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kat_lair***
Title: this ain't a scene (it's a goddamn heart chase)
Author:kat_lair / Mistress Kat
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Tags: POV Outsider, Crowley is dramatic
Rating: G
Word count: 1,692
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing
Summary: Tilda bit back a laugh and turned her attention back to the scene they – and several other onlookers – were observing with that distinct flavour of ‘interested but not interested enough to get actively involved’ Londoners developed out of self-preservation. It was an early evening in July and Soho was full of people, either on their way to a night out or just passing through. Tilda had just been on her way home from a shift at the walk-in-centre, tired from a day of treating sunburns, sprained ankles and handing out prophylactics, when the sight of a black-as-night Bentley careening seemingly out of control and crashing into the display window of an antiquarian bookshop had rather understandably caught her attention.
Author notes: Mostly written during a fangirl weekend withpushkin666 and dreamersdare last summer, finished this week. The prompt was the opening line.
this ain't a scene (it's a goddamn heart chase) on AO3
“Do you think he crashed the car on purpose?”
Tilda shrugged in that slow way that strongly implied that ‘yes, yes she did think that’ without actually voicing the sentiment. She threw in some raised eyebrows for good measure and the punk next to her who had asked the question, grinned in response.
“Yeah, me too,” he said, nodding firmly. The movement made his various facial and ear piercings chime a bit. It was kind of cute.
Tilda bit back a laugh and turned her attention back to the scene they – and several other onlookers – were observing with that distinct flavour of ‘interested but not interested enough to get actively involved’ Londoners developed out of self-preservation. It was an early evening in July and Soho was full of people, either on their way to a night out or just passing through. Tilda had just been on her way home from a shift at the walk-in-centre, tired from a day of treating sunburns, sprained ankles and handing out prophylactics, when the sight of a black-as-night Bentley careening seemingly out of control and crashing into the display window of an antiquarian bookshop had rather understandably caught her attention.
Tilda’s first instinct had been to worry if anyone had been injured but before she’d taken more than two steps in the direction of the car, its only occupant had sprung out of – seemingly in excellent health and looking almost… giddy – and proceeded to make even more of a spectacle of the event.
“Oh no!” he’d shouted, throwing his hands up in the air and tossing his auburn hair dramatically. “OH NO! I have Crashed My Car. This is Terrible! Whatever shall I do?” The last had been directed at the gathering audience in much the same manner as a Shakespearean actor projects a rhetorical question toward the back benches. “Oh Woe is Me! My Lovely Car! I am Shaken and Disturbed and—”
“Well, you certainly are that.” By then, the owner of the shop had emerged from the still intact door, looking none too pleased with the proceedings, but still nowhere nearly as surprised as one would expect upon discovering that there was a car halfway into one’s shop. “What in Go-, De-… What in Whoever’s name do you think you’re doing, Crowley?” He’d walked up to the still gesticulating driver, looking like he’d wanted to grab the man by the end of his thin, fashionable scarf and maybe choke him with it.
A soft murmur had rippled through the audience, as everyone, Tilda included, realised that the two knew each other. The show had immediately gone from ‘mildly entertaining’ to ‘might call mum specifically to share this’, and Tilda’s green-haired fellow spectator had voiced what seemed like a correct interpretation of the events.
“I have Crashed My Car,” the dramatic capitalisation was somehow entirely audible, “my Dearest An- Uh, Mr Fell!” The driver – apparently named Crowley – repeated, gleefully. He even adjusted his sunglasses a little bit, as if preening. Despite him being taller, and objectionably more fashionable of the two – unless your sense of fashion was from the nineteenth century – Tilda got the distinct impression that he didn’t consider himself to be the lead actor in this particular drama, merely an instigator.
“I can see that.” Mr Fell – a glance at the sign above the bookshop confirmed the name – said in a way that wasn’t quite shouting but really rather wanted to be. He eyed the gathered crowd with the exasperation of a parent finding a toddler drawing on the walls and dusted some invisible lint off his tweed waistcoat. “What I’m interested in is: Why? And also; How?”
“Quite lost the control of the vehicle,” Crowley said. He hadn’t removed his sunglasses but the rest of his face made an attempt at ‘wide-eyed innocence’. It didn’t go well. Tilda thought that the problem was a simple lack of practice as his seemed a face utterly unused to any kind of innocence at all. “One moment I’m driving along when I realise that I’m – by pure coincidence of course – in your neighbourhood. And I think to myself: Wonder how my Old Friend Az… Mr Fell is? Since I haven’t heard from him for So Long.” Crowley’s voice got noticeably sharper toward the end, until he sounded a bit like he was hissing. “And, well, I must have gotten all distracted, because…” He gestured at the Bentley and the abundance of glass shards surrounding it.
“Oooh, ghosted,” the punk next to Tilda stage-whispered. “The shop window makes sense now. Happened to me once or twice.” He shook his head sympathetically. Tilda suppressed an urge to pat him on the arm. “Me too,” she confined. They shared a look of commiseration.
Mr Fell opened his mouth. A couple of syllables definitely tumbled out, but they didn’t sound like complete words, at least not in any language Tilda had heard before – and living in London meant that was quite a few.
“What’s that?” Crowley asked. “Been busy, have you?” The question was ostensibly aimed at the bookshop owner but it was also loud enough that every single onlooker heard it clearly. “Something terribly important taking up your time?”
The punk hissed through his teeth and even Tilda raised her eyebrows. The implication of ‘more important than me’ wasn’t even a little bit subtle.
“I… You know we… It wasn’t…” Mr Fell had reclaimed the use of English words but not full sentences. For the first time during the whole encounter, he looked actually upset, though it was clear that had nothing to do with the damage to his bookshop and everything to do with the damage of a different kind, inflicted perhaps accidentally but inflicted nonetheless.
“Wasn’t what, Angel?” Crowley didn’t even try to change what was clearly a well-used endearment and Tilda made a little involuntary hum of empathy at the back of her throat. “Wasn’t important?”
“Safe,” Mr Fell said. “I thought it wouldn’t be safe. Everyone was still watching us and…” He glanced at the gathered crowd and then at the bookshop longingly, clearly wishing to take the conversation somewhere more private.
Crowley’s body language changed so quickly that for a moment Tilda thought he’d actually been replaced by a different man. Gone was the defensive belligerency, replaced by something far more genuine.
“Angel,” he said, stepping closer, hands hovering awkwardly around Mr Fell’s shoulders and arms, landing for little fleeting touches here and there. “Angel, we’re safe. They’re watching alright but they can’t touch us.”
“Do you think they’re talking about the government?” the punk asked under his breath.
Normally, Tilda would’ve dismissed that as a paranoid conspiracy theory, but there was something weird going on here for sure. “Maybe… Family?” she suggested. “Or… ex-partners?”
“That’s fucked up,” he said. “You gotta let people go when they want.” He cracked his knuckles and sniffed. Tilda somehow felt better.
“But… What if…” Over by the shop Mr Fell seemed to have captured Crowley’s restless hands in both of his and was anxiously peering around as if expecting either MI5 or jealous ex-lovers, possibly both, to spring up from behind what should have been a wreck of a car but actually still looked remarkably intact.
Tilda blinked at the Bentley, trying to find a scratch on its gleaming paintwork but somehow unable to focus enough to do so.
“You must know, dear,” Mr Fell was saying, “that nothing is more important than your safety. Not even…” He swallowed and reached up to nudge Crowley’s sunglasses down just enough to catch his eyes, “Not even your company.”
From where Tilda and her green-haired companion were standing, it was difficult to make out more than a quarter of Crowley’s face, but what they did see, grew helplessly soft, mouth rounding up in surprise.
“Awww,” the punk said, with a gusty sigh before cupping a hand by his mouth. “Go on mate!” he hollered. “Give him a snog!”
There was a smattering of laughter from the crowd, accompanied by a piercing wolf-whistle. Tilda took her fingers out of her mouth and pretended not to notice the punk’s delighted grin.
The commotion seemed to finally tip the imaginary scales from Crowley’s ‘this scene needs an audience’ approach to Mr Fell’s ‘no one look at me, ever’ preference. “Right,” he said, pushing Crowley – still uncoordinated from what seemed like the profound shock of reciprocated feelings – toward the door. “Go inside and put the kettle on, I’ll deal with this.”
Tilda turned toward friendly guy next to her, intend on making a joke about tea fixing everything and maybe… There was a sudden pressure in her ears, the bottom of her stomach dropping out, like a plane going through a bad spot of turbulence and…
Tilda shook her head and frowned at the window of an antiquarian bookshop. Why had she stopped here? There were some dusty looking volumes on display. Maybe she’d thought they’d make a good birthday present for her aunt… That must be it. But looking at them more closely suggested she’d miscalculated. Aunt Glenda was into mysteries. She’d get her the new PD James, but not from here. The shop was closed anyways.
She turned around and ran straight into a tall guy with green hair.
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
He blinked at her and smiled, his piercings glinting in the evening sun. “No worries,” he said. “I was just…” He blinked again and then said. “Admiring the car?” It came out like a question but Tilda had to agree that the gleaming black Bentley, parked outside the bookshop looked rather impressive.
“It’s nice.”
“Yeah.”
Inexplicably, they stood side by side for another minute, silently looking at the car. It was somehow not awkward at all.
“Anyway,” Tilda said eventually. “I better go. Have to ring my mum.” It wasn’t her usual evening to call but somehow she felt like she ought to. Would be nice to catch up.
“Me too,” said the punk with a warm, if somewhat baffled smile. “I’ll see you around.”
“See you around.” Tilda grinned, suddenly entirely sure that she would. And soon. Well, it made sense, Soho wasn’t that big.
***
Title: this ain't a scene (it's a goddamn heart chase)
Author:
kat_lair / Mistress KatFandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Tags: POV Outsider, Crowley is dramatic
Rating: G
Word count: 1,692
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing
Summary: Tilda bit back a laugh and turned her attention back to the scene they – and several other onlookers – were observing with that distinct flavour of ‘interested but not interested enough to get actively involved’ Londoners developed out of self-preservation. It was an early evening in July and Soho was full of people, either on their way to a night out or just passing through. Tilda had just been on her way home from a shift at the walk-in-centre, tired from a day of treating sunburns, sprained ankles and handing out prophylactics, when the sight of a black-as-night Bentley careening seemingly out of control and crashing into the display window of an antiquarian bookshop had rather understandably caught her attention.
Author notes: Mostly written during a fangirl weekend with
pushkin666 and dreamersdare last summer, finished this week. The prompt was the opening line.this ain't a scene (it's a goddamn heart chase) on AO3
“Do you think he crashed the car on purpose?”
Tilda shrugged in that slow way that strongly implied that ‘yes, yes she did think that’ without actually voicing the sentiment. She threw in some raised eyebrows for good measure and the punk next to her who had asked the question, grinned in response.
“Yeah, me too,” he said, nodding firmly. The movement made his various facial and ear piercings chime a bit. It was kind of cute.
Tilda bit back a laugh and turned her attention back to the scene they – and several other onlookers – were observing with that distinct flavour of ‘interested but not interested enough to get actively involved’ Londoners developed out of self-preservation. It was an early evening in July and Soho was full of people, either on their way to a night out or just passing through. Tilda had just been on her way home from a shift at the walk-in-centre, tired from a day of treating sunburns, sprained ankles and handing out prophylactics, when the sight of a black-as-night Bentley careening seemingly out of control and crashing into the display window of an antiquarian bookshop had rather understandably caught her attention.
Tilda’s first instinct had been to worry if anyone had been injured but before she’d taken more than two steps in the direction of the car, its only occupant had sprung out of – seemingly in excellent health and looking almost… giddy – and proceeded to make even more of a spectacle of the event.
“Oh no!” he’d shouted, throwing his hands up in the air and tossing his auburn hair dramatically. “OH NO! I have Crashed My Car. This is Terrible! Whatever shall I do?” The last had been directed at the gathering audience in much the same manner as a Shakespearean actor projects a rhetorical question toward the back benches. “Oh Woe is Me! My Lovely Car! I am Shaken and Disturbed and—”
“Well, you certainly are that.” By then, the owner of the shop had emerged from the still intact door, looking none too pleased with the proceedings, but still nowhere nearly as surprised as one would expect upon discovering that there was a car halfway into one’s shop. “What in Go-, De-… What in Whoever’s name do you think you’re doing, Crowley?” He’d walked up to the still gesticulating driver, looking like he’d wanted to grab the man by the end of his thin, fashionable scarf and maybe choke him with it.
A soft murmur had rippled through the audience, as everyone, Tilda included, realised that the two knew each other. The show had immediately gone from ‘mildly entertaining’ to ‘might call mum specifically to share this’, and Tilda’s green-haired fellow spectator had voiced what seemed like a correct interpretation of the events.
“I have Crashed My Car,” the dramatic capitalisation was somehow entirely audible, “my Dearest An- Uh, Mr Fell!” The driver – apparently named Crowley – repeated, gleefully. He even adjusted his sunglasses a little bit, as if preening. Despite him being taller, and objectionably more fashionable of the two – unless your sense of fashion was from the nineteenth century – Tilda got the distinct impression that he didn’t consider himself to be the lead actor in this particular drama, merely an instigator.
“I can see that.” Mr Fell – a glance at the sign above the bookshop confirmed the name – said in a way that wasn’t quite shouting but really rather wanted to be. He eyed the gathered crowd with the exasperation of a parent finding a toddler drawing on the walls and dusted some invisible lint off his tweed waistcoat. “What I’m interested in is: Why? And also; How?”
“Quite lost the control of the vehicle,” Crowley said. He hadn’t removed his sunglasses but the rest of his face made an attempt at ‘wide-eyed innocence’. It didn’t go well. Tilda thought that the problem was a simple lack of practice as his seemed a face utterly unused to any kind of innocence at all. “One moment I’m driving along when I realise that I’m – by pure coincidence of course – in your neighbourhood. And I think to myself: Wonder how my Old Friend Az… Mr Fell is? Since I haven’t heard from him for So Long.” Crowley’s voice got noticeably sharper toward the end, until he sounded a bit like he was hissing. “And, well, I must have gotten all distracted, because…” He gestured at the Bentley and the abundance of glass shards surrounding it.
“Oooh, ghosted,” the punk next to Tilda stage-whispered. “The shop window makes sense now. Happened to me once or twice.” He shook his head sympathetically. Tilda suppressed an urge to pat him on the arm. “Me too,” she confined. They shared a look of commiseration.
Mr Fell opened his mouth. A couple of syllables definitely tumbled out, but they didn’t sound like complete words, at least not in any language Tilda had heard before – and living in London meant that was quite a few.
“What’s that?” Crowley asked. “Been busy, have you?” The question was ostensibly aimed at the bookshop owner but it was also loud enough that every single onlooker heard it clearly. “Something terribly important taking up your time?”
The punk hissed through his teeth and even Tilda raised her eyebrows. The implication of ‘more important than me’ wasn’t even a little bit subtle.
“I… You know we… It wasn’t…” Mr Fell had reclaimed the use of English words but not full sentences. For the first time during the whole encounter, he looked actually upset, though it was clear that had nothing to do with the damage to his bookshop and everything to do with the damage of a different kind, inflicted perhaps accidentally but inflicted nonetheless.
“Wasn’t what, Angel?” Crowley didn’t even try to change what was clearly a well-used endearment and Tilda made a little involuntary hum of empathy at the back of her throat. “Wasn’t important?”
“Safe,” Mr Fell said. “I thought it wouldn’t be safe. Everyone was still watching us and…” He glanced at the gathered crowd and then at the bookshop longingly, clearly wishing to take the conversation somewhere more private.
Crowley’s body language changed so quickly that for a moment Tilda thought he’d actually been replaced by a different man. Gone was the defensive belligerency, replaced by something far more genuine.
“Angel,” he said, stepping closer, hands hovering awkwardly around Mr Fell’s shoulders and arms, landing for little fleeting touches here and there. “Angel, we’re safe. They’re watching alright but they can’t touch us.”
“Do you think they’re talking about the government?” the punk asked under his breath.
Normally, Tilda would’ve dismissed that as a paranoid conspiracy theory, but there was something weird going on here for sure. “Maybe… Family?” she suggested. “Or… ex-partners?”
“That’s fucked up,” he said. “You gotta let people go when they want.” He cracked his knuckles and sniffed. Tilda somehow felt better.
“But… What if…” Over by the shop Mr Fell seemed to have captured Crowley’s restless hands in both of his and was anxiously peering around as if expecting either MI5 or jealous ex-lovers, possibly both, to spring up from behind what should have been a wreck of a car but actually still looked remarkably intact.
Tilda blinked at the Bentley, trying to find a scratch on its gleaming paintwork but somehow unable to focus enough to do so.
“You must know, dear,” Mr Fell was saying, “that nothing is more important than your safety. Not even…” He swallowed and reached up to nudge Crowley’s sunglasses down just enough to catch his eyes, “Not even your company.”
From where Tilda and her green-haired companion were standing, it was difficult to make out more than a quarter of Crowley’s face, but what they did see, grew helplessly soft, mouth rounding up in surprise.
“Awww,” the punk said, with a gusty sigh before cupping a hand by his mouth. “Go on mate!” he hollered. “Give him a snog!”
There was a smattering of laughter from the crowd, accompanied by a piercing wolf-whistle. Tilda took her fingers out of her mouth and pretended not to notice the punk’s delighted grin.
The commotion seemed to finally tip the imaginary scales from Crowley’s ‘this scene needs an audience’ approach to Mr Fell’s ‘no one look at me, ever’ preference. “Right,” he said, pushing Crowley – still uncoordinated from what seemed like the profound shock of reciprocated feelings – toward the door. “Go inside and put the kettle on, I’ll deal with this.”
Tilda turned toward friendly guy next to her, intend on making a joke about tea fixing everything and maybe… There was a sudden pressure in her ears, the bottom of her stomach dropping out, like a plane going through a bad spot of turbulence and…
Tilda shook her head and frowned at the window of an antiquarian bookshop. Why had she stopped here? There were some dusty looking volumes on display. Maybe she’d thought they’d make a good birthday present for her aunt… That must be it. But looking at them more closely suggested she’d miscalculated. Aunt Glenda was into mysteries. She’d get her the new PD James, but not from here. The shop was closed anyways.
She turned around and ran straight into a tall guy with green hair.
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
He blinked at her and smiled, his piercings glinting in the evening sun. “No worries,” he said. “I was just…” He blinked again and then said. “Admiring the car?” It came out like a question but Tilda had to agree that the gleaming black Bentley, parked outside the bookshop looked rather impressive.
“It’s nice.”
“Yeah.”
Inexplicably, they stood side by side for another minute, silently looking at the car. It was somehow not awkward at all.
“Anyway,” Tilda said eventually. “I better go. Have to ring my mum.” It wasn’t her usual evening to call but somehow she felt like she ought to. Would be nice to catch up.
“Me too,” said the punk with a warm, if somewhat baffled smile. “I’ll see you around.”
“See you around.” Tilda grinned, suddenly entirely sure that she would. And soon. Well, it made sense, Soho wasn’t that big.
***
no subject
on 2022-01-16 09:18 pm (UTC)ALSO: EXCELLENT title.
no subject
on 2022-01-20 12:07 am (UTC)haha, thanks you! I know I wanted to make some kind of play on that song title for this because the chorus kept playing in my mind the whole time :D