Friends and Angels
Title: Friends and Angels
Author/Artist: dappledwings
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Aziraphale/England
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Unbeta'd drabblefic.
Summary: Aziraphale and England have a drunken night out
Words: 834
Aziraphale giggles all the way back to England’s house. There was something of a dare involved at some point, but being as heavily intoxicated as they are, they can barely remember anything. Except the fact that England has to change into his Britannia Angel outfit. It is the moment they fall through the door, laughing and snorting at the way a cat ran away from them, that Aziraphale realises he needs to sober up. At least a little bit.
Later. After the wine that England shoves roughly into his hand. After all, one more bottle won’t hurt, right? So goes the infallible logic of the drunk, as it was, and Aziraphale begins to panic when he cannot physically sober up, cannot force the alcohol to leave his system.
“Hey, hey!” England’s voice is so slurred; Aziraphale can only understand him with the gift of understanding all languages. Including the language of a very drunk nation, it appears. “Tha’s cheating. Only…” The man wavers, taking a long drink from his beer bottle. “Only cheaters cheat. Bloody fast animal…”
Aziraphale looks uncomfortable, because it is never cheating when he’s with Crowley. How much has he drunk anyway, to be this way? “You’re cheating too! You said you would show me that Britannia Angel costume?”
England grins. “Get ya… yer… your fucking wings out and I’ll do it.” The accent appears to be slipping from infallibly Southern English, Queen’s English to Cockney, then to some form of Northern English accent. And of course, back to the Queen’s English again, the way he always speaks.
“Manners and language, my dear boy.” Aziraphale can hear himself talking, but feels rather detached. Like a lizard from its tail when someone pulls on it too hard. Crowley showed him this once. The demon’s fascination with reptiles almost never ceased. However, he complies with England, desperate to see this outfit that sent the nation such a beautifully livid shade of red earlier.
The green-eyed man stumbles forwards; careful not to grab the feathers when he falls (instead he crashes to the floor and causes Aziraphale to giggle again. In a stately fashion, he tells himself), and strokes them with exaggerated care. “The… The costume?” Aziraphale doesn’t mean to be a bother, but he is desperate to see it. He really is.
“Fine, fine…” mumbles England, who pulls himself upstairs. When Aziraphale next hears footsteps, he is lying on the floor, facing the ceiling. Fascinated, as it were. “There. Happy?”
Aziraphale blinks at the costume, with its ridiculous tiny wings and the sheet England has wrapped around him. And then, he does something very un-Aziraphale-like. He smirks. And smirks wider and wider until he can no longer contain his laughter and his face-splitting grin.
And at some point, Aziraphale dimly realises the need to sober up now before his behaviour gets any worse. Whatever next? Swearing? “My dear boy,” he begins, spluttering, and starting to concentrate on removing alcohol from his system. It will be a hard task; he appears to be drunker than when Crowley told him about the Antichrist. “You look… perfectly ridiculous. A-and very unangelic.” The frown on England’s face, the tortured look, is what is turning the look from just ‘ridiculous’ to ‘utterly stupid’.
The alcohol is slowly beginning to dissipate from Aziraphale’s system, and somehow, England hasn’t noticed yet. Mind you, they are both now lying on the floor, clutching onto the shag pile carpet as they fixate on one point above them.
“What does heaven look like?”
Aziraphale gives the man an almost pitying look, before telling him what he tells everyone who asks. Or. Some people. “I wouldn’t know; I haven’t been there in a while.”
“But…” England struggles to sit up. “But, in the beginning. What did it look like then?” He flops to the floor again, crushing his wings.
“It was… It was bright. And full of angels. Shining. Beauty and light and creation. And every single angel was God’s child.” Aziraphale stares into the distance, taken in by his own memories. “We loved it, but some...”
“Fell?” Aziraphale turns, almost startled, to meet the green eyes.
“Yes.”
Silence falls thick, and the angel feels awkward. But then England gets up, sways over to the drinks cabinet. “Whisky? Fine malt, Scotland gave it to me as a present. And no, it isn’t poisoned.”
Aziraphale nods mutely, forcing as much alcohol out of his system as he can now (since ridding himself of a little before, he has gained more control). He takes the glass that England holds out to him. The green eyes look misty, and Aziraphale knows they mean different things as they toast ‘the fallen’. But Aziraphale cannot get a singular demon out of his mind when he drinks.
“And another toast, my boy. To friends and angels.” An indulgent smile appears on the angel’s lips as he suggests it. When England looks confused, Aziraphale rolls his eyes and gestures between the pair, until the nation gets it.
“To friends and angels.”
Author/Artist: dappledwings
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Aziraphale/England
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Unbeta'd drabblefic.
Summary: Aziraphale and England have a drunken night out
Words: 834
Aziraphale giggles all the way back to England’s house. There was something of a dare involved at some point, but being as heavily intoxicated as they are, they can barely remember anything. Except the fact that England has to change into his Britannia Angel outfit. It is the moment they fall through the door, laughing and snorting at the way a cat ran away from them, that Aziraphale realises he needs to sober up. At least a little bit.
Later. After the wine that England shoves roughly into his hand. After all, one more bottle won’t hurt, right? So goes the infallible logic of the drunk, as it was, and Aziraphale begins to panic when he cannot physically sober up, cannot force the alcohol to leave his system.
“Hey, hey!” England’s voice is so slurred; Aziraphale can only understand him with the gift of understanding all languages. Including the language of a very drunk nation, it appears. “Tha’s cheating. Only…” The man wavers, taking a long drink from his beer bottle. “Only cheaters cheat. Bloody fast animal…”
Aziraphale looks uncomfortable, because it is never cheating when he’s with Crowley. How much has he drunk anyway, to be this way? “You’re cheating too! You said you would show me that Britannia Angel costume?”
England grins. “Get ya… yer… your fucking wings out and I’ll do it.” The accent appears to be slipping from infallibly Southern English, Queen’s English to Cockney, then to some form of Northern English accent. And of course, back to the Queen’s English again, the way he always speaks.
“Manners and language, my dear boy.” Aziraphale can hear himself talking, but feels rather detached. Like a lizard from its tail when someone pulls on it too hard. Crowley showed him this once. The demon’s fascination with reptiles almost never ceased. However, he complies with England, desperate to see this outfit that sent the nation such a beautifully livid shade of red earlier.
The green-eyed man stumbles forwards; careful not to grab the feathers when he falls (instead he crashes to the floor and causes Aziraphale to giggle again. In a stately fashion, he tells himself), and strokes them with exaggerated care. “The… The costume?” Aziraphale doesn’t mean to be a bother, but he is desperate to see it. He really is.
“Fine, fine…” mumbles England, who pulls himself upstairs. When Aziraphale next hears footsteps, he is lying on the floor, facing the ceiling. Fascinated, as it were. “There. Happy?”
Aziraphale blinks at the costume, with its ridiculous tiny wings and the sheet England has wrapped around him. And then, he does something very un-Aziraphale-like. He smirks. And smirks wider and wider until he can no longer contain his laughter and his face-splitting grin.
And at some point, Aziraphale dimly realises the need to sober up now before his behaviour gets any worse. Whatever next? Swearing? “My dear boy,” he begins, spluttering, and starting to concentrate on removing alcohol from his system. It will be a hard task; he appears to be drunker than when Crowley told him about the Antichrist. “You look… perfectly ridiculous. A-and very unangelic.” The frown on England’s face, the tortured look, is what is turning the look from just ‘ridiculous’ to ‘utterly stupid’.
The alcohol is slowly beginning to dissipate from Aziraphale’s system, and somehow, England hasn’t noticed yet. Mind you, they are both now lying on the floor, clutching onto the shag pile carpet as they fixate on one point above them.
“What does heaven look like?”
Aziraphale gives the man an almost pitying look, before telling him what he tells everyone who asks. Or. Some people. “I wouldn’t know; I haven’t been there in a while.”
“But…” England struggles to sit up. “But, in the beginning. What did it look like then?” He flops to the floor again, crushing his wings.
“It was… It was bright. And full of angels. Shining. Beauty and light and creation. And every single angel was God’s child.” Aziraphale stares into the distance, taken in by his own memories. “We loved it, but some...”
“Fell?” Aziraphale turns, almost startled, to meet the green eyes.
“Yes.”
Silence falls thick, and the angel feels awkward. But then England gets up, sways over to the drinks cabinet. “Whisky? Fine malt, Scotland gave it to me as a present. And no, it isn’t poisoned.”
Aziraphale nods mutely, forcing as much alcohol out of his system as he can now (since ridding himself of a little before, he has gained more control). He takes the glass that England holds out to him. The green eyes look misty, and Aziraphale knows they mean different things as they toast ‘the fallen’. But Aziraphale cannot get a singular demon out of his mind when he drinks.
“And another toast, my boy. To friends and angels.” An indulgent smile appears on the angel’s lips as he suggests it. When England looks confused, Aziraphale rolls his eyes and gestures between the pair, until the nation gets it.
“To friends and angels.”