Happy Holidays, Bentley
Dec. 25th, 2006 08:47 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
waxbean.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
go_exchangeTitle: Once More With Feeling
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
xylodemon
Recipient:bentley
Pairings: vaguely Aziraphale/Crowley. Also Anathema/Newt and implied Adam/Pepper.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: History has a funny way of repeating itself. A really, really funny way of repeating itself.
A/N: Forbentley, who preferred plot to smut and said crossovers were welcome. Although, I wouldn't say its a proper crossover. I've simply included a strange cast of extras. Thanks to my beta, who had the patience of a saint. I've (mis)quoted a few things here; all apologies at the end.
Once More With Feeling
![](https://p.dreamwidth.org/3d886774ead2/3170774-32953/i12.tinypic.com/2w31954.jpg")
As it turned out, they hadn't changed much of anything.
The skies had not fallen, of course. Nor had the seas boiled. The sun had not become black like a sackcloth of hair and, to the disgruntlement of numerous entities both ethereal and occult, the moon had not become as blood. The scheduled plague of locusts never made it past Cornwall; they lost their sense of purpose somewhere over St Ives Harbour and decided, after a brief tour of Tintangel, to head some place warm -- perhaps Majorca -- for the remainder of their brief, insectual lives, and the obligatory rain of fish had been short-lived and mostly confined to the general vicinity of the M25.
A bad show all around, really.
On the dawning of the first day of the Earth's new lease on life, an Ask Not Lest Ye be Asked policy was hastily adopted by both sides. Good and Evil's rank and file carried on as it always had, and the subject of the Apocalypse that Rather Went a Bit Pear-Shaped was pointedly avoided at board meetings, policy briefings, and Heaven's semi-annual rummage sale. A blissful and untested existence stretched on, filled with mild summers, the occasional light rain, and a stubborn and embarrassed silence on either front, which in all honestly, lent to a false sense of security.
The denizens of Heaven and Hell didn't take defeat lightly. Failure was not an option; it was something that happened to other people, and they decided, upon reflection, that they shouldn't have let themselves be distracted by a neat bit of misdirection. Particularly when the sleight-of-hand in question was performed, in the main, by an eleven year-old boy hardly in control of his own powers, two rogue field agents who hadn't so much as sent a postcard to headquarters in six millennia (give or take), and sundry followers and hangers-on who had almost no significance on any astral plane.
Anathema Device was a bit of a sticking point. The psychic types always were, especially when they got away with it. Somewhere, Agnes Nutter was cackling as she rested in whatever she preferred to peace.
Which meant Aziraphale had been right, of course. When it came to ineffability, only fools rushed in. Mucking about with the Divine Plan was a bit like hang-gliding, or rock-climbing: extreme sports for the supernatural set.
No, they hadn't changed much of anything. They'd simply asked for a rain-check.
Someone once said it was better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.
Aziraphale would disagree, of course, on general principle. Crowley would also disagree, simply because he's been to Hell. The Devil himself can't find a place to park, and really, if you've seen one bubbling pit of sulphur, you've seen them all.
Once again, it wasn't a dark and stormy night. In fact, dark and stormy nights had been rather far and few between in the last six years. They seemed to be saved for special occasions, such as Halloween, horror film premieres, and winter solstice celebrations at Stonehenge. Presently, the blue-black night was clear, if a bit listless, and the stars, grateful that avenging angels had never been allowed to cast them from the sky, twinkled like tiny diamonds.
"Shit."
Crowley hurtled away from Elephant and Castle with the practised ease of someone who habitually exceeded the speed limit. The world was black and grey, and he took a deep breath, forcing the alcohol from his system. His head cleared, fleeing alongside the sour heat in his stomach, but nothing changed, really. Bottom-shelf tequila still coated his tongue, and he was still about to get buggered up a hill and sideways.
And so was the world, in a manner of speaking.
He blamed Piqar, mostly. Wishing discorporation on the messenger wouldn't fix anything, but it would certainly make Crowley feel better. And it wasn't like anyone would miss him. Piqar was a demon, after a fashion, but he was also as low on Hell's food chain as you could get without knocking on Heaven's door and asking if you could resubmit your application. Crowley didn't know who allowed the gormless fellow topside -- Piqar claimed to be on a routine possession, but Crowley doubted he could possess a Pot Noodle without a small army to assist him -- and when Crowley spotted him, menacing a letterbox with a rather unconvincing lurk, Crowley's first instinct had been to manifest himself elsewhere.
Piqar had recognised him right off, of course, six thousand years of no contact and a very stylish pair of sunglasses aside, and Crowley did hate to leave the Bentley to its own devices. Besides, refusing Piqar's offer of a drink would have been suspicious. Crowley had stayed off Hell's radar this long; he didn't intend for a fourth-rate incubus with no advancement prospects to line him up in the Devil's cross-hairs.
Not that it mattered, if what Piqar said was true.
"Can't be," muttered Crowley, taking care to use the roundabout the wrong way. "It can't be."
Sure, things had been a bit dull of late, what with Heaven and Hell keeping a low profile. Crowley didn't have an agenda most days, other than pottering around his flat and threatening his potted plants. He read some, and watched the afternoon serials on the telly. He had dinner with Aziraphale every Tuesday, and when he was in the neighbourhood -- and only because he was in the neighbourhood; demons didn't make social calls -- he dropped in on Anathema, who had somehow managed to house-train Newt, produce two children that looked nothing like either of them, and make Jasmine Cottage into something almost liveable. He tempted occasionally, because bad habits died hard.
It wasn't much, but it was a life. It was better than Hell, and Crowley liked it.
"CROWLEY."
Crowley froze, slapped with the cold chill associated with being caught with your hand up the skirt of another man's wife. He snatched a cassette off the passenger seat, shook it free of its plastic case, and shoved it in the Blaupunkt. A muted click and whir was followed by the painful thud of the Velvet Underground. Crowley relaxed by degrees and slammed his foot on the accelerator.
"CROWLEY," The voice was reminiscent of sandpaper over pavement, and it cut through Lou Reed's drone like a knife. "I FIND YOUR SILENCE UNSETTLING."
"Sorry," said Crowley. "I was a bit distracted. I'm driving, you understand." Chances were this fellow didn't; Hell's more important types hadn't been above-ground since the favoured form of transportation was the beast of burden. Assuming, of course, that they'd ever been above-ground, at all. "Who's this, then?"
"YANDAR, INTERIM LORD OF THE FLIES, MASTER OF MADNESS, UNDER-DUKE OF THE SEVENTH TORMENT."
"Interim?" asked Crowley. It could've been worse. It could've been Hastur. Or what was left of Listur.
"DAGON'S ON HOLIDAY," explained Yandar. "HE'LL BE BACK ON SUNDAY. WE'VE BIG PLANS FOR SUNDAY."
Crowley swallowed, and slouched in his seat like an errant student. "Right. Sunday." He itched in a way that suggested he was supposed to know what these plans entailed. "Sunday is Christmas, isn't it?" Crowley wouldn't have remembered, except Aziraphale had roped him into some sort of party with Newt and Anathema. "I didn't realise you'd taken to celebrating the birth of Je-- the upstart down there."
"CELEBRATING ISN'T QUITE THE WORD," said Yandar, in a tone that passed for amused amongst demons.
"Oh."
"I'VE A BUSY NIGHT TONIGHT, SO I'LL GET ON WITH IT," continued Yandar. Crowley shivered. "ALL HAIL SATAN! I HAVE A MESSAGE FROM LUCIFER, YOUR LORD AND MASTER, THE MORNING STAR, BRINGER OF LIGHT, EMBODIMENT OF EVIL AND ENEMY OF GOD, KING OF HELL AND ALL ITS REALMS, PRINCE OF DARKNESS, RULER OF SERPENTS, TEMPTER OF ADAM AND EVE, DESTROYER OF EDEN, FATHER OF THE GREAT BEAST THAT IS CALLED DRAGON."
"You forgot Piper at the Gates of Dawn," Crowley muttered sourly. He was surprised the end bit hadn't been edited out of Satan's titles at the last propaganda round-table, since Adam hadn't quite lived up to His expectations, particularly in the seven heads and ten tails department.
"YOU, CROWLEY, HAVE BEEN SUMMONED TO JOIN THE ARMIES OF HELL IN THE FINAL BATTLE AGAINST THE HOSTS OF HEAVEN THAT WILL BRING FORTH THE DAY OF RECKONING AND THE DESTRUCTION OF MANKIND. LUCIFER, OUR LORD AND MASTER--"
"--yes, yes."
"AHEM. OUR LORD AND MASTER REQUESTS YOUR PRESENCE IN THE NORTH OF SCOTLAND THIS SUNDAY, ONE FULL HOUR BEFORE DAWN. WEAPONS AND REFRESHMENTS WILL BE PROVIDED. YOU MAY ASSUME WHATEVER FORM YOU WISH, AND YOU MAY BRING ONE (1) GUEST, POSSESSED OR UNPOSSESSED." There was a short, tight silence, during which Crowley wondered if he could wish himself and the Bentley to Ibiza while leaving the Blaupunkt behind. "WHAT SAY YOU, CROWLEY, DEMON OF HELL?"
"Sounds lovely," said Crowley. He didn't have much choice, without access to a vial of holy water. Or an ansaphone. "I wouldn't miss it."
"I'LL LET HIM KNOW," said Yandar. "OUR LORD AND MASTER IS MOST ANXIOUS TO SEE YOU. HE HAS NOT FORGOTTEN THAT LAST TIME, YOU FAILED TO INTERVENE ON HIS BEHALF."
"When you say failed to intervene--"
"SUNDAY, CROWLEY. ONE HOUR BEFORE DAWN.
"Right. I'll be there."
With a hiss, Yandar became Venus in Furs, and Crowley switched off the Blaupunkt. Suddenly, Lou Reed was not fit company.
Agnes Nutter was never wrong.
Except for that one time. About the big one.
This bothered Anathema on occasion, in the strange stretch of peace that followed. Anathema had spent her life as a descendent, after all. Agnes' words had been a talisman. Scripture, in a sense. For generations, her family had viewed The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch as a set of principles to be followed to the letter -- when they'd been able to figure out what the mad woman was on about in the first place. That kind of faith wasn't far from religion when you got right down to it, and the idea that Agnes might have dropped the ball when it was important was a bit unsettling.
Anathema remembered. Not much -- bits and bats, mostly -- but she did remember. She remembered more than Newt, and more than the Them -- although, she suspected at least one of the Them knew more than he led on. She no longer had the book, but she did have the cards, and Crowley stopped in every few weeks, which helped a little. Sometimes, she poked at the memories like a sore tooth, sorted through them like jigsaw pieces jumbled on a table, and she always came to the same conclusion when she did: the events at the air base (of which no one seemed to know the details) did not play out the way Agnes had said they would.
But Agnes remembered something, too. She remembered that the future was malleable. Nothing was set in stone, except death, taxes, and Elvis impersonators having bad hair.
She had foreseen the end of the world and the destruction of mankind. But she had also foreseen that mankind would get a stay of execution, if the right people saw fit to be in the right place at, well, the wrong time.
She knew Anathema would burn her next set of prophecies, which is why, three days later, a second copy fell out of a kitchen cupboard and landed on Anathema's toe. She also knew Anathema would throw the second copy in the bin, which is why a third arrived by mail the very next week.
No, Agnes Nutter was never wrong. She was simply misunderstood.
Aziraphale's bookshop survived the near-Apocalypse unscathed. It was still hopelessly cluttered. It still smelled strongly of tea and disuse, and it was still the breeding ground for nomadic tribes of dustbunnies that skittered across the floor like the crisp packets littering the pavement outside. The only significant change was the inventory, a situation Aziraphale began setting to rights his first morning back in (almost) business. He still only sold a book if he had no other option, but he was steadily replacing the thin, brightly-coloured volumes Adam Young had manifested onto the shelves with things more to his tastes -- specifically; thick, ponderous, leather-bound tomes with yellowed pages and cracked spines.
Crowley ignored the sign in the front window, which said 'closed' with all the authority a square of plastic could muster. He also ignored the fact that Aziraphale had locked the door. He waved his hand in front of it, wiggling his fingers just slightly. Aziraphale's army of deadbolts retreated, and the door inched open with the sort of creak favoured by haunted houses and people wanting to scare off travelling salesmen. A handful of sleigh-bells jingled as Crowley stepped inside, loud in the dusty silence.
"Here, now!" shouted Aziraphale. From the back room, he sounded both distant and distracted. "I'm closed for the evening." Following his current trend, Crowley ignored this dismissal, too. After a moment, Aziraphale shuffled into the bookshop proper, armed with a cup of tea and a copy of Malleus Maleficarum so ancient it probably bore Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger's fingerprints. "Oh." He only sounded vaguely surprised. "It's you."
"Sorry to disappoint," said Crowley dryly. "Were you expecting someone else?" The Malleus Maleficarum was very old and brown against Aziraphale's fingers, and Crowley eyed it sideways. Pope Innocent VIII's mind had worked in ways the Devil didn't even understand. "The Univeralist Coven of South London, perhaps?"
"What, this?" Aziraphale asked, brandishing the book before tucking it under his arm. "A bit of light reading." He paused, frowning at Crowley as if Crowley had done him a personal wrong -- which, of course, was always possible. Crowley had blacked out the London Library's lending database yesterday. But only for twenty-seven minutes. "I was about to phone you."
Aziraphale never phoned him. Aziraphale didn't have anything against telephones -- although he did have something against ansaphones, and Crowley was not-home so regularly that when phoning his flat, a conversation with his ansaphone was inevitable -- but mobiles were out of Aziraphale's depth. He found the whole wireless thing unnerving, which meant, on the rare occasion he did ring Crowley on his mobile, that he shouted a lot, and put the receiver so close to his mouth he was practically eating it.
"I take it you've heard from your side."
"I did," said Aziraphale. "I went into the back after closing up, and found the Metatron helping himself to my biscuit tin. You just missed him."
"Pity," murmured Crowley. If he never saw the Voice of God again, it would be too soon. He headed for the back room, nudging Aziraphale into motion as he passed. "I should work on my aim."
Aziraphale's sigh was both patient and long-suffering, and Crowley pretended not to notice. He knew Aziraphale thought the Metatron was a self-centred flash bastard; he was just too nice to say it out loud.
"I figured you might have," continued Crowley. He waved a cup of tea into existence, and settled in at the table that pretended, when Aziraphale was actually doing work, to be a desk. "Someone from middle management possessed my stereo as I was driving home."
"You'd save yourself this sort of trouble if you'd just stop driving," said Aziraphale sensibly. "I know you're attached to that car, but you don't need it."
"I prefer it that way," said Crowley. His tea was too hot, and it wanted sugar. "If given the choice, I'd rather not find Beelzebub in my loo."
"Must you be crass?"
"Must you only have cinnamon biscuits?"
Sighing again, Aziraphale removed the biscuit tin from Crowley's reach. "What was the message?"
"It wasn't a message, it was a summons," said Crowley irritably. He set his half-empty tea aside. He rather thought he needed a brandy. A large brandy. "It was my draft notice for the Armies of Hell. Final battle, this Sunday, north of Scotland."
"Mine was similar," said Aziraphale. "The Hosts of Heaven amassing. I'm to report to my Choir of Angels one hour before dawn."
Crowley shivered. He hated it when Heaven and Hell shared a brain. "Well, what are we going to do?"
"Nothing."
The clocked ticked. The bookshop creaked as it settled in for the night. The Malleus Maleficarum glared up at Crowley balefully.
Aziraphale was dead serious.
"What do you mean, nothing?" demanded Crowley. "We've been through this before! There's no sense in testing everything to destruction just to see if it was made properly. There's no sense in endless Heaven or eternal Hell."
"Yes, we have been through this before." Aziraphale looked away and began absently shredding a biscuit into a pile of crumbs. "And apparently, it didn't matter."
"Of course it mattered," argued Crowley. "We learned something last time, didn't we?"
"Oh, what's that?"
Crowley smiled. Like a snake. "We have a choice."
And verily, change came to Lower Tadfield, albeit slowly.
Mrs Henderson, who was very old indeed, and according to some, had lived in Lower Tadfield since Christ was a child, decided one cold November morning that she wanted to spend the rest of her golden (and possibly platinum) years in warmer climes. She sold her property for a song and moved to Torremolinos, and with that act of greatness, Anathema Pulsifier nee Device, and her husband Newt, became the first permanent residents of Jasmine Cottage in recent memory. Two children followed shortly, a solemn boy and girl with dark hair and intent eyes. They were more concerned about things like the environment than people under the age of six had any right to be, and they often played witch trials in the front garden.
The Them gave this event due consideration, and Wensleydale muttered some about occultists, but Adam had long ago decided Anathema was the right sort of occultist. From this, they figured Newt must be the right sort of whatever-he-was, and that was the end of that.
Two years later, Greasy Johnson moved to Birmingham in pursuit of a fledgling American football league, and the Them viewed this upheaval in the natural order of things with mixed emotions. Greasy Johnson had been a steady point in the Them's daily life -- a fixture, like Jasmine Cottage and the air base and their parents overreacting about every little thing -- and his sudden lack was noted. Greasy Johnson was, well, greasy (and with the onset of puberty, spotty), and the neighbourhood was probably all the better for him leaving, but a good gang needed a rival; that was simply the way of things. The leftover Johnsonites held fast for a number of weeks, but they were rudderless without a leader, and eventually slipped into the obscurity of such after-school programs as the chess and botany clubs.
A highway that would bisect Lower Tadfield in an attempt to connect it with civilization was planned, but never approved. A passel of luxury home-estates that would cover the rolling hills like ants was approved, but the contractor lost his stipend on the horses and was never heard from again. A commercial development slated for a plot of land that was practically on R P Tyler's back lawn was miraculously relocated to Upper Tadfield before the first shovel broke ground, and no official reason was given.
Adam took no responsibility. Messing others around wasn't polite.
The Them, who had once been scruffy and difficult children, grew into awkward and difficult teenagers, and they still prowled Lower Tadfield in a pack, much to the consternation of the area's God-fearing adults. Over time, they traded their bicycles for bigger, more appropriate bicycles and eventually, on the rare occasion it could be convinced to start, Adam's elderly Saab 900. The Pit remained their headquarters and home away from home, but they often ventured outward, usually to a bohemian coffee shop in Norton, the type of establishment where the coffee was priced in pounds instead of pence, and a thin wastrel darkened the rickety, makeshift stage in the company of a guitar and beret.
It was at this coffee shop they now sat. They settled at an outside table, despite the brisk winter chill, because Adam had brought Dog, and because Brian had recently taken up smoking in what Adam was sure was an attempt to irritate his parents. He sat on Adam's left, which put Pepper across from Adam and Wensleydale on his other side. Pepper's mittens and scarf were the same dark green as the coffee shop's plastic outdoor furniture, and the smoke trailing from Brian's nose clouded around his head before curling into a grey haze that lingered against the awning.
"It doesn't seem right," said Pepper, aggrieved. A hot chocolate with extra whipped cream was trapped between her woolly hands. "You can't be havin' Christmas without proper presents an' a proper tree."
Pepper's mother had recently started going to church. It was a normal sort of church, as far as the Them could tell, not the wailing and snake-touching sort of church with funny ideas, but the years Pepper's mother spent as a godless, wandering heathen seemed to be weighing on her mortal soul, and she was having plenty of funny ideas on her own. This year, their Christmas tree was a sombre affair, decked with angels and crosses and fairy lights the same pale blue as the Virgin Mary's mantle, and denouncing the commercialised extravaganza that society made of the Saviour's birth, Pepper's mother had forbidden gift-giving above and beyond that of token appreciation on pain of, well, pain.
"I can't see as it matters much," said Adam, who was tired of Pepper's mother's church.
"No, it's not right," said Wensleydale, in the quiet tones of adolescent infatuation.
Wensleydale's loyalty was to Adam, and it always would be, but boys would be boys, and over the last year, Pepper had become a girl. She didn't act like one, and she rarely talked like one, but some days, she rather looked like one. On those days, dissension whispered between the ranks, particularly from Wensleydale. Adam ignored it because Pepper mostly did, and because it was only on those days.
"She's been readin' the Bible, again," said Pepper.
"Nothin' wrong with readin' the Bible," replied Adam carefully. Dog growled softly. "My parents read the Bible now and again."
"Sure, but they're not readin' the Bible the way she's been readin' the Bible," argued Pepper. "She's been takin' notes and such, and goin' on about the end of the world."
Adam shifted in his chair. "Well, I suppose not," he said stiffly, and Dog nosed at his shoe.
"Tomorrow Never Dies is playin' in an hour," Brian offered, in hopes of changing the subject. He coughed into his coffee -- black, with a splash of hot water -- and stubbed his fag in the disposable alfoil ashtray. "Right across town."
Adam shrugged. "I don't much feel like drivin' just now," he said, which was Adam-speak for my car is like to leave us on the side of the highway. He frowned for good measure, glaring at it where it was parked just up from the coffee shop. It was the sort of sun-bleached red that looked orange in the wrong light -- or on particularly grey days, like this one -- and it had temperamental heater which fogged the windows like anything and smelled strongly of wet cat. "Tomorrow, maybe."
"I work tomorrow," said Wensleydale importantly. He was the only one of the Them with a job, even if it was only seasonal work at the local green grocer's.
"I'm savin' my money, anyway," said Pepper, behind the latest NME. Adam ignored the unnecessary display of Oasis on the cover. "I'm wantin' to see Radiohead when they play next."
"By yourself, then?" asked Wensleydale, and Adam shifted again, because this was approaching dangerous territory.
"I might get two tickets," said Pepper quietly. Her eyes almost flicked to Adam. Almost, but not quite. Brian, who often noticed more than he led on, dove for the safety of his coffee, and Adam became very interested in Dog.
Three days ago, Pepper kissed him. It had been a quick, brief thing comprised of winter-chapped lips and too much tongue, and after, Adam had been decidedly warm, but also rather confused. She hadn't mentioned it since, for which Adam was profoundly grateful, because he wasn't sure how he felt about the whole thing, really.
"I was thinkin'," said Adam slowly, because Wensleydale looked a bit pink and someone had to say something. "Maybe we should do our own Christmas."
Christmas invaded St James' park quietly. Bright red bows topped the lamp-posts, and strands of fairy lights twinkled in the shrubbery. The sky was a heavy, battleship grey, and last night's light snow covered the ground like a soft, knitted blanket. As the new and improved Apocalypse crept closer, realpolitik carried on, flourishing alongside the second-oldest profession -- secrets. Used notes exchanged hands under the cover of crumpled brown bags and sleek alligator briefcases, and across the pond, the Dutch naval attaché strolled under the winter-frosted trees with a woman who strongly resembled a distant cousin of the Royal Family.
An ancient drake with a bum wing waddled over and pecked irritably at Aziraphale's shoe.
"Any luck?" asked Aziraphale. He clutched desperately a several slices of Russian rye.
"Depends on what you consider luck," replied Crowley.
"They mean to go ahead with it?" asked Aziraphale.
It being nothing less than the end of the World. And yes, they had every intention of going ahead with it. Crowley now had the full details of the plan, thanks to -- oddly enough -- Piqar. After another bottle of bottom shelf-tequila, Piqar had introduced Crowley to a friend, who seemed to know how things were going to unfold. A tall, blond fellow with a permanent sneer and the pale, waxy look of someone who just escaped from prison. Crowley hadn't liked him much, but Crowley hadn't needed to. Everyone was agreeable after a proper hypnotism, and Crowley had only needed to ask him a few questions.
"Of course."
Aziraphale considered for a few moments. He fiddled with the bread, which crumbled sadly under his nervous fingers. "Of course," he murmured. "Has your side provided for a... a--"
"Antichrist?"
"Yes, him," said Aziraphale. "Rather necessary, unfortunately. I don't think either side can proceed without one."
Crowley shifted uncomfortably, frowning at the squabbling queue of ducks around Aziraphale's feet until they scattered noisily toward the pond. "Not as such. But they'll have one by Sunday."
"Oh? How's that?"
"Well, on the last go, the plan went south for the winter, didn't it?" asked Crowley. "The boy was meant to be the seed of Evil and all that, but he got attached to the place, after growing up in it. This time, they're not taking any chances. They're doing it the old fashioned way."
"You don't mean--"
"Possession," said Crowley, almost cheerfully.
"That's dreadful," muttered Aziraphale, brushing crumbs from his hands. "Absolutely dreadful."
"Yes, but it's efficient," said Crowley, with a broad, circular gesture. "Less room for error, if the poor sod doesn't have a choice." He stepped a bit closer to Aziraphale, because the angel looked positively distressed, and for some reason, Crowley was bothered by it. "They've not said much Below, of course, but I can guarantee you someone, somewhere, is a bit embarrassed." Aziraphale was rooted to the spot; Crowley linked their arms and moved, hoping Aziraphale would follow. "They conjure up none other than the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness, wait patiently for eleven years while he grows into himself, and then when the day comes, he calls the whole thing off because his friends won't have a place to play."
"No, no, I see your point," said Aziraphale, as Crowley jerked on his arm again. He allowed himself to be herded away. "I just don't like it. I've always thought possession was a bit... invasive." He paused as the Bentley unlocked itself. "Do they have someone in mind, or will they just seize the first unfortunate soul they come across?"
Crowley smiled thinly. "Oh, they have a fellow."
"Who?"
"Harry Potter."
"What do you mean, do our own Christmas?" Wensleydale demanded.
They returned home for dinner and regrouped outside Jasmine Cottage with full bellies, only to be chased out of The Pit by the weather, which Adam thought was a bit colder than was strictly necessary. They retreated to Brian's sitting room, which was not as brilliant as The Pit, but would do in a pinch. It had a old, black-and-white telly that's antenna was attached with Sellotape and lumpy plaid couches that were at least three decades out of fashion. Dog was banished to the garage, because Brian's older brother was allergic, and Adam had apologised with a ratty blanket full of interesting smells and a sound pat on the head.
"I mean, we should do our own Christmas," said Adam. "That way, we don't have to worry about other stuff. Just us."
"What other stuff?" asked Pepper, who was returning from the loo. She resumed her seat, which was as far from Adam as she could manage while remaining on the same couch. Wensleydale had opted for the couch opposite them; Brian was stretched out between them on the floor.
"Like your mum's church," said Adam sharply. "Or if Brian's mum is making tongue for dinner again."
"She only did it the once," argued Brian defensively. "It put my dad off, and my brother got hives."
"Everything gives your brother hives," Wensleydale pointed out.
This was true, so no argument was forthcoming.
"We'll just put our presents under our tree," continued Adam. "We've got 'em already, don't we?"
This year, Adam bought Wensleydale a book on the The Army, because he'd expressed interest in joining the territorials out of school, and Brian a carton of fags, because maybe he'd smoke the lot in one go, make himself sick, and do everyone a favour and quit. He dithered over Pepper's present for a full fifteen minutes before deciding on a jumper he rather thought she'd look nice in -- not that he cared what she looked like, mind -- but this was before she kissed him. He'd since been wondering if there was time to exchange it for something less personal, like a NME subscription, or a nice pair of house shoes.
Pepper and Wensleydale nodded, as did Brian, although a bit less decisively; he had the slightly guilty look of someone who'd been putting of his Christmas shopping until tomorrow, and had just realised that if he didn't get on with it, tomorrow would be Boxing Day.
"Have you got a tree?" asked Wensleydale suddenly.
Adam paused at this. He did not have a tree of his own, and he doubted his father would appreciate him strapping the family tree to the roof of his car and driving off to The Pit.
"Well, no, I don't," admitted Adam. "We can figure that bit out when the time comes, I guess."
"I just wish I had a normal tree," said Pepper sourly. "You know, red and silver with balls and bows and that."
"You know who has a tree? Anathema," said Adam. "I bet she'd let us borrow it, if we ask nice."
"Anathema is an occultist," argued Wensleydale, picking at a loose thread on a shockingly tartan throw-pillow. "Occultists don't celebrate Christmas. They celebrate Yule."
The Them gave this due consideration, until Adam cleared his throat.
"Christmas or Yule, it don't much matter," he said. He leaned forward, partially to keep Wensleydale and Brian's attention, but mostly to escape Pepper; she'd stretched her legs a bit, and her feet were now invading his side of the couch. "She has a tree, for the kids, I guess. I saw it in the window. 'Sides, she just might celebrate Christmas. She's havin' a party. On Christmas Eve. She told me."
"A party?" asked Brian, finally warming to the subject. "With food and such?"
"If you like," said Adam. "And a tree."
"If she's having a party, she won't want us over there, borrowing her tree. We're not invited," said Wensleydale.
"Says who we're not invited?" asked Adam. "She told me she's havin' a party. That's just as good, if you ask me."
"We'll have to get her gifts, then," said Pepper, drawing her legs up and frowning at Adam, although Adam didn't know why. "That's what my mother says. If you're invited to a party, you have to bring the host a gift. It's polite."
This earned more due consideration. Adam privately thought he didn't need etiquette lessons from someone who didn't have a proper Christmas tree, but he didn't say anything, because it would only get Pepper going about her mum's church.
"Well, maybe if we all put in a bit, we could get her a together-gift, from all of us," said Brian. "Somethin' for the house."
"Sure," said Adam, slightly jealous he hadn't thought of it first.
"Hey!" said Brian suddenly, extricating his arm from where he'd shoved it between Wensleydale's feet and under the couch. "I found some tokens from the arcade. You feel like drivin', Adam?"
"Yeah," said Adam, smiling. "That'd be all right."
"I don't understand," said Aziraphale, as they sped toward Crowley's flat.
Crowley sighed. The Wizarding world was something Aziraphale deliberately chose not to understand. The whole idea -- humans who could do magic -- made him more than a bit nervous. The Bible spoke out against magic, at least in general terms, and Aziraphale seemed to think manifesting and miracling should be left to supernatural entities.
"What's not to understand?" asked Crowley. "I have to say, it's positively brilliant."
"You would," muttered Aziraphale, fiddling with a cassette. The glare of the headlights suggested it was Us and Them: Symphonic Pink Floyd by the London Philharmonic, but Crowley was almost certain it was already the Best of Queen. "I must say, I'm bothered by one thing."
"One thing?"
"Yes, one," said Aziraphale, missing Crowley's sarcasm entirely. "Why Harry Potter? Why not the other fellow?"
Crowley swerved, nearly clipping a lorry as he passed it. "Which fellow? Voldemort?"
"Yes, him," said Aziraphale, slipping the cassette into the Blaupunkt. A orchestral version of The Great Gig in the Sky filled the Bentley, although Crowley could have done without the impromptu vocals by Freddie Mercury. "He's more the type, wouldn't you think?"
Crowley shrugged and screeched down the exit lane. Down There approved of Voldemort and his Death Eaters in the same way and for the same reasons they approved of Satanists; because they couldn't not. Hell could hardly turn a blind eye to a group that held with murder, mayhem, and general mass destruction, even if they had embarrassing costumes and lacked anything approaching discretion. There was protocol to uphold, after all.
"He's a complete nutter," said Crowley, with all seriousness. "You know what I mean: wants to live forever, bent on obliterating half of the human race."
"Exactly my point," said Aziraphale, in a tone that was approaching smugness. "If I had to pick a... a... well, you know, I'd probably go with him."
"That's because your brain is stuck in the fourteenth century," said Crowley, turning so fast the Bentley rounded the corner on two wheels. "As an Antichrist, Voldemort would be expedient, yes, but he wouldn't necessarily get the job done. Not the way Below wants it done, anyway."
Aziraphale made that noise, the one that said he thought Crowley had landed on his head after the Fall, and Crowley sighed.
"I'm sure this Voldemort is a character, but from what I understand, he's only got a handful of followers, and they're bound by fear, not loyalty," explained Crowley. "Now this Potter fellow, he's a different story. His side's built him up as some kind of hero. A saviour, if you like." Aziraphale grunted disapprovingly, and Crowley snorted. "And he's been working up to this fight for years. If he wins, there's not much his people won't do for him."
"And?" asked Aziraphale.
"And?" Crowley repeated, a bit shrilly. "That's the problem with your side, angel. They can't think outside the box."
"I understand what you're getting at," said Aziraphale sharply. "I just don't understand how it applies to our situation. Once our fight it over," he added, gesturing between Crowley and himself, "it won't matter who wins his. The world will be over."
"Yes, but how will it end?" asked Crowley. He set to parking, squeezing the Bentley into a space between two lesser cars that wouldn't normally accommodate the type of scooter Aziraphale had ridden to the last Apocalypse. "Will we do it, or will the humans do it, themselves?"
"Oh," said Aziraphale said quietly. "Oh my."
"Exactly!" said Crowley, smacking his hand on the steering wheel. "I mean, I only know what I got from Piqar's mate, but it sounded like he's pretty high in this Voldemort's ranks. From what I understand, Hell picked the time and place, and Heaven agreed."
"They agreed last time," Aziraphale pointed out.
"By default," said Crowley. "They had to show up, because the Antichrist was already loose. Nothing else for it. This is different. This time, Belial went and poked Gabriel in the eye and said meet me in Scotland on Christmas morning."
"Just like that?" asked Aziraphale dubiously.
"Maybe," said Crowley, letting the Bentley idle so as not to lose the heater. "My point is, Heaven allowed Hell to pick the time and place, which means Heaven knows what's going on, as far as Potter's people."
"Yes, they must," said Aziraphale, slouching slightly in his seat. "They wouldn't have agreed to terms they didn't feel were advantageous. I must admit, the Metatron sounded awfully pleased with himself."
"I'll just bet," said Crowley, turning to face Aziraphale. "So our people get there, right? Heavenly hosts and Hellish armies as far as the eye can see. But lo! Good and Evil are already engaged below us."
"Yea and verily," muttered Aziraphale, favouring Crowley with a sharp frown.
"Heaven will back Potter, naturally," continued Crowley, ignoring the sudden curve of Aziraphale's mouth, "because he's fighting the good fight."
"And your people will back Voldemort," offered Aziraphale.
"At first. They have to at least look like they're trying," said Crowley, waving his hands about. "But at the last minute, they'll throw in their lot with Potter, so he wins. After he vanquishes his tyrant and earns himself a horde of slavering minions, a quick spot of possession will have him shouting about death and destruction."
"Right," said Aziraphale nervously.
"They've got those magical sticks, you know," said Crowley, leaning a bit too close. "People will be exploding right and left. With all that evil happening on the ground, Hell will take to the sky and leave Heaven in the dust."
"We're done for," whispered Aziraphale.
It was the 23rd of December, and the sky was as black as the Devil's heart. An angel and a demon sat in an illegally parked Bentley, contemplating the end of the world, while Freddie Mercury warbled through a strings-and-horns approximation of Nobody Home.
"Well, I should probably tell you, since we've naught but thirty-six hours," said Aziraphale, quiet and sudden at once. "I've always liked you. You're a right sort, even if you're from the wrong side."
And Crowley kissed him, because really, it had been six thousand years, and waiting rather wasn't an option any more.
"Have you ever made the effort?" asked Aziraphale.
"Only during the fourteenth century," said Crowley. It had been a defence mechanism, really; there hadn't been much else to do. "What about you?"
"Once," said Aziraphale. "But I'd rather not talk about Raphael right now."
"Raphael?" asked Crowley, pulling back slightly. If he remembered correctly, Raphael started the whole bit with miraculous healing by laying-on-of-hands, which quite honestly, made him responsible for things like street preachers and televangelists. "He's awfully flash, for you."
Aziraphale sighed. "Don't remind me."
"Come upstairs," said Crowley, shutting off the Bentley.
"Why?" asked Aziraphale. "Why now?"
Crowley paused, because he was a demon, and these sorts of things didn't come easily. His lip twitched, and he made a complicated hand-gesture. Aziraphale sighed.
"Well, that's all right, then," said Aziraphale. "I suppose I'd better. But we need to make an early start of it, tomorrow."
"Why?"
"I have an idea."
And Crowley kissed him again. They only had thirty-five hours and forty-five minutes to go.
It was a crisp, cool morning, and Jasmine Cottage hummed with Christmas cheer.
Anathema was a witch, but she was the sensible sort of witch. If the neighbours wished her a Happy Christmas -- which, with Lower Tadfield being Lower Tadfield, they did with alarming frequency -- she smiled and wished them the same. She didn't shout about Yule, because they probably wouldn't understand anyway, and she didn't start in on how Jesus stole another god's birthday, because frankly, she had better things to do with her time. The name of the holiday wasn't important. It was the spirit of the season that mattered, and in Lower Tadfield, the spirit of the season included Christmas trees and fairy lights and mistletoe above the door.
Besides, the children rather liked Father Christmas, and she couldn't argue with that kind of logic.
She'd never expected to have children. She'd never been maternal; she didn't play house much as a child, and only once did she take in a stray animal. Of course, this could neatly be blamed on her being a descendent. She'd been consumed with Agnes' prophecies before she could properly read. She'd had other things on her mind when other girls her age were pushing their dogs about in miniature prams and begging for dolls that cried and wet, but most importantly, she thought if she was meant to have children, Agnes might have mentioned it.
Her first pregnancy was a bit of surprise -- of course, most things after what didn't quite happen at the air base were a surprise, since she no longer had an unabridged guide to her life -- but it had turned out all right in the end. It came easily enough, after she figured out the important bits, and by the time she had the second one, she found she actually enjoyed it. Newt enjoyed it as well, but he lacked Anathema's ease. His heart was in the right place, but he took to fatherhood like a ostrich to surfing, and was at best, hopelessly awkward with the children in a way Anathema had learned to find endearing.
Anathema hummed quietly and adjusted the artificial pine garland strung across the mantle. She straightened the soapstone Nativity -- a gift from Newt's mother, and she'd be by later, make no mistake -- and rescued a bit of tinsel from the depths of Baby Jesus' cradle. Mary watched Anathema with a placid expression. Joseph stood guard next to a bough of holly, blissfully unaware of its pagan connotations. Anathema's youngest, Ruth, followed her as she worked, stumbling along with her clumsy, toddler feet, her small fingers caught in Anathema's trousers.
"I don't suppose you've seen your brother?" asked Anathema brightly. Ruth laughed in reply, with the delirious, bubbly giggle of the young and unconcerned, and Anathema swung her up, settling the child on her hip.
"I'm over here, mum."
Luke, who was not quite five, had developed an uncanny interest in books. He was currently cross-legged on the floor in front of the large set of shelves built into the wall, and wobbly stacks of books towered around him on all sides.
"Well, let's see what you're reading," said Anathema.
Here was the shop manual for Newt's Wasabi. There was a cookbook Newt's mother gave Anathema last Christmas, because she thought Newt and the children were too thin. In Luke's lap was something that made Anathema shiver.
Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter
Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com; Ye Saga Continuef!
Newt had been right when he prompted Anathema to burn the first copy; she hadn't wanted to spend the rest of her life as a descendent. But Agnes, bloody-minded old woman that she was, had known Anathema would destroy it, and provided for another. And another. And another. The copy Luke was holding was the sixth -- possibly the seventh. Eventually, Anathema gave up and just shelved it, hoping Agnes would be content that the book was in the house, even if Anathema refused to read it.
"Give that here," she said. Setting Ruth on her feet, she extended her hand.
"It's got my name in it," said Luke proudly. "Twice!"
Anathema froze. The Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a solid thud.
Part II
Author:
xylodemonRecipient:
bentleyPairings: vaguely Aziraphale/Crowley. Also Anathema/Newt and implied Adam/Pepper.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: History has a funny way of repeating itself. A really, really funny way of repeating itself.
A/N: For
bentley, who preferred plot to smut and said crossovers were welcome. Although, I wouldn't say its a proper crossover. I've simply included a strange cast of extras. Thanks to my beta, who had the patience of a saint. I've (mis)quoted a few things here; all apologies at the end. As it turned out, they hadn't changed much of anything.
The skies had not fallen, of course. Nor had the seas boiled. The sun had not become black like a sackcloth of hair and, to the disgruntlement of numerous entities both ethereal and occult, the moon had not become as blood. The scheduled plague of locusts never made it past Cornwall; they lost their sense of purpose somewhere over St Ives Harbour and decided, after a brief tour of Tintangel, to head some place warm -- perhaps Majorca -- for the remainder of their brief, insectual lives, and the obligatory rain of fish had been short-lived and mostly confined to the general vicinity of the M25.
A bad show all around, really.
On the dawning of the first day of the Earth's new lease on life, an Ask Not Lest Ye be Asked policy was hastily adopted by both sides. Good and Evil's rank and file carried on as it always had, and the subject of the Apocalypse that Rather Went a Bit Pear-Shaped was pointedly avoided at board meetings, policy briefings, and Heaven's semi-annual rummage sale. A blissful and untested existence stretched on, filled with mild summers, the occasional light rain, and a stubborn and embarrassed silence on either front, which in all honestly, lent to a false sense of security.
The denizens of Heaven and Hell didn't take defeat lightly. Failure was not an option; it was something that happened to other people, and they decided, upon reflection, that they shouldn't have let themselves be distracted by a neat bit of misdirection. Particularly when the sleight-of-hand in question was performed, in the main, by an eleven year-old boy hardly in control of his own powers, two rogue field agents who hadn't so much as sent a postcard to headquarters in six millennia (give or take), and sundry followers and hangers-on who had almost no significance on any astral plane.
Anathema Device was a bit of a sticking point. The psychic types always were, especially when they got away with it. Somewhere, Agnes Nutter was cackling as she rested in whatever she preferred to peace.
Which meant Aziraphale had been right, of course. When it came to ineffability, only fools rushed in. Mucking about with the Divine Plan was a bit like hang-gliding, or rock-climbing: extreme sports for the supernatural set.
No, they hadn't changed much of anything. They'd simply asked for a rain-check.
Someone once said it was better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.
Aziraphale would disagree, of course, on general principle. Crowley would also disagree, simply because he's been to Hell. The Devil himself can't find a place to park, and really, if you've seen one bubbling pit of sulphur, you've seen them all.
Once again, it wasn't a dark and stormy night. In fact, dark and stormy nights had been rather far and few between in the last six years. They seemed to be saved for special occasions, such as Halloween, horror film premieres, and winter solstice celebrations at Stonehenge. Presently, the blue-black night was clear, if a bit listless, and the stars, grateful that avenging angels had never been allowed to cast them from the sky, twinkled like tiny diamonds.
"Shit."
Crowley hurtled away from Elephant and Castle with the practised ease of someone who habitually exceeded the speed limit. The world was black and grey, and he took a deep breath, forcing the alcohol from his system. His head cleared, fleeing alongside the sour heat in his stomach, but nothing changed, really. Bottom-shelf tequila still coated his tongue, and he was still about to get buggered up a hill and sideways.
And so was the world, in a manner of speaking.
He blamed Piqar, mostly. Wishing discorporation on the messenger wouldn't fix anything, but it would certainly make Crowley feel better. And it wasn't like anyone would miss him. Piqar was a demon, after a fashion, but he was also as low on Hell's food chain as you could get without knocking on Heaven's door and asking if you could resubmit your application. Crowley didn't know who allowed the gormless fellow topside -- Piqar claimed to be on a routine possession, but Crowley doubted he could possess a Pot Noodle without a small army to assist him -- and when Crowley spotted him, menacing a letterbox with a rather unconvincing lurk, Crowley's first instinct had been to manifest himself elsewhere.
Piqar had recognised him right off, of course, six thousand years of no contact and a very stylish pair of sunglasses aside, and Crowley did hate to leave the Bentley to its own devices. Besides, refusing Piqar's offer of a drink would have been suspicious. Crowley had stayed off Hell's radar this long; he didn't intend for a fourth-rate incubus with no advancement prospects to line him up in the Devil's cross-hairs.
Not that it mattered, if what Piqar said was true.
"Can't be," muttered Crowley, taking care to use the roundabout the wrong way. "It can't be."
Sure, things had been a bit dull of late, what with Heaven and Hell keeping a low profile. Crowley didn't have an agenda most days, other than pottering around his flat and threatening his potted plants. He read some, and watched the afternoon serials on the telly. He had dinner with Aziraphale every Tuesday, and when he was in the neighbourhood -- and only because he was in the neighbourhood; demons didn't make social calls -- he dropped in on Anathema, who had somehow managed to house-train Newt, produce two children that looked nothing like either of them, and make Jasmine Cottage into something almost liveable. He tempted occasionally, because bad habits died hard.
It wasn't much, but it was a life. It was better than Hell, and Crowley liked it.
"CROWLEY."
Crowley froze, slapped with the cold chill associated with being caught with your hand up the skirt of another man's wife. He snatched a cassette off the passenger seat, shook it free of its plastic case, and shoved it in the Blaupunkt. A muted click and whir was followed by the painful thud of the Velvet Underground. Crowley relaxed by degrees and slammed his foot on the accelerator.
"CROWLEY," The voice was reminiscent of sandpaper over pavement, and it cut through Lou Reed's drone like a knife. "I FIND YOUR SILENCE UNSETTLING."
"Sorry," said Crowley. "I was a bit distracted. I'm driving, you understand." Chances were this fellow didn't; Hell's more important types hadn't been above-ground since the favoured form of transportation was the beast of burden. Assuming, of course, that they'd ever been above-ground, at all. "Who's this, then?"
"YANDAR, INTERIM LORD OF THE FLIES, MASTER OF MADNESS, UNDER-DUKE OF THE SEVENTH TORMENT."
"Interim?" asked Crowley. It could've been worse. It could've been Hastur. Or what was left of Listur.
"DAGON'S ON HOLIDAY," explained Yandar. "HE'LL BE BACK ON SUNDAY. WE'VE BIG PLANS FOR SUNDAY."
Crowley swallowed, and slouched in his seat like an errant student. "Right. Sunday." He itched in a way that suggested he was supposed to know what these plans entailed. "Sunday is Christmas, isn't it?" Crowley wouldn't have remembered, except Aziraphale had roped him into some sort of party with Newt and Anathema. "I didn't realise you'd taken to celebrating the birth of Je-- the upstart down there."
"CELEBRATING ISN'T QUITE THE WORD," said Yandar, in a tone that passed for amused amongst demons.
"Oh."
"I'VE A BUSY NIGHT TONIGHT, SO I'LL GET ON WITH IT," continued Yandar. Crowley shivered. "ALL HAIL SATAN! I HAVE A MESSAGE FROM LUCIFER, YOUR LORD AND MASTER, THE MORNING STAR, BRINGER OF LIGHT, EMBODIMENT OF EVIL AND ENEMY OF GOD, KING OF HELL AND ALL ITS REALMS, PRINCE OF DARKNESS, RULER OF SERPENTS, TEMPTER OF ADAM AND EVE, DESTROYER OF EDEN, FATHER OF THE GREAT BEAST THAT IS CALLED DRAGON."
"You forgot Piper at the Gates of Dawn," Crowley muttered sourly. He was surprised the end bit hadn't been edited out of Satan's titles at the last propaganda round-table, since Adam hadn't quite lived up to His expectations, particularly in the seven heads and ten tails department.
"YOU, CROWLEY, HAVE BEEN SUMMONED TO JOIN THE ARMIES OF HELL IN THE FINAL BATTLE AGAINST THE HOSTS OF HEAVEN THAT WILL BRING FORTH THE DAY OF RECKONING AND THE DESTRUCTION OF MANKIND. LUCIFER, OUR LORD AND MASTER--"
"--yes, yes."
"AHEM. OUR LORD AND MASTER REQUESTS YOUR PRESENCE IN THE NORTH OF SCOTLAND THIS SUNDAY, ONE FULL HOUR BEFORE DAWN. WEAPONS AND REFRESHMENTS WILL BE PROVIDED. YOU MAY ASSUME WHATEVER FORM YOU WISH, AND YOU MAY BRING ONE (1) GUEST, POSSESSED OR UNPOSSESSED." There was a short, tight silence, during which Crowley wondered if he could wish himself and the Bentley to Ibiza while leaving the Blaupunkt behind. "WHAT SAY YOU, CROWLEY, DEMON OF HELL?"
"Sounds lovely," said Crowley. He didn't have much choice, without access to a vial of holy water. Or an ansaphone. "I wouldn't miss it."
"I'LL LET HIM KNOW," said Yandar. "OUR LORD AND MASTER IS MOST ANXIOUS TO SEE YOU. HE HAS NOT FORGOTTEN THAT LAST TIME, YOU FAILED TO INTERVENE ON HIS BEHALF."
"When you say failed to intervene--"
"SUNDAY, CROWLEY. ONE HOUR BEFORE DAWN.
"Right. I'll be there."
With a hiss, Yandar became Venus in Furs, and Crowley switched off the Blaupunkt. Suddenly, Lou Reed was not fit company.
Agnes Nutter was never wrong.
Except for that one time. About the big one.
This bothered Anathema on occasion, in the strange stretch of peace that followed. Anathema had spent her life as a descendent, after all. Agnes' words had been a talisman. Scripture, in a sense. For generations, her family had viewed The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch as a set of principles to be followed to the letter -- when they'd been able to figure out what the mad woman was on about in the first place. That kind of faith wasn't far from religion when you got right down to it, and the idea that Agnes might have dropped the ball when it was important was a bit unsettling.
Anathema remembered. Not much -- bits and bats, mostly -- but she did remember. She remembered more than Newt, and more than the Them -- although, she suspected at least one of the Them knew more than he led on. She no longer had the book, but she did have the cards, and Crowley stopped in every few weeks, which helped a little. Sometimes, she poked at the memories like a sore tooth, sorted through them like jigsaw pieces jumbled on a table, and she always came to the same conclusion when she did: the events at the air base (of which no one seemed to know the details) did not play out the way Agnes had said they would.
But Agnes remembered something, too. She remembered that the future was malleable. Nothing was set in stone, except death, taxes, and Elvis impersonators having bad hair.
She had foreseen the end of the world and the destruction of mankind. But she had also foreseen that mankind would get a stay of execution, if the right people saw fit to be in the right place at, well, the wrong time.
She knew Anathema would burn her next set of prophecies, which is why, three days later, a second copy fell out of a kitchen cupboard and landed on Anathema's toe. She also knew Anathema would throw the second copy in the bin, which is why a third arrived by mail the very next week.
No, Agnes Nutter was never wrong. She was simply misunderstood.
Aziraphale's bookshop survived the near-Apocalypse unscathed. It was still hopelessly cluttered. It still smelled strongly of tea and disuse, and it was still the breeding ground for nomadic tribes of dustbunnies that skittered across the floor like the crisp packets littering the pavement outside. The only significant change was the inventory, a situation Aziraphale began setting to rights his first morning back in (almost) business. He still only sold a book if he had no other option, but he was steadily replacing the thin, brightly-coloured volumes Adam Young had manifested onto the shelves with things more to his tastes -- specifically; thick, ponderous, leather-bound tomes with yellowed pages and cracked spines.
Crowley ignored the sign in the front window, which said 'closed' with all the authority a square of plastic could muster. He also ignored the fact that Aziraphale had locked the door. He waved his hand in front of it, wiggling his fingers just slightly. Aziraphale's army of deadbolts retreated, and the door inched open with the sort of creak favoured by haunted houses and people wanting to scare off travelling salesmen. A handful of sleigh-bells jingled as Crowley stepped inside, loud in the dusty silence.
"Here, now!" shouted Aziraphale. From the back room, he sounded both distant and distracted. "I'm closed for the evening." Following his current trend, Crowley ignored this dismissal, too. After a moment, Aziraphale shuffled into the bookshop proper, armed with a cup of tea and a copy of Malleus Maleficarum so ancient it probably bore Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger's fingerprints. "Oh." He only sounded vaguely surprised. "It's you."
"Sorry to disappoint," said Crowley dryly. "Were you expecting someone else?" The Malleus Maleficarum was very old and brown against Aziraphale's fingers, and Crowley eyed it sideways. Pope Innocent VIII's mind had worked in ways the Devil didn't even understand. "The Univeralist Coven of South London, perhaps?"
"What, this?" Aziraphale asked, brandishing the book before tucking it under his arm. "A bit of light reading." He paused, frowning at Crowley as if Crowley had done him a personal wrong -- which, of course, was always possible. Crowley had blacked out the London Library's lending database yesterday. But only for twenty-seven minutes. "I was about to phone you."
Aziraphale never phoned him. Aziraphale didn't have anything against telephones -- although he did have something against ansaphones, and Crowley was not-home so regularly that when phoning his flat, a conversation with his ansaphone was inevitable -- but mobiles were out of Aziraphale's depth. He found the whole wireless thing unnerving, which meant, on the rare occasion he did ring Crowley on his mobile, that he shouted a lot, and put the receiver so close to his mouth he was practically eating it.
"I take it you've heard from your side."
"I did," said Aziraphale. "I went into the back after closing up, and found the Metatron helping himself to my biscuit tin. You just missed him."
"Pity," murmured Crowley. If he never saw the Voice of God again, it would be too soon. He headed for the back room, nudging Aziraphale into motion as he passed. "I should work on my aim."
Aziraphale's sigh was both patient and long-suffering, and Crowley pretended not to notice. He knew Aziraphale thought the Metatron was a self-centred flash bastard; he was just too nice to say it out loud.
"I figured you might have," continued Crowley. He waved a cup of tea into existence, and settled in at the table that pretended, when Aziraphale was actually doing work, to be a desk. "Someone from middle management possessed my stereo as I was driving home."
"You'd save yourself this sort of trouble if you'd just stop driving," said Aziraphale sensibly. "I know you're attached to that car, but you don't need it."
"I prefer it that way," said Crowley. His tea was too hot, and it wanted sugar. "If given the choice, I'd rather not find Beelzebub in my loo."
"Must you be crass?"
"Must you only have cinnamon biscuits?"
Sighing again, Aziraphale removed the biscuit tin from Crowley's reach. "What was the message?"
"It wasn't a message, it was a summons," said Crowley irritably. He set his half-empty tea aside. He rather thought he needed a brandy. A large brandy. "It was my draft notice for the Armies of Hell. Final battle, this Sunday, north of Scotland."
"Mine was similar," said Aziraphale. "The Hosts of Heaven amassing. I'm to report to my Choir of Angels one hour before dawn."
Crowley shivered. He hated it when Heaven and Hell shared a brain. "Well, what are we going to do?"
"Nothing."
The clocked ticked. The bookshop creaked as it settled in for the night. The Malleus Maleficarum glared up at Crowley balefully.
Aziraphale was dead serious.
"What do you mean, nothing?" demanded Crowley. "We've been through this before! There's no sense in testing everything to destruction just to see if it was made properly. There's no sense in endless Heaven or eternal Hell."
"Yes, we have been through this before." Aziraphale looked away and began absently shredding a biscuit into a pile of crumbs. "And apparently, it didn't matter."
"Of course it mattered," argued Crowley. "We learned something last time, didn't we?"
"Oh, what's that?"
Crowley smiled. Like a snake. "We have a choice."
And verily, change came to Lower Tadfield, albeit slowly.
Mrs Henderson, who was very old indeed, and according to some, had lived in Lower Tadfield since Christ was a child, decided one cold November morning that she wanted to spend the rest of her golden (and possibly platinum) years in warmer climes. She sold her property for a song and moved to Torremolinos, and with that act of greatness, Anathema Pulsifier nee Device, and her husband Newt, became the first permanent residents of Jasmine Cottage in recent memory. Two children followed shortly, a solemn boy and girl with dark hair and intent eyes. They were more concerned about things like the environment than people under the age of six had any right to be, and they often played witch trials in the front garden.
The Them gave this event due consideration, and Wensleydale muttered some about occultists, but Adam had long ago decided Anathema was the right sort of occultist. From this, they figured Newt must be the right sort of whatever-he-was, and that was the end of that.
Two years later, Greasy Johnson moved to Birmingham in pursuit of a fledgling American football league, and the Them viewed this upheaval in the natural order of things with mixed emotions. Greasy Johnson had been a steady point in the Them's daily life -- a fixture, like Jasmine Cottage and the air base and their parents overreacting about every little thing -- and his sudden lack was noted. Greasy Johnson was, well, greasy (and with the onset of puberty, spotty), and the neighbourhood was probably all the better for him leaving, but a good gang needed a rival; that was simply the way of things. The leftover Johnsonites held fast for a number of weeks, but they were rudderless without a leader, and eventually slipped into the obscurity of such after-school programs as the chess and botany clubs.
A highway that would bisect Lower Tadfield in an attempt to connect it with civilization was planned, but never approved. A passel of luxury home-estates that would cover the rolling hills like ants was approved, but the contractor lost his stipend on the horses and was never heard from again. A commercial development slated for a plot of land that was practically on R P Tyler's back lawn was miraculously relocated to Upper Tadfield before the first shovel broke ground, and no official reason was given.
Adam took no responsibility. Messing others around wasn't polite.
The Them, who had once been scruffy and difficult children, grew into awkward and difficult teenagers, and they still prowled Lower Tadfield in a pack, much to the consternation of the area's God-fearing adults. Over time, they traded their bicycles for bigger, more appropriate bicycles and eventually, on the rare occasion it could be convinced to start, Adam's elderly Saab 900. The Pit remained their headquarters and home away from home, but they often ventured outward, usually to a bohemian coffee shop in Norton, the type of establishment where the coffee was priced in pounds instead of pence, and a thin wastrel darkened the rickety, makeshift stage in the company of a guitar and beret.
It was at this coffee shop they now sat. They settled at an outside table, despite the brisk winter chill, because Adam had brought Dog, and because Brian had recently taken up smoking in what Adam was sure was an attempt to irritate his parents. He sat on Adam's left, which put Pepper across from Adam and Wensleydale on his other side. Pepper's mittens and scarf were the same dark green as the coffee shop's plastic outdoor furniture, and the smoke trailing from Brian's nose clouded around his head before curling into a grey haze that lingered against the awning.
"It doesn't seem right," said Pepper, aggrieved. A hot chocolate with extra whipped cream was trapped between her woolly hands. "You can't be havin' Christmas without proper presents an' a proper tree."
Pepper's mother had recently started going to church. It was a normal sort of church, as far as the Them could tell, not the wailing and snake-touching sort of church with funny ideas, but the years Pepper's mother spent as a godless, wandering heathen seemed to be weighing on her mortal soul, and she was having plenty of funny ideas on her own. This year, their Christmas tree was a sombre affair, decked with angels and crosses and fairy lights the same pale blue as the Virgin Mary's mantle, and denouncing the commercialised extravaganza that society made of the Saviour's birth, Pepper's mother had forbidden gift-giving above and beyond that of token appreciation on pain of, well, pain.
"I can't see as it matters much," said Adam, who was tired of Pepper's mother's church.
"No, it's not right," said Wensleydale, in the quiet tones of adolescent infatuation.
Wensleydale's loyalty was to Adam, and it always would be, but boys would be boys, and over the last year, Pepper had become a girl. She didn't act like one, and she rarely talked like one, but some days, she rather looked like one. On those days, dissension whispered between the ranks, particularly from Wensleydale. Adam ignored it because Pepper mostly did, and because it was only on those days.
"She's been readin' the Bible, again," said Pepper.
"Nothin' wrong with readin' the Bible," replied Adam carefully. Dog growled softly. "My parents read the Bible now and again."
"Sure, but they're not readin' the Bible the way she's been readin' the Bible," argued Pepper. "She's been takin' notes and such, and goin' on about the end of the world."
Adam shifted in his chair. "Well, I suppose not," he said stiffly, and Dog nosed at his shoe.
"Tomorrow Never Dies is playin' in an hour," Brian offered, in hopes of changing the subject. He coughed into his coffee -- black, with a splash of hot water -- and stubbed his fag in the disposable alfoil ashtray. "Right across town."
Adam shrugged. "I don't much feel like drivin' just now," he said, which was Adam-speak for my car is like to leave us on the side of the highway. He frowned for good measure, glaring at it where it was parked just up from the coffee shop. It was the sort of sun-bleached red that looked orange in the wrong light -- or on particularly grey days, like this one -- and it had temperamental heater which fogged the windows like anything and smelled strongly of wet cat. "Tomorrow, maybe."
"I work tomorrow," said Wensleydale importantly. He was the only one of the Them with a job, even if it was only seasonal work at the local green grocer's.
"I'm savin' my money, anyway," said Pepper, behind the latest NME. Adam ignored the unnecessary display of Oasis on the cover. "I'm wantin' to see Radiohead when they play next."
"By yourself, then?" asked Wensleydale, and Adam shifted again, because this was approaching dangerous territory.
"I might get two tickets," said Pepper quietly. Her eyes almost flicked to Adam. Almost, but not quite. Brian, who often noticed more than he led on, dove for the safety of his coffee, and Adam became very interested in Dog.
Three days ago, Pepper kissed him. It had been a quick, brief thing comprised of winter-chapped lips and too much tongue, and after, Adam had been decidedly warm, but also rather confused. She hadn't mentioned it since, for which Adam was profoundly grateful, because he wasn't sure how he felt about the whole thing, really.
"I was thinkin'," said Adam slowly, because Wensleydale looked a bit pink and someone had to say something. "Maybe we should do our own Christmas."
Christmas invaded St James' park quietly. Bright red bows topped the lamp-posts, and strands of fairy lights twinkled in the shrubbery. The sky was a heavy, battleship grey, and last night's light snow covered the ground like a soft, knitted blanket. As the new and improved Apocalypse crept closer, realpolitik carried on, flourishing alongside the second-oldest profession -- secrets. Used notes exchanged hands under the cover of crumpled brown bags and sleek alligator briefcases, and across the pond, the Dutch naval attaché strolled under the winter-frosted trees with a woman who strongly resembled a distant cousin of the Royal Family.
An ancient drake with a bum wing waddled over and pecked irritably at Aziraphale's shoe.
"Any luck?" asked Aziraphale. He clutched desperately a several slices of Russian rye.
"Depends on what you consider luck," replied Crowley.
"They mean to go ahead with it?" asked Aziraphale.
It being nothing less than the end of the World. And yes, they had every intention of going ahead with it. Crowley now had the full details of the plan, thanks to -- oddly enough -- Piqar. After another bottle of bottom shelf-tequila, Piqar had introduced Crowley to a friend, who seemed to know how things were going to unfold. A tall, blond fellow with a permanent sneer and the pale, waxy look of someone who just escaped from prison. Crowley hadn't liked him much, but Crowley hadn't needed to. Everyone was agreeable after a proper hypnotism, and Crowley had only needed to ask him a few questions.
"Of course."
Aziraphale considered for a few moments. He fiddled with the bread, which crumbled sadly under his nervous fingers. "Of course," he murmured. "Has your side provided for a... a--"
"Antichrist?"
"Yes, him," said Aziraphale. "Rather necessary, unfortunately. I don't think either side can proceed without one."
Crowley shifted uncomfortably, frowning at the squabbling queue of ducks around Aziraphale's feet until they scattered noisily toward the pond. "Not as such. But they'll have one by Sunday."
"Oh? How's that?"
"Well, on the last go, the plan went south for the winter, didn't it?" asked Crowley. "The boy was meant to be the seed of Evil and all that, but he got attached to the place, after growing up in it. This time, they're not taking any chances. They're doing it the old fashioned way."
"You don't mean--"
"Possession," said Crowley, almost cheerfully.
"That's dreadful," muttered Aziraphale, brushing crumbs from his hands. "Absolutely dreadful."
"Yes, but it's efficient," said Crowley, with a broad, circular gesture. "Less room for error, if the poor sod doesn't have a choice." He stepped a bit closer to Aziraphale, because the angel looked positively distressed, and for some reason, Crowley was bothered by it. "They've not said much Below, of course, but I can guarantee you someone, somewhere, is a bit embarrassed." Aziraphale was rooted to the spot; Crowley linked their arms and moved, hoping Aziraphale would follow. "They conjure up none other than the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness, wait patiently for eleven years while he grows into himself, and then when the day comes, he calls the whole thing off because his friends won't have a place to play."
"No, no, I see your point," said Aziraphale, as Crowley jerked on his arm again. He allowed himself to be herded away. "I just don't like it. I've always thought possession was a bit... invasive." He paused as the Bentley unlocked itself. "Do they have someone in mind, or will they just seize the first unfortunate soul they come across?"
Crowley smiled thinly. "Oh, they have a fellow."
"Who?"
"Harry Potter."
"What do you mean, do our own Christmas?" Wensleydale demanded.
They returned home for dinner and regrouped outside Jasmine Cottage with full bellies, only to be chased out of The Pit by the weather, which Adam thought was a bit colder than was strictly necessary. They retreated to Brian's sitting room, which was not as brilliant as The Pit, but would do in a pinch. It had a old, black-and-white telly that's antenna was attached with Sellotape and lumpy plaid couches that were at least three decades out of fashion. Dog was banished to the garage, because Brian's older brother was allergic, and Adam had apologised with a ratty blanket full of interesting smells and a sound pat on the head.
"I mean, we should do our own Christmas," said Adam. "That way, we don't have to worry about other stuff. Just us."
"What other stuff?" asked Pepper, who was returning from the loo. She resumed her seat, which was as far from Adam as she could manage while remaining on the same couch. Wensleydale had opted for the couch opposite them; Brian was stretched out between them on the floor.
"Like your mum's church," said Adam sharply. "Or if Brian's mum is making tongue for dinner again."
"She only did it the once," argued Brian defensively. "It put my dad off, and my brother got hives."
"Everything gives your brother hives," Wensleydale pointed out.
This was true, so no argument was forthcoming.
"We'll just put our presents under our tree," continued Adam. "We've got 'em already, don't we?"
This year, Adam bought Wensleydale a book on the The Army, because he'd expressed interest in joining the territorials out of school, and Brian a carton of fags, because maybe he'd smoke the lot in one go, make himself sick, and do everyone a favour and quit. He dithered over Pepper's present for a full fifteen minutes before deciding on a jumper he rather thought she'd look nice in -- not that he cared what she looked like, mind -- but this was before she kissed him. He'd since been wondering if there was time to exchange it for something less personal, like a NME subscription, or a nice pair of house shoes.
Pepper and Wensleydale nodded, as did Brian, although a bit less decisively; he had the slightly guilty look of someone who'd been putting of his Christmas shopping until tomorrow, and had just realised that if he didn't get on with it, tomorrow would be Boxing Day.
"Have you got a tree?" asked Wensleydale suddenly.
Adam paused at this. He did not have a tree of his own, and he doubted his father would appreciate him strapping the family tree to the roof of his car and driving off to The Pit.
"Well, no, I don't," admitted Adam. "We can figure that bit out when the time comes, I guess."
"I just wish I had a normal tree," said Pepper sourly. "You know, red and silver with balls and bows and that."
"You know who has a tree? Anathema," said Adam. "I bet she'd let us borrow it, if we ask nice."
"Anathema is an occultist," argued Wensleydale, picking at a loose thread on a shockingly tartan throw-pillow. "Occultists don't celebrate Christmas. They celebrate Yule."
The Them gave this due consideration, until Adam cleared his throat.
"Christmas or Yule, it don't much matter," he said. He leaned forward, partially to keep Wensleydale and Brian's attention, but mostly to escape Pepper; she'd stretched her legs a bit, and her feet were now invading his side of the couch. "She has a tree, for the kids, I guess. I saw it in the window. 'Sides, she just might celebrate Christmas. She's havin' a party. On Christmas Eve. She told me."
"A party?" asked Brian, finally warming to the subject. "With food and such?"
"If you like," said Adam. "And a tree."
"If she's having a party, she won't want us over there, borrowing her tree. We're not invited," said Wensleydale.
"Says who we're not invited?" asked Adam. "She told me she's havin' a party. That's just as good, if you ask me."
"We'll have to get her gifts, then," said Pepper, drawing her legs up and frowning at Adam, although Adam didn't know why. "That's what my mother says. If you're invited to a party, you have to bring the host a gift. It's polite."
This earned more due consideration. Adam privately thought he didn't need etiquette lessons from someone who didn't have a proper Christmas tree, but he didn't say anything, because it would only get Pepper going about her mum's church.
"Well, maybe if we all put in a bit, we could get her a together-gift, from all of us," said Brian. "Somethin' for the house."
"Sure," said Adam, slightly jealous he hadn't thought of it first.
"Hey!" said Brian suddenly, extricating his arm from where he'd shoved it between Wensleydale's feet and under the couch. "I found some tokens from the arcade. You feel like drivin', Adam?"
"Yeah," said Adam, smiling. "That'd be all right."
"I don't understand," said Aziraphale, as they sped toward Crowley's flat.
Crowley sighed. The Wizarding world was something Aziraphale deliberately chose not to understand. The whole idea -- humans who could do magic -- made him more than a bit nervous. The Bible spoke out against magic, at least in general terms, and Aziraphale seemed to think manifesting and miracling should be left to supernatural entities.
"What's not to understand?" asked Crowley. "I have to say, it's positively brilliant."
"You would," muttered Aziraphale, fiddling with a cassette. The glare of the headlights suggested it was Us and Them: Symphonic Pink Floyd by the London Philharmonic, but Crowley was almost certain it was already the Best of Queen. "I must say, I'm bothered by one thing."
"One thing?"
"Yes, one," said Aziraphale, missing Crowley's sarcasm entirely. "Why Harry Potter? Why not the other fellow?"
Crowley swerved, nearly clipping a lorry as he passed it. "Which fellow? Voldemort?"
"Yes, him," said Aziraphale, slipping the cassette into the Blaupunkt. A orchestral version of The Great Gig in the Sky filled the Bentley, although Crowley could have done without the impromptu vocals by Freddie Mercury. "He's more the type, wouldn't you think?"
Crowley shrugged and screeched down the exit lane. Down There approved of Voldemort and his Death Eaters in the same way and for the same reasons they approved of Satanists; because they couldn't not. Hell could hardly turn a blind eye to a group that held with murder, mayhem, and general mass destruction, even if they had embarrassing costumes and lacked anything approaching discretion. There was protocol to uphold, after all.
"He's a complete nutter," said Crowley, with all seriousness. "You know what I mean: wants to live forever, bent on obliterating half of the human race."
"Exactly my point," said Aziraphale, in a tone that was approaching smugness. "If I had to pick a... a... well, you know, I'd probably go with him."
"That's because your brain is stuck in the fourteenth century," said Crowley, turning so fast the Bentley rounded the corner on two wheels. "As an Antichrist, Voldemort would be expedient, yes, but he wouldn't necessarily get the job done. Not the way Below wants it done, anyway."
Aziraphale made that noise, the one that said he thought Crowley had landed on his head after the Fall, and Crowley sighed.
"I'm sure this Voldemort is a character, but from what I understand, he's only got a handful of followers, and they're bound by fear, not loyalty," explained Crowley. "Now this Potter fellow, he's a different story. His side's built him up as some kind of hero. A saviour, if you like." Aziraphale grunted disapprovingly, and Crowley snorted. "And he's been working up to this fight for years. If he wins, there's not much his people won't do for him."
"And?" asked Aziraphale.
"And?" Crowley repeated, a bit shrilly. "That's the problem with your side, angel. They can't think outside the box."
"I understand what you're getting at," said Aziraphale sharply. "I just don't understand how it applies to our situation. Once our fight it over," he added, gesturing between Crowley and himself, "it won't matter who wins his. The world will be over."
"Yes, but how will it end?" asked Crowley. He set to parking, squeezing the Bentley into a space between two lesser cars that wouldn't normally accommodate the type of scooter Aziraphale had ridden to the last Apocalypse. "Will we do it, or will the humans do it, themselves?"
"Oh," said Aziraphale said quietly. "Oh my."
"Exactly!" said Crowley, smacking his hand on the steering wheel. "I mean, I only know what I got from Piqar's mate, but it sounded like he's pretty high in this Voldemort's ranks. From what I understand, Hell picked the time and place, and Heaven agreed."
"They agreed last time," Aziraphale pointed out.
"By default," said Crowley. "They had to show up, because the Antichrist was already loose. Nothing else for it. This is different. This time, Belial went and poked Gabriel in the eye and said meet me in Scotland on Christmas morning."
"Just like that?" asked Aziraphale dubiously.
"Maybe," said Crowley, letting the Bentley idle so as not to lose the heater. "My point is, Heaven allowed Hell to pick the time and place, which means Heaven knows what's going on, as far as Potter's people."
"Yes, they must," said Aziraphale, slouching slightly in his seat. "They wouldn't have agreed to terms they didn't feel were advantageous. I must admit, the Metatron sounded awfully pleased with himself."
"I'll just bet," said Crowley, turning to face Aziraphale. "So our people get there, right? Heavenly hosts and Hellish armies as far as the eye can see. But lo! Good and Evil are already engaged below us."
"Yea and verily," muttered Aziraphale, favouring Crowley with a sharp frown.
"Heaven will back Potter, naturally," continued Crowley, ignoring the sudden curve of Aziraphale's mouth, "because he's fighting the good fight."
"And your people will back Voldemort," offered Aziraphale.
"At first. They have to at least look like they're trying," said Crowley, waving his hands about. "But at the last minute, they'll throw in their lot with Potter, so he wins. After he vanquishes his tyrant and earns himself a horde of slavering minions, a quick spot of possession will have him shouting about death and destruction."
"Right," said Aziraphale nervously.
"They've got those magical sticks, you know," said Crowley, leaning a bit too close. "People will be exploding right and left. With all that evil happening on the ground, Hell will take to the sky and leave Heaven in the dust."
"We're done for," whispered Aziraphale.
It was the 23rd of December, and the sky was as black as the Devil's heart. An angel and a demon sat in an illegally parked Bentley, contemplating the end of the world, while Freddie Mercury warbled through a strings-and-horns approximation of Nobody Home.
"Well, I should probably tell you, since we've naught but thirty-six hours," said Aziraphale, quiet and sudden at once. "I've always liked you. You're a right sort, even if you're from the wrong side."
And Crowley kissed him, because really, it had been six thousand years, and waiting rather wasn't an option any more.
"Have you ever made the effort?" asked Aziraphale.
"Only during the fourteenth century," said Crowley. It had been a defence mechanism, really; there hadn't been much else to do. "What about you?"
"Once," said Aziraphale. "But I'd rather not talk about Raphael right now."
"Raphael?" asked Crowley, pulling back slightly. If he remembered correctly, Raphael started the whole bit with miraculous healing by laying-on-of-hands, which quite honestly, made him responsible for things like street preachers and televangelists. "He's awfully flash, for you."
Aziraphale sighed. "Don't remind me."
"Come upstairs," said Crowley, shutting off the Bentley.
"Why?" asked Aziraphale. "Why now?"
Crowley paused, because he was a demon, and these sorts of things didn't come easily. His lip twitched, and he made a complicated hand-gesture. Aziraphale sighed.
"Well, that's all right, then," said Aziraphale. "I suppose I'd better. But we need to make an early start of it, tomorrow."
"Why?"
"I have an idea."
And Crowley kissed him again. They only had thirty-five hours and forty-five minutes to go.
It was a crisp, cool morning, and Jasmine Cottage hummed with Christmas cheer.
Anathema was a witch, but she was the sensible sort of witch. If the neighbours wished her a Happy Christmas -- which, with Lower Tadfield being Lower Tadfield, they did with alarming frequency -- she smiled and wished them the same. She didn't shout about Yule, because they probably wouldn't understand anyway, and she didn't start in on how Jesus stole another god's birthday, because frankly, she had better things to do with her time. The name of the holiday wasn't important. It was the spirit of the season that mattered, and in Lower Tadfield, the spirit of the season included Christmas trees and fairy lights and mistletoe above the door.
Besides, the children rather liked Father Christmas, and she couldn't argue with that kind of logic.
She'd never expected to have children. She'd never been maternal; she didn't play house much as a child, and only once did she take in a stray animal. Of course, this could neatly be blamed on her being a descendent. She'd been consumed with Agnes' prophecies before she could properly read. She'd had other things on her mind when other girls her age were pushing their dogs about in miniature prams and begging for dolls that cried and wet, but most importantly, she thought if she was meant to have children, Agnes might have mentioned it.
Her first pregnancy was a bit of surprise -- of course, most things after what didn't quite happen at the air base were a surprise, since she no longer had an unabridged guide to her life -- but it had turned out all right in the end. It came easily enough, after she figured out the important bits, and by the time she had the second one, she found she actually enjoyed it. Newt enjoyed it as well, but he lacked Anathema's ease. His heart was in the right place, but he took to fatherhood like a ostrich to surfing, and was at best, hopelessly awkward with the children in a way Anathema had learned to find endearing.
Anathema hummed quietly and adjusted the artificial pine garland strung across the mantle. She straightened the soapstone Nativity -- a gift from Newt's mother, and she'd be by later, make no mistake -- and rescued a bit of tinsel from the depths of Baby Jesus' cradle. Mary watched Anathema with a placid expression. Joseph stood guard next to a bough of holly, blissfully unaware of its pagan connotations. Anathema's youngest, Ruth, followed her as she worked, stumbling along with her clumsy, toddler feet, her small fingers caught in Anathema's trousers.
"I don't suppose you've seen your brother?" asked Anathema brightly. Ruth laughed in reply, with the delirious, bubbly giggle of the young and unconcerned, and Anathema swung her up, settling the child on her hip.
"I'm over here, mum."
Luke, who was not quite five, had developed an uncanny interest in books. He was currently cross-legged on the floor in front of the large set of shelves built into the wall, and wobbly stacks of books towered around him on all sides.
"Well, let's see what you're reading," said Anathema.
Here was the shop manual for Newt's Wasabi. There was a cookbook Newt's mother gave Anathema last Christmas, because she thought Newt and the children were too thin. In Luke's lap was something that made Anathema shiver.
Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com; Ye Saga Continuef!
Newt had been right when he prompted Anathema to burn the first copy; she hadn't wanted to spend the rest of her life as a descendent. But Agnes, bloody-minded old woman that she was, had known Anathema would destroy it, and provided for another. And another. And another. The copy Luke was holding was the sixth -- possibly the seventh. Eventually, Anathema gave up and just shelved it, hoping Agnes would be content that the book was in the house, even if Anathema refused to read it.
"Give that here," she said. Setting Ruth on her feet, she extended her hand.
"It's got my name in it," said Luke proudly. "Twice!"
Anathema froze. The Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a solid thud.
Part II
Tags:
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-26 07:25 am (UTC)