Title: Angel's Blessings
Story Type: One Shot
Genre: Friendship, Romance, Crossover
Pairing(s): UK/US, hinted Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: It's Valentine's Day and England needs encouragement.
Frost glittered on the ground as he slowly, absently placed one foot after the other on the dimly lit path in St. James's Park. He moved slowly through London's mist and fog, savouring the silence of the early morning. Wings flapped overhead, drawing his gaze from the ground to the clouds being drawn aside by an invisible hand to reveal a slice of heaven, in the perfect pale blue shade of a robin's egg.
Robins. Ah. Spring was already peeking from behind Winter's grey skirts, blowing warm sunny kisses before Winter's stern glare made her retreat. Her rainy giggles had trailed softly through the past few February days.
He drew closer to the pond. Still waters rippled under the lightening sky. Ducks paddled sleepily in the shadows. One enterprising young drake spotted him, and with a startlingly loud quack, paddled swiftly towards him.
He snorted in amusement. The last time he met his friend here he had forgotten to bring any bread, earning a multitude of baleful glares from the waterfowl inhabiting the area.
A muted whisper from a heavenly choir and a soft glow from the corner of his eye made him pause from his unwrapping of his day-old Hovis loaf ends. Aziraphale stood there in all his tartan glory, a baguette tucked under one arm. The angel tilted his head and observed him silently, taking in the bags under his eyes, his pale skin, and aura of sheepish embarrassment and defiance.
Thin lips twitched into a smile, the angel stepped forward and then pulled him into an awkward embrace. He could smell the familiar fragrance of dusty old books, fine wine and, underneath all that, just the barest hint of Eden. The day suddenly became brighter and the muddled thoughts that had weighed so heavily in his heart became lighter. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, fancying that he would feel the touch of heavy, divine wings if he swept his hands up from where he had placed them on the angel's waist.
He stepped back and gazed into those guileless, soft blue eyes. Eyes that shone with understanding, forgiveness, shelter and comfort. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many questions he wanted to ask, so much advice he wanted to seek.
A gentle smile graced the angel's face, amusement twinkling like a smattering of stars across the dawn sky. He smiled back, almost hesitantly, but his lips stayed shut and his voice remained silent. He was almost too embarrassed to unburden the almost clichéd dilemma he had been having a sleepless night over. Instead, he closed his eyes and allowed the stillness to seep back into his bones, communicating without words in a language that all angels can read off the minds of people. In the cool of the not-quite-spring morning, he could feel his peoples' hearts beat in time with his. Their thoughts, wishes, hopes and dreams for this particular day in February flowed into his soul, resonating within his own sphere of consciousness. He knew the angel could read his mind as clearly as he could read his first edition prophesy books, even with all the interference from the thoughts of his citizens. He turned back to the impatiently waiting ducks and let all the images and emotions drift and swirl in the tide of his consciousness.
London stirred awake, faint sounds of the early morning traffic floating into the calm of the pond. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the angel made a vague gesture, and a moment later a bench suddenly materialised behind him. He sank into it gratefully, looking up in wonder at the almost invisible silhouette of broad white wings etched out against the shimmering morning air.
Finally, the angel sat down beside him and squeezed his hand reassuringly. He kept his eyes on the soft manicured hands clasped protectively around his own rough one. A bell tolled six times in the distance. Nodding absently to himself, he decided that six in the morning was probably a decent enough time to phone a person. After all, the recipient of his phone call was highly likely to be awake at this hour in preparation for the new jogging routine he had recently adopted after England had made a pointed remark about his weight. He didn't know if he should be proud or ashamed of that particular comment.
Heart pounding, palms sweaty, he took out his Blackberry and made a phone call to the hotel where the nations were staying after their conference from the day before. He took a deep fortifying breath as he connected to the room from the hotel's reception. A cheerful voice answered, and he almost ended the call reflexively out of sheer embarrassment and nervousness. He gritted his teeth and resolutely plunged on with, "Hallo America, good morning. Are you free for dinner tonight?"
He congratulated himself silently for the calm, almost haughty tone of voice he carried. Then he listened attentively to the answer. Fear that he would be rebuffed for being too haughty rose momentarily to the surface as America prattled on about the Ritz's orange juice and how it compared to the orange juice from McDonald's.
Click.
He stared at his phone blankly, slightly stunned at the abrupt end of the call. Somewhere in the chatter, America had agreed to have dinner with him. Dinner, on Valentine's Day. Granted, America might have mistaken it for a friendly invitation of sorts but… he had agreed! He now had something to work on. His poker face slowly crumbled into a relieved expression.
The angel beside him grinned amusedly at something behind him. A demon smirked back at the angel as he sauntered slowly from across the pond where he had been (stalking) watching their little drama. Slitted yellow eyes regarded his befuddled expression with something akin to mischief and sympathy. He missed the silent communication between the two as they bickered with their eyes, but then suddenly, a rain of bread crumbs from the sky broke his reverie and he was forced to look over to the two of them.
The demon was hissing something about tartan monstrosities and Aziraphale better not give Arthur any fashion advice, at the same time keeping a possessive arm around the angel's shoulders. The previously serene angel was pink in the face with indignation, and not a small amount of affection for the demon he was arguing with like an old married couple.
He stood up and brushed his coat off. Really, now that the phone call was done, all that agony in deliberation, all that second-guessing - it seemed so silly now. And needing an angel to hold his hand? An ancient nation like him really ought to be embarrassed. He had once conquered the oceans; asking somebody out should have been a walk in the park.
His gaze caught and held the angel's eyes. He tried to convey both "thank you" and "I shall see you soon," but the angel just waved him away and smiled. The look in his ancient eyes told him without words, "I was there when the Vikings invaded you, I had been there when the Roman Empire took your shores and London was born, I held your hand even in the Dark Ages, and stayed by your side during all your wars. When your empire rose and fell, I was there, right beside you. I had watched you find happiness and heartbreak across the ocean. It is only right that I will be here for this occasion."
A warm feeling suffused his entire being, and he tipped his hat gratefully and walked smartly back toward his house with a spring in his step. Never mind that the faeries will be agitated by the angel's smell that clung to his clothes. He had a date to plan for, reservations to make, gifts to buy and a superpower to sweep off his feet. He felt like he can conquer the world again, after all, he has an angel's blessing.