PLEASE NOTE: The original text for Books & Brimstone was published first at my other FF account, Ninja Fangirl. I've fixed up a bunch of my mistakes and am reposting it here. I hope you all enjoy it! Remember, this is oooooooold writing, except for the Epilogue, so it's allowed to be craptastic.
DISCLAIMER AND WARNING: The characters Hastur, Crowley, and Aziraphale, as well as the basic plot ideas and setting, belong to the almighty genius that is Terry Pratchett.
IF YOU'VE THE THIS FAR, YOU KNOW THE DRILL. Mild slash, language, blah blahdy blah...
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Aziraphale was having more fun than he'd had in a century. As a matter of fact, he hadn't had this much fun since the invention of the bicycle. He bought a gelato (1) from an outdoor vender and window-shopped his way through various markets and bazaars, bright autumn sun shining benevolently down on his blonde head and green and blue tartan sweater vest. The few lingering holiday makers watched him with a mixture of admiration and disbelief. Never before had any of them seen such an apparently gay man with such horrible taste.
The town was idyllic and green with many outdoor markets and smiling citizens. In fact, it was just like the website put forward by the Surrey city counsel advertised. Of course, Aziraphale wouldn't know this, as he never went online. (2) He did, however, find Surrey quite quaint and adorable.
The angel speculatively licked ice cream out of his spoon, eyes off somewhere in the middle distance. To onlookers he appeared to be quite fascinated by the display of late harvest vegetables in a stall, when he was actually quite adamantly considering all that had happened to and around his person in the last few days. They were lovely turnips, though. He nibbled absently on the end of the plastic eating utensil.
"You look sexy when you do that." A low, humor filled voice murmured two inches from his ear.
Aziraphale yelped, simultaneously leaping away and flinging the nearest thing to hand (a half-full paper bowl of gelato) directly into the face of his would-be attacker. This action startled a string of disjointed curses from behind the melting ice cream.
"Shit! Bless it! What the-?! Damn! He- Erm, Michigan!"
"Crowley?" He slowly brought his arms down from the defensive fail-and-slap position of a moment before, peering owlishly into the angry, glasses-clad face.
"Who else, angel? Go- er, Santa Claus..."
The angel covered his mouth with one hand, eyes crinkling up around the edges in a peculiar fashion. Small, strangled gasping noises escaped around the hand and his shoulders heaved up and down. To all appearances he was--
"--Angel, are you laughing at me?" Crowley asked, disbelief coloring his voice.
"Y-you have..." The strangled giggles broke in again and the blonde angel had to take down his hand in order to gasp for air, momentarily forgetting that he didn't actually have to breathe. "Oh... Oh my g-goodness..." He chortled, "You h-have ice cream all over your face..." He broke down completely, bent over double with mirth.
"And just whose fault is that, exactly?" The demon asked testily. He sat down on the bench, looking sulky. "I'm glad that my misfortune has benefited someone." He added.
Aziraphale stopped laughing, a look of shock and guilt creeping over his features. "Goodness gracious! I'm so sorry, my dear. You wait right here and I'll go get some napkins to clean you off with. Don't move a muscle!"
Crowley sat obediently until the blonde returned, clutching in one hand a wad of paper napkins and in the other a bottle of distilled mountain spring water. He soaked one of the flimsy bits of paper in water and proceeded to delicately dab at the offending pink goo.
The owner of the face on which the goo resided gasped at the touch of the paper. "Angel, that's cold." He complained pointedly, catching the ministering hand with his own.
Aziraphale blinked at the unexpected contact, a rosy tint coloring his creamy cheeks. "Crowley?"
"Mmm hmmm?"
"Let go of my hand, please."
"I don't think I want to."
"I want you to."
"Lets put it before parliament and have a vote."
"This is ridiculous!" Aziraphale tugged his hand from the other's grasp, standing up quickly. "Just wish yourself clean, or something." He flicked his hand to encompass the dripping mess.
Crowley sighed, waved his hand vaguely, and the ice cream disappeared.
"What are you doing here anyway?" The angel asked icily.
"Maybe I just decided to come on vacation?"
"I think you followed me."
A small serpentine grin. "Do you want me to have followed you?"
"I-I don't see what that has to do with anything."
"You're blushing angel. It's cute."
Aziraphale hugged his arms to his hideously tartan-clad chest. "I am not and it is not."
Crowley smiled the smile of a crocodile that has spotted a particularly tasty looking toy poodle. A particularly tasty looking toy poodle lying prostrate on a lawn with a bottle of tartar sauce in one paw and a piece of cardboard with "EAT ME" scrawled across it in the other. He moved in for the kill.
For the second time in as many days, Aziraphale, emissary to heaven, angel of God, used book dealer extraordinaire, found himself being kissed without so much as a "by your leave". And for the second time in as many days he discovered that he didn't really mind.
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Mr. Marvin O. Bagman(3) was on tour. His agent had decided that, after the incident with the English ghost, it would be best if her client left Nebraska to "expand his borders". In fact, he was scheduled to be expanding his borders for the next two and a half years. Mr. Bagman insisted that he had been possessed by the ghost of a very polite, effeminate Englishman. His agent really didn't care what he wanted to call it, whatever it was had happened on live television and was broadcasted into about half a million homes care of the cable network. And so here he was, performing his latest re-worked classic "Jesus Doesn't Care How Much Money You Have" to less than enthralled British viewers.
Marvin O. Bagman sat at the breakfast table in the large chain-hotel where he was staying during his week in London, sawing his way through a particularly well-cooked piece of fat-congealed bacon. Katie Lowell ( Mr. Bagman's agent) hurried up to the linen draped table, a worried expression on her extensively made up face.
"Mr. Bagman," She murmured to her employer, "There's a tall Welsh fellow here who'd like to have a word with you. Should I bring him over, or tell him to screw off?"
"'S probably one of my many adoring fans. Show him over." He patted his luxuriant middle comfortably, untucking the napkin from his collar and wiping his greasy lips with it.
The handsome gentleman who accompanied Ms. Lowell when she returned was hardly what Marvin had been expecting. His usual fans were either middle aged aunts in sweaters and polyester pants, or weird teenagers with acne and high ponytails. The red-haired man gave Marvin's agent a sincere smile, which she nervously returned before making a quick escape. The newcomer pulled up a chair to the table, elegantly seating himself in it.
"Mr. Marvin O. Bagman?" He asked, his welsh brogue curling the edges of his words warmly.
Marvin leaned back in his chair, smiling benevolently at the gentleman. "That's me, pardner." He said, casually throwing a Texas twang into his speech.
"Ah'm really sorry 'bout this."
What? Why was he sorry? So far, the man hadn't done anything to offend anyone. Mr. Bagman opened his mouth to tell him so when-- WHAP!!! A powerful force collided with his face, sending him reeling backwards. The Welsh guy had slapped him full on the face!
"Ah really am sorry. God says ye can write cheesy songs about His son all ye wan', but to leave the Beetles alone." Through watering eyes Mr. Bagman watched as the tall man stood to leave. "Oh, an' don' ferget teh tip the waitress. She's a nice lass."
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"It was just my luck--"
"Luck of the Devil."
"Hey, at least it's luck." Crowley grinned wickedly. "Anyway, I had just come out of the shop when that little old lady -you know, the one who owns that antique store- came up and said that you'd wandered away muttering something about Surrey." The demon shook his head with a mixture of amazement and amusement, casually sliding his arm along the back of the bench and around behind Aziraphale's shoulders. "Oh, and she wants you to pick up your own newspaper. She's tired of fishing them out of her front display."
"I get the newspaper?'
"Apparently yes." He shivered in his thin coat. A brisk breeze had picked up and was blowing tidings of winter around his ankles and into all of those tender little places that you don't realize you have until they get cold. He may not actually get cold, but his instincts caused his teeth to chatter.
The angel stood up, smiling shyly. "May I tempt you to some dinner?"
"That's my line." Crowley grinned. "You are buying, right?"
"Of course I'm buying. I offered the invitation, didn't I?" He pulled a face at the demon, who chuckled in an irritating fashion. "Besides, I owe you one."
"I'll say you do! I was emotionally scarred by that frozen dessert that you threw in my face. I won't be able to look at ice cream for decades!" He offered his arm to the blonde. "Lead on angel."
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The place that Aziraphale lead Crowley was a little country inn, a cozy, homey place that smelled vaguely of boiled cabbage and used far more gold leaf in its decoration than good taste allowed. It was suspiciously Aziraphalian in nature, and even more suspicious was the "Good Evenin', Mr. Fell" that the young hostess greeted them with. The angel pointedly ignored the eyes boreing into the back of his skull, sitting down at the booth to which he had been lead and gracefully accepting the menu the smiling girl offered him. Finally, when she had scampered off to fetch tall glasses of water with lemon slices and left the two immortals alone, Aziraphale spoke.
"Alright, alright. I admit it. The reason we're here is because I have a room here." Dark eyebrows shot up beyond the frames of black sunglasses, but the angel didn't seem to notice. "But I mean, golly! Not all of us just wish our money into existence."
That threw Crowley for a loop. "What?"
"We don't all just wish our money into--"
"No, not that. Why did you bring up money just then?"
"Because... Well, because guests of the inn get a discount on meals, of course! Why else, pray tell?"
The resounding thump that echoed from the small booth was resultant of a demon methodically pounding his forehead into the hardwood table. "Angel, have I ever told you how dense you can be at times?"
"Maybe it's not that I'm dense, but that I refuse to take part in the silly little games you play." He said airily, waving a hand in a banishing gesture. "Ooooh! Eggplant parmesan!"
The thumping ceased. "'Silly little games'?"
"Yes, you know, like all of this ridiculous flirting and kissing me without asking first."
"Tell me, Aziraphale, if I asked you would you say yes, hmm?"
"...Maybe."
"My point exactly. Better just to dive on in, I say."
Aziraphale opened his mouth to say that, in his opinion, things should probably not be left up to Crowley to decide, but he rethought it and closed his mouth again. There was a short silence and then the conversation was steered onto safer and more mundane topics, like the weather and the reorganization of book titles.
Finally the meal arrived and they ate in silence, interrupted only by the clinking of silverware and the occasional lifting to the lips of lemon-bedecked glasses. The angel paid the check and the pair left the dining room.
"Well... Drive safely." Aziraphale offered awkwardly.
"Already? I thought you would at least invite me up for coffee." Crowley sighed in a disgusted manner.
"Oh. Yes. Coffee. Right. Well, I guess I can figure something out. Come along, then."
The demon followed the retreating tartan up a claustrophobic stairway and down a lamp lit hallway to a door marked with a lopsided number 7. As the door opened, Crowley received the momentary impression that he was drowning in doilies. Every available surface in the room was covered in the lacey things, and the lingering smell of cats made itself known in an underhanded fashion. He closed and discreetly locked the door behind himself, watching with mild amusement as Aziraphale searched the kitchenette (4) for mugs, a kettle, and instant coffee.
"I know I saw them somewhere in here..." His voice was muffled by the cabinet in which his head was currently thrust.
"Angel?"
"What?"
"Shut up and come over here. You're driving me crazy."
Aziraphale straightened and approached slowly, a teaspoon and a jar of Folger's crystals held in front of him like shields.
"I'm not going to eat you." Yet, he amended mentally. "Just come over here." He reached out an uncharacteristically gentle hand, pushing a straying strand of dish-water blonde hair out of the angel's wary face. "May I kiss you, Aziraphale?" He asked, voice gentle.
"I-I think you may."
"Good enough for me." Strong arms around angel's body, two soft thumps as a jar and a spoon hit the carpet, tentative hands remove dark glasses, blue eyes meet yellow. A fwump and a creak of ancient bedsprings heralded the landing of an angel borne down by a grinning demon.
"Looks like you've fallen, angel."
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The ducks at St. James Park were fast asleep, feathers fluffed and bills hidden against the oncoming bite of autumn. The man clad in dark, non-descript clothing sidled down the pavement, seating himself on a bench beneath a large spreading maple, it's red leaves nearly invisible in the dark. The man was soon joined by another, this one wearing a long tan wool coat and a fluffy white scarf against the chill. The second man seated himself by the first, gazing thoughtfully up through the branches at the large, full moon.
"Yankees won the world series. Ah tol' you they would."
"Thou art lucky. Nothing more."
"Pay up."
The dark figure sighed and dug in his pocket to produce a white envelope. "...I could just refuse to give it to thee."
"We both know yeh wont." The man in the wool coat took the envelope, tucking it securely into the inside pocket of his coat. "Ah have a call on the Red Socks(5) for next year."
"It won't ever happen."
"...We'll see. Have a nice year."
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A horrible little bird was singing outside the lace encrusted window, it's shrill voice piercing through Crowley's sleep infused mind. For a moment he couldn't think of why he was so tired, or why he was so sore, but then... Yes! Oh yes! Memory flooded back, accompanied by a self-satisfied smirk. He rolled over, draping his arm over where the pale, soft skinned flank of his angel should be, dozing peacefully. Should be, but wasn't. He sat up, staring intently at the empty spot beside him. His yellow eyes lifted, searching the room for any evidence of the other being's presence. Everything was gone. The demon swung his bare legs over the side of the bed and something went "crinkle" beneath his rear. He pulled the sheet of paper from under himself, flattening it to see the familiar copperplate handwriting on the inn stationary. It read:
My dear Crowley,
I am going back to Heaven, as He has no use for me down here anymore. It isn't you. I love you. Please don't follow me. I don't think I have the self control to leave if I see you again.
I don't want to fall,
Aziraphale
The demon sat for a long moment, staring intensely at the paper. Slowly, a tendril of smoke lifted from the sheet, curling gracefully upwards. The stationary shrank, blackening and finally crumbling into gray ash on the floor. Crowley stood decisively, snapping his fingers to summon a coal-black tailored suit. He slid his dark glasses, discarded on the carpet nearby, up the bridge of his nose, finger-combing his hair back from his face.
"'Don't follow me' my ass." He growled, stalking down to his parked Bentley. He turned towards London, and not one cop attempted to stop him, even though he was driving 30 MPH above the speed limit. A good thing, too; spontaneous combustion isn't pretty, or comfortable.
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(1) Gelato is a truly wonderful type of Italian ice cream. It's really rich and creamy and comes in all sort of great flavors. My personal favorite, and subsequently Aziraphale's, is raspberry. If you ever get the chance, get some. You wont regret it!
(2) The internet was invented by some demon or another. Crowley had nothing to do with it's conception, as he was busy working on the cable television project at the time.
(3) Remember him? Here's a hint for all you cannon fanatics out there: Pages 249- 253. Marvin was too cool a character not to have a cameo.
(4) Hardly a kitchenette at all. It has a cupboard and a microwave.
(5) . Muahahahahahahaha...