Happy Holidays, emerald_embers! (Post 2)
The Hijinks of Heaven and Hell (Post 2)
Author: Secret! Shh!! :D
Rating: PG-13
For: Emerald Embers
Beta: Vulgarweed
Pairings/Characters: Lucifer/God; Beelzebub/Sahaqiel (implied); Crowley/Aziraphale; Crowley/Pollution (implied); Pollution/Famine and the ducks of St. James Park. Plus a whole slew of supporting demons and angels, though no Apocalypse or Anti-Christ(s) making a grand appearance. Maybe next time.
Prompt: I love humour, romance, fluff, gen, Christmas fic; or if it's anything with the horsemen I love dark humour, mild dubcon and POV fics.
Disclaimer: Do I look like Terry Pratchett or Neil Gaiman? No? Then obviously I don’t own any of the characters herein. Except maybe the characterizations of God; Lucifer; Beelzebub and only Someone knows how huge the supporting cast is!
Part 5
Crowley sipped his wine in an unamused fashion as he watched his dining partner across the table from him. Usually the angel was discussing current events; memories of their time in Pompeii*; any new books he might be interested in or business. However, the angel was quiet and it set Crowley’s teeth on edge.
"So?" he finally questioned, feeling that may be the best way to get him to come out of his shell and tell him what this was all about. "Is there any reason for this occasion or were you just looking for an excuse to go eat Italian? You don’t need me for that, if that’s the case."
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at his companion and sighed. "Am I forbidden now to call you up and ask you to dinner just because?" he hedged. He really didn’t want to think about his uninvited visitor that had gone through his things, handed him an envelope and left without saying much.
"Normally you don’t," said Crowley grudgingly. "Usually there is something you wish to discuss and even then you aren’t as quiet as you’ve been now. Is something wrong?"
"So nice of you to care, dear, but no. Nothing’s wrong, just odd."
Crowley blinked behind his sunglasses as he analyzed that statement. "Odd?" the demon asked carefully, not wanting to be blown up at. He remembered quite well what had really happened in Pompeii**.
Aziraphale sighed looking rather put out at having been questioned, but seriously what did he expect? Crowley eyed him over the tops of his sunglasses in a pointed look that translated to ‘I’m going to be patient and wait you out, but you are going to tell me what the matter is or there will be dire consequences’. He had perfected that look sometime in the 15th century.
Aziraphale sighed, examining his glass of wine and the play the light was having on the surface before he finally got up the nerve to answer. "You don’t know if your side’s planning anything, do you?" Aziraphale hated making accusations towards Crowley, but perhaps it had just slipped his mind. He was ever so busy after all.
Crowley stared at him for an awkward moment and, clutching his wineglass in his hand, took a huge swallow. Thinking back carefully, he tried to deduce just what the angel was asking him. Did he know of any plan? Hardly! Nothing the angel would have ever caught wind of at any rate. Or at least not this soon. "No. Why?"
"There was one of your number at my shop today," said the angel quietly looking at his companion to carefully gauge his reaction. It was difficult with the sunglasses, but Aziraphale felt that he knew Crowley’s facial expressions well enough. "He didn’t do much. Just examined the shop. I had hoped you might have heard something."
Crowley’s eyebrows had shot up towards his hairline the instant Aziraphale had said he had had a demonic visitor. He thought hard about the angel’s question now. Had he heard anything? Anything at all. If Hell was going to make a hit on the angel he probably wouldn’t. After all, he’d stood beside him and defended the world with him against the Metatron and Beelzebub. They probably had already had a good look at his reports and had someone covertly observing him. Shit! He shouldn’t even be having this lunch then. "Nope," the demon said flippantly standing up to go get his coat. "Can’t say I have. Well, it’s been lovely, but I have an appointment I need to get to. Don’t be a stranger, angel!"
"What?" asked Aziraphale as he watched Crowley get up to go and had jerked on his designer jacket. "I thought we might feed the ducks . . ."
"Another time," said Crowley testily thinking of how much danger he might be in***. "I’ll call you for a rain check, yes?"
"I suppose," said Aziraphale slowly as he watch the demon leave. He sat there for a moment, then paid for the meal, and walked back to the shop.
He felt it before he came around the corner, the presence of a strong demonic force hit him and caused him to wince. He glared up the street towards his shop, which to any normal observer was still just a musty old bookshop, but to Aziraphale the aura around the shop pulsed with an intensely demonic energy. His vision swam and he backed away from the shop. The angel didn’t know what was going on, but if there were still demons in his shop that could send out that much energy he had to get out of here now.
* Before the explosion, of course.
** To say that Aziraphale had gotten angry at his associate was something of an understatement. Their’s had never been a opposition with much bloodshed, but talk about sensitive! Crowley never snidely discussed Aziraphale’s weight in front of the angel and a company of others ever again.
*** If he were caught the ramifications could and probably would be dire. Who knew what Hell would do? They’d probably take the angel down with him just for kicks and giggles. No, if the angel had caught wind of a plan Crowley didn’t know about, it was probably best that Crowley be nowhere near the angel.
Crowley drove erratically as he thought about just what might be going on. It was bloody impossible that Hell didn’t have it in for him. He’d gone up against a superior and while he had lived to tell the tale it had only been because Adam had . . . well, done whatever it was he did. Why though would they be after the angel? That part didn’t make any sense. They were seen together, sure, but that didn’t mean anything at all. It just meant that they had a shared interest in the continued existence of this world and they just happen to appear in the right spot at the same time. He drove past beeping cars and angry yelling people as he sped up the Bentley. It hit him then and he screeched to a stop, several cars behind him honked loudly, annoyed. He wanted to scream! How could he have not of figured it out while he was in the restaurant with Aziraphale? Looking around he did a quick U-turn, doubling back towards the bookshop. Surely the angel would have gone there after their lunch.
Brakes squealed loudly, protesting the sudden abuse the car was receiving. Crowley didn’t care at the moment and jumped out of the car hurriedly, his whole being was tense and worried as he walked up. The first thing to hit him was the slowly dissipating demonic aura, though much weaker than when Aziraphale had walked up it still made Crowley’s stomach coil into a knot and his heart* try to jump painfully out of his throat and get stuck there.
With a jerky motion Crowley opened the door, the bell ringing loudly in the gloom. "Angel?" came Crowley’s voice ringing through the quiet, dusty shop. He stepped in, carefully looking for any hint that the angel might be anywhere about. He sniffed delicately, not wanting to start another sneezing fit like he had once in 1968, and smelled the rank detestable odor of sulfur in the air.
He stiffened and looked around more closely, ticking off each of the books and coming to a blank spot at one of the lower shelves. Peering closer the demon’s eyes narrowed. It was not a book Aziraphale would normally read. It was one of his latest additions, courtesy of Adam, and was on the low shelf for easy reach of children. Why was it missing?
Crowley stalked around the shop sniffing carefully, catching concentrated wisps of the sulfuric stench at certain casual places, one of which was practically on top of Azraphale’s front counter! He glared angrily at the wooden surface, inspecting it as closely as he did his plants, and upon finding something suspicious plucked it up carefully between his two fingers**. It was a hair. He tucked it away in a tissue for further examination later*** and slithered into the backroom. The vapors stopped just past the doorway and went no further. Crowley’s tongue flickered out in an unconscious gesture of tasting the air.
There was nothing out of the ordinary in here. Nothing that would cause a demon serious ramifications. Aziraphale often kept his most treasured Bibles behind lock and key and carefully sealed so as to keep Crowley from being hurt by them. Why then had the demon, or demons, not ransacked the backroom if there was nothing here to harm them? Then again, perhaps they had cornered their quarry out in the showroom. He sniffed lightly around the front again, carefully deducing whether the angel had been here after their lunch. No, he figured after a closer inspection, Aziraphale had not been back here. Where then was the idiot? Crowley looked around and then smacked himself in the forehead. Where else would Aziraphale be other than the park?
He ran out, closing and locking the door with a thought, and slipped into the car. If he were lucky then Aziraphale would still be there. If not, well, he had some favors to call in.
* Or what passed for one in a demon.
** Crowley had spent some time involved in the latest detective shows and felt he had a rather adequate knowledge of forensic science, though, sadly he had forgotten his latex gloves and his plastic zip bags.
*** Crowley got it into his head to get a microscope some time ago for the purpose of playing detective. It was a quite nice microscope too. However, Crowley also knew some people who’d be happy to have a look at the hair.
Aziraphale sat on what had become his and Crowley’s bench, the ducks nibbling at the bread he tossed to them. They were being helpfully quiet and not quite as greedy as usual as any proper duck knows when not to push his luck. A young drake and his new family did, however, push their way through the mass and help themselves to a bit more than usual, but they had an excuse with extra mouths to feed, and with the slowing economy not many people were coming down to the pond with spare scraps of bread.
"Sometimes," Aziraphale said quietly to the ducks, but mostly to himself. "I don’t understand what’s going on with him. I mean, usually he’s a quite nice chap and then on occasion he does something singularly confounding that I have to wonder just what’s going through that head of his."
"If you’re talking about me, angel, the current thoughts going through my head are, ‘why is that stuffy prat talking to dumb animals? I knew he was going crazy!’ If not, however, I haven’t a clue." Crowley said coming and sitting down on the bench next to his companion and looked over the top of his sunglasses. "Want to tell me what spurred on this need to psycho-analyze me with the help of our fine feathered friends here? Oh look! There’s a new bunch! Kind of late for ducklings though*. When’d they get here?"
Aziraphale chuckled at Crowley’s sudden jump from topics, but knew he expected an answer none the less to the more serious question.
"They just hatched, I got to watch them this morning with their feathers still covered in afterbirth."
Crowley raised an eyebrow and looked over at the angel. "Would afterbirth even be the right word for the yolk sac?"
Aziraphale shrugged placatingly. "I suppose not, but it’s not as though they care what it’s called. Why did you leave in such a rush?"
"Hell," muttered Crowley. "They’re the ones who told you to get into contact with me aren’t they? They’re up to something and I’ll be buggered if I can figure out what. I think they know!" He looked up worriedly at the angel, his face looking thin and haggard in the smog filtered light.
"Ah!" said Aziraphale reaching for the obvious conclusion. "Best not to be seen with me as it might be a trap, but why double back then? I’d suspect they have watchers on you."
Crowley shook his head distractedly and ran his hands through his soft hair in agitation. "I thought that at first, but I got maybe thirty minutes away and thought, ‘No, that’s not right. They wouldn’t need proof of my involvement with you to yank me down kicking and screaming. They wouldn’t need any proof at all.’ I think they might be after you, but making a hit on an angel is a very testy business. You have to make sure it’s justified if you want to get away with it without Above getting edgy and taking a Flaming Sword to half a dozen of our field agents before they find out who the culprit is. I don’t think even Hastur or Ligur’s that stupid!"
"Me?" questioned Aziraphale looking a bit pale as Crowley watched the ducklings waddle around their expansive new world. "Why would they be after me?"
Crowley shrugged. "I don’t know. Maybe because you helped stop the end? I mean, seriously, I was only there when it really counted for backup support! I wasn’t the one who asked them if the Great Plan was really part of the overall Ineffable Plan," he stated wretchedly and glanced at Aziraphale from behind his dark glasses. "I went to the bookshop first to see if you were there. The place reeked!"
"Yes," said Aziraphale conversationally. "Was there any damage done to the place?"
Crowley shook his head a waning smile plastered on his face without much thought. "No. There was one of Adam’s little additions missing and the distinct smell of rotten eggs wafting around the place, but nothing that can’t be fixed. I found a hair that is neither yours nor mine and I’ll analyze it when I get to the flat."
"We should be heading back to our relative places of occupation. They may think to look for us here."
"You aren’t going back to the bookshop," stated Crowley flatly. "Is there anywhere else you can be put up right now?"
"Well, I do have a flat," the angel said slowly. His tone cautious as he said this as he had never told Crowley about his flat, had never even alluded to it and now he’d gone and mentioned it. "Sometimes the man from Intimate Books wants to know why I stay at the shop at all hours. It’s easier to jump on a bus and leave for a night or two than to explain things."
Crowley nodded slightly. "Right then," he said cheerfully. "I’m calling us a cab then."
"What?"
"I know what you’re thinking, you know," said Crowley cryptically as he slipped out his cell phone and thumbed through the list of contacts looking for the cabbies’ number. "And if you think to argue with me, I swear, Hell won’t have to discorporate you because I will! Honestly, being this much of an imposition. Getting yourself marked by Below like I don’t have better things to be doing than watching your back for you. You know, it’s because you’re so damned bloody endearing that I’m doing this! Ah yes! Hallo! Yes, I need a cab sent out to St. James. Yes, west end of. Yes, that’s right. Very good then, Ciao!" He snapped his phone closed and stuffed it back into his pocket. "Now see there? See what you’ve made me go and do? I’ve called you a cab . . . bloody perfect!"
"Crowley?" queried Aziraphale slowly with a soft smile. "You didn’t have to do that. I can take the bus."
"No," snapped the demon getting up. "Too many opportunities to take you out. Too many people!"
Aziraphale sighed quietly. "Dear, it really isn’t necessary though. I can walk or call my own cab. It wouldn’t be that difficult."
"If they’re following you though," exclaimed Crowley passionately, "they won’t stop! That aura was from a very high ranking Fallen or more than one. I’m not letting you be an idiot about this! They’ll kill you, not just discorporate you!"
Aziraphale sighed indulgently and made a face at the father duck who for some odd reason looked put upon**. Settling his face in his hand he sprinkled the last of his bread crumbs onto the grass a few feet away.
"There’s our ride," said Crowley placidly as he got up to lead the angel to the cab all the while his eyes were darting around, his other senses straining outwards to detect even the slightest demonic or celestial disturbance around. His demonic aura flared and then died down rapidly in a powerful display, stating plainly to any other demon, ‘This is my angel! Mine to kill and mine to keep around if I want! Touch him and see if I don’t put up a fight!’ It was a wasted effort of course as there were no demons following them, but it was the thought that counted.
* It was around early December, very late for ducklings. Of course a certain angel (and a certain demon, but don’t mention it in his hearing) would see to it that they thrived through the much colder months ahead.
** Aziraphale rarely had any contact with human parents and didn’t realize that this look was universal. Especially when the kids are asking questions the parent hasn’t the answer to.***
*** The troop of ducklings were currently asking their father why the one man in the dark glasses was yelling at the man in the camel hair coat that gave them all something lovely to eat.
Part 6
Slipping quietly into Crowley’s flat was fairly easy, and Lucifer chose that moment to wonder just why his underlings insisted upon giving the Serpent a warning before Hastur and Ligur arrived. It probably had to do with God’s annoying diehard habit of meddling in his affairs. She always did like the angel Gadre’el, always so funny and cheerful, she’d say with a dimpled grin; of course things hadn’t worked out exactly. Gadre’el had been one of Lucifer’s underlings in the celestial army and had followed his orders when it looked like he was in deep shit. So, the angel Gadre’el had become the Serpent Crawly and then the demon Crowley, which honestly took a toll on the former angel’s cheery attitude on life, or what had at least passed for one up in heaven.
Beelzebub followed at a sedated pace, looking around the clinically clean interior with a skeptical eye. "Well, this is better," he said conversationally. His sulphuric yellow eyes raking over the menagerie of houseplants which shuddered in their pots slightly. A small one near the edge of the table wobbled precariously, nearly tipping itself to the floor.
"Oi now!" snapped Lucifer catching it and moving it further back before it could make a mess. "None of that, lad! You’re in a demon’s home. Wouldn’t do to upset him."
Beelzebub smirked. "Didn’t know you talked to plants," came his quip. "Are there any other hobbies I should know of?"
"I cook a lot," The Devil said glaring at the other demon, just daring him to make fun. "And I crochet. What of it?"
"Crochet?" queried Beelzebub as he opened a slatted swinging door which led into the kitchen. His first impression was that of bewilderment as to why Crowley would need a refrigerator, especially one that wasn’t plugged in. He went around to the front, its sleek black front intimidating with its reflective image. "How can that bloody snake stand this in here?"
Lucifer poked his head in, as he had been headed to the bedroom. "I’d imagine he doesn’t use it all that much," he said seriously. "It’s just for looks, I’m sure."
"Still," muttered the other demon as he beat a hasty retreat. "So, what exactly are we looking for?"
"Just information. Like what their likes and dislikes are. Obviously, the angel likes books and wine. Crowley, it seems, likes technology and Soul Music. Not much you can do there."
"What was Crowley before, I can’t seem to recall?" said the demon prince seriously as he played with a click pen that he’d found while snooping in the flat’s office.
"Either a Virtue or a Domination, though I’m quite sure he was a Virtue. Could be wrong though."
"Thought I worked with the mite though," said Beelzebub looking thoughtful.
"I’d imagine that you did at one point," said The Devil seriously as he studiously examined the lush plants with a practiced grace. "He was one of God’s favored messengers. She still likes him, even now, and She’s kept the little wanker safe for 6,000 years! He doesn’t know that bit though." He sighed. "I believe that’s why She handed him over to me really. Favoring an angel more than the others is never a good idea."
"She favored you, though. It was obvious!" said Beelzebub with a small smile. "Still does, if She made this wager with you. So, tell me, you want a girl or another boy?"
The Devil shot his second a death glare and refused to comment on his teasing. "I wonder if getting Crowley to go to a psychologist would be a good idea?" he questioned instead as he went out to the balcony and prodded the plant on the table there with an uninterested finger. The fiddle-leaf fig winced away and shuddered visibly at the touch. "Or perhaps one of those anger management rooms where they let you throw around thousand dollar copies of Ming vases at the wall and break them. I mean, I’m all for pain, torture and fear, but this is going a bit overboard."
"It’s just a plant," said Beelzebub severely as he watched Lucifer carefully. "It’s not like there aren’t bijillions of them mooching off of other stupid bastards."
Lucifer looked at the fig tree contemplatively. "I suppose," he said slowly, "still, I’m taking this one home. Go get me a pen and a bit of stationery would you? I’ll leave a note and a recommendation for a good psychiatrist I know of."
Shrugging his shoulders, Beelzebub went back into the flat to get a piece of paper and that blessed click pen he’d been playing with a moment before. He’d never understand his boss’s impulses. It was really best not to ask.
Part 7
The ride over had been rather tedious in Crowley’s expert opinion and he wondered vaguely why Aziraphale lived in such a boring neighborhood. Well, lived would be the operative word really. He didn’t actually live there as Crowley didn’t actually live in his flat.
Both man-shaped beings got out and Crowley paid. "Look here," he said in perfect Arabic, "can you wait a moment while I show my friend up?"
The cabby looked over the money that been handed to him and nodded once, giving Crowley a knowing look. Who was he to judge someone else’s lifestyle? That was God’s job, not his. He could wait thirty minutes if the gentleman wanted him to. "Thirty minutes," said the man seriously. "That’s how much time you’ve got."
"Er . . . thanks!" said Crowley as he watched the fleeting look on the man’s face. Turning, he willed himself not to blush. Of course the guy would think that! It was the angel who gave off the poofter vibes and he was just in the fallout being in contact with the angel so often. That had to be it! "Come on, you!"
Aziraphale’s flat was on the older side of London, what there was of it, and as such didn’t have a proper lift. Three flights of stairs weren’t such an imposition as Crowley felt the angel needed the exercise, however, he hadn’t realized how badly his own form had gotten used to the lift and was a bit winded before they made it to third floor*. He stood a little behind Aziraphale as the angel put his key into the lock and opened the door. He looked around what he could see of the flat; from the doorway it looked plenty spacious enough. He nodded to himself. Aziraphale should be fine here.
"Are you coming in?" asked Aziraphale in what sounded to Crowley as hopeful, which caused the demon to raise an eyebrow in his direction.
"Afraid not," he said cooly, "and you shouldn’t have offered. Tell me to ‘Begone!’ and get done with it."
"I beg pardon?"
"Look! Surely you know the proper lore about demons? The Damned can not enter a dwelling unless they are offered entrance**. Once you offer entrance, they can come and go whenever they want. The thing is, only high ranking demons can seal the doorway from other demons and so I can’t enter unless you want another uninvited visitor from my side showing up. You need to revoke your invitation, angel."
Aziraphale sighed gustily, but saw the logic in it. If what Crowley said was true then it probably would be better if he did not enter his flat. Even if it wasn’t what Aziraphale would call his dwelling. "I suppose you have the right of it," he said at length. "Begone then."
Crowley smirked slightly. "That’ll do, angel. That’ll do." He laughed quietly as Aziraphale gave him a perplexed look and he turned and left. He’d have a look-see around the bookshop one more time before he went by Pollution’s place. Who knew that the youngest Horseman could be good at investigative work?
* Fourth floor if you’re an American.
** This is often used in popular horror fiction to describe the different methods to ward off vampires. The little bloodsuckers are a very lowly type of demon that even makes Crowley look godly. They’re above the fiend rank, but below the imp.
Pollution looked up as the door squeaked open on rusty hinges, and spied the demon entering his office. A slow grin worked its way up White’s face as he watched Crowley saunter in with a smirk plastered on his face. The demon was always charming when he came by, and after 18 long years of neither messing humans about, the world as they knew it would have gotten boring had they not had each other to lift the other’s spirits. Famine, as darling as he was, was just too set in his ways. Too stuffy, in a sense, to ever truly appreciate what White did. With Crowley that would never be a problem.
Taking up residence in the chair across the desk from the platinum blond youth, Crowley stretched his long legs out and let his muddy boots rest on the corner where a stack of manilla folders sat. He smirked knowingly as he watched White’s Adam’s Apple bob as he swallowed sharply. He cleared his throat delicately and watched as the personification’s eyes were dragged up to where his own were hidden by the designer plastic. "Should I wear shorts next time I come by?" he teased heartlessly.
Pollution snorted in mock disgust and gave the demon in front of him his full attention. "Hardly," he said his voice sounding floaty. "Let me guess, you came by for a drink and an ear?"
Crowley shook his head and made a face as though he had smelled something rank. "No. For once, I need your newly acquired skills," he said grimly. "Someone from my side is after Aziraphale. Don’t know why it took them this long. I don’t think Adam was powerful enough to dictate how his Father would handle our punishment for averting the end." He took the hair from his pocket and showed it to his cohort. "Does this look in any way or shape familiar to you?"
White grabbed the hair and pulled it between his fingers; its length was remarkable. "Got to be at least three feet!" he muttered expressively. "And it’s as thin as spider silk!"
"Though not as sticky," said Crowley his expression serious. "Do you know who’s it could be? It’s definitely a demon’s hair. The twang of power is there, but I’m muddled after examining Aziraphale’s shop. That aura was everywhere!"
"They examined his shop?" asked Pollution, concern lacing the otherwise soft voice. "This came off a high ranking demon! One of the Dark Council to be precise."
"I was afraid of that," stated the demon gloomily. "Is there anything that can be done? I’ve never really wrangled with Them before."
Pollution looked up into the visibly worried demon’s face and shrugged. "I try to stay out of it myself."
"What’s that? Oh hallo Crowley!" said Famine with a cheery wave from in the back. He seemed to have an arm load of groceries and a stern look was focused on the youth in front of him. "Do go out to the car will you. There’s two more bags out in the boot."
"When did he become domestic?" whispered Crowley, his brows raised in surprise. He never thought the day would come when Famine would be buying groceries like some little wife.
"Oh these aren’t for us, Crowley," shouted Famine from the little kitchenette in the back. "I’m working on development of my MEALS™*. The new line will have to have some sort of nutritional value in order for people to feel absolved about buying them. Isn’t like the old days when people just ate the stuff and didn’t care! Now, they actually read the little chart on the back of the box. And," he said as both came into the back in a conspiratorial whisper, "they expect the ingredients to be in a language they can understand. No more selling Twinkies™ like in the 80's."
Crowley gave a significant look to Pollution who shrugged at the demon. Well versed as the younger personification was in chemicals, even he didn’t quite understand his counterpart’s fascination with them. Then again, his design was to kill overtly with the chemicals at his disposal. Famine had to be much more subtle.
"Crowley could use some help," said White seriously passing Raven the hair. "He says one of The Dark Council’s after that angel friend of his."
"Business associate," interrupted Crowley. However, he had little to no attention paid to him, as often happened when Famine and Pollution got together. He often cut his losses and left, but he needed to know just who he was up against. It might be better to talk the angel into leaving on an extended holiday. Especially if it were someone like Beelzebub**.
Famine examined the hair with a clinical eye for detail and tsking handed back to Crowley. "I’d tell him to go have really good sex right now," he said at length, looking piteously at the hapless demon in front of him. "There’s nothing any of you can do about this. This isn’t just a Dark Council member. This is Lucifer you’re dealing with."
"How can you tell?" said Pollution skeptically, eyeing the hair for any other outward signs that he’d missed. It was throbbing with the demonic energy that was dispersing off it, but other than that there was no way for Famine to know.
Raven grinned. "He’s the only demon with this much power that has hair this long," he said seriously.
* It seems people weren’t to pleased about eating non-nutritious food that ended up killing them after all. Who knew they’d be so testy about it?
** He would have preferred Beelzebub to Moloch at any rate. While The Lord of the Flies was higher in the echelon, and therefore far more dangerous, Moloch was capable of taking demons and pounding them into the ground like tent pegs. Beelzebub at least had a certain art form to his random torture and destruction.
Crowley had never quite understood the old usage of saying ‘It felt like a ton of bricks!’. He’d always figured the humans were crazy and had left it at that, but now he knew what it meant, really. He had been stunned by Raven’s declaration, it wasn’t surprising, but to take personal interest like this meant something must be up. Crowley wasn’t sure if he should go home and try to forget the angel’s address, which was impossible anyway, or find the angel and try to get him out of the country or perhaps send him to Heaven. Heaven was preferable surely to being utterly destroyed by The Adversary.
What Famine had told him, and Pollution confirmed, had scared him witless. Adam was not to be relied on. Lucifer gave him his powers and Lucifer could take them away. The man was just a pawn after all. Adam was suppose to be Lucifer’s avatar here on earth and he was of no significant use if he didn’t comply by the rules. The Adversary had been slowly siphoning off the young man’s powers for nearly two decades. Doing it so slowly as to avoid detection by Adam, and it was almost finished. By Adam Young’s 31st birthday he’d be nothing but a lowly human. Susceptible as any other human to the many different ways one could die. Death, in fact, was not looking forward to it since the two had become quite good friends since the averted Apocalypse and liked playing backgammon on Sunday afternoons with tea and sandwiches. Of course, the greatest of the horsemen hadn’t told Adam any of this, it wasn’t done after all, but the other three could tell when Death came in that this was going to be the hardest job he’d ever have to do.
Crowley pulled up outside his row of flats and immediately knew something was off. The smell of rotten eggs seared his nose as he got out of the car and in a burst of adrenaline he was soon up to his flat sans the lift even being used. He turned the knob and creaked the door open slowly. Shuffling in, he assessed everything within his sight. Nothing. Lucifer wasn’t here waiting for him. That was at least one thing going for him. He slipped in and noted that his things had been touched and shuffled around. A plant, which he had kept close to the edge, daring it to fall to the floor, had been shoved back quite plainly to keep it from crashing and sending potting soil and plant bits all over the oak floor. He walked around carefully, keeping all his senses on high alert for any sort of trap. He didn’t feel any. He slid past his balcony door and glanced out, the fiddle-leafed fig was gone! He glanced about and stepping out, he sighted a bit of his stationary held down with his lighter and one of his click pens from his office. The bastard had been in his office for Someone’s sake! Had he no privacy? Had they gone through his room, too? He snatched the note off the table and stuffed the pen and lighter into his jacket’s front pocket. In the process of marching to his room he read the note,
"Crowley,
How’s it been mate? Haven’t seen you at the company’s Yule Time party and the lads are starting to be concerned. You should give them a ring when you have the time. I think they want to go play squash.
I’m going to look up some psychiatrists for you. You need it! Don’t argue with me! Tormenting humans and angels is all well and good, but the plants? Come on Crowley, you’re better than this! I’m thinking of sending you to Japan, they have a nice anger management program that might be able to help you.
As for the fiddle-leaf, don’t worry about it, if you can. I have it and will see to it. Always wanted a plant*.
Now, go have some fun with that angel that always turns up in your reports. I’m sure you can think of something appropriate.
L.A.Satan,
The Adversary; Emperor of Hell; King of Demons; etcetera . . .,
Crowley shuddered at the way that last sentence was worded**. That blessed bastard, he was goading him! Well, he wasn’t going to fall for it. Even if he did have to leave the blasted country. Aziraphale would understand, surely. And that’s where it fell apart. Who would watch the angel’s back? He’d not only been marked by Hell, but by Him! He wasn’t one to trifle with on any occasion, Crowley should know, and having Him angry with you was like having . . . well, God angry with you, but with more blood and pain than is considered necessary. He stepped into his room. Everything here was as pristine as he left it, but it was obvious from the aura that they’d been in here too. He sighed and sat on the bed. He needed to see the angel, that’s all there was to it. If he didn’t let him know there might be trouble later. Having The Devil after you literally was, in Crowley’s opinion, the worst thing that could happen to you.
* Yes, this is akin to a kid saying they always wanted a pet of their very own. Of course, surely, Lucifer being as old as he is at least knows something about horticulture. That the plant that he has confiscated needs sunlight; fresh air; plenty of water and rich soil to grow beautiful and green. He wouldn’t be incompetent in caring for a plant! Yes, the fiddle-leaf was better off with Crowley . . .at least then its demise would have been quick and relatively painless in comparison.
** Most times when Lucifer worded things with, ‘Now go have some fun . . .’ he usually meant that he wanted to see blood; spilled guts and feathers all over the place in the next 30 minutes. This time was different, but Crowley didn’t know that.
Part 8
Aziraphale was wrenched out of his reverie rather forcefully by an insistent pounding on his flat’s front door. He drew up in alarm when he felt Crowley’s aura flaring up wildly beyond the wood. He flung open the door just in time to catch the demon’s curled hand before it hit the door.
He stared for a moment. "I thought you were in some kind of danger!" snapped Aziraphale uncharitably as he hauled Crowley into the apartment and closed the door. He was about to give the demon a stern talking to when he noticed the broken look on his counterpart’s face. "What’s wrong?"
Crowley fidgeted, rubbing a hand across his face and removing his sunglasses in the process. They fell to the floor with a clatter, but to the demon it was inconsequential. He sighed and looked at the angel opening his mouth to speak, snapping it shut and then opening it again. It was as if the correct words weren’t coming to him. As though they were stuck in his throat. He finally grabbed Aziraphale roughly around the shoulders and brought him into a forceful kiss*.
When they pulled apart after too many minutes had passed, Aziraphale looked at Crowley bewildered. He grinned slightly as the demon fretted a bit and took one of Crowley’s hands in between his own. They were large hands, in comparison, with rather long fingers. Aziraphale stared quietly at Crowley for a moment as the demon contemplated their hands as if every secret of the world could be answered by them.
"Do you want to tell me what brought that on?" asked the angel softly.
Crowley released a breath he’d been holding for several minutes. "He’s after you," he said seriously, looking up at the angel with wide unblinking eyes. "I went by White’s and Sable’s place and though White couldn’t tell me much, Raven was dead set that it was Him."
"Him?" came the perplexed question out of the angel’s mouth until it registered just which Him Crowley was talking about. While both were equally bad and could do horrible things to anyone, it was The Devil that Crowley had feared the most after his Fall. God could just wink you out of existence. The Devil though would destroy you piece by piece in the slowest way possible. "You mean?. . . Why?"
Crowley had no answer that would satisfy both the angel and himself and shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. "I don’t know, Aziraphale. I haven’t heard anything. It’s like they just decided to come after you without sending a memo to any other demons in the vicinity**."
"I see," said Aziraphale, lamely trying to put up a brave front and failing miserably. "Well, I suppose I should thank you then. Best you not get caught with me should He find me."
"Bollocks!" snapped Crowley seething. He’d already decided. He was going down with Aziraphale if he had to. "I’m not leaving you all by yourself to face the firing squad. We’ve had a good run, you and I, and bless it, that’s no way for anyone to go! Just laying down and letting it happen!"
"That’s very sweet of you, dear boy, but surely if they see you with me they’ll kill you too." Aziraphale had no compunctions about going out like this. He was frightened as any proper being should be, but he had known, like all angels know, that they’ll have to put their very existence on the line when it came down to it.
Crowley scoffed disparagingly, "Like it matters," he said quietly. "He’ll probably be after me next anyway. His aura was all over my flat as well and the bastard stole one of my plants, so I definitely owe Him some grief for that. Think of it this way, He’ll probably expect us to be together when He finds us. So, let’s give Him what He wants and get it over with."
"Are you suggesting we go looking for Him?" asked Aziraphale in disbelief. Staring a little at Crowley as though he’d just renounced being a demon***.
Crowley shook his head. "Hardly! We’ll be able to sense Him several yards off. Long before He could sense us, if we’re careful, and we can plan it out so He won’t take us out as easily."
Aziraphale sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. Crowley was being incredibly gung-ho about this. Which was something that Aziraphale was incredibly suspicious about and he glared at the demon. "Crowley," he said blandly, an eyebrow raising for good measure. "I’ll be quite all right, honestly, I’d suspect that if you got out of England He might not even come after you at all."
Crowley started as though Aziraphale had slapped him. He had always known the silly bugger was crazy, knowingly hanging out with a demon was a sure sign of insanity in Crowley’s book even if the demon was him, but to refuse help? Any help at all, even if it was his and it would end up getting them both very much dead? That wasn’t insanity, that was insanity coupled with stupidity to make one weird love-child, and good Lo-whatever! He did not need that mental image****. "Have you finally lost the last vestige of sense you had, Aziraphale?" snapped Crowley seriously. "I’m not leaving! I’ll admit I considered it highly back at my flat, but I couldn’t! Had I, you’d’ve been left without a single word of warning of just who was after you. And had you gotten yourself destroyed, there wouldn’t be any lunches at the Ritz or late night drinking binges in the backroom of a dusty bookshop or walks in the park or feeding ducks or. Or anything! I’d be the eggs without salt and we can’t have that!"
Aziraphale looked Crowley in the eye and held his gaze for a long moment, cupping a cheek in his hand as he studied his long time enemy and friend, and for the first time understood just why Crowley had wanted to keep the earth going. It wasn’t just the humans, though it mostly was the humans and life in general, but Crowley would’ve gone to Hell and he’d have been stuck forever in Heaven. They’d never see each other again, now here it was once more. The whole world wasn’t in danger, just the little spot of it Crowley called his and it included him. If his existence was brought to an end there would be no point to Crowley continuing his own. Oh, he wouldn’t do anything stupid like attempt suicide as that wouldn’t work, but he wouldn’t be the same. He’d be nothing but a shell. An empty demon who might run across smells or sights and be forced to remember.
"If we’re going to die," Aziraphale stated quietly, brushing a thumb over Crowley’s high cheekbones as the demon leaned into his touch. "The salt would like to request that the eggs and he do some serious mad shagging."
Crowley’s eyes widened and then he grinned brightly. "The eggs would like to request of the salt, where’s your bed†?"
* Crowley would later claim that he had to do it. The words wouldn’t form without a little help. It’s always good to know just what you’re fighting for . . . etc. (Include any and all excuses you can think of.)
** Crowley wasn’t the only demon in England. He wasn’t even the only demon in London, but he was the only official field agent assigned to London and therefore never went back to Hell to punch the card and go to his own pit of misery. Take Rahovart for example: nice bloke for a demon, had a cushy gig as a runner for The Dark Council. Whenever he got a break, it was back to Hell with a little down time with the succubus and spawn. However, when ever Crowley would run into the chap he’d be far too busy to stop for a quick drink at the local pub. Sad really!
*** Akin to staring at someone as though they’d grown two heads, but much more so.
**** It involved something that looked sort of like a platypus, but blue and scaley. Don’t ask if you want to keep your brain.
† Their first time had been in Pompeii and this had prompted the snide remark about Aziraphale’s weight. Pity really that the explosion couldn’t have been caused by the sex because surely the people of the city would have been far more understanding.
Post 3
Author: Secret! Shh!! :D
Rating: PG-13
For: Emerald Embers
Beta: Vulgarweed
Pairings/Characters: Lucifer/God; Beelzebub/Sahaqiel (implied); Crowley/Aziraphale; Crowley/Pollution (implied); Pollution/Famine and the ducks of St. James Park. Plus a whole slew of supporting demons and angels, though no Apocalypse or Anti-Christ(s) making a grand appearance. Maybe next time.
Prompt: I love humour, romance, fluff, gen, Christmas fic; or if it's anything with the horsemen I love dark humour, mild dubcon and POV fics.
Disclaimer: Do I look like Terry Pratchett or Neil Gaiman? No? Then obviously I don’t own any of the characters herein. Except maybe the characterizations of God; Lucifer; Beelzebub and only Someone knows how huge the supporting cast is!
Part 5
Crowley sipped his wine in an unamused fashion as he watched his dining partner across the table from him. Usually the angel was discussing current events; memories of their time in Pompeii*; any new books he might be interested in or business. However, the angel was quiet and it set Crowley’s teeth on edge.
"So?" he finally questioned, feeling that may be the best way to get him to come out of his shell and tell him what this was all about. "Is there any reason for this occasion or were you just looking for an excuse to go eat Italian? You don’t need me for that, if that’s the case."
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at his companion and sighed. "Am I forbidden now to call you up and ask you to dinner just because?" he hedged. He really didn’t want to think about his uninvited visitor that had gone through his things, handed him an envelope and left without saying much.
"Normally you don’t," said Crowley grudgingly. "Usually there is something you wish to discuss and even then you aren’t as quiet as you’ve been now. Is something wrong?"
"So nice of you to care, dear, but no. Nothing’s wrong, just odd."
Crowley blinked behind his sunglasses as he analyzed that statement. "Odd?" the demon asked carefully, not wanting to be blown up at. He remembered quite well what had really happened in Pompeii**.
Aziraphale sighed looking rather put out at having been questioned, but seriously what did he expect? Crowley eyed him over the tops of his sunglasses in a pointed look that translated to ‘I’m going to be patient and wait you out, but you are going to tell me what the matter is or there will be dire consequences’. He had perfected that look sometime in the 15th century.
Aziraphale sighed, examining his glass of wine and the play the light was having on the surface before he finally got up the nerve to answer. "You don’t know if your side’s planning anything, do you?" Aziraphale hated making accusations towards Crowley, but perhaps it had just slipped his mind. He was ever so busy after all.
Crowley stared at him for an awkward moment and, clutching his wineglass in his hand, took a huge swallow. Thinking back carefully, he tried to deduce just what the angel was asking him. Did he know of any plan? Hardly! Nothing the angel would have ever caught wind of at any rate. Or at least not this soon. "No. Why?"
"There was one of your number at my shop today," said the angel quietly looking at his companion to carefully gauge his reaction. It was difficult with the sunglasses, but Aziraphale felt that he knew Crowley’s facial expressions well enough. "He didn’t do much. Just examined the shop. I had hoped you might have heard something."
Crowley’s eyebrows had shot up towards his hairline the instant Aziraphale had said he had had a demonic visitor. He thought hard about the angel’s question now. Had he heard anything? Anything at all. If Hell was going to make a hit on the angel he probably wouldn’t. After all, he’d stood beside him and defended the world with him against the Metatron and Beelzebub. They probably had already had a good look at his reports and had someone covertly observing him. Shit! He shouldn’t even be having this lunch then. "Nope," the demon said flippantly standing up to go get his coat. "Can’t say I have. Well, it’s been lovely, but I have an appointment I need to get to. Don’t be a stranger, angel!"
"What?" asked Aziraphale as he watched Crowley get up to go and had jerked on his designer jacket. "I thought we might feed the ducks . . ."
"Another time," said Crowley testily thinking of how much danger he might be in***. "I’ll call you for a rain check, yes?"
"I suppose," said Aziraphale slowly as he watch the demon leave. He sat there for a moment, then paid for the meal, and walked back to the shop.
He felt it before he came around the corner, the presence of a strong demonic force hit him and caused him to wince. He glared up the street towards his shop, which to any normal observer was still just a musty old bookshop, but to Aziraphale the aura around the shop pulsed with an intensely demonic energy. His vision swam and he backed away from the shop. The angel didn’t know what was going on, but if there were still demons in his shop that could send out that much energy he had to get out of here now.
* Before the explosion, of course.
** To say that Aziraphale had gotten angry at his associate was something of an understatement. Their’s had never been a opposition with much bloodshed, but talk about sensitive! Crowley never snidely discussed Aziraphale’s weight in front of the angel and a company of others ever again.
*** If he were caught the ramifications could and probably would be dire. Who knew what Hell would do? They’d probably take the angel down with him just for kicks and giggles. No, if the angel had caught wind of a plan Crowley didn’t know about, it was probably best that Crowley be nowhere near the angel.
Crowley drove erratically as he thought about just what might be going on. It was bloody impossible that Hell didn’t have it in for him. He’d gone up against a superior and while he had lived to tell the tale it had only been because Adam had . . . well, done whatever it was he did. Why though would they be after the angel? That part didn’t make any sense. They were seen together, sure, but that didn’t mean anything at all. It just meant that they had a shared interest in the continued existence of this world and they just happen to appear in the right spot at the same time. He drove past beeping cars and angry yelling people as he sped up the Bentley. It hit him then and he screeched to a stop, several cars behind him honked loudly, annoyed. He wanted to scream! How could he have not of figured it out while he was in the restaurant with Aziraphale? Looking around he did a quick U-turn, doubling back towards the bookshop. Surely the angel would have gone there after their lunch.
Brakes squealed loudly, protesting the sudden abuse the car was receiving. Crowley didn’t care at the moment and jumped out of the car hurriedly, his whole being was tense and worried as he walked up. The first thing to hit him was the slowly dissipating demonic aura, though much weaker than when Aziraphale had walked up it still made Crowley’s stomach coil into a knot and his heart* try to jump painfully out of his throat and get stuck there.
With a jerky motion Crowley opened the door, the bell ringing loudly in the gloom. "Angel?" came Crowley’s voice ringing through the quiet, dusty shop. He stepped in, carefully looking for any hint that the angel might be anywhere about. He sniffed delicately, not wanting to start another sneezing fit like he had once in 1968, and smelled the rank detestable odor of sulfur in the air.
He stiffened and looked around more closely, ticking off each of the books and coming to a blank spot at one of the lower shelves. Peering closer the demon’s eyes narrowed. It was not a book Aziraphale would normally read. It was one of his latest additions, courtesy of Adam, and was on the low shelf for easy reach of children. Why was it missing?
Crowley stalked around the shop sniffing carefully, catching concentrated wisps of the sulfuric stench at certain casual places, one of which was practically on top of Azraphale’s front counter! He glared angrily at the wooden surface, inspecting it as closely as he did his plants, and upon finding something suspicious plucked it up carefully between his two fingers**. It was a hair. He tucked it away in a tissue for further examination later*** and slithered into the backroom. The vapors stopped just past the doorway and went no further. Crowley’s tongue flickered out in an unconscious gesture of tasting the air.
There was nothing out of the ordinary in here. Nothing that would cause a demon serious ramifications. Aziraphale often kept his most treasured Bibles behind lock and key and carefully sealed so as to keep Crowley from being hurt by them. Why then had the demon, or demons, not ransacked the backroom if there was nothing here to harm them? Then again, perhaps they had cornered their quarry out in the showroom. He sniffed lightly around the front again, carefully deducing whether the angel had been here after their lunch. No, he figured after a closer inspection, Aziraphale had not been back here. Where then was the idiot? Crowley looked around and then smacked himself in the forehead. Where else would Aziraphale be other than the park?
He ran out, closing and locking the door with a thought, and slipped into the car. If he were lucky then Aziraphale would still be there. If not, well, he had some favors to call in.
* Or what passed for one in a demon.
** Crowley had spent some time involved in the latest detective shows and felt he had a rather adequate knowledge of forensic science, though, sadly he had forgotten his latex gloves and his plastic zip bags.
*** Crowley got it into his head to get a microscope some time ago for the purpose of playing detective. It was a quite nice microscope too. However, Crowley also knew some people who’d be happy to have a look at the hair.
Aziraphale sat on what had become his and Crowley’s bench, the ducks nibbling at the bread he tossed to them. They were being helpfully quiet and not quite as greedy as usual as any proper duck knows when not to push his luck. A young drake and his new family did, however, push their way through the mass and help themselves to a bit more than usual, but they had an excuse with extra mouths to feed, and with the slowing economy not many people were coming down to the pond with spare scraps of bread.
"Sometimes," Aziraphale said quietly to the ducks, but mostly to himself. "I don’t understand what’s going on with him. I mean, usually he’s a quite nice chap and then on occasion he does something singularly confounding that I have to wonder just what’s going through that head of his."
"If you’re talking about me, angel, the current thoughts going through my head are, ‘why is that stuffy prat talking to dumb animals? I knew he was going crazy!’ If not, however, I haven’t a clue." Crowley said coming and sitting down on the bench next to his companion and looked over the top of his sunglasses. "Want to tell me what spurred on this need to psycho-analyze me with the help of our fine feathered friends here? Oh look! There’s a new bunch! Kind of late for ducklings though*. When’d they get here?"
Aziraphale chuckled at Crowley’s sudden jump from topics, but knew he expected an answer none the less to the more serious question.
"They just hatched, I got to watch them this morning with their feathers still covered in afterbirth."
Crowley raised an eyebrow and looked over at the angel. "Would afterbirth even be the right word for the yolk sac?"
Aziraphale shrugged placatingly. "I suppose not, but it’s not as though they care what it’s called. Why did you leave in such a rush?"
"Hell," muttered Crowley. "They’re the ones who told you to get into contact with me aren’t they? They’re up to something and I’ll be buggered if I can figure out what. I think they know!" He looked up worriedly at the angel, his face looking thin and haggard in the smog filtered light.
"Ah!" said Aziraphale reaching for the obvious conclusion. "Best not to be seen with me as it might be a trap, but why double back then? I’d suspect they have watchers on you."
Crowley shook his head distractedly and ran his hands through his soft hair in agitation. "I thought that at first, but I got maybe thirty minutes away and thought, ‘No, that’s not right. They wouldn’t need proof of my involvement with you to yank me down kicking and screaming. They wouldn’t need any proof at all.’ I think they might be after you, but making a hit on an angel is a very testy business. You have to make sure it’s justified if you want to get away with it without Above getting edgy and taking a Flaming Sword to half a dozen of our field agents before they find out who the culprit is. I don’t think even Hastur or Ligur’s that stupid!"
"Me?" questioned Aziraphale looking a bit pale as Crowley watched the ducklings waddle around their expansive new world. "Why would they be after me?"
Crowley shrugged. "I don’t know. Maybe because you helped stop the end? I mean, seriously, I was only there when it really counted for backup support! I wasn’t the one who asked them if the Great Plan was really part of the overall Ineffable Plan," he stated wretchedly and glanced at Aziraphale from behind his dark glasses. "I went to the bookshop first to see if you were there. The place reeked!"
"Yes," said Aziraphale conversationally. "Was there any damage done to the place?"
Crowley shook his head a waning smile plastered on his face without much thought. "No. There was one of Adam’s little additions missing and the distinct smell of rotten eggs wafting around the place, but nothing that can’t be fixed. I found a hair that is neither yours nor mine and I’ll analyze it when I get to the flat."
"We should be heading back to our relative places of occupation. They may think to look for us here."
"You aren’t going back to the bookshop," stated Crowley flatly. "Is there anywhere else you can be put up right now?"
"Well, I do have a flat," the angel said slowly. His tone cautious as he said this as he had never told Crowley about his flat, had never even alluded to it and now he’d gone and mentioned it. "Sometimes the man from Intimate Books wants to know why I stay at the shop at all hours. It’s easier to jump on a bus and leave for a night or two than to explain things."
Crowley nodded slightly. "Right then," he said cheerfully. "I’m calling us a cab then."
"What?"
"I know what you’re thinking, you know," said Crowley cryptically as he slipped out his cell phone and thumbed through the list of contacts looking for the cabbies’ number. "And if you think to argue with me, I swear, Hell won’t have to discorporate you because I will! Honestly, being this much of an imposition. Getting yourself marked by Below like I don’t have better things to be doing than watching your back for you. You know, it’s because you’re so damned bloody endearing that I’m doing this! Ah yes! Hallo! Yes, I need a cab sent out to St. James. Yes, west end of. Yes, that’s right. Very good then, Ciao!" He snapped his phone closed and stuffed it back into his pocket. "Now see there? See what you’ve made me go and do? I’ve called you a cab . . . bloody perfect!"
"Crowley?" queried Aziraphale slowly with a soft smile. "You didn’t have to do that. I can take the bus."
"No," snapped the demon getting up. "Too many opportunities to take you out. Too many people!"
Aziraphale sighed quietly. "Dear, it really isn’t necessary though. I can walk or call my own cab. It wouldn’t be that difficult."
"If they’re following you though," exclaimed Crowley passionately, "they won’t stop! That aura was from a very high ranking Fallen or more than one. I’m not letting you be an idiot about this! They’ll kill you, not just discorporate you!"
Aziraphale sighed indulgently and made a face at the father duck who for some odd reason looked put upon**. Settling his face in his hand he sprinkled the last of his bread crumbs onto the grass a few feet away.
"There’s our ride," said Crowley placidly as he got up to lead the angel to the cab all the while his eyes were darting around, his other senses straining outwards to detect even the slightest demonic or celestial disturbance around. His demonic aura flared and then died down rapidly in a powerful display, stating plainly to any other demon, ‘This is my angel! Mine to kill and mine to keep around if I want! Touch him and see if I don’t put up a fight!’ It was a wasted effort of course as there were no demons following them, but it was the thought that counted.
* It was around early December, very late for ducklings. Of course a certain angel (and a certain demon, but don’t mention it in his hearing) would see to it that they thrived through the much colder months ahead.
** Aziraphale rarely had any contact with human parents and didn’t realize that this look was universal. Especially when the kids are asking questions the parent hasn’t the answer to.***
*** The troop of ducklings were currently asking their father why the one man in the dark glasses was yelling at the man in the camel hair coat that gave them all something lovely to eat.
Part 6
Slipping quietly into Crowley’s flat was fairly easy, and Lucifer chose that moment to wonder just why his underlings insisted upon giving the Serpent a warning before Hastur and Ligur arrived. It probably had to do with God’s annoying diehard habit of meddling in his affairs. She always did like the angel Gadre’el, always so funny and cheerful, she’d say with a dimpled grin; of course things hadn’t worked out exactly. Gadre’el had been one of Lucifer’s underlings in the celestial army and had followed his orders when it looked like he was in deep shit. So, the angel Gadre’el had become the Serpent Crawly and then the demon Crowley, which honestly took a toll on the former angel’s cheery attitude on life, or what had at least passed for one up in heaven.
Beelzebub followed at a sedated pace, looking around the clinically clean interior with a skeptical eye. "Well, this is better," he said conversationally. His sulphuric yellow eyes raking over the menagerie of houseplants which shuddered in their pots slightly. A small one near the edge of the table wobbled precariously, nearly tipping itself to the floor.
"Oi now!" snapped Lucifer catching it and moving it further back before it could make a mess. "None of that, lad! You’re in a demon’s home. Wouldn’t do to upset him."
Beelzebub smirked. "Didn’t know you talked to plants," came his quip. "Are there any other hobbies I should know of?"
"I cook a lot," The Devil said glaring at the other demon, just daring him to make fun. "And I crochet. What of it?"
"Crochet?" queried Beelzebub as he opened a slatted swinging door which led into the kitchen. His first impression was that of bewilderment as to why Crowley would need a refrigerator, especially one that wasn’t plugged in. He went around to the front, its sleek black front intimidating with its reflective image. "How can that bloody snake stand this in here?"
Lucifer poked his head in, as he had been headed to the bedroom. "I’d imagine he doesn’t use it all that much," he said seriously. "It’s just for looks, I’m sure."
"Still," muttered the other demon as he beat a hasty retreat. "So, what exactly are we looking for?"
"Just information. Like what their likes and dislikes are. Obviously, the angel likes books and wine. Crowley, it seems, likes technology and Soul Music. Not much you can do there."
"What was Crowley before, I can’t seem to recall?" said the demon prince seriously as he played with a click pen that he’d found while snooping in the flat’s office.
"Either a Virtue or a Domination, though I’m quite sure he was a Virtue. Could be wrong though."
"Thought I worked with the mite though," said Beelzebub looking thoughtful.
"I’d imagine that you did at one point," said The Devil seriously as he studiously examined the lush plants with a practiced grace. "He was one of God’s favored messengers. She still likes him, even now, and She’s kept the little wanker safe for 6,000 years! He doesn’t know that bit though." He sighed. "I believe that’s why She handed him over to me really. Favoring an angel more than the others is never a good idea."
"She favored you, though. It was obvious!" said Beelzebub with a small smile. "Still does, if She made this wager with you. So, tell me, you want a girl or another boy?"
The Devil shot his second a death glare and refused to comment on his teasing. "I wonder if getting Crowley to go to a psychologist would be a good idea?" he questioned instead as he went out to the balcony and prodded the plant on the table there with an uninterested finger. The fiddle-leaf fig winced away and shuddered visibly at the touch. "Or perhaps one of those anger management rooms where they let you throw around thousand dollar copies of Ming vases at the wall and break them. I mean, I’m all for pain, torture and fear, but this is going a bit overboard."
"It’s just a plant," said Beelzebub severely as he watched Lucifer carefully. "It’s not like there aren’t bijillions of them mooching off of other stupid bastards."
Lucifer looked at the fig tree contemplatively. "I suppose," he said slowly, "still, I’m taking this one home. Go get me a pen and a bit of stationery would you? I’ll leave a note and a recommendation for a good psychiatrist I know of."
Shrugging his shoulders, Beelzebub went back into the flat to get a piece of paper and that blessed click pen he’d been playing with a moment before. He’d never understand his boss’s impulses. It was really best not to ask.
Part 7
The ride over had been rather tedious in Crowley’s expert opinion and he wondered vaguely why Aziraphale lived in such a boring neighborhood. Well, lived would be the operative word really. He didn’t actually live there as Crowley didn’t actually live in his flat.
Both man-shaped beings got out and Crowley paid. "Look here," he said in perfect Arabic, "can you wait a moment while I show my friend up?"
The cabby looked over the money that been handed to him and nodded once, giving Crowley a knowing look. Who was he to judge someone else’s lifestyle? That was God’s job, not his. He could wait thirty minutes if the gentleman wanted him to. "Thirty minutes," said the man seriously. "That’s how much time you’ve got."
"Er . . . thanks!" said Crowley as he watched the fleeting look on the man’s face. Turning, he willed himself not to blush. Of course the guy would think that! It was the angel who gave off the poofter vibes and he was just in the fallout being in contact with the angel so often. That had to be it! "Come on, you!"
Aziraphale’s flat was on the older side of London, what there was of it, and as such didn’t have a proper lift. Three flights of stairs weren’t such an imposition as Crowley felt the angel needed the exercise, however, he hadn’t realized how badly his own form had gotten used to the lift and was a bit winded before they made it to third floor*. He stood a little behind Aziraphale as the angel put his key into the lock and opened the door. He looked around what he could see of the flat; from the doorway it looked plenty spacious enough. He nodded to himself. Aziraphale should be fine here.
"Are you coming in?" asked Aziraphale in what sounded to Crowley as hopeful, which caused the demon to raise an eyebrow in his direction.
"Afraid not," he said cooly, "and you shouldn’t have offered. Tell me to ‘Begone!’ and get done with it."
"I beg pardon?"
"Look! Surely you know the proper lore about demons? The Damned can not enter a dwelling unless they are offered entrance**. Once you offer entrance, they can come and go whenever they want. The thing is, only high ranking demons can seal the doorway from other demons and so I can’t enter unless you want another uninvited visitor from my side showing up. You need to revoke your invitation, angel."
Aziraphale sighed gustily, but saw the logic in it. If what Crowley said was true then it probably would be better if he did not enter his flat. Even if it wasn’t what Aziraphale would call his dwelling. "I suppose you have the right of it," he said at length. "Begone then."
Crowley smirked slightly. "That’ll do, angel. That’ll do." He laughed quietly as Aziraphale gave him a perplexed look and he turned and left. He’d have a look-see around the bookshop one more time before he went by Pollution’s place. Who knew that the youngest Horseman could be good at investigative work?
* Fourth floor if you’re an American.
** This is often used in popular horror fiction to describe the different methods to ward off vampires. The little bloodsuckers are a very lowly type of demon that even makes Crowley look godly. They’re above the fiend rank, but below the imp.
Pollution looked up as the door squeaked open on rusty hinges, and spied the demon entering his office. A slow grin worked its way up White’s face as he watched Crowley saunter in with a smirk plastered on his face. The demon was always charming when he came by, and after 18 long years of neither messing humans about, the world as they knew it would have gotten boring had they not had each other to lift the other’s spirits. Famine, as darling as he was, was just too set in his ways. Too stuffy, in a sense, to ever truly appreciate what White did. With Crowley that would never be a problem.
Taking up residence in the chair across the desk from the platinum blond youth, Crowley stretched his long legs out and let his muddy boots rest on the corner where a stack of manilla folders sat. He smirked knowingly as he watched White’s Adam’s Apple bob as he swallowed sharply. He cleared his throat delicately and watched as the personification’s eyes were dragged up to where his own were hidden by the designer plastic. "Should I wear shorts next time I come by?" he teased heartlessly.
Pollution snorted in mock disgust and gave the demon in front of him his full attention. "Hardly," he said his voice sounding floaty. "Let me guess, you came by for a drink and an ear?"
Crowley shook his head and made a face as though he had smelled something rank. "No. For once, I need your newly acquired skills," he said grimly. "Someone from my side is after Aziraphale. Don’t know why it took them this long. I don’t think Adam was powerful enough to dictate how his Father would handle our punishment for averting the end." He took the hair from his pocket and showed it to his cohort. "Does this look in any way or shape familiar to you?"
White grabbed the hair and pulled it between his fingers; its length was remarkable. "Got to be at least three feet!" he muttered expressively. "And it’s as thin as spider silk!"
"Though not as sticky," said Crowley his expression serious. "Do you know who’s it could be? It’s definitely a demon’s hair. The twang of power is there, but I’m muddled after examining Aziraphale’s shop. That aura was everywhere!"
"They examined his shop?" asked Pollution, concern lacing the otherwise soft voice. "This came off a high ranking demon! One of the Dark Council to be precise."
"I was afraid of that," stated the demon gloomily. "Is there anything that can be done? I’ve never really wrangled with Them before."
Pollution looked up into the visibly worried demon’s face and shrugged. "I try to stay out of it myself."
"What’s that? Oh hallo Crowley!" said Famine with a cheery wave from in the back. He seemed to have an arm load of groceries and a stern look was focused on the youth in front of him. "Do go out to the car will you. There’s two more bags out in the boot."
"When did he become domestic?" whispered Crowley, his brows raised in surprise. He never thought the day would come when Famine would be buying groceries like some little wife.
"Oh these aren’t for us, Crowley," shouted Famine from the little kitchenette in the back. "I’m working on development of my MEALS™*. The new line will have to have some sort of nutritional value in order for people to feel absolved about buying them. Isn’t like the old days when people just ate the stuff and didn’t care! Now, they actually read the little chart on the back of the box. And," he said as both came into the back in a conspiratorial whisper, "they expect the ingredients to be in a language they can understand. No more selling Twinkies™ like in the 80's."
Crowley gave a significant look to Pollution who shrugged at the demon. Well versed as the younger personification was in chemicals, even he didn’t quite understand his counterpart’s fascination with them. Then again, his design was to kill overtly with the chemicals at his disposal. Famine had to be much more subtle.
"Crowley could use some help," said White seriously passing Raven the hair. "He says one of The Dark Council’s after that angel friend of his."
"Business associate," interrupted Crowley. However, he had little to no attention paid to him, as often happened when Famine and Pollution got together. He often cut his losses and left, but he needed to know just who he was up against. It might be better to talk the angel into leaving on an extended holiday. Especially if it were someone like Beelzebub**.
Famine examined the hair with a clinical eye for detail and tsking handed back to Crowley. "I’d tell him to go have really good sex right now," he said at length, looking piteously at the hapless demon in front of him. "There’s nothing any of you can do about this. This isn’t just a Dark Council member. This is Lucifer you’re dealing with."
"How can you tell?" said Pollution skeptically, eyeing the hair for any other outward signs that he’d missed. It was throbbing with the demonic energy that was dispersing off it, but other than that there was no way for Famine to know.
Raven grinned. "He’s the only demon with this much power that has hair this long," he said seriously.
* It seems people weren’t to pleased about eating non-nutritious food that ended up killing them after all. Who knew they’d be so testy about it?
** He would have preferred Beelzebub to Moloch at any rate. While The Lord of the Flies was higher in the echelon, and therefore far more dangerous, Moloch was capable of taking demons and pounding them into the ground like tent pegs. Beelzebub at least had a certain art form to his random torture and destruction.
Crowley had never quite understood the old usage of saying ‘It felt like a ton of bricks!’. He’d always figured the humans were crazy and had left it at that, but now he knew what it meant, really. He had been stunned by Raven’s declaration, it wasn’t surprising, but to take personal interest like this meant something must be up. Crowley wasn’t sure if he should go home and try to forget the angel’s address, which was impossible anyway, or find the angel and try to get him out of the country or perhaps send him to Heaven. Heaven was preferable surely to being utterly destroyed by The Adversary.
What Famine had told him, and Pollution confirmed, had scared him witless. Adam was not to be relied on. Lucifer gave him his powers and Lucifer could take them away. The man was just a pawn after all. Adam was suppose to be Lucifer’s avatar here on earth and he was of no significant use if he didn’t comply by the rules. The Adversary had been slowly siphoning off the young man’s powers for nearly two decades. Doing it so slowly as to avoid detection by Adam, and it was almost finished. By Adam Young’s 31st birthday he’d be nothing but a lowly human. Susceptible as any other human to the many different ways one could die. Death, in fact, was not looking forward to it since the two had become quite good friends since the averted Apocalypse and liked playing backgammon on Sunday afternoons with tea and sandwiches. Of course, the greatest of the horsemen hadn’t told Adam any of this, it wasn’t done after all, but the other three could tell when Death came in that this was going to be the hardest job he’d ever have to do.
Crowley pulled up outside his row of flats and immediately knew something was off. The smell of rotten eggs seared his nose as he got out of the car and in a burst of adrenaline he was soon up to his flat sans the lift even being used. He turned the knob and creaked the door open slowly. Shuffling in, he assessed everything within his sight. Nothing. Lucifer wasn’t here waiting for him. That was at least one thing going for him. He slipped in and noted that his things had been touched and shuffled around. A plant, which he had kept close to the edge, daring it to fall to the floor, had been shoved back quite plainly to keep it from crashing and sending potting soil and plant bits all over the oak floor. He walked around carefully, keeping all his senses on high alert for any sort of trap. He didn’t feel any. He slid past his balcony door and glanced out, the fiddle-leafed fig was gone! He glanced about and stepping out, he sighted a bit of his stationary held down with his lighter and one of his click pens from his office. The bastard had been in his office for Someone’s sake! Had he no privacy? Had they gone through his room, too? He snatched the note off the table and stuffed the pen and lighter into his jacket’s front pocket. In the process of marching to his room he read the note,
"Crowley,
How’s it been mate? Haven’t seen you at the company’s Yule Time party and the lads are starting to be concerned. You should give them a ring when you have the time. I think they want to go play squash.
I’m going to look up some psychiatrists for you. You need it! Don’t argue with me! Tormenting humans and angels is all well and good, but the plants? Come on Crowley, you’re better than this! I’m thinking of sending you to Japan, they have a nice anger management program that might be able to help you.
As for the fiddle-leaf, don’t worry about it, if you can. I have it and will see to it. Always wanted a plant*.
Now, go have some fun with that angel that always turns up in your reports. I’m sure you can think of something appropriate.
L.A.Satan,
The Adversary; Emperor of Hell; King of Demons; etcetera . . .,
Crowley shuddered at the way that last sentence was worded**. That blessed bastard, he was goading him! Well, he wasn’t going to fall for it. Even if he did have to leave the blasted country. Aziraphale would understand, surely. And that’s where it fell apart. Who would watch the angel’s back? He’d not only been marked by Hell, but by Him! He wasn’t one to trifle with on any occasion, Crowley should know, and having Him angry with you was like having . . . well, God angry with you, but with more blood and pain than is considered necessary. He stepped into his room. Everything here was as pristine as he left it, but it was obvious from the aura that they’d been in here too. He sighed and sat on the bed. He needed to see the angel, that’s all there was to it. If he didn’t let him know there might be trouble later. Having The Devil after you literally was, in Crowley’s opinion, the worst thing that could happen to you.
* Yes, this is akin to a kid saying they always wanted a pet of their very own. Of course, surely, Lucifer being as old as he is at least knows something about horticulture. That the plant that he has confiscated needs sunlight; fresh air; plenty of water and rich soil to grow beautiful and green. He wouldn’t be incompetent in caring for a plant! Yes, the fiddle-leaf was better off with Crowley . . .at least then its demise would have been quick and relatively painless in comparison.
** Most times when Lucifer worded things with, ‘Now go have some fun . . .’ he usually meant that he wanted to see blood; spilled guts and feathers all over the place in the next 30 minutes. This time was different, but Crowley didn’t know that.
Part 8
Aziraphale was wrenched out of his reverie rather forcefully by an insistent pounding on his flat’s front door. He drew up in alarm when he felt Crowley’s aura flaring up wildly beyond the wood. He flung open the door just in time to catch the demon’s curled hand before it hit the door.
He stared for a moment. "I thought you were in some kind of danger!" snapped Aziraphale uncharitably as he hauled Crowley into the apartment and closed the door. He was about to give the demon a stern talking to when he noticed the broken look on his counterpart’s face. "What’s wrong?"
Crowley fidgeted, rubbing a hand across his face and removing his sunglasses in the process. They fell to the floor with a clatter, but to the demon it was inconsequential. He sighed and looked at the angel opening his mouth to speak, snapping it shut and then opening it again. It was as if the correct words weren’t coming to him. As though they were stuck in his throat. He finally grabbed Aziraphale roughly around the shoulders and brought him into a forceful kiss*.
When they pulled apart after too many minutes had passed, Aziraphale looked at Crowley bewildered. He grinned slightly as the demon fretted a bit and took one of Crowley’s hands in between his own. They were large hands, in comparison, with rather long fingers. Aziraphale stared quietly at Crowley for a moment as the demon contemplated their hands as if every secret of the world could be answered by them.
"Do you want to tell me what brought that on?" asked the angel softly.
Crowley released a breath he’d been holding for several minutes. "He’s after you," he said seriously, looking up at the angel with wide unblinking eyes. "I went by White’s and Sable’s place and though White couldn’t tell me much, Raven was dead set that it was Him."
"Him?" came the perplexed question out of the angel’s mouth until it registered just which Him Crowley was talking about. While both were equally bad and could do horrible things to anyone, it was The Devil that Crowley had feared the most after his Fall. God could just wink you out of existence. The Devil though would destroy you piece by piece in the slowest way possible. "You mean?. . . Why?"
Crowley had no answer that would satisfy both the angel and himself and shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. "I don’t know, Aziraphale. I haven’t heard anything. It’s like they just decided to come after you without sending a memo to any other demons in the vicinity**."
"I see," said Aziraphale, lamely trying to put up a brave front and failing miserably. "Well, I suppose I should thank you then. Best you not get caught with me should He find me."
"Bollocks!" snapped Crowley seething. He’d already decided. He was going down with Aziraphale if he had to. "I’m not leaving you all by yourself to face the firing squad. We’ve had a good run, you and I, and bless it, that’s no way for anyone to go! Just laying down and letting it happen!"
"That’s very sweet of you, dear boy, but surely if they see you with me they’ll kill you too." Aziraphale had no compunctions about going out like this. He was frightened as any proper being should be, but he had known, like all angels know, that they’ll have to put their very existence on the line when it came down to it.
Crowley scoffed disparagingly, "Like it matters," he said quietly. "He’ll probably be after me next anyway. His aura was all over my flat as well and the bastard stole one of my plants, so I definitely owe Him some grief for that. Think of it this way, He’ll probably expect us to be together when He finds us. So, let’s give Him what He wants and get it over with."
"Are you suggesting we go looking for Him?" asked Aziraphale in disbelief. Staring a little at Crowley as though he’d just renounced being a demon***.
Crowley shook his head. "Hardly! We’ll be able to sense Him several yards off. Long before He could sense us, if we’re careful, and we can plan it out so He won’t take us out as easily."
Aziraphale sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. Crowley was being incredibly gung-ho about this. Which was something that Aziraphale was incredibly suspicious about and he glared at the demon. "Crowley," he said blandly, an eyebrow raising for good measure. "I’ll be quite all right, honestly, I’d suspect that if you got out of England He might not even come after you at all."
Crowley started as though Aziraphale had slapped him. He had always known the silly bugger was crazy, knowingly hanging out with a demon was a sure sign of insanity in Crowley’s book even if the demon was him, but to refuse help? Any help at all, even if it was his and it would end up getting them both very much dead? That wasn’t insanity, that was insanity coupled with stupidity to make one weird love-child, and good Lo-whatever! He did not need that mental image****. "Have you finally lost the last vestige of sense you had, Aziraphale?" snapped Crowley seriously. "I’m not leaving! I’ll admit I considered it highly back at my flat, but I couldn’t! Had I, you’d’ve been left without a single word of warning of just who was after you. And had you gotten yourself destroyed, there wouldn’t be any lunches at the Ritz or late night drinking binges in the backroom of a dusty bookshop or walks in the park or feeding ducks or. Or anything! I’d be the eggs without salt and we can’t have that!"
Aziraphale looked Crowley in the eye and held his gaze for a long moment, cupping a cheek in his hand as he studied his long time enemy and friend, and for the first time understood just why Crowley had wanted to keep the earth going. It wasn’t just the humans, though it mostly was the humans and life in general, but Crowley would’ve gone to Hell and he’d have been stuck forever in Heaven. They’d never see each other again, now here it was once more. The whole world wasn’t in danger, just the little spot of it Crowley called his and it included him. If his existence was brought to an end there would be no point to Crowley continuing his own. Oh, he wouldn’t do anything stupid like attempt suicide as that wouldn’t work, but he wouldn’t be the same. He’d be nothing but a shell. An empty demon who might run across smells or sights and be forced to remember.
"If we’re going to die," Aziraphale stated quietly, brushing a thumb over Crowley’s high cheekbones as the demon leaned into his touch. "The salt would like to request that the eggs and he do some serious mad shagging."
Crowley’s eyes widened and then he grinned brightly. "The eggs would like to request of the salt, where’s your bed†?"
* Crowley would later claim that he had to do it. The words wouldn’t form without a little help. It’s always good to know just what you’re fighting for . . . etc. (Include any and all excuses you can think of.)
** Crowley wasn’t the only demon in England. He wasn’t even the only demon in London, but he was the only official field agent assigned to London and therefore never went back to Hell to punch the card and go to his own pit of misery. Take Rahovart for example: nice bloke for a demon, had a cushy gig as a runner for The Dark Council. Whenever he got a break, it was back to Hell with a little down time with the succubus and spawn. However, when ever Crowley would run into the chap he’d be far too busy to stop for a quick drink at the local pub. Sad really!
*** Akin to staring at someone as though they’d grown two heads, but much more so.
**** It involved something that looked sort of like a platypus, but blue and scaley. Don’t ask if you want to keep your brain.
† Their first time had been in Pompeii and this had prompted the snide remark about Aziraphale’s weight. Pity really that the explosion couldn’t have been caused by the sex because surely the people of the city would have been far more understanding.
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