#script: aziraphale

Not two feelings are ever the same, not to an Angel. Not even when they come from the same person. Perhaps one of the reasons he’s become so fond of her is that no matter what her feelings are, there’s almost always something pleasant about them. He’s having a time (not a bad one, just a time) placing this one.

It wouldn't tug at him if it weren't genial, yet there’s some melancholy to it – the sort you get when you hear a bell that’s almost like your old primary school’s bell and you’re about to march yourself back to your classroom then think silly me, I graduated decades ago – and a cheery anticipation, almost. The scent of birthday cake waiting in the back of the car.

He lets it envelop the two of them, pours each another cup of tea – bergamot, steeped three minutes precisely – and exhales a content “quite so, I’d say.”

The fact (and it is, a fact) that the candlelit yellow of his shop somehow came to mind second, and the pure, unrelenting white of heaven came third should worry him.

It should, since headlights, traffic lights, and the odd light emitted by a specific tiny green lamp that always sat on top of the table of a small late-night restaurant Crowley and he had frequented for most of the eighties – unfortunately closed for good by the early nineties – came first. Albeit so quickly and so naturally he hadn’t had the time to, making it easier to then focus on the other two.

He does wonder, however briefly, how that thought would appear to her if she could sense it.

Her bills swish and coins clatter on the table – he’s only too pleased to confirm once more how she’s a generous tipper – and she turns in her seat, reaching for the hanger and her coat, ready to stand up and leave.  They’ve arrived and left many times prior, over many different scones and madeleines and jams and spreads, so where, exactly, is this sudden wave of melancholy coming from?

He suspects it's her hands. Humans may believe it’s the eyes, or the hair, or whatever feature is currently most fashionable that shows any inwards growths and changes and sudden spurts, only no. He’s found, through the very, very few human acquaintances he’s allowed himself to have (that aren’t strictly correspondence), that it’s the hands that most often show the first signs of just about anything.

Hers move and grip so surely as she turns to go, that he’s beginning to worry that meeting with him – the whole ‘End of the World’ crucible over and done with – might be slowly starting to get past her now. She’s human, ever-changing. He’s ethereal.

 Probably would be for the best, getting too attached can’t possibly be of any benefit to either of them, yet he finds himself missing her already. Who else would bother to tell him there’s a new cinematographic rendition of ‘Emma’ for him to watch, let alone go through the trouble of forcing him to sit through it and babble along to his endless commentary?

 “Please, don’t ever become a stranger” he finds himself saying in earnest warmth, in lieu of his usual ‘Goodbye then, see you soon, I hope’ .

He’d obtained that particular snuffbox in sixteen ninety-three (a most gracious gift from Congreve, to thank him for his endless support and patronage.) Though he’d abstained from consuming the snuff and only ever encountered it socially, he’d carried the box in his left pocket for a good few decades. Its miniature depicted, well, Michael. Recognizable through their scale – he’d found it most entertaining when Congreve shrugged and said ‘Reminded me of you. For some reason.’

Some things just couldn’t be concealed, he supposed. And was reassured to hear it.

Michael had been admiring it for quite some time now. Their fingers traced the patterns and shapes of the golden surface with a care he’d almost forgotten other Angels were capable of, especially when it concerned anything human. He let his smallest smile settle, if only for his own sake, and approached them as quietly as he could. Wouldn’t want to ruin their moment.

“Utterly lovely, isn’t it? Some may say I haven’t taken as much care of it as I ought to, letting it grow opaque, but I think it makes it all the lovelier.”

Michael doesn’t agree nor disagree, their expression as lofty and unreadable as ever. Their fingers don’t stray, and that is more than enough not to deter him from his offer: “it was given to me by a friend. You can have it if you’d like. Allow me to pay it forward, as humans would say.”

He will admit, traveling here had been an absolute hassle. The ship’s quarters had been too scanty for his liking, and the meals had been barely so. And there’d been the issue of travelling reputably apart, which meant he’d had to arrive in America months earlier (it had all been his idea, leaving him with no choice but to concede).

 One thing he was glad for was that it’d given him the opportunity to see everyone, and everything set up shop! New buildings rose, park trees were trimmed, and soon enough it was the opening day of The World’s Columbian Exposition.

They hadn’t settled on any specifics for their meeting, and he was content to stroll along for as long as needed. The merriment of the crowd delighted him, so much so that he hardly minded the size of it. Nor the occasional shoves. Soon enough the brightest spot of red glinted in the crowd, as did the rousing feeling that so often accompanied Crowley’s presence.

He made his way towards him as discreetly as he could (if there was ever any manner of skipping that could ever be considered discreet, this had been it) and, as soon as he received a ‘yes, I saw you already’ nod from a few steps away, he steered them both towards the line of what was, to him - and to many, many others if the length of it was anything to by – the greatest attraction. A Mr. Gale Ferris’ Wheel.

Inconspicuously, Crowley joined the line right behind him. They stood in silence for quite some time, the line barely moving and the early summer sun blazing with all its might. The Angel didn’t allow it to foul his mood in the slightest, focusing instead on the thrilled oooh’s and aahhh’s of the lucky passengers already boarding the invention. Eventually, Crowley whispered: ‘remember when you said, “this will be fun”?’

“Do be patient, Crowley” he scolds the Demon with the same sternness a child might muster for their new puppy, “I promise the view will be unquestionably worth it.” Luckily, they get to advance a few more steps and he takes the opportunity to greet him properly with the widest of smiles. A very young ‘whoa!’ is audible from the top and he has to restrain himself from tugging at Crowley’s sleeve in excitement, letting his hand hang in the air briefly before going for the softest nudge. “Hear?”

Out where? With whom? Whatever for? – he almost asks. He wants to. He won’t. He knows the Demon’s ways all too well by now and knows when he’s trying to coax him. Rile him up, would be the human saying. And rile him up he has, insisting again and again on the subject of Holy Water and the ludicrous lengths he’s willing to go to obtain it. This outing would be about that, no doubt.

Must he be so stubborn? Hinting at trades and complicated heists. It would be admirable if his cause was any less foolish. Crowley’s discorporation – permanent discorporation! – being in any way his doing, or something he could have prevented … no. He won’t entertain it.  If the Demon is so bent on it, the less he knows about it, all the better.

He could be furious with Crowley. Should be, has been, for having ever brought it up. It’ll gnaw at him until he’s certain this … this quest has been abandoned entirely. He can’t be unless he asks. Oh, but he doesn’t want to know. He needs to know. He’d rather not. “Are you now” he’ll keep shelving his books without as much as an interested glance. No, not even mildly.

“Hmph.” He opens Robinson Crusoe. “Be safe about it, then. Mind how you go, what will you.”

Oh, he really oughtn’t to smile with so much hubris. It’s one of the big ones, after all. Be that as it may, his rebellious smile seemed to be in perfect cahoots with the hand he placed triumphantly on the table. The winning hand.

It’d been amusing, feigning complete ignorance at how to play cards. Though, to be fair, it hadn’t been strictly a ruse. Crowley hadn’t asked, per se, if he knew how to play, nor if he’d played before. He’d merely assumed he never had - which would’ve been true, had good old Charles Blount not been so fond of chatting over a private game – and the Angel merely hadn’t bothered to dissuade him of that notion.

It had been more than fair, actually, since the Demon (very intentionally, he suspected) hadn’t explained the rules too correctly. Or thoroughly.

And no, he didn’t regret it one bit. It had been entirely worth it. Not for the victory, but for the way Crowley’s eyebrows rose so high they might pop right off his forehead once he got a good look at his hand. Ever so melodramatic. And ... atingled? when Aziraphale let any deviousness peek through.

“I’m rather adept at this game, you know,” Aziraphale reveals with the nonchalance of a kindergartener who’s just finished a splendid drawing.

‘Since when?’

They sat on the bus, a respectable seat away from one another. The action itself had been as small and inconsequential as the little plastic figure involving it.  It belonged to a little boy, who had only just been on the bus with them and his mother and the rest of them all. The love for it had beamed from him like sunflowers, growing and stretching towards the sun. It was one of his favorite sorts of love to get a grasp on. Pure as snow! And gone just as quickly, too.

Then the figurine had slipped from his hand as he and his mother descended the bus. The sunflowers wilted instantly. The child wailed and reached; the bus moved forward. Crowley grunted at the spectacle from his seat. No need to be cruel, the Angel would’ve turned to say, if his gaze wasn’t fixed on the left-behind treasure. He was a mere moment away from miracling it right back into the child’s hand when it popped and vanished!

... only to arrive at its rightful destination. There was no question as to who had done it. Whatever reason for it the Demon was sure to come up with, the Angel couldn’t help smiling. He gave him only the briefest of glances, trying to say ‘thank you’ through it as loudly as he possibly could. Thank you, and, that was so kind of you, and I am not at all surprised that you would.

All of which, he knew, might ruin the moment entirely if he actually did say them.

 Crowley was looking back at him already, and said ‘yeah, yeah, smile all you want.’ “And smile I shall” Aziraphale was all too happy to whisper, smiling even wider.

“Ah,” The Angel sputters. A particularly chipper ray of sunshine filters through the small kitchen window, dusty specks dancing across it.  The Angel can’t help admiring it, how it shimmers down the tiles and through the wood. Cozy, he’s as fond of the word as he is of the feeling. With the smell of honeyed peppermint tea painting the air, he can’t think of a reason why anything that added to building such a life could not be the right thing to do.

One could argue for the wastefulness of it. If you could have all the answers to all your questions, never a moment of uncertainty, would you burn it away? They had, and hearing of it made the Angel widen his smile. It was right, and it was admirable. Two adjectives he strived to help humans achieve, but, well, they often had their own ideas no matter how sagely he tried to advise them.

Even when he did succeed, it never felt quite right to take credit for it. It’d been and always would be entirely their decision. Right place, right time, he would say when reporting to HQ. Don’t be modest, they would answer. He could’ve made arguments for it being simple honesty, but he’d learned that was a waste of time. Hope as he might, they would never understand.