| New Good Omens fic: "Two Ways About It" - Azirphale/Crowley - R |
[Sep. 5th, 2008|05:59 pm] |
Title: Two Ways About It
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: R
Notes: This is...welcome at best, I think, and terribly random at worst. It's as if I'm only just now emerging from some long nap I'd never intended to take. Either that or the muses are really starting to let me know I've hit critical mass as far as the number of fandoms on which I can spend energy - and which ones I'm neglecting!
Summary: It's never as you had expected, and always more than you'd dreamed.
I. Getting a Clue
If anyone had told Crowley it would happen during the 1992 Eurovision Song Contest, he'd have told them they were bloody insane. After all they'd been through in the preceding months, lapsing back into complete normalcy was almost welcome. Crowley's first clue that something was amiss should've been that Aziraphale had asked if he could come over to watch the whole debacle on Crowley's television.
"Shall I bring some wine, my dear? What's your poison?"
"Anything with an alchohol content above ten percent. Say, I didn't think you liked watching humans make fools of themselves. Is there anything else I should know, lest I keel over from the shock of discovery?"
"Oh, very funny. Our near-death experience apparently hasn't done you any favors."
"And even if it had done? I certainly wouldn't tell you. Have you got any of that, oh, whatchacallit, Quinto do - "
"Quinta do Noval vintage port, and no, I don't. We drank it all."
"Rats. Bring whatever's left, then."
"I will." Click. And with Aziraphale's hang-up, the trouble had begun.
Crowley's second clue should have been that Ireland won with a song called Why Me?
"Can't believe Ball didn't win it," muttered Aziraphale, drunkenly, into his glass.
"Ha! I knew you were in it for the schmaltz," Crowley announced gleefully, almost spilling what was left of his merlot all over the angel's trousers. "The truth will out, I alwaysss sssay." Crowley bit his wayward tongue. Surely he wasn't that drunk.
"Michael's a talented young man," Aziraphale asserted, almost petulant. "Why, just you wait an' see, he'll sweep th'floor with your pet project next year, just you wait - "
"My pet project?" slurred Crowley, removing his sunglasses so that he could squint at Aziraphale's face, which was very blurry indeed. "What?"
"You've got it all rigged," Aziraphale said, jabbing one emphatic index finger at Crowley's nose. "Don't you think I'm not onto your shennagin - shennanig - tricks!"
"Not thisss year," said Crowley, honestly, deflecting the angel's finger with his glass. A few ruby-red drops went astray, landing on the immaculate white arm of his sofa. "Now look what you've - "
"Give me that," said Aziraphale, tartly, promptly taking the glass off of him. "You're in no state to cotnin - conti - keep drinking, so I'll make this easier on both of us an' set this right over - oops."
"What I've done," Crowley lamented, blinking wide-eyed at his carpet. "What I've - "
At that point, several things had happened in quick succession, none of which Crowley had been able to sort out, not even with the clarity of hindsight. Aziraphale, muttering a hasty string of indistinct apologies, had managed to miracle away most of the damage before Crowley could turn and attempt to strangle him. Either that or said attempt at strangulation was cut off when Aziraphale tried to reach past him for the bottle and sneak what was left, the hypocrite. In any case, they had met somewhere in the middle: nose to nose, arms badly tangled, eyes open painfully wide.
"Maybe," began Crowley, uselessly, "maybe we should..."
"Sorry," Aziraphale whispered, as if he regretted more than just the spill. "Terribly."
As it had turned out, Crowley was about to. The kiss had been slow and careful - he'd seen to that, even as intoxicated as he was - and, in spite of his hesitation, Crowley was grateful that Aziraphale hadn't pulled away. Aziraphale's mouth had tasted of salted popcorn and three different types of wine, but as the seconds had passed, Crowley had quickly lost the ability to distinguish between the four.
Before the night was out, it was Crowley's bed that had taken most of the abuse. The winning question, however, had no longer seemed to apply. Aziraphale's warm, comfortable body and light, rhythmic snoring had been enough to tell him why.
II. Taking a Hint
It had taken Aziraphale quite some time to work out the particulars, but suffice it to say that Crowley was an infuriatingly private person and an even more infuriatingly discreet lover. He avoided public displays of affection at all costs, which had, on more than one occasion, prompted Aziraphale to snap at him. The question of who, exactly, had gone truly native was a hotbed of debate - and not the type of hotbed Aziraphale would have preferred, either. Kisses in the park were an after-dusk affair only.
Convincing Crowley that variety was the spice of life would really take some doing. Nights spent tangled in Crowley's overpriced sheets were all well and good, but Crowley's anxiety about the state of the rest of his flat bordered on the sublimely ridiculous. And he thought Aziraphale was fussy when it came to his clothes.
Some manner of ambush, it seemed, was the only recourse left.
"I thought I'd come over this evening," said Aziraphale, casually.
There was momentary silence on the other end of the line, followed by Crowley taking the rare opportunity to breathe. "Oh? I thought you'd had enough for one week."
"Never," Aziraphale said, finding the admission more revelatory than he'd expected. "Shall I bring anything? Maybe what's left of that stuff left over from - "
"No," Crowley sighed. "Let's go out. I'm getting tired of staring at my ceiling."
Aziraphale ignored the jibe, thrilled by the implications. "The Ritz, then? Or - "
"If I didn't know any better, angel, I'd say you were losing your creativity."
"Fine. If you're so...so with it, why don't you decide?"
"I'll pick you up in ten," said Crowley. The line went dead.
The situation might not have boded so well, except for the fact that Crowley's idea of surprising Aziraphale with their destination didn't seem to include anything along the lines of a spontaneous hotel-room booking or a moonlit stroll. Aziraphale still had the advantage. Catching Crowley on his own territory might yet be possible.
"Excellent stuff," Aziraphale sighed, dropping his napkin onto his plate. "Well chosen."
"I'd been curious," said Crowley, modestly, swilling the last of his port. It wasn't Quinta do Noval, but it was over ten years old and would suffice. "Nice place."
That they had been reduced to two-word sentences was a pretty good indication that a hasty exit was in order. If Crowley brushed the toe of his boot against Aziraphale's calf one more time, there was bound to be an incident that neither side would want to hear about. Above and Below had better things with which to be concerned.
Crowley's flat was warmer than he usually kept it in spring; either that, or his automatic heating system had deemed conditions cool enough to kick on at full-blast. Aziraphale loosened his collar, casually letting his eyes sweep over Crowley's latest efforts at redecorating. Crowley was already rattling around in the kitchen.
"D'you want tea or coffee?"
"The latter," Aziraphale called back, biting his lip. It was then or never.
Crowley was just as absorbed in his task as Aziraphale had expected him to be, fussing with the complicated buttons on his coffee-maker. He was so busy telling the machine to - well, whatever it was he was telling it to do - that he didn't react when Aziraphale set a hand on his shoulder.
"Actually," Aziraphale said, "it can wait. Er. If you like."
Crowley turned and blinked at him, confused. "Clearly, you've never argued with electronics. If I don't get the sequence just right, it'll - mmmf."
If Aziraphale was determined to remember anything for future reference, it was Crowley's startled gasp and the sheer ease with which Aziraphale had been able to coax him into a kiss and up onto the counter. But what would stay with him, ultimately, was the feel of Crowley's bare hips flush against his own and the knowledge that their trousers were puddled carelessly on the floor.
Why him? Some things, Aziraphale decided, were best left unquestioned. |
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