Identity Theft
Disclaimer – Good Omens to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, others to themselves
I just couldn't help myself.
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The door to Aziraphale's rare bookshop in one of the seedier parts of nineteenth century London clattered and slammed with enough force that the usually depressed-sounding bell that chimed when a customer came in sounded not so much depressed as terminally terrified.
Crowley stormed in, letting the door bounce against its hinges a few times before settling down again. He started to pace with pent up rage. Aziraphale, used to these sorts of displays every so often in a few centuries, wisely said nothing until the demon had cooled off a little.
"Crowley, dear, whatever is the matter? I haven't seen you this worked up since some romantics thought of revitalising fourteenth century ideals."
Crowley stopped pacing.
"It's worse than that."
The angel's eyes widened in affected horror, though he was inwardly quite curious. Sometimes what the demon saw as awful was actually a blessing. One man's meat is another man's poison, and all that.
"So what is it?"
"Some bastard's stolen my name! Even my first letter!"
Aziraphale frowned. "You mean initial."
"Yeah. That. And he's not even one of mine, so I can't say I'm flattered by imitation."
"Oh. You mean that one. Actually, I almost thought he was you."
"You didn't. I wouldn't ever actually do those things. Just. . . you know – nudge people a bit. Tempting. I don't actually do the stuff, for He- Hea- Somewhere's sake!"
"No," Aziraphale said, repenting from the idea. "I suppose you wouldn't at that."
"For one thing," Crowley said with mounting disgust, "The guy's a Satanist. I mean, he's good at what he does, but how he does it, it's just. . . embarrassing."
For a while Aziraphale went back to his various precious books, during which Crowley glared ineffectually at books shelved by whatever the content was in Chapter Two. Finally, they both gave up.
"What I think you need, dear, is a nice day out at the park. Ducks to feed. Then we can think of something to do about this scoundrel of yours."
As they left, the angel holding a paper bag full of bread crusts, one could still hear them arguing faintly on the wind.
"Who said I wanted to do anything about the guy? He's trying to raise hell, why not let Hell take him?"
"Really, my dear. That's hardly the right way to go about these things. I'm sure that if we found out what it was that made him hate Up There so much we would be able to do something about it."
". . . Nah. I'm just waiting for him to get the wrong number dialling Hell. Beelzebub himself is unlikely, so I think I'll settle for a Duke. Wanna bet which one'll get him first? Hastur or Ligur."
"Now you know angels don't go in for that sort of thing, Crowley. I can't imagine how many sins that would be at once."
"I can. Revenge, instant gratification, gambling and murder to say a few."
". . ."
"Oh, fine. You can try and influence him, but I doubt it'll work."
"Why thank you, Crowley. I'm deeply touched."
The demon put a melodramatic hand to his heart.
"Doth mine ears deceive me? Is that sarcasm I hear, or are you really that stupid?"
"I don't think I'll dignify that with an answer. . ."
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AN: Because Crowley did have that name first. Aleister Crowley was a Very Bad Man who did Satanism and other Stuff. Whereas Anthony J Crowley is a demon, but isn't evil. Go figure – I thought he might be a trifle annoyed...