Happy Holidays, kirathaune!
Jan. 2nd, 2023 05:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeTitle: That’s Not How Temptation Works
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,600
Recipient: Kirathaune
Summary: Sometimes, the line between tempting and thwarting is extremely thin.
Crowley fidgeted in his seat, hoping he'd misheard the previous ten minutes of Dagon's litany as read from a document covered in dubious red calligraphy.
"Do you, Crowley, acknowledge that the aforementioned deeds were performed by you as stated?" Dagon droned, glancing at the office handbook, which was open on the desk. "Furthermore, do you, the aforementioned, acknowledge that they were, in fact, not performed at all?" During the last bit, he looked at Crowley, which suggested it wasn't in the manual.
"Uh," Crowley said uncomfortably. "Well. You know how these things…er, go."
"Fornication is no laughing matter, Crowley. In fact, it's probably the least shirk-able of the duties with which we've charged you lot," Dagon said, waving as if Crowley counted as an entire legion of devils in and of himself.
Had the old bastard missed the part where Crowley, the aforementioned, worked alone? Mostly alone, anyway—he had decided long ago that, under these circumstances, Aziraphale's occasional aid emphatically did not count.
"No, it isn't," Crowley said. "However, might I point out that the humans in each item of your little laundry list did end up…um." He averted his eyes. The mixture of hilarity and embarrassment was too much. Hadn't Dagon observed human sexuality in all its absurdity at some point in his damned existence?
"That they did," Dagon agreed. "Not incited by you, though, if what this says is true."
Crowley stared at the floor. After a few long moments, he folded his arms and sighed.
"For example," Dagon pressed on, almost helpfully, "in the case of those Etruscans—"
"They started before I could even spike the wine!" protested Crowley, indignant.
"And Hastur notes here that your favorite clique of inept Roman senators—"
"Were already going at it when I got there," Crowley admitted miserably.
Dagon frowned, scanning farther down the list. "Paris, 25 December 1342?"
"Bishop Chanac's idea," said Crowley, rather too emphatically. "Not mine."
"I must say, your failure rate is impressive," Dagon said, turning the page. "You appear not to have incited a single one of these acts. That's not how temptation works. Did you not pay attention during that bit of staff training?"
Given it was millennia ago, how do you bloody expect me to remember? Crowley thought. What he said instead was, "Yes, sir. It's quite clear."
"Then if not interference from the Adversary, what accounts for your talent for targeting humans with innate nymphomaniac tendencies?"
"Come on, they weren't all—" Crowley bit his tongue, but not soon enough. Careless of him, letting Dagon glimpse his worst secret. Any demon who thought humans weren't essentially rotten, or even just miserable pawns, tended to meet an unpleasant fate. And in Hell, fate did not necessarily mean the same thing as end.
Dagon stamped the piece of paper with half a dozen different seals—one of them, Crowley recognized as Hastur's. He set it aside with the rest of Crowley's file, then rummaged in the folder pocket of the office handbook. He pulled out a crisp looking sheet printed in normal black ink and wrote busily for the next five minutes.
Crowley tried to catch a glimpse of what he was putting down, but all that he could see was that the sheet had tick-boxes with phrases next to them and, after those, blank lines.
"There," said Dagon, setting aside his pen. He stamped the bottom of the sheet with his own seal and handed it over to Crowley. "Let me know if these terms are disagreeable enough. There's always room for improvement, and this should help you along."
When Crowley hit the part about two centuries' suspension without pay, he spoke up.
"Two hundred years? For failing to complete six temptations of a carnal nature in a fortnight? Surely two months without pay would be sufficient."
"You missed the fine print," Dagon said, leaning over to tap the bottom of the page with his pen. "Protesting results in an additional half-century."
Barking mad, thought Crowley, seething. "Ah. True. Not so harsh after all."
"I'll have to see about having the punishment revised for next time, then."
"Er, anyway. Perfectly agreeable. I concur. What next?"
"Sign," Dagon said, "and you can be on your way. Of course, we'll know if you don't—"
"Oh, you'll know," replied Crowley, signing with a determined flourish, "if I do."
Dagon snatched back the paper and looked it over, then promptly handed it back. "Your real name, Crowley. This informal thing of yours only goes so far."
Sighing heavily, Crowley complied. Scrawling the full sigil always made his hand cramp.
* * *
It wasn't so much that humans were difficult to tempt into fornication, or even that they were hard to read as far as their lustful potential, Crowley reflected as he rounded the corner and strolled down the street. It was that they were far too good at tempting each other. In Crowley's experience, no intervention—neither Celestial, nor Infernal—was sufficient to prevent humans from or convince humans to do what they bloody well pleased to each other.
Crowley silenced the bell as he pushed his way through Aziraphale's front door. He wasn't in the mood to be the target of a flood of insipid pleasantries aimed at a presumed customer.
Long day?" Aziraphale called from the back, his tone conversational.
"You have no idea," Crowley said, not bothering to nip into the kitchenette for his usual stolen biscuit. "Is it just me, or are these performance reviews getting tougher since—well, you know. That whole bloody week they seem to have no record of."
"I'm not due for another six months," said Aziraphale, not glancing up from his crossword. "Gabriel inexplicably canceled on me—and, I suspect, everybody else."
"Lucky buggers," Crowley muttered, sullenly taking a seat across from him.
Aziraphale set aside the crossword and folded his fingers into a neat steeple.
"What did they suggest as far as improvements go? Heaven knows that's always the worst of it. One might try smiling more, or being more patient, or—"
"If I was in a better mood, I'd be proud of your sarcasm," said Crowley. "None of the above. I'm being made to…um." He knew he couldn't possibly say it. Humiliated, he took the badly singed carbon copy out of his coat pocket and slid it across the table.
"My dear," said Aziraphale, sounding faintly impressed. "That shouldn't be too terribly difficult. My problem's sometimes the opposite, in fact."
It took a few seconds for the statement to sink in, but when it did, Crowley gaped.
"It's sometimes what?"
Suddenly flustered, Aziraphale folded the sheet and slid it back across the table to Crowley.
"Well, I should first like to mention that I never—" He cleared his throat, punctuating each word with a stab of his index finger "—under any circumstances employed any means of subliminal suggestion for my own amusement. It's absolutely appalling when it happens. I want you to understand that."
"I do," Crowley reassured him, in disbelief at what Aziraphale was insinuating. "Carry on."
Aziraphale stared at the table for a few seconds, then nodded.
"Well, they—that is, some of them, as it's not as if it happens with every case of visionary ecstasy I'm assigned to induce, however—"
"Saint Theresa," Crowley blurted, smacking the table. "Suddenly, that statue makes a lot more sense. You know, last spring when we were in Rome, I—"
"It's bad enough the phenomenon's captured in stone!" hissed Aziraphale, redder than Crowley had seen him since they both fell asleep while sunning themselves in Majorca. "I take it you've got the gist?"
"Abundantly," said Crowley. "It's, er, very unexpected. Very. Just dreadful—oh! And Caravaggio's Saul—er, Paul on the road to—"
"One would think they would've cleared their minds before attempting earnest prayer. You'd be amazed how little difference it makes whether they're alone, together, in groups…"
"Is that what the whole Cathar flap was about? I always did wonder, as we had nothing to do with it. In fact," Crowley said, half impressed and half disgusted, "it was on Dagon's list. Speaking of amazement, it was so damned long—"
"Really, Crowley," said Aziraphale, huffily. "It isn't funny."
"No," Crowley replied, "but we might turn it to my—um. Our advantage."
"I can see nothing to be gained of sexual ecstasy being mistaken for religious fervor," Aziraphale muttered. "Haven't they deluded themselves badly enough? I swear, in all those cases, I hadn't so much as shown up when…"
Crowley smacked the table again.
"That's humans for you, isn't it? Always starting without you! And getting it all wrong, too. Anyway, as I was saying, we could—"
"Actually, I don't know about the Cathars, either, but I can tell you my superiors weren't pleased about what went on at the Temple Mount during the Crusades. And they thought they were being clever, making up all those accusations—which, by the way, I always assumed you had something to do with."
"You've been reading too much Umberto Eco," said Crowley, leaning across the table and shaking Aziraphale by the shoulders. "Just hear me out. If you're willing to come on assignment with me for, say, the next fortnight, everybody will get what they want."
Aziraphale blinked at him. "I beg your pardon?"
Crowley sighed and let go of him. "All you have to do is point out to me six different people, couples, groups—whatever floats your boat—in whom you'd normally try to incite ecstatic visions or whatever, and I'll do the angel thing like when I'm covering your gigs, and poof."
"I don't like this," said Aziraphale. "I don't like this one bit."
"Listen," Crowley said. "If I don't get paid, all dinner date bets are off…for two and a half centuries. What if the world economy collapses and the Ritz goes under?"
At that, Aziraphale appeared to experience a moment of genuine alarm.
"I suppose ," ventured the angel, tentatively, "that it'd warrant no more notice than when we do standard swaps, would it?"
"Nope," said Crowley, relaxing a little. "You'd only be pointing them out to me. And giving pointers, of course."
Aziraphale chewed the inside of his cheek, seriously considering it.
"I suppose I've got the time. Given Gabriel's cancellation, I've sort of come to consider myself on leave. Your lot are being hard on everybody, it sounds like."
"I'm everybody," Crowley sighed, not even faking how pathetic he felt.
"Well, in that case, I can't see much harm in it," Aziraphale said. "It's only six, and we can spread them out without difficulty. After all, we've got fourteen days."
"You make it sound pretty easy," Crowley said.
"You'll owe me, of course," Aziraphale replied.
* * *
"Over there," Aziraphale said. He pretended to be engrossed in his copy of The Times. "The girl. She's considering the ministry—Anglican, of course—and she's been praying for confirmation for weeks, the poor dear." He paused, lowering his paper, glancing apologetically at the newsstand's impatient proprietor. "I'm not looking forward to this. That young man really loves her, even though he doesn't approve—"
"She'll do," said Crowley. "So, what have I got to do? Step up, make sure she doesn't notice me, and whisper sweet, saintly nothings in her ear?"
Aziraphale raised the paper again, not meeting Crowley's gaze.
"I'd try just looking at her, if I were you. From closer range, of course."
"Right," Crowley said.
The young woman was sitting directly across the street from them, engrossed in deep conversation with her young man. Hatshepsut's obelisk loomed above them.
"Leave it to you to work the bloody tube," Crowley muttered, stepping up to the edge of the pavement and looking both ways before he strode into the busy street.
The girl didn't even seem to notice when the rest of the crossing crowd parted, leaving Crowley directly in front of her and her paramour. They were both crying.
Crowley's throat constricted. The girl's eyes were true green, and her hair fell in auburn waves past her shoulders. She might have modeled for Botticelli if she'd been born in the right century.
Before Crowley could flee, Aziraphale's voice cut through his thoughts: She'll look at you any second, my dear. Swallowing, he removed his shades and tried to think arousing thoughts. Quit stalling, Aziraphale whispered, and a shiver went down his spine.
The girl locked eyes with him for two long seconds. She trembled and acted.
Crowley turned his back on the most appalling PDA he'd seen since—well, probably those Etruscans—and walked away, not bothering to look both ways. He trusted all the motorists would be inclined to miss him.
"So, what happens now?" Crowley asked, snatching The Times right out of Aziraphale's trembling hands. "She'll have a religious experience confirming that maybe she's not cut out for ministering to God's flock?"
"Something like that," said Aziraphale. "I warned you. It's not for the faint of heart."
"My question is," Crowley hissed, grabbing Aziraphale by the shoulder and rushing him into the tube station, "was that your doing, or was it mine?"
"Hard to say," Aziraphale replied, distractedly looking for the passage to the correct platform. "Where are we going now, anyway?"
"I need a drink," Crowley muttered, dragging Aziraphale to the right.
* * *
"You can't take it so personally," slurred the angel, gesturing precariously with his glass of white Burgundy. "You have to remember she was thing—thinking it anyway."
Crowley stared blankly into his glass of port.
"Then why do I feel violated?"
"You're a prude," said Aziraphale. "Bittest—um, biggest one I ever saw. 'Struth. Las' time I checked, you couldn't abide hanholb—handhold—"
"Shut up," muttered Crowley. "I can too. That witch in Tadfield an' her bloody tech dork. They did more than…er…"
"See?" Aziraphale gloated. "You're hopeless."
"I suppose you were a pinnacle of fortiture—tude—forti…um, when we were talking in your shop yesterday. Why, you couldn't even look me in th' eyes."
"I would have looked you in the eyes if I could bloody well see 'em!"
"Oh," said Crowley, staring back into his drink. "Right."
Aziraphale nodded, satisfied with himself, and emptied his glass.
"Waiter? S'more of this, please."
* * *
Forty-eight hours was as long as Crowley was able to avoid Aziraphale before he realized they had better knock off more targets. Still hung over, he rang Aziraphale.
"I've toughened up," Crowley announced. "Besides, that girl's happier now."
"She'll have doubts for the rest of her life. But, yes, happier—at least for now."
"That's as good as one can hope for," replied Crowley, with as much confidence as he could manage. "Why don't we meet in the park and work from there?"
"I doubt we'll need to leave the park," Aziraphale said. "Not in this weather."
"Good point," said Crowley. "See you in half an hour." With that, he hung up.
For once, Aziraphale wasn't the first one to arrive at St. James's. Crowley stood on the bridge for a full ten minutes before the angel appeared.
"Spot any potential targets on your way in?" he asked, hopeful.
"Follow me," Aziraphale panted. "This one could be important. Er, for your lot, anyway. I don't exactly approve."
"Whatever," said Crowley, rushing after him.
"That young man at the edge of the blanket," explained Aziraphale, trying his best to keep them both hidden behind an ancient tree, "has just taken his refuge vows."
"His what?" Crowley asked.
"Zen Buddhist thing. Consider it vows of…moderation and decency."
"Then shouldn't I be tempting him into alcoholism or something?"
"Avoiding sexual excess is one of the things he swore to."
"According to Zen Buddhists, sexual excess would be…?"
"Shhh," hissed Aziraphale. " Cheating on his partner, for one."
"Is his partner anywhere in the group?" Crowley whispered.
"No. That's the point," Aziraphale replied with trepidation. "See the blonde to his right? He's got a…thing for her. Terribly troublesome."
"They're in the middle of a bloody park. What are we aiming for, hand holding?" Crowley asked, unable to keep the venom out of his voice.
"Something more ambitious," murmured Aziraphale. "You see, the blonde, she's with her…er, see those two across from her? Involved."
"With each other?"
"With her. All of them. You know, sort of a…"
"Oh," muttered Crowley. "What does the Buddhist think?"
"He's in denial," Aziraphale explained. "Very much so."
Crowley swallowed hard. "Who do I look at, then?"
"The blonde and the Buddhist? I'd try that, anyway."
"You'd try it," Crowley spat, sidling halfway around the tree. He hadn't even bothered with his shades this time. There was something to be said for direct eye contact.
Crowley barely had to seek out the Buddhist—granted, it may have been the curiously tender brush of Aziraphale's fingertips at his wrist that startled him into it. The young man's eyes fell directly on him, dark with doubt.
The blonde turned her head toward the Buddhist almost at the same moment. She winked.
Suddenly, the four young people were laughing, and the blonde's hand was on the Buddhist's thigh. One of her lovers suggested they get out of the sun and have a drink back at the flat.
Crowley stood frozen, watching them rise, shake out the blanket, and leave. The Buddhist was holding the blonde's hand tightly in his own, smiling as if he hadn't committed self-betrayal.
"I hate this," said Crowley, turning swiftly back to Aziraphale. "Let's leave."
"That one ought to score you some points. Now, I was thinking next—"
"I don't want to," Crowley snapped. "It's too soon."
"You'll fall behind," Aziraphale said worriedly, and then took him firmly by the hand.
Crowley stumbled along with him, something dizzy and dangerous ringing in his ears.
* * *
"God," Crowley whispered, hiding his face behind his hands. He hadn't even touched his wine. "I thought I was going to Hell for that job in the park, I really thought—"
"Don't be silly," said Aziraphale. "You've already gone. Besides, that chap had committed a few offenses already. It wasn't as if you had to push him to—"
"You," Crowley said flatly, "are sick."
It was then, for the first time since this nonsense had started, that Aziraphale looked hurt. He shoved his glass aside, splashing crimson across the rough wood of the tabletop.
"You know," began the angel, "I've really—I mean really—had enough of your cheek. I thought this would count as doing you a good turn, however sordid. However, I feel obliged to inform you that you are, per usual, in danger of fucking this up. Not to mention…" Aziraphale trailed off, reaching for Crowley's wrist for the second time that day. "Not to mention, I'm not sure what I'd do with myself if you weren't around to…"
Crowley withdrew his hands from the tabletop and folded them in his lap. As if the rare expletive weren’t enough, he wasn't about to let Aziraphale turn sentimental. The last time at Tadfield Airbase had been bad enough, what with sharing that bottle of wine under the stars.
"Crowley? Are you even listening to me?"
"No," Crowley said, grabbing his wine and gulping it. As he got up and put on his coat, he noticed Aziraphale's pink cheeks and watery eyes. He tried not to think too hard about it. "I'm leaving, going to get some rest. Three down and all that rot."
Aziraphale was momentarily shocked out of his sentimental fit. "Wait, d'you mean today's lot doesn't put you over?"
"Six different instances, not six different people," Crowley reminded him. "I thought you'd got the shape of this thing."
"It's shaped a lot like my glass at the minute, if you ask me."
"Cheers, then," Crowley said. He slapped down twenty quid.
"We're not celebrating, then?" Aziraphale called after him.
No, Crowley thought, welcoming the chilly night breeze. You're celebrating something else entirely, and I'm not sure I've quite caught up with you.
* * *
Crowley was aware that a five-day gap was probably dangerous to the momentum they'd built, but he was able to justify it to himself in a myriad ways.
"Not least," he reasoned to his plants, "because it's going to take me a while to reconcile the fact that our most sacred of old haunts has irrevocably become a den of debauchery. I mean—Buddhists, polyamory, and arse grabbing! Can you believe it?"
Crowley spritzed the ficus until it looked vaguely green around the roots.
"Yeah, well, it makes me sick, too," he reassured it. "Next time, you're out on the pavement branches first, just wait and see."
On the other hand, his African violets had perked up.
"Perverts," Crowley said, leaving them in disgust.
Just as Crowley entered the office, his phone rang. Reluctantly, he set down the plant mister and took his time answering. One glance at the caller ID box told him what he already knew.
Crowley reluctantly picked up the receiver and said, "Speak of the devil."
"My dear, that's either the most creative or the most insulting greeting you've thought up yet. Have you and the plants been gossiping again?"
"Actually, it's more in reference to your astonishing hobby. I almost regret having asked you for help. What's next on your appalling docket? A nip inside the St. Patrick's confessional?"
"Really, Crowley. I've got better taste than that."
"Soho Square's around the corner. Why walk three miles when you can walk one?"
"Very funny. I was calling to see if you fancied a bite to eat."
Crowley's stomach growled, but he ignored it.
"We might as well carry on. I've got less than a week left."
Aziraphale drew in his breath, and then released it.
"I was hoping you wouldn't bring it up. You're right that I haven't been kind in my choice of targets. I was assuming your lot would want the worst of it."
"Wait," Crowley said. "Let's back up for a second. Do you mean to tell me you've been dishing out the heinous stuff when you could have been serving much milder fare?"
"Well, yes," admitted Aziraphale. "Seduction's not all bad, even when it's accidental."
"None of this stuff has been accidental, and not for the reasons it ought. Am I right?"
"Sort of! I don't know? This has all grown dreadfully complex. I'm not so sure—"
"If you're not here in ten minutes," said Crowley, "all bets are off. And I do mean all of them, including the Arrangement."
"Ten? But that means I'll have to—"
"Run, jog, take a cab. I don't care. Just be here," Crowley said, and hung up. He sat down at his desk and started fiddling with a loose thread on his trousers.
Eight minutes later, the doorbell rang.
Crowley's first impulse was to run, but he held himself to the same leisurely pace at which he'd answered the phone. Aziraphale deserved to suffer a few more seconds' anxiety.
"It's never as far as I think," Aziraphale panted as Crowley opened the door. "I cut through the park. It's a lovely day. I was thinking we might start out—"
"I was thinking," said Crowley, yanking him inside, "that we might work from home, as it were. There's a pensioner lady living next door. Is there any way we might, I don't know, induce some softcore American Evangelism on her telly? She might find it…interactive, if it's fervent enough."
"Cheap. Your cheapest yet, in fact. I won't stoop to possession."
"Then I'll do it," Crowley continued. "Just tell me what channel—no offense—that rot is on, and I'll have it sorted in a second."
"I'm certain the station is in America. You might be dealing with more than a handful of satellites. Are those terribly different from wires?"
"You're an idiot," said Crowley. "Will you excuse me for a few seconds? Feel free to have a seat upstairs, and don't you dare eat all my biscuits."
With that, he squeezed his eyes shut and vanished with a pop.
This kind of stunt was sure to raise a few eyebrows Down Below—but then, that was exactly what this campaign needed. A little flair could only help him, and as long as one didn't do it too often, a little incorporeality never hurt anyone.
It took a journey through several major undersea Atlantic cables and bouncing off a dozen satellites, but he was sure that what ended up on Mrs. Huddersfield's screen was sufficiently laced with inexplicable Jane Austen quotations to keep the old bat flustered for at least a few hours, at which point she'd fall asleep and the naughty dreams would kick in.
As he raced back to London at roughly the speed of sound, Crowley reasoned that this one must count as a two-for. Austen was racy enough that the preacher was bound to get his rocks off later when his wife would, undoubtedly, pounce him in a fit of I-didn't-know-you'd-read-that passion. Everyone would be happy. Guilty, but happy.
As he materialized inside his own front door—exactly where he'd been standing before—it occurred to him that he'd been a bit hard on Aziraphale. The angel had only meant well in presenting Crowley with worst case scenarios, hadn't he? Granted, Dagon was going to appreciate the subtle artistry and self-torture at play in the first three hits.
Crowley strolled up the stairs and found Aziraphale flipping channels on the sofa. He dropped the remote control in surprise.
"You made short work, all things considered. That was some clever thinking on your feet, and entirely your style. Why didn't you think of it before?"
"Requires effort," said Crowley, yawning, and took a seat beside him. "Is my nose on straight? I hate transformation. Makes my bones itch."
"I find the process pleasant, what with every atom being re-formed from scratch. Energizing."
"Yes, but you're not normal," Crowley reminded him, fishing the remote control off the floor. He turned off the television and set the remote back on the coffee table.
Aziraphale sighed. "And then there was one."
"We could leave it for a few days," Crowley reasoned. "Time to plot a big finale. I bet you've got something twisted up your sleeve for the last act, haven't you? What'll it be? Bestiality? Someone who only gets off on rutabagas?"
Aziraphale sniffed. "I find your assumptions crude and distasteful. And no, I hadn't planned anything for the last. I was going to suggest you take it on yourself, see if you'd learned a thing or two. I can see the chances of that are slim to none. You wouldn't recognize genuine ecstasy of any sort, not even if it hit you on the head. You're too miserable."
Crowley opened his mouth with intent to refute at least half of Aziraphale's claims, but, one by one, he found them entirely true. The infuriating thing wasn't so much that the angel was right, but that he'd backed Crowley into the worst kind of corner. Crowley had something to prove after all, and it wasn't what he'd thought it was. The dangerous buzz was back in his ears, and it had nothing to do with the residual satellite interference, either.
"My dear, don't just sit there. Perhaps I was a bit hasty—mmmf?"
I'll give you prudish, Crowley thought, pleased with how Aziraphale returned the kiss once he'd got over the shock. He hoped Dagon wouldn't register this one on the books, because number seven was going to be something absurd and spectacular, preferably involving nuns.
Number six, though: number six was for them. And if Aziraphale was still bent on calling him a prude afterward, then Crowley would have to work on the whole hand-holding thing.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,600
Recipient: Kirathaune
Summary: Sometimes, the line between tempting and thwarting is extremely thin.
Crowley fidgeted in his seat, hoping he'd misheard the previous ten minutes of Dagon's litany as read from a document covered in dubious red calligraphy.
"Do you, Crowley, acknowledge that the aforementioned deeds were performed by you as stated?" Dagon droned, glancing at the office handbook, which was open on the desk. "Furthermore, do you, the aforementioned, acknowledge that they were, in fact, not performed at all?" During the last bit, he looked at Crowley, which suggested it wasn't in the manual.
"Uh," Crowley said uncomfortably. "Well. You know how these things…er, go."
"Fornication is no laughing matter, Crowley. In fact, it's probably the least shirk-able of the duties with which we've charged you lot," Dagon said, waving as if Crowley counted as an entire legion of devils in and of himself.
Had the old bastard missed the part where Crowley, the aforementioned, worked alone? Mostly alone, anyway—he had decided long ago that, under these circumstances, Aziraphale's occasional aid emphatically did not count.
"No, it isn't," Crowley said. "However, might I point out that the humans in each item of your little laundry list did end up…um." He averted his eyes. The mixture of hilarity and embarrassment was too much. Hadn't Dagon observed human sexuality in all its absurdity at some point in his damned existence?
"That they did," Dagon agreed. "Not incited by you, though, if what this says is true."
Crowley stared at the floor. After a few long moments, he folded his arms and sighed.
"For example," Dagon pressed on, almost helpfully, "in the case of those Etruscans—"
"They started before I could even spike the wine!" protested Crowley, indignant.
"And Hastur notes here that your favorite clique of inept Roman senators—"
"Were already going at it when I got there," Crowley admitted miserably.
Dagon frowned, scanning farther down the list. "Paris, 25 December 1342?"
"Bishop Chanac's idea," said Crowley, rather too emphatically. "Not mine."
"I must say, your failure rate is impressive," Dagon said, turning the page. "You appear not to have incited a single one of these acts. That's not how temptation works. Did you not pay attention during that bit of staff training?"
Given it was millennia ago, how do you bloody expect me to remember? Crowley thought. What he said instead was, "Yes, sir. It's quite clear."
"Then if not interference from the Adversary, what accounts for your talent for targeting humans with innate nymphomaniac tendencies?"
"Come on, they weren't all—" Crowley bit his tongue, but not soon enough. Careless of him, letting Dagon glimpse his worst secret. Any demon who thought humans weren't essentially rotten, or even just miserable pawns, tended to meet an unpleasant fate. And in Hell, fate did not necessarily mean the same thing as end.
Dagon stamped the piece of paper with half a dozen different seals—one of them, Crowley recognized as Hastur's. He set it aside with the rest of Crowley's file, then rummaged in the folder pocket of the office handbook. He pulled out a crisp looking sheet printed in normal black ink and wrote busily for the next five minutes.
Crowley tried to catch a glimpse of what he was putting down, but all that he could see was that the sheet had tick-boxes with phrases next to them and, after those, blank lines.
"There," said Dagon, setting aside his pen. He stamped the bottom of the sheet with his own seal and handed it over to Crowley. "Let me know if these terms are disagreeable enough. There's always room for improvement, and this should help you along."
When Crowley hit the part about two centuries' suspension without pay, he spoke up.
"Two hundred years? For failing to complete six temptations of a carnal nature in a fortnight? Surely two months without pay would be sufficient."
"You missed the fine print," Dagon said, leaning over to tap the bottom of the page with his pen. "Protesting results in an additional half-century."
Barking mad, thought Crowley, seething. "Ah. True. Not so harsh after all."
"I'll have to see about having the punishment revised for next time, then."
"Er, anyway. Perfectly agreeable. I concur. What next?"
"Sign," Dagon said, "and you can be on your way. Of course, we'll know if you don't—"
"Oh, you'll know," replied Crowley, signing with a determined flourish, "if I do."
Dagon snatched back the paper and looked it over, then promptly handed it back. "Your real name, Crowley. This informal thing of yours only goes so far."
Sighing heavily, Crowley complied. Scrawling the full sigil always made his hand cramp.
It wasn't so much that humans were difficult to tempt into fornication, or even that they were hard to read as far as their lustful potential, Crowley reflected as he rounded the corner and strolled down the street. It was that they were far too good at tempting each other. In Crowley's experience, no intervention—neither Celestial, nor Infernal—was sufficient to prevent humans from or convince humans to do what they bloody well pleased to each other.
Crowley silenced the bell as he pushed his way through Aziraphale's front door. He wasn't in the mood to be the target of a flood of insipid pleasantries aimed at a presumed customer.
Long day?" Aziraphale called from the back, his tone conversational.
"You have no idea," Crowley said, not bothering to nip into the kitchenette for his usual stolen biscuit. "Is it just me, or are these performance reviews getting tougher since—well, you know. That whole bloody week they seem to have no record of."
"I'm not due for another six months," said Aziraphale, not glancing up from his crossword. "Gabriel inexplicably canceled on me—and, I suspect, everybody else."
"Lucky buggers," Crowley muttered, sullenly taking a seat across from him.
Aziraphale set aside the crossword and folded his fingers into a neat steeple.
"What did they suggest as far as improvements go? Heaven knows that's always the worst of it. One might try smiling more, or being more patient, or—"
"If I was in a better mood, I'd be proud of your sarcasm," said Crowley. "None of the above. I'm being made to…um." He knew he couldn't possibly say it. Humiliated, he took the badly singed carbon copy out of his coat pocket and slid it across the table.
"My dear," said Aziraphale, sounding faintly impressed. "That shouldn't be too terribly difficult. My problem's sometimes the opposite, in fact."
It took a few seconds for the statement to sink in, but when it did, Crowley gaped.
"It's sometimes what?"
Suddenly flustered, Aziraphale folded the sheet and slid it back across the table to Crowley.
"Well, I should first like to mention that I never—" He cleared his throat, punctuating each word with a stab of his index finger "—under any circumstances employed any means of subliminal suggestion for my own amusement. It's absolutely appalling when it happens. I want you to understand that."
"I do," Crowley reassured him, in disbelief at what Aziraphale was insinuating. "Carry on."
Aziraphale stared at the table for a few seconds, then nodded.
"Well, they—that is, some of them, as it's not as if it happens with every case of visionary ecstasy I'm assigned to induce, however—"
"Saint Theresa," Crowley blurted, smacking the table. "Suddenly, that statue makes a lot more sense. You know, last spring when we were in Rome, I—"
"It's bad enough the phenomenon's captured in stone!" hissed Aziraphale, redder than Crowley had seen him since they both fell asleep while sunning themselves in Majorca. "I take it you've got the gist?"
"Abundantly," said Crowley. "It's, er, very unexpected. Very. Just dreadful—oh! And Caravaggio's Saul—er, Paul on the road to—"
"One would think they would've cleared their minds before attempting earnest prayer. You'd be amazed how little difference it makes whether they're alone, together, in groups…"
"Is that what the whole Cathar flap was about? I always did wonder, as we had nothing to do with it. In fact," Crowley said, half impressed and half disgusted, "it was on Dagon's list. Speaking of amazement, it was so damned long—"
"Really, Crowley," said Aziraphale, huffily. "It isn't funny."
"No," Crowley replied, "but we might turn it to my—um. Our advantage."
"I can see nothing to be gained of sexual ecstasy being mistaken for religious fervor," Aziraphale muttered. "Haven't they deluded themselves badly enough? I swear, in all those cases, I hadn't so much as shown up when…"
Crowley smacked the table again.
"That's humans for you, isn't it? Always starting without you! And getting it all wrong, too. Anyway, as I was saying, we could—"
"Actually, I don't know about the Cathars, either, but I can tell you my superiors weren't pleased about what went on at the Temple Mount during the Crusades. And they thought they were being clever, making up all those accusations—which, by the way, I always assumed you had something to do with."
"You've been reading too much Umberto Eco," said Crowley, leaning across the table and shaking Aziraphale by the shoulders. "Just hear me out. If you're willing to come on assignment with me for, say, the next fortnight, everybody will get what they want."
Aziraphale blinked at him. "I beg your pardon?"
Crowley sighed and let go of him. "All you have to do is point out to me six different people, couples, groups—whatever floats your boat—in whom you'd normally try to incite ecstatic visions or whatever, and I'll do the angel thing like when I'm covering your gigs, and poof."
"I don't like this," said Aziraphale. "I don't like this one bit."
"Listen," Crowley said. "If I don't get paid, all dinner date bets are off…for two and a half centuries. What if the world economy collapses and the Ritz goes under?"
At that, Aziraphale appeared to experience a moment of genuine alarm.
"I suppose ," ventured the angel, tentatively, "that it'd warrant no more notice than when we do standard swaps, would it?"
"Nope," said Crowley, relaxing a little. "You'd only be pointing them out to me. And giving pointers, of course."
Aziraphale chewed the inside of his cheek, seriously considering it.
"I suppose I've got the time. Given Gabriel's cancellation, I've sort of come to consider myself on leave. Your lot are being hard on everybody, it sounds like."
"I'm everybody," Crowley sighed, not even faking how pathetic he felt.
"Well, in that case, I can't see much harm in it," Aziraphale said. "It's only six, and we can spread them out without difficulty. After all, we've got fourteen days."
"You make it sound pretty easy," Crowley said.
"You'll owe me, of course," Aziraphale replied.
"Over there," Aziraphale said. He pretended to be engrossed in his copy of The Times. "The girl. She's considering the ministry—Anglican, of course—and she's been praying for confirmation for weeks, the poor dear." He paused, lowering his paper, glancing apologetically at the newsstand's impatient proprietor. "I'm not looking forward to this. That young man really loves her, even though he doesn't approve—"
"She'll do," said Crowley. "So, what have I got to do? Step up, make sure she doesn't notice me, and whisper sweet, saintly nothings in her ear?"
Aziraphale raised the paper again, not meeting Crowley's gaze.
"I'd try just looking at her, if I were you. From closer range, of course."
"Right," Crowley said.
The young woman was sitting directly across the street from them, engrossed in deep conversation with her young man. Hatshepsut's obelisk loomed above them.
"Leave it to you to work the bloody tube," Crowley muttered, stepping up to the edge of the pavement and looking both ways before he strode into the busy street.
The girl didn't even seem to notice when the rest of the crossing crowd parted, leaving Crowley directly in front of her and her paramour. They were both crying.
Crowley's throat constricted. The girl's eyes were true green, and her hair fell in auburn waves past her shoulders. She might have modeled for Botticelli if she'd been born in the right century.
Before Crowley could flee, Aziraphale's voice cut through his thoughts: She'll look at you any second, my dear. Swallowing, he removed his shades and tried to think arousing thoughts. Quit stalling, Aziraphale whispered, and a shiver went down his spine.
The girl locked eyes with him for two long seconds. She trembled and acted.
Crowley turned his back on the most appalling PDA he'd seen since—well, probably those Etruscans—and walked away, not bothering to look both ways. He trusted all the motorists would be inclined to miss him.
"So, what happens now?" Crowley asked, snatching The Times right out of Aziraphale's trembling hands. "She'll have a religious experience confirming that maybe she's not cut out for ministering to God's flock?"
"Something like that," said Aziraphale. "I warned you. It's not for the faint of heart."
"My question is," Crowley hissed, grabbing Aziraphale by the shoulder and rushing him into the tube station, "was that your doing, or was it mine?"
"Hard to say," Aziraphale replied, distractedly looking for the passage to the correct platform. "Where are we going now, anyway?"
"I need a drink," Crowley muttered, dragging Aziraphale to the right.
"You can't take it so personally," slurred the angel, gesturing precariously with his glass of white Burgundy. "You have to remember she was thing—thinking it anyway."
Crowley stared blankly into his glass of port.
"Then why do I feel violated?"
"You're a prude," said Aziraphale. "Bittest—um, biggest one I ever saw. 'Struth. Las' time I checked, you couldn't abide hanholb—handhold—"
"Shut up," muttered Crowley. "I can too. That witch in Tadfield an' her bloody tech dork. They did more than…er…"
"See?" Aziraphale gloated. "You're hopeless."
"I suppose you were a pinnacle of fortiture—tude—forti…um, when we were talking in your shop yesterday. Why, you couldn't even look me in th' eyes."
"I would have looked you in the eyes if I could bloody well see 'em!"
"Oh," said Crowley, staring back into his drink. "Right."
Aziraphale nodded, satisfied with himself, and emptied his glass.
"Waiter? S'more of this, please."
Forty-eight hours was as long as Crowley was able to avoid Aziraphale before he realized they had better knock off more targets. Still hung over, he rang Aziraphale.
"I've toughened up," Crowley announced. "Besides, that girl's happier now."
"She'll have doubts for the rest of her life. But, yes, happier—at least for now."
"That's as good as one can hope for," replied Crowley, with as much confidence as he could manage. "Why don't we meet in the park and work from there?"
"I doubt we'll need to leave the park," Aziraphale said. "Not in this weather."
"Good point," said Crowley. "See you in half an hour." With that, he hung up.
For once, Aziraphale wasn't the first one to arrive at St. James's. Crowley stood on the bridge for a full ten minutes before the angel appeared.
"Spot any potential targets on your way in?" he asked, hopeful.
"Follow me," Aziraphale panted. "This one could be important. Er, for your lot, anyway. I don't exactly approve."
"Whatever," said Crowley, rushing after him.
"That young man at the edge of the blanket," explained Aziraphale, trying his best to keep them both hidden behind an ancient tree, "has just taken his refuge vows."
"His what?" Crowley asked.
"Zen Buddhist thing. Consider it vows of…moderation and decency."
"Then shouldn't I be tempting him into alcoholism or something?"
"Avoiding sexual excess is one of the things he swore to."
"According to Zen Buddhists, sexual excess would be…?"
"Shhh," hissed Aziraphale. " Cheating on his partner, for one."
"Is his partner anywhere in the group?" Crowley whispered.
"No. That's the point," Aziraphale replied with trepidation. "See the blonde to his right? He's got a…thing for her. Terribly troublesome."
"They're in the middle of a bloody park. What are we aiming for, hand holding?" Crowley asked, unable to keep the venom out of his voice.
"Something more ambitious," murmured Aziraphale. "You see, the blonde, she's with her…er, see those two across from her? Involved."
"With each other?"
"With her. All of them. You know, sort of a…"
"Oh," muttered Crowley. "What does the Buddhist think?"
"He's in denial," Aziraphale explained. "Very much so."
Crowley swallowed hard. "Who do I look at, then?"
"The blonde and the Buddhist? I'd try that, anyway."
"You'd try it," Crowley spat, sidling halfway around the tree. He hadn't even bothered with his shades this time. There was something to be said for direct eye contact.
Crowley barely had to seek out the Buddhist—granted, it may have been the curiously tender brush of Aziraphale's fingertips at his wrist that startled him into it. The young man's eyes fell directly on him, dark with doubt.
The blonde turned her head toward the Buddhist almost at the same moment. She winked.
Suddenly, the four young people were laughing, and the blonde's hand was on the Buddhist's thigh. One of her lovers suggested they get out of the sun and have a drink back at the flat.
Crowley stood frozen, watching them rise, shake out the blanket, and leave. The Buddhist was holding the blonde's hand tightly in his own, smiling as if he hadn't committed self-betrayal.
"I hate this," said Crowley, turning swiftly back to Aziraphale. "Let's leave."
"That one ought to score you some points. Now, I was thinking next—"
"I don't want to," Crowley snapped. "It's too soon."
"You'll fall behind," Aziraphale said worriedly, and then took him firmly by the hand.
Crowley stumbled along with him, something dizzy and dangerous ringing in his ears.
"God," Crowley whispered, hiding his face behind his hands. He hadn't even touched his wine. "I thought I was going to Hell for that job in the park, I really thought—"
"Don't be silly," said Aziraphale. "You've already gone. Besides, that chap had committed a few offenses already. It wasn't as if you had to push him to—"
"You," Crowley said flatly, "are sick."
It was then, for the first time since this nonsense had started, that Aziraphale looked hurt. He shoved his glass aside, splashing crimson across the rough wood of the tabletop.
"You know," began the angel, "I've really—I mean really—had enough of your cheek. I thought this would count as doing you a good turn, however sordid. However, I feel obliged to inform you that you are, per usual, in danger of fucking this up. Not to mention…" Aziraphale trailed off, reaching for Crowley's wrist for the second time that day. "Not to mention, I'm not sure what I'd do with myself if you weren't around to…"
Crowley withdrew his hands from the tabletop and folded them in his lap. As if the rare expletive weren’t enough, he wasn't about to let Aziraphale turn sentimental. The last time at Tadfield Airbase had been bad enough, what with sharing that bottle of wine under the stars.
"Crowley? Are you even listening to me?"
"No," Crowley said, grabbing his wine and gulping it. As he got up and put on his coat, he noticed Aziraphale's pink cheeks and watery eyes. He tried not to think too hard about it. "I'm leaving, going to get some rest. Three down and all that rot."
Aziraphale was momentarily shocked out of his sentimental fit. "Wait, d'you mean today's lot doesn't put you over?"
"Six different instances, not six different people," Crowley reminded him. "I thought you'd got the shape of this thing."
"It's shaped a lot like my glass at the minute, if you ask me."
"Cheers, then," Crowley said. He slapped down twenty quid.
"We're not celebrating, then?" Aziraphale called after him.
No, Crowley thought, welcoming the chilly night breeze. You're celebrating something else entirely, and I'm not sure I've quite caught up with you.
Crowley was aware that a five-day gap was probably dangerous to the momentum they'd built, but he was able to justify it to himself in a myriad ways.
"Not least," he reasoned to his plants, "because it's going to take me a while to reconcile the fact that our most sacred of old haunts has irrevocably become a den of debauchery. I mean—Buddhists, polyamory, and arse grabbing! Can you believe it?"
Crowley spritzed the ficus until it looked vaguely green around the roots.
"Yeah, well, it makes me sick, too," he reassured it. "Next time, you're out on the pavement branches first, just wait and see."
On the other hand, his African violets had perked up.
"Perverts," Crowley said, leaving them in disgust.
Just as Crowley entered the office, his phone rang. Reluctantly, he set down the plant mister and took his time answering. One glance at the caller ID box told him what he already knew.
Crowley reluctantly picked up the receiver and said, "Speak of the devil."
"My dear, that's either the most creative or the most insulting greeting you've thought up yet. Have you and the plants been gossiping again?"
"Actually, it's more in reference to your astonishing hobby. I almost regret having asked you for help. What's next on your appalling docket? A nip inside the St. Patrick's confessional?"
"Really, Crowley. I've got better taste than that."
"Soho Square's around the corner. Why walk three miles when you can walk one?"
"Very funny. I was calling to see if you fancied a bite to eat."
Crowley's stomach growled, but he ignored it.
"We might as well carry on. I've got less than a week left."
Aziraphale drew in his breath, and then released it.
"I was hoping you wouldn't bring it up. You're right that I haven't been kind in my choice of targets. I was assuming your lot would want the worst of it."
"Wait," Crowley said. "Let's back up for a second. Do you mean to tell me you've been dishing out the heinous stuff when you could have been serving much milder fare?"
"Well, yes," admitted Aziraphale. "Seduction's not all bad, even when it's accidental."
"None of this stuff has been accidental, and not for the reasons it ought. Am I right?"
"Sort of! I don't know? This has all grown dreadfully complex. I'm not so sure—"
"If you're not here in ten minutes," said Crowley, "all bets are off. And I do mean all of them, including the Arrangement."
"Ten? But that means I'll have to—"
"Run, jog, take a cab. I don't care. Just be here," Crowley said, and hung up. He sat down at his desk and started fiddling with a loose thread on his trousers.
Eight minutes later, the doorbell rang.
Crowley's first impulse was to run, but he held himself to the same leisurely pace at which he'd answered the phone. Aziraphale deserved to suffer a few more seconds' anxiety.
"It's never as far as I think," Aziraphale panted as Crowley opened the door. "I cut through the park. It's a lovely day. I was thinking we might start out—"
"I was thinking," said Crowley, yanking him inside, "that we might work from home, as it were. There's a pensioner lady living next door. Is there any way we might, I don't know, induce some softcore American Evangelism on her telly? She might find it…interactive, if it's fervent enough."
"Cheap. Your cheapest yet, in fact. I won't stoop to possession."
"Then I'll do it," Crowley continued. "Just tell me what channel—no offense—that rot is on, and I'll have it sorted in a second."
"I'm certain the station is in America. You might be dealing with more than a handful of satellites. Are those terribly different from wires?"
"You're an idiot," said Crowley. "Will you excuse me for a few seconds? Feel free to have a seat upstairs, and don't you dare eat all my biscuits."
With that, he squeezed his eyes shut and vanished with a pop.
This kind of stunt was sure to raise a few eyebrows Down Below—but then, that was exactly what this campaign needed. A little flair could only help him, and as long as one didn't do it too often, a little incorporeality never hurt anyone.
It took a journey through several major undersea Atlantic cables and bouncing off a dozen satellites, but he was sure that what ended up on Mrs. Huddersfield's screen was sufficiently laced with inexplicable Jane Austen quotations to keep the old bat flustered for at least a few hours, at which point she'd fall asleep and the naughty dreams would kick in.
As he raced back to London at roughly the speed of sound, Crowley reasoned that this one must count as a two-for. Austen was racy enough that the preacher was bound to get his rocks off later when his wife would, undoubtedly, pounce him in a fit of I-didn't-know-you'd-read-that passion. Everyone would be happy. Guilty, but happy.
As he materialized inside his own front door—exactly where he'd been standing before—it occurred to him that he'd been a bit hard on Aziraphale. The angel had only meant well in presenting Crowley with worst case scenarios, hadn't he? Granted, Dagon was going to appreciate the subtle artistry and self-torture at play in the first three hits.
Crowley strolled up the stairs and found Aziraphale flipping channels on the sofa. He dropped the remote control in surprise.
"You made short work, all things considered. That was some clever thinking on your feet, and entirely your style. Why didn't you think of it before?"
"Requires effort," said Crowley, yawning, and took a seat beside him. "Is my nose on straight? I hate transformation. Makes my bones itch."
"I find the process pleasant, what with every atom being re-formed from scratch. Energizing."
"Yes, but you're not normal," Crowley reminded him, fishing the remote control off the floor. He turned off the television and set the remote back on the coffee table.
Aziraphale sighed. "And then there was one."
"We could leave it for a few days," Crowley reasoned. "Time to plot a big finale. I bet you've got something twisted up your sleeve for the last act, haven't you? What'll it be? Bestiality? Someone who only gets off on rutabagas?"
Aziraphale sniffed. "I find your assumptions crude and distasteful. And no, I hadn't planned anything for the last. I was going to suggest you take it on yourself, see if you'd learned a thing or two. I can see the chances of that are slim to none. You wouldn't recognize genuine ecstasy of any sort, not even if it hit you on the head. You're too miserable."
Crowley opened his mouth with intent to refute at least half of Aziraphale's claims, but, one by one, he found them entirely true. The infuriating thing wasn't so much that the angel was right, but that he'd backed Crowley into the worst kind of corner. Crowley had something to prove after all, and it wasn't what he'd thought it was. The dangerous buzz was back in his ears, and it had nothing to do with the residual satellite interference, either.
"My dear, don't just sit there. Perhaps I was a bit hasty—mmmf?"
I'll give you prudish, Crowley thought, pleased with how Aziraphale returned the kiss once he'd got over the shock. He hoped Dagon wouldn't register this one on the books, because number seven was going to be something absurd and spectacular, preferably involving nuns.
Number six, though: number six was for them. And if Aziraphale was still bent on calling him a prude afterward, then Crowley would have to work on the whole hand-holding thing.
(no subject)
Date: 2023-01-03 03:45 am (UTC)The Ritz going under because Aziraphale and Crowley alone don’t go there anymore is so funny. Now THAT’S loyal customers!
His plants XD And I love that Aziraphale can guess right away that he’s been talking to them.
This was a lot of fun! Even if I feel a bit guilty saying that, haha. But no, really, lots of fun, especially the ending :D
Response from irisbleufic:
Date: 2023-12-14 09:44 pm (UTC)Re: Response from irisbleufic:
Date: 2023-12-15 12:56 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2023-01-03 04:06 am (UTC)One does wonder what would happen to half the restaurants in London if those two couldn't go out to eat on the regular.
Thanks so much for my prezzie!
Response from irisbleufic:
Date: 2023-12-14 09:45 pm (UTC)