Chapter Text
Plante thy truth in The Serpent’s garden lest it never growe beyond the weeds.
Crowley’s flat, when compared to Aziraphale’s cozy, if practically claustrophobic store was cold and impersonal. It was sleek and modern in a way that any brutalist would have envied. In some ways reminded her of her parent’s home back in California. But where her mom trusted windows and the California sun to add some life back to the sharp edges of all things modern, Crowley’s home was just grey and empty and cold.
Anathema might have asked Crowley about his choice in decor had he not vanished into the depths of his apartment moments after letting her through the door. She’d let him go, deciding that it trying to stop him wasn’t worth the potentially messy consequences.
He was falling apart. It was obvious. No amount of Queen could cover up the way his hands trembled on the steering wheel, or his own deadly silence. He himself seemed to have realized that each breath he took shuddered, so he’d stopped breathing altogether.
Without Aziraphale, Crowley only company was his survivors guilt.
Which was, more than likely, what consumed him now. And would consume him, if he couldn’t pull himself together.
Anathema moved carefully from the entryway further into the flat, finding the least inviting living room she’d ever seen, with its harsh angled, almost stonelike grey couches arranged with such neatness they could have just come off the showroom. It looked very expensive. And distinctly unpersonalized.
She sat on the edge of one of the slab-like couches. Somehow, it was less comfortable than it appeared.
What she needed to do was obvious. She needed to go to Crowley and get him to talk. Coax him to spill out all of the venom and bile that Hell had been shoving into him for the last few days so they could come together and save Aziraphale together.
But that just wasn’t her forte. She wasn’t a comforter, she was a doer. All she wanted to do right now was hurry up and save Aziraphale. Then he could fix things. He would know exactly what to say to Crowley.
Like Agnes, she wanted to rely on him.
Like Agnes, he was gone.
Which left only Anathema.
This would be easier if she knew Crowley as she’d begun to know Aziraphale. Crowley had, in the time since she’d begun her tentative relationship with the couple, hardly let her past his facade and, by the way he’d withdrawn himself in this, his safest and most private of places, he felt he’d already shown her too much beneath it today. Getting through to him would be like bathing a cat. And, while she descended from witches and therefore felt partial towards the creatures, she’d always preferred something simpler. Like the goldfish Mom had gotten her for her twelfth birthday.
A goldfish wouldn’t so much as scratch her. Or hit her with its car. Or need her to talk through its emotional baggage. All it wanted was food.
Very low maintenance, perfect for the aspiring Apocalypse Averter.
She checked her phone. It was nearly midnight now and the price of the day’s events was making itself evident. Exhaustion had crept up on her. Too many nearly sleepless nights had left her drawn thin. She’d made it this far with plenty of adrenaline and a clear goal in mind. Now she didn’t have one. And everything she’d been able to ignore was weighing on her.
“Coffee? He’s has to.” She murmured vaguely, taking another look around Crowley’s flat and this time paying particular attention to the sleek black coffee maker that sat on the spotless, black marble kitchen counters. “Aha.”
A perfunctory search through the cabinets revealed to her far more options than she anticipated. There had to be at least twenty bags of coffee beans, no two were the same and some of them looked very old, though she guessed not one of them had the poor sense to go stale. All of them had been opened, though some were more neatly folded down than others. Most of them didn’t even have real labels, just small, sometimes lengthy handwritten explanations of the flavor, exactly how long to brew them down to the very second, and either the optimal time to enjoy them or a small anecdote.
Bavarian Chocolate. 4 minutes 42 seconds. Scrummy! Reminds me of Romania, ‘76. xxx A. Read one.
Anathema couldn’t bring herself to so much as touch them.
Giving up on that dream meant there was nothing more to distract her from the task of Crowley, lurking out of sight somewhere in the depths of his apartment. She couldn’t even reliably be frustrated with Crowley for thrusting this upon her, not after what he’d been through.
But she was already struggling with the weight of holding them together. It was ridiculous that this had even happened at all. That Heaven, and Hell to a lesser extent, allowed it to happen. More than that, they created it. For omnipotent entities older than the calendar, they acted like nothing more than petty kids.
Honestly, they were worse. At least, worse than the Them. Adam and his gang argued, and often wrestled over the smallest disagreement, but one of them always rose as a voice of reason to sort things out. Heaven and Hell didn’t seem to have that person.
They should’ve. God should’ve stepped in. Been that voice. Anyone with reason could see that Aziraphale and Crowley wanted nothing more to do with Heaven or Hell. That they would be perfectly happy never being bothered again. If she could see that, why couldn’t God?
“Do you even care or… or do you want this?” Anathema asked the dead air, feeling like she was doing this wrong. The only force she’d ever needed to rely on before had been Agnes. Agnes had the answers she needed.
She was quite certain you were supposed to talk to God a specific way. But she doubted that, in the same way she doubted Agnes, God was even listening. So it didn’t really matter.
She passed from one room to the other, searching cautiously for Crowley. She found him aggressively tending to a room full of the lushest houseplants she’d ever seen. He misted violently, all the while looking like he wanted to murder them. From the safety of the doorway she watched him labor excessively over the plants, using the end of the plant mister to pick over leaf after leaf. “Ugh, not nearly good enough. Shape up!” He picked at a wilting leaf. “What’s this?” The plant in question, some flowering, tropical thing, began to tremble. “Are you trying to disappoint me?” His threats came with an all too real viciousness. “Because it’s working.”
Crowley might not have a single of the odd posters Anathema had seen scattered on Hell’s walls, but she recognized their rhetoric. And he was repeating it now, spewing it at the plants as it had been delivered to him. Mercilessly.
She stepped into the room and clasp her hands together, fighting past the wave of apprehension that rolled over her. “We need to talk.”
Crowley turned to look at her, though didn’t linger longer than a cursory glance before returning to his plants. “Need is a strong word. You’re looking tired. I have a couch. If I were you I’d be trying to get some sleep on it.”
“Not right now.” She watched him mist for a few moments more, hoping he’d eventually give in without having to push for it. No such luck. “What happened in Hell?”
Crowley stiffened. “Doesn’t matter.” He eventually forced out, shrugging stiffly as he moved from one plant to another.
“It does.” Anathema insisted, starting a slow lap around the lush room, taking the long way to get to Crowley. “You can talk about it.” She could only hope she was going about this the right way.
“I really think we have bigger things to worry about.”
“Yeah.” Anathema agreed. “But we can’t even start on that before we resolve this.”
Crowley continued to wind a slow circuitous circle around her, safe under the pretext of checking his plants. “I told you. It was typical Hell, really. Well, other than Micheal.”
“Crowley.” She protested.
“What?” Crowley made the mistake of facing her. Even behind his dark glasses, Anathema saw how he winced at her scowl. The flinch went through his whole body. “Besides,” he muttered, turning back to his plants to avoid her. “I don’t see how its your business. Doesn’t hurt you.”
Anathema spared him, sucking in a deep breath. “I don’t know if you realize this,” she started testily. “But you kinda made it my business by giving me the key to Hell.” Crowley didn’t respond. But he didn’t continue watering his plants either. He went still. Listening to her. Good, it was about time. “Sure, you can deny that all you want because I didn’t get hurt. But what if I had? What if I’d met someone other than Tweedledee and Tweedledum? What if I’d met Micheal?” She asked, gesturing at the stone beneath her feet because she still wasn’t quite solid on where, spatially, Hell was. Or if it was anywhere at all. “Well?”
The plant Crowley had stopped before was among the tallest in his collection. Had it, by some odd or miraculous circumstances, been dropped into the world’s most verdant jungles, no one would have been any the wiser. It was meticulous, a living showcase to Crowley’s skill and dedication. A statement, proclaiming to anyone who set eyes upon it exactly what kind of person it's gardener was. And, currently, it was trembling. “I’m glad you didn’t. I already have enough blood on my hands.” As he spoke he set down his plant mister and let his hands fall to his side, where they fidgeted and twitched. “I think they wanted to use me against Aziraphale.” He said softly.
Anathema’s gut lurched. At least he was talking, even if what he was saying wasn’t good. “How?”
“Dunno. But they didn’t kill me. Which means they needed me alive. I thought they might just.” Crowley crossed his arms and jerked one thumb against his throat. “Get it over with.” His face was grim. “But I’m still kicking.”
“That’s good. If they have a plan and it involves both of you, they can’t exactly finish it without you.”
Crowley just hummed doubtfully.
So Anathema pushed on. “Did they mention anything specific?”
His response was a short, jerky, shake of his head. “Nn. Didn’t get a lot of company. And Micheal is a dick but not stupid, unfortunately.” A tilt of his head let light creep past his sunglasses. His eyes were distant. “I have some ideas, though.”
If possible, the knot in Anathema’s stomach grew. “And those are?”
Crowley rocked on his heels, tilting wildly one way and then the other. “They already tried Hellfire. Too bad we got ahead of them. There aren’t too many ways to get rid of an angel.”
“I can read your aura, not your mind.”
Tutting irritably, Crowley fixed Anathema with a glassy stare. “They’re going to cast him out.”
“Haven’t they already?”
“No. Not in an official capacity. That’s why he’s still an angel. I mean.” Crowley’s smile was curled by bitterness. “You think he looks like a demon?”
“... No.” Even his aura still shone angelic. It was a constant onslaught of love and light, Anathema often had to tune it out to avoid utter sensory overload. “But… can angels even do that?” She saw the answer flash painfully across Crowley’s face. “No.” She tried to deny. “That’s not- God? You think God is going to cast him out?”
“I hope I’m wrong.” From behind his glasses, Anathema saw his eyes flutter shut as he sent off a silent prayer. To who, she didn’t know. Perhaps whoever would listen. “I’ve never wanted to be more wrong.”
“Why would they need you for that, though?” She grasped at straws, trying for some other explanation. She didn’t know what falling meant. But it frightened Crowley. And that frightened her.
Crowley tilted his head back to stare up at the skylights above their heads. Or, more likely, beyond them. “I dunno. Because it’s my fault. Is that it? Are you just trying to make us both suffer?”
“What?” Anathema, having just thrown on her own accusation at God, knew what he was doing, though didn’t know what he meant by it.
Crowley turned on his heel to fix her with a frustrated grimace. His hands clutched at his chest, pleading. “Micheal said it was my fault. She said that. That if I had just minded my own business, none of this would have happened,”
“But that’s Micheal, not God. And since when has God interfered with this? If it wasn’t at the apocalypse why now?”
“Who knows! ! She’s bloody ineffable!” He tore at his hair, threatening to rip it up from the roots. “If he falls because of me… I... ” Crowley’s voice wavered on breaking.
Anathema swallowed past the lump in her throat. “He’s not going to. And it’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”
“You don’t know that!” Crowley snapped.
“Neither do you!” She pushed back. “You’re really going to trust the word of someone who hates you? What if Micheal lied?”
Crowley made to snarl at her, but his words failed him mid grimace. He withdrew, but kept a doubtful frown. “Because it makes sense. After everything he’s done. I’ve done. Take a step out of line and.” The lines around Crowley’s scowl hardened.
“But he hasn’t done anything wrong! Neither of you have.”
“Not in your eyes, maybe. But Heaven sees things differently.”
“Aren’t there rules about this?”
“No. Yes . I don’t. No one knows! It’s God! She just… makes up rules!” He threw an accusatory finger to the sky. “Up there in Her ivory tower, casting us out whenever She feels like it. You know, I was… beginning to think she wouldn’t do it.”
Anathema picked up the note of despondency that had entered his voice. “Why?”
“Because it hadn’t been done already. I mean.” He pressed his mouth into a thin line. “I just made a mistake” Falling silent, Crowley resorted to shaking his head against the bad memories.
“Isn’t that good, then? That she hasn’t done anything to Aziraphale. If it hasn’t already been done maybe She’s just not interested.”
Crowley snorted. “Oh, She cares.” He ducked his head. “I should’ve never… It was a stupid dream. And now I’ve drawn Aziraphale down with me.” He seemed to sharpen under his curdling frustration. “He would’ve been better off without me.”
“That’s stupid.” Anathema blurted out. But the outburst seemed to take Crowley aback, as he fell silent, his mouth open in a little, twisted ‘O.’ “Come on.” She cleared her throat. “I see you two together. And. You seem. You’re so happy. It’s. It’s just.” What wavered on the edge of her tongue she hadn’t yet said aloud. “When we first started talking I almost couldn’t bear it. I saw what you two have and I. I was so envious . Because I never.” Her words threatened to choke her. “I never once felt that way with Newt. You two. You made me realize what love is supposed to look like. And feel like! And that, yeah, I wasn’t crazy for leaving Newt! And you thinking that Aziraphale would be happier without you? That’s dumb. And it’s not true. You know that.” And, because she feared that if she didn’t say it Crowley wouldn’t acknowledge it, she added, looking up at him: “You know Aziraphale loves you, right?”
Crowley stood stock still, struck dumb by her words. Seeming to realize this, he snapped his mouth shut into a neutral line and looked away, still silent. His glasses were inscrutable.
She realized, belatedly, that upsetting him might not have been her best idea. “I. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...”
“Ss fine.” Crowley mumbled. Then he rolled his shoulders and breathed for the first time since they’d stepped from the Bentley. It was a heavy sound. A burden he wasn’t built for. Then he turned back and softened. Some blush rose to his cheeks. “I. Uh. You really think that?”
“You don’t?” Anathema pushed against his hesitancy, unwilling to accept it. “Aziraphale- you know when you get Aziraphale talking?” And Crowley’s lips twitched. Some of the lines around his eyes softened. “He does that about you. Whenever you’re not around. He gushes, Crowley. Like you hung the moon.”
To her surprise, he snapped from his trance with a scoff as he rebounded. “I’d hope not. That was a slack job.”
Anathema started. “What?”
“The moon.” Crowley grimaced, though he began to slowly unwind the tangle his anxiety had wound him into. “I mean, it looks real nice from here. But the backside? That’s rough. Not even finished. And when I tried to bring it up, what’d they say?” He slipped into a nasally impression. “Oh, no one’ll see it. Go do your job.” No work ethic at all.”
“You’re deflecting again.”
“Am not. You want coffee?” Anathema didn’t recover from the emotional whiplash in time to say. Crowley was already walking off. “You take sugar, yeah? And cream.”
She caught up with him, finding her tongue. “Yes, but.”
“Great. Great.” Nodding to himself, Crowley pulled two dark mugs from his cupboards. They clinked against each other. He looked annoyed when he saw her standing beside him and waved her back. “What’re you doing? Sit. I think know how to make coffee, I’ve been doing it for a few hundred years now.”
Anathema stepped back but not down. “You’re not getting out of this.”
“For Satan’s sake, you’re stubborn.” For her benefit Crowley pulled his glasses back into his hair. His eyes had regained their human-adjacent white sclera. “You’re right. You want to hear it? You’re right. And we’re not going to get anywhere if we just sit here despairing.”
“We?”
Crowley gave her a withering look. “Yes, obviously. Look at yourself, you’re a mess.” And, while he wasn’t wrong, a train ride to Soho, a rainy morning, an impromptu trip to Hell, none of them had done any good for her, she still felt rather stung. Never mind that she hadn’t even tried to find a mirror to rectify herself, thinking that with no end in sight it was better to live in ignorance. “So sit down. We’ll talk then. I’ll promise if I must. Would that satisfy you? ”
She considered him for a long moment, undeterred by the impatient tapping of his nails against the ceramic mugs. “I don’t need a promise, I believe you.”
“I’m honored.” He said dryly. “Now shoo.”
At his urging, she did, savoring the opportunity to pass along the mantle of control. She closed her eyes as she slumped against the couch. It had grown no more comfortable in the last minutes but at the moment she couldn’t bring herself to care.
When the aroma of freshly brewed coffee began to emanate from the kitchen, she opened them again. Crowley returned to her, offering her a steaming mug. They met eyes for a moment and Anathema understood the offering as the closest thing to a thank you she was going to get from him. She nodded and taking up a blocky armchair.
While he arranged himself, Anathema cradled the mug like a lifeline. She luxuriated in the warmth it brought. “Ohh, you’re saving my life.”
“I’m not trying to make a habit of it.”
The black coffee tasted like chocolate and, once it had left the tongue, tart cherries. She wondered, briefly, what sweet little note Aziraphale had penned for it.
For a long moment they simply enjoyed the coffee, neither probed the silence.
Crowley, leaning back in his armchair and balancing the mug in his lap, was the first to speak. “So. Long day, hm?”
Anathema couldn’t help but breathe a laugh. “Long day.” She agreed.
“It’s not over yet.”
“Yeah.” She sighed. To mollify herself, she took a long draw from her mug.
Crowley followed suit. “You really want to face off against Heaven?”
“It can’t be any worse than Hell.” Right? She couldn’t imagine.
“They’re not in the basement, if that’s what you mean.” Crowley’s mug vanished behind his interlaced fingers. “Company’s not any better. And the holier-than-thou shtick got old, oh, give or take six thousand years ago.”
Anathema smiled. Though the next thought that occurred to her wiped it away. “Tell me honestly, if we actually make it to Heaven, what are the odds that I’ll die?”
His thoughtful silence inspired less confidence the longer it stretched on. “Well… you have a better chance than the rest of us. I’d say, mm, fifty-fifty. But it wouldn’t be personal, it’d just be because you annoy them. They’d think of it like getting rid of a pest.”
“Oh, well that’s comforting.”
“You told me to be honest.”
They lapsed again into silence. She’d been faced with a possible death before. At the direction of Agnes she’d traveled to England. To the place the world would end, to stand in the crossfire. Death had always been there, a possible option. The price of failure.
The idea that she would die here, though. After stopping the apocalypse. At the hands of angels. The wrongness of it, the injustice, left her quietly stewing.
“Have you always followed ‘ The Word of Agnes?’” Crowley asked abruptly, supplying his own air quotes.
“It’s not like that.” Came the instinctive defense. But she doubted it instantly.
“Oh? So it’s normal to let a book choose who you date?”
“She was always right!” She snapped, defensive. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. “What was I supposed to think? And my mom showed me that prophecy when I was thirteen! Thirteen!” Some of the hot coffee splashed from her mug as she gesticulated, scalding her hands.
“That’s just irresponsible parenting.”
“What do you know about parenting?”
Even through his sunglasses, Anathema saw Crowley’s eyes narrow dangerously. “No wonder you’re a disaster.” He said pointedly. “You’ve thought you had the plan for that long. Of course you would self destruct when it ran out. I’m not even clairvoyant and I could have predicted that.”
“It didn’t have to run out. Agnes sent more predictions…”
“And you burned them, yeah. I’m caught up.” Crowley smiled wryly at her start of surprise. “I listen. And I agree with the angel, that was the right idea, burning them.”
Anathema nodded numbly, quietly nursing her hand. “I know it was. But-”
“But it was so much simpler.”
“There’s nothing simple about Agnes.”
“Maybe not. But it’s easier to follow directions. To stay the same. What you already knew, decoding Agnes’s prophecies. That was simple. And familiar.” Crowley paused briefly for her disagreement. None came. “But you burned them and now Agnes can’t talk to you. You feel like she’s abandoned you because obviously she should have seen you burning her work. You feel like it’s your fault you’re lost. That you scorned her and now she’s left you to fend for yourself and make all the wrong decisions. Am I wrong?”
“... No.” She conceded. He spoke impatiently, succinctly laying her life out on the coffee table between them.
“And you clung to Newt because he was the last thing she gave to you.”
Anathema flushed, her cheeks lighting up with something like shame.
“So, yes.” When Crowley next spoke his voice was softer. “You realized it all on your own and left, defying Agnes. That’s not easy and you did it all on your own. Without her. Give yourself some credit.”
“I still wonder if I’m wrong. I mean, that’s what I was meant to do.”
“You’re human. You’re not meant to do anything but live your life. And you can’t let a three hundred year old witch do it for you.”
“What would you do, then?”
“It’s not about what I would do.” Crowley set aside his mug and raised an eyebrow Anathema’s way.
She grimaced and stared down at the dregs of coffee floating in her cup. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I can’t tell you. But it’s not the worst thing in the world, not knowing every detail of your future. You have nothing but time to figure it all out, you’re young.”
“You still didn’t give me an answer.” Though he very much did and a part of her was glad Crowley hadn’t offered another guiding path. She’d spent long enough on someone else's.
“You really want my opinion? Maybe stop moping over Newt, though. Put yourself out there.” Crowley gave her a yellow-eyed wink with a slip of his sunglasses.
She balked. “Oh. I don’t know. After Newt, I really don’t feel like I need another man in my life.” In the entirety of their partnership she’d not felt anything but obligation. And that was exhausting. If that happened again, she didn’t know if she could bear it.
Crowley looked her over. “I didn’t say anything about a man.”
The realization of what Crowley meant hit like a ton of bricks being dropped on her chest. She blinked at him, dazed. “What- you mean?” He smiled at her expense. “Oh.” She finally settled on.
“Oh.” He repeated, lips still twisted in an amused smile. “I’m not saying you have to, if you know that’s not your thing. But you don’t know yourself well enough to say that, do you?”
She nodded, brain simultaneously working overtime and going nowhere at all.
“You might as well. Maybe you’ll find it's less of… what’s your word? An obligation.”
“I’ve never… thought about that.” But that was because she hadn’t needed to. Because she’d known what she was supposed to do. Who she was supposed to end up with. It’d been easier to not think about defying that. Now that she was though, the thought didn’t curdle.
Instead it found soft soil within her and took root.
“Huh…” She tugged anxiously at the lace of her sleeves, suddenly consumed by this thought. Even when she dated before, and she had, thought not seriously since after all, Newt was waiting for her, it had been at her mom’s urging. You should date, mi amor! Just don’t get too invested. And she hadn’t. Had never once felt the inclination to do more than go on a nice dinner with the few boys she’d met.
She’d rationalized it with the knowledge of Newt. That her true love was coming. And, after all, she had a world to save. So she hadn’t paid it much mind. And neither had her mother, who was satisfied enough for her.
How long she’d been lost in her thoughts, she didn’t know. But Crowley broke her from her reverie. “Ah, Aziraphale is going to be chafed at me for doing this without him.”
“What? Wait, you talked about this?” That thought led to her next question. “For how long?”
“We were trying to think of the best time to bring it up.” He defended himself as he slouched in his chair. “Aziraphale actually owes me a drink.”
“He.” She saw red. “Don’t tell me you had a bet over this.”
“Alright. I won’t tell you.”
“Oh!” She exclaimed, slapping her hand to her forehead. “You’re unbearable!”
Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “Thank you. But, somehow, I think you’ll manage.” Though when her scowl didn’t cool he sighed and grew more serious. “You wouldn’t have even tried to think about it. Not until you got away from Agnes and succeeded without her. Proved her wrong.”
“Have I?” She instantly questioned. “Without her, I mean.”
A flicker of a frown crossed his face. “Was it Agnes that traveled to Hell? Or cut Heaven’s bonds off me? Before that even, is wasn’t Agnes that pushed you to show up on Aziraphale’s doorstep. You’ve been living without her for months. Even if you hadn’t saved my sorry hide.” He gave her a soft look that cut through her indignant red haze. “Just living is enough. There’s no great plan for you and that’s alright, better than alright even. That’s freedom.” He smiled wearily. “Even if it takes a while to realize it.”
“I guess it does.” Settling her hackles, Anathema slumped in her seat, feeling odd. Perhaps it was due to the cocktail of caffeine and exhaustion swirling her thoughts to mush, but she buckled forward and began to cry. Deep, wracking sobs that trembled through her body, leaving her wispy and numb.
“Ah.” Crowley murmured nervously. “Okay.”
The tears didn’t flow for sorrow or for pain. But for the release of a weight that had fallen off her chest. Safe in her hands and hair, she let the hot tears pour through her fingers and into her lap. They soaked into the wool of her coat.
“Alright. Let it out.” She didn’t hear Crowley rise but his hand found its way to her back, at first with uncertainty, just the lightest flutter on her shoulder blade. But, when she didn’t pull away, he set to soothing, slow circles. “Now you’ve got to stop, my couch is not the one for mewling vagrants. You have no idea what it cost me.”
With a warbling laugh, she took in a deep breath through her nose and slowly released it. That was enough to center her. “Your couch is terrible.” She managed, her voice was weak. “It’s not even comfortable. I feel like I’m sitting on a rock.” When she managed to stop the hot tears rolling down her face long enough to sop them up with her sleeve, she threw Crowley a shaky smile, feeling mortified at her display.
“Is it?” He very cordially failed to remark on her blotchy complexion and instead appeared genuinely surprised as he pressed a hand against the couch to test its give. Which was almost nonexistent. “Ooh, that’s criminal.”
“Have you.” Her voice wavered. Another slow breath gave her the confidence to finish her thought. “How do you not know that.”
“I don’t use it.” He sniffed, as if it were obvious.
Anathema snorted. “Of course you don’t.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Crowley withdrew, but his indignant scowl held no real menace and had not yet crept up to his eyes.
Her smirking look sent red creeping across his face. Clearing his throat, he all but snatched the empty mug from her hand. “That’s enough for you.” He snapped.
The cheeky grin that encouraged only flustered him further before he shut her down with a glare and returned to the kitchen to the sound of clicking ceramic.
Left alone, Anathema contemplated this new state of existence, still uncertain. “Why would Agnes write about Newt? If she knew.”
“Maybe she didn’t know?” Came Crowley’s suggestion.
“She knew.”
“Whatever,” Crowley scoffed. “She was just having a laugh?” He offered. “Or.” He barked a laugh himself. “No, it’d sound wrong if I said it.”
“What?”
“She works in mysterious ways?” He appeared from behind his cabinets, grinning with a sharp cynicism.
Anathema groaned.
“I agree.”
Rising, Anathema noted the tension Crowley still held tight in his shoulders. It was a sharp reminder of what they had yet to do. “So, I’m still open to getting ourselves kidnapped.” She begun.
Crowley crossed his arms. “I knew you’d be on that. It can’t be our best option.”
“But we could do it, right?”
“What? Cause enough trouble to get their attention?” Crowley’s glasses glittered dangerously in the overhead lights. “Is that even a question? But they’d just as likely vaporize us.”
The image was vivid and unpleasant. “We have any other ideas?”
“It’s not like they’re going to show up on my front doorstep.”
Maybe God was playing a cruel joke on them. Because, at that moment the doorbell rang.
Crowley sprung to life, swiftly putting himself between her and the door and coiling there. He said nothing but by the way he prickled Anathema could tell he had a sense of what lay beyond it.
“What is it?” Without Crowley’s supernatural instinct, Anathema felt blind to whatever new threat lay behind that door.
Without waiting for so much as a “come in” there came the sound of the door unlocking. A pair of footsteps entered, shuttling the door firmly behind them.
“Hello? Manners?” Crowley called out cautiously. One hand hovered over Anathema while his other was balled at his side. It trembled slightly.
“I don’t believe we need a lesson in manners from a demon.” Came a woman’s dismissive reply. Or what looked like a woman as she and her companion, a squat balding man, rounded the corner. Everything about her screamed orderly, from her slate suit to her efficient, business-like updo of brown and grey locks, to her cold eyes, edged in gold leaf, and the odd way she carried her hands in front of her, clasp together at the waist like they were sending half a prayer.
A glimpse at her aura left Anathema briefly stunned and with a great spot on her vision like she’d stared into a cold sun. These angels, the woman shaped one in particular, shone bright as a cluster of stars. Far brighter than Aziraphale. But the light was cold and impersonal and lacked the love that left Aziraphale glowing like a hearth fire.
“Micheal. Sandolphan.” Crowley greeted stiffly, swinging his head between the two. “Lovely to see you again.” The icy coolness of his voice belied a cold rage that made Anathema reassess the nature of the shake Crowley had to him.
“Demon Crawley.” The one identified as Sandolphan said, baring his teeth. Anathema frowned at the grill-like piece of gold inlaid between them. “You’re needed.”
“Awh, you two really know how to make a demon feel welcome.” Crowley had planted himself between Anathema and the angels. At his full height he stood above the two of them. “This is about me slipping away, isn’t it? You know me. Slippery.”
Still, Anathema could taste the imbalance of power in the air, like ozone that clung to the two angels.
Micheal paid no mind to Crowley’s low hiss as she stepped towards them. “There’s no need to make things more difficult than you’ve already made them. Stand down.”
“But I am difficult, Micheal.”
Her smile was a professional response and possibly colder than any scowl. “We’re well aware. But there’s no escaping this, demon. There’s nowhere to run we won’t find you.”
“I’m actually done running.”
Micheal blinked. “Good,” she nodded, her cool never broken. “It’d simply be a waste of time and you’ve squandered quite enough of that.”
Crowley glanced back at Anathema. At this distance his glasses were translucent and his eyes shone with grim determination.
She knew the look. What a man, demon, whatever, bent on a suicide mission looked like. “Excuse me,” she interjected, stepping from behind Crowley. “This is about getting Aziraphale banished from Heaven, isn’t it?”
Both angels fixed her with a look. Sandolphan smile was slimy. “Girl, this is not your place to interfere.”
“People keep telling me that.” She glanced to Crowley, who watched her, unsure, as she took another step towards the angels. “But Aziraphale, and Crowley too, they live on Earth, right? They’ve denounced their, uh. Their offices. You guys. If anything, I, you know, someone who lives on Earth, should have more of a say over them than you do.”
“You don’t own the Earth.” Sandolphan pointed out. “God does. Her word is final and that’s what we’re going to get.”
From behind Anathema, Crowley let out a low hiss, his theory confirmed. Even Anathema’s stomach turned. “Weird that She hasn’t done anything about them already, isn’t it?”
Sandolphan’s jaw worked. “God works in mysterious ways.” He snapped unironically. “Besides, that ends now.”
“Really? Has She told you that?” By the vein bulging in Sandolphan’s forehead, Anathema knew the answer.
The shorter angel turned to his superior, who had remained silent, her eyes fixed unnervingly on Anathema. “This insolence is ridiculous. It’s just one human, could I turn her salt, you could write it off of my wages.”
Crowley’s hand found Anathema’s sleeve and tugged her back. “I’d like to see you try.” He snarled.
But Micheal shook her head at her companion. “No, no. Don’t you see? This is perfect.” Her gaze was cold and calculated as it raked over Anathema. “We will extend our summons to you as well, human.” She closed the distance between them, ignoring a hissing Crowley, and held out a well manicured hand.
Anathema stared at it like it was poisonous.
“Ah. Of course.” Micheal shook her head as if she’d forgotten herself. “Do not be afraid.”
After a second of shared confusion with Crowley, she took Micheal’s hand.
The angel smiled cooly at her, closing her other hand over the top of Anathema’s, trapping her in the awkward handshake. “Wonderful, Anathema Device. Your cooperation will be noted.”
Before Anathema had time to contemplate that she was following Crowley into Heaven without even the ghost of a flash of bright white light drowned out Crowley’s flat.