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gehayi asked for these, right? Right.)
Aziraphale’s standing in St. James Park, staring off into the distance, when somebody else walks up beside him. He’s really not in the mood for company, so he turns to leave – and then stops, because the figure beside him is a slimmer, more androgynous version of Crowley.
There are enough people in London with pale skin and black hair and good cheekbones, but Aziraphale’s more unnerved by the cut of the clothes and the practised, arrogant stance. No sunglasses, but the eyes that return his stare are a gold that could pass for honey instead of yellow.
Aziraphale crosses his arms and looks at the sky. “I had thought your kind deals in humans,” he says. “In creatures that can dream and want.”
Desire moves forward a little, so it’s standing at the edge of his peripheral vision, like a shadow that itches at his mind. “Maybe,” it says. “Or maybe I’ve finally come to reward you, good and faithful servant that you are.”
Aziraphale bristles. “I don’t work for you,” he grinds out. The fabric of his shirt itches over his wings.
“No?” says Desire. Its voice is like ripped silk, smooth and breathy at the edges. “Isn’t it your job to save the masses, to stoke the need of Heaven in their hearts until it burns hotter than the need to sin and rut and take? What is it you think you do?”
Aziraphale’s hands clench into fists along his arms, but he doesn’t answer. Desire takes another step forward, and now it’s standing at the edge of the pond. “You should be pleased,” it says. “I’m willing to give you what you want.”
“I’m an angel,” says Aziraphale. “There’s nothing I want.”
“And yet you come here every week,” Desire says, “and stare into the water. What are you looking for?”
Aziraphale wants to say, Nothing, but the word lies flat on his tongue and he tastes the lie. Desire smirks at him, thick lips spread tight and golden eyes glinting, and gestures towards the pond.
There are two figures reflected on the surface, but the one under Desire is Crowley, looking unusually distracted. The bottom half of a few ducks drift around them, although the pond is empty of any wildlife they might have belonged to.
How many musicians do you think your side have got, eh? First grade, I mean, says Crowley’s reflection in a hollow, echoed voice that shifts with the waves.
And now Aziraphale’s own image changes expression and moves by itself. It says, I should think – and then it’s interrupted by Crowley’s voice, listing musicians with a manic quality Aziraphale’s unused to seeing from the demon.
Can you imagine eternity with Elgar? Crowley finishes, and Aziraphale’s reflection looks pained.
It could be any of a dozen such conversations they’ve had in this place, after a long lunch or early tea, except it isn’t.
But after we win life will be better! says Aziraphale’s reflection, and Crowley’s says, But it won't be as interesting. Aziraphale shivers at the words. They feel familiar, like they should fit into an old memory; but there’s an empty weight in Aziraphale’s mind that twists recollection.
Desire isn’t watching the pond; it’s watching him. “Ask me,” it says. “Ask me and you’ll have what you want to know.”
You know we don't play harps.
And we don't use pitchforks, says the image of Crowley. I was being rhetorical. It’s quiet for a moment, as the reflections stare at each other.
“No,” says Aziraphale. “I won’t.”
“I’m offering knowledge,” Desire says. “That isn’t a sin. How could it hurt?”
The Aziraphale in the pond moves nervously, and the real Aziraphale says, “I should think I know something about temptation. I am an angel.”
You don't have to test everything to destruction just to see if you made it right, says Crowley.
Desire says, “Of course you are.” It tosses a small pebble into the pond, and the images on the surface break and reform. Aziraphale’s reflection looks innocently up at him, matching his movements.
Desire moves to leave, but after a few steps it turns back and says, “I’m no devil, Aziraphael.” A smile snakes across its face - a nasty, vicious expression; and Aziraphale wonders what it means, that he’s looking at Desire and all he can think of is Crowley.
“It’s enough for me,” Desire says, “that you want it.”
gehayi asked for these, right? Right.)Aziraphale’s standing in St. James Park, staring off into the distance, when somebody else walks up beside him. He’s really not in the mood for company, so he turns to leave – and then stops, because the figure beside him is a slimmer, more androgynous version of Crowley.
There are enough people in London with pale skin and black hair and good cheekbones, but Aziraphale’s more unnerved by the cut of the clothes and the practised, arrogant stance. No sunglasses, but the eyes that return his stare are a gold that could pass for honey instead of yellow.
Aziraphale crosses his arms and looks at the sky. “I had thought your kind deals in humans,” he says. “In creatures that can dream and want.”
Desire moves forward a little, so it’s standing at the edge of his peripheral vision, like a shadow that itches at his mind. “Maybe,” it says. “Or maybe I’ve finally come to reward you, good and faithful servant that you are.”
Aziraphale bristles. “I don’t work for you,” he grinds out. The fabric of his shirt itches over his wings.
“No?” says Desire. Its voice is like ripped silk, smooth and breathy at the edges. “Isn’t it your job to save the masses, to stoke the need of Heaven in their hearts until it burns hotter than the need to sin and rut and take? What is it you think you do?”
Aziraphale’s hands clench into fists along his arms, but he doesn’t answer. Desire takes another step forward, and now it’s standing at the edge of the pond. “You should be pleased,” it says. “I’m willing to give you what you want.”
“I’m an angel,” says Aziraphale. “There’s nothing I want.”
“And yet you come here every week,” Desire says, “and stare into the water. What are you looking for?”
Aziraphale wants to say, Nothing, but the word lies flat on his tongue and he tastes the lie. Desire smirks at him, thick lips spread tight and golden eyes glinting, and gestures towards the pond.
There are two figures reflected on the surface, but the one under Desire is Crowley, looking unusually distracted. The bottom half of a few ducks drift around them, although the pond is empty of any wildlife they might have belonged to.
How many musicians do you think your side have got, eh? First grade, I mean, says Crowley’s reflection in a hollow, echoed voice that shifts with the waves.
And now Aziraphale’s own image changes expression and moves by itself. It says, I should think – and then it’s interrupted by Crowley’s voice, listing musicians with a manic quality Aziraphale’s unused to seeing from the demon.
Can you imagine eternity with Elgar? Crowley finishes, and Aziraphale’s reflection looks pained.
It could be any of a dozen such conversations they’ve had in this place, after a long lunch or early tea, except it isn’t.
But after we win life will be better! says Aziraphale’s reflection, and Crowley’s says, But it won't be as interesting. Aziraphale shivers at the words. They feel familiar, like they should fit into an old memory; but there’s an empty weight in Aziraphale’s mind that twists recollection.
Desire isn’t watching the pond; it’s watching him. “Ask me,” it says. “Ask me and you’ll have what you want to know.”
You know we don't play harps.
And we don't use pitchforks, says the image of Crowley. I was being rhetorical. It’s quiet for a moment, as the reflections stare at each other.
“No,” says Aziraphale. “I won’t.”
“I’m offering knowledge,” Desire says. “That isn’t a sin. How could it hurt?”
The Aziraphale in the pond moves nervously, and the real Aziraphale says, “I should think I know something about temptation. I am an angel.”
You don't have to test everything to destruction just to see if you made it right, says Crowley.
Desire says, “Of course you are.” It tosses a small pebble into the pond, and the images on the surface break and reform. Aziraphale’s reflection looks innocently up at him, matching his movements.
Desire moves to leave, but after a few steps it turns back and says, “I’m no devil, Aziraphael.” A smile snakes across its face - a nasty, vicious expression; and Aziraphale wonders what it means, that he’s looking at Desire and all he can think of is Crowley.
“It’s enough for me,” Desire says, “that you want it.”
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They feel familiar, like they should fit into an old memory; but there’s an empty weight in Aziraphale’s mind that twists recollection.
Fantastic. Really wonderful!
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Vivid and disturbing and beautifully understated, and uncomfortable like the absence of an itch which you couldn't scratch it anyway.
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So glad
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I love them, especially this one
*Everybody* likes this one. I think it's 'cause it has Aziraphale in it.
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kind of itchy and uncomfortable but sensual at the same time.
Thank you exceedingly- I've never heard a better description of Desire.