[identity profile] flaming-michael.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] outside_omens
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.


 

Date: 2005-08-07 01:44 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] anthony-crowley.livejournal.com
The Bentley ground to a halt outside of Crowley's building. Driving through downtown London in an open car in partial demonic form with an injured angel having a nervous breakdown in the passenger seat is not a circumstance known for its calming properties. However, once he had parked, Crowley took a moment to pull himself together. Resting his hands and head on the steering wheel and taking a deep breath, Crowley first adjusted his wings, which he had earlier winched in too hastily. When his shoulder blades were more comfortable, he leaned back into the seat and concentrated. His features softened subtly, his eyes dimmed, teeth returned to their normal state and his sunglasses re-materialized on his nose. Then he repaired his ripped clothing and sighed with relief.

His ablutions done, he turned his attention back to Aziraphale. The angel's eyes were fever bright, his trousers were burned and shredded, the edges of the wound in his calf were turning slightly green, and he appeared to be in shock.

As he stepped out of the car, gathered up Aziraphale, and proceeded to carry him to his flat, Crowley tried to remember what it was you did for people in shock. He seemed to remember something about offering liquids. Well that wasn't a problem. He needed some liquids himself. Oh, but not alcohol. For the one in shock anyway. The one treating the one in shock would need alcohol to avoid shock himself. By this point, Crowley had started on the stairs. Aziraphale's eyes were closed and his head lolled on Crowley's shoulder. Crowley wondered how else he could treat the angel. Something about keeping him cool, wasn't it? No warm, definitely warm. And he did have more holy water in the safe. That might help. Perhaps a damp flannel for his forehead? He had to keep him awake at any rate for some important reason or other.

They had finally reached Crowley's door, which was fortunate as Crowley's strength was flagging. Making a final effort, he hoisted the angel up once more to prevent him from slipping, kicked in the door that he hadn't noticed was slightly open, and carried Aziraphale over the threshold like a newlywed. He managed to take five steps into the flat before taking a deep breath, screaming in pain, dropping the angel and collapsing to the floor.

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