Possessions
Author: hellblazing
Character/Fandom: Crowley/Good Omens
Prompt: 5, diamonds
Word Count: 690
Summary: Crowley's back at work, but not necessarily back on track. Takes place after Henrietta goes back to the Agency and after Aziraphale goes back to the bookshop.
Author Notes/Warnings: Naughty language, implied whorishness and vague angst. :|b
They draw furtive looks from the other patrons in the shop (though not nearly as many as they would have last century, as Crowley well remembers). There is always the possibility that the handsome younger man shadowing behind the well-dressed silver-haired gentleman is merely a co-worker, or even a son. Hell, even lover or partner aren't out of the question these days. Nothing about the younger man suggests a lover, though, because the word lover implies some sort of bond. The only bonds one can imagine applying to this slick character in sunglasses are those of money and the darker things one still does not discuss in polite society, even in this day and age.
He follows along obediently; that's what this one prefers. Obedience, attentiveness...Crowley can fake them well enough for an evening. He hasn't been able to work for weeks, not with the move, keeping an eye on Henrietta, the chaos of the Plane. Usually he prefers to rest during the holiday season-it's more or less useless trying to tempt people near Christmas, the spirit of capitalism does that well enough all on its own-but he's also been afraid of doing too little since the Apocalypse. Hell's current lack of contact might mean Adam's put them off chasing after him permanently, or it might mean the big boys have simply been biding their time, waiting for him to fuck things up. He certainly wouldn't risk another century-long nap these days. Not after pulling a tire iron on Lucifer.
And what if they've got wind of his scrap with Gabriel? No telling what the reaction to that little fiasco might be.
Crowley thinks briefly of Hastur and cringes. He very much doubts the Duke's ability to forgive and forget.
Besides, working should help take his mind off-
"The gold or the steel?"
"Wha?" Crowley looks up, blankly, into the expectant face of his client.
"Really dear, you could pay a little more attention. I don't hear from you for how many months, and now that I'm trying to show my gratitude-"
"Right, er. Sorry." All right, so attentiveness isn't working. Somehow all Crowley can think about is how odd it sounds to be called "dear" by someone other than the angel. "I've just, you know. Been busy. Business."
"Of course."
He can feel the heads shaking around them, as if this little exchange has confirmed suspicions. For a brief moment he wonders what Aziraphale would say.
It's been over a week. No call, nothing...
Shit. He'd been trying not to think about it.
It's only a week. We're immortal, for fuck's sake.
The older man frowns, turning away from the display case of exceedingly expensive jewellery to face him. "You do look a bit pale-more so than usual, anyway. I thought all you young people were into bronzing these days, not looking like tragic waifs."
Crowley grins. His heart isn't in it. "You've never seemed to mind."
"Hm. Go splash some water on your face. Freshen yourself up." It is a command, one Crowley gladly obeys.
The washroom is a marvel of modern technology and old London decadence, and it is thankfully unoccupied at present. He foregoes the water, instead pacing the marble floor in front of the sinks, mobile in hand.
It's a stupid-
It was stupid-
Just-
-BEEP-
"Look, angel, ah. I wanted to...er. Shit. Look, the other night? I don't know...I don't know what I was thinking. It must've been stress or something. Moving and all. Why don't we just, you know, forget it ever happened, all right? It was stupid, and I think it would be better if we just went back to how things used to be. Right. So. Take care of yourself. I'll see you around. Ciao."
See Crowley sitting on the marble floor, back against the wall.
He still doesn't look convinced.
Some time later he emerges from the washroom looking slightly more alive. He wends his way over to his client, they exchange grins, and Crowley decides on the steel as an arm slips around his waist.
The diamonds in the gold were a bit ostentatious, anyway.
Character/Fandom: Crowley/Good Omens
Prompt: 5, diamonds
Word Count: 690
Summary: Crowley's back at work, but not necessarily back on track. Takes place after Henrietta goes back to the Agency and after Aziraphale goes back to the bookshop.
Author Notes/Warnings: Naughty language, implied whorishness and vague angst. :|b
They draw furtive looks from the other patrons in the shop (though not nearly as many as they would have last century, as Crowley well remembers). There is always the possibility that the handsome younger man shadowing behind the well-dressed silver-haired gentleman is merely a co-worker, or even a son. Hell, even lover or partner aren't out of the question these days. Nothing about the younger man suggests a lover, though, because the word lover implies some sort of bond. The only bonds one can imagine applying to this slick character in sunglasses are those of money and the darker things one still does not discuss in polite society, even in this day and age.
He follows along obediently; that's what this one prefers. Obedience, attentiveness...Crowley can fake them well enough for an evening. He hasn't been able to work for weeks, not with the move, keeping an eye on Henrietta, the chaos of the Plane. Usually he prefers to rest during the holiday season-it's more or less useless trying to tempt people near Christmas, the spirit of capitalism does that well enough all on its own-but he's also been afraid of doing too little since the Apocalypse. Hell's current lack of contact might mean Adam's put them off chasing after him permanently, or it might mean the big boys have simply been biding their time, waiting for him to fuck things up. He certainly wouldn't risk another century-long nap these days. Not after pulling a tire iron on Lucifer.
And what if they've got wind of his scrap with Gabriel? No telling what the reaction to that little fiasco might be.
Crowley thinks briefly of Hastur and cringes. He very much doubts the Duke's ability to forgive and forget.
Besides, working should help take his mind off-
"The gold or the steel?"
"Wha?" Crowley looks up, blankly, into the expectant face of his client.
"Really dear, you could pay a little more attention. I don't hear from you for how many months, and now that I'm trying to show my gratitude-"
"Right, er. Sorry." All right, so attentiveness isn't working. Somehow all Crowley can think about is how odd it sounds to be called "dear" by someone other than the angel. "I've just, you know. Been busy. Business."
"Of course."
He can feel the heads shaking around them, as if this little exchange has confirmed suspicions. For a brief moment he wonders what Aziraphale would say.
It's been over a week. No call, nothing...
Shit. He'd been trying not to think about it.
It's only a week. We're immortal, for fuck's sake.
The older man frowns, turning away from the display case of exceedingly expensive jewellery to face him. "You do look a bit pale-more so than usual, anyway. I thought all you young people were into bronzing these days, not looking like tragic waifs."
Crowley grins. His heart isn't in it. "You've never seemed to mind."
"Hm. Go splash some water on your face. Freshen yourself up." It is a command, one Crowley gladly obeys.
The washroom is a marvel of modern technology and old London decadence, and it is thankfully unoccupied at present. He foregoes the water, instead pacing the marble floor in front of the sinks, mobile in hand.
It's a stupid-
It was stupid-
Just-
-BEEP-
"Look, angel, ah. I wanted to...er. Shit. Look, the other night? I don't know...I don't know what I was thinking. It must've been stress or something. Moving and all. Why don't we just, you know, forget it ever happened, all right? It was stupid, and I think it would be better if we just went back to how things used to be. Right. So. Take care of yourself. I'll see you around. Ciao."
See Crowley sitting on the marble floor, back against the wall.
He still doesn't look convinced.
Some time later he emerges from the washroom looking slightly more alive. He wends his way over to his client, they exchange grins, and Crowley decides on the steel as an arm slips around his waist.
The diamonds in the gold were a bit ostentatious, anyway.