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Good Omens short short: "Somewhere in Africa, 150 BC," PG
Title: Somewhere in Africa, 150 BC
Author: H. Savinien
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Messrs. Pterry and Gneil. This is a fanwork done for pleasure, not profit.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 500
Summary: A brief encounter, what it says on the tin. There has been whinging. Again. Europe is not the world.
***
Crowley had been working his way south and west for a few decades now, counting the years like Romans did. He had been wandering on foot ever since he left the disagreeable camel at Naqa. (It spat at him and gave him looks that were far too intelligent when it thought he wasn't looking. He disliked camels.) Sometimes he stayed in one place for a few years, sometimes he didn't.
Right now, he was living in a village near a great river that the inhabitants called the Snake. Crowley liked the river and the village was comfortable. He'd arranged to get himself accepted as a nephew of one of the Old Men, who had, as far as Crowley could make out, so many sisters that an extra nephew was neither a surprise nor a novelty. Crowley managed to find his place in the social pecking order pretty damn quickly, if he did say so himself. His snakeskin sandals were the immediate envy of every young man in the village and his high cheekbones, long jaw, gleaming teeth, and lean shoulders attracted most of the young women and no few of the matrons. Crowley had already turned down three offers to become a second husband. While the attention was fun, though, the only trouble he'd managed to stir up so far were a few fights and the Old Women were depressingly good at defusing those.
He'd been there nearly a month when the old man with the dodgy leg approached him. Crowley hadn't ever paid him any attention. He slept under the corners of houses and told the very young children stories and he was so old that what remained of his hair looked like a thin rime of white mold on old, age-browned millet. The man limped up to Crowley and tucked his hand in the crook of Crowley's elbow. Then, before the startled demon could shake him off, he looked up into Crowley's face with kindly brown eyes and smiled.
“Snake, should I tell them what you are and help them try to drown you in the river or do you want to leave peaceably of your own accord?”
Crowely stiffened. His glamour was still in place, his eyes tawny-brown and round-pupiled. That meant...
“Oh, not you. Why in the name of...anyone are you here?”
“Just doing my job,” Aziraphale said smugly. “Helping the Old Women keep the peace, keeping the children entertained.”
Crowley spat on the ground in annoyance. “I thought you were in Hellas.”
“I was. Now I'm not. Will you move on? One of us is leaving here in pieces and I have the ears of enough of the Old Women to get you labeled a foul spirit and exorcised.”
The demon sputtered and the angel smiled sweetly.
Crowley suggested that Aziraphale do something not anatomically possible for anything man-shaped, shook him off and went to collect his nicest loincloth and spear for his trip. Bloody angel. He hated exorcisms.
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Cute little ficlet! <3
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Thank you!
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