A/N: This chapter was a bit of a long time coming as I spent most of last month working on a fic for the Good Omens Holiday Exchange over on Livejournal. I've been a bit off-colour this week, so apologies in advance for any dreadful abuses of spelling, punctuation or grammar that may have resulted from the catastrophic case of brain-failure I've had.
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"More demon, more." As the muffled cries of enthusiastic pleasure filtered down through the ancient floorboards of Peybury Hall, Sable found himself frowning. Though rather more breathless and desperate than usual, the voice was instantly recognisable. His colleague was clearly embroiled in more than just a simple crisis of direction, and it took no great stretch of the imagination to guess whom he was embroiled in it with. Sable didn't like it. Not one bit.
"I want to you to touch every inch of me."
"You're a dirty," gasp, "filthy," pant, "tart," noise like a wounded animal, "you know that?"
The angel blushed.
The women giggled.
The Witchfinder Sergeant – whose personal hygiene would have had Pestilence beaming from ear to pustulent ear – scowled.
The concussed American just muttered something about the Dow Jones falling next Thursday.
"Yes, I'll your filthy tart."
Henry Peybury looked as though he was about to cry.
"Come on, Henry," said the exquisitely thin redhead, managing to hold back an obvious urge to snigger. "Could you imagine having to listen to that every time you…." She made an obscene yet very succinct hand gesture.
"I suppose your right," the man said, looking less than convinced.
"Of course I am."
The elderly Witchfinder Sergeant's scowl deepened. "There's demons abroad in this house of sin an' all yer can do is stand around chattering like a bunch o'wimmin."
The angel, who was looking more and more uncomfortable by the minute, gave a sigh. "Mr. Shadwell, I really don't think that this falls within your jurisdiction."
The old man positively seethed. "Think ye know more than me about the duties of a Witchfinder Sergeant, do ye, ye big Southern ponce?"
"Now don't be so silly," said the Witchfinder Sergeant's overly made-up companion. "There's no point getting all worked up about what Mr. Peybury's guests are doing upstairs."
As the dirty talk gave way to incoherent moans, Sable, feeling deeply troubled, yet not quite able to articulate to himself why, fixed Henry with a piercing gaze.
"How did White come to be here tonight?"
The man drew back a little as Sable's attention was focussed aggressively upon him.
"He's a friend of Jennifer and Abigail's."
"More of an acquaintance than friend," interjected the thin woman. "I don't really know anything about him other than the fact that he's decent artist in the middle of that 'What is the meaning of life?' crap they all seem to get."
From the floor above there came an especially loud and wanton moan.
"He also seems to have terrible taste in men," she added. "Not that I've got any right to throw stones in that regard, of course."
Henry shifted uncomfortably, an audible rumble coming from the direction of his now very hungry stomach. "He did mention to me that the two of you used to work together, but that he got bored of the occupation." He gave a regretful sigh. "But then, that's the nature of the artistic temperament, I suppose: bright, brilliant and just about as flighty as you can get."
Sable gave a small laugh. It was the reassuring chuckle of somebody who has complete faith in their ability to deal with the foibles of others.
"It's just a temporary glitch. The kid's a creative prodigy, but, like you say, he's as flighty as they come. What he really needs is a little guidance and understanding."
"A few weeks work in some crappy, barely legal, dead end job would probably help. Nothing like that to bring you back down to earth," said the thin woman.
"Jenny!" cried her regrettably robust and healthy friend. "That's an awful thing to say. He needs a new boyfriend and a sense of perspective, not a stint on the graveyard shift."
The thin woman stood firm. "In my experience there's nothing like spending three month in a cramped, over-heated, badly-ventilated industrial unit, sewing zips onto pairs of knockoff jeans to give you a sense of perspective."
"Darling, I do think you're being a bit harsh," said Henry. "I know that all these experiences were probably as character building for you as boarding school was for me, but they really can crush the creative spirit in less resilient individuals."
Sable smiled. It was not in any way a nasty, cruel or in any way suspicious smile, but all of the humans in the room began to feel a certain amount of discomfort as his thin lips quirked. "She's got a point, Henry. Right now he doesn't have anything to ground him and, well, let's just say that there have been a few 'issues' as a result."
"What kind of 'issues'?" asked Henry.
"A few situations within what you might call The Organisation."
"Oh dear." A look of worry flashed across the man's face. "Nothing too severe, I hope."
"Nothing that'll threaten the company or our relationship with Voltage, I promise you. What I meant was that he's left a space on the personnel roster that'll be damned hard to fill if I can't persuade him to return."
Henry instantly relaxed. Sable was good at reassuring people, it was a skill he'd picked up over the millennia of convincing village chiefs that the grain store didn't need to be expanded in preparation for any potential winter shortage and that the resources would be better devoted to preparing for an imminent invasion by that other small clan who lived on the other side of the hill/forest/lake/glacier (Carmine was always appreciative of his help). Besides, he was telling the truth. Whatever happened with White, he'd still need an amoral advertising company to help him promote his books and products.
"Do you think that you'll be able to: get him to go back, that is?"
"I'm pretty confident that I can persuade him that it'd be in everybody's best interest for him to rejoin us."
He smiled to himself as the angel gave an almost sub-audible 'I really do hope so'. Despite the heavenly agent's obvious unease at his presence, Sable did not bear any great amount of ill will towards the being vis-à-vis the aversion of the Apocalypse. Whilst being reduced to nothing more than a concept floating in the roiling sea of human consciousness had been unpleasant, it had also been a temporary state and one that he'd quickly sprung back from. Famine been killing time and people for several highly satisfying millennia and was perfectly content to continue to do for several more. If push came to metaphorical shove, the angel Aziraphale could become an ally in this matter. However unconventional he might be, the angel was still a divine being: and Sable was certain no divine being could approve of the effect that White's dereliction of duty was having.
"In a way I blame myself," he said, allowing his smile to turn rueful. "When I look back I see that I could have been a better mentor; should have been there when he started having his doubts. But hindsight, as they say, is twenty-twenty."
"He still seems to think about you a lot," said Henry cautiously, clearly not quite certain of the exact nature of the relationship between Sable and White. "He did the most wonderful drawing of you on the wall outside my study."
Sable raised a thin, dark eyebrow. It was unusual and uncharacteristic, but he couldn't help but feel a tinge of something approaching pleasure at the thought "He did a drawing of me?"
The man nodded. "It was amazing, I'm not quite sure how best to describe it, but—"
Before he got a chance to attempt to describe the seemingly indescribable, Henry was cut off by a loud and extremely startled yelp from above.
"Oh dear God. I thought this was the bathroom."
The voice was unfamiliar to Sable, but it caused the Witchfinder Sergeant to suddenly stand bolt upright, face contorting into an expression of horror and disgust.
"What in the name of God are they doin' tae the boy," he raged. "Tis one thing for them to perform their diabolic rituals alone, but makin' him watch them summoning up some foul fiend… Well, I won't stand fer it."
"Now steady on, love," said his companion, in a soothing voice, as she grabbed his shoulder. "The silly boy probably just walked into the wrong room by accident."
Refusing point blank to be soothed, the Witchfinder Sergeant shrugged off the woman's grip. "I have tae save my Private damn you all," he cried out, waving a fist and heading towards the door.
After a moment of silence the angel cleared his throat. "Do you think we should…?"
"Follow him?" Sable supplied. "It might be for the best."
"I'd better show you the way," said Henry, before hesitating for a second and turning to the thin woman. "Jennifer, you're still sober aren't you."
"Of course, I am," she said, looking mildly resentful about the fact. "Doctors orders."
"You wouldn't mind driving down to Dibbler & Dibbler's and picking me up a Weekend Discount Extra Spicy Special, would you?"
The woman positively gaped. "Haven't you heard about the state of their kitchens? They've been shut down twice this year on the grounds that the place was a severe hazard to public health. Hell, I've even heard that MI5 once investigated them for possible links to international bioterrorism."
"I know," he said helplessly. "It's completely insane, but I've got this sudden almighty craving a… a big, greasy kebab with that mouth immolating saurce of theirs."
"Henry, I'm not driving all the way to Summerstorm Point to buy you a botchulism infested kebab." She smirked. "Well, unless you'd be willing to let me borrow that Aston Martin of yours for the next month."
For around a second and a half Henry seemed to give the proposition serious consideration.
"On second thoughts, I could probably just get something from the caterers," he said, defying his stomach's angry growl.
As the Hungry, hapless Henry Peybury proceeded to lead Sable and the angel Aziraphale out of the library and towards a large wooden staircase, up which the Witchfinder Sergeant was already heading surprising speed, the personification of Famine made certain to render every variant of foodstuff within the confines of Peybury Hall inedible. Well, every variant of foodstuff barring the harder types of liquor. It always did to give a nod to Carmine's favourite social lubricant when one could.
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For almost half a minute Newton Pulsifer stood, frozen to the spot, as the men entwined on the tattered bed sheets stared at him. His mind was giving his feet very firm instructions to turn around and walk away very quickly. His feet on the other hand were opting to remain resolutely fixed to the spot.
The hapless Witchfinder Private didn't quite have the mental vocabulary to adequately describe the level of stomach churning embarrassment he was currently experiencing. However, it was definitely up there with the time he'd accidentally spammed every member of United Holdings PLC with a obscene photograph of a man and a sheep (he'd been trying to forward a spreadsheet to his boss); and though this situation would not lead to him being sent for mandatory psychiatric evaluation and counselling, it was still utterly mortifying.
"Look, do you mind," snapped the worryingly familiar dark haired man, clearly growing tired of the gaping interloper.
Newt tried once again to get his feet to work. When this failed he attempted to engage his vocal chords. Alas, he couldn't seem to manage more than a stuttered "S...s...sorry."
"Why is his presence of any consequence?" asked the paler, younger looking man with the white hair. Disturbingly, this seemed to be a genuine question on his part.
The dark haired man opened his mouth, with the ostensible intention of giving a firm run down as to why Newt's presence was very much 'of consequence' when he suddenly paused and gaped at Newt.
"Oh ssshit!"
"What is it?" he demanded, the resultant stab of panic somehow returning control of his vocal and motor functions to him.
"Your hands."
Confused, Newt held them up to his face, before promptly blanching when he saw that they were now a) covered in angry little blisters and b) swelling at an alarming rate.
"What the hell have you done to him?" the dark haired man demanded of his pale lover, who merely responded by quirking his head.
"What do you mean?"
"Oh come on, it sure as hell wasn't me. I mean, look at him, he's… going up like a balloon."
The pale man shrugged and proceeded to start caressing his bedfellow's chest. "Oh that, it was something I perspired. It sometimes happens when I'm excited... and you got me very excited."
Had he not at that moment felt his throat begin to swell, Newt might very well have found it within himself to either leg it or, at the very least, strongly chide the two men for their obvious lack of elementary manners. As it was however, he just about managed to croak out a quiet but very direct: "Could you call an ambulance please?"
"Oh for someonesss sssake!" the dark haired man hissed, visibly paling. "What's the antidote?"
Still the epitome of calm unconcern the pale man gave another shrug. "I wouldn't know. I've never excreted antidotes. Well, apart from the ones that cause more damage that the poison itself." He nipped the top of the dark haired man's right ear, before pouting a little when his lover failed to respond to the gesture. "Why don't you just banish it from him?"
The dark haired man's eyes widened. "What, you mean heal him?"
"Yes."
"I couldn't do that. I'm a demon."
The pale man gave a small musical laugh and buried his face in the crook of the other man's neck. "But you're not truly interested in furthering the diabolic agenda. Neither of us would be here if you were. If you had the world would have already ended."
"Yes, but that still doesn't make me not a demon."
Not quite certain how much of what he was presently witnessing was an audio-visual hallucination Newt attempted to redirect the line of conversation back to what he personally felt to be the most pressing matter.
"Look, I could really do with one of you calling an ambulance… or finding Anathema. You see I'm having slight difficulty breathing… and…." He stopped speaking as it became necessary for him to slump to the floor and focus on trying to get a minimal level of oxygen to his lungs.
The last thing he saw before his vision began to dark over was the dark haired man making a reluctant rather peculiar hand gesture in his direction.
The last thing he heard was a flurry of footsteps, followed by a very familiar voice denouncing witches, demons and southerners, and declaring that it was 'The Finger' for anybody who got in his way.
----------
Just as an enraged Witchfinder Sergeant was rushing to Newton Pulsifer's rescue, the Them were being briskly led through the ground floor of Peybury Hall by a scarily focussed Adam.
"Look, are you sure this is quite so urgent?" said Wensleydale, struggling to keep up as his gaze was captured by a tray of snacks that an immaculately suited waiter was carrying around on a silver platter. It was a sight that instantly reminded him that he hadn't eaten for several hours. "I mean, surely your friend's employment problems can wait for another ten or fifteen minutes."
Adam didn't answer, choosing instead to pick up the pace.
"Wensley's right," said Pepper, who was not struggling quite so hard to keep up with their friend's sudden increase in speed. "Wouldn't it be better to get our bearings before searching for this guy you're looking for? We could get a drink and ask around and…." She trailed off as Adam suddenly came to an abrupt halt.
"Oh shit!"
The three other members of the Them turned to stare at him.
Feeling concerned, Wensleydale opened his mouth to speak. "What's going—"
"They've found him," was Adam's worryingly cryptic response. "And now there's going to be a bloody huge row."
Pepper gaped. "Adam, what the hell are you on about?"
"I really need to go and make sure things don't get too ugly. You three should stay down here."
Before any of his three friends had a chance to respond, Adam set off, at preternatural speed, towards the staircase located at the opposite end of the hallway.
Wensleydale looked from Pepper to Brian, who seemed to be reacting to Adam's peculiar behaviour with annoyance and confusion respectively.
"He's just being Adam, right?" said Wensleydale, desperately seeking reassurance.
"Yeah," said Brian. "He's just being Adam, but…." He left the sentence hanging in the obvious hope that one of the other two would supply the sentiment in a more eloquent fashion than 'he seems to have gone off the bloody deep end this time'.
"But he's being more Adam-like than is usual or healthy," said Pepper, in uncharacteristically diplomatic fashion.
"We should probably all talk to him and… and stuff," suggested Brian, clearly not wanting to use such aggressive words such as 'demand', 'confront' or 'challenge' when it came to Adam, but indirectly implying them all the same.
"We're probably not going to get much sense out of him tonight," said Wensleydale, doubtfully.
"Tomorrow then," said Pepper.
The two young men nodded. "Tomorrow," they chorused in unison.
"What do we do now then?" said Brian after a few seconds had lapsed.
Wensleydale shrugged. "I suppose we could look around. Maybe get something to eat and drink."
Pepper gave a grin. "Scoffing some immoral, over-privileged git's food and drink after gate-crashing his party sounds good to me."
-----------
Unlike the angel Aziraphale and Henry Peybury, Sable did not break into a run as the flight of stairs terminated and the shouts and yells of Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell began to echo down the hall. Instead he opted to continue at brisk but unhurried pace: taking time to briefly pause and appreciate the strange yet brilliant likeness of him that now resided in black marker on the wall of the corridor. Odd, he thought, as he resumed walking, that White would turn out to have such a talent for representing things at one remove from reality. Still, if he was entirely honest with himself – which unlike certain members of the angelic and demonic fraternity, he liked to think that he was rather adept at – Sable had to concede that he had never really paid his young co-worker the attention he had quite obviously needed. Well, all that was going to change. Just as soon as he could persuade White to see reason and return to his post.
"What tae've yeh done to him yeh flashy southern bastard?" he heard the elderly Witchfinder yell up ahead. "Tryin' to summon up some foul fiend with yer immoral rituals were you, eh? Well, it's going to be the finger for you and all your wicked demons."
Quickening his steps a little, he turned a corner to see a young man collapsed outside an open bedroom door and a flush-faced Henry Peybury leaning against the wall, coughing and wheezing.
"Oh Crowley, what have you done?" the angel demanded, making a series of complicated and slightly flailing hand gestures in quick succession, in a move to clear the air and the bodied of the afflicted humans of the potent toxins that had been swirling from the room.
"Hey, that wasn't me," protested a voice from within.
Sable gave a tiny smile. The embodiment of Pollution hadn't entirely forsaken his wonderful talents.
As the Witchfinder Sergeant continued his diatribe and the angel Aziraphale tended to the young man of the floor, Sable walked passed them and into the bedroom.
The sight of White entwined with the former Serpent of Eden caused him to experience a sharper and far stronger stab of the unpleasant emotion he'd experienced on hearing his young associates ecstatic cries whilst in the library.
"Hello White," he said, not deigning to acknowledge the demon Crowley, who recoiled in a strangely satisfying manner as he strode towards the edge of the bed.
Much to Sable's chagrin White did not bother to disentangle himself from the mildly panicked demon.
"Hello Sable," said the pale, beautiful entity. Not looking entirely happy about the presence of his recently estranged fellow Horseperson, but not seeming wholly upset about this sudden turn of events either. If anything he appeared to be… apprehensive. "What do you want?"
After a three second pause, during which the demon's obvious panic intensified in a highly gratifying manner, Sable spoke.
"White, you and I need to have a serious talk."