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lemonfruitpie!
Dec. 19th, 2010 11:50 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeTitle: Of Blessings and Wishes
For:lemonfruitpie
From:kaoro
Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~3.600
Summary: Crowley discovers humans aren’t worthy of his attention span and leaves to find a proper companion. Sadly, his companion enjoys other people's presence too
Prompt: Crowley/Aziraphale. Pre-Arrangment Crowley pretends to be Aziraphale's friend and Aziraphale tries to accept him. Then, much to his surprise, Crowley gets jealous of Aziraphale's other friends. He vies for Aziraphale's attention, but the angel refuses to pay attention to his childish behavior and doesn't comment on it until something un-ignorable happens. I'd like a bitter Crowley who is learning to trust others with a stern yet compassionate Aziraphale. UST and/or friendship fic preferred. G-R (for violence) rating. Can be somewhat dark but please end on a "good" note (e.g. a budding true friendship, etc.).
Author Notes: I’d like to apologize to the gifted, as it is not exactly pre-Arrangement the way I think she/he wanted it to be é_è. It's more like "Pre-the arrangement as we know it now". It's an arrangement pre-Arrangement. If I make any sense. I hope you’ll still like it !
The woman’s eyes shone bright as she spoke. Her pearl bracelet quivered around her wrist, moving alluringly up and down with the enthusiastic motions of her arm. She tilted her head, paused to fan herself, half-lidded doe eyes looking up at him from behind the fluffy feathers. Her cheeks were red with excitement and, lower, the ripples that carried through the silk of her skirt betrayed the shake of her thighs, the scarlet pulsing of lust somewhere under the petticoat. She wore a coquettish smile, and, as she displayed all of her charms in an attempt at seducing him, he saw the fire of desire start up in some of the surrounding men’s eyes, along with the vicious, promising flare of jealousy.
Somewhere, someone sneezed. A throaty chuckle answered it, followed by the tantalizing rustle of silk.
“A vos souhaits.” A woman said leaning forward, her deep tight cleavage inches from her companion’s face.
It was a personal victory, Crowley thought as he saw the man rub his white powdered nose one last time and bury his face into the warm fat breasts, how the French had adopted such an egoistic way of celebrating the act of sneezing.
As you wish.
He glanced at the young woman at his right, trailed over the dark mole under her left eye, the long eyelashes, the luscious lips red like an apple and just as tempting.
He took in the thick make up covering her face, crusty and sweaty in places, looked at the sculpted golden pillars of the room, watched the tall, high, wide mirrors on the walls and the intimate scenes they displayed.
He was bored.
*
The sandstone edifice dated back to the Roman architectural period, low and heavy in comparison to Gothic buildings but wide and intimate, with a disposition inspired by the ancient houses of the defunct empire. Open places called peristylii could be found inside the main block they were currently visiting, spaces which had been converted into vegetable gardens. The corridors vere empty and broad, and no sound other than their breathing and the respectful whispering of their guide could be heard.
The silence was disconcerting.
Lady Lilwen walked in the front by her husband’s side, casting curious yet carefully composed glances around. The newly wed Sir Godfrey, already used to the yearly visits of a fief he was born in, settled with deep nods here and there at the monk’s explanation of the last months’ accountancy. Behind them walked the Lord’s small court, made of close friends and ambitious youngsters trying to gain his affection. Their cautious steps reverberated against the walls in a way Crowley found disturbingly ominous, which actually might have had something to do with the crucifixes they walked past every five meters or so.
In front of a particularly detailed representation of the martyrdom he could not help but sneeze.
The monk in the front stopped in his exhaustive account to look at him in a fatherly way.
“Why, bless you my son.” He smiled before resuming his speech.
‘Bless you’! Crowley froze, horrified. The English had said ‘Bless you’!
He glared at the back of the religious. Too busy opening a heavy door facing the peristylium they had been walking around for the last few minutes, the man did not notice. Petulant, Crowley crossed his arms while, half-bowing, the monk apologetically asked them not to make any noise.
“Great, so after the fascinating visit of the kitchen and the adventurous sighting of the cantina, our stimulating journey continues.” He hissed with irony, startling a neighbour. “I bet if he could ask us to stop breathing, he would.”
Not that he needed to breathe. Yet he was pretty content in having to pretend otherwise if only because their guide seemed particularly rattled about the sound of their exhalations. He narrowed his eyes at his young neighbour who hurriedly looked forward again. Rancorous, Crowley watched the monk ooze nervousness and nod sharply to each one of them as they walked past the entrance.
His satisfaction at the human’s unease was punctuated by the soft sound of the door closing behind him.
They were in a wide but cramped room, dusty and extremely badly lit. Shelves stretched all over the walls and tall bookcases which reached the relatively low ceiling stood heavily loaded every few steps. Some of them bore so many books they formed compact walls of paper, parchment, leather and dirt.
“Here we have the library.” The guide explained in an even lower whisper than before.
Crowley watched the people gather closer around him, trying to listen as he told them about the creation of the section and the various donations which had been made over the years. Here and there, to illustrate his expeditious explanations, the monk shyly pointed at shelves no one managed to distinctly spot because of the shortness of his gestures.
With some smugness, Crowley noted to himself how he did not need to join the intimate group to be able to listen to the uttered words.
“-n 1443. The gift remains anonymous until now, and it has been handled with the utmost care over the years-”
The guide’s voice unconsciously trailed into a silent mouthing for a few seconds. It then found a slight renew of intensity that allowed his human visitors to be able to hear him again.
“-1487, a new batch of scrolls by a merchant of the Coast – Mr Fell if I’m not mistaken - provided the information necessary to start translating the manuscript.”
A tall woman in a blue dress looked at the monk with gentle mockery, clearly amused at all the secrecy. She bit her lips in an attempt at refraining from smiling.
“Do your books bite, Brother Thomas?” She asked with a chuckle.
He blinked at her, uncomprehending.
“Of course not!” He denied heatedly.
His spontaneity did not last long. He jumped openly at the voice that went up from the depths of a side room in the back of the library.
“Brother Thomas, is that you? What is going on there?”
There was the screeching of a chair on the stone of the floor and the sounds of steps approaching.
“I told you I was going to be busy deciphering these Prophecy books, and I asked not to be disturbed.”
The voice was clear and strong, heated even, and it sounded completely out of place on the fifty year old chubby monk who appeared out of the shadows. He looked quite dusty, the way one would expect to see an object which has not been moved in a long while, and the light caught in the powder had to explain why he almost seemed to glow.
The eyeglasses he wore were opaque with dirt.
“Please, meet Brother Fale.” Their guide squeaked at the sudden apparition. He held out a hand to respectfully designate the Lord – and try and distract the newcomer’s attention away from him. “Brother Fale, in regard to Sir Godfrey’s recent marriage I’ve been asked to do a thorough visiting of the monastery.” He winced, looked as if he was considering attempting to shrink and disappear. “I’m afraid this includes the library.”
Brother Fale paused, surprised. Anger left his face as quickly as it had settled.
“Sir Godfrey, married?”
“Yes. He... You...” Brother Thomas swallowed dryly. “Brother Fale, you’ve been in there for almost one year now.”
The man raised his eyebrows in honest incomprehension.
“I have?” He wondered out loud, scratching his brow.
He patted the side of his pants in an attempt at wiping his hands and raised clouds of dust on the way. It seemed to amuse him somehow.
“Why yes, I have.”
He shook himself out of his stupor and walked straightforwardly to Sir Godfrey. The Lord shook the offered hand without an after-thought.
“I apologize for my lateness, but congratulations on your marriage young man.” The librarian smiled brightly, giving the hand in his an honest pressure. He turned to Lady Lilwen, who inclined her head in answer. “My best wishes, dear child. I hope you find solace and happiness in this union.”
Then he blinked, looked over her shoulder with a narrowing of his eyes.
“Do we have your blessing?” She inquired.
Brother Fale frowned, distracted, sparing her a short glance.
“My what-?” He asked. “Oh- Oh! Yes! Of course, my blessing. You have it.”
He squeezed her hands too and walked past her, raising one finger in what should have been a menacing way.
“Now you. Weren’t you supposed to be in France?” He said. “We had an agreement.”
Quickly imitated by her husband and the court Lady Lilwen turned to look at the scene, only to be waved away by Sir Crowley.
“An arrangement.” The dark-clad man corrected with a smirk before he looked at them and clapped his hands. “Now guys, there’s nothing of interest here. Why don’t you, I don’t know, visit the cellar or something similar?” He offered.
It did not sound that bad a proposition.
The librarian looked scandalized.
“Crawly, influencing people like th-”
A flash of annoyance crossed Crowley’s face before he grinned crookedly. He raised both hands in a gesture of appeasement.
“Now, now, I’m not doing anything. I merely suggested they leave. They chose to accept the suggestion.”
And indeed, Brother Thomas was in the process of hurrying his visitors out of the library. The demon gave him his most charming smirk, but Aziraphale cleared his throat loudly, driving the monk’s attention.
“Would you please be a dear and close the door behind you ?”
Brother Thomas nodded hastily. Crowley snorted.
“I fail to see how this is any different from my suggesting.”
It earned him a glare and he grinned.
*
“Brother Fale, really?” Crowley teased the moment the door closed. “You didn’t like the irony of calling yourself Brother Fell, perhaps?”
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose as if he did not fully get the implication. Which he probably did not, all things considered. He watched the demon walk though the aisles between the bookcases, waiting for him to explain himself. When the distance between them increased too much, he followed with an impatient sigh.
Curious, Crowley had reached the backroom in which the angel had been studying Prophecy books for the past year. The place was a mess.
“Hm.” He hummed to himself. “Cosy.”
On the only table of the room stood an open bottle of wine, a goblet with a liquid residue and four massive books. In the half light a never-ending candle provided, the golden miniature of one of them shone bright.
The demon reached out only to have the book closed right before he touched it.
“I thought we agreed not to interfere with one another’s tasks.” Aziraphale commented, hugging the book to his chest. His thick fingers caressed the cover reverently. “You could have your fun in France, and I made sure the English walked the right path.”
Crowley snickered, grabbing the bottle of wine to inspect it.
“And what a good job you’ve been doing so far.”
The angel blushed, flustered.
“Joan of Arc, Crawly. Really?” He retorted haughtily, setting the book on a pile close by.
His guest winced, sniffing the bottle with a disgusted face.
“I had nothing to do with it.” He replied, putting the bottle back on the table. “And my name is Crowley now. It has been for a long while.”
Aziraphale crossed his arms, unimpressed.
“My point is,” Crowley answered the now wordless inquiry. “The humans have been impossible to control as of late. You stay in England to try and make them good and, alright, they end up saying “Bless you” and all that but they also get into never-ending wars. I go to France to try and spice things up by convincing them of giving into their desires and wishes and they manage to come up with a new martyr to inspire faith. Of all things!”
He pouted discreetly, as if the word itself left a bitter after taste in his mouth.
The angel raised a hand to his plump chin, silent.
“So I thought maybe we were doing it wrong.” Crowley carried on, poking the wooden goblet which swayed alarmingly. He caught it before it spilled. “Maybe we should be working together.”
The librarian smiled in disbelief.
“Wouldn’t that be contradicting the whole point of our actions?”
Crowley shrugged.
“I can’t really say. I mean, our whole point is to tempt and thwart, isn’t it? And for the humans to choose. Well, when we’re working apart we aren’t giving them much of a choice you know?”
“What do you suggest?”
“I’m currently working my way through Godfrey’s court. Tag along!”
Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up.
“Tag al-... I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He pointed out, both annoyed and apologetic.
“Join the court. Make yourself the Lord’s personal librarian or priest or whatever.”
The angel bit his lips.
“I don’t think a monk can become a priest quite so easily.”
The demon stared. Rolled his eyes.
“Come on, don’t tell me you really like this life!” He snickered.
The other being started protesting and he shook his head to prevent him.
“It’s absolutely dull, admit it!” Crowley exclaimed, gesturing wildly. He grabbed the goblet and held it out for the librarian to smell. “How can you stand this? This isn’t wine, it’s vinegar!”
Aziraphale made a pout of distaste and moved back. He looked quite unsettled at the sudden display of energy.
“Be reasonable Crawly, this bottle has been left open for almost one year.”
“What do you eat in here? Crusty, dry bread? And how do you teach people how to behave from the depths of your library? Admit it, you haven’t been doing a whole lot of inspiring lately.”
The angel flushed. His hands went and clutched a book on the table. The demon stopped to stare at him, sensing a weakness.
“You’d be surprised at the quality of Sir Godfrey’s library. You wouldn’t expect it from such a small Lord.” He tempted.
Aziraphale cast him a flat look at the obvious attempt.
“What is this really about?”
His guest sighed and looked away.
I was bored, he thought.
“I was lonely.” He said.
“Oh.” Aziraphale blinked, unexpectedly pleased. “Oh. Crowley. Why didn’t you say so earlier, my dear?”
*
Crowley stared into his glass of wine, scarlet liquid tilting ever so slightly along with the twitches of his hand. His brows were furrowed, his lips pinched, and even though he was the designer and master of all things related to denial, millenniums spent drawing forth jealousy made it impossible for even him to pretend he didn’t recognize the feeling.
Truth to be told, Aziraphale had adapted a little too well to the life at court. Even though, and much to the demon’s amusement, conspirators had quickly grown into resenting the librarian’s politeness and good manners, the angel had easily enough found his place among the Lord’s friends. He was respected and sought for, if not for the same reasons Crowley was so successful himself. It was not that they overshadowed each other, which was impossible since their areas of expertise were so diametrically opposite. It was something nastier. Something indescribable.
Something he was quite happy in letting lie ignored in the back of his mind.
The tall windows of the ballroom’s wide balcony had been left open. The room benefited from the afternoon’s last sunbeams. He could see Aziraphale’s fatherly smile from where he stood, and the enthusiasm with which Godfrey’s son from a first marriage talked to him. Both seemed way too interested in the conversation, the first nodding spontaneously here and there, the second making wide hand-motions as he spoke. Albert didn’t even seem ashamed of being seen in the company of an oddball about twenty years late in the fashion department. Aziraphale produced a book to hand to the young man. Admiration and gratefulness etched on the boy’s features.
In the ballroom, Crowley set his glass down on the closest surface a little too sharply.
*
It felt invigorating, Crowley thought while he watched Albert snap and punch Sir Greenfield’s heir. It hadn’t taken a lot of work, much to his surprise. A little insinuation, a whisper, an embarrassed confession and the young man had sprung. Bloody jealousy beat in his veins.
He looked splendid and murderous. His disheveled hair was thrown back like a mane, his lips wet with spit from his screams of fury reminded of a red corolla in the dew. He was now glorious and beautiful and he grew more magnificent with each of the blows he delivered. An unleashed beast. Little could be found in Sir Godfrey’s son of the formerly sweet and tender lamb a certain librarian had grown so easily fond of. Torn between attempting to understand what was going on and fully defending himself, Frederic Greenfield could merely duck and make weak, clumsy attempts at striking back. Crowley was especially proud of himself.
Aziraphale didn’t talk to him for weeks.
*
He had had enough.
“Aziraphale!” Crowley greeted toothily, stepping on the balcony. “Albert.”
Their smiles faltered at the unexpected appearance. Albert eyed Crowley warily, nodded a greeting and left. The demon narrowed his eyes when the boy walked past him, then glared at the librarian. He went to the guardrail against which he leaned, scowling.
“You haven’t been doing a whole lot of inspiring as of late.” He accused, looking at the scenery beyond him, at the abounding trees on the horizon. “Leaving me in the same room as all these people to tempt while you have fun with a cute boy.”
“Oh! So you do agree with me.” Aziraphale replied. “I find him all sorts of adorable too.” He paused, then added a trifle testily: “No matter what.”
Crowley glanced sharply at him.
“Angel. Did you hear me?” He hissed, gripping the rail in annoyance. “I have been tempting people.”
Cranky, the librarian shrugged.
“Why, yes. It is your purpose after all.”
“And aren’t you supposed to be doing something about it?”
Aziraphale did not answer and closed his eyes to take in a deep breath of fresh air.
“It’s such a lovely day.”
Crowley punched the rail.
“Damn y-” He started. “It!”
The angel’s face took a pained expression as he looked wordlessly at him.
“We have an arrangement.” His companion insisted between gritted teeth, looking sideways at him. He refused to feel ashamed. Or regretful.
“I’m afraid I don’t get it.” Aziraphale commented.
The demon wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t really sure of the point he wanted to make himself. He turned away.
His fingers tensed around the rail, silent.
“My dear.” Aziraphale informed gently, looking down. He touched the back of the other being’s hand. “You’re... changing, if I may say.”
Disturbed in his sulky contemplation of Sir Godfrey’s land, Crowley followed his gaze with a glower. He cringed.
He reformed his fingers the human way they were supposed to look with contained disgust. Aziraphale stopped him from giving a flick to the remaining maggot and deprived him of the satisfaction of watching it fall away.
“Why do you want to throw it?”
The demon sighed in exasperation.
“It’s a worm, angel.”
“Well, it’s still part of you, and I see no reason for you to get rid of it.”
Crowley stared at him for long seconds. On the way to crossing his arms he grabbed the maggot.
It melted back into his skin.
“‘No reason’?” He repeated, distrusting.
Aziraphale shook his head.
“None at all.”
Crowley slumped against the rail.
“This isn’t really working the way it should be.”
“It isn’t, isn’t it?” The angel agreed as if he understood when Crowley wasn’t sure he did. “I’m going to London next week. I heard it’s a fascinating city.”
Crowley’s head jerked up, shock evident on his features.
“You’re leaving? When were you going to tell me?!”
Aziraphale scratched his eyebrow absently.
“I just did.” He pointed out.
Crowley bit down on his lower lip.
“Oh please, don’t make that face. There’s no need for competition, I am not laying claim over the city. It would be preposterous of me to think of doing so on my own.”
The demon stared into nothingness for a moment before he rolled his eyes.
“Okay then.”
Aziraphale nodded, satisfied with his reaction.
“I think I’ll be opening a bookshop there. Or something similar.” He carried on. “Feel free to visit. I’m sure I could use some help.”
Crowley looked thoughtful. He shifted his body weight to his other leg very, very slowly, straightened up from his slouch. He crossed his ankles, leaned his forearms on the rail and curled his spine into a discreet droop that was just a touch debonair.
“Sounds good to me.” He admitted.
“Good.” Aziraphale grinned. “Good.”
He also leaned on the rail, approached his head as if to share a secret. His lips had taken a very particular shape tinged with smugness which could only be described as a smirk.
“You know about your work on tempting that poor young girl in the ballroom today?” He asked.
Crowley didn’t answer. Refrained from smiling.
“Well. I convinced Albert of asking her in marriage before she followed on your advice.” Aziraphale finished. “After his... demonstration of possessiveness, I believe it’s only fair.”
The demon pouted as if in hesitation.
“Hm, a little too predictable.” He commented, before adding quickly: “Want some wine?”
Aziraphale’s eyed him peacefully, and Crowley poured them some wine in two glasses which were very surprised to find themselves on the balcony all of a sudden.
“Cheers.” The angel wished.
“Santé!” The demon replied.
Happy holidays,lemonfruitpie, from your Secret Author!
For:
lemonfruitpieFrom:
kaoroCharacters: Aziraphale, Crowley
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~3.600
Summary: Crowley discovers humans aren’t worthy of his attention span and leaves to find a proper companion. Sadly, his companion enjoys other people's presence too
Prompt: Crowley/Aziraphale. Pre-Arrangment Crowley pretends to be Aziraphale's friend and Aziraphale tries to accept him. Then, much to his surprise, Crowley gets jealous of Aziraphale's other friends. He vies for Aziraphale's attention, but the angel refuses to pay attention to his childish behavior and doesn't comment on it until something un-ignorable happens. I'd like a bitter Crowley who is learning to trust others with a stern yet compassionate Aziraphale. UST and/or friendship fic preferred. G-R (for violence) rating. Can be somewhat dark but please end on a "good" note (e.g. a budding true friendship, etc.).
Author Notes: I’d like to apologize to the gifted, as it is not exactly pre-Arrangement the way I think she/he wanted it to be é_è. It's more like "Pre-the arrangement as we know it now". It's an arrangement pre-Arrangement. If I make any sense. I hope you’ll still like it !
The woman’s eyes shone bright as she spoke. Her pearl bracelet quivered around her wrist, moving alluringly up and down with the enthusiastic motions of her arm. She tilted her head, paused to fan herself, half-lidded doe eyes looking up at him from behind the fluffy feathers. Her cheeks were red with excitement and, lower, the ripples that carried through the silk of her skirt betrayed the shake of her thighs, the scarlet pulsing of lust somewhere under the petticoat. She wore a coquettish smile, and, as she displayed all of her charms in an attempt at seducing him, he saw the fire of desire start up in some of the surrounding men’s eyes, along with the vicious, promising flare of jealousy.
Somewhere, someone sneezed. A throaty chuckle answered it, followed by the tantalizing rustle of silk.
“A vos souhaits.” A woman said leaning forward, her deep tight cleavage inches from her companion’s face.
It was a personal victory, Crowley thought as he saw the man rub his white powdered nose one last time and bury his face into the warm fat breasts, how the French had adopted such an egoistic way of celebrating the act of sneezing.
As you wish.
He glanced at the young woman at his right, trailed over the dark mole under her left eye, the long eyelashes, the luscious lips red like an apple and just as tempting.
He took in the thick make up covering her face, crusty and sweaty in places, looked at the sculpted golden pillars of the room, watched the tall, high, wide mirrors on the walls and the intimate scenes they displayed.
He was bored.
*
The sandstone edifice dated back to the Roman architectural period, low and heavy in comparison to Gothic buildings but wide and intimate, with a disposition inspired by the ancient houses of the defunct empire. Open places called peristylii could be found inside the main block they were currently visiting, spaces which had been converted into vegetable gardens. The corridors vere empty and broad, and no sound other than their breathing and the respectful whispering of their guide could be heard.
The silence was disconcerting.
Lady Lilwen walked in the front by her husband’s side, casting curious yet carefully composed glances around. The newly wed Sir Godfrey, already used to the yearly visits of a fief he was born in, settled with deep nods here and there at the monk’s explanation of the last months’ accountancy. Behind them walked the Lord’s small court, made of close friends and ambitious youngsters trying to gain his affection. Their cautious steps reverberated against the walls in a way Crowley found disturbingly ominous, which actually might have had something to do with the crucifixes they walked past every five meters or so.
In front of a particularly detailed representation of the martyrdom he could not help but sneeze.
The monk in the front stopped in his exhaustive account to look at him in a fatherly way.
“Why, bless you my son.” He smiled before resuming his speech.
‘Bless you’! Crowley froze, horrified. The English had said ‘Bless you’!
He glared at the back of the religious. Too busy opening a heavy door facing the peristylium they had been walking around for the last few minutes, the man did not notice. Petulant, Crowley crossed his arms while, half-bowing, the monk apologetically asked them not to make any noise.
“Great, so after the fascinating visit of the kitchen and the adventurous sighting of the cantina, our stimulating journey continues.” He hissed with irony, startling a neighbour. “I bet if he could ask us to stop breathing, he would.”
Not that he needed to breathe. Yet he was pretty content in having to pretend otherwise if only because their guide seemed particularly rattled about the sound of their exhalations. He narrowed his eyes at his young neighbour who hurriedly looked forward again. Rancorous, Crowley watched the monk ooze nervousness and nod sharply to each one of them as they walked past the entrance.
His satisfaction at the human’s unease was punctuated by the soft sound of the door closing behind him.
They were in a wide but cramped room, dusty and extremely badly lit. Shelves stretched all over the walls and tall bookcases which reached the relatively low ceiling stood heavily loaded every few steps. Some of them bore so many books they formed compact walls of paper, parchment, leather and dirt.
“Here we have the library.” The guide explained in an even lower whisper than before.
Crowley watched the people gather closer around him, trying to listen as he told them about the creation of the section and the various donations which had been made over the years. Here and there, to illustrate his expeditious explanations, the monk shyly pointed at shelves no one managed to distinctly spot because of the shortness of his gestures.
With some smugness, Crowley noted to himself how he did not need to join the intimate group to be able to listen to the uttered words.
“-n 1443. The gift remains anonymous until now, and it has been handled with the utmost care over the years-”
The guide’s voice unconsciously trailed into a silent mouthing for a few seconds. It then found a slight renew of intensity that allowed his human visitors to be able to hear him again.
“-1487, a new batch of scrolls by a merchant of the Coast – Mr Fell if I’m not mistaken - provided the information necessary to start translating the manuscript.”
A tall woman in a blue dress looked at the monk with gentle mockery, clearly amused at all the secrecy. She bit her lips in an attempt at refraining from smiling.
“Do your books bite, Brother Thomas?” She asked with a chuckle.
He blinked at her, uncomprehending.
“Of course not!” He denied heatedly.
His spontaneity did not last long. He jumped openly at the voice that went up from the depths of a side room in the back of the library.
“Brother Thomas, is that you? What is going on there?”
There was the screeching of a chair on the stone of the floor and the sounds of steps approaching.
“I told you I was going to be busy deciphering these Prophecy books, and I asked not to be disturbed.”
The voice was clear and strong, heated even, and it sounded completely out of place on the fifty year old chubby monk who appeared out of the shadows. He looked quite dusty, the way one would expect to see an object which has not been moved in a long while, and the light caught in the powder had to explain why he almost seemed to glow.
The eyeglasses he wore were opaque with dirt.
“Please, meet Brother Fale.” Their guide squeaked at the sudden apparition. He held out a hand to respectfully designate the Lord – and try and distract the newcomer’s attention away from him. “Brother Fale, in regard to Sir Godfrey’s recent marriage I’ve been asked to do a thorough visiting of the monastery.” He winced, looked as if he was considering attempting to shrink and disappear. “I’m afraid this includes the library.”
Brother Fale paused, surprised. Anger left his face as quickly as it had settled.
“Sir Godfrey, married?”
“Yes. He... You...” Brother Thomas swallowed dryly. “Brother Fale, you’ve been in there for almost one year now.”
The man raised his eyebrows in honest incomprehension.
“I have?” He wondered out loud, scratching his brow.
He patted the side of his pants in an attempt at wiping his hands and raised clouds of dust on the way. It seemed to amuse him somehow.
“Why yes, I have.”
He shook himself out of his stupor and walked straightforwardly to Sir Godfrey. The Lord shook the offered hand without an after-thought.
“I apologize for my lateness, but congratulations on your marriage young man.” The librarian smiled brightly, giving the hand in his an honest pressure. He turned to Lady Lilwen, who inclined her head in answer. “My best wishes, dear child. I hope you find solace and happiness in this union.”
Then he blinked, looked over her shoulder with a narrowing of his eyes.
“Do we have your blessing?” She inquired.
Brother Fale frowned, distracted, sparing her a short glance.
“My what-?” He asked. “Oh- Oh! Yes! Of course, my blessing. You have it.”
He squeezed her hands too and walked past her, raising one finger in what should have been a menacing way.
“Now you. Weren’t you supposed to be in France?” He said. “We had an agreement.”
Quickly imitated by her husband and the court Lady Lilwen turned to look at the scene, only to be waved away by Sir Crowley.
“An arrangement.” The dark-clad man corrected with a smirk before he looked at them and clapped his hands. “Now guys, there’s nothing of interest here. Why don’t you, I don’t know, visit the cellar or something similar?” He offered.
It did not sound that bad a proposition.
The librarian looked scandalized.
“Crawly, influencing people like th-”
A flash of annoyance crossed Crowley’s face before he grinned crookedly. He raised both hands in a gesture of appeasement.
“Now, now, I’m not doing anything. I merely suggested they leave. They chose to accept the suggestion.”
And indeed, Brother Thomas was in the process of hurrying his visitors out of the library. The demon gave him his most charming smirk, but Aziraphale cleared his throat loudly, driving the monk’s attention.
“Would you please be a dear and close the door behind you ?”
Brother Thomas nodded hastily. Crowley snorted.
“I fail to see how this is any different from my suggesting.”
It earned him a glare and he grinned.
*
“Brother Fale, really?” Crowley teased the moment the door closed. “You didn’t like the irony of calling yourself Brother Fell, perhaps?”
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose as if he did not fully get the implication. Which he probably did not, all things considered. He watched the demon walk though the aisles between the bookcases, waiting for him to explain himself. When the distance between them increased too much, he followed with an impatient sigh.
Curious, Crowley had reached the backroom in which the angel had been studying Prophecy books for the past year. The place was a mess.
“Hm.” He hummed to himself. “Cosy.”
On the only table of the room stood an open bottle of wine, a goblet with a liquid residue and four massive books. In the half light a never-ending candle provided, the golden miniature of one of them shone bright.
The demon reached out only to have the book closed right before he touched it.
“I thought we agreed not to interfere with one another’s tasks.” Aziraphale commented, hugging the book to his chest. His thick fingers caressed the cover reverently. “You could have your fun in France, and I made sure the English walked the right path.”
Crowley snickered, grabbing the bottle of wine to inspect it.
“And what a good job you’ve been doing so far.”
The angel blushed, flustered.
“Joan of Arc, Crawly. Really?” He retorted haughtily, setting the book on a pile close by.
His guest winced, sniffing the bottle with a disgusted face.
“I had nothing to do with it.” He replied, putting the bottle back on the table. “And my name is Crowley now. It has been for a long while.”
Aziraphale crossed his arms, unimpressed.
“My point is,” Crowley answered the now wordless inquiry. “The humans have been impossible to control as of late. You stay in England to try and make them good and, alright, they end up saying “Bless you” and all that but they also get into never-ending wars. I go to France to try and spice things up by convincing them of giving into their desires and wishes and they manage to come up with a new martyr to inspire faith. Of all things!”
He pouted discreetly, as if the word itself left a bitter after taste in his mouth.
The angel raised a hand to his plump chin, silent.
“So I thought maybe we were doing it wrong.” Crowley carried on, poking the wooden goblet which swayed alarmingly. He caught it before it spilled. “Maybe we should be working together.”
The librarian smiled in disbelief.
“Wouldn’t that be contradicting the whole point of our actions?”
Crowley shrugged.
“I can’t really say. I mean, our whole point is to tempt and thwart, isn’t it? And for the humans to choose. Well, when we’re working apart we aren’t giving them much of a choice you know?”
“What do you suggest?”
“I’m currently working my way through Godfrey’s court. Tag along!”
Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up.
“Tag al-... I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He pointed out, both annoyed and apologetic.
“Join the court. Make yourself the Lord’s personal librarian or priest or whatever.”
The angel bit his lips.
“I don’t think a monk can become a priest quite so easily.”
The demon stared. Rolled his eyes.
“Come on, don’t tell me you really like this life!” He snickered.
The other being started protesting and he shook his head to prevent him.
“It’s absolutely dull, admit it!” Crowley exclaimed, gesturing wildly. He grabbed the goblet and held it out for the librarian to smell. “How can you stand this? This isn’t wine, it’s vinegar!”
Aziraphale made a pout of distaste and moved back. He looked quite unsettled at the sudden display of energy.
“Be reasonable Crawly, this bottle has been left open for almost one year.”
“What do you eat in here? Crusty, dry bread? And how do you teach people how to behave from the depths of your library? Admit it, you haven’t been doing a whole lot of inspiring lately.”
The angel flushed. His hands went and clutched a book on the table. The demon stopped to stare at him, sensing a weakness.
“You’d be surprised at the quality of Sir Godfrey’s library. You wouldn’t expect it from such a small Lord.” He tempted.
Aziraphale cast him a flat look at the obvious attempt.
“What is this really about?”
His guest sighed and looked away.
I was bored, he thought.
“I was lonely.” He said.
“Oh.” Aziraphale blinked, unexpectedly pleased. “Oh. Crowley. Why didn’t you say so earlier, my dear?”
*
Crowley stared into his glass of wine, scarlet liquid tilting ever so slightly along with the twitches of his hand. His brows were furrowed, his lips pinched, and even though he was the designer and master of all things related to denial, millenniums spent drawing forth jealousy made it impossible for even him to pretend he didn’t recognize the feeling.
Truth to be told, Aziraphale had adapted a little too well to the life at court. Even though, and much to the demon’s amusement, conspirators had quickly grown into resenting the librarian’s politeness and good manners, the angel had easily enough found his place among the Lord’s friends. He was respected and sought for, if not for the same reasons Crowley was so successful himself. It was not that they overshadowed each other, which was impossible since their areas of expertise were so diametrically opposite. It was something nastier. Something indescribable.
Something he was quite happy in letting lie ignored in the back of his mind.
The tall windows of the ballroom’s wide balcony had been left open. The room benefited from the afternoon’s last sunbeams. He could see Aziraphale’s fatherly smile from where he stood, and the enthusiasm with which Godfrey’s son from a first marriage talked to him. Both seemed way too interested in the conversation, the first nodding spontaneously here and there, the second making wide hand-motions as he spoke. Albert didn’t even seem ashamed of being seen in the company of an oddball about twenty years late in the fashion department. Aziraphale produced a book to hand to the young man. Admiration and gratefulness etched on the boy’s features.
In the ballroom, Crowley set his glass down on the closest surface a little too sharply.
*
It felt invigorating, Crowley thought while he watched Albert snap and punch Sir Greenfield’s heir. It hadn’t taken a lot of work, much to his surprise. A little insinuation, a whisper, an embarrassed confession and the young man had sprung. Bloody jealousy beat in his veins.
He looked splendid and murderous. His disheveled hair was thrown back like a mane, his lips wet with spit from his screams of fury reminded of a red corolla in the dew. He was now glorious and beautiful and he grew more magnificent with each of the blows he delivered. An unleashed beast. Little could be found in Sir Godfrey’s son of the formerly sweet and tender lamb a certain librarian had grown so easily fond of. Torn between attempting to understand what was going on and fully defending himself, Frederic Greenfield could merely duck and make weak, clumsy attempts at striking back. Crowley was especially proud of himself.
Aziraphale didn’t talk to him for weeks.
*
He had had enough.
“Aziraphale!” Crowley greeted toothily, stepping on the balcony. “Albert.”
Their smiles faltered at the unexpected appearance. Albert eyed Crowley warily, nodded a greeting and left. The demon narrowed his eyes when the boy walked past him, then glared at the librarian. He went to the guardrail against which he leaned, scowling.
“You haven’t been doing a whole lot of inspiring as of late.” He accused, looking at the scenery beyond him, at the abounding trees on the horizon. “Leaving me in the same room as all these people to tempt while you have fun with a cute boy.”
“Oh! So you do agree with me.” Aziraphale replied. “I find him all sorts of adorable too.” He paused, then added a trifle testily: “No matter what.”
Crowley glanced sharply at him.
“Angel. Did you hear me?” He hissed, gripping the rail in annoyance. “I have been tempting people.”
Cranky, the librarian shrugged.
“Why, yes. It is your purpose after all.”
“And aren’t you supposed to be doing something about it?”
Aziraphale did not answer and closed his eyes to take in a deep breath of fresh air.
“It’s such a lovely day.”
Crowley punched the rail.
“Damn y-” He started. “It!”
The angel’s face took a pained expression as he looked wordlessly at him.
“We have an arrangement.” His companion insisted between gritted teeth, looking sideways at him. He refused to feel ashamed. Or regretful.
“I’m afraid I don’t get it.” Aziraphale commented.
The demon wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t really sure of the point he wanted to make himself. He turned away.
His fingers tensed around the rail, silent.
“My dear.” Aziraphale informed gently, looking down. He touched the back of the other being’s hand. “You’re... changing, if I may say.”
Disturbed in his sulky contemplation of Sir Godfrey’s land, Crowley followed his gaze with a glower. He cringed.
He reformed his fingers the human way they were supposed to look with contained disgust. Aziraphale stopped him from giving a flick to the remaining maggot and deprived him of the satisfaction of watching it fall away.
“Why do you want to throw it?”
The demon sighed in exasperation.
“It’s a worm, angel.”
“Well, it’s still part of you, and I see no reason for you to get rid of it.”
Crowley stared at him for long seconds. On the way to crossing his arms he grabbed the maggot.
It melted back into his skin.
“‘No reason’?” He repeated, distrusting.
Aziraphale shook his head.
“None at all.”
Crowley slumped against the rail.
“This isn’t really working the way it should be.”
“It isn’t, isn’t it?” The angel agreed as if he understood when Crowley wasn’t sure he did. “I’m going to London next week. I heard it’s a fascinating city.”
Crowley’s head jerked up, shock evident on his features.
“You’re leaving? When were you going to tell me?!”
Aziraphale scratched his eyebrow absently.
“I just did.” He pointed out.
Crowley bit down on his lower lip.
“Oh please, don’t make that face. There’s no need for competition, I am not laying claim over the city. It would be preposterous of me to think of doing so on my own.”
The demon stared into nothingness for a moment before he rolled his eyes.
“Okay then.”
Aziraphale nodded, satisfied with his reaction.
“I think I’ll be opening a bookshop there. Or something similar.” He carried on. “Feel free to visit. I’m sure I could use some help.”
Crowley looked thoughtful. He shifted his body weight to his other leg very, very slowly, straightened up from his slouch. He crossed his ankles, leaned his forearms on the rail and curled his spine into a discreet droop that was just a touch debonair.
“Sounds good to me.” He admitted.
“Good.” Aziraphale grinned. “Good.”
He also leaned on the rail, approached his head as if to share a secret. His lips had taken a very particular shape tinged with smugness which could only be described as a smirk.
“You know about your work on tempting that poor young girl in the ballroom today?” He asked.
Crowley didn’t answer. Refrained from smiling.
“Well. I convinced Albert of asking her in marriage before she followed on your advice.” Aziraphale finished. “After his... demonstration of possessiveness, I believe it’s only fair.”
The demon pouted as if in hesitation.
“Hm, a little too predictable.” He commented, before adding quickly: “Want some wine?”
Aziraphale’s eyed him peacefully, and Crowley poured them some wine in two glasses which were very surprised to find themselves on the balcony all of a sudden.
“Cheers.” The angel wished.
“Santé!” The demon replied.
Happy holidays,
lemonfruitpie, from your Secret Author!
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Date: 2010-12-21 04:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-22 09:06 am (UTC)I loved the opening, it really caught my attention with that strange juxtaposition of sneezing and breasts. Haha, good one Crowley.
Aziraphale's appearance was great too! Loved how baffled he seemed and eee, dusty Aziraphale is one of the best kinds<3 I also adore the implication that Crowley helped Aziraphale come up with his current pseudonym, Mr. Fell. And haha, love the never ending candle. It showed Aziraphale slipped downward a bit already.
Baw, I really like the idea that Crowley was the first to change his attitude and Aziraphale just didn't get it but is compassionate towards him anyways. And eee, you put in maggot-y Crowley!<3<3<3<3 It's real interesting that he wasn't concerned at all about getting all his maggots back. And auuugh, Crowley biting on his lower lip looks just way too adorable in my head.
I also have to congratulate you on your superb pacing. It was one of the first things that caught my attention-- you certainly do know how to use pauses effectively in your writing.
Thanks again for the awesome gift, secret writer!