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go_exchange2017-12-19 05:46 am
goe_mod) wrote in go_exchange2017-12-19 05:46 am
Entry tags:
Happy Holidays, lvslie!
This fic was written especially for lvslie!
Title: Through Glasses, Darkly
Recipient: lvslie
Characters: Aziraphale & Crowley (can be read as gen or pre-slash, with my intent the latter)
Rating: PG-13 [SFW]
Word Count: 1,040
Notes: My recipient asked for sleepy Crowley, wardrobe peculiarities, and mild hurt/comfort. I confess that the historical dimension to this is my doing, so I hope it’s forgivable. Happy Holidays!
Summary: Aziraphale plucked the nearest silk ribbon off Crowley’s dressing table and tossed it on top of him.
“Come now, don’t be daft,” he coaxed. “Won't you accompany me to lunch? There's some gossip.”
“Can't, too depressed,” Crowley yawned beneath the duvet. “What did the Colonists break this time?”
London, 10 March 1776
It wasn’t breaking and entering, Aziraphale told himself. Not if it involved concern about a sort-of-friend who, for the better part of the week since Aziraphale had returned from his travels, had not answered his door. He forced the lock with a thought, pushing his way inside.
Crowley’s rented rooms were on the third floor. The demon consistently preferred a high vantage point, the better to peer at whomever might be approaching. Not in this case, it seemed. He wasn’t at the window.
Aziraphale unlocked Crowley’s flat, turning the knob with a guilty flinch. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Crowley was in neither the parlor, nor the sitting room. Dust had begun to accrue on the mantelpiece and the ornamental side-table. Aziraphale sniffed, adjusted his spectacles, and started back the hall.
“Crowley?” he inquired, rapping tentatively on the closed bedroom door. “Crowley, are you there?”
Stirring from within sounded like the rustle of heavy bed linens, followed by a recognizable sigh.
“It’s nearly two o’clock,” Aziraphale continued, with false cheer. “Time you got up, don’t you think?”
Crowley groaned feebly, the fabric-swathed flailing suggesting he might have flopped onto his back.
“Last I checked,” he called, “humans were doing a bang-up job of playing silly buggers on their own.”
“Yes, well,” Aziraphale forged on. “I’m just back from a nice holiday in the Orient, and you, it seems, are just waking from a week-long nap. We can’t stay off-duty for long. Someone might notice.”
“Notice,” Crowley mumbled, with a hint of drowsy laughter. “Heh. Have you met my people?”
Finally frustrated with the run-around, Aziraphale unlocked and opened the bedroom door faster than Crowley could re-lock it again. All that was visible above the quilt-covered lump was Crowley’s disarrayed hair—longer than usual, unkempt, with a hint of wave to it.
Aziraphale plucked the nearest silk ribbon off Crowley’s dressing table and tossed it on top of him.
“Come now, don’t be daft,” he coaxed. “Won't you accompany me to lunch? There's some gossip.”
“Can't, too depressed,” Crowley yawned beneath the duvet. “What did the Colonists break this time?”
Stepping around to the side of the bed, Aziraphale prodded at him with one cautious index finger. Memories of Spain came flooding back. This wouldn’t be a repeat, oh no. Not on his watch.
“As if that upstart of yours across the Atlantic—Paine, wasn’t it, and aptly named, too—weren’t enough,” Aziraphale said, yanking back the covers while Crowley let his guard down and indulged in a stretch, “that troublesome friend of yours, Smith, published a screed titled An Inquiry Into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations. Just yesterday, in fact.”
Clad in only a loose, unlaced nightshirt, Crowley gasped indignantly and yanked the sheets back up.
“It isn’t my fault they’re developing the good sense to question proto-Capitalism,” he snapped.
“No,” said Aziraphale, in irritation, snatching the dove-grey ribbon, pressing it on him, “but you’re an instigator, you—you old serpent.” He ignored Crowley’s strident nonverbal protests as he wrangled him to the edge of the mattress, bedclothes in tow. “Fix your hair, Crowley, and get dressed.”
Crowley folded his arms across his chest, ribbon dangling from his fingertips, practically pouting.
“Don’t want to,” he said tersely, gleaming eyes darting to the shuttered window. “It’s too bright out.”
“Oh, this again,” said Aziraphale, unsurprised to hear one of Crowley’s favorite protests against being dragged kicking and screaming from a rigorous bout of Sloth. “No matter,” he said, snapping his fingers so that the tangles fell from Crowley’s hair. He snatched the ribbon from Crowley’s grasp, whisked it behind Crowley’s back, and tied the soft, dark spill haphazardly in place. “There.”
Crowley slid off the bed and pushed past Aziraphale, fussing with the ribbon as he dashed to his full-length mirror. Aziraphale couldn’t help but stare at his bony knees and the shapely, exposed turn of his calves. He closed his eyes while Crowley studied his reflection.
“How’s this,” mumbled the demon, and the air perceptibly went swish. “Not overdoing it?”
Aziraphale opened his eyes and found that breathing, rather than forgetting to, was the problem.
“You’re a vision—” Aziraphale bit his treacherous, overeager tongue “—of gentility. Quite serviceable.”
Crowley brushed at his frock coat, examining the intricate golden stitching against the grey damask. White linen shirt and neck-cloth, white stockings. Black breeches and shoes, buckles of polished brass.
“One feels a touch of severity is in order,” said Crowley, snidely. “These are, after all, troubled times.”
“Vanity,” Aziraphale chided. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were out to impress someone.”
Crowley froze, his eyes flying up to meet Aziraphale’s gaze, already gone far too fond, in the mirror.
“Granted,” he coughed, averting his glance to underscore its difference, “I’m not in the mood for stares.”
“Lucky for you,” said Aziraphale, reaching inside his coat, “I’ve come prepared.” He handed the oval-shaped shagreen case with its copper trim and braided silk cord. “A little something from China.”
“Stingray?” Crowley asked, running his fingertips absently across the scaled sharkskin. “You shouldn’t have,” he murmured, popping the case, pleased when the cord kept the top half from falling to the floor. Curiously, he withdrew the item inside with delicate thumb and forefinger. “Oh.”
Aziraphale took the case out of Crowley’s hand, setting it aside. “The frames are made of brass,” he explained, keenly aware he’d tripped into a nervous ramble. “See the maker’s mark, there? I’m rusty when it comes to seal script, alas. Not as ornate as they come, but those rivets should—”
Crowley unfolded the glasses’ arms and slid them reverently onto his face, stealing Aziraphale’s breath.
“Smoky quartz with no inclusions,” he said, fingering one lens-edge. “You really shouldn’t have.”
“Worth every penny,” said Aziraphale, vehemently, “if they get you out of the blasted bed.” He ought to have been disturbed by his fleeting notion of wanting to keep Crowley in it.
“You’re turning tempter, you know,” said Crowley, turning away from the mirror, poking Aziraphale in the chest with a much less tentative index finger than Aziraphale had used on him. “It’s unseemly.”
“Then forgive me,” Aziraphale said, offering Crowley his arm in challenge. “If you have it in you.”
Title: Through Glasses, Darkly
Recipient: lvslie
Characters: Aziraphale & Crowley (can be read as gen or pre-slash, with my intent the latter)
Rating: PG-13 [SFW]
Word Count: 1,040
Notes: My recipient asked for sleepy Crowley, wardrobe peculiarities, and mild hurt/comfort. I confess that the historical dimension to this is my doing, so I hope it’s forgivable. Happy Holidays!
Summary: Aziraphale plucked the nearest silk ribbon off Crowley’s dressing table and tossed it on top of him.
“Come now, don’t be daft,” he coaxed. “Won't you accompany me to lunch? There's some gossip.”
“Can't, too depressed,” Crowley yawned beneath the duvet. “What did the Colonists break this time?”
London, 10 March 1776
It wasn’t breaking and entering, Aziraphale told himself. Not if it involved concern about a sort-of-friend who, for the better part of the week since Aziraphale had returned from his travels, had not answered his door. He forced the lock with a thought, pushing his way inside.
Crowley’s rented rooms were on the third floor. The demon consistently preferred a high vantage point, the better to peer at whomever might be approaching. Not in this case, it seemed. He wasn’t at the window.
Aziraphale unlocked Crowley’s flat, turning the knob with a guilty flinch. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Crowley was in neither the parlor, nor the sitting room. Dust had begun to accrue on the mantelpiece and the ornamental side-table. Aziraphale sniffed, adjusted his spectacles, and started back the hall.
“Crowley?” he inquired, rapping tentatively on the closed bedroom door. “Crowley, are you there?”
Stirring from within sounded like the rustle of heavy bed linens, followed by a recognizable sigh.
“It’s nearly two o’clock,” Aziraphale continued, with false cheer. “Time you got up, don’t you think?”
Crowley groaned feebly, the fabric-swathed flailing suggesting he might have flopped onto his back.
“Last I checked,” he called, “humans were doing a bang-up job of playing silly buggers on their own.”
“Yes, well,” Aziraphale forged on. “I’m just back from a nice holiday in the Orient, and you, it seems, are just waking from a week-long nap. We can’t stay off-duty for long. Someone might notice.”
“Notice,” Crowley mumbled, with a hint of drowsy laughter. “Heh. Have you met my people?”
Finally frustrated with the run-around, Aziraphale unlocked and opened the bedroom door faster than Crowley could re-lock it again. All that was visible above the quilt-covered lump was Crowley’s disarrayed hair—longer than usual, unkempt, with a hint of wave to it.
Aziraphale plucked the nearest silk ribbon off Crowley’s dressing table and tossed it on top of him.
“Come now, don’t be daft,” he coaxed. “Won't you accompany me to lunch? There's some gossip.”
“Can't, too depressed,” Crowley yawned beneath the duvet. “What did the Colonists break this time?”
Stepping around to the side of the bed, Aziraphale prodded at him with one cautious index finger. Memories of Spain came flooding back. This wouldn’t be a repeat, oh no. Not on his watch.
“As if that upstart of yours across the Atlantic—Paine, wasn’t it, and aptly named, too—weren’t enough,” Aziraphale said, yanking back the covers while Crowley let his guard down and indulged in a stretch, “that troublesome friend of yours, Smith, published a screed titled An Inquiry Into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations. Just yesterday, in fact.”
Clad in only a loose, unlaced nightshirt, Crowley gasped indignantly and yanked the sheets back up.
“It isn’t my fault they’re developing the good sense to question proto-Capitalism,” he snapped.
“No,” said Aziraphale, in irritation, snatching the dove-grey ribbon, pressing it on him, “but you’re an instigator, you—you old serpent.” He ignored Crowley’s strident nonverbal protests as he wrangled him to the edge of the mattress, bedclothes in tow. “Fix your hair, Crowley, and get dressed.”
Crowley folded his arms across his chest, ribbon dangling from his fingertips, practically pouting.
“Don’t want to,” he said tersely, gleaming eyes darting to the shuttered window. “It’s too bright out.”
“Oh, this again,” said Aziraphale, unsurprised to hear one of Crowley’s favorite protests against being dragged kicking and screaming from a rigorous bout of Sloth. “No matter,” he said, snapping his fingers so that the tangles fell from Crowley’s hair. He snatched the ribbon from Crowley’s grasp, whisked it behind Crowley’s back, and tied the soft, dark spill haphazardly in place. “There.”
Crowley slid off the bed and pushed past Aziraphale, fussing with the ribbon as he dashed to his full-length mirror. Aziraphale couldn’t help but stare at his bony knees and the shapely, exposed turn of his calves. He closed his eyes while Crowley studied his reflection.
“How’s this,” mumbled the demon, and the air perceptibly went swish. “Not overdoing it?”
Aziraphale opened his eyes and found that breathing, rather than forgetting to, was the problem.
“You’re a vision—” Aziraphale bit his treacherous, overeager tongue “—of gentility. Quite serviceable.”
Crowley brushed at his frock coat, examining the intricate golden stitching against the grey damask. White linen shirt and neck-cloth, white stockings. Black breeches and shoes, buckles of polished brass.
“One feels a touch of severity is in order,” said Crowley, snidely. “These are, after all, troubled times.”
“Vanity,” Aziraphale chided. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were out to impress someone.”
Crowley froze, his eyes flying up to meet Aziraphale’s gaze, already gone far too fond, in the mirror.
“Granted,” he coughed, averting his glance to underscore its difference, “I’m not in the mood for stares.”
“Lucky for you,” said Aziraphale, reaching inside his coat, “I’ve come prepared.” He handed the oval-shaped shagreen case with its copper trim and braided silk cord. “A little something from China.”
“Stingray?” Crowley asked, running his fingertips absently across the scaled sharkskin. “You shouldn’t have,” he murmured, popping the case, pleased when the cord kept the top half from falling to the floor. Curiously, he withdrew the item inside with delicate thumb and forefinger. “Oh.”
Aziraphale took the case out of Crowley’s hand, setting it aside. “The frames are made of brass,” he explained, keenly aware he’d tripped into a nervous ramble. “See the maker’s mark, there? I’m rusty when it comes to seal script, alas. Not as ornate as they come, but those rivets should—”
Crowley unfolded the glasses’ arms and slid them reverently onto his face, stealing Aziraphale’s breath.
“Smoky quartz with no inclusions,” he said, fingering one lens-edge. “You really shouldn’t have.”
“Worth every penny,” said Aziraphale, vehemently, “if they get you out of the blasted bed.” He ought to have been disturbed by his fleeting notion of wanting to keep Crowley in it.
“You’re turning tempter, you know,” said Crowley, turning away from the mirror, poking Aziraphale in the chest with a much less tentative index finger than Aziraphale had used on him. “It’s unseemly.”
“Then forgive me,” Aziraphale said, offering Crowley his arm in challenge. “If you have it in you.”
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(Anonymous) 2018-01-04 03:30 pm (UTC)(link)It's weird to show an object in fic and then realize you never showed how the character got that object. The prompt was a great chance to do that, so I took it. And you can rarely go wrong with Aziraphale being a massive fussbudget ;)