(no subject)
Recipient: acidquill
Title: Probability (or Four Things That Never Happened After the Almost-Apocalypse, and One That Did)
Rating: PG-13 for some choice cursing and drunken behavior
Summary: Four post almost-Apocalypse stories, and one that is. The end of the world was a bigger deal than they thought it would be.
Author's Notes: Hugs, cookies, and general love to ero_ica for the amazing beta. So. This is for acidquill, who wanted Aziraphale/Famine, A/C. I hope you like it, or at least can stand it. And a very merry Anti-Christmas! :)
I.
The Happy Porker Café hadn’t changed much, but Pollution didn’t feel the usual overwhelming tidal wave of joy engulf him as he entered the restaurant.*
“Hello,” he said as he draped his coat across the back of his chair and sat down across from Famine.
War poked at her scrambled eggs half-heartedly. “Sorry we didn’t wait to order,” she said bitterly.
Women, Pollution thought, and shrugged.
“How’re the States?” he asked Famine.
“I haven’t been back there yet,” Famine admitted. “But stocks seem to be doing well. SLIM ™ is going on the market in two days. We’re all very excited.”
“That’s lovely,” Pollution said. “Very nice.”
“I haven’t been out of the country since I got back,” she added pointedly, and glowered. Famine and Pollution exchanged a look.
PASSPORT TROUBLE? Death asked politely.
War glared.
“So. Er.” Famine twisted his hands together nervously. “I’m not quite sure how to say this, but it seems that, well-”
THEY DON’T NEED US ANYMORE.
“Oh, I wouldn’t put it exactly like that-”
Death tried to raise an eyebrow.
“-but they’ve just-that is, they can now…do it by themselves,” Famine finished.
“Centuries of work and this is the thanks we get,” War grumbled.
“But we’re still here, aren’t we?” Pollution asked.
“Ineffable,” Aziraphale would have said if he had been present.**
“So I suppose we’re obsolete.”
NO. JUST…UNEMPLOYED.
“Huh.”
“Huh.”
“Huh.”
Pollution frowned in thought, then offered, “I’ll check the classifieds.”
* Although he did note with pride that the owner seemed to be doing a fine job of maintaining those clogged sinks.
** But he wasn’t.
II.
Crowley knew before he even opened his eyes that something was different. He still felt a bit drunk, and blinked a few times before realizing his face lay nestled against something soft and warm and curly.
Huh. He didn’t remember buying a dog.
His hand lay against something suspiciously similar to bare skin. He stroked up and down experimentally with the pad of his thumb. The dog-person shivered and rolled over.
Crowley blinked. He had had epiphanies before.* He hadn’t liked them then, and he didn’t like them now. Especially now, because this one suggested that he was naked. And in bed. With Aziraphale.
I am naked and in bed with Aziraphale, he thought.
He tried saying it aloud: “I am naked and in bed with Aziraphale.”
No, it still sounded like nonsense.
He glanced back at the angel sleeping next to him. The blanket lay across his hips, and a few strands of hair fell across his face. Crowley had the absurd desire to push them out of the way.
“I am naked and in bed with Aziraphale,” he repeated, and blinked.
“Oh, fuck,” Crowley said, and ran.
He ran back a week later after another epiphany.
Aziraphale popped up from behind the counter when he entered. The top button of his shirt was undone, and his right cuff link was missing. Not that Crowley could be bothered to care. And Aziraphale did not look disgustingly adorable, standing behind the register and fiddling with his sleeve, because Crowley didn’t notice. He was staring stubbornly at the cash register.
“Hullo,” Crowley told it.
“Hullo,” Aziraphale said to his shirt.
“Have you been drinking without me?” Crowley asked, noticing almost-empty bottle of Chablis in his hand. “Because it’s terribly inconsiderate, you know, after what we’ve been through together. Rome, the French Revolution, the Great Depression, Margaret Thatcher.” Aziraphale shuddered. “And you can’t even invite me over for a measly bottle of wine?”
“I’m, er, rather busy at the moment,” Aziraphale informed the counter.
“Drinking without me.”
“Well, yes.”
“Oh.” Crowley paused for a moment, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to be on the verge of apologizing. “Er, dinner at the Ritz, then?” he suggested in a tone he hoped wasn’t too plaintive.
“Perhaps another time.”
“Right.” Crowley nodded stiffly. Aziraphale nodded stiffly back. “Well, I’ll-I’ll just call you later,” Crowley mumbled.
He didn’t.
* Mostly in the 1100s.
III.
Dog barked.
“C’mere, Dog,” Adam said and Dog trotted over obediently.
“D’you think we could dress ‘im up?” Brian said, leaning forward to pet his ears.
“Why?” Pepper asked just as Adam said, “As what?”
“Dunno. Just thought, wouldn’t Dog make a good pirate?”
Dog looked up at Adam expectantly.
Adam squinted down at him, tilting his head to one side. Dog drooled his affection onto the grass. “Dun see him as a pirate,” he decided after much consideration. “Maybe a…a Horseperson.”
“That’s still no good, you can’t dress a dog up as a Horseperson.”
Dog growled at him.
“Which Horseperson would he be?” Pepper asked.
“There’re four of ‘em,” Wensleydale explained. “War, Death, Famine, and Pestilence.”
“Pollution,” Adam corrected absently.
Dog rolled over in the grass and stared up at the sky. He barked at a cloud and closed his eyes. They still had time.
It was Sunday afternoon.
IV.
Later, after he had safely-if not completely sanely-stumbled home in one whole (albeit drunken) piece, standing over the kettle waiting for the water to boil, Famine thought, That was probably one of the worst kisses in history. And then he thought, And I have had a lot of history.*
At the moment, however, Famine did not have the luxury to indulge in such in-depth analysis. No; instead, he had the luxury of holding an armful of extremely drunken and agitated angel.
If it could indeed be called a luxury.
Er, Famine thought.
Aziraphale kissed him, sloppy and wet and hard. Famine stood still, hoping that his very obviously disinterested posture would convey the right sort of message, preferably in big neon lights and capital letters.
Maybe even with a few sound effects for emphasis.
It didn’t.
Famine mustered all the brainpower that was not currently employed processing exactly what Aziraphale was doing with his tongue, and concluded that the angel was nice, if rather pudgy around the middle, but sorry, he just didn’t go for this sort of thing.
“Pardon me,” Famine said amiably to the face now buried in the crook of his neck, “but what exactly are you doing?”
Aziraphale swiped his tongue along Famine’s throat.
“Sorry?” Famine did-not-squeak. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
Aziraphale began to fumble with the buttons on Famine’s shirt. He giggled as one popped off and pinged across the floor.
Er, Famine thought.
“Aziraphale,” he said in what he hoped was a deep, powerful, and commanding voice.
Aziraphale looked up and blinked.
The angel blushed and stumbled backwards until he bumped into an armchair. “Ow, oh dear,” he mumbled eventually. “This is one of those incidents I’m going to regret when I’m sober, isn’t it?”
“Er, probably,” Famine conceded. He tugged at his tie self-consciously and inspected his cuticles.**
Dealing with angels was not exactly uncharted territory, although he had much more experience dealing with demons and Apocalyptic Horsepersons. All the same, Famine felt a sudden burst of sympathy for Magellan, staring something new and strange in the face without a compass. ***
For one thing, he doubted angels sexually assaulted their drinking partners under normal protocol.
“Oh dear. Well,” Aziraphale said, “er.”
“I’m not one to pry,” Famine said****, “but perhaps you could tell me exactly what spurred that, um…That.”
Aziraphale blushed. “It’s nothing.”
“Oh.” He paused before venturing into deeper waters. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes. Nothing to worry about.”
Famine had never refined his social skills (most of the humans he visited died within a few months, anyway). But he had lived amongst humans for centuries, and some tiny voice in the back of Famine’s head suggested that he should offer a few comforting words in the face of such obvious distress. Awkwardly, he put an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder and patted his arm. “There, there,” he said in what he hoped was a comforting tone. “Nothing to worry about.”
“I mean, I didn’t mean to-” Aziraphale told the carpet. “Um.”
Pat, pat, pat. “Have another drink?” Famine asked desperately.
Aziraphale hiccuped and thought of Crowley.
* About six thousand years of it, in fact.
** They were very nice cuticles, manicured once a week by a professional manicurist named Marie.
*** Figuratively speaking, of course. Except in Magellan’s case. There it was literal.
****Which meant that he was
V.
“I’ve come to collect,” Crowley said as he walked into the shop. The bell jingled merrily, but stopped abruptly under Crowley’s formidable glare.
“Crowley, I don’t pay taxes,” Aziraphale said, looking up from his book. “Besides, I’m fairly certain we created them.”
“Not taxes, angel. Dinner,” Crowley said. “From Wallachia, 1854.”
“Ah, right. The Crimean War.” Aziraphale frowned. “Let me get my coat.”
He wore tweed. Crowley struggled to hold back a groan.
The Ritz was crowded, and Crowley ordered the most expensive entrée.* Aziraphale glared at him over the top of his menu
“You know today is Friday the 13th,” Aziraphale said over a filet mignon and a bottle of Orvieto.
“Really?” Crowley said. He tried to sound surprised.
“Yes. Marked it on my calendar and everything. I even got a reminder in the mail this morning.**”
“Huh,” Crowley said. “They send out reminders now?”
Aziraphale nodded. “Oh yes. It’s the newest thing.”
“Huh.”
“Break any mirrors lately?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley glared. “No.”
“Have you seen any black cats?”
“No.”
“Walked under a ladder?”
“Now why would I do that, angel, it’s-”
“Opened an umbrella inside?”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “It’s June.”
Aziraphale shrugged, grinning. “I always suspected your side created it, anyway.”
“We were fairly certain it had been you,” Crowley said.
“Come now, my dear. What would we do with a day dedicated to bad luck?” Aziraphale asked and poured himself another glass of wine.
They had some difficulty getting back to the Bentley. Crowley couldn’t see straight, and Aziraphale tripped over himself every few meters. But they eventually collapsed into the front seat in triumph, and Crowley only swerved out of the lane three times while driving Aziraphale home.***
“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “It’s been lovely. Er.” He tapped his finger against the dashboard for a few moments, then leaned forward and kissed Crowley quickly on the lips.
Crowley blinked. “You kuh-kissed me,” he said slowly. And blinked some more.
“Um, yes. Yes. Should I, I mean, it wasn’t very professional, I understand. But, um… Should I apologize?”
Crowley shook his head.
“Thank Heav-Hel-somebody,” Aziraphale said, grabbed Crowley’s collar and kissed him again.
Later, curled up on Aziraphale’s sofa with a bottle of Pinot Noir lying on the floor, Crowley said, “You know, you’d already paid me back for Wallachia.”
“Did I?” Aziraphale murmured, resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder. Neither one seemed to mind.
* Every demon would take advantage of a free dinner.
** It had said, “Today is Friday the 13th. Please miracle responsibly.”
*** This was a record.
Title: Probability (or Four Things That Never Happened After the Almost-Apocalypse, and One That Did)
Rating: PG-13 for some choice cursing and drunken behavior
Summary: Four post almost-Apocalypse stories, and one that is. The end of the world was a bigger deal than they thought it would be.
Author's Notes: Hugs, cookies, and general love to ero_ica for the amazing beta. So. This is for acidquill, who wanted Aziraphale/Famine, A/C. I hope you like it, or at least can stand it. And a very merry Anti-Christmas! :)
I.
The Happy Porker Café hadn’t changed much, but Pollution didn’t feel the usual overwhelming tidal wave of joy engulf him as he entered the restaurant.*
“Hello,” he said as he draped his coat across the back of his chair and sat down across from Famine.
War poked at her scrambled eggs half-heartedly. “Sorry we didn’t wait to order,” she said bitterly.
Women, Pollution thought, and shrugged.
“How’re the States?” he asked Famine.
“I haven’t been back there yet,” Famine admitted. “But stocks seem to be doing well. SLIM ™ is going on the market in two days. We’re all very excited.”
“That’s lovely,” Pollution said. “Very nice.”
“I haven’t been out of the country since I got back,” she added pointedly, and glowered. Famine and Pollution exchanged a look.
PASSPORT TROUBLE? Death asked politely.
War glared.
“So. Er.” Famine twisted his hands together nervously. “I’m not quite sure how to say this, but it seems that, well-”
THEY DON’T NEED US ANYMORE.
“Oh, I wouldn’t put it exactly like that-”
Death tried to raise an eyebrow.
“-but they’ve just-that is, they can now…do it by themselves,” Famine finished.
“Centuries of work and this is the thanks we get,” War grumbled.
“But we’re still here, aren’t we?” Pollution asked.
“Ineffable,” Aziraphale would have said if he had been present.**
“So I suppose we’re obsolete.”
NO. JUST…UNEMPLOYED.
“Huh.”
“Huh.”
“Huh.”
Pollution frowned in thought, then offered, “I’ll check the classifieds.”
* Although he did note with pride that the owner seemed to be doing a fine job of maintaining those clogged sinks.
** But he wasn’t.
II.
Crowley knew before he even opened his eyes that something was different. He still felt a bit drunk, and blinked a few times before realizing his face lay nestled against something soft and warm and curly.
Huh. He didn’t remember buying a dog.
His hand lay against something suspiciously similar to bare skin. He stroked up and down experimentally with the pad of his thumb. The dog-person shivered and rolled over.
Crowley blinked. He had had epiphanies before.* He hadn’t liked them then, and he didn’t like them now. Especially now, because this one suggested that he was naked. And in bed. With Aziraphale.
I am naked and in bed with Aziraphale, he thought.
He tried saying it aloud: “I am naked and in bed with Aziraphale.”
No, it still sounded like nonsense.
He glanced back at the angel sleeping next to him. The blanket lay across his hips, and a few strands of hair fell across his face. Crowley had the absurd desire to push them out of the way.
“I am naked and in bed with Aziraphale,” he repeated, and blinked.
“Oh, fuck,” Crowley said, and ran.
He ran back a week later after another epiphany.
Aziraphale popped up from behind the counter when he entered. The top button of his shirt was undone, and his right cuff link was missing. Not that Crowley could be bothered to care. And Aziraphale did not look disgustingly adorable, standing behind the register and fiddling with his sleeve, because Crowley didn’t notice. He was staring stubbornly at the cash register.
“Hullo,” Crowley told it.
“Hullo,” Aziraphale said to his shirt.
“Have you been drinking without me?” Crowley asked, noticing almost-empty bottle of Chablis in his hand. “Because it’s terribly inconsiderate, you know, after what we’ve been through together. Rome, the French Revolution, the Great Depression, Margaret Thatcher.” Aziraphale shuddered. “And you can’t even invite me over for a measly bottle of wine?”
“I’m, er, rather busy at the moment,” Aziraphale informed the counter.
“Drinking without me.”
“Well, yes.”
“Oh.” Crowley paused for a moment, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to be on the verge of apologizing. “Er, dinner at the Ritz, then?” he suggested in a tone he hoped wasn’t too plaintive.
“Perhaps another time.”
“Right.” Crowley nodded stiffly. Aziraphale nodded stiffly back. “Well, I’ll-I’ll just call you later,” Crowley mumbled.
He didn’t.
* Mostly in the 1100s.
III.
Dog barked.
“C’mere, Dog,” Adam said and Dog trotted over obediently.
“D’you think we could dress ‘im up?” Brian said, leaning forward to pet his ears.
“Why?” Pepper asked just as Adam said, “As what?”
“Dunno. Just thought, wouldn’t Dog make a good pirate?”
Dog looked up at Adam expectantly.
Adam squinted down at him, tilting his head to one side. Dog drooled his affection onto the grass. “Dun see him as a pirate,” he decided after much consideration. “Maybe a…a Horseperson.”
“That’s still no good, you can’t dress a dog up as a Horseperson.”
Dog growled at him.
“Which Horseperson would he be?” Pepper asked.
“There’re four of ‘em,” Wensleydale explained. “War, Death, Famine, and Pestilence.”
“Pollution,” Adam corrected absently.
Dog rolled over in the grass and stared up at the sky. He barked at a cloud and closed his eyes. They still had time.
It was Sunday afternoon.
IV.
Later, after he had safely-if not completely sanely-stumbled home in one whole (albeit drunken) piece, standing over the kettle waiting for the water to boil, Famine thought, That was probably one of the worst kisses in history. And then he thought, And I have had a lot of history.*
At the moment, however, Famine did not have the luxury to indulge in such in-depth analysis. No; instead, he had the luxury of holding an armful of extremely drunken and agitated angel.
If it could indeed be called a luxury.
Er, Famine thought.
Aziraphale kissed him, sloppy and wet and hard. Famine stood still, hoping that his very obviously disinterested posture would convey the right sort of message, preferably in big neon lights and capital letters.
Maybe even with a few sound effects for emphasis.
It didn’t.
Famine mustered all the brainpower that was not currently employed processing exactly what Aziraphale was doing with his tongue, and concluded that the angel was nice, if rather pudgy around the middle, but sorry, he just didn’t go for this sort of thing.
“Pardon me,” Famine said amiably to the face now buried in the crook of his neck, “but what exactly are you doing?”
Aziraphale swiped his tongue along Famine’s throat.
“Sorry?” Famine did-not-squeak. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
Aziraphale began to fumble with the buttons on Famine’s shirt. He giggled as one popped off and pinged across the floor.
Er, Famine thought.
“Aziraphale,” he said in what he hoped was a deep, powerful, and commanding voice.
Aziraphale looked up and blinked.
The angel blushed and stumbled backwards until he bumped into an armchair. “Ow, oh dear,” he mumbled eventually. “This is one of those incidents I’m going to regret when I’m sober, isn’t it?”
“Er, probably,” Famine conceded. He tugged at his tie self-consciously and inspected his cuticles.**
Dealing with angels was not exactly uncharted territory, although he had much more experience dealing with demons and Apocalyptic Horsepersons. All the same, Famine felt a sudden burst of sympathy for Magellan, staring something new and strange in the face without a compass. ***
For one thing, he doubted angels sexually assaulted their drinking partners under normal protocol.
“Oh dear. Well,” Aziraphale said, “er.”
“I’m not one to pry,” Famine said****, “but perhaps you could tell me exactly what spurred that, um…That.”
Aziraphale blushed. “It’s nothing.”
“Oh.” He paused before venturing into deeper waters. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes. Nothing to worry about.”
Famine had never refined his social skills (most of the humans he visited died within a few months, anyway). But he had lived amongst humans for centuries, and some tiny voice in the back of Famine’s head suggested that he should offer a few comforting words in the face of such obvious distress. Awkwardly, he put an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder and patted his arm. “There, there,” he said in what he hoped was a comforting tone. “Nothing to worry about.”
“I mean, I didn’t mean to-” Aziraphale told the carpet. “Um.”
Pat, pat, pat. “Have another drink?” Famine asked desperately.
Aziraphale hiccuped and thought of Crowley.
* About six thousand years of it, in fact.
** They were very nice cuticles, manicured once a week by a professional manicurist named Marie.
*** Figuratively speaking, of course. Except in Magellan’s case. There it was literal.
****Which meant that he was
V.
“I’ve come to collect,” Crowley said as he walked into the shop. The bell jingled merrily, but stopped abruptly under Crowley’s formidable glare.
“Crowley, I don’t pay taxes,” Aziraphale said, looking up from his book. “Besides, I’m fairly certain we created them.”
“Not taxes, angel. Dinner,” Crowley said. “From Wallachia, 1854.”
“Ah, right. The Crimean War.” Aziraphale frowned. “Let me get my coat.”
He wore tweed. Crowley struggled to hold back a groan.
The Ritz was crowded, and Crowley ordered the most expensive entrée.* Aziraphale glared at him over the top of his menu
“You know today is Friday the 13th,” Aziraphale said over a filet mignon and a bottle of Orvieto.
“Really?” Crowley said. He tried to sound surprised.
“Yes. Marked it on my calendar and everything. I even got a reminder in the mail this morning.**”
“Huh,” Crowley said. “They send out reminders now?”
Aziraphale nodded. “Oh yes. It’s the newest thing.”
“Huh.”
“Break any mirrors lately?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley glared. “No.”
“Have you seen any black cats?”
“No.”
“Walked under a ladder?”
“Now why would I do that, angel, it’s-”
“Opened an umbrella inside?”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “It’s June.”
Aziraphale shrugged, grinning. “I always suspected your side created it, anyway.”
“We were fairly certain it had been you,” Crowley said.
“Come now, my dear. What would we do with a day dedicated to bad luck?” Aziraphale asked and poured himself another glass of wine.
They had some difficulty getting back to the Bentley. Crowley couldn’t see straight, and Aziraphale tripped over himself every few meters. But they eventually collapsed into the front seat in triumph, and Crowley only swerved out of the lane three times while driving Aziraphale home.***
“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “It’s been lovely. Er.” He tapped his finger against the dashboard for a few moments, then leaned forward and kissed Crowley quickly on the lips.
Crowley blinked. “You kuh-kissed me,” he said slowly. And blinked some more.
“Um, yes. Yes. Should I, I mean, it wasn’t very professional, I understand. But, um… Should I apologize?”
Crowley shook his head.
“Thank Heav-Hel-somebody,” Aziraphale said, grabbed Crowley’s collar and kissed him again.
Later, curled up on Aziraphale’s sofa with a bottle of Pinot Noir lying on the floor, Crowley said, “You know, you’d already paid me back for Wallachia.”
“Did I?” Aziraphale murmured, resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder. Neither one seemed to mind.
* Every demon would take advantage of a free dinner.
** It had said, “Today is Friday the 13th. Please miracle responsibly.”
*** This was a record.