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Aziraphale lay contemplatively on his back, watching the bizarre yet undeniably beautiful play of light on the ceiling.
As it turned out, the culmination of a good several thousand years’ worth of mutual desire, and one particularly heated conversation in a bookshop during which certain truths came to light, ultimately resulting in one (1) celestial and one (1) diabolical being falling into a hastily-conjured bed (18th-century mahogany with a canopy and a whole pile of embroidered pillows at that, very nice, very nice indeed) to kiss and caress and generally act on their long-repressed desires in the traditional human way, as well as a few hitherto-undiscovered metaphysical non-human ways (there might have been a little mutual possession involved, it was difficult to say for certain, suffice to say a good time was had by all)… as it turned out, when all that sort of thing happened… well, let’s say it had a few unusual side effects.
To name a few, there now appeared to be some form of ethereal glow lighting up the flat above the bookshop. There was a pervading smell of honeysuckle suffused with a slightly singed undertone, like burning plastic. Also, Aziraphale’s gramophone had started playing Nessun Dorma by itself.
Crowley snuggled closer, draped as he was, snakelike, across Aziraphale’s chest. “D’you think it’s because we waited so long?” he mumbled.
“Perhaps. Gosh, I hope the neighbours don’t start asking questions. It’s the last thing I need, really, that sort of attention…”
Aziraphale trailed off; unable, at present, to bring himself to care all that much.
He was gathering Crowley closer into his chest, wondering whether some further essence-merging or perhaps just more good old-fashioned culbatizing exercise wouldn’t go amiss right now, when there was a wholly unwelcome knock at the bookshop door.
Crowley groaned, burying his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You’re closed, aren’t you?”
“It’s probably those damned men in the suits again. I don’t know why they keep turning up, really I don’t. I made it clear in no uncertain terms that I have no intention of selling up shop.”
Another knock rang out.
“Give me a minute and-” Aziraphale extricated himself from the tangle of limbs on the bed and wandered over to the window, hoping that whoever it was would eventually give up hope and take their leave.
Instead, to his alarm, from his vantage point he was greeted by the entirely unwelcome sight of Gabriel at his door.
Aziraphale sucked in his breath. He contemplated pretending not to be in, but subsequently realised that by not answering the door he was risking Gabriel looking upwards, seeing whatever was happening up here and asking a great deal of undesirable questions.
Furthermore he noted, with mounting dread, that Gabriel was now pushing open the door - displaying no regard for the fact that it had been locked and he hadn’t been invited - and walking into his shop.
Aziraphale muttered an oath under his breath that would have shocked both Crowley and their unwelcome visitor, before hastily miracling his clothes back on, instructing Crowley to stay exactly where he was, and making his way downstairs.
“Gabriel!” he panted, pasting a false smile on his face. “Welcome! What brings you here?”
“Aziraphale!” Gabriel threw his arms out theatrically. “Managed to find your place again. Had a bit of a job getting in, though. Sturdy locks you’ve got, now! Anyone would think you didn’t want us dropping by.”
Aziraphale smiled glassily. “Really? Can’t think why.”
He waited. Gabriel seemed reluctant to comment further, in favour of looking around appraisingly for a while. Aziraphale tried not to grit his teeth. “Not that it isn’t delightful to see you, but what brings you here, exactly?”
Gabriel gave his surroundings another disdainful glance, looking for a surface to lean on that wasn’t dusty and coming up short. “You still have that flaming sword, right?”
“Flaming- yes. Yes, of course. Still here, in tip-top condition. Still...flaming away, indeed.”
“Great! Can I see it?”
Aziraphale froze in his tracks. “See it?”
“Can I see it? Your flaming sword. Make sure it’s still good and flaming? All intact and accounted for? We’re gonna need it eventually, come the end times!”
“Of-of course.” Aziraphale swallowed. “I’ll just go and fetch it right now. You wait exactly where you are.” He bustled off into his back room, thinking furiously.
Somehow, one way or another, he’d managed to keep his act of giving the sword away under wraps until now. The archangels had never shown a great deal of interest, beyond occasionally asking after its wellbeing. If they found out it was no longer in his possession… well. He didn’t want to think too hard about the repercussions.
But what if…
His gaze fell through the small window onto the conveniently-located antique weaponry shop across the street. It wasn’t something he’d ever given much thought to before - indeed, he couldn’t say for certain when it had turned up - but he suddenly experienced an enormous wave of gratitude at the sight of it.
...What if he were to purchase an ordinary sword and disguise it as his own celestial flaming weapon?
The simple act of getting one’s hands, so to speak, on a flaming sword, any flaming sword, wasn’t difficult in itself. A quick miracle would have a regular steel one blazing merrily in no time. There was merely the question of whether or not Gabriel would notice the design differences, or the general lack of godly essence.
Aziraphale took a steady breath. Miracling himself there, or miracling some of their stock here, was bound to show up on the Heavenly radar; he’d be cutting it pretty fine just by making the thing burn. The window, though… If he could just slide it open quietly enough… yes, good… and just ever-so-surreptitiously make his way out…
“Aziraphale?” Gabriel’s face popped round the door. “Everything all right?” His face crumpled in confusion at the sight of Aziraphale making his escape, one leg thrown over the windowsill.
“Gabriel! Yes, absolutely! I was just… engaging in a spot of calisthetics. Stretching my calves on the windowsill, it’s the latest human thing. You said yourself I ought to get some exercise. Care to join?”
“Why is there a demonic essence in here?”
“Demonic…?” Aziraphale’s voice devolved into a vaguely coherent mumble. “Is there?”
“Yeah, quite a strong one, actually. You not noticing that?”
“Oh, new shipment. Piers Morgan’s autobiography just came in, that’ll be it.” Aziraphale valiantly suppressed a shudder at the lie. He suddenly dearly wanted a bath. “Has some peculiar ideas, that one… tends to leave a bit of an evil aura about the place.”
“Hmm.” Gabriel looked somewhat mollified, and Aziraphale exhaled a little, hoping he’d never have to make that particular excuse again. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ll just… retrieve it for you.”
Mercifully, Gabriel took his leave to wander around the shelves.
Aziraphale exhaled as quietly as he could, and awkwardly hauled himself over the windowsill to hurry across the road.
oOo
“Here we are, Gabriel.” Aziraphale bustled back into the main body of the shop, holding a beautifully-finished Angus Trim whose only fault to the discerning armourer, knight or enthusiastic LARPer was the small matter of it being on fire.
Aziraphale proffered it, plastering a broad smile across his face.
Gabriel regarded it curiously, stroking his chin. “That is the same one?”
“Absolutely!”
“It’s got a different handle. And isn’t the blade shorter?”
“Ah, well, yes,” said Aziraphale, who had had some time to think about this one. “Well. Over the centuries, even the best-quality sword does endure a little wear and tear… Perhaps over the years it’s needed a new hilt, new blade, that sort of thing. It’s still very definitely the same sword, though.”
“Hmm. But surely a heavenly sword shouldn’t undergo wear and tear? This isn’t a plain old human weapon we’re talking about, ha ha.”
“Ha ha,” Aziraphale replied dutifully. “But, you see... earthly influence does take its toll, it having been here for so long.”
“It does?”
“Oh, absolutely. What with all the-the- the atmosphere.”
“The atmosphere.”
“Yes, well. Yes. The excess of earthly… human… atmosphere does, ultimately, result in such a device requiring a little upkeep, every now and again. You see,” he continued, warming to his theme now, “you see, it’s all rather metaphorical.”
“Metaphorical?”
“You know the Almighty, always fond of a little poetic allegory. You see, the sword needs to be maintained, to be kept in pristine condition, just as the devout servant of God must be always conscientious, must practise their faith every day, to keep it nice and… and shiny. Er, that is to say: consistent. The sword is, in fact, a metaphor for observance, for-for the upkeep of one’s devotion to God, you see. Which is why, occasionally, one might need to… replace… bits of it.”
Aziraphale waited, his heart banging away in his chest. Gabriel’s expression, which had gone through varying stages of bafflement as Aziraphale had told his little tale, eventually relaxed. “Really? A metaphor? Fascinating.”
Aziraphale felt his whole body sag.
“Well, that all seems to be in order,” said Gabriel, in the tones of someone who’s still rather confused by the events that just unfolded but who wouldn’t dream of tarnishing their reputation by admitting it. “I’ll just be taking this along with me, then.”
“Beg pardon?”
“The sword. You’ve done a nice job looking after it for us, really first-rate, but I think it’s time we returned it to its rightful place in Heaven, don’t you think? Let the archangels take it off your hands.”
“Er…” fooling one archangel was one thing. Fooling an entire board of them… unlikely, to say the least. “… No.”
“No?”
“You see, having it around, it… well, it’s useful, in case any humans need… need banishing. If they come in trying to blaspheme, or dog-ear the Bibles, that sort of thing. Who knows when one might have to… er. Or demons!” he exclaimed, latching onto a more plausible target. “If a demon were to come in… in fact, a demon was in here just the other day, trying to cause mischief. Tempting my customers to do all kinds of sordid things. And I… well, I wasn’t having any of that. Wasn’t going to tolerate that at all.”
Aziraphale attempted to puff up his chest to show he meant business. The result put one in mind of a large, very agitated snowy owl. “One wave of a flaming sword put him right off. Straight back to Hell with his tail between his legs.”
“I see.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe we could leave it in your hands for now, then. You keep that looking shiny, yeah? Gotta have it at the ready, come judgement day!”
“Yes, yes indeed. Well, delightful talking to you as always do pass on my regards to Heaven shall I show you out?” Aziraphale, breathless, opened the door and made a wide-armed gesture towards the streets of Soho. “I really mustn’t keep you I’m sure you have so many important affairs to be getting on with you’re a credit to us all really.” He was trying not to pant. For Heaven’s sake, he didn’t even need to breathe. He really must remember that.
“Yes, you’re quite right. Should be on my way. Keep up the good work, eh?” Gabriel patted him on the shoulder, for emphasis. Rather hard. “This really is the perfect hideaway. So… musty and untidy. So organic. Very human. They wouldn’t suspect a thing here, eh?”
Aziraphale nodded, his jaws clamped shut.
Finally, finally, Gabriel imperiously made his way outside.
“Well, this has all been very- good lord, what is happening up there?”
Aziraphale, feeling a dreadful hollowness building up in his stomach, glanced up towards the flat.
There was no mistaking it; the curtains did nothing. The residual glow was still there, crackling with its combination of energies, suffusing the entire top floor of the building. It was even emitting a light hum, for Heaven’s sake.
Gabriel was squinting up at it, looking utterly baffled.
Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth, his mind racing. After a few agonising seconds, it came to a screeching halt.
“God,” he squeaked out.
“God?”
“Yes, God popped up for a visit.”
“God.”
Aziraphale nodded.
“God, making a personal appearance on Earth. With no word to head office. In broad daylight in front of a whole metropolis of humans, localised entirely above your bookshop?”
“Yes.”
(Dear god. Dear whoever. Dear bloody sodding well… his brain wasn’t working any more. He’d short-circuited. He was just done. Out for the count.) “We… do that occasionally, you know. Jolly good friends, the pair of us. She likes to know how… it’s all… going…”
“Could I see?”
“No.”
“Well,” said Gabriel. “Well.”
There didn’t seem to be much else to say.
At this point a sort of defense mechanism, if you will, had kicked in for Gabriel.
As a high-status archangel, he was used to being obeyed. Obeyed, and deferred to. (He was also, for whatever inexplicable reason, under the staunch impression that he was well-liked and revered among his subordinates. Quite how he’d got this idea, it’s difficult to say.)
In essence, Gabriel’s brain (which, in a lot of ways, was just as human as Aziraphale’s, although it would have killed him to admit it) was being presented with two possibilities. One, that God had indeed made an appearance in Aziraphale’s bookshop, to check up on affairs, shoot the breeze, and what have you, with some random low-ranking angel.
The other possibility was that said low-ranking angel had just told a barefaced, bald-headed, outrageous lie to his, Gabriel’s, face and expected, by all appearances, to get away with it.
The two options battled for dominance in Gabriel’s head. There was a clear winner.
“I’d better get back, then,” said Gabriel. “Back to head office. Good job, Aziraphale. Keep that sword flaming. And… er… give my regards to the Almighty.”
“Ah, yes,” said Aziraphale. “Certainly will.” Go away. Please, for the love of all that is holy, and even some things that aren’t, please go away and don’t come back.
Gabriel held up a hand in a dazed sort of way and, thank someone, began to walk away. He turned back once, his attention caught by some movement behind the curtains, and Aziraphale waved, grinning stiffly.
As soon as Gabriel was out of sight Aziraphale darted back in, locking the door and leaning against it heavily. He breathed deeply, waiting for his heart rate to slow down.
“Crowley,” he called up the stairs when he felt capable of speech again. “Could you get me a glass of Bruichladdich. A large one.”