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rcreveal · 30 days ago

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The Trouble with a Keen Manager-Ch 4

Ineffable Husband banter as Crowley applies for a job, Aziraphale does a good deed, and Crowley has to find bathing privileges as the extent of his loss of powers (thanks to the new Hellish manager) continues to be revealed.

“You want to hire me!”

The barkeep and owner of the Dirty Donkey looked around the ‘Help Wanted’ sign held in his face by a fist.

The fist and ropey arm were attached to a young bloke with a mop of unkempt red hair to his chin, but nevertheless, glaring at Dave through dark sunglasses with a determined expression under a two day beard. God Almighty, the lad was wearing a great kilt like he was born to it topped with a black leather waistcoat over a black undershirt.

“Why on earth would I want to hire you?” retorted Dave to the kilted apparition.

Which seemed to knock the bloke back, he dropped his head and arm, momentarily despondent.

Dave heard the lad mutter, “Alright, we do this the old fashioned way,” then to Dave with a winning grin, “How about a wager? I manage this horde,” the lad stuck his thumb over his shoulder at a crowd of impending customers, ”And you hire me as your new barkeep?” The cheeky bastard held out his hand.

Dave glanced at the crowd and the hand.

“If you can sort out this lot, you’ve got a deal,” said Dave, shaking the demon’s hand.

While Crowley was engaged over at the Dirty Donkey, Aziraphale closed up his shop for a stroll. He generally strolled at unplannable intervals, all part of his long term success in not selling books to the public, but this stroll had a specific goal in mind. Backtracking Crowley’s most recent walk to his shop, Aziraphale soon found the Bentley, parked in the neighborhood, but uncharacteristically bedecked with parking tickets.

Tutting gently from across the street, the angel looked at the sheaf of tickets under the windshield wiper. A tow truck was just turning down the street with the vintage car in its sights, (the tow truck driver, after running the Bentley’s plates, had found that it wasn’t exactly registered, so he reasoned that it wouldn’t exactly be stealing if he were to tow it away and sell it to the highest bidder of his extensive underground network). Aziraphale made a little shooing motion at the tow truck before walking across the street and letting himself into the car whereupon the tow truck driver suddenly remembered that the Bentley was very definitely registered and to a feisty gentleman. He drove on, thinking it would be a good idea to let others in his circle know to leave this car alone. Raising an eyebrow at the departing tow truck, the angel reached around to gesture at the tickets, evaporating them.

Patting the dash gently, he told the car, “You are under my protection. I don’t know what Crowley would do if you came to any harm!” The Bentley’s engine made a purring noise, and one travel sweet popped into existence. “You’re very welcome. Now, don’t tell him I was here!” With that good deed done, Aziraphale let himself out of the Bentley and continued his stroll in the neighborhood.

Dave had to hand it to the rough Scottish stranger, he knew his way around a bar. The red-haired hellion charmed the old biddies from the Agatha Christie reading group, reminisced with the old gaffers back from their venerable association meetings and trash talked with the blue collar workers coming off their shifts. Completely ignored the come-ons of the co-eds, serving them with an impenetrable professional calm, while timing his round of clearing up the empties with somehow deflecting a couple of toughs that came in to bother the young ladies. He made every drink flawlessly and never once missed an order. All while he made perfect change, mixed drinks and engaged with the public. The lad was an answered prayer.

After the crush of people had filtered out and even the patron set on getting himself messily drunk had been sent on his way, Dave walked up to the kilted red-head with a look of grudging respect on his face.

“Alright then, you won the bet fair and square. You’re hired.” Dave extended a hand to the grinning youngster to shake. “What’s yer name, lad?”

“Anthony. Anthony Crowley,” said the young bloke with the unfinished look of one who hasn’t quite filled out into his shoulders, yet.

“So, Anthony, rules are, you work your whole shift. You don’t go home with the customers. No drinking on the job. And I’ll fire you the second I see you do something out of line. Come back this evening. And take a bath, lad! You reek! The only thing dirty about my pub is the talk!” Dave said.

Combing his hair out of his face with his fingers and scrubbing one cheek with his palm, Anthony admitted, “I’m fair skint at the moment, so I’d appreciate a forward on my wages.”

Dave reached over to the tip jar, handed it to Anthony, “You earned this today. Be back here at 5 o'clock.”

Crowley poured the contents of the tip jar into his spog, and waved jauntily at Dave as he headed out the door.

When Crowley arrived back in A. Z. Fell’s Bookshop, he found Aziraphale at his large desk reading a newspaper with a cup of tea at his elbow.

“I thought you were fixing my clothes!” complained Crowley.

Looking over the top of his paper, Aziraphale remarked calmly, “The cleaning agents have to have the proper amount of time to work. Did you have any luck with that job?”

Grumbling at the indignity of it all, Crowley replied, “Yes. As a matter of fact I start tonight, but I need a shower.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, eyes back on the newsprint, “Then go back to your place and bathe.”

“They turned the water off at my place,” admitted Crowley.

Aziraphale let the paper fall to his lap.

“And the electricity. Actually, I had to pick the lock to get in the last time.”

“Crowley!”

“So it wouldn’t work for me to walk back there, anyway.”

“Walk! I thought you drove over here.”

“Used my last miracles to drive the Bentley over. Haven’t been issued any new one’s yet,” replied Crowley.

“You could always use petrol,” Aziraphale said reasonably.

“Put petrol in the Bentley?!?” Crowley said shocked, “Do you have any idea what that would do to her engine?”

“It might make her turn over,” suggested Aziraphale.

“I am not putting petrol in the Bentley and I can’t use my place to shower, anyway, so,” digging around in his spog to a rustle of specie and clink of coinage, Crowley came up with a tuppence which he held up to the angel. “So I have payment for the use of your facilities.”

Aziraphale folded his paper and crossed his arms.

“My bathing facilities are certainly worth more than a tuppence public bath, Crowley!”

“How about as much as a Turkish bath? I’ve got a shilling in here somewhere,” Crowley replied, still digging.

“If you think that I don’t know how much a bath costs at the YMCA, in today’s money, then you had better think again! You obviously don’t, but I’ll let you walk yourself down there to find out!”

Crowley recognized that the angel was getting quite perturbed, and as he was Crowley’s best bet to get a bath, he didn’t know why his natural tendency to antagonize the angel was so present today.

“Ok, ok, sorry, sorry! What do you think is a fair price to use your magnificent bathing facilities?” Crowley oiled.

Aziraphale gave him the look of one who is not to be gotten round that easily.

Then they got down to haggling.

Unfortunately, for Crowley that is, Aziraphale had kept premises for a very long time and not only had a better idea of VAT than the demon, but had paid his bills (on time, of course) as well. Not only could he calculate the gallons per minute to his bath and cost to heat said bathwater, he could haggle like a Victorian Cockney housewife.

Aziraphale was saying, “That's the absolute best deal in the neighborhood for a week of bathing privileges,” hand out as Crowley counted pound coins into it, ”Now, if you're in need of housing, I've a spare bedroom and I can offer you a reasonable rate of…”

But Crowley snatched the towel out of Aziraphale’s hand and headed to the bath, saying over his shoulder, “I'll kip in my car before I pay you room and board, angel!”

Taking the view that he could clean his underthings and himself most efficiently with the undergarments on, Crowley lathered up from toes to nose and sluiced off with as much efficiency as possible. Clean and steaming mad, (he could still regulate his body temperature, so he figured he could dry his clothes that way) he stomped back down the stairs toweling his hair.

“Why do you even have a bed? I thought you said sleeping was inefficient?” Crowley complained to the angel.

“People don't bat an eye at a bookseller who reads books in bed, but they do get curious if I stay up all night in the shop too often,” answered the angel, not to be goaded. “Feeling better?”

“No! I am not feeling better! I'm feeling humiliated having to get a job to be able to do my job!”

“Were you able to think of all the things you’d need to do that ‘job’?” Aziraphale asked politely.

“Yeah,” growled Crowley.

“Well then, write it all down and requisition it. I find that several requests a day can really get your point across. Do you need any paper?” The angel reached for a spare ledger.“No! Forms are the only thing I have got in abundance!” unable to bear the angel’s smug looks any longer, Crowley stormed out the door in a flash of dark tartan.

Thanks for reading! Your kudos and comments make my day!

If you would like to read more, check out my Master List for one-shots and other multi-chapter Good Omens fanfic

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rcreveal · 1 month ago

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The Trouble with a Keen Manager

A canon typical story set in the early 1990s just barely pre-Anti Christ S1 where Crowley loses most of his powers and needs help from new friends and old while he fights to regain his old power and autonomy...and just not to get discorporated! Banter, humor, drama, pining. Ch 1 of 22: This one is finished, so I won't leave you hanging, too long. Psst-Crowley in a kilt most of the story...

Chapter 1:

Aziraphale puttered about his bookshop dusting the stacks and looking over at the door from time to time. Drifting past his desk, he glanced at a book seller’s catalog laying open with colored ribbons marking his new purchases. Humming to himself happily, the angel’s fingers hovered over one of his most anticipated new selections. Then he shook his head and set himself off to reorganize the Jane Austen. Every time a new movie or television adaptation came out he had to guard his first editions from the depredations of the book buyers!

Oh he just couldn't wait!

Recently…

Crowley toyed with a self-addressed order postcard of the kind that might be “blown in” to a magazine or journal. The kind of postcard that was an advert for double glazing, questionable self-care products, guaranteed cubic zirconia jewelry, and books not yet available in local shops. They’d fall like raining frogs out of the magazine of the poor soul that just wanted to pilfer a little look at an article without buying the whole magazine AND they were each little temptations! It’d been wicked fun suggesting ‘blow ins’ to the advertising blokes. The little irritation to millions of people forced to wrestle with scooping up the pieces of paper or being inveigled to litter was a bonus for his reports. Sometimes he’d sit across from a magazine stand just to watch it.

Crowley had been sitting on a bench across from a magazine stand smiling to himself as the blow ins fluttered down, seeing the familiar crease between the brows and shuffled stooping and swatting for the little cards. They even got away from people purchasing a magazine. Littering thus tarnishing an otherwise upright citizen. The rather excitable university student with the baggy jumper over baggy non-descript pants hadn’t noticed the card falling out when she’d stuffed the magazine into her bag. From over the road it looked like she was taking home a deadly dry scientific journal of some sort. During a lull in shoppers, Crowley had poured himself up from the bench and sauntered over to see what adverts had added to the litter on the city street, grinning to himself as he riffled the debris with his pointy toed shoe. It was another bad day for double glazing! Leaning over to see what sort of advert could possibly be in that dry old magazine, his fingers closed over the little bit of cardstock he’d marked falling from the student’s bag.

Flipping the little card over, he’d let out a ‘huh’ as he read the advertisement over the top of his sunglasses to better see the colored picture, looking more like a middle aged man who’d eschewed his readers than a debonair demon. Pocketing the card, he wondered if he might just find a copy there…where had they moved now? Oh, right, Carlton House Terrace, he turned to cross St James Park. He could do with a brandy and they still had a clubroom there, surely.

Well that was a disappointment.

The tea room choices weren’t exactly what he’d remembered from the Royal Society, but the zip and tingle of all the thinking going on in the building was headier than most vintages as he meandered through the public exhibits.

“Pardon me, but would you carry this book?” Crowley asked the young man at the Royal Society book shop, flipping the card in front of his nose.

The fellow peered at the little card in Crowley’s hand and a smile broke over his face. “Oh, I am so excited to see this one, sir! Can’t wait to get my hands on it!”

“So, you don’t have a copy here?” drawled Crowley.

“Nooo, sir, that’s an American publication. I don't know when we’ll get a copy. You could ask your local bookseller to order one for you, if you don't want to wait,” the young fellow added helpfully.

A slight grimace on his face, Crowley pocketed the card again, “Thanks anyway,” waving a couple of fingers at the building, “Like what you’ve done with the place,” Crowley sauntered away affecting nonchalance.

But the demon was thinking, ‘Yeah, he might, but…nah, not worth the risk.’ Crowley had rarely asked for anything from him outside the bounds of the Arrangement, and the business with the holy water made him even less likely to expose himself like that again even on a much smaller scale. Definitely not right now. There were other ways.

The advert marred the perfect black austerity of Crowley’s huge desk. It was a temptation, so that should be alright, plausible deniability and the like. Pity Crowley was currently the focus of the temptation. Worse, he could feel the laconic eye of the Pit on him more often these days. Someone seemed to be going through a keen phase, so he’d been toeing the line more than he liked lately. Made more difficult by some of the recent administrative changes.

Running his thin fingers over the address side of the card, Crowley pushed the card away and strove not to look at it. Failing that, grumbling in the back of his throat, Crowley flipped the card over and let his eyes rangehungrily over the advert. Holding the card up to eye level he looked at a red and yellow swirl on a deep black background and ground his teeth.

A fruitless day of calling booksellers found that no one was planning on getting a copy of the book he wanted anytime soon. Most had asked if he had inquired at the Royal Society.

As he worked through the Book Sellers listed in the Yellow Pages from A to Zed (skipping the first shop listed under A, of course) some of the older shop owners started to offer ‘helpful’ suggestions.

“If it’s an unusual book that you’re after, you should check out A. Z. Fell’s in Soho.”

“You know, that Mr Fell gets books from across the pond pretty frequently,” another offered.

“Mr Fell has connections for discerning patrons like yourself. I can give you his number, if you like.”

After a few more exchanges like this, Crowley’s frustration was rising, as was his speculation that ‘Mr. Fell’ might not have always been entirely above board with his book collection. With rising spirits, Crowley imagined the ‘dangerous’ ideas hidden in books and pamphlets banned over the years now lying in wait in the dusty corners of the book-hoarder’s shop to spring upon some unsuspecting mind.

Finally accepting that no bookseller in London was getting the book any time soon, he dialed the angel’s phone number by memory. But he still had to figure out a way to get the book without letting his traditional adversary know it was for him.

***

Aziraphale strolled into St James park with interest piqued, just stopping to pick up a bag of breadcrumbs before making his way to the lean figure of Crowley who stood over by the pond with hands deep in pockets staring at the ducks. Walking up to the duck pond some way away from the demon, Aziraphale started feeding the ducks and by pure happenstance, I assure you! drifted down to stand next to Crowley.

Without looking at him, Aziraphale murmured, “It’s been a while! How’ve you been keeping?” politely, but a little cooly. The angel had not cared for finding his home city surrounded by the dread sigil odegra. Aziraphale didn’t much care for motorways in the first place, (too fast) but he suspected that Crowley might have had something to do with the M25 turning into an evil prayer wheel.

Making a sour face, Crowley replied, “Nnggh, gotta new manager. Keen.”

“Really? Keen how?” Aziraphale asked blandly.

Crowley grunted, “Some actual new ideas!” he said, sarcastically, “Memos requesting line item audits of miracles performed and how each upheld the glorious Great Plan for Satan’s supremacy.”

“Oh, that’s a blow,” Aziraphale replied solicitously. “Home Office did that to me once.”

“You? Why?” Crowley replied, surprised.

“Said I’d made too many ‘frivolous’ miracles.” Aziraphale explained.

“Yeah? Why would they say that?” Crowley replied with a little sarcastic smile, reminded of all the little restaurants and cafes the angel enjoyed. Remembered rescuing Aziraphale from the Bastille when his miracles had been cut off.

Aziraphale hmmphed a little, turning to cast breadcrumbs in front of the demon, and noted the unaccustomed shabby look of Crowley’s clothing and his shaggy, tousled hair, it couldn’t be said to be a style (which wasn’t actually true, Kurt Cobain fans would have considered Crowley’s hair the height of fashion, except that they didn’t do high fashion). That was odd. Crowley kept his wardrobe pristine and took more care with his coiffure than Aziraphale.

“Did they, ah,” Aziraphale inquired delicately, “‘Tighten the purse strings’ on you?”

After blowing out an expressive snort, Crowley slouched further, turning this way and that, “I’ve had to maintain clothing! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to maintain silk while performing assignments in a rainy environment!?”

Raising his eyebrows and rolling his eyes to the side, Aziraphale smiled a tiny smile and said, “Well yes, dear boy, I do have some little facility in that department,” which the demon knew very well. They’d had endless little disagreements about why Aziraphale kept his clothing fresh and tidy the human way and Crowley constantly cheated with miracles. So, something was definitely amiss, but what? “Why don’t you come by later and I can give you some tips.”

“Dunno. It’s like someone’s staring at my back all the time!”

So they would have to be extra cautious, “I’ve just gotten a new wine in from the New World, supposed to be rather special?”

“Mmmm,” Crowley wasn’t going to risk Hell’s new attention for a Pinot Noir.

“And a Scottish single malt.”

“MMmmm, yeah, alright,” Crowley acceded. Risking Hell’s attention for whiskey was another matter. The angel only drank that particular type of ‘demon drink’ with him.

“Well I’ll be off then,” Aziraphale said airily, passing just in front of Crowley as he walked purposefully out of the park.

Turning back to the ducks after the angel’s abrupt departure, Crowley looked down, only then noticing that Aziraphale had tucked the half empty bag of breadcrumbs into his pocket.

Shaking his head with a warmer smile on his lips, Crowley took out the bag and enjoyed feeding the ducks.

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