Happy Holidays, 37_percent!
Title: AbSINthe and Angels
Gift for: 37_percent
By: todd_fan
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Thanks to my gorgeous and wonderful beta readers, especially my good pal who gave me the story title. I got as much of the prompt in as I could, hope you enjoy!
Paris 1900
Two figures were sat outside a bar on a street in Montmartre. One was slightly plump, blond, and looked most decidedly English. You couldn’t even point out a specific thing which made you think ‘English’, his whole being just radiated it. His companion looked to be of any country of origin, though he seemed to radiate the word ‘bastard’. This man grinned, watching his companion through his sunglasses.
“You’re going to love this, angel.”
Aziraphale watched with curiosity and, as this was Crowley and he knew the demon far too well, with a little bit of cautiousness. The Serpent had poured some green liquid into two glasses, and put an oddly shaped spoon with holes in it over each one. Aziraphale wondered the point of a holey spoon [1]. Perhaps it was some sort of miniature ladle? Then the demon had confused him more by placing a sugar cube on each spoon, and pouring ice-cold water over them.
“….What…is that, Crowley?” he asked, watching the green liqueur turn milky and opaque.
Crowley paused in his work and considered this for a long moment. He then offered Aziraphale a cunning grin. [2]
“Sucrose water,” he said, pushing one glass towards the angel.
Aziraphale sniffed it carefully, in the manner of one expecting what they’re holding to start corroding the glass it’s in.
“Are you sure?”
“Would I lie to you?” asked Crowley, his grin widening.
“Yes, actually,” said the angel. “You lied to me about that place with the windmill only yesterday. You said it was a gentleman’s club.”
“….Technically, I was right,” shrugged the demon.
“There were ladies removing their clothing and dancing in a provocative manner!” squeaked Aziraphale. “One of them got overly friendly!” [3]
“Yeah, it was brilliant,” grinned Crowley. “Go on, drink your drink, it’s good, see?”
With that, the demon downed the contents of his glass.
“Very bohemian,” he grinned.
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. From what he’d seen of the ‘bohemian’ lifestyle so far, it seemed far more suited to a demon than how an angel should act. Of course, most of what Crowley convinced him to do fell under the category: ‘Things Angels Should Not Be Doing’. It was a little concerning. He downed it as the demon had and blinked.
“Well, that isn’t too bad,” he said. “A little… unusual but…”
He blinked, Crowley was already making more.
“I hear if you drink enough of it, you see a little green fairy,” grinned Crowley.
Aziraphale blinked, then squinted at the bottle, watching the liquid for a few moments before looking back at the demon.
“Really?”
“Yeah, or it’s the name of the drink, I dunno,” Crowley shrugged. “Oscar Wilde saw tulips on his legs, you know.”
Aziraphale frowned, despite the mention of one of his favourite authors, looking at the drink before him.
“...My dear, are you saying that this drink is hallucinogenic?”
Crowley paused for a very long time.
“...No?”
The angel considered this, then smiled. He liked Crowley. He could trust Crowley. Crowley was his best mate in the whole world. They would be best mates forever. They were THAT good at being best mates. It was somewhere between this thought process that Aziraphale realised he’d downed his third glass. He wasn’t even sure what had happened to the second one. He felt good though. Warm and fluffy. Like a cloud without the rain. He blinked at the empty glass, then smiled at the demon.
“You’re my best mate, you are.”
“I know,” grinned Crowley. “S’that word you like saying.”
“Innefe... inneffabb... ineffabibble,” the angel decided on with a firm nod.
“That one,” Crowley’s grin widened.
Aziraphale smiled drunkenly and stretched. Unfortunately, in the process of stretching, he went a bit overboard and ended up popping out his wings. One smacked a young musician in the head, knocking his dapper hat off. As the confused man turned around, Aziraphale blushed and popped them back in.
“Oh dear,” he mumbled, staring resolutely at the table. “That could cause us a spot of bother...”
“Pft,” snorted Crowley. “Everybody’s on Absinthe here. They think s’normal. Watch.”
And suddenly, where there was once a man-shaped being, there was a small green snake coiled on the table.
“Crowley!” whispered Aziraphale urgently. “They’ll see!!!”
“Nah, really,” said Crowley, turning his head to look at the people across from him. “Alright?”
The young bohemians blinked then grinned.
“Hello, Mr. Talking Snake!”
“See?” said Crowley, managing to pull off a shrug rather well for a limbless creature. “Just let them hang out.”
“...Um ...no,” Aziraphale blushed, staring into his drink. He watched as a tiny dolphin jumped out of the milky liquid, sprouted butterfly wings mid-jump and fluttered away. “...I think we’d better move onto the wine.”
1. Not to be confused with a holy spoon, of which there was an amusing tale involving some hot chocolate being spilled on a priceless book, an irritated angel and a demon who by the end of the incident was blessing a lot and had a funny spoon-shaped mark on his forehead.
2. Aziraphale should have known right from the sight of that grin that something was up. Nothing good ever came after that grin. It was the grin Crowley made when he was being decidedly more of a bastard than usual. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
3. The lady in question had danced over to the angel after Crowley had given her some money and told her to give the blond English chap a lap dance because he needed to relax more. What had happened was a confusing, terrifying and hilarious experience (depending on whom out of the three involved you spoke to about it) which ended with a blushing angel babbling away and trying to run backwards while still being extremely polite and a lady of experience deciding he clearly swung on a different tree.
Aziraphale won the small battle of wills that followed, and both were soon sipping on wine, though Crowley, having changed back to a more man-shaped form, did it with a decidedly sulky air. The demon had been so determined to make a great deal of being ‘demoted’ to wine that he didn’t realise they’d gained a third member at their table until the figure sat down.
“S’private party, bugger off,” he grumped into his wine. “The absinthe’s gone, you’ll be better off elsewhere.”
“Oh, come now, Crawly, no reason to be all defensive about things.”
Crowley froze, the glass partway to his mouth, the crimson liquid inside not even reaching his lips. He looked at the figure next to him from the corner of his eye, just behind the sunglasses protective lens. Sitting beside him was a man, his brown hair put up in a ponytail, seemingly trying to ‘fit in’ with the bohemians around him. As with all of his kind, though, he only managed to come off as very, very gay [1].
“Aww, bless it, Raziel, I thought it was someone important, you nearly made me spill my wine!” huffed Crowley.
The Angel of Secrets blinked once, then gave a reserved sigh. That was the problem when you knew everything; you sort of faded into the background until you were needed again to pull up some long-forgotten fact that only you had cared to remember.
“It’s nice to see you again, too, Crawly.”
“S’not Crawly anymore,” said Crowley. “It’s Crowley. Hasn’t been Crawly since….then.”
“I know,” said Raziel in a resigned, calm manner. “I know everything.”
“Hello, Raziel,” said Aziraphale cheerfully, ignoring the demon as Crowley fumed. “What brings you here?” [2]
“Official business, hush, hush,” said Raziel, tapping his nose.
“He never says anything, Aziraphale,” pointed out Crowley, a bit testy now he was in the presence of a heavenly body who was not his companion. “He’s the Angel of ‘I Know Something You Don’t Know, Neh-Neh-Neh-Neh-Neh.”
Both angels watched the demon swig down his wine after that performance in an awkward silence. It was a few moments before Aziraphale found words.
“...Are you feeling quite alright, my dear?” he asked. “You seem a little... tetchy. I know you’ve just had a terribly long sleep, but there’s no need to snap at Raziel.”
“I’m fine,” said Crowley huffily. “I can bugger off for you, if you like, so you angels can talk about angel-business without the demon overhearing.”
“Oh, not this again,” sighed Aziraphale. “No one said the E word, there’s no need to get all grumpy.”
“He was thinking it,” said Crowley, a tad paranoid.
“...I wasn’t thinking about Eden,” said Raziel. “...Though technically it was all your fault they got kicked out in the first place.”
Aziraphale took the long, deep breath of one who’d heard this ‘debate’ plenty of times, and was wondering if he could possibly hide under the table until it was all done with.
“Well, excuse me for doing my job,” sniffed Crowley. “All I did was convince her to eat an apple. You two were the real screw-ups,” he pointed at Aziraphale. “You gave them a flaming sword and you,” he pointed at Raziel, “Gave them the book of everything He says: EVER.” [3]
“She was expecting and it was cold,” said Aziraphale miserably.
“And they deserved a chance to find their way back home,” put in Raziel.
“Whatever makes you sleep at night, angels,” said Crowley, swigging his drink.
“We don’t sleep,” pointed out Aziraphale.
“...That was a metaphor.”
“That’s alright, Aziraphale, I didn’t quite catch that one, either,” said Raziel gently, patting the angel on the shoulder.
“Sometimes his modern dialect confuses me,” admitted Aziraphale.
“I know, I know,” said Raziel.
Crowley groaned, moving to make another glass. This was going to be a long, long night. A small noise that sounded like a ‘poot’ proved he was wrong. It was going to be an extremely long night. A young man who’s primary fashion choice could be described as ‘white’, was grinning at them from the road. He was sitting in a very unusual contraption, which seemed to be comprised of a seat, two wheels at the back and one at the front. An even stranger assortment of pipes and pieces of metal sat in the back. The young man looked exceptionally pleased with himself.
“Hello chaps!” he said happily. “Do you like this? It’s really quite new and I had a hand in making it. It’s called…” he took a long pause for dramatic emphasis. “A Motorwagen.”
You could have heard crickets chirp. [4]
“Oh... that’s... nice,” Aziraphale decided on.
“It’s going to revolutionise everything!” said the young man, delighted. “Oh yes. This really is going places, and Pestilence has been a bit off for a while, so I figure I must prepare. Just in case, you know?”
He smiled happily to himself. The angels and demon shifted a little in their seats, in that uncomfortable way a group got when the ‘weird one who wants to talk to everyone, but frankly confuses everyone he talks to’ shows up and you’re not sure what you can say without it descending into a talk about buttons, oblongs or some other such whimsy.
“...Want a drink... umm... is it White, now?” offered Crowley.
“Oh no, no,” smiled the young man. “I must be off to test my new Motorwagen. Do make sure to leave the bottle where something can get its foot caught in it, though. Farewell!”
The contraption spluttered into life, smoke pouring out as it chugged along the road, which grew incredibly grimy in its wake.
“...I have a terrible feeling he is going places,” said Raziel after the youngster had departed.
“I think we should start back on the absinthe,” responded Crowley.
1. Why all angels managed to come off as homosexual on Earth was a mystery to everyone except demons, who had experience of being both and so knew exactly where the angels were going wrong. Unfortunately for the angels, the demons found this case of mistaken sexuality hilarious and were not planning on telling them how to get it right any time soon. Even ones in Arrangements.
2. As the Angel of Secrets, Raziel already knew about Crowley and Aziraphale’s Arrangement, so there was no real reason for the pair to pretend that it didn’t exist. They’d learned this the first time Raziel had run into them the hard way. It was only after ten minutes of a very theatrical fight involving thrown punches and not-quite divine light and hellfire that they realised the angel was laughing at them and they had, in fact, been ‘rumbled’ at precisely the point they’d made their Arrangement quite some time ago.
3. You could practically hear the overuse of italics.
4. You could have, but currently all the insects in the surrounding area had suddenly and inexplicably been covered in a nasty filmy substance which stopped their various noise-making parts from working.
London 2008
“You’re going to love this, angel.”
“...I have a very strange sense of déjà-vu descending.”
The bookshop had been decorated ready for the holidays, tinsel of all colours draped over the bookshelves. A tiny Christmas tree sat on a desk, a little star sitting atop it [1]. Because, as an angel, Aziraphale thought all faith should be celebrated, he’d also put up a Menorah, a Kinara, a Yule log, a watermelon and a plate of meat (both of which, of course, stayed fresh) and finally a wren sitting atop a small pole [2]. Crowley had shot all of these decorations the same disdainful look he did every year, before sauntering over to the desk, dropping a series of bottles on it. A few moments later and they were in this situation.
“Aww, come on, angel, I’d never lie to you about alcohol,” said Crowley with a grin.
Aziraphale gave him a long, pointed look. Crowley tilted his head to the side, then shrugged.
“Okay, so I would, but you’ll really enjoy this, I promise.”
Ever the glutton for punishment, Aziraphale picked up the glass the demon had poured for him.
“...What is it?”
“Sambuca.”
Certain parts of Aziraphale’s brain clicked into place with other parts.
“...The one you set on fire?”
“Setting it on fire does improve the flavour, yes,” said Crowley, clicking his fingers, a little flicker of fire appearing on his thumb.
Aziraphale went into pure panic mode. Waving his arms wildly he made a small, strange squeaking noise at the demon. Crowley frowned.
“...Angel, what’re you doing?”
“You can’t set fire to something very flammable HERE,” he said, waving his arms a bit more for emphasis. “It’s a bookshop!”
Crowley considered this for a minute.
“So?”
“Books catch fire really easily!” squeaked Aziraphale, vanishing away the drink. “No flaming Sambuca here, thank you very much.”
“...Fine,” Crowley sulked, the fire vanishing from his fingertips. “You really do know how to put a dampener on everything, Aziraphale.”
“My bookshop has been on fire once, thank you, once is quite enough,” said the angel, bringing a bottle into existence. “Here, have some mulled wine instead.”
Crowley sighed, reaching for a glass, before stilling.
“Waaait a minute,” he said. “You’re trying to get me to do something FESTIVE!.”
“Um...” the angel blushed. “No I’m not. I’m just... getting in... look, there’s nothing wrong with feeling festive at the holidays.”
“I’M A DEMON!!!”
“...Well, yes, there is that, I suppose,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind you celebrating a little bit. I mean, the holidays are all about family and togetherness and... well.”
He coughed, shrugging and looking down.
“You’re mine,” he murmured, looking up. “My family, I mean.”
Crowley let his sunglasses slip down his nose, gold, serpentine eyes watching the angel.
“That,” he stated. “Was one of the most gut-wrenchingly pathetic and sappy things I’ve ever heard you say. It was like something the Care Bears would throw up after bingeing on sugarplums and rainbows.”
Before Aziraphale could ask what Care Bears were, Crowley reached over and picked up a glass of the mulled wine, before moving to lounge in a chair, his boots resting on the desk.
“So,” said the demon, smelling the mulled wine, before taking a sip. “I found out something interesting.”
Aziraphale blinked a moment, surprised the demon hadn’t stormed out, before reaching for his own glass, taking a sip.
“Oh?”
“They’ve written books about Raziel now,” said Crowley with a smirk. “There’s one called ‘The Stupidest Angel’.”
“...Please tell me you’re making that up,” Aziraphale paled. [3]
“You always think I’m making these things up,” said Crowley. “You didn’t believe me about that singing penguin movie, either, until I showed it you.”
“You only like it because it has a Queen song in it,” pointed out Aziraphale, then smiled a little. “As a gospel song, too.” [4]
“I thought we agreed that we weren’t going to bring that up again,” said Crowley with a huff. “I’ll start talking about the Moulin one and remind you of nineteen hundred again.”
Aziraphale coughed, flustered.
“No, don’t do that,” he said, then added. “That has a Queen song, too. Some may say you’re a glutton for punishment, Crowley.”
“It’s not my fault the Bentley has issues,” said Crowley. “Nothing wrong with Queen, anyway.”
“Well, Israfel isn’t too keen on...” Aziraphale was interrupted by Crowley making loud organ noises. [5]
The angel looked at him until the demon stopped.
“Are we quite done?”
Crowley considered this for a few long moments.
“He likes to blow his own trumpet,” he grinned.
“...” Aziraphale stared at the demon for a few moments. “And then you wonder why no other angel really likes you all that much.”
“Pft, who needs other angels?” asked Crowley. “I got enough with you clouding my existence with goodness.”
“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale smiled happily.
“...That wasn’t a compliment,” protested the demon.
“I like spending time with you, too,” added the angel.
Crowley groaned, reaching for his glass, downing the liquid inside. He eyed the beaming angel from the corner of his eye. Aziraphale was bopping his head to some imaginary beat, perfectly happily.
“Oh, alright, don’t go on about it,” muttered Crowley.
“I didn’t say a word,” smiled Aziraphale.
Before Crowley could respond, there was a flash of light from the ceiling, landing on the floor. Crowley froze for a second, before survival instinct kicked in. For someone of a very serpentine nature, that meant getting under something and being very, very still. Fresh out of logs, rocks or other such natural hiding spots, Crowley dove under the desk. Aziraphale watched this with a mixture of horror and amusement, before blinking at the light.
“Um... hello?” he tried.
“Hello, Aziraphale,” said a voice in the light. “Sorry to disturb you, I hope this isn’t a bad time...”
“Oh, no no,” said Aziraphale with a nervous laugh. “Not one bit, Gabriel. What brings you to contact me... not that I mind Heaven contacting me at all. The Ineffable Plan and all that. Hah hah.”
“...Yeees,” said Gabriel after a few moments. “Anyway, this is a busy time for us all, and I’m afraid that Cassiel has had a little bit of a funny turn.”
“Oh dear, I hope he’s alright,” said Aziraphale, trying to hide the second wine glass with his elbow.
“Oh yes. He heard of some new fangled ‘Stress at Work’ or some such other thing that the humans came up with,” the light almost shrugged. “Michael was rather annoyed with it all to be honest and wanted him to get back to work right away, but Raphael stepped in, and now he wants me to check on everyone. Michael has been in an awful huff all day.” [6]
“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “Well, no need to worry about me, no stress here. Happily doing my job. As an angel. Being holy.”
“Oh, good,” said Gabriel. “Some angels are using this as an excuse to take time off, you know.”
“I’ll bet Michael isn’t too happy about that,” said Aziraphale mildly.
“No, he’s gone on a rant about how this will escalate into another Rebellion or something, you know how he does like to over-dramatise things,” the Archangel chuckled. “I mean, it wasn’t stress at work that caused those that Fell to have Middle Child Syndrome on a cosmological scale, eh Aziraphale?”
There was a distinct, annoyed muttering under the desk. Aziraphale kicked his leg out. There was an ‘oomf’ and the muttering ceased.
“Ah... heh-heh,” tried Aziraphale, before deciding to attempt to shoo his superior, after all, it worked on his customers often enough, he was quite proud of his shooing abilities. [7] “Well, it’s been lovely chatting and all, but I really don’t want to keep you from your work…”
“Oh yes, of course. Keep up the good work, Aziraphale. Do let me know if you’re feeling... off...” With that, the light blinked out of existence.
Crowley waited for a few moments in case the Archangel had forgotten something, before deeming it safe to crawl out from under the desk and continue his drinking as if nothing had happened.
“That film based on one of Chaucer’s stories had Queen in it, too,” said the demon, smiling. “He was fun, wasn’t he? Chaucer?”
“Yes, I suppose,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, sipping his wine.
“Well as fun as this Queen discussion is, I have things to do,” Crowley stood, draining his glass. “All that sparkly Heaven stuff makes me want to go let down some tyres or make some telecommunication people cry.”
Aziraphale smiled a little.
“Don’t cause too much damage, my dear,” he murmured.
“HAH!” said the demon, stepping out. “Oi, angel, you’ve got a package. Ciao.”
Aziraphale blinked, wandering through into the shop proper, a delivery man holding a small box under his arm, holding out a clipboard. Outside, there was a sound which could only be a Bentley roaring into life and tearing off through London at far too high a speed.
“Sign here, Mr. Fell,” said the delivery man, offering the clipboard. “The place looks nice this year.”
“Thank you,” said Aziraphale pleasantly, signing the form, and taking the box. “I suppose you’re rather busy this time of year.”
“I’m always busy,” said the delivery man, giving a nod. “Nice seeing you again, Mr. Fell.”
Aziraphale watched the man leave, then wandered back into the backroom. He sat down, sipping his wine as he opened the box. Inside was a mug. Inscribed on it was ‘World’s Best Shooer’. Aziraphale smiled. Some things really were ineffable[8].
1. Aziraphale never put an angel on top of his Christmas tree. There was something very unnerving for him about skewering an angel-figurine on top of a tree via it’s rear end. Besides, it would have been bound to induce lewd comments from his companion.
2. Aziraphale practically invented political correctness, not to mention going over the top.
3. He wasn’t. A man named Christopher Moore wrote them. For some reason, the man was hounded by a certain film company who used a species of vermin as their symbol. If he’d been of the mind to ask the right sort of people, he would have found the simple, if childish, reason for this was that: ‘he asked for it’.
4. Aziraphale had finally learned the band’s name after deciding to sort through all of Crowley’s cassette collection. He’d noticed that the songs were all the same, and finally did what he promised himself a few New Years ago and learned what the internet was. The internet, he learned, was a gold mine of useless information. He used his newfound knowledge of Crowley’s favourite ‘Be-Bop’ band as often as possible.
5. These noises went ‘BUUUUM Bum-Da-Bum-Da Buuuuuuuuum’, the sort of tune that would make one envisage a very different Angel of Music. One that seemed to be surgically attached to a lasso with a penchant for cape swishing and kidnapping scantily clad ladies into underground catacombs.
6. All offices have gossip. Heaven is no exception. They’re just nicer about it.
7. Aziraphale secretly longed for one of those novelty mugs, which stated ‘Worlds Best Shooer’. He felt this was something that was bought for you as a gift, and not something you bought yourself, and so had decided to wait for a friend to get him it. Considering that his only friend was Crowley, however, he had come to the conclusion that he would be waiting for a long, long time.
8. Or, indeed, ineffabibble.
Happy Holidays, 37_percent, from your Secret Author!
Gift for: 37_percent
By: todd_fan
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Thanks to my gorgeous and wonderful beta readers, especially my good pal who gave me the story title. I got as much of the prompt in as I could, hope you enjoy!
Paris 1900
Two figures were sat outside a bar on a street in Montmartre. One was slightly plump, blond, and looked most decidedly English. You couldn’t even point out a specific thing which made you think ‘English’, his whole being just radiated it. His companion looked to be of any country of origin, though he seemed to radiate the word ‘bastard’. This man grinned, watching his companion through his sunglasses.
“You’re going to love this, angel.”
Aziraphale watched with curiosity and, as this was Crowley and he knew the demon far too well, with a little bit of cautiousness. The Serpent had poured some green liquid into two glasses, and put an oddly shaped spoon with holes in it over each one. Aziraphale wondered the point of a holey spoon [1]. Perhaps it was some sort of miniature ladle? Then the demon had confused him more by placing a sugar cube on each spoon, and pouring ice-cold water over them.
“….What…is that, Crowley?” he asked, watching the green liqueur turn milky and opaque.
Crowley paused in his work and considered this for a long moment. He then offered Aziraphale a cunning grin. [2]
“Sucrose water,” he said, pushing one glass towards the angel.
Aziraphale sniffed it carefully, in the manner of one expecting what they’re holding to start corroding the glass it’s in.
“Are you sure?”
“Would I lie to you?” asked Crowley, his grin widening.
“Yes, actually,” said the angel. “You lied to me about that place with the windmill only yesterday. You said it was a gentleman’s club.”
“….Technically, I was right,” shrugged the demon.
“There were ladies removing their clothing and dancing in a provocative manner!” squeaked Aziraphale. “One of them got overly friendly!” [3]
“Yeah, it was brilliant,” grinned Crowley. “Go on, drink your drink, it’s good, see?”
With that, the demon downed the contents of his glass.
“Very bohemian,” he grinned.
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. From what he’d seen of the ‘bohemian’ lifestyle so far, it seemed far more suited to a demon than how an angel should act. Of course, most of what Crowley convinced him to do fell under the category: ‘Things Angels Should Not Be Doing’. It was a little concerning. He downed it as the demon had and blinked.
“Well, that isn’t too bad,” he said. “A little… unusual but…”
He blinked, Crowley was already making more.
“I hear if you drink enough of it, you see a little green fairy,” grinned Crowley.
Aziraphale blinked, then squinted at the bottle, watching the liquid for a few moments before looking back at the demon.
“Really?”
“Yeah, or it’s the name of the drink, I dunno,” Crowley shrugged. “Oscar Wilde saw tulips on his legs, you know.”
Aziraphale frowned, despite the mention of one of his favourite authors, looking at the drink before him.
“...My dear, are you saying that this drink is hallucinogenic?”
Crowley paused for a very long time.
“...No?”
The angel considered this, then smiled. He liked Crowley. He could trust Crowley. Crowley was his best mate in the whole world. They would be best mates forever. They were THAT good at being best mates. It was somewhere between this thought process that Aziraphale realised he’d downed his third glass. He wasn’t even sure what had happened to the second one. He felt good though. Warm and fluffy. Like a cloud without the rain. He blinked at the empty glass, then smiled at the demon.
“You’re my best mate, you are.”
“I know,” grinned Crowley. “S’that word you like saying.”
“Innefe... inneffabb... ineffabibble,” the angel decided on with a firm nod.
“That one,” Crowley’s grin widened.
Aziraphale smiled drunkenly and stretched. Unfortunately, in the process of stretching, he went a bit overboard and ended up popping out his wings. One smacked a young musician in the head, knocking his dapper hat off. As the confused man turned around, Aziraphale blushed and popped them back in.
“Oh dear,” he mumbled, staring resolutely at the table. “That could cause us a spot of bother...”
“Pft,” snorted Crowley. “Everybody’s on Absinthe here. They think s’normal. Watch.”
And suddenly, where there was once a man-shaped being, there was a small green snake coiled on the table.
“Crowley!” whispered Aziraphale urgently. “They’ll see!!!”
“Nah, really,” said Crowley, turning his head to look at the people across from him. “Alright?”
The young bohemians blinked then grinned.
“Hello, Mr. Talking Snake!”
“See?” said Crowley, managing to pull off a shrug rather well for a limbless creature. “Just let them hang out.”
“...Um ...no,” Aziraphale blushed, staring into his drink. He watched as a tiny dolphin jumped out of the milky liquid, sprouted butterfly wings mid-jump and fluttered away. “...I think we’d better move onto the wine.”
1. Not to be confused with a holy spoon, of which there was an amusing tale involving some hot chocolate being spilled on a priceless book, an irritated angel and a demon who by the end of the incident was blessing a lot and had a funny spoon-shaped mark on his forehead.
2. Aziraphale should have known right from the sight of that grin that something was up. Nothing good ever came after that grin. It was the grin Crowley made when he was being decidedly more of a bastard than usual. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
3. The lady in question had danced over to the angel after Crowley had given her some money and told her to give the blond English chap a lap dance because he needed to relax more. What had happened was a confusing, terrifying and hilarious experience (depending on whom out of the three involved you spoke to about it) which ended with a blushing angel babbling away and trying to run backwards while still being extremely polite and a lady of experience deciding he clearly swung on a different tree.
Aziraphale won the small battle of wills that followed, and both were soon sipping on wine, though Crowley, having changed back to a more man-shaped form, did it with a decidedly sulky air. The demon had been so determined to make a great deal of being ‘demoted’ to wine that he didn’t realise they’d gained a third member at their table until the figure sat down.
“S’private party, bugger off,” he grumped into his wine. “The absinthe’s gone, you’ll be better off elsewhere.”
“Oh, come now, Crawly, no reason to be all defensive about things.”
Crowley froze, the glass partway to his mouth, the crimson liquid inside not even reaching his lips. He looked at the figure next to him from the corner of his eye, just behind the sunglasses protective lens. Sitting beside him was a man, his brown hair put up in a ponytail, seemingly trying to ‘fit in’ with the bohemians around him. As with all of his kind, though, he only managed to come off as very, very gay [1].
“Aww, bless it, Raziel, I thought it was someone important, you nearly made me spill my wine!” huffed Crowley.
The Angel of Secrets blinked once, then gave a reserved sigh. That was the problem when you knew everything; you sort of faded into the background until you were needed again to pull up some long-forgotten fact that only you had cared to remember.
“It’s nice to see you again, too, Crawly.”
“S’not Crawly anymore,” said Crowley. “It’s Crowley. Hasn’t been Crawly since….then.”
“I know,” said Raziel in a resigned, calm manner. “I know everything.”
“Hello, Raziel,” said Aziraphale cheerfully, ignoring the demon as Crowley fumed. “What brings you here?” [2]
“Official business, hush, hush,” said Raziel, tapping his nose.
“He never says anything, Aziraphale,” pointed out Crowley, a bit testy now he was in the presence of a heavenly body who was not his companion. “He’s the Angel of ‘I Know Something You Don’t Know, Neh-Neh-Neh-Neh-Neh.”
Both angels watched the demon swig down his wine after that performance in an awkward silence. It was a few moments before Aziraphale found words.
“...Are you feeling quite alright, my dear?” he asked. “You seem a little... tetchy. I know you’ve just had a terribly long sleep, but there’s no need to snap at Raziel.”
“I’m fine,” said Crowley huffily. “I can bugger off for you, if you like, so you angels can talk about angel-business without the demon overhearing.”
“Oh, not this again,” sighed Aziraphale. “No one said the E word, there’s no need to get all grumpy.”
“He was thinking it,” said Crowley, a tad paranoid.
“...I wasn’t thinking about Eden,” said Raziel. “...Though technically it was all your fault they got kicked out in the first place.”
Aziraphale took the long, deep breath of one who’d heard this ‘debate’ plenty of times, and was wondering if he could possibly hide under the table until it was all done with.
“Well, excuse me for doing my job,” sniffed Crowley. “All I did was convince her to eat an apple. You two were the real screw-ups,” he pointed at Aziraphale. “You gave them a flaming sword and you,” he pointed at Raziel, “Gave them the book of everything He says: EVER.” [3]
“She was expecting and it was cold,” said Aziraphale miserably.
“And they deserved a chance to find their way back home,” put in Raziel.
“Whatever makes you sleep at night, angels,” said Crowley, swigging his drink.
“We don’t sleep,” pointed out Aziraphale.
“...That was a metaphor.”
“That’s alright, Aziraphale, I didn’t quite catch that one, either,” said Raziel gently, patting the angel on the shoulder.
“Sometimes his modern dialect confuses me,” admitted Aziraphale.
“I know, I know,” said Raziel.
Crowley groaned, moving to make another glass. This was going to be a long, long night. A small noise that sounded like a ‘poot’ proved he was wrong. It was going to be an extremely long night. A young man who’s primary fashion choice could be described as ‘white’, was grinning at them from the road. He was sitting in a very unusual contraption, which seemed to be comprised of a seat, two wheels at the back and one at the front. An even stranger assortment of pipes and pieces of metal sat in the back. The young man looked exceptionally pleased with himself.
“Hello chaps!” he said happily. “Do you like this? It’s really quite new and I had a hand in making it. It’s called…” he took a long pause for dramatic emphasis. “A Motorwagen.”
You could have heard crickets chirp. [4]
“Oh... that’s... nice,” Aziraphale decided on.
“It’s going to revolutionise everything!” said the young man, delighted. “Oh yes. This really is going places, and Pestilence has been a bit off for a while, so I figure I must prepare. Just in case, you know?”
He smiled happily to himself. The angels and demon shifted a little in their seats, in that uncomfortable way a group got when the ‘weird one who wants to talk to everyone, but frankly confuses everyone he talks to’ shows up and you’re not sure what you can say without it descending into a talk about buttons, oblongs or some other such whimsy.
“...Want a drink... umm... is it White, now?” offered Crowley.
“Oh no, no,” smiled the young man. “I must be off to test my new Motorwagen. Do make sure to leave the bottle where something can get its foot caught in it, though. Farewell!”
The contraption spluttered into life, smoke pouring out as it chugged along the road, which grew incredibly grimy in its wake.
“...I have a terrible feeling he is going places,” said Raziel after the youngster had departed.
“I think we should start back on the absinthe,” responded Crowley.
1. Why all angels managed to come off as homosexual on Earth was a mystery to everyone except demons, who had experience of being both and so knew exactly where the angels were going wrong. Unfortunately for the angels, the demons found this case of mistaken sexuality hilarious and were not planning on telling them how to get it right any time soon. Even ones in Arrangements.
2. As the Angel of Secrets, Raziel already knew about Crowley and Aziraphale’s Arrangement, so there was no real reason for the pair to pretend that it didn’t exist. They’d learned this the first time Raziel had run into them the hard way. It was only after ten minutes of a very theatrical fight involving thrown punches and not-quite divine light and hellfire that they realised the angel was laughing at them and they had, in fact, been ‘rumbled’ at precisely the point they’d made their Arrangement quite some time ago.
3. You could practically hear the overuse of italics.
4. You could have, but currently all the insects in the surrounding area had suddenly and inexplicably been covered in a nasty filmy substance which stopped their various noise-making parts from working.
London 2008
“You’re going to love this, angel.”
“...I have a very strange sense of déjà-vu descending.”
The bookshop had been decorated ready for the holidays, tinsel of all colours draped over the bookshelves. A tiny Christmas tree sat on a desk, a little star sitting atop it [1]. Because, as an angel, Aziraphale thought all faith should be celebrated, he’d also put up a Menorah, a Kinara, a Yule log, a watermelon and a plate of meat (both of which, of course, stayed fresh) and finally a wren sitting atop a small pole [2]. Crowley had shot all of these decorations the same disdainful look he did every year, before sauntering over to the desk, dropping a series of bottles on it. A few moments later and they were in this situation.
“Aww, come on, angel, I’d never lie to you about alcohol,” said Crowley with a grin.
Aziraphale gave him a long, pointed look. Crowley tilted his head to the side, then shrugged.
“Okay, so I would, but you’ll really enjoy this, I promise.”
Ever the glutton for punishment, Aziraphale picked up the glass the demon had poured for him.
“...What is it?”
“Sambuca.”
Certain parts of Aziraphale’s brain clicked into place with other parts.
“...The one you set on fire?”
“Setting it on fire does improve the flavour, yes,” said Crowley, clicking his fingers, a little flicker of fire appearing on his thumb.
Aziraphale went into pure panic mode. Waving his arms wildly he made a small, strange squeaking noise at the demon. Crowley frowned.
“...Angel, what’re you doing?”
“You can’t set fire to something very flammable HERE,” he said, waving his arms a bit more for emphasis. “It’s a bookshop!”
Crowley considered this for a minute.
“So?”
“Books catch fire really easily!” squeaked Aziraphale, vanishing away the drink. “No flaming Sambuca here, thank you very much.”
“...Fine,” Crowley sulked, the fire vanishing from his fingertips. “You really do know how to put a dampener on everything, Aziraphale.”
“My bookshop has been on fire once, thank you, once is quite enough,” said the angel, bringing a bottle into existence. “Here, have some mulled wine instead.”
Crowley sighed, reaching for a glass, before stilling.
“Waaait a minute,” he said. “You’re trying to get me to do something FESTIVE!.”
“Um...” the angel blushed. “No I’m not. I’m just... getting in... look, there’s nothing wrong with feeling festive at the holidays.”
“I’M A DEMON!!!”
“...Well, yes, there is that, I suppose,” said Aziraphale. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind you celebrating a little bit. I mean, the holidays are all about family and togetherness and... well.”
He coughed, shrugging and looking down.
“You’re mine,” he murmured, looking up. “My family, I mean.”
Crowley let his sunglasses slip down his nose, gold, serpentine eyes watching the angel.
“That,” he stated. “Was one of the most gut-wrenchingly pathetic and sappy things I’ve ever heard you say. It was like something the Care Bears would throw up after bingeing on sugarplums and rainbows.”
Before Aziraphale could ask what Care Bears were, Crowley reached over and picked up a glass of the mulled wine, before moving to lounge in a chair, his boots resting on the desk.
“So,” said the demon, smelling the mulled wine, before taking a sip. “I found out something interesting.”
Aziraphale blinked a moment, surprised the demon hadn’t stormed out, before reaching for his own glass, taking a sip.
“Oh?”
“They’ve written books about Raziel now,” said Crowley with a smirk. “There’s one called ‘The Stupidest Angel’.”
“...Please tell me you’re making that up,” Aziraphale paled. [3]
“You always think I’m making these things up,” said Crowley. “You didn’t believe me about that singing penguin movie, either, until I showed it you.”
“You only like it because it has a Queen song in it,” pointed out Aziraphale, then smiled a little. “As a gospel song, too.” [4]
“I thought we agreed that we weren’t going to bring that up again,” said Crowley with a huff. “I’ll start talking about the Moulin one and remind you of nineteen hundred again.”
Aziraphale coughed, flustered.
“No, don’t do that,” he said, then added. “That has a Queen song, too. Some may say you’re a glutton for punishment, Crowley.”
“It’s not my fault the Bentley has issues,” said Crowley. “Nothing wrong with Queen, anyway.”
“Well, Israfel isn’t too keen on...” Aziraphale was interrupted by Crowley making loud organ noises. [5]
The angel looked at him until the demon stopped.
“Are we quite done?”
Crowley considered this for a few long moments.
“He likes to blow his own trumpet,” he grinned.
“...” Aziraphale stared at the demon for a few moments. “And then you wonder why no other angel really likes you all that much.”
“Pft, who needs other angels?” asked Crowley. “I got enough with you clouding my existence with goodness.”
“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale smiled happily.
“...That wasn’t a compliment,” protested the demon.
“I like spending time with you, too,” added the angel.
Crowley groaned, reaching for his glass, downing the liquid inside. He eyed the beaming angel from the corner of his eye. Aziraphale was bopping his head to some imaginary beat, perfectly happily.
“Oh, alright, don’t go on about it,” muttered Crowley.
“I didn’t say a word,” smiled Aziraphale.
Before Crowley could respond, there was a flash of light from the ceiling, landing on the floor. Crowley froze for a second, before survival instinct kicked in. For someone of a very serpentine nature, that meant getting under something and being very, very still. Fresh out of logs, rocks or other such natural hiding spots, Crowley dove under the desk. Aziraphale watched this with a mixture of horror and amusement, before blinking at the light.
“Um... hello?” he tried.
“Hello, Aziraphale,” said a voice in the light. “Sorry to disturb you, I hope this isn’t a bad time...”
“Oh, no no,” said Aziraphale with a nervous laugh. “Not one bit, Gabriel. What brings you to contact me... not that I mind Heaven contacting me at all. The Ineffable Plan and all that. Hah hah.”
“...Yeees,” said Gabriel after a few moments. “Anyway, this is a busy time for us all, and I’m afraid that Cassiel has had a little bit of a funny turn.”
“Oh dear, I hope he’s alright,” said Aziraphale, trying to hide the second wine glass with his elbow.
“Oh yes. He heard of some new fangled ‘Stress at Work’ or some such other thing that the humans came up with,” the light almost shrugged. “Michael was rather annoyed with it all to be honest and wanted him to get back to work right away, but Raphael stepped in, and now he wants me to check on everyone. Michael has been in an awful huff all day.” [6]
“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “Well, no need to worry about me, no stress here. Happily doing my job. As an angel. Being holy.”
“Oh, good,” said Gabriel. “Some angels are using this as an excuse to take time off, you know.”
“I’ll bet Michael isn’t too happy about that,” said Aziraphale mildly.
“No, he’s gone on a rant about how this will escalate into another Rebellion or something, you know how he does like to over-dramatise things,” the Archangel chuckled. “I mean, it wasn’t stress at work that caused those that Fell to have Middle Child Syndrome on a cosmological scale, eh Aziraphale?”
There was a distinct, annoyed muttering under the desk. Aziraphale kicked his leg out. There was an ‘oomf’ and the muttering ceased.
“Ah... heh-heh,” tried Aziraphale, before deciding to attempt to shoo his superior, after all, it worked on his customers often enough, he was quite proud of his shooing abilities. [7] “Well, it’s been lovely chatting and all, but I really don’t want to keep you from your work…”
“Oh yes, of course. Keep up the good work, Aziraphale. Do let me know if you’re feeling... off...” With that, the light blinked out of existence.
Crowley waited for a few moments in case the Archangel had forgotten something, before deeming it safe to crawl out from under the desk and continue his drinking as if nothing had happened.
“That film based on one of Chaucer’s stories had Queen in it, too,” said the demon, smiling. “He was fun, wasn’t he? Chaucer?”
“Yes, I suppose,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, sipping his wine.
“Well as fun as this Queen discussion is, I have things to do,” Crowley stood, draining his glass. “All that sparkly Heaven stuff makes me want to go let down some tyres or make some telecommunication people cry.”
Aziraphale smiled a little.
“Don’t cause too much damage, my dear,” he murmured.
“HAH!” said the demon, stepping out. “Oi, angel, you’ve got a package. Ciao.”
Aziraphale blinked, wandering through into the shop proper, a delivery man holding a small box under his arm, holding out a clipboard. Outside, there was a sound which could only be a Bentley roaring into life and tearing off through London at far too high a speed.
“Sign here, Mr. Fell,” said the delivery man, offering the clipboard. “The place looks nice this year.”
“Thank you,” said Aziraphale pleasantly, signing the form, and taking the box. “I suppose you’re rather busy this time of year.”
“I’m always busy,” said the delivery man, giving a nod. “Nice seeing you again, Mr. Fell.”
Aziraphale watched the man leave, then wandered back into the backroom. He sat down, sipping his wine as he opened the box. Inside was a mug. Inscribed on it was ‘World’s Best Shooer’. Aziraphale smiled. Some things really were ineffable[8].
1. Aziraphale never put an angel on top of his Christmas tree. There was something very unnerving for him about skewering an angel-figurine on top of a tree via it’s rear end. Besides, it would have been bound to induce lewd comments from his companion.
2. Aziraphale practically invented political correctness, not to mention going over the top.
3. He wasn’t. A man named Christopher Moore wrote them. For some reason, the man was hounded by a certain film company who used a species of vermin as their symbol. If he’d been of the mind to ask the right sort of people, he would have found the simple, if childish, reason for this was that: ‘he asked for it’.
4. Aziraphale had finally learned the band’s name after deciding to sort through all of Crowley’s cassette collection. He’d noticed that the songs were all the same, and finally did what he promised himself a few New Years ago and learned what the internet was. The internet, he learned, was a gold mine of useless information. He used his newfound knowledge of Crowley’s favourite ‘Be-Bop’ band as often as possible.
5. These noises went ‘BUUUUM Bum-Da-Bum-Da Buuuuuuuuum’, the sort of tune that would make one envisage a very different Angel of Music. One that seemed to be surgically attached to a lasso with a penchant for cape swishing and kidnapping scantily clad ladies into underground catacombs.
6. All offices have gossip. Heaven is no exception. They’re just nicer about it.
7. Aziraphale secretly longed for one of those novelty mugs, which stated ‘Worlds Best Shooer’. He felt this was something that was bought for you as a gift, and not something you bought yourself, and so had decided to wait for a friend to get him it. Considering that his only friend was Crowley, however, he had come to the conclusion that he would be waiting for a long, long time.
8. Or, indeed, ineffabibble.
Happy Holidays, 37_percent, from your Secret Author!