Chapter Text
One day, out of nowhere, Crowley suddenly felt a bit peculiar. Then, even more suddenly, the world was a violently spinning miasma of color and sound. A few moments later he was on the ground being peered at by a bunch of concerned strangers.
His glasses hadn’t fallen off, which was good. Not a minute later he was upright and the various people surrounding him couldn’t quite remember what all the fuss had been about. No one paid him the slightest bit of attention as he took off down the street, which might have had something to do with the fact that he was moving just a bit quicker than the human eye could comfortably follow. [1]
He had no idea what he’d just been hit with, but one thing was for certain: he’d been attacked by something powerful, and if he’d been attacked then an attack on Aziraphale might already be underway.
He skidded to a stop just outside the bookshop, for all intents and purposes appearing out of thin air. The sign on the shop said CLOSED, and the door was already opening as Crowley reached for it. It was already opening because the shop’s owner was stepping out.
Oh no, Crowley thought. Oh no, nononononononono. Why now? Why would he Fall now?
If he’d been able to be even slightly more observant, he might have noticed that the other demon looked every bit as horrified and anguished as he felt. As it was, neither of them noticed anything amiss until they spoke.
“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, and was asked at the same time “Gadreel?”
“Wait, what?”
“How do you know-”
They stopped for a moment, regarding one another with suspicion. [2]
“Something happened, just now,” Crowley began.
“You think?”
“Something happened to me. I don’t know what, I just know that it left me collapsed on the street. I figured it was at least one of our Home Offices, and so came running here in case they were trying something with you. How do you know what my name was?”
“It’s the only name I’ve ever known you by,” replied the demon who was definitely not Aziraphale. “How long have you been a demon?”
“Trick question,” Crowley replied.
“How so?” Not-Aziraphale asked. He had an unnervingly even tone to his voice, like he knew he could deck you, but was, in the interests of not exerting himself, going to give you one last chance to avoid that fate. Crowley, who had never quite managed to generate such a subtle aura of menace, was a little impressed.
“Time hadn’t been invented yet,” he replied.
Aziraphale- or whatever his name was- nodded. “We probably shouldn’t have this conversation on the street. Come inside, darling.”
Crowley blinked at the endearment, and then followed not-Aziraphale inside.
“The shop’s cleaner,” Crowley said as he entered. It was the first thing that popped out to him.
“Is it?” Not-Aziraphale asked. “I was just thinking that it needed cleaning.” He flicked his wrist up and snapped, and the place was suddenly in better condition than Crowley had ever seen it, including opening day.
“Huh,” Crowley said. Right- Hell was a lot less uptight about things like ‘frivolous use of miracles’ than Heaven, so there was no reason for this not-Aziraphale not to use it to clean. The cleanliness wasn’t the only difference either. The stock was all new too- or at least, newish- and as he squinted he could make out something about chemical trails controlling global warming. The layout was more open, more people friendly. There were even chairs for potential customers to sit at, over near the window.
“Are you injured?” Not-Aziraphale asked.
“No. Why?”
“You’re walking funny.”
“I am not! This is just how I walk.” He was quite proud of his walk, actually. It took him ages and ages to make it human enough to pass, and pass with style.
“Hm. That’s new. Or different, at least.”
The demon’s shop was more different from the angel’s shop than the demon was to the angel, at least at first glance. From the way he was being looked at, Crowley got the impression that it was much the same with him and his angelic counterpart.
“So. What is your name, then, if not Gadreel?” Not-Aziraphale asked. His eyes were brown, that was one difference there: very brown in a way that spoke of the iris to sclera ratio being a little skewed. He also thought they might be a bit bigger.
“Crowley,” he replied. “Anthony J Crowley, for the humans. You?”
“Aqzirab,” he replied. “I generally just let the humans fill in whatever they feel is most likely for the sake of paperwork. Most recently it’s been Ackermann.” His hair was straighter, and there seemed to be more of it. It was held back from his face with the same pair of superfluous reading glasses Aziraphale liked to wear when examining new manuscripts. It gave him a kind of Einstein vibe. Or maybe a more generic mad scientist one.
“Aqzirab,” Crowley repeated. “How'd you come up with that?”
“Tried to give my name and rank while being physically unable to do so, and also gargling sulfur,” Aqzirab replied dryly, with a shrug of his shoulders. Those were a bit different too: more built up, and not quite built correctly, like he had an extra muscle group hidden somewhere under his chestnut-brown Edwardian suit. “I can’t say I really thought much of it, but Mikka took it up, and that was that.”
“You should change it,” Crowley said, taking note of the name. It was obvious that Aqzirab expected Crowley to know who Mikka was, but he didn’t know of any demon who went by that name. “I did. I was Crawley at first, but it didn’t suit, so I just kept switching it around until I found one I liked.”
Aqzirab opened his mouth, and then spent some time thinking before actually saying anything. “You know, Crowley, I suppose there really isn’t a reason I couldn’t change it now.”
New development, Crowley noted. “Armageddon?” He asked.
“Averted,” Aqzirab replied curtly.
“Same. We had a little trouble with our Home Offices afterwards, but they saw reason in the end.” Crowley looked around the shop, which kept striking him with new and exciting things that were wrong. “Or so we thought, at least. It’s been three years. If this is them, it’s their first attempt since.”
“Is there anyone else who could pull such a thing off?” Aqzirab asked.
“Not that I know of,” Crowley admitted. “At least not from my… timeline? I’m assuming that’s what’s happening here.”
“It’s as good a guess as any, from where I’m standing,” Aqzirab said with another shrug of his massive shoulders.
They stood there, regarding one another, looking for a sign that this was some kind of trick.
“Is Gadr-aaah, nope, can't say it even in an alternate universe. Is angel-me still here, do you think?”
Aqzirab was already shaking his head. “I was on the phone with him. He said he felt odd, and then the connection cut out- all connections. I can’t sense his or any other angelic presence in the entire city. His phone’s also not showing up on the tracker- I was just about to go out and try to figure out where he got snatched from when you showed up.”
Crowley blinked a little at the notion of a version of Aziraphale who understood how to track people’s mobiles, but continued gamely with “Sounds like what happened to me. If we’re lucky, he’s in my timeline, trying to work this out with Aziraphale.” [3]
Aqzirab nodded. “So. Do you think this came from your universe’s people or mine?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Crowley admitted. “I’m not even sure what this is meant to be doing. Making you- Aziraphale- Fall is one thing, I guess.” It would put Aziraphale under Hell’s control, which was always something Crowley had hoped to avoid, and it would also nullify their ability to avoid another attempt at being executed. Though, he guessed he and Aqzirab wouldn’t be able to pull that off either. “Putting me in the universe where he- or, well, you- did is another one.”
“It’s equally possible that they wanted Gadreel to Fall,” Aqzirab pointed out. “Seeing as you appear to be in our timeline.”
“Doesn’t explain the switch, though, does it?” Crowley asked. “What with him disappearing presumably to my timeline and all.”
“Well, there is that,” Aqzirab shrugged. “Unfortunately, there’s a very good chance that someone will come here and want to tell us all about it.”
“There are wards,” Crowley said. It wasn’t a question- he could feel them, built up and layered together over the centuries.
“Enough to give us a bit of a warning and a good chance of escaping unscathed,” Aqzirab told him. “In terms of holding whichever angel or demon is responsible for this long enough for them to tell us how to reverse this, however… that might be pushing our luck.”
They were at least going to pretend to trust one another, then. Crowley could work with that.
“I can make a demon trap,” Crowley volunteered. “Angels, though…”
“Yes, they do tend to have a bit of an unfair advantage, don’t they,” Aqzirab agreed. “Hmm. You know, I might have something in the back. Just- stand there and don’t touch anything yet.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. Aqzirab gave no indication that he either saw or cared, but did reappear carrying something long and thin, wrapped in oilcloth.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve seen actual oilcloth in about ten million years,” Crowley said.
“Is your universe so old?” Aqzirab asked.
“You know what I mean,” Crowley groaned.
Aqzirab tucked the wrapped something under his arm and went over to the till. “Chalk works for demon traps in this universe. I presume it’s the same in yours?”
“Yep.”
Aqzirab pulled out a little nub of chalk and tossed it to him with surprising force. It stung his palm a little when he caught it.
It only took a few minutes for Crowley to draw out a catch-all trap. It was general enough that most demons would at least be slowed down by it. Unfortunately, without knowing the name of whoever it was that was going to be coming to ‘tell them all about it’, if the demon in question had any kind of power or cleverness, it wasn’t going to do more than that.
“That’s about as good as it gets,” Crowley said, stepping back. “So long as we avoid stepping in it, we’re good.”
Aqzirab snapped, and a rug appeared over the trap.
“You’re going to smudge my work,” Crowley complained.
“It’s floating just above the trap, darling, don’t you fret,” Aqzirab said with a roll of his eyes.
Crowley bent down and squinted. Sure enough, the rug was floating. “Well,” he said, standing back up. “That’s alright then.”
Aqzirab nodded again. Crowley nodded back. They stood there for a moment in silence, Aqzirab with his parcel, and Crowley with the bit of chalk. ‘Eventually,’ he thought, ‘One of us is going to have to ask.’ [4]
To his surprise, it was Aqzirab who did. “How did you Fall, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I asked a lot of questions, hung around with the wrong people,” Crowley replied. “It wasn’t really a Fall so much as a Saunter Vaguely Downwards. You?”
“I was a soldier. There was a war, I fought, and my side lost,” he said simply.
Crowley opened his mouth.
“And that’s the pleasant lies we tell everyone out of the way,” Aqzirab said before Crowley could. “If we’re going to continue this conversation, I’m going to insist that we break out the really potent alcohol.”
“Fine by me,” Crowley said. “I have a feeling this is going to be a bit of a day anyway.”
“We’re already at a bit of a day,” Aqzirab grumbled. “How do you feel about rum?”
“Potently,” Crowley replied.
They sat in the chairs by the front of the store. Aqzirab tucked the parcel next to his seat on the inside, facing the shop; otherwise, they were in plain view of everyone passing by on the street.
“Different?”
“Extremely. Normally we’re tucked away in the back.”
“In the stock room?” Aqzirab asked.
“It’s a sitting room where I'm from,” Crowley said. “I don’t think Aziraphale has a stock room. Or much ‘stock’, really. The whole thing’s more of a place for him to stick his accumulated collection of first editions than an actual store.”
Aqzirab paused in the middle of pouring to stare at him in horror. “He keeps first editions on the sales floor? Where people can touch them?”
“And he makes that exact face when people try too,” Crowley said with a laugh. “Why, where do you keep yours?”
“I keep my private collection in my private home, as Mikka intended,” Aqzirab said, sounding scandalized.
There was that name again. Before Crowley could ask there was a knock on the door.
“We’re closed!” Aqzirab said brightly, pointing to the sign on the window which read OPEN BY APPOINTMENT ONLY :) :) :).
The three smilies really sold the passive-aggressiveness of it. Crowley joined Aqzirab in on beaming and waving until the man gave up and went off in a huff.
“Well, I can see why you like doing your drinking here,” he said, raising his glass.
“The palpable frustration does add something to the bouquet,” Aqzirab agreed.
They clinked glasses, and drank. Another cautious silence fell between them.
Crowley decided to be the one to break it this time. “So. Who’s Mikka?”
Aqzirab blinked. “What?”
“Mikka. You keep mentioning them. Who are they?”
Aqzirab gaped at him.
“What?” Crowley asked.
“She’s the devil?” Aqzirab offered, after a moment to compose himself. “Or she is here, at least. Why, who has the job where you’re from?”
“Satan,” Crowley said, quietly reeling.
“Who?”
“Satan! How could there not be a Satan? You have to know Satan, there wouldn’t be any demons otherwise.”
“I assure you I don’t.”
“Satan! You know, Lucifer, the Morningstar! The bloody Light-bringer!” Crowley stopped, because he could tell that that last one was recognizable.
“He’s Sataniel, here, I think,” Aqzirab said. Crowley had almost forgotten, how differently those first two syllables had been pronounced, back in the day. “Accuser of God, High General of Heaven’s Armies. And yes, he’s called Light-bringer here as well.”
“The High General of Heaven is Michael, where I’m from,” Crowley told him. “Is that-”
“Mikka,” Aqzirab said. “I’m pretty sure that was Mikka’s name, before the Fall.” [5]
They sat there, each looking sick.
“Are you- are you telling me that this is a timeline where the Rebellion succeeded?” Crowley asked finally, since someone should.
“It’s called the Revolution here,” Aqzirab told him. “And yes. It did.”
“How does that even work?” Crowley demanded. “Is this- does Heaven like people asking questions, here?” That sounded pretty ideal, actually.
“From what Gadreel has told me, they like it if they’re the right sort of questions,” Aqzirab told him. “Ones they already have answers to. And you don’t question the answers.”
Crowley felt his face wrinkle is disgust. What a fucking waste. Then something else occurred to him. “Is God evil?”
“I’ve often wondered,” Aqzirab said tiredly. “She’s not aligned with Hell, though, if that’s what you’re really asking.”
Crowley stared at him, and then turned and stared out the window.
“You know,” he said after a moment. “I always thought that if my side had won, there would have been more screaming.”
“I’ve had the same suspicion myself,” Aqzirab admitted. “I take it that this doesn’t look very different to your timeline?”
“I’m sure there are some differences,” Crowley said. “I mean, there have to be, right? But nothing big. Nothing I noticed until I saw you, at least.” [6]
Aqzirab nodded, and then he smiled.
“What?” Crowley asked.
“I’ve just realized that we’ve really had almost no influence on them at all,” Aqzirab said. “I bet our bosses would love to know that.”
“They’d probably pass that off as us being bad at our jobs,” Crowley said. “Which, I don’t know about you, but I was never all that enthusiastic about it. I like watching people squirm, when they’ve done something to deserve it, and I also enjoy a bit of mass frustration, but otherwise...”
Aqzirab shrugged. “I followed orders, mostly, right up until just before the end. Beyond that, my time was spent mainly on me.”
“Did you ever get a commendation for something you didn’t do?” Crowley asked. “I used to. All the time.”
“Yes.” Aqzirab nodded, his mouth cutting an unhappy line across his face. “I spent most of WWII trying to convince Hitler and as many of his underlings I could get through to to kill themselves. Was there a Hitler is your universe?” Crowley nodded, so Aqzirab continued with “Well, that’s disappointing. Anyway, when I finally succeeded, it was only because the Allies were at their doorstep, and many of them killed their wives and children before themselves. Then I came home, found that I’d earned several commendations for Nazism itself.”
“Yeah, that tracks,” Crowley said, draining the rest of his rum.
“You know, I think we might need something stronger,” Aqzirab said. “Does tequila still make you all twirly?”
“Twirly?” Crowley asked.
For an answer, Aqzirab pulled out his mobile, tapped a little bit, and then dropped it in front of Crowley. The video was already playing.
The video was of him. Or, well. It was video of the angel he would have been, if he’d never Fallen. [7]
It had been taken in the bookshop, and the angel was attempting to dance. He was, if anything, even worse than Crowley at it, and was mostly spinning around in circles while making dubstep noises with his mouth.
“Wait, wait wait,” the angel said suddenly, coming to a stop. “Are you recording this?”
“Of course not, darling,” came Aqzirab’s voice, sounding like butter would not have melted in his mouth.
“You bastard,” the angel replied, stalking towards him. End of video.
Crowley stared down at the screen for a moment. The angel looked back, seemingly annoyed even with the beginnings of a smile on his face. They looked very similar: sharp cheekbones, eyes hidden by glasses. His eyes had always been yellow, even if they were once more human-like in shape. A lot of angels used a glamor to change their eye color, but then again, a lot of angels were only down on Earth for a few hours at a time, not stationed permanently like Aziraphale.
Or like bleeding Gadreel, apparently.
“My hair did used to be black back in the day, didn’t it?” he said quietly. Then he caught sight of the view count, and did a double take. “Three million views? That is evil.”
“Thank you,” Aqzirab replied as he set the tequila down. “I may no longer work for Hell, but I do like to keep my hand in.”
Crowley set down the mobile and poured for them both as Aqzirab took his seat. Aqzirab took his phone back, picked up his glass, and looked out the window.
“You know, I really- I really thought that was all predestined,” Crowley said, following his gaze. The street was full of very normal looking people doing very normal looking people things. “Us losing, that is.”
“Yes. I also thought we were always meant to lose,” Aqzirab said.
Crowley was expecting, because his voice sounded the same as Aziraphale’s, to hear the familiar argument for ineffability. ‘Oh, well, we’re from different timelines’, he was going to say. ‘I suppose we were meant for different things.’
“I also thought I didn’t have any more faith to lose after that,” Aqzirab said instead. “I suppose I was wrong about that too.”
It took Crowley a moment to think of a good response to that. “And then it turned out that the only predestined thing was for humans to discover global warming so we could enjoy regular 37 degree summers here in England.”
“Ha!” Aqzirab said, mirthless and bitter. “Well. I suppose we can put ‘making them completely impervious to celestial meddling on a large scale’ down in the category of good things that pear of yours has produced.”
Crowley started.
“Or, well. I suppose my counterpart must have done that in your timeline,” Aqzirab said hurriedly.
“You mean the forbidden fruit, of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil? From the Garden?” Crowley asked.
Aqzirab nodded.
“They’re settled on calling it an apple right now, where I’m from,” Crowley told him. “And no, that was me. I gave them that fruit.”
“And you were already Fallen when you did it?” Aqzirab asked.
Crowley nodded.
“How did your people react?”
“Oh, they loved it,” Crowley told him. “They loved it so much that the devil himself ended up taking credit for it. Why? How did that all go down here?”
“Well,” Aqzirab said after a moment. “Not to be crass but… might I suggest that I show you mine and you show me yours?” [8]
“I think we’d better,” Crowley replied.