#genderneurtral!Crowley

[rose-ellis]

They Will Rise Again

I think I may start posting some of my writing on Tumblr. Here is a little piece (~1500 words) that I wrote for a fiction workshop last fall. I sort of had a gender neutral Crowley and fem Aziraphale in mind when I wrote this, but the general story itself has nothing to do with Good Omens. I didn’t have a solid idea when I started it so I kind of just put down whatever came to mind, but I actually like how it turned out.

I love getting feedback, so let me know what you think!

Title: They Will Rise Again

Type: Angst/Fluff? (I honestly have no idea)

Warnings: None

Word count: 1480

~~~~~

     There are several things that one can do in the English countryside that the streets of London simply do not allow. Breathing, for example – rather important, that one. Another is sitting in near-complete silence in the middle of the day.

     A young woman of some twenty years sat alone in a small cottage in the north of Oxfordshire, taking advantage of both of those simple pleasures. The town in which she resided is not important; very few apart from the locals would recognise the name. Surrounded by sprawling fields of wheat and corn, it was the sort of place that was easily passed through without sparing it a glance, and so unremarkable that those who did take note usually forgot about it soon after leaving the town limits.

     This meant that apart from the cattle and chickens belonging to the family next door, and the occasional yelling from Mrs. Simmons across the way when she forgot to turn on her hearing aids, there was very little outside the cottage to disturb the peaceful quiet that usually settled over the property.

     This was not to suggest that there was never trouble in the village. Those who move from the city to the country should not be (yet invariably are) surprised to learn that people, regardless of where they live, are human. And quite often, humans are assholes.

     That morning, however, had passed with no apparent trouble as far as the young woman was aware. The sun had risen as it is wont to do, and the birds that had nested in the eaves (despite many efforts to relocate them) had sung their tune to their hearts’ content. Breakfast had been made and eaten, and the woman now lounged in the kitchen, where the only sounds to be heard were the rumbling of the electric kettle and the rustling of paper as she flipped through the weekly news.

     It had become a Saturday ritual – get up late, read the paper, drink tea, stay inside, and pray that no visitors came. So far, everything had gone to plan. She was still dressed in her pyjamas from the night before with no intention to change out of them. Tight, frizzy curls protruded every which way from where her dark hair was piled messily atop her head.

     She hummed to herself as an article caught her attention. The legs of her round-framed glasses were just slightly too long, causing the specs to slowly slip down the arch of her pointed nose. Every few moments she would nudge them back into place, her eyes never pausing as they roamed across the pages. She was so engrossed in the words that she hardly noticed the way that her lips moved silently as she read – a habit that she adamantly denied having, even after catching herself on more than one occasion. She sighed in content.

     The peaceful atmosphere was suddenly broken a moment later when the outside door was violently flung open. It swung back on its hinges until it collided with the wall, banging loudly upon impact. Another dent was added to the ever-growing collection left behind by the doorknob. The young woman had given up trying to fix them long ago, knowing that more would appear soon after.

     Just inside the door there stood a rather striking individual. They were tall – so much so that they had needed to stoop to enter the cottage. Their slender figure, clad in all black, only emphasized this further. A deadly looking scowl hung on their lips and they muttered complaints and vague threats under their breath.

     It was hardly the first time that the figure had burst in, impassioned by some unknown source. So regular an occurrence was this that the young woman did not even flinch at the noise. Her eyes never strayed from the print before her, nor did she acknowledge the slew of words that would have made poor old Mrs. Simmons want to turn off her hearing aids for good. She simply turned the page of her newspaper, continuing to read the article on the other side as she waited for the explanation that would inevitably come.

     Despite their sudden appearance and apparent eagerness, they took their time to close the door and saunter over to the table. There was such a swing to their gait that it led most to believe that they had either been seriously injured or had become well acquainted with the contents of the liquor cabinet. Both were incorrect, but only one person had ever been brave enough to ask.

     The woman rose from her seat as the kettle shut itself off, intending to fix herself some tea. Instinctively, she reached into the cupboard to retrieve a second cup. Her companion slipped by her on their way to the table, dropped the post from the box on the counter, then dramatically threw themselves down onto a chair.

     “If I ever get my hands on those bastards, I’ll tear their heads clean off their bodies,” they seethed, white-knuckled as they slammed their fists onto the wooden surface. Their dark eyes blazed with untamed rage.

     “That’s called murder, dear,” the woman reminded them patiently, pouring hot water into the pair cups. “Quite frowned upon, I’m afraid. Tea?”

     Her partner grumbled in response and a moment later, a dainty porcelain cup and saucer were placed before them on the table. Their long, boney fingers tried clumsily to pick it up by the small handle, nearly spilling it in the process. Upon successfully lifting it to their lips, they found that the correct amount of sugar (two heaping spoons) and a splash of milk – not one drop more – had been added.

     “You think they cared about it being bloody frowned upon?” They shook their head. “Murderers – beasts, the lot of them. Didn’t even hesitate, ripping them apart and throwing their heads in the mud.”

     As she settled back into her seat, the woman’s gaze wandered to the nearby vase. In seconds, realization dawned over her. “I understand that you’re upset, darling, but don’t you think you’re being tad bit dramatic? It’s probably just the children, after all.”

     Her companion narrowed their eyes at the accusation. “That’s hardly an excuse – they’re hellions, I tell you! Savages!” Impassioned, their hand came down onto the table once more, their cup roughly clanking onto its saucer.

     “You’ve gotten yourself all in a tizz. Now, calm down and finish your tea.” When they tried to protest, the woman pointed a stern finger in their direction. “And if you break one more of my teacups, those ‘hellions’ will be the least of your worries.”

     “Yes dear.” The cup was gingerly returned to its saucer.

     Unbeknownst to them, their conversation had not been private. A delivery man, new to the job, had chosen a rather unfortunate time to drop off a package. He stood outside their door, slack jawed as he tried to process what he had heard. As far as he could tell, there had been multiple murders in the town – committed by children, no less – and someone inside the cottage was more concerned about their teacup than the fact that people’s heads had been ripped off and thrown in the mud.

     He quickly retreated to his lorry, his eyes darting mistrustfully to the two young boys who skated past on the opposite side of the laneway. The package was still clutched in his hands. Some other unlucky sod could be the one to deliver it.

     The couple inside the cottage was unaware of the vehicle as it sped away. They sat in silence as they continued to sip their tea. The woman observed as the tension slowly retreated from her companion’s shoulders, leaving them to sag dejectedly. A pout had replaced the scowl on their lips, and sorrow had drowned out the last embers of rage that had burned in their eyes.

     Reaching across the table, she rested her hand atop her partner’s, holding it carefully as she caressed it with her thumb. “I know you loved them, darling,” she said, “I did too.”

     “It’s not just that.” They slouched forward to rest their chin on their crossed arms.

     “Then what is it?”

     “They were for you,” her lover replied, a sad smile passing over their face. “And those little bastards just threw them aside like they were nothing.”

     “Are they still out there?” She received a curious nod in reply. “Then we shall lay them to rest.”

     That Saturday, they left their cottage, hand in hand, to approach their flower garden. Dozens of sunflowers had been uprooted, their stems torn to pieces and their heads discarded in the mud along the side of the lane. Tenderly, they cleaned up the site of the massacre, evened out the soil, and buried the dead. Soon enough, they would rise again.