Summary: Good Omens/X-Men: Evolution crossover. (I swear!) Pietro flirts with Crowley and has an unfortunate encounter with caffeine, while toad spit is played with. Todd/Kurt, Aziraphale/Crowley if you squint, Pietro/anything that moves. PG-13 for language and stupidity.

Warnings: Slash. It's slash. If you don't like slash, leave now. It's also stupid. Why are you here if you're looking for intelligence? Silly persons!

Author's Note: See, this is what happens when I try to write drabble. It turns into an eleven-page document. Sigh. This was another one of those middle-of-the-night ideas. I wrote it mostly for my own amusement, but reviews are nevertheless welcome. So are flames, because… they're warm! I'll store them for winter!

Disclaimers: Todd/Toad, Kurt/Nightcrawler, and Pietro/Quicksilver belong to Marvel, Warner Brothers, and probably some other blokes. Aziraphale and Crowley belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. The following freaky scenario is copyright my brain, because I am a psycho.

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Speed, Demon, Speed

In a small town in New York, there is a bookstore. Standing inside it, leaning against the end of a dusty bookshelf and idly flipping through a collection of pages billed as an erotic novel, is a black-haired man wearing sunglasses. He is slouching in the practiced manner of the professionally bored, waiting to be allowed to go home.

He sighs, puts the book back, and takes out another of the same genre. Opening it, he groans: more of the same. He wonders why people buy this stuff.

Replacing the book on its shelf, he turns his head and looks down the aisle to his right at a blond head hunched over a very thick volume. "Angel," he calls wearily, "can we go yet?"

He receives only an impatient shake of the hand in response. He rolls his eyes, and then scans the store for the paperback romance section. He has always been disappointed that he could not take credit for that invention.

Suddenly there's a kid standing in front of him. Crowley stares at him. He's got white-blond hair, swept back, and he looks very streamlined, somehow. He's grinning. People do not approach Crowley grinning. He is intrigued.

"Were you talking to me?" says the kid, still grinning.

Crowley gives him a Look. "No," he says.

"I didn't think so," says the kid. He's smirking now. Maybe it's human instincts leeching into his brain, but Crowley feels vaguely uneasy.

If you didn't think I was talking to you, why haven't you left yet? he thinks, but simply continues looking at the kid.

"Because… you know… I'm not an angel," says the kid, who is suddenly an inch from his face. "I'm a demon," he purrs.

Crowley is momentarily offended; then he realizes what's been said, and enlightenment dawns. He snorts.

"Look, kid," he says, "go away, all right? I'm far too old for you."

"Yeah? You don't look like it," says the kid, still smirking, still in Crowley's face.

"Trust me on this," says Crowley, and turns to the bookshelf.

The kid is in his face again before he's done turning around. He lifts his hand to take off Crowley's sunglasses, grinning even more widely as the demon reaches up and tries to snatch his hand. Suddenly at his ear, he says, "Speed demon," and is then at his other ear. "C'mon," he croons, "let's see your eyes…"

"You don't want to," snaps Crowley, very irritated now.

"Just said I did, didn't I? Now take 'em off, or I will." That infuriating smirk is still there, but it's combined now with the steely glint in the eyes of someone who is very used to being in control.

Crowley hisses. What he is about to do is extremely stupid, of course, but sometimes he allows himself to indulge in a bit of stupid. "Whatever you like," he murmurs, and slides the shades down to the tip of his nose, revealing yellow eyes and slit pupils.

This does not have the effect Crowley expected it would. There's no cowering, no terror—in fact, the boy doesn't appear the least bit frightened. On the contrary, his expression has changed from supreme self-satisfaction to near-orgasmic excitement. "Hey, excellent!" he whispers. "That's awesome! What else you got, man?"

"I am a demon," Crowley says warily, completely nonplussed. "I turn into a snake."

"That's cool, but I got the demon line already. It's pretty stupid to say it again," says the kid, smirking again.

"No, I'm a demon," Crowley insists. "In the literal sense. Servant of hell? Ringing any bells?"

"Whatever, man." He backs off a bit. "Wanna see what I can do?"

Without waiting for an answer, he disappears in a blur and reappears a moment later, trailed by fading afterimages. He's wearing a different shirt now. This fact registers dully in Crowley's brain, followed by the thought: He looks horrible in blue.

"Five miles," the kid says, grinning. "Some tricky maneuvering in the house, too. What do you think?" He makes a shrugging gesture with one arm, turning around a bit.

Just then someone hisses from the aisle the boy emerged from, "Pietro! What the hell do you think you're doing, you dumbass?"

The kid scowls and moves towards the voice before Crowley has fully realized anything's been said. A whispered argument ensues. Crowley takes this welcome break to glance down the other aisle at Aziraphale. He's covering his mouth with his hand, but Crowley can see that he's vibrating with silent mirth.

"You could help me, you know," he hisses.

"But that wouldn't be nearly as entertaining, now, would it?" replies Aziraphale in a choppy whisper.

"You are an evil bastard, do you know that?"

The angel ignores him, so Crowley turns his attention to the argument on the other side of the bookshelf.

"—don't care, yo, it's stupid! Can't you keep your feet still for ten minutes? Someone saw you, it'd be your ass on a platter!"

"I don't care, I'm bored! If I have to hang around with you in this moldy bookshop, I can at least do something useful with my time!"

"And what's that, man, getting a quickie?"

There is the sound of hand meeting cheek, several times in rapid succession.

"Ow! The hell is wrong with you, man?"

"Not that it's your business, slimy, but he happens to have powers!"

"Right, yeah, and you picked up on that from over here. You think I buy that? It don't matter anyway, you still showed yourself, fool! Shit, keep a low profile, man!"

"You can't tell me what to do, Toad, because you are at the bottom of our little totem pole. I'm at the top. So you just finish up what you're doing here so I can leave. Or maybe I'll leave anyway."

"I told you not to come with me! Do I look like I need a fuckin' babysitter, yo? I told you—Hey! Get back here! Dammit, Pietro!"

The kid is standing in front of Crowley again. Glancing over his shoulder at Aziraphale, he resigns himself to the fact that he won't be getting any help from that quarter. He pushes his sunglasses back up his nose so that they conceal his eyes, just in case, and says, "Pietro, is it?"

"That's right."

"Who's your friend?"

"Who? Oh—nobody." Pietro gives a careless shrug. "Nobody you'd care about." He grins. "So what do you think?"

"Quite impressive," Crowley admits grudgingly.

"Want to get some coffee?" Pietro asks suddenly.

The demon raises an eyebrow. "I was under the impression that you were after something different."

"Well, you're more interesting than you look."

"Thank you," says Crowley sourly.

"Besides," Pietro continues, ignoring this, "when I've got some caffeine in my system, things can get really—" Suddenly he's an inch from Crowley's face; that grin from close-to is really terrifying. "—exciting."

"Er," says Crowley, trying to back into the bookshelf.

"Be right back!" the kid chirps, and there's a moment of blessed silence as he zips off in a blur. Crowley can hear muffled snorting noises coming from Aziraphale's direction.

"Stupid angel," he mutters. Then he freezes and forgets to breathe as he smells something all too familiar: brimstone. "No," he whispers, "no, they couldn't have found me here…"

Finding himself still whole and on Earth after a moment, he becomes aware of a very quiet conversation going on behind him.

"Hey, fuzzy."

"Hi…"

"Um, what's up, yo?"

"Not… not a lot. Did you… Is anyone else here?"

"Well, Pietro followed me here—"

"What?"

"Chill, dawg, lemme finish! He went somewhere. He wasn't payin' attention to me anyway. Even if he comes back, he's gonna be—" a snigger "—otherwise occupied."

"Wh—? Oh. Okay. Um..."

There is an awkward pause. Then:

"Fuck it."

"Ja."

And a busy silence.

A blur, and Pietro is back. "Sorry for the wait, I got a bit lost," he says, handing Crowley a hot cup and keeping his hand on it just longer than is strictly necessary.

There is a muffled "Shit" from the aisle behind Crowley, then a "Forget it", a moan, and the thud of a book falling to the floor. Pietro doesn't notice; he downs his own cup in one gulp and tosses it somewhere near a trash can.

Crowley stares at his coffee suspiciously. He's never been very taken with the idea of stimulants. He raises it to his lips and swallows some very fine red wine. "Cheers," he says, nodding slightly.

Pietro quirks an eyebrow. Then he looks at his hand blankly. "Where's my coffee? Huh? You seen it?" he demands.

Crowley stares at him. "You… er… already drank it," he ventures.

"I did?" Pietro scowls. "Oh, shit." He begins vibrating, very slightly, so that he blurs around the edges.

At a loss, Crowley drinks some more wine.

Somewhere within the blur that is Pietro, a brilliant whiteness appears. It's probably another grin, although it could be a grimace. "Hey let's get outta here man let's go!" he says without pausing once.

"No, I'm quite enjoying this coffee, thank you," Crowley says calmly, sipping his wine.

"Naw man let's go there's better stuff to do!" He's in Crowley's face again. "Like you! Let's go come on let's go!"

Crowley raises his eyebrows. "You probably shouldn't have had that coffee, huh?" He's comforted when he realizes that he's enjoying this.

Pietro moans. "Come on man let's go I made my bed today and everything let's go!" he whines, grabbing the demon's arm and vibrating faster.

Crowley sticks out his tongue. This doesn't seem to calm the kid down, for some reason. He waves it about for a moment, on a whim. This doesn't help either; Pietro just moans again and tries to latch onto his ear. He retracts his tongue and says over his shoulder, "Angel, could you come here, please?"

Aziraphale appears at his shoulder immediately, obviously having listened to the entire proceedings. There is a not-entirely-concealed smile on his face. "Yes, my dear?"

"This person seems to want something," the demon says. "Do you think you could figure out what it is?"

Aziraphale gives him a Look. It's quite frightening. "Oh, honestly, Crowley," he says, and taps Pietro on the shoulder.

Pietro looks to see a suspiciously friendly man smiling warmly at him. "Whaddayou want?" he slurs.

"Do you need any help?" Aziraphale asks kindly. "You're vibrating, you see. That's not normal, is it?"

"I'm fine get lost damn coffee just need to get home bang this guy!"

Crowley winces.

"I don't think that would be a good idea, my dear," says Aziraphale calmly. "He really is a demon, you know. As far as we know."

"Who cares who are you anyway who cares?"

"Well, I would most likely care," the angel replies pleasantly. "I'm an angel, you see."

"As far as we know," Crowley adds nastily.

"So you don't give a damn about him do you you're on opposite sides now get lost I told you!" Pietro tugs on Crowley's arm again.

Aziraphale shakes his head sadly. "That's what I really dislike about Americans," he says to the world in general. "No sense of nuance. No gray areas."

"Think so?" says Crowley, who is still listening with half an ear to the muffled noises in the aisle behind him.

"I'm really going to have to ask you to let go now," says Aziraphale to Pietro.

Crowley blinks, and Pietro has let go of his arm and is in the angel's face. "This is none of your business you fag now get lost before I kick your ass to Africa!" he hisses.

Aziraphale looks past Pietro's nose at Crowley. His look says: Perhaps we should remove the caffeine from his system, what do you think?

Crowley looks back at him, thinking, Yes, we could, but that wouldn't be much fun, would it?

He takes hold of the finger that is currently vibrating in the angel's face and shakes the hand attached to it. "Speaking of fags," he says, "are those two yours? They look like they might need some soon."

Pietro looks around wildly, head practically revolving on his neck. He zips to the end of the aisle that Crowley is indicating and stares at two figures that are very much wrapped around each other. Various noises escape them as tongue and tail writhe about excitedly. There's a sizzling noise, and one of them turns blue. He doesn't appear to notice, or else doesn't care, and continues nibbling on the other boy's lip.

Pietro gives a little shriek, attempts to turn around, trips over his feet, and speeds out of the store. The magazine stand by the door collapses in the wind as he goes past.

"Determined fellow," says Aziraphale lightly. He walks over to stand next to Crowley, brushing some imaginary dust off his shoulder.

"At least he's gone," Crowley says fervently. "Egomaniacal little twit."

"He is most likely going to run into a marvellous person on the way home and find true love," the angel says.

Crowley looks at him.

"Or get run over by a truck," Aziraphale adds. "I feel the world would be a better place either way."

Crowley snorts.

Aziraphale is studying the boys down the aisle, who are still clamped together, with academic interest. "That one," he says, pointing, "the one that's not blue. He's got talent with that tongue."

Crowley scowls. "Yeah?"

The angel gives him another Look. "You know that's not what I meant, my dear."

Crowley shrugs. "Did you ever find the book you wanted?"

"No."

"No?"

"It wasn't in. Let's try somewhere else, shall we?"

"But—" Crowley begins, and then throws his hands up in the air, acknowledging defeat. He follows the angel out of the store.

After a moment, there is a soft noise and the smell of brimstone, and the bookstore is empty again.