Work Text:
There are three things people notice about the angel, Aziraphale, when they first meet him. One, he’s intelligent. Two, he’s British. And, three–
“‘Flaming homosexual’! That’s what he called me!”
The demon, Crowley, whips his head around from where he’s been tormenting pigeons by making them walk in circles for no reason. “He wot?!”
“I tell you, I have had my share of very rude customers, but that one takes the cake!”
It’s a fine day and they are sitting on their usual bench in St. James’ Park watching the human world go by around them. Crowley has developed a sudden infernal interest in one human, in particular.
“What’s his name? I’ll curse him with something, I dunno, make it so he stubs his toe every ten minutes.”
The angel gives him an affectionate smile and a pat on the arm. “You’re very kind, dear boy. I gave him a very stern warning not to return to my shop. I think he’s learnt his lesson.”
Crowley grunts. Maybe it doesn’t bother Aziraphale to be called such names but Crowley doesn’t much care for loudmouth bigots aiming their vitriol at his best friend. He resolves to search the angel’s receipts at the first opportunity and hunt down the bastard himself.
That opportunity comes when Aziraphale is called away to do a quick blessing in Shropshire. Crowley enters the bookshop at twelve-thirty in the afternoon on a Saturday, when every other bookshop in London will be open and bustling with visitors. AZ Fell & Co., however, maintains opening hours about as predictable as a monkey on nitrous oxide, and so is most definitively closed.
The bookshop seems to match Crowley’s mood as he enters it. It is unnaturally dark and gloomy even with the sun shining right outside. There is a mildew smell that claws at his olfactory bulbs. The impossibly tilting stacks of books are even more menacing than usual. He smiles, knowing that the angel would appreciate his bookshop taking umbrage at the rude customer just as he had.
Aziraphale’s ancient desk sits on a dais at the back of the shop and Crowley makes his way up to it. One drawer is conveniently ajar. Crowley mouths a silent thank-you to the obliging furniture as he retrieves a stack of paper receipts. Of course, Aziraphale keeps all his receipts from every sale. Crowley thumbs through the little sheets of paper, tuning into his infernal senses to detect the slightest traces of malice or bigotry. Most receipts pass inspection with nothing at all, a couple of them bear the mark of lust, and then one nearly slides out of his hand. It’s positively drenched with anger, hatred, and bitterness. The demon lifts the receipt to his nose and takes a big whiff, a bloodhound memorizing the scent of its quarry. Perfect. Evidence in hand, he heads for the lift to make a quick stop in Hell.
Four-hundred-and-seventy-two eternities - or about three hours in Earth time - later, Crowley is back in London with the name and address of the offending human. The slug demon working Advanced Registration had taken her sweet goddamn time pulling up the file with the biomarkers to match the receipt but, in the end, she’d found one Bernard Milquetoste Quaff, aged sixty-three, of East London. Crowley has his house number, the license plate of his car, and the names of his pet goldfish. He grabs the Bentley from her (illegal) parking space and heads to the address. A plan forms in his mind as he sits outside the old tosser’s house. Probably the guy is watching the telly and won’t budge for the rest of the weekend. No fun to be had there. Crowley decides to wait until Monday morning and then give Monsieur Quaff the worst day at work that any human has ever known. With a quick wave of his hand to induce indigestion, he speeds off back to his Mayfair flat.
The office building looks like every other office building that Hell and its minions had a hand in developing (Crowley was thrown off that team for having too much imagination). Crowley is sitting on a bench that was quite shocked to find itself on that particular sidewalk on that Monday morning. He can smell Bernard before he sees him coming around the corner. The man is a sweaty blob of bad vibes in an ill-fitting suit. Crowley smiles as he watches Bernard approach the office building’s main doors. It’s show time.
The sign on the door clearly says PUSH. Bernard pushes. The door does not open. He keeps pushing, looks down, and now the sign clearly says PULL. He pulls. The door does not open. He yanks on it. Nothing. He pushes it, shakes the door handles. The door does not open.
“Morning, Bernard. Good weekend?” Jeremy asks as he breezily pushes the same door open without a hitch and goes inside.
“What the blasted fuck?!”
Bernard pushes on the door to no avail. Then, pulls again. The sign says PULL. No, wait, now the sign says PUSH. After ten minutes of fighting the ineffable physics of this fucking door, while watching his coworkers stream in ahead of him, Bernard finally gets through. He is red in the face, sweating profusely, and filled to the brim with helpless rage.
Crowley is bent double with laughter on the bench outside.
That was only the warm-up. He dons his trusty hi-vis vest and saunters inside the building. He takes the stairs to Bernard’s floor. He parks himself at an empty desk with a defunct computer and tells everyone that he’s “maintenance”. No one questions his presence after that. Time for the real fun to begin.
He has arrived at his new post just in time to see Bernard come huffing and puffing from the lift. As the man sits at his desk, his chair makes a long and very loud farting noise. So loud that people wander over from down the hall to see about it. Bernard turns beet red, gets up, tries to adjust the chair, and then sits back down. Another raucous toot explodes from his seat. Giggles can be heard throughout the entire floor. Crowley keeps his eyes down on his desk, though the sheer joy from the git’s humiliation makes him want to disco dance.
The morning proceeds. The flatulent chair eventually goes silent. Bernard is busy pretending to work when a coworker comes up to his desk with a piece of paper in her hand.
“Uhm, Bernard?” She says as she stifles a laugh. “You got a fax.” She dumps the page on his desk and runs away with a hand over her mouth.
He picks up the paper. It reads BERNARD IS A TWAT.
He whips his head around in the direction she ran. “Who sent this?! What is the meaning of this?!” He bellows.
No one answers. Crowley has made certain that none of Bernard’s rage will blow back at his innocent coworkers. Bernard is a tea kettle with its spout stuffed with a cotton wad. He will boil until he explodes all over himself.
Bernard takes a longer than usual lunch break, only to find that his favorite chippy is mysteriously closed. He returns to his desk to find another fax that reads, simply: FUCK YOU BERNARD. He growls under his breath, wads up the paper, and throws it at the colleague next to him. The paper bounces off thin air and hits Bernard in the face.
By the time Bernard returns from the men’s room later that afternoon with a damp spot on his trousers, having been sprayed in the crotch by the tap, Crowley decides he’s had enough. With a subtle click of his fingers, reality in the office shifts and Bernard’s life returns to normal. Crowley almost feels sorry for him as the wanker slams and stomps his way out of the office that evening. He casts one last miracle that keeps Bernard’s simmering temper at a low enough boil that he doesn’t do any damage on the way home. Crowley goes home to his flat, preening over a job well done. What a story he has to tell the angel.
One week later, Crowley is walking to the bookshop when he catches a familiar, putrid stench in the air. He turns to see Bernard far behind him on the sidewalk. The man is running to and fro on the pavement, in what looks like a fit of madness, until he gets closer and Crowley can see that he’s chasing a twenty-pound note blowing in the wind. Crowley knows a good game when he spots one. He waggles his fingers to help the little note along. Bernard goes right past him, reeking of greed and desperation. He gets to the bookshop on the corner where the note is caught under a very familiar Balmoral boot. Bernard suddenly finds himself pinned on his knees on the sidewalk, unable to get up. It’s not Crowley’s doing. He catches Aziraphale’s eye from down the block. The angel winks back at him.
Bernard looks up helplessly at his captor and turns beet red. He struggles to get up, then turns his eyes back to the twenty-pound note.
“Did you want it?” Aziraphale asks him.
Bernard grunts and nods.
“Very well. You may have it but you must kiss my boot to release it.”
Aziraphale smiles in a way that Crowley imagines must win every temptation he attempts. Bernard hesitates but, rather depressingly, soon gives in and presses his lips to the toe of the angel’s boot.
“Good boy,” Aziraphale drawls. He lifts his boot and with it the miracle that kept Bernard on his knees. Bernard takes the note and scurries off.
Crowley tries to play it cool after witnessing that display of casual dominance. He strolls up to the bookshop as Aziraphale is unlocking the doors.
“Well done, Angel. I’m sure that felt good.”
Aziraphale lifts an eyebrow. “He learned a lesson in humility. It was a blessing, really. Truly, the Lord’s work.”
Crowley cackles as they head inside the bookshop.