Cohen Collection: Among the Garbage and the Flowers
Title: Among the Garbage and the Flowers
Author: clodia_metelli.
Rating: PG
Characters: Aziraphale/War.
Summary: Another snippet for the Viennese crossover of sorts, prompted by wormwood_7, although I don't know if this is what she had in mind. War and Aziraphale go for a walk by the Danube Canal.
A/N: Still basically crack, if a paler variety; still after Leonard Cohen, if a different song.
Word Count: 798
Brandy and Death | Wild on My Shoulder
~ among the garbage and the flowers ~
“Will you look at that,” said War. “Sure has changed since I was last here.”
“Mph,” said Aziraphale, unhappily. He was suffering.
Being an angel had its perks. The ability to wish away hangovers, for example, was a distinct benefit and Aziraphale had availed himself of it ever since his first traumatic encounter with ‘this new stuff, you’ll like it, I think it’s some kind of fermented bread dough, whatever will they think of next’ in Egypt. That morning, however, he had woken to a hazy memory of learning to waltz (badly), drinking a great deal of brandy and a pounding five-tonne-elephant-stamping-on-temples classic of its genre that unfortunately was not a memory at all. There had been stray feathers everywhere and War’s ballgown lying red on the floor and Aziraphale had groaned and hung onto the hangover as a penance. It should count for something with Above, with any luck. They tended to like that sort of thing.
Now he was regretting it. He floundered miserably through the snow in the wake of War’s stiletto heels and wished her voice sounded less like a knife’s edge. It wasn’t soothing at the best of times. He had a suspicion it would be worse if he could make out all of what she was saying.
“... not much of a siege, I haven’t seen a good siege in forever... good bit of street-fighting, mind... yeah, we had some fun...”
Why did it have to be so bright, wondered Aziraphale. The snowclouds had cleared and the sky was alight; there was yellow morning everywhere, brilliant on the snow and her hair and the cracked icy skin of the Danube Canal. It wasn’t helping. At all.
He stumbled over a discarded bottle lying treacherous underfoot. Nearby lay chocolate wrappers and a crisp bag frozen into colourful stasis. Rubbish filled the canal as well. When the thaw came, it would bring rot with it: there was more unpleasantness than dogshit hidden beneath Vienna’s winter coat. He walked through a breath of remembered violence, briefly, and almost missed his step. Under the ice he saw (or thought he saw) a shape lazily drifting in the water, like seaweed, or a pale hand.
A little way ahead, War had halted and was looking critically at something by the path. Aziraphale hurried to join her. “What is it?”
He needn’t have asked. The strip of grass that ran alongside the path gave way here to a neat concrete semicircle; a bench had stood there once, but only the iron brackets that had fastened it to the ground remained. A block of flats towered menacingly behind, all boarded-up windows and only the odd ragged curtain to indicate the place was not wholly abandoned. On the wall, some local graffiti artist had sketched a woman in white and blue chalk, like a fading reflection of a pale Madonna. She still glowed clear in outline against the grey and a few wilting flowers lay strewn amid the frozen mess at her feet.
“Oh,” said Aziraphale, inadequately, after a few minutes had gone past in silence and the sickening pulse of his blood in his ears got too much for him. “That’s - odd.”
“Yeah,” said War.
Aziraphale shut his mouth again. A few more minutes passed. In the distance, workmen could be heard: they were breaking the ice for the boats to go by.
A flicker of movement overhead caught his eye. “Did you see that?” he asked.
“What?”
“Wasn’t there someone at the window?” said Aziraphale uneasily. A blaze of honey-coloured light danced on the dripping icicles and filled his eyes, which were already bleary. He winced. “Up there, look, with the wooden shutters?”
War gave the window a cursory glance. “Nope,” she said. “Come on, angel. No point in hanging around here.”
Her perfume made Aziraphale’s head swim. He shuddered, gave in to temptation (Crowley would have chalked it up to his bad influence, had he known) and wished the hangover away at last. This was a tremendous relief. All the same, when he looked back up at the window, it stood empty and still far overhead. There was no one there. No one that he could see, anyway.
War was already at the bend of the path. He caught up with her before she could set foot on the bridge. “I was thinking,” he said, “dear lady, we should, uh, this would be a good time to talk about, uh, where this is, where we’re going...”
“Really?” said War, with apparent interest. “Seemed obvious to me.”
Aziraphale was taken aback. “Uh, if I might just -”
The morning light streaked her copper hair like fire. “Sure,” she said and widened her scarlet mouth in a way that was more predatory than humorous. “We’ve done Vienna. Now let’s take Berlin.”
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