Happy Holidays, Bonemeadow!
Title: The Carol of the Trees (Four Trees Across Time)
Gift for: bonemeadow
Author: blueeyedtigress
Dramatis Personae: Aziraphale and Crowley, plus divers incidental
spear-carriers of miscellaneous models and configurations.
Summary: Everyone has mementoes that are worth keeping over the years.
The Apple Tree
It was really a nice tree. In an unremarkable way, of course. What
was all the fuss about, anyway? Sturdy enough wood, interestingly
textured bark, green leaves, smallish white flowers with a nice smell,
red fruit. It was just another fruit tree.
Except that it wasn’t, was it? From his coiled vantage point high in the
branches, Crawly could hear the woman weeping and the man shouting in a
rather terrified manner. (Crawly was ignoring, with all the demonic will
he could muster, the still small Voice that was talking with them.)
So. Eating a fruit granted these humans the Knowledge of Good and Evil?
Or was it really that they chose Free Will by choosing to eat the fruit,
and in that choice they made some other choices, without even knowing
it? This could get interesting …
The Serpent glanced over his hypothetical shoulder and downward, to
where he knew that angel was standing, watching him. Yup, there
he was, across the clearing. Funny sort of an angel, really -- why
wasn’t he doing the old smiting thing?
Angel, check; wings, check; flaming great-big-bloody sword, check;
attacking the demon, not so much.
Crawly craned his sinuous neck and looked full at the angel.
Whussssissname, Aziraphale, right. The demon tried on a smile, which was
given a rather peculiar appearance by his flickering tongue.
The angel sighed and walked away, looking … disappointed? Disappointed
in him, in Crawly? No, that couldn’t be right. He’d slither along and
talk to him later, see if he could learn anything useful ...
***
There was an apple tree in the park near Brighton Pier. Two man-shaped
beings stood together under it. The paler one was dressed in tweeds, and
gave the impression of being rather bookish. His darker companion wore
an infantryman’s uniform, punctuated with officers’ pips.
The tweedy one was obviously fretting. “Just be careful. Who knows what
could happen over there!”
“Hey, the universe looks after Anthony J. Crowley! Nothing to worry
about!” His perfectly fitted uniform was stylish, all the buttons
gleaming; his cap was canted at a jaunty angle, the peak shadowing his eyes.
“But it’s nothing as simple as an inconvenient discorporation that
concerns me.” Here the civilian dropped his voice to a whisper as he
glanced around furtively. “There are likely to be other angels about.
Promise me you’ll watch your back, my dear?”
The officer gave his friend a rakish grin and a wink, then turned
without another word and walked briskly toward his waiting troopship.
A tinny phonograph warbled across the stillness of the park, and the
Andrews Sisters sang, “Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone
else but me, ‘til I come marching home!”
The Olive Tree
The shepherds were dear men, really, but when it came to following
directions in town, they hadn’t the sense God gave a goose. Bethlehem
was hardly a bustling metropolis, yet Aziraphale had had to set them
straight three times in the past half hour.
As they finally approached the stable, the angel sighed and dropped back
to lean against an olive tree, hanging with ripe fruit. He’d like to
follow them in, of course, but that really wasn’t his job right now. He
half-expected he’d have to guide the shepherds back to their sheep, and
he could jolly well see the flock on the hillside from here.
Aziraphale felt a presence slither around his ankle, then the air
changed as the serpent became man-shaped, and stood with his
shoulder close enough to Aziraphale’s that the words “personal space”
might as well have been rendered in neon. The angel kept his eyes fixed
upon the stable door, and sighed with mild annoyance, “What are you
doing here, Serpent?”
“Nice,” Crowley sneered. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, angel, I’m
not going any closer. Do I look stupid?”
Aziraphale glanced at the demon who was, someone help him,
becoming a friend of sorts, and muttered, “I’ve never thought you were
stupid, my dear. Far too clever by half, yes; stupid, no.”
That earned the angel an only-slightly-pointy grin, and an amused flash
of serpentine yellow eyes. “So. Anything you want to share with me about
this little baby shower? Since I’m clever enough to figure it out myself
eventually anyway?”
“You’re just trying to take advantage of my desperation to talk to
someone intelligent, after spending the whole evening shepherding, well,
shepherds.” It wasn’t quite a whine, but Aziraphale did sound somewhat
hard done by.
“Tell you what,” said the demon winningly, “once you’ve shepherded the
shepherds back to their sheep, I’ll stand you a flagon of wine. You can
celebrate the Birth. Or take your mind off the general fucking stupidity
of shepherds. Whichever.”
The angel looked sidelong at his nominal enemy and smiled softly. “I’m
fairly certain that that really shouldn’t sound as attractive as it
does, Crowley ...”
***
Only a few olives adorned the trees of Gethsemane. A bitter wind stirred
the night, and a mob of torchlight flickered along the path back to the
city gates.
Two beings crouched in the shadows of the garden, clutching each other’s
hands. They trembled in the aftermath of events they simply couldn’t, by
their very natures, deal with.
The angel had kept the Chosen One company while He waited for the mob.
The Son was going to die, and there was nothing Aziraphale could do
about it.
Crowley had been certain that his temptations were just a lark, an
evening’s distraction. That young punk Judas wanted to force his
friend-and-leader’s hand politically, and how in the name of Belgium
had everything suddenly gone so cosmically monumental?! The demon
would probably get a blessed commendation out of this, but it all
felt so ba~, wro~ ... uncomfortable.
Surely this couldn’t be happening?
The two agents from opposing sides drew closer together, and they
listened in fear to the howling lamentations of the wind ...
The Lemon Tree
The Seven Hills were caressed by a spring breeze dancing in off the
ocean. There was a warm, clear sun shining down on the Via Aurelia.
About a mile outside the gates of the Eternal City, beneath a lemon tree
heavy with fruit, a joyously anachronistic red and white gingham cloth
was spread. It was a perfect day for a picnic, even though
technically they wouldn’t be invented for centuries.
Cold sliced meats were laid out, beside a bowl of fresh fruits, a plate
of choice vegetable slices, a loaf of warm new bread, and a couple of
surprised cheeses from several hundred miles away in different
directions. The feast was rounded out with a selection of half a dozen
bottles of the region’s best wines.
The scroll merchant cocked an eyebrow at his friend the Emperor’s
Advisor, and clucked at both the appearance of the tablecloth and the
origins of the cheeses. His friend, of course, ignored this.
After they had chattered and debated, and eaten more than an observer
would believe, and imbibed more than an observer would consider safe,
the two unlikely friends leaned their backs against the lemon tree. If
any observer had, in fact, been nearby, he would have observed the
Emperor’s Advisor looking up blearily at the ripe lemons hanging
overhead, and slurring in a language that wouldn’t be heard again for a
very long while, "Y’know, angel, it'ss high time sssomebody invented
hard lemonade and motorcycles ...”
***
The Lemon Tree, a bar a couple of blocks off The Stand, was situated in
Covent Gardens. It was therefore a nigh-ideal place to pause for a drink
or five. Especially right after The Apocalypse That Wasn’t Quite Really.
They were carefully avoiding the Ritz for now, just in case their
respective employers decided to come after them during a meal. It would
be inconvenient in the extreme if the old place got trashed.
Somehow they had agreed, without discussing it in so many words, that
they would take turns being drunk. A bottle would be chosen and
uncorked. Two glasses would be poured and enjoyed, then one of them
would finish off the bottle while the other stayed comparatively alert.
When that bottle was done, both would sober up. Then another vintage
would be chosen, and roles would be reversed, with the previously-sober
one having the lion’s share of that bottle. Lather, rinse, repeat.
The only real problem was that neither the angel nor the demon could get
properly drunk that way.
Somewhere between one bottle and the next, they started discussing
Tadfield. Since each had alienated his “own people”, it seemed sense to
relocate closer to the Antichrist, at least for a few decades. Adam
seemed kindly disposed toward them, and certainly had the firepower to
watch their backs. Then they could get thoroughly drunk together, as
Someone intended.
Neither was sure which of them had suggested cottage-hunting ...
But when they shook on the idea, their eyes met, and they both realised
on some deep level that they wouldn’t ever be bored, however long they
stayed on the South Downs.
The Pine Tree
“… and I am officially taking a break from this bloody country.”
“You’ve decided you don’t like haggis, my dear?”
“No! Well, yes! But it’s the people, Aziraphale! They’re warriors at
heart, but they’re all for gardening and listening for word from Above
and … did you know there are hermit-couples who are married AND happily
cohabiting while being celibate?! I can’t deal with that …”
“So you’ll wander off and tempt the continent until the Scots invent
whisky, is that it?”
“Pretty much.” The demon settled deeper on the thick carpet of pine
needles he was sharing with the angel, and took another swig of the
local mead. He gazed up through the branches at the stars, and grimaced.
“Have you met that Ninian fellow? Already considered a local
saint, and what’s he done?” Crowley held up fingers to keep count. “He’s
on record as causing a bumper crop of leeks, acquitting a priest accused
of having sex, and producing a miraculous umbrella to save his book from
the rain. I’m suspecting your involvement in that last one, by the way.”
He took another long gulp of mead before he lost possession of the
wineskin to the angel again. “I tell you, the Celtic church is too good.
I should go to Rome and try to get a stop put to all this.”
Aziraphale glanced calculatingly at his companion. “You could, I
suppose. More work for both of us in Roma, I daresay. Although I hear
that the Visigoths are becoming restless.”
“Visigoths, eh?” Crowley snatched back the wineskin and took another
drink. “Right, Visigoths. Staying here then ‘til the mead runs out, me.”
Aziraphale smiled and produced a warm woolen blanket, settling it over
both of them in the pine-scented darkness. “Good night, then, my dear.”
***
The scent of freshly cut pine mingled with the aromas of cinnamon,
nutmeg, cardamom, sage and onions. Aziraphale drew in a deep breath and
smiled. Pinion Cottage was both comfortable and stylish, and finally
ready for the Christmas Eve guests who would be arriving in a few hours.
He basted the turkey again, just for the sake of smelling it cooking.
Filling two mugs with mulled wine, the angel went into the livingroom
where the demon was putting finishing touches on the pine tree. Among
the tinsel and the little lights, there glinted ornaments that called up
images of a long, shared past: bright red blown-glass globes shaped like
apples; clusters of borosilicate olives in shades of green and rich
brown; glistening golden-yellow lemons; pinecones in fanciful shades of
blue and purple.
On the very top of the tree perched a ceramic angel with a snake draped
sleepily around his neck.
With careful calculation, Aziraphale stood himself under the mistletoe
and offered Crowley his hot spiced wine. Very quickly, the cups found
themselves wished across the room to the low table by the fireplace. As
the two old enemies/friends/lovers kissed, they marvelled at the long,
strange trip it had been, and how it had brought them here to the South
Downs, and how happy they were together.
They only had to mess about with time a little, to be ready and
presentable when their guests arrived ...
***********************end**********************
Happy Holidays, bonemeadow, from your Secret Writer!
Gift for: bonemeadow
Author: blueeyedtigress
Dramatis Personae: Aziraphale and Crowley, plus divers incidental
spear-carriers of miscellaneous models and configurations.
Summary: Everyone has mementoes that are worth keeping over the years.
The Apple Tree
It was really a nice tree. In an unremarkable way, of course. What
was all the fuss about, anyway? Sturdy enough wood, interestingly
textured bark, green leaves, smallish white flowers with a nice smell,
red fruit. It was just another fruit tree.
Except that it wasn’t, was it? From his coiled vantage point high in the
branches, Crawly could hear the woman weeping and the man shouting in a
rather terrified manner. (Crawly was ignoring, with all the demonic will
he could muster, the still small Voice that was talking with them.)
So. Eating a fruit granted these humans the Knowledge of Good and Evil?
Or was it really that they chose Free Will by choosing to eat the fruit,
and in that choice they made some other choices, without even knowing
it? This could get interesting …
The Serpent glanced over his hypothetical shoulder and downward, to
where he knew that angel was standing, watching him. Yup, there
he was, across the clearing. Funny sort of an angel, really -- why
wasn’t he doing the old smiting thing?
Angel, check; wings, check; flaming great-big-bloody sword, check;
attacking the demon, not so much.
Crawly craned his sinuous neck and looked full at the angel.
Whussssissname, Aziraphale, right. The demon tried on a smile, which was
given a rather peculiar appearance by his flickering tongue.
The angel sighed and walked away, looking … disappointed? Disappointed
in him, in Crawly? No, that couldn’t be right. He’d slither along and
talk to him later, see if he could learn anything useful ...
***
There was an apple tree in the park near Brighton Pier. Two man-shaped
beings stood together under it. The paler one was dressed in tweeds, and
gave the impression of being rather bookish. His darker companion wore
an infantryman’s uniform, punctuated with officers’ pips.
The tweedy one was obviously fretting. “Just be careful. Who knows what
could happen over there!”
“Hey, the universe looks after Anthony J. Crowley! Nothing to worry
about!” His perfectly fitted uniform was stylish, all the buttons
gleaming; his cap was canted at a jaunty angle, the peak shadowing his eyes.
“But it’s nothing as simple as an inconvenient discorporation that
concerns me.” Here the civilian dropped his voice to a whisper as he
glanced around furtively. “There are likely to be other angels about.
Promise me you’ll watch your back, my dear?”
The officer gave his friend a rakish grin and a wink, then turned
without another word and walked briskly toward his waiting troopship.
A tinny phonograph warbled across the stillness of the park, and the
Andrews Sisters sang, “Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone
else but me, ‘til I come marching home!”
The Olive Tree
The shepherds were dear men, really, but when it came to following
directions in town, they hadn’t the sense God gave a goose. Bethlehem
was hardly a bustling metropolis, yet Aziraphale had had to set them
straight three times in the past half hour.
As they finally approached the stable, the angel sighed and dropped back
to lean against an olive tree, hanging with ripe fruit. He’d like to
follow them in, of course, but that really wasn’t his job right now. He
half-expected he’d have to guide the shepherds back to their sheep, and
he could jolly well see the flock on the hillside from here.
Aziraphale felt a presence slither around his ankle, then the air
changed as the serpent became man-shaped, and stood with his
shoulder close enough to Aziraphale’s that the words “personal space”
might as well have been rendered in neon. The angel kept his eyes fixed
upon the stable door, and sighed with mild annoyance, “What are you
doing here, Serpent?”
“Nice,” Crowley sneered. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, angel, I’m
not going any closer. Do I look stupid?”
Aziraphale glanced at the demon who was, someone help him,
becoming a friend of sorts, and muttered, “I’ve never thought you were
stupid, my dear. Far too clever by half, yes; stupid, no.”
That earned the angel an only-slightly-pointy grin, and an amused flash
of serpentine yellow eyes. “So. Anything you want to share with me about
this little baby shower? Since I’m clever enough to figure it out myself
eventually anyway?”
“You’re just trying to take advantage of my desperation to talk to
someone intelligent, after spending the whole evening shepherding, well,
shepherds.” It wasn’t quite a whine, but Aziraphale did sound somewhat
hard done by.
“Tell you what,” said the demon winningly, “once you’ve shepherded the
shepherds back to their sheep, I’ll stand you a flagon of wine. You can
celebrate the Birth. Or take your mind off the general fucking stupidity
of shepherds. Whichever.”
The angel looked sidelong at his nominal enemy and smiled softly. “I’m
fairly certain that that really shouldn’t sound as attractive as it
does, Crowley ...”
***
Only a few olives adorned the trees of Gethsemane. A bitter wind stirred
the night, and a mob of torchlight flickered along the path back to the
city gates.
Two beings crouched in the shadows of the garden, clutching each other’s
hands. They trembled in the aftermath of events they simply couldn’t, by
their very natures, deal with.
The angel had kept the Chosen One company while He waited for the mob.
The Son was going to die, and there was nothing Aziraphale could do
about it.
Crowley had been certain that his temptations were just a lark, an
evening’s distraction. That young punk Judas wanted to force his
friend-and-leader’s hand politically, and how in the name of Belgium
had everything suddenly gone so cosmically monumental?! The demon
would probably get a blessed commendation out of this, but it all
felt so ba~, wro~ ... uncomfortable.
Surely this couldn’t be happening?
The two agents from opposing sides drew closer together, and they
listened in fear to the howling lamentations of the wind ...
The Lemon Tree
The Seven Hills were caressed by a spring breeze dancing in off the
ocean. There was a warm, clear sun shining down on the Via Aurelia.
About a mile outside the gates of the Eternal City, beneath a lemon tree
heavy with fruit, a joyously anachronistic red and white gingham cloth
was spread. It was a perfect day for a picnic, even though
technically they wouldn’t be invented for centuries.
Cold sliced meats were laid out, beside a bowl of fresh fruits, a plate
of choice vegetable slices, a loaf of warm new bread, and a couple of
surprised cheeses from several hundred miles away in different
directions. The feast was rounded out with a selection of half a dozen
bottles of the region’s best wines.
The scroll merchant cocked an eyebrow at his friend the Emperor’s
Advisor, and clucked at both the appearance of the tablecloth and the
origins of the cheeses. His friend, of course, ignored this.
After they had chattered and debated, and eaten more than an observer
would believe, and imbibed more than an observer would consider safe,
the two unlikely friends leaned their backs against the lemon tree. If
any observer had, in fact, been nearby, he would have observed the
Emperor’s Advisor looking up blearily at the ripe lemons hanging
overhead, and slurring in a language that wouldn’t be heard again for a
very long while, "Y’know, angel, it'ss high time sssomebody invented
hard lemonade and motorcycles ...”
***
The Lemon Tree, a bar a couple of blocks off The Stand, was situated in
Covent Gardens. It was therefore a nigh-ideal place to pause for a drink
or five. Especially right after The Apocalypse That Wasn’t Quite Really.
They were carefully avoiding the Ritz for now, just in case their
respective employers decided to come after them during a meal. It would
be inconvenient in the extreme if the old place got trashed.
Somehow they had agreed, without discussing it in so many words, that
they would take turns being drunk. A bottle would be chosen and
uncorked. Two glasses would be poured and enjoyed, then one of them
would finish off the bottle while the other stayed comparatively alert.
When that bottle was done, both would sober up. Then another vintage
would be chosen, and roles would be reversed, with the previously-sober
one having the lion’s share of that bottle. Lather, rinse, repeat.
The only real problem was that neither the angel nor the demon could get
properly drunk that way.
Somewhere between one bottle and the next, they started discussing
Tadfield. Since each had alienated his “own people”, it seemed sense to
relocate closer to the Antichrist, at least for a few decades. Adam
seemed kindly disposed toward them, and certainly had the firepower to
watch their backs. Then they could get thoroughly drunk together, as
Someone intended.
Neither was sure which of them had suggested cottage-hunting ...
But when they shook on the idea, their eyes met, and they both realised
on some deep level that they wouldn’t ever be bored, however long they
stayed on the South Downs.
The Pine Tree
“… and I am officially taking a break from this bloody country.”
“You’ve decided you don’t like haggis, my dear?”
“No! Well, yes! But it’s the people, Aziraphale! They’re warriors at
heart, but they’re all for gardening and listening for word from Above
and … did you know there are hermit-couples who are married AND happily
cohabiting while being celibate?! I can’t deal with that …”
“So you’ll wander off and tempt the continent until the Scots invent
whisky, is that it?”
“Pretty much.” The demon settled deeper on the thick carpet of pine
needles he was sharing with the angel, and took another swig of the
local mead. He gazed up through the branches at the stars, and grimaced.
“Have you met that Ninian fellow? Already considered a local
saint, and what’s he done?” Crowley held up fingers to keep count. “He’s
on record as causing a bumper crop of leeks, acquitting a priest accused
of having sex, and producing a miraculous umbrella to save his book from
the rain. I’m suspecting your involvement in that last one, by the way.”
He took another long gulp of mead before he lost possession of the
wineskin to the angel again. “I tell you, the Celtic church is too good.
I should go to Rome and try to get a stop put to all this.”
Aziraphale glanced calculatingly at his companion. “You could, I
suppose. More work for both of us in Roma, I daresay. Although I hear
that the Visigoths are becoming restless.”
“Visigoths, eh?” Crowley snatched back the wineskin and took another
drink. “Right, Visigoths. Staying here then ‘til the mead runs out, me.”
Aziraphale smiled and produced a warm woolen blanket, settling it over
both of them in the pine-scented darkness. “Good night, then, my dear.”
***
The scent of freshly cut pine mingled with the aromas of cinnamon,
nutmeg, cardamom, sage and onions. Aziraphale drew in a deep breath and
smiled. Pinion Cottage was both comfortable and stylish, and finally
ready for the Christmas Eve guests who would be arriving in a few hours.
He basted the turkey again, just for the sake of smelling it cooking.
Filling two mugs with mulled wine, the angel went into the livingroom
where the demon was putting finishing touches on the pine tree. Among
the tinsel and the little lights, there glinted ornaments that called up
images of a long, shared past: bright red blown-glass globes shaped like
apples; clusters of borosilicate olives in shades of green and rich
brown; glistening golden-yellow lemons; pinecones in fanciful shades of
blue and purple.
On the very top of the tree perched a ceramic angel with a snake draped
sleepily around his neck.
With careful calculation, Aziraphale stood himself under the mistletoe
and offered Crowley his hot spiced wine. Very quickly, the cups found
themselves wished across the room to the low table by the fireplace. As
the two old enemies/friends/lovers kissed, they marvelled at the long,
strange trip it had been, and how it had brought them here to the South
Downs, and how happy they were together.
They only had to mess about with time a little, to be ready and
presentable when their guests arrived ...
***********************end**********************
Happy Holidays, bonemeadow, from your Secret Writer!