The journey through the south of France is short but pleasant; under any other circumstances Aziraphale might linger, or perhaps insist at stopping more frequently for tastes of the local cuisine. But these are special circumstances, and Aziraphale finds himself a little more excited with each passing day. It’s an almost childish sort of excitement, a bright anticipation of joys to come, a hope that feels like it could perfume the whole world.
Less than a week (record time, as the coachman will brag for the rest of his life) and they’re in northern Italy. The hills of Tuscany unfurl before them, long rumpled folds in the fabric of the earth, green on every side.
He and Crowley talk more often now, with the worst of the hangover behind them. They sit close more often than not, holding hands or leaning into one another’s sides. Sometimes they kiss, but when they do it’s with the warmth of comfort or reassurance or tenderness, not the heat of desire.
(Which is not to say that Aziraphale doesn’t feel its pull. Sometimes, watching Crowley sleep when they’ve stopped the carriage to wait out an overcast night or stopped at an inn, he lets his hungry gaze linger on the parts of his angel he longs to kiss: shoulder, neck, wrists. The waiting only makes each pang keener, makes the anticipation sweeter.)
The night before they’re due to come within sight of Florence, Aziraphale waits till the carriage driver and Crowley (and everyone else at the inn where they’ve stopped, just to be safe) are asleep. Then he closes his own eyes, and though his human corporation remains breathing and functioning, Aziraphale slips out of it a while to survey the countryside. It’s a touch disorienting, to be a consciousness without the sensory input of a body, but also sort of refreshing.
Unseen, formless, he moves like a gust of wind across the drowsing countryside. Little flashes of sin illuminate his way in the night as he passes by human habitation, lanterns in the dark. But after some searching he finds a place human hands have built and human souls have vacated. It’s a small, cozy stone villa nestled up against the side of a hill, with a crumbling mossy wall marking out the borders of the estate.
In the light of day they’ll be able to see the farms and homes outside of the city; the walls of Florence are probably a half day’s carriage ride away. The furniture inside is half rotted, and the place has endured a century’s worth of weather without human maintenance; from the after-echoes of death Aziraphale can sense, the inhabitants mostly fell to the plague. Whoever survived left in a hurry, and their descendants haven’t returned.
It’s perfect. Granted, there will be some fixing-up to do, but Hell is far more liberal about the ways its agents bend reality than Heaven’s ever been.
Aziraphale inhales deeply as he returns to his body, the path ahead of them clear as a melody in his mind. He gives the driver an extra purse of coins and clear directions over breakfast, and spends that day’s ride in a state of happy anticipation, his heart jolting slightly every time they pass a landmark he recognizes.
Sorry this took a while but HERE WE GO
Less than a week (record time, as the coachman will brag for the rest of his life) and they’re in northern Italy. The hills of Tuscany unfurl before them, long rumpled folds in the fabric of the earth, green on every side.
He and Crowley talk more often now, with the worst of the hangover behind them. They sit close more often than not, holding hands or leaning into one another’s sides. Sometimes they kiss, but when they do it’s with the warmth of comfort or reassurance or tenderness, not the heat of desire.
(Which is not to say that Aziraphale doesn’t feel its pull. Sometimes, watching Crowley sleep when they’ve stopped the carriage to wait out an overcast night or stopped at an inn, he lets his hungry gaze linger on the parts of his angel he longs to kiss: shoulder, neck, wrists. The waiting only makes each pang keener, makes the anticipation sweeter.)
The night before they’re due to come within sight of Florence, Aziraphale waits till the carriage driver and Crowley (and everyone else at the inn where they’ve stopped, just to be safe) are asleep. Then he closes his own eyes, and though his human corporation remains breathing and functioning, Aziraphale slips out of it a while to survey the countryside. It’s a touch disorienting, to be a consciousness without the sensory input of a body, but also sort of refreshing.
Unseen, formless, he moves like a gust of wind across the drowsing countryside. Little flashes of sin illuminate his way in the night as he passes by human habitation, lanterns in the dark. But after some searching he finds a place human hands have built and human souls have vacated. It’s a small, cozy stone villa nestled up against the side of a hill, with a crumbling mossy wall marking out the borders of the estate.
In the light of day they’ll be able to see the farms and homes outside of the city; the walls of Florence are probably a half day’s carriage ride away. The furniture inside is half rotted, and the place has endured a century’s worth of weather without human maintenance; from the after-echoes of death Aziraphale can sense, the inhabitants mostly fell to the plague. Whoever survived left in a hurry, and their descendants haven’t returned.
It’s perfect. Granted, there will be some fixing-up to do, but Hell is far more liberal about the ways its agents bend reality than Heaven’s ever been.
Aziraphale inhales deeply as he returns to his body, the path ahead of them clear as a melody in his mind. He gives the driver an extra purse of coins and clear directions over breakfast, and spends that day’s ride in a state of happy anticipation, his heart jolting slightly every time they pass a landmark he recognizes.