longer.blue

Angels don't dream. In fact, Angels don't sleep at all. They don’t need to. Angels don’t possess complicated emotions that require their brain to periodically reboot and catalog their memories and feelings. Angels are designed to obey. They’re not faced with moral or ethical dilemmas. In theory, all of their choices and actions are moral and ethical, they were directly handed them by God. However, there was one angel who did have complicated emotions. One angel who questioned his orders and the morality of his actions. One angel who spent millenia on Earth among humans and getting to know them and lived his life as one of them. That angel currently held the title of Supreme Archangel. That angel slept. That angel dreamed. Aziraphale dreamt of a dark shadow falling upon him. He was frightened, but not of the shadow itself, rather what it meant. Was this his punishment for sleeping? For questioning? Was it some kind of demonic force? He awoke with a start. He was terrified. He went about his duties as Supreme Archangel, holding meetings with the other Archangels, making plans for the Second Coming. He fulfilled his responsibilities. He avoided sleep for several days but was drawn to the plush four poster bed he kept in his chambers. He told himself he was just going to lie down for a moment, but sleep had taken him and he continued to dream of the dark shadow. It became a recurring dream. Always a dark shadow. Slowly, the shadow took the form of a man, a man he couldn’t recognize but something felt familiar with him. Was it someone he knew from a long time ago? Someone he had forgotten? Or was it just his dreams playing tricks on him. In every dream he tried to see who the man was but every time his face was obscured. The only thing he knew about the man was he always wore black, and Aziraphale felt safe with him. He was drawn to him. His fear of sleep turned to longing and he found himself anxiously waiting for meetings to end so he could return to his chamber to sleep and return to the mysterious man. He couldn’t talk about it to any other angel. For one, they didn’t sleep and they didn’t understand the complexities of dreams. Nor was he particularly close to any other angel to have such a personal conversation. He didn’t want to show any sign of weakness to the angels and didn’t want to sow any doubt that Aziraphale might possibly be plagued by a demonic force. He couldn’t go to an angel, they wouldn’t understand. But maybe a human would understand. “Nah, that's normal.” Nina said as she poured Aziraphale a steaming hot cup of tea. “You just started a new job. You must be stressed. It's normal to have weird dreams when you’re stressed.” Aziraphale held the cup closely with both hands as if it were a precious jewel. “I feel like I should know this person, but I can’t quite put my finger on where I have seen them.” Nina put a hand on her hip. “It could be someone you’ve met once, or someone your brain just made up. What do they look like?” Aziraphale frowned. “I don’t know. Every time I try to see their face I can’t make it out. It’s like something is obstructing it.” “Hmm, yeah, dreams can be funny like that.” That quelled Aziraphale’s fears for the moment. This was a perfectly normal human thing to experience, and he had lived so many centuries as a human it made sense he had human experiences. He went about his business feeling calmer and somewhat refreshed. He put more focus into his work as the Supreme Archangel. He continued to sleep and dream of the man in black and felt comforted. The dreams continued. The dreams were becoming more structured. He was doing things he remembered from the past with the man in black. Wandering the damp forests of Wessex. Seeing the newest Shakespeare play at the Globe Theater. Barely making it out of the French Revolution. He was there. “Any update on your dream man?” Nina asked him the next time he visited the coffee shop. The double entendre was lost on the angel. “No. Well, maybe. I keep having dreams of things I’ve done, things I remember.But he is there every time.” Aziraphale said, sipping on a cup of tea. “Is that strange?” “Hmm, maybe not. But these dreams have been going on for a while. Maybe you need a break?” She offered. Aziraphale sat with this for a moment. Things were going okay. He was starting to get a handle on this whole Supreme Archangel business. Muriel was successfully running the bookshop. (Or rather unsuccessfully as they were unable to make a single sale. (Though successfully in the opinion of Aziraphale.)) The second coming was… well coming along. The other archangels were still determined to end the world, again. But Aziraphale had been successful in guiding them in the general direction of a kinder, warmer, more hopeful second coming. He was still stressed sometimes, but not as much as before he took on the role, when he was living in constant fear of Heaven’s wrath. Constant fear of falling. So why did the dreams persist? “He has red hair.” Aziraphale, placing the teacup down. “Always different styles, different lengths, but always red. And not just auburn, but bright fiery red. But I still cannot see his face. Something is still blocking it.” “That might mean something. Psychologically. Don’t you have any psychology books over there?” Nina said motioning to the bookshop. Aziraphale hadn’t considered it before. He had a handful of Psychology books on a shelf somewhere. It wasn’t a topic he had much considered before, as he didn’t have a typical human psyche. He leaned more into the topics of ethics and morality to gain a better understanding of humans. He thanked Nina, paid for his drink, and hurried back to the bookshop. As he was crossing the street, someone bumped into him. “Sorry, mate!” The man said before turning to head off on his way. “Wait! Excuse me! Sir?” The man paused and turned back to him. He was an older gentleman, grey wiry hair, and a bushy grey beard. He wore a cap, and large, dark, round, sunglasses. Aziraphale looked at him and blinked. “I beg your pardon, I thought you were someone I knew.” The man smiled politely and set off on his way. Aziraphale watched him go before heading into the bookshop. Glasses! Dark, round sunglasses! That was it! That was what was obstructing the face of the man in his dreams. He didn’t know why he was so certain of this, because he didn’t explicitly see this in his dreams. But something inside of him just knew it was true. He felt slightly silly being so invested in this person, but maybe this was how authors felt when they imagined the characters in their books. The bell over the door jingled as Aziraphale rushed inside. “Good morning, Aziraphale!” Muriel said brightly. “I need a sheet of paper and a pencil!” He said urgently. He sat at the desk as Muriel handed him a pencil. He started drawing. He drew the sharp, angular features of a face, the high cheekbones, hair cut short and styled up (Which he later colored in red), a black suit around his neckline and upper bust, and large round black sunglasses over his eyes. When he was done, he set the pencil down and let out a long breath as if he was holding it the whole time. Muriel peeked over his shoulder. “Who is that?” they asked. Aziraphale sighed. “I don’t know.”