logsinthenight | We Are the Champions, My Friend || Closed

Entry tags:

We Are the Champions, My Friend || Closed

characters: Crowley and Aziraphale
location: The Village, Miner's Castle #3
date/time: Evening after the arrival of new people
content: An angel and a demon make excellent use of their time and several bottles of alcohol.
warnings: None

Crowley doesn't have any need of money. Money has never been something that's ever been a necessary point in his life. If he's wanted something, he's just made it available to himself. He has had a credit card with an unlimited balance that he's never had to pay off at any point, and that was useful when Amazon came around, but other than that, he's just never needed it. Therefore, no need for a wallet. He didn't have one on him when he woke up on that ship, either.

He can just miracle money, but he's a bit worried about being too flip with his miracles here. After all, he doesn't know how much he is allowed to do while he's here. He creates just enough money to buy supplies, but no more, just in case it's too much of a miracle. How much is too much? What are his limits? He certainly can't create more light, which is really, really disconcerting.

What's also disconcerting is hunger. Crowley has never been hungry before, and suddenly, that's all he feels. A gnawing ache in his stomach that he is hyperfocused on while they're in the general store, and focused on as he picks out a few supplies to eat back at their new residence. He also has purchased some alcohol, because that is what he definitely needs right now.

After all, he and his best friend just died today.

He holds up one of the canned peaches he's purchased and looks at it through the lantern light. The cabin is sparse, but it isn't dusty anymore, at least.

"So, what? You just eat it and you stop feeling this way?" he asks Aziraphale. Crowley has eaten many times in the past, but it was never out of hunger. It was because he was going somewhere with Aziraphale and the angel wanted to share a meal with him. He ate, and it was pleasant enough, but it never really meant anything either way to him. Now, he stares at the peach on the fork and can feel himself salivate. He takes a drink of the cheap wine purchased from the general store. No body, not a great year, and definitely not something he'd have picked for himself. But it'll do in a pinch.

"Is this how we're going to have to live? Eating?"

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He gladly gives the wine back to Crowley, and yawns. God, yawns! He'd never felt actually tired like this before, that he needed to sleep. It was just so bothersome. "Yes, sure, but I really do think we should just ask him. He seems nice, for a demon. You know." He pointedly does not say, like you.

"--And I beg pardon, I most certainly will not just hide underneath like some sort of stowaway." He frowns in distaste.

Crowley takes a drink from the bottle before handing it back to the angel.

"Well, I'm not about to see you get hurt. For all we know, they could fight back, or there could be something waiting for us in the dark."

He picks up the can of peaches, only to discover it is empty. He stares into it and scowls. This is going to be frustrating, getting hungry.

"Besides, I'll need you to calm the people downstairs," he adds, as a way to help Aziraphale feel useful and potentially keep him out of harm's way.

"I can fight," he replies, snippily. "I'm rather good at it, if you've forgotten." He doubts Crowley remembers him and the sword, or just always thought he was a bit of a fool with it. No matter.

"And oh, I can do that from upstairs, you know. Miraculously keep everyone calm, it's like the first thing in the angel manual: how to make people happy!"

Yes, he's absolutely sloshed.

"Right, with the---" He gestures with one hand in a sword-cutting motion. "But that was back when you had a sword. You didn't get one here, did you?"

No, neither of them got anything useful, he imagines.

First thing in the angel manual. Crowley leans a little more into the couch, gazing over at Aziraphale. He's so good, the angel is. So good, and still trapped here. Still dead by Heaven's hand.

"You wouldn't have liked me," he says, lazily.

"What do you mean?" he asks, all concerned. He tries to place when Crowley is talking about, and then it clicks for him. "Course I'd've liked you. I like you now, don't I?"

He leans towards Crowley... and snatches the wine from his hand. "I really don't know what you mean by that." He takes another drink and then passes it back to his friend. "Ooh, unless you were pompous and narcissistic. Like Gabriel. It's like he doesn't know pride is a sin."

He takes the bottle back from Aziraphale and holds it up a bit. "Nah, I was...good at what I did, and that was asking a bit too many questions. And hanging around the wrong people."

Always easier to say that those were the reasons why he Fell. Crowley has never been what one would call evil, and he's definitely never been good at all of the things that demons are supposed to be good at. But he's never been very good at being good, either.

"You're too good, I'd just have been too bad at my job for you," he says.

"But if you were... good at what you did, how could you bad at your job?" he asks. "Crowley," he starts, but can't think of a good argument. "Oh, I don't like this feeling tired thing." He dramatically leans over and rests his head on Crowley's shoulder. "Makes it so hard to concentrate when I'm drunk."

He gets up then, pushing himself off where he points to Crowley's chest with his finger. "You wouldn't have been a bad angel. But don't believe me, I guess, because th-they thought I was the worst of them."

Aziraphale may not like feeling tired, but Crowley rather likes the feeling of Aziraphale's head on his shoulder, and starts to move his arm to encircle the angel when he suddenly sits back up again to push a finger into his chest.

"If She thought that, you would have Fallen," Crowley says. "And you didn't. You didn't Fall, and you would never."

He wonders, idly, if the angels that executed Aziraphale would Fall. He scowls inside and hopes they did.

Aziraphale considers it for a moment and does wonder why he hasn't fallen before his death. Surely they would want him to be dishonorably discharged, his name besmirched first before plummeting to death. Aziraphale no more, he'd be stripped of his angelic name and assigned a demonic one.

Then, Crowley was right. Somehow he was still in God's good graces.

"Why?" he asks. "Why haven't I?" He looks at his hands. He touches his face. He conjures up a halo, which doesn't beam like it used to but only gives off a soft glow, illuminating his hair just the slightest.

Why?

Crowley reaches out a hand, putting it on the angel's shoulder. "Because you're a good person, angel. What we did didn't change that. It was only you doing the right thing and a bunch of bastards up in Heaven couldn't see it."

No matter what Aziraphale does, he would never Fall. Not in Crowley's mind. He could have shot that boy point blank and still have been an angel. He could have questioned the Almighty all the times Crowley did and still have been an angel. Aziraphale was what goodness was when Crowley thought of goodness. Especially moments like this, where he was leaning a bit against him, drunk and enjoying his company.

He offers the angel back the bottle. "Course, I've always thought you were enough of a bastard to be worth knowing."

Aziraphale tries so hard not to let it show, but in his drunken state he's mooning a bit when Crowley tells him how good he is, how much better than Michael and Sandalphon and the rest of them. He doesn't feel God's favor right now, of course he doesn't, but God hadn't saved him from discorporation several times in the last century. God didn't sit in his back room sharing wine with him, and God didn't answer his calls, certainly not always within two rings. No, that was all Crowley.

He wipes the look off his face as he disappears into the bottle. Yes, he'll need more drink for this. "No use in being... purely good, I think. It's a lot less... fun." No use in being totally bad either.

Crowley takes the bottle back from Aziraphale. "Yeah, and we always did have fun, didn't we?"

Odd, using the past tense in the terms of their life. He takes a drink of wine and hands it back to the angel. Crowley remembers dying, he remembers the trial, he remembers the pain and the sudden lack of anything in his life. But he doesn't feel dead. He doesn't feel like it's all over.

"We'll get back, you know," he says, with as much promise as his drunken state can manage. "I'll get us back. Somehow. I won't let you just stay here in the dark forever."

Very quietly, he asks: "Why do you talk about this as if you're doing it for me?" The whole rescuing them, taking them back to the real world, and saving the Earth from a second attempt at Armageddon. But hidden in moments like these is Crowley's insistence that Aziraphale is good, that Aziraphale deserves better. What's more troubling is that Crowley doesn't think he's as deserving as his angelic friend.

Aziraphale knows better than that.

The night before the execution, they had sat on a bus together, finally together instead of one row apart: Aziraphale had reached down to move his coat but Crowley had reached up and taken his hand instead, and it had just felt so natural. There wasn't a surprised look, not a wary glance, just a comforting gesture after a near-end of the Earth, and before dying. They knew, he thinks. They both knew.

He drops his hand now, on top of Crowley's, thinking his friend could use some of that comfort now.

"I'm not," he says, though he's not really being defensive about it. Part of this is for spite, definitely. But part of this is definitely to get Aziraphale somewhere safe. He doesn't belong here. Neither of them do.

Aziraphale's hand lays on top of Crowley's, and he turns his hand over, so their palms can touch. He remembers that moment on Earth, too. The first time they were able to be just together somewhere----no hiding, no pretending they were enemies. Just friends together.

That is the one nice thing about this place. They can have this cabin together and not hide it. They can walk down the street together and it's nothing to be afraid of. Crowley would love it---if it wasn't keeping them from everything they know. No wine, no Bentley, no old bookshops and restaurants and everything they know.

"Besides, we can't let them destroy Earth again."

"No, we can't," Aziraphale replies. "Can't let them try." He gives Crowley's hand a little squeeze, and for some reason just this little touch makes him feel so much brighter and full of hope.

He can only hope Crowley feels a fraction of the same way.

Going to the park too, had been nice. Walking together, getting ice creams from a vendor. It was a short life of normalcy, of friendship, but it was a good one. He has few regrets, and if they should manage this, go back to Earth and stop Armageddon on a more permanent scale, he wouldn't be so very upset with leaving it.

Two days as open friends. A tiny microcosm of happiness in their long, long friendship.

Crowley holds up the wine. "That gives us eleven years to get out of this place," he says. He takes a drink of the wine and offers it to the angel.

Eleven years is a drop of water in the ocean of the life of an ethereal being. Six thousand years of life on Earth, and Crowley had been around longer than that. It would feel like no time had passed at all, the way it felt when they were watching Warlock.

"Lucky we'll be stealing that ferry in a month," he says. "Give us ten years eleven months to catch up to their plans."

"Oh, you and that ferry," he complains, rolling his eyes. "I'll tell you what, we successfully steal that ferry, nobody dies, and I'll let you drive me all across London at full speed. Discorporate us again, we'll manage to find a way out of it a second time," he says.

He thinks they ought to have snacks to eat with their wine, but it's a little late for that now. Still, now he's feeling a bit peckish, and he goes to raid their cabinets for a bit of bread before remembering that they only have bread in a can. Bread! In a can! He'd never felt so insulted in his life.

Not wanting to consume anything they had available, he dejectedly returns to his seat. "I don't really think food's been this bad since before we stopped cooking meats in bladders."

Aziraphale stands and Crowley lets his hand go as he does. This isn't where Aziraphale should be. He should have sushi and little cakes and all the delightful vices that he's grown to love about Earth. He wonders if he could order something on the ferry----and then reminds himself that they won't be here long enough to need to order little snacks. They'll be free of this place next month.

"I don't know," Crowley says. "World War 2 was pretty bad. Everything rationed up, no butter, barely any wine we hadn't rationed away..."

And all the times they lived through famines and in horrible plagues and terrible situations, he can't think this is really that bad. But the 21st century has just been so good to them. He's grown to love his life so much.

"Do you remember that famine in Ireland? I think that----I think that was one of ours, but it just made the Irish more stubborn and determined to live."

"Yes, that was one of yours? Ah, but not you, no. Don't think it would've worked." Good thing too, since it nearly had. "Fine, fine, there are worse times since for terrible food, but you have to admit, this is rubbish." He'd like to chuck their food, but there's nowhere to put it but in their stomachs for wanting not to waste it.

"Suppose I might have to learn how to cook," he says, frowning deeply. That might waste more ingredients than just throwing it all out.

"Or one of us should." He looks around them and thinks, at least it's clean in here. They have a roof over their heads. They've got soft beds to sleep on, now that they have to sleep. Couldn't be all bad.

"Won't be too bad," Crowley says. "A few spices, a little fat, that's all they need to cook, right?" He doesn't actually know, he's never cooked anything in his life. He's never needed to cook, he's never needed food.

He looks up at Aziraphale, and gestures for him to hand over the canned bread, where he'll pass back the red wine.

"Canned bread can't be that bad," he says. "Bit of butter, toast it a bit?"

Or maybe it is? He doesn't know.

"I can learn to plant food. Get a garden set up. Plant apples. Apple tree. You know what I mean."

"Oh, alright, let me get you the bread," he says, opening up the can and pouring it out onto the counter. Well, he tries to pour it out on the counter, but ends up patting the back, stare at it, open up the other side, and sort of plunger it through.

It's got the ridges on the side, and Aziraphale thinks he might be sick.

"No butter," he responds, sadly, as he cuts thick slices, places it in a cold oven, whacks it on, and waits for magic to happen to this round loaf. "Oh, I really can't wait for that apple tree. It'd be so lovely to have fresh fruit. Big, juicy apple." Instead, they have canned bread.

"Figure it'll be a bit appropriate for us, as our new start," he says. "It's how we began last time. With an apple in a garden."

He looks around the flat. It's so bare, but clean. It's nothing like his old flat, which was cold and dark, kept with nothing personal in it apart from his plants. Even now, it feels more like home. Maybe it's the company.

"I'll get some plants for here," he says. "Nothing too big, just a few rubber plants, maybe a few lilies---"

He thinks about how they don't have anything like that here, and how they might not be able to get anything like that, not even from the ferry. It's nice to think about, nice to imagine, but it's not something they can really have. He should be able to have his plants, and Aziraphale should have his books and tea and cocoa, and that should be enough for them.

"Start over," he says, and thinks about it. "Yes, let's start over with the apple tree." He checks on the bread by poking it once or twice-- still stone cold, so he'll leave it there and make his way back tot he couch for a bit. "And then when we get back, we could get an apple tree too."

It would've been a bit hard though, what with Aziraphale being in Soho and Crowley being in Mayfair. He wondered if they might be able to find someplace - a holiday house, maybe - that they could share, when this was all said and done.

But he's getting ahead of himself. No, this would be enough for them. A little cottage, some plants, books, maybe a painting or two. It had potential.

"And a garden," Crowley agrees immediately. "I'd need to leave the flat. That's all right, I've never really liked it all that much anyway."

He leans against the back of the couch, gazing at Aziraphale. His oldest friend. He still can't believe he's here. he can't believe he's alive---dead----here. They should be walking through St. James Park. They should be taking in shows. Having dinner at the Ritz.

"Remember when you told me we should have a picnic together?" he says. "We could do that, here. No one to watch us, tell us we can't. No one to tell me I can't be your friend."

"You want to have a picnic? Here?" he asks, looking up at him with wide, blue eyes. "Oh." His mouth spreads into a smile, easy as warm butter. "I'd like that very much. But we'll have to wait until we have all the things for it, do it up proper."

That meant waiting until they had some decent wine and something to make sausage rolls or something. Really, anything worth taking on a picnic. Cheese, perhaps, and crackers. Oh, crackers.

There's a faint whiff of actually baking bread, which is miraculous, and Aziraphale goes to check on the slices in the oven. Actually, they've gotten a bit of toasty crust, and he takes them out, places them on a plate and offers them to Crowley.

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