In Which the Holy Virgin's Fashion Sense is Explosively Called Into Question
Hullo, everyone! Long time lurker, first time poster, you know the deal. Now, what better way to introduce myself than with a patently ridiculous crossover?
I've wanted to see fic featuring everyone's favourite divine duo set in the 'verse of Panty & Stocking with Garterbelt for an embarrassingly long time, so I finally cracked and wrote one. I hope you won't think of me too poorly for this. If you haven't seen the show, never fear, for this is all about Aziraphale & Crowley.
Title: In Which the Holy Virgin's Fashion Sense is Explosively Called Into Question
Author: missmorrichan
Fandoms: Good Omens, Panty & Stocking with Garterbelt
Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley, a greasy, undead monstrosity and a tiny cameo by two demonic siblings
Rating: PG if you have an overactive imagination.
Summary: Aziraphale learns the perils of covering someone else's shift; Crowley unhelpfully observes. Tartan, as it turns out, is not only stylish, but deadly.
Author's Note: You don't need any knowledge of Panty & Stocking to understand and, I hope, enjoy this story. Dedicated to the Anon who inspired me to write this: you know who you are!
----
"What are you doing?"
Aziraphale was unsteadily hopping on one foot, the other bent awkwardly as he seemed to be fumbling with his shoe. "Don't tell me you've been drinking on the job." Crowley placed a languid hand on his brow, trying to look as dramatic and emaciated as possible, like all the best artists (and tempting was an art, wasn't it?). "Oh, the debauchery of it all."
Aziraphale snorted, which nearly caused him to lose his balance; Crowley pointedly made no move to help. Righting himself, he said "I am not drunk. Er." Aziraphale seemed to consider this, foot poised in mid-air, before squeezing his eyes shut and shuddering faintly. "Now I'm not drunk." Wrenching the loafer off his foot, he menacingly waggled it at Crowley, who was on the brink of making some snide remark. "The church they have me posted at contains a..." he thoughtfully chewed his lip, "...a wealth of strange paraphernalia, let's say."
"Ah. Secret wine cellar in the basement, is it? It's almost cute how they think no one will notice. 'It's only for Communion', right. Eighteen bottles of Bordeaux, all for the Eucharist." Crowley seemed to be lost in the depths of a fond memory. "That was a party I'll never forget. The more pious they are, the harder the hangover."
"No!" Aziraphale abruptly shattered his reverie. "That is, that church has a lot of extremely questionable, er, curios, and, well, I hypothesized that if I lost myself in a fine vintage I wouldn't have to recall what I saw." He spoke the last bit rather hurriedly, as if desperate to be over with it.
"What you saw?" Crowley was only half listening - he was oddly fascinated by the shoe in Aziraphale's hand and how the angel managed to make even sleek, Italian-made loafers look frumpy. "In a church? An officially-sanctioned church? I mean, I thought you were covering shifts for a couple of your lot."
"I am." Aziraphale looked deadly serious. "That's what disturbs me." His face was wan as he met Crowley's eyes. Or where he presumed Crowley's eyes to be. "When I was attempting to find a quiet place to read, I mistakenly stumbled into..." He gave his surroundings a furtive glance. "I've seen medieval torture chambers that weren't so lovingly equipped."
"Ooh la." Crowley whistled, hands jammed in his pockets. "I see the Inquisition lives on. Some people never change."
"You don't understand." Aziraphale seemed to be despondently looking for a place to set down his discarded shoe, before sighing and tucking it under his arm. "I asked the priest about it - oh, truly upstanding fellow, I'm certain, just lets his hobbies get the better of him sometimes - and he suddenly had this queer, faraway look in his eye and well I shouldn't be repeating some of the things he told me in polite company but --"
There was an earth-shattering roar from the grotesque monstrosity looming above them.
Aziraphale frowned.
"Bother. The Ghost."
"No, no, no, you were saying?" Crowley eagerly hovered at Aziraphale's side, fingertips twitching with manic energy. "Something about torture chambers and wine and divine blackmail material?"
Aziraphale was too busy trying to decide how best to approach the target without sullying the soles of his feet. "Not now, my dear," he said rather absently. Crowley pouted and decided to turn his attention upwards.
"So," he clapped his hands together, "I probably should have asked this sooner, where are my manners: what in blue-bloody-blazes is that?"
"A Ghost." Crowley tried not to stare as Aziraphale began to tug at his sock. That seemed to be all the information that was forthcoming, so Crowley prompted further.
He jabbed Aziraphale in the ribs. "Yes, of course, it's so obvious now. A Ghost. Don't quite make them like they used to, though. All the little children gallivanting about with mummy's best linen over their heads, misshapen holes gouged in the fabric, plastic buckets full of sweets. How times change." Crowley pushed up his sunglasses. "This one seems a bit big. And melty. Is that thing made of pizza, angel?"
Aziraphale irritably swatted him away, slapping Crowley's arm with the shed garment. The sock was so hideous in all its noxious tartan sensibilities that it practically wrapped back around to being fashionable. You know. Ironically.
"Spirit of a delivery boy trapped in limbo." He was speaking in very clipped, impatient tones, too focused on the black-and-orange-big-and-melty-made-of-pizza apparition before him. "Poor thing was being short-changed all evening before finally being gunned down by an irate customer. Apparently, the customer had waited only twenty-eight minutes, but still demanded a refund and was... displeased when one wasn't granted."
"Ah," said Crowley, as if this explained anything. "So we go from slighted food service worker to murderous-looking undead pizza monster. Of course. Logically. Naturally. I was a fool to ask such a silly question."
Aziraphale was now studying his sock with great interest, seemingly oblivious to the Ghost now advancing towards them. He turned it over repeatedly in his hand, pulling languidly at a loose thread, all while molten blobs of cheese and bits of pepperoni likely fired in the wood-burning ovens of Hell began to slop on the pavement.
"Planning on doing anything about it, are we?"
"Shh," said Aziraphale.
Crowley allowed himself to rock back and forth on his heels once, twice, before addressing Aziraphale again. "Granted, you could probably scare off most unholy spawn with your hideous wardrobe - myself included - but this one doesn't seem to be budging, and I'm not particularly keen on discorporation right now."
"Shh!" Aziraphale used his best librarian voice, which was formidable indeed. Thousands of students across the country suddenly felt the hairs on the back of their necks rise and tried to look as sheepish as possible, though they had no idea as to why.
"So sorry, your Majesty," Crowley sneered, while simultaneously beginning to walk backwards. Forget discorporation; he was not cleaning grease stains out of his suit.
"Now, how did that go again?" Aziraphale pursed his lips, running a finger along the sock. He began muttering to himself. "'O wicked spirit born of a lost soul...' Mm, yes, I think that was it. I probably should have paid more attention at the debriefing, now that I think about it."
"While I'm tickled by the image of you having a riveting conversation with your left sock, I seriously fail to see how this is going to help us." Crowley thought for a moment. "Or help you, rather. You'll forgive me for sitting this one out, there's a good fellow."
"My left sock is certainly more riveting than you." Aziraphale scoffed. Crowley couldn't help but wince, just a little. "If you must know, this was a technique those other two angels taught me, the sisters currently on leave for 'Sensitivity Training'."
"Your lot has 'Sensitivity Training'?"
Aziraphale smiled a tired smile. "No. Just a cheap excuse to take a vacation on company time. You'd be surprised at all the sloth when it comes to verifying paperwork. Nobody bothers to corroborate anything these days."
"Then, have you ever --"
"Crowley!" Aziraphale seemed to remember what he was doing. The Ghost roaring in his face, now only a scant few metres away, probably helped. "Focus! I have to focus!"
"Right. Focus." He pointed to the sock. "These two angels. They taught you a technique to fight off evil?"
"Yes."
"With clothing?"
"Yes."
"Hmm. Clothes." Crowley tilted his head. "Hate to say this, angel, but you're totally buggered."
Aziraphale tutted as if dealing with a particularly slow pupil. "Not just any clothes. My clothes."
"Yeah?"
"Blessed clothes."
"That's just great." Crowley flapped his arms helplessly. "Begone, foul creature from the depths, for I wield before you the Holy Bloomers of Smiting!" He shook his head. "Eh, maybe you'll get lucky. Maybe they'll be too busy laughing to fight back while you strangle them with the elastic. Let's be optimistic."
"Holy Bloomers aren't that far from the truth, actually."
Crowley tried not to grimace so strongly, he really did. "Please, please don't tell me you're going to use --"
"Not me. One of the other angels." 1 Aziraphale rolled his eyes when he saw Crowley remained in the dark. "Forget it, I --"
There was a faint plop as a fleck of Ghost-cheese collided with the front of Aziraphale's jacket. It sizzled and smoked, and when Aziraphale regained enough sense to brush it away, there was a hole in the fabric. Dominance cemented in its mind, The Ghost snarled and began to charge forward.
Aziraphale slowly looked up. "I liked that coat. It was vintage."
Crowley, who had been dithering between grabbing the clearly-bonkers-beyond-repair Aziraphale by the scruff of his neck and high-tailing it out of there versus simply slithering off on his own while leaving Aziraphale to clean up Aziraphale's mess, stopped.
Perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him, for the ugly, worn, hideously tartan sock in Aziraphale's hand began to glow.
"What the f--"
The Ghost still approached with alarming rapidity, though it seemed to momentarily flinch beneath the unearthly blue shine. No, now it wasn't just the sock. Aziraphale, too, began to shimmer. His wings erupted from his back - which would have been much more impressive had they ever been groomed some time during the last century - and flexed behind him.
Then, faced with an imminent, greasy, thin-crust-three-cheese-hold-the-mushrooms death, Aziraphale began to chant.
"O wicked spirit born of a lost soul in Limbo," - it could have been a trick of the light, but Aziraphale now seemed to be posing, of all things - "receive judgement from the garb of the Holy Virgin," - no, Aziraphale was definitely posing, and did he just wink at the Ghost, and why could Crowley hear a suspiciously catchy dance number in the back of his head - "cleansed of worldly impurities;" - Crowley watched him leap up, brandishing the eye-searing sock before him - "Return to Heaven and Earth!"
Crowley suddenly decided he was either in need of a stiff drink, or had already consumed many more than what your average mortal could hope to manage in a lifetime and was currently in the midst of some alcohol-induced fever dream. That was the only explanation.
The sock had transformed into a flaming sword.
"Repent!" shouted Aziraphale. He dashed towards the Ghost 2, and in a move that Crowley would later grudgingly describe as 'cool' and privately describe as 'super cool', decisively sliced it in two.
Everything went still, aside from the over-dramatic fluttering of Aziraphale's coat and wings (why was there always a breeze for times like this?). Crowley realized he had been holding a breath he didn't even need, and made to exhale when --
"THIRTY MINUTES OR LESS."
-- the Ghost erupted in a deafening explosion 3, leaving both a smoking crater and a shower of soggy toppings in its wake.
"Well. That was. Ah. Unique." They had both spent the past few minutes plucking bits of cheese and some uncommonly stubborn olives from their clothing. Crowley understood he could simply will the stains away, but deep inside, he knew they'd never come off. Snakeskin shoes. Destroyed by Provolone.
"All in a day's work, my dear." Aziraphale was still clutching the... sword? sock? swock? in his hand, the light from the fire giving his face an ethereal air. He seemed mildly embarrassed about the whole affair, downplaying his heroism in that quaintly English fashion. "It looks as though the other angels' technique was sound."
"Mm, yes. Technique." Stepping up to Aziraphale, Crowley gave him an appraising glance. "What was that you said, when you were going all musical theatre on that Ghost?" He scratched at his chin with long, elegant fingers. "Something about the 'garb of the Holy Virgin'?"
Aziraphale seemed to faintly colour in a fit of indignation. "It was all part of the incantation, you understand." He handily flicked his wrist, causing the flaming sword to once again resume the form of a tartan sock, albeit one that now smelled of tomato sauce. "I had to speak it in order to vanquish the Ghost."
"I see." Crowley grinned in a rather, well, demonic manner. He gestured to the garment in Aziraphale's hand. "The Holy Virgin must have big feet, eh?"
This time, Aziraphale did colour. He angrily raised his bare foot and hastily re-clothed it 4, then slipped his shoe back on 5. "If you'll kindly excuse me," he said rather curtly, "I must be getting back to the church. The priest will no doubt be wanting a report, and I shouldn't keep him waiting." Aziraphale continued muttering to himself even as he turned on his heel and began walking away. "I hope he's managed to do something about that preposterous green dog. If I find one more book chewed up beyond repair..."
Crowley watched Aziraphale's retreating form, taking extra care to avoid pointing out the slice of pepperoni clinging persistantly to the back of his coat. Let the people that pass Aziraphale on his way home have a good giggle at Aziraphale's expense, why not. He then turned his attention to the still-steaming crater the - what was it called? - the Ghost had left behind. He carefully made his way to the middle of the hole, and reached down to pluck something from the ground.
"Interesting," said Crowley. He nimbly ran the coin between his fingers, making special note of the strange insignia it bore. "An H with wings," he remarked. "Bet even the dodgiest vending machine won't take this. I wonder if that blob dropped its lunch money?" He shrugged and slipped the coin in his pocket. "Might as well take it. It'll reflect poorly on me if I don't steal from the recently departed." Crowley, too, began walking off. "Now, where's a good place to get completely sloshed around here?"
Far off in the bushes, Crowley was being watched through a pair of very expensive binoculars. They picked up several wavelengths that weren't visible to human eyes, including ultraviolet, gamma rays and superchartreuse.
"Disgraceful. The Ghost failed to kill the angel, and yet he neglected to finish the job."
"Are you certain he's one of ours?"
A pause. Dials on the binoculars were being fiddled with. "Yes. He's undoubtedly a demon." The sneer in the voice was audible. "Why did he not lift a finger to destroy that angel? Heaven and Hell are sworn enemies. Does he not understand the rules?" The final word was pronounced with a very distinct roll.
"I am more concerned with the new angel, dear sister. He seems unsure of himself; would it not be best to strike immediately, before he gets his bearings? It should be a simple affair, now that there is only one of them to deal with."
"An excellent idea. We'll get rid of him quickly, then afterwards we shall confront that insubordinate..." - for some reason, the words 'flash bastard' briefly came to mind - "...traitor wearing the gaudy sunglasses. Come, Miss Kneesocks."
"Yes, dear sister."
1Aziraphale actually did consider going this route, however briefly (no pun intended), but the other two angels had quickly talked him out of it. "Yeah, right." The blonde one had been smirking when she gave Aziraphale an appraising look. Something about her gaze felt distinctly... perverse. "You'd be lucky to get a BB gun out of those, old man." Aziraphale defensively tugged his long overcoat shut in response.
2The Ghost, incidentally, was by now thinking it should have spent some time re-evaluating its priorities or going on a trendy spiritual vacation to find itself, instead of staging a murderous rampage. In fact, if the Ghost really thought about it, it probably should have listened to its mum and stayed in culinary school. This was not worth minimum wage.
3Actually, they did go deaf, until both Aziraphale and Crowley remembered they could easily miracle their eardrums into order. They begun to wish they hadn't once the tinnitus set in.
4In his haste, the sock wound up being worn inside-out and upside-down. Aziraphale could have fixed it, but he reasoned that stopping to do so would only serve to make him look foolish. Because everything else he had done up to that point had not been even remotely ridiculous, no sir.
5Having dropped said shoe during the fight, however, Aziraphale first had to retrieve it from where it had fallen into a pile of ectoplasmic refuse. It turns out there was a slimy anchovy wedged in the toe, a fact Aziraphale discovered only after he had jammed his foot inside. On the bright side, his sock's aroma now resembled a rather lovely puttanesca sauce.
---
BONUS: I have some old artwork of Aziraphale & Crowley drawn in P&S's distinctive style, in a parody of some official art. Might as well share that, too. Dignity? Haven't got any left, 'm afraid.
Have I gotten laughed out of the comm. yet with my cartoonish sensibilities? This is why I lurk!
Thanks very much for reading, and feedback is always appreciated! I hope this type of silly crossover has an audience extending beyond two people, now.
I've wanted to see fic featuring everyone's favourite divine duo set in the 'verse of Panty & Stocking with Garterbelt for an embarrassingly long time, so I finally cracked and wrote one. I hope you won't think of me too poorly for this. If you haven't seen the show, never fear, for this is all about Aziraphale & Crowley.
Title: In Which the Holy Virgin's Fashion Sense is Explosively Called Into Question
Author: missmorrichan
Fandoms: Good Omens, Panty & Stocking with Garterbelt
Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley, a greasy, undead monstrosity and a tiny cameo by two demonic siblings
Rating: PG if you have an overactive imagination.
Summary: Aziraphale learns the perils of covering someone else's shift; Crowley unhelpfully observes. Tartan, as it turns out, is not only stylish, but deadly.
Author's Note: You don't need any knowledge of Panty & Stocking to understand and, I hope, enjoy this story. Dedicated to the Anon who inspired me to write this: you know who you are!
----
"What are you doing?"
Aziraphale was unsteadily hopping on one foot, the other bent awkwardly as he seemed to be fumbling with his shoe. "Don't tell me you've been drinking on the job." Crowley placed a languid hand on his brow, trying to look as dramatic and emaciated as possible, like all the best artists (and tempting was an art, wasn't it?). "Oh, the debauchery of it all."
Aziraphale snorted, which nearly caused him to lose his balance; Crowley pointedly made no move to help. Righting himself, he said "I am not drunk. Er." Aziraphale seemed to consider this, foot poised in mid-air, before squeezing his eyes shut and shuddering faintly. "Now I'm not drunk." Wrenching the loafer off his foot, he menacingly waggled it at Crowley, who was on the brink of making some snide remark. "The church they have me posted at contains a..." he thoughtfully chewed his lip, "...a wealth of strange paraphernalia, let's say."
"Ah. Secret wine cellar in the basement, is it? It's almost cute how they think no one will notice. 'It's only for Communion', right. Eighteen bottles of Bordeaux, all for the Eucharist." Crowley seemed to be lost in the depths of a fond memory. "That was a party I'll never forget. The more pious they are, the harder the hangover."
"No!" Aziraphale abruptly shattered his reverie. "That is, that church has a lot of extremely questionable, er, curios, and, well, I hypothesized that if I lost myself in a fine vintage I wouldn't have to recall what I saw." He spoke the last bit rather hurriedly, as if desperate to be over with it.
"What you saw?" Crowley was only half listening - he was oddly fascinated by the shoe in Aziraphale's hand and how the angel managed to make even sleek, Italian-made loafers look frumpy. "In a church? An officially-sanctioned church? I mean, I thought you were covering shifts for a couple of your lot."
"I am." Aziraphale looked deadly serious. "That's what disturbs me." His face was wan as he met Crowley's eyes. Or where he presumed Crowley's eyes to be. "When I was attempting to find a quiet place to read, I mistakenly stumbled into..." He gave his surroundings a furtive glance. "I've seen medieval torture chambers that weren't so lovingly equipped."
"Ooh la." Crowley whistled, hands jammed in his pockets. "I see the Inquisition lives on. Some people never change."
"You don't understand." Aziraphale seemed to be despondently looking for a place to set down his discarded shoe, before sighing and tucking it under his arm. "I asked the priest about it - oh, truly upstanding fellow, I'm certain, just lets his hobbies get the better of him sometimes - and he suddenly had this queer, faraway look in his eye and well I shouldn't be repeating some of the things he told me in polite company but --"
There was an earth-shattering roar from the grotesque monstrosity looming above them.
Aziraphale frowned.
"Bother. The Ghost."
"No, no, no, you were saying?" Crowley eagerly hovered at Aziraphale's side, fingertips twitching with manic energy. "Something about torture chambers and wine and divine blackmail material?"
Aziraphale was too busy trying to decide how best to approach the target without sullying the soles of his feet. "Not now, my dear," he said rather absently. Crowley pouted and decided to turn his attention upwards.
"So," he clapped his hands together, "I probably should have asked this sooner, where are my manners: what in blue-bloody-blazes is that?"
"A Ghost." Crowley tried not to stare as Aziraphale began to tug at his sock. That seemed to be all the information that was forthcoming, so Crowley prompted further.
He jabbed Aziraphale in the ribs. "Yes, of course, it's so obvious now. A Ghost. Don't quite make them like they used to, though. All the little children gallivanting about with mummy's best linen over their heads, misshapen holes gouged in the fabric, plastic buckets full of sweets. How times change." Crowley pushed up his sunglasses. "This one seems a bit big. And melty. Is that thing made of pizza, angel?"
Aziraphale irritably swatted him away, slapping Crowley's arm with the shed garment. The sock was so hideous in all its noxious tartan sensibilities that it practically wrapped back around to being fashionable. You know. Ironically.
"Spirit of a delivery boy trapped in limbo." He was speaking in very clipped, impatient tones, too focused on the black-and-orange-big-and-melty-made-of-pizza apparition before him. "Poor thing was being short-changed all evening before finally being gunned down by an irate customer. Apparently, the customer had waited only twenty-eight minutes, but still demanded a refund and was... displeased when one wasn't granted."
"Ah," said Crowley, as if this explained anything. "So we go from slighted food service worker to murderous-looking undead pizza monster. Of course. Logically. Naturally. I was a fool to ask such a silly question."
Aziraphale was now studying his sock with great interest, seemingly oblivious to the Ghost now advancing towards them. He turned it over repeatedly in his hand, pulling languidly at a loose thread, all while molten blobs of cheese and bits of pepperoni likely fired in the wood-burning ovens of Hell began to slop on the pavement.
"Planning on doing anything about it, are we?"
"Shh," said Aziraphale.
Crowley allowed himself to rock back and forth on his heels once, twice, before addressing Aziraphale again. "Granted, you could probably scare off most unholy spawn with your hideous wardrobe - myself included - but this one doesn't seem to be budging, and I'm not particularly keen on discorporation right now."
"Shh!" Aziraphale used his best librarian voice, which was formidable indeed. Thousands of students across the country suddenly felt the hairs on the back of their necks rise and tried to look as sheepish as possible, though they had no idea as to why.
"So sorry, your Majesty," Crowley sneered, while simultaneously beginning to walk backwards. Forget discorporation; he was not cleaning grease stains out of his suit.
"Now, how did that go again?" Aziraphale pursed his lips, running a finger along the sock. He began muttering to himself. "'O wicked spirit born of a lost soul...' Mm, yes, I think that was it. I probably should have paid more attention at the debriefing, now that I think about it."
"While I'm tickled by the image of you having a riveting conversation with your left sock, I seriously fail to see how this is going to help us." Crowley thought for a moment. "Or help you, rather. You'll forgive me for sitting this one out, there's a good fellow."
"My left sock is certainly more riveting than you." Aziraphale scoffed. Crowley couldn't help but wince, just a little. "If you must know, this was a technique those other two angels taught me, the sisters currently on leave for 'Sensitivity Training'."
"Your lot has 'Sensitivity Training'?"
Aziraphale smiled a tired smile. "No. Just a cheap excuse to take a vacation on company time. You'd be surprised at all the sloth when it comes to verifying paperwork. Nobody bothers to corroborate anything these days."
"Then, have you ever --"
"Crowley!" Aziraphale seemed to remember what he was doing. The Ghost roaring in his face, now only a scant few metres away, probably helped. "Focus! I have to focus!"
"Right. Focus." He pointed to the sock. "These two angels. They taught you a technique to fight off evil?"
"Yes."
"With clothing?"
"Yes."
"Hmm. Clothes." Crowley tilted his head. "Hate to say this, angel, but you're totally buggered."
Aziraphale tutted as if dealing with a particularly slow pupil. "Not just any clothes. My clothes."
"Yeah?"
"Blessed clothes."
"That's just great." Crowley flapped his arms helplessly. "Begone, foul creature from the depths, for I wield before you the Holy Bloomers of Smiting!" He shook his head. "Eh, maybe you'll get lucky. Maybe they'll be too busy laughing to fight back while you strangle them with the elastic. Let's be optimistic."
"Holy Bloomers aren't that far from the truth, actually."
Crowley tried not to grimace so strongly, he really did. "Please, please don't tell me you're going to use --"
"Not me. One of the other angels." 1 Aziraphale rolled his eyes when he saw Crowley remained in the dark. "Forget it, I --"
There was a faint plop as a fleck of Ghost-cheese collided with the front of Aziraphale's jacket. It sizzled and smoked, and when Aziraphale regained enough sense to brush it away, there was a hole in the fabric. Dominance cemented in its mind, The Ghost snarled and began to charge forward.
Aziraphale slowly looked up. "I liked that coat. It was vintage."
Crowley, who had been dithering between grabbing the clearly-bonkers-beyond-repair Aziraphale by the scruff of his neck and high-tailing it out of there versus simply slithering off on his own while leaving Aziraphale to clean up Aziraphale's mess, stopped.
Perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him, for the ugly, worn, hideously tartan sock in Aziraphale's hand began to glow.
"What the f--"
The Ghost still approached with alarming rapidity, though it seemed to momentarily flinch beneath the unearthly blue shine. No, now it wasn't just the sock. Aziraphale, too, began to shimmer. His wings erupted from his back - which would have been much more impressive had they ever been groomed some time during the last century - and flexed behind him.
Then, faced with an imminent, greasy, thin-crust-three-cheese-hold-the-mushrooms death, Aziraphale began to chant.
"O wicked spirit born of a lost soul in Limbo," - it could have been a trick of the light, but Aziraphale now seemed to be posing, of all things - "receive judgement from the garb of the Holy Virgin," - no, Aziraphale was definitely posing, and did he just wink at the Ghost, and why could Crowley hear a suspiciously catchy dance number in the back of his head - "cleansed of worldly impurities;" - Crowley watched him leap up, brandishing the eye-searing sock before him - "Return to Heaven and Earth!"
Crowley suddenly decided he was either in need of a stiff drink, or had already consumed many more than what your average mortal could hope to manage in a lifetime and was currently in the midst of some alcohol-induced fever dream. That was the only explanation.
The sock had transformed into a flaming sword.
"Repent!" shouted Aziraphale. He dashed towards the Ghost 2, and in a move that Crowley would later grudgingly describe as 'cool' and privately describe as 'super cool', decisively sliced it in two.
Everything went still, aside from the over-dramatic fluttering of Aziraphale's coat and wings (why was there always a breeze for times like this?). Crowley realized he had been holding a breath he didn't even need, and made to exhale when --
"THIRTY MINUTES OR LESS."
-- the Ghost erupted in a deafening explosion 3, leaving both a smoking crater and a shower of soggy toppings in its wake.
"Well. That was. Ah. Unique." They had both spent the past few minutes plucking bits of cheese and some uncommonly stubborn olives from their clothing. Crowley understood he could simply will the stains away, but deep inside, he knew they'd never come off. Snakeskin shoes. Destroyed by Provolone.
"All in a day's work, my dear." Aziraphale was still clutching the... sword? sock? swock? in his hand, the light from the fire giving his face an ethereal air. He seemed mildly embarrassed about the whole affair, downplaying his heroism in that quaintly English fashion. "It looks as though the other angels' technique was sound."
"Mm, yes. Technique." Stepping up to Aziraphale, Crowley gave him an appraising glance. "What was that you said, when you were going all musical theatre on that Ghost?" He scratched at his chin with long, elegant fingers. "Something about the 'garb of the Holy Virgin'?"
Aziraphale seemed to faintly colour in a fit of indignation. "It was all part of the incantation, you understand." He handily flicked his wrist, causing the flaming sword to once again resume the form of a tartan sock, albeit one that now smelled of tomato sauce. "I had to speak it in order to vanquish the Ghost."
"I see." Crowley grinned in a rather, well, demonic manner. He gestured to the garment in Aziraphale's hand. "The Holy Virgin must have big feet, eh?"
This time, Aziraphale did colour. He angrily raised his bare foot and hastily re-clothed it 4, then slipped his shoe back on 5. "If you'll kindly excuse me," he said rather curtly, "I must be getting back to the church. The priest will no doubt be wanting a report, and I shouldn't keep him waiting." Aziraphale continued muttering to himself even as he turned on his heel and began walking away. "I hope he's managed to do something about that preposterous green dog. If I find one more book chewed up beyond repair..."
Crowley watched Aziraphale's retreating form, taking extra care to avoid pointing out the slice of pepperoni clinging persistantly to the back of his coat. Let the people that pass Aziraphale on his way home have a good giggle at Aziraphale's expense, why not. He then turned his attention to the still-steaming crater the - what was it called? - the Ghost had left behind. He carefully made his way to the middle of the hole, and reached down to pluck something from the ground.
"Interesting," said Crowley. He nimbly ran the coin between his fingers, making special note of the strange insignia it bore. "An H with wings," he remarked. "Bet even the dodgiest vending machine won't take this. I wonder if that blob dropped its lunch money?" He shrugged and slipped the coin in his pocket. "Might as well take it. It'll reflect poorly on me if I don't steal from the recently departed." Crowley, too, began walking off. "Now, where's a good place to get completely sloshed around here?"
Far off in the bushes, Crowley was being watched through a pair of very expensive binoculars. They picked up several wavelengths that weren't visible to human eyes, including ultraviolet, gamma rays and superchartreuse.
"Disgraceful. The Ghost failed to kill the angel, and yet he neglected to finish the job."
"Are you certain he's one of ours?"
A pause. Dials on the binoculars were being fiddled with. "Yes. He's undoubtedly a demon." The sneer in the voice was audible. "Why did he not lift a finger to destroy that angel? Heaven and Hell are sworn enemies. Does he not understand the rules?" The final word was pronounced with a very distinct roll.
"I am more concerned with the new angel, dear sister. He seems unsure of himself; would it not be best to strike immediately, before he gets his bearings? It should be a simple affair, now that there is only one of them to deal with."
"An excellent idea. We'll get rid of him quickly, then afterwards we shall confront that insubordinate..." - for some reason, the words 'flash bastard' briefly came to mind - "...traitor wearing the gaudy sunglasses. Come, Miss Kneesocks."
"Yes, dear sister."
1Aziraphale actually did consider going this route, however briefly (no pun intended), but the other two angels had quickly talked him out of it. "Yeah, right." The blonde one had been smirking when she gave Aziraphale an appraising look. Something about her gaze felt distinctly... perverse. "You'd be lucky to get a BB gun out of those, old man." Aziraphale defensively tugged his long overcoat shut in response.
2The Ghost, incidentally, was by now thinking it should have spent some time re-evaluating its priorities or going on a trendy spiritual vacation to find itself, instead of staging a murderous rampage. In fact, if the Ghost really thought about it, it probably should have listened to its mum and stayed in culinary school. This was not worth minimum wage.
3Actually, they did go deaf, until both Aziraphale and Crowley remembered they could easily miracle their eardrums into order. They begun to wish they hadn't once the tinnitus set in.
4In his haste, the sock wound up being worn inside-out and upside-down. Aziraphale could have fixed it, but he reasoned that stopping to do so would only serve to make him look foolish. Because everything else he had done up to that point had not been even remotely ridiculous, no sir.
5Having dropped said shoe during the fight, however, Aziraphale first had to retrieve it from where it had fallen into a pile of ectoplasmic refuse. It turns out there was a slimy anchovy wedged in the toe, a fact Aziraphale discovered only after he had jammed his foot inside. On the bright side, his sock's aroma now resembled a rather lovely puttanesca sauce.
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BONUS: I have some old artwork of Aziraphale & Crowley drawn in P&S's distinctive style, in a parody of some official art. Might as well share that, too. Dignity? Haven't got any left, 'm afraid.
Have I gotten laughed out of the comm. yet with my cartoonish sensibilities? This is why I lurk!
Thanks very much for reading, and feedback is always appreciated! I hope this type of silly crossover has an audience extending beyond two people, now.