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go_exchange2007-12-07 10:46 am
waxbean.livejournal.com) wrote in go_exchange2007-12-07 10:46 am
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Happy Holidays, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ragetti_wench! (part 1)
Title: The Personification That Came in From the Cold
Recipient: Ragetti_Wench
From:dreya_uberwald
Words: 12800
Rating: R
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale/Pollution
Summary: When Pollution finds himself incapacitated due to the rash actions of a young environmentalist, it’s down to Aziraphale and a very reluctant Crowley to dispense help and comfort.
A/N: A big thank you goes to a wonderful beta reader (you know who you are).
It all began with the protest.
Well… no, this wasn’t exactly true. The actual beginning occurred on a bright, exceptionally smoggy Wednesday in the 1930s when the anthropomorphic personification known as Pestilence took a long, hard look as his recent accomplishments and decided to call it day as far as Apocalyptical Horsepersoning went. However, it was fair to say that what would later be referred to as The Situation and eventually, after several months, as The Relationship, really began to take shape the day over two-thousand members of SOW (Save Our Woodlands) stood between the bulldozers of Wilks, Pallister & Bridges and the unspoilt greenery of Horatio’s Copse.
It was not a large protest by any means. Just a group of rather angry citizens from the North Cambridgeshire area who were deeply distressed at the thought of a beloved little local arbour being obliterated to make way for a new Out of Town Leisure Complex (‘Leisure Complex’ in this instance meaning a cinema, a bowling alley and a Burger Lord). Nor was it deemed important enough to be widely covered by the national media, with only a lone camera man from the BBC’s regional programming department showing up to take thirty seconds of footage, and a few reporters from the local rags jotting down quotes from the protesters and developers in the vain hope that one of them might say something vaguely salacious. However, as far as the three teenagers who’d caught the bus over from Lower Tadfield earlier that morning were concerned, it was important. This was especially true for the boy with the mussed dark brown hair, ancient looking jeans and grubby t-shirt, who had many fond memories of the tree swing that he and his cousins had built from the largest oak in the wood when they were twelve.
“They don’t look too friendly,” said Brian, gesturing to the stony faced security personnel who were standing beside the stationary earth moving equipment, before conscientiously adding: “The planet raping bastards.”
“That’s because they’re not,” said Pepper, trying to hoist her end of the Trees Not Skittles banner as high as she could. Wensleydale, who was two inches shorter, yelped as the end he was holding almost slipped from his grasp.
“Careful,” said Brian, helping his friends steady the banner. “What I meant is that they look even worse than that lot who were doing the Dellton Bypass.”
“Is that the one where you both got arrested?” asked Wensleydale, who was slightly newer to Cambridgeshire conservational activism than his two friends.
“No, that was the one where we were demonstrating against Chemipharm International pumping industrial waste into the River Mottle,” he replied. “We didn’t even mean to trash the managing director’s car; it was just that we accidentally dropped one of the placards and smashed the windscreen, but they said that….” He trailed off as something – or rather somebody - caught his eye.
An extremely pale young man dressed in white overalls and a white hard hat standing to the side of one of the more monstrous looking diggers. With his pale skin, slender form and shoulder length white hair, he did not fit congruously amongst the surly security guards, weathered workmen and pinched-faced middle-aged clipboard-wavers. Yet, despite possessing a visage that should have been instantly striking, there was something about the figure that seemed to induce one’s gaze and mind to pass over him. At least, this was what part of Brian’s brain seemed to want to do. However, there was also something about him that caused another part of Brian’s mind to sound a mental warning bell.
“Hey, is it just me or is their something familiar about that man?” he said, gesturing to the figure.
“I dunno.” Pepper shrugged; a movement that once again very nearly destabilised Wensley’s grip on the placard, before redirecting her attention swiftly back to the other violators of all that was good and green. “I recognise the guy standing next to the bloke in the orange jacket,” she said. “He works for Rentahit Security. Broke Marvin Hall’s wrist at the Chemipharm demonstration, I think. And the woman in the blue suit works for Dellton Council. I think there was some embezzlement scandal she was involved in a few years ago, but there wasn’t enough evidence to prosecute.”
As Pepper continued to identify and recount the crimes of the various members of ‘The Opposition’, Brian found himself trying to keep his focus fixed on the man in white. He was not quite sure why, but the mental warning bell seemed to be getting louder and louder. ‘Not quite sure why’, that was, until the figure gave what looked like a wide, blissful smile, reached into the pocket of his overalls and removed a metal cylinder.
Brian gave a loud yelp.
“What the hell are you doing?” Pepper cried out in alarm as he tore away from the crowd of protestors and hurtled himself in the direction of the man in white.
“Teargas!” Brian yelled, without a backwards glance. “It’s a teargas canister.”
Around half a second before making contact with the young man, Brian registered the sudden look of recognition, fear and alarm in his grey eyes.
By that time, however, it was too late to prevent what happened next.
It was, when all was said and done, a simple matter of opposites coming into contact.
Had any other sixteen year old boy careered into the slender form of Blanco White in an attempt to wrest the canister of teargas from the Assistant Deputy Site Manager’s hand, it would have led to a scuffle much like any other, with said boy finding his target slipping out of his grasp and his skin afflicted with a strange rash or two for a few weeks.
However, the fact that the boy called Brian had, just over five years earlier, vanquished the personification of environmental decimation with the aid of a few well-chosen twigs, gave the whole thing a symbolic, yet very real and potent charge.
In short: Pollution and Anti-Pollution collided.
When later questioned about what happened most of those present would describe what happened as being ‘like an explosion… but without any fire or smoke’; in response to which those emergency service personnel who arrived on the scene to take the injured and catatonic boy with the dark brown hair to the nearest hospital, would conclude that some form of mass hysteria was taking place.
Nobody noticed what happened to the pale young man. Even when staggering from the scene clutching his stomach, wearing a pained expression and pausing every few minutes to double over and retch-up the toxic contents of his stomach onto the ground, he just wasn’t the sort to draw the eye.
----------
It was half past six on a wet Monday evening in Soho, and Aziraphale was dithering over whether to make the long journey to Balham to deliver the spark of divine inspiration to a middle-aged housewife that he’d been putting off all week (divine ecstasy was one thing, but divine inspiration was always rather tricky to get right, one really didn’t after all want Sistine Chapels springing up all over the place), or go and visit old Mrs Brentworth who lived in the flat above the Pleasure Island Adult Toy Emporium three doors down from the bookshop. Mrs. Brentwoth wasn’t on his official ‘Old Aged Pensioners to Comfort’ list, but was always a delightful conversationalist and very well up on all the latest gossip as to what was going on around the area. In the end a crack of thunder, followed by the intensification of the rain against the window finally tipped the scales in favour of letting divine inspiration wait for another day.
On the antiquated television set the angel kept in the back room, the evening news was coming to a close, with the presenter going over the day’s less significant stories, such as the couple who’d found a large cache of Roman coins in their back garden, the recapture of a convicted armed robber who’d absconded from a low security prison in Scotland and the boy from Cambridgeshire who’d made a remarkable bordering on miraculous recovery from the serious – yet deeply peculiar – case of poisoning he’d sustained a week ago at a local environmental protest, and was now being released from the isolation ward.
As the credits began to roll Aziraphale blinked and the television turned itself off. He then exchanged his favourite tartan slippers for his second favourite pair of brown loafers and his cardigan for a coat and stepped out of the back room and into the shop proper. Much to his chagrin, a man in a pinstriped suit was peering through the glass of the front window. Aziraphale instantly recognised him as the gentleman who’d been stopping by at the shop at frequent intervals over the last couple of weeks in the obvious hope that he’d catch it during one of its sporadic opening hours. Some people just couldn’t take ‘we’re closed for refurbishment’ as an answer.
Deciding that he didn’t want to come into direct contact with any would be customers, the angel quickly retreated to the back room and – rather guiltily – wished a door out onto the back alley behind the shop into existence. As he stepped out of the large, yet tasteful, oak door (taking care to banish it from existence once he was through) and out into the downpour he couldn’t help but notice that the alley was rather more littered, vandalised and foul smelling that usual. It had never been the most pleasant of cut throughs, but Aziraphale had always tried to keep the place from lapsing into this sort of state. Making a mental note to do something about the mess when it wasn’t quite so cold and wet, the angel began to walk in the direction of Pleasure Island.
After a few steps however he became uncomfortably aware that he was not the only entity of a non-mortal persuasion in the immediate vicinity. There was, for want of a better word, a presence around: it definitely wasn’t angelic, and he was almost sure it wasn’t demonic, but there was something oddly familiar about it all the same; and it seemed to be… well, it was hard to mentally put it into words, but ‘muted’, ‘damaged’ and ‘hurting’ were probably the adjectives that closest described the sense he was getting from whatever it was.
Involuntarily swallowing in what wasn’t quite fear, but was a level of unease that came fairly close, the angel peered into the dark corners and shadows of the poorly illuminated alley. Aziraphale really didn’t want to risk being discorporated by a hostile entity. Returning to Heaven could very well mean having to stand in front of several key Seraphim and account for his behaviour during Apocalypse That Wasn’t: and even if Gabriel et al were of a mind to overlook his somewhat unorthodox actions and send him back to his earthly post, there was a good chance that he’d find hiscollection stock distressingly depleted on recorporation. However, the fact was that he just wasn’t the sort of chap who could easily walk on by when he came across a being in this kind of distress – even if, as an angel, it was only technically mandated that he minister to human suffering alone. Eventually, his gaze fell upon a huddled form, crouched between two large wheelie bins belonging to the pizzeria two doors down from the book shop. Tentatively, he moved closer to the figure, which seemed to be clothed in a just a thin, torn and extremely soiled one-piece and was shivering terribly.
As he approached, a pair of grey eyes set in a pale, grimy face looked up to regard him.
Recognition instantly dawned as the creature’s gaze met his own.
“You!” He instinctively took a step backwards, gripped by a stab of panic at what terrible things the youngest of the Four might be planning to do to his corpus or his books in retaliation for his role in averting Armageddon now that he was quite obviously back from the collective human unconscious to which he’d been banished. However, as Pollution continued to stare at him in a manner best described as vacant, it became increasingly evident that the personification didn’t seem to have any immediate plans to cause harm to the angel or his precious texts, or at least any plans to cause harm to the angel or his precious texts that he was currently capable of acting upon.
“Erm… are you all right?” he asked, aware that the answer to this question was quite obviously in the negative, but not sure quite what else to say.
“No,” the personification responded, with a cough. “I think I’m hurt.” Rather than the breathy voice with which Pollution had spoken on the three occasions the angel had previously been unfortunate enough to come into contact with him, the entity was now wheezing out his words.
“What on earth happened to you?” Once again, the angel knew that this was probably not the most sensible question to ask; however, as no sensible questions were likely to exist for such a situation he decided to go with it anyway.
“The boy.”
“You mean young Adam?” Aziraphale’s eyes widened, at once rather worried that the Antichrist was back to the near-cataclysmic the mood swings that had signalled his entry into adolescence three years previously.
“No, the other boy. The child who sent me away.”
The angel’s brow furrowed. “The one that sent you…?” He trailed off as realisation dawned. “Are you talking about Adam’s friend?”
“Yes.” The personification gave a snort that sounded to be one-quarter ironic amusement and three-quarters bitterness. “The one that should have been me.”
“Oh… er….” Flailing a little, Aziraphale searched for a response. “How exactly did he do this to you?”
“He touched me.”
He frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“The boy came into contact with me and, because of what Adam Young made him into during our last encounter, he was my antithesis.”
“Oh.” Oh dear, this really was unprecedented. “So this contact diminished you somehow?”
The personification coughed. It was a prolonged, hacking cough that in a human would hint at moderate to severe lung damage. “When we clashed there was a great release of force and something was unwillingly exchanged between us.”
Something clicked in the angel’s mind as he recalled one of the less globally significant but still deeply curious stories that had been in the news media of late. “Would I be right to assume that the young man in question was the one who had to be quarantined after he started sweating arsenic and breathing out carbon monoxide?”
“He took something from me and I took something from him,” the personification said, in a voice that would have been singsong if he hadn’t been rasping so much. “What I took from him doesn’t like the rest of me though.”
As Pollution hugged his knees closer to his chest, realisation finally dawned on the angel. “You’ve become allergic to yourself, haven’t you?”
The personification did not respond, choosing instead to curl up even further into himself, in what was clearly an ineffectual attempt to preserve the body heat that had never been of any consequence to him before.
Being a being of the world, Aziraphale also recognised another, rather more calculated, level to the action. It was the kind of gesture that humans frequently used to evoke sympathy and comfort: and Pollution was employing it in a rather obvious manner. However, in addition to being a being of the world, the angel was also an angel of the world, and it really was a sight to tug at the heart strings.
After a moment of indecision Aziraphale spoke again. “Look, it’s awfully cold out here, why don’t you come inside.”
For a moment the grey eyes merely stared at him. Then the personification gave a small groan and began to rise to his feet, his movements stiff and pained. Despite the deep aversion he felt towards the idea of touching him, Aziraphale nevertheless found himself offering a tentative hand, which Pollution took with an expression of mild relief. The Horseman’s hand was clammy and greasy, but the experience of coming into contact with it was not quite as revolting as Aziraphale had imagined it would be. Still, he couldn’t help but cringe when, after three steps, the entity slumped against him; filthy, matted hair pressing against his shoulder and grimy overalls rubbing against his old but scrupulously clean coat, as Pollution grabbed onto the angel in an attempt to steady himself.
It was just fifteen metres from the spot where Pollution had been slumped between the huge waste receptacles and back wall of Aziraphale’s shop, but it took the angel several minutes to haul him over to the re-materialised door to the back-room (which for reasons unknown to the angel this time took the form of a distressingly pink, plywood affair). Once inside he hastily willed a thick, industrially reinforced PVC dustcover onto his armchair and ushered the personification into it, whereupon he banished as much of the entity’s residue from his clothing as possible and then reached for the telephone he kept on one of the side tables. Before he could lay a hand on the ancient device however, it began to ring.
“Hello, Fell’s Second Hand Books,” he said, hoping that it wouldn’t be the unwanted customer he’d just been trying to avoid. He had done just about everything he could to keep the number ex-directory, but a few tenacious would-be purchasers had managed to get hold of it in the past.
”It’s me,” said a young, male and very easily recognisable voice on the other end.
“Hello Adam, I was just about to call—”
“I know.”
The angel’s eyes widened in surprise. “You did?”
“And I know what you’re about to ask.”
“You do?”
“I won’t help him, Aziraphale. He hurt my friend.” The boy’s voice was resolute in the sullen and defiant way only a sixteen year old’s could be. “He can wait to get better by himself.
“Adam, I understand that….” He trailed off as the line went dead. “Oh dear.” With an apprehensive sigh he turned his attention back to Pollution who, to the angel’s utter horror, was inspecting the objects on the table next to the armchair and putting his soiled fingers dangerously close to the copy of Dorian Gray resting there. Acting quickly, the angel banished the book back to its usual place on the shelves.
“That was Adam Young,” he said, willing several other items within the personification’s immediate vicinity out of his reach.
“I know,” Pollution said, with another embittered little snort. “He’s not going to return me to my original state, is he?”
“I’m afraid he’s still rather angry about the injuries his friend suffered as a result of your little accident.”
For several deeply uncomfortable moments a tense silence settled between them. Aziraphale dearly hoped that the personification wouldn’t suddenly decide that the best way to vent his distress at the situation was to do something unpleasant to him or his books. Pollution however eventually settled for slumping back into the plasticized armchair and huddling in on himself.
“I don’t know what to do,” the entity said, voice distant.
“Don’t give up hope,” said the angel in what he hoped were comforting tones. “Adam seemed to suggest that you might recover on your own, without his intervention.”
“Recover on my own?” Pollution repeated the words slowly, as if they didn’t quite make sense. “How will I do that?”
“I’m not quite certain,” Aziraphale answered truthfully. “However, I imagine that it would be similar to the way that humans heal.”
“What will I do until I’m ‘healed’? It’s so cold out there,” said Pollution with a shudder, before adding: “I’ve never been cold before.”
The angel sighed; this really wasn’t his area of expertise. “I suppose you could try resting somewhere warm and comfortable and… and… well, if you were a human I would suggest drinking lots of fluids, but I don’t imagine that would do you much good.”
For a while the personification seemed to consider the angel’s words. “Can I stay here?”
Aziraphale gaped, horrifying visions of book disintegration and silver snuffbox corrosion at once filling his mind at the thought of the fourth Horseperson residing in the shop for any period of time. The area of carpet around the armchair was already starting to change colour from ‘slightly weathered green’ to ‘sort of greyish brown’. “Um… well… I really don’t think that that would be a very good….” He stumbled to a verbal halt as the entity’s face fell and his gaze grew even more sadly distant, filling the angel with a sense of overwhelming guilt. “What I mean is that it might not be the best idea for you to stay here exactly, but I will find somewhere safe – well, safe-ish at least – for you to recover.”
The look of relief in the personification’s eyes gave the angel a warm glow that in all truth probably wasn’t quite warranted. Still, having promised to find Pollution somewhere safe to stay, he was now obligated to do just that.
His first thought was to book the personification a hotel room, but was hesitant to do so owning to the fact that a) it would be irresponsible to knowingly place the embodiment of environmental catastrophe in building inhabited by large numbers of humans; and b) would entail a level of expenditure that would almost certainly preclude him from acquiring any new, er, stock for quite a while.
His second thought was to acquire a house – preferably one as far away from any major river, sites of great natural beauty or nuclear power stations as possible – in which the wounded Horseperson could stay; but again, this would require him not only to forego acquiring any new books, but to sell some of his existing stock. He could not after all in good conscience try to rent anywhere given the likely damage the property would suffer.
His third – and most reluctant – thought was to ask a favour of an old enemy/friend/occasionally-more-than-friend.
In the end however it was the last of these foreseeable alternatives which seemed the most sensible and/or none morally dubious and the angel found himself reaching once again for the telephone.
----------
When the call came, the demon Crowley was in the process of enjoying a quiet evening in with a passable bottle of red wine, a more than passable Indian takeaway and the intention of inciting yet another Livejournal flamewar. He had originally planned to go out for dinner with a few acquaintances from one of the capital's most infamous PR firms, but a raid on the company's offices earlier that day by Interpol, owing to concerns about the company’s ‘Colombian connection’, meant that most of the aforementioned acquaintances would be spending the foreseeable future in the custody of the Metropolitan Police.
With a small sigh he temporarily abandoned the highly inflammatory post he was working on and reached for his mobile phone, surprised to recognise the number flashing on the screen as that belonging to Aziraphale. Usually, when the wine had flowed a bit too freely and they ended up in positions such as the (moderately kinky) one they had the previous Wednesday, they kept their distance from each other for a
month or so, until the level of awkwardness that any meeting might induce had waned to bearable levels and new completely unrelated conversational topics had had chance to develop. It was therefore a little strange that the angel should get in touch with him so soon after such an encounter. Hoping that nothing serious had happened to his mortal enemy cum best friend, he pressed the answer button.
"Aziraphale?"
"Ah, hello there, Crowley. I was wondering if…if…. Well, you see, I've got a very slight problem…. It's…. Well…."
"For G— Someone's sake just spit it out." In retrospect this probably wasn't the best phrase to use given the context in which he'd utilised it the previous Wednesday; however, Aziraphale’s conversational dithering was making him slightly edgy.
“It’s just that Pollution’s over here and—”
“Hang on a minute, just to be clear, are you talking about Pollution as in the Horseman of the Apocalypse here?” Crowley said, cutting him off.
“Yes, he’s very sick.”
“Sick!” Despite the fact that the angel wasn’t presently able to watch his reaction to this statement, the demon couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. He’d had a few encounters with the personification in the past, some rather more friendly than others, and he just couldn’t imagine anything that could possibly render him ill. “How in the name of Ozzy Osbourne did that happen?”
“It seems that he had a run in with one of young Adam’s friends.”
“Oh?”
”Unfortunately, Adam’s still angry about the injuries his young friend sustained and point blank refused to do anything to help.”
“Ah.”
“So my, er… ‘guest’ needs somewhere to recuperate.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure there are plenty of nice abandoned, asbestos-filled factories in the London area,” he said flippantly, despite the vague inkling that Aziraphale was about to ask him to do something he wouldn’t like. “Or if he wants a country getaway there’s always that new landfill in Wiltshire.”
“Somewhere warm and safe.” The inkling got stronger.
“He could try a Travel Day Inn – though that might not do to well on the safe side. Did I tell you about the time I got electrocuted at the one in Leeds?”
“I was hoping that you might allow us to stay at your flat for a little while.”
Oh, now this was just ridiculous. “My flat! What the hell’s wrong with your place.”
“It’s the books, dear boy. He’s having the most dreadful effect on the books.”
“And you don’t think I’ve got any irreplaceable valuables around here that I wouldn’t want getting tarnished, corroded, poisoned or irradiated?”
“Well, yes, but you have got rather fewer of them.” There was a hint of pleading in his voice. “And you could always put them in storage over here.”
“No, absolutely not. I refuse to let that thing anywhere near my property.”
“Honestly Crowley, you materialise most of your possessions from raw firmament yourself anyway.”
“Look angel, read my lips—.”
“How am I supposed to do that, you’re on the other end of the telephone line?” The puzzlement in the angel’s voice suggested that this was a genuine question as a opposed to deliberate pedantry.
“The answer’s no, Aziraphale,” said Crowley.
On the other end of the line, the angel gave a heavy sigh. “I do wish it hadn’t come to this; however, I’m afraid I’m going to have to bring up the subject of that favour you owe me.”
“What favour?” the demon demanded, his stomach giving a slightly queasy churn of anticipation.
“Recall if you will, dear boy, that little situation with Belphegor and that imp of his a century ago.”
The demon inwardly cursed. He’d forgotten that he still owed the angel big time for his help in getting rid of those particular unwelcome house guests: and, well, a minion of Hell he may be, but he was still a demon of his word, and he’d promised – sometime during the three day drinking session that had followed – to return the favour one day.
“Fine,” he said grudgingly. “You can bring him over here. But you’re completely responsible for him… And I’m leaving the houseplants at your place.”
He could almost picture the beam of gratitude on the angel’s face. “Oh Crowley you are a good—”
“Hey, watch it”
“A splendid chap.”
Crowley gave a long suffering sigh. “I’ll be there to pick you up in half an hour,” he said, pressing the ‘end call’ button before the angel could continue to thank him profusely.
It looked like great Livejournal cross-comm flame war instigation was going to have wait for a while.
----------
After around twenty-five minutes of trying to keep the contents of his back room away from Pollution’s curious hands and continually banishing the litter that seemed be accumulating around the personification’s feet to the waste paper basket, Aziraphale was rather relieved when Crowley pulled up outside the shop. To the angel’s surprise however, when he went outside to greet the demon, he found he had not arrived in his beloved Bentley, but a brand new, gunmetal grey Aston Martin.
“I ‘borrowed’ it from an acquaintance of mine,” said Crowley, anticipating the angel’s query. “Didn’t think I’d let Pollution anywhere near the Bentley, did you? Where is he anyway?”
“The back room,” said Aziraphale, moving to help the demon unload his frightened and disoriented plants from the back seat that this model of automobile wasn’t actually supposed to have and take them into the shop.
Once inside, the demon’s nose wrinkled in exaggerated disgust as soon as he entered the back room.
“You stink,” were his first words to the personification, slumped in the chair.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale chided.
Pollution however merely stared at the demon vacantly.
“Bloody Manchester, you weren’t joking when you said he was ill,” said Crowley. “I mean, I know he usually looks a bit out of it, but this, well….”
“Have you encountered him many times before?” said Aziraphale, slightly surprised that the demon seemed so casually familiar with the Horseperson.
Crowley winced in an almost imperceptible manner while Pollution gave a little rasping laugh, seeming to rise a little from the stupor he’d lapsed into. “Before my banishment, he sometimes used to help me with my artistry.”
“Oh come on,” said Crowley, at once looking rather affronted. “I was not helping you, we just happened to occasionally have coinciding interests.”
At this protestation Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a little… disappointed in the demon. He knew it was a silly sentiment – after all, while Crowley was a splendid and frequently entertaining chap in many ways, he was a diabolic agent. However, he had thought that he would have been above getting involved in the activities of any of the three lesser Horsepersons.
“Anyway,” the demon continued, “do you want to help him to the car? I need to have a word with the plants in private.”
Having gleaned a reasonable idea of the kind of things that the demon said to his plants to keep them it that wonderfully verdant condition over the last few years, Aziraphale was only too happy to be out of the way while the poor, unfortunate, trembling things had the fear of Crowley put into them. He was rather less happy however to have to help the grimy, foul smelling personification out of the chair and half-support half-carry him outside to the car, especially given the way Pollution’s slippery hands seemed wont to slide about in a rather overly familiar manner. After settling him into the back passenger seat the angel stood waiting for Crowley to emerge from the shop; which he did after around ten minutes with a mildly alarming smirk on his face.
“Honestly, my dear, the way you treat those poor things is truly abominable.”
“What? I was just giving them a little pep talk,” said Crowley, slithering into the driver’s seat. “Besides,” he added, as Aziraphale got in, “I am supposed to err on the side of abominable.”
To his credit Aziraphale managed to refrain from pointing out that Crowley’s history of ‘abomination’ was chequered at best.
There was a small, breathless laugh from the back seat. “If you wanted to be truly abominable you should just burn them. They’d give off the most wonderful scent if you doused them in petrol first.”
The demon glowered. “Nobody asked you for your opinion,” he snapped, shooting a red light and making an obscene gesture at the white van driver who honked at him in annoyance at the resulting near-collision.
Aziraphale, glancing in the rear view mirror, saw that Pollution seemed oddly wounded by the retort: face falling and eyes drifting further into vacancy.
For the remainder of the journey an uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by Crowley’s sporadic outbursts at other road users, settled between the three. Ending only when the Aston Martin pulled into the private car park where the demon usually kept his Bentley and came to a halt three spaces down from Crowley’s pride and joy.
“Don’t you think that you ought to change the car back to normal,” said Aziraphale, opening the rear door that hadn’t been on the automobile until just over an hour ago and helping Pollution out of the vehicle.
Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “Leave it. The owner’s a jumped up wanker with more money than sense and a habit of backing out of agreements. ” The annoyance in the demon’s voice at this last bit was palpable. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Aziraphale. In addition to being a certified wanker, he’s also a nasty piece of work who frequently enjoys beating the crap out of under-aged prostitutes.”
For a moment Aziraphale was torn. He really shouldn’t be aiding and abetting the wanton alteration of private property by diabolic forces; but there were some people who were unpleasant enough to require a short, sharp and mind-bending shock to the system.
In the end the way forward became clear and with a wave of his hand, Aziraphale banished the marks that Pollution had left, turned the sleek, luxurious beige leather seating to fuzzy tartan felt, materialised several pairs of fluffy dice onto the dashboard and wished a flurry of post-it notes – each bearing a choice quote from the New Testament – to stick to the interior.
When Crowley muttered something under his breath about ‘angelic bastards’ he pretended not to hear: even if he did experience a tiny and rather guilty twinge of pleasure at the note of admiration in his voice.
“Come on, angel,” said the demon. “Let’s get inside. It’s bloody freezing down here.”
Crowley’s flat turned out to have changed somewhat since last time Aziraphale had had occasion to visit the demon’s residence. The living room was still dominated by the enormous sofa (the sight of which inspired a mild flush to rise in the angel’s cheeks as he briefly recalled what had occurred on said sofa during the aforementioned last visit, after a friendly, drunken arm over the shoulder had led to something more than friendly), but most of the other furniture had been replaced and all of the technological gadgetry radically updated.
“You’ve redecorated, I see,” he said, uncertain as to where best to place Pollution: whom he’d been forced to pick up and carry after the entity’s legs had buckled. The angel had an inkling that Crowley might just get a little testy if he were to set his burden down on the pristine, white leather of the sofa.
The demon gave a shrug. “It was getting dated.”
“Conspicuous consumption how I love thee,” mumbled Pollution into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, where his head was presently resting. An action that caused the angel to shift in discomfort as warm, moist breath hit his bare skin.
Clearly noting his predicament, Crowley made twisty hand gesture and a medium sized Italian daybed appeared in a patch of spare floor space; and it was with a grateful smile that the angel lowered the personification onto the newly manifested item of furniture. As he came into contact with the brocade fabric Pollution squirmed in a way that would, had he been human, have had a decidedly erotic feel to it.
“It never breaks down, you know, all that plastic,” Pollution said, to nobody in particular, eyes unfocussed. “It chokes and strangles everything that tries to grow. And all of those by-products, so perfect and sweet tasting.”
“Weirdo.” Crowley shook his head. “If you want to clean yourself up the bathroom’s through the hall, first on the right.” He waved his hand in the direction of the living room door.
Aziraphale looked down at himself. His coat was smeared with dark, oily marks, which appeared to be eating away at the material of the garment and there was a burning sensation starting to irritate his neck where the personification’s breath had come into contact with it. A bath definitely sounded like a good idea. However, given that the personification’s condition seemed to be gradually deteriorating from lost and dazed to outright delirious, he was loath to leave him unsupervised.
“Will you stay with him while I clean myself up a bit?” he asked.
The demon rolled his eyes. “Not a chance. I’ve got better things to do than sit around watching him zone out.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, getting a good night’s shuteye for one.”
“It’s only ten past eight.”
“And I’m bloody tired.”
Aziraphale sighed and reminded himself that Crowley was a demon, before waving his hand and banishing as much of the toxic mess as he could from his clothing and person. “Then I’ll stay.”
“Fine,” said Crowley. “But I doubt he’s going to spontaneously combust just because you took your eyes off him for a second.” With that the demon headed into his bedroom without another word.
“Good night, Crowley,” he called out, as the demon shut the door.
There was a muffled utterance from the other side that could have either been ‘Yeah right, angel’ or ‘Night, angel’. Aziraphale hoped it was the latter.
----------
Part II
Recipient: Ragetti_Wench
From:
dreya_uberwaldWords: 12800
Rating: R
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale/Pollution
Summary: When Pollution finds himself incapacitated due to the rash actions of a young environmentalist, it’s down to Aziraphale and a very reluctant Crowley to dispense help and comfort.
A/N: A big thank you goes to a wonderful beta reader (you know who you are).
It all began with the protest.
Well… no, this wasn’t exactly true. The actual beginning occurred on a bright, exceptionally smoggy Wednesday in the 1930s when the anthropomorphic personification known as Pestilence took a long, hard look as his recent accomplishments and decided to call it day as far as Apocalyptical Horsepersoning went. However, it was fair to say that what would later be referred to as The Situation and eventually, after several months, as The Relationship, really began to take shape the day over two-thousand members of SOW (Save Our Woodlands) stood between the bulldozers of Wilks, Pallister & Bridges and the unspoilt greenery of Horatio’s Copse.
It was not a large protest by any means. Just a group of rather angry citizens from the North Cambridgeshire area who were deeply distressed at the thought of a beloved little local arbour being obliterated to make way for a new Out of Town Leisure Complex (‘Leisure Complex’ in this instance meaning a cinema, a bowling alley and a Burger Lord). Nor was it deemed important enough to be widely covered by the national media, with only a lone camera man from the BBC’s regional programming department showing up to take thirty seconds of footage, and a few reporters from the local rags jotting down quotes from the protesters and developers in the vain hope that one of them might say something vaguely salacious. However, as far as the three teenagers who’d caught the bus over from Lower Tadfield earlier that morning were concerned, it was important. This was especially true for the boy with the mussed dark brown hair, ancient looking jeans and grubby t-shirt, who had many fond memories of the tree swing that he and his cousins had built from the largest oak in the wood when they were twelve.
“They don’t look too friendly,” said Brian, gesturing to the stony faced security personnel who were standing beside the stationary earth moving equipment, before conscientiously adding: “The planet raping bastards.”
“That’s because they’re not,” said Pepper, trying to hoist her end of the Trees Not Skittles banner as high as she could. Wensleydale, who was two inches shorter, yelped as the end he was holding almost slipped from his grasp.
“Careful,” said Brian, helping his friends steady the banner. “What I meant is that they look even worse than that lot who were doing the Dellton Bypass.”
“Is that the one where you both got arrested?” asked Wensleydale, who was slightly newer to Cambridgeshire conservational activism than his two friends.
“No, that was the one where we were demonstrating against Chemipharm International pumping industrial waste into the River Mottle,” he replied. “We didn’t even mean to trash the managing director’s car; it was just that we accidentally dropped one of the placards and smashed the windscreen, but they said that….” He trailed off as something – or rather somebody - caught his eye.
An extremely pale young man dressed in white overalls and a white hard hat standing to the side of one of the more monstrous looking diggers. With his pale skin, slender form and shoulder length white hair, he did not fit congruously amongst the surly security guards, weathered workmen and pinched-faced middle-aged clipboard-wavers. Yet, despite possessing a visage that should have been instantly striking, there was something about the figure that seemed to induce one’s gaze and mind to pass over him. At least, this was what part of Brian’s brain seemed to want to do. However, there was also something about him that caused another part of Brian’s mind to sound a mental warning bell.
“Hey, is it just me or is their something familiar about that man?” he said, gesturing to the figure.
“I dunno.” Pepper shrugged; a movement that once again very nearly destabilised Wensley’s grip on the placard, before redirecting her attention swiftly back to the other violators of all that was good and green. “I recognise the guy standing next to the bloke in the orange jacket,” she said. “He works for Rentahit Security. Broke Marvin Hall’s wrist at the Chemipharm demonstration, I think. And the woman in the blue suit works for Dellton Council. I think there was some embezzlement scandal she was involved in a few years ago, but there wasn’t enough evidence to prosecute.”
As Pepper continued to identify and recount the crimes of the various members of ‘The Opposition’, Brian found himself trying to keep his focus fixed on the man in white. He was not quite sure why, but the mental warning bell seemed to be getting louder and louder. ‘Not quite sure why’, that was, until the figure gave what looked like a wide, blissful smile, reached into the pocket of his overalls and removed a metal cylinder.
Brian gave a loud yelp.
“What the hell are you doing?” Pepper cried out in alarm as he tore away from the crowd of protestors and hurtled himself in the direction of the man in white.
“Teargas!” Brian yelled, without a backwards glance. “It’s a teargas canister.”
Around half a second before making contact with the young man, Brian registered the sudden look of recognition, fear and alarm in his grey eyes.
By that time, however, it was too late to prevent what happened next.
It was, when all was said and done, a simple matter of opposites coming into contact.
Had any other sixteen year old boy careered into the slender form of Blanco White in an attempt to wrest the canister of teargas from the Assistant Deputy Site Manager’s hand, it would have led to a scuffle much like any other, with said boy finding his target slipping out of his grasp and his skin afflicted with a strange rash or two for a few weeks.
However, the fact that the boy called Brian had, just over five years earlier, vanquished the personification of environmental decimation with the aid of a few well-chosen twigs, gave the whole thing a symbolic, yet very real and potent charge.
In short: Pollution and Anti-Pollution collided.
When later questioned about what happened most of those present would describe what happened as being ‘like an explosion… but without any fire or smoke’; in response to which those emergency service personnel who arrived on the scene to take the injured and catatonic boy with the dark brown hair to the nearest hospital, would conclude that some form of mass hysteria was taking place.
Nobody noticed what happened to the pale young man. Even when staggering from the scene clutching his stomach, wearing a pained expression and pausing every few minutes to double over and retch-up the toxic contents of his stomach onto the ground, he just wasn’t the sort to draw the eye.
----------
It was half past six on a wet Monday evening in Soho, and Aziraphale was dithering over whether to make the long journey to Balham to deliver the spark of divine inspiration to a middle-aged housewife that he’d been putting off all week (divine ecstasy was one thing, but divine inspiration was always rather tricky to get right, one really didn’t after all want Sistine Chapels springing up all over the place), or go and visit old Mrs Brentworth who lived in the flat above the Pleasure Island Adult Toy Emporium three doors down from the bookshop. Mrs. Brentwoth wasn’t on his official ‘Old Aged Pensioners to Comfort’ list, but was always a delightful conversationalist and very well up on all the latest gossip as to what was going on around the area. In the end a crack of thunder, followed by the intensification of the rain against the window finally tipped the scales in favour of letting divine inspiration wait for another day.
On the antiquated television set the angel kept in the back room, the evening news was coming to a close, with the presenter going over the day’s less significant stories, such as the couple who’d found a large cache of Roman coins in their back garden, the recapture of a convicted armed robber who’d absconded from a low security prison in Scotland and the boy from Cambridgeshire who’d made a remarkable bordering on miraculous recovery from the serious – yet deeply peculiar – case of poisoning he’d sustained a week ago at a local environmental protest, and was now being released from the isolation ward.
As the credits began to roll Aziraphale blinked and the television turned itself off. He then exchanged his favourite tartan slippers for his second favourite pair of brown loafers and his cardigan for a coat and stepped out of the back room and into the shop proper. Much to his chagrin, a man in a pinstriped suit was peering through the glass of the front window. Aziraphale instantly recognised him as the gentleman who’d been stopping by at the shop at frequent intervals over the last couple of weeks in the obvious hope that he’d catch it during one of its sporadic opening hours. Some people just couldn’t take ‘we’re closed for refurbishment’ as an answer.
Deciding that he didn’t want to come into direct contact with any would be customers, the angel quickly retreated to the back room and – rather guiltily – wished a door out onto the back alley behind the shop into existence. As he stepped out of the large, yet tasteful, oak door (taking care to banish it from existence once he was through) and out into the downpour he couldn’t help but notice that the alley was rather more littered, vandalised and foul smelling that usual. It had never been the most pleasant of cut throughs, but Aziraphale had always tried to keep the place from lapsing into this sort of state. Making a mental note to do something about the mess when it wasn’t quite so cold and wet, the angel began to walk in the direction of Pleasure Island.
After a few steps however he became uncomfortably aware that he was not the only entity of a non-mortal persuasion in the immediate vicinity. There was, for want of a better word, a presence around: it definitely wasn’t angelic, and he was almost sure it wasn’t demonic, but there was something oddly familiar about it all the same; and it seemed to be… well, it was hard to mentally put it into words, but ‘muted’, ‘damaged’ and ‘hurting’ were probably the adjectives that closest described the sense he was getting from whatever it was.
Involuntarily swallowing in what wasn’t quite fear, but was a level of unease that came fairly close, the angel peered into the dark corners and shadows of the poorly illuminated alley. Aziraphale really didn’t want to risk being discorporated by a hostile entity. Returning to Heaven could very well mean having to stand in front of several key Seraphim and account for his behaviour during Apocalypse That Wasn’t: and even if Gabriel et al were of a mind to overlook his somewhat unorthodox actions and send him back to his earthly post, there was a good chance that he’d find his
As he approached, a pair of grey eyes set in a pale, grimy face looked up to regard him.
Recognition instantly dawned as the creature’s gaze met his own.
“You!” He instinctively took a step backwards, gripped by a stab of panic at what terrible things the youngest of the Four might be planning to do to his corpus or his books in retaliation for his role in averting Armageddon now that he was quite obviously back from the collective human unconscious to which he’d been banished. However, as Pollution continued to stare at him in a manner best described as vacant, it became increasingly evident that the personification didn’t seem to have any immediate plans to cause harm to the angel or his precious texts, or at least any plans to cause harm to the angel or his precious texts that he was currently capable of acting upon.
“Erm… are you all right?” he asked, aware that the answer to this question was quite obviously in the negative, but not sure quite what else to say.
“No,” the personification responded, with a cough. “I think I’m hurt.” Rather than the breathy voice with which Pollution had spoken on the three occasions the angel had previously been unfortunate enough to come into contact with him, the entity was now wheezing out his words.
“What on earth happened to you?” Once again, the angel knew that this was probably not the most sensible question to ask; however, as no sensible questions were likely to exist for such a situation he decided to go with it anyway.
“The boy.”
“You mean young Adam?” Aziraphale’s eyes widened, at once rather worried that the Antichrist was back to the near-cataclysmic the mood swings that had signalled his entry into adolescence three years previously.
“No, the other boy. The child who sent me away.”
The angel’s brow furrowed. “The one that sent you…?” He trailed off as realisation dawned. “Are you talking about Adam’s friend?”
“Yes.” The personification gave a snort that sounded to be one-quarter ironic amusement and three-quarters bitterness. “The one that should have been me.”
“Oh… er….” Flailing a little, Aziraphale searched for a response. “How exactly did he do this to you?”
“He touched me.”
He frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“The boy came into contact with me and, because of what Adam Young made him into during our last encounter, he was my antithesis.”
“Oh.” Oh dear, this really was unprecedented. “So this contact diminished you somehow?”
The personification coughed. It was a prolonged, hacking cough that in a human would hint at moderate to severe lung damage. “When we clashed there was a great release of force and something was unwillingly exchanged between us.”
Something clicked in the angel’s mind as he recalled one of the less globally significant but still deeply curious stories that had been in the news media of late. “Would I be right to assume that the young man in question was the one who had to be quarantined after he started sweating arsenic and breathing out carbon monoxide?”
“He took something from me and I took something from him,” the personification said, in a voice that would have been singsong if he hadn’t been rasping so much. “What I took from him doesn’t like the rest of me though.”
As Pollution hugged his knees closer to his chest, realisation finally dawned on the angel. “You’ve become allergic to yourself, haven’t you?”
The personification did not respond, choosing instead to curl up even further into himself, in what was clearly an ineffectual attempt to preserve the body heat that had never been of any consequence to him before.
Being a being of the world, Aziraphale also recognised another, rather more calculated, level to the action. It was the kind of gesture that humans frequently used to evoke sympathy and comfort: and Pollution was employing it in a rather obvious manner. However, in addition to being a being of the world, the angel was also an angel of the world, and it really was a sight to tug at the heart strings.
After a moment of indecision Aziraphale spoke again. “Look, it’s awfully cold out here, why don’t you come inside.”
For a moment the grey eyes merely stared at him. Then the personification gave a small groan and began to rise to his feet, his movements stiff and pained. Despite the deep aversion he felt towards the idea of touching him, Aziraphale nevertheless found himself offering a tentative hand, which Pollution took with an expression of mild relief. The Horseman’s hand was clammy and greasy, but the experience of coming into contact with it was not quite as revolting as Aziraphale had imagined it would be. Still, he couldn’t help but cringe when, after three steps, the entity slumped against him; filthy, matted hair pressing against his shoulder and grimy overalls rubbing against his old but scrupulously clean coat, as Pollution grabbed onto the angel in an attempt to steady himself.
It was just fifteen metres from the spot where Pollution had been slumped between the huge waste receptacles and back wall of Aziraphale’s shop, but it took the angel several minutes to haul him over to the re-materialised door to the back-room (which for reasons unknown to the angel this time took the form of a distressingly pink, plywood affair). Once inside he hastily willed a thick, industrially reinforced PVC dustcover onto his armchair and ushered the personification into it, whereupon he banished as much of the entity’s residue from his clothing as possible and then reached for the telephone he kept on one of the side tables. Before he could lay a hand on the ancient device however, it began to ring.
“Hello, Fell’s Second Hand Books,” he said, hoping that it wouldn’t be the unwanted customer he’d just been trying to avoid. He had done just about everything he could to keep the number ex-directory, but a few tenacious would-be purchasers had managed to get hold of it in the past.
”It’s me,” said a young, male and very easily recognisable voice on the other end.
“Hello Adam, I was just about to call—”
“I know.”
The angel’s eyes widened in surprise. “You did?”
“And I know what you’re about to ask.”
“You do?”
“I won’t help him, Aziraphale. He hurt my friend.” The boy’s voice was resolute in the sullen and defiant way only a sixteen year old’s could be. “He can wait to get better by himself.
“Adam, I understand that….” He trailed off as the line went dead. “Oh dear.” With an apprehensive sigh he turned his attention back to Pollution who, to the angel’s utter horror, was inspecting the objects on the table next to the armchair and putting his soiled fingers dangerously close to the copy of Dorian Gray resting there. Acting quickly, the angel banished the book back to its usual place on the shelves.
“That was Adam Young,” he said, willing several other items within the personification’s immediate vicinity out of his reach.
“I know,” Pollution said, with another embittered little snort. “He’s not going to return me to my original state, is he?”
“I’m afraid he’s still rather angry about the injuries his friend suffered as a result of your little accident.”
For several deeply uncomfortable moments a tense silence settled between them. Aziraphale dearly hoped that the personification wouldn’t suddenly decide that the best way to vent his distress at the situation was to do something unpleasant to him or his books. Pollution however eventually settled for slumping back into the plasticized armchair and huddling in on himself.
“I don’t know what to do,” the entity said, voice distant.
“Don’t give up hope,” said the angel in what he hoped were comforting tones. “Adam seemed to suggest that you might recover on your own, without his intervention.”
“Recover on my own?” Pollution repeated the words slowly, as if they didn’t quite make sense. “How will I do that?”
“I’m not quite certain,” Aziraphale answered truthfully. “However, I imagine that it would be similar to the way that humans heal.”
“What will I do until I’m ‘healed’? It’s so cold out there,” said Pollution with a shudder, before adding: “I’ve never been cold before.”
The angel sighed; this really wasn’t his area of expertise. “I suppose you could try resting somewhere warm and comfortable and… and… well, if you were a human I would suggest drinking lots of fluids, but I don’t imagine that would do you much good.”
For a while the personification seemed to consider the angel’s words. “Can I stay here?”
Aziraphale gaped, horrifying visions of book disintegration and silver snuffbox corrosion at once filling his mind at the thought of the fourth Horseperson residing in the shop for any period of time. The area of carpet around the armchair was already starting to change colour from ‘slightly weathered green’ to ‘sort of greyish brown’. “Um… well… I really don’t think that that would be a very good….” He stumbled to a verbal halt as the entity’s face fell and his gaze grew even more sadly distant, filling the angel with a sense of overwhelming guilt. “What I mean is that it might not be the best idea for you to stay here exactly, but I will find somewhere safe – well, safe-ish at least – for you to recover.”
The look of relief in the personification’s eyes gave the angel a warm glow that in all truth probably wasn’t quite warranted. Still, having promised to find Pollution somewhere safe to stay, he was now obligated to do just that.
His first thought was to book the personification a hotel room, but was hesitant to do so owning to the fact that a) it would be irresponsible to knowingly place the embodiment of environmental catastrophe in building inhabited by large numbers of humans; and b) would entail a level of expenditure that would almost certainly preclude him from acquiring any new, er, stock for quite a while.
His second thought was to acquire a house – preferably one as far away from any major river, sites of great natural beauty or nuclear power stations as possible – in which the wounded Horseperson could stay; but again, this would require him not only to forego acquiring any new books, but to sell some of his existing stock. He could not after all in good conscience try to rent anywhere given the likely damage the property would suffer.
His third – and most reluctant – thought was to ask a favour of an old enemy/friend/occasionally-more-than-friend.
In the end however it was the last of these foreseeable alternatives which seemed the most sensible and/or none morally dubious and the angel found himself reaching once again for the telephone.
----------
When the call came, the demon Crowley was in the process of enjoying a quiet evening in with a passable bottle of red wine, a more than passable Indian takeaway and the intention of inciting yet another Livejournal flamewar. He had originally planned to go out for dinner with a few acquaintances from one of the capital's most infamous PR firms, but a raid on the company's offices earlier that day by Interpol, owing to concerns about the company’s ‘Colombian connection’, meant that most of the aforementioned acquaintances would be spending the foreseeable future in the custody of the Metropolitan Police.
With a small sigh he temporarily abandoned the highly inflammatory post he was working on and reached for his mobile phone, surprised to recognise the number flashing on the screen as that belonging to Aziraphale. Usually, when the wine had flowed a bit too freely and they ended up in positions such as the (moderately kinky) one they had the previous Wednesday, they kept their distance from each other for a
month or so, until the level of awkwardness that any meeting might induce had waned to bearable levels and new completely unrelated conversational topics had had chance to develop. It was therefore a little strange that the angel should get in touch with him so soon after such an encounter. Hoping that nothing serious had happened to his mortal enemy cum best friend, he pressed the answer button.
"Aziraphale?"
"Ah, hello there, Crowley. I was wondering if…if…. Well, you see, I've got a very slight problem…. It's…. Well…."
"For G— Someone's sake just spit it out." In retrospect this probably wasn't the best phrase to use given the context in which he'd utilised it the previous Wednesday; however, Aziraphale’s conversational dithering was making him slightly edgy.
“It’s just that Pollution’s over here and—”
“Hang on a minute, just to be clear, are you talking about Pollution as in the Horseman of the Apocalypse here?” Crowley said, cutting him off.
“Yes, he’s very sick.”
“Sick!” Despite the fact that the angel wasn’t presently able to watch his reaction to this statement, the demon couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. He’d had a few encounters with the personification in the past, some rather more friendly than others, and he just couldn’t imagine anything that could possibly render him ill. “How in the name of Ozzy Osbourne did that happen?”
“It seems that he had a run in with one of young Adam’s friends.”
“Oh?”
”Unfortunately, Adam’s still angry about the injuries his young friend sustained and point blank refused to do anything to help.”
“Ah.”
“So my, er… ‘guest’ needs somewhere to recuperate.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure there are plenty of nice abandoned, asbestos-filled factories in the London area,” he said flippantly, despite the vague inkling that Aziraphale was about to ask him to do something he wouldn’t like. “Or if he wants a country getaway there’s always that new landfill in Wiltshire.”
“Somewhere warm and safe.” The inkling got stronger.
“He could try a Travel Day Inn – though that might not do to well on the safe side. Did I tell you about the time I got electrocuted at the one in Leeds?”
“I was hoping that you might allow us to stay at your flat for a little while.”
Oh, now this was just ridiculous. “My flat! What the hell’s wrong with your place.”
“It’s the books, dear boy. He’s having the most dreadful effect on the books.”
“And you don’t think I’ve got any irreplaceable valuables around here that I wouldn’t want getting tarnished, corroded, poisoned or irradiated?”
“Well, yes, but you have got rather fewer of them.” There was a hint of pleading in his voice. “And you could always put them in storage over here.”
“No, absolutely not. I refuse to let that thing anywhere near my property.”
“Honestly Crowley, you materialise most of your possessions from raw firmament yourself anyway.”
“Look angel, read my lips—.”
“How am I supposed to do that, you’re on the other end of the telephone line?” The puzzlement in the angel’s voice suggested that this was a genuine question as a opposed to deliberate pedantry.
“The answer’s no, Aziraphale,” said Crowley.
On the other end of the line, the angel gave a heavy sigh. “I do wish it hadn’t come to this; however, I’m afraid I’m going to have to bring up the subject of that favour you owe me.”
“What favour?” the demon demanded, his stomach giving a slightly queasy churn of anticipation.
“Recall if you will, dear boy, that little situation with Belphegor and that imp of his a century ago.”
The demon inwardly cursed. He’d forgotten that he still owed the angel big time for his help in getting rid of those particular unwelcome house guests: and, well, a minion of Hell he may be, but he was still a demon of his word, and he’d promised – sometime during the three day drinking session that had followed – to return the favour one day.
“Fine,” he said grudgingly. “You can bring him over here. But you’re completely responsible for him… And I’m leaving the houseplants at your place.”
He could almost picture the beam of gratitude on the angel’s face. “Oh Crowley you are a good—”
“Hey, watch it”
“A splendid chap.”
Crowley gave a long suffering sigh. “I’ll be there to pick you up in half an hour,” he said, pressing the ‘end call’ button before the angel could continue to thank him profusely.
It looked like great Livejournal cross-comm flame war instigation was going to have wait for a while.
----------
After around twenty-five minutes of trying to keep the contents of his back room away from Pollution’s curious hands and continually banishing the litter that seemed be accumulating around the personification’s feet to the waste paper basket, Aziraphale was rather relieved when Crowley pulled up outside the shop. To the angel’s surprise however, when he went outside to greet the demon, he found he had not arrived in his beloved Bentley, but a brand new, gunmetal grey Aston Martin.
“I ‘borrowed’ it from an acquaintance of mine,” said Crowley, anticipating the angel’s query. “Didn’t think I’d let Pollution anywhere near the Bentley, did you? Where is he anyway?”
“The back room,” said Aziraphale, moving to help the demon unload his frightened and disoriented plants from the back seat that this model of automobile wasn’t actually supposed to have and take them into the shop.
Once inside, the demon’s nose wrinkled in exaggerated disgust as soon as he entered the back room.
“You stink,” were his first words to the personification, slumped in the chair.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale chided.
Pollution however merely stared at the demon vacantly.
“Bloody Manchester, you weren’t joking when you said he was ill,” said Crowley. “I mean, I know he usually looks a bit out of it, but this, well….”
“Have you encountered him many times before?” said Aziraphale, slightly surprised that the demon seemed so casually familiar with the Horseperson.
Crowley winced in an almost imperceptible manner while Pollution gave a little rasping laugh, seeming to rise a little from the stupor he’d lapsed into. “Before my banishment, he sometimes used to help me with my artistry.”
“Oh come on,” said Crowley, at once looking rather affronted. “I was not helping you, we just happened to occasionally have coinciding interests.”
At this protestation Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a little… disappointed in the demon. He knew it was a silly sentiment – after all, while Crowley was a splendid and frequently entertaining chap in many ways, he was a diabolic agent. However, he had thought that he would have been above getting involved in the activities of any of the three lesser Horsepersons.
“Anyway,” the demon continued, “do you want to help him to the car? I need to have a word with the plants in private.”
Having gleaned a reasonable idea of the kind of things that the demon said to his plants to keep them it that wonderfully verdant condition over the last few years, Aziraphale was only too happy to be out of the way while the poor, unfortunate, trembling things had the fear of Crowley put into them. He was rather less happy however to have to help the grimy, foul smelling personification out of the chair and half-support half-carry him outside to the car, especially given the way Pollution’s slippery hands seemed wont to slide about in a rather overly familiar manner. After settling him into the back passenger seat the angel stood waiting for Crowley to emerge from the shop; which he did after around ten minutes with a mildly alarming smirk on his face.
“Honestly, my dear, the way you treat those poor things is truly abominable.”
“What? I was just giving them a little pep talk,” said Crowley, slithering into the driver’s seat. “Besides,” he added, as Aziraphale got in, “I am supposed to err on the side of abominable.”
To his credit Aziraphale managed to refrain from pointing out that Crowley’s history of ‘abomination’ was chequered at best.
There was a small, breathless laugh from the back seat. “If you wanted to be truly abominable you should just burn them. They’d give off the most wonderful scent if you doused them in petrol first.”
The demon glowered. “Nobody asked you for your opinion,” he snapped, shooting a red light and making an obscene gesture at the white van driver who honked at him in annoyance at the resulting near-collision.
Aziraphale, glancing in the rear view mirror, saw that Pollution seemed oddly wounded by the retort: face falling and eyes drifting further into vacancy.
For the remainder of the journey an uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by Crowley’s sporadic outbursts at other road users, settled between the three. Ending only when the Aston Martin pulled into the private car park where the demon usually kept his Bentley and came to a halt three spaces down from Crowley’s pride and joy.
“Don’t you think that you ought to change the car back to normal,” said Aziraphale, opening the rear door that hadn’t been on the automobile until just over an hour ago and helping Pollution out of the vehicle.
Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “Leave it. The owner’s a jumped up wanker with more money than sense and a habit of backing out of agreements. ” The annoyance in the demon’s voice at this last bit was palpable. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Aziraphale. In addition to being a certified wanker, he’s also a nasty piece of work who frequently enjoys beating the crap out of under-aged prostitutes.”
For a moment Aziraphale was torn. He really shouldn’t be aiding and abetting the wanton alteration of private property by diabolic forces; but there were some people who were unpleasant enough to require a short, sharp and mind-bending shock to the system.
In the end the way forward became clear and with a wave of his hand, Aziraphale banished the marks that Pollution had left, turned the sleek, luxurious beige leather seating to fuzzy tartan felt, materialised several pairs of fluffy dice onto the dashboard and wished a flurry of post-it notes – each bearing a choice quote from the New Testament – to stick to the interior.
When Crowley muttered something under his breath about ‘angelic bastards’ he pretended not to hear: even if he did experience a tiny and rather guilty twinge of pleasure at the note of admiration in his voice.
“Come on, angel,” said the demon. “Let’s get inside. It’s bloody freezing down here.”
Crowley’s flat turned out to have changed somewhat since last time Aziraphale had had occasion to visit the demon’s residence. The living room was still dominated by the enormous sofa (the sight of which inspired a mild flush to rise in the angel’s cheeks as he briefly recalled what had occurred on said sofa during the aforementioned last visit, after a friendly, drunken arm over the shoulder had led to something more than friendly), but most of the other furniture had been replaced and all of the technological gadgetry radically updated.
“You’ve redecorated, I see,” he said, uncertain as to where best to place Pollution: whom he’d been forced to pick up and carry after the entity’s legs had buckled. The angel had an inkling that Crowley might just get a little testy if he were to set his burden down on the pristine, white leather of the sofa.
The demon gave a shrug. “It was getting dated.”
“Conspicuous consumption how I love thee,” mumbled Pollution into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, where his head was presently resting. An action that caused the angel to shift in discomfort as warm, moist breath hit his bare skin.
Clearly noting his predicament, Crowley made twisty hand gesture and a medium sized Italian daybed appeared in a patch of spare floor space; and it was with a grateful smile that the angel lowered the personification onto the newly manifested item of furniture. As he came into contact with the brocade fabric Pollution squirmed in a way that would, had he been human, have had a decidedly erotic feel to it.
“It never breaks down, you know, all that plastic,” Pollution said, to nobody in particular, eyes unfocussed. “It chokes and strangles everything that tries to grow. And all of those by-products, so perfect and sweet tasting.”
“Weirdo.” Crowley shook his head. “If you want to clean yourself up the bathroom’s through the hall, first on the right.” He waved his hand in the direction of the living room door.
Aziraphale looked down at himself. His coat was smeared with dark, oily marks, which appeared to be eating away at the material of the garment and there was a burning sensation starting to irritate his neck where the personification’s breath had come into contact with it. A bath definitely sounded like a good idea. However, given that the personification’s condition seemed to be gradually deteriorating from lost and dazed to outright delirious, he was loath to leave him unsupervised.
“Will you stay with him while I clean myself up a bit?” he asked.
The demon rolled his eyes. “Not a chance. I’ve got better things to do than sit around watching him zone out.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, getting a good night’s shuteye for one.”
“It’s only ten past eight.”
“And I’m bloody tired.”
Aziraphale sighed and reminded himself that Crowley was a demon, before waving his hand and banishing as much of the toxic mess as he could from his clothing and person. “Then I’ll stay.”
“Fine,” said Crowley. “But I doubt he’s going to spontaneously combust just because you took your eyes off him for a second.” With that the demon headed into his bedroom without another word.
“Good night, Crowley,” he called out, as the demon shut the door.
There was a muffled utterance from the other side that could have either been ‘Yeah right, angel’ or ‘Night, angel’. Aziraphale hoped it was the latter.
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Part II
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The bit that had me laughing aloud was Aziraphale car-redecorating. Well done, and well-deserved it would seem.
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The bit that had me laughing aloud was Aziraphale car-redecorating. Well done, and well-deserved it would seem.
He's been around humanity long enough to know that sometimes a certain amount of bastardly thinking (and tartan) is required in order to perform one's angelic role.