Chapter Text
Crowley had reason to believe the Minister of Trade was possessed by a demon. The hallmarks were all there: eyeballs dripping with goo, slugs in his nostrils, that sort of thing. The humans didn’t notice, but Crowley wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t something they were accustomed to noticing.
It was the third state secretarial demonic possession in as many weeks. Spring had barely begun to summer when Crowley and the angel interrupted a sunny afternoon jaunt through St. James Park for a quick pop over to the House of Parliament, where they’d paid a not-entirely-genteel visit to the Minister of Culture and Good Sport. The following weekend, they’d packed the Bentley with crucifixes and crudités for a road trip to a remote little cabin in the Cotswolds, incidentally owned by the Minister of Staying Well Out of It.
Crowley kept his ear to the ground. He was rather fond of laying there, cheek pressed in the cool dirt beside the sidewalk outside his apartment, especially in the moonlight. Little worms whispered back to him.
Demonic activity was rising in London, notably among politicians. This surprised Crowley. What was the purpose? Those souls were slam-dunks for Hell already.
More to the point, since when had the denizens of Hell strategically targeted— well, anyone? Rather a spray-and-pray kind of bunch, ironically enough.
Crowley had noticed the Minister of Trade’s recent acquisition of demonic sludge on a televised press conference the week before. The demon’s soundbites were short, spiteful, and often unintelligible. The reporters didn’t notice, scribbling them down word-for-word.
He’d been especially difficult to pin down, evading a handful of attempts to isolate him. When they learned the minister would be hosting a party in his home that evening— to hobnob, presumably— Aziraphale and Crowley agreed it was time to bring in their merry band of human misfits.
“We go in, we case the joint,” Crowley repeated the plan to his flunkies in the Minister of Trade’s kitchen just before the appetizers were scheduled to go out. The Head Waiter glanced over at them quizzically, but Crowley distracted him with thoughts of overcooked mutton chops. “We find the demon and trap him, signal Aziraphale, then watch the angel’s back. Capiche?”
Sergeant Shadwell pointed a finger at him, then poked at a tray of deviled eggs. He struck an odd figure in his black-and-white suit, complete with bowtie and greased-back ponytail. A sallow young woman by the name of Janet Boggs slapped his hand away and peered doubtfully across the table at Crowley.
“Won’t the demon notice you?” she asked.
Crowley scoffed. “Like this?” He gestured at his own penguin suit and hoisted a plate of beef potstickers. “Hardly.”
Music echoed down the hallway, sounds of merriment increasing as guests began to arrive. A bell tinkled, and they filtered in with the wait staff to pour champagne and pass hors d’oeuvres. Boggs fit in reasonably well, as did the other human, a tall dark-skinned male named Dawkins who had the kind of brooding intensity that Crowley strove to emulate when giving the Almighty the silent treatment. Sergeant Shadwell was overly distracted by his tray of deviled eggs, but remained inconspicuous enough.
Crowley scanned the front hallway, eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses. The foyer was overrun with hoity-toity political types munching on delicate pastries and commenting upon London’s entirely-typical weather. It was the kind of party Aziraphale would call a ‘delightfully dignified affair’. Crowley briefly considered miracling up a pile of blow in the nearest bathroom, just for old times’ sake.
The Minister of Trade did not make an immediate appearance. Crowley circled the house and studied the guests.
“This dumpling is entirely divine,” a woman said, attacking it with indecent enthusiasm. “Mm, what is that seasoning? You must tell me.”
“What?” A crowd had gathered in the living room, drawing Crowley’s attention. “Oh, mm, uh,” he said, distracted, trying to remember one of Aziraphale’s recent culinary rhapsodies. “Eau du foie gras,” he answered and slunk away to examine the crowd.
Sulfur wafted tantalizingly in his nostrils. The demon-possessed Minister of Trade held court at the center of the room. He waved his arms grotesquely and grunted, blood pooling in his eyeballs. His hangers-on laughed politely.
“Signal the angel,” Crowley hissed at Boggs. She nodded and spun on her heel, slipping away into the party. Crowley returned his attention to the demon.
“Got you now, you slippery snake,” he muttered. “Well, not snake, I like snakes. I am a snake,” he reminded himself. “Slippery little… salamander,” he said instead. “Iguana, maybe.” Soon, the demon would be smote back to Hell and the Minister of Trade would return to normal, human again, sans slime. Crowley and the angel would return to the bookshop and enjoy that lovely vintage cabernet he’d found gathering dust in the basement. Everything was going according to plan. All that was left was Aziraphale’s part.
Crowley sighed, preparing for trouble. The angel did have a charming way of mucking things up.
In a darkened driveway three houses down, Aziraphale fiddled with his starched collar, then checked the sleeves of his suit coat for lint. The Bentley lurked like an oversized mechanical aardvark in the shadows.
“How do I look?” he said, trying not to preen. He asked for the sake of the mission. His vanity had nothing to do with it.
Madame Tracy eyed him up and down. “Like an overly cheerful priest,” she said, which really was not helpful at all.
Aziraphale huffed. He forced himself to still his hands and fold them together at his waist. He returned the woman’s once-over with a touch of haughtiness.
His stiffness melted away in a smile that would warm the heart of a cryogenically-frozen polar bear. “Oh, my dear, you look wonderful. You’re downright pious,” he gushed. Madame Tracy simpered in her black robe and habit, a gold crucifix hanging from her neck. Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to the other two humans behind her. “You all do,” he said with genuine esteem.
“That’s kind of you,” said Sister Indiana Precocious of the American Convent of Divine Enterprises. She looked down at her traditional garb and struck a pose that was decidedly un-nunlike, at least in Aziraphale’s British experience. “Didn’t even have to change my rosary.” Sister Liz Placid nodded beatifically beside her.
The story of how Aziraphale had recruited the nuns to their cause was not overly long, but it was terribly American, and off-topic to the matter at hand. As it was, Crowley’s signal had just come through in the form of something called a ‘text message.’ A chime sounded from Sister Indiana Precocious’ pocket, and she pulled out her thin rectangular computer-thingy. She swiped at the screen, then looked up with excitement.
“It’s go time.”
They hurried down the sidewalk, past sprawling, posh mansions, the kind with railinged balconies and Olympic-sized swimming pools in the backyard. They ducked through a wrought-iron gate outside the Minister of Trade’s house, and scurried past his valets, Aziraphale gently persuading their attention elsewhere.
He took a breath at the door and wrestled his angelic presence into a stoic man of the cloth. They’d settled on this disguise not because it was helpful in diverting attention, but because angelic smitings can appear quite similar to priestly exorcisms, and people are generally satisfied enough to stop asking questions when they happen to stumble upon something that looks like an exorcism if they have reason to believe it is, indeed, an exorcism.
Aziraphale pushed open the door, eyes brightening at the genteel revelry within. The nuns and Madame Tracy clustered close at his back. He scanned the foyer, searching for a flash of copper hair, the glint of dark glasses. The demon would sense his presence, so they must act quickly—
“Oh, Father, thank you so much for coming.” A hawk-eyed woman descended upon him. Her soul was in terrible tumult, impressed as it was with the quite unconscious premonition that her husband had turned into a demon. “Did you find the house alright?” the Minister’s wife continued, though Aziraphale’s name was most assuredly not on her guest list. She took the priest’s arm and leaned in close, lowering her voice.
“Might I speak with you, Father?” she asked. “It’s only, I’ve been having these terrible thoughts— fire and brimstone, little horned goblins, and I thought, well, probably past due for confession.” She giggled nervously.
“Ah, well,” Aziraphale blustered, glancing around. The living room was crowded with people, and he didn’t see Crowley anywhere. “That’s— normally, I would, of course, being a priest and all: heal the woes, herd the flock, you know. It’s only, I’m meeting someone—”
“Please, Father,” the Minister’s wife squeezed his arm. She flicked her head, then reached out and stopped a waiter with a loaded tray of savory nibbles. She waved at the food. “Turkish pastry?”
Aziraphale hesitated. The Minister’s wife sensed weakness, and tipped the tray closer.
The angel relented. It would be the height of discourtesy not to accept such a delightful offering.
“It all started with that bill we sponsored, the one about waste dispersal in local tributaries, and all that trouble with the trout,” the Minister’s wife said, and pulled him further into the hallway.
The demon was onto them. The moment Aziraphale stepped through the door, the Minister had straightened, looking around suspiciously. Crowley sidestepped behind a delicate ficus plant and watched through the leaves. Pathetic, he thought, directing his contempt towards the tree’s modest limbs. The ficus bristled, unused to such rudeness in his own home.
The Minister of Trade slouched from the room. A trail of worms dropped from his pant leg, wriggling into the pristine carpet. Crowley ducked from behind the plant and followed him. Dawkins and Sergeant Shadwell followed suit, tailing Crowley.
“Go ahead,” he directed Dawkins. “Take the Sergeant and block the back hallway.”
He stopped in the foyer, eyes drawn by the angel’s presence. Aziraphale lolled near the door, working his way through a tray of nibbles. A dark-haired woman clung to his arm, chattering in his ear. Aziraphale nodded, eyes cast downwards as he listened to her steady stream of woes.
“For the love of all that is wicked and dreadful,” Crowley muttered. It wasn’t uncommon for the angel to be stopped by humans drawn to his divine energy and quiet comfort. Aziraphale’s presence was like basking in the sun on an old couch that had been worn down in all the right places. But they had a job to do, and there wasn’t time for the angel’s kind dawdling.
Crowley tried to catch his eye. He coughed once, then again. ‘Aziraphale’ was not exactly the easiest name to cough unobtrusively, but Crowley managed. The angel glanced up at him and widened his eyes in apology. He tilted his head meaningfully at the woman beside him.
Crowley tilted his head meaningfully down the hallway.
Aziraphale pointed his chin at the nuns clustered a few steps away.
Crowley shook his head quickly, then nodded again at Aziraphale, flicking his head once more at the hallway.
Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. Infuriatingly, he tilted his head at the woman again.
“I’m going to feed him to the dolphins,” Crowley promised. He whirled around and stomped down the hallway. He found Boggs and snapped his fingers. A tray of spider sushi rolls appeared in her hands.
“Get the angel,” he hissed at her, and went to trap a demon.
Aziraphale hurried up to him a few minutes later.
“Sorry,” he whispered breathlessly, brushing sticky crumbs from his lapel. “She was ever so insistent, poor dear, and in such a dreadful state.”
“Yes, yes,” Crowley grumbled, arms crossed. He slunk in the doorway of a bathroom off the back quarters. The door was locked tight behind him, and inside the Minister of Trade crawled its four walls, searching for an escape. “Well, we’re all here. Let’s get this party started. Angel, the honors.” He swept an arm courteously at the door. The three nuns and three waiters leaned in eagerly to watch.
“Right.” Aziraphale snapped to attention. He fluttered his hands above his head, performing a quick sign of the cross, followed by the sign of the benediction, and then the mano pantea, just for good measure. “May the soul of the Almighty, present within all Creation, dispel the powers of darkness here with us tonight— except for Crowley, of course— Protect us from evil actors and inclinations, and surround us with Your love, that we might banish this demon back to Hell— specifically, the one in the bathroom; once again: not Crowley.”
Aziraphale gave a short sigh of frustration. Crowley summoned the powers of Hell to suppress his smirk.
“I wear the helmet of salvation and hope,” the angel continued. Divine energy began to swirl around them, crackling between air molecules. “I carry the shield of faith. I hold the sword of the spirit—”
“Not the one you gave away?” Crowley couldn’t help but double-check. “Flaming sword, you know, might be damn useful right about now.”
“No- obviously, not the sword I gave away,” Aziraphale said, veering toward peevish. “It’s a metaphor, Crowley. For love and- well, other celestial things. You know, cutting out the Prince of Darkness with the power of unconditional love and supplication.” He blinked earnestly.
“Hm. Right.” Crowley considered that. “Demons usually just use real swords,” he told him.
“Oh, why bother.” Aziraphale threw up his hands. “This room is about as blessed as it’s going to be. Let’s get on with it.” He nodded at the door.
Crowley straightened. “You heard the angel.” He glared threateningly at the humans from behind his sunglasses. “Holy water, at the ready.” Shadwell, Boggs and Dawkins lifted matching spray bottles. “Crucifixes, up— watch it,” he hissed when the short pushy nun nearly knocked him in the arm with hers. She took a step back, eyes wide. Her expression was far more enthralled and far less terrified than he would have liked.
“Ready?” He waited for Aziraphale’s nod, then kicked open the door.
The Minister of Trade jumped back, startled and snarling.
“You’re a demon!” he gasped, recognizing Crowley’s hellish anatomy. “And- and- with an angel?” His eyes bugged out of his head, oozing slime down his neck all over the Minister’s paisley tie. Crowley wrinkled his nose. Was a bit of style so much to ask?
“That’s right,” Aziraphale announced behind him. Crowley could hear his nose sticking up in the air. “And you, ghastly demon, will forthwith be leaving this poor man alone and going straight back to Hell.”
The demon’s eyes rolled in head. He spit out a few choice curses, his voice thick with demonic fury. He looked from Crowley to the angel, measuring the distance between them and the door. The humans gathered closer, brandishing their weapons.
“You associate with humans?” the demon snarled. “An angel is bad enough, but—”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you demons can’t maintain a decent conversation,” Crowley said. “It’s always, torture this, and misery that. Sometimes I just want to talk about—” He floundered. “Pigeons. And ducks!”
“What is it with you and ducks?” Aziraphale wondered, not sounding like he ever expected an answer.
The demon’s eyes flicked between them. He changed tactics abruptly.
“Please,” he begged. “I don’t want to go back down there. All that red tape.”
Crowley clucked in sympathy. “I know, mate. It’s so tacky—”
“You don’t understand,” the demon grunted. “I was in medical claims processing.”
“Oof. Tough luck,” Crowley said. “Right, well. You can’t possess a human being and take away their soul. It’s, like, not fair or something. Off you go, now.”
He turned, inclined his head at the angel. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and nodded back. Crowley swept through the door.
“You’ll pay for this, traitor.” The demon’s voice was thick and pointed like a baseball bat with nails all stuck in it. “I will crush your bones to dust. I will chew out your eyeballs and feast on your twisted little heart—”
“Really,” Aziraphale tutted. “I hope the next time you come to Earth, you do a bit of research first about proper decorum.” He straightened his jacket.
Crowley closed the door and stepped back, watching it carefully. A bright light flashed from within, illuminating the door jamb. The humans murmured, shielding their eyes. The air tasted odd, like split molecules.
Inside the bathroom, a demon had been smote back to Hell.
“I wonder what an angel really looks like,” Madame Tracy said. Her voice was breathy, ecclesiastical almost. “I bet it’s incredible.”
“Terrifying, more like,” the pushy nun interjected. “With thundering wings and a thousand eyes, and a great silver horn—”
“A horn?” Crowley interrupted in disbelief. “Aziraphale hasn’t got a horn.”
The nun peered at him. “But the eyes?”
Crowley paused. “More than two,” he confided.
The door flung open, and Aziraphale stood triumphantly before them.
“Well, that’s that,” he said, brushing his hands together officiously. “Evil banished, and the righteous prevail!” His eyes flickered to Crowley. “The nonconformists, too,” he added. Crowley preened, pleased.
He heard a tittering behind him, and turned to find the nuns in a huddle with Boggs leaning in nearby. Crowley lifted an eyebrow. Sister Precocious pointed a trembling finger over his shoulder.
He looked back at the angel. “Ah.” He pulled Aziraphale aside and motioned him close. “Not to make things awkward, old friend,” he said from the corner of his mouth. “But I think you’ve forgotten one of your optics.” He pointed a little ways above his head, where a great silver eye glinted, burning almost as cheerfully as Aziraphale’s two human eyes.
“Oh, how embarrassing,” the angel murmured. The apples of his cheeks blushed pink like the first apple. He quickly smoothed his third eye back to its proper dimension — an inverted octave above A minor.
The Minister of Trade stumbled from the bathroom, looking rather worse for wear.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who are you? Where have I been?” He sniffed the air. “Why does it smell like fresh rain?”
“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale fluttered. “It’s something new.” His eyes flickered, unaccountably, towards Crowley. He approached the Minister of Trade, placed both hands upon the man’s shoulders, and steered him down the hallway. “I think it’s time you speak with your wife,” he said sternly. “Show that good woman a bit more appreciation, hm?”
“And ditch the tie,” Crowley suggested. Aziraphale glanced down at it, stained as it was with demon sludge and a paisley pattern.
“Oh, dear,” he said and snapped a sprightly green bow tie in its place. “That’s better.” He shooed the Minister on his way and turned to the others, his face creasing in a smile.
“Well, who’s up for pie?”
“It’s bad news, angel,” Crowley said later as they walked back from the diner together. “Hell targeting politicians? There’s more than just a little demonic mischief at play here.”
Aziraphale’s shoulders drooped. “But why?” he asked, more to the Almighty, than to Crowley. “I thought we’d have more time. It’s only been five years.”
“Yes, well, it’s an election year,” Crowley pointed out. “Probably figured they might as well take advantage of it being all—” he gestured “—fuzzy-wuzzy.”
“Fuzzy-wuzzy?” Aziraphale inquired.
“You know, wonky.” Crowley shrugged. “Chaotic. Helter-skelter.” They turned the corner of Aziraphale’s bookshop.
“Why can’t Heaven and Hell leave us alone?” he cried, unable to stop himself. His brow crinkled in distress. “Or— rather, why can’t they leave the humans alone, I mean,” he corrected. “We’re just here to protect it all. Earth, free will, the great experiment.”
“Maybe,” Crowley said. “Maybe we’re part of it, too.”
Aziraphale’s eyes flicked between his. They stopped on the stoop of his bookshop. “I just want-” he started, then swallowed down a shaky sigh. “I just wish we all could have the chance to decide for ourselves.”
They shared a wistful smile.
“I know you do, angel,” Crowley said.
They entered the bookshop, closing the door to the world behind them.
Gabriel peered down at the figure slumped at his feet. Not exactly what he was expecting, but interest flickered inside him. There were possibilities, weren’t there— ones he hadn’t considered before.
“They call it ‘the Beloved,’” Michael said, her voice so devoid of inflection she might as well have sneered.
Gabriel looked past her to the Engineer fretting a few steps away. “And why do they call it that?”
The Engineer swallowed. “Well— The experiments— We couldn’t produce the effects you were looking for, as— as you know.” Gabriel’s jaw tightened at his tentative, halting tone. He despised superficial weakness with startling intensity. The Engineer hurried to continue. “The angels were still susceptible to hellfire, and the demons to holy water. But…” He glanced at the prone figure, something like pity flitting across his face. It was gone again as soon as it came, and the Engineer pressed his lips together. “We did find something interesting.”
They approached the motionless being, limbs sprawled in relaxed stupor upon the white marble floor. She was smaller and plainer than Gabriel would have thought.
“What is she?” he asked.
“She—” the Engineer shrugged helplessly. “She feeds off love, but not the love of the Almighty. Not that pure, uninterested love. Love like the humans think of it— specific, intense, and twisted up with self-interest.” He rocked back on his heels. “As part-demon, she is incapable of experiencing love herself, doomed only ever to receive it, and use its power to take the form of one’s adoration.”
Gabriel swiveled around. “So, she’s a shape-shifter?” His voice rose with glee. “Why didn’t you just say so?”
The Engineer was taken aback. “There’s a bit more to it than that.”
Gabriel stopped listening. Yes, this new Creation would do quite well.
He knelt on the floor and shook her by the shoulder. “Wake up,” he said, not modulating his voice in the slightest. “You’ve got a divine purpose. Can’t lounge around here all millennia.”
She blinked at him. “What’s my Name?”
“How should I know?” He shrugged. “The Engineers call you the Beloved.”
“Beloved is what I am,” she said. “What’s my Name?”
Gabriel rolled his eyes. “I don’t know— Karen, Jennifer, whatever you want it to be.”
“I don’t have a Name?” she asked, beginning to tremble. “Why didn’t the Almighty give me one?”
“The Almighty didn’t exactly Create you,” Gabriel said. “Haven’t actually seen the all-knowing, all-powerful, ever-present being in a while, to tell you the truth.”
The Beloved stared at him with dismay.
“But, hey—” He clapped his hands together. “Have I got a surprise for you. All-expenses paid vacation to Earth, what do you say? Just a few, minor tasks to complete for the powers of Heaven, in between all the sightseeing.”
“Earth,” the Beloved repeated, trying this new word on for size.
“That’s right,” Gabriel nodded, then raised an eyebrow at the Engineer. “Not much upstairs, huh?”
He turned back to the Beloved. “Don’t worry; it’s simple.” His teeth gleamed in a smile. “Just a traitor to neutralize, and a Prime Minister to manipulate.”
He always knew his faith would one day be rewarded.