Happy Holidays, Villainny!
Dec. 20th, 2010 10:23 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeTitle: Long Time Coming
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
villainny
Rating: I'm going to say PG.
From:meredydd
Summary/Prompt: Aziraphale/Crowley, how Aziraphale got his bookshop (and, quite possibly, how Crowley inherited his place on the sofa in the back room). Whatever rating suits the story.
London, 1820
“Angel, trust me…that sofa is pure evil. I speak as someone well-versed in the subject.”
Aziraphale ignored Crowley, humming happily as he arranged a selection of doilies along the arms and back of the sofa.
“Aziraphale!” Crowley pitched his voice lower, threw in a bit of a hiss. “Listen to me--that. Sofa. Is. Evil.”
“That,” Aziraphale replied, settling the last doily, “is impossible. It's a sofa! Sure, it might need a bit of patching up and possibly a sound beating to get the dust out of the fabric but it's quite a lovely piece of furniture and really, who doesn't need a bit of dusting off and patching now and then, hmmm, demon?”
Crowley took off his purple-lensed glasses and glared at the sofa. “I know your tricks, furniture of the damned! There is no reason to visit your evils upon this angel!”
Aziraphale sputtered. “Excuse me? Did you just call this perfectly innocent sofa…well, did you just call it a name?” Crowley did not respond; he seemed to be in some sort of staring contest with the sofa, swaying slightly from side to side, a low hiss issuing from between clenched teeth. “Crowley?”
The demon straightened, replaced his purple glasses and tugged at his waistcoat. “There. That should do you for a bit, at least. Did it come with this bookshop, then?”
Aziraphale blinked, startled by the sudden change in topic. “What?”
“The sofa, angel. Did it come with the bookshop?”
“Uh, no. The gentleman who owned this place passed and had no heirs and apparently left it to me.”
“And the sofa?”
“I found it behind a townhouse over in Grosvenor Square… why?”
“Which townhouse?”
“The empty one.”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “Wait…the dead bookshop owner left you the shop? Can angels…inherit?”
Aziraphale narrowed his gaze and stared at Crowley for a moment longer. “I…don't know, really. I haven't asked. Yet. I mean to. But until I do, I'm just going to take care of the shop. He was such a nice gentleman, always making sure to send 'round a note when a particularly interesting manuscript came through…”
Caught up on the current of his tale, Aziraphale prattled on happily, not noticing Crowley's intense stare, directed at the shabby sofa. Under the cover of the rattling tea service as the angel went into great detail about some version of the prophecies found in Winchester, Crowley leaned in close, his lips almost on the headrest, and murmured, “I know what you're up to, Belphegor. He's my angel to tempt, not yours.”
London, 1907
“I have yet to see a customer in this shop in the entire eighty-seven years you've been in charge,” Crowley announced, startling Aziraphale from his reverie.
Dabbing at the sloshed tea, the angel shot the demon a sharp glare. “You nearly caused me to ruin this book!”
“You're supernatural,” Crowley reminded him. “You could fix it.”
“The point is,” he huffed, dabbing even more furiously, “the book would have been ruined and even if I did fix it, I would know.” When Crowley did not reply, Aziraphale looked up. “What on Earth are you doing to my sofa?”
“Nothing. Why?” Crowley was sprawled on his back, hands behind his head, bootheels comfortably rubbing on one armrest, coat unbuttoned and eyes closed.
“You…you're getting grime all over it!”
Crowley winced as the throw pillow lived up to its name, landing on his stomach. “What did you stuff that with? Bricks?”
“My penny dreadfuls!” Aziraphale yelped, leaping to his feet and grabbing the pillow. Crowley watched in amused fascination as the angel yanked open the buttoned seam and removed a thick stack of small books and pamphlets. “I put them there for safekeeping after some pretentious little man came about, looking for them.”
“You do know that, as a bookseller, you are to sell books, yes?”
“Not to him,” the angel complained. “He would have bent them out of shape, gotten biscuit crumbs in the binding. Besides,” he admitted, looking more than a little sheepish, “it turns out that the gentleman who left me the shop…well, his will was not quite legal, it seems.”
Crowley sat up but did not take his legs off the arm of the sofa. Instead, it seemed to Aziraphale that he pressed down even harder, digging his bootheels into the patched fabric with a vengeance. “Oh?”
“A man came 'round a bit ago, asking who I was, what I was doing here, that sort of thing.” He tenderly replaced the penny dreadfuls into the throwpillow cover. “I couldn't very well tell him I'm an angel, could I?”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth! Mostly! I told him Mister Terrance had left me the shop.”
Crowley sighed and flopped back against the arm again. “And?” Though he knew the answer…
“He didn't believe me. Said the last recorded owner died almost a century ago and I was running the shop illegally!” Aziraphale sniffed, still offended. “Then that little man came in and wanted the penny dreadfuls. I don't know what happened to the man from the courts.”
“Angel, I think we could do with a spot of tea.” As he hoped, Aziraphale agreed and bustled to the tiny kitchen, leaving Crowley with the sofa.
“Belphegor, I know you're in here.” The sofa made a tiny rumbling noise. “Are you so bored that you're still possessing furniture?” Another tiny rumble. “Bringing the gift of sloth through inaction to the angel, are we? Bad form, old man.” He dug his heels in a bit more before letting up, earning an offended sigh from the springs of the sofa. “You know better, Belphegor.”
“Who are you talking to, Crowley?”
“No one,” he replied, shoving his elbows into the sofa. “You know, this thing is very comfortable for being evil. Mind if I nap?”
“Yes, I mind!” Azirpahle stuck his head around the corner only to see Crowley, curled on his side, eyes closed. “Drat…”
London, 1940
“Are you sure you don't want to evacuate, sir?”
“Oh, yes, I'm sure!” Aziraphale did his best not to wince as the soldier's bright torch glared across his face. “I need to protect the books!”
“Barmy git,” the other man muttered, turning to trudge back through the streets, leaving the seemingly distracted man in tweed standing in the bookshop doorway.
“You really should have at least made a show of going with him, you know,” Crowley said from within the depths of the bookshop's shadows.
“Did you have anything to do with this?” Aziraphale asked, staring out into the darkened streets.
“Aziraphale.”
“I know, I do apologize… I'm just trying to fathom…fathom how.”
“We're both needed at our Home Offices, Aziraphale.”
“I know,” he sighed. He cast the shop a concerned, loving look. “I'll be back.”
Crowley was not sure if he was talking to him or the shop. The demon waited several long moments after the angel vanished before going to the back of the shop, to the tiny office. “Right, let's do this then.”
London, 1940, several months later
“Crowley! Why is my sofa in the alley?”
London, 1972
“Seriously, Aziraphale…the sofa!”
Aziraphale barely looked up from his book. “Nice of you to stop by…how long has it been?”
“Thirty years, give or take. I've been a bit busy…” Crowley glanced about and frowned. “That sofa is still evil.”
“Mmmm. Care for some tea, then?”
Crowley sighed and flopped back on the sofa. “Are you angry with me? You sound angry.”
“Do you care?”
He thought about being flip, but instead shrugged. “If you're angry with me, I'll spend time ferreting out of you why and that will waste both of our days when instead we could go to the Savoy and take a nice tea there.”
“What,” Aziraphale demanded, looking over the edge of his book, “is wrong with tea here?”
“No watercress.”
“…touche. Fine, we'll go to the Savoy. And you can explain to me why I haven't had a word from you since the Blitz.”
Crowley waved his hand nonchalantly, waiting for the angel to go gather his coat and scarf before making a beeline for the stack of envelopes on the edge of the desk. All, he noticed, from the courts. A quick perusal of the first one confirmed the suspicions that had been nudged to life during Crowley's sojourn at the Home Office, catching up on paperwork. For three decades. “Aziraphale,” he sighed. “Still haven't fixed this, hmm?” A feminine sigh broke the quiet behind him.
“Because I'm good at my job.”
“Belphegor,” Crowley replied, nodding as he turned to take in the sight of the female-formed demon. “You know that shape won't work on him, yes?”
“Yes, but it works on others.” The demons smiled at one another, sharing sharp grins of conspiracy before Belphegor plucked the topmost envelope from Crowley's fingers. “You're not doing your job, Crowley. You know better than to just have tea and biscuits and muse over ducks.”
“Well, I'm sorry my talents don't extend to possessing ugly furniture.”
She frowned. “It appealed to his aesthetic and to his need to protect unwanted, shabby things.”
“So it was either the sofa or a teddy bear?”
Belphegor shrugged again. “Like I said, you're not doing your job.”
Crowley growled. “It's my job to fail at, thank you very much.” He glanced from Belphegor to the sofa and back again. “Really…you could have at least chosen something classier. A chaise lounge, perhaps. Or maybe a vase.”
Belphegor smirked. “Really, Crowley…and just how would that have worked out with your little angel?”
“Are you sure you're alone in there, Crowley?” Aziraphale called, emerging from the coat closet with scarf and coat firmly in place.
Crowley glared at the spot where Belphegor had been. “Quite.”
London, 1989
“I swear,” Aziraphale sighed, nibbling the edge of a watercress sandwich, “I don't understand rap music.”
Crowley sighed, the familiar refrain of Aziraphale's displeasure in modern music already reaching a crescendo. Seeking to distract him, the demon pushed the pot of tea closer to the angel. “Heard anymore from the courts then?”
“Hmmm? Oh…I think so. So much to do at the shop these days,” he trailed off, pouring himself another cup. “Why do you ask?”
Because, Crowley thought, I know Belphegor… “Just wondering.”
“Mmm. Did I tell you I got another Bible in the shop? This one is written entirely in Esperanto! And poorly!”
“Is there any other way to write in Esperanto?” Crowley let the rest of the afternoon drift past in comfortable familiarity, the niggling knowledge that he would have to do something about Belphegor growing to a stabbing certainty as they wandered back to Aziraphale's shop. “Angel, tell me… have you heard the rumblings about the Apocalypse yet?”
Aziraphale stared, wide-eyed. “I… I haven't checked mail lately. Why?”
“Maybe you should run 'round to the box and see if Above has left you a message.”
“That isn't how they leave me messages,” Aziraphale replied, a bit tart. “You should know that by now.”
“I should, eh?” Stretching out on the sofa, Crowley yawned. “This is rather soporific, isn't it?”
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes for a moment, then sighed. “I have books to shelve. Take care not to get your boots on my sofa.”
“Mmmm.” Crowley stretched out and was a bit chagrined that he actually did feel quite comfy, but he knew what he had to do. “Belphegor,” he said quietly, “this is about to be a very busy time. You might wish to return to the Below.” The sofa grumbled. “Oh, do show yourself. This is irritating, talking to plaid.”
Belphegor shimmered into existence, bearded and heavy, looking like Brian Blessed on an especially bad day. “Laying on the sofa won't make me leave,” he pointed out, bored.
“No, but destroying it will.”
“Aziraphale would never forgive you.”
“Your point? Isn't it my lot to make this angel sin?”
“One of them, yes…”
“And causing him to act in anger, such as lashing out at me, would mean he sinned…”
“Angels act in anger often. Duh.”
“Yeah, but not this one… you should know that.” He paused, then added, “Duh.”
“This little trick isn't going to work,” Belphegor said after a moment of thought. “I'm due a promotion and leading an angel to sin will get me out of the ambassadorship to France and back in the upper echelons where I belong.”
“Wait a moment…you want to get out of spending time in France, the home of Rabelais, of wine and women and fine cheese… and into middle management?” Crowley hissed a laugh and rolled his eyes. “You are a demon.”
“Guilty as charged,” Belphegor rumbled, glancing back at where Azirphale and disappeared into the shop-proper. “If I turn him…instant promotion.”
“You've been trying for over a century.”
“That's no time at all for us. You know that. I can do this a century more.”
Crowley frowned and fingered the plaid fabric of the sofa. “If he loses the shop, you'll have to think of a new plan.”
“If he loses the shop, he'll act out of anger.”
“Perhaps not. More like he'll mope at the ducks, eat a lot of cream cakes and cry on my shoulder.” Crowley smiled thinly. “Which will make me act out of annoyance.”
“Why so defensive of this angel, Crowley? Let me have him and you can get on with the Apocalypse that's coming. Redeem yourself to Below so you can get a better position in the hierarchy. Bump up a paygrade, get music that doesn't turn into Queen.”
Crowley shook his head and sighed. “You forget, Belphegor. I've just got done with three decades of paperwork. Below is empty. You and a handful of others remain there… the rest of us seek our pleasures here.” He gave his best demonic grin. “Why would I want to be middle management over a cube farm?”
“A what now?”
“Cube farm. Oh, never mind. I'll make it catch on in another ten years or so. Trust me--I have a knack for office torture.” He plucked one of the envelopes from the ever-growing stack on Aziraphale's desk. “Apparently, earthly bureaucracy is slow. Over one hundred and fifty years and they still haven't evicted him.”
Belphegor hmphed. “It is rather dull.”
“Tell you what,” Crowley said, leaning in as if imparting a great confidence. “I'll let you in on my project I've just started if you leave the angel to me.”
“Why?”
“I can guarantee that you will get a promotion if you manage to pull this one off.”
“Turning an angel to sin will be a coup de grace… what could be finer than that?”
“I'll tell you…”
London, 2010
“Why must you always rest on my sofa, Crowley?”
“I've earned it,” he yawned. “Don't you agree?”
Aziraphale gave it some thought, then nodded. “I suppose. No Apocalypse since the last near-miss…”
“Savoy this afternoon?”
“After the ducks.”
“After the ducks,” Crowley agreed. “When is the grand opening?”
“1820.”
“Ha. No, the official one.”
“Tomorrow,” Aziraphale sighed happily. “I'm not sure what led them to it, but I finally got a letter stating I really am the owner and apologising for bothering me for so long. Well, for bothering my, er, father. And grandfather.” The angel flushed slightly. “It's not a lie, is it? Since I never said that, and they just assumed…”
“Depends on who you ask,” Crowley said, yawning again. “If I didn't know better,” he added, mostly under his breath, “I'd say Belphegor left this sofa cursed.”
“What?”
“Just wondering if they will serve watercress sandwiches today.”
“Don't they always?”
Crowley was still sleepy as they were shown to their table at the Savoy. Around them, a low hum of voices was punctuated by the subtle vibration of phone alert messages and the occasional rude ring. “Seriously,” Aziraphale sighed, “it started with this great big car phone thingies and now it seems they're all over, smaller and smaller! Who needs the intraweb thingy on their phone anyway?”
“Apparently, most of the western world.”
“They're so irritating! You can't even walk down the street without seeing a score of people on handheld thingies, talking into those smart whowhatsits and just yesterday I was on the bus and thought this man was talking to me so I answered, being polite, and he just cursed at me! He had in some sort of earpiece and was talking to his wife!”
“Hmmm.”
“I swear,” Aziraphale sighed. “If I didn't know better, I'd say these things were Infernal in origin.”
Crowley choked on his tea. “Oh?”
“Mmhmm. Probably got some demon a promotion if they were.”
He dabbed at the tea spattering the front of his suit. “I'm sure.”
“Crowley?” Aziraphale said after several moments of silence between them.
“Yessssssss?”
“Thank you.”
~end~
Happy Holidays,villainny, from your Secret Writer!
Recipient:
villainnyRating: I'm going to say PG.
From:
meredyddSummary/Prompt: Aziraphale/Crowley, how Aziraphale got his bookshop (and, quite possibly, how Crowley inherited his place on the sofa in the back room). Whatever rating suits the story.
London, 1820
“Angel, trust me…that sofa is pure evil. I speak as someone well-versed in the subject.”
Aziraphale ignored Crowley, humming happily as he arranged a selection of doilies along the arms and back of the sofa.
“Aziraphale!” Crowley pitched his voice lower, threw in a bit of a hiss. “Listen to me--that. Sofa. Is. Evil.”
“That,” Aziraphale replied, settling the last doily, “is impossible. It's a sofa! Sure, it might need a bit of patching up and possibly a sound beating to get the dust out of the fabric but it's quite a lovely piece of furniture and really, who doesn't need a bit of dusting off and patching now and then, hmmm, demon?”
Crowley took off his purple-lensed glasses and glared at the sofa. “I know your tricks, furniture of the damned! There is no reason to visit your evils upon this angel!”
Aziraphale sputtered. “Excuse me? Did you just call this perfectly innocent sofa…well, did you just call it a name?” Crowley did not respond; he seemed to be in some sort of staring contest with the sofa, swaying slightly from side to side, a low hiss issuing from between clenched teeth. “Crowley?”
The demon straightened, replaced his purple glasses and tugged at his waistcoat. “There. That should do you for a bit, at least. Did it come with this bookshop, then?”
Aziraphale blinked, startled by the sudden change in topic. “What?”
“The sofa, angel. Did it come with the bookshop?”
“Uh, no. The gentleman who owned this place passed and had no heirs and apparently left it to me.”
“And the sofa?”
“I found it behind a townhouse over in Grosvenor Square… why?”
“Which townhouse?”
“The empty one.”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “Wait…the dead bookshop owner left you the shop? Can angels…inherit?”
Aziraphale narrowed his gaze and stared at Crowley for a moment longer. “I…don't know, really. I haven't asked. Yet. I mean to. But until I do, I'm just going to take care of the shop. He was such a nice gentleman, always making sure to send 'round a note when a particularly interesting manuscript came through…”
Caught up on the current of his tale, Aziraphale prattled on happily, not noticing Crowley's intense stare, directed at the shabby sofa. Under the cover of the rattling tea service as the angel went into great detail about some version of the prophecies found in Winchester, Crowley leaned in close, his lips almost on the headrest, and murmured, “I know what you're up to, Belphegor. He's my angel to tempt, not yours.”
London, 1907
“I have yet to see a customer in this shop in the entire eighty-seven years you've been in charge,” Crowley announced, startling Aziraphale from his reverie.
Dabbing at the sloshed tea, the angel shot the demon a sharp glare. “You nearly caused me to ruin this book!”
“You're supernatural,” Crowley reminded him. “You could fix it.”
“The point is,” he huffed, dabbing even more furiously, “the book would have been ruined and even if I did fix it, I would know.” When Crowley did not reply, Aziraphale looked up. “What on Earth are you doing to my sofa?”
“Nothing. Why?” Crowley was sprawled on his back, hands behind his head, bootheels comfortably rubbing on one armrest, coat unbuttoned and eyes closed.
“You…you're getting grime all over it!”
Crowley winced as the throw pillow lived up to its name, landing on his stomach. “What did you stuff that with? Bricks?”
“My penny dreadfuls!” Aziraphale yelped, leaping to his feet and grabbing the pillow. Crowley watched in amused fascination as the angel yanked open the buttoned seam and removed a thick stack of small books and pamphlets. “I put them there for safekeeping after some pretentious little man came about, looking for them.”
“You do know that, as a bookseller, you are to sell books, yes?”
“Not to him,” the angel complained. “He would have bent them out of shape, gotten biscuit crumbs in the binding. Besides,” he admitted, looking more than a little sheepish, “it turns out that the gentleman who left me the shop…well, his will was not quite legal, it seems.”
Crowley sat up but did not take his legs off the arm of the sofa. Instead, it seemed to Aziraphale that he pressed down even harder, digging his bootheels into the patched fabric with a vengeance. “Oh?”
“A man came 'round a bit ago, asking who I was, what I was doing here, that sort of thing.” He tenderly replaced the penny dreadfuls into the throwpillow cover. “I couldn't very well tell him I'm an angel, could I?”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth! Mostly! I told him Mister Terrance had left me the shop.”
Crowley sighed and flopped back against the arm again. “And?” Though he knew the answer…
“He didn't believe me. Said the last recorded owner died almost a century ago and I was running the shop illegally!” Aziraphale sniffed, still offended. “Then that little man came in and wanted the penny dreadfuls. I don't know what happened to the man from the courts.”
“Angel, I think we could do with a spot of tea.” As he hoped, Aziraphale agreed and bustled to the tiny kitchen, leaving Crowley with the sofa.
“Belphegor, I know you're in here.” The sofa made a tiny rumbling noise. “Are you so bored that you're still possessing furniture?” Another tiny rumble. “Bringing the gift of sloth through inaction to the angel, are we? Bad form, old man.” He dug his heels in a bit more before letting up, earning an offended sigh from the springs of the sofa. “You know better, Belphegor.”
“Who are you talking to, Crowley?”
“No one,” he replied, shoving his elbows into the sofa. “You know, this thing is very comfortable for being evil. Mind if I nap?”
“Yes, I mind!” Azirpahle stuck his head around the corner only to see Crowley, curled on his side, eyes closed. “Drat…”
London, 1940
“Are you sure you don't want to evacuate, sir?”
“Oh, yes, I'm sure!” Aziraphale did his best not to wince as the soldier's bright torch glared across his face. “I need to protect the books!”
“Barmy git,” the other man muttered, turning to trudge back through the streets, leaving the seemingly distracted man in tweed standing in the bookshop doorway.
“You really should have at least made a show of going with him, you know,” Crowley said from within the depths of the bookshop's shadows.
“Did you have anything to do with this?” Aziraphale asked, staring out into the darkened streets.
“Aziraphale.”
“I know, I do apologize… I'm just trying to fathom…fathom how.”
“We're both needed at our Home Offices, Aziraphale.”
“I know,” he sighed. He cast the shop a concerned, loving look. “I'll be back.”
Crowley was not sure if he was talking to him or the shop. The demon waited several long moments after the angel vanished before going to the back of the shop, to the tiny office. “Right, let's do this then.”
London, 1940, several months later
“Crowley! Why is my sofa in the alley?”
London, 1972
“Seriously, Aziraphale…the sofa!”
Aziraphale barely looked up from his book. “Nice of you to stop by…how long has it been?”
“Thirty years, give or take. I've been a bit busy…” Crowley glanced about and frowned. “That sofa is still evil.”
“Mmmm. Care for some tea, then?”
Crowley sighed and flopped back on the sofa. “Are you angry with me? You sound angry.”
“Do you care?”
He thought about being flip, but instead shrugged. “If you're angry with me, I'll spend time ferreting out of you why and that will waste both of our days when instead we could go to the Savoy and take a nice tea there.”
“What,” Aziraphale demanded, looking over the edge of his book, “is wrong with tea here?”
“No watercress.”
“…touche. Fine, we'll go to the Savoy. And you can explain to me why I haven't had a word from you since the Blitz.”
Crowley waved his hand nonchalantly, waiting for the angel to go gather his coat and scarf before making a beeline for the stack of envelopes on the edge of the desk. All, he noticed, from the courts. A quick perusal of the first one confirmed the suspicions that had been nudged to life during Crowley's sojourn at the Home Office, catching up on paperwork. For three decades. “Aziraphale,” he sighed. “Still haven't fixed this, hmm?” A feminine sigh broke the quiet behind him.
“Because I'm good at my job.”
“Belphegor,” Crowley replied, nodding as he turned to take in the sight of the female-formed demon. “You know that shape won't work on him, yes?”
“Yes, but it works on others.” The demons smiled at one another, sharing sharp grins of conspiracy before Belphegor plucked the topmost envelope from Crowley's fingers. “You're not doing your job, Crowley. You know better than to just have tea and biscuits and muse over ducks.”
“Well, I'm sorry my talents don't extend to possessing ugly furniture.”
She frowned. “It appealed to his aesthetic and to his need to protect unwanted, shabby things.”
“So it was either the sofa or a teddy bear?”
Belphegor shrugged again. “Like I said, you're not doing your job.”
Crowley growled. “It's my job to fail at, thank you very much.” He glanced from Belphegor to the sofa and back again. “Really…you could have at least chosen something classier. A chaise lounge, perhaps. Or maybe a vase.”
Belphegor smirked. “Really, Crowley…and just how would that have worked out with your little angel?”
“Are you sure you're alone in there, Crowley?” Aziraphale called, emerging from the coat closet with scarf and coat firmly in place.
Crowley glared at the spot where Belphegor had been. “Quite.”
London, 1989
“I swear,” Aziraphale sighed, nibbling the edge of a watercress sandwich, “I don't understand rap music.”
Crowley sighed, the familiar refrain of Aziraphale's displeasure in modern music already reaching a crescendo. Seeking to distract him, the demon pushed the pot of tea closer to the angel. “Heard anymore from the courts then?”
“Hmmm? Oh…I think so. So much to do at the shop these days,” he trailed off, pouring himself another cup. “Why do you ask?”
Because, Crowley thought, I know Belphegor… “Just wondering.”
“Mmm. Did I tell you I got another Bible in the shop? This one is written entirely in Esperanto! And poorly!”
“Is there any other way to write in Esperanto?” Crowley let the rest of the afternoon drift past in comfortable familiarity, the niggling knowledge that he would have to do something about Belphegor growing to a stabbing certainty as they wandered back to Aziraphale's shop. “Angel, tell me… have you heard the rumblings about the Apocalypse yet?”
Aziraphale stared, wide-eyed. “I… I haven't checked mail lately. Why?”
“Maybe you should run 'round to the box and see if Above has left you a message.”
“That isn't how they leave me messages,” Aziraphale replied, a bit tart. “You should know that by now.”
“I should, eh?” Stretching out on the sofa, Crowley yawned. “This is rather soporific, isn't it?”
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes for a moment, then sighed. “I have books to shelve. Take care not to get your boots on my sofa.”
“Mmmm.” Crowley stretched out and was a bit chagrined that he actually did feel quite comfy, but he knew what he had to do. “Belphegor,” he said quietly, “this is about to be a very busy time. You might wish to return to the Below.” The sofa grumbled. “Oh, do show yourself. This is irritating, talking to plaid.”
Belphegor shimmered into existence, bearded and heavy, looking like Brian Blessed on an especially bad day. “Laying on the sofa won't make me leave,” he pointed out, bored.
“No, but destroying it will.”
“Aziraphale would never forgive you.”
“Your point? Isn't it my lot to make this angel sin?”
“One of them, yes…”
“And causing him to act in anger, such as lashing out at me, would mean he sinned…”
“Angels act in anger often. Duh.”
“Yeah, but not this one… you should know that.” He paused, then added, “Duh.”
“This little trick isn't going to work,” Belphegor said after a moment of thought. “I'm due a promotion and leading an angel to sin will get me out of the ambassadorship to France and back in the upper echelons where I belong.”
“Wait a moment…you want to get out of spending time in France, the home of Rabelais, of wine and women and fine cheese… and into middle management?” Crowley hissed a laugh and rolled his eyes. “You are a demon.”
“Guilty as charged,” Belphegor rumbled, glancing back at where Azirphale and disappeared into the shop-proper. “If I turn him…instant promotion.”
“You've been trying for over a century.”
“That's no time at all for us. You know that. I can do this a century more.”
Crowley frowned and fingered the plaid fabric of the sofa. “If he loses the shop, you'll have to think of a new plan.”
“If he loses the shop, he'll act out of anger.”
“Perhaps not. More like he'll mope at the ducks, eat a lot of cream cakes and cry on my shoulder.” Crowley smiled thinly. “Which will make me act out of annoyance.”
“Why so defensive of this angel, Crowley? Let me have him and you can get on with the Apocalypse that's coming. Redeem yourself to Below so you can get a better position in the hierarchy. Bump up a paygrade, get music that doesn't turn into Queen.”
Crowley shook his head and sighed. “You forget, Belphegor. I've just got done with three decades of paperwork. Below is empty. You and a handful of others remain there… the rest of us seek our pleasures here.” He gave his best demonic grin. “Why would I want to be middle management over a cube farm?”
“A what now?”
“Cube farm. Oh, never mind. I'll make it catch on in another ten years or so. Trust me--I have a knack for office torture.” He plucked one of the envelopes from the ever-growing stack on Aziraphale's desk. “Apparently, earthly bureaucracy is slow. Over one hundred and fifty years and they still haven't evicted him.”
Belphegor hmphed. “It is rather dull.”
“Tell you what,” Crowley said, leaning in as if imparting a great confidence. “I'll let you in on my project I've just started if you leave the angel to me.”
“Why?”
“I can guarantee that you will get a promotion if you manage to pull this one off.”
“Turning an angel to sin will be a coup de grace… what could be finer than that?”
“I'll tell you…”
London, 2010
“Why must you always rest on my sofa, Crowley?”
“I've earned it,” he yawned. “Don't you agree?”
Aziraphale gave it some thought, then nodded. “I suppose. No Apocalypse since the last near-miss…”
“Savoy this afternoon?”
“After the ducks.”
“After the ducks,” Crowley agreed. “When is the grand opening?”
“1820.”
“Ha. No, the official one.”
“Tomorrow,” Aziraphale sighed happily. “I'm not sure what led them to it, but I finally got a letter stating I really am the owner and apologising for bothering me for so long. Well, for bothering my, er, father. And grandfather.” The angel flushed slightly. “It's not a lie, is it? Since I never said that, and they just assumed…”
“Depends on who you ask,” Crowley said, yawning again. “If I didn't know better,” he added, mostly under his breath, “I'd say Belphegor left this sofa cursed.”
“What?”
“Just wondering if they will serve watercress sandwiches today.”
“Don't they always?”
Crowley was still sleepy as they were shown to their table at the Savoy. Around them, a low hum of voices was punctuated by the subtle vibration of phone alert messages and the occasional rude ring. “Seriously,” Aziraphale sighed, “it started with this great big car phone thingies and now it seems they're all over, smaller and smaller! Who needs the intraweb thingy on their phone anyway?”
“Apparently, most of the western world.”
“They're so irritating! You can't even walk down the street without seeing a score of people on handheld thingies, talking into those smart whowhatsits and just yesterday I was on the bus and thought this man was talking to me so I answered, being polite, and he just cursed at me! He had in some sort of earpiece and was talking to his wife!”
“Hmmm.”
“I swear,” Aziraphale sighed. “If I didn't know better, I'd say these things were Infernal in origin.”
Crowley choked on his tea. “Oh?”
“Mmhmm. Probably got some demon a promotion if they were.”
He dabbed at the tea spattering the front of his suit. “I'm sure.”
“Crowley?” Aziraphale said after several moments of silence between them.
“Yessssssss?”
“Thank you.”
~end~
Happy Holidays,
villainny, from your Secret Writer!
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(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-21 05:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-21 05:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-21 05:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-21 01:26 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-21 07:58 am (UTC)This is just so much fun.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-21 01:25 pm (UTC)I'm glad you enjoyed the fic ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-21 08:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-21 08:29 am (UTC)Particularly loved the line:
“If he loses the shop, he'll act out of anger.”
“Perhaps not. More like he'll mope at the ducks, eat a lot of cream cakes and cry on my shoulder.” Crowley smiled thinly. “Which will make me act out of annoyance.”
Thank you so much, secret writer! This is exactly what I wanted and beautifully done.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-21 08:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-21 02:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-21 05:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-21 02:36 pm (UTC)Exactly! This time Aziraphale is perfectly right.
Love this fic.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-21 05:29 pm (UTC)glad you like it! :)