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bringthekaos · 5 years

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Voice of an Angel

Aziraphale had never given much credence to the phrase ‘voice of an angel.’ He had a voice, yes, and technically it was an angel’s voice, but he didn’t like the implication that because it belonged to an angel, that it was intrinsically good—better than others. It was simply a voice, no better or worse than anyone else’s.

He supposed he liked the sentiment behind it, though—a compliment meant to describe something so beautiful it was otherworldly. But certainly there were better euphemisms than ‘voice of an angel.’ Some angels had voices that were positively grating.

He couldn’t recall what had put him on this train of thought, as he perused aisle after aisle in his SoHo bookshop, shelving newly acquired first and second editions. Perhaps it was the new (well, new to Aziraphale) copy of Paradiso he was lovingly sliding onto the shelf to the right of Inferno and Purgatorio. He already had several copies of Paradiso, not to mention several folios of the full Commedia, but up until this point, he’d only had stand-alone copies of the first two cantica printed in dual French-Italian books, limited of course, because the French Revolution had broken out and disrupted printing. He’d had to attend an obnoxiously bourgeois antiquities auction in Cambridge (that had got his heart all aflutter) just to acquire the thing, and even more distressing had had to part with a little over 2000 pounds. He’d fretted at the time over all of the sales he would need to make in order to offset the large purchase, but seeing as the book was in fairly decent shape, he’d simply begun listing off the ones he was willing to part with in his head; which ones were sufficient enough collateral to warrant it.

But the purchase was worth it in the end, he thought, as the overwhelming satisfaction of sliding the book onto the shelf next to its siblings, their matching red and gold bindings lining up like so many ripples, hit him like a punch to the gut.

Or perhaps it was the way this satisfaction had manifested in a light humming of Ave Maria that Aziraphale was powerless to stop. There was just something about finishing a lacking collection that made him glow with joy. It was one of the few pleasures he allowed himself (he could practically hear the derisive snort from Crowley. “Few?!”).

He would concede, he did indulge in the odd cream cake, the odd bottle or three. But nothing quite made him beam like a collection of books that had been long separated, joined at last under his loving hand. It felt paternal, in a way... perhaps more so than he ever had or ever would feel. And he could be allowed that, surely?

He semicircled around the end of an aisle, peeking to where Crowley was sat at the high table nestled into the bay window. He was casually leaning in his chair, his sport coat removed and hanging over the back of the high chair, and his dress shirt sleeves unbuttoned and rolled to the elbow. It wasn’t often Crowley allowed himself to relax, especially while sober, but the old serpent couldn’t pass up the opportunity to bask in the rare warmth of a sunny London day that permeated the bay window. Aziraphale had found that that particular window became a bit too warm on hot summer days, but... not to Crowley.

“How’s the tea, my dear?” Aziraphale asked offhandedly, interrupting his own humming for the query and seeing that the demon’s long, slender fingers were hooked through the handle of his cup but didn’t appear to have lifted it once. In fact, they were quite slack, as if he’d forgotten he’d rested them there.

Crowley didn’t answer with words; instead grunting a contented little “hmm” that may not have even been voluntary. Aziraphale’s heart stirred again with contentment at the rather perfect circumstance he’d found himself in, quite by accident: a beautiful, warm day out that warranted opening the windows in the back, a completed collection of Dante’s Commedia that he’d been tracking down for years, and his close friend, so comfortable at the front of the angel’s shop that he appeared to be dozing like a brumating snake in the sunlight. Aziraphale couldn’t think of anything he’d rather be doing.

He resumed his humming happily as he wandered to and from the back room, bringing handfuls upon handfuls and shelving them neatly and carefully. Occasionally, when the mood struck him, actual words would come out, but it would meander back to humming as his mind was intermittently preoccupied with other tasks—Dewey, dusting, or just remembering where he put something down.

This went on for several minutes, until Aziraphale found himself arrived at the climax of the song, and couldn’t resist a perfectly (if he did say so himself) toned rendition, be it a bit breathy and muted.

“Nunc et in hora mortis In hora mortis, mortis nostrae In hora mortis nostrae...”

It was no Pavarotti or Bocelli, but he was rather proud of the notes. He smiled, letting the second to last line taper off as he wandered back to the front of the shop, patting at his pockets for his glasses.

“My dear, I seem to have mispla—“

He stopped abruptly, both speaking and walking, as he found Crowley in a delicate state.

He was momentarily suspended in that precarious location between sleep and awake; one where he was blissfully absent from the world, but yet had the presence of mind to continue holding his head upright (if a bit bowed). His hands, which rested so peacefully upon the table, twitched occasionally—his fingers curling slowly like the involuntary swishing of a cat’s tail.

Aziraphale chanced the last few steps to the table, watching the demon with hapless fascination; he’d never understood Crowley’s taste for sleeping. It seemed a great waste of time. But as he watched, finding a little lip twitch here, and fluttering eyelids there... he appreciated it. It filled him with wonder... an almost desperate curiosity as to what a demon could so peacefully be dreaming about. To some degree, it was an indulgence that Crowley never allowed himself when awake; vulnerability.

Aziraphale lithely (as much as a moderately hefty man-shaped being of the angelic variety can be said to be lithe) crawled into the opposing chair and let the faintest of a hum form in his throat, finishing out the final, long, melodic notes of Ave Maria.

He smiled, his eyes wandering down and finding goose flesh covering Crowley’s forearms where they lay exposed on the table, the tiny little hairs raised as if he’d had a fright. With a sudden and somewhat protective (where did that come from?) dither, he realized Crowley must have been cold. He wasn’t sure how, it was roughly 500° in the window, but leave it to the serpent.

He spoke gently to wake the demon slowly, reaching down to rest a hand on his forearm in the hopes of warming him.

“Are you cold?” he asked, but bit his tongue when Crowley jolted awake, yanking both hands back and, as Aziraphale realized with a degree of pity, clutching them defensively against his chest. His eyes had snapped open, and for the briefest of moments, Aziraphale saw such extreme dilation that they appeared wholly black. They leapt to attention within a heartbeat, however, their long slits focusing hard on the angel.

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. You just... you looked cold,” he said, pointing to Crowley’s arms.

“How could I be cold, s’bloody hot up here,” drawled Crowley as he let his arms fall away from his chest somewhat bashfully.

Aziraphale frowned. “Well... you, er... you had—“ he pointed once more, this time reaching over nearly half the table to make it more obvious.

Crowley held out his arms to analyze them, his glasses shifting in his hair and threatening to fall onto his face. He puzzled at the receding goosebumps, leaning in to look at them closer.

“Oh, I... I s’pose I do. Look at that. Wonder what could have—“ he paused with the gusto of a coon hound who has spotted his prey, his features looking positively stricken.

“Dear boy, what ever is the matter?” Aziraphale tutted, slightly peeved that Crowley had come to some realization that he himself hadn’t yet.

Crowley straightened in his chair, reaching up and tipping his glasses back onto his eyes. Oh, how Aziraphale hated when he did that mid conversation; it was clearly a diversion tactic to avoid his expression being read, but to what end would always remain unclear because he’d covered his ruddy eyes.

“Ssss’nothin, angel. Don’t worry yourself,” Crowley mumbled. Hissing. Another clue.

“I will, thank you, as you appear to have reached some sort of conclusion and left me at the starting line,” Aziraphale replied, watching with piqued interest as Crowley hugged himself in his arms, a bit more blatantly defensive now, his long fingers wrapped tightly around each elbow. He peered out the bay window, watching passers by with inflated interest.

“Well?” prodded Aziraphale, trying not to be amused but failing. What could possibly put Crowley into a fuss like this?

Crowley sighed, rolling his head back with just a dash of drama to look at Aziraphale.

“It’s... I... well, you were,” he paused, removing a hand to wave vaguely at all of Aziraphale. I what? the angel felt like demanding. I existed?

Crowley tried again, slapping his hand down a bit dejectedly on the table and making his tea set jump. “I could... I think I could... was...”

He gave up, letting out the frustrated, crescendoing sigh of a man who has spent far too long fumbling for a wet bar of soap and has decided to let it hit the floor.

He clearly averted his gaze into the wood grain of the table, setting his jaw and grinding his teeth.

“You were singing, angel,” he grumbled in the tone of a child who has been told to apologize but really doesn’t want to.

Aziraphale felt himself warm, most of it localized to his cheeks.

“Oh. Oh. I... hadn’t... realized.” Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to look bashfully away, but found that he was simply watching Crowley’s short fingernails as they frantically picked at every little defect in the wooden tabletop. A sudden realization hit the angel then, and he looked up to Crowley in horror.

“It didn’t... hurt you?! Did it?”

Holy words could hurt demons, it was why they were so central to exorcisms.

“No! N—no,” Crowley said, first a bit too boisterously, then corrected to a suitably detached tone, complete with lopsided shrug. “No, er... it was actually... really... quite... er...”

Aziraphale smiled, wondering if it would physically pain Crowley to finish that sentence. Nice? Beautiful? What was the word he was prancing around so fancifully?

Aziraphale settled with a grin, letting his own hand fall atop Crowley’s, first startling him, then stilling him.

“Shall I continue, then?” he asked, jerking his head toward the shop.

Crowley stared at him, and Aziraphale could feel the intensity through the sunglasses. He would feel it if he were standing on the other side of a reinforced steel wall.

“Er... yeah. Yeah, you could. If you like,” Crowley said, adding the last bit in an attempt to come off blasé. It failed.

If you like, Aziraphale thought triumphantly, patting Crowley’s hand once in understanding before pushing to his feet.

He returned and went about his task, flitting from room to room, aisle to aisle, shelving books and starting up his humming again, this time a song of a slightly more modern variety.

He might have let a few words slip out.

“So don't stop me now, don't stop me

'Cause I'm having a good time, having a good time.”

#oh g od #my first fic post #hyperventilating #it's so SOFT #and sweet #might give you diabetes #good omens #Aziraphale #Crowley #angels #it may not be the voice of an angel but it's the voice of HIS angel #dying

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