lt_safe_house | Open post

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Open post

Date: April 11, 2003
Status: Public - Complete
Setting: Library
Summary: Gabriel is 'working'. Feel free to drop by.

There was a light rain outside, and the pitter-patter against the window formed a steady beat to the old Middle Eastern lullaby Gabriel was humming absent-mindedly as he worked. Davidson, Davidson, Davidson... ah, there it is. Now for Nostradamus. Odd man, Nostradamus, though quite amicable.

He slid the last book into place on its shelf, and made his way back to his desk at the front of the library, picking up his copy* of Mansfield Park and flipping to his place. He pulled the bookmark out, leaned back and relaxed, burying himself in the utter impropriety of Fanny Price's relatives staging a play.

* Personal copy, autographed by Jane Austen herself and in pristine condition.

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"No," Gabriel smiled. "Michael was just being his usual self. Were you looking for a book?"

"Nothing in particular," Barnaby said, who doubted the library had pulp sci-fi, the contents of which had science soft enough it could be spread on toast. "I simply wanted to browse -- unless I would be interrupting a private conversation?"

"Not that I know of." Gabriel smiled at Aziraphale. "I'm sorry about Michael, Aziraphael, though I suppose it's a good thing if you're a little more prepared if Beelzebub decides to make his move when Michael and I aren't around."

He returned to his desk. "I'll leave you two to browse, then."

Aziraphale gave a very, very relieved sigh when Michael walked off. "It's all right," he said to Gabriel before he walked back to his desk.

"He's not... so bad," he said lamely to Barnaby, "really, he's not. Just... very, very enthusiastic. And stubborn. He means well. Really." He gave Barnaby an apologetic look. "I'm glad he didn't smite you. And, honestly, quite surprised. If you see him again, just be polite and you oughtn't get in any trouble. He's usually congenial unless you hurt his pride somehow. I would know. I got demoted for it once."

"I'm glad I wasn't smote either," he said, entirely sincerely. Barnaby picked up a book from the closest stack, thumbing through it without really looking. "I'll keep that well in mind. I suppose he's been informed of Adam Young's rules."

He glanced back at the desk. Barnaby wanted to ask how long Michael would be hanging around, but that kind of griping would be a bad idea with Gabriel here. At any rate, Barnaby had no intention of running into the former again if he could help it.

"Beelzebub still hasn't shown his hand, then?" he asked, replacing The King of Torts on the shelf.

"There is a difference between knowing and respecting, unfortunately," Aziraphale admitted, relaxing. Gabriel already knew about Aziraphale's friendship with Crowley, so he really didn't mind if he knew about Aziraphale's friendship with Barnaby. "I'll admit I'm a tad curious about who would win that fight... But far, far more dreading finding out."

Aziraphale blinked, slightly pleased Barnaby even remembered. "No, not yet. I believe he's doing the 'laying low and letting Aziraphale work himself into a panic before eating him' technique. Or whatever he's planning on doing to me. It was vague, or so I've been told." He bit his lower lip. "I don't suppose you've...?" He winced at himself. "Er. Sorry. Conflict of interest. I'll shush."

"Aha. Well, I'd suggest watching that fight from a very safe vantage point," he murmured, tapping the stack of bestsellers and new arrivals. He was calmer about Michael's arrival than he thought. Perhaps he had been too surprised by the whole business to be scared.

He looked up at Aziraphale's grimace. "I'm not exactly high enough in the social ladder to know Beelzebub's business," he said bluntly, "let alone counsel it."

"Oh, indubitably, old chap," Aziraphale agreed, following Barnaby walk around, while looking at the library's collection again. "I'm not planning on being anywhere nearby when that happens."

Aziraphale gave him an apologetic smile. "I apologise. It was rude of me to even ask. I'm simply being paranoid." He gave a wistful sigh. "Although I admit I'd rather know why he's after me, as opposed to how he's planning to kill me." He paused. "If you had a horrid grudge against me, how would you cause my demise?"

"Perhaps behind bulletproof glass," he suggested. "Or a warding circle. Both?"

Oh, what did you know, the library did have some Edgar Rice Burroughs. Barnaby had never met the man, to his annoyance, even though he had been in the States at the time. "No worries," he said, picking up The Chessmen of Mars. "Paranoia and I are bedfellows of old."

As a general rule, Barnaby didn't talk about work matters when off-duty, but he said absently, "To be honest, I'd expect him to have made a move by now, but if he's trying to stay low-key, I imagine he might be trying to lull you into a false sense of security so he could set you up for a fa—well, set you up. Easy way would be to have someone that appears harmless get into your confidence and set you at ease, and—"

He stopped suddenly, face coloured with deep embarrassment.

"But I don't know how he would think," he added quickly.

Aziraphale laughed. "A very high ledge, behind both bulletproof glass and a warding circle, and a couple of miles away. We can use a pair of binoculars. I'm sure we won't miss much."

Aziraphale merely nodded; paranoia and demons seemed to go hand-in-hand, like coffee and chocolate, or salt and eggs.

He gnawed on his lower lip at that. "I'd considered that already," he admitted. "But it simply doesn't make sense. The confederate bit, that is. Not with whom I've been associating with, anyway." Barnaby seemed to be estranged from his coworkers, after all, and Crowley seemed to have been sleeping the entire time they had been here. "I imagine he's trying to lull me, as you said. That makes sense. I merely wanted a second opinion, that's all, dear. Thank you."

He gave him a thankful smile, to hopefully assuage some of the awkwardness.

"Sounds like a plan," he agreed.

Barnaby gave an embarrassed cough, not quite sure what to do with this kind of trust. "No problem," he said. "Ours not to reason why, I suppose."

Oh, demons. They were all so cute, so long as they weren't plotting your untimely demise. "I understand," he said fondly. "You've met my superiors, after all. Just because they're not as sneaky about it doesn't mean they're not equally as unhinged."

Aziraphale wondered if Gabriel could hear him and if he would see it for the half-joke it was.

Gabriel, of course, could hear them perfectly fine; they weren't that far, the library was otherwise silent, and as an angel he had good hearing. He'd stayed silent and tried not to eavesdrop; but couldn't help it when Aziraphale mentioned his superiors.

"It takes one to know one, Aziraphael!" he called, smiling.

"They're also quite witty," Aziraphale said fondly. "Why, I believe next he'll call me glue, and himself rubber."

"And so, the heretofore-unknown latex content of ethereal entities is revealed," he said, in a murmur that was clearly intended to carry. He immediately regretted it: Aziraphale was one thing, but making digs on a high-ranking member of * was a idiotic idea, even here.

*Pronounced exactly that way, except perhaps in Gothic script.

"Come now, I doubt you smell that bad, or are as hard to get rid of. And I'm not sure I'm that flexible." Gabriel had to suppress a laugh at Barnaby's comment. "Not synthetic, I hope."

Aziraphale chuckled, appreciative of his superior's sense of humour. "Actually, humans love the smell of glue." Not to mention they used it as an inhalant, but that was neither here nor there. "I've been told I smell like old books and lavender. A particularly... sensitive man once said I smelled like he imagined Heaven smelled." Aziraphale grimaced at the memory. "And then he dropped dead of a heart attack. Knocked over Paradise Regained, ironically enough."

Gabriel blinked. "But glue smells... disgusting, to say the least. The one Ms Hodges uses, at least."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh? That's nice, though I didn't realise sniffing each other was something humans still did. And let me see; he smelt you, and then dropped dead? Oh dear."

"Parchment glue smells all right as it usually is accompanied by leather, or old paper," he said fondly. He liked the scent, when he could smell it over the dust.

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. "Gabriel dear," he said calmly, "by 'sensitive' I meant he was quite the loony. Such people tend to die young as well, especially as this particular bloke was extremely sensitive; those people will recognize I'm an angel and die of divine ecstacy. It's affirmation, after all."

"Well, the one here is..." Gabriel paused to pull the little white-and-yellow tube out of the stationery drawer in his desk, "something called UHU." He wrinkled his nose. "I agree that old paper smells nice, though." He loved old books too, loved the smell and texture and workmanship.

He remembered the type of people Aziraphael was referring to. "Ah. I thought you simply meant he was mildly psychic."

"There's superglue, which smells like a chemical factory," he offered. "And if humans didn't sniff each other, there wouldn't be a market for colognes and soaps and aromatherapy." The spark of paranoia had settled, but Barnaby knew it hadn't gone, just retreated to a corner of his mind to kick back on a sofa with a drink.

He shook the metaphor from his head. He really needed to get out more.

Meanwhile, the relations between the angels were straining just a little. The anthropomorphized paranoia sat up at this, and started listening intently. Outside of his head, Barnaby flicked through his book and only said, "Ah? I try not to run into those people. Are there many in your neck of the woods?"

"Ah, yes. Though sometimes those scents can be a little overwhelming." Gabriel remembered a party he'd been dragged to by a mortal acquaintance about a century ago; at the dinner table he'd been sandwiched between two rather... large women wearing very strong perfumes. The option of not breathing was unavailable as breath was necessary to make conversation, so he'd spent dinner sitting stiffly and trying very hard not to sneeze, wrinkle his nose, wince or do anything impolite.

"Yes," he answered. "I've always considered it both blessing and curse; it can't be very pleasant, being barraged with such knowledge."

Edited 2010-03-04 08:00 (UTC)

Aziraphale chuckled at Barnaby's question. "Dear, I live in Soho. Half of my customers are 'those people.'" Then his smile faded. "'Like attracts like,' as Crowley used to say." He sighed.

He cocked his head. "Which of them are in Soho? The mad ones or the clairvoyant ones? Not that I've seen that much difference between the two, after a while."

"Both," said Aziraphale wistfully, feeling very nostalgic. "But primarily the mad ones, and the mad ones who think they're clairvoyant. Soho is an interesting place."

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