Chapter Text
There's something about the tick of raindrops against glass that makes getting out of bed feel nearly impossible. Like the grey clouds, heavy with damp, and the thick blanket of London fog are pressing directly down on top of Aziraphale, pushing him deep into the mattress.
Not that he's so good at getting out of bed as it is. Not even on those rare winter days when the sun streams through his curtains and the smell of oven fresh bread wafts up from the bakery across the street.
Not for the last three months.
Not since he left.
Tracy says his heart will mend itself eventually, but every morning when he wakes up it's like the edges of the piece he ripped out and took with him have gone more ragged. More tender. Like he's rotting from the inside, infection spreading out from the hole left in his chest and seeping into every bit of him. Trailing after him like one of those dark, angry clouds outside his bedroom window and spreading out into everything he touches.
Even the overly friendly American girl working in the cafe halfway between Aziraphale's flat and the shop has started getting soft around the mouth whenever he walks through the door, little pudgy bits springing up beneath her pout as she puts an extra pump of vanilla in his overpriced latte.
"His aura just keeps getting duller," he overheard her whisper to the besotted young man working the till last month.
"Muddy," she'd said.
There was a time when that would have drawn a chuckle out of him. He might've plopped right down at the counter and bent her ear. Wasted half his morning talking esoterica. Maybe the next day he would've brought a copy from his private collection and pored over it with her. Pointed out the handwritten notes in the margins, the sage advice passed from mother to daughter. Spells for love and money and power on one page and a recipe for mutton stew on the next. He could have brought his own handwritten list of every prophecy he’s linked to the real world and watched her bright eyes go even bigger with delight.
Three months ago they may have ended up friends. Maybe not the kind of friends that uncork a bottle of wine and share glimpses into the squishy, tender bits of themselves, but friends, nonetheless.
The only person that sees his tender, squishy bits these days is Tracy. And that's only because he'd been so forlorn that first week that he'd forgotten to pay the rent and when she came to collect it found him unable to peel himself off his bedroom floor. He hasn't had the energy to tell her to bugger off since, so she keeps coming round.
She drops by every other day to make sure he's showered and eaten and that the bin isn't overflowing with empty bottles. He doesn't mean to share the most broken parts of himself with her, but it's hardly his fault that she tends to stop by every time he's having a good cry. And that she doesn't have the decency to let him wallow by himself when she does.
Just two nights ago she'd popped by with a warm plate. Rapped on the door and was stepping into his dimly lit flat before he even had a chance to sweep the empty Gordon's bottle into the crunchy brown fern sat next to the sofa.
A shower of dead leaves rained down on the cushion next to him as he tried and failed to stash the bottle.
"That's illegal, you know?" He'd only slurred the word illegal. Too many L's too close together. He’d soldiered on, hoping she wouldn't notice, even though she always does. "Entering a tenant's premises without prior notice."
"I believe there's a clause for emergencies."
The plate in Tracy's hand had hit the vintage oak table with a clatter and before Aziraphale could even push himself up from the sloppy slouch he'd slowly assumed over the past two hours she was flipping on the too-bright overhead light and tidying his kitchen. Running hot water in the sink and gathering the half empty takeout containers from the counter into a bin bag. Brushing crumbs off the counter into her waiting palm.
"S'not an'mergency. M'fine, Tracy." Aziraphale slurred again. He squinted at the boar on the front of the Gordon's bottle where it rested between his thigh and the arm of the sofa. Matched its grimace as he balanced his elbows on his knees, only missing once, and rested his face in his palms.
The room felt like a ship on rough seas.
How much gin had been left in the bottle when he’d slammed the door this afternoon, exhausted from balancing his books? It wasn’t new, was it? The fact that he couldn’t remember should probably have been alarming, but it felt like the least of his worries, after all, the books were red through and through and only two customers walked through his door all day.
The sink had stopped running while he was lost in his own misery and the sudden slosh of water reminded Aziraphale that Tracy was probably scrubbing the petrified remains of a Sainsbury's chocolate cake (serves ten) off a single silver fork.
Same fork he'd used to eat the curry.
And to stir his martini before he'd resorted to drinking the gin neat.
"You need to talk to someone, love."
"I am talking to someone."
"I mean a therapist. You've had a rough go of things. Anyone would-"
"Not tonight, Tracy. Please." Aziraphale wasn't above begging. Given the chance three months ago he would have absolutely begged. Fallen to his knees and pleaded. But he didn't get a chance. He went to bed one night thinking everything was coming up Aziraphale and when he woke up the next morning his entire world had gone topsy-turvy.
And he'd thought being head over heels was disorienting.
The torrent of that whirlwind love affair had made Aziraphale feel mad. He'd fallen fast and hard. For bright eyes and soft hands. For a smile that only seemed to get bigger when it was directed at him.
For a man that he felt he'd known since time immemorial.
A man that, even sloppy drunk on a Tuesday evening with his chest a gaping maw and a putrid haze of pain making his eyes water, despite everything, Aziraphale still longed for.
At least an idealised version of him. The version that walked into his life, not out of it.
"You'll lose your customers if you keep opening late. Closing early. Not opening at all."
If only Tracy knew he hardly had any customers to lose. He’d have laughed if he remembered how.
"They don't keep me in business anyway." The room spun, leftover curry, ten servings of chocolate cake and what was probably the better part of a bottle of gin gurgling in Aziraphale's belly as he tried and failed to stand.
The tap turned off. The sound of water swirling the drain only made Aziraphale dizzier. He focused on the sound of Tracy shaking out a new bin bag instead. The now clean silver fork hitting the table next to Tracy’s china. Not the good china. Oh no. Tracy’s not stupid. She doesn’t bring that round anymore. Only the stuff that’s already chipped and scratched passes his threshold in case Aziraphale tries to do the washing up shitfaced and breaks another one. There’s still a scar across his palm from the last time. It’ll probably fade before the embarrassment ever does.
"They're gonna have to. I don't see you doing any restorations. Haven't signed for a package in months. Your worktable is in the same sorry state it was the morning-"
"I said I don't wanna talk about it tonight."
For a moment the flat was quiet. Just Aziraphale's pulse thumping in his ears. He lifted his gaze but was too pissed to read the look on Tracy's face.
"It's the first of the month next week, dearie."
Ah.
Guilt. He saw it then. The way her chin dipped and the corners of her mouth turned down. That little furrow between her brows.
Tracy's really too kind to be a landlady. He would have tossed him out already.
"I'll get you rent, Tracy. Promise."
"That's two months now. And I know you've got the shop to keep afloat, but I've got bills to pay too, you know? The empty flat upstairs is smaller. Cheaper. You could maybe-"
"You know I can't do that. Look, I'll find the money. Just need to do some," Aziraphale dragged his hands through the air. Reshuffling was what he was going for, but even with the gin making his brain feel mushy he could tell he never managed even a vague approximation of the right gesture. Tracy wasn't looking at him anyway. She was drying her hands and digging a pen out of the drawer next to the refrigerator.
"I'm leaving a phone number. Lovely young man. Met him at spin. Has a little practice just ten minutes from your shop. You can't keep on like this, Azi. Call him. I'll be back for my plate tomorrow, so eat something. Soak up some of that liquor. And for heaven's sake, take a shower before you pass out. You smell like a distillery."
"Tracy?"
"Yes, darling?"
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes and tried to make the two images of Tracy meet in the middle, but she was still blurry around the edges when he finally managed a quiet, "Thank you."
When he woke up on the sofa late the next morning wearing the same wrinkled trousers he'd pulled out of the laundry basket the day before, he couldn't remember what she'd said back. Couldn't remember much of anything really. The sharp, searing throb between his eyebrows didn't help his recollection much.
He'd dragged his aching body up off the sofa and stumbled to the kitchen. Scarfed down the cold, soggy peas and mash that he hadn't touched the night before with the harried fervour only ever brought about by a good hangover, just to rush to the toilet with a sausage still speared on his fork. Only half actually hit the target. The fact that he didn't cry as he mopped up the mess made him feel somehow both accomplished and absolutely pathetic.
It was all the motivation he needed to stick to tap water last night.
Ok. Maybe a glass of red. And yeah, maybe it was a holiday pour, but it doesn't explain the dull ache that's still living between his eyebrows this morning. That all over exhausted feeling.
Perhaps this is just his life now. He should work on getting used to it.
He should probably work on a lot of things.
First and foremost, opening his eyes.
Even the rainy morning feels too bright, though. He tugs the duvet up over his head to block out the light beginning to filter through his eyelids. That wretched reminder that there’s another day waiting to be faced.
The shop needs to open. The bills need paid. Somehow.
Aziraphale takes a fortifying breath as the soft cotton settles over his cheek. One long, deep inhale to steel himself against another day. The bed smells vaguely woodsy. Cedar or cypress. Charcoal. A hint of something fresher. Sharper. Eucalyptus, perhaps.
Eucalyptus?
Aziraphale's eyes fly open, lashes brushing against the duvet. When he peels it down to his nose he's met with a gold-flecked gaze. A grin that gets just a little bigger at Aziraphale's wide-eyed stare.
"Morning, Angel."
Fuck.
Not again.