Chapter Text
Discipline had never been one of Aziraphale’s strong suits. For a being so staunchly and vocally pro-Ineffable-Plan, he had shown a remarkable lack of restraint, both in giving (flaming sword, anyone?) and in taking (because it takes a special kind of idiot to risk discorporation-by-guillotine in the pursuit of some half-decent crêpes), over the past six millennia. And that was with the constant threat of Big Brother watching him.
Once he’d severed all contact with Heaven? All bets were off.
And it was delicious, at first. All the things he’d (barely) held back from—the books he wasn’t supposed to hoard, the food he wasn’t supposed to enjoy, the demon he wasn’t supposed to love—were suddenly off-off-limits! Without any Heavenly obligations to take care of, or demonic wiles to thwart, he could spend an entire month pouring over a particularly interesting volume of prophecy. He could perform miracle upon frivolous miracle without the threat of being reprimanded. Hell, he could take three meals a day at the Ritz with Crowley at his side, if he so chose, and often he did. He did all of these things, and more, on what was becoming a regular basis.
But...well, truth be told, it was all beginning to become a bit…
Boring.
In the beginning, there was darkness.
Until Lindsay’s alarm went off, that is. The beeping caused her to roll over, let out a few expletives, and turn on the light. Which in turn caused you to roll over and curse, rubbing your eyes, because honestly, “Whose idea was it to have us wake up at two in the morning on our day off?”
“Seven, (Y/N). Seven thirty.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to my circadian rhythm,” you grumbled, pulling the thin hostel sheet back over your head and snuggling down into your pillow. “I’m going back to bed.”
“No, you’re fucking not. ” You very nearly let out a hiss as your covers were yanked off you, presumably to the floor. “We did not spend seven hours sleeping on a stupid plane just for you to sleep the day away in London.”
“You were able to sleep on that thing?”
You could practically hear the eye roll that preceded her next statement. “If you really want, you can sleep through the guided tour tomorrow.” She flipped on the main ceiling lamp, and a ball of fabric slapped you in the face before she continued, “But today , you are getting your ass down from that bunk bed so we can wander around without a chaperone breathing down our necks.”
It took a few blinks and nose scrunches before you could make out that the wad of fabric she’d hurled at you was, in fact, an outfit she must have grabbed at random from your suitcase. “Mmph, I’m nauseous . I need more sleep.”
“Sleep later. Adventure now,” she called over her shoulder as she headed out the room, presumably to the bathroom down the hall.
You sighed. If she came back and you still weren’t up, there was a solid chance she’d scramble up the ladder and drag you down herself. That’s what happened when you were friends with someone since preschool—a certain familiarity that could come across as vicious to a third-party observer. You liked it, though. Twenty years was long enough for you to have figured out that you weren’t really good friends with someone if you couldn’t be a little mean to them once in a while.
Once you got your feet on the ground, ten minutes was all it took to dress, brush your teeth, sunscreen up, and triple check that you had your phone with you (even here, in a foreign country where you had no service and limited WiFi, the device was the most important thing you’d brought, because it had a convenient little pocket on the back of its case where you kept your debit card and IDs and such), before you linked arms with Lindsay and headed out.
The trip hadn’t been your idea. You hadn’t even had to pay for it—one of the perks of being on a scholarship. Tomorrow you’d dive headfirst into the schedule for the official study-abroad program you were here on, classes and guided tours and sightseeing; all the awful, tourist-y things you despised.
But today? Today was your first full day in the country, and the only one you had entirely at your disposal. Once you’d gotten some caffeine and a mimosa in your system, you couldn’t help but feel a bit grateful towards Lindsay for getting you up and out. You were grateful throughout all of brunch (thank Heavens for the lower drinking age), and for the first two hours of shopping (unlike you, Lindsay had actually done her homework on which clothing stores she was interested in visiting, so you mostly followed her around wherever struck her fancy).
By hour three, you were a little clothed-out, and just the tiniest bit over trying on things in tiny dressing rooms with unflattering lighting.
By hour three-and-a-half, you needed some fresh air. And some alone time.
“Ready to check out? The line’s long but if you’re not done I can—”
You shook your head, hanging the few items you’d tried on back on the racks. “S’okay, I don’t think I’m getting anything here. Would you be okay if I wandered off on my own for a while?”
She furrowed her brow. “Do you know where the hostel is from here?” You nodded, and immediately her face relaxed. Slightly. “Okay. Promise you’ll be careful? And not go too far?”
You rolled your eyes. At a year older than you, Lindsay could get a bit overprotective from time to time. Luckily for both of you, you found it endearing, rather than annoying. Most of the time. “I’m a big girl, Linds. I’ll be fine.” You stuck out a pinky, faux-seriously.
She hooked her finger around yours, smiling. “Okay, okay.”
“See you later?”
She nodded. “There’s a used bookstore about a block down that way, I think. We passed it on our way here. Seemed like your kind of thing.” She shrugged. “Might be a good place to start.”