Fic: Ice Cold in Alex (Good Omens/Weiss Kreuz)
In this post, I did a cracktastic meme which gave the following piece of Good Omens/Weiss Kreuz insanity: Crowley and Mamoru are in a happy relationship until Mamoru suddenly runs off with Anathema. Crowley, broken-hearted, has a hot one-night stand with Aziraphale and a brief unhappy affair with Alexander the Great, then follows the wise advice of Crawford and finds true love with Schuldig.
And so, for all those who giggled and said they'd read such a thing:
Ice Cold in Alex
"Good Morning," Crowley said cheerfully as Mamoru trailed into the kitchen, his face still sleepily innocent with tiredness. "Tea? Coffee? Full English breakfast?"
"Miso and rice?" Mamoru said hopefully.
"Of course." Crowley waved a hand and the sizzling sausages obligingly transformed themselves. He watched Mamoru eating, smiling fondly, and pounced the moment Mamoru was finished.
"Urk," Mamoru said. Then, happily, "No, not urk. Is mmmm better?"
"Mmmm," Crowley agreed.
"I have to go to my meeting," Mamoru said at last, fending Crowley off. "I'll be back later." He paused, looking worried. "They're going to make me go back to Tokyo eventually, you know."
"I'll go with you," Crowley said. It was a massive concession on his part, he thought, watching a sunny smile break out over Mamoru's face. And one he planned on never actually having to follow through on, given the equally massive amount of bollocksing up he'd been inflicting on the Japanese trade delegation. They'd be in London for months before they got things sorted out. By that time Mamoru would no longer want to go. Crowley sometimes felt very slightly guilty when Mamoru told him of the terrible, terrible problems facing the delegation. Mostly though, he thought Mamoru should be grateful to have had a chance to improve his English so much by conversations with native speakers. Or apparently native speakers. Not that a lot of Mamoru's recent language acquisition could be used outside bed. He pulled Mamoru back into his lap and spent the few minutes left before the chauffeur arrived kissing him.
"Bye!" Mamoru called, skipping down to the waiting car. "Don't forget that charity ball tonight!"
"You don't really want to dance, do you?" Crowley said, a tad worried.
"Not really. I'm the world's worst dancer," Mamoru grinned.
"Don't be so sure," Crowley muttered, blowing him a kiss and glaring at the bodyguards who were trying to scowl him to death. Like he didn't know the perverts camped out on the roof every night. He hoped they enjoyed the rain and hail and occasional plague of frogs.
* * *
The charity ball was a lot more fun than Crowley had expected. Everyone was so nicely dressed, the food was fantastic, and Mamoru turned out to be such a bad dancer that no one looked at Crowley at all. It was with a feeling of bonhomie and gentle drunkenness that Crowley dragged Mamoru across the ballroom when he saw some faces he vaguely recognised.
"Miss Device!" he said cheerfully. "Mamoru, this is Miss Device and this is her hopeless boyfriend, Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer."
"Newt," the hopeless boyfriend said in irritation. "Newton Pulsifer."
"Really?" Crowley said, looking round for more interesting people. "You look just like him. Same bad teeth and everything."
"Anthony!" Mamoru hissed. "That's so rude," he muttered in Japanese.
"Just look at them," Crowley said unrepentantly. "There's not a dentist in the country that could save him."
"Would you like to dance, Miss Device?" Mamoru said in desperation, hauling her onto the dance floor before she could answer.
Crowley smiled genially at them as Newt fumed beside him. Mamoru really was an awful dancer.
* * *
"Er," Mamoru said, a few weeks later. "Anthony, there's something I need to tell you."
"What?" Crowley said, wondering just how sinuous he could reveal himself to be without giving Mamoru the screaming heebie-jeebies.
"There's someone -- oh, that's nice," Mamoru said dreamily. His eyes snapped open and he pushed Crowley away. "There's someone else," he gabbled. "It's over, Anthony, I'm sorry."
"What?" Crowley shrieked.
Mamoru shot out of bed and was dressed and standing by the open door in mere seconds.
"I tried to tell you, honestly!" he wailed. "I didn't mean to fall in love with Anathema!"
"Anathema?" Crowley said, demonstrating he didn't actually need a word to contain sibilants to come out as a hiss. "Anathema Device? Wait here, I'll go and sort her -- er, this out."
"Oh no, you don't," Mamoru said firmly, tackling him. "You do not try to kill the mother of my child!"
Crowley stared at him. "You must be kidding," he said finally. "You only met two and a half weeks ago."
"I have it on good authority that she's pregnant," Mamoru said, then frowned. "Or is about to get pregnant, it was difficult to tell through the sarcasm and laughter. The point is, I have to make an honest woman of her!" He sighed, and kissed Crowley's cheek. "I'm sorry. Goodbye."
Crowley ran after him as he went down the stairs and out into the street. The big black car pulled up as he reached the kerb.
"Mamoru!" Crowley wailed as the bodyguards abseiled down from the roof and climbed into the car with him. One of them gave Crowley a cheeky little wave as the car moved off smoothly. Crowley buried his face in his hands and sobbed. There was only one thing to do now.
* * *
"And then he just buggered off!" Crowley said for the twelfth time.
Aziraphale nodded, refilling his glass carefully. "Terrible," he agreed.
"She's not even gorgeous like me! What's she got that I haven't?"
"Maybe he prefers girls?"
Crowley stared at Aziraphale in distress.
"That is a horrible thing to say, Aziraphale. You're really showing your true colours now. Here I am, come over for a little consolation and some thirty year old whisky, and you start implying I'm not every boy's dream."
Aziraphale started to say something, very visibly restrained himself, and refilled the glass again.
"Sip it," he said acidly. "It's thirty years old. Older than your ex-boyfriend. Oh, for Heaven's sake, stop sniffling!" He perched on the arm of Crowley's chair and awkwardly patted his shoulder. "You can't stop true love, you know."
"I can if I want," Crowley said sadly.
"Well, don't. You're too old for him. What have you got in common with a twenty-something ex-assassin, anyway?"
"Ex-assassin?" Crowley said.
"Oh, dear. Here, have some more whisky. Drink up, it's just some old stuff I had lying around."
Crowley drank up.
* * *
When he woke the next morning, Crowley slowly became aware of several interesting facts. First, he appeared to be lying under Aziraphale's table, his head pillowed on a stack of the Mills&Boons that Aziraphale always claimed never to have actually read. Second, he appeared to be naked, though quite warm, with soft blankets wrapped round him. Third, there were feathers everywhere, as if two extremely large chickens had engaged in some sort of poultry death match at some previous hour. Fourth, he felt sort of -- languid and . . . boneless, just like he always did after a good, hard -- "Oh, my God!" Crowley screamed, shooting upright, and concussing himself on the underside of the table. Through streaming eyes he saw what he was horribly sure was a terrified, naked Aziraphale dive behind the more solid of the armchairs.
"Morning?" Aziraphale's voice said from somewhere near floor level.
"Oh, my God!" Crowley said again, hoping against hope for a bolt from Heaven to put him out of his mortification.
There was a muttered conjuration, and a fully dressed Aziraphale stood up.
"Let's go out for breakfast," he said, a determinedly cheerful smile on his face.
Crowley pulled the blankets over his face and tried to suffocate himself. After a while he remembered he didn't actually have to breathe, and sulkily emerged.
He made Aziraphale pay for a very good breakfast.
* * *
It was weeks before Crowley could look Aziraphale in the face again. It was dimly insulting that the angel seemed to be having the same problems.
"I'm in a new relationship," Crowley said.
"Oh," Aziraphale said hesitantly. "That's . . . good. Isn't it?"
"Yes," Crowley said firmly. "We're very happy."
"Who's the lucky gir-- boy?" Aziraphale said with transparently false cheer.
"I'd rather not say," Crowley said with great dignity. "Some things are best kept private, at least until you know how they're going to go."
"Good idea," Aziraphale said with relief. "Well, you do have that certain glow, Crowley. Do keep me posted. Preferably from Ulaan Bator." He beat a hasty retreat, his face bright red.
Crowley heaved a sigh from the depths of his being. No one around seemed to have noticed, so he did it again, until the waitress asked if he was having an asthma attack.
"It's just an unhappy love affair," Crowley said, all the tragedy of the world in his eyes. He belatedly remembered he always wore sunglasses. The waitress patted his hand sympathetically and brought him a free cup of tea. As he drank it, Crowley had the very strong sense that he was being watched. He turned and peered over his shoulder. One of Mamoru's bodyguards was sitting in the corner, smirking at him. The light glittered off the bastard's glasses in a particularly evil and menacing way. Crowley wondered if he'd had some sort of special expensive coating put on the lenses.
"Are you spying on me?" Crowley demanded.
"Yes," the man said.
Crowley shrugged. "Fair enough," he muttered. "Miss? Another cup of tea, please?"
* * *
"You know, you seem to have lost that inner glow," Aziraphale said warily. "Also, you appear to be being tailed."
"Really?" Crowley said dully.
"This fellow - or girl, I hasten to add," Aziraphale said carefully. "Are you sure this is the right person for you?"
"Who cares?" Crowley said, resting his forehead on the pristine white tablecloth. "Order for me would you? Anything at all, I don't care."
"Crowley!" Aziraphale said, shocked. "This is serious! Who is this person and how hard do you want me to smite them?"
Crowley sat up very slowly.
"You're going to be a bit annoyed," he said.
"Nonsense," Aziraphale said briskly. "This is my job, dear boy. Ministering to those in need, and all that. Now, who is this bastard?"
"Alexander the Great," Crowley said.
There was a deep, deep silence.
"Sorry?" Aziraphale said politely.
"I wanted someone with a bit of get-up-and-go," Crowley explained. "Someone with a bit of drive, more than your average human. You know, someone touched by the divine."
"He's dead," Aziraphale pointed out.
"Not any more," Crowley said glumly. "And let me tell you, he only has one topic of conversation and it's himself."
"You raised Alexander the Great from the dead?" Aziraphale said at a volume that had heads turning all over the restaurant. "I thought I saw War hanging round looking cheerful!"
Crowley groaned and rested his head on the table again. "I know," he said. "And that's not the worst of it."
Aziraphale summoned the wine waiter over at once.
"We'll have one bottle of everything," he snapped. "Keep them coming." He glared at Crowley. "Start talking."
"Well, I raised him from the dead, all right, but it didn't seem to . . . take," Crowley said in embarrassment. "He's sort of a zombie."
"Two bottles of everything!" Aziraphale yelled at the retreating wine waiter.
"It's horrible," Crowley moaned. "All day long I have to listen to plans to take over the world, and he lurches round my flat, bumping into the furniture and demanding I repair whatever body part he's knocked off. I can't get a moment's peace. And our sex-life --"
"There isn't enough wine in this whole city," Aziraphale muttered, then paused. "No, there's a certain morbid fascination. Do continue, Crowley."
"He's a bit chilly. And clammy. And when you take that into consideration along with my bad circulation--"
"Oh, is that what you're blaming the ice-cold prick on?"
"Aziraphale! Please, I'm sensitive about that."
"Not half as sensitive as I was," Aziraphale said maliciously. "Oh, thank God, the wine's here." He started drinking assiduously. After a bottle and a half he peered at Crowley suspiciously. "Hang on," he said. "Alexander's body's been missing for ages. Where'd you dig him up, if you'll pardon the expression?"
"Italy," Crowley said, snatching half the bottles for himself. "Somehow it'd got confused with the mortal coil of some saint or other. There the good people were, warbling on about incorruptibility, and it was just an expert embalming job all along."
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "That is an incredibly stupid statement," he said.
Crowley shrugged. "All I can tell you is he's picked up Italian somehow, never puts on an ounce despite mainlining pizza and actually likes the taste of grappa. He's got a deep aversion to honey, though," he said. "Says he dreams about drowning in it."
"I can't begin to tell you how much I wish we'd never started this conversation," Aziraphale said after a long, long pause. "I'm going to the little boy's room to powder my nose."
Crowley sighed, and debated putting his head back down on the table. He soon realised that interfered with his drinking, so he sat up again. The glint of light on glasses caught his eye.
"Stop spying on me from over there!" he snapped. "Come over here and listen to the sad story of my undead love-life!"
The man came over and sat in Aziraphale's seat. He seemed unfairly amused, Crowley thought.
"What's your name, anyway?" he said.
"Crawford. You're looking pathetic, Mr Crowley."
"Nice of you to notice. It's all your boss's fault. How is the treacherous bastard?"
"Very hen-pecked. But he likes it." Crawford wiped out Aziraphale's glass and poured himself some wine. "You should break it off with your current partner," he said.
"Who the hell asked you?" Crowley said, outraged.
"You did. You just invited me over to talk about your love-life."
"Oh. Yeah."
"This guy, he's really no good for you. If I were you I'd dump him, or exorcise him, or whatever it takes, and I'd find someone who likes demons."
Crowley looked at him blankly, attempting to marshal his thoughts.
"First," he said, "you're very quick to make personal comments about someone you don't even know --"
"We have your apartment bugged," Crawford said calmly. "We know more than we care to, frankly." He sipped his wine and smirked.
"Second," Crowley said in horror at having his pillow-talk eavesdropped on, "you're a modern fellow, what's with the talk of exorcism and demons?"
Crawford rolled his eyes. "Mr Crowley, please," he said. "I'm not as simple-minded as Mr Takatori. My colleagues and I know all about demons." He paused and lowered his voice. "If it makes it any easier, your -- friend -- isn't all that happy, either. He gets quite emotional when you're not around. He misses an old partner of his rather a lot."
"Oh," Crowley said. "So he wouldn't be heart-broken if I dumped him?" he went on hopefully.
"I'd say not," Crawford said.
A horrible and sobering thought crept into Crowley's head. He quickly drank two bottles of wine before it sobered him too much. "But if I break it off," he wailed, "and I don't use that phrase lightly where he's concerned, believe me, I'll be alone! No one will ever love me again! I'll die alone and be eaten by cats!"
"You're immortal," Crawford said implacably. "I don't think you need to worry about becoming cat food. And you'll get over this rather unattractive bout of self-pity, and then you'll find plenty of people will want to be with you." He snatched a bottle from Crowley's grasp and poured himself a glass from it. "In fact," he said casually, "if you were interested, I could give you the number of someone who thinks you're really quite good looking, when you're not drinking yourself into a stupor."
"Really?" Crowley said, sitting a little straighter. "Who? Are they good looking?"
"Yes, they are," Crawford said, smiling. "As to who -- you remember my colleague with the red hair?"
"He's a rude, obnoxious bastard," Crowley said.
"You're perfect for each other," Crawford said. "Honestly, you'd be doing me a favour if you went out with him. Relations in our group have always been a little, hmm, how should I put this? Incredibly fucked-up just about covers it. One of us got married recently, which threw everything out-of-kilter. And then Nagi fell in love with Mr Takatori - you wouldn't believe how many times he thought about killing you - and when Miss Device came along, well, you weren't the only one with a broken heart. He threw himself into my arms looking for comfort and a chance to finally lose his virginity, and Schuldig was left at a loose end, what with Farfarello deciding to give heterosexuality a go. So he'd love you to give him a call."
"You were right," Crowley said after a moment, "'incredibly fucked-up' sounds like the right term."
Crawford stood, holding out a business card. "Here's his number. Call him, Mr Crowley. He's just your type."
He walked away as Aziraphale came back.
"Was that your spy fellow?" Aziraphale said. "What did he want?"
"To set me up with his friend," Crowley said.
Aziraphale sighed, and summoned the wine waiter again.
* * *
"Hello," Crowley said nervously.
"Hi," Schuldig said.
They looked at each other.
"Let's go for a drink," Crowley said, just as Schuldig said,
"We should go for a drink."
Crowley perked up. This was going well so far. They had at least one interest in common. Unless --
"Are you reading my mind?" he said, irritably. "Crawford said you're a telepath."
"I can't read it," Schuldig said casually. "You're a demon. Are you reading mine?"
"No," Crowley lied, immediately trying to. He frowned. "That's one hell of a disciplined mind you have there," he said. "Where are your surface thoughts?"
Schuldig grinned. "See?" he said. "We're perfect for each other! If you really want to read my mind I'm sure you could. But it'd be easier if I wasn't shielding. I tend not to shield when I'm very drunk, or when I'm having really good sex." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I bet I could get you relaxed enough to read your mind too."
Crowley felt his old, sharp grin tugging at his lips.
"You are not as cool and sexy as me," he said cheerfully.
"Says you," Schuldig said. "I have a different opinion. I think we should spend a lot of time working out who's right."
"I'm right and you're wrong," Crowley said.
"No, you're wrong and I'm right," Schuldig smirked. "So, as long as you like to switch, we should have a very interesting time deciding which is the correct statement."
Crowley felt better than he had for weeks. "This could be the start of a beautiful friendship," he said.
"Let's go to your place," Schuldig said, taking his arm. "You got rid of what's-his-face, did you?"
"Yep," Crowley said. "I got someone to come round to clean up." He paused. He'd better give Aziraphale a bit longer to make sure all the grave-mould was gone. "Let's go for a drive first," he said. "The moon is nice and romantic."
They didn't see much of the moon. The Bentley's seats were surprisingly roomy and comfortable, and Crowley was in a much better mood by the time they finally reached his zombie-free flat.
All in all, he rather thought he might put some credence in Crawford's prediction that this could last for years.
* * * * * * * * * *
The theory about Alexander's body being mixed up with that of a saint is in fact a real and recentish one, by Some Guy, that I read in Some History Magazine (probably a recent History Today). I'm, er, actually more careful with attribution for work . . . If anyone knows the article I'm talking about, I'd be awfully grateful for the reference!
And so, for all those who giggled and said they'd read such a thing:
Ice Cold in Alex
"Good Morning," Crowley said cheerfully as Mamoru trailed into the kitchen, his face still sleepily innocent with tiredness. "Tea? Coffee? Full English breakfast?"
"Miso and rice?" Mamoru said hopefully.
"Of course." Crowley waved a hand and the sizzling sausages obligingly transformed themselves. He watched Mamoru eating, smiling fondly, and pounced the moment Mamoru was finished.
"Urk," Mamoru said. Then, happily, "No, not urk. Is mmmm better?"
"Mmmm," Crowley agreed.
"I have to go to my meeting," Mamoru said at last, fending Crowley off. "I'll be back later." He paused, looking worried. "They're going to make me go back to Tokyo eventually, you know."
"I'll go with you," Crowley said. It was a massive concession on his part, he thought, watching a sunny smile break out over Mamoru's face. And one he planned on never actually having to follow through on, given the equally massive amount of bollocksing up he'd been inflicting on the Japanese trade delegation. They'd be in London for months before they got things sorted out. By that time Mamoru would no longer want to go. Crowley sometimes felt very slightly guilty when Mamoru told him of the terrible, terrible problems facing the delegation. Mostly though, he thought Mamoru should be grateful to have had a chance to improve his English so much by conversations with native speakers. Or apparently native speakers. Not that a lot of Mamoru's recent language acquisition could be used outside bed. He pulled Mamoru back into his lap and spent the few minutes left before the chauffeur arrived kissing him.
"Bye!" Mamoru called, skipping down to the waiting car. "Don't forget that charity ball tonight!"
"You don't really want to dance, do you?" Crowley said, a tad worried.
"Not really. I'm the world's worst dancer," Mamoru grinned.
"Don't be so sure," Crowley muttered, blowing him a kiss and glaring at the bodyguards who were trying to scowl him to death. Like he didn't know the perverts camped out on the roof every night. He hoped they enjoyed the rain and hail and occasional plague of frogs.
* * *
The charity ball was a lot more fun than Crowley had expected. Everyone was so nicely dressed, the food was fantastic, and Mamoru turned out to be such a bad dancer that no one looked at Crowley at all. It was with a feeling of bonhomie and gentle drunkenness that Crowley dragged Mamoru across the ballroom when he saw some faces he vaguely recognised.
"Miss Device!" he said cheerfully. "Mamoru, this is Miss Device and this is her hopeless boyfriend, Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer."
"Newt," the hopeless boyfriend said in irritation. "Newton Pulsifer."
"Really?" Crowley said, looking round for more interesting people. "You look just like him. Same bad teeth and everything."
"Anthony!" Mamoru hissed. "That's so rude," he muttered in Japanese.
"Just look at them," Crowley said unrepentantly. "There's not a dentist in the country that could save him."
"Would you like to dance, Miss Device?" Mamoru said in desperation, hauling her onto the dance floor before she could answer.
Crowley smiled genially at them as Newt fumed beside him. Mamoru really was an awful dancer.
* * *
"Er," Mamoru said, a few weeks later. "Anthony, there's something I need to tell you."
"What?" Crowley said, wondering just how sinuous he could reveal himself to be without giving Mamoru the screaming heebie-jeebies.
"There's someone -- oh, that's nice," Mamoru said dreamily. His eyes snapped open and he pushed Crowley away. "There's someone else," he gabbled. "It's over, Anthony, I'm sorry."
"What?" Crowley shrieked.
Mamoru shot out of bed and was dressed and standing by the open door in mere seconds.
"I tried to tell you, honestly!" he wailed. "I didn't mean to fall in love with Anathema!"
"Anathema?" Crowley said, demonstrating he didn't actually need a word to contain sibilants to come out as a hiss. "Anathema Device? Wait here, I'll go and sort her -- er, this out."
"Oh no, you don't," Mamoru said firmly, tackling him. "You do not try to kill the mother of my child!"
Crowley stared at him. "You must be kidding," he said finally. "You only met two and a half weeks ago."
"I have it on good authority that she's pregnant," Mamoru said, then frowned. "Or is about to get pregnant, it was difficult to tell through the sarcasm and laughter. The point is, I have to make an honest woman of her!" He sighed, and kissed Crowley's cheek. "I'm sorry. Goodbye."
Crowley ran after him as he went down the stairs and out into the street. The big black car pulled up as he reached the kerb.
"Mamoru!" Crowley wailed as the bodyguards abseiled down from the roof and climbed into the car with him. One of them gave Crowley a cheeky little wave as the car moved off smoothly. Crowley buried his face in his hands and sobbed. There was only one thing to do now.
* * *
"And then he just buggered off!" Crowley said for the twelfth time.
Aziraphale nodded, refilling his glass carefully. "Terrible," he agreed.
"She's not even gorgeous like me! What's she got that I haven't?"
"Maybe he prefers girls?"
Crowley stared at Aziraphale in distress.
"That is a horrible thing to say, Aziraphale. You're really showing your true colours now. Here I am, come over for a little consolation and some thirty year old whisky, and you start implying I'm not every boy's dream."
Aziraphale started to say something, very visibly restrained himself, and refilled the glass again.
"Sip it," he said acidly. "It's thirty years old. Older than your ex-boyfriend. Oh, for Heaven's sake, stop sniffling!" He perched on the arm of Crowley's chair and awkwardly patted his shoulder. "You can't stop true love, you know."
"I can if I want," Crowley said sadly.
"Well, don't. You're too old for him. What have you got in common with a twenty-something ex-assassin, anyway?"
"Ex-assassin?" Crowley said.
"Oh, dear. Here, have some more whisky. Drink up, it's just some old stuff I had lying around."
Crowley drank up.
* * *
When he woke the next morning, Crowley slowly became aware of several interesting facts. First, he appeared to be lying under Aziraphale's table, his head pillowed on a stack of the Mills&Boons that Aziraphale always claimed never to have actually read. Second, he appeared to be naked, though quite warm, with soft blankets wrapped round him. Third, there were feathers everywhere, as if two extremely large chickens had engaged in some sort of poultry death match at some previous hour. Fourth, he felt sort of -- languid and . . . boneless, just like he always did after a good, hard -- "Oh, my God!" Crowley screamed, shooting upright, and concussing himself on the underside of the table. Through streaming eyes he saw what he was horribly sure was a terrified, naked Aziraphale dive behind the more solid of the armchairs.
"Morning?" Aziraphale's voice said from somewhere near floor level.
"Oh, my God!" Crowley said again, hoping against hope for a bolt from Heaven to put him out of his mortification.
There was a muttered conjuration, and a fully dressed Aziraphale stood up.
"Let's go out for breakfast," he said, a determinedly cheerful smile on his face.
Crowley pulled the blankets over his face and tried to suffocate himself. After a while he remembered he didn't actually have to breathe, and sulkily emerged.
He made Aziraphale pay for a very good breakfast.
* * *
It was weeks before Crowley could look Aziraphale in the face again. It was dimly insulting that the angel seemed to be having the same problems.
"I'm in a new relationship," Crowley said.
"Oh," Aziraphale said hesitantly. "That's . . . good. Isn't it?"
"Yes," Crowley said firmly. "We're very happy."
"Who's the lucky gir-- boy?" Aziraphale said with transparently false cheer.
"I'd rather not say," Crowley said with great dignity. "Some things are best kept private, at least until you know how they're going to go."
"Good idea," Aziraphale said with relief. "Well, you do have that certain glow, Crowley. Do keep me posted. Preferably from Ulaan Bator." He beat a hasty retreat, his face bright red.
Crowley heaved a sigh from the depths of his being. No one around seemed to have noticed, so he did it again, until the waitress asked if he was having an asthma attack.
"It's just an unhappy love affair," Crowley said, all the tragedy of the world in his eyes. He belatedly remembered he always wore sunglasses. The waitress patted his hand sympathetically and brought him a free cup of tea. As he drank it, Crowley had the very strong sense that he was being watched. He turned and peered over his shoulder. One of Mamoru's bodyguards was sitting in the corner, smirking at him. The light glittered off the bastard's glasses in a particularly evil and menacing way. Crowley wondered if he'd had some sort of special expensive coating put on the lenses.
"Are you spying on me?" Crowley demanded.
"Yes," the man said.
Crowley shrugged. "Fair enough," he muttered. "Miss? Another cup of tea, please?"
* * *
"You know, you seem to have lost that inner glow," Aziraphale said warily. "Also, you appear to be being tailed."
"Really?" Crowley said dully.
"This fellow - or girl, I hasten to add," Aziraphale said carefully. "Are you sure this is the right person for you?"
"Who cares?" Crowley said, resting his forehead on the pristine white tablecloth. "Order for me would you? Anything at all, I don't care."
"Crowley!" Aziraphale said, shocked. "This is serious! Who is this person and how hard do you want me to smite them?"
Crowley sat up very slowly.
"You're going to be a bit annoyed," he said.
"Nonsense," Aziraphale said briskly. "This is my job, dear boy. Ministering to those in need, and all that. Now, who is this bastard?"
"Alexander the Great," Crowley said.
There was a deep, deep silence.
"Sorry?" Aziraphale said politely.
"I wanted someone with a bit of get-up-and-go," Crowley explained. "Someone with a bit of drive, more than your average human. You know, someone touched by the divine."
"He's dead," Aziraphale pointed out.
"Not any more," Crowley said glumly. "And let me tell you, he only has one topic of conversation and it's himself."
"You raised Alexander the Great from the dead?" Aziraphale said at a volume that had heads turning all over the restaurant. "I thought I saw War hanging round looking cheerful!"
Crowley groaned and rested his head on the table again. "I know," he said. "And that's not the worst of it."
Aziraphale summoned the wine waiter over at once.
"We'll have one bottle of everything," he snapped. "Keep them coming." He glared at Crowley. "Start talking."
"Well, I raised him from the dead, all right, but it didn't seem to . . . take," Crowley said in embarrassment. "He's sort of a zombie."
"Two bottles of everything!" Aziraphale yelled at the retreating wine waiter.
"It's horrible," Crowley moaned. "All day long I have to listen to plans to take over the world, and he lurches round my flat, bumping into the furniture and demanding I repair whatever body part he's knocked off. I can't get a moment's peace. And our sex-life --"
"There isn't enough wine in this whole city," Aziraphale muttered, then paused. "No, there's a certain morbid fascination. Do continue, Crowley."
"He's a bit chilly. And clammy. And when you take that into consideration along with my bad circulation--"
"Oh, is that what you're blaming the ice-cold prick on?"
"Aziraphale! Please, I'm sensitive about that."
"Not half as sensitive as I was," Aziraphale said maliciously. "Oh, thank God, the wine's here." He started drinking assiduously. After a bottle and a half he peered at Crowley suspiciously. "Hang on," he said. "Alexander's body's been missing for ages. Where'd you dig him up, if you'll pardon the expression?"
"Italy," Crowley said, snatching half the bottles for himself. "Somehow it'd got confused with the mortal coil of some saint or other. There the good people were, warbling on about incorruptibility, and it was just an expert embalming job all along."
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "That is an incredibly stupid statement," he said.
Crowley shrugged. "All I can tell you is he's picked up Italian somehow, never puts on an ounce despite mainlining pizza and actually likes the taste of grappa. He's got a deep aversion to honey, though," he said. "Says he dreams about drowning in it."
"I can't begin to tell you how much I wish we'd never started this conversation," Aziraphale said after a long, long pause. "I'm going to the little boy's room to powder my nose."
Crowley sighed, and debated putting his head back down on the table. He soon realised that interfered with his drinking, so he sat up again. The glint of light on glasses caught his eye.
"Stop spying on me from over there!" he snapped. "Come over here and listen to the sad story of my undead love-life!"
The man came over and sat in Aziraphale's seat. He seemed unfairly amused, Crowley thought.
"What's your name, anyway?" he said.
"Crawford. You're looking pathetic, Mr Crowley."
"Nice of you to notice. It's all your boss's fault. How is the treacherous bastard?"
"Very hen-pecked. But he likes it." Crawford wiped out Aziraphale's glass and poured himself some wine. "You should break it off with your current partner," he said.
"Who the hell asked you?" Crowley said, outraged.
"You did. You just invited me over to talk about your love-life."
"Oh. Yeah."
"This guy, he's really no good for you. If I were you I'd dump him, or exorcise him, or whatever it takes, and I'd find someone who likes demons."
Crowley looked at him blankly, attempting to marshal his thoughts.
"First," he said, "you're very quick to make personal comments about someone you don't even know --"
"We have your apartment bugged," Crawford said calmly. "We know more than we care to, frankly." He sipped his wine and smirked.
"Second," Crowley said in horror at having his pillow-talk eavesdropped on, "you're a modern fellow, what's with the talk of exorcism and demons?"
Crawford rolled his eyes. "Mr Crowley, please," he said. "I'm not as simple-minded as Mr Takatori. My colleagues and I know all about demons." He paused and lowered his voice. "If it makes it any easier, your -- friend -- isn't all that happy, either. He gets quite emotional when you're not around. He misses an old partner of his rather a lot."
"Oh," Crowley said. "So he wouldn't be heart-broken if I dumped him?" he went on hopefully.
"I'd say not," Crawford said.
A horrible and sobering thought crept into Crowley's head. He quickly drank two bottles of wine before it sobered him too much. "But if I break it off," he wailed, "and I don't use that phrase lightly where he's concerned, believe me, I'll be alone! No one will ever love me again! I'll die alone and be eaten by cats!"
"You're immortal," Crawford said implacably. "I don't think you need to worry about becoming cat food. And you'll get over this rather unattractive bout of self-pity, and then you'll find plenty of people will want to be with you." He snatched a bottle from Crowley's grasp and poured himself a glass from it. "In fact," he said casually, "if you were interested, I could give you the number of someone who thinks you're really quite good looking, when you're not drinking yourself into a stupor."
"Really?" Crowley said, sitting a little straighter. "Who? Are they good looking?"
"Yes, they are," Crawford said, smiling. "As to who -- you remember my colleague with the red hair?"
"He's a rude, obnoxious bastard," Crowley said.
"You're perfect for each other," Crawford said. "Honestly, you'd be doing me a favour if you went out with him. Relations in our group have always been a little, hmm, how should I put this? Incredibly fucked-up just about covers it. One of us got married recently, which threw everything out-of-kilter. And then Nagi fell in love with Mr Takatori - you wouldn't believe how many times he thought about killing you - and when Miss Device came along, well, you weren't the only one with a broken heart. He threw himself into my arms looking for comfort and a chance to finally lose his virginity, and Schuldig was left at a loose end, what with Farfarello deciding to give heterosexuality a go. So he'd love you to give him a call."
"You were right," Crowley said after a moment, "'incredibly fucked-up' sounds like the right term."
Crawford stood, holding out a business card. "Here's his number. Call him, Mr Crowley. He's just your type."
He walked away as Aziraphale came back.
"Was that your spy fellow?" Aziraphale said. "What did he want?"
"To set me up with his friend," Crowley said.
Aziraphale sighed, and summoned the wine waiter again.
* * *
"Hello," Crowley said nervously.
"Hi," Schuldig said.
They looked at each other.
"Let's go for a drink," Crowley said, just as Schuldig said,
"We should go for a drink."
Crowley perked up. This was going well so far. They had at least one interest in common. Unless --
"Are you reading my mind?" he said, irritably. "Crawford said you're a telepath."
"I can't read it," Schuldig said casually. "You're a demon. Are you reading mine?"
"No," Crowley lied, immediately trying to. He frowned. "That's one hell of a disciplined mind you have there," he said. "Where are your surface thoughts?"
Schuldig grinned. "See?" he said. "We're perfect for each other! If you really want to read my mind I'm sure you could. But it'd be easier if I wasn't shielding. I tend not to shield when I'm very drunk, or when I'm having really good sex." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I bet I could get you relaxed enough to read your mind too."
Crowley felt his old, sharp grin tugging at his lips.
"You are not as cool and sexy as me," he said cheerfully.
"Says you," Schuldig said. "I have a different opinion. I think we should spend a lot of time working out who's right."
"I'm right and you're wrong," Crowley said.
"No, you're wrong and I'm right," Schuldig smirked. "So, as long as you like to switch, we should have a very interesting time deciding which is the correct statement."
Crowley felt better than he had for weeks. "This could be the start of a beautiful friendship," he said.
"Let's go to your place," Schuldig said, taking his arm. "You got rid of what's-his-face, did you?"
"Yep," Crowley said. "I got someone to come round to clean up." He paused. He'd better give Aziraphale a bit longer to make sure all the grave-mould was gone. "Let's go for a drive first," he said. "The moon is nice and romantic."
They didn't see much of the moon. The Bentley's seats were surprisingly roomy and comfortable, and Crowley was in a much better mood by the time they finally reached his zombie-free flat.
All in all, he rather thought he might put some credence in Crawford's prediction that this could last for years.
* * * * * * * * * *
The theory about Alexander's body being mixed up with that of a saint is in fact a real and recentish one, by Some Guy, that I read in Some History Magazine (probably a recent History Today). I'm, er, actually more careful with attribution for work . . . If anyone knows the article I'm talking about, I'd be awfully grateful for the reference!