| This story was my one-hit wonder. |
[Sep. 24th, 2007|11:08 am] |
Title: Survivors' Guilt
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: R (for simply being in the world, and more)
Notes: This story was written in the air between Boston and Houston, Houston and El Paso. In much the same way as the last ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) puzzlebleuink piece was dedicated to you the readership, this one is dedicated to ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) linnpuzzle for all her hard work as my collaborator. We're on hiatus at the moment, and I'd like to take the opportunity to thank her for the incredible, memorable experience of working with someone else. Flying solo (literally) is, in many ways, harder, lonelier work. Still, she deserves this break, and I know she has a taste for the historical.
Summary: The consequences of surviving immortality in one piece…
The Fall
It was a dark and stormy night, and nobody was enjoying it.
The ground, newly sodden, was so cold that it made Crawly's scales ache. If he hadn't been able to see in the darkness, he would've been done for. The streams had filled to overflowing, and he preferred to avoid being washed away. After all, he wasn't such a large snake, and he didn't like getting wet unless the sun was on hand to dry him.
Thunderstorms, as far as Crawly was concerned, were a bad move on His part.
Somewhere, far off in the forest, the humans were probably huddled under a convenient crag of rock, warming their hands and stretching their frozen limbs by the fire. Now, there was something he'd give anything for, except he couldn't find the angel anywhere, and even if he could, the angel had given the bloody sword away.
Bloody. Rather a good swear, Crawly thought.
In front of him, the grass felt damp, as opposed to outright sodden. Curiously, he flicked out his tongue, then glanced upward. Perhaps He had something of a sense of humor after all, and was inclined to put convenient rock crags in the Garden where there hadn't been rock crags before. Or maybe somebody else was more practical than Crawly had thought.
"Ssssomebody there?" he hissed, momentarily chilled by the echo of his own voice.
The rain pattered loudly, dripping off the leaves and long grass. Crawly slithered closer, shivering as he glided through a puddle. He paused for a moment, feeling the shape of it. It wasn't so much a puddle as a foot-sized indentation in the mud, and it was fresh.
"Hello?" he asked again.
"Go away," answered a familiar, miserable voice. "There's no room."
"I'm quite small, in case you'd forgotten," Crawly persisted. He edged closer to the overhang and found it even drier still. He smelled the burned-out remnants of a failed fire, and he could see a shape lying stretched out at the back of the cave, its wings stretched out long and pale behind it. "You won't even know I'm here."
"That's ridiculous," said the angel, intent upon facing the back wall. "I already know."
Gathering his courage, Crawly slipped inside, glad to be out of the storm whether he was welcome there or not. He shook himself as well as he could manage, rolling in the dust.
"What I mean is, you can pretend I'm not here," he explained, coiling himself tightly, much less wet than before, but still cold. "I'll be quiet, and then – "
"Somehow, I think being quiet isn't your strong suit," replied the angel, rolling over unexpectedly. As his wings collided with the ceiling, he winced, winching them in.
"Well, nobody's perfect," Crawly said reasonably, flicking his tongue out in the cool air. The angel smelled warm and clean, which seemed unfair, considering they had been squelching about in the same storm and lying about in the same dust.
"You least of all," said the angel with distaste, squinting at him. "Though I suppose you are awfully small, and you've up till now been very polite, so I suppose…"
"Thanksss," said Crawly, deadpan. "How touching."
"Now, there's no call for that," said the angel, warningly. "If you're going to up and get nasty, you can just forget – "
"Face it, angel," said Crawly, yawning so that his fangs were visible. "We're stranded."
The angel's pinched expression grew pained.
"No," he said in a tone much braver than he looked, "we're stationed."
"Really?" asked Crawly. "Where?"
"Er," said the angel, uncertainly. "Here. The Garden. Eden."
Crawly rolled his eyes.
"Why?"
"Well, the humans – "
"The humans got a one-way ticket out," Crawly reminded him. "Thanks to you."
"And you," said the angel, stiffly. "The point being?"
"We're not stationed in Eden anymore," Crawly said, certain of that if nothing else. "As long as there are no humans here, why should we stay?"
The angel blinked at him as if he hadn't given it any thought.
"I suppose not," he sighed, and lay down again, ruffling his wings.
Crawly shivered, feeling very alone. Restless, he uncoiled himself, instantly regretting it. He wasn't just cold anymore; he was freezing. He watched, enviously, as the angel shifted to get comfortable, folding his soft, warm-looking wings about himself.
Unthinking, Crawly sighed.
"It's your own fault," said the angel, tartly.
"What is?"
"That ridiculous skin you've got on. As bodies go, you could've chosen more wisely."
"I didn't get to choose," Crowley hissed, irritated.
"Oh, I'd say your choice is quite distinct."
"I didn't mean to," said Crawly, quietly. Pity was all he could hope for.
"Not everybody did," said the angel, unexpectedly. He rolled over, mindful of his wings this time, and peered at Crowley curiously. "They haven't taken anything from you, have they? Down There, I mean."
"What do you mean?"
"Abilities," explained the angel, propping his chin on his arms. "Powers. Talents. If they haven't stripped you of those, you could, I don't know, do something about…er." He paused, the guilty expression peeking out of its tent. "Not that I'm, ah, suggesting…"
Crawly closed his eyes and thought of what he could remember, and what he remembered was Heaven. He'd had wings, then, and limbs. He'd had eyes, too, and a face.
"Oh dear," said the angel, the words quick and tight.
Crawly stretched his limbs and opened his eyes, finding the angel crouched and wary, his torn and mud-stained robe nearly falling off his shoulders. He spread his wings and watched the angel's mouth drop open. It was even more satisfying than being dry.
"That's…not possible," whispered the angel, harshly.
"On the contrary, you told me it was," said Crawly, grinning. He tucked his tongue between his teeth, realizing he must've been fond enough of it to have kept a few of the original specifications. "Thanksss, angel."
"Don't call me that," snapped his companion – no. Adversary.
"What am I supposed to call you, then?"
"My name, in case you've forgotten, is Aziraphale."
"I had," said Crawly, indifferently, studying the cave. The roof was a lot closer than he remembered it, and he realized that it was actually quite a small space. If he reached out, he'd be able to touch Aziraphale's arm, or even the tip of his wing. Not that he wanted –
"What am I supposed to call you?" Aziraphale asked unexpectedly.
"I don't know," said Crawly. "I had a name. It was – "
Crawly froze.
"Yes?"
"I don't remember," Crawly whispered.
"Well, it seems to me you had a name back when we had our little chat – "
"That wasn't it," said Crawly, beginning to panic. "It's just what they dubbed me Down There. It's not as if I liked being called…called…"
"What was it, Crowley or some such?"
Crawly opened his mouth, then closed it, thinking for a moment.
"No," he said, turning the sound of what the angel had said over in his mind. "I mean…yes, that's it," he said, tentatively.
"It's not wretched, really," Aziraphale said, almost consoling. "I imagine there are worse names for a demon to have."
Demon. Coming from somebody who was still in with Upstairs, it was an insult.
"You're no gem yourself," he said sourly.
"One does one's best," said Aziraphale, huffily, and turned his back again. "So, serpent, if you would so kindly excuse me, I'd – "
"That's Crowley to you," he hissed, and turned his face to the storm.
The Flood
It hadn't been rainy for a number of days now, but Aziraphale's wings were soaked.
He knew how to swim, of course. All angels knew how to swim, and fly, and vanish, and any number of other actions that might be necessary for either transportation or survival purposes. At the moment, he was sitting on a piece of what had probably been somebody's house, feeling vaguely ill. It had something to do with the motion of the water, he was sure of it, and the fact that he couldn't seem to get warm even though the sun had shown up a few days ago and begun the process of drying things out.
As far as Aziraphale knew, no one but those poor souls in the ark had made it. Briefly, he thought of the serpent, Crowley, and all the trouble he'd stirred up. None of this would have happened, really, if not for that bas – sorry creature. He didn't just go wiping out entire planets for no reason at all. Crowley had gone around giving the humans ideas, and they'd gotten carried away, and before too long…
Out of the corner of his eye, about a mile off, he spotted a dark shape.
For a moment, Aziraphale felt a rush of relief. He had rather been hoping he wasn't alone in this mess, as it was quite a mess even by an angel's standards. Upstairs hadn't really thought it through well enough, in Aziraphale's opinion; he had no idea how they proposed to clean everything up once the waters decided to recede.
The shape had drifted closer, and it was waving.
Aziraphale sighed, recognizing the sharp-featured face and yellow eyes. He supposed that Crowley was probably feeling just as wet and alone as he was. Sometimes, you had to force a truce. Otherwise, nobody could get his job done properly.
"Hallo!" Crowley called, his hands cupped around his mouth even though Aziraphale would have heard him perfectly well without the amplification. "Is that you?"
"Yes!" shouted Aziraphale, attempting to stand up. "What are you doing here?" He wobbled back to his knees, nearly tipping the makeshift raft. By all appearances, Crowley's craft was very similar to Aziraphale's, only in worse condition.
"That's a stupid question, angel!"
"Don't call me that!"
"Why are we shouting?"
Aziraphale caught his breath, startled to realize he'd been breathing.
"I don't know," he said.
Across the distance, which was not so far, he watched Crowley break into a smile.
"Nice transport," Crowley said smugly.
"Not bad yourself," replied Aziraphale, guiltily.
"We could, you know, miracle some rope and lash these together," Crowley was saying, making excited gestures. "And then we could find a pole, and take our clothes and – "
"Rope will do," Aziraphale said hastily, reaching for the edge of Crowley's raft.
The Fools
Amidst the rubble, there was chaos.
Crowley covered his ears, but it didn't help. Everywhere he turned, there was another building that had been damaged by the tons of falling rock, another fire licking its smoky way into open daylight through jagged, crumbling bricks. None of this had even remotely been his idea, much less Hell's. He was beginning to wonder about people. Pushing his way through a frantic, terrified crowd of them, he cursed Heaven for going ahead with another of its quick fixes without considering the consequences.
Uncovering his ears, Crowley winced.
Cacophony. Nonsense. Wide-eyed, he tried to pull a single coherent thread from amidst all the wailing and shouting and couldn't. Think, he told himself. You're supposed to understand anything; it's built-in. Sit down, take a deep breath, and think. Crowley found an undamaged building and dashed behind it.
At his back, the stone wall was warm, and it felt good to sit down. Humans ran past, ignoring him in their panic. He heard a shriek to his left, a cry that stood out from the rest. Instead of grief or terror, it was the sheerest joy he'd ever heard.
"Mother! Mother, you're safe!"
"Leila, is that – here, oh, sweetling, I'm here – "
Crowley took another deep breath. One down, two thousand to go. He sat perfectly still for what seemed like hours, uncomfortable with the hammering of his heart, listening with horrified fascination as voices linked and matched themselves, carving words from noise.
He hardly noticed when a shadow fell across him. He'd closed his eyes, because he hardly needed them. The world was sounding itself out again, and all he could do was wait for –
"Crowley?" The voice was tired, ragged, and scared. But it was familiar.
Crowley opened his eyes and unclenched his hands, glancing up.
"Aziraphale. What in Go – the bloody h – er. Fancy meeting you here."
The angel looked relieved enough to cry.
"You understand me."
"Apparently," said Crowley, folding his arms across his chest.
"You understand me."
"Yes, I thought we'd established tha – "
The blow caught Crowley full force across the mouth. Around the throbbing, he tasted blood, and spat. Aziraphale was crouching in front of him, half angry and half remorseful.
"It's nothing less than you deserve."
"Didn't do it," Crowley muttered, plucking his tooth from the ground with fascination.
"Do you honestly expect me to believe that?" Aziraphale asked, glaring.
"No," said Crowley, blowing the sand off his tooth. He shoved it back into place, wincing, then ran his tongue over it a few times until the throbbing stopped.
Aziraphale looked miserable.
"There's nothing about this in the Plans," Aziraphale was saying, wringing his hands nervously. "I had no idea this was coming, they just don't tell you when – "
"Come on," Crowley said, scrambling to his feet, offering Aziraphale his hand.
The angel eyed him suspiciously.
"Where are we going?"
"To find a tavern that's not smashed, and get smashed."
"Oh," said Aziraphale, blinking at Crowley's hand, and took it.
Several ruined blocks later, Crowley had to remind himself to let go.
The Fire
The air was approximately the color of sludge, and completely unbreathable.
Aziraphale beat his wings against the ash, eyes closed, pressing on blindly. The sky had the heat of a furnace, and he felt as if he'd been flying for hours. He'd been minding his own business in Petro's salon, chatting with the slave girl who'd been working on his nails, and suddenly there'd been the explosion – and heat, and crumbling chaos.
Somewhere ahead of him, there was wind, and it smelled strongly of salt.
He'd settled on the city because it had been one of the more charming places he'd so far come across in the world, and the climate was usually quite agreeable. He'd always wanted to live on the sea, none of that sorry land-locked business he'd put up with for so long. The continent, he had found, was a bit uncivilized and uninhabitable unless you wanted to put up with outlandish folk who fought nonstop amongst themselves and couldn't make a decent dessert to save their lives. Things were better in the south, in the peninsulas. People had latched onto the concept of culture, and, oh, the wine.
Aziraphale desperately wanted some.
Below him and around him, the ash was clearing into some semblance of a cloudy atmosphere. The sea shimmered dully through the mist, catching what little sunlight it could. Aziraphale thought of glancing over his shoulder, then thought better of it. That kind of thing could only get you in trouble, especially if this was Heaven's doing. Somehow, he hoped it wasn't: the people hadn't done anything. He'd liked them.
Scanning the shoreline, Aziraphale looked for a place to touch down. There wasn't much chance of being seen, he reasoned, as an eruption of that magnitude wasn't likely to leave anybody behind to watch. Maybe some fishermen, though he couldn't see any.
From the ground, nothing was visible for miles except the thick, acrid wall of ash. Aziraphale sat down in the sand, exhausted, and stretched his wings. He fanned his fingers, frowning; only half of his fingers had been clipped, and the rest were quite the worse for wear. Absently, he bit his thumbnail, wondering if anyone had made it.
He'd half expected the hand on his shoulder, though it didn't stay.
"Looks like you got off easy," Crowley said, then coughed.
Aziraphale turned to look at him, momentarily shocked by what he saw. Crowley's hair and clothes were badly singed, and there was ash on him from forehead to ankles. He looked ready to keel over, or scream, or possibly both. Aziraphale hurried to his feet.
"Crowley, what on earth – "
"Ever have a burning building fall on you?"
"Well, no, I managed to…" Aziraphale trailed off, glancing away. "No," he added, quietly. "It can't have been pleasant," he amended, reaching to pat Crowley's arm.
Crowley flinched away, staggering, and plopped into the sand as if he'd meant to.
"I'm getting tired of this, you know," he said, accusingly.
"It wasn't my fault!" Aziraphale cried. "Those people, they'd done nothing to deserve – "
"I know," said Crowley, his voice flat.
For long moments, Aziraphale hovered beside him, uncertain of what to do. Crowley ignored him, resting his arms on his knees, staring blankly out to sea. Hesitantly, Aziraphale turned his back and began to walk, following the tide.
He wondered if Crowley had loved Pompeii, too.
The Fiddle
The palace, like the rest of the city, was in flames.
Crowley stared out his window, vaguely interested. If time had taught him anything, it was that you shouldn't get too attached. Civilizations rose, empires fell. Rome was no exception, neither the city, nor the empire. He stayed around for the entertainment, mostly. They threw fantastic parties, and every other emperor turned out to be a lunatic.
Downstairs, there was a commotion. He'd never bothered with well-mannered servants and slaves, as the more docile sort just weren't that interesting to have around. What he did expect them to take seriously, however, was the keeping of his grounds and his property, and the commotion pointed stridently to an intruder.
Crowley turned from the window, finding a terrified, trembling girl at his feet.
"Sir, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but he wouldn't – "
"No, I don't imagine he would," said Crowley, tapping the top of her head. "Get up. Now, there's a good girl. Tell Ninus to see him up, would you?"
"Yes, sir," gulped the maid, and fled.
Ninus looked somewhat irritated to be showing in a guest when anybody with a shred of sanity left should be fleeing for his life, but the villa hadn't caught fire yet, and it wouldn't. Not that Ninus knew that, and Crowley wasn't inclined to tell him. Free will and all that; he was sure he'd lose most of his staff by morning, but the ones that chose to stay would be rewarded for their trouble. Aziraphale looked not so much irritated as weary.
"Not ours," he said, collapsing into the nearest chair before Ninus could show him to it.
"Not ours, either," said Crowley, not particularly caring what the servant might make of what he'd heard. "Ninus, might I trouble you for some wine?"
"Sir," he said, dully, and stalked out.
Aziraphale watched him leave, then looked at Crowley. He seemed to have gotten out of wherever he'd been staying without much damage, except his hair, usually arranged in careful, artful waves, was in the worst state Crowley had ever seen.
"I've got it figured out," Crowley explained, taking the chair across the table from Aziraphale, careful not to sit on his toga the wrong way. "The buggers do it themselves."
"That's the only explanation this time around, I'm sure," said Aziraphale, glancing out the window. "Goodness, but you do have an excellent view."
"I told you," Crowley said, gesturing for Ninus to quit dawdling in the doorway and pour the bloody wine already. "But you always insist on not visiting."
"I'm visiting now," replied Aziraphale, mildly offended.
"Yes, but it's taken the city going up in flames, hasn't it?" Crowley asked, cradling his glass.
Aziraphale watched Ninus pour him some wine, thanked him, and sent him away.
"I'm homeless," said the angel, wretchedly, and took a lengthy gulp.
"The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away."
"I thought you said they do it themselves."
"They do, see, but I thought you'd appreciate that."
"Oh, as if you cared," said Aziraphale, tartly, into his glass.
"You're my guest," said Crowley, taking a sip of wine. "I ought to at least make an effort at pretending."
"Bugger that," muttered the angel, tilting his glass upside-down.
"If you want," said Crowley. "I've heard that some of the stable-hands are awfully good."
Aziraphale set the glass down forcefully on the table, glaring at him.
"Or not," said Crowley, cheerfully, raising his glass. "Cheers."
From across the city, a single, stringed note pierced the smoke, then faded into dawn.
The Flowers
It was becoming clear that the fourteenth century was not a good time to be alive.
As for being immortal, well, there wasn't much Aziraphale could do about that.
The plague had arrived with unaccountable suddenness, which made him certain that Crowley didn't have anything to do with it. Crowley tended to take his time, toy with things, ease his way in. The sickness – blue fever, they called it – was thorough and ruthless in ways that Crowley could only ever hope to be, and Aziraphale wasn't even sure that Crowley was capable of hoping such a thing, especially not since they'd arrived at their Arrangement. It had been a few hundred years now, and things were going well. He'd always suspected there was a bit of good left in Crowley.
At the moment, Aziraphale was standing in a deserted church, staring down at the body of the priest. He'd done all he could, and so had the young lady who had fled, quickly, with the companions that had finally come for her. There was not a soul left alive in all the town, and soon, forces well out of Aziraphale's jurisdiction would take over.
Still, it was horrifying to find oneself alone with only a corpse for company.
Quietly, the church doors creaked open.
"Before you say anything," Aziraphale sighed, stepping away from the priest's body, turning to face Crowley, "you ought to know that what happened here was – "
"A failed attempt at saving somebody's life," Crowley said, standing completely still, peering over Aziraphale's shoulder at the altar. "Hangs on the place. It brought me in."
Aziraphale nodded, wondering why it hadn't occurred to him that Crowley might otherwise have had difficulty entering a church. It wouldn't have been impossible, he supposed, but difficult and highly unpleasant all the same.
"It didn't feel right to leave him just yet," he sighed, staring at the priest.
Crowley stepped up beside him, radiating faint nervousness.
"Not ours to deal with," Crowley said, his voice rough.
"My dear, have you let yourself catch cold?"
"No," muttered Crowley, covering his nose with his sleeve. "Don't call me that."
"Sorry," said Aziraphale, watching his breath steam in the freezing air. "Still, I – "
Crowley sneezed.
"I think perhaps you ought to get out," Aziraphale said, taking him by the arm.
Crowley threw him off, wiping his nose, then his eyes.
"You bloody bastard," he muttered, not fighting when Aziraphale took hold of him again, "didn't warn…"
"No," said Aziraphale, sadly, turning to lead him out. "There's never a warning on sacrifice."
The Forge
Crowley couldn't remember where he was, but he knew the wine was good.
He also knew he'd been at the same table for approximately three days. The chap who owned the cantina was perfectly happy to keep the drinks flowing as long as Crowley could remember where his purse was (and to refill it with gold from time to time).
Crowley also knew he'd seen a number of things in very, very dark dungeons and towers that had made his stomach churn for the first time since that unfortunate construction accident he'd witnessed at Giza. Good excuse to get out of Egypt, he'd figured, hazardous to your body's existence. Alcohol was just as hazardous, he supposed, but only if you didn't clear a bit of it out every once in a while. He'd been just this side of plastered for forty-eight hours, and he intended to see if he could set a record.
Anything, anything, to forget.
The tabletop wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't giving Crowley splinters yet, so he'd keep his head down between drinks and hope that nobody got it into their head to haul him out and leave him in the street. He hoped the barkeep would tell them he was a paying customer. Sometimes, there was a lot of noise, and often, it made his head ache.
After a while, he realized that closing his eyes was a bad idea.
Crowley shivered, wondering why he hadn't bothered to bring a cloak.
As if in answer, somebody placed something warm and heavy across his shoulders, wrapping it carefully around to his front. Crowley let his head loll back against the nearest shoulder of whoever was covering him, because clearly this person was a dear, selfless soul and wouldn't mind him being sick and selfish.
"'Mgonnapuke," Crowley said.
"I daresay you are," said Aziraphale, and pressed a hand over Crowley's stomach.
For a few seconds, the nausea flared even worse than before. Helplessly, Crowley whimpered. He tried to squirm out of Aziraphale's embrace, but he was trapped.
"You oughtn't carry on so," Aziraphale murmured, stroking his hair.
Next, there was an empty, pleasant warmth in his belly, and the sensation of being lifted.
Crowley woke up with a fuzzy taste in his mouth. Also, it felt as if somebody had put a lead weight in his head while he was sleeping. He flailed at the bedclothes, panicked, and found himself sitting in the middle of a passable mattress in one of the rooms above the cantina. Aziraphale was sitting in one of the chairs in the corner, unconcernedly sipping wine from one of the cantina's best mugs. He smiled.
"Do you know, I thought for a while there that I had lost you?"
"Bloody nonsense," Crowley muttered, burrowing back under the covers. He might throw up yet.
"Really, my dear, there's no need for that."
Crowley wanted to protest, but his tongue wasn't up to it. He groaned pitifully.
"Now, would you like to tell me what brought this on?"
"No," Crowley muttered, eyes open wide. He needed more wine.
The mattress dipped beside him, and Aziraphale's hand slipped gently through his hair. It caught some tangles on the way, which only made Crowley's headache worse, but it was better than letting the nightmares come back. Only they hadn't been nightmares.
"People," Crowley announced to the pillow, "are sick fucks."
"Very," Aziraphale agreed soberly, and kept stroking Crowley's hair.
Soon, dreamless, Crowley slept.
The French
Some things never changed, first and foremost among them that the Franks would always be a pack of wild barbarians no matter how many perfumes or exquisite entrees they invented. Aziraphale told Crowley this over the platter of hors d'oeuvres they'd been sharing for the past half an hour.
Crowley disagreed.
"Nono, see," he said, swirling his wine around in the fine crystal glass, "they've become a lot more civilized about the whole thing. I mean, can you imagine them using guillotines as far back as Charlemagne?"
"No," said Aziraphale, choosing what looked like a miniature quiche off the tray, "because they didn't."
"Well? See?" asked Crowley, gesturing with his glass, splashing wine on the linen tablecloth. "'S what I mean, exactly."
Aziraphale chewed on a bite of the quiche-pastry, wondering if he ought to just stop while he was ahead. Unfortunately, Crowley didn't think so.
"I mean," continued the demon, directing the string quartet for a moment with his fork, "when was the last time you saw 'em do something really atrocious, eh?"
"This afternoon," replied Aziraphale, truthfully. He wondered how the same fellow who'd taken one look at thumb screws and needed a night-light could be so blasé about beheadings.
He asked Crowley, figuring that they were both drunk enough, and also recovered enough. The fourteenth century had been sedate even by Aziraphale's standards, except for that Chaucer scoundrel throwing the manuscript trade for a loop.
Crowley grew still, as if thinking it over.
"There's less screaming," he said, finally, eyes fixed on his glass, "and no hot pokers."
That night, they shared a suite in the hotel. While Crowley sprawled on the bed, Aziraphale read by candlelight and thought that perhaps they ought to return to England.
A bit of civilization would do Crowley a world of good.
The Fallout
If there was anything that Crowley hated about modern life, it was the way that people went to war all the time. It was overrated, for one, and furthermore, it was hell on the availability of luxury goods. He could only miracle himself so many five-course dinners before Aziraphale got tetchy. At least he didn't have to buy petrol.
The bombings, of course, put a damper on everything.
For efficiency's sake, they were sharing a flat. Crowley was sure that would have to change as soon as the war was over and decent accommodations were readily available. Aziraphale's nocturnal habits were atrocious: knocking about in the kitchenette at odd hours, all because he refused to miracle himself a cup of tea. And then there were the books, which took up too much space and collected dust like nobody's business.
At least Crowley didn't have to share the bed.
Just before dawn, a siren tore the sky from end to end.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale hissed, shaking Crowley roughly. "Crowley!"
"Do you honestly think," Crowley said, shaking him off and rolling out of bed, "That I could sleep through this?"
"It wouldn't be the first time," Aziraphale muttered, then shook himself and took hold of Crowley's arm again. "Look," he said, loudly enough to be heard over the siren, "we've got to get out!"
Crowley glowered at the window, which shattered in a sudden burst of smoke and foundation-rocking thunder. The explosion threw them both to the floor, settling a fine layer of dust on their clothes before erupting again a few streets over.
Crowley seized Aziraphale by the shoulders and hauled him toward the door.
"Run!"
The stairwell was, miraculously, unharmed, and the front door was likewise unobstructed. They staggered out into the morning, which was wan and already thick with smoke. The wailing sirens had multiplied, and the pavement was filled with screaming, frightened people.
"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, "we have to do – "
"We have," insisted Crowley, taking him firmly by the wrist, "to get out of here."
The Bentley was parked exactly where Crowley had left it, though one of the headlights and part of the hood had suffered severe injuries as a result of falling debris. Crowley ignored the damage with all his strength and shoved Aziraphale through the passenger door, which opened at a thought.
"Crowley," Aziraphale breathed, one hand pressed flat against the window as Crowley threw the car into gear and tore into the street, which was more or less clear because it had no other option. Crowley kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, avoiding pedestrians as best he could.
He hadn't felt like this since Pompeii.
The Failure
It was a dark and humid night, and somewhere between Tadfield and London, a warm, gentle rain had begun to fall.
"Bloody things," Crowley said, tapping on the windshield when he stopped at the next traffic signal. "They'll need to be replaced. I can't see a thing."
In the background, Handel's Water Music played serenely, and Aziraphale found the Jeep's air conditioning quite pleasant.
"It'll never be the same," moaned Crowley, thumping the steering wheel. "I'll never get used to this." As the signal turned, Crowley let off the brakes and screeched through the intersection.
"You missed the turn," Aziraphale said mildly.
"Oh, for Go – for Sa – deal with it," said Crowley, exasperated. "We've shared a flat before. You can bloody well cope for one night."
"That's very kind of you," Aziraphale said, giving Crowley a sidelong glance. The demon was pointedly not looking at him.
"Has nothing to do with it."
"On the contrary, I think it has everything to do with it. I've known you for long enough to know that you're a real gem when you put your mind to it."
In the rearview mirror, Aziraphale saw Crowley bite his lip.
"A real gem, is it."
They rode the rest of the way in silence, except for the rain pattering counterpoint to Handel. Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap and glanced out the window. He felt a peace on the sleeping city that he hadn't felt for the longest time.
"Crowley?"
"Hmm."
Aziraphale waited until he came to a stop at the next signal, then cautiously laid his hand on Crowley's arm.
"I'm very proud, you know," he said, feeling a breath catch in his throat, "of what you did out there tonight."
Crowley tensed, and the traffic light, which had been about to change, froze.
"What," he asked, hesitant, his eyes fixed straight ahead, "are you playing at, exactly?"
Aziraphale let the breath escape, then drew it back in again, terrified. He kept his hold on Crowley firm.
"I know that you loved Pompeii," he pressed on, involuntarily squeezing Crowley's arm, "and I know – "
Crowley turned his head abruptly, and Aziraphale saw that his eyes, behind the sunglasses, were glazed with something quite close to unshed tears.
"Tell the whole blessed world, why don't you," he whispered, but this time there was no sarcasm in it. He bit his lip again, as if waiting.
With a solemn nod, Aziraphale reached for Crowley's left hand and pried it loose from the steering wheel. Slowly, he brought it up to meet his lips.
"I will," said Aziraphale, kissing Crowley's knuckles, "and I have."
It was a dark and rainy night, but he had the feeling that they were going to enjoy it. |
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