Island Paradise! Part One
((This is the first in a series of socks/fics about what happens when a bunch of guys get stranded on a desert island together.))
"Look," begged Crowley, "I can't. It goes against everything in my nature."
"Oh, please," the redhead -- the burly one wearing the Crocs, Cox, wasn't it? -- snapped. "First of all, that's an entire pile of bullcrap and you know it. And second, since even you can't just conjure up a plane--"
"I could if I wanted to," he shot back.
They stared at him.
"I'm tired," he muttered.
"Since you can't do it," Cox dragged on, "so sorry to insult your manhood or demonhood or whatever, that means we are all stuck together here for the time being and if I have to spend even one more night here with Mr. 'I got a papercut and I'm going to die' over here," he pushed up his sleeve and pointed at the younger redhead, who bristled indignantly, "then I pah-romise you, I will not be responsible for my actions in the morning."
"Please, Mr. Crowley," piped up the Indian man over the sounds of Cox and his apparent nemesis starting to argue, "you're really our only hope. I'm afraid if you don't help us, we have no chance of surviving."
"Oh, no, I don't believe that's true," chimed in the mountie. Crowley tried not to groan aloud. "Men have survived in far rougher conditions than this with less to help them live by, gentlemen. We have wood for shelter and fire, fruit and fish to eat. What more do we need?"
"Blowdryers," Cox and the other grumbled in unison, then stared at each other in horror.
The mountie appeared not to hear them. "If Mr. Crowley doesn't wish to help us by providing us with shelter," he continued genially, "I think we'll be just fine on our own. He obviously has his own reasons, which we should respect."
Crowley glared at the man with a menace that seemed to go completely over his head. It was Cox who had outed Crowley's abilities -- and really, he didn't even remember meeting the man, how was that fair? -- but it was this Constable Fraser who had taken control of the group almost immediately upon his arrival that morning. Crowley hated him already; with those big earnest blue eyes and the shine on his buttons (he wasn't even dirty, which was ridiculous -- even Crowley had been scuffed and sandy before he'd miracled himself clean) he reminded Crowley uncomfortably of...
"Aziraphale?" he whispered, just in case.
"What?" Fraser asked, politely puzzled.
"Never mind." Crowley frowned. "Look. Really. If I got caught--"
"No, no, we wouldn't want to get you in trouble." Fraser smiled at him and turned to the rest of the group. "Now, we don't have an axe, but I do of course have a Swiss Army knife, and I think if we can just find some stray wood we can easily rig up a--"
"Oh, for -- for someone's sake," Crowley snapped, aggrieved. "Honestly. You can't be serious."
"He is," Cox sighed. "He always is."
"I'm afraid he's right," Fraser agreed unhelpfully. "But I'm not sure I see the problem, as we do need to make at least a rudimentary shelter by nightfall. I'm fairly certain a storm will be coming sometime around..." he cocked his head to the side and frowned, "seven." This news went over like a lead balloon -- the others stared at him for a moment, then all began to speak at once, voices rising sharply.
"Just how in the hell are we supposed to--"
"We're hardly equipped--"
"--going to die of exposure--"
"Fine!" Crowley threw his hands into the air. "Fine! I'll make us a house. But..." He raised a finger warningly at them. "But you can't tell anyone, okay? If someone asks, after we get back--"
"If we get back," the young redhead interjected dramatically.
"When we get back," Crowley pushed on, because he would be damned again if he was going to live out the rest of his current body's life with these people, "just say that we... found a treehouse. Left to us by Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. All right?" The others, as a whole, shrugged. Fraser beamed annoyingly at him.
"I knew you would do the right--"
"Yes, yes," Crowley snarled, "but shut up about it."
Fraser turned to the others. "Let's leave Mr. Crowley to his work. I think perhaps some of us should go after that poor boy in the woods..."
"Robb," Cox supplied.
Fraser nodded and frowned, folding his arms. "Diefenbaker is with him, of course, but for the time being it's probably safest for the both of them to remain with us..." The Indian -- Mohinder, Crowley recalled, he'd introduced himself on the plane -- and the young redhead exchanged a look that said they weren't quite so sure about that.
"Why don't you two go ahead," Mohinder suggested slowly.
"Yes, all right. Perry, you and I will go find Robb and Dief... the rest of you should probably try and find some fresh water." Cox accepted his duty with a minimum of grumbling, and Crowley watched with utter gratitude as the two of them left. Mohinder went to dispose of the bones from their fish lunch.
"Hey." A new voice chimed in -- the dark-haired young man who'd stayed at the back of the group the whole time. He hadn't really spoken much, just kept sending worried glances off to the side, as if he was looking for someone or something. Jim, Crowley'd thought he'd said his name was. "Hey, man." Jim came forward and flashed Crowley a toothy smile of relief, clapping him on the arm. "Thanks a lot."
"Don't mention it," Crowley snapped. "Really."
Jim blinked and raised his hands, taking a step back. "Uh. Right. Sorry." He shuffled off down the beach after Mohinder, giving Crowley a glance over his shoulder that spoke of... something. What, he wasn't exactly sure.
That just left the redhead, who had remained behind, smoking a cigarette that had miraculously remained untouched by the water, and who was watching Crowley with narrowed eyes and something hovering on his lips. It was a look Crowley recognized rather more easily. He let himself relax.
"I'm Francis," the young man said in cool tones. "How do you feel about Greek?"
For the first time since they'd hit the island, Crowley smiled. Well, at least there would be some entertainment around.
"Look," begged Crowley, "I can't. It goes against everything in my nature."
"Oh, please," the redhead -- the burly one wearing the Crocs, Cox, wasn't it? -- snapped. "First of all, that's an entire pile of bullcrap and you know it. And second, since even you can't just conjure up a plane--"
"I could if I wanted to," he shot back.
They stared at him.
"I'm tired," he muttered.
"Since you can't do it," Cox dragged on, "so sorry to insult your manhood or demonhood or whatever, that means we are all stuck together here for the time being and if I have to spend even one more night here with Mr. 'I got a papercut and I'm going to die' over here," he pushed up his sleeve and pointed at the younger redhead, who bristled indignantly, "then I pah-romise you, I will not be responsible for my actions in the morning."
"Please, Mr. Crowley," piped up the Indian man over the sounds of Cox and his apparent nemesis starting to argue, "you're really our only hope. I'm afraid if you don't help us, we have no chance of surviving."
"Oh, no, I don't believe that's true," chimed in the mountie. Crowley tried not to groan aloud. "Men have survived in far rougher conditions than this with less to help them live by, gentlemen. We have wood for shelter and fire, fruit and fish to eat. What more do we need?"
"Blowdryers," Cox and the other grumbled in unison, then stared at each other in horror.
The mountie appeared not to hear them. "If Mr. Crowley doesn't wish to help us by providing us with shelter," he continued genially, "I think we'll be just fine on our own. He obviously has his own reasons, which we should respect."
Crowley glared at the man with a menace that seemed to go completely over his head. It was Cox who had outed Crowley's abilities -- and really, he didn't even remember meeting the man, how was that fair? -- but it was this Constable Fraser who had taken control of the group almost immediately upon his arrival that morning. Crowley hated him already; with those big earnest blue eyes and the shine on his buttons (he wasn't even dirty, which was ridiculous -- even Crowley had been scuffed and sandy before he'd miracled himself clean) he reminded Crowley uncomfortably of...
"Aziraphale?" he whispered, just in case.
"What?" Fraser asked, politely puzzled.
"Never mind." Crowley frowned. "Look. Really. If I got caught--"
"No, no, we wouldn't want to get you in trouble." Fraser smiled at him and turned to the rest of the group. "Now, we don't have an axe, but I do of course have a Swiss Army knife, and I think if we can just find some stray wood we can easily rig up a--"
"Oh, for -- for someone's sake," Crowley snapped, aggrieved. "Honestly. You can't be serious."
"He is," Cox sighed. "He always is."
"I'm afraid he's right," Fraser agreed unhelpfully. "But I'm not sure I see the problem, as we do need to make at least a rudimentary shelter by nightfall. I'm fairly certain a storm will be coming sometime around..." he cocked his head to the side and frowned, "seven." This news went over like a lead balloon -- the others stared at him for a moment, then all began to speak at once, voices rising sharply.
"Just how in the hell are we supposed to--"
"We're hardly equipped--"
"--going to die of exposure--"
"Fine!" Crowley threw his hands into the air. "Fine! I'll make us a house. But..." He raised a finger warningly at them. "But you can't tell anyone, okay? If someone asks, after we get back--"
"If we get back," the young redhead interjected dramatically.
"When we get back," Crowley pushed on, because he would be damned again if he was going to live out the rest of his current body's life with these people, "just say that we... found a treehouse. Left to us by Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. All right?" The others, as a whole, shrugged. Fraser beamed annoyingly at him.
"I knew you would do the right--"
"Yes, yes," Crowley snarled, "but shut up about it."
Fraser turned to the others. "Let's leave Mr. Crowley to his work. I think perhaps some of us should go after that poor boy in the woods..."
"Robb," Cox supplied.
Fraser nodded and frowned, folding his arms. "Diefenbaker is with him, of course, but for the time being it's probably safest for the both of them to remain with us..." The Indian -- Mohinder, Crowley recalled, he'd introduced himself on the plane -- and the young redhead exchanged a look that said they weren't quite so sure about that.
"Why don't you two go ahead," Mohinder suggested slowly.
"Yes, all right. Perry, you and I will go find Robb and Dief... the rest of you should probably try and find some fresh water." Cox accepted his duty with a minimum of grumbling, and Crowley watched with utter gratitude as the two of them left. Mohinder went to dispose of the bones from their fish lunch.
"Hey." A new voice chimed in -- the dark-haired young man who'd stayed at the back of the group the whole time. He hadn't really spoken much, just kept sending worried glances off to the side, as if he was looking for someone or something. Jim, Crowley'd thought he'd said his name was. "Hey, man." Jim came forward and flashed Crowley a toothy smile of relief, clapping him on the arm. "Thanks a lot."
"Don't mention it," Crowley snapped. "Really."
Jim blinked and raised his hands, taking a step back. "Uh. Right. Sorry." He shuffled off down the beach after Mohinder, giving Crowley a glance over his shoulder that spoke of... something. What, he wasn't exactly sure.
That just left the redhead, who had remained behind, smoking a cigarette that had miraculously remained untouched by the water, and who was watching Crowley with narrowed eyes and something hovering on his lips. It was a look Crowley recognized rather more easily. He let himself relax.
"I'm Francis," the young man said in cool tones. "How do you feel about Greek?"
For the first time since they'd hit the island, Crowley smiled. Well, at least there would be some entertainment around.