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I was looking through some of my writing, and I came across this very short story I wrote on a whim a few months ago. I don't really think I'm as well-suited to Aziraphale/Crowley as some of the writers here, but I can't help being a little fond of this piece, anyway. I thought it was at least worth sharing.
It's very short, rather silly, and completely work-safe, unlike 99.9% of my writing. It's not much, but I hope you enjoy it.
Title: From Whose Blue Sills Fell Tears of Sidereal Gold
Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley
Rating: PG
Genre: humour; gen; mild slash
Summary: Crowley's usual methods of ornamental horticulture are severely challenged when he attempts to apply them to a very unusual species of houseplant.
Words: < 1000
Notes: Title is taken from a Rimbaud poem purely for the very frivolous reason that it is pretty and suits the general asthetic.
~~~~~
The distraction mysteriously appeared just as Crowley had finished misting the most obsequious of the rhododendrons, and the fading Adder's Tongue hiding behind the ficus' pot was spared the serpent's tongue for another day or two at least. Its slender, purpled leaves trembled in uncertain gratitude. Crowley glared at the plant askance and it hastily struck a pose that could have broken the heart of the coldest painter of still-lifes. Crowley's heart, however, according to Crowley, was plated in a tungsten alloy derived of infernal elements and therefore unbreakable by all accounts, least of all by woeful vegetation.
The distraction-- that being a prominent and uninvited plant-- had not been there the night before, but now it rested on the windowsill as if it had every right to be there, spreading its verdant limbs in ingenuous serenity. It was all but humming its contentment. Eyes narrowed, Crowley approached the plant, wielding the plant mister like a crossbow in case of attack.
In a round, golden bowl, a deep green nest of softly curling leaves held a large cluster of bright blue flowers. They were sublimely coloured, just touching the edge of indigo. They were precisely the shade of the uppermost sky, glimpsed on occasion by humans in jet-planes and by high-flying birds, but much more familiar to angels as the empyreal depths of heaven. Within each ring of petals was a sprinkling of solar sparks, like the glister of the starkest sun on frosted clouds and diamonded wings. But these sparks were nestled in lush, soft shadow, and glimmered, silvery and sidereal, harmless as air.
The flowers radiated a fragile but pervasive odour, soft and ethereal, like mimosa or jasmine, but there was more to the scent than scent: all around the golden bowl the air seemed fresher and crisper, and the light from the window seemed brighter where it passed the deep shade cradled by the leaves.
It was far too beautiful a thing to regard as a potential thread, so he cheerfully adopted it, imagining how much more perfect it would look once it had been terrified into overachievement.
~~~~~
It was dying before the week had ended. The celestial blue had dulled and darkened to livid steel, the leaves were thin and yellowed, and the little lights in each flower were beginning to go out like dying stars. The shadow in which they were sinking grew blackerr, pooling in the hollows at the heart of the plant. It hadn't responded to anything, and when he had informed it of the perils of displeasing its despotic master, complete with gratuitous allusions to blenders, bleach, and blow-torches, it had merely drooped further in passive-aggressive, miserable defiance.
"It's a bloody shame," he muttered, as he carried it down to the curb where the garbage was collected, "you really were quite something before."
He startled at the minute shiver in his arms. Looking down, he saw that the withered leaves had shifted, lifted themselves slightly in an unnoticed wind. He shrugged and prodded one of the stalks. It moved, almost.
"And those flowers of yours...there's no blue like that on Earth. Or in Hell." He felt strangely wistful of a sudden, and simultaneously disgusted with himself.
One of the blossoms immediately raised its head, and veins of cerulean began to thread through it, flushing it with colour. The lights glimmered again, if weakly.
Crowley narrowed his eyes in thought for a moment, then blessed fluently to himself in a number of appropriately explicit languages.
"You're very pretty," he told the plant, in the awkwardly cheerful tone used by shy, solemn adults to address exuberant small children or happy puppies. "You're a very beautiful flower, aren't you?"
In response, more of the petals blushed and brightened. Crowley blushed slightly, too. The leaves shuddered once, and were green-- faint and pale, but green. "...darling," he tried, voice slightly rough with humiliation, and new stars winked at him from deep sapphire shade.
He took the plant back inside, and set it carefully on the small table beside his bed. He drew back the dark curtains so the late sun could shine on the exulting petals, and carefully closed the door behind him. He couldn't risk any of his less-esteemed houseplants overhearing his weakness and instigating a coup.
~~~~~
Not terribly far off, an angel with thumbs that were decidedly more inky than green continued not-quite-smirking to himself in triumph. Even if Aziraphale couldn't tend to the exquisite specimen of caeruleus supernalis personally, he was sure Crowley could do a better job of it than anyone, no matter what Michael would have thought if given the chance. He was also certain that Crowley would be desperate to keep something so unusual, striking, and beautiful. As for the admittedly satisfying thought of the demon's expression upon discovering that plants indigenous to the fields of Heaven flourish only under tender love and kindness...well, that was really just a side benefit. A coincidental perk.
The sly smile hadn't left his face long after he'd put on his coat and scarf and started walking in the direction of Crowley's flat.
~~~~~
NOTE: caeruleus supernalis means "sky-blue of the highest heavens" if my Latin is correct, which sometimes it is.
It's very short, rather silly, and completely work-safe, unlike 99.9% of my writing. It's not much, but I hope you enjoy it.
Title: From Whose Blue Sills Fell Tears of Sidereal Gold
Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley
Rating: PG
Genre: humour; gen; mild slash
Summary: Crowley's usual methods of ornamental horticulture are severely challenged when he attempts to apply them to a very unusual species of houseplant.
Words: < 1000
Notes: Title is taken from a Rimbaud poem purely for the very frivolous reason that it is pretty and suits the general asthetic.
~~~~~
The distraction mysteriously appeared just as Crowley had finished misting the most obsequious of the rhododendrons, and the fading Adder's Tongue hiding behind the ficus' pot was spared the serpent's tongue for another day or two at least. Its slender, purpled leaves trembled in uncertain gratitude. Crowley glared at the plant askance and it hastily struck a pose that could have broken the heart of the coldest painter of still-lifes. Crowley's heart, however, according to Crowley, was plated in a tungsten alloy derived of infernal elements and therefore unbreakable by all accounts, least of all by woeful vegetation.
The distraction-- that being a prominent and uninvited plant-- had not been there the night before, but now it rested on the windowsill as if it had every right to be there, spreading its verdant limbs in ingenuous serenity. It was all but humming its contentment. Eyes narrowed, Crowley approached the plant, wielding the plant mister like a crossbow in case of attack.
In a round, golden bowl, a deep green nest of softly curling leaves held a large cluster of bright blue flowers. They were sublimely coloured, just touching the edge of indigo. They were precisely the shade of the uppermost sky, glimpsed on occasion by humans in jet-planes and by high-flying birds, but much more familiar to angels as the empyreal depths of heaven. Within each ring of petals was a sprinkling of solar sparks, like the glister of the starkest sun on frosted clouds and diamonded wings. But these sparks were nestled in lush, soft shadow, and glimmered, silvery and sidereal, harmless as air.
The flowers radiated a fragile but pervasive odour, soft and ethereal, like mimosa or jasmine, but there was more to the scent than scent: all around the golden bowl the air seemed fresher and crisper, and the light from the window seemed brighter where it passed the deep shade cradled by the leaves.
It was far too beautiful a thing to regard as a potential thread, so he cheerfully adopted it, imagining how much more perfect it would look once it had been terrified into overachievement.
~~~~~
It was dying before the week had ended. The celestial blue had dulled and darkened to livid steel, the leaves were thin and yellowed, and the little lights in each flower were beginning to go out like dying stars. The shadow in which they were sinking grew blackerr, pooling in the hollows at the heart of the plant. It hadn't responded to anything, and when he had informed it of the perils of displeasing its despotic master, complete with gratuitous allusions to blenders, bleach, and blow-torches, it had merely drooped further in passive-aggressive, miserable defiance.
"It's a bloody shame," he muttered, as he carried it down to the curb where the garbage was collected, "you really were quite something before."
He startled at the minute shiver in his arms. Looking down, he saw that the withered leaves had shifted, lifted themselves slightly in an unnoticed wind. He shrugged and prodded one of the stalks. It moved, almost.
"And those flowers of yours...there's no blue like that on Earth. Or in Hell." He felt strangely wistful of a sudden, and simultaneously disgusted with himself.
One of the blossoms immediately raised its head, and veins of cerulean began to thread through it, flushing it with colour. The lights glimmered again, if weakly.
Crowley narrowed his eyes in thought for a moment, then blessed fluently to himself in a number of appropriately explicit languages.
"You're very pretty," he told the plant, in the awkwardly cheerful tone used by shy, solemn adults to address exuberant small children or happy puppies. "You're a very beautiful flower, aren't you?"
In response, more of the petals blushed and brightened. Crowley blushed slightly, too. The leaves shuddered once, and were green-- faint and pale, but green. "...darling," he tried, voice slightly rough with humiliation, and new stars winked at him from deep sapphire shade.
He took the plant back inside, and set it carefully on the small table beside his bed. He drew back the dark curtains so the late sun could shine on the exulting petals, and carefully closed the door behind him. He couldn't risk any of his less-esteemed houseplants overhearing his weakness and instigating a coup.
~~~~~
Not terribly far off, an angel with thumbs that were decidedly more inky than green continued not-quite-smirking to himself in triumph. Even if Aziraphale couldn't tend to the exquisite specimen of caeruleus supernalis personally, he was sure Crowley could do a better job of it than anyone, no matter what Michael would have thought if given the chance. He was also certain that Crowley would be desperate to keep something so unusual, striking, and beautiful. As for the admittedly satisfying thought of the demon's expression upon discovering that plants indigenous to the fields of Heaven flourish only under tender love and kindness...well, that was really just a side benefit. A coincidental perk.
The sly smile hadn't left his face long after he'd put on his coat and scarf and started walking in the direction of Crowley's flat.
~~~~~
NOTE: caeruleus supernalis means "sky-blue of the highest heavens" if my Latin is correct, which sometimes it is.