Happy Holidays Dreya_uberwald!
now, for the first of several exciting entries for Day 7...!
Happy Holidays dreya_uberwald!
Title: A Dirty Crush
Gift Recipient: dreya_uberwald
Author: janicechess
Summary: Pollution has a crush on Crowley. Crowley just wants his car to stay clean (Crowley/Pollution).
Rating: PG-13
A/N: A million thanks to both my Awesome beta and to her Highness for her Very Helpful Comments. As far as setting, this takes place before the events of the book (sometime in the 1980s, let's say). (* please note that the author's notes were actually redacted by her Highness to protect the identities of the innocent!)
It was the middle of the night, and Crowley stood by the pond, staring at the object floating by the water's edge, trying to make sense of things. The first clue, he thought, had probably been the sushi restaurant. He had been going there every week for years; they had the best and freshest fish in London. Then a month ago it had closed after a spate of unexplained food poisoning cases. The second clue was obviously this duck pond at St. James Park, where he now stood. When he had been here to meet with Aziraphale just last week, he had noticed that the surface of the water was brown and sludgy, and the ducks had been nowhere to be found, which had troubled Aziraphale. Crowley hadn’t been concerned - after all, they were just ducks - and had brushed it off to “altered migratory patterns” and shifted the conversation to something more interesting.
He had changed his mind just today, and had come back here to look for evidence to support his theory. He had found it immediately: a dead duck, covered in an unrecognizable brown substance, had surfaced since his last time here.
Crowley briefly closed his eyes, wondering why it had taken him this long to notice the pattern. The first time he had found his car covered with a fine layer of soot and grime, he should have known. But it had taken four days, four days of painstakingly hand-washing his car every morning, only to find the car just as dirty the next morning. Okay, he hadn't actually hand-washed the car, unless by hand-washed you meant “caused to become clean by waving your hands,” but still, it was the principle of the thing. Crowley scowled. Someone was obviously messing about with him. He wasn't sure whom he had angered in Hell, but he was sure it must be someone from Down There. Whoever it was, he would make them pay. The sushi restaurant and the ducks were bad enough, but no one messed with the Bentley.
***
Later that night, Crowley hid in the shadows near his car, waiting for the culprit to arrive for his or her nightly Bentley sullying. He wondered whether he should leap out and confront his would-be-tormenter, or if he should simply take note of his or her identity and then take his revenge later, at his leisure. He was strongly leaning towards the latter option, as it seemed less likely to cause harm to both himself and the car, as well as leaving him time to be more imaginative in planning his vengeance.
Crowley tensed as a figure approached his hiding place. As the person emerged from the shadows of the dark street and into the yellow glow of the streetlamp, Crowley saw that it was a thin man with pale skin, pale hair, wearing pale clothes - some sort of long coat, it looked like. There was something odd about him, but Crowley couldn't quite put his finger on exactly what it was. The pale man stopped at the car, and began to run his hands along it, in a manner that could only be described as reverent. Crowley watched his movements, saw the dirt and grime seem to materialize under his caresses, and experienced a very unwelcome flash of insight. He blessed softly under his breath, and threw out both of his game plans. This called for a drastically different strategy. He certainly couldn't go around exacting revenge on one of the Horsepersons of the Apocalypse. Even if Pollution wasn't exactly the most intimidating of the four, it was just known that these guys were off limits: untouchable.
Crowley set his shoulders determinedly, straightened his sunglasses, and sauntered as casually as it was possible to saunter over to his vehicle and the man in white. He was concentrating so hard on appearing casual, on not showing his fear (they could smell fear, he was pretty sure... unless that was dogs) that he almost tripped as Pollution, upon seeing him approaching, stopped his work on the car and smiled at him.
Crowley forced a broad smile in return, feigning a confidence he did not feel. "Hello. I see you're admiring my Bentley. A real beauty, isn't it?" His smile nearly slipped off his face when he got close enough to see the streaks of grease on the car's surface. He carefully maintained his friendly expression, repeating to himself the mantra, Do not piss off the Horseperson.
"Hello… Crowley, isn't it?" Pollution’s voice was breathy and shaking. "I do love these old automobiles. So inefficient. All those beautiful hydrocarbons spewing into the air…." Pollution smiled shyly at Crowley. "But you know all about air pollution, don't you?"
"Er," responded Crowley, "Actually, I haven't put petrol in the Bentley for decades, so, well, I don't think it's actually polluted anything in quite some time. Er. Sorry."
Pollution's face fell briefly, but then the smile returned. "But all of those cars on the M-25, stuck in traffic, for hours and hours…. It's amazing. Sometimes I go and just sit in the middle of all of it, and breathe in all the lovely fumes." His face shone with delight as he spoke, and Crowley suppressed a shudder.
The white-haired man looked down at his hands before looking hopefully up at Crowley. "I’ve wanted to meet you ever since I found out that you were responsible for it… I knew you must be wonderful to have done all of that.” As the Horseperson sighed dreamily, a car drove by, its exhaust pipe regurgitating black smoke. “Would you like to have a drink with me sometime?"
Crowley stared in shock at the other man for a few seconds. One of the Horsepersons of the Apocalypse had just asked him out. He quickly calculated that saying no was likely to earn him a dirty car and contaminated sushi for all eternity. But maybe, if he said yes, then eventually he could ask him, very nicely and very politely, to leave his car clean. If that went well, he would possibly see about the sushi restaurant and the duck pond. Possibly.
***
Their date, if you could call it that, had not gone as Crowley had been expecting. They had arranged to meet the following night; Crowley had offered up his flat as a meeting point. He had anticipated that they would simply meet there, and then drive to a nearby pub. Instead, Pollution had shown up ten minutes early, walked to the couch, and sat down, asking if it was all right if they just stayed in and had a drink, to avoid the crowds. Crowley had had no choice but to agree.
Together they had finished off eight bottles of Chateau D'Ychem (it turned out that Pollution had a taste for dessert wines), and had ended up lying on the floor in front of a roaring fire, Pollution talking animatedly about some oil spill he had planned, Crowley pretending to listen while trying desperately to convince himself that what was going on wasn't anything to be alarmed about. It was perfectly normal for a demon to be lying on the floor, drunk, with a Horseperson of the Apocalypse.
Meanwhile, Pollution had stopped talking, and was studying Crowley with a small smile on his face.
"What are you thinking about?" he inquired dreamily.
"Er," began Crowley, as he tried to think of something to say besides 'I was just contemplating how fucked up this situation is.'
"Actually, er, I was just thinking that I didn't know that, um, Horsepersons of the Apocalypse could get drunk."
"Oh, well actually we can't." Pollution giggled. "I just like the taste of fermentation. Really, we can't do a lot of things. It would detract from our duties I suppose. Although… here is one thing we can do…."
Crowley only had a fraction of a second to be alarmed at the feral look that had appeared on his date's face before the other man rolled on top of him, displaying a surprising level of agility. With what could almost be called a growl, Pollution latched his mouth onto Crowley's.
"Mmph," replied Crowley, throwing all pretenses of normality so forcefully out the window that he dislocated his shoulder. He inhaled sharply as Pollution's tongue snaked into his mouth, overpowering his taste buds with a chemical, oily flavour. To his surprise, Crowley found that, other than the taste, Pollution was quite a good kisser.
'Well,' he thought, 'I may as well go with it. What's the worst that could happen?'
***
Crowley woke up after noon the next day, his head pounding, his body aching and covered in a fine film of a glistening, oily substance. He sat up slowly, noticing first that he was completely naked, and second that he was alone.
After repeated failed attempts to vanish the oil from his body, he gave up and got into the shower, which he had never used before. It took thirty minutes of scrubbing with scalding water and industrial-strength detergent to get it all off. Now clean and dressed, he walked slowly around his flat, trying to remember what had happened last night. He remembered kissing. He remembered cold, delicate hands running up and down his body, removing his clothing. He remembered a funny smell, almost like fumes from a lorry. And then he remembered nothing else. But, judging by his current physical state, quite a lot had happened after that.
Crowley paced, wondering what he should do. He had never been in this situation before. He was always the one who left; after all, he was a demon, it was sort of expected of him.
The car! Crowley stopped his pacing. He had to check on his car. He hurried out his front door and down to the street.
His car was perfect. Crowley stared in disbelief. It was perfectly clean. Then, Crowley noticed a note tucked under the windshield wiper. He picked it up with trepidation. The handwriting was smudged, but Crowley could still make out the words.
Crowley,
Well, this is awkward. I suppose I should have known better
than to even try that with you. I just want you to know that I
won't hold it against you; you obviously didn’t know. In fact,
I think it would be better if we both pretended this whole thing
never happened.
-P.
He stood for a moment, holding the note in his hands. He wouldn’t hold what against him, exactly? What in the Hell, and he meant that literally, had he done? He wasn’t sure whether to be angry or worried. Maybe a little of both was appropriate. Had he done something to offend Pollution? Were there sexual taboos specific to Horsepersons? He reread the note, hoping he had missed something, but no, he hadn’t. Crowley began to fume. How, exactly, was he expected to know these sorts of things? Last he checked, there was no “Guide to Getting It On With Demons, Imps, and Various Other Creatures of Hades” available in any bookstore.
Thinking of bookstores caused Crowley’s thoughts to turn abruptly to Aziraphale, making him chuckle. He couldn’t imagine how the angel would react if Crowley were to walk into his shop and ask if he carried any books about the sexual proclivities of hell-spawn. He suspected that Aziraphale would be terribly shocked, especially if he were to tell him that he had actually had a torrid one-night stand with a Horseperson of the Apocalypse. Crowley shook his head; for an immortal being, Aziraphale was so naive. Although, there was always the risk that Aziraphale would be curious instead of shocked, and would press him for details. Crowley was not about to admit to a bloody angel that he had no recollection of the night, or that he had apparently humiliated himself in some unknown way… his reputation would be ruined. That settled it: he was never telling anyone. He read the note for a third time, focusing on the last sentence.
‘Pretend this whole thing never happened,’ he told himself. Well, that was all right then. The demon Crowley laughed, crumpled the note into a ball, and tossed it into the street. When a policeman who happened to be walking by handed him a ticket with a fine for littering, he laughed even harder. Then he got into his car, thinking he felt like sushi for lunch and then perhaps a visit to see the ducks.
-the end-
Happy Holidays dreya_uberwald!
Title: A Dirty Crush
Gift Recipient: dreya_uberwald
Author: janicechess
Summary: Pollution has a crush on Crowley. Crowley just wants his car to stay clean (Crowley/Pollution).
Rating: PG-13
A/N: A million thanks to both my Awesome beta and to her Highness for her Very Helpful Comments. As far as setting, this takes place before the events of the book (sometime in the 1980s, let's say). (* please note that the author's notes were actually redacted by her Highness to protect the identities of the innocent!)
It was the middle of the night, and Crowley stood by the pond, staring at the object floating by the water's edge, trying to make sense of things. The first clue, he thought, had probably been the sushi restaurant. He had been going there every week for years; they had the best and freshest fish in London. Then a month ago it had closed after a spate of unexplained food poisoning cases. The second clue was obviously this duck pond at St. James Park, where he now stood. When he had been here to meet with Aziraphale just last week, he had noticed that the surface of the water was brown and sludgy, and the ducks had been nowhere to be found, which had troubled Aziraphale. Crowley hadn’t been concerned - after all, they were just ducks - and had brushed it off to “altered migratory patterns” and shifted the conversation to something more interesting.
He had changed his mind just today, and had come back here to look for evidence to support his theory. He had found it immediately: a dead duck, covered in an unrecognizable brown substance, had surfaced since his last time here.
Crowley briefly closed his eyes, wondering why it had taken him this long to notice the pattern. The first time he had found his car covered with a fine layer of soot and grime, he should have known. But it had taken four days, four days of painstakingly hand-washing his car every morning, only to find the car just as dirty the next morning. Okay, he hadn't actually hand-washed the car, unless by hand-washed you meant “caused to become clean by waving your hands,” but still, it was the principle of the thing. Crowley scowled. Someone was obviously messing about with him. He wasn't sure whom he had angered in Hell, but he was sure it must be someone from Down There. Whoever it was, he would make them pay. The sushi restaurant and the ducks were bad enough, but no one messed with the Bentley.
***
Later that night, Crowley hid in the shadows near his car, waiting for the culprit to arrive for his or her nightly Bentley sullying. He wondered whether he should leap out and confront his would-be-tormenter, or if he should simply take note of his or her identity and then take his revenge later, at his leisure. He was strongly leaning towards the latter option, as it seemed less likely to cause harm to both himself and the car, as well as leaving him time to be more imaginative in planning his vengeance.
Crowley tensed as a figure approached his hiding place. As the person emerged from the shadows of the dark street and into the yellow glow of the streetlamp, Crowley saw that it was a thin man with pale skin, pale hair, wearing pale clothes - some sort of long coat, it looked like. There was something odd about him, but Crowley couldn't quite put his finger on exactly what it was. The pale man stopped at the car, and began to run his hands along it, in a manner that could only be described as reverent. Crowley watched his movements, saw the dirt and grime seem to materialize under his caresses, and experienced a very unwelcome flash of insight. He blessed softly under his breath, and threw out both of his game plans. This called for a drastically different strategy. He certainly couldn't go around exacting revenge on one of the Horsepersons of the Apocalypse. Even if Pollution wasn't exactly the most intimidating of the four, it was just known that these guys were off limits: untouchable.
Crowley set his shoulders determinedly, straightened his sunglasses, and sauntered as casually as it was possible to saunter over to his vehicle and the man in white. He was concentrating so hard on appearing casual, on not showing his fear (they could smell fear, he was pretty sure... unless that was dogs) that he almost tripped as Pollution, upon seeing him approaching, stopped his work on the car and smiled at him.
Crowley forced a broad smile in return, feigning a confidence he did not feel. "Hello. I see you're admiring my Bentley. A real beauty, isn't it?" His smile nearly slipped off his face when he got close enough to see the streaks of grease on the car's surface. He carefully maintained his friendly expression, repeating to himself the mantra, Do not piss off the Horseperson.
"Hello… Crowley, isn't it?" Pollution’s voice was breathy and shaking. "I do love these old automobiles. So inefficient. All those beautiful hydrocarbons spewing into the air…." Pollution smiled shyly at Crowley. "But you know all about air pollution, don't you?"
"Er," responded Crowley, "Actually, I haven't put petrol in the Bentley for decades, so, well, I don't think it's actually polluted anything in quite some time. Er. Sorry."
Pollution's face fell briefly, but then the smile returned. "But all of those cars on the M-25, stuck in traffic, for hours and hours…. It's amazing. Sometimes I go and just sit in the middle of all of it, and breathe in all the lovely fumes." His face shone with delight as he spoke, and Crowley suppressed a shudder.
The white-haired man looked down at his hands before looking hopefully up at Crowley. "I’ve wanted to meet you ever since I found out that you were responsible for it… I knew you must be wonderful to have done all of that.” As the Horseperson sighed dreamily, a car drove by, its exhaust pipe regurgitating black smoke. “Would you like to have a drink with me sometime?"
Crowley stared in shock at the other man for a few seconds. One of the Horsepersons of the Apocalypse had just asked him out. He quickly calculated that saying no was likely to earn him a dirty car and contaminated sushi for all eternity. But maybe, if he said yes, then eventually he could ask him, very nicely and very politely, to leave his car clean. If that went well, he would possibly see about the sushi restaurant and the duck pond. Possibly.
***
Their date, if you could call it that, had not gone as Crowley had been expecting. They had arranged to meet the following night; Crowley had offered up his flat as a meeting point. He had anticipated that they would simply meet there, and then drive to a nearby pub. Instead, Pollution had shown up ten minutes early, walked to the couch, and sat down, asking if it was all right if they just stayed in and had a drink, to avoid the crowds. Crowley had had no choice but to agree.
Together they had finished off eight bottles of Chateau D'Ychem (it turned out that Pollution had a taste for dessert wines), and had ended up lying on the floor in front of a roaring fire, Pollution talking animatedly about some oil spill he had planned, Crowley pretending to listen while trying desperately to convince himself that what was going on wasn't anything to be alarmed about. It was perfectly normal for a demon to be lying on the floor, drunk, with a Horseperson of the Apocalypse.
Meanwhile, Pollution had stopped talking, and was studying Crowley with a small smile on his face.
"What are you thinking about?" he inquired dreamily.
"Er," began Crowley, as he tried to think of something to say besides 'I was just contemplating how fucked up this situation is.'
"Actually, er, I was just thinking that I didn't know that, um, Horsepersons of the Apocalypse could get drunk."
"Oh, well actually we can't." Pollution giggled. "I just like the taste of fermentation. Really, we can't do a lot of things. It would detract from our duties I suppose. Although… here is one thing we can do…."
Crowley only had a fraction of a second to be alarmed at the feral look that had appeared on his date's face before the other man rolled on top of him, displaying a surprising level of agility. With what could almost be called a growl, Pollution latched his mouth onto Crowley's.
"Mmph," replied Crowley, throwing all pretenses of normality so forcefully out the window that he dislocated his shoulder. He inhaled sharply as Pollution's tongue snaked into his mouth, overpowering his taste buds with a chemical, oily flavour. To his surprise, Crowley found that, other than the taste, Pollution was quite a good kisser.
'Well,' he thought, 'I may as well go with it. What's the worst that could happen?'
***
Crowley woke up after noon the next day, his head pounding, his body aching and covered in a fine film of a glistening, oily substance. He sat up slowly, noticing first that he was completely naked, and second that he was alone.
After repeated failed attempts to vanish the oil from his body, he gave up and got into the shower, which he had never used before. It took thirty minutes of scrubbing with scalding water and industrial-strength detergent to get it all off. Now clean and dressed, he walked slowly around his flat, trying to remember what had happened last night. He remembered kissing. He remembered cold, delicate hands running up and down his body, removing his clothing. He remembered a funny smell, almost like fumes from a lorry. And then he remembered nothing else. But, judging by his current physical state, quite a lot had happened after that.
Crowley paced, wondering what he should do. He had never been in this situation before. He was always the one who left; after all, he was a demon, it was sort of expected of him.
The car! Crowley stopped his pacing. He had to check on his car. He hurried out his front door and down to the street.
His car was perfect. Crowley stared in disbelief. It was perfectly clean. Then, Crowley noticed a note tucked under the windshield wiper. He picked it up with trepidation. The handwriting was smudged, but Crowley could still make out the words.
Crowley,
Well, this is awkward. I suppose I should have known better
than to even try that with you. I just want you to know that I
won't hold it against you; you obviously didn’t know. In fact,
I think it would be better if we both pretended this whole thing
never happened.
-P.
He stood for a moment, holding the note in his hands. He wouldn’t hold what against him, exactly? What in the Hell, and he meant that literally, had he done? He wasn’t sure whether to be angry or worried. Maybe a little of both was appropriate. Had he done something to offend Pollution? Were there sexual taboos specific to Horsepersons? He reread the note, hoping he had missed something, but no, he hadn’t. Crowley began to fume. How, exactly, was he expected to know these sorts of things? Last he checked, there was no “Guide to Getting It On With Demons, Imps, and Various Other Creatures of Hades” available in any bookstore.
Thinking of bookstores caused Crowley’s thoughts to turn abruptly to Aziraphale, making him chuckle. He couldn’t imagine how the angel would react if Crowley were to walk into his shop and ask if he carried any books about the sexual proclivities of hell-spawn. He suspected that Aziraphale would be terribly shocked, especially if he were to tell him that he had actually had a torrid one-night stand with a Horseperson of the Apocalypse. Crowley shook his head; for an immortal being, Aziraphale was so naive. Although, there was always the risk that Aziraphale would be curious instead of shocked, and would press him for details. Crowley was not about to admit to a bloody angel that he had no recollection of the night, or that he had apparently humiliated himself in some unknown way… his reputation would be ruined. That settled it: he was never telling anyone. He read the note for a third time, focusing on the last sentence.
‘Pretend this whole thing never happened,’ he told himself. Well, that was all right then. The demon Crowley laughed, crumpled the note into a ball, and tossed it into the street. When a policeman who happened to be walking by handed him a ticket with a fine for littering, he laughed even harder. Then he got into his car, thinking he felt like sushi for lunch and then perhaps a visit to see the ducks.
-the end-