for historical ineffables…. may I humbly request 1920s feat. flapper!crowley? (any pronouns)
AN ~ you certainly may !! in fact whoops I have a huge crush on flapper!crowley 🫡 💋 (she/her for this one)
special guest appearance : trains 🚂
prompt me: historical ineffables
Aziraphale arrived at the requested train station with the note still crunched in his hand. The familiar curl of the handwriting was engraved behind his eyelids. Of course, he’d only looked over the words so many times to try and decipher some hidden meaning; perhaps this was a trap or a threat of some sort from his worthy adversary. It was only his duty to investigate.
(It had nothing to do with the smile he imagined playing on Crowley’s lips as he penned it; I have a surprise for you.)
More than one surprise, apparently, as when he found the demon at the bar she was using a new and different form. A variation on a theme. The long lines of Crowley’s elegant frame were accentuated by the cigarette holder she twirled between her fingers, and contrasted boldly to the short finger-waves of her flame-red hair. A black and silver Gatsby dress draped over her slender form as if she had been the very model for them… only, the hem rested lower than one would typically wear this style so as to obscure the definitely normal human feet and legs Crowley sported. Not that anyone would notice of course. Certainly not Aziraphale, who was certainly not looking.
“My eyes are up here, Angel,” Crowley said, by way of greeting. She wore a practiced, small, almost sarcastic smile, but they had been seeing a lot more of each other lately and Aziraphale knew her honest eyes by now, even behind the glasses. She was happy to see him, and for some reason that made his cheeks feel unseasonably warm.
“Happy to see you too.” Aziraphale cast an eye across the bar, whose tender only met his in passing; well practiced in deliberately not paying too much attention. He pulled out the seat beside Crowley, and belatedly realised he was still holding that blasted note. If she noticed as he tucked it away - which she definitely did - she didn’t say anything. Simply raised a hand to request the Reisling, for my friend.
“Keeping a low profile then, I see,” Aziraphale said. He meant it to be scolding, but it sounded rather more impressed. If he knew Crowley, and he rather liked to think he did, that was how she took it too.
“Low profile was never in my job description,” she pointed out. “Besides, it’s a sign of the times isn’t it? We’ll be voting next, they reckon.”
Aziraphale snorted. “You’ve never voted a day in your life.”
“It’s the thought that counts.” Crowley shrugged, and took a sip of her old fashioned. “Which brings me to my next point.”
She reached inside her - for this part, Aziraphale really wasn’t watching - and pulled out a few slips of paper. It was a brochure, and two tickets for the Orient Express. Before he could help himself his jaw dropped and he whipped open the brochure, poring over the stunning molding and scenery promised aboard the luxury vessel. It even promised a tour of the history and workings of the steam engine, for VIPs - which of course, per their tickets, they were.
“I love trains,” he breathed. “Marvellous clever things, don’t you think?”
Crowley was almost laughing, watching him, and she didn’t do that much. His cheeks felt warm again all of a sudden and his hand began to shake, realising what he was holding. The smile on his lips died a little. Crowley’s did too. She tried to face eyes-forward instead, and hoped he didn’t push the tickets back across at her.
“You- You shouldn’t have.” Aziraphale’s chest felt tight. Crushing.
“It’s nothing,” Crowley said, and shrugged. “I have business in Constantinople, and word has it you do too. I thought perhaps I might like some company. That’s all.”
He should have said I’m not ‘company’.
What he said was; “Well, if it’s business.”
He raised his glass in toast, and clinked it against Crowley’s.
