Chapter Text
“I’m terribly sorry, dear boy, but I can’t see you for a while.” Aziraphale threw his crust a little harder than he meant to and winced when it bounced off a juvenile duck who squacked at the sudden rush of his fellows.
Crowley tossed a piece of his own bread into the fray. “It’s just the park, angel.”
“No, not that, it’s-- You see, Gabriel has decided I’m due for a miracle audit. An exhaustive one, by the sound of it. Remember how they were having trouble getting the electric in properly, and I smoothed over the permits--”
“I remember you had to keep ‘convincing’ the workers that your shop only had the ordinary inside dimensions. Surprised they didn’t run barmy after that, really.”
“In any case,” Aziraphale continued, “apparently I’m to get a new lecture on thrift, plus I need to account for my miracle usage over the last five years, as well as-- well, if management are to be crawling over the bookshop I need to take half the stock and store it somewhere else. I don’t think they’ll appreciate The Soul of Man Under Socialism or Paradise Lost or--”
Crowley looked straight at him, glasses barely hiding the surprise in his eyes. “No no, angel, you’re right. No sense of humor whatsoever, the lot of them. You’ve got someplace to move the books?”
“I’ve... well, I’ve arranged something, yes.”
“...You’ve got someplace to move the books that isn’t going to show up on your miracle audit?”
“All done very much the human way, yes. But we can’t meet up while this is going on. Too many eyes. I probably shouldn’t have come today, but I had to warn you that there are going to be Archangels about.”
“I’ll be careful, angel, I promise. What about you? Are you going to be alright?”
“I I I’m sure I will be. It will be, I’m sure it will be lovely to see them all,” Aziraphale said without enthusiasm.
“Any idea how long it’ll take?”
“Not the faintest, I’m afraid. I’ll-- I’ll light candles in the windows, when it’s done. That will let you know that they’ve finished and gone back to Heaven, won’t it?”
“I’ll watch for them. I’ve got a couple assignments’ll take me out of London anyway, so it shouldn’t be bad.”
Aziraphale sighed. Be careful, he wanted to say. I’ve only just got you back. You know Sandalphon will smite you if he can. He tossed the last crust into the gaggle of ducks. “Must be off. Work to do,” he said instead. “Mind how you go.”
“Give ‘em hell, angel.”
‘A while’ turned out to be almost two years. Two years that left Aziraphale jumping at shadows. His already-reduced stock was down by nearly half as the archangels found more and more things to object to. His tea supply ran low, then out, and he couldn’t deal with one more lecture about consuming gross matter. He’d only saved his wine stock by claiming he was holding it for someone else (true enough, he thought; he was planning to share it with Crowley). Only certain records were allowed to be played and he had no time to read.
By the time the last Archangel left-- Uriel, her face set in disapproval-- he was only fit to close the door and sit quietly, wings wrapped around himself. Waiting for them to come back and need one more thing.
Eventually, he unwrapped his wings. Dusted his empty shelves and made arrangements for the books in storage to come back. Tested the limits of his new, reduced miracle budget. Went to see his neighbors. Bought some tea and began to replenish his larder. The first taste of cake from the new bakery down the street almost made him weep, but he started to gather normalcy around him like a favorite blanket.
And every night, he lit candles in the windows.
And every morning, he blew them out, and pulled himself together to face the day.