outside_omens | (no subject)

Draco had finally been given a task worthy of a demonic intern. His satisfaction at this state of affairs could be discerned in his voice, his eyes, his jaunty walk. Draco was on a mission.

Better yet, it was something that only HE could do. Admittedly, the prospect of going back to Crowley’s flat in order to disarm the things which had originally hurt the demon was frightening, at first. But then Aziraphale had patiently explained that Draco was invincible, in a matter of speaking. That all Draco had to do was grab some silly toys from some unusually active plants, and check the flat for anything else that could be dangerous to Crowley’s health.. This was nothing, compared to Herbology.

Draco hummed a tune that he would never admit to knowing due to its popularity among adolescent witches, and started to ascend the stairs that lead to Crowley’s penthouse suite.

It was a good thing that he had never seen any Ghostbusters or James Bond movies. It would have taken away a lot of his enjoyment in slinking up the stairwell and through the hall, taking plenty of opportunities to dramatically pause before he leapt around each corner with his wand out, looking wildly in all directions. His tuneless hum was now more reminiscent of the Weird Sister’s early work.

Draco reached the entrance to Crowley’s dwelling later than he would have had he simply walked, but it was important to set the mood. Draco now felt that he was mentally prepared to take on anything that could be in the flat. Unfortunately for Draco, his expectations of what he would encounter were limited to modern furniture and amusing pet plants. It was unfair, really, for him to encounter another would be plant neutralizer. Draco watched, momentarily speechless, as the man wrestled with an English Ivy.

“Give it up, you overgrown skunkweed!” cried the interloper, who on an unrelated note looked like the avatar of one night stands. The words broke Draco from his silence, and he cleared his throat while trying to look menacing. He also put on an aristocratic sneer, for good measure.

Pointing his wand directly at the man’s heart, he asked, “You’d better have a damn good reason for being here.”

Despite the opinions of some, Draco had finished going through puberty quite some time ago. However, Fate decided that his voice needed to crack one last time, in honor of the perfect moment for it. Fate can be a bitch like that.

Threaded | Flat

John slowly turned from the obstinate animate flora with whom he was playing tug-of-war, and found himself face to face with a skinny, sneering, very very blond youth, who for some inexplicable reason was pointing a stick at his sternum. "Oh, for the..."

It was bad enough he'd had to brave the inner recesses of half the classic-car enthusiast hangouts in London, flashing a picture of the Bentley, and endure endless monologues about suspensions and model years and bloody V-something engines before turning up someone who could verify that yes, that particular Bentley was often seen in this particular neighborhood.

He'd then spent the better part of an afternoon ingratiating himself with Crowley's neighbors, chatting up the absent-minded little old lady whose tiny flat was filled to bursting with the demon's cast-off houseplants, and finally narrowing it down by guesswork and process of elimination to this particular flat.*

Bribing the janitor to let him in had been the easy part. Apparently it had occurred to the landlady after more than a month of the place standing empty that she hadn't seen a rent payment in over thirty years, and she was planning on binning the contents and letting the place out again (John could have told her that was a bad idea, and also that the lawsuit she allegedly planned to file for back rent was doomed to bear no fruit either, as Hell had access to most of the best lawyers. Sadly, she wasn't likely to ask.)

Finding the place full of sentient houseplants with prehensile leaves, holy water pistols and an attitude had come as a minor shock. It was by no means the weirdest thing John had ever seen, and of course holy water wouldn't hurt him. But it did suggest that whoever had booby-trapped the place had a sadistic streak and a sense of black humor, which wasn't something he typically associated with angels. It made for a very bad combination. And the sodding ivy wouldn't give up the damn gun so John could have a look at it, not the he really thought it would tell him much, it wasn't like Heaven or Hell distributed standard-issue squirt pistols, but there was sod all else in the way of clues to be found and he wasn't about to leave until he'd investigated the place properly and thoroughly.

And now here was Peroxide Lad With A Stick, making like bloody Scotland Yard. It really was too much.

John let go the water pistol, snatched the pointy stick out of the kid's hand, and rapped him smartly over the head with it. "Watch your mouth, you snooty little shit. And get your nose out of the air before something flies up it," he snapped.

He would have added more, but at that moment two things registered that brought him to a surprised halt.

One, the stick in his hand was vibrating slightly. Humming, almost, in a distinctly un-stick-like fashion. It sent a strange resonance coursing up his arm, something like pins and needles and something like a solid crack to the funny bone, but not quite like either one.

And two, smoke had begun to rise from the kid's head.

A slightly fuzzy memory of a conversation with an inebriated werewolf came suddenly to mind. "I have heard of wizards - am one myself -" He pulled out his wand and waved it, the tip sparking before he put it away again.

John blinked. Was he serious? Magic wands? Nah, it can't be...

"Um," he added intelligently. "Your hair seems to be on fire."

---

*The discerning reader might well wonder why John didn't take the easy route and just go ask Crowley where the place was and whether he could have a look around. Answer: He felt Crowley had enough on his mind, figured he'd come around when he was good and ready, and also wasn't in the habit of asking permission in general.