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hsavinienTitle: Friendship is a Work in Progress
Gift for: Hanna
Author: H. Savinien
Relationships: Anathema/Newt, Tracy/Shadwell, Aziraphale/Crowley, all background
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2500
Summary: The Witchfinder's Army annual holiday splits up into two groups.
Notes: I combined two of your prompts, hope you enjoy some slice-of-life interaction between the GO adults. Please note that the fifth section contains a bit about historical torture and state violence (with thanks to the Tower of London website), because Shadwell is morbid. Nothing graphic, but you may not want to google things... Happy holidays! Originally posted at the GO Holiday Gift Exchange.
Friendship is a Work in Progress
***
Aziraphale clutched the cup of tea protectively and watched the man stalk around the shelves, trailing drips from his wet mack perilously near the lower shelves. “But why here?”
Newt sighed. “Sorry. Former Witchfinder Army's annual holiday; he insisted.”
Shadwell prodded the shelf below The Wizard of Oz with a grotty-looking fingernail. “Oy, private! C'mere.”
“It's just a story,” Newt said hopelessly, but slumped over to answer the summons.
Aziraphale watched eagle-eyed, just in case Shadwell decided to assert himself by physically assaulting any of the offending books. Newt managed to steer him away toward the shark section instead (there were quite a lot of shark books this year, Adam must be going through another phase), which was at least a slight improvement. While Shadwell considered sharks “probably demonic”, he was less likely to get worked up over them.
Luckily, Anathema and Madame Tracy breezed in, Anathema clutching a cardboard drinks carrier from the cafe down the road like a life preserver. Aziraphale pointed her toward the counter with the cash drawer so she could set it down out of range of the books. She deposited it, then grabbed her cup and buried her nose in it, inhaling deeply. While a great believer in herbal everything, it appeared she was in need of coffee to deal with the Witchfinders. Aziraphale could understand that.
“Witchfinder Army holiday?” Aziraphale asked them.
“Former!” Madame Tracy said. “They aren't exactly looking any more, eh?” She elbowed Anathema, who snorted into her cup.
“It's all fine, dear,” she added to Aziraphale. “We've been tagging along to make sure nobody gets themselves into mischief, and we see a bit of the London sights, and it wears Mr. S. out enough that he's no trouble for weeks after.”
Anathema sighed and surfaced. “Don't worry, we'll keep an eye on them. We'll steer them on to the Tower in a bit. Shadwell gets nearly jolly around all the torture instruments.” Madame Tracy smacked her arm and tutted.
“Is Crowley around?” Anathema asked. “I haven't seen your counterpart in ages and we were going to talk about web search optimization for my shop, but I've rung three times this month and the ansaphone isn't working.”
“Well, no, it got a bit...infested and Crowley hasn't got a new one set up yet. I was expecting a visit this afternoon, though, if you want to stop around a little longer.”
***
Anathema considered the merits of touristing in London minding two grown men versus spending time in a bookshop out of the cold rain. “I'll stay. Madame Tracy? I'm sure Newt can keep Mr. Shadwell on track if you haven't anything pressing you wanted to do with them.”
Madame Tracy had found the only comfy armchair in the place and settled into it with a sigh. “You know, I am a titch worn out. I like the museums, but it's a lot of walking. Can you pass my tea, dear?” Anathema gave it to her and offered the sugar packets. Madame Tracy took three and stirred them in busily.
Newt came over, shooing Shadwell tactfully in front of him toward the drinks carrier. “Oh thank go- good, thanks for getting the tea, darling,” he said fervently, pecking Anathema on the cheek and grabbing his cup.
Shadwell peered suspiciously at his. “What's this, then?” he asked Madame Tracy. “Some devil's brew.”
“It's just like your condensed milk, Mr. S,” she said soothingly. “Give it a try?”
It was steamed milk with extra sweetener in it. Anathema considered Madame Tracy overly optimistic. Some sputtering and growling later, Newt consented sadly to being left alone on Witchfinder Army duties, as the women's auxiliary had decided to skive off. Aziraphale shooed them out the door with an expression of unabashed relief, then went after the shelves that Shadwell had been near with a cleaning cloth. Anathema settled into the least uncomfortable chair remaining and reveled in being in the warm.
“How's business been?” she asked.
“Terrible,” the angel grumped. “People keep putting me up on...the thing. The Yelpy internet thing. They called the shop quaint.”
“You know, I might be able to make you up a charm for that. Do you have wifi?”
“I'm certain I don't,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley would have mentioned it.”
"Probably not, then."
“I'm sure I'd appreciate the charm, though, if it would help keep off the tourists.”
Anathema pulled out her mobile and added a couple of things to her shopping list. She was low on orange calcite and she'd need at least three pieces for a solid warding, Newt's energy had cracked the last of her silicon trying to change the computer background without help, and Dog had eaten her rosemary bush. Adam had brought her a packet of dried rosemary as an apology, but it would need to be picked fresh to be any use besides in cookery.
“Right. I should have something in the post for you by next week.”
“Thank you, my dear, much appreciated.”
***
Shadwell stumped grimly down the halls of the National Portrait Gallery, boots ringing on the polished floors and mack leaving a brownish trail of drips behind him. He ignored famous generals and buttoned-up ladies, pausing only for pictures of women with bare enough chests (or flimsy enough tops) to perform the required nipple count. Newt had been delegated to note-taker and dutifully wrote down the names and artists of any painting that had a suggestion or suspicious shadow of a third nipple, as well as every picture of a lady that included a serpent. There were a lot of them. He'd argued against that for a while, pointing out that they knew it was only ever Crowley and the models weren't actually Eve, but Shadwell had barked “LILITH!” in a tone that brooked no disagreement and suggested he'd won anyhow even if there had been an argument in the first place. Newt didn't really want to be thrown out by the security guards, so stopped trying.
The fourth gallery in, they got stuck behind a tour group of American pensioners with baseball caps and bum bags and white supportive shoes. Shadwell skulked around the edges, trying to get past without actually having to talk to any of them, humphing and snorting in distaste.
“Foreigners,” he said darkly, when Newt caught up to him.
“We could go round the other halls first,” Newt suggested.
“Excuse me, you're blocking the Caravaggio,” a grey-haired lady in a floral blouse informed them. “Al,” she called back over her shoulder, “this is the one Deb was talking about. Can you get a picture of it for her? If you gentlemen will just scoot over a little,” she said.
“Hussy,” Shadwell barked.
“I beg your pardon,” the woman said, her shoulders drawing up and back like an eagle mantling.
Al (probably) came up behind her, a shorter, nearly bald man with the square posture and keen eye of a soldier despite the thick glasses and polo shirt. “What was that you said to Millie?” he asked. “We must have misheard you.”
“Sorry, so sorry,” Newt said. “He's been cooped up inside too long and run out of patience, I think. We'll just be going now. Sorry, ma'am!” Braving the oily slick, he grabbed the loose cloth at Shadwell's shoulder and rushed him toward the exit, despite the outraged struggling.
“What a rude man,” Millie said as they turned the corner.
They made it out the door and onto the steps of the building before Shadwell fought free of Newt's hold, arms flailing, red-faced and swearing, “-talking about me like I'm a fussy babby, grabbing me, stopping me from taking him, I could've taken him and that pushy biddy-
“Shadwell! They would've had you arrested!” Newt exploded. “You'd rather fight a couple of Americans and land in the lock-up than go on this little tour, fine, but leave me out of it. I'll go have tea back at the bookshop with Anathema while you entertain yourself trying to intimidate tourists. If you do want to go on to the Tower and such with my company instead of by yourself, just pretend you don't hate absolutely everybody else in the entire world for a few hours, don't badmouth people where they can hear, and don't try to pick fights with them!”
Shadwell stared at him grimly, then pulled a packet of biscuits out of his pocket and ate one. Crumbs went down his front. Newt shivered and turned up his collar.
“Yeah, alright,” Shadwell said finally. “The jezebel's been on me to mind my blood sugar; says I get tetchy when I'm late for a snack.” He offered Newt the biscuit packet.
Newt took one in a sort of stunned stupor. “Sorry, I was pretty rude to you too.”
Shadwell crunched through another two biscuits, then stowed the wrapper and patted crumbs off his front. “Which bus?”
“Right.” Newt bundled them toward the stop.
***
There were customers; a solicitor-ish man going grey and a younger blond one in his twenties. They were picking up books and riffling through them, putting them back on the wrong shelves, and backwards. Aziraphale's meaningful throat-clearing, loud sighs, and annoying humming didn't seem to faze them, and when the older one sniffed at the first edition Alice, the angel started going a little fractal around the eyes. Anathema ended up going over to them and acting like an American shop assistant – stepping into their space, smiling too much in a glassy way, and asking personal questions about their reading habits. It was bad for the whole occult community, someone getting poofed to Siberia.
“I really think anyone who reads too much Vonnegut and Bukowski is compensating for some deep-seated insecurities,” she called cheerfully after the younger one as he made a stammering exit. Madame Tracy tittered behind her.
Crowley blew in as they were all getting settled back into the quiet of the shop. “Hi all, what's the party for?”
The demon had apparently been moving with the fashion times a bit better than Aziraphale; the grey suit Crowley wore was slim and sharp-edged and low-collared, and the scarf around the demon's neck looked like a floral pattern until you got close enough. Instead of dark-outlined iris blooms, the purple and blue blobs turned out to be medievalish grotesques. Anathema enjoyed it. Crowley flowed into a seat on top of the counter and buried a hand in Aziraphale's curls, then ruined the effect by tugging and getting a swat across the ear.
“The boys are off having a little walkabout, Anathema wanted to talk about internet things, and I'm having a sit-down and reading,” Madame Tracy called. She'd pulled out a book of poetry partway through Anathema traumatizing the customers and waved it in Crowley's direction now.
“You promised to help me jigger the search engine optimization a month ago,” Anathema said. She pulled out her mobile and brought up the Descendancy shop site. “Now, get on it.”
Crowley made a grumpy sound, but grabbed the phone all the same and started scrolling through her code, tipping the ever-present sunglasses down to peer at it more closely. “Why do I have to help?”
Anathema shook her head. “Sadly, I haven't found a techie sort of hippy or witch in the Tadfield area.” She sighed. “I know they exist. It's just hard to make friends outside of earth-threatening catastrophes.”
“Just bring something covered in marshmallow to the next jumble sale,” Madame Tracy said. “That's always been my method.”
***
Shadwell was bouncing with excitement by the time they reached the display on at the Tower. “Methods of Pain,” the largest placard read (with a warning notice for the easily disturbed). Victorian fancies and fictions like the iron maiden – spikes artistically darkened – and pear of anguish sat side by side with more historical devices like manacles suspended from the ceiling and a post with elaborate handcuffs to contort the body into a tight ball. Shackles sat in cases, arranged by size from large to one pair so small that they barely looked like they'd circle Newt's first two fingers. A rack, under plexiglass, bore the story of Anne Askew and her torture for the names of Protestant sympathisers.
It mostly made Newt sad, but he knew why Shadwell liked it – iron and fire and law and order and a black-and-white world where the witchfinders were righteous protectors instead of fallible men with biases and grudges. Or old men with not much but dodgy health and nebulous prejudice, surviving on unimaginative fraud.
Newt stepped out of the way of the other tourists and sat on a few inches of stair not blocked off by iron grating. Shadwell was getting better, at least. Making himself less of an arsehole with Madame Tracy's help (it was still a work in progress). Newt just sat and let Shadwell enjoy himself. He wasn't hurting anyone this time. It wasn't as if Newt didn't still have leagues to go himself.
***
Anathema leaned into Tracy's chair, with a blanket borrowed from Aziraphale around her shoulders. Crowley, cross-legged on the floor beside her, pointed out a keyword field that she'd swear hadn't been there before, but she shrugged and started plugging in 'new age', 'mystic', 'tarot', 'healing', 'crystals', and everything else relevant she could think of. Aziraphale suggested adding extraneous 'k's, cheek smushed into one hand, elbow on the arm of the chair, and the other hand tracing idle patterns on Crowley's nape. (The demon flinched once, making Aziraphale murmur apologies; Anathema guessed that some of the tracing ended up a little close to a heavenly sigil.) Tracy snored delicately above her, hands folded over the book on her stomach.
Newt and Shadwell wandered in eventually, both of them visibly drooping. Crowley texted for a pizza and Aziraphale fit all of them into the back room by dint of sheer horror at the idea of pizza near the books.
“Y'know, there's a guest bedroom,” Crowley said sleepily, having eaten about four pieces and visibly bulging at the middle. “And this sofa would make a decent futon.”
“It's not one, though,” Newt said.
“Not yet. D'you really want to drive back in the dark?”
“Oh, go on,” Aziraphale said. “It'll be no bother.”
Anathema shrugged. “Might as well. It's good to have someplace to stay.”
Shadwell agreed. “Off upstairs, wench. Let the foul spirits do their work without bothering us about it.”
“First on the right, wasn't it?” Madame Tracy asked. Aziraphale nodded. “Well, thank you for the hospitality. We'll try not to be a bother.” She patted Shadwell's arm and grinned at all of them.
Anathema curled up around Newt a little later on the lumpy, newly-futoned couch, and marveled at the strange company they'd all ended up in. It had been a surprisingly pleasant day.
**End, for now**
Gift for: Hanna
Author: H. Savinien
Relationships: Anathema/Newt, Tracy/Shadwell, Aziraphale/Crowley, all background
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2500
Summary: The Witchfinder's Army annual holiday splits up into two groups.
Notes: I combined two of your prompts, hope you enjoy some slice-of-life interaction between the GO adults. Please note that the fifth section contains a bit about historical torture and state violence (with thanks to the Tower of London website), because Shadwell is morbid. Nothing graphic, but you may not want to google things... Happy holidays! Originally posted at the GO Holiday Gift Exchange.
Friendship is a Work in Progress
***
Aziraphale clutched the cup of tea protectively and watched the man stalk around the shelves, trailing drips from his wet mack perilously near the lower shelves. “But why here?”
Newt sighed. “Sorry. Former Witchfinder Army's annual holiday; he insisted.”
Shadwell prodded the shelf below The Wizard of Oz with a grotty-looking fingernail. “Oy, private! C'mere.”
“It's just a story,” Newt said hopelessly, but slumped over to answer the summons.
Aziraphale watched eagle-eyed, just in case Shadwell decided to assert himself by physically assaulting any of the offending books. Newt managed to steer him away toward the shark section instead (there were quite a lot of shark books this year, Adam must be going through another phase), which was at least a slight improvement. While Shadwell considered sharks “probably demonic”, he was less likely to get worked up over them.
Luckily, Anathema and Madame Tracy breezed in, Anathema clutching a cardboard drinks carrier from the cafe down the road like a life preserver. Aziraphale pointed her toward the counter with the cash drawer so she could set it down out of range of the books. She deposited it, then grabbed her cup and buried her nose in it, inhaling deeply. While a great believer in herbal everything, it appeared she was in need of coffee to deal with the Witchfinders. Aziraphale could understand that.
“Witchfinder Army holiday?” Aziraphale asked them.
“Former!” Madame Tracy said. “They aren't exactly looking any more, eh?” She elbowed Anathema, who snorted into her cup.
“It's all fine, dear,” she added to Aziraphale. “We've been tagging along to make sure nobody gets themselves into mischief, and we see a bit of the London sights, and it wears Mr. S. out enough that he's no trouble for weeks after.”
Anathema sighed and surfaced. “Don't worry, we'll keep an eye on them. We'll steer them on to the Tower in a bit. Shadwell gets nearly jolly around all the torture instruments.” Madame Tracy smacked her arm and tutted.
“Is Crowley around?” Anathema asked. “I haven't seen your counterpart in ages and we were going to talk about web search optimization for my shop, but I've rung three times this month and the ansaphone isn't working.”
“Well, no, it got a bit...infested and Crowley hasn't got a new one set up yet. I was expecting a visit this afternoon, though, if you want to stop around a little longer.”
***
Anathema considered the merits of touristing in London minding two grown men versus spending time in a bookshop out of the cold rain. “I'll stay. Madame Tracy? I'm sure Newt can keep Mr. Shadwell on track if you haven't anything pressing you wanted to do with them.”
Madame Tracy had found the only comfy armchair in the place and settled into it with a sigh. “You know, I am a titch worn out. I like the museums, but it's a lot of walking. Can you pass my tea, dear?” Anathema gave it to her and offered the sugar packets. Madame Tracy took three and stirred them in busily.
Newt came over, shooing Shadwell tactfully in front of him toward the drinks carrier. “Oh thank go- good, thanks for getting the tea, darling,” he said fervently, pecking Anathema on the cheek and grabbing his cup.
Shadwell peered suspiciously at his. “What's this, then?” he asked Madame Tracy. “Some devil's brew.”
“It's just like your condensed milk, Mr. S,” she said soothingly. “Give it a try?”
It was steamed milk with extra sweetener in it. Anathema considered Madame Tracy overly optimistic. Some sputtering and growling later, Newt consented sadly to being left alone on Witchfinder Army duties, as the women's auxiliary had decided to skive off. Aziraphale shooed them out the door with an expression of unabashed relief, then went after the shelves that Shadwell had been near with a cleaning cloth. Anathema settled into the least uncomfortable chair remaining and reveled in being in the warm.
“How's business been?” she asked.
“Terrible,” the angel grumped. “People keep putting me up on...the thing. The Yelpy internet thing. They called the shop quaint.”
“You know, I might be able to make you up a charm for that. Do you have wifi?”
“I'm certain I don't,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley would have mentioned it.”
"Probably not, then."
“I'm sure I'd appreciate the charm, though, if it would help keep off the tourists.”
Anathema pulled out her mobile and added a couple of things to her shopping list. She was low on orange calcite and she'd need at least three pieces for a solid warding, Newt's energy had cracked the last of her silicon trying to change the computer background without help, and Dog had eaten her rosemary bush. Adam had brought her a packet of dried rosemary as an apology, but it would need to be picked fresh to be any use besides in cookery.
“Right. I should have something in the post for you by next week.”
“Thank you, my dear, much appreciated.”
***
Shadwell stumped grimly down the halls of the National Portrait Gallery, boots ringing on the polished floors and mack leaving a brownish trail of drips behind him. He ignored famous generals and buttoned-up ladies, pausing only for pictures of women with bare enough chests (or flimsy enough tops) to perform the required nipple count. Newt had been delegated to note-taker and dutifully wrote down the names and artists of any painting that had a suggestion or suspicious shadow of a third nipple, as well as every picture of a lady that included a serpent. There were a lot of them. He'd argued against that for a while, pointing out that they knew it was only ever Crowley and the models weren't actually Eve, but Shadwell had barked “LILITH!” in a tone that brooked no disagreement and suggested he'd won anyhow even if there had been an argument in the first place. Newt didn't really want to be thrown out by the security guards, so stopped trying.
The fourth gallery in, they got stuck behind a tour group of American pensioners with baseball caps and bum bags and white supportive shoes. Shadwell skulked around the edges, trying to get past without actually having to talk to any of them, humphing and snorting in distaste.
“Foreigners,” he said darkly, when Newt caught up to him.
“We could go round the other halls first,” Newt suggested.
“Excuse me, you're blocking the Caravaggio,” a grey-haired lady in a floral blouse informed them. “Al,” she called back over her shoulder, “this is the one Deb was talking about. Can you get a picture of it for her? If you gentlemen will just scoot over a little,” she said.
“Hussy,” Shadwell barked.
“I beg your pardon,” the woman said, her shoulders drawing up and back like an eagle mantling.
Al (probably) came up behind her, a shorter, nearly bald man with the square posture and keen eye of a soldier despite the thick glasses and polo shirt. “What was that you said to Millie?” he asked. “We must have misheard you.”
“Sorry, so sorry,” Newt said. “He's been cooped up inside too long and run out of patience, I think. We'll just be going now. Sorry, ma'am!” Braving the oily slick, he grabbed the loose cloth at Shadwell's shoulder and rushed him toward the exit, despite the outraged struggling.
“What a rude man,” Millie said as they turned the corner.
They made it out the door and onto the steps of the building before Shadwell fought free of Newt's hold, arms flailing, red-faced and swearing, “-talking about me like I'm a fussy babby, grabbing me, stopping me from taking him, I could've taken him and that pushy biddy-
“Shadwell! They would've had you arrested!” Newt exploded. “You'd rather fight a couple of Americans and land in the lock-up than go on this little tour, fine, but leave me out of it. I'll go have tea back at the bookshop with Anathema while you entertain yourself trying to intimidate tourists. If you do want to go on to the Tower and such with my company instead of by yourself, just pretend you don't hate absolutely everybody else in the entire world for a few hours, don't badmouth people where they can hear, and don't try to pick fights with them!”
Shadwell stared at him grimly, then pulled a packet of biscuits out of his pocket and ate one. Crumbs went down his front. Newt shivered and turned up his collar.
“Yeah, alright,” Shadwell said finally. “The jezebel's been on me to mind my blood sugar; says I get tetchy when I'm late for a snack.” He offered Newt the biscuit packet.
Newt took one in a sort of stunned stupor. “Sorry, I was pretty rude to you too.”
Shadwell crunched through another two biscuits, then stowed the wrapper and patted crumbs off his front. “Which bus?”
“Right.” Newt bundled them toward the stop.
***
There were customers; a solicitor-ish man going grey and a younger blond one in his twenties. They were picking up books and riffling through them, putting them back on the wrong shelves, and backwards. Aziraphale's meaningful throat-clearing, loud sighs, and annoying humming didn't seem to faze them, and when the older one sniffed at the first edition Alice, the angel started going a little fractal around the eyes. Anathema ended up going over to them and acting like an American shop assistant – stepping into their space, smiling too much in a glassy way, and asking personal questions about their reading habits. It was bad for the whole occult community, someone getting poofed to Siberia.
“I really think anyone who reads too much Vonnegut and Bukowski is compensating for some deep-seated insecurities,” she called cheerfully after the younger one as he made a stammering exit. Madame Tracy tittered behind her.
Crowley blew in as they were all getting settled back into the quiet of the shop. “Hi all, what's the party for?”
The demon had apparently been moving with the fashion times a bit better than Aziraphale; the grey suit Crowley wore was slim and sharp-edged and low-collared, and the scarf around the demon's neck looked like a floral pattern until you got close enough. Instead of dark-outlined iris blooms, the purple and blue blobs turned out to be medievalish grotesques. Anathema enjoyed it. Crowley flowed into a seat on top of the counter and buried a hand in Aziraphale's curls, then ruined the effect by tugging and getting a swat across the ear.
“The boys are off having a little walkabout, Anathema wanted to talk about internet things, and I'm having a sit-down and reading,” Madame Tracy called. She'd pulled out a book of poetry partway through Anathema traumatizing the customers and waved it in Crowley's direction now.
“You promised to help me jigger the search engine optimization a month ago,” Anathema said. She pulled out her mobile and brought up the Descendancy shop site. “Now, get on it.”
Crowley made a grumpy sound, but grabbed the phone all the same and started scrolling through her code, tipping the ever-present sunglasses down to peer at it more closely. “Why do I have to help?”
Anathema shook her head. “Sadly, I haven't found a techie sort of hippy or witch in the Tadfield area.” She sighed. “I know they exist. It's just hard to make friends outside of earth-threatening catastrophes.”
“Just bring something covered in marshmallow to the next jumble sale,” Madame Tracy said. “That's always been my method.”
***
Shadwell was bouncing with excitement by the time they reached the display on at the Tower. “Methods of Pain,” the largest placard read (with a warning notice for the easily disturbed). Victorian fancies and fictions like the iron maiden – spikes artistically darkened – and pear of anguish sat side by side with more historical devices like manacles suspended from the ceiling and a post with elaborate handcuffs to contort the body into a tight ball. Shackles sat in cases, arranged by size from large to one pair so small that they barely looked like they'd circle Newt's first two fingers. A rack, under plexiglass, bore the story of Anne Askew and her torture for the names of Protestant sympathisers.
It mostly made Newt sad, but he knew why Shadwell liked it – iron and fire and law and order and a black-and-white world where the witchfinders were righteous protectors instead of fallible men with biases and grudges. Or old men with not much but dodgy health and nebulous prejudice, surviving on unimaginative fraud.
Newt stepped out of the way of the other tourists and sat on a few inches of stair not blocked off by iron grating. Shadwell was getting better, at least. Making himself less of an arsehole with Madame Tracy's help (it was still a work in progress). Newt just sat and let Shadwell enjoy himself. He wasn't hurting anyone this time. It wasn't as if Newt didn't still have leagues to go himself.
***
Anathema leaned into Tracy's chair, with a blanket borrowed from Aziraphale around her shoulders. Crowley, cross-legged on the floor beside her, pointed out a keyword field that she'd swear hadn't been there before, but she shrugged and started plugging in 'new age', 'mystic', 'tarot', 'healing', 'crystals', and everything else relevant she could think of. Aziraphale suggested adding extraneous 'k's, cheek smushed into one hand, elbow on the arm of the chair, and the other hand tracing idle patterns on Crowley's nape. (The demon flinched once, making Aziraphale murmur apologies; Anathema guessed that some of the tracing ended up a little close to a heavenly sigil.) Tracy snored delicately above her, hands folded over the book on her stomach.
Newt and Shadwell wandered in eventually, both of them visibly drooping. Crowley texted for a pizza and Aziraphale fit all of them into the back room by dint of sheer horror at the idea of pizza near the books.
“Y'know, there's a guest bedroom,” Crowley said sleepily, having eaten about four pieces and visibly bulging at the middle. “And this sofa would make a decent futon.”
“It's not one, though,” Newt said.
“Not yet. D'you really want to drive back in the dark?”
“Oh, go on,” Aziraphale said. “It'll be no bother.”
Anathema shrugged. “Might as well. It's good to have someplace to stay.”
Shadwell agreed. “Off upstairs, wench. Let the foul spirits do their work without bothering us about it.”
“First on the right, wasn't it?” Madame Tracy asked. Aziraphale nodded. “Well, thank you for the hospitality. We'll try not to be a bother.” She patted Shadwell's arm and grinned at all of them.
Anathema curled up around Newt a little later on the lumpy, newly-futoned couch, and marveled at the strange company they'd all ended up in. It had been a surprisingly pleasant day.
**End, for now**
