Happy Holidays, lindsey_girrl
Title: Sentimental Tripe
Author: ea_lyons
Pairings: Crowley/Aziraphale, Adam/Pollution, mentions of ex-Crowley/Adam
Guest Starring: ?
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All characters herein are the properties of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.
It was a deceptively nice day. In an immaculate flat in Mayfair of one A. J. Crowley it wasn’t such a nice day, at least, not for Crowley’s plants.
“Crowley? Are you about?” called Aziraphale into the rather posh expanse.
“Whatever happened to the telephone, angel?” asked the demon as he crammed part of a fern down the drain and flipped on the new garbage disposal which, in turn, made a horrendous whirring, ka-chunk sound as it gnawed up the leaves and stems of the offending plant and belched up green chloroplast goo.
The other plants, which Crowley had gathered up and set them around the kitchen sink to watch their brethren become drain gunk quivered in their pots. One, close to the edge of the cabinet fell off and smashed as it hit the floor.
“Dear, what are you doing?” asked Aziraphale as he looked on from the doorway in concern.
“They’ve been slacking,” commented the demon as he ignored the downed houseplant and gestured widely at the others situated in key locations on the counter tops. “This one,” he held up what was left of the fern, “has been exceptional. It even went so far as to start propaganda against me. That I’d grown soft. Taking one of their fellows out of the line-up wasn’t good enough anymore.” He glanced at Aziraphale to judge his interest and seeing that it was sufficient he continued. “They believed that I was giving the others away.” He scoffed at the plants who all perked up their leaves and tried to look greener.
“So, what exactly have you done?” asked Aziraphale looking slightly sympathetic to the fern’s plight, but not extending himself to help. He didn’t want a repeat of the incident a few years back when he’d unsuccessfully attempted to defend the terrified plants and had been marched down to the front of the building and left there to walk or find a bus home. Besides, in this case, it really was the fern’s fault.
Crowley puffed up with pride at his own demonic genius. “I have bought this! This shiny little number has revolutionized how I torture my plants!” He showed Aziraphale parts under the sink.
“I see,” said the angel sighing a bit. “Well, if you’re busy I can always come by later.”
“Why are you here anyway, Aziraphale?” said Crowley as he ripped up the rest of the fern and shoved it down the drain. “It’s not like you come by when ever the urge hits you.”
“Well, no, I suppose not. However, I’ve grown rather tired of fighting with your ansaphone and thought you might like to go with me to a film review.”
Crowley looked at the angel with something akin to doubt crossing his features. “When do you go to film reviews? You’ve never gone to a film review that I know of.” He said as he washed his hands of potting soil and turned to deal with the fallen one.
“Well, yes, I know my dear, but it’s one of Adam’s . . .” he stopped mid-sentence at the look on Crowley’s face. It wasn’t what one would call a disgusted look or even a soured look. It was more like the look a creature of hell might give to a creature of heaven who had suggested something rather unpleasant. “It can’t be that bad, my dear.” Aziraphale said consolingly.
Crowley’s face contorted into a blank mask. “Not that bad? Of course it can’t be that bad!” he hissed menacingly as he glared angrily at Aziraphale. “It’ll be worse!”
“My dear,” the angel started, trying to placate the demon before he could start tearing into his rant with more gusto than necessary.
“First off, that boy will be there and probably his friends and probably that Somebody be damned dog of his and,” he stopped here to try and calm himself down. “And, that annoying personification of detriment, filth and harlotry.”
“My dear,” said Aziraphale trying to side-track Crowley.
“What? Am I suppose to be okay with the fact that, I don’t know what you’d call him, my ex-boyfriend I guess, decided Pollution was better than me?” the demon pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, giving the angel full view of his reptilian eyes.
“Dear, he invited us, but if you really don’t want to go. Then we don’t have to.” Aziraphale said as he wrapped his arms comfortingly around Crowley and pulled him closer. “We can stay in and watch an old black and white film, if you’d like.”
He shifted uncomfortably in the angel’s embrace and sighed. “You want to go,” he said with a since of finality. “I can tell.”
“Yes.”
“Why did he send you the tickets? I’m guessing he did or did he send me one and let you know?” asked Crowley as he disentangled himself from Aziraphale’s grip and ignored the hurt look the angel threw at him.
Aziraphale sighed, “Adam wants us there. He sent me the tickets because he knows that you burn all the post you receive from him. Also, he is the AntiChrist, he probably all ready knows about us.”
Crowley’s lips thinned in an unpleasant manner. “What’s it about?” he asked, worried.
“I believe,” said Aziraphale, reaching into his waistcoat pocket and produced something akin to a program which Crowley was quite sure that Adam had specially made just for the angel. “Here it is. It’s a charming story about a platypus, dear, that has been abandoned and a young girl looks after it until it’s time to set it free. Really heart warming and endearing.”
“No over the top special effects? No overly bad people trying to kill the platypus for it’s pelt?” asked Crowley looking over the program after the angel passed it over to him. “Overly sentimental tripe,” he said with a sneer. “Count me in. I need a good laugh.”
***
After the movie Adam looked over at the two man-shaped beings with a rather intense fondness and grinned as the darker of the pair bent closer to the elder looking one to whisper something in the other’s ear. He felt an arm slide around his waist and smiled at the other man-shaped being that came to stand beside him.
“You’re watching them,” said White thoughtfully as he looked over at the demon and angel. “You like them.” It was said as all things were said by the personification of Pollution, in a dreamy sort of voice that was only giving half it’s attention to any one thing that didn’t have anything to do with chemicals.
Adam looked back over at them. “Yes, ‘course. Took some doing though on our parts to get them together though didn’ it?” he asked chuckling. “I like makin’ sure things work out all right for everybody. Even if I have to be sneaky about it.”
"Well,” said White in a voice that sounded like what an oil slick might, “you are the AntiChrist, of course. It only goes to reason that you’d have to be sneaky in order to make people happy.”
Adam nodded thoughtfully.
At the refreshment table, a pale young man in a gray homburg stood eating cold chicken legs watching all of the other people with a kind of peaked interest and it settled in his mind as a couple of blokes, one a young flash bastard and the other an older gentleman who was definitely gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide, climbed into a mid to late 1920's model black Bentley that with such an interesting cast of people standing around him he’d ought to write it down. It’d make for an interesting book, if for nothing else, would make him laugh and perhaps he’d share it with his friend. He was the sort who’d like the idea that was coming into the young man’s head.
~Fin~
Enjoy, lindsey_girrl, from your Secret Author!
Author: ea_lyons
Pairings: Crowley/Aziraphale, Adam/Pollution, mentions of ex-Crowley/Adam
Guest Starring: ?
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All characters herein are the properties of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.
It was a deceptively nice day. In an immaculate flat in Mayfair of one A. J. Crowley it wasn’t such a nice day, at least, not for Crowley’s plants.
“Crowley? Are you about?” called Aziraphale into the rather posh expanse.
“Whatever happened to the telephone, angel?” asked the demon as he crammed part of a fern down the drain and flipped on the new garbage disposal which, in turn, made a horrendous whirring, ka-chunk sound as it gnawed up the leaves and stems of the offending plant and belched up green chloroplast goo.
The other plants, which Crowley had gathered up and set them around the kitchen sink to watch their brethren become drain gunk quivered in their pots. One, close to the edge of the cabinet fell off and smashed as it hit the floor.
“Dear, what are you doing?” asked Aziraphale as he looked on from the doorway in concern.
“They’ve been slacking,” commented the demon as he ignored the downed houseplant and gestured widely at the others situated in key locations on the counter tops. “This one,” he held up what was left of the fern, “has been exceptional. It even went so far as to start propaganda against me. That I’d grown soft. Taking one of their fellows out of the line-up wasn’t good enough anymore.” He glanced at Aziraphale to judge his interest and seeing that it was sufficient he continued. “They believed that I was giving the others away.” He scoffed at the plants who all perked up their leaves and tried to look greener.
“So, what exactly have you done?” asked Aziraphale looking slightly sympathetic to the fern’s plight, but not extending himself to help. He didn’t want a repeat of the incident a few years back when he’d unsuccessfully attempted to defend the terrified plants and had been marched down to the front of the building and left there to walk or find a bus home. Besides, in this case, it really was the fern’s fault.
Crowley puffed up with pride at his own demonic genius. “I have bought this! This shiny little number has revolutionized how I torture my plants!” He showed Aziraphale parts under the sink.
“I see,” said the angel sighing a bit. “Well, if you’re busy I can always come by later.”
“Why are you here anyway, Aziraphale?” said Crowley as he ripped up the rest of the fern and shoved it down the drain. “It’s not like you come by when ever the urge hits you.”
“Well, no, I suppose not. However, I’ve grown rather tired of fighting with your ansaphone and thought you might like to go with me to a film review.”
Crowley looked at the angel with something akin to doubt crossing his features. “When do you go to film reviews? You’ve never gone to a film review that I know of.” He said as he washed his hands of potting soil and turned to deal with the fallen one.
“Well, yes, I know my dear, but it’s one of Adam’s . . .” he stopped mid-sentence at the look on Crowley’s face. It wasn’t what one would call a disgusted look or even a soured look. It was more like the look a creature of hell might give to a creature of heaven who had suggested something rather unpleasant. “It can’t be that bad, my dear.” Aziraphale said consolingly.
Crowley’s face contorted into a blank mask. “Not that bad? Of course it can’t be that bad!” he hissed menacingly as he glared angrily at Aziraphale. “It’ll be worse!”
“My dear,” the angel started, trying to placate the demon before he could start tearing into his rant with more gusto than necessary.
“First off, that boy will be there and probably his friends and probably that Somebody be damned dog of his and,” he stopped here to try and calm himself down. “And, that annoying personification of detriment, filth and harlotry.”
“My dear,” said Aziraphale trying to side-track Crowley.
“What? Am I suppose to be okay with the fact that, I don’t know what you’d call him, my ex-boyfriend I guess, decided Pollution was better than me?” the demon pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, giving the angel full view of his reptilian eyes.
“Dear, he invited us, but if you really don’t want to go. Then we don’t have to.” Aziraphale said as he wrapped his arms comfortingly around Crowley and pulled him closer. “We can stay in and watch an old black and white film, if you’d like.”
He shifted uncomfortably in the angel’s embrace and sighed. “You want to go,” he said with a since of finality. “I can tell.”
“Yes.”
“Why did he send you the tickets? I’m guessing he did or did he send me one and let you know?” asked Crowley as he disentangled himself from Aziraphale’s grip and ignored the hurt look the angel threw at him.
Aziraphale sighed, “Adam wants us there. He sent me the tickets because he knows that you burn all the post you receive from him. Also, he is the AntiChrist, he probably all ready knows about us.”
Crowley’s lips thinned in an unpleasant manner. “What’s it about?” he asked, worried.
“I believe,” said Aziraphale, reaching into his waistcoat pocket and produced something akin to a program which Crowley was quite sure that Adam had specially made just for the angel. “Here it is. It’s a charming story about a platypus, dear, that has been abandoned and a young girl looks after it until it’s time to set it free. Really heart warming and endearing.”
“No over the top special effects? No overly bad people trying to kill the platypus for it’s pelt?” asked Crowley looking over the program after the angel passed it over to him. “Overly sentimental tripe,” he said with a sneer. “Count me in. I need a good laugh.”
***
After the movie Adam looked over at the two man-shaped beings with a rather intense fondness and grinned as the darker of the pair bent closer to the elder looking one to whisper something in the other’s ear. He felt an arm slide around his waist and smiled at the other man-shaped being that came to stand beside him.
“You’re watching them,” said White thoughtfully as he looked over at the demon and angel. “You like them.” It was said as all things were said by the personification of Pollution, in a dreamy sort of voice that was only giving half it’s attention to any one thing that didn’t have anything to do with chemicals.
Adam looked back over at them. “Yes, ‘course. Took some doing though on our parts to get them together though didn’ it?” he asked chuckling. “I like makin’ sure things work out all right for everybody. Even if I have to be sneaky about it.”
"Well,” said White in a voice that sounded like what an oil slick might, “you are the AntiChrist, of course. It only goes to reason that you’d have to be sneaky in order to make people happy.”
Adam nodded thoughtfully.
At the refreshment table, a pale young man in a gray homburg stood eating cold chicken legs watching all of the other people with a kind of peaked interest and it settled in his mind as a couple of blokes, one a young flash bastard and the other an older gentleman who was definitely gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide, climbed into a mid to late 1920's model black Bentley that with such an interesting cast of people standing around him he’d ought to write it down. It’d make for an interesting book, if for nothing else, would make him laugh and perhaps he’d share it with his friend. He was the sort who’d like the idea that was coming into the young man’s head.
~Fin~
Enjoy, lindsey_girrl, from your Secret Author!