Daegaer wrote in contrelamontre, @ 2003 -09 -17
Current mood: cheerful
Seville (Good Omens; Crowley/Aziraphale; G)
Fandom: Good Omens
Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. No
copyright infringement is intended in any way.
Written for the non-alcoholic drink challenge, in 29 minutes.
It was while he was walking through the hot, white dust, longing for some shade and some wine that Crowley succumbed to temptation. He’d been admiring the fruit trees, branches hung with the bright oranges for some time. He liked to think that he had a certain aesthetic sensibility, and the dark green of the leaves, and the deep gold of the fruit made a pleasing contrast to the bright and empty sky. Not to mention all the bloody dust. He’d been sauntering along, getting drier and dustier, with only the glowing colours to keep him going. Well, a demon didn’t live by picture postcard scenery alone*. He hopped over the fence and pulled a bright fruit off the nearest tree. It quite took him back, reminded him of old times. He lifted it to his nose and breathed in deeply. It smelled sharp and bitter. He’d eaten these before of course, cooked with salmon or cut into thin rings boiled in a thick syrup until the fruit fell apart at the first touch of a spoon. He cautiously peeled away a bit of the skin and nibbled on it ruminatively, spitting it out with a grimace. Right. You didn’t eat the rind raw, then. He quickly got rid of it, and the thick white pith, throwing them down in the dust for the insects. The fruit was much smaller naked. He shrugged, separated it into quarters, and popped one in his mouth, chewing. It was fresh, it was full of juice. It was the vilest bloody thing he’d ever bloody tasted. He spat it out to join the peel, and kicked the rest of it away from him, as hard as he could. He’d never tasted anything so sour that didn’t have some mind-altering capabilities. He was deeply, deeply disappointed.
Crowley steered clear of oranges completely after that, even going so far as to give up marmalade. The angel couldn’t understand, and seemed to take a mean pleasure in waving orange-related stuff under his nose for a century or two.
‘Won’t you have a little marmalade on your toast, Crowley?’ he’d say cheerfully, or ‘Wouldn’t you like some candied peel, Crowley?’ or, ’Dear me, you haven’t eaten any fruit or vegetables for sixty years, aren’t you worried about getting scurvy, Crowley?’
Scurvy. Frankly, Crowley preferred limes. At least they looked like the evil little bastards they were, not luring a fellow in with the promise of sweetness and pleasure and then turning sour and nasty on him.
It was many, many years later, in a cold and unpleasantly furnished room bulging with books, in a cold and damp city, on a cold island totally unsuited to the wholesale growing of orange trees that Crowley finally gave in to angelic badgering and dubiously accepted a glass of bright orange liquid. He sniffed at it. It smelled of oranges. He looked at it. It looked like orange juice. Why, in the name of all that was unholy it was in his hand, he couldn’t quite tell. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a cautious sip. It tasted sweet. Cool, sweet oranges filling his senses and making him feel like he would happily drink the angel’s entire stock. He looked over at the angel and saw a cheery and really quite smug smile, as if he was congratulating himself on getting Crowley over his inexplicable hatred of vitamin C. It really wouldn’t do to let the angel think he was some kind of good influence. The bastard was supposed to be meek and humble, after all. Crowley eyed the glass sarcastically.
‘Not bad,’ he said casually. ’You know, I bet vodka’d go really well with this.’
He smiled to himself as the angel rolled his eyes and began lecturing him on how predictable he was and couldn’t he appreciate anything that didn’t make him see double? He closed his eyes and took another sip, tasting sunlight, seeing the dark leaves and the white dust and the blue, blue sky and remembering times when fruit promised only beauty and pleasure and everything good.
Which was just as well, because picture postcards weren’t due to be invented for another three hundred years.