Crowley and Aziraphale sat on the floor, in front of them was an ever-growing pile of empty bottles.
"So... so... what was it I was saying again?" said a very drunk Crowley, as he, rather ineffectually, tried to paw at the angel sitting beside him.
"Something about alternate universes, I think," said Aziraphale, slapping the demon's hand away.
"Oh yeah. We're not in our own universe, right?"
"Well no, that is rather obvious."
"So anything we do here doesn't have any effect back home."
"Of course not. Crowley, is this about sex again?"
"Yes."
"Ah, I thought so. Look, have you ever considered taking up a hobby, needlework perhaps, or maybe skiing."
"Nothing we in this universe effects our own," said Crowley, not about to be distracted from his main point. "Ergo, if there were going to be, say, a sudden release of demonic or divine energy, nobody back home would notice."
"We'd still be affecting this world."
"Yeah, but only once. And you said that once a year was..."
"Crowley, you're quite impossible."
"Is that a yes then?"
The angel sighed. Despite removing almost every last molecule of Nanny Ogg's Special Secret Sauce from his body, thoughts of doing delightfully obscene things to the demon were still very much present in his mind. Unfortunately, giving in now would feel too much like letting him triumph; and Crowley could be insufferably smug when he thought he'd won.
"Well is it?"
"I suppose it is my sworn duty to prevent you from taking advantage of those poor inebriated humans downstairs by any means necessary."
"Of course it is," said Crowley, grinning wickedly, and snaking an arm around Aziraphale's waist. "Think of how many diabolic wiles you could thwart just by keeping me occupied."
"There is one thing though," said Aziraphale, as the demon started to enthusiastically kiss the side of his neck.
"Mmm?"
"I want Glastonbury back."
Crowley suddenly stopped what he was doing. "What?"
"You heard. I want Glastonbury back."
"But I won that bet."
"As I remember, you got me very drunk, introduced me to LSD, and then somehow persuaded me to wager my signed first-edition of Dorian Gray, against you managing to corrupt more than fifty politicians in one week."
"It's not as if I made you do any of those things," said Crowley, who had abandoned his neck kissing endeavour, and was now embarking on a fumbled attempt to unbutton Aziraphale's shirt.
"You tricked me into thinking it was going to fifty politicians the next week, not fifty politicians in any week, including the heyday of the Roman Empire."
"Not my fault you made that particular assumption. And I let you give me one stupid little town instead of your precious book didn't I.... You know, this would be a blessed sight easier if you'd just let me wish your clothes off."
"I think it would possibly help if you weren't seeing double. Anyway, if it is, as you say, 'one stupid little town', then I fail to see why you wouldn't be prepared to give it up in the spirit of friendship. Of course if you don't consider us to be friends..." The sentence was left hanging, as Aziraphale began to extract himself from Crowley's grasp.
A look of panic crossed the demons face, as the realisation that his chances of getting the angel into any sort of compromising position that night were fading rather fast, began to hit him. "Fine... fine you can have bloody Glastonbury."
Aziraphale smiled, and gently kissed the side of Crowley's mouth. "I knew you'd be reasonable."
"There's a word for people who do that, you know."
"Do what?"
"Offer sex in exchange for small towns in rural England."
"I believe," Aziraphale murmured into Crowley's ear, "that the word is enterprising."
Crowley made a noise that was somewhere between a growl and a hiss, and then, quite literally, pounced on the angel; something which, given the fact that said angel was sitting directly beside him, was quite a feat of agility indeed.
Aziraphale, suddenly aware that he was on his back and underneath Crowley, tried to speak, only to find his lips pressed against the demon's; and a forked tongue eagerly exploring his mouth. For some reason, this caused certain facets of his anatomy, which usually required a concerted effort to bring into existence, to materialise of their own accord, and being making rather pressing demands for his attention. As Crowley deepened the kiss Aziraphale found himself, almost involuntarily, pressing one hand against the back of the demon's head, and letting the other squeeze his left buttock. It was, he had to admit, extremely pleasant. There was just one tiny, yet incredibly irritating, difficulty...
"What is it?" demanded Crowley, when the angel pushed his head away.
"Just one problem," said Aziraphale, shifting uncomfortably.
A look of what could only be described as shear desperation crossed the demon's face. "Look if this is about that Monet I accidentally put that coffee cup on I'll find a way to make it up to you. Or, if you're still pissed off about that thing I got those elves in Lothlorien to do, I'll send a handwritten apology to the Valar."
"It's nothing to do with any of that; although I must admit, I am still furious about the Monet. It's these floorboards."
"What about them?"
"Crowley, I'm getting splinters in my arse."
Crowley suddenly looked as though he was trying to decide whether to laugh, or cry with frustration.
"Dear boy, amusing as this may be to you, we really have to find somewhere else."
With a great show of reluctance, Crowley slid off Aziraphale, and unsteadily stood up. He then proceeded to make a series of complicated hand gesture, which had, during the eighties, inadvertently formed the basis of several third rate, bubblegum pop, dance routines. The contents of the room were at once replaced with an array of animal print rugs, pseudo-Moroccan carpentry, and a profusion of satin throws. An overpowering smell of burning incense was beginning to choke the air.
Aziraphale sat up, and regarded the changes with something bordering on total horror. "You can't just go around transmuting other people's possessions into obscenely tasteless soft furnishings without their permission."
"Just trying to create a little ambiance angel."
"Ambiance, you call this ambiance? It looks like the inside of a tart's boudoir. No, even worse, it looks like something that dreadful Llewellyn Bowen chap would create."
"Aziraphale I'm not prepared to have sex with anyone in a room decorated with Laura bloody Ashley florals." This statement was completely untrue. The demons frustration at this point was so great that he would have quite happily taken the angel over one of the doily laden tables in Madam Puddifoot's Tearoom, at peak time, in front of the Hogsmeade branch of The Women's Institute.
"Crowley, I'll have you know that I've never once set foot in Laura Ashley." This was technically true, the angel had, after all, ordered the rose print bedspread and appliqué cushions from the shop's autumn catalogue.
"Fine... fine, I'll sort it out." The demon snapped his fingers, and the room transformed again; this time into a facsimile of Crowley's Mayfair flat.
"I hardly think that the white leather and chrome is in keeping with the original character of the building."
Crowley looked as though he were about to scream. Feeling ever so slightly guilty, Aziraphale got to his feet, and snapped his fingers. The room now resembled Aziraphale's shop; or at least it would have resembled Aziraphale's shop, had the shop been ten times larger, twenty times less dusty, and a bedroom rather than an antique book repository.
The demon made a face. "It's all so... tartan."
"Tartan's stylish," said Aziraphale, before snapping his fingers for a second time.
Crowley would probably have attempted to dispute this fact, had he not suddenly found himself stark naked, and being pushed towards the bed by a grinning angel.
—
Vimes was sitting in the castle's smoking room, listening to the King of Lancre's drunken ramblings about his Kingdoms need for a formalised health care system, when Angua burst through the door.
"What's happened?" he demanded, mentally thanking providence for the interruption. Drunken ramblings were only ever interesting they didn't contain words such as 'infrastructure' and 'sustainable development'.
"Corporal Littlebottom thinks she's just spotted Shady McShifty, Sir."
"What, here?"
"Going up the stairs at the end of the long gallery."
"Who's Shady McShifty?" asked King Verence, furrowing his brow, and swaying ever so slightly.
"You hear about the theft of the Mona Ogg a few months ago?"
"I read about it in The Times."
"That was him. The light fingered little bugger's also done over the Opera House, Quirm Manor, and Ankh Morpork Folk Song and Dance Society tea kitty."
"And he's here?" said King Verence, suddenly anxious.
"Sound like it. Where does that staircase go?"
"The South-East Wing."
"Are there any other exits. Apart from the windows, that is."
King Verence shook his head. "None that I know of... Commander Vimes I'm sure you only had one nose five minutes ago?"
Vimes tried to think of a polite way to tell the King of Lancre that what he was experiencing was the phenomenon known as 'being completely plastered... "I... arm... I think you might have had a bit too much too much of the Chateaux de Quirm your majesty."
Drunk though he was, the anxiety on the King's face doubled. "Oh... oh dear Magrat's going to be a bit upset."
"Right, how many men do you have?"
"Men?"
"You know, Guardsmen."
"We've got Shawn Ogg."
"No one else?"
"Well he could probably get his brothers and a few of their friends together. Of course if we told him, he tell his mother; who'd probably tell Magrat; who's already a bit annoyed about that whole scene in the ballroom, and is possibly going to be even more annoyed when she sees me like this... Oh no what am I going to do?"
"Angua you're familiar with McShifty's scent, right?"
"I think so. He used aniseed bombs at his last three break-ins though."
"Bastard. How many watchmen do we have still sober?"
Angua sighed. "Me, Detritus and Corporal Littlebottom. Nobby and Fred Colon are completely out of it."
"What about Constable Visit?"
"Last seen collapsed in a corner of the kitchens, singing The Hedgehog song; badly."
Vimes shook his head; it was all the same with these puritanical religious types, one tiny sip of the scumble and they'd dive head first into the barrel.
"Right, get Detritus to block that staircase, and then go and change. We're
going to get that slippery little bastard, this time."
"What about Corporal Littlebottom?"
"Tell her to bring his majesty the strongest coffee she can find." He glanced at the extremely drunk King Verence with the brotherly sympathy of one who has 'been there and most certainly done that'.
—
Unlike Vimes, Crowley was anticipating a very pleasurable night. After having his clothing wished off and being pushed onto a tartan-quilted four-poster bed by Aziraphale, he had soon found himself being kissed, stroked, pinched, licked and caressed in the most thoroughly distracting of manners. Had his head not been swimming with a potent combination of alcohol and lust he might have questioned whether he had actually been the one doing the seducing in this particular instance. As things were however, his primary concern was that most of the aforementioned kissing, stroking, pinching, licking and caressing seemed to be mainly being directed at the upper portion of his body; as oppose to the parts of him that were really crying out for attention. In an attempt to remedy this clearly intolerable situation, he took hold of the hand the angel was resting on his shoulder and began to guide it downwards.
"Impatient, aren't we," murmured Aziraphale, who, until a second ago, had been intently covering the demons neck and chest with little lovebites.
"Impatient? I've been waiting for three bloody weeks." Crowley's expression became almost pained as the angel's fingers brushed gently against the inside of his thigh.
"As I recall it wasn't so much waiting as complaining."
"Ssstop teasssing Aziraphale, pleassse" hissed Crowley, suddenly very much aware that he was lying naked and fully aroused, on the least stylish bed in existence, whilst being casually fondled by a fully clothed angel, and practically pleading for release. It was, he thought, a bloody good job that none of his colleagues from the pit could see him right now.
Aziraphale regarded him with an expression, which appeared to be a cross between tenderness and mild amusement, before once again kissing the side of Crowley's mouth. Aziraphale did not stop there however, and quickly moved on to the demons neck, followed by his chest, and then his stomach.
When the angel finally took him in the mouth, Crowley was instantly rendered almost insensible. After a few wonderful moments, in which he was completely lost in the utterly exquisite sensations going on between his legs, it became blindingly clear to the demon that he wasn't the only supernatural being on the planet who could do really weird things with his tongue. Not that he was complaining, of course. With one hand pressing against the angel's head, and the other clutching at the terminally unfashionable bedclothes, the demon started to moan. Well, moaning was one way of putting it; another would be gasping profanities as loud as possible.
Whilst ninety-eight percent of Crowley's mind remained solely concerned with nothing but the aforementioned utterly exquisite sensations, the other two percent was left in charge of monitoring everything else. Unfortunately for Crowley, this two percent insisted on occupying itself by pondering such questions as: 'is it really such a good idea to be shouting expletives quite this loud?', 'is it just me or do these facial expressions that I seem to be involuntarily making actually look really stupid?' and last, though certainly not least, 'who the fuck taught the angel to do that, because it sure as hel... Manchester wasn't me?'. Still, he was enjoying the experience far too much to let such piffling little worries bother him to any great extent. The only really important thing right now was that Aziraphale didn't stop. Unfortunately for Crowley, this was exactly what Aziraphale was about to do.
"Did you just hear that?" said the angel, after pulling away sharply.
The demon veritably howled. It just wasn't fair. "Look, what do you want?" he shouted, aware that he probably sounded as though he were on the verge of insanity, and not caring one bit. "Manchester? You can have it. Glasgow? Take that too..."
"Crowley I don't want Manchester or Glasgow - well, unless you're making a serious offer, of course. I just thought I heard a noise."
"Angel, please." He must have sounded desperate enough for Aziraphale to take pity on him, because the angel promptly resumed where he had left off; and oh... somebody did it feel good. It felt so amazingly, incredibly good, in fact, that he soon found his back arching, and his whole body tensing, as the pleasure reach almost unbearable levels. A few seconds later, the Ankh Morpork headquarters of the Alchemists' Guild spontaneously blew up. Nobody in the city so much as batted an eyelid.
—
The search for man who stole the Mona Ogg was not going well. Nobby, Visit, and Fred Colon had, as Angua had attested, been completely plastered; and neither Detritus nor Cheery Littlebottom were particularly suited to stealthily hunting sneaky art thieves.
After changing into wolf form in a broom cupboard, Angua had managed to pick up McShifty's scent on the second floor. Unfortunately she seemed to be growing increasingly agitated as the search progressed. Vimes suspected that the thief must be doing something to interfere with the sergeant's sense of smell.
"Anything?" he whispered, as Angua sniffed her way along yet another never-ending corridor.
The wolf turned her head, looked him in the eye, and proceeded at great speed towards the patchily carpeted staircase, which lead to the third floor. Vimes followed as quickly, and as quietly, as he was able, which, due to the irritatingly new, and ludicrously ornate, boots Sybil had insisted he wear for the occasion, was neither very quick, nor particularly quiet.
—
"You," said a sated, and really rather smug looking, Crowley, "are a complete bastard. What did you think you were doing, stopping like that?"
"I heard something move outside," said Aziraphale, drawing closer to the demon. "Though with all of that noise you were making, I have no idea how. In fact, I'm surprised that nobody came rushing up here to see what all the commotion was about."
"Big castle, lots of rooms," said Crowley, yawning.
"Crowley, you're not planning to go to sleep now, are you?"
The demon smirked. "Why, have you got any better ideas?"
"Dear boy, I really don't think I can allow an untold amount of demonic influence to be unleashed on this world without taking steps to counteract it with a divine equivalent. It just wouldn't be morally justifiable."
"So what you're essentially saying," said Crowley, as he found himself being rolled onto his stomach, by a suddenly naked angel, "is that you're going to shag me senseless, but for completely altruistic reasons."
"Crowley."
"Hmm."
"Be a good chap, and shut up."
—
After a cursory glance around the kitchens Corporal Littlebottom had found no sign of anything remotely caffeinated. There was really only one option, and it wasn't a pleasant one. Removing half a cup of Klatchian Red from anybody even approaching Knurd was always a dangerous game. It was for this reason that she had been forced to enlist the help of Shawn Ogg.
"She doesn't look very dangerous," he said, doubtfully, as Cheery pointed out the gangly, dark haired woman, currently bearing the quickest way through sobriety and out the other side.
"Have you ever attended a coffee shop brawl?" said Cheery.
"Well, no, but I did once tell Bestiality Carter to..."
"They all look like unassuming, respectable citizens, until someone accidentally spills their double chocolate Morporkaccino."
"So we go up to her and say: 'excuse me Miss but you've got to hand over that big cup of extra strong Klatchian Red, by order of King Verence the second. It's the law'. But what if she doesn't want to? Mum'd go mad if she heard I was beating up girls."
Cheery thought about this for a moment. From what she had heard Nanny Ogg wasn't somebody you wanted to get one the wrong side of. "If she resists then I'll grab the legs, and you grab the coffee."
"Right."
—
Vimes was having great difficulty keeping up with Angua. The sergeant had picked up the scent, and was now racing up steep flights of stairs and down a never-ending series of corridors, in hot pursuit of Morpork's Most Wanted. Eventually she came to a standstill in the middle of particularly gloomy, and cobweb encrusted, corridor, and began to sniff at each of the decrepit oak doors in turn.
It was then that Vimes started to hear the noises.
—
"Excuse me Miss, but you've got to hand over that big cup of extra strong Klatchian Red, by order of King Verence the second."
The woman twitched. "What?"
"It's the law."
She laughed in what could only be described as a manic fashion. "No... no, this is mine. My own. My love. My precious coffee."
Shawn looked at Cheery. "Is this when we, you know?"
"Yes."
Cheery grabbed the legs. Shawn grabbed the cup. The woman shouted something about it all being 'a big fucking conspiracy'.
—
Had Aziraphale not been in such a state of veritable near-ecstasy, he might have noticed the pounding footsteps that were drawing ominously closer. As it was however, he was having such a thoroughly enjoyable time grinding into the beautifully flushed demon, that coherent thought just wasn't a mental process he was currently utilising.
—
Vimes was behind the door, ready to arrest the most notorious art thief of the decade. There seemed to be a lot of thudding and creaking going on inside. Clearly McShifty had uncovered some priceless heirloom or other, which he was planning to liberate from Lancre Castle.
This is the end of the line sunshine, he thought, as he placed his hand on the door knob.
Angua frantically tried to inform Vimes that he had the wrong room, and the one he wanted was across the hallway. Unfortunately, he did not understand basic wolf, and Angua's four legged charade skills weren't really up to scratch.
He turned the handle. It was locked. "Well, if that's the way you want to play it," he muttered under his breath.
A foot was raised.
The door was kicked open.
Vimes's jaw dropped. "What the bloody hell is going on here?"
Aziraphale looked up in surprised. Sudden shock can have a great many effects on an unsuspecting angel. When the angel in question happens to be unclothed and on top of a supposed deadly opponent, in the most compromising of positions, then it is only natural that certain sub-conscious automated defence mechanisms will kick in. It was for this reason that Aziraphale's wings instantly unfurled of their own accord.
Vimes looked on, completely speechless.
Aziraphale looked back, completely mortified.
Crowley looked up, feeling vaguely excited by the whole situation.
In the hallway Angua snarled as she cornered a terrified Shady McShifty.
Vimes cleared his throat. "Er... sorry for the intrusion sirs... case of mistaken...er... room." He had a feeling that he wouldn't be able to forget this particular incident for a very long time. Returning back to the relative sanity of the hallway, Vimes made the hastiest arrest of his career.
Once the startled Watch Commander had removed himself, his prisoner and the unsolicited mental images he had just acquired, from the scene, Aziraphale, rather shamelessly, went back to what he was doing before the interruption. Doing it with one's wings out, he thought, was actually quite pleasant. He really would have to try it again some time.
Two minutes later there was a spontaneous rain of sushi in a drought stricken patch of the Klatchian Desert. The people who dwelt in the area looked on in sheer amazement. It was, after all, the first time that the Almanac had, in its four hundred year existence, ever made a correct prediction.
—
By the time that Sam Vimes had deposited a blubbering McShifty in the dungeons, listened to the crooks tearful tirade about rabid animals, and returned to the Smoking Room, he still, quite understandably, hadn't fully recovered.
"Are you okay Sir?" asked Cheery Littlebottom, as she carefully poured another 4 cc's of Klatchian Red into King Verence's cup.
"Hmm... Oh fine, fine. Why, what's wrong?"
"I hope you don't mind me saying so Sir, but you're looking very pale."
"I think I must have a cold coming on," said Vimes, lying. He really wasn't prepared to talk about the fact that he had just seen two men going at it with all of those feathers.
"I think the entertainment's starting in a minute," said Shawn Ogg, who didn't seem to be quite sure what his current function actually was. "My brother Jason and his mates are all going to be performing something that isn't the Lancre Stick and Bucket Dance."
"Oh dear," said King Verence, who, whilst almost sober, was looking even paler than Vimes. "Is it that time already? Look, I don't suppose that you could all possibly not mention any of ..." he gestured ineffectually towards the empty wine bottles on the table and Klatchian coffee. "...any of this to Magrat, could you?"
"I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we'll never speak of it again," said Shawn Ogg. "Well, unless she asks us. Or if my mum or Mistress Weatherwax does."
King Verence smiled weakly. It was the only kind of promise one could realistically expect to extract when witches were potentially concerned.
—
Crowley was not snuggling up to Aziraphale, under the horrible tartan covers. He could, he decided, perhaps be said to be languidly draping himself over the angel, or drawing close for body heat. But he was most emphatically, definitely, absolutely, not snuggling up to him. And he really couldn't be blamed for the fact that the angel seemed to be snuggling back.
"My dear, I really do believe that I'm actually quite fond of you," said Aziraphale, as he stroked the back of the demon's neck.
"Soppy bastard," said Crowley, who was nonetheless grinning from ear to ear and moving even closer.
"I don't think that I will ever be able to look that man in the eye again though. What must he think of us?"
"Well, I would have thought that was obvious," said Crowley, grin now supplanted by smirk. "His expression was just priceless."
"I can't help wondering if removing the memory would have been the morally correct thing to do."
"Remember what happened last time you tried that on Discworld. Besides, he had a werewolf with him."
"Ah, point taken." Aziraphale sighed. "That poor man by The Ankh, I only wish I could have done something to rectify the problem. No idea why he kept talking about millenniums, hands and shrimps afterwards though."
"Probably ineffable or something," said Crowley.
"Oh, do you think? I really do hope so."
"Aziraphale."
"Hmm."
"L-Space leads to lots of different universes, not just earth and Discworld, right?"
"Oh yes, anywhere with a sufficiently developed book collection. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious." The smirk grew bigger,
The angel looked at him, an expression of mock exasperation on his face. "Crowley, do you think of nothing else."
The demon considered this for a moment. "Occasionally," he said, eventually.
"Well, I have heard of a place called Sunnydale. Alternate version of earth, wonderful book collections."
"Sounds great," said Crowley, before drowsily kissing the angel goodnight.
—
Downstairs, almost everybody agreed that the play put on by the Lancre Morris Men had been a great success. Granny Weatherwax, of course, disapproved on principle. But, on the plus side, she hadn't disapproved quite as much as usual. The ghost of Hogswatch Yet To Come had, in the opinion of the assembled crowd, been excellently played by the tall gentleman with tinsel adorned Scythe. The only real problem in the eyes of the audience was the rustling noise made by Nanny Ogg, as she unselfconsciously gift-wrapped Hogswatch presents on the front row.
"Very well done those men," said Lady Sybil, clapping enthusiastically. On her knee sat a sleeping Sam Vimes Junior.
"What did you just say dear," said Sam Vimes senior, who was still looking a little dazed.
"I was just saying, well done those men."
"Oh...er right."
"Sam."
"Yes dear."
"Are you feeling quite all right?"
"I think I might be coming down with a cold. Why do you ask?"
"Well, you've been sitting there looking terribly pale for the last few hours. And you keep mumbling something about 'wings'. I just wondered if anything was wrong."
"Everything's fine," said Vimes, in what he hoped was a reassuring voice.
Agnes Nitt, who was seated in the front row next to Nanny Ogg, had been listening to this exchange between the Duke and Dutchess of Ankh. She did feel horribly guilty about eavesdropping. But Nanny had always said it was perfectly acceptable for witches to do things like that. And then, of course, there was Perdita, who seemed to be rather excited by the Duke's mutterings about wings. I knew they must do it with them out, she said smugly, within the confines of Agnes's head. Agnes just blushed at the thought.
"Shameful, that's what I call it," said Granny Weatherwax, from two seats away.
"Hey, our Jason worked hard on that play," said Nanny Ogg, with fierce maternal pride.
"I wasn't talking about the play Gytha. Though I see no reason why Himself had any business being in it. I was talking about the..." she looked distastefully at the ceiling. "... goings on."
"Oh that. I thought it was sweet really, after their little falling out earlier," said Nanny, who was industriously sticking down the corners of a oblong shaped parcel.
"And whose fault was that Gytha Ogg? You were the one that wrote that book."
"Well, I didn't know little Gertie Spindle would get hold of it. Besides it wasn't half funny seeing all of those toffs squirm like that."
Granny sniffed disapprovingly. "You're shameless Gytha Ogg."
—
When Aziraphale and Crowley woke the next morning, both were rather surprised to find an autographed copy of The Joy of Snacks amongst the presents the Hogfather had left by the fireplace - which hadn't actually been there the night before. Crowley, for his part, was rather surprised to find any presents at all.
"Why would the Hogfather bother to come here?" said the demon, who, for obvious reasons, got a bit uncomfortable when informed that old men with big white beards were watching him whilst he was asleep.
Aziraphale flushed as he carefully removed the silver wrapping from a signed first edition of Achmed-I-Just-Get-These-Headaches's Book of Humourous Cat Stories. "I er... sent him a list."
Crowley started to snigger. Aziraphale knew that he was never going to live this one down.