Happy Holidays, Googlebrat!
Dec. 21st, 2010 05:15 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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googlebrat
Gift From:hallieface
Rating: G
Summary: A drunken conversation with Aziraphale leaves Crowley feeling unsure of himself.
Author’s Notes: I deviated a bit from your interpretation of Crowley liking Bond because he’s the good guy. Hope you still enjoy it!
Rain poured in buckets onto the streets of London. Every driver with any sense was moving with caution, but Crowley had never been a very sensible driver. He weaved his way between the other cars, spraying pedestrians with water and God knows what else and miraculously1 avoiding hydroplaning. All in all, it had been a rather productive five minutes. He had left people soggy, frightened, or infuriated, especially when he had stopped rather suddenly to turn onto Glasshouse Street, and he still had time to tempt a passing teenager into pick-pocketing. When he finally stepped into Aziraphale’s shop, he was as dry as if it had been a sunny day.
“Miserable out there,” he mused, the twinkle in his eye visible even through his sunglasses.
Aziraphale looked up from the book he was reading behind the counter. “You’re on time,” he said, sounding surprised.
“Had nothing to do all day. Weather like this does my job for me.”
The angel squinted through the dusty window of his shop. “Quite,” he concurred, standing up. “Let’s go back, then.”
Crowley followed Aziraphale into the back room of his shop. It hadn’t changed much over the centuries—still the same old, mismatched furniture, the same overcrowded bookshelves, the same musty smell. He settled into his customary chair and waited for Aziraphale to come over with a bottle of brandy. For a while the two talked business and exchanged information, and before they knew it, they were both drunk and talking about the weather.2
“But they can’t all be to punish sin. I mean, you don’t think He was punishing New Orleans for Mardi Gras, do you?”
“Nonono not that one. That was just… nature. Swirly air over the sea and all that.”
“But what about sparrows?”
“What about them, dear boy?”
“I mean, they can’t fall without His hand in it, and they’re just sparrows. Used to be able to buy ‘em two a penny. These are storms we’re talking. If one of them means something, all of them have to mean something. Otherwise it doesn’t make any sense.”
“S’ineffa—“
“If you say ‘ineffable’ one more time I’ll… I’ll… I’ll do my job’s what I’ll do. An’ you won’t like that.”
The angel laughed, nearly tipping his glass over. “I remember when you did do your job. Got beat every time.”
“Did not.”
“Did so.”
“Did not. An’ at least I didn’t give up any Holy Flaming Swords. You still don’t know where it is.”
“Least I didn’t put a fake bullet hole on my car.”
“You don’t even have a car.”
“But you admit it, you had a fake bullet hole.”
“It was the 70’s,” he retorted.
“I was there. Not everybody went around putting bullet holes on fancy old cars.”
“Sssince when did you pay attention to cars?”
Aziraphale smirked in a most unangelic manner as he caught onto Crowley’s increasing irritation. “S’cuz you have a James Bond obsession.”
“Do not.”
“Do so.”
“Do not.”
“You’ve got a suit an drive a fancy car an’ have all your little trinkets.”
“What little trinkets?”
“Underwater pen. That car phone in the 90’s. Your watch.”
“So?”
“You know it’s true.”
“Come off it. I’m keeping up with the times ‘stead of rotting in some dusty ol’ shop like an old git.”
They continued arguing late into the night until Crowley suddenly realized that he had a thing3 the next day and should be going home. The two of them sobered up and Aziraphale walked Crowley out of the shop.
Driving home, Crowley found himself thinking about the bullet hole sticker he had gotten in the 70’s. He had been rather into Bond at that point. He remembered seeing Dr. No for the first time in the cinema. He hadn’t read the books before, so Bond was a whole new experience for him. Here was a character he could really connect with. Suave, sophisticated, a lady-killer who always got the job done and did it with style.
Then he thought back to the other fictional characters he had connected to. They had all been rather similar to Bond. Some were good, some were bad, but all of them had the same sort of air about them. He thought back further, to before humans had invented characters like that. He hadn’t acted very much like that at all. Certainly, he’d been subtle, even charming, but he was much more unassuming. He didn’t own any flashy gadgets or attempt to display wealth in any way. In fact, he hadn’t had much of a set personality at all. It changed depending on who he was talking to, whereas now whatever he did was just a variation on one theme.
He thought back as far as he could, to when he still called himself an angel. He didn’t emulate anyone or change personalities then. He had simply been him, and that was all he needed to be; not suave or mysterious or flashy, just curious, pensive, and a little naïve. He parked his car in the garage under his building and simply sat there for a long, long time wondering who he really was.
~end~
1 Used here for lack of a better word. Crowley had often privately wondered if “occultulously” or something similar should be added to the English language.
2 Though it was less “talking” and more a sloshy, impassioned debate.
3 He actually did have a “thing.” He had a meeting scheduled with the head of BP the next morning. He had just been too drunk to remember.
Happy Holidays,googlebrat, from your Secret Writer!
Gift For:
googlebratGift From:
halliefaceRating: G
Summary: A drunken conversation with Aziraphale leaves Crowley feeling unsure of himself.
Author’s Notes: I deviated a bit from your interpretation of Crowley liking Bond because he’s the good guy. Hope you still enjoy it!
Rain poured in buckets onto the streets of London. Every driver with any sense was moving with caution, but Crowley had never been a very sensible driver. He weaved his way between the other cars, spraying pedestrians with water and God knows what else and miraculously1 avoiding hydroplaning. All in all, it had been a rather productive five minutes. He had left people soggy, frightened, or infuriated, especially when he had stopped rather suddenly to turn onto Glasshouse Street, and he still had time to tempt a passing teenager into pick-pocketing. When he finally stepped into Aziraphale’s shop, he was as dry as if it had been a sunny day.
“Miserable out there,” he mused, the twinkle in his eye visible even through his sunglasses.
Aziraphale looked up from the book he was reading behind the counter. “You’re on time,” he said, sounding surprised.
“Had nothing to do all day. Weather like this does my job for me.”
The angel squinted through the dusty window of his shop. “Quite,” he concurred, standing up. “Let’s go back, then.”
Crowley followed Aziraphale into the back room of his shop. It hadn’t changed much over the centuries—still the same old, mismatched furniture, the same overcrowded bookshelves, the same musty smell. He settled into his customary chair and waited for Aziraphale to come over with a bottle of brandy. For a while the two talked business and exchanged information, and before they knew it, they were both drunk and talking about the weather.2
“But they can’t all be to punish sin. I mean, you don’t think He was punishing New Orleans for Mardi Gras, do you?”
“Nonono not that one. That was just… nature. Swirly air over the sea and all that.”
“But what about sparrows?”
“What about them, dear boy?”
“I mean, they can’t fall without His hand in it, and they’re just sparrows. Used to be able to buy ‘em two a penny. These are storms we’re talking. If one of them means something, all of them have to mean something. Otherwise it doesn’t make any sense.”
“S’ineffa—“
“If you say ‘ineffable’ one more time I’ll… I’ll… I’ll do my job’s what I’ll do. An’ you won’t like that.”
The angel laughed, nearly tipping his glass over. “I remember when you did do your job. Got beat every time.”
“Did not.”
“Did so.”
“Did not. An’ at least I didn’t give up any Holy Flaming Swords. You still don’t know where it is.”
“Least I didn’t put a fake bullet hole on my car.”
“You don’t even have a car.”
“But you admit it, you had a fake bullet hole.”
“It was the 70’s,” he retorted.
“I was there. Not everybody went around putting bullet holes on fancy old cars.”
“Sssince when did you pay attention to cars?”
Aziraphale smirked in a most unangelic manner as he caught onto Crowley’s increasing irritation. “S’cuz you have a James Bond obsession.”
“Do not.”
“Do so.”
“Do not.”
“You’ve got a suit an drive a fancy car an’ have all your little trinkets.”
“What little trinkets?”
“Underwater pen. That car phone in the 90’s. Your watch.”
“So?”
“You know it’s true.”
“Come off it. I’m keeping up with the times ‘stead of rotting in some dusty ol’ shop like an old git.”
They continued arguing late into the night until Crowley suddenly realized that he had a thing3 the next day and should be going home. The two of them sobered up and Aziraphale walked Crowley out of the shop.
Driving home, Crowley found himself thinking about the bullet hole sticker he had gotten in the 70’s. He had been rather into Bond at that point. He remembered seeing Dr. No for the first time in the cinema. He hadn’t read the books before, so Bond was a whole new experience for him. Here was a character he could really connect with. Suave, sophisticated, a lady-killer who always got the job done and did it with style.
Then he thought back to the other fictional characters he had connected to. They had all been rather similar to Bond. Some were good, some were bad, but all of them had the same sort of air about them. He thought back further, to before humans had invented characters like that. He hadn’t acted very much like that at all. Certainly, he’d been subtle, even charming, but he was much more unassuming. He didn’t own any flashy gadgets or attempt to display wealth in any way. In fact, he hadn’t had much of a set personality at all. It changed depending on who he was talking to, whereas now whatever he did was just a variation on one theme.
He thought back as far as he could, to when he still called himself an angel. He didn’t emulate anyone or change personalities then. He had simply been him, and that was all he needed to be; not suave or mysterious or flashy, just curious, pensive, and a little naïve. He parked his car in the garage under his building and simply sat there for a long, long time wondering who he really was.
~end~
1 Used here for lack of a better word. Crowley had often privately wondered if “occultulously” or something similar should be added to the English language.
2 Though it was less “talking” and more a sloshy, impassioned debate.
3 He actually did have a “thing.” He had a meeting scheduled with the head of BP the next morning. He had just been too drunk to remember.
Happy Holidays,
googlebrat, from your Secret Writer!
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