Fic: Brass Onion
Title: Brass Onion
Author: sticktothestory
Fandom: Good Omens, Crowley/Aziraphale
Summary: rooftop, vandalism, the Beatles
Rating: PG
*
Brass Onion
“I! Am! THE WALRUS!”
“Charmed, I’m sure.” Aziraphale made another half-hearted grab for Crowley’s trouser leg,
but its owner was already dancing away. “Now would you please get down from there
before you break something less entertaining than just your voice?”
“Rubbish,” croaked Crowley. “Got wings, haven’t I?”
“As if you could even tell your buttocks from your back, the state you’re in.”
“I’m sure you’d be happy to lend a hand if it came to th-are you all right?”
“Quite,” coughed Aziraphale, inexplicably crimson. “Whereas you are obviously pissed as a
second-hand mattress. Don’t you think it’s time you had a nice lie-down?”
“I have no need for lying down. My dear deluded associate, fish don’t sleep.”
“Well,” muttered Aziraphale. “Lots of other things to do lying down.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“I said, I believe the walrus is a mammal.”
“You,” cried Crowley, personally affronted, “don’t know what it means to be a mammal.”
And he took one last, long drink and swung the bottle off into the night.
They listened as, four seconds later, it obliterated the windscreen of a passing car.
“You bastard,” said Aziraphale, shocked. “There was at least two gulps’ worth left in there.”
He took hold of Crowley’s coat tails and dragged him down from the ledge, fully intending to
smite the ever-loving Chianti out of him.
But the Enemy, being devious, leant the whole of his drunken weight backwards and crashed
into Aziraphale with something that sounded ominously like a bone breaking.
“What just happened?” asked Crowley, instantly sober and on his feet.
“I think,” said Aziraphale sheepishly, mending the spine of a pocket Bible, “we buried Paul.”
Author: sticktothestory
Fandom: Good Omens, Crowley/Aziraphale
Summary: rooftop, vandalism, the Beatles
Rating: PG
*
Brass Onion
“I! Am! THE WALRUS!”
“Charmed, I’m sure.” Aziraphale made another half-hearted grab for Crowley’s trouser leg,
but its owner was already dancing away. “Now would you please get down from there
before you break something less entertaining than just your voice?”
“Rubbish,” croaked Crowley. “Got wings, haven’t I?”
“As if you could even tell your buttocks from your back, the state you’re in.”
“I’m sure you’d be happy to lend a hand if it came to th-are you all right?”
“Quite,” coughed Aziraphale, inexplicably crimson. “Whereas you are obviously pissed as a
second-hand mattress. Don’t you think it’s time you had a nice lie-down?”
“I have no need for lying down. My dear deluded associate, fish don’t sleep.”
“Well,” muttered Aziraphale. “Lots of other things to do lying down.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“I said, I believe the walrus is a mammal.”
“You,” cried Crowley, personally affronted, “don’t know what it means to be a mammal.”
And he took one last, long drink and swung the bottle off into the night.
They listened as, four seconds later, it obliterated the windscreen of a passing car.
“You bastard,” said Aziraphale, shocked. “There was at least two gulps’ worth left in there.”
He took hold of Crowley’s coat tails and dragged him down from the ledge, fully intending to
smite the ever-loving Chianti out of him.
But the Enemy, being devious, leant the whole of his drunken weight backwards and crashed
into Aziraphale with something that sounded ominously like a bone breaking.
“What just happened?” asked Crowley, instantly sober and on his feet.
“I think,” said Aziraphale sheepishly, mending the spine of a pocket Bible, “we buried Paul.”