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foreverdirt!
Oct. 5th, 2004 01:26 amanotherusedpageThis fic is my birthday present for foreverdirt. Because it's for her, it's about Crowley and Aziraphale, and because it's by me, they're watching the World Cup.
Rating: Not even any swearing, so pretty much G. But it is implied Crowley/Aziraphale, and also very, very, very vaguely implied Real People Slash.
Title: Offside
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
‘I don’t get it,’ Crowley said dismissively.
‘It’s simple,’ Aziraphale said, with his usual air of infinite patience, but without taking his eyes off the screen. ‘Watch the replay. Look, he was standing forward of the last defender when the ball was passed. It was offside.’
‘I don’t get it,’ Crowley repeated, with a casual stubbornness mostly born of the fact that understanding and following rules was outside his job description, and anyway against the rules. He blinked, noticing the double-think, but stopped the train of thought before it took him to a place where he might have to call his own morality into question and then abandoned him there due to engineering works on the line.
‘I’ll draw you a diagram sometime,’ Aziraphale said kindly, still talking about the off-side rule. ‘Now do be quiet and let me listen.’
On the screen, the little red and white men danced backward and forward without really seeming to achieve anything. Crowley sighed, and went back to munching his popcorn. At least Aziraphale had brought snacks.
Crowley didn’t really get sport. But what Crowley did get was technology. And he owned a twenty inch wide screen crystal display television, with extra-large speakers and four different types of remote-control. Aziraphale, on the other hand, did not get technology and could not actually turn on Crowley’s super-funky extra special digital television set, not even once he’d found all four remotes. But, he’d informed Crowley, a twenty inch wide screen crystal display television with extra-large speakers was exactly what one needed for watching the World Cup. So he’d provide the snacks, and the drinks, if Crowley would just, please, turn it on to the correct channel, and show him how to turn the volume up and down.
On the screen, the little red and white men danced backwards and forwards, pointlessly.
‘This was more fun in the sixteenth century,’ Crowley muttered. Long before red cards and referees and the damned off side rule had been invented, football had been something he’d enjoyed watching with the same morbid fascination that he’d given to gladiator fights several hundred years earlier. There’d been blood, and occasionally even guts, and real passion. All this namby pambying around in corporate sponsored shirts didn’t even come close.
Crowley couldn’t remember where he was supposed to stand on corporate sponsored shirts. On the one hand, they were clearly evil, but on the other he suspected that this was too subtle for most of the denizens of hell.
It was the hooliganism he ought to be concentrating on really. Nothing like a World Cup for stirring up a nice helping of race-related violence. On the other hand, he thought with a sigh, the nice people were perfectly capable of producing that without any stirring from him.
He shook his head, and tried concentrating on the match. Aziraphale was clearly enjoying it after all. The little red and white men ran up and down, gesticulating wildly. Then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, and from a seriously improbably angle, the ball was in the back of the net. Aziraphale whooped and grinned. Crowley scowled, and reached for more popcorn. The little red and white men jumped up and down, arms wrapped around each other, hands reaching out and grasping and touching.
‘Have you got his soul?’ Aziraphale asked after a moment.
‘Wher?’
Aziraphale nodded at the screen.
‘Him. In the red shirt. Have you got his soul?’
‘They’re all wearing red shirts,’ Crowley pointed out pedantically. Aziraphale glared. ‘I don’t tend to go in for tempting sports stars,’ Crowley said, and it was true. They weren’t slick enough to make it fun. And besides, most of them were more careful than that about signing new contracts. ‘I think that Them Downstairs bought up most of the shares in one of the big teams recently, though.’
‘Oh yes?’ Aziraphale looked interested. ‘Which one?’
‘Dunno.’ Crowley reflected for a moment, and then grinned. ‘Think they played in red, though,’ he said.
‘Well that really narrows it down.’
They watched the replay of the impossible looking goal in silence.
‘He must have sold his soul for that,’ Aziraphale muttered. ‘It’s not humanly possible. It breaks the laws of physics.’
‘Don’t look at me,’ Crowley said defensively. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about it.’ It was one of life’s little ironies that, while Aziraphale couldn’t work Crowley’s television set to save his life, it was Crowley who had got bored and given up on science, sometime towards the end of the 19th century. He’d missed the exciting bit with the clock that went backwards and the cat-in-a-box, and had never quite managed to catch up. He sighed, and reached for a can of larger. He should probably have been suspicious when it opened without a fizz, but he was too wrapped up in the little red and white men, hugging on the screen. He knocked back a mouthful and choked, mostly with surprise.
‘Aziraphale!’ he complained. The larger can was full of expensive red wine.
‘Well, I don’t much like larger,’ Aziraphale said vaguely. ‘But the look of the thing is so important, you see. It’s part of the whole experience. Football and larger, on the sofa on a Saturday afternoon. Don’t change the subject.’
‘ What subject?’
‘His soul, Crowley. His immortal God-given soul! What have you done with it?’
‘I haven’t touched it!’ Crowley said in exasperation. Aziraphale sighed, and snapped open a can of wine.
‘Do you think it’s immoral?’ he asked after a moment.
‘What, tempting sports stars? Of course it’s immoral, Aziraphale, that’s the entire point! Doesn’t mean I do it, though.’
‘No. I mean… all this.’ Aziraphale waved his arms around in a way that encompassed Crowley, the popcorn, the wine-filled larger cans, the television, and the Pointless Red and White Men. For a moment, Crowley thought that the angel must be talking about spending Saturday afternoons watching televised sport while fraternising with The Enemy, and he sighed. Then he realised that Aziraphale had gone back to staring at the screen.
‘What, the football?’ he said, amused, incredulous and little relieved. Aziraphale nodded.
‘Well, my lot didn’t come up with it,’ he said. ‘Does that make it… ungodly?’
Crowley bit back a flippant response, and thought about it for a moment.
‘Your lot didn’t come up with it,’ he said after a moment, thoughtfully. ‘They couldn’t have. But then… neither could mine. It’s… it’s human, is what it is,’ he finished, thinking about corporate sponsored shirts, and red cards, and hooliganism… and the expressions of sheer joy on the faces of the little red and white men as they danced and hugged. No wonder Aziraphale’s quite so fond of this, Crowley thought. It explained his own inherent irritation with it, too.
On the screen, most of the little Red and White Men had danced back to resume their pointless running up and down the pitch… but two had not moved, locked still in a passionate embrace, to the total exclusion of those around them. As the camera panned past, Crowley caught a fleeting glimpse of affectionate fingers stroking the back of a neck, and a large hand curled almost protectively around a smaller one. For a moment, he almost allowed his guard to relax enough to allow the threatening warm fuzzies to engulf him, but Crowley was naturally suspicious of such feelings.
Aziraphale had no such qualms, and sighed happily, leaning back against Crowley’s surprisingly squishy leather sofa, and incidentally Crowley’s distinctly comfortable left shoulder. Instinctively, Crowley shifted, draping an arm around the angel’s neck. Aziraphale snuggled closer.
Crowley’s mental linesman jumped up and down waving his offside flag violently, but after a second’s hesitation, Crowley heaved a long suffering sigh, and deliberately ignored him. He leaned his cheek against the top of Aziraphale’s head, and even allowed himself a brief smile of anticipation.
After all, arbitrary rules are made to be broken, especially if you’re a demon.
foreverdirt. Because it's for her, it's about Crowley and Aziraphale, and because it's by me, they're watching the World Cup. Rating: Not even any swearing, so pretty much G. But it is implied Crowley/Aziraphale, and also very, very, very vaguely implied Real People Slash.
Title: Offside
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
‘I don’t get it,’ Crowley said dismissively.
‘It’s simple,’ Aziraphale said, with his usual air of infinite patience, but without taking his eyes off the screen. ‘Watch the replay. Look, he was standing forward of the last defender when the ball was passed. It was offside.’
‘I don’t get it,’ Crowley repeated, with a casual stubbornness mostly born of the fact that understanding and following rules was outside his job description, and anyway against the rules. He blinked, noticing the double-think, but stopped the train of thought before it took him to a place where he might have to call his own morality into question and then abandoned him there due to engineering works on the line.
‘I’ll draw you a diagram sometime,’ Aziraphale said kindly, still talking about the off-side rule. ‘Now do be quiet and let me listen.’
On the screen, the little red and white men danced backward and forward without really seeming to achieve anything. Crowley sighed, and went back to munching his popcorn. At least Aziraphale had brought snacks.
Crowley didn’t really get sport. But what Crowley did get was technology. And he owned a twenty inch wide screen crystal display television, with extra-large speakers and four different types of remote-control. Aziraphale, on the other hand, did not get technology and could not actually turn on Crowley’s super-funky extra special digital television set, not even once he’d found all four remotes. But, he’d informed Crowley, a twenty inch wide screen crystal display television with extra-large speakers was exactly what one needed for watching the World Cup. So he’d provide the snacks, and the drinks, if Crowley would just, please, turn it on to the correct channel, and show him how to turn the volume up and down.
On the screen, the little red and white men danced backwards and forwards, pointlessly.
‘This was more fun in the sixteenth century,’ Crowley muttered. Long before red cards and referees and the damned off side rule had been invented, football had been something he’d enjoyed watching with the same morbid fascination that he’d given to gladiator fights several hundred years earlier. There’d been blood, and occasionally even guts, and real passion. All this namby pambying around in corporate sponsored shirts didn’t even come close.
Crowley couldn’t remember where he was supposed to stand on corporate sponsored shirts. On the one hand, they were clearly evil, but on the other he suspected that this was too subtle for most of the denizens of hell.
It was the hooliganism he ought to be concentrating on really. Nothing like a World Cup for stirring up a nice helping of race-related violence. On the other hand, he thought with a sigh, the nice people were perfectly capable of producing that without any stirring from him.
He shook his head, and tried concentrating on the match. Aziraphale was clearly enjoying it after all. The little red and white men ran up and down, gesticulating wildly. Then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, and from a seriously improbably angle, the ball was in the back of the net. Aziraphale whooped and grinned. Crowley scowled, and reached for more popcorn. The little red and white men jumped up and down, arms wrapped around each other, hands reaching out and grasping and touching.
‘Have you got his soul?’ Aziraphale asked after a moment.
‘Wher?’
Aziraphale nodded at the screen.
‘Him. In the red shirt. Have you got his soul?’
‘They’re all wearing red shirts,’ Crowley pointed out pedantically. Aziraphale glared. ‘I don’t tend to go in for tempting sports stars,’ Crowley said, and it was true. They weren’t slick enough to make it fun. And besides, most of them were more careful than that about signing new contracts. ‘I think that Them Downstairs bought up most of the shares in one of the big teams recently, though.’
‘Oh yes?’ Aziraphale looked interested. ‘Which one?’
‘Dunno.’ Crowley reflected for a moment, and then grinned. ‘Think they played in red, though,’ he said.
‘Well that really narrows it down.’
They watched the replay of the impossible looking goal in silence.
‘He must have sold his soul for that,’ Aziraphale muttered. ‘It’s not humanly possible. It breaks the laws of physics.’
‘Don’t look at me,’ Crowley said defensively. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about it.’ It was one of life’s little ironies that, while Aziraphale couldn’t work Crowley’s television set to save his life, it was Crowley who had got bored and given up on science, sometime towards the end of the 19th century. He’d missed the exciting bit with the clock that went backwards and the cat-in-a-box, and had never quite managed to catch up. He sighed, and reached for a can of larger. He should probably have been suspicious when it opened without a fizz, but he was too wrapped up in the little red and white men, hugging on the screen. He knocked back a mouthful and choked, mostly with surprise.
‘Aziraphale!’ he complained. The larger can was full of expensive red wine.
‘Well, I don’t much like larger,’ Aziraphale said vaguely. ‘But the look of the thing is so important, you see. It’s part of the whole experience. Football and larger, on the sofa on a Saturday afternoon. Don’t change the subject.’
‘ What subject?’
‘His soul, Crowley. His immortal God-given soul! What have you done with it?’
‘I haven’t touched it!’ Crowley said in exasperation. Aziraphale sighed, and snapped open a can of wine.
‘Do you think it’s immoral?’ he asked after a moment.
‘What, tempting sports stars? Of course it’s immoral, Aziraphale, that’s the entire point! Doesn’t mean I do it, though.’
‘No. I mean… all this.’ Aziraphale waved his arms around in a way that encompassed Crowley, the popcorn, the wine-filled larger cans, the television, and the Pointless Red and White Men. For a moment, Crowley thought that the angel must be talking about spending Saturday afternoons watching televised sport while fraternising with The Enemy, and he sighed. Then he realised that Aziraphale had gone back to staring at the screen.
‘What, the football?’ he said, amused, incredulous and little relieved. Aziraphale nodded.
‘Well, my lot didn’t come up with it,’ he said. ‘Does that make it… ungodly?’
Crowley bit back a flippant response, and thought about it for a moment.
‘Your lot didn’t come up with it,’ he said after a moment, thoughtfully. ‘They couldn’t have. But then… neither could mine. It’s… it’s human, is what it is,’ he finished, thinking about corporate sponsored shirts, and red cards, and hooliganism… and the expressions of sheer joy on the faces of the little red and white men as they danced and hugged. No wonder Aziraphale’s quite so fond of this, Crowley thought. It explained his own inherent irritation with it, too.
On the screen, most of the little Red and White Men had danced back to resume their pointless running up and down the pitch… but two had not moved, locked still in a passionate embrace, to the total exclusion of those around them. As the camera panned past, Crowley caught a fleeting glimpse of affectionate fingers stroking the back of a neck, and a large hand curled almost protectively around a smaller one. For a moment, he almost allowed his guard to relax enough to allow the threatening warm fuzzies to engulf him, but Crowley was naturally suspicious of such feelings.
Aziraphale had no such qualms, and sighed happily, leaning back against Crowley’s surprisingly squishy leather sofa, and incidentally Crowley’s distinctly comfortable left shoulder. Instinctively, Crowley shifted, draping an arm around the angel’s neck. Aziraphale snuggled closer.
Crowley’s mental linesman jumped up and down waving his offside flag violently, but after a second’s hesitation, Crowley heaved a long suffering sigh, and deliberately ignored him. He leaned his cheek against the top of Aziraphale’s head, and even allowed himself a brief smile of anticipation.
After all, arbitrary rules are made to be broken, especially if you’re a demon.
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no subject
Date: 2004-10-05 11:01 am (UTC)And thankee, both for the fic and the chocolate-cake-by-committee. :)
‘Think they played in red, though,’ he said.
*snort!*
no subject
Date: 2004-10-18 06:49 am (UTC)