#terry pratchett fanfic

[rcreveal]

The Trouble with a Keen Manager, Ch 20, finale

It took a minute to bring this one home, but hope you like it. 1990s, canon compliant through the ages. Crowley lost, and regained, his demonic powers with the help of more than one human, and a particular angel on Whickber street. Things have changed. But what kind of trouble will he get into if he does anything about it.

Chapter 20-finale

Anthony, the young Scottish bloke in a kilt, was finishing up his business on Whickber street for a bright new future, while Crowley, the demon, was restored as one of Hell’s ‘most effective’ operatives.  Being both of them at the same time was a grift that Crowley just couldn’t run anymore.  Anyway, he’d only been ‘Anthony’ so he could get back his demonic powers, right?  Just as he’d never dreamed of staying on Whickber street.  For someone who’d always found leaving the easiest part of any meeting, Crowley was finding himself strangely perturbed with ‘Anthony’s’ farewells.

Pulling a pile of boxes from the back of the Bentley, both of them headed in to say goodbye to Madame.

Looking up from reading in her sitting room, Madame raised an eyebrow at the boxes Anthony was encumbered under today while wearing his signature kilt and black leather waistcoat.  A week or so ago, she had not been surprised when the youth arrived in a sharp bespoke suit, no tatters at all, to tell her that he’d gotten back on his feet and had lodgings secured elsewhere.  She did make him show her his current bank statement and a bill with his apartment address in Mayfield before she sanctioned him moving out of Whickber Street Intimate Massage and Correction.  But then, he’d stayed on.  For someone with nothing but a couple of sets of clothes and a beautiful vintage car, he’d certainly dragged out the moving, she thought wryly.�� There had always been one more fry-up in the kitchen with the girls, taking her on one more trip to the bank, just one more little thing to fix or adjust in her house of negotiable affection, but today it seemed that he was finally sincere in his decampment.

He’d brought her a parting gift, well, two.

“I’ve brought you a computer,” Anthony stood back with hands on hips from where he’d plugged everything in, ‘booted’ mysterious things up, and left the cursor blinking to a ‘chat room.’  Looking down at a thick bundle of manuals he had handed over, she smiled as Anthony gushed, “I think you could really expand into the ‘world wide web’.”  The rakish grin on his patchily shaveable face suggested what sort of services he thought she might offer.  Considering the Internet Cafes starting to pop up, she considered it would be a good market opportunity.

“And you’ll be by from time to time to check on how I’m getting on with it?” she said, more a command than a question.

“I’ll be around,” he evaded gently.  

Taking a wallet from his inner pocket, he produced a business card with ‘Anthony J Crowley’ and a number on it.

Enjoying the little show he was putting on, Madame waited for whatever finale he had planned.  She had suspected that he had been working himself up to leave, permanently leave, for some time. What he did next certainly confirmed that intuition. 

Suddenly, no longer, in some way, the unfinished youth, but a sharp man, Anthony executed the most courtly bow she had ever seen, ending by pressing his card into her hand while saying into her ear, “May your purse always hold a coin or two, May the sun always shine upon your window pane, may a rainbow be certain to follow each rain, May the hand of a friend always be near to you.”

He kissed her cheek as he drew away.

“I think you left the last line off, Anthony,” she said, holding his gaze steadily, before completing the old phrases herself, ‘And may God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.’”

“You’d know more about that than me, Madame,” he replied, before he turned and sauntered out of her house as the blessing settled onto it like sunshine sparkling on dew.

Out in the alley, Crowley tipped his head at the Bentley before he headed over for his last shift at the Dirty Donkey with Dave.  Anthony greeted the regulars, charmed the patrons, mixed the drinks, and said his goodbyes.  Viv was turning out to be a natural, eagerly taking over Anthony’s shifts, so it wasn’t so much that he was leaving abruptly.  More that young Anthony was fading away. 

That night as he and Dave finished cleaning up the pub together, eating one last meal, Anthony pulled his card out of his spog and pushed it across the table to Dave who picked it up and cocked an eyebrow at the lad.  

No, Dave corrected himself.  Anthony had changed, he wasn’t a lad anymore.

While Dave was looking at the finely engraved calling card, Anthony said, evenly, “If you need a hand sometime, call me.” 

“If you fall on your arse in the gutter again, you’ve always got a job,” Dave replied gruffly, tucking the card away.

Anthony laughed and gathered their plates, taking them into the kitchen to start the final load.

As Anthony headed out the back door, Dave saw him pause to look slowly around the pub, before he raised his chin in farewell with a surprisingly soft smile and said, “Slainte mhor agus a h-uile beannachd duibh.”

“Uh, sláinte agatsa, “ Dave replied, but Anthony was just looking at him, something unreadable in his face.  Bantering back to break the tension, Dave asked, “Are you whitening your own name there, Anthony?”

With a little self-deprecating grimace, Anthony replied, “Me? Never! Just a traditional thing to say in a pub, innit?” before heading out into the night, not glancing back to see the changes wrought upstairs.  Dave and Ester would find out at her next doctor’s visit soon enough.

The Bentley waited in the alleyway outside the Dirty Donkey, ready for him to drive back to his apartment in Mayfield.  Leaning a hip against her door as he looked over at the bookshop, Crowley felt her roll forward a little bit before rolling back.  Patting her roof, Crowley sighed, he’d done the easy ones first.  Reluctantly, he stood up and walked towards the bookshop.

They’d seen each other rarely since the Take Back the Night march, he and Aziraphale.  Going to the bookshop nearly every day had been an absolute necessity during his time without powers.  Crowley was willing to admit that he wouldn’t have succeeded in his Hellish paperwork fight, der Paperkrieg, without Aziraphale.  So just when had seeing the angel turned into his biggest temptation?  

Crowley found himself looking forward to popping over with a morsel and a story about some trivial thing he’d overheard at the Dirty Donkey or Madame’s just to watch Aziraphale’s reaction.  But since Crowley had gotten his powers back, he’d shut that line of thought down, turned his treacherous feet away from walking to the shop. Hiding their meetings in the reports had worked when he was powerless.  Now, though, Crowley would light up the shop like some infernal spotlight. 

Old habits of mutual self preservation urged them to stay away, of course, along with the whole being on two vastly opposing sides thing.  Anyway, he’d never heard the angel say he enjoyed Crowley’s company.   Aziraphale didn’t come into the pub again, either.

So why was he standing in front of Mr Fell and Co.s now, well after the vindaloo places had closed?  Oh, right, they…he couldn't risk leaving any evidence.

Taking a deep breath, Crowley tapped lightly on the bookshop door which immediately opened under his hand.  Almost as if Aziraphale had been waiting up for the demon.  

Ridiculous thought, that.  Crowley pulled the door closed behind him, but did not enter further.  

Before Aziraphale could say anything, Crowley announced, from the shadow just inside the closed door, “I’m here for the rest of my kit, angel.  I’m going to be out of pocket for a while.”  Digging into his spog, so as not to look at the angel’s face, Crowley produced the remaining sum he owed for laundry, mending, storage, and bathing privileges.  Crowley held the money out to Aziraphale who looked from Crowley to the pound notes uncomprehendingly.  After a long moment, Aziraphale visibly got himself in hand, and took the money. 

Moving slowly back over to his register, Aziraphale finally said, in his carefully polite voice, “Hmm, ah.  Exactly what we agreed on,” counting the notes into the till, “Down to the last pence.”

Now that Aziraphale had moved from the door to the till, Crowley could see a tray with an unopened bottle of whiskey and two empty glasses laid out.  Crowley looked at the spread with an eyebrow raised. 

“What’s all this?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale had closed the till, but made no further move, just stood playing with his gold signet ring nervously, not quite looking at the demon.  

Crowley bit his tongue.  This little bit of business was the only thing that was allowing him to stop by, so he wasn't going to rush things if Aziraphale wanted… He chided himself for the thought.  Why would Aziraphale want him around?  Why did he want to be around A-, an angel?  Standing in the shop, still in Anthony’s form, Crowley supposed there must be more to this camouflage than just looking like a human youth.  Some other influence that made Crowley miss something no demons shared, made these leave takings…different.  Still, incarnate influence or not, Crowley felt a flutter in his chest that his clothing and shoes weren't waiting in a bundle by the angel's desk, which was how Aziraphale prepared for the most ill-tempered and least desirable customers.  Needs anticipated and met to minimize the unpleasant contact.

Brightening, Aziraphale looked at him again, beaming like he did when one of his complicated plans worked. “Just a little send off for a young man who got a start on Whickber Street,” the angel explained, walking over to pour a generous amount of whiskey into both heavy cut-crystal glasses and waving his hand to offer Crowley a seat as he took his accustomed chair.

They looked at each other measuringly before Crowley stepped fully into the shop.  Taking his normal seat on the Chesterfield with unaccustomed hesitation, Crowley picked up the whiskey, while taking off his dark glasses.

Sniffing the whiskey appreciatively, Crowley said, “This’ll go to the young man’s head, he’s not had a chance to sample much fine single-malt.” 

“‘He’ worked in a pub this whole time and boarded at a brothel!  I should think he was swimming in drink?” Aziraphale sat back across from the kilted demon.

“Not even a wee tipple before tonight,” replied Crowley, taking a small sip and letting the alcohol evaporate up into his nasal passages. The demon sighed, “Not that anyone would believe him.”

Aziraphale raised his glass with a gentle smile, watching as the camouflage of Anthony, the young man, melted away, leaving Crowley still wearing the kilt, spog and Doc Martens the angel had given him at the beginning of this business.

They sat sharing inconsequential gossip about Whickber Street, but more often lapsing into companionable silence, nursing their whiskeys.  Then Crowley pointed to some books that looked weirdly different.

“Here, the books moved!  Did you get some new stock in?” he asked, casually, moving back towards the easy, empty nattering they’d practiced for ages.

“Oh, yes! I got a shipment from some American booksellers! Always nice to bring something from across the pond,” the angel replied.

“But Angel, you don’t like to sell any of these books, so why not hide them in the back?” Crowley asked, genuinely puzzled.

“I’ve got to read them all before I do that!  And just because I don’t want to sell them, doesn’t mean that people shouldn’t know they exist!” Aziraphale made to pour another measure into Crowley’s glass, but the demon put a hand over it, pursed his lips and shook his head.  The whine of the peril this contact put them under, the itch of his renewed duties breaking through their little refuge, dragged out Crowley’s next words.

“I’ve got to be off.  Don’t want to be driving under the influence,” Crowley said, standing up.

“You could sober up, if you needed,” Aziraphale offered helpfully, looking up at him, bottle still in hand.

“That would be a crying shame with such a fine vintage,” Crowley replied, gruffly.

“Well, then.  I’ll just go and fetch your things, shall I?  Then you can go?” There was only a very slight, very small question on the end of that statement.  They stood in the suspension of that moment as long as possible, drawing out these last exchanges.  Each paltry statement become huge like some bright refraction of light through stained glass.

“Yeah, got some projects to attend to,” Crowley dropped into the silence.  When next they met, they'd be the Best of Adversaries once more.

“Then I might see you when I’m thwarting,” replied the angel, only a little hopefulness evident in his voice.

“Might.  If you catch me,” replied the demon, hands in pockets, scuffing his shoes on the rug, looking at the angel from the corner of his amber snake-eye.

“I just have to nip upstairs,” Aziraphale swung his hands at his sides, “To get your laundry,” he turned to walk up the stairs

“I’ll still be here when you get back, Angel,” Crowley promised softly.

Upstairs Aziraphale walked into his butler’s space where Crowley’s remaining clothing and polished shoes were neatly packaged where they’d been waiting to return to the demon at a moment’s notice these past few weeks.  Passing his fingers over the soft black silk shirt at the top of the bundle, Crowley’s favorite, Aziraphale was reminded of all the hours they had spent together while Crowley was inconvenienced by hellish bureaucracy.  

Oh! The food!  Watching Crowley devour so much food to keep himself incorporated!  Feeding him up had been such fun!  

Having Crowley about the place, every day!  But rather than being an intrusion, how Aziraphale had enjoyed the clatter of Crowley typing on the new computer keyboard!  Even the particular buzzing noise of the dot-matrix printer brought a smile to his lips (tho’ he’d blessed the machine into best behaviour after it had printed every word of a thirty page document onto a single line of paper and Crowley had nearly gone apoplectic).  

Even Crowley’s creative invective rants set off by Usher’s requisition denials were amusing.  The times Aziraphale had been able to interject his own little digs at the demon manager surprising a great laugh from Crowley had been the best.  

Bantering with the demon over their very different aftershave and unmentionable preferences as Crowley continued to bathe over at Aziraphale’s would be missed (as would the demon’s charmingly affronted innocence about how often his solitary ablutions at Madame’s had been ‘accidently’ interrupted).  The lack of those daily interactions since Crowley regained his demonic powers were harder to bear than the angel had expected.  

Respecting Crowley’s privacy while the demon figured out what sort of Hellish oversight he’d have to operate under with his powers restored meant that Aziraphale found himself waiting patiently.  For what, though?  Crowley didn’t owe him anything, they’d kept the accounting scrupulously even.  After all, Crowley had only been spending so much time with him out of necessity.  

They weren’t… They couldn’t be… 

It had been…

Squaring his shoulders, clearing his throat, Aziraphale put on his pleasant face before picking up Crowley’s things and heading back downstairs.

While the angel puttered upstairs, Crowley wandered restlessly around the new book displays.  This place had been a sanctuary, but the feeling of that time irrevocably ending was percolating up in how the small changes of the displays irritated him.  Riffling through the new books, he sneered at the annoying novels, but found a largish book over to the side, tucked under a silly low-fat cookbook.  Taking it up in his hands, Crowley’s eyes drank in the red and yellow swirls of a nebula on a black background.  The book!  The one he’d been searching for! Here!  Hardly stopping to consider, Crowley slipped the book into the small of his back, under his kilt and leather waistcoat before replacing the cookbook in the display.  Steps from upstairs signaled that he’d managed his shoplifting just in time.

Aziraphale came down the stairs to find Crowley already waiting by the door.  “I’m sorry it took me so long upstairs!  I had to find what I’d done with your shoes, and some other things got scattered about, but here’s the whole lot,” Aziraphale said with barely forced lightness as he handed the bundle into Crowley’s arms, slipping the shoes to hang on Crowley's left hand, fingers sliding along the demon’s, but they had to, didn’t they? to manage the exchange. One being’s hand closed into a fist to preserve the fleeting feeling while the other clutched the shoes reflexively.

“See you around, then,” Crowley backed towards the door, looking at the angel and the cozy shop like he was memorizing it all.  Something to keep by.

“Do take care, Anthony,” Aziraphale moved by to open the door for the encumbered demon.  Outside the shop, over the click of the lock, Crowley couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard the angel say,  “It’s been a pleasure.” 

***

In his apartment, Crowley gently tucked the bundle of hand washed and mended clothing into one of the empty dresser drawers.  The clothing still smelled of the bookshop.  Crowley wondered how long he could preserve that scent so that every time he opened the drawer he could be transported back to that brief time he’d shared with… his friend, his oldest friend.  Closing the drawer, he turned off the bedroom light and headed back out to his austere office.  

At his great black desk, Crowley pulled the “Hubble Vision” book out from where he'd tucked it in the back of his kilt under the waistcoat.  Some sharp shopkeeper, the angel was missing him pilfering this right under his nose, Crowley thought with only a little pang.  Stealing was allowed, wasn't it?

Snapping his fingers, a bottle of Talisker whiskey and a glass appeared on his desk to silence the pang.

“Let there be light!” Crowley commanded. A circle of daylight warmed the desktop.

Rubbing his hands together in anticipation, Crowley flipped back the cover and stopped.

Written on the end papers in the angel’s unmistakable copperplate was an unsigned inscription:

“Look at it! It's gorgeous!”

Chuckling fondly, Crowley shook his head.  Just like the bastard to get the last word in.

Standing up to walk over to his couch where he might admire the pictures more comfortably, a postcard-sized advertisement fell out of the book.  Stooping, Crowley picked it up, disregarded the self addressed stamped side and flipped it over to the back, ready to chuckle at the little temptation sure to be waiting there.  His confident smirk melted away as he stood, arrested by the words printed on the little card.

“Speak up, speak out, get in the way. Get in good trouble, necessary trouble, and help redeem the soul of America.” –John Lewis, American Civil Rights leader- from a collection of quotes and essays of the American Civil Rights movement.

In Crowley's hand the card burned to ash, but it was too late, much too late, the dangerous words were already seared into his battered heart.

***

They said there was a knight in Soho during those years.  A kilted Galahad with a hand crank in one hand and chain in the other.  Though some spoke of a flame-haired Bodicea, her chariot a black vintage car.  Accounts varied, these were urban legends after all.

Legend or no, years later, women talked of a red headed woman turning up to give them a ride at the intersection of Hope and Despair.  Men and their husbands spoke of a benefactor sauntering in front of a pack of toughs with a grin, standing over his fallen enemy screaming to the rest, “Come on! If you think you're hard enough!” Shopkeepers from far-flung parts of the realm didn't have to pay protection or live fearful for their family’s safety in that neighborhood at that time.  

And Crowley made trouble up there, good trouble.

Thanks so much for your kudos, reblogs, and comments! They really make my day.

If you enjoyed this, check out my Masterlist.

[msue0027]

Ah yes, my favourite Bible fanfics, in no particular order

"Paradise Lost", John Milton

"Divine Comedy", Dante Alighieri

"Good Omens", Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

[dont-tell-my-mom-im-here]

I keep seeing GO fics in which they use miracles for sex, which is nice y'know, love the creativity, but like, Heaven and Hell can see what they use miracles for right? So I just keep picturing like Michael or someone getting a notification and it's just like:

[AZIRAPHALE] removed Crowley's clothes

[AZIRAPHALE] miracled (1) penis

I mean no wonder they wanted to break them up.

[suckrose-and-akwa]

Original credit for this cap is @eruvadhril TY!

[doraminatook]

Spoilers: it did.

[very-normal-abt-this]

if Aziraphale allowed himself to say it (final 15 fix-it)

(after the kiss)

-I lo…I love you.

-Then don't leave.

-I don't want to leave you.

-Then don't!

-I don’t have a choice.

-Why?!

-Because I'll never forgive myself if I don't!

-Sure you will. I do it all the time. Just takes practice.

-No, you don't. You never forgive yourself.

-That why you keep doing it for me?

-Yes. You deserve peace and forgiveness.

-I don't want peace and forgiveness. That sounds boring. What I want is…You.

-Aren't…aren't you going to say it back?

-It bacK.

-Crowley!

-If I say it, will you stay?

-Crowley…

(pause)

-If you don't want to be an angel then…I don't have a choice but to go back. To protect you. To protect us.

-I don't need protection, Angel! I've been taking care of myself for years, in case you haven't noticed.

-Of course I noticed. I also noticed when you needed holy water to protect yourself. And I noticed when we had to switch bodies to protect ourselves. I noticed that the only reason you didn't receive extreme sanctions was that Beelzebub went rogue. They're never going to stop trying to destroy you, you know.  Your very existence is a threat to them.

-So what! I'll take my chances! 

-I can't take chances with your life.

-Ngk.... So you're going to abandon me here, and its "FoR mY oWn GoOd" ?

-Not…abandon. Just a temporary leave of absence. And it's for our own good. I'm doing this for me too, because I need you to be safe. And I'm doing this for the world because…it's our home. 

-(sigh) You'll never stop trying to do good, are you Angel?

-No, I suppose not. But isn't that why you love me?

-Hmm. And what makes you think I love you?

-Crowley! Don't be cruel.

-Like I told you before…I love you because you're just enough of a bastard to be worth loving. 

-That's not exactly what you said back then.

-It was what I thought.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54145684

[khorazir]

“The Wee Free Men”

Illustration for chapter 1 of my new Payneland fic The Case of the Stolen Barrow, the second story in my Figuring Out The Rest series. Crivens!

[cephalopod-celabrator]

I think it's a shame that there was never a discworld book involving Moist Von Lipwig facing the elves. Because I would pay so much money to see that. The elves are dangerous and some of them have seriously powerful magic, but for the most part they're creatures of glamour. They entrance, trick, deceive, and intimidate. But the thing is, Moist is even better at it than they are. Moist's primary skills are just his sheer audacity and charisma. The elves are creatures of stories, and Moist knows how to spin a story better than anyone. Plus, it's mentioned elves often try to use their glamour to overwhelm humans with sheer feelings of inadequacy and inferiority. And while Moist doesn't like plenty of things about himself, he's incredibly good at hiding it. As I said, he's a man with audacity. It could also draw an interesting parallel showing how elves aren't much more than he is, just magical con-artists but at least he's trying to be better now. Bonus: Adora Belle Dearheart vs the elves. She has an even more ironclad sense of self-confidence than Moist. Plus she has golems, which would likely be unaffected by both elf glamour and elf swords, and goblins which were formerly enslaved by the elves and are a vengeful people with access to a lot of iron. It would also be funny if they were hyper-sensitive to her cigar smoke or something

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

good omens mascot here, just some thoughts

Hey, Good Omens fans. Do you all know how important you are?

I need you to. I need you to know how important you are. How loved you are. How talented, and friendly, and loving you are.

I mean, look at us. @neil-gaiman and Terry Pratchett created a story, a bonfire in the woods. And so many people gathered around it, some looking for the fire, some drawn in by the warmth, some, like me, just lost in the woods and stumbling into the clearing.

And those people looked at the fire and began to weave stories of their own, told them to each other, stories filled with possibilities and endless what-ifs, and called them fanfiction.

Some people looked at the fire and saw images instead, and began to make art on the ground, on the tree trunks, on each other's skin. Colours and lines and so much beauty, all decorating this one little clearing with fanart. Some even moved, animated, brought to life by endless love and creativity.

Some took up little flaming twigs from the fire and twisted them in new ways, humming songs they remembered to go with the patterns, filling the clearing with new combinations of sparks. So many fan edits.

Some of the people even wrote songs of their own, singing them to each other. Some made jokes, drawing laughter from those who thought they'd never smile again. So many more ways in which the people gathered around the bonfire made the story a part of them, and made themselves a part of the story.

There were other people, too. They thought that they didn't contribute anything. They were wrong about that. The artists and writers and creators were so grateful to them for listening, for loving, for appreciating. They held each other's hands and cried and laughed together. They silently watched, finding warmth, not knowing they were giving strength to other silent watchers.

So many fans who made the bonfire's clearing home, reaching out with kindness to each other.

And I'm so privileged to have been grabbed by laughing, friendly people, pulled into the clearing, and shown the fire. Isn't that such a wonderful thing?

You are those people. You did what humans have been doing for millennia, you gathered around a fire and you formed a community, you made a home right there in the middle of the wilderness, with just a story holding you together. Well, not just. A story is never just a story.

Look at you.

So utterly, utterly beautiful.

I love you all. I'm so grateful for you all, the creators, Neil, Terry, the cast, the crew, the fans, all of you. For this little clearing in the woods, which I wandered into by accident while I was lost in the forest, looking for a friend.

I love you all, you are loved.

That's all, maggots. Goodbye, I have some fanfiction to read :")

[callipraxia]

I had one of those "open a book to find a specific line, end up rereading said book out of order" moments with Thud! this week, and the more I flip through it, the more I realize how much of an apparently subconscious impact it had on FWJB, particularly concerning the portrayal of Stan. More specifically, how much of an impact late-series Sam Vimes seems to have had on the portrayal of Stan.

Most people reading my blog know who Stan is, but some may not know who Vimes is, so I will tell you. Sam Vimes is a guy who, when faced with the prospect of retirement from the City Watch, got beyond wasted while clinging to his badge so tightly it cut into his hand. Sam Vimes once arrested the ruler of his own city-state, and in the words of that ruler,

"People know about you, Commander. Descendant of a watchman who believed that if a corrupted court will not behead an evil king, then the watchman should do it himself....Sam Vimes once arrested me for treason...and Sam Vimes once arrested a dragon. Sam Vimes stopped a war between nations by arresting two high commands. He's an arresting fellow, Sam Vimes...watchmen across half the continent will say that Sam Vimes is as straight as an arrow, can't be corrupted, won't be turned, never took a bribe." (Pratchett 192).

So...yeah. But then it gets even better. Throughout the series, it's noted that most of the City Watch gets buried in the Cemetery of Small Gods in the grand expectation of nothing much, since being a watchman disillusions most of them too much for them to believe even in things they can see, much less ones they can't. Only a few of the Watch believe in much in terms of religion...but they do pretty much all believe in Sam Vimes. And on the Disc, the sheer force of belief can result in people, whether willing or not, being elevated to godhood. Add in that Sam Vimes, a bit after that quote there, defeats an "invisible and very powerful quasidemonic thing of pure vengeance" (ibid, 296) with the power of the policeman he's created in his head, "the watcher who watches the watchman," and in the process apparently gains said demon's respect and some minor super-sensory powers, and it's a decent bet that after Death has his last "near-Vimes experience," Vimes might actually become the god of policemen in his world. And I wouldn't be surprised if, in such a circumstance, he also became the policeman of the gods, because within a generation or two, every dwarf and every cop on the Disc will probably believe he's fully capable of arresting a god, too, if need be.

And Stan, of all people, was borrowing that guy's lines.

I... don't know what that means, but I am pretty sure it means something, and probably something I would be wise to tell my therapist about, if I had a therapist....

[rcreveal]

The Trouble with a Keen Manager, Ch 16

It's the 1990's and Usher, a demonic manager has taken away Crowley's demon powers as part of an "Accountability" drive. Despite everything, Crowley prevailed...he wasn't alone after all. But Usher has sent a 'test' on the night of the Whickber Street 'Take Back the Night' march. What will Crowley do? What can he do without any access to demon powers?

Chapter 16

Trade had been brisk at the Dirty Donkey when Aziraphale stepped into the pub again on Friday night.  Young women were testing the waters since word had obviously gotten around that this was a pub that watched for dirty players.  Organization was happening around tables that usually held men and women just wanting relief from the work-a-day grind or a little company.  At one, women were offering sign ups for self-defense classes.  At another, law students were talking about what legislature was needed to help women prosecute physical and sexual offenders, even if it were their husbands.  Signs and posters leaned against the walls and tables, poked up from where they were tucked into the backs of chairs.  Eyes were bright with excitement, nervousness, righteous anger, and some glances flashed with quickly suppressed fear, while others gazed up at him steady and firm.

Aziraphale took in the forest of placards ready to be picked up for the march tonight.

 “Take Back the Night” “No Means No” “Stop the Violence” “Keep your rosaries off my ovaries” “Safe Homes, Happy Families, No Violence!”

“If you don’t like abortions, have a vasectomy” “No more Rape” “Raise Your Voice, Stop Abuse” “The Way I Dress is Not a Yes”

When the trembling force of enough belief collected like this, great good could come of it.  Aziraphale had seen it before, he glanced over at the Agatha Christie readers who had claimed their own table, chatting animatedly as they waited for the march to queue up.  For an angel, it was easy to see them as the younger women they had been when they had marched before.  Their eyes lit as youngsters shyly asked about their vintage t shirts, sashes, and ribbons.

Smiling to himself at the fizz and buzz of activity, Aziraphale threaded his way towards the bar where Crowley was doing an admirable job of keeping everyone in…oh, liquor.

Aziraphale leaned into the bar, remarking to Crowley, “My! It’s very exciting, isn’t it!?”

Wiping the bartop, Crowley muttered, “If you order something we can talk longer.”

“What are the young ladies drinking?” asked Aziraphale curiously, noting that a whole table had the same beverages.

“Specialty of the house, VVL, Virgin Vodka Lemonade,” Crowley said with a wicked grin.

“I’m really not fond of vodka drinks, Crow.., Anthony,” the angel replied, looking concerned as Crowley’s hands started to assemble all sorts of things in a shaker.

“ Virgin just means there’s no alcohol in it, angel,” he explained.

“Oh!” smiling brightly, the angel said, “That’s alright then.”

Dropping a curl of lemon rind in the glass and placing it on the bar, Crowley leaned back to watch the angel take a sip.

“Mmm, refreshing!  And surprisingly complex!”  Aziraphale lifted his glass to Madame and the young organizers of the march.

Crowley noted that some men didn’t look as relaxed as the angel, sitting subdued deep in corner booths of their regular boozer, or uncomfortably stranded in ones or twos at tables.  They’d been caught unaware in a change of the tides.  A few looked around round-eyed as young women made bawdy jokes and laughed loudly at them.  Shoe’s on the other foot, thought Crowley, and some blokes would not care for that.  Of course he noticed the ones throwing on their coats and leaving the bar with dark looks at the ladies and darker comments to their mates.  But other men, mostly crusty old fellows, sensing a new and receptive audience were sharing their most ribald jokes.  Crowley knew the angel noticed that , since Aziraphale's ears were getting red.

To stop Aziraphale from interrupting the punch line of a really raunchy joke being told by a young woman to a rapt audience over in the corner, Crowley caught the angel's attention with, “Are you marching tonight, angel?” Crowley leaned on his elbows at the bar to peer out the windows as groups of women went by.  There was a festival feel in the air, it made him edgy.

“Well, this corporation is rather more masculine, so I thought I’d cheer them on from the sidelines,” replied the angel, beaming at the crowd.

“Yeah, well, keep an eye out for trouble,” Crowley said, looking uneasy.

“What’s wrong?” asked Aziraphale, noting the tension in Crowley’s face.

“I don’t know.  There’s just something coming… Something…ugly,” Crowley wiped down the bar before walking down to take another drinks order from a new group of young women.

‘Hey, Anthony!  I’ll take a VVL,” called Viv, one of the University students, leaning against the bar.  Looking from Anthony to Mr Fell speculatively, she commented, “Didn’t know Mr Fell spoke Scots Gaelic.  Were you talking about your book?”

Mixing the Virgin Vodka Lemonade, Crowley replied, “Yeah, something like that.” He hadn’t realized that they’d been speaking Scottish.  All his demonic powers were blocked, but strangely some things remained.

Crowley’s musings on the powers that were weirdly not blocked was interrupted by sudden scraping as seats were pushed back all over the pub in time to some unspoken signal.  As one group of women after another finished their drinks, gathered their signs and headed out to gather at the starting point of their ‘Take Back the Night’ march, Aziraphale cheerily wished them a good march.  Clusters of women could be seen walking down both sides of Whickber street now in almost continuous streams.  The angel moved to a seat with a better view, estimating that within about fifteen minutes, things would start to get going.

Crowley, meanwhile, had been busy bussing tables around the pub while getting antsier and antsier.  Something bad was definitely coming.  Running the dishwasher in the kitchen, he started to feel a beat, even over the mechanical rhythm of the machine.  Dave and Aziraphale looked up, surprised, as Crowley raced through the pub in a flash of red and tartan, out the front door, skidding to a stop by dint of grabbing the doorframe.

Looking down the street one way Crowley saw all the ‘Take Back the Night’ marchers.  But the source of the sound he had heard, coming from the other direction, was a group of swaggering, youngish men, singing and chanting.  Some swayed, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders.  Others sang with their bare arms raised.  Initially the tunes sounded like familiar football chants.  The words, well, the words were something else entirely.

Dave dropped his rag on the bar and came up to the pub door beside Anthony, peering around the young man tense as a hawser hanging out the doorway.  The Dirty Donkey’s owner had learned that the young barkeep had a remarkable instinct for trouble.

Looking up and down the street, then finally catching the words of the chant, Dave grunted, “Bloody hell,” quietly before turning from the door and jogging over to the phone.  

Dialing the Met by memory he said, “Hello, I’ve got a disturbance to report,” urgently into the receiver.

The remaining regulars in the pub got up to see what all the excitement was about, too hard of hearing to catch the meaning of the words adulterating the familiar chants, but curious what could have possibly gotten Dave riled up.

Aziraphale joined Crowley in the doorway, looking in concern at the unfolding drama.  No one saw the result of a little gesture that the angel made.  

Crowley, head swiveling from group to group, missed the angel’s miracle entirely as he struggled in the conundrum Usher, it had to be Usher, had just dropped him into.  Here he'd been carefully cultivating a little self-sufficient, reliable, bit of wickedness: spreading subversive ideas about gender equity and that people ought to be able to marry whomever they sodding well chose.  And it was catching on!  Then Usher had to go and send a mob down here!  Crowley glowered, he could just see how this would go.  The men would attack the women.  Women would attack the men.  Locals would step in.  Violence would get out of hand.  Shops and homes and vehicles would be broken and burned.  With enough mischief in the air, and Usher, sod ‘im, had made sure there was enough mischief tonight, the mayhem and rioting could leave a burned out husk of the vibrant community, capable of blighting a neighborhood for years, decades even. 

What the Hell did Usher want? Just to get him discorporated? To see if Crowley would side with the nastier group and have his camouflage flip over to look like one of the swaggering bastards shouting about doing whatever they liked?  Claiming it was what the law said, claiming it was what the Church said?   To get Crowley up before the Dark Council defending whatever he did next?  Because either way, Crowley was in trouble.  He was out a place to survive if he let the riot happen or he was probably going to be up on charges of ‘‘doing good’’ if he tried to stop it.

Fuming in the ever narrowing space between the two groups, something in Crowley snapped.  Usher could push those sodding bastards down any street he liked, but not this one .  This street was his and he was blessed if he was going to let it get destroyed because of Usher’s petty, stupid, power games! Because …because it was…He didn't have time for…Aggggh!  Because he did have an angel!   And damn it all, he wasn't afraid to use him!

On hearing a frustrated snarl, Aziraphale looked up into the furious glare of the demon.  The next thing he knew, Crowley spun and grabbed him by the lapels. “You’ve got to do something about this, angel!” Crowley growled, right up in his face,  “Good thwarting evil kindov thing is right in your job description!!” there was a desperate edge to the demand.

Aziraphale snorted through his nose and grasped the demon’s hands as if to pull them off, but then just held them instead where they vibrated with tension.

Aziraphale retorted, “Yes, of course , but how else!? I'm already speeding the Met along and all the neighborhood is coming out to witness!” the angel raised a hand to upper story windows sliding up and shop doors opening.

Glancing around at the expanding audience, Crowley shook his head, chin length red hair whipping about.

“This is about to explode, right now, angel!  People are going to get hurt !”

“Crowley, I'm sure it won't come to that!” Crowley's furious countenance slipped into a mask of disbelief.  “It's not like we can get away with calmly strolling out into the jam, manifesting our true forms, and telling them all to behave!” Crowley's disbelief was turning into something.  Acceptance, Aziraphale hoped. “It isn’t the done thing!” Aziraphale laughed nervously, stepping back from the demon’s suddenly slack grip on his coat to try and get all parties into view, in case he was wrong and he did have to figure out how to step in. 

Crowley let go of the angel’s lapels, hands loose at his sides, head down, Aziraphale's words ringing in his ears.   Into the jam… into the jam…Aziraphale was reaching out to pat his shoulder but froze at the wild look spreading over Crowley's face. Dancing from foot to foot, Crowley looked up and down the street from the marching women to the men yelling obscenities and lewd suggestions. Looking down at his kilt and up at the angel, the demon exclaimed “Naaawwh!  Haven’t ye heard of a Highland Charge?” Aziraphale's face was a picture now.   Realizing Crowley's intention too late, Aziraphale reached out a hand as though to draw him back as the demon, looking like a skinny youth with nothing but a determined expression, unorthodox dress sense, and some big boots sprinted out into the street hollering over his shoulder,

“See ya later, angel!  If they gi’e me another body that is!” 

Arriving alone in the space between the groups on the wings of his own eerie, ululating cry, a sound that broke through catcalls, cursing, and other commotion, Crowley faced himself towards the mob of men.  In the sudden, shocked silence, he took a great breath. 

Aziraphale, somehow prevented from joining Crowley in the fray, did the only thing he could think of, he began to pray.

If you like my drabble, check out my Masterlist

[gwydpolls]

Lucian's Library 5

Feel free to suggest never written books you wish you could read.

[leoreadss]

Have you ever found yourself reading for the second time the last chapters of a fanfic because you had an idea and need to know certain things in order to start your project and suddenly realise that the old lady across the coffee shop where you are is looking at you a bit concerned and you start noticing your tears falling in your coffee? No? Just me? Oh, ok.

[doraminatook]

I wrote a spec script for Good Omens.

This past week, I was out to coffee with a friend of mine and we got to talking about writing (as we often do). She has more of a television/movie background while I have more of a theatre background.

In the midst of our discussion, she brought something called a "spec script". When asked what exactly that was, she explained (at least in terms of television), it's an unprompted and uncommissioned script written for an already established show. The purpose is to help demonstrate a writer's ability to match the style, format, and voice of a show they didn't create.

Immediately, I said, "That just sounds like fanfiction!"

(Obviously, it's not, but I enjoyed the parallels nonetheless.)

So, of course, I had to write a spec script. (Season 3, episode 1 of Good Omens.)

Let it be known that I did not do this in the hopes of joining the writing team as I know Neil has that MORE than covered. I just did it for fun, but I'm really proud of it and I hope you head on over to AO3 and take a look at it.

Probably too many swear words. Probably too much AziraCrow too quickly. Probably too blasphemous. Definitely wonky formatting.

But I had fun! And that's what fanfic is all about.

[ximercr]

What will the authors reveal in these 90 minutes of the movie? (What theory about Aziraphael's motives at the end will they put forward as canon?)

I'm hoping it will be the theory that Angel was intimidated into crossing Crowley out of the Book of Life.