Title: Pansies
Author: Azrael
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Good Omens, and Aziraphale and Crowley, belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.
Note: Merry Christmas, the_leechwife! Your wish for Shadwell to make an appearance had me stumped for ages, and that's why I'm sitting here churning this out at night on the 14th of November. ;D This is actually the first time I'm writing any GO characters besides Aziraphale and Crowley, so apologies in advance for any OOC-ness. Enjoy!
Summary: In which Aziraphale's track record with children's parties continues and Crowley has to explain that a pansy isn't just a flower.***
Someone only knew why the Pulsifers felt that Christmas should be a dress-up affair.
Not the suit-and-tie sort of dress-up affair. The ridiculous-rented-costume sort of dress-up affair.
One rather suspected it was due to the pleading of a certain foursome. Particularly Adam Young.
"Really, my dear. You might at least make an effort."
"I am making an effort. I'm not wearing sunglasses. Besides, have you looked in the mirror, angel? Your real wings are better groomed than these things, and that's not saying a lot."
Aziraphale sniffed. Then his eyes widened slightly. "Er, I'm not sure I can fit in the Bentley. Not in this costume, anyway."
Crowley rolled his eyes.
~*~
Jasmine Cottage sparkled with fairy lights. Newt gazed longingly at them. Even Dog had been allowed to help with putting those up. And he'd almost caused a short-circuit.
Anathema came up behind him, slipping her ams around his waist. "Our first Christmas together. I wonder if Agnes foresaw this."
"Probably." Newt tried not to dwell too much on Agnes Nutter. The thought of her watching everything was simply unnerving, not to mention that it could put a damper on things.
The moment was interrupted by Frodo Young and his companion Doggum. "Madame Tracy and Sergeant Shadwell are here, an' they want to know if we've got any condensed milk."
Newt winced. "Oh dear." Agnes would probably have foreseen that, at least.
~*~
"What if everyone's gone to a lot of effort and dressed up really well? You'd be the only one is a suit. Imagine how you'd feel, Crowley."
"I'd be laughing at them. One grown man dressed as a Roman emperor, another mum having a row with her daughter about how much Cleopatra would have revealed. Oh, we're here." Crowley started out the window for a moment, then turned back to his companion, a snakelike smirk forming. "Oh, I will be laughing, angel, but not at them."
"What ? "
Apparently, everyone over the age of eleven had decided to ignore the postscript about costumes. Everyone but Aziraphale, that is.
~*~
"Merry Chri-- oh my. I say, Mr Fell, however did you fit those in the car?"
The angel flushed, self-consciously reaching behind to fiddle with the huge, tacky, messy angel's wings. "Er, they're flexible. Really."
Anathema gingerly tapped the edge of one. It was plastic. There was a snort from nearby. "Great Southern pansy." Shadwell fumbled in his pocked, pulling out a tin of tobacco.
Aziraphale beamed nervously, smoothing down the off-white robe. "Lovely to see you too, Sergeant."
~*~
The angel caught up to the demon at the punch bowl.
"Crowley!"
"What?"
"Why does Sergeant Shadwell insist on calling me a pansy? Do these wings look like petals?"
Crowley stared at him. There was a tug on his robe, and Aziraphale turned to see a bespectacled boy in a curly wig, a waistcoat over a school shirt, and overly large bermudas.
"It means you're a fairy, Mr Fell. A poof."
"I specifically asked the man for an angel costume, not a fairy costume -- Crowley, are you alright?"
He was beginning to wonder if it was possible to discorporate from laughter - Crowley looked like he would have trouble breathing soon - when Shadwell approached, pointing a grubby finger. Aziraphale recoiled; he didn't want that finger anywhere near his plate of food.
"Begone from him, foul demon! I sent ye back once, I can do it again. Lift yer curse!"
I'm the demon?!
~*~
Aziraphale shifted in the Bentley, disgruntled. Double yellow parking lines rolled back as the Bentley halted in front of the bookshop. Crowley looked at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"You alright, angel?"
Aziraphale glared at him. "A houseful of people were told that I was a demon who was trying to kill you. A houseful of people where I was the only one over the age of eleven and in costume, might I add. And then the wretched dog decided to attack my robe, ripping off quite a large bit. So yes, Crowley, I'm alright."
The demon was shaking, trying desperately to quell his laughter. He tried to focus his attention on the floor, but his eyes were drawn to the exposed portion of his counterpart's legs. It was quite an eyeful. "Honestly, angel, and you wonder why you get called a poof?"
Aziraphale looked confused. "What's a poof? For that matter, what's so funny about fairies? And why does Shadwell insist on calling me a pansy ? Mmf! "
He found himself pushed back against the passenger door with an armful ? and mouthful ? of demon. Later, Aziraphale would tell himself he'd had too much eggnog at the Pulsifers'. There was really no other explanation for the way he responded.
Crowley pulled back, forked tongue flicking over chapped lips. Aziraphale's eyes followed it distractedly.
"It means you're gay. Bent. Homosexual. Whatever you want to call it."
"I beg your pardon?! Angels are sexless!"
Snake eyes were quite versatile, Aziraphale reflected in a small corner of his brain. They could say Riiight. Pull the other one, angel and Yeah, right, that's why you practically ripped my shirt off just now and Shut up and let me kiss you, angel and a million other things with just one look.
The larger and currently more preoccupied portion of his brain, the one that had curiously observed humans for six millennia and wondered why one monosyllabic word could cause such havoc, told it to bugger off while it figured out how to overcome the vastly mind-boggling inventions known as buttons and zippers.
***