A new day has come.
To be honest, it was almost no different in appearance from those that had come before it. Angel has already seen all sorts of days and even noticed a certain trend but nevertheless, it was a special day. The first day free from orders from above in his very long life. And Aziraphale didn't know what to do with it. The point was this: when his main task was to serve the Light, all other things, big or small, were seen not as an end in themselves, but as a way to pass the time until the unconditional victory of Good over Evil. Now no unconditional victory was expected in the near future (through his and Crowley's efforts), and it turned out to be uncomfortable for an angel sitting over a cooled cocoa in the company of a rare publication to live without a global goal.

Actually, in the evening, after a pleasant dinner with the demon, he started cataloging all those books that had not been in the store before (among them were comics donated by Adam) and now, putting aside another volume, he suddenly felt this: disarmingly acute freedom. Not as dangerous as the night after the end of the world did not happen, when he and Crowley were returning from Tadfield to London, and not as easy as after returning to their bodies. One that made him want to spread his wings, although Aziraphale wasn't sure that this gesture wouldn't be noticed by someone if he decided to unfurl the feathers right at the shelves.
And at the same time, something was missing.

He'd read enough books to know what was going on: stories always ended after the characters dealt with the threat looming over them. This is what freedom means - the plot is completed, the goals are achieved, the champagne is drunk, dessert is eaten (the thought of the airy Pavlova that finished yesterday's dinner could not please Aziraphale, although it left a pleasant aftertaste). And these newfangled "films" that partially replaced the theater; what happens after the credits, except the lights turn on and the audience is asked to leave the hall?
Angel felt a surge of longing, as strong as freedom had felt before. It was necessary to discuss the situation, and away from both the bookstore and the demon's apartment, which were still technically the residences of Heaven and Hell. And wings, yes, where they could maybe even fly.

Aziraphale pulled the phone towards him and dialed a familiar number. He waited for the beeps to ring and even heard the beginning of the answering machine phrase before Crowley himself picked up the phone.
Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief at first, and only then thought that he definitely would not be able to share his feelings like this, through a human toy that distorts the voice.
"Good morning," he tried to sound cheerful, but he felt some falseness in his voice, "Aren't you too busy today, my dear? Maybe we are..."
Angel almost fell silent, but finished the sentence,
"...could go on a picnic? Somewhere away from the city?"
A couple of days ago, Aziraphale would have considered this too abrupt a step for himself; usually, invitations, as well as temptations, were handled by Crowley. But everything that happened to them over the past week, and how it ended, was extremely unusual.
"Do you mind?" Angel nervously twisted the wire around his finger, waiting for an answer.

Aziraphale blinked in confusion and instinctively nodded in response to the question, momentarily forgetting that a phone transmits nothing but sound. But the angel quickly recovered, gently reassuring his companion, "Yes, of course, the food will be... just food." He then added, with a soft touch of nostalgia, teasing Crowley’s old role as the Edenic serpent, "Though I doubt apples can ever be just apples when you're around."

Not that Aziraphale minded pears either. He quickly jotted down notes in the small notebook he always kept by the phone, making sure to include the sandwiches and pie. The angel always took note of the details, even though his supernatural memory ensured he'd never forget anything important.

"It'll be easier if you pick me up by the shop," he said, his tone already slightly more distracted as his mind wandered to the preparations ahead. He didn’t bother with farewells, accustomed to Crowley ending their conversations before Aziraphale had the chance to offer anything remotely blessing-like, such as a “Good luck” or a “Godspeed.”

The angel took a little longer to get ready: after all, he had made everything by hand—except for the pie, which he reluctantly found from a nearby bakery, using a small miracle with a sigh. Of course, Gabriel wouldn’t swoop in anymore to reprimand him for it, but old anxieties still clung to Aziraphale, his mind tied to the familiar ritual of weighing every step, just in case someone should come asking.
Fruit salad was chopped, a variety of sandwiches assembled, and a light wine chosen to match the occasion.

Regardless, he was ready on time, and stepped out with the prepared picnic basket just as the familiar, comforting purr of the Bentley approached. The angel tilted his head, glancing around with mild concern as if searching for the subtle unnaturalness Crowley was talking about. But in the heart of Soho, all was peaceful.
"Good morning, Crowley," Aziraphale began with his usual formality. "I would hope that the bloom after a crisis is perfectly natural," he remarked, satisfied with his observations as he lifted the basket. To emphasize his point, he gifted the day with one of his most genuine and reassuring smiles.

"Where are we headed?" he asked, his tone still artificially cheerful as he settled into the passenger seat. But his gaze grew more pensive as the moments passed. In truth, Aziraphale hadn’t quite figured out how to put into words the subtle thing he felt was missing from the current calm, despite the blossoming nature and the fair weather that had followed the recent storm.