Snippet for Jamjar
Mar. 8th, 2004 09:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
louiseluxThis is for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jamjar, who wanted Aziraphale, Crowley, the Blitz, rationing and cats, not necessarily in that order. I think everything's covered - the rationing is in there only obliquely.
Shelter
The shelter was dark, the floor sopping with piss. The poor of the East End slept on makeshift piles of rubbish, whatever they could find. Candles burnt here and there. In the dim light people were fucking, laughing over card games, sleeping, fighting. Ten thousand bodies were crammed tightly, so close that there was no space on the floor to put down a foot. Crowley moved through them.
In a corner near the entrance, a massive blue brick archway, Aziraphale crouched on the floor, his face white against the furred, glistening wall. He wore an air raid warden's hat, which sat lopsidedly, shading his eyes. From between his lashes came a faint blue glow. Not a single bomb had hit the shelter so far during the Blitz. People called it a miracle.
The shelter wasn't one really. It was a deep cavern under the railway arches, forced open and filled with people who had nowhere else to go during the nights when a steady rain of bombs set London alight, burning the docks and the houses, factories, libraries and schools. These past months it had been every night, almost. Everything burnt: barrels of rum exploded and sent rivers of fire into the street, bales of black peppercorns that filled the air with raw particles, burning even worse than fire, lakes of paint that gave off choking, oily smoke. Houses, cars, food. People burnt to cinders. They could have built more, before the war, but they didn't. There still weren't enough air raid shelters.
The black cat twined its way through the bodies, paws scratching into skin. Batted off or grabbed at for comfort, it leapt gracefully from chest to chest, hip to hip, along the lines of sleeping bodies. Those its paws touched slept deeper, safe in dreams of all the things they liked. Sunshine, grass, fresh air, gin, steaks, new coats and lipsticks.
It landed in the wet and delicately shook its paws, before opening its pink mouth and saying: 'I can't believe this place.'
Distracted, sweating, Aziraphale held out his hand vaguely and the cat trampled onto his trousers, leaving small neat prints on the fabric. Ears flattened, yellow eyes seeming to glow with their own light. His hand absently stroked down the too-thin spine, patted the head.
Above them the anti-aircraft guns spat and shattered the night, drowning out the unending clatter of incendiaries as they fell on the pavements and roofs, spilling fire, marking the spot for the bombers overhead.
'You're far too bony these days,' Crowley said next to him, back to his normal shape.
Aziraphale turned his head to him, not really hearing, hardly there, his eyes glassy and shining. His mind was up above the clouds, ten thousand places at once. Shaking, he made a small soft sound of agreement. A noise like tearing cloth above their heads, a Molotov nearby. Crowley sat quiet with him after that, shoulder to shoulder against the dripping walls. Somehow his hand found its way into Aziraphale's. He began to concentrate, hard.
jamjar, who wanted Aziraphale, Crowley, the Blitz, rationing and cats, not necessarily in that order. I think everything's covered - the rationing is in there only obliquely. Shelter
The shelter was dark, the floor sopping with piss. The poor of the East End slept on makeshift piles of rubbish, whatever they could find. Candles burnt here and there. In the dim light people were fucking, laughing over card games, sleeping, fighting. Ten thousand bodies were crammed tightly, so close that there was no space on the floor to put down a foot. Crowley moved through them.
In a corner near the entrance, a massive blue brick archway, Aziraphale crouched on the floor, his face white against the furred, glistening wall. He wore an air raid warden's hat, which sat lopsidedly, shading his eyes. From between his lashes came a faint blue glow. Not a single bomb had hit the shelter so far during the Blitz. People called it a miracle.
The shelter wasn't one really. It was a deep cavern under the railway arches, forced open and filled with people who had nowhere else to go during the nights when a steady rain of bombs set London alight, burning the docks and the houses, factories, libraries and schools. These past months it had been every night, almost. Everything burnt: barrels of rum exploded and sent rivers of fire into the street, bales of black peppercorns that filled the air with raw particles, burning even worse than fire, lakes of paint that gave off choking, oily smoke. Houses, cars, food. People burnt to cinders. They could have built more, before the war, but they didn't. There still weren't enough air raid shelters.
The black cat twined its way through the bodies, paws scratching into skin. Batted off or grabbed at for comfort, it leapt gracefully from chest to chest, hip to hip, along the lines of sleeping bodies. Those its paws touched slept deeper, safe in dreams of all the things they liked. Sunshine, grass, fresh air, gin, steaks, new coats and lipsticks.
It landed in the wet and delicately shook its paws, before opening its pink mouth and saying: 'I can't believe this place.'
Distracted, sweating, Aziraphale held out his hand vaguely and the cat trampled onto his trousers, leaving small neat prints on the fabric. Ears flattened, yellow eyes seeming to glow with their own light. His hand absently stroked down the too-thin spine, patted the head.
Above them the anti-aircraft guns spat and shattered the night, drowning out the unending clatter of incendiaries as they fell on the pavements and roofs, spilling fire, marking the spot for the bombers overhead.
'You're far too bony these days,' Crowley said next to him, back to his normal shape.
Aziraphale turned his head to him, not really hearing, hardly there, his eyes glassy and shining. His mind was up above the clouds, ten thousand places at once. Shaking, he made a small soft sound of agreement. A noise like tearing cloth above their heads, a Molotov nearby. Crowley sat quiet with him after that, shoulder to shoulder against the dripping walls. Somehow his hand found its way into Aziraphale's. He began to concentrate, hard.
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no subject
Date: 2004-03-09 01:52 am (UTC)Aziraphale turned his head to him, not really hearing, hardly there, his eyes glassy and shining. His mind was up above the clouds, ten thousand places at once. Shaking, he made a small soft sound of agreement.
This is wonderfully well done. I really feel how hard Aziraphale is working to keep the people safe. Lovely.
no subject
Date: 2004-03-09 03:59 am (UTC)The sad thing is that there really weren't enough safe places for people to go, and there were no guardian angels for them - at the beginning of the Blitz the government forbade people to use the Underground as shelters, rather than the crumbling above-ground shelters, only giving in when people in their thousands simply bought tickets and stayed down here for the night, every night.