lead us not into temptation

It had been the day from hell. Methos had woken up to find that it was raining, he'd slept through his alarm, his internet connection was down, and the last bottle of beer had fallen over and broken in his refrigerator. He had to make a mad dash for class, arrived ten minutes late, and spent the entire lecture suffering under the glare of Professor Caldwell, a man who could have given Duncan MacLeod lessons in 'dour'.

After class his cell phone didn't work, and the computer in the University library presented a blank screen and spat sparks at him when he tried to fix it. The librarian evicted him with a glare that rivaled Caldwell's, and, feeling thoroughly routed, Methos decided that the best place to be was his flat -- but when he got there, the electricity had gone out. That was the last straw. Methos let out a string of curses that should by rights have peeled the paint from the walls, and headed out for the bar.

The well-dressed, smirking figure seated at his favourite table was utterly familiar, though the Saville Row suit and designer shades were new; the last time Methos had seen him, they'd both been in Elizabethan finery and his tormentor had been wearing a hat with a very wide brim.

"You," Methos growled, irritation surging to the fore. "I should have known. Even my luck's not that bad."

Crowley grinned. Methos folded his arms over his chest.

"Explain to me why I shouldn't just shoot you right now."

"If you do, I won't get the chance to make it up to you," Crowley said, with a suggestiveness that left little room for interpretation, and a quirk of his mouth that was as much invitation as it was smile. He made an apologetic gesture with his left hand; Methos found himself suddenly dry, warm, and holding a microbrew that wasn't actually available in the States. There were, he thought, some advantages to being friendly with demons. Another glance at Crowley, who was lounging back in his chair like temptation personified, was enough to convince Methos to let himself be coaxed back out of his bad mood. The things that Crowley could do with his tongue outweighed all sorts of minor inconveniences.

notes: written for a prompt from goldenrat84. (methos, crowley)