Happy Holidays, irisbleufic!
Dec. 11th, 2017 05:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeIrisbleufic, your Secret Author wrote this fic just for you!
Summary: Aziraphale and Anathema rely on each other to whine (and wine) about their significant others. It goes as well as anticipated.
Rating: T
Characters: Anathema, Aziraphale, Crowley
Do You Have the Time to Listen to Me Wine?
A light rap on the door pulled Aziraphale out of his reverie and away from his book. He marked his place with a ribbon and sat the heavy tome aside before standing with an enormous stretch. He yawned and stretched once more before heading to the door of his shop.
It was a rare occurrence for him to open the door of his shop for someone who knocked, but he made an exception for the young woman waving at him from the other side of the glass. Undoing five separate locks and prying open the door, which had a not-so-accidental tendency to stick, Aziraphale peered out and murmured, "Hello, Anathema. Come in." He held the door open and gently nudged some cardboard boxes aside with one foot.
Anathema Device slipped through the doorway, smiling slightly at the now familiar organized chaos of the bookshop.
"Thanks," she said, but Aziraphale shushed her.
"He's asleep in my back room," the angel said, not bothering to clarify who the 'he' in question was.
Anathema quirked one extremely expressive eyebrow. There was an implicit accusation in her expression about colluding with the enemy, and it had nothing to do with Crowley's status as a demon.
"I know, I know," Aziraphale hurried on, "But I couldn't bring myself to ask him to leave, not when he looked so peaceful."
"But what if he wakes up?" Anathema demanded, ever pragmatic. She looked around suspiciously, as though she expected Crowley to appear at any moment, from behind some pile of books or other.
"Just keep your voice low," Aziraphale instructed. "He's a heavy sleeper. Once slept-er. Well, that's another story for another day, I suppose," he laughed uneasily and ran a hand through his unruly blond curls, "just pretend he isn't here. But do keep your voice down."
Anathema appeared nonplussed by this development, but she nodded all the same and held out an offering.
"I brought wine."
"Oh, how lovely of you," Aziraphale said, taking the bottle, which changed vintages the moment it touched his fingertips, "please, have a seat."
As a rule, he was completely against the concept of chairs in his shop. He didn't want to give anyone any wrong-headed ideas about how long they should feel free to stay. But Crowley sleeping in the back room had forced him to improvise, so he had miracled a couple of arm chairs in at odd angles wherever free space was available, with a promise to himself that they would be gone by the end of the evening.
Anathema seated herself primly in one of the two chairs and waited expectantly for Aziraphale to join her. He hastily poured the wine into glasses that might or might not have been there moments before, and handed her one before seating himself in the free chair.
"This was a white when I brought it in," Anathema said flatly.
"And how have you been, my dear?" Aziraphale deflected, smiling too broadly.
She appeared momentarily miffed at being ignored, but settled deeper into her chair and responded, "Fine. And you?"
"Oh, fine. Fine," he sat back in his chair and took a sip of his wine and humming in quiet satisfaction. It was now a very passable merlot. "And young Newton?" He questioned, getting straight to the point of their meeting.
"Oh," he watched with keen interest as she barked out a laugh, "he's fine."
The angel offered her a look of polite anticipation.
He was not disappointed.
"It's just that," she began, inhaling deeply, "He's, well..."
"Yes?"
"He's destroying everything we own!" she blurted out.
Aziraphale raised one of eyebrow and beckoned for her to continue. Newton Pulsifer did not strike him as particularly destructive.
"Oh," she continued, sighing, "it's not his fault, really. He's not trying. God-Heaven-Somebody help us if he were."
Like most people, Anathema never seemed to know who to bless or curse on now that she knew that Above and Below were very real places, with a very real interest in human endeavors.
"I finally convinced him to get retire Dick Turpin."
"Dick...Turpin? The--"
Anathema laughed again, sipping her wine quickly before continuing. "Dick Turpin was that ghastly car. The Wasabi. Newt adored it. He said there were a lot of benefits, such as it not needing much petrol, and that it never showed damage. Of course, it didn't use much petrol because nine times out of ten, it wouldn't go anywhere. And it never showed damage because it was already so damaged that one more accident couldn't possibly hurt it.
"I finally talked him into a new car. It lasted a week before the door handle fell off in his hand. Yesterday the windows started going up and down on their own. I don't know how he manages it."
Aziraphale chuckled. "I wouldn't dare ask mine," he glanced over his shoulder at the back room, "to get rid of his car. He's far too attached. Besides, He, the-Antichrist--"
"Adam."
"Er, yes, Adam, remade if for him after that messy business in Tadfield, so I suppose he's meant to have it."
"Well, Adam had nothing to say about the Wasabi, thank--" again, she hesitated. "Someone. Because even if he had, I'm not sure I could have stood it much longer.
Aziraphale nodded his sympathetic understanding. "I've learned not to let Crowley borrow my music," he said regretfully. "He tells me that Heaven lost all its good musicians to Hell, but I've lost far more to that Mercury fellow."
He hesitated, attempting to decide if he ought to ask a question that had been plaguing his mind for some time now. He downed the rest of his wine before finally gathering the nerve.
"Anathema, could you tell me what a fat bottomed girl is?"
Anathema had the grace to cover her mouth as she laughed, but still asked for another glass of wine before she made any attempt to explain.
Aziraphale poured her a refill, and helped himself to one as well. The wine bottle refilled itself.
Her explanation took the better part of twenty minutes, and it involved a lot of gesturing and some blushing and a good deal more wine. Aziraphale lost the thread of the conversation once and began humming a song that he couldn't remember the name of, but he knew it was about a poor boy who nobody loved. He continued on until a mention of Beelzebub made him purse his lips and fall moodily silent.
"And yet," Anathema continued, trying to get the conversation back on track after her explanation had failed to make anyone feel better, "He won't let me touch any of his so-called computer hardware, because he insists I wouldn't know how to properly handle it."
"So-called?"
"Well, it was computer hardware when he got it," she said, giggling. “He wants so badly for the things to continue being computer hardware after he touches them, but they keep turning into paperweights. Poor Newt,” she added as an afterthought, although she made no attempt to disguise that she found the whole thing quite amusing.
"I tried to help Crowley by watering his plants one day,” Aziraphale commiserated.
"His plants?"
"Oh, his entire flat is filled with them. He adores them, although don't tell him that I said that. He told me I was doing it all wrong, and fussed about it for days. For what it's worth, I don't think I did them any harm."
"I'm sure you didn't," she reassured him.
"I should say Heaven knows a thing or two about gardening, all things considered," he mused, recalling one garden in particular and feeling rather grand about the whole thing.
Anathema snorted softly.
Aziraphale reached for the wine bottle and refilled his glass, which he had already drained again.
Anathema's was only half empty, but he refilled it anyways.
The bottle didn't even go to the effort of emptying as he poured.
"But," he continued, taking another long sip, "he has no problem attempting to 'help' in the shop. He ruins my organization."
Anathema glanced around at the gentle chaos of the bookshop and finished half of her glass, but refrained from commenting.
"It's not fair," he surmised moodily. He reached for the wine bottle and only managed to knock it off the table. He shouted, but could not catch the bottle before it hit the floor. Red wine spread across the carpet.
"Ohh..." he dithered, leaping up as Anathema reached down to grab the now empty bottle (which seemed properly embarrassed and did not refill itself).
The rug stayed stained.
The door to the back room opened and Anthony J. Crowley padded out, adjusting an askew pair of sunglasses and attempting to smooth down his mussed hair.
"Angel, what in the name of--" he stopped short in surprise at seeing their guest, and checked his (rather expensive) watch, as though seized with a sudden concern that he might have slept for longer than he realized.
"Hello, Crowley," she said, nodding at him as she set the wine bottle back on the table.
"Anathema Device?"
"Guilty," she said with a laugh.
Crowley considered this before turning his attention back to Aziraphale. "You shouted?"
"The rug," Aziraphale fretted, properly tipsy and distraught as he wrung his hands. It had been one of his favorites, and the stain was continuing to spread. "It's ruined, Crowley."
"Oh, Angel," Crowley said, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly in wry amusement, "What have I told you? Just miracle it away."
Aziraphale opened his mouth to say that the situation was hopeless, but before he could speak, Crowley had glared the stain into submission. In a second it was gone, as though it had never been there at all.
Aziraphale gasped loudly. "You saved it! Oh, Crowley, my dear, thank you," he stepped where stain had been and approached the demon to help fuss over his hair. He smiled fondly at the cowlicks.
Crowley's eyebrows popped up from behind his sunglasses. "Do you want to explain why we have company," he questioned, amused.
"Oh! Anathema was just asking my advice on--" he froze.
"--Divine sort of--"
"--Heavenly--"
"--Things," Anathema finished, blushing slightly. "But I was just leaving," she added.
"There's no need--" Crowley started, but she stood.
"No, no. I was just heading out. Aziraphale was going to show me to the door."
"I wa-I mean. Oh yes. Of course," Aziraphale recovered quickly. "I was just going to show Anathema out. I'll be back, my dear. Thank you for fixing my rug."
He stood on his toes to kiss Crowley's cheek, and then offered his arm to Anathema to walk her the short distance to the door.
A very confused cab and driver were waiting outside for her. They had been across the city only moments before.
"Traitor," Anathema teased, glancing back into the bookshop, where Crowley was standing, sleepy and perplexed. He yawned just a little too wide.
"I'm sorry," Aziraphale murmured, glancing back as well. But he was smiling all the same.
Summary: Aziraphale and Anathema rely on each other to whine (and wine) about their significant others. It goes as well as anticipated.
Rating: T
Characters: Anathema, Aziraphale, Crowley
Do You Have the Time to Listen to Me Wine?
A light rap on the door pulled Aziraphale out of his reverie and away from his book. He marked his place with a ribbon and sat the heavy tome aside before standing with an enormous stretch. He yawned and stretched once more before heading to the door of his shop.
It was a rare occurrence for him to open the door of his shop for someone who knocked, but he made an exception for the young woman waving at him from the other side of the glass. Undoing five separate locks and prying open the door, which had a not-so-accidental tendency to stick, Aziraphale peered out and murmured, "Hello, Anathema. Come in." He held the door open and gently nudged some cardboard boxes aside with one foot.
Anathema Device slipped through the doorway, smiling slightly at the now familiar organized chaos of the bookshop.
"Thanks," she said, but Aziraphale shushed her.
"He's asleep in my back room," the angel said, not bothering to clarify who the 'he' in question was.
Anathema quirked one extremely expressive eyebrow. There was an implicit accusation in her expression about colluding with the enemy, and it had nothing to do with Crowley's status as a demon.
"I know, I know," Aziraphale hurried on, "But I couldn't bring myself to ask him to leave, not when he looked so peaceful."
"But what if he wakes up?" Anathema demanded, ever pragmatic. She looked around suspiciously, as though she expected Crowley to appear at any moment, from behind some pile of books or other.
"Just keep your voice low," Aziraphale instructed. "He's a heavy sleeper. Once slept-er. Well, that's another story for another day, I suppose," he laughed uneasily and ran a hand through his unruly blond curls, "just pretend he isn't here. But do keep your voice down."
Anathema appeared nonplussed by this development, but she nodded all the same and held out an offering.
"I brought wine."
"Oh, how lovely of you," Aziraphale said, taking the bottle, which changed vintages the moment it touched his fingertips, "please, have a seat."
As a rule, he was completely against the concept of chairs in his shop. He didn't want to give anyone any wrong-headed ideas about how long they should feel free to stay. But Crowley sleeping in the back room had forced him to improvise, so he had miracled a couple of arm chairs in at odd angles wherever free space was available, with a promise to himself that they would be gone by the end of the evening.
Anathema seated herself primly in one of the two chairs and waited expectantly for Aziraphale to join her. He hastily poured the wine into glasses that might or might not have been there moments before, and handed her one before seating himself in the free chair.
"This was a white when I brought it in," Anathema said flatly.
"And how have you been, my dear?" Aziraphale deflected, smiling too broadly.
She appeared momentarily miffed at being ignored, but settled deeper into her chair and responded, "Fine. And you?"
"Oh, fine. Fine," he sat back in his chair and took a sip of his wine and humming in quiet satisfaction. It was now a very passable merlot. "And young Newton?" He questioned, getting straight to the point of their meeting.
"Oh," he watched with keen interest as she barked out a laugh, "he's fine."
The angel offered her a look of polite anticipation.
He was not disappointed.
"It's just that," she began, inhaling deeply, "He's, well..."
"Yes?"
"He's destroying everything we own!" she blurted out.
Aziraphale raised one of eyebrow and beckoned for her to continue. Newton Pulsifer did not strike him as particularly destructive.
"Oh," she continued, sighing, "it's not his fault, really. He's not trying. God-Heaven-Somebody help us if he were."
Like most people, Anathema never seemed to know who to bless or curse on now that she knew that Above and Below were very real places, with a very real interest in human endeavors.
"I finally convinced him to get retire Dick Turpin."
"Dick...Turpin? The--"
Anathema laughed again, sipping her wine quickly before continuing. "Dick Turpin was that ghastly car. The Wasabi. Newt adored it. He said there were a lot of benefits, such as it not needing much petrol, and that it never showed damage. Of course, it didn't use much petrol because nine times out of ten, it wouldn't go anywhere. And it never showed damage because it was already so damaged that one more accident couldn't possibly hurt it.
"I finally talked him into a new car. It lasted a week before the door handle fell off in his hand. Yesterday the windows started going up and down on their own. I don't know how he manages it."
Aziraphale chuckled. "I wouldn't dare ask mine," he glanced over his shoulder at the back room, "to get rid of his car. He's far too attached. Besides, He, the-Antichrist--"
"Adam."
"Er, yes, Adam, remade if for him after that messy business in Tadfield, so I suppose he's meant to have it."
"Well, Adam had nothing to say about the Wasabi, thank--" again, she hesitated. "Someone. Because even if he had, I'm not sure I could have stood it much longer.
Aziraphale nodded his sympathetic understanding. "I've learned not to let Crowley borrow my music," he said regretfully. "He tells me that Heaven lost all its good musicians to Hell, but I've lost far more to that Mercury fellow."
He hesitated, attempting to decide if he ought to ask a question that had been plaguing his mind for some time now. He downed the rest of his wine before finally gathering the nerve.
"Anathema, could you tell me what a fat bottomed girl is?"
Anathema had the grace to cover her mouth as she laughed, but still asked for another glass of wine before she made any attempt to explain.
Aziraphale poured her a refill, and helped himself to one as well. The wine bottle refilled itself.
Her explanation took the better part of twenty minutes, and it involved a lot of gesturing and some blushing and a good deal more wine. Aziraphale lost the thread of the conversation once and began humming a song that he couldn't remember the name of, but he knew it was about a poor boy who nobody loved. He continued on until a mention of Beelzebub made him purse his lips and fall moodily silent.
"And yet," Anathema continued, trying to get the conversation back on track after her explanation had failed to make anyone feel better, "He won't let me touch any of his so-called computer hardware, because he insists I wouldn't know how to properly handle it."
"So-called?"
"Well, it was computer hardware when he got it," she said, giggling. “He wants so badly for the things to continue being computer hardware after he touches them, but they keep turning into paperweights. Poor Newt,” she added as an afterthought, although she made no attempt to disguise that she found the whole thing quite amusing.
"I tried to help Crowley by watering his plants one day,” Aziraphale commiserated.
"His plants?"
"Oh, his entire flat is filled with them. He adores them, although don't tell him that I said that. He told me I was doing it all wrong, and fussed about it for days. For what it's worth, I don't think I did them any harm."
"I'm sure you didn't," she reassured him.
"I should say Heaven knows a thing or two about gardening, all things considered," he mused, recalling one garden in particular and feeling rather grand about the whole thing.
Anathema snorted softly.
Aziraphale reached for the wine bottle and refilled his glass, which he had already drained again.
Anathema's was only half empty, but he refilled it anyways.
The bottle didn't even go to the effort of emptying as he poured.
"But," he continued, taking another long sip, "he has no problem attempting to 'help' in the shop. He ruins my organization."
Anathema glanced around at the gentle chaos of the bookshop and finished half of her glass, but refrained from commenting.
"It's not fair," he surmised moodily. He reached for the wine bottle and only managed to knock it off the table. He shouted, but could not catch the bottle before it hit the floor. Red wine spread across the carpet.
"Ohh..." he dithered, leaping up as Anathema reached down to grab the now empty bottle (which seemed properly embarrassed and did not refill itself).
The rug stayed stained.
The door to the back room opened and Anthony J. Crowley padded out, adjusting an askew pair of sunglasses and attempting to smooth down his mussed hair.
"Angel, what in the name of--" he stopped short in surprise at seeing their guest, and checked his (rather expensive) watch, as though seized with a sudden concern that he might have slept for longer than he realized.
"Hello, Crowley," she said, nodding at him as she set the wine bottle back on the table.
"Anathema Device?"
"Guilty," she said with a laugh.
Crowley considered this before turning his attention back to Aziraphale. "You shouted?"
"The rug," Aziraphale fretted, properly tipsy and distraught as he wrung his hands. It had been one of his favorites, and the stain was continuing to spread. "It's ruined, Crowley."
"Oh, Angel," Crowley said, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly in wry amusement, "What have I told you? Just miracle it away."
Aziraphale opened his mouth to say that the situation was hopeless, but before he could speak, Crowley had glared the stain into submission. In a second it was gone, as though it had never been there at all.
Aziraphale gasped loudly. "You saved it! Oh, Crowley, my dear, thank you," he stepped where stain had been and approached the demon to help fuss over his hair. He smiled fondly at the cowlicks.
Crowley's eyebrows popped up from behind his sunglasses. "Do you want to explain why we have company," he questioned, amused.
"Oh! Anathema was just asking my advice on--" he froze.
"--Divine sort of--"
"--Heavenly--"
"--Things," Anathema finished, blushing slightly. "But I was just leaving," she added.
"There's no need--" Crowley started, but she stood.
"No, no. I was just heading out. Aziraphale was going to show me to the door."
"I wa-I mean. Oh yes. Of course," Aziraphale recovered quickly. "I was just going to show Anathema out. I'll be back, my dear. Thank you for fixing my rug."
He stood on his toes to kiss Crowley's cheek, and then offered his arm to Anathema to walk her the short distance to the door.
A very confused cab and driver were waiting outside for her. They had been across the city only moments before.
"Traitor," Anathema teased, glancing back into the bookshop, where Crowley was standing, sleepy and perplexed. He yawned just a little too wide.
"I'm sorry," Aziraphale murmured, glancing back as well. But he was smiling all the same.
