There was that special kind of daylight darkness which only Thursdays seemed capable of-though, in Aziraphale's experience, most days were. As were the Fridays and Saturdays and all the days that followed. He hadn't seen the sun since his escape through the globe upstairs, and well...that simply wasn't the same. Light behaved differently in the Silver City. Like water in the Mediterranean, it was a drowning force.
Hmmm...the Mediterranean
There was a pearlescent mack hung in the cramped foyer that shimmered an eerie sort of purple, and was most definitely purchased in the ladies' section of Harrods twelve years ago when its owner was forced to retire his oilskin. It made a whispering noise, the kind that seemed to hold secrets just out of audible reach as Aziraphale pulled it over his old coat, straightened the lapels out and adjusted himself in the mirror with an anticipatory smile. He snagged an umbrella from the stand and strode out into the afternoon drizzle. Three blocks down the sidewalk he paused and locked the door of the bookshop, listening closely for the metallic chunk. Aziraphale continued, bound for Mayfair and beyond.
It was time for a holiday.
There was a fine layer of dust coating everything in the flat, and one of those things was Crowley. He'd gone to his office to think and had done nothing of the sort. Scattered about the floor around his throne were large black feathers, red-tipped and torn. His hands were laced calmly in his lap and had been for rather more than three weeks, lifting once or twice a day to wrench another feather from his ravaged wings which stretched over the armrest Crowley was resting his back against, legs thrown sideways over the other. His fingers were coated with blood that had long since turned brown, cracking at the joints every time they moved. He reached up once more, took hold of a large primary feather over his shoulder and pulled, while his wing jerked away in the opposite direction. It came loose with a pop, dripping blood. He brought it up to eye level, turned it blearily in his fingers and tossed it aside. The spindly fingers came to rest in his lap once more, his wings shook and stained the floor red.
The closer he got to Crowley's flat, a certain energy washed over him, made him nervous and twitchy and terribly, terribly sad.
It felt as if something beautiful were burning.
West London's lashing rain made the double glazing seem more like rice paper, and as with most meteorological occurrences, a small part of Crowley's hazy brain torpidly got around to wondering if perhaps it meant something. The lack of contact from above made him suspicious of everything.
Three knuckles rapped sharply against the cherry wood twice as many times; it was an announcement he instantly recognised. He was on his feet, every iota of his being screaming in protest. The demon who appeared from behind the tall back of the throne bore only a vague resemblance to the thing from before. The deep creases in his shirt were gone, pressed neatly against his stomach. His hands were cleaner than they'd ever been and his shoes had found their way back to his feet from whatever dark corner he'd cast them into. All traces of blood had disappeared from his clothes and the furniture, the floor shone obnoxiously bright and dust was blown away as a fierce wind whipped through the flat. His wings were tucked hastily away into the ether, where they ached and dripped in privacy. He dabbed a bit of Aziraphale's favourite cologne on his wrists, rubbed them vigorously together and swung the door away from the angel's hovering fist. He swore he felt his face creak as he managed a sort of manic, half-smile.
"Crowley!"
"Ahhh, Angel," he drawled. His voice sounded not entirely unlike a length of chain scraping against rock while a seal is clobbered to death in the background. He tried not to think about it.
Aziraphale stepped in with a shiver, depositing rainwater everywhere.
"Oh dear, silly me," he chuckled. By the time Crowley shut the door and turned round, he and the floor were both dry. The demon smiled with surprising ease now.
"I've been thinking," Aziraphale started, following him into the sitting room where tea was miraculously ready and waiting, along with scones and little egg-and-cress sandwiches cut neatly into triangles.
Crowley's tea set was the brightest thing he owned, and it was some very old Wedgwood he'd been gifted from the personal collection of Madame De Pompadour before she died. Poor dear. (Aziraphale had taken a liking to it when they'd visited her, and Crowley knew how he hated the darkness of every home he'd had)
Aziraphale removed his mackintosh, unbuttoned his coat and settled on the semi-circle sofa while Crowley poured the tea.
"-I've been thinking we should get away. Go on holiday. Somewhere in the Mediterranean."
"But we've already done the Mediterranean."
"I do believe it's changed since then. I hear they've got running water now!"
"Ooh, how decadent," Crowley purred over the lip of his cup.
"Oh hush. It'll be fun. And we should at least have a peek to make sure the sun's still up there," he muttered, casting a glance through the window.
"Well I think it's a splendid idea," said Crowley. "and I must admit, it's been a while since we last checked on the house."
Aziraphale sniffed, looking around.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, it's just...it smells like-like blood."
Unadulterated fear shot through Crowley's frail chest like a laser.
"Right, yes. I gave the plants some iron. For the-supposed to help with spots."
"Ah."
For a moment there was only the clink of china and an appreciative hum from Aziraphale. It appeared the scones were a success.
"When should we leave?"
"Tonight. But first, allow me to tempt you to dinner?"
Aziraphale smiled.
"Wily serpent."
A/N
"ĝissu lal" means "to cover with a shadow" in Ancient Sumerian Cuneiform. It's supposed to symbolise the fact that when Crowley miracles himself to look presentable he isn't changing anything, just adding a layer of dark magic.
yeah it's dramatic shut up
