She just wore them far less often.
Although it was tempting to truly relax, to let herself be soft in that way, it still felt too vulnerable for the moment. Too exposing, without her woven armour as her daily outfit had come to be.
Decision made, it was time for reading, and dessert.
Aziraphale returned to the sofa and tucked herself back into the blanket. She had brought the pannacotta with her—it wouldn't dare warm up under her instruction, no matter how long it went without refrigeration.
The story was familiar enough that whilst Alice dove into Wonderland, Aziraphale didn't entirely become absorbed by the story. She was able to observe the world around her, hear the people pass on the street outside. It was safer that way.
The novel was as silly and amusing as it had been the first and thirty first times she had read it. As the Mock Turtle began to tell his tale, Aziraphale took a break for dessert.
The pannacotta was perfect, exactly what she had been craving. She let the first bite melt away on her tongue. It was sweet and creamy, slightly floral, and gloriously smooth. After the first taste Aziraphale realised what she wanted. Something that certain angels would deem far too self indulgent. Despite the pang that hit her stomach at the thought, she persevered and collected her things.
With the plate in hand and her book tucked carefully under her arm, Aziraphale started to climb the stairs to her flat above the bookshop. She would continue this in the bath.
After all, some days it was enough to be taken care of by herself.