Summary: What does it take for a person to sell their soul?
Disclaimer: How I wish I owned Crowley and Aziraphale, Hell would be nice
too, if only for the profit I'd make. But, alas, I don't own them. Sophie
belongs to her mum, Anita to herself and Norah... well you'll see.
WARNING: Selling your soul is a risky and complicated business that shouldn't be tried at home.
Concerning a Soul
Norah would be the first to admit it had been a bad day, a very bad day. Not only had she recently been fired but also Sophie's temperature had reached dangerously high. At the moment, the 2-month year-old baby was sleeping, after wailing herself to exhaustion. Wearily, she slumped onto her own bed; her eyes fell to the envelope, a final notice. If she didn't have the rent by Friday they'd be kicked out, and she didn't have the rent.
She knew there was no use running to her family, they had made it clear enough that they had wanted nothing to do with her when she tearfully announced that she was pregnant, her hand strayed to the phone, perhaps she should call Anita. But she didn't want to put pressure on her sister. There was always the government, she supposed, but the forms were so bewildering to her.
"I'd sell my soul for that money." the words, though spoken softly had real desperation and pain behind them. Her eyes closed and tears seeped out through the gaps. With much drama, a hole opened up from under her feet. She barely had enough time to swallow a breath of the steaming smoke-filled air before she was dragged down.
Had Norah previously been asked to describe Hell, she would have vaguely selected images from the classics, Milton's 'Paradise Lost' or Dante's 'Inferno'. If she had thought back to her imaginative and curious childhood she might have elaborated on various torture implements. What she didn't expect was a plain, boring, beige (1), waiting room with an overly chirpy secretary seated behind a chestnut desk typing on a computer. (2)
"Hello Norah," the woman gave her an insincere smile, "Would tomorrow evening at 5 pm be suitable for you?" noting Norah's look of shock she explained "For to sell your soul? I'm afraid we can't schedule it any earlier, various legal documents have to be drawn up, and of course we have to estimate your soul's actual worth."
After attempting to swallow several times, Norah finally was able to speak, or rather repeat, "My soul's worth?"
The secretary nodded, "Naturally some are worth more then others, it depends on the tarnish and probable future, but never mind someone will explain it all, tomorrow, 5. Don't worry about the place, they'll find you." Once again, Norah felt the feeling of her skin being singed as she was propelled out of the hole and back into her, not for long, apartment.
* Anthony J. Crowley wasn't having a good day either, he'd just been instructed to negotiate a soul deal because Hell had no one to spare, and he HATED soul deals. But nonetheless he found himself walking over to a café where he knew she would be. She was sitting by the window, pouring over a newspaper, a waitress glared at her; it was obvious she hadn't bought anything. With one hand she balanced the baby in her arms as she turned over the next page. With a silent sigh, the demon entered the café.
"Excuse me, Norah." It wasn't a question; he knew without doubt who she was, just like he wasn't trying to be polite he was just catching her attention. She glanced up and he gave her an apologetic smile, "the soul negotiations, I'm Anthony Crowley. Demon" he clarified.
"I thought, it was just a figure of speech" she couldn't help noticing that while before there had been no empty seats near her, there was now. No one else had noticed.
"Well, you'd be surprised about the truth in some figures of speech." He retrieved some documents from his briefcase. "Just sign there, there, and there. Oh and use this" he located the most elaborate pen she'd ever seen and it wrote with red ink, "You're supposed to use your own blood but that's just a technicality." An inner voice, the demonic equivalent, one could suppose, to the human conscience reminded him that he was providing her with a loophole, something he wasn't supposed to do, with this 'technicality'.
Norah was still in shock; she had just about managed to persuade herself that what had happened had been a dream. Not only that, this man in front of her seemed the least likely person to be a demon she'd ever met, he was just too human, excluding that man walking into the café now. He glanced around and spotted Crowley before walking over to the two. Again, Norah noticed an extra chair.
"Business, my dear?" The demon glared at him.
"Yesss, businessss, angel. Important businessss." He hissed back furiously. "And you've no right to interfere." Ah, so this newcomer was an angel, remarked the only part of her brain that could still think clearly.
"Quite the contrary, I see a wile, I thwart, remember the Agreement?"
The demon was silent, and then he spoke "Go on then, try and convince her. She needs the money though."(3)
The angel turned around to Norah, who had been following the conversation in confusion. "My dear, why do you need the money?"
"Sophie's sick, I don't have the rent and I can't ask my family for help." Crowley had been right; she was despairing.
The angel glanced at the baby, "Easily solved," and sure enough when Norah reached out to check, the temperature had cooled down to normal. Reaching into his pocket he brought out a checkbook signed it a check and handed it over to Norah, who almost fainted at the number. "No need to worry," he said cheerfully, no doubt being amused by Crowley's murderous scowl. Thanking her luck she left, leaving the two supernatural entities behind her.
"Let us never speak of that again." Crowley muttered gloomily, "Every time, EVERY DAMN TIME, I'm on soul duty you always make me lose them. Do you've any idea how hard it's going to be to explain that away? She was barely tainted, I'm going to be in so much trouble."
"You'll be fine, you always are besides you hate writing out soul deals. And you know I have to interfere, if it's concerning a soul." Aziraphale stood up to leave. "Are you coming?"
"One second." Crowley gathered up the papers and placed them carefully back in the briefcase, and then with vindictive pleasure, he set it on fire. When it was reduced to a smoldering pile of ashes he looked up. "I'm ready."
Aziraphale would've rolled his eyes at the melodrama, but it was something that no self-respecting angel would do.
***
(1)Beige is actually the colour of Hell, (2) They only do the whole lakes of fire thing for tourists, Hell has much better methods of torture (4) (3)For years after Aziraphale would bring that up on the list of good things Crowley did, he never lived it down. (4)Like beige
WARNING: Selling your soul is a risky and complicated business that shouldn't be tried at home.
Concerning a Soul
Norah would be the first to admit it had been a bad day, a very bad day. Not only had she recently been fired but also Sophie's temperature had reached dangerously high. At the moment, the 2-month year-old baby was sleeping, after wailing herself to exhaustion. Wearily, she slumped onto her own bed; her eyes fell to the envelope, a final notice. If she didn't have the rent by Friday they'd be kicked out, and she didn't have the rent.
She knew there was no use running to her family, they had made it clear enough that they had wanted nothing to do with her when she tearfully announced that she was pregnant, her hand strayed to the phone, perhaps she should call Anita. But she didn't want to put pressure on her sister. There was always the government, she supposed, but the forms were so bewildering to her.
"I'd sell my soul for that money." the words, though spoken softly had real desperation and pain behind them. Her eyes closed and tears seeped out through the gaps. With much drama, a hole opened up from under her feet. She barely had enough time to swallow a breath of the steaming smoke-filled air before she was dragged down.
Had Norah previously been asked to describe Hell, she would have vaguely selected images from the classics, Milton's 'Paradise Lost' or Dante's 'Inferno'. If she had thought back to her imaginative and curious childhood she might have elaborated on various torture implements. What she didn't expect was a plain, boring, beige (1), waiting room with an overly chirpy secretary seated behind a chestnut desk typing on a computer. (2)
"Hello Norah," the woman gave her an insincere smile, "Would tomorrow evening at 5 pm be suitable for you?" noting Norah's look of shock she explained "For to sell your soul? I'm afraid we can't schedule it any earlier, various legal documents have to be drawn up, and of course we have to estimate your soul's actual worth."
After attempting to swallow several times, Norah finally was able to speak, or rather repeat, "My soul's worth?"
The secretary nodded, "Naturally some are worth more then others, it depends on the tarnish and probable future, but never mind someone will explain it all, tomorrow, 5. Don't worry about the place, they'll find you." Once again, Norah felt the feeling of her skin being singed as she was propelled out of the hole and back into her, not for long, apartment.
* Anthony J. Crowley wasn't having a good day either, he'd just been instructed to negotiate a soul deal because Hell had no one to spare, and he HATED soul deals. But nonetheless he found himself walking over to a café where he knew she would be. She was sitting by the window, pouring over a newspaper, a waitress glared at her; it was obvious she hadn't bought anything. With one hand she balanced the baby in her arms as she turned over the next page. With a silent sigh, the demon entered the café.
"Excuse me, Norah." It wasn't a question; he knew without doubt who she was, just like he wasn't trying to be polite he was just catching her attention. She glanced up and he gave her an apologetic smile, "the soul negotiations, I'm Anthony Crowley. Demon" he clarified.
"I thought, it was just a figure of speech" she couldn't help noticing that while before there had been no empty seats near her, there was now. No one else had noticed.
"Well, you'd be surprised about the truth in some figures of speech." He retrieved some documents from his briefcase. "Just sign there, there, and there. Oh and use this" he located the most elaborate pen she'd ever seen and it wrote with red ink, "You're supposed to use your own blood but that's just a technicality." An inner voice, the demonic equivalent, one could suppose, to the human conscience reminded him that he was providing her with a loophole, something he wasn't supposed to do, with this 'technicality'.
Norah was still in shock; she had just about managed to persuade herself that what had happened had been a dream. Not only that, this man in front of her seemed the least likely person to be a demon she'd ever met, he was just too human, excluding that man walking into the café now. He glanced around and spotted Crowley before walking over to the two. Again, Norah noticed an extra chair.
"Business, my dear?" The demon glared at him.
"Yesss, businessss, angel. Important businessss." He hissed back furiously. "And you've no right to interfere." Ah, so this newcomer was an angel, remarked the only part of her brain that could still think clearly.
"Quite the contrary, I see a wile, I thwart, remember the Agreement?"
The demon was silent, and then he spoke "Go on then, try and convince her. She needs the money though."(3)
The angel turned around to Norah, who had been following the conversation in confusion. "My dear, why do you need the money?"
"Sophie's sick, I don't have the rent and I can't ask my family for help." Crowley had been right; she was despairing.
The angel glanced at the baby, "Easily solved," and sure enough when Norah reached out to check, the temperature had cooled down to normal. Reaching into his pocket he brought out a checkbook signed it a check and handed it over to Norah, who almost fainted at the number. "No need to worry," he said cheerfully, no doubt being amused by Crowley's murderous scowl. Thanking her luck she left, leaving the two supernatural entities behind her.
"Let us never speak of that again." Crowley muttered gloomily, "Every time, EVERY DAMN TIME, I'm on soul duty you always make me lose them. Do you've any idea how hard it's going to be to explain that away? She was barely tainted, I'm going to be in so much trouble."
"You'll be fine, you always are besides you hate writing out soul deals. And you know I have to interfere, if it's concerning a soul." Aziraphale stood up to leave. "Are you coming?"
"One second." Crowley gathered up the papers and placed them carefully back in the briefcase, and then with vindictive pleasure, he set it on fire. When it was reduced to a smoldering pile of ashes he looked up. "I'm ready."
Aziraphale would've rolled his eyes at the melodrama, but it was something that no self-respecting angel would do.
***
(1)Beige is actually the colour of Hell, (2) They only do the whole lakes of fire thing for tourists, Hell has much better methods of torture (4) (3)For years after Aziraphale would bring that up on the list of good things Crowley did, he never lived it down. (4)Like beige