HAPPY TREATY OF EDINBURGH DAY © 2010
a Good Omens fanfic by quantum witch
Rating/Genre: PG-13, minor slash, unabashed schmoop
Characters: Crowley/Aziraphale
Summary: Thoughtful gifts are thoughtful. Even when they happen without thinking first, or at all.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, much to my sorrow.
Note: For vulgarweed, to whom I always wish I could give more. Happy birthday, dear.
The Bentley sat at the curb on Duck Lane, just outside the angel's book store. It seemed to be trying, somehow, to look inconspicuous, which would have been virtually impossible in any case. The furtive attempt at being inconspicuous was radiating outward from the car's owner. But Crowley, being a demon, and more importantly a handsome, suave, and frankly often vain demon, wasn't naturally inconspicuous unless he desperately wanted to be. And he sort of did at the moment.
He and the car sat silently for many long minutes as he fiddled with the package in his lap. For approximately the seventy-third time that morning, he fought with his own inner demons (and boy, were they a fun bunch) about whether to proceed or pack it in and pretend nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
The thing he was he steeling himself to do was mostly counter to basic instinct. But… well… it just seemed important to do this… thing he was trying to do. Damn him, he thought, and that could have applied to a couple of people in this situation.
Deep unnecessary breath. Step out of the car and into the shop.
Aziraphale was sitting behind the shop counter, halfway through the Daily Telegraph crossword, smiling vaguely at the tough one he'd just gotten (fifteen down: simpleton, fool; answer: gomeral). Crowley strode forward and just as the angel tilted his head up to say good morning, the demon dropped his package onto the paper. It was a largish rectangular plain white box, and Aziraphale's expression went from puzzled to gently amused when he saw the blue and green tartan bow.
"Why, dear boy, can this be a gift for me?" he smiled at the demon, who was still striving hopelessly for inconspicuousness. "Whatever is the occasion?"
"Ah." Crowley twitched and rubbed the back of his neck hastily. He hadn't been at all sure before and now it was all starting to seem like a monumentally bad idea. "No special reason… that is… ngh."
Only mildly doubtful, Aziraphale laid down his pen (only amateurs used pencil on crosswords). "Crowley, honestly, what is this about?"
"Ah… Let's call it a celebration of 521st anniversary of the Treaty of Edinburgh. I seem to recall you had a hand in that." He grinned nervously. "Is that a good enough reason?"
Pursing his lips now, Aziraphale tapped his fingers briefly on the countertop as he regarded the package. Surely it wouldn't explode, or anything else that would cause damage to himself. Or the shop. Why on earth was Crowley so edgy?
"Very well," the angel said cautiously. He tugged at the bow, lifted the box lid, and peered inside at the mass of white tissue paper. Carefully he unfolded the paper and revealed something that he… sincerely hoped was some sort of scarf. He gingerly lifted out the five-foot by two-foot flattish item and held it before his eyes, taking in the greenish-grey colour with its pattern of yellowish spots and dark brown whorls and scales….
"Crowley," he intoned, unblinking, "is this… a piece of shed snakeskin?"
"Er."
"Is this… your skin?"
A very small "yes" was puffed out, before the demon barreled on. "I just thought, you know, since you gave me what you did that this would be a fitting exchange of, of, something, a demonstration of shared history and, and friendship or whatever and maybe, uh, sort of a symbolic thingie representing our Arrangement and—"
"Wait… what did I give you?"
Crowley's rambling screeched to a halt, and his mouth snapped shut. "The… the feather. The one you… left in the Bentley… last week."
"I…" Aziraphale bit his lip and closed his eyes, then opened them to gaze with sincere apology at the demon. "My dear, I didn't give you a feather. I had been grooming my wings the morning you were last here, and I, well, I can only assume that one may have gotten stuck to your jacket as you left here, and then fallen off when you were in your car."
The look on Crowley's face was beyond gob-smacked. It bordered on anvil-in-a-bag-of-cement smacked. It literally was caving in upon itself with fuchsia-toned embarrassment, heading for a genuine landslide into irreversible humiliation.
Hastily Aziraphale tried to say, "Not that I wouldn't have given you one, if I'd known that-"
Crowley was already out the door and the shrill sound of rubber being inlaid to the pavement pierced the angel's eardrums.
Oh dear.
Crowley could have easily waved his hand and had enough bags packed to tour the world five times, never needing to stop at his flat for anything before he was on a jet and headed to Outer Mongolia and ensconced in a quiet little monastery. It would be remote and peaceful, and so ironic that no one would ever think of looking for him there. He could stay gone for the next century until Aziraphale possibly had time to forget what he'd just done and said. Maybe.
But he was so flustered that he went home. He went upstairs, stumbling around with his brain utterly addled. It had come completely unmoored from its tissues or whatever held the bloody thing in place inside one's skull and was jangling around inside and making him rather nauseous.
Oh fuck, he'd never done anything this completely fucking mortifying. And that was saying one hell of lot, considering his age and tendency toward doing whatever stupid things he felt like doing most of the time.
Aziraphale hadn't given him anything. The downy grayish-blue thing he'd so foolishly thought was a gift left in his car was nothing more than a cast-off bit of fluff, meant to be swept up and tossed in the bin. Like Crowley just now wished he could do for himself.
Why he'd made this (supremely idiotic) gesture, he hadn't even known in the first place and he'd questioned it every step of the way. That should have told him something was wrong. It was down to his, you know, nature. Demons didn't give personal, sentimental gifts. Especially not to angels. What the fuck. Just… what the fuck… was wrong with him?
He fumbled his way upstairs and figured he could just turn off all his phones and sleep for a week or two then maybe consider that jaunt to the Far East.
But there, on his pristine white bedding, was a cheery blue and green tartan box with a white bow. Oh ha-ha, Aziraphale, nice touch.
He hesitated, but knowing it couldn't possibly get better by ignoring it, he went and opened the dreadful thing.
Inside was a hand-written note (how the hell, with such neat and tiny writing, did the angel manage to write it so quickly?).
Dearest Crowley,
Though this may have sprung from a misunderstanding, there is no misunderstanding what it took for you to make your gesture. I am deeply moved. I genuinely wish I'd thought to make the gesture first. Since I am remiss in expressing my regard for you in a fitting way, I wish to now remedy that by gifting you with a far finer specimen than you must have originally gotten.
Hands shaking now, Crowley unfolded the tissue inside the box (more tartan, of course) and found a two-foot long silvery-bluish feather with grey-blue and golden-brown barring and faint white speckles.
The note continued:
As I had only been tending to the underside of my wings that day, you could only have something insignificant as an axillary. Very unimpressive. Therefore, I have plucked a greater covert as I feel those have some of the finest markings, and you, my dear boy, should have the best of what I can offer to you.
I thank you so much for your gift. It was a very personal and thoughtful thing. And though it won't fit me – hah – I should never wish to return or trade it, nor you, for anything in the world.
Yours,
A.
Crowley sat for a long while, the feather twirling gently between his fingers. It was soft and delicate while being immensely strong. And though its colours seemed dull in certain lights, they really were quite magnificent and unique. He wasn't given to the deepest of introspections, but he knew a metaphor when he saw it lying about in his head.
He smiled a little crookedly. The feather found a protected home, inside the safe behind the Mona Lisa.
And when he finally visited the bookshop again a few days later, he saw that his skin was pressed gently against a field of dark velvet and encased behind a glass frame, hanging on the modest wall of the store's office.
They never spoke of it again. Some gifts, between some people, are happy enough to be left beyond words.
see what the skin and feather look like here - img. photobucket. com/albums /v337 /hexxennea /goodomens /aziwing-crowleyskin. png
(you must remove spaces in address before you copy/paste)