This story was written for my lovely Puff, who remains the best Crowley ever.
Okay, no matter how hard I have tried (and I have for a good hour), I cannot make fanfiction accept the use of small number to denote the presence of a footnote in the story. But I didn't want to scrap them, as they feel an integral part of GO to me, so all footnotes are denoted with (1) etc in the story.
Reviews are love. :3
Summer Holiday
In Crowley's long life, he had made quite a few mistakes, but only a small amount of Mistakes deserving of a capital M. His vague saunter in a downwards motion had, of course, been the initial Mistake that had brought an interesting medley of minor mistakes in its wake... but since then, he could only think of two major instances he had made a Mistake.
The more well-known of these had clearly been the problems involving Adam's location in his earlier years... although really, that had more been the fault of that infernal nun. The lesser-known Mistake was now simply referred to as the 'Edmunds Incident'(1) and not spoken of on pain of rather unpleasant consequences. However, both of these Mistakes notwithstanding, Crowley was beginning to believe he had found one that not only deserved to be added to the list, but would re-define the entire meaning of the word Mistake.
How could it have come to this? One minute he was having a relatively tolerable time with the angel, downing more than a few glasses of quite a nice vintage, nodding absently at whatever Aziraphale was rambling about without actually listening. Albeit he tuned in now and then, enough to catch that he had been waxing lyrical about whatever fool had decided to allow that jumped up television couple(2) to run a book club, but then he had tuned out again to save his own sanity. The next minute, he had apparently agreed that taking a 'nice summer vacation' would be a good way to unwind after that 'nasty Armageddon business'.
Now, Crowley didn't have anything against summer holidays(3), he was quite partial to a nice beach somewhere with lots of alcohol. What he did have something against, was the idea of hitching a caravan to his Bentley and spending a rainy weekend in Whitby watching the seagulls out of the window as Aziraphale checked seven dictionaries for whether a word should be allowed in Scrabble or not. It wasn't that he disliked his friend, but there were some things two adult males (or males-by-current-appearance if you wanted to be picky) should never do, and one of those was voluntarily enter a tacky plastic and metal box together in the British summertime.
He was so horrified when he realized what he had agreed to, that it had taken a full five minutes to actually hear what Aziraphale was wittering on about now, just staring behind customary shades as though the angel had somehow shanghaied him into visiting the Pit.
"...dreadfully tacky of course, but it seems fitting considering the location."
"What?"
"Dracula... haven't you been listening, dear boy? If we're going to be visiting Whitby, it seems a shame not to take a copy of Bram Stoker's greatest work of fiction."
"...No."
"No?" Aziraphale canted his head slightly to one side, confused as to what Crowley could have objection to.
"You're not getting me in a sodding caravan."
"But you already agreed."
"Then I un-agree." Crowley snorted, shaking his head emphatically for added effect. "No. No way. No how. Never in a month of Sunday's. Not if you paid me. I can keep going if you don't get the picture."
There was a pause, the silence falling between them as Aziraphale's brow furrowed in mild disapproval. Crowley braced himself for the inevitable argument, the gentle reminders that they both deserved to unwind after such a stressful time.
"Un-agree is terrible grammar."
Crowley turned a distinctly unimpressed look to his companion, the level of which was indescribable. The rules of grammar were hardly the point he had been trying to make, but obviously this was a lost cause. Crowley wanted to bang his head repeatedly against the table until he lost feeling in his face, it would undoubtedly be less painful than this conversation which, he could already see with a sense of impending doom, was going to end with him watching a television the size of a postage stamp from a sofa that turned into an uncomfortable bed. Perhaps it was time to try and different line of attack, as obviously the outright refusal was just going to be ignored and derailed.
"Wouldn't you rather go alone? A nice peaceful getaway with a few books and an easy-pack anorak?"
For a few short moments, Aziraphale looked quite tempted at that offer... which wasn't all too surprising considering who he was talking to, but then he just wagged a finger at his companion and made a shooing gesture towards the door.
"Go on, you should go and pack then get a good night's rest. We'll be up early to beat the traffic, after all."(4)
Stalking back to his car, Crowley drummed his fingers irritably on the steering wheel before feeling a smirk creep over his face. Oh. Oho. If Aziraphale thought he could get Anthony J. Crowley into a caravan, then he was one deluded angel. One short phone call later, and a very self-satisfied demon was smugly whistling as he carried an empty plant pot into his living room and set it down in plain view of a hibiscus that had been growing most unsatisfactorily.
Sure enough, early the next morning Crowley was wakened by a telephone call from a rather harrassed sounding angel, the background noise a muted buzz of at least half a dozen people.
"I'm terribly sorry, but it seems our plans will have to be po- No, madam, that is a first edition please don't- postponed for a while."
"Oh no." Crowley's voice couldn't be more flat if he'd been a deflated Michelin. "How terrible."
"I'm not quite sure what's happened, I've never been this busy before..."
Poor Aziraphale sounded like he wanted to cry. The appearance of more than one dusty old customer at a time had shocked him, and the crowd of around fifteen individuals... well, it was enough to give anyone a nervous breakdown. Crowley's grin was wide across his face, an arm flung under his head on the pillow as he felt the warm satisfaction of a wile successfully exacted without any thwarting in sight.
"I'm sure I'll think of a way for you to make it up to me."
"...hm? Yes, yes of course. Dinner is on me next time... AH! No, please I must protest don't touch that..."
There was a click, and then a dial tone as Aziraphale hung up his line immediately to go and see to whatever fiendish member of the public had dared touch one of his books that were supposedly for sale. Still smirking, Crowley padded out of bed and to the front door where a copy of the Times had been delivered as requested, thumbing through until he found the advert placed last night by anonymous telephone call.
HALF PRICE BOOK SALE
FREE CHOCOLATE GIVE-AWAY
322 Dean Street, Soho, London
It looked like this would be a good summer holiday after all...
(1) An unfortunate remark in the BBC headquarters by Crowley one day, which had led to the creation of Noel's House Party and Mr. Blobby. Even Downstairs had not wanted to take credit for the evil of that pink monstrosity.
(2) Richard and Judy's book club was not something Aziraphale was a fan of. At all.
(3) As a matter of fact, Crowley had been instrumental in the creation of Butlins resorts and the Red Coat phenomenon, and had thus doomed a generation of teenagers to being embarrassed as their parents stood up and did bad renditions of the Birdie Song. He'd got two Commendations for that.
(4) Beat the traffic was a phrase Aziraphale had heard on BBC 2 Radio, and had been waiting for a full two years to get it into conversation. Of course, they could just bypass jams by using a little divine intervention, but that was cheating.