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[flaming-michael.livejournal.com]

Date: August 4th, 1999, mid afternoon Setting: Soho, London Status: Private, Michael, Crowley, Aziraphale Summary: Righteous, sadistic, all one and the same...

Michael glanced around guiltily. He still hadn't gotten the hang of being back on earth, and the 20th century just seemed to complicate things. He'd seen people with pieces of medal stuck through totally arbitrary pieces of their face, but he, an arch angel, a patron saint, a smiter of the unrighteous, couldn't manage to go two steps down the street without gathering a small crowd. After spending a good twenty minutes stepping outside, freaking out and running inside again, repeat ad nausium, he'd finally just imitated the attire of the nearest human male, slammed a hat over his (slightly glowing) long blonde hair, and made a dash for it.

Who knew shining white togas and golden sandlas would cause such a fuss?

But anyway, he had a job to do, and damn- er, bugge- er, and blowed if he was going to let a few mortals get in his way of doing it. The demon Crowley, nee Crawly's flat was just up ahead.

Getting into places is no trouble for an Angel. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, panting and sneaking furtive glances out the window, muttering to himself about 'flaming swords' and 'he who is without sin', when it hit him - he'd forgotten the holy water.

(The priest he summoned to him to hurriedly bless a few buckets of tap water later thought it was a dream. "My brothers," he said the next morning, "Last night I was visited by the Angel Michael, and he was shining with the light of heaven...though why he was wearing a Van Halen shirt and leather pants must surely be one of the mysteries of God.")

"Ok," Michael said to himself as he paced through the stylishly appointed flat, "Ok ok, we're back in business, yea, and I shall get on with the smiting verily," The buckets were hoisted and, rather unceromoniously, thrown against the walls. And the couch. And the shower. And (Michael took rather more pleasure then needed at this) the bed. However, he stepped up when it came to the pot plants. Holding his Angelic hands over the lot of them, he spoke the Words, and gave them sentience - and a holy water pistol each. "Take vengeance, my brothers," he whispered in what would have been, were he not an angel, a rather sadistic tone of voice.

And then, after every surface in every room had been doused, he fled.

 

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[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

Crowley came to outside his building with the heat of the summer afternoon beating down on his naked body. He hissed in pain as two pairs of hands tightened on his raw and tortured arms to prevent him from falling. Wait. Two pairs?

His head lolled to the right and caught a glimpse of Aziraphale looking particularly angelic, slightly dazed, and very concerned. Lolling to the left he saw - Draco Malfoy? It was Draco. And somehow the brat was managing to look excited, disgusted, depressed, and bored at the same time. Belatedly, Crowley remembered inviting the kid over to talk about a demonic internship. It seemed like a lifetime ago but it had really only been the day before. Then he spotted the Bentley parked across the street.

In a ragged whisper through cracked lips, he managed to spit out, "Car."

Aziraphale and Draco did their best to support Crowley as they all walked to the car. Crowley leaned against the body of the car and tried to analyze the situation, although his head was pounding and his thoughts were fuzzy.

Okay, so what did they know? Hastur and Ligur had tried to destroy Aziraphale and someone else had come after Crowley. Since Heaven and Hell could clearly find them in London, it was a liability to stay. They would have to get somewhere safe in order to regroup and heal. Was there anyone neutral that could help them? He remembered a face. A cherubic face with blond curls. He couldn't go to an angel for help. The bastards would just finish off what they'd started in his flat. He shook his head. That wasn't right. Not an angel. He remembered the face again. It was the face of a boy. Young. Adam!

Aziraphale was also resting against the car. He and Draco were watching Crowley. Unwilling to break his train of thought, they looked at each other inscrutably and returned their eyes to the demon.

Okay, Crowley decided, they'd go find Adam and crave a boon of interception. How would they get there, though? He mentally checked their list of assets and liabilities. Liabilities: He was naked, exhausted, and couldn't use his hands. Aziraphale was in shock, also exhausted, and couldn't use his left leg. The kid was an idiot and didn't know how to drive. Assets: The Bentley. He put two and two together.

In a rough, pained rasp, he grunted out, "Me, driver, pedals. Angel, passenger, steer. Kid, back, gear shift."

Draco and Aziraphale looked at each other again with raised eyebrows and complied, helping Crowley into the car first before taking their own seats. (Draco was stuffed into a small luggage storage area behind the passenger seat.) As the engine roared to life, Aziraphale desperately grabbed the steering wheel, Crowley depressed the clutch, and Draco tugged the lever into first gear at Crowley's urging. Then Crowley let up on the clutch, pressed down on the gas, and they were off.