Aziraphale sat back in his seat, slowly letting go of the edge of the table, one finger at a time. He looked at Gabriel, not curious, not prying, not even pitying - but absorbing.
For the first time he realized the strange amount of freedom that had come with being unimportant. He'd had one big job in Eden, and after that he'd had field duty for thousands of years. He'd been watched, but not closely. If there had been a . . . paternal absence, he hadn't noticed it firsthand, only watched the effects ripple out into the world.
Had he gotten off easily? In his time he'd always been content with an ineffable God as gospel, as it were. He had never had to confront the Lord. He had never even contemplated the possibility of doing so. He had been able to hide within a sense of harmlessness and become more real, more human than the Host of his world, who were more of Gabriel's Michael and Raphael than Aziraphale could articulate.
He couldn't help wondering whether he, in the archangel's place, might have followed a similar path, left their Father and become a powerful, bitter something else wandering the world and pretending not to be what he was created to be. Or, perhaps more likely, would he have never questioned at all, turned his face to the light and pretended his doubts into nothingness?
His stomach gave a twinge. All that responsibility. All that pressure, for a Father who seemed not to care. Whether that perception was true or not did not, Aziraphale realized, matter very much at this moment. What mattered was that he had caused Gabriel pain, and he had no idea how to make it go away. If it had been Crowley, he would have - well. He would have come up with something in the spur of the moment, a hand on his shoulder, a smile, a walk, an entire bottle of wine - but all the masks Gabriel had put up, his time as a pagan god, for the love of someone, made Aziraphale hesitate, hands curling into fists on his lap.
Gradually, far too slowly, as the seconds stretched out, he came up with a list of things not to say. Sorry was one of them. Do you want to talk about it he tossed out immediately. He chewed the inside of his cheek and realized he was still staring at Gabriel and had to think of something to say or the archangel might get up and leave, which would make him feel even worse.
"There's got to be a middle ground," he said, "somewhere," and rubbed his temple. It was weak and unhelpful and he still felt compelled to apologize, but if Gabriel wanted to pretend as though none of that had just happened - well. He had the space.
no subject
Aziraphale sat back in his seat, slowly letting go of the edge of the table, one finger at a time. He looked at Gabriel, not curious, not prying, not even pitying - but absorbing.
For the first time he realized the strange amount of freedom that had come with being unimportant. He'd had one big job in Eden, and after that he'd had field duty for thousands of years. He'd been watched, but not closely. If there had been a . . . paternal absence, he hadn't noticed it firsthand, only watched the effects ripple out into the world.
Had he gotten off easily? In his time he'd always been content with an ineffable God as gospel, as it were. He had never had to confront the Lord. He had never even contemplated the possibility of doing so. He had been able to hide within a sense of harmlessness and become more real, more human than the Host of his world, who were more of Gabriel's Michael and Raphael than Aziraphale could articulate.
He couldn't help wondering whether he, in the archangel's place, might have followed a similar path, left their Father and become a powerful, bitter something else wandering the world and pretending not to be what he was created to be. Or, perhaps more likely, would he have never questioned at all, turned his face to the light and pretended his doubts into nothingness?
His stomach gave a twinge. All that responsibility. All that pressure, for a Father who seemed not to care. Whether that perception was true or not did not, Aziraphale realized, matter very much at this moment. What mattered was that he had caused Gabriel pain, and he had no idea how to make it go away. If it had been Crowley, he would have - well. He would have come up with something in the spur of the moment, a hand on his shoulder, a smile, a walk, an entire bottle of wine - but all the masks Gabriel had put up, his time as a pagan god, for the love of someone, made Aziraphale hesitate, hands curling into fists on his lap.
Gradually, far too slowly, as the seconds stretched out, he came up with a list of things not to say. Sorry was one of them. Do you want to talk about it he tossed out immediately. He chewed the inside of his cheek and realized he was still staring at Gabriel and had to think of something to say or the archangel might get up and leave, which would make him feel even worse.
"There's got to be a middle ground," he said, "somewhere," and rubbed his temple. It was weak and unhelpful and he still felt compelled to apologize, but if Gabriel wanted to pretend as though none of that had just happened - well. He had the space.