Happy Holidays, Pinch Hitters!
Title: The Last Temptation of Crowley
By: meredydd
Rating: R
Author's Note: This is for the Good Omens Fic Exchange. Humor and a bit of smut ;) The pair of muses didn't want me to write full on smut this go for some reason (they resisted my best efforts) and instead skewed for humor. Hope you enjoy it! Oh and this *does* contain kink and sex and the like so if you are underage or are not allowed to legally read adult themed material, please go read something else kthxbai. All characters and situations herein belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. I make no profit from this work of fan fiction.
"Angel, you're on my wing."
"Ah, I was wondering..."
Crowley breathed a sigh of relief as Aziraphale rolled to his feet. Fluttering his wing experimentally, Crowley sat up and sent a glare at his counterpart but did not remonstrate him further. "That was rather unexpected."
"Wasn't it just?" Aziraphale dusted off his tweed coat and his wings vanished. "Oh, drat... I've scuffed my shoes!"
"Since when have you cared about that?"
"Since we have to be presentable for this meeting! It's our bi-millenial progress report!"
"It's not bi-millenial if this is the first one, you know. That implies we do it every so often, at least. This is the first time we've been called before a joint council."
Aziraphale sighed gustily and straightened his tie. "Crowley..."
"I know," he smiled. "Let's get this over with."
***
The room was cavernous. It had to be, to house all of the Host on one side and all of the Fallen on the other. Well, Crowley amended mentally, "all" was subjective as the numbers constantly changed depending on who was off doing what. But the key players were there, and they were staying as far apart from one another as possible. "This won't end well," Crowley muttered, earning a sharp elbow to his ribs from Aziraphale. They stood before a raised dais, Above and Below both having a strong sense of the theatric. Crowley could hear the murmurs down the galleries lining the walls: Himself and...well, Himself from Below rarely showed themselves anymore. Would they be here and, if so, what would happen? Crowley rather fancied a cage match to the end but he kept himself from murmuring that to Aziraphale. Barely. "This is...wow."
Crowley nodded. "I wasn't expecting it to be so big."
Aziraphale shot him a look, trying to determine if the demon was being crude again. "I wish I'd made more copies!" He made a fluttering gesture with the handful of documents he had compiled for the review. "I don't think this will go 'round the room."
Crowley shrugged. "They'll survive." He gazed up at the (thankfully still empty) dais again and felt a tremor of fear for the first time in a long time. "I hope I don't lose the desk by the window... I just got it!"
***
Aziraphale exhaled slowly. His part of the ordeal hadn't been so bad. Metatron had arrived in a flurry of light and sound, appearing on the angelic side of the platform with an air of subdued gravity which set the Fallen to hissing and laughing. Metatron had silenced that quickly enough, much to Aziraphale's discomfort. It had been a trying review but he had come away mostly unscathed with stern reminders to remember that he was an angel, not one of the humans he pretended to be with his bookshop and tweed coats. And a scroll had been given to him, pressed into his hands by one of the lower orders of angels, with directions to complete every task listed and report back to Metatron within a fortnight. Aziraphale was so lost in his own relief that he scarcely noticed Crowley's hiss of displeasure until he demon grabbed his arm and began tugging him backwards. "What--"
"We've been dismissed, angel," he growled, his voice low and thick. He, too, had a scroll pressed into his hands. "And they're staring. Stop being nice to me for a second, would you?"
Aziraphale's eyes darted towards the dais. Beelzebub and Metatron sat, as far apart as possible, staring at them both. Aziraphale gulped and edged away from Crowley. "See you at the Ritz at six?" he murmured from the corner of his mouth.
"Make it seven... I need to water the houseplants." With a sigh and a hiss, Crowley vanished.
"Aziraphale," Metatron rumbled.
"Will do!" he squeaked, vanishing himself before the Second-in-Command could issue him yet more orders. Appearing in his bookshop, Aziraphale let out a breath of relief. It hadn't been as scary as he had feared and no one had yelled at him. Not really, anyway. Beelzebub hadn't even looked at him and Crowley had managed not to appear too shaken under the intense scrutiny of the over-demon. "All in all," he said aloud to the books, "it was not so terrible!" He let himself sink heavily into one of the chairs arrayed about the scarred table in his back room and closed his eyes. "Not terrible at all."
***
Crowley watered his house plants with a vengeance. "Tempt Aziraphale! Really!" The scroll from the review lay spread across his leather sofa, the letters glowing gold in a most accusing manner. "As if he'd succumb!" A list of Aziraphale's abiding sins was written in red letters, block quoted, in the middle of the scroll. He could see them from where he stood, yards away. Greed (the acquisition of books), vanity (over his book collection), coveting (books) and failure to live up to his potential. That last one, Crowley was fairly certain, was not on the official list of sins Above or Below but it seemed to be a sticking point with Metatron. Tempt Aziraphale, the scroll proclaimed. Crowley let the mister drop from his hand and bounce on the carpet before it righted itself, afraid of what the demon might do to it should it stain his fine Berber rug. "As if I could!" he muttered. The idea of tempting an angel was appealing to any demon, he admitted to himself. After all, who knew how best to tempt someone into a fall than one of the Fallen? And the whole idea of causing an angel to go against their better judgment... Crowley smiled faintly. The idea had quite a lot of appeal to it, he'd give Beelzebub that much. But... he picked up the mister gain and squirted the scroll. The ink did not run as he'd hoped but he felt a smidge better at his half-hearted assault on the bane of his existence at that moment. "There's always a loophole."
***
Aziraphale was waiting at the Ritz at seven sharp, his napkin twisted into an impossible knot in his lap as he waved sheepishly. Crowley slowed as he approached the table, his brows creeping upward in curiosity. "Something the matter, Aziraphale?"
"Hmm? Oh, no! Nothing at all!" He smiled, feeling the expression twist his lips into something close to pleasantry. "Just... busy day at the shop!"
Crowley let that go, choosing to ignore that today was the day Aziraphale closed the shop weekly. He took his seat and beckoned the waiter. Aziraphale remained quiet as he placed his order, only muttering 'same here' when the waiter turned to him. Once they were alone, Crowley leaned in close. "So now tell me... what was on that scroll that has you so upset?"
"Huh? I mean..." Aziraphale straightened, his cheeks taking on a faint, pinkish tinge. "Nothing was on the scroll! Nothing at all!"
"They gave you a blank scroll? Wasteful of them."
"I mean... Nothing of importance!" He forced a laugh. "I'm just...tired."
"An angel growing tired? That's new." He smiled. "I'll tell you what mine said if you tell me what yours said." One of his abiding sins is pride, Crowley recited mentally. That, he could believe.
Aziraphale sighed and took a long draught from the glass of water the waiter had given him. "What makes you think the scroll is upsetting me?"
"Lucky guess. If you had just said 'Oh, it told me to do more good works and feed the ducks light bread,' I'd have let it go. But I'm a demon, you see... Your sudden panic is like blood in the water to a shark." He smiled then, his teeth flashing white and dangerous in the dimly lit room.
Aziraphale went very still for a moment, ignoring the waiter as their food was set between them. Crowley's smile grew tight and, somehow, less dangerous as he stared back. "My scroll," the angel murmured, knowing full well that Crowley could hear him clearly even over the soft din of other diners, "said I should tempt you." Another laugh escaped his lips. "As if I could! As if I would!"
Crowley leaned back in his chair, his fingers folding into a steeple beneath his chin as he gave Aziraphale a considering look. "I wonder why..."
"I know!" The knotted napkin went flying with Aziraphale's wild gesticulations. "I'm an angel! Why would I tempt anyone, much less a demon! Much less you!"
"Perhaps they meant save me?"
Aziraphale shook his head. "They would have said 'save Crowley' if that's what they meant. Besides, they'd pull out the big guns for a demon conversion." He sighed and took a bite of his salad. "I'm sure this is Metatron's idea of a joke. He's simply trying to ruffle me!"
"When did Metatron get a sense of humor?"
"Oh, he's always had one." Aziraphale paused. "Though, to be fair, it usually skews towards less subtle jokes." They ate in silence for several long moments before Aziraphale set his fork down and leaned earnestly across the table, dipping his tie into the salad dressing. "Do you think they meant it?"
"I do believe so, yes," Crowley replied, thinking of his own orders, still sprawled across the sofa.
"Why? How?" The last sounded more confused and plaintive than the first.
"It's simply a matter of knowing what your intended desires the most," Crowley smiled, his voice low and soft. A hiss was creeping into his words but he didn't care much. Only Aziraphale could hear him. "If they lust for a woman, tempt them with soft curves and sweet flesh. If they lust for money, flash them some bills and a fancy car. Power? That's the easiest of all." He tapped the tabletop with his finger tips, drumming out a rhythm as he let the words fall between them.
Aziraphale blinked, leaning back as he realized Crowley wasn't going to continue. "What...what would tempt you?" A tiny thrill of discovery worked its way through Aziraphale's breast, curling into a warm flame low in his belly. He hadn't felt like that in millennia, part of his mind pointed out. Not even when he found that entire chest full of misprinted Bibles that did indeed proclaim the world was created in mid-November, at tea time.
Crowley laughed, soft and low. The sound made the flame in Aziraphale's belly leap a bit higher. The demon let his eyes wander behind the dark lenses of his glasses, sweeping his gaze from Aziraphale's slightly pink cheeks, down the smooth, angel-pale column of throat and to his hands. The angel's fingers curled into the table cloth loosely, as if he were holding on for some reason. It would be easy, Crowley thought, to reach across, to take his wrists and tug Aziraphale to his feet, to lead him to the door with a whispered "Let me show you my own abiding sin..." He sighed, though, and shrugged. "I couldn't say."
"Couldn't or wouldn't?"
Crowley smiled. "I'll leave that up to you."
Happy Holidays, Pinch Hitters!
By: meredydd
Rating: R
Author's Note: This is for the Good Omens Fic Exchange. Humor and a bit of smut ;) The pair of muses didn't want me to write full on smut this go for some reason (they resisted my best efforts) and instead skewed for humor. Hope you enjoy it! Oh and this *does* contain kink and sex and the like so if you are underage or are not allowed to legally read adult themed material, please go read something else kthxbai. All characters and situations herein belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. I make no profit from this work of fan fiction.
"Angel, you're on my wing."
"Ah, I was wondering..."
Crowley breathed a sigh of relief as Aziraphale rolled to his feet. Fluttering his wing experimentally, Crowley sat up and sent a glare at his counterpart but did not remonstrate him further. "That was rather unexpected."
"Wasn't it just?" Aziraphale dusted off his tweed coat and his wings vanished. "Oh, drat... I've scuffed my shoes!"
"Since when have you cared about that?"
"Since we have to be presentable for this meeting! It's our bi-millenial progress report!"
"It's not bi-millenial if this is the first one, you know. That implies we do it every so often, at least. This is the first time we've been called before a joint council."
Aziraphale sighed gustily and straightened his tie. "Crowley..."
"I know," he smiled. "Let's get this over with."
***
The room was cavernous. It had to be, to house all of the Host on one side and all of the Fallen on the other. Well, Crowley amended mentally, "all" was subjective as the numbers constantly changed depending on who was off doing what. But the key players were there, and they were staying as far apart from one another as possible. "This won't end well," Crowley muttered, earning a sharp elbow to his ribs from Aziraphale. They stood before a raised dais, Above and Below both having a strong sense of the theatric. Crowley could hear the murmurs down the galleries lining the walls: Himself and...well, Himself from Below rarely showed themselves anymore. Would they be here and, if so, what would happen? Crowley rather fancied a cage match to the end but he kept himself from murmuring that to Aziraphale. Barely. "This is...wow."
Crowley nodded. "I wasn't expecting it to be so big."
Aziraphale shot him a look, trying to determine if the demon was being crude again. "I wish I'd made more copies!" He made a fluttering gesture with the handful of documents he had compiled for the review. "I don't think this will go 'round the room."
Crowley shrugged. "They'll survive." He gazed up at the (thankfully still empty) dais again and felt a tremor of fear for the first time in a long time. "I hope I don't lose the desk by the window... I just got it!"
***
Aziraphale exhaled slowly. His part of the ordeal hadn't been so bad. Metatron had arrived in a flurry of light and sound, appearing on the angelic side of the platform with an air of subdued gravity which set the Fallen to hissing and laughing. Metatron had silenced that quickly enough, much to Aziraphale's discomfort. It had been a trying review but he had come away mostly unscathed with stern reminders to remember that he was an angel, not one of the humans he pretended to be with his bookshop and tweed coats. And a scroll had been given to him, pressed into his hands by one of the lower orders of angels, with directions to complete every task listed and report back to Metatron within a fortnight. Aziraphale was so lost in his own relief that he scarcely noticed Crowley's hiss of displeasure until he demon grabbed his arm and began tugging him backwards. "What--"
"We've been dismissed, angel," he growled, his voice low and thick. He, too, had a scroll pressed into his hands. "And they're staring. Stop being nice to me for a second, would you?"
Aziraphale's eyes darted towards the dais. Beelzebub and Metatron sat, as far apart as possible, staring at them both. Aziraphale gulped and edged away from Crowley. "See you at the Ritz at six?" he murmured from the corner of his mouth.
"Make it seven... I need to water the houseplants." With a sigh and a hiss, Crowley vanished.
"Aziraphale," Metatron rumbled.
"Will do!" he squeaked, vanishing himself before the Second-in-Command could issue him yet more orders. Appearing in his bookshop, Aziraphale let out a breath of relief. It hadn't been as scary as he had feared and no one had yelled at him. Not really, anyway. Beelzebub hadn't even looked at him and Crowley had managed not to appear too shaken under the intense scrutiny of the over-demon. "All in all," he said aloud to the books, "it was not so terrible!" He let himself sink heavily into one of the chairs arrayed about the scarred table in his back room and closed his eyes. "Not terrible at all."
***
Crowley watered his house plants with a vengeance. "Tempt Aziraphale! Really!" The scroll from the review lay spread across his leather sofa, the letters glowing gold in a most accusing manner. "As if he'd succumb!" A list of Aziraphale's abiding sins was written in red letters, block quoted, in the middle of the scroll. He could see them from where he stood, yards away. Greed (the acquisition of books), vanity (over his book collection), coveting (books) and failure to live up to his potential. That last one, Crowley was fairly certain, was not on the official list of sins Above or Below but it seemed to be a sticking point with Metatron. Tempt Aziraphale, the scroll proclaimed. Crowley let the mister drop from his hand and bounce on the carpet before it righted itself, afraid of what the demon might do to it should it stain his fine Berber rug. "As if I could!" he muttered. The idea of tempting an angel was appealing to any demon, he admitted to himself. After all, who knew how best to tempt someone into a fall than one of the Fallen? And the whole idea of causing an angel to go against their better judgment... Crowley smiled faintly. The idea had quite a lot of appeal to it, he'd give Beelzebub that much. But... he picked up the mister gain and squirted the scroll. The ink did not run as he'd hoped but he felt a smidge better at his half-hearted assault on the bane of his existence at that moment. "There's always a loophole."
***
Aziraphale was waiting at the Ritz at seven sharp, his napkin twisted into an impossible knot in his lap as he waved sheepishly. Crowley slowed as he approached the table, his brows creeping upward in curiosity. "Something the matter, Aziraphale?"
"Hmm? Oh, no! Nothing at all!" He smiled, feeling the expression twist his lips into something close to pleasantry. "Just... busy day at the shop!"
Crowley let that go, choosing to ignore that today was the day Aziraphale closed the shop weekly. He took his seat and beckoned the waiter. Aziraphale remained quiet as he placed his order, only muttering 'same here' when the waiter turned to him. Once they were alone, Crowley leaned in close. "So now tell me... what was on that scroll that has you so upset?"
"Huh? I mean..." Aziraphale straightened, his cheeks taking on a faint, pinkish tinge. "Nothing was on the scroll! Nothing at all!"
"They gave you a blank scroll? Wasteful of them."
"I mean... Nothing of importance!" He forced a laugh. "I'm just...tired."
"An angel growing tired? That's new." He smiled. "I'll tell you what mine said if you tell me what yours said." One of his abiding sins is pride, Crowley recited mentally. That, he could believe.
Aziraphale sighed and took a long draught from the glass of water the waiter had given him. "What makes you think the scroll is upsetting me?"
"Lucky guess. If you had just said 'Oh, it told me to do more good works and feed the ducks light bread,' I'd have let it go. But I'm a demon, you see... Your sudden panic is like blood in the water to a shark." He smiled then, his teeth flashing white and dangerous in the dimly lit room.
Aziraphale went very still for a moment, ignoring the waiter as their food was set between them. Crowley's smile grew tight and, somehow, less dangerous as he stared back. "My scroll," the angel murmured, knowing full well that Crowley could hear him clearly even over the soft din of other diners, "said I should tempt you." Another laugh escaped his lips. "As if I could! As if I would!"
Crowley leaned back in his chair, his fingers folding into a steeple beneath his chin as he gave Aziraphale a considering look. "I wonder why..."
"I know!" The knotted napkin went flying with Aziraphale's wild gesticulations. "I'm an angel! Why would I tempt anyone, much less a demon! Much less you!"
"Perhaps they meant save me?"
Aziraphale shook his head. "They would have said 'save Crowley' if that's what they meant. Besides, they'd pull out the big guns for a demon conversion." He sighed and took a bite of his salad. "I'm sure this is Metatron's idea of a joke. He's simply trying to ruffle me!"
"When did Metatron get a sense of humor?"
"Oh, he's always had one." Aziraphale paused. "Though, to be fair, it usually skews towards less subtle jokes." They ate in silence for several long moments before Aziraphale set his fork down and leaned earnestly across the table, dipping his tie into the salad dressing. "Do you think they meant it?"
"I do believe so, yes," Crowley replied, thinking of his own orders, still sprawled across the sofa.
"Why? How?" The last sounded more confused and plaintive than the first.
"It's simply a matter of knowing what your intended desires the most," Crowley smiled, his voice low and soft. A hiss was creeping into his words but he didn't care much. Only Aziraphale could hear him. "If they lust for a woman, tempt them with soft curves and sweet flesh. If they lust for money, flash them some bills and a fancy car. Power? That's the easiest of all." He tapped the tabletop with his finger tips, drumming out a rhythm as he let the words fall between them.
Aziraphale blinked, leaning back as he realized Crowley wasn't going to continue. "What...what would tempt you?" A tiny thrill of discovery worked its way through Aziraphale's breast, curling into a warm flame low in his belly. He hadn't felt like that in millennia, part of his mind pointed out. Not even when he found that entire chest full of misprinted Bibles that did indeed proclaim the world was created in mid-November, at tea time.
Crowley laughed, soft and low. The sound made the flame in Aziraphale's belly leap a bit higher. The demon let his eyes wander behind the dark lenses of his glasses, sweeping his gaze from Aziraphale's slightly pink cheeks, down the smooth, angel-pale column of throat and to his hands. The angel's fingers curled into the table cloth loosely, as if he were holding on for some reason. It would be easy, Crowley thought, to reach across, to take his wrists and tug Aziraphale to his feet, to lead him to the door with a whispered "Let me show you my own abiding sin..." He sighed, though, and shrugged. "I couldn't say."
"Couldn't or wouldn't?"
Crowley smiled. "I'll leave that up to you."
Happy Holidays, Pinch Hitters!