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May. 3rd, 2005 06:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nnyA sequel, of sorts, to Bound.
Aziraphael/Crowley (implied), PG.
Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
copinggoggles, who requested something with silk - also most grateful to her for beta duties.
Tied
Aziraphael doesn't shop often.
He tends to wear expensive shirts - which never go out of fashion, he's found - and tweed which lasts a quite ridiculous amount of time. According to Crowley, at least. Aziraphael rather resents having to replace his jackets every fifty years, but there's really no helping it if you're going to do things properly. And Aziraphael does tend to do things properly; it's possible that it's his nod towards superstition, or even bribery - you pretend that I'm not involved in a highly inappropriate relationship with a member of the opposition, and I shall endeavour to get my paperwork in on time and correct. In triplicate.
It seems to be working so far.
Both the unspoken deal and the, ah, relationship. And imagining the look on Crowley's face at that epithet makes him smile cheerfully at an old woman passing. She straightens, slightly, and looks suddenly more at peace with the world, resolving to go and feed the ducks - it's been too long since she's remembered how happy that makes her. The angel tucks his hands in his pockets, satisfied, and carefully skirts a perambulator pushed by a particularly harried young woman. He lightly touches the back of her hand, where it rests on the handle, and she visibly relaxes.
"Delightful young tyke you have there," he murmurs. And as if the words are a prophecy, the child stops wailing, uttering a few disjointed sobs before smiling wetly up at its mother. Her smile in return is really quite lovely. Humming to himself, Aziraphael pushes open the door of a gentleman's clothing emporium.
It's thoroughly difficult, he's found, to patronize an establishment that is only needed every ten years or so. The lovely couple in the newsagents always greet him by name, and his manicurist knows him well enough now to enquire after his business, his family*, and Crowley (the last of which he rather suspects she only does to make him blush).
Ten years, though, is generally just a short enough space of time to cause an uncomfortable itch in the memory of the tailor, especially in the type of family-run businesses he's always preferred. It forces him to seek out a new purveyor of shirts every trip, an inconvenience he'd much rather do without. This one in particular, however, with its wood panelled walls and discreet brass bell over the door, is distinctly more to his taste than the brash chain store he'd accidentally wandered into once on an excursion into town. He flushes slightly pink at the memory. It had had underclothes on display!
Shaking his head at the folly of modern businessmen, he fingers a silk tie thoughtfully as he waits for the salesman to finish up a transaction. It's... surprisingly pleasant, actually. Navy blue, bisected by thin diagonal lines of red apples. Understated. He finds himself pondering which jacket it would complement best.
A genteelly cleared throat at his elbow indicates that the salesman is now at his disposal, and he orders five new shirts; a simple enough transaction when one is decided both in colour (white) and size**, but he finds himself strangely reluctant to let go of the neck tie. Aziraphael winds the material around his wrist - it's cool against his skin, and feels quite divine. He's never been one for material pleasures, overmuch, but it's been simply decades since he's bought himself any accessories. In fact, as he remembers it, the last such item purchased had been a cravat, and Crowley had laughed himself silly before uttering dire threats of the consequences if Aziraphael had dared to ever wear it out in public.
"Would sir like anything else?"
He imagines how it would look against slightly more tanned skin, and swallows hard, clearing his throat.
"Er. Yes, actually - I'll take two of these, please."
After all, Crowley had never got around to replacing the manacles.
*A fictional brother in America, which he sees as a particularly harmless and necessary deception - humans are really supposed to have families, after all. He's noticed a strange propensity towards long lost relations in Australia, which has come in useful for the occasional unexpected windfall.
**Which hasn't changed drastically since that unfortunate matter when Crowley had tempted him to a stuffed date. One can never stop at just one, with these things.
Aziraphael/Crowley (implied), PG.
Written for
copinggoggles, who requested something with silk - also most grateful to her for beta duties.Tied
Aziraphael doesn't shop often.
He tends to wear expensive shirts - which never go out of fashion, he's found - and tweed which lasts a quite ridiculous amount of time. According to Crowley, at least. Aziraphael rather resents having to replace his jackets every fifty years, but there's really no helping it if you're going to do things properly. And Aziraphael does tend to do things properly; it's possible that it's his nod towards superstition, or even bribery - you pretend that I'm not involved in a highly inappropriate relationship with a member of the opposition, and I shall endeavour to get my paperwork in on time and correct. In triplicate.
It seems to be working so far.
Both the unspoken deal and the, ah, relationship. And imagining the look on Crowley's face at that epithet makes him smile cheerfully at an old woman passing. She straightens, slightly, and looks suddenly more at peace with the world, resolving to go and feed the ducks - it's been too long since she's remembered how happy that makes her. The angel tucks his hands in his pockets, satisfied, and carefully skirts a perambulator pushed by a particularly harried young woman. He lightly touches the back of her hand, where it rests on the handle, and she visibly relaxes.
"Delightful young tyke you have there," he murmurs. And as if the words are a prophecy, the child stops wailing, uttering a few disjointed sobs before smiling wetly up at its mother. Her smile in return is really quite lovely. Humming to himself, Aziraphael pushes open the door of a gentleman's clothing emporium.
It's thoroughly difficult, he's found, to patronize an establishment that is only needed every ten years or so. The lovely couple in the newsagents always greet him by name, and his manicurist knows him well enough now to enquire after his business, his family*, and Crowley (the last of which he rather suspects she only does to make him blush).
Ten years, though, is generally just a short enough space of time to cause an uncomfortable itch in the memory of the tailor, especially in the type of family-run businesses he's always preferred. It forces him to seek out a new purveyor of shirts every trip, an inconvenience he'd much rather do without. This one in particular, however, with its wood panelled walls and discreet brass bell over the door, is distinctly more to his taste than the brash chain store he'd accidentally wandered into once on an excursion into town. He flushes slightly pink at the memory. It had had underclothes on display!
Shaking his head at the folly of modern businessmen, he fingers a silk tie thoughtfully as he waits for the salesman to finish up a transaction. It's... surprisingly pleasant, actually. Navy blue, bisected by thin diagonal lines of red apples. Understated. He finds himself pondering which jacket it would complement best.
A genteelly cleared throat at his elbow indicates that the salesman is now at his disposal, and he orders five new shirts; a simple enough transaction when one is decided both in colour (white) and size**, but he finds himself strangely reluctant to let go of the neck tie. Aziraphael winds the material around his wrist - it's cool against his skin, and feels quite divine. He's never been one for material pleasures, overmuch, but it's been simply decades since he's bought himself any accessories. In fact, as he remembers it, the last such item purchased had been a cravat, and Crowley had laughed himself silly before uttering dire threats of the consequences if Aziraphael had dared to ever wear it out in public.
"Would sir like anything else?"
He imagines how it would look against slightly more tanned skin, and swallows hard, clearing his throat.
"Er. Yes, actually - I'll take two of these, please."
After all, Crowley had never got around to replacing the manacles.
*A fictional brother in America, which he sees as a particularly harmless and necessary deception - humans are really supposed to have families, after all. He's noticed a strange propensity towards long lost relations in Australia, which has come in useful for the occasional unexpected windfall.
**Which hasn't changed drastically since that unfortunate matter when Crowley had tempted him to a stuffed date. One can never stop at just one, with these things.
