Fic: The Grocery Store Panic Dance
So I did this after my friend, Tiffany, pointed out that there wasn’t enough slice of life type fanfiction out there. To remedy said problem I wrote one. Of course, I can’t be easy on myself and just write one little SoL. No, I have to go and do “steps”. So, I picked a SoL theme (shopping for food) and started to choose some couples that I thought would make nice dance partners. I wanted to do eight, but after three hours of writing I had only finished four. I think I’ll do Nick/Warrick (CSI) and Ford/Arthur (The Guide) later, but then I’ll have to come up with two more couples. There are only so many ships a girl can write at one time.
Also, I want to point out that I can write fanfiction that isn’t done in a leap from point to point style. No, really. I just choose not to.
Also, I have an inability to write a true slice of life. They all have to be revelation in someway. I’m working on that.
Author: Stephanie
Series: A Slice of Life Medley
Chapter: The Grocery Store Panic Dance, Part I
Fandoms/Pairings: This is a bit lengthy. It’s multi-fandom, but not a cross over, so stay with me while I list these.
Harry Potter, Sirius/Remus
Rent, One sided Mark/Roger
Star Wars, Lando/Leia and implied Han/Luke
Good Omens, Mildly confused Aziraphale/Crowley (also one sided)
Rating: PG-13 for the Rent and Harry Potter section. PG for Good Omens and Star Wars.
Word Count: Each step is about 1,500 words.
Summary: Everyone needs to eat at some time or another, and since food doesn’t magically appear at the table (well, most of the time), there must be shopping involved.
The Grocery Store Panic Dance (A Slice of Life Medley)
Step I - 100% Preservatives
“Sirius, you can’t expect food to just magic itself onto the table.”
“Why not? That’s what it’s always done before.”
Remus sighs, somewhere between strangling Sirius and hexing himself for coming up with such a daft plan. Sirius had to learn how to shop at a Muggle grocer at one point or another. Remus simply wishes he didn’t have to be the one to teach him how. “Well, the rest of the world doesn’t work like that,” Remus explains. For such a clever, talented boy, Sirius tended to be rather oblivious in certain areas. Mainly the bits that involved actual work. “You’re going to have to learn that some time or another.”
“That’s why I have you,” Sirius says. He’s not looking at Remus. He’s looking at a passing boy whose jeans are much too tight. Remus wishes Muggles dressed more like wizards. “To help me with these sorts of things.” He takes his eyes of the stranger long enough to smile at Remus. He tosses his arm over his friend’s shoulder. Remus decides he must be insane, to let such a berk lead him around like Sirius does.
Then again, Sirius isn’t so horrible at everything. Remus can think of quite a few reasons to keep the boy around, most of which involve bedrooms and ties and things that make Remus blush.
Sirius is very good at making Remus blush.
“Something wrong?” Sirius asks when Remus’s face turns pink. Remus curses himself under his breath. He’s twenty and he can still turn crimson by simply thinking about Sirius. The grin that Sirius is sporting tells Remus that he knows exactly what is wrong. Tight Muggle jeans and food are forgotten when Sirius is smiling like that and asks, “Something I can help you with?”
“This looks like a nice place.” Remus isn’t really looking at the shop he drags Sirius into. He’s just trying not to picture Sirius backing him into an alley. He doesn’t want to think about the brick against his back or Sirius’s thigh between his legs pushing fabric against skin. He definitely doesn’t want the entire sidewalk to know what he’s thinking about. Blush can look wind swept and innocent. Other things are harder to hide.
Sirius is easily distracted, something Remus is thankful for at the moment. He looks over the shop Remus has lead them too, eyeing it critically. It’s an utterly unremarkable grocer that looks a lot like the one Remus remembers his mother taking him to back in Lockerbie. Sirius has never seen anything like it.
“Look at all the food!” He says, loud enough to draw in the attention of nearly every passing customer. Remus smiles at an older lady who is giving them a strange look. He feels the need to pull out from under Sirius’s arm. “I mean, yeah the kitchen was something but it was all in cupboards and what not, wasn’t it?”
“That’s why they call it food shopping, Sirius.” Remus sounds a little harsher then he intends. Still, he would prefer if the shopkeeper stopped staring at them like that. He can’t take Sirius anywhere without people staring.
Not that he can blame them. Any girl at Hogwarts could tell you that Sirius was stare worthy. Especially dressed up in a pair of Muggle trousers and a nice shirt. It had been a struggle to get him in those, too. Sirius hadn’t liked the idea at first, saying the clothes were much too uncomfortable and tight.
After thirty minutes that left both boys exhausted Sirius promised to wear the jeans whenever Remus asked.
It took a lot of Remus’s concentration not to jump him again. The fact that Sirius acts like an utter arse half the time they’re in public helped.
“Take this,” Remus says, shoving a basket into Sirius’s arms. Last time he tried to take James, Sirius, and Peter into the Muggle world he’d been banned from most of the shops around his home and nearly arrested twice. He still isn’t sure why he thought bringing Sirius shopping would be a good idea.
Sirius is looking at each shelf like he has never seen food before. Remus stops every now and then to pick up bread, cheese, milk, and other things to place in the basket. It goes rather well until Sirius comes out of his stupor and starts asking for things.
“What about this?” He holds up a can of spaghetti. Remus shakes his head.
“You need a Muggle microwave,” he says, pointing to the directions on the side of the container. “And something bad would happen if you tried to magically cook it.”
“Like what?” Sirius asks, putting the can in the basket regardless of Remus’s words. Remus puts it back on the shelf and moves Sirius along.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But with you, it will probably be very bad. And very messy.”
“What about this?” Sirius picks up a jar of Nutella. Remus pulls it out of his hands and puts it back without a word. “Hey?” Sirius grabs it again. “What’s wrong with this?”
Remus sighs. “It’s nearly eight pounds and you don’t even know if you like it or not. You can’t just buy something that looks - What are you doing?”
Sirius pops open the lid and peels back the paper top. “Seeing if I like it or not.”
Remus squeaks. It’s rather girly and embarrassing, but it’s the only sound of protest he can make. He pulls the jar out of Sirius’s hands before Sirius can dip a finger in.
“We’ll get the Nutella,” Remus said, screwing the cap back on and dropping the jar into the basket. “But Sirius you can’t just taste things in the shop. It doesn’t work like that.”
Sirius snorts. “Well then how am I suppose to know what I like or not?” He asks. “A bit stupid of the Muggles, I’d say, to put all this food about and not even let you taste it before you buy it. It’s not my fault if they’re all idiots.”
Remus tries to remember that Sirius was raised in a home where food magically appeared at every meal time, and went to a school where all he had to do was tickle a pear and any snack he asked for would be given to him without ant questions or hesitations. Remus tries to remember that Sirius had James’s mother to cook for him and after that could stop by Peter or James or Remus’s for a meal whenever he wanted. Remus tries to remember that Sirius has never had to shop for himself before unless it involved dung bombs or broomsticks.
This doesn’t work, so Remus takes a moment to count to ten. Sirius says, “Can I go home now?”
Remus says, “We’re not done shopping yet.” He holds up the basket. “We hardly have enough for the week, and that’s only if we want nothing but cheese and nutella sandwiches.”
Sirius says, “But you don’t want me to be here and I don’t want to be here.”
“But you have to learn how to shop in the Muggle world,” Remus points out. “I can’t exactly let you and James figure it out by yourselves now, can I?”
Remus tries to imagine taking Sirius and James grocery shopping. He shivers and says thanks for the existences of one Lily Evans-soon-to-be-Potter.
Sirius thinks about this for a moment. Remus can tell he’s thinking because Sirius is in the habit of looking skywards when his mind is at work. Remus is sure this has something to do with quidditch.
When Sirius looks back down at Remus he says, “You can shop, can’t you?”
Remus is slow to nod. He hasn’t worked out where Sirius is going yet, and hates to agree with him until he has figured out exactly what it is he’s agreeing to. Sirius says, “Well, then, problem solved.”
“Sorry?”
“If you can shop then I don’t need to.”
“But,” Remus starts, half in awed by Sirius lack of common sense. “You have to learn. I mean I might not always be-“
Sirius stops him with a kiss. Remus has never been good with public affections, and for all his flirting Sirius isn’t the type to act terribly dotting when others are around. So the kiss catches Remus off guard. The whole thing is shocking and chaste and gone before Remus’s brain can tell him how to react.
“You can shop,” Sirius explains. “And I can do other things. No reason for me to busy myself with this when you’re perfectly capable.” Sirius smiles. It’s the sort of smile he used when he first asked Remus if maybe the other first year might be willing to help him stuff James’s trunk with exploding puss pods. Remus has always had a hard time saying no to that smile.
“I’m going to meet up with Prongs and Wormtail, then,” Sirius says before Remus can quite comprehend anything. “See you back at home.”
There is a pop and a bunch of air where Sirius had stood.
Remus turns down an isle, picking out some vegetables and fruits to keep them healthy. He gets plenty of meat, too, and a few ingredients for some sort of pudding. He decides that Sirius is an utter idiot who has no idea what he says when he says it. He decides that there is no way Sirius just asked - or told, as is the case - Remus to live with him in a forever, marriage sort of sense. He decides he must be under some sort of confusion spell, which makes much more sense than anything else that has happened that day.
Remus is so caught up in convincing himself that he nearly walks into a nice young girl. She smiles and they both apologize, and Remus figures that’s the end of it until she speaks up again. “You came in with that cute young man, right?”
Remus is usually the one referred to as cute. Fit is more a word used when referring to Sirius. Or bloody sexy, if that person is feeling particularly brave and/or drunk. Still, Remus nods. “He just left.”
The girl gives a sympathetic laugh. “My boyfriend is like that, too. Says he doesn’t need to do the shopping as long as he has me.”
Without thinking too much about it Remus says, “That’s wonderful,” and earns himself an odd look. “I, for one, don’t plan on ever teaching Sirius how to shop.”
Step II - Food for Thought
It’s a rare occasion when Mark and Roger have enough to shop.
Between music and film and smack it’s a miracle the two boys eat anything at all. Collins tries to buy them a meal whenever he’s in town, but he doesn’t always have enough to support himself and Mark feels like shit for taking money that could go towards another month of AZT. Roger claims he doesn’t need food. He just needs music and the stage and this April girl he’s seeing.
And blow, of course. Roger never says it, but Mark has figured it out all on his own. Feeding himself isn’t as important as shooting up.
So Mark is surprised when Roger drags him shopping.
“The grocery store?” Mark has trouble remembering the last time he’d stopped at a proper grocery store. Usually it was fast food, the life café, or some small convenient store for chips and soda. Compared to their normal routine, an actual grocery store is high living.
Roger says, “I have some money. Figured we could use some food around the place.”
Mark raises an eyebrow and bites down on his lip to keep himself from asking. Roger’s last gigs paycheck went right from his hands and into the Man’s pocket. If Roger came into money, it wasn’t through work. Mark is sure he’d rather not know about it.
“How much?” He asks. Roger is leading the way down the cereal isle and Mark is practically salivating.
Roger shrugs. “And two hundred or so.”
“Two hundred dollars!” Three of the women in the isle and a couple of their kids turn to look at Mark, who immediately turns a deep red. Roger turns red, too, but it has little to do with embarrassment.
“You want to get robbed? Keep it down.”
Mark thinks there isn’t much of a chance that the stay at home moms were going to pull handguns out of their purses and mug the two right there in the middle of the breakfast isle, but he doesn’t say anything. He does say, “What do you want to get?”
“Something fattening,” Roger says. “Something with no redeeming health benefits once so ever.” Mark gives him a look. Roger rolls his eyes. “Fine. What do you want, then, oh health conscious one?”
Mark chews at his lower lip while he thinks this over. It’s been a while since he could afford to eat whatever he wanted. He thinks back to when he was a kid, and the meals he use to take to school in those brown paper bags. He remembers those being good, and so he says, “Fruit snacks, maybe?”
Roger snorts. “Fruit snacks?”
“It does contain the word fruit,” Mark points out. Roger laughs, tossing an arm around Mark’s shoulders and leading him away from the still staring mothers. Mark ignores the track lines in his friend’s arm and the way the blonde women with the small daughter stares at Roger’s ass when they walk by.
“Fruit snacks it is,” Roger says. He looks at the signs hanging over each isle and says, “You think that’s under fresh produce?”
Mark elbows Roger in the stomach and says, “Smart ass.” He’s smiling, though, because Roger is smiling. It’s been a while since Roger smiled that way for him. Lately, that sort of grin has been reserved for April. Mark has missed being on the receiving end of Roger’s good moods. He’s missed watching Roger pacing around the loft trying to think up new chords for some song he had dancing around in his head. He missed taking walks through central park with his camera at one side and Roger on the other, calling Mark a geek even as he pointed out good filming locations.
Mark has missed Roger.
It’s perfectly normal to miss your best friend, Mark reasons. Roger is his best friend, and he had been Roger’s until all of this started. Now Roger’s best friend resides in a needle, and it’s all Mark can do to stick around and watch him shake. Mark sometimes wonders if it’s normal to be jealous of a drug.
Roger messages his ribs, wincing and smiling at the same time so that he looked slightly unbalanced. Mark thinks it looks good on him. Everything looks good on Roger. He must have been staring to long because the teasing look starts to fade from Roger’s eyes. “Everything okay there, Marky?”
Mark laughs and points towards the bakery. “That what you were looking for?” He asks, wondering off to look at that cake display before he can answer Roger’s question.
Roger lifts up one of the plastic covers on the cake. “This one looks good,” he says before dipping his finger into the icing, destroying half a yellow flower and leaving the top of the cake smudged and dented. Mark checks around to make sure no one is watching Roger try a free sample.
Roger doesn’t do anything gingerly. He stuffs his finger in his mouth and sucks until all the sugary sweet is gone. Roger might be the one eating liquid sugar, but it’s Mark who has trouble swallowing.
“Too sweet,” Roger says, putting the lid back on. Mark takes that as his cue to say something instead of just staring at Roger with a half opened mouth and a brand new hard-on.
“What you expect?” He asks. His voice croaks and Roger laughs at him. Mark can always tell when Roger is laughing at him. He blushes and tries to hide himself around the cake table. He gets ready to rebuff any of Roger’s jokes about how long it’s been since Mark had gotten any.
Roger doesn’t notice Mark’s predicament. Instead he says, “Come on, Mark, aren’t you suppose to be the anarchist?”
Mark isn’t prudish, but he’s thankful that his embracement has been mistaken for fear of getting caught. “That’s Collins,” Mark corrects. “I lean towards libertarian.” It’s a lame thing to say, but at the moment having a witting conversation isn’t one of Mark’s worries. His number one concern is picturing his family’s last thanksgiving when his uncle throw up on his lap, or that dead dog Mark had stumbled over when he walked back to the loft drunk, or the hairs in his tenth grade math teacher’s armpits.
Roger rolls his eyes and says, “Whatever.” He looks down at the other cakes and says, “You want to try one.”
In his mind, Mark pictures Roger’s finger covered in yellow and white smudges. He images closing his lips around it and licking at the sweet icing. It’s slow and deliberate, and ends with Roger naked.
Mark’s vibrant imagination does nothing to help his predicament.
“No, that’s okay,” Mark mutters. He can feel his cheeks burning.
When Roger’s grin goes from teasing to mischievous, Mark knows he’s doomed. Roger opens another cake. Chocolate, this time, with a racetrack on top and checkered flags at the corners. He says, “Go on. Give it a try.”
Mark says, “I feel like fruit.”
Roger laughs and dips a finger in. He comes up with grass and road and mud swirled all around his digit. He offers it to Mark and says, “Don’t be such a chicken, Mark. Just give it a try. You know you want to.”
Mark hesitates. There are a hundred reasons why he should tell Roger ‘no’ and ‘stop this right now’. But logic is long gone by the time Mark leans forward and tastes that first bit of chocolate frosting, tongue gentle and curious as he licks up one side of Roger’s long, calloused fingers. There are a hundred reasons why Mark would be stupid to do anymore, but second later he has Roger’s finger in his mouth and his cheeks hallowed out. The salt of Roger’s skin blends with the sweetness, and long after the last bit of cake is gone Mark is still licking and sucking and tasting Roger.
Then he makes the mistake of opening his eyes.
In his imagination, Roger is looking down at Mark - the Mark he always teased about being such a prude when it came to sex and girls - with eyes wide and dark. He is breathing deep and unable to look away from the show Mark has put on for him. He is reaching for Mark and forgetting about food and demanding that the two find a bedroom immediately.
In reality, Roger is looking at Mark with curious eyes. “Done?” He asks. There is a wet smack when Mark lets go of his finger. “I’ll take it you like that one?”
“I could really go for some fish.” Mark says. It’s the first thing he can manage that isn’t a scream.
“Whatever.” Roger is rolling his eyes again. “I’ll get the cake and the beer. You get your fish and fruit roll ups.” He picks up a cake, not the one he’d feed Mark. This one is white and kind of girly. Mark doesn’t like the looks of it. “I’ll meet you at the front counter.”
Roger ruffles Mark’s hair when he walks off. Mark says, “But I’ll miss you,” and Roger doesn’t hear him.
Step III - When Boys Are Being Boys
“It smells like the bad end of a Bantha.”
Lando laughs, offering Leia a hand down from the ship. She doesn’t take it. He didn’t think she would, but he had to offer anyway. Leia brought out the gentlemen in him. “Han said we needed to stop for food.”
The young princess wrinkles her nose. It looks very regal on her. “And he choose here?”
Lando shrugs. “It was the closest stop.”
“It smells worse than the garbage shots on the Death Star,” Leia says. “You’re telling me something in this place is editable?”
Lando laughs. He finds it easy to laugh around Leia. “I make no such claims, your highness.” He motioned to the small city of tent that lined the side of the road. “But I suppose we should at least have a look?”
Leia didn’t look practically fond of the idea. She glanced back at the Millennium Falcon like she expected Han to emerge and tell her this was some cruel joke. When that didn’t happen she sighs and says, “If we must.”
The two take a walk down the long row of shops. They’re offered everything from used parts to handcrafted jewelry. After a while they manage to find a booth that contains something that looks similar to space packets of food. Leia picks one up, looking at it from all sides as if inspecting it for some sort of fault. Lando doesn’t blame her. He asks the four-armed alien behind the counter, “Where’d you get there.”
“Honest trade,” The alien answers, picking up eight of the packets and waving them about Lando’s face. “Won’t find a better deal.”
Leia snorted. “I doubt it.” The shopkeeper gives a low growl and Lando takes out his wallet to calm him down
“We’re going to need a crate.”
The alien mutters something and steps away from the booth to empty out one of the boxes piled up behind him. Leia gives Lando a look and Lando shrugs. “Money is a universal peace treaty.”
“Very deep, Baron,” Leia says, picking up a handful of dried meals. “You come up with that yourself?”
Lando smiles. “You know it as well as I do, princess. One of the first things you learn in government.”
Leia shakes her head, but Lando can see the sides of her mouth turn up in a smile. He can’t keep the smile off of his own face.
“There you go,” The shopkeeper says, handing the box over to Lando. Lando smiles and thanks him, handing over enough for a good eighty meals. Leia puts a few stacks in, and Lando can see the alien counting every one that goes in the crate before another group of travelers wonders over to try and bargain.
Lando holds up a pack of Corellian dinners. “Han will appreciate these,” He says.
“Why would I care?” Leia asks, busy making sure they can get as many into the box as possible.
Lando raises an eyebrow, leaning onto the table to watch her avoid his eyes. “You can’t fool me, princess. Han almost had my head for looking at you, and if I know anything about Han-”
“Which you clearly don’t.” Lando isn’t surprised when Leia sounds annoyed. He expected that much. He doesn’t expect her to stop loading the crate so that she can stand up at her full height, as unimpressive as that is, giving him a look to match her tone. Everything about her is calling him an idiot. Lando is more curious than hurt. “If you knew anything about Han you’d know why he flirts with me so much.”
“I think I can see why he flirts with you,” Lando answers. It’s not so much a leering tease as it is the truth. Leia is a strong young woman with her mind firmly set and not about to change for anyone. She has her head in the clouds and her feet on the ground. She is diplomatic when she needs to be and street tough when times call for it. She is the sort of girl you only saw in those holo-programs aimed at teenage girls with a purpose.
Not too mention, of course, that she had the body to go with the rest of the package.
Leia isn’t impressed by Lando’s admiration. “Have you noticed that whenever Captain Solo flirts with me Luke is always just leaving?” Lando shrugs. He isn’t really one to pay too close attention to his buddy’s flirting habits. Leia asks, “He never tries it when Luke’s around. Only when he’s gone, when Solo is upset.”
“I don’t think it matters when-“ Lando is cut off by Leia’s loud sigh.
“And Luke! He’s just as bad! Sure, everyone thinks he’s flirting but most of the time he treats me more like an older sister!”
Lando laughs. “The kid isn’t good with girls. After being trapped on that hell of a planet, who would be? The only girls they get down there are green and shed.”
Leia shakes her head. “You really don’t get it, do you?” She sighs again. This time it’s not one of her frustrated, pint up rage sighs. It’s low and soft. It’s a sigh that makes Lando want to hold her. He has more sense than to try that, of course, but the want is there.
Leia plays with one of the packs of food, bending the foil and staring right through it. “They deserve each other, really,” she says. “Complete idiots, the both of them.”
It finally starts to sink in with Lando what Leia is talking about. He laughs and starts to explain to Leia that as bright as she is, this is one of those times when she is completely wrong. Han isn’t the type to try and make some kid jealous like that. He isn’t the sort to flirt with someone else just to get a boy’s attention. He’s definitely not the kind to go for the fresh off a planet farm boy with a feisty temper and stubborn air to match Han’s.
The laughter fades away when Lando’s thoughts catch up with him.
He looks at Leia, who nods when she sees that Lando understands. Lando says the first thing he can think of, which is, “I’m sorry,” Leia drops the destroyed pack into the crate. She gives him a small, half smile. It’s the sort of smile that makes Lando not sorry at all.
In fact, he thinks as they finished loading the crate and start back towards the ship, he is going to have to lock Han and Luke in a room together for a couple of hours, just to show them his gratitude.
Step IV - Apple of My Eye
“I’m starving.”
Angels, Aziraphale tries to remember, don’t glare. It simply isn’t done. Glaring is more of a human thing, since annoyances is bellow the all patient and understand denizens of heaven. Angels are above that sort of thing and, as an angel, Aziraphale did not glare.
Aziraphale’s eye twitches. He put his finger against his temple to calm the nerve. “You’re not going to starve,” he says in a nice, calming voice. The sort of voice a mother uses on a whiney child to get them into bed right before she breaks down and starts screaming. “You’re a demon. Demon don’t starve.”
Crowley doesn’t notice Aziraphale’s near explosive state. He is too busy pouting, hands covering his stomach to muffle what he says is the loud growling. Aziraphale thinks it’s just the old wooden chair squeaking, as Crowley insists on using on the back two legs to balance on. “Just because it won’t kill me doesn’t mean I can’t starve,” Crowley says. Aziraphale fails to see the logic in this. He fails to see the logic in a lot of things Crowley does, like the way he carries around a phone that doesn’t attach to a wall. Aziraphale doesn’t know too much about technology, but he’s rather sure a phone needs wires to work.
“Then make a cup of tea,” Aziraphale suggests. “I have plenty of tea in there.”
Crowley doesn’t stop pouting. “I don’t want tea,” He says. “I want food.”
“Then go out and get some.” Aziraphale is particularly fond of this suggestion as it involves Crowley leaving him alone for at least half an hour. Aziraphale would consider that in itself some sort of heavenly miracle.
It’s not Crowley’s fault he’s here, Aziraphale reminds himself. Crowley had made sure to tell that to Aziraphale when he’d first shown up at the bookshop a few days ago, suitcase in hand. Crowley’s superiors are searching for him and he figured the safest place to stay low would be with the angel. After all, who would expect a demon to hide out with an angel? So it couldn’t have been Crowley’s fault, since staying with Aziraphale was the only real solution.
Now that Aziraphale thinks about it, none of that makes sense. Still, it has seemed logical at the time. How was Aziraphale to know that hiding out in his shop would involve being with Crowley for days on end while the demon complained about everything from what the lightening did to his complexion to the smell of old books clinging to his clothes.
Crowley ignores this suggestion. “You know what you should do?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. “You should go shopping.”
Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Shopping,” Crowley repeats. “For food. It’s not like you have any here.” Crowley motioned to the empty cupboards.
Aziraphale was beginning to get the feeling that this had less to do with Crowley’s stomach and more to do with him being cooped up in a bookstore for three days and still being to nervous to venture out alone. Aziraphale should have told him that if he were so desperate for a bit he could go find one himself. All the better if his superiors found him. After all, Aziraphale might have been an angel but he certainly isn’t expected to keep demons safe.
Aziraphale sighs and puts down his book. He messages his temple gently. This helps to restrain any sort of glare that might slip past his resistances. “Can we make this fast?”
Crowley is out of his chair so fast that Aziraphale knows there must have been some sort of magic involved. “Excellent,” he says, sliding on his sunglasses. Aziraphale occasionally worries about his friend’s obsession with sunglasses, but then he is sure Crowley often thought the same of him and books. “It’s just done the street, right? We’ll just stop in to pick up a few things here and there. You know… To tie me over until this all settles down.”
Aziraphale has just enough time to slip his jacket on before Crowley is pulling him out the door. This earns them a few strange looks from people who continue to stare when Crowley uses Aziraphale as a sort of shield the entire way down the sidewalk and to the groceries. “Are you sure you aren’t just drawing more attention to yourself?” Aziraphale asks when Crowley does what looks like a run dive for the shop door. Aziraphale offers an apologetic smile to the woman who has held the door open. She backs away as quickly as possible while clutching her grocery bag to her chest.
“She seemed nice,” Aziraphale comments before screaming. It’s not so much a scream as a high-pitched squeal that gains the attention of those shoppers that are not already staring at the couple.
Crowley is holding onto Aziraphale’s shoulders, shielded behind the jumpy angel as he looks around the shop for signs of his superiors. “You see any demon looking blokes?”
“What exactly should I be looking for?” Aziraphale asks. The only demons he’d ever seen had either been angels at the time or else Crowley. “No one else is wearing sunglasses inside, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Crowley lets go of Aziraphale's shoulder and steps out from behind them. He brushes off his suit and says, “Good enough.”
Aziraphale grabs a basket and asks, “What exactly are we looking for?”
Crowley strolls down the isles without looking at the food. “Just grab something,” Crowley suggests, tipping a few cans of ravioli into Aziraphale’s arms. The angel gives them a suspicious look. He doesn’t trust food that comes wrapped in metal, and he honestly doesn’t understand a single word on the back of the package.
“What’s a microwave?” He asks, following after Crowley as the demon pushes more things into Aziraphale’s basket with less than a glance in its direction.
“It’s this human tool,” Crowley tries to explain. “Like a stove in a box.”
“An oven?” Aziraphale has an oven in his store, of course, and a stovetop. It’s all very modern, as far as Aziraphale is concerned. Crowley says it looks like heaven on Earth. Aziraphale is rather sure the demon didn’t mean this as a compliment. “Why not just call it an oven, then?”
“A smaller box,” Crowley holds his hands apart, about the length of a nice tall hardback. “A small, white box that heats up food.”
“Well I don’t have one,” Aziraphale says. He holds up a few of the can goods Crowley had knocked into the small cart. “How do you expect to cook these?”
“Fine then, put them back.” Crowley doesn’t put them back himself. He does throw a bag of garlic into the basket, though.
“You haven’t done this shopping thing before, have you?” Aziraphale asked, putting some of the groceries back on the shelves. It didn’t matter where he put an item, as the shelves seemed to be able to sort themselves out.
Crowley asks, “Have you?”
“No,” Aziraphale answers. He worries over this for a while before saying, “No I have not. But I don’t think we’re going about it the right way.”
Crowley points to something behind the angel’s back. A nice young couple, kissing over a cart filled with bread and greens, were utterly oblivious to the attention. They were much more interested in each other then any food or persons hanging about. “Should we be doing it that way?”
The part of Aziraphale that hasn’t been turned entirely human tells him there is nothing wrong with the scene. It’s only a bit of natural behavior. The rest of him blushes. “I don’t think they’re doing it right, either.”
Crowley takes off his sunglasses and pushes his hand through his hair. He looks disappointed. “There’s this great restaurant down the street,” he says. “We can grab a bite there.”
Aziraphale says, “Do you think you’ll be safe?”
Crowley shakes his hand and growls. “I’ll be safe. All the demons have gone home. No point sticking around your place any more. It’s not like you were every going to do something about it.”
Aziraphale holds up the half empty basket of food to Crowley’s retreating back. He says, “But I went shopping with you.”
Also, I want to point out that I can write fanfiction that isn’t done in a leap from point to point style. No, really. I just choose not to.
Also, I have an inability to write a true slice of life. They all have to be revelation in someway. I’m working on that.
Author: Stephanie
Series: A Slice of Life Medley
Chapter: The Grocery Store Panic Dance, Part I
Fandoms/Pairings: This is a bit lengthy. It’s multi-fandom, but not a cross over, so stay with me while I list these.
Harry Potter, Sirius/Remus
Rent, One sided Mark/Roger
Star Wars, Lando/Leia and implied Han/Luke
Good Omens, Mildly confused Aziraphale/Crowley (also one sided)
Rating: PG-13 for the Rent and Harry Potter section. PG for Good Omens and Star Wars.
Word Count: Each step is about 1,500 words.
Summary: Everyone needs to eat at some time or another, and since food doesn’t magically appear at the table (well, most of the time), there must be shopping involved.
The Grocery Store Panic Dance (A Slice of Life Medley)
Step I - 100% Preservatives
“Sirius, you can’t expect food to just magic itself onto the table.”
“Why not? That’s what it’s always done before.”
Remus sighs, somewhere between strangling Sirius and hexing himself for coming up with such a daft plan. Sirius had to learn how to shop at a Muggle grocer at one point or another. Remus simply wishes he didn’t have to be the one to teach him how. “Well, the rest of the world doesn’t work like that,” Remus explains. For such a clever, talented boy, Sirius tended to be rather oblivious in certain areas. Mainly the bits that involved actual work. “You’re going to have to learn that some time or another.”
“That’s why I have you,” Sirius says. He’s not looking at Remus. He’s looking at a passing boy whose jeans are much too tight. Remus wishes Muggles dressed more like wizards. “To help me with these sorts of things.” He takes his eyes of the stranger long enough to smile at Remus. He tosses his arm over his friend’s shoulder. Remus decides he must be insane, to let such a berk lead him around like Sirius does.
Then again, Sirius isn’t so horrible at everything. Remus can think of quite a few reasons to keep the boy around, most of which involve bedrooms and ties and things that make Remus blush.
Sirius is very good at making Remus blush.
“Something wrong?” Sirius asks when Remus’s face turns pink. Remus curses himself under his breath. He’s twenty and he can still turn crimson by simply thinking about Sirius. The grin that Sirius is sporting tells Remus that he knows exactly what is wrong. Tight Muggle jeans and food are forgotten when Sirius is smiling like that and asks, “Something I can help you with?”
“This looks like a nice place.” Remus isn’t really looking at the shop he drags Sirius into. He’s just trying not to picture Sirius backing him into an alley. He doesn’t want to think about the brick against his back or Sirius’s thigh between his legs pushing fabric against skin. He definitely doesn’t want the entire sidewalk to know what he’s thinking about. Blush can look wind swept and innocent. Other things are harder to hide.
Sirius is easily distracted, something Remus is thankful for at the moment. He looks over the shop Remus has lead them too, eyeing it critically. It’s an utterly unremarkable grocer that looks a lot like the one Remus remembers his mother taking him to back in Lockerbie. Sirius has never seen anything like it.
“Look at all the food!” He says, loud enough to draw in the attention of nearly every passing customer. Remus smiles at an older lady who is giving them a strange look. He feels the need to pull out from under Sirius’s arm. “I mean, yeah the kitchen was something but it was all in cupboards and what not, wasn’t it?”
“That’s why they call it food shopping, Sirius.” Remus sounds a little harsher then he intends. Still, he would prefer if the shopkeeper stopped staring at them like that. He can’t take Sirius anywhere without people staring.
Not that he can blame them. Any girl at Hogwarts could tell you that Sirius was stare worthy. Especially dressed up in a pair of Muggle trousers and a nice shirt. It had been a struggle to get him in those, too. Sirius hadn’t liked the idea at first, saying the clothes were much too uncomfortable and tight.
After thirty minutes that left both boys exhausted Sirius promised to wear the jeans whenever Remus asked.
It took a lot of Remus’s concentration not to jump him again. The fact that Sirius acts like an utter arse half the time they’re in public helped.
“Take this,” Remus says, shoving a basket into Sirius’s arms. Last time he tried to take James, Sirius, and Peter into the Muggle world he’d been banned from most of the shops around his home and nearly arrested twice. He still isn’t sure why he thought bringing Sirius shopping would be a good idea.
Sirius is looking at each shelf like he has never seen food before. Remus stops every now and then to pick up bread, cheese, milk, and other things to place in the basket. It goes rather well until Sirius comes out of his stupor and starts asking for things.
“What about this?” He holds up a can of spaghetti. Remus shakes his head.
“You need a Muggle microwave,” he says, pointing to the directions on the side of the container. “And something bad would happen if you tried to magically cook it.”
“Like what?” Sirius asks, putting the can in the basket regardless of Remus’s words. Remus puts it back on the shelf and moves Sirius along.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But with you, it will probably be very bad. And very messy.”
“What about this?” Sirius picks up a jar of Nutella. Remus pulls it out of his hands and puts it back without a word. “Hey?” Sirius grabs it again. “What’s wrong with this?”
Remus sighs. “It’s nearly eight pounds and you don’t even know if you like it or not. You can’t just buy something that looks - What are you doing?”
Sirius pops open the lid and peels back the paper top. “Seeing if I like it or not.”
Remus squeaks. It’s rather girly and embarrassing, but it’s the only sound of protest he can make. He pulls the jar out of Sirius’s hands before Sirius can dip a finger in.
“We’ll get the Nutella,” Remus said, screwing the cap back on and dropping the jar into the basket. “But Sirius you can’t just taste things in the shop. It doesn’t work like that.”
Sirius snorts. “Well then how am I suppose to know what I like or not?” He asks. “A bit stupid of the Muggles, I’d say, to put all this food about and not even let you taste it before you buy it. It’s not my fault if they’re all idiots.”
Remus tries to remember that Sirius was raised in a home where food magically appeared at every meal time, and went to a school where all he had to do was tickle a pear and any snack he asked for would be given to him without ant questions or hesitations. Remus tries to remember that Sirius had James’s mother to cook for him and after that could stop by Peter or James or Remus’s for a meal whenever he wanted. Remus tries to remember that Sirius has never had to shop for himself before unless it involved dung bombs or broomsticks.
This doesn’t work, so Remus takes a moment to count to ten. Sirius says, “Can I go home now?”
Remus says, “We’re not done shopping yet.” He holds up the basket. “We hardly have enough for the week, and that’s only if we want nothing but cheese and nutella sandwiches.”
Sirius says, “But you don’t want me to be here and I don’t want to be here.”
“But you have to learn how to shop in the Muggle world,” Remus points out. “I can’t exactly let you and James figure it out by yourselves now, can I?”
Remus tries to imagine taking Sirius and James grocery shopping. He shivers and says thanks for the existences of one Lily Evans-soon-to-be-Potter.
Sirius thinks about this for a moment. Remus can tell he’s thinking because Sirius is in the habit of looking skywards when his mind is at work. Remus is sure this has something to do with quidditch.
When Sirius looks back down at Remus he says, “You can shop, can’t you?”
Remus is slow to nod. He hasn’t worked out where Sirius is going yet, and hates to agree with him until he has figured out exactly what it is he’s agreeing to. Sirius says, “Well, then, problem solved.”
“Sorry?”
“If you can shop then I don’t need to.”
“But,” Remus starts, half in awed by Sirius lack of common sense. “You have to learn. I mean I might not always be-“
Sirius stops him with a kiss. Remus has never been good with public affections, and for all his flirting Sirius isn’t the type to act terribly dotting when others are around. So the kiss catches Remus off guard. The whole thing is shocking and chaste and gone before Remus’s brain can tell him how to react.
“You can shop,” Sirius explains. “And I can do other things. No reason for me to busy myself with this when you’re perfectly capable.” Sirius smiles. It’s the sort of smile he used when he first asked Remus if maybe the other first year might be willing to help him stuff James’s trunk with exploding puss pods. Remus has always had a hard time saying no to that smile.
“I’m going to meet up with Prongs and Wormtail, then,” Sirius says before Remus can quite comprehend anything. “See you back at home.”
There is a pop and a bunch of air where Sirius had stood.
Remus turns down an isle, picking out some vegetables and fruits to keep them healthy. He gets plenty of meat, too, and a few ingredients for some sort of pudding. He decides that Sirius is an utter idiot who has no idea what he says when he says it. He decides that there is no way Sirius just asked - or told, as is the case - Remus to live with him in a forever, marriage sort of sense. He decides he must be under some sort of confusion spell, which makes much more sense than anything else that has happened that day.
Remus is so caught up in convincing himself that he nearly walks into a nice young girl. She smiles and they both apologize, and Remus figures that’s the end of it until she speaks up again. “You came in with that cute young man, right?”
Remus is usually the one referred to as cute. Fit is more a word used when referring to Sirius. Or bloody sexy, if that person is feeling particularly brave and/or drunk. Still, Remus nods. “He just left.”
The girl gives a sympathetic laugh. “My boyfriend is like that, too. Says he doesn’t need to do the shopping as long as he has me.”
Without thinking too much about it Remus says, “That’s wonderful,” and earns himself an odd look. “I, for one, don’t plan on ever teaching Sirius how to shop.”
Step II - Food for Thought
It’s a rare occasion when Mark and Roger have enough to shop.
Between music and film and smack it’s a miracle the two boys eat anything at all. Collins tries to buy them a meal whenever he’s in town, but he doesn’t always have enough to support himself and Mark feels like shit for taking money that could go towards another month of AZT. Roger claims he doesn’t need food. He just needs music and the stage and this April girl he’s seeing.
And blow, of course. Roger never says it, but Mark has figured it out all on his own. Feeding himself isn’t as important as shooting up.
So Mark is surprised when Roger drags him shopping.
“The grocery store?” Mark has trouble remembering the last time he’d stopped at a proper grocery store. Usually it was fast food, the life café, or some small convenient store for chips and soda. Compared to their normal routine, an actual grocery store is high living.
Roger says, “I have some money. Figured we could use some food around the place.”
Mark raises an eyebrow and bites down on his lip to keep himself from asking. Roger’s last gigs paycheck went right from his hands and into the Man’s pocket. If Roger came into money, it wasn’t through work. Mark is sure he’d rather not know about it.
“How much?” He asks. Roger is leading the way down the cereal isle and Mark is practically salivating.
Roger shrugs. “And two hundred or so.”
“Two hundred dollars!” Three of the women in the isle and a couple of their kids turn to look at Mark, who immediately turns a deep red. Roger turns red, too, but it has little to do with embarrassment.
“You want to get robbed? Keep it down.”
Mark thinks there isn’t much of a chance that the stay at home moms were going to pull handguns out of their purses and mug the two right there in the middle of the breakfast isle, but he doesn’t say anything. He does say, “What do you want to get?”
“Something fattening,” Roger says. “Something with no redeeming health benefits once so ever.” Mark gives him a look. Roger rolls his eyes. “Fine. What do you want, then, oh health conscious one?”
Mark chews at his lower lip while he thinks this over. It’s been a while since he could afford to eat whatever he wanted. He thinks back to when he was a kid, and the meals he use to take to school in those brown paper bags. He remembers those being good, and so he says, “Fruit snacks, maybe?”
Roger snorts. “Fruit snacks?”
“It does contain the word fruit,” Mark points out. Roger laughs, tossing an arm around Mark’s shoulders and leading him away from the still staring mothers. Mark ignores the track lines in his friend’s arm and the way the blonde women with the small daughter stares at Roger’s ass when they walk by.
“Fruit snacks it is,” Roger says. He looks at the signs hanging over each isle and says, “You think that’s under fresh produce?”
Mark elbows Roger in the stomach and says, “Smart ass.” He’s smiling, though, because Roger is smiling. It’s been a while since Roger smiled that way for him. Lately, that sort of grin has been reserved for April. Mark has missed being on the receiving end of Roger’s good moods. He’s missed watching Roger pacing around the loft trying to think up new chords for some song he had dancing around in his head. He missed taking walks through central park with his camera at one side and Roger on the other, calling Mark a geek even as he pointed out good filming locations.
Mark has missed Roger.
It’s perfectly normal to miss your best friend, Mark reasons. Roger is his best friend, and he had been Roger’s until all of this started. Now Roger’s best friend resides in a needle, and it’s all Mark can do to stick around and watch him shake. Mark sometimes wonders if it’s normal to be jealous of a drug.
Roger messages his ribs, wincing and smiling at the same time so that he looked slightly unbalanced. Mark thinks it looks good on him. Everything looks good on Roger. He must have been staring to long because the teasing look starts to fade from Roger’s eyes. “Everything okay there, Marky?”
Mark laughs and points towards the bakery. “That what you were looking for?” He asks, wondering off to look at that cake display before he can answer Roger’s question.
Roger lifts up one of the plastic covers on the cake. “This one looks good,” he says before dipping his finger into the icing, destroying half a yellow flower and leaving the top of the cake smudged and dented. Mark checks around to make sure no one is watching Roger try a free sample.
Roger doesn’t do anything gingerly. He stuffs his finger in his mouth and sucks until all the sugary sweet is gone. Roger might be the one eating liquid sugar, but it’s Mark who has trouble swallowing.
“Too sweet,” Roger says, putting the lid back on. Mark takes that as his cue to say something instead of just staring at Roger with a half opened mouth and a brand new hard-on.
“What you expect?” He asks. His voice croaks and Roger laughs at him. Mark can always tell when Roger is laughing at him. He blushes and tries to hide himself around the cake table. He gets ready to rebuff any of Roger’s jokes about how long it’s been since Mark had gotten any.
Roger doesn’t notice Mark’s predicament. Instead he says, “Come on, Mark, aren’t you suppose to be the anarchist?”
Mark isn’t prudish, but he’s thankful that his embracement has been mistaken for fear of getting caught. “That’s Collins,” Mark corrects. “I lean towards libertarian.” It’s a lame thing to say, but at the moment having a witting conversation isn’t one of Mark’s worries. His number one concern is picturing his family’s last thanksgiving when his uncle throw up on his lap, or that dead dog Mark had stumbled over when he walked back to the loft drunk, or the hairs in his tenth grade math teacher’s armpits.
Roger rolls his eyes and says, “Whatever.” He looks down at the other cakes and says, “You want to try one.”
In his mind, Mark pictures Roger’s finger covered in yellow and white smudges. He images closing his lips around it and licking at the sweet icing. It’s slow and deliberate, and ends with Roger naked.
Mark’s vibrant imagination does nothing to help his predicament.
“No, that’s okay,” Mark mutters. He can feel his cheeks burning.
When Roger’s grin goes from teasing to mischievous, Mark knows he’s doomed. Roger opens another cake. Chocolate, this time, with a racetrack on top and checkered flags at the corners. He says, “Go on. Give it a try.”
Mark says, “I feel like fruit.”
Roger laughs and dips a finger in. He comes up with grass and road and mud swirled all around his digit. He offers it to Mark and says, “Don’t be such a chicken, Mark. Just give it a try. You know you want to.”
Mark hesitates. There are a hundred reasons why he should tell Roger ‘no’ and ‘stop this right now’. But logic is long gone by the time Mark leans forward and tastes that first bit of chocolate frosting, tongue gentle and curious as he licks up one side of Roger’s long, calloused fingers. There are a hundred reasons why Mark would be stupid to do anymore, but second later he has Roger’s finger in his mouth and his cheeks hallowed out. The salt of Roger’s skin blends with the sweetness, and long after the last bit of cake is gone Mark is still licking and sucking and tasting Roger.
Then he makes the mistake of opening his eyes.
In his imagination, Roger is looking down at Mark - the Mark he always teased about being such a prude when it came to sex and girls - with eyes wide and dark. He is breathing deep and unable to look away from the show Mark has put on for him. He is reaching for Mark and forgetting about food and demanding that the two find a bedroom immediately.
In reality, Roger is looking at Mark with curious eyes. “Done?” He asks. There is a wet smack when Mark lets go of his finger. “I’ll take it you like that one?”
“I could really go for some fish.” Mark says. It’s the first thing he can manage that isn’t a scream.
“Whatever.” Roger is rolling his eyes again. “I’ll get the cake and the beer. You get your fish and fruit roll ups.” He picks up a cake, not the one he’d feed Mark. This one is white and kind of girly. Mark doesn’t like the looks of it. “I’ll meet you at the front counter.”
Roger ruffles Mark’s hair when he walks off. Mark says, “But I’ll miss you,” and Roger doesn’t hear him.
Step III - When Boys Are Being Boys
“It smells like the bad end of a Bantha.”
Lando laughs, offering Leia a hand down from the ship. She doesn’t take it. He didn’t think she would, but he had to offer anyway. Leia brought out the gentlemen in him. “Han said we needed to stop for food.”
The young princess wrinkles her nose. It looks very regal on her. “And he choose here?”
Lando shrugs. “It was the closest stop.”
“It smells worse than the garbage shots on the Death Star,” Leia says. “You’re telling me something in this place is editable?”
Lando laughs. He finds it easy to laugh around Leia. “I make no such claims, your highness.” He motioned to the small city of tent that lined the side of the road. “But I suppose we should at least have a look?”
Leia didn’t look practically fond of the idea. She glanced back at the Millennium Falcon like she expected Han to emerge and tell her this was some cruel joke. When that didn’t happen she sighs and says, “If we must.”
The two take a walk down the long row of shops. They’re offered everything from used parts to handcrafted jewelry. After a while they manage to find a booth that contains something that looks similar to space packets of food. Leia picks one up, looking at it from all sides as if inspecting it for some sort of fault. Lando doesn’t blame her. He asks the four-armed alien behind the counter, “Where’d you get there.”
“Honest trade,” The alien answers, picking up eight of the packets and waving them about Lando’s face. “Won’t find a better deal.”
Leia snorted. “I doubt it.” The shopkeeper gives a low growl and Lando takes out his wallet to calm him down
“We’re going to need a crate.”
The alien mutters something and steps away from the booth to empty out one of the boxes piled up behind him. Leia gives Lando a look and Lando shrugs. “Money is a universal peace treaty.”
“Very deep, Baron,” Leia says, picking up a handful of dried meals. “You come up with that yourself?”
Lando smiles. “You know it as well as I do, princess. One of the first things you learn in government.”
Leia shakes her head, but Lando can see the sides of her mouth turn up in a smile. He can’t keep the smile off of his own face.
“There you go,” The shopkeeper says, handing the box over to Lando. Lando smiles and thanks him, handing over enough for a good eighty meals. Leia puts a few stacks in, and Lando can see the alien counting every one that goes in the crate before another group of travelers wonders over to try and bargain.
Lando holds up a pack of Corellian dinners. “Han will appreciate these,” He says.
“Why would I care?” Leia asks, busy making sure they can get as many into the box as possible.
Lando raises an eyebrow, leaning onto the table to watch her avoid his eyes. “You can’t fool me, princess. Han almost had my head for looking at you, and if I know anything about Han-”
“Which you clearly don’t.” Lando isn’t surprised when Leia sounds annoyed. He expected that much. He doesn’t expect her to stop loading the crate so that she can stand up at her full height, as unimpressive as that is, giving him a look to match her tone. Everything about her is calling him an idiot. Lando is more curious than hurt. “If you knew anything about Han you’d know why he flirts with me so much.”
“I think I can see why he flirts with you,” Lando answers. It’s not so much a leering tease as it is the truth. Leia is a strong young woman with her mind firmly set and not about to change for anyone. She has her head in the clouds and her feet on the ground. She is diplomatic when she needs to be and street tough when times call for it. She is the sort of girl you only saw in those holo-programs aimed at teenage girls with a purpose.
Not too mention, of course, that she had the body to go with the rest of the package.
Leia isn’t impressed by Lando’s admiration. “Have you noticed that whenever Captain Solo flirts with me Luke is always just leaving?” Lando shrugs. He isn’t really one to pay too close attention to his buddy’s flirting habits. Leia asks, “He never tries it when Luke’s around. Only when he’s gone, when Solo is upset.”
“I don’t think it matters when-“ Lando is cut off by Leia’s loud sigh.
“And Luke! He’s just as bad! Sure, everyone thinks he’s flirting but most of the time he treats me more like an older sister!”
Lando laughs. “The kid isn’t good with girls. After being trapped on that hell of a planet, who would be? The only girls they get down there are green and shed.”
Leia shakes her head. “You really don’t get it, do you?” She sighs again. This time it’s not one of her frustrated, pint up rage sighs. It’s low and soft. It’s a sigh that makes Lando want to hold her. He has more sense than to try that, of course, but the want is there.
Leia plays with one of the packs of food, bending the foil and staring right through it. “They deserve each other, really,” she says. “Complete idiots, the both of them.”
It finally starts to sink in with Lando what Leia is talking about. He laughs and starts to explain to Leia that as bright as she is, this is one of those times when she is completely wrong. Han isn’t the type to try and make some kid jealous like that. He isn’t the sort to flirt with someone else just to get a boy’s attention. He’s definitely not the kind to go for the fresh off a planet farm boy with a feisty temper and stubborn air to match Han’s.
The laughter fades away when Lando’s thoughts catch up with him.
He looks at Leia, who nods when she sees that Lando understands. Lando says the first thing he can think of, which is, “I’m sorry,” Leia drops the destroyed pack into the crate. She gives him a small, half smile. It’s the sort of smile that makes Lando not sorry at all.
In fact, he thinks as they finished loading the crate and start back towards the ship, he is going to have to lock Han and Luke in a room together for a couple of hours, just to show them his gratitude.
Step IV - Apple of My Eye
“I’m starving.”
Angels, Aziraphale tries to remember, don’t glare. It simply isn’t done. Glaring is more of a human thing, since annoyances is bellow the all patient and understand denizens of heaven. Angels are above that sort of thing and, as an angel, Aziraphale did not glare.
Aziraphale’s eye twitches. He put his finger against his temple to calm the nerve. “You’re not going to starve,” he says in a nice, calming voice. The sort of voice a mother uses on a whiney child to get them into bed right before she breaks down and starts screaming. “You’re a demon. Demon don’t starve.”
Crowley doesn’t notice Aziraphale’s near explosive state. He is too busy pouting, hands covering his stomach to muffle what he says is the loud growling. Aziraphale thinks it’s just the old wooden chair squeaking, as Crowley insists on using on the back two legs to balance on. “Just because it won’t kill me doesn’t mean I can’t starve,” Crowley says. Aziraphale fails to see the logic in this. He fails to see the logic in a lot of things Crowley does, like the way he carries around a phone that doesn’t attach to a wall. Aziraphale doesn’t know too much about technology, but he’s rather sure a phone needs wires to work.
“Then make a cup of tea,” Aziraphale suggests. “I have plenty of tea in there.”
Crowley doesn’t stop pouting. “I don’t want tea,” He says. “I want food.”
“Then go out and get some.” Aziraphale is particularly fond of this suggestion as it involves Crowley leaving him alone for at least half an hour. Aziraphale would consider that in itself some sort of heavenly miracle.
It’s not Crowley’s fault he’s here, Aziraphale reminds himself. Crowley had made sure to tell that to Aziraphale when he’d first shown up at the bookshop a few days ago, suitcase in hand. Crowley’s superiors are searching for him and he figured the safest place to stay low would be with the angel. After all, who would expect a demon to hide out with an angel? So it couldn’t have been Crowley’s fault, since staying with Aziraphale was the only real solution.
Now that Aziraphale thinks about it, none of that makes sense. Still, it has seemed logical at the time. How was Aziraphale to know that hiding out in his shop would involve being with Crowley for days on end while the demon complained about everything from what the lightening did to his complexion to the smell of old books clinging to his clothes.
Crowley ignores this suggestion. “You know what you should do?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. “You should go shopping.”
Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Shopping,” Crowley repeats. “For food. It’s not like you have any here.” Crowley motioned to the empty cupboards.
Aziraphale was beginning to get the feeling that this had less to do with Crowley’s stomach and more to do with him being cooped up in a bookstore for three days and still being to nervous to venture out alone. Aziraphale should have told him that if he were so desperate for a bit he could go find one himself. All the better if his superiors found him. After all, Aziraphale might have been an angel but he certainly isn’t expected to keep demons safe.
Aziraphale sighs and puts down his book. He messages his temple gently. This helps to restrain any sort of glare that might slip past his resistances. “Can we make this fast?”
Crowley is out of his chair so fast that Aziraphale knows there must have been some sort of magic involved. “Excellent,” he says, sliding on his sunglasses. Aziraphale occasionally worries about his friend’s obsession with sunglasses, but then he is sure Crowley often thought the same of him and books. “It’s just done the street, right? We’ll just stop in to pick up a few things here and there. You know… To tie me over until this all settles down.”
Aziraphale has just enough time to slip his jacket on before Crowley is pulling him out the door. This earns them a few strange looks from people who continue to stare when Crowley uses Aziraphale as a sort of shield the entire way down the sidewalk and to the groceries. “Are you sure you aren’t just drawing more attention to yourself?” Aziraphale asks when Crowley does what looks like a run dive for the shop door. Aziraphale offers an apologetic smile to the woman who has held the door open. She backs away as quickly as possible while clutching her grocery bag to her chest.
“She seemed nice,” Aziraphale comments before screaming. It’s not so much a scream as a high-pitched squeal that gains the attention of those shoppers that are not already staring at the couple.
Crowley is holding onto Aziraphale’s shoulders, shielded behind the jumpy angel as he looks around the shop for signs of his superiors. “You see any demon looking blokes?”
“What exactly should I be looking for?” Aziraphale asks. The only demons he’d ever seen had either been angels at the time or else Crowley. “No one else is wearing sunglasses inside, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Crowley lets go of Aziraphale's shoulder and steps out from behind them. He brushes off his suit and says, “Good enough.”
Aziraphale grabs a basket and asks, “What exactly are we looking for?”
Crowley strolls down the isles without looking at the food. “Just grab something,” Crowley suggests, tipping a few cans of ravioli into Aziraphale’s arms. The angel gives them a suspicious look. He doesn’t trust food that comes wrapped in metal, and he honestly doesn’t understand a single word on the back of the package.
“What’s a microwave?” He asks, following after Crowley as the demon pushes more things into Aziraphale’s basket with less than a glance in its direction.
“It’s this human tool,” Crowley tries to explain. “Like a stove in a box.”
“An oven?” Aziraphale has an oven in his store, of course, and a stovetop. It’s all very modern, as far as Aziraphale is concerned. Crowley says it looks like heaven on Earth. Aziraphale is rather sure the demon didn’t mean this as a compliment. “Why not just call it an oven, then?”
“A smaller box,” Crowley holds his hands apart, about the length of a nice tall hardback. “A small, white box that heats up food.”
“Well I don’t have one,” Aziraphale says. He holds up a few of the can goods Crowley had knocked into the small cart. “How do you expect to cook these?”
“Fine then, put them back.” Crowley doesn’t put them back himself. He does throw a bag of garlic into the basket, though.
“You haven’t done this shopping thing before, have you?” Aziraphale asked, putting some of the groceries back on the shelves. It didn’t matter where he put an item, as the shelves seemed to be able to sort themselves out.
Crowley asks, “Have you?”
“No,” Aziraphale answers. He worries over this for a while before saying, “No I have not. But I don’t think we’re going about it the right way.”
Crowley points to something behind the angel’s back. A nice young couple, kissing over a cart filled with bread and greens, were utterly oblivious to the attention. They were much more interested in each other then any food or persons hanging about. “Should we be doing it that way?”
The part of Aziraphale that hasn’t been turned entirely human tells him there is nothing wrong with the scene. It’s only a bit of natural behavior. The rest of him blushes. “I don’t think they’re doing it right, either.”
Crowley takes off his sunglasses and pushes his hand through his hair. He looks disappointed. “There’s this great restaurant down the street,” he says. “We can grab a bite there.”
Aziraphale says, “Do you think you’ll be safe?”
Crowley shakes his hand and growls. “I’ll be safe. All the demons have gone home. No point sticking around your place any more. It’s not like you were every going to do something about it.”
Aziraphale holds up the half empty basket of food to Crowley’s retreating back. He says, “But I went shopping with you.”