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There was an angel in the Garden. Or, at least, Crawly assumed it was an angel. There were only 6 occupants within the walls of Eden—2 humans and four angelic guards for each of the gates. The two humans, called Adam and Eve, had dark skin and black hair. The figure that Crawly was watching from the bracken had neither of these traits. By process of elimination, it was therefore an angel.
Crawly was supposed to be locating a tree—a very complicated and important tree with the prettiest of fruit. However, it was a lovely day (as it had always been) and the light of the sun was filtered through the trees just so. The warmth of the rays felt like an embrace on his scales, and he had been napping contentedly when he heard…something. Crawly couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.
It wasn’t like the buzzing and agonized groaning of Hell. He couldn’t remember Heaven—not without an intense migraine and a bleeding heart—but he recalled the sounds of the angelic host as they sang in tandem. Light and music were all he remembered. What Crawly heard in the Garden was closer to the music of Heaven, but it was softer and unrefined. So, he followed the sound, hiding under the layers of underbrush, until he reached the source.
What he found was a pond, with a small creek feeding into it via a waterfall only a foot high. It was a nice spot yes, one that impressionist painters would have killed to see if such people had existed yet, but it was not what made the sound. No, what made the sound was the angel, for it could be nothing else, that was humming—humming, that’s what it was!—languidly in the water.
The angel’s robes were folded neatly on a flat rock on the edge of the water, his bare shoulders confirming his nakedness as he bathed. Crawly knew that, logically, the angel would have no need for protection. Crawly was, technically, not supposed to be here but still… seeing an angel that was supposed to be on guard duty be so vulnerable was unexpected. What was odder to Crawly was that angels had no need to bathe—nor did demons—so the angel in the pond was doing something out of pleasure rather than necessity.
Crawly was a demon, this was painfully obvious, but he took no pleasure in voyeurism, especially without the other party consenting, and yet…and yet. This odd little angel seemed so familiar. So, he watched.
The angel was waist-deep in the water of the pond, his hands picking up scoopfuls and running the water down his back and chest. His skin was rosy pink and pale, with rounded shoulders and hands that looked painfully inviting. Crawly would never admit this but he desperately wanted to rub his scales against those hands and see if they were as soft as they looked. Of course, the musculature of the angel’s arms gave away his strength, so perhaps they were not delicate like a flower. Maybe they were more like an owl’s wings—strong and powerful yet so, so soft. Yes, that’s what the angel’s hands were.
It wasn’t the hands or the supple shoulders that drew Crawly’s eyes, though. No, it was the shock of perfectly white hair that curled in cloudlike tufts that did that. Crawly had seen that hair before—he knew he had—and he hated that he couldn’t remember where. He saw flashes of a scene in his mind—that white hair, surrounded by starlight, sound and color, light and music—but it wasn’t defined or wholly recognizable. He knew this angel, he did, and it wasn’t in battle; it was somewhere kinder. Crawly dared not speak aloud for fear of scaring the angel, but he internally cried for the angel to turn around. Crawly would never know Heaven’s light again, but to see the angel’s profile would be enough and more.
Finally, the angel did turn, his face briefly in profile until it was revealed fully to the demon’s hidden eyes. Crawly was doomed.
The angel’s face was as soft as his shoulders, round and gentle with a sweetly upturned nose. His eyes, however, seemed to pluck out any sense that remained in Crawly’s body and distribute them neatly next to his folded robes. Crawly couldn’t see what color the angel’s eyes were, but they were rounded with something else hidden within them.
Suddenly the angel’s eyes lit up, and he dunked himself into the water, submerging himself completely out of Crawly’s sight. Crawly counted five seconds until the angel burst out of the water, two great white wings proceeding him. The angel was giggling to himself as the wings shook off the water, reinvigorated by the bath. The angel ran his hands through his hair—starlight, sound and color, light and music—and shook his head in a similar fashion to his wings.
Crawly’s mission to the tree was forgotten as he watched the angel in the water. He needed to speak to him, he had to. He needed to know the intonation of his voice, if he had a lilt or a drawl, what his accent was, if his voice matched his handsome face. Even if the angel made an exclamation of panic at the sight of a demon in Eden, he needed to try. Crawly felt his scales smoothing and stretching into skin, his hair tumbling off his scalp, and he lifted himself out of the bracken, still hidden in the shadows with his black robes.
The angel was wading towards his white shroud, stepping out of the pond and revealing supple, strong legs that lead to—
*Snap*
Crawly sank back into the brush as silently as he could, ashamed. A stick, a damn stick, snapped him out of his reverie. The angel was startled, clutching his robes to his person. Crawly knew he should feel ashamed for watching the angel bathe but what he felt instead was far different—like string was being pulled from the center of his chest and tying itself to the angel’s wrist. Where there should be pain there was sweet release instead. This was going to be a problem, Crawly thought.
The angel was in the process of draping the white cloth over his body when there was a loud yell from the north.
“Aziraphale of the Eastern Gate! Why are you not at your post?”
It wasn’t Her voice, so it must have been one of the other guardian angels.
Crawly’s angel stuttered in surprise and straightened his robes, picking up an impressive sword that was engulfed in flame that Crawly hadn’t seen in his distraction.
“I-I was checking on the humans! I lost track of time, my apologies—”
“Your post, Aziraphale!”
“Yes, quite right!”
The angel shook his wings with a dejected air and flew above the trees to his post. Crawly felt a phantom tug on his person—no doubt being reminded of his assignment to the tree. However only one phrase ran through his mind:
Aziraphale. His name is Aziraphale.