Just as Crowley did for him fifteen hundred years ago, Aziraphale gathers the angel into his arms, makes soothing shushing noises into his cropped hair and against his skin. It’s all right. I love you, I will always love you, let me help you the way you’ve helped me.
I’m sorry. I’m here. You’re not alone.
(And if Aziraphale is shaking himself, if the relief and sorrow and joy of the moment are so hard to hold that they make his human body shiver, if his own eyes smart with a heat he can’t yet let spill over—it’s a quiet room, and no one is here to watch.)
When Fernand returns from a fruitless several-hour-long search for the gentleman in the silver spectacles and the madman (who seemed to have vanished on the way back to the shop), he finds them, impossibly, in his spare room. The madman, barely recognizable now that he’s clean and dressed in a soft black shirt and trousers, lies asleep on his side on the little cot Fernand keeps in the room; the gentleman in the spectacles sits on the edge of the bed, with the air of a watchful cat.
Fernand mutely accepts the little leather purse that slides from the gentleman’s well-manicured hand into his own and goes back downstairs. He’s sharp enough to know he’s being paid not to ask questions, and kind enough to know that his own curiosity doesn’t mean as much as letting an unfortunate beggar have a little peace and quiet.
(That night, in cantinas throughout the city, proprietors and bartenders will reach into their pockets or coats or into their cashboxes and discover gold coins that weren’t there before. A rumor roils through Seville over the next week, as people notice the conspicuous absence of a certain madman. Long, long after Torquemada and his Inquisitors are all dust, there will still be souls who pass on a folk song about the night the Angel of Seville paid his bar tab.)
Your demon adores you, C! <3
I’m sorry. I’m here. You’re not alone.
(And if Aziraphale is shaking himself, if the relief and sorrow and joy of the moment are so hard to hold that they make his human body shiver, if his own eyes smart with a heat he can’t yet let spill over—it’s a quiet room, and no one is here to watch.)
When Fernand returns from a fruitless several-hour-long search for the gentleman in the silver spectacles and the madman (who seemed to have vanished on the way back to the shop), he finds them, impossibly, in his spare room. The madman, barely recognizable now that he’s clean and dressed in a soft black shirt and trousers, lies asleep on his side on the little cot Fernand keeps in the room; the gentleman in the spectacles sits on the edge of the bed, with the air of a watchful cat.
Fernand mutely accepts the little leather purse that slides from the gentleman’s well-manicured hand into his own and goes back downstairs. He’s sharp enough to know he’s being paid not to ask questions, and kind enough to know that his own curiosity doesn’t mean as much as letting an unfortunate beggar have a little peace and quiet.
(That night, in cantinas throughout the city, proprietors and bartenders will reach into their pockets or coats or into their cashboxes and discover gold coins that weren’t there before. A rumor roils through Seville over the next week, as people notice the conspicuous absence of a certain madman. Long, long after Torquemada and his Inquisitors are all dust, there will still be souls who pass on a folk song about the night the Angel of Seville paid his bar tab.)