Fic!
Title: Crowely hates Oscar Wilde
Author: bellacatbee
Rating: PG
Genre and/or Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphael pre-slash but can be read as gen,
Warnings: mentions of child prostitution and suicide, shameless cribbing from the little matchstick girl.
Word Count: approx 700
Summary: In Victorian England Crowely disliked Christmas on principle.
Authors note: Partly inspired by a scene in The Hogfather, another one of Terry Pratchett’s most excellent books.
Crowley disliked Christmas on principle. There was far too much church and carolling and general good will towards all men. True, he’d managed to spread discomfort where he could. This time of year people got into debt just to afford all the pretty baubles and the dinners and then found come the New Year that they were headed for the work house because of it. He could work on the lonely who felt more isolated now and if a few more bodies were fished out of the Thames then it wasn’t Crowley’s fault. He was just there whispering the ideas that it was all commercialised and empty. If people chose to act on that, to find an emptiness inside themselves then that wasn’t Crowley’s fault. He could only tempt after all, only spread the seeds of it. Still, it was Christmas Eve and he was on his way to Aziraphale’s, a small present tucked under his arm. The Angel wouldn’t have got him anything, he never remembered and he was always surprised and a little ashamed when Crowley remembered and did. It was a favourite pastime of his, finding ways to ruffle Aziraphale and he knew that putting him in the socially awkward position of receiving an unexpected gift would certainly do that.
It was snowing now as he walked down the street, the tread of his boot on the cobbles echoing around him. Trust the Angel to live somewhere like this, in the hovels rather than the more upmarket places Crowley chose to have his homes. He could tempt bankers, politicians, people who ruled the world while Aziraphale just wasted his time trying to bring comfort to the factory poor and the immigrants and the whores. It was a losing battle and Crowley didn’t know why he even bothered. Nothing he did here would make much of a difference on a grand scale while Crowley could whisper a few words, suggest a war and cause misery on an untold scale. He was doing very well. Commended in hell and sometimes for things he didn’t think he’d suggested but humans were creative creatures.
No one was lighting lamps down this part of London. There was no point in it but Crowley wasn’t afraid. There was nothing here that could hurt him, not the way he could hurt them but it was too cold now for anyone to be out if they didn’t have to be. That was why he was surprised to see a little girl standing on the corner when he turned, only a few doors down from Aziraphale’s. Crowley stopped, frowning slightly and wondered what she could be doing out on a night like this. Sometimes, he thought to himself, there was no need for temptations. Humans came up with perversions that he would never have been able to contemplate. As he reached closer he realised that that selling herself wasn’t what the girl was doing. She had boxes of matches in her hands and as he tried to pass she offered one out to him. It was bitterly cold now and he could see her lips had taken on a blue tint.
He shook his head, walking faster and reached Aziraphale’s door, pushing it open forcefully and setting the present down as he attempted to rid himself of his winter clothes. He got as far as his scarf but he turned round and marched back out into the night.
The girl was a little huddled bundle in the doorway now and Crowley could feel that uncomfortable itchy feeling he got around Angels who weren’t Aziraphael. He wasn’t going to let this happen. This would be just like them, making a big song and dance about heavens joyous mercy and the delights found after death but Crowley knew how much Aziraphael had been trying to make a difference here and how pale and drawn the Angel would look on Christmas morning when the body was found and she was only a child after all. He picked the girl up, wrapping her in his coat and holding her close to him, the unearthly heat of his body warming her through and he carried her to Aziraphale’s house and the life that lay beyond that.
Moments later a heavenly choir of angels arrived to find a deserted London street and were very put out.
Author: bellacatbee
Rating: PG
Genre and/or Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphael pre-slash but can be read as gen,
Warnings: mentions of child prostitution and suicide, shameless cribbing from the little matchstick girl.
Word Count: approx 700
Summary: In Victorian England Crowely disliked Christmas on principle.
Authors note: Partly inspired by a scene in The Hogfather, another one of Terry Pratchett’s most excellent books.
Crowley disliked Christmas on principle. There was far too much church and carolling and general good will towards all men. True, he’d managed to spread discomfort where he could. This time of year people got into debt just to afford all the pretty baubles and the dinners and then found come the New Year that they were headed for the work house because of it. He could work on the lonely who felt more isolated now and if a few more bodies were fished out of the Thames then it wasn’t Crowley’s fault. He was just there whispering the ideas that it was all commercialised and empty. If people chose to act on that, to find an emptiness inside themselves then that wasn’t Crowley’s fault. He could only tempt after all, only spread the seeds of it. Still, it was Christmas Eve and he was on his way to Aziraphale’s, a small present tucked under his arm. The Angel wouldn’t have got him anything, he never remembered and he was always surprised and a little ashamed when Crowley remembered and did. It was a favourite pastime of his, finding ways to ruffle Aziraphale and he knew that putting him in the socially awkward position of receiving an unexpected gift would certainly do that.
It was snowing now as he walked down the street, the tread of his boot on the cobbles echoing around him. Trust the Angel to live somewhere like this, in the hovels rather than the more upmarket places Crowley chose to have his homes. He could tempt bankers, politicians, people who ruled the world while Aziraphale just wasted his time trying to bring comfort to the factory poor and the immigrants and the whores. It was a losing battle and Crowley didn’t know why he even bothered. Nothing he did here would make much of a difference on a grand scale while Crowley could whisper a few words, suggest a war and cause misery on an untold scale. He was doing very well. Commended in hell and sometimes for things he didn’t think he’d suggested but humans were creative creatures.
No one was lighting lamps down this part of London. There was no point in it but Crowley wasn’t afraid. There was nothing here that could hurt him, not the way he could hurt them but it was too cold now for anyone to be out if they didn’t have to be. That was why he was surprised to see a little girl standing on the corner when he turned, only a few doors down from Aziraphale’s. Crowley stopped, frowning slightly and wondered what she could be doing out on a night like this. Sometimes, he thought to himself, there was no need for temptations. Humans came up with perversions that he would never have been able to contemplate. As he reached closer he realised that that selling herself wasn’t what the girl was doing. She had boxes of matches in her hands and as he tried to pass she offered one out to him. It was bitterly cold now and he could see her lips had taken on a blue tint.
He shook his head, walking faster and reached Aziraphale’s door, pushing it open forcefully and setting the present down as he attempted to rid himself of his winter clothes. He got as far as his scarf but he turned round and marched back out into the night.
The girl was a little huddled bundle in the doorway now and Crowley could feel that uncomfortable itchy feeling he got around Angels who weren’t Aziraphael. He wasn’t going to let this happen. This would be just like them, making a big song and dance about heavens joyous mercy and the delights found after death but Crowley knew how much Aziraphael had been trying to make a difference here and how pale and drawn the Angel would look on Christmas morning when the body was found and she was only a child after all. He picked the girl up, wrapping her in his coat and holding her close to him, the unearthly heat of his body warming her through and he carried her to Aziraphale’s house and the life that lay beyond that.
Moments later a heavenly choir of angels arrived to find a deserted London street and were very put out.