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profdanglaisstuff · 3 months

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savez-vous pourquoi on a les tournesols

i learnt about @ecclesiasticallatinfest um, yesterday, but i thought it was a great idea and wanted to participate so i knocked up a quick translation of my shortest fic. i'm an experienced translator but i always do french to english so going the other way was a challenge. Fortunately i knew exactly what the author meant by everything though she is a bitch for the flowery prose. i may have taken a few liberties with the french language, including disposing entirely with the passé simple because i cannot be arsed, so i hope gentle readers you will be kind.

original fic is here

translation is here

Stede Bonnet ressemble parfaitement à un des hommes dans son tableau préféré. Un jour, il rencontre l'homme qui ressemble à l'autre. Ça donne l'impression d'être destiné.

(Il l'est.)

savez-vous pourquoi on a les tournesols

Stede Bonnet adore les musées.

C’était toujours comme ça, depuis sa première visite, lors d’un voyage scolaire. Un voyage qui était, à tous les autres égards, bien peu mémorable. Les tourments habituels des jumeaux Badminton et de leur cohorte, la solitude habituelle de Stede, lui seul avec ses livres et ses pensées.

Mais il se souvient du tableau.

Il se souvient de ces deux hommes sur le pont de leur navire, si vivement rendus par touches d’huile qu’il avait l’impression de sentir lui-même le vent qui fouettait dans leurs cheveux et gonflait les voiles de leur vaisseau. Il se souvient de la fierté de leur posture, l’absence total de peur. Il se souvient de leur unité, le fil de leur lien impossible de nier, palpable même depuis une peinture et à travers trois cents années. Il se souvient du désir ardent qui animait sa jeune poitrine. C’était ça ce qu’il voulait. Cette unité. Ce lien. Ce quelqu’un qui le regarderait du manière dont les pirates du tableau se regardaient.

Personne n’avait jamais regardé Stede Bonnet comme ça.

Même aujourd'hui personne ne le regarde comme ça. Ni ses parents, ni son ex-femme. Même pas ses enfants. Il traverse la vie comme il traverse les rues de Londres, seul parmi les foules bouillonnâtes des gens—familles, amis, amants. Mais pas pour lui. Jamais pour lui.

Mais il adore toujours les musées.

Il est aujourd’hui le conservateur de l’aile du XVIII siècle de la National Gallery de Londres, un boulot de rêves pour lequel il a travaillé toute sa vie. Il devrait se sentir triomphant, et il l’est, vraiment. Mais… doucement triomphant, et pour la plupart à soi-même. Le fait qu’il n’ait personne avec qui le partager ne fait rien, pas vraiment. Aller chaque jour au musée, savoir que c’est sa place, une place qu’il a méritée, c’est ça qui lui rend heureux. Plus heureux qu’il n’a jamais été. Ça suffit.

Lorsqu’il acquiert le tableau, le tableau, celui qu’il a vu pour la première fois à Auckland il y a tant d’années, son bonheur est complet. Chaque jour il va dans sa gallérie et se tient debout en face de ce tableau et le regarde. Il se tient debout et il regarde et il ressent à nouveau ce désir presque douloureux dans sa poitrine.

Peu à peu il se rend compte de quelque chose, une quelque chose très particulière dont il ne sait pas trop quoi faire. Un des hommes du tableau, celui du droit, l’homme blond à la barbe courte et pointue et à l’allure fringante, sa chemise blanche flottante et sa ceinture en soie turquoise autour de la taille, cet homme… il ressemble à Stede.

Exactement comme Stede. À tel point que c’en est bizarre. Il ne l’a jamais remarqué autrefois, évidemment, comment aurait-il pu? Mais maintenant qu’il est plus âgé—du même âge, semble-t-il, que l’homme du tableau—le ressemblance est indéniable.

Il se laisse pousser la barbe, par curiosité académique, il se dit. Juste pour voir si la ressemblance est renforcée ou entravée. Il se laisse pousser également ses très courts cheveux, afin de mieux ressembler les boucles du tableau. Il introduit de la couleur dans sa garde-robe, les bleus vifs et les verts joyeux, même un petit jaune impertinent, de temps en temps. Il découvre qu’il adore la couleur, et la mode, et qu’elles l’adorent en revanche. S’habiller le matin devient un plaisir et non plus un corvée.

Ne plus il se heurte les gens dans la rue parce qu’ils ne le remarquent pas. Plutôt, les inconnus hochent la tête à son passage et lui rendent ses sourires amicales. Ils arrivent même de faire la bavardage dans les queues. Ils gloussent s’il tente une petite blague. Il commence à faire des blagues exprès. Les gens rient. Ils rient d’amusement et pas de moquerie. Pour Stede, ça change tout.

Ce Stede avec plus de confiance, plus de couleur, débordant d’une exubérance naturelle enfin libérée et tellement ravi de se ressembler si parfaitement à l’homme du tableau, commence à tourner plus fréquemment envers l’autre. Cet homme que, même enfant, il a trouvé presque trop magnifique pour apercevoir. Cet homme grand, beau, tout vêtu en cuir, sa barbe et ses cheveux longs fouettés par le vent et glorieux, qui contemple le doppelgänger peint de Stede avec le regard le plus doux qu’il n’ait jamais vu.

Ce regard. La douleur dans sa poitrine devient insupportable lorsqu’il y pense, mais il y pense tout de même, et fréquemment.

Malgré sa confiance en lui récemment trouvé, il n’existe toujours personne qui a jamais regardé Stede Bonnet comme ça.

“Sacré tableau, n’est-ce pas, mon pote?”

Stede se détourne de sa contemplation matinale du pirate vêtu en cuir, surpris et ravi d’entendre la cadence d’un accent familier. C’est rare qu’il rencontre un autre Kiwi à Londres, même si la ville accueille des gens venus des quatre coins du monde.

“Vous savez, c’est drôle,” reprend la voix. Elle est profonde et résonnante et elle caresse la peau de Stede comme du cachemire. “Je me souviens une fois, lorsque mon enfance en Nouvelle-Zélande, j’ai vu ce tableau. J’y suis resté en regardant pendant une bonne vingtaine de minutes. Les autres gamins se sont partis sans moi et le prof a dû revenir m’emmener pratiquement à l’écart. Je me rappelle plus le nom du prof mais je n’ai jamais oublié ce tableau.” Il se tourne vers Stede qui peut maintenant voir tout son visage. “Peut-être que ça vous paraisse fou, mais diriez-vous—pensez-vous que cet homme, celui de la gauche… vous pensez qu’il me ressemble?”

Stede rest sans voix, bouche bée. Parce que oui, il dirait, oui. L’homme du tableau te ressemble vachement et s’il existe personne qui peut le déclarer avec autorité c’est Stede. C’est lui, après tout, qui avait regardé ce tableau chaque jour et tous les jours pendant tout de l’an dernier. L’homme à son côté a la même taille, les mêmes cheveux longs et barbe magnifique. Et lorsqu’il se retourne et leurs yeux croisent, Stede a le souffle coupé. Les yeux aussi se ressemblent, ce marron doux et chaleureux. Ils traversent le visage de Stede et ils s’écarquillent, signe de reconnaissance d’abord, puis d’émerveillement.

“C’est toi,” il chuchote. “Cet homme, l’autre. C’est—c’est toi.”

Stede sait qu’il doit dire quelque chose, n’importe quoi, et donc il lance les premiers mots qui lui viennent de l’esprit.

“Es-tu réel?”

C’est une question de merde et il se sent ridicule pour la poser, mais les beaux yeux de l’homme se plissent sur les bords et il rit. Il rit d’amusement et non de moquerie. Le Stede d’aujourd’hui connait la différence.

“Aussi réel que toi, mon pote. Je m’appelle Ed.” Il lui tend la main.

“Stede,” répond Stede, en la prenant. Un frisson électrique parcourt sa peau, du point de contact jusqu’à l’extrémité de toute terminaison nerveuse qu’il possède. Il retient à peine son souffle. “Je suis le, um, conservateur. Du musée. Fin, pas du musée entier, seulement l’aile du dix-huitième siècle, mais c’est pas important en fait, ce que c’est important c’est que moi aussi.”

“Toi aussi?” répète Ed.

Stede hoche la tête avec enthousiasme. “Moi aussi, j’ai vu ce tableau lorsque mon enfance en Nouvelle-Zélande. J’arrivais pas à me détourner, moi non plus. Et je—”

“Ne l’a jamais oublié?”

“Ne l’ai jamais oublié! Je l’ai acquis à la première occasion. Ce n’était qu’après que je me suis rendu compte que, er—que l’homme dedans avait—”

“Ton visage?”

“Ouais.” Stede hausse légèrement les épaules. “Mon visage.”

“C’est un bon visage,” dit Ed. La frisson électrique s’intensifie. Il découvre qu’il tient toujours la main d’Ed.

“Sais-tu ce que j’aime le plus?” il demande.

“À propos de ton visage?”

“Non!” Stede proteste, avant de se rendre compte qu’Ed le taquine. Il sent ses joues rosir mais il continue. “Non, pas à propos de mon visage. Dans le tableau.”

“Qu’est-ce que tu aimes le plus dans le tableau?”

“C’est la manière dont ils se regardent,” dit Stede. “Ils sont si connectés et les expressions sur leurs visages, c’est—”

“L’amour,” finit Ed. Sa voix est bourrue. “Ils se sont amoureux.”

“C’est ça.” Les mots se coincent dans sa gorge. “En tant que garçon je ne pouvais pas le voir. C’est à dire, je l’ai vu mais je ne savais pas ce que c’était. Tout ce que je savais c’était que je voulais quelqu’un à me regarder comme ça. Mais personne ne l’a jamais fait.”

“Jamais?”

“Non. Pas—” Stede s’arrête, happé par les yeux d’Ed. Ce regard lui coupe le souffle.

Ed maintient son regard tout en relâchant la main de Stede, tout en entourant la mâchoire de Stede de sa main, ses doigts s'enfonçant dans ses cheveux, s'enroulant autour de l'arrière de sa tête et l'attirant plus près de lui.

"Pas jusqu'à ce moment,” murmure-t-il, puis ses lèvres se posent sur celles de Stede.

Le baiser est d'abord doux, hésitant. Stede n'a jamais vraiment aimé embrasser ; il est peu expérimenté dans ce domaine et même moins enthousiaste, malgré ses dix ans de mariage. Mais ce baiser, ce baiser, l'illumine de l'intérieur ; ce picotement électrique travers sa peau et s’infiltre dans ses os. Il se retrouve penché sur le corps d'Ed, agrippant sa taille, poussant un petit gémissement impuissant qui attire un gémissement plus profond de la part d'Ed. Le baiser devient chaud, humide, tout à fait inapproprié pour un mardi matin pluvieux sur son lieu de travail, mais Stede s’en fout pas la gueule.

Après, ils restent en se regardant, yeux écarquillés et haletants, et puis en unisson parfait ils se tournent comme tirés par un fil, vers le tableau.

Les deux hommes leur sourient, leur sourient, il n’existe pas la moindre doute. Le sosie d’Ed leur fait un clin d’oeil, tandis que celui de Stede hoche sa tête avec un sourire fier et content. “J’étais sûr que tu l’aurais trouver,” Stede entend dire sa propre voix, dans sa tête évidemment mais les mots sont aussi clairs que comme s’il les avait dit lui-même.

Il se retourne vers Ed. “T’as entendu—”

“Ouais,” réplique Ed. “J’ai entendu.”

Ils regardent à nouveau le tableau, qui est précisément comme il a toujours été.

“Viens déjeuner avec moi,” dit Ed, abruptement.

“Il est dix heures et demie du matin!”

“Un brunch, alors. Je sais un bon lieu, pas loin d’ici.”

“Ah, oui?” Stede est tellement heureux qu’il a l’impression que son sang a été remplacé par du champagne. “C’est où ça?”

“Mon restaurant.” Ed lui sourit. “Je viens de l’ouvrir. Blackbeard’s Bar and Grill, il s’appelle.”

“Ooh, nom fabuleux. Et donc tu… vises rester à Londres?”

“Aussi longtemps que Londres veut bien de moi,” dit Ed, et Stede sait qu’il ne parle pas seulement de Londres. “Et bien. Brunch? J’ai de la marmelade.”

Stede reste bouche bée. “Comment—comment sais-tu que j’aime la marmelade?”

“J’ai eu de la chance,” dit Ed. Ses yeux pétillent, de chaleur et affection et interêt et reconnaissance, et oui c’est enfin réel, ça se passe vraiment. Quelqu’un regarde Stede Bonnet Comme Ça.

Ici au milieu de son musée bien-aimé, devant son tableau le plus précieux, le plus bel homme qu’il ait jamais vu, soit peint ou en personne, lui regarde de la manière dont il a si longtemps rêvé mais n’aurait jamais pensé savoir.

Et dans sa poitrine il se sent à nouveau cette douleur mais ce n’est plus la douleur exquise. C’est la douleur d’une joie trop forte d’être exprimée. C’est le bonheur complet.

C’est l’amour.

“Le brunch serait super,” dit Stede. “C’est parfait.” Ça donne l’impression du début de quelque chose de spectaculaire.

Et c’est ça qu’il est.

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profdanglaisstuff · 6 months

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taking it slow

heyy ofmd tumblr i have written a thing. Inspired by this post.

starting with "take it slow" in ep 5 through the "missing" time between 5 and 6, then post ep 6 sex and into the innkeeper era. Sweet and sexy and funny (i hope). Have a read.

Can we take it slow? Ed had asked, and he’d meant it. I think last night was a mistake, he'd said, and at the time he meant that too. But he didn't mean let's take it slow forever and he didn't mean all sex is a mistake and he definitely didn't mean to find himself alone with Stede in their rickety soon-to-be-inn, sleeping in his arms every night and not getting laid. It's driving him out of his mind. And he intends to make that very much Stede's problem.

an excerpt:

Maybe he just doesn’t want me.

It’s an absolutely ridiculous notion given Stede’s very obvious suffering but Ed’s sexually frustrated too and it’s seriously messing with his capacity for rational thought. He’s been throwing himself at Stede for days now and Stede’s done absolutely fuck all about it and the only explanation Ed can come up with anymore is that Stede just doesn’t want to.

So much for I didn’t know it could be like that, he fumes, as he hammers nails into the roof with more force than is advisable, given the rickety state of said roof. So much for Oh, Ed you feel perfect. So much for the greatest sexual experience of Ed’s life, apparently it meant nothing at all to Stede. Apparently fucking Ed was so awful that Stede will go to just about any lengths to avoid doing it again.

He works himself up into such a lather with these thoughts that when he’s done on the roof and goes back inside, the sight of Stede’s welcoming smile tips him right over the edge.

“Oh there you are, Ed,” he says, “good. I wanted to ask you—”

“Mate, what the fuck?” Ed yells.

Stede’s brow knits in confusion. “What?” he says.

“You know what,” Ed snaps back. Stede’s wearing a well-worn white shirt today, so thin and open at the collar he may as well be wearing nothing. Ed wants to lick him. Just lick up that little pool of sweat that gathers at the base of his throat. Lick his pecs, bite his nipples, suck his dick—fuck.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he growls. “I fucking won’t.”

“Do what?” Stede looks truly baffled. “Ed, what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Ed throws his hands in the air. “You’re asking me what’s wrong?”

“Yes, I am.” Stede stands and cautiously approaches. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Anything you can do?” Ed starts to laugh. “Is there anything you can do? Yes, Stede, there fucking is something you can do. You can fucking mean it when you say you love me.”

“I—”

“You can be honest,” Ed barrels on, ignoring his attempts to speak, “and tell me that I’m not enough for you and you hated having sex with me and you never want to fucking touch me again.”

“Ed—”

“And you can stop,” Ed continues, voice rising, “wearing those fucking shirts that leave your chest bare and smelling like clean sweat and the sea and hibiscus, some-fuckin’-how, and you can stop looking at me like you think I’m the greatest thing ever when you won’t fuckin’ just fuck m—”

He’s cut off by Stede’s lips on his, hard and ravenous. Before he can fully process what’s happening, Ed finds himself slammed back against the wall with such force the whole building shakes and kissed as though both their lives depend on it. As, very possibly, they do.

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profdanglaisstuff · 6 months

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the inn is a metaphor

They are terrible at running an inn.

In the beginning.

They don’t know the first goddamn thing about the hospitality industry. Or carpentry, plumbing, invoicing, logistics. Anything, really. They know nothing.

They learn.

There’s a lot of trial, even more error. But by the first time the Revenge returns for a visit they have something. A roof that doesn’t leak. Un-rotted floorboards. Nooks and crannies free from feral beasts of any kind. Zero spiders. Twin armchairs in front of the fire and a bed just big enough for the two of them. It’s a start.

The Revenge comes bearing gifts. Wee John has knitted them some afghans and Frenchie sewed an enormous quilt, which takes pride of place on the bed. They’ve towed in another ship as well, a wreck whose timber they all pitch in to rebuild into an extension and some outbuildings. Roach helps them plant a kitchen garden and a medicinal one.

Jackie gives them business advice and contacts for her old suppliers. Lucius has a guestbook for them, with marginalia he drew himself. Some of it at least is appropriate for guests to see. The rest…

“Are you planning to have guests who’ll faint at the sight of a cock?” Lucius inquires innocently. “Because I’ll be honest with you, that seems unlikely.”

The idea of guests of any kind is still a long way off, but they’re getting there. They can envision it now, and not just as a wild fantasy they spin each other at night as they lie entwined with sweat cooling on their skin. They have actual plans, concrete ones, and a decent understanding of how to realise them.

They get to work.

Jackie’s contacts prove invaluable. Soon they have a liquor supplier, deals with local butchers, bakers, candlestick-makers, and even a reliable fisherman to give them first dibs on his haul.

(It’s not Pop-Pop.)

A few survivors of Zheng’s old crew hire on as housekeeping and kitchen staff. The soup is phenomenal. Ed learns how to make it and how to cook a fish without burning it. They have fresh-smelling towels, expertly folded. They have guest rooms, and soon they have guests.

It’s an adjustment, having new people in their space. Some of the guests are gawkers, eager for a piece of Blackbeard and the Gentleman Pirate. They reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, namely those particular assholes. But other guests are much more pleasant. Locals looking for a bit of a mini-break, people from nearby islands wanting a getaway, even the occasional European who doesn’t know who they are.

The guests are mostly happy with their stay. There’s excellent soup and decent fish, fresh linens and great views. The walls could be a bit thicker, perhaps, for everyone’s comfort, but the hosts are always most apologetic in the morning and offer copious marmalade in exchange for good reviews.

The Revenge returns frequently, each time with some new trinkets and finery for their former co-captains. In exchange, they host bonfires on the beach with music and dancing and wine, until they all fall asleep together in a pile, so like the old days on the ship that Stede watches them in the soft light of the embers with tears in his eyes.

“All right, love?” Ed asks him. He slips an arm around Stede’s waist. Stede tugs him in until Ed’s head is nestled against his shoulder. He strokes Ed’s hair. Ed sighs and snuggles closer.

“I’m all right,” Stede says. “A bit nostalgic is all.”

“You miss it.”

“I miss the crew. I wish they could visit more often. I suppose I miss the sea, though of course it’s right there in front of us. But I’m happy, Ed. I have no regrets.”

“Really?” The whisper of doubt in Ed’s voice has Stede pulling back to look down at his dear face.

“Yes really! Do you doubt it?”

“Kind of.” Ed shrugs. “It’s easier for me, I think. I was ready to be done with it, Stede. Desperate to do anything else but be Blackbeard. But you—you had just got started. You could be out there now with the crew, pirating away. You could be famous. You could—”

“Ed Teach, you listen to me.” Stede’s got his Captain Voice on now and the sound of it has Ed’s stomach turning cartwheels, his dick leaping to attention. “I don’t care about any of that. I only wanted to be a pirate for the freedom. To escape my old life. But I have a life now that I would never want to escape. Do you know why?”

Ed shakes his head.

“Because I chose it. I chose you. I love you and I would be happy anywhere you were.” He cups Ed’s cheek in his palm and kisses his forehead, his nose, his lips. Ed moans and presses closer but Stede pulls back, just far enough to whisper, “You make Stede happy.”

They spend that night alone in the inn, no guests, far enough from the beach that when they serve breakfast to the crew the next morning not a single smirk or smart remark is sent their way.

They wave goodbye to their friends that evening and stand together on their porch to watch the ship sail off into the sunset. Stede turns to Ed with a smile. “New guests checking in tomorrow,” he says. “We should probably fix the creak in the door hinge of Room 1.”

“I’ll do it,” says Ed, “if you polish the candlesticks. Fuckin’ polish makes my nose itch.”

“Deal,” says Stede. He turns to head inside. “What’ll we have for dinner?”

“Got a nice turbot we could roast.”

“Ooh, fab.”

The inn’s front door closes behind them.

It’s still a bit rickety, their inn. It’s old, it creaks, it springs leaks from time to time. It’s hard work, keeping it going. But they are devoted to the task. Whatever it takes, they will see their inn thrive.

It’s what makes them happy.

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profdanglaisstuff · 9 months

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dance the edge of sanity

PART ONE:

It wasn’t as though Crowley had never known bad times before. He’d been around more than six thousand years, obviously there had been low points. The fourteenth century, for a start. If ever there had been a bloody waste of a hundred perfectly good years, it was the fourteenth century. Crowley wouldn’t go back to the fourteenth century for anything. He’d drive through a dozen rings of hellfire around London, walk barefoot over miles of consecrated ground, he’d navigate a rainstorm where every tenth drop was holy water before he ever returned to the fourteenth century.

And yet, on this particular Tuesday as he sat hunched over in a booth in the corner of the grottiest pub he could find, leaning heavily on the bottle of Talisker clutched in his hand and pretending—poorly—to read the newspaper, Crowley found himself recalling those damp and endless years of the fourteenth century with a sort of gentle nostalgia.

Ah, the fourteenth century, he thought to himself. Those were the days.

He’d barely even known Aziraphale then.

A bell over the doorway sounded a cheery little tinkle as the door opened to admit a new patron. Or rather, nothing even remotely of the sort happened because there was no bell over the door. This was very much not the kind of establishment to have a bell over its door, much less one that sounded a cheery tinkle. That was one of its principal attractions, in Crowley’s opinion, the lack of a tinkly bell. Tinkly bells meant something terrible was coming and so when the patron whose arrival it heralded sat down in the seat across from him he did his best to ignore them.

He failed.

“Good morning to you, Mr Crowley, sir,” chirped the voice of Muriel, former 37th Order Scrivener and current proprietor of the A.Z. Fell and Co. bookshop. “Wot’s all this then?”

“You know you don’t have to keep saying that,” Crowley said. “You’re not actually a police officer and even if you were, they don’t really say that. Well, not most of them at least.”

“I know, sir, but I like to,” Muriel replied. “And I am still wearing the helmet.”

“Yesss, the helmet.” Crowley forbore to mention that Muriel was hardly fooling anyone in a pure white version of a police constable’s helmet. That would require far too many complicated explanations with which he was in no fit state to grapple and most of which would sail right over the daft angel’s head in any event. Instead he said, “What news?”

“News?” echoed Muriel.

Crowley ignored the throb in his temples. “Yes, news,” he snapped. “The news that you have for me. The reason you are here, invading my space and imposing upon my privacy.” Muriel’s expression remained uncomprehending. Crowley abandoned his quixotic attempt at subtlety. “What’s going on in Heaven?” he hissed.

“Oh, right that news!” Muriel laughed. “I’m so glad you reminded me. It’s big!”

“Yes, and what is it?” enunciated Crowley, with particular emphasis on the t’s.

“The Archangel Aziraphale”—Crowley barely suppressed a flinch—“is returning to Earth! And he’s bringing with him… a friend.”

“Friend?” Crowley snarled. “He doesn’t have friends. I’m his only—” He clamped his jaw shut before the humiliating words could escape.

I’m his only friend.

Except he wasn’t, though. Aziraphale had made that very plain. Crowley’s devotion, his loyalty, his—he couldn’t even think the word—none of it was reciprocated. One tiny crumb of approbation from the Metatron and Aziraphale had turned his back on a partnership six hundred centuries in the making. That was all it took.

So no, he wasn’t Aziraphale’s only friend or indeed his friend at all. But apparently someone else was.

“What friend,” he demanded, so harshly that even Muriel looked taken aback.

“I don’t know,” they said, “but whoever he is, he’s important. Heaven is very keen that he should get a nice welcome when he arrives.”

“Oh I’ll ‘nice welcome’ him, all right,” Crowley muttered.

“What was that, sir?”

“I said—oh never mind.” It didn’t make sense even in his whisky-addled mind. “What has any of this got to do with me?”

“Oh! Well it doesn’t? I suppose? But you did ask me to tell you if I heard anything about Aziraphale. And I heard this! About Aziraphale! So I came to tell you.” Muriel’s brow wrinkled. “Was that wrong?”

“I did tell you to do that, didn’t I.” Crowley sighed. He really ought to mind what he said whilst deep in his cups, and not to take laudanum in mixed company. Never mind that any company these days was preferable to his own.

He looked over at the kind, sweet, vacant face of the angel sat across from him and said, “Well, thank you, Inspector Constable, you have discharged your duties admirably.” Muriel beamed. Crowley scowled and looked away. Some company was preferable to his own. “Now piss off.”

“Yes, sir! Pissing off right away, sir!” chirped Muriel, and when Crowley looked up again they were gone.

The “friend” in question was soon revealed to be none other than the Second Coming. Or so he claimed, and claimed it far and wide. Aziraphale claimed it too, and lent all the considerable weight of his new celestial authority to the support of this man and his rapidly increasing ministry, the crowd of half-witted sycophants who began to follow him wherever he went. Crowley lurked at the back of it one afternoon in Trafalgar Square, as inconspicuous as he was capable of being, listening as the man preached a message of hope and peace and tolerance and love. It was inspiring, or it should have been.

But Crowley was a demon though and through, despite what Aziraphale had once claimed to believe. Human rhetoric didn’t land on him. He was a demon and what was more he knew Aziraphale—friends or not he knew his angel. Knew him well enough to clock the tension in Aziraphale’s jaw and his shoulders, the lines of strain around his mouth and the carefully neutral expression in his eyes.

When Aziraphale was happy his face was soft, his eyes eager, his smile bright as the sun. Though his posture remained perfectly correct, the movement of his hands always betrayed his feelings. They would flex and wave and flutter and Crowley would watch them, half-listening to Aziraphale’s chatter, just enough to give appropriate response, while the rest of his mind imagined those hands doing things to him that would shock the angel to his very core.

But now, as Heaven’s anointed prophet preached his message of global harmony, Aziraphale’s hands were still. They hung at his sides, limp and unmoving. Not so much as a tug at the waistcoat or smoothing of lapels. It was downright unnatural. It was wrong.

Crowley’s angel was so miserable he all but radiated it and though Crowley hated him now—yes, hated, he did—one couldn’t simply spend six thousand years having someone’s back then not care at all when they landed themselves in the soup.

Or at least, he couldn’t, damn it all.

AO3

#hello yes i have written an ineffable husbands fic #post canon #good omens spoilers #crowley x aziraphale #good omens season two #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #ineffable husbands fanfic #good omens fanfic

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profdanglaisstuff · 9 months

Text

dance the edge of sanity

PART ONE:

Ah, the fourteenth century, he thought to himself. Those were the days.

He’d barely even known Aziraphale then.

He failed.

“Good morning to you, Mr Crowley, sir,” chirped the voice of Muriel, former 37th Order Scrivener and current proprietor of the A.Z. Fell and Co. bookshop. “Wot’s all this then?”

“You know you don’t have to keep saying that,” Crowley said. “You’re not actually a police officer and even if you were, they don’t really say that. Well, not most of them at least.”

“I know, sir, but I like to,” Muriel replied. “And I am still wearing the helmet.”

“News?” echoed Muriel.

“Oh, right that news!” Muriel laughed. “I’m so glad you reminded me. It’s big!”

“Yes, and what is it?” enunciated Crowley, with particular emphasis on the t’s.

“The Archangel Aziraphale”—Crowley barely suppressed a flinch—“is returning to Earth! And he’s bringing with him… a friend.”

“Friend?” Crowley snarled. “He doesn’t have friends. I’m his only—” He clamped his jaw shut before the humiliating words could escape.

I’m his only friend.

So no, he wasn’t Aziraphale’s only friend or indeed his friend at all. But apparently someone else was.

“What friend,” he demanded, so harshly that even Muriel looked taken aback.

“I don’t know,” they said, “but whoever he is, he’s important. Heaven is very keen that he should get a nice welcome when he arrives.”

“Oh I’ll ‘nice welcome’ him, all right,” Crowley muttered.

“What was that, sir?”

“I said—oh never mind.” It didn’t make sense even in his whisky-addled mind. “What has any of this got to do with me?”

“Yes, sir! Pissing off right away, sir!” chirped Muriel, and when Crowley looked up again they were gone.

Or at least, he couldn’t, damn it all.

AO3

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profdanglaisstuff · 9 months

Text

dance the edge of sanity

PART ONE:

Ah, the fourteenth century, he thought to himself. Those were the days.

He’d barely even known Aziraphale then.

He failed.

“Good morning to you, Mr Crowley, sir,” chirped the voice of Muriel, former 37th Order Scrivener and current proprietor of the A.Z. Fell and Co. bookshop. “Wot’s all this then?”

“You know you don’t have to keep saying that,” Crowley said. “You’re not actually a police officer and even if you were, they don’t really say that. Well, not most of them at least.”

“I know, sir, but I like to,” Muriel replied. “And I am still wearing the helmet.”

“News?” echoed Muriel.

“Oh, right that news!” Muriel laughed. “I’m so glad you reminded me. It’s big!”

“Yes, and what is it?” enunciated Crowley, with particular emphasis on the t’s.

“The Archangel Aziraphale”—Crowley barely suppressed a flinch—“is returning to Earth! And he’s bringing with him… a friend.”

“Friend?” Crowley snarled. “He doesn’t have friends. I’m his only—” He clamped his jaw shut before the humiliating words could escape.

I’m his only friend.

So no, he wasn’t Aziraphale’s only friend or indeed his friend at all. But apparently someone else was.

“What friend,” he demanded, so harshly that even Muriel looked taken aback.

“I don’t know,” they said, “but whoever he is, he’s important. Heaven is very keen that he should get a nice welcome when he arrives.”

“Oh I’ll ‘nice welcome’ him, all right,” Crowley muttered.

“What was that, sir?”

“I said—oh never mind.” It didn’t make sense even in his whisky-addled mind. “What has any of this got to do with me?”

“Yes, sir! Pissing off right away, sir!” chirped Muriel, and when Crowley looked up again they were gone.

Or at least, he couldn’t, damn it all.

AO3

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable husbands fanfic #good omens fanfic #good omens spoilers

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