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Jumping on the bandwagon
Good Omens crossover, because I couldn't get the plot bunny out of my head. I can't get it go quite the way I want, but what the hell...
In which Crowley's assertion that he's had the Bentley for eighty years without so much of a scratch is something of an overexaggeration*.
"Oh, I say, are you all right? Can you sit up, do you think? Your passenger's fine, not a scratch on him. Gosh, I'm terribly sorry about your car. Only consolation is my old bus looks in an even worse way, if that makes any difference."
Crowley looked muzzily up at the young man trying to help him out of what remained of the Bentley. Even though he'd been driving only ten years or so - barely an eyeblink, by his standards** - it look a quite considerable amount of skill to come anywhere near him. Or an even more astounding lack of it.
"I'll go and see if I can raise someone to get us out of the ditch," he continued, once Crowley had extricated himself from the wreckage. "I'm, er, afraid the insurance isn't quite up to scratch. Better take my card, I'm sure we can sort something out."
The card started to blacken and curl round the edges. Before the lick of flame could quite catch, Aziraphale had taken it from the young man's fingers and shaken it out. He looked at the card, then at the young man, then back at the card again. His eyebrows rose.
"Just so. Quite. Indeed. Here, take mine. You know, I think my friend here could probably do with a drink after all that. I'm sure we can rely on you to let us know when assistance arrives. "
Somewhat to Crowley's surprise, he found himself grabbed firmly by the shoulder and hustled across the road and into the village pub before he could ignite anything at all. It wasn't that he was going to object to whisky, under the circumstances***, but all the same, one had standards.
"What the HELL, angel? That was my..."
"Shutup shutup shutup. You're going to draw attention."
"Drawing attention was the whole bloody point. It was MY...
"Look, I've met the man who's going to deal with this. And he's going to make that young idiot out there far more sorry than you ever could."
"Oh? Because I had plans. Effable plans. And they were getting more effable by the second."
"Trust me. First man to beat me in a rare book auction since 1867. Hell wouldn't stand a chance. Incidentally, he sent me a bottle of really good claret by way of compensation," the angel added wistfully. "With any luck, he might be good for a case."
*Especially as he says this after the regrettable Bicycle Incident and the even more regrettable addition of a bicycle rack with tartan straps.
**Snakes don't blink much.
***Or any others, really.
In which Crowley's assertion that he's had the Bentley for eighty years without so much of a scratch is something of an overexaggeration*.
"Oh, I say, are you all right? Can you sit up, do you think? Your passenger's fine, not a scratch on him. Gosh, I'm terribly sorry about your car. Only consolation is my old bus looks in an even worse way, if that makes any difference."
Crowley looked muzzily up at the young man trying to help him out of what remained of the Bentley. Even though he'd been driving only ten years or so - barely an eyeblink, by his standards** - it look a quite considerable amount of skill to come anywhere near him. Or an even more astounding lack of it.
"I'll go and see if I can raise someone to get us out of the ditch," he continued, once Crowley had extricated himself from the wreckage. "I'm, er, afraid the insurance isn't quite up to scratch. Better take my card, I'm sure we can sort something out."
The card started to blacken and curl round the edges. Before the lick of flame could quite catch, Aziraphale had taken it from the young man's fingers and shaken it out. He looked at the card, then at the young man, then back at the card again. His eyebrows rose.
"Just so. Quite. Indeed. Here, take mine. You know, I think my friend here could probably do with a drink after all that. I'm sure we can rely on you to let us know when assistance arrives. "
Somewhat to Crowley's surprise, he found himself grabbed firmly by the shoulder and hustled across the road and into the village pub before he could ignite anything at all. It wasn't that he was going to object to whisky, under the circumstances***, but all the same, one had standards.
"What the HELL, angel? That was my..."
"Shutup shutup shutup. You're going to draw attention."
"Drawing attention was the whole bloody point. It was MY...
"Look, I've met the man who's going to deal with this. And he's going to make that young idiot out there far more sorry than you ever could."
"Oh? Because I had plans. Effable plans. And they were getting more effable by the second."
"Trust me. First man to beat me in a rare book auction since 1867. Hell wouldn't stand a chance. Incidentally, he sent me a bottle of really good claret by way of compensation," the angel added wistfully. "With any luck, he might be good for a case."
*Especially as he says this after the regrettable Bicycle Incident and the even more regrettable addition of a bicycle rack with tartan straps.
**Snakes don't blink much.
***Or any others, really.
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