Work Text:
Author's note : This text was illustrated by Pikimachin in the Ineffabble Voyage Zine 2024
The weather in London wasn't exactly mild for the start of August... You couldn't say that it was mild anywhere in England, for that matter, but it wasn't of My making! Humans can blame Me for many things, but if it is true that I invented rain and fine weather, I don't do it on a daily basis. No, the weather is far too much work, and in any case, humans are never happy! At first, I tried to manage it as best I could, I even delegated it to a few hand-picked archangels for a while; but too much sun wasn't good enough, too much rain wasn't good enough either... So I decided unilaterally that the weather would have free will, a bit like humans in fact. (OK, I allowed myself a slight deviation for this Flood story, but I really was upset that day!)
That’s who I am, I sow seeds and then I let things happen. I let My angels, nature, humans, all that, do their things... You have to understand Me, omniscience is tiring! At first, it seems ideal, but then, in the end, it is boring to know everything and foresee everything. But the advantage of being God is being able to do what I want.
So I put things right and invented free will, the antidote to the divine burden! I create, others struggle. Not a bad concept, is it? When it comes to parental resignation, we haven't done any better... But I digress...
Where was I? Ah, yes, the well-rotten English weather in the summer of 2024.
The rain spared no part of London on that first of August, not even Soho, the capital's rainbow. In the comfort of his bookshop, a certain reformed Supreme Archangel was sipping a cup of hot chocolate as he leisurely leafed through the latest novel by a writer called Terry Pratchett (currently well ensconced in Heaven) whom some humans worshipped far more diligently than they did Me, by the way... Curled up on the desk in front of him, a snake with scales as black as night and eyes as yellow as the sun kept sticking out its tongue. After an exasperated sigh, Aziraphale closed his book and placed it on the desk. With slow, meticulous movements, he took off his little glasses (perfectly useless because I didn't make him long-sighted, let's be clear about that) and placed them on the novel, before tightening his tartan bow tie. He then leaned back in his chair and rested his arms on the armrests, raising his eyebrows at the reptile.
“What's the problem, dear?”
The animal gradually took on the shape of a skinny human being in slim-fitting black clothes, topped with a fine, shimmering gray scarf, tied over a vaporous shirt, tightened at the biceps by delicate silver sleeve garters. Seated improbably on the edge of the desk, he gazed at the bookseller with slit pupils, his long red hair waving over his frail shoulders. When he replied in a plaintive voice, uncrossing his arms to place his hands on the desk on either side of his glorious posterior, Aziraphale's gaze traveled over his entire body, fascinated. He stopped for a moment to look at his gold signet ring, which the retired demon now wore on his left ring finger (a difference in the size of the finger, but not only), and a satisfied smile lit up his face for a moment.
“We're bored, my angel! We haven't been out of the bookshop for three days!” said the demon, who had been dismissed for inappropriate behavior, which consisted of scuppering the Apocalypse 2.0.
“You weren't complaining about that yesterday…” replied Aziraphale, with a knowing and somewhat condescending voice.
“You think you're clever?” retorted Crowley, tilting his head to one side.
“In fact, I am! Let me remind you that I've managed to fool everyone Up there!” boasted the bookseller (long story).
“Do you plan on bragging about it much longer?”
“Well... Let me think... Yes!" replied the bookseller proudly, resting his cup on the desk next to an elegant black quill (which had belonged to Crowley before being transformed into a calligraphy quill by the angel).
“Well, if you're so clever, find us something to do!”
Aziraphale grinned from ear to ear, but the demon raised a hand to stop him.
“Nah, not that! I want to go out…”
Clearly disappointed, the part-time bookseller sighed again, before offering:
“Well, I don't know... Would you like us to spend the weekend at the South Downs?”
“I can create rain, but the rest is a lot more complicated! The weather's just as miserable there as it is here... I saw the weather forecast this morning when I went to get my SEX (Six Espressos Xpress) from Nina and Maggie!”
“Erm... Well, I suppose VIP tickets might be available for the close-up at the Magic Circle Theater…” continued Aziraphale, his eyes sparkling, rubbing his hands together in a way that immediately worried Crowley.
“For pity's sake, anything but that..." lamented the demon, tilting his head back in silent prayer to Me.
“With VIP tickets, you get early access and a cocktail!” retorted the bookseller, as enthusiastic as ever.
“You promised not to make me suffer any more!” replied Crowley, in an empty voice.
Touché. Attaboy. He understands quickly, even if it takes a long time to explain.. Six thousand years among humans teaches you how to play dirty...
“All right, got any better ideas? Or one single, better idea?" (what a bastard) asked Aziraphale, grabbing his mug by the wings to drown his guilt in the cocoa drink (I'd like to take this opportunity to point out that chocolate also has aphrodisiac properties on celestial entities, QED).
The demon casually ran a hand through his hair, staring into space.
“We could go to France! It's been a long time…” he finally suggested, recalling with nostalgia all the good times spent in France in company of the angel.
The baptism of Clovis, Aziraphale's ordination to the Templars, the coronation of Saint Louis and the placing of France under the patronage of the Archangel Saint Michael (they'd had a good laugh about that, the two idiots), their life at the court of the Sun King as Musketeers, the Revolution...
So many good times, but also countless years spent putting up with the angel's pitiful French…
Crowley threw his gangly body forward and went to pick up his sunglasses, which were still sitting on the little counter in the bookshop, with a rolling gait.
“What a great idea! Let's go and eat crêpes in Paris!” jubilated Aziraphale, for whom only gluttony or lust could rival his love for magic and literature.
“To Paris? Aren't you a bit sick? With the Olympics coming up, it'll be so crowded…”
“Oh, dear... I'd forgotten... Never mind, let's go to Mont Saint-Michel! The crêpes there are even better…” (Not to take sides, but it's true.)
“I’d rather discorporate... Didn't you get your fill of Michael when you were in Heaven? I can't see them anymore! (For those of you who've never been to Mont Saint-Michel, there's a lovely golden statue of my Archangel at the top of the Abbey, who looks nothing like them, but it’s very shiny! Humans like when things shine. You're welcome.)
“Well, surprise me then!” surrendered Aziraphale, defeated by the weight of the demon's rather clever arguments.
After placing the Valentinos in front of his serpentine eyes, he extended a hand towards the bookseller.
“Let me tempt you for a bucolic stroll, my angel!”
With a puzzled frown, Aziraphale rose to join his demon and took his hand.
“Ooooh... Temptation accomplished!”
After the most frivolous of demonic miracles, the two celestial entities landed on the banks of a river, outside a small medieval country village bathed in sunlight. From where they stood, they could see countless colorful garlands of crepe paper stretched from the bell tower of a little church and hung from houses whose ochre stones lit up the façades in the sun.
“Where are we?” asked the bookseller, a delighted look lighting up his chubby face.
“In the Périgord Noir! In Saint-Léon-sur-Vézère, to be precise. There's a gourmet market this evening,” answered Crowley, as he miraculously produced a beige hemp Borsalino and handed it to his partner.
“Thank you, Crowley. It’s a nice change of scenery from London... And what about you? Don't you want a hat? The sun is beating down here…”
“Snakes love heat, angel,” replied Crowley, placing a kiss on his cheek.
They set off and walked quietly along the river bend, close to the edge of the fields. The corn and sunflowers were flourishing in the blazing sun and somewhat stifling heat, barely mitigated by the proximity of water and the shade of the ash, oak and lime trees lining the banks. They didn't meet anyone on their way, apart from a few kayakers enjoying the scenery as they strolled along the calm waters, throwing out cheerful "bonjour" as they went by, to which only Aziraphale replied, with a very strong accent (don't worry, the famous Monsieur Rossignol has since gone to Hell). Crowley turned a few mosquitoes into dragonflies along the way, criticizing Me to no end (by the way, do you know why I invented mosquitoes? Neither do I), and as they neared the village, bypassing a field used as a car park, he continued to grumble, under Aziraphale's loving gaze.
“Look at all those poor cars out in the sun... It's a good thing we didn't take the Bentley!”
As the afternoon drew to a close, they began to pass more and more people as they made their way through the village along the majestic weeping willows towards the 11th century Romanesque church. The sunrays lessened in intensity, but not in heat, as they moved away from the riverbank to wander among the houses. Locals and tourists swarmed through the narrow streets and onto the village square to enjoy the market. Under the brightly coloured tarpaulins, local producers were selling their wares, alongside stalls selling clothes, handicrafts and “Hook-a-duck” games. Around the small swimming pools, the laughter of children could be heard, delighted to win a trophy, however humble, at the end of a game of skills that often involved parents or grandparents.
As the square came alive with the sound of large tables and benches being set up and the stage being prepared for the musicians, Aziraphale untied his bow tie to undo the first buttons of his blue shirt, revealing a fleece of white curls.
“Lord, it's hot in France (I repeat, I had nothing to do with it.)...” he breathed, carefully folding the accessory in the palm of his hand.
After a sidelong glance at the tempting curls (I did have something to do with that, on the other hand.) of the ex-Cherubim, ex-Principality, ex-Supreme Archangel, but eternal Guardian Angel, Crowley took the piece of tartan fabric from his hands in one swift movement. He used it to tie his hair into a wild ponytail, letting a few red locks escape carelessly from his mane (Here too, it's Me, I know a thing or two about hair attributes). Aziraphale watched him stealthily, with a subjugated gaze mingled with a hint of desire, which he hastened to repress, promising himself to have the accessory in Crowley's hair kept on later that night. First his ring, now his bow tie… like so many fragments of himself adorning his demon, attesting to their mutual belonging. Two little light touches on Crowley's ever-present dark outfit, like two sparks of divinity reminding us that nothing is ever set in stone.
An angel could saunter vaguely downwards without devoting his soul to Evil, just as a faithful warrior of Heaven could knowingly thwart My plans without deviating from Good. It's subtle. It is... Ineffable.
But I still deviate from our story! The market...
While Aziraphale was still lost in his contemplation of the disowned Duke of Hell, the latter had wandered into an alleyway, approaching a clothes stall. Snapping out of his torpor at the sound of a table scraping, the bookseller noticed, despite the presence of his sunglasses, that Crowley's gaze had fallen on a little black sleeveless summer dress. Relatively short, it had a deep décolletage, thanks to a V-neck and a belt tied at the side, just below the bust. The airy fabric was lightly pleated, giving the dress a casual yet elegant look, despite its very reasonable price!
Aziraphale stretched out an arm to caress the garment, easily fantasizing it on his partner's slender body.
“It would go well with the pair of red heels you were wearing last week! You know, when Mr Brown came into the shop to tell us about his clearance sale?”
The demon recalled with an amused chuckle the comical look on the carpet salesman's face, as well as his confused stammering while he stumbled and scrambled to turn back. In Mr Brown's defense, Crowley had opened the door wearing only the aforementioned pair of heels and Aziraphale's white boa around his neck. A little jealous, the demon never missed an opportunity to show himself in the simplest of garb to the poor president of the Wickber Street Traders' Association, in order to show him the countless love marks that covered his body. Aziraphale, underneath his apparent composure, could be completely exalted in the intimacy of the bookshop (thanks to all those licentious books written by humans and loved by My lovely blonde head)...
“Do you think so?” asked Crowley, with a puzzled grimace, brushing the dress with his fingertips.
Even though Aziraphale went out of his way to compliment and reassure him constantly, he had been so badly treated in Hell that his self-esteem had gradually dwindled to nothing, over the millenia. And now, I can hear you, you're going to tell Me that it surely did not help when I condemned him, or when Aziraphale abandoned him, and you wouldn't be wrong! However, don't blame Me too much, for these cruel acts were only indispensable links in the great chain of the Ineffable Plan, aimed, among other things, at reuniting them.
Love is My great thing... Love one another, be fruitful and multiply, that's all from Me, let me remind you! Well, ultimately, humans mate more than they multiply and the celestial beings have started to do so too, but that's one of the pleasant surprises of free will, remember? The antidote to the divine burden!
Aziraphale's hand met Crowley's and he slipped his fingers under the demon's palm to bring the top of his hand to his lips and place a tender kiss there.
“I'd miraculate it directly on you, but it might give me ideas…” he then whispered in Crowley's ear, in the deep, gravelly voice he sometimes (often) used, just before biting the demon's earlobe.
The little just enough of a bastard knew very well the effect it had on Crowley. The way that biting, coupled with that baritone voice, reverberated directly and deliciously down to his pelvis. The demon flushed and looked away, just as the bookseller pulled a note from his pocket and handed it to the merchant who had approached, sniffing out a potential sale, to stand in front of the lovebirds. Easy prey par excellence, as every shopkeeper knows!
Once he pocketed the note, the man summarily folded the dress and placed it in a small bag, which he handed to a crimson-faced Crowley, who stammered out, barely audible:
“Ngk…”
“Merci monsieur et, um… Bonsoir!” replied Aziraphale cheerfully, who had regained his usual voice (and above all his infuriating accent).
They walked slowly back towards the village square, holding hands and following the movement of the other onlookers, attracted by the smells coming from the food stalls. Aziraphale felt the demon stir beside him, so he clasped his hand a little tighter in his and turned his face towards his, looking worried.
“What is it, my star?”
Crowley looked everywhere but in his direction as he stammered:
“Ngk... You didn't have to…”
The bookseller stopped, forcing Crowley to do the same, then stroked the demon's cheek with his free hand until he finally turned his face towards him. Through the tinted lenses of his glasses, Aziraphale could make out the saffron orbs with slit pupils that he loved more than anything else in the world. He brought his hand up and touched the little snake tattoo on his cheek, before absent-mindedly playing with a lock of red hair that shimmered in the setting sun.
“Doubt thou the stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar. But never doubt I love" (That's from William Shakespeare, act 2, scene 2 of Hamlet. Thank Myself I'm here!)
He then silenced Crowley, who was about to protest, by tilting his head to one side and pressing a hot kiss on the hollow of his neck. The little snake took the opportunity to migrate to Aziraphale, as it often did, and wrapped itself around his ring finger.
After an amused chuckle, the bookseller sniffed the air, full of appetizing smells.
“I'm hungry!” he declared in a firm voice.
“Liar,” laughed Crowley, struggling to regain his composure.
“I feel like eating! Is that better?” asked the bookseller, raising an eyebrow.
“Let's say it's closer to the truth! Can I buy you dinner, my angel? Just so you don't have the monopoly on romance tonight…” added the demon, in a drawl.
“Mmmm... You’ve always known how to tempt me with food! After you, my nightingale…”
Aziraphale gallantly let the demon precede him, and they soon arrived at the market square just as the sun was setting over the horizon. The place was packed! There already was no room left around the large tables, where people came and went, their arms laden with plates and drinks. The numerous food stalls were surrounded by queues wherever they looked.
“What would you like to eat? Some charcuterie? A hot dish? A jambon-beurre? Cheese?” suggested Crowley, observing the various dishes on offer from local producers.
“Um... I'd love a typical local dish! I could... You know, practice a bit of French and ask the merchants!" Aziraphale was already starting to get excited, wiggling his fingers with feverish gestures and a sparkling smile.
“Not in a million years! Go and wait for me over there, it's going to smell like armpit (miam) in the queue…” replied the demon, applying pragmatic romanticism to the occasion.
A little discomfited, the angel moved aside to try and find empty seats, leaving Crowley to miraculously find himself in the middle of the hungry crowd. It took the demon less than five minutes to return, the bag from his dress hanging from his elbow, alongside a basket from which the neck of a bottle of wine was protruding. He held a full plate in each hand and, the usual spring in his step, he walked towards Aziraphale, who grinned.
“There's no room for you, but I can arrange it…” he suggested in a low voice, with an air of conspiracy.
“Why don't we go and eat by the water instead? It would be quieter!”
“Oh, well... Great idea! I follow you…”
They moved away from the hustle and bustle of the square and returned to the church, where a few other couples had set up along the bank. The atmosphere was much more intimate here, away from the artificial lights of the village. The moonlight reflected off the calm waters of the River Vézère, whose gentle murmur mingled with the muffled sounds of the party and the chirping of the crickets.
Crowley indicated a huge weeping willow with a nod of his head, its branches waving gracefully over the short, sunburnt grass.
“Here?”
After checking that no one was watching, Aziraphale placed a tartan plaid at the foot of the large trunk and removed the plates from the demon’s grasp so that he could sit down. Crowley dropped to his knees to put down his bag and empty the contents of the basket while the angel sniffed the fragrant smells from the plates, letting out a moan of pleasure.
“Mmmm... It smells divine! What's this?”
“Pan-fried foie gras with caramelized apple compote for you and a ceps omelette for me! I've brought a bottle of Saint-Emilion to go with, is that alright with you, my angel?” replied Crowley, taking two goblets out of the basket, some cutlery and two Vichy-checked napkins, one red, the other yellow.
The bookseller carefully sat down beside him, then put the plates to one side and removed his hat, which had somewhat squashed his pretty platinum curls. Crowley immediately reached out to run his long fingers, with their silver-gray varnished nails, through the bookseller's short hair and comb it back, in a gesture as mechanical as it was affectionate. Aziraphale then took the opportunity to pull him against him, grabbing him by his thin scarf and placing an innocent kiss (that's relative) on his lips.
“What if someone saw us?” sneered the demon, barely moving away. “An angel and a demon…”
Aziraphale delicately removed his lifelong partner's sunglasses and threw them into the basket before answering, an octave higher, by plunging his clear eyes into Crowley's amber ones.
“Humans are much more tolerant than celestials, my dear, don't worry! And anyway, most of them don't believe in angels or demons…”
After a second, equally fleeting kiss, they picked up their plates and began to eat, one opposite the other, but so close that they continued to speak in low voices, not wishing to disturb the serenity of the moment.
Since they had been living together - in other words since the end of the Second Coming (or rather the Second Fucking) - they tended to cloister themselves in the sanctuary of the bookshop. Oh, sure, they went to St James's Park to feed the ducks and take the Bentley out, and they chatted regularly with the other shopkeepers in Soho, but if no one was fooled by their relationship, they didn't expose themselves for all that… (Except in front of Mr Brown, but he had it coming; talking like that about his association with Aziraphale in front of Crowley, as if he were showing off his Grindr profile…)
Not that they were in any danger, to be honest. It's a fact that humans are more tolerant of “unnatural” relationships than celestials. And here I'm talking about angels and demons, not homosexuality; we all agree that nobody has a problem with that!
“I'm really enjoying it, thank you, Crowley! Very good choice... What about you?” stuttered Aziraphale, his mouth full.
“Same here! I love ceps and the best ones are here…”
“I didn't think it was mushroom season yet…” replied the angel evasively.
“It's not! Humans keep them in jars!”
“Humans are so ingenious! If you like, we could... come back this autumn and pick some in the woods, don't you think? It'd also be chestnut season and I love roasted chestnuts!” prattled the bookseller.
“Off to the Périgord this autumn, then! I'll roast you chestnuts with hellfire,” Crowley replied with a smirk, as he poured the last of the wine into the cups (remember, they can drink like fishes, but humans can't).
Once the plates and cups were emptied, Aziraphale leaned back against the trunk of the willow tree and spread his legs to draw Crowley into his embrace. They stayed there for a long time, talking about everything and nothing, Crowley's back resting on the angel's chest, delightfully soaking up the scent of his cologne. The bookseller, for his part, untied the demon's hair to play absent-mindedly with his long locks and place kisses on his forehead. At around ten o'clock, while the couple was half-asleep, enjoying their moment of intimacy (without having to fear any reprisals, or having to thwart yet another Apocalypse), the lively sound of an accordion reached them, causing Aziraphale to shake himself.
“It looks like the bal musette has started…”
“Do you remember the last public dance we went to after the liberation?”
“Yes! We had such a good laugh…” remembered the angel, with a nostalgic smile.
“We did have a good laugh, but no dancing if I remember correctly…”
“And whose fault was that? You kept getting approached by those promiscuous Americans!” retorted Aziraphale, both amused and annoyed by this memory.
“There are no Americans here tonight…” declared the demon, his voice full of innuendo.
“Would... Would you agree to go to the ball with me?”
“Yes, but I'm a better dancer than you, I warn you!”
“Perfect, I'll just have to let myself be guided, then…” smiled the bookseller, delighted.
Crowley then straightened up and quickly ran a hand through his hair to brush it back. He then looked for his glasses, which the angel handed him with a mischievous smile.
“What are you up to?” asked the demon, defensively.
“I thought that, er... you could dance... in your new dress, if... if that's alright with you?”
The demon hesitated for a moment before asking:
“Do... you want me to turn into a woman?”
“No! Yes... Well, as you prefer! But I was just thinking that you should change your outfit,” Aziraphale replied hastily, fearing to have offended the demon (which was not the case).
“A man in a dress? Dancing? People might look at us... Doesn't that bother you?”
The angel wiggled his fingers and Crowley was miraculously dressed in his little black dress and red heels, his thin scarf transformed for the occasion into a silver choker to match his nail varnish. He then held out his hand to help Aziraphale to his feet.
“My nightingale, I'd be honored to have everyone watch me dance on the arm of such a magnificent creature as you…”
I'd tell you all about the rest of the evening, with its French kisses, accordion, dancing, more wine and dresses pulled up well above the knees, but I trust you to imagine it for yourself! All you need to know is that they brought back cheese, wine and a sunflower, the seeds of which Crowley saved to plant in their cottage on the South Downs...
Hugs and kisses,
God.