Ineffable

Ireland

Aziraphale felt restless and bored in London. Business at the bookshop was slow. Most serious buyers now shopped online, especially the type of clientele that Aziraphale had always courted; learned, fastidious and rich. Sadly, he had been forced to open an online store. The hours at the computer, tapping away at the keyboard, cataloging his rare books were extremely tedious. His eyes burned and his neck ached. He needed a break.

He decided to take a walking tour of Ireland. He put up a sign in the window that said "Closed, On Holiday" and wondered if anyone would even notice.

He liked Ireland. He liked rainbows. He liked leprechauns. They always appeared as he walked the charming roadways, attracted by his angelic goodness. He liked sheep and long misty afternoons and strong tea and good Irish whiskey. He needed some exercise. He needed a change of scenery. A walking holiday would do him good.

Which is why the angel found himself drenched to the skin in a very picturesque, though also very muddy, Irish field on a very, very rainy Thursday in October. It was really raining hard. It was, in fact, the outer edge of a massive hurricane that was working its way through the Atlantic. The wind was fierce, the rain, absolutely driving. The angel walked on through the field, following the designated walking route provided to him by the tour company. The cows lowed, and looked at him with their big brown eyes as if he were crazy, their wet hides steaming. By the time he reached the pub where his tour company had arranged his night's lodging, he was footsore, hungry and chilled to the bone.

Light shone warmly through the windows of the stone building. Through the rain and mist and lowering darkness Aziraphale saw a familiar silver Bentley parked out front. He paused. It must be confessed that his heart did a little flip flop at the sight of that car. And he got a rather unangelic stirring in his pants. Crowley was inside that warm Irish pub, waiting for him. Aziraphale's heart beat a little faster and filled him with a happy glow.

The truth was he had been thinking about his friend Alexander Crowley. Missing him. They were both busy, it was true. But Aziraphale wanted something from the demon, something enigmatic, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. His heart, the angelic center of his being, was restless and unsatisfied.  

He strode to the door on his sore feet and pushed it open.

The demon was sitting at the bar, nursing a whiskey and looking his usual dead handsome. Dark hair, short on the sides, long on top, falling into his eyes. "Like a blasted teenager," thought Aziraphale, with a combination of derision and lust. Black skinny jeans. Buttery leather jacket. Dark sunglasses. Aziraphale's insides did another little flip.

He dropped his sopping wet backpack on the ground. He sidled up to the bar and took a seat beside Crowley. He was literally dripping wet.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered.

"Hello, Angel," Crowley replied.

"I thought you were needed in the......North Wing."

"West Wing, actually. Well, I was, but honestly, they're doing so well on their own, I was starting to feel as if I was just getting in their way."

"Hmph," hmphed Aziraphale.

"I hear the fish and chips here is excellent," commented Crowely, taking a sip of his drink.

Aziraphale did not respond.

"Wish I could have a smoke, though," Crowley went on conversationally. "What's the point of being in a pub if you can't have a smoke? I can't seem to get used to it."

"Hmph."

"You're soaked through, Angel."

Silence.

"You'll catch your death."