WHERE Streets of Vallo, then Aziraphale's bookshop â˘
WHEN Early evening â˘
WHAT Eldritch being meets angelc being, then exorcism misunderstandings commence â˘
STATUS Complete â˘
WARNINGS Existential horror, failed exorcisms, some discussion of trauma and injuries, distinctly British stilted politeness
Jon still wasn't entirely sure what to make of Vallo. Then again, he had only been in the strange, apparently magical, city a few weeks, so perhaps it was a bit soon to be making any real judgments. It was, of course, infinitely preferable to what he'd left behind. Martin panicking and the sky looking back at them with countless eyes. The knowledge that he had brought about the apocalypse thanks to Elias's - to Jonah's machination. The feeling that he might, to one degree or another, be going mad. For all that this place was strange, it had to be better than that. He wasn't sure he could cope with it, if it turned out to be worse.
To be clear, he wasn't glad to have left Martin behind. Honestly, the very thought of it filled him with a number of complicated emotions, none of them the good sort. He missed his partner - boyfriend was a terribly immature word - more than he could adequately express. He wished that Martin was here, so that he could know for sure that he was safe. He just wanted to know that he was safe.
He had taken to wandering. He didn't need to sleep any more. Not much any way. He still did, from time to time, in an effort to feel at least a little bit human. But mostly he just wandered the city, getting a feel for it. He had tried very hard not to ask anyone any direct questions. Not to compel them. Not to ask for statements. It felt good and satisfying to do it and he hated that feeling. If was just another reminder that he was something other now. A monster. The only potential use for his powers that he was happy about was his possible new job with the DOA.
Eye in the Sky. It really was terribly ironic.
Still, it was hard to resist when he saw the man who absolutely wasn't a man. It hurt to look at him in a similar way to how it had hurt to look at the Dark Star. But he managed. He was more powerful now and it was easier than it had been. He wasn't sure what the man was, but he was bright and shifting and turning. Ancient and awful - in the true sense of the word - and more. He could feel the Beholding under his skin and it was pleased with the knowledge. And it wanted more. To know. To understand.
He should probably stop staring before whatever the man was noticed him. He definitely shouldn't walk up to him.
But then, never let it be said that Jonathan Sims had made even one single sensible decision in his life.
Aziraphale had been in Vallo for long enough to get around town, to recognize faces, and to even start forming opinions and preferences. But even so, he generally kept to himself, and most importantly, tried to stay busy. That was how he decided to cope with being inexplicitly hurled into this different universe, one which, he was told, heâd been to before but couldnât remember.
It was all quite disturbing, not to mention bad timing, since he and Crowley had just begun to embark on a new life, free from the constraints of Heaven and Hell, and he was rather looking forward to that. Technically, he was just as free here as he was on Earth, but not having Crowley around was off-putting. Blaming Crowley for not coming along with him was another coping mechanism. It was easier to do that than to face the facts that he was all alone.
The first thing he noticed was an odd sensation⌠something not quite right. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. There were many different types of people in Vallo, with many different backgrounds, some of them registering on his angelic âradarâ more than others⌠but he hadnât experienced anything like this before. A scent accompanied the sensation: not exactly demonic, but .. close? It didnât rest well with Aziraphale, no not at all.
He stopped short in the middle of the sidewalk, paused, and then turned around to face the source, The man looked ordinary enough, but looks were always deceiving.
âHow do you do?â he asked with forced politeness, and while there were a million other questions that also came to mind, he wasnât so rude as to ask without at least making acquaintances.
Jon tried not to stare. His grandmother, for all her resentment and bitterness, had raised him to be polite, after all. But how does one look at something so far beyond humanity and not stare? With a great deal of restraint and force of will. He didn't stare, but he could still see the man. A man who was looking at him in a similar fashion. Maybe he could see it too, the things beyond the known.
Jon wondered what he must look to someone like that. If the man could see the marks left by the fears. Not the countless scars that were visible to anyone who cared to look, but the deeper marks the fears had left. The stains of watching, crawling, choking, blinding, falling, twisting, leaving, hiding, weaving, burning, hunting, ripping, leading, dying dread that ran bone-deep in him. The thing that Jonah had made of him.
But the man made no comment of it and so they were stuck in this instant, British propriety at war with the desperate need to Know. Broken by an inane question so outside the realm of whatever this was that it honestly took Jon by surprise.
"Fine," he said, because you never said otherwise, even if you decidedly weren't. "Just fine." And you? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but he could feel the building static of compulsion in his throat and he had to force it back down. No direct questions then. Not just now anyway. Not even one so simple. "I trust you are as well."
âYes, yes. Very well, indeed,â Aziraphale replied with the same British enthusiasm. He wasnât British by any stretch, even though heâd called London his home for many centuries. It just so happened that his natural personality was similar to what might be described as âBritishâ. That was why heâd always felt at home there, a delightful match, as it were.
He held his hands nervously at waist level, picking at his fingernails, then nervously glanced away with a slightly open mouth, censoring himself at first, but finally finding the nerve to ask, âI beg your pardon⌠but what are you?â
It was something of a relief for the stalemate to come to an end. Jon had no doubt that if the man before him hadn't asked his question, they very well could have stayed there indefinitely, trapped in an unending cycle of bland politeness. Imprisoned by their own staunchly British manners. Neither of them quite willing to upset the delicate balance by asking the question that was on both of their minds.
But the question was asked and the stalemate was broken and they could move forward. "That..." Jon hesitated. The man really was terribly distracting. "That is the question...isn't it? I...well...I'm honestly still figuring that out." It was a cheap answer, he knew that all too well. And something wouldn't let him leave it at that. "The others called themselves avatars, and I suppose that's what I am. But it feels a bit...I don't know." The crackling, static compulsion rose up again in his throat and this time he didn't fight it. "And what are you? You don't look like anything I've seen before. Tell me...what are you?"
âOthers?â Aziraphale concentrated a little and realized that the entity he felt as not one, but multiple ones, tangled together in an unholy mess that frankly ruffled his feathers⌠well⌠his feathers wouldâve been ruffled if they werenât on display. There was a sudden flare, which rose from the crackling energy just before, and while Jon asked the question, Aziraphale could tell that it was not coming directly from him.
He placed his hand upon his chest and gasped. It had been many centuries, which was why he hadnât recognized it, immediately, but now he knew. âMy dear boy, youâre possessed!â He looked Jon over with grave concern. âNot by any demon that Iâm familiar with, but then again, they are Legion, arenât they. Oh, bother. Why isnât Crowley here?â His brow creased with worry, and he fidgeted in place, but he told himself he needed to pull himself together.
Taking a deep breath, standing straight and tall, with his chin raised in a show of bravery, he proclaimed, âI am Aziraphale, angel of the Lord. Principality. Keeper of the Eastern Gate.â However, he placed no power behind his words - heâd forgotten that he could do that to be more impressive. In fact, he was so nervous that he showed his hand by admitting, âIâm quite out of practice, but I can perform an exorcism. I havenât seen a possession since⌠oh, for a very long while. Medieval times, Iâd say. And nothing quite as messy. But Iâm confident it could be done.â
The knowledge was new. It was different from anything Jon had encountered before. Anything the Beholding had encountered before. The knowledge was all the sweeter on his tongue for that fact and it sent a shiver of something Jon couldn't quite name down his spine. The closest he could think of was satisfaction, but that wasn't quite right. There was an unwinding of tension that came with it and Jon only then realized how tense he had been. Coiled tight like a spring. And so tired. He felt less tired now. New knowledge was a powerful thing.
Angels were real, apparently. Jon was pretty sure that Georgie would have a field day with that one. If she was speaking with him. Once she was - if she ever did - he would have to tell her about this. Granted, she wouldn't be thrilled about the whole 'walking up to something obviously powerful and dangerous' of it all, but she'd hardly be surprised.
Still, something in him rankled at the idea of possession. He'd seen possession in the statements. This was different. This wasn't nearly so cut and dry as all of that. "I'm not possessed," he said calmly. "Though I can see how it might appear that way. I'm an avatar of the Beholding." And he was marked by all the rest, but that wasn't as important. They'd touched him but he was not of them. "I'm tied to it, yes. But it doesn't control me." Except in the ways that it did. "And I'm not sure even you could undo that. The offer...is very kind though. If I thought it would work, I might even agree to it."
He hesitated. "My name's Jon, by the way." It was only polite to actually introduce himself. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Aziraphale."
The way the demons calmly accepted Aziraphaleâs introduction made him more nervous than before. Was that a good sign? That was not a good sign. It usually meant demons thought they were more powerful and wanted to try to take an angel on in a fight. OH! Aziraphale really didnât want to fight! He was once a soldier in Heavenâs Army⌠not just a soldier, but a general that led people into battle. Not only did Aziraphale know how to fight, he did it well. But he didnât like it one bit, he gave that up to follow his heart. To show kindness and goodness, and all the positive qualities that were usually associated with angels. The smiting thing could be left to somebody else.
That was why, when Jon said he wasnât possessed, Aziraphale first skeptically asked, âYou arenât?â ⌠after all, demons were liars, and this could be the demons lying through JonâŚ. but he wanted to believe the lie, and so he sighed heavily with relief, his whole body relaxing, as he gratefully and too easily smiled. âOh thank Heaven for that! Demons are such botheration. Iâm not too sure if I understand what you mean by avatar or Beholding... but yes. Yes, the pleasure is mine, Jon.â
Even though he was no longer bound to Heavenâs mandate, old habits were hard to shake. Aziraphale felt heâd been a proper angel in this circumstance, and if anybody tried to accuse him (including his own conscience) he could say with conviction that heâd done his duty.
Jon hesitated for a long moment. His first instinct had been to reject the idea of an exorcism as a pointless exercise. It wouldn't work and it would be a waste of Aziraphale's time. There was no reason to bother with something that was doomed to fail. He was what he was and there was no saving him. He was a monster and nothing could change that.
But part of him wondered. If Aziraphale was truly an angel, then shouldn't he at least let him try. Georgie kept saying he hadn't walked into this, but wouldn't he be doing just that if he didn't take an opportunity to remove this from himself? The Beholding rose up in him, displeasure clear, but he ignored that. He thought of Martin, who had given up so much for him. Who loved him in a way he would never be able to believe he deserved. Didn't he owe it to Martin to get rid of the monster if he could? Martin deserved a partner who wasn't an eldritch horror. Georgie deserved a friend who wasn't a danger to her. Someone who didn't haunt her dreams and bring horrors into her life. And he had never wanted this. He'd accepted it as something he couldn't change. But maybe he could.
He took a deep breath. "I guess..." he said, the words coming with difficulty. "I guess...it couldn't hurt to try." A part of him worried that it could hurt. It could hurt very much. But he had to at least try, didn't he?
âOh.â
If Aziraphale sounded disappointed, it was because he was. There was a high possibility for a confrontation once the demons were dispelled, and that wasnât something nice. But he did offer, and if Jon changed his mind, then what sort of angel would he be to refuse.
âAlright,â he said, in a professional tone that revealed heâd made up his mind to help. âItâs probably a good idea not to do it out here, in front of everybody. These things can get a bit⌠messy.â
The movie The Exorcist was a remarkably good depiction, including the vomiting. Why he let Crowley talk him into going to see it, Aziraphale didnât know. The visuals disturbed him for days afterward, and he expected this confrontation would do the same.
Holding it at his bookshop would be best - because of his presence, it was considered holy, not in the same way a church was consecrated, but in a way, more than that. However, the thought of having to clean up the aftermath made his stomach churn.
âYour place, then?â He then added, as a âhelpfulâ suggestion, âIt would be more comfortable for you.
He hadn't expected the angel to sound so disappointed. He had rather thought an angel might be quite keen to remove a demon from a person. Not that he considered the Beholding to be a demon. Not really. He was still reasonably certain this wouldn't work. But perhaps. And he had thought the angel might be happy to do it. Aziraphale had offered, after all.
"If you don't want to," he said, "it's fine. I mean...you certainly aren't obligated."
He nodded a bit absently at the idea of a hypothetical exorcism becoming messy. He remembered the statement of Edward Burroughs about his own experiences with an attempted exorcism. It did not fill him with any real confidence. "Right," he said. "Of course. Not something one just...does on the street, as it were. That makes sense, I suppose."
Then the angel suggested his flat - which happened to be Georgie's flat and...no. That wouldn't work at all. "I..." he tried to think of a way to say this next bit that wouldn't be absurd. "It's just that...there's a cat there. And I would really rather not upset him. Is there...somewhere else?"
The last thing Aziraphale wanted to do was to sound weak before a demon⌠it wouldnât be prudent to show oneâs hand before the enemy. So, to Jon (and the demons that possessed him), he tried to cover his reluctance by quickly replying, âOh no, no, itâs not that I donât want to. Iâm Iâm just thinking. Serious thoughts. Angelic thoughts.â He really hoped that Jon (or the demon) wouldnât question any further than that, and that he didnât sound too artificial.
âNo, we wouldnât want to upset the cat.â Funny enough, he accepted Jonâs dilemma - heâd never owned a cat, but knew humans who did over the year, and an upset cat was not a good thing. He twisted his mouth in thought. âWe could always go to a churchâ he offered. âDemons donât like sacred ground, so weâd have the upper hand there. Otherwise⌠thereâs the cellar below the bookshopâŚâ
Jon nodded. He wasn't sure if that was right, but he hardly knew enough about angels to disagree. He probably could Know if he tried hard enough, but he wasn't sure he wanted to do that. He'd been trying very hard of late not to intrude on the minds of others. "Apologies," he said, because he was reasonably certain that being rude to an angel was a bit ruder than even he generally was. "I won't interrupt your thoughts then."
He was glad that Aziraphale understood his position regarding upsetting the Admiral. "No," he said. "It really wouldn't do." He considered the options for a moment. A church was probably the more practical of the options presented, but something in him settled at the thought of a bookshop. "Oh...I've...always been very fond of books," he said. Then paused. "Well...most books anyway." Not Leitners. They did far too much damage. "So perhaps...the cellar you mentioned?"
Of course Jon would pick the bookshop. It was the most practical choice, but it was the option that Aziraphale least wanted. There was no going around it, now. He could imagine Crowley laughing at his plight, now.
âAh. Yes. I have a marvelous collection of rare and antique books. Perhaps afterward?â That is, after any mess was tidied up, and both of them had time to recover. âPlease, right this way.â The bookshop was only a couple of blocks away, he rarely wandered much farther than that. Holding his hands primly at waist level, his thoughts were occupied with remembering how to perform the exorcism, when he was struck with a terrible thought. Would he still be able to exorcise demons, what with him being disconnected from Heaven and all? This troubled him, but then settled his mind by reminding himself that he still could do miracles, and that was a Heavenly ability, so heâd still be able to do the rite. Probably. Hopefully.
His steps automatically took him to the shop, without really needing to watch where he was going. As they approached the door, it opened for them, then closed behind as they stepped inside, again automatically.
âWe ought to take care of matters, first. The cellar is over hereâŚâ
"That sounds...lovely," Jon said with some hesitation. Antique books were wonderful and he did quite enjoy them, but he couldn't help his mind straying to the thought of Leitner and his collection. They really had done quite a bit of damage, the relics of the entities. "Perhaps...yes. That would be nice. You don't have any particularly ill-intentioned ones, do you?" It seemed only right to ask.
He followed along as Aziraphale led the way to his shop, glancing around as he did and taking in the people around them. He was slacking off at work. She'd had a bad blind date the other night but was too polite to admit it. She was skimming from the til at work. Their mother had taken ill. He was having an affair. A stream of things he couldn't help but Know. It made his skin itch just a bit. But he didn't push further, despite the desire to know. He was trying to be better about it.
They reached the shop at last and he could just hear Georgie in his head berating him for following a stranger to a random shop and down into a cellar where he would probably be killed and repurposed into a lamp or some such nonsense. Considering it, he shot her a quick text and the pocketed his phone. He had promised not to keep things from her, after all. And this way if he died, she would at least know.
"Right," he said, and made his way down to the cellar. "It's a lovely place."
The Admiral was going to be so cross with him if he died.
âLet there be light.â He snapped, calling down Heavenâs aid to illuminate the cellar. Much more efficient than electricity, and far cheaper, too. The shop was built in the 1800âs, and Aziraphale never even bothered to fit it with the wires, making it necessary for electricity to flow. When gaslight went out of style, he simply brought in the right sorts of lamps for the era, and they would always miracle the light when the switch was pulled.
The cellar was not damp or musty, but in perfect condition, albeit a bit chilly. Storage boxes were around, here and there, and containing everything from extra stock to Christmas ornaments.
Oh, how Aziraphale loved Christmas!
That was besides the point, he needed to focus. A very worn sofa from the 1960âs, which Aziraphale couldnât bear to throw away, was also tucked away. It bore too many fond memories, but not so fond that he didnât mind if it was broken during the course of the exorcism. âUh⌠please take a seat,â he said, gesturing with his hand. âIt⌠shouldnât take long, but I must warn you⌠it might hurt a little.â
Or a whole lot, if Aziraphaleâs experience taught him anything.
Jon didn't laugh at the proclamation, but it was a near enough thing. As it was, his lips twitched in a faint smile. How utterly appropriate of the angel. He wondered if it was simply Aziraphale's humor or if he truly had turned on the lights with heavenly power. And as soon as he wondered, he Knew. Well, that certainly was handy. Certainly better than paying an electricity bill.
The cellar was nice enough and the chill didn't really bother him. You got rather used to the cold in Britain. He raised an eyebrow at the boxes of Christmas ornaments, wondering if that was truly appropriate, but didn't comment. It was hardly his place to ask.
"Right then," he said, feeling trepidation even as he moved over to the sofa. It was hardly surprising that it would likely hurt. It was hardly as if exorcisms had ever been painted as a particularly pleasant experience. "It's fine," he assured Aziraphale, gesturing vaguely to the multitude of scars he possessed. "I'm rather accustomed to pain. Just do what you need to."
Accustomed to pain. Aziraphale wondered not if but how much demons had tortured Jon since theyâd possessed him The angel wasnât certain he wanted to know. The quicker they started, the sooner it would be over, and they could be drinking tea and chatting about books, demon-free.
âNo better time than the present!â he declared with false cheerfulness. Worry creased his forehead, and considered asking one last time if he wanted to go through with this, but self-censored himself.
He folded his hands in prayer, closed his eyes and bowed his head.
At first, nothing happened, which was a little worrisome for Azirpahle, but then the Glory of the Lord descended, radiating from Aziraphaleâs body brighter than any electric lamp. What a relief! Not only was it naturally amazing to be bathed in Her Glory, but it was a confirmation that despite everything that happened, between him and the other Angels, preventing the Apocalypse, and finally casting his lot with Crowley and humans, that the Lord had not utterly turned Her back on him.
From Jonâs perspective, Aziraphaleâs body was nearly obscured by the light, but when the angel opened his eyes⌠well! They blazed like fire and pierced into Jonâs soul. And when he spoke, he addressed not Jon, but the Beholding within.
âIn the name of the Almighty, I command thee to depart!â
Jon shifted slightly, all too aware of all the marks he carried. From Jane's worms and Michael and Daisy's knives and Jude's power and the explosion that had ended the Unknowing and so many other brushes with terrible things. That had brought him to this point. And the more intangible mark of the Eye, something soul deep and intrinsically a part of him now.
"Right," he said, hesitantly, "let's do this then." He still wasn't sure. That it would work. That it was a good idea. That he would even survive it. But he had committed to this course of action and he would not back down now. For once, perhaps, he could make the right choice.
The angel was blinding, more so than he had been before. It wasn't so much that he looked different really. He looked more. More of what John had seen and less of the careful facade presented to the world. And then his eye were open and Jon couldn't look away. And he was burning.
The problem with trying to exorcise someone who wasn't possessed, especially if you knew what you were doing, was that it was a terribly unpleasant experience. It was a terribly unpleasant experience either way, but this was an entirely different degree.
Jon had known he wasn't possessed, even when he agreed. There was no foreign being controlling him. He had made a decision, a number of decisions, and those decisions had taken him down a path that had led to the Beholding. He had chosen it in any number of small and massive ways. And he belonged to it. But it didn't control him. It hadn't invaded him. There was nothing for an exorcism to cast out or destroy.
Except for Jon himself.
Something was gravely wrong.
As stated before, Aziraphale hadnât performed an exorcism in a long, long while, but he could still remember the experience. He usually expected some sort of struggle, the demon tugging to remain inside their host. Aziraphale wasnât an angler, but he imagined comparing it to having a large fish hooked, and trying to reel it in. Not even a budge. By the time Aziraphale could ponder this over, he realized that he was tearing apart Jonâs very soul, causing the man considerable damage. Why wasnât Jon screaming in agony? It mightâve alerted Aziraphale sooner!
The Glory immediately extinguished,, putting a quick end to the process, and he plunged to Jonâs side. âAre you alright? No, of course youâre not! Why, youâre barely breathing! Let me fix my mistake.â
His hands hovered over Jonâs body, and the healing miracles flowed.. âHello? Do you need anything? A cup of tea?â Just like that, a steaming hot cup of tea manifested in Aziraphaleâs hands, and he offered it to Jon.
Jon was used to pain. He'd been through rather a lot of it in the past few years, more than a person rightly should experience. He hadn't been lying to Aziraphale about that. And while this was considerably more pain that he was, perhaps, used to, he could bear it. He needed to bear it. So he remained silent. And by the time it was far past what he could handle, he was in no position to make any sort of noise, feeling as though he might unravel. It was an all consuming feeling the likes of which he could hardly imagine. He was sure that he would come apart entirely and cease to be.
And then, all at once, it was gone and he was in himself and of himself again, shaken but whole. There was a moment where his skin felt wrong, as though he was too much shoved into too small a shape - or perhaps too little left in too big a space, but then the angel did something and everything settled back into place and he could breathe again.
"I-" He began and then trailed off, considering. No, he wasn't alright, but that had hardly ever mattered. "I suppose we'll chalk that up to an unsuccessful experiment," he said wryly. "But at least we know that I am not possessed, so I guess that's something." No, he was another flavor of monster entirely. He wished he had it in him to be disappointed, but he was simply tired. He had known better than to truly expect a simple solution. Still, he had hoped.
Still, he managed a wistful smile at the offer of tea. Tea invariably drew his thoughts to Martin, and oh but he did miss Martin. "Thank you," he said, taking the cup in slightly shaking hands. "I appreciate it. I do hope you'll have some as well."
An unsuccessful experiment? I nearly killed you! Aziraphale sealed his lips tightly to prevent himself from blurting out this statement, mostly because he hated to admit his mistake. Angels donât kill people, he wanted to believe, even though Heavenly history proved that wrong time and time again. So rather, this Angel didnât kill people, was what he wanted to maintain, separating himself from the âbad Angelsâ that he knew, making him better than that.
Watching Jon carefully, like a mother doting over a sickly child, the trembling hands drew his attention to how damaged they were - pockmarked and scarred in a horrible way that was worrisome. âGoodness gracious! That looks painful. Please, let me heal your hands, too.â He was ready to bend over backwards to make up for what heâd done earlier.
It took Jon a long moment to realize what Aziraphale meant. He didn't think overly much about his scars. Well, he did. But more of what they represented. The worms had been the start of it. No, that very first statement had been the start of it, but the worms had been the first mark. Michael's knife - his hand but still - in his shoulder was all that was left of what had once been Michael Shelley. Of Gertrude's mistakes that he had sworn not to repeat. Daisy's knife at his throat...he was almost fond of that one. Same with Melanie's scalpel. His hand...Jude's burns. Well, that had been a valuable lesson. And the scars from the Unknowing...they were a penance for failing both Sasha and Tim so completely.
To think of losing any of them - he couldn't help but flinch just slightly. Aziraphale had just said his hands, but that was a slippery slope to more. He needed to hold on to his mistakes. "No," he said, gently but firmly. "No thank you. I do appreciate the offer, but these are...they happened for a reason. It seems wrong to erase them."
He cast about for another topic, anything other than his complicated relationship with his own body, taking a sip of tea. It wasn't Martin's, but nothing was. Still, it was very good. "This is lovely tea," he said. "So...this is your bookshop? Do you...need any help with it?" He felt more comfortable around books, and this felt rather like a sort of archive. Yes, he had a potential job, he that was largely for crises. The fact that Aziraphale had nearly killed him was hardly an issue either. Unlike with Elias or Peter, this hadn't been intentional at least.
âHumans,â Aziraphale spoke, thoughtfully. âOf all creation, they were the most curious. That bit about free will aside, your behavior has puzzled angels since the Beginning. Why would they choose to keep scars from past, horrific events, as reminders? If I hadnât lived among humans for as long as he had, then he wouldnât have understood, either. It is your free will to keep your scars, and I wonât encroach on them. However, know that if you should ever change your mindâŚâ He finished his sentence with a reassuring smile.
He stood up and looked around. âNo, this is my cellar. The bookshop is upstairs.â Again, he smiled at his clever correction. âI can show you around, if youâre feeling better.â He took two steps toward the staircase when Jonâs question made him pause.
Did he need help? Heavenâs, no. Heâd been running his bookshop all by himself for centuries, he certainly didnât need one now.
However, still feeling the guilt over almost killing Jon, Aziraphale answered with a simple, âWeâll see.â And then, âWeâll discuss the possibility. Maybe over a glass of wine?.â
Jon shrugged, his lips quirking in a half-smile. "Sometimes things have meaning," he said, "and it doesn't always make sense. Sometimes it isn't even precisely good, but they still matter. I have become less and less human and the scars...they remind me of the parts of myself that still are, I suppose." He took a long sip of his tea as he considered the angel's words. "I will definitely keep that in mind though," he assured Aziraphale, "and I will be sure to let you know if I change my mind."
He gave a quiet snort of laughter at the joke, or at least what he assumed was a joke. "Yes, well, I did see a bit of the shop when we came through," he said with a shrug, pausing to finish his tea. "But I certainly wouldn't mind a proper tour, if it isn't any trouble."
He got to his feet, keeping the now empty teacup in his hands largely out of uncertainty over where to put it. He didn't precisely feel better, but he felt not all that much worse than he had any number of other times. He would manage. He always did. He just might need a statement later.
"That would...be nice," he said. Georgie had encouraged him to get to know other people - even if he was fairly certain this was not what she had meant. "I think that I would rather like that."
Speaking of Georgie. He really needed to text her back.