Aziraphale had learned quickly that he was to be John Gates, no questions asked. Not that he liked it – not in the least – but his single protest to the doctor who woke him was met with a glare and then silence. Sometimes his self-preservation instinct was functional. This was one of those times. He’d noticed, too, strain on the faces of other Sleepers who’d woken with him, a look of calculation, of looking forward to how their next sentence would end to make sure it didn’t break any rules.
So he decided that he would be John Gates for now, find Crowley, and then begin to fret about the ramifications of all this. Thus far, he had only had success pretending to accept his identity. There was no trace of Crowley, or indeed any supernatural beings, nor had he stumbled across Crowley in any likely spots (he’d tried the bar, even, sneering at the concept of alcohol as contraband, but no luck). And of course he was fretting. He was an Olympic fretter.
In a moment of – what was it, weakness or bravery? – he did not immediately flee when he saw the Temple. Steadying himself against the stone wall, he took a deep breath and peered into the house of God for the first time in years, only to find –
Not very much. A few seats, an altar, some candles. Nothing obviously Christian in origin. There wasn’t even a holy book anywhere.
There was, however, a madman shouting at the altar. Aziraphale stopped in the doorway and stared.
Dad, if you can hear me, get me out of here!
He pressed his lips together tightly and took a step inside. Surely not. Unlikely was an understatement. Besides, he thought in his private, less-than-gracious mind, I’m the only one who’s ignored by Him enough to be left in this place. I should just leave. This man is insane, not angelic.
Decisively, Aziraphale turned to leave – and tripped over one of the stone seats. The floor rushed up to meet him, he let out a loud “oof!” as all the air vacated his lungs, and his glasses went flying.
Saturday
Aziraphale had learned quickly that he was to be John Gates, no questions asked. Not that he liked it – not in the least – but his single protest to the doctor who woke him was met with a glare and then silence. Sometimes his self-preservation instinct was functional. This was one of those times. He’d noticed, too, strain on the faces of other Sleepers who’d woken with him, a look of calculation, of looking forward to how their next sentence would end to make sure it didn’t break any rules.
So he decided that he would be John Gates for now, find Crowley, and then begin to fret about the ramifications of all this. Thus far, he had only had success pretending to accept his identity. There was no trace of Crowley, or indeed any supernatural beings, nor had he stumbled across Crowley in any likely spots (he’d tried the bar, even, sneering at the concept of alcohol as contraband, but no luck). And of course he was fretting. He was an Olympic fretter.
In a moment of – what was it, weakness or bravery? – he did not immediately flee when he saw the Temple. Steadying himself against the stone wall, he took a deep breath and peered into the house of God for the first time in years, only to find –
Not very much. A few seats, an altar, some candles. Nothing obviously Christian in origin. There wasn’t even a holy book anywhere.
There was, however, a madman shouting at the altar. Aziraphale stopped in the doorway and stared.
Dad, if you can hear me, get me out of here!
He pressed his lips together tightly and took a step inside. Surely not. Unlikely was an understatement. Besides, he thought in his private, less-than-gracious mind, I’m the only one who’s ignored by Him enough to be left in this place. I should just leave. This man is insane, not angelic.
Decisively, Aziraphale turned to leave – and tripped over one of the stone seats. The floor rushed up to meet him, he let out a loud “oof!” as all the air vacated his lungs, and his glasses went flying.
It was a good thing he didn’t actually need them.