"The Visible Universe" -- Good Omens
Title: The Visible Universe
Author: Argyle
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: G
Disclaimer: These characters were created by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett & are used here out of a certain smitten admiration (strictly nonprofit).
Summary: It was not a remarkable day. (England, 1928)
Notes: Something a little different: I tried to give this a dream-like, fairytale tone. Initially for the contrelamontre "music" challenge, but I went over the time limit a wee bit. Really, I've had more fandom false starts in the past two months than I'd care to say, so here's hoping my muses will be firing on all cylinders again soon.



3/4/07

"The Visible Universe"

It was not a remarkable day.

The sun shone quite as it always had, slender limbs of light snatching here and there at the meadow grass, parting the midmorning mist for the sake of the season. A great, twisted apple tree stood on the hill. Myriad birds chirruped on the ground and in midair, and the sound was that of a thousand of their grandmothers, and all the grandmothers yet before. Somewhere beyond the tree line there flowed a river; only the slick-backed stones observed its pace, and even so they were often forgetful.

The air was still.

But soon there came a rumbling: low like liquid magma pouring over the foothills, steady like a dirge. Then the rumbling became a roar. Before the horizon sped the dark, sleek form of an automobile, and deep within it piped a voice, “Don’t you think we’ve gone far enough?”

It wasn’t quite panic which surged through the syllables, but it had just the right pitch of displeasure to expose a smile in the response, “I thought you wanted to get out of London. In fact, I seem to remember you saying you didn’t care whether you ever saw another blessed lorrie ever again. Now I think of it, it wasn’t just lorries you’d had enough of, was it?”

“Oh, go ahead and paraphrase. I don’t mind.”

“That’s considerate of you.”

“I do try.”

There was a long pause. And then: “Aziraphale--”

“Watch out!”

The car skidded to a halt, leaving a billowing cloud of grime and scorched rubber in its wake. An elderly badger lumbered to the far side of the road, continuing on to the verge and up the hill with nary a backward glance. He had, of course, seen it all before, as had the occupants of the car; what separated them was something not unlike tact.

“That was close.”

“Not really. I was watching the road.”

Aziraphale looked over his shoulder at the meadow grass, forward to the myriad birds and the great tree, and though he couldn’t see the river which lay beyond, he knew it was there just the same. “This will do quite well,” he said.

“You’re sure? I’d hate to get everything set up, and then have you suddenly decide it’s too sunny or the wind is off or your stove was left on. And I can’t be held accountable for my reaction should you decide to feel claustrophobic again.”

“Really Crowley, you must admit it was most awfully crowded at St. James’s.”

Crowley shrugged and straightened his sunglasses. Then he got out. “First warm day of the year,” he said. “Can’t blame them if they want to go parading.”

“See and be seen.”

“You have to start somewhere.”

Aziraphale sighed, unfolding himself from the passenger seat. “Well,” he said, and smoothed his jacket front. “At least we made good time.”

“Good time?” Crowley wandered around to the front of the car and patted the bonnet with circumspect pride. It clicked and purred in response. “I managed a seventy minute drive in less than twenty. Even you have to admit it was a bit more than good, especially with all those blessed Sunday drivers messing about.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“My point exactly.”

“Splendid.”

“All right. That’s a bit more like it,” said Crowley. “But don’t expect a bit of sudden appreciation to compensate for past injustices. It didn’t work for the Macedonians, and it won’t work for you.”

“No, no.” Aziraphale peered round from the boot, met Crowley’s eye, and gingerly held out a sopping napkin. “We’ve, er, had a bit of an accident. One sharp turn too many.”

“Not the wine, was it?”

“Suet pudding.”

Crowley grimaced. “Please tell me it didn’t get on the upholstery.”

“I’m afraid so,” Aziraphale said, wrinkling his nose. It wasn’t that it smelled at that very moment, but rather that it would undoubtedly smell later on. Even as the angel waved his hand to miracle away the runny mess, a host of phantom odors began to percolate in Crowley’s mind, never to be unmade or forgotten.

“I don’t even like suet pudding,” he bristled.

For a moment, Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. Then he said, quite evenly, “I thought you’d like to try something new.”

“I’ve tried it,” Crowley said, “and I don’t like it.”

“Fine.” With a second gesture, the pudding was swiftly replaced with deviled oysters. Aziraphale hefted the dish from the floor paneling and handed it to Crowley. “Let’s set up beneath that tree, why don’t we? Looks like a comfortable enough spot.”

And it was, rather.

They spread the old Berber blanket beneath the sprawling boughs, and the light filtered through to the ground in patches and waves. There were gherkins and diced potatoes, cold beef and cold chicken, mixed greens and cheese. There were strawberries and chilled wine.

Neither spoke of the past, for there was nothing else, and neither thought of the future.

Later on, Aziraphale produced a wireless from the depths of his rucksack. It was underused, and the knobs were tarnished and dusty, but Crowley found a tolerable enough station. He set it between the knotted roots of the tree, leaned back, munched an errant gherkin. Aziraphale’s toe began to tap.

“They’re going to be big.”

“Hmm?”

Crowley pointed to the wireless. “The singer,” he said. “Norma Brackenridge. Benny Knowles on upright bass, Vince Panelli on piano. They call themselves the Mint Juleps.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale arched a brow. “One of yours?”

“No.”

The music was in turn light and carefree, hot-tempered and heavy, and though each note was clipped and tinny from either distance or translation, it seemed to predict the ebb of the world around them. Here was a sparrow on the lane, there a lyric hemmed in short keystrokes.

Crowley drank down the dregs of his wine, straightened the silk kerchief in his pocket, stood and leaned against the tree trunk. Then he pulled Aziraphale to his feet, and not without difficulty, he coaxed him into a dance.

It was not graceful or succinct, but nor was it entirely awkward, and when the transmission switched over to a drawling piano number, neither really noticed. Instead, they continued to shuffle over the grass: left, right, forward, back, and then left and right again.

“Crowley?”

“Hmm?”

“I have a confession to make.”

Crowley blinked behind the darkened shield of his sunglasses, but didn’t shift his gaze from the space above Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said with he thought of as his most conspiratorial smile, and what Crowley thought of as self-conscious. “I don’t like suet pudding, either.”

“Oh.” Here Crowley did meet Aziraphale’s eye. Then he looked straight up: the thick boughs above them held hundreds of small, unripe apples, green and speckled and bitter. They trembled in the breeze, but did not fall. “Anyway,” he continued absently, “the oysters weren’t too bad. I mean, they were runnier than the ones I’ve had at the Ritz, and the paprika was a bit much, but they weren’t too bad.”

Aziraphale’s smile broadened.

Eventually they kissed, not without uncertainty, and eventually the music program gave way to the news. Before it was quite dark and the chill had settled into their bones, they packed the dishes, folded up the old Berber blanket, repacked the boot, and set off down the road.

“You know,” came Aziraphale’s voice from within. “I believe I did leave the stove on, now I think of it. The cocoa should be ready in, oh, twenty minutes or so.”

To which Crowley replied, “What if I said I could make it in ten?”

If Aziraphale answered, the sound of his voice failed to carry back to the glade, where the first spokes of moonlight fell against the verge, and the myriad birds settled to the ground in silence. Beyond the tree line, the river flowed on.