Daegaer (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} daegaer) wrote,@ 2004-02-01 01:13:00 |
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| Entry tags: | fic commentary |
Commentary on 'Bright with his Splendour', part three
Another massive jump in time, to 1917 CE. As it was first posted, the next scene began part two of the story, making each half start with a war to end wars. I found this section quite draining to write, even though I'd already been writing short pieces related to it over a number of months previous: Over the Top; At the Going Down of the Sun; No Man's Land; Brightness; Monstrous Anger.
Crowley lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. Overhead the guns roared on and on. The other officers in the crowded dugout stared at their out-of-date newspapers or their hands of cards with grim determination. As he watched them Crowley wanted to shriek, break their fragile calm and ask if they realised they were all dead men. He drew the smoke down into his lungs and held it, then exhaled very slowly. He wasn't going to be shown up by a bunch of humans. He wasn't going to be the first one to scream.
"Times, Crowley?" Murcheson asked, holding out the week-old paper.
"No. Thank you. I want to go and check on the men."
"Rest, man. They'll be fine."
He stubbed his cigarette out and climbed up to the door. Behind him he could hear the whispers start.
"Unsociable fellow."
"Shh. Didn't you hear what he did? Came out of No-Man's-Land with --"
Crowley is being haunted with a reputation of heroism that drives him deeper into despair. He carried one of the men in his command out of No-Man's-Land and found himself immediately a figure of legend.
He went through the curtain, and closed the door firmly behind him. The air wasn't much fresher in the trench although it was colder. From the sound of it the guns were aimed at each other tonight. It would be an unlucky shell that landed down here. Keeping the firm picture of an unshelled trench in his mind he walked along, quietly stepping past sleeping bodies, acknowledging the quiet murmurs of the sentries. It began to rain again, a persistent light drizzle. He hadn't been properly warm or dry since he came out to France. Just warm enough for the lice, he thought irritably, the thought making him scratch. He'd more than once contemplated wishing all the little buggers from his body and hair, but he had to look like a real soldier. He had to fit in. And it wouldn't be fair either - if he got rid of his he should really get rid of his men's and where would it stop? He wasn't running a bloody grooming service. Anyway, being as filthy and lousy and as racked with coughs as the men was useful. They liked to see their superiors suffering along with them, it made the officers more trusted. He came to the right bays and silently counted his men in their shallow dugouts scooped into the walls of the trench. All present, all alive. He scratched again absentmindedly. The men had been overtly friendly since he'd taken up their invitation to have his hair gone over with a fine-toothed comb. He hadn't stayed to hunt for body lice; that would have been pushing it. The sooner he damned this lot and got out of here the better, he thought. Rumour said the German trenches were immaculate and dry. Maybe he should go pay Fritz a visit.
Crowley really is keeping the trench safe - in the book it's clear that things that immediately affect Crowley are exactly as he unconsciously expects them to be, but here he is consciously widening that to include the men under his command, the officers' dug-out and as much of the surrounding area as he can. This is part of the reason he's exhibiting shell-shock, as the effort is exhausting him. At this point he is moving from the earlier stages of shell-shock (continual tiredness and irritability) to the point where he is beginning to exhibit tremors in his hands and has to fight to maintain calm.
Crowley's desire to fit in to his surroundings has him accommodating himself, once again, to Hell. Soldiers' accounts of trench warfare show a running battle against the lice, which were a continual source of pain, trench fever and disgust. (Discarded clothing could be seen to move by itself, the infestation was so bad). One of the slang terms for a louse was a "chat", and "chatting" (searching each other for body and hair lice) was a communal social activity. There is meant to be a parallel here between the social wing-grooming of the angelic soldiers and the social louse-hunting of the human soldiers.
He never quite got around to it. He was enjoying himself, in a perverse way, seeing how little it took to cast the men into elation or despondency. A couple of times he pretended he'd got a parcel from home, and shared things out among the men. It made him look good, and it was quite something to see a grown man bite back tears because he'd got a slab of fruit cake. Not that he blamed the poor bastards - he couldn't have brought himself to choke down the rancid horsemeat and hard biscuit of their rations. At least the officers usually got enough to eat and it was reasonably edible. The men all had hollow eyes and hollow stomachs. Poor bastards. To enhance his reputation he took to bringing them part of his rations, enjoying their protests that he shouldn't short himself and the guilt they felt at eating his food.
While the enlisted soldiers' rations were awful, and practically always cold and congealed, officers were well-fed on decent food throughout the war.
Once he really did get a parcel. He sat looking at it for almost an hour before being goaded into opening it.
"Go on, C-c-crowley. Open it," Jamieson said, looking at the label on the side. "A. Ziraph-f-f-ale? What sort of name is that?"
"Uh. French," Crowley said. "A distant relative."
He opened it and looked at the neat tins of food, the little luxuries that Aziraphale thought he needed. He'd have to share it with the officers, he realised, now that he'd opened it in front of them. He took out some of the tins of lobster and the most expensive jams. The tobacco he tucked away for the men - the officers already had plenty. He sniggered over the silly, impractical things the angel had sent as he lifted out a terrine of duck from Harrods.
"My God, is that f-f-fresh b-b-bread?" Jamieson asked. "How can it be f-f-fresh?"
"Think of it as a miracle," Crowley said dryly, tearing the loaf in half. "Here."
He made himself a huge sandwich filled with an unlikely combination of foodstuffs. Aziraphale would be horrified, he thought as he bit into it and rummaged round some more. A single, perfect red apple. He laughed commonly through a full mouth and put it away safely, settling down to read the letter. As he started it the guns opened up again. He forced himself to hear Aziraphale's voice, and slowly, slowly read the news from home. Details of London life; the hardships of rationing - Crowley snorted, looking at the box - a careful and full list of Aziraphale's activities, keeping him up to date on the Arrangement. Sharp toned commentary on political developments. A final plea for him to take care and not risk himself overmuch; bureaucracy being as it was, who could say when he'd be assigned new 'equipment'? Then the beautiful flowing signature. Crowley read the letter twice over and folded it carefully into his breast pocket. He'd read it again later. He took out the cans of soup - looking round he saw no one was paying him particular attention, so he created several more - and took them and the tobacco out to the men.
Another occurrence of the pattern of things in threes: Crowley reads the letter twice, and reads it again (off-screen) later.
* * *
The trenches were shelled during an officers' briefing one evening. The dugout shook and clods of earth showered down, bringing down one of the roof beams as well. The lights went out and there was uproar in the blackness. Crowley took advantage of the officers' blindness to push over and lift the beam away from Murcheson, leaving him with no more than a mild concussion. He ran for the ladder, wishing the fallen earth away, and hearing a shout behind him.
Although he saves Murcheson's life at least, and possibly the other officers', Crowley is working on automatic here, and is more concerned with the enlisted men. I tried to get across that at this point he is not actually thinking of himself at all, a rare occurrence.
"W-w-wait! If they have our range those won't be the only ones!"
Damn them, he thought. Damn their briefing. He'd been paying attention to it, he'd forgotten to concentrate on keeping the trench safe. One of the batmen was huddled at the top of the ladder. He had been neatly sliced in two by the shrapnel. Crowley ran. He leapt over the wounded and dying, he shoved dazed men aside. His bays were further down, much further down. Dying men stared at him in shock, but he no longer cared what they saw. He slowed as he reached his men. The first thing he saw was Hughes retching and thought it must have been gas. Then he saw what lay beyond and knew it was horror making the man sick. Another shell had come down, barely missing landing in the trench itself; there was shrapnel all around.
"Out of my way!" he hissed, pushing Hughes aside.
Franklin lay twisted at the side of the trench. Half his face was gone. Beside him Jones was screaming. Crowley could see the path the shrapnel had taken, scouring along the wall of the trench, killing Franklin instantly and burying itself in Jones' thigh as he stood on the step to look over the top through the periscope. There was blood everywhere. Jones' leg was half severed and a chunk of shell casing was embedded in his groin. The poor bastard had been castrated. Bile rose in Crowley's throat and he fell forward, straightening Jones' leg.
"Jones," he muttered. "It's all right."
Hands pulled him back and voices were yelling in his ear. The men were all around him, shouting for him not to look, there was nothing to be done.
"Let me go!" he cried. "I can save him!"
They wrestled him down to the ground and held him there. Jones kept screaming mindlessly.
"For Christ's sake, get him to the MOs!" Byrne yelled over his shoulder. To Crowley he said, "There's nothing you can do, Sir, nothing. The doctors will save him if they can."
The screams faded down the trench as a couple of the men ran with Jones on a plank between them. Franklin was carried away more slowly. Crowley stopped struggling, all the fight leaving him at once. Byrne sat back, letting him up.
This scene is mentioned in 'At the Going Down of the Sun'. Private Franklin and Private Jones's fates were taken from survivors' descriptions of trenches being shelled.
"Sorry, Captain," he said.
Crowley nodded. He didn't want to look at the man. He couldn't bear the worry and sympathy in his face.
"I could have saved him," he said dully.
"Jesus, Captain. God couldn't have saved him," Hughes said behind him.
Crowley held up a hand.
"Don't. Don't blaspheme around me."
Crowley is afraid that Hughes will set off some sort of automatic response that will make him act demonically. The soldiers take it as his religious sensibilities being offended.
"Sorry, Sir," Hughes said.
Crowley stood up, leaning against the wall for support.
"Why hadn't they taken shelter?" he asked.
Byrne and Hughes looked at each other, obviously wishing they hadn't been the first ones to grab him. None of the others volunteered to speak.
"Jones was taking a look, Sir," Byrne said finally. "And Franklin was covering him. Sergeant's orders, Sir."
"During a shell attack? Where," Crowley said icily, "is the sergeant?"
Both men looked back up the trench in the direction he'd come. Crowley saw another still form. He couldn't remember jumping over it, although he supposed he must have. No one seemed to be in a hurry to carry it.
"Dead, Sir," Hughes said.
"Lucky for him," Crowley said viciously.
His hands were red with Jones' blood, he saw. What had he been thinking? Heal the man and breathe life back into Franklin in front of a crowd of witnesses? He hadn't even given a thought to changing their memories. Stupid, stupid and sentimental. He wished they hadn't held him back. He thought of the way Franklin's face had lit up when he'd given him a handful of the tobacco Aziraphale had sent. The man had looked like he was handed a great prize, and Crowley had laughed to himself at how easily humans were pleased and distracted from their mean little lives. And then a piece of blisteringly hot sharp metal had sheared its way through Franklin's skull and he'd never look at Crowley happily again. And Jones with his picture of his sweetheart that he mooned over every chance he got. No chance of children for Jones, now. No chance of life either, now that he'd been consigned to the overworked and understaffed hospital tents. Crowley knew he was shaking, but couldn't seem to stop. He'd laughed at these men. He'd planned out their damnation. He'd thought about filling quotas. He wouldn't put it past Hell's bureaucrats to have sent these shells as a reminder to get a move on. He was the cause of this, and now the survivors were worried about him. He looked at the tired, filthy faces around him and was ashamed.
This is the second point in the story where Crowley is forced to face up to the fact that he is a very bad person for humans to know and that he hates his job.
"I've had enough of their damned quotas," he said. "You're my men and I won't have this interference."
They looked at him uncomprehendingly. Hands patted his arm tentatively.
"Have a rest, Sir," Byrne said. "Just for a while."
"All right, Corporal," he said.
They urged him into one of their own dugouts. Crowley wearily obeyed. Not much like the officers had, he thought. Just a shelf cut into the side of the trench. He closed his eyes. He listened to them finally make preparations to carry the sergeant's body away and tried very hard not to listen to them discussing whether their captain had lost his sanity or not. When he woke it was early morning and the rations were being brought round. Hughes offered him a cup of liquid. He sipped and grimaced.
"What the hell is this?"
"Best cold turnip soup in France, Sir."
Crowley was surprised into laughter, and saw how the faces brightened and he was surrounded with smiles.
"Sir," Hughes said, clearing his throat. "Your holster catch must be faulty. Your revolver fell out while you were asleep."
Crowley took the revolver and snapped it securely into its holster. Hughes was a liar and a pickpocket, which Crowley approved of, and he'd taken the revolver out of concern, which Crowley forgave.
"Thank you, Private Hughes," he said. "Nothing's as well made as it was before the war, is it?"
He looked at them closely, fixing every detail in his memory. They were his men and he was going to get them the hell out of here.
* * *
He thought he should start with the one he'd be able to get out legitimately, and called Wilkins over to him later that day. The boy did his best to stand at attention given that he was laden down with heavy and water-sodden gear. Crowley ignored the expression in the shining eyes fixed avidly on his face.
Private Wilkins is the viewpoint character in 'At the Going Down of the Sun', and is the man rescued by Crowley from No-Man's-Land.
"Wilkins," he said. "Listen to me carefully. Sooner or later you know we'll be ordered over, don't you?"
"Yes, Sir," the boy said.
"Well, when that time comes I'm going to be very busy, and even if any man has a legitimate reason to come to me about something important, I won't be able to help him. Not at that late stage."
"No, Sir."
"Good lad. So what I want you to do, Wilkins, I want you to tell me now exactly how old you are and I'll get you sent home, all right?"
"Sir?" the boy said, a look of panic beginning to grow on his face.
"I'm not angry with you, not at all. Come on, Wilkins, just say Captain Crowley, I'm sixteen and it'll all be over. Or fifteen, or whatever you are. You know you can trust me, don't you?"
"Yes, Sir," Wilkins said. "Captain Crowley. I'm nineteen."
The minimum age for enlistment was nineteen, but Private Wilkins has recently passed his sixteenth birthday in the trench. Very large numbers of children enlisted in all the armies, often with adult encouragement. Although they were theoretically demobbed as soon as their true age became known this was not always the case. This page includes the report of a terrified sixteen-year-old begging his officer not to send him over the top and being told that there's no time left to worry about things like that, he'll just have to make the best of it like everyone else.
Crowley looked down at the boy in despair. All the men were shorter than him, the legacy of impoverishment and childhood illnesses, but with Wilkins it was ridiculous. He knew the story of the patrol gone wrong and him carrying Wilkins out to safety had grown to stupid, heroic proportions when the truth was that any of the men could have picked up this child and run with him. He patted the boy's shoulder and turned away from the adoration in his eyes. Stupid, stupid boy.
The rescue is in the drabble 'No Man's Land' - while Wilkins is indeed a slight, short boy, Crowley is playing down his actions because as a demon he doesn't want to think of himself as having done a good deed, and as a person, he thinks he hasn't done a good enough deed. Wilkins has, although he doesn't really understand it, the most massive crush on his captain. Crowley does understand, and it's just one more thing adding to his depression and feelings of worthlessness as he doesn't think he deserves affection and devotion.
He next thought of trench foot. It wasn't as common as at the start of the war, though, and there would be questions if all the men came down with it. Not terribly practical, not to mention that they'd have to have most of their feet rotted off before getting a medical discharge given the rumours of the big push that was coming. Anyway, the thought sickened him.
This paragraph about trench foot is clumsy, and is too much of an info-dump. It comes off as "another disgusting fact about WW1".
Discharges for shell-shock were out of the question. Officers got shell-shocked. Ordinary soldiers got charged with malingering and cowardice and flung back into the lines. Or shot, if they were unluckier than most. Anyway, Crowley thought a little hysterically, so many men were shell-shocked it was the ones who weren't who stood out as abnormal nowadays. His own hands hadn't been steady for weeks, which he was ignoring as best he could. He thought he was doing pretty well, considering. All the other officers he regularly saw stuttered or twitched as well as having shaking hands. He was fine. Tiredness, that's all that was wrong with him. He turned over in his bunk, pretending the noise he heard was a thunderstorm. Just thunder.
When the orders finally came through, Crowley knew in a sudden flash of clarity how he was going to do it. He closed his eyes and saw the bullets causing damage, but not killing. He saw the frustrated officials, forced to discharge men back to civilian life instead of feeding them to the guns. He saw poor little Wilkins dying old in bed surrounded by weeping grandchildren. He saw his own escape - memories of a grenade, he thought, for the men. Something that would explain the lack of an identifiable body. He turned his laugh into a cough and ignored the looks he got, brushing off the clumsy attempts Jamieson made afterwards to ask if he were all right. Who had time to wait until the man got a sentence out, anyway? He just walked off with his good, warm, edible officer's meal and took it out to the sentries. He couldn't quite remember when he'd last had any of his own rations, but it wasn't important as long as he had cigarettes and coffee. He strode down the trench, his heart light, to spend the remaining time with his men.
Crowley has lost it completely at this stage, and is in a state of hysterical exhilaration. .
They were shaken when he told them, but that was to be expected. He looked meaningfully at Wilkins, but the boy looked stubbornly back and shook his head. Fine. Didn't matter. Not now.
"Now," Crowley said in a light, cheerful voice, "our orders are quite simple. As it gets nice and light we climb up there and walk at a dignified pace towards the enemy. When we get close enough to their trenches we charge, and bayonet them. Any questions?"
There was silence. Then:
"We walk, Captain? Everyone says when it's done that way no one gets more than a few feet from the ladders."
Advancing at walking pace was the general policy. The unnamed soldier who speaks is correct, they can expect to be mown down by machine-gun fire within a few seconds.
"Well, the generals are old and fat and can barely waddle," Crowley said calmly. "Seeing as we're young and thin, I suggest we run, and make ourselves at least a little harder to hit. Stick close to me - no matter what anyone says, I order you to run."
He smiled at them. He wasn't sure how many things he could affect at once, and wanted them in a nice identifiable bunch close to him. He pulled bars of chocolate out of his belt pouch. They were too highly strung to wonder how he'd got so many, or how he'd fit them all in the pouch. This was the hard part, and it was one he hadn't wanted, but he knew he had to do it. There would be questions if they all survived, something might be suspected, someone might investigate. What's more, the human authorities might notice as well. He had thought about this carefully and chosen. He smiled as he handed chocolate to Byrne, capable Corporal Byrne who worried about his Captain and privately thought he took too much on himself. Corporal Byrne who was mistaken about his cough being caused by the cold and damp and who had an inoperable clot of darkness growing in his lungs. Private Saunders who'd been putting the ache in his gut down to bad food, and whose appendix was ready to burst and spew its poison throughout his body. Private Carter, whose cancer was in his bowels and would have him shitting blood continually within five years until he haemorrhaged to death in an undignified stinking mess. Fast. Painless, Crowley promised as he passed out the chocolate. If it was down to him he'd cure them and just get them all out, but better a few dead than all dead.
The deaths of Cpl Byrne, Pvt Saunders and Pvt Carter in the attack is mentioned in 'At the Going Down of the Sun'.
Finally Crowley sat down on the step and took the last thing out of his belt pouch. A beautiful, shining red apple, as fresh as the day it had arrived. He closed his eyes and smelled it, thinking of beautiful gardens and a kind face. He took a bite. It was perfect.
This is the second reference to the Garden of Eden, and here it is just a memory, albeit one that gives Crowley strength to carry out his plan. The apple from Aziraphale is the first food Crowley has had in some weeks.
* * *
Afterwards, he spent a great deal of time in the hospital tents, keeping the men quiet and happy. He didn't particularly care if anyone else was there or not. If they got a reputation for being mad as well as wounded, so much the better. It could only get them home quicker. He waited until the doctors had noted that each and every one of them was unfit for duty and should be invalided out. Then he went round a final time and firmly instructed all their wounds that they were to heal completely within a year of the men becoming civilians once more.
And then he went, leaving only rumours and ghost stories behind. He was very tired.
Crowley walked hesitantly through Soho. He didn't want to go where he was going, but he needed someone who knew him, not Captain A. J. Crowley. As he walked along Wardour Street a truck backfired beside him. He found himself flattened in a doorway, breathing hard. A prosperous looking middle-aged man frowned at him, shaking his head in disapproval. Blank rage surged through Crowley, but he was distracted from murder by the sight of a young man clambering to his feet from where he'd thrown himself behind a post box. He met Crowley's eyes and both looked aside, ashamed. Crowley picked up his bag and walked quickly until he came to the turning for Aziraphale's bookshop.
It was open, for a wonder. He slipped inside and found the angel sitting behind the counter, reading a newspaper.
"Hello," Crowley said.
He dropped his kit bag and looked around so he wouldn't have to look Aziraphale in the face just yet.
"Still dusty in here, I see."
"Crowley! You look -- tired."
He looked over and did his best to ignore the concern in Aziraphale's face and voice. The angel looked exactly as Crowley remembered. The shop was the same too. There was still something the War hadn't touched, hadn't destroyed. He did his best to give a carefree smile and hid his dismay as Aziraphale winced.
There's meant to be some ambiguity in Crowley's thought, here. The two Wars are mixed up in his mind.
"How about a nice cup of tea?" Aziraphale said quietly. "Come on, let's get you comfy."
He followed Aziraphale into the back room and sat in one of the armchairs. Well. Those were different. It was odd to think of the angel going out furniture shopping. Aziraphale patted his shoulder and bustled out to the scullery. Crowley heard the gas ring light with a whoosh and closed his eyes. He opened them a second later and found a cup of tea being held out. He smiled at the thought that Aziraphale had been too impatient to wait for the kettle to boil naturally. He spooned sugar into the cup. He hadn't used it before he had gone away, but had found it comforting in France. It was only when he saw how low the sugar was in the bowl that he realised he was using far more than his fair share.
The shabby armchairs in the shop's back room from the book are here brand spanking new.
Although it's not too clear, Aziraphale didn't hurry up the kettle. Crowley is losing track of time due to the shell-shock.
"Sorry," he muttered, pushing the bowl away.
"Oh no, I've given it up -- bad for the figure," Aziraphale said unconvincingly, and pushed the bowl back. "Go on."
Crowley slowly drank the tea, poured himself another cup and drank that too. He felt lost and alone.
"I don't want to impose," he said, "but I was wondering if I could stay here tonight. I'll find rooms tomorrow."
He saw indecision and doubt in Aziraphale's face. It didn't do to shelter the enemy, he thought. You'd be shot for that.
"I don't have any --," Aziraphale's voice trailed off. "Yes, of course," he said decisively.
"I'd go to a hotel, but I can't stand to be around people," Crowley said.
"I wouldn't hear of it. I -- saw your name in the casualty lists," Aziraphale said carefully. "I expected you every day after that. I -- it's not that I don't want you here, it's just I thought you must not want to see me. I was just surprised you turned up. I'm really very glad to see you, Crowley."
"I had something to do," Crowley said. "I needed to take care of one or two things."
"Oh. What would you like for dinner?" Aziraphale said.
"Anything. I just want to lie down, to be honest. And have a bath, if I could."
"Of course," Aziraphale said, "of course. You finish up the tea and I'll get things ready."
He ran out of the room. Crowley heard him rush up the stairs and then odd noises drifted down. It sounded, Crowley thought, rather like furniture suddenly appearing a fraction of an inch above floor level, and settling down. By the time he'd emptied the teapot Aziraphale had come down again.
"Now. Let me take your bag. No, no, it's no trouble. Up this way."
He was led to a bright, pleasant room with a comfortable looking bed piled high with pillows. The gas light made it look very warm. Everything in the room was brand new, he saw. He wondered how many books Aziraphale had had to move. The angel put the kit bag carefully by a chair.
"I've run the bath for you - I hope the water isn't too hot. I think I may have overestimated it."
"It won't be too hot," Crowley said.
Aziraphale showed him to the bathroom. Steam rose in great clouds from the water. A pile of sparklingly white towels were neatly heaped on a straight backed chair by the bath.
"Soap," Aziraphale said, "flannels, towels. If there's anything else you need, just call. I'll go and see what we can have for dinner."
Crowley shut the door on him, glad of the quiet. It wasn't fair to be tired of Aziraphale so quickly, he knew. It was just exhaustion. He'd be better after a bath and some food. It was such a relief to be back in England, to be away -- he very deliberately stopped thinking, and undressed.
The water was scalding hot as he sank back into the bath. Perfect. He submerged himself for a long, long moment, then sat up and rubbed soap through his hair. If there was one thing he couldn't stand it was having dirty hair. As he splashed the soap out of his eyes he saw his fingernails were grubby, and reached for the nailbrush. Even after a few minutes work, he didn't seem to have made a difference. With a shock he realised he had decaying flesh caught under his nails. He began to shake as he looked at himself. His forearms were streaked with thick, stinking mud. He'd seen wounded men out on a battlefield, both German and British, screaming in fear as the British tanks came closer and closer. The mud had been red for yards around. There was a heavy smell of shit and rot in the room and he couldn't get his nails clean. He frantically scrubbed the hard bristles under his nails and along his arms, and watched as the mud turned red. High pitched boys' voices crying out in German and English were drowned out by the roar of machinery.
The reference to hating dirty hair is a reference back to the War in Heaven, when Crowley was splattered with another angel's blood. Crowley's sensory hallucination is taken from an eye-witness account of the Somme, of the British tanks driving over wounded British soldiers.
The door flew open.
"Crowley!"
He looked up, slowly. Aziraphale was white and shaking.
"I'm trying," Crowley said, "to have a bath, here."
"You didn't answer. I've been calling and calling and knocking on the door. You were up here so long, and I thought -- I thought . . .," Aziraphale said in a rush.
Crowley doesn't realise the state he's in, not fully. Up to this point he's thought he was putting on a good show for Aziraphale, who of course has been horrified by his condition since the moment he saw him.
The water had somehow gone cold, Crowley realised. And red. He closed his eyes and pretended he didn't hear the screams.
"Oh dear," Aziraphale said softly. Then, in a brisk, light voice he said, "dear me, the water's cold. That can't be very comfortable. Let's just rinse the soap from your hair."
Warm water suddenly trickled over Crowley's head and the soap was carefully rinsed away. He heard the plug being pulled and the water started to drain away.
"Stand up, there's a good chap."
He obeyed, opening his eyes to see Aziraphale spread one of the towels on the floor. He caught a flicker of pain in the angel's eyes as he looked at him, but then Aziraphale was calm and mildly cheerful again.
"Now. Out we get - careful - don't slip."
He took the hand Aziraphale held out and stepped out onto the towel where he had another one neatly wrapped round his waist. Looking down he saw that water was dripping onto the angel's expensive shoes. He hoped he wouldn't mind too much. He let himself be gently sat down on the edge of the bath so that Aziraphale could dry his hair. His hands and arms were hurting, but he didn't want to look at them, not yet. Soft hands touched his forearms lightly and the pain stopped.
"Would you like to lie down before eating something?" Aziraphale asked.
He nodded.
"Well, then. We can't have you going to bed with wet hair. You'd catch pneumonia."
His hair was no longer clinging damply to his scalp. He sat there quietly as the angel finished drying him with light, impersonal hands, and then wrapped a dry towel around him to keep him warm on the few short steps back to the bedroom. A pair of pyjamas had appeared. He let himself be helped into them, then climbed into the bed and hugged the hot water bottle to him. There was another one for his feet.
"You're so thin," Aziraphale said. "You haven't been looking after yourself. You rest. I'll bring you up some beef tea in a while."
He put a hand on Crowley's forehead and then quietly left the room.
I was happy with the way the scene in the bathroom came out, with Crowley doing his best to repress his extreme distress and Aziraphale offering the sort of kindness he thought Crowley would best be able to accept. I wanted Aziraphale to be shown as competent and as knowing what he was doing, and being able to get his panic under control quickly for Crowley's sake (he was assuming the worst when Crowley refused to answer him).
* * *
He stayed for weeks. For the first fortnight he couldn't find the interest to even get out of bed. He ate what he was brought and slept. It was clear he wasn't going to make it down the stairs to the toilet in the yard, and he was grateful for the chamber pot that tactfully appeared by the bed. The only thing that got him up eventually was the prospect of bathing.
In all my stories Crowley is a physically clean person, partly because of having better senses than a human, here because he feels dirty all the time when he returns from the war.
Aziraphale stayed by his side. At night he would wake from horrors to see the angel reading in a chair, a faint blue light hovering over the pages. He would patiently put his book aside and come over to plump up the pillows, or just sit silently on the edge of the bed while Crowley gripped his hand painfully. After Crowley had hurt himself again in the bathroom, Aziraphale didn't let him be alone there either, and would sit politely looking at the far wall until Crowley was done.
Although he didn't want to, Crowley gradually got tired of the room. Three days after he had flung a tray of food into Aziraphale's face in a sudden fury and turned his face stubbornly to the wall, he decided he should get up for at least an hour. He dressed and went off to see where Aziraphale had got himself to. He found him in the kitchen, preparing a tray with a pot of tea and some light golden toast. Crowley marched over to the table and sullenly took the cup he was offered.
This three-day period results in a sort of resurrection for Crowley, as he reluctantly begins to re-enter life.
"Thanks," he said, with as ill grace as he could manage.
"Remembered how to talk, have we?" Aziraphale said, amused.
"Can I read your books? I'm bored."
"Of course. Something classic? Something modern? I've got quite a decent collection of Anglo-Irish literature from the last twenty-odd years."
Anglo-Irish literature from the late 19th-early 20th century was radical religiously, politically and socially (and grammatically - George Bernard Shaw just couldn't stand apostrophes, and thought they should be wiped out). Aziraphale is offering reading material he genuinely thinks Crowley would enjoy.
"It's not religious, is it?" Crowley asked suspiciously.
Crowley, on the other hand, still hasn't forgiven St Patrick and is sulky on the whole topic of Ireland.
"Not really," Aziraphale said, smiling. "I'll get you a selection of things. Do you think you'd like to stay up for dinner?"
Crowley thought about it. He felt oddly exposed sitting at the table. He longed for the safety of the cosy little bedroom and the warm blankets. He wanted to go right back and pull them up over his head.
"Yes," he said firmly. "I'll stay up."
* * *
After that it was easier to stay up, easier to be in a different room. It wasn't any easier to talk. He wished Aziraphale would let him stay silent.
"What happened?" Aziraphale asked, late one night.
What do you think? Crowley thought. Everything. Nothing. People killing each other, same as always. He knew Aziraphale didn't mean it like that. The angel had seen enough bloodshed over the years to know what humans were capable of doing. He knew Aziraphale meant what had happened to him. He felt his chest constrict and panic begin to rise. He had to distract the angel, somehow, anyhow. He could not speak.
"It's all right. I'm sorry," Aziraphale said, very quietly. "Here, let me -"
Crowley felt his hands gently being pulled away from his face. He hadn't even realised he'd hidden his face. He was hunched over. He uncurled himself and looked over at the clock. Only fifteen minutes lost this time. That was something, at least.
"I'm fine. I wasn't wounded," he said angrily.
"No."
"I've seen worse," he spat. "I've seen Hell."
It's in France.
This conversation is rather wooden. It didn't work out as I'd thought it would - Crowley's thoughts are too much of a set of subtitles on what is actually said.
Aziraphale said nothing, but just held his hands lightly until Crowley pulled away and stood up.
"That business in Le Mons," he said. "Was that you?"
In 1914 there was a newspaper report of an angelic presence at the battle of Mons, with the English bowmen of Agincourt appearing to fight once more on Britain's side, and an angel on the battlefield. Despite the newspaper quickly announcing that this was a morale-boosting fiction it had printed for the public and was based on a short story, participants of the battle of Mons, both enlisted men and officers, sincerely came to believe they had seen an angelic presence. Here, I've assumed there was angelic intervention.
"No," Aziraphale said. "I suppose it was someone out for a bit of fun. I tried to make enquiries, but I never got an answer."
"I thought it might have been you. Bloody silly thing to do, really. Had 'Heaven' stamped all over it. Hell thought it was your people."
"I was told to take a hands off approach. What about you?"
Crowley took deep even breaths and stared at a spot on the floor. He could talk about plans. He could talk about bureaucratic stupidity. He hoped every single one of the generals ended up roasting.
"Once your lot was seen to be involved my people wanted in on the act. I was supposed to shift round from place to place, getting the men to renounce God before dying. I ended up in one command the entire time, with one group of men. Got almost all of them home, too."
"Will you get into trouble?" Aziraphale said.
"I'm sure more than enough of them on both sides died cursing God without me adding to it. I couldn't do it to my men, not when they believed," he said.
"They had very strong faith?" Aziraphale said.
"They believed," Crowley said sadly, "in me."
Aziraphale patted his hand. Crowley hissed in irritation, realising in disgust that he had come off as sounding noble. He snatched his hand back.
"They were my men, Aziraphale! Mine! I decided what happened to them, not some pen-pusher off at a desk! And I decided that Hell couldn't have them!"
The angel looked rather taken aback, but said nothing. Crowley stood still, feeling very tired.
"I'm going to have a bath and go to bed," he said.
He paused and managed to get the rest of the words out.
"I won't hurt myself this time."
Aziraphale looked at him calmly and nodded. Crowley went off, alone.
* * *
He decided the only thing to do was get out of England, and went to work persuading Aziraphale that they should take a break. The angel gave in with very little pretence that he was busy. Crowley knew he was being humoured, but didn't much care. For weeks he lay in the sun while Aziraphale did improving things like look at the landscape. He could pinpoint the exact moment when the trip turned into a holiday in Aziraphale's mind, rather than a convalescent trip. On the third day the angel caught a fish - probably quite by accident, Crowley thought - and made such a fuss that you’d have thought he’d invented fire or something. They cooked it and ate it even though it was mostly bones. Grinning to himself at the memory of a slightly sunburnt, over-excited Aziraphale fairly bouncing with glee, Crowley thought he’d never had a better meal in his life. So far away from everything, he began to feel more like himself, and indulged in some shameless showing off. There was no point in showing off to humans, who could never hope to compete or understand what he could do, but Aziraphale made for the perfect audience. The angel was a bit clumsy, and made the most amusing splashes when he hit the water, but Crowley could dive in leaving only the barest ripples behind. It was restful to lie on the sand at night, hands behind his head and listening to Aziraphale’s meandering description of his day. Or to hear Aziraphale protest yet again that he always stayed awake, just before he fell into an exhausted sleep. It was a wrench to finally suggest they had to leave and go back to their work. Aziraphale was surprisingly resistant to the idea, arguing for just another week or two. Crowley agreed, in the name of encouraging sloth and negligence in the opposition, but couldn't be persuaded past the one extension. He didn't seriously think anyone would bother to come looking for them, but it was too blessed easy to stay. He nagged Aziraphale back into respectable London clothes and spent a considerable time laughing at how silly respectable London clothes looked with such a deep tan and sun-bleached hair.
Their holiday is remembered from Aziraphale's point of view in 'Brightness'. There is nothing in that to explicitly set it in this time period, but in fact I always envisaged their holiday, on one of the deserted Greek islands, as taking place in 1917.
There is another "three day" reference - I find Crowley's exasperated you'd have thought he invented fire, or something especially amusing because in GO Aziraphale does invent fire by giving his flaming sword to the humans.
For those keeping score of naked angels - although it's clearer in 'Brightness' and is only implied here, they are both naked the whole time they're on the island. Why follow a human convention if there aren't humans around?
London was cool and grey and familiar. Crowley opened the shop door as Aziraphale paid the cabbie, finding everything as they'd left it except slightly dustier, if that was possible.
"I'll put the kettle on," Aziraphale said.
Crowley smiled and ran up the stairs, remembering suddenly that he'd left one of the angel's books open face downwards for weeks. Aziraphale would throw a tantrum if he found that out. He skidded into his room and grabbed the book, quickly repairing the cracked spine. He stood there, the book hanging loosely in his hand as he realised what he was thinking. He turned in a circle, taking in the bed with its soft pillows and thick, colourful blankets, the chair with its cushions, the neat bedside table and the narrow wardrobe where Aziraphale had carefully hung up his uniform. This wasn't his room. This was a room he'd borrowed from, from a - a business acquaintance. He should leave. He had to leave, unless he wanted to admit he was a pathetic excuse for embodied evil who couldn't even manage to sleep through a night without a blessed angel to tuck him in. And he was being an imposition, he thought. If he outstayed his welcome Aziraphale would become resentful. He really had to go, and the pang he felt at the thought showed it was past time he went. But not today, he thought, not when we've just come back.
This is the first time Crowley feels like he has a home, as opposed to somewhere he merely stays, and it scares him. The last home he had, he was forcibly expelled from. He is not prepared to think that it's not the comfy bed and chair that make it "home" but the presence of Aziraphale.
A couple of days later he left for America. Aziraphale was relieved to see him go, he knew, even if he had hidden it under regret and anxious assurances that Crowley was always welcome to stay. The ship was boring, not being designed for passengers. He amused himself by keeping an eye out for U-Boats and icebergs, and was heartily pleased every day he didn't see either.
Crowley is rationalising things - it's easier to run away if he thinks he wasn't really welcome.
America got his mind off things. He kept company with raconteurs - who were amusing - and gangsters - who were amusing and exciting - and politicians - who were neither, but he supposed he couldn't have fun every day of the week. In November, while people danced for joy in the streets, he drank himself insensible in case he would start to remember again. By the New Year he was back in London.
Originally I was going to have another paragraph here about Crowley staying as a lodger in the house of a war-widow whose daughter is born after her husband's death, and when the daughter is an adult and has inherited her mother's house Crowley makes her an offer for half it, and has the top two floors converted into his flat. I wasn't at all sure that his flat was in a converted house, though, so I omitted this. When I checked, though, his flat does have two floors, and is most probably in a converted house (we can see it has two floors in the scene where Hastur and Ligur break in - sitting in his office, Crowley hears them in the lounge "downstairs"). The old lady downstairs in GO was in my omitted paragraph the daughter who sells Crowley half the house, and she would be 81 in the year 2000.
For most of the rest of the twentieth century he convinced himself he was having a high old time.
Until he gets the call to meet Hastur and Ligur in the graveyard . . .
