BAD GRACE - quantum witch © 2005
see Prologue for warnings, rating, and summary
In which Crowley suffers bodily harm for the sake of testing a theory.
4:01 – SLY MANOEUVRES
BY THE FIRST WEEK OF MARCH, Crowley had it figured out. If he made the first move on the angel, he suffered for it. Everything from mere embarrassment to serious concussions and contusions had been his reward. It was probably just some damned ineffable bullshit, but there was a way around it. The two times Aziraphale had made the effort first, there had been no resulting dilemma. Crowley simply had to find a way to get the damned angel to hurry up.
Seeing Aziraphale's delight and appreciation for Crowley's 'selfless generosity' with Anathema's gift, the demon was sincerely hoping that further 'selfless acts' might get the ball rolling.
He'd also been pondering why he was even interested in the angel.
It's not as though the thought had really crossed his mind before that first kiss. Well, maybe vaguely so, because you don't get to know someone as well and as long as they had without thinking, at least once, What if...? It had probably crossed his mind a few times in the last six thousand years, passing through like a mildly curious pigeon, pecking at the crumbs of novel notions. But he'd always shooed it away in annoyance at the sheer, unattainable absurdity of the concept, and it would strut casually onward to something more reasonably achievable such as (figuratively) crapping on someone's head.
However, now Crowley began to wonder just how long the idea had fermented in the angel's brain before execution. Knowing Aziraphale, the very thought was even now sitting on a shelf in his head, a subconscious bottle of especially fine 50-year old Bordeaux waiting to be opened and savoured slowly… but with the cork still firmly intact. It would take some subtle manoeuvring to get the screw in there and pop the top. And the metaphor alone was making Crowley's mouth water.
Aziraphale had of course expressed academic intrigue about matters of sexuality before, especially in ancient Athens and Rome and Gomorrah. But as for indulging those interests… highly unlikely, Crowley was sure. Being a Principality just made it less of an issue º. It seemed he was now becoming interested in indulging. And Crowley was quite happy to help him indulge.
Crowley had indulged. He was a sensual being and he enjoyed the sensuality of the world, including sex. But sometimes it was a bit much of a trial. There was something too intense about demonic or celestial beings for mortal flesh to cope with, and they often passed out or freaked out after a while. And good Anyone, there was no way in Anywhere that he'd have considered sex with another demon. But demonic and celestial flesh... together? He didn't know what the results of such an experience might be, and doubted Aziraphale did either. It could be they'd obliterate themselves in a blaze of orgasmic glory… or they might just wind up pleasantly sticky and wishing for a cigarette.
Crowley's flesh reacted to the idea, making the walk down the stairs of his flat a bit more challenging. The thought of that fuddy-duddy, good-two-shoes angel, in all his pudgy, pale, naked glory… Crowley nearly tripped over the curb as he reached his Bentley. Damn, if he started having accidents merely thinking about Aziraphale, he was going to be discorporated before the day ended.
The demon wasn't going to waste a chance at the hot and heavy, however remote. He knew he'd have to seriously woo the angel first. Aziraphale was definitely a romantic heart. If the angel could sigh in wonderment at how the Antichrist had become a good person simply by being allowed to be human... then the angel would surely be the type to want flowers and fancy chocolates and expensive theatre tickets before he wound up bent over Crowley's bed.
He grimaced. Intriguingly sweat-inducing as the thought had been, he'd just trivialised the angel's feelings, and had made himself feel a twinge of guilt in the process. Bless that spark of goodness or whatever it was inside him.
First things first. One small flick of his wrist, and he had in his hand a little something that might begin to pave his way further along the golden path to Aziraphale's heart. Or whatever was inside his cardigan.
He parked the Bentley along the curb and entered the tiny store, but saw no sign of the angel. Then a voice came from the back room, saying, "Be there in a moment," with such a tone of reluctance that any customer hearing would know that 'in a moment' translated to 'never in your lifetime'. Crowley grinned again and let himself into the back room very, very quietly.
Aziraphale was seated at his cluttered desk, hunched over a pile of books, reading and scribbling notes so intently that he didn't hear the demon creeping up behind him. Crowley stood just a step behind the chair, looking down over the angel's left shoulder. Aziraphale's head was tilted forward and just a bit to the right, soft sandy hair curling just below his ear, the pale curved nape of his neck exposed so invitingly above his shirt collar...
And Crowley found himself leaning down, unable to resist temptation.
Aziraphale jumped up as though a snake had bitten him. Okay, no teeth were used (this time) but it was still a rather accurate metaphor.
Crowley fell back onto the floor, howling in pain, because the angel's shoulder had ceased being alluring when it bashed him solidly in the nose.
"Fvugk'n 'Ell!" he bellowed, cupping his face with both hands as the blood started to flow.
"Good Heavens, Crowley!" Aziraphale's voice was rather high-pitched and desperate. "You scared me half to death! I had no idea that was you!"
"'Oo dtha Ell'dja fvingk idt wuz?" the demon shouted as he removed his sunglasses, and attempted to pinch off the bleeding without hurting his nose further. "'Ow munny odthur peeble ya godt ligk'n yer negk?"
"Oh Lord, here," the angel said with exasperation, crouching down next to him. He conjured a cold damp cloth and handed it over. "Tilt back. Some ice will help until you can get control of yourself and stop it on your own."
Crowley winced as he stuck the cloth on his broken nose. His watering eyes met Aziraphale's disdainful gaze. "Gkontroll'n m'sselvf wuzn'dt enny fvun." Then he winked.
Aziraphale sighed a bit, but smiled anyway. He reached out to the demon's face, touched the bridge of his nose gently with one finger, and it was healed. "There. Now, from now on do you suppose you could give fair warning before you sneak up behind me?"
Standing up from the floor, vanishing the spattered blood from his clothes, Crowley put his shades back on and cocked an eyebrow. "'From now on'? So, does that mean you want me to continue where I left off?"
The blush that spread across the angel's face and down to his throat was worth it, he thought.
"Anyway," Crowley went on, "I did come here with more noble intentions in mind." Barely, he thought without apology.
"You? Noble, dear boy?" Aziraphale looked amused.
"It's all relative. I'm here to invite you on a museum tour you can't refuse." Crowley presented a pair of printed tickets. "Two passes to The Relics of Obscure Saints & Prophets show at the British Museum, one evening only."
"Oh, my goodness!" Aziraphale gasped and a truly heavenly smile spread across his face. "I'd heard it was sold out!"
"It was. Until now." Crowley grinned.
"Oh, now really," the angel tsked. "That's hardly fair to others."
"Well, okay... if the only way you'll go is through legitimate channels, I'll just make 'em disappear-"
Aziraphale held the tickets closer to his chest when Crowley reached out. "Of course since you went to such trouble... But Crowley," he said, looking suddenly puzzled, "won't it be hard for you to go into such a place? I mean, it will be filled with holy items. The energy alone should give you at least a migraine."
"Yeah, I know," the demon nodded. "But I knew you wouldn't make your own ticket, so I figured I'd take it on the chin for you this time." He grinned wide again as the angel just looked at him with soft eyes, speechless. "Anyway, I already took it on the nose for you, didn't I? What's a couple inches lower?" Or a couple feet, he thought, and mentally smacked himself.
After brushing off Aziraphale's whimpering apologies, they got into the Bentley and went off to the museum.
CROWLEY BEGAN TO REGRET HIS DECISION to accompany the angel within half an hour. He'd almost literally bathed in a tub of the highest SPF sunblock available before he left home, but rays of holiness emanating from the displays were still giving him a nasty all-over burning feeling.
He bore up though, because it was quite the worthwhile entertainment to watch Aziraphale. The angel flitted from one spot to another, crowds parting before him without notice, and all but squealed with child-like delight at each new item. The look on his face, the shining eyes and brilliant smile made Crowley smile too, even through the pain.
But after another hour, he was sweating and shaking from exertion. He swayed along behind Aziraphale (now going into waves of rapture over yet another tiny sliver of bone from the left index finger of some old git who'd snuffed it centuries ago) and wished desperately for a place to sit down. The place was far too packed with people. He couldn't even lean against a wall because they were covered with displays of virulent blessedness. The only area that was reasonably clear held a fire extinguisher, and his bloody luck it would contain holy water. Or foam, or whatever was in them.
He turned to wave at the angel, hoping to indicate he was ready to leave, but Aziraphale wasn't looking.
"Oh, my goodness," Aziraphale breathed in stunned ecstasy as he gazed upon a box that held a two-inch chip of heavily charred wood. "I cannot believe this, it's from a stake where a witch was… burned in… Lanc – oh my dear, I think this might be – "
The exclaiming voices behind him made him turn around then. Crowley had collapsed to the floor and was curling into a foetal ball, shivering. People were standing about, and a couple crouched down to try to help.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale dashed to his side. He put a hand to the demon's head and found it a surprisingly mixture of fiery and clammy. "Oh my, I'd better get him out of here," he said.
Someone nearby suggested an ambulance, but the angel shook his head. "No, no, trust me, it's better I just take him home. It's just, ah, religious fervour, you see, he's very sensitive, yes." Aziraphale hated outright lying, so he just left it to the imagination what should be inferred.
He got Crowley to his feet, slung the demon's right arm over his shoulders and tucked his own left arm around Crowley's waist. "Come on, dear, let's walk now... that's good... left, right, left, right... we'll take care of you..." Aziraphale spoke soothingly until they were outside the museum gates, where he leaned Crowley leaned against a lamppost. He was wheezing a bit by now, not having realised just how heavy his friend would be as near-dead weight.
The demon was already looking a trifle better, his colour more hale, but he still wasn't entirely coherent. He moaned and gabbled weakly, and pointed a shaky finger toward the street.
"What is it, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, the picture of concern. "What do you need?"
The hand withdrew, fumbled in his pockets for a moment, and then came back out. He held out the keys to his Bentley.
He must be feeling terrible, to trust anyone else with the car.
THE DRIVE BACK TO THE BOOKSHOP was achingly slow and cautious, and created more barely-restrained road rage in the minds of fellow drivers than Crowley had ever managed in all his career. If he'd have been entirely himself, he'd have been jealous. Aziraphale drove like a heavily sedated arthritic snail...but it was probably safer that way, as he'd never done it before. The gear box would never be quite the same again.
Aziraphale himself was trembling quite a lot by the time he parked the Bentley, rather crookedly, in front of the store. Crowley was recovered enough to make it to his own feet and hobbled slowly inside while Aziraphale fretted about.
The angel fetched another cold cloth and forced Crowley to recline on the old sofa. Crowley didn't argue, just let himself be pampered. Until he was feeling entirely normal again, he really didn't care what happened. He was in the angel's hands, and that was the best place to be right now.
Aziraphale eventually spoke, sighing, "Oh Crowley, how could you be so stupid?"
Lifting the cloth from his eyes, Crowley frowned in his direction. "Stupid? Excuse me?"
"You knew this would happen, and you went anyway!" the angel said, running a hand through his hair and casting a look of utter frustration down at his friend. "You harmed yourself for no good reason!"
"For you," Crowley muttered, putting the cloth back over his eyes. "You wanted to go, I wanted to see you smile... but that's no good reason, you're right, whatever..."
There was dead silence for a few heartbeats. Crowley heard soft footsteps coming closer and the intake of breath before speaking... then silence again. Curious, he tugged the cloth off his eyes once more and looked up to see those heavenly silver-blues shining at him again.
Uh-oh, he thought. Is this going to get unnecessarily soppy?
Aziraphale knelt down beside the sofa, rather breathless. "Crowley, I... I don't know what to say-"
Crowley decided he shouldn't speak at all anymore, and leaned over to shut him up. Fortunately the angel seemed to find it hard to speak with someone else's tongue in his mouth. Crowley felt fully justified in the action, since he'd already gone through the requisite torment and was due a decent snog.
Aziraphale's head was swimming pleasantly and he allowed Crowley to do as he wished for a few minutes. The demon's hand, the one that had reached out and cupped the back of his head, was moving slightly. Fingers were twining in the soft curls and making the skin below tingle, fingers that seemed to massage every possible nerve ending at the nape of Aziraphale's neck in a very personal way. Fingers that were now spreading, and were joined by the fingers of the other hand, placed in conjunction behind his head, and which were somehow managing without any effort at all to lift Aziraphale off the floor and onto the sofa beside Crowley's still reclining form. Fingers that were very gently caressing his neck and the sides of his face while the demon's mouth thoroughly, tenderly explored his own.
And now there was a trembling sort of panic in Aziraphale's brain. He was almost lying down. With Crowley. On the couch.
The couch, so named because it was an archaic word meaning 'intercourse'.
The panic squawked like a startled budgerigar and went fluttering right into his mouth, which suddenly pushed away from Crowley's lips with an over-loud exclamation. "Oh, dear me! Look at the time! I really must be getting on with my book cataloguing! Thank you for a pleasant evening, Crowley, and I'll see you again later! Good night!"
Before the demon could even begin to protest or make sense of things, he'd been manhandled off the couch, his jacket draped over his arms and shoved out onto the sidewalk. The door was locked and bolted and quite possibly nailed shut behind him.
"Fuck it," he whispered, "One step forward, several dozen back..."
Reluctantly, but seeing little alternative, he got into the Bentley and departed. At least Aziraphale hadn't told him to get lost and never return. And for a while there, he was most definitely responding properly. So why the sudden panic? Too much, too soon? That was all Crowley could figure.
Operation Temptation was getting to be a very big pain in too many regions of his anatomy. They might be immortal, but his patience was not.
Damn. Now he needed another cold shower. And a drink. Maybe he could fill his tub with ice cubes, pour a few bottles of whiskey in with it, and have a wank on the rocks.
º The reason people make fun of Principalities – or Elohim – is because of what the name means in its original language, that being 'of neither gender, androgynous ones'. Of course, among humans, this is generally misinterpreted as 'flamingly gay'. While it's true that Aziraphale had started out more or less genderless, once he'd set foot on Earth in a mostly human body he had become decidedly male beneath his modest clothes. It's also a mistake to think that 'usually sexless' equals 'genderless'. Not the same thing at all. Angels have the proper equipment below the waist when residing in the purely physical realm of Earth. The charming incident with the Nephilim should lay the 'genderless' issue to rest. Angels merely have much better control over their hormones than humans do (especially after God decreed they'd darn well better keep their nether bits to themselves around mortals), and thus they are generally 'sexless' in their behaviour. Most demons found this to be a rather archaic (and boring) attitude, very quickly discarded.