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lemonfruitfish! (Part 1 of 2)
Dec. 2nd, 2008 09:55 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeAfter All
for:lemonfruitfish
from: [Bad username or site: amberdiceless" @ livejournal.com]
disclaimer: They're not mine.
If there was one thing that Aziraphale had learned after dealing with the Heavenly bureaucracy for the past sixty centuries, it was that one never really got away scot-free with anything.
Oh, he'd managed to sweep any number of rules violations and questionable compromises under the rug, and for the most part they stayed there, never again to see the light of day. But even if Heaven didn't know precisely what he was up to at any given time, they had an uncanny knack for determining that he was up to something. He strongly suspected that a good deal of the paperwork he was obliged to fill out, the unannounced performance reviews, random visits from higher-ups and assorted other headaches they routinely sent his way were intended simply as reminders that he did in fact report to someone else, or as blanket penance for whatever he happened to have done wrong that quarter.
He gathered that things were much the same on Crowley's end, except of course that Hell was that much more effective at putting the fear of, well, themselves into his counterpart. Given what Crowley had to look forward to if he was ever held accountable for his own considerable transgressions, the angel thought it was really quite remarkable that he'd managed to talk the demon into standing his ground as the thwarted Apocalypse had neared its pinnacle.
Remarkable and, he was beginning to think, possibly slightly unfortunate. As well as it spoke for Crowley's character that he'd been willing to stand up to the Great Adversary armed with nothing but a tyre iron, in retrospect, it had also been a bit...what was the word...foolhardy? And none too wise of him to suggest it, he thought with a sigh as he tidied up the shop in preparation for closing. (It had been open for all of an hour.) It wasn't as though the two of them had stood any better chance of making a real difference together than he had by himself.
Truth be told, he'd asked Crowley to stay simply because it had made him feel better to think he wouldn't be facing certain annihilation alone. Maybe that had been terribly selfish of him, but he had sincerely believed at the time that Crowley's number would be up very soon thereafter anyway. So it was all well and good, except for the inconvenient detail that he hadn't died, and neither had Crowley. Who, when and if his superiors ever did get around to bringing him to task for it, was going to be in an awful lot of trouble. (Much more so than he would. After all, it wasn't as though he, Aziraphale, had defied God personally. And he hadn't Fallen for his transgression, a matter which was entirely out of the Archangels' hands and which, he suspected, had them more or less stymied. If the Lord chose not to punish him for such an egregious display of disobedience, then there wasn't much they could justify doing to him, apart from heaping a little extra red tape on his head out of pure spite.)
At any rate, where he was currently standing, some eight weeks past the incident, was with a slightly more varied inventory which he had finally catalogued to his own satisfaction, another few evenings a month given over to filling out pointless forms which would likely be consigned to Limbo with nary a glance from anyone who mattered...and one increasingly jittery demon dropping by more and more frequently, and overstaying his welcome as a matter of course. Aziraphale couldn't really blame him, and kept him well-supplied with tea and oblique reassurance (in liquid form laced into the tea when necessary,) but the demon's nervousness was infectious; they'd been walking around for fortnights with twin Swords of Damocles dangling unseen overhead, and he didn't think he could take much more of it. Something would soon have to give.
Ten minutes later, the bookstore door opened, and something did.
"Terribly sorry, but I was just about to clo--" he began automatically, and then the patent wrongness of the visitor struck him like a physical blow and the words caught in his throat. His first knee-jerk impulse was to shout into the back room for Crowley to run for it, followed immediately by Don't, don't give him away, just hope he feels it too and escapes out the back door...
"Terribly sorry," the new arrival echoed in a clipped, sophisticated accent, smoothly turning the sign as he stepped in the door and shut it behind him. He was a remarkably handsome man: tall and strong, with shining blond curls and a slightly oily smile that widened as he studied Aziraphale coolly. His penetrating blue eyes were horribly, brilliantly familiar and somehow, subtly, not quite altogether sane. "I'm afraid this really can't wait. But don't worry, I promise I shan't take too much of your valuable time, Mr. Fell."
Aziraphale deliberately placed the stack of books he was holding on the counter and folded his arms defensively across his chest. "What do you want?" he asked, pleased at least that he was able to keep his voice more or less steady.
"Now, let's not get off on the wrong foot," said the man calmly, strolling up to the counter. "Although I suppose you could say we already have, hm? Still, there's no need to be unpleasant. Flaming swords and tyre irons and all that, really. We're all civilized men, are we not?" He chuckled. "Well, so to speak..."
Aziraphale was spared from answering by a sudden clatter as the door to the back room flew open and Crowley came skidding out, his face the color of milk gone sour. No no no, you staggering great idiot, what are you thinking? It's you he's after!
But whatever action self-preserving good sense might call for in a situation like this, Crowley was having none of it. "Don't hurt the angel," he croaked, and Aziraphale's heart thudded painfully against his sternum. "Please..."
Leaning casually on the counter, the Devil rolled his eyes and gave Aziraphale a long-suffering look. "There, you see? Such unnecessary drama. Is he always this excitable?" He sighed. "Calm yourself, Mr. Crowley, we are not engaged in an Apocalypse today. I have no intention of harming your friend. Or you, for that matter."
Crowley traded mystified looks with the angel and edged a little closer to him. "I don't understand," he said cautiously.
"Of course you don't. You never have." Lucifer shook his head reprovingly. Still leaning on the counter, he steepled his hands, regarding his wayward minion thoughtfully. "To be frank, I've never been quite sure what to do with you, either. And now you've gone and left me in a very awkward position, Crowley. Very awkward indeed."
"...sorry?" the lesser demon offered, thrusting his hands in his pockets to quell their nervous fidgeting. "Sorry, Sir," he added quickly. "I hope it isn't too impertinent of me to ask, but...what position? And, uh, if you're not going to drag me away to be tormented for eternity or anything like that, why are you here?"
Lucifer straightened up. "Well, it's just this, little one. That unruly son of mine has declared you and your friend here off-limits to my forces as well as my counterpart's, at least while his stewardship of the planet lasts. While I could force the issue if I really wanted to, frankly, you're just not worth the trouble." He shrugged. "No offense."
"None taken," Crowley muttered weakly.
"Nevertheless, I can't ignore what happened indefinitely. It's bad for morale, bad for discipline. The natives Down There are getting restless, wanting to see someone held accountable. Makes it difficult to get anything done. And, well," he gestured, "I'm afraid where the choice of a sacrificial lamb is concerned, you're a bit of a no-brainer. You understand."
"Oh, quite. Absolutely," Crowley said agreeably, still not quite sure where this was going, but pretty certain he wasn't going to like it. Aziraphale was now edging toward him as though with some crazy idea about getting between him and Lucifer, which was typical of the angel and typically plain stupid, and made him wish with all his heart that he was really deserving of that kind of self-sacrificing tripe. "So you're here to...?"
Lucifer smiled grimly and made an unnecessarily complicated gesture, calling into his hand a plain, thick manila envelope. "I am really sorry to have to do this," he said, sounding almost sincere. "Aziraphale--that is your name, correct?--you may wish to step a bit further to your left."
To his left would take him closer to Crowley. Confused, the angel hesitated...then lunged in that direction when Crowley abruptly swayed and crumpled silently toward the floor. Aziraphale caught him before he hit the ground.
"Crowley! You--what did you do to him?" he demanded of Lucifer, dropping awkwardly into a sitting position with his friend's inert body cradled in his arms.
"Nothing too serious, I assure you. Undoubtedly it's a bit of a shock, but he'll be fine once he's had time to adjust, I expect," the Morningstar said smoothly.
Aziraphale checked Crowley's vitals and was relieved to find them strong and steady, if a little slower than expected. "Adjusted...to what?"
Lucifer held up the envelope. "It's all explained in here. Hold on to this until he comes around, would you? I trust it won't go astray." He set the envelope on the counter.
"Of course it won't," Aziraphale snapped. Only Crowley's proximity kept the angel's halo from flaring up wrathfully in the Adversary's direction, and not just because of the jab at his integrity. "Is your business here concluded, then? Or shall I go and find you a puppy to kick?"
"Tut, tut. You'd really like to smite me right now, wouldn't you?" Lucifer smirked. "And over my perceived mistreatment of your Enemy, too. You really do enjoy living dangerously." His smile turned icy. "It's remarkable you haven't Fallen. You ought to have, you know; your friend there was after all cast down for much lesser crimes than yours. I do wonder at times how He justifies that Plan of His in His own mind, if He even bothers..."
Aziraphale turned his face away. "Bastard," he said softly.
Lucifer cocked his head to one side, curious. "Oh, you didn't know? In all your companionable nights of drunken philosophy, little Crawly never shared with you the story of his tumble from grace?"
"It's not my business," Aziraphale said stonily. He didn't want to hear that story. He'd never wanted to. Crowley's airy claim that he'd 'sauntered vaguely downward' was perfectly adequate as far as he was concerned, as much as he'd always known it was a polite fiction.
"Oh, I think you're wrong about that." Lucifer walked up to where the angel sat and hunkered down before him, now wearing an expression of sober sincerity that made Aziraphale itch to tear his preternaturally-beautiful face off. "It's just now become very pertinent to you, if it never was before.
"You see, Crowley was never one of my followers. He was happy in Heaven. He didn't want to see the Creator overthrown. He didn't fight with the Legion, never raised a hand against any of the Host."
Aziraphale shook his head, and had to ask in spite of himself. "But that--that doesn't make any sense. How...?"
Lucifer's icy blue gaze didn't waver. "His error came after all that," he explained. "He had some friends among my people, apparently, and when all the Choirs assembled to witness our punishment--you were probably too far back in the ranks to catch it--he, and he alone among all the Faithful, spoke up in our defense. He dared to question; to say to the Father that it was too much, that there must be another way." Looking oddly pensive, he reached out as though to touch Crowley's face or his hair, but dropped his hand with a sigh when Aziraphale shrank defensively away. "And for that act of compassion, he was promptly judged and exiled along with the rest of us." The beautiful face was briefly fractured by a contemptuous sneer. "So much for all that drivel about forgiveness and loving thine enemy..."
He pushed himself to his feet. "There's a reason I chose him to send to the Garden, you know, and looked the other way all these millennia as he went most grievously astray. I felt as though I owed him something, I suppose. And Hell would have utterly destroyed him." He put his hands in his pockets, raising his eyebrows. "He's gone too far this time, though. I don't blame him, particularly, you realize; that whole business with Adam was as sorry a comedy of errors as any I've ever seen, and I can scarcely fault him for preferring Earth to Perdition. Who wouldn't?" He smiled ruefully. "But it really is out of my hands. The best I can do for him now is leave him to you."
He turned and walked to the door, pausing to glance back with his hand on the knob. "He's fortunate to have such a friend. I wish I were so lucky."
Aziraphale opened his mouth and then closed it again, watching dumbly as the Great Adversary opened the bookshop door, stepped through and let it swing gently shut behind him. Through the shaded windows, he saw a flare of virulent orange and red that soon dwindled away into the fading twilight, like a bad dream upon awakening.
---
Crowley came to his senses some time later, not quite sure where he was or what had happened to him, but feeling very strange and a bit woozy. It took a moment or two for the memory of Lucifer's unexpected visit to filter back in. When it did, he shot upright and almost toppled off the overstuffed couch that hadn't been in the bookshop's back room the last he remembered. Strong hands caught and supported him as a wave of dizziness nearly swept him back into unconsciousness. "Ngk. Where--"
"Steady on there," Aziraphale said calmly, "no need to panic. He's long gone, and whatever it was he did, you seem to be still in one piece." He helped Crowley prop himself upright and returned to the armchair where he'd apparently been reading, regarding the demon searchingly. "How are you feeling?"
"Weird." Crowley rubbed his eyes, wondering offhandedly where his sunglasses had got to. "Drained. He didn't...do anything else, did he?" Openly asking about the angel's well-being was not something he was given to doing, but under the circumstances...
"No. He left a few moments after you collapsed. Never so much as raised his voice." Aziraphale laced his fingers together and leaned on his knees, peering intently at his counterpart over the rims of his spectacles. "It's all very odd. I can't find anything actually wrong with you. But your aura seems a little...off."
"Off?" Crowley echoed, understandably disquieted by this news. "Off in what way, exactly?"
Aziraphale tilted his head slightly. "Not as bright as usual. Or as red." Actually, it was considerably dimmer. And with much of the angry crimson he'd always associated with Crowley now gone, traces of other, softer, cooler colors (which he suspected had been there, masked by the more intense colors all along) were now glimmering through. He didn't want to upset Crowley further, however, so he only added, "It's still brighter than a human's, though."
"Peachy." Crowley looked around. "So that's it? I get a personal visit from Him Below and all he does is...install a dimmer switch? Energy Star rated Crowley 2.0? That can't be all there is to it."
"No, I don't expect it is." Ignoring the technological babble which, as usual, meant nothing to him, Aziraphale picked up the envelope Lucifer had left and offered it to him. "He asked me to give this to you. He said it would explain everything."
Crowley accepted the envelope and opened it somewhat reluctantly, pulling out a thick sheaf of papers. He stopped and stared at the topmost one for a long, brittle moment...and then started to laugh.
Aziraphale blinked, straightening up in his chair. "What? What's so funny?"
Wordlessly, still snickering, Crowley lifted the top document and showed it to him. It was printed on pale pink paper.
"He's given me my walking papers," he explained when he could speak again. "I've been sodding pink-slipped by Hell." He dropped the paper on the sofa next to him and flipped through the rest of the bundle. "Final performance review, severance agreement, termination of benefits...pension? I had a pension plan?" He snorted. "41,370 days of accumulated vacation pay they never told me I was entitled to. See why you should always read the fine print, angel?"
"Well, it sounds like you won't have to worry about your finances for a while," Aziraphale said dryly. "If they intend to honor the terms, of course. What else?"
"They should. It all looks in order, and they're sticklers down there for keeping to the letter of the agreement." The demon read on, frowning slightly. "I henceforth shall have no access to any special powers or privileges associated with my employment with their organization. Maybe that explains the aura thing. I never have quite been sure how much of what I could do came of being their agent and how much was inherent to me...although I suppose the hellfire's sort of a given..." He paused. "Now what the fuck's this? This thing has a title?"
"Thing?" the angel prompted.
"This corporation. I get to keep the body, apparently." Crowley raised his eyebrows glumly. "They are of course under no obligation to replace it in the event of catastrophic damage, destruction, normal wear and tear...act of God, ha ha. Very funny, mates. But if it breaks down due to defects in workmanship within the next ninety days they'll let me trade it in. Sporting of them."
"Mm. Quite." Aziraphale had a distinct feeling there was another shoe waiting to drop.
Crowley went through a series of entirely pedestrian and unalarming documents before he came to the last one in the heap. "Oh," he said quietly after skimming it briefly, "here we go. The disclaimer and discharge of liability."
Aziraphale winced. "Of course..."
Already somewhat pale, Crowley's face grew waxen as he read. "From this date forward, Hell assumes no responsibility for the former agent or for any actions perpetrated by or property belonging to said individual. Hell is furthermore hereby relieved of any and all obligation, stated or implied, to offer any form of protection, advocacy, extraction, counsel, compensation, or other assistance, material or immaterial, to the former agent for any reason, including but not limited to acts of Heaven, of third parties (mortal or immortal,) or of unauthorized representatives of Hell itself. The former agent is however free to negotiate for such services at his option, as per official policy (see Standard Operations Manual, chapter 13, for full details.)"
He carefully squared up the stack and returned it to its envelope. "So, in a nutshell, unless I want to enter into an extremely one-sided bargain with them--which they know very well I won't do, I've been in the business too long to fall for that--I'm officially on my own. If Hastur or Michael or anybody else decides they want a Crowley-skin rug for their study, they won't lift a finger to stop it happening."
"Would they have before, though?" Aziraphale asked, trying to find at least a not-too-dark side to the situation (and failing, in his own estimation.) "And won't Adam intervene if they try?"
Crowley shrugged. "I don't know. They have, once or twice, when it would have been more inconvenient to replace me than stop something else killing me." He ran both hands through his hair, feeling more at a loss than he had since that moment in the burning shop when he'd realized he really was alone and the world was coming apart. "But before, even if they left me to hang, at least I knew what I could do to defend myself. As for Adam, who knows? Just because he's banned any official retaliation doesn't mean he'll step in to put the kibosh on a personal vendetta. And he won't be around forever."
Aziraphale nodded. "Well, we can work on figuring all that out. For now, though, I'd suggest you just take it easy until you've acclimatized to the situation a bit. Get your bearings."
"Easy for you to say, angel. The minute word gets around Downstairs, my arse might as well have a big red target painted on it." Crowley leaned back and shut his eyes. "Hastur's not the only one down there who'd like to hang it on his wall as a trophy."
"That's an image I could well have done without," Aziraphale observed, but his own brows were knitted together with concern. Not sure what else he could say, he finally fell back on his default solution to practically every crisis. "Tea?"
Crowley smiled faintly as one small part of his world righted itself and fell solidly back into place. "Sure. Tea would be great."
The angel got a tray together and brought it out, and for a few minutes they sat sipping the familiar beverage and talking of inconsequential things as though everything were perfectly normal.
"I should be going," Crowley said finally, setting his empty cup down with an air of finality that sent an icy bolt of panic lancing right through Aziraphale's middle.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asked as Crowley got up and headed somewhat unsteadily for the door. "I mean, under the circumstances...you're welcome to stay here a while, if you'd rather." I certainly would.
Crowley shook his head, pausing but not turning back. "I'd just be in your way. Can't hide in here forever, anyway. You know they're almost certainly watching the place already. And it could get you in a lot of trouble with your own people."
Those were not comforting thoughts at all, but they weren't exactly new, either. "Dear boy, you've been getting underfoot for thousands of years now. I assure you, I'm quite used to it." Aziraphale got up and walked around between his friend and the door, putting out a hand to steer Crowley back toward the couch. "No one said anything about forever. Also, I suspect I'd be guilty of criminal negligence if I let you drive right now."
Crowley shot him a look that was, as usual, very difficult to read. Those odd reptilian eyes were nearly as unrevealing as the sunglasses. "Look...I appreciate it. I do. But it's bad enough I'm at loose ends. I don't fancy ending up as your trusty sidekick, diving behind your halo anytime danger threatens."
"I know, and I don't either. It won't come to that." Aziraphale tried not to sound desperate. He had the strongest feeling that if Crowley walked out right then, he would never see him again. "Just...give it a day or two, won't you? Humor me. I'll take it as a favor repaid."
"Do I owe you one?" Crowley asked, reluctantly allowing himself to be nudged away from the door. He was hugging himself now, rubbing his arms as though he'd taken a chill, though the room wasn't cold. "I've lost track. And are we even still playing that game now?"
"I don't know," the angel said honestly, drawing a quilt out of the ether and putting it around his friend's shoulders. "That's something else we need to figure out. And we will, but it doesn't have to be this very minute." Whatever form the Arrangement was to assume next, he hoped they'd have a long time ahead of them to work on it.
---
"Are you sure this is a good idea?"
Aziraphale had found himself saying this an awful lot lately.
"Not in the slightest," Crowley said cheerfully, gesturing to the bucket on the bench before him. "Might want to stand back a bit from that. It's unholy water."
Aziraphale hastily backpedaled to a safe distance. The stuff wasn't as potent (or nearly as common) as the holy variety, but if he came into contact with it, it would still give him a nasty blistering rash that was slow to heal and itched abominably. "I can understand wanting to know these things, but honestly, don't you think this is pushing your luck just a little?"
Crowley had adjusted remarkably well to his new situation over the past several weeks. He'd spent a lot of time sleeping and fretting at first, but as time passed and those who sought his untimely and messy demise failed to appear (perhaps biding their time, or possibly warded off by the watchful presence of a slightly overprotective Principality,) he had rallied and begun to explore the nature and limitations of his new state of being. As he was now freed from any other responsibility and had nothing but time on his hands, this pursuit had quickly evolved into something of an obsession.
So much they knew at this point: the demon, if he could still be called a demon, was more closely tied to his human body now than he had been before. Eating and sleeping were still technically optional. However, as he was now cut off from any source of power greater than what he drew naturally from his immediate surroundings, the energy boost those mortal activities provided was sometimes all that kept him from exhausting himself just by performing simple tasks he'd never had to think twice about before. Minor miracles were still within the scope of his abilities, as long as he didn't try to overdo it; likewise almost any sort of working that applied to him personally (with the singular exception of turning himself into a heap of maggots. Needless to say, he was not overly grieved at the loss of that particular trick.) But anything that required a direct conduit to Hell or a massive surge of external power was now lost to him.
"It's not all bad," he'd observed, "at least I won't have to worry about the biospatial feedback anymore. Bloody near fried my eyeballs that last time." But the really startling side effects (and the reason for his current, slightly mad line of experimentation) they had discovered entirely by accident.
Some well-meaning soul had given Aziraphale one of those newfangled Bibles that didn't look like a Bible, but rather more like one of those big, fashionable books that were made to sit on coffee tables and serve as conversation pieces. He'd absent-mindedly left it lying on the counter, unsure what to do with it--as clearly it wasn't a real Bible by any meaningful measure, and possibly bordered on sacrilegious, but it nevertheless contained The Word and was therefore not to be casually disposed of--and Crowley had wandered by and curiously picked it up, nearly discorporating out of sheer terror when he identified the thing for what it was.
Much to both their astonishment, though, it hadn't so much as singed his fingertips. Aziraphale was of the opinion that the book was simply too far removed from the genuine article to be properly toxic to demons, but Crowley wasn't so sure. "It's not the packaging that counts, angel, you know that," he'd argued. "It wouldn't matter if they did up a Playboy edition with Mary Magdalene as the centerfold in all her luscious four-color glory--"
"Really, my dear."
"Well, the point is, I ought to be a very dramatic Crowley-shaped splotch on your carpet right about now," he'd concluded, "and I'm not. This bears further investigation."
Several more traditional Bibles, a few churchyard expeditions, one cathedral and a few odd relics later, there seemed to be no doubt remaining: holy items no longer had any effect on Crowley. Only one test remained, and in spite of the mounting circumstantial evidence that nothing was going to happen, Aziraphale had done his best to talk his friend out of it. It would be entirely in keeping with Crowley's luck that this final item on the list would prove to be the exception to the rule. But Crowley would not be dissuaded, so here they were: Crowley with his haz-mat gear, tongs and thermos flask (plus the contents of the bucket just in case things did go terribly wrong,) and Aziraphale fretfully pacing at a cautious distance, hoping he wouldn't need to find out whether his own healing powers would now work on his colleague where they never had before.
"All right then. Here we go," Crowley announced, drawing on the heavy rubber gloves and using the tongs to unscrew the top of the flask with exaggerated care. Aziraphale watched, unaware that he was holding his breath, as Crowley then took the flask and tilted it one painstaking degree at a time, until about half an ounce of the possibly-deadly contents tipped into an ordinary shot glass sitting on the bench in front of him.
That accomplished, he moved off some distance and went through the laborious task of closing the flask, which he put into a portable lockbox and carefully secured before continuing.
Next, he removed the gloves, picked up a small box of cotton swabs and gravely selected one. "This is either going to be very painful," he remarked over his shoulder, "or terribly anticlimactic."
"Just get on with it, won't you?" the angel said shortly, fumbling out his handkerchief and dabbing at his forehead with it.
Smiling slightly to himself, Crowley carefully dipped one end of the swab into the glass, barely moistening the cotton. Noticing his hands were trembling just a bit, he paused a moment, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself.
Then, just at the moment when Aziraphale thought he was going to back out after all, he suddenly brought his hands together and swiped the end of his little finger with the swab, which he immediately dropped, poising his hand over the bucket.
A second passed, and then another...
"Anything?" Aziraphale finally choked out.
An incredulous grin worked its way across Crowley's face. "Not so far. Not so much as a tingle."
"Well, thank goodness." Aziraphale looked unconvinced at first, but finally, as the moments lengthened and nothing appeared to change, he sighed and tucked his handkerchief away. "I still think it was a foolish risk to take, but I suppose it is a good thing to know."
"Not much of a test though, really, is it?" Crowley asked. "I barely got it damp." Feeling cocky (and perhaps slightly delirious with relief,) he unexpectedly picked up the shot glass and dumped the rest of the water into his open palm.
He'd never seen the angel move so fast in all their days on Earth. In the span of a heartbeat, Aziraphale materialized next to him, seized his wrist and plunged his hand deep into the bucket. The water hissed, steamed and roiled momentarily, and Aziraphale yelped, but did not let go his hold.
"What the--angel, have you lost your bleeding mind?!" Yanking them both away from the bucket, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's hands and examined them anxiously. The skin was angry red and already starting to blister. His own was warm and slightly pink--from the reaction between the two opposing substances, most likely--but unharmed. "What'd you go and do a daft thing like that for?" he demanded sharply.
"I was afraid you'd be killed, cretin," Aziraphale said through his teeth. "Or lose a hand at least. A little warning next time, please?"
"Oh, of all the...no, don't scratch at it, for fuck's sake, you'll take all the skin off. Just stand right there and don't do anything," Crowley ordered. There was nothing for it but to hastily open the lockbox, retrieve the flask and douse the injuries to neutralize the remaining unholy water. "You really think I would have tried that if I wasn't pretty sure it would turn out all right? Come on, angel, give me a little credit..."
Aziraphale sighed. "I give you more than a little, actually, but sometimes 'pretty sure' just isn't good enough."
Crowley, however, wasn't listening. He was staring thoughtfully at the painful-looking lesions scattered across the back of Aziraphale's right hand. "Hold still a second," he muttered, frowning slightly.
"All right, but what are y--oh." Aziraphale's eyes widened as a sudden warmth ran across his skin and the blisters shrank and faded, leaving no trace. Crowley could always heal humans or animals, but he had never been able to do this sort of thing for Aziraphale before; the scant handful of times he'd tried over the centuries, it had always made things worse.
Crowley was grinning again, and took care of the other hand in short order. "Well, this'll come in useful next time you do something idiotic."
Aziraphale tried to scowl, but Crowley looked so pleased with himself (and it felt so much better with the rash gone) that he just couldn't bring himself to be snippy. "Thank you," he said instead.
"No problem, angel." Crowley let go and stepped back, turning to start cleaning up the bench. "Let's just keep this in mind for the future. I may actually be more durable now than you are."
---
Things remained quiet for some time after that, and Crowley slowly found himself settling into a new routine. Making his own decisions about pretty much everything was a strange and unfamiliar experience; after the initial novelty wore off, it proved not quite as exciting as he'd always imagined. Throughout his long existence, there had always been someone around to tell him what he should be doing, and even if that person or the instructions they gave were sometimes objectionable (and frequently ignored,) the responsibility of figuring it all out for himself could be wearisome and confounding.
Some of his old duties he kept on at just out of habit, or because he found them entertaining. Without the pressure to score points toward a good performance review, though, a lot of his tempting and wiling simply lost its appeal. He'd always taken professional pride in his work, but, he was starting to realize, he really didn't find much satisfaction in causing trouble for people who hadn't done anything to him; not for its own sake.
It was easier to hang around with the angel and let himself be nudged in more productive directions, but it turned out that even without Hell's influence, he wasn't a particularly altruistic person. And he didn't like the dynamic it created between them; an uneasy sense that they were no long opposites and equals, but something else now, something that hadn't yet been defined. And wouldn't be, as long as he went on cooling his heels there, clinging to what felt safe and familiar but offered no challenges and demanded no real thought or effort.
Eventually, the need to get things sorted won out over the self-preserving instinct to stay close to home (and Aziraphale and Adam,) and he organized his affairs and struck out for a lengthy walkabout that took him across several continents and spanned several decades. Vaguely astonished at how much the rest of the world had changed while he had put down roots in England, he immersed himself with gusto in every culture he came across, secretly rejoicing when his presence brought no more chaos or misfortune to the people around him than that of any other tourist.
In the process, Crowley discovered quite a few things about himself that he hadn't had a chance to learn before. He had a gift for surfing, an unexpected fondness for cats now that they no longer hissed and spat at him every time he walked by, and was better with children than he had ever suspected. Though he'd wisely invested his severance pay and really didn't need to work, he amused himself by trying his hand at whatever trades happened to catch his fancy: cutting hair, installing internet lines, selling apples from a cart, trawling for shrimp. He didn't have to pretend to be a successful yuppie anymore, so he thoroughly enjoyed getting his hands dirty, and when he tired of that, he went and won and lost several small fortunes along the Vegas strip.
He allowed himself to have a pleasant and meaningless fling with a pretty Mexican girl, secure in the certainty that he presented no more danger to her soul than any young mortal she might choose; he left her none the wiser, with few regrets and plenty in the way of experience to offer the next lucky fellow who came along.
Aziraphale, meanwhile, stayed right where he was and quietly fretted, bored without his counterpart and inventing busywork to keep his superiors happy. The series of colorful postcards covered in rambling scrawl that he received from all over the world never failed to make him smile, though, and he stowed them safely away with all the mementoes he kept from ages past, patiently waiting for Crowley to return and fill in the gaps they left in his story.
Crowley's trip ended abruptly in the city of Rio de Janeiro the night he received an urgent wire from Soho with the news that Adam Young's life, as every mortal span must, was coming to its close. He was on a plane to London within an hour, and made it back in time to say good-bye.
After that, he never strayed far from home or stayed away very long. If Earth had ever really been safe for him, it was safe no longer.
---
Four hundred fifty years later...
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" For once, it wasn't Aziraphale asking.
The angel shook his head slightly. "Well, in point of fact, no. But it's really our only option, don't you think?"
"My only option, you mean," Crowley muttered, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He'd been sitting in it more or less unmoving for a long time now, and was heartily sick of it. But then, that sentiment didn't just apply to the chair.
"Which comes down to the same thing," Aziraphale said gently. "Whether you choose to believe that or not." Seeing how unhappy Crowley looked, he added, "It should be all right. It's been a long time, you know; this one was given to me by Adam, not Heaven. I doubt they'll kick up a fuss."
Crowley nodded stiffly. "I know you've got your story in order. That's not what worries me. How can you be sure they'll send you back?" Hell had never seen fit to send anyone to replace him, and he'd been dreading for eons the day when Heaven would decide its last Earthly agent was no longer required.
Aziraphale sighed. "I can't, of course. But it's a risk I'd have to take sooner or later. Better I should take it now, while it might do you some good. Are you ready?"
"No. But I suppose we'd better do it anyway." Crowley watched resignedly as Aziraphale seated himself in the chair opposite and leaned back, shutting his eyes. After a moment he did the same, ignoring a variety of aches and pains, major and minor, that arose with even the smallest motion.
To an outside observer, it would appear that the two men in the chairs went to sleep at the same time. The reality was, in fact, something entirely different.
Aziraphale rose first, ethereal wings unfurling as he left his mortal body behind him in the chair like an abandoned blanket. He hovered near it, maintaining its vital functions until Crowley had extricated himself from his own body, standing and stretching with a groan of heartfelt relief.
I imagine that feels better, the angel said wordlessly.
You have no idea. Crowley looked down at the empty mortal shell that had seen him through so much, watching with mixed feelings as it took its last few shallow breaths. It was a good one, though. Didn't owe me a thing.
I know. Aziraphale smiled sadly. The loss of a corporation didn't carry the same emotional weight as a true death, but it certainly brought with it a sense that an era was passing. But they do wear out eventually. And after what Hastur did to it that last time, you're fortunate it held out this long.
Crowley's eyes--which were a pale, luminous grey color when he fully assumed his true form--glinted for a moment with malicious satisfaction. At least we finally put the bastard down for good.
Yes. He didn't want to rush this, but Aziraphale could only effectively sustain his own body for so long when he wasn't actually in it. Now you remember where I keep the keys, and the ledger, and the reserved volumes?
Some of those 'reserved volumes' had been 'reserved' since 1992, Crowley recalled. He doubted anyone would be coming to pick them up at this late date. Yes, angel, you've only told me about fifteen times. Don't worry. I'll take good care of the place while you're gone. And I won't sell a thing.
Very good. I'll hold you to that. In you go, then, before it gets cold.
Crowley drifted to the other chair and eyed its pudgy blond occupant dubiously. This is going to be incredibly weird.
No doubt, but I know you'll manage. One is fundamentally much like another. It's all in sorting out the details, really. Aziraphale gestured. Go on, now.
Reluctantly, Crowley slid into the chair and into the strange, confining weight of the angel's discarded body. It felt all wrong as he settled in and slowly straightened up; the proportions and temperature and center of gravity were all slightly but significantly off. (And also wrapped head to toe in genuine tweed, which hadn't even been made in nearly two centuries.) But it was all in working order and completely free of pain, which was by far the most important consideration.
Turning to look in Aziraphale's direction, he saw the now-hazy form of the angel recoil slightly. "Wha--ugh." He cleared his throat and took a moment to adjust his vocal cords into a lower range so that his voice sounded more like his own. "What's the matter?"
Nothing. It's just--your eyes. Gave me a bit of a turn.
"Oh. Right." Rather than retrieve the pair he'd left with his old body, he called a new pair of sunglasses into being and put them on, not needing a mirror to know what had happened. "Sorry. I wish I knew why they always do that."
It doesn't matter. It's yours now. Soon you'll forget it was ever anything else.
Unsure whether he liked that idea or not, Crowley forbore to comment, but carefully levered himself out of the chair, swaying a bit as he got used to the new equipment. "Well, now I know why I always let you nick my dessert. How the hell do you navigate in this thing? Don't you get stuck in doorways?"
I won't dignify that with a reply, came the slightly tart rejoinder. Just look after it carefully, won't you? It's got plenty of wear left in it as long as you don't go doing anything silly.
"Barring any of Hastur's friends decide to come avenge him--if he had any--I don't foresee any problems." Crowley certainly wasn't going to take unnecessary risks. Having to sponge off the angel like this once was bad enough, and probably wouldn't be possible a second time. If it worked out as planned this time. "You'd better get going. The sooner you get up there and start on the paperwork, the sooner you're home." He hoped. "Just don't let those arsehalos push you around."
All right. Take care of yourself, Crowley.
"Always," he said, adding belatedly, "You, too," but the faintly glowing apparition had already faded into the ether.
Feeling terribly alone, Crowley stood there in the bookshop's back room, looking around somewhat helplessly. The place was his, at least for the time being, and he had a lawyer to contact, a burial to arrange and now two businesses* to run; but it all seemed rather pointless at the moment, not knowing whether there'd ever be anyone else here to care what he did or didn't do.
Eventually he made his way to the holographic wall panel and got down to business (yes, even Aziraphale had finally broken down and had a real console installed, though this model was predictably several decades out of date.) The world had changed dramatically, and paper books had grown increasingly rare and valuable; Crowley thought he was now sitting on one of the largest remaining repositories anywhere in the world. Rare and valuable, but almost never actually read anymore. He wasn't sure whether the pang of regret occasioned by that thought was his own, or something left over in this body's synapses from its previous occupant.
Between getting his own and the angel's affairs sorted out, reworking the body into something he could envision spending centuries in, and the day-to-day running of both businesses, Crowley managed to keep himself occupied sufficiently most days not to miss or worry about Aziraphale overmuch. It wasn't as though they'd never spent long periods of time away from each other before, he told himself; it was just that before, it had always been more or less a given that he would see the angel again, sooner or later. He hadn't realized just how much he'd come to depend on that eventuality until it was taken away.
On an ordinary afternoon many months later, he stood idly among the stacks, flipping through one of the few Wilde first editions still known to exist, and remembering.
A hand reached over his shoulder to take the book out of his suddenly-nerveless grasp as a familiar voice said, "Dear boy, whatever are you doing, standing around woolgathering when there's three carts of new arrivals to shelve?"
Crowley turned to find the angel regarding him with an expression of grave rebuke, but his clear blue eyes were smiling like a sunrise. "I suppose now I'll have to go through and reorganize the place from top to bottom again. Such a bother."
It would have been terminally uncool to hug him, so Crowley said instead as casually as he could manage, "Probably. But why don't you leave that til after dinner? I haven't had my dessert stolen in ages."
The Ritz had been turned into a museum some fifty years prior, but they didn't let that stop them.
"So did they give you any flak about...stuff?" Crowley asked over roast pheasant and asparagus tips.
"Not really." Aziraphale took a sip of wine and sighed happily. "There was the expected red tape, of course, but no one even alluded to the Apocalypse incident. I really do think they've written it off as water under the bridge."
Crowley considered that for a bit. "I don't get it," he said finally. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm delighted to have you back. ...Don't read too much into that, now, it's just that I'm really not cut out to be a bookshop owner." He scowled slightly at the angel's knowing smirk. "And obviously just because I got the boot doesn't mean the same's automatically going to happen to you. But speaking from bitter experience, Heaven's just not that forgiving. Something doesn't jive."
Aziraphale frowned uneasily. "Frankly, I'm inclined to agree. But if there's some nefarious plot behind it all, it's beyond my ability to suss it out. Let's not look a gift horse in the mouth, at least until the bill is presented, shall we?"
"I'll drink to that." Crowley picked up the wine bottle and refilled both their glasses, letting the matter drop. "Oh, by the way, I've got a bone to pick with you..."
"Mm? What's that?" Aziraphale raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
"Do you have any idea what a colossal pain in the arse it's been trying to drop those last five pounds?"
---
Five hundred-odd years after that...
The sky was raining fire. Aziraphale and Crowley stood out front of what had once been the bookshop, under an umbrella that was somehow impervious to the deadly rain, watching in grim silence.
"It's really happening this time, isn't it?" Crowley said at last.
"I'm afraid so," Aziraphale said softly.
"They didn't say anything to you?"
"I think they wanted to make sure I wouldn't foul this one up."
Crowley snorted. "And we wondered why they sent you back down here..."
Before the worldwide psionovid network had gone down, it had delivered terrifying visions of what was happening now in the Holy Land. Most of the surviving population of London was either fled or in hiding. None of them would last much longer, but little though they realized it, death had now become a somewhat trivial concern for the mortals; those who succumbed would soon awaken to join all who had gone before them in witnessing the greatest spectacle of this or any other age. Some would go on from there to dwell in eternal paradise; others...well, it was probably best not to think too much about the others.
Then again, for certain third parties, not thinking such things was a luxury they didn't have.
"We really ought to have known it was just a dry run, that first time. You know?" Crowley asked offhandedly. "The Book never said anything about Lower Tadfield."
"Well, not in so many words, no. But Anathema's cards--"
"Not that Book, you moron. The other Book."
"Oh." Aziraphale turned pink. "Well, no, I suppose not."
Crowley scuffed the ground restlessly with his heel. "I'm...actually at a bit of a loss, here. There's nothing written anywhere about Fallen angels who've also been canned by Hell." When Aziraphale turned to look at him, he added, "Believe me, I've looked. Which side am I supposed to be fighting on? Do you think?"
The angel regarded him solemnly. "Whichever side seems best to you, I suppose."
"And if I don't want to fight at all?"
"I don't honestly know, Crowley." Aziraphale shook his head. "Whether you do or not, there won't be an Earth left at the end. You'll have to choose a side, or have one chosen for you."
"Yeah, some choice. Neither side wants me. I am getting the most awful sense of deja vu," Crowley mumbled. "Nothing left to lose and no place left to run. And no Adam around this time to pull the whole world's arse out of the fire." He heaved a sigh. "I suppose I'll figure something out. I always do. Just let me go get my tyre iron, then; we've got a long flight ahead of us."
"I don't think any of the airlines are still operating..."
"Not that kind of flight." Crowley refrained with difficulty from smacking him upside the head. "For Somebody's sake, angel, what is it about Apocalypses that makes your brain throw a fucking rod?"
---
The Valley of Megiddo was unsurprisingly a terrifying, chaotic mess. The final conflict was well under way by the time the two friends touched down a safe distance off, wearily winching in their wings and observing from the top of a tall hill that overlooked the battlefield.
Various familiar figures could be picked out even at this distance by the distinctive coronas of power that surrounded them: Michael brandishing a flaming sword in the vanguard of Heaven's forces, mowing down demons by the thousands; Lucifer in all his terrifying brilliance, rallying the Legion to counterattack; red War cutting a broad (and seemingly indiscriminate) path through anything that got in her way. Azrael--the Angel of Death--could not be seen, but the sense of his presence was everywhere, permeating the entire region. No doubt the other Horsemen, the new Antichrist and all the other great figures of the Revelation were down there somewhere as well, all playing out their assigned parts.
Crowley took it all in with an air of pale composure that Aziraphale had come to recognize as the state he arrived at when he'd overshot panic entirely and landed hard on the other side. "Guess this is it, then." He had, in fact, stopped at a museum that hadn't been fully looted to pick up a sword this time; oddly enough, a blessed sword that had once belonged to a true knight. Aziraphale found the choice telling, though Crowley hadn't actually declared which side he planned to take.
A mighty trumpet call split the air, drawing their eyes to a tall figure on another hilltop, and the ground trembled underfoot. Crowley smirked. "Blow, Gabriel, blow."
"Really, my dear."
"Sorry, couldn't resist." Crowley shook his head. "Just for the record, I really, really don't want to be here."
"I know." Aziraphale shook his head as a high wind whipped his hair into his eyes. He shared the sentiment, but as an angel of the Lord about to carry out his final duty on Earth, he really wasn't at liberty to say so. "If you could be anywhere right now--in any time, with everything back the way it was--where do you think would you choose?"
Crowley weighed his answer as though they had all the time in the world. "London," he said at last, "in January of 1895."
Aziraphale smiled. "Just waking from your long nap..."
"And learning how the world had changed," Crowley agreed. "That was a good time. Exciting times." He hefted his sword, taking a few experimental swings. "Pity it all has to end here."
"We always knew it would, sooner or later." Aziraphale was unarmed. The sword that had been given to him in the beginning had been needed for other things, and he trusted now that whatever weapon he required would find its way to him at the proper time. "Crowley? I realize you're in a terrible jam, but I'm still glad that...you know, it means we don't have to fight each other now."
"Yeah. Me too." Crowley squared his shoulders, unfurling his wings once more. Everything else that needed to be said had been said, all those years ago in Lower Tadfield. "You ready?"
"I am." The angel did the same. "Be careful, Crowley. I'll look for you when it's over."
They lifted off in unison, circled once on a smoky updraft, and dove into the fray, losing sight of each other almost at once as the fury of battle closed in on all sides.
Part II
for:
lemonfruitfishfrom: [Bad username or site: amberdiceless" @ livejournal.com]
disclaimer: They're not mine.
If there was one thing that Aziraphale had learned after dealing with the Heavenly bureaucracy for the past sixty centuries, it was that one never really got away scot-free with anything.
Oh, he'd managed to sweep any number of rules violations and questionable compromises under the rug, and for the most part they stayed there, never again to see the light of day. But even if Heaven didn't know precisely what he was up to at any given time, they had an uncanny knack for determining that he was up to something. He strongly suspected that a good deal of the paperwork he was obliged to fill out, the unannounced performance reviews, random visits from higher-ups and assorted other headaches they routinely sent his way were intended simply as reminders that he did in fact report to someone else, or as blanket penance for whatever he happened to have done wrong that quarter.
He gathered that things were much the same on Crowley's end, except of course that Hell was that much more effective at putting the fear of, well, themselves into his counterpart. Given what Crowley had to look forward to if he was ever held accountable for his own considerable transgressions, the angel thought it was really quite remarkable that he'd managed to talk the demon into standing his ground as the thwarted Apocalypse had neared its pinnacle.
Remarkable and, he was beginning to think, possibly slightly unfortunate. As well as it spoke for Crowley's character that he'd been willing to stand up to the Great Adversary armed with nothing but a tyre iron, in retrospect, it had also been a bit...what was the word...foolhardy? And none too wise of him to suggest it, he thought with a sigh as he tidied up the shop in preparation for closing. (It had been open for all of an hour.) It wasn't as though the two of them had stood any better chance of making a real difference together than he had by himself.
Truth be told, he'd asked Crowley to stay simply because it had made him feel better to think he wouldn't be facing certain annihilation alone. Maybe that had been terribly selfish of him, but he had sincerely believed at the time that Crowley's number would be up very soon thereafter anyway. So it was all well and good, except for the inconvenient detail that he hadn't died, and neither had Crowley. Who, when and if his superiors ever did get around to bringing him to task for it, was going to be in an awful lot of trouble. (Much more so than he would. After all, it wasn't as though he, Aziraphale, had defied God personally. And he hadn't Fallen for his transgression, a matter which was entirely out of the Archangels' hands and which, he suspected, had them more or less stymied. If the Lord chose not to punish him for such an egregious display of disobedience, then there wasn't much they could justify doing to him, apart from heaping a little extra red tape on his head out of pure spite.)
At any rate, where he was currently standing, some eight weeks past the incident, was with a slightly more varied inventory which he had finally catalogued to his own satisfaction, another few evenings a month given over to filling out pointless forms which would likely be consigned to Limbo with nary a glance from anyone who mattered...and one increasingly jittery demon dropping by more and more frequently, and overstaying his welcome as a matter of course. Aziraphale couldn't really blame him, and kept him well-supplied with tea and oblique reassurance (in liquid form laced into the tea when necessary,) but the demon's nervousness was infectious; they'd been walking around for fortnights with twin Swords of Damocles dangling unseen overhead, and he didn't think he could take much more of it. Something would soon have to give.
Ten minutes later, the bookstore door opened, and something did.
"Terribly sorry, but I was just about to clo--" he began automatically, and then the patent wrongness of the visitor struck him like a physical blow and the words caught in his throat. His first knee-jerk impulse was to shout into the back room for Crowley to run for it, followed immediately by Don't, don't give him away, just hope he feels it too and escapes out the back door...
"Terribly sorry," the new arrival echoed in a clipped, sophisticated accent, smoothly turning the sign as he stepped in the door and shut it behind him. He was a remarkably handsome man: tall and strong, with shining blond curls and a slightly oily smile that widened as he studied Aziraphale coolly. His penetrating blue eyes were horribly, brilliantly familiar and somehow, subtly, not quite altogether sane. "I'm afraid this really can't wait. But don't worry, I promise I shan't take too much of your valuable time, Mr. Fell."
Aziraphale deliberately placed the stack of books he was holding on the counter and folded his arms defensively across his chest. "What do you want?" he asked, pleased at least that he was able to keep his voice more or less steady.
"Now, let's not get off on the wrong foot," said the man calmly, strolling up to the counter. "Although I suppose you could say we already have, hm? Still, there's no need to be unpleasant. Flaming swords and tyre irons and all that, really. We're all civilized men, are we not?" He chuckled. "Well, so to speak..."
Aziraphale was spared from answering by a sudden clatter as the door to the back room flew open and Crowley came skidding out, his face the color of milk gone sour. No no no, you staggering great idiot, what are you thinking? It's you he's after!
But whatever action self-preserving good sense might call for in a situation like this, Crowley was having none of it. "Don't hurt the angel," he croaked, and Aziraphale's heart thudded painfully against his sternum. "Please..."
Leaning casually on the counter, the Devil rolled his eyes and gave Aziraphale a long-suffering look. "There, you see? Such unnecessary drama. Is he always this excitable?" He sighed. "Calm yourself, Mr. Crowley, we are not engaged in an Apocalypse today. I have no intention of harming your friend. Or you, for that matter."
Crowley traded mystified looks with the angel and edged a little closer to him. "I don't understand," he said cautiously.
"Of course you don't. You never have." Lucifer shook his head reprovingly. Still leaning on the counter, he steepled his hands, regarding his wayward minion thoughtfully. "To be frank, I've never been quite sure what to do with you, either. And now you've gone and left me in a very awkward position, Crowley. Very awkward indeed."
"...sorry?" the lesser demon offered, thrusting his hands in his pockets to quell their nervous fidgeting. "Sorry, Sir," he added quickly. "I hope it isn't too impertinent of me to ask, but...what position? And, uh, if you're not going to drag me away to be tormented for eternity or anything like that, why are you here?"
Lucifer straightened up. "Well, it's just this, little one. That unruly son of mine has declared you and your friend here off-limits to my forces as well as my counterpart's, at least while his stewardship of the planet lasts. While I could force the issue if I really wanted to, frankly, you're just not worth the trouble." He shrugged. "No offense."
"None taken," Crowley muttered weakly.
"Nevertheless, I can't ignore what happened indefinitely. It's bad for morale, bad for discipline. The natives Down There are getting restless, wanting to see someone held accountable. Makes it difficult to get anything done. And, well," he gestured, "I'm afraid where the choice of a sacrificial lamb is concerned, you're a bit of a no-brainer. You understand."
"Oh, quite. Absolutely," Crowley said agreeably, still not quite sure where this was going, but pretty certain he wasn't going to like it. Aziraphale was now edging toward him as though with some crazy idea about getting between him and Lucifer, which was typical of the angel and typically plain stupid, and made him wish with all his heart that he was really deserving of that kind of self-sacrificing tripe. "So you're here to...?"
Lucifer smiled grimly and made an unnecessarily complicated gesture, calling into his hand a plain, thick manila envelope. "I am really sorry to have to do this," he said, sounding almost sincere. "Aziraphale--that is your name, correct?--you may wish to step a bit further to your left."
To his left would take him closer to Crowley. Confused, the angel hesitated...then lunged in that direction when Crowley abruptly swayed and crumpled silently toward the floor. Aziraphale caught him before he hit the ground.
"Crowley! You--what did you do to him?" he demanded of Lucifer, dropping awkwardly into a sitting position with his friend's inert body cradled in his arms.
"Nothing too serious, I assure you. Undoubtedly it's a bit of a shock, but he'll be fine once he's had time to adjust, I expect," the Morningstar said smoothly.
Aziraphale checked Crowley's vitals and was relieved to find them strong and steady, if a little slower than expected. "Adjusted...to what?"
Lucifer held up the envelope. "It's all explained in here. Hold on to this until he comes around, would you? I trust it won't go astray." He set the envelope on the counter.
"Of course it won't," Aziraphale snapped. Only Crowley's proximity kept the angel's halo from flaring up wrathfully in the Adversary's direction, and not just because of the jab at his integrity. "Is your business here concluded, then? Or shall I go and find you a puppy to kick?"
"Tut, tut. You'd really like to smite me right now, wouldn't you?" Lucifer smirked. "And over my perceived mistreatment of your Enemy, too. You really do enjoy living dangerously." His smile turned icy. "It's remarkable you haven't Fallen. You ought to have, you know; your friend there was after all cast down for much lesser crimes than yours. I do wonder at times how He justifies that Plan of His in His own mind, if He even bothers..."
Aziraphale turned his face away. "Bastard," he said softly.
Lucifer cocked his head to one side, curious. "Oh, you didn't know? In all your companionable nights of drunken philosophy, little Crawly never shared with you the story of his tumble from grace?"
"It's not my business," Aziraphale said stonily. He didn't want to hear that story. He'd never wanted to. Crowley's airy claim that he'd 'sauntered vaguely downward' was perfectly adequate as far as he was concerned, as much as he'd always known it was a polite fiction.
"Oh, I think you're wrong about that." Lucifer walked up to where the angel sat and hunkered down before him, now wearing an expression of sober sincerity that made Aziraphale itch to tear his preternaturally-beautiful face off. "It's just now become very pertinent to you, if it never was before.
"You see, Crowley was never one of my followers. He was happy in Heaven. He didn't want to see the Creator overthrown. He didn't fight with the Legion, never raised a hand against any of the Host."
Aziraphale shook his head, and had to ask in spite of himself. "But that--that doesn't make any sense. How...?"
Lucifer's icy blue gaze didn't waver. "His error came after all that," he explained. "He had some friends among my people, apparently, and when all the Choirs assembled to witness our punishment--you were probably too far back in the ranks to catch it--he, and he alone among all the Faithful, spoke up in our defense. He dared to question; to say to the Father that it was too much, that there must be another way." Looking oddly pensive, he reached out as though to touch Crowley's face or his hair, but dropped his hand with a sigh when Aziraphale shrank defensively away. "And for that act of compassion, he was promptly judged and exiled along with the rest of us." The beautiful face was briefly fractured by a contemptuous sneer. "So much for all that drivel about forgiveness and loving thine enemy..."
He pushed himself to his feet. "There's a reason I chose him to send to the Garden, you know, and looked the other way all these millennia as he went most grievously astray. I felt as though I owed him something, I suppose. And Hell would have utterly destroyed him." He put his hands in his pockets, raising his eyebrows. "He's gone too far this time, though. I don't blame him, particularly, you realize; that whole business with Adam was as sorry a comedy of errors as any I've ever seen, and I can scarcely fault him for preferring Earth to Perdition. Who wouldn't?" He smiled ruefully. "But it really is out of my hands. The best I can do for him now is leave him to you."
He turned and walked to the door, pausing to glance back with his hand on the knob. "He's fortunate to have such a friend. I wish I were so lucky."
Aziraphale opened his mouth and then closed it again, watching dumbly as the Great Adversary opened the bookshop door, stepped through and let it swing gently shut behind him. Through the shaded windows, he saw a flare of virulent orange and red that soon dwindled away into the fading twilight, like a bad dream upon awakening.
---
Crowley came to his senses some time later, not quite sure where he was or what had happened to him, but feeling very strange and a bit woozy. It took a moment or two for the memory of Lucifer's unexpected visit to filter back in. When it did, he shot upright and almost toppled off the overstuffed couch that hadn't been in the bookshop's back room the last he remembered. Strong hands caught and supported him as a wave of dizziness nearly swept him back into unconsciousness. "Ngk. Where--"
"Steady on there," Aziraphale said calmly, "no need to panic. He's long gone, and whatever it was he did, you seem to be still in one piece." He helped Crowley prop himself upright and returned to the armchair where he'd apparently been reading, regarding the demon searchingly. "How are you feeling?"
"Weird." Crowley rubbed his eyes, wondering offhandedly where his sunglasses had got to. "Drained. He didn't...do anything else, did he?" Openly asking about the angel's well-being was not something he was given to doing, but under the circumstances...
"No. He left a few moments after you collapsed. Never so much as raised his voice." Aziraphale laced his fingers together and leaned on his knees, peering intently at his counterpart over the rims of his spectacles. "It's all very odd. I can't find anything actually wrong with you. But your aura seems a little...off."
"Off?" Crowley echoed, understandably disquieted by this news. "Off in what way, exactly?"
Aziraphale tilted his head slightly. "Not as bright as usual. Or as red." Actually, it was considerably dimmer. And with much of the angry crimson he'd always associated with Crowley now gone, traces of other, softer, cooler colors (which he suspected had been there, masked by the more intense colors all along) were now glimmering through. He didn't want to upset Crowley further, however, so he only added, "It's still brighter than a human's, though."
"Peachy." Crowley looked around. "So that's it? I get a personal visit from Him Below and all he does is...install a dimmer switch? Energy Star rated Crowley 2.0? That can't be all there is to it."
"No, I don't expect it is." Ignoring the technological babble which, as usual, meant nothing to him, Aziraphale picked up the envelope Lucifer had left and offered it to him. "He asked me to give this to you. He said it would explain everything."
Crowley accepted the envelope and opened it somewhat reluctantly, pulling out a thick sheaf of papers. He stopped and stared at the topmost one for a long, brittle moment...and then started to laugh.
Aziraphale blinked, straightening up in his chair. "What? What's so funny?"
Wordlessly, still snickering, Crowley lifted the top document and showed it to him. It was printed on pale pink paper.
"He's given me my walking papers," he explained when he could speak again. "I've been sodding pink-slipped by Hell." He dropped the paper on the sofa next to him and flipped through the rest of the bundle. "Final performance review, severance agreement, termination of benefits...pension? I had a pension plan?" He snorted. "41,370 days of accumulated vacation pay they never told me I was entitled to. See why you should always read the fine print, angel?"
"Well, it sounds like you won't have to worry about your finances for a while," Aziraphale said dryly. "If they intend to honor the terms, of course. What else?"
"They should. It all looks in order, and they're sticklers down there for keeping to the letter of the agreement." The demon read on, frowning slightly. "I henceforth shall have no access to any special powers or privileges associated with my employment with their organization. Maybe that explains the aura thing. I never have quite been sure how much of what I could do came of being their agent and how much was inherent to me...although I suppose the hellfire's sort of a given..." He paused. "Now what the fuck's this? This thing has a title?"
"Thing?" the angel prompted.
"This corporation. I get to keep the body, apparently." Crowley raised his eyebrows glumly. "They are of course under no obligation to replace it in the event of catastrophic damage, destruction, normal wear and tear...act of God, ha ha. Very funny, mates. But if it breaks down due to defects in workmanship within the next ninety days they'll let me trade it in. Sporting of them."
"Mm. Quite." Aziraphale had a distinct feeling there was another shoe waiting to drop.
Crowley went through a series of entirely pedestrian and unalarming documents before he came to the last one in the heap. "Oh," he said quietly after skimming it briefly, "here we go. The disclaimer and discharge of liability."
Aziraphale winced. "Of course..."
Already somewhat pale, Crowley's face grew waxen as he read. "From this date forward, Hell assumes no responsibility for the former agent or for any actions perpetrated by or property belonging to said individual. Hell is furthermore hereby relieved of any and all obligation, stated or implied, to offer any form of protection, advocacy, extraction, counsel, compensation, or other assistance, material or immaterial, to the former agent for any reason, including but not limited to acts of Heaven, of third parties (mortal or immortal,) or of unauthorized representatives of Hell itself. The former agent is however free to negotiate for such services at his option, as per official policy (see Standard Operations Manual, chapter 13, for full details.)"
He carefully squared up the stack and returned it to its envelope. "So, in a nutshell, unless I want to enter into an extremely one-sided bargain with them--which they know very well I won't do, I've been in the business too long to fall for that--I'm officially on my own. If Hastur or Michael or anybody else decides they want a Crowley-skin rug for their study, they won't lift a finger to stop it happening."
"Would they have before, though?" Aziraphale asked, trying to find at least a not-too-dark side to the situation (and failing, in his own estimation.) "And won't Adam intervene if they try?"
Crowley shrugged. "I don't know. They have, once or twice, when it would have been more inconvenient to replace me than stop something else killing me." He ran both hands through his hair, feeling more at a loss than he had since that moment in the burning shop when he'd realized he really was alone and the world was coming apart. "But before, even if they left me to hang, at least I knew what I could do to defend myself. As for Adam, who knows? Just because he's banned any official retaliation doesn't mean he'll step in to put the kibosh on a personal vendetta. And he won't be around forever."
Aziraphale nodded. "Well, we can work on figuring all that out. For now, though, I'd suggest you just take it easy until you've acclimatized to the situation a bit. Get your bearings."
"Easy for you to say, angel. The minute word gets around Downstairs, my arse might as well have a big red target painted on it." Crowley leaned back and shut his eyes. "Hastur's not the only one down there who'd like to hang it on his wall as a trophy."
"That's an image I could well have done without," Aziraphale observed, but his own brows were knitted together with concern. Not sure what else he could say, he finally fell back on his default solution to practically every crisis. "Tea?"
Crowley smiled faintly as one small part of his world righted itself and fell solidly back into place. "Sure. Tea would be great."
The angel got a tray together and brought it out, and for a few minutes they sat sipping the familiar beverage and talking of inconsequential things as though everything were perfectly normal.
"I should be going," Crowley said finally, setting his empty cup down with an air of finality that sent an icy bolt of panic lancing right through Aziraphale's middle.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asked as Crowley got up and headed somewhat unsteadily for the door. "I mean, under the circumstances...you're welcome to stay here a while, if you'd rather." I certainly would.
Crowley shook his head, pausing but not turning back. "I'd just be in your way. Can't hide in here forever, anyway. You know they're almost certainly watching the place already. And it could get you in a lot of trouble with your own people."
Those were not comforting thoughts at all, but they weren't exactly new, either. "Dear boy, you've been getting underfoot for thousands of years now. I assure you, I'm quite used to it." Aziraphale got up and walked around between his friend and the door, putting out a hand to steer Crowley back toward the couch. "No one said anything about forever. Also, I suspect I'd be guilty of criminal negligence if I let you drive right now."
Crowley shot him a look that was, as usual, very difficult to read. Those odd reptilian eyes were nearly as unrevealing as the sunglasses. "Look...I appreciate it. I do. But it's bad enough I'm at loose ends. I don't fancy ending up as your trusty sidekick, diving behind your halo anytime danger threatens."
"I know, and I don't either. It won't come to that." Aziraphale tried not to sound desperate. He had the strongest feeling that if Crowley walked out right then, he would never see him again. "Just...give it a day or two, won't you? Humor me. I'll take it as a favor repaid."
"Do I owe you one?" Crowley asked, reluctantly allowing himself to be nudged away from the door. He was hugging himself now, rubbing his arms as though he'd taken a chill, though the room wasn't cold. "I've lost track. And are we even still playing that game now?"
"I don't know," the angel said honestly, drawing a quilt out of the ether and putting it around his friend's shoulders. "That's something else we need to figure out. And we will, but it doesn't have to be this very minute." Whatever form the Arrangement was to assume next, he hoped they'd have a long time ahead of them to work on it.
---
"Are you sure this is a good idea?"
Aziraphale had found himself saying this an awful lot lately.
"Not in the slightest," Crowley said cheerfully, gesturing to the bucket on the bench before him. "Might want to stand back a bit from that. It's unholy water."
Aziraphale hastily backpedaled to a safe distance. The stuff wasn't as potent (or nearly as common) as the holy variety, but if he came into contact with it, it would still give him a nasty blistering rash that was slow to heal and itched abominably. "I can understand wanting to know these things, but honestly, don't you think this is pushing your luck just a little?"
Crowley had adjusted remarkably well to his new situation over the past several weeks. He'd spent a lot of time sleeping and fretting at first, but as time passed and those who sought his untimely and messy demise failed to appear (perhaps biding their time, or possibly warded off by the watchful presence of a slightly overprotective Principality,) he had rallied and begun to explore the nature and limitations of his new state of being. As he was now freed from any other responsibility and had nothing but time on his hands, this pursuit had quickly evolved into something of an obsession.
So much they knew at this point: the demon, if he could still be called a demon, was more closely tied to his human body now than he had been before. Eating and sleeping were still technically optional. However, as he was now cut off from any source of power greater than what he drew naturally from his immediate surroundings, the energy boost those mortal activities provided was sometimes all that kept him from exhausting himself just by performing simple tasks he'd never had to think twice about before. Minor miracles were still within the scope of his abilities, as long as he didn't try to overdo it; likewise almost any sort of working that applied to him personally (with the singular exception of turning himself into a heap of maggots. Needless to say, he was not overly grieved at the loss of that particular trick.) But anything that required a direct conduit to Hell or a massive surge of external power was now lost to him.
"It's not all bad," he'd observed, "at least I won't have to worry about the biospatial feedback anymore. Bloody near fried my eyeballs that last time." But the really startling side effects (and the reason for his current, slightly mad line of experimentation) they had discovered entirely by accident.
Some well-meaning soul had given Aziraphale one of those newfangled Bibles that didn't look like a Bible, but rather more like one of those big, fashionable books that were made to sit on coffee tables and serve as conversation pieces. He'd absent-mindedly left it lying on the counter, unsure what to do with it--as clearly it wasn't a real Bible by any meaningful measure, and possibly bordered on sacrilegious, but it nevertheless contained The Word and was therefore not to be casually disposed of--and Crowley had wandered by and curiously picked it up, nearly discorporating out of sheer terror when he identified the thing for what it was.
Much to both their astonishment, though, it hadn't so much as singed his fingertips. Aziraphale was of the opinion that the book was simply too far removed from the genuine article to be properly toxic to demons, but Crowley wasn't so sure. "It's not the packaging that counts, angel, you know that," he'd argued. "It wouldn't matter if they did up a Playboy edition with Mary Magdalene as the centerfold in all her luscious four-color glory--"
"Really, my dear."
"Well, the point is, I ought to be a very dramatic Crowley-shaped splotch on your carpet right about now," he'd concluded, "and I'm not. This bears further investigation."
Several more traditional Bibles, a few churchyard expeditions, one cathedral and a few odd relics later, there seemed to be no doubt remaining: holy items no longer had any effect on Crowley. Only one test remained, and in spite of the mounting circumstantial evidence that nothing was going to happen, Aziraphale had done his best to talk his friend out of it. It would be entirely in keeping with Crowley's luck that this final item on the list would prove to be the exception to the rule. But Crowley would not be dissuaded, so here they were: Crowley with his haz-mat gear, tongs and thermos flask (plus the contents of the bucket just in case things did go terribly wrong,) and Aziraphale fretfully pacing at a cautious distance, hoping he wouldn't need to find out whether his own healing powers would now work on his colleague where they never had before.
"All right then. Here we go," Crowley announced, drawing on the heavy rubber gloves and using the tongs to unscrew the top of the flask with exaggerated care. Aziraphale watched, unaware that he was holding his breath, as Crowley then took the flask and tilted it one painstaking degree at a time, until about half an ounce of the possibly-deadly contents tipped into an ordinary shot glass sitting on the bench in front of him.
That accomplished, he moved off some distance and went through the laborious task of closing the flask, which he put into a portable lockbox and carefully secured before continuing.
Next, he removed the gloves, picked up a small box of cotton swabs and gravely selected one. "This is either going to be very painful," he remarked over his shoulder, "or terribly anticlimactic."
"Just get on with it, won't you?" the angel said shortly, fumbling out his handkerchief and dabbing at his forehead with it.
Smiling slightly to himself, Crowley carefully dipped one end of the swab into the glass, barely moistening the cotton. Noticing his hands were trembling just a bit, he paused a moment, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself.
Then, just at the moment when Aziraphale thought he was going to back out after all, he suddenly brought his hands together and swiped the end of his little finger with the swab, which he immediately dropped, poising his hand over the bucket.
A second passed, and then another...
"Anything?" Aziraphale finally choked out.
An incredulous grin worked its way across Crowley's face. "Not so far. Not so much as a tingle."
"Well, thank goodness." Aziraphale looked unconvinced at first, but finally, as the moments lengthened and nothing appeared to change, he sighed and tucked his handkerchief away. "I still think it was a foolish risk to take, but I suppose it is a good thing to know."
"Not much of a test though, really, is it?" Crowley asked. "I barely got it damp." Feeling cocky (and perhaps slightly delirious with relief,) he unexpectedly picked up the shot glass and dumped the rest of the water into his open palm.
He'd never seen the angel move so fast in all their days on Earth. In the span of a heartbeat, Aziraphale materialized next to him, seized his wrist and plunged his hand deep into the bucket. The water hissed, steamed and roiled momentarily, and Aziraphale yelped, but did not let go his hold.
"What the--angel, have you lost your bleeding mind?!" Yanking them both away from the bucket, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's hands and examined them anxiously. The skin was angry red and already starting to blister. His own was warm and slightly pink--from the reaction between the two opposing substances, most likely--but unharmed. "What'd you go and do a daft thing like that for?" he demanded sharply.
"I was afraid you'd be killed, cretin," Aziraphale said through his teeth. "Or lose a hand at least. A little warning next time, please?"
"Oh, of all the...no, don't scratch at it, for fuck's sake, you'll take all the skin off. Just stand right there and don't do anything," Crowley ordered. There was nothing for it but to hastily open the lockbox, retrieve the flask and douse the injuries to neutralize the remaining unholy water. "You really think I would have tried that if I wasn't pretty sure it would turn out all right? Come on, angel, give me a little credit..."
Aziraphale sighed. "I give you more than a little, actually, but sometimes 'pretty sure' just isn't good enough."
Crowley, however, wasn't listening. He was staring thoughtfully at the painful-looking lesions scattered across the back of Aziraphale's right hand. "Hold still a second," he muttered, frowning slightly.
"All right, but what are y--oh." Aziraphale's eyes widened as a sudden warmth ran across his skin and the blisters shrank and faded, leaving no trace. Crowley could always heal humans or animals, but he had never been able to do this sort of thing for Aziraphale before; the scant handful of times he'd tried over the centuries, it had always made things worse.
Crowley was grinning again, and took care of the other hand in short order. "Well, this'll come in useful next time you do something idiotic."
Aziraphale tried to scowl, but Crowley looked so pleased with himself (and it felt so much better with the rash gone) that he just couldn't bring himself to be snippy. "Thank you," he said instead.
"No problem, angel." Crowley let go and stepped back, turning to start cleaning up the bench. "Let's just keep this in mind for the future. I may actually be more durable now than you are."
---
Things remained quiet for some time after that, and Crowley slowly found himself settling into a new routine. Making his own decisions about pretty much everything was a strange and unfamiliar experience; after the initial novelty wore off, it proved not quite as exciting as he'd always imagined. Throughout his long existence, there had always been someone around to tell him what he should be doing, and even if that person or the instructions they gave were sometimes objectionable (and frequently ignored,) the responsibility of figuring it all out for himself could be wearisome and confounding.
Some of his old duties he kept on at just out of habit, or because he found them entertaining. Without the pressure to score points toward a good performance review, though, a lot of his tempting and wiling simply lost its appeal. He'd always taken professional pride in his work, but, he was starting to realize, he really didn't find much satisfaction in causing trouble for people who hadn't done anything to him; not for its own sake.
It was easier to hang around with the angel and let himself be nudged in more productive directions, but it turned out that even without Hell's influence, he wasn't a particularly altruistic person. And he didn't like the dynamic it created between them; an uneasy sense that they were no long opposites and equals, but something else now, something that hadn't yet been defined. And wouldn't be, as long as he went on cooling his heels there, clinging to what felt safe and familiar but offered no challenges and demanded no real thought or effort.
Eventually, the need to get things sorted won out over the self-preserving instinct to stay close to home (and Aziraphale and Adam,) and he organized his affairs and struck out for a lengthy walkabout that took him across several continents and spanned several decades. Vaguely astonished at how much the rest of the world had changed while he had put down roots in England, he immersed himself with gusto in every culture he came across, secretly rejoicing when his presence brought no more chaos or misfortune to the people around him than that of any other tourist.
In the process, Crowley discovered quite a few things about himself that he hadn't had a chance to learn before. He had a gift for surfing, an unexpected fondness for cats now that they no longer hissed and spat at him every time he walked by, and was better with children than he had ever suspected. Though he'd wisely invested his severance pay and really didn't need to work, he amused himself by trying his hand at whatever trades happened to catch his fancy: cutting hair, installing internet lines, selling apples from a cart, trawling for shrimp. He didn't have to pretend to be a successful yuppie anymore, so he thoroughly enjoyed getting his hands dirty, and when he tired of that, he went and won and lost several small fortunes along the Vegas strip.
He allowed himself to have a pleasant and meaningless fling with a pretty Mexican girl, secure in the certainty that he presented no more danger to her soul than any young mortal she might choose; he left her none the wiser, with few regrets and plenty in the way of experience to offer the next lucky fellow who came along.
Aziraphale, meanwhile, stayed right where he was and quietly fretted, bored without his counterpart and inventing busywork to keep his superiors happy. The series of colorful postcards covered in rambling scrawl that he received from all over the world never failed to make him smile, though, and he stowed them safely away with all the mementoes he kept from ages past, patiently waiting for Crowley to return and fill in the gaps they left in his story.
Crowley's trip ended abruptly in the city of Rio de Janeiro the night he received an urgent wire from Soho with the news that Adam Young's life, as every mortal span must, was coming to its close. He was on a plane to London within an hour, and made it back in time to say good-bye.
After that, he never strayed far from home or stayed away very long. If Earth had ever really been safe for him, it was safe no longer.
---
Four hundred fifty years later...
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" For once, it wasn't Aziraphale asking.
The angel shook his head slightly. "Well, in point of fact, no. But it's really our only option, don't you think?"
"My only option, you mean," Crowley muttered, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He'd been sitting in it more or less unmoving for a long time now, and was heartily sick of it. But then, that sentiment didn't just apply to the chair.
"Which comes down to the same thing," Aziraphale said gently. "Whether you choose to believe that or not." Seeing how unhappy Crowley looked, he added, "It should be all right. It's been a long time, you know; this one was given to me by Adam, not Heaven. I doubt they'll kick up a fuss."
Crowley nodded stiffly. "I know you've got your story in order. That's not what worries me. How can you be sure they'll send you back?" Hell had never seen fit to send anyone to replace him, and he'd been dreading for eons the day when Heaven would decide its last Earthly agent was no longer required.
Aziraphale sighed. "I can't, of course. But it's a risk I'd have to take sooner or later. Better I should take it now, while it might do you some good. Are you ready?"
"No. But I suppose we'd better do it anyway." Crowley watched resignedly as Aziraphale seated himself in the chair opposite and leaned back, shutting his eyes. After a moment he did the same, ignoring a variety of aches and pains, major and minor, that arose with even the smallest motion.
To an outside observer, it would appear that the two men in the chairs went to sleep at the same time. The reality was, in fact, something entirely different.
Aziraphale rose first, ethereal wings unfurling as he left his mortal body behind him in the chair like an abandoned blanket. He hovered near it, maintaining its vital functions until Crowley had extricated himself from his own body, standing and stretching with a groan of heartfelt relief.
I imagine that feels better, the angel said wordlessly.
You have no idea. Crowley looked down at the empty mortal shell that had seen him through so much, watching with mixed feelings as it took its last few shallow breaths. It was a good one, though. Didn't owe me a thing.
I know. Aziraphale smiled sadly. The loss of a corporation didn't carry the same emotional weight as a true death, but it certainly brought with it a sense that an era was passing. But they do wear out eventually. And after what Hastur did to it that last time, you're fortunate it held out this long.
Crowley's eyes--which were a pale, luminous grey color when he fully assumed his true form--glinted for a moment with malicious satisfaction. At least we finally put the bastard down for good.
Yes. He didn't want to rush this, but Aziraphale could only effectively sustain his own body for so long when he wasn't actually in it. Now you remember where I keep the keys, and the ledger, and the reserved volumes?
Some of those 'reserved volumes' had been 'reserved' since 1992, Crowley recalled. He doubted anyone would be coming to pick them up at this late date. Yes, angel, you've only told me about fifteen times. Don't worry. I'll take good care of the place while you're gone. And I won't sell a thing.
Very good. I'll hold you to that. In you go, then, before it gets cold.
Crowley drifted to the other chair and eyed its pudgy blond occupant dubiously. This is going to be incredibly weird.
No doubt, but I know you'll manage. One is fundamentally much like another. It's all in sorting out the details, really. Aziraphale gestured. Go on, now.
Reluctantly, Crowley slid into the chair and into the strange, confining weight of the angel's discarded body. It felt all wrong as he settled in and slowly straightened up; the proportions and temperature and center of gravity were all slightly but significantly off. (And also wrapped head to toe in genuine tweed, which hadn't even been made in nearly two centuries.) But it was all in working order and completely free of pain, which was by far the most important consideration.
Turning to look in Aziraphale's direction, he saw the now-hazy form of the angel recoil slightly. "Wha--ugh." He cleared his throat and took a moment to adjust his vocal cords into a lower range so that his voice sounded more like his own. "What's the matter?"
Nothing. It's just--your eyes. Gave me a bit of a turn.
"Oh. Right." Rather than retrieve the pair he'd left with his old body, he called a new pair of sunglasses into being and put them on, not needing a mirror to know what had happened. "Sorry. I wish I knew why they always do that."
It doesn't matter. It's yours now. Soon you'll forget it was ever anything else.
Unsure whether he liked that idea or not, Crowley forbore to comment, but carefully levered himself out of the chair, swaying a bit as he got used to the new equipment. "Well, now I know why I always let you nick my dessert. How the hell do you navigate in this thing? Don't you get stuck in doorways?"
I won't dignify that with a reply, came the slightly tart rejoinder. Just look after it carefully, won't you? It's got plenty of wear left in it as long as you don't go doing anything silly.
"Barring any of Hastur's friends decide to come avenge him--if he had any--I don't foresee any problems." Crowley certainly wasn't going to take unnecessary risks. Having to sponge off the angel like this once was bad enough, and probably wouldn't be possible a second time. If it worked out as planned this time. "You'd better get going. The sooner you get up there and start on the paperwork, the sooner you're home." He hoped. "Just don't let those arsehalos push you around."
All right. Take care of yourself, Crowley.
"Always," he said, adding belatedly, "You, too," but the faintly glowing apparition had already faded into the ether.
Feeling terribly alone, Crowley stood there in the bookshop's back room, looking around somewhat helplessly. The place was his, at least for the time being, and he had a lawyer to contact, a burial to arrange and now two businesses* to run; but it all seemed rather pointless at the moment, not knowing whether there'd ever be anyone else here to care what he did or didn't do.
Eventually he made his way to the holographic wall panel and got down to business (yes, even Aziraphale had finally broken down and had a real console installed, though this model was predictably several decades out of date.) The world had changed dramatically, and paper books had grown increasingly rare and valuable; Crowley thought he was now sitting on one of the largest remaining repositories anywhere in the world. Rare and valuable, but almost never actually read anymore. He wasn't sure whether the pang of regret occasioned by that thought was his own, or something left over in this body's synapses from its previous occupant.
Between getting his own and the angel's affairs sorted out, reworking the body into something he could envision spending centuries in, and the day-to-day running of both businesses, Crowley managed to keep himself occupied sufficiently most days not to miss or worry about Aziraphale overmuch. It wasn't as though they'd never spent long periods of time away from each other before, he told himself; it was just that before, it had always been more or less a given that he would see the angel again, sooner or later. He hadn't realized just how much he'd come to depend on that eventuality until it was taken away.
On an ordinary afternoon many months later, he stood idly among the stacks, flipping through one of the few Wilde first editions still known to exist, and remembering.
A hand reached over his shoulder to take the book out of his suddenly-nerveless grasp as a familiar voice said, "Dear boy, whatever are you doing, standing around woolgathering when there's three carts of new arrivals to shelve?"
Crowley turned to find the angel regarding him with an expression of grave rebuke, but his clear blue eyes were smiling like a sunrise. "I suppose now I'll have to go through and reorganize the place from top to bottom again. Such a bother."
It would have been terminally uncool to hug him, so Crowley said instead as casually as he could manage, "Probably. But why don't you leave that til after dinner? I haven't had my dessert stolen in ages."
The Ritz had been turned into a museum some fifty years prior, but they didn't let that stop them.
"So did they give you any flak about...stuff?" Crowley asked over roast pheasant and asparagus tips.
"Not really." Aziraphale took a sip of wine and sighed happily. "There was the expected red tape, of course, but no one even alluded to the Apocalypse incident. I really do think they've written it off as water under the bridge."
Crowley considered that for a bit. "I don't get it," he said finally. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm delighted to have you back. ...Don't read too much into that, now, it's just that I'm really not cut out to be a bookshop owner." He scowled slightly at the angel's knowing smirk. "And obviously just because I got the boot doesn't mean the same's automatically going to happen to you. But speaking from bitter experience, Heaven's just not that forgiving. Something doesn't jive."
Aziraphale frowned uneasily. "Frankly, I'm inclined to agree. But if there's some nefarious plot behind it all, it's beyond my ability to suss it out. Let's not look a gift horse in the mouth, at least until the bill is presented, shall we?"
"I'll drink to that." Crowley picked up the wine bottle and refilled both their glasses, letting the matter drop. "Oh, by the way, I've got a bone to pick with you..."
"Mm? What's that?" Aziraphale raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
"Do you have any idea what a colossal pain in the arse it's been trying to drop those last five pounds?"
---
Five hundred-odd years after that...
The sky was raining fire. Aziraphale and Crowley stood out front of what had once been the bookshop, under an umbrella that was somehow impervious to the deadly rain, watching in grim silence.
"It's really happening this time, isn't it?" Crowley said at last.
"I'm afraid so," Aziraphale said softly.
"They didn't say anything to you?"
"I think they wanted to make sure I wouldn't foul this one up."
Crowley snorted. "And we wondered why they sent you back down here..."
Before the worldwide psionovid network had gone down, it had delivered terrifying visions of what was happening now in the Holy Land. Most of the surviving population of London was either fled or in hiding. None of them would last much longer, but little though they realized it, death had now become a somewhat trivial concern for the mortals; those who succumbed would soon awaken to join all who had gone before them in witnessing the greatest spectacle of this or any other age. Some would go on from there to dwell in eternal paradise; others...well, it was probably best not to think too much about the others.
Then again, for certain third parties, not thinking such things was a luxury they didn't have.
"We really ought to have known it was just a dry run, that first time. You know?" Crowley asked offhandedly. "The Book never said anything about Lower Tadfield."
"Well, not in so many words, no. But Anathema's cards--"
"Not that Book, you moron. The other Book."
"Oh." Aziraphale turned pink. "Well, no, I suppose not."
Crowley scuffed the ground restlessly with his heel. "I'm...actually at a bit of a loss, here. There's nothing written anywhere about Fallen angels who've also been canned by Hell." When Aziraphale turned to look at him, he added, "Believe me, I've looked. Which side am I supposed to be fighting on? Do you think?"
The angel regarded him solemnly. "Whichever side seems best to you, I suppose."
"And if I don't want to fight at all?"
"I don't honestly know, Crowley." Aziraphale shook his head. "Whether you do or not, there won't be an Earth left at the end. You'll have to choose a side, or have one chosen for you."
"Yeah, some choice. Neither side wants me. I am getting the most awful sense of deja vu," Crowley mumbled. "Nothing left to lose and no place left to run. And no Adam around this time to pull the whole world's arse out of the fire." He heaved a sigh. "I suppose I'll figure something out. I always do. Just let me go get my tyre iron, then; we've got a long flight ahead of us."
"I don't think any of the airlines are still operating..."
"Not that kind of flight." Crowley refrained with difficulty from smacking him upside the head. "For Somebody's sake, angel, what is it about Apocalypses that makes your brain throw a fucking rod?"
---
The Valley of Megiddo was unsurprisingly a terrifying, chaotic mess. The final conflict was well under way by the time the two friends touched down a safe distance off, wearily winching in their wings and observing from the top of a tall hill that overlooked the battlefield.
Various familiar figures could be picked out even at this distance by the distinctive coronas of power that surrounded them: Michael brandishing a flaming sword in the vanguard of Heaven's forces, mowing down demons by the thousands; Lucifer in all his terrifying brilliance, rallying the Legion to counterattack; red War cutting a broad (and seemingly indiscriminate) path through anything that got in her way. Azrael--the Angel of Death--could not be seen, but the sense of his presence was everywhere, permeating the entire region. No doubt the other Horsemen, the new Antichrist and all the other great figures of the Revelation were down there somewhere as well, all playing out their assigned parts.
Crowley took it all in with an air of pale composure that Aziraphale had come to recognize as the state he arrived at when he'd overshot panic entirely and landed hard on the other side. "Guess this is it, then." He had, in fact, stopped at a museum that hadn't been fully looted to pick up a sword this time; oddly enough, a blessed sword that had once belonged to a true knight. Aziraphale found the choice telling, though Crowley hadn't actually declared which side he planned to take.
A mighty trumpet call split the air, drawing their eyes to a tall figure on another hilltop, and the ground trembled underfoot. Crowley smirked. "Blow, Gabriel, blow."
"Really, my dear."
"Sorry, couldn't resist." Crowley shook his head. "Just for the record, I really, really don't want to be here."
"I know." Aziraphale shook his head as a high wind whipped his hair into his eyes. He shared the sentiment, but as an angel of the Lord about to carry out his final duty on Earth, he really wasn't at liberty to say so. "If you could be anywhere right now--in any time, with everything back the way it was--where do you think would you choose?"
Crowley weighed his answer as though they had all the time in the world. "London," he said at last, "in January of 1895."
Aziraphale smiled. "Just waking from your long nap..."
"And learning how the world had changed," Crowley agreed. "That was a good time. Exciting times." He hefted his sword, taking a few experimental swings. "Pity it all has to end here."
"We always knew it would, sooner or later." Aziraphale was unarmed. The sword that had been given to him in the beginning had been needed for other things, and he trusted now that whatever weapon he required would find its way to him at the proper time. "Crowley? I realize you're in a terrible jam, but I'm still glad that...you know, it means we don't have to fight each other now."
"Yeah. Me too." Crowley squared his shoulders, unfurling his wings once more. Everything else that needed to be said had been said, all those years ago in Lower Tadfield. "You ready?"
"I am." The angel did the same. "Be careful, Crowley. I'll look for you when it's over."
They lifted off in unison, circled once on a smoky updraft, and dove into the fray, losing sight of each other almost at once as the fury of battle closed in on all sides.
Part II
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(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-03 07:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-03 12:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-03 06:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-04 12:45 am (UTC)Also, your take on why Crowley Fell is pretty cool.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-04 10:32 am (UTC)This is just a place holder comment for now to let you know that I have indeed seen this, and will read it and give a proper comment fest sometime around the weekend<3
-S
(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-04 01:00 pm (UTC)Why do you imagine, after 'misplacing' your sword--and fibbing about it, shame on you--consorting with the Enemy, indulging in Gluttony, coveting Earthly treasures, derailing an Apocalypse, misappropriating Heavenly property and giving poor Michael three kinds of migraines, you're still sitting here with us right now and not on the express elevator to Dis?
and
Oh for My sake, Aziraphale, eat. Never mind the gluttony crack. I let you stuff your face for seven thousand years, I'm not about to can your ass now over a flippin' bread stick
had me laughing out loud. Other bits, like Crowley being laid off and the battle and Crowley's near death and damnation, had me crying. To be honest, I am a Hindu, not a Christian, and I read Christian stuff the way I read stuff like Egyptian mythology. I read Good Omens the way I read Narnia or Terry Pratchett; maybe it exists in some alternate universe, but right now, to me, it's just a story. I won't lie and say you've made me want to convert, but I have this whole new respect and love for it.
Aziraphale and Crowley were in character. Lucifer's... niceness... was surprising but refreshing, and still believeable. I love how you fleshed out the Archangels instead of sticking to stereotypes, eg Raphael would heal everyone unquestioningly, Gabriel was either a stuck up arse or this cool, aloof, wise and pretty okay when it came to Crowley kind of character, same with Uriel, and of course Michael would be a typical hardened warrior and stuck up arse.
And God. Hah, where do I begin? The two quotes should show how much I love Him. The question about whether Aziraphale would Fall to save Crowley, well, I knew it was a test but it still set my heart racing. He was funny and approachable without being a completely comic persona and losing that touch of, well, divinty and omnipotentness like in some other fics I've read, I don't know how to phrase it but you didn't have a small part of me going o.0 and/or
<i>Why do you imagine, after 'misplacing' your sword--and fibbing about it, shame on you--consorting with the Enemy, indulging in Gluttony, coveting Earthly treasures, derailing an Apocalypse, misappropriating Heavenly property and giving poor Michael three kinds of migraines, you're still sitting here with us right now and not on the express elevator to Dis?</i>
and
<i>Oh for My sake, Aziraphale, eat. Never mind the gluttony crack. I let you stuff your face for seven thousand years, I'm not about to can your ass now over a flippin' bread stick</i>
had me laughing out loud. Other bits, like Crowley being laid off and the battle and Crowley's near death and damnation, had me crying. To be honest, I am a Hindu, not a Christian, and I read Christian stuff the way I read stuff like Egyptian mythology. I read Good Omens the way I read Narnia or Terry Pratchett; maybe it exists in some alternate universe, but right now, to me, it's just a story. I won't lie and say you've made me want to convert, but I have this whole new respect and love for it.
Aziraphale and Crowley were in character. Lucifer's... <i>niceness</i>... was surprising but refreshing, and still believeable. I love how you fleshed out the Archangels instead of sticking to stereotypes, eg Raphael would heal everyone unquestioningly, Gabriel was either a stuck up arse or this cool, aloof, wise and pretty okay when it came to Crowley kind of character, same with Uriel, and of course Michael would be a typical hardened warrior and stuck up arse.
And God. Hah, where do I begin? The two quotes should show how much I love Him. The question about whether Aziraphale would Fall to save Crowley, well, I knew it was a test but it still set my heart racing. He was funny and approachable without being a completely comic persona and losing that touch of, well, divinty and omnipotentness like in some other fics I've read, I don't know how to phrase it but you didn't have a small part of me going o.0 and/or <_< like some authors have. Oh, and the bit about platypode and life on other planets? HAH.
All in all, I'm tempted to print this out and go around sticking it into the back of Bibles. I am currently copying and saving it into a Word document so I can read it whenever I want to. I might even convert it into PDF and download it into my phone.
And yes, it's been a while since we've had something truly epic like this, with a long, proper plot and characterisation, and Crowley not just losing his powers for the sake of him and Aziraphale realising their love and lust for each other, and everything is perfectly paced - nice descriptions and pacing, not purple prose or overly drawn out, and not abrupt either. And the ending was <i>perfect</i>.
I love you. XP
(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-07 06:29 am (UTC)This specific paragraph starting with "He gathered that things were much the same on Crowley's end..." really makes me gleeful. <3 And these lines are awesome too~ "Aziraphale's heart thudded painfully against his sternum. " "made him wish with all his heart that he was really deserving of that kind of self-sacrificing tripe."
"Energy Star rated Crowley 2.0? " This just kills me! And haha, I love the issue with the "newfangled Bible" and how neither of them really know how to deal with it at first.
I love your portrayel of the Devil; he's so sauve and self assured, it's perfect. And oh, I really like how you powered Crowley down without making him completely unable to do anything for himself.
And aw, you do a really good job of showing Crowley and Aziraphale's buddylove without making it overtly in your face or mushy. It's quiet, honest, and subtlely strong affection. And they support each other equally, without one being more "dominant" persay. I really like that. And I really REALLY like that Crowley was allowed to go off on his own and be his own person for a while.
The ending bit here is totally epic; I can very well see the battle raging on in my head, it's written so vividly.
To sum up: You really have a way with words<3.
Thank you very much once again, Secret Writer! I will now go on to read the second part with much enthusiasm~<3