Happy Holidays, vulgarweed!
Title: The Angelic Host
For: Vulgarweed
By: migratory
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Artist's Notes: I tried to fit in everything you wanted - hope it's not too fluffy. Happy holidays! And many thanks to my Beta, of course.
Famine rather enjoyed the ride across the South Downs. Immortality has its uses, and he was able to admire the treacherous patches of black ice waiting to claim Christmas morning motorists out in their new toys without worrying too much about his own bike. Still, he slowed down a little, not wanting to arrive too early. This year dinner was being hosted at Aziraphale’s, which meant that the wine would be good but whoever arrived first would have to make conversation about books. Famine didn’t do books.
**
Crowley’s relief at escaping the Christmas preparations for once outweighed his annoyance at being sent on an errand. Gathering mistletoe might be a slightly demeaning job for a representative of Hell, but it was preferable to being within a hundred yards of Aziraphale’s flapping. Crowley didn’t see what the fuss was about, to be honest - anything would beat last year’s fiasco. War had decided to play host in a cave in Afghanistan, which put a wholly predictable damper on the proceedings. Too attached to her job, that was her problem.
It had taken him a fortnight, Crowley remembered with irritation, to sort out the Bentley’s paint job. It served her right that Aziraphale now kept the old flaming sword on the wall above his fireplace. Let her stare at that throughout dinner.
He came to a tree he knew had mistletoe in. There now appeared to be no mistletoe whatsoever. Either someone had already pinched it, or...
‘I’m going to turn around for ten seconds,’ said Crowley, ‘and when I turn back I expect to see mistletoe. None of this hiding nonsense.’
He duly turned away, adding as he looked in the other direction, ‘and, if it helps, it’s the angel who’ll be looking after you. Not me.’
There was no sound, and no sensation of movement, but when Crowley turned back he could see a familiar dark ball in the branches. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
Flying up the tree would involve tearing the back of his coat to unpack his wings. Conversely, climbing the tree would get him out of peeling carrots. No contest, really.
**
Looking round the lounge, Famine couldn’t help noticing that Aziraphale’s house had a few uncharacteristically streamlined pieces of technology. The angel had never struck him as the type to own a laptop thinner than the phone book, or a clock that displayed, with ostentatious discretion, the time in four world capitals. The cuckoo clock telling the wrong time over the fireplace looked like a far more probable candidate for angelic ownership.
The doorbell announced the arrival of Pollution, with Pestilence in tow. Aziraphale’s expression said that the ex-horseman had clearly not been invited, but the angel was gracious in annoyance and showed them both into the lounge.
‘Famine!’ said Pestilence. ‘Long time.’
‘Indeed,’ said Famine. ‘How’s retirement?’
‘Fantastic. You should try it.’
‘I’m having too much fun,’ said Famine. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Pollution offered a lift, so I figured I’d come along. Don’t think he told Aziraphale, though.’
Pestilence shrugged. ‘Mind you, that angel never liked me.’
‘No?’
‘We had some hostile run-ins during the Romantic period. He takes things too personally.’
Pestilence grinned. ‘I did some of my best work then, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘Did you ever manage to starve a king?’
Famine rolled his eyes. ‘No. But remind me, did you ever manage to cope with the discovery of mould on bread? I forget.’
‘Touché.’
There was a moment’s awkward silence, before Pollution asked cheerfully, ‘Is War coming?’
‘Wouldn’t be Christmas without her,’ said Crowley, striding into the room and collapsing into an empty armchair.
‘You look all Christmassed out, to be honest,’ said Famine.
‘Yeah, well, it’s a busy time.’
‘Present shortages and media hostility to organise?’ asked Pollution.
Crowley shook his head. ‘That I can cope with. Aziraphale, on the other hand...’ He sighed melodramatically and brushed a couple of stray leaves from his coat. ‘I don’t understand how someone who never goes out can have such a long Christmas card list. Or how it can possibly be fun to get up at six am to start cooking the dinner. Or how anyone can buy nice booze and then leave it in the special cupboard with all the other things I’m not allowed to touch....’ Crowley’s complaints tailed away, and he sank back into the chair.
‘Nice work on the gas leak in Bournemouth, though,’ said Famine. ‘I liked the “CHRISTMAS IS DOOOOMED” headlines.’
‘Thanks. And I have to admire the Brussels sprout shortage. Takes class, turning a deficit of something everyone hates into a national disaster.’
War’s arrival interrupted the mutual congratulations, and Aziraphale appeared in a checked apron to announce that dinner was ready, as soon as they’d taken the traditional group photo in the snow.
**
Stretching theatrically, Crowley wandered outside after the others. The arranged themselves into a suitably tight-knit group, and waited for Aziraphale to work out which camera buttons to press in order to operate the timer. A couple of flashes in quick succession suggested that they had two more pictures of the angel’s shoes to add to the growing collection.
‘Every bloody year,’ murmured War.
‘Could be worse,’ said Pestilence. ‘Remember when he had to mess around with those glass plates? Standing frozen for minutes at a time.’
‘And when Crowley changed into that monster and the plate broke?’
‘Good times,’ said Crowley happily. ‘That was worth the lecture on the price of equipment.’
‘At least Death doesn’t come to these things any more,’ said Pestilence. ‘ How many times did lunch go cold while Aziraphale tested his new theory on how to make him show up on film?’
‘Before my time,’ said Pollution. ‘Thankfully.’
‘We’ll show you the album sometime’ said Crowley. ‘There are a lot of empty spaces.’
‘Got it,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Smile, everyone.’
Aziraphale, Crowley, War, Pestilence, Pollution, Famine
Once the angel had finished obeying his muse, they were allowed back inside. Famine wandered into the dining room for long enough to politely admire Aziraphale’s decorations and share in the toast, before taking himself back into the garden until the meal was over. He didn’t mind, though. Many years ago they had stubbornly tried to include everyone in the whole day, only to learn that none of them could truly suppress their nature. Food had failed to satisfy, fresh new snow was never white by the time they took their walks and Trivial Pursuit had led to bloodshed.1 By mutual agreement the horsepeople now excused themselves whenever their presence would be detrimental.
As he closed the door, though, Famine looked back in time to witness Pestilence turning to Crowley and loudly asking, ‘so, are you two shagging then?’
As awkward silences went, Famine would have given that one seven out of ten.
**
Crowley was speechless for a moment, but mostly because he was searching for a reply that was both witty and suitable for the dining table. Aziraphale had had Words with him quite a while ago about suitable dinner conversation, and the angel’s rather specific rules vetoed most of Crowley’s prospective replies.
He settled for ‘Not at this moment.’
Even that got a ‘watch yourself’ look from Aziraphale.
‘Anyway,’ said Crowley, heading for the drinks cabinet, ‘who’s for wine?’
Really though, he thought, what did they think all that mistletoe was for? It wasn’t as if War was likely to kiss them all.
**
Famine’s thoughts had begun to wander when he sensed a change in the atmosphere of the garden, as if every plant had said ‘oh no’ somewhere beneath his hearing. Turning round, he saw Crowley walking towards him with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
‘Hey,’ the demon said.
‘Hi,’ said Famine. ‘There’s no need to leave the party.’
Crowley rolled his eyes. ‘They’re watching Raiders of the Lost Ark.’
‘Not your thing?’
‘Very much my thing, except when the angel has hold of the remote.’
‘Ah. He interferes?’
‘He corrects the theological premise.’ Crowley poured the wine. ‘And he thinks the film is “nicer without those beastly Nazis”.’ Offering Famine a drink, he added, ‘Your compatriots don’t know what’s about to hit them. Two hours of Harrison Ford educating the masses.”’
Famine took the glass and winced. ‘And you let him have the remote?’
‘Fair’s fair - I get it later.’
‘What’s on then?’
‘Jurassic Park.’ The demon grinned. ‘And I never liked those whiny fucking children.’
**
1. Q - Who wrote Another One Bites the Dust? A - Apparently not Tchaikovsky.
Happy Holidays, vulgarweed, from your Secret Author!
For: Vulgarweed
By: migratory
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Artist's Notes: I tried to fit in everything you wanted - hope it's not too fluffy. Happy holidays! And many thanks to my Beta, of course.
Famine rather enjoyed the ride across the South Downs. Immortality has its uses, and he was able to admire the treacherous patches of black ice waiting to claim Christmas morning motorists out in their new toys without worrying too much about his own bike. Still, he slowed down a little, not wanting to arrive too early. This year dinner was being hosted at Aziraphale’s, which meant that the wine would be good but whoever arrived first would have to make conversation about books. Famine didn’t do books.
**
Crowley’s relief at escaping the Christmas preparations for once outweighed his annoyance at being sent on an errand. Gathering mistletoe might be a slightly demeaning job for a representative of Hell, but it was preferable to being within a hundred yards of Aziraphale’s flapping. Crowley didn’t see what the fuss was about, to be honest - anything would beat last year’s fiasco. War had decided to play host in a cave in Afghanistan, which put a wholly predictable damper on the proceedings. Too attached to her job, that was her problem.
It had taken him a fortnight, Crowley remembered with irritation, to sort out the Bentley’s paint job. It served her right that Aziraphale now kept the old flaming sword on the wall above his fireplace. Let her stare at that throughout dinner.
He came to a tree he knew had mistletoe in. There now appeared to be no mistletoe whatsoever. Either someone had already pinched it, or...
‘I’m going to turn around for ten seconds,’ said Crowley, ‘and when I turn back I expect to see mistletoe. None of this hiding nonsense.’
He duly turned away, adding as he looked in the other direction, ‘and, if it helps, it’s the angel who’ll be looking after you. Not me.’
There was no sound, and no sensation of movement, but when Crowley turned back he could see a familiar dark ball in the branches. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
Flying up the tree would involve tearing the back of his coat to unpack his wings. Conversely, climbing the tree would get him out of peeling carrots. No contest, really.
**
Looking round the lounge, Famine couldn’t help noticing that Aziraphale’s house had a few uncharacteristically streamlined pieces of technology. The angel had never struck him as the type to own a laptop thinner than the phone book, or a clock that displayed, with ostentatious discretion, the time in four world capitals. The cuckoo clock telling the wrong time over the fireplace looked like a far more probable candidate for angelic ownership.
The doorbell announced the arrival of Pollution, with Pestilence in tow. Aziraphale’s expression said that the ex-horseman had clearly not been invited, but the angel was gracious in annoyance and showed them both into the lounge.
‘Famine!’ said Pestilence. ‘Long time.’
‘Indeed,’ said Famine. ‘How’s retirement?’
‘Fantastic. You should try it.’
‘I’m having too much fun,’ said Famine. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Pollution offered a lift, so I figured I’d come along. Don’t think he told Aziraphale, though.’
Pestilence shrugged. ‘Mind you, that angel never liked me.’
‘No?’
‘We had some hostile run-ins during the Romantic period. He takes things too personally.’
Pestilence grinned. ‘I did some of my best work then, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘Did you ever manage to starve a king?’
Famine rolled his eyes. ‘No. But remind me, did you ever manage to cope with the discovery of mould on bread? I forget.’
‘Touché.’
There was a moment’s awkward silence, before Pollution asked cheerfully, ‘Is War coming?’
‘Wouldn’t be Christmas without her,’ said Crowley, striding into the room and collapsing into an empty armchair.
‘You look all Christmassed out, to be honest,’ said Famine.
‘Yeah, well, it’s a busy time.’
‘Present shortages and media hostility to organise?’ asked Pollution.
Crowley shook his head. ‘That I can cope with. Aziraphale, on the other hand...’ He sighed melodramatically and brushed a couple of stray leaves from his coat. ‘I don’t understand how someone who never goes out can have such a long Christmas card list. Or how it can possibly be fun to get up at six am to start cooking the dinner. Or how anyone can buy nice booze and then leave it in the special cupboard with all the other things I’m not allowed to touch....’ Crowley’s complaints tailed away, and he sank back into the chair.
‘Nice work on the gas leak in Bournemouth, though,’ said Famine. ‘I liked the “CHRISTMAS IS DOOOOMED” headlines.’
‘Thanks. And I have to admire the Brussels sprout shortage. Takes class, turning a deficit of something everyone hates into a national disaster.’
War’s arrival interrupted the mutual congratulations, and Aziraphale appeared in a checked apron to announce that dinner was ready, as soon as they’d taken the traditional group photo in the snow.
**
Stretching theatrically, Crowley wandered outside after the others. The arranged themselves into a suitably tight-knit group, and waited for Aziraphale to work out which camera buttons to press in order to operate the timer. A couple of flashes in quick succession suggested that they had two more pictures of the angel’s shoes to add to the growing collection.
‘Every bloody year,’ murmured War.
‘Could be worse,’ said Pestilence. ‘Remember when he had to mess around with those glass plates? Standing frozen for minutes at a time.’
‘And when Crowley changed into that monster and the plate broke?’
‘Good times,’ said Crowley happily. ‘That was worth the lecture on the price of equipment.’
‘At least Death doesn’t come to these things any more,’ said Pestilence. ‘ How many times did lunch go cold while Aziraphale tested his new theory on how to make him show up on film?’
‘Before my time,’ said Pollution. ‘Thankfully.’
‘We’ll show you the album sometime’ said Crowley. ‘There are a lot of empty spaces.’
‘Got it,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Smile, everyone.’
Aziraphale, Crowley, War, Pestilence, Pollution, Famine
Once the angel had finished obeying his muse, they were allowed back inside. Famine wandered into the dining room for long enough to politely admire Aziraphale’s decorations and share in the toast, before taking himself back into the garden until the meal was over. He didn’t mind, though. Many years ago they had stubbornly tried to include everyone in the whole day, only to learn that none of them could truly suppress their nature. Food had failed to satisfy, fresh new snow was never white by the time they took their walks and Trivial Pursuit had led to bloodshed.1 By mutual agreement the horsepeople now excused themselves whenever their presence would be detrimental.
As he closed the door, though, Famine looked back in time to witness Pestilence turning to Crowley and loudly asking, ‘so, are you two shagging then?’
As awkward silences went, Famine would have given that one seven out of ten.
**
Crowley was speechless for a moment, but mostly because he was searching for a reply that was both witty and suitable for the dining table. Aziraphale had had Words with him quite a while ago about suitable dinner conversation, and the angel’s rather specific rules vetoed most of Crowley’s prospective replies.
He settled for ‘Not at this moment.’
Even that got a ‘watch yourself’ look from Aziraphale.
‘Anyway,’ said Crowley, heading for the drinks cabinet, ‘who’s for wine?’
Really though, he thought, what did they think all that mistletoe was for? It wasn’t as if War was likely to kiss them all.
**
Famine’s thoughts had begun to wander when he sensed a change in the atmosphere of the garden, as if every plant had said ‘oh no’ somewhere beneath his hearing. Turning round, he saw Crowley walking towards him with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
‘Hey,’ the demon said.
‘Hi,’ said Famine. ‘There’s no need to leave the party.’
Crowley rolled his eyes. ‘They’re watching Raiders of the Lost Ark.’
‘Not your thing?’
‘Very much my thing, except when the angel has hold of the remote.’
‘Ah. He interferes?’
‘He corrects the theological premise.’ Crowley poured the wine. ‘And he thinks the film is “nicer without those beastly Nazis”.’ Offering Famine a drink, he added, ‘Your compatriots don’t know what’s about to hit them. Two hours of Harrison Ford educating the masses.”’
Famine took the glass and winced. ‘And you let him have the remote?’
‘Fair’s fair - I get it later.’
‘What’s on then?’
‘Jurassic Park.’ The demon grinned. ‘And I never liked those whiny fucking children.’
**
1. Q - Who wrote Another One Bites the Dust? A - Apparently not Tchaikovsky.
Happy Holidays, vulgarweed, from your Secret Author!