A/N: Hallo. ^ ^ this is a one part. I have no clue where the bit at the
end is going. I am under the personal opinion that Aziraphale knows about
his feelings for Crowely and ignores them very easily. Crowely... Has some
river front property in Egypt. Pleasepleaseplease review, good or bad. I
live off it. ^ ^
He deals the cards as a meditation
And those he plays never suspect
He doesn't play for the money he wins
He doesn't play for respect
He deals the crads to find the answer
The sacred geometry of chance
The hidden loaw of a probable outcome
The numbers lead a dance
I know that the spades are swords of a soldier
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart
He may play the jack of diamonds
He may lay the queen of spades
He may conceal a king in his hand
While the memory of it fades
I know that the spades are swords of a soldier
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart
And if I told you that I loved you
You'd maybe think there's something wrong
I'm not a man of too many faces
The mask I wear is one
Those who speak know nothing
And find out to their cost
Like those who curse their luck in too many places
And those who fear are lost
-Sting, Shape Of My Heart.
The tall figure looked slowly around the bar. Full and empty all at once. He smiled, rueful and genuine in the same way.
It was that time. That time between sunset and moonrise, when half the people in this city would come to unwind, and the others would come to make another halfhearted attempt at forgetting, for a little while. Either way, he thought. Either way they came.
The truth was, there was only one way. One way to forget, one way to remember, one way to end and begin and live and die. And die. And he had done it. A long, long time ago.
Without a word, he pulled a chair from nearby, and sat, shuffling a deck of cards in his nimble hands. Long fingers ran smoothly over the glossed surfaces. Flawless. As they'd done over the keys of a piano in his youth. As they'd done over his lover's bodies, a thousand years ago. Or was that a million? It was hard to remember now…
People joined the game slowly. He smiled to himself, but it never reached his lips. And he dealt, quickly. Efficiently. Considering quietly, how could they know? Any of them? That he wouldn't lose. That he didn't need to cheat to accomplish it. Even though he came every night. Even though he never made a mistake.
It was better, this. The dance of the cards. The sacred laws of probability and chance. The sins they incited. It was so easy, he mused silently, to tempt men. Always willing to take a risk. Always willing to double-cross or underhand for greed, for... whatever it was they did it for. Enough of them, anyway.
And it was a perfect way to clear his mind. Though why it should need clearing was beyond him. He frowned slightly, glancing up to see if it had been physical or merely in his mind. It had been on his mouth, it seemed, but that didn't matter. His hand was good. Good enough he was almost pleased he'd done so. Still... It was the principle of the thing.
Letting his hands work without him, which often proved to be the case, he allowed his thoughts to wander. He knew what was on his mind. He just didn't want to admit it. It had been there for awhile now, tugging and nipping, plaintive like an ignored child. Only so. Much. Worse.
Idiocy.
To let something get so far under his skin. That was supposed to be *his* job after all, wasn't it?
Someone folds. Not unexpected.
Being with him was getting uncomfortable. Just a little.
Someone wants a card. They hesitated.
And it wasn't fair, Bless it. Why should he be so unnerved? They'd been in company for what seemed like ever. *Was* ever. Why in he- hev- Why. Would it matter to him anyway. Even if it hadn't been?
Someone calls his bluff.
Unlucky fellow.
Someone calls his name.
Anthony J. Crowley looked up abruptly.
A young-ish man stood in the doorway, soft tangles of mouse-brown escaping his ponytail to hang between deep blue eyes and the rest of the world. There was a book in his right hand, pressed tight against his body. There was an apprehensive look on his face. He was so out of place here.
But then again, wasn't everyone?
The dark man stood, letting his expression flow into that of mild irritation. There were a few hisses of complaint from the table, but he ignored them. Were they so eager to lose their money?
"Angel." He said flatly. Softly. He didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea.
Aiziraphale, for it was Aiziraphale, Crowley knew despite the change of body, would have known without hearing his human name from currently pouted lips, looked apologetic.
"I've," he said, halting slightly as he realized a British accent was not prudent in Dublin, "been looking for you."
He watched one perfect ebony eyebrow arch in question.
"It's about this." He held up the book.
Crowley squinted. It was large, thick, really. And had a vauge resemblence to a text which has spent a dangerously extended time in a fireplace. Looked slightly like charcoal. "Furthur, Nife and Accuret Profefies?" he managed through the soot. Surprised the well kept angel would hold something so close that might make him dirty. "Yeah?" Sunglasses were pulled down. "What about it?"
"Well you see, that's just the thing."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"What is?"
"..." He paused, "well, you might have a look at it."
Crowley sighed and took it.
"A, long look."
The demon paused. Locked golden slitted pupils on azure orbs. "Oh no." he hissed, forgetting himself, ever so slightly. "I am *through* with good deeds. I am not doing a damn thing to help *any*one Angel, do you hear me? No more divine plans for *me.*"
"..." Aziraphale looked up slyly. "What about Satanic ones?"
"Pardon?"
"I mean, you can't be sure, can you? That it's not part of you're," he wrinkled his newly youthful nose as he said, "Master's, plan, can you?"
"Er-"
"You see a truth you thwart, am I right?"
"Now, this sounds a bit farmiliar-"
"Am I right?"
Demon and angel stared at one another for a moment.
"Oh. Bugger."
He deals the cards as a meditation
And those he plays never suspect
He doesn't play for the money he wins
He doesn't play for respect
He deals the crads to find the answer
The sacred geometry of chance
The hidden loaw of a probable outcome
The numbers lead a dance
I know that the spades are swords of a soldier
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart
He may play the jack of diamonds
He may lay the queen of spades
He may conceal a king in his hand
While the memory of it fades
I know that the spades are swords of a soldier
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart
And if I told you that I loved you
You'd maybe think there's something wrong
I'm not a man of too many faces
The mask I wear is one
Those who speak know nothing
And find out to their cost
Like those who curse their luck in too many places
And those who fear are lost
-Sting, Shape Of My Heart.
The tall figure looked slowly around the bar. Full and empty all at once. He smiled, rueful and genuine in the same way.
It was that time. That time between sunset and moonrise, when half the people in this city would come to unwind, and the others would come to make another halfhearted attempt at forgetting, for a little while. Either way, he thought. Either way they came.
The truth was, there was only one way. One way to forget, one way to remember, one way to end and begin and live and die. And die. And he had done it. A long, long time ago.
Without a word, he pulled a chair from nearby, and sat, shuffling a deck of cards in his nimble hands. Long fingers ran smoothly over the glossed surfaces. Flawless. As they'd done over the keys of a piano in his youth. As they'd done over his lover's bodies, a thousand years ago. Or was that a million? It was hard to remember now…
People joined the game slowly. He smiled to himself, but it never reached his lips. And he dealt, quickly. Efficiently. Considering quietly, how could they know? Any of them? That he wouldn't lose. That he didn't need to cheat to accomplish it. Even though he came every night. Even though he never made a mistake.
It was better, this. The dance of the cards. The sacred laws of probability and chance. The sins they incited. It was so easy, he mused silently, to tempt men. Always willing to take a risk. Always willing to double-cross or underhand for greed, for... whatever it was they did it for. Enough of them, anyway.
And it was a perfect way to clear his mind. Though why it should need clearing was beyond him. He frowned slightly, glancing up to see if it had been physical or merely in his mind. It had been on his mouth, it seemed, but that didn't matter. His hand was good. Good enough he was almost pleased he'd done so. Still... It was the principle of the thing.
Letting his hands work without him, which often proved to be the case, he allowed his thoughts to wander. He knew what was on his mind. He just didn't want to admit it. It had been there for awhile now, tugging and nipping, plaintive like an ignored child. Only so. Much. Worse.
Idiocy.
To let something get so far under his skin. That was supposed to be *his* job after all, wasn't it?
Someone folds. Not unexpected.
Being with him was getting uncomfortable. Just a little.
Someone wants a card. They hesitated.
And it wasn't fair, Bless it. Why should he be so unnerved? They'd been in company for what seemed like ever. *Was* ever. Why in he- hev- Why. Would it matter to him anyway. Even if it hadn't been?
Someone calls his bluff.
Unlucky fellow.
Someone calls his name.
Anthony J. Crowley looked up abruptly.
A young-ish man stood in the doorway, soft tangles of mouse-brown escaping his ponytail to hang between deep blue eyes and the rest of the world. There was a book in his right hand, pressed tight against his body. There was an apprehensive look on his face. He was so out of place here.
But then again, wasn't everyone?
The dark man stood, letting his expression flow into that of mild irritation. There were a few hisses of complaint from the table, but he ignored them. Were they so eager to lose their money?
"Angel." He said flatly. Softly. He didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea.
Aiziraphale, for it was Aiziraphale, Crowley knew despite the change of body, would have known without hearing his human name from currently pouted lips, looked apologetic.
"I've," he said, halting slightly as he realized a British accent was not prudent in Dublin, "been looking for you."
He watched one perfect ebony eyebrow arch in question.
"It's about this." He held up the book.
Crowley squinted. It was large, thick, really. And had a vauge resemblence to a text which has spent a dangerously extended time in a fireplace. Looked slightly like charcoal. "Furthur, Nife and Accuret Profefies?" he managed through the soot. Surprised the well kept angel would hold something so close that might make him dirty. "Yeah?" Sunglasses were pulled down. "What about it?"
"Well you see, that's just the thing."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"What is?"
"..." He paused, "well, you might have a look at it."
Crowley sighed and took it.
"A, long look."
The demon paused. Locked golden slitted pupils on azure orbs. "Oh no." he hissed, forgetting himself, ever so slightly. "I am *through* with good deeds. I am not doing a damn thing to help *any*one Angel, do you hear me? No more divine plans for *me.*"
"..." Aziraphale looked up slyly. "What about Satanic ones?"
"Pardon?"
"I mean, you can't be sure, can you? That it's not part of you're," he wrinkled his newly youthful nose as he said, "Master's, plan, can you?"
"Er-"
"You see a truth you thwart, am I right?"
"Now, this sounds a bit farmiliar-"
"Am I right?"
Demon and angel stared at one another for a moment.
"Oh. Bugger."