[ Aziraphale finds the moment the daemon situation is rectified that he feels-- wrong. Buzzy. A persistent weight in his chest, his throat. Well. It's not that any of that is new, strictly speaking. It's that the feelings don't seem to want to settle and sink back down the way they ought to be doing.
Or maybe it's that some of this has been very new and unfamiliar, and it's all happened in such short order from an immortal perspective.
But he should still be fine. He's been fine for thousands of years, he's always fine. Mostly fine. Most of the time. When it matters, which is always.
He doesn't even miss Timothy. Didn't like him, didn't like how easily he said things that could be dangerous to say, didn't like how much space he took up, never looked at his own daemon and felt like it made a proper... proper representation. Didn't like that Timothy wasn't really in his control. He's glad to feel like he's properly alone in his own quarters for a moment, gotten the breathing room.
But he sort of does miss him? He thinks? (Not nearly as much as he already misses Asteria, of course. Darling thing.) The idea of some part of himself that could, that could say things and ask for things and take up that space, though, that was a nice idea to have. But he's irritated he even existed. He doesn't-- feel like Timothy came from him, went back to him. It's all heaviness and too-much-ness and a carefully cultivated instinct to cut things down before he's foolish enough to act on them.
Not that anyone would be watching if he did. Heaven isn't watching. The Almighty isn't watching. Not even here.
It keeps circling in his mind, that thought, the impression of it. Nothing is watching.
Nothing is watching while he fusses with his outfit, smoothing his fingers over well-worn fabric, or while he squeezes his own fingers with the sort of force that would probably maim a human. Nothing is watching when he turns to make himself tea, forgetting that that ridiculous lion pushed his furniture a little out of place because it had to be bloody particular about where it slept. So nothing is watching him accidentally knock his mug to the floor, where it shatters.
Nothing is watching when he sends the teapot down to follow suit, ears ringing, feeling half removed from himself. Or the tray it was sitting on, or the little side table when it smashes against the wall, or when he overturns his bed or sweeps everything off of his writing desk or when Aziraphale hits his knees and starts stabbing his armchair with a letter opener, and it's not-- it's not enough no matter how hard he does it.
He needs something, but he doesn't know what, and he feels something but it's stuck and it's painful and he can't make it stop.
He's being a bad angel. Unprofessional. Selfish, immature, melodramatic, overwhelmed over nothing, disheveled and anxious and, and terrible, really, absolutely awful, but nothing is watching.
Not that they would need to be to know all that. They've always known that. He's always known that. He can't fix that. He can't even try to fix it anymore, in the terrifying and exhilarating grey area of "retirement." That should be fine, he should be fine with it, but he shouldn't be fine with it because he's still an angel, surely. Aziraphale doesn't know. It's why he tries not to think about these things.
But now he's thinking about it and he can't-- he can't stop, he can't stop, and his breath is short and his eyes are streaming, all these ridiculous physical things he shouldn't need to bother with. The terrible calcified thing in his chest won't sink back down or break into smaller pieces.
(Why is he like this? Why was he always like this? Why is he still an angel when he never fit the standard, why did they never listen to him, why has Heaven's love always needed to be cold and uniform and painful? Or is it only like that to him?
What's the point? What's the point?
He can't ask. No one is watching. No one is listening. Maybe they never have been.)
Aziraphale leaves the letter opener stabbed into the chair so that he can bite down on his hand to muffle a scream. Some shrill, warbling sound that seeps into multiple planes, sets eyes and feathers and light spinning like a localized hurricane.
It's the first action to put a crack in the thing in his chest, to ease it somewhat, so he does it again. And again. Again. A few times. He doesn't know what else to do.
Which is all an incredibly long walk to get to saying "consider this updated itinerary for the day: instead of the library or a little romantic breakfast, what if they meet here to sit on the floor and scream into all dimensions (physical and metaphysical) and try not to think about the fact that it's happening in Santa's fucking North Pole."
A kitschy little Do Not Disturb sign even appears on his room door because it's a polite door. Perfect date material, 10/10. ]
the post-daemon economy is in shambles
Or maybe it's that some of this has been very new and unfamiliar, and it's all happened in such short order from an immortal perspective.
But he should still be fine. He's been fine for thousands of years, he's always fine. Mostly fine. Most of the time. When it matters, which is always.
He doesn't even miss Timothy. Didn't like him, didn't like how easily he said things that could be dangerous to say, didn't like how much space he took up, never looked at his own daemon and felt like it made a proper... proper representation. Didn't like that Timothy wasn't really in his control. He's glad to feel like he's properly alone in his own quarters for a moment, gotten the breathing room.
But he sort of does miss him? He thinks? (Not nearly as much as he already misses Asteria, of course. Darling thing.) The idea of some part of himself that could, that could say things and ask for things and take up that space, though, that was a nice idea to have. But he's irritated he even existed. He doesn't-- feel like Timothy came from him, went back to him. It's all heaviness and too-much-ness and a carefully cultivated instinct to cut things down before he's foolish enough to act on them.
Not that anyone would be watching if he did. Heaven isn't watching. The Almighty isn't watching. Not even here.
It keeps circling in his mind, that thought, the impression of it. Nothing is watching.
Nothing is watching while he fusses with his outfit, smoothing his fingers over well-worn fabric, or while he squeezes his own fingers with the sort of force that would probably maim a human. Nothing is watching when he turns to make himself tea, forgetting that that ridiculous lion pushed his furniture a little out of place because it had to be bloody particular about where it slept. So nothing is watching him accidentally knock his mug to the floor, where it shatters.
Nothing is watching when he sends the teapot down to follow suit, ears ringing, feeling half removed from himself. Or the tray it was sitting on, or the little side table when it smashes against the wall, or when he overturns his bed or sweeps everything off of his writing desk or when Aziraphale hits his knees and starts stabbing his armchair with a letter opener, and it's not-- it's not enough no matter how hard he does it.
He needs something, but he doesn't know what, and he feels something but it's stuck and it's painful and he can't make it stop.
He's being a bad angel. Unprofessional. Selfish, immature, melodramatic, overwhelmed over nothing, disheveled and anxious and, and terrible, really, absolutely awful, but nothing is watching.
Not that they would need to be to know all that. They've always known that. He's always known that. He can't fix that. He can't even try to fix it anymore, in the terrifying and exhilarating grey area of "retirement." That should be fine, he should be fine with it, but he shouldn't be fine with it because he's still an angel, surely. Aziraphale doesn't know. It's why he tries not to think about these things.
But now he's thinking about it and he can't-- he can't stop, he can't stop, and his breath is short and his eyes are streaming, all these ridiculous physical things he shouldn't need to bother with. The terrible calcified thing in his chest won't sink back down or break into smaller pieces.
(Why is he like this? Why was he always like this? Why is he still an angel when he never fit the standard, why did they never listen to him, why has Heaven's love always needed to be cold and uniform and painful? Or is it only like that to him?
What's the point? What's the point?
He can't ask. No one is watching. No one is listening. Maybe they never have been.)
Aziraphale leaves the letter opener stabbed into the chair so that he can bite down on his hand to muffle a scream. Some shrill, warbling sound that seeps into multiple planes, sets eyes and feathers and light spinning like a localized hurricane.
It's the first action to put a crack in the thing in his chest, to ease it somewhat, so he does it again. And again. Again. A few times. He doesn't know what else to do.
Which is all an incredibly long walk to get to saying "consider this updated itinerary for the day: instead of the library or a little romantic breakfast, what if they meet here to sit on the floor and scream into all dimensions (physical and metaphysical) and try not to think about the fact that it's happening in Santa's fucking North Pole."
A kitschy little Do Not Disturb sign even appears on his room door because it's a polite door. Perfect date material, 10/10. ]