Crowley entered the dusty, dark and damp smelling book shop owned by his lover Aziraphale with a spring in his step. The aforementioned angel had been away in Japan for some time while he had been in Mexico and they were meeting up this afternoon to catch up on their separate travels.
"Aziraphale, close the shop up darling, we have reservations," Crowley sauntered aver to the shop desk and picked up a dusty pamphlet lying beside the antiquated till. It was a plea for more members, apparently Extreme Ironing was becoming a thing again.
He smiled, getting the whole obscure sports thing off the ground hadn't exactly led to nearly as much property damage and injury (except possibly with the planking craze) as he had hoped for, but it had provided the world with hours of guilty yet hilarious entertainment.
"Crowley love," replied Aziraphale's voice from the back room. Crowley immediately dropped the pamphlet – he knew that tone, something was up. Looking towards the backroom doorway he noticed the air was more clouded with dust than usual and that there was a muffled flapping noise.
"Now don't get angry…it's not as if I planned it," Aziraphale pleaded, his hands held out in a calming gesture as he stepped into view. The demon stiffened at an aura of extra holiness which clung to the angel and his nose began to twitch in reaction.
"What have you done," the demon asked slowly, then gave a hearty sneeze as the celestial scent irritated his tender nasal membranes. Whatever this was – it smelt old.
"Well, you know how I was to battle that Oni demon in Japan?" the blond angel rubbed his hands together anxiously, glancing behind him with a guilty look. "He was quite the brute. We battled for a day and night all through the beleaguered village, its fields and its accompanying shrine."
As he spoke the flapping noises grew louder and Crowley involuntarily took a couple of steps closer to try and see what was back there. The fight had obviously gone the angel's way, he appeared unharmed and Crowley knew his darling Principality's fighting technique was quite brutal as well.
Had the foolish angel brought his downed opponent home to heal?
"Well, it came to acts of strength I'm afraid," Aziraphale continued, "and at one point the Oni threw me quite hard against a lovely old prayer wheel, the 7 drum design was so exquisite and the…"
"The story, angel," Crowley snapped, feeling his skin begin to prickle and lightly blister.
"Ah, yes. Well, the prayer wheel broke, and guess who I found trapped inside! Go on, you'll never…"
"Aziraphale!"
But the angel didn't have to go on, as at that moment, attracted by the unholy vibes the demon was giving off, a cloud of Ophanim, little flying angels with six-wings, tumbled into the room calling "holy, holy, holy!" in their high pitched voices.
They were each the size of a Barbie doll, and had muted pastel wings and robes that shed dust as they fluttered around.
Crowley swore, and then he swore again. He tried to count how many there were, but they were too fast and he figured the fluttering throng consisted of at least seven (which there were – Crowley was good at counting, no matter what a snide angel might imply. He just didn't always own up to it).
They clustered around the larger angel and Aziraphale beamed at them adoringly.
"Heaven thought your lot had got them in one of the wars," he continued. "But they had found themselves lost on earth and were accidentally worked into the metal drums of a prayer wheel. Its holy aura had attracted them you see. " He cooed lovingly at his new flock and they flew in ever more excited circles.
"Lucky them," Crowley muttered, ducking as one of the mob swooped out and tried to buzz him.
"No!" Aziraphale scolded. "Galgalim, I told you already – you must stay away from Crowley or you could hurt him." The little lavender angel swooped back to join the group, but Crowley noted the glint in its eye. He'd have to keep a watch out for that one.
"And now that we have all met," Aziraphale beamed, "it's time for a little nap. Everyone into the basket now, come along!" He ushered the dusty mob back into the other room and when Crowley got near enough to look in he saw that they had all crowded into a large wicker picnic basket and curled themselves together to sleep.
The basket was lined with a soft tartan blanket. His angel could be so predictable sometimes. Or was that obstinate? He really wished he'd kept him opinion on the criss-crossed material to himself. His lover was not above some bloody-minded tenacity just to get back at him.
"Oh, aren't they precious?" Aziraphale sighed. "They've been packed into those metal cylinders together for so long; they can hardly bear to be apart from each other, the poor precious dears." The angel kept facing the bundle of angelic cuteness, but he was watching Crowley carefully from the side of his eye.
"What, dare I ask, do you plan to do with them?" Crowley crept closer so that he stood pressed up beside Aziraphale in the doorway.
Aziraphale smiled hopefully, and Crowley let out a loud groan. His life hadn't been perfect by a longshot – but he didn't need ancient, idiotic Ophanim burning his skin, making him sneeze and taking his angels time up with settling them in to the twentieth century.
No, he wouldn't allow it. It wasn't to be done and he wouldn't assist. He wouldn't.
The lavender one gave a sleepy yawn and pulled its brethren to its sides in a protective hug, pausing to give Crowley a warning glare.
Shit. He would be helping after all...