9/12/04

"A Ramble in St. James's Park"

It was getting late.

Crowley pushed himself away from the rough form of the tree trunk, languidly stretching his arms above his head. There was an unpleasant tingling in his leg, the result of spending an hour lounging in the same position, and he shook it with barely-suppressed distaste.

Checking his pocket-watch, he sighed. It was entirely unlike Aziraphale to be tardy; he wondered vaguely whether, after all of the centuries that they had spent in each other’s company, something of himself had rubbed off onto the angel. He shook his head. Not likely.

As he resolved to settle against the tree once more, an exercise in patience, there was a sudden commotion some distance before him. A darkly-clad figure bounded out from the cluster of pond-side bushes, knocking against a young nobleman with both force and surprising grace, and snatched the purse from his fob.

Crowley’s frame shook with laughter.

The nobleman called after the figure something that may have been, “Wait! Stop, you bloody prig!” or, “Thank you for obliging me last night, darling.” Without so much as a second glance, he haughtily straightened his sash and returned to the animated conversation with the young man by his side.

Closing his eyes, Crowley envisioned the nobleman’s flashing, drunken gate. Of course, he thought, it was Rochester [1]. He had first found himself in the other’s presence some months before, a night of high airs and debauchery, laced by strands of recent verse. Yes, he was suprised to say that he was still most impressed by the verse.

Crowley shook his head, half-baffled, half-exasperated as he observed the young pickpocket’s escape. Reaching the far side of the pond, the boy cried out as he saw that the purse had become a great, glimmering fish [2] and promptly dropped it to the ground. He seemed to stare at it for a moment in awe, rubbing his hands against his breeches with obvious disgust, and, soon realizing himself, fled. The fish proceeded to flop up and down, sloshing against the dark expanse of mud, opening and closing its jagged mouth. Then, as though it too had realized itself, it competently followed him into the copse and out of Crowley’s view.

For a moment, all was perfectly still.

There then was the familiar sound of ducks, scrabbling across the bank and into the pond, and the renewed din of social banter as though nothing peculiar had happened, and indeed, large saltwater animals were a fundamental object of the park’s charm. Finally came the shuffling of feet nearby, a gentle squashing of damp leather.

Crowley smiled.

“Hello, angel,” he said without turning.

“Good evening, my dear,” Aziraphale said, stepping beside him. “Remarkably pleasant weather we’re having, I must say.”

A thin drizzle fell through the high arc of the trees, cool with the springtime breeze and the scent of growth and renewal. Each leaf seemed to hold its own vibrant note, touched by droplets and merging with the song of larks as they perched upon lofty boughs, creating a forgotten melody that curved across the air and settled against the encroaching folds of darkness. The wash of color, hyacinths and lilacs, swayed in hazy reflection across the water’s surface. Crowley shuddered.

“Come off it,” he grumbled, dramatically huddling into his cloak. “Who in their right mind would be out at--”

“--such a time?” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. He tittered faintly. “Who, indeed? Only monsters and ghouls, I should imagine.”

“And rather large aquatic beasts?”

“It was a very fine catch. Fresh this morning, I assure you.” Aziraphale tugged at his collar. “In proper hands, I’m sure that it would have been lovely with a savory sauce.”

“Chicory and dilled carrots on the side, I suppose?”

“If you like.”

Crowley laughed shortly. “Ambiguity has never been your strong point, has it?”

“Why, sir, what could you possibly mean?” Aziraphale asked serenely.

“Yes, yes,” Crowley said, at last turning toward his companion. “Alright, have it your way.” He paused, pointedly ignoring the trace of smugness that spread across the angel’s pale features. “The fish was a nice touch.”

“And?”

Crowley grimaced. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Delightful,” the angel chirped.

“Pray tell, where does the well-coveted purse find itself?”

“At present?”

“At present.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale raised his brows, his eyes wide as he padded the brightly billowing silks of his breeches and sleeves. “Ah, here we are,” he laughed with visible relief, quickly raising his hat and untangling the purse from its great sweep of plumage. Smiling, he held it aloft in his upturned palm.

Crowley folded his arms across his chest, eyeing the other with suspicion.

Aziraphale hesitated. “What is it?”

“You are aware, of course...” Crowley began in a low voice. “The thief... I must say, he was not one of mine, as it were.” He coughed. “Only in the general sense.”

“Aware? Oh.” The angel nodded airily, adjusting the wide brim of his hat. “Yes, certainly.”

“I see.” Crowley took the purse, weighing it in his hand for a moment before pulling apart its bow. He gazed inside, smiling briefly. “There’s a sizable amount here, you know.”

“I couldn’t presume to say,” Aziraphale asserted, looking away. “Really, my dear. You’ve no need to--”

“It’s actually quite marvelous...” Crowley murmured, tugging at the silk fastenings with the tips of his fingers. Tiny jewels and the golden thread of brocade, soft laurels and roses, glinted in the darkened air as he moved forward, triumphantly holding it before the angel’s eyes. He grinned. “Even you must appreciate the craftsmanship here.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“Yes?”

“Is it your intention to return it, then?”

“Oh, come,” Crowley yawned, gingerly pulling upon the lace at his cuffs. He glanced away. “Don’t let’s give ourselves away to absurdity.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, a light smile grazing across his lips as he reached for the purse.

Crowley grinned, folding his arms and watching Aziraphale carefully stride across the slick grasses. Yawning with a practiced satisfaction, he glanced at his watch, waiting for the angel to notice that he was not by his side. Five, four, three, two--

Aziraphale looked over his shoulder expectantly, though without annoyance. “Will you be joining me sometime within this life-age, my dear?”

“A fine query,” Crowley quipped.

Rochester had softened his voice in the passing minutes, presumably because his face was pressed close to his companion’s, and his arm was loosely twined about the other’s waist. He seemed to be reciting poetry, hushed lines nearly lost against the patter of rain.

Pausing before the luminous pair and placing his hands on his hips, Crowley cleared this throat.

A scowl suddenly crossing his features, Rochester glanced up. “What can it possibly -- ah, master Crowley, how nice it is to see you,” he said, smiling faintly as he stepped in front of the boy. “To what do I owe the acute pleasure of this surprising visit?”

Crowley bowed, a flourishing sweep that was not entirely free of mockery, and his lips curved with an easy charm.

Aziraphale glanced quickly between them. “You already know this fellow?” he whispered into Crowley’s ear.

“Naturally,” Crowley said with a dismissive turn of his wrist. He smiled at Rochester, winking to the boy as he peeked over the nobleman’s shoulder. “Though not nearly well enough.”

“Indeed, not well enough,” Rochester agreed as he turned toward Aziraphale. “And you, sir, I have not met at all, a problem which ought to be remedied at once.” He extended his hand. “You are...”

“On my way out of town, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said, frowning in curiosity at Rochester’s palm. After a pause, he took it with a shy acknowledgment.

“A pity.” Rochester nodded toward Crowley. “I have lately been hoping that our paths would cross again. Our previous conversation has been a matter of great interest to me,” he resumed.

“Oh, really?” Crowley grinned. “That’s splendid news. In fact, I beli--”

“I believe this is yours,” Aziraphale cut in with an awkward yelp. His hand shook as he presented Rochester with the purse, nearly dropping it into the mud.

“My word,” Rochester began, taking it. He gazed at it for a moment, his lips parted in thought, then tossed it over his shoulder to the boy. “I’m exceedingly glad that you were able to recover it. May I be so bold as to inquire how you did so?”

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale laughed uneasily.

“My companion detected your villain by yonder pond,” Crowley proclaimed, his voice a caricature of gravity as he set a hand to Aziraphale’s shoulder, raising the other in a wide gesture before him, “and parting the sea of mallards, he confronted him with unflinching valor. Zounds, man, but it was the stories of old come alive.”

“Is this true, sir?” Rochester grinned.

Aziraphale shook his head, dropping his gaze. “Quite ineffable.”

“Yes, quite,” Crowley drawled.

“Ah, this age has such fertile breeding grounds for bombast,” the angel sighed, smiling doubtfully.

“A pox on’t, sir,” Rochester chuckled, tilting his head. Crowley observed the nobleman’s gaze as it traveled down the length of Aziraphale’s body, over his chest, breeches, to his boots. “Damn, how I long for some genuine surprise.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed.

Crowley chuckled. “Ah, but is that not the plight of every seasoned rogue?” he asked, smoothly settling his fingertips across the hilt of his sword.

“Perhaps.” Catching Crowley’s eye, Rochester smirked. “May I offer you gentlemen a drink?”

Aziraphale straightened. “No!”

Crowley clasped his hands, knitting his brow as he leveled his shoulders and jabbed his elbow into Aziraphale’s ribcage with feigned delicacy.

“Come now, my dear,” the angel protested, his voice a strained whisper. “You agreed... that is to say, do really you think we ought to--”

“Yes, that would be delightful.” Crowley said, his lips curling into a smile as he glanced to Aziraphale. “Indeed, I can think of nothing more salutiferous.”

“And you, sir?” Rochester nodded almost imperceptibly [3] and turned toward Aziraphale. “My coach-and-six awaits.”

“The hour grows late, you see...” Aziraphale shook his head, briefly glancing up as and rubbing his hand against the soft folds of his tunic and the bruise that Crowley knew to be swiftly forming beneath. “Ah,” he began again, “do forgive me, but I must--ouf!”

Crowley set his jaw, casually meeting Aziraphale’s eye with a gaze that was wily enough to turn wine into water [4] as he drew his elbow away from the angel’s side once more. He smiled sweetly.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, wringing his hands in hesitation. “Yes,” he agreed at length. “Delightful.”

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[1] That is, John Wilmot, second Earl of Rochester: notorious scoundrel, poet of libertinage, and altogether indecent fellow. As Samuel Johnson said, “in a course of drunken gaiety and gross sensuality, with intervals of study perhaps yet more criminal, with an avowed contempt of decency and order, a total disregard to every moral, and a resolute denial of every religious observation, he lived worthless and useless, and blazed out his youth and health in lavish voluptuousness.” He set an admirable example for his fellow humans, as far as Crowley was concerned.

[2] An halibut, approximately four feet in length, apparently unlicensed and possessed of a very nasty temper.

[3] As was then the fashion.

[4] Provided that the wine cellar was kept at an appropriately diabolical temperature in addition to receiving the standard quota of torments, though through thorough experimentation, Crowley had found the Lake District to be an apt substitute.