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Random Good Omens Ficbit
So, a Thing has been Done, and I did it in the very best Good Omens style I could manage, which is naturally quite inferior to the actual book but passable, I like to think. At the very least it's entertaining.
This is safe to read. Really. It just contains banter and reluctant friendship. Unless you'd rather it contain slash, in which case, um, there is wild monkey sex. Somewhere. Possibly actual monkey sex, in Africa, as you read this.
It was late in the afternoon on a sunny Saturday in France. The last six Saturdays in a row had been sunny, in addition to most if not all of the days in between. It was unnatural, irreverent, and Aziraphale suspected also unhealthy, which was why he was debating selling his shop and moving his books (and, of course, himself) back to England, where it was more respectably overcast.
The door opened, and reflexively, Aziraphale called to the customer, "Welcome." He said nothing else, and did not look up, pretending in fact to be very busy scrawling in illegibly miniscule handwriting. He had lately found that potential buyers of his beloved books got the impression that the shop was not in fact open for business, despite the unlocked door, if he ignored them.
"A rather lackluster way to greet an old friend."
Aziraphale looked up, startled, and then attempted a graceful recovery. "Crowley. You're looking well."
"Why, thank you for noticing."
The demon was in fact looking quite well. He seemed perfectly at ease and content, dressed with his usual care and impeccably groomed. Anyone else might've looked somewhat eccentric wearing a hat the size of the one currently perched on his head, but Crowley managed to make it seem more like trendsetting without particularly trying. As a matter of fact, in a matter of days half the wealthy men in Paris would be wearing such hats around, claiming to have seen it on an exotic young man the other week, attempting to make the accessory look less than eccentric. Textbooks won't tell you that these hats, and universal hatred of the fops wearing them, were partly responsible for the monumental upswing in hostilities during the French Revolution.
Crowley was practically glowing, and that made Aziraphale very suspicious.
"Having a comfortable weekend, are we?" he said, wary. "Taking in the local flare?" He wondered if maybe he should start taking a little more interest in the status of the war. A glowing demon was a bad sign. (Oddly enough, not much more so if the glowing was a sign of radioactivity.)
"Something like that." Crowley removed his elaborate hat, which was moderately ludicrous indoors anyway. He wasn't bothering to keep his eyes human; likely the reason for the great sodding thing in his hands. "Thought I might drop in, check up on you."
That was a bit more reassuring. Crowley wouldn't have admitted to not trusting Aziraphale if he'd had an ulterior motive in dropping by. "Oh," the angel began with his usual optimism, feeling better. "Well, that was very thoughtful." They both pretended that had been what he meant. "I've been doing quite splendid, actually, France is such a charming place. Full of, um, artistic influences."
Crowley lifted an eloquently questioning eyebrow, but graciously passed over the opportunity to point out the mess that he would, a scant handful of centuries later, casually refer to with the words, 'The Reign of Terror?'
"Gave me the damnedest time trying to find you, you know," Crowley said instead. "I was expecting you to be in Prussia. You're not behind, are you? I should think Mozart's death would be the sort of news that interested you."
"Sorry for the inconvenience. I was sort of expected to be here for a while," he muttered. He declined to mention that he was supposed to be doing something about the mess, and failing rather spectacularly. So far he'd managed to teach one revolutionary some field medicine and guide two others from the course of something incredibly despicable regarding a young lady who lived next door to Aziraphale's bookstore. Certainly those were admirable feats, and probably he'd helped a number of darkened souls, but as far as he could tell, he hadn't managed to put a dent in the mobilization of either side.
Then there was a brief pause, while Crowley amused himself by pondering the walls and probably noticing that they were exactly the same now as they had been two hundred years ago, and Aziraphale pondered how to ask what he so desperately wanted to ask without earning the demon's scorn.
Suddenly he had a brilliant idea.
"It's been a while, hasn't it? And didn't you treat me to that lunch in Venice in, in 1674? I suppose it's my turn, then, and we can chat over a meal and some good wine."
*****
It was several hours later and Aziraphale was happily drunk, which was all part of his master plan for the evening.
"Y'see, to be civilized, y'need time first," Crowley was saying. He was also drunk, and occasionally distracted by his reflection in the wine. "'cause, if you can't keep time, y'can't get to your appointments on, on time, 'n you get sacked, 'n then nobody's employed and the economy's down the crapper and then imperialists come in and make you a colony."
"That doesn't happen all the time," Aziraphale complained. "Just look at, well..." But he couldn't think of an example of when it hadn't happened. The demon who had first thought up colonialism was currently a Duke of Hell. "Anyway, what I'm saying, you don't have to have time to have a civilivized society. Civiz-- Civilized."
His companion banged a fist on the table, apparently at random, and then drained his wine glass. It filled again as he lowered it. "If you can't keep accurate time," Crowley said, precisely, "you can't be a civilized society."
Aziraphale meant to argue that this was still a very general and therefore inaccurate statement, but he wound up studying the torte sitting, innocent and largely untouched, in front of Crowley. A disturbing amount of Crowley's desserts went untouched when they dined together. Aziraphale suspected that it was an infernal ploy of some sort, but the torte was so THERE.
"Take thissere restaurant," the demon continued, doggedly.
Sometimes Aziraphale wished his old friend would shut up. "You gonna eat that?" he asked, reaching across the table for the treat. He reasoned to himself, it would be easier to sober up for the important part if he ate more.
That reminded him of what the important part was.
"Thissssere restaurant, if they didn't know time, then y'couldn't even say anythin' about the service if it takes 'em an hour to make your food." Crowley paused for a moment, likely trying to find some other weaknesses to prey upon. Aziraphale had noticed around the thirteenth century that the demon had the nasty habit of making every discussion tailored to the angel's personal style. It was always something about food, or books, or music. Made arguing difficult, as Crowley could twist any situation to make it sound like his opponent should be on his side, but at least it showed that he paid attention, which suggested in some way that he cared, and that was kind of cute, really.
"Where were you?" asked Aziraphale, lazily, as if it was of no particular interest to him.
"Ngh? Just now?" Crowley lifted his gaze from serious contemplation of his reflection to blink rather fuzzily at his companion.
"The last hundred someodd years." Aziraphale waved, vaguely, as if to point out the passage of time. "'ve been a bit scarce, dear boy. I started thinking you'd given up."
The taunt was rather blustery, the sort of absolutely absurd statement that people make solely to distract attention from their real intentions. Such as, for example, an angel suggesting that a demon has admitted defeat, to avoid the demon coming up with the idea that his vanishing for almost a hundred years had left the angel in a state of haunting and entirely inappropriate (if rather angelic, Aziraphale assured himself) concern.
He certainly hadn't been worried. Especially not since he'd known all along that there was very little trouble Crowley could've gotten into permanently and there was no real reason to be worried. But a century was a rather long time, and it had been a rather lonely time as well, and maybe he had been a bit worried in spite of himself and in spite of Crowley and in spite of everything, really.
But damned if he'd let Crowley know that.
"Given up?" Crowley bristled, rather drunkenly, but his yellow eyes were narrowed and focused on the angel across the table. They made Aziraphale wonder if he should've waited for another glass of wine or two before leaping into his brilliant idea. "If you really must know."
He thought he'd earned it, actually. After all, Crowley had been safe and sound and learning how to glow over the last several decades while Aziraphale had been wondering if the demon had gotten himself discorporated or demoted or in some other form of unpleasant and possibly dire trouble. He'd been too busy with the worrying to bother with GLOWING in his spare time.
Crowley announced, proud, "I was sleeping."
Aziraphale thought about that for a moment, and then pondered the wine bottle, and then discreetly sobered himself a couple of degrees. "Beg pardon?" he said. "I thought you said you'd been sleeping. Getting a bit daft after this much to drink, I imagine."
"I was sleeping." The demon looked miffed. "'s a hobby of mine. Refreshing, y'might say."
"But you don't need to sleep to be refreshed. You can just, you know, think yourself refreshed." Aziraphale distantly recalled one time in St. Petersburg when Crowley had attempted to mount a horse (and not just any horse, but the most impressively evil horse Aziraphale had ever seen) using the wrong foot and nearly seated himself backwards on the saddle. The confusion was much the same now as it had been now, minus the urge to snicker.
Crowley shrugged. "Good way to pass the time. 'sall boring now anyway." He looked glum for a moment. "Just more wars, and rebellions, and killings, and my god's better than your god, and all this nonsense about exploration. 'snot like there's anywhere I haven't been. So I went to sleep, and woke up, and it was a different year. Decade." He squinted at the ceiling. "Century." He seemed a bit skeptical about that part, though.
Aziraphale thought, I was imagining his intestines getting torn out by a hellhound, and he was taking a hundred-year nap? He neglected to say this thought out loud, because he suspected that Crowley would mock him for having a vivid imagination or something of the sort. Instead, he said, somewhat crossly, "You seem to have missed the point of the whole sleep thing."
"Had a dream," Crowley said cheerfully. "Was the damnedest thing! Confucius was there, said it's okay to beat your wife if she talks back, I said, I said I know some men in the Middle East you might like, you gentlemen can all get together and misinterpret scripture together 'r somethin', and then you were there..."
The angel allowed himself to be distracted. "Sorry? I was in your dream?" It took him a moment to realize that he hadn't actually been involved and thus it wasn't surprising that he didn't recall the event. Dreams had always confused him; an average 99.9% of the time when somebody dreamed about Aziraphale, it was because he had chosen to Appear Unto A Mortal, or some such. (This story will not be going into the other 0.1% -- that would be tasteless.)
"With wings--" Crowley waved, as if to signify that, really, he was talking WINGS here. "A little older than you are now. Younger than you were last time." He paused. "Did you get discorporated?"
"Er." Aziraphale sought for a good way to avoid the explanation. In retrospect it sounded like the sort of thing his unholy friend would laugh at, what with all the attempted do-gooding and absurd little unanticipated weaknesses and such.
Suffice to say that next time Aziraphale decides to save the life of a humble villager by performing a miracle, he will make certain that the humble villager's suspicious villager friends are not around at the time. Also, if there are any rocks inconveniently at hand, he will try not to get knocked unconscious by the very first one thrown.
The angel said breezily, "I thought it was about time for an image change."
Crowley seemed unconvinced. "Blond, soft, overweight--"
"Hey," began Aziraphale, scowling.
"--maybe ten years younger, though."
Dignity still somewhat stung, he retorted, "And it's dreadfully inconvenient. Next time I shall have to request an older form again."
His companion snickered. "Dreadfully inconvenient," he hissed, impressively enough for the lack of sibilants, "all those attractive unmarried young women throwing themselves at you. Whatever was Heaven thinking? You might get--" Crowley's voice dropped, dramatic. "--tempted."
Aziraphale drew himself up straight in his seat. "I am most certainly not tempted," he said, a bit stiffly. Tempted was such an unpleasant word with such dark connotations. "The reason is--"
Crowley was straightening up, adjusting the fall of his greatcoat. He was abruptly not even a little drunk. "I'm sure you think you aren't tempted, but I'm being called," he said, businesslike. "I haven't told anyone I'm awake. I imagine they want to know what I've been up to."
With automatic good nature, Aziraphale began, "Oh, of course. I'll just get the bill here--" It took him a moment before he recognized that Crowley had come to speak with him before even reporting to his superiors in Hell. He was pleased, maybe even a little victorious. He told himself it was the first step along a road to the fallen angel's redemption, a sign that his alliance with Aziraphale was having a positive effect on him. That was, of course, what he'd been in for all along.
Really, though, there were so few others to drink with these days. "Next time is your treat," he added happily.
"Naturally." Crowley had put his things together and replaced his absurd hat, was already stepping away from the table when he paused and half-turned back. "Oh, and -- angel?"
"Hm?" He hadn't gotten used to being called that. It still seemed vaguely offensive, rather like saying, 'Attila is on the way? Oh, it's that HUN again.' But Crowley had responded that he permitted Aziraphale to call him 'my dear,' which the angel imagined was a good point, all things considering.
"Next time, you can just tell me if you missed me while I was gone."
And with that, and the most snake-like grin Aziraphale had ever seen on an ostensibly human face, Crowley stepped out the door.
Well, he thought to himself, miffed. Next time is going to be on his tab. I'm certainly not going to pass up a chance to make him pay for us both to get drunk first.
This is safe to read. Really. It just contains banter and reluctant friendship. Unless you'd rather it contain slash, in which case, um, there is wild monkey sex. Somewhere. Possibly actual monkey sex, in Africa, as you read this.
It was late in the afternoon on a sunny Saturday in France. The last six Saturdays in a row had been sunny, in addition to most if not all of the days in between. It was unnatural, irreverent, and Aziraphale suspected also unhealthy, which was why he was debating selling his shop and moving his books (and, of course, himself) back to England, where it was more respectably overcast.
The door opened, and reflexively, Aziraphale called to the customer, "Welcome." He said nothing else, and did not look up, pretending in fact to be very busy scrawling in illegibly miniscule handwriting. He had lately found that potential buyers of his beloved books got the impression that the shop was not in fact open for business, despite the unlocked door, if he ignored them.
"A rather lackluster way to greet an old friend."
Aziraphale looked up, startled, and then attempted a graceful recovery. "Crowley. You're looking well."
"Why, thank you for noticing."
The demon was in fact looking quite well. He seemed perfectly at ease and content, dressed with his usual care and impeccably groomed. Anyone else might've looked somewhat eccentric wearing a hat the size of the one currently perched on his head, but Crowley managed to make it seem more like trendsetting without particularly trying. As a matter of fact, in a matter of days half the wealthy men in Paris would be wearing such hats around, claiming to have seen it on an exotic young man the other week, attempting to make the accessory look less than eccentric. Textbooks won't tell you that these hats, and universal hatred of the fops wearing them, were partly responsible for the monumental upswing in hostilities during the French Revolution.
Crowley was practically glowing, and that made Aziraphale very suspicious.
"Having a comfortable weekend, are we?" he said, wary. "Taking in the local flare?" He wondered if maybe he should start taking a little more interest in the status of the war. A glowing demon was a bad sign. (Oddly enough, not much more so if the glowing was a sign of radioactivity.)
"Something like that." Crowley removed his elaborate hat, which was moderately ludicrous indoors anyway. He wasn't bothering to keep his eyes human; likely the reason for the great sodding thing in his hands. "Thought I might drop in, check up on you."
That was a bit more reassuring. Crowley wouldn't have admitted to not trusting Aziraphale if he'd had an ulterior motive in dropping by. "Oh," the angel began with his usual optimism, feeling better. "Well, that was very thoughtful." They both pretended that had been what he meant. "I've been doing quite splendid, actually, France is such a charming place. Full of, um, artistic influences."
Crowley lifted an eloquently questioning eyebrow, but graciously passed over the opportunity to point out the mess that he would, a scant handful of centuries later, casually refer to with the words, 'The Reign of Terror?'
"Gave me the damnedest time trying to find you, you know," Crowley said instead. "I was expecting you to be in Prussia. You're not behind, are you? I should think Mozart's death would be the sort of news that interested you."
"Sorry for the inconvenience. I was sort of expected to be here for a while," he muttered. He declined to mention that he was supposed to be doing something about the mess, and failing rather spectacularly. So far he'd managed to teach one revolutionary some field medicine and guide two others from the course of something incredibly despicable regarding a young lady who lived next door to Aziraphale's bookstore. Certainly those were admirable feats, and probably he'd helped a number of darkened souls, but as far as he could tell, he hadn't managed to put a dent in the mobilization of either side.
Then there was a brief pause, while Crowley amused himself by pondering the walls and probably noticing that they were exactly the same now as they had been two hundred years ago, and Aziraphale pondered how to ask what he so desperately wanted to ask without earning the demon's scorn.
Suddenly he had a brilliant idea.
"It's been a while, hasn't it? And didn't you treat me to that lunch in Venice in, in 1674? I suppose it's my turn, then, and we can chat over a meal and some good wine."
*****
It was several hours later and Aziraphale was happily drunk, which was all part of his master plan for the evening.
"Y'see, to be civilized, y'need time first," Crowley was saying. He was also drunk, and occasionally distracted by his reflection in the wine. "'cause, if you can't keep time, y'can't get to your appointments on, on time, 'n you get sacked, 'n then nobody's employed and the economy's down the crapper and then imperialists come in and make you a colony."
"That doesn't happen all the time," Aziraphale complained. "Just look at, well..." But he couldn't think of an example of when it hadn't happened. The demon who had first thought up colonialism was currently a Duke of Hell. "Anyway, what I'm saying, you don't have to have time to have a civilivized society. Civiz-- Civilized."
His companion banged a fist on the table, apparently at random, and then drained his wine glass. It filled again as he lowered it. "If you can't keep accurate time," Crowley said, precisely, "you can't be a civilized society."
Aziraphale meant to argue that this was still a very general and therefore inaccurate statement, but he wound up studying the torte sitting, innocent and largely untouched, in front of Crowley. A disturbing amount of Crowley's desserts went untouched when they dined together. Aziraphale suspected that it was an infernal ploy of some sort, but the torte was so THERE.
"Take thissere restaurant," the demon continued, doggedly.
Sometimes Aziraphale wished his old friend would shut up. "You gonna eat that?" he asked, reaching across the table for the treat. He reasoned to himself, it would be easier to sober up for the important part if he ate more.
That reminded him of what the important part was.
"Thissssere restaurant, if they didn't know time, then y'couldn't even say anythin' about the service if it takes 'em an hour to make your food." Crowley paused for a moment, likely trying to find some other weaknesses to prey upon. Aziraphale had noticed around the thirteenth century that the demon had the nasty habit of making every discussion tailored to the angel's personal style. It was always something about food, or books, or music. Made arguing difficult, as Crowley could twist any situation to make it sound like his opponent should be on his side, but at least it showed that he paid attention, which suggested in some way that he cared, and that was kind of cute, really.
"Where were you?" asked Aziraphale, lazily, as if it was of no particular interest to him.
"Ngh? Just now?" Crowley lifted his gaze from serious contemplation of his reflection to blink rather fuzzily at his companion.
"The last hundred someodd years." Aziraphale waved, vaguely, as if to point out the passage of time. "'ve been a bit scarce, dear boy. I started thinking you'd given up."
The taunt was rather blustery, the sort of absolutely absurd statement that people make solely to distract attention from their real intentions. Such as, for example, an angel suggesting that a demon has admitted defeat, to avoid the demon coming up with the idea that his vanishing for almost a hundred years had left the angel in a state of haunting and entirely inappropriate (if rather angelic, Aziraphale assured himself) concern.
He certainly hadn't been worried. Especially not since he'd known all along that there was very little trouble Crowley could've gotten into permanently and there was no real reason to be worried. But a century was a rather long time, and it had been a rather lonely time as well, and maybe he had been a bit worried in spite of himself and in spite of Crowley and in spite of everything, really.
But damned if he'd let Crowley know that.
"Given up?" Crowley bristled, rather drunkenly, but his yellow eyes were narrowed and focused on the angel across the table. They made Aziraphale wonder if he should've waited for another glass of wine or two before leaping into his brilliant idea. "If you really must know."
He thought he'd earned it, actually. After all, Crowley had been safe and sound and learning how to glow over the last several decades while Aziraphale had been wondering if the demon had gotten himself discorporated or demoted or in some other form of unpleasant and possibly dire trouble. He'd been too busy with the worrying to bother with GLOWING in his spare time.
Crowley announced, proud, "I was sleeping."
Aziraphale thought about that for a moment, and then pondered the wine bottle, and then discreetly sobered himself a couple of degrees. "Beg pardon?" he said. "I thought you said you'd been sleeping. Getting a bit daft after this much to drink, I imagine."
"I was sleeping." The demon looked miffed. "'s a hobby of mine. Refreshing, y'might say."
"But you don't need to sleep to be refreshed. You can just, you know, think yourself refreshed." Aziraphale distantly recalled one time in St. Petersburg when Crowley had attempted to mount a horse (and not just any horse, but the most impressively evil horse Aziraphale had ever seen) using the wrong foot and nearly seated himself backwards on the saddle. The confusion was much the same now as it had been now, minus the urge to snicker.
Crowley shrugged. "Good way to pass the time. 'sall boring now anyway." He looked glum for a moment. "Just more wars, and rebellions, and killings, and my god's better than your god, and all this nonsense about exploration. 'snot like there's anywhere I haven't been. So I went to sleep, and woke up, and it was a different year. Decade." He squinted at the ceiling. "Century." He seemed a bit skeptical about that part, though.
Aziraphale thought, I was imagining his intestines getting torn out by a hellhound, and he was taking a hundred-year nap? He neglected to say this thought out loud, because he suspected that Crowley would mock him for having a vivid imagination or something of the sort. Instead, he said, somewhat crossly, "You seem to have missed the point of the whole sleep thing."
"Had a dream," Crowley said cheerfully. "Was the damnedest thing! Confucius was there, said it's okay to beat your wife if she talks back, I said, I said I know some men in the Middle East you might like, you gentlemen can all get together and misinterpret scripture together 'r somethin', and then you were there..."
The angel allowed himself to be distracted. "Sorry? I was in your dream?" It took him a moment to realize that he hadn't actually been involved and thus it wasn't surprising that he didn't recall the event. Dreams had always confused him; an average 99.9% of the time when somebody dreamed about Aziraphale, it was because he had chosen to Appear Unto A Mortal, or some such. (This story will not be going into the other 0.1% -- that would be tasteless.)
"With wings--" Crowley waved, as if to signify that, really, he was talking WINGS here. "A little older than you are now. Younger than you were last time." He paused. "Did you get discorporated?"
"Er." Aziraphale sought for a good way to avoid the explanation. In retrospect it sounded like the sort of thing his unholy friend would laugh at, what with all the attempted do-gooding and absurd little unanticipated weaknesses and such.
Suffice to say that next time Aziraphale decides to save the life of a humble villager by performing a miracle, he will make certain that the humble villager's suspicious villager friends are not around at the time. Also, if there are any rocks inconveniently at hand, he will try not to get knocked unconscious by the very first one thrown.
The angel said breezily, "I thought it was about time for an image change."
Crowley seemed unconvinced. "Blond, soft, overweight--"
"Hey," began Aziraphale, scowling.
"--maybe ten years younger, though."
Dignity still somewhat stung, he retorted, "And it's dreadfully inconvenient. Next time I shall have to request an older form again."
His companion snickered. "Dreadfully inconvenient," he hissed, impressively enough for the lack of sibilants, "all those attractive unmarried young women throwing themselves at you. Whatever was Heaven thinking? You might get--" Crowley's voice dropped, dramatic. "--tempted."
Aziraphale drew himself up straight in his seat. "I am most certainly not tempted," he said, a bit stiffly. Tempted was such an unpleasant word with such dark connotations. "The reason is--"
Crowley was straightening up, adjusting the fall of his greatcoat. He was abruptly not even a little drunk. "I'm sure you think you aren't tempted, but I'm being called," he said, businesslike. "I haven't told anyone I'm awake. I imagine they want to know what I've been up to."
With automatic good nature, Aziraphale began, "Oh, of course. I'll just get the bill here--" It took him a moment before he recognized that Crowley had come to speak with him before even reporting to his superiors in Hell. He was pleased, maybe even a little victorious. He told himself it was the first step along a road to the fallen angel's redemption, a sign that his alliance with Aziraphale was having a positive effect on him. That was, of course, what he'd been in for all along.
Really, though, there were so few others to drink with these days. "Next time is your treat," he added happily.
"Naturally." Crowley had put his things together and replaced his absurd hat, was already stepping away from the table when he paused and half-turned back. "Oh, and -- angel?"
"Hm?" He hadn't gotten used to being called that. It still seemed vaguely offensive, rather like saying, 'Attila is on the way? Oh, it's that HUN again.' But Crowley had responded that he permitted Aziraphale to call him 'my dear,' which the angel imagined was a good point, all things considering.
"Next time, you can just tell me if you missed me while I was gone."
And with that, and the most snake-like grin Aziraphale had ever seen on an ostensibly human face, Crowley stepped out the door.
Well, he thought to himself, miffed. Next time is going to be on his tab. I'm certainly not going to pass up a chance to make him pay for us both to get drunk first.
no subject
I like the part about the hat most of all, surprisingly.
*isn't very coherent* So, yeah. Yay~
no subject
^^
Write more Good Omens! It's interesting.