Happy Holidays, vulgarweed!
Title: Old Fashioned
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Author: I'LL NEVER TELL. (shushhh! it's htebazytook!)
Recipient: The great and powerful vulgarweed.
Summary: Hell has changed.
"Where've you been?"
"Oh you know, this and that. Wanderin' round," Crowley says. "Still come back to you, Someone knows why."
"Because I'm your best friend." Shiny fondness in Aziraphale's face that Crowley knows way too well. Been with you such a long time.
Crowley laughs. "Right."
It doesn't matter. 'Best Friend' isn’t the angle Crowley is going for.
*
Crowley dims the lights. Aziraphale assumes it's because it's easier on his eyes, but that doesn't stop him from asking.
"Sick of wearing these," Crowley shrugs, and Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. Crowley takes the sunglasses off so he can look at Aziraphale properly, wonders what he sees. Sometimes a hint of fear in Aziraphale's cloudy eyes when faced with Crowley at his most undeniably demonic, sometimes disapproval, disappointment, but always that weird shiny fondness that annoys the hell out of Crowley.
"So," Aziraphale says. "You disappeared, dear boy. Are you ever going to tell me what you've been up to?"
"Um, yeah, it's kind of classified."
". . . Ah. Well." Aziraphale stirs his tea, deflates a little.
"I mean, it's just this new . . . thing Below is doing. I had to go down there for a training seminar . . . thing. I always forget how hot it is down there-and polluted. You think London is bad? I mean, do you have any idea how long it takes to get brimstone out of silk?"
"A new . . . 'thing'? Could you be a little more specific? I understand you have to maintain some level of secrecy, but-"
"Nah, it's stupid. Just your usual Hellish Beauracracy1."
"Sounds terrible."
"Thanks."
1. Obviously this isn't the title Hell's governing body actually went by. It's officially called the Hellish Execution and Legislation League.
*
From: Post-Apocalyptic Policy Initiative Head Office [beelzzz1227@aol.com]
To: [originaltempt@gmail.com]
Date: 7 Oct 2009
Subject: revised 666.1(a) Initiative #3
In recent Years, H.E.L.L. has earned a bit of a Bad Wrap. However, it hasn't all been pain and suffering. The prospect of eternal damnation has become Trendish, even Good to the Young People. With the events of the recent Unpocalypse the H.E.L.L. has come to realize a growing need to adapt to the cultural whims of Earth, no matter how fleeting or meaningless they may seem to Our Goals. In fact, as you have All heard time and time again during your attendance in our New Face of Eternal Damnation Seminar, We are seeking to infiltrate Human Media Outlettes with messages of Sin and general Depravity. Individual temptation is no longer an effective Means of attaining Human Souls (as outlined in Chapter 3 of the Pamphlet for Effective Temptation in the Modern Æra, which All of you have Read, Studied, and Implemented).
You will find attached the revised (Event 666.1(a)) Post-Apocalyptic Policy Initiative #3.
It is incumbent upon both the Legislature and You to earn back Our Bad Name. (That means You, too, Crawley.) Therefore We are proposing, in close collaboration with Our Dark Lord, the following 87-part Initiative (Event 666.1(a)) to show the Earth the "New Face" of Damnation. We are stressing Inclusion, Mass Marketing, Technologies, and Other Lacking Areas (see subsections 24c-h).
Fellow Denizens, this is the Change We Need, and we Know that You will Dishonor this New Campaign to the worst of Your Abilities (Crawley, this all applies to you) AND that you will complete ALL forms and Initiative in Action reports in a Timely and Diabolical Fashion.
Heinously Yours,
Lord Beelzebub, Seraphim and Prince of Devils
Director of Operations
Yeah, They'd finally acknowledged the Apocalypse-and claimed it as their own before Above could even think about responding. It was smart. Forward thinking.
Well, some kind of attempt at forward thinking, anyway.
Bottom line, They were finally seeing it Crowley's way, kind of.
He wasn't sure if he liked it.
*
Aziraphale watches Strictly Come Dancing borderline religiously, which is fun to tease him about up until he drags Crowley to a dancing class one night. Aziraphale's loyal viewership doesn't seem to be translating into practice all that well, and he's getting angry in a very Aziraphale-ish way.
In the middle of the tango Aziraphale sighs loudly, kind of a growl really, and makes a sharp impatient gesture that freezes the humans in the room.
Crowley raises an eyebrow. "Bit dramatic, don't you think?"
"Do be quiet. Let's try to concentrate on dancing, shall we?" Aziraphale grab's Crowley's arm and pulls him abruptly closer, says something like From the top? and before Crowley knows it they're zipping through the steps far more fluidly than is humanly possible. He's not sure if it's a miracle or if Aziraphale is actually more competent than he lets on, as usual, which certainly keeps Crowley on his toes-literally, at the moment.
Aziraphale's hand is hot and real even through Crowley's expensive layers of fabric, and he's thrown off balance, at least mentally. Watches Aziraphale through the presumed safety of his shades. Aziraphale so alive against the backdrop of clueless, motionless humans.
"Goodness, this does look easier on television . . ."
Crowley's kind of breathless. "You do know I'm behind this whole franchise, right?" He ignores how close they are, attempts to sweep Aziraphale of his feet.
*
"It just doesn't seem to be working all that well," Crowley finally blurts out over the phone. Well, what used to be his phone.
"MHMM, MHMM. IT'S GOOD THAT YOU'RE GETTING ALL OF THIS OUT OF YOUR SYSTEM, CROWLEY."
"Yeah, whatever." He sighs. "Say, what do you think about that last Event email?"
"WAIT, HE SENT THE REVISED ONE ALREADY?"
"Yeah."
"THAT WAS QUICK. HUH. NO, I NEVER GOT IT-MUST'VE GONE IN MY SPAM AGAIN. BLESS!"
"Eh, there weren't a lot of changes. You're good-well, I mean, bad but . . . Oh, forget it."
"SO WOULD YOU LIKE TO KEEP DEFLECTING OR CAN WE GET BACK TO YOUR ISSUES, CROWLEY?"
"What's the point?" Crowley's aware of how whiny he sounds. "It's not been easy going so far, and let's face it, I really do need him more than he needs me."
"AND HOW DOES THAT MAKE YOU FEEL?"
Crowley snorts. "Oh, wonderful."
The entity on the other line makes a sympathetic noise. "WELL, MAYBE YOU SHOULD TRY TAKING HIM SOMEWHERE SPECIAL, SOMEWHERE THAT EVOKES PLEASANT MEMORIES. SOMEWHERE ROMANTIC THAT MEANS SOMETHING TO HIM. UMM, HOLD ON A SECOND HERE, LET'S SEE, LET'S SEE . . . IT ALSO SAYS TO 'CREATE A MAGICAL EVENING' ON THE SHEET HERE, AND IT USES THE WORD 'UNFORGETTABLE' A LOT. SO SOMETHING ALONG THOSE LINES. APPARENTLY."
"Yeah, maybe I'll try that."
Silence.
"SO WHAT'S THIS FOR AGAIN?
"Human politics."
"OH, RIGHT, RIGHT. I DON'T KNOW HOW YOU CAN KEEP UP WITH THEIR LITTLE GAMES, CROWLEY. THEY SEEM TO CHANGE THEIR MINDS ABOUT EVERYTHING EVERY COUPLE OF CENTURIES."
"Well, yeah. Recently they've been more concerned about people being good politicians and good people."
"GOOD PEOPLE? ARE YOU PULLING MY LEGGINGS?"
"Definitely not doing that, no."
"I MEAN HOW WOULD THEY GET ANYTHING DONE?"
"Oh trust me, nothing gets done. Still, there are a couple of methods that seem to get through to them pretty effectively. And this particular subject is such a prude it's gonna take a fair amount of succubilical counseling to get through to him, if you see what I mean."
"MHMM MHMM. I'M SORRY, CROWLEY, BUT I REALLY DON'T THINK I'M THE MOST QUALIFIED ENTITY TO BE COUNCILING YOU ABOUT THIS. DO YOU NEED ME TO TRANSFER YOU TO OUR INCUBUS DIVISION? OUR TWO NEWEST RECRUITS-"
"Demotions."
"-RECRUITS, HASTUR AND LIGUR, HAVE MUCH MORE EXPERIENCE WITH HUMANS THAN ANYONE ELSE DOWN HERE AND ARE ALWAYS EAGER TO LISTEN AND ADVISE. IN FACT, THEY HAVE EXPESSED INTEREST IN YOUR CASE."
"Nah, I think I'll stick with you on the seduction front, for now."
"BECAUSE THE SUBJECT CALLS FOR A WOMAN-SHAPED BEING'S TOUCH?"
"Erm. Well . . ."
"OKAY, OKAY, WE'LL REVISIT THIS LATER. WELL! I FEEL THIS WAS A VERY PRODUCTIVE SESSION FOR YOU, CROWLEY. SAME TIME NEXT WEEK?"
*
Whenever Aziraphale drags Crowley somewhere obnoxiously new Crowley's got to retaliate, so he takes Aziraphale to the Ritz like normal at 9 o'clock on the dot. It's not a particularly romantic setting precisely because of its familiarity, but that doesn't stop Crowley from remembering conversations from the past, times they were angry at each other or comparing notes. Worried about the Apocalypse.
And that especially seems like such a waste, now. I mean, it had all been for what, exactly? Maybe the whole botched thing had been ineffable, and Above and Below were secretly in league to re-brand their images with the dumbest, most insubstantial marketing campaigns imaginable. It wasn't much of a change from the old way of doing things.
He asks Aziraphale about Above's marketing strategies but doesn't get much of a response beyond a concerned look.
"Hey, I'll pay the bill, you taste the wine," Crowley assures him. "And the dessert. And my dessert." The waiter appears as if on command and Crowley hands the cheque back to him, pretends he doesn't sense Aziraphale's wariness, affection.
"I'm . . . impressed. Thank you."
Crowley rolls his eyes, deeply suspects Aziraphale can tell. "I'm a demon. Doesn't mean I can't be a gentleman."
Aziraphale smiles, and Crowley worries he didn't inject the proper snideness in his tone. "I'm almost afraid to ask where you get it from."
Crowley shrugs. "Oh you know," he says nonchalantly. "I learned my passion in the good old fashioned school of loverboys, you know how it is . . ."
"Er." Aziraphale makes a face, light little blush high over his cheeks. "Pardon me?"
Crowley sighs. "It's from a Queen song-how many times have you been in my car?"
"Ah. Well, of course I tune that out, my dear."
*
Aziraphale looks up from his programme at the symphony with a put upon sigh. "Why don't you try telling me what's on your mind, Crowley?"
On Crowley's mind is the niggling conviction that Aziraphale would probably be here whether Crowley had grudgingly tagged along or not. He clears his throat. "You assume because I'm nudging some of our fellow audience members in the rather sinful directions they were already headed that something's on my mind? Demon, remember?"
Aziraphale just watches him steadily, tight little knowing smile that tries to be serious but betrays how amused he is.
"It's nothing," Crowley sighs. "Just more stupid follow up bollocks from Below. I've been putting off sending in my paperwork for months and no one's called me on it yet. And at this point? It's more about seeing how long it takes them to notice." Crowley is not whining.
After a minute Aziraphale responds, engrossed in a corny bio on the featured soloist and not seeming to pay Crowley much attention at all. "Honestly, Crowley, you really ought to send in your paperwork like a good little demon. Write them a letter-you'll feel much better."
"Oh, so I'm good now?"
Aziraphale makes a dismissive gesture. "You know what I mean."
*
Aziraphale was right. Below really had been bugging him to send in the newest revised forms-these being the most redundant and arbitrary ones yet.
And so Crowley put on a particularly black suit and claimed a corner table in a bustling, corporate-infested café. He knew he must look intensely professional and important and busy sitting there typing furiously on his laptop-so furiously that nobody else sat within two or three tables of him.
From: Crowley, Field Agent 3:1 [originaltempt@gmail.com]
To: [beelzzz1227@aol.com]
Date: 20 Oct 2009
Subject: Re: revised 666.1(a) Initiative #3
I filled out all the relevant forms and attached them to this email. If You can't figure out how to open them that's Your problem. And for Your information, summoning other demons to take official reports and all these forms back Down to you seems a bit idiotic since you send them out as emails in the first place.
But let's get to the point. This entire campaign is a bloody joke. Nothing's changed, and just because You officially acknowledged the "Unpocalypse" before they did Up There doesn't mean it wasn’t a catastrophic failure on Our-or rather, Your part. You seriously let a child foil everything You've been working toward since the beginning of time?
I apologize, that was unfair and entirely out of line-allow me to rephrase: You let one of Your own-possibly Your most valuable asset, Your veritable Savior-completely nullify the all-encompassing purpose of Your very existence?
You may wonder why I am taking care to differentiate between myself and You. This is because I've belonged to Earth practically since You sent me into the Garden, and frankly You couldn't care less about me or whether I'm behaving as a loyal servant as long as I stay Up Here and out of Your hair.
The simple fact is that I annoy You because I'm not demonic enough and You've treated me as a lost cause for millennia.
You may not be stuck in the past anymore, but version 2.0 isn't actually any different. A simple change in brand name doesn't take back the epic disaster that was the Apocalypse-and I say "Apocalypse" because that's what it was.
So in conclusion, no, I will not be sending any of my forms the old fashioned way, and this would be because I don't give a shit.
Sincerely,
A.J. Crowley
Oddly enough, he did feel much better.
*
When Crowley wakes up the next morning he feels like a human with a hangover must-splitting headache, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and a generally panicked attitude toward the events of the previous day.
"Fuck," he informs the empty room.
He suddenly itches to get as far away from his known place of residence as quickly as possible, finds himself banging on Aziraphale's door before he quite knows how he got there. Aziraphale takes forever to answer it so Crowley just barges in and nearly collides with him coming to unlock the door for him.
"Oh. Why didn't you just come in?"
"Well excuse me for being courteous. No good deed goes unpunished with you does it?"
"Certainly not un-mocked. Tea?"
"No, fuck you and your tea. And your blessed stupid advice."
"Oh dear, I hope you don't get in too much trouble." Aziraphale doesn’t sound contrite in the least.
"You just don't care do you? What's it to you if I get sent Down There permanently and 'rehabilitated'? This is just slightly serious, you know. You could at least pretend not to look forward to my impending removal from Earth, even if you can't wait for the opportunity to spread good will without me getting in the way, or, or . . . or whatever."
"Yes, yes, that's fascinating, dear. But do you feel better?"
Crowley bites his tongue, can't believe how smug Aziraphale looks right now. "That doesn't matter." A beat. "Do you wanna go for lunch?"
"Where to?"
*
"OF COURSE YOU CAN KNOW WHAT HE'S THINKING, CROWLEY. JUST READ HIS MIND."
"No I ca-that is, it's a bit of a breach of trust isn't it? And I've got to earn his trust, right?"
"EH."
"Er . . . would you mind elaborating on that?"
"IT DOESN'T REALLY MATTER WHAT HE THINKS OF YOU, DOES IT? I KNOW YOU'RE A FAN OF A MORE PERSONAL TOUCH IN YOUR WORK, BUT IT'S NOT LIKE THIS MEANS ANYTHING. IT'S JUST ANOTHER ROUTINE TEMPTATION, RIGHT?"
"Right."
". . . YOU SURE YOU DON'T WANT TO TRY A SESSION WITH HASTUR OR LIGUR? THEY REALLY ARE MUCH MORE EXPERIENCED WHEN IT COMES TO HUMANS."
Crowley just hangs up.
*
From: Mail Delivery Subsystem [mailer-daemon@googlemail.com]
To: [originaltempt@gmail.com]
Date: 21 Oct 2009
Subject: Delivery Status Notification (Failure)
This is an automatically generated Delivery Status Notification
Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently:
beelzzz1227@aol.com
Crowley sits there and refreshes the page a couple of times. Nothing changes. "Right."
So Crowely digs up some diabolical candles and does it the old fashioned way, hopes the chicken he had in the freezer counts as a sacrifice.
A few minutes later Crowely's pristine white carpeting tears apart with a roar and spits up another (and much more stereotypical looking) demon.
"Oh. Crawley," the messenger sneers. "I was wondering when thee wouldst 'wisen upwards' and sendeth in thy paperwork like everybody else. Thou art like everybody else, Crawley. Thou art not special because of thy assignment on Earth."
Crowley smiles unpleasantly, snaps his backlog of forms and evaluations and supplemental logs and the second and third versions of all of them into the messenger's arms. He buckles under the load and glares at Crowley before disappearing with a burst of black flame and the lingering smell of sulfur.
Nothing's changed.
*
Crowley takes Aziraphale to Kew Gardens, dead and faded now in late October, and tells him all about it.
"So did it feel right, after all?"
"Sure." A breeze picks up and Crowley shivers.
"You don't have to do that, you know," Aziraphale points out.
"Still don't feel like drawing attention, is all." He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, wills himself to accept the cold air. "Why did you want to come here anyway?"
Aziraphale shrugs. "This part of Earth is just as important. And just as beautiful, really."
Crowley rolls his eyes. "Seriously?" Shivers again, gets a look from Aziraphale. "Hey, do you wanna go somewhere a little more-?"
"Romantic?"
"Less depressing."
They're heading back into the city in style, mercifully silent for the time being. For reasons unknown it only makes Crowley more tense. Feels his heartbeat growing faster. Not scared, just unsettled. He stops paying attention to driving after awhile, glares the Bentley into cruise control and tries to relax into his seat.
"Everything's changed," Aziraphale tells him softly. "So why are you being so old fashioned about this?" Since when was that Aziraphale's line?
Crowley affects a nonchalant, staring off to the side sort of response, feels like Aziraphale always knows where he's looking even with the shades. "Not proper, just careful," he admits.
"Well, stop it, then." Aziraphale turns Crowley's head and kisses him. Crowley's surprised that his reaction isn't to freeze, flee, push Aziraphale away, or a combination of the above, really. Instead he finds himself responding too quickly, pulls Aziraphale too close, kisses back too sincerely until Aziraphale moans quietly and angles his head, slides a warm hand into his hair. Crowley has to trail fingers along Aziraphale's face, keep him close, close his eyes and concentrate on his taste, heart trying to hammer its way out of his chest. Aziraphale lets the kiss slow, backs away just slightly, aura still wrapped snug around Crowley, buttery and bright, love and heat.
"Just say the word, your wish is my command," Crowley says, attempting to leer but faltering a little in the face of . . . well, Aziraphale.
Aziraphale laughs, close to him. Crowley almost never thinks of him as an angel anymore, wonders how Aziraphale thinks of him. "Just take me back to yours, my dear. That will be fine."
*
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Author: I'LL NEVER TELL. (shushhh! it's htebazytook!)
Recipient: The great and powerful vulgarweed.
Summary: Hell has changed.
"Where've you been?"
"Oh you know, this and that. Wanderin' round," Crowley says. "Still come back to you, Someone knows why."
"Because I'm your best friend." Shiny fondness in Aziraphale's face that Crowley knows way too well. Been with you such a long time.
Crowley laughs. "Right."
It doesn't matter. 'Best Friend' isn’t the angle Crowley is going for.
*
Crowley dims the lights. Aziraphale assumes it's because it's easier on his eyes, but that doesn't stop him from asking.
"Sick of wearing these," Crowley shrugs, and Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. Crowley takes the sunglasses off so he can look at Aziraphale properly, wonders what he sees. Sometimes a hint of fear in Aziraphale's cloudy eyes when faced with Crowley at his most undeniably demonic, sometimes disapproval, disappointment, but always that weird shiny fondness that annoys the hell out of Crowley.
"So," Aziraphale says. "You disappeared, dear boy. Are you ever going to tell me what you've been up to?"
"Um, yeah, it's kind of classified."
". . . Ah. Well." Aziraphale stirs his tea, deflates a little.
"I mean, it's just this new . . . thing Below is doing. I had to go down there for a training seminar . . . thing. I always forget how hot it is down there-and polluted. You think London is bad? I mean, do you have any idea how long it takes to get brimstone out of silk?"
"A new . . . 'thing'? Could you be a little more specific? I understand you have to maintain some level of secrecy, but-"
"Nah, it's stupid. Just your usual Hellish Beauracracy1."
"Sounds terrible."
"Thanks."
1. Obviously this isn't the title Hell's governing body actually went by. It's officially called the Hellish Execution and Legislation League.
*
From: Post-Apocalyptic Policy Initiative Head Office [beelzzz1227@aol.com]
To: [originaltempt@gmail.com]
Date: 7 Oct 2009
Subject: revised 666.1(a) Initiative #3
In recent Years, H.E.L.L. has earned a bit of a Bad Wrap. However, it hasn't all been pain and suffering. The prospect of eternal damnation has become Trendish, even Good to the Young People. With the events of the recent Unpocalypse the H.E.L.L. has come to realize a growing need to adapt to the cultural whims of Earth, no matter how fleeting or meaningless they may seem to Our Goals. In fact, as you have All heard time and time again during your attendance in our New Face of Eternal Damnation Seminar, We are seeking to infiltrate Human Media Outlettes with messages of Sin and general Depravity. Individual temptation is no longer an effective Means of attaining Human Souls (as outlined in Chapter 3 of the Pamphlet for Effective Temptation in the Modern Æra, which All of you have Read, Studied, and Implemented).
You will find attached the revised (Event 666.1(a)) Post-Apocalyptic Policy Initiative #3.
It is incumbent upon both the Legislature and You to earn back Our Bad Name. (That means You, too, Crawley.) Therefore We are proposing, in close collaboration with Our Dark Lord, the following 87-part Initiative (Event 666.1(a)) to show the Earth the "New Face" of Damnation. We are stressing Inclusion, Mass Marketing, Technologies, and Other Lacking Areas (see subsections 24c-h).
Fellow Denizens, this is the Change We Need, and we Know that You will Dishonor this New Campaign to the worst of Your Abilities (Crawley, this all applies to you) AND that you will complete ALL forms and Initiative in Action reports in a Timely and Diabolical Fashion.
Heinously Yours,
Lord Beelzebub, Seraphim and Prince of Devils
Director of Operations
Yeah, They'd finally acknowledged the Apocalypse-and claimed it as their own before Above could even think about responding. It was smart. Forward thinking.
Well, some kind of attempt at forward thinking, anyway.
Bottom line, They were finally seeing it Crowley's way, kind of.
He wasn't sure if he liked it.
*
Aziraphale watches Strictly Come Dancing borderline religiously, which is fun to tease him about up until he drags Crowley to a dancing class one night. Aziraphale's loyal viewership doesn't seem to be translating into practice all that well, and he's getting angry in a very Aziraphale-ish way.
In the middle of the tango Aziraphale sighs loudly, kind of a growl really, and makes a sharp impatient gesture that freezes the humans in the room.
Crowley raises an eyebrow. "Bit dramatic, don't you think?"
"Do be quiet. Let's try to concentrate on dancing, shall we?" Aziraphale grab's Crowley's arm and pulls him abruptly closer, says something like From the top? and before Crowley knows it they're zipping through the steps far more fluidly than is humanly possible. He's not sure if it's a miracle or if Aziraphale is actually more competent than he lets on, as usual, which certainly keeps Crowley on his toes-literally, at the moment.
Aziraphale's hand is hot and real even through Crowley's expensive layers of fabric, and he's thrown off balance, at least mentally. Watches Aziraphale through the presumed safety of his shades. Aziraphale so alive against the backdrop of clueless, motionless humans.
"Goodness, this does look easier on television . . ."
Crowley's kind of breathless. "You do know I'm behind this whole franchise, right?" He ignores how close they are, attempts to sweep Aziraphale of his feet.
*
"It just doesn't seem to be working all that well," Crowley finally blurts out over the phone. Well, what used to be his phone.
"MHMM, MHMM. IT'S GOOD THAT YOU'RE GETTING ALL OF THIS OUT OF YOUR SYSTEM, CROWLEY."
"Yeah, whatever." He sighs. "Say, what do you think about that last Event email?"
"WAIT, HE SENT THE REVISED ONE ALREADY?"
"Yeah."
"THAT WAS QUICK. HUH. NO, I NEVER GOT IT-MUST'VE GONE IN MY SPAM AGAIN. BLESS!"
"Eh, there weren't a lot of changes. You're good-well, I mean, bad but . . . Oh, forget it."
"SO WOULD YOU LIKE TO KEEP DEFLECTING OR CAN WE GET BACK TO YOUR ISSUES, CROWLEY?"
"What's the point?" Crowley's aware of how whiny he sounds. "It's not been easy going so far, and let's face it, I really do need him more than he needs me."
"AND HOW DOES THAT MAKE YOU FEEL?"
Crowley snorts. "Oh, wonderful."
The entity on the other line makes a sympathetic noise. "WELL, MAYBE YOU SHOULD TRY TAKING HIM SOMEWHERE SPECIAL, SOMEWHERE THAT EVOKES PLEASANT MEMORIES. SOMEWHERE ROMANTIC THAT MEANS SOMETHING TO HIM. UMM, HOLD ON A SECOND HERE, LET'S SEE, LET'S SEE . . . IT ALSO SAYS TO 'CREATE A MAGICAL EVENING' ON THE SHEET HERE, AND IT USES THE WORD 'UNFORGETTABLE' A LOT. SO SOMETHING ALONG THOSE LINES. APPARENTLY."
"Yeah, maybe I'll try that."
Silence.
"SO WHAT'S THIS FOR AGAIN?
"Human politics."
"OH, RIGHT, RIGHT. I DON'T KNOW HOW YOU CAN KEEP UP WITH THEIR LITTLE GAMES, CROWLEY. THEY SEEM TO CHANGE THEIR MINDS ABOUT EVERYTHING EVERY COUPLE OF CENTURIES."
"Well, yeah. Recently they've been more concerned about people being good politicians and good people."
"GOOD PEOPLE? ARE YOU PULLING MY LEGGINGS?"
"Definitely not doing that, no."
"I MEAN HOW WOULD THEY GET ANYTHING DONE?"
"Oh trust me, nothing gets done. Still, there are a couple of methods that seem to get through to them pretty effectively. And this particular subject is such a prude it's gonna take a fair amount of succubilical counseling to get through to him, if you see what I mean."
"MHMM MHMM. I'M SORRY, CROWLEY, BUT I REALLY DON'T THINK I'M THE MOST QUALIFIED ENTITY TO BE COUNCILING YOU ABOUT THIS. DO YOU NEED ME TO TRANSFER YOU TO OUR INCUBUS DIVISION? OUR TWO NEWEST RECRUITS-"
"Demotions."
"-RECRUITS, HASTUR AND LIGUR, HAVE MUCH MORE EXPERIENCE WITH HUMANS THAN ANYONE ELSE DOWN HERE AND ARE ALWAYS EAGER TO LISTEN AND ADVISE. IN FACT, THEY HAVE EXPESSED INTEREST IN YOUR CASE."
"Nah, I think I'll stick with you on the seduction front, for now."
"BECAUSE THE SUBJECT CALLS FOR A WOMAN-SHAPED BEING'S TOUCH?"
"Erm. Well . . ."
"OKAY, OKAY, WE'LL REVISIT THIS LATER. WELL! I FEEL THIS WAS A VERY PRODUCTIVE SESSION FOR YOU, CROWLEY. SAME TIME NEXT WEEK?"
*
Whenever Aziraphale drags Crowley somewhere obnoxiously new Crowley's got to retaliate, so he takes Aziraphale to the Ritz like normal at 9 o'clock on the dot. It's not a particularly romantic setting precisely because of its familiarity, but that doesn't stop Crowley from remembering conversations from the past, times they were angry at each other or comparing notes. Worried about the Apocalypse.
And that especially seems like such a waste, now. I mean, it had all been for what, exactly? Maybe the whole botched thing had been ineffable, and Above and Below were secretly in league to re-brand their images with the dumbest, most insubstantial marketing campaigns imaginable. It wasn't much of a change from the old way of doing things.
He asks Aziraphale about Above's marketing strategies but doesn't get much of a response beyond a concerned look.
"Hey, I'll pay the bill, you taste the wine," Crowley assures him. "And the dessert. And my dessert." The waiter appears as if on command and Crowley hands the cheque back to him, pretends he doesn't sense Aziraphale's wariness, affection.
"I'm . . . impressed. Thank you."
Crowley rolls his eyes, deeply suspects Aziraphale can tell. "I'm a demon. Doesn't mean I can't be a gentleman."
Aziraphale smiles, and Crowley worries he didn't inject the proper snideness in his tone. "I'm almost afraid to ask where you get it from."
Crowley shrugs. "Oh you know," he says nonchalantly. "I learned my passion in the good old fashioned school of loverboys, you know how it is . . ."
"Er." Aziraphale makes a face, light little blush high over his cheeks. "Pardon me?"
Crowley sighs. "It's from a Queen song-how many times have you been in my car?"
"Ah. Well, of course I tune that out, my dear."
*
Aziraphale looks up from his programme at the symphony with a put upon sigh. "Why don't you try telling me what's on your mind, Crowley?"
On Crowley's mind is the niggling conviction that Aziraphale would probably be here whether Crowley had grudgingly tagged along or not. He clears his throat. "You assume because I'm nudging some of our fellow audience members in the rather sinful directions they were already headed that something's on my mind? Demon, remember?"
Aziraphale just watches him steadily, tight little knowing smile that tries to be serious but betrays how amused he is.
"It's nothing," Crowley sighs. "Just more stupid follow up bollocks from Below. I've been putting off sending in my paperwork for months and no one's called me on it yet. And at this point? It's more about seeing how long it takes them to notice." Crowley is not whining.
After a minute Aziraphale responds, engrossed in a corny bio on the featured soloist and not seeming to pay Crowley much attention at all. "Honestly, Crowley, you really ought to send in your paperwork like a good little demon. Write them a letter-you'll feel much better."
"Oh, so I'm good now?"
Aziraphale makes a dismissive gesture. "You know what I mean."
*
Aziraphale was right. Below really had been bugging him to send in the newest revised forms-these being the most redundant and arbitrary ones yet.
And so Crowley put on a particularly black suit and claimed a corner table in a bustling, corporate-infested café. He knew he must look intensely professional and important and busy sitting there typing furiously on his laptop-so furiously that nobody else sat within two or three tables of him.
From: Crowley, Field Agent 3:1 [originaltempt@gmail.com]
To: [beelzzz1227@aol.com]
Date: 20 Oct 2009
Subject: Re: revised 666.1(a) Initiative #3
I filled out all the relevant forms and attached them to this email. If You can't figure out how to open them that's Your problem. And for Your information, summoning other demons to take official reports and all these forms back Down to you seems a bit idiotic since you send them out as emails in the first place.
But let's get to the point. This entire campaign is a bloody joke. Nothing's changed, and just because You officially acknowledged the "Unpocalypse" before they did Up There doesn't mean it wasn’t a catastrophic failure on Our-or rather, Your part. You seriously let a child foil everything You've been working toward since the beginning of time?
I apologize, that was unfair and entirely out of line-allow me to rephrase: You let one of Your own-possibly Your most valuable asset, Your veritable Savior-completely nullify the all-encompassing purpose of Your very existence?
You may wonder why I am taking care to differentiate between myself and You. This is because I've belonged to Earth practically since You sent me into the Garden, and frankly You couldn't care less about me or whether I'm behaving as a loyal servant as long as I stay Up Here and out of Your hair.
The simple fact is that I annoy You because I'm not demonic enough and You've treated me as a lost cause for millennia.
You may not be stuck in the past anymore, but version 2.0 isn't actually any different. A simple change in brand name doesn't take back the epic disaster that was the Apocalypse-and I say "Apocalypse" because that's what it was.
So in conclusion, no, I will not be sending any of my forms the old fashioned way, and this would be because I don't give a shit.
Sincerely,
A.J. Crowley
Oddly enough, he did feel much better.
*
When Crowley wakes up the next morning he feels like a human with a hangover must-splitting headache, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and a generally panicked attitude toward the events of the previous day.
"Fuck," he informs the empty room.
He suddenly itches to get as far away from his known place of residence as quickly as possible, finds himself banging on Aziraphale's door before he quite knows how he got there. Aziraphale takes forever to answer it so Crowley just barges in and nearly collides with him coming to unlock the door for him.
"Oh. Why didn't you just come in?"
"Well excuse me for being courteous. No good deed goes unpunished with you does it?"
"Certainly not un-mocked. Tea?"
"No, fuck you and your tea. And your blessed stupid advice."
"Oh dear, I hope you don't get in too much trouble." Aziraphale doesn’t sound contrite in the least.
"You just don't care do you? What's it to you if I get sent Down There permanently and 'rehabilitated'? This is just slightly serious, you know. You could at least pretend not to look forward to my impending removal from Earth, even if you can't wait for the opportunity to spread good will without me getting in the way, or, or . . . or whatever."
"Yes, yes, that's fascinating, dear. But do you feel better?"
Crowley bites his tongue, can't believe how smug Aziraphale looks right now. "That doesn't matter." A beat. "Do you wanna go for lunch?"
"Where to?"
*
"OF COURSE YOU CAN KNOW WHAT HE'S THINKING, CROWLEY. JUST READ HIS MIND."
"No I ca-that is, it's a bit of a breach of trust isn't it? And I've got to earn his trust, right?"
"EH."
"Er . . . would you mind elaborating on that?"
"IT DOESN'T REALLY MATTER WHAT HE THINKS OF YOU, DOES IT? I KNOW YOU'RE A FAN OF A MORE PERSONAL TOUCH IN YOUR WORK, BUT IT'S NOT LIKE THIS MEANS ANYTHING. IT'S JUST ANOTHER ROUTINE TEMPTATION, RIGHT?"
"Right."
". . . YOU SURE YOU DON'T WANT TO TRY A SESSION WITH HASTUR OR LIGUR? THEY REALLY ARE MUCH MORE EXPERIENCED WHEN IT COMES TO HUMANS."
Crowley just hangs up.
*
From: Mail Delivery Subsystem [mailer-daemon@googlemail.com]
To: [originaltempt@gmail.com]
Date: 21 Oct 2009
Subject: Delivery Status Notification (Failure)
This is an automatically generated Delivery Status Notification
Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently:
beelzzz1227@aol.com
Crowley sits there and refreshes the page a couple of times. Nothing changes. "Right."
So Crowely digs up some diabolical candles and does it the old fashioned way, hopes the chicken he had in the freezer counts as a sacrifice.
A few minutes later Crowely's pristine white carpeting tears apart with a roar and spits up another (and much more stereotypical looking) demon.
"Oh. Crawley," the messenger sneers. "I was wondering when thee wouldst 'wisen upwards' and sendeth in thy paperwork like everybody else. Thou art like everybody else, Crawley. Thou art not special because of thy assignment on Earth."
Crowley smiles unpleasantly, snaps his backlog of forms and evaluations and supplemental logs and the second and third versions of all of them into the messenger's arms. He buckles under the load and glares at Crowley before disappearing with a burst of black flame and the lingering smell of sulfur.
Nothing's changed.
*
Crowley takes Aziraphale to Kew Gardens, dead and faded now in late October, and tells him all about it.
"So did it feel right, after all?"
"Sure." A breeze picks up and Crowley shivers.
"You don't have to do that, you know," Aziraphale points out.
"Still don't feel like drawing attention, is all." He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, wills himself to accept the cold air. "Why did you want to come here anyway?"
Aziraphale shrugs. "This part of Earth is just as important. And just as beautiful, really."
Crowley rolls his eyes. "Seriously?" Shivers again, gets a look from Aziraphale. "Hey, do you wanna go somewhere a little more-?"
"Romantic?"
"Less depressing."
They're heading back into the city in style, mercifully silent for the time being. For reasons unknown it only makes Crowley more tense. Feels his heartbeat growing faster. Not scared, just unsettled. He stops paying attention to driving after awhile, glares the Bentley into cruise control and tries to relax into his seat.
"Everything's changed," Aziraphale tells him softly. "So why are you being so old fashioned about this?" Since when was that Aziraphale's line?
Crowley affects a nonchalant, staring off to the side sort of response, feels like Aziraphale always knows where he's looking even with the shades. "Not proper, just careful," he admits.
"Well, stop it, then." Aziraphale turns Crowley's head and kisses him. Crowley's surprised that his reaction isn't to freeze, flee, push Aziraphale away, or a combination of the above, really. Instead he finds himself responding too quickly, pulls Aziraphale too close, kisses back too sincerely until Aziraphale moans quietly and angles his head, slides a warm hand into his hair. Crowley has to trail fingers along Aziraphale's face, keep him close, close his eyes and concentrate on his taste, heart trying to hammer its way out of his chest. Aziraphale lets the kiss slow, backs away just slightly, aura still wrapped snug around Crowley, buttery and bright, love and heat.
"Just say the word, your wish is my command," Crowley says, attempting to leer but faltering a little in the face of . . . well, Aziraphale.
Aziraphale laughs, close to him. Crowley almost never thinks of him as an angel anymore, wonders how Aziraphale thinks of him. "Just take me back to yours, my dear. That will be fine."
*