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meganphntmgrl!
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go_exchangeTitle: The Curious Case of the Unfortunate Monk
Gift for: meganphntmgrl
Gift from:caitirin
Words: 2577
Characters: Crowley and Aziraphale
Rating: PG for language.
Summary: A most unfortunate monk gets a secret visit from an Angel and a Demon. With the help of an Angel can he rise to become a full member of his order? Or under the influence of a Demon will he be cast out?
Notes: Written formeganphntmgrl in the 2009 ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
go_exchange. I tried to give you medieval England and I imagined Aziraphale to be in a cassock that seems about a hundred years out of fashion. Whereas Crowley's is the newest one debuting on all the fashion runways in Rome. Not that I think the fashion industry really did much at this time. ;) It's C+A, but not as slashy as I had intended, but they are definitely very attached to one another even if a bit prickly at times. I hope you enjoy it! Also Huge Huge thanks to my beta readers J and E. Your comments were invaluable!!
///
Brother Francis, the fattest and oldest novice of the Holy Order of Saint Henry the Forgetful, fell headfirst down the three stone steps of the monastery for the fifth time that week. Although he was more than a few years older than most of the senior monks, he was still a novice because had failed to show proper devotion and piety to advance. That and most of the other monks only tolerated him because it made them seem more Christ-like to tolerate such an unsavory person.
"Bollocks!" He said after he had regained his breath, lost in heaving his not inconsiderable bulk back up off the ground.
Three gasps. Brother Francis winced and turned slowly.
Three of the monks frowned down at him. After he missed mass because he had overeaten at lunch and fallen asleep in the library, he had been advised to take a vow of total silence to make amends and allow himself to better reflect on his commitment to God. He had taken the vow two weeks ago and had broken the vow three times already. He was starting to wonder if he might be better suited to a career as a court jester, though sadly no one had ever found him funny.
Crowley fought to keep from sniggering too loudly where he was seated across the courtyard, impersonating a visiting monk from Spain. He'd managed to trip up Brother Francis four out of the five times that he'd fallen down those steps. It was almost funnier than Chaucer.
"You really should give that poor man a break."
Crowley looked up. "Hello, Angel."
"Tormenting monks, again?" Aziraphale, also dressed as monk, albeit one from about a hundred years earlier, sat down next to Crowley.
"It beats re-animating plague victims."
Aziraphale looked faintly green. "That's horrid. I don't know how you can think to do such disgusting things." He said, primly.
"Demon," Crowley said smirking.
Aziraphale gave him A Look.
Crowley pretended not to notice. Aziraphale's looks were unnerving. "Anyway, he was destroying sacred experiences in this House of God. So you can't really be mad at me. The other monks appreciate seeing him suffering."
"They certainly do not. They are observing that he is growing spiritually through his experiences which inevitably bring him closer to the Lord. It's very positive."
"Right. And Brother David chortling over there and pointing at him is definitely not him being amused at seeing the fat man fall," Crowley smirked.
Aziraphale had to admit, to himself at least, that it wasn't entirely unlikely that they were just laughing at the poor fat man's expense. "Nice cassock, by the way."
"Very latest fashion in self-denying clerical wear. It even comes with a whip for flagellation. Very 'in' this season with the discerning monk."
Aziraphale wasn't quite sure just how to respond. The idea of beating oneself seemed a bit extreme to him, but then you were never quite sure how to react to the devoted mystics who were moved to extreme acts of piety dedicated to Him. Aziraphale coughed and changed the subject. "I hear the Plagues are inspiring thievery and all manner of impious acts. You must be most gratified about that."
"Actually, we thought it was a scheme from your side. It's also making people go crazy in the faith and love department too. People going around appreciating other people since they think they might go and see H-... well you know who." Crowley jerked a thumb at the sky.
"Oh, it could never be ours," Aziraphale protested. "It's much too... ill for us."
"Oh, and that last crusade to retake the Holy Land was SO healthy." Crowley rolled his eyes.
Aziraphale looked at him irritably. "One can't second guess the Plan." He nodded, reassuring himself. "It's ineffable, you know. Not to be understood by the likes of you--er, I mean us. Or me. You know. In general terms."
"Oh, of course. I know. In general terms," Crowley said rolling his eyes. "So did you get your new flaming sword yet?"
Aziraphale scowled at him; this was rather a sore spot with him, and Crowley knew this. Michael was always raving away about his enormous sword and it made Aziraphale remember that he didn't have his own anymore. Michael liked to make inappropriate remarks on the subject. Positively unangelic, really. Aziraphale kept meaning to file a complaint, or at least say something. But, honestly, who could you complain to about someone like Michael? He was practically His right hand, or entire right arm sometimes. So Aziraphale just ended up accepted the not-so-gentle ribbing and tried to avoid most of the Big Meetings. "Did you replace that great fiery steed of yours yet?" Aziraphale snarked back.
Crowley decided that this interaction was most definitely not going the way that he wanted. In a fit of pique he caused Brother Francis to fall into the well.
There was a splash and some shocked gurgling.
Aziraphale fished him back out again with a little miracle. "Will you please stop doing that!" He whispered sharply.
"Oh just relax." Crowley leaned back. "Don't get so touchy, Angel."
"You're making me be touchy. You have a singular talent for it... Demon."
Crowley snickered. "Fine. I'll stop. Truce?"
Aziraphale hesitated, trying to decide if Crowley was being sincere or just being... well... demonic. He decided to chance it. "If you stop tormenting that man."
"Just doing my job. Evil never sleeps and all that."
"That's a lie, I know you love to sleep. And, honestly, you could hold off on working while we're catching up, you know. I'm not working right now. I came by because we promised to meet today," Aziraphale said testily.
"Right. Lunch!" Crowley was easily distracted by the promise of decadent food and wine.
"Only now you've got me upset. I don't really want to have lunch with you if you're going to be like this," Aziraphale grumped.
Crowley tried not to roll his eyes. "Oh, don't be like that."
Aziraphale gave Crowley a rather flat look.
"Okay, be however you like." «i»Angels...«/a» Crowley sighed. "Tell you what. Let's settle this with a little wager."
"I don't see how gambling is going to help the situation."
"It'll help poor Brother Francis."
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. "I'm listening."
"Okay, here's the deal. Brother Francis is hovering in limbo. He's never been made a full member of the order but he's not been kicked out either. I'll wager you lunch that I can get him kicked out by the end of the week."
"I fail to see how that is helpful to «i»anyone«i»," Aziraphale sharply.
"Your challenge is to get him... promoted by the end of the week. If you do, I'll take you anywhere you like for lunch AND I'll never tempt a monk from «i»this«/i» order ever again."
"Never again?" Aziraphale considered.
"Never again."
Making deals with the devil was always a bad idea. But, Crowley wasn't the devil. He was just a demon. A very familiar and friendly demon. Aziraphale considered some more. "All right. It's a deal."
"We can switch off for the week, Monday he's yours, Tuesday mine, and so on." Crowley explained.
"And on Sunday we can rest and see what's happened."
"Exactly."
///
Thus agreed to start on Monday they went their separate ways, mutual non-interference agreed upon. And bright and early Monday morning Aziraphale showed up and miracled Brother Francis awake on time and ensured that he got to Mass on time. For Mass Aziraphale arranged for there to be a beautiful song that was perfect for Brother Francis' voice. And he sounded melodious. The other monks were surprised; normally Brother Francis was too sleepy to sing so nicely. This was a very welcome change.
Brother Francis felt very good. And he wasn't late to anything the entire day.
He prayed to give thanks at the end of the day and Aziraphale was pleased.
///
Tuesday morning, Brother Francis rose early. Or so he thought. In reality it was actually past noon and he had missed the entire morning. He'd been having the most amazing, but wholly sinful dreams. Nude harlots cavorting through fields of flowers with ample bosoms bouncing everywhere.
And so when he awoke flushed and sweating thinking that he'd roused himself from a devil sent dream, he was in fact not early at all. His entire day was thrown off, and when he went to confession he nearly passed out with the embarrassment of having to tell this dream to one of the other monks. He could feel their derision rolling off his ample back.
He skipped dinner and went to bed feeling despondent.
///
Wednesday morning he woke feeling refreshed and optimistic. He had this tingling feeling in the back of his mind that somehow... there were larger forces at work. He prayed to the Heavenly Father for guidance and for the briefest of moments he thought he saw an Angel, a rather pudgy blonde angel in... a tartan vest. Not that tartan had been invented yet, and vests weren't really in fashion, but an Angel nonetheless. It was a sign from God! He was sure of it. This confirmed his path, surely. This was the life he had been meant for. He spent the day in silent reflection. Aziraphale miracled his favorite food at dinner time.
///
Thursday morning Brother Francis woke with a stomachache. He betook himself to the infirmary where another of the monks was curt with him and spoke at length on the virtues of self-denial and the ills of over eating in times of scarcity. Brother Francis indulged in some sinful thoughts that involved tripping the other monk down the stairs.
He then felt guilty at having thought those things and felt even worse when later on the monk «i»did«/i» trip and fall down some stairs.
He confessed to the Heavenly Father himself, instead of going to confession, after the episode on Tuesday he was feeling fearful of confession. Maybe this wasn't the life meant for him. Perhaps he should throw in his lot with the lepers instead.
///
On Friday Aziraphale became concerned that Crowley was going to go last and insisted on a switch of days. Crowley pointed out that this was hardly sporting of him and certainly broke some rules. And by the time they had argued this out, Brother Francis had gone back to bed.
///
On Saturday Crowley argued that it was his day. Aziraphale said that since he had missed Friday that they would have to split the day. Crowley was no so keen on the idea, reminding Aziraphale that is was a sin to break promises, and that it was his own side's rule. Aziraphale had to resort to down-right un-angelic practices to get Crowley to give in. Crowley had to admit that sometimes angels could be «i»very«/i» persuasive. He took some notes.
They threw everything they had at Brother Francis. Each staged a full on Appearance with angelic light and demonic fire respectively.
On both ocassions Brother Francis cowered in a corner and cried. Not the result either had been aiming for
At the end of the day Brother Francis locked himself into a solitary meditation cell with nothing but a candle.
///
Sunday morning finally arrived.
The Father Superior summoned Brother Francis.
"They're going to throw him out." Crowley said with a very disconcerting smile.
Aziraphale shook his head. "Rubbish, he has shown himself to be most devout. They're going to take him on."
After a few hours Brother Francis emerged, neither in the robes of an initiate nor in the habit of the other monks but, strangely enough, in the clothes of a tradesman. He looked serene and comforted. The Father Superior blessed him and bid him godspeed in his journeys.
"Wait, what happened?" Aziraphale asked.
"I'm... not sure," Crowley said. They watched Brother Francis leave through the monastery gates and walk down the road to a farm house. Once there he got down on one knee (no mean feat for a man of his girth) and proposed marriage to a milk maid of whom he had always been secretly enamored.
She, having shared a similar sentiment for many years, cried out with joy and accepted his proposal with a big kiss.
Crowley blinked. "So who wins?"
"It would seem Brother Francis. He was neither promoted nor was he thrown out. I think we both lose."
Crowley wrinkled his nose. "Bugger."
They sat on the monastery wall and watched Brother Francis and his milk maid love walk off into the convenient sunset.
"Wasn't it morning just a few minutes ago?" Crowley looked at Aziraphale skeptically.
"Shh. You're ruining their moment," Aziraphale scolded.
A little temporal miracling wasn't going to hurt anyone. Except for the legion of astronomers and the few local crazy prophets who were busily predicting the End Of Days because of it. But then again, when weren't they predicting the end of days? By Crowley's count, the end of days had been forecast to be "in the near future" approxiamately fifteen million seven hundred and ninety two times already. And it wasn't even plague season. Predictions always went up then.
"Huh," said Crowley. He shook his head. "Well. Since neither of us won the wager neither has to buy lunch. But I'm still hungry. Come and have lunch with me anyway.
"Oh all right, but let's go to the continent. I do fear that the English are never going to become particularly adept at the art of cookery. How about French?" Aziraphale suggested.
"We could do French..."
"Did you have something else in mind?"
"Well, a bit further east they've just invented these delicious things called dumplings and they are... well... I might even say divine." Crowley had just eaten them recently and had since been making regular 'research' trips under the guise of learning new torture methods for damned souls. Hell was shockingly uncreative in that way. They were the best torturers around, but when it came to devising new methods and applications, humans had them beat in every way. So far they'd bought the lines Crowley was feeding them about making an in-depth study. Eventually Crowley would wander back, make some vague statements about bamboo and call it a day. "They fry them and steam them and serve them with rice. I see a big future for these things."
Aziraphale, who wasn't the most adventurous soul when it came to food--it had taken centuries to get him to branch out from bread and water--thought about it. Odd name for a food. "I'm not sure..."
"If you don't like them then we can come back to France and I'll buy you whatever you'd like."
"Very well," Aziraphale acquiesced. "You do kind of have to admit, the wager did end more towards my side. True Love is next to godliness."
"I thought that was meant to be cleanliness."
"Not for several thousand years when soap will be invented," Aziraphale admitted.
"Well, I think it went much more my way. They are off to get to fornicating and lusting." Crowley gave Aziraphale a wink and a most inappropriate nudge.
"Under the protection of holy wedlock. It's just fine then," Aziraphale countered.
"Your side does have a rather odd way of justifying things, you know," Crowley said with a bemused look.
"Ineffability, can't second guess it," Aziraphale said with a smile.
"Right. Lunch time. I'm famished."
"Lunch time."
And they lunched happily ever after. Or at least through the end of lunch.
Gift for: meganphntmgrl
Gift from:
caitirinWords: 2577
Characters: Crowley and Aziraphale
Rating: PG for language.
Summary: A most unfortunate monk gets a secret visit from an Angel and a Demon. With the help of an Angel can he rise to become a full member of his order? Or under the influence of a Demon will he be cast out?
Notes: Written for
meganphntmgrl in the 2009 go_exchange. I tried to give you medieval England and I imagined Aziraphale to be in a cassock that seems about a hundred years out of fashion. Whereas Crowley's is the newest one debuting on all the fashion runways in Rome. Not that I think the fashion industry really did much at this time. ;) It's C+A, but not as slashy as I had intended, but they are definitely very attached to one another even if a bit prickly at times. I hope you enjoy it! Also Huge Huge thanks to my beta readers J and E. Your comments were invaluable!!///
Brother Francis, the fattest and oldest novice of the Holy Order of Saint Henry the Forgetful, fell headfirst down the three stone steps of the monastery for the fifth time that week. Although he was more than a few years older than most of the senior monks, he was still a novice because had failed to show proper devotion and piety to advance. That and most of the other monks only tolerated him because it made them seem more Christ-like to tolerate such an unsavory person.
"Bollocks!" He said after he had regained his breath, lost in heaving his not inconsiderable bulk back up off the ground.
Three gasps. Brother Francis winced and turned slowly.
Three of the monks frowned down at him. After he missed mass because he had overeaten at lunch and fallen asleep in the library, he had been advised to take a vow of total silence to make amends and allow himself to better reflect on his commitment to God. He had taken the vow two weeks ago and had broken the vow three times already. He was starting to wonder if he might be better suited to a career as a court jester, though sadly no one had ever found him funny.
Crowley fought to keep from sniggering too loudly where he was seated across the courtyard, impersonating a visiting monk from Spain. He'd managed to trip up Brother Francis four out of the five times that he'd fallen down those steps. It was almost funnier than Chaucer.
"You really should give that poor man a break."
Crowley looked up. "Hello, Angel."
"Tormenting monks, again?" Aziraphale, also dressed as monk, albeit one from about a hundred years earlier, sat down next to Crowley.
"It beats re-animating plague victims."
Aziraphale looked faintly green. "That's horrid. I don't know how you can think to do such disgusting things." He said, primly.
"Demon," Crowley said smirking.
Aziraphale gave him A Look.
Crowley pretended not to notice. Aziraphale's looks were unnerving. "Anyway, he was destroying sacred experiences in this House of God. So you can't really be mad at me. The other monks appreciate seeing him suffering."
"They certainly do not. They are observing that he is growing spiritually through his experiences which inevitably bring him closer to the Lord. It's very positive."
"Right. And Brother David chortling over there and pointing at him is definitely not him being amused at seeing the fat man fall," Crowley smirked.
Aziraphale had to admit, to himself at least, that it wasn't entirely unlikely that they were just laughing at the poor fat man's expense. "Nice cassock, by the way."
"Very latest fashion in self-denying clerical wear. It even comes with a whip for flagellation. Very 'in' this season with the discerning monk."
Aziraphale wasn't quite sure just how to respond. The idea of beating oneself seemed a bit extreme to him, but then you were never quite sure how to react to the devoted mystics who were moved to extreme acts of piety dedicated to Him. Aziraphale coughed and changed the subject. "I hear the Plagues are inspiring thievery and all manner of impious acts. You must be most gratified about that."
"Actually, we thought it was a scheme from your side. It's also making people go crazy in the faith and love department too. People going around appreciating other people since they think they might go and see H-... well you know who." Crowley jerked a thumb at the sky.
"Oh, it could never be ours," Aziraphale protested. "It's much too... ill for us."
"Oh, and that last crusade to retake the Holy Land was SO healthy." Crowley rolled his eyes.
Aziraphale looked at him irritably. "One can't second guess the Plan." He nodded, reassuring himself. "It's ineffable, you know. Not to be understood by the likes of you--er, I mean us. Or me. You know. In general terms."
"Oh, of course. I know. In general terms," Crowley said rolling his eyes. "So did you get your new flaming sword yet?"
Aziraphale scowled at him; this was rather a sore spot with him, and Crowley knew this. Michael was always raving away about his enormous sword and it made Aziraphale remember that he didn't have his own anymore. Michael liked to make inappropriate remarks on the subject. Positively unangelic, really. Aziraphale kept meaning to file a complaint, or at least say something. But, honestly, who could you complain to about someone like Michael? He was practically His right hand, or entire right arm sometimes. So Aziraphale just ended up accepted the not-so-gentle ribbing and tried to avoid most of the Big Meetings. "Did you replace that great fiery steed of yours yet?" Aziraphale snarked back.
Crowley decided that this interaction was most definitely not going the way that he wanted. In a fit of pique he caused Brother Francis to fall into the well.
There was a splash and some shocked gurgling.
Aziraphale fished him back out again with a little miracle. "Will you please stop doing that!" He whispered sharply.
"Oh just relax." Crowley leaned back. "Don't get so touchy, Angel."
"You're making me be touchy. You have a singular talent for it... Demon."
Crowley snickered. "Fine. I'll stop. Truce?"
Aziraphale hesitated, trying to decide if Crowley was being sincere or just being... well... demonic. He decided to chance it. "If you stop tormenting that man."
"Just doing my job. Evil never sleeps and all that."
"That's a lie, I know you love to sleep. And, honestly, you could hold off on working while we're catching up, you know. I'm not working right now. I came by because we promised to meet today," Aziraphale said testily.
"Right. Lunch!" Crowley was easily distracted by the promise of decadent food and wine.
"Only now you've got me upset. I don't really want to have lunch with you if you're going to be like this," Aziraphale grumped.
Crowley tried not to roll his eyes. "Oh, don't be like that."
Aziraphale gave Crowley a rather flat look.
"Okay, be however you like." «i»Angels...«/a» Crowley sighed. "Tell you what. Let's settle this with a little wager."
"I don't see how gambling is going to help the situation."
"It'll help poor Brother Francis."
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. "I'm listening."
"Okay, here's the deal. Brother Francis is hovering in limbo. He's never been made a full member of the order but he's not been kicked out either. I'll wager you lunch that I can get him kicked out by the end of the week."
"I fail to see how that is helpful to «i»anyone«i»," Aziraphale sharply.
"Your challenge is to get him... promoted by the end of the week. If you do, I'll take you anywhere you like for lunch AND I'll never tempt a monk from «i»this«/i» order ever again."
"Never again?" Aziraphale considered.
"Never again."
Making deals with the devil was always a bad idea. But, Crowley wasn't the devil. He was just a demon. A very familiar and friendly demon. Aziraphale considered some more. "All right. It's a deal."
"We can switch off for the week, Monday he's yours, Tuesday mine, and so on." Crowley explained.
"And on Sunday we can rest and see what's happened."
"Exactly."
///
Thus agreed to start on Monday they went their separate ways, mutual non-interference agreed upon. And bright and early Monday morning Aziraphale showed up and miracled Brother Francis awake on time and ensured that he got to Mass on time. For Mass Aziraphale arranged for there to be a beautiful song that was perfect for Brother Francis' voice. And he sounded melodious. The other monks were surprised; normally Brother Francis was too sleepy to sing so nicely. This was a very welcome change.
Brother Francis felt very good. And he wasn't late to anything the entire day.
He prayed to give thanks at the end of the day and Aziraphale was pleased.
///
Tuesday morning, Brother Francis rose early. Or so he thought. In reality it was actually past noon and he had missed the entire morning. He'd been having the most amazing, but wholly sinful dreams. Nude harlots cavorting through fields of flowers with ample bosoms bouncing everywhere.
And so when he awoke flushed and sweating thinking that he'd roused himself from a devil sent dream, he was in fact not early at all. His entire day was thrown off, and when he went to confession he nearly passed out with the embarrassment of having to tell this dream to one of the other monks. He could feel their derision rolling off his ample back.
He skipped dinner and went to bed feeling despondent.
///
Wednesday morning he woke feeling refreshed and optimistic. He had this tingling feeling in the back of his mind that somehow... there were larger forces at work. He prayed to the Heavenly Father for guidance and for the briefest of moments he thought he saw an Angel, a rather pudgy blonde angel in... a tartan vest. Not that tartan had been invented yet, and vests weren't really in fashion, but an Angel nonetheless. It was a sign from God! He was sure of it. This confirmed his path, surely. This was the life he had been meant for. He spent the day in silent reflection. Aziraphale miracled his favorite food at dinner time.
///
Thursday morning Brother Francis woke with a stomachache. He betook himself to the infirmary where another of the monks was curt with him and spoke at length on the virtues of self-denial and the ills of over eating in times of scarcity. Brother Francis indulged in some sinful thoughts that involved tripping the other monk down the stairs.
He then felt guilty at having thought those things and felt even worse when later on the monk «i»did«/i» trip and fall down some stairs.
He confessed to the Heavenly Father himself, instead of going to confession, after the episode on Tuesday he was feeling fearful of confession. Maybe this wasn't the life meant for him. Perhaps he should throw in his lot with the lepers instead.
///
On Friday Aziraphale became concerned that Crowley was going to go last and insisted on a switch of days. Crowley pointed out that this was hardly sporting of him and certainly broke some rules. And by the time they had argued this out, Brother Francis had gone back to bed.
///
On Saturday Crowley argued that it was his day. Aziraphale said that since he had missed Friday that they would have to split the day. Crowley was no so keen on the idea, reminding Aziraphale that is was a sin to break promises, and that it was his own side's rule. Aziraphale had to resort to down-right un-angelic practices to get Crowley to give in. Crowley had to admit that sometimes angels could be «i»very«/i» persuasive. He took some notes.
They threw everything they had at Brother Francis. Each staged a full on Appearance with angelic light and demonic fire respectively.
On both ocassions Brother Francis cowered in a corner and cried. Not the result either had been aiming for
At the end of the day Brother Francis locked himself into a solitary meditation cell with nothing but a candle.
///
Sunday morning finally arrived.
The Father Superior summoned Brother Francis.
"They're going to throw him out." Crowley said with a very disconcerting smile.
Aziraphale shook his head. "Rubbish, he has shown himself to be most devout. They're going to take him on."
After a few hours Brother Francis emerged, neither in the robes of an initiate nor in the habit of the other monks but, strangely enough, in the clothes of a tradesman. He looked serene and comforted. The Father Superior blessed him and bid him godspeed in his journeys.
"Wait, what happened?" Aziraphale asked.
"I'm... not sure," Crowley said. They watched Brother Francis leave through the monastery gates and walk down the road to a farm house. Once there he got down on one knee (no mean feat for a man of his girth) and proposed marriage to a milk maid of whom he had always been secretly enamored.
She, having shared a similar sentiment for many years, cried out with joy and accepted his proposal with a big kiss.
Crowley blinked. "So who wins?"
"It would seem Brother Francis. He was neither promoted nor was he thrown out. I think we both lose."
Crowley wrinkled his nose. "Bugger."
They sat on the monastery wall and watched Brother Francis and his milk maid love walk off into the convenient sunset.
"Wasn't it morning just a few minutes ago?" Crowley looked at Aziraphale skeptically.
"Shh. You're ruining their moment," Aziraphale scolded.
A little temporal miracling wasn't going to hurt anyone. Except for the legion of astronomers and the few local crazy prophets who were busily predicting the End Of Days because of it. But then again, when weren't they predicting the end of days? By Crowley's count, the end of days had been forecast to be "in the near future" approxiamately fifteen million seven hundred and ninety two times already. And it wasn't even plague season. Predictions always went up then.
"Huh," said Crowley. He shook his head. "Well. Since neither of us won the wager neither has to buy lunch. But I'm still hungry. Come and have lunch with me anyway.
"Oh all right, but let's go to the continent. I do fear that the English are never going to become particularly adept at the art of cookery. How about French?" Aziraphale suggested.
"We could do French..."
"Did you have something else in mind?"
"Well, a bit further east they've just invented these delicious things called dumplings and they are... well... I might even say divine." Crowley had just eaten them recently and had since been making regular 'research' trips under the guise of learning new torture methods for damned souls. Hell was shockingly uncreative in that way. They were the best torturers around, but when it came to devising new methods and applications, humans had them beat in every way. So far they'd bought the lines Crowley was feeding them about making an in-depth study. Eventually Crowley would wander back, make some vague statements about bamboo and call it a day. "They fry them and steam them and serve them with rice. I see a big future for these things."
Aziraphale, who wasn't the most adventurous soul when it came to food--it had taken centuries to get him to branch out from bread and water--thought about it. Odd name for a food. "I'm not sure..."
"If you don't like them then we can come back to France and I'll buy you whatever you'd like."
"Very well," Aziraphale acquiesced. "You do kind of have to admit, the wager did end more towards my side. True Love is next to godliness."
"I thought that was meant to be cleanliness."
"Not for several thousand years when soap will be invented," Aziraphale admitted.
"Well, I think it went much more my way. They are off to get to fornicating and lusting." Crowley gave Aziraphale a wink and a most inappropriate nudge.
"Under the protection of holy wedlock. It's just fine then," Aziraphale countered.
"Your side does have a rather odd way of justifying things, you know," Crowley said with a bemused look.
"Ineffability, can't second guess it," Aziraphale said with a smile.
"Right. Lunch time. I'm famished."
"Lunch time."
And they lunched happily ever after. Or at least through the end of lunch.
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(no subject)
Date: 2009-12-17 12:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-12-17 02:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-12-17 04:31 am (UTC)Cheers!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-12-17 01:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-12-17 06:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-12-17 01:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-12-18 01:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-12-17 07:56 am (UTC)Good job.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-12-17 01:28 pm (UTC)I am a happy Megan.
Date: 2009-12-17 08:31 pm (UTC)Thank you thank you thank you! <33333333 This was completely adorable and totally in character.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-12-18 04:24 pm (UTC)I love how you captured their interaction, and Brother Francis has got to be one of the funniest OCs in the history of GO fanfiction. xD Poor man.
I was also reminded a bit of God and Satan sitting around gambling with Lot's life - was that intentional? ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-12-20 05:55 am (UTC)