untitled daft!fic
Um. This may be Somewhat Rubbish (tm), hence the fact that I'm being cowardly and not posting on my actual account.
Tis Crowley/Aziraphale fic, and tame at that. And rather silly.
Crowley did not like computers, and they certainly didn’t like him. In normal circumstance, he would have avoided them at all costs, but as it happened, he was stuck in Aziraphale’s bookshop with nothing but dusty, tedious texts he that wouldn’t touch with a bargepole for company.
Nothing except this computer.
God knew why Aziraphale had bought it¹. According to him, most modern bookshops served coffee or provided internet access, and it seemed right (his civil duty, or whatnot) that he should do the same. But, Aziraphale was an idiot, as the events of 10 minutes ago had proved.
Crowley had come to visit him as normal, and had quickly become rather preoccupied with a bottle of expensive chardonnay on the counter. He’d ended up drinking most of it in a very short space of time, forgetting to sober himself up and passing out on the floor. Clearly, Aziraphale hadn’t noticed him, and when he woke up, Crowley had found himself securely locked in. Not just a flimsy little padlock or something. Some sort of ....divine barrier, just his luck.
So, until Aziraphale returned, Crowley was stuck. He’d busied himself with the rest of the wine, but that hadn’t lasted long. At his wits' end, he approached the computer, and sat down in front of it.
As instructed, he inserted two pounds to get online, which took about five minutes itself, a little red light blinking evilly away at him all the while.
At last, he was on the internet, and was apparently at a website titled ‘Google’. It was less than impressive - mainly white and plain, with a few buttons here and there. Crowley clicked ‘Images’. No images came up. He scowled.
He really had very little patience with this sort of thing. He didn’t mind modern technology, not at all - he just liked it to work his way. The first time Crowley had tried to use the internet, it had been at another bookshop up in Surrey. The computer hadn’t done as he’d instructed, and when he’d tried to make it, as such, it had bleeped and fussed and screamed at him and came up with about 500 error messages. This had happened to every computer he’d ever tried to work².
It took Crowley about 10 minutes to get to grips with Google, by which time the a little message had come up in the left corner demanding more money. Crowley glared at it, and it shrunk away guiltily, leaving him with a feeling of immense pride.
A few minutes later, and he was getting more and more bored. Bugger this internet thing for a lark - you couldn’t do anything on it. In one last ditch attempt to keep himself occupied, Crowley typed his own name into the search engine and hit the return key.
He scrolled through, nothing particularly standing out, until he discovered something which made his blood run cold. Something which mentioned Aziraphale’s name. And Lower Tadfield, in fact. He clicked the link immediately, and found himself on a website full of.... strange little fictions …
Fictions which mentioned more than just himself and Azirapahale…
Crowley was sitting bolt upright, becoming more and more panicked, occasionally looking around himself nervously. How could these people possibly know all these things? They knew about War, about Death, about Adam, the baby switching incident, Warlock’s 11th birthday party, that time that Crowley had been turned into a woman! He considered that this was all the result of some kind of divine intervention - but considering the manner of some of these works, it didn’t appear likely.
The demon gazed deeply into Aziraphale’s eyes, full of a deep, burning desire, warmer than a flaming sword, more fiery than the furnaces of hell!
“Oh, Zira!” He cried, throwing aside his shirt recklessly and revealing his magnificently sculptured chest. “I’ve wanted this for so long! Take me, my beautiful angel, take me, I’m yours!”
With this, Crowley threw himself into Aziraphale’s strong arms and kissed him passionately, pouring centuries of suppressed emotions into that kiss! Oh, how he basked in the feeling of the angel’s lips on his, and wished to stay there forever!
Crowley was not impressed.
Thankfully, he soon discovered who exactly was divulging this information to the masses. Two called Pratchett and Gaimen³ were the culprits. He reminded himself to hunt them down.
He was in the middle of adding a 'comment' about one of the god-awful pieces of ‘fic’, when the door clanged open and Aziraphale walked in. Crowley didn’t look up, simply carried on typing.
“Oh, did I lock you in here?” Aziraphale said, sheepishly. “Sorry.”
“Eh? Hey, hey, angel, come and look at this.”
Aziraphale leant over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow.
“These people write romantic fiction about us!” Crowley shrieked, indignant. “I mean… I mean… what?! It--”
Aziraphale chuckled. “Hmm, I wonder why that could be.” He said, leaning forwards and kissing the side of Crowley’s mouth. Crowley mock-grimaced and attempted to batt him away.
"Oh, sod off." He said, but still managing to tilt his head and kiss back.
“Cup of tea, dear boy?”
-----
1 - This was probably true. Every now and then Aziraphale would bring in pointless, completely unnecessary objects to the shop - digital kettles, payphones, works of contemporary fiction - and if Crowley questioned them, he would simply tut wisely at him and mumble about ineffability.
2 - With one exception, being a computer in an internet café in Oxford, which had burst into song. And then into flame. Crowley had spent quite some time clearing that one up.
3 - Both names sounded suspiciously like those of demons, he noted.
Tis Crowley/Aziraphale fic, and tame at that. And rather silly.
Crowley did not like computers, and they certainly didn’t like him. In normal circumstance, he would have avoided them at all costs, but as it happened, he was stuck in Aziraphale’s bookshop with nothing but dusty, tedious texts he that wouldn’t touch with a bargepole for company.
Nothing except this computer.
God knew why Aziraphale had bought it¹. According to him, most modern bookshops served coffee or provided internet access, and it seemed right (his civil duty, or whatnot) that he should do the same. But, Aziraphale was an idiot, as the events of 10 minutes ago had proved.
Crowley had come to visit him as normal, and had quickly become rather preoccupied with a bottle of expensive chardonnay on the counter. He’d ended up drinking most of it in a very short space of time, forgetting to sober himself up and passing out on the floor. Clearly, Aziraphale hadn’t noticed him, and when he woke up, Crowley had found himself securely locked in. Not just a flimsy little padlock or something. Some sort of ....divine barrier, just his luck.
So, until Aziraphale returned, Crowley was stuck. He’d busied himself with the rest of the wine, but that hadn’t lasted long. At his wits' end, he approached the computer, and sat down in front of it.
As instructed, he inserted two pounds to get online, which took about five minutes itself, a little red light blinking evilly away at him all the while.
At last, he was on the internet, and was apparently at a website titled ‘Google’. It was less than impressive - mainly white and plain, with a few buttons here and there. Crowley clicked ‘Images’. No images came up. He scowled.
He really had very little patience with this sort of thing. He didn’t mind modern technology, not at all - he just liked it to work his way. The first time Crowley had tried to use the internet, it had been at another bookshop up in Surrey. The computer hadn’t done as he’d instructed, and when he’d tried to make it, as such, it had bleeped and fussed and screamed at him and came up with about 500 error messages. This had happened to every computer he’d ever tried to work².
It took Crowley about 10 minutes to get to grips with Google, by which time the a little message had come up in the left corner demanding more money. Crowley glared at it, and it shrunk away guiltily, leaving him with a feeling of immense pride.
A few minutes later, and he was getting more and more bored. Bugger this internet thing for a lark - you couldn’t do anything on it. In one last ditch attempt to keep himself occupied, Crowley typed his own name into the search engine and hit the return key.
He scrolled through, nothing particularly standing out, until he discovered something which made his blood run cold. Something which mentioned Aziraphale’s name. And Lower Tadfield, in fact. He clicked the link immediately, and found himself on a website full of.... strange little fictions …
Fictions which mentioned more than just himself and Azirapahale…
Crowley was sitting bolt upright, becoming more and more panicked, occasionally looking around himself nervously. How could these people possibly know all these things? They knew about War, about Death, about Adam, the baby switching incident, Warlock’s 11th birthday party, that time that Crowley had been turned into a woman! He considered that this was all the result of some kind of divine intervention - but considering the manner of some of these works, it didn’t appear likely.
The demon gazed deeply into Aziraphale’s eyes, full of a deep, burning desire, warmer than a flaming sword, more fiery than the furnaces of hell!
“Oh, Zira!” He cried, throwing aside his shirt recklessly and revealing his magnificently sculptured chest. “I’ve wanted this for so long! Take me, my beautiful angel, take me, I’m yours!”
With this, Crowley threw himself into Aziraphale’s strong arms and kissed him passionately, pouring centuries of suppressed emotions into that kiss! Oh, how he basked in the feeling of the angel’s lips on his, and wished to stay there forever!
Crowley was not impressed.
Thankfully, he soon discovered who exactly was divulging this information to the masses. Two called Pratchett and Gaimen³ were the culprits. He reminded himself to hunt them down.
He was in the middle of adding a 'comment' about one of the god-awful pieces of ‘fic’, when the door clanged open and Aziraphale walked in. Crowley didn’t look up, simply carried on typing.
“Oh, did I lock you in here?” Aziraphale said, sheepishly. “Sorry.”
“Eh? Hey, hey, angel, come and look at this.”
Aziraphale leant over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow.
“These people write romantic fiction about us!” Crowley shrieked, indignant. “I mean… I mean… what?! It--”
Aziraphale chuckled. “Hmm, I wonder why that could be.” He said, leaning forwards and kissing the side of Crowley’s mouth. Crowley mock-grimaced and attempted to batt him away.
"Oh, sod off." He said, but still managing to tilt his head and kiss back.
“Cup of tea, dear boy?”
-----
1 - This was probably true. Every now and then Aziraphale would bring in pointless, completely unnecessary objects to the shop - digital kettles, payphones, works of contemporary fiction - and if Crowley questioned them, he would simply tut wisely at him and mumble about ineffability.
2 - With one exception, being a computer in an internet café in Oxford, which had burst into song. And then into flame. Crowley had spent quite some time clearing that one up.
3 - Both names sounded suspiciously like those of demons, he noted.