I Lie Through My Teeth
Mar. 27th, 2007 08:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tanarillBut, also, I give presentations about plastic to plastic engineers and don't get ripped to shreds. Probably because the study confirmed what we already knew but we now get to say to the guys in Germany "nyer nyer, We Told You So," even if it isn't a happy conclusion.
Anyway.
I should have posted this yesterday.
Title: It's Because He's Enough of a Bastard to be Worth Liking
Fandoms: Still this GO-ASRP crossover. Love for Pratchett and Gaiman, not love for Hartman.
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Aziraphale didn’t call for twenty-four hours, by which time he was practically bouncing off the walls.
“Where have you been, you bloody angel?” he asked when he picked up the phone, before Aziraphale could say a word.
“Well, excuse me,” said the affronted Aziraphale. “I thought you’d like some time to settle in before I called. You know, put your hat down-”
“-up-”
“-and have a nice cup of tea. What?”
“Up. You put a hat-oh, never mind. Listen. You’re never going to believe this. No, you know what, wait. I’ll be over in ten.”
“Crowley, it’s a London weekend. There’s no physical way you can be here in ten minutes.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
Crowley was, in fact, there in eleven and a half, but only nine and a half had actually been driving; he’d decided that some alcohol was necessary on the way over and had stopped, although not for very long, to get some. Azirapahle appreciated bought alcohol, but the little store hadn’t had any good Irish whiskey, so he’d shrugged and demon’d it up anyway.
“Traffic was a bloody nightmare,” he commented as the bell to Aziraphale’s shop clanked.
“Well, yes,” replied the angel. “I believe you had something to do with that.”
Too-white teeth glinted, and it was the smile that had at one point taught humanity to sin.
“Do you want some tea? I have a pot on.”
And in fact Azirapahle politely but firmly prevented him from saying anything until they were both seated, Aziraphale with a small bone-china cup and Crowley with a shotglass.
“So what was it you wanted to tell me?”
“Those energy spikes your lot wanted me to check-”
“-wanted me to check, but since you were going to America anyway . . . ”
“Are you going to let me finish?”
Azirapahle took a sip of tea.
“Right. Energy spikes. Great huge spikes of happy energy that has half of America being kind to dogs and children. Tracked them right to their source, a place called Amity Park.” He waited expectantly.
“And?” asked Azirapahle.
“This is where you are supposed to make a joke about Amityville, Amity Park,” said Crowley, and then went on. “Anyway. It’s a ghost.”
“A saint is doing this?”
“No. He’s unaffiliated. Just some ghost who happens to be causing huge happy-energy spikes every time he screws somebody.”
“I beg pardon?”
“Every time he fucks somebody, he-”
“Really, Crowley!”
“What? It’s the truth!”
“I don’t doubt it.” Aziraphale was giving him a look that said, ‘And I know exactly how you found out, you old snake.’
“Anyway,” he said, pointedly ignoring the angel’s glare, “that’s not the weirdest thing about him, because the weirdest thing about him is the people in his head.”
“Oh, he’s insane,” in same tone that someone would say, ‘Oh, it’s sunny,’ or ‘Oh, there’s a pigeon,’ or, probably, ‘Oh, Great-aunt Agatha got out again.’
“Yes, but. The people living in his head aren’t. He’s the crazy one. The others are there to keep him in check. As far as I could get out of him, he once destroyed the world because they’d gone missing.”
“The world hasn’t been destroyed. We made sure of this.”
“This was in a future that isn’t going to happen now,” explained Crowley. “They’re . . . just as strong as him, but in different ways. One of them got around into my head, and the other one kept me out of his.”
Azirapahle waited a moment to make sure that Crowley had finished before saying, “Yes?”
“Well, your side doesn’t have anything like him and my side doesn’t have anything like him because if we did your side wouldn't be around anymore. So I want to know, where did he come from?”
“Tadfield,” replied Aziraphale, which was a codeword for, ‘I don’t know what ineffable plan got things to turn out like this and, honestly, I don’t want to. Just go with it, dear. It’s not like you can do anything about it.’
“But aren’t you curious?”
“Yes, dear,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll order tickets sometime tomorrow. Tea?”
Crowley drained his shot glass.
Six times in a row, without actually touching the bottle once.
“No thanks.”
My brainbunnies, incidentally the same ones that insist A/C is GO OTP, insist that in this world they finally admit it to themselves and get together because of Dan.
I'm tempted to agree with them.
Anyway.
I should have posted this yesterday.
Title: It's Because He's Enough of a Bastard to be Worth Liking
Fandoms: Still this GO-ASRP crossover. Love for Pratchett and Gaiman, not love for Hartman.
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Aziraphale didn’t call for twenty-four hours, by which time he was practically bouncing off the walls.
“Where have you been, you bloody angel?” he asked when he picked up the phone, before Aziraphale could say a word.
“Well, excuse me,” said the affronted Aziraphale. “I thought you’d like some time to settle in before I called. You know, put your hat down-”
“-up-”
“-and have a nice cup of tea. What?”
“Up. You put a hat-oh, never mind. Listen. You’re never going to believe this. No, you know what, wait. I’ll be over in ten.”
“Crowley, it’s a London weekend. There’s no physical way you can be here in ten minutes.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
Crowley was, in fact, there in eleven and a half, but only nine and a half had actually been driving; he’d decided that some alcohol was necessary on the way over and had stopped, although not for very long, to get some. Azirapahle appreciated bought alcohol, but the little store hadn’t had any good Irish whiskey, so he’d shrugged and demon’d it up anyway.
“Traffic was a bloody nightmare,” he commented as the bell to Aziraphale’s shop clanked.
“Well, yes,” replied the angel. “I believe you had something to do with that.”
Too-white teeth glinted, and it was the smile that had at one point taught humanity to sin.
“Do you want some tea? I have a pot on.”
And in fact Azirapahle politely but firmly prevented him from saying anything until they were both seated, Aziraphale with a small bone-china cup and Crowley with a shotglass.
“So what was it you wanted to tell me?”
“Those energy spikes your lot wanted me to check-”
“-wanted me to check, but since you were going to America anyway . . . ”
“Are you going to let me finish?”
Azirapahle took a sip of tea.
“Right. Energy spikes. Great huge spikes of happy energy that has half of America being kind to dogs and children. Tracked them right to their source, a place called Amity Park.” He waited expectantly.
“And?” asked Azirapahle.
“This is where you are supposed to make a joke about Amityville, Amity Park,” said Crowley, and then went on. “Anyway. It’s a ghost.”
“A saint is doing this?”
“No. He’s unaffiliated. Just some ghost who happens to be causing huge happy-energy spikes every time he screws somebody.”
“I beg pardon?”
“Every time he fucks somebody, he-”
“Really, Crowley!”
“What? It’s the truth!”
“I don’t doubt it.” Aziraphale was giving him a look that said, ‘And I know exactly how you found out, you old snake.’
“Anyway,” he said, pointedly ignoring the angel’s glare, “that’s not the weirdest thing about him, because the weirdest thing about him is the people in his head.”
“Oh, he’s insane,” in same tone that someone would say, ‘Oh, it’s sunny,’ or ‘Oh, there’s a pigeon,’ or, probably, ‘Oh, Great-aunt Agatha got out again.’
“Yes, but. The people living in his head aren’t. He’s the crazy one. The others are there to keep him in check. As far as I could get out of him, he once destroyed the world because they’d gone missing.”
“The world hasn’t been destroyed. We made sure of this.”
“This was in a future that isn’t going to happen now,” explained Crowley. “They’re . . . just as strong as him, but in different ways. One of them got around into my head, and the other one kept me out of his.”
Azirapahle waited a moment to make sure that Crowley had finished before saying, “Yes?”
“Well, your side doesn’t have anything like him and my side doesn’t have anything like him because if we did your side wouldn't be around anymore. So I want to know, where did he come from?”
“Tadfield,” replied Aziraphale, which was a codeword for, ‘I don’t know what ineffable plan got things to turn out like this and, honestly, I don’t want to. Just go with it, dear. It’s not like you can do anything about it.’
“But aren’t you curious?”
“Yes, dear,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll order tickets sometime tomorrow. Tea?”
Crowley drained his shot glass.
Six times in a row, without actually touching the bottle once.
“No thanks.”
My brainbunnies, incidentally the same ones that insist A/C is GO OTP, insist that in this world they finally admit it to themselves and get together because of Dan.
I'm tempted to agree with them.
