fic: new horizons GO/FAKE prologue
Title: New horizons
Author: Nell
Rating: Pg-13, possibly R in later chapters
Warnings: slash, crossover, and violence (in later chapters) possible blasphemy?
Pairings: Crowley/Aziraphale (later on), Dee/Ryo (also later on)
Fandoms: Fake and good Omens
Dedication: Happy Birthday QS, may you have many happy returns.
Disclaimer: If I owned fake and/or good omens, I would not be writing fanfiction for them.
Aziraphale glared at the letter that had just appeared on top of one of his autographed original bibles. He detested, loathed, hated, and several other synonymies related to said words, when Heaven got in contact with him. For some reason, those contacts always seemed to only end with him engaged in actual work.
The only benefit he could see, if you could call it a benefit, which most people couldn't seem to do, was the fact that he would have to meet with Crowley. It was a good thing that Aziraphale, even if the only person, err, sexless, ageless being, could enjoy the dubious pleasure of Crowley's company.
After all, they were Heaven and Hell's field agents, and not only had the two gone native, but also the two had even aided each other in averting the Armageddon.
Aziraphale picked up the letter with just two fingers, gingerly clasping it in the corner, much like how someone would pick up two dead squirrels that died in the midst of releasing positive pleasure chemicals by way of intimate contact might have done.
He carefully opened, and slowly read the letter. He then read it again. And again. And then again before sighed, placed the letter down, made himself a nice cup of tea and then preceded to bang his forehead into the nearest hard object.
They wanted him to go to America. America. Now really, that was almost as bad as having to go to Australia. At least the Australians understood proper English, even if they refused to practice it. Although, the Yankee accent couldn't be nearly as bad as that horrible Australian one.
He sighed. There really wasn't anything he could do about it, no matter how much he wished it weren't so. He had a job to do, and it wasn't like he could just ignore it and say that "The foul demon called Crawly, now called Crowley, had foiled his attempts again". No, he really had to go and work. All he wanted was for Earth to be left alone and to have his books. Moreover, a gin-and tonic, neat, once and a while.
He wandered across his dusty flat for a moment, trying to remember where in the world he had placed his phone. He never used the things, but really, the phone should have been right about…here. He pouted as he saw that the phone was not where he had placed it. Where had he placed the darn thing? It had to be somewhere in his flat; after all, he had had a conversation with Crowley on the phone not all that long ago.
He searched the flat, finally finding the rotary phone(1) and waiting for it to connect to Crowley's phone(2) so he could explain what was going on. He waited impatiently as the phone rang, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Tap tap taptaptap, over and over again. Soon he heard a click and then he heard one of those new-fangled answering machine messages.
"Crowley Crematorium, you kill them, Hell burns them" had Aziraphale staring at the phone in shock. He couldn't believe(3) that Crowley would actually say that. That was simply outrageous and what was Crowley thinking? Was he trying to draw the attention of Hell back onto the almost Amargaddeon? The answering machine beeped.
"How do you work one of these infernal machines? Really, there has to be something more civilized then this to leave messages. Anyway, Crowley, it is imperative that I speak with you as soon as possible - when it's convenient for you, of course," he finished his message and hung-up his phone, wondering when Crowley would call him back.
He sighed and went to make a cup of herbal tea. He had heard from one of the humans who frequented the area that this brand and type was just perfect for any aches and pains the body had. He still wondered why the young man had stressed aches and pains in such a fashion.
He frowned at the box, wondering if he had opened the right box of tea. He had never thought to see tea in such an odd bag. Bagged tea? Perish the thought - it was almost unbelievable. It had to have been invented by those Australians.
He read the directions on the box and thought it couldn't be that hard to make. All he had to do was boil some water and place the tea bag into a cup and then pour the boiling water over it. Mortals did things like boil water all the time, there couldn't be any way he could ruin it.
He found an old, dusty pot with a slightly oily bottom, and placed it on his stove(4). He filled a liter pitcher with water, poured it into the pot, and then turned the knob at the top of the stove all the way to high. A small smile of triumph showed on his face before he could contain himself - Pride was the most deadly of the seven sins after all. He left the pot on the stove, remembering the saying human women had about a watched pot never boiling, and went back into the shop, all the while wondering how any human could say cooking was difficult. He was sure that he would have enough time to sort his books into piles of can sell someday, can never sell, and sic Crowley on the fool stupid enough to even touch the book.
He glanced at the titles as he sorted, stopping to open and reread his favorite parts of the books, never knowing that more then forty minutes had passed. In fact, he didn't realize any time had passed until he smelled smoke. Something had set his flat on fire, and he would kill whatever had done so, especially if it was more of Hell's minions.
He raced upstairs and stared at the stove. He had not remembered that he was boiling water and now he could see how humans could say cooking was dangerous. He miracled the fire out and then went to collapse in his armchair(5). If he couldn't even make a cup of tea, then how was he supposed to accomplish his next mission? Moreover, he still had no idea what exactly Heaven wanted him to do. He raised a hand to his forehead, leaned forward, and sighed desolately. He then bolted upward when he heard a screech of brakes and wondered which neighbor was driving drunk.
He heard a knock at his flat door and than Crowley's voice.
"Come in," Aziraphale called as he stood up and hastened to straighten out his clothes. Crowley walked into the flat and smirked.
"Aziraphale, why does your flat smell like smoke?" the demon asked as he took off his glasses and sniffed the air. "And since when do you use a phone? I thought you had gotten rid of your phone after the whole Ligur and Hastur disaster," he commented. "Oh, what did you want?" he added on, trying to make it seem as if he was disinterested about the whole thing.
1. Aziraphale thinks that the phone he uses is the epitome of fashion and current technology. It was made in about 1930.
2. Not knowing how phones work, Aziraphale just assumed that they automatically connected to whomever you wished to talk to on the other side of the line.
3. Actually, Aziraphale could believe it, he just wanted to have a reason to make Crowley pay for dinner at the Ritz.
4. The stove that had seemingly just showed up one day after he had seen something on the telly about a new type of stove - an electric stove. It was supposed to be more efficient and be better for the environment. It was another win of Crowley's.
5. It was green, blue, black, and amber plaid with extra stuffing. Crowley never complained about it although it was a total fashion disaster, because it was the most comfortable reclining chair he had ever had the pleasure of sitting in.
Author: Nell
Rating: Pg-13, possibly R in later chapters
Warnings: slash, crossover, and violence (in later chapters) possible blasphemy?
Pairings: Crowley/Aziraphale (later on), Dee/Ryo (also later on)
Fandoms: Fake and good Omens
Dedication: Happy Birthday QS, may you have many happy returns.
Disclaimer: If I owned fake and/or good omens, I would not be writing fanfiction for them.
Aziraphale glared at the letter that had just appeared on top of one of his autographed original bibles. He detested, loathed, hated, and several other synonymies related to said words, when Heaven got in contact with him. For some reason, those contacts always seemed to only end with him engaged in actual work.
The only benefit he could see, if you could call it a benefit, which most people couldn't seem to do, was the fact that he would have to meet with Crowley. It was a good thing that Aziraphale, even if the only person, err, sexless, ageless being, could enjoy the dubious pleasure of Crowley's company.
After all, they were Heaven and Hell's field agents, and not only had the two gone native, but also the two had even aided each other in averting the Armageddon.
Aziraphale picked up the letter with just two fingers, gingerly clasping it in the corner, much like how someone would pick up two dead squirrels that died in the midst of releasing positive pleasure chemicals by way of intimate contact might have done.
He carefully opened, and slowly read the letter. He then read it again. And again. And then again before sighed, placed the letter down, made himself a nice cup of tea and then preceded to bang his forehead into the nearest hard object.
They wanted him to go to America. America. Now really, that was almost as bad as having to go to Australia. At least the Australians understood proper English, even if they refused to practice it. Although, the Yankee accent couldn't be nearly as bad as that horrible Australian one.
He sighed. There really wasn't anything he could do about it, no matter how much he wished it weren't so. He had a job to do, and it wasn't like he could just ignore it and say that "The foul demon called Crawly, now called Crowley, had foiled his attempts again". No, he really had to go and work. All he wanted was for Earth to be left alone and to have his books. Moreover, a gin-and tonic, neat, once and a while.
He wandered across his dusty flat for a moment, trying to remember where in the world he had placed his phone. He never used the things, but really, the phone should have been right about…here. He pouted as he saw that the phone was not where he had placed it. Where had he placed the darn thing? It had to be somewhere in his flat; after all, he had had a conversation with Crowley on the phone not all that long ago.
He searched the flat, finally finding the rotary phone(1) and waiting for it to connect to Crowley's phone(2) so he could explain what was going on. He waited impatiently as the phone rang, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Tap tap taptaptap, over and over again. Soon he heard a click and then he heard one of those new-fangled answering machine messages.
"Crowley Crematorium, you kill them, Hell burns them" had Aziraphale staring at the phone in shock. He couldn't believe(3) that Crowley would actually say that. That was simply outrageous and what was Crowley thinking? Was he trying to draw the attention of Hell back onto the almost Amargaddeon? The answering machine beeped.
"How do you work one of these infernal machines? Really, there has to be something more civilized then this to leave messages. Anyway, Crowley, it is imperative that I speak with you as soon as possible - when it's convenient for you, of course," he finished his message and hung-up his phone, wondering when Crowley would call him back.
He sighed and went to make a cup of herbal tea. He had heard from one of the humans who frequented the area that this brand and type was just perfect for any aches and pains the body had. He still wondered why the young man had stressed aches and pains in such a fashion.
He frowned at the box, wondering if he had opened the right box of tea. He had never thought to see tea in such an odd bag. Bagged tea? Perish the thought - it was almost unbelievable. It had to have been invented by those Australians.
He read the directions on the box and thought it couldn't be that hard to make. All he had to do was boil some water and place the tea bag into a cup and then pour the boiling water over it. Mortals did things like boil water all the time, there couldn't be any way he could ruin it.
He found an old, dusty pot with a slightly oily bottom, and placed it on his stove(4). He filled a liter pitcher with water, poured it into the pot, and then turned the knob at the top of the stove all the way to high. A small smile of triumph showed on his face before he could contain himself - Pride was the most deadly of the seven sins after all. He left the pot on the stove, remembering the saying human women had about a watched pot never boiling, and went back into the shop, all the while wondering how any human could say cooking was difficult. He was sure that he would have enough time to sort his books into piles of can sell someday, can never sell, and sic Crowley on the fool stupid enough to even touch the book.
He glanced at the titles as he sorted, stopping to open and reread his favorite parts of the books, never knowing that more then forty minutes had passed. In fact, he didn't realize any time had passed until he smelled smoke. Something had set his flat on fire, and he would kill whatever had done so, especially if it was more of Hell's minions.
He raced upstairs and stared at the stove. He had not remembered that he was boiling water and now he could see how humans could say cooking was dangerous. He miracled the fire out and then went to collapse in his armchair(5). If he couldn't even make a cup of tea, then how was he supposed to accomplish his next mission? Moreover, he still had no idea what exactly Heaven wanted him to do. He raised a hand to his forehead, leaned forward, and sighed desolately. He then bolted upward when he heard a screech of brakes and wondered which neighbor was driving drunk.
He heard a knock at his flat door and than Crowley's voice.
"Come in," Aziraphale called as he stood up and hastened to straighten out his clothes. Crowley walked into the flat and smirked.
"Aziraphale, why does your flat smell like smoke?" the demon asked as he took off his glasses and sniffed the air. "And since when do you use a phone? I thought you had gotten rid of your phone after the whole Ligur and Hastur disaster," he commented. "Oh, what did you want?" he added on, trying to make it seem as if he was disinterested about the whole thing.
1. Aziraphale thinks that the phone he uses is the epitome of fashion and current technology. It was made in about 1930.
2. Not knowing how phones work, Aziraphale just assumed that they automatically connected to whomever you wished to talk to on the other side of the line.
3. Actually, Aziraphale could believe it, he just wanted to have a reason to make Crowley pay for dinner at the Ritz.
4. The stove that had seemingly just showed up one day after he had seen something on the telly about a new type of stove - an electric stove. It was supposed to be more efficient and be better for the environment. It was another win of Crowley's.
5. It was green, blue, black, and amber plaid with extra stuffing. Crowley never complained about it although it was a total fashion disaster, because it was the most comfortable reclining chair he had ever had the pleasure of sitting in.