Fic: Confessions of a Justified Demon || Fandom: Good Omens
Fandoms: Good Omens, James Hogg's Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner.
Pairings: Crowley x Aziraphale, Crowley x Robert Wringhim Colwan
Rating: PG
Title: Confessions of a Justified Demon
Summary: Aziraphale chastises Crowley for performing a rather sloppy possession.
Crossposted: lower_tadfield, go_crossovers.
Confessions of a Justified Demon
September 19, 1712
On the far side of the Black Bull, two men bent their heads together in earnest discourse. They made an indifferent pair, the host thought, one tall and one short, one dark and one fair, one dressed in all black and turbanned in emerald green and another outfitted in a pale waistcoat looking for all the world like a visiting English laird.
It had been a troublesome week for the man. The Whigs and Tories were always inciting riot, although the host had been wise enough to discover by this time that once the young men were of a mind to fight, it didn't exactly matter whom. So much so that a few months before he'd managed to set one pair of young Whigs against another, alongside a group of Tories. The high point of this jape had been the moment when the Authorities stepped in and brought the pack of them before Court. The event had gone down in local history as an embarrassment for members belonging to either side. Still, the host wasn't overly fond of strangers and hoped there wouldn't be any trouble. The gentlemen's sons were bad enough with their idleness, coming to do their drinking and drabbing after several rounds of tennis.
Luckily, the evening would prove uneventful. Only one thing would stand out in his mind as being stange in the years to come, and that would be this: while he never quite recalled approaching either the English laird or his strangely garbed companion, over the course of the evening his jug would persist in emptying even as their glasses became full. He did not think much of this at the time. Perhaps, he told himself, his girl had seen to them, or it could be he'd served so many men over the course of that evening that he merely had a lapse of memory. And yet for the remainder of his days the host would recall the profiles of those two men, even if their conversation had been of no apparent interest to him.
"So how long are you going to sulk?" The first man asked.
The other man shrugged. He was tall and dark, although perhaps by some trick of the light he became more and more like his friend with each passing moment.
"And could you stop that?"
"Sorry." But the man's visage continued to change. "It's a new thing. I haven't quite figured out how to turn it off."
"Whatever possessed you?"
"Actually technically? I was the one who--" the shapeshifter stopped abruptly. "And since when did I say you were allowed to interfere? That wasn't part of the Arrangement, last I checked--"
There was a salubrious breeze that originated from the space just behind the fair man, although they were in the corner of the room and the door to the dank inn was all the way on the other side of the building, which was ill ventilated. "I was called out directly, my dear. There's nothing one can do about being called out. And I should think you could have been a bit more subtle. "
"Look, it wasn't my idea, all right? I had a quota to fill, and you have any notion what a pastor's soul is worth?"
"The son of a pastor--"
"Same difference! And besides. How was I supposed to know this was going to happen?" The darker man's voice broke from its normal fluidity and began to trip over sibiliants as they were voiced. "He wasssss perfectly ripe! Fourth in a direct line of adultery, and a ssssself-righteoussss hypocritical--"
The fair man sniffed, as if sensing something foul for the first time. With minimum fuss, he pulled an embroidered handkerchief from his front pocket and dabbed at his face. "Honestly, my dear, one would think that the entire business of people fighting in the streets would be enough without all this fuss over a single religious fanatic. And are you aware of the furor you've caused? It wasn't enough that you tempted the poor man, but you had to drag his unfortunate mother and his wife into it! Not to mention that nice fellow at the printer's, that blacksmith and his wife and that weaver and her husband, and poor little James Anderson--"
"Look, angel, I'll level with you. The possession went wrong. I couldn't get rid of the guy once I was done. But instead of killing himssseelf, he persisted in running away! And my bosses got angry. Sent reinforcementss. So what wasss I supposssed to do? We tried hiding and letting the entire thing blow over, but that wassn't working. Ssso I did the next besst thing."
"A suicide pact. I see." Aziraphale reached across the table and ran his fingers over the part of the rope-burn that showed red against the demon's skin. Instead of disappearing, the welts deepened in colour. "Apologies. I thought I'd help."
Instead of being angry, the demon pretended to laugh. "You know, compared to his constant praying that hardly even hurt."
Aziraphale clucked his tongue and fussed with Crowley's collar. "Well, he's gone now, so hopefully this business should wear off. And you're right, this body really isn't conforming to your will. If I didn't know any better, I would say that the Reform church was on to something."
"Nonsensse. The physical body can't be divine. Only that thing our 'father' gave to /them/ instead of us--"
"Their souls, Crowley. Stop being afraid of a da--darned word."
"Fine! Their blessed souls. You can't think of your whole body as your soul. That's where those idiots went wrong. They thought they couldn't sin, can you believe it?"
Aziraphale frowned at the demon. "You obviously started to. Your will controls that body, but it's mortal, it should do what you tell it to. It's made from the Fabric, like everything else. Here." He pointed at his cup of mead. "Practice. Change this to claret for me."
"What? Do it yourssself."
"Your eyes are turning blue, Crowley."
"Very well." The demon concentrated, and waved a hand. "There."
Aziraphale took a sip and grimaced.
"What?"
"No... you did it right. It's just that the mead was so sweet. I really should have cleared my palette."
"I think they'd notice if I turned your haggis into a cold sorbet, angel."
After a reasonable amount of silence, "You realize this place has to be off-bounds for both of us for a while. It's a frightful mess, with our superiors watching us like this! A person could discorporate, under this brand of surveillance."
Crowley tipped his green turban--which had become a blue Covenenter's bonnet--over his face and adjusted his black shirt, which had recently transformed into a set of grey plaids. "I agree wholeheartedly. This country is a blessed mess without me, anyhow. I'm sick of Jacobites for the time being. It's time I made my way over to France and give the Jacobins a good stirring up."
"You do realize the two aren't related?"
"Actually," Crowley's hair was curling and lightening by the minute, and he looked ready to slink under the table from embarrassment at his body's non-compliance, too. "If you want to get technical about it, I just got lazy."
"And here I'd thought it was simple English ignorance that conflated the two."
"Nah. Just mine."
Pairings: Crowley x Aziraphale, Crowley x Robert Wringhim Colwan
Rating: PG
Title: Confessions of a Justified Demon
Summary: Aziraphale chastises Crowley for performing a rather sloppy possession.
Crossposted: lower_tadfield, go_crossovers.
Confessions of a Justified Demon
September 19, 1712
On the far side of the Black Bull, two men bent their heads together in earnest discourse. They made an indifferent pair, the host thought, one tall and one short, one dark and one fair, one dressed in all black and turbanned in emerald green and another outfitted in a pale waistcoat looking for all the world like a visiting English laird.
It had been a troublesome week for the man. The Whigs and Tories were always inciting riot, although the host had been wise enough to discover by this time that once the young men were of a mind to fight, it didn't exactly matter whom. So much so that a few months before he'd managed to set one pair of young Whigs against another, alongside a group of Tories. The high point of this jape had been the moment when the Authorities stepped in and brought the pack of them before Court. The event had gone down in local history as an embarrassment for members belonging to either side. Still, the host wasn't overly fond of strangers and hoped there wouldn't be any trouble. The gentlemen's sons were bad enough with their idleness, coming to do their drinking and drabbing after several rounds of tennis.
Luckily, the evening would prove uneventful. Only one thing would stand out in his mind as being stange in the years to come, and that would be this: while he never quite recalled approaching either the English laird or his strangely garbed companion, over the course of the evening his jug would persist in emptying even as their glasses became full. He did not think much of this at the time. Perhaps, he told himself, his girl had seen to them, or it could be he'd served so many men over the course of that evening that he merely had a lapse of memory. And yet for the remainder of his days the host would recall the profiles of those two men, even if their conversation had been of no apparent interest to him.
"So how long are you going to sulk?" The first man asked.
The other man shrugged. He was tall and dark, although perhaps by some trick of the light he became more and more like his friend with each passing moment.
"And could you stop that?"
"Sorry." But the man's visage continued to change. "It's a new thing. I haven't quite figured out how to turn it off."
"Whatever possessed you?"
"Actually technically? I was the one who--" the shapeshifter stopped abruptly. "And since when did I say you were allowed to interfere? That wasn't part of the Arrangement, last I checked--"
There was a salubrious breeze that originated from the space just behind the fair man, although they were in the corner of the room and the door to the dank inn was all the way on the other side of the building, which was ill ventilated. "I was called out directly, my dear. There's nothing one can do about being called out. And I should think you could have been a bit more subtle. "
"Look, it wasn't my idea, all right? I had a quota to fill, and you have any notion what a pastor's soul is worth?"
"The son of a pastor--"
"Same difference! And besides. How was I supposed to know this was going to happen?" The darker man's voice broke from its normal fluidity and began to trip over sibiliants as they were voiced. "He wasssss perfectly ripe! Fourth in a direct line of adultery, and a ssssself-righteoussss hypocritical--"
The fair man sniffed, as if sensing something foul for the first time. With minimum fuss, he pulled an embroidered handkerchief from his front pocket and dabbed at his face. "Honestly, my dear, one would think that the entire business of people fighting in the streets would be enough without all this fuss over a single religious fanatic. And are you aware of the furor you've caused? It wasn't enough that you tempted the poor man, but you had to drag his unfortunate mother and his wife into it! Not to mention that nice fellow at the printer's, that blacksmith and his wife and that weaver and her husband, and poor little James Anderson--"
"Look, angel, I'll level with you. The possession went wrong. I couldn't get rid of the guy once I was done. But instead of killing himssseelf, he persisted in running away! And my bosses got angry. Sent reinforcementss. So what wasss I supposssed to do? We tried hiding and letting the entire thing blow over, but that wassn't working. Ssso I did the next besst thing."
"A suicide pact. I see." Aziraphale reached across the table and ran his fingers over the part of the rope-burn that showed red against the demon's skin. Instead of disappearing, the welts deepened in colour. "Apologies. I thought I'd help."
Instead of being angry, the demon pretended to laugh. "You know, compared to his constant praying that hardly even hurt."
Aziraphale clucked his tongue and fussed with Crowley's collar. "Well, he's gone now, so hopefully this business should wear off. And you're right, this body really isn't conforming to your will. If I didn't know any better, I would say that the Reform church was on to something."
"Nonsensse. The physical body can't be divine. Only that thing our 'father' gave to /them/ instead of us--"
"Their souls, Crowley. Stop being afraid of a da--darned word."
"Fine! Their blessed souls. You can't think of your whole body as your soul. That's where those idiots went wrong. They thought they couldn't sin, can you believe it?"
Aziraphale frowned at the demon. "You obviously started to. Your will controls that body, but it's mortal, it should do what you tell it to. It's made from the Fabric, like everything else. Here." He pointed at his cup of mead. "Practice. Change this to claret for me."
"What? Do it yourssself."
"Your eyes are turning blue, Crowley."
"Very well." The demon concentrated, and waved a hand. "There."
Aziraphale took a sip and grimaced.
"What?"
"No... you did it right. It's just that the mead was so sweet. I really should have cleared my palette."
"I think they'd notice if I turned your haggis into a cold sorbet, angel."
After a reasonable amount of silence, "You realize this place has to be off-bounds for both of us for a while. It's a frightful mess, with our superiors watching us like this! A person could discorporate, under this brand of surveillance."
Crowley tipped his green turban--which had become a blue Covenenter's bonnet--over his face and adjusted his black shirt, which had recently transformed into a set of grey plaids. "I agree wholeheartedly. This country is a blessed mess without me, anyhow. I'm sick of Jacobites for the time being. It's time I made my way over to France and give the Jacobins a good stirring up."
"You do realize the two aren't related?"
"Actually," Crowley's hair was curling and lightening by the minute, and he looked ready to slink under the table from embarrassment at his body's non-compliance, too. "If you want to get technical about it, I just got lazy."
"And here I'd thought it was simple English ignorance that conflated the two."
"Nah. Just mine."