Hung the Moon

The Fruit Of The Spirit Is Joy

The next morning, Wendy came out of her room to find the following:

Aziraphale was sat on the sitting room couch with a book open on his left knee (she wondered if he ever read about the Bermuda Triangle or 50 Berkeley Square).

He really looked like an angel once he wasn't pretending to be Brother Francis. She wondered if he'd crafted his own earthly vessel. He couldn't look like this up in Heaven, right? Weren't angels supposed to be burning rings of light, and have lion heads and stuff? Had he engineered the feather hair? The broad shape, yet still approachable thanks to a soft layer of fat over all that strength?

Even his clothes were unassuming. At the moment he'd stripped down a bit, his pale pink shirt sleeves rolled up, sans waistcoat and jacket. He had his bowtie tied, but that was the only dressed up thing he had on. His trousers were the comfortable sort, and his feet were bare.

It took her a moment to realize what the trouble was. He seemed so harmless that it made her absolutely sure he was anything but. If he'd made his own form, it confirmed to her that he'd tried to pick such an unassuming self for some purpose. Probably a nefarious purpose. If he hadn't? Could anyone be that good?

Well anyway, she didn't think many angels would be so content sitting there against a bunch of embroidered cushions reading a book. Whatever the book was, he had it balanced on his left knee because he had a china plate with a slice of cake on it on his right. She stopped in the shadow across the top of the stairs, sensing she was intruding but not yet knowing why.

Aziraphale took a piece of the cake between his fingers. He held it with such a sure but gentle touch the delicate dessert hardly changed shape. He reached over and down. Only then did she realize Crowley was on the floor, pressed up against Aziraphale's leg, and that Aziraphale was feeding him pieces of cake like he was feeding a dog he liked to spoil.

"Shouldn't that be devil's food cake?"

She exclaimed. She clapped her hand over her mouth. A heated blush arose in her cheeks; there was nothing overtly weird about all this, she supposed, but she felt like she'd stumbled on something she wasn't supposed to see anyway.

Crowley went red as fresh blood. Aziraphale went as pale as a lily. Still, Aziraphale gave her an indulgent look as if he wasn't embarrassed at all. Crowley, on the other hand, shook off his daze and bolted for the kitchen.

"Perhaps you're right," the angel said, closing his book in such a way as to be mindful of its spine. "Hm. Maybe I should learn how to bake."

She descended the rest of the stairs. She stood awkwardly by the front door, her hands jammed in the pockets of her new dress.

"I don't know how to do any of it," she offered. Of course, Aziraphale knew that. He'd helped raise her. But trying to relate to him as Aziraphale instead of Francis left her all confused and dizzy.

Crowley stuck his head out of the kitchen. His blush had mellowed into the same color as the slip on her dress, and he'd adjusted his clothing so it wasn't so obvious he'd been sitting on the floor.

"We could try and cook something," he offered. His sunglasses were off. She'd seen those eyes before, full of rage and murderous intent. Now they were more like the eyes of a spooked cat, the pupils huge so that only a tiny bit of yellow could be detected.

"Yeah?" She said, studying her fingernails with affected disinterest. "Like what?"

"The tomatoes are lovely this time of year," Aziraphale supplied. "So is the basil."