Art Thou A Witch, Viva Espana?
Top of the mornin', Lower Tadfield!
Long time reader, first time writer, as they say on the squalk box.
I come bearing slashy [but not smutty] A/C fic, having been swayed by the folks over at the Anonymous Kink Meme.
Characters: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: I'd put it at about PG-13 ish.
Length: Longer than Adam's hair, shorter than Pepper's.
Summary: Post-Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, Aziraphale and Crowley do their best to settle back into the routine of their lives.
Aziraphale was sitting in the bookshop, making notes in the margin of a text examining the actions of several minor angels of the fourteenth century. The pen he was using was completely out of ink, but words continued to flow smoothly onto the page in a clean, neat joined script, even when the small tinkly bell that all second-hand bookshop owners are required to attach to their door rang and someone entered the shop. The angel frowned - a customer, coming to deprive him of part of his collection for some dirty pieces of paper with nothing particularly exciting written on them. As it happened, he was wrong.
Crowley had had hell getting down to the bookshop. Anathema and that Ned fellow had called, telling him that not only was the Vining Jenny he had bought for their wedding making deliberate attempts to expand past its allotted ceramic pot, it was also inciting rebellion in their other houseplants. Crowley had let it pass, assuring the couple that he would be down to their ramshackle, sickeningly love-filled cottage with his best glare within the week. But still. It was irritating.
The anticipation of drinks with his angelic counterpart had been keeping the demon going all day, and as he opened the door to the shop and heard that damn little tinkly bell announce his arrival, he grinned. Aziraphale was sitting behind the truly ancient cash register (why, thought Crowley absently, is everything owned by the people with whom I associate ready for the Antiques Road Show?), writing something in the margin of what looked to be a particularly dry treatise on the activities of several of his colleagues, but it was the illustration on the left-hand page that caught Crowley’s attention.
The picture was of two angels, in all their feathery glory, caught in an embrace. Their wings were curled around them, covering various important bits, and their lips were pressed together in a tightly rendered kiss. Crowley sank into a squashy velvet armchair across from the register (though he didn’t know it, the chair was another prerequisite for second-hand bookstores the world over) to wait for Aziraphale to finish his annotation and peered across at the illustration.
The angel on the left looked a little like Aziraphale, Crowley thought absently. He imagined the angel posing for a painting, hair in disarray and wearing one of those silly toga-things people seemed so fond of on divine beings. Imagined his chest kind of half-covered in linen and half… not. Imagined Aziraphale kissing the other angel in the painting. In Crowley’s imagination, the other angel was very clearly male. Also a rather poor kisser.
“You never see pictures of demons with their hands all over each other,” Crowley said thoughtfully. “Only angels. Bunch of sparkly fairies, the lot of you. The wings give it away.” Aziraphale nodded, looking up. His hair fell in a careful sweep over his forehead, casting light shadows on his nose and cheeks. The angel pressed his fingertips together like a professor. “There are female demons, though - succubae and incubi and such,” he offered peacefully. Crowley rose and smacked his fingers apart impatiently, batting them down to the counter and holding them there lightly. “That doesn’t matter. All you poufs of angels are…”
He leaned back, pulling his neatly manicured hand off the angel’s. “Poufs.” That seemed the best way to explain it. Aziraphale gave a little laugh. “Masterfully put,” he said. “Wine?”
“Of course,” replied Crowley.
Actually, ‘wine’ was a figure of speech. Usually they did drink red wine (from various years between 1870 and 1923), or, if Aziraphale was feeling moody, brandy. Tonight, however, Crowley felt something rather stronger was in order. It looked like red wine. It tasted like red wine. But any dinner party at which this beverage was served would have been over rather quickly, due to the guests passing out at the table or running for a nook with a conveniently empty vase. It was, as Aziraphale remarked several minutes later, really good stuff.
---
Aziraphale was, to put it delicately, gone. He was lying on the tremendously ugly paisley couch in the back room of the shop, in a considerably less graceful position than the one he usually assumed during his naps. Crowley sat at the end of the couch not occupied by the angel’s legs, with the angel’s blond hair brushing against his trouser leg. He was more than a little drunk as well, but keeping quiet about it and managing to remain upright, of which achievement he was rather proud. The same could not, unfortunately, be said of Aziraphale.
“Ineffable,” he mumbled. “God and such. No eff at all.” He looked mournfully up at the demon. “No efts, either. Funny things, efts. Little lizards. Hide under rocks and such.” There was an arm hanging around his shoulder, and Aziraphale peered carefully at it. It was a very well-dressed arm, with a black suit jacket enclosing it and a white linen cuff peeking out from underneath. There were gold cufflinks on the jacket. “Where ’sat coming from?” he said, rather succinctly. The arm remained, and when he looked up, he saw it was attached to Crowley. “Oh, Crowley. You’re a bit of a lizard yourself, aren’t you?”
Crowley didn’t seem to be listening. His reptilian eyes - for once free of the dark glasses - were wide and yellow, staring down at Aziraphale. His cheekbones looked a little hollow in the dim light of the bookshop, and he was leaning forwards. “If I’m a lizard,” he said slowly, “doesn’t that make you a parakeet of sorts?”
Their faces were very close together. “I guess so.” Aziraphale breathed in, and Crowley could feel the air he was supposed to be inhaling stolen away by the angel’s slightly open lips. It was a very odd feeling. Almost as though…
“Oh, eft it,” said Crowley with fire, and kissed him.
It was difficult to tell whether it was one good person and one bad person doing a good thing, or one bad person and one good person doing a bad thing, or two mediocre people doing a thing which was thingish. In truth, it was probably a little of all three. And it was very nice. Though telling which person was the good and which was the bad would have been even more difficult.
Once they had sobered up (a process which consisted of Aziraphale sitting down on the stool and Crowley sitting down in the armchair and the both of them concentrating very hard for a moment with their eyes closed) and Crowley had put his coat on, Aziraphale stood and bowed to the door. “A pleasure as always, my dear.” His cheeks were a little flushed, but alcohol leaving your bloodstream in vast quantities could do that to you. Maybe. “We should do this again next week.”
“All of it?” asked Crowley warily.
“All of it.”
Long time reader, first time writer, as they say on the squalk box.
I come bearing slashy [but not smutty] A/C fic, having been swayed by the folks over at the Anonymous Kink Meme.
Characters: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: I'd put it at about PG-13 ish.
Length: Longer than Adam's hair, shorter than Pepper's.
Summary: Post-Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, Aziraphale and Crowley do their best to settle back into the routine of their lives.
Aziraphale was sitting in the bookshop, making notes in the margin of a text examining the actions of several minor angels of the fourteenth century. The pen he was using was completely out of ink, but words continued to flow smoothly onto the page in a clean, neat joined script, even when the small tinkly bell that all second-hand bookshop owners are required to attach to their door rang and someone entered the shop. The angel frowned - a customer, coming to deprive him of part of his collection for some dirty pieces of paper with nothing particularly exciting written on them. As it happened, he was wrong.
Crowley had had hell getting down to the bookshop. Anathema and that Ned fellow had called, telling him that not only was the Vining Jenny he had bought for their wedding making deliberate attempts to expand past its allotted ceramic pot, it was also inciting rebellion in their other houseplants. Crowley had let it pass, assuring the couple that he would be down to their ramshackle, sickeningly love-filled cottage with his best glare within the week. But still. It was irritating.
The anticipation of drinks with his angelic counterpart had been keeping the demon going all day, and as he opened the door to the shop and heard that damn little tinkly bell announce his arrival, he grinned. Aziraphale was sitting behind the truly ancient cash register (why, thought Crowley absently, is everything owned by the people with whom I associate ready for the Antiques Road Show?), writing something in the margin of what looked to be a particularly dry treatise on the activities of several of his colleagues, but it was the illustration on the left-hand page that caught Crowley’s attention.
The picture was of two angels, in all their feathery glory, caught in an embrace. Their wings were curled around them, covering various important bits, and their lips were pressed together in a tightly rendered kiss. Crowley sank into a squashy velvet armchair across from the register (though he didn’t know it, the chair was another prerequisite for second-hand bookstores the world over) to wait for Aziraphale to finish his annotation and peered across at the illustration.
The angel on the left looked a little like Aziraphale, Crowley thought absently. He imagined the angel posing for a painting, hair in disarray and wearing one of those silly toga-things people seemed so fond of on divine beings. Imagined his chest kind of half-covered in linen and half… not. Imagined Aziraphale kissing the other angel in the painting. In Crowley’s imagination, the other angel was very clearly male. Also a rather poor kisser.
“You never see pictures of demons with their hands all over each other,” Crowley said thoughtfully. “Only angels. Bunch of sparkly fairies, the lot of you. The wings give it away.” Aziraphale nodded, looking up. His hair fell in a careful sweep over his forehead, casting light shadows on his nose and cheeks. The angel pressed his fingertips together like a professor. “There are female demons, though - succubae and incubi and such,” he offered peacefully. Crowley rose and smacked his fingers apart impatiently, batting them down to the counter and holding them there lightly. “That doesn’t matter. All you poufs of angels are…”
He leaned back, pulling his neatly manicured hand off the angel’s. “Poufs.” That seemed the best way to explain it. Aziraphale gave a little laugh. “Masterfully put,” he said. “Wine?”
“Of course,” replied Crowley.
Actually, ‘wine’ was a figure of speech. Usually they did drink red wine (from various years between 1870 and 1923), or, if Aziraphale was feeling moody, brandy. Tonight, however, Crowley felt something rather stronger was in order. It looked like red wine. It tasted like red wine. But any dinner party at which this beverage was served would have been over rather quickly, due to the guests passing out at the table or running for a nook with a conveniently empty vase. It was, as Aziraphale remarked several minutes later, really good stuff.
---
Aziraphale was, to put it delicately, gone. He was lying on the tremendously ugly paisley couch in the back room of the shop, in a considerably less graceful position than the one he usually assumed during his naps. Crowley sat at the end of the couch not occupied by the angel’s legs, with the angel’s blond hair brushing against his trouser leg. He was more than a little drunk as well, but keeping quiet about it and managing to remain upright, of which achievement he was rather proud. The same could not, unfortunately, be said of Aziraphale.
“Ineffable,” he mumbled. “God and such. No eff at all.” He looked mournfully up at the demon. “No efts, either. Funny things, efts. Little lizards. Hide under rocks and such.” There was an arm hanging around his shoulder, and Aziraphale peered carefully at it. It was a very well-dressed arm, with a black suit jacket enclosing it and a white linen cuff peeking out from underneath. There were gold cufflinks on the jacket. “Where ’sat coming from?” he said, rather succinctly. The arm remained, and when he looked up, he saw it was attached to Crowley. “Oh, Crowley. You’re a bit of a lizard yourself, aren’t you?”
Crowley didn’t seem to be listening. His reptilian eyes - for once free of the dark glasses - were wide and yellow, staring down at Aziraphale. His cheekbones looked a little hollow in the dim light of the bookshop, and he was leaning forwards. “If I’m a lizard,” he said slowly, “doesn’t that make you a parakeet of sorts?”
Their faces were very close together. “I guess so.” Aziraphale breathed in, and Crowley could feel the air he was supposed to be inhaling stolen away by the angel’s slightly open lips. It was a very odd feeling. Almost as though…
“Oh, eft it,” said Crowley with fire, and kissed him.
It was difficult to tell whether it was one good person and one bad person doing a good thing, or one bad person and one good person doing a bad thing, or two mediocre people doing a thing which was thingish. In truth, it was probably a little of all three. And it was very nice. Though telling which person was the good and which was the bad would have been even more difficult.
Once they had sobered up (a process which consisted of Aziraphale sitting down on the stool and Crowley sitting down in the armchair and the both of them concentrating very hard for a moment with their eyes closed) and Crowley had put his coat on, Aziraphale stood and bowed to the door. “A pleasure as always, my dear.” His cheeks were a little flushed, but alcohol leaving your bloodstream in vast quantities could do that to you. Maybe. “We should do this again next week.”
“All of it?” asked Crowley warily.
“All of it.”