Aziraphale (soft_angel) wrote in noexits, @ 2021-12-07 15:18:00 |
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It had been a long day. One moment Father Paul was leaving the rec center after a productive AA meeting with Riley and Joe and the next moment he was here. On a college campus in the middle of 1980s Central Park. He'd seen some interesting things in the last few months, but this was something else entirely. Something he didn't quite know how to deal with. Except to put his faith in God.
It was fortunate that those who responded to him had been mostly warm. He was accustomed to people who seemed to shrink away at the sight of his clerical collar. Or who felt the need to challenge him on any number of things related to religion. It didn't bother him. He didn't know what their life experiences were like, after all, and who would he be to cast judgment?
The living situation was also something he would have to adapt to. He'd lived alone in the rectory on Crockett Island for decades. For the majority of his life, really. He hadn't had roommates since seminary school. To make matters even more awkward for him, this campus appeared to be co-ed. He was thankful there were private rooms at least.
He was intent on doing his best to adapt to this situation. He would set up a chapel in an abandoned room and tend to whatever flock would come to him. Being in New York City allowed him access to supplies he could stock up on for the chapel and a generous gentleman offered him a chalice and some other well-needed items.
A gentleman that Father Paul now waited for. He sat awkwardly on the edge of his bed, hands folded in his lap. He thought he should wait in the common area, but he wasn't ready to potentially encounter any of his quad mates just yet.
Aziraphale was unfortunately as wary of priests as he was of other angels. Any religious leader, actually, no matter what the denomination… but so-called Christians in particular. There were some sincere ones, yes… but also those that used religion as a weapon, using people’s faith against them, leading congregations astray for political or monetary reasons. It was as true in the Medieval era with Popes selling indulgences as it was in modern London and televangelists asking for donations in exchange for miracles… and he didn’t even want to think about the other horrible things that had been done, it made him so angry.
Father Paul sounded nice, though… humble, pious… but that could be an act. Anyway, Aziraphale would be able to tell once he met him in person. Carrying the items in a plain cardboard box, he rapped upon the door. “Hello, Father. It’s me.” He then realized he hadn’t given his name, so announcing himself wouldn’t matter.
Father Paul could hear the voice just faintly from his room. He got up from his bed and made his way through the shared living space to the door and opened it. He smiled faintly, politely, at the blond haired gentleman on the other side of the door. He saw a glimmer of the chalice in the cardboard box which confirmed that this was, in fact, the person he was expecting.
"Ah, yes. Hi, come in." He opened the door further and stepped aside, giving the other man room to enter. "I'm afraid I didn't get your name before." He gestured at a small table where the box could be placed. He was sure it wasn't particularly heavy, but he wouldn't be a very good host if he let his guest stand there holding a box.
"Thank you again for this. I really appreciate it." It was donations that pulled churches together after all.
"Can I expect to see you in the chapel when it's ready?"
For a brief moment, Aziraphale looked like a deer in the headlights, startled despite the Father’s mild mannerisms. He then blinked and averted his eyes downward with an awkward smile as he walked inside the room. “Thank you,” he said
It was in that brief moment that he pulled a small miracle by looking into Father Pauls’ soul . This wasn’t something he did very often, in fact he hadn’t done it in centuries. To him, it felt invasive, like being a peeping Tom, which explained the embarrassment that followed. However, his little peek told him what he wanted to know : Father Paul, while not perfect (no human was perfect after the Fall), was sincere, and that meant a lot in Aziraphale’s book. It meant he could give away the Communion set in good conscience.
“Aziraphale,” he replied, after setting down the box. “My name is Aziraphale.” A smile followed. His name was never mentioned in the Scriptures, so he was confident that it wouldn’t be recognized as angelic, though it did have a Biblical ring. “And it’s my pleasure. I try to do the best I can.” He looked around the room, so barren, and it didn’t seem so long ago since he first showed up. Empathetically, he said, “It’s pretty harrowing, being pulled from home to this strange place full of strange people. If you need any help, let me know.”
In response to the question, Aziraphale gave it some serious consideration. “Yes. Yes, I probably should,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “It would be expected, I suppose.” But then he looked up and seriously told the priest, “Mind you, this doesn’t mean I’m playing favorites. It just happens to be the first chapel built here, and I really don’t prescribe to any one denomination or sect.”
"Aziraphale, that's an unusual name." The -ael sound at the end sounded a bit angelic to Father Paul, but he thought nothing of it. "It's a nice name," he added with a smile.
"I was thinking, perhaps, it would be a chapel for all religions. It might look a little Catholic, but all faiths will be welcome to use it between services." Even if he couldn't administer to the needs of everyone's faiths, he could at least give them a quiet place to use as they see fit.
"Thank you, by the way. This experience has been...harrowing is a good word. I guess it's not the worst thing I've experienced. All of it just makes us stronger anyway, right?" His smile spread a little more and yet the rest of his expression seemed uncertain.
"Can I get you anything?" Father Paul glanced in the direction of the kitchenette. "I don't actually know what's here, but I can certainly find out."
Not taking offense was good evidence to support Father Pauls’ sincerity, and Aziraphale was satisfied, nodding his head. “Good. That sounds good.” He noticed the priest’s insecurity past the smile, and couldn’t help but feel compassion. As an angel he felt responsible to watch over and care for him.
“Ah. Well… do you drink? There may be some wine in the mini fridge.”
Was there a mini fridge in Father Paul’s room? There was now, sitting in a once empty corner. And inside was a bottle of red wine. Nothing fancy. Might as well stock it with some food, too. Fruit was your best bet. Ooooo… and biscuits. That would be scrummy. Aziraphale had been reserved to use miracles in Derleth, accustomed to being that way on Earth, but for a man of the cloth, he’d make an exception.
"I do drink from time to time. I'm not sure if there's anything-" He trailed off when he noticed the mini fridge that he was certain he didn't see before. It was a long day, he clearly just overlooked it. "Let's see what we have here." He walked over to the mini fridge and crouched down to open it. A bottle of wine, some fruit and cookies. He smiled and pulled out the bottle.
"Looks like there's some wine," he said and held up the bottle as if he needed to prove its existence to Aziraphale. "Would you care for a glass?" Glasses seemed like a sure thing in the kitchenette and he opened a cupboard and removed two. He set them down and popped the cork from the wine bottle, filling each glass halfway.
Once the bottle was back in the mini fridge, Father Paul walked back to Aziraphale and offered him one of the glasses.
"Impressive wine selection for a college campus. I believe the bottle said Châteauneuf-du-Pape."
Unable to hide his joy, Aziraphale broadly smiled. The wine and biscuits were his favorites, but he was glad Father Pual also liked the selection. “How wonderful!” he exclaimed, happily taking a seat. “Maybe it’s the campus’ way of welcoming you? In any case, thank you.” He accepted the glass and raised it for a simple toast. “Welcome to Derleth.” After a quick sip, he asked, “Do you think I might have one of those, please?” and motioned to the cookies.
While Father Paul made himself comfortable, Aziraphale asked, “Tell me a little bit about yourself. Where are you from? Which parish do you serve?”
Father Paul smiled and handed the tin of cookies over to Aziraphale and then sat down. "I'm from a small town, Crockett Island. There was only one church there, St. Patrick's, but I was the priest for a very long time. I knew all my parionishers by name, all their life stories. I'm going to miss it."
There was a slight sadness now to his smile and he reached over to grab one of the cookies.
"How about you? Where are you from? England, I assume, but I'm afraid I'm no good with accents."
Funny thing about the tin of cookies - no matter how many were removed from the tin and eaten, it always seemed to be full. Another miracle, but this one was unintentional. That happened, some times, particularly when Aziraphale was pleased by somebody or something. For example, a struggling Chinese restaurant that opened two doors down from the bookshop might’ve closed, had Aziraphale not decided to poke his nose inside and order the Moo Goo Gai Pan. It was delicious, and so close, too! The very next day, business started booming, so not only did the owners keep their business afloat, they actually bought the vacant building next door to expand. Yet, whenever Aziraphale wanted to dine, his usual seat would always be vacant and waiting for him.
Right now, Aziraphale was pleased with Father Paul. His expression softened as he listened to him speak about his parish. He never heard of Crockett Island before, but even if he was told where in the United States it was located, he wouldn’t know where that was: his knowledge about America was woefully lacking. Awwwww… Father Paul was feeling homesick! Aziraphale smiled sympathetically. “You must miss it very much. I can tell. If it brings you any consolation, when you leave this place, you return to the exact time and place that you were when you left, so it will be as though you’d never left.” He tried to encourage himself with the same reasoning when Crowley disappeared, and even though it was true, it didn’t make him feel any less lonely. His smile faltered, but he quickly recovered and took a deep sip of wine.
Where was he from? Aziraphale paused to consider how to answer. “Yes, England. I’ve been living in London for quite some time now, but that’s not where I’m from, originally. Originally I’m from… “ he waggled his index finger toward the ceiling “... someplace a bit higher.”
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he asked, “Do you believe in angels, Father Paul?”
"You know, this wine pairs remarkably well with these cookies," Father Paul said before he took another sip. Then he smiled more broadly at the idea of returning home at the moment he left. "I had plans for my parish, so I'm relieved to know if I do get to go home, I'll be able to pick up where I left off."
He followed Aziraphale's finger to the ceiling as he chewed on a cookie. His brow only creased in confusion, not yet getting what Aziraphale was alluding to.
"I don't want to speak for all priests, but I think believing in angels is part of the job." His face turned a little more serious as he relaxed his posture.
"I haven't told anyone this yet, but I met an angel. On the road to Damascus. I was terrified at first, just like every mortal in the Bible who ever laid eyes on one. Then I realized that God had sent this divine being to me and I was no longer afraid. I was a changed man after that." Quite literally, he thought.
“You may be woefully disillusioned by how many religious leaders don’t believe,” Aziraphale said, tilting his head to the side and frowning. At some point, Heaven mandated that overt miracles were to be reduced and that faith in that which is unseen be emphasized. He didn’t think it was very fair, especially in the face of scientific theories that seemed to disprove the existence of the Almighty, along with the steady increase of wickedness in the world. A strong miracle or two would go a long way to help bolster faith. And anyway, didn’t Heaven want humans to believe? Any miracles Aziraphale performed on Earth had to be subtle, or else done in a sneaky way that Heaven wouldn’t be altered. He was glad to be free of that restriction, although he decided to still keep a low profile, miracle-wise, even in Derleth.
Upon hearing Father Paul’s experience, Aziraphale’s eyes opened wide with excitement. “You did?! Do tell! I’m assuming that you’re talking about a metaphorical road to Damascus, not an actual road with that name in Crockett Island. But, that’s marvelous! I wonder who it might’ve been. Did they tell you their name? I know some of us can be very heavy handed when introducing ourselves, especially those who don’t have much experience interacting with humans.” He then added, as a matter of fact, “Oh, you see, I’m an angel myself.”
"No, not a metaphorical road. I went on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem and I was caught in a sandstorm en route to Damascus. God provided shelter by means of the winds unburying the entrance to an ancient temple. I met the angel in there. He never did tell me his name, but he feasted on my blood and then had me drink of his." This was meant to be a closely guarded secret, at least until his parish was ready to learn the truth, and it felt a little weird to be telling it now so easily. Something about Aziraphale made talking openly so easy. And then he was given the reason why.
"You're an angel as well?" Father Paul's eyes widened and he got up from his seat. "Why would the Lord bless me twice in this way?"
Aziraphale’s face went through a roller coaster journey from delight - How nice that he was able to go on pilgrimage! to concern as he remembered from practical experience how bad sandstorms could be in that part of the world, to relief - That was nice of the angel to help him! - and finally to horrified disgust.
Blood???! The corners of Aziraphale’s mouth curled in distaste. This priest might’ve found spiritual meaning and comfort from this exchange, which was all well and good, but this didn’t sound like angelic behavior. Would it be bad to burst his bubble and tell him, or let Father Paul continue under his delusion? The answer seemed clear. It might be jarring, but the truth ought to be spoken.
“Father Paul,” he began, speaking hesitantly. “I really don’t think that was an angel who helped you in the desert. Angels do not drink blood.” It occurred to him that maybe in Father Paul’s world, that’s what angels did… but no… Aziraphale was convinced.. “At least… not any angel in good standing. I… I’m afraid you might’ve come across a fallen angel. And I really ought to know.”
Father Paul's brow creased with confusion. After seeing what the angel had done for him, he never considered it could be an unholy thing. What kind of entity other than an angel could have done what this one did?
"But he fixed me. Aziraphale, I'm in my 80s, but look at me. I was lost in the abyss of dementia and he freed me from it. How could it not be something miraculous? His blood made a paralyzed girl walk again!" There was a look in his eyes and a tone to his voice that very much tread the line of fanaticism. "And I know his blood has been slowly undoing the ravages of age and disease in my parish."
“You’re in your 80’s?” Aziraphale blurted this out in disbelief, then gave Father Paul an obvious once over look. There was no way to confirm his age besides taking the priest’s word for it. And speaking of words… Aziraphale could hear the desperation in the poor man’s voice. In addition to insincere believers, he’d encountered his fair share of true believers throughout the years. People whose faith was frighteningly strong. Just as much bad could come with too much devotion as it did with those who had none at all, and this unnerved him.
Dementia? Father Paul didn’t look like he was still suffering from the affliction. But then again, if this encounter happened when he was ill, then maybe his perception of everything was made askew, which continued over to his healthy state. In any case, Aziraphale cringed at the reaction, and second-guessed whether telling him the truth was the right thing.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” he said, forcing a smile. It was a common saying, one that he often found solace in himself when God’s decisions didn’t seem very nice… for example, the Great Flood. “Ineffable,” he added for good measure, which was his own personal favorite word. Angels, unlike humans, were not supposed to criticize God’s reactions. If they did, then well… they were demons, as simple as that. So it was easy to give such a hollow phrase and a seemingly knowing nod of the head, hoping and trusting that it would all work out.
Aziraphale might’ve defied Heaven and Hell by preventing the apocalypse along with Crowley, but he never really lost faith in God.
Father Paul could take Aziraphale’s reply in any number of directions, but he hoped that it would help calm him.
"He does," Father Paul responded with a nod. He sat back down, his brow still furrowed with thought. The idea that he was overtaken by a fallen angel still nagged at him and he couldn't shake it.
"Can fallen angels still perform miracles?" If they did, surely it would be deceptive. But what did this being have to gain from making Father Paul younger, healthier? The Lord worked in mysterious ways, but would he work through a fallen angel?
"Based on scripture, there are different types of angels - seraphim, cherubim, and the like. The true forms and true natures of angels are unknowable to humankind. I don't suppose there are any in God's good graces that use blood in this way?" He looked down at his hands, recalling the shock of when he saw them in the light that broke through the cave the next day. He was fifty years younger and the sight of it still caught him off guard. Could it have been devilry that did this?
Phew. That was a relief. Father Paul’s whole world hadn’t been shattered, but was actually asking to know more
“Oh yes!” The only reason he sounded a little bit too chipper while talking about fallen angels was that he was thinking about Crowley. “They can perform miracles, although strictly speaking, it’s not a miracle anymore I suppose. But demons draw their power from the nether regions, not Heaven.” A pause. “At least that’s what I’ve always been told.” That was a good question - how was he able to still perform miracles if he’d been excommunicated from Heaven? Crowley, too. Maybe God wasn’t upset with them and chose to let them continue to use their respective powers? How reassuring. Aziraphale smiled to himself, and continued to speak in an animated fashion.
“That’s right. As a matter of fact, I’m a Principality. Well, technically, I’m a Cherub, but that’s a long story. This is the form,” he gestured to his own body, “is what I’ve been given to interact with humans so you’re not disturbed. I actually have wings, too, but they’re usually kept hidden. It’s so peculiar, being able to talk about this with humans so openly. I’m still not accustomed to it. Most of the time I needed to keep my identity a secret in order to dwell among your lot.
“But to answer your question about blood.” Aziraphale became serious again. “The only thing I can think of is the blood of Christ.” He nodded in the direction of the chalice he’d brought. “But that’s meant to be figurative. Ceremonial. Nobody ever expects anybody to drink real blood. I’m sorry. But look on the bright side! You’re young and healthy again, and able to serve for a while longer.”
There was such a jumble of thoughts running through Father Paul's head he didn't know which one to grasp onto first. It was a whole new experience meeting an angel that he could have a real conversation with. His angel, the one he's muggled from Jerusalem, wasn't much of a talker. Although, Father Paul didn't expect a holy being to speak any languages of man. But this one, Aziraphale, did. And it was enlightening.
"This is amazing, you know." He gestures between the two of them. "I'm obviously a man of faith, and faith means a great deal to me, but this is really like getting an inside look. Most clergy people don't even dream of having this opportunity." He paused for a brief moment before adding, "not that I don't talk to God, but it's hardly like having a conversation with another person. God is so...well, ineffable."
Father Paul assumed any heavenly being would be similarly so, but Aziraphale was certainly different. "How long have you lived among humankind for?"
“To tell you the truth, it’s really nice being able to speak to you like this.” Aziraphale leaned back in his seat, thoughtfully. “There’s not many men of faith as you put it, here in Derleth, and the last person with whom I spoke about angelic matters was… well… an actual demoness. But that was a while ago, and she’s now gone. I’m actually surprised you haven’t asked for proof that I’m an angel! But I suppose that’s where the faith part comes in.”
He paused again, then said, “I understand what you mean… about talking with God. Very few of us angels actually ever communicate directly with the Almighty. The last time She addressed me… oh… that was outside the Garden of Eden.” He smiled. “I suppose that answers your question, about how long I’ve been around humankind. I was actually stationed on the Eastern Wall of the Garden, then it all got mucked up.” Despite what he’d just told Father Paul, he continued to smile, fondly. “Crowley, the dear, he showed up and did his little temptation bit. That’s where we first met.” Realizing how confused Father Paul might be, he explained, “Crowley’s a demon, but we’re really very close. He’s wonderful, once you get to know him. We were both assigned to Earth, and I had to thwart his wily plans. Sometimes we would go out for lunch together. Jolly good fun.”
Father Paul let out a quiet laugh and shook his head. "An angel and demon who are friends? You know, I'm not even all that surprised by it. I suppose, even beings such as yourselves are much more complicated than being simply good or evil. Just like us humans."
"What I am surprised by is that the story of the Garden of Eden is the literal truth. I always took a lot of the stories, especially in Genesis, to be more metaphorical than literal." The smile on his face now was one of surprise and amazement. This was, undoubtedly, a much better experience encountering an angel than the previous one had been.
"I feel like I could talk for hours, ask you so many questions, but I don't want to keep you. I'm sure you have other things to do." As much as Father Paul was enjoying it, he didn't want to monopolize the angel's time.
****
“Oh, the things I could tell you!” Aziraphale responded, enthusiastically. Six thousand years of keeping his lips sealed, unable to really talk with humans about this subject, was bubbling, trying to escape like the effervescence of champagne in a bottle that’s been corked. Not all universes were the same, he knew that from Maze had told him about her versions of Heaven and Hell, It was wild to think about, but Aziraphale was far too excited to let that stand in his way of talking to Father Paul. Besides, he’d already had one paradigm shattered, no need to immediately spoil another.
“There’s nothing I’d like more.” He topped off his glass of wine and offered to do the same for Father Paul. “Although, perhaps in a little while I could show you around the campus?”