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justkeeptrekkin · 5 years

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Brief Omens

An ineffable wives drabble- Brief Encounters inspired- that I wrote in collaboration with the amazing artist @selene-yoshi-chan , her pictures posted here with her agreement! This was fun to write, and I can’t believe how beautiful the illustrations are- thank you friend.

You can read it on AO3 here, or read under the cut! MORE ILLUSTRATIONS BELOW!

***

The weather is grey today. A strong breeze rolls over from the hills, tumbling into the valley of Devil’s Dyke. Aziraphale chose the meeting place herself. She thought that Crowley might find it amusing.

This isn’t really a breeze, so much as a strong wind- it’s displacing her styled hair. Fashion has never interested Aziraphale in the same was as it fascinates Crowley, but the 40s really do have some smashing hairstyles and clothes. Now that the War is over, high-street shops are beginning to pop back up again, putting on their lights once more and dressing their mannequins with all manner of hats and a-line skirts. Of course, much of London remains destroyed from the Blitz. West Sussex, at least, has survived.

Aziraphale lays her manicured hands on the wooden bridge, peers down at the burbling stream below. The water is clear, enough that she can see the smoothe rocks at the bottom. She can’t see her reflection, only the vague shape of her cream suit, orange and brown leaves floating along the surface.

She breathes in. She breathes out. She is nervous.

“Morning, angel.”

She spins around- she doesn’t know why she’s surprised to see her here, she invited her. And yet Crowley has a habit of slinking up to her without warning, especially with this noisy wind covering the sound of her footfalls.

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale says too quietly. She clears her throat. “You got here quickly.”

“Yeah. I drove up last night and stayed the night a little further into the South Downs. Beautiful part of the world, this, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale simply nods. She continues to rest her hands along the rough, mossy wood of the bridge, but her gaze is on Crowley; her red hair spilling out of a silver snake hair-pin, curls tickling the sides of her neck. Red lipstick. Aziraphale wouldn’t dare to try a lipstick that shade, but she’s always wondered how it would look on her. How it would look if Crowley kissed her and left a taste of it on her lips.

Yellow irises dart over to Aziraphale. She stops staring and looks away promptly, watching the rolling green hills. With the lack of rain recently, the grass is turning a greyish green and blending into the sky. The clouds beyond make the horizon hazy, like a weak watercolour painting.

“What was it you wanted to discuss,” Crowley asks, all business. Her sunglasses don’t conceal peripheral gaze- Aziraphale can see her staring out at the view beyond. She’s avoiding eye contact, Aziraphale realises. And it’s not just the square shoulders of her jacket that make her look tense.

“Um,” Aziraphale says. She feels herself panic. She feels her eyes widen and her chest rise with a too-deep breath. “It’s- not all that important really.”

That gets Crowley to turn and look at her, brows furrowed. “What? Why are we meeting here then? We could have gone to any of our normal meeting places.”

“I know, but I rather thought that we might like to try somewhere new,” Aziraphale says.

What she doesn’t say is that she had an inkling that Crowley would like the South Downs- Devil’s Dyke and all. She felt that it might be nice to try somewhere different with expansive views, rolling hills, little tearooms. And none of the World War II rubble. Something a little more- romantic.

Crowley pokes out her bottom lip. Then, nods in concession. “Alright. Devil’s Dyke, though?”

“Yes.”

“A bit tongue-in-cheek for you,” Crowley says, sounding impressed. Then a smile grows on her lips. Firey red hair dancing in front of her face. “I like it.”

They stand side by side on the little bridge. They’re the only people (beings) here for miles. The wind pours down, and it makes Aziraphale’s ears ache. She looks down at her shoes- totally inappropriate for a country walk, but pretty. Crowley has been more sensible and put on some leather boots.

“Crowley.”

“Angel.” She says it like she’s been waiting for them to get down to business. Waiting for them to discuss something serious, perhaps The Arrangement.

“Back at the church, during the Blitz,” Aziraphale starts. She swallows, her throat raw from the cold air. The stream trickles happily, singing a gurgling song below. “At the church, you saved my books for me.”

Crowley looks dead ahead and doesn’t move. Aziraphale doesn’t miss the way her fingers clench on the wooden fence of the bridge.

“Yes,” she replies slowly, quite primly.

She has been dreading this moment. She has fought with herself over this decision for months. But after what Crowley did-

Inside her handbag, Aziraphale finds a tartan flask. It looks so innocent, nestled amongst the packets of tissues and lipsticks. She removes it carefully, placing it on the fence. And if Crowley wasn’t tense before, she certainly is now; she straightens beside Aziraphale, red lips parting in silent surprise. Brows pulled together, raised above her sunglasses.

Aziraphale keeps a hand on the flask, holds it there between them, waits for it to sink it.

“Angel…”

“Holy water won’t just kill your body,” Aziraphale interrupts. She has to say this, before Crowley thinks she’s doing something nice for her. “It will destroy you completely. But I can’t have you risking your life, not even for something dangerous.”

Crowley is staring at her- Aziraphale can sense it. She can see her floundering. She’s speechless in a way that Aziraphale’s never really known before. There isn’t even the usual garbled stream of noises coming out of her mouth when she loses her words; it’s just silence. Aziraphale has stunned Crowley to silence.

She clears her throat, feeling her wind-bitten cheeks heat up. “Don’t go unscrewing the cap.”

“You did this for me,” Crowley says, almost too quietly over the wind.

And then Aziraphale turns to look back at her. Her hair is caught in the breeze. Crowley is so beautiful. Aziraphale always knew, always found her beautiful, even when she pretended she didn’t. But now- now, it’s impossible to ignore. How had she managed to ignore it for so long? How deluded has Heaven made her, that it took this long? Aziraphale is a being of love; it’s absurd that she hadn’t been able to see the wood for the trees until that bomb destroyed that church, Crowley handing over a briefcase, hands touching. Just for a moment.

“Anything,” Aziraphale whispers.

She isn’t sure whether Crowley hears. If she didn’t, then that would be OK. Some things aren’t meant to be.

They look over at the view again. Crowley takes a moment to pick up the flask and put it in her own purse.

“I haven’t been as far as Ditchling before,” Crowley says suddenly, voice too light. “‘S where I’m staying at the moment. I’ve- I’ve only been as far as Hastings.”

Aziraphale goes along with it. “I helped evacuate some children here, during the worst of the War.”

“Ah. Yes. I was mostly in Liverpool helping out with that.”

Aziraphale frowns, registering this. When she tries to find answers in Crowley’s expression, she only sees her own white-blonde hair in her face and Crowley’s turned away. “You helped with the evacuations?”

“Yes,” she says sharply.

“That’s awfully… good of you.”

There’s a twist to her lips as she fights back a retort. “They were very naughty children, I assure you. Wales was traumatised by their arrival.”

She is too much. Oh, she is just too much. Aziraphale smiles at her, even though she won’t look back. “You are quite… something, Crowley.”

Crowley sneers. Aziraphale ducks her head and hides her smile.

A single seagull flies overhead. The aren’t that close to the sea- it must have flown over from Brighton. It coasts on the wind. The air is fresh here, unlike London. Aziraphale breathes it in deeply, and tries to save it there. Save it for when she needs it in the coming days.

“Are you happy?”

She doesn’t expect the question. She doesn’t even really understand it. “I’m sorry?”

Crowley hesitates, bites her lip. Then, “Do you ever ask yourself whether you’re happy? With the way things are?”

Constantly, Aziraphale thinks, but she never admits it to herself. No, she sees those kinds of questions float through her head and she banishes them to some bottomless pit in her mind. A pit that doesn’t feel so bottomless these days; all the doubt and confusion and questions she’s wanted to ask Heaven and Hell and God are piling up and starting to overflow. It’s only a matter of time before she decides she won’t be able to hide it anymore.

Crowley is watching her, waiting for her answer as she thinks on this.

“I don’t know,” she says, eventually. “Am I happy? Oh, Crowley. I don’t know.”

“Don’t you hate not knowing?” She rushes. “Don’t you ever just…”

Crowley trails off. Her hand rests against the fence beside Aziraphale’s.

“I suppose you don’t ask questions, not being the snake of Eden,” Crowley eventually finishes.

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know what she thinks. Any opinions she has are obscured under layers and layers of Heavenly instructions and Bible verses and ineffable plans.

For a moment, she finds a reply in a hand hold; not quite a hold, rather, her own hand gently placed on top of Crowley’s. Just to let her know that she’s there. And then she removes it again.

She has been friends with Cowardice far longer than she has known Crowley.

***

The Bentley is parked somewhere over the nearest hill. They walk in contemplative quiet, Aziraphale trying not to trip in her silly shoes, Crowley sighing in frustration at her. And whilst Aziraphale has achieved what she meant to today, something sits uncomfortably in her.

The wind tries to push her back down the hill.

When they reach the car, Crowley gives her a lift to the nearest train station, just outside Ditchling. It’s not far from where she’s staying, she assures Aziraphale, and she can’t cope with the idea of Aziraphale wobbling all the way to the station in her heels. Crowley makes it sound like an accusation, but Aziraphale recognises the kind gesture in it. She looks out of the window and watches the hills fall away, watches their moment in Devil’s Dyke fall away as if she’s abandoning it.

The engine turns off and Aziraphale waits. Crowley says nothing. They both wait, although there’s no sign of there being anything to wait for.

“Are you sure you want to head back to London?” Crowley asks. She doesn’t say it like a question. She turns to look at Aziraphale suddenly, lips parted and brows raised, looking lost. And Aziraphale realises then that it’s her that she’s abandoning, not Devil’s Dyke. “I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

And she sees it. Oh, Lord, Aziraphale sees it in her mind’s eye; the two of them in a cottage in The South Downs, walking through the neighbouring fields in wellies and Barbour coats. Trips to Brighton with ice-creams and sun hats, even if the weather is dreary. Trips to places they’ve never been before; days inside, drinking cocoa and reading and simply being together. Existing together, without any fear of the universe collapsing. Forgetting that this juxtaposition of theirs is a crime against nature. Aziraphale sees it, this daydream hanging between them in the Bentley, parked outside Ditchling station.

It would be cruel to even pretend that such a dream could exist.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

She doesn’t stay to see the heartbreak in Crowley’s eyes, because she feels it herself- she can’t bear heartbreak for two. She gathers her handbag and steps out of the car, walking neatly towards the station. She has fifteen minutes until her train.

When she steps inside and turns around in the doorway, she sees the Bentley pull away.

Everything feels very sharp and clear. An awful lot like she has fallen into that little stream back in the valley, like she’s lying in the water and her senses are stinging with the cold. She feels too much until she feels nothing. And so Aziraphale stares at the receding Bentley, clutching her handbag like a liferaft and turns back around, onto the platform.

There are only two other people heading towards London from Ditchling. A middle-aged man with a case in his hand, and an older woman, who sits on the damp, dewy bench. She dabs at her nose with a handkerchief. Aziraphale finds herself drifting into the waiting room, where there is also a little cafe.

She orders a cup of Earl Grey from the waitress, finds a seat to perch on.

She holds the cup between her hands, but feels no less adrift.

Crowley keeps her tethered, she considers in that moment. That look of abandonment on Crowley’s face; the feeling that Aziraphale is floating away; the sky is grey and the world is grey and she is lost in it.

“I made the right decision,” she says quietly to herself.

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

Aziraphale takes a moment to realise that that waitress has spoken to her. “Oh- I’m sorry. I was merely talking to myself. A silly habit, I’m afraid,” she laughs emptily.

“Not to worry, not to worry, talk to meself constantly- sign of a sound mind, my nan always said.”

“Quite so,” Aziraphale breathes.

She doesn’t feel sound, she considers. She feels silent. A disorientating quiet, like those moments in the middle of the night, when one is awake when they shouldn’t be. When she has awoken and found herself alone, in a dark room. Echoing, claustrophobic. She feels it in her throat and she feels it prick her eyes with tears.

“I made the right decision,” she whispers.

The two of them walking down a muddy country road towards the nearest pub- talking loudly about anything and nothing, the usual silliness in all likelihood, arms swinging and cheeks rosy. The two of them side by side on a sofa, bowties undone and tights on the floor and wine bottles empty. The two of them at a dining table in the morning, reading the newspaper and buttering toast. The two of them at the Ritz, just as it has always been.

She made the correct decision. It is the decision that Heaven would choose for her. But is it the right one?

Aziraphale stands up abruptly, tea sloshing over the edge of the mug and into the saucer. She is going to catch up with Crowley- she can find her in Ditchling town somewhere, she could ask around and-

No. No, even if she has that dream, it doesn’t mean that Crowley shares it. Crowley might have offered to take her anywhere, but how far does Crowley mean? How could Aziraphale know whether this is the right thing for both of them? This would jeopardise Crowley’s life too.

She sits back down slowly, just as the whistle of the London train screams down the platform. A shaky hand picks up the teacup and she takes a small sip.

She steps onto the platform and waits for the train to stop. The steam billows; she can’t see anything. She hears the train conductor shouting out of the window. She sees a door materialise before her, opens it and steps into the compartment where three other people sit and read. She takes her own seat.

She looks through the window and she feels like she is drowning. She feels as if the train’s steam is inside her. She feels the walls around her in a way she has never experienced a room before, as if it is designed to trap her. She hears the scream of the conductor’s whistle in her ears, rattling in her brain.

She feels herself breath in. She feels the air rushing into her lungs, like water filling a glass.

The train begins to pull away from the platform.

She grabs her handbag, opens the door, and jumps onto the platform.

Aziraphale hangs her head back and closes her eyes. The steam surrounds her in clouds and the mechanical chug of the train recedes; she feels it rumble beneath her feet.

“Aziraphale!”

That voice- she opens her eyes and turns to meet it, but she sees no one for all the smoke and steam.

“Crowley?”

And then again- desperation, relief- “Aziraphale.”

She turns on the spot and searches for her, but she can’t see anyone- she’s lost, alone in the mist, until she sees the silhouette approaching. The clouds part and there she is, Crowley, holding onto a handbag with both hands. An expression so soft it could have been painted.

“Crowley.”

Right or wrong, correct or incorrect- Aziraphale sees none of that, now. She walks towards her. Crowley walks towards her. And they meet each other, standing so close that Aziraphale can see through the lenses of her sunglasses.

“You got off the train,” Crowley says.

“You came back,” Aziraphale says.

When they kiss, it isn’t like it is in the movies. It isn’t desperate hands on each other’s arms, desperate lips pressed together as if they don’t care about breathing. When they kiss, it’s hesitant, careful not to break everything that came before. It’s unsure, but it’s also a promise.

Next time we kiss, Aziraphale thinks, I won’t be so afraid.

#Good omens #ineffable wives #ineffable partners #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #my writing #selene-yoshi-chan #THANK YOU SELENE

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