The Known/Unknown Quantity

Chapter 166: Interviews Part 2

Chapter 166: Interviews Part 2

The angel regarded the jar with the claw inside. He tapped it.

                "Ugh."

                "Be glad you don't have it in your house," the little witch grumbled, putting coffee on the table.

                As the angel sat down, he asked," Why do you keep that dreadful thing here in the first place?"

                She sipped and shrugged. "Just in case."

                "In case of what? You've thoroughly succeeding in warding us against its dreadful owner. What on earth is its purpose now?"

                "Still have to find her and destroy her, don't we?" Anathema took in the sight of the angel. Ragged. His bow tie wasn't even straight. His hair was back to that wild halo, and the beard could put a lumberjack to shame. His eyes seemed larger, rimmed in dark circles, and somehow brighter. Maybe from urgency. "That is the end game, or had you forgotten?"

                "Oh, of course not!" he griped, the wrinkles along the corners of his eyes and cheeks furrowing deeper. "But understanding the prophecy will do just that! And the wards themselves have all the residual you need for us to track her down!"

                "And how's that going?"

                "Admittedly, not well," he sighed, at last drinking the coffee. With a clink it landed in the saucer, and he looked down at it and said," She's disappeared again. We should be able to find her. No luck."

                Anathema leaned in. "Why don't you let me worry about that? Haven't you got your hands full already? I mean really, have you seen yourself?"

He raised his cup and looked down into the shiny surface of the silver saucer. "Good Lord, I look like a wild man!" He flashed his eyes up to her. "I don't....smell....like one, do I?"

"Not at all." He seemed relieved at that. "But you look like someone threw you down a hill. Are you getting any sleep?"

"Um, been spotty," he muttered, glancing away.

"How's the book coming? Any answers?"

                "Wings of the Spirit?"

                The witch tilted her head. "What is that supposed to mean?"

                "Exactly," he moaned miserably, coving his face with his hands. She leaned further in, and heard the tiniest of sobs.

                "Aziraphale." She reached out to touch them, and gently drew them away. The weeping was coming now, the exhaustion complete. "What are you doing to yourselves! You need a break!"

                "Yes, but we are so close!" he hissed through the betraying tears. "Just a little more time!"

                "Ok, ok," the witch soothed in concern. She rose and produced a box of Kleenex, yanked off a few sheets, and plopped them into his hands. He tried to smile at her, but it was brief, and the attempt urged the waterworks on. "Oh, for Pete's Sake!" She snatched the sheets. Now she was dabbing his face herself, as if he wasn't capable of it. "Here, calm down. It's fine. Shhh. It's ok." She'd never seen him this bad, this spent. Just how far was he from toppling over? She didn't even want to think of what Crowley looked like. "Hey, you came here with a great idea."

                He looked up and nodded to her, huffing and puffing.

                "And, while I'm not as good as Newt with the total recall," she went on, straightening and smoothing out her hair, then clearing her throat, "What I am good at is listening and writing. Now, we're going to do just what you came here for," she pulled his hands down to the table and the beige notebook just appeared right there, for by its nature it could be in two places at once, and summoned. "You pick a spot, and I'll notate. And we'll figure it out."