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“That should be everything,” Aziraphale said, turning the glass of brandy clutched in his hands. It was probably good brandy. He couldn’t remember tasting it, but he must have done some time in the last few hours.
“I can’t think of anything else.” Crowley threw himself into the room’s only chair: a tall, elaborate thing like a throne that he’d had custom made. There was no place for a guest to sit; until tonight, he’d never had the kind of guest you wanted to make comfortable.
Aziraphale leaned against the desk, next to the phone. His back was to Crowley, but he didn’t bother to turn – the demon would be up and pacing again soon. Instead, he stared at the rough grey walls and lifted his glass to drink, then lowered it untouched. “When –” His voice was steady enough, but he needed to swallow before continuing. “When it’s all over, we meet on the bench in Berkeley Square –”
“I know, Angel!” Crowley snapped, leaping to his feet and storming across the room. “We’ve been over it again and again and again. Don’t break character once we’ve switched. Meet at St. James’s Park in twelve hours if nothing happens.” He planted his feet and took a deep breath. Calm. No point in any of this if he couldn’t at least pretend to be calm. “You’re sure? About the prophecy?”
“Yes,” the angel attempted a smile. He’d read all of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies, and certainly understood her thinking as well as anyone ever had. He raised the brandy almost to his lips, then lowered it again. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Crowley snatched the glass out of his hands and slammed it on the table. “Aziraphale. Do not let them see you’re afraid.”
“But…” he protested weakly, “I’m not – I don’t –”
Taking another deep breath, Crowley squashed the urge to grab him by the jacket. “Right now, you’re doing that thing where your face is all still, but your eyes are – arg.” He pulled off his sunglasses and pressed them to Aziraphale’s chest. “Put these on.”
Wordlessly, the angel slipped them on. He could see through the black-tinted glass easily, even indoors; and clearly enough to see that Crowley’s yellow slit-pupil eyes held more fear than the demon would ever admit to.
“That’s a start,” Crowley nodded, then jabbed him with a finger. “Do not take them off. Not for anything. And when you feel afraid, do something outrageous.”
“Out – Outrageous?”
“Yeah, outrageous. You know.” Crowley grabbed the glass of brandy and drained it in one gulp. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale take one drink all night; no point in wasting good alcohol. “Sing a song. Tell a joke. Do one of your terrible magic tricks. Anything.” With his free hand, he grabbed the angel’s shoulder. “The more afraid you feel, the more outrageous you act.”
“I d-don’t think I know how to…do that.”
Crowley spread his arms wide and stepped back. “Then they’ll know you aren’t me.” Once again, he threw himself into the chair.
For a long moment, they each fumed in their thoughts, Crowley staring at the empty glass, Aziraphale at the vibrant green plants visible beyond the door.
“They’ll destroy you,” Crowley whispered into the silence. Aziraphale turned to meet his eyes and found them full of unmasked pain. “And it won’t be quick. They can make it last years. Centuries if they want. And I –” he bit off the rest, turning away.
“Alright.” Aziraphale moved to stand beside him, but Crowley leapt up again, going to fidget with the television on the other side of the room. “I’ll be as… outrageous …as I can. But you have to –”
“I know,” Crowley turned back, his face set to the expression of mild disdain he used whenever detached amusement wasn’t suitable. “Frozen face, goggle eyes, lots of overly polite language. I know how to imitate you.”
“Not that.” Aziraphale tried to match Crowley’s snapping tone, but his voice seemed to have jumped an octave. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Not that. We should talk about my defense. You have to try and convince Gabriel that –”
“Defense?” In three strides Crowley covered the ground between them, grabbing his lapels and nearly pulling him off the ground. “How can you even think about defense? What, do you expect a fair trial? Say the right words and they’ll pat your head and send you on your way? After everything that happened today?”
“No – Yes – I don’t know!”
He pushed past Crowley and ripped off the glasses, studying the black lenses as if they contained the answers he needed. “Surely there must be someone – someone – in all of Heaven who will listen to reason. Someone who will understand…”
He turned back around, surprised at how close Crowley stood. Perhaps Aziraphale hadn’t moved as far away as he’d thought. He did his best to meet the demon’s eyes. “They’re going to expect me to defend myself. Even if there’s no hope, they’ll still expect me to try. So if you’re going to be me, you need to do your absolute best to convince Gabriel that what I did was the right thing. The right thing.”
Aziraphale closed his eyes. Everything he thought he knew had been overturned, scattered, broken in the last few days. It was beyond disorienting. A part of him still believed that if he could find the right authority – if he could explain properly about the need to keep everything going, the greater good – then surely everything could somehow be put right.
But the part of him that believed kept shrinking. As Crowley said – he no longer had a side. But he was an angel. If he lost his faith, what did he have?
He felt Crowley’s hands on his arms again, not angry this time, just a gentle pressure. He opened his eyes to meet that slit-pupil gaze. No disdain shone there now; instead, Aziraphale saw something that had always, before, made him look away.
“You are,” Crowley told him in calm, even tones, “the most thick-headed, naïve, frustrating –” he sighed. “But if it’s that important to you…”
“It is.”
“Then you’re right. If they give me a chance to speak, I’ll let those pretentious, holier-than-thou bastards know exactly why you did the right thing.”
It was a pointless gesture; they both knew that. But then, so were the meaningless acts of rebellion Crowley had told Aziraphale to make. In the end, it would make no difference to either trial, and Gabriel and Beelzebub would be too busy gloating to care.
But submitting as if defeated would be nearly as bad as allowing themselves to be destroyed. And each had his own way of fighting to the end.
The first light of dawn, more red than white, crept across the city, shining through the enormous windows on the other side of the room. It was time.
“What about you?” the angel asked, gripping the demon’s shoulders in return. “What should I say in your defense?”
“Not a damn word.” Crowley pressed his forehead against his friend’s. “Give them Hell.”