Chapter Text
I need some way to prove that this was real
A memory is not enough
“What’s wrong?”
“Huh?” Aziraphale lifts his head from his hands, startled. He’s not—not in a corporation right now, so his heart isn’t beating against his ribs, nor is his stomach churning in unease and paranoia, and Aziraphale has never desperately wished he could feel physical pain until now. “Oh! No, nothing’s wrong.”
“Your eyes are all shifty. You sure?”
“Quite sure.”
Dark eyes watch him, focused. Those eyes once roved over the minutiae of the universe, assisting in picking out the errors and adding more wonder, so Aziraphale has no doubt he will be found out in three seconds. He’s going to figure it out. He’s going to know that—
“If you say so!” the angel before him says cheerily, before returning to the paperwork before him. His hair, vibrant red and curled in such a way that Aziraphale wishes he could entwine his fingers through it, bounces as the angel sways in his seat. Like he’s dancing – which is ridiculous. Angels don’t dance. Even Aziraphale doesn’t dance anymore.
This angel hardly ever stops moving, always finding something to fidget with or make his presence known through sound, and the silence of filing paperwork always makes his presence incredibly loud. Case in point, the angel has begun to hum.
Hum? Oh, he’s humming. He’s humming—
“Angels dining…da da da Ritz…”
Deja vu grips him. Aziraphale cannot help how he stares at his second-in-command, fingers pressing, digging, into his bespoke pants.
“Da da nightingale sang… in…” The angel blinks, tilting his head. His voice no longer comes out, his mouth shaping a meaningless word as confusion begins to set in.
“Berkeley Square,” Aziraphale blurts, unable to stand the incomplete silence. Dark eyes dart to him, and he begins to tremble. Maybe he was already trembling. It’s a trial to wrangle his voice back under control so that he can tremulously, softly, utter, “And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.”
“Oh, was I saying that?” The angel shakes his head as if he can shake off the confusion. “Dunno why. Don’t think that’s a scripture we were supposed to memorize…”
“It’s—“ Aziraphale deflates and, not for the first time, he wishes he had some eccles cakes. “It’s not.”
The angel scrunches up his nose and tries to recreate the song, but all he manages to say is, “Da da da… something something square…?”
Just like the way Gabriel once did. Gabriel sang Everyday, his and Beelzebub’s song, when he was an amnesiac lost on his way to the one he was in love with.
His lips tingle, which shouldn’t be possible, so Aziraphale reaches up to touch them. There’s no physical sensation he can feel. He can only feel his emotions, discouraged as it is to have any.
I forgive you, his mouth tries to say.
He can feel nothing, but he vividly remembers mildly chapped lips pressing against his, tasting of the barest hint of wine and cinders. Hands grip his lapels, he can hardly breathe, doesn’t know what to do with his own hands—
Crowley kisses him, fierce and desperate, until his breath is completely stolen away.
“I’ll do this for you, angel,” he says, expression still stricken after Aziraphale blessed the sinful demon with an angel’s grace. “Because I—“
He doesn’t finish his sentence, choking on his own words. He makes a sound of frustration, fists clenching at his sides, and looks away.
Aziraphale wants to be elated. He and Crowley, together! As angels making a difference.
“Just… let me park my Bentley somewhere safe, yeah?”
But Crowley won’t look at him, and all Aziraphale will remember of his eyes is the dark shadow of his sunglasses over those bright yellow eyes.
“Aziraphale? Are you sure you’re all good? You’ve gone all quiet again.”
Oh, now’s not the time to be lost in ponderings of the past. “Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale responds quickly. Not quick enough to hide how his voice cracks, so he clears his throat and tries again. “I’m completely fine.”
“…You know, I really don’t think you are.”
The angel’s chair scrapes as he pushes back and stands, walking – bouncing, really, on his heels – over to Aziraphale’s desk. He kneels down before Aziraphale, peering up into his eyes, gaze curious and open. “Just to make sure, though,” the angel asks, “do you honestly think you’re good?”
It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, looking back at him. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, listening to him.
Am I Good?
Aziraphale doesn’t know how to answer that.
“If you’re not, um…” The angel looks around, patting down his own tailored suit and reaching into his pockets. “Aha! J-Just take a look at these beauties!” He places a few crumpled photographs on the desk – pictures of nebulas and galaxies. “Don’t you think they’re just kind of neat? Ooh, look at this one! The color is absolutely exquisite, such a deep, vivid violet, but the atmosphere!”
The angel begins to jabber on, eyes wide with excitement and his hands moving a mile a minute, buzzing around as he explains how the star works, how he predicts it will form a galaxy of its own in a millennia or so. He’s almost childlike, completely lacking any sort of… well, hurt.
It’s as if he’s never been punished for anything, able to speak continuously and loudly – “Oh, and this one! Isn’t it just marvelous? Its concept artist should be commended, yes indeed!” – more so than etiquette dictates. He takes up the whole room as he continues his educational lecture, running to and fro. He almost forgets he has an audience at one point, until he spins and catches sight of Aziraphale, and he proceeds to sheepishly grin as he says, “Oh, sorry about that! Got a bit excited.”
“I know,” Aziraphale says, at once feeling terribly charmed and painfully saddened. “You may continue if you’d like. I think this was just the break I needed.”
“Really?”
The indulgent smile he’s wearing drops as he remembers the Metatron is expecting a few dozen reports by the end of the day. “Perhaps only for a bit longer,” he says apologetically. “We’re on a tight schedule, after all.”
The angel looks like he wants to pout, but he just shrugs and continues to ramble. When he steps to the other side of the room, arms waving as he tries to describe a planet’s rings and moons, Aziraphale realizes that, though he doesn’t swing his hips and cross his legs as he walks, exchanging swagger for skipping steps that could lead into a somersault, this angel always has to let out his energy in some form of exaggerated manner. His personality just envelops everything around him. His individuality is on display for everyone to see.
That individuality, lonely and kind and always so proud to be… oh, how it charmed Aziraphale. Almost… almost enamored him. But of course, that couldn’t happen. He was an angel, Crowley a demon. Whatever their friendship was, it could never be anything more.
Never.
Of course not.
“I’ll do this for you, angel.”
Black was traded for white.
Individuality given up for endless white. Because of Aziraphale.
Crowley loved him. He knows that now, and—and Aziraphale can feel nothing but gratitude to the man so kind as to love him so strongly. Gratitude and regret for his past actions.
This angel? He’s sweet, excitable, and headstrong. He’s so—so pure. So good. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be punished and Fallen.
Aziraphale loves him as he loves all.
He misses his Crowley—
Ring. Ring.
Aziraphale jumps in his seat, and even the angel is startled into hopping back. They both direct their gazes at the celestial phone on his desk, then at each other, only to laugh at their own silliness. Aziraphale launches into another giggling fit as the angel pretends to be startled again, his expression comically exaggerated, and then his eyes see the screen.
Aziraphale, I understand you like to get to know those you work with, but I must remind you we are on a tight schedule. Your productivity should be up to the standards befitting an Archangel, standardsI expect someone of your caliber should match easily.
I’m sure you have understood.
-the Metatron
“Have you cheered up now, Aziraphale?” The angel has finally made his way back to the desk, shifting on his feet and gazing at Aziraphale expectantly with dark eyes.
Putting away the phone, Aziraphale plasters on a smile. No, wait. That sounds a little sad, as if Aziraphale doesn’t actually want to smile.
His lips curl up in a grateful smile. “Very much so. Thank you, my dear. I believe I’m completely ready to continue my work now!”
“Grrreat! If you need any cheering up again, you can always count on me to help, Aziraphale!” the angel beams. Then the angel shrugs, his frenzied energy tempering like a leaf blower being switched off, and Aziraphale watches him curiously, wondering what brought about this sudden change. “Besides,” the angel says, body half-turned away. His smile is a little lopsided. “I like it when you smile.”
Oh, he’s being so silly, pining after nothing. Crowley is r-right here! Aziraphale has nothing to miss, nothing to be sad about.
He has everything he’s ever wanted, all he’s ever needed, and so he shall be happy. That’s what the Metatron promised, and the Metatron wouldn’t lie to him.
I’m scared that I’ll forget the way this feels
To be young
And in love