Work Text:
"Right, so... this is it. Make yourself at home." Crowley held the door for Aziraphale, ushering him into the front hall. "Foyer ahead, office to the right… oh, but you might not want to… um, ah… foyer ahead," he repeated awkwardly. The pile of clothing in the office doorway which was all that remained of Ligur had slipped his mind, what with… well, everything. "You can hang your coat in there," he added.
Aziraphale gave him a suspicious look, but proceeded into the foyer, which was dotted with plants and objets d'art and, as promised, a row of coat hooks. Aziraphale hung his frock coat; Crowley tossed his keys into a decorative bowl, then took the Bentley's starter crank from an inside pocket and hooked it through his belt before hanging his blazer. They proceeded into a hallway lined with larger plants.
"Absolutely stunning," Aziraphale murmured, admiring the greenery. "I never realised—" He laid a hand on a broad and glossy leaf, and his brow furrowed. He directed a sharp look at the demon. "Crowley, we need to have a talk about healthy coping mechanisms."
"I'm a demon, that is…" He sighed. "Once we're home free, you can psychoanalyse me all you like, how's that?"
"Yes, of course. I'm sorry."
"It's… it's fine. Anyway." He gestured vaguely at the various doors and openings. "Loo, lounge, abattoir, kitchen. Bath's past the office, if you fancy a swim. Bedroom, souvenir room."
"It's very…" Aziraphale trailed off, then rallied with: "striking."
"Nice save. Come on, we can eat in the lounge."
On the way to the indicated door, Aziraphale detoured to inspect a largish statue at the end of the hall. "Tasteful," he commented drily.
Crowley fidgeted. The statue had seemed like a good (well, wicked) idea at the time. Now it just felt immature. "It's, ah, it's meant to symbolise evil triumphing over good."
Aziraphale tilted his head nearly sideways. "I can see that."
"Oh, shut it."
The lounge contained an absurdly large flatscreen TV on the wall above a gas fireplace, players for everything from VHS through 4K Blu-ray* and vinyl through mp3**, an ornate black leather sofa, and an equally ornate coffee table, on which Crowley deposited a bag and a bottle. The bag contained the Indian takeaway they'd stopped for after the number 6 bus (Wolvercote to Oxford City Centre, via Mayfair) had dropped them off, and the bottle was half full of the best red available from the Tadfield off-license. Crowley owned wine glasses, of course, but neither being suggested using them.
While Aziraphale unpacked the food and plastic utensils, Crowley put on Handel's Water Music and a visualiser.
"Will you look at that?" said Aziraphale, momentarily mesmerised. "Whatever will they think of next?"
"They thought of it forty years ago, angel."
"Did they?"
Crowley nodded. "Still. Thanks at least a bit to us, now they'll have a chance to think of a next thing."
Aziraphale smiled and picked up the bottle. "To small contributions," he proclaimed, took a pull at it, and offered it to Crowley.
The demon accepted it and raised it in salute. "Sometimes the little nudges make all the difference." He took a swig.
"I would like to think so. Still, it doesn't seem like much for eleven years' effort, does it? One uncomfortable question and a few moments of moral support."
"'Scuse you."
"And immoral support, of course, do forgive me."
They tucked into their curry—"I say, their naan is awfully good, isn't it?" "What did I tell you?"—and for a good few minutes focused on their food (and, in Crowley's case, the sight of Aziraphale focusing on his food) with a growing sense that they had better experience this dinner as fully as possible, in case they didn't get another.
Eventually, however, Crowley set down his fork and said what they both knew: "They are going to hold us responsible, though. Apart from anything else, they'll want someone to punish."
Aziraphale nodded morosely. "Scapegoats."
"One for the Lord and one for Azazel. Neither came off particularly well, did they?"
Aziraphale hummed his agreement. Then he wiped his hands thoroughly. "Let me see that prophecy again, will you?"
Crowley cleaned his hands as well, knowing what an earful he would get if he didn't, and took the charred scrap out of his pocket. He gave it a glance before passing it over: 5004. When alle is ſayed and all is done, ye must chooſe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre. "Was that the actual last prophecy in the book? I thought there were more than that."
"It would have been close to the end, but not the very last, no. The order doesn't signify, though, they were a bit of a jumble."
"So no order, index, or table of contents? How're you supposed to find anything?"
"Well, in my case, I just read straight through; didn't want to miss anything. But I did start with a bit of bibliomancy, to test its legitimacy."
"Oh, yeah? What'd you get?"
"Prophecy 3008." The angel's mouth twisted. "She predicted my reading it, verified the End Times, then insulted me and said my cocoa was getting cold."
Crowley gave a great quack of laughter. "She never!"
"On my honour. Precision self-reference, a direct personal message, and no small amount of sass."
"Very nice and accurate."
"Quite. So you can see that this one must pertain to us. I wouldn't have caught it if it didn't. Or possibly vice versa."
"Well, it certainly sounds like us. Don't see that it tells us much we don't know, though. We know they'll be after us soon enouff."
"I believe it's more than that. In my experience, the more a prophecy sounds like a figure of speech, the more likely it is to be entirely literal. It's when it seems straightforward that it's apt to be a metaphor."
Crowley felt a sudden crawling in his stomach. He snatched the paper back and stared at it.
"Crowley! Please handle it carefully!"
He ignored the admonishment. "This whole thing reads like figures of speech glued together. You're saying…"
"She's probably being literal on all points, yes. We just need to work out the details."
Crowley's jaw tightened. "It couldn't… couldn't refer to something that's already happened?"
Aziraphale shook his head. "You see how, well, nice she was. And the first part is clearly a reference to things after the conclusion of the, ah, main event. Nothing relevant has happened to us since then, unless it's an extraordinarily oblique reference to the curry."
Crowley abruptly thrust the scrap back into the angel's hands. "I need some air," he said, standing up. He grabbed the bottle, stalked across the room, and slammed open the door to the balcony.
"Crowley, what's…" Aziraphale sprang up after him. "What's the matter, Crowley?"
Out on the balcony, Crowley was chugging down the remainder of the wine without pause for breath. When Aziraphale pulled the bottle out of his grasp, he hissed in his face.
The angel was uncowed. "Crowley, we don't need air. Talk to me," he pleaded.
Crowley got himself under control and turned away. Pushing his sunglasses up atop his head, he rested his face in his hand with his elbow on the railing. "I… have had enough… of fire… today," he croaked out.
"Oh. Oh. Oh, Crowley…"
"First your bookshop, and I thought you were… and then my fucking car…"
"I'm so sorry. Would you like to talk about it? I still don't know what actually happened to you after we… parted ways."
Crowley was silent for a good five seconds. Then he said, "You first."
"I suppose that's fair. Well. After you left, I continued walking for a bit, collecting my thoughts, you know. And I was… approached… by Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon."
"Approached." Crowley remained leaning on his hand, but turned his head to look up at Aziraphale sceptically.
"Well. Menaced might be a more accurate term. They knew about us."
Now Crowley straightened up. "Were they the ones who—?"
"No, no, they didn't do anything to me." Aziraphale paused and grimaced. "Well, Sandalphon did punch me in the stomach. Rather hard, actually."
Crowley's irises spread a fraction, bleeding gold into the sclerae, but he spoke with surprising composure. "How many pieces would you like him in?"
"That won't be necessary," Aziraphale said, but he smiled a little.
"Many as you like. I do own a wood chipper."
"Let's not go borrowing additional trouble just yet."
"Okay, but the offer stands. Go on."
"Right." Aziraphale attempted to drink from the bottle, found only a few millilitres left, and gave Crowley a reproachful look before continuing. "Well, after that I went home and contacted Heaven via the circle. And I did get through, whatever Uriel may have said! Not to the Almighty, though, you were right about that. Perhaps if…" He shook his head. "At any rate, I did reach as high up as the Metatron. Unfortunately, they took the same view as the Archangels did. There was nowhere left to turn in Heaven, so... I called you. Only you were busy, apparently, and then Sgt Shadwell broke in…"
"Into your bookshop? What was he doing there?"
"You know, I completely forgot to ask? Perhaps he had a question about the assignment."
"Wait, what? What assignment?"
"Oh, he was my contact with my human operatives. The Witchfinder Army, would you believe. I told him to send someone to Tadfield to investigate, like we agreed."
Crowley stared. "So did I. I assumed that was why he was at the air base."
"No, he came with Madame Tracy and me. You mean we both…"
Crowley facepalmed. "Right, got it, we're both idiots, old news, go on."
Aziraphale chuckled weakly. "Well, we sorted things out later, more or less, but at the time, I gather he observed the circle and all that and got rather the wrong impression. Tried to exorcise me, can you imagine!"
Crowley snorted. "I would've liked to see that."
"I'm sure you would. Much good it would have done him, except the circle was still active, they'd left it open for me to join the war. And I was so distracted trying to keep him from stepping into it that I'm rather afraid I did so myself, without preparation."
Crowley winced.
"It wasn't pleasant," Aziraphale agreed. "So off I pop back to Heaven, sine corpore." He faltered. "I don't know what… happened in the shop after that, it was probably the candles… the one time I had to have an open flame, the ritual is very specific, you know…"
Some tension left Crowley's shoulders that he hadn't even realised they were carrying. "Go—Sa—whoever, I know it doesn't make any difference at this stage, but that's still a relief to hear. Candles. Thank something."
This was definitely not the reaction Aziraphale had been expecting. "Whatever is that supposed to mean?"
"Save it, I'll tell you when it's my turn."
"That's about it for me, anyway. They expected me to rejoin the Host, but I wasn't having any of it, so I returned to Earth and," he gestured at Crowley, "found you. Where were you when I Visited you? You didn't feel at all well."
Crowley failed magnificently to seem nonchalant. "Ah… mm, well, nowhere special, you know. Just… around."
"Crowley."
Crowley tried to disguise the word "pub" with a cough.
"A pub? Oh, Crowley. So that was despair I felt on you. If that was because of how we left things..."
"Bless it all, I'm not drunk enough for this." He grabbed the empty bottle from Aziraphale, gave it a shake, then headed for the door.
"Anthony J. Crowley, you still owe me an—"
"Keep your halo on, I'll be right back." The demon went inside, swaying just a fraction more than usual, and returned less than two minutes later, swigging from a £2,500 bottle of Stoli Elit. "Here," he said, thrusting it at Aziraphale, "get some of that in you."
Aziraphale gave Crowley a look of concern, but did so. "Really, though, two hours to go and you seriously thought the best use of your time…"
"Oi! You told yours in order, kindly afford me the same wossname."
"Yes, of course, sorry."
"Right. So." Crowley leaned on the railing, looking out into the night. "I told you Hell had got onto me. So after we… talked… I came home and I got ready for guests. Didn't have time for finesse. You can have your thermos back, by the way."
"My thermos… oh, Lord, you mean you…?"
"Yeah. What's left of Ligur's in the office." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the glass doors.
Aziraphale glanced after the gesture in shock. "And you weren't hurt?"
"Nah. I was careful. Thanks for, you know. Obliging me."
"I, ah… happy to have been of assistance." Awkward relief tinged with horror hung in the air.
"Only got one of 'em, though. Managed to trap Hastur on the ansaphone. He got free later, but it bought me time."
"Remind me what that is?"
Crowley paused to switch mental tracks. "You know when you call me on the landline, and I ignore what you're saying, and then I go beep?"
"Yes, it's awfully rude of you."
"That's an ansaphone."
"Ah."
"Right. Um."
"Bought you time."
"Right, yes. And. Uh." Crowley waved at the vodka bottle until Aziraphale handed it back. He took a long pull, wiped his lips. "You said Heaven knew about us, well, so did Hell. Hastur threatened us both. So I went for you again. Only when I got there, the shop was…" He fell silent for a moment. Aziraphale nodded, sorrowful. "And I went in to find you…"
"What, while it was still burning?"
"Yesss, I had to find you, you twit, but I couldn't, I couldn't sssmell you or feel you, you weren't there, you weren't anywhere, and it was fire and Hastur had sssaid…"
The full implication finally dawned on Aziraphale. "You thought they'd come for me as well. You thought they'd brought hellfire."
"Yeah," said Crowley hoarsely.
"When you said you'd lost your best friend," Aziraphale said quietly, "...I thought you just meant our little spat."
"Thought that was the last thing I'd ever said to you. Shouted at you." He blew out his lips. "So then I went to the pub. Seemed like the thing to do."
"Oh, Crowley. I'm so sorry to have caused you distress."
Crowley laughed hollowly. "Distress. Yeah. Not your fault."
"Nevertheless. No wonder you're feeling sensitive about fire. I assume the car was due to the M25?"
"Yeah."
"Nasty business. I had to fly us over it."
Crowley's brow creased. "Weren't you there on a scooter?"
"Yes."
There was silence for a moment. Then Crowley began to laugh helplessly. Aziraphale caught the giggles as well, and they laughed together into the night.
It took them several minutes to stop, and they both wiped away tears, feeling a great sense of release. "Better now?" Aziraphale asked.
"Yeah. Thanks."
"Thank you for telling me."
"'Course."
"Thank you for everything. Persuading me to oppose the End. Persuading me into the Arrangement." He smiled. "Tempting, I should say. Tempting into knowledge, that's what you do best."
Crowley put on a look of overtly false modesty to hide his actual pleasure. "Weeeell, one tries."
"Tempting me to try food for the first time, remember that?"
"The pomegranate, yes!" Crowley threw his head back, grinning. "'However did you tempt the humans so easily with just a piece of fruit, Crawley?'" he said in a reasonable imitation of Aziraphale's precise diction.
"'Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, angel,'" Aziraphale drawled in return, a bit too broadly.
"'Well, perhaps just one pip, to see what all the fuss is about.' You should've seen the look on your face!"
"It's a very complex flavour!"
The angel and the demon looked out over the city, observing humanity from on high.
"What did you think of me, when we first met?" Crowley asked abruptly.
Aziraphale considered this. "After the initial suspicion? I just thought you seemed a remarkably decent sort, for a demon. And better company than those cherubim they had on patrol, I don't mind telling you. Four faces, you'd think at least one could hold a conversation."
"I thought, what an absolute mad lad! Gives away his flaming sword to the humans? The same humans he's supposed to use it to stop getting back in? You had one job!"
Aziraphale laughed. "Rub it in, why don't you?"
"No, I thought you were brilliant! I thought, I'm keeping an eye on this one, he may not look like much but he's a laugh and a half."
"Well, thank you, I think. I... what do you mean, 'may not look like much'?!"
Crowley elbowed Aziraphale.
Aziraphale elbowed Crowley. "Well, you're brilliant too."
"No, you're brilliant."
"No, you're brilliant! You… that trick you did at the air base, taking us Outside like that? That was brilliant."
Crowley preened. "It was, a bit. Didn't know I still had it in me. Haven't done anything like that since Before."
Aziraphale was intrigued. "What was it you did back then? If it's not terribly rude of me."
"Celestial engineering."
"Really!"
Crowley nodded. "Can't see much from London, but… look, there's Deneb, that was one of ours."
"Ah! Yes, I see it."
The demon gazed up into the darkness as though he could clear away the light pollution. "There's not a lot I miss, I wouldn't go back if you paid me, but… it was satisfying work with a good team. People talk about something being more of an art than a science, but this was both. Set up the start conditions, mass, density, different proportions of elements and so on, then…" He pulled the Bentley's crank from his belt and whirled it in the air. "Give 'er a crank and see how she runs."
Aziraphale stared, fascinated. "Why didn't I know this about you?"
"Never came up, I guess." He continued to twirl the crank idly. "Anyway. I was a different person then."
They stood lost in thought. Crowley passed Aziraphale the bottle.
Eventually, Aziraphale asked: "Is that why you were so fond of those cartoons by that Goldberg chap?"
Crowley burst out laughing. "People actually build those, you know. Remind me to show you this one music video sometime."
"I'm sure you could build a marvellous contraption if you had a mind to."
"Hmmm. Who's to say we didn't, you and me?"
"How do you mean?"
"One apple, one sword, two humans. Wind it up and watch the chain reaction." He gestured expansively at the city below them.
"Interesting way to look at it."
"You know it's not a proper Rube Goldberg machine if it doesn't contain at least one live animal."
"We didn't create them, though."
"So? Professor Butts didn't make all the… the candles and the balloons and the bellowses and things, he just put them together."
"I'm sorry, Professor what?"
"That's what the comic was called, The Inventions of Professor Lucifer Gorgonzola Butts."
"Oh, my word." Aziraphale started to giggle.
Crowley put on an injured expression. "I'm being deep here, angel, this is what you're choosing to focus on?"
"Sorry, dear."
"No wonder they had you guard Eden, concentration like that."
Aziraphale pouted.
"Angel of the Eastern Gate," Crowley mused. "Not really much of a gate, was it?"
"Now who's focused?" the Angel of the Eastern Gate muttered.
Crowley ignored this. "More a sort of… hole." He snickered. "Angel of the Eastern Hole."
"Oh, shut up."
"Angel of the Eastern Alcove, now. Angel of the Eastern Desk."
A moment's thought, and then both of their faces fell in tandem.
Aziraphale voiced the thought: "Angel of the eastern… smoking pile of rubble." He sighed.
Crowley patted his shoulder with an expression which was meant to be comforting but actually came out as a sort of grimace.
Aziraphale returned a grateful half-smile.
"Angel of the eastern side of the bed, if you fancy a bit of a kip," Crowley offered. "Actually, not sure which side is the east. That might be the foot of the bed, come to think of it. Doesn't matter. You're welcome to either side."
"I might actually take you up on that. Goodness, but it's been a long day. Long few days. Long eleven years."
"Mmm. I enjoyed it, though. Not the last few days, those were terrible. But I liked seeing more of you."
Aziraphale smiled softly at him. "Yes?"
"Even in that stupid costume."
"Well, I thought you looked lovely… Miss Poppins."
"Oi!"
"I was quite prepared to join you in a musical number, should one occur," the angel teased.
Crowley sneered and waggled his head sarcastically.
They settled back into companionable silence.
Softly, Aziraphale began to sing.
His voice was not unearthly, coming as it did out of a corporeal throat, but it was nevertheless very beautiful. The song was no hosanna, nor was it by the Sherman Brothers. The angel's cultural literacy had lagged increasingly behind the times ever since the advent of recorded media, but it was still bang up to date when it came to live theatre; he had been the one to invite the demon to the show's West End opening last winter, and they had both been enthralled.
"I may not live to see our glory," sang Aziraphale. Crowley turned to him in surprise.
"But I will gladly join the fight…"
"But I will gladly join the fight," Crowley echoed.
"And when our children tell our story…"
"And when our children tell our story…"
"They'll tell the story of tonight."
Crowley picked up Laurens's part smoothly. His voice, too, rang out improbably sweetly, one of the remainders of his heritage.
"Raise a glass to freedom," he sang, and Aziraphale saluted with the bottle.
"Something they can never take away,
No matter what they tell you.
Raise a glass to the… two of us;
Tomorrow there'll be…
Tomorrow…
Shit."
"Crowley?"
"We'd better get back to it," he sighed. "Figuring out that prophecy. Or we may not live to see… whatever."
"Yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry to waste time, this has just been…"
"Yeah. Maybe we can do it again sometime."
"I would like that very much. We can get out of the city, perhaps. Go stargazing."
"Yeah. I… Yeah. So let's get ourselves sorted. Sober up?"
"In a bit, if we need to. Sometimes being tipsy helps to, mm, get inside the prophet's head."
"Oh?"
"It certainly worked with Mother Shipton."
They went back inside. While they were out on the balcony, Handel had, predictably enough, turned into Queen. "Hammer to Fall" had just started, which seemed ominous. Aziraphale had his bibliomancy; Crowley wondered whether mercuriomancy was a thing. Or would that be reginamancy? No, wait, manteia was Greek. Hermeomancy?
He plopped onto the sofa. "Right, so. Fire."
Aziraphale joined him. "Yes. Are you…"
He waved it off. "I'm fine. It was just a long day."
"You're sure?"
Crowley twisted to take Aziraphale by the shoulders. "Angel, listen carefully. If charging into another wall of flame is what it takes to keep you safe, I will head up to the Seventh Terrace right now and set up fucking camp."
Aziraphale's concerned expression melted into a smile as tender as if Crowley had laid himself bare in sonnet form. "Really?"
"Looking forward to it. I'll bring marshmallows."
Aziraphale continued to smile mistily at him, and Crowley bopped him lightly on the side of the head. "I'd prefer a full night's sleep first, though, so…?"
"Yes! Yes, of course." Aziraphale squared his shoulders, determined to focus. "Fire. Faces."
"Are we absolutely sure this is about…" Crowley pointed down, then up. "Not that I want another thing to worry about."
"Pretty certain. Agnes could be confusing, but she wasn't cagey. If she didn't bother specifying the source of the threat, then she knew that we knew. Would know. Do know. I think."
"Good enough." He thrummed his lips. "Bad enough. They're not likely to give us a slap on the wrist for this."†
Aziraphale nodded solemnly. "The best I can look forward to is Falling." His upper lip was determinedly stiff.
Crowley shook his head. "That'd only make you Hell's problem, and they don't like you any better than me. No, angel, this is beyond punishment. No matter what we actually accomplished, we challenged the authority of both sides. Sets a bad precedent, that. They won't want us to be anybody's problem, ever again."
Baby, now your struggle's all in vain, yeah! sang Freddie Mercury into the silence.
"So it's hellfire for me after all," sighed Aziraphale.
"Angel…"
"Of course it is, Crowley, what else could she mean?!"
Crowley looked as though the very words burnt, but he didn't attempt to deny it. He did, however, ask, "Where would Heaven even get hellfire?"
"I suppose… they'd have to get it from Hell. Or perhaps they'll just send me Downstairs, let them dispose of me."
"An exchange? Would they cooperate like that?"
"It would be unprecedented, but… so is all of this."
"If they do, we know what I'll get."
The angel nodded, near tears. "They'd probably appreciate the symmetry. Oh, Crowley, it's just what we both feared!"
"Hey!" Crowley locked eyes with him. "It won't happen. Agnes wouldn't have bothered warning us if she knew it wouldn't do any good, right? We can beat this."
Aziraphale sniffled and pulled himself together. "Quite right, of course. We will beat this." He paused. "How will we beat this?"
Crowley didn't have an answer.
Just surrender and it won't hurt at all…
Aziraphale picked up the vodka, took a swallow, and handed the bottle to Crowley, who did likewise.
"Chooſe your faces wisely," the angel murmured. "Chooſe your faces wisely." He picked up one of the unfinished takeaway containers. The remaining food was still warm (it not having occurred to either of them that it ought to have cooled down by now).
"A disguise?" posited Crowley, taking the other. "That might buy us some time, but they'd figure it out eventually."
Aziraphale hummed consideringly around a forkful of korma, and swallowed. "We need a more permanent solution, but that does sound like what she's saying, doesn't it?"
Crowley chewed a piece of lamb phaal thoughtfully. "A disguise that'll get them to… what's our endgame here, anyway? Do you want to be back in Heaven's good graces?" he asked with forced casualness.
"Heaven can get stuffed." Aziraphale immediately looked utterly shocked at himself, and his eyes flicked upwards. Then he giggled, exhilarated. "That really is awfully good vodka," he told Crowley confidentially.
"I," declared Crowley, unspeakably proud of his angel, "am getting that embroidered and framed. Right, so we're looking for a disguise that will somehow just... get them off our backs, then?"
"I'd like that," Aziraphale said wistfully. "To be left to our own devices. To do as we see fit and not have to deal with the bloody bureaucracy."
Crowley nodded. The music moved on to the next track.
Aziraphale leaned over and dipped some naan in Crowley's sauce. "You're right, though, we can't fool them forever. It'll have to be something with an immediate effect."
"What, like make them too scared to bother us?"
Aziraphale gave him a Look. "Us, frighten off the entire combined hosts of Heaven and Hell."
"That's where the disguise comes in. Obviously."
"Obviously."
"Don't be like that. Look at it this way, you'll get to play a role."
Aziraphale opened his mouth and then closed it, unable to find a valid objection to this.
"Yeah, that's what I thought. Honestly, most people would just join an am-dram group. Okay. Spitballing. We… um… we disguise ourselves as Nephilim."
"There are no more Nephilim, and anyway, look how they got rid of them the last time."
"True. We just saved the world, don't wanna put it right back in danger." Crowley stole a bit of Aziraphale's cauliflower.
It's not easy, love, crooned Freddie,
But you got friends you can trust!
Friends will be friends…
"We disguise ourselves… as Gabriel and Beelzebub."
"Think I see a couple of flaws with that one, angel."
"Hmm, yes."
"Besides, Beelzebub'd have you flayed just for sitting in zzzzzzir chair."
"Honestly, probably so would Gabriel. Well, not flayed. Too messy. But smote. Smitten."
"Don't want to get smote."
Aziraphale shook his head emphatically.
"Not even gonna say my next idea, then. Get a lightning bolt right through the window."
"Wha—no, Crowley!"
"In fairness, it would be terrifying."
"It would also be literal blasphemy, and also, how?!" Aziraphale groaned. "No, we're missing something. It's such an… uncomplicated prophecy, the answer must be staring us right in the face." He gave Crowley a pained look.
Friends will be friends…
Crowley froze in mid-chew.
Friends will be friends…
"Choose… your faces wisely," he said with his mouth full.
"I beg your pardon?"
Crowley swallowed. "Choose our faces wisely, she said! Our faces!"
"What are you on about?"
"Bear with me here, what would happen if we disguised ourselves as each other?"
Aziraphale's brow creased in perplexity. "What? Um, well, assuming we actually managed to convince them…"
"Right, obviously."
"They…" His eyes widened. "They would subject us to each other's sentences. Water for me and fire for you. It'd be harmless."
"And what would they think of that, eh?" Crowley was leaning forward now in his excitement.
"I expect they wouldn't know what to think."
"They'd be so off balance, we could demand just about anything and play it like we're doing them a favour just letting them live! Shrug off execution, who knows what we're capable of, eh?"
Aziraphale gaped in delight. "Crowley, you wily, wily serpent!"
Crowley grinned. "Subtlest of beasts, that's me."
The angel snorted.‡
It's so easy now
'Cause you got friends you can trust!
Aziraphale relaxed back into thoughtfulness. "Of course, that is assuming we manage to convince them."
"Mmm," Crowley agreed. "A simple shape-change isn't going to cut it. Even if I make my body look like yours, it'll still be my body, with me in it. Might fool the lower ranks, but not the nobs."
Hold out your hand...
Aziraphale brightened. "What if we switch bodies outright?"
"That… might do the trick, if we really sell it," Crowley said slowly. "And I mean really sell it, so they don't think to look deeper. You said it yourself, though, we don't know what would happen if we occupy the same body at the same time. If we get the timing wrong…" It went without saying that they didn't want to leave them sitting vacant; they'd both read the manual.
"So we don't move between bodies," Aziraphale countered. "We stay where we are, and exchange the bodies."
"Huh!" Crowley considered this. "Tricky. We'd have to sort of… ease them around us, cell by cell, to make sure they settle right. And they won't exactly be handing out new ones if we get this wrong, no matter how many forms we fill out."
"We can do it," Aziraphale said with a jolly sort of confidence which meant he was trying to encourage himself as well, but without the note of desperation which would have meant he was trying to convince himself of something he didn't truly believe. "We know our bodies very well, we've had them… well, all right, this one's technically new, but it's a remarkably accurate reproduction."
"Boy did a good job, did he?"
"Oh, yes. Still needs a little breaking in around the joints, of course, but the fit's perfect." Aziraphale rolled his shoulders.
Crowley nodded absently. "All right, I admit, that does sound like our best option. Not that we're spoilt for choice."
Aziraphale hesitated before speaking. "You do realise… this means you'll have to face the fire for me."
Crowley rolled his eyes. "Did you miss the part where I said I'd do just that if I had to?"
"Yes, I mean, no, but that was hypothetical…"
Crowley opened his mouth to retort, then paused and cocked his head at the new track that had just come on. He grinned—call it a sign, why not—grabbed the bottle, knocked back a slug of vodka, and drawled, "I'll fucking do it, darling."
It was unclear whether Aziraphale got the reference, but regardless, he blinked in surprise and then beamed.
"In the morning," Crowley amended. "We'll do it in the morning. We definitely want to be rested and sober for this."
"You're sure we'll be safe here until then?"
"Yeah, they'll be busy for a while yet. The infernal troops will have been worked up into a frenzy of wrath, they'll have to get that lot under control before they can even think of doing anything else."
Aziraphale nodded. "Substitute 'righteous zeal' and I imagine the Heavenly Host will be much the same."
"Anyway, after Ligur, I'd wager they'll think twice about barging in here again."
Aziraphale (who had just about managed to put the situation in the office out of his mind) thought about this and winced. "No bet. You're right. I'll try to relax."
"I can make tea, if it'll help. Or get us some dessert, or…" Crowley brightened. "How about a bath? Like old times. You, me, the tepidarium, and a couple bowls of raspberry sorbet."
"Oh my goodness." Aziraphale leaned his head back as though he were already in the water. "That sounds di… no," he corrected himself. "No, it doesn't. It does not sound divine, it does not sound heavenly, it sounds like the finest of Earthly delights, and I would be positively elated to share it with you."
Crowley smiled. "There's my angel," he murmured, and went to the kitchen to get the sorbet.
*including laserdisc [return to story]
**including 8-track [return to story]
†In Hell, a slap on the wrist involves a gauntlet embedded with fish hooks. [return to story]
‡That particular version of Genesis 3:1 was something of a running joke between the two; as Aziraphale said, whoever had selected "subtle" over all other possible translations of עָרוּם was clearly unfamiliar with the demon's fashion sense. [return to story]