Chapter Text
Orael's mouth was filled with the taste of ash. He blinked, and raised one leaden arm to shield his eyes from the bright, white light that filled ... where was he, anyway? Still shielding his eyes, he propped himself up on one elbow to look around.
Infirmary. He was in an infirmary. The last thing he remembered, he had been running across a battlefield. Charging forward? Fleeing? He wasn't sure. He probed at his memories and found that they were all a bit fuzzy. He knew his name. Remembered the names of his friends. Remembered standing before an Archangel, receiving orders for a great battle to come. His head ached. He didn't remember who the Archangel was. He didn't know how the battle had ended.
“Oh, good! You're awake!” Orael turned toward the sound of the voice. His vision was blurry, as though his eyes had forgotten how to focus. All he could get was a vague impression of dove-grey cloth and violet eyes. It was enough. There weren't a lot of angels with eyes like that. Even with the holes in his memory, Orael knew who was speaking to him. “The healers informed me that you were showing signs of life, after all this time,” said the Archangel Gabriel. “Quite a miracle, even for us.” He chuckled.
Orael decided that this was as good a time as any to test out his voice. “What–” Oh, Lord. Was that what he sounded like? He cleared his throat and tried again. “What happened?”
“Well,” said Gabriel. “I'm not a healer, you understand. But I'm told that you took a nasty head wound during the First War. You should have been a goner, but you didn't die. You just,” he said, sitting down on the edge of Orael's bed, “didn't wake up, either. Oh, but good news!” A hazy impression of flashing white teeth. “We won! Well, essentially. The rebels were cast out, anyway.”
Orael squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the throbbing pain that seemed to be tied to the over-bright lighting. First War? As far as he could recall, they had called it only the War. First War implied that there had been, at the very least, a second. “How long have I been unconscious?” he asked.
“Wee-lll,” said Gabriel.
“I assume you're about to tell me that it's been a very long time?”
“Yes,” said Gabriel. “A very long time. A little over six thousand years, in fact.”
--
It turned out that Orael had missed a lot. A lot. Like, the entire history of the Earth. The Garden, the Flood, the birth and death of the Saviour, everything that had been written in the Divine Plan. Except for one thing. As it turned out, Orael hadn't missed the apocalypse. He should have done. It had been scheduled to happen a little over four years ago, now. But it ... hadn't. Gabriel was a bit cagey as to why. Last minute change of Plans, was all he had been willing to say. There was a story there, and Orael was very curious about it, but no one would say a word on the subject.
Eventually, as the strength returned to his emaciated limbs, he was permitted to leave the infirmary, for short walks initially, and then for longer. He'd be back in his own quarters soon, he was promised. As soon as they found some suitable quarters for him, anyway. No one had ever really expected him to wake up.
Once he was able to stay out longer and venture further from the infirmary, he started speaking with other angels. He didn't see anyone that he knew. He wondered what had become of his friends. Had they perished in the War, he asked Gabriel, or were they just stationed somewhere else, for now?
Some of them were stationed elsewhere, Gabriel told him, but unfortunately, several of them had died. Died, or Fallen. He rattled off a list of names, in a matter-of-fact way. Of course, Orael told himself, Gabriel and the others had had more than six thousand years to process their losses. Orael had not. Orael grieved.
Although his strength was returning, his eyes didn't recover at the same pace. Had Heaven's light always been so painfully bright? The blurred vision was improving, but the light gave him headaches. And worse than the headaches were the blackouts.
The first one came when he was speaking with an angel named Zerah, who was in the middle of a rather funny story about a hapless demon when the air around her suddenly seemed to shimmer. A moment later, he felt a stabbing pain in the back of his head. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back on the floor, with a very frightened-looking Zerah fussing over him. Apparently he had been screaming. He didn't remember. He was bustled off to the infirmary after that, and kept there for days.
Over time, the blackouts became less frequent, but they didn't go away entirely. He hadn't been given any work to do while he was recovering, so he spent his time exploring. There wasn't much to explore, really. He didn't remember Heaven as having been so ... so stark, so sterile, before. When he got the chance, he spoke with any other angels who had time for him, asking them to fill him in on the things he had missed. (Gabriel had told him the essentials, of course, but Gabriel wasn't exactly an accomplished storyteller. And he wasn't nearly as funny as he seemed to think he was.)
The stories of Earth fascinated Orael. The First War had been fought, in part, over the role of the Earth and its mortal inhabitants in God's plans, and Orael had endless questions about how it had all turned out. The problem, it seemed, was that none of the angels in Heaven had spent very much time on Earth, and the information that they could give him was vague, and sometimes contradictory. One thing that they all agreed on was that Earth was not a pleasant place to spend any length of time. Oh, if pressed, they all had something earthly that they were fond of. Zerah liked horses. Raniel liked jazz music. Stephan admitted, a bit shamefacedly, that he quite enjoyed something called chocolate. And Gabriel was strangely fond of human-made clothing. But none of them actually seemed to like the Earth itself very much, or really to know all that much about it.
There were, Stephan told him, several angels stationed on Earth long-term. They would be better able to answer his questions. Orael resolved to go down, meet with some of them, and explore the Earth, as soon as he was well enough to do so.
There was one angel, Zerah whispered one day, who could probably answer more questions than anyone else. An angel who had been on Earth since the beginning. The Principality Aziraphale. No one knew very much about him, of course, but there were rumours. Wild rumours. The one thing everyone seemed to agree on was that Gabriel seemed not to like Aziraphale very much, and made a sour face whenever the Principality's name was spoken in his presence. Still, Orael added the name to his mental list of angels he intended to visit when he was finally cleared to go to Earth.
--
Gabriel was dead set against any visits with the Principality Aziraphale. He wouldn't say why, but it seemed to Orael that it was personal. There were other angels on Earth, Gabriel told him, who would be able to give him the grand tour, if that was what he really wanted. Was he sure it was what he really wanted? Earth was so ... earthly.
And then one day, out of the blue, Gabriel changed his mind. As always, he wouldn't say why. “You said you wanted to meet the longest-serving angel on Earth,” he said. “Well, today is your lucky day.” Orael decided not to ask too many questions, otherwise he might lose this chance.
He dressed for the occasion in white slacks and a soft silk shirt in a pale gold colour that matched his eyes. He tied his long hair back with a ribbon and conjured up a mirror to inspect his reflection. He had no idea whether he looked good or not. He thought he probably did, but what did he know about Earth fashion? He fiddled with his cuffs.
Honestly? He was nervous.
Gabriel had promised to accompany him, and watch out for him on this first outing, but Orael was less reassured by that than the Archangel presumably intended.
They rode the escalator down together, crossed the brightly-lit lobby to the big main doors, and stepped out into the world.
The world was...
...incredible.
It should have been overwhelming, stepping out from the calm sterility of Heaven into the vibrant chaos of central London, but Orael was instantly in love. The light was still a bit too bright, but the colours were glorious, the movement was thrilling, and the noise...! He'd spent time preparing for this, watching training videos and reading up on what to expect, but it hadn't prepared him for the reality of it. He spent a moment just standing there, listening, trying to place each sound. There was a bicycle bell. There a car engine. There another car engine, this one running more quietly ... better maintained, maybe? There a church bell. A mobile ringtone. A car horn. The bark of a small dog. More engines. Quite a lot of engines. And voices. So many voices. Human voices, shouting and whispering and laughing and talking over each other and so full of life. No wonder the Almighty had prized Her plans for this world so highly. He took a deep breath. The air... actually, the air smelled rather unpleasant. But still.
“It's a lot,” said Gabriel, “if you aren't used to it.” He frowned. “Are you sure you're okay, there, Orael?”
“Oh, yes,” said Orael. “Just, just taking it in.” A group of children ran past, shrieking in delight, yelling something about ice cream. He stepped back, and nearly bumped into a young couple walking behind him, holding hands. Two young men, one dark and the other fair, laughing together at some private joke. “Oh,” said Orael. “So sorry.” The fair-haired man smiled at him as if to say not to worry, and then the two of them walked on. Orael felt a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched them walk away. Then he blinked, shook his head, and tried to remember what it was he had just been thinking about.
“If you just stand here taking it in,” said Gabriel, “you could end up standing here all day. Are you coming?”
“Right,” said Orael. “Sorry.”
The walk seemed to take forever, and also no time at all. And then they arrived. It was an old-fashioned sort of shop, compared to a lot of the other storefronts they'd passed, although, given how little experience he had of Earth, Orael would not have been able to tell, if asked, what specifically, gave him that impression. He hesitated. Now that he was here, he was nervous again. He looked around. The sidewalks were crowded with people, bustling about. There was a black car parked out in front of the shop that looked different, somehow, from the other cars he'd seen driving around. It had an elegance that the other cars lacked. He looked at it for a moment, then his eyes slid off it and he looked away.
Gabriel was not interested in dithering about, watching people and admiring strange cars. He strode forward, pushed open the door to the bookshop, and walked straight in, Orael trailing in his wake.
“Good morning,” came a voice from somewhere deep within the maze of mismatched furniture and dusty books. The voice was warm, and Orael immediately felt more comfortable. The voice spoke again. “I'll be right with– oh.” And just like that, the warmth vanished. “Hello, Gabriel,” he said. “What brings you here?”
Orael peeked out from behind Gabriel and caught a glimpse of the infamous Aziraphale. He didn't look like much. A plump, fair-haired angel in a worn waistcoat, holding a leather-bound book in one hand and a white ceramic mug in the other.
Gabriel opened his mouth to say something, but Orael didn't hear it. He was dimly aware of the fact that Aziraphale had dropped his mug, but all he could see was the shimmer. And then came the thought, oh, hell, not now. And then the pain. And then ... nothing.
--
He came to a short time later, to find himself lying on a worn sofa, with a crocheted blanket tucked around him. His head ached, and his throat felt raw. Oh, dear God, had he been screaming? He flung an arm over his face, mortified.
From somewhere else among the books and papers, he could hear voices, arguing in hushed tones. He could only make out some of what they were saying.
“...you knew it would...” Aziraphale's voice. Orael couldn't make out the rest of his words.
“...suspected.” Gabriel. “You can see why...”
God, his head hurt.
“...can't expect me to believe...”
“...only brought him here because you wouldn't stop...”
Orael shifted position, trying to get more comfortable, and fell right off the sofa. The sound of him hitting the floor alerted the other two angels to the fact that he was awake. Aziraphale came running in, Gabriel following a steady few paces behind.
“Oh,” said Aziraphale, dropping to his knees beside Orael. “My dear boy, are you quite alright?”
“M'okay,” said Orael. “Just... just got tangled in the blanket.” He grimaced. “I had one of my screaming blackouts, didn't I?” he said.
Aziraphale nodded. “It was rather alarming,” he said. “Are you sure you're alright?”
“Headachey,” said Orael. “And my throat hurts some. And, uh, my pride.”
Aziraphale fussed over him, helping him back onto the sofa and wrapping the blanket around his narrow shoulders. Even with his blurred vision, Orael noticed that Aziraphale's wide, blue-grey eyes were really very striking. “Can I get you something?” Aziraphale asked. “I spilled my cocoa before; I thought I might make some more. Or tea, perhaps? It might help your sore throat.” He paused. “Or do you prefer coffee?” That last was said with a quiet intensity that left Orael at a complete loss as to how to respond.
“Orael is an angel,” Gabriel cut in. “He doesn't need any of your–”
“Gross matter?” Aziraphale interrupted. He huffed. “A hot drink is restorative, Gabriel. Maybe he doesn't need it, maybe he doesn't want it either, but the least you could do is let him answer for himself.”
Orael blinked up at the two angels who were looking down at him expectantly. One set of vivid violet eyes, one set of stormy blue-grey. He thought for a moment. His blackout had startled Aziraphale and made him spill whatever it was he had been drinking. He felt a little bit bad about that.
“You were drinking cocoa,” he said, tentatively.
“Yes,” said Aziraphale.
Orael wracked his brain, trying to remember if any of his training videos or readings had mentioned cocoa. “What... what is that?” he asked.
A pained look crossed Aziraphale's face, quickly pushed aside by a gentle smile. “It's a sort of drinking chocolate,” he said. “It's sweet.”
“Oh,” said Orael. He remembered one of the angels, Stephan, saying that he liked chocolate. “That sounds fine,” he said. “I'll try it.” He darted a glance over at Gabriel. The Archangel clearly disapproved. Well, that was too bad. Orael had come here to learn about Earth, and if that meant consuming human drinks, then he was game to give it a go.
As it turned out, he didn't like the cocoa all that much. Too sweet. But he sipped it politely as he listened to Aziraphale tell stories about the everyday humans he'd known throughout the centuries. The fair-haired angel seemed to be guarding his tongue in Gabriel's presence; Orael was quite sure that Aziraphale had some more entertaining stories that he was holding back. Suddenly, he stopped talking.
“You don't like it,” he said, “do you?”
“Don't like what?”
“The cocoa.”
Orael flushed. “Ah, no, it's fine, I'm just–”
“It's alright, my dear fellow,” said Aziraphale. “You won't hurt my feelings if you don't finish it.” He stood up. “I have a feeling you might be more of a coffee drinker,” he said.
Gabriel made a sound in the back of his throat.
Aziraphale pressed on. “I'm afraid my coffee maker stopped working some time ago,” he said, “and I haven't had reason to repair it. But there is an excellent café across the street.” He looked pointedly at Gabriel. “Perhaps we might take a walk?” he proposed. “See some of the neighbourhood?” He looked back at Orael. “Assuming you're feeling up to it,” he added.
There was nothing Orael would like more. The atmosphere in the bookshop was distinctly tense. He had been told that Gabriel didn't particularly like Aziraphale; he could see now that the feeling was very much mutual. Getting out and exploring would be much better than being cooped up with these two. And his head was feeling better already, so there was that.
“Where are we going?” he asked, as they stepped out onto the sidewalk, squinting against the bright sunlight.
Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. “Let's stop at the café first,” he said, “and then we can decide.”
The café itself was an education. There were five customers queued up and waiting to place their orders when the three angels walked through the door. Gabriel folded his arms across his chest and rolled his eyes heavenward in clear irritation. Aziraphale pointedly ignored him and strolled over to inspect the display of baked goods. Orael watched the people in the café, fascinated. Two women sat in the back corner, drinking coffees and sharing a slice of cake. A young man sat at a high table, typing on a laptop. Across the room, a young woman with a sketchbook was surreptitiously drawing a picture of him. A young mother was attempting to soothe a fussy baby while her toddler happily munched on a biscuit that was almost as big as his head. A girl, barely out of her teens, sat hunched over an enormous textbook with three empty cups beside her, highlighting and scribbling in a notebook with a palpable air of anxiety. A group of older men sat in the back corner, newspapers spread out on the table in front of them, regaling each other with stories and gossip and opinions about current events. One of them looked up at Orael, blinked at him, and then looked away, brow furrowed as if in confusion.
When it was their turn at the counter, Aziraphale ordered a tea for himself, a double espresso for Orael, plus a half dozen chocolate biscuits and two croissants. He turned to look rather pointedly at Gabriel. “Are you sure I can't get you anything?” he asked, smiling sweetly.
“No. Thank you,” said Gabriel, shooting back an equally false smile.
Orael sighed. This was going to be a long day, if the two of them were going to keep acting like this.
In the end, they didn't go anywhere in particular, just walked the streets and people-watched, with Aziraphale providing a running commentary. He told Orael about specific businesses that had been in the neighbourhood for varying lengths of time, the people who had come and gone, the habits of the current residents, and the ways the area had changed over the past several centuries. Orael discovered that he quite liked the coffee drink Aziraphale had chosen for him, and he sipped it slowly, trying to make it last. It took only a minor miracle to keep it at an ideal temperature.
“I say,” said Aziraphale suddenly. “You seem to be squinting a lot. Is the light bothering your eyes?”
Orael coloured. “Uh,” he said. “Yeah. It's a side effect of my head injury. Kind of like the blackouts I guess. Eyes are sensitive. I get headaches, and things sometimes go blurry.”
“I'm sorry to hear it,” said Aziraphale. He stared at Orael for a moment. “May I make a suggestion?” he asked.
“Uh. Sure?”
Aziraphale pointed at a woman on the opposite side of the street. “Sunglasses,” he said. “Something like what that young lady is wearing. They filter the light.”
“Huh,” said Orael. It wasn't a bad idea. Humans were clever, weren't they, to think of something like that?
Aziraphale snapped his fingers and produced a pair of simple sunglasses with rounded, black frames. “Try them,” he said.
Orael put them on.
“Oh,” he said. “This is much better.” He could feel a delighted smile spreading across his face. “Thank you,” he said.
“Think nothing of it,” said Aziraphale. The smile he gave Orael was wistful. “They suit you.”
Gabriel cleared his throat. “Can we keep moving?” he asked.
They walked for an hour or so, before Gabriel declared that this had been a nice visit, but Orael had surely seen enough for one day, especially given that he was, as Gabriel put it, not a hundred percent. Orael wanted to protest that he felt fine, but in fact, his legs were starting to tire, and his headache was coming back, in spite of the sunglasses. So he acquiesced, and thanked Aziraphale for the visit and for playing tour guide.
Aziraphale took his hand and squeezed it, in an approximation of the handshake gesture that humans used in this part of the world. The eyes that locked onto his were more blue than grey in the afternoon sunlight. “It was ... very good to meet you,” he said. He blinked once, twice, three times in rapid succession, almost as if he were blinking away tears. “Please do take care of yourself,” he said. “I–”
But whatever it was he had been intending to say, he didn't say it. Just nodded, smiled politely, and then turned and strode quickly away, in what Orael, who hadn't been keeping track of where they were walking, assumed was the direction of his bookshop.
“Well,” said Gabriel, as soon as Aziraphale was out of earshot, “what do you think of our Angel of the Eastern Gate, then?”
“He seemed... enthusiastic,” said Orael, choosing his words carefully. “About the Earth, I mean. About the city, and the people.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel, eyes fixed in the direction Aziraphale had gone. “That's one way of putting it.” Then, a sudden turn, a serious stare. “You should stay away from him,” he said. “From now on. You need to be careful.”
“Careful of what?” Aziraphale was certainly a bit of an oddball, for an angel, but he hardly seemed dangerous.
“He's a bad influence,” said Gabriel darkly.