Happy Holidays, bravinto! Part 2
Dec. 2nd, 2017 06:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeThe Rose Thief and the Priest
Part 2
Securing a sample of the rose bush, Crowley decided the next morning as he stirred his tea and wondered absently if Aziraphale had finished his sermon, was going to require a more refined approach than he had taken so far. Despite Aziraphale’s insistence that he was not at liberty to let Crowley take a sample, it was perfectly clear that the priest was indeed capable of physically granting his request, were he so inclined. Crowley might have tried to seek out someone else who worked at the church, but he had seen neither hide nor hair of any such persons, and he didn't know if they'd have access to the cemetery anyway. So if the straightforward approaches he'd tried with Aziraphale so far hadn’t worked in his favour, maybe something more…creative would change his fortunes.
Crowley whittled away most of the day catching up on some articles on experimental breeding techniques in roses and then, when the afternoon was waning long, he walked the now-familiar route back to St Mildred’s.
He found Aziraphale in the private room off the aisle again. He got a better look at it this time as the priest opened the door, and thought it looked like an office. In a nice change of pace, Aziraphale looked mildly amused to see him.
“You’ve missed the service by a couple of hours, I’m afraid.”
“I know,” Crowley said. “I was wondering if you’d like to grab a drink?”
Aziraphale’s expression immediately brightened, and Crowley couldn’t tell if it was at the prospect of alcohol or relief from his ‘important work’ in the church.
“I’ll buy you one,” Crowley added. “As thanks for not, you know, pressing charges.”
“Ah, dear boy, don’t worry about that,” Aziraphale said, but he closed the door to the office behind him.
“There’s a nice-looking pub next to my hotel,” Crowley suggested.
“The White Hart?” Aziraphale asked, already heading for the exit.
“Sounds about right.”
“There’s a better one south of here,” Aziraphale said as he plucked a tan coat and tartan scarf off one of the hooks in an alcove near the door. “The Maiden’s Head. They have delicious kebabs.”
It was a quick five minute walk to the pub, the brick and plaster building charmingly English in appearance. On the pavement outside, a sandwich board advertised handmade pizzas.
Aziraphale led them inside and made a beeline for the bar, greeting the barman with a smile. Crowley expected him to order a beer or cider, but instead he asked for a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.
“Actually,” Crowley interjected, addressing his words to the barman. “Make it a bottle.”
Aziraphale looked at him in surprise. “A fan of the old wines?”
“I dabble when I can.”
The barman poured them two glasses and set them on the bar, followed by the bottle. Aziraphale took his and the bottle and went to find a table while Crowley paid.
Crowley joined him a moment later at an out-of-the-way table near a window, settling down comfortably onto his chair.
“To your good health,” Aziraphale said, and took a sip of wine.
“Cheers,” Crowley agreed, and did the same. The wine was dry and sharp on his tongue, and when he swallowed he felt the satisfying burn of the alcohol.
“So,” Aziraphale said, arranging his fingers neatly on the base of his wine glass, “I suppose this is another well-intentioned attempt to convince me to abandon my morality?”
“No,” Crowley lied. “Maybe I just fancied a drink and you’re the only one I know within walking distance.”
“Hmph,” Aziraphale said, looking amused as he picked up his glass and gave it a small swirl, the red liquid oscillating around the edge of the glass.
“Pardon my asking,” Crowley said, “but you don’t seem like the priest type to me.”
Aziraphale made a noise of agreement and took a sip of his wine. “Really, I’m not. I used to think I was, which was why I got ordained in the first place, but it didn’t really work out.”
Crowley blinked at him in surprise. “But you’re still working at the church.”
“Filling in,” Aziraphale reminded him. “I quit the business a few months ago, if you must know, and came back to fill in here as a favour. I did my curacy at St Mildred’s, and the vicar’s a friend.”
Crowley absorbed that. “So what are you doing now?”
Aziraphale adjusted his position on his chair, sitting back slightly and returning to swirling his wine. “I’m planning on opening a bookshop, actually, but I’m still looking at properties.”
“Huh,” Crowley said, mentally turning that over in his head. “New books, or used?”
“Used, mostly. I have quite a few rare ones as well, but to be honest I don’t know if I could bring myself to part with them.”
Crowley made an amused noise and took a sip of his wine, latching onto this scrap of information with relish. If the priest was impervious to money as an object of fair exchange, perhaps he could be persuaded with something more enticing. “What sort of rare books? There’s quite a spectrum.”
“Indeed,” Aziraphale agreed, eyes lighting up as he leaned forward in his seat. “I specialise in misprinted Bibles and esoteric material, but honestly anything over three hundred years old is worth collecting just for the sheer historical value.”
“Misprinted Bibles?” Crowley echoed, wondering distractedly how much those must cost.
Aziraphale grinned at him with the delight of someone who’s been asked about their favourite subject. “They’ve either got misprinted words—for instance, the seventh commandment saying that thou shalt commit adultery—or unusual translations—Adam and Eve making themselves breeches from fig leaves, for example.”
“Huh.”
Once steered onto this topic of conversation, Aziraphale proved hard to distract, but Crowley wound up enjoying it despite himself. Aziraphale was very knowledgeable, and though Crowley had never considered the Bible as anything other than an object to stay very far away from, he found himself thinking that it would be cool to see one of these infamous books in person.
They were on their second glasses of wine when Aziraphale seemed to realise that he’d been talking for quite a long while, and wound up his story of tracking down a particularly rare edition of the “Ears to Ears” Bible.
“But enough about me,” Aziraphale said, picking up his glass and tipping the rim towards Crowley. “What about you? How does one get into the rose theft trade?”
“It’s not theft,” Crowley protested, but he could tell by the upturned corner of Aziraphale’s mouth that he was only teasing. He straightened himself up a little. “Horticulture is a serious field, I will have you know, full of respectable individuals.”
“Who climb over fences in the middle of the night.”
“I—look—” Crowley began, but Aziraphale only smirked and took another drink. “That was the first time I’ve done that. We do ask permission.”
“We?”
“Rose rustlers.”
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Rustlers?”
“Not my term,” Crowley said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s a hobby for most people. Roses have a long history of cultivation by humans, you see, and they’ve been selectively bred for hundreds of years. Modern roses have been engineered to look and smell and grow the way they do, so they can perform better on the market. But there are still old roses out there, growing wild. Not only do some of them have genes that have otherwise died out in modern roses, but some of them have valuable traits that were inadvertently bred out of modern cultivars.”
Aziraphale took that in.
“Like disease resistance, for example,” Crowley continued. “Black spot and other fungal infections have been devastating the English rose crop for the past few years, and if you can’t breed resistance, you have to spray for it, which isn’t ideal for anyone. And then there’s things like old roses having improved scent, drought resistance, etcetera.”
Aziraphale nodded slowly. “So when you talk about taking a cutting, what do you mean, exactly? If you want to breed the rose, don’t you need the seed?”
“The fruit, yes,” Crowley corrected. “That’s the rose hip. But that would produce children which weren’t identical to the parent; so if instead you take what’s called a herbaceous stem cutting, you can grow a plant that’s genetically identical to its parent.”
“Like a clone?”
“Exactly like a clone,” Crowley agreed. “And that way the traits you want are preserved. It’s amazing, what plants can do. Oftentimes you can just take a cutting of the stem—the aboveground stem, that is—with maybe a leaf or two on it, and stick it in some sand or soil, keep it watered, and it’ll just” —Crowley mimicked an explosion with his hands— “produce an entirely new plant. It’s amazing.”
Aziraphale blinked at him. “Really? Just from a piece of the stem?”
“Life will find a way,” Crowley agreed with a smile. “Some plants you can grow from just a single leaf, or even a fragment of a leaf—it’s incredible. But for something like roses, you’re a lot safer taking a little larger piece, so you can get part of the rootstock. And it increases the plant’s chances of success in its new environment.”
“Hm,” Aziraphale said, sounding impressed.
Crowley, reaching the end of his explanation, realised with surprise that the interest in Aziraphale’s eyes was still there, bright and steady; he was so used to seeing it fade quickly and be replaced with polite disinterest that it took him off guard for a moment. He’d come to accept that, despite his enthusiasm, plant propagation was just a subject no one wanted to hear anything about. As a result, he’d kept much of his professional life to himself; it was nice being able to talk to someone about his passion and not feel guilty about it for once.
The alcohol was beginning to have an effect, stirring up a hazy warmth in his chest, and Crowley found himself smiling tentatively at Aziraphale.
Aziraphale smiled back at him and topped up his wine glass. “If you don’t mind me asking,” the priest asked when he had finished, “are your eyes natural?”
Crowley’s smile faltered and he quickly looked away, the warm feeling beginning to fade in his chest. “Yeah,” he said, turning to his standard answer whenever people asked, which was often. “It’s a pigment imbalance. Too much lipochrome and not enough melanin. Don’t worry about it.” Crowley was already rummaging in his messenger bag, searching for his sunglasses. He hadn’t been interacting with a lot of people recently, and so had hoped to go without them for a couple of days. That was another advantage of working with plants—they didn’t care if you had freakish yellow eyes.
“What are you—” Aziraphale began.
Crowley freed his sunglasses and dropped his bag back to the ground, moving to slide the shades onto his nose.
“Oh, no, please,” Aziraphale said quickly, reaching out and putting his hand on Crowley’s arm, arresting his motion. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was just curious. They’re quite beautiful.”
Crowley paused in surprise, sunglasses still in his hand. His eyes met Aziraphale’s, but the priest seemed completely honest.
“I—er,” Crowley said, taken aback. Though he had come to accept his unusual eye colour, he had never honestly expected anyone else to see them as anything other than alien, predatory, or, at best, deeply unsettling.
“Please,” Aziraphale repeated, and Crowley forced himself to nod.
He tucked his sunglasses back away into his bag and then folded his hands nervously on the table, eyes downcast as he studied the lacquered surface of the wood.
“You’re a bit of an old rare rose yourself, aren’t you?” Aziraphale commented kindly. “Genetically speaking, that is.”
Crowley felt his ears start burning and tried to cover it with a shrug. “The genetics of eye colour are very poorly understood.”
Aziraphale made a noise of agreement and took another sip of his wine. Crowley cast his mind around vainly for some other conversational topic, gaze still fixed on the table.
“I’m sorry if that was a sore spot,” Aziraphale said after a moment, sounding a little worried. He reached for the wine bottle and topped up Crowley’s glass for him.
“No, I—it’s fine,” Crowley said, dragging his gaze from the table and picking up the glass Aziraphale had just filled for him. He took a long gulp, Aziraphale’s words still echoing in his mind: They’re quite beautiful. He wondered what his stepfather would have said about that.
“Your roses,” Aziraphale said quickly. “You said you have a nursery in London, right? What do you do with them? Is it mostly breeding, or do you sell them…?”
Crowley leapt at the opportunity to drag his attention back to the present. “I do a lot of breeding, mostly,” he said, trying to avoid looking directly at Aziraphale while not making it obvious that that was what he was doing. “Trying to preserve the old cultivars before we lose them forever. And there’s a bit of selling, yeah, but most people would rather go to the flower shop and buy something cheaper. And the online competition doesn’t help.”
Aziraphale made a noise of understanding. “So, if you got one of the roses from the church, what would you do with it?”
Crowley shrugged. “It depends what type it is. If it’s a William Lobb or Charles de Mills, and if it’s disease-resistant, it would be invaluable for crossing, particularly since black spot is such a problem at the moment. I have a Lady Emma Hamilton that it would probably cross well with.”
Aziraphale frowned at him. “‘Lady Emma Hamilton’?” he repeated.
“Oh, yes, sorry,” Crowley said, and paused to take a fortifying sip of wine before continuing, feeling his anxiety over his eyes beginning to fade away as he warmed to this fresh topic. “Roses have great names, particularly old roses. If you discover a new subspecies, you get to name it. A lot of people name them after themselves, and then there’s ones like Champagne Moment, Sweet Revelation, Empress of the Garden, Magic Carpet, etcetera.” Seeing Aziraphale’s disbelieving expression, Crowley added, “There are normal ones too, like Rosa gallica and willmottiae, but the custom names really took off.”
Aziraphale made an incredulous noise and took another sip of his wine. They were over halfway through the bottle now, and Crowley belatedly remembered his initial plan to get the priest drunk enough so that he’d let him into the cemetery.
Now, though, that seemed downright underhanded, and, though Crowley could certainly be a little manipulative at times, he wasn’t that manipulative. And they were having such a nice time as it was. Besides, the priest was holding his liquor a lot better than Crowley had assumed he would.
“Do you want to order some dinner?” Aziraphale asked, glancing in the direction of the board next to the bar with the list of specials.
“Sure,” Crowley agreed, oddly relieved at the suggestion.
They discussed Canterbury while they waited for their food to be brought, Crowley explaining that he was on a rose-hunting expedition in the southeast of England.
“You never know what you’ll find,” Crowley said. “I once found a beautiful Princess Anne in a ditch in Shrewsbury. Or, well, I think it’s a Princess Anne. It’s hard to be sure.”
Aziraphale hummed and sipped his wine. “So how long are you here for? There’s more to southeast England than Canterbury, little as people may believe it.”
Crowley laughed agreement. “Well, I’ve got about a week left,” he explained, shifting the wine bottle to make more room for their food when it came. “And then I need to head back to London for the Royal Horticulture Society’s annual rose show. It’ll be my third year attending.”
Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply, but that was when their food arrived.
They made small talk as they ate, and Crowley slowly realised that Aziraphale wasn’t as old as he’d initially thought. He certainly dressed like he was nearing fifty, but there was a youthfulness in his face that came out when he smiled, and Crowley found himself suspecting that the priest wasn’t actually much older than he was.
As they worked their way to the bottom of the wine bottle, Crowley’s mind getting increasingly warm, they found themselves on the topic of religion, and why Aziraphale had quit it.
“It’s just…I did a bit too much reading,” the priest confessed, listing over the table, cheeks flushed. “And once you start to really think about it, it all just falls apart, doesn’t it?”
Crowley, who sensed that his education on the Bible had been very different than most people’s, furrowed his brow in confusion.
“Take Eden, for example,” Aziraphale said, planting a hand on the table. “If God didn’t want them to take the apple, why did He make it so easy for them to reach the tree? And doesn’t He see all, so wouldn’t He have seen that they would disobey? It just doesn’t make any logical sense.”
Crowley pursed his lips in thought, the room swaying slightly around him. “What about God working in mysterious ways and all that?”
“Precisely,” Aziraphale hissed, eyes suddenly intent. “It only works if you take it all on faith. That’s the point I’m trying to make. It’s God’s conveniently ineffable plan.”
Crowley squinted at the priest. “What’sss that mean?”
“Ineffable,” Aziraphale repeated. “Unknowable.”
Crowley grunted agreement and eyed up his glass, wondering if it was wise to take another drink.
“It looks logical at first glance,” Aziraphale insisted, "but it’s a superficial logic because it’s all built on blind faith in an ineffable masterplan. It operates on the assumption that no one’s going to be independent-thinking enough to actually give it a good poke. And if you do—go a-poking, that is—you’ll see that’s it’s all just a facade.”
Crowley shifted his eyes back to Aziraphale. “But you’re supposed to have faith,” he said. Even he knew that. “That’sss the point. And you’re a priest. That’sss your job.”
Aziraphale sat back and spread his hands slightly. “Hence not being a priest anymore.”
Crowley made a noise of understanding. “I sssee.”
“And what about you, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, leaning forward and awkwardly patting Crowley’s hand. “You seem like a godless fellow to me.”
Crowley wasn’t sure if that was meant to be an insult or not, but he let it pass. He shrugged. “Never got much into it.” He distantly remembered his stepfather screaming at him and hurling the Bible in his direction as he cowered and tried to flee the house. “My old man was, though.”
Aziraphale considered this, reaching for his glass drunkenly. “You must have liked him.”
Crowley grimaced. “Hated him, to be honest.”
Aziraphale’s mouth arranged itself into a frown as his hand successfully located his glass. “But you use his name. Crowley, not Anthony, remember?”
Crowley’s grimace deepened. “Crowley was my real father’s name. I never really knew him, but I guess he was a sight nicer than his replacement.”
Sometimes, Crowley could still hear the insults thrown his way, the taunt of yellow eyes picked up by the neighbourhood children. His stepfather had been a god-fearing man and a drunk, and together the two had convinced him that his stepson was a cruelty God had set in his path, an ungrateful, demonic-eyed abomination sent to tempt his wife into leaving him.
“But what about Anthony?” Aziraphale asked, dragging his glass towards him across the tabletop without bothering to actually pick it up. “Anthony’s nice.”
Not when he’d say it, Crowley thought bleakly. “Didn’t like it,” he said instead.
Aziraphale grunted understanding.
Crowley thought that this conversation should have been upsetting him, but it just…wasn’t. Maybe it was the haze of alcohol, or the knowledge that his past was a long way behind him. Or maybe it was because, for the first time in a long time, he was truly happy with the present moment. Sitting here with this strange, kind, oddly beautiful priest with the mystery rose bush…this really wasn’t so bad at all.
Crowley realised he was grinning lopsidedly at Aziraphale and hastily shook himself.
“Well,” Aziraphale hiccupped, “if you ever feel like giving religion another shot, you’re welcome to come to one of the services. Even with the ineffability, there’re some useful things you can get out of it.”
Crowley hummed acknowledgement.
Aziraphale picked up the wine bottle and seemed surprised to find it was empty. “Oh dear, I think it’s probably time we were getting back, what do you think?”
“Ssssure,” Crowley slurred, wondering where ‘back’ would be.
Aziraphale made his way out of his chair, spent a long moment steadying himself, and then hobbled over to Crowley and offered his hand. Crowley accepted it and let Aziraphale help him to his feet. The room swayed alarmingly, and Crowley listed against the priest, the other man’s warm solidity somehow reassuring.
“Door…” Aziraphale muttered, and they started staggering in that direction, Crowley still clinging to Aziraphale’s arm for support.
They made it outside, the cool twilight air playing over Crowley’s skin. “Thisss was niccce,” Crowley mumbled as they started their way down the street, Aziraphale leading them in a meandering line in the direction of the church.
“Y—es,” Aziraphale hiccuped agreement, shifting his arm so it was wrapped around Crowley’s shoulders.
Crowley hummed in contentment, soaking in the feeling of companionship while he still could. He did spend so very much of his time alone.
It was far too soon when the shape of the church came into view, the steeple a dark blotch against the fading sky. Again, Crowley remembered the rose, but decided absently that it could wait. He didn’t trust himself to take a good cutting when the world was spinning like this, anyway.
Aziraphale slowed to a stop outside the church, clumsily retracting his arm from Crowley’s shoulders. “Can you get back to your—your hotel okay?”
Crowley blinked at him for a moment. He took a deep breath, trying to convince the world to solidify around him. “Yeah.”
Aziraphale nodded unsteadily, the half-light playing over his features. “Good night, then.”
Crowley, staring down the lane in the direction of his hotel, trying to plot out the way back in his head, was silent for a moment. Then he registered what Aziraphale had said and turned back, nodding emphatically. “Night, good night, yes,” he affirmed.
Aziraphale smiled faintly at him, listing a little to one side. “You’ll come to the church tomorrow?”
Crowley nodded again, a lopsided smile stealing over his face. “You know I will. I’ll come back every day until I get that rose, you hear me?”
Aziraphale’s smile faded slightly, but Crowley had already turned back to the road.
He started unsteadily down the lane, the shadows of the cemetery fence transforming the flat surface of the road into a series of undulating waves.
As he made his way down the lane, feet stumbling on every shadow and imagined rock, Crowley smiled at the warmth in his chest and thought hazily that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such a sense of sheer belonging.
Next: Part 3!
(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-02 03:18 pm (UTC)Now there's even fluff adding up to the long list of things that this fanfic offers, be still my heart!
Not gonna lie, I was in a pretty low mood for the last couple of days, but today, sitting here in my pyjamas (yes, at 4:20 in the afternoon, don't judge me), with a nice cup of warm tea and this fanfic, I just feel content and happy.
This fic makes me laugh out loud and even though it's not really adventurous, it's still thrilling to follow Crowley's plans AND the development of their relationship.
I was so into it that I forgot to leave a comment here and already started reading part 3, but now I remembered and came back!
Great job!
(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-02 05:46 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-03 05:47 pm (UTC)I had fun with Crowley's eyes; I decided serpentine pupils was a bit too much of a stretch with human genetics, but eye color is a lot more flexible, so voila! Rare gold irises, beautiful even if Crowley's often been told the opposite...
–Secret Author
(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-02 11:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-03 05:58 pm (UTC)Thanks for commenting!
–Secret Author
(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-04 03:18 am (UTC)"“You’re a bit of an old rare rose yourself, aren’t you?” Aziraphale commented kindly." GOODNESS this is a nice line
(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-05 11:12 am (UTC)I'm glad you like my old rare rose line! It's one of my favorites too. :)
–Secret Author
(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-06 07:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-04 06:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-04 11:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2017-12-05 11:29 am (UTC)Thanks for reading and commenting!
–Secret Author
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-01 04:28 pm (UTC)The other thing is, there is this part: "and Crowley slowly realised that Aziraphale wasn’t as old as he’d initially thought. He certainly dressed like he was nearing fifty, but there was a youthfulness in his face that came out when he smiled, and Crowley found himself suspecting that the priest wasn’t actually much older than he was." --- This just reminded me why I love "watching" (reading about) how these two unsuspecting clever dummies forge a friendship or fall in love over and over again in about five million mildly similar ways. Noticing little things like this, building fondness out of the tiniest details, it always gives me such a warm feeling. Thank you :)