Happy Holidays, morelindo!
Title: The Art of Holding Grudges
Author: aviss
Recipient: morelindo
Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, Islington
Rating: PG
Genre: Humour
Summary: Having a drink with an old friend is nothing to be afraid of, even if you are a bit responsible for his island sinking, is it?
Word Count: ~1.500
Prompt: Anything involving Aziraphale, Crowley, and Islington. Aziraphale/Crowley a definite plus. As cracky or serious as you want.
Author Notes: I wanted to do more plot and mix it with Neverwhere more, but in the end I just love dialogue between these two too much, and when I saw it was in the things you liked I couldn't stop myself. I hope you enjoy the result, morelindo!
The Art of Holding Grudges
"You're not serious."
Aziraphale looked at Crowley with an expression that left no doubt that he was, indeed, very serious. Or constipated. Maybe both. "It's just a visit to an old friend, my dear. Nothing to be afraid of," he said airily, walking out of the bookshop and into the greying mid-afternoon light. He didn't bother locking the shop; no self-respecting thief would ever give it a second look. Crowley followed him out, walking towards the Bentley before he realized Aziraphale was moving in the opposite direction. "It is quite close my dear, we can walk. It's such a lovely day."
It was Crowley's turn to give him the stink eye, though the sunglasses rendered the effect less impressive. "It's going to rain." It wasn't so much a prediction as common sense at work, considering the light, clouds and smell of London's air. "And it's an angel, angel," he said loudly, enunciating the words clearly as if he were speaking to someone very dense. "I don't think he's going to be very happy to see me there." He turned away from the Bentley and hurried after Aziraphale, catching up with him before they reached Dean Street.
The walked side by side towards Leicester Square, their hands brushing occasionally as they moved. Nobody in Soho gave them a second look, except perhaps to double check if Aziraphale's jacket was truly that awful and it hadn't been a trick of the light.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"It's an angel," Crowley repeated, as if the first time Aziraphale hadn't heard him. That earned him a Look, the ones that came with pursed lips and said only six thousand years of kind of friendship prevented him from being smitten, and that just barely.
"So am I."
"That's different; you like me." They walked in silence for a minute, the myriad of people walking down Charing Cross moving aside to let them pass not really knowing why. "So, this angel--"
"Islington, you remember him--"
Crowley stopped in the middle of the street, a woman carrying several bags in her hands and an impatient expression on her face being forced to swerve around him and almost collide against another shopper; the impatience morphed into confusion at her own actions. Crowley didn't notice; he turned to Aziraphale, his eyes wide behind his sunglasses. "Islington?"
"Yes, he's a good chap. He used to keep me company at the gate, and had the funniest jokes--"
"Islington," Crowley repeated, hoping he had heard wrong the first time.
"Yes, yes dear. Are you quite all right?"
"Angel, you can't go," he said, still standing on the same spot. Aziraphale looked at him with a frown. "We can't go."
"Don't be silly, Crowley. What's wrong?"
"Don't you remember what happened the last time we had a drink with Islington?" Crowley said, his voice low and urgent. Aziraphale's frown deepened.
"We--got drunk?"
"We ssssunk Atlantis!" Crowley hissed, leaning forward until his face was almost touching Aziraphale's. He looked around; as if afraid they could be overhead. Nobody was paying any attention to them.
"Don't be foolish, dear," Aziraphale said, walking again. Crowley had no other choice but to follow him, crossing the Centre Point and heading to Museum Street. "We did nothing of the sort; it was the Prince of Hell."
"It would have not happened if not for us. You convinced him to leave his post for just a couple of hours for the first time in three thousand years. We got very, very drunk and when he went back two days later the island was gone." It wasn't one of Crowley's best memories; it had Beelzebub's work, who never knew how good his timing had been, but it wouldn't have happened had Islington remained at his post. He still remembered stumbling back to the island when the last drop of wine was gone, they were just going to get some more of that wine that tasted of sunlight and could get even a demon and two angels completely trashed. They had found just water where the island should have been, and after sobering up Islington had looked at them with such madness and fury and--Crowley shuddered, that was the reason he never thought about that day.
Aziraphale shook his head. "It wasn't our fault, dear. And besides, it was a long time ago, Islington must have forgiven us."
"I don't think--"
"He's an angel, we don't hold grudges."
Crowley snorted at that. "The Boss is still mad at humanity for getting him tossed out of Eden, and it's been longer than that."
Aziraphale made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "But he's a demon."
"He was an angel before. We all were." There was nothing Aziraphale could say to that, so he stayed silent. "Besides, you still haven't forgiven me for that little accident with the wine and the book."
"It was a first edition," Aziraphale said, his voice indignant.
"Of Don Quixote."
"It's a classic. One of the most important books in the literature and it's priceless."
"It's priceless now, angel," Crowley said with the voice of one who has repeated this same argument over and over again but knows it's not going to make a difference. "When I spilled that wine it was new, and there were more books you could have bought that would have still been a first edition."
Aziraphale looked a bit pinkish around the ears. "It was still a first edition. And that's not the point. I mean, Islington has invited us--" They had reached the British Museum, their conversation impeded by half of Tokyo walking behind a tiny woman with a huge megaphone, all of them talking among themselves and ahh-ing and ohh-ing in the appropriate places.
"Why are we in the Museum, angel?" Crowley asked once the noise died down, looking curiously at the building in front of him. It wasn't that he disliked the Museum, they had in fact been using it to meet for decades. There were no angels living there so far as Crowley knew.
"Oh, the entry to London Below, where Islington is, is through the Museum," Aziraphale said, walking past the colonnade and entering the building. Crowley blessed loudly and colourfully behind him.
"London Below?"
"Yes, dear."
"Are you insane?" Crowley looked around, as if the mere mention of the place frightened him, not that he would admit it. "Do you know the kind of people that live down there?"
Aziraphale turned to look at him. "Crowley dear, if you don't want to come, you don't have to. It's not as if he can leave his post now." His look turned shrewd. "Though it would be a pity, I seem to remember you liked the Atlantean wine quite a lot, and he might have mentioned still having a case."
"And leave you alone with him? No," Crowley said, walking again. "And anyway, how did you know where to find him if he didn't tell you?"
"Two friends of his came by the shop and delivered the message. Very odd chaps, now that I think about it," Aziraphale said, his brow furrowed in thought.
"How odd?"
Aziraphale shrugged. "I don't know. Odd. One talked a lot and seemed very old-fashioned, the other was very silent. It doesn't matter, dear. And stop being so nervous, it's just a drink with an old friend."
"Who happens to be an angel who hates us."
"You're exaggerating, my dear."
They had arrived at the door that was going to take them below. Without paying any attention to the people around them, Aziraphale just walked straight under it, Crowley closely at his heels.
The next they saw was a huge chamber filled with tiny candles, all of them lit. The effect was rather disturbing, hundreds of points of light in the middle of the most absolute darkness.
Then he appeared in the timeless beauty of his true, genderless form.
The first thing Crowley though was that Islington was still as beautiful as he remember. The second was that he was still as insane. Islington was coming at them like a freight train, his form radiating light, his face a picture of the most complete madness.
"You! Three thousand years stuck in here because of you! You finally appear before me again!"
It didn't take a genius to realize that this particular angel was quite good at holding grudges. Somehow, Crowley doubted they were going to be served any wine, Atlantean or otherwise.
"Oh dear!" Aziraphale mumbled, and if Crowley could have said told you so, he would have. Instead, he grabbed his angel and did the thing that had kept him alive for six thousand years when an angel other than Aziraphale was coming at him.
He ran.
…
"Next time," Crowley said as they lay panting on the street for a breath they really didn't need, their skin tingling with how close they had been to disaster this time. "When I say 'let's not have a drink with the murderous angel'? Let's not have a drink with the murderous angel."
"Yes, dear."
…
Below, in the Great Hall, Islington stared at the empty space where Crowley and Aziraphale had been an instant before. The snake was fast, and he hadn't been counting on them escaping.
But it was of no matter, he had another plan.
He needed to contact Portico.
…
~end
Happy Holidays, morelindo, from your Secret Writer!
Author: aviss
Recipient: morelindo
Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, Islington
Rating: PG
Genre: Humour
Summary: Having a drink with an old friend is nothing to be afraid of, even if you are a bit responsible for his island sinking, is it?
Word Count: ~1.500
Prompt: Anything involving Aziraphale, Crowley, and Islington. Aziraphale/Crowley a definite plus. As cracky or serious as you want.
Author Notes: I wanted to do more plot and mix it with Neverwhere more, but in the end I just love dialogue between these two too much, and when I saw it was in the things you liked I couldn't stop myself. I hope you enjoy the result, morelindo!
The Art of Holding Grudges
"You're not serious."
Aziraphale looked at Crowley with an expression that left no doubt that he was, indeed, very serious. Or constipated. Maybe both. "It's just a visit to an old friend, my dear. Nothing to be afraid of," he said airily, walking out of the bookshop and into the greying mid-afternoon light. He didn't bother locking the shop; no self-respecting thief would ever give it a second look. Crowley followed him out, walking towards the Bentley before he realized Aziraphale was moving in the opposite direction. "It is quite close my dear, we can walk. It's such a lovely day."
It was Crowley's turn to give him the stink eye, though the sunglasses rendered the effect less impressive. "It's going to rain." It wasn't so much a prediction as common sense at work, considering the light, clouds and smell of London's air. "And it's an angel, angel," he said loudly, enunciating the words clearly as if he were speaking to someone very dense. "I don't think he's going to be very happy to see me there." He turned away from the Bentley and hurried after Aziraphale, catching up with him before they reached Dean Street.
The walked side by side towards Leicester Square, their hands brushing occasionally as they moved. Nobody in Soho gave them a second look, except perhaps to double check if Aziraphale's jacket was truly that awful and it hadn't been a trick of the light.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"It's an angel," Crowley repeated, as if the first time Aziraphale hadn't heard him. That earned him a Look, the ones that came with pursed lips and said only six thousand years of kind of friendship prevented him from being smitten, and that just barely.
"So am I."
"That's different; you like me." They walked in silence for a minute, the myriad of people walking down Charing Cross moving aside to let them pass not really knowing why. "So, this angel--"
"Islington, you remember him--"
Crowley stopped in the middle of the street, a woman carrying several bags in her hands and an impatient expression on her face being forced to swerve around him and almost collide against another shopper; the impatience morphed into confusion at her own actions. Crowley didn't notice; he turned to Aziraphale, his eyes wide behind his sunglasses. "Islington?"
"Yes, he's a good chap. He used to keep me company at the gate, and had the funniest jokes--"
"Islington," Crowley repeated, hoping he had heard wrong the first time.
"Yes, yes dear. Are you quite all right?"
"Angel, you can't go," he said, still standing on the same spot. Aziraphale looked at him with a frown. "We can't go."
"Don't be silly, Crowley. What's wrong?"
"Don't you remember what happened the last time we had a drink with Islington?" Crowley said, his voice low and urgent. Aziraphale's frown deepened.
"We--got drunk?"
"We ssssunk Atlantis!" Crowley hissed, leaning forward until his face was almost touching Aziraphale's. He looked around; as if afraid they could be overhead. Nobody was paying any attention to them.
"Don't be foolish, dear," Aziraphale said, walking again. Crowley had no other choice but to follow him, crossing the Centre Point and heading to Museum Street. "We did nothing of the sort; it was the Prince of Hell."
"It would have not happened if not for us. You convinced him to leave his post for just a couple of hours for the first time in three thousand years. We got very, very drunk and when he went back two days later the island was gone." It wasn't one of Crowley's best memories; it had Beelzebub's work, who never knew how good his timing had been, but it wouldn't have happened had Islington remained at his post. He still remembered stumbling back to the island when the last drop of wine was gone, they were just going to get some more of that wine that tasted of sunlight and could get even a demon and two angels completely trashed. They had found just water where the island should have been, and after sobering up Islington had looked at them with such madness and fury and--Crowley shuddered, that was the reason he never thought about that day.
Aziraphale shook his head. "It wasn't our fault, dear. And besides, it was a long time ago, Islington must have forgiven us."
"I don't think--"
"He's an angel, we don't hold grudges."
Crowley snorted at that. "The Boss is still mad at humanity for getting him tossed out of Eden, and it's been longer than that."
Aziraphale made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "But he's a demon."
"He was an angel before. We all were." There was nothing Aziraphale could say to that, so he stayed silent. "Besides, you still haven't forgiven me for that little accident with the wine and the book."
"It was a first edition," Aziraphale said, his voice indignant.
"Of Don Quixote."
"It's a classic. One of the most important books in the literature and it's priceless."
"It's priceless now, angel," Crowley said with the voice of one who has repeated this same argument over and over again but knows it's not going to make a difference. "When I spilled that wine it was new, and there were more books you could have bought that would have still been a first edition."
Aziraphale looked a bit pinkish around the ears. "It was still a first edition. And that's not the point. I mean, Islington has invited us--" They had reached the British Museum, their conversation impeded by half of Tokyo walking behind a tiny woman with a huge megaphone, all of them talking among themselves and ahh-ing and ohh-ing in the appropriate places.
"Why are we in the Museum, angel?" Crowley asked once the noise died down, looking curiously at the building in front of him. It wasn't that he disliked the Museum, they had in fact been using it to meet for decades. There were no angels living there so far as Crowley knew.
"Oh, the entry to London Below, where Islington is, is through the Museum," Aziraphale said, walking past the colonnade and entering the building. Crowley blessed loudly and colourfully behind him.
"London Below?"
"Yes, dear."
"Are you insane?" Crowley looked around, as if the mere mention of the place frightened him, not that he would admit it. "Do you know the kind of people that live down there?"
Aziraphale turned to look at him. "Crowley dear, if you don't want to come, you don't have to. It's not as if he can leave his post now." His look turned shrewd. "Though it would be a pity, I seem to remember you liked the Atlantean wine quite a lot, and he might have mentioned still having a case."
"And leave you alone with him? No," Crowley said, walking again. "And anyway, how did you know where to find him if he didn't tell you?"
"Two friends of his came by the shop and delivered the message. Very odd chaps, now that I think about it," Aziraphale said, his brow furrowed in thought.
"How odd?"
Aziraphale shrugged. "I don't know. Odd. One talked a lot and seemed very old-fashioned, the other was very silent. It doesn't matter, dear. And stop being so nervous, it's just a drink with an old friend."
"Who happens to be an angel who hates us."
"You're exaggerating, my dear."
They had arrived at the door that was going to take them below. Without paying any attention to the people around them, Aziraphale just walked straight under it, Crowley closely at his heels.
The next they saw was a huge chamber filled with tiny candles, all of them lit. The effect was rather disturbing, hundreds of points of light in the middle of the most absolute darkness.
Then he appeared in the timeless beauty of his true, genderless form.
The first thing Crowley though was that Islington was still as beautiful as he remember. The second was that he was still as insane. Islington was coming at them like a freight train, his form radiating light, his face a picture of the most complete madness.
"You! Three thousand years stuck in here because of you! You finally appear before me again!"
It didn't take a genius to realize that this particular angel was quite good at holding grudges. Somehow, Crowley doubted they were going to be served any wine, Atlantean or otherwise.
"Oh dear!" Aziraphale mumbled, and if Crowley could have said told you so, he would have. Instead, he grabbed his angel and did the thing that had kept him alive for six thousand years when an angel other than Aziraphale was coming at him.
He ran.
…
"Next time," Crowley said as they lay panting on the street for a breath they really didn't need, their skin tingling with how close they had been to disaster this time. "When I say 'let's not have a drink with the murderous angel'? Let's not have a drink with the murderous angel."
"Yes, dear."
…
Below, in the Great Hall, Islington stared at the empty space where Crowley and Aziraphale had been an instant before. The snake was fast, and he hadn't been counting on them escaping.
But it was of no matter, he had another plan.
He needed to contact Portico.
…
~end
Happy Holidays, morelindo, from your Secret Writer!