DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but Franz, as always.
The Swedish ivy on the corner end table was about to die, and it wasn't too happy about the idea.
A threateningly generic squirt bottle hung suspended in the air, held up solely by a hand completely normal in appearance. Next to the bottle leered a face that could have modeled for Clearasil if it desired, the sculpted cheekbones made even more godlike by the light from the window. Unfortunately, not a very benevolent one, but like a god nonetheless. The ivy wasn't mentally challenged, and it knew that the liquid in the bottle, as clear as it appeared, could be anything. Heck, vodka even.
The hand redoubled its grip on the bottle, and the Swedish ivy prepared for death. It might not be so bad. In a way, it would be more natural than life so far. Returning to the earth, and all that.
There was a polite knock on the door.
Cursing under his breath, Crowley withdrew from the corner and left the Swedish ivy to revel in its good fortune. Although, to be honest, he didn't mind much—the cursing was just for show, to keep the houseplants on their toes. Only one person in the entire world, the One Above it and the One Below, did he know of that could make a knock on someone's door sound polite. Putting on a look of cool boredom, he opened the door.
"Hello, Crowley," said Franz, looking as though he had gotten lost on the way to the malt shop. "May I come in?"
Crowley stared. "No."
"Thank you." Somehow, despite Crowley standing in the doorway, Franz stepped inside without once brushing against the demon's black blazer. "You live here, I take it? It doesn't look very lived-in." Crowley muttered something inaudible, and Franz nodded wisely, pretending to have heard.
"Who are you?"
Franz turned toward the demon, looking a little surprised and hurt. "You don't remember me? I'm Franz. Aziraphale's third cousin? We met at that party."
"Yeah, yeah," said Crowley vaguely, recalling. Aziraphale had dragged him to Franz's birthday, saying that he hadn't been to a party since nearly the first Christmas and needed social support. Now, looking at Franz, the demon wasn't sure why he had not recognized him. The resemblance to Aziraphale was a bit jarring (1). If one were to take the angel's head, add about five years to the face and subtract about five thousand hairs from the crown, he or she would find an almost exact replica of the man standing in the living room.
"This is a rather nice place you have here."
Crowley didn't respond to the compliment. It was general knowledge. "What are you doing in my flat?"
Franz turned, fixing him with a look. The look that, for many of the newcomers to Purgatory, meant That's Enough Funny Business, I Want to Straighten This All Out Today. At the support group, they all knew that indicated it was time to shut up and listen. Crowley, however, who was unaware of what exactly Franz could accomplish when on a mission (and, furthermore, had dealt with beings a whole lot more terrifying), merely smirked.
"'Our friendships hurry to short and poor conclusions,'" Franz quoted, "'because we have made them a texture of wine and dreams, instead of the tough fiber of the human heart.'" He smiled sagely, as though that answered the question.
Crowley raised his left eyebrow. It was the only one he could arch effectively.
"'We snatch at the slowest fruit in the whole garden of God'—well, you do, at any rate—'which many summers and many winters must ripen. We seek our friend not sacredly, but with an adulterate passion, which would appropriate him to ourselves. In vain.'" A hesitation, as though he expected Crowley to suddenly comprehend and shout Eureka! Nothing of the sort happened, and so he prompted, "Do you understand now?"
It had been a while since the demon had read the Bible, but that sounded a bit too modern to be Scripture. "Let me guess: Johnathan Edwards, Sparknotes edition."
"No, but good one." The smile brightened. "It's Emerson, actually. Brilliant, isn't he? The statements he makes are so universal."
"Sure, they are."
The smile faded from Franz's face and he looked Crowley right in the eyes. Well, sunglasses, but close enough. "Why am I here... Well, to put it plainly, Aziraphale's all in a mood. The poor dear is moping around the bookshop, and even welcoming customers—to, I believe, distract himself from something."
The demon feigned nonchalance. "So he's finally given in to materialism."
Franz, waited, counting the seconds before he dropped the bomb. "This morning I dropped in to check up and I found him sleeping on the couch."
The look of nonchalance Crowley had so perfected over the centuries fell apart faster than a Bentley on fire. Perhaps faster than a Daewoo (2). Aziraphale, sleeping? Since when ddi the angel sleep? He had always said it was a waste of time and vaguely Slothlike. Why would he start now?
"He refuses to explain why he's in such a state, but I know it has something to do with you," added his visitor, almost in a furor. If Crowley didn't know any better he might have mistaken the man for an archangel, he was so wrathful in his tranquility.
"Nothing happened." The look of cool nonchalance reasserted itself. Who was he, barging in the flat, demanding an explanation? And yet, it was clear Franz had only Aziraphale's best interests at heart.
"Tell me what occurred between the two of you to make him so upset, or I will draw my own conclusions. They are already sketched out to an extent, and so far not looking very auspicious for you."
Crowley almost laughed at this pseudo-threat. Like the little angel would do anything to hurt him. Like he even could.
"I'm not actually an angel, you know," Franz said conversationally, as though he knew what the demon was thinking. "Not yet; I can't even Fall. And half of heaven hates—or at the very least strongly dislikes—me already, because they blame me for my father's downfall. Really, I'm a sort of rogue agent, I suppose." There was the smile again—not full of serenity this time, but merely an exercise in stretching muscles, and even a little bit sad. "Anyhow, I would very much like to hear your side of the story." He sat down on the leather recliner, casually, as though he threatened people every day.
Being a demon, especially one involved in averting the Apocalypse, had some requirements that came with the job description. For example, one had to be obstinate and fairly daring. It was for this reason that Crowley told Franz exactly where he could put his bloody conclusions. In response, the sweater-vested visitor stood up from the recliner, slowly sauntered over to where Crowley stood in front of the stereo and looked directly into his face.
Franz may have been shorter than the demon by several centimeters, but from a distance of twelve inches he was a force to be reckoned with—however diminutive. In spite of the numerous otherworldly events Crowley had been witness (or executor) of—or perhaps due to them—he would not have been at all surprised to see tiny lightning bolts come blazing out of Franz's eyes and ricochet around the flat. This, more than anything, caused the demon to roll his eyes in frustration. Sod it all.
"Please explain to me what happened, so I can help him. He refuses to speak about what's bothering him," spoke Franz in his best therapist voice.
Bloody guilt washing over him. He had been hanging around that dratted angel too long... and now, he realized with horror, he had just thought the word dratted. Bugger. Quickly, muttering, Crowley related the gist of the incident. "It was a joke," he added irritably. "Bloody angel has no sense of humor." He felt strange, now; his chest was empty, as though all the muscle and tendons and bone had snuck out of the house to go to the type of party where there would almost certainly be dangerous influences and life-changing decisions. For a brief moment he forgot he had a guest.
"Oh, all right then," replied Franz. "I believe my dear cousin is under the impression you were serious. Well, we have to correct that, then... I do like these sunglasses, by the way," he added offhandedly. Deftly his hand reached up and took Crowley's glasses, studying them with sharp interest.
It felt odd not wearing his trademark shades, and the demon did not like it in the least. "Yes, very nice eyewear... You're sure it was a joke?" his visitor inquired abruptly, glancing up.
Their eyes locked, Crowley acutely aware that his Ray-Bans were currently in Franz's hand. No more hiding behind plastic, now. The sensation of just seeing the world through his own eyes was unpleasant and he disliked it with an intensity that gleamed intheir gold-green hues. By association, he intensely disliked Franz for taking them from him. Opening his mouth to confirm that yes, he was definite it had all been a prank, he hesitated. Franz had taken his sunglasses, and in doing so was seeing him as he was...
No more hiding, behind plastic or otherwise.
Maybe, suggested the voice of a tiny revolutionary, it hadn't been solely in jest. Maybe, it piped up from a dark cobwebby corner, there had been a tiny snippet of truth in it. A nugget, if he would.
His mouth muscles stopped being lazy and connected with his brain. "I don't know." Muscle and tendons and bone returned to his chest and collapsed in a tipsy heap, giggling madly. A demon and an angel—hardy har har.
For some reason, this statement caused Franz supreme delight. "I knew it! I predicted this years ago! Oh, you two always seemed like such an adorable couple, you know. Frankly, it's surprising it took so long for you to notice." He returned the sunglasses to their proper place and, exhilarated, hugged him around the middle. "I knew it—I knew there was a reason why you were always cavorting around at the Ritz!" In the midst of his excitement, the constant stream of words subsided and he withdrew from the hug, looking pensive. "However..."
Crowley, normally so cool and in control, was feeling a tad overwhelmed. "However, there is a little problem of Aziraphale." For once in his life the demon didn't know what to do, and therefore busied himself with adjusting the shades on his nose. "You see, I spoke to him about it and he seems to be entirely taken by surprise. One would think angelic intelligence would have covered that by now, but I suppose not."
Crowley felt like he was being strangled. Or, rather, like he wanted to strangle. "Spoke to him? As in, 'What nice weather we have today, dear cousin. Oh, and by the way, did you know that your demonic friend has the hots for you'?"
"Not in those exact terms, not at all. I simply pointed out that it is a bit odd for a demon to spend his free time hanging around with an angel..."
Murder would fall under Wrath, would it not?
"...He's likely been pondering it over for several hours by now, so you ought to go talk to him immediately." He shivered with excitement. "Oh, I called this one, as the kids say!"
Franz was lucky the demon had the sunglasses again. As it was he barely escaped melting into a puddle on the hardwood. "Why bother? It was perfectly fine when he had no clue. Now you've gone and filled his head with ideas," he spat out.
His guest sighed in resignation. "I might've known you wouldn't listen to me. Hold on a moment." He disappeared for a minute and returned with a pale-faced, mustached man in tow. "This is my friend Farrokh." The man glanced at him. "Oh, my apologies. Freddie, sorry."
Crowley stared. As pale as the man was, and despite the fact that he was clad in pajamas, there was an air about him. If Crowley scented of cool, he oozed of it. "Anyhow," Franz continued, "I sensed that you wouldn't listen to a word from me, so I brought him along to help. And please be kind," he added as an afterthought. "You have little idea how much paperwork it took to get him on this plane again." Fleetingly, he turned and vanished out the door.
The two men stared at each other, and Crowley vaguely wondered if the mustached visitor had heard the entire discussion. "So," the demon fumbled. "Did you hear all that earlier?" The man nodded. "Great, bloody superb," he muttered under his breath.
"I don't know you, but I have to wonder," the man began. "Why can't you give love that one more chance?" Crowley said nothing, just stood there. "'Cause love's such an old-fashioned word? And love dares you to care for not only other people, but to change the way of caring for yourself?"
It was, he had to admit, a good question. Bugger.
(1) That is, it would be were Crowley less suave. As it was he barely blinked, but as he didn't blink often this was hardly a shocker.
(2) On fire or otherwise.