Title: Sevenfold Revenge
Author: azzy
Pairing: gen
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to the geniuses known as Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.
Summary: Some other anthropomorphic personifications are out for revenge after the horsepersons were sent back to the minds of men.***
We all know the four horsepersons of the Apocalypse, and the part they played in the Armageddon shambles, but they aren't the only anthropomorphic personification that Crowley and Aziraphale have run into.
It was midmorning in London, and Aziraphale and Crowley were feeding the ducks in St. James's Park. Well, they were trying to. They weren't having much luck today. It was strange, because the weather was fine, a cool, crisp spring day, and they were the only agents in the vicinity of the pond with any bread-like intentions. And yet, none of the ducks seemed that interested. As Crowley remarked to Aziraphale (who was trying not to yawn), there wasn't much point feeding ducks, who were fast asleep, drifting across the pond's murky surface. When one sank, snoring, they gave it up for a lost cause, deciding instead to go to the Ritz for an early lunch. They didn't notice the man sleeping on the park bench behind them, or the fact that everyone who wandered past him suddenly started yawning and looking for somewhere to sit. No, their minds were firmly on other things.
A few hours later, as dusk began to fall, the duo were still situated at their table in the Ritz. None of the waiting staff felt any inclination to usher them out, Crowley made sure of it. They all spent their time muttering salacious gossip about the maitre d and "accidentally" mixing up the salt and sugar. The second activity was stopped with a quelling look in the demon's direction from Aziraphale, and a mild inducement of guilt in the waiters, along with the strange desire to visit their local church group. Crowley shook his head as he downed the next glass of wine.
"You really do spoil everything, angel." He said, not too upset.
"I see a wile, I-"
"Thwart, yes, I know. But tempting is so much more amusing. Couldn't you let them be for a while before you start with the righteous thwarting?"
Aziraphale sighed, and searched tipsily for another topic of conversation. He settled on one they had abandoned earlier.
"Those ducks in the park," he slurred, as his wine glass refilled itself, care of the slightly less inebriated demon, "thanks, but those ducks, they were acting weird, f'r ducks. Never seen ducks do that. Just sink. Or do they do that normally?"
"Nah." Said Crowley, in the voice of an expert. (1) "Your average duck, your normal, basic duck, right, is made of different stuff to us…"
"Well it would be." Pointed out the angel. "You and I are of angelic-"
"Fine." Snapped the demon. "Of different stuff to humans." He glowered at Aziraphale. "It's more…" he searched for the word he needed, "… floaty."
The angel treated this statement with the caution it deserved.
"Floaty…?" He said, dubiously. "Are you sure?"
"Def'nately." Said Crowley, who wasn't. "So it shouldn't've been sinking, is what I mean. Something wrong with it. Maybe it shouldn't've been sleeping on a pond."
"But ducks don't sleep on water." This from Aziraphale's first edition of A Guide To British Waterfowl. He'd picked it up by accident at a car-boot sale, mistaking it for a similar tome on rare-book care. "They make nests on the land."
As Crowley pondered this, the door opened, admitting a large gentleman.
"No they don't."
"Yes, they do."
The man, whose table was reserved for a Mr. Tony, took his seat.
"No, s'not right. Course they don't."
What could have been an entirely random and pointless argument was then interrupted by the sudden, simultaneous grumbling of both participants' stomachs. They looked up, surprised. They'd both eaten pretty fair portions before starting on the wine, but were now seemingly quite intent on eating rather a lot more. They quickly ordered several more dishes, far more than would seem necessary or appropriate.
Mr. Tony, a middle-aged gentleman, began to order starters. Lots and lots of starters.
As the two supernatural entities made their way back to Aziraphale's shop, incredibly inebriated due to large quantities of wine following their fourth round of food, they didn't notice the extraordinary number of men wandering down a certain back alley in Soho. Had they cared to look down the aforementioned alley, they would have seen a tall, thin and impossibly good-looking woman, dressed as only certain women dress and attracting a phenomenal amount of custom. As it was, both were far too concerned with trying not to trip over one of the six extra feet they suddenly seemed to possess.
When they finally reached the backroom, neither felt like drinking as much as they had while still in the Ritz. In fact, Crowley remarked, once he saw the receipts that Aziraphale scrupulously kept, they had eaten and drunk rather more than seemed humanly (2) possible. They put it down respectively to "one of those things" and "ineffability, dear boy". On his way back to his own flat, Crowley tripped over a sleeping man on the street. There seemed to be a lot more than normal (better dressed, too, he thought). At the epicentre, though the demon didn't know it, was one who looked remarkably similar to the figure on the bench it St. James's Park.
(1) He'd done some work on nature programs, as he figured anything that boring was bound to cause mass irritation. Afterwards, he always felt himself to be rather well up on the antics of aquatic birds, no matter what David Attenborough had said…
(2) In a manner of speaking.
***