Work Text:
An Afternoon in the Park
A Good Omen AU fan-fiction
It was a rather fine afternoon in late spring, 1882. The usual smog over London had briefly lifted to reveal pale blue skies. The sun broke through the clouds and shone down on the town.
It was Sunday and after the duties of church, many people found their way into the parks to enjoy the fair weather. Men in top hats and ladies with their parasols could be seen traversing the paths, often with youngsters in their Sunday best walking by their side.
Along the riverbank in St. James Park strolled a familiar figure. Aziraphale was also enjoying the rare sunshine. She enjoyed the park even on cloudy days. Today she looked every bit the Victorian woman of fashion, with her long overcoat protecting her skirts from the dust and a lace-trimmed parasol in her gloved hand. Her large hat was adorned with a bright assortment of spring flowers. A gentle breeze played with the veil around her face.
She paused and watched the ducks. They in turn looked to her, wondering if the angel might have a crust of bread. She didn’t have anything for them today.
Aziraphale studied the smiling scene before her, feeling she would enjoy the sun and the air even more with company.
As if in answer to her quiet prayer, she heard a step next to her and a masculine voice said, “Good afternoon, Miss Fell.”
A smile spread over the angel’s lips before she looked up. To her left stood a tall, slender man, made all the more so by his long coat and top hat. He touched the brim of his hat with his gloved fingers, smiling as she acknowledged him.
“Good afternoon, Mr Crowley.”
Crowley continued to smile, and even though Aziraphale couldn’t see his golden eyes for the dark glasses he wore, she knew he was looking at her.
“Delightful weather,” he said conversationally.
“Indeed, it is,” she replied. “It’s been a while since I saw you.”
“Yes. 1792, wasn’t it?”
“So I believe. Where have you been all this time? Spreading foment and discord?”
“No, actually, I’ve been asleep.”
She looked up at him in surprise. “Asleep? You spent the last ninety years sleeping?”
He smiled sheepishly, the pale sunlight catching his red hair.
“In Heaven's name, why?” Aziraphale asked.
He shrugged, a careless action Aziraphale had never yet figured out how to do. “I like it,” he replied evasively. “Takes off the strain. It’s good to rest the brain every so often.”
Aziraphale was trying to not feel resentment. The nineteenth century hadn’t been the easiest for her. She could have used Crowley’s assistance on more than one occasion. And he had been asleep of all things.
Crowley noticed her silence. “I do apologize, angel,” he said.
She nodded. “It’s alright, thank you.”
There was some rustling and Aziraphale suddenly saw a bouquet in Crowley’s hand. It was roses in shades of red, pink, yellow and blue. And Aziraphale knew for a fact the Almighty hadn’t created blue roses in the wild.
The angel couldn’t keep a grudge for long, especially not around flowers.
“Are those part of your apology?” Aziraphale asked.
“More in the nature of a gift to a friend,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale took the bouquet, breathing in the sweet smell of the fresh roses. Crowley could be so thoughtful, and at times very kind. She refrained from saying so, as she knew he would resent such a remark.
“They are beautiful,” she said at last, touching the petals.
“Grew them myself,” Crowley smiled.
“A lady really shouldn’t except a gift from a strange gentleman, however.”
“We’re not strangers,” Crowley said. “We’ve known each other a long time.”
“I know. But if those Up Above were to know that we’ve been…” she searched for the right word. “That we’ve been associating-” she had chosen the wrong word.
“Associating?!” Crowley hissed. “What do you mean by that?”
“Well, whatever you wish to call what we do,” the angel said quickly. “Helping when needed. Anyway, if Heaven were to find out, they would be angry.”
“No doubt,” Crowley said, calming himself.
Aziraphale lowered her voice. “If Hell were to discover it, Crowley, they would destroy you.”
“Very probably,” the demon sighed. He was a bit on edge, and Hell was the very reason why. And the real reason he hadn’t seen the angel for almost a century.
“Look,” he said, “there’s another thing as to why I came to see you, related to that.”
“Oh?”
“It’s probably not the best time.”
Crowley was fiddling with the watch-chain on his waistcoat. He seemed worried.
Aziraphale miracled some bread into her hand and began tossing it to the ducks. “Pray, do continue,” she said.
“I need a favour,” Crowley said.
“An assignment?”
“No, not a job to do. More a risk.”
The angel was intrigued, in spite of herself. “What sort of a favour?” she asked.
From a pocket, Crowley pulled a slip of paper. He handed it to her. Aziraphale unfolded it. On the paper were written two words in Crowley’s scratchy handwriting. Aziraphale read them and felt all colour drain from her face.
She looked up at Crowley. He was staring at the ducks, his expression tense.
“Crowley…”
“Don’t say it out loud. Everything has ears.”
“But, holy water,” she breathed.
“Don’t.”
“It would destroy you. Not just your body, but your entire being!”
“I know, I know, and that’s not what I want it for,” he said sharply. “Just in case everything goes wrong.”
The angel crumpled the paper and shoved it back at him. “I am not going to help you commit suicide, Crowley.”
“Angel-”
“Don’t ‘angel’ me, Crowley,” she said. “This conversation is over. I have plenty of other things to occupy my time besides associating with you.”
“And so have I.” Crowley’s hand curled into a fist over the paper. “I don’t need your company, angel.”
“And the feeling is mutual,” the lady returned stiffly. “Thank you for the flowers and good day to you, Mr Crowley.”
“Good day, Miss Fell,” the demon growled. He touched his hat in an angry gesture of politeness and turned his back to her.
The paper was tossed in the river. It burst into flame and burned down to ash.
The angel watched Crowley until she lost sight of him in the crowd. Her anger changed into a sort of sadness as her gaze dropped to the roses. Sprigs of rosemary were interspersed with the greenery.
Crowley had never asked her for anything before. And now holy water, of all things. Why should Crowley want it, but to kill himself?
Aziraphale's fingers rubbed the rosemary, releasing a sweet and pungent smell into the misty air.
Perhaps Hell did know what Crowley had been doing all these years. Aziraphale could only hope she was mistaken.
The angel held the roses close to her heart and turned away, leaving the park as the sun again hid itself behind the late clouds of the day.
Someday, when we are wiser
When the whole world is older
When we have love
And I pray someday we may yet
Live to live and one day,
Someday…