TM #272 - Pets
It's almost frightening, really, how quickly he's become used to there being someone else in the flat when he comes back to it. He talks to the houseplants, sure (has since the early seventies), but the houseplants have never been much for watching television with him. He doesn't sit around while he's eating dinner and chat with the houseplants.
If the situation weren't so bloody ridiculous, he'd be almost appalled at the domesticity of it.
His suit jacket comes off just inside the front door, tossed with carefully measured carelessness across the arm of the sofa as he makes his way toward the kitchen. The sunglasses stay on, as always, though he slips a finger under the knot of his tie to loosen it. The lights in the flat wink on seemingly of their own accord, one by one, as he passes through each room.
"Yes, yes, I'm back," the demon drawls as he crosses into the suddenly illuminated kitchen. He opens the door to the refrigerator and leans in, one arm hanging on the door. "I don't suppose you've missed me?"
The blob in the crisper doesn't reply. Crowley finds this discretion to be a large part of its charm.
It was a tool for therapy, once. Roughly the size of Crowley's fist, it looks a bit like a rather large dollop of hair gel that no one's bothered to clean up. It also moves, albeit extraordinarily slowly, and enjoys lettuce a great deal. Crowley's taken to leaving it in the crisper of the refrigerator-the blob gets to enjoy lettuce to its dubiously-existent heart's content, and Crowley keeps from stepping on the thing and making a mess of the carpet. All in all, it's probably the most sensible and hassle-free pet arrangement he could've asked for...had he been inclined to ask for a pet in the first place.
An hour later he's lounging on the sofa, watching an old episode of House. The titular character has just spiked Wilson's coffee with amphetamines, and Crowley is vaguely wondering how long it would take Aziraphale to realise what was going on before dumping any sort of foreign substance from his system-and more importantly, what he might be able to con the angel into doing before said angel figured things out.
From the other half of the sofa, down on the seat cushion, there is a soft chiming sound.
"Oh go on," Crowley replies, flipping channels with a quick motion of his hand toward the flatscreen. "It isn't as if I would actually do it, is it? I'm certain he'd know, anyway...at least, I think he'd know.
"...or would he?"
From the next seat cushion over, the blob remains motionless disapprovingly.
It's nearly as good as having the angel around to chastise him, Crowley reflects, except this version doesn't steal his desserts.
If the situation weren't so bloody ridiculous, he'd be almost appalled at the domesticity of it.
His suit jacket comes off just inside the front door, tossed with carefully measured carelessness across the arm of the sofa as he makes his way toward the kitchen. The sunglasses stay on, as always, though he slips a finger under the knot of his tie to loosen it. The lights in the flat wink on seemingly of their own accord, one by one, as he passes through each room.
"Yes, yes, I'm back," the demon drawls as he crosses into the suddenly illuminated kitchen. He opens the door to the refrigerator and leans in, one arm hanging on the door. "I don't suppose you've missed me?"
The blob in the crisper doesn't reply. Crowley finds this discretion to be a large part of its charm.
It was a tool for therapy, once. Roughly the size of Crowley's fist, it looks a bit like a rather large dollop of hair gel that no one's bothered to clean up. It also moves, albeit extraordinarily slowly, and enjoys lettuce a great deal. Crowley's taken to leaving it in the crisper of the refrigerator-the blob gets to enjoy lettuce to its dubiously-existent heart's content, and Crowley keeps from stepping on the thing and making a mess of the carpet. All in all, it's probably the most sensible and hassle-free pet arrangement he could've asked for...had he been inclined to ask for a pet in the first place.
An hour later he's lounging on the sofa, watching an old episode of House. The titular character has just spiked Wilson's coffee with amphetamines, and Crowley is vaguely wondering how long it would take Aziraphale to realise what was going on before dumping any sort of foreign substance from his system-and more importantly, what he might be able to con the angel into doing before said angel figured things out.
From the other half of the sofa, down on the seat cushion, there is a soft chiming sound.
"Oh go on," Crowley replies, flipping channels with a quick motion of his hand toward the flatscreen. "It isn't as if I would actually do it, is it? I'm certain he'd know, anyway...at least, I think he'd know.
"...or would he?"
From the next seat cushion over, the blob remains motionless disapprovingly.
It's nearly as good as having the angel around to chastise him, Crowley reflects, except this version doesn't steal his desserts.