nny | (no subject)

For Sophie - a slightly belated birthday shindig. Er... it's Firefly/GO crossover, I guess, with Milliways and DT mixed in for good measure, if it does ya.

Hope you like it.

There's not all that much of London left.

Back when the news was still projecting, when there had been something to watch it on that wasn't dead, or broken, or ancient; back then they'd seen that there was little more left of Paris, or Berlin, or Tokyo. Manhattan was gone almost entirely.

The Earth had been picked clean. First of resources, by mankind, then (as the richer left, before the forced evacuation) by looters. By those who had always had nothing and didn't see that no matter what they did now they still did, entertainment centres and Ribisi suits in their tattered council flats be damned (because home was still home for a little while at least, much good may it do ya, say true.)

Finally the vultures had come, picked over what was left, taken what there was left to take. Not much, not after the evacuations - the poor hadn't been afforded much room, herded like cattle, but there're perks when you're in charge. The government took what was worth the taking, the vultures took what was left to them, and now there are just fossils. The burned husk of a Bentley transport. A single tattered boot. A skipping rope.

On a pile of rubble, the last of the light touches the delicate stone carving of feathers, the set expression that somehow expresses weariness and loss and disappointment without undercutting the love. Always love.

This must have been a place of worship.

And then a crack, like a sail in the wind or a backfire or a pistol shot; and perhaps it's only the way the light filters grey through pollution now that made feathers look like stone because they ruffle, in the wind.

"Hello, Crowley."

Snakeskin shoes grate against rubble. It's a dusty sound, dry like scales and years beyond number, and he's amused for a moment. It's only appropriate, after all - just he and Crowley. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be.

World without end.

"It's time."

Crowley's voice is flat, but it doesn't disguise the emotion there; it underlines it. His fingers ghost across Aziraphael's shoulder but don't settle. It's for the best. He'd be easily broken, just now.

"This was my shop."

"I remember, angel, but Will's waiting and - "

"If I remember rightly, this was where the sofa was. Just by the fireplace."

The demon sighs, and manages to sit gracefully even on cracked concrete and broken bricks.

"I remember, angel."

"It makes you wonder what it was all for, really. Don't you think?" And then brightly, brittle even, "you can't second-guess Ineffability, I always say."

Crowley's fingers are too warm, as they wrap around his. They always have been. They always will be. That eases the pain in his chest a little, at least.

"It's time."

The strain in Crowley's voice is clearer, now, and Aziraphael squeezes his hand and nods. As he looks up, something catches his eye - something he's seen a thousand times, quite possibly, but never really noticed until now.

Scrawled onto a wall, one of those still standing, in a dusty pink that almost fades into the brick backing:

Go, then. There are other worlds

The end of the message is lost - scrawled over in brilliant white by someone apparently by the name of 'Bango Skank' - but that in itself is enough. It gets him standing, and gets him moving.

It helps him not to lose himself in looking back.

*

Will's youngest (William Anthony Tonks-Wrangle the second, who will never understand why Aziraphael still finds it amusing to switch his surnames around, has three children - Kassandra, Ophelia, and Dorcas) is staring up at Aziraphael with huge eyes, thumb firmly in her mouth. The fact that the angel apparently hasn't noticed is starting to worry Crowley, just a little - normally he's putty in the hands of anyone under the age of ten, notwithstanding degrees of stickiness.

The angel's grown steadily more withdrawn, the further they get from Earth (That Was, and doesn't Crowley fucking hate his talent for picking up slang, just now?). He roused himself a little at Kassandra's coughing - always sickly, that one, though the headache Crowley's now bearing comes as indication that she'll be better for a while, at least - but he's been silent for close on an hour, now. Will's shooting him worried glances, now and again, but Crowley just shrugs. There's no means of distraction he knows that'll work; not with a family on board, in any case.

"He'll be alright."

It's not, exactly, a statement, but demons don't pray. Will looks reassured, at least.

"Unca Ziffle?"

Dorcas has finally pulled the thumb from her mouth, tugging on Aziraphael's trousers with a damp hand. The wince on Aziraphael's face is reassuring, in its way - he hates that permutation of his name. It shows he's paying attention, at least.

"What is it, my dear?"

"Tell story?"

Aziraphael's eyes flicker to meet Crowley's, then away again. He bites his lip.

"I don't think I've the heart for stories. Not today." Her face falls, and he reaches out to touch her cheek... but overshoots, a little. Touches the skin just behind her ear. Produces a silver coin. "Now what's this? Shocking dirty face you've got, young miss."

Dorcas is giggling, and Crowley looks at the relieved look on Will's face, looks at the slowly dawning smile on Aziraphael's, and snorts quietly, shaking his head.

"Now what's this we have here, my fine young jacksauce? Not got too many hankies there, have we?"

It's like he always said.

It'll be alright, in the end.