The Demons of St. Jame’s Park
Prompt: “Tell me who did this to you.”
.
.
The Demons of St. Jame’s Park
Sidewalks typically do not sway. There are notable exceptions of course, such as when the earth quakes, a landslide occurs, or Satan himself fancies a jaunt to the mortal plane.
None of these events are currently in progress, of course.
So the swaying is, very likely, in Aziraphale’s head. The result of a minor concussion, no doubt.
He’s getting stares as he shuffles, wobbling with a hurried determination through the trafficked London streets.
The cold Autumn air is a stinging touch against his cheek; shivering droplets trail from the gash below his cheekbone. An eye throbs with a dull, insistent ache, and Aziraphale swears he can feel the skin around it darkening into an unsightly bruise. His wrist, bent just slightly further than human wrists are meant to bend, is cradled against his chest. And behind it, he carries a package, beaten almost as completely as he, wedged protectively between his wrist and dirt-stained coat.
He’s nearly made it back to his shop, and as he trots unsteadily over the swaying path, he very purposefully avoids meeting passerbys’ concerned stares. A few miracles would clean him right up, of course, but frankly it has been an exceedingly trying morning and Aziraphale would rather not spare the energy to divert the attention of curious eyes prior to actually doing the healing.
The miracles can wait.
At least until he’s in the privacy of his shop.
And he does make it - back to the shop.
Not that he doubted he would, but his wrist was throbbing something awful and the sidewalk had begun an alarmingly frantic tilt.
The chime of bells as he shoulders into the shop is a lovely accompaniment to the ringing in his ears.
The shop is dim and mercifully quiet, and Aziraphale heaves a sigh. He leans against the door, and it closes behind him with a comforting click. With his good hand, he carefully sets the battered package on a nearby shelf.
With the knowledge that his precious cargo is safe, a wound up part of him relaxes. His head falls back with a thunk, and braced against the door, he closes his aching eyes.
“You’re back. Finally.”
Aziraphale starts at the voice, which rises, low and petulant from the shop’s dark interior.
“I’ve been waiting forever, angel.”
And now the voice is accompanied by loping footsteps.
Aziraphale is exhausted, his body is bruised and aching, his package was very nearly lost, and he does not have the energy to deal with whatever chaos Crowley’s presence will inevitably bring to his day.
It’s not that he fears that Crowley would hurt him - or anything of the sort. Even before The Arrangement, Crowley had really never seemed keen to harm Aziraphale. It’s just - well, Crowley always wants to do things. Grab lunch. Go on a walk. See a play. All lovely activities; and really, the demon isn’t bad company. At all.
And therein lies the problem.
Aziraphale likes spending time with Crowley.
Far too much, considering their respective allegiances.
If Aziraphale is summer-dry tinder, Crowley is the lit match.
And after the morning he’s had, Aziraphale doesn’t have the energy to resist burning.