Rasputin eng

Rasputin

Disclaimer: For Terry, because Neil... Neil. What the hell, Neil?

Crowley, with long red hair styled in elaborate curls, wearing a black dress with a long skirt and large shoulder pads, and a fur coat so oversized it looks like an Ikea rug, discreetly takes a swig of vodka because she's bloody freezing in the damn December of nineteen sixteen, in Russia, tucked away in a corner of the ballroom of Tsar Nicholas II's palace while discreetly scanning for her target once again.

Honestly, she's fed up with hell; waking her up after a century for this crap... Maybe we could search for the target a bit closer to the fireplace. And how about we crank up the fire a bit, damn it? The flames reflect in her sunglasses as if she just poured half a litre of gasoline on them.

Let's see... she pulls out the photo they've given her again. Who the hell gets these eerie, cool photos taken in the dark in a gloomy room with black walls and dark curtains, no candles, everyone dressed in black, and at bloody midnight?

She holds it closer to the fire and lowers her sunglasses a bit to see it because they might not be helping much... a man with long hair, long beard, and huge moustaches. Basically, you are looking for hair, Crowley.

Hair... hair, hair, hair, hair... this would be easier if she could move more freely around the room. Ugh. Besides, she wants to finish already and go back to London where at least it only rains, and it's not thirteen thousand degrees below zero. Maybe near where the food is?

With a discreet little white beard, dressed in a white suit with a fur cape over it, a glass in hand, and nibbling on the tenth of these delicious caviar sandwiches, Aziraphale is watching from the other side of the room, trying to blend in and failing quite miserably as always.

Heaven's photo is quite different and perfect, taken in daylight and in colour. What's more, he looks a bit young, even handsome. And Aziraphale doesn't think ANYONE here looks like that. He only sees someone mysterious and somewhat hairy near the tsar, who definitely isn't the man from his photo.

Crowley approaches the buffet with a few hops because her cute little boots with heels are very nice but not as furry and thick as SOMEONE SHOULD'VE WARNED HER THEY SHOULD BE. Spinning around herself and clumsily dodging obstacles, she accidentally bumps into Aziraphale with her rear.

"Ohhh..."

"Ugh, watch where you're... " the demon begins in Russian, turning around, but her sentence cuts short as she realizes who it is.

Aziraphale blinks because that voice and tone...

"Y-You..." she blinks about twenty-six times, recognizing him instantly.

"C-Crowley?" Aziraphale tilts his head.

"Shhh!" she protests, putting a finger to her lips when he says her name because she's supposed to be incognito. "What are you doing here?"

"W-Well, I have a mission. What are you doing here?!"

"I... also have a mission. Why are we both freezing our asses off here instead of using the agreement?"

"Because you... Weren't you in hell?" or in other words: You left for good and abandoned me like a dog in the rain about a thousand years ago. Drama, drama, drama.

"Ugh. What? No, damn it," she squints. "I was sleeping."

"You still shouldn't be talking to me, I have something very delicate on my hands," the angel responds, rolling his eyes because what a crappy excuse is "I was sleeping" as if we're talking about a couple of days ago and not a whole century.

"Apparently nothing lasts forever..." she sighs, dramatizing it as well, and then turns to him sarcastically. "Oh. Do YOU have something very delicate on your hands?"