Happy holidays, _silverfox!
Title: The Rising of the Storm
Recipient: _silverfox
Author: meredydd
Prompt: "The rising of the storm" (prompt choice 3/3)
Pairing: Gen, Aziraphale/Crowley friendship (slash if you really squint)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: During the summer of 1939, Aziraphale and Crowley are enjoying a sojourn in Amsterdam when they both begin to feel a storm rising over humankind.
Warnings: Mentions of war
June 3, 1939
Crowley felt it before Aziraphale. They were having tea together in a small little cafe in Amsterdam overlooking a canal, enjoying an autumn afternoon with little conversation and many cream cakes. It smelled like the air right before a storm, felt like a punch to the gut, tasted like blood. He set is cup down and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose until the sensations passed. When he opened his eyes, Aziraphale was looking at him with an expression of concern, pale brows furrowed, cream cake halfway to is lips. "Crowley?"
"Nothing. I'm fine." He wasn't. He could feel the pull tat came just before a Summons, the sharp tug of demand from Himself. "I need to leave, however. See you next time." He threw a handful of notes down on the table and left the cafe before Aziraphale could do much more than sputter his name. Striding down the narrow pavement, Crowley felt the urge to run, to fly, to just go and go fast. He felt the creeping dread one most often experiences when walking down a darkened corridor in an empty building that creaks just like footsteps. The fear that grows in the belly like a parasite, sucking away at happiness and peace until all that is left is a hollow shell, filled with shaking and crying. He turned the corner and strode to the hotel where he had taken up rooms. London, he decided. It wasn't running away, it was going home.
Aziraphale finished his tea, made sure the money was enough, and bid farewell to the kindly waiter and the lady at the till. He was unsettled, to say the least. He felt...wrong, somehow. His stomach fluttered and his fingers itched. Worse, his wings begged to be unfurled. He loved his human form, how comfortable it was and how it just suited him. But now, at that moment, looking out at the barges and the dark water, he wanted to shed it and take his true form, the one that would blind humans and, if he were more brave, stand beside Michael and wield swords against the Adversary. Aziraphale swallowed against the hard lump in his throat and shivered, despite the relative warmth of the day. The world around him seemed too bright, suddenly, too loud and too sharp. He pushed himself away from the railing and forced himself to walk sedately to the charming little bookshop he had discovered just that morning.
That night, they dreamt of Rome, of Athens, of desert tribes long forgotten and temples razed to the ground. Demon and angel both awakened, panting and gasping for water. They usually did not dream, nor did the truly ever sleep, but they both knew it had been a sign. There were hours until morning and neither wanted to chance more sleep, more dreams. They found each other near the little cafe, Crowley already leaning against the low wall bordering the canal when Aziraphale arrived. "You know what it is, don't you?" he asked softly, unwilling to break the fragile quiet. "It's happening again."
Aziraphale nodded. "I dream of Rome."
"And Athens, and the desert." He took a flask from his coat pocket and sipped from it. "I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't try," he said, offering Aziraphale a drink. The angel only huffed a breath, sounding annoyed and amused at the same time. "I tried to go to London earlier. I couldn't."
"Why not?" Aziraphale slid a sideways glance at his demon. "Did Below stop you?"
"Maybe. No. Maybe." The smell of ozone was strong again, and his belly hurt. "I tried but..." he sighed and took another sip. "I fell asleep."
"Perhaps you were just tired."
"How often to angels need to sleep?"
"We're different. Now." Aziraphale felt awkward--they had once been alike, before the Fall.
"Not so very." He put away the flask and turned to face the city, back to the water. "It's coming again. Worse than before."
"How can it possibly be worse?" Aziraphale was not expecting an answer, didn't really want one in fact. He knew how much worse it could get. As much as he loved humans, he knew their capacity for hate, for poor judgment, for cruelty.
"Specialists in the Below have been waiting for times such as these, times that will allow them to unleash their, ah, creativity."
"Above won't let it get so far."
"Aziraphale..." The sky was beginning to lighten, a shift not perceived by human eyes but clear as midday to the demon and angel. "We haven't much time, you know."
"I'll be expected."
"As will I." Crowley let himself Feel, something he rarely did those days as it reminded him of Below. They were the only supernatural beings for miles so he seized the opportunity. "If we're fast, we can--"
"What if we get caught? I'd be cast out for subverting the Grand Plan!" His palms were sweating and heart racing unpleasantly but part of him knew that he would not be true to himself if he did not at least try to help.
"I'd be seconded to Belial," Crowley said, sounding grim. "I don't hate this place, angel."
"I won't tell anyone that you said that." Quiet moved between them like a living thing then, and finally, Aziraphale spoke again. "Rain is coming."
"A storm," Crowley agreed, and neither was quite sure if he meant the weather. "We couldn't stop it entirely, but we could mitigate some of the damage."
"Damage? Crowley," Aziraphale tried to keep the horror out of his tone and failed. "Crowley, these are living beings, not phonographs or...or...automobiles! They aren't simply damaged by this! They are destroyed!"
"Shhhh! You'll wake everyone!" Crowley seized his elbow and pulled him down the pavement until the reached a dark old tree. "We can't stop it but perhaps we can stem the tide. Is that better?"
It wasn't, but Aziraphale let the reply go. Instead, he turned his face up to the branches above and looked at the bits of sky that he could see between the leaves. "The storm is going to be terrible."
"Yes." The pull was back, blood-deep and unbreakable. "I need to go."
"As do I." The looked at each other for a long, silent moment. Finally, Crowley spoke again. "I can't do what I would sorely love to do, but I am a demon, after all. I can inspire..."
"Be clever," Aziraphale said, smiling wryly. "Be careful, Crowley. Even demons and angels need shelter from storms."
They nodded, neither wishing to say anything more, to make it more real. "Do your best," Crowley whispered. "Be seeing you." He turned and walked away, not looking back.
Aziraphale looked up at the leaves again, at the lightening sky, and frowned. "I don't understand. Any of this." He leaned against the tree and waited, then. He knew that the Call would not be long in coming.
Happy Holidays, _silverfox, from your Secret Writer!
Recipient: _silverfox
Author: meredydd
Prompt: "The rising of the storm" (prompt choice 3/3)
Pairing: Gen, Aziraphale/Crowley friendship (slash if you really squint)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: During the summer of 1939, Aziraphale and Crowley are enjoying a sojourn in Amsterdam when they both begin to feel a storm rising over humankind.
Warnings: Mentions of war
June 3, 1939
Crowley felt it before Aziraphale. They were having tea together in a small little cafe in Amsterdam overlooking a canal, enjoying an autumn afternoon with little conversation and many cream cakes. It smelled like the air right before a storm, felt like a punch to the gut, tasted like blood. He set is cup down and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose until the sensations passed. When he opened his eyes, Aziraphale was looking at him with an expression of concern, pale brows furrowed, cream cake halfway to is lips. "Crowley?"
"Nothing. I'm fine." He wasn't. He could feel the pull tat came just before a Summons, the sharp tug of demand from Himself. "I need to leave, however. See you next time." He threw a handful of notes down on the table and left the cafe before Aziraphale could do much more than sputter his name. Striding down the narrow pavement, Crowley felt the urge to run, to fly, to just go and go fast. He felt the creeping dread one most often experiences when walking down a darkened corridor in an empty building that creaks just like footsteps. The fear that grows in the belly like a parasite, sucking away at happiness and peace until all that is left is a hollow shell, filled with shaking and crying. He turned the corner and strode to the hotel where he had taken up rooms. London, he decided. It wasn't running away, it was going home.
Aziraphale finished his tea, made sure the money was enough, and bid farewell to the kindly waiter and the lady at the till. He was unsettled, to say the least. He felt...wrong, somehow. His stomach fluttered and his fingers itched. Worse, his wings begged to be unfurled. He loved his human form, how comfortable it was and how it just suited him. But now, at that moment, looking out at the barges and the dark water, he wanted to shed it and take his true form, the one that would blind humans and, if he were more brave, stand beside Michael and wield swords against the Adversary. Aziraphale swallowed against the hard lump in his throat and shivered, despite the relative warmth of the day. The world around him seemed too bright, suddenly, too loud and too sharp. He pushed himself away from the railing and forced himself to walk sedately to the charming little bookshop he had discovered just that morning.
That night, they dreamt of Rome, of Athens, of desert tribes long forgotten and temples razed to the ground. Demon and angel both awakened, panting and gasping for water. They usually did not dream, nor did the truly ever sleep, but they both knew it had been a sign. There were hours until morning and neither wanted to chance more sleep, more dreams. They found each other near the little cafe, Crowley already leaning against the low wall bordering the canal when Aziraphale arrived. "You know what it is, don't you?" he asked softly, unwilling to break the fragile quiet. "It's happening again."
Aziraphale nodded. "I dream of Rome."
"And Athens, and the desert." He took a flask from his coat pocket and sipped from it. "I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't try," he said, offering Aziraphale a drink. The angel only huffed a breath, sounding annoyed and amused at the same time. "I tried to go to London earlier. I couldn't."
"Why not?" Aziraphale slid a sideways glance at his demon. "Did Below stop you?"
"Maybe. No. Maybe." The smell of ozone was strong again, and his belly hurt. "I tried but..." he sighed and took another sip. "I fell asleep."
"Perhaps you were just tired."
"How often to angels need to sleep?"
"We're different. Now." Aziraphale felt awkward--they had once been alike, before the Fall.
"Not so very." He put away the flask and turned to face the city, back to the water. "It's coming again. Worse than before."
"How can it possibly be worse?" Aziraphale was not expecting an answer, didn't really want one in fact. He knew how much worse it could get. As much as he loved humans, he knew their capacity for hate, for poor judgment, for cruelty.
"Specialists in the Below have been waiting for times such as these, times that will allow them to unleash their, ah, creativity."
"Above won't let it get so far."
"Aziraphale..." The sky was beginning to lighten, a shift not perceived by human eyes but clear as midday to the demon and angel. "We haven't much time, you know."
"I'll be expected."
"As will I." Crowley let himself Feel, something he rarely did those days as it reminded him of Below. They were the only supernatural beings for miles so he seized the opportunity. "If we're fast, we can--"
"What if we get caught? I'd be cast out for subverting the Grand Plan!" His palms were sweating and heart racing unpleasantly but part of him knew that he would not be true to himself if he did not at least try to help.
"I'd be seconded to Belial," Crowley said, sounding grim. "I don't hate this place, angel."
"I won't tell anyone that you said that." Quiet moved between them like a living thing then, and finally, Aziraphale spoke again. "Rain is coming."
"A storm," Crowley agreed, and neither was quite sure if he meant the weather. "We couldn't stop it entirely, but we could mitigate some of the damage."
"Damage? Crowley," Aziraphale tried to keep the horror out of his tone and failed. "Crowley, these are living beings, not phonographs or...or...automobiles! They aren't simply damaged by this! They are destroyed!"
"Shhhh! You'll wake everyone!" Crowley seized his elbow and pulled him down the pavement until the reached a dark old tree. "We can't stop it but perhaps we can stem the tide. Is that better?"
It wasn't, but Aziraphale let the reply go. Instead, he turned his face up to the branches above and looked at the bits of sky that he could see between the leaves. "The storm is going to be terrible."
"Yes." The pull was back, blood-deep and unbreakable. "I need to go."
"As do I." The looked at each other for a long, silent moment. Finally, Crowley spoke again. "I can't do what I would sorely love to do, but I am a demon, after all. I can inspire..."
"Be clever," Aziraphale said, smiling wryly. "Be careful, Crowley. Even demons and angels need shelter from storms."
They nodded, neither wishing to say anything more, to make it more real. "Do your best," Crowley whispered. "Be seeing you." He turned and walked away, not looking back.
Aziraphale looked up at the leaves again, at the lightening sky, and frowned. "I don't understand. Any of this." He leaned against the tree and waited, then. He knew that the Call would not be long in coming.
Happy Holidays, _silverfox, from your Secret Writer!