Oh look, my first one-shot that's actually the length of a typical one-shot. Huzzah. Just a silly idea I came up with last Easter. It's not any slashier than the book itself, but if you want to read this with your shipping glasses on, feel free.
Lost in Translation
Mary hurried down the dusty footpath, her sky blue habit raising a small cloud around her sandals. The jar of anointing oil rattled under her arm as she ran. A gentle breeze soughed through the trees and the sun, which was just peeking over the edge of the hill, cast a honey-gold light across the well-trodden track.
She was late. Three days late, as it happened, and the body would reek for it, but it couldn't be helped. Heaven only knew that getting out of Jerusalem during Passover was a nightmare, and after the events of last Friday... The woman shuddered to herself.
Well, she thought, the less said about that, the better.
She turned the corner and came at last to the tomb, set several miles without the town. More precisely, it was a large cave, excavated from the side of an enormous rocky outcropping, and with a massive stone set in front of the entrance.
It was as she was turning the corner that this last dawned on her, and Mary groaned in frustration at the thought of having to walk all the way back into town to get someone to help her move it. Peter was probably pissed off his arse again, so a fat load of use he would be, and everyone else had done nothing but mope all weekend. It was downright depressing, Mary had decided. Nobody had even wanted to throw the poor bloke a proper funeral.
That was how Mary Magdalene found herself alone outside the tomb of Jesus Christ, Son of God, on Sunday morning with a bottle of wine under one arm and a jar of oil under the other.
Taking a swig of the wine (it couldn't hurt, she reasoned, and anyway, it had been a long trip), Mary surveyed the scene. Trouble enough to have to get the blasted cave open, but more troubling still was the fact that someone seemed to have beat her to it.
"'Ello?" she called, looking left and looking right. "Anybody there?"
When no answer was forthcoming, she strode boldly to the entrance, hands planted on her hips(1).
Inside the cave were two figures, seated side by side on the slab where a body should have been. One was rather tall and slender(2), and had dark hair coupled with a well-tanned complexion. The other was shorter and rounder around the edges with fair hair and an expression that immediately bespoke a personality given to dithering and long-winded lectures.
"Oi," said Mary, earning herself a startled jump from the latter of the two. "What've you done with him, then?"
"I beg your pardon?" The blonde man looked suitable affronted at being addressed thusly. "Done with whom, my dear lady?"
Mary drew herself up proudly, gesturing at the tomb. "The body of Our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, who was interred here but three days prior." Privately, she thought this a very pretty speech indeed.
The blonde fellow blinked at her, while the other one, who Mary felt she probably ought not like, seemed to lounge more heavily on the stone.
"I say, Crowley," muttered the one to the other, "I don't think she's the foggiest idea who we are."
"Wings, Az," the lounging one(3) called Crowley said. "You forgot your wings."
"Oh." The pale one flushed pink with embarrassment and screwed up his face, as though trying very hard to remember how to do something(4), but Mary had had quite enough of whatever it was which was going on.
"It's just that we were friends and all," Mary interjected, spreading her arms to make the point. "If you're looking to do a spot of grave robbing, you're not going to find much here, and I did want to give him a proper burial - he deserves it, after all, and -"
"Grave robbing?" Crowley snorted. "Not likely. I'd go to Egypt for that sort of thing, although some of the curses on those pyramids are nasty work. It's really -"
Both Mary and Crowley were interrupted by an explosion of feathers. When the dust settled, and the woman's ears stopped ringing with the force of air displacement, she found herself staring open-mouthed at the portlier gentleman who had in the interlude sprouted white wings from his shoulder blades.
"There we are," he said, patting down the ruffled feathers half-heartedly. "Crowley, you'd best do yours, too."
The man (creature?) sighed and brushed off his black suit before stretching to accommodate a much neater pair of wings.
"Now then," said Aziraphale. "Er. Don't be alarmed."
Mary failed to respond to this and continued gaping like a fish.
"It's 'fear not', isn't it?" asked Crowley. "That always seemed to do the trick for Gabriel."
Aziraphale sighed. "But 'fear not' is so archaic. Look, my dear," he turned back to Mary, wringing his hands, "I fear I've made an awful mess of this. Kindly allow me to start over. We're angels -"
"- after a fashion," Crowley added under his breath. "I still don't know what I'm doing here."
"- and we're here to bring you tidings of great joy."
Something of this finally got through to Mary, who stopped stretching her jaw long enough to ask, "Isn't that Christmas?"
"Er." Aziraphale shuffled in place. "Well. Um. Yes, I suppose. But it's the principle of the thing, you see? The ineffable Glory of -"
"Look what you've started," Crowley groaned as Aziraphale began a metaphysical dissertation. "Now he'll never shut up. Angel!"
The blonde one stopped mid-sentence, glaring at the dark-haired one as the latter adjusted his spectacles. How Crowley could see out of them, Mary was unsure, because they looked like they had been carved of jet.
"Look, the thing of it is this," Crowley explained, replacing his glasses on his face. "You're looking for Jesus of Nazareth. Recently crucified, wrapped up in some old rags - that one's got smallpox on it, by the way - and stuck in this cave. He's not here anymore, so you can run along now."
Mary felt her face drain of (natural) color, and not just because the creature(5) had gold, reptilian eyes behind his glasses.
"Not... here?" she asked.
"He's Risen," Aziraphale explained. "Resurrected. Ascended into Heaven."
"So run along and tell Peter or somebody," Crowley added. "Women won't get to have independent religious experiences for another few thousand years or so."
Mary slowly backed away from the cave mouth.
"Peter's... drunk," she managed.
Quietly, Aziraphale clicked his fingers.
"No, he isn't."
"Which is a Divine Miracle in and of itself," Crowley murmured.
Well done, gentlemen.
The Voice seemed to emanate from behind them, but it Echoed in their minds. Crowley shoved his hands moodily into his pockets, and Aziraphale just looked awkward. They both stared resolutely forward.
It'll be in Mark 16, the Voice continued. Although We may alter the precise course of the conversation in her memory.
"Er, yes, Lord," the angel managed. Crowley said nothing at all.
Do you know, He said thoughtfully, it doesn't matter that one day this will be reduced to plastic eggs and chocolates. The Presence sent what could only be felt as a reproving-yet-amused glance in the demon's direction. Even then, it will still be about love.
The Presence vanished, to reappear outside in the sunlight where He could give words of comfort to friends and loved ones. Angel and demon were left alone in the gloom to contemplate their role in ineffability. Aziraphale sat next to Crowley on the cold stone, covering the demon's hand with his own.
"I still don't know why I'm here," Crowley repeated, but this time the statement seemed to stretch its meaning beyond his presence in a lonely tomb outside Jerusalem.
"Happy Easter, Crowley," Aziraphale whispered.
(1) It was hard to say whether the effect was marred or enhanced by the cosmetics smeared on her face. Certainly it made her more intimidating, but generally it reminded the Disciples of discipline of another sort, which while effective for getting attention did little to ensure the continued purity of their immortal souls.
(2) "Lithe" would have been a good description.
(3) Crowley had invented lounging, and he was very proud of it, even if it hadn't gotten him the commendation he felt it deserved.
(4) With the establishment of the Arrangement, Aziraphale had become quite content to leave his wings sheathed, and after all, so long as they were out of sight, Crowley wouldn't nag him about proper preening.
(5) She wasn't convinced (quite correctly) that it was an angel.