Happy Holidays, thesilentpoet!
Title: The Last Word
Written for: thesilentpoet
By: glass_icarus
Rating: PG
Summary: It’s the first day of the rest of the world, but it may still be impossible to outmaneuver Agnes Nutter.
It was Sunday afternoon, on the first day of the rest of the world, and Adam Young was grounded.1 He watched a bit wistfully as the rest of the Them pounded happily down the road toward the circus, laughter trailing after them like a banner. Granted, he couldn’t exactly tell his parents that he’d just been stopping the Apocalypse, but it wasn’t as if saving the world was like throwing a baseball into the neighbor’s window, after all.
Dog whined, scratching at the hedge surrounding the yard.
“Stop that, Dog. We’re not s’posed to leave the house, you know.” Although… it was such a sunny afternoon, and the fields beyond the house were awfully tempting. Adam knew for a fact that the first apples of the season would be growing in the trees down the street.
Dog whined again. Adam looked around carefully, but both parents were inside the house. He met Dog’s soulful gaze and winked. A moment later, there was a hole in the hedge, and Dog raced joyfully out, Adam at his heels.
It wasn’t messing people about, not really, and the summer would be over soon.
--
Aziraphale woke to the sound of rapping on his front door on Sunday morning. "Crowley?" he called. "Is that you, dear?" He shuffled out of his bedroom, materializing a pair of warm, fluffy slippers on the way.
An innocent-looking, brown-wrapped parcel sat on his front step. There was no return address, but the spidery handwriting on it2 looked quite familiar. Aziraphale blinked at it owlishly. "Oh." A moment later, his eyes lit up. "Oh." An excited flush rose to his cheeks, and he hurried back inside.
--
Halfway across the field, the smell of something burning at Jasmine Cottage caught his attention. Adam slowed to watch the white plume of smoke curling toward the sky.
For a moment, he heard laughter on the breeze: a rich, full-bellied laugh, laced with wicked good humor. It was the laugh of someone who knew a great deal more than was healthy. A woman’s face appeared briefly in the smoke, winking at him.
THAT ONE’S OVERDUE, a voice said. Adam turned to see DEATH grinning in his face. He grinned back.
Oh sod off, yowe great buffoon. I haue been dead these three or four centurief, a second voice declared. Dog yelped, running over to lean quivering against Adam’s shins. Adam glanced back at the chimney.
“Oh, hullo. Who’re you?”
AGNES NUTTER, said DEATH. I THOUGHT YOU WERE WATCHING OVER YOUR KIN?
Oh, my Anathema haf made her ownne decisionne.
“Anathema?”
Shee is my many tymes grate grand-daughter, Agnes said proudly.
“Really? I didn’t know that.” Adam mulled this over, reaching up to pluck some apples from a drooping branch.
SHE’S ALSO BURNT YOUR BOOK, DEATH said, pointing at the smoking chimney.
Agnes cackled. That’s what yowe thinke! I sent out two copief this tyme.
“Wait,” Adam said, confused. “What book?”
--
A few hours after Aziraphale received his delivery, Crowley eased the Bentley to a stop a block and a half away from the bookshop, as was his habit.3 He ambled cheerfully up to the door, knocking loudly to penetrate Aziraphale's perpetually book-fogged senses. “Angel?” When no reply came, Crowley frowned and knocked louder. “Angel!”
An old lady passing on the other side of the street gave him an odd look. “Oh, sod off,” Crowley muttered; after all, it wasn't as if he was lurking. With a scowl and a vague twisting gesture of his fingers, he let himself in.
The bookshop was a dusty, disorganized mess. This in itself wasn't an unexpected state, given Aziraphale's aversion to customers, but to Crowley's practiced gaze, the degree of disorder was exponentially higher than usual. Rolling his eyes, Crowley took a deep breath. “ANGEL!” he bellowed. The antiquated inkwell on one of the windowsills rattled with the force of the vibrations. Somewhere in the bowels of the back room stacks, a few papers rustled, followed by a sneeze. Crowley waited, tapping his foot impatiently.
A moment later, Aziraphale appeared, dusty and disheveled and wearing the ugliest plaid slippers Crowley had ever seen in his life.4 “Sorry, sorry,” he said breathlessly, absently readjusting his spectacles. “I was just-”
“Reading, yes, yes,” Crowley drawled. “What was it this time? Donne? Wilde? Dickens?”
“Actually, I hadn’t started it yet- I thought I’d wait for you. It’s Agnes Nutter,” Aziraphale said conspiratorially, beaming.
“I got a parcel in the post this morning.”
Crowley stared at him, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry,” he said, "but weren't the Nife and Accurate Prophecies burnt to a crisp during the Not-Apocalypse?"
“Of course, dear, but that wasn't what I was referring to. These are the Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies.”
Crowley blinked. He blinked again. Then he materialized a bottle of vodka and took a swig. “Lead on, then.”
--
“A book of prophecies?” Adam scratched his head.
SHE LIKES TO MEDDLE, said DEATH.
’Tis yowe are the meddlesome one, yowe cheeky olde bone-sack, Agnes sniffed.
Adam frowned. “Isn’t that just messin’ people about? If you know today that somethin’ good’s gonna happen tomorrow, there’s no fun in it. An’ if something bad’s gonna happen that you can’t change, then what’s the point in knowin’?”
HE HAS A POINT.
Alle knowledge is worth havinge, Agnes replied serenely. ’Tis just a matter of choosing what to do with it. My Anathema haf made her choice.
“But who has the other copy?”
--
In the back room of the bookshop, Aziraphale opened the box with reverent hands. Crowley eyed the yellowing manuscript with misgiving.
“Angel.”
“Yes, dear?”
“Are you going to read it or not?”
“Oh… yes, of course.” Aziraphale’s fingers fluttered hesitantly around the corners until Crowley sighed and upended the box into his hands.
“Here.”
Sparing him a reproachful look, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter,” he read. “Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com; Ye Saga Continuef!”
Crowley winced. “Sounds like a bad sequel already,” he muttered.
Aziraphale turned the page. “Shut yowre mouth, yowe miserable demon.”
“HEY!” Crowley peered over his shoulder and gulped. His face turned to a ghastly shade of white.
“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale said faintly.
“… Yes, angel?”
“Pass the vodka, please. I think I’m going to need it.”
--
Miles away in Lower Tadfield, Adam Young lay beside DEATH, watching the clouds float by. Dog was sprawled in a heap over his feet. “If she sent them the book, does it count as messin’ people about?” he asked.
DEATH shrugged. WHO KNOWS? THEY AREN’T HUMAN.
“I guess,” Adam said doubtfully. He took an apple out of his pocket and polished it on his shirt.
Yowe needn’t worrie, Agnes said tartly. Those two sots shalle take care of themfelves, just like the rest of the worlde. And that stingy bookshoppe owner neuer lets go of hif merchandise.
Adam grinned. “Yeah. That prob’ly covers it, then.” He crunched into his apple. It was shiny and green and most definitely unripe5, but Adam thought apples were best eaten fresh off the tree. He savored the taste, then held out his hand. “Want a bite?”
1. Although “grounded” is really a relative term when one is the Antichrist.
2. Mifter Azeera Fell, read the label. On the second line, in smaller print: Antique Bookshoppe Owner. On the third line, in very fine print: Angel.
3. “No point in attracting attention, dear,” Aziraphale had said the first time he'd arrived, eyes darting from side to side as they did whenever the subject of customers came up. Crowley had let this notion pass without comment; he simply hadn't had the heart to tell the angel that he didn't want his prized Bentley to be seen in front of such a dilapidated-looking storefront.
4. Er, existence.
5. Much like the rest of the world, in fact.
Happy Holidays, thesilentpoet, from your Secret Author!
Written for: thesilentpoet
By: glass_icarus
Rating: PG
Summary: It’s the first day of the rest of the world, but it may still be impossible to outmaneuver Agnes Nutter.
It was Sunday afternoon, on the first day of the rest of the world, and Adam Young was grounded.1 He watched a bit wistfully as the rest of the Them pounded happily down the road toward the circus, laughter trailing after them like a banner. Granted, he couldn’t exactly tell his parents that he’d just been stopping the Apocalypse, but it wasn’t as if saving the world was like throwing a baseball into the neighbor’s window, after all.
Dog whined, scratching at the hedge surrounding the yard.
“Stop that, Dog. We’re not s’posed to leave the house, you know.” Although… it was such a sunny afternoon, and the fields beyond the house were awfully tempting. Adam knew for a fact that the first apples of the season would be growing in the trees down the street.
Dog whined again. Adam looked around carefully, but both parents were inside the house. He met Dog’s soulful gaze and winked. A moment later, there was a hole in the hedge, and Dog raced joyfully out, Adam at his heels.
It wasn’t messing people about, not really, and the summer would be over soon.
--
Aziraphale woke to the sound of rapping on his front door on Sunday morning. "Crowley?" he called. "Is that you, dear?" He shuffled out of his bedroom, materializing a pair of warm, fluffy slippers on the way.
An innocent-looking, brown-wrapped parcel sat on his front step. There was no return address, but the spidery handwriting on it2 looked quite familiar. Aziraphale blinked at it owlishly. "Oh." A moment later, his eyes lit up. "Oh." An excited flush rose to his cheeks, and he hurried back inside.
--
Halfway across the field, the smell of something burning at Jasmine Cottage caught his attention. Adam slowed to watch the white plume of smoke curling toward the sky.
For a moment, he heard laughter on the breeze: a rich, full-bellied laugh, laced with wicked good humor. It was the laugh of someone who knew a great deal more than was healthy. A woman’s face appeared briefly in the smoke, winking at him.
THAT ONE’S OVERDUE, a voice said. Adam turned to see DEATH grinning in his face. He grinned back.
Oh sod off, yowe great buffoon. I haue been dead these three or four centurief, a second voice declared. Dog yelped, running over to lean quivering against Adam’s shins. Adam glanced back at the chimney.
“Oh, hullo. Who’re you?”
AGNES NUTTER, said DEATH. I THOUGHT YOU WERE WATCHING OVER YOUR KIN?
Oh, my Anathema haf made her ownne decisionne.
“Anathema?”
Shee is my many tymes grate grand-daughter, Agnes said proudly.
“Really? I didn’t know that.” Adam mulled this over, reaching up to pluck some apples from a drooping branch.
SHE’S ALSO BURNT YOUR BOOK, DEATH said, pointing at the smoking chimney.
Agnes cackled. That’s what yowe thinke! I sent out two copief this tyme.
“Wait,” Adam said, confused. “What book?”
--
A few hours after Aziraphale received his delivery, Crowley eased the Bentley to a stop a block and a half away from the bookshop, as was his habit.3 He ambled cheerfully up to the door, knocking loudly to penetrate Aziraphale's perpetually book-fogged senses. “Angel?” When no reply came, Crowley frowned and knocked louder. “Angel!”
An old lady passing on the other side of the street gave him an odd look. “Oh, sod off,” Crowley muttered; after all, it wasn't as if he was lurking. With a scowl and a vague twisting gesture of his fingers, he let himself in.
The bookshop was a dusty, disorganized mess. This in itself wasn't an unexpected state, given Aziraphale's aversion to customers, but to Crowley's practiced gaze, the degree of disorder was exponentially higher than usual. Rolling his eyes, Crowley took a deep breath. “ANGEL!” he bellowed. The antiquated inkwell on one of the windowsills rattled with the force of the vibrations. Somewhere in the bowels of the back room stacks, a few papers rustled, followed by a sneeze. Crowley waited, tapping his foot impatiently.
A moment later, Aziraphale appeared, dusty and disheveled and wearing the ugliest plaid slippers Crowley had ever seen in his life.4 “Sorry, sorry,” he said breathlessly, absently readjusting his spectacles. “I was just-”
“Reading, yes, yes,” Crowley drawled. “What was it this time? Donne? Wilde? Dickens?”
“Actually, I hadn’t started it yet- I thought I’d wait for you. It’s Agnes Nutter,” Aziraphale said conspiratorially, beaming.
“I got a parcel in the post this morning.”
Crowley stared at him, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry,” he said, "but weren't the Nife and Accurate Prophecies burnt to a crisp during the Not-Apocalypse?"
“Of course, dear, but that wasn't what I was referring to. These are the Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies.”
Crowley blinked. He blinked again. Then he materialized a bottle of vodka and took a swig. “Lead on, then.”
--
“A book of prophecies?” Adam scratched his head.
SHE LIKES TO MEDDLE, said DEATH.
’Tis yowe are the meddlesome one, yowe cheeky olde bone-sack, Agnes sniffed.
Adam frowned. “Isn’t that just messin’ people about? If you know today that somethin’ good’s gonna happen tomorrow, there’s no fun in it. An’ if something bad’s gonna happen that you can’t change, then what’s the point in knowin’?”
HE HAS A POINT.
Alle knowledge is worth havinge, Agnes replied serenely. ’Tis just a matter of choosing what to do with it. My Anathema haf made her choice.
“But who has the other copy?”
--
In the back room of the bookshop, Aziraphale opened the box with reverent hands. Crowley eyed the yellowing manuscript with misgiving.
“Angel.”
“Yes, dear?”
“Are you going to read it or not?”
“Oh… yes, of course.” Aziraphale’s fingers fluttered hesitantly around the corners until Crowley sighed and upended the box into his hands.
“Here.”
Sparing him a reproachful look, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter,” he read. “Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com; Ye Saga Continuef!”
Crowley winced. “Sounds like a bad sequel already,” he muttered.
Aziraphale turned the page. “Shut yowre mouth, yowe miserable demon.”
“HEY!” Crowley peered over his shoulder and gulped. His face turned to a ghastly shade of white.
“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale said faintly.
“… Yes, angel?”
“Pass the vodka, please. I think I’m going to need it.”
--
Miles away in Lower Tadfield, Adam Young lay beside DEATH, watching the clouds float by. Dog was sprawled in a heap over his feet. “If she sent them the book, does it count as messin’ people about?” he asked.
DEATH shrugged. WHO KNOWS? THEY AREN’T HUMAN.
“I guess,” Adam said doubtfully. He took an apple out of his pocket and polished it on his shirt.
Yowe needn’t worrie, Agnes said tartly. Those two sots shalle take care of themfelves, just like the rest of the worlde. And that stingy bookshoppe owner neuer lets go of hif merchandise.
Adam grinned. “Yeah. That prob’ly covers it, then.” He crunched into his apple. It was shiny and green and most definitely unripe5, but Adam thought apples were best eaten fresh off the tree. He savored the taste, then held out his hand. “Want a bite?”
1. Although “grounded” is really a relative term when one is the Antichrist.
2. Mifter Azeera Fell, read the label. On the second line, in smaller print: Antique Bookshoppe Owner. On the third line, in very fine print: Angel.
3. “No point in attracting attention, dear,” Aziraphale had said the first time he'd arrived, eyes darting from side to side as they did whenever the subject of customers came up. Crowley had let this notion pass without comment; he simply hadn't had the heart to tell the angel that he didn't want his prized Bentley to be seen in front of such a dilapidated-looking storefront.
4. Er, existence.
5. Much like the rest of the world, in fact.
Happy Holidays, thesilentpoet, from your Secret Author!