Happy Holidays, Malicehoughton!

[waxbean.livejournal.com]

Gift for: malicehaughton
gift from: hsavinien
MaliceHoughton requested: your choice of rating; Crowley/Aziraphale,
Adam/Pepper, Famine/War, Newt/Anathema; Newt/A - The A is up for grabs
(could be one of a few people lol). Include a duck, handcuffs, an apple,
books, voyeurism. Dog should make an appearance.

Title: Ties That Bind
Rating: PG, probably

AN: I took some creative licence with Malice’s prompts, but I hope you like
it. A bit over 2,500 words.


Somewhere in Africa, a dog pawed hungrily at red-stained dust, trying
listlessly to lap up nourishment from the swiftly disappearing puddle. Red
tossed her head, laughing at Sable’s sated expression. “It’s been too long
since you took a personal interest. Even you need to see the way your work
is appreciated.” The mockery in her voice sounded with echoes of Achilles’
scorn raking Agamemnon.

Sable smiled, thin and sharp as a knife. “My dear woman, we really must
collaborate more often.” Pale fingers dangled the end of a black ribbon,
slipping close enough to tie up a slender lock of flaming hair.

***

Adam frowned. Would it count as Interfering if someone else (or, rather two
Someones) had started bollocksing things up first? No. He watched the
ribbon curl like spreading ink and stretched just a little, smoothing the
path of international aid organisations. Dog sighed, dribbling a little as
his head flopped across Adam’s trainers.

“They’re doing their job, I suppose,” Pepper observed quietly over his
shoulder, looking at the news feed on the telly.

“Yar, well. They can choose as well. You don’t have to hurt people just
because you’re meant to.” He poked her in the shoulder. “Daft reason to do
anything.”

“Do you get in trouble?”

He laughed. Dog’s hackles spiked and Pepper shivered involuntarily—there
was something like humour and something like fear in that sound and it was
far more beautiful than it had any right being coming out of a
thirteen-year-old boy.
“Who with, Pep? Who with?”

The girl buried the memories that tried to rise at that. Adam glanced back,
contrite.

“Sorry, Pep. Here, could you help me with somethin’?” At her
nod, he produced a snarled tangle of black ribbon.

“Help me unknot this?” Pepper grinned, instantly comfortable now that the metaphysical had been abandoned.

“Your mum got a craft project? Mine’s discovered macramé, and I can’t even figure out what it is she’s meant to be making.”

“Something like that, Pepper.”

***

Newt looked around guiltily, running the bit of black ribbon through his
fingers. Anathema had bicycled down to Lower Tadfield, muttering about
soybean prices and threatening to make him take her to London in Dick Turpin
for a trip to the markets. She hadn’t said when she’d be back, but…it had
been weeks now since he’d looked at it. It wasn’t as if it was really
wrong of him. All young men were interested in things like that,
even if they did have a lovely, fulfilling life. It still made him feel
slightly guilty though. It reminded him of, well, lying to Anathema.
Leaning back against the headboard of the bed, Newt pulled the magazine out
from under the mattress. They were so beautiful—surely Anathema would
forgive him that if she ever found out. Propping one knee up for comfort,
he opened the magazine, fingers catching as he trailed them across the
glossy photographs. The ribbon coiled beside him on the rumpled duvet.
A sudden noise made him jump, tipping him off the bed and onto the floor.
Looking up in dread, he saw Anathema, arms folded over the windowsill,
grinning at him.

“All right, lover-my-lad. Give it here.”

“Er.”

“Come on.” Beckoning imperiously, she Looked at him. There are looks and
then there are Looks—which only a small percentage of the female and a
very small number of the male population can deliver with any kind of
convincing emphasis. Anathema was the Mistress of the Look, possibly
because of all the built up confidence of the professional-descendent-gone-freelance-mystic.

Red-faced, Newt handed over the magazine as Anathema climbed in the window, straddling the sill as she studied it. “It’s…not exactly what it looks
like…”

“‘Macintosh—Meet the New Apple!’” she read. Looking up, she quirked an
eyebrow. “Still haven’t given up on the computers, have you.”

“I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually! Look, they’re American, designed
to be user friendly, so they can’t be too difficult.” Risking a glance at
his lover, Newt Pulsifer ventured, “I have apologized about the ‘computer
technician’ bit, haven’t I?”

Anathema nodded absently. “Set on this, are you?”

“You mean…we might get one?” he asked, vaguely incredulous.

“I’ve been thinking about setting up an internet site,” she replied, paging
past some software adverts. Anathema looked up and fixed him with a serious
glare.

“You’ll not be touching it without some training, though. I think
if I can get your mind fixed on breaking a computer, you should be able to
touch it safely.” At his poleaxed expression she smiled again. Dropping
the magazine on the bed, she pulled him up from the floor and grabbed the
black ribbon off the bed. She tied it carefully around his neck in a
lopsided bow, then pushed Newt over onto the coverlet, landing on top of
him. Grinning mischievously, Anathema added, “I can promise you’ll enjoy
the lessons.”

***

Aziraphale could tell that Crowley was rapidly approaching the ‘casually
destructive’ stage of boredom. Directly before that, however, came
the—kick…kick—ah, right on schedule. The ‘alleviate by annoying
angel’ stage.

“Crowley, you do realize that you are being extremely childish?”

“Hmm?”

“I can see your foot, you know. You are kicking my ankle.”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Crowley said with an
injured sniff. His foot stilled though and he gazed out toward the pond,
singeing a few feathers. The ducks in his sight line squawked indignantly
and rushed at a quick waddle to quench their toasted feathers in the water.

“Did I tell you that some land developers are looking at St James’?” the
demon asked, tone too casual. “They’re turning it into a carpark.”

“No, they aren’t.”

“Well, you don’t know—there might’ve been.”

“No, there wouldn’t be.”

“How do you know?”

“I was present at the signing of the protective act that prevents any such
thing happening to this park.” Aziraphale turned a page calmly, mouth
twitching a little despite his efforts.

“Blessed bloody know-it-all.”

“Crowley, are you or are you not going to leave me in peace long enough to
finish this book?”

Anthony J Crowley grinned, tinted glasses catching the sunlight. “Now that
you mention it…”

The angel sighed, noting his page number and stowing the book away in his
blazer pocket. “I should have known. Well, since my choice of recreation
has apparently been vetted, did you have an alternative in mind?”

“We could go to a club!” Crowley said immediately, perking up.

“No. You just want to scandalise me by seducing someone inappropriate.”

Crowley pouted. He honestly pouted, Aziraphale observed out of the corner
of his eye. The demon’s lower lip protruded and his brow had the tiniest
wrinkle, just above the sunglasses.

“Crowley, really.”

“’s not fair,” he mumbled.

“What?” Aziraphale turned on the bench and looked at Crowley full on.

“I said, ‘It’s not fair.’ We’re always doing what you like, never what I
like. Today we fed the dam- bles- bloody ducks and you didn’t even
let me pop any kiddie balloons.”

Aziraphale was beginning to be slightly unnerved. “This really isn’t like
you, Crowley. We’re hardly…I don’t know… Er, I didn’t think you minded so
terribly.”

“I wouldn’t, if I got to have some fun once in a while without you scowling
at me.”

“But, but you do, don’t you? When I’m working at the bookshop, you have
plenty of time for temptings and wiles and…things.”

Crowley heaved a long sigh, lower lip sticking out even more. Aziraphale
was beginning to think he shouldn’t be paying so much attention to his
friend’s lips. “It’s not the same. When we’re out together, having fun,
the most I ever get to do is skip out on the check and you usually even
thwart that. I saw you mucking with the Albanian agent’s mind earlier.
Your lot and their bloody puppies and flowers…*”

“Er…well, I suppose you might have a point.”

Crowley brightened immediately. “You’ll go out with me then? I can teach
you how to dance as if you’d learned within the last century.”

Aziraphale searched valiantly for an excuse that wouldn’t make Crowley pout
again, as that was clearly bad for his—Aziraphale’s—train of thought.

“Er…”

Crowley smiled, the corners of his mouth doing things to Aziraphale’s
stomach that completely bypassed the brain altogether and made both ache
rather. He jumped up and dangled a bit of black ribbon in front of the
angel’s eyes.

“Right, I’ll pick you up at eight, shall I? No tartan nor tweed allowed in the Bentley tonight. Ciao!” He sauntered off, radiating something that almost seemed like excitement. The ribbon floated down and coiled in Aziraphale’s lap.

Several hours later, at twenty-one minutes to eight, Aziraphale sat in his
shop, finishing the book he’d been reading earlier that day. (Miss Sarton
had a charming way with words, for an American.) He’d learned long ago that
expecting a demon to arrive exactly when he’d said he would was an exercise
in futility. Crowley might be late—to keep him waiting, or early—to catch
him unready, but coming on time, well, that would smack too much of
courtesy. Aziraphale ran the ribbon through his fingers, then peered down
at it in mild bemusement. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing Crowley
would carry around with him. It was…odd—

A car, the Bentley by its purr, slid up to the curb beside the bookshop and
Aziraphale looked up at the clock out of habit. Half a minute to eight.
Crowley…punctual?

The demon breezed into the shop, disregarding the locked door and smiling in
his most disconcerting fashion. He looked Aziraphale over critically,
sighing a bit melodramatically.

“Well, it’s better than it could be, but honestly, angel, do you expect me to voluntarily be seen in public with that jumper?”

Aziraphale bristled slightly. Granted, his black trousers were more
conservatively cut than Crowley’s, which looked too tight to be either
practical or comfortable…and rather too tight to be donned by anyone who did
not have the ability to turn into a snake at convenient moments. The jumper
was practical too, a pleasant knitted pale green affair that an elderly
woman in Brighton had made for “the nice young man” who’d helped her carry
approximately 20 stone worth of trunks to her hotel one summer—he still got
aches down his back when he thought about it and that had been one
unfortunate discorporation ago. The sleeves might be raveling a bit around
the cuffs but there was still plenty of good wear in it.

“Really,” his companion continued, “don’t you have a decent jacket around
here somewhere? I know I gave you one last Easter for dinners and things,
but you haven’t worn it to the Ritz, so— You haven’t given it away, have
you?” he asked suspiciously. “I did not intend to make an involuntary
contribution to one of those clothing charities.”

The angel, sighed, rubbing his temple. “If you’ll allow me to get a word
in, my dear? No, I still have it, I just don’t wear it…often. It doesn’t
suit me.”

Crowley looked wounded. “Are you calling my dress sense into question?
I’ll have you know that jacket is a classic. It’s been stylish for three
years now. And it fits you perfectly.”

“It’s rather tight.”

“Not where we’re going. Off with you and fetch it.” His jaw was set
stubbornly, eyebrows quirked in mock menace, and his deliberately casual
lean against the counter implied that a. he could play the waiting game as
well as anyone and b. Aziraphale owed him.

After a quick trot upstairs for the article of clothing in question—a sleek,
close-cut black affair, Aziraphale followed Crowley out to the Bentley,
trying to ignore his companion’s perkiness. Beside the fact that perkiness
was disconcerting in any demon, he feared that he was being elaborately set
up for something. The only problem was that he had no idea what.

Aziraphale stared down at his feet with an expression of vague horror. “My
dear…my shoes are sticking to the floor.”

Crowley laughed, body swaying to the beat of music that the angel mentally
described as ‘raucous’ (and felt it an act of Charity to do so.) “It’s not
your feet you should be worried about.”

“Pardon?” Aziraphale peered over at his friend as best as he could in the
glare from the pulsing lights. Crowley had a very odd expression on his
face. He seemed to be alternating between a smirk and something else that
might have been nerves.

“Do you want some Truth, angel? They’re always been big on that Upstairs.”

“Erm, about what? I can assure you—”

“Nonono, nothing about work; I shouldn’t have said it like that. Something
about you.”

“Crowley, how much alcohol have you had tonight?”

He snorted, draping his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, ostensibly to
lead him into a quieter corner of the punk dance club, through the crowd of
gyrating young humans. Once away from the dance floor, though, he neglected
to remove the limb, dragging the angel’s head closer to his own.

“The truth is that you were right, blessed know-it-all that you are.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale responded automatically. “About what am I right in
this particular instance? The fact that you have neglected to sober up in
some time?”

“Nope. Guess again.” The demon grinned, teeth glinting sharp in the lights.

“Crowley…”

“Fine.” He puffed out a breath of air in mock exasperation. “You were
right about my plans for the night.”

Aziraphale cast his mind back, trying to remember what— “Crowley! I’m not
going to stand by and let you corrupt some poor human…”

“Nope, wrong again.”

“What?” The angel shook his head, nonplussed.

“Scandalise you by seducing someone inappropriate, remember?”

Aziraphale blinked, trying to parse his meaning.

“Well, I hope I’m succeeding,” Crowley purred, leaning a few inches
closer. “Hmm…” Then, shrugging, he tipped his head the last few inches and
kissed the angel.

A moment of intense, rigid shock later, Aziraphale’s shoulders relaxed infinitesimally and he returned the kiss.

Pulling away, Crowley pouted. “So, not scandalous, then?”

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s certainly inappropriate,” Aziraphale
replied a little breathlessly, before leaning back towards him to taste the
pout he’d tried to ignore that afternoon.

“Well, I’m not planning on issuing a relationship bulletin to Heaven or
Hell,” the demon said after they negotiated their way through that kiss.
My, but collaboration was interesting.

“As long as we understand one another,” Aziraphale said sternly. He set
Crowley solidly upright—they’d managed to drift into a mutual lean against
the wall. Pulling the black ribbon from his coat pocket, he knotted it
carefully around Crowley’s wrist.

“Do we?” he asked, brushing one hand down the angel’s jaw. “I think it’s
simple. We’ve only been edging towards it for the last hundred years.”

“As do I, but let me put it into words for my own sake, my dear. If I’m
yours, then you’re mine. In this case, I think tha—”

“No one else.”

“Precisely. Shall we go get a real drink and leave this din?”

“It’s perfectly good music…well, maybe not this band. Yes, all right.”

*finis*

[* The government spy in question had rather suddenly decided to devote his
life to running a shelter for abandoned animals of all varieties and
completely forgotten the clandestine meeting he was supposed to be having
with a French double agent.]