100 Things Crowley Would Do Before the World Ended, Part 2

[vulgarweed.livejournal.com]

***

35. Have lunch in a small picturesque cafe in Cornwall.

Cornwall was wet; pouringly, miserably wet, with grey skies and not even a sign of the sun to be seen.

Of course, Crowley arranged for the rain to fall around him rather than on him, but surprisingly that somehow didn't make him feel any better. The scones were too dry, the cream tasted off, and he'd only really ordered them out of habit because he knew Aziraphale liked cream cakes.

He sank a seagull on the way home, because Aziraphale wasn't there to stop him. Somehow, that didn't make him feel better either.

36. Apologise to Aziraphale

It should be easy. It was always easy. Angels didn't have it in them to withhold forgiveness when it was asked for. You apologised, made out that you'd repented, and they forgave you. That was how it worked.

Crowley marched into the bookshop carrying a whole box of cream cakes, determined to win Aziraphale back over. Life just wasn't as fun without the angel to drag along with him. There was no fun in being outrageous unless there was someone to act as an audience.

"Aziraphale," he started firmly. "I came to apologise."

The angel looked up from where he was re-organising books. Somehow, he looked less pleased to see him than Crowley had hoped he would. "Yes?"

Crowley cleared his throat. "I... well, I'm sorry about the whole forbidden fruit thing. I brought cream cakes. Do you want to go to Wales this afternoon? There's this nice little cafe..."

"No."

"No?" Crowley's heart sank a little. Somehow, that hadn't sounded as though Aziraphale were saying no just to Wales. Still, he pressed on. "Scotland then?"

"You're not sorry," Aziraphale said calmly, picking up another stack of books and stacking them back in the shelf. "Or if you are, you're only sorry because I found out. Maybe I should have known better than to trust a demon in the first place, but I can't trust you, and if I can't trust you we can't be friends. And I am sorry for that, but it can't be helped."

This was worse than Crowley had expected. "But-" he started to protest weakly.

"No, Crowley," Aziraphale said firmly. "I'd like you to leave now, please. I have work to do."

Dumbfounded, Crowley actually did as he was told, taking the cream cakes with him.

Had he looked back, he might have seen Aziraphale set the books down, leaning against the shelves and taking a deep, steadying breath. Sometimes, doing the right thing could be so hard.

37. Visit Gomorrah.

Maybe it was just as well the angel was angry with him right now. Crowley wasn't sure he would have wanted to bring him here anyway.

Here had been the little tavern where he used to get people drunk, and coax them that just one more drink wouldn't hurt at all. Here the table where it was so easy to get men to join him leering at passers-by. Here, here and here the houses of people he had known, had visited, had coaxed into sin one at a time, because... well, because they were there, and it was his job. The days had been hot, picked out in light and the darkness of night had seen rich wines flow endlessly until the air itself seemed intoxicating, thick and heavy with sensuality and the spice scents of lust.

It had been like a game almost. He'd thought it was funny when the angels came around, growing steadily more frustrated each time they searched for righteous people and came up blank. He'd moved ahead of them, talking to one person after another; seductive, tempting and more persuasive than the angels had ever known how to be.

If they'd sent Aziraphale, it would have been different. Aziraphale understood how humans could be - terrible one day, wonderful the next. Sometimes it just took a conversation, an idea planted in their heads, or even everyone else doing something - it was easy to get them to go along with the crowd. Aziraphale would have moved amongst them, undoing the damage Crowley had done, nudging them back to where he wanted them. They could have been righteous, on another day, with help or even without interference.

But the angels who had been sent hadn't understood that. They'd looked, seen, and reported back, not understanding really that they could have changed what they saw.

Maybe, with foresight, telling the whole town that he knew them, and they were great in bed but liked to play hard to get had been a bad idea. But it had seemed funny, at the time.

And so they had gone away. And they had left... this. Crowley paced what had once been a thriving town, treading ground which had once been trampled by a thousand feet, now cracked and barren scoured by fire and wrath until the ground itself was to bitter and tormented to hold life.

This was what it looked like when things ended. This was what it looked like when there was nothing left. Desolation, a bereavement of the earth, grieving for a life that would never come again. There was no bright day, only endless mourning twilight, no rich wines just the bitter wind, no spice in the air, just cold bleached bones tumbling with the shifting sands stark and unforgiving.

This was what everywhere would look like.... afterwards.

He sat down, leaning his back against the worn salt pillar at the edge of the town, any semblance of a face or features scoured to oblivion by the desert wind, and looked into space until it was too dark to see, once more watching people from millennia ago who only existed in his memory.

38. Feed the ducks.

"Psst!"

"Hmm?"

"What's the passphrase?"

"The- oh." For once, Crowley resisted taking advantage of the situation. "I think you've got a case of mistaken identity."

"I have?" The MI5 agent looked disappointed. "But my instructions were to find someone feeding the ducks in the park."

"Look for someone wearing a trenchcoat and a hat," Crowley advised. "I'm really just feeding ducks. At least for today."

The agent wandered off disconsolately. That was the problem with feeding the ducks alone. Every passing secret agent assumed you'd been sent to meet them. On other days, Crowley had had fun with this, merrily informing FBI agents of plots by alien badgers to kidnap the President, and sending Russian agents to search for secret nuclear bunkers in local nurseries.

Today he just wasn't in the mood.

"Psst! You here about the photos?"

"Oh, for he- no! No, I am not here about the sodding photos! I am here to feed the ducks!" Crowley waved the bag with an impressive amount of threat for what was only stale crumbs. "Unless you'd like them to be retrieving bread from a really uncomfortable place, I suggest you go away."

Looking sulky, the man wandered away.

After a third agent - this one French - attempted to discretely stuff a brown envelope full of unmarked notes into his hand, Crowley gave in and went home. Feeding ducks just wasn't as easy as it used to be.

39. Test the ineffable plan.

"You what?"

"Do you think," Crowley repeated urgently, determined to get someone to listen to him this time "you'd have more of a chance or less of becoming moral, and not sleeping with your neighbour's wife and, I don't know, becoming a priest or something if you hadn't been born on a council estate?"

The teenager stared at him. "You accusing me of nicking my mate's bird?" he asked finally.

"Theoretically," Crowley stressed. Surely it wasn’t this hard to test ineffability? "If you'd been born rich, do you think you might have been a better person?"

"Are you from Mickey? Because you can tell Mickey from me that I wouldn't have a go with his Kirsty if you paid me. Not after what I heard he caught from her."

Crowley sighed. "Tell you what," he said finally. More opportunities for grace, his demonic arse! "Here's six numbers. Put them on the lottery this Saturday, then see if you feel like a better person."

The boy blinked at the piece of paper thrust into his hand. "Are you kidding me, mate?"

But the demon had already gone.

40. Apologise to Aziraphale. Sincerely, this time.

Aziraphale's best intentions to ignore the demon faltered when faced with Crowley standing outside the shop door looking mournful. Determined not to give in too easily, he retreated to the back to make a mug of cocoa.

Crowley was still there when he returned. And it was starting to rain.

Trying to look stern, the angel reluctantly opened the door. "Well?"

"I came to say sorry," Crowley said, a little gruffly. Sincere apologies didn't seem to come naturally to a demon throat.

"For?" Aziraphale prompted, still blocking the doorway.

"For tricking you into eating the forbidden fruit." Crowley shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

Aziraphale softened a little. "Well then, if you realise you were wrong..."

"I should have thought that you would have expected it though," Crowley blurted, unable to quite stop himself.

Aziraphale shut his eyes for a minute. "Crowley..."

"I mean, you don't think "oh, this is a demon, it's a bit weird that he's turned up bearing a gift"? It was obvi - Aziraphale!"

But the angel was already closing the door in his face. "Good bye, Crowley."

41. Create a website.

Sure he shouldn't have been browsing the internet at work, but it wasn't as though anyone was going to notice someone Googling away for five seconds. Besides, Henry only wanted the song lyrics to get the stupid song out of his head. Hear it on the radio once and it seemed as though the same line was going to repeat forever in his brain.

Ah, here it is. He clicked eagerly, glancing quickly back over his shoulder before scanning the lyrics.

Damn, was that background music? Someone was going to notice that. He checked hastily that he had the volume turned down, but it didn't seem to be making a difference. Oh, well, easily fixed. Just close the window and...

Dammit, a pop-up. He hated those. The boss might not notice a simple lyrics site but a half-naked woman was a different matter. And that music seemed to be getting louder. He clicked the cross hastily, trying to close that too.

Except now there were two popups. Half-naked men and women. This wasn't getting any better.

Click to close those too. Now there were four popups. Now eight. Now sixteen. And the music - the music was so loud someone would hear it at any moment. Panicking, Henry reached over and unplugged the speakers.

It didn't help.

By the time the entire office had come to investigate just who was playing the Sorcerer's Apprentice at such a loud volume, the screen was covered in too many pop-ups to count. Henry looked up, his face grey, his finger sore from clicking too many crosses, and horribly aware that he was about to be known as "that guy who got sacked for watching goats".

"I can explain..."

42. Get your fortune told.

"We burnt it," Newton said calmly. "Sorry,"

Crowley stared at him. "I'm sorry, I think I misunderstood you. We are talking about the one book which actually carries an accurate record of the future, yes? The one that might tell us when the world is about to end - again."

Anathema shrugged. "We decided that this time maybe we didn't want to know."

It was a good job Aziraphale wasn't here. If Crowley was sweating at the idea of losing it, Aziraphale would have been foaming at the mouth at the sheer idea of a book being treated in such a way.

"But how - you won't know if you're going to die!" he blurted. "Or if everyone's going to die. Or when they are, and how much time they have..."

"We didn't want to know," Anathema repeated.

"We don't want to spend our lives waiting," Newton agreed. "It'll come when it comes. Living is something you ought to make up as you go along not that you do to some instruction manual."

Crowley closed his eyes a moment. Now was not the moment to argue the wisdom of destroying something which might just have had the ability to save the universe. "You didn't happen to notice how thick it was by any chance?"

43. Spit on brambles.

Humans had some weird beliefs, and this was among the odder ones. Blackberries eaten after Michaelmas have been spit on by the devil? Who seriously believed the devil had that kind of time on his hands anyway? He wasn't going to take time out of his busy schedule of tormenting damned souls to seek out some forgotten patch of wasteland and spit on some berries just in case some human felt like eating them.

Especially not as the type of areas filled with bramble also tended to be filled with dogdirt. And nettles. And thorns. And it turned out the blackberries tasted rather nice, and really it seemed a pity just to keep spitting on all of them.

The devil does not have time to spit on your brambles after Michaelmas. A demon, however, might have time to eat them before you get a chance to.

44. Try to talk to the angel. Again.

"Aziraphale!" No waiting at the shop door this time. It hadn't worked last time, so he strode in instead.

"Crowley." The angel sounded more resigned than annoyed now, setting down his cup of tea. "What is it now?"

"I need to talk to you about the end of the world. Enough of this messing around with apologies - we need to deal with this," Crowley said firmly, hoping that this would work. If he could just blow through the apology part and leave that behind then they could move on. "Did you know they've burnt the book?"

For a moment Aziraphale looked confused. "What book?"

"The book! The one that tells us how much time there is left before... well, before we have to go through it again!" Crowley snapped. "They can't even remember how many pages it had - we could be at war again tomorrow for all we know!"

Aziraphale winced, trying not to imagine centuries old parchment burnt up in a moment. "Well..." he said, uncertainly, angelic nature fighting it out with book-lover's horror at the idea. "I'm sure they had their reasons."

"If stupidity counts as a reason, yes," Crowley said sharply. "Everyone has reasons. It's just that sometimes those reasons are "I just felt like having a little bit of torture today" or "I don't know, I just couldn't see any reason why I shouldn't be a complete idiot today". Reasons don't just magically make everything okay."

It was working. He could see the angel wince, see the part of him that wanted to get angry at the insanity of anyone destroying such a precious book. That was Aziraphale's weakness, and he just had to tap it, to nudge it until the angel had forgotten to be angry at him and was angry at someone else instead.

"Totally irreplaceable," he added for good measure. "No-one'll ever know what was in there now. Even if they didn't want to read it themselves, they might have handed it over to someone who did."

Aziraphale grimaced a moment, and Crowley was certain angelic wrath was only moments away, but somehow he seemed to steady himself.

"No, Crowley," he said quietly.

"No, what?"

"No, you're not getting around me this way," Aziraphale said. "If Agnes Nutter could see far enough into the future to make another book survive this long, she could see far enough to know that it would be burnt when it got here. If I were meant to read it, it would have reached me somehow."

That was the problem with angels. They were so accepting.

"And I've been thinking about what you said the other day," Aziraphale added. "You're right. I should have expected it from someone of demonic nature."

Somehow, it didn't sound like a good thing when Aziraphale said it. The angel looked dreadfully serious.

"If I'm going to walk around with a demon, I should expect consequences for that choice. And... I can't live with those consequences. I'm sorry, dear boy. If you can't help doing things like that, then I simply have to avoid seeing you."

For once left without an easy argument in return, Crowley stared at him. "But I was just testing to see if it had an effect! That was all!"

"And I'm sure that seemed like a good reason to you," Aziraphale agreed. "But you've said it yourself, Crowley. Reasons don't just magically make everything okay."

45. Corrupt the young.

"Pssst!"

Sarah looked around at the hiss. Up, down, side to side. There didn't seem to be anyone close enough to be talking to her.

"Psst!" There it was again, and this time the snake in the nearest tank seemed to jerk its head at her.

Of course, there wasn't a child in Britain - maybe not in the whole world - who didn't know what that meant. "Are you talking to me?" she asked, eyes wide. "Am... am I speaking Parseltongue now?"

"Yessss," Crowley agreed cheerfully. "Yessss, you are."

"Does that mean... I'm a wizard?" the eight year old pressed, stepping closer to the glass. Mummy and Daddy were further on, and no-one else seemed to be listening all that closely.

"Yessss," Crowley confirmed. "Now, what I want you to do is..."

It made the news later than day when most of the animals in the zoo's Reptile House were mysteriously released. Harry Potter made Crowley's job so much easier.

46. Give the EU back its rude vegetables.

"So, we're all agreed then? That whole thing about funny-shaped cucumbers was a case of too much alcohol at lunch? We can undo it and consider the whole thing dropped?"

There were murmurs of agreement through the meeting.

"I never suggested it in the first place," one of Bulgarian MEPs said stoutly.

"My wife says dinner isn't the same without the chance of a turnip shaped like... well, you know," a British representative agreed. "She was very upset when she first heard what we'd decided. You can't think the trouble it's caused. It turns out our country is very much in favour of rude vegetables."

"Well, your country would be," a French MEP said sourly. "Your country still believes it's easier to count to twelve than ten after all."

The other man flushed. "We avoid metric as a matter of principle!" he protested. "And because we don't like people telling us what to do - just like these vegetables. We were an Empire once, you know!"

"We know!" And that was a strained chorus from everyone there. There was only so much Empire talk anyone could take from the British without feeling the urge to force stupid laws on them purposely in order to annoy them.

"Still," a German MEP added thoughtfully, "maybe we can undo this one now. It's gone on long enough. Good idea of yours there, Hungary."

The Hungarian representatives looked startled. "Us? We didn't suggest it. I thought it was Portugal."

One of the Portuguese MEPs shook his head. "It was that man in the sunglasses," he recalled, "and the suit. I thought he was from Slovenia?"

"I thought Spanish?"

"Poland maybe?"

Each country in turn was queried and denied ownership of the man in sunglasses. It seemed no-one was willing to own up to the suggestion.

"Well, he must have been someone important, else he couldn't have been here," an Irish MEP decided eventually. "Maybe he's on the toilet or something. Shall we put it to the vote?"

And so, rude fruit and vegetables were returned to tables throughout Europe. It was wonderful what one little suggestion could do.

47. Fell the Leaning Tower of Pisa

Some things just begged to happen, and this one had been crying out to Crowley ever since the Tower had been built. It made the palms of his hands itch, that kind of accident waiting to happen, if only someone gave it a gentle nudge. Humans again - only they could make a massive structural fault and make it a tourist attraction which brought in a fortune.

Especially when it was so easy to break.

"Look over there!" He nudged the nearest tourist, pointing into the distance. The tourist peered through his binoculars, then lowered them slowly to stare at the scene visible from the top of the tower.

It was a parade. A parade of elephants, ridden by goats, on whose backs monkeys perched each carrying a torch. Which was on fire. Crowley saw no reason to be subtle about it.

"Here, Gladys!" the man shouted back over his shoulder to his wife. "Come have a look at this! Must be some kind of weird Italian celebration."

Crowley smiled to himself as people started to cluster at the South side of the tower, murmuring and pointing. Fifty watching now, then a hundred as the people on the other side began to realise that there was something they were missing.

The monkeys started to juggle the torches from one elephant to another, and more people climbed the stairs, not wanting to miss seeing such a spectacle properly.

Two hundred, three hundred... Crowley wandered back down the stairs, hands in pockets, well out of the way of danger. Three hundred and fifty, four hundred...

Safely at the bottom, Crowley stood back and hummed a cheery little tune to himself. The lean became a tilt, and then a wobble, until centuries-old architecture fell almost gracefully to the city below, accompanied by shouts and yells of alarm.

Crowley smiled the smile of a man who had just had a long-annoying itch scratched for him.

News stations around the world would later exclaim in tones of shock that it was almost miraculous that no-one had received injuries worse than cuts and bruises from the fall. None of them would realise that this 'miracle' was in fact prompted by what a certain angel might have said had he been there.

48. Attempt to win way back into Aziraphale's good books.

At any other time, after the second attempt at talking to Aziraphale had failed, Crowley might have given up for a while. Given it a decade or so, let the angel forget what he was angry about, and then slunk back without really having to swallow his pride so much. It wasn't as though there were usually any hurry about it after all. There was literally all the time in the world.

There still was in fact. It was just that 'all the time in the world' might not be very long at all now. Every second that ticked away was another that Crowley wasn't amusing himself by finding new ways to put that faintly appalled look on the angel's face, or that they weren't both enjoying a bottle of wine in a lunchtime treat. It was the sort of thing that made a demon conscious of just how fast time could pass.

Going to the shop hadn't worked, either time. Time for a new approach. Crowley reached for the phone and dialed a familiar number.

It was a few minutes before the line was picked up at the other end. "Hullo?"

"Aziraphale!" Crowley made his voice as bright and breezy as he could. "I've got to pop over to Milton Keynes for a few temptations. I wondered if there was anyone who needed brushing up with a spot of rallying hope or anything while I was there?" This, he thought, had to be a winner. Milton Keynes had been on both their "avoid as much as possible" lists for a long while now. Surely the idea of being able to skip a visit to it would win the angel over?

There was a pause, and then a sigh on the other end of the line. "Crowley," Aziraphale greeted, sounding tired, and less than enthused to speak to him. "I thought we talked about this."

That wasn't what Crowley wanted to hear, not at all. "Come on, Aziraphale," he said, sounding more pleading than he had meant to. "It's not like you want to go to the place. Why don't you let me save you a trip?"

There was another pause. Crowley wondered what the angel was doing to take so long over answering. Weighing over whether to say yes? Or just trying to think of another gentle way to say no, and slip away again? "Why?" Aziraphale asked eventually.

It was a good question. Why? Because he needed Aziraphale. He needed someone to appreciate all those times he could have damned, and caused death and destruction much worse than he ever did, but held his hand, even if he squirmed those days the angel acknowledged it. He needed someone to make the job fun, rather than just something that meant he couldn't sleep for another full decade.

Because the world was going to end, and he was scared, and maybe there was no-one else in Heaven or Hell who might understand that.

It was too much for anyone to expect a demon to admit, and Crowley shrugged his shoulders on the other end of the phone. "It's my turn?" he suggested finally. True enough - Aziraphale had saved him a trip down there a few years ago, not that he was usually so quick to volunteer to pay it back.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, and it was somehow worse how gently he said it. "I can't accept that. You know I can't."

"Why not?" Crowley demanded, annoyed now. The angel was making this so damn hard. "You always have before!"

"Because it's a temptation under another name," Aziraphale said simply, apologetically. "Save myself a trip to Milton Keynes, in return for the risk that in future I'll allow you to do something which is forbidden. I know your tricks, Crowley. I've worked with you long enough to recognise them."

Crowley hissed in exasperation. The fact that this time, this time, it wasn't a trick seemed to be something he was unable to get into the angel's head.

Aziraphale apparently heard it, and sighed again. "Maybe you've been tempting too long, Crowley. You don't even know when you're doing it any more. But I do. And I can't accept it. Sorry."

The receiver sounded a dull tone as the angel hung up on him. In a fit of annoyance, Crowley melted it. Of course, that didn't help anything.

49. Listen to the radio.

It was plainly ridiculous. He was being held hostage by his own music system. Crowley glared at it resentfully. He was a demon, he had power to coax people into endless damnation, he could cause terrible destruction with a snap of his fingers, and he was damn well going to listen to music in his own car if he wanted to. He was going to listen to music, moreover, that didn't paint dreadful pictures on the inside of his eyelids.

Best of Queen was out then. Meatloaf was out for the same reason, so that took care of the albums. There was still the radio though.

He turned it on, and relaxed for a moment at the soothing tones of the radio presenter before the Beatles' familiar croon filled the car.

"Imagine there's no Heaven, it's easy if you try. No hell below us, above us only sky."

He managed a whole thirty seconds before he turned it off again. He hadn't really wanted to listen to music anyway.

50. Tell someone your life story.

It had been another of the book's suggestions. Crowley was really beginning to doubt the sense of the man who had written that book after the dolphins, not to mention the whole karaoke incident, but it seemed worth a try nevertheless.

There seemed to be a limited number of people he could actually try it out with though. The angel wasn't in the mood to listen to him, it seemed. Another demon was unlikely to react sympathetically, if by 'sympathetically' you meant 'did not react by reporting back that Crowley had gone more native than anyone realised and getting him recalled home'. Most humans were likely to stare and nod along while taking details for the fortune they were planning to get from the News of the World.

That left a small select group of people who were, you might say, contractually obliged not to tell anyone. Crowley parked outside, sauntering into the building with a carefully casual air. What was the worst that could happen, after all?

Well, the worst was obviously that he ended up drenched in Holy Water - and that stuff stung - and having to explain his discorporation in Hell. But hopefully, it wouldn't come to that.

"I suppose," he drawled, in response to an urgent enquiry from behind the screen, "that I should start at the beginning with the whole fruit business. Though I was only acting under orders."

There was a pause, and then the confession screen slid back. The priest peered out incredulously.

Cro

wley grinned, and allowed the sunglasses to slide down his nose just enough to expose a glimpse of yellow eyes.

The priest paled, but to his credit managed without one splash of Holy Water or yell of 'Get behind me, demon' (which Crowley had been rather looking forward to - they always looked so shocked after shouting that when you tapped on their shoulder from behind). There was a pause in which the man seemed to be considering what to do next.

Crowley smiled wickedly. Perhaps the book had got it right after all. This was more fun than he had anticipated. "Would you like me to go on?" he enquired.

A deep, steadying breath, and much to Crowley's surprise the priest seemed to get a hold on himself. Unknowingly, Crowley had chosen his priest well. Father Butters had spent a lifetime counseling drug-dealers, murderers, and thieves. He was not about to be intimidated, just because he now appeared to be faced by well... the being which had invented original sin.

Or perhaps he was, a bit, but that was no reason to be unprofessional about it.

"I get the feeling that this one might take a while," he said bravely. "Why don't you come around the back." He grasped wildly for a moment for the thing guaranteed to bring protection, the thing resorted to as the saviour in most, if not all, emergencies -- particularly in England. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

51. Talk to a priest.

It wasn't that Crowley had never talked to a priest, of course. It was just that most of those conversations had involved the desires of the flesh, the temptations of bribery, and, most recently over the last few years, the irritations involved in setting up a Parish website. A nice chitchat over a cup of tea had never really been on the schedule.

In actual fact it took several cups of tea, most of the afternoon, and a special rolling out of the chocolate digestives when things started to get intense.

"...and so I knocked down the Leaning Tower of Pisa," Crowley finished finally. "Which pissed a lot of people off, I can tell you. The insurance folk are sweating buckets, and you can't even imagine the amount of paperwork it's going to cause. I would say several thousand people are about to be suddenly tempted to lie on their insurance claim forms about how nice their cars were before a tower landed on it as well."

"I see." Father Butters had taken the whole thing surprisingly calmly. He'd paused Crowley to ask questions here and there, detouring occasionally into discussions of Henry the Eighth's motivations, and just what Cromwell had against Christmas, but otherwise he'd listened quietly, taking occasional sips from his cup of tea. "But... no-one got hurt badly, I think?" he queried. "I saw it on the news. No-one died."

"Yes, well." Crowley looked a little uncomfortable. "There was no need to go too far."

"I see." The priest rested his chin on his hand now, thoughtfully gazing at Crowley for a long moment. "Tell me, demon. Are you actually wanting to repent?"

It was a question that turned Crowley's expression pained. "Not if it meant I had to stop."

"So, why exactly are you here?"

He shrugged awkwardly, nonplussed. It seemed a little late now to admit that he'd actually expected the priest to run screaming long before this point. "Just seemed like a good idea to tell one person at least. Before... well."

"Before the world ended, or at least before our people ended up at war with your people," Father Butters nodded. "Yes, I think I got that point." Crowley had been rather emphatic about that part. There had been pacing, and some rather excitable arm-waving, and even some explanatory diagrams in case the Father had somehow failed to understand.

"That was pretty much it," Crowley concluded, eying the last chocolate digestive hungrily.

"One thing I don't understand though," the priest added, looking at Crowley thoughtfully. "What exactly were you hoping to achieve with the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge?"

"Achieve?" It was a question that made the demon falter. "I wasn't wanting to achieve anything. I just wanted to see what happened, and..." he shrugged, "...nothing did."

"Well, of course, it didn't," Father Butters said, as though that much were obvious. "That's not how it works."

Crowley eyed him suspiciously. Knowing the scripture was part of his job, of course, and he was fairly certain the instruction booklet to the Tree of Knowledge wasn't in there. He would have noticed before now if it were. Still, humans could sometimes surprise you. They were good at that. "Because I'm a demon?"

Father Butters shook his head patiently. "Because it doesn't work like that. We made our first choice to exercise our free will when we took the fruit. From the sound of it, you've been using yours for centuries."

"I don't, technically, have free will," Crowley protested quickly. "Besides, it's the Tree of Knowledge, not the Tree of Free Will."

The Father shrugged. "Knowledge of what will happen if you choose one course or another. Knowledge of punishment. Knowledge of consequences." He looked sharply at Crowley. "Knowledge that you have a choice. Knowledge that you can make the wrong choice. Knowledge that, for instance, if you push a tower over and allow everyone on it to fall to their deaths... a lot of people will suffer unnecessarily, and that you don't have to do that. Sound familiar at all?"

Crowley was quiet for a moment, digesting that. "But, Aziraphale-"

"The angel, by the sound of it, is as confused as you are," the priest said calmly. "He's angry with you, because from the way he sees it you tried to take away his choice and make him sin unknowingly. But it doesn't work like that. If you ate the forbidden fruit without the knowledge you were doing something forbidden, I doubt it would do anything." He shook his head. "Even if he did though, I doubt it would have any effect on him now. Unless he already had the gift of knowledge, he would - how did you put it? He would smite you without hesitation. Because it's his job, as an angel it’s his purpose for being and he wouldn't see the option. There wouldn't be an option."

"So," Crowley said slowly, "we have..."

"You have free will," Father Butters confirmed. "And doubt, and fear, and the rest of the package that comes along with it, including responsibility for your actions." He smiled. "Welcome to the same world as the rest of us, demon. You've been living it for a while now, just without letting yourself see it."

52. Have one final attempt at talking to the angel.

"Crowley." The name itself was a sigh now, as Aziraphale looked up to find that once again the demon had wandered into his shop.

"Hi." Crowley gave an awkward little wave. "I need to talk to you."

"What did you bring this time?" Aziraphale asked skeptically. "More cream cakes? Book from the Lost Library of Alexandria? Promise to do all my visits in Slough for the next century?"

"No bribes." Crowley held up empty hands as though to prove it.

"Ah. Then you're intending to tell me again that unless I forgive you and start working with you again, the world is going to end?"

Crowley winced. "No threats," he promised.

It didn't stop Aziraphale looking at him suspiciously. "Then you're going to blame it all on your demonic nature and tell me that I should have known better than to trust you in the first place?"

"And no excuses," Crowley said. "I just want to talk." He swallowed. If this didn't work, he was out of ideas. "Please?"

Aziraphale scrutinised him closely for a minute, and then gave a slow nod. "Sit down."

53. Apologise. And really mean it this time.

"I'm sorry I sneaked you the fruit..." Crowley started.

"But you couldn't help it, because it's in your nature," Aziraphale interrupted, sounding tired. "Crowley, we've been through this."

"No." Crowley stared at the table in front of him. Apologising did not come naturally to a demon. Nor did taking responsibility. "I could help it. It... that wasn't why I did it."

Aziraphale quietened, listening now.

Crowley took a deep breath. "I've been thinking about this next war thing. And... whichever way it goes, it's likely to be worse than the last one for us. If they win, we won't even exist any more, and if we win... no more earth. We'd have to go home, because there'd be nowhere left to go."

"And?" Aziraphale prompted, as the demon seemed to falter.

"And I thought... I thought that perhaps the only way we could get out of this one would be if we switched sides," Crowley said very quietly. "If we - well, eating the fruit worked for them."

He didn't look up from the table, but after a moment he felt a warm hand rest on his shoulder. "That wasn't a choice you had a right to make for me, you know," Aziraphale said very gently.

"I know. It didn't work anyway," Crowley said. "But I just... I thought I could try and then maybe things didn't have to end. It's too soon for things to end. It was too soon last time, and it's still too soon. I'm not ready."

What he couldn’t say, couldn’t admit was it had to be both of them. He couldn’t swap sides alone because then he would still be alone, but he never had been with Aziraphale. Each was the answer to the others questions.

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light," Aziraphale quoted softly. "Oh, Crowley. Why didn't you say?"

54. Be forgiven.

It turned out that being forgiven felt a lot like suddenly being rid of the stomach ache that you hadn't been really conscious of until that point.

Crowley blamed it entirely on indigestion from the fruit he had eaten a few weeks ago.

55. Listen to the ëwireless’.

"It's broken," Crowley said stubbornly.

Aziraphale shot him a disbelieving look. "Crowley, this is your car. If any part of it were broken I should think you would sit on the curb and sulk for the rest of eternity."

"It's broken," the demon maintained. "It keeps playing the wrong songs."

"So if you're tired of the tapes, listen to the wireless." Aziraphale leaned forward to fiddle with it, trying to tune it in.

"It's not a wireless, it's a radio. No-one's called it 'the wireless' in the last fifty years," Crowley corrected. "And furthermore, it's brok-"

"...but love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah..."

Aziraphale sat back in his seat, looking smug. "Seems to work perfectly well to me."

56. Feeding the ducks (again).

"That's not bread."

"It's the last time. I thought it could be a bit special for them."

"Crowley..." Aziraphale eyed the bag the demon was clutching. A distinctly alcoholic smell was oozing out. "What are you giving them?"

"Cake?"

"And?"

"It's soaked in rum," Crowley admitted cheerfully. "But look! They're enjoying it."

He gestured as one duck tried to swim upside-down, and another quacked flirtatiously at a passing secret agent's foot.

Aziraphale sighed, which only made Crowley grin more. It really wasn't any fun misbehaving without the angel around to disapprove of it.

57. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Edinburgh.

58. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Basel.

59. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Graz.

60. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Schonbrun.

61. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Vienna.

62. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Prague.

63. Have lunch in picturesque small cafÈ in Ljubjana.

64. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Luxemburg.

65. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Tivoli.

66. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Sapparo.

67. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Rome.

68. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Madrid.

69. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Valkenburg.

"I'm noticing a certain pattern here," observed Aziraphale. "Not running out of ideas, are you?"

"Not at all," said Crowley, who was, but had reminisced fondly in each cafÈ of glorious temptations and equally epic wiles and epic thwarting. "I have plenty of ideas. I'm just not using them yet, that's all."

"I'm sure you do." Aziraphale looked at him skeptically.

"I have!" Crowley insisted. "Eat your spekulatus. I'll show you."

70. Visit the Grand Canyon.

"It is fairly impressive," Aziraphale admitted.

"It's a hole in the ground," Crowley sounded a little less awed by the spectacle. "Come to Hell, we have lots of them, even bigger. Ours usually have a great big fire at the bottom though. And less tourists." He glanced at the crowd lingering around them, most of them gazing at the view, or taking photos. "This lot look as though they're getting pretty excited by it though."

"To a human, it's amazing." Aziraphale shrugged. "Did you get it from their book again?"

"Yes," Crowley admitted, and grinned. "Didn't get this next bit from there though."

71. Fly down the Grand Canyon.

It was more a glide than a flight, but that didn't make it any less exhilarating. The feel of the wind beneath his wings, streaming through his immaculate feathers... this was living. Crowley let himself enjoy it, doing a wide circle and letting the sun catch him in a blaze of glory on white angelic wings and waved casually at the startled tourists, several of whom were already dialing the emergency services to report a jumper.

He landed lightly at the bottom, without a hair out of place. Even his sunglasses still rested comfortably on his nose.

"Show-off," observed Aziraphale, landing beside him. There had been a moment of shock when Crowley took off, but that had been followed by the decision that if they were going to appear on the evening news anyway, he might as well enjoy it.

"It's what I'm good at," Crowley said calmly, tucking his wings back away.

"You're going to get attention again, if you're not careful," Aziraphale warned, a little primly, smoothing his own wings down.

Crowley shook his head. "No. They're all going to decide it was a publicity stunt, all done with special effects. To advertise... let's see. Biscuits. No wait, this is America...cookies."

"What do biscuits have to do with flying down the Grand Canyon?" Aziraphale asked, confused. He didn’t even acknowledge the cookies.

"Nothing at all. As far as advertising stunts go though, that's fairly normal."

72. Make a Christmas Cake.

"What is it?" Aziraphale eyed the... thing with some disbelief, and prodded it lightly with a wooden spoon.

It burped.

"It's a Christmas cake," Crowley said defensively. "Or rather, Christmas Cake mix. I've been trying the baking thing again. You have to ëfeed’ it. Apparently."

"What exactly have you been feeding it, Crowley?" Judging from the sucking sounds, the mixture was attempting to drag the spoon out of Aziraphale's hands. He hung onto it determinedly.

"Mice?" Crowley admitted. "Uh, maybe a rat or two. A couple of the plants I had left that weren't thriving and needed a lesson."

There was a crack as the mixture succeeded in snapping the spoon in half. Aziraphale watched as the broken piece was sucked into the mixture and the cake mix seemed to stir itself.

"It seems quite a lively type," Crowley added with pride.

"Yes," Aziraphale agreed carefully. "You know, I'm not sure this is something Martha Stewart ever imagined dealing with."

"No?"

The mass seethed, and seemed to try to actually pull itself out of the bowl. Aziraphale tried not to shudder. "Can you imagine ever actually eating it?"

"Maybe not." Crowley looked reflective. "Maybe I'll keep it as a pet."

73. Find out what one hand sounds like clapping.

"Right." Crowley rolled up his sleeves.

"Crowley," Aziraphale cautioned.

"I'm only giving the man what he wants to know!" Crowley insisted. "He's been wondering for years, and he deserves to know the answer."

"Er," their startled host interjected. He hadn't expected, when opening the door, to have two men barge past him. "Are you here to sell me something?"

"Oh, no, no, no," Aziraphale reassured him hastily.

"Well, are you here to rob me then? Only I don't know you, and you're in my house..."

"We're here to help you," Crowley said briskly. "You are a philosopher, right? That's what it said on your website. Thomas Smith, philosopher."

"Er... yes?" He'd only put it there to attract girls. And it hadn't worked.

"Then prepare to have one of your questions answered, Thomas Smith." Crowley held out his hand dramatically.

The man's eyes bulged, and he let out a horrified, choked noise as Crowley's hand began to twist and grow, stretching until was wide enough to easily double up. Demons, like angels, could be any shape they wished to be. It was just a matter of re-arranging the molecules.

Crowley slapped the two halves together a few times experimentally. Ptt ptt ptt.

"That is the sound of one hand clapping," he told the terrified Thomas Smith sternly. "Do you understand?"

Thomas nodded, his eyes huge.

"Good. Next time, don't ask such stupid questions. Come on, Aziraphale."

"You shouldn't have done that," Aziraphale scolded as they turned to leave.

Crowley only laughed. "That's nothing. You wait to see what I'm going to do about the sound trees make falling in the forest."

74. Learn a musical instrument.

"No." There were some things that even the most easy-going of angels couldn't be coaxed into.

"Oh, come on," Crowley coaxed. "The humans have it on their list."

"The humans can do what they like. No."

"It'll be good practice for when you get called back up!"

"And cleaning out cows would be good practice with a pitchfork for you," Aziraphale retorted. "I am not learning to play the harp. What's the next item?"

75. Eat strawberries at Wimbledon.

"It's November."

"So?"

"Wimbledon is in summer, Crowley."

The demon shrugged again. "So?"

"Are you intending just to eat strawberries while an empty cour-oh."

Oh, indeed, for as they stepped into the stands, it became clear that the court was not empty at all. Not only was a match going on, but the place was packed with people, a loud 'ooo' going up with each stroke of a tennis racket.

"I keep telling you," Crowley said calmly. "Stop putting yourself out to be at the right place on the right date. Just go where you want to be, let the dates arrange themselves around you."

"Did you just rearrange reality so that we could eat strawberries?" Aziraphale demanded.

Crowley thought about it. "Yes?"

He frowned as the angel sat down. "Something's not quite right though. If - yes!" He snapped his fingers.

The crowd groaned as a light rain began to fall on the court.

Crowley beamed and sat back. "That's more authentic. Not to worry. Cliff Richard will be along any minute now."

***



Part 1
Part 3

Comments

[wintercreek]

Cornwall was wet; pouringly, miserably wet, with grey skies and not even a sign of the sun to be seen.

Pathetic fallacy in action, yes?

horribly aware that he was about to be known as "that guy who got sacked for watching goats".

The Internet: NSFW.

he was damn well going to listen to music in his own car if he wanted to

We've all had those days.

Father Butters is awesome! And insightful.

He gestured as one duck tried to swim upside-down, and another quacked flirtatiously at a passing secret agent's foot.

I want someone to illustrate this.

"That is the sound of one hand clapping," he told the terrified Thomas Smith sternly. "Do you understand?"

*sporfle* I. I just. Crowley.

[sticktothestory.livejournal.com]

I am loving this! Just a heads-up, the link to part three seems to be missing an h in the http part.

[todd-fan.livejournal.com]

Crowley was still there when he returned. And it was starting to rain.
I can just picture a puppydog expression, too.

The entire Parseltounge bit *snort* Genius.

[secret-kracken.livejournal.com]

Good spot! (but I can't actually fix it myself) Mod help?

[secret-kracken.livejournal.com]

I want someone to illustrate this.

Illustrate away! I would uh... if I could draw at all ever (there's a REASON I write my gifts).

[secret-kracken.livejournal.com]

And you know, he didn't bring an umbrella. On purpose.

[edna-blackadder.livejournal.com]

This is so amazing and epic. I love the priest especially, but oh gods, everything!

Moving onwards...

[caitirin.livejournal.com]

ooooh this is SO GOOD again :}

I love the conversation with the priest. Your plot is fantastically great! I started reading this and was just laughing it up, and you've taken this FANTASTIC idea and just done awesome things with it!!

Thank you!! :}

100 things

[ravenpan.livejournal.com]

Dawww

[random-c.livejournal.com]

link to part 3 is missing its h BTW

[eyeconic.livejournal.com]

Brilliant!

[jainas.livejournal.com]

Brilliant story.
I was in the process of reccing it, and I realised the link to part 3 is broken, it miss the "h" of "http".
You may want to fix it.