Happy Holidays, baby_werewolf
Title: She Said We'd Gone Native
Author: mediasavant
Words: 2,000
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Anathema, Aziraphale, Crowley, Mentions of Newt, Them, Witchfinders, and that thing that happened that night that is so hard to remember.
Pairings: A/C
Summary: Curiosity is a sign of going native. Aziraphale invites Anathema to London for tea and a chat. She reads him things from Agnes's second book. Crowley is there as well, and doesn't see any reason to argue with the Witch.
The box had arrived via parcel post from Robey, Robey, Redfearn and Bychance, Solicitors. Aziraphale had been lamenting the additions to his collection that day. Children's books. The angel sighed.
That mood was wholly dissipated when he opened the package and found an iron box inside and a letter addressed to Mr. Fell. Yowe lying fellowe. Ye should knowe betere than hyde yowr True selfe. Aziraphale blinked and read the letter again. Then again. A liar? He'd never thought of it like that before. Crowley was the liar. He was simply...protecting people from...from what would be difficult to explain.
His turmoil was quashed when he opened the box. Therein lay 'Further Nife and Accurate Prophesies of Agnes Nutter' and the door to the shop locked with an absent wave of a hand. This time he wouldn't bother with the cocoa. This time he didn't even bother with gloves. This time the tome was for him.
***
Crowley had made the call to Anathema Pulsifer at Aziraphale's request. The angel had found that the telephone system was something simply beyond him after he'd dialed several times and gotten told by the party on the other end that they had no interest in what he was selling. Of all things he could think to enlist the help of his long-time foe, making a phone call was fairly low on the list.
She had answered, naturally. It was what one did when the telephone rang. She listened politely and although Anathema wasn't prone to sudden urges, it seemed in the weeks following that night when, well, when something had happened and she had received and subsequently burned the copy of Agnes's next book, it seemed she was far more likely to cater to her whims. She had given up being a descendant so she could be a witch and a wife of a Witchfinder. Funny, that. Witchfinder married to a witch. Newt never had to look very hard, and all the poking and prodding that went with his position was closer to the spousal side of the spectrum.
Anathema had answered and not a half an hour later she found herself on a train to London. The voice on the other end of the phone had been so charming, so compelling, so tempting, who was she to say no? She'd even tried to get Newt to join her, but he found himself standing on the platform as the train disappeared into the distance. He'd found nothing remotely tempting about an offer of tea and chit chat at a book shop in London. Newton Pulsifer had had his fill of old books.*
* Especially when Shadwell had seen fit to send along the Witchfinder Army's library to the only active serviceman who could be found. Corporal Carpet, Librarian, seemed to have unraveled sometime in the late 70's. Not that the ledger reflected that.
***
The woman arrived via taxi from Lower Tadfield. Aziraphale had been fussing over tea and biscuits, lamenting the fact that most of what he had left were the iced ones from the bottom of the package. The angel sighed. The demon lurking in the back room heard him and grinned when he heard the soft gasp as the worst of the biscuits became something far more palatable.
“Really, my dear,” was all Aziraphale had time to say before the bell over the door chimed Anathema's arrival.
“Mr. Fell?” she asked, stepping past stacks and shelves, seemingly unaware of the odor of dust and moulding paper. “Mr. Fell?”
“Back here, my dear,” he called pleasantly, stepping out to meet her. “I'm so terribly pleased you came at such short notice.”
“Of course,” she replied politely. “But am I to understand that what you invited me here for was to read to you? Excuse me for saying, but it seems to me you are quite capable of reading for yourself.” It was the sensible assumption, considering the sheer volume of text.
“Well, erm, that is, I...” Aziraphale stammered. “It's not just any book, you see.”
Anathema looked at him, placed his face through a fog that obscured most of a night that she didn't care to remember anyway, and then she nodded. “You're that fellow from the old car than ran me down.”
“You ran into my car,” hissed a voice from the back room. Crowley wasn't coming out, but he was still seething about the damage to his patina and was willing to take it out on anyone.
“We, yes, I suppose I am,” the angel said, smiling peacefully at her as he offered her a seat. “But all that is behind us. I invited you here today for something one doesn't often get to do. You see, I've recently been delivered a parcel...”
“Stop.” Anathema held up her hand. “I got a 'parcel' not too long ago and I think it's only fair to tell you that I'm out of the Descendant business. Newton and I burned Agnes's book without even reading it.”
“Of course you did, my dear. She says as much,” Aziraphale said kindly. “You see, her second book isn't, well, it's not, I mean to say...”
“It's not about you, witch,” came Crowley's voice again.
“Really, Crowley,” the angel said with as much irritation as he could muster. “Either join us, or...or...do shut up.”
Anathema sat there, teacup in one hand and a biscuit in the other as she scrutinized the man. Certainly she was in no danger from these two. She was comfortable with that certainty. What she didn't like was the book the man had produced and held with such reverence.*
“Well, then,” she interrupted, “What is it then? Prophecies still, I'd guess.”
“One would hope,” Aziraphale answered with a nod. “I read the first few pages, but then she expressly told me to stop and have the rest read to me. By you.” He paused for a moment. “By Mrs. Anathema Pulsifer, Found Witch and Ex-Descendant.”
Anathema sighed, sat down her tea and biscuit, brushed her fingers off and reached for the book. “Fine,” she agreed, clearly unhappy about it. “Let's see what the old woman has to say.”
* Some might even think it a bit blasphemous.
***
Crowley had shut up at Aziraphale's request. Of all the things he'd do for the angel, irritating the piss out of him over tea and company was fairly low on the list.
He'd much rather listen. And maybe creep a bit closer.
By the time Anathema closed the book, the tea was cold, the biscuits returned to their previous distasteful state, and the third party who had been hiding had slithered in unnoticed. For the most part. It was difficult for Aziraphale not to notice him when the straightforward and practical reading of the Nife and Accurate Prophecies conveyed details about them. Well, Them, as well, and the Pulsifers who would soon be welcoming a new Agnes into the world, but mostly what concerned the two Divine beings was simply what Anathema had assumed all along.
She looked up and closed the book.
“Well.” She paused, trying to think of the best way to phrase what she wanted to say. “I think, Mr. Fell, that Agnes hasn't lost her sense of humor. I'm not entirely certain it was truly up to me to come all the way to London to tell you that you and Mr. Crowley face challenges. Of course, in this day and age it's easier, but it's still no picnic being a couple. Do you understand what she was on about with the 'make every effort' thing? Sometimes, I'll tell you this, sometimes I have no clue what she's talking about until something happ-Mr. Fell? Are you all right?”
Aziraphale was, most certainly, not all right. He wasn't even partly right. In fact, as he turned to look at Crowley, he was fairly certain that when Agnes had called him a liar, it hadn't been regarding his choice of name and decision to keep his Celestial tendencies to himself. The way Crowley was looking at him over the tops of his glasses, the way that viper smile curved those lips, Aziraphale had never felt so very far from all right as now.
“He's fine, Mrs. Pulsifer,” the demon said, not taking his eyes off the angel. “I'd like to thank you for making the trip, and for being so delightful as to read to us. That Agnes, so funny how she thought it would sound better coming from your lips than something as plain as reading it, hmm?”
Aziraphale finally looked away and broke the spell. His mouth worked, open and closed and open again, but no sound came out. None that Anathema could hear. Crowley heard him nicely, though, and for once in his damned existence, he helped her into her coat and escorted her to the door. He even made sure there was a bit extra in her pocket for cab fare. Things Aziraphale would certainly have done, had he been able to rise from his seat.
The door locked behind her and for all appearances, the shop was closed without hope of opening for the foreseeable future. Crowley returned to where Aziraphale sat and took the chair that was still warm from the woman's presence. He poured himself some tea, which warmed in his hand, and selected a biscuit from the variety that was on the tray once again.
“So, angel,” he began, “I take it you hadn't considered what would be between those pages?”
Aziraphale looked up, his own tea still stone cold. “Crowley!” he squeaked. “That was...especially for the time she wrote it...that was pornography!”
“Oh, I don't know, Aziraphale. One man's porn is another man's art. Who's to say what Nutter there predicted isn't the way it's meant to go anyhow? You know, she was correct on every count in her last book,” he said, perfectly relaxed in the face of the angel's torment.
“But...b-but...but she...and we...you and I have never...and to think...” He was well aware he was stammering. “It's just not sensible!”
“Oh, angel,” Crowley chided. “I told you before. It's useless to think of things like this sensibly. Come up with some very funny ideas, thinking sensibly. I think, this time, I'm going to err on your Side and chalk it up to the Ineffable.”
Aziraphale balked. “B-but she said we'd gone native!” he protested.
Crowley smiled and uncoiled himself, leaning forward. “Exactly, angel,” he said. “And you do recall what the very first real thing they did was, don't you?”
“Well, He named the animals and She--”
“No,” the demon interrupted. “They got curious.”
“They only got curious because of you and your metaphorical neon,” Aziraphale protested.
“Details,” Crowley said dismissively. “Besides...how can you not be curious of something put so close and yet Forbidden? Aren't you the least bit curious?”
“Don't you dare try to tempt me, you old serpent. I know how you are.”
Crowley slipped his glasses off and set them aside. “Angel, you don't know that. Yet.”
The tea sloshed about in the cup as Aziraphale watched his long-time friend loosen his tie and undo his shirt. Crowley always did have a penchant for those nice Italian things that looked so soft. He always looked so...
Nife. That was how Agnes had described him. It was a word Crowley hadn't protested. He wasn't nice in the modern sense, but he was quite precise. In every action, every temptation, every devilish maneuver, he was impeccably precise. That was the last thing Aziraphale actively thought before he felt Crowley's arm snake around his shoulders. Impeccably precise.
“Come on, angel,” Crowley whispered in his ear softly, and Aziraphale simply nodded and followed. Perhaps-just perhaps-- he had gone native after all.
Enjoy, baby_werewolf, from your Secret Author!
Author: mediasavant
Words: 2,000
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Anathema, Aziraphale, Crowley, Mentions of Newt, Them, Witchfinders, and that thing that happened that night that is so hard to remember.
Pairings: A/C
Summary: Curiosity is a sign of going native. Aziraphale invites Anathema to London for tea and a chat. She reads him things from Agnes's second book. Crowley is there as well, and doesn't see any reason to argue with the Witch.
The box had arrived via parcel post from Robey, Robey, Redfearn and Bychance, Solicitors. Aziraphale had been lamenting the additions to his collection that day. Children's books. The angel sighed.
That mood was wholly dissipated when he opened the package and found an iron box inside and a letter addressed to Mr. Fell. Yowe lying fellowe. Ye should knowe betere than hyde yowr True selfe. Aziraphale blinked and read the letter again. Then again. A liar? He'd never thought of it like that before. Crowley was the liar. He was simply...protecting people from...from what would be difficult to explain.
His turmoil was quashed when he opened the box. Therein lay 'Further Nife and Accurate Prophesies of Agnes Nutter' and the door to the shop locked with an absent wave of a hand. This time he wouldn't bother with the cocoa. This time he didn't even bother with gloves. This time the tome was for him.
***
Crowley had made the call to Anathema Pulsifer at Aziraphale's request. The angel had found that the telephone system was something simply beyond him after he'd dialed several times and gotten told by the party on the other end that they had no interest in what he was selling. Of all things he could think to enlist the help of his long-time foe, making a phone call was fairly low on the list.
She had answered, naturally. It was what one did when the telephone rang. She listened politely and although Anathema wasn't prone to sudden urges, it seemed in the weeks following that night when, well, when something had happened and she had received and subsequently burned the copy of Agnes's next book, it seemed she was far more likely to cater to her whims. She had given up being a descendant so she could be a witch and a wife of a Witchfinder. Funny, that. Witchfinder married to a witch. Newt never had to look very hard, and all the poking and prodding that went with his position was closer to the spousal side of the spectrum.
Anathema had answered and not a half an hour later she found herself on a train to London. The voice on the other end of the phone had been so charming, so compelling, so tempting, who was she to say no? She'd even tried to get Newt to join her, but he found himself standing on the platform as the train disappeared into the distance. He'd found nothing remotely tempting about an offer of tea and chit chat at a book shop in London. Newton Pulsifer had had his fill of old books.*
* Especially when Shadwell had seen fit to send along the Witchfinder Army's library to the only active serviceman who could be found. Corporal Carpet, Librarian, seemed to have unraveled sometime in the late 70's. Not that the ledger reflected that.
***
The woman arrived via taxi from Lower Tadfield. Aziraphale had been fussing over tea and biscuits, lamenting the fact that most of what he had left were the iced ones from the bottom of the package. The angel sighed. The demon lurking in the back room heard him and grinned when he heard the soft gasp as the worst of the biscuits became something far more palatable.
“Really, my dear,” was all Aziraphale had time to say before the bell over the door chimed Anathema's arrival.
“Mr. Fell?” she asked, stepping past stacks and shelves, seemingly unaware of the odor of dust and moulding paper. “Mr. Fell?”
“Back here, my dear,” he called pleasantly, stepping out to meet her. “I'm so terribly pleased you came at such short notice.”
“Of course,” she replied politely. “But am I to understand that what you invited me here for was to read to you? Excuse me for saying, but it seems to me you are quite capable of reading for yourself.” It was the sensible assumption, considering the sheer volume of text.
“Well, erm, that is, I...” Aziraphale stammered. “It's not just any book, you see.”
Anathema looked at him, placed his face through a fog that obscured most of a night that she didn't care to remember anyway, and then she nodded. “You're that fellow from the old car than ran me down.”
“You ran into my car,” hissed a voice from the back room. Crowley wasn't coming out, but he was still seething about the damage to his patina and was willing to take it out on anyone.
“We, yes, I suppose I am,” the angel said, smiling peacefully at her as he offered her a seat. “But all that is behind us. I invited you here today for something one doesn't often get to do. You see, I've recently been delivered a parcel...”
“Stop.” Anathema held up her hand. “I got a 'parcel' not too long ago and I think it's only fair to tell you that I'm out of the Descendant business. Newton and I burned Agnes's book without even reading it.”
“Of course you did, my dear. She says as much,” Aziraphale said kindly. “You see, her second book isn't, well, it's not, I mean to say...”
“It's not about you, witch,” came Crowley's voice again.
“Really, Crowley,” the angel said with as much irritation as he could muster. “Either join us, or...or...do shut up.”
Anathema sat there, teacup in one hand and a biscuit in the other as she scrutinized the man. Certainly she was in no danger from these two. She was comfortable with that certainty. What she didn't like was the book the man had produced and held with such reverence.*
“Well, then,” she interrupted, “What is it then? Prophecies still, I'd guess.”
“One would hope,” Aziraphale answered with a nod. “I read the first few pages, but then she expressly told me to stop and have the rest read to me. By you.” He paused for a moment. “By Mrs. Anathema Pulsifer, Found Witch and Ex-Descendant.”
Anathema sighed, sat down her tea and biscuit, brushed her fingers off and reached for the book. “Fine,” she agreed, clearly unhappy about it. “Let's see what the old woman has to say.”
* Some might even think it a bit blasphemous.
***
Crowley had shut up at Aziraphale's request. Of all the things he'd do for the angel, irritating the piss out of him over tea and company was fairly low on the list.
He'd much rather listen. And maybe creep a bit closer.
By the time Anathema closed the book, the tea was cold, the biscuits returned to their previous distasteful state, and the third party who had been hiding had slithered in unnoticed. For the most part. It was difficult for Aziraphale not to notice him when the straightforward and practical reading of the Nife and Accurate Prophecies conveyed details about them. Well, Them, as well, and the Pulsifers who would soon be welcoming a new Agnes into the world, but mostly what concerned the two Divine beings was simply what Anathema had assumed all along.
She looked up and closed the book.
“Well.” She paused, trying to think of the best way to phrase what she wanted to say. “I think, Mr. Fell, that Agnes hasn't lost her sense of humor. I'm not entirely certain it was truly up to me to come all the way to London to tell you that you and Mr. Crowley face challenges. Of course, in this day and age it's easier, but it's still no picnic being a couple. Do you understand what she was on about with the 'make every effort' thing? Sometimes, I'll tell you this, sometimes I have no clue what she's talking about until something happ-Mr. Fell? Are you all right?”
Aziraphale was, most certainly, not all right. He wasn't even partly right. In fact, as he turned to look at Crowley, he was fairly certain that when Agnes had called him a liar, it hadn't been regarding his choice of name and decision to keep his Celestial tendencies to himself. The way Crowley was looking at him over the tops of his glasses, the way that viper smile curved those lips, Aziraphale had never felt so very far from all right as now.
“He's fine, Mrs. Pulsifer,” the demon said, not taking his eyes off the angel. “I'd like to thank you for making the trip, and for being so delightful as to read to us. That Agnes, so funny how she thought it would sound better coming from your lips than something as plain as reading it, hmm?”
Aziraphale finally looked away and broke the spell. His mouth worked, open and closed and open again, but no sound came out. None that Anathema could hear. Crowley heard him nicely, though, and for once in his damned existence, he helped her into her coat and escorted her to the door. He even made sure there was a bit extra in her pocket for cab fare. Things Aziraphale would certainly have done, had he been able to rise from his seat.
The door locked behind her and for all appearances, the shop was closed without hope of opening for the foreseeable future. Crowley returned to where Aziraphale sat and took the chair that was still warm from the woman's presence. He poured himself some tea, which warmed in his hand, and selected a biscuit from the variety that was on the tray once again.
“So, angel,” he began, “I take it you hadn't considered what would be between those pages?”
Aziraphale looked up, his own tea still stone cold. “Crowley!” he squeaked. “That was...especially for the time she wrote it...that was pornography!”
“Oh, I don't know, Aziraphale. One man's porn is another man's art. Who's to say what Nutter there predicted isn't the way it's meant to go anyhow? You know, she was correct on every count in her last book,” he said, perfectly relaxed in the face of the angel's torment.
“But...b-but...but she...and we...you and I have never...and to think...” He was well aware he was stammering. “It's just not sensible!”
“Oh, angel,” Crowley chided. “I told you before. It's useless to think of things like this sensibly. Come up with some very funny ideas, thinking sensibly. I think, this time, I'm going to err on your Side and chalk it up to the Ineffable.”
Aziraphale balked. “B-but she said we'd gone native!” he protested.
Crowley smiled and uncoiled himself, leaning forward. “Exactly, angel,” he said. “And you do recall what the very first real thing they did was, don't you?”
“Well, He named the animals and She--”
“No,” the demon interrupted. “They got curious.”
“They only got curious because of you and your metaphorical neon,” Aziraphale protested.
“Details,” Crowley said dismissively. “Besides...how can you not be curious of something put so close and yet Forbidden? Aren't you the least bit curious?”
“Don't you dare try to tempt me, you old serpent. I know how you are.”
Crowley slipped his glasses off and set them aside. “Angel, you don't know that. Yet.”
The tea sloshed about in the cup as Aziraphale watched his long-time friend loosen his tie and undo his shirt. Crowley always did have a penchant for those nice Italian things that looked so soft. He always looked so...
Nife. That was how Agnes had described him. It was a word Crowley hadn't protested. He wasn't nice in the modern sense, but he was quite precise. In every action, every temptation, every devilish maneuver, he was impeccably precise. That was the last thing Aziraphale actively thought before he felt Crowley's arm snake around his shoulders. Impeccably precise.
“Come on, angel,” Crowley whispered in his ear softly, and Aziraphale simply nodded and followed. Perhaps-just perhaps-- he had gone native after all.
Enjoy, baby_werewolf, from your Secret Author!