Well, erm....here I am again. Back so soon with what will hopefully
be a tentative sequel to "Earthly Possessions". I'm still thinking
this story through but I thought I'd post the first part to
gauge...well, reader interest.

So, here it is. Please let me know what you guys think.
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Title: Replay
Author: Jane
Timeline: Set after Fic Earthly Possessions
Archive: Sure, just ask.

Feedback: YES. Oh, yes, PLEASE! Here or send to:
omenesque2001@y... I am desperate for feedback, always.

Disclaimer: I don't own anyone here other than possibly my version of
God. All obvious characters belong to Gneil and Pterry. The Metatron
might be more Kevin Smith Dogma-esque, than theirs, though.

Summary: Getting back on your feet after being dead is not as easy as
it looks.
Warnings: So far I can only think of angst. May change as parts go by.

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"Hmmmm....."

"I always get a bit antsy when you say that, y'know," grimaced the Metatron.

"I'm thinking."

"Oh, right. Nice to know our Omnipotent Almighty needs to take a step back and ponder. It's just a decoy so that people won't think you actually *know* everything..."

"Metatron." That was a friendly warning. The seraphim had no doubt that the next warning would not be so friendly. He shut himself up and waited as God pondered. Finally, God spoke. "Something...something is not quite right."

+++++++++++++++++

Of all the things on Earth Crowley was proud of, the home shopping network ranked high on his list of top ten. It wasn't the eye-catching spectacle the Spanish Inquisition had been but it was a subtle piece of work, which the demon took great satisfaction in. A channel completely devoted to having insipidly annoying salespersons peddling utter rubbish. It would result in people turning the channel in utter irritation or someone purchasing a sinfully ugly ceramic swan motif tea set. All in all, it was a damn good idea if Crowley said so himself.

Draped over his leather recliner, the demon watched as a disturbingly chubby doll went up for sale at a 160 pounds. Outside his flat, London was having a rare sunny day. And while days like this required Crowley to be extra diligent in speading some misery, the idea of going out into the bright light did not appeal to him. At all.

Looking down slightly from the TV, the demon saw a bright red digital 9 stare back up at him from the answerphone that was sitting by his chair. He had listened to the messages, all from the same person, all adding up to one message, last week. Waving a hand, he erased them. He hadn't spoken to Aziraphale in awhile. His general feelings concerning the angel was now more or less wrapped up in a blanket of other moods that seemed to be plaguing him.

*Give yourself a break* commented a voice in his head. *You did come back from non-existance.*

That was true. Thanks to Aziraphale, who had somehow scored the unthinkable bargain with his peers and had managed to save him from being the latest demonic victim at the hands of Holy Water. And he was quite grateful and thrilled to be alive. For the most part. Yes, for the most part.

Reaching down past the recliner's arm, Crowley picked up the black/silver phone that had been resting against chair and dialed Aziraphale's bookshop. It rang eight times before the familiar click of an answerphone went off and Crowley's own voice spoke to him. Aziraphale had never been able to bring himself to leaving a rude, uninviting message on his machine and had ended up asking Crowley to leave him a few varying tapes he could use. The demon had been more than happy to supply.

"Hello, you've reached Slap & Tickle. For Bondage Betty, please press one. For No-Nonsense Nina, please press two. For Wrestling Wanda, please press three. For all other Sirens of S&M mastery, please leave a message after the tone."

*beep*

"Aziraphale, pick up," commanded Crowley. He waited a few seconds as silence greeted him. "Did you even listen to half of these tapes I left you before you popped one in? Or have you developed some sort of new fetish I'm unaware of?"

There was a brief sound like a small clack and the sound of Aziraphale's slightly winded tone. "Hello? Crowley?"

"How'd you guess?"

"It is you. Usually your away messages are good enough to send anyone else away," replied the angel.

"Really?" Crowley would have thought the bondage one might attract more customers to the bookshop. He would have to work on a few more tapes to give Aziraphale.

"I'm glad you called. Did you get my messages?" asked the angel.

"Yeah. All nine parts."

"It's quite difficult to leave an appropriate message on that machine of yours. It kept cutting me off."

"That's the point."

"Oh."

"So, what are you doing?"

"I was upstairs, getting ready to go out. You really should enjoy the day, Crowley, it's beautiful."

"No thanks. It's too bright."

"You wear sunglasses," pointed out the angel.

"It's too bright," repeated Crowley with the same tone one might address a slightly deaf or mentally challenged child.

"Shouldn't you be out there ruining some people's day or something?" inquired the slightly teasing voice.

"Is that a challenge?" asked the demon, flippantly.

"Well, if a little *sunlight* stops you..."

"Nnnghh." Crowley added a noncommital shrug that the angel obviously couldn't see. His eyes wandered back to his TV where now a miniature pram was being sold with stuffed ducks made out of silk. "Going back to my earlier question, did you listen to any of my away messages that I gave you?"

"I listened to a few," admitted Aziraphale. "I just rotate the rest every week, though. I'm sure they're quite effective."

It was obvious to Crowley that Aziraphale had obviously not listened to the third tape he had left him. The angel would most likely have flown over to give him back all the tapes, if he had burnt them first in a moment of angelic indignation.

"Come out to lunch at least," invited Aziraphale. "We haven't had lunch in awhile."

Crowley thought about it for a moment. It dawned on him that he wasn't even sure what day of the week it was. When had time gotten so elusive? He made a mental note to look into that when he could bring himself up to care. "Crowley? Crowley?" called a persistant voice from the other line.

*Oh. Right. Lunch.*

"I think I'll take a raincheck," replied the demon.

"Oh. Alright, then. When'll I get to see you?"

Crowley gave another shrug that the angel obviously couldn't see. "I'm always around. You know that," he answered, feeling rather tired of talking. "Sorry. I'll catch you later," he added before letting the phone drop from his hand and land neatly back on his cradle.

On the TV, a Dr. Who design china plate set was being sold. Crowley could easily feel several people in all parts of London go into a blacker mood by a fraction, despite the weather. He, himself, felt strangely discontented with the effect.

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As usual, FEEDBACK will bring about me writing more and answering the question as to why Crowley has morphed into a couch potato.