MineGeorgi: Dammit! I'm really sorry it took so long to churn this chapter out. I wouldn't have started the story if I'd known I'd fade straight back into writer's block mode (oddly enough, I began this story as a way of trying to combat the disease) because it always annoys me when I come across a good story that just stops after a few chapters with no explanation. To be fair I did begin writing this chapter almost instantly after I finished the last one, but for some reason I became totally stuck half way through and have only just now realised that it isn't such a lost cause.
So I'm gunna be continuing (yay!) but updates will probably still be irregular at best with lengthy intervals inbetween. Hope that doesn't put you off reading it! Basically, it's because I'm in my GCSE year so I'm now a lot busier (as is my co-writer, which is why she hasn't appeared yet and this is the only story currently being actively written on our account. The rest are being ignored until we find the will to live again ¬.¬;)
Anyways, hope this chapter is better than the last one (seriously, something about chapter 2 really bugs me) and apologies for its lateness and the fact it's a bit shorter than the others.
Anthony Crowley was sure he must be dreaming.
He must be, because how else could anyone explain the apparition that stood before him. Soft, downy feathers were drifting towards the carpet, suspended in the air as if caught in time. Any other time Anthony might have berated Azira for making a mess, but now, torn between wonder, shock, and even a certain undefined fear, it took a great effort to just regain control of his mouth.
"Azira, a-are you . . . are you dead?"
Crowley whistled as he drove through the streets of Soho. A brown paper package sat next to him on the passenger seat. So did a cup of coffee. Pulling up outside Aziraphale's bookshop, he was vaguely surprised to not see the angel dithering at the counter. Probably in one of the back rooms, he guessed, and grabbed the package as he left the car.
A little bell above the shop door jingled merrily as it opened, causing Crowley to wince. He was sure the angel had bought it just to annoy him. In fact, he was quite certain that lurking somewhere under all that tweed was the most subtle and inventive sadistic bastard he had ever met. You just didn't notice thumbscrews when they were decorated with tartan.
He dropped the package on the counter and peered into the gloom.
"Aziraphale? You there?"
There was a clatter from the back of the shop and a muttered "Ouch." Curiosity got the better of him and Crowley headed in that direction.
"Aziraphale? Your books trying to eat you or something?"
He pushed open the door, some of the paint peeling off at his touch. Behind it, sprawled in a rather ungainly fashion on the floor, was Aziraphale.
The angel looked up at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated relief. He climbed to his feet clumsily. "I'm afraid I tripped," he said with a shade of embarrassment. "Goodness knows why all these books are lying about. Anthony, where are we exactly?"
Crowley felt the muscles in his chest constrict. He'd felt it as soon as he opened the door, as glaringly obvious as a heavy metal band in a library. Aziraphale was . . . all wrong. He wore a green woolly jumper, which in itself seemed normal enough, and he was holding a book in his hand, again a normal pose for him. His eyes were the same depthless azure as they had always been and- . . . except they weren't. If Crowley peered closer, he could see an altogether human intelligence peering back.
And that was it. There were no other physical signs that Aziraphale was in any way changed. At all. It was if he'd just gone to sleep one night and woken up human.
"Anthony?"
Crowley stared at him, this human Aziraphale that stood wringing his hands in front of him with a pleading expression on his face. This Aziraphale that smelt of dust and tea and paper, but called him 'Anthony'.
He hadn't realised his mouth had been hanging open, but he closed it promptly when Aziraphale shook him by the shoulders.
"Anthony." He pulled back. "Are you alright?"
Crowley blinked. "I think I'm gunna throw up . . ." he murmured and stumbled through to the front of the shop. Clasping the edge of the counter to steady himself, he kept his back to Aziraphale. Didn't want to look at it. Didn't want it to be true.
A hand tense with worry rested on his shoulder for a moment, then was gone and replaced by a warm hug, startling Crowley with the sensation of arms gripping him firmly round his middle. For a brief second he felt reassured, stabilised. He laid a hand on Aziraphale's and squeezed as an offer of comfort, feeling the anxiety slowly draining from the too-human body behind him. Too human. Too mortal.
Damn, why did he have to realise all the depressing things in quick succession? Oh great, now he was crying, like the bloody sappy snake he was. And Aziraphale had turned him round, was stroking his cheek, whispering silly little things in an effort to calm him down, stop the tears.
Mortal. He'd never realised before just how disgusting the word sounded. How hard, how remorseless. How cold, and unrelenting.
"It's going to be okay," he said, more to himself than Aziraphale. "We'll get you back to normal. We will." He swallowed thickly and gently brushed away Aziraphale's hands. Then on impulse, he caught one of them, held it close to look at.
Beautiful, were Aziraphale's hands. They positively glowed with the life that filled them, the skin smooth save for his thumbs and index fingers. Must be from turning so many pages, thought Crowley with a small smile. The palm, creased and dimpled, was practically silken to his touch, tracing the lines to the centre, then outwards again until a vein caught his eye. He followed its path to the wrist, could almost see it throbbing just below the thin, fragile covering of skin. And below that lay the muscle which could be so easily torn, following the contours of bone which was so very easy to snap. Careful of the human. If you drop him, he might break.
"Ah-ha . . . Anthony? You're, ah, hurting my arm."
Crowley's focus broke, and he found himself again looking into the eyes of a human Aziraphale. He was having trouble accepting this. Didn't want to believe any of it.
"How did . . . how did this happen?" he croaked, barely able to string the right words together.
Aziraphale peered at him curiously, rubbing his wrist where Crowley had grabbed it. "You mean you don't know either? I just woke up in that back room over there. Awfully untidy place. And goodness knows why there's so much dust about. You'd think whoever owns this place would clean up every once in a while, wouldn't you?"
Now, we all know Crowley can be a little slow on the uptake sometimes, and he has just undergone a very distressing experience. So I'm sure we can all forgive him for reacting thusly:
". . . Wha'?"