Chapter Text
Crowley couldn’t help complaining as he helped Aziraphale carry in another box of books. “Now where do you think you have room for this lot?” he asked, putting down a box on top of the previous box.
“Oh, this was such an exciting haul at the auction, so many first editions, many I’ve never read. There’s enough here to keep me busy all winter. I’ll find room!” Aziraphale said, carefully opening one, barely containing his excitement.
“But why the furniture too? I mean, where do you think you’ll have room for this giant mirror?” Crowley said, huffing to move it to make room for more boxes. It had barely all fit in the Bentley.
“I’ll make some wall space for it. It just seemed so unique, it almost called to me. I couldn’t resist it! I think it looks rather elegant.”
“Where did this all come from again?”
“The old man at the Burgess estate died. It’s said he dealt in the occult. I try to grab those up when I can, for safe keeping,” Aziraphale said, admiring another book before putting it away.
“Careful, Angel. We’ve both gone through enough curses in our long lives here. We just had that crossover curse at your bookstore, that made all the stories change.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. The only thing I felt a hint of power from was the mirror, and I plan to examine it carefully before deciding what needs done with it.”
Crowley looked at it and frowned. “Just use caution, especially with mirrors. Remember Inanna in Gilgamesh? Or Hades and Persephone? Or Narcissus and Echo? We’ve had front row seats for some of those stories, and they didn’t turn out well.”
“Indeed. Yes, my dear, I will use every caution,” he said, but somehow couldn’t turn away from the mirror to tell Crowley that as he did.
“Right,” Crowley responded, concern creeping into his voice.
Finally Aziraphale turned away from the mirror and continued to busy himself around the shop to find room for all his new acquisitions. Crowley sighed, and took some of the boxes to the back.
“Crowley, I hate to ask, but have you been shedding?” Aziraphale asked, plucking a few hairs from atop a book.
“Wot?” Crowley asked from the next room.
“I say, have you been shedding? I keep finding tufts of red hair around the bookstore.”
Crowley came around the corner, with an incredulous look on his face. “I doubt it. Every hair stays miracled right where I tell it to be. My hair, like my plants, knows better than to disobey me.”
“I’m inclined to believe you, since these hairs look much smaller than yours, now that I’m getting a better look. I’ve been seeing them all week. So keep an eye out for any miniature clones of yours while we’re cleaning up, would you?”
“Indeed I shall. And I hate to ask also, Angel, but maybe related, have you been drinking?”
Aziraphale scoffed. “Only what I’ve had with you, last night after dinner. Why?”
“Because I keep noticing more and more bottles empty. Come look.” Crowley walked Aziraphale over to the liquor cabinet.
“Oh, my,” Aziraphale said with a gasp, seeing many of his bottles still in the cabinet, but empty. “No, this was definitely not me. Some of those bottles I had been saving for a special occasion, too.”
“Right. So we’ll keep our eyes out for any small pixies with red hair and a drinking problem, then.”
“Very funny,” Aziraphale said with a sigh. “Or any demons with disobedient hair and a tendency to forget what he’s drinking.”
“Oi! Not me, Angel. I have my own stash.”
“Ok then, have you checked that one too?”
Crowley’s eyebrow arched, and he moved to the back room, where he kept a few spare bottles. Aziraphale waited for him, arms crossed.
He could hear Crowley rummaging a bit, before exclaiming “Bloody pixies! Stealing my scotch!”
“Crowley, there are no pixies!”
Crowley peeked his head out at him. “Would you like to bet on that?” He held up a bottle, nearly empty, with a small blue man inside, happily asleep.
“What in creation…?” Aziraphale moved to examine it closer.
The man was barely six inches tall, with blue skin and intricate tattoos, red hair, and a tartan kilt.
Aziraphale inhaled sharply. “Oh, no. No, no, no. I think I’ve read on this. If it’s what I think it is, we might be in a spot of trouble.”
“How much trouble could he be?” Crowley said, holding the glass closer. “He looks kinda cute.”
“Whatever you do, don’t tell him that to his face,” Aziraphale warned. “And don’t disturb that bottle. I would just carefully put it down.”
“D’ye think he grants wishes?” Crowley asked, looking closer. “Little blue man in a bottle, n’all. Like a fairy tale?”
Aziraphale barely heard what Crowley said, as he rummaged through his books. “I think there might still be some residual effects from my bookstore curse, Crowley,” he said, flipping through a few pages.
“Wot, like stories crossing over again?”
“Indeed. I’ve read on this one – and ah, yes, here it is. Small, blue men, with a passion for drinking, fighting, and stealing. The Nac Mac Feegle!” Aziraphale pointed to a page in the book and showed Crowley.
“Crivens!” they heard from several small voices nearby. “They ha’ spotted us, ye ken!”
Crowley looked down at the bottle, and saw a very angry small man inside, now awake, and quickly breaking out of the bottle, scurrying up his arm.
Within moments, it was a full brawl. Little blue men fighting that seemed to come from everywhere. The one crawling up Crowley’s arm punched him hard in the nose, and as he stumbled backward several more were climbing up his trousers. Aziraphale moved to help and found himself face to face with the rest, who launched themselves at him from the bookshelf.
Each punch and kick wasn’t necessarily damaging to their corporations, but it did hurt, and was relentless. Aziraphale did his best to push and flick them off but they kept coming, and chanting “The Wee Free Men! Nae king! Nae quin! Nae laird! Nae master! We willna’ be fooled again!”
Aziraphale couldn’t help but stress for the poor books being knocked around, seeing them in helpless piles around the store. He stole a glance to see how Crowley was fairing. Crowley was circling with fists out against just one of the Feegles, stacked on top of several others. Despite the size difference, just the one was nearly an even match for Crowley, meeting him swing for swing in an absurd boxing match, as the others cheered and chanted from below.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried out. “Wings!”
Crowley looked at the angel, and understood. In a moment they both called out their wings from the next plane, and knocked aside several books, and several Nac Mac Feegles as they did so.
“Ack, crivens!” the Feegles cried. “Oh, wailey, wailey! We’ve done it now, ye ken! The Bigjobs are demons, here tae take us back tae the Last World.”
“Well, technically, only one of us is a demon," said Aziraphale. "I’m an angel.”
“It makes nae difference for us, ye ken. Ye’re all the same tae us. All the same, ye’ve got our attention,” the one closest to Aziraphale said, crossing his arms.
Aziraphale looked around, and saw several Feegles all crossing their arms up at him. The angel asked, “Is that all of you? I only count seven.”
“Ack, aye, tha’s all we need fur a proper brawl,” the one circling against Crowley said.
“I could have sworn there was more,” Aziraphale said, unsettled. It had felt like hundreds of small blue men attacking during the fight. He couldn’t believe it was only 3 or 4 against each of them.
“Aye, this is all. Weel? Whut are yer terms, Bigjob?”
As Aziraphale stammered, Crowley decided to jump in. “Aye, ye’ve passed our test! Brave warriors, all. With a fine taste in licker, ta boot. Whut are yer names?”
“Ah’m Fiesty Jack, the Big Man o’ the Lancre Clan. This here’s Wee Dan, behind him is Not as Wee Dan, over there is Big but Shy Dan, an’ of course we have Stan the Gonnagle, Rednose John, and Snoozy Boozy Jack,” the last of whom nodded at Crowley, who was the one who had been asleep in the bottle and hit him square in the nose.
“Very weel. I’m Demon Bigjob Crowley, an’ this is Aziraphale the Angel Bigjob,” he said, gesturing to the angel with a flourish.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale could not help but ask, “You speak Feegle?”
“Let’s just say it’s a dialect I can decipher, from years of drinking in Edinburgh. I may not have met the Feegles formally, but they are a legend I know well,” Crowley reassured him with a smile.
The Feegles seem pleased at the compliment. “Ack, weel, ye seem half-Feegle yerself,” Fiesty Jack said, sizing him up.
“Ah may weel be,” Crowley replied. “A demon with an appreciation for drinking and some mild disarray. We could have some fun together,” he said with a grin.
Aziraphale realized that Crowley was not using demonic temptation as he said it. He didn’t need to.
“We could indeed.” Fiesty Jack returned his grin.
“Weel, let us start by replacing the licker ye stole,” Crowley said.
Of the seven, only Big but Shy Dan looked ashamed. “Oh, weel, we canna’ return that, ye ken, on account that we drank it all.”
“An’ that is why we’ll go out an’ get more,” Crowley said.
It’s Aziraphale’s turn to look worried. “Are you quite sure about that, Crowley? You’ve seen what they can do?”
“Yes, and it’s no more than what’s expected of me from down below. I think it means I can drink and they can do my job for me, while we all have a bit of harmless fun, and restock your liquor shelves. Right, lads?”
“Aye!” they shouted in unison.
“Well let me grab my coat, then,” Crowley said with a grin. “Care to join us, Angel?”
Aziraphale appreciated the invite, but shook his head an emphatic no. “I still have so much to organize here. Go and have some fun and we’ll catch up when you’re back.” He hesitated. “Would all of you prefer if I made up seven little beds for you when you return?”
“Ack, nae,” replied Fiesty Jack the Big Man o’ the Lancre Clan. “We’ve made ourselves a’ home already, fur weeks. Nae need tae go tae any trouble on our account.”
Aziraphale quickly did the math, worried on what other things may have been stolen or broken in that time, and looked around at the mess he had to still clean up from the brawl. “Quite.”