Ficlet: Brightness (Good Omens)
Ah, the laziness continues. A much better book read and laughed at (in a good way this time, as it's the Unauthorised Autobiography by Lemony Snicket). More tormenting of and by kittens. A brilliant documentary on the Dambusters. And getting my mother's video taping again, whoo-hoo!
Brightness
It was raining again. Aziraphale didn’t mind the spring rain at all, loved how the earth smelled afterwards. Crowley was a different matter. Even though the rain tended to avoid him, he’d pull up his collar and generally look miserable till it stopped. Even if he was indoors. He loved the heat. Unsurprisingly, Aziraphale thought. Crowley was at his happiest when the sun shone and he had some better reason for wearing the sunglasses than vanity. Why he stayed in England most of the time was beyond the angel’s comprehension. Aziraphale laughed softly at the memory of their early years on earth, when they had both confined themselves to nice warm areas that had wine. It had taken quite some time for either of them to venture out of places with hot summers and warm winters. Poor Crowley had been shocked by his first northern European summer. His first northern European winter had sent him running.
The memory of the demon’s horrified eyes as he tried to describe sleet made Aziraphale think about the very few times Crowley had persuaded him to go off somewhere hot, just for the experience of being warm day and night. Little holidays when no tempting or thwarting went on at all. A terrible dereliction of duty, really. Like the time they told their superiors they were checking political and military developments in the eastern Mediterranean, and spent a few weeks doing absolutely nothing on a deserted island. That had been very pleasant. Neither of them had ever been there before, so there were no bad associations. Aziraphale had spent his days pottering round looking at ruins, or reading the large number of books that Crowley claimed he had brought with him. Crowley had mostly lain on the beach, eyes shut, soaking up heat. Their picnic basket had never run empty, the wine had always been at the correct temperature, and both of them had got rather impressive tans. As Crowley had pointed out, why follow human conventions when there were no humans around? At night they had got happily drunk, and told long pointless stories, carefully staying off topics of contention. One day they had built a sandcastle using what they remembered of the plans of the Tower of Babel, and finished off in the evening by executing Divine Wrath on it. Aziraphale grinned broadly at the memory of Crowley laughing and yelling like a boy.
He had never gone back there. Tourists were discovering the whole area, and he didn’t want to see irritated, squabbling families in a place he remembered as being so peaceful and quiet. Didn’t want to see a luxury hotel built above the beach where they had lain counting the stars, just to prove it could be done. Didn’t want to see loud sunburned idiots mucking round in the water, ruining his memory of Crowley’s startlingly white grin and splashless dive into turquoise. He looked out the window, and shivered. The days always looked much greyer after he’d been thinking about the island. It was part of the reason he didn’t think about it too much, but kept the memories safely tucked away like a bright treasure. He wondered if Crowley remembered it at all. He supposed not. He looked hard at his window box, a slight tightness in his throat. The rain on the glass was making it look a little blurry. He gave the shoots a tiny nudge, just enough to see the tiny spears of green appear. There. That was better. Too much sun was bad for one. Brightness needed a little rain to set it off, to remind one not to take grace for granted.
Concentrating fiercely on the here and now, he got back to cataloguing the books.
Brightness
It was raining again. Aziraphale didn’t mind the spring rain at all, loved how the earth smelled afterwards. Crowley was a different matter. Even though the rain tended to avoid him, he’d pull up his collar and generally look miserable till it stopped. Even if he was indoors. He loved the heat. Unsurprisingly, Aziraphale thought. Crowley was at his happiest when the sun shone and he had some better reason for wearing the sunglasses than vanity. Why he stayed in England most of the time was beyond the angel’s comprehension. Aziraphale laughed softly at the memory of their early years on earth, when they had both confined themselves to nice warm areas that had wine. It had taken quite some time for either of them to venture out of places with hot summers and warm winters. Poor Crowley had been shocked by his first northern European summer. His first northern European winter had sent him running.
The memory of the demon’s horrified eyes as he tried to describe sleet made Aziraphale think about the very few times Crowley had persuaded him to go off somewhere hot, just for the experience of being warm day and night. Little holidays when no tempting or thwarting went on at all. A terrible dereliction of duty, really. Like the time they told their superiors they were checking political and military developments in the eastern Mediterranean, and spent a few weeks doing absolutely nothing on a deserted island. That had been very pleasant. Neither of them had ever been there before, so there were no bad associations. Aziraphale had spent his days pottering round looking at ruins, or reading the large number of books that Crowley claimed he had brought with him. Crowley had mostly lain on the beach, eyes shut, soaking up heat. Their picnic basket had never run empty, the wine had always been at the correct temperature, and both of them had got rather impressive tans. As Crowley had pointed out, why follow human conventions when there were no humans around? At night they had got happily drunk, and told long pointless stories, carefully staying off topics of contention. One day they had built a sandcastle using what they remembered of the plans of the Tower of Babel, and finished off in the evening by executing Divine Wrath on it. Aziraphale grinned broadly at the memory of Crowley laughing and yelling like a boy.
He had never gone back there. Tourists were discovering the whole area, and he didn’t want to see irritated, squabbling families in a place he remembered as being so peaceful and quiet. Didn’t want to see a luxury hotel built above the beach where they had lain counting the stars, just to prove it could be done. Didn’t want to see loud sunburned idiots mucking round in the water, ruining his memory of Crowley’s startlingly white grin and splashless dive into turquoise. He looked out the window, and shivered. The days always looked much greyer after he’d been thinking about the island. It was part of the reason he didn’t think about it too much, but kept the memories safely tucked away like a bright treasure. He wondered if Crowley remembered it at all. He supposed not. He looked hard at his window box, a slight tightness in his throat. The rain on the glass was making it look a little blurry. He gave the shoots a tiny nudge, just enough to see the tiny spears of green appear. There. That was better. Too much sun was bad for one. Brightness needed a little rain to set it off, to remind one not to take grace for granted.
Concentrating fiercely on the here and now, he got back to cataloguing the books.