bibliophale: (prissy as hell | fashionista)
Aziraphale ([personal profile] bibliophale) wrote in [community profile] bigapplesauce2016-04-03 10:28 pm

Disaster Man and his Disaster Plan

It's been a long time. Right? Hasn't it? It's been a long time.

Passage of days is nothing to Aziraphale. He did without Crowley in a very real, very cosmic sense for a whole entire month, or was it two, he'll be buggered if he's going to be specific about these things - for that whole time, and he was, well, he was miserable, but he made it, right? Only because the Rift in all its bloody capitalized capitalization saw fit to reunite them, but details, details. Here's the point. The point is this. Aziraphale is drunk.

He's been drunk every day for several weeks now. He spends the bookshop's various erratic hours at the back, drinking, while Spike handles the absent business in his champion-like way. Every evening he sobers himself up, returns home to the room Crowley is no longer allowed to enter, and spends a wonderful bunch of hours with Melanie, having tea, cakes, and raw meat, reading books, letting her stroke his wings. That sort of thing. It's lovely and it exists in its own bubble, where no other thoughts are allowed to intrude.

This, though, the rest of it, is awful. He could spend more time with Melanie. It's not like his presence is required at the shop. But he goes there all the same. Sometimes to fawn over the modest collection he's acquired, mostly to wish Crowley would appear. Just slither in like he does. Hissing. Skulking. Lounging.

It's not that Aziraphale misses him, well no, all right, it's exactly that, it's that and a handful of change, he misses Crowley ridiculously, painfully, infuriatingly. What is he to do? Lucifer is still very much a Thing, as the kids are saying, and Aziraphale's not going home to Melanie with freeze burns on his face.

But Crowley is so very dear to him, a truth he evades as often and aggressively as possible, and yet, this itch is still there, this itch to do something impulsive and bloody stupid, something because something is, after weeks of nothing, better than another week of nothing.

This is how, somewhere in there, he winds up inside Crowley's flat with a half-emptied bottle of wine (his fifteenth) in his hand, fixing the demon with an abnormally pleasant smile and thrusting an index finger toward him in a specifically non-accusatory fashion.

"Oh, hullo!" he says as though he has absolutely no idea how he got here. "How's things?"

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