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This is the last time Aziraphale is ever going to a zoo. Scratch that, he’s never going to Africa or Asia ever again. Or anywhere that might have such savage beasts as this one.
When Gabriel had given him this “important” American assignment, the angel was thinking more along the lines of a battle similar to the ones during the civil war, or pollution ravaging havoc in one of the main cities, NOT Elenor the Giraffe needing a blessing while giving birth in a small North Carolina zoo.
But of course, Aziraphale could never say no, so here he was, standing behind a rickety wooden fence with the rest of the awe-struck and quite truthfully, horrified, spectators. Cameras were flashing, news-reporters tried to shout over the chaos, and Aziraphale wanted nothing but to tour the local history museum and see if he could glimpse and possibly buy a records collection or two.
The birthing that Giraffes went through was one of the rougher ones for the infants; the poor things had to wake up to a world where they fell from a terrifying height (for a baby) and were forced to instantly stand up tall and survive. Human births may be the most painful, but at least the child wasn’t instantly expected to enter the world and land on their feet.
“It’s coming! It’s coming!” Echoed above the rest of the chatter from a frantic lady in the front, a microphone clenched tightly in her hands. She had turned around, back to the scene, facing a man holding a large video camera. Aziraphale forced himself out of his thoughts of a certain demon that would surely enjoy the chaos of it all and watched on as local veterinarians rushed around; his cue was coming.
Aziraphale had casual interest while witnessing the small baby poking its way into the world. He was still amazed by the process of creating life and the complexities of it which god had created, but after six millenia, even he had worn thin on viewing it.
Between one moment and the next, the baby was out and falling to the hay-strewn ground. Blood gushed from the mother, far more than what should be normal. The veterinarians, focused on the wriggling lump on the hay, did not notice. He didn’t blame them, they were only a small local group that was far out of their depth.
Elenor started wavering, knees close to buckling. In typical circumstances, Aziraphale would have made a complete history and story (with records) on how he was an exotic veterinarian coming in to help. But quite frankly it was only 15 years until Armeggedan and he had more important things on his mind than a Giraffe (god bless all creatures big and small).
His short fuse in the past handful of months was in no way correlated with the most recent fight he had with Crowley (though it seems these days there’s always some kind of fight between them). Not at all. The angel just didn’t like being in America.
Pushing all thoughts of a certain red-head aside and forcing white-blond curls to fall forward while he bowed his head, Aziraphale focused a miracle in the direction of the trembling mother. It was meant to soothe and heal the small gash within her womb. Such a small - though life-threatening - injury didn’t even require the angel to touch the afflicted, he just needed to be in close proximity.
As soon as it came, the moment went and the mother found herself miraculously steady and strong, glory to god.
The well-dressed blonde didn’t stay to witness the celebration or converse with the grateful mother, he had much better places to be. Like a local history museum and if all goes well, London by tomorrow evening. Like he had been told in what seemed like the past three millenia, Aziraphale was not permitted to spend frivolous miracles on things that could be done the ‘human’ way. The quickest flight he could manage to procure was tomorrow morning.
Maybe he’d even convince Crowley to talk to him - as the years wear on, (and the tension increases from inevitable Armeggedan) Aziraphale finds himself becoming bolder when seeking out his demon counterpart.
There’s no way Crowley would deny an invitation to this sleazy local pub Aziraphale had found. It reeked of sin, he’s confident Crowley will hate (love) every second of it.
“Watch out!” Someone shouted and Aziraphale whirled around, brow drawn together in confusion.
One of the zookeepers was sprinting towards him, pure panic on his features as his eyes flitted between Aziraphale and a scurrying creature.
This is when Azirphale noticed it; a monkey was running across the railing, the same railing Aziraphale was standing right next to.
He didn’t even get a chance to run or at the very least, move slightly out of the way.
The monkey pounced and landed right on Aziraphale’s face. The angel shouted in shock and started grabbing at the furry back. The monkey was screaming bloody murder in common animal tongue, he could barely make out it’s unsavory language; “I’ll be fucking free if it’s the last damned thing I do!”
If today had been a normal day, Aziraphale would’ve touted and asked the monkey to ‘please censor yourself, sir!’ It was not a normal day.
Aziraphale’s dignity sauntered vaguely downwards into the deepest pits of hell as he screamed back and whirled in circles, wincing in pain as claws scoured across his cheeks and ears.
Somehow the angel had managed to keep his eyes open, staring straight into the manic eyes of a caged monkey. Something glinted to his right and he focused his sight to follow the glare, they widened only a second later when it took in the butter knife held between the monkey’s paw (and doesn’t that sound familiar- the angel had helped him write it, after all).
“Don’t!” Is all he managed to gasp out.
The anger in the air was palpable and either the furry menace didn’t hear or didn’t care. The knife was jerked back and in a blink, it rocked forward; Aziraphale closed his eyes and threw a frantic miracle at the object.
The metal melted like butter (ha), becoming a gooey dripping mess as it slipped between the monkey’s fingers.
The monkey was so astonished by the phenomenon that they didn’t even put up a fight as the zookeeper yanked them from Aziraphale’s face and started shoving the crazed creature into a cage another zookeeper had rushed over with.
Aziraphale battled for a semblance of control and jutted his chin upwards, trying to straighten out his lapel as if nothing had happened.
Oh, that’s just splendid - a large group of spectators had gathered around. The angel felt himself shrink, chin quickly tucked back in, more embarrassed than hurt. At least 20 humans had just witnessed an angel of the lord get viciously mauled by a monkey.
He could also spot two medics rushing towards him between the crowds of people, a spine board between them. The angel was hit with the realization that the darned museum did not matter and he also didn’t particularly care about “unnecessary” miracles. If asked, he’d find a way to explain just how necessary they were.
One snap of the fingers guaranteed the onlookers had no idea why they started forming a circle nor what attracted their attention in the first place. Another snap and the medics were turning around, scratching their heads as to why they had been dispatched. The third snap sapped any remaining energy from the angel but was considerably worth it.
The bookshop was welcoming and cozy, its aura kindly wrapping around him as he collapsed onto the worn, but familiar armchair.
While he wanted nothing more than to sit there and stare into the middle distance while his grace recuperated, Aziraphale was never one to shirk his duties. He hauled himself up, taking a deep and reassuring breath; whether it was needed or not did not matter.
His trusty rotary phone sat there innocently; without pausing and allowing doubt to creep up and linger, the angel started dialing the well used and familiar number.
One ring, two. Three and four. “This is Anthony Crowley, you know what to do. Do it with style.”
“Crowley! I found this wonderful pub just outside of Soho. When would you want to take a look at it?”
No response. The demon hadn’t picked up the phone… he always picks up the phone for Aziraphale.
Letting out a long suffering sigh, he continues, “I just got back from America and well, things didn’t go strictly to plan.”
Click. “What do you mean, ‘they didn’t go according to plan’?” Asked the gruff voice of Crowley, though Aziraphale had known him long enough to pick out the hints of worry.
“Well…” The angel hesitated, he was still quite embarrassed by the whole mishap. “It’s nothing that risks discorporation, let me tell you over lunch?” He couldn’t help the small lilt of hope in his voice.
The pause lasted longer than Aziraphale liked and his shoulders drooped lower and lower. He wondered if Crowley had actually hung up the phone, until “Sure. Be ready tomorrow at noon.”
“Of course, dear boy!”
Though Crowley would surely never let him hear the end of it, Aziraphale was happy to sacrifice endless teasing if it meant he could have lunch with his favorite adversary once more.
He’d also enjoy the fountain of pleasant feelings that erupted from his chest when Crowley screeched, “What happened to your face, angel!?”
It seemed the frivolous miracle usage rule finally came in handy.