Happy birthday to you!
Sep. 11th, 2003 11:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
louiseluxHappy birthday ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
daegaer Hope you have a lovely day! *hands you virtual chocolate cake, with extra sprinkles*
Presents
Aziraphale loved to give. Crowley supposed it must be something to do with doing good. He couldn't remember ever wanting to give anyone anything.
Aziraphale had given him a flower once, a very long time ago.
'What's this?' Crowley had backed off, looking warily at the arm extended towards him.
Aziraphale had given him a funny look.
'Well, it's what most people call a rose. It's a sort of flower,' he'd said carefully. 'A most unusual colour, don't you think?'
Crowley had shot Aziraphale a withering look, literally, and rolled his eyes. 'No, I meant, what's it for?'
'It's for you, a gift,' Aziraphale had gasped, clutching at his arm, then looking sadly down at the now-crispy rose petals, 'or it was. I thought you might like it.'
Crowley had watched him stagger off, completely baffled.
That phrase: I thought you might like it. Always delivered with a guileless look; in time, the two things combined had come to utterly disarm him, although he'd have chopped his own leg off rather than admit it.
Nothing seemed to spoil Aziraphale's joy in giving, however hard Crowley had tried in the beginning. Crowley would be minding his own business, being bad, and Aziraphale would turn up, always with what he called 'a little something', and ruin all the hard work Crowley had put in to working on his foul temper. But still he came. And in the beginning they were always edible 'little somethings'.
Eventually Crowley could eat a banana, or drink some fermented yak's milk without wondering if Aziraphale was trying to either poison him or blow him up. There was a particular type of golden plum that only grew on one tree in 5th century BC Kent. He could remember the taste even now, as though he'd eaten it yesterday. He'd even grown the stone, but the fruit had been different, and sour. Aziraphale explained to him later about breeding fruits from stock. Crowley had been amazed when he'd first realised the extent of human ingenuity.
'They can really do that?' he'd asked, incredulous. But once he started paying attention properly he noticed that they could do all sorts of things. Delicious drinks, more delicious than fermented yak's milk anyway, that made the world wobble about alarmingly, crispy salty things, pastries, sweet cakes drenched in sugar or honey. One thing Crowley could rely on; Aziraphale would always turn up eventually with a sample of any new delicious foodstuff.
There were other things that he gave Crowley too, apart from things to eat and drink. In his flat in London, Crowley had a cupboard, and in the cupboard was a very old, very large tea chest. The chest was full of all the things that Crowley didn't think fitted into his flat. They weren't the sort of things a human like the one he pretended to be would have, so he hid them away, as if they were a guilty secret.
What was in the tea chest were all the things that had lasted; every single one of the things that Aziraphale had given him that hadn't been eaten, drunk, smoked or completely rotted away, like that unfortunate fish. He'd kept every little thing, stashing them in various places around the world until he finally decided to settle down a bit. Then he'd brought them all to London.
And now, alone in his study, with a giggling and tipsy Aziraphale safely deposited back at his bookshop, he dragged the heavy chest out of the cupboard, the edges leaving smudges of grey dust on the white pile of the carpet. He wanted to look at everything, and to think.
Inside the numerous boxes, bags and scraps of tissue there were perfect seashells, their walls so thin that they glowed like little pink ears if you held them up to the light, which he did. They still smelled of salt if he put them right to his nose. There were knife-sharp pieces of stained glass, which Aziraphale must've picked carefully from the ruins of churches, pulled down by the great-great-grandsons of the men who built them, and presented to him solely for their beautiful colours. A yellowing elephant tusk was wedged down one side, and a string of creamy white sharks teeth. Crowley had never asked where Aziraphale got those from, but he had entertained himself with visions of the angel wrestling a shark for a long time. Sometimes the shark won, sometimes Aziraphale. When Jaws came out, he'd coaxed the angel into seeing it with him, to check his reaction and to see if he had flashbacks. To Crowley's disappointment he hadn’t, but he had jumped an awful lot.
Delicate frills of red coral, honey-coloured lumps of amber and shards of gleaming black jet rattled together in a smaller box, mixed in with fragments of all kinds of gemstones. Crowley brushed a layer of dust away and sneezed. Underneath were tiny, mummified emerald-green beetle shells that he'd kept, even after he'd woken up one morning to find that their owners had all inexplicably died in their new jam-jar home.
No one could ever accuse Aziraphale of spending unnecessarily on gifts. There were all sorts of knick-knacks hidden away at the bottom of the chest-- things that had obviously caught the angels eye and had shouted out 'Crowley'. Some of it mystified him, like the large rubber bat or the glow-in-the-dark set of false teeth, but he was very fond of his Bruce Lee key ring. He was sure it was a collector's item by now.
Brown-speckled owl feathers were tied in a sheaf with string, dusty now and half-rotted away, but he remembered with great clarity the summer morning Aziraphale had given them to him. He'd listened to Aziraphale's explanation of why they were so soft, as he ran his fingertips over them: each feather was covered in tiny hairs, and these were what made the owl's wings so silent in flight. His own feathers were coarse in comparison.
There had been many more things, but like the food and the pet fish, they hadn't lasted: a lump of sticky black opium which some kind soul had given to Aziraphale and that Aziraphale had given him because he wasn't sure what it was. Crowley had amused himself for weeks by adding some to Aziraphale's tea every time he came to visit. Packets of round flat biscuits dipped in chocolate, which Aziraphale couldn’t resist, and which Crowley always let him eat most of. Once, a lump of blue ice that took days and days to melt, even though Crowley left it in the weak winter sunshine that shone through his kitchen window. Aziraphale told him all about Antarctica, and Crowley had thought it sounded ghastly. Far too cold.
He'd been given what he supposed would make a mountain of flowers, after that first rose. But attitudes changed and Aziraphale had abruptly stopped giving him flowers, and had gone bright red when Crowley casually asked him why. Whatever the case, Aziraphale had either got over it, or times had changed enough for him not to be embarrassed anymore, and not so long ago Crowley had returned home from lunch with a bunch of daffodils lying on the black leather seat of his Bentley.
Around the 18th century, when humans had got good at it, Aziraphale had gone through a phase of giving him smelly things. He pulled a blue glass bottle out of the chest. The silver filigree was tarnished, and the little cork bung was crumbling, but he could still catch whispers of the fragrance that used to fill it. One whiff was enough to take him back to the place and time he first smelled it, this one, jasmine, was Persia three thousand years ago, when they were younger and the earth was younger too. There were dozens of similar bottles; pink ones, green ones, yellow, red, each had once been filled with a different scent. Dutch lavender, lime, neroli, musk and civet from India, frangipani, vetiver and rose. When it had been fashionable, and when humans had been less well washed and society far smellier, he'd loved to dose himself with a powerful scent and go forth, impressing all who met him with his obvious wealth and fine taste. On those occasions Aziraphale had always held a hanky to his nose, but had been far to polite to point out that a bottle of perfume should ideally last more than a week.
Crowley put the bottle carefully back in the box and sat back on his heels, dizzy with memories. He blinked once, to remind himself where he was, and scrubbed at his eyes with his hands. Not in some long-ago land, but here in London in the 21st century. It was much later than he'd expected, and the streetlights had come on, throwing an orange glow onto the far wall. He sat looking into space for a few moments, blinking again. He'd never given Aziraphale anything.
Aziraphale had come along with a new present for him today, with those innocently spoken words that these days made Crowley's chest go uncomfortably tight. It was just a silly little thing, Aziraphale had said, handing it over rather sheepishly. One of his manicurist's grandchildren had made it for him, and he didn't really have a use for it and-- he thought Crowley might like it. He was right, Crowley had liked it, far more than he really should have done, he told himself. After all, they were only symbols.
It was a rather strange object; two hoops connected by a straight part, with some cheap silver tinsel wrapped round it. It looked like the sort of thing children's TV presenters showed you how to make with two wire coat hangers and some left over Christmas decorations, but there was no mistaking what it was intended to be. It was a halo. A wonky halo, which had drooped down over one eye when he'd put it on so Aziraphale could see what it looked like. Aziraphale had gone pink and had set it straight for him, grinning like an idiot.
The streetlights made the cheap silver strands twinkle orange in the gloom. He picked up the strange contraption from where it lay on the floor and looked at it. Silly angel, giving him this. He should really put it away, like he always did with Aziraphale's presents. It wouldn't do to have it lying around. His eyes prickled and his jaw suddenly was very achy. He took a deep, calming breath and then laid it carefully on top of all the other things in the tea chest. He stood up, ready to heave the chest back into the cupboard, and then stopped. The halo looked rather forlorn lying there. He gazed at it for a few seconds, then reached in and took it out again. Frowning, he wandered out of the study. He ended up in the hall downstairs, where on impulse he hung it on the forever-empty ebony coat rack that stood next to the door. Stepping back to study the effect, he smiled. It was the only thing in his flat that hadn't been fitted by an interior decorator. It looked good hanging there, a ridiculous child's version of something so holy. A present from a friend. It looked just right.
daegaer Hope you have a lovely day! *hands you virtual chocolate cake, with extra sprinkles*Presents
Aziraphale loved to give. Crowley supposed it must be something to do with doing good. He couldn't remember ever wanting to give anyone anything.
Aziraphale had given him a flower once, a very long time ago.
'What's this?' Crowley had backed off, looking warily at the arm extended towards him.
Aziraphale had given him a funny look.
'Well, it's what most people call a rose. It's a sort of flower,' he'd said carefully. 'A most unusual colour, don't you think?'
Crowley had shot Aziraphale a withering look, literally, and rolled his eyes. 'No, I meant, what's it for?'
'It's for you, a gift,' Aziraphale had gasped, clutching at his arm, then looking sadly down at the now-crispy rose petals, 'or it was. I thought you might like it.'
Crowley had watched him stagger off, completely baffled.
That phrase: I thought you might like it. Always delivered with a guileless look; in time, the two things combined had come to utterly disarm him, although he'd have chopped his own leg off rather than admit it.
Nothing seemed to spoil Aziraphale's joy in giving, however hard Crowley had tried in the beginning. Crowley would be minding his own business, being bad, and Aziraphale would turn up, always with what he called 'a little something', and ruin all the hard work Crowley had put in to working on his foul temper. But still he came. And in the beginning they were always edible 'little somethings'.
Eventually Crowley could eat a banana, or drink some fermented yak's milk without wondering if Aziraphale was trying to either poison him or blow him up. There was a particular type of golden plum that only grew on one tree in 5th century BC Kent. He could remember the taste even now, as though he'd eaten it yesterday. He'd even grown the stone, but the fruit had been different, and sour. Aziraphale explained to him later about breeding fruits from stock. Crowley had been amazed when he'd first realised the extent of human ingenuity.
'They can really do that?' he'd asked, incredulous. But once he started paying attention properly he noticed that they could do all sorts of things. Delicious drinks, more delicious than fermented yak's milk anyway, that made the world wobble about alarmingly, crispy salty things, pastries, sweet cakes drenched in sugar or honey. One thing Crowley could rely on; Aziraphale would always turn up eventually with a sample of any new delicious foodstuff.
There were other things that he gave Crowley too, apart from things to eat and drink. In his flat in London, Crowley had a cupboard, and in the cupboard was a very old, very large tea chest. The chest was full of all the things that Crowley didn't think fitted into his flat. They weren't the sort of things a human like the one he pretended to be would have, so he hid them away, as if they were a guilty secret.
What was in the tea chest were all the things that had lasted; every single one of the things that Aziraphale had given him that hadn't been eaten, drunk, smoked or completely rotted away, like that unfortunate fish. He'd kept every little thing, stashing them in various places around the world until he finally decided to settle down a bit. Then he'd brought them all to London.
And now, alone in his study, with a giggling and tipsy Aziraphale safely deposited back at his bookshop, he dragged the heavy chest out of the cupboard, the edges leaving smudges of grey dust on the white pile of the carpet. He wanted to look at everything, and to think.
Inside the numerous boxes, bags and scraps of tissue there were perfect seashells, their walls so thin that they glowed like little pink ears if you held them up to the light, which he did. They still smelled of salt if he put them right to his nose. There were knife-sharp pieces of stained glass, which Aziraphale must've picked carefully from the ruins of churches, pulled down by the great-great-grandsons of the men who built them, and presented to him solely for their beautiful colours. A yellowing elephant tusk was wedged down one side, and a string of creamy white sharks teeth. Crowley had never asked where Aziraphale got those from, but he had entertained himself with visions of the angel wrestling a shark for a long time. Sometimes the shark won, sometimes Aziraphale. When Jaws came out, he'd coaxed the angel into seeing it with him, to check his reaction and to see if he had flashbacks. To Crowley's disappointment he hadn’t, but he had jumped an awful lot.
Delicate frills of red coral, honey-coloured lumps of amber and shards of gleaming black jet rattled together in a smaller box, mixed in with fragments of all kinds of gemstones. Crowley brushed a layer of dust away and sneezed. Underneath were tiny, mummified emerald-green beetle shells that he'd kept, even after he'd woken up one morning to find that their owners had all inexplicably died in their new jam-jar home.
No one could ever accuse Aziraphale of spending unnecessarily on gifts. There were all sorts of knick-knacks hidden away at the bottom of the chest-- things that had obviously caught the angels eye and had shouted out 'Crowley'. Some of it mystified him, like the large rubber bat or the glow-in-the-dark set of false teeth, but he was very fond of his Bruce Lee key ring. He was sure it was a collector's item by now.
Brown-speckled owl feathers were tied in a sheaf with string, dusty now and half-rotted away, but he remembered with great clarity the summer morning Aziraphale had given them to him. He'd listened to Aziraphale's explanation of why they were so soft, as he ran his fingertips over them: each feather was covered in tiny hairs, and these were what made the owl's wings so silent in flight. His own feathers were coarse in comparison.
There had been many more things, but like the food and the pet fish, they hadn't lasted: a lump of sticky black opium which some kind soul had given to Aziraphale and that Aziraphale had given him because he wasn't sure what it was. Crowley had amused himself for weeks by adding some to Aziraphale's tea every time he came to visit. Packets of round flat biscuits dipped in chocolate, which Aziraphale couldn’t resist, and which Crowley always let him eat most of. Once, a lump of blue ice that took days and days to melt, even though Crowley left it in the weak winter sunshine that shone through his kitchen window. Aziraphale told him all about Antarctica, and Crowley had thought it sounded ghastly. Far too cold.
He'd been given what he supposed would make a mountain of flowers, after that first rose. But attitudes changed and Aziraphale had abruptly stopped giving him flowers, and had gone bright red when Crowley casually asked him why. Whatever the case, Aziraphale had either got over it, or times had changed enough for him not to be embarrassed anymore, and not so long ago Crowley had returned home from lunch with a bunch of daffodils lying on the black leather seat of his Bentley.
Around the 18th century, when humans had got good at it, Aziraphale had gone through a phase of giving him smelly things. He pulled a blue glass bottle out of the chest. The silver filigree was tarnished, and the little cork bung was crumbling, but he could still catch whispers of the fragrance that used to fill it. One whiff was enough to take him back to the place and time he first smelled it, this one, jasmine, was Persia three thousand years ago, when they were younger and the earth was younger too. There were dozens of similar bottles; pink ones, green ones, yellow, red, each had once been filled with a different scent. Dutch lavender, lime, neroli, musk and civet from India, frangipani, vetiver and rose. When it had been fashionable, and when humans had been less well washed and society far smellier, he'd loved to dose himself with a powerful scent and go forth, impressing all who met him with his obvious wealth and fine taste. On those occasions Aziraphale had always held a hanky to his nose, but had been far to polite to point out that a bottle of perfume should ideally last more than a week.
Crowley put the bottle carefully back in the box and sat back on his heels, dizzy with memories. He blinked once, to remind himself where he was, and scrubbed at his eyes with his hands. Not in some long-ago land, but here in London in the 21st century. It was much later than he'd expected, and the streetlights had come on, throwing an orange glow onto the far wall. He sat looking into space for a few moments, blinking again. He'd never given Aziraphale anything.
Aziraphale had come along with a new present for him today, with those innocently spoken words that these days made Crowley's chest go uncomfortably tight. It was just a silly little thing, Aziraphale had said, handing it over rather sheepishly. One of his manicurist's grandchildren had made it for him, and he didn't really have a use for it and-- he thought Crowley might like it. He was right, Crowley had liked it, far more than he really should have done, he told himself. After all, they were only symbols.
It was a rather strange object; two hoops connected by a straight part, with some cheap silver tinsel wrapped round it. It looked like the sort of thing children's TV presenters showed you how to make with two wire coat hangers and some left over Christmas decorations, but there was no mistaking what it was intended to be. It was a halo. A wonky halo, which had drooped down over one eye when he'd put it on so Aziraphale could see what it looked like. Aziraphale had gone pink and had set it straight for him, grinning like an idiot.
The streetlights made the cheap silver strands twinkle orange in the gloom. He picked up the strange contraption from where it lay on the floor and looked at it. Silly angel, giving him this. He should really put it away, like he always did with Aziraphale's presents. It wouldn't do to have it lying around. His eyes prickled and his jaw suddenly was very achy. He took a deep, calming breath and then laid it carefully on top of all the other things in the tea chest. He stood up, ready to heave the chest back into the cupboard, and then stopped. The halo looked rather forlorn lying there. He gazed at it for a few seconds, then reached in and took it out again. Frowning, he wandered out of the study. He ended up in the hall downstairs, where on impulse he hung it on the forever-empty ebony coat rack that stood next to the door. Stepping back to study the effect, he smiled. It was the only thing in his flat that hadn't been fitted by an interior decorator. It looked good hanging there, a ridiculous child's version of something so holy. A present from a friend. It looked just right.
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no subject
Date: 2003-10-02 05:30 pm (UTC)I really, really liked this, and I feel terrible because I can't for the life of me pinpoint why it made me feel so warm and happy inside. I think it had something to do with the fact that I also have a box of little keepsakes. It might also have been because it's just so lovely the way Crowley remembers everything so clearly once he picks up one of the trinkets, as if he could go back thousands of years just by touching an old bottle of perfume.
But whatever it was, it was gorgeous, and I enjoyed it very much. Thank you for sharing it with us.
*sighs happily*
no subject
Date: 2003-10-07 06:06 am (UTC)