10/3/04

"Soho in the Rain"

“It really doesn’t make sense, you know.”

Crowley looked up from his book [1], tilting his head with a slight amount of bewilderment as he waited for the angel to continue. At length he cleared his throat. “It?”

“I’m sorry?”

“It doesn’t make sense?”

Aziraphale glanced over the thin frame of his spectacles, returning Crowley’s puzzled stare. “What doesn’t make sense?”

Crowley sighed, taking a gulp of his tea and grimacing as it blazed a path across his tongue and down his throat. He imagined each tiny taste bud to be crying out in Bergamot-laced agony and wondered offhandedly whether it was too early to begin drinking. If he grabbed his coat in two seconds and made it to the door in another three, and provided that he was able to avoid the extraordinary nuisance of slipping across the puddle-ridden pavement as he stepped to the Bentley, it would only take about a minute and a half before he found himself back in his own digs, safely standing in front of the liquor-cabinet...

Cautiously, he watched Aziraphale.

The angel smiled as he poured himself another cup; he added three lumps, stirred, and waved a languid hand before the lip, willing it to what Crowley sensed was just the right temperature before taking a careful sip and resuming his reading.

Crowley shuddered. Yes, it probably was too early.

“If I may remind you, not more than a minute ago, you stated, and I quote, ‘It really doesn’t make sense, you know.’” Crowley folded his arms across his chest with finality.

“Oh.” Aziraphale laughed, nodding confidentially. “Yes, my dear. I was referring to the poem that you so generously brought to my attention last year.”

“Last year?” Crowley echoed incredulously.

The angel nodded, unperturbed. “There’s one line that has left me feeling rather perplexed: ‘Evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons...’” he trailed off wistfully.

Crowley straightened against the dark leather cushion of his seat, smiling uneasily as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “I see.”

“I just feel that teaspoons would somehow be more convenient, as it were.”

“Of course.”

Aziraphale’s gaze dropped once more.

There were hushed voices outside, standing still by the shop window before passing on and leaving only the patter of rain in their wake.

The wall clock chimed, dizzily swinging the ornate curve of its tail.

It seemed as good a time as any to shake things up a bit, Crowley mused. Perhaps an earth-shattering, though more or less superficial disaster was in order. He rather fancied something that would disturb the universe on an emotional level rather than a physical one, all the while not lowering the degree of relative nefariousness.

Frogs raining down from the sky had never failed him in the past, and he wondered how much extra effort it would require for them to be of the all-singing, all-dancing sort. He smiled slowly, imagining the scene in Grosvenor Square. It was almost too eas--

“Well, it does appear to be letting off a bit,” Aziraphale broke in, lazily motioning to the window. “The rain, I mean.”

“Oh.” Crowley nodded almost imperceptibly, not bothering to follow the angel’s hand with his gaze. He sighed. “That’s good.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “Yes, that is good.”

Again came the shuffling of thin newsprint and the clink of the sterling spoon against china. The clock ticked.

There was a low, indulgent chuckle.

“Look, I thought we might...” Crowley trailed off, drumming his fingers steadily against the countertop [2] as he waited for some sign to suggest that Aziraphale was listening.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

After a long pause, Aziraphale glanced up. “Mm?”

“I said, is there anything interesting in the papers today?”

“Oh, it all seems rather normal for this time of year, I daresay. Fires, famine, strikes, and a floral show in Richmond... Incidentally, it would appear that hyacinths are once more within the good graces of fashion.”

“Brilliant,” Crowley replied, standing; his voice was casual, though not entirely free from disappointment. He decided to chance it. Stepping to the door, he pulled Aziraphale’s slicker down from its hook and held it before him. As though in subtle invitation, the Burberry lining swung into view. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Glancing with hesitation towards the rain-streaked window, Aziraphale arched a brow. “As you like.” He placidly finished his tea, removing the spectacles from the bridge of his nose and setting them next to his newspaper, neatly folded.

With a conceding smile, Aziraphale shrugged the coat about his shoulders, taking up a smooth red umbrella from the stand.

They stood on the threshold for a moment, paused, and the shop’s shelves were soon cloaked in shadow as Crowley turned off the lights with a quick snap of his fingers. He lit two cigarettes, holding one aloft as he set the other gently between his lips, and Aziraphale locked the door with a metallic jangle of keys.

The rain had slowed to a soft drizzle, hemmed by mist, though Aziraphale ceremoniously opened his umbrella, settling it against his shoulder. His cheeks became sanguine with its shadow.

As they stepped into the street, Aziraphale’s breath appeared before him in white, tapered tendrils, at once rising and vanishing against the grey sweep of the sky. “Shall we?”

Crowley grinned suddenly, quite forgetting to breathe at all.

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[1] Tarzan and Octopus Man Battle the Foreign Legion at the Earth’s Core

[2] Audible to only the keenest of listeners, this set of raw taps would become the bass line for several popular Rolling Stones songs some twenty years later.