Title: A Lesson in Linguistics
Author: viridian_magpie
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to the geniuses known as Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.
Note: Despite the subject matter, this is strangely unkinky.
Summary: Hell's latest demand proves to be harder to meet than Crowley anticipated. Aziraphale lends a sympathetic ear.***
When Aziraphale did not open the door to bid his visitor to come enter – because Crowley being Crowley ignored the existence of manners and just suddenly appeared in his abode, startling the angel and making him drop a book –, the first word Aziraphale heard was "brandy." The second one was "now."Aziraphale, who did have manners, thank you very much, first miracled a sifter into Crowley's hand and then a second one into his own; because letting someone drink alone, especially when they were upset enough to forget that they could have got the alcohol on their own, seemed rude and not very compassionate.
It also happened to be quite excellent brandy.
"I can't believe it," said Crowley, after Aziraphale had refilled his glass for the third time.
"Mmm?" The angel prompted, which was all the encouragement Crowley needed to unburden himself – more than what was needed in fact. The demon had never been one to keep himself in check when he felt he was being wronged and Aziraphale would bet his collection of Infamous Bibles on Crowley coming here, because he felt he'd been treated unjustly.
"All this work. The compliments, the chocolates, the sweet-talking. Even flowers," the demon began, running a hand through his hair. Ah, thought Aziraphale, it's about that. "Do you know how much effort it takesss to make any kind of plant look lush and green? I gave her the lushest blessed flowerss on earth. And when I finally get her into bed, she leavess before anything can happen!"
"Mm," replied the angel, as non-committally as possible given the circumstances. As bad as it was for his counterpart to have failed in his mission – that was, hell's latest directive that all demons had to personally damn one soul per decade or face dire consequences –, Aziraphale was glad that the poor young woman had been saved; well, had saved herself apparently. He didn't allow his happiness to show on his face, however. Gloating was a sin – or should be considered one, at least.
"And do you know why?" Crowley continued, glaring into his empty brandy sifter before refilling it himself. "The bootssss! Said I had to take them off first. Might as well have asked me to take off my feet. Wait, she did!"
"I'm sure she didn't know," Aziraphale assured him, but Crowley either didn't hear him or chose to ignore his attempt at soothing him.
"Ungrateful wench. People put them on for bed nowadays – she wants me to take'em off!"
"They do?" Aziraphel blinked. Humans wore shoes to bed these days? Maybe he needed to do another study on them. After all, it wouldn't do to get out of touch with his … flock. Although, things couldn't have changed that much in only fifty years, could they?
"Well, some of them," said Crowley. Evidently they could. "It's considered hot," he added after a pause, during which Aziraphale had given the idea of wearing shoes to bed all the consideration it was due. It might be because of bad circulation, he concluded. Maybe they got cold feet.
"Ah," Aziraphale replied, mentally petting himself on the back for getting it right. "So their feet will be warm then."
Crowley gave him a funny look. "Well, that too. But it's also, you know, hot."
The angel thought he might not know after all. "Er," he said, casting about for some frame of reference and finally alighting on something. "Like your car?"
"No." Crowley screwed up his nose. "My Bentley is cool."
"But," Aziraphel pointed out – not unreasonably, he thought – "it was on fire."
"Er, yes, but..." The demon trailed off.
"It was on fire and fire is hot," Aziraphale added helpfully; he was sure he was onto something there. "Of course, after the fire died, it cooled down. Oh, and I suppose it wasn't really hot before it started to burn, though it wasn't exactly cool either. Warm maybe." The angel took another sip of his brandy, only to discover that his glass was empty. Again. He miracled himself some more. "Warm is a good temperature, anyway. Humans get uncomfortable if they're too hot or too cold."
Crowley scratched his head then grumbled – or hissed – to himself and finally rose from the chair. "I'll shhhow you," he said, tottering towards the sofa. Aziraphale reckoned that he'd had too much to drink; which was most likely the reason why his talk about temperature made so little sense.
Meanwhile, Crowley threw himself on the bed.
"I liked this sofa," the angel complained.
"You can miracle it back when I'm done with the demenssstroation," Crowley hissed, fighting the buttons on his dress shirt (Gucci, thank you, not Versace). For a while it looked like the buttons would win.
"You could just vanish the shirt."
"No," Crowley grumbled in reply, "this isss part of the deal. Sssstriptease, you know."
Aziraphale didn't know and wasn't exactly sure if he wanted to find out. It didn't sound like anything a heavenly messenger should be involved in.
About two minutes later, Crowley lost patience and glared at the buttons until they were properly cowed into submission and opened themselves. He wriggled out of the shirt, waved it around over his head twenty-four and a half times (1) and finally threw it into a random direction. It sailed through the air in an arch, missing an ancient vase by accident more than design and flew out of the open window.
ooo
(1) Not that either had kept count.
ooo
"Really dear," Aziraphale said reprovingly, "you could have given it to charity instead." Waste of a perfectly good shirt, that was.
"Oh, shhut up," Crowley muttered, reaching for his fly.
The acrobatics that followed would have made more sense had he been a snake – body-wise. There was wriggling, and squiggling, and writhing – and it looked lewd! Finally, Crowley slithered out of his slacks. He waved them about half-heartedly before taking aim and throwing them towards the foot of the bed.
Not that Aziraphale took much note of this, since his attention was drawn to the fact that Crowley wasn't wearing underwear.
"Er," said the angel, reaching for a copy of the Codex Claromontanus and fanning himself.
"Ssssee," Crowley slurred, sprawling on the bed in a position so indecent that Aziraphale couldn't tear his eyes away. "It's hot."
"Er," the angel repeated, taking in the boots (feet) and the lack of anything else – that was to say, any other piece of attire, because Crowley certainly didn't lack... things.
The Codex dropped from his hand and fluttered to the floor. Aziraphale bent forward to pick it up before it came to harm. He paused, staring at his Birkenstocks.
Maybe...?
No.
"I think I understand," Aziraphale mumbled, resisting temptation and not looking back at the demon.
When Crowley didn't react, the angel chanced a peek at his face, only to discover that he had fallen asleep. Well, that was... just as well, he supposed.
Sighing, Aziraphale miracled a blanket into existence, covering the demon up. Lacking clothes as he was, the demon would get cold, boots or no (2).
Gaze straying back to Crowley despite his best intentions, Aziraphale came to the conclusion that he wouldn't have to worry about his body temperature dropping for a while yet, with or without his Birkenstocks.
ooo
(2) The fact that this would make it easier for him to resist looking did not cross Aziraphale's mind at all, of course. Well, maybe a bit.
***