Title: Sex, Drugs and Existential Crises (Part 12)
Rating: R/NC-17 for sexual content
Pairings: Crowley/Pollution, Famine/Pollution, Aziraphale/Rare first editions (possible Brian/Wensleydale and Adam/Pepper)
Warnings: This fic is currently unbetaed.
Summary: When Pollution starts to question his role the consequences for Heaven, Hell, Earth and the Horsepersons prove to be completely unprecedented.

A/N: It's taken me quite a while to get this chapter finished owing to RL issues, so I apologise for the disjointedness of it all. Several characters from fandoms other than GO get namechecked or make brief appearances at the party occurring in this instalment (though none are of course central to the story), so I'd be interested to see how many people can spot.

Previous instalments: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11.




To White’s supreme indifference Peybury Hall turned out to be an enormous eighteenth century mansion, which was located about two miles from the outskirts of Willowholme and set in expansive and well manicured grounds. He did however find himself momentarily entranced by the colourful paper lanterns that lined the sides of the long and winding driveway, as Jenny’s dark blue rover approached the building.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” said Gail, who was sitting just behind him in the back passenger seat and had obviously taken note of his brief enthrallment.

“Not the best idea in this climate,” said Jenny. “One splatter of rain and those things are going to disintegrate.”

Gail tutted. “Why’ve you got to be so… so practical all the time?”

Jenny shrugged as she pulled the car into what seemed to be a reserved parking spot just outside the building. “Same reason you’ve got to be such a bloody romantic, I suppose.”

“At least these ones look a bit safer than the fairy lights Henry had the handyman put up two years ago,” said Gail, clearly deciding that this was not a point against which she could argue. “You remember those don’t you?”

“How could I forget? He managed to accidentally electrify twenty acres of waterlogged country estate.”

“He’s a nice bloke though. Henry, that is,” said Gail. White couldn’t quite tell whether she was addressing him or her friend.

“Yeah, he’s okay. Better than my useless, good for nothing, failed criminal of a hus—” Jenny cut off suddenly, mouth curling with distaste. “Urgh, I don’t believe it, that’s disgusting.”

“What is?”

“Somebody’s stuck a big glob of chewing gun under the sodding dashboard. I swear to God, this is the last time I lend the car to Ingrid. I mean… Oh, for Christ’s sake there are sweet wrappers all over the floor as well. How did I miss them earlier?”

As Jenny went about removing the offending debris, Gail tapped White on the shoulder and gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry about this, she’s a bit fussy about cleanliness.”

White gave a non-committal shrug. He may have lost the urge to turn the surface of the planet into one big, rotting, fermenting landfill, but the Rover had had a deeply unpleasant air of sterility about it, and introducing a few bits of litter to its interior had been the only way he could bear to sit in there without visibly recoiling. He had however found the banter between the two women to be engaging enough to take his mind off a) the peculiar mixture of hurt and excitement he seemed to be experiencing every time his thoughts drifted to the demon; and b) the fact that a visitation from Adam Young seemed imminent; though he found himself perplexed by the strange, unspoken undercurrents that seemed to run through human conversation.

After a few minutes of grumbling over how the car was going to need another professional valetting, the mess was tidied up to Jenny’s satisfaction (with, of course, the exception of the empty crisp packets, rotten apple cores and discarded cola cans that were now residing in the boot) and the three got out of the car and headed passed the two disgruntled looking security guards who were posted at the door, into a black and white tiled antechamber that was cluttered with antiques, gaudy party decorations and a large banner reading ‘Forty Today’.

There were a few people milling around the entrance hall, but none of them were interacting or doing anything particularly interesting, so White continued to follow Gail and Jenny as they headed towards the mild din that was coming from the direction of one of the doors on the far side of the entrance hall.

“The birthday boy’ll be in here,” said Jenny, as she pushed open the door to reveal a large room filled with a diverse, but incredibly wealthy-looking, selection of people, most of whom were sipping on glasses of champagne that were being proffered around by three smartly dressed waiters.

Coming to a halt Jenny peered around until she spotted a tall man with light brown hair and an amicable demeanour, conversing with a taller and far more dangerous looking man with dark hair and glasses.

“That’s Henry,” said Gail, gesturing to the shorter of the two men, who in turn spotted the two women and began to eagerly beckon them over.

“And it looks like his taste in acquaintances is as bad as ever,” said Jenny, with a grin before walking up to her brother-in-law and allowing herself to be enthusiastically hugged and kissed on the cheek.

“Hello Jennifer,” he said, obviously happy to see the woman. “I was starting to worry that you weren’t going to make it, but I see you’ve brought the lovely Abigail and another frien...” the man trailed off as his eyes settled on White and promptly widened, “...Jennifer, who is your new friend?”

“This is White,” she said, grin morphing into what could only be described as a ‘knowing’ smile. “He’s an artist.”

The man’s eyes widened further. “An artist?”

She nodded. “He’s actually really good.”

Positively beaming the man extended his hand to White, who – feeling rather puzzled as to why the man should seem so obviously delighted to meet him – shook it. “I’m Henry Peybury,” he said. “Very pleased to meet you, er… White, did you say?”

White nodded. “That’s what I’ve been calling myself for the last few years.”

“You changed your name?”

He gave a shrug, uncertain as to why the man should seem so intrigued by this point. “I’ve been Blanc, Weiss, Albus, Bianco and Chalky.”

“Well, I suppose that you artistic types tend to be changeable,” he said. “I know that Marcus was.” A sad, faraway look settled on his face for a moment, before his expression snapped back to one of light-hearted joviality. “What kind of art is it that you do?”

Aware that telling the man that until recently his sole means of creative expression had been the creation of ecological catastrophe wouldn’t go down too well, he decided that vagueness was the best idea. “I choose the medium best suited to what I want to create.”

Jenny rolled her eyes. “He’s very good at drawing.”

“How splendid,” said Henry. “I was just telling Mr. Crawford here about the restoration work I’ve been having done on father’s old collection of William Blakes. You already know Mr. Crawford, don’t you Jennifer.”

“Yeah, we met at your thirty-eighth.” She gave the man a nod of acknowledgement. “You’re Goil’s security manager these days, aren’t you?”

“For the moment,” the man said in an American accent, his tone suggesting that he saw protecting the lives of the world second most infamous heavy metal outfit was something he saw as a somewhat transient position.

“You’ve not brought your…er, friends with you this time, have you Mr. Crawford?” said Gail, a pleading note to her voice.

Mr. Crawford, who seemed possessed of a self-assuredness that almost matched Sable’s (and an air of self-satisfaction that only a fully-fledged human could achieve), gave an amused snort. “They’re currently protecting Mr. Goyle from his legions of fans. Though I would point out that the… ‘unfortunate events’ of our last visit were partially your responsibility.”

Gail looked at the floor. White recognised the look on her face as being remarkably akin to the ones that the lab technicians he’d worked with over the years wore when asked to explain where they had been when eight tonnes of chemical effluent had been released into the nearest river.

“Look, fair’s fair,” said Jenny, immediately leaping to her friend’s defence. “When people go down into the cellar to find a screaming man hanging upside down in a straightjacket while William Shatner’s Greatest Hits plays in the background they tend to think ‘BDSM game gone horribly awry’ not ‘Complete fucking loon being restrained for the safety of himself and others’. And none of us could have known what would happen with the mind reading act.... Though admittedly that bit was pretty hilarious. I mean, I knew anybody as uptight and moral majority as Councillor Fletcher had to have some kind of really weird and perverted sexual fetish going on, but I never would have guessed that it involved nipple-clamps, Clingfilm and electric eels.”

“Well, it’s all in the past now,” said Henry firmly, in tones reminiscent of those used by lab supervisors after deciding that the best course of action in response to the ‘eight tonnes of accidentally discharged chemical effluent’ situation was to endeavour to never speak of it again.

“Agreed,” said Mr. Crawford, with the finality of the Head of Section issuing a blanket ban of any mention of the ‘eight ton chemical effluent spillage that most certainly didn’t happen and we’ve got a lawsuit waiting for anybody who says it did’. “Now if you’ll excuse me I need to make a phone call.”

“Henry,” said Jenny once the man was out of earshot, “I know that this is none of my business, but what the hell is he doing here? I though you said you were going to introduce a ‘one non-accidental death and you’re not getting another invite’ policy”

“I couldn’t really not invite him: Voltage is trying to get Goil on board for the new Zablotsky Vodka campaign, so it wouldn’t do to go around snubbing anybody connected with them. Of course, we would have preferred Dethklok but one of our top executives once punched Charles Ofdensen in the face at business school.” He sighed. “Besides, Crawford said he had an interest in bidding for the demonology manuscripts.”

“Demonology manuscripts?” queried White, wondering for a moment if the demon Crawly was mentioned anywhere within.

Henry nodded. “My half brother acquired them somewhere in London, just before he left for Peru and then put them in the library here for safekeeping. But he’s going to be in South America for several more years and I… well, let’s just say that strange things have been happening ever since they’ve been here…. Oh Jennifer, don’t look at me like that.”

White glanced at her quizzically.

“He thinks they’re cursed,” she said, answering the question he hadn’t quite worked out that he was about to ask.

“No, not cursed exactly, but… let’s just say that I’ll be glad to have them out of the building.”

“When exactly are you thinking of having the auction anyway?” said Gail, redirecting the subject.

He looked at his watch. “In about an hour.”

“Is the sound system set up in the library?” asked Jenny.

“I think so. Garrett told me he sorted it out earlier today.”

“Garrett! The one that can’t tell the difference between a spark plug and a screwdriver?” She shook her head. “I better go and make sure everything’s all right.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Gail. “Do you want to come along, White?”

He thought about this. On the one hand there was so much human activity going on in here, so many of the party guests playing out their intriguing little dramas, on the other hand, it was possible that something even more interesting might be going on in the library. In the end however the choice was more or less made for him when Henry opened his mouth.

“I’m sure that White’s not interested in watching you two girls fiddle about with microphones and bits of wiring.”

White’s brow furrowed. “I’m not?”

“Well, you can go with them if you’d rather,” said the man looking puzzlingly pained by the thought. “But I’d love to show you some of the pieces from father’s collection.”

Jenny opened her mouth as if to pass comment, but promptly shut it when Gail tugged roughly at her arm.

“Come on, Jen, let’s leave them to it,” she said, before going up to Henry and whispering something in his ear that featured the phrases ‘be gentle’, ‘poor thing’ and ‘nasty, unfeeling lawyer’.

Then, as the two women made their exit Henry looked at him with another of those human expressions that were completely unfathomable to him, while White idly scanned the little interactions going on around the place.

Neither of them paid much heed to the sound of a car braking suddenly outside.

----------

As the Bentley screeched to a halt outside Peybury Hall - it’s seemingly haphazard positioning actually carefully calculated to cause the maximum amount of inconvenience to other drivers - Crowley was already starting to feel a little more upbeat. Had he known that the personification of Pollution was in the building and being chatted up by a besotted-at-first-sight company director, he would have doubtless have found himself torn between leaving the premises immediately and dashing in to locate the Horseperson (whereupon he would have inevitably made a spectacular idiot of himself owing to the fact that he wouldn’t have considered what to actually say when he found him). However, as he was happily oblivious to this fact, what he did was get out of his car, walk into the large country house and set about stalking the rather too rococo corridors for a few casual temptations: an endeavour that proved to be laughably easy.

It took just the tiniest knowing glance and suggestive hint to induce the young man with the unruly brown hair and the scar to drag the pale, blonde young man with the haughty expression into a conveniently situated second floor broom cupboard, despite the fact that both of them were a) recently married and b) thoroughly aware that they’d hate themselves in the morning.

The flustered Miss Jones, who had clearly got herself lost in the east wing, was delighted to receive an autographed copy of Crowley’s latest foray into the world of self-help paperbacks.

A quick and sympathetic conversation on one of the first floor balconies with the harassed looking Father Crilly was all that was required to convince the man that embezzlement was a deeply unpleasant word and not one that should, in a just world, be given to the simple and mostly harmless practice of allowing money that others wouldn’t miss to temporarily rest in ones own bank account.

An even shorter conversation, in the billiards room, was needed to chase away the mild pangs of guilt Messers Iqbal and Bibby had been having about the mercenary way they were using the South London comprehensive school, with which they had, for some unfathomable reason, been charged with running.

Of course, as far as the demonic appetite for sin incitement was concerned, such petty influences were the temptational equivalent of breadsticks: filling if you were hungry, but ultimately rather boring. However, it was a bit too early in the evening for trying to initiate a mass orgy in the arboretum. Inciting such things too soon tended to either lead to a) everybody going home five hours early with embarrassed and rather too sober expressions on their faces; or b) some bright spark deciding that the only way the night’s decadence could be built upon was by holding some kind of ill-advised occult ritual in the wine cellar (and the last thing Crowley needed was for some irritating acquaintance from the Third Circle to show up). He therefore casually walked around, critically eyeing the ostentatious but - in Crowley’s opinion at least - thoroughly unstylish décor, until he came to a French window on the ground floor that led out onto a terrace, on which a small crowd had gathered to watch a string quartet play chamber music.

Deciding that the musicians were passable (if only just), he stood around half-heartedly listening to them play, while the people around him chattered and gossiped. Alas, with his mind not focussed on temptation and allowed to idly drift, it idly drifted back to thoughts of a pale, lithe body writhing on sticky bed sheets and grey, usually spaced-out eyes flashing with hurt as said form dressed, before walking away with a lost expression.

The demon gave a frustrated sigh. That disgustingly intriguing little bastard of an apocalyptic personification had really got under his skin. It wasn’t even as if the entity had seemed all that upset about the whole thing. Just a bit rejected and put out that Crowley wasn’t playing his game. And as for the lost part… well, he’d quite obviously been lost ever since he’d decided that environmental decimation didn’t really do it for him anymore.

Crowley might have continued trying to play this game of ‘attempting to convince oneself that one shouldn’t care about things that one – against one’s better judgement – clearly does’ indefinitely, if a familiar form hadn’t suddenly appeared beside him.

“Aziraphale!”

----------

“You’re not impressed?” said Henry, face falling as White examined the eighteenth century watercolour hanging on the wall of his study in a critical and utterly unenthused manner.

“It’s too flat,” said White, shaking his head at what he felt to be an extremely dull, two-dimensional representation of a storm in a harbour.

Henry sighed in a distinctly despairing fashion. “You said that about the portraits too.”

White gave a shrug. He hadn’t been able to fully express to the man that the works of supposed art that he’d shown him were, in truth, mere echoes of what they should be. As if the artists had merely managed to produce a pale imitation of the ideas they had in their heads.

“I could do better,” he said eventually. “Let me show you.”

It was testament to Henry Peybury’s instant irrational infatuation with his sister in law’s new acquaintance that he did not complain when the young man took a black marker from the stationery box on the Seventeenth century oak desk, walked out into the hallway and began to casually draw on the vintage three-hundred-pounds-a-metre wallpaper.

----------

“Crowley, what on earth are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“There are a couple of antique book collections being auctioned off,” said the angel, looking slightly embarrassed by the fact that his demonic counterpart had encountered him during one of his more covetous and less divinely motivated moments. “The proceeds do go to charity, of course,” he added.

“Of course.” Crowley smirked.

“So what are you doing here, Crowley?” the angel asked, clearly eager to change the subject.

“Oh, just thought I’d get out and do a bit of light tempting,” said Crowley. “Fill this week’s quota, so to speak.” He wasn’t the least inclined to give his angelic frien— acquaintance the full story. For one thing he knew the angel wouldn’t hesitate to bring it up at every opportunity. Crowley had, after all, been horrifically insufferable about the whole Champagne Fair debacle for centuries.

“Really, my dear,” chided Aziraphale, without any real rancour, before giving a sigh. “You do realise that I’m now morally obligated to try and drum up a few good deeds.”

“Sorry about that,” said Crowley. “Didn’t know you’d be here, otherwise I’d have left well alone.”

“These situations do happen, I suppose.” The angel frowned as the musicians tackled a tricky minuet in a rather sub-standard fashion.

“How did you meeting with Mr. Goode go?” the demon asked.

“Oh, so-so,” said Aziraphale. “The poor chap’s terribly naïve. He really doesn’t deserve any of this.”

Crowley nodded glumly. “Did you mention London to him?”

A look of guilt cross the angel’s face. “I’m afraid that something came up before I had the chance.”

“What kind of thing?”

“A group of teenagers defiling a defenceless book.”

“Ah.”

Aziraphale shook his head sadly. “That library really is in a dreadful state.”

Crowley shrugged. “Well, it is just a half-arsed parochial effort, isn’t it?”

The angel’s expression hardened. “That’s no excuse, Crowley. Besides, the computers seemed to be perfectly well kept.”

“I think that has something to do with the fact that the Head of Computer Services seems to spend half her time trying to keep the public away from them.”

Aziraphale gave a low ‘hmmm’, clearly of the mind that those in charge of books should implement a similar strategy.

As the string quartet came to the end of the piece, Crowley noticed that a large portion of the guests seemed to be gradually drifting back inside.

Also obviously noticing this movement, Aziraphale glanced at his pocket watch. “Ah, I do believe that the auction’s going to begin in ten minutes. I really must be heading off to Mr. Peybury’s library – which I dearly hope is in better condition than the one in town. Are you going to tag along?”

Crowley shook his head. “I wasn’t planning on bidding and watching auctions just isn’t really my thing.” This wasn’t strictly true. Crowley occasionally enjoyed going to an auction and seeing how far greed could be pushed (though usually he didn’t actually have to do very much), but this really wasn’t the sort of thing that one could comfortably do while accompanying a divine acquaintance.

The angel looked faintly disappointed, but only faintly. “Then I believe I’ll see you tomorrow, if not before. We agreed to meet in the water gardens didn’t we?”

The demon nodded. “Unless you’d prefer somewhere else.”

“No the water gardens will be fine.” With a wave the angel then walked back into the building, leaving Crowley standing on the terrace with the string quartet, a gaggle of girls in their late teens, a dreamy young couple and a very oddly dressed man who was accompanied by a white nanny goat with a pink bow around her neck.

“Aberforth,” he said, giving the man a polite nod.

“Anthony,” said the man, responding in kind.

Deciding that the musicians really were a bit below par and that there was really nothing interesting to see or do around the terrace, the demon headed back inside.

----------

By the time White finished the drawing a crowd of curious and in some cases downright admiring party-goers had gathered around him. All of them were babbling excitedly about the work that had just been created in front of their eyes.

“Good Lord,” said Henry. “It’s amazing. It’s as if… as if you took what makes him him and just put it there, on the wall.”

“Do you know him?” queried White, not quite certain why his little drawing should have created such a buzz, but faintly pleased about it nonetheless.

Henry nodded. “We’re promoting his new diet book… Well, I hope we still are, at any rate. Thursday’s launch party was a bit of a disaster.”

White took a step back from his little scrawling and regarded the picture of Sable he’d just drawn. For a few seconds a feeling that an entity with better all-round emotional awareness would have probably labelled ‘bittersweet’ overtook him.

“Were you and he…?” Henry trailed off, clearly expecting White to understand the question that he wasn’t asking.

“We used to work together,” said White. “I got bored of the enterprise though.”

“You creative types do seem to need variety.”

He nodded. “Sometimes things just cease to be entertaining or aesthetically pleasing and then you lose interest.”

“True, very true. Although there are occasions when one is forced do the dull, boring and horribly unpleasant by duty or necessity, I suppose.”

White considered this for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. Not in my case.” As he said the words however a small but rather worrying seed of doubt began to grow in his mind. He was pretty certain that Azrael couldn’t do anything to make him resume his purpose; if he could, White was almost certain that the antithesis to creation would have exercised this power by now. The boy on the other hand…. Well, he didn’t know how far his powers extended.

Forcefully pushing this unpleasant thought from his mind he tried to refocus his attention on Henry who was giving a small and slightly guilty laugh.

“Sometimes I wish that I could say the same,” the man said. “I mean it’s not that I don’t love my brother, but there are moments when sorting out these little scrapes that he gets into can get a bit….” He trailed off as a man with blond hair cropped short and a flashy suit caught his eye. “Ah, I see Lawrence Melling’s turned up. If you’ll just excuse me a moment I think I might prevail upon him to give me a little something to get me through the night.”

As he glanced more closely at the aforementioned Lawrence Melling White noticed that the man appeared to be engaged in the process of handing out tiny plastic envelopes filled with pills and powder. It was amazing the way that humans would decry the presence of a little washing detergent in the local river, but seemed to be so enthusiastic to put things a hundred times more potently dangerous into their bodies. Of course, Mr. Melling’s products were of such a watered-down and unrefined quality that White couldn’t help but feel the tiniest tinge of professional reproach.

Deciding that he could do infinitely better, he tapped Henry on the shoulder.

“Lick my fingers,” he said, proffering his left land.

For a moment the man’s eyes looked as though they were about to burst out of their sockets. He then surveyed the partygoers surrounding them before looking once again at White. There was no chance that White could have picked up the thoughts passing through the man’s head at this point; but an extremely skilled decipherer of human behaviour would have recognised the ‘How drunk are they? How drunk am I? And is there enough overall drunkenness in the immediate vicinity to allow for a public act of homoerotic hand tasting?’ calculation taking place. In the end the Henry clearly decided that the answer was in the positive and brought White’s palm to his mouth, which he began to hesitantly lick: tongue delicately running its way over his index finger.

Much to White’s surprise the feeling of a warm, wet tongue sliding against his skin caused a jolt of excitement to spread through his lower belly.

As the man went from tentative tasting to sucking lustily on his fingers, which were coated with a very fine layer of ultra-pure amphetamine, White involuntarily found himself closing his eyes and picturing another darker-haired and sharper featured male shaped being in the man’s place. So strange the way that the mind locked in this humanised form could represent events as being other than they were. So peculiar that said human form….

“What the Bloody He— Manchester do you think you’re doing?”

White’s eyes snapped open and he found himself looking into the face of a thoroughly pissed off demon.

“Hello,” he said, stomach lurching in a mystifying and very uncomfortable fashion, while a peculiar flush spread about his face. “Henry was just licking my finger.”

The demon’s scowl intensified. “I could dam— sodding well see that. What I want to know is why.”

“I don’t see why that’s any of your business,” said Henry, eyes narrowing and heartbeat rising.

Not quite sure what he was feeling but aware that he really didn’t like it, White looked down at the floor.

----------

Heart aflutter, Aziraphale seated himself four rows back from the makeshift podium that had been set up in the centre of Peybury Hall’s enviably large – if rather shoddily cared for – library and watched the other attendees filter into the room. There were, he noted with disapproval, several distinctly unsavoury characters amongst the bunch: con men, ad men, career criminals, Yakuza bosses, Armani anarchists, horrifically unethical physicians and, perhaps most insidious of all, the entrepreneur behind the nation’s largest premium rate psychic hotline. Definitely not, in Aziraphale’s very firm opinion, the sort who ought to be allowed to get their hands anywhere near the noble old tomes being cast onto the perilous waves of charity auctioneering that evening.

----------

“I don’t see why that’s any of your business.”

Even as he glared at the man Crowley had to concede that this was true. If the Horseperson wanted to go around licking the fingers of random over-moneyed twits then than was clearly own prerogative. But the fact was that ambling down a random hallway in the search for a quick distraction and coming across the scene had really felt like a stupid and irrational punch to the gut.

He’d made it clear through his actions earlier that day that he found the thought of Pollution having any sort of sexual interest in him to be… well, a bit weird, freaky and uncomfortable. But the sight of him standing there, in front of that bizarre and horribly real picture of Famine, head lolling back in what appeared to be a state of near-ecstasy, while a man who was quite obviously far less attractive, urbane, stylish and cool than Crowley considered himself to be sucked suggestively on his fingers, really got to him. As an accomplished tempter he knew that vanity, envy and lust were known to engage in a frequent and enthusiastic ménage-a-trois, which could beget a whole host of distinctly human stupidity. However, the fact was that Crowley was a tempter who was occasionally prone to temptation and he couldn’t help but feel that his demonic pride had just been wounded.

“You’re the lawyer, aren’t you?” said the licker of Horsepersonly fingers, voice filled with disapproval and annoyance.

“Yeah, what about it?”

The man, fuelled by anger and dexedrine drew himself up. “My sister-in-laws friend told me about you and I think that—”

“Look, don’t you have anywhere else to be,” snapped Crowley, cutting him off.

Obviously not quite certain how to best respond, the man flailed for a few seconds before finally gathering his wits, standing up straight and then looking from Pollution to Crowley and then back again. “Do you want me to leave you two alone?” he said to Pollution.

Pollution seemed to consider this for a good few moments.

“Yes,” he said eventually. “I think I do.”

Looking absolutely crestfallen the man gave a nod, turned around and began to pad dejectedly down the hallway.

Crowley regarded Pollution with a disbelieving expression. “Why the hell were you doing that?” he asked, tone softening a little.

Pollution shrugged. “He wanted to get high and the drug dealer was incompetent.”

Deeply perplexed by this statement, Crowley decided to try a different tact. “You looked like you were enjoying it.”

After giving another shrug, he quirked his head and regarded Crowley. “I was thinking about you.”

Crowley wasn’t sure whether it was the words themselves of the low breathy pitch with which they were spoken, but as Pollution finished speaking the demon felt his blood rush downwards.

“You want me to lick your fingers?” he said, ignoring looks and the giggles that the other partygoers who were still loitering in the area sent in his direction.

Pollution nodded. “I want you to lick me all over.”

Crowley swallowed. For some reason the blunt casualness of the statement was far more erotic than any sultry suggestiveness could have been. He therefore found himself quite reluctant to do anything other that press his lips against Pollution’s and proceed to enthusiastically devour that pretty, poisonous mouth.

Later, Crowley would look back at what happened next and wonder why in the name of G— Sat— David Bowie he didn’t think to make a brief enquiry as to what that disconcerting picture of the personification of starvation was doing on the wall; however, as things transpired this did not occur and the demon found himself – in the grand tradition of house parties everywhere – leading Pollution into the nearest bedroom: a room which transpired to be large, airy and decorated in a far more stylish and minimalist manner than any other of the house that Crowley had seen.

Wholly aware that, yes, he would regret this in the morning, and that, no, he wouldn’t have the excuse of being drunk past the point of insensibility, extremely high or otherwise completely beyond control of the actions of his human corpus, Crowley very quickly found himself setting about divesting Pollution of his - now creased and lightly stained - clothing. It was not a difficult endeavour, especially given that the buttons on the shirt and jeans seemed to corrode and drop off of their own accord.

The Horseperson really was beautiful naked: all glistening milky skin, long slender limbs and enticingly half-hard cock. And, as his own cock’s interest in the personification’s form skyrocketed from ‘Moderately Curious’ to ‘Oh Fuck, Yes’, the demon just couldn’t resist pushing him to the king-sized bed and running a forked tongue down his neck and over his chest until he came to a pale pink nipple, which just begged to be kissed and nibbled upon: a sentiment that Pollution clearly concurred with given the surprised – yet delighted – gasp that he made in response.

Of course, one of the downsides of running one’s mouth over Pollution’s bare flesh was the fact that one had to take great care not to allow one’s body to attempt to metabolise any of the poisons or toxins that seemed to be oozing from his pores in response to the rising excitement.

“You’re filthy, you know that,” muttered the demon, as he willed a trace of arsenic that had slipped passed his defences from his throat. In the history of corny lines, this was possibly one of the most predictable, but Crowley found himself unable to keep from spouting it, as he abandoned the nipple and – against his better judgement – dipped his tongue into the entity’s navel. A move that the entity in question clearly approved of, given the way he groaned and bucked his hips in response.

Fortunately for Crowley the most noxious substance that his tongue came into contact with while exploring Pollution’s belly button was a few drops of ultra-refined LSD, the likes of which would have had just about any self-respecting psychedelic refugee from the sixties gasping in surprise and delight. Tempting as it was, the demon opted not to ingest any of it. The situation was already weird enough without anything going day-glo (there was, of course, also the fact Crowley’s last foray into the world of recreational hallucinogens had resulted in horribly lifelike images of Ligur in a bright pink, sequinned ball gown, waltzing through his visual field).

“Demon, I want something,” said Pollution, his usually placid and airy voice, taking on a strangled quality.

“What kind of something?” asked Crowley, before flicking his tongue along the Horseperson’s hipbone.

There was a protracted pause. “I don’t know.”

A glance at the entity’s face, which was now more flushed and desperate looking than Crowley suspected that it had ever previously been, told him that Pollution wasn’t trying to be funny. He was squirming, hard and panting, but he really didn’t seem to have much of an idea of what he wanted Crowley to do next. Only that he very desperately wanted him to do something.

Feeling just a twinge of pride that he seemed to have managed to bring One of the Four to this wanton state, Crowley drew away from the entity and began to remove his own clothing; only to find that they were – despite being the best that money could buy or occult being materialise – coming apart at the seams.

“That was a genuine Oswald Boateng suit,” he griped, as he peeled away the now un-wearable layers of previously top quality cloth.

“You can make another,” said Pollution, running a hand over his pale, flat stomach, before taking his – now decidedly pronounced – erection in hand and stroking. It was a beautiful sight; but he couldn’t help but feel that that nicely proportioned cock would feel rather nice in his own hand, and that those long, white fingers would be much better employed wrapped around Crowley’s now very eager length.

Pollution seemed to concur, and did not complain in the least when Crowley coaxed him to his knees, took hold of him and began to stroke; slowly and softly at first, but increasing in speed and roughness as the Horseperson started to moan and helplessly thrust his hips. Nor did he seem at all unenthused about touching Crowley. Though obviously not experienced in the art of giving a hand-job, the way the slippery, inquisitive fingers rubbed and squeezed him felt wonderful; and it was not long before the demon found himself gasping, groaning and teetering on the edge of climax.

And edge that was well and truly crossed when Pollution gave a sharp, desperate cry and came all over his hand.

----------

By the time the seemingly elusive Henry Peybury made it to the library, the start of the auction had already been delayed by fifteen minutes and Aziraphale was starting to get slightly jittery. He was fully aware that at least four of the informal auction’s attendees were contemplating making a grab for the demonology texts (which they – quite misguidedly – though contained some kind of accurate ‘How To’ guide to the invocation of occult beings).

Alas, on making his way to the podium, the thoroughly downcast and distinctly twitchy looking birthday celebratee walked over to the small, malnourished looking woman with the ginger hair who seemed to have been in charge of setting up the microphone and whispered in her ear.

“For Christ’s sake, Henry, I though you of all people would know better than to accept amphetamines from an art school graduate,” said the woman in tones hushed enough that they were sub-audible to the human ear from a distance of a metre. Fortunately for Aziraphale’s eaves-dropping tendencies, his sense of hearing was rather more sophisticated than that possessed by the average mortal being. “You know that class A drugs don’t have the same effect on them as the rest of us.”

“He offered and it just didn’t seem polite to refuse,” the man replied in equally hushed tones, clearly somewhat distressed by his current physical and mental state. “And he really did have the loveliest fingers I’ve ever seen on a man. I mean, he’s beautiful, utterly beautiful and so talented and….” The man’s face fell, “… and now he’s upstairs with that bastard lawyer Abigail told me about.”

The woman sighed. “Look, are you sure you’re fit to do the auction? I mean, I could—”

“Oh, not you, Jennifer. You might start addressing the bidders as ‘you bunch of useless twats’.”

The woman looked affronted. “What makes you think I’d do that?”

“I’ve heard stories about those IT training courses you run at the library.”

“That’s different. It’s not as if any of this lot are going to be putting their grubby, malware-downloading mitts on my computers. Besides, I wasn’t going to suggest that I do it. I was going to say that I could ask that bloke from Sotheby’s to do the honours instead. He did volunteer, after all.”

“Yes, but he is a bit… What’s the word…?”

“Dodgy?” She waved a dismissive hand. “So is just about everybody else you’ve invited here tonight. Besides, I though you said you wanted rid of the things.”

For a while the man looked torn. Too agitated to conduct the whole process himself, but possessed of too much residual decency to let a certified crook fix a charity auction. Henry Peybury might have developed eye-strain of the conscience from perpetually looking the other way with regard to the less savoury endeavours of his co-directors and underlings at Voltage, but there were some things that were clearly just going too far.

Horrified at the prospect of a crooked auctioneer aiding some… some other being’s attempt to acquire the books, Aziraphale guiltily made a small and rather complicated hand gesture in the man’s direction.

Henry Peybury immediately ceased his twitching.

“You know,” he said after a few seconds had passed, “I think I might just be starting to feel better.”

The woman looked faintly relieved. “Well, you should get up there and get it over with. The sooner this is done the sooner the books will go away. Not that I’m saying I believe you about them being cursed or haunted or whatever supernatural affliction it is, but the stress is obviously starting to get to you.”

“But it’s true, Jennifer,” the man protested. “Strange things have been going on here ever since Milton brought them back from that auction. I mean, you wouldn’t believe the phantom smells that I’ve come across this summer.”

She stared at him incredulously. “Phantom… smells?”

“Dreadful ones. They’re usually a horrible cross between old cigarette smoke and rancid milk.”

The woman gave what looked to be a very deep and long-suffering sigh. “Henry, just get up there and flog your wares.”

Heeding this instruction, Henry turned the microphone and cleared his throat. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen and anybody not covered by either of these categories.”

There was a polite titter from the crowd.

Aziraphale did try to listen as the man went on to talk about the wonderful work done by the Summerstorm Hospice and how the proceeds of the auction would be going to improve the facilities there, but his eyes were fixed on the two sets of books on the display table.

“…and now we commence with a set of excellently preserved 15th century demonology texts. Who’d like to start the bidding at five hundred pounds?”

The angel immediately raised his hand.

“Five fifty?”

A corpulent, red-faced man who was, for reasons best known to himself, outfitted as a 1920s mobster, in a suit about three sizes too small, raised his hand, eyes gleaming acquisitively.

“Six hundred.”

A smug, dark-haired, American man in unfeasibly glinty glasses put in a bid.

“Six hundred and—” Henry Peybury instantly froze as the sound of something remarkably redolent of a war cry resounded through the building, followed swiftly by the sound of a hacking cough. Seconds later, the library doors were flung open and an elderly, thoroughly enraged and thoroughly unsanitary looking man barged into the room.

“Oh dear,” groaned Aziraphale, at once knowing that the next ten minutes were going to be deeply awkward and uncomfortable.

Next to the podium, the thin woman’s nose wrinkled; an action that was swiftly and involuntarily imitated by half the people in the immediate vicinity.

“Erm, Henry, would that by any chance be the ‘phantom smell’ you were talking about.”

The man gulped. “Not quite as pungent as this, but yes, that’s the one.” He took a step backwards as wizened yet relentless form began to encroach upon him, finger raised to point accusingly at him companion. Throughout the rest of the room there was a good deal of shuffling as several people headed for the exit, whilst several more reached for their camera phones.

“Though ye could get away with it, didn’t ye? Ye thieving little buggers.”

Henry Peybury took another step backwards. “I’m very sorry, Sir, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Thought that the Witchfinder Army wouldn’t catch up with you, eh?”

The man’s brow creased in perplexity. “The Witchfinder Army?”

With a sigh Aziraphale stood; moral obligation overriding natural embarrassment. “Mr. Shadwell, I’m sure that if you could just calm down—”

“Ach, I should ‘ave know you’d be here, ye big southern pansy,” said Shadwell, continuing to advance. “Well, I’ll tell ye this, laddie. I’m not a man teh calm down when the history of the Witchfinder Army’s being auctioned off by some southern ponce.”

“Look, this really isn’t—”

“Ye’ll shut yer trap, hellspawn, or it’ll be the finger for you.”

Aziraphale sighed, not quite sure what to do for the best. He knew that Shadwell was far too stubborn to respond to any kind of subtle angelic influence, but the full scale miracle it would probably take to halt the un-retired Witchfinder Sergeant probably wouldn’t go down too well with Gabriel.

As Shadwell drew nearer the thin woman took the microphone. “Look,” she said, “could one of you lot please restrain him so we can all carry on with the auction?”

With a deeply amused expression on his face the smug American got out of his seat and strode into the path of the oncoming Witchfinder Sergeant.

“Out of the way, boy,” Shadwell boomed.

The American gave a derisory snort.

With a roar, Shadwell charged forward and threw a surprisingly powerful punch, which the American – in an even more surprising move – caught the fist his hand before it could it could dislocate his jaw. Clearly seething, Shadwell punched with his other fist, which was again duly caught.

For a moment Shadwell appeared to consider his position: Mr. Left Jab and Mr. Right Hook had clearly failed and there was now some smirking Nancy boy (of an undoubtedly Southern persuasion) restraining both of his hands. The Witchfinder Sergeant therefore took the only option left available to him.

He used his head.

A horrible cracking sound resounded through the library, followed by a loud thud as the body hit the ground.

“Oh no,” Aziraphale groaned, banishing the broken nose and fractured skull with a wave of his arm.

Two seconds later the library door was opened once more and another very familiar figure stepped inside and gave a deep disapproving sigh.

“Oh you old silly, what have you done now. You know what Doctor Partridge said about getting into fights.”

Shadwell cringed. “Ach, not now woman, can’t yeh see I’m working.”