Title: One Tequila, Two Tequila, Thirty-Three Tequila...
Author: DehydratedWater
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to the geniuses known as Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.
Summary: Crowley is challenged to a drinking contest by a random stranger and his friend. Trying to out-drink Crowley is a BAD idea. Contains language (this is what the M's for), nondescript excessive alcohol use, and extremely minor character (read: OC) death.***
Sometimes a night of drinking without the angel was just as good as a night of drinking with the angel. It was Crowley's first night of pubcrawling since Armagedidn'thappen, mainly because War tended to frequent some of the seedier pubs and she'd always been a sore loser.* He was sitting in a pub named The Something-or-Other's Head, drinking pints of what was coming to him as very stale and watery bitter and actually being drunk as high-quality Bavarian lager. Just as he was starting to wonder whether the pub's name came from an amusing story or sheer laziness, his thoughts were interrupted by a gruff voice that promised either trouble or interesting times.**
* As Crowley had once learned the hard way by saying "Geneva Convention" when she was in earshot.
** Not that there's much difference between the two, as many Pratchett fans know."Oi, what about 'im? The posh wanker in the sunglasses."
The two men who walked over to Crowley's table did a good part in conforming to movie street thug stereotypes. One was tall, stocky, and slightly menacing, while the other was short, reminiscent of a weasel, and just oily enough that Pollution would have been keen on him. The oily weasel spoke first.
"My mate Parry says he can drink you under the table."
Crowley was trying to think up a witty response when Parry added, " 'Undred pounds says I win."
Suspecting they were trying to grift him, Crowley considered beating them at their own game before quickly realizing that a pair of broke and angry amateur grifters would produce less evil that two untouched grifters and their broke and angry victims.
"I'll pass," Crowley replied. "Throwing away money on a drinking game is stupid."
The two men turned and walked away, Crowley listening to them mutter to each other.
"I dunno, Blake. 'E seemed like the kinda bloke who'd wanna have a go at it. Them posh blokes are always into thrills and bettin'."
"Daft fairy probably spends all his money on designer suits."
"Oi, I think the double parked Bentely's 'is. Want we should key it up maybe?"
Behind dark glasses, snake eyes blazed with fury. Hell be damned even more than it already was. Almost immediately he was behind them, a hand on each man's shoulder and a smile on his face that he'd specifically intended to be both comforting and unnerving.
"Parry. Blake. Come, sit. I've changed my mind."
He gently steered the two men back to the table, which now had two extra chairs, and then called over the bartender and proceeded to order thirteen bottles of tequila and two shot glasses.
"Tequila?" asked Blake. "Why not bitter?"
"Oi, I can 'old my tequila," Parry replied in a tone that suggested Blake couldn't.
"See?" said Crowley. "Tequila's fine. 'Sides, I could spend a few minutes in the head and give you a better pint than what the barkeep serves. So now, about the rules. Blake's judge, loser passes out first, and the winner gets to keep the rest of the tequila. Oh, and the hundred pounds, too."
"If Blake's the judge, why're you makin' the rules?" asked Parry.
"Okay. Go ahead, Blake. What are the rules?"
"Uh, what you said's good enough," stammered Blake, feeling more like a mouse than a weasel.
"Care to start us with a countdown?" Crowley asked as he poured the first shots.
"I've got a good one. One tequila..."
"Pick something else, Blake!" Crowley snapped, not wanting to be reminded right now about one of his few ideas which had backfired on him.***
*** Not only had the humans liked it more than they had been annoyed by it, it's booming popularity had turned it into a severe annoyance for him. He was still unsure whether National Tequila Day or the novelty t-shirt Aziraphale had bought for him had been the final straw."Alright, uh... go!"
Crowley easily tossed back shot after shot, watching the human opposite him attempt to keep up with him and wondering how Aziraphale would fare against him in a similar contest. He'd purposefully kept a crowd from drawing around them, in the hopes of introducing a "loser's friend has to drink a whole bottle" clause before Parry passed out and then later duct taping them naked to the ceiling of the ladies' room without being noticed. For a brief and dark moment, he pondered the serious measures he'd would have had to resort to if they'd actually made good on their suggestion to do any damage to his Bentley.
After some time, Parry seemed to be struggling, despite his friend's encouragements.
"Come on, Parry! Don't let this tosser beat you!"
"I dunno, Blake... I dun feel right."
"Hey, don't give up now! You're on top of this!"
"No, I mean I really dun feel right."
And with that, Parry collapsed on the table with a heavy thud. Blake bent over to check on him as Crowley grinned in triumph.
"Serves him right," Crowley crowed. "When he comes to, tell him I would've let you two walk away if he hadn't-"
"He ain't breathing."
"You're shitting me," Crowley replied, hoping that the stone cold fear on Blake's face was an act and not knowing it was reflected on his own.
"I can't find a pulse in his neck. Parry's dead. He, he fucking drank himself to death."
Shocked by the thought that he'd caused a human's death and just now realizing that people had begun noticing them ever since Parry had hit the table, Crowley did the only thing he could do. He shouted "FUCK!" at the top of his lungs, jumped up, and ran out of there as fast as he could. It was a month before he went around the bookstore, four months before he considered ever drinking tequila again, ten months before he actually did, and two years before before he told Aziraphale what had happened. That pub was permanently crossed off his pubcrawling list and he never drank there again.
Meanwhile, back at the Something-or-Other's Head, Blake watched the EMTs take away his friend. His thoughts were on how foolish it was in the first place to waste boring nights and part of Parry's savings by challenging random people to drinking contests, as well as on the last man they'd been foolish enough to choose.
"He looked like the kind of guy who glues coins to the pavement," murmured Blake. "You can never trust guys like that."
And there was only one being paying attention to the part of Parry that the EMTs had left behind. Anyone else listening in at just the right moment would have been quite surprised.
"WERE YOU AWARE THAT THIS WAS NOT YOUR FIRST HEART ATTACK?"
~The End~
***