Chapter 1: First Day on the Job
Summary:
Aziraphale is feeling aimless in heaven. He ruminates on the kiss and starts to doubt his place in the grand scheme of things.
Chapter Text
Aziraphale's first day back in heaven hadn't gone as smoothly as he'd hoped. He was given an office to plan and execute his heavenly duties. What those heavenly duties were, however, remained a matter of speculation. And he did much speculating indeed. All the upper offices were the same; stark white chambers with a sprawling vastness that left him feeling rather small and alone. Very small, in fact, and so very alone.
When he first arrived he had expected quite the show of pomp and circumstance. Maybe even a trumpet or two for good measure. Instead, the Metatron excused himself no sooner than they had stepped off the elevator. Aziraphale was handed a beautiful gold pen, which the Metatron had casually pulled from his coat pocket, and he was led off to his new work space. This pen sat neatly on a pristine desk before him now. It must be important, he told himself. And all this resulted in Aziraphale feeling much like an intern on his first day. It had been many days since his arrival, and that feeling endured.
Now and then, someone would show up with some file folders and a look of importance and determination. He would perk up, thinking that finally some work was about to begin. They would introduce themselves, explain their business (so far there had been requests to paint a room on floor 6 a slightly more off-white white, demands for more leniency with regards to sockwear, and demands for stricter dress codes with regards to sockwear), and the files would be left on his desk for him to mull over and sign.
He was, for the most part, left alone at his desk with the odd file folder to keep him company. There was no music to occupy his mind. There were no items to draw his gaze upon while his thoughts wandered. There was no smell of paper and leather and wood. There was very little colour or texture or taste to this place at all. His senses were experiencing a sort of solitary confinement, and it made him feel weirdly itchy.
More often than not, his thoughts drifted to the kiss. 'The Kiss'. It took up space in his head like it was an entire thing of it's own. He knew very well about such things, he had read many novels where the principle characters would engage in such activities, and he saw the humans around him doing the same. But it was never so sad. It was never filled with such desperation and grief. And he wondered where Crowley was and what he was doing and if he was OK. And he wondered what he himself was doing sitting at this desk instead of at the bookshop with Crowley.
The apocalypse, he reminded himself. It's probably more important than a kiss.
Aziraphale's patience was wearing thin. He had sacrificed so much to be here. His devotion to the greater good, or what he believed to be the greater good (and there were few souls between Heaven and Hell with a better gauge for it), had gotten him into some proper trouble over the years. And like most beings with a conscience that gleamed with such heavenly grace as his (which we can say for certain were very few souls indeed), he constantly wrestled with feelings of doubt about having made the correct choice or not. As of late he began to wonder if there even was a correct choice at all. And all this fretful worry grew inside him, with very few distractions to ease his mind.
An unfortunate soul, who just so happened to be walking past his office at this particular moment, was about to be on the receiving end of his frustrations.
"Excuse me! Hello?"
"Mmm?" A petite and rather mouse-like lady turned to face him. She had a delicate frame, with ash brown hair and a very warm smile.
"Hello! I'm terribly sorry but could you please direct me towards the Metatron? I had come in with him some time ago but have yet to be briefed."
"Ah yes, Aziraphale. I'm Astrid, your new assistant!" Astrid offered her hand with a grin that was practically emanating with angelic force.
"Oh. Well yes, hello, very nice to meet you. I'm overdue for a meeting with the Metatron. It is of vital importance that I speak with him immediately."
"Oh yes, most certainly. As I understand, some major changes are being made in upper management. I hear you're the new archangel! How glorious! I am so honored to serve you."
While the praise was enough to elicit a genuine sense of relief amid his growing panic, that feeling was short lived. Aziraphale tried to swallow his sense of powerlessness and anxiety down with a surprisingly audible gulp.
"Any idea when I might see him?"
"Not as of yet, I'm afraid. All will be revealed shortly, I'm sure!" Astrid exclaimed with excitement. She smiled, staring unblinking at the newly appointed archangel.
"I see..."
Aziraphale returned the smile politely, then walked sullenly back to his desk. He had been defeated by the small kind lady, but next time, he assured himself, it would be different. He sat down and stared at the gold pen. He wondered if maybe it was the key to some game that he wasn't aware he was playing. Perhaps, if he stared at it long and hard enough, he could make it so.
Chapter 2: On the Road to Nowhere
Summary:
Broken hearted Crowley decides to go back to his flat after Shax's promotion.
Chapter Text
Crowley sat in his Bentley staring into the dark street, into oblivion, past himself and his heartache. What he suspected was heartache, anyway. It was a gnawing feeling of loss, betrayal, and hopelessness, neatly packaged into a brand new feeling. It felt a bit like standing at a bus stop watching the very last bus whiz right past you without even the slightest hesitation, leaving you standing there like an idiot, stranded in a strange city with nothing in hand except a soon to be expired bus ticket.
Crowley had driven around the country in a stupor of repressed rage and inconsolable devastation, and he was finally settling into a semi-catatonic state. He wouldn't allow himself the space to mull over the things which had led him to the spontaneous solo road trip. He figured he could sit there in his willful apathy for so long as the world would keep spinning. Which, as we know, wasn't for all that much longer.
The car radio broke into static, transforming into the familiar sound of Shax's voice.
"Hello Crowley. Care to have a chat?"
He glanced at the radio. He was not in the mood to engage. He was not in the mood to exist.
"I've got an offer for you. An in on the ground floor. Your traitorous... traitoring will be... well, we'll call it even if you do me a favour. Not that I'm asking. I'm a Duke after all!" Shax wasn't the brightest demon, but she knew well enough to know that 1. Crowley was clever, which she had thought meant he'd make an excellent ally, and 2. He couldn't be trusted, which she thought made him an excellent demon. She was right on both counts.
"Not interested," his voice rang out.
She continued, "I've been appointed Duke you know. Grand Duke. I command many legions of the underworld now.. I-"
Shax rambled on, trying but failing to inject an air of authority which would be expected of someone in her position. How she found herself a Grand Duke of hell was mostly a matter of happenstance than competence, like most people in positions of power. The gist of it, Crowley gathered, was that Shax was having trouble wrangling the few legions she had. She needed more minions of a higher calibre if she hoped to make any sort of impression amoung the higher higher-ups downstairs.
"And what's that got to do with me? They hate me down there. Not much I could do to help if I wanted. Which I don't."
"I was thinking some grand schemes might be the ticket to funneling innocents to our cause. The apocalypse is coming you know... again... We need to move quickly or-"
Crowley shut off the radio with a casual gesture. He was sure he'd have to deal with hell sooner or later, but tonight he was having none of it. He decided a long stroll down a dark alley in the rain would probably do him some good, so that's what he did.
He was tired. The kind of tired that simultaneously had you feeling so heavy that you were sure you'd sink straight into the core of the earth, but also so light and empty that you'd surely float off into the sky and that would be that. He considered floating off as a possible alternative to whatever the hell he was doing. He considered getting very very drunk. He considered sleeping through the next several years. He eventually settled on sitting in a puddle on the curb. The misery of sitting on the cold wet stones in the rain suited his mood, which allowed him the thought that the universe was feeling a little bit sympathetic to his suffering. It was not.
He considered returning to his old flat. Shax was no longer there. A Grand Duke of hell doesn't rent property in London. Her old position was unlikely to be refilled at all, what with Apocalypse 2.0 in motion. If by chance some demon came knocking, claiming to be the new demonic representative in London, Crowley could just tell them the position had already been filled, so sorry, have a nice doomsday. Demons were not difficult to fool. The end of days were on the horizon again, anyway. Fat chance Crowley would suffer any consequences if he happened upon a particularly fastidious or cynical demon. Might as well set up camp in familiar territory.
Chapter 3: The History of Drink
Summary:
Crowley and Aziraphale's paths cross during an epidemic of the black plague.
Chapter Text
1630s
The population of London was exploding in the 17th century. And so too was the plague, again, with another bout sending the people of England, and indeed all of Europe, into a moral panic. Not to mention typhus, smallpox, tuberculosis, and rabies. With the best line of defense being a prayer and cross, the people suffered and died in droves regardless of their level of God-fearing. This, Crowley had decided, was the perfect place to set up shop. Not an actual shop, of course. The less socializing with the locals the better, especially given their often repulsive and pustular status. But he was laying low, taking credit where credit was certainly not due, surrounding himself with misery and reaping the rewards from Hell. Those rewards were mostly to be left alone to his own devices.
A plague doctor wandered down the street in a town just outside of London, stepping into a large stone building. Within it was a long hall absolutely brimming with the sick and weary. He stepped over them, careful not to trample on any sprawling limbs or scurrying rats, of which there were many. At the end of the hall stood a man in black robes busily crafting various preparations. He fiddled with little bottles and wiped down lances and measured out powders. The plague doctor hurried over to him, announcing his arrival with a muffled greeting.
"Have you brought the leeches?"
"Mmm "fraid... 'rent be had...."
The man in the black robes side eyed him, without losing focus on his precise measuring. "Take the damned mask off, I can't hear a damned thing you're saying."
Aziraphale removed his mask and tried again. "I'm afraid there weren't any leeches to be had this morning. I'll be sure to fetch some for you this afternoon."
"And the wormwood? And treacle? And the unicorn horn?"
Aziraphale nodded at the first two, stopping at the third. "The what?"
"I'm a very busy man, you understand. These people need help. And so, I need those leeches." He stopped his potion-making and turned to the angel. "You're doing God's work, don't forget it. Let's not get distracted." He patted him reassuringly on the back, grabbed a freshly prepared poultice, and ducked into a corridor. Aziraphale straightened his resolve and left.
Stepping back out into the light still grasping his mask, he headed towards the shops when a familiar voice called at him from behind.
"I thought that was you," Crowley said as he sauntered over. "So you're a doctor now. Nice getup. Unusual for you," he tilted his head in observation. "I like it."
"Oh," Aziraphale blushed, gently swooshing his long dark robes, "thank you. It's just standard protocol really. I do so hate this mask though. Can't hardly breathe with this thing on."
"You don't need to breathe."
"But I like to." They walked on together. "What are you doing here? Don't tell me you're responsible for all this."
"No no no. Not my MO. Besides, this reeks of Heavenly disapproval if you ask me. I just hang around for the credit."
Aziraphale agreed, quietly. "And what is your MO, then?"
"I... I dunno. Something far more creative than this, I imagine." His thoughts trailed off into the distance, and the two walked quietly side by side. "I've got something for you, actually. Back at my place. Care to join me?"
Aziraphale dropped his mask and followed Crowley happily. He knew very well the leeches weren't doing the townsfolk any good anyway. Neither was the wormwood, and unicorns had been extinct for ages. He might as well see what the demon was up to.
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Aziraphale sat on a bench in Crowley's humble abode. It was a lovely little shack pretty far off the beaten track. Sparsely furnished, but nice. He sat quietly while Crowley checked the position of the sun. "Any minute now." He peered out the front window, "Ah, there we are."
A monk was walking with a wheelbarrow in tow. Crowley stepped outside and greeted him. They made polite exchanges as the monk handed him a jug and placed two small casks and three more jugs at his entrance. The monk knew better than to enter, and left as quickly as he had appeared with a now empty wheelbarrow. Aziraphale watched in astonishment from the window, his mouth agape. Crowley returned with a ceramic jug and a huge grin.
"Crowley, why are monks bringing you wine?"
"Well, it's in thanks for my services," he said, grabbing two cups from the cupboard.
"What is it they could possibly be thankful for? You're a demon. They are monks. You shouldn't be interacting with them at all!"
"Argh, it's harmless. They bring me gifts. I keep the vampires at bay."
"Vampires? What vampires?"
"Exactly."
"But there's no such thing as vampires."
Crowley sniffed at the wine, "Exactly. There are no vampires, so whatever I'm doing must be working." He handed Aziraphale a cup, who brushed it off with a dismissive gesture.
"I don't drink, Crowley."
"Come on, angel. This isn't your run-of-the-mill human wine. It's been made by the holiest of monks. Holily. Imported, of course. Holy wine. It's the closest you can get to god, they say." He shoved a cup into the angel's hand. "It's practically divine."
Aziraphale sniffed at it suspiciously. "It does smell nice. Like plums and pears and chocolate."
"Right. It'd been a sin not to drink it."
Crowley downed his cup and went to get another. Aziraphale took a cautious sip. It was spicy and sweet and tart and delicious. He took another sip. Yes, most definitely tasty. And he finished his cup eagerly with this newly discovered thirst, looking up at Crowley who smiled as he poured him another one.
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The room was starting to spin. Only slightly but very definitely, thought Aziraphale. "And so, the uh... moral fortitude, being as it is... what was I saying?" He peered at the bottom of his now empty cup looking for his lost thought, which was quickly refilled by Crowley, his gracious host.
"It just seems a bit much," Crowley responded. He could hold his drink far better than Aziraphale, having had many more years of experience. The constitution of an ox, some might say. "I mean, the plague... well...It's rough, isn't it? Can't hardly walk down the road without tripping over a fresh corpse."
Aziraphale sipped at his cup, listening intently. "I'm... I'm not disagreeing with you. It's awful. But there must be a greater purpose. Some reasoning beyond our understanding. It's just-"
"Ineffable," interrupted Crowley, rolling his eyes.
"Yes...! That." Aziraphale got up to help himself to another cup while Crowley took a seat. It was in this moment he became fully aware of how wine can compromise one's balance, and no sooner had he poured himself another cup did it somehow find itself shattered on the floor. "Oh gosh, I'm terribly sorry," he said mournfully, staring at the mess.
Crowley was beginning to feel a bit concerned for the angel. Maybe it was time to cut him off. He got up to escort his friend to a more seated position. "Maybe you ought to sit down."
"I broke it," he muttered, still staring at the broken cup and wine seeping into the floorboards.
"No harm," Crowley insisted, offering an arm which Aziraphale took without hesitation. And he stood there, in a blissful stupor, holding Crowley's arm and staring into his snake eyes for an exceedingly drawn out moment.
"You're very pretty," the angel said, blinking through increasingly heavy lids.
"You're very drunk."
"I think," continued Aziraphale, leaning in close to place a hand on his chest, making Crowley's heart race. "I think you're my favourite...."
"Your favourite what?"
"My favourite." Aziraphale smiled and fell forward, passing out into Crowley's arms. Crowley, barely having caught him, gently lowered his weight onto the floor. He made a quick round to kick away any errant bits of the ceramic cup which had existed only moments prior.
The entire day had come and gone with them drinking and talking. It was lovely. Now with Aziraphale passed out on his floor, Crowley sat crossed-legged at his feet watching him dream some drunken dream. It was his very first drunken sleep, and possibly even his first sleep, Crowley thought. He wondered where the angel was. He looked so sweet and stupid and vulnerable.
Getting an angel drunk was an impressive feat to be sure. And yet he didn't feel any inclination to boast to his fellow demons. In fact, he felt fiercely protective of this clumsy angel. He felt strangely devoted to him. He felt like Aziraphale was his angel. Crowley palmed his face at the thought, with the faint flicker of a terrifying realization.
"Ugh.... I think I'm in.... trouble." He laid down next to Aziraphale and stared at the ceiling, listening to the angel's breaths and occasional muffled snore. Love was not a feeling demons had. It simply wasn't on the menu. It was not permitted, not for anyone, and most especially not for an angel. Lust was all well and good, so long as it was tethered to a pillar of selfishness. But love was a selfless feeling. A sort of longing for another person's safety and comfort and happiness.
It was a weakness. And Crowley felt it, glancing over at Aziraphale periodically to see if perhaps the sensation passed as the sobriety slowly crept back in. But it remained. How humiliating. Aziraphale mumbled something and shifted his weight, brushing Crowley's arm with his fingertips. The touch made his hair stand on end, and he scooched himself slightly further away in hopeless defiance.
He definitely loved the angel. "Fuckfuckfuckfuck...." he muttered to ceiling.
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Aziraphale awoke at dawn. The spinning had stopped, he noticed straight away with much gratitude. Yet his body ached terribly, his head felt fuzzy, his legs felt heavy, and all he wanted to do was to crawl into a hole and disappear.
"Crowley?"
"Yes, angel." Crowley sat at the table with an empty jug and cup looking especially contemplative.
"I need leeches."
"Oh, come off it. It's not that bad."
"No, I need to get leeches." He got up and attempted to smooth out his woolen robes. Standing upright made everything feel so much worse. "I feel awful.... I'm never drinking again, that's for sure."
Crowley smirked at the sentiment. "Leeches," he said helpfully.
"Yes. And.... wormwood. And... treacle?" He sat down at the table, slumping forward to hold his head in his hands.
"You'll be fine in a bit. This is the worst part. It'll pass."
"I broke your cup," he said, reflecting on yesterday. The demon shrugged. "I don't know how I'll manage going on like this, Crowley." He nodded in understanding, feeling exactly the same way, except totally different.
"I can go with you if you want. Moral support."
"Yes please. I'd love the company. I don't think I'll make it on my own, honestly."
And the two of them headed out to the shops in search of leeches, wormwood, and treacle.
Chapter 4: The Dark Council
Summary:
While Crowley was on his cross-country adventure, some notable things had been going on in the abysmal depths of hell.
Chapter Text
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Furfur walked hurriedly through the dark and dank corridors of hell. He carried with him an impressive stack of paperwork which was so massive that it obscured his view, making him dance through the halls, avoiding his demonic peers as he went. An important meeting of the Dark Council was about to go down and he had been invited. The Dukes of Hell gathered in a dingy room which smelled of metal and mold, just down the hall past a very bored looking demon. This demon was casually browsing a magazine, and showed even less interest in Furfur's arrival than on her choice of reading material.
"Here for the meeting," Furfur interrupted. She waved a hand at the door without even glancing up, and Furfur walked on in.
Shax was sitting impatiently at a round metal table. She did nothing to hide her impatience, but rather played it up with the tapping of her nails and the shifting of her person. She was nervous. It was only recently that she had been promoted to Duke and she was determined to show her worth. Hastur was sitting opposite her. He didn't think much of proving himself. He cared very little for the politics of a bureaucratic hellscape that was... well, Hell. He was, in fact, quite pure in his intentions. All he really cared about was inflicting misery and suffering on mankind. He was a model demon, really.
Furfur took a seat behind Shax, excusing himself the tardiness as he'd been on torture duty all morning and the day simply got away from him. Hastur nodded in understanding. Dagon, who was also very much present, smiled her trademark smile; wide eyed and unhinged. There was a knock at the door. Our attendees looked at one another. Who was missing? Shax saw the opportunity to take the reins and stated, "Come in!" with all the commanding force she could muster.
Eric wandered in with a clipboard and pen. "Sorry I'm late. Is this the, uh-" he squinted at the clipboard, "Congregation of the Dark Order, Dukes of Hell, Pillars of Satan (hail), regarding the apocalypse and new underworld order?"
"It is," said a voice from the shadows. He emerged dramatically, as one inevitably must do after time spent lurking in the shadows, and gestured for Eric to be seated. "You're taking minutes, I gather? When we're done here, do be sure to leave them on my desk."
Furfur looked confusedly at our shadowy lurker. Shax, looking equally confused but also slightly annoyed, looked to Dagon for some elucidation. Dagon instead offered a crazed smile.
"Belial," said Hastur, helpfully. "I haven't seen you around since... "
"It has been an eternity, Hastur. We'll have to catch up sometime, but for now I must declare this meeting officially in session. I'm sure you all know, the powers that be upstairs are rumoured to be plotting their own apocalypse, what with the last one not quite making it off the ground."
"Yes," replied Dagon, "I hear they've got their own anti-anti-Christ in the wings. Apparently a zombie-lord of sorts."
"No," interjected Hastur, "That's just symbolic. They love their symbols. Their prophets don't go about raising the dead, 'specially not the dead ones. That'd be necromancy, or blasphemy, or something..."
"Ah, I've got some experience with zombies, myself," offered Furfur. There was an awkward silence.
Shax narrowed her eyes on Belial, sizing him up. "It doesn't matter what they're up to, up there. What matters is they're up to something, and we must be prepared to strike it down."
"I do believe you're correct, Shax," agreed Belial. "Regardless of how their assault takes form, the intention and result is war, which means we must rally our legions. Which is really why I've gathered you all here today. Furfur, how many legion strong are we at the moment?"
Furfur flipped through his stack of papers searching for the correct figures. "Legions... legions.... yes, we're at.... well, just shy of 10 million demons."
"Right, thank you. And that's...?"
Furfur pulled a calculator from his pocket. "About One thousand, six hundred and sixty six legions, sir."
"Right. Which is less than we had for the last war." He looked over each of their faces, making sure he had their attention. "We are bleeding legions, and not just literally. We should be growing, and yet, not only are our recruitments lagging, but it seems we are losing some of the ones we have."
"Excuse me, sir," said Eric, hesitantly. "I personally know a lot of fellow demons who've been thrown in the pit, permanently discorporated, exiled... some of them just left, didn't come back. After being tormented for thousands of years it's-"
"Quite right, Eric. And we are left picking up the slack. And so here is the task at hand: you are all to gather as many new souls to our cause as you can. The one with the most will be my second in command. And the one with the fewest will be tossed into a bottomless pit for all eternity. Or permanently discorporated. Or made to suffer extreme sanctions. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. In the meantime, you'd all best get to work. The clock is ticking."
Furfur and Shax watched as the others left one by one. Shax was looking concerned. She had only just climbed to these heights, and was already teetering precariously on the edge of destruction.
"Maybe," offered Furfur, "recruiting someone with more earthly experience might be useful. Someone who maybe knows how to engineer some kind of scheme."
Chapter 5: A Rude Awakening
Summary:
Cooped up in his misery/flat, Crowley gets an unexpected visitor.
Chapter Text
Crowley had made up his mind. He would be going away for a very, very long time. Indefinitely. He was going to a better place. Not to meet his maker, of course. He'd already done that and the meeting had gone down rather poorly. He would simply hide in the space between time and matter, hoping no one took notice of his absence. He had slept through much of the 14th century after all. There was nothing stopping him from sleeping through this one
The kitchen counter was filled with half empty bottles of whisky. He sipped at a glass, squinted at the disarray, and considered tidying up before his nap.
"The great blasted plan is ineffable after all. Who's to say I shouldn't be sleeping through it?"
He gulped down the last of his drink and placed it assertively on the counter.
He glared upwards, accusingly, "It's not even a clever ploy! Probably never even was a plan, just a massive bumbling cock-up hurtling itself through infinity. Just a cosmic joke!" He stared up, half expecting to be smited. Smote? Smitten, yes. "Go on then!" Nothing.
After a therapeutic binge of alcohol and blasphemy, he laid his heavy corporeal self into bed. He hadn't used this piece of furniture the entire time he'd been here. It was nice. It was soft and warm and comforting. It was everything he didn't know he wanted. He closed his eyes and forced his mind to shut down. Blackness.
And there was Aziraphale.
"Crowley?" the angel asked.
He mumbled a non response through his sleep.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale repeated, less patiently.
"Yes, angel?"
"No rest for the wicked... Crowley!"
Crowley opened his eyes to find himself staring into the black pits of Hastur's. The horror Crowley felt in that moment crawled from the very depths of his being, making him feel things he didn't know he was capable of feeling. A yelp emerged from those depths which startled the both of them, and encouraged even more yelping, back and forth between our two demonic acquaintances. He likened the feeling to actually dying, which he happened to have a fair bit of experience in.
"For the love of all that's unholy! Hastur! Not in my bed! Some things are sacred!"
Hastur stood at the foot of the bed and gathered himself. A few maggots here and there reformed as he recovered from his bewilderment.
"The dark order has spoken. You've been summoned, Crowley. The legions are gathering their strength."
Crowley rolled his eyes dismissively. Hastur continued, "Any demon not in attendance... well there's been a lot of talk about extreme sanctions. The powers that be will be dealing out infernal justice swiftly this time. Can't be having stragglers."
Crowley balked. "I've heard those threats before, Hastur. We all have. I haven't seen a lick of evidence that it's actually been done, like ever."
"...That's just it, isn't it? There wouldn't be any evidence. They'd just be gone, poof, erased. The ultimate death. Complete erasure from the book of life." He smiled through these words. The suffering and misfortune of others, even fellow demons, brought Hastur great joy.
"Right right right..." Crowley remarked. The thought had upset him deeply, not just idea that he could be completely erased from existence, but also that he apparently needed Hastur of all people to explain it to him. "Ah yes, I'm, er, well aware of "the plan". Wheels in motion and such? I've already been recruited"
"Oh?"
"Sure, yeah, totally. Shax already popped over for a chat eons ago. Why do you think I'm even in this flat? I'm scheming, of course. Very big schemes. Grand schemes in fact!... Hail Satan and so forth. Where have you been?"
"Hrph." He grunted, "I wasn't informed."
"Of course not, Hastur. This is above your pay grade. You really shouldn't even be here. And showing up in my bed! The audacity...But really, get the hell out!"
Hastur moved to leave, but paused briefly on his way out to remark, "You could do worse."
"I don't think I could!"
Hastur left, and Crowley fell back into bed with a sigh of relief.
Chapter 6: Az, who art in Heaven
Summary:
Aziraphale finally gets the go ahead to return to earth.
Chapter Text
Aziraphale had been in heaven for about 6 weeks now, and he thought that it may have been the longest 6 weeks of his life. He'd been shown some of the efforts being made on the lower floors, escorted through by an angel with a clipboard and the demeanor of a museum guide. Weapons were being made. Not the refined weapons which Aziraphale preferred to weild, such as compassion, empathy, and the occasional candelabra. Rather, these were far more crude things with pointy bits. Workshops, which were quite reminiscent of the kind of self defense classes one might take on earth to prepare for the inevitable muggings of city life, were being held in great numbers for angels of all calibers. You'd walk through these halls and see rows and rows of determined angels screaming, "Avaunt, foul demon!" and "Get thee behind me, foul fiend!" in unison with a surprising amount of air punching and kicking. It was a bizarre show to say the least.
At long last, on a particularly dull and stagnant day, Astrid showed our listless angel to the uppermost floor. Here Aziraphale stood staring out the massive windows. He was finally in the Metatrons office and the view was incredible. How could it not be? Something about being perched up so high made him feel important and powerful. Either that, or small and inconsequential. He hadn't quite settled on which yet. Why not both?
The Metatron wandered casually over to Aziraphale as he was admiring the view. It was the first time Aziraphale had spoken to the Metatron since his arrival. Astrid was lovely, to be sure, but also completely useless with regards to Aziraphale's queries. It seemed they were both left in the dark. Astrid, of course, had faith that all would be revealed in good time. Aziraphale, on the other hand, was starting to fill that faith shaped hole with dread and anxiety.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
"It most certainly is." Aziraphale had always regarded the beauty of heaven with great reverence. It represented the good in humanity, in the world. It represented truth and light. It also filled him with great longing for the cozy, chaotic and dysfunctional places on earth. Not that heaven was without dysfunction.
He desperately missed his bookshop. And he desperately missed Crowley. And he wanted to go home.
"Heaven itself was quite the undertaking, you know. Not the creation part, that was the Almighty's doing of course. But setting angels to tasks best suited to their abilities, the diligent monitoring of humanity, the documentation, the constant tedious meetings, the blood sweat and tears just to keep this place afloat. It's a constant struggle, but we must persevere."
"So... what's, um... well. When are we going to be having such meetings, with regards to the second coming? I had assumed, as Archangel, that we would hit the ground running, so to speak. It's been weeks since I've arrived. What am I doing here?" Aziraphale's question echoed through the vastness of the office.
"Yes. Supreme Archangel Aziraphale. The title suits you very nicely, don't you agree? We'll be having a meeting shortly. You and I and the other more important angels. The VIA's, if you will," He chuckled, and looked for the same from his companion. Aziraphile managed a limp smile. "We have some important matters to discuss with regards to the second coming, certainly. The others have been tasked with the gathering of files and other rather mundane responsibilities, nothing I'd want to bore you with. And seeing as how you're new here... renewed, anyway... I figured you'd appreciate the time to become reacquainted. The hard work will begin soon enough."
"Yes, of course."
"I appreciate your eagerness, Aziraphale. God's plan will be put into motion shortly. We're just polishing up the gears. In the meantime, you're free to wander as you like."
"What about my bookshop?" He asked, anxiously. The Metatron looked a little disappointed. "It's just, perhaps I should check in with Muriel and see how they're getting on down there. There are so many intricacies to being on earth. Someone should probably make sure they're settling in comfortably."
"Sure, Aziraphale. As you wish. You don't need my permission. Just finish up whatever paperwork you have, and be ready when you're called on." He looked Aziraphale up and down. "Where is your pen?"
"My pen. My pen..." he said, feeling around his coat for an answer. "My pen!" he exclaimed, pulling the thing out and holding it proudly. "Here it is! A most fine pen, for which I am very grateful."
"Indeed, it is! And most appropriate for an angel such as yourself. As they say on earth, the pen is mightier than the sword! Allow me to demonstrate." The Metatron took the pen, fidgetted with it a moment, clicked the clicky end a few times, and much to Aziraphale's surprise, a great flame erupted from its tip. "How's that for mighty, eh? It can be a bit finicky, but it also functions as a writing implement! You'll get the hang of it quickly, I'm sure."
--------
Aziraphale headed downwards to his office. He had to finish a small pile of insufferable paperwork, and then he'd be off to earth. As he walked with a newly found determination, he thought he heard a "psst" sound. It was so faint that he didn't even bother to look around, but naturally assumed the sound was some sort of brain malfunction. But again it came, more deliberate this time. He turned around to find Saraqael staring up at him.
"Did you say 'psst'?" he asked.
"I did, yes..." she admitted, only slightly embarrassed. She had very little experience with covert discussions and wasn't yet sure how to go about them.
"Saraqael," Aziraphale stated, matter of factly.
"Aziraphale," Saraqael responded, also matter of factly. "You'd best keep your wits about you up here, Archangel. Uriel and Michael, they don't trust you. They see you as a traitor."
"I'm sorry to hear it."
Saraqael stared up at her recently appointed peer. "I rather liked Gabriel. Not as a person, of course. But he was good at his job. He believed in it. Uriel and Michael... I'm not sure what they believe in."
Aziraphale couldn't think of anything to say, so he went with a neutral "Hmmm." Saraqael sighed.
"Some days I'm sure I'm surrounded by idiots," she leaned in closely, "I don't consider you a traitor, Aziraphale, for what it's worth. We're on the same side as far as I'm concerned."
And with that, she turned and left.
Chapter 7: The Reunion
Summary:
Crowley and Aziraphale finally reunite.
Chapter Text
Crowley sat on his bed watching Pride and Prejudice for the 5th time. This bed was his new home. His life raft. "Oh Darcy, you idiot!" He barked at the tv, "Can't you see you're in love?!"
The phone rang. He considered it might be any number of Dukes, minions, or underlings of hell, and eventually settled on answering it as a phone call was still better than a visit.
"Crowley, in service of the dark lord Shax and Satan our master, how may I help you?"
"Crowley, It's me." He was sure his heart skipped a beat at the sound of Aziraphale's voice.
No answer. "Crowley, are you there? I need to see you."
"...yes. How did you know I'd be here?"
"There are only so many places you could be."
"I'll have you know there are plenty of places I could be. Tons. Oodles of places."
"...will you come to the bookshop?"
"Yeah, I'm coming."
-------------------
The Bentley roared down the street as the sky was settling into the muted grey of dusk. Comforting, almost. A light drizzle had the streets smelling of dust and stone and earth.
Crowley parked his car and sat there for a moment peering through the bookshop window. Aziraphale and Muriel were inside, and they looked to be having a chat. Crowley got out and walked towards the front door. He had been here so many times before, but now it felt strangely unfamiliar. Or strangely familiar? Things were different now, of that he was sure. This place was not the cozy warm home it had been the past few years. It was the scene of some natural disaster.
Aziraphale was pacing while Muriel was in the kitchen preparing him a "cupperty". Muriel very much enjoyed these small and mundane human tasks. Rituals, Aziraphale explained, were an important part of the human experience, which Muriel was determined to investigate thoroughly. A cupperty was an opportunity. A pleasant distraction from the directionlessness they often felt alone in the bookshop. They hadn't yet felt the inclination to actually drink it, of course. But perhaps in time the experience would gain appeal and seem more of an adventure, rather than the physical horror they saw it as currently. Watching Aziraphale enjoy these things made them almost intriguing.
The door slammed shut, announcing the demon's arrival.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale exclaimed, with all the warmth of a cupperty.
"Yes, angel. You called, I came, " he said bluntly as he walked past the angel, removing his glasses and placing them on Aziraphale's desk.
Aziraphale didn't know what to say or where to begin. "I've returned," he said, smiling through his apprehension.
"I can see that."
The mood was tense. Muriel had recently returned from the kitchen with the hot beverage, and sensing this awkwardness, felt compelled to place the beverage on a small end table somewhere between the kitchen and the front room. They felt quite awkward about their choice, only increasing the volume of awkwardness in the little bookshop.
"Checking in?" the demon asked. "Taking a reprieve from your heavenly duties, then?"
"I never wanted to leave, Crowley. A duty, as you say.... one might call it a noble campaign."
"One might call it an exercise in futility."
What did the angel expect to happen? He had not once, not twice, but three times dismissed the demon's heartfelt proposals to be together, or run off together, or whatever... together. Crowley didn't even harbour any ill will at the rejections. The pain burned through him quickly, and he was left with nothing but affection for Aziraphale. And yet, something was different this time.
"I think," Aziraphale offered, "I may have misjudged my misjudgement. Possibly. Not entirely sure, yet."
"You don't say. What a completely unsurprising turn of events." Crowley stared blankly at Aziraphale, unmoved.
"Being appointed archangel, I had supposed.... well, it is a position of great power and authority, and-"
"Oh, how impressive! Have a gold star! Getting on better than Gabriel, I take it?"
"Oh Crowley, please! I'm not infallible! I thought I was doing the right thing. I was doing the right thing!" The angel shut his eyes and sighed a great exhausted sigh. After a moment, he resolved to move in another direction. "I'm sorry," he stated simply. Plainly. The words didn't hide anywhere.
Crowley stared at him, examining the words as though he were judging the colour and viscosity of a fine Bordeaux. "That's not good enough."
Aziraphale started to settle into an uncomfortable state of flustered sadness when a thought hit him. "Right!" He composed himself, adjusting his vest and clearing his throat, and made his offering. "You were right. You were right. I was wrong. You were right." A most humble and pleasant song and dance, and he had stepped the steps perfectly.
Muriel clapped enthusiastically. Crowley shot them an icy stare. "Get out."
Aziraphale moved to gently usher them out the door with assurances nothing was wrong, and that the two of them were simply in need of some privacy. The angel returned to the demon with a renewed sense of pride.
"I'm not sure what more you want from me, Crowley."
"You left me here, alone, Aziraphale."
"I didn't have a choice."
"But you did have a choice. And you chose to leave. We got out and you chose to waltz back in."
"It's not that simple," he protested. It was never that simple, he thought. Aziraphale was responsible for the care of mankind. It was his duty. His heavenly calling. It was a massive undertaking, and thoughts about whether he was doing the right thing often occupied huge spaces of his mind. Crowley had wandered into those spaces ages ago and alleviated some of that worry. Whether that was because he helped the angel find his right path or simply served as a distraction was up for debate. "They're planning another apocalypse, you know."
Crowley stood silent.
"Oh. You do know... you knew? You never told me anything."
"I never had the chance."
----------------
It was still raining, and the dusk had moved on to night. Crowley stared out into the darkness. All the pain of their last encounter hit him again with full force. He was alone. He'd probably been alone all these years, really. Aziraphale was a warm light that eased his apathy and softened his view on... well, existence and the absurdity of it all. Very little made sense in the world, but it was the world that both he and Aziraphale occupied, and that had given him all the meaning he needed. But maybe, all this time he had been like a moth to Aziraphale's lantern, bashing himself clumsily into a light that wasn't meant for him while the angel moved ever vigilant towards his truest commitment. The sound of the rain on the window was relentless. His heart ached. What was he doing here?
"Crowley, I love you." Aziraphale's voice trembled as he quietly forced the words out. The soft little trembling words hit Crowley like a trolly speeding down the M25.
"And I have loved you for ages, I'm sure. Eons, technically. You know how hindsight can be... You were always there for me, always. And in all the chaos, you've always been my safe place. And I want to be your safe place." Aziraphale took a breath. Overwhelmed, and let his watery gaze fall to his feet. "I love you exactly as you are, and I don't need you to be anything that you aren't. I just need you." His face was hot. His nerves twisted in the pit of his stomach. "The thought of us not being us fills me with such..... I can't even bear to..."
Crowley moved in close, hovering over the angel. Aziraphale felt intensly aware of the closeness, the warmth of his body so near. And then he felt Crowley's hand on his neck, moving slowly upwards. Crowley gently lifted Aziraphale's face to his own and tenderly pressed his lips to the angels'. Aziraphale's heart fluttered and his body flushed. He kissed him back, this time without hesitation or guilt or shame. Feelings of relief and hope and desire swirled in his head as he savored the sensations of warm and soft and wet. It was a kind of intimacy he hadn't felt. The touch of skin and lips, the feeling of being enveloped. It was dizzying. It was delicious. He drank it in with all his senses, with deep red locks of hair grasped in his fingers, and Crowley's hands caressing the small of his back.
You'd have thought the ship they were on was going under. And it was, in a very real sense. Eventually, Crowley gathered himself with some determination.
"I forgive you," he said with a sly smile. "So.... I suppose we'd best get on with it, then."
"Yes," responded Aziraphale, still transfixed with Crowley's mouth parts."Getting on... with the what, sorry?"
"The apocalypse?"
"Right, yes of course... I suppose we should probably do that," he sighed.
Chapter 8: The Dawning of a New Apocalypse
Summary:
Aziraphale and Crowley take their first steps towards thwarting the apocalypse.
Chapter Text
Crowley lounged in the bookshop's best chair while Aziraphale paced the floor slowly, arms folded behind his back. They were attempting to make plans to thwart the apocalypse but struggled to settle on anything that made any sense. However ill prepared they were for the last one, they had even less to go on this time.
"So," Crowley asked through a furrowed brow, "this 'second coming', is it anything to do with that guy...." Crowley snapped his fingers while he filtered through names in his head, "....Jesus? He had a pretty bleak exit, If I remember."
"I don't actually know for certain, but it's a reasonable assumption. There have been some rumblings on the lower floors of a Christ-like figure showing up, but it's all just conjecture at this point."
"Mmmmmm." Crowley slouched deeper into his chair, if that was even possible. "What about that Adam kid? He's an antichrist. Seems obvious really. You've got your Christ, you've got your antichrist, you put 'em together and BAM! They cancel eachother out. Apocalypse averted."
Aziraphale took a seat. "I'm afraid there is no longer an antichrist. Adam rejected Satan. As I understand, he's just a normal human child now."
"Oh.... shame that."
"Mmmmm," the angel agreed.
They'd been trying and failing to come up with a plan for some time now. Aziraphale's usual hyper-focus on the task at hand kept drifting towards Crowley's physical presence. Crowley, oblivious, stared off into space, stroking his chin and squinting at thoughts which he'd quickly dismiss with the shifting of his eyebrows and the shaking of his head. The angel's gaze would land on Crowley's eyes, his hands, his lips, followed by a warm tingly feeling that took hold of him with surprising speed and fervour. He'd shake off the feeling only to find himself subdued by it again. He stood suddenly, having decided that a cup of tea was what he needed to refocus.
At the thought of a cup of tea, Aziraphale realized that Muriel was still standing outside. He rushed to open the door, finding them standing in the rain at the entrance, smiling with gratitude at having been remembered. "I'm so sorry Muriel, the evening has gotten away from me. Please come back inside." They were sopping wet.
"It's alright! The rain is really very nice once you get used to it. Sky water. A very soft and gentle assault of sorts."
"You'd best get upstairs to change and dry off," Aziraphale said as he guided them towards the spiral staircase.
-----------------------------
The angel returned with a nice cup of tea to focus on.
"There's something off with that one," Crowley mused.
"What, Muriel? They seem perfectly harmless," replied Aziraphale, defensively.
"Right. A harmless angel. The only other harmless angel I've ever met was Gabriel, after he'd been gutted." Aziraphale looked offended at the statement. "Besides you, of course," he quickly corrected. "Although, in retrospect...."
"Do you really think...?"
Crowley shrugged, "Eh... I wouldn't put it past your lot. But I guess it doesn't really matter now, does it." He stood and started pacing like Sherlock in search of a Clue.
"Do you think they'll leave Gabriel and Beelzebub alone?" Aziraphale asked. He hoped they were happy and safe, wherever they were.
"I dunno. That'll be up to your people, I guess. I doubt Hell has the wherewithal to be chasing them down."
Aziraphale scrunched his nose up at the thought of his people. They weren't 'his people' anymore. He was a sort of Heavenly imposter, if anything. He didn't want what Heaven wanted. He was there to take them off the path of destruction. He was there to thwart the will of God. And, he'd really need to embrace this role if he had any hope of achieving it. Crowley was his people.
"What if... what if we assembled our own army?" Crowley asked.
"To fend off the legions of Heaven and Hell?!" Aziraphale balked at the suggestion."You can't be serious. What- I mean... I don't think... Nobody in their right mind would even entertain the idea."
"Well, so far there's you and me...I bet Nina and Maggie would be on board. They were pretty keen to take up arms last time."
Aziraphale didn't respond, hoping Crowley would abandon the preposterous thought.
"Maybe we could put up some flyers," Crowley continued, undeterred by the angel's silence and desperate enough to only be half joking.
"What about Agnes Nutter?" Aziraphale suggested. "I mean, it was her guidance that helped us survive the previous one."
"What of it? I thought you got all you could from that book. Her final prophecy was fulfilled when we traded bodies."
"Right... still. Maybe there's something there that we missed? It couldn't hurt to have another look. The young lady with the book, we drove her home after you hit her with your car."
"She hit me."
"It was a cottage in Tadfield. Shouldn't be too difficult to find."
Chapter 9: Onwards and Upwards
Summary:
Crowley and Aziraphale search Anathema's cottage, hoping to unearth some vital information.
Chapter Text
Crowley and Aziraphale headed out early in the morning. The destination was Anathema's cottage in Tadfield. Muriel was quite disheartened at the news that their newfound company was departing so soon after arrival, but Aziraphale reminded them of the significance of their role watching the bookshop, emphasizing the importance of not letting anyone inside. Muriel seemed pleased at the thought of playing an important role, and promised that no one would be allowed entry on their watch.
The Bentley carried the two through the countryside, and the surroundings changed from busy peopled streets and noisy traffic to rolling hills and small tree-lined towns with dirt roads. Crowley had a general idea of the location, but circled the town a few times before finding the correct path through a woodland. Aziraphale was staring at him, looking bothered. Crowley ignored it at first, but his persistence was starting to unnerve him.
"What?" Crowley asked.
"You never said it back."
"Said what."
"You know what," Aziraphale asserted.
Crowley glanced at the angel. "...goes without saying, really."
"I'd really rather it didn't!" Aziraphale responded through rapidly growing frustration.
"....My dearest Aziraphale, you are the love of my eternal damnation."
Aziraphale blushed happily.
---------------------------
"This looks right," Crowley observed.
They pulled up to the familiar cottage, parking the Bentley on a side street. There was no bicycle propped against the fence. Stepping out of the vehicle they ventured forth through the front gate and knocked on the door. A few moments passed and the angel knocked again, with just the same cheerful rhythm as the first knock. Crowley unlocked the door with the wave of a hand and wandered in. Aziraphale followed close behind, looking cautiously behind himself as he gently closed the door.
This was Anathema's home, or at least it had been many years ago. She hadn't actually been around for quite a while, only visiting now and again when she was in need of some alone time. She was in fact living a surprisingly ordinary life with her boyfriend Newton a couple towns over, but she had been so enamoured with the little cottage that she decided to keep it for herself as her home away from home. Settling down with Newton was a welcome change of pace for Anathema, and she found herself very happy to be out from under the shadow of her great ancestor Agnes. While she understood the necessity of her upbringing and the importance of her role, the weight of being a professional descendant had left her little room to even imagine the kind of life she wanted for herself. Somehow, that life happened to find her, despite all odds.
Crowley stood in the corner staring scrupulously at an image of Satan, the Adversary, Destroyer of Worlds, Ruler of the Bottomless Pit, The Great Deceiver, The Fallen Star, and Lord of Darkness. "It's a terrible likeness," he noted.
Aziraphale focused his search mostly on the bookshelves and the various scattered reading materials strewn about the home in the vain hope of finding 'the Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter', or better yet, 'the Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter 2: Like Before, Only Nicer.' He rummaged through a pile of magazines the witch had subscribed to. "Here!" he declared, having stumbled upon a clue. "Perhaps this will lead us to her current whereabouts."
Crowley squinted at the headline, "The Truth is Out There?"
Aziraphale pointed to an address stuck to the back of the magazine. "Boons and Blessings. An occultist shop of some sort, I imagine. Anathema must be on a mailing list."
"But this one's from four year ago," said Crowley, tapping the printed date on the corner. "Besides, it's this address on file. We know where here is already."
"Maybe they have her new address?" the angel hypothesized. "It appears as though this place hasn't been lived in for some time. But she can't be too far off, many of her personal belongings are still here." Aziraphale had read about witches. He had a general understanding that they kept close ties with one another, often forming groups called 'covens' which served as a sort of esoteric family. Surely somebody would know something.
-------------------------
Crowley and Aziraphale hopped back in the car, the angel clutching the magazine in his hands. Onwards they drove to their new destination, 'Boons and Blessings', which carried all the necessities a witch might require and then some. The car phone rang, and Crowley groaned in response. He was in no mood to deal with Hell, ever, but also definitely not now. Their constant pestering was really starting to drag him down. He answered.
"Hello," Crowley spat out with the most venomous tone he could muster.
"Hello, Crowley," an unfamiliar voice responded.
"...Who is this?"
"It's Saraqael."
"....I think you've got the wrong number. So sorry. Hanging up now." Crowley moved to end the call but Aziraphale stayed his hand.
"Is Aziraphale there with you?" Saraqael asked.
"Yes, yes, I'm here. What is it?"
Saraqael sighed. Aziraphale was predictable. She was forming an alliance with a bumbling and predictable dolt, she thought to herself. Disappointed, both in herself and the Archangel, she consoled herself with the thought that at least her peers were also likely too dense to pick up on the patterns.
"How did you get this number?" Crowley interrupted. No angel ever called him on the phone. Except Aziraphale, of course.
Saraqael pressed on to the matter at hand. "You need to get back here immediately, Archangel. We've been scheduled for a meeting."
"But I only just got here!" he pleaded. "Six weeks sitting about doing hardly anything at all, and the moment I leave there's suddenly business to attend to! Really!"
"Oh. Should I tell the Metatron that you've got better things to do?"
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He had little choice but to obey. "I'll be there shortly," he said, defeated.
Chapter 10: The Heavenly Meeting
Summary:
Aziraphale has returned to Heaven for an important meeting regarding the end times.
Chapter Text
Aziraphale sat in the lobby of the Metatron's office. One might have assumed that there wouldn't be a lobby in the upper spaces of Heaven, but one would be very much mistaken in this instance. This lobby had cozy greige sofas, a water cooler with tiny cone-shaped paper cups, and an unbearably friendly assistant who was currently sitting at his desk with a grin so unnerving and yet so mesmerizing that it had Aziraphale feeling incredibly uncomfortable. The Metatron had noted that these lobby things, while appearing to be inviting at first, nurtured a sense of disquiet and unrest for those who were left waiting for too long. And so he always had his visitors wait for exactly too long before granting them entry.
Michael and Uriel refused to sit, and instead eyed Aziraphale from the other side of the lobby with no efforts to mask their disdain. Aziraphale sat with his hands on his knees, doing his very best to remain calm and composed. He glanced about the room with a strained but polite smile, trying to avoid direct eye contact with anyone. Saraqael was also present, though she found it quite easy to simply ignore the lot of them.
"Alright," announced the Metatron's assistant, "Please go on inside. He's ready for you now."
Michael led the way, followed by Uriel, then Saraqael, and lastly Aziraphale. There was a man standing next to the Metatron. He was dressed quite uniquely for one in Heaven, in a sort of toga-like garb, his long locks draped down his back.
"Welcome! What a splendid and momentous occasion! Here we are standing at the edge of the apocalypse, ready to set God's great plan into effect. As you are all well aware, we have been taking the appropriate steps to begin this end of times. Securing the souls of the righteous for our Heavenly kingdom will be of the utmost importance, as well as ensuring the unworthy are not permitted entry, of course. We must prepare our Legions for the battle foretold, and prepare the faithful for their long journey ahead. I'm delighted to introduce you all to- well, he's the star of the show, really." The Metatron looked at the toga-adorned man in a most affectionate and condescending way. "Go on then, introduce yourself."
"Hello, I'm Jesus!" He smiled blankly, waving his hand.
"That you are! Here we have the very son of God. Soon he will walk the earth, gathering those deemed worthy and shepherding them towards our Heavenly kingdom. The final resurrection of Christ is soon to be realized."
"Some people call me Christ!" Jesus said, raising his hand so as to be sure his audience knew he was speaking.
Aziraphale shot a worried look at him. This man's demeanor was eerily similar to that of Jim's. He repressed the urge to start asking questions, thinking better to simply listen and move smoothly through the meeting at hand. Besides, asking questions in Heaven tended to be dangerous. The sooner it was over, the sooner he could return to Crowley.
"Michael," continued the Metatron, 'You are in charge of Jesus. He must be trained to fulfill the tasks set before him by God. A great burden rests on his shoulders, and you shall be the one to ensure he does not falter."
Michael held back a sneer, almost completely, and transformed it into a tight smile.
"Uriel, you will be leading the heavenly army to victory. Ready your bow and the legions of your fellow angels. I've no doubt you will ensure the defeat of our eternal adversaries. We can't have them mucking up God's plan, after all."
Uriel smiled. She was perfect for the role, and was eager to brush up on her celestial archery.
"Saraqael, Into your capable hands I am entrusting a most important tool. It is the book of life. It is the first step on our road to eternal glory. I have no doubt you will see us through. Alright, that'll be all for now. You will be receiving more detailed instructions regarding your respective roles shortly. This meeting is now adjourned. Amen."
"Amen," they chorused.
The angels began filtering out. Aziraphale hung back to ask why he hadn't been set to a task as his fellow archangels all had. Jesus stood smiling at him as he made his inquiries.
"You, Aziraphale, as the Supreme Archangel, must be at the ready in case Hell throws a wrench in our plans. We can't risk anyone running amok, trying to thwart the will of God."
"Oh. No. Certainly. Can't have that, of course! That does seem wise."
"Of course! It's God's plan, afterall, isn't it?"
--------------------------
Aziraphale was only too pleased to be heading to earth again. He stood at the elevator waiting for it to whisk him away.
"Aziraphale." He turned to find Saraqael. "I don't suppose you're running off the earth again so soon."
"I, um. Well, I do have some business to attend to."
"And what business would that be?"
"...I don't believe I'm under any obligation to share that information with you. I am Supreme Archangel, after all." Aziraphale said, slightly intimidated with Saraqael's stare.
Saraqael was somewhat relieved to see him standing his ground. "I need to have a word with you. In private. In your office."
Chapter 11: The Edwardian Book Rescue
Summary:
Crowley and Aziraphale on a book thieving adventure.
Chapter Text
1907
Just a few years after the turn of the century the world was changing rapidly. After all the technological advancements of the past century, a new world was really starting to take shape. One where women could ride bicycles unescorted. One where men could ride carriages untethered to horses. One where a humble family could dream of becoming part of the elite class, spending their afternoons eating cress sandwiches and nibbling on scones.
Aziraphale was quite fond of nibbling on all manner of things. He was neither part of the elite class, nor truly the working class. He did have his bookshop, yes, but he hardly opened the shop and he never sold a book. One might ask why he had a bookshop in the first place if he never planned to sell any. Just the thought of strangers wandering in, grazing their fingers along the spines of his books made him slightly uncomfortable. He had initially found the idea of the shop romantic, and quickly fell in love and executed the idea before coming to the realization that he very much would prefer the customer part of the equation to simply not exist.
Crowley often stopped by the bookshop. Any particularly long stretch of boredom would lead him to the familiar setting and the two would pass the hours quite easily.
"So, you're planning a heist," Crowley said, grinning.
"No, it's not a heist, Crowley. Hardly. I'm simply recovering some items which do not rightfully belong to their current owner. It's more of a rescue, really."
"Really."
"Yes, really."
"Well, you don't have to convince me. You just have to convince yourself."
Aziraphale ignored this. He was quite good at ignoring thoughts that didn't fit into the bigger picture, registering them as inconsequential or ineffable or some such. He had done a remarkable job of cataloguing these thoughts and bits of information into his mental library, where if you browsed the main floor everything looked pristine and precise and perfect, but the longer you wandered, the more likely you were to stumble over a random scroll or bump into a pile of dusty old tomes.
"Will you help me, then?" Aziraphale asked.
"How could I say no to a heist?"
Aziraphale glared at him.
"I mean," Crowley corrected, "how could I say no to a morally unambiguous and undoubtedly righteous book retrieval?"
-----------------------------
Mr Ashcroft and his wife had recently acquired a fairly expansive estate. It was modest in comparison to some of the older families in the area, but it was a sudden rise in status for the Ashcrofts and they were quite pleased with their new station. Mr Ashcroft had inherited a factory which produced beautiful cotton fabrics and it had made him very wealthy indeed. He himself had no actual interest in fabric manufacture or fashion, preferring instead more intellectual pursuits. He especially enjoyed collecting books to add to his growing library. Mrs Ashcroft, on the other hand, had quite a taste for fashion and many other fine things. She was a kind and jovial woman, and her most favourite activity was to have dinner parties. She loved getting dressed up, she loved entertaining, she loved having visitors regale her with stories of their adventures, and she loved to fill them with the best food and drink available.
Aziraphale had actually been to a few of her dinner parties. At first, his intention was simply to stake out the place. Mr Ashcroft's library was in fact the object of his interest, as it contained the books he was hoping to rescue. But the dinner parties really were quite engaging, and Aziraphale found himself not only thoroughly enjoying the delectable foodstuffs on offer, but also Mrs Ashcroft's lively personality. And the feeling was most certainly mutual. Ashcroft knew Aziraphale by another name, however, and in fact by another gender.
------------------------------
There was a knock at Mrs Ashcrofts door. She eagerly opened it herself, having sent the Butler to attend to other matters. She preferred to greet her guests personally upon arrival and she would have it no other way. At her entrance stood a strikingly handsome gentleman wearing a bowler hat and a long dark suit. And next to him stood a lovely lady dressed in a fawn-coloured lace blouse and skirt, elegantly paired with a fitted jacket in a dusty blue.
"Oh, Mrs Bartlett! I am so pleased you could join us!" Mrs Ashcroft embraced Aziraphale, delighted at a visit from one of her favourite guests.
"Yes of course," she responded, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."
"And this must be Mr Bartlett."
Crowley, only slightly delayed with the understanding of their new roles, did his best to rise to the task. "Right, yes. I'm the husband, of course. Lovely to meet you. Very charming place you've got here."
Ashcroft smiled, looking Crowley up and down. "You're very fortunate to have found yourself a lady so exquisite as my sweet Mrs Bartlett, sir." She returned her gaze to Aziraphale. "She is as enchanting as she is brilliant."
"Isn't she just?" Crowley smiled at Aziraphale. He hadn't expected to find such enthusiasm for his partner in their host this evening, but was certainly entertained with it.
Mrs Ashcroft was quite taken with her, and despite herself, Aziraphale found the relentless attention undeniably flattering. Mrs Ashcroft had promised that if she didn't bring her husband around for the next dinner party, they would have to elope.
"You must tell me how you managed to secure her for yourself, Mr Bartlett. Come in, come in."
"Mrs Bartlett, you astonish me. After you, my dear," Crowley graciously gestured to Aziraphale.
‐---------------
Aziraphale sat with the womenfolk in a beautiful room just off the entrance waiting for the dining room to be prepared. She quite enjoyed listening to the gossip, the bursts of cheerful laughter, and the general sense of camaraderie among them. She felt like she belonged, in spite of her disguise, deceit, and intention.
They were soon called to meet their gentlemen counterparts in the dining room, and the ladies quickly filtered out of this space and onto the main event. All except Aziraphale, who remained seated, eyeing a door to the hallway.
"Come on, then," Mrs Ashcroft said, holding the door, "I've got a lovely sauternes this evening, and I made sure to have some ice cream prepared for dessert. I remember how thoroughly you enjoyed it the last time."
"Oh, that's very kind of you, but I'm afraid I have more pressing matters to attend to." Aziraphale motioned her hand and gestured at Mrs Ashcroft, "Please carry on without me tonight." And Mrs Ashcroft obliged through a hypnotic gaze.
------------------------------------
Aziraphale stumbled into the hall excitedly, finding Crowley leaning against an end table with his usual air of nonchalance.
He glanced up at the angel's arrival. "That Ashcroft, she's got quite a thing for you, doesn't she?"
"She's just quite fond of everyone, really," Aziraphale replied, leading the way down the hall towards the library.
"Seems a bit more than that. I was starting to think I'd have to fight her for you."
Aziraphale, blushing slightly, focused her attention on finding the correct door. There were about a dozen rooms along this hall, not to mention the smaller doorways leading into smaller halls for the estate's many attendants, but she knew where the one in question was. After reaching her destination, she fell to her knees and removed a neat little pouch from her skirt pocket. From it she retrieved a couple little metal tools and enthusiastically put her novice skills to the task of lockpicking.
"What's all this then?" Crowley asked.
"I am attempting to grant us entry to the library." She'd been practicing her skills at home on all the doors in the bookshop after having acquired the lockpicking set and after having read as many books and papers on the subject as she could find, which was disappointingly few.
"Really. You can just wiggle your fingers and-"
"Yes, but- well, this is much more fun."
The door made a satisfying click and slowly swung open. The angel's glee was palpable.
-----------------------------------
Crowley sat in the best chair in the library while Aziraphale eagerly searched for the titles she intended to rescue. It had only been about twenty minutes, but Crowley's boredom took hold almost immediately after all the attention became focused on the task of finding books.
"I thought this, being a heist and all, would be a little more exciting."
"If you'd help me search we'd likely be done by now," she said, without even glancing in his direction.
"Urgh... books really aren't my thing. I could set something on fire for you. Or, um... drop someone into a bottomless pit or something."
"No, I don't think that will be necessary. Or productive."
Crowley listened to the angel rifling through the books, the patter of her feet on the floor, the creak of a little step ladder as she repeatedly climbed up and down it, occasionally pulling a title.
"I think I'll have a quick look at Mr Ashcrofts liquor collection." He decided. "I bet he's got good taste." Crowley got up to leave without waiting for a response.
------------------------------------
Aziraphale rounded up the rest of her books and wrapped them neatly in a tartan cloth. She wandered back down the hall, through the waiting room to the entranceway, and sat herself on a little bench next to her tartan-clad bundle. Crowley shouldn't be too much longer, she thought.
"Mrs Bartlett," Mrs Ashcroft called at her, walking over. "What are you doing sitting here all alone in the dark?"
"Oh, I was just...waiting for someone..." The angel did her very best to not look suspicious, pushing the bundle of books behind herself nervously.
Mrs Ashcroft sat next to her, placing a hand on Aziraphale's leg, much to her confusion. Before she knew it, Ashcroft was nearly on top of her and the angel was at the mercy of her physical affections, with her mouth pressed into a clumsy kiss. Aziraphale was taken aback, and pulled away firmly.
"Mrs Ashcroft, please!" she said loudly, exasperated.
Suddenly, Mrs Ashcroft froze as though time itself had stopped, and Crowley emerged from down the hall clutching a bottle of golden-brown liquor.
"I told you she liked you," he said, wandering forth. He held up his prize. "A very fine 18 year single malt scotch. We should probably have a toast!"
Aziraphale gathered herself, brushing down her coat sleeves. She maneuvered around Mrs Ashcrofts frozen form to retrieve her books.
----------------------------------
The gravel outside the estate crunched under Crowley and Aziraphale's feet as they left.
"I was not expecting...." the angel started, still feeling rather flustered.
"You do tend to miss some very obvious signals. It's part of your charm, really. Probably. She must have thought. I'm only guessing." He stopped suddenly to appreciate the technical wonder of an automobile on their path. It likely belonged to the Ashcrofts, or one of their many wealthy friends.
"Should we take the car?" Crowley asked.
"Do you know how to drive...?"
"Eh... not as such. But I'm pretty confident I'd take to it like.... like.... whatever it is that takes to water."
And they drove back to Aziraphale's bookshop for a drink of pilfered scotch.
Chapter 12: Boons and Blessings
Summary:
Crowley finds Madame Tracy running an occultist shop.
Chapter Text
Crowley was following through with the task of finding Anathema's current whereabouts alone, with Aziraphale having been called in suddenly to a heavenly appointment.
He stepped into Boons and Blessings to find it quiet, dark, and seemingly unattended. The shop smelled of old books, wax, and incense. "Hello?" he called out. The place was brimming with all kinds of knick knacks and trinkets: various stones with purported energies, candles in every colour, size and shape, and endless jars of herbs with fun names like 'valerian' and 'wolfsbane'. Not to mention shelves and shelves of books on all kinds of peculiar and sometimes very specific subjects. How to curse someone. How to prevent someone from cursing you. Why you should not curse anyone, but definitely totally could if you wanted to.
"Hello? Anyone here?" Crowley hunched over to squint at a jar which appeared to contain the skeletal remains of a bat.
A woman with lovely red curls peeked from a velvet curtain behind the counter. "I'm afraid we're closed, dear."
Crowley stood to face her. "The sign says open."
"... an oversight. I do apologize." She seemed preoccupied.
Crowley walked over to the counter, and Madame Tracy was suddenly struck with recognition.
"I know you! You and your gentleman friend, Aziraphale," she said, smiling warmly. "Ah, such a lovely man, that. We shared my body for some time."
"Yes, that's right. Small world. We're actually in need of your assistance. He specifically sent me here for your services."
"My services... yes, well, I'm afraid I no longer-"
"Look, I'll pay double for a, um..." he glanced at the little chalkboard menu sitting on the counter, "tarot reading. We can have a quick chat, and I'll be on my way. Won't take more than ten minutes."
Madame Tracy glanced upstairs.
"Triple," Crowley offered, tossing some bills onto the counter. Madame Tracy hesitated, considering her options. Crowley added another couple bills to the pile. Wrapping herself more adequately in her fine silk dressing gown, she retrieved the bills before tucking them neatly into her brassiere. She held the curtains open for Crowley. "Enter, only if you dare to glimpse your fate, and recieve your vision of the future..."
-------------------------------
Crowley sat at a small round table as Madame Tracy removed a crystal ball from its center and placed in its stead a small drawstring pouch.
"So you're a witch, then?" he asked as she pulled out the cards and placed them face down in front of him.
"Divide the deck in half, and place that half on top. And then do that again two more times." He obliged. "I'm a witch of sorts, you could say."
"You wouldn't happen to know an Anathema by chance? She's a witch too. Maybe you run in the same circles. She has, um... brown hair? She definitely has hair... and a bicycle."
"Anathema... I do, yes. There aren't too many shops like mine around. She stops in now and again. More of a solitary witch, that one. Now, place your hand on the deck, close your eyes, and clear your mind." Tracy closed her eyes meaningfully and let out some dramatic breaths while Crowley watched stoically.
"Past." She pulled a card with Death sitting on a throne. "Present." Another Death, this time standing ominously with a scythe. "Future," Death again, giving a wee black cat some scritches. Tracy shot a puzzled look at her deck. "That's odd. I'm only meant to have one death card."
"Weird." Crowley paused for a moment, feeling a genuine sense of worry wash over him at the sight of these three little pieces of cardstock. Perhaps it was a bad omen. Perhaps it was a warning. Perhaps it was foretelling his erasure from the book of life. Perhaps it was an unfortunate misprint at the reprographics company. He willfully pushed it from his mind to focus on his current task. "Anyway, any chance you've got her on a mailing list or something?"
".....even if I did, that kind of information is strictly confidential."
Crowley waved his hand, sending Madame Tracy into a trancelike state. "Where do you keep your customers' addresses?"
"....On my laptop. Upstairs on the left."
Crowley got up. "Excellent. Password?"
"BlessedBeDSM67"
"Right."
Crowley shot up the stairs and opened the first door on the left. Inside was a very pink room with a very large bed, and on it was Shadwell, mostly unclothed and tied to the bedpost. Shadwell and Crowley knew one another. Their eyes met, but neither felt any inclination to speak, and so Crowley shut the door and quickly moved onto the next room. In it he found the laptop which held Anathema's current address. He hurried back down the stairs, past Madame Tracy who was still in a trance, and out through the curtain. He was eager to get back to the bookshop, but something urged him to pause. He groaned, disappointed in himself, turning back and eyeing Madame Tracy from the curtain.
"You will awaken," he muttered, staring at the ceiling, "having had a dream about.... whatever the hell it is you like." And he left.
Chapter 13: Jim's Invite
Summary:
Jim shows up to invite Aziraphale and Crowley to a dinner party.
Chapter Text
When Muriel was first left in charge of Aziraphale's bookshop, they had thought it quite the honour. They spent the first few days exploring the shop and its rooms, reading, watching dust motes drift through sunbeams, and experimenting with the making of tea. The shop kitchen had a sizable tea collection, with a large box of Yorkshire Gold taking center stage in the cabinet.
On a particularly inspired day, they headed to the grocer in search of milk (which they learned would make a fine addition to a cupperty), and returned triumphantly with not only a carton of soymilk, but also a bunch of cheerful yellow bananas. They were quite proud of their very human purchase, and every morning they would begin the day with the ritualistic making of a cupperty. And they would sit, admiring the cheerful yellow bananas as the tea went from steaming hot to lukewarm.
To their alarm, on day four the bananas had begun to grow brown spots. Perhaps the bananas were ill, they thought. Perhaps they would soon recover, as humans often did. But they did not. In fact, as the days went on, the spots only became more numerous. They were discovering first-hand that organic matter, regardless of its initially cheerful state, eventually decomposed into a festering brown pile of fly covered mush. This was a significant and core-altering lesson for Muriel. And they took the task of replacing the milk cartons very seriously, never again making the error of bringing fruit, no matter how cheerful, into the bookshop again.
-----------------------------
Aziraphale returned after his short visit to Heaven. While fumbling with his keys, a familiar voice called at him.
"Hey! Aziraphale! How have you been? Gosh, it's been a while, eh?" Aziraphale looked up as he turned the key.
"Gabriel! What.... what are you doing here?" He lowered his voice to a concerned hush, glancing about himself, "Shouldn't you be in hiding? I thought you were going to Alpha Centauri with your... with Beelzebub?"
"Yeah, well, we did, but like, it's kind of dull out there. I mean it was nice for a bit but... nope. We've actually moved to New York. It's Jim now, by the way. I'm, uh.. putting my past behind me. I've got a whole new lease on life."
"New York? Hasn't anyone come knocking? Aren't there angels looking for you?"
"What? No, no. Nobody really notices us at all. Well, there is an angelic representative in our area but he's totally cool. Castiel. Never knew him when I was Supreme Archangel. Life really throws you some curveballs, hey?"
"Yes, sure, I suppose it does. So, you're just in the neighborhood doing some shopping then?" Aziraphale glanced at the large glossy bags Jim was carrying.
"Nah, I came to see you. I mean, I got myself a suit since I was in the area... I hear you've taken up my old position? How's that going?"
Aziraphale glances about himself, "Do you really think this is an appropriate time for a social call?" Jim shrugged. "Maybe just come inside. Jim."
Jim and Aziraphale sat in the bookshop. Muriel offered them both a cup of tea. Aziraphale declined politely, while Jim asked if hot chocolate was an option. He seemed at ease. Happy, even. He and his partner fit in quite well in New York, with nobody really taking notice of their eccentricities. All the humans around them were deeply involved in their own lives, barely able to glance at a neighboring lifeform without being immediately swept away in the currents of everyday existence. And so, this displaced odd couple were thriving in their new environment. And to their surprise, as the weeks went on in their new city, they noticed more and more familiar entities taking up space in the hustle and bustle of the human world. A demon here, and angel there, not appearing to do much in terms of appeasing their sides, but rather just exploring the world. Eric in particular was fond of the nightlife, and nobody so much as batted an eye at his appearance. He was quite popular at the local goth club even, dancing the nights away without Hell taking any notice.
"So what brings you here, Gabri- I mean Jim."
"I just thought I'd stop in for a visit with my two buddies... where's Crowley anyway?"
"He's out attending to some important matters. I'm sure he'll be back shortly."
"Okay, so...' Jim's expression turned solemn, "I never really thanked you for keeping me safe, Aziraphale. I am indebted to you, and so so grateful, really truly." Jim opened his arms and gave Aziraphale a hug. The gesture was slightly alarming, but mostly endearing. Muriel returned with Jim's hot chocolate which he was very pleased to begin sipping at. "I wanted to invite you two to a dinner party. You and Crowley, me and Beelzebub... I guess you could bring Muriel. And Cas will probably be there. Drinking liquids, consuming solids, that sort of thing. It's nice!" He took another sip of the hot chocolate.
"I do appreciate the gesture. However, we are rather busy at the moment, what with the apocalypse and all."
"Oh, that again? Gosh... hmmm. A dinner party couldn't hurt, though, right? I mean, might be a nice distraction from all the doom and gloom."
"You're well aware that if the apocalypse were to take place, you'd have to leave New York." Aziraphale mused on this thought sadly, glancing around his cozy bookshop. He hoped Crowley was on his way home. A thought struck him, and he decided to entertain Crowley's plan to assemble a legion of their own. Desperate times called for desperate measures after all. "Perhaps, if you and Beelzebub would assist us, we could arrange to have a dinner party afterwards. Here, even. You can bring your angel friend as well, if you like." It might have been far fetched- actually, it was most definitely far fetched- but still, every little bit helped. Besides, Jim was not just a common angelic footsoldier. He had been the Supreme Archangel. Beelzebub was a former Grand Duke of Hell. They were genuinely powerful allies to have. Between the four of them, and Saraqael, perhaps something could be done.
Jim thought on it briefly, "Sure, why not. What were you thinking?"
Chapter 14: To Us
Summary:
Aziraphale and Crowley have a lovely evening together.
Chapter Text
Crowley had accomplished his task at Boons and Blessings, returning to Soho with a slightly less dour outlook and an address scrawled on scrap paper folded in his pocket. He walked into the bookshop to find Aziraphale hunched over at his desk, spectacles sitting on the edge of his nose as he indulged in some comforting bookshop paperwork. The angel looked up from his work as Crowley entered, only too happy to have his company again.
"I got it," Crowley announced as he leaned against the cluttered desk. "She's in a little town not too far north." He fished the little paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on top of the angel's paperwork. "This one we're doing together, yes?"
"Yes, definitely," Aziraphale replied, almost excited. "It's starting to feel like we're actually making some progress now."
"Anything interesting go down upstairs?"
"Not particularly. We've been given roles for the upcoming... event. Everyone but me, anyway. I don't know why they even require my attendance. I'm on thwarting duty, as ever."
"Maybe they're just trying to keep you away from me," Crowley flashed a charming smile.
"Saraqael is taking care of my paperwork. We've been discussing her concerns regarding upper management."
"Oh?"
"She's worried about the Metatron's motives, assuming he has any besides following through with the Divine Plan. Says there hasn't been any direct word from God in some time. I believe she's alluding to a sort of 'man behind the curtain' situation."
"Hang on- you're having clandestine meetings on the upper floors of Heaven?"
"...I'm not entirely sure." Aziraphale said, hesitantly.
"Oh, she's good! Strange I never really took notice. Hmmm."
"As of now, it doesn't really change anything. At least not our plans."
"No. But it's nice to know we've got allies. Or, ally, anyway. Maybe we can organize a mutiny." Crowley's eyebrow shot up as he considered his own proposal.
"To overthrow Heaven?"
"No, no. Who wants that kind of responsibility, anyway. Just, shuffle things around in upper management. A little less apocalyptic bloodlust would be nice. We could ride this planet out until it bursts into flames, humanity willing."
"That does sound nice." Aziraphale let his thoughts wander to a world where they could exist without an impending doom constantly nipping at their heels.
"We should have a drink," suggested Crowley, as he wandered to the back of the shop to browse the angel's wine collection.
"I do have a lovely Chateau Margaux tucked away." Aziraphale followed.
Crowley placed two glasses on a small round table for them. Aziraphale sat down as Crowley fetched the bottle.
"We're unlikely to be dining at the Ritz anytime soon," Crowley said as he filled the glasses and took a seat. "This will have to do for now." He raised his glass, "To us, and our hopeless endeavor to save the world."
Aziraphale smiled as he raised his glass, "To us."
----------------------------
"Indulge me," Aziraphale implored, fiddling with a coin. The bottle was finished, and the angel was thoroughly enjoying his evening with Crowley, setting aside any thoughts of the apocalypse for tonight.
"Didn't we agree you'd put your magic to rest?" Crowley grimaced.
"A perfectly ordinary coin," the angel continued, undeterred. He held up an 1890's minted silver shilling embossed with the portrait of Queen Victoria. "Now, open your hand," he instructed. Crowley obliged begrudgingly. The angel placed the coin in his palm. "Close it." Aziraphale put his left hand under Crowley's fist and rested his right hand overtop. He had been quite excited to demonstrate this magic trick, but his focus was quickly sidetracked as he held Crowley's hand, forgetting the appropriate magic words as he became keenly aware of a flutter in his core. He pulled the demon's fingers open to reveal an empty palm.
"That's not half bad, actually," Crowley admitted. "Should we open another bottle?" he asked as he went to investigate the options. He pulled one off the rack and turned to find himself face to face with Aziraphale. The angel reached for his collar and pulled him into a kiss.
Aziraphale, having only recently discovered the pleasures of kissing, or more specifically, of kissing Crowley, took to it enthusiastically. He loved how intimate it felt. He loved the dance of it, the sensation of Crowley's tongue against his own. And he loved to feel this hunger burning inside, guiding him as though he was at the mercy of his own desire. He wanted to give into it.
Muriel, fairly oblivious to the current situation unfolding between Crowley and Aziraphale, wandered through the space in search of a new book. They'd been getting through many books lately, and required new ones often. The two paused as Muriel pulled one from the shelf and took a seat on a chair, not particularly close, but not adequately far either. They watched Muriel sit there with a book in their lap.
"You know," Aziraphale spoke quietly to Crowley, "I do have a private room upstairs."
"Oh. I didn't know you had a room."
"It's just a bed, really."
"You don't sleep."
"Keeping up appearances, and all." The angel bit at his own lip.
"Hm."
"....still," Aziraphale persisted, "It's a private room. Maybe we could put it to use." The angel waited for Crowley to register the offer, but he seemed to somehow miss the very obvious message Aziraphale was feeding him quite directly. "Good heaven's, Crowley, do I really have to spell it out for you."
There was a knock at the door. Aziraphale straightened his vest and went to answer it, finding Saraqael on the other side.
"Hello, Saraqael. What brings you to my little corner of the world?"
"There's been some activity. I thought I should stop in to let you know. Might be relevant information."
"Oh...!" Crowley exclaimed from inside the bookshop, triggering Aziraphale to roll his eyes unabashedly.
"Can I come in?" Saraqael asked.
"Yes of course, please do."
Chapter 15: Past the Point of No Return
Summary:
Aziraphale, Crowley and Saraqael have a conversation in the bookshop.
Chapter Text
Muriel had retired to Jim's room with their book for the evening. Aziraphale sat with Saraqael downstairs while Crowley leaned against the front desk, still holding a bottle of wine. He was lost in thought, letting the two angels discuss important matters while he considered his own important matters. He looked down at the wine bottle, slightly surprised to find it still attached to his person, and promptly put it down.
"Belial?" asked Aziraphale.
"Yes, I'm sure of it."
Aziraphale shook his head in confusion. "I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar."
Saraqael looked over at Crowley, expecting him to fill in the blanks, but Crowley could barely hear the angels talk over the noise of his own thoughts. "Crowley," she said pointedly.
"Hmmm?"
"What do you know about Belial?"
"Belial. He is... one of the original evils. Satan's little brother, basically."
"Yes," Saraqael confirmed. "Having a meeting with the Metatron. I suspect they might be working together."
Aziraphale considered this. "There have been instances of demons and angels visiting opposing territories. It doesn't necessarily indicate-"
"No," replied Saraqael, "but it's a distinct possibility. And one we should take seriously. Belial isn't some low level demon doing someone else's bidding." She glanced at Crowley and then back at Aziraphale. "So then, what have you been working on? With all the time you two spend together down here I'd assume you'd be well on your way to some cardinal discoveries."
Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Well, it's a work in progress." Aziraphale looked at Crowley, who was still staring beyond himself. Their eyes met and the demon made a great effort to pay attention to the conversation at hand. "We're investigating a lead, or, a potential lead...." Aziraphale went into some detail about the witch prophet and her role in undermining the previous apocalypse. "Also, Gabriel stopped in for a visit. He's going by Jim now, but that's besides the point. He's agreed to take part in our revolt, along with Beelzebub."
"Hm." Saraqael seemed intrigued. "I'm a little surprised he'd be on board with a rebellion. I suppose he doesn't have many choices left."
The three of them sat in silence for a long moment.
"Maybe he just wasn't aware that that was an option," suggested Crowley, eyeing Aziraphale. "Maybe he never considered it within the realm of possibility."
Aziraphale quickly picked up on the message. "...never even considered?" he said with great disappointment.
"I mean, even if he had entertained the idea- on occasion- the potential consequences for both parties would have forced him to shove those considerations to a very deep dark place where they couldn't be reached."
"I'd say we're well past that point now," Aziraphale said. "They are. They are past that point. Being on the lam and all."
"Well, I wouldn't want to assume. Angels don't... one wouldn't expect it to be something they'd be interested in," he said, losing track of the plot. "I mean, Jim- rebellion something, I don't know..."
"They're hardly assumptions. There are very clear signs, all pointing to most definitely yes."
Saraqael wasn't following. "Which signs are we talking about?"
"Oh," Aziraphale said, "the, um... the one's which will precipitate the apocalypse."
"Mmmm...." she responded. "The wheels are certainly in motion now. The clock is ticking. Soon enough the clouds will begin to gather for the great tempest. The book of life will be shut, and-"
"The book of life," Crowley interrupted. "So, you guys have that then. Upstairs? Under lock and key I'd imagine."
"Saraqael has been put in charge of it." Aziraphale noted.
"Oh, that's great! It's in very capable hands then. Safely hidden away."
"I don't actually have it yet," she admitted.
"Oh... well..." The demon had growing concerns about extreme sanctions, but he tucked those feelings away for another time.
"So, I suppose you two will be on your way to this witch-prophet book keeper, then?"
"Tomorrow, probably," Crowley said. "I mean, we should sleep on it. Not actual sleep, of course, we don't participate in such human activities," he laughed nervously. "But she does, what with her being human and all. So there's not much point to us rushing over just yet. We should probably just sit tight for tonight, and head out in the morning."
Aziraphale nodded in agreement. "Seems sensible."
Saraqael left, and Aziraphale locked up behind her. He felt a sudden flight of nerves as he turned his attention to Crowley. They were alone for the night.
Chapter 16: Reprieve
Summary:
Warning: mild smut.
Our two explore a new aspect of their togetherness.
Chapter Text
The room was indeed mostly just a bed, except for one end table and two little shelves standing side by side. They were, unsurprisingly, filled with books, old photographs, and various momentos that the angel had gathered throughout his long journey in this world, including a familiar black feather.
"How did I not know about this room?" Crowley asked as he eyed the items. Aziraphale, already half undressed, ignored the question, and instead focused on untucking Crowley's shirt and pulling it over his head.
The angel kissed him passionately, pulling him onto the bed and on top of himself. Crowley held him down gently, slowing his kisses. He moved to finish unbuttoning Aziraphale's shirt, one by one, pushing the collar down to kiss at his neck and shoulders, giving way to gentle bites. It made the angel shiver. Crowley moved downwards, hands drifting across the angel's bare skin, across his waist and hips. His movements were deliberate and unhurried.
Crowley was entirely focused on him, exploring him, grazing his fingers across the angel's form, lavishing tender kisses on his hidden places. Secrets they had never shared were all opening up in these moments. Aziraphale felt his heart race, rushing through him, a pulsing warmth between his legs. He belonged to the demon. He was in the palm of his hand. All of him. All of the angel's senses were centered on Crowley tasting him, gripping at his flesh. On Crowley's fingers sliding past his hips, opening his waistband, sliding down his zipper...
"Crowley", the angel spoke out.
The demon stopped. "Yes, angel."
Aziraphale remained silent, searching for the right words. But no words came. Crowley crawled back up to face him, his yellow eyes staring down at the angels', waiting patiently as Aziraphale searched the back of his mind for the words. Still nothing.
"You've changed your mind..." Crowley realized, "that's- totally fine. I mean, it's a lot, all at once, I know. We can, um... circle back some other time. Or not. Either way, it's alright." Crowley moved towards the other half of the bed, but Aziraphale held him.
"It's not that."
"...so what is it?"
Aziraphale wasn't sure what it was. He wanted Crowley, more than anything in this world. He knew this. He closed his eyes and tried to focus, feeling Crowley's weight on top of him, wanting to give in to him completely and utterly.
"I, um..." The angel tried to clear his thoughts. He was tensing up, becoming frustrated with himself. He exhaled, exasperated.
"Angel..." He leaned in for a soft kiss. He brushed his thumb against the angel's damp lower lip. Crowley shifted his weight back, hips resting gently against hips. He gathered the angel's hand and traced his finger up the side to his pinky. He took it to his lips and into his mouth to suck on. Aziraphale sighed. The sensation quickened his pulse. It was warm and wet and intoxicating. Crowley could feel Aziraphale's desire pushing against his inner thigh, and he brushed against it as he leaned in close. Aziraphale's breathing was slow and heavy. "I need to hear you tell me that you want this."
Aziraphale looked up into Crowley's snake eyes. "I want this," he said.
Crowley stared down at him, pausing a moment before reaching again for Aziraphale's waistband, grazing his fingers beneath it, tracing the curves of his hips and the hollow between them and his hair. Aziraphale closed his eyes, his body intensely aware, following every movement of those hands.
"You want me to touch you." Aziraphale wanted it desperately. He ached for it. Crowley moved his hand down to gently stroke at his sex. Aziraphale tensed and exhaled, his thighs opening as Crowley touched him.
"...yes," the angel whispered as he began to flutter and sigh beneath him.
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Crowley was propped on his side next to Aziraphale, and he watched as the angel laid there in the afterglow, beyond himself. Unfurled. He was beautiful. He looked so lush and soft and vulnerable. A small muffled snore told Crowley he was drifting through sleep, and he smiled at the realization. Crowley laid back. The light of dawn through the window was threatening to take the night away.
Aziraphale's eyes shot open suddenly. He looked over at Crowley, and then at the ceiling, recalling where he was.
"You were sleeping," Crowley informed him.
"I doubt that very much. I don't sleep."
Crowley eyed him, incredulous, "You don't do lots of things, I'm learning."
Aziraphale laid there silently. He saw that the light was filtering through the window, pushing them towards morning.
"How would I know if I was sleeping...?" he asked, earnestly.
Crowley thought about this. He wasn't totally sure. It was just something you knew, he supposed. "I guess..." Crowley theorized, "you know because in one moment the world is one way, and in the next it's completely different."
The thought unnerved the angel. He liked the world as it was, in this moment, and he very much wanted it to stay this way. He turned to Crowley and moved closer, laying his head on his chest, listening to the slow and steady pace of his heartbeat. Crowley was only slightly surprised at the angel's embrace. Affection came so naturally to Aziraphale, and the demon was very pleased to be on the receiving end.
"I want to stay here. Just like this," Aziraphale said, closing his eyes to hide from the sunlight. Crowley brushed his fingers through the angel's soft blond locks.
"We can just wait here for the apocalypse if you'd prefer. I wouldn't fight you on it."
The two laid in silence, entwined. Content. But the day was most certainly upon them now, and Aziraphale was starting to feel his duties pushing him towards the next task.
"There's something I should probably tell you," Aziraphale said nervously.
"What?"
"Well, once we've put this whole apocalypse business behind us... well, I've, um... I may have invited Jim to a sort of dinner party. With Beelzebub. You and I. A couple other people maybe. Here in the bookshop."
Crowley stared at him.
"It's just, he was really quite insistent. And besides, maybe it'll even be fun."
"Kill me now."
"You're not obligated to-"
"Good. Definitely not, then."
"But I think it would be nice if you'd consider-"
"I'm not nice."
Aziraphale stubbornly turned away. Crowley held his ground for about thirty seconds before giving in. He sighed and rolled his eyes, turning towards the angel.
"Why even pretend like I have a choice?"
"You do have a choice, of course... You just made the wrong one."
"Fine!" Crowley said, defeated. "At least if we fail, I'll have the comfort of knowing I won't have to sit through it."
"Wonderful!" Aziraphale smiled. "I suppose we should head out soon."
Crowley inched closer, wrapping his leg over him, his arm over his chest. "Yes, we probably should." He eyed Aziraphale's neck, moving in for a taste.
Aziraphale sighed, feeling weak. "Soon..."
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Crowley drove the Bentley down an unfamiliar street as Aziraphale squinted at street names. "It's definitely around here somewhere", the angel said. "There!"
Crowley parked and they both got out, making their way up steps to the witch's home. They were in Anathema's new neighborhood. The surroundings were quite charming, with black lamp posts and trees lining cobblestone sidewalks. She'd taken up residence in a little townhouse, and Aziraphale gave a knock on the front door. No answer. He knocked again. "I guess we'll come back later." Crowley rolled his eyes and waved his hand at the door, causing it to slowly creak open. "We've already snuck into her cottage," the angel complained, "We can't keep breaking into this woman's home."
"We're not breaking in. The door was open," Crowley said as he wandered through.
Anathema's home was three stories tall but narrow, with a kitchen, living room, and den on the first floor. It was very cozy. Aziraphale checked the bookshelf in the den, but there was nothing of interest. Crowley wandered through the rooms, getting a general sense of the witch's domestic tastes. A fluffy black cat came downstairs to investigate the intruders, and apparently approved of them, as she began to rub up on Crowley's legs.
Crowley eyed the furry beast with disdain. "What do you want?"
"She likes you," said Aziraphale. He found Crowley's apparent revulsion at the cat's forwardness amusing. "You can't hardly blame her. You're very charming." Crowley sneered. He maneuvered himself around the unwelcome advances of the cat and sat down in the living room, choosing a green upholstered armchair which faced the front door. The cat immediately followed, hopping onto his lap, staring at him with slow blinking eyes. "I think I'll have a poke about upstairs,' said the angel as he headed up the staircase. "I suppose you should wait here in case she returns. We wouldn't want to frighten her."
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Anathema opened her front door and ushered in her two children. She was rather surprised to see, upon entering her own private home, a strange man sitting in her living room. He looked inappropriately comfortable in her armchair, lounging back with a devilish look in his eyes. And he grinned at her, stroking at her feline who was curled up in his lap. "Hello, Anathema."
Chapter 17: Wrong Turn
Summary:
This is set in the 1980s. I'll be swerving in and out of this era a bit in the following chapters.
Cheers.
Chapter Text
1980s London/Hell
Crowley had made up his mind. His most recent temptation had affected him in such a way that he was having some difficulty moving past it. To move forward. He had never wanted to move forward Hell's agenda. He much preferred his own agenda, which would have him moving in no particular direction at all. Crowley was rather lacking in true demonic malevolence. Usually he would dabble in schemes that were far more mischievous than they were proper evil, and oftentimes that was enough to keep his standing in Hell safe. But no matter how good he was at pretending to do his job, he would occasionally have to do some actual work.
Ultimately, it was up to the humans which path they went down. His job was to show up and give them a nudge in the wrong direction. Crowley knew very well that under the right circumstances, most people were capable of most things. Both good and bad. Since he happened to be on team bad, the results he bore witness to were sometimes upsetting and occasionally disturbing.
Lilith worked in Temptations, like Crowley, but was head demon in her department. She had piercing eyes, a forked tongue, and ram's horns bordering her short silver locks. She was a maneater, and had in fact polished off three of them that very morning. She was also a succubus. She gathered seed from the humans, and Hell used it to create half-demons for their growing armies. Crowley thought that perhaps her department would be a more suitable fit. The victims were all willing participants, and they thoroughly enjoyed their involvement. It seemed there were just good feelings all around.
She sat on a throne in her chamber, leisurely browsing the department's workload for the week. "I always thought you'd make a good incubus, Crowley. I believe I even offered you the position ages ago. You turned me down. What's brought you to me now?"
"Needed a change of scenery, I guess. So, how exactly does this work?" Lilith raised an eyebrow at the question. "I mean, I have a general sense of..." he made some vague hand gestures, "but besides that. How do I 'gather the seed', as it were? Just... put it in my pocket?"
"You just make them come. You don't need to concern yourself with anything else." She looked him over. He didn't seem particularly enthusiastic.
"Okay," he rubbed his hands together, "Who's on the chopping block, then?" Lilith handed him an order from her pile of paperwork.
-----------------------
Crowley set out to his first victim. He wandered through her dark house to find her sprawled on the bed nude. The scene was jarring. He was not expecting such a receptive welcome, but he supposed that it would make his job easier. He did the deed, and was in and out in less than ten minutes.
-----------------------
Crowley returned to Lilith's chamber.
"You might have warned me they'd just be laying there all... eager and such."
Lilith was confused. "She's a regular. What's the issue?"
"Oh, no. No issue. It's just.... I was surprised, is all." He squirmed with discomfort. Lilith could see it.
"Maybe she's just not to your taste?" Lilith suggested. "I myself have an appetite for all kinds of tasty little treats. But we can't all be so adventurous."
"Sure, I guess. I dunno. What does it matter." He suspected he didn't have a taste for any fleshling. The pressing and prodding felt a bit weird. But so had the whole demon business when he first found himself downstairs. Maybe he'd get the hang of it eventually.
"You know, they can be whatever or whoever you want them to be. Wrap them up in whatever package you want." She winked at him. "One of the perks of the job."
Crowley froze at the thought. "Hm."
Lilith handed him his next task. "Go on then. Try to enjoy yourself. Everything will run much smoother that way."
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Crowley pushed through about half a dozen victims in a listless fashion, becoming increasingly detached and disenchanted with his new role. He thought it would be simple enough to push through the motions, fiddle with the appropriate equipment, and move on. But the work left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. It was distressing in a way which he couldn't articulate, even to himself.
Crowley was at work on his latest victim, who was laid out on a bed before him, drunk on lustful pleasure at the hands of the demon. Crowley, drifting through his thoughts, recalled the offer from Lilith on altering the packages to better suit his tastes. Maybe it would make things easier, he thought. Less uncomfortable, at least. And it certainly wouldn't hurt anyone. The man wouldn't even have any idea. Nobody would know, except for Crowley. It was just a harmless illusion. A trick of the senses. If anything, it would only make the experience better for everyone involved. He waved his hand, causing the man's long dark hair to turn a pale blonde. He shrugged. No big deal, he thought. He waved his hand again, and the man's form changed to that of a very familiar angel.
The demon was immediately struck with nerves. He pushed them down and tried to get back to work, but was quickly overwhelmed. He stood up and stared down at the angel. And the angel stared back at him. It was deeply unsettling. In his short time working as an incubus, none of his victims ever looked him in the eye. He felt as though he'd been caught.
Crowley plopped down next to him, holding his hands over his face, letting out an exhausted sigh. The angel turned to watch him.
"You've stopped," said the Aziraphale-shaped man.
"Well observed," replied Crowley. "I'm having a moment, apparently." He laid in the foreign bed, fully clothed, next to Aziraphale who was in contrast completely nude. The evening had suddenly gone from uncomfortable to properly troubling, and he worked at unravelling his feelings about it. He had taken a wrong turn at some point and stumbled into a rather dark place. "Fuck! This is definitely bad. Ugh."
"Of course, Crowley. You're wicked. It's what you do, isn't it? You're a demon," said Aziraphale, staring at him. Judging him.
Crowley shot a confused look at the angel, wondering whether or not he was delirious. And the angel continued to stare right back at him. "You're not actually supposed to know my name. Or that I'm a demon." Crowley waved his hand to return the man to his original form, but the angel was unaffected.
"I'm very disappointed, Crowley. But I guess you can't escape what you are. And I'm afraid what you are, is evil."
Crowley was without words. He waved his hand at the angel again, but again failed.
"What are you hoping to get out of this, Crowley?"
"I'm not hoping for anything. I'm just... trying to exist," Crowley said. "But also, you're not real, so I'd really rather you just shut up about it."
"You want to take me down with you. To drag me into your filth. You want me tainted."
Crowley shook his head. "Nope. Definitely not."
"Are you really so lonely, Crowley? Poor sad little demon. You need me to fill your void."
"That's not it at all."
"You want to tempt me," Aziraphale looked at him hungrily. Crowley winced. "Why else would you bring me here?"
"I didn't bring you anywhere. You're not here!"
"But I am here, Crowley. And you're here. So now, what do you want to do about it?"
Crowley moved to lean over Aziraphale. He stared into his eyes, trying to find some spark of his angel. And with great effort, he once again waved his hand, this time successfully returning the man to his original form.
-------------------
Crowley climbed into his Bentley feeling distraught. It was night and the streets were quiet and empty. He was exhausted. He had failed his task, and resolved to return to his former temptations role. The interactive nature of this job was too much for him. He needed more distance. He laid his tired head on the wheel, willing his nerves to settle.
He was too distracted with his own emotional turbulence to notice that Aziraphale was sitting in the passenger seat. "Crowley," he said.
"Fuck!" Crowley screamed. "For Hell's sake!" He closed his eyes and took a couple deep breaths, and then looked over at his friend. "Angel, what are you doing here?"
"I was just-"
"That is you, isn't it?" Crowley peered deep into Aziraphale's eyes, causing him some alarm.
"I just- I just wanted to ask if you would help me with something." He looked at Crowley with concern. "Are you alright?"
"Oh, yes. Definitely. Excellent. How are you?"
Aziraphale was unconvinced. ".... I'm fine, thank you."
"Unfortunately, you've caught me at a bad time. It's not really the best day for... for anything really."
Aziraphale's concern was growing. Crowley rested his head once more on the wheel. After a few moments, he sat back and stared out into the night with a look of contemplation. "Aziraphale?"
"Yes, Crowley."
"Do you think I'm evil?"
"What kind of a question is that? What's gotten into you?"
"Doesn't matter. Just, do you or don't you. Simple question. A curiosity. Indulge me. Please."
"You're a demon."
"I bloody well know I'm a demon. I don't need you to tell me I'm a demon." Crowley sighed. He supposed he got his answer.
'... I think you're quite lovely." Aziraphale said, hesitantly.
"Lovely. What the heaven does that mean? Lovely and evil, then?"
The angel thought on it. Crowley was obviously struggling. "I think you're clever, and thoughtful, and charming... And no, I don't think you're evil. Not truly." He rubbed at his ring nervously. "I know you're not. I think deep down you're really a very good and-"
"Oh, shut up!"
Aziraphale was hurt. "You asked me!"
"Right. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. It's just.... it's been a rough night, is all." Crowley turned to Aziraphale with a look of regret. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely.
Aziraphale sat quiet for a brief moment, wondering what Crowley was so worked up about. "I forgive you," he said. And for once, Crowley was pleased to hear it. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Definitely not." Crowley gathered the little strength he had left. "So," he said, forcing the day's events behind him. "What did you need?"
Chapter 18: We Found a Witch!
Summary:
A witch, an angel and a demon have a chat about the apocalypse.
Chapter Text
Anathema Device had been living a rather ordinary life with Newton Pulsifer. They had adopted two children together and found great comfort and satisfaction in raising them and in being a family unit. Newton loved to teach them about theoretical computer programming, and found it very fulfilling to have an audience that was so intrigued and impressed with his seemingly boundless stores of knowledge. And Anathema had an effortless compassion for them in their innocence and naivety, guiding them not just as a caregiver but as a friend. Both Anathema and Newton were patient, kind and nurturing, and their children were thriving.
Anathema stood with them behind her. The man sitting in her living room looked familiar, she thought. It was a rather distinctive look after all. A big black vintage car came to mind. "You're the book thief. What the hell are you doing in my house?"
"Well," Crowley said, "we happened to be in the area and thought we'd pop in to have a chat."
"Hello, Anathema," said Aziraphale from above, gently working his way back down the stairs. "So sorry to intrude like this. There really are no excuses." The angel stood in front of the witch, his demeanor so warm and disarming that Anathema felt a significant portion of her hostility melting away. It was like a magic trick, and he didn't even have to wiggle his fingers. "We've come to you regarding a rather urgent matter."
"Yeah? What's that," she said with her remaining snark.
"Agnes Nutter," said Aziraphale, at just the same time Crowley blurted out, "the apocalypse."
----------------------------
The three sat at Anathema's dining table in her kitchen.
"We stopped the apocalypse. Years ago," the witch said.
"Yes, well. Unfortunately that was more of a hindrance than a halt," replied the angel. "Another one is on the horizon."
"How do you two know about it?" She asked skeptically.
"Oh," said Aziraphale, "er, we know because..."
"We're witches, like yourself," interrupted Crowley. "Yep. Big time witchy witches... Coven people, with herbs and candles and tarot and the like. Occultists is the preferred term. We got a message from a reliable otherworldly source about the world burning down."
"So, do you still have Agnes Nutter's book of prophecies?" asked the angel.
Anathema went around the corner and returned almost immediately with the infamous book. She handed it over to Aziraphale who opened it up and began to search the final pages, hoping for some clue he may have missed. The book was incredibly cryptic after all. It wasn't unreasonable to think he may have missed something.
"There's nothing in there that would be relevant to today," stated Anathema. "These prophecies have already taken place. Agnes is my great ancestor, and I spent my whole life studying her book. It's run its course. It's completed." She squirmed anxiously as her uninvited guests sunk into their disappointment. Anathema decided to fess up. "...there may have been another book. There was another book. Well, it wasn't really a book- or I guess it was. A collection of prophecies. A substantial collection of prophecies, unbound. Agnes sent them to me. We received them after the apocalypse."
Aziraphale's eyes lit up. "That's wonderful news! Oh thank the heavens, what a relief!" The angel's instincts were correct after all, and he felt his uneasy hope solidify into the shape of the ancient witch. "Honestly, we had very little idea of where to direct our efforts. Agnes Nutter has already taken care of it. Jolly good!"
"I burnt it."
'...you what now?" Crowley said.
"I, um... I burnt it." Silence. "I mean, I've lived my whole life under the shadow of Agnes, reading and deciphering her book. Do you have any idea what it's like to have to dedicate your entire existence to something that you never even signed up for? To be at the beck and call of a voice that won't even talk to you directly, they just send you vague signs and cryptic messages to work out for yourself. And you do it, because you have to do it, because it's important and you know it is. And so you're stuck between this disembodied force and an inescapable duty with no space to breathe. I had no room to even think about what I wanted for myself. I dedicated everything to it. I did everything that was asked of me. And, with the apocalypse being over, I thought 'why put myself through all that again?' I found something else. I found the life I wanted and I took it."
"You didn't think to maybe just tuck it away?" asked Crowley. "You had to set it aflame, did you?"
"I thought it would unburden me. Symbolically. And literally. It seemed like a good idea at the time."
Aziraphale and Crowley sat defeated. They hit a dead end and would have to find another way.
"So what's next then?" the demon asked the angel.
"I don't know. I guess we start at the start. Which I suppose is where we are now."
"What about that army? We could work on swiping from their legions. Grow ours, shrink theirs"
"I think we'll have to be a bit more clever than that," said Aziraphale. "They've got millions of soldiers standing at the ready upstairs. And millions downstairs, certainly. "
"But we just have to take out the winners."
"Oh, no trouble then," Aziraphale said sarcastically. "You and I and our dinner guests will undoubtedly strike down the legions of Heaven with ease."
"Who says it's Heaven that'll triumph?"
The two whittered on as Anathema stared into herself. She burnt the world's only instructions on how to save it. She felt both incredibly awful and incredibly bitter about it. Given the options, she'd certainly prefer the world not to end. And she'd definitely prefer the end of the world to not be attributed to something she had or hadn't done. But, besides that, she couldn't help but feel upset about how unfair it all was. Why did it have to be her? Again? Why couldn't she just live her life? She never signed up for any such responsibilities as preserving the fate of humanity and all living creatures great and small. She just wanted to live her quiet little life.
Anathema thought to take a peek at their auras. She peeked at most everybody's auras. Being aware of those around her was just good practice. This seemed especially true if those around her were book thieving witches making proclamations about the end of times.
She focused on Aziraphale. The world around him blurred, and she saw not colours, but light. A light which was both soft and bright, and it gave her an overwhelming sense of love. It filled her with a rush of hope, of rapture, of bliss flooding through her body in waves. It filled her with a sensation of flight, and of being lifted above all her worldly issues. It was euphoric. She saw great white wings take shape, filling her little kitchen, shifting softly with his movements and gestures. They stretched out beyond the corners of her small space, enveloping her. She felt safe. She felt weightless. She pulled back, shaking a little. Aziraphale and Crowley were still bickering like an old married couple.
Anathema turned her attention to Crowley. She was having great difficulty focusing on his aura. As the space around him blurred, so too did he, melting into shades that danced and flickered like a flame. They'd form and dissipate and then reform. She focused harder. Wings began to take shape. Imposing black wings filled her little kitchen, drowning out the light, casting a shadow so heavy that she felt herself sinking into it. She felt she was being consumed by it. That she was no longer herself, but a spark of consciousness that was created to be snuffed out, and to experience this suffocation. She stared into the void helplessly, and the void stared into her. The wings faded, back to a swarm of dark shapes shrinking and swaying away from Anathema's center of view. And then a snake emerged. A slithery thing, shifting and pulsing as it glanced about the space tasting the air, superimposed on Crowley as he sat talking with the angel. The snake took notice of her and slowly recoiled, pulling itself in as though to strike. It stared at her as she stared at it, frozen and unable to move. Anathema was trapped in its gaze. It let out a raspy hiss, and Anathema felt a horror rush through her, a shivering cold sweeping her body.
Aziraphale took notice of her shrinking into her seat, eyes locked onto Crowley. Her colour was pallid, her pupils dilated, and a sheen of sweat glistened on her skin.
"Anathema?" the angel asked. She pushed back with a startled gasp, sending her chair out from under her as she passed out onto the floor. "What did you do?" Aziraphale accused Crowley.
"What? I didn't do anything."
Chapter 19: And what do we do with Witches?
Summary:
Anathema digs deep, discovering new witchy talents.
Chapter Text
Crowley and Aziraphale stood over Anathema as she laid crumpled on the floor. Crowley nudged at her leg with his foot, with no further conclusions to draw from the results. She was unconscious.
"Well," said the demon, "she seems to be breathing, so she's probably fine."
"We can't just leave her like this," said Aziraphale.
"Sure we can. We've got more important things to do than babysit a witch. End of the world and all."
Aziraphale moved to lift her, motioning with a nod for Crowley to grab her legs. "If you would, please." Crowley huffed but didn't argue. They carried her limp body to the living room and laid her onto the sofa. Crowley waited slightly impatiently for Aziraphale's thoughts on how to proceed.
"I have an idea, " said the angel as he reached for a blanket from a basket in the corner. "Anathema is a witch. And not just any witch. She's Agnes Nutter's descendant."
"She is that." confirmed Crowley.
"So it's entirely possible that she has the same gifts. She just hasn't had the opportunity to use them."
"Mmmm. That's a thought," Crowley said hopefully, looking at the witch who was now tucked in with a mustard wool blanket. The demon took a seat. "How do prophets go about prophesying?"
"I'd imagine that it's down to the individual. Some go about their prophecies as they do any mundane task, inspired as they sip their afternoon tea. Some use various substances to encourage the flow. Some spend years wandering the desert alone eating spiders and licking cave dew. I hope Anathema would prefer the more mundane route."
"Ah! We should get her submerged in water," Crowley suggested. "I saw it on Stranger Things. A sort of sensory deprivation chamber. Soon as she doesn't know where she is, she'll see where we're going. That's how it works."
Anathema began to shift on the sofa. Aziraphale retrieved a pillow to prop her up. "Are you alright, dear? You took a tumble in the kitchen." He wedged a pillow in behind her head.
"You're an angel," she mumbled, still woozy.
"Oh, it's no trouble."
Anathema looked over at Crowley. "And you're a demon."
"Oh..." said Aziraphale, realizing they'd been seen. The witch was perceptive.
Crowley grinned. "Well spotted! You got that right."
"Yes, he is technically a demon. But a really very good one, I can assure you."
Crowley rolled his eyes. "Moving right along. We thought maybe you could drum up some prophecies for us. You're Agnes' descendant. You ought to have a knack."
"I'm not a prophet. I've only recently started making decisions about my own life," she asserted.
"But you could try," Crowley insisted. "Really, it's the least you could do considering the whole 'burning humanity's only hope of survival' incident."
"You don't have to do anything, Anathema," said the angel. "But if you wanted to try, we'd be here to guide you through it."
"I wouldn't know where to start."
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Aziraphale stood with his hands behind his back, looking out the thick etched glass of the bathroom window. The trees and houses across the way were splotches of colour and light. The sounds of people coming home from work filtered through the glass, engines and horns and tired people making polite but unenthusiastic conversation, pushing their way to their sanctuaries for the evening. Crowley sat on the counter next to the sink inspecting a rubber duck.
Anathema entered the crowded space wearing a plum coloured tank top and a black petticoat. She walked over to her clawfoot tub which was already prepared, half filled with warm water. Stepping into it felt strange and unusual, with an audience of an angel and a demon in her private space. But she shut those thoughts out. This was important, she told herself. She submerged her head and hair to soak in the wet, and then let herself float with her legs folded over the edge of the insufficiently large basin. It would have to do.
"Just try to relax," Aziraphale said as she floated in her tub. "Close your eyes. Clear your thoughts. Focus on my voice."
Crowley moved his hand to dim the lights and snapped his fingers to shut down all the noise from the outside world.
"You're safe," the angel affirmed. Anathema wanted to believe it. She allowed herself to believe it. She believed it. She floated in this space between her home and oblivion. She was falling into a dream. A sleepless dream. "I'm right here with you. Everything else is noise. It's static. It doesn't exist. Let the world fall away from you." Anathema was floating in a pool of blackness. The world was an echo in the distance. A fading memory in the vacuum of this timeless space she was falling into. "You're safe here. Let yourself go. No harm can come to you. I'll keep you safe. Let yourself fall." Anathema floated weightlessly in the nothingness. And then a small weight formed in her head, a dizzying weight that sent electric pulses through to her fingers and toes. And suddenly it took her from spinning to falling within an instant. A violent and disorienting collapse. The descent was so rapid and heavy she couldn't find the space to breathe or think, everything was the feeling of the fall.
Aziraphale let her fall. Anathema hit the bottom with a sudden thud. She gasped as her lungs filled with air. The eerie sensation of falling settled as she brushed her fingers along the solid ground beneath her. It felt like stone. Porous stone, slightly cool to the touch. She opened her eyes. It was a smokey world with streams of sepia tinged light. She got up and looked around to find the demon in a seated position but with nothing underneath him. He was suspended above the ground, watching her. She turned to find the angel facing her. He appeared to be talking, lips forming around sounds that didn't connect to her. The space was devoid of sound. She focused on him, trying to pull the words into the world.
"Can you hear me?" Aziraphale asked.
"Yes, I hear you. I see you. And the demon. You're both here."
Aziraphale and Crowley looked at one another, both slightly surprised at how well things seemed to be progressing.
"What else do you see?" the angel asked.
"Not... not much of anything, really. It's dark and murky." She focused on the distance beyond her companions, trying to bring something into being. A door formed, and she watched as Aziraphale became two distinct Aziraphales; one standing poised and attentive, and another in pursuit of something beyond the door. And she watched as another Crowley took shape, following closely behind the other Aziraphale. She followed.
"I see a grandfather clock."
"The bookshop?" Crowley suggested.
"I don't see books... There isn't much detail though. It's like a dream." Anathema tried to focus on the scene. "...there are others here." Anathema watched faded figures moving through the dream, the faint shape of wings at their backs. "They're, um... I think they're angels. I think I see two angels. They're looking for you. They're wondering where you are. But you're right there." She watched Aziraphale reach for Crowley's hand. She watched as their forms began to fade and dissipate, vanishing from the space, leaving a strange vacuum in the dreamscape. It felt wrong. It felt like something had happened which shouldn't and couldn't happen.
"You've gone."
"Where to?"
"No. You've disappeared. First you were there, and then you weren't there. You didn't get up and leave. You disappeared."
A knock at the door broke through Anathema's concentration and she was suddenly back in her tub. Another knock. The witch shook off her disorientation and answered. "Yes?"
Crowley recovered the lights and sounds of the present world as Newton opened the door. Pulsifer was a bit confused with the scene, but he pushed on with his initial intent. "I was thinking to order some takeaway."
"That sounds great," responded Anathema, who was now sat up, wrapped in a cloak of wet hair. She smiled. Newton made eye contact with Crowley. He too smiled. Newton glanced at Aziraphale standing in the back. He offered a gentle wave and nod. "What were you thinking?" asked Anathema.
Newton thought for a moment. "Kebab?"
"Sure, that sounds great."
Newton stood awkwardly in the doorway, wondering if anything else should be said considering the presence of the two strange yet oddly familiar men in this private space. "... should I order extra?"
"Oh no, no," Crowley interjected as he stood up from the counter. "We should probably be heading out." He exited the crowded bathroom.
Aziraphale turned to Anathema. "You did very well. I hope it wasn't too unpleasant. We'll be in touch." Anathema nodded, and the angel politely scooched past Newton.
Chapter 20: Take on Me
Summary:
Moving on from immediately after the visit with Anathema straight back to the 1980s.
Songs of note are:
Head Over Heels - Tears for Fears
Just Like Heaven - The Cure
Take on Me - a-ha
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Crowley and Aziraphale returned to the Bentley. Night had fallen. They hadn't gotten what they came for, but they did get something from Anathema. The Bentley sped down the dark street as both Aziraphale and Crowley were quite lost in their own thoughts. The drive was silent for a little while as the witch encounter settled in their respective headspaces.
"What do you suppose it means?" asked Aziraphale. "She does indeed appear to have the ability," he mused. "In fact, I'd say she's remarkably adept for a novice. And now that she's aware of the talent, I suspect she could become quite powerful. Or rather, if there was adequate time for her to develop the skill she could be."
"How much time you think we got? Doesn't your boss let you in on the schedule? Or is that another one filed under 'ineffable'?" Crowley looked at Aziraphale as he spoke, and it was obviously making the angel anxious. "It might be useful to know how much time we had. Maybe... or not. Maybe I'd rather not know."
"If you'd please keep your eyes on the road, Crowley!" Azirapale was tensing up. "It would be frightfully disruptive to be discorporated now. Really. If you insist on going 90 miles an hour, you could at least keep your eyes on where you're going. Please!"
"...and where are we going?" the demon asked, occasionally glancing at the road.
"I, um..." the angel thought about it briefly, but became quickly distracted with the beaming headlights of a semi coming at them. "Crowley!" Aziraphale braced himself on the dashboard. The ten ton truck honked as it passed the Bentley, not quite grazing them, but not leaving enough space for Aziraphale to be at ease. The angel's eyes shut out the world and his breathing was panicked and rapid. His apparent stress levels were enough to get Crowley to turn into the next stop, which happened to be a quaint little diner.
Crowley pulled into a spot and shut off the engine. He turned a sympathetic eye to the angel, who was still working on letting go of his distress. "I'm not going to drive us headfirst into a lorry, Aziraphale. If we're dying sometime soon it'll be a little more interesting than that." Crowley looked into the large glass windows of the restaurant. "Did you want some tea or cake or-"
"I won't be placated with sweets, thank you." Aziraphale said haughtily. His anxiety finally settled as he looked in at the cozy space with longing. "Although, since we're already here..."
------------------------------
1980s
Crowley drove down a rural road with Aziraphale sat in the passenger seat. The angel was feeling a bit concerned for the demon, despite his insistence on being fine.
"Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?" asked Aziraphale.
"I'm sure," Crowley asserted. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Even so. If there's something bothering you, you know I'm here if you wanted to-"
"Where are we going, angel?"
"Right." Aziraphale redirected his energy. "I have a blessing in a rather rural location. A shopkeeper 'out in the middle of nowhere', as they say. He's a pillar of his community, apparently, and his faithful devotion has earned him some attention upstairs. It would be a bit difficult to secure other means of transportation, so thank you."
"Don't thank me."
"I appreciate it, anyway." Aziraphale looked to a silent Crowley as he kept his sights on the road ahead. "He also happens to run a shop with an array of vintage pieces, specializing in vinyl records. I may be interested in a particular record he has in the shop currently." Crowley feigned interest. The demon cared little for the topic, but listening to the angel go on about the things he loved felt nice anyway. He was quite charmed at the angel's enthusiasm. Aziraphale's general disposition was enchanting. It sweetened the demon's world. Frustratingly, but also undeniably so. Crowley's interest, driven solely by the angel's interest in the topic, persuaded him to listen to him babble on about the things he loved. "Patricia Farkas. She is- well, she's a musical prodigy! The piano, the violin, the lute... even the harp. She's like an angel, if angels had any musical inclination. I had the good fortune to attend one of her performances. And, as I understand, there was a recording of the very same performance I had experienced! Can you imagine? I would just be over the moon if I could get my hands on it."
"Sure. Sounds important." They sat silently for a while, the angel's excitement tempered by the demon's tepid response. "Why don't you get a car of your own?"
Airaphale thought the question felt sharp. "I don't mean to trouble you with-"
"Oh, no. It's no trouble. But maybe you'd like the independence. You wouldn't have to come to me for stuff like this."
The angel thought about it. He did in fact know how to drive, but got on quite well without a vehicle. He managed in the city between walking, buses and trains. "I think I prefer you do the driving, Crowley."
"Was just a thought."
"You're not wrong. I just... well, perhaps you could teach me," suggested the angel, suddenly seeing potential in the idea.
"Teach you? Don't you guys have instructions upstairs? Any leap in technology should ought to have-"
"Yes, well, I'd rather learn through trial and error. The knowledge feels more significant when I earn it myself." Aziraphale eyed Crowley's hands on the wheel. "I'd prefer a more hands-on experience. If you were willing to take me on."
"Hands on- ...take on what, now?"
"Take on me," Aziraphale smiled innocently.
Crowley glanced at him. Any sense of suggestiveness he gleaned from the words was quickly dismissed as the angel being naive. Oblivious. "Not with my Bentley."
----------------------------
Three hours into the journey, the Bentley started to make rather unusual and alarming noises. It hissed and sputtered to a halt. They were indeed in the middle of nowhere, but not the nowhere they were aiming for. Aziraphale watched as Crowley turned the ignition fruitlessly.
"This isn't a thing that happens," the demon said, as though to remind his car that it should be working. The Bentley had in fact never behaved in such a manner. She was feeling mischievous on this particular occasion.
"Maybe you need to fill up on petrol?" said the angel. "I understand that's a thing one does with motor vehicles."
"My car doesn't run on petrol. It runs on... well, it just runs. Always." He turned the key again. And again. His frustration mounted. "What the heaven is wrong with you? Come on! You don't get to just quit. You're better than that. Do better!" Crowley gave up on the ignition and shifted his focus to demoralization. "Argh, for Satan's sake...what an absolutely useless pile of metal. You've failed your one and only purpose. I should let you fester in the hot flaming bowels of Belial. You completely and utterly worthless rusted mass of-."
"Don't listen to him," said Aziraphale as he patted the interior reassuringly. "I think you're splendid."
Crowley sat slumped in his seat. He vaguely considered making a new plan, but not before a thorough submersion in his feelings of disappointment and defeat.
"Shouldn't we be carrying on?" pressed the angel. "We can't just sit here hoping something happens. There's work to be done."
"You want to walk halfway across the country?"
"No. I don't want to. But if I have to, I'll do it. Besides, we must be halfway there by now." Aziraphale peered through the window, looking for road signs in the dark.
"Go on, then. Spread your little wings and... walk."
"That's quite unnecessary. Why are you even here if you're so eager to quit."
"You came to me."
"For help. This isn't helpful."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I don't know. If I knew that, I wouldn't come to you for help."
Silence. Frustration grew a distance between the two.
"I want your help," said the angel, "but I certainly don't need it. I can manage just fine on my own." Aziraphale looked over at Crowley, hoping for some sort of reaction. Crowley gave none. Aziraphale opened the door and walked off in a dramatic huff.
Crowley fought the urge to follow. He watched the angel wander down the pitch black dirt road. The Bentley decided now was a good time for a tune, transmitting a static buzz of the radio and shifting it into a familiar melody.
"Feeling musical are we? Maybe get your act together so we can get the hell out of here. This is a massive waste of time."
I'm lost in admiration, could I need you this much?
Oh, you're wasting my time
You're just, just, just wasting time
Something happens and I'm head over heels
I never find out until I'm head over heels
Crowley shut it off. After only a brief pause, it started playing again.
Show me how you do it
And I promise you, I promise that
I'll run away with you
I'll run away with you
"Alright, alright, I got it," Crowley grumbled as he gestured for the sounds to stop. He exhaled and stepped out of the car. "I'm still incredibly disappointed in you," he told the Bentley before turning his efforts towards catching up with Aziraphale.
Notes:
A Means to an End - Joy Division
A legacy so far removed
One day will be improved
Eternal rights we left behind
We were the better kind
Two the same, set free too
I always looked to you
I always looked to you
I always looked to you
We fought for good, stood side by side
Our friendship never died
On stranger waves, the lows and highs
Our vision touched the sky
Immortalists with points to prove
I put my trust in you
I put my trust in you
I put my trust in you
A house somewhere on foreign soil
Where aging lovers call
Is this your goal, your final needs
Where dogs and vultures eat
Committed still, I turn to go
I put my trust in you
I put my trust in you
I put my trust in you
I put my trust in you
In you, in you, in you
Put my trust in you, in you
Chapter 21: Talk Talk
Summary:
Continuing our 1980s adventure, Crowley and Aziraphale stumble their way through some roadblocks.
Special thanks to AddledMongoose!
Chapter Text
1980s
Aziraphale strode along the side of the dirt road in the darkness. He felt the cool night air on his face, and he inhaled it with deep intentional breaths. The world around him smelled of autumn rain. It smelled of fire and fungus and rotting leaves.
There were no street lamps, and the angel could barely see ten feet ahead of himself. The darkness was troubling at first, but his eyes adjusted and before long the moon seemed to brighten, casting blue light to reveal his path. His other senses also seemed to pick up the slack, and his confidence grew as he became more aware of his surroundings. Aziraphale could taste and feel the world around him. He was not lost in the darkness. He was its companion, and it walked with him as he moved steadfast and fearless towards his purpose.
He could hear Crowley's feet shuffling to catch up to him. The sound was a great relief, and the angel slowed his gait.
The demon's dark figure walked quietly next to Aziraphale. From his periphery, the angel could see him glancing over as though he wanted to say something. But he bit his tongue, and the two of them walked on for ten minutes before he decided to break the silence.
"You know," Crowley finally said, "it'll be a good six hours if you plan to walk your way there. Is that the plan?"
"That doesn't sound so bad," replied the angel, wondering if his feet were starting to hurt. Perhaps his sock was bunching up around his heel, now that he was thinking on it. And maybe there was a tiny pebble in his right shoe. He could kind of feel it with every third or fourth step, if he really focused on it. Aziraphale looked over at Crowley's feet. His short black boots seemed far more practical under the circumstances, traversing leaves and puddles with ease. His slim black jeans were well out of the way of the damp road. His shirt hung a little loose around his neck, with the fabric skimming his chest to drape over his hips. His blazer was rolled up his forearms, and his hands moved with the same slinky rhythm of his walk.
Gosh he's pretty, thought the angel, eagerly drinking in the sight of him. Am I staring? The angel forced himself to look to the path ahead. Aziraphale's feelings for Crowley were getting more complicated lately, extending into new places that filled his head and body with a fluttering sense of wanting. It was delicious in and of itself, enough that he let it flood his senses before sending it back into hiding.
Crowley took notice of the lingering stare. "What?" he asked, defensively.
"Oh... nothing." Aziraphale blushed.
"I'm not apologizing."
"What would you apologize for?"
"For telling you to walk off."
"Yes, right. You did do that." Aziraphale tried to sound severe. He was mostly just glad that Crowley was walking with him. Irate, frustrated Crowley, walking by his angelic counterpart. The angel could always rely on him. However begrudgingly he attended the requests, he always came when called upon. It was such a habit that Aziraphale hadn't really stopped to consider why. Perhaps their friendship, after so many years, had evolved into something beyond what might be considered sensible judgements. The lonely struggle for justice over duty had somehow forced them to walk a similar path. Surely that was it... but no. Crowley had no interest in setting the world right. He enjoyed the chaos. He delighted in it. Maybe Crowley was seeking the angel's approval as a sort of stand-in for the judgement that cast him down. But again, no. He didn't want Aziraphale's forgiveness. He didn't want anyone's forgiveness.
Aziraphale thought himself into disquiet. Was Crowley hanging around to poke holes in his resolve? To question his motives? Or did the demon not believe Aziraphale capable enough to navigate the human world and follow through with his tasks? "I can manage quite well on my own, you know," he said, replying to his own thoughts.
"Sure." Crowley responded thoughtlessly. The angel's words made him uncomfortable. He stopped walking, flustered at their meaning. Crowley wanted very little in this world. More than anything, he wanted Aziraphale to want his help. He wanted to feel needed. His damned hellish purpose was incredibly unfulfilling. Crowley wanted to focus on something that made sense, and Aziraphale made sense. Even with his sometimes ridiculous preconceived notions, the angel was always clever enough to find the grey. Maybe he was uncomfortable with it, but he wouldn't deny it, and it made Aziraphale all the more fascinating to Crowley. The demon wanted to feel wanted. "Do you want me here or do you not want me here?"
"Of course I want you here," the angel said. "Just, I'm not so naive as you may think, Crowley. I'm perfectly capable of seeing to the task on my own. I've been around just as long as you have."
"Yes, angel. I know."
-------------------------------
Small lights drifted slowly towards them as they walked through the night, getting larger and brighter as they moved closer. The lights belonged to a shabby motel at the side of the road, a welcome ramshackle oasis.
It was a small run-down two story building with a brick exterior and a questionably sound balcony running along the entire second floor. The doors were all painted a royal blue, refusing to match any other part of the aesthetic except in that they were also significantly weathered. The two walked into the car park and had a look around. Crowley's interest lay in the half dozen or so cars available. He walked over to a small green Volkswagen and unlocked it with his hand pressed on the door.
"You're stealing a car," Aziraphale said sternly.
"Want to suggest an alternative?" Crowley sat with the door ajar. He cracked and wiggled his fingers, and failed to miracle the car to start.
"We could ask for a ride into town. I'm sure someone would be willing to help."
"Urghh ngk," Crowley grimaced. "I'm not doing that. Besides, a bit of theft will ease my conscience, especially with the inevitable blessings. It'll be my shroud of depravity." He rummaged through the glove compartment looking for keys. "A shelter of deviance to shield me from your good deeds," he said, failing to notice that Aziraphale had already wandered off. Crowley checked under the visors. Empty. He tried again to miracle the car into submission, but no. "Oh, come on," he pleaded. Nothing wanted to go his way. Every step today had been met with universal defiance. It was an unproductive drudgery and Crowley was feeling drained. He slumped into the seat.
The demon flipped the visor back up and noticed Aziraphale had made his way to the second floor balcony. He seemed to be having a chat with a fairly large man who looked to have taken a keen interest in him, slowly moving closer and leaning into him. Aziraphale looked uncomfortable, Crowley thought. Didn't he? The demon fought his instinct to come to the rescue. The angel made it clear how very capable he was on his own, after all. Crowley bit his lip, sucking air through his teeth as he looked away, tapping his fingers on the wheel of the car. He glanced up again. The large man was very definitely getting closer, and Aziraphale was looking more troubled. "What are you doing, angel..." Despite himself, Crowley decided to interfere.
He climbed the stairs and hovered a few meters away, eavesdropping on the conversation, cautious of overstepping boundaries. He leaned on the frail railing with an air of nonchalance and listened to the two talk, and neither of them seemed to take notice of his presence. The angel was very focused on leaning away from the stranger, unsure whether he sensed conflict or something else entirely. And the man gracelessly pursued him, filling up the space Aziraphale created every time he leaned away. The man was propositioning the angel, but despite a lack of subtlety, the angel, confused and uncomfortable, was missing the point. How frustrating to watch this stumbling performance.
"He wants to have sex with you," Crowley blurted out.
"Ah," said Aziraphale, taking notice of the demon's presence with gratitude. "Well, I, um... No thank you. I'd rather prefer not to. But thank you all the same," he said politely.
"I see you're managing quite well on your own, angel," the demon said sarcastically.
The man stepped back. "Oh, you're together," turning to Crowley, "I didn't realize he was spoken for."
Crowley twitched. "I don't speak for him."
Aziraphale's discomfort turned to upset. "We're not together. I don't even know him."
"Really? I guess I'll just leave you to it, then?"
"I can help you forget him," said the man, moving on to his new target.
Crowley turned his attention to the interloper who was quickly moving his way into the demon's personal space. "Ehhh... second choice, though. I like to pretend I have a little more self respect than that."
The man persisted, leaning into the demon. "I can make you feel things you didn't even know you were capable of feeling. I can make you forget him. I can make you forget your own name."
"Crowley...!" said Aziraphale, with growing discomfort.
"You think so?" Crowley asked defiantly. "Seems unlikely."
"You just let me take you there," he responded with an incredible air of confidence. "You'll be a shivering wreck when I'm done with you. And you'll beg me for more." Crowley was entertained by the human's conviction. The man leaned in to whisper in Crowley's ear.
Crowley smiled, amused. "Filthy." He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Maybe you do have something I want."
Aziraphale watched in horror. He was certainly feeling things he didn't know he was capable of feeling. And he looked on as Crowley spoke with this stranger in hushed tones, as Crowley locked his gaze onto the man with a teasing smile. When he saw Crowley move his hands across the man's torso, he thought perhaps he would burst into flames. Aziraphale averted his eyes, but before he could stop himself, the man vanished at the snap of his fingers. The angel's impromptu miracle left Crowley standing there with keys dangling from his fingers, looking both surprised and impressed.
"Good timing," said the demon. He held out the keys with bated excitement. "We've got a car! Black Impala in the corner." Finally, things were looking up. Crowley walked off down the stairs towards the new transportation, and Aziraphale pulled himself together and followed.
------------------------
The light of dawn was starting to brighten the sky as Crowley drove the newly acquired vehicle down the road. The small victory of getting the car lifted his spirits a bit. Aziraphale still looked shaken up from the encounter.
"So," started Crowley, "if I hadn't interrupted, you'd have just gone along with the human for the sake of being polite? To avoid conflict?"
"What? No! Of course not. I wasn't aware of the intention."
Crowley looked over at Aziraphale dubiously. "I don't see how you could have missed it. Maybe you were curious," he suggested.
"Certainly not! I have no interest whatsoever. I'm an angel. I wouldn't engage with a human in such a manner. I have absolutely no interest in anyone else."
"... anyone else?"
"In anyone, I mean," Aziraphale said, blushing at the misspoken words. "I'm an angel."
"So was I. What's your point?"
"Angels don't do that. That's a base human instinct."
"Like eating," Crowley said.
"...well, that's different."
"Enlighten me, angel. How is that different?"
"Food isn't a sin."
"No, but taking too much pleasure in it is. And where is the line? Why attach good feelings to the activity if it only leads to debauchery. Why hold pleasure captive to shame and sin?"
"If there was nothing to tempt the humans to sin, then there would be no way to test the strength of their will. They need to be challenged. They need to make choices."
"This is just the apple tree thing all over again! Here's the thing you want, don't take it. So self-denial is the path to righteousness. And what's the prize for this sacrifice, anyway? An eternity sitting in a room full of other twats who don't have enough sense to realize that they don't even want to be there."
"I, um... I suppose it's a delicate balance."
"You have wants, Aziraphale. With your bookshop, and your clothes, and all the little material possessions. And you take pleasure in food and drink. You have want without need. What harm comes from it?"
"I don't know. It's at least a potential distraction. Besides, you tempted me to eat. And drink."
"Did I?" Crowley was flattered at the suggestion. "I think I just inspired you to take what you wanted. I can't make you want."
"How would you know what I want?"
"I don't... but at least I can tell when someone wants to fuck me."
Aziraphale flushed before realizing Crowley must have meant the man from earlier. "Can you indeed," he mumbled.
Chapter 22: Carrot Cake
Summary:
Crowley and Aziraphale have a chat in a diner.
Warning: there shall be smut.
Many thanks to AddledMongoose and hxneypop.
Chapter Text
Aziraphale and Crowley sat across from one another in a booth at the diner. Apart from one gentleman who sat alone in the corner, they were the only guests of the establishment, catered to by a friendly aproned woman who never seemed to leave the counter without a carafe. She was so friendly and pleased to have customers at this hour that Aziraphale felt pressured to accept the coffee she offered them, instead of his preferred black tea.
"Freshly brewed, just for you lovely gentlemen," she beamed proudly as she placed two mostly clean porcelain mugs on the table and quickly filled them with the dark steamy coffee.
"Oh..." Aziraphale said with restrained disappointment.
Crowley raised a brow. "Didn't you want tea?"
Aziraphale did want tea, but he shrunk at the suggestion. The coffee was here, and the waitress, slightly embarrassed at the demon's question, looked to Aziraphale with sad hopeful eyes.
"No," he lied. "Coffee is perfect. And I'll have a slice of carrot cake as well, please." The waitress smiled with relief and hopped off to fulfill the angel's order.
"Really?" Crowley pressed. It wasn't particularly important, but he was so sure Aziraphale wanted tea that the idea of him settling for coffee put Crowley off.
"Coffee is just fine," Aziraphale insisted as he tasted it and grimaced at the bitter brew. He tried to remedy his choice with a heaping spoon of sugar and a generous pour of cream.
"I'm sure she's made of stronger stuff than to have her day ruined with a request for tea," Crowley said. As it so happened, on this particular day she wasn't.
The coffee was drinkable with enough cream and sugar. Crowley sipped his without either. He found the burnt and bitter taste which accompanied the caffeine hit almost pleasant, though he mostly sipped it for its mild effects on his person. The buzz reminded him that he was in fact alive, and in this moment he found himself filled with gratitude for the fact. Sitting across from Aziraphale in a remote diner at 3 AM was the exact sort of existence he wanted. Or maybe any place at any hour with the angel would do, Crowley just had to blot out the whole 'doomsday on the horizon' bit.
He thought back to the weeks he had spent alone after the stupid angel had left him. Abandoned him, really. All of the sudden, a huge rift appeared in Crowley's world, and he was stranded in a painfully empty space, never more sure of what he wanted, or more keenly aware of how far away it was. Crowley knew Aziraphale didn't want to leave. But knowing a thing and believing a thing were quite different, apparently. The angel was often compelled by forces that had little bearing on his own motivations, so it was entirely possible that his reality was not the same as Aziraphale's. And Crowley wallowed in that uncertain space for weeks, quietly hopeful that what he wanted was possible. And now it was here, lighting up as an aproned lady brought him a slice of cake and refilled both their mugs without prompting.
"Anything else I can get for you, love?" she said to the angel with kind eyes.
"No. This looks wonderful. Thank you ever so much." Aziraphale inhaled the aroma of the subpar coffee mixing with the sweet and spicy notes of the cake. He took a small bite with a dainty dessert fork and made a satisfied moan of approval.
Crowley had been trying to think of some way to casually bring up the whole extreme sanctions thing without causing undue alarm. Or, alarm, however due it may or may not be. Between Hastur's threat, the tarot read, and Anathema's vision, a worrying pattern had emerged, and now that Aziraphale was a potential target he should probably be let in on the possible threat. But Aziraphale was working his way through his dessert, and it seemed a terrible thing to interrupt.
Crowley played his finger along the mouth of his coffee mug as he watched the angel indulge himself. The demon could block out the rest of the world and nearly forget about his own existence while he watched Aziraphale experience the cake with the sort of refined enthusiasm that he embodied so well.
"Mmmm. It's absolutely delicious." Aziraphale licked his lips and took a sip of coffee as he made an effort to slow down. "Don't you want to try it?"
"Hmm?" Crowley stepped out of his trance. "Oh, no. It would only be wasted on me, angel."
"How any human thought to elevate the ordinary carrot into something so delectable-" he paused his thought for another bite. "It must be amoung mankind's greater achievements."
"Sure. The harnessing of fire and electricity, written language and the printing press, agriculture and cake." The words might have come off as sarcastic if Crowley wasn't so pleased to watch the angel indulge his appetite. "I'd vote alcohol onto that list as well. A true foundation of humanity."
"So I was thinking," said Aziraphale as he placed his fork onto the now empty plate. "About Agnes Nutter. Perhaps there's a way to contact her directly. Do you remember Madame Tracy?"
"Yeah. She's the one running Boons and Blessings."
"Oh," said Aziraphale, surprised. "You never actually mentioned that."
"Didn't seem relevant at the time," Crowley shrugged.
"Well, as I recall, she had the capacity to speak with those who've passed on through some sort of summoning ritual." Aziraphale sifted through his memories. "I suspect that sort of interaction would be generally frowned upon by the, um..." the angel glanced upwards and fiddled with his ring.
"You're the Supreme Archangel. Whatever you say goes."
"That's not quite how it works. I'm still a servant of the lord. I'm obligated to do as Heaven commands."
"Heaven won't know about it anyway. And I'm pretty sure Madame Tracy would be happy to help. She remembers you quite fondly." Crowley watched Aziraphale struggle through some thoughts anxiously. "Speaking of relevancy and death and all..." Crowley said with a deliberate dispassion, but the words immediately moved the angel to full attention. "The, um... there may or may not be reason to possibly be concerned- maybe... with extreme sanctions." Aziraphale gave a puzzled look as Crowley sniffed casually and took a sip of his coffee. "It's all really just speculation. It's probably nothing, but in case it isn't- and then even if it is... but between the death reading and the disappearing act with Anathema. I'm just saying-"
"Death reading?"
"Some card game with Madame Tracy. And her competence is, at the very least, questionable. Point is, extreme sanctions might be on the table."
"That isn't actually a thing."
"Oh. Good. Nevermind."
"Right? I don't think it is. One can be cast down. Or have their memory wiped. That one wasn't a thing until recently. As far as I know."
"Things aren't usually things until they are," Crowley said, helpfully. "And demons can't be cast down. Except into a bottomless pit, which isn't actually bottomless but a lemniscate that is in fact escapable. And then there's the various means of torture, mostly sourced from humans, who are generally far more creative than demons on the subject of how to maximize suffering. The rack, the brazen bull, the pear of anguish..." Crowley shuddered. "The one where they peel off your skin and salt you and then bring in the goats. Or just a good old-fashioned impalement. Takes a surprisingly long time to drop off with that one, then you just show up again for whatever's next. And don't get me started on the hell hounds-"
"I'd really rather not hear about this, Crowley. Please. I can't focus with such thoughts."
"Not existing would be worse than torture though. Not in the moment, of course, but-" the demon made an effort to veer off the subject. Crowley had a habit of thinking of the worst possible scenario. It was a kind of survival strategy. "The other apocalypse would probably have gone the same way if we weren't in the picture, if that helps."
"That actually doesn't help at all."
"How about this," the demon said as he leaned across the table. "If it's possible to erase someone from the book of life, why not the Metatron?"
Aziraphale swallowed a lump in his throat at the suggestion as he looked around the diner anxiously. The lone man in the corner was folding up a newspaper and moving towards the exit. He didn't take notice of the angel doing his very best to act casual. Saving the world was the end goal, certainly, and Aziraphale was prepared to defend it and Crowley with everything he had. But an attack on Heaven felt like an entirely different thing. He was a protector, not an assailant.
"You said Saraqael was due to be the bookkeeper," Crowley said. "Wouldn't it be brilliant to dismantle Heaven with an eraser." The demon snorted through a laugh. "There'd be absolute chaos in the celestial ranks. Maybe toss Belial into the unknown too, while we're at it."
"I should probably check in upstairs to see how things are coming along," Aziraphale said thoughtfully.
----------------------------
The two left the diner and climbed into the Bentley.
"So, back to the bookshop then?" Crowley asked, looking over at the angel for direction.
Aziraphale was planning an ascent to have a chat with Saraqael, but not before checking on how Muriel was doing with his shop. It was his true home, afterall. Their home. And he still missed it for all the weeks he had spent in the bleak white celestial plane. He looked at Crowley, eyebrows raised over shades as he waited for a reply. "I won't let anything happen to you, Crowley."
"Oh?" Crowley laughed. "You're my knight in shining armour now, are you?"
"I'm serious." The angel's face was weighted with an intense sincerity.
Crowley shook off his amusement and tried to meet the angel's mood. He removed his glasses and placed them on the dashboard. "I don't need rescuing, Aziraphale. I just need you to come back. Every Heavenly visit makes me a bit nervous now."
"I know you don't need rescuing. But if you did, I would. I'd do anything," the angel said. He stared forward through the window into the empty car park, deep into himself, realizing the truth of the words. The archangel's commitment revolved around the demon now. Heaven and earth were just places. Crowley was his world. "I'd do absolutely anything."
Aziraphale looked so solemn for such a sweet sentiment. Crowley slid over in the front seat of the Bentley and pressed up against the angel. He reached his hand out to gently direct Aziraphale's face towards himself, pulling the angel's severe gaze to meet his eyes. The angel stared into them. "I believe you," Crowley said. Aziraphale glanced at his lips as the words left his mouth, and he couldn't help but fall into a kiss.
The taste of Crowley's lips softened Aziraphale. It dissolved his severity, and instead he felt weak. Aziraphale's worry melted away as their soft wet lips danced, and he felt a heavy weight pull his flesh to attention as he held onto the demon's shoulders. He felt Crowley's hands moving up his thigh. Weakly, the angel fought the temptation, pulling out of the kiss, pressing his forehead against the demon's. "Crowley. We're in a car park." He winced. The words were simple and sensible and deeply upsetting.
Crowley glanced around the Bentley. "We're in my car in an empty lot in the middle of the night," he said, his hand still exploring the angel's thick thigh, moving along the inner parts until he was gently grazing the space between his legs. The angel breathed deeply, trying to temper his desire while the demon worked to stoke it steadily. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked. Aziraphale managed a stiff shake of his head, and Crowley's hand immediately worked to open the angel's trousers.
The demon unzipped him and reached a hand into grey-blue boxers to stroke at him softly. Aziraphale gave into the sensation, and he sank into the leather seat and started to gasp at the strokes as his want quickly became need.
Crowley loved to watch Aziraphale in this helpless thrall, soft whimpers and shaky breaths. More than anything, Crowley loved that he could make the angel feel such a way, responding eagerly to his every touch. Aziraphale's shaky breaths gave way to moans, and Crowley bowed to take him in his mouth.
"Oh... oh my- mmm," Aziraphale's moans grew quickly at the slick steady movement of Crowley of his mouth on his hardness. He moved slowly, for which the angel was exceedingly grateful. He was on the edge already, and he didn't want to leave. He exhaled, pulling himself back a little. His eyelids fluttered as Crowley's tongue drew over the tip of cock. His fingers tingled as they grasped the air for nothing, then came down to the demon's crimson locks, pulling him gently back. Crowley groaned softly at the pull, and the sound only sent Aziraphale closer.
The angel ached. Crowley's fingers danced delicately and chaotically up and over his hardness, yellow eyes watching attentively, drinking in each response. Aziraphale ached. He writhed and sighed, and when Crowley stopped, he couldn't help but let out a pained whine in protest. He opened his eyes to see Crowley's tilted head, waiting for him. Aziraphale watched Crowley's tongue drag along him, unbearably hard, before fully enveloping him. In a moment, he was lost over the edge.
An electric surge moved through him, from the deep of his abdomen shooting through his fingers and shoulders and neck. The angel braced himself on the seat of the Bentley, and Crowley took the angel's hand in his own, threading fingers between fingers. Aziraphale squeezed his hand, tensing and straining into shudders as he came. "Oh... oh, God..." Crowley held firm as his mouth flooded, feeling pulses give way to trembling sighs. Aziraphale quivered, softening his grasp on Crowley's hand.
Aziraphale's senses slowly returned as he caught his breath. His movements were slow and languid as he made an effort to right himself back to a more seated position. The angel felt a small pang of shame crawl up from deep inside him. Blasphemy. That's not like you, angel. The words circled Aziraphale like a memory from a distant past. Certainly it wouldn't be some words spoken in vain, in passion, which would trigger his removal from Heavenly office. Perhaps his downfall would be attributed to his consorting with the enemy. Or imbibing in pleasures of the flesh. Or doing his damndest to thwart God's divine plan. Aziraphale had become Heaven's greatest imposter, and now, it's greatest threat. Surely that would be what doomed the earth to destruction were his true intentions to be discovered. Shhh. Put those thoughts away. They serve nobody.
Crowley's face met his, and he looked deliciously love-drunk. Aziraphale's worries melted at the sight of it. Crowley kissed him, softly and sweetly, before sliding back to the driver side. "Bookshop, then?" he asked again as he started the car.
"Yes," Aziraphale replied as he tucked his shirt in and fastened his trousers. "The bookshop."
Chapter 23: Cars
Summary:
More trouble for Crowley and Aziraphale in the 1980s.
Thanks to AddledMongoose for editing and feedback!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
1980s
Crowley drove the black Impala through the chill early morning. Dew sparkled on the grass at the side of the road. Fog hovered above the ground as the earth awoke, and the sky was alight with streaks of orange and pink. Aziraphale peeked nervously at the dashboard. "I'm quite certain we should stop for petrol. Your fuel gauge indicates we are perilously low on that front."
Crowley glanced at the gauge thinking they likely had fifty miles yet, and they weren't far off their destination now. But as they were nearing a station anyway, fueling up was probably the right idea. He pulled into the dingy petrol pump; the kind which looked as though it had great potential as a setting in an apocalyptic horror film. A horde of flesh-eating zombies straggling through the scene might have given Crowley the distinct satisfaction one gets when everything is in its right place. Instead, he felt a slight unease.
Aziraphale was lost in thought. The visual of Crowley and that man at the motel played over and over in his head, relentlessly, like a sort of mental masochism. What was that feeling? Jealousy. Envy. It worried him. Another sin to taunt and tease at the validity of his angelhood. And possibly lust. Definitely possibly... but minus the possibly.
"You feel that?" Crowley asked Aziraphale as he pulled up next to one of the pumps.
"Feel what, exactly?" Aziraphale asked. The demon cautiously scanned the scene. The angel turned his head to observe their surroundings as well, noting the bleakness of the setting. "It is a bit spooky, isn't it?"
"That's not it," he said. "Spooky's alright by me. I like spooky. This is more like... that moment you're suspended before a drop."
Aziraphale looked confused. Crowley shrugged it off, hopped out, and fuelled up the car. The sky was settling into a hazy autumn grey as he glanced about the empty station, wondering whether or not he should bother to pay. The angel would probably rather he did. He negotiated with himself for a moment before giving into the angel's unspoken preference begrudgingly.
Crowley walked on into the little shop. The door bells jingled as he opened them, triggering the cashier to cast a smile his way before returning his attention to the two men who stood before him.
"Shit," Crowley whispered as he ducked behind a shelf filled with roadmaps. He recognized them. One scruffy blonde in a tattered trench coat, accompanied by another in a long dark leather jacket carrying some sort of reptilian specimen on his head. A stranger might have thought them a rather eccentric duo, all raggedy and rough. The kind of people who wore lizards around town to get a reaction from their neighbors, or pissed on their rose bushes as a bizarre show of dominance. Crowley knew it was so much worse than that.
"Two packs of Rothmans," Hastur said with a particular air of disenchantment.
"Yeah," growled Ligur, "and hurry it up!"
"One pound eighty," said the cashier as he plopped the packs on the counter.
Hastur opened a pack, pulled out a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. It dangled precariously as he spoke. "I'll take a bottle of that there, too," he said as he gestured to a shelf filled with cheap vodka, before his hand went aflame to light up his smoke. The man froze at the sight of the flame, his face stark white. His mouth moved, but nothing audible came of it. He turned suddenly, stiffly, forcing his body to retrieve the requested booze with uncooperative, trembling fingers, and began to hyperventilate before passing out, knocking over several bottles on his way to the floor.
"What a waste," Hastur said as he looked down on the booze-soaked human. "And a hazard, that. Just a spark and..."
"Flambé!" said Ligur cheerfully, sending himself into a chuckle. He helped himself to a bottle and took a swig.
Hastur laughed before returning to his usual state of sullen menace as he noticed Aziraphale sitting in the car outside. The car wasn't there before they had entered this shop. Hastur didn't recognize the angel, but he did recognize that the angel sat in the passenger seat as though he were waiting on someone. He did a quick bout of lurking and quickly found Crowley crouched behind a shelf. Hastur looked down on him with an impressive amount of condescension. "Crowley," he growled.
Crowley glanced up at Hastur and put himself upright. "Oh, hi guys," he said as though he hadn't been hiding. "Hastur. Ligur," he nodded a greeting to them. "How's it going? Hail Satan and so forth..."
"Hail Satan," they chorused reflexively.
"What you doing out here, Crowley?" asked Ligur.
"Last I heard you were working for Lilith," Hastur said as he grinned. He pointed to the angel in the car. "Is that one of yours? Taking them on a little road trip? Going for a picnic in the country?" Ligur laughed as deviously as he could.
Crowley glanced out the window, raised his brows at the suggestion, and frowned dismissively. "Nah... don't know who that is. Just a random human, probably. Looks very random, and very human to me."
Hastur narrowed his eyes on him. "That's the only car outside. And you're the only one here, Crowley." Hastur looked out the window again, "And it really looks like they're waiting on someone, doesn't it?"
"You keeping tabs on me, Hastur?" Crowley said, trying to change the subject. "What are you doing out here, anyway?"
"That ain't none your business, is it?" Ligur interrupted.
"Seems a bit strange you'd find yourself out this way. Unless for some reason you were following me."
"Why would I-"
"Look, I'm flattered, truly. I just don't see it happening."
Hastur pursed his lips. "Pfft. I've got better things to do than to look after you. We're on a job. Someone's been spreading a little too much blessed goodness around town."
"We're gonna put a stop to it," said Ligur.
"... that someone wouldn't happen to be a shop owner? A purveyor of vintage goods?" asked Crowley. "Could he, perchance, be described as a pillar of his community?"
"Could be. What's it to you?"
"You know you can't harm humans directly. Goes against the demonic code and all."
"Indirectly works, just as well," Hastur responded.
"See, that's why you're always lagging behind, Hastur. You lack any sort of subtlety. There's no guile. No cunning. It's always just flaming balls of death with you. How do you expect to impress the Dark Council with that archaic sense of devilry? It's a little embarrassing, to be honest."
Hastur sneered. "What the heaven do you know about devilry, Crowley. Up here, taking humans out on dates... driving cars... wearing those ridiculous glasses. You trying to hide what you are?"
"Hey, the guys downstairs love me. Maybe you could learn a thing or two. And like I said, I'm here alone... I just popped in for a, uh, map," Crowley said as he pulled one from the shelf. "And a bottle of the finest piss-water this town has to offer." He feigned interest in the shelf of vodka, stepping over the counter attendant as Hastur and Ligur exited the shop.
Crowley watched through the window as the demon duo approached the parked Impala with the oblivious angel seated in front, waiting patiently for Crowley's return.
Hastur walked up to Aziraphale's door and cast a menacing gaze down at the angel. Ligur stood at his side and followed suit. Aziraphale glanced up at the men, offered an uncomfortable smile, and quietly hoped the two would quickly move along their merry way. But there they stood, stubbornly present, until the angel could no longer ignore them. Their relentless glares wanted something. Aziraphale had encountered such brutish men in the past. A quick miracle would send them on their way, but he hoped it wouldn't have to come to that. He hoped the gaze which he had interpreted as an attempt at intimidation was simply the side effect of looking such as they did.
Hastur tapped on the window, and Aziraphale politely rolled it down. Hastur didn't offer a greeting, but rather tilted his head and smiled an undeniably deranged smile.
"Hello," said Aziraphale, refusing to let his discomfort disrupt his good manners. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"You're waiting for somebody?" Hastur said.
"I am, yes," Aziraphale replied. Perhaps the two would move along once Crowley returned. Humans of this calibre often retreated once the odds were no longer in their favour. Where the hell is Crowley? Aziraphale wondered anxiously.
"Who are you waiting for?" Hastur asked as he leaned on the car and narrowed his eyes at the angel. Aziraphale was quite ready to miracle his way through these two intrusive cretins, which would have been a solid plan if the two had actually been human. But as they were demons, a small angelic smite would have done little but alert them to his angelic nature.
Aziraphale gathered his courage and stared straight into Hastur's black eyes with determination. As he readied himself for conflict, he caught a glimpse of frantic movement out of the corner of his eye. There, past Hastur's shoulder, over in the front window of the shop was Crowley, arms waving frantically as he attempted to capture the angel's attention.
Once Crowley was fairly certain Aziraphale had noticed his flailing display, he held his hands out to either side of his head to mimic the shape of horns. Aziraphale's eyes widened with sudden understanding. Hastur glanced behind himself just as Crowley ducked out of view.
"Actually, no," Aziraphale backpedaled, "I'm very much alone. Silly me." The angel looked over to the driver seat and was relieved to see that Crowley had fortuitously left the keys in the ignition. "I suppose I'll be driving off, then. As one would do, were they in my position. Alone in a car which they had obviously driven here."
Hastur followed Aziraphale with his sinister gaze as the angel awkwardly climbed out of the passenger seat and shuffled his way over to the other side. The scruffy demon, still leaned upon the Impala, took the opportunity to mark it with a miracle of his own. Hastur's hand glowed briefly as Aziraphale turned the key until the engine rumbled. The angel tested the pedals with trepidation before driving off.
-------------------------
Crowley walked himself in circles at the empty petrol station, trying to keep his physical being occupied while his mind raced on. Surely Aziraphale would return soon. Surely Hastur and Ligur wouldn't risk setting the world around them on fire on their way to a job. That kind of uproar was frowned upon even in the underworld. It drew too much attention. But those two morons couldn't be trusted to follow protocol. And Crowley had set them upon Aziraphale. Not directly, but... well yes, actually, sort of directly. Crowley felt his innards churn.
Aziraphale was perfectly capable, the demon reminded himself. And he had the upper-hand, as he was aware of the true nature of the two fiendish half-wits. Aziraphale would get on just fine without him. The angel was a celestial soldier, after all. A warrior of the divine realm. The flaming sword of Heaven. Only, he had immediately and quietly forfeited that aspect of his duty, embracing all things soft and cozy and warm as an alternative to the sharp and fearsome wrath which God had intended for him. Aziraphale was, for all Crowley could see, without wrath. He was frustratingly stubborn, undeniably brave, and surprisingly defiant. He was sweet, compassionate, bright and insightful...
Crowley drifted hazily on these thoughts before snapping back to his senses. Back to his quiet panic. Hastur and Ligur on foot had no hope of catching up to him in the car, surely. In the car he drove off in. Aziraphale, who only hours ago had asked him for driving lessons.
Crowley continued his pacing until Aziraphale finally returned from an excruciatingly long twelve minute drive. The angel put the car in park, turned off the engine and pocketed the keys without a second thought. Crowley watched from a short distance.
"I thought you didn't know how to drive," said the demon. He was as relieved as he was annoyed.
Aziraphale opened the door and walked around to the passenger side. "Oh..." Aziraphale searched for an answer. "It's an automatic transmission. It practically drives itself," he said bashfully.
Crowley thought hard on the words. He strode forward, pushing Aziraphale against the car with a hand on his chest. Crowley stared him in the eye. "What are you doing, angel?"
"What do you mean?" Aziraphale asked softly. He wondered if Crowley could feel his heartbeat thundering in his chest.
Crowley looked at him critically. Aziraphale felt warm. "You want me to drive."
Aziraphale stood still. He didn't dare move from under Crowley's hand. "Yes," he said gently. "I prefer you do the driving, Crowley."
Crowley dropped his hand to the angel's trousers, feeling for something. He reached into Aziraphale's pocket to pull out a set of car keys. Crowley held out the keys and eyed Aziraphale as though he had just pulled a stolen morsel from the mouth of an opportunistic dog. Aziraphale's expression was resolutely innocent.
"Get in, angel," Crowley commanded as he walked around to the driver's side. Aziraphale did.
Crowley climbed in and looked over at the angel, frustrated. Confused and frustrated. Crowley wouldn't dare assume Aziraphale wanted anything from him except for his company, and even that was oftentimes questionable. Crowley wouldn't dare allow an inkling to interfere with their... whatever this was. Friendship. Alliance. Arrangement. Angel's don't do that, he said so himself. He's not interested. He's not interested in anyone else. For fuck sake. What the heaven was that?
"If I knew what you wanted, maybe I could give it to you," Crowley said firmly.
The angel sat quietly for a long moment as the words circled his head. "I'm not sure what you mean, Crowley."
Crowley sighed. "Fine. Nevermind." The demon started the engine and felt an icy chill run up his spine. He glanced about the car, perplexed. "Something isn't right." All the confused thinking was messing with his focus.
"I did make adjustments to the mirror." Aziraphale said helpfully.
"No, that's not it..." He readjusted the rear-view and tried to shake off his feeling of unease. Crowley was tired. He longed to return to his flat to have some alone time with a couple bottles of brown liquor and just shut out the world for a few days. But he'd have to make it to the end of this journey first.
Off they drove. The Impala sped down the street, honing in on their final destination. Aziraphale sat quietly, occasionally glancing over at his demonic companion. The drive was silent, and not a comfortable kind of silent. Crowley seemed distant, gaze set straight on the road with unenthusiastic determination. Aziraphale tried to find something to say to fill the space, but nothing seemed appropriate.
"That's weird." Crowley said at last. "I'm not driving," he said as he let go of the steering wheel. The light of a vehicle was coming at them from a distance.
"Crowley! Please!"
"Pedals are going on their own too," he noted with curiousity. He was slightly surprised and increasingly worried, but also felt redeemed that his initial senses had been correct.
Aziraphale's eyes widened as the bright lights of a semi shone down on them. Their car was slowly veering into the oncoming lane. They both immediately took to miraculous hand gestures to no avail. Hastur, with a cunning beyond his usual repertoire, had ensured there would be no escape. Failing that, they stared down their fast-approaching fate helplessly. Aziraphale was pale and breathless. Oh, to be discorporated in such a senseless manner. Crowley was sinking into the painful understanding that he had been bested by Hastur on this particular occasion. He'd never live that down.
"Fuck," Crowley said, looking over at Aziraphale who had also come to the same conclusion. The deafening sound of an air horn thundered through their ears before the impact.
-----------------------
Hastur and Ligur stood at the roadside watching with delight as the two vehicles crashed violently into one another, bursting into explosive flames. It set the entire road before them alight in a show reminiscent of a fireworks display. The Impala was demolished by the semi, which had made a noble but useless attempt to avoid the little car, causing it to roll over and submit to its own destruction. Hastur let a wide eyed grin displace his menacing scowl. "That's gotta hurt."
Notes:
There Is A Light That Never Goes Out - The Smiths
Take me out tonight
Where there's music and there's people
And they're young and alive
Driving in your car
I never, never want to go home
Because I haven't got one
Anymore
Take me out tonight
Because I want to see people
And I want to see life
Driving in your car
Oh, please don't drop me home
Because it's not my home, it's their home
And I'm welcome no more
And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten ton truck
Kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine
Take me out tonight
Take me anywhere, I don't care
I don't care, I don't care
And in the darkened underpass
I thought, "Oh God, my chance has come at last"
But then a strange fear gripped me
And I just couldn't ask
Take me out tonight
Oh, take me anywhere, I don't care
I don't care, I don't care
Driving in your car
I never, never want to go home
Because I haven't got one, la-di-dum
Oh, I haven't got one
Oh, oh
And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten ton truck
Kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine
Oh, there is a light and it never goes out
There is a light and it never goes out
There is a light and it never goes out
There is a light and it never goes out
There is a light and it never goes out
There is a light and it never goes out
There is a light and it never goes out
There is a light and it never goes out
Chapter 24: Perchance to Dream
Summary:
Many thanks to AddledMongoose!
Chapter Text
1980s
A small vibration expanded into the darkness that surrounded it. A thrum, which grew in magnitude until it completely enveloped his senses. He could feel it, the vibration coursing through his form and flesh. All of his senses at first cowered, and then cradled it, as though it fed him. As though it would lead him back.
He first realized he existed when he could hear his ragged breaths in the darkness, a descendant of the chaos, to a lonely calm.
Aziraphale couldn't remember how he'd found himself in this room. It was almost as though he had always been here, and perhaps he had. He couldn't bring forth any memories to disprove the possibility. All he could manage, when he concentrated fully, was to observe his surroundings.
The room was perfectly ordinary, both foreign and familiar. It was like a home he couldn't recall. He'd imagine books lining shelves along the walls and then look to see them manifest themselves before his eyes. Of course they had always been there, he just had to look hard enough and they'd realize themselves into existence. Perhaps that's how he had come to be, as well.
There was a bed, and as soon as Aziraphale had identified its presence he found himself in it, swathed in blankets. Trapped. A sense of urgency compelled the angel. He wriggled himself free, tossing the layers aside to look for an exit. This room wanted to keep him. He wanted to break free. His hands felt along the walls searching for a door.
"Hello, Aziraphale," exclaimed a voice behind the angel. An unmistakable voice.
"Crowley," Aziraphale said with great relief, turning to face the demon. "Thank goodness you're here. Where the hell are we?"
Crowley gave the room a quick once-over and shrugged. "I dunno. You ought to know, really. I'm only here because you're here."
Aziraphale shot Crowley a confused look. The demon froze for a moment under the scrutiny of Aziraphale's grey eyes, paused as though he were loading data, and then quietly resumed movement.
Crowley sniffed at the air. "Smells like fire. Am I on fire?" the demon asked casually as he checked his physical form for any indication of flames. He searched for singed hems or wayward sparks and found none. But there was movement in the reflection of Crowley's glasses. Aziraphale saw flames flicker in the lenses, and suddenly the room was an inferno. The blaze roared and sizzled around them, and the vivid heat licked at Aziraphale's skin. Crowley snapped his fingers to extinguish the flames.
Aziraphale's eyes widened. "We're in hell," he said in a hushed tone, as though he had stumbled upon a secret. Heaven had finally rejected him, he thought.
"You think so?" asked the demon. "Seems unlikely."
Aziraphale couldn't shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong. He took a deep breath and tried to focus on what was, not what wasn't, or what might or might not be. A perfectly ordinary room, he noted once more, with Crowley standing dead center. Aziraphale focused on the demon as he stood at the center of his world. He felt his panic dissapate. Crowley was here. Everything would be alright.
Crowley suddenly strode towards him, his hand landing on Aziraphale's chest, pushing him into the wall. Crowley's gaze shot straight through the angel as it brought the sound of his own heartbeat into the foreground.
"If I knew what you wanted, maybe I could give it to you," said Crowley. The words echoed in the room like a memory. Aziraphale knew those words. They had already happened, he was sure of it. The angel shut his eyes to try to find that recognition. If he could locate its place in the universe, perhaps he could trace it back to himself. The demon leaned into him; a terrible and wonderful distraction. He could feel Crowley's breath on his neck. "If you'd tell me what you wanted, Aziraphale..."
"I'm an angel."
"What's your point?"
"If Gabriel had any idea- and if Hell were to find out they'd-"
"Nobody ever has to know." Crowley's hand moved to the small of his back, pulling him close, holding him steady. Aziraphale felt weak.
"You'll get us both in trouble, Crowley. Stop it."
Instantly, Crowley disappeared. Aziraphale stared at the empty space the demon had left unoccupied. "Crowley?"
"Did you know ducks have corkscrew penises?" Aziraphale turned to find Crowley sitting on a bench, legs crossed, at the far side of the room. "I wonder what the almighty was thinking when she worked up that one."
"Probably best not to speculate," Aziraphale responded. "It isn't our place to judge the almighty."
"Well, someone ought to be double checking her work, don't you think? Anyone who can't be questioned can't be trusted."
"I'm quite certain that's blasphemy."
"Ah, well, it's a good thing I'm a demon, then," Crowley said. "Far as I can see, this universe has been just one cock-up after another, in quick bumbling succession. God's got some explaining to do, you ask me." Crowley glanced about the room with a look of worry. "Something isn't right."
A disembodied voice reached out to Aziraphale from beyond the room. "He ought to have come around by now."
An exit sign, which appropriately had an angel shaped figure flying in the direction of an arrow, flashed towards a door. Aziraphale dutifully opened it and peered down a long and winding hall. At the very end stood a figure. "Come now," it said. "You mustn't dawdle. We've got work to do." And with that, the figure vanished.
"Wait!" cried Aziraphale in a sudden panic. I'm late. I'm late for something important. Aziraphale pulled out his pocket watch. He tried to make sense of the time, but the numbers melted through his fingers. A sense of panic surged through his body and sent it forth in a sprint towards the end of the hall. He was late for a very important date, and nothing in the world would distract him from it. Not this time.
He flew through the air. And yet, the further he ran, the longer the hall got. It seemed as though it took all the speed he could muster to keep himself in the same place. The initial sensation of flight was evaporating as gravity began to take hold of his limbs. The air was thick, and it took great effort to cut through it with his increasingly weighty form. He slowed to a painfully sluggish rate. It was exhausting and useless. The angel hunched over to catch his breath, surrendering to the leaden sense of failure. His lungs burned.
"What are you doing, angel?"
Aziraphale turned around to find Crowley. "This is all your demonic work, isn't it?!"
"You think so?" Crowley asked defiantly. "Seems unlikely."
"I don't have time for this! I've got important work to do. I'm late for... for something, I'm sure." Aziraphale looked back towards the end of the hall. The door creaked open.
"Go on then. Don't let me get in your way. Spread your little wings."
The angel turned towards the door and walked onwards. But something was holding him back. Crowley grasped the angel's hand firmly.
"Crowley!" complained Aziraphale.
"Hmmm?"
"Let me go!"
"You're holding onto me!"
"Am I?" Aziraphale stared at his hand wrapped around Crowley's. He couldn't make out where he began and Crowley ended.
Footsteps clapped and echoed along the floor behind them. "Aziraphale," said a voice.
"They're coming, Crowley. You've got to hide!"
"Oh?" the demon raised a brow. "Oh, alright then." He transformed into a snake and slithered his way up Aziraphale's arm.
The angel turned to find Gabriel. Aziraphale smiled nervously, a snake twisting around the arm he held at his back.
"Aziraphale," said Gabriel. "Didn't you have a flaming sword...?"
"I, er... a sword, hm? Big cutty thing... yes, well..."
"You didn't lose it, did you?"
"It must be around here somewhere," said Aziraphale as he checked the floor around his feet for any potentially stray weapons of Heaven.
"What are you hiding?" asked Gabriel.
The snake twisted tighter. "Hiding? Nothing, certainly. I'm an angel. I don't... I'm not hiding anything." Aziraphale cleared his throat. "You have my word as an angel."
Crowley snorted through a laugh. Gabriel vanished. The hallway vanished. There was just Crowley, with a delighted smirk on his face. "Makes you wonder where your loyalties truly lie, doesn't it?" Crowley asked, tilting his head.
"You tricked me!"
"Did I?" Crowley asked. "You walk your own path, Aziraphale. I never made you do anything you didn't want to do. I can't make you want," Crowley said. "What do you want, angel?"
Aziraphale thought about it. He stared at Crowley, thinking about it. The angel swallowed hard. He knew the answer. Every part of him wanted just one thing in this world, and that one thing was Crowley. Aziraphale lingered on the thought.
"What do you want, angel?" Crowley persisted. "Tell me what you want."
Aziraphale was back in bed. Only this time, rather than being engulfed by blankets, it was the weight of Crowley that held him captive. It was everything Aziraphale wanted. A great sadness gripped him. It was everything he couldn't have.
But Aziraphale shut out his worries, closed his eyes, and forced his tormented thoughts to hush. Crowley's weight bore down on him, pressed into his everything.
"Something isn't right," Crowley said, looking into the empty space around them.
Aziraphale opened his eyes. A fracture appeared along the side of Crowley's head. Blood, thought Aziraphale in a rush of dread, reaching his fingers out to stop it. The angel suddenly knew they were moments away from impact.
"Fuck."
----------------------------------------
Aziraphale awoke in a flurry of panic.
Bright sterile lights filled the vast edgeless space he found himself in. Aziraphale was laid out on a bed, swathed in heavy blankets.
"There we are!" a voice said cheerily, walking towards him. "It's about time you came around. I was starting to think we had made a mistake, but Raphael insisted we stuck with it. I was this close to tossing you back into the cosmic void." She laughed. Aziraphale smiled uncomfortably. "You've been back in your body nearly a day, but your mind's been absent. You must have had quite a fright down there!"
"Well I did die. I imagine fright is the appropriate reaction."
"Indeed you did! How was it? Being discorporated must be exhilarating! And then to be floating around all aimless and confused." She fluttered her fingers through the air excitedly.
"Well, it was rather like-"
"Hang on." The nameless angel dropped a bulky beige file folder onto Aziraphale's lap. It landed with a soft thud. "You can detail your experience there, Aziraphale. I'll be back to check on you tomorrow."
"Oh, but I do feel quite well already. And I am actually in the middle of something important. Or I was, before this mishap. Sorry for the trouble, but if I could just-"
"You'll be here for the rest of the week, I'm afraid. We've got to make sure everything's in working order. Besides, you've got loads of paperwork to get through."
Aziraphale sank into his disappointment. "How long will I be here for?"
"Well, you've already been here a day, so 6 more and you'll be off to the races! Best get on that paperwork. You're already behind." She smiled and walked away.
Aziraphale drew his attention to the heavy folder that sat on his lap. He opened it.
So You've Been Discorporated
Welcome back! We were sorry to hear of your untimely passing. Please carefully read and answer the following questions to the best of your ability. Failure to answer honestly may result in angelic dismissal. Pages 6 and 7 are for office use only. Do not answer question 11 unless explicitly requested.
Would you describe your discorporation as violent? (Yes, the angel answered.)
Please rate the level of violence on a scale of 1-14.(Aziraphale thought hard on this, wondering whether a sudden violent burst was rightfully due a high number on the scale. He suspected the violence required intention to be considered a 10 plus. Then he wondered if there had been intention. He settled on a 7 and tried not to think about it too much further.)
Do you feel this scale has adequately conveyed the level of violence which led to your demise? Please feel free to elaborate. Colourful language is permitted and encouraged, with the exception of purple. (Yes.)
Aziraphale sighed. He glanced at the final page, approximately 400 questions away.
Please ask your attendant for part 2.
Aziraphale groaned. He wondered how things were going for Crowley in the basement.
‐‐---------------
Far below, Crowley was being dragged unceremoniously through the dank corridors of Hell.
Chapter 25: Sugar
Summary:
Aziraphale goes off to Heaven, leaving Crowley and Muriel alone in the bookshop.
Chapter Text
Aziraphale hung up the phone, feeling mildly encouraged at the fact that another thing was checked off his list. Anathema and Madame Tracy had plans to meet up for a seance in an attempt to contact Agnes Nutter. Now, he supposed, he should pop in upstairs to see how Saraqael was getting on without him and check if any progress was being made with the Second Coming.
"I'll be heading out," Aziraphale announced, tugging at his waistcoat as he stood. "You'll be here when I return?"
Crowley was sprawled out on an armchair nearby. "Where else would I be?" He thought on it briefly. "Actually, I ought to go check on my plants. It's been a few days."
"Why don't you just bring them over?" Aziraphale asked as he rearranged some items on his desk.
"Over here? To your bookshop?"
"Yes, here. I think the greenery would look lovely along the windowsills. Wouldn't you agree?" The angel dissappeared behind a shelf and reappeared a moment later, having replaced his indoor coat with one more appropriate for the outdoors. "It only makes sense. You spend far more of your time here than there."
"I mean, right now I do. I've done."
"Perhaps your plants would prefer the change of scenery. Your space is a bit dreary, afterall."
"Dreary?!"
Aziraphale had been to Crowley's apartment exactly one time, after the non-apocalypse, and it had made a lasting impression on the angel. Aziraphale recalled sitting stiffly on an angular leather sofa clutching a bottle of wine, imagining all the cozy additions the space would require to make it adequately habitable. It was certainly sophisticated, in a cold and intimidating sort of way. Fortunately, both the wine and Crowley had served as enough distraction for Aziraphale to relax, even in the dungeon-like atmosphere.
"I'm sure it serves its purpose very well as a demonic dwelling. A most suitable environment for sulking or scheming or-"
"Lamenting. Fuming. Festering. Fermenting," Crowley continued.
"And so on, yes. But you can do all that just as well here, can't you?"
Crowley eyed the deep yellows of the walls and the cozy clutter of books and antiques which filled the space with a refined chaos that practically defied reality. "Possibly," he said. Probably not, he thought.
"Splendid. That's settled, then." Aziraphale opened the front door and left without another word.
Crowley got up from his seat to watch Aziraphale from the window. He watched as the angel summoned forth a lift across the street to take him to the great upstairs. The visual still sent little daggers through his heart.
Muriel emerged from the other room holding a stack of books. "I've found five with recipes for carrot cake and three for poached pears. Is that enough?"
"That should do. Shopping list?"
"Yes. I've got it here." Muriel wrangled a sheet of paper from their coat pocket as they tried not to drop the books.
"Lovely. Well done, you."
"Oh, really?" they beamed. "Thank you! Are we baking a cake? How exciting! Is there going to be a party?"
"I guess that's the general idea, yeah, assuming all goes well. Let's not think too hard on that bit."
---------------------------
Crowley and Muriel drove off in the Bentley to his demonic residence. He hadn't planned for Muriel to join him on the outing, but the sadness they embodied at learning they were once again going to be left alone prompted Crowley to offer an invite.
The demon sauntered through the halls as Muriel followed close behind. Muriel was terribly excited to be up to something. They had been going to the shops from time to time, but for the most part, they spent their days reading books in Aziraphale's shop. This in and of itself was far more exciting than any Heavenly activity they had been assigned to in the past, however, all the books and stories were filling Muriel's head with a longing for adventure. To be visiting a demon's abode fit the bill.
The last time Crowley was here, he had been binging Pride and Prejudice (the good one, with Colin Firth) and drinking steadily with no intention of slowing down before the apocalypse forced him to. Crowley now wandered into the kitchen. It was quite sparse but for some bottles of booze and glasses to contain them, were he feeling civilized enough. What a ridiculous image, Crowley thought. An ancient demon of the underworld shattered by heartbreak.
"Muriel," he said.
"Yes, Mister Crowley."
"Would you describe this place as dreary?"
Muriel looked around for a moment. "Yes! Definitely dreary, I think. Spot on!"
Crowley slumped slightly at Muriel's appraisal of his dwelling. He moved towards his plants. Muriel followed him, slightly worried that they had answered incorrectly.
Crowley decided to take a spider plant, a snake plant, an angel vine, and a devil's ivy with him to the bookshop. That should satisfy Aziraphale without Crowley feeling as though he were imposing. "Dreary is exactly what a demon's abode should ought to be," Crowley said to himself and possibly Muriel, who was busily misting the plants with the most efficient plant mister on the market. "I barely even live here. I just exist here sometimes when there's nowhere else to be."
"Exceptionally dreary and bleak, yes. Very demonic!"
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Crowley stepped through the threshold of Aziraphale's bookshop feeling oddly domestic, with one arm wrapped around a cardboard box filled with plants, and another carrying two bags of groceries. The trip through the local grocery store was a bit of a challenge for both him and Muriel. The supposedly dim angel had stared down a fruit stand filled with bananas with an inexplicable sadness swelling in their eyes, while Crowley stared confused at the vegetation as he tried to remember what a carrot looked like. He was not well versed in the topic of foodstuffs as he had very little personal interest, but despite that, the trip had gone down moderately well in the end.
Crowley placed the cardboard box filled with plants near the entrance and moved towards the kitchen. Muriel did the same with theirs and retrieved the recipe books before following him into the kitchen.
The bookshop's kitchen was rather small, long and narrow, but very functional, especially for Aziraphale who used it primarily as a tea making room. There was an island which served as both a table and a storage unit. There was a particularly complicated looking oven originally produced in the 1950s. An enameled kettle sat on one of its hobs, the sheen of the lacquer worn around the handle from many years of use. On the walls hung two framed prints; one was Vermeer's The Milkmaid, and the other, a self portrait of Durer looking disturbingly like Jesus.
Crowley unloaded the purchased items onto the kitchen island. He took a step back and drew a deep breath, looking over at Muriel who smiled with barely contained excitement as they grasped a recipe book.
"Right," Crowley said. "Let's get on with it."
---------------------------
After three iterations of carrot cake failing in various ways (the first never did take on a solid form, the second veered too far in the opposite direction of its predecessor with a brick-like consistency, and the third had somehow burst into flames and sent the smoke alarm ringing), Crowley realized that a cake was probably not going to happen. He felt slightly discouraged. He had helped bring the universe into existence, constructing nebulas from celestial schematics. A recipe should be simpler to follow, and a cake should be easier to create.
"Maybe poached pears, then. Booze, sugar, fruit. Can't screw that up, right?"
"Right! And it's all good practice, isn't it?" Muriel said as they flipped to a recipe.
There was a knock at the door.. Crowley moved swiftly towards the front door. He opened it to find Nina looking rather unimpressed.
"Hello, Crowley. I knew it was you. I saw your car parked out front. Couldn't mistake it. It's been how long since you've bothered to check in?"
Crowley scrunched his face in thought. "Ehh... seven weeks, I reckon. Give or take."
"You're not busy now, are you?" she said as she strode past the demon. "I think you owe me an explanation. Is Mister Fell around? Why does it smell like burning?"
"Come in, please," he said with a good measure of snark before shutting the door. "Mister Fell is not around, and we've been failing at cake." Crowley walked back towards the kitchen.
Muriel poked their head out of the kitchen doorway. "Oh, how nice! Company! Is it time for tea, then?"
-----------------------------
Nina, noting the sad state of the most recently failed cake which Crowley had yet to miracle away, and the possibly sadder state of Crowley himself as he gazed upon it, took on the task of walking him through the recipe as Muriel put on the kettle.
"It's like you've never set foot in a kitchen. Where are the measuring cups?"
"...here's a cup," Crowley said as he pushed forwards one of the teacups Muriel had arranged neatly on the table next to a large teapot.
"That's more like half a cup," Nina said. "I'm surprised you managed with grating the carrots."
Crowley watched as Nina moved effortlessly through the recipe. Within ten minutes, the batter was in the oven in an appropriate vessel and a timer had been set.
Muriel poured Nina a cup of tea happily, filled their own, and then moved to fill one for Crowley who blocked the attempt with a hand before filling his cup with brandy. Nina reached for the bottle and poured some into her cup as well. She took a sip and approved of the taste. Muriel stared at her, smiling.
"What's the deal with this one?" she asked Crowley.
"Just your average everyday human," Crowley responded, "having a cup of tea, like the rest of us." Crowley smiled at the angel.
Muriel felt the pressure mount. 'Right. Obviously." They lifted the cup to their lips, hesitated a moment and flashed a final desperate plea of a smile before tilting the porcelain towards their mouth, cautiously extending their tongue into the little pool of liquid. It was bitter. It felt both wet and dry at the same time. It tasted like how dirt and leaves smelled. Muriel grimaced before returning to an uncomfortable smile.
Crowley grabbed a spoon and shovelled two heaping portions into the little cup, stirred it up, and motioned for them to try again. The beverage was now more sugar than tea.
Muriel tried again with great trepidation. No sign of pain this time. A hesitant expression transformed into a genuine smile. "Oh. It's like... it's like something good that I like. Very nice!" Muriel took a proper sip, nearly choking on the bizarre movement of liquid sloshing down their throat. And again, they took another sip.
"Muriel's an angel, actually," said Crowley. Muriel was too busy enjoying their sugared tea to be surprised.
"Like Mister Fell," said Nina.
"Exactly. Yes."
"Same as you?"
"No. Demon."
"Makes sense."
"Does it?"
"So where is he, then? Mister Fell? Last I remember, you were about to have a proper talk with him. And then I don't hear or see either of you for weeks." Nina's annoyed look turned into a coy smile. "Did you ride off into the sunset together? I knew a heart-to-heart was what the two of you needed. Couldn't be buggered to send a bloody postcard?"
"If by sunset you mean a flaming inferno of destruction, then yes. Only not together," Crowley responded thoughtfully. "It went down like a lead balloon."
Chapter 26: Book of Life
Summary:
Aziraphale visits Saraqael in Heaven.
Many thanks to AddledMongoose.
Chapter Text
Saraqael sat at her desk rubbing at her temples while she listened to two angels bicker. She had so many better things she could be doing with her time. Accidentally misplacing, shredding, or otherwise doing away with orders for various celestial weaponry, for instance. Uriel had blamed the weaponsmiths for the lack of progress, which brought Saraqael a deep but quiet satisfaction.
Michael spent their days teaching Jesus all the steps required to bring the metaphorical sheep to shelter, but just as he started to grasp at some basic understanding of what was going on around him and accept his role in his grand earthly return, Saraqael would drag his newly formed memories straight into the bin. One quick swipe and poof, he was born again. She felt a little bad for Jesus to constantly have to start anew, but reminded herself that the sympathy she felt would only undermine the greater good. Besides, seeing Michael struggle to push that ball up the hill for days, only to have it roll back down... it brought her a sort of joy which she had not before experienced. Michael gritted their teeth and kept at it.
But these more tedious tasks also had to be seen to. And since Aziraphale was downstairs doing God knows what, she took on his tasks as well. The two angels bickering in her presence were part of a sort of post-apocalyptic welcome committee. They dragged out the minutiae of the absolute least important and painfully dull details, and forced Saraqael to listen to them as if they were somehow interesting or important. As if they mattered one iota. This is what happened with creatures who had no personal interests, nor drive to discover some to fill the void of their banal existence. They felt compelled to inflict their own brand of mundane misery upon those around them.
Saraqael's ears were ringing. The high-pitched alarm sounded through her head when she was stressed. She hoped the sound would drown out the voices of the two angels, but had no such luck.
"Sandwiches," said the one.
"This is Heaven, not the garden of earthly delights!" said the other.
"It would be a source of earthly comfort for the humans. A nostalgia. Their home will have been completely and utterly destroyed. Perhaps an assortment of sandwiches would ease the transition."
"But they'll be in Heaven. Heaven! They should thank their lucky stars they made it. Why would they need sandwiches?"
"It's just a nicety. It's like a welcome banner. 'We're glad you could make it! Have a sandwich!', or something quite like that, anyway."
"Sandwiches in the lobby, then," Saraqael decided with absolutely no vested interest one way or the other. "Anything else?"
The two looked at each other. "We are running dangerously low on glitter for the banners."
Saraqael was unamused. "Yes, fine. I'll put in the request."
The two smiled and bowed awkwardly before walking away. Saraqael sighed in relief at the moment of solitude. She massaged her temples with her eyes shut, relishing the silence and the stillness. Meditatively, she exhaled, counting down from ten before again facing her celestial burden.
Upon opening her eyes, she found another angel awaiting her attention. There stood Uriel, casting a contemptuous gaze at Aziraphale's stand-in. Saraqael offered a tepid greeting.
"Hello, Uriel. What is it?"
Uriel stood silent for a long moment before answering, a deliberate tactic to build suspense and unease. Uriel was quite bitter about Saraqael taking on a more authoritative role than herself. Saraqael hadn't earned it, so far as she could see. The obvious choices for First and Second in command were her and Michael, respectively. "I've put in several orders for several thousands of weapons, and so far, have received none. We have not one sacred longbow of devotion. Not a single pious rapier of divinity. Not one ceremonial cudgel of righteousness. I checked with the smiths and was surprised to see very little work being done. They were shocked to hear that they were meant to be preparing for an impending war at all."
"Hmmm," said Saraqael, doing her very best impression of someone who was both surprised and concerned. "Perhaps you should've done a better job at ensuring the appropriate paperwork had gone to the appropriate departments. Can't neglect the small details at a time like this, Uriel. Even small failures can have disastrous consequences."
"Mmmm," replied Uriel, skeptically.
"I can put that paperwork in for you now, if you like. Just fill out the relevant forms and I'll be sure to get that sorted for you." Saraqael failed an attempt to smile.
In the distance, Astrid walked towards them hurriedly alongside Supreme Archangel Aziraphale as she briefed him on the goings-on since his last visit, a stack of papers clutched to her chest with a folded arm. The two moved swiftly towards Saraqael, Aziraphale nodding along to summaries of all the insignificant happenings. Saraqael felt a genuine relief at the sight of him as he wandered over, listening to Astrid with polite disinterest.
"Astrid," Saraqael interupted, "I think Uriel will be wanting those request forms again. Perhaps you can walk her through it. She seems to be having some difficulty." Astrid bowed obediently and left.
"Hello Aziraphale," said Uriel. "How nice of you to finally join us. You've been spending an awful lot of time downstairs. Shouldn't you be busy preparing for the war?"
"I most certainly am preparing," answered Aziraphale honestly. "Saraqael is second in command, Uriel. When you find I'm unavailable, she'll take care of whatever you might need."
"I don't know why you were appointed Supreme Archangel in the first place. You've proven yourself a traitor. A pacifist. A dove, leading us into the final war. It's ridiculous."
Aziraphale paused. He'd only accepted the damned position to make things right in Heaven, in a fluster of panic and emotional upheaval, no less. He wanted to be a positive influence on the Heavenly bodies which ruled the world. Those hopes were dashed before they even had a chance to settle. He had to fight fire with fire. "Are you suggesting that the Metatron had a lapse in judgement?" he asked pointedly. "The Metatron, who is the voice of God Almighty. Do you suppose they've taken a misstep?"
Uriel stood silently, stubbornly resistant to the authority of the new Supreme Archangel.
"Uriel. As I understand it, you're having some trouble with... well, with arming the armies. If you're finding it difficult to rise to the task you've been assigned, we can arrange to have someone more capable to take over your position," Aziraphale said as he gently raised a brow.
Uriel narrowed her eyes on him. "That won't be necessary. I know what I'm doing. I think it's you who will find difficulty rising to the task at hand."
"As it so happens, what you think is completely irrelevant," Aziraphale said, staring down his opponent. He tugged at his waistcoat and motioned gently towards the door. "You can leave now, Uriel. Thank you."
She made a final prideful stance before turning her back to leave. Saraqael looked at Aziraphale with surprise. "That was good. Uriel's very talented at being an absolute pain in the arse. So, how did the witch-finding go?"
"Not very well, I'm afraid. We're still circling the idea. Perhaps something will come of it yet. How are you managing things without me? "
"Well enough so far. Michael and Uriel continue to struggle. The Metatron is oblivious to the shortcomings thus far." Saraqael glanced about the vast white space with slight apprehension. It wasn't the sort of space that was conducive to eavesdropping, but the discussion at hand was dangerous enough to make even Saraqael uneasy. A slip of the tongue at the wrong moment was all it would take to dash all their plans.
"And the Book of Life?" asked Aziraphale.
Saraqael waved a hand and a large hardcover book appeared upon her desk. Aziraphale looked at it with awe. It was fairly ordinary looking in comparison to some of the books he had in his shop, but beautiful nonetheless. He wouldn't have guessed it to be more than three-hundred years old based on appearance. The pages were yellow, but evenly so. They were thick and weighty but without hardly any texture. There were no signs of wear at the corners, and the names showed no signs of ink puddling where the scribe hesitated in thought. There were no lewd drawings along the edges, no moth eaten holes, no damp splotches. The book was pristine. There were only names. All the names of all who had ever been, somehow contained in the pages of a book that couldn't have been more than two-thousand pages thick.
"So, what are you meant to do with it?" asked Aziraphale.
"Close it."
"Is that all?"
"Yes. It's supposed to be a moment of significance. I close the book and no more life springs forth. It'll be the beginning of the end."
"So, hypothetically, what might happen were we to erase a name?"
"You're suggesting extreme sanctions," Saraqael said coldly. "Who do you suppose we erase?"
"Oh, I don't know... the Metatron?" Aziraphale asked quietly. Casually.
Saraqael's expression was unchanged at the suggestion. She blinked at the Archangel and then at the tome laid out before her. "He'd have to be near the beginning." She flipped to the first page and there it was.
Metatron. Lucifer. Gabriel. Michael. Raphael. Uriel.
Saraqael took a breath and leaned over the book, rubbing her fingers together to ready herself. She motioned her hand over the page and forced the name to vanish from the book. Eyes wide, she looked about her endless office for any sign of change. For any hint that the world was forever changed.
"Did it work?" asked Aziraphale.
Saraqael rolled her eyes. "If it had worked, you wouldn't be asking me that. We wouldn't remember what we were doing. There'd have never been a Metatron. Obviously." The name quickly reformed on the page.
Astrid returned from the great white void as the archangels stood steeping in their disappointment. If only it were that easy. "Aziraphale?" said Astrid. "The Metatron would like a word with you."
-----------------
Saraqael's removal of the Metatron's inky name had no effect on the world as she knew it. Everything in the universe remained unchanged, with even the name she had erased reappearing after its brief banishment. But it did, in fact, do something. That something was the creation of an entire other universe; one with its own Saraqael and Aziraphale and Satan and God and everyone else... minus the Metatron. And this was not the first time this universe creation had occurred. It would have been the fourth time, in fact, which we can confirm by how many God's were now sat at Muriel's table in Universe Two.
God, with a great deal of surprise sometime in the 15th century, felt something was amiss while wandering the hallways of always. She wandered those watery white halls to get away from it all, floating thoughtfully through the passage of time and space. The fact that she wandered those halls without shape or form left her moderately perplexed when she bumped headfirst into a reflection of her own ethereal self.
As it turned out, God quite enjoyed the company. She was quite smitten. She found the one and only force in the universe which could fathom both her struggle and her greatness. She soon forgot the value of 'testing the humans faith and obedience' and 'wrathful punishment for the inquisitive' and wanted nothing more than to have a chat with herself over a game of cards. That game of cards became even more interesting when God number three arrived. When God four showed up, (which happened at such a scale of time as to be imperceptible to the lowly mental capabilities of mere mortals) God two suggested she bring in her Muriel to divy up cards and keep scores. God four even invited along her universe's Satan, thus removing the most privileged and bloated management roles from Universe Four, sending it henceforth into an admirably functional state.
------------------
"Ah, Aziraphale. Please come in," said the Metatron as he stood from a cream leather sofa to gently urge the angel to join him and his guest. The Metatron sat back down and gestured towards a seat opposite him, right next to a very dapper looking gentleman. "Here he is, in all his humble glory, our new Supreme Archangel Aziraphale. The flaming sword of Heaven!" said the Metatron, brimming with what seemed an awful lot like pride. "Or, rather it's the flaming pen of Heaven now, isn't it? But that doesn't have the right ring to it. No, that won't do. Perhaps just Supreme Archangel Aziraphale: the Flaming." The Metatron grinned at Aziraphale as he sat to join whatever this was. "What do you think?"
"I think I prefer Aziraphale. The titles aren't necessary," he said softly.
"Ah, you see? Too humble for the usual fanfare. Quite a man of the people, this one. 'Down to earth', as they say down on earth. He even eats and drinks, like a human!" The Metatron looked eagerly at the well-dressed man sitting next to the angel. "He's spent a great deal of time with them. Haven't you, Aziraphale? Go on, tell Belial about your adventures downstairs."
Aziraphale eyes widened at the name. "Belial...?" he asked timidly.
"You've heard of me?" purred the demon. "How flattering. I've heard so many lovely things about you. The Metatron won't shut up about it, really." Belial smiled a charming, albeit performative smile.
Aziraphale turned towards the Metatron, attempting to parse the situation. "Well don't look so surprised, Aziraphale. It's all part of the divine plan. It's all about balance, in the end."
"So... does this mean there isn't going to be a war...?" the angel asked.
The two laughed like former university flatmates meeting up over a pint. "Aha... ah..." The Metatron wiped at the corner of his eye. "Don't be silly. Of course there will be a war. How else would we determine who wins? We'll tally up the corpses and divide the souls accordingly. Angels versus demons, as it was always meant to be."
"But the final judgement. There's to be a judgement to separate the worthy from the unworthy, is there not? That's the entire purpose of the Second Coming for Christ sake!"
"Yes, yes, don't get yourself into a tizzy. We'll round them up in order of worthiness and divide based on how many soldiers were lost on either side. Real and proper stakes."
"Sounds a bit arbitrary? And I didn't realize we'd be working with the enemy." Aziraphale turned to smile courteously at Belial, who was already smiling in amusement at the angel's outspokenness, making him slightly more uncomfortable.
"Oh, pish posh. Don't look so surprised. You yourself have been engaging with the enemy for quite some time, have you not?"
"Have you?" asked Belial, bemused. "What a devious little angel. I'm surprised Heaven would tolerate such behaviour."
"Times have changed," replied the Metatron. "Aziraphale has always had the best interests of humanity at heart, and I trust his involvement with the fallen has been for the benefit of mankind. I'm not sure of the breadth of his demonic interactions, but I know he's got quite a partnership with the demon Crowley."
"Crowley?" asked Belial with a throaty fry in his voice and what seemed like genuine interest.
"Not really, though," the angel said dismissively. "I wouldn't call it a partnership. I hardly know him, really. We just bump into each other now and again, both working in the same corner of the world and all."
"Oh, poppycock," said the Metatron. "This one isn't afraid to get his hands dirty, let me tell you. No faint-hearted archangels on our side. Better prepare yourself for a good and proper wallop, Belial. We won't be holding back!"
Chapter 27: Blessed
Summary:
Crowley awakens in Hell after his recorporation.
-
Thanks to AddledMongoose.
Chapter Text
1980s
Anubis liked to work in the dark. Not the pitch black darkness, mind you, but the kind of dark that gave one an eerie sense that something sinister was taking place. Green glass glowed on cluttered shelves between metal tools that glinted in the shallow light of Anubis' workspace. Candles were littered throughout the room in groupings that danced in synchronized desperation, and a couple lonely bare light bulbs flickered faintly with an electric buzzing which was so pervasive, it played as the soundtrack to Anubis' existence. He knew the ins and outs of reforming demonic corpses like nobody else in Hell, and he took great pride in it. Gathering the essence of discorporated demons and recorporating them was his passion, and somehow, he had managed to make it his occupation.
Lucky were those who died while Anubis was at work. With the other demon who worked this station, Ammit, there was a good chance you'd end up coming back to find a vital part of your person had been missed. Sometimes it was just an ear or toe or some other unnecessary appendage which simply made your life slightly more inconvenient than it already was. And sometimes they'd stick your consciousness into an entirely foreign entity, and you'd be burdened with it until you were once again mercifully dispatched. You'd thank Satan for a swift return and keep your fingers crossed that you had passed at the right time.
Fortunately for Crowley, Anubis was on duty when he was so senselessly smooshed into a barely recognizable pile of skin and bone and sludge in various shades of red. The death had been near instant, for which he would have been grateful had he been conscious. Crowley's existence was marked with the kind of bad luck that would force one to wonder what they had done to piss off the guy upstairs. Only he knew what he had done, and he was unrepentant.
He lay unconscious on a stainless steel table with a little tag attached to his big toe, his name scrawled on it illegibly alongside a drawing of his sigil.
"Weary traveller, I welcome you back to the nether-realm." Anubis held Crowley's hand and bowed his head solemnly. "Fear not the darkness from which you are born, and from which you will surely be born again, for it is your brethren. Return, I implore you, to this your material shell. Cast off the ether wilds, the oblivion, and embrace us here now, serpent of old."
"Why's you gotta talk like that?" asked Pazuzu as she leaned gracelessly against the front door.
Anubis left his near trance and turned his attention to her. "Like what?"
"Like a right smarmy cunt, s'what," grunted Pazuzu. "Prattlin' on about nothin! Ain't no one here but you and me, Anu. You ain't gotta put on a show. The dead fucker don't care. I can't be fucked to give a single bleedin' shit how the job gets done, but I sure as Heaven know it ain't gots'ta get done like that. Absolute tosser."
Anubis had completed the recorporation already, though Crowley had not yet come to. They rarely did, in this room, which was just as well since Anubis preferred the company of the unconscious over the conscious nine times out of ten. Working with Pazuzu had only reinforced this preference.
"I'm handling the delicate process with the reverence it deserves," he said tamely.
"You get off on it, don't ya, Anu? All them helpless soul's laid out like that." She nodded at Crowley and as she eyed Anubis with malice. "Makes you feel big, dunnit? It's alright. We's all just fleshy bits and dust in the end, ain't we?"
"There is no end, Pazuzu. It's a revolving door. You know that." Anubis was aware the interaction was unproductive. Pazuzu's mind worked like a sieve; the sense of his words whizzed straight through her head. He stood and waved at a pile of folded clothing. "Please see to it that he's dressed and take him to the waiting room for final processing. I'll thank you to move more quickly than your usual lethargic pace this time. I should have three new arrivals shortly."
"He's a pretty thing, isn't he? I could leave 'em with ya another fifteen if ye like," she said, smiling as she rubbed her tongue along her teeth. "Ain't no one would know."
Anubis ignored the sordid suggestion. "Get him dressed and get him out, Pazuzu. I won't say it again."
Pazuzu watched as Anubis turned and wandered into a backroom. She stuck out a long blue tongue and bared her teeth shortly after his exit, then looked down at Crowley. "Broody twat. He's insufferable. How lucky fer ya, wits still off Hell-knows-where. If I gotta sit through another of 'em bloated monologues, I swear to Satan..."
Pazuzu snapped her fingers, clothing Crowley instantly in slim tattered trousers and a loose shirt. She played her tongue against the back of her jaw in consideration, then waved her hands to the materialization of boots and a blazer. She rolled him off the metal table and onto the floor. He landed face-down with a disconcerting thud on the cold concrete.
"Whoops," she said, hoping the damage wasn't too severe. She used her foot to kick him over onto his back, which revealed a bleeding gash at the side of his forehead running down to his cheekbone. "No worries, mate. I'm sure that'll heal up'n no time." She wiped at it with the hem of the incapacitated demon's shirt and shrugged at a job adequately gotten away with.
Pazuzu dragged Crowley unceremoniously through the dark and dank corridors of Hell, her arms wrapped around his ankles. Crowley's blazer trailed behind him like a cape, offering moderate protection to his already damaged head at the expense of his back, which was quickly developing a friction burn.
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Crowley awoke on the cold floor with a throbbing heachache, the sound of blood swooshing through his ears. He opened his eyes cautiously, hoping against all odds that he had survived the crash and landed himself in hospital. No such luck, of course. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead in a room which smelled overwhelmingly of dust and mold and... blood? He felt at the side of his head. Wet. He held out his fingers before his eyes and the deep red stains confirmed his suspicion. He arched his back, a burning discomfort revealing itself to the senses he had only began to recover. The stinging pain contrasted starkly to the dull throbbing pain in his head.
Crowley propped himself up on his elbows to get a better view of his surroundings. Three rows of dingy seats lined the outer walls, with one more row at the center facing a coffee table. A large circular office desk stood near the exit, with a ticket dispenser and a lit sign hanging directly above. Now Serving 3, it read. He forced himself upright and walked over to the desk, trying not to think about what might have made the floor so wretchedly sticky as he strode forth. He pulled a number from the dispenser: 247. "Urgh..."
A man with very cat-like features sat with his back to Crowley on an office chair, busy with what looked like a game of chess lighting up a heavy computer screen with glowing green lines. "It's been a while, Crowley. What brings you here?" he said, without turning around.
Crowley struggled to bring forth the memory of him for a moment. His blank expression fell away as the recollection landed. "Behemoth. I just couldn't keep away, the delight that you are."
Behemoth turned to face him with a wide toothy smile. He rolled his chair over to Crowley and the tall stack of paperwork on the other side of the circular desk. "You know you're bleeding?" he asked. Crowley nodded and waved the assessment aside. Behemoth checked the paperwork for his file. "It says here you're working for Lilith. Asphyxiation?"
"No, no. Blunt force trauma."
"Ah. Very well. You know the drill. Have a seat and wait for your number. You'll be seen to shortly." Behemoth rolled his chair back over to the dark monitor and continued his game of digital chess, taking an occasional swig from a flask he seemed to pull from the thick musty air.
Crowley sighed and wandered over to an empty seat. The occupant of the seat nearest him, to Crowley's mild alarm, was missing a head. He sat slumped to the side, falling slowly forward as though he were fending off sleep. He twitched himself upright before falling completely off the chair. He did this again and again as Crowley watched from the side. How the Heaven did they let this guy pass through to the waiting room? Crowley's eyes landed on the little ticket the headless gentleman held in his fingers:4. Finally, Crowley thought, some good luck. He snatched it away with a quick motion and replaced it with his own.
Crowley focused his attention to the lit sign, waiting for his ostensible freedom. He glanced back over at the headless man, who had now slumped so far forward that he was damn near folded in half. Crowley felt a twinge of sympathy, but redirected that energy into feeling annoyed that nobody else seemed to take notice of the ludicrous situation. He wandered back over to the front desk.
"Don't mean to be a bother, but I believe someone might have missed something with that one over there." Crowley nodded in his direction. Behemoth looked over from his game.
"What's the problem?" he asked as he analysed the headless abomination.
"What's the problem?! Bloke's missing his godblessed head!"
"Demon's come in all shapes and forms. I myself was a cat just this morning. And in the afternoon I sat here looking exactly like a hallucination. I did a fine job of it too, I might add. If you had come upon me at the time, I can guarantee you'd have thought you were going mad. It takes all kinds."
"Yeah, sure, but I've yet to encounter a demon without a head. Unless you count the Headless Horseman, which of course you shouldn't." Crowley and Behemoth rolled their eyes in unison at the name. "I'd wager someone in the recorporation department fumbled this one," persisted Crowley.
"Wager?" Behemoth said excitedly. "What would you like to wager?"
"Uh... well I haven't got nothing on me. I'll send down a bottle of vodka if I'm wrong. And if I'm right, then-"
"Then you'll get your head." Behemoth looked at Crowley critically. He picked up a heavy black phone and held it under his chin as he dialed, the rotary swinging back after every number as he tapped his claws on the desk. "Yes, hello. You wouldn't happen to have any spare parts lying around, would you? ..." He held a hand over the mic and whispered loudly to Crowley, "they're checking..." Crowley nodded in approval. "Yes?... A leg...? No, that's not it... A heart..." Crowley reflexively pushed two fingers to his neck to check for a pulse. "Yes! A head, yes. Please bring it over... Thank you so much." He placed the phone down onto the receiver and smiled at Crowley. "Seems you were right."
"You don't say."
"How nice of you to be looking out for your fellow demons, Crowley," Behemoth teased. "Spewing forth such unsolicited kindness."
Crowley sneered. "What? No. It's a repugnant sight, is all. Can't stand to look at it. Absolutely vile."
The number on the sign changed to four. Behemoth cleared his throat and propelled his voice forward into the room. "Number four. We're ready to see to number four now. Head to the front if you've got number four on you. Again, that's number four. Thank you."
Crowley looked at his empty hands. A sudden sense of panic flooded through his newly-made body. He frantically reached into his back pockets, front pockets, and coat pockets before finally locating the little piece of paper and exhaling a sigh of relief. His ticket out of here. He handed it to Behemoth who took it in the palm of his hand. It burst into a tiny flame without him so much as looking at it. The flame died into a puff of smoke that lingered in the air between the two of them.
Behemoth set a clipboard onto the desk before him. "Same as always. We are not responsible for any missing parts or memories, any lost or additional drives or desires. Our team does the 'very best' work," he said as he put air quotes around the words 'very best', "but if they've someway-somehow inexplicably overlooked something (Satan forbid!), we are not liable. You've rolled the dice on quality work when you came through here. Try not dying next time. Any defect in workmanship will be considered the sole problem and therefore responsibility of the undersigned." Behemoth pointed a clawed finger at the space at the bottom of the page. "Please sign here."
Crowley did. And then he bolted like his life depended on it.
Not a full moment passed before a large rotund demon stood in the doorway of the waiting room holding a spare head in his arm. "Anyone missing this?" he said loudly. "A head! I've got a missing head here? Anyone?" Behemoth was very busy with his game of chess. Busy and full of antagonistic disinterest. "Nobody?" he asked one more time. The round man shrugged and turned to go.
Crowley reappeared and with great annoyance grabbed the head and shook his own in disapproval. He walked over and placed the head in the headless man's lap. Upon reuniting with his body, the eyes flashed open and looked up at Crowley, long lashes fluttering in confusion.
"You owe me one," said Crowley to the decapitated head. He left before Eric had a chance to respond.
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Crowley fled the halls of Hell like he had just robbed a liquor store. He took great long strides away from its front entrance, moving quickly through the streets of London. It was quiet and dark and the streets were mostly empty as his mind raced to conjure up a plan. He asked a lone passerby the date and time with perhaps too much enthusiasm, and the startled man checked his watch all the while keeping a careful eye on Crowley, half expecting to be mugged. Sunday, still, as it turned out. It hadn't even been a full day. There was still a chance he could make things right by the angel. Not completely. Aziraphale was surely upstairs after the incident. But Crowley might still be able to finish the job.
Crowley stared up at the Heavens, wondering how in Holy Hell he'd get to his destination when a familiar black car caught his attention. It sat parked at the corner as though it were waiting for him. Struck with feelings of frustration and anger, Crowley decided to try and let those emotions fall by the wayside and hopped into the Bentley. "You ought to feel terrible," he remarked as he fished out a pair of shades from the glove compartment and set them on the bridge of his nose. "I know I do." Crowley started the car, sending it whizzing through the streets of London to the tune of 120 miles per hour. Crowley was on a mission. He would not be deterred.
The Bentley sped along the very same path it had taken so recently, short one passenger this time around. The same oranges and pinks of dawn began to light up the sky. The same dew glistened on the same grass at the roadside. The same motel sat looking weathered and derelict as Crowley flew past it at an inconceivable speed.
Crowley turned off the street to narrow road that led to a small town vintage shop, which looked very much like a home except for the signs out front and in the windows. The shop was closed, but the front door was open just a crack. Crowley approached cautiously. He peeked into the door to see stacks of records, old furniture, and random oddities that collectors would happily trade a leg for. Aziraphale loved these things. The angel, always with his feet firmly planted in the past, was convinced every new advancement had just a little less charm and soul than what it sought to replace. And maybe he was right. But the sleek, streamlined, apathetic future had a charm all on its own. If technological advancement needed to feast upon the soulful and enchanting corpse of its predecessor, so be it. Small price to pay for limitless potential.
Crowley's eyes followed the edge of the door upwards. There, sitting precariously above his head, sat a metal bucket. "Not what I would call a diabolical plan, Hastur," Crowley said. "It isn't exactly craftsmanship, is it? And yet, still better than I expected." Crowley reached up to delicately lower the vessel as he pushed open the front door. He swirled the bucket of fiery matter. Hellfire. Those imps brought Hellfire. The stuff would have dissolved the unsuspecting human walking into the door, along with the shop and the couple houses nearby which were unfortunate enough to be neighbors with such a sickeningly decent human being.
Crowley shut himself in the little shop. If the sign at the front door were to be believed, the owner would likely arrive soon to set up shop. Crowley made a quick panicked dash around the room trying to think of a way to dispose of the bucket's contents. A jingle of the doorknob forced him to realize there was really only one option. "Bottoms up," he said, before tilting the bucket, sending the flaming substance down his gullet. He burped, gave the bucket a quick one-over, and tossed it into the corner with a clang as the front door opened.
The man entered the shop with a newspaper under one arm and an impressively vast set of keys in the other. He wore tobacco brown pleated corduroy trousers and a beige and brown argyle sweater. It was about as unintimidating a person could look without actually being a teddy-bear. He did look surprised to see Crowley stood in his little shop, but not in an alarming or threatening way. He kept his composure as he gently closed the front door and got a good look at the intruder. Crowley's current level of disheveledness rivalled the best of them.
"What are you doing in here, sir? How did you get in?"
"Hm... I couldn't tell you," said Crowley. He did not have the tiniest bit of energy left for creative answers. The hellfire gurgled in his belly. "Ugh... I knew I'd regret that... hic! Blasted hellfire.... hic! For crying out- hic! Just kill me now... hic!"
The man's eyes were filled with sympathy. "Hellfire, is it? You must be feeling awful now, son. Was imbibing in the devil's water worth it?"
"It's not the devil's water- hic! It's hellfire," Crowley corrected the man as he moved towards him, tripping on an empty bottle of vodka on his way, sending him to the floor. "Ligur, you bastard- hic! Ugh... hic!"
"It's your own doing, son. Look at you, you haven't got a hope in the world, mess that you are. Drunk at ten in the morning, bloodied, no doubt from an overnight brawl. God has brought you to me, no doubt."
"God had absolutely nothing- hic!- to do with it!" Crowley said as he stood.
"Hush now. I'll fetch you some water and you can have a nap on the sofa while you sober up. Or would you prefer tea? Let me put on the kettle."
"Hang on now, I've got something to- hic!"
"Yes?"
Crowley steadied himself before the man, groaning through a couple more hiccups and he tried to stifle them unsuccessfully. The man waited patiently with wide eyes. "You're a very stupid man, er, um..."
"Theodore," said the man.
"Yes, thank you. Hic! Theodore, you're a very stupid man. For all you know I could- hic! I could be a demon sent to set your world aflame. Thought of that? Hic!"
"The good lord protects me, son. You'd do well to put your faith in him. I'm sure he could guide you towards-"
"Just- hic!" Crowley raised his hand. "Let's just get this over with, shall we?" He waved his hand delicately to bless Theodore, casting him in a soft glowing light for a moment. He then scrunched up his face, hunched over, and dry-heaved off to the side.
"You alright?"
"Obviously not!" Crowley said between abdominal convulsions. He breathed deeply to try and temper his bodily dysfunctions.
"I'll fetch you some water and crackers. Or camomile tea, was it?" He said as he walked away. "That always settles the tum."
"Urgh. What a sickening display of compassion..." he dry-heaved one final time before returning to a mostly upright position. Quickly, he thumbed through the small collection of vinyl and pulled one out before exiting the shop.
Chapter 28: Say Hello to the Angel
Summary:
Lilith pays Crowley a visit, and Aziraphale finally gets back to his bookshop after his discorporation.
-
Thanks to AddledMongoose.
Chapter Text
1980s
Crowley wandered into his home exhausted. He shut the door loudly behind him and stood at the entryway, staring down at his boots in a dazed and hazy state. After staring at his feet for exactly too long, he decided he didn't have the energy to fuss with laces, nor the focus to miracle them off. Crowley trudged onwards towards the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. The good stuff, this time. He wondered if his new taste buds would respond the same way as the old ones had.
The demon dragged himself over to the couch and plunked the heavy bottle onto the coffee table. He fell into the deep seats of the couch and sat motionless as he watched the light dance through the auburn liquid in the glass. Crowley's mind was blank and heavy, comforted by the quiet familiar emptiness of his flat. He twisted his torso and laid himself down in an unfettered sprawl, one leg sticking over the edge of the couch while the other was propped on the floor beside him.
He stared upwards towards the ceiling. Towards the Heavens, he thought. Aziraphale would be up there, somewhere, milling about the white vastness. Jumping through various bureaucratic hoops. The angel had complained at great length of all the drudgery he had endured the last time he was discorporated. Crowley was very keen to hear it all over again. Listening to the sweet angel rant about his frustrations with Heaven made him oddly happy. It felt like a sort of redemption. Not only did the angel recognize the hypocrisy, or corruption, or blatant wrath of the Heavens (or any such combination of the three), but he'd allow his disapproval free reign when in Crowley's company. Aziraphale's contempt would spill forth, and Crowley would lap it up.
The high ceilings looked impossibly far away. An elbow served to shield his eyes from the reception of visual stimulation. Crowley wanted to shut out all the world and wait quietly for whatever spark that drove him through existence to return. Perhaps it had been a moment or perhaps it had been a week when Crowley noticed a change in the space around him. It was subtle, yet impossible to ignore.
"What do you want?" he asked the quiet emptiness of his home.
The silence continued on for another minute before a gentle rustle confirmed the presence of someone else in the space. In his space. The figure towered over him, watching him with what he imagined was disdain. It usually was.
"It's been a while since you've last checked in, Crowley," responded Lilith at last. "I wondered where you'd gotten off to."
Crowley opened his eyes to look up at her. "You make a habit of visiting your stray underlings personally?"
"Only my favourite ones," she said as she motioned for him to make room for her to sit. Crowley obliged reluctantly. "I heard you were discorporated. So what the hell happened?"
Crowley frowned and shook his head. "Just an unfortunate mishap. As for the work, turns out it's just not for me."
"That's not how it works, Crowley. I'm under no obligation to release you. You're mine until I say so," Lilith said severely before her expression softened to something that would have you believe she was capable of empathy. "What's holding you back?"
"Nothing. I just won't do it. Can't do it. My heart's not in it."
"Your heart?!" Lilith balked. "What the hell are you talking about? What's a heart got anything to do with anything?"
Crowley shut his eyes and let his head roll back as he slumped deeper into the sofa. He wasn't interested in having this conversation. The two sat in silence for a good minute before Lilith stirred.
"Oh my fucking God. You're lovesick," she said giggling at the concept. "Oh, you precious little dove. You wretched little brooding soul." Lilith let her small giggle devolve into roarious laughter as Crowley watched her, quietly indignant. "Ah... poor little demon. And you can't manage to separate your love from your lust? Amateur... Who is it, then?"
"I never said-"
"Oh, please. I can smell it on you. I've been around long enough to know a pathetic smudge of lovestruck desperation when I see it." Crowley looked entirely unimpressed, and so much so that Lilith tried to temper her amusement. "Don't look so dour. I'm just having a bit of fun. It's funny! Probably not for you, but from where I stand, it's..." Crowley moved with the intention to just up and leave the flat. He didn't have the appropriate defenses for this kind of attack. Leaving seemed the most reasonable option.
Upon standing, he felt Lilith grab at the back of his shirt and yank him back downwards with startling force. He landed straight back into the sofa and stared her down, this time with a smoulder of fury in his eyes. "Alright, alright," she said, "listen up. Confession time. I've fallen in love, myself. And with a human, no less! A spectacular, powerful, unyielding force of nature, but still a human. There, how's that? It's not just you."
Crowley's interest was piqued. "...what came of it?" he asked tentatively.
"Nothing. Just because you love someone, doesn't mean they owe you anything."
"That's a terrible story," Crowley remarked. "I thought you were going to enthral me with tales of unrequited love and humiliation. At least have the decency to make something up."
"Well alright, not nothing. We spent quite a lot of time together, and then she died. She got sent straight to hell. She was a witch, you see. Or she is a witch, rather. And all witches go to hell, because there is no justice in this here universe, as you and I both know so well. They get sucked down straight to the depths.... as do sin eaters," she rambled on, "except one very special sin eater, of course. Where's the justice in that? Anyway, she found herself downstairs. I happened to be on torture duty that decade..." Crowley's eyes widened. Lilith picked this moment to notice the bottle of booze on the table. "Do you mind?" she asked as she reached for it and moved towards the kitchen to fetch a glass, with absolutely no intention to wait for an actual response. Lilith returned shortly thereafter with a glass half full. She sipped at it casually.
Crowley was still waiting for more details on the story. "So you happened to be on torture duty," he reminded her.
"Yes! I was on torture duty because Mephestopheles had his panties in a bunch over some very inconsequential 'insolence' on my part. You know how he gets sometimes. So anyway, after a few days of light torture- perhaps moderate, or light to moderate torture..." Lilith's eyes glazed over as she took a gulp of whisky. "It was worse for me than her, I'm sure. She's tough as nails. But anyway, it wasn't long before I smuggled her out of there. And I haven't heard from her since." Lilith shrugged and took a long sip. "That was... four-hundred years ago? Something like that."
Crowley winced at the thought. Angels didn't get tortured. At least, not angels currently in good standing with the Almighty. But a rejected angel, without the might of Heaven at their back... Crowley banished the thought. He imagined not seeing Aziraphale for four-hundred years. He wondered how long he could possibly sleep. "... why are you even telling me this?"
"I'm just saying," Lilith scooched over and wrapped her arm around Crowley's neck. "I understand. Pathetic as you are, it isn't your fault. It's just something that happens... like a rainbow," Lilith said as she motioned an arc, "and who in all creation knows how those work?"
"We know exactly how those work, actually."
"Oh." Lilith downed the rest of her cup and placed it on the table. She scooched back to her side and stared off thoughtfully, contemplating the workings of rainbows, no doubt.
Crowley looked over at her. "Do you suppose it's by design? Part of the Great Plan or some such?"
Lilith withdrew from her reverie. "No. Definitely not," she said with conviction. "For one, I don't believe the Almighty would've had the foresight, despite her penchant for creative forms of suffering. And two, I reject it because I find the idea of soulmates terribly unromantic. And I'm a romantic at heart, like you," she said with a teasing smile.
Crowley was inclined to agree with her. His compulsion to follow Aziraphale to the ends of the world without any incentive but to exist near him was frightening, but he didn't think anyone else deserved the credit for the creation of that compulsion. He nurtured that desire before he discovered what it was. Before realizing he had perhaps made a terrible mistake, and by then there was no going back. Before he realized what he was doing, he'd already carved out a place for the angel in his existence. A perfectly Aziraphale-shaped hole that he occasionally tried to fill with alcohol and sleep.
To suggest the entire thing was a set-up, some hollow fate or destiny, was a depressing thought. Even more depressing than the vague understanding that he had created this bizarre dependence himself. Thankfully, the lord above didn't seem particularly good at long term schemes that were so delicate in nature and so slow in their unravelling. Surely Crowley had done this to himself. And he suspected Aziraphale was struck with something between intrigue and infatuation for him as well. And the angel would play with denial for entirely too long before getting to where he was going, fretting about whether it was right or wrong. Crowley, on the other hand, was quite good at speeding towards whatever captured his attention with little hesitation.
Crowley had unwittingly resigned himself to waiting forever for Aziraphale to come around. What else was he going to do?
"So then," he said, "what do you suppose the point of it is?"
"The point?" Lilith shrugged her shoulders. "It's ineffable. Who the fuck knows what the hag in the sky is thinking when she's conjuring up such rubbish. I'd guess she just rolls the dice and we get to live with the consequences. Nice to know you're not alone though, isn't it?" she said as she smiled at him. Crowley did not return the smile. "Tell you what. I'll cut you loose, and you can scurry back to Temptations if that'll make your sad existence a little more bearable. How's that?"
Suspiciously generous, Crowley thought. The aggressive sound of a phone rang out before he could cobble together an appropriate response.
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Aziraphale readied himself for his descent at long last. He couldn't recall the last time he had willingly spent seven full days in Heaven, and for good reason, but the discorporation had left him with no alternative. It was both mind-numbingly boring and infuriating to have to deal with the redundant and inefficient paperwork (for which he had felt a compulsion to rectify, but proudly resisted the temptation). He kept his calm as best he could, which was exceptionally well.
The arduous journey had led him here, wading through one more barrage of questions before he was finally set free.
"I'm quite ready, yes indeed. I don't think I could be more ready," he said, doing a remarkable job of holding down his excitement. Aziraphale smoothed the sleeves of his coat in an attempt to calm himself. It was a new garment, brought into existence and supplied to him by the celestial tailors. The fit was off, he thought. He thanked the good lord above- or adjacent, perhaps- that he hadn't been wearing his most beloved coat at the time of the incident.
"And with regards to your last task... let's see here... Theodore Gilbert," said a petite and expressionless angel. The powers that be may have forgotten to inject any kind of personality into this particular angelic host.
"I failed to complete the task before my discorporation took place, unfortunately."
The angel squinted more critically at the paperwork in their hands. "No, you're mistaken. Says here that the task was completed. Theodore received his blessing. If anything, you went a bit overboard on that one." Aziraphale let a puzzled expression contort his face before quickly returning to the line of questions at hand. "But, there was some demonic activity detected in the vicinity. Quite a lot, actually. Did you happen to get a glimpse of any questionable characters lurking about before you were dispatched?"
"Demons..." Aziraphale said, wringing his hands nervously. He made a decent show of thinking about the question, letting his eyes wander to the upper corners of his mind. "I don't believe so, no. Hoofed, horned, fiendish things? I can't say that I glimpsed anything of the sort, no." Aziraphale thought on the blessing. It had to have been Crowley's doing.
"Not a whiff of maleovance in the air, or sense of obscene menace in the moments leading up to it?"
"No. Nothing of the sort."
The angel let a stoic gaze rest on Aziraphale as he lit up at the thought of Crowley trying to salvage his task. It was terribly bad manners, thought Aziraphale, when he finally noticed.
"Alright, Principality Aziraphale. Sign here, and you may return to your post. Everything should be in working order," they said, looking Aziraphale up and down shamelessly, "but if anything at all feels off, you'll return immediately. We can't have defective angels mulling about the Earth. You're representing Heaven."
"Right, yes of course," Aziraphale said as he signed the paperwork. Finally! He excused himself politely and started towards the elevator.
"Aziraphale?"
"...yes?" Aziraphale asked, turning back towards them.
"Climb every mountain!" they said with unprecedented enthusiasm.
"Yes... I'll- I'll be sure to do that," Aziraphale replied with a half-hearted smile.
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Aziraphale walked into his bookshop after the week-long ordeal in Heaven. The streets outside were bustling, and the faint sounds of it permeated his shop in a most charming and comforting way. It made him feel at home. Earth was so lively. It had so much movement and colour, abuzz with the thoughts and hopes and motivations of so many creatures intermingling. Aziraphale opened two window coverings to let some light in, delighted by the streams of warm illumination hitting his bookshelves. He changed into a soft coat, more appropriate for inside activities, before he went to make himself a cup of tea.
The angel grabbed the kettle and filled it with hot tap water before setting it back on the hob to boil. He then fetched a large mug from the cupboard and tossed in a bag of Irish Breakfast, exploring the upper shelves in the hopes of finding something sweet to enjoy. He discovered two lonely Biscoff biscuits at the bottom of a tightly wrapped package, and he nibbled away at them as he waited for his water to reach temperature.
The blessing was a surprise. There hadn't been an exchange, as per The Arrangement.
Aziraphale's mind lingered on the visions he had had before his corporeal return. Of Crowley on top of him, his weight pressing into him, skin against skin. He indulged in the thought until the loud whistle of the kettle demanded his attention. Slightly annoyed at the interruption, he poured the hot water into his mug, brushed some crumbs off his chest, and returned to his private thoughts as he waited for his tea to steep.
Angel's don't do that, he had insisted. And they didn't. Or they shouldn't. Aziraphale was failing at the two most valued parts of his existence. He was failing to be a virtuous angel, and he was failing to be honest with Crowley. To strive to be better at one would come at the cost of the other. He felt trapped.
Aziraphale returned to the front room and placed the tea on his desk. There, propped up amongst his things was something foreign. Aziraphale's heart swelled at the sight of it; The record he had excitedly blathered on about while Crowley drove with no indication of interest whatsoever. Aziraphale unfolded a small piece of paper which lay next to it, revealing a quickly scrawled note in Crowley's distinctive, barely legible script:
Sorry for killing you.
Aziraphale refolded the paper and placed it carefully into the bottom drawer of his desk. He then sat and sipped his tea, eyeing the telephone all the while.
Chapter 29: Well That's a Thing
Summary:
Ending our 1980s adventure, Crowley and Aziraphale have a chat in the bookshop.
Thanks to AddledMongoose for beta reading and for the words of encouragement!
Chapter Text
1980s
Crowley sat stubbornly unmoved as the phone continued to ring through his flat. Lilith was mildly confused with the persistent sound. Although she was familiar with the device in concept, she hadn't experienced the obnoxious ringing firsthand having spent the better part of the last century in the underground, only occasionally resurfacing to fulfill a contract.
The answering machine took the call. "Crowley. Hello. It's me. You know it's me, of course. What a completely unnecessary thing to say..." Aziraphale cleared his throat nervously. Crowley all but lept from the sofa to answer the call. "I was rather hoping you'd be-"
"Yes, Hello! Angel, what is it?" Crowley tensed up the moment the words left his mouth. He looked back at Lilith to see if she took any notice and was met with a sly smile and a raised brow. "I mean, dear, darling, ngk-" Crowley's heart sank at the words falling out of his mouth as he tried his best to recover from the casual utterance of the word 'angel'.
"I... sorry, what was that?" Aziraphale asked, startled and unsure if he had heard Crowley correctly.
"Not a literal angel, of course." Crowley continued, still looking in Lilith's direction. She laid back on the sofa and stared off into the distance, seeming to have lost interest.
"Ah," Aziraphale said, sounding slightly disappointed. "You've got company. I suppose you're busy then. I can call back at a later time."
"No, no. It's nobody. And they were just leaving," Crowley said, motioning Lilith towards the exit. She ignored the shooing gesture at her periphery.
"I just- I've only just arrived home. I'll say, the process was a complete nightmare. The recorporation process, I mean. Which of course you're well aware of." Aziraphale paused as he recalled the misery of his seven day stay. "They tell you it'll be a week but I could swear it's been a month. Time all but stands still up there. But I did have a lot of time to reflect, and I thought perhaps-" Aziraphale stammered. "Could you just come over, please?"
"What, right now?" Crowley asked, letting the fact that he had been laid out on his couch for nearly a week seep into his mind. Sounded about right. His fingers explored the side of his head, which showed no sign of the injury he had sustained in Hell. He had completely healed up without any miraculous intervention, far quicker than a human. Crowley felt no need to miracle it away. He kind of enjoyed the painful throbbing as he dozed on the sofa in a state of melancholic exhaustion. It served as a much appreciated distraction from his thoughts.
"Yes. I'd like to thank you for the-"
"Nope. Don't mention it."
"Well, we can exchange stories of discorporation, perhaps? I've got a lovely bottle of oloroso sherry I've been saving for a special occasion. I'd say this qualifies."
"Alright. Give me twenty minutes. I'll be right over."
Crowley hung up the phone and returned his attention to the demon lounging on his couch.
"Running off to be with your darling dearest love, then?" she asked. "He sounds quite receptive if you ask me. Can't imagine why you'd be so lost in hapless yearning."
"I didn't ask you. You think you've gleaned something from half of a minute-long conversation that I've failed to recognize in... longer than that?"
"I have a sense for these things."
"I'm leaving. Which means you are also leaving," Crowley said curtly.
"Fine. See you in Hell, Crowley." She vanished, leaving behind wisps of smoke in her place.
"Satan willing," Crowley said to the smoky remains.
He looked down at himself, noting that he was still wearing the same ragged clothing as he had been the last time Aziraphale saw him. He motioned to miracle himself a more presentable outfit. It was quite the same as the former ensemble minus the blood, sweat, and torn jeans, and he miracled away his own grime in the process. A hot shower would have felt amazing, but now the angel was waiting on him.
He moved with a renewed spark as he walked out the front door and hurried down the steps at the side of the building, stumbling slightly at the curb as he rushed towards the Bentley. He hopped in and started the car. Crowley drove for a good five minutes before he noticed Hastur's black eyes peering at him from the backseat.
-----------------------
Aziraphale sat with his hands placed neatly in his lap. The clock indicated he had been waiting just so for precisely fourteen minutes. The persistent sound of the pendulum swinging was starting to agitate him. He wiped his palms along his thighs and breathed through his nerves, eyeing the bottle of sherry that he had placed on the table ten minutes earlier.
"Crowley," he said aloud, "we've been friends for- well, a very long time. And I think you're- I think..." He trailed off before clearing his throat to try again. "Crowley. On the subject of want, I feel I must- what I mean to say is- I suspect you may be aware of my interest in- my fondness for, um... " Aziraphale swallowed. He looked at the clock. Fifteen minutes had passed since his telephone call. He considered having a drink. Crowley would arrive shortly anyway, and he surely wouldn't mind the angel starting a bit early. It would soothe his frazzled nerves, and he would be more capable of articulating his thoughts once the flighty feelings in his abdomen were quelled.
He poured himself a glass, absentmindedly swirling and sniffing it before sending it down his throat in one go. He placed the empty glass back on the table, jittery feelings fluttering through his person as he tried to get his thoughts into some semblance of order. "What I mean to say is, if you'd have me, I'd like to be had- Oh good Heavens, no. Not that." Aziraphale poured himself another drink, making an effort to sip at it slowly to contemplate and appreciate the complexity of flavours; the toasted nutty bouquet and the lingering sweet balsamic notes. Lovely, he thought, fending off the urge to send it quickly down and pour himself yet another.
He looked over to where Crowley would be seated shortly. Twenty one minutes had passed and the demon was officially late. Aziraphale squirmed in the chair. The nervous energy made him feel as though he'd sprout wings and take flight. He brushed down his waistcoat, tugged at his sleeves and folded his hands neatly on the little table. The glimmering gold ring on his right hand shone at him like a beacon. Like a horrid reminder of his angelic failures, tapping him on the shoulder to ensure he was aware that his thoughts, feelings, and intentions were most definitely inappropriate. His eyes lingered on it for what felt like a small eternity, transfixed. Suddenly he rose and shuffled over to his desk and without hesitation, he removed the ring and shoved it into the bottom drawer next to Crowley's note. He then smoothed down his waistcoat and returned to the table to pour himself another drink.
---------------------
Eighty seven long minutes later Aziraphale found himself alone, wondering whether or not Crowley would show up at all. He'd wandered through feelings of upset and then feelings of worry in predictable circles, leading him to imbibe in just one more drink out of frustration. He was working on his third bottle when the doorknob made a rattle. Aziraphale stared at the door expecting it to fly open. Instead, after some delay, the doorknob rattle was followed by three distinct knocks. The sound propelled the angel forth to answer it, wondering why he had left it locked and why Crowley wouldn't just miracle his way in if he had. The door swung open as he approached it.
"You would not believe the-"
"You're late," Aziraphale said sternly.
Crowley shut the door behind him and removed his glasses. "I was held up. Got here soon as I could." Crowley took a seat at the little table Aziraphale had prepared for them. "You wouldn't believe the-" Crowley paused as he lifted the bottle to pour himself a glass, noting the emptiness of it but unaware of the other finished ones tucked under the table. "You've started without me," he said plainly. It was rather unlike the angel to be drinking alone.
"Well, I... I've been waiting over an hour. I hadn't planned it like this."
"I had unexpected visitors. Planned what?" Crowley asked, filling his glass with the remaining sherry as he wondered where the angel kept the whiskey these days. He briefly considered whether or not he did in fact have a drinking problem, as Theodore had suggested, but quickly tossed the consideration aside, deciding that alcoholism was an exclusively human problem.
Aziraphale took his seat across from the demon. He tried his best to recall the purpose of this visit: to acknowledge the fact that he had been experiencing some feelings which were very specifically directed at Crowley. To what end, he wasn't yet sure. But starting with honesty seemed the right thing to do. Or, it had seemed the right thing to do, before Aziraphale found himself sitting across from Crowley and staring dazed into his expectant eyes. It made him very sure that yes, indeed, he had feelings, but very unsure about whether or not unleashing them on Crowley was in fact the best course of action.
"Aziraphale?" Crowley asked as he watched the angel's hazy eyes.
"Yes." The angel did his best to gather his courage and focus. "I have something to say," he announced clumsily. Crowley tilted his head, a suspicious smile spreading across his face. "I've been thinking..." Aziraphale struggled to find the words with Crowley staring at him with those piercing yellow eyes of his. Aziraphale shifted his sights onto his glass instead. Start small, he thought.
"Truth. It's a curious thing, isn't it? Obscured by the perception of its... perceptors. The truth... it's- uh... " Aziraphale forced himself to meet Crowley's gaze as the demon sat and waited patiently for the stunning conclusion to this premise. He was beautiful, gently swirling his glass with long delicate fingers. Aziraphale's eyes followed them, blinking slowly as he admired their grace. "... you're very pretty." The angel blushed as he heard the words. No, that wasn't what he wanted to say.
"You're drunk," Crowley said with a full smile, leaning in closely to properly assess the angel. "Very drunk, by the looks of it." He got up to fetch a bottle of anything from the back. "I'll do my best to catch up."
"No, it's not... not very drunk.... it's... I've been here over an hour, might I remind you."
"It was out of my hands," he said as he sat back down across the table and poured them both a drink. "Go on, then, angel. Tell me all about how you think I'm pretty."
"You're terrible," Aziraphale said, a little too seriously before drinking down the contents of the glass in front of him.
"Well, that took a quick turn, didn't it."
"I... Crowley. Just listen for a moment, will you?" He stifled a hiccup and closed his eyes in an attempt to gather himself. "We've been friends for... a long time now."
"Sometimes we are. Sometimes we're friends and sometimes we've never met."
"That's- that's neither here nor... You know what could happen if- just nevermind that! I'm trying to- I have something to say." Aziraphale's mind went blank. He held his eyes shut for several long seconds and then opened them, slightly startled to find himself still at the beginning of this conversation. The challenge set before him was daunting, and all the liquid courage was now working hard at corroding his composure. He held his hand over his face and rubbed at his eyes. The room was definitely starting to spin. Frustrated but determined, Aziraphale swallowed his nerves and muttered some senseless vowels before continuing. "Do you remember-"
"Oi!" Crowley suddenly grabbed the angel's wrist and pulled his hand near for closer inspection. "You haven't got your ring. Where's your ring? You always have your ring."
"Oh... I- I suppose they forgot to give me one. Must have," Aziraphale said, looking off to the side as Crowley still had him in his grasp.
"I thought Heaven was thorough. Are you even an angel without it?"
"Yes of course I'm... Of course I am!" he said, offended enough to pull his hand away. He immediately regretted it. "I'm an angel," he said in a melancholy tone. After a long pause, he resolved to try again. "Do you remember that- that man?" Aziraphale asked, looking off to the back of the shop as he sifted through his memories.
Crowley checked the back of the shop with a quizzical expression. "Which man?"
"The um... the man! The, uh... the one with the vehicle which we confis- configate- took."
"Right. Yes, sure. The motel. What of it?"
"Yes. I believe... it's possible that I've developed some- feelings..." Aziraphale trailed off.
Crowley waited wide eyed for the angel to conclude his thought. When it seemed he would never come around to a conclusion, the demon tried to find it for himself. "You've developed some feelings for the gentleman at the motel? The one you vanished with your-"
"No, no, no... I don't even know him! It's not... "
"Perhaps you were curious. He was quite... robust and mannish," Crowley said as he tried to reconstitute the pieces of his visual memory.
"I'm not curious."
"Righ-t."
"I mean- I mean to say... it's possible, I may have- I might have felt something- something similar to envy. Maybe."
Crowley furrowed his brow as he tried to parse the meaning of Aziraphale's fumbling words. "You want to proposition human strangers at a motel in the wee hours?"
"What? No... I'm not..." Aziraphale tapped his fingers on the table in frustration. "It's possible that I'd like for you to be the, um... to be there."
"You want me to watch? Look angel, I'm not judging, but I just don't think I'm mentally equipped to-"
"No! That's very definitely not... that's not it at all... nevermind. It's- it's as though you're being debibil- debilerbly- de...liberately obtuse." Aziraphale sighed relief at having formed the correct word.
"I'm not deliberately anything."
"Crowley?"
"Yes, angel."
"I'm very drunk and... I have to lie down now," Aziraphale announced before he dropped to his knees and sprawled out onto the shop floor.
Crowley watched with a mix of surprise and worry. "Are you alright...?"
"No," Aziraphale mumbled woefully into the rug.
"...is there something I can do for you?"
"Why did you have to run off and be a demon... anyway?" he said as rolled over to his back. "You're terrible at it."
"I resent that. And it wasn't really a choice, was it? Things just happened. Besides, you're terrible at being an angel."
"Oh gosh, I am, aren't I?" he said with great sorrow.
"No, Aziraphale. You aren't. You're-"
"No... I- I really am terrible. I'm not fit for... just look at me! ... you have no idea of all the... thoughts I've been thinking."
"No one's judged on their thoughts. It's your actions that matter." Crowley sat himself down on the floor next to the angel. "What sorts of thoughts?"
Aziraphale looked up at the demon sitting on the floor at his side. "... I'm very fond of you, Crowley."
"I know. We've been friends for six-thousand years."
"I'm... I'm an angel, Crowley," he said, slurring his words.
"I'm well aware."
"I'd go to the ends of- to the... Hell and back for you, Crowley."
"I don't recommend it."
Crowley laid down next to Aziraphale. A silence filled the space as the angel closed his eyes, wishing he could miracle away the drunkenness. It would be another ten years before Crowley showed him how that was done.
'I'm trapped," Aziraphale said with an unexpected sadness that surprised even him. He swallowed a lump in his throat. "I hardly even know anymore... what's right or wrong..."
"It's usually a bit more complicated than that. The world would be incredibly dull if it wasn't."
Aziraphale thought on the words, pitting them against his own self-doubt. They were comforting, though the angel couldn't decide if that was because Crowley was right, or for the mere fact that Crowley was making an attempt to soothe his worry. Aziraphale tried to push his frustration aside and focused his attention on the nearness of him. Without a second thought, he reached for Crowley's hand and gripped it firmly in his own as the two lay side by side on the bookshop floor. Aziraphale waited for the demon to utter some commentary. Something obvious and unhelpful like, 'Aziraphale, you're holding my hand,' or 'Well that's a thing.'
But Crowley said nothing. Instead, he listened to the rush of his heartbeat and the prickly feel of electricity moving through his body, hoping his hand was fulfilling the role Aziraphale wished it to. Crowley glanced over at him periodically, wondering how aware Aziraphale was of the gentle stroking motion his thumb was performing on his grasped hand. He wondered if the angel would remember this tomorrow. He wondered if the angel would think it mattered. He thought, very seriously, that right now, nothing in the world mattered nearly as much.
It wasn't long before the angel was dozing.
Chapter 30: Angel in a Trench Coat
Summary:
We meet the team that'll be working with Crowley and Aziraphale to thwart the Second Coming.
-----
Thanks to AddledMongoose, Amy, and Azeutrecia!
Chapter Text
"Perhaps they'd like a pie. Humans like pie."
"Beelz isn't human. We've been over this, Cas."
"Mmm, right. They're a demon with whom you've chosen to share room and board," Castiel said in his usual gruff tone. "I hear it's a tough rental market."
"Nah, It's more than that. We're in love. Now help me pick a bouquet and we can get the hell out of here."
Jim and Castiel worked their way through the little floral shop, just a short walk from the former archangel's second-floor apartment. Castiel was wearing his trademark trench coat coupled with a navy tie which hung slightly loose around his collar, while Jim wore a dusty rose cashmere sweater with a grey gabardine coat.
Beelzebub had found themselves quite charmed with the melting pot that was New York City, going on many solo adventures simply wandering through the streets to see what the locals were getting up to.
Jim, on the other hand, preferred his life less adventuresome. In the mornings he would go for an hour-long run, picking up a liquid green concoction on his way home which he drank despite knowing full well it did absolutely nothing for his constitution. He'd then shower, do some yoga, and head out to his favourite cafe to read whatever happened to be on the bestsellers list.
After that, more often than not, he'd find himself purchasing a new suit made of the finest wools, or a pair of handcrafted leather shoes, or some other such item to drape across his chiseled self. His little closets were already bursting at the seams, so much so that it had become problematic, according to his life-partner. He had been accused of both selfishness and vapidness in a recent heated exchange.
In an effort to prove otherwise, he thought he would offer Beelzebub a gift. He had learned that humans would often offer flowering vegetation to their significant others in times of joyous and loving celebration, as well as spiraling desperation. He thought it was worth a go.
After having spent an hour speculating on which floral arrangement the former Duke would find most appealing, the shop owner was beginning to get antsy. He was not only annoyed because he had been wanting to close shop for the past fifteen minutes, but because he suspected Castiel was either doing a bad Batman impression, or was stricken with something that may very well be contagious.
"Hey, guys," he said at last, "you're gonna have to make up your minds real quick or leave empty handed. I'm done for the day. Alright?"
"It'll just be five minutes," Jim assured the man.
"Nah. It won't be five minutes. I got a life. It'll be now or you ain't leaving with jack shit. Got it?" He stomped off to retrieve his coat.
Jim was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner. But he had grown quite remarkably as an ethereal entity, and what might have once elicited a vengeful response now only made Jim feel assured of his moral superiority.
"Who is Jack Shit and why would we want to leave with him?" asked Castiel, leaning in to Jim as he awaited enlightenment.
"Jack shit means nothing, Cas. The human is getting worked up."
"So, if we 'ain't' leaving with 'nothing', then we must be leaving with something," Castiel said, trying to make sure he had understood the verbal exchange.
"I don't think that's what he meant."
"What an assbutt," remarked Castiel after a long and thoughtful pause. He had spent far less time reflecting on his moral superiority. His greatest strength, and possibly his greatest weakness, was his unwavering devotion to honesty.
"You know what? Yeah, you're right. He really is an assbutt," said Jim.
"Rest assured, he spends the majority of his dull, short, and meaningless life engaged in sleep, defecation, and urination. Such a tedious existence."
"What did you say?" asked the shopkeeper, who had returned quite quickly from the back adorned in a brown leather bomber jacket.
"I said your life is meaningless. You bring no joy to those around you. You add no value to the world, other than through the monetary exchange of goods and services; a task which could be completed by an entirely average chimpanzee."
The man looked to Jim as though he were responsible for Castiel. "Are you guys serious?" asked the shopkeeper.
"Uh... I'm just here for the flowers," Jim said with a confused but charming smile.
Castiel decided this was his cue to double down. "Your assistant finds your stories to be neither fascinating nor revelatory, as they had led you to believe. Your mother never loved you. And your wife, who has been having an affair for the last 6 years, really only keeps you around so someone can water the houseplants while she's away."
An uncomfortable silence settled on the little flower shop. The shopkeeper was speechless.
"Castiel," said Jim at last, laughing nervously, "show some mercy."
Castiel cleared his throat and assessed the man. "You have nice hair," he said.
Half a second before the man erupted in a rage, Jim waved his hand to miracle him twelve blocks down the street. He then chose a bouquet with great speed and decisiveness before the two worked their way to his second-floor apartment.
‐‐--------------
"What's that?" asked Beelzebub, puzzled by the sudden appearance of such colourful and vulgar lifeforms in their presence.
"They're flowers," said Jim. "They're for you. Aren't they nice?"
Beelzebub stared at the unexpected gift with confusion, squinting at the colourful mass of petals sitting on their kitchen table in a vase they didn't know they owned. "What do you want me to do with them?"
"Nothing. They're for you to look at. They're nice, right?" asked Jim, now with enough doubt that he was genuinely asking for confirmation.
A fly worked its way up the stalk of a half-bloomed delphinium. "But they're dead. They're dying. I'm meant to watch them decompose?"
"...you love dead stuff, don't you? Lord of the flies, and all?"
Eric sat awkwardly behind the flowers, pretending not to listen as the couple teetered on the edge of a full-blown argument. He, at the same time, did his best to ignore the prodding eyes of Castiel who stood next to him with a relentless glare.
"You're a demon," Castiel said to him.
"Yes, hello. I'm Eric," he said, holding a hand out to the angel in the trenchcoat. "Looks like we'll be working together."
"Eric, the demon," he replied, with no intention of shaking Eric's outstretched hand.
"Alright, guys," Jim said aloud. "Everyone. Let's just get this started, already. Have a seat." Beelzebub, Eric (the demon), Castiel, and Jim took their seats at the round table, a large floral arrangement obscuring the view of those opposite them. "Well this is exciting, hey? It's like a secret society meeting or something."
"The dawn of a new underworld order!" said Eric, who sat across the way from Jim. "We should have a name, like, uh... Dark-force Armageddon."
"Nice! That's very good! ...who is that?" asked Jim, bending to peer around the flowers.
"Eric, sir."
"The demon," added Castiel.
"Maybe we should just..." Jim snapped his fingers to vanish the flowers. He cleared his throat. "Okay, guys. The end of the world is coming. Again. Really, these guys just don't stop. So... let's fuck it up."
--------------------
Michael sat at their desk, despondent as they watched Jesus step carefully through their office space, moving in measured paces from one tile to the other as he counted. "1, 238. 1, 239. 1, 240..."
It had been the third time they'd witnessed this event. Jesus took to it with the enthusiasm of an innocent child, and he was just as stupid and revolting. Michael knew Jesus would find his way to the lower floors as soon as they turned their back on him. He always did.
All the knowledge they'd worked hard at stuffing into his thick skull would fall out the other side right quick. Perhaps they'd brought him back wrong. Michael wondered who they could talk to about having another go at the resurrection and maybe shift some stats around if at all possible.
"Michael," said Uriel. She stood, cold and resolute, looming over the desk with hands tucked at her back.
Michael turned their chair to look at her, surprised and relieved at the excuse to pay attention to anything besides the damned saviour. "Yes, Uriel. What is it?"
"I'm beginning to suspect there's some deliberate interference taking place to undermine the Second Coming." Uriel looked up towards Jesus as he passed some tiles nearby.
"Interference," Michael repeated. "Are you planning to take that up with the Metatron?"
"I wouldn't want to bother him without proof."
"You wouldn't want to bother him, because you don't want to risk your neck."
"If Jesus fails at his job, that'll reflect quite poorly on you. Won't it?" Uriel let her sights settle on Jesus, who was now hopping from tile to tile, making sure not to allow his feet to touch the cracks in between.
Michael shifted their gaze between him and Uriel, putting the pieces together to come to their own conclusions, most definitely independent of Uriel's personal beliefs. "What are you suggesting?"
"I think it might be wise to put our own plans into motion. Maybe there'll even be a new opening for Supreme Archangel soon. Which will mean a new second in command."
"Mmmm," replied Michael thoughtfully.
They both quietly hovered on thoughts of themselves in greater positions of power, as Jesus moved onto a game of hopscotch in the background, both assuming they'd take on the role of Supreme Archangel. Their fantasies were interrupted at the sudden appearance of a third angel.
"What are we talking about," Castiel asked in a husky voice.
Michael nearly lept out of their seat from fright. "You can't just show up unannounced like that!"
"... but that's what I did, though," the angel in the trenchcoat retorted. He looked over the two Archangel's who remained silent. "I'm getting some distinct flashes of conspiratorial energy. Do you guys feel that?"
Uriel turned her back and left Michael to fend off the intruder alone. Castiel turned his attention to Jesus, and then to Michael. "I'm looking for, a, um," he checked his palm, "A-zeera-fail. I believe he has an office around here somewhere."
Chapter 31: Swift Returns
Summary:
Aziraphale and Crowley meet Castiel.
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Thanks to AddledMongoose, Rhubarb, KJ and Violet.
Chapter Text
In the fetid corner of Hell where Furfur doled out various fiends upon request, from watery shades to slithery basilisks, he sat working his station. This job allowed him a small measure of power. It gave him a sense of importance and purpose.
"I can afford you one Abject Horror," he said to the two demons huddled at his desk.
"... how's that in comparison to your run-of-the-mill, bog-standard Horror?"
"Well, it's like your common Horror, only abject. I'd wager one Abject Horror could cause the same devastation as three or four Horrors combined. Though there's something to be said about putting all your Horrors in one basket."
Shax entered the room and the two demonic clients shied away into the corner. She stood all puffed-up as she waited for Furfur to greet her. The two of them had something akin to friendship, though the power disparity between them did make the amiable terrain slightly trepidacious.
"Lord Shax," Furfur said with an air of boredom, followed with the hint of a genuine smile. "What can I do you for?"
Shax smiled devilishly. "I'm in the market for a demon."
"A demon. Just the one? What for?"
"Yes, just the one. I'd go and fetch him myself, but I thought maybe you'd like the opportunity to redeem yourself." Shax smiled a knowing smile, a glint shining in her eyes as Furfur looked at her blankly. "It's Crowley. Go get Crowley and bring him back to me. Hastur says he claimed to be working for me. Seems the cheeky devil thinks he's managed to slip through the cracks."
Furfur leaned back in his chair as he considered the request. It was an irresistible offer. He longed to watch the smug look on Crowley's face vanish as he yanked him from the earthly realm to the deepest pits of Hell.
"I'm at your service, Lord Shax."
"What about that Abject Horror, then?" asked one of the demons huddled in the corner.
Shax lifted her gaze to them, her eyes commanding them to a shivering silence. Her corporeal form suddenly shattered into a swirling mass of heavy shadows, spewing tar and acid heedlessly as great gusts threw the two to the wall, pinning them with such force that their skins could no longer manage to contain their internal sludge. The explosion of viscera came as a merciful relief to them, as well as Furfur, who was now crouching behind his desk.
When she returned to her familiar shape, Furfur reemerged and wiped his desk down with a handkerchief, trying not to roll his eyes in annoyance at the mess.
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Aziraphale stood outside the bookshop feeling especially grateful knowing that Crowley was waiting for him inside. His Heavenly concerns were gently pushed aside, replaced with an excitement he hadn't really experienced before. It was such a small thing, yet it lifted his spirits in a real and meaningful way. He fished his shop keys out of his pocket and opened the door.
A waft of delicious aromas filled his senses. For a moment he thought that perhaps he had wandered into the wrong place. Aziraphale glanced over to see Crowley sitting, looking perplexed and uncharacteristically perky in the armchair whilst he stared down a plant.
Ah, Aziraphale thought, he did indeed move in the plants. Not many, but little by little...
"Crowley?"
"Mmmm?" the demon said, still staring at the leathery skyward leaves of a snake plant.
"Smells wonderful. What is that?"
"I could swear this thing's grown five centimeters since I brought it over. Except that's not possible." Crowley looked over to see Aziraphale staring at him. "Smells, yes. Smells like cake. Muriel and I thought we'd try our hand at making a cake. For your dinner party. Only, we have no idea what we're doing, so Nina came over and sorted it out."
Aziraphale could have sworn he felt his heart actually swell. Crowley made a cake. Or Crowley failed to make a cake, and now there was a cake. The demon had no taste for sweets. Aziraphale looked lovingly at him as he looked sceptically at his plant.
"Nina?"
Crowley turned his head to the angel. "Oh, yeah. She's quite cross with you," he said, grinning. "For up and leaving as you did, not a word of warning."
Aziraphale's demeanour turned sheepish. "I wasn't aware she was so invested in my affairs."
"You did have her fending off demons in here before your disappearance. Humans might consider that a bonding experience."
Aziraphale changed into his inside coat and moved swiftly towards the kitchen. Crowley flung his limbs off the chair and followed. A knock at the door had the angel suddenly stop and turn, causing Crowley to very nearly crash into him before he could steady his momentum. Aziraphale stared into Crowley's golden eyes as they stood inches apart before returning his attention to the unexpected visitor.
"The door," he said.
"Right. The door," Crowley replied as he sauntered over to see who it was.
The 'Closed' sign had been up for ages now. Any humans who had been milling about the outside, peering in through the windows curious as to why there was a bookshop which remained in existence without patronage, had generally died down in the weeks following Muriel's care of the place. There were a few moments when a person felt so bold as to tap on the windows, eyeing Muriel as they sat reading a book or staring off into various ethereal dimensions, but they dutifully ignored them. If the person seemed particularly set on unleashing their inquiries upon Muriel personally, they would find a less accessible space upstairs and read quietly until the downstairs was once again safe.
Crowley swung open the door to see a dour figure in a trench coat. He stared at the demon, then at Aziraphale, and then back at the demon, showing absolutely no intention to introduce themselves or offer an explanation for their visit.
Crowley was losing his patience. "Alright, then. Who are you and what do you want?"
"You're a demon," the stranger said.
"Castiel!" Aziraphale said as the realization struck him. "Hello. Please do come in."
Aziraphale beckoned the severe, trench coat-clad American into the bookshop. Jim's description had been apt. Despite his peculiar demeanor and unrivalled ability to make an awkward situation veer into nearly unbearable, he was a higher order of angel, and a welcome ally.
Crowley kept a suspicious eyebrow raised at the odd character as he entered their space, and Castiel returned the suspicious glare in spades.
"He's a demon," Castiel repeated, this time as if he were letting Aziraphale in on a secret.
"Yes, he is that," he nodded, "strictly speaking. But a very good one, I can assure you. Essential to our cause," Aziraphale said, smiling reassuringly.
"That seems to be the general consensus. Jim said as much. But I fear that ultimately, they can't be trusted. The demons. God has abandoned them. They can no longer be guided on the path of righteousness."
"Remind me, is that the God you're currently rebelling against?" Crowley asked.
Castiel looked to the Supreme Archangel with a sober expression. "Aziraphale. I consider it an honour to serve you. To take up arms in the battle for the greater good."
"To fight Heaven's army. Or, some would say, God's army," Crowley interrupted.
"God hasn't cast judgement upon us." Castiel kept his attention on the Archangel as he exchanged words with the demon.
"No, how could She. Where in the ever living fuck is She? Left us to fend for ourselves, is what."
"You can't judge the Almighty," Castiel said. "Not you, nor I. God works in mysterious ways. Maybe we are currently working to fulfill the Divine Plan, pawns in the Great-"
"You might very well be a pawn. I'll believe that."
"The demons might serve as useful tools, a means to an end in the Great War, but I'm afraid they are fighting for vengeance, and not truly for our noble cause."
"Vengeance. Right," Crowley snorted. "Heaven's never been moved to act on vengeance," he said sarcastically.
Castiel turned his attention to Crowley, moving in slowly like a cat stalking its prey. "You fell for a reason, didn't you? What did you do?"
"High and mighty angel, is it your place to judge me?" Crowley narrowed his eyes at him.
"It's not a matter of judgement. It's my duty to ensure our mission isn't derailed by nefarious internal activities. We might be working together, but our motives are dissonant. I still believe in what's right. What do you believe in?"
"I believe you've got your head lodged so far up your own arse that you can't possibly hope to-"
"I am an angel of the lord," Castiel said. "I serve a greater purpose. I stand for what Heaven represents. Truth. Light. Good."
Aziraphale winced and moved reactively towards Crowley with hands raised in defence. He forced a nervous laugh as he tried to smooth the tension. The archangel pulled the demon aside in an attempt to sway Crowley from his antagonistic tendencies.
"Where'd you find this one?" the demon whispered.
Aziraphale shrugged, an uncomfortable tenseness tugging at his posture. "Jim insisted. He's quite experienced in skirmishing, apparently."
"You didn't find me. I found you," Castiel said from across the room.
Crowley frowned and waved a hand, miracling himself and Aziraphale into a timeless realm for a short private moment. "Look, I know I was the one to suggest the whole 'army of the rebellion' thing, but maybe we could try and take care of this alone- the two of us. We could do it, right? We don't need the rest of them."
Aziraphale wrinkled his forehead at the idea. They needed all the help they could get. The world was at stake.
"This is bigger than us, Crowley. I'm afraid we have little choice in the matter."
Crowley rolled his eyes and returned the pair of them to the bookshop. He shot an icy glare at the intruder who stood waiting for them with a calmness usually reserved for only the very self-assured or the completely oblivious.
Aziraphale attempted to appease the angel. "Castiel, I understand your apprehension-"
"Oh you do, do you?" asked Crowley, aghast.
"But Crowley, well– he's a rather good demon. Very good, in fact." Crowley cringed. "He's frightfully clever and fiercely honest. Generous and kind. A true beacon of light. And really very nice, once you've gotten to know him." Aziraphale ignored the gagging sounds coming out of Crowley. "You have my word as an angel."
"Well, I can't deal with any of this," said Crowley as he strode towards the back of the shop. "Muriel!"
"Yes!" they said, peeking their head out from behind a shelf nearby, book in hand.
"Come on. Let's go," he said, moving swiftly towards the exit. He hadn't yet decided where he was going, only that he was going. Having Muriel in tow would force him to return soon enough.
"Oh, goody! An adventure to the outside!" they said, beaming with joy as they followed Crowley out to the street.
Aziraphale sighed defeatedly as the door shut behind them.
"The demons might have begun to rally for the cause-"
"Demons," Aziraphale repeated with interest. "As in several of them?"
"Yes, that's what I've come to discuss. But I fear their true natures are unchanged. We're fighting for good. They're fighting for anarchy. After the dust settles, the moment you let your guard down, he'll be working to erode your virtue."
"Yes, well, I believe that's a two-way street at this point."
"What?"
"Hmmm?"
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Crowley and Muriel had walked up and down the streets of Soho, smoke spewing from Crowley's ears as Muriel watched with growing concern. Once the fumes abated, Crowley found himself standing in front of 'Give me Coffee, or Give me Death' with Nina waving at them through the window. It seemed rude not to stop in for a visit.
"A cupperty with six sugars, please!" Muriel requested.
"Six?"
"No, right. Make it seven. Or eight?" Muriel asked nervously. They hadn't taken to making their own decisions particularly well. The thought of making the wrong choice left them anxious and weary.
Nina looked at the angel. "I'll give you six for a start, and you can top yourself off as you see fit," she said as she shoved a fistful of sugar packets across the counter. Nina and Crowley shared a dark smile.
"Ooh! Emergency sugar. Brilliant!"
"Muriel is just a bottomless well of positivity, aren't they?" Nina noted. "Must be nice. And what can I get you? Six shots in a big mug?"
Chapter 32: Hellhounds
Summary:
Furfur tries to stir up some trouble for Crowley.
Thanks to AddledMongoose and Violet!
Chapter Text
Muriel found a table near the window and waited excitedly, a wide smile on their face in anticipation of the sweet beverage soon to be on its way. Crowley watched them stare out the window, happy to be playing a small part in the mundane scene of the everyday here in Soho. He found their naivety and enthusiasm undeniably charming. Despite thousands of years trapped in a white space with the likes of Gabriel and Michael and Uriel, they hadn't lost their wonderment for the world. And they hadn't thrown up their arms in exasperation at the absurdity of it all, as he had. Granted, it seemed entirely plausible that they were simply unaware of the goings on, quietly toeing the Heavenly line somewhere near the bottom of the top, but even so.
Crowley stood by the counter as Nina pulled several shots of rich brown espresso, a thick layer of crema floating on the top. He thanked her and brought the two mugs over to the table where Muriel sat.
Muriel took a deep drink of their tea, fished out two more sugar packets from their pocket to sweeten it further, and then sipped it again. They hummed happily at the taste.
"How's that?"
"Excellent! It's all just so... excellent! Thank you."
"Better than being trapped upstairs filing paperwork for those self-righteous bastards. Can't imagine doing that for six thousand years. Must have felt like an eternity. I'd have tossed myself straight off the highest... well actually, I suppose I did."
A man tapped on the window nearest them. Crowley glanced over to find Furfur, motioning for him to come hither with a gloved hand. He willfully disregarded the gesture and returned his sights on Muriel, who seemed to be very much intrigued.
"Don't pay any attention to him, and he'll likely slink back to the noxious hole from whence he came."
"Hello, Crowley," Furfur said, now standing over their table looking like a man stirred to action by very important business, indeed. If anyone could muster such a look, it was Furfur.
"Did you hear something?" Crowley asked Muriel.
"Yes!" Muriel said, failing to understand the rules of this game. They listened carefully to the scene around them. "I hear the clatter of dishes, and a splendidly cheerful tune playing in the background, and-" Muriel looked at the shabby character standing at their table.
"Furfur," said the recently surfaced demon as he held out a hand to Muriel. They took it, excited to be given the opportunity to meet new and interesting people. "Head of demonic distributions. Servant to Lord Shax and Satan our Master," he said, officially.
"Muriel," they replied, smiling. "I'm having tea!"
"You don't know where that's been," Crowley said to them, eyeing Furfur's hand. Muriel removed their hand and looked at it in confusion.
He glanced at Crowley. "It's been given the task of returning you to the underworld, Crowley. Orders from the top. From Shax, herself. I'll be made an Earl to deliver you to her."
Crowley's face contorted in what appeared to be strained recollection. "Have we met?"
"It's Furfur!" he repeated, visibly agitated. "We fought together. In the Great War?" Crowley looked at him blankly. "We did loads together!"
"Oh, right... I vaguely recall something about your failure to sully the reputation of a fellow demon. Terrible practice. If you're committed to playing the rat, you've got to do a whole lot better than that."
"Rats are such wonderful creatures," Muriel said, happy to take part in the conversation. Crowley nodded in agreement.
Furfur twisted in his frustration. "Nevermind that. This time you've got no out. Lord Shax's orders." He removed an official scroll from his coat pocket and waved it at Crowley. "She'll be seeing to you personally." He smirked, raising his chin and eyebrows in a stance of doubtless conviction.
Crowley rolled his eyes and stood. "Come on. We're done here," he said to Muriel, walking out of the cafe. Muriel followed timidly after him, leaving Furfur looking rather impotent at the abandoned table.
He walked casually back towards the bookshop, taking long strides as Muriel followed hurriedly to match his pace. Furfur rushed up behind them, disgruntled at Crowley's lax dismissal.
"Oi, you can't just- this here's from the top!"
Crowley kept his sights straight ahead. The shock of Furfur jumping onto his back threw him nearly as much as the weight, and nearly sent him hurtling into the angel walking by his side.
"Have you completely lost your mind?!" asked Crowley, trying to pull Furfur's vice grip off of him. "Get the Hell off, you idiot!"
A Hellish maw opened to swallow the two demons as Muriel stepped back in alarm. It gulped them down and quickly returned to its former solid state, leaving no trace behind. Muriel stared at the pavement in confused panic, glancing about themselves in the hopes that someone would quickly turn up to rectify the happening, or at least inform them of what they should be doing next.
"Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear..."
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Aziraphale nodded along as Castiel told vivid descriptions of the demons who had joined their rebellion. Muriel entered the bookshop, notably alone and looking troubled.
Aziraphale raised a hand to pause Castiel.
"Where's Crowley?"
"Oh," said Muriel nervously. "He's gone!"
"Gone? Gone where?"
Muriel pointed downwards, much to Aziraphale's dismay. "We were having tea- well, no. I was having tea. He was having coffee. And then this," Muriel thought hard, "Furfur it was! He wore a funny green sash. Said he was going to be an Earl! And then, poof! Or maybe it was more of a whoosh. But off they went!" They grimaced through a sad nervous laugh. "I'm sorry!"
Aziraphale started to pace, wringing his hands anxiously. Furfur had tried to stir up trouble for Crowley in the past. His being summoned was not likely to end well. Especially so since Belial had him on his radar.
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Crowley could no longer bear the weight of Furfur with the pressure one feels when they are shuttled to the nether realm at infernal speed, which was just shy of celestial speed. He rose after Furfur finally crawled off him, backing away to stand by Shax's side. "Oh, hi guys. All hail Satan." He smiled, noting the small group of demons gathered behind the new Duke of Hell. "Shax. Wendi. Okeus. Gwyn," Crowley nodded, pausing on Hastur. "Wait, why's Hastur here?"
"I'm just here to watch you get yours," he said with a smirk.
Shax raised her hand dramatically to bring them to silence. She adjusted her hem and narrowed her eyes at him."I'd almost forgotten about you, Crowley. Hastur's reminded me of your absence. Says you're working for me."
Crowley smiled nervously. "Yes. Yes of course."
"All I remember is you running off to hide out with your soft little angel boyfriend, no doubt. Didn't you say no? Almost as if you thought you had any say in the matter."
"The gall," said Furfur.
"Oh, you thought I was being serious? Of course not. That was obviously sarcasm." Crowley scoffed. "Like I'd say no to the Dark Duke Shax!"
Shax hesitated, sending Furfur into a troubled state. "You don't seriously believe him?"
"Furfur, now it's not your place to be questioning Lord Shax, is it?" Crowley said.
"So you've been working on it, then?" she asked, a more pensive posture setting in. "The legions."
"Oh yes! Definitely," he replied, quite honestly. "Tirelessly. Demons, angels, even humans, all working for the cause. Your cause, of course."
"And where are they?" asked Hastur severely, pursing his lips and glaring at Crowley.
"Oh... they're around," he said, glancing about himself. "They'll be around, I'm sure. Takes time, these things. You wouldn't know, Hastur. Grand schemes aren't really your strong suit. I, on the other hand, have been scheming up a storm." He smiled at Shax, who seemed quite eager to believe him. "You'll have legions such that you won't even know what to do with them all." Crowley watched as she happily considered the prospect. "So, I guess I'll be heading back out, then. Lovely to see you all," Crowley bowed awkwardly to Shax and walked out the door.
Furfur was left feeling remarkably annoyed.
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Crowley sauntered down the halls of Hell looking for the exit. Hell had this awful habit of constantly changing the location of the exits randomly to irritate its inhabitants. It did well to sour the moods of those wishing to leave, at least for those least inclined to use teleportation as a means of travel. It felt much like entering your local grocery store to find all the items you wish to purchase had been moved, so you must now slowly navigate each aisle feeling very much like everything was wrong with the cursed world.
Regardless, Crowley moved quickly through the halls, trying to catch sight of a nearby exit back to Aziraphale.
"Crowley. I thought that was you, darling," purred a familiar voice. Crowley shuddered. He hadn't seen Belial since the 17th century, and would have preferred to have kept it that way. Being in Belial's sights often meant you were prone to finding yourself in some unfortunate circumstances. Crowley quickly fell into pace with him. One does not ignore Belial.
"Oh, hi...Great Lord Belial. How goes it? Must be hard at it, what with all this Second Coming business at hand. You're a busy Dark Lord, I understand. Wouldn't want to hold you up," Crowley said as he held a hand out and moved to duck out.
"I hear you've been very naughty, Crowley." Belial smiled.
"Oh? Oh, well that's- thank you. You know, I do what I can," Crowley replied bashfully.
"Fraternizing with angels?" Crowley felt a weight fall in his abdomen. "And the Supreme Archangel, of all the celestial hosts. What have you two been up to, darling?"
"Ehh," Crowley groaned. "That doesn't sound like the kind of thing I'd be up to. No."
"I think it's rather delicious. Playing both sides. Diabolical. Unfortunately, we've got to make an example of you now, haven't we?" Belial stopped to face Crowley and pulled his chin up to meet his eyes. "Though I think it a shame to waste such a pretty face, I don't see what else we can do about it."
Belial gestured at two demons to take Crowley away. They hooked their arms around him and dragged him off as he muttered to himself hopelessly, cursing his unrelenting misfortune.
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Crowley lay quietly on the floor of his cell, which was every bit as miserable as one might expect it to be. The floors were cold and damp, as were the walls, which appeared to be dripping pitch and ichor. He shifted on the floor in a hopeless attempt to find any sort of comfort and examined the small empty space as he awaited his fate.
This floor of Hell contained both the kennels and the prison cells, and was a miracle-free zone. All the demon could do was wait until the large iron door would open. He'd suffered the same fate before, trapped in the dreadful cell while someone worked out how he ought to be tormented. Sometimes he would be left alone so long that he hoped for that door to open to feed his starved senses, despite whatever wretchedness loomed on the other side of it.
The clank of metal stirred his attention. The door creaked open and Hastur stood on the other side, alongside Scylla, and looked down at him with a wicked smirk.
"Time to go, Crowley."
"Oh, already? The hours have gotten away from me. I could swear I've only just got here."
He peeled himself off the floor and walked out. Hastur prodded at his back to move down the hall. Towards the hellhound kennels, Crowley knew. The stench and growls were unmistakable.
They finally found what seemed to be the correct door, mostly because Hastur paused at it and shoved Crowley in front. He waved at Scylla to unlatch the door.
Crowley felt a rush of panic set in. "Now Hastur, I know we haven't always seen eye to eye, but-"
"In you go," he said, forcing the demon prisoner into the kennel and quickly shutting the door behind him. "Ciao," Hastur said menacingly as he turned to Scylla. Crowley's screams picked up before abruptly falling off. "It means 'food'."
Chapter 33: Asmodeus
Summary:
Crowley is being held captive in Hell. He tries to find some way to make his escape.
-
Thanks so much to Finland, Azeutrecia, KJ, and as always, AddledMongoose.
Chapter Text
1827, Edinburgh.
Crowley had accepted this task primarily because he knew Aziraphale was currently working in the area. Besides, stealing manuscripts from the church seemed one of the better jobs coming out of Hell. Almost as satisfying as creating forgeries. The Voynich manuscript had been a particular point of pride for him.
Of course, he would never destroy them as he was meant to do, but rather he'd tuck them away carefully to pass along to Aziraphale, who would be very appreciative after a quick scolding for having stolen from a church.
He was sent out with two other demons this time around. Why Hell deemed this task one requiring three bodies, he couldn't imagine. There was very little sense in how Hell operated, so it wasn't really worth the mental energy trying to suss out. He usually tried to avoid working with others, however, Behemoth was easy enough to get along with, his fondness for chaos lining up with Crowley's own personal taste. And Asmodeus was easily manipulated, always trying to one-up the others around him. Shouldn't be too much trouble. Nothing he couldn't handle, anyway.
The three of them had decided that since the task would be undoubtedly quick and easy, that they would wander through it at a leisurely pace, choosing to start their journey at the local pharmacy, which by a stroke of good fortune, was just off the distillery.
"Alright," Crowley said, rummaging through the bottles in the darkness. They made a gentle clanking sound as he analyzed the labels. "We've got laudanum, cough syrup, and... whatever the Heaven this is. Pick your poison."
Behemoth immediately went for the cough syrup, sending it down his throat and following it with a long drink from a brown bottle. Asmodeus wandered over with his head held high, a skeptical eye on the remaining two choices.
"I'll take the wild card," he said assertively, reaching for the glass jar with a haggard and indecipherable label.
"Alright. That leaves this," said Crowley, holding up the container of laudanum. "Cheers." He drank down the contents and tossed the empty bottle aside. The taste was incredibly unpleasant, overwhelmingly bitter with notes of earthy spices. It sloshed in his abdomen as he headed for the door.
On their way to said church, the trio came across a rather familiar looking statue. Asmodeus was the first to notice it, having been Gabriel's rival in Heaven in his previous life. Crowley soon took notice as well, and wandered over to stand next to him, staring in awe at the uncanny resemblance.
"They really managed to capture his arrogance. Well done, folks," remarked Crowley, quietly filing away the location so that he could show Aziraphale. Surely he would find it amusing. Or alarming. Either way, it was another excuse to call on him.
Behemoth was out of breath, straggling twenty yards behind the other two. He did his best impression of a demon who was not currently struggling with physical reality, rushing along to catch up in a most disconcerting and disjointed way. "Ugh. I think my poisons aren't getting along so good," he complained, caressing his belly before taking another drink from his unmarked bottle.
"Right. Well, the church is just over there," Crowley noted. And he was right, though soon after saying it, the distance between himself and the holy place seemed quite vast, indeed, as though it were growing as he stood before Gabriel's marble likeness. He felt a rush of sudden heaviness, as if he were warping the material world with his immense gravity. He smiled. Oh, but that's nice, he thought, a giddy haze seeping into his mind. "Excellent! Onwards!" He started humming himself a tune as he took long strides towards the large imposing structure.
"Get ready to dance, friends! Consecrated ground, it is. Burns like bad vodka," said Behemoth. Unexpectedly, he started sprinting towards the entrance.
"Crazy bastard," said Asmodeus as he followed the other two.
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The books were promptly tucked away in a leather satchel which Crowley slung over his shoulder, walking quickly up and down between the pews as he tried to keep his feet from melting into the blessed stone floors. Behemoth danced rather joyfully, laughing through the sensation.
"Ha! God bites back!" he said maniacally.
Crowley shook his head, amused. He then noticed Asmodeus eyeing a large stone bowl of liquid at the center stage. Holy water, he thought. It had to be. He wandered over casually.
"Probably just burns like any Hellfire could," Crowley said, daringly. "Or bad spirits. Either kind."
"Bah. This place would crumble at my feet if I wished it to. These pathetic creatures have no true power." Asmodeus shifted his feet, wincing under his breath.
"Sure. Right. Probably best not to chance it, though."
Asmodeus balked. He moved towards the bowl and held his hand out over the still water, hesitating briefly before testing a finger. Nothing happened. He glanced back at Crowley, a wicked smile playing on his lips.
"Go for it, Asmodeus!" Behemoth cheered. "Show them! It's just God's piss water. Probably tastes like angel ass."
Crowley grimaced and then considered the prospect thoughtfully.
Asmodeus scooped up a handful from the cool liquid pool and drank it down. They all waited silently as he let the holy water settle inside him. He then took another drink, and then one more for good measure.
"Ah! Aha!" laughed Behemoth. "As I said. Here, let me try." He started towards the stone vessel just as Asmodeus grasped at his belly with one hand, his other grabbing at the lip of the stone bowl as he strained to keep himself upright. Behemoth froze.
"That can't be good," Crowley muttered.
And it indeed wasn't, as within moments, the great demon Asmodeus withered and crumbled, reduced to no more than a pile of ashes and singed cloth on the cold stone floor of the church.
Crowley and Behemoth stared blankly at his remains. The world around them suddenly seemed very quiet, dark, and uncertain.
Crowley tilted his head in contemplation. "I won't tell anyone if you don't," he said finally.
Behemoth nodded before transforming into a black cat and running off into the night.
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Present Day. Hell.
"You're not supposed to be waking up so quickly," remarked Anubis.
"Well, I'm a professional at this point. Besides, It's so lovely to have a chat with my old friend Anubis." Crowley smiled. Anubis did not.
He didn't mind the company so much as the disregard for the way things were supposed to be. He watched with cold and quiet curiosity as Crowley got up off the metal table to dress himself. The pile was neatly folded on a table next to him, as it always was.
"How many times is that, now?" asked Crowley.
"Seven."
"Days?"
"Almost two."
"Oh, God," Crowley said despairingly. "My spirit is already breaking..."
Anubis held his hand out towards him and closed his eyes, assessing the lifeforce of the demon before him. "Seems fine to me."
"Have you reconsidered my offer?"
"No."
"Come on, Anubis. We go way back. Nobody will even care. You just tell them, 'oh, sorry, this one just doesn't seem to want to wake up this time.' They'll shrug, and no one is any the wiser. Easy."
"You're trying to tempt me."
"I'm trying to bribe you."
"What's the distinction?"
"You'll get something out of it."
Anubis frowned critically. "What will you give me? You don't have anything I want. You don't have anything at all."
"Well, just tell me what you want, and I'll get it for you. I've got friends in high places, you know. Name your price."
Anubis went quiet as he considered this. Crowley continued his sales pitch. "I could get you work elsewhere. You'd have your own space, and you wouldn't have to answer to these idiots anymore. They just don't appreciate you down here. Not for the impeccable work you do. The craftsmanship," he said, waving a hand up and down his person. "Seems a real shame to have such talent wasted, only to be torn to shreds." Crowley swallowed. "Over and over again."
Anubis silently contemplated the offer. It was admittedly enticing. Although he enjoyed his work, he did not enjoy the demons he was forced to work with. Crowley raised his brow as he watched Anubis's mind untangle the possibilities.
A loud knock interrupted them. "Come on, love," said Pazuzu with an air of disinterest. "Off we go. Don't wanna keep the hounds waiting."
Crowley narrowed his eyes at her, as though he were considering whether or not she was worth trying to sway. Anubis watched him, relieved to find he wasn't stupid enough to try. He pointed a finger at Anubis, "This isn't over."
"No," agreed Anubis. "I imagine I'll see you shortly."
Crowley sighed before wandering out the door. Pazuzu gave him a little shove, if only because she could.
---------------
Aziraphale flew up the spiral staircase to the second floor of the bookshop, thoughts in disarray yet moving with obvious determination. He dressed himself as demonically as he could manage given his wardrobe, tweaking bits of his beloved garments slightly to cast them in darker shades. He stood at a long mirror and tucked a silver pocket watch into his black waistcoat, then fussed to knot his tie properly. It was a deep charcoal grey, checkered with soft blue and beige lines. He then pulled off his gold ring and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat, tapping it down to ensure it had made it there safely.
Muriel poked their head into the room. "I don't think this is a good idea," they said nervously.
"Sometimes there are no good ideas. But I have to go get him. I simply must. He needs me," Aziraphale replied, walking past them and hurrying back down the stairs.
Muriel followed him, alight with anxious worry.
Aziraphale stammered before leaving. "Do you suppose this will do?" he asked Muriel, trying to stand proudly, but in a menacing sort of way.
"Oh... yes! I'd never guess you were an angel. Though I suppose I don't guess anyone is an angel, without being specifically told," they said, staring off thoughtfully before circling back. "Yes. Very demonic! How do you feel?"
Aziraphale gulped. He didn't want to think about that. "Bold as brass," he said, smiling through a quickly fading facade of confidence. "I don't suppose it would be appropriate to ask you to cover for me while I'm away. Or perhaps to feign ignorance on my behalf," Aziraphale said.
Muriel scrunched their nose worriedly.
"Muriel," Aziraphale said, trying more directly, "Would you be a dear and please 'hold down the fort', as it were. I'd be ever so grateful for your service. I'd do it myself, only-"
"Only you're going to Hell!" Muriel exclaimed. "What am I supposed to say? If someone comes knocking? Oh gosh, they're going to ask me all sorts of questions."
"I won't be long. It's very likely the whole thing will go unnoticed. No questions, no knocks, no calls-"
The sound of Aziraphale's phone rang through the bookshop, sending Muriel further into a state of panic. He rolled his eyes and moved towards it, sighing before gathering his focus and picking up the receiver. "Hello?"
It was Saraqael on the other end. "Hello, Aziraphale. We've got another meeting scheduled. Best get back up here now."
"Oh... Well I'm sorry, but I'm rather busy at the moment. Matters to attend to. I'll have to sit this one out."
Saraqael paused. "That isn't an option. The Metatron called the meeting."
"You'll just have to let him know I can't make it this time."
"You- you can't just not show up. And I can't cover this one for you. You're the bloody Supreme Archangel. There are rules which must be followed, one of those being-"
"I'm sorry, but I really can't, as I said. I'll be sure to check in when I've returned. Goodbye, Saraqael. And good luck."
Aziraphale heard her utter curses through the phone as he hung up. Muriel stared at him with an uncomfortable smile, barely able to contain their anxiety. The Archangel moved towards the exit, pausing with his hand on the doorknob to turn back towards Muriel.
"I know you'll do wonderfully, Muriel. Everything will work out alright in the end. I'm sure of it."
"How are you sure?"
"There's simply no alternative," he answered. Aziraphale took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping out into the cold light of day. He moved steadfastly towards the only entrance to Hell that he was aware of. The front door.
-------------
Finding the entrance was easy. Wandering down the escalator was easy too. The smell, however, was quite challenging indeed. Aziraphale stood waiting in a long line of demons, slowly shuffling forward in a most disenchanted way. He looked about nervously, noting with relief that nobody had yet found him to be anything out of the ordinary here. He was also, admittedly, slightly put off by the notion.
At last he seemed to be getting nearer to the front desk, he realized before being distracted at the odd sensation of being sniffed at from behind. Aziraphale turned to find a little portly demon staring up at him.
"I like your hair," said the small unholy thing. "It looks soft."
"Oh... thank you," he replied, hesitantly.
"I want to touch it."
"Hello!" said the demon at the front desk.
"Yes, hello!" replied Aziraphale gratefully. "I was just popping in for a quick check-in. Get the records straight, what with all my evil-doing up in the, um, middle." Aziraphale watched the demon for any hint of suspicion. All he could see was boredom. "Yes, I wonder if you could direct me towards the filing department. I've misplaced something rather important, and-"
The demon behind him leaned in closer, sniffing eagerly.
"Oh, goodness!" Aziraphale said as he felt the breath send a shudder through him.
"I like your skin..."
"Balrog! You're scaring the newcomers. Stop it!" the demon at the desk scolded.
"Oh, I'm not new. I'm quite-"
"Name?" asked the demon, pulling up a tab on his dated computer screen and waiting with fingers at the ready.
"Name. Right. That would be pertinent information, naturally. My name is... Asmodeus. Yes."
"Oh shit! I didn't recognize you. Granted it's been a while, but-"
"A while, has it been?"
"Yeah. Like, at least a hundred years, right? We've got you down for dead!" he laughed. "Whoops! How embarrassing." The demon and Aziraphale shared an uncomfortable laugh before he narrowed his eyes at the angel. "You look different."
"Different. Yes. Well you know, I got a bit bored with the old face. Thought I'd try something new."
"It's definitely different. You look like you'd entertain at a children's birthday party! Clever. That's how you get 'em, eh?"
"Oh, yes. Certainly. I'm often 'getting them', indeed. It's what I do, after all." Aziraphale smiled. "So... may I come in, then?"
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