When dawn begins to stain the sky in pink and lilac, Aziraphale gently disentangles himself from his angel’s embrace. Crowley’s too exhausted to stir—which, quite frankly, makes it much easier for Aziraphale to ease himself out of bed. He’s not sure either of them is in any shape for goodbyes, however temporary.
From the moment he steps out onto the streets of Seville again, Aziraphale moves with purpose in every step. He has a lot to do, to ensure that his thwarting projects here can continue in his absence.
Some of the work is easy, spur-of-the-moment stuff. It takes only a moment for a white cat to dash out in a horse’s path, so that its rider—a notario del secreto, on his way to record testimony against heretics—is thrown from his saddle and breaks his arm. Likewise it’s very simple for errant gusts of wind to snatch papers from couriers’ hands and tumble them into muck or a nearby fire. There are lots of tiny ways to stall the work of any organization with any degree of bureaucracy, and Aziraphale has had thousands of years to practice.
Some of his work that day is more mundane: a breakfast meeting with the owner of a private printing press, a lunch meeting with a forger (1). He makes it clear to his contacts that he’s simply passing through, but will be back to check in on things; he conjures generous payments for their time and trouble.
Then, as the afternoon starts to mellow, he finishes his other errands with a quickened heartbeat and a spring in his step. It’s quick work to hire a carriage to take them to Florence, no questions asked. But he lingers over his last task. He’s already acquainted with the best luthier in Seville; the fellow is glad to see his friend Señor Fell after an absence of several years, and equally glad to show him around the workshop. Aziraphale does end up buying a vihuela—a brand new design, shaped a bit like a pear with a very long neck. The instrument feels satisfying to hold; the sound it makes when he strums a chord is warm and rich.
The sun is just beginning to set when he gets back to Fernand’s.
Crowley’s still asleep. He still looks weary and worn, but not nearly as desperate as he had the day before; the sight only firms Aziraphale’s resolve to coax as much of his joy back to life as he possibly can.
Quiet as a cat, he moves to sit on the edge of the bed, leans over to press his lips to the ridge of Crowley’s cheekbone.
(1) Aziraphale has always been impressed by how certain humans have learned to manipulate paperwork to their advantage. At this particular point in history he’s especially impressed at how easy it is to buy letters declaring trials suspended for lack of evidence.
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timeasmymeasure
Ahh gotcha! Yeah 1495ish sounds about right then.
Date: 2020-05-27 03:14 am (UTC)From the moment he steps out onto the streets of Seville again, Aziraphale moves with purpose in every step. He has a lot to do, to ensure that his thwarting projects here can continue in his absence.
Some of the work is easy, spur-of-the-moment stuff. It takes only a moment for a white cat to dash out in a horse’s path, so that its rider—a notario del secreto, on his way to record testimony against heretics—is thrown from his saddle and breaks his arm. Likewise it’s very simple for errant gusts of wind to snatch papers from couriers’ hands and tumble them into muck or a nearby fire. There are lots of tiny ways to stall the work of any organization with any degree of bureaucracy, and Aziraphale has had thousands of years to practice.
Some of his work that day is more mundane: a breakfast meeting with the owner of a private printing press, a lunch meeting with a forger (1). He makes it clear to his contacts that he’s simply passing through, but will be back to check in on things; he conjures generous payments for their time and trouble.
Then, as the afternoon starts to mellow, he finishes his other errands with a quickened heartbeat and a spring in his step. It’s quick work to hire a carriage to take them to Florence, no questions asked. But he lingers over his last task. He’s already acquainted with the best luthier in Seville; the fellow is glad to see his friend Señor Fell after an absence of several years, and equally glad to show him around the workshop. Aziraphale does end up buying a vihuela—a brand new design, shaped a bit like a pear with a very long neck. The instrument feels satisfying to hold; the sound it makes when he strums a chord is warm and rich.
The sun is just beginning to set when he gets back to Fernand’s.
Crowley’s still asleep. He still looks weary and worn, but not nearly as desperate as he had the day before; the sight only firms Aziraphale’s resolve to coax as much of his joy back to life as he possibly can.
Quiet as a cat, he moves to sit on the edge of the bed, leans over to press his lips to the ridge of Crowley’s cheekbone.
(1) Aziraphale has always been impressed by how certain humans have learned to manipulate paperwork to their advantage. At this particular point in history he’s especially impressed at how easy it is to buy letters declaring trials suspended for lack of evidence.