A Message From Home

[flash_serpent]

Demons have rhythm, it's a well known fact. Crowley had loaded a lovely album entitled Licensed to Ill into his top of the line sound system and was puttering around the shop, enjoying some sort of a ballad...until something went terrbly wrong, not unlike an electric guitar breaking into Handel's Messiah.

Comments

[a_phale]

Aziraphale had taken off into the kitchen to brew tea when the demon had put his...'music', hoping that by the time he finished Crowley would decide to have a little mercy on him and put on one of his wretched department store Christmas albums. But when he hears the unmistakable voice of Hell coming through the stereo, he freezes.

As the song finishes, the angel slowly walks out into the shop, staring at Crowley.

"Dear boy," he says softly. "Tell me I didn't just hear what I think I just heard."

[flash_serpent]

"I...I'm certain you heard what I heard, angel." He takes his glasses off and untucks his shirttail to clean them. He sighs heavily, and turns. "Well, bugger."

[a_phale]

"Dear boy," Aziraphale says again, moving to stand next to the demon. "You can...just tell them we don't have an alliance. That their information is faulty, and that you've been doing all sorts of wiling and corrupting here."

He realizes that he's sounding rather plaintive, and he stops. Deep down, the angel knows that what he's suggesting is ridiculous, but nonetheless...it was unprecendented, to recall the demon in this way. In the six thousand years they'd more or less been together, it had never happened.

[flash_serpent]

"Oh, angel. They probably just want to give me a stern talking to. What with pissing off the boss with that little vial stunt, and then moving in with you. They aren't stupid...just remarkably slow. I...I need a fag."

He stalks outside the shop and begins to smoke with a ferocity of panic rarely seen outside the apocalypse.