Good Omens: One-Shot: Savvy
Title: Savvy
Author: Me!
Pairing: AziraphalexCrowley.
Notes: I wrote this one last year for the GO Christmas Exhange and never posted it here! I hope you guys like it! I thought it was pretty funny at the time.
It began over a nice bottle of Müller-Thurgau and civilized discussion about the appalling state of British politics, but had quickly degraded into cheap brandy and giggling like little old ladies over The Sun. All right, so maybe Aziraphale was the one doing the vast majority of the giggling while Crowley simply sniggered from time to time and pointed out which women weren’t wearing bras. But that wasn’t the point!
The point was…the point was…Aziraphale was so trolleyed he wasn’t quite certain what the point was anymore. Nevertheless, it must have been important, whatever it had been.
“Honestly, Angel…Victoria Beckham’s fakies are amongst the most horrendous things I have ever seen. Look at them! She’s got more lift-and-separate than an entire Just My Size factory.”
Resting his chin in his palm, Aziraphale nodded and attempted to bring his snifter to his lips, only managing it after splashing his own cheek and the entire shoulder of Crowley’s suit jacket.[1] Giving an apologetic smile, he sheepishly brushed the beading liquid off the fabric and returned his attention to the paper, pretending he could not feel the searing glare directed at him.
“Oh, goodie,” Aziraphale cooed when the page was turned, pointing towards the letters that had been revealed. “Dear Deidre. That’s my favorite part.”
“You know.” Crowley reached across the couch with his free arm to pull Aziraphale close and smack his nose with the paper like a disobedient puppy. “It’s not terribly angelic of you to enjoy this sort of trash. I should burn it in the fireplace and save you from further corruption.”
“You wouldn’t!” Aziraphale gasped, putting on his best doe-eyed expression in the hopes that it would win Crowley over. Eyes locked. Inebriated minutes passed. One might have either called it a battle of wills or a vain attempt to conjure three-syllable words from the sludge of their minds.[2] But no matter! Eventually shaking his head, Crowley began reading the first letter aloud (with special voices) while Aziraphale beamed triumphantly.
And then promptly proceeded to chastise himself quite sternly for being so prideful.
At some point during the third letter, a problem arose. Aziraphale found that he had become inexorably and utterly confused. Initially he blamed the alcohol, but even after banishing most of it from his system and re-reading the content, he still found that he wasn’t quite getting the idea. Adult texting? Raising an eyebrow, he slapped his hand over Crowley’s mouth to silence him (earning yet another of those menacing glares) and proceeded to point at the phrase in question.
“My dear, what’s that?”
“What’s what?” Crowley’s voice was muffled beneath Aziraphale’s hand, his eyes lighting up with mischief before his tongue came out to bathe Aziraphale’s palm in sticky saliva. Fighting down the urge to smite, the angel jerked his hand back and grimaced. Cheeky, immature bastard. He wiped his fingers clean on Crowley’s shirt in retribution.
“That,” Aziraphale pointed again, jabbing an index finger at the paper. “Adult texting. Is that something to do with books? I hadn’t heard anything about it.”
“Angel,” Crowley sighed, rolling his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose in an almost parental gesture. “Don’t you ever use that cellphone I got you? The one with the little keyboard that slides out?”
“I…call people with it,” Aziraphale defended lamely, pressing his lips together, embarrassed. He’d promised that he’d eventually get around to reading that little instruction manual that the phone had come with, but after seeing all those blinking lights and fancy gadgetry he just hadn’t been able do it. He was a technophobe; he admitted it. He was lucky he’d even been able to figure out the programmable coffee pot that Crowley had given him last year for Christmas. It had been July before he’d got a proper cup.
But it seemed, if the frustrated look on the demon’s face was any indication, that he’d be becoming more technologically savvy very shortly.
And so, three hours and multiple failed attempts later, [3] Aziraphale was starting to feel rather confident that he’d gotten the hang of “texting”. It was rather like using a typewriter when you took away all the bells and whistles, and it didn’t get much more simplistic than hitting the ‘send’ button. Still…that didn’t explain the letter he’d read earlier in the evening.
This definitely warranted further investigation.
Said investigation came while they were in bed, Crowley snoring softly beside him, his tanned cheek a warm weight on Aziraphale’s belly. The blinds were drawn low against the early morning sunlight, a chilly breeze blowing a pile of paperwork onto the floor that would need to be cleaned up later. So peaceful. It was tempting to curl up in that peace and indulge in the little sleep habit he’d been developing, but Aziraphale was determined to figure out this particular aspect of human sexuality. After all, it was his job to know the ins and outs of the human condition, even if it this one was more for his own benefit than anyone else’s.
It was the thought that counted.
He read the letter multiple times, very slowly, until it finally started to dawn on him what it was all about. Blushing hotly, he set the magazine on the bedside table and let the idea roll around in his brain. These “texts” were like…naughty love notes, only modernized! Apparently, you could even send pictures to each other, though Aziraphale couldn’t imagine sending some sort of inappropriate image no matter how much Crowley might enjoy it. It was just too embarrassing.
Though the thought of a naughty love note or two wasn’t altogether unappealing.
“Why’re you awake Featherhead?” Crowley’s voice broke through his reverie, the demon’s eyes half-open and sleepy as they gazed upwards at Aziraphale’s startled face. His self-consciousness very quickly turned to annoyance, however, as it always did when his train of thought was derailed. He hated…disliked that very much.
“I have told you repeatedly that I am not fond of that nickname, serpent. You’d do well to remember that before I thrash you properly.”
“Promises, promises,” Crowley purred, eyes glinting with amusement.
He pounced before Aziraphale could even blink.
It was later that afternoon when Aziraphale found himself without any inspiration to work whatsoever. It wasn’t that there weren’t things he could be doing-quite the opposite, actually. It was simply that he couldn’t seem to make himself concentrate long enough to do any of them. His mind, and eyes, kept wandering over to where the shiny black cellphone sat perched on the countertop, inviting him to play. Or tempting him to play. He hadn’t ruled out the possibility of the damnable demon doing something to the phone to make it more…appealing.
Of course, that was ridiculous.[4]
“Hmmm,” Aziraphale slid out the little keyboard, watching the screen change and flicker as it came to life. There was nothing wrong with sending his significant other a text message during the day, right? An innocent little text message to brighten Crowley’s day would certainly be within the boundaries of good taste. Absolutely. It was settled then; he was going jump feet first into the pool of modern technology.
--Good afternoon! Are you having a pleasant day?--
He hit the send button with a feeling of great accomplishment, setting it back down to wait for the reply over a nice cup of chai. It didn’t take long before the phone began buzzing and skittering across the countertop; Aziraphale barely caught it before it plummeted to its doom.
--All right…who are you and what have you done with my angel? I hope you don’t want ransom because he’s probably only worth a couple hundred pounds at most.--
Aziraphale rolled his eyes at the phone before remembering that Crowley couldn’t see it. He slowly began tapping a response, biting at his bottom lip. The little keyboard was so tiny! His fingers were almost too big for it. --Ha. Ha. Very droll. I just happen to be a very quick study. So…how goes the tempting?--
--I won’t go into detail, but it involves five gallons of salsa, three nude women, and a fire hydrant. Yourself?--
After sitting, dumbfounded, for the better part of five minutes, Aziraphale finally responded. --Less than I should be. I’ve been a bit distracted all morning.--
--I keep telling you to miracle the soreness away, Angel. If I didn’t know better I’d think you just liked the reminder.--
Shifting in his seat, Aziraphale winced at the soreness in his lower back. It was true, he could have simply wished the lingering pain away, but that always seemed to diminish the experience somehow when he did. There was something about the lasting ache that was…comforting. And rather arousing. Glancing in a nearby mirror, hazy with dust and grime, Aziraphale slowly ran his fingertips over a small bruise barely visible under the collar of his shirt.
Definitely the nature of temptation.
--Perhaps I do. What of it? You enjoy dishing it out. And isn’t that more fun than tempting poor innocent humans anyway?-- There. Not only was he being flirtatious, but he was also saving some human’s soul in the process. This officially counted as work.
He sat back, rather pleased with himself. It wasn’t often that he was so forthcoming about their intimacy, though Crowley insisted that it was “downright minxy” when he was. Whatever that meant. He was so pleased with himself, in fact, that he failed to notice that Crowley hadn’t responded, nor that he had been sitting, daydreaming (certainly not fantasizing) while his tea got cold. Had he said something wrong? It wasn’t like the demon to get offended.
Could demons even get offended?
--Was that a come-on Aziraphale? I didn’t think you had it in you. Should I ask what you’re wearing?--
Pleased that Crowley had finally texted back, Aziraphale found his confidence level grow. --I could tell you I was wearing nothing and you’d never know the difference.--
--Oh, did you find those cameras I installed in the shop last year?--
--What?-- Aziraphale glanced around, suddenly feeling very paranoid. Certainly he would have noticed such a thing, though in honesty he wouldn’t have known a hidden camera if one came up and bit him on the bum. For all he knew Crowley could very well have been sitting in his plush apartment in Mayfair watching Aziraphale…reading? Fixing old manuscripts? Drinking tea and watching Britain’s Next Top Model? Goodness…he was probably boring Crowley half to death![5]
--Kidding. Though the thought of you sprawled naked on a big pile of old books is certainly an interesting one. Indulge a poor working class demon?--
Well, if he’d ever wanted first-hand knowledge of what adult texting was like this was certainly one way to do it. --Indulge what? I’m certainly not going to write you a cheap romance novel over the phone!--
--You don’t have to. A picture is worth a thousand words, right?--
Pause. Contemplation. Realization. Shock. Reluctant intrigue. So that’s how it was, was it?
It was no secret that there were many piles of old, dusty, and decrepit books laying about his bookshop.[6] It was also no secret that some of the piles were so tall and badly stacked that even a tiny breeze could spill them out onto the floor in a tidal wave of dust. What was a bit of a secret was how many strange sexual fantasies Aziraphale had built up involving his books over the years. Making love on the books. Reading erotic poetry then making love on the books. Hearing the tiny rips and tears of pages while making love on the books. Possibly fixing said rips and tears while basking in the afterglow.
Okay, so maybe there was a reason these fantasies were a secret. He could easily imagine Crowley’s hysterical laughter as Aziraphale divulged his strange erotic book kink. It was hopeless.
But, maybe not. After all…hadn’t Crowley just said that the thought of Aziraphale naked on his beloved books was an interesting one? Certainly, it wouldn’t be too difficult to figure out how to send a picture. Perhaps…
He was fiddling with his tie before he could second-guess himself, letting it fall to the floor in a little puddle. He then reached for the buttons of his shirt, feeling absolutely ridiculous. Crowley was rubbing off on him too much. Yet, at the same time, there was something rather thrilling about doing something so strangely erotic. Moreover, eroticism did not necessarily equal sin, so there was really nothing wrong with what he was about to do. Right? Right. He was an angel and obviously the authority on these things.
When his fingers reached the zipper of his trousers, he paused, glancing down at them with a sigh. Okay, so maybe this was a little more difficult than he’d originally thought it would be. It was one thing to think about lying around nude on a pile of books and another thing entirely to actually do it. But…he was already half-naked, so he might as well go the distance and really have something to regret when Crowley was needling him about it later. The trousers (he just couldn’t bring himself to take off the underwear) were flung onto the floor, a cloud of dust rising up where they landed.
Now there was only one problem left. The phone. That cursed jumble of circuitry just lying there, mocking him with its glittering lights and shiny buttons. Taunting him with its convenience and portability. Insulting his intelligence with its ease of use. Well, he’d show it! He was a Prince of Heaven, and he didn’t need Crowley to figure out something as simple as taking a picture.
He didn’t!
Six “colorful metaphors”[7] and twenty minutes later, Aziraphale still didn‘t have a single image in his possession. He felt…utterly defeated. How could something so small and seemingly simplistic cause such trouble? He was a genius for goodness’ sake! He understood the theory of relativity! Quantum physics! Internal medicine! Okay, so maybe even he didn’t fully understand the ins and outs of the Oprah Book Club,[8] but that wasn’t the point!
The point! The point! The point was that he was sitting in his underpants on a pile of erotic novels, glaring at an inanimate object while contemplating throwing the damnable thing against the wall in retribution. Feeling his bottom lip protruding in a very unbecoming pout, Aziraphale let the phone slide from his fingers to clatter onto the floor, cupping his chin in his hand with a pathetic sigh.
Wait…was that the sound of a shutter?
Snatching the cellphone back up, his eyes widened to the size of saucers at the message on the screen.
“Picture Sent”
What?! What had it taken a picture of? Turning the device repeatedly in his hands, Aziraphale was horrified to discover that…none of the buttons were working! The lights were flashing oddly! It was beeping at him in a way that didn’t seem normal! The battery was hanging half in and half out! How was this even possible? It hadn’t fallen more than a foot! It was made of plastic, not glass! And more than that…what had it sent to Crowley?!
Hastily shoving the battery back in, Aziraphale brought the phone close to his face, blowing on it as though he could somehow will it back to life. Nothing. The screen was black. Dead. Lifeless. Oh, this was terrible. This was a travesty. This was…probably nothing less than he deserved for doing something so tawdry.
Sod this. He needed a cup of tea.
Later, when the bell jingled merrily from the front of the shop, Aziraphale didn’t budge an inch. No, he merely snuggled further into the threadbare bathrobe that he’d wrapped around himself and pressed deeper into his book on the Lithuanian-Polish Kingdom. It wasn’t as though he had any right to be angry at Crowley for his technological failure…but somehow he still found himself with a bit of misplaced annoyance. He’d definitely need to do some charity work to make up for feeling so vindictive.
A clearing throat. He didn’t look up. The action was repeated. He still did not look up. Crowley could stand there and do the tango for all he cared. He wasn’t going to make eye contact with another living creature for at least a week. Aziraphale wasn’t sure at whom he was angrier - Crowley for being Crowley, or himself for being gullible.
“The Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth was marked by high levels of ethnic diversity and unusual religious tolerance although the degree of it varied with time.”
Suddenly his line of sight filled with Crowley’s cell phone, its bright screen glowing mockingly at him. Aziraphale’s first instinct was to close his eyes and turn away, heat rising to his cheeks as he imagined something mortifying like a picture of his underwear or a blemish of some sort. Then, minutes later, when he had finally gathered his courage, he cracked open his eyes and took a deep breath, steeling himself for the inevitable humiliation of…
A kneecap?
It was a kneecap. More precisely it was his kneecap. It was his pale, pasty, slightly wrinkled kneecap.
Before he could even begin to formulate some kind of reasonable explanation, his textbook was snatched up and tossed to the floor, replaced moments later by a sniggering demon. Said demon shook his head and grinned, lowering his outrageously priced Oakley Shades so that Aziraphale could see the amusement glittering in his gaze.
“Sexiest. Patella. Ever.”
Notes:
1: This was not the first suit jacket Aziraphale had ever ruined. The most memorable example had been the time that the two of them had gone to a monster truck rally (don’t ask) and Crowley had somehow wound up knee deep in carburetors. Aziraphale had nearly fainted at the price of the replacement suit.
2: The only three-syllable word Aziraphale could currently think of was “bombastic”, and that inevitably led to thoughts of the time that Crowley had found Aziraphale’s copy of “Bombastic Love” in his underwear drawer.
3: Exact count: 45
4: Not so ridiculous. Crowley had actually cursed quite a few of Aziraphale’s appliances over the years. Most notable of these being the electric toothbrush.
5: He wasn’t. Crowley actually found it very soothing to sit and watch Aziraphale read and coo over newly collected books. It was the perfect thing to send him to dreamland after a nice big meal.
6: Exact count: 93
7: Mostly involving “dang”, “fudge”, “darn”, and “oopsie”.
8: Neither side has yet claimed responsibility for Oprah’s media empire.
Loves!
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Cherry!
Author: Me!
Pairing: AziraphalexCrowley.
Notes: I wrote this one last year for the GO Christmas Exhange and never posted it here! I hope you guys like it! I thought it was pretty funny at the time.
It began over a nice bottle of Müller-Thurgau and civilized discussion about the appalling state of British politics, but had quickly degraded into cheap brandy and giggling like little old ladies over The Sun. All right, so maybe Aziraphale was the one doing the vast majority of the giggling while Crowley simply sniggered from time to time and pointed out which women weren’t wearing bras. But that wasn’t the point!
The point was…the point was…Aziraphale was so trolleyed he wasn’t quite certain what the point was anymore. Nevertheless, it must have been important, whatever it had been.
“Honestly, Angel…Victoria Beckham’s fakies are amongst the most horrendous things I have ever seen. Look at them! She’s got more lift-and-separate than an entire Just My Size factory.”
Resting his chin in his palm, Aziraphale nodded and attempted to bring his snifter to his lips, only managing it after splashing his own cheek and the entire shoulder of Crowley’s suit jacket.[1] Giving an apologetic smile, he sheepishly brushed the beading liquid off the fabric and returned his attention to the paper, pretending he could not feel the searing glare directed at him.
“Oh, goodie,” Aziraphale cooed when the page was turned, pointing towards the letters that had been revealed. “Dear Deidre. That’s my favorite part.”
“You know.” Crowley reached across the couch with his free arm to pull Aziraphale close and smack his nose with the paper like a disobedient puppy. “It’s not terribly angelic of you to enjoy this sort of trash. I should burn it in the fireplace and save you from further corruption.”
“You wouldn’t!” Aziraphale gasped, putting on his best doe-eyed expression in the hopes that it would win Crowley over. Eyes locked. Inebriated minutes passed. One might have either called it a battle of wills or a vain attempt to conjure three-syllable words from the sludge of their minds.[2] But no matter! Eventually shaking his head, Crowley began reading the first letter aloud (with special voices) while Aziraphale beamed triumphantly.
And then promptly proceeded to chastise himself quite sternly for being so prideful.
At some point during the third letter, a problem arose. Aziraphale found that he had become inexorably and utterly confused. Initially he blamed the alcohol, but even after banishing most of it from his system and re-reading the content, he still found that he wasn’t quite getting the idea. Adult texting? Raising an eyebrow, he slapped his hand over Crowley’s mouth to silence him (earning yet another of those menacing glares) and proceeded to point at the phrase in question.
“My dear, what’s that?”
“What’s what?” Crowley’s voice was muffled beneath Aziraphale’s hand, his eyes lighting up with mischief before his tongue came out to bathe Aziraphale’s palm in sticky saliva. Fighting down the urge to smite, the angel jerked his hand back and grimaced. Cheeky, immature bastard. He wiped his fingers clean on Crowley’s shirt in retribution.
“That,” Aziraphale pointed again, jabbing an index finger at the paper. “Adult texting. Is that something to do with books? I hadn’t heard anything about it.”
“Angel,” Crowley sighed, rolling his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose in an almost parental gesture. “Don’t you ever use that cellphone I got you? The one with the little keyboard that slides out?”
“I…call people with it,” Aziraphale defended lamely, pressing his lips together, embarrassed. He’d promised that he’d eventually get around to reading that little instruction manual that the phone had come with, but after seeing all those blinking lights and fancy gadgetry he just hadn’t been able do it. He was a technophobe; he admitted it. He was lucky he’d even been able to figure out the programmable coffee pot that Crowley had given him last year for Christmas. It had been July before he’d got a proper cup.
But it seemed, if the frustrated look on the demon’s face was any indication, that he’d be becoming more technologically savvy very shortly.
And so, three hours and multiple failed attempts later, [3] Aziraphale was starting to feel rather confident that he’d gotten the hang of “texting”. It was rather like using a typewriter when you took away all the bells and whistles, and it didn’t get much more simplistic than hitting the ‘send’ button. Still…that didn’t explain the letter he’d read earlier in the evening.
This definitely warranted further investigation.
Said investigation came while they were in bed, Crowley snoring softly beside him, his tanned cheek a warm weight on Aziraphale’s belly. The blinds were drawn low against the early morning sunlight, a chilly breeze blowing a pile of paperwork onto the floor that would need to be cleaned up later. So peaceful. It was tempting to curl up in that peace and indulge in the little sleep habit he’d been developing, but Aziraphale was determined to figure out this particular aspect of human sexuality. After all, it was his job to know the ins and outs of the human condition, even if it this one was more for his own benefit than anyone else’s.
It was the thought that counted.
He read the letter multiple times, very slowly, until it finally started to dawn on him what it was all about. Blushing hotly, he set the magazine on the bedside table and let the idea roll around in his brain. These “texts” were like…naughty love notes, only modernized! Apparently, you could even send pictures to each other, though Aziraphale couldn’t imagine sending some sort of inappropriate image no matter how much Crowley might enjoy it. It was just too embarrassing.
Though the thought of a naughty love note or two wasn’t altogether unappealing.
“Why’re you awake Featherhead?” Crowley’s voice broke through his reverie, the demon’s eyes half-open and sleepy as they gazed upwards at Aziraphale’s startled face. His self-consciousness very quickly turned to annoyance, however, as it always did when his train of thought was derailed. He hated…disliked that very much.
“I have told you repeatedly that I am not fond of that nickname, serpent. You’d do well to remember that before I thrash you properly.”
“Promises, promises,” Crowley purred, eyes glinting with amusement.
He pounced before Aziraphale could even blink.
It was later that afternoon when Aziraphale found himself without any inspiration to work whatsoever. It wasn’t that there weren’t things he could be doing-quite the opposite, actually. It was simply that he couldn’t seem to make himself concentrate long enough to do any of them. His mind, and eyes, kept wandering over to where the shiny black cellphone sat perched on the countertop, inviting him to play. Or tempting him to play. He hadn’t ruled out the possibility of the damnable demon doing something to the phone to make it more…appealing.
Of course, that was ridiculous.[4]
“Hmmm,” Aziraphale slid out the little keyboard, watching the screen change and flicker as it came to life. There was nothing wrong with sending his significant other a text message during the day, right? An innocent little text message to brighten Crowley’s day would certainly be within the boundaries of good taste. Absolutely. It was settled then; he was going jump feet first into the pool of modern technology.
--Good afternoon! Are you having a pleasant day?--
He hit the send button with a feeling of great accomplishment, setting it back down to wait for the reply over a nice cup of chai. It didn’t take long before the phone began buzzing and skittering across the countertop; Aziraphale barely caught it before it plummeted to its doom.
--All right…who are you and what have you done with my angel? I hope you don’t want ransom because he’s probably only worth a couple hundred pounds at most.--
Aziraphale rolled his eyes at the phone before remembering that Crowley couldn’t see it. He slowly began tapping a response, biting at his bottom lip. The little keyboard was so tiny! His fingers were almost too big for it. --Ha. Ha. Very droll. I just happen to be a very quick study. So…how goes the tempting?--
--I won’t go into detail, but it involves five gallons of salsa, three nude women, and a fire hydrant. Yourself?--
After sitting, dumbfounded, for the better part of five minutes, Aziraphale finally responded. --Less than I should be. I’ve been a bit distracted all morning.--
--I keep telling you to miracle the soreness away, Angel. If I didn’t know better I’d think you just liked the reminder.--
Shifting in his seat, Aziraphale winced at the soreness in his lower back. It was true, he could have simply wished the lingering pain away, but that always seemed to diminish the experience somehow when he did. There was something about the lasting ache that was…comforting. And rather arousing. Glancing in a nearby mirror, hazy with dust and grime, Aziraphale slowly ran his fingertips over a small bruise barely visible under the collar of his shirt.
Definitely the nature of temptation.
--Perhaps I do. What of it? You enjoy dishing it out. And isn’t that more fun than tempting poor innocent humans anyway?-- There. Not only was he being flirtatious, but he was also saving some human’s soul in the process. This officially counted as work.
He sat back, rather pleased with himself. It wasn’t often that he was so forthcoming about their intimacy, though Crowley insisted that it was “downright minxy” when he was. Whatever that meant. He was so pleased with himself, in fact, that he failed to notice that Crowley hadn’t responded, nor that he had been sitting, daydreaming (certainly not fantasizing) while his tea got cold. Had he said something wrong? It wasn’t like the demon to get offended.
Could demons even get offended?
--Was that a come-on Aziraphale? I didn’t think you had it in you. Should I ask what you’re wearing?--
Pleased that Crowley had finally texted back, Aziraphale found his confidence level grow. --I could tell you I was wearing nothing and you’d never know the difference.--
--Oh, did you find those cameras I installed in the shop last year?--
--What?-- Aziraphale glanced around, suddenly feeling very paranoid. Certainly he would have noticed such a thing, though in honesty he wouldn’t have known a hidden camera if one came up and bit him on the bum. For all he knew Crowley could very well have been sitting in his plush apartment in Mayfair watching Aziraphale…reading? Fixing old manuscripts? Drinking tea and watching Britain’s Next Top Model? Goodness…he was probably boring Crowley half to death![5]
--Kidding. Though the thought of you sprawled naked on a big pile of old books is certainly an interesting one. Indulge a poor working class demon?--
Well, if he’d ever wanted first-hand knowledge of what adult texting was like this was certainly one way to do it. --Indulge what? I’m certainly not going to write you a cheap romance novel over the phone!--
--You don’t have to. A picture is worth a thousand words, right?--
Pause. Contemplation. Realization. Shock. Reluctant intrigue. So that’s how it was, was it?
It was no secret that there were many piles of old, dusty, and decrepit books laying about his bookshop.[6] It was also no secret that some of the piles were so tall and badly stacked that even a tiny breeze could spill them out onto the floor in a tidal wave of dust. What was a bit of a secret was how many strange sexual fantasies Aziraphale had built up involving his books over the years. Making love on the books. Reading erotic poetry then making love on the books. Hearing the tiny rips and tears of pages while making love on the books. Possibly fixing said rips and tears while basking in the afterglow.
Okay, so maybe there was a reason these fantasies were a secret. He could easily imagine Crowley’s hysterical laughter as Aziraphale divulged his strange erotic book kink. It was hopeless.
But, maybe not. After all…hadn’t Crowley just said that the thought of Aziraphale naked on his beloved books was an interesting one? Certainly, it wouldn’t be too difficult to figure out how to send a picture. Perhaps…
He was fiddling with his tie before he could second-guess himself, letting it fall to the floor in a little puddle. He then reached for the buttons of his shirt, feeling absolutely ridiculous. Crowley was rubbing off on him too much. Yet, at the same time, there was something rather thrilling about doing something so strangely erotic. Moreover, eroticism did not necessarily equal sin, so there was really nothing wrong with what he was about to do. Right? Right. He was an angel and obviously the authority on these things.
When his fingers reached the zipper of his trousers, he paused, glancing down at them with a sigh. Okay, so maybe this was a little more difficult than he’d originally thought it would be. It was one thing to think about lying around nude on a pile of books and another thing entirely to actually do it. But…he was already half-naked, so he might as well go the distance and really have something to regret when Crowley was needling him about it later. The trousers (he just couldn’t bring himself to take off the underwear) were flung onto the floor, a cloud of dust rising up where they landed.
Now there was only one problem left. The phone. That cursed jumble of circuitry just lying there, mocking him with its glittering lights and shiny buttons. Taunting him with its convenience and portability. Insulting his intelligence with its ease of use. Well, he’d show it! He was a Prince of Heaven, and he didn’t need Crowley to figure out something as simple as taking a picture.
He didn’t!
Six “colorful metaphors”[7] and twenty minutes later, Aziraphale still didn‘t have a single image in his possession. He felt…utterly defeated. How could something so small and seemingly simplistic cause such trouble? He was a genius for goodness’ sake! He understood the theory of relativity! Quantum physics! Internal medicine! Okay, so maybe even he didn’t fully understand the ins and outs of the Oprah Book Club,[8] but that wasn’t the point!
The point! The point! The point was that he was sitting in his underpants on a pile of erotic novels, glaring at an inanimate object while contemplating throwing the damnable thing against the wall in retribution. Feeling his bottom lip protruding in a very unbecoming pout, Aziraphale let the phone slide from his fingers to clatter onto the floor, cupping his chin in his hand with a pathetic sigh.
Wait…was that the sound of a shutter?
Snatching the cellphone back up, his eyes widened to the size of saucers at the message on the screen.
“Picture Sent”
What?! What had it taken a picture of? Turning the device repeatedly in his hands, Aziraphale was horrified to discover that…none of the buttons were working! The lights were flashing oddly! It was beeping at him in a way that didn’t seem normal! The battery was hanging half in and half out! How was this even possible? It hadn’t fallen more than a foot! It was made of plastic, not glass! And more than that…what had it sent to Crowley?!
Hastily shoving the battery back in, Aziraphale brought the phone close to his face, blowing on it as though he could somehow will it back to life. Nothing. The screen was black. Dead. Lifeless. Oh, this was terrible. This was a travesty. This was…probably nothing less than he deserved for doing something so tawdry.
Sod this. He needed a cup of tea.
Later, when the bell jingled merrily from the front of the shop, Aziraphale didn’t budge an inch. No, he merely snuggled further into the threadbare bathrobe that he’d wrapped around himself and pressed deeper into his book on the Lithuanian-Polish Kingdom. It wasn’t as though he had any right to be angry at Crowley for his technological failure…but somehow he still found himself with a bit of misplaced annoyance. He’d definitely need to do some charity work to make up for feeling so vindictive.
A clearing throat. He didn’t look up. The action was repeated. He still did not look up. Crowley could stand there and do the tango for all he cared. He wasn’t going to make eye contact with another living creature for at least a week. Aziraphale wasn’t sure at whom he was angrier - Crowley for being Crowley, or himself for being gullible.
“The Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth was marked by high levels of ethnic diversity and unusual religious tolerance although the degree of it varied with time.”
Suddenly his line of sight filled with Crowley’s cell phone, its bright screen glowing mockingly at him. Aziraphale’s first instinct was to close his eyes and turn away, heat rising to his cheeks as he imagined something mortifying like a picture of his underwear or a blemish of some sort. Then, minutes later, when he had finally gathered his courage, he cracked open his eyes and took a deep breath, steeling himself for the inevitable humiliation of…
A kneecap?
It was a kneecap. More precisely it was his kneecap. It was his pale, pasty, slightly wrinkled kneecap.
Before he could even begin to formulate some kind of reasonable explanation, his textbook was snatched up and tossed to the floor, replaced moments later by a sniggering demon. Said demon shook his head and grinned, lowering his outrageously priced Oakley Shades so that Aziraphale could see the amusement glittering in his gaze.
“Sexiest. Patella. Ever.”
Notes:
1: This was not the first suit jacket Aziraphale had ever ruined. The most memorable example had been the time that the two of them had gone to a monster truck rally (don’t ask) and Crowley had somehow wound up knee deep in carburetors. Aziraphale had nearly fainted at the price of the replacement suit.
2: The only three-syllable word Aziraphale could currently think of was “bombastic”, and that inevitably led to thoughts of the time that Crowley had found Aziraphale’s copy of “Bombastic Love” in his underwear drawer.
3: Exact count: 45
4: Not so ridiculous. Crowley had actually cursed quite a few of Aziraphale’s appliances over the years. Most notable of these being the electric toothbrush.
5: He wasn’t. Crowley actually found it very soothing to sit and watch Aziraphale read and coo over newly collected books. It was the perfect thing to send him to dreamland after a nice big meal.
6: Exact count: 93
7: Mostly involving “dang”, “fudge”, “darn”, and “oopsie”.
8: Neither side has yet claimed responsibility for Oprah’s media empire.
Loves!
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Cherry!