(no subject)
Recipient: alicorn9
Title: Back to Nature
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Summary: Adam Young’s 12th birthday party, featuring camping, monsoons, and that old (but convenient) let’s-warm-up-by-sharing-body-heat cliché.
Even after six thousand years among them, there were still many instances in which humans were able to completely baffle Aziraphale. The entire progress of postlapsarian humanity, from a supernatural being’s far-reaching point of view, was to establish increasingly more impressive forms of shelter to keep out the elements. To an angel who’d spent the better part of his time in Eden and the undeveloped world trying to remember that enormous furry spiders were His creatures as well and that resenting mud on one’s garments was a form of Vanity, this seemed rather sensible. Even the demon, who had once been something of a wild creature-- one with nature, so to speak-- had long grown accustomed to the 20th century comforts of house and home.
And then humans tried to get ‘back to nature’ by eating worm-infested organic foods, or moving to the more suspicious type of farm, or having camping birthday parties for twelve year old boys. It was all a bit counter-intuitive, especially when one considered the harsh realities of England in mid-April.
At the moment, they were difficult not to consider. A distant roll of thunder, the sudden flash of lightning, the sound of rain pounding against the dirt outside, all gave weight to the theory that this would not be a quick afternoon shower.
Aziraphale carefully unzipped the blue nylon tent flap and peered out through the mesh. “The tarps are flooded again,” he sighed. He raised his arms and parted the water that had been flooding around the ground near their tent, then looked about guiltily. The other two tents in their party were a way off, and he could see the distant outlines of Adam and his friends playing a sort of card game that involved Pepper pulling Wensleydale’s hair, and Mr. and Mrs. Young asleep in their tent, which did not require any water removal(1).
“Bloody zip it up already,” snarled a voice somewhere beneath the mass of sleeping bags next to Aziraphale. Aziraphale complied, smiling fondly at the indistinct shape. Crowley seemed to enjoy camping even less than Aziraphale, and the angel thought it was rather sweet that he’d agreed to come without too much grumbling.
“Would you feel better if we got a pack of cards, my dear? I know some rather amusing games to pass the time,” said Aziraphale.
“Just leave me the fuck alone and let me sleep,” said Crowley. As if to prove a point, he grabbed a fistful of sleeping bag and wrenched it over his head. Aziraphale shook his head, opened his duffle bag, and found his book(2). It was the kind of afternoon that the Almighty had invented cozy fireplaces, cocoa, and fuzzy slippers for, and as far as Aziraphale was concerned, it bordered on blasphemy that none of these items were present. He continued to read the book until the light began to dim outside, making the words fade back into the pages. He supposed he could conjure a light if necessary, but truth be told he was rather tired of reading by this point.
“Crowley,” he whispered, “are you asleep?”
Crowley made a low, guttural noise that either meant he’d heard Aziraphale, or that he was suffering from a fatal stomach virus. Aziraphale winced, and then had an idea. He felt along the side of the tent, where everything he’d tried to arrange neatly in the middle had rolled to, until he found a water bottle. He opened the bottle, placed one of his manicured fingers inside it, and swirled the water around until it turned a deep red color.
“Would you like some-“ Crowley sat up, knocking the sleeping bags off his body, and grabbed the water bottle. Aziraphale smiled as he tipped back the contents into his throat, swallowed, and then licked away the droplets that had collected around his mouth.
“Needed that,” said Crowley, which was as close as the demon would ever come to saying thank you. Aziraphale didn’t even mind that Crowley hadn’t left any for him. Instead, he was noticing Crowley’s several sweatshirts, two pairs of mittens, as well as the wooly white hat and the tartan scarf that Aziraphale was sure belonged to him.
“Are you a bit cold, my dear?” he asked.
“Well, it’s this blessed rain, isn’t it?” said the demon, in a slightly more civil tone than he’d used earlier in the day. “’M cold-blooded, you know.”
“Mmm,” said Aziraphale, giving Crowley a friendly pat on the knee. “I remember now how miserable you were that time in Scandinavia. Can I do anything to help?”
Crowley sighed. “Could sleep it off if it weren’t so fucking freezing. Isn’t the miserable little brat supposed to be able to control the elements with his will alone?”
“It isn’t right to abuse our powers for personal gain,” said Aziraphale. “As I’m sure Adam knows.”
“Like that trick with the water bottle?” enquired Crowley. Aziraphale blushed(3). “Not that I’m not.” Crowley paused for a second. “You know. That.”
“Grateful?” said Aziraphale with a hopeful smile. Crowley grunted. It may very well have been a yes-grunt. The angel chuckled, tugged at the zip of his sleeping bag, and pulled the bag off. “Here, you can have this.”
“Won’t you-“ said Crowley
“No, we don’t really get cold. The Lord is our Light, and all that.” He smiled, and held the sleeping bag out to Crowley. Crowley took it, pulled it over the sleeping bag he was already in, and then zipped it up to his chin.
“Better?”
“Yeah.” His lips curved up slightly. “You know. Thanksss.” Crowley lay his head down on the floor of the tent, and turned to face the damp blue canvas.
“Well, you’re very welcome, my dear,” said Aziraphale quietly. He took Crowley’s cue and lay down to try and attempt some actual sleep. He hadn’t slept often before the Apocalypse, but he’d been trying it more in the past year, and he’d become convinced that a good rest now and then for his servants on earth was the will of God(4). He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of Crowley’s occasional irrelevant breaths.
He woke, several hours later, to the sound of a monsoon breaking upon them. It was too dark to see, but he could feel that the nylon of the tent was damp, and small puddles were collecting in the dips of the floor. He miracled the dampness away, but the feel of the icy water remained, and he pulled his knees to his chest to stop them from shaking.
Crowley opened one of his eyes lazily. “You’re shivering,” he noted.
“No,” said Aziraphale. “I’m fine. L-light of the Lord, you know.”
“Think that might’ve been meant metaphorically,” said Crowley. “You can have your bag back.”
“No,” said Aziraphale. “You’ll just be cold.”
“C’mere, then,” said Crowley, gesturing to the sleeping bags. Aziraphale crawled over and put his hand on the zip, then hesitated.
“Are you sure?” Crowley, in Aziraphale’s experience, wasn’t fond of unnecessary touching. He’d made it clear in the 16th century that hugs or kisses on the cheek were definitely off limits, and lately even a friendly handshake was enough to ruffle his feathers(5). But Crowley smiled, if sleepily, and gestured to the sleeping bag again. Aziraphale unzipped both bags, climbed inside, and zipped them up after him. There was an awkward moment of arranging limbs so that his leg wasn’t in Crowley’s stomach and they could both lie peacefully. Somehow Crowley managed to snake his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and bury his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale sighed, and wrapped his arms around Crowley.
“All right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Crowley, too sluggish from the cold air to stay awake any longer. Aziraphale rubbed his hands along Crowley’s back a few times as he felt Crowley drift off.
When he woke the next morning, it was considerably warmer, and the double sleeping bag combined with the warmth of Crowley tucked against him made him feel slightly sweaty and uncomfortable. He tried to edge away to see if he could escape without waking Crowley, but as he did, Crowley opened his eyes.
“Angel?” he said, looking confused.
“Er,” said Aziraphale, “It was cold, and you said it’d be all right.” He ran one of his hands along Crowley’s back.
“Oh,” said Crowley, with a sigh. He shifted in the sleeping bag and let go of Aziraphale’s waist. Aziraphale thought he was getting up, until Crowley pressed his lips against Aziraphale’s. As far as kisses went, it was nothing groundbreaking, nothing more than chapped lips and light pressure and maybe an involuntary breath-- whose, he wasn’t sure-- although, to be fair, Aziraphale didn’t have much by way of points of reference.
There was a second, afterwards, when Crowley looked worried, but Aziraphale pulled him into a close embrace. “Demon, dear,” he said, and it wasn’t a figure of speech. A grin crept across Crowley’s face that could have been cited for indecent exposure.
“You know, if you like, we could-“
There was the sudden sound of footsteps, and then the voices of children outside.
“Oh, the rain’s stopped,” said Aziraphale, cheerfully and unnecessarily. Not only had it stopped raining, but the bright blue of the sky and the defiant chirping of birds insisted that it never had been.
Crowley muttered something about bloody inconvenient timing as Adam Young unzipped the front flap of their tent with all the consideration of a typical twelve year old. “You’ve had long enough,” he said, with a stern expression. “But now I want my presents.”
1. Mr. Young was a former Boy Scout, and was not foolish enough to pitch any family member’s tent in a ditch.
2. It was a mildly entertaining and dreadfully inaccurate read having to do with Mary Magdalene and one of Aziraphale’s favorite painters. He wished he’d brought something better, but this was the only book he owned that he was willing to risk taking outdoors.
3. Aziraphale was rather prone to blushing at late. He felt strongly that working capillaries were somehow crucial to a basic understanding of humanity.
4. Dreams, on the other hand, were clearly infernal creations designed to tempt one with acts of unthinkable depravity, at least judging from some of the dreams Aziraphale had been having.
5. So to speak.
Title: Back to Nature
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Summary: Adam Young’s 12th birthday party, featuring camping, monsoons, and that old (but convenient) let’s-warm-up-by-sharing-body-heat cliché.
Even after six thousand years among them, there were still many instances in which humans were able to completely baffle Aziraphale. The entire progress of postlapsarian humanity, from a supernatural being’s far-reaching point of view, was to establish increasingly more impressive forms of shelter to keep out the elements. To an angel who’d spent the better part of his time in Eden and the undeveloped world trying to remember that enormous furry spiders were His creatures as well and that resenting mud on one’s garments was a form of Vanity, this seemed rather sensible. Even the demon, who had once been something of a wild creature-- one with nature, so to speak-- had long grown accustomed to the 20th century comforts of house and home.
And then humans tried to get ‘back to nature’ by eating worm-infested organic foods, or moving to the more suspicious type of farm, or having camping birthday parties for twelve year old boys. It was all a bit counter-intuitive, especially when one considered the harsh realities of England in mid-April.
At the moment, they were difficult not to consider. A distant roll of thunder, the sudden flash of lightning, the sound of rain pounding against the dirt outside, all gave weight to the theory that this would not be a quick afternoon shower.
Aziraphale carefully unzipped the blue nylon tent flap and peered out through the mesh. “The tarps are flooded again,” he sighed. He raised his arms and parted the water that had been flooding around the ground near their tent, then looked about guiltily. The other two tents in their party were a way off, and he could see the distant outlines of Adam and his friends playing a sort of card game that involved Pepper pulling Wensleydale’s hair, and Mr. and Mrs. Young asleep in their tent, which did not require any water removal(1).
“Bloody zip it up already,” snarled a voice somewhere beneath the mass of sleeping bags next to Aziraphale. Aziraphale complied, smiling fondly at the indistinct shape. Crowley seemed to enjoy camping even less than Aziraphale, and the angel thought it was rather sweet that he’d agreed to come without too much grumbling.
“Would you feel better if we got a pack of cards, my dear? I know some rather amusing games to pass the time,” said Aziraphale.
“Just leave me the fuck alone and let me sleep,” said Crowley. As if to prove a point, he grabbed a fistful of sleeping bag and wrenched it over his head. Aziraphale shook his head, opened his duffle bag, and found his book(2). It was the kind of afternoon that the Almighty had invented cozy fireplaces, cocoa, and fuzzy slippers for, and as far as Aziraphale was concerned, it bordered on blasphemy that none of these items were present. He continued to read the book until the light began to dim outside, making the words fade back into the pages. He supposed he could conjure a light if necessary, but truth be told he was rather tired of reading by this point.
“Crowley,” he whispered, “are you asleep?”
Crowley made a low, guttural noise that either meant he’d heard Aziraphale, or that he was suffering from a fatal stomach virus. Aziraphale winced, and then had an idea. He felt along the side of the tent, where everything he’d tried to arrange neatly in the middle had rolled to, until he found a water bottle. He opened the bottle, placed one of his manicured fingers inside it, and swirled the water around until it turned a deep red color.
“Would you like some-“ Crowley sat up, knocking the sleeping bags off his body, and grabbed the water bottle. Aziraphale smiled as he tipped back the contents into his throat, swallowed, and then licked away the droplets that had collected around his mouth.
“Needed that,” said Crowley, which was as close as the demon would ever come to saying thank you. Aziraphale didn’t even mind that Crowley hadn’t left any for him. Instead, he was noticing Crowley’s several sweatshirts, two pairs of mittens, as well as the wooly white hat and the tartan scarf that Aziraphale was sure belonged to him.
“Are you a bit cold, my dear?” he asked.
“Well, it’s this blessed rain, isn’t it?” said the demon, in a slightly more civil tone than he’d used earlier in the day. “’M cold-blooded, you know.”
“Mmm,” said Aziraphale, giving Crowley a friendly pat on the knee. “I remember now how miserable you were that time in Scandinavia. Can I do anything to help?”
Crowley sighed. “Could sleep it off if it weren’t so fucking freezing. Isn’t the miserable little brat supposed to be able to control the elements with his will alone?”
“It isn’t right to abuse our powers for personal gain,” said Aziraphale. “As I’m sure Adam knows.”
“Like that trick with the water bottle?” enquired Crowley. Aziraphale blushed(3). “Not that I’m not.” Crowley paused for a second. “You know. That.”
“Grateful?” said Aziraphale with a hopeful smile. Crowley grunted. It may very well have been a yes-grunt. The angel chuckled, tugged at the zip of his sleeping bag, and pulled the bag off. “Here, you can have this.”
“Won’t you-“ said Crowley
“No, we don’t really get cold. The Lord is our Light, and all that.” He smiled, and held the sleeping bag out to Crowley. Crowley took it, pulled it over the sleeping bag he was already in, and then zipped it up to his chin.
“Better?”
“Yeah.” His lips curved up slightly. “You know. Thanksss.” Crowley lay his head down on the floor of the tent, and turned to face the damp blue canvas.
“Well, you’re very welcome, my dear,” said Aziraphale quietly. He took Crowley’s cue and lay down to try and attempt some actual sleep. He hadn’t slept often before the Apocalypse, but he’d been trying it more in the past year, and he’d become convinced that a good rest now and then for his servants on earth was the will of God(4). He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of Crowley’s occasional irrelevant breaths.
He woke, several hours later, to the sound of a monsoon breaking upon them. It was too dark to see, but he could feel that the nylon of the tent was damp, and small puddles were collecting in the dips of the floor. He miracled the dampness away, but the feel of the icy water remained, and he pulled his knees to his chest to stop them from shaking.
Crowley opened one of his eyes lazily. “You’re shivering,” he noted.
“No,” said Aziraphale. “I’m fine. L-light of the Lord, you know.”
“Think that might’ve been meant metaphorically,” said Crowley. “You can have your bag back.”
“No,” said Aziraphale. “You’ll just be cold.”
“C’mere, then,” said Crowley, gesturing to the sleeping bags. Aziraphale crawled over and put his hand on the zip, then hesitated.
“Are you sure?” Crowley, in Aziraphale’s experience, wasn’t fond of unnecessary touching. He’d made it clear in the 16th century that hugs or kisses on the cheek were definitely off limits, and lately even a friendly handshake was enough to ruffle his feathers(5). But Crowley smiled, if sleepily, and gestured to the sleeping bag again. Aziraphale unzipped both bags, climbed inside, and zipped them up after him. There was an awkward moment of arranging limbs so that his leg wasn’t in Crowley’s stomach and they could both lie peacefully. Somehow Crowley managed to snake his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and bury his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale sighed, and wrapped his arms around Crowley.
“All right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Crowley, too sluggish from the cold air to stay awake any longer. Aziraphale rubbed his hands along Crowley’s back a few times as he felt Crowley drift off.
When he woke the next morning, it was considerably warmer, and the double sleeping bag combined with the warmth of Crowley tucked against him made him feel slightly sweaty and uncomfortable. He tried to edge away to see if he could escape without waking Crowley, but as he did, Crowley opened his eyes.
“Angel?” he said, looking confused.
“Er,” said Aziraphale, “It was cold, and you said it’d be all right.” He ran one of his hands along Crowley’s back.
“Oh,” said Crowley, with a sigh. He shifted in the sleeping bag and let go of Aziraphale’s waist. Aziraphale thought he was getting up, until Crowley pressed his lips against Aziraphale’s. As far as kisses went, it was nothing groundbreaking, nothing more than chapped lips and light pressure and maybe an involuntary breath-- whose, he wasn’t sure-- although, to be fair, Aziraphale didn’t have much by way of points of reference.
There was a second, afterwards, when Crowley looked worried, but Aziraphale pulled him into a close embrace. “Demon, dear,” he said, and it wasn’t a figure of speech. A grin crept across Crowley’s face that could have been cited for indecent exposure.
“You know, if you like, we could-“
There was the sudden sound of footsteps, and then the voices of children outside.
“Oh, the rain’s stopped,” said Aziraphale, cheerfully and unnecessarily. Not only had it stopped raining, but the bright blue of the sky and the defiant chirping of birds insisted that it never had been.
Crowley muttered something about bloody inconvenient timing as Adam Young unzipped the front flap of their tent with all the consideration of a typical twelve year old. “You’ve had long enough,” he said, with a stern expression. “But now I want my presents.”
1. Mr. Young was a former Boy Scout, and was not foolish enough to pitch any family member’s tent in a ditch.
2. It was a mildly entertaining and dreadfully inaccurate read having to do with Mary Magdalene and one of Aziraphale’s favorite painters. He wished he’d brought something better, but this was the only book he owned that he was willing to risk taking outdoors.
3. Aziraphale was rather prone to blushing at late. He felt strongly that working capillaries were somehow crucial to a basic understanding of humanity.
4. Dreams, on the other hand, were clearly infernal creations designed to tempt one with acts of unthinkable depravity, at least judging from some of the dreams Aziraphale had been having.
5. So to speak.