Monday, August 19, 2002 8:22:23 AM
hidoko Matsumoto (aka v0id)
email: voidmatsumoto@yahoo.co.uk
archive: if you really want, please ask. Scheduled to be at http://xz0ne.cjb.net
pairing: Crowley x Aziraphale, appearance of Marilyn Manson (without the Spooky Kids).
notes: I feel sick. Literally. And I think Adam is going to be entirely OOC…
Disclaimer: of course, my writing sucks, and copyright of some characters belong to neilgaiman and terrypratchett… Marilyn Manson belongs to himself, unless he has already sold his soul to another entity.
"i need to wash myself
again to hide all the dirt and pain i'd be scared that there's nothing
underneath and who are my real friends? have they all got the bends? am
I really sinking this low?"
-the bends. Radiohead
Crowley stirred the
thick brown mud, and sighed heavily when he thought of Aziraphale. The
angel was always coming to his mind. But he should have learnt to endure
it long ago.
He flipped through
a copy of Dracula, and thought miserably, damning comments and such of
the like were always made, and they were right. He would have been ashamed
to admit that he hadn't created Gothic Literature (which did cause unrest)
until Hell awarded him on its own accord.
But that was a long
time ago.
The Adversary and
the Duke of Hell were pretty much annoyed with him. Well, they made him
uncomfortable too. Two can play the game.
But first, something
needed to be sorted out. He drank the mud, and noted next time he should
wish a bit more sugar inside. This time, however, there was no time to
waste.
Brian took off his
sunglasses, blinked, and blinked, and blinked.
"You haven't changed
the least bit, did you?" Grinned Pepper, "I'll call Wensley. He'll be happy
to see you around again."
"We're having a vampire
gathering again?" Adam looked cheerful as he pranced around, "I'm sure
Greasy Johnson would like to come, too."*
Pepper looked at
Adam as if he had three eyes, and turned back to Brian, "You're looking
good today. Just eyeliner and no lipstick. You never did look good with
lipstick. Makes your lips look bloated."
"…Pepper?" Brian
blinked, "…Adam?"
"What are you doing
with fur? Weren't we trying to save whales the other time?" Adam looked
disapprovingly at Brian.
Brian looked guiltily
at his furcoat, "It came from white foxes."
"Oh, alright, I suppose
foxes are okay. I read they eat crops and rabbits an' all that." Adam said
dismissively, and Dog barked.
Pepper smiled, and
gestured towards the kitchen, "So, do you want anything? Staff discount
is twenty percent."
"Who said he could
have staff discount?" Growled the boss, saliva dripping from his lips as
he stuffed a burger into his mouth, "It's the usual price, with ten percent
service charge."
"Alright," Brian
said with a sigh, and turned to Pepper, "What do you have?"
Aziraphale had no
idea where the hell Tadfield was, but somehow found a taxi that was ready
to take him and the kitten all the way without extra surcharge. The driver
was bouncing along to Bach's "Fat Bottomed Girls", and even Aziraphale's
head bobbed up and down with a smile hung on it.
The kitten lay snuggled
in Aziraphale's lap, and had given up trying to dislodge its claws from
the red vest, which Aziraphale had been wearing often. Aziraphale held
it carefully; it was the first time he'd noticed that it was a fragile
little life, made of bones and blood and meat. He would never have understood
what it was like to live, he thought, staring at the kitten, even if six
thousand years on earth had made him somewhat acquainted to such lifestyle.
Bones and blood and
meat.
Angels were, too,
except in a more ethereal sort of way. After they died you don't have to
clean up the mess; they just sort of faded away, their skin turning translucent,
if there was any skin left in the first place.
Half-transparent
skin was always beautiful, Aziraphale remembered, or so the Metatron had
said.
Halfway down the
causeway, a Bentley zoomed sleekly through the maze of cars, and eventually
zoomed in front of it. Aziraphale waved desperately at it, and somewhere
down the causeway the familiar Bentley had stopped.
"Where to, Sir?"
Aziraphale said with a smile, as the owner of the car got out and walked
towards him. The kitten had dislodged itself and sat in Aziraphale's arms.
"I was going to ask
you that."
Maybe it was the
brown morning gross thing that seemed to perk him up better than cocaine.
"I thought you were
still…" Aziraphale blushed, gesturing, "Angry, or something."
Crowley smiled, perfectly
sober, "I'm not."
"Then why were you…?"
"You were, too, weren't
you?"
"Well, I admit I
was at one point of time, but you didn't have to be too, you know."
"Alright," Crowley
retreated back to his Bentley, which was miraculously unscathed in the
passing mayhem of the causeway, "Tadfield?"
"How do you know?"
"It's the
place of all evils. I suppose that's where all the clues are—at least,
that's where we could start."
Ten minutes later,
a brownie with some slushy vanilla ice cream was plopped onto the table.
Brian picked up the teaspoon automatically and began plowing through.
"I don't believe
it. You went to America, sang some songs, and became a millionaire?"
"You'll believe anything
if you've seen them at a concert," Brian waved a hand, "Or read any of
my interviews."
"Yeah, they actually
believed that you were born in America," Pepper grinned, "If only they
knew that Magic The Gathering originated from the Johnsonites."**
"They're ready to
believe anything like that. If you see anyone great, just tell them they're
either born in France or America. Britain yes, but only in London—never
Tadfield." Brian sipped his cup of coffee, and sighed with pleasure.
"Yeah, who is to
say what has happened in France and America?" Adam shook his head, "Hitler
is bad."
"Yeah, but it would
be so much fun to pretend to be him. After all, he's well known for everything,
like the Holocaust."
"Er…" Pepper raised
an eyebrow.
"And the Golf War.
I never thought Bushie was good in Golf until my dad said one day he dealt
with it well. I mean, they always get stuck in them," said Adam.
"And there's always
Mussolini. He inspired Hitler to wash all the Jews," Brian added enthusiastically.
"That's an italian
food isn't it? And Jews sure rhymes with chew. Sounds like one of those
cheesy commercials where the whole family gets diarrhea 'cause of funny
kids dancing about."***
"I'm sure they're
delicious," Mumbled Pepper, who decided that the conversation was going
nowhere. Afterall, this wasn't meant to be a school textbook; school texts
are bound to have the facts slightly more wrong, and are always
told with a straight face.
"Anything is better
than this slushy ice cream," replied Brian, who was stirring remnants of
the brownie. Occasional bits of brown bricks could be seen floating in
vanilla sludge.
And stop it. It
was a general agreement that was unsaid.
Crowley and Aziraphale
arrived at Anathema's house soon enough. Macy held the kitten delicately,
and smiled up at Aziraphale.
"I think she likes
you," grinned Anathema.
"She likes everybody,"
supplied Newt helpfully as Crowley looked away.
The kitten mewed.
"So what should we
call it?"
"I nunno," replied
Macy, as she gently stroked its fur, "Adam names his Dog. Should we name
her Cat?"
"It's a he,
Macy," said Anathema matter-of-factly when the kitten turned itself upside
down with its claws stuck in Macy's sweater, "and I'm sure he wants more
identity. What about… Gray?"
"Or Zen," Aziraphale
said, revealing his hours of deep pondering, "I've been thinking about
it. Zen's a kind of architecture with black and white décor, and
it's black and white all over."
The kitten mewed.
"Zen," said Macy,
"Zen zen zen. I wike you, Zen."
"Wait, I suppose
we do have angel foodcakes somewhere in the house, right?" Crowley said
with a smile.
"Why, I don't think
we do…" Newt looked thoughtful.
"You do. Go check
in the pantry," replied Anathema, who had caught Crowley's look.
"Angel?" Macy bounced
up, and the kitten's head bobbed up and down. "I wanna see!"
"Come with us," said
Anathema, pulling Newt by the arm.
"I finally realized,
Crowley, how to be your friend. It's endless indifference," Aziraphale
said with a smile on his face.
Silence. Aziraphale
sipped his tea slowly, when suddenly Crowley twitched, and he stood up,
his brows furrowed. "I think I want to go back."
Moments later, when
Macy came in with a fond Newt and Anathema, and filled the room with warmth,
Aziraphale had smiled, and politely excused himself. He wandered across
Tadfield, across a plain and the gentle hill slopes, away, into the faraway
forest that seemed to invite him to confession.
It wasn't that Anathema
and company weren't nice. They're nice, but… Aziraphale stared morosely
into the cup of tea that had been served to him. The house just wasn't
the same without Crowley.
* in more ways than one,
especially when Pepper was involved.
** Please don't sue me.
Where will literature be without satire and commentary on grassroot consumerism,
aye? Besides, nobody sued the author of JTHM who mentioned all the funky
taco outlets.
*** Please don't kill me,
Jhonen Vasquez! It wasn't me! It was the monkeys and the evil Elmo!