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Sweat beaded across Aziraphale’s forehead as he kept his arms pressed to the wall in front of him, legs bending back and forth in a repetitive motion as he lunged, again, and again, and again. He felt exhausted, tired. So, so tired, a pressure to move in his legs the only thing keeping him from collapsing directly onto the floor below him. But he couldn’t stop, not now, maybe not ever. If he stopped, then he would fall onto the floor and not start again. And he couldn’t do that, he couldn’t rest for a moment. Even now, it felt like it wasn’t enough. Nothing that he did was ever enough, why couldn’t he be enough?
He desperately tried to be productive, to stop the waves of guilt from taunting him to the point of tears again , but no matter how hard he tried, nothing could satisfy his mind. He felt like a sack of potatoes, constantly just sitting around, eating, drinking tea, doing nothing that was helpful to society. Gods , even his bookshop, his stupid bookshop. It was just a storage area for his collection, where he actively prevented customers from trying to purchase from him. How selfish could he be? He was an angel, for god’s sake.
So, why was he doing lunges against a wall? Well, to answer that question, picture a person who is helpful and an active member of the growth of society. What do you think that person is like? Likely healthy, stable, has some form of active role that they play in contribution to the evergrowing community that mankind thrives in.
Aziraphale did not fit this description. He was unhealthy, chubby, constantly just sitting around in restaurants and doing nothing helpful. Sure, he tipped his waiters largely and sent miracles their way, but that was the bare minimum for humans, surely. He didn’t necessarily hate the fact that he was chubby, but rather, he hated the fact that he was so… washed out. How was he supposed to be helpful, when he couldn’t even care for his own physical or mental health? Gods , what was wrong with him?
Now, likely, he could just alter his appearance to his liking, right? However, he knew he wouldn’t be able to build muscle just by altercation. And even if he could, that was the easy way out. He didn’t give a damn about how he looked, he just wanted to stop being so weak .
His legs trembled under the weight of not just his exhausted body, but his head. He felt like the world was on his shoulders, but he also felt like there wasn’t enough there . He felt a lump growing in his throat at his own self deprecating thoughts, and tried not to let the wet streaks be freed from his eyes.
His legs screamed for him to please, please stop. Sit down, lay down, do anything that doesn’t involve standing, please. We can’t /do/ this any longer.
His head opposed, talking over the rest of his pleading body, saying that no. He didn’t get to stop, he didn’t /deserve/ to stop. He had to keep at this until he was healthy enough to be productive, until he stopped lazing about constantly. It was like a battle between the angel and devil on his shoulders. However, he wasn’t sure which one was which.
He couldn’t stop the tears from escaping, not after the way his body was fighting his every move. He couldn’t help himself, a sob escaping his lips and his head moving forward to hit against the wall (not lightly) before he simply let his forehead rest against it, everything hitting him all at once. He was crying, crying, deeper and deeper and he couldn’t stop.
Against his own will, he found himself sinking down to the floor. He felt like a wet noodle, which is a comedic comparison when you think about it, but really, he did. His limbs felt floppy, flabby, weak.
Get up, Aziraphale. You useless piece of shit, get up. Get UP!
He couldn’t. He physically couldn’t. He was falling, falling, falling. Falling apart, falling through time, falling into his own head, falling to the floor so hard that he couldn’t get up.
He laid there, and he cried. Despite the yells of his brain, he did not get up. He did not rise from the floor. He was so tired. He was so tired.
He was so useless.