Happy Holidays, Trinityblack!
Dec. 11th, 2005 12:32 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangetitle: Of Shillings and Christmas Tricks
gift recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
trinityblack
author:villainny
Summary: A/C. A little magic at Christmas.
Rating: PG
author's/artist's notes: Many thanks to my amazing beta, and are also due tolinnpuzzle whose snow picture was an inspiration. Hope you like it, Trinity!
Crowley eventually found the angel. It wasn't, of course, as if he'd really been looking, but he did suppose he ought to offer an acquaintance of quite such long standing a ride home - especially considering the weather. It was only common courtesy, which was certainly a point against it and made Crowley hunch his shoulders in his particularly well-cut suit, but there are always two sides to any argument. The second in this case was a very fine bottle of Chateau Margaux, the '99, which he knew the angel to have carefully stored on a spare bookcase in the back room of his shop.
Aziraphale was slumped in a somewhat despondent manner on a rather pretty park bench. London was full of that sort of thing - sudden parks small enough to trip over, lurking on many a side street and waiting to steal one's dignity; or, at least, one's impeccable cleanliness. If one moves in the right circles, this comes to much the same thing. He was bundled in a long overcoat that had gone out of fashion somewhere around the 1870s, and had his nose buried in a quite ridiculously long green scarf that had been tripping him up all evening; underneath, it was just about possible to make out the somewhat moth-eaten trouser legs of the quite atrocious suit he'd insisted was 'traditional.' The impression was given, most strenuously, that Aziraphale wouldn't even know such social circles existed.
"You look like you're going into hibernation," Crowley informed him, not quite as unkindly as he could have. It wasn't terribly far from the truth, buried as the angel was in layers of clothing, not to mention his being on the rotund side to begin with. Even the colour of his hair could best be described as 'mousy', although if the light hit it from just the right angle you'd swear that it was threaded with gold, which was the kind of thought that Crowley most certainly wasn't supposed to be having. If one's mind had the gall to notice such things, it would be only polite, he thought, for it to keep quiet about it.
"You," the angel informed him tartly, "are one to talk." He snuggled a little further down into his coat with a noise that was suspiciously proximate to a mournful sigh, and Crowley rolled his eyes and went over to sit on the bench next to him, carefully folding his overcoat underneath him in such a way that his suit might touch as little of it as was possible. Aziraphale grudgingly shifted over, very slightly, to make room - the bench had apparently been designed for the sort of improper tête-à-têtes that somewhat went against his mission statement, and was really quite narrow. There was room enough, of course, and if he sat a little closer than necessary it was merely in deference to the chill of the air.
Crowley (a being of much the same height as the angel, though rather different stature) had been blessed, some might say, with excellent cheekbones and an almost complete lack of any sort of conscience. Of course, he wouldn't phrase it like that, but there are always the few who will remain contrary, and Crowley was ever that. It was almost his raison d'être. Another of his enviable talents was an ability to very nearly believe the lies he told himself. He was certainly much better at it than humans, and infinitely better than angels, who were truthful enough to make a nun blush. This gift was how he was able to excuse extending one kid-gloved hand and gently squeezing Aziraphale's arm for a moment.
"It wasn't as bad as all that."
Of course, he was thinking only of getting Aziraphale into a cheerful enough state that suggesting opening a bottle of particularly fine wine wouldn't go amiss.
Naturally.
"It was embarrassing, Crowley." Aziraphale had emerged a little from his cocoon, and was looking at the demon with pink-cheeked woe. "They were polite, of course - I suppose we've not been going there long enough for you to have had an influence, just yet - but I could tell they would have rather been at bridge." It was worse than he'd thought; the angel's attempt at accustomed snippiness was half-hearted at best. Ever since they'd put the Arrangement into place, Aziraphale had been quite delightedly honing his barbed comments and sarcastic remarks - Crowley was almost proud of him, considering himself a benefactor of sorts. After all, he'd justified it to Aziraphale once, not using a talent you'd been given was a sin against the Lord, and all that. He'd been the recipient of a renewed glass of wine, after that one, and a very strange smile, the meaning of which he still hadn't quite worked out.
"That blond fellow seemed to like it, rather," he returned, without any real conviction in his voice. Lord Peter wasn't the most convincing of arguments - a brilliant mind, certainly, but Crowley was of the opinion that he was barking mad. Not that he had anything against madmen, of course, often they were some of his finest work, but as a means of convincing a moping angel, he lacked a certain something.
"Thank you for the effort, Crowley, but I think my time in the limelight is officially over. Cynicism abounds, a sense of wonder at the miraculous is rather lacking; you, it would appear, have won this round. The days of stage magic are dead."
As Crowley attempted to formulate a response to that, Aziraphale pulled a coin from one capacious brown pocket and flipped it across the back of his knuckles, making it vanish and reappear once or twice, for old time's sake.
"Cor, mister!"
Aziraphale jumped, visibly, and flailed rather to keep his balance. The coin he'd been using flew out of his hand, disappearing into the darkness of the bushes, and the small boy who'd so startled the angel hared off after it, returning triumphantly after a few moments to press the (now rather muddy) half-crown back into Aziraphale's hand.
"Go on, do it again!"
"Well," said Aziraphale, a smile slowly forming, "I can do more than that, my fine young jackanapes. I don't suppose you might have, about your person, such a thing as a pocket handkerchief?"
Crowley buried his face in his hands, not quite managing to prevent himself from laughing.
-
The next few minutes contained cards, linked rings, and far more hankies than any reasonable being should own, enough to make even Aziraphale's enormous pockets bear an unsightly bulge. He'd finished, with a flourish, back on the coin tricks, flipping the half-crown to the youngster who'd saluted and grinned widely and disappeared back in the direction of the street.
It was a moment or two later that the angel, patting down his pockets, had discovered to his horror that he'd left his collapsible top hat in the Club, and that sort of thing would never do at all if he was to be doing a show for the children down at the church, now, would it? He'd sent Crowley a quite radiant smile, one he'd helplessly returned, and had hurried back across the road, a renewed spring in his step. Crowley'd watched him go, then leaned back against the bench, folded his arms, and grinned.
"All right, where are you then?"
There was a moment or two of silence, and then a rustling in the bushes heralded the return of the boy who'd watched Aziraphale's magic tricks so raptly. A subtle change had taken place in his expression - his features were suddenly sharper, his air rather more watchful. Crowley rummaged in his pocket.
"Five bob we agreed, yes?"
"Seven."
A grubby hand was held out demandingly, and Crowley rolled his eyes and handed over the money.
"Don't spend it all at once."
"Naff off." The boy made a rude gesture as he ran off, and Crowley shook his head despairingly. 'Naff off'? The youth of today had no imagination.
He hunched his shoulders a little, folding the collar of his coat up around his face. In the distance, a group of small children were singing Christmas carols, and, in deference to the smile on the returning angel's face, a smile that was aimed at him, Crowley overcame the temptation to ensure a patch of treacherous ice in their path. He stood, instead, to greet Aziraphale.
"Everything all right?"
"Everything is actually fine. Thank you."
There was that smile again, the one that Crowley wasn't sure quite how to interpret. The one that set snakes writhing in his stomach. He cleared his throat, preparatory to saying - he wasn't quite sure what - but he was distracted by the gentle (and absolutely freezing cold) brush of a snowflake against his cheek.
Crowley hated the cold.
He started to turn his head to share his annoyance with the angel, and almost got poked in the eye by the metal prongs of an enormous, and rather faded, green umbrella. It was the sort of contraption that looked, inanimate as it might very well be, to have malevolent intent, and that was the sort of thing Crowley might reasonably be expected to know. He eyed it warily, but a couple of snowflakes that somehow managed to insinuate themselves between collar and neck decided the matter for him. With a most indecorous yelp, he darted under the shelter of the umbrella and almost knocked the angel flying, who grabbed hold of Crowley's hand to steady himself.
Or, at least, apparently to steady himself. Because that reasoning would argue that once the other party was steady, he might well let go of said hand. Which Aziraphale was most decidedly not doing.
Pulling his habitual smoked glasses a little further down his nose, Crowley looked at the angel. His cheeks were tinged faintly with pink, the corners of his mouth were tilted up very slightly, and the expression in his eyes was almost one of defiance.
"I wouldn't have said his performance was worth seven, Crowley," the angel informed him, laughter in his voice.
Crowley gaped at him, completely floored. Which, of course, was entirely the reason he offered no resistance when the angel leaned over and pressed a very brief kiss to his cheek, his nose a spot of cold against Crowley's cheekbone.
"Now, I believe, a spot of tea is in order. Or we could always open that bottle of Margaux, of course?"
"I - yeah. 'Course."
Aziraphale's smile widened, a little, and he squeezed Crowley's hand, and the demon completely forgot about offering him a ride home. He wasn't feeling the cold as much as he had been, just now, in any case.
~end~
Happy Holidays, TrinityBlack, from your Secret Writer!
gift recipient:
trinityblackauthor:
villainnySummary: A/C. A little magic at Christmas.
Rating: PG
author's/artist's notes: Many thanks to my amazing beta, and are also due to
linnpuzzle whose snow picture was an inspiration. Hope you like it, Trinity!Crowley eventually found the angel. It wasn't, of course, as if he'd really been looking, but he did suppose he ought to offer an acquaintance of quite such long standing a ride home - especially considering the weather. It was only common courtesy, which was certainly a point against it and made Crowley hunch his shoulders in his particularly well-cut suit, but there are always two sides to any argument. The second in this case was a very fine bottle of Chateau Margaux, the '99, which he knew the angel to have carefully stored on a spare bookcase in the back room of his shop.
Aziraphale was slumped in a somewhat despondent manner on a rather pretty park bench. London was full of that sort of thing - sudden parks small enough to trip over, lurking on many a side street and waiting to steal one's dignity; or, at least, one's impeccable cleanliness. If one moves in the right circles, this comes to much the same thing. He was bundled in a long overcoat that had gone out of fashion somewhere around the 1870s, and had his nose buried in a quite ridiculously long green scarf that had been tripping him up all evening; underneath, it was just about possible to make out the somewhat moth-eaten trouser legs of the quite atrocious suit he'd insisted was 'traditional.' The impression was given, most strenuously, that Aziraphale wouldn't even know such social circles existed.
"You look like you're going into hibernation," Crowley informed him, not quite as unkindly as he could have. It wasn't terribly far from the truth, buried as the angel was in layers of clothing, not to mention his being on the rotund side to begin with. Even the colour of his hair could best be described as 'mousy', although if the light hit it from just the right angle you'd swear that it was threaded with gold, which was the kind of thought that Crowley most certainly wasn't supposed to be having. If one's mind had the gall to notice such things, it would be only polite, he thought, for it to keep quiet about it.
"You," the angel informed him tartly, "are one to talk." He snuggled a little further down into his coat with a noise that was suspiciously proximate to a mournful sigh, and Crowley rolled his eyes and went over to sit on the bench next to him, carefully folding his overcoat underneath him in such a way that his suit might touch as little of it as was possible. Aziraphale grudgingly shifted over, very slightly, to make room - the bench had apparently been designed for the sort of improper tête-à-têtes that somewhat went against his mission statement, and was really quite narrow. There was room enough, of course, and if he sat a little closer than necessary it was merely in deference to the chill of the air.
Crowley (a being of much the same height as the angel, though rather different stature) had been blessed, some might say, with excellent cheekbones and an almost complete lack of any sort of conscience. Of course, he wouldn't phrase it like that, but there are always the few who will remain contrary, and Crowley was ever that. It was almost his raison d'être. Another of his enviable talents was an ability to very nearly believe the lies he told himself. He was certainly much better at it than humans, and infinitely better than angels, who were truthful enough to make a nun blush. This gift was how he was able to excuse extending one kid-gloved hand and gently squeezing Aziraphale's arm for a moment.
"It wasn't as bad as all that."
Of course, he was thinking only of getting Aziraphale into a cheerful enough state that suggesting opening a bottle of particularly fine wine wouldn't go amiss.
Naturally.
"It was embarrassing, Crowley." Aziraphale had emerged a little from his cocoon, and was looking at the demon with pink-cheeked woe. "They were polite, of course - I suppose we've not been going there long enough for you to have had an influence, just yet - but I could tell they would have rather been at bridge." It was worse than he'd thought; the angel's attempt at accustomed snippiness was half-hearted at best. Ever since they'd put the Arrangement into place, Aziraphale had been quite delightedly honing his barbed comments and sarcastic remarks - Crowley was almost proud of him, considering himself a benefactor of sorts. After all, he'd justified it to Aziraphale once, not using a talent you'd been given was a sin against the Lord, and all that. He'd been the recipient of a renewed glass of wine, after that one, and a very strange smile, the meaning of which he still hadn't quite worked out.
"That blond fellow seemed to like it, rather," he returned, without any real conviction in his voice. Lord Peter wasn't the most convincing of arguments - a brilliant mind, certainly, but Crowley was of the opinion that he was barking mad. Not that he had anything against madmen, of course, often they were some of his finest work, but as a means of convincing a moping angel, he lacked a certain something.
"Thank you for the effort, Crowley, but I think my time in the limelight is officially over. Cynicism abounds, a sense of wonder at the miraculous is rather lacking; you, it would appear, have won this round. The days of stage magic are dead."
As Crowley attempted to formulate a response to that, Aziraphale pulled a coin from one capacious brown pocket and flipped it across the back of his knuckles, making it vanish and reappear once or twice, for old time's sake.
"Cor, mister!"
Aziraphale jumped, visibly, and flailed rather to keep his balance. The coin he'd been using flew out of his hand, disappearing into the darkness of the bushes, and the small boy who'd so startled the angel hared off after it, returning triumphantly after a few moments to press the (now rather muddy) half-crown back into Aziraphale's hand.
"Go on, do it again!"
"Well," said Aziraphale, a smile slowly forming, "I can do more than that, my fine young jackanapes. I don't suppose you might have, about your person, such a thing as a pocket handkerchief?"
Crowley buried his face in his hands, not quite managing to prevent himself from laughing.
-
The next few minutes contained cards, linked rings, and far more hankies than any reasonable being should own, enough to make even Aziraphale's enormous pockets bear an unsightly bulge. He'd finished, with a flourish, back on the coin tricks, flipping the half-crown to the youngster who'd saluted and grinned widely and disappeared back in the direction of the street.
It was a moment or two later that the angel, patting down his pockets, had discovered to his horror that he'd left his collapsible top hat in the Club, and that sort of thing would never do at all if he was to be doing a show for the children down at the church, now, would it? He'd sent Crowley a quite radiant smile, one he'd helplessly returned, and had hurried back across the road, a renewed spring in his step. Crowley'd watched him go, then leaned back against the bench, folded his arms, and grinned.
"All right, where are you then?"
There was a moment or two of silence, and then a rustling in the bushes heralded the return of the boy who'd watched Aziraphale's magic tricks so raptly. A subtle change had taken place in his expression - his features were suddenly sharper, his air rather more watchful. Crowley rummaged in his pocket.
"Five bob we agreed, yes?"
"Seven."
A grubby hand was held out demandingly, and Crowley rolled his eyes and handed over the money.
"Don't spend it all at once."
"Naff off." The boy made a rude gesture as he ran off, and Crowley shook his head despairingly. 'Naff off'? The youth of today had no imagination.
He hunched his shoulders a little, folding the collar of his coat up around his face. In the distance, a group of small children were singing Christmas carols, and, in deference to the smile on the returning angel's face, a smile that was aimed at him, Crowley overcame the temptation to ensure a patch of treacherous ice in their path. He stood, instead, to greet Aziraphale.
"Everything all right?"
"Everything is actually fine. Thank you."
There was that smile again, the one that Crowley wasn't sure quite how to interpret. The one that set snakes writhing in his stomach. He cleared his throat, preparatory to saying - he wasn't quite sure what - but he was distracted by the gentle (and absolutely freezing cold) brush of a snowflake against his cheek.
Crowley hated the cold.
He started to turn his head to share his annoyance with the angel, and almost got poked in the eye by the metal prongs of an enormous, and rather faded, green umbrella. It was the sort of contraption that looked, inanimate as it might very well be, to have malevolent intent, and that was the sort of thing Crowley might reasonably be expected to know. He eyed it warily, but a couple of snowflakes that somehow managed to insinuate themselves between collar and neck decided the matter for him. With a most indecorous yelp, he darted under the shelter of the umbrella and almost knocked the angel flying, who grabbed hold of Crowley's hand to steady himself.
Or, at least, apparently to steady himself. Because that reasoning would argue that once the other party was steady, he might well let go of said hand. Which Aziraphale was most decidedly not doing.
Pulling his habitual smoked glasses a little further down his nose, Crowley looked at the angel. His cheeks were tinged faintly with pink, the corners of his mouth were tilted up very slightly, and the expression in his eyes was almost one of defiance.
"I wouldn't have said his performance was worth seven, Crowley," the angel informed him, laughter in his voice.
Crowley gaped at him, completely floored. Which, of course, was entirely the reason he offered no resistance when the angel leaned over and pressed a very brief kiss to his cheek, his nose a spot of cold against Crowley's cheekbone.
"Now, I believe, a spot of tea is in order. Or we could always open that bottle of Margaux, of course?"
"I - yeah. 'Course."
Aziraphale's smile widened, a little, and he squeezed Crowley's hand, and the demon completely forgot about offering him a ride home. He wasn't feeling the cold as much as he had been, just now, in any case.
~end~
Happy Holidays, TrinityBlack, from your Secret Writer!
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