Neutral Omens

Michael had been thinking of a different way to go about persuading his office supplies to assist him with his novel. He was just about to ask the pad of paper nicely to help, having gotten a vague idea of what he wanted the novel to be about. He got the idea a week or so ago, when he happened to see the bit of Raphael that was eye-level when Michael was sitting on his little stool, walking away across the room.

He had just picked up the pen and paper, and had begun writing the first sentance*, when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and a voice greeting him.

"That Misty Moore is something else, huh?"

"Eep! Oh, Crowley," he said, "It's just you." The angel discreetly sat on his notebook. "Yes, she is, I particularly like the imagery style she uses..." Michael trailed off guiltily.

*The first sentance was, "Once upon a time there was an altogether wonderous man called Mikel, who was in love with the most beautiful peasant girl in the village that he was count of. Her name was Raphella."

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Crowley smirked rather unpleasantly and sidled around the table so he could see Michael's face.

"Yeah, there were some beautiful passages in Let There Be Lust, didn't you think? Especially that part with the girl. You know, towards the end?"

He leaned forward conspiratorially, letting his body language speak for him. He moved his hip just so, he let an arm rest casually on the table at just the right angle. Six thousand years of practiced movements at his disposal, along with a projected air of confidence, and this was far too easy.

"Oh, actually I meant to ask you where you buy your books. My copy is in tatters, having read it so often, and I wanted to pick up a new one."

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Michael suddenly felt uncomfortably surprised.

"You, er... Read romance novels? I mean, um. No offense or anything, I ju-- um. Well, you see-- Beautiful? Well, you-- I... Err. Barnes and Noble," he finished weakly, seeing the look on Crowley's face. "Fishstick," he added pointlessly.

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"Lots of unexpected people read romance novels, Mikey," said Crowley in a friendly tone.

Like the commander of Heaven's army, he thought, derisively.

"Barnes and Noble, huh? Why didn't I think of that? You think they have Let There Be Lust there? It's my favorite. You do own your own copy, don't you, Mike?" Crowley put on his hopeful expression, tilted his head inquisitively and looked intently at the awkward archangel.

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"Lots of unexpected people read romance novels, Mikey," said Crowley in a friendly tone.

"Yes, I suppose they do," Mikey said uneasily. "Why would you want to know if I still have my copy? And why are you talking to me all of a sudden?"

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Crowley raised an eyebrow a calculated fraction of an inch.

"I just heard on the grapevine that you like Misty Moore. Since she's my favorite author, I thought we could enjoy a literary discussion. So few people appreciate her imagery..."

He let that sink in a moment.

"And I wanted to make sure that you had a copy of Let There Be Lust because I think everyone should. It's that good."

Crowley smiled eagerly and settled on the edge of Michael's desk. "So, what's your favorite part?"

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"Yes, well... Um. I liked that bit with the -- Well, no, cause the other -- no, not that either," Michael mumbled. "Don't have one. Well, except for that part about three-quarters through, with the two main characters and the handcuffs... Well, no, cause-- Yes. No favorite part. Although I am quite fond of the part where the priest declared his undying love for Xander, it was quite sweet."

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"Xander. Sweet. Right," said Crowley, expressionlessly.

Michael had obviously read the book and he'd bought it at the bookstore printed on the receipt that Draco had found in Crowley's flat. It wasn't absolute proof, but it was good enough for Crowley. He leaned forward, looming slightly over the archangel, his body language losing all friendly overtones.

"You know what my favorite part is? I like the part where the murdering bastard tries to kill the hero by pouring deadly poison all over his home. When the hero returns, wanting nothing more than to take care of the badly injured heroine, who happens to be the murdering bastard's sister, he is nearly killed in the most painful and drawn out way possible. Fortunately, the burned and battered heroine draws upon her meagre reserves of strength to save the hero's life with the aid of the hero's apprentice, even though she wouldn't have been hurt if the murdering bastard had been protecting her against her enemies like he should have been rather than trying to kill the hero."

Crowley stood menacingly. "Did you like that part, too, Michael?"

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Michael stood suddenly*, and summoned one of his swords to his hand.

"Are you accusing me of something, demon?" the angel growled heatedly.

===

*At this point, the black pen and the #2 pencil made a bet with the laptop on when the two entities would go for each other's throats.

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"Oh, put your little stick away," chided Crowley, his body language radiating false confidence. "You know Adam won't let you discorporate me here."

I hope...

"Just tell me who gave you the order to kill me and ignore Aziraphale's fire and I'll leave you to your little..." he waved a hand at Michael's writing implements, "...endeavor."

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"Demon! Betray my comrades? Never!" Michael suddenly found that the tip of the sword had relocated itself to Crowley's throat.

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He couldn't say he was entirely surprised when he rounded the corner to find Michael, flaming sword ready and pointed at the demon Crowley. He also couldn't say he was entirely unamused.

That is, until the image of Crowley's bandaged hands assaulted him, grabbed hold somewhere in his stomach and tugged.

Gabriel could only assume that this was the issue at hand, judging by the shouts he'd heard and the enraged faces on both parts; though he was hardly looking forward to dealing with the demon's paranoia once more, this didn't seem like quite the way to deal with it.

"Michael," Gabriel said, laying a familiar hand on the other archangel's shoulder. A faint smirk played over his lips as he glanced at the cornered demon. "I see you've met Crowley."

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Fuck, thought Crowley, leaning away from the burning sword. The naked flame twanged against the still sensitive skin of his recently healed burns. His eyes narrowed at Gabriel's approach, and he prepared to take on two archangels at once in the only way he could...

"Gabriel," he began, raising an eyebrow. "How nice of you to join our little chat. I don't suppose you could ask your colleague to lower his little barbecue fork before he hurts himself? We were having a friendly literary discussion but it appears that Mikey took offense at something I said. Whatever happened to meekness and moderation, huh?"

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"Friendly?" Gabriel asked, arching a brow smoothly. "I somehow doubt that."

He settled himself in Michael's chair, ignoring all the writing implements gathered around, and certainly making no move to help Crowley with the flaming weapon at his throat. "Now really, demon. One angel's not enough for you? You insist on plaguing all of us with your paranoia?"

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"And what is that supposed to mean, Gabby?" demanded Crowley, ignoring the sword at his throat. "Just what are you implying? I don't have 'one angel' and I should hardly call it paranoia when I've already been attacked."

He tried to glare at the archangel he was talking to, but the sword was in the way. Frustrated, he cried out, "Oh, would you put that fucking thing away and get the hell out of here, Mikey? You're clearly not bright enough to have given the orders to kill me, although I know it was you that followed them. Hey, next time you feel like killing someone, either do it face-to-face, like a man, or stick your head in a bucket of acid first so you can see how it feels."

Crowley crossed his arms across his chest and tapped his foot impatiently.

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Michael pulled back slightly at the demon's harsh tone, but Gabriel merely sighed, leaning back in his chair and wearily rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Honestly. You do enjoy playing the victim, don't you?"

Crowley might not have had a swordpoint to his throat, but he was no less cornered, and Gabriel recognized this routine from their earlier encounters: curse to hide any cowering fear, attack to mask desperation. He didn't fancy dealing with this again, and so he rose from his seat, sweeping across the room to where Crowley stood.

"Do you really think that you're the only demon to ever be attacked from Up There?" he asked, his voice calm though his gaze was hard on the demon's yellow eyes. "Do you think you're just special? I hate to ruin your self-esteem, Crowley, but there's a war on, or had you not noticed it in the past six thousand years?"

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Clearly Gabriel was not intimidated by his bluster, so Crowley changed tactics immediately. He pushed back his anger and forced himself to speak calmly, hoping that logic would have more of an impact on the obnoxious angel.

"Do you know, I rather think I might be. I am Hell's only field agent, after all, and the only demon involved in preventing the Apocalypse eight years ago. I think that does make me a special target. In fact, I know I am. Because never before in the six thousand year war that you mentioned, has an archangel, and the commander of Heaven's army, been so afraid of a minor demon that he had to lay a trap rather than attack him face to face. And Heaven is supposed to have the honorable fighters..."

"But you know, as insignificant as I am, I still have the right to know who wants me dead and why. I also want to know who wants Aziraphale dead, because I suspect they're the same person."

Crowley held Gabriel's fierce blue gaze. "And I am never going to stop until I find out."

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A smile passed over the archangel's lips that in no way reached his eyes.

"Clearly," he said almost amiably, "you've got this all figured out, Crowley. I don't know why you're even bothering to question archangels about it. Surely you can just invent a few more details to cement this whole conspiracy together on your own."

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"What does it take to get through to you, Gabriel?" asked Crowley, frustrated. "It doesn't bother you that Aziraphale was nearly destroyed? You seemed to care in the hospital, but I guess that was just an act."

He looked over the tops of his sunglasses, eyes flicking between Gabriel and Michael. As he did so, a thought occurred to him.

"Unless you're trying to distract me... because you were the one to give this moron his orders."

Crowley's eyes widened. Gabriel's unusual behavior was starting to make sense.

"You did, didn't you? And while Mikey here was busy trying to snuff me in the stupidest way possible, Aziraphale was burning in his shop. If I hadn't arrived in time, he'd be dead, and it'd be your fault."

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"Tell Michael it's time."

"Time for what?" Hesitation. Questioning. He dared not voice them too forwardly, for he'd been lost in them before. He was an angel, and his place was to obey.

"He'll understand."

If Crowley had had any more influence over the archangel, Gabriel might have visibly flinched at the demon's words, but as it was he managed to keep his unyielding expression. It was achingly familiar, being accused of something he'd had only a passing role in.

"How dare you, cretin," he snapped, though he felt his voice held only a fraction of the holy outrage it should have. "I was helping Aziraphale, or do you really think that you and your blond pet and that ghost would have done any good? And if he had died - which he would have, if I'd left you to him - your accusing me would still get you nowhere. I did not start the fire, nor did I know about your flat."

Gabriel might have, if he'd cared to try, connected the cryptic message with papers that had been floating from desk to desk Above about the divine retribution of the agent of Hell, but he had simply fulfilled his function, in the end; these decisions were not his to make.

Even if he sometimes didn't understand them, he thought, remembering with a pang the hurt on Aziraphale's face when he'd told him about his bookshop.

"I'm afraid your conspiracy ends here, demon."

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