#ineffablevalentines

This sounded like chaos before I even started writing it. For the unaware, please see this post and this one. Please feel free to send me any prompts. More of my fics here

It was a nice lunch.

That's what Aziraphale holds to, as he stands on the corner facing his shop and just stares at the chaos unfolding in front of him. At his side is Crowley, who is just barely holding in laughter.

There are no humans on the street. Thank goodness.

In front of the bookshop is a guard of angels; the troop of ah, misguided souls... wait. Aziraphale can call them what they are now.

There's a line of daft angels around his book shop, looking for all the world like an honour guard. But a bad one, with sloppy marching steps and half their numbers missing.

This other half being too busy crowding around something on the ground. One of them is standing before the crowd, reading from a bible while the others have their heads bowed like... like...

Like they are at a funeral.

Aziraphale takes a step forward so he can see what is on the ground. And then takes a step back so he can swallow laughter.

'Is that-?' Crowley asks.

'It is,' Aziraphale confirms.

The angels are standing around the mouldy, half eaten doughnut someone dropped outside Aziraphale's shop and holding a funeral. With the full requim for the dead.

Then there is a squawking noise as the guard for his shop looks up. 'Stay away! Stay away!' they cry in unison, 'Danger, danger! Warning, warning!'

'Will Robinson,' Crowley whispers under his breath. Aziraphale gives him a strange look and he shakes his head. Right then.

The angels all come as one, the first one stopping before Aziraphale while the others line up behind them. 'Gabriel has warned us of the dangers and we are here to protect.'

'Protect,' chorus the rest of the angels.

Aziraphale does not resist the urge to roll his eyes. They do not notice, instead encircling him and Crowley.

'What,' Gabriel says from behind him and Aziraphale clenches, 'are you doing?'

Before Crowley can do more than hiss or Aziraphale can say anything, the daft angels speak up. 'We're protecting Aziraphale from the danger! In this shop! Like you told us to.'

Aziraphale has the distinct impression that if Gabriel knew about the human concept of a face palm that he would be doing it. But as that would have required him to read Aziraphale's memos, he is sure Gabriel has no idea.

A pity.

Crowley crackles in glee. 'And the funeral, my fellow angels?' he asks.

'For a fallen comrade,' daft angel in front says. 'Archangel Gabriel told us of how the doughnuts are other angels' halos and for this one to be so broken and mouldy, they must be beyond our reach.'

Every one of the squad bows their head in mourning.

'You know,' Crowley says with something like glee in his voice as Gabriel splutters behind them, 'there's a human ritual to be performed, when mourning a friend.'

'Oh? Oh? Oh?' comes the chorus of daft.

'Crowley...' Aziraphale says, seeing where this is going and unsure if he should stop it or encourage it.

'They call it,' Crowley continues, ignoring the warning, 'a pub crawl.'

You know what? Aziraphale does need a drink to deal with these walnuts. 'Yes. A pub crawl,' he adds as the angels all exchange looks and Gabriel starts to panic behind them, clearly not willing to challenge the immortal angel and demon.

'We perform what humans call a 'toast' to their memory in as many pubs as we can find.' Aziraphale raises a hand. 'Come on, we'll leave Gabriel to guard the shop. He's so much better at it than us.'

For the @ineffable-valentines prompt list!

The origin of Aziraphale secretly kind of liking Crowley being snake-y, and hissing by accident.

___________

“What’re these called again?” Crowley examined one of the shells from the plate they’d been served, which Aziraphale was already eagerly digging into.

“Oysters,” Aziraphale replied, mouth full. He swallowed, then said, “They’re a kind of shellfish. And delicious, apparently.” He went in for a second one.

“Hmm,” said Crowley. He sniffed at the bit of meat in the shell. It smelled, appropriately enough, fishy. But he supposed if everyone else was enjoying them, they couldn’t be that bad. Following Aziraphale’s lead, he tipped the shell back and swallowed its contents whole.

“What do you think?” said Aziraphale, who was watching him carefully. Strange, that an angel would be so concerned with Crowley’s opinion. Than again, it was strange that an angel had invited him to lunch in the first place.

“Not bad,” said Crowley truthfully. “Bit salty for my taste, though. You can have the rest.”

“Are you sure?” said Aziraphale, but he was already pulling the plate towards his side of the table.

Crowley couldn’t help but smile fondly. The day had started out miserable, but it was rapidly improving; Aziraphale was always fine company.

“I’m sure,” Crowley said, with a dismissive wave. “You go ahead and enjoy the oystersssssss.”

I want to say a very big THANK YOU to all who participated and contributed to Ineffable Valentines. I didn’t imagine there would be such a great response, but what a cascade of ineffable romance you all have produced. The art and the writing... 💋👌 So much fun! I might be tempted to do it again next year!

Summary: Crowley wants to write a poem for his husband for Valentine’s Day. But after ruining several pages in his notebook, and with Anathema’s help, he discovers that, when speaking from the heart, poetry is not necessarily required.

Notes: Written for the @ineffable-valentines’s prompt poetry.

(AO3)

“House? No, no, that doesn’t work. Mouse? *grumble … grumble … grumble* That sounds stupid! Louse? Oh yeah, helluv romantic blood eating parasites are …” Crowley attacks the page he’s writing on with his eraser till his pencil nearly wears through. “Shit!” he mumbles when he tries writing over the spot and his pencil lead breaks. “Stupid cheap …!”

Anathema, sitting across from him at the tea table in Aziraphale’s back room, watches Crowley do battle with his notebook, amused and sympathetic … but mostly amused.

“May I ask a question?” she interrupts.

“Wat?” he snaps.

“Why poetry?”

“Well, book girl, it’s come to my attention that I give Aziraphale presents I think he would like instead of things he actually enjoys,” he explains, glaring at Anathema since that particular lecture came from her after seeing Aziraphale’s prized collection of iPads, laptops, cell phones, and eReaders, mint in their boxes, unopened and untouched. Aziraphale told her he treasures them because they’re gifts from Crowley, but that he’d prefer a nice cannoli over the latest tech.

“I know that,” she says with a smug smile that makes Crowley bare his fangs. “What I’m asking is why you decided to write him a poem?”

“’Cuz Aziraphale likes words,” Crowley says, deciding to make due with the remaining stub of his writing utensil and return to his work. “Books and plays and things like that.”

“So why not buy him a book?”

“I’m not sure there’s any he wants that he doesn’t own already.” Crowley glances at the stacks and shelves around them, crammed full of hardcovers and leather bounds. “None that wouldn’t require me breaking into a museum, and I’ve been strictly forbidden to do that.” Crowley scowls at his page when he notices most of the white space smudged with graphite and the ghosts of words left over from constant erasing. He turns to a clean page, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “But apparently I suck at poetry! I can’t get anything to rhyme, so I keep repeating the same five words over and over again. And one of those is the!”

Anathema’s brow furrows as she tries to think of even one word that rhymes with the that someone would include in a romantic poem. “Wait a minute! I thought Aziraphale said the two of you inspired Shakespeare!”

“Yeah, but that’s Shakespeare. Inspiring him was easy. Back then, the English language was only about two hundred words max. And he made up half the words he wrote. How important could it be if he’s making shit up? This poem is a present for angel. It has to be … it has to be perfect.”

“Well, I applaud you for at least attempting to do this for him,” Anathema says, smiling at Crowley as if he were an adorable, stray puppy. “Poetry can be tricky if you’re not used to writing it.”

“And while I appreciate being applauded, I need your help! That’s why I called you! I need to get this finished. Valentine’s is four days away! I only get a few minutes here and there to work on it when angel pops out for a nibble. Speaking of which, he’s going to be back with lunch in about …” Crowley checks the hulking watch monopolizing his wrist “… ten minutes!”

“Okay, then, for the sake of ease, let’s not worry about making things rhyme. A poem doesn’t have to rhyme in order for it to be good.”

“Yeah, but the funny ones do. Like …” He grins like anything when a proper example pops into his head “… There once was a man from North Ennis, whose left hand was shaped like a …”

“You’re not writing limericks, Mr. Crowley!” Anathema rushes out before he can finish. Thank goodness Newt couldn’t come, she thinks. Then she’d definitely be hearing the end of that bawdy rhyme. “You’re expressing emotion, right? You want to tell him how you feel?”

“Yeah …”

“Let’s try this. Pretend that you aren’t writing a poem. If you were going to just come out and tell him how you feel, what would you say? Here …” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone “… let me record you. This way if you come out with a gem or two, you won’t forget.”

“O-kay …” Crowley sits up straight, preparing for Anathema to ready her phone. She holds it up and gives him a nod, letting him know to begin “… I’d tell him …” Crowley pauses, gathering his thoughts together. Granted, they’re easier to find when you’re not linking them up with words like louse “… I’d tell him I love him. That, uh … there isn’t a day that goes by I don’t think about him. Even when … when we were apart.” He finds it distracting and uncomfortable to look at Anathema while he’s saying these things, so he closes his eyes, focusing on the insides of his lids to help him concentrate. “I’d tell him 6000 years is an awful long time to exist without something to hope for. And he gave me that. Hope. Because being a demon, I don’t normally have much of that. I get to be naughty, of course. Have a little fun. It’s part of the job. But outside of that, there’s really nothing to look forward to. But seeing him, even for a moment, was something I looked forward to. I’d tell him that the times I spent with him were the best of my life, even when all I was doing was rustling his feathers.” Crowley laughs thinking of the times he dropped in on Aziraphale unannounced to pawn off some bullshit assignment to have an excuse to talk to him for five minutes.

Just five minutes.

But they’d end up being the most important five minutes of his decade.

“I’d tell him … I’d tell him that there is no me without him. Not any more. Not for a long time now. That’s why I couldn’t leave the planet without him. And when I went to his bookshop and saw it burning down, I …” Crowley’s lips pinch together, his throat tight. He stops again, his voice fading with those words.

“You … what, Mr. Crowley?” Anathema coaxes gently.

“I didn’t care about anything anymore. Not demons or angels, not doing my job, not this whole world. Because my world … the one I loved … was gone. You know?”

Anathema doesn’t know. Not really. But she nods anyway. “Yeah. I know.”

“Look at me,” Crowley sniffles, taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes on his sleeve.“Gettin’ all weepy. And on video, too.” He gestures to Anathema’s phone. “How … how was that? I can’t really think of anything else to say.”

“That was … beautiful.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Anathema says, getting emotional herself. “I think … it was perfect. You don’t have to turn it into a poem. You don’t have to change a thing. Just show him this.”

“Do you think he’ll like it?”

Ineffable Valentine's Day 19: Candy Hearts