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Aziraphale could not quite understand why he had felt so dejected about all of this...all of it really.
Not about the whole ‘quarantining’ factor, because no matter how much someone - ethereal or not - kicks up a fuss about not being able to go out and enjoy the splendid pleasantries of life, there is simply no other way around it. All of God’s living creatures and their mother must be safe and clean, and they must adhere to regulations - no ifs or buts about it. Even though Aziraphale is not a temporal being and can never actually catch diseases or other fatalities - let alone perish from them - he will not allow himself to be so much as tempted to break such regulations and set a horrid example for what little of humanity is left in the world right now. Not even by a willy, and quite literal, demon such as Crowley.
… “Oh bother,” Aziraphale exhales to no one but himself, for the thought of Crowley and their fleeting conversation on the telephone is - just perhaps - the explanation for why the angel is feeling so morose.
The call had only taken place hours prior, and even now as Aziraphale has since put the receiver down on the stand, even now as he has walked away to accompany himself in his little private loft above the bookshop, even now as he has constructed himself a spot of English tea to go with the sundry homemade goods, even now as he has opened up to where he left off in his reading...Aziraphale simply just cannot shake off the distress he feels from his talk with Crowley.
Nor can he shake off the...the tone of voice Crowley held when the phone call ended, when Aziraphale did not reciprocate the demon’s offer to live out the rest of the lockdown with the angel in his bookshop. Crowley had sounded so...discontented...so disheartened as they eventually ended the talk, and such emotions had managed to rub off onto Aziraphale. It sticks to him.
Crowley did not even put up a fight with Aziraphale’s rejection. He just civilly bid the angel ‘goodnight’ and hung up.
It is evident that he has been hurt, however, because there goes Aziraphale once again pushing Crowley aside, not taking the bait, refusing the foul fiend’s advances...exactly like how he has been doing to Crowley for over six-thousand years.
Aziraphale had previously figured that he was through with dismissing both Crowley’s heart and his own. He thought he was ready to finally say ‘yes’ to whatever proposition Crowley would make next. Armageddon was blocked, the world was saved, and here the ethereal beings had the assumption that they were truly going to merrily spend the rest of their existence together peacefully, focusing on nothing but each other.
...then this pandemic came about, causing quite the hullabaloo throughout the globe, forcibly demanding everyone to stay indoors...and now Aziraphale and Crowley were apart yet again - much like how every historical occurrence that has ever been known.
Aziraphale huffs as he places the bookmark on the page he was in the middle of, gently setting the book aside on the table. He picks up his winged mug, raises it, blows and places his lips to the rim, takes a sip, then returns the cup to its place on the table. “I’m not lonely,” he mutters to himself...because who else is he going to speak to? He glances at every scrumptious dessert and every vintage publication that surrounds him, and there is quite a number of each. “I’m not lonely, I’m not lonely, I’m not lonely, I’m not lonely,” he repeats, as if to convince himself that there is some truthfulness to the declaration.
How could he possibly be a fool to think that he is actually alone?
All these confections, all these editions, he has them all right here where he is, needing nothing more.
He does not need anything he does not already possess with him at hand.
He has everything.
Aziraphale scoffs as he shakes his head and lifts up his silver fork with one hand and selects from the spread of sweets what he shall place on his plate; biscuits, muffins, scones, slices of strawberry shortcake, and crepes. It is very much reminiscent of that from the Ritz when it was in function, with the last visitation to the divine establishment being in the company of Crowley.
...yes, with Crowley.
...Crowley…
...Crowley…
...Crowley…
...Crowley…
Aziraphale’s heart sinks. Tears well up in his eyes as he defeatedly snaps his fingers, causing the dessert-filled plate and tea set to slide away on the table. He lays his elbows on the table and holds his face in his palms.
“Oh just who am I possibly fooling besides my-very-self?” he miserably whimpers. He cannot keep doing this. Not to Crowley. Not to himself. This roundabout has gone on far enough. He will not make the same mistake as last time, or the one before that, and the one before that, and so on and so forth.
Without a moment's hesitation, Aziraphale snaps his fingers again, and in seconds he’s transported to his desire’s own bedchamber.
The angel’s heart swells when his eyes fixate on a demon who is composedly snoozing in his bedding. When Aziraphale snaps his fingers once more, his wardrobe is replaced with the most comfortable sleepwear attire an angel like himself would don, and he then carefully settles himself into Crowley’s bed so as to not stir him from his sleep on accident. He securely pulls the sheets over the both of them before nestling right at Crowley’s side, draping an arm around his body.
“I’m lonely, and I’ll be damned if I don’t allow myself to admit that I miss you, dear,” he whispers to Crowley.
Finally, the angel places a feathery peck to the button of Crowley’s nose before shutting his eyes, a devoted smile stretching his lips.
If Crowley were to have heard him instead of heavily slumbering, the demon would have replied with something to the effect of, ‘I told you, angel - it’s not too bad when you get used to it.’