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myst_walker!
Dec. 23rd, 2008 11:30 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeTitle: Ancient History
By:toasty_fresh
Characters/Pairings: Crowley/Aziraphale
Rating: PG-13 for suggestive situations
Summary: Aziraphale has a good memory.
Author's Notes: I took your history prompt and kind of ran with it. Hope you like!
“Lunch at the Ritz?” Crowley had suggested one afternoon in November, using his recently acquired cell phone (and rather cheating, as well, seeing as it wasn’t even on). Aziraphale, who had been flipping idly through an ancient first edition of a relationship-therapy book, had answered, a bit hesitantly, “How . . . how about we try something new?”
And Crowley, against his better judgment, had agreed.
The first place they tried was a café near St. James Park. It had been Crowley’s idea. “They’ve got croissants and whatnot,” he said, sitting down at the table and picking up a menu. “French and all that.”
“Hm.” Aziraphale fiddled with his menu and looked around the café. “You know, this place seems awfully familiar, Crowley,” he said. “Have we been here before?”
“I don’t think so.” Crowley flipped through the menu, pausing at the entrees. “Do you understand French, angel?” he asked. Aziraphale looked thoughtful and made a noncommittal noise. Crowley took that as a yes. “What in the he—well, what is a ‘coat dee vow—de vew—’oh, never mind. Maybe I should just spell it . . .”
“1348!” Aziraphale exclaimed suddenly. “November, 1348. I remember it distinctly.”
Crowley looked at him over his sunglasses. “What are you talking about, angel?” he asked.
“I was here in November of 1348. During the Black Death, you know. I watched a woman die right over . . .” he paused, thinking, before pointing to a spot not two feet from where Crowley was sitting, “there.”
Crowley stared at where Aziraphale was pointing for a moment before putting down his menu. “Shall we find someplace else to eat?” he asked, sighing.
“I think that would be best.”
The second place they tried was a dim sum restaurant in the West End. Before the hostess could even seat them, Aziraphale pulled a face. “Oh, dear,” he said. “I remember this place very well. Late 1700s. I’d rather not talk about it, I’m afraid.”
An Italian restaurant one street over brought back shades of the Norman Conquest. A tea shop in Westminster turned out to be the site of a nasty incident involving a seed cake early on in the English Civil War. A priceless book had been lost outside of a bakery in 1401. Even a Starbucks in Central London managed to remind Aziraphale of a rather unfortunate encounter during the 1970s with a hippie and an extremely irate Maine Coon.
“That is it, angel,” Crowley said after they left Starbucks, slamming the door of the Bentley as Aziraphale climbed in beside him. “We’ve been searching for over an hour. We tried something new, and it didn’t work. May I please drive us to the Ritz?”
Aziraphale had the grace to look embarrassed. “I am sorry, my dear boy. But you know, once a place reminds me of something, everywhere reminds me of something, and I really just can’t stop . . .”
Crowley sighed. “From now on, angel, could you please try and only be reminded of pleasant memories? For my sake.” He paused as he pulled out of his parking space. “For my stomach’s sake, as well. I’m starving.”
At the Ritz, the usual table was mysteriously open. After the waiter took their orders, Aziraphale turned to Crowley and asked, “Do you remember, a couple of years ago, when we ate right here after all of that Armageddon business?”
“Of course,” Crowley answered laconically, buttering a roll. Aziraphale pressed on.
“And the time we ate here when England declared war on Germany?”
“Vaguely. Unless you’re talking about the first time England declared war on Germany, not the second, because if so, I don’t remember at all.” Crowley looked up from his roll at Aziraphale. “Do you remember?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said. There was, perhaps, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. “We had tea in the Palm Court.”
Crowley shifted uncomfortably. “That happened nearly one hundred years ago,” he said. “How can you expect me to remember things like that?”
Aziraphale picked up a roll and didn’t answer. For a moment they sat in silence.
“Do you remember the first time we—” Aziraphale began suddenly, and then stopped. Crowley picked at his roll.
“The first time we what?” he asked. Aziraphale stared dreamily off into the distance.
“October 1881,” he said, ignoring Crowley’s question. “A small bed and breakfast in Surrey.” He sighed. “I’ll never forget it.”
For a moment, Crowley stared at the tablecloth before saying, quite suddenly, “November.” Aziraphale looked at him.
“What?”
“It was November,” Crowley said. “November 14th. I remember it distinctly because it was rather warm for late autumn.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “So it was.” The dreamy look on his face returned, and his smile was almost, well, angelic. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”
“Do you really think that little of me?” Crowley asked, trying to look offended but only succeeding in looking rather pleased with himself. “I wouldn’t forget something like that.”
Aziraphale thought of the first-edition relationship-therapy book on the shelves of his bookshop and shrugged. “Well, we haven’t exactly done anything like that in . . . well, a while, have we? I was afraid you’d forgotten it all, well, completely.”
“Of course not.” Crowley said, and his hiss was almost tender. “We’ve just been . . . busy lately. The antichrist, you know, rather changed things . . .” He picked at his roll again, and then said, “I don’t suppose it’s still there, do you?”
“What is?”
“The bed and breakfast.” Crowley smirked. “The thirteenth’s not far off, you know. I was thinking we could celebrate.”
Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley bothered looking for the bed and breakfast. It was much easier to simply go back to Crowley’s place, pull back the sheets to his relatively unused king-sized bed, and celebrate the consummation of their relationship a few days early. Later that night, much later, Aziraphale leaned against the soft pillows with a sigh and turned to Crowley.
“Do you think, one hundred years from now, you’ll remember that?” he asked. Crowley groaned.
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. Who cares if I remember this specific incident or not? I’ll remember being with you, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
Aziraphale smiled. “I suppose,” he said, letting his eyes close. “And if it turns out someone does care, I’ll remember it for you.”
Title: Not Listening...
By:toasty_fresh
Characters: Aziraphale
Rating: PG
Summary: Aziraphale circa 1881 and his shoulder demon, who happens to look a lot like Crowley . . .
Artist's Notes: In my mind, Crowley wore big hats to cover his eyes before sunglasses were invented.
Happy Holidays,myst_walker, from your Secret Author/Artist!
By:
toasty_freshCharacters/Pairings: Crowley/Aziraphale
Rating: PG-13 for suggestive situations
Summary: Aziraphale has a good memory.
Author's Notes: I took your history prompt and kind of ran with it. Hope you like!
“Lunch at the Ritz?” Crowley had suggested one afternoon in November, using his recently acquired cell phone (and rather cheating, as well, seeing as it wasn’t even on). Aziraphale, who had been flipping idly through an ancient first edition of a relationship-therapy book, had answered, a bit hesitantly, “How . . . how about we try something new?”
And Crowley, against his better judgment, had agreed.
The first place they tried was a café near St. James Park. It had been Crowley’s idea. “They’ve got croissants and whatnot,” he said, sitting down at the table and picking up a menu. “French and all that.”
“Hm.” Aziraphale fiddled with his menu and looked around the café. “You know, this place seems awfully familiar, Crowley,” he said. “Have we been here before?”
“I don’t think so.” Crowley flipped through the menu, pausing at the entrees. “Do you understand French, angel?” he asked. Aziraphale looked thoughtful and made a noncommittal noise. Crowley took that as a yes. “What in the he—well, what is a ‘coat dee vow—de vew—’oh, never mind. Maybe I should just spell it . . .”
“1348!” Aziraphale exclaimed suddenly. “November, 1348. I remember it distinctly.”
Crowley looked at him over his sunglasses. “What are you talking about, angel?” he asked.
“I was here in November of 1348. During the Black Death, you know. I watched a woman die right over . . .” he paused, thinking, before pointing to a spot not two feet from where Crowley was sitting, “there.”
Crowley stared at where Aziraphale was pointing for a moment before putting down his menu. “Shall we find someplace else to eat?” he asked, sighing.
“I think that would be best.”
The second place they tried was a dim sum restaurant in the West End. Before the hostess could even seat them, Aziraphale pulled a face. “Oh, dear,” he said. “I remember this place very well. Late 1700s. I’d rather not talk about it, I’m afraid.”
An Italian restaurant one street over brought back shades of the Norman Conquest. A tea shop in Westminster turned out to be the site of a nasty incident involving a seed cake early on in the English Civil War. A priceless book had been lost outside of a bakery in 1401. Even a Starbucks in Central London managed to remind Aziraphale of a rather unfortunate encounter during the 1970s with a hippie and an extremely irate Maine Coon.
“That is it, angel,” Crowley said after they left Starbucks, slamming the door of the Bentley as Aziraphale climbed in beside him. “We’ve been searching for over an hour. We tried something new, and it didn’t work. May I please drive us to the Ritz?”
Aziraphale had the grace to look embarrassed. “I am sorry, my dear boy. But you know, once a place reminds me of something, everywhere reminds me of something, and I really just can’t stop . . .”
Crowley sighed. “From now on, angel, could you please try and only be reminded of pleasant memories? For my sake.” He paused as he pulled out of his parking space. “For my stomach’s sake, as well. I’m starving.”
At the Ritz, the usual table was mysteriously open. After the waiter took their orders, Aziraphale turned to Crowley and asked, “Do you remember, a couple of years ago, when we ate right here after all of that Armageddon business?”
“Of course,” Crowley answered laconically, buttering a roll. Aziraphale pressed on.
“And the time we ate here when England declared war on Germany?”
“Vaguely. Unless you’re talking about the first time England declared war on Germany, not the second, because if so, I don’t remember at all.” Crowley looked up from his roll at Aziraphale. “Do you remember?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said. There was, perhaps, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. “We had tea in the Palm Court.”
Crowley shifted uncomfortably. “That happened nearly one hundred years ago,” he said. “How can you expect me to remember things like that?”
Aziraphale picked up a roll and didn’t answer. For a moment they sat in silence.
“Do you remember the first time we—” Aziraphale began suddenly, and then stopped. Crowley picked at his roll.
“The first time we what?” he asked. Aziraphale stared dreamily off into the distance.
“October 1881,” he said, ignoring Crowley’s question. “A small bed and breakfast in Surrey.” He sighed. “I’ll never forget it.”
For a moment, Crowley stared at the tablecloth before saying, quite suddenly, “November.” Aziraphale looked at him.
“What?”
“It was November,” Crowley said. “November 14th. I remember it distinctly because it was rather warm for late autumn.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “So it was.” The dreamy look on his face returned, and his smile was almost, well, angelic. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”
“Do you really think that little of me?” Crowley asked, trying to look offended but only succeeding in looking rather pleased with himself. “I wouldn’t forget something like that.”
Aziraphale thought of the first-edition relationship-therapy book on the shelves of his bookshop and shrugged. “Well, we haven’t exactly done anything like that in . . . well, a while, have we? I was afraid you’d forgotten it all, well, completely.”
“Of course not.” Crowley said, and his hiss was almost tender. “We’ve just been . . . busy lately. The antichrist, you know, rather changed things . . .” He picked at his roll again, and then said, “I don’t suppose it’s still there, do you?”
“What is?”
“The bed and breakfast.” Crowley smirked. “The thirteenth’s not far off, you know. I was thinking we could celebrate.”
Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley bothered looking for the bed and breakfast. It was much easier to simply go back to Crowley’s place, pull back the sheets to his relatively unused king-sized bed, and celebrate the consummation of their relationship a few days early. Later that night, much later, Aziraphale leaned against the soft pillows with a sigh and turned to Crowley.
“Do you think, one hundred years from now, you’ll remember that?” he asked. Crowley groaned.
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. Who cares if I remember this specific incident or not? I’ll remember being with you, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
Aziraphale smiled. “I suppose,” he said, letting his eyes close. “And if it turns out someone does care, I’ll remember it for you.”
Title: Not Listening...
By:
toasty_freshCharacters: Aziraphale
Rating: PG
Summary: Aziraphale circa 1881 and his shoulder demon, who happens to look a lot like Crowley . . .
Artist's Notes: In my mind, Crowley wore big hats to cover his eyes before sunglasses were invented.
Happy Holidays,
myst_walker, from your Secret Author/Artist!
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Date: 2008-12-24 09:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2009-01-02 10:28 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-29 05:43 am (UTC)and an extremely irate Maine Coon.
*sporfle* Extra kudos for that bit. My grandfather had a Maine Coon cat once, and that wee beastie was huge! Heh, poor Aziraphale...
I also liked the last couple of paragraphs where they 'celebrated' early. Sexy yet very romantic.
Aw, I'm really sad that I can't see the picture either; it sounds cute. I'll keep checking back though. I'm already certain that it's a lovely drawing. ^^
(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-31 11:45 pm (UTC)I've sent the mods a line about the picture, and I'm sure it'll be up soon. I hope you like it! :D
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Date: 2008-12-29 02:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2009-01-03 11:59 pm (UTC)That story was great and sweet too - yes, that must be both one of the upsides and one of the downsides of immortality. The memories would be maddening. Beautiful job of addressing that with humor and sensitivity.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-11 06:58 am (UTC)and love the cartoon. Crowley's impish smile as he plays "shoulder devil" to an angel...
(no subject)
Date: 2009-01-30 11:05 am (UTC)And the piccy, too funny!