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writetomyheart2019-09-18 10:43 pm
yrindor) wrote in writetomyheart2019-09-18 10:43 pm
Entry tags:
The Ineffable Schedule
The Arrangement is all very well and good, but how exactly do Aziraphale and Crowley divide up the work? That's the job of the Ineffable Schedule, at least in theory.
Tonight, they move.
Well, one of them moves anyway, though Crowley can't for the life of him remember whose turn it is this time. He'll have to check the schedule, or as Aziraphale calls it, the Ineffable Schedule. Crowley prefers to call it That Piece of Paper Stuck to the Fridge.
That is, perhaps, the first sign that this flat is not quite so normal as it would like you to believe. On the surface, it looks perfectly ordinary, or as ordinary as any flat occupied by a book lover can be. The normalcy is its downfall. After all, it is a well-known fact of the universe that any fridge in an occupied space for more than two weeks will begin to accumulate clutter—shopping lists, holiday cards, free magnets from charity mailings, and so on. Aziraphale and Crowley moved into this flat five years ago. The front of their fridge still contains nothing but The Schedule, one shopping list, and all of the emergency contact numbers printed on a card in Aziraphale's neat hand.
What is their secret, you might ask? Well, it all comes down to a simple miscommunication. To Aziraphale's reasoning, fridge clutter must certainly be an invention of Hell. To Crowley, such holiday well-wishing and touting of accomplishments must certainly be Heaven's doing. Of course, both would deny their role in the constant pruning of the papers, but regardless, the end result is that their fridge will never achieve the degree of archaeological interest of a normal residential refrigeration unit.
Crowley squints at the complicated lunar phases and tide charts on The Schedule. "Aziraphale, I can't make bloody sense of this thing. Whose turn is it?"
Aziraphale pokes his head out of the other room. He has a smudge of ink on his cheek again. It's another of those universal rules; even if you use nothing but pencil (as the archivists would prefer before you give them all heart attacks), spending enough time around old books ensures you will inevitably end up with ink smudges. "It's yours, isn't it? What does the schedule say?"
"I dunno. You're the one with all the books about readings and signs and the whatnot. Us demons, we're not so big on plans. Unless it's, you know, The Plan." He waves his hand. "Big overarching thing, not so much by way of details."
"It's definitely your turn. I took the one over at Oxford last week. Plus, isn't dead of night more your side's sort of thing? Up There tends more toward the sunrise revelations and what not."
"I took the graveyard on Tuesday, which would make it your turn again."
"No no, that was in exchange for that one in the church I took for you last month. The whole consecrated ground thing and all."
"You're sure it's mine?" Crowley asks. Outside thunder rumbles, giving every sign it will be a truly miserable night.
"Quite sure," Aziraphale says definitively. "Though I suppose you could challenge me for it," he adds with a sudden twinkle in his eye.
"What? No. No more crossword puzzles, and no Scrabble either." Crowley shudders. Words games have Heaven's hand all over them. Take a perfectly good—well, bad—hodgepodge of a language and bend over backwards jumping through hoops to force it into neat little boxes. No thank you.
"A board game then."
"Absolutely not," Crowley says, even if Monopoly was one of his better creations. It's wrong, really, that an angel of all beings should be so tempted to try his sleight of hand at the card table. Aziraphale may not be good at magic, but all it takes is one moment of distraction and next thing he knows, he's washing dishes for the week. "I have a better idea." He slides across the room and shoves Aziraphale against the wall.
"Don't Tempt me, demon," Aziraphale hisses.
Crowly leans closer. "No?" he asks, his breath flicking hot against Aziraphale's neck.
Aziraphale shudders. "Well, maybe just a small temptation. None of yours are watching, right?"
"None. I don't suppose you could do something about these buttons?" Crowley asks, fumbling with Aziraphale's vest.
"That would be cheating," Aziraphale says indignantly. "Not to mention a misuse of powers. I'm an Angel, Crowley. We have standards."
"What you are is bloody irritating," Crowley hisses. He snaps his fingers, and every button on Aziraphale's clothing disappears.
"Hey! Those were vintage!"
"They're in your desk drawer. You can put them back later."
Somehow, they make it to the bedroom and close the door before all of their clothing hits the floor. Everyone knows what happens behind closed bedroom doors; it turns out it's not much different when an angel and a demon are involved—except well, they do come up with some creative configurations. Think of the most enthusiastic shall we call them Bedroom Activities you can. Now imagine the same if anatomical limitations were merely a suggestion. That's what is currently happening on the other side of the door.
Later, Crowley rolls over in bed. "So who won?" he asks, draping himself over Aziraphale.
"What? Oh, right. You know, I'm not entirely sure."
Outside, thunder cracks, and rain hammers against the windowpanes.
"Does it have to be tonight?" Aziraphale mumbles.
There's a long pause in which you can almost see the gears turning in Crowley's head. There aren't, of course, literal gears inside his skull, but it's a useful metaphor, and far safer than actually trying to look into a demon's brain. The latter is not recommended. "You know, I don't suppose it does. Obviously they meant it to be tonight, but they never explicitly said that."
"And intentionally misconstruing the meaning to wait until tomorrow would be the properly demonic thing to do, no?" Aziraphale says.
Crowley smiles. "Of course." And thank God—Satan—whoever for that. He burrows deeper into the bed as the weather rages outside. Humans did get some things right, and blankets are definitely one of them.
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clearlykero
Tonight, they move.
Well, one of them moves anyway, though Crowley can't for the life of him remember whose turn it is this time. He'll have to check the schedule, or as Aziraphale calls it, the Ineffable Schedule. Crowley prefers to call it That Piece of Paper Stuck to the Fridge.
That is, perhaps, the first sign that this flat is not quite so normal as it would like you to believe. On the surface, it looks perfectly ordinary, or as ordinary as any flat occupied by a book lover can be. The normalcy is its downfall. After all, it is a well-known fact of the universe that any fridge in an occupied space for more than two weeks will begin to accumulate clutter—shopping lists, holiday cards, free magnets from charity mailings, and so on. Aziraphale and Crowley moved into this flat five years ago. The front of their fridge still contains nothing but The Schedule, one shopping list, and all of the emergency contact numbers printed on a card in Aziraphale's neat hand.
What is their secret, you might ask? Well, it all comes down to a simple miscommunication. To Aziraphale's reasoning, fridge clutter must certainly be an invention of Hell. To Crowley, such holiday well-wishing and touting of accomplishments must certainly be Heaven's doing. Of course, both would deny their role in the constant pruning of the papers, but regardless, the end result is that their fridge will never achieve the degree of archaeological interest of a normal residential refrigeration unit.
Crowley squints at the complicated lunar phases and tide charts on The Schedule. "Aziraphale, I can't make bloody sense of this thing. Whose turn is it?"
Aziraphale pokes his head out of the other room. He has a smudge of ink on his cheek again. It's another of those universal rules; even if you use nothing but pencil (as the archivists would prefer before you give them all heart attacks), spending enough time around old books ensures you will inevitably end up with ink smudges. "It's yours, isn't it? What does the schedule say?"
"I dunno. You're the one with all the books about readings and signs and the whatnot. Us demons, we're not so big on plans. Unless it's, you know, The Plan." He waves his hand. "Big overarching thing, not so much by way of details."
"It's definitely your turn. I took the one over at Oxford last week. Plus, isn't dead of night more your side's sort of thing? Up There tends more toward the sunrise revelations and what not."
"I took the graveyard on Tuesday, which would make it your turn again."
"No no, that was in exchange for that one in the church I took for you last month. The whole consecrated ground thing and all."
"You're sure it's mine?" Crowley asks. Outside thunder rumbles, giving every sign it will be a truly miserable night.
"Quite sure," Aziraphale says definitively. "Though I suppose you could challenge me for it," he adds with a sudden twinkle in his eye.
"What? No. No more crossword puzzles, and no Scrabble either." Crowley shudders. Words games have Heaven's hand all over them. Take a perfectly good—well, bad—hodgepodge of a language and bend over backwards jumping through hoops to force it into neat little boxes. No thank you.
"A board game then."
"Absolutely not," Crowley says, even if Monopoly was one of his better creations. It's wrong, really, that an angel of all beings should be so tempted to try his sleight of hand at the card table. Aziraphale may not be good at magic, but all it takes is one moment of distraction and next thing he knows, he's washing dishes for the week. "I have a better idea." He slides across the room and shoves Aziraphale against the wall.
"Don't Tempt me, demon," Aziraphale hisses.
Crowly leans closer. "No?" he asks, his breath flicking hot against Aziraphale's neck.
Aziraphale shudders. "Well, maybe just a small temptation. None of yours are watching, right?"
"None. I don't suppose you could do something about these buttons?" Crowley asks, fumbling with Aziraphale's vest.
"That would be cheating," Aziraphale says indignantly. "Not to mention a misuse of powers. I'm an Angel, Crowley. We have standards."
"What you are is bloody irritating," Crowley hisses. He snaps his fingers, and every button on Aziraphale's clothing disappears.
"Hey! Those were vintage!"
"They're in your desk drawer. You can put them back later."
Somehow, they make it to the bedroom and close the door before all of their clothing hits the floor. Everyone knows what happens behind closed bedroom doors; it turns out it's not much different when an angel and a demon are involved—except well, they do come up with some creative configurations. Think of the most enthusiastic shall we call them Bedroom Activities you can. Now imagine the same if anatomical limitations were merely a suggestion. That's what is currently happening on the other side of the door.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Later, Crowley rolls over in bed. "So who won?" he asks, draping himself over Aziraphale.
"What? Oh, right. You know, I'm not entirely sure."
Outside, thunder cracks, and rain hammers against the windowpanes.
"Does it have to be tonight?" Aziraphale mumbles.
There's a long pause in which you can almost see the gears turning in Crowley's head. There aren't, of course, literal gears inside his skull, but it's a useful metaphor, and far safer than actually trying to look into a demon's brain. The latter is not recommended. "You know, I don't suppose it does. Obviously they meant it to be tonight, but they never explicitly said that."
"And intentionally misconstruing the meaning to wait until tomorrow would be the properly demonic thing to do, no?" Aziraphale says.
Crowley smiles. "Of course." And thank God—Satan—whoever for that. He burrows deeper into the bed as the weather rages outside. Humans did get some things right, and blankets are definitely one of them.
You're up
clearlykero