Crowley's Mum
Summary - Inspired by a certain song. You all know which one I mean. Enough said!
A/N - I gotta cut down on the sugar. Or something. Or at least stop listening to my Fountains of Wayne CD while reading Good Omens for the twenty-seventh time...
Disclaimer - Not mine! None of it! I don't even want to claim Crowley's mum as my invention, because she scares me.
-8-
In the darkness of the apartment, the red message light on the ansaphone blinked on.
If ansaphones had feelings or thoughts, this one would have been wondering who on Earth had been calling its master all day long, on and off, overloading its scant memory with things most ansaphones never have to deal with. It would have been feeling exhausted, and it would have had a headache.
It would also have been scared.
See, for once, all the messages on the line weren't from telemarketers or the electrical company, wondering why this apartment was listed in their files but never seemed to use any electricity whatsoever.
It was worse. Far, far worse.
The ansaphone waited in the darkness with the frightening messages stored within it.
Suddenly the lights came on, making the apartment as bright as noon.(1)
The door slammed shut behind the dark, lithe figure who had just walked into the room.
Anthony J. Crowley shrugged out of his jacket and hung it neatly on the hook in the hall. (2) He strode over to his white leather couch and flopped down on it, snapping on the television.
It had been a very trying day. All of his soul-tarnishing plans had gone completely awry, and he was depressed. Crowley flipped through the channels, looking for one of his shows, hoping it would comfort him to know he wasn't completely useless.
None of them were on.
Feeling even more miserable, Crowley lay down on the couch and tried to fall asleep.
It didn't work. The red light on his ansaphone kept glaring at him accusingly.
"Fine," he muttered, getting to his feet. He crossed to the ansaphone and pressed the button.
Click. "You have eight unheard messages," the recorded voice informed him.
"Damn," sighed Crowley.
Click.
"Yes, hello, I - what? What is this? But you're talking to me right now! Don't you go away, young man, I have to talk to you - oh, bugger. You're not there."
Crowley stared uneasily at the phone. The female voice coming from it had unnerved him. That voice - it was so familiar...so why couldn't he remember who it belonged to?
Click.
"Hello? Damn. This is one of those ansaphones, I bet, isn't it. How does it work? Maybe if I press this button -"
Click.
"Hi, Crowley. Again. This is - Hey! HEY! THAT'S MY TAXI, THANK YOU VERY MUCH! Excuse me, kiddo -"
Click.
There was a long pause, filled with random muttering and swearing. "Hello? Crowley? You have a car, right? You need to come pick me up. I just lost my ride. Oh-oh, it's going to cut me o-"
Click.
"Hello, this is London Power calling with a few questions we'd like you to answer. If you would be so kind as to call us back at -"
Crowley ignored that one. They never understood anyways.
Click.
"The bloody ansaphone again!"
Click.
"Where in Hell's name are you, child? Come home already and look at your messages!" That strangely familiar voice was growing very angry and exasperated.
Click.
This time when the woman's voice came back, it was calm, collected, and to the point. Perhaps she'd asked someone about proper phone etiquette. "Hello? Crowleykins? This is your Mumsy. I'm stuck in an area called Soho and I can't get a ride to your place. Some nice young man let me use his phone. Please come pick me up, and for Satan's sake, child, get home already so I can see you soon."
Click.
Crowley stared in absolute horror at his ansaphone.
"Ohshitohshitohshit. Why now? Why me? And why does she still remember that god-awful nickname?" he moaned. Reluctantly, he went to the hall and grabbed his jacket.
This really didn't improve his day at all.
-8-
The Bentley cruised down the streets of Soho, its driver keeping a worried eye out for disturbances of any sort, which might mean his mother was nearby. (3)
There were no signs of anything really unusual.
"Bugger," muttered Crowley. Now what?
It wasn't like he and his mother were even all that close. OK, yes, she had raised him, of course, but they hadn't seen each other in over six thousand years, and she'd never been the type to suddenly decide to renew maternal bonds with her son. And now she was Up Here, and lost in Soho.
Maybe Aziraphale could help him? The angel was generally pretty good with finding people.
The Bentley rolled to a stop in front of the angel's rickety old bookshop. Crowley got out of the car and hurried up the steps to the door.
Ah. This didn't look promising.
Aziraphale was busy. He was talking with a woman who looked like she'd last checked out the current fashions in the mid-1950's. It wasn't that she wasn't pretty, it was just that she looked like a housewife from a forty-year-old American sitcom.
The thought was a bit cruel, but Crowley couldn't help wondering if the angel had found his soul-mate. Heaven forbid.
Well, he supposed he could wait until they were finished. Crowley picked up a book a random (4) and began flipping through it, keeping half an ear open to the conversation.
"I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't ran into you, Mr. Ziraphale," she was saying. "You've been so kind."
"Not a problem, madam. Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?"
"Tea? What - oh. Um. Yes. Yes, please, that would be very nice."
Oh, bless it. Was she not going to go away?
"Children can be such a trial, can't they, madam?" said Aziraphale. Crowley risked a look up. The angel had just brought out a large kettle and two cups to the front counter.
She gave a little trilling laugh. "Oh, yes, Mr. Ziraphale. I'm glad I've only the one, and him nearly full-grown."
"Full-grown? You don't look that old."
"Why, I believe you're making me blush, Mr. Ziraphale! I do like a man who can turn a compliment. I don't suppose you would consider coming to have lunch with me tomorrow afternoon? I would like to thank you, even only in this small way..."
Crowley gritted his teeth. This definitely looked like something he didn't want to listen in on. Perhaps he should just go talk to Aziraphale right now before it got worse. He closed the book with a snap, and began to walk over.
"You did tell him where you were, didn't you, madam?" said Aziraphale, apparently ignoring the invitation for now.
"Of course. It would be just like him to be late, though. My boy must have his little ways... But then I'm sure you'd know all about such things, Mr. Ziraphale, being such a knowledgable man..."
Crowley froze on the spot, suddenly realizing exactly what he was walking towards. Just as suddenly, he decided that what he really wanted to do right now was run, as fast and as far as he could, before Aziraphale looked up and saw him.
Before his mother looked up and saw him.
This was really quite disturbing. He would have prayed that the floor would open and swallow him up, except that in his case, it would probably have worked.
Aziraphale looked up and saw him.
Oh, fuck. Foiled!
"My dear boy, what are you doing here? It's quite late, isn't it?"
"Ummmm..." Crowley edged away. "Uhhhhh... I've...uhhh...really got to be going now, so sorry to have disturbed you -"
His mother looked up at the sound of his voice and turned in astonishment. "Crowleykins? You're here!"
"Hi, Mum," he muttered, going beet red.
Aziraphale's jaw dropped in complete and utter shock. "'Crowleykins?' What on Earth - Crowley - I never - you have a mother? Sorry, I mean - this is your mother!"
"Um, yeah," admitted Crowley heavily.
"Crowleykins? You know this man?" His mother was equally surprised.
"Yeah," admitted Crowley again, back to feeling miserable. "Mum, this is my friend Aziraphale. He's - he's an angel."
His mother looked faintly ill.
"Aziraphale, this is my mother. She's a succubus."
Aziraphale looked faintly ill. "Ah. That would explain a few things, then."
"Um. Yeah. Say, uh, Mum...we should be going now. We ought to leave Aziraphale alone now."
"Yes, yes, of course, dear. I just want to know if dear Mr. Aziraphale would like to come to lunch with us tomorrow afternoon. I'm sure my boy would be more than happy to pick you up -"
"Mother, you're making me ill. Please, stop flirting for once in your life."
Except that this was like asking her to stop breathing. (5) She was a succubus, and that was just the way she was, even if the man she was currently flirting with happened to not be a man at all, but an angel. Crowley suddenly felt a bolt of sympathy and understanding strike him out of the blue for all the teenagers he'd ever seen who were embarrassed to be seen in public with their parents. He did feel younger. His mother had a talent for making him feel like a tiny little imp again.
"Mum, let's go," he said again impatiently.
"That sounds lovely," said Aziraphale with the closest thing to an evil grin Crowley had ever seen on him. "See the both of you at twelve o'clock?"
"Brilliant. All right, Crowleykins, yes, I'm coming, I'm coming -"
As Crowley trudged out the door after his mother, he could have sworn Aziraphale was laughing.
-8-
(1) Except the illusion wasn't perfect because one could see out the windows, and it was very dark.
(2) His mother was, literally, a fiend for keeping things neat. He was a tidy demon, because he'd been raised that way.
(3) Or it might not. This was Soho, after all.
(4) It was the Buggre All This Bible, in fact.
(5) Actually not much of a problem, since demons aren't technically obliged to do any of that quaint human stuff.