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The Terrible Novelty
by afrai

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"Books and swords," said Methos. He smiled. "A man after my own heart."

He was standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets, admiring the shelves. He looked more comfortable here than he ever had on a pale horse with woad on his face, Aziraphale thought tenderly. Wretched life, pillaging and raping. It was a good job the dear boy had realised that.

"I'm not a man, you know," Aziraphale observed mildly. "And it's only the one sword."

Methos regarded it with lively interest, but made no move to touch it.

"Would that be the famous sword," he said, "'which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life'?"

"I remember the verse," said Aziraphale. "No, I gave that one away."

Methos made a "hmm"-ing noise.

"Never give your sword away unless you want your throat slit with it," he said, but it was half-hearted. "Did you regret it?"

"Have you ever regretted giving your swords away?" said Aziraphale.

"I never gave my swords away," said Methos grandly. Then, "Yes."

"Another difference between us," said Aziraphale, and his smile was sweet. "Thwarting works much better without, I find. Have a cup of tea."

Methos sat down, sinking into a sprawl.

"Tea and good works," he murmured in a tone of incredulity, but Aziraphale ignored him.

"You can have it if you want," said Aziraphale. "I haven't used it since the fourteenth century anyway, and then only because Crowley was bored and looking for a fight."

"You don't even have a throat to slit," said Methos grumpily. Aziraphale leant over and patted his hand.

"Relax, dear boy," said Aziraphale. "Is it really so bad to be the one being patronised for once?"

"Yes," said Methos.

"Oh, well," said Aziraphale. "You'll get used to it."

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