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go_exchange2011-12-08 06:51 pm
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Happy Holidays, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aviss!
Title: What Not to Say (and How Not to Say It)
Written for:aviss
From:irisbleufic
Pairing/Characters: Aziraphale/Crowley, various OCs
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I feel extremely lucky to have got the prompt I did (Crowley and Aziraphale have known each other and been friends for a long, long time: so long that verbal communication is really a choice, not something they need [...] I want to see their interactions through someone else's eyes, how they communicate without words and how well they read each other). Thank you,aviss, for making such a wonderful, nuanced request! Writing these two from outside perspectives is a particular pleasure.
Summary: Glimpsing what's between the lines of love is rare opportunity indeed.
Seven Dials
The designer consignment shop is horrid: Gracie hates it.
Unfortunately, she also works there. Going on three years.
Garments come in unwashed—or, worse yet, with stubborn, mysterious stains. She always gets stuck with laundry duty, because she's the only one who's not afraid of the steam cleaner (the holiday temps are all convinced they'll burn themselves). And so, here she is, down in the cellar on a cold Thursday night, trying to get what looks like blood off the backside of a Phillip Lim dress.
She doesn't look up when the pair of footfalls comes down the stairs, why should she, what when the stain looks about set to surrender? She's holed up in the lone dressing room, praying these late shoppers won't want to try anything on. She can hear them making a circuit of the rails lining the walls, two of them, pausing every once in a while to the scrape of hangers. They don't speak, and she finds that kind of odd; the women who skip the gents section at street level and come straight down to the ladies' are usually giggling or bickering about getting their Christmas shopping done in time or finding the perfect frocks for their work parties.
One of them breathes in, and then exhales: a half-formed word, but not quite.
Gracie turns off the steam cleaner and quietly pokes her head through the curtains.
Much to her dismay, she's looking at two well dressed middle-aged men. The older of the two is holding one of her favorite stock items out at arm's length, and his dark-haired younger companion is eyeing it critically (or so Gracie assumes; his back is turned to her), sunglasses in hand.
Who the hell are they shopping for? Mr. Tartan Scarf's niece? The Yuppie's kid sister?
The garment they're studying isn't popular with the rest of the staff; in fact, Gracie endures a lot of mockery from the lads for liking it. They say only a hippie-wannabe would wear it, or possibly an actual hippie now past their prime. It's like something the Harry Potter films' costuming team could've used for Sybill Trelawney.
In a word, it's fabulous.
The Yuppie replaces his sunglasses and turns to his companion with a sharp nod of approval. Mr. Tartan Scarf turns abruptly to look at Gracie, startled.
"Excellent," he says, and she's shocked at the warmth of his voice, his posh diction.
"What he meant," says the Yuppie, dryly, "is that we'll take it."
"Follow me," Gracie replies, as she strides toward them with a smile.
Won't the lads enjoy watching her ring this up.
Camden Lock
Chand has never seen anybody so confused by a piece of blown-glass smoking paraphernalia in his life. If it weren't Abhay's day off, they'd spend their lunch break joking about it. He dislikes running the booth alone.
The one in the expensive black coat tilts his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose as he holds the piece up to the light, frowning fiercely, revealing just a hint of narrowed, tawny eyes. The smug older gent—his uncle, maybe—is fighting off a grin.
Yeah, granddad, he thinks. You know what to do with that.
"It's..." says the guy with shades, although now Chand realizes he's not that much younger than the chap he's with. There's a closeness in their postures, a kind of hushed intimacy in the space between them. "How do you..."
Chand takes the piece from him and mimics stuffing the flared end. As chillums go, the piece is weird; Abhay and Malcolm subscribe to the theory that it's actually intended for use as a cigarette holder. They could be right. Chand wishes Malcolm were here now, but he's at their flat making jerk chicken for dinner. Half an hour to go.
"Tobacco," he explains, caught between laughter and his limited English. "You smoke."
Granddad's pursed lips spread in delight, which causes Shades to huff out a frosty, frustrated breath.
"Right," he says, staring down at his snakeskin boots. "I'm sure that's why Adam wanted it."
Although the man speaks quickly, Chand has no difficulty understanding his sarcasm.
"Twenty pounds," he tells the shrewd older one, and beckons them both to the till.
Portobello Road
The man gawping down at the glass case in astonishment looks familiar. Ian is sure he's been around before, asking after some of the more obscure items. While world economies are failing, the antique silver market is booming. With this one, it's snuffboxes. Preferably Regency. London maker's marks or nothing.
Someone in sunglasses with his coat and collar undone steps up behind the gawker. He tilts his head close to the other man's ear, lips almost brushing the greying fly-away hair, his eyes undoubtedly following suit. There's something vaguely sensual about this pose, but there's also a strong sense of you have got to be kidding.
The older man stands his ground, shifting from foot to foot as he clears his throat.
"Which one's caught your eye?" asks Ian, patiently. He's got all day. Years, really. This is no place for impatient shopkeepers. Amidst stiff competition, only the persistent flourish. Without Evelyn, bless her, he'd never have learned the ropes.
The man doesn't look up. Instead, he leans farther forward, chin set stubbornly, and points directly down at a lovely recent acquisition. Stamped WFC (William Francis Garrud). Circa 1890, Holborn Circus. Known previously to have made only buckles, chatelaine clips, and vestas. The lid is engraved with entwined ornate capitals: A and B or A and C. It's difficult to tell which. It may not even matter.
"Lid's a bit springy on that one, but it'll stay shut on your third or fourth try. Very clean, no splits. Lovely interior gilding. Would you like to see it?"
While the younger man murmurs surely not, the older man gives an eager nod.
Luke knows the look of an object that's found someone to love it, recognizes the spark of communion in the prospective buyer's eye. The snuffbox fits perfectly in the curve of this man's palm, seems to long for those finely manicured fingers to close over its initials and elegant scrollwork. He won't fill it, but he'll carry everywhere he goes.
The younger man's shoulders slump, and he digs inside his coat with an air of defeat.
"It's not the one you lost," he insists, nonetheless handing a credit card to Ian.
"That's not the point," says the older man, smiling beatifically. "Thank you, my dear."
Brixton Village
Shaila flips one curly strand of hair out of her eyes, adjusting her headphones. It's a slow day, so she turns up the volume and twists to the beat. If she's trapped behind the sodding till for another three hours, she might as well enjoy herself.
She doesn't hear the bell when the couple comes in, but it's their slow progress around the tiny shop floor, equal and opposite orbits, that finally draws her attention. She knows the kind of furtiveness the scholarly type is showing; he's got a vintage waistcoat held up in both hands, and he's shifting his stance as his partner moves on, perusing a rack on the far wall, oblivious. Doesn't want him to see.
There's an eerie disconnect between these men and her music: the former so clearly content with each other, the latter so goddamned sad. She always knows a couple from friends, never mind gender or inclination. It's in the way they're aware of each other even when they're not. The younger man's handsome, but he's hiding behind sunglasses and a black wool coat. The older man is dignified—stuffy, but pleasant. She pictures them sharing coffee at Federation, maybe exchanging clandestine kisses (so circumspect, the older crowd; she thinks of Malcolm and Chand, shameless as they are, and laughs).
A dark blur in her peripheral vision makes her look up.
The younger man is just leaving, his hand lifting with careless grace from his partner's shoulder. He's forgotten something elsewhere, maybe scones from the bakery on the other side of the arcade. The older gent in the tartan scarf (she's seen so few who can rock the look, but, man, he does) wastes no time in snatching up the waistcoat again (he'd moved on to a dress shirt, the terrible liar) and bringing it up to the till.
"He's gonna look fine in that come Christmas," Shaila tells him, removing her headphones. "Just you wait."
"My point exactly," he replies, counting out sixty quid with satisfaction.
Written for:
avissFrom:
irisbleuficPairing/Characters: Aziraphale/Crowley, various OCs
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I feel extremely lucky to have got the prompt I did (Crowley and Aziraphale have known each other and been friends for a long, long time: so long that verbal communication is really a choice, not something they need [...] I want to see their interactions through someone else's eyes, how they communicate without words and how well they read each other). Thank you,
aviss, for making such a wonderful, nuanced request! Writing these two from outside perspectives is a particular pleasure.Summary: Glimpsing what's between the lines of love is rare opportunity indeed.
The designer consignment shop is horrid: Gracie hates it.
Unfortunately, she also works there. Going on three years.
Garments come in unwashed—or, worse yet, with stubborn, mysterious stains. She always gets stuck with laundry duty, because she's the only one who's not afraid of the steam cleaner (the holiday temps are all convinced they'll burn themselves). And so, here she is, down in the cellar on a cold Thursday night, trying to get what looks like blood off the backside of a Phillip Lim dress.
She doesn't look up when the pair of footfalls comes down the stairs, why should she, what when the stain looks about set to surrender? She's holed up in the lone dressing room, praying these late shoppers won't want to try anything on. She can hear them making a circuit of the rails lining the walls, two of them, pausing every once in a while to the scrape of hangers. They don't speak, and she finds that kind of odd; the women who skip the gents section at street level and come straight down to the ladies' are usually giggling or bickering about getting their Christmas shopping done in time or finding the perfect frocks for their work parties.
One of them breathes in, and then exhales: a half-formed word, but not quite.
Gracie turns off the steam cleaner and quietly pokes her head through the curtains.
Much to her dismay, she's looking at two well dressed middle-aged men. The older of the two is holding one of her favorite stock items out at arm's length, and his dark-haired younger companion is eyeing it critically (or so Gracie assumes; his back is turned to her), sunglasses in hand.
Who the hell are they shopping for? Mr. Tartan Scarf's niece? The Yuppie's kid sister?
The garment they're studying isn't popular with the rest of the staff; in fact, Gracie endures a lot of mockery from the lads for liking it. They say only a hippie-wannabe would wear it, or possibly an actual hippie now past their prime. It's like something the Harry Potter films' costuming team could've used for Sybill Trelawney.
In a word, it's fabulous.
The Yuppie replaces his sunglasses and turns to his companion with a sharp nod of approval. Mr. Tartan Scarf turns abruptly to look at Gracie, startled.
"Excellent," he says, and she's shocked at the warmth of his voice, his posh diction.
"What he meant," says the Yuppie, dryly, "is that we'll take it."
"Follow me," Gracie replies, as she strides toward them with a smile.
Won't the lads enjoy watching her ring this up.
Chand has never seen anybody so confused by a piece of blown-glass smoking paraphernalia in his life. If it weren't Abhay's day off, they'd spend their lunch break joking about it. He dislikes running the booth alone.
The one in the expensive black coat tilts his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose as he holds the piece up to the light, frowning fiercely, revealing just a hint of narrowed, tawny eyes. The smug older gent—his uncle, maybe—is fighting off a grin.
Yeah, granddad, he thinks. You know what to do with that.
"It's..." says the guy with shades, although now Chand realizes he's not that much younger than the chap he's with. There's a closeness in their postures, a kind of hushed intimacy in the space between them. "How do you..."
Chand takes the piece from him and mimics stuffing the flared end. As chillums go, the piece is weird; Abhay and Malcolm subscribe to the theory that it's actually intended for use as a cigarette holder. They could be right. Chand wishes Malcolm were here now, but he's at their flat making jerk chicken for dinner. Half an hour to go.
"Tobacco," he explains, caught between laughter and his limited English. "You smoke."
Granddad's pursed lips spread in delight, which causes Shades to huff out a frosty, frustrated breath.
"Right," he says, staring down at his snakeskin boots. "I'm sure that's why Adam wanted it."
Although the man speaks quickly, Chand has no difficulty understanding his sarcasm.
"Twenty pounds," he tells the shrewd older one, and beckons them both to the till.
The man gawping down at the glass case in astonishment looks familiar. Ian is sure he's been around before, asking after some of the more obscure items. While world economies are failing, the antique silver market is booming. With this one, it's snuffboxes. Preferably Regency. London maker's marks or nothing.
Someone in sunglasses with his coat and collar undone steps up behind the gawker. He tilts his head close to the other man's ear, lips almost brushing the greying fly-away hair, his eyes undoubtedly following suit. There's something vaguely sensual about this pose, but there's also a strong sense of you have got to be kidding.
The older man stands his ground, shifting from foot to foot as he clears his throat.
"Which one's caught your eye?" asks Ian, patiently. He's got all day. Years, really. This is no place for impatient shopkeepers. Amidst stiff competition, only the persistent flourish. Without Evelyn, bless her, he'd never have learned the ropes.
The man doesn't look up. Instead, he leans farther forward, chin set stubbornly, and points directly down at a lovely recent acquisition. Stamped WFC (William Francis Garrud). Circa 1890, Holborn Circus. Known previously to have made only buckles, chatelaine clips, and vestas. The lid is engraved with entwined ornate capitals: A and B or A and C. It's difficult to tell which. It may not even matter.
"Lid's a bit springy on that one, but it'll stay shut on your third or fourth try. Very clean, no splits. Lovely interior gilding. Would you like to see it?"
While the younger man murmurs surely not, the older man gives an eager nod.
Luke knows the look of an object that's found someone to love it, recognizes the spark of communion in the prospective buyer's eye. The snuffbox fits perfectly in the curve of this man's palm, seems to long for those finely manicured fingers to close over its initials and elegant scrollwork. He won't fill it, but he'll carry everywhere he goes.
The younger man's shoulders slump, and he digs inside his coat with an air of defeat.
"It's not the one you lost," he insists, nonetheless handing a credit card to Ian.
"That's not the point," says the older man, smiling beatifically. "Thank you, my dear."
Shaila flips one curly strand of hair out of her eyes, adjusting her headphones. It's a slow day, so she turns up the volume and twists to the beat. If she's trapped behind the sodding till for another three hours, she might as well enjoy herself.
She doesn't hear the bell when the couple comes in, but it's their slow progress around the tiny shop floor, equal and opposite orbits, that finally draws her attention. She knows the kind of furtiveness the scholarly type is showing; he's got a vintage waistcoat held up in both hands, and he's shifting his stance as his partner moves on, perusing a rack on the far wall, oblivious. Doesn't want him to see.
There's an eerie disconnect between these men and her music: the former so clearly content with each other, the latter so goddamned sad. She always knows a couple from friends, never mind gender or inclination. It's in the way they're aware of each other even when they're not. The younger man's handsome, but he's hiding behind sunglasses and a black wool coat. The older man is dignified—stuffy, but pleasant. She pictures them sharing coffee at Federation, maybe exchanging clandestine kisses (so circumspect, the older crowd; she thinks of Malcolm and Chand, shameless as they are, and laughs).
A dark blur in her peripheral vision makes her look up.
The younger man is just leaving, his hand lifting with careless grace from his partner's shoulder. He's forgotten something elsewhere, maybe scones from the bakery on the other side of the arcade. The older gent in the tartan scarf (she's seen so few who can rock the look, but, man, he does) wastes no time in snatching up the waistcoat again (he'd moved on to a dress shirt, the terrible liar) and bringing it up to the till.
"He's gonna look fine in that come Christmas," Shaila tells him, removing her headphones. "Just you wait."
"My point exactly," he replies, counting out sixty quid with satisfaction.
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