Daegaer wrote,

Title:  Shiny Unhappy Demons
Author:  Daegaer
Author’s notes:  Blame Ekaterinn, she gave me a bad idea...  This is
fluff.  Pure fluff. 
Disclaimer:  Not my characters.  I’d have treated them better if they
were.  No copyright infringement intended.

Shiny Unhappy Demons

It was a beautiful summer evening, Aziraphale thought.  Warm and
sunny, and exactly the kind of day people liked to be out and about
in the open air.  No one had tried to enter his shop all day, and his
precious books were still safely his.  He’d spent the day meandering
around, reading a page here and there, half listening to the radio in
the background, which was telling him about the massive anti-
globalisation protests.  He rather felt he approved.  He didn’t think
much of most human political systems, and thought that capitalism was
pretty much another name for gouging thy neighbor.  Admittedly he
owned a shop, but it wasn’t as if he was making any money out of
it.  He hoped the protestors had had a nice day, and hadn’t been baton
charged too many times.  The radio informed him that some protestors
had defaced public monuments, pouring paint over them, and generally
not being respectful of England’s great imperial past.

“Good.  They’re dreadful things,” he muttered.

He peered out the window fretfully.  Crowley had phoned him to say he
was coming right over, there was something really urgent.  There
always was with Crowley.  Some girls dressed in fairy costumes and
carrying battered placards twirled past the window, one of them
blowing him a kiss.  He smiled.  He liked protestors.  Well, not all of
them.  He wasn’t at all sorry he’d made those BNF people trip up in
front of the cameras.  More people were going past the shop now,
singing rude songs about the government and larking around.  Just
then, a loud car horn blew and Crowley shot down the street narrowly
missing a small child, and screeched to a halt in front of the shop. 
Aziraphale watched in horrified fascination as Crowley hopped out of
the car in front of a surprised group.  The protestors stared at
Crowley’s expensive suit, at the pinging vintage car, and at the
emphatic and graphic hand gesture Crowley was using to make clear his
feelings on people who blocked his way.  There was a moment of
stillness, and then one of the protestors flung the gloopy black contents of the bucket he’d been holding over Crowley and the Bentley.  The fairy-girl who’d blown Aziraphale a kiss twirled back into view, upending a box over Crowley’s head.  Glittery silver stars settled all over him.

There was silence.  Crowley looked down at himself.  Crowley looked at his car.  Aziraphale realized he had less than three seconds before body parts started flying, and rushed out the door.

“Excuse me!  Excuse me!” he cried, pushing rudely between the onlookers as Crowley made a sound that would have been more at home coming from a really large and angry sabre-toothed tiger’s throat.  Aziraphale grabbed his arm and towed him through the laughing crowd and into the shop, slamming the door behind them.

“If you damage my shop I’ll be really annoyed!” he said, as things around Crowley began to shake.

Crowley glared at him.  His hair was plastered down with shiny black paint, his suit was ruined, and the glittery stars were everywhere.  Aziraphale wondered how he could see through the sunglasses.  Carefully and deliberately Crowley took a breath.

“I’m covered in paint,” he said.

“Er, yes.”

“I’m covered in black gloss paint and sparkles.”

“So I see.”

“My car is covered in black gloss paint, and no doubt is not entirely sparkle free.  Why am I not outside killing people, Aziraphale?”

“Behave.  I’ll put the kettle on and you can calm down.  Don’t touch anything.”

He was back as quick as he could, mugs of tea steaming.  Crowley made a gesture.  He was still covered in paint.  His shoulders sagged.

“Are you trying to tidy yourself up?”  Aziraphale asked.  “Maybe it’s holy paint.”

Crowley gave him one of Crowley’s patented looks.

“My fingers are stuck together,” he said venomously, making a larger, angrier gesture.  The paint vanished, although a few sparkles still lurked in his hair.  Outside, the Bentley gleamed again.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale said mischievously, “Pity.  It suited you.”

“Shut up.”

Aziraphale gave him a smile and passed the tea over.  Crowley looked at the mug, which had suddenly become black and was decorated with silver stars.

“Shut.  Up.”

Aziraphale smiled.  Yes, he thought, a beautiful summer evening.