neutral_omens | (no subject)

Entry tags:

aziraphale,
crowley

(no subject)

Date: May 14, 2000
Setting: Front desk
Status: Private - Crowley, Aziraphale
Summary: Aziraphale is getting restless.

The thing was, Aziraphale was tired. He was exhausted of pushing paper and writing notes, performing only the barest miracles and human interaction at a minimum. He missed his old life (not that this one didn't have his perks) where he got to go out and have delicious food prepared by internationally famous chefs with expensive wines and Crowley's drunken company. He thought of their philosophical conversations that let him lay worries and fears out in a roundabout way, holes in his belief, and replenish that faith, and the angel realized, suddenly, how much he did miss them.

The Manor was becoming too familiar, and Aziraphale itched to leave, go out and have fun. He was finished in four minutes, exactly, and it would be easy to go and ask Crowley about the possibility of reenacting their old habits and finding new haunts. Aziraphale didn't even know the names of the pubs in Tadfield, after all. It was a tragedy.

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"Er.

"The sauce was off," Aziraphale explained. "And anyway no one paid a speck of attention." He caught Crowley's surprised look. "It tastes delicious, what's the matter?"

Crowley shrugged. "I like it," he said, taking another bite and washing it down with more wine.

Finally starting to feel a bit fuzzy around the edges he asked a question he'd been wondering about for a while. "So, how are you liking the new body? You're doing half of my job with it, you know."

"Half your job? Whatever do you mean?" Aziraphale blinked at him, half-hiccuping.

He considered the question, aside from Crowley's baffling remark. "It's... nice, I suppose. It's more flexible the last, and it's younger. It will probably last longer. Not that the old one had been due to wear out, mind. And it's certainly competent... where it needs to be competent," he added, blushing deeply. "It has good filing hands, I meant." The angel stared into his wineglass.

Raising an eyebrow, Crowley said, "Good filing hands. Uh huh. I meant that you're inciting lust all over the place. I hardly even need to be around."

He sipped at his wine and smirked. "Thanks for the leg up, angel. So to speak."

Aziraphale choked on his next sip of wine.

Recovering, he drank the rest - why not, after all? - and tried to glare at Crowley, failing miserably. "You're mistaken, dear boy. I am hardly collecting lustful gazes, after all - except possibly yours, and those are perfectly all right." There's belief in Aziraphale's words, and it shows. If he has been drawing lustful attention, he's not aware of it.

Crowley snorted. "You still trying to tell me that I can't recognize lust? Well, if you don't believe me, ask Hermes or Belial or Ellie. I'm sure I've seen them all give you the once or twice over."

He smirked then and pointed to the woman with the wine-stained blouse. "She did, too. And the waiter."

"Admiration for my outfit," Aziraphale explained. "You dressed me, feel flattered that your work is appreciated."

He shifted, uncomfortable, and said, stubbornly, "They have not. They were merely trying to make sure I hadn't come back with an unnoticed third leg."

"Oh, they noticed your third leg, all right," laughed Crowley, finishing off another glass of wine. "Regardless of the awful trousers you normally wear."

The angel went a deep, all-encompassing red, and reached for his wineglass. Drinking was far better than refuting, at this point.

Laughing some more, Crowley refilled Aziraphale's glass the moment he'd finished it and topped his own off as well. He was well on his way to being totally, blissfully drunk.

The angel drank deeply.

"You know, I heard the most fascinating thing the other night, about the difference between shrimp and prawns."

"Shrimp and prawns? Oh, do tell. Adam knows I've been having trouble sleeping lately."

Crowley wondered if there was enough alcohol in the restaurant for this.

Aziraphale clumsily gave him an evil sort of squint. "Ta," he muttered, "but have you ever really seen a herring? What is a herring anyway? Do they have nests, like dolphins?"

"Course I've seen a herring. You see 'em in your bloody breakfast every day. What's that got to do with prawns?"

"Those are herrings?" the angel gasped. And then he frowned. "Oh, dear me, I thought they were supposed to be rather red...?"

"Oh, don't be stupid, angel. You've been eating kippers for centuries. What the hell is up with you lately? Leave your brain back in London?"

"Hardly, my dear. And when was the last time I had kippers, anyway?"

Aziraphale sighed. "Sorry," he said. "There's some girl off to your left scrutinizing me, and it's a bit distracting, to be honest. Reminds me of- well, no one really, an old friend, but she's been there for a bit."

The black-haired girl turned away, her green eyes disappearing as she looked down, but Aziraphale had thought, for a moment, entirely out of context and setting (hardly the American civil war!), that he'd known her. But no, Mistress O'Hara had been far more striking.

He shook his head. "Think I'm must be getting a bit drunk, actually. How much have we gone through?"

"August," replied Crowley promptly. "Right after you got out of hospital. I watched you eat them."

He turned to glare at the young woman in question, but she'd looked away. It was all right, though. She'd find the half a roach in her salad soon enough.

Looking back to peer at the wine bottle, Crowley shrugged. "Haven't been paying attention."

Aziraphale smiled a little at the memory. "I'd forgotten about that, actually. You were such a dear."

The angel poured himself another glass, filling Crowley's again. "Right, that means we need more. Mm, this is lovely, a deep sort of fruity. Wonderful legs on this wine."

Crowley snorted. "If you're going to call me a dear, then you're damn straight we need more."

He sipped at his drink. "'s good. Not like a Babylonian, though. I don't think we'll ever have wine like that again."

He sighed, despondently. "No, no, never those wines. Although I do think the French taste a bit more cultured."

A beat.

"The French wines."

Crowley laughed. "Since when did you start picking up on subtext? I could have teased you for days on that one..."

"I read." The angel smiled. "One sort of has to, in my business. Although perhaps the question is, 'What have I been reading lately'?"

A raised eyebrow with maybe just the hint of innuendo-laden smirk. "Oh yes? What have you been reading lately?"

"We are not nearly drunk enough for this conversation," Aziraphale told him primly.

"Although, and I will say this, for what used to be a Satanic hospital, one must wonder at the nuns' choice in reading material... ? Really, my dear, is it all simply hyperbole?"

He was, of course, recurring to the very arcane texts of the sexual habits of demons. Inspired, possibly, by the legions of Incubae, or in several cases, Succubae?