Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 1 of 12

"Well, seeing that today certainly is my day – why don't you call me Wednesday?"

– American Gods, Neil Gaiman

It was a rainy Wednesday in Aziraphale's bookshop; Crowley was about to sit down for elevenses with the angel, watching suspiciously as 'Aziraphale' made a number of uncharacteristic mistakes setting the table.

He chipped a saucer – and didn't immediately bite back a frustrated curse. Nor did his eyes bulge from struggle of trying very, very hard not to swear – not even the slightest pop. He gave Crowley the wrong cup – the teacup he usually used himself. The spoons he placed haphazardly down in front of him were, in actuality, big gold-plated tablespoons. The world could literally be ending and the fussy principality would still never have used those to stir tea – Crowley knew this from firsthand experience.

Whoever the person across from him was, smiling a little too brightly – this person wearing Aziraphale's face and shape – it was decidedly not Aziraphale.

It didn't even smell like him.

He was already positive this was an imposter, but Crowley decided to make doubly sure. He pushed back his chair, walked over to the nearest shelf, picked up a book, raised an eyebrow, and made a motion as if to dog-ear one of the pages.

'Aziraphale' didn't react.

Biting onto his lower lip, Crowley turned his face away and murmured, "Son of a bitch."

Careful not to give himself away just yet, Crowley set the book back on the shelf and sat down as if nothing was wrong, as if he believed this was indeed his closest friend and suspected nothing at all.

"So, Crowley, how have you been?"

"Fine." Crowley lifted the teacup to his lips and began sipping it, struggling not to make a face of revulsion.

It tasted horrible. Further proof this was not Aziraphale, since the principality knew how to make a decent cup of tea – this vile brew tasted like mud and medicine with a sharply bitter aftertaste that made him want to be sick all over the bookshop floor.

Forcing himself to smile and swallow it was a struggle.

"You like the tea?"

"Mmm-hmmm."

"Made it especially for you, runt." And then the person across from him made the most obnoxious tittering sound Crowley had ever heard in his life.

"I appreciate it," said Crowley, downing the rest of the awful tea in a final relieved swig – one last merciful gulp – and setting the cup down onto the mismatched saucer with a pretence of complete ease. "Oh, by the way, Hastur, Aziraphale does not laugh like that. Nor would he ever refer to me as runt."

"No," said Hastur with Aziraphale's voice and smile, bringing a napkin to his mouth and dabbing at it coolly. "I suppose he wouldn't, would he?"

Crowley folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. "You might as well stop pretending and tell me what you've done with him before I become very unpleasant."

"Done with him? I've done nothing to him. This wasn't about him."

"You expect me to believe that?" he hissed, slamming his palms down on the tabletop, causing the tea-set to rattle violently. "Tell me where Aziraphale is now!"

"I have no idea."

The shop bell above the door jingled; Crowley didn't register it, he was too busy glaring daggers at Hasturaphale. He leaped up, flipping the table over – mismatched crockery flying across the room and shattering against the far wall – and grabbed Hastur by Aziraphale's lapel.

"Really, my dear? My good china? Was that necessary? I've asked you many times not to break things in a fit of demonic rage inside my shop. I have an entire cheap tea-set for you to smash as you see fit – outside."

It was Aziraphale – really him – standing behind them holding a heavy paper parcel tied up with string, and he sounded rather put out. He had not seen the demon who was currently adorned in his likeness, not yet – he'd only seen Crowley flipping over the table, looking like he wanted to kill something.

Then, after he set the parcel down, he realised. The angel pointed, mouth agape. "What the hell is going on?"

Crowley flung Hasturaphale aside. "You're all right," he said, relieved.

Hastur looked like himself now; Aziraphale's soft, plump features had melted away in a twinkling. The troubling thing was that he did not seem particularly upset. No, he was actually grinning.

"Wot the deuce are you so happy about?" Crowley demanded, lips pursed.

The duke of Hell did not reply.

"Hastur, if you think this is acceptable, you're quite mistaken." Aziraphale pouted, splaying his fingers emphatically. "Your office in Hell will be receiving an invoice for the cost of the broken china! Oh, this is going to take forever to clean up!"

Crowley turned to shake his head at the angel. As amusing at the thought of Hastur having to pay for the broken tea-things of an irate angel was, they really didn't want to be getting Hell's attention (or Heaven's) right now; they were meant to be keeping under the radar after their little body-swap stunt.

But before he could so much as gesture in Aziraphale's direction, the demon felt something wrong. He pressed his hand to his abdomen and groaned, bending forward.

"Angel," he mumbled as the world around him started to spin.

"I can't–" He wheezed, stumbling to the side so he could lean against the wall. "Something's not–" The tea! The bloody awful tea. He drank the tea. There was no time to miracle it out of his bloodstream, whatever he'd done...it was already working... "Hastur–" The rapidly turning world was shiny, then dark.

Aziraphale rushed over and caught Crowley in his arms as he slumped unconsciously towards the floor. "You poisoned him."

Hastur guffawed with dark merriment.

The principality stroked the side of his friend's pale face mournfully. "Oh, Crowley." And, brokenly, under Hastur's gloating gaze, he waited for an end that didn't come.

Something wasn't adding up about this. Crowley wasn't breathing, but demons didn't need to breathe, so that in itself didn't tell the angel much. The thing was, the body wasn't showing any signs of being discorporated – the body was just remaining here, in the angel's arms, with Crowley seemingly locked inside of it.

Aziraphale gently removed Crowley's sunglasses and slapped his cheek. "Come on, my dear, if you're in there, wake up – look at me now."

Hastur smirked down at him. "Oh, don't bother, fat-wings. It won't help. He's gone – he's not in there."

"Where did you send him?" demanded Aziraphale, eyes moist and teeth gritted.

'ello, it's Wednesday morning!

"Wot?" Crowley rolled over in what seemed to be rather a comfortable bed, actually. "What's happening? Where the Heaven am I?"

It's overcast today, with a fifty to sixty percent chance of rain, so you best have your brolly on hand just in case –

As if from some ingrained habit, Crowley felt his arm flail to the side, smacking the top of an alarm clock radio, making the noise stop so he could think for a moment.

Rubbing at his eyes, he sat up. His cascading hair settled against the middle of his back – he couldn't remember the last time he'd worn it that long. "Bleh." His mouth tasted like copper pennies with a faint hint of piss.

The last thing he remembered was... His stomach. Pain. Poison. Aziraphale. Hastur. Crockery everywhere. Bookshop. Damn tea.

Aziraphale! He'd left Aziraphale alone with Hastur!

He flung back the covers and jumped out of bed, landing on a soft sheepskin rug that tickled his toes delightfully.

The air smelled faintly of jasmine-scented aerosol. It was so sickeningly sterile; it reminded him of a hospital – or maybe of Heaven, just a bit.

"This isn't my flat." His eyes darted the length of the bedroom – it was cream-coloured and bright with floor length mirrors and pictures of saints on the walls.

There was a half-finished bottle of some fizzy health drink, a pair of silver sewing scissors, and a stack of square reading glasses beside the alarm clock radio.

He looked up – there were bloody mirrors on the ceiling as well. Who thought that was a good idea?

A pair of wide, bright blue eyes stared down at him.

Wait, if that was his reflection...

"My eyes!" Crowley ran over to the floor length mirror and practically shoved his nose against it. "Why are they blue?"

This was impossible.

Crowley knew for a fact that his snake-eyes, apart from their level of dilation, were something that could not be changed – he couldn't even wear contacts, because they didn't work for him, thus why he always kept his sunglasses handy. His demonically glowing yellow eyes had been unchangeable for six thousand years!

Something in his back twitched and his heart pounded. Thump. Thud. Thump. "No... No..." He'd prove it wasn't what he... He relaxed the muscles holding them back, let them out. Gleaming white wings unfurled from his back, a flurry of handsome but rather messy feathers. "Shit, shit, shit! Shit!"

A landline on the dresser pressed against the wall to the mirror's right began ringing.

Manic, Crowley snatched up the headset and shouted, "My eyes are blue! Blue!" And then he slammed it back down onto the receiver, his chest heaving. He closed his inexplicably blue eyes, winched in his wings, and inhaled long and deep. "Okay. Right. Got that out of my system, then." He wondered vaguely who had been on the other end of that call.

My eyes are blue! Blue!

Click.

Riding atop a double-decker bus on the other side of London, the archangel Michael was staring down at the screen of her sleek, faintly glowing cellphone.

Call ended.

"Well," she said; "that was...odd..."

After a few stunned moments where even the phone's operating system seemed at a loss for words, there was a shimmering flicker and a suggestion popped up on the screen.

Early Call Termination Detected – Call Back 'Raphael'?

After making two wrong turns and finding himself in an impossibly large and steamy bathroom with far too many pushable buttons (Crowley liked technology, but only when it was simple – his stereo back at his flat in Mayfair only had an on-off switch and a dial for volume control, literally nothing else), the very lost and increasingly irate demon-turned-angel finally shuffled his way out of the complicated loft (via what he'd thought was a broom closet or one of those wicker doors meant to conceal dirty laundry baskets) and downstairs into more familiar surroundings.

It was Aziraphale's bookshop! The very last place he would have thought he was going by the upstairs!

Except, there were less shelves, everything was open-spaced and the thick overlaying carpets were a sharp shade of evergreen. And there were telescopes and rolled up posters and framed pictures of the moon (and several planets) and stacks of table-length charts mapped out with positions of various stars. It appeared to be an astronomy-centred shop of some kind, but it evidently hadn't opened yet, since there were all these easel-shaped wooden signs with half-finished streamers which said things like "Grand Opening," and piles of fliers announcing the doors would be thrown open on Thursday afternoon.

This didn't make sense. Where were all the books? Aziraphale would never clear them all out and replace them with astronomy equipment. It was as if the Astronomy section had somehow taken over the rest of the bookshop.

Half the space in the shop was actually occupied by a plethora of crowded-in potted plants with luxuriant leaves almost the same exact colour as the carpet.

Crowley felt his chest clench. "Aziraphale?"

There was no answer.

"Aziraphale, where are you, you idiot?" He could hear the desperation in his own voice, and sniffed – jumping nearly right out of his own skin when there came a rap on the window closest to the door.

A young woman with a ponytail stood out there, holding a book, waving at him.

Crowley opened the door – there was no jingle, no bells set above it to do so, and that felt almost sacrilegious. "Yeah?"

"Ohmigosh. I can't believe it's really you! You're Raphael Antonius!" She held up the book – his photograph was on the back of the dust-jacket, smiling angelically at the cameraman. "Your book changed my life – I hope you don't mind my tracking you down here – I know you're probably planning for the big opening tomorrow – but I'm such a huge fan." She drew a pen from a beaded clutch at her side. "Would you sign it for me?"

Crowley stared wordlessly.

She took in his baggy pastel pyjamas, her cheeks flushing. "Was this a bad time?"

"Ngh, give it here." He pulled himself back together, taking the book from her outstretched hands and glancing hastily at the title. If he'd written a book, he'd at least like to know what the deuce it was about.

Healing Yourself: Peaceful & Healthful Living Tips

"You know, back when you had that talk show, I used to watch you every single day – my whole family did – you were bloody fabulous. My sister just loved the gardening tips segment at the end."

His lips went numb; he found it impossible to form coherent words. "T-talk show?"

"Mm-hmm." The pony-tail girl nodded earnestly. "We just loved it – we were so disappointed when you went off the air and they replaced you with that Yank televangelist, Marvin O. Bagman.

"It's not that my family hates Americans on principle, of course, you know. We simply don't trust anyone whose co-host used to be in Penthouse.

"But, anyway, I taped your final episode and everything." Her eyes darted to the book, hanging limply from his fingertips. "So, uh, you signing that or what?"

"Er...right...I..." He uncapped the pen and hastily scribbled a signature before thrusting it back at her. "Glad you liked it. Always nice to meet a fan."

"What's this?" Her expression changed to one of disgusted disappointment as she glanced down at the flyleaf. "Who's A.J. Crowley?"

But he wasn't listening; he was nudging past her and stepping onto the Soho street, trying to work out what the heaven was going on here. He'd never written a self-health book or hosted his own talk show – this wasn't his shop, it was Aziraphale's – his eyes were not blue – none of this made any damn sense.

People were beginning to stare. Crowley looked down. Still in pyjamas. Right. He concentrated and the material reshaped itself into a navy blue suit – something right on the line between demonic and heavenly in appearance. A couple of passers-by did a double-take, blinking like they could have sworn – from the corner of their eyes – the man with the long red hair in a suit had been sashaying along in his pyjamas just a second ago.

A black Ford Fiesta pulled up at the curb, screeching to a halt. The window on the passenger side wound down. "Hello! What have we here?"

Leaning across from the driver's seat was none other than Aziraphale. Aziraphale in a black leather trench coat and dark sunglasses. Aziraphale with ashy-coloured hair instead of the usual celestial platinum. But Aziraphale nonetheless.

Crowley smiled in relief. Whatever was happening right now, it was all going to be all right – Hastur hadn't hurt Aziraphale. His best friend was okay. That was all that mattered, really, when you got right down to it. The world being shifted beyond all recognition wasn't pleasant, not by any stretch of the imagination, but knowing Aziraphale was still in it – that he was safe – made it bearable again.

All he actually said, though, was "Hi."

Aziraphale opened the passenger door. "Get in, angel."

Crowley hopped in and shut the door behind himself, groaning as he slid into the seat and Aziraphale stepped on the gas like a bat out of Hell.

The locks all clicked simultaneously.

"That was so easy," Aziraphale said, after a long awkward pause, "it was sad – you know, you really could put more effort into avoiding me. This is just getting insulting."

"Wot?"

Still going at what the car's speedometer showed as ninety miles an hour but Crowley guessed from experience was actually even faster, Aziraphale turned his head to scowl at him. "I'll have you know I had an elaborate plan of capture all worked out – there were nets and ropes and pulleys involved – I had to make several trips to the hardware store to obtain everything I needed – and what do you do? You just get in the car the moment I ask you to!"

Crowley was at a complete loss. "I–"

"Look." He sighed, putting one manicured hand on the steering wheel and gesturing frustratedly with the other. "Please understand I don't mean to criticize you. I'm sure you're doing your best, my dear. I'm simply saying there's no point in my going to so much trouble if you're not even going to–" The car jerked to a stop so fast Crowley's head would have gone through the windscreen if he hadn't gripped the side of his seat just in time. "Sorry. School zone. Real pain – blasted children crossing – but there's nothing to be done." He honked the horn. "Hurry up, would you?" His fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel. "I'm sure they'll be on the other side any moment now... Er, where was I?"

Crowley shrugged, watching a group of little kids in yellow mackintoshes march across the street looking for all the world like a shuffling row of rubber ducklings.

Instead of starting the car up again once the last child made it across, Aziraphale reached under his seat and pulled out a tire iron.

Not aware, at first, what Aziraphale's intention was, Crowley didn't move. Then he saw him lift the tire iron in a motion to bring it down across the side of his face.

Crowley flinched, then dodged, from some belated instinct – but not quickly enough.

It struck his temple and everything went black.

He came to in the back seat with his hands and feet bound up with a length of rope. "Oi! What the Heaven was that for?"

"Oh, you're awake, are you? Jolly good." The reflection in the rear-view mirror made Crowley's blood run cold.

Aziraphale wasn't wearing sunglasses now; his eyes were visible, dispassionately watching him, and they were such a dark charcoal as to be almost black.

Suddenly the obvious dawned on Crowley and he wanted to hit himself for being such an idiot. If he had angel's wings and bright blue eyes – if somehow he'd become an angel again – it perhaps stood to reason that there had been a switch – and that Aziraphale was...was...

No. Aziraphale was – and always would be – an angel. He couldn't be a demon. Not him. He wasn't nearly enough a bastard for that. It was wrong; some sick, utterly vile sin against nature.

But he'd called him angel, when he'd told him to get in the car – as if he wasn't one himself.

"Why'm I tied up?" The side of his face was sore. "Ow." Crowley's mind frantically grappled for something familiar to latch onto. "What about the Arrangement?"

"Arrangement?" echoed Aziraphale, sounding genuinely mystified.

"You know, lending a helping hand – since we just cancel each other out anyway." He tried to shift in the seat so that he was sitting up and could lean forward. "None of this trying to stop each other nonsense."

"It isn't nonsense." Aziraphale's tone grew defensive. "We're hereditary enemies, Raphael. You are an angel, I am a demon. I'd never agree to something like...well...that – it would be disgraceful."

"Hang on. Did you just call me Raphael?" Crowley had never told Aziraphale who he'd been before he...except maybe now...maybe now...

The name on the pony-tail girl's book came back to him. Did this mean he'd never stopped being Raphael? That he'd never become Crawly – and then Crowley – at all?

"Oh, for Satan's sake, I didn't think I hit you that hard." Aziraphale shrugged, making a sharp left turn and narrowly missing a hydrant as he bumped over the curb. Two dustbins toppled over, their contents spilling out onto the street where they were crushed under the rolling wheels of the Ford Fiesta. "Well, I suppose it'll all be the same by the time this is over."

The blood drained from Crowley's face. "Are you going to discorporate me?"

"Well, if you must know, yes, I was planning on it – but let's just drive for a little longer and see how things go." He turned and smiled back at him. "Sound good to you?"

"Not really."

He threw back his head and laughed maniacally. "Ah. Fantastic – that settles it, then."

Just when Crowley thought things couldn't get any worse, Demon-Aziraphale decided to take a handgun out of the glove compartment, pull over, and force him to walk several miles up a length of tracks down the Piccadilly line.

Initially he wasn't actively trying to get away from him, but as he quickly realised this version of Aziraphale was wholly in earnest (and possibly insane), he began struggling and stubbornly resisting – only for the sorry bastard to simply lift him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and walk the rest of the way himself.

Crowley kicked and threatened very ineffectively, though Aziraphale seemed rather pleased with this. "Put me down right now!"

"Soon enough, my dear fellow, soon enough."

"I mean it – you set me down this instant," he hissed, "or you'll face my wrath."

Aziraphale laughed so hard he almost dropped him. "Your wrath, you say? Honestly, Raphael! A person does try to do this sort of thing straight forward, all frills and no fuss, but you can't be making jokes like that. I'll have to make a trip to the lavatory if you keep it up!"

Crowley waggled his tied up legs to no avail. "How are you so good at this?" By this point, if it were him, he'd have just let the angel go and called it a day – made up some excuse – but Aziraphale kept trudging doggedly along.

He wondered what he was going to do when they stopped. Maybe Aziraphale would shoot him or... Well, they were on a set of railway tracks.

No. It couldn't be that.

No demon in the history of demony demons was clichéd enough to...

Crowley felt himself being flung to the ground and rolled over onto the tracks.

"Struggling is pointless, my dear." Sure enough, Aziraphale was merrily securing him to the tracks with more rope.

"So. Your brilliant plan is to discorporate me using methods that would have been considered dated in a 1930s silent film?"

"Shush – you're spoiling it."

"All right. You're being ridiculous. I've had about enough of this." He concentrated and the ropes loosened slightly, struggling against the occult power gathering like crackling static around Aziraphale.

They immediately tightened again and Crowley actually felt a pang of fear. Aziraphale really was going to go through with it and kill him – like it was nothing.

And, worse, he was enjoying it.

Despite there being several people not that far off, nobody seemed to notice what was happening – it was only reality, after all, and some demons knew how to bend it better than others.

"What's next?" snorted Crowley, swallowing any hurt and outrage he felt so Aziraphale wouldn't see it. "Just going to stand there and twirl your moustache, are you?"

Aziraphale's hand flew to his upper lip, aghast. "I do not have a moustache!"

"You might as well," he snapped. "And a cape."

He lowered his hand. "Oh, you're no fun."

"Fun? You're about to watch me get flattened by a Piccadilly line train!"

"Well, to be honest, I've got to watch something, Raphael – it isn't my fault there's never anything good on television Wednesday evenings." He tsked, shaking his head and tossing his gun in the air. "I mean – being a demon – I don't actually pay for my television license, but I'd be quite put out if I did." The gun dropped back down into his plump, manicured hands. "Oh my, it seems I forgot to put the safety on. That could have been unfortunate."

"Things have been a bit slow since they stopped rerunning Cheers," Crowley admitted begrudgingly.

"Oh, I never liked Cheers."

"It's an excellent show," Crowley insisted.

"Fraiser is obviously the superior program."

"No it's not," argued Crowley, a smidgeon petulantly.

"Agree to disagree."

The sound of the train began to roar and whoosh further up the tracks and Crowley struggled against his bonds. "Come on, angel," – it was habit, and he was frightened in more ways than one – "untie me."

All it would take was a snap of his fingers and Crowley could go free, but Aziraphale was still shaking his head no. He reached down and patted Crowley's cheek before he stepped back a safe distance from the tracks. "No hard feelings, dear boy."

The train was getting closer.

"Aziraphale!" He squirmed, tried to unsuccessful to shift into a snake. "Aziraphale!" It was no good; the demon who had been the world's sweetest angel before today couldn't even hear him over the roaring train any more.

Crowley was hit – almost without pain, it was so quick.

There was a bang and flash of pure white. Crowley found himself standing in Heaven itself. It was as pristine and cold as ever.

"Hell's teeth!" He started; Gabriel and Sandalphon were suddenly stationed in front of him. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that."

"The demon Zira again?" asked Sandalphon, his tone nasal and smug, but not without a trace of uncharacteristic sympathy.

"You're shaking," said Gabriel, stepping forward and reaching out to pat Crowley on the back – frowning as his fellow archangel flinched from his touch. "What did that vile creature do to you this time?"

"You've got to stop letting him discorporate you so often," said Sandalphon. "New bodies don't grow on trees."

"Now, now, Sandalphon – I'm sure Raphael does everything he can to avoid the inconvenience. It isn't easy, squaring off against a Prince of Hell on a regular basis."

If Crowley had had a body, he'd have choked on his own saliva. "Aziraphale's... Aziraphale's a Prince of Hell?"

"Who?" said Sandalphon, blinking.

"I believe that's what the demon was called prior to his expulsion from Heaven," Gabriel told him quickly. "That's where he took 'Zira' from."

"Prince of Hell, really?" Crowley's head was swimming – or would have been if he'd had one.

Sandalphon continued on as though Crowley hadn't interrupted. "I don't recall any Aziraphale."

"Sure you do," Gabriel told him. "Little fat angel, always messing up his assignments? He was pretty incompetent back in the good old days. Honestly, before he became such a big shot...you know..." He pointed at the floor under their feet and cleared his throat. "Heaven was better off without him."

Springing forward, Crowley lunged at him.

"What the hell?" Gabriel's purple eyes widened in shock, dodging this unexpected attack and holding him at bay with one raised arm. "Raphael, calm down. You're fine now, I promise, just fill out a few forms and we'll get you a new body and send you on your way. Relax." To Sandalphon, he added, "Michael mentioned he was having a bad day."

A stack of paperwork the size of a bloody Bible materialized in front of him; Crowley moaned and turned away, utterly miserable.

"How's it feel?" Gabriel asked him.

Crowley flexed his new hand – the same as the old one but cramped from the excessive paperwork. "It feels just–" Tears began to fill his new eyes – which were just as blue as the last set. "Tickety-boo."

"Ready to go back?"

He nodded – he was quite finished with Heaven. Had been for a long, long time.

'ello, it's Wednesday morning!

Crowley sat up in bed – his cascading hair settled against the middle of his back.

He looked around dismally at everything, all of it exactly how it was the last time he'd been in this room that wasn't his – this room above what should be Aziraphale's bookshop.

It's overcast today, with a fifty to sixty percent chance of rain, so you best have your brolly on hand just in case –

Crowley's hand slammed down on the radio alarm clock. "This," he said through his teeth, very quietly, "is Hell on earth."

Chapter Text

Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 2 of 12

"Well, seeing that today certainly is my day – why don't you call me Wednesday?"

– American Gods, Neil Gaiman

Crowley toyed with the idea of simply staying in bed all day. Making his new body as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.

What was the bloody point of doing anything else?

Just waking up and going outside so Aziraphale – Zira, whatever – could gloat over the successful discorporation really didn't appeal to him. He hadn't realised the paperwork had taken a full week – but according to the annoyingly chipper man on the radio it was Wednesday again, so it stood to reason.

Surely Zira was proud as anything to have kept him held up in Heaven that long.

Besides, even if Aziraphale didn't gloat, even if he turned out to be a good sport about it, the thought of seeing his angel as a mentally unstable demon – not to mention a Prince of Hell – again made Crowley want to hit something. Preferably the other archangels. Those sorry sacks of feathers combined weren't half the angel Aziraphale had been, yet they acted as if his tragic Fall was nothing more than a typical inconvenience!

The way Gabriel had talked about him... Little fat angel, always messing up his assignments. How dare they! Was that all Aziraphale ever was to them?

He rolled over, burying his face in the pillows and groaning.

Crowley thought he might make it through a few more days in this bizarro world (as the Americans might call it); he thought he might trudge doggedly through this brave new universe where there was no Arrangement and keep his sanity intact... But he couldn't imagine – could fathom – couldn't stand the mere thought of – living like this forever. He hoped desperately that he'd be able to find a way back to his real life. To his version of Aziraphale.

The landline rang.

He considered ignoring it, then – lifting his face from the cosy cocoon of pillows enveloping his cheekbones – ultimately decided against that. He did wonder who would call him here, and he never had learned who he'd briefly yelled at then hung up on last Wednesday.

With another audible groan, he rolled grimly out of the bed – skittering across the sheepskin rug, creating massive amounts of wildly adhesive static cling in the process – and shuffled over to the phone, picking up the handset and yawning.

"Yeah?" He peeled a piece of lint off the shoulder of his pyjamas, only for it to stick to him again as soon as he tried to put it down.

"Raphael, it's me."

"Who?" he said absently, rather preoccupied with blowing irritably at the lint now clinging to his elbow.

"It's Michael."

"Is it?" After remembering suddenly that he could just miracle the lint away and quickly doing so, he rubbed the back of his head absently with his free hand – long, coppery strands of his hair were sticking straight up. "Hmm. Whatddya want?"

"I'm calling to inform you that I've gotten some information via back channels."

"What back channels?"

"Oh, for pity's sake, you're worse than Gabriel sometimes," came her heavily annoyed sigh. "Just listen."

"I'm all ears."

"I have it on good authority that the demon Zira is planning on–"

"Discorporating me, yes – I imagine it's going to be much the same as last week. Thanks anyway." Crowley set the handset back down on the receiver. "Wanker."

Click.

Michael frowned down at the phone screen. What had gotten into Raphael? And what did he mean 'last week'? The demon Zira hadn't tried to discorporate Raphael last week.

Last week they'd both been out of town, and Zira had been – and this she'd gotten from back channels as well – in Hell for a mandatory meeting.

She'd never liked Raphael. It was true she and Gabriel could bump heads from time to time because of having different methods – they'd never been as close as, say, Gabriel and Sandalphon – but there was still a calm understanding between the two of them, a sense that they must at least hear one another out, being on the same side and all that.

Raphael was different, entirely, and it worried her sometimes. You never quite knew what he was thinking – what he was up to. Perhaps she should be keeping more of an eye on him.

After miracling his pyjamas into a simple grey suit, Crowley made his way down the stairs to the shop, just in time to hear somebody knocking on the window.

Pony-tail girl again, holding that stupid self help book he'd supposedly written.

He opened the door. "Wot?"

"Ohmigosh. I can't believe it's really you! You're Raphael Antonius!"

"Last time I checked."

"Your book changed my life – I hope–"

He made a rolling motion with his hand for her to hurry up. "Yes, get on with it."

"Oh. Okay." Lips pursed in offence, she held the book out to him. "Would you sign it for me?"

Crowley blinked, once, very slowly. How many autographs did she need? Hadn't they done this already? Last week? Why was she acting as if this was the first time they'd...?

Upon lifting the cover, he was greeted by the pristine, unmarred flyleaf.

There was no signature in the book.

That was when it hit him. Michael could have been the person on the phone last time – in fact, that could have been the same exact call.

This wasn't a new Wednesday – it was a rerun.

So much for making it through a few more days here – he hadn't even made it through one.

Crowley blessed viciously and shoved the book back into the young woman's hands without signing it. She began snapping something rude, about how he wasn't nearly as nice in person as he was on the telly, as he pushed past her; but his thoughts were far away, already with Aziraphale.

If he was on his guard this time, more vigilant and less automatically trusting, he might be able to prevent the ange– Shit. Force of habit. Demon. Prevent the demon from trying to discorporate him like an old movie villain.

He walked determinedly down the Soho street to the place where the Ford Fiesta had met him the last time.

Sure enough, "Hello. What have we here?"

"Hello, Aziraphale!"

The demon in the leather trench coat scowled, his mouth fixing into a firm pout. "Don't call me that – it's Zira."

Best to pick his battles, even though it rankled like anything. "Right. Fine. As you like."

"Get in, angel."

Crowley hopped in, prepared this time for Aziraphale to step on the gas and lock all the doors. He inhaled sharply, slowly letting the breath out.

"That was so easy, it was sad – you know, you really could put more effort into avoiding me. This is just getting insulting."

"Yeah, sorry about that." Crowley smiled at him.

This seemed to calm Aziraphale slightly. "Well," he exhaled, blowing out his cheeks. "So long as you acknowledge the room for improvement, I'm sure there's no actual harm done. You have rather spoiled my elaborate plan, though."

"Oh, yes, the one with ropes and pulleys – and a net, I believe."

Aziraphale turned his head, mouth agape in shock. "Who told you? Ligur has been talking to Michael again, hasn't he? The little cuss!"

"Watch the road!" Crowley blurted, making an 'eyes forward' gesture a split second before the irony of this dawned on him. "I can't believe I just said that."

"Calm down, we're perfectly safe; you're so uptight!"

The car jerked to a stop – Crowley remembered just in time to grab hold of the seat to avoid ejection through a glass windscreen.

"Sorry. School Zone. Real pain – blasted children crossing – but there's nothing to be done." Aziraphale honked the horn. "Hurry up, would you?"

Crowley wouldn't take his eyes off him – he watched his plump, impossibly clean fingertips drum the wheel, not daring to glance out at the crossing kids in their yellow mackintoshes.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" he asked, his hand sliding under the seat a little prematurely, perhaps unnerved by Raphael's rapt attention. "It's only a small delay – I'm sure they'll be on the other side any moment now."

The tire iron was out now, and Aziraphale was raising it.

Crowley blocked the blow and moved aside.

"Oh my," sighed Aziraphale, tossing away the tire iron. "I can see we're going to have to do this the difficult way." He looked at Crowley almost pityingly for a moment. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather be knocked out?"

"You don't have to do this, you know," Crowley reminded him quietly.

"I'm afraid I do." He pulled out a length of rope and began trying to tie it around Crowley's wrists while he squirmed. "It's my job. I didn't get where I am today by–" He stopped abruptly. "You bit me, you little shit!"

Crowley's teeth were indeed sunk into one of Aziraphale's wrists. The former snake had done what came naturally, and struck. "Bleh," he grunted, pulling back. "Unavoidable, I'm afraid. Now, if you would stop trying to tie me up and listen to me for a minute, I really think you and I should–"

Snarling, Aziraphale grabbed him by the front of his suit, lifted him up, and flung him into the back seat.

"Ow," moaned Crowley, winded. "I think my back just hit a seatbelt."

Suddenly Aziraphale's knee was pressing down into his abdomen. "Give me your hands now – and don't you dare kick me, do you understand?"

There was a moment of hesitation on Crowley's part. He stared up at Aziraphale, numbly consulting his own conflicted expression reflected in the former angel's dark sunglasses.

Between having raw demonic power on his side and being the larger of the two of them, the general strength was definitely tipped in Aziraphale's favour, but Crowley could still fight him back blow for blow if he wanted to – the problem was he risked actually hurting him. Giving him one little hard nip to ward him off had been one thing – if he really fought him, especially not quite remembering how all his angelic strengths worked after so much time, he didn't know what would happen. It had been a long time since he'd fought cleanly – all of his best tricks were dirty and could potentially cause a great deal of harm.

What if he accidentally discorporated Aziraphale and the forces of Hell were – as was likely from Crowley's experience – less than kind when he returned?

The fact that Aziraphale was a Prince of Hell didn't guarantee him good treatment after a marked failure – just slightly better than what Crowley would have gotten in his place, maybe.

How could he risk putting his angel through that when he knew what it was like?

So far this unexpected do-over day wasn't going so well. Crowley was liking his options less and less as things progressed onwards.

He settled on struggling a little, until Aziraphale – not easing up in the least – pinned him more securely to the seat, then reluctantly held up his unevenly joined wrists.

"There's a good angel." Aziraphale grinned down at him. "After all, it's only discorporation. You needn't carry on so." He examined Crowley's wrists for a moment, his jovial expression falling just a little bit. "It's not that I don't appreciate the challenge, you understand, but you've given yourself rope burn and everything." He clicked his tongue, making a reprimanding tsk-tsk sound. "D'you think I ought to have purchased zip ties instead? Your poor wrists are in quite a state!"

This version of Aziraphale really was a riddle wrapped in a mystery – he could kill Crowley without any apparent pang of conscience holding him back, and he was more than willing to hit him on the side of the face with a bloody tire iron, yet he was concerned about having given him rope burn of all things.

"I mean," he continued, "I do realise it will all be the same by the time this is over, but still."

A siren wailed.

In the past, Crowley had never liked the sound of a police siren. They never signalled anything good for him. Any number of policemen had tried to pinch him for speeding – and failed miserably, to the demon's constant delighted amusement.

This time, now an angel pinned under a rope-happy demon in a locked car, things were quite different.

If they could make Aziraphale untie him, he could then– Well, he wasn't sure what. One step at a time, then. He'd think of something. This hope, however dim, was much better than none at all.

The police would have to stop, at least to check it out, given they were still parked in a school zone.

There was a tap on the window.

Raising his eyebrows, Aziraphale put his finger to his lips, looked meaningfully at Crowley, then – with a snap of his fingers – made the window roll down.

He climbed off Crowley and crawled over to the window, flashing the officer a cheerful grin and slowly removing his sunglasses. "What appears to be the problem?"

The officer blinked twice, cleared his throat, then said, "Well, sonny, you're idling in a school zone and it" – he squinted, leaning forward – "would seem you have a man tied up behind you."

"Hi," said Crowley, lifting his bound hands into a sort of wave.

"Oh, this is all a big misunderstanding," wheeled Aziraphale, beaming as he looked back and forth between them. "You see, it's his birthday – and we had this whole thing planned where I kidnapped him. All in good fun. He's just fine. Aren't you, my dear?"

The officer looked a smidgen more closely at Aziraphale and – even in this alternate universe – visibly came to the incorrect conclusion that most people upon meeting Aziraphale for the first time were wont to arrive at.

And this conclusion fit pretty well with the scene unfolding before him.

"Oh," he said. "Oh."

"Yeah." Aziraphale bit onto his lower lip sheepishly.

"Sir," the officer addressed Crowley, "is this true?"

Crowley opened his mouth to protest that it was most certainly not – and wasn't helped in this regard by the fact that his face had gone red and he was sputtering like mad – before Aziraphale interrupted with, "Let's make this nice and simple, save everybody some time, shall we? Just ask him if he got into this car willingly."

"Did you?"

"Nuh. Well, I mean, yeah...I did...but it's not...I'm not..." Crowley motioned frantically with his tied hands. "It's not like that and I'm not... He's not... He's going to..." What was he supposed to say? That he had gotten willingly into an Ford Fiesta driven by a demonic maniac he knew for a fact was planning on killing him? Most likely with a Piccadilly line train? Because – in another time and place – this absolute lunatic was his best friend? That all sounded insane. It sounded much more crazy than Aziraphale's simple, base explanation, and he knew it, too. "Ugggh."

"Say, aren't you Raphael Antonius?"

"Would it make any difference," moaned Crowley, lolling his head to one side, "if I said no?"

There was the sound of a car door slamming – the other officer was out. But the first one was quickly assuring him everything was perfectly all right after all.

"Just an honest misunderstanding, Terry, get back in the car – I'll be there in a moment."

"All right, Neil."

"Anyway, sonny, you shouldn't be doing this sort of thing in a school zone – but if you drive off in the next five minutes, I'll be a gentleman and spare you the ticket."

"Oh," crooned Aziraphale, his voice gone buttery and flattering. "Oh, thank you. That's very good of you. You're a credit to our local law enforcement."

"Right – have fun."

The window rolled back up.

"You–" hissed Crowley, indignant.

"I know, dear boy, but one must use what one has on hand – and if people will see something that's not there..." He shrugged happily. "I, for one, say encourage it to get your own way. Humans. So deliciously gullible, aren't they? Easily unnerved, too. Probably thought I was going to sue him for discrimination if he wrote me up." He sighed and shook his head. "Now then. Where was I?"

"I believe you were about to tie my feet as well." At this point, it was going to happen either way.

"Ah. Yes. Thank you." He began to do so.

"But, Az–" He stopped. "I mean, Zira. You usually aren't even aware people think that about you – so where in blazes did you come up with the idea to..." He couldn't finish; his throat closed off. He suddenly missed his Aziraphale – the one who was only just enough of a bastard – so much it hurt.

"What are you talking about?" There was a small crease forming in the middle of his forehead. "Hold on a minute. Are you insinuating I'm stupid?"

"No, I'm not." Crowley closed his eyes. "I was just saying... Nothing." Sighing, he let it all go. "What does it matter? Never mind."

Aziraphale did have to untie his feet when he attempted – as he had before – to force him to walk down the length of tracks. Crowley decided – as soon as he'd been loosened enough – to kick him as hard as he could risk without giving him any sort of real injury and make a run for it. But Aziraphale was having none of it and knocked him to the ground so roughly Crowley felt like his teeth were receding into the back of his skull upon impact.

He did apologize, in a roundabout, slickly polite manner, yet he still insisted on going through with his secret plan.

"But it's not a bloody secret – I know all about it," Crowley snapped impatiently. A fresh cut on his lower lip was stinging like mad and he really wished his hands were free to pick the gravel out of it. "You're going to flatten me under a Piccadilly line train. Been there, done that."

"Uggh! Ligur. Of course." Aziraphale gnashed his teeth and threw a hand exasperatedly up into the air. "He probably thought he was being remarkably clever. Oh, I don't care what they're calling him down there – he's not a duke of Hell; he's a surprise spoiler – that's all he is."

"Fascinating," said Crowley, not as if it actually were. "Now, if you wouldn't mind getting on with the whole letting me go bit?" He lifted his joined wrists and shook them pointedly.

"Letting you go?" Aziraphale burst out laughing. "Oh, you are very funny sometimes, Raphael, I'll give you that."

"You can't really want to kill me."

"I can," he insisted, a touch sulkily. "And I do." A pause. "Oh, and I will."

"Come on," he whined, leaning his head to one side and pursing his sore mouth slightly. "What did I ever do to you?"

For a moment, the most unnerving look yet flashed in Aziraphale's eyes and Crowley was genuinely sorry he'd asked that. "For pity's sake, you're an archangel! You really," he said, one eyebrow raised, his gaze intense and cold, "want to go there?"

"This isn't you," he whispered.

"Just walk – I haven't got all day." Aziraphale pointed his handgun.

"You know what?" Crowley threw himself onto the ground. "No."

"No? What d'you mean no?"

Crowley glowered up at him.

"You know, Raphael, there's something different about you today – don't think I haven't noticed."

"Yeah?" If this were earlier in the day, he might have almost been hopeful.

"You're more concerned about me than usual for some reason." Aziraphale glanced down at the gun in his hand. "I don't know why, but you are."

Crowley shrugged.

"Now," he mused, "I could simply carry you down the tracks – but I'm curious about something." He looked at Crowley for a long moment, then pointed the gun at himself. "Get up and walk, or I'll shoot myself."

"You wouldn't risk a body on a hunch," Crowley decided, remaining on the ground. "This is a bluff." A good one – one Crowley might have made himself in a similar situation – but a bluff all the same.

"Why not? After all – I'm hardly an underling in Hell." One manicured finger played idly around the vicinity of the trigger. "It'll take me less time than most to get a replacement – it's only discorporation. Shall we see if I'm right?"

Crowley couldn't help it. "I know what it's like down there – getting a new body–" Like trying to get a new pen from a particularly bloody-minded stationary department – always and forever demanding to know just what had happened to the one they'd given you last time.

Aziraphale snorted. "Oh, I seriously doubt that."

"–and Prince of Hell or not, you wouldn't risk it." He motioned at the gun. "At least not on purpose, not for real." Grimacing, he added, "But your safety is off."

Aziraphale's eyes darted downward. "Oh my, it would appear you're right. That could have been unfortunate."

Crowley slumped forward in relief.

"Of course, all this stubborn delaying on your part will probably make us miss our train – if you don't get a move on – and I still have to discorporate you. Well, it's not like there's anything decent on television tonight, so I may as well take my time." Removing his trench coat and rolling up his shirtsleeves, he began to pace back and forth in front of Crowley. "Hmm. How to do it?" He pressed the cold metal side of the handgun to Crowley's temple, tapping pensively. "I could shoot you in the head – make one clean job of it – but that's hardly sporting, is it?

"I've always thought it would be rather fun to drown you – just once, to see what it's like – but angels don't need to breathe, so that's rather difficult.

"I've got a lot of rope here – we could try hanging you – it would work so long as your scrawny neck broke on the first go... I don't actually want to see you strangle – there's no elegance to that. But a clean break ought to be perfectly acceptable, don't you think?"

"Stop," snarled Crowley, staggering to his feet – ignoring the pins and needles in his screaming legs – and taking an angry step towards the tracks. "I'll walk to the damn train." Being forced to listen to Aziraphale talk like this was more painful than any discorporation.

Aziraphale beamed demonically, following just behind. "Ah." His voice dripped with condescension. "Thank you. There's a very good archangel, then. Was that really so difficult?"

"Sorry about convincing those nice policemen from earlier that you were a sodomite. Occupational hazard." Crowley felt Aziraphale's fingers slip away after patting his cheek. "I do hope there are no hard feelings, dear boy."

The train was getting closer, but Crowley didn't bother crying out – he knew it wouldn't do any good, and he knew what was going to happen next.

The almost painless hit, the sudden jolt, the white light.

Heaven again. Gabriel and Sandalphon.

"The demon Zira a–" began Sandalphon.

"What the deuce did you twisted bastards do to him?" Crowley snarled accusingly, cutting the pompous archangel off as soon as he could speak.

Gabriel blinked his purple eyes in confusion. "I don't know what you're referring to, Raphael."

"Aziraphale – why is he like this?" All Crowley knew for a fact was that Aziraphale wouldn't have Fallen over nothing – someone had to push him away, push him into joining the other side, make him feel he had no other choice. And if Aziraphale resented him – as Raphael – for being an archangel, as appeared to be the case, it didn't take a genius to work out why. "He wasn't supposed to...to... Why didn't you help him?"

"Who?" said Sandalphon, nasally.

"I believe Raphael is talking about the demon Zira – prior to his joining the opposition." Gabriel reached out – only for Crowley to violently shrug him off. "Though I can't for the life of me imagine why. After all, he did just violently discorporate you."

"I've had worse," snarled Crowley through clenched teeth.

His own saunter downwards, eons ago – that had hurt, though he'd never admit it, even to himself. And he highly doubted Aziraphale had had the benefit of selective amnesia regarding becoming a demon he'd enjoyed – the former principality's imagination didn't work that way, he was too bloody logical.

"Raphael, you're shaking."

"Damn right I'm shaking."

"What did that v–"

"I swear, Gabriel," – he thrust his face into the archangel's confrontationally – "if you call him a vile creature again, I will not be held responsible for what I do to you."

"Perhaps," suggested Sandalphon, "his mind was scrambled during the act of violence against him – I've heard it can happen. In extreme cases."

"Perhaps," agreed Gabriel, nodding agreeably over his shoulder. "Good thinking, Sandalphon."

"Why didn't you help him?" demanded Crowley, again. "All he needed–"

"You know," Gabriel went on, as if Crowley hadn't spoken, "Michael did mention he sounded off this morning." The archangel pursed his lips together then clapped his hands. "Well, I'm sure once we get you fitted out in a new body – all the forms put in order, you'll be good as new and over this bizarre mania."

"It's not–" began Crowley, enraged, only for the dreaded stack of paperwork the size of a Bible to materialize in front of him – just like before. "Ugggh!"

"How's it feel?" Gabriel asked him, getting no answer. "Hello. Heaven to Raphael. I'm talking to you."

"I know. Obvious to Gabriel. I'm ignoring you." Crowley flexed his new hand and made a rude sign at him with two fingers.

"Why are you being such a dick today?"

"Maybe I'm just fed up with Heaven's shit, did you think of that?"

Gabriel thrust a wrinkled stack of paper at him. "You missed a line on Form one-A, section 55 – I was going to let it slide, seeing as we're both archangels, but you can forget about that now."

Crowley let out an angry, low hiss, finished filling it out whilst trying to ignore the throbbing cramp in his new hand, then demanded to be returned to earth.

"Gladly," Gabriel snapped, his violet eyes alight with furious indignation. "Come back when your attitude improves."

'ello, it's Wednesday morning!

"Ahhhhhhhhh!" screamed Crowley, ready – at this point – to lose it entirely.

It's overcast today, with a fifty to sixty percent chance of rain, so you best have your brolly on hand just in case–

Chapter Text

Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 3 of 12

"Well, seeing that today certainly is my day – why don't you call me Wednesday?"

– American Gods, Neil Gaiman

"Right, so I'm stuck in this one blasted day – in a world where Aziraphale is a now demon hell-bent on disincorporating me – and I keep getting myself dispatched to Heaven to fill out paperwork. Is that all?" Crowley paced the length of the loft, muttering to himself. "I'm missing something – what am I missing?"

The landline rang – rather shrilly.

"Well, I know it's not that," he snipped, lifting up the handset. "If you don't mind, Michael, I'm way too busy to deal with any more archangels being...well...archangel-y just now." He dropped it back down onto the receiver. "Got that out of the way, at least."

Click.

Michael gawped down at the glowing plasma pattern on her phone screen.

Call ended.

"Well, that was rude – even for Raphael – maybe I should keep more of an eye on him."

The pony-tail woman was at the window – again.

Of course she was.

"Bollocks," muttered Crowley, trying – and failing – to pretend he didn't see her while she waved as enthusiastically as if she were about to set sail on the damned Titanic and proudly held her book aloft like she was Moses freshly down from Mount Sinai. "I knew I should have just stayed upstairs."

Then, as he opened the door and she began her Raphael Antonius fangirl monologue, something occurred to him – something that might have been almost a plan.

She had a book.

A book she was about to hand him any moment in hopes that he'd autograph it for her.

Aziraphale – his Aziraphale, back home where things made sense – loved books.

That was how he'd known without the slightest doubt that Hasturaphale was an imposter, back in his own reality.

What he was pondering now was nothing more or less than a potential test to gauge exactly what he was working with here – what he could reasonably expect from Zira going forward.

"I know you're probably planning for the big opening tomorrow – but I'm such a huge fan." She drew a pen from the beaded clutch at her side. "Would you sign it for me?"

Not giving himself another moment to think it through, Crowley snatched the book from her hands and rushed past her, out onto the Soho street.

"Oi!" she called after him, dropping her clutch onto the pavement by her feet, where it landed with a rattle which was barely audible above her shouting. "What's that about, stealing your own book? Don't they give you, like, an author's copy or somethin'?"

Crowley barely heard her; he was talking to himself again, if a little breathlessly this time because he was nearly running. "I'm supposed to be an angel here," he mused. "I probably shouldn't steal. Except, I'm not. I'm a demon, really. In which case, I should steal. Then again, who's even keeping score at this point? All rather a mess.

"Logic," he exhaled, panting despite not actually needing to breathe, "it's a bugger in this place."

Not that it mattered – if it went wrong and started up again, and he awoke once more to the same damned Wednesday after getting a new body, the annoying girl would have her book back soon enough.

So, no lasting harm done.

Not really.

"Hello! What have we here?"

Crowley grinned intently enough to make demon-Aziraphale frown, watching with clear perplexity as the archangel who was meant to be his enemy, who he'd planned on discorporating today, climbed into the Ford Fiesta without even being asked.

He had to clear his throat several times before managing a faint, "Really, my dear."

Reaching for the car's cigarette lighter, Crowley said, "Hang on, I've just got to test your reflexes on something."

"Eh?" said Aziraphale.

Because Crowley was unaware cigarette lighters in cars have to heat up before you can use them, and thus truly believed it was already set to go, it was immediately red-hot the moment he pulled it out and brought it to the corner of the book.

It took a moment, evidently, for the coin to drop. Then, very slowly, Aziraphale reached the terrible, unbelievable realisation that Raphael meant to burn a book, and all Hell broke lose.

"You snake!" shrieked the scandalized Prince of Hell as he slammed his foot down on the brakes, not knowing just how very right he was. "You... You idiot! You uncultured fiend! Give me that at once!" He began to splutter wildly, ignoring the enraged blaring horns of the massive sixteen-car-pile-up forming behind them. "You don't... My dear fellow, you simply don't do something like that!"

Crowley was over the moon – his relief at learning his best friend was still somewhere inside this leather-clad demon with dark charcoal eyes made him as amiable as a kitten. "Of course you're right, Aziraphale." He tossed him the book. "Here you go. Catch."

"It's Zira," he snapped, clutching the book protectively in his manicured hands before peering down at the spine. "Oh. I see." He'd glimpsed the title. "One of yours, is it?" Though, to be sure, he showed no signs of loosening his grip on the tome on that account. "What the heaven are you playing at?"

"Should I sign it for you?" teased Crowley.

Appearing to be tucking the book securely under the seat, Aziraphale bent forward (horns were still honking like mad, wholly unheeded, behind them).

They weren't in the school zone this time – Aziraphale had stopped the car a little too far up the road for that – but there were still pedestrians crossing, and a few doing it rather slowly so they could stare at the impressive traffic jam as they did so. Crowley watched them watching the unmoving Ford Fiesta through the window; he even waved to a wide-eyed little girl of about eight, who waved back before what was either her mother or older sister snatched her hand and dragged her across the street.

The tire iron (which Crowley had completely forgotten about in his jovial state) struck the side of his face.

When he came to, the car was moving again, they were on a different street, and Aziraphale's grey eyes were in the rear-view mirror.

"Ooh," Crowley moaned, attempting to sit up with his hands and feet bound – again.

"Oh, you're awake, are you? Jolly good."

"Hi."

"Yes, hello. You've ruined my plans for today, you know."

"Did I?"

"Getting into the car just like that – pulling that bizarre stunt with the book..." He shook his head. "What I'm meant to do with the net and pulleys I had all set for your capture I have no idea." The car swerved sharply to the left. "Well, no real harm done, I suppose. The hardware store may be willing to provide me with a refund; they're quite nice to me over there."

Crowley popped his sore jaw, rotating his mandible. "Yes – repeat customer, no doubt."

The former angel scowled, refusing to take the bait and crack a smile. "Anyway, Raphael, I haven't the foggiest notion what's with you today – but I'm not sure I like it."

"You'll like it next time we do this," Crowley promised him.

"The demon Zira again?" asked Sandalphon, the moment Crowley turned up in Heaven.

Crowley didn't answer; hope had bought out his natural inclination towards optimism and he was, for lack of a better term, basking in it. His grin was ear to ear and he wasn't about to let these two bastards bring him down.

Gabriel's violet eyes watched him saunter forward with pure bemusement. "You're awfully chipper for a guy who just got discorporated."

Sandalphon nudged his friend. "Is he humming?"

Out of the corner of his mouth, "I'll handle it, Sandalphon." Then, to Raphael, Gabriel added, "Didn't it hurt?" His bemused tone was laced with wary uncertainty.

"I've had worse," Crowley said softly, his smile receding into something a little less apparent and far more indolent, like he was holding a secret close to his heart – it was an expression that suited Raphael's personality remarkably well. "Now." He brought his semitransparent hands together – they were trembling with excitement. "Let's see about that paperwork, shall we?"

"You're shaking," Gabriel noted, reaching out and putting a hand over one of Crowley's still-vibrating, translucent wrists until it steadied, blinking twice in quick succession. "What did that vile creature do to you?"

'ello, it's Wednesday morning!

Crowley sat up in bed, pushing his long hair away from his face and letting it cascade down his back as he stretched contentedly. "It certainly is, radio human!"

It's overcast today, with a fifty to sixty percent chance of rain, so you best have your brolly on hand just in case –

He reached out and gingerly tapped the top of the alarm clock radio. "Ah, the familiar odour of jasmine-scented aerosol – I do believe it's slightly less nauseating than usual today."

The landline rang.

"Coming, coming." Grunting lightly, he flung back the covers and walked over to the phone, lifting up the handset. "Michael, duuude," he drawled in his best impression of Aziraphale's impression of him (which, honestly, was just shy of being downright terrible). "Hi."

"Hello, Raphael – you sound pleased with yourself today."

"I am, thanks for asking."

"I didn't. Now listen – I'm calling to inform you that I've gotten some information via back channels."

"Yesss," simpered Crowley, in a voice that implied he was – at least somewhat – taking the piss out of her. "About the demon Zira, I believe?"

She sounded disappointed. "Oh. You... You've heard?"

"Yes, yes – I know all about it."

"About his plan to–"

"Have me run over by a train? Yup." He made a popping sound into the mouthpiece, elongating the p at the end of the word. "Been there, done that – good times."

"You don't seem very worried."

"I'm not – because I've got a plan of my own."

"Yes? And what's that?"

"Right, listen closely. You'll like this." Crowley tried not to get too much pleasure from imagining Michael having the angelic equivalent of an aneurysm on the other end once she heard what he was about to say. He did, however, imagine her glowing eyes widening to the size of sparkly tea saucers as she leaned forward and pressed her phone closer to her ear in order to catch every word. "I'm going to befriend him."

There was a moment of silence, then a crackle of celestial static, followed by Michael – barely holding it together – murmuring, very softly and very seriously, "Hold on a moment, Raphael, I think I must have mis–"

"Oh, you heard me right – so long, sucker!" He dropped the handset onto the receiver, then snapped his freed fingers, miracling his pyjamas into a fine powder-blue suit.

Click.

"Oh. Lord."

Michael almost fell off the side of the bus.

"Ohmigosh. I can't believe it's really you! You're Raphael Antonius!"

"Oi, pony-tail girl!" Leaning in the shop's doorway, Crowley shot her a megawatt angelic smile. "Glad you're here – I want an opinion on something." Lifting his hands, he gathered his hair up into an estimation of a high pony-tail. "Up," he asked, "or down?"

"Up, definitely."

"Hmm," he considered, tying it back with an elastic he hadn't had in his hand a moment ago. "I think you're right."

"Are you, like, meeting someone important?"

"Well, you know, sort of." He gave her a tight smirk. "Just somebody who by the end of the day is either going to be my best friend or–"

"Or?" she pressed.

Crowley shrugged. "Or throw me in front of an oncoming train."

She began to laugh (as she would have laughed at just about any joke he made), then – unsure if it actually was a joke by his unmoved expression – rapidly petered off. "Erm. Right. Good luck with that?"

He patted her on the shoulder as he skipped past, crossing the street to head for the coffeehouse on the opposite pavement.

She gawked after him.

Crowley waved over his shoulder and sighed to himself; it was, no doubt, such a bizarre interaction for the bemused young woman she couldn't be entirely sure it had really happened.

It would make an interesting story to tell her friends, though. One time, I met Raphael Antonius – you know, from the telly – and he was havin' a psychotic break.

Once inside the coffeehouse, Crowley nudged his way to the head of the queue – ignoring the bewildered mumbles of protest.

Waiting in queues – in Crowley's world-view, regardless of its varying reality, regardless of whether he was an angel or a demon – was something that happened to other people.

He placed his order and was – mere seconds later – handed a steaming styrofoam cup with a plastic lid and something in a brown paper bag folded neatly with only a single crease on the top.

At least it wasn't one of those trendy coffeehouses, Crowley mused as he exited through the door and stepped back outside, where incompetent baristas wrote your (alleged) name on the side of the cup and everybody acted like they didn't know what the word 'small' meant.

Back home, where he was a demon, that had been one of Crowley's more diabolical ideas – it turned out people were very wont to spread low-grade evil after having their names misspelled at them first thing in the morning.

The whole thing had really taken off in America, and in airports (for some reason), and he'd gotten a commendation and a week's vacation (spent in sunny Spain) in return for it.

Because of the detour he'd taken, the Ford Fiesta wasn't in the usual spot to meet him. So Crowley improvised – he guessed, from the direction the car had been moving in last Wednesday, which street it would be on by now, and briskly walked that way.

Sure enough, after a few blocks he found the car by itself, parked illegally.

A traffic warden was about to write up a ticket, but Crowley snapped his fingers and made his notebook spontaneously combust. Aziraphale had done that once for him – back home – to a traffic warden about to write up the Bentley; he figured it was high time he paid the favour forward.

The locks on the Ford Fiesta clicked upward with another snap of Crowley's fingers and – unseen by the shell-shocked traffic warden (whose raised eyebrows were now quite singed) – he let himself inside.

Quickly, he removed the lid from the cup, letting the rich smell of hot cocoa fill the uncirculated air. He fanned his hand over it, waving his long fingers as he set it down in the cupholder.

Then he placed the paper bag on the passenger seat and climbed into the back, ducking.

Opening the car door and sliding in, Aziraphale's nose twitched and he froze; then he glanced down. "Cocoa?"

Sure enough, there was a steaming cup just waiting for him.

That was when he noticed the paper bag. "Hello! What have we here?"

Crowley popped up from the back. "Peace offering."

Startled, Aziraphale blessed loudly and pressed a plump, manicured hand to his chest. "Raphael! What the Heaven are you playing at? You really could put more effort into avoiding me; now you've ruined–"

"I know, angel," – the habit of calling him that was still near-impossible to break – "I've spoiled your plan with pulleys and nets and – later on – Piccadilly line trains, and I get that must be disappointing for you, but – on the other hand – there is cheesecake."

"Cheesecake?" Aziraphale brightened, and he looked inside the paper bag for confirmation. "Well. That's – Yes. It would seem there is. Rather a big slice, too."

Crowley rested his chin against the upholstery and grinned.

"Er. Thank you." He twisted his neck and blinked suspiciously at him. "What do you want?"

"Don't try to discorporate me today – just drive us back to your place, all right?"

"My place?"

"You don't have a flat?" If he was living in what had been Aziraphale's bookshop, it stood to reason. "In Mayfair, perhaps?"

Demon-Aziraphale's charcoal eyes darkened as he spluttered out that, yes, of course he did, but this wasn't... Well, dash it all, didn't he understand it wasn't how things between demons and angels were done? They were supposed to fight one another – try to dispatch each other back to their respective offices – not make social visits!

"What are you even going to do there?" he demanded, after a long pause wherein Crowley didn't bother responding to his increasingly hysterical protest.

"Lounge around for a bit." He waved in the direction of the bag. "Watch you eat cake."

"You're seriously going to sit in my flat and watch me eat a slice of cheesecake? I mean, I know it's Wednesday and there's nothing good on television – but improvise, dear boy, improvise. There is no need to resort to– " Then, "Hold on." He twisted in his seat and glowered. "I don't believe this! It's poisoned, isn't it?"

Crowley was affronted. "You wound me."

"Honestly, what am I supposed to think?" he demanded. "You break into my car and–"

"Give you cocoa and cheesecake," Crowley finished, quirking one gingery eyebrow. "How ironically demoniacal of me."

Aziraphale inhaled deeply. "You're being...sincere...with all of this?"

He nodded.

"But, come on, you're n'angel – you can't..."

"How about we forget that for today?" offered Crowley. "Call it a temporary truce."

For a moment, Aziraphale didn't answer and Crowley was worried this wasn't going to work after all. And then, finally, he sighed, "I take it you have a lid for this somewhere about your person so I don't end up with steaming milk chocolate all over my car?"

Crowley reached over and capped the hot cocoa with the plastic lid.

"Thank you." Aziraphale pointed at the ignition; the car started up as he reached for the steering-wheel and began to pull out. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

To say Aziraphale – or, rather, the demon Zira, Prince of Hell – lived in his flat in Mayfair might be an exaggeration. He certainly spent more time there than Crowley typically spent in its counterpart back where he was from, but that time spent was strictly in the lounge.

Whereas the rest of the flat was darkly and sparsely furnished with nothing distinct or personal about it, the lounge was obviously Aziraphale's own little haven.

He had a fireplace installed where Crowley's equivalent had had a large-screen television, several comfy couches, and rows and rows of shelves filled with books, CD & Cassette audiobooks, a record player on a wooden trolley under which – neatly stacked – was what appeared to be more than half the classical music inventory of Vinyl Fetish, and a little tartan portable radio that looked like it was from, perhaps, 1996.

There was a little tea-service on wheels off to one side, with a pump and basin for washing up installed on the wall behind it, giving the strong impression that Aziraphale rarely bothered venturing from this place even into the kitchen.

Why would he? The former angel had all he ever needed, or wanted, right here in the lounge.

It was hardly the epitome of style, in this state, and there were no plants (the air was much staler as a result), but Crowley didn't mind – it just screamed 'Aziraphale lives here'. He'd felt the repeated days of loneliness melt away the moment he'd seen the lounge coming up as they turned the corner; it was a musty oasis.

Demon-Aziraphale evidently didn't quite know what to do with an angelic guest on the loose – he kept wringing his hands and looking nervously over his shoulder. So Crowley just made himself comfortable on one of the couches and smiled encouragingly at him.

Eventually the former angel settled down across from him, gingerly spread a cloth-napkin over his lap, took the cheesecake and a plastic fork from the paper bag, then began eating.

Crowley watched contentedly, unblinking.

He loved watching Aziraphale eat, simply because he'd never seen anybody else look so utterly happy and unabashedly pleased with the moment which they were currently in than Aziraphale when enjoying good food.

Watching him always made Crowley feel contented – wholly at peace – by association. Admittedly, he liked some food – though he was a lot pickier than Aziraphale, and got full a lot faster, and thought about eating a lot less in general – but it never brought him the extreme pleasure that it seemed to bring his angel.

Even in this world, where everything was different, it was still worth watching. Even with charcoal eyes and what was initially a steely, wary expression, the sheer pleasure of eating eventually took over and Aziraphale really did look transcendentally happy.

When Aziraphale was nearly finished, Crowley got up and started perusing the shelves, examining the various collections. He was surprised to find a familiar title among the audiobooks.

Healing Yourself: Peaceful & Healthful Living Tips.

Chuckling, he held up the case. "You have my book on CD?"

Aziraphale's cheeks went slightly pink. "It was a two for one sale at Waterstones. Er."

Crowley examined the packaging. "As read by Michael Sheen."

"You know, people say I sound like him." Aziraphale pointed with his fork.

"You don't," said Crowley, setting it back down on the shelf.

Aziraphale looked offended, glaring daggers, then – with a passive aggressive shrug – resumed finishing his cheesecake in sullen silence while Crowley continued to browse among the books.

There were no Bibles. Not even the Infamous Bibles with their hilariously reassuring typos. There were, instead, rather a lot of books on occultism and demonology. And a fat hardback copy of The Amber Spyglass.

Now there was a book for people who didn't care for religious subtext or allegory yet still had an insatiable desire to feel uncomfortable for five hundred and eighteen pages. Not that it was bad, by any means; it just had some rather funny ideas about relationships between angels.

That Philip Pullman. What a weirdo.

Crowley shook his head and moved on.

"That was scrumptious," Aziraphale said, finally, after swallowing the last bite. "Thank you for that. What are you in the mood for now?"

Crowley cocked his head. "Alcohol – do you have any wine?"

"I have some excellent Château-Lafite 1875 – stored in a corner-pocket off the kitchen," Aziraphale admitted generously. "I was saving it, you understand, but – that is, I mean – this is about as rainy a day as I'm ever likely to get, I suppose."

Seeing that his friend was about to get up and fetch it, Crowley shook his head and held up a hand. "I'll get it."

On his way, he passed the front door, heard a knock, and answered it on instinct. He'd temporarily forgotten it wasn't his place, not here, that whoever it was wouldn't be there to see him.

Standing there were two men in shapeless brown uniforms. One – a dark-haired fellow with sunglasses – was the policeman who'd let Aziraphale off with a warning when he'd convinced him Crowley had consented to being tied up in the back seat.

"Uh, hello, officer – nice to see you again."

"What's he talking about, Neil?" said the other one, who was wearing a scarf and hat which clashed with his uniform.

"I've got no idea, Terry."

"We're here about the fridge," said Terry, his voice now instantly recognisable as the second officer.

"Repairmen," explained the dark one.

"You're police, I tell you," Crowley said, slowly, frowning in the doorway.

"We're sodding not," said Terry.

"Repairmen," insisted Neil, holding up a red toolbox.

"Well, we don't need the fridge repaired, so have a nice day." Crowley shut the door and resumed walking to the kitchen, ignoring the dull thud, thud, thud of continuous knocking and muffled cries of, "Oi, come back! Please come back!"

Locating the wine, Crowley made a final – somewhat nosy – detour into the unused kitchen to take a look. He opened the fridge, just to see what extra food Aziraphale might have stored there, and was shocked to discover a rotten smell.

He recoiled, gagging. This was wholly inexplicable to him. In his flat, where there were always containers of gourmet meals in the fridge, the food never went off.

That was why he had a fridge, after all.

Simple, really.

"And I've just sent away the repairmen," he realised, a trifle guiltily, pulling the back of his wrist away from his wrinkled nose.

After a few glasses of wine, Aziraphale started to relax. He even let out his wings – which, despite being dark grey and uncharacteristically well-groomed, were essentially the same as his angelic ones back home. Crowley was relieved to discover they even had the same smell.

Noticing the archangel staring at his wings, Aziraphale gestured back at them self-consciously. "Oh. Excuse me. I hope you don't mind?"

He shook his head.

"Thank you – they were killing me tucked up like that."

"They're so neat," Crowley laughed, tossing his head back and downing the contents of his own wineglass in one go.

"And why shouldn't they be?" Aziraphale gave him a look that was not stern, exactly, yet still had an air of no-nonsense about it. "I'd reckon yours have seen better days. Mmm?"

"Can I, uh...?" Crowley lifted his hands and motioned forward.

"I'm not sure why you'd want to – but if you really feel you must, go ahead," he sighed. "Just don't mess them up." Then, as an afterthought, "And for badness sake, don't pull."

"Don't worry, I won't." He snaked his hands through the feathers and stroked gently in a smooth downwards motion.

Aziraphale actually smiled. "Oh, that was nice."

His hands still buried in Aziraphale's wings, Crowley got an idea.

Back home there was one spot – one little pressure point – on his wings that always made the angel go slightly limp when he dug in. Though he'd never have admitted it, he sometimes deliberately went for that spot if he happened to be grooming Aziraphale's wings while trying to convince him to do something.

Maybe it was a little manipulative, in retrospect, but it also put him in a good mood, made him less uptight, and that was a good thing.

There were several moments working the kinks out of the Arrangement – wherein Aziraphale was having a crisis of conscience regarding carrying out temptations – that might have ended rather differently if Crowley hadn't known his angel's weak spot.

At any rate, if he really wanted this version of Aziraphale to feel completely comfortable and relaxed around him, to stop suspecting this was some sort of trick, that could – he figured – coupled with the wine – be a brilliant start. If it even worked here.

He tried it, rubbing inwards with his thumbs and sinking back to give Aziraphale a little more room if he happened to relax his weight involuntarily.

At first, it seemed to be going rather well. Aziraphale let out a little squeak of surprise, then drooped gratefully, almost trustingly.

"You know," Crowley said, after a bit, close to the former angel's ear, "you're too good for them."

"Eh, what's that?"

"Hell – you could do so much better."

Aziraphale immediately went rigid, and Crowley knew he'd said the wrong thing. "Take your hands off my wings right now."

That wasn't a tone you argued with; he drew them out at once. "What'd I do?"

He turned and glared. "I should have known!"

"Known what?"

"You're doing all this to recruit me!"

"Wot?"

"Listen – just because it's an open secret Ligur and Michael have been passing information back and forth for years, doesn't mean I – a perfectly respectable Prince of Hell – would ever–" Aziraphale choked off, then picked back up again in an even more outraged tone. "I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing!"

"I'm not implying anything, you jaded bastard!" snapped Crowley, aggrieved. "That's not what I'm doing here!"

"Oh? Then why are you here?"

"Purely social reasons."

"I don't believe you," Aziraphale told him flatly. "It's too convenient. The cheesecake, the being nice to me, the literal grooming... What's next? You ask to hear about my day and make it as confusing and long-winded as possible while you pretend to be interested?"

Crowley refrained from saying he would actually be interested in that. Back home, he rather liked Aziraphale's rambling stories, even when they turned into a baffling three-hour recital of a conversation he'd had with another collector of rare prophesy books over the telephone. Perhaps he didn't always give them his undivided attention, especially when it got downright impossible for any sane person to follow, but he still liked hearing them. Because they were important to Aziraphale. That's what made them matter to him. Sometimes it was just reassuring to hear your best friend's voice telling you about something, regardless of what it was.

"No, no, you aren't fooling anyone – I wasn't created yesterday – you want something."

"Well, I wanted not to get discorporated, for a start," Crowley admitted. "Can't blame me for that."

Eyes still narrowed with suspicion, Aziraphale folded his arms across his chest. "I suppose not – go on."

"And, the thing is, I thought we could be friends." He hated how pathetic he sounded – he almost wished he'd lied and avoided the embarrassment.

"Friends?" snorted Aziraphale, utterly unimpressed. "D'you know, Raphael, there was a time I did want to be your friend." He closed his eyes and took in a long, deep breath. "These days, I have no idea why that was."

Crowley just stared at him, wounded.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, dear boy, don't."

"I did everything right," Crowley murmured, more to himself than Aziraphale. "I don't understand."

"Raphael, just tell me this, explain one thing." Aziraphale's tone was still barbed, but there was a trace of compassion leaking into it. "Why are you suddenly so fixated on me?"

He didn't answer the question – instead, he asked one of his own. "Aren't you lonely here? By yourself?"

"I'm not lonely," said Aziraphale, truthfully enough. "I like being by myself – getting time to think and read and..." He stopped. "Oh. I see." He shook his head. "You're lonely."

It galled him to admit it, but – teeth gritted – Crowley forced a nod.

"My dear fellow, if you're at such a loss for company, there's always Michael – she's earthbound at the moment – and a fellow archangel."

"Michael? Michael's a wanker!" The very suggestion was horrifying. He didn't want Michael – he just wanted Aziraphale. That was all there was to it.

"True as that may be–" Aziraphale began, then stopped, turning rather ashy in pallor. "Oh shit."

"What is it?"

"Call me an old silly, but I think the devil is coming – Satan himself, making a house call."

"Doesn't he outsource that sort of thing these days?" Crowley asked, wondering – briefly – why he couldn't feel it, then remembered exactly why.

Aziraphale's lead-coloured face retracted into a tight pout of concentration. His mouth was a grim-set line. "Not for me," he said dismally. "Not for me."

Crowley considered the fire-escape, then remembered that there wasn't one – and also how he didn't want to simply abandon Aziraphale, didn't want to leave him alone with the devil, even if Satan was his boss here. He wanted to take him – angel or demon or whatever in blazes he was – away with him.

"I can't be seen entertaining an archangel – I've got to hide you."

"But–"

"The devil won't just be angry, he'll destroy you." His sad voice suggested that – despite his unwillingness to be friends, despite his fervent desire to discorporate him – he didn't want anything too bad to happen to Raphael. "I've got to come up with something – quickly, very quickly."

"Look, why don't we just–"

Aziraphale's plump hand snagged his thin wrist like a vice and yanked him up. "Come with me. Now."

Crowley complied, since he didn't actually have a better idea.

Aziraphale dragged him – panting and looking nervously both ways at every turning – down the dark hallway towards what – back home – was Crowley's own bedroom.

Downstairs, somebody screamed. Crowley thought it was too deep in timbre for the old lady who lived in the flat under his. Might be the repairmen. He hoped not. He hoped they weren't still in the building.

"He's getting closer," said Aziraphale, tugging more urgently and pushing the bedroom door open.

Inside, it looked more or less like Crowley's room always did – and that was almost a shock. Or maybe it just meant he kept his room disturbingly under-furnished and it needed to be personalised. The only real visible difference was the fine layer of dust comfortably settled on the untouched black bedspread, making it look faintly grey.

"Under the bed." Aziraphale pushed him down and gave him a firm shove in that direction. "Just sort of crawl under there, angel, it'll be fine."

It was lucky Crowley was skinny, otherwise he'd never have fit – especially not with the dozens of cardboard shoeboxes underneath.

"These are new," he muttered, roughly sliding one aside and folding in on himself to be as compact as possible.

Aziraphale still held up the bedspread, peering at him anxiously. "Whatever happens, no matter what you hear, don't come out from under there, all right?"

Chapter Text

Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 4 of 12

"Well, seeing that today certainly is my day – why don't you call me Wednesday?"

– American Gods, Neil Gaiman

"Satan, Beelzebub – I wasn't expecting the both of you – what a pleasant surprise."

"Zzhut it, Zira."

Despite the padding softness of the lounge, because so much else of the flat was empty and airy, sound travelled. Crowley could hear their exchanges echoing in the walls.

Aziraphale sounded nervous.

Well, of course he did! He had an archangel hidden under his bed. While Satan the Devil and Beelzebub, Princess of Hell, were visiting. That would be enough strain to make any supernatural being – regardless of what side they were actually on – long for relief through discorporation.

But it was more than that.

Aziraphale was afraid – and trying to hide that he was afraid – of Hell's retribution on something. Crowley knew the signs only too well. He'd been there. They got after you for things that, taken as a whole in the grand scheme of the universe, really didn't seem like such a big deal. Sometimes you just screwed up your paperwork – didn't realise the mistake until after you'd already handed it to the roly-poly usher near the 'IN' basket – and your luckier fellow demons who handed theirs in at the same time happened not to screw up in the same place and squeak by unnoticed. Or they'd done something lately that made them temporarily untouchable. Crowley had been there, on the other side of the coin so to speak, also, though it never lasted. There was nothing you could do to make it last. You rode it out. You took what they gave you. For this, you gave up the boredom and relative security of Heaven – except, it had been exactly that: relative. So no great loss. At least, that was what you told yourself – what Crowley told himself.

Oddly enough, Aziraphale came across as a gratingly competent demon – even exceptional. He was clearly good at what he did. Satan wouldn't have made him a Prince of Hell, setting him up on the same level as the highly favoured Beelzebub, otherwise.

So what fault could they possibly have found with–

Crowley stopped his whirling thoughts midway, temporarily pausing them; Satan was saying something now, presumably to Aziraphale, and he wanted to hear what it was.

"You know what you've done, don't you?"

Crowley waited for Aziraphale to answer. He didn't. Or he said it softly enough that the sound didn't carry all the way to the bedroom.

"You know," Satan continued, his deep voice coldly angry and at the same time inexplicably detached, "what I've told you before about these little fuck ups of yours. I will not stand for them!"

There was something familiar about the way Satan was talking to Aziraphale, something that made Crowley feel prickly and strange and just a little bit guilty. He couldn't put his finger on it, not quite, but it was right there, orbiting his mind teasingly, taunting him.

I'm here, look at me, what do I remind you of? No, wait, now I'm over here... You still haven't got it yet, have you? Ha! Crowley hasn't worked it out – Crowley doesn't know, doesn't know...

"Well, Beelzebub, would you like to say anything to your friend before I commence punishment?" Satan's fingers were drumming rhythmically against something – the wall, perhaps. "Your poor, fat little friend who just couldn't cut it."

Everyone... Say goodbye to your friend – he just couldn't cut it.

A lump swelled in Crowley's throat. He had it now. He knew.

Satan was talking to Aziraphale the same way he talked to his houseplants back home.

The devil wasn't doing this because Aziraphale had done anything major wrong – he might not even have anything particularly new on his record – or any glaring errors on his recent reports – no, he was doing this to make a point to Beelzebub. They shared rank here, Aziraphale and Beelzebub. And if the devil wanted Beelzebub to be on her toes, always, remaining in perfect demonic condition, his ideal demon in every way imaginable, he had to make an example every once in a while.

Hence, any defect Satan concluded – on a whim – Zira might have essentially became his 'leaf spot'.

Crowley wanted to be sick. He couldn't remember if he'd actually removed the wine from his bloodstream. If not, and he happened to dry-heave at the wrong moment, Aziraphale was probably going to have a wine-coloured stain on the floor under his bed. He couldn't tell – at this point – if the swimming in his head was borderline drunkenness or fear for Aziraphale.

He wouldn't have gotten as worked up if he thought, even for a moment, Satan would go easy on Aziraphale the way he secretly did for his plants. Those houseplants never suspected it, but Crowley very, very rarely actually harmed one of them. They had to really piss him off to warrant that and – being plants – they rarely managed it. Typically he gave them away, or dug up the earth near a nice sunny spot in St. James and settled the astonished little spotter there. Then he'd bring back the empty flower pot for good measure.

All those noises he made, it was bluster. A show to frighten the others.

But Satan wasn't like that; he never did things by half measures.

Crowley still had all too vivid memories of the first time he'd witnessed Lucifer, newly in power, punish one of their number. He had thought – stupidly – Lucifer wouldn't go through with it, that he was still a sweet guy underneath, if a little power-mad and understandably pissed off after losing the war...he hadn't rebelled in order to lose, after all...

Then he did, and Crowley winced involuntarily, and Hastur ratted on him wincing, and Lucifer had asked, "What, Crawley? What is it you would say?"

"I thought," he'd replied, choking off, unable to meet his flaming eyes, "I thought you wouldn't–"

Satan had then, in a flash, gripped his shoulder, shook him once – very hard – and squeezed. "Then you're an idiot, Crawley."

For the briefest of seconds, Crowley nursed a tiny flame of hope that this Satan would be different enough from the Satan he'd known, back home, and somehow spare Aziraphale as his Satan hadn't spared the first person he'd punished.

Then two things sprung up into his mind and simultaneously quelled that flame until it was nothing but a dismal curl of smoke in the back of his mind.

Firstly, if Aziraphale was still – at his core – himself, and Michael was the same miserable wanker here she was elsewhere, and Gabriel and Sandalphon were still very much Gabriel and Sandalphon, it only stood to reason that Satan wouldn't be so different here, either. A different sort of Satan wouldn't even be Satan – he'd have stayed Lucifer. He'd be up in Heaven right now, processing paperwork and whistling hosannas.

Second, Aziraphale worked for Hell; and he knew what sort of things they could do to you down there. Even in another reality those sort of things were a constant. You couldn't abolish them without abolishing Hell itself. Or if there was in fact a way, it was ineffable – far, far beyond Crowley's understanding.

The long and short of it was this: mercy was a pipe dream.

There was a thud and an oof.

"You won't disappoint me again, will you, darling?"

Hearing 'darling', Lucifer's old pet-name for him, being used for Aziraphale, made Crowley's skin crawl.

A muffled response.

Something smacked, then there was another thud. Someone – presumably Aziraphale – was sliding down the wall, whimpering gutturally.

"Not quite zzo uppity now, izz he?" – this from Beelzebub. "Are we done here, Mazzter?"

"No," said Satan, darkly, "not yet." A terrible pause, then, "He hasn't learned his lesson."

"Mazzzter–"

"But, don't worry, he will – before we leave, he will."

Crowley momentarily could only think of the son of a bitch hurting the demonic version of the former principality as his old mate Lucifer – he half-thought he could take him, if he ran out there right now and taught him a thing or two about picking on someone his own size.

Then he remembered he was meant to stay under the bed no matter what happened – that Aziraphale was taking a great risk in hiding him – and that the being out there, hurting his friend, wasn't just an angel or demon; it was the devil himself.

Aziraphale's voice, cracked and quiet, finally managed to carry to the bedroom. "Please. No. No... Master, must you really do this?"

Suddenly, Crowley could smell smoke and hear crackling.

"I... I've learned my lesson, I swear. I'll be good – that is, I mean bad. Won't be a bit of trouble in future; the ideal Prince of Hell, from now on. Turning a new leaf, what. You'll both be impressed. Really." Aziraphale's voice was broken and pleading. "Oh, can we put the fire out?" There were a few frantic huffing sounds, like the poor bastard was actually trying to blow it out himself before getting smacked again – probably by Beelzebub. "Right. Sorry. I deserved that – but now we've settled–" Another thud. Then, "Stop! You'll burn up everything."

"No," Satan said. "Not everything, my sweet darling. Just the part you care about."

And under the bed, rooms and rooms away from them, Crowley coughed – from smoke real or imagined, it didn't matter – then – in a panic – clamped his hand over his traitorous mouth and stopped breathing entirely.

They didn't hear him, but Beelzebub clearly sensed something was off. "Zzzomething zzzmellzz...celezzztial..."

"It is a new cologne; my barber suggested it." Aziraphale's voice, while still carrying, was barely a trickle – a ghost voice, speaking automatically without emotion. They'd finally gotten to him. Whatever point Satan had wanted gotten across, he'd succeeded.

They'd broken him, the arseholes.

Crowley silently punched one clenched fist through the nearest cardboard box. He wanted to scream. Wanted to slam both his fists into Lucifer's rotten, ungrateful face.

"You ZZzhould fire him immediately – that man obviously knowzzz nothing."

"Fine, as you like – I'll do that."

The front door opened, with a squeak. Satan told Aziraphale to have it fixed; he didn't like things that squeaked, things that worked imperfectly. He promised to do it, automatically, vaguely, in manner that suggested both compliance and left you with the idea that the speaker hadn't the foggiest clue what they'd just agreed to and probably didn't care either way.

The door slammed. There was a pounding on the stairs, their departing steps deliberately weighted, emphasised. The doorman downstairs let them out, and never knew, silly ignorant human, how lucky he was when they took no notice of him.

They were gone.

Aziraphale didn't come for him. Crowley began to feel increasingly awkward waiting under the bed. He slithered out and dusted himself off.

Slowly, the flat feeling like a block of time cut off from the rest of the world, his corporation's limps aching and heavy, he made his way out of the bedroom, towards the lounge.

Aziraphale was standing with his slumped back facing Crowley and his front facing what remained of the aforementioned lounge.

The whole room was burned up. It was just a black, charred mess. There was nothing but rubble and blackened unreadable scraps and shards of melted plastic. That was what Satan had meant; he'd made Aziraphale watch while he set fire to his little haven, all his books and music and anything else that might have brought him pleasure in this place burned away to nothing. The remains of the shelves were caved in upon themselves, so not even their inherent sturdiness could be of any comfort to him.

"I'm so sorry," whispered Crowley, reaching out.

Aziraphale whirled around, before Crowley's hand could make contact with his shoulder.

Crowley swore – he couldn't help it.

Aziraphale coldly raised an eyebrow. The former angel's face was marred by a number of dark bruises, the most prominent of these being the widening, spreading, purple ones on the skin near his orbital bones. His nose also appeared to be broken.

"Aziraph–" He caught himself. "Zira."

"Get out." The Prince of Hell motioned over towards the door, clearly humiliated at being seen like this by an archangel. "Just leave."

This was nothing to do with him, Crowley thought, so why did he feel so guilty?

His feet were leaden; they didn't move. They might as well have been welded into the floor.

Aziraphale realised he was still there and sighed. "Raphael, I have a lot of work to do, and it's getting late – leave."

Mind racing and heart pounding, he tried to come up with a reason for Aziraphale to let him stay.

"What," he teased weakly, "you're not even going to try for a quick discorporation before I go? When you've got me right where you want me? Should I be offended?"

He wasn't amused. "I said get out, didn't I?"

"Let me help you." His outstretched fingertips grazed Aziraphale's swollen left cheek before they were swatted away.

"It's rather late for that, angel. It's over!" The ice in Aziraphale's gaze as it raked itself spitefully over Crowley could have ended global warming. "Now, if you're really so keen on doing something for me, why don't you go throw yourself in front of a bus?"

"Right, that's what you want, is it?"

"Obviously."

"Obviously," Crowley echoed in a low, hurt hiss. "Fine. Just know, if leave, I'm not coming back."

"Yes, dear, that's rather the idea."

"This is me" – Crowley stomped towards the door – "leaving and never coming back."

Aziraphale folded his arms across his chest. "If you could make quicker work of it, that would be lovely."

Then, having reached his breaking point, well and truly angry, though he wasn't altogether sure who with, he – in quite an ugly tone – suggested Aziraphale do something anatomically impossible before snapping his fingers to make the door fly open.

"That was nasty." His cheeks coloured vividly. "They let you get away with talking like that in Heaven, do they, angel? Well, I must say, standards certainly have dropped since my time."

"See, that's where you've got this wrong," he hissed. "I'm not an angel – whatever I am, I'm the one person who might actually understand what you're going through right now, and you're just going to toss me aside."

"Oh, for pity's sake, Raphael, listen to yourself," Aziraphale scoffed, letting his arms drop.

"Last chance," warned Crowley.

Aziraphale turned away and refused to look at him.

"Goodbye, then."

Outside on the pavement, still fuming, looking up at the windows of the flats, Crowley caught Aziraphale watching him. His broad white fingers and broken nose were peeking out from behind a faded tartan curtain.

And if he thought what Crowley had said to him before was nasty – and a bit uncalled for – goodness only knew what he thought when the fed-up former demon, current archangel having an existential crisis, granted the Prince of Hell his wish after making a rude gesture towards the window.

Precisely because he knew it was shocking, the very last thing Aziraphale would think he'd do for real, he stepped out in front of a double-decker bus and let it hit him.

This turned out to be the double-decker bus Michael was riding around on (she'd gotten off, earlier, then gotten back on for another lift to go some place else).

She saw, from her high vantage point, Raphael step out into the road in front of the bus, and screamed.

Then, composing herself, she drew out her phone and hastily called Gabriel.

"It's me," she told him, the moment he picked up. "I have some more interesting news about Raphael to share with you. It would seem this archangel enjoys playing his own game. And it's sick."

Gabriel and Sandalphon were not amused when he arrived.

"Hi, guys," said Crowley, a tad sheepishly, waving a translucent hand. His anger spent, he was now rather embarrassed about the whole flinging himself in front of a bus to spite Aziraphale – who probably didn't deserve it, he was increasingly thinking, not like that – debacle.

"You wasted a body," said Sandalphon.

"Yeah... I wouldn't say wasted," Crowley blathered. "Wasted isn't a nice word. Bit strong, I think. What I did was not exactly w–"

"No, Sandalphon here's just about summed it up, I believe," said Gabriel, his purple eyes currently a pale, distant lilac. "You wasted a body – wasted describes what you did today completely accurately."

"We trust you have a reasonable explanation for your actions?" Sandalphon wheezed out nasally, glowering and baring his teeth.

"Take a step back and I'll tell you."

Sandalphon stepped back obligingly, and Crowley shrugged. "See, the thing is..." His eyes darted between the two archangels; he couldn't tell them why. Not the real reason. "I did for a laugh. It was all a prank I was playing on Michael." That would cover his comments about wanting to befriend the demon Zira as well – at least he hoped it would. "Sorry if I took it a bit far."

Gabriel sucked his teeth. "Your behaviour, Raphael, went beyond unprofessional – it was petty and wasteful, and frankly I'm not sure if giving you a replacement body would even be a good idea."

"Oh, no..." He began to panic. "No, no, no... I can't stay here, Gabriel. You can't–" Even being stuck in the same damned Wednesday over and over wasn't as dismal as being trapped here, on the corporate end of Heaven, for who knew how long. "Anything but that."

"Go to your office and await further instruction." Gabriel waved him off.

"No!" hissed Crowley, leaning forward. "You don't get to tell me what to do. You never had that right." He rushed over, little more than a thin, tall figure of blinking light, to where the earth glowed brightly like a blue-and-green jewel in a white pillared box. "I'll just go back on my own, paperwork or no paperwork."

"Body or no body?" replied the smug archangel, coolly.

"I–"

"Don't be an idiot, Raphael" – this was Uriel, who had just joined them, for the first time (it seemed Michael had blabbed to all the archangels about his actions today) – "just take the consequences of what you've done and move on."

"There's..." Crowley started to swallow, then remembered he didn't have a throat. "None of you understand what's been happening."

Gabriel softened, just the slightest bit. "Then tell us."

"I've been living the same day, over and over again."

"What?" Sandalphon's whole forehead crinkled.

"Every time you glorified feather-dusters send me back, I wake up on the same Wednesday morning and everything's started all over again – I feel like I'm going out of my mind." Not to mention he didn't belong here – he wasn't even an angel – this wasn't his world, this wasn't home. "I know I got it wrong today, but if you send me back I can...fix it... Somehow."

"Glorified feather-dusters?" exclaimed Uriel.

"Eh. Yeah." Perhaps that hadn't been the best thing to say. He reached to scratch the back of his neck, felt his non-existent body blink uselessly again at the attempted self-touch, and fought back a groan of frustration.

Any additional softness on Gabriel's face vanished as it rapidly closed off, clearly annoyed. "Raphael, as much as we enjoy your little fairy tales, now you really have taken it too far." He began to walk away and signalled for the other archangels – sans Raphael – to follow him. "We have other things to do."

It was surreal, being in his office again – a version of the office he'd had in another life, except here the little neon sign with his name on it wasn't burnt out. The white drawers, the gleaming file cabinets, the pale-cream leather swivel chair... They were all his and not his at the same time. There was still an unfurled star-map laid across his wide metal desk, waiting to be examined. When had he left it there in this life? Was it yesterday – when Tuesdays were still a thing – or was it several millennia ago? Either was equally possible.

"What did I ever do to deserve this?" Crowley kicked his chair with a translucent foot and watched it scuttle a useless half-inch away from him. "God, you listening? Was whatever I did so bad I deserve to be trapped? I want to go back. I miss–" He stopped, it was ingrained self-preservation. "Ugggh. Why do I even bother hiding it?

"You probably already know all about it, don't you? But instead of giving me a straight answer, or any answer at all, you're probably just holding your cards close to your heart and smiling – smiling because you know something I don't." He brought a flickering fist down onto the shiny surface of the desk – it had no reflection and it made no sound. "Okay, got it. I've got to figure it out on my own – like always." Aziraphale would probably say God was really there the whole time – a 'footprints in the sand' sort of thing. "Except, I don't feel carried." He slumped to the floor and stared up at the glowing ceiling miserably. "I feel..." He smiled, a tight ironic smile that wasn't really there because neither was his face at the moment. "I feel fallen."

After what might have been an hour, or no time at all, Crowley got up off the floor and managed – after three awkward attempts to push the button where nothing happened – to get the intercom in his office working.

He buzzed the nearest on-duty cherub and asked him to bring in the observation files and videos from in and around his office.

The other archangels, he thought, couldn't grudge him that. It counted as working, after all.

And at least it would be something to do while he waited and sulked. You couldn't get any good television channels in Heaven (the Wi-Fi signal wasn't stellar either). Most angels didn't even own a television set; they just watched the earth. Which, when you really thought it through, made sense; real reality shows, for free, uncensored. Hardly took a genius to work out.

The only problem being that not all offices had windows – the archangel Raphael's didn't.

Back home, Crowley vaguely remembered agreeing to take the allegedly dingy corner office the other archangels were arguing about not wanting simply because he knew he wasn't going to be in it that often; he'd be out among the stars, doing fieldwork, building nebulas and such.

Here was probably the same. Some things were.

And, besides, even if he could gawp down at the people below right now, it wouldn't do any good – just make him all the more frustrated, watching others waste their time while they at least still had it. Humans. Didn't goddamn know what they goddamn had sometimes!

It was Wednesday, so it wasn't like he was missing anything much being sans telly, but it was still bloody boring.

So he began going through the security video files. He was curious about what had been happening in this version of his office during his unfallen absence.

Not a lot, it turned out.

It got cleaned regularly. Nothing was taken, because Heaven didn't go in for that sort of thing (not like Hell, where they were always stuffing staplers down their trousers, trying to steal whatever supplies weren't literally nailed down or else cursed). A few angels who'd gotten turned around the wrong way knocked and poked their head in and, finding it empty, shrugged and left. One visiting seraph looked both ways and excitedly made a running leap onto the vacant swivel chair mouthing, "Weeeeee!" Then he'd noticed the blinking red lights, tumbled off head-first, and crawled out, shamefaced.

Or maybe his face always looked like that – like it was on fire.

Crowley got tired of watching the empty room and, buzzing the cherub again, asked just how far back they could go with these recordings.

"Oh, all the way back."

"To the beginning?"

"Before that, even."

Crowley considered this. "So... Supposing I wanted to see footage from shortly before the rebellion..."

"Yeah, that wouldn't be a problem, you just have to ask."

"Then I'm asking."

He wasn't sure what he expected to find, and at first – whatever it was – he wasn't coming across it.

The office was empty a bit less, but he was only watching himself, going over the blueprints for this or that nebula or giving the 'all clear' to the proposal of a new star's location.

Then Raphael in the video – on a day he looked rather agitated, glowering down at a blueprint which didn't seem to be satisfactory – seemed to be told something over the intercom which annoyed him even further.

This was curious.

Crowley pushed the intercom's buzzer again. "Oi, there wouldn't be any way could I get some sound on this?"

"No problem; I just have to put in the request so there's a record of what you've listened to. Shouldn't take more than a second or two at best."

Sure enough, after a couple seconds of celestial static, Crowley was able to re-watch the footage with crystal clear sound.

Raphael, said the intercom voice on the footage, you have a visitor.

"Oh, for mercy's sake! If it's Gabriel again, tell him–"

It's a principality.

"Well, that's a joke." Raphael on screen reached up and rubbed the middle of his forehead with his thumb. "Does he have an appointment?"

There was a knock and the principality let himself in before the intercom could answer. "Ah. Hello. Have you got a moment? Sorry to bother you, but this is frightfully important. I've been waiting."

Raphael on screen didn't even glance up, but Crowley in the present couldn't take his eyes off the anxious-looking visitor.

"Aziraphale," he murmured, recognising his friend instantly.

Chapter Text

Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 5 of 12

"Well, seeing that today certainly is my day – why don't you call me Wednesday?"

– American Gods, Neil Gaiman

"And I'm afraid you'll have to keep waiting – I'm busy." Raphael shuffled a stack of clumsily connected papers, glanced back down at the blueprints in front of him, and groaned, "Come on, this is not the nebula design everybody agreed on! Someone's changed it. Probably that ass, Ramiel. Where's what I drew up? I spent ages on that, and we had clearance to spread it out just north of–" He petered off, realising the only person with him in the room was the hand-wringing principality, looking politely discomfited on his behalf yet making no motion to go and leave him in peace. "All right, all right, what's happened? What's so blasted important they sent a principality to tell me?"

"No one sent me, Raphael – that is, er, most Holy Archangel Raphael..." He began to stammer.

"Just Raphael's fine, thanks."

"Ah. Too formal?"

Peering up for the briefest of moments, Raphael quirked an eyebrow. "Just a bit, yeah."

"I came because I needed some guidance," he admitted, fiddling with his fingers in his lap, cheeks reddening. "It's far from an easy thing to admit, but I've been–"

"I'm going to stop you right there," Raphael interrupted. "Question for you."

"Yes?"

"What choir are you from?"

"Ninth."

"Well, then, fabulous news." He smiled sardonically, reaching for a fresh sheaf of paper and – after catching a tall, smudgy pencil just before it rolled off the side of his desk – hastily drawing, on the topmost bit of visible parchment, something which clearly had nothing to do with his visitor and everything to do with whatever project gone wrong he was fixated on. "This is very easily resolved."

"But I haven't even told you what I've... That is... It can't be that simple," murmured the principality, and yet there was a trace of hope lacing his tone. "Er, can it?"

"As a matter of fact, it can – you're in the Ninth Choir, which means you're under Gabriel's jurisdiction, not mine." Lifting the pencil, he pointed over the principality's shoulder. "Four offices down, make a left, then a right. You can't miss it."

The principality blanched. "No, I don't think you understand. I-I've spoken to Gabriel already. Or tried to. It... It didn't go well."

"Oh? Is that right? How about that."

"The other archangels, I can't... That is, they don't..." He trailed off again. "But you're not usually here, and when I saw you, I thought you might...You looked so kind. Naturally, I thought..."

"Look, whatever it is," sighed Raphael, resting an elbow on the edge of his desk and leaning on it wearily, still not really looking at the distraught principality, "you're just going to have to work it out with Gabriel. You're his problem."

"Problem," echoed the principality, sounding bitterly disappointed. "Yes, I suppose I am." Swallowing, he turned to go. "I'm sorry I wasted your time." His gleaming, white-knuckled hands lingered on the side of the door for a moment longer. "Thank you for seeing me."

And then he left.

And Raphael didn't try to stop him.

Crowley paused the footage and shrank back, ashamed of his past counterpart in this parallel world. Suddenly something Aziraphale said, back in his Mayfair flat, made sickening sense.

There was a time I did want to be your friend. These days, I have no idea why that was.

What made it worse was Crowley could recall having several similar conversations to this one with other angels in the old days back home. None of them had been Aziraphale – of that much he was gratefully, mercifully certain. And probably none of them had Fallen as a result of being put off on a bad day when he was preoccupied; indeed, there, he'd been the one who joined Lucifer.

Still, that didn't change the fact that this Aziraphale, in his wavering faith, had turned to a version of him for help, possibly as a last, desperate resort, and had been called a problem and waved away.

No wonder he took such devilish glee in discorporating him!

Crowley watched the footage of Aziraphale leaving Raphael's office again. And again. Then he pushed the intercom button and asked if there was any way he could see what happened right outside his office when he'd left. For some reason he wasn't automatically accessing it.

"Yeah, we've got the surveillance," said the cherub, a touch sheepishly; "but there's no sound available."

And just like that, it began to play; it was the most heartbreaking silent film he'd ever seen.

Hand over his mouth, jaw clenched with dread, Crowley watched none other than Lucifer, waiting patiently outside Raphael's office, hold his arms out to Aziraphale – who was very visibly struggling not to cry – and say something to him.

Aziraphale buried his face in Lucifer's shoulder. Lucifer stroked the angel's hair and the back of his neck.

They left the immediate area together, Lucifer's arm wrapped possessively around Aziraphale's wide shoulders. The future devil was visibly mouthing what Crowley imagined were treacly, empty consolations.

Exactly the sort of things Aziraphale would have longed to hear after being coldly dismissed like that.

"Oh, you sorry bastard," snarled Crowley, knowing from personal experience Lucifer didn't really love the discouraged angel, or care what happened to him, that it was just a damned popularity contest.

He couldn't watch any more of this. He had the files and footage cleared away and curled in the corner, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his bent head on them. The rotten feeling, like a heavy stone in his nonexistent chest, refused to pass.

What now? Did he find a way back to this broken version of Aziraphale and apologise for the actions of a clueless archangel that – technically – wasn't him, not really? Did he tell him the truth, about being a demon from another reality, and beg him to understand?

Except he was Raphael here, and no amount of self-loathing was going to change that frustrating fact.

Aziraphale would probably tell him the same thing, even if, by some miracle, he believed him; he was irritatingly logical like that.

But what was the alternative?

He didn't know how to get back home, and he didn't know if staying here in this version of Heaven was going to break the time-loop he was seemingly trapped in.

The door swung open.

Crowley staggered to his feet and tried to look casual.

It was Gabriel, looking resigned. "It's your lucky day, Raphael. It seems the Almighty wants you back below, on earth."

"So... I can leave?"

"That's right. You can leave." Gabriel snapped his fingers; a stack of paperwork materialised. "Just as soon as you fill out the usual forms." He cracked a brittle smile that didn't reach his gleaming purple eyes, which contained a small, whirling trace of leftover malice. "Have fun with one-A, section 55 – it's a real doozy."

'ello, it's Wednesday morning!

"Ngggh..." Crowley dramatically flung the back of his hand over his eyes.

Here it all went again.

It's overcast today, with a fifty to sixty percent chance of rain, so you best have your brolly on hand just in case–

"'nough!" he whined, rolling over and murmuring angrily into the pillows. "I know what bloody day it is."

The alarm clock radio switched off miraculously.

He stayed there for a bit longer, unmoving. He vaguely wondered if he'd ever feel the compulsion to move again – if he'd ever find the raw energy, even.

The landline began it's shrill ringing, right on time.

"Michael," he sighed. "Calling to tell me Aziraphale wants to kill me – as if I'm too stupid to work that much out for myself."

What would happen if he didn't answer?

She'd call again, that was what.

But what if he disconnected the phone and barricaded himself inside this loft above what should have been Aziraphale's bookshop?

He could stay here, all day. Then he wouldn't have to deal with any of it.

He wouldn't have to talk to Michael, or ponytail girl downstairs. She'd knock, probably – no doubt clutching that stupid, trite book he still couldn't believe had been written by a version of himself – and eventually have to give up.

If she didn't, Crowley could always call the police on her, have her hauled off – or at least moved along. (The irony was it didn't occur to him he'd need a connected telephone in order to do so.)

He wouldn't have to face anyone. Not devil nor angel.

Angel.

Remembering the look on Aziraphale's face when Raphael rejected him on that footage made his chest tighten, constricting painfully.

It had been exasperating not knowing why Demon-Aziraphale resented archangels – specifically him – so much. Knowing, though, now that he'd finally learned the truth...

Oh, God, knowing was so much worse.

Any hope of casually befriending Zira seemed like a pipe dream now. You couldn't make up for something like what Raphael had done with a slice of cheesecake and a cup of cocoa.

He'd practically shoved him into Lucifer's waiting arms, right into the heart of the rebellion.

If he'd looked up – just talked to him – listened to him – for a few minutes – this Aziraphale might not be a demon right now. All stupid Raphael had had to do was look bloody up!

This wasn't a matter which could be resolved with a free dessert and a megawatt smile.

Aziraphale didn't know, either, that this version of Raphael, the one he was currently dealing with, wasn't like that – at least, not any more. That the Raphael he was thinking of disgusted him.

There was no Crowley here.

Here he was, stuck in a world in which he didn't properly exist, forced to be discorporated over and over. This was a sick, sick game, and he was choosing now – utterly exhausted and several steps beyond merely fed-up – not to play it any more.

He'd be up here, far away from Aziraphale's plans of ropes and pulleys and Goddamn Piccadilly line trains, waiting it out.

This time, he'd make it to Thursday.

And, after that, who knew what would happen?

After disconnecting the landline and switching off the glittering mobile he found in a drawer, the first thing Crowley decided to do was take a bath.

He pushed the wrong button (there were too many options) and took an entire layer off his skin with water hot enough to boil a lobster, but he still felt somewhat better as he stepped out, followed by a cloud of steam, and crawled – striped red and loose limbed, with soaked, dripping hair plastered to his back – into bed again.

He sprawled out and stared up at his reflection in the mirrored ceiling. Puffy blue eyes blinked down at him. He closed them and lolled his head backwards, and – for an hour or two – he slept, if a little fitfully.

But eventually Crowley was forced to confront that confounding question all working man-shaped creatures ask themselves on their unexpected days off when they can't fall into the greatly desired deep sleep of a very good nap.

Namely, what did people who stayed home all day and didn't talk to anyone, who avoided looking outside, bloody well do?

Out of boredom, he tasted the fizzy health drink beside the alarm clock radio. Then he made a face, spat into a conveniently placed waste-basket, and set the bottle back down with a shudder.

"Bleh." He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. "Tastes like bollocks."

Wednesday wasn't a good day for television, but Crowley found an old set and dragged it out in front of his bed anyway.

He'd discovered it in a bottom cabinet, behind two cracked cans of pesticide. It was from the early 1990s and missing the plug; however, because Crowley – rather innocently – simply didn't notice either issue, the picture and sound were quite perfect. Once he wiped the dust off and turned it on, it was like watching a brand-new High Definition telly, and it readily picked up every channel within range (as well as a few that technically weren't).

Although there was no plug, there was a remote control (which may or may not have actually belonged to that particular television set) and it worked well enough for Crowley despite part of the bottom being missing and the batteries being dead.

What there wasn't, however, was an on-screen menu.

That didn't matter to him – he just flicked mindlessly through the channels.

When that five-dollar-bill makes its way back into my hands, I'll be able to call you; and when you hear my voice on the other end, then you'll believe in fate, won't you?

"Wot? Whooo-eee, that woman's insane. You know, I'm suddenly thinking maybe my life isn't that bad," Crowley mused, leaning heavily on the pillow he'd readjusted in his lap and flipping over to the next channel. Click. "Those two idiots are completely deluded. Fate! Ha! That's a laugh. I bet they never see each other again."

Cuz you're so...thick... You're Mr. Thick, thick, thickety thick-face from thicktown, Thickannia. And so's your dad.

"Yeah, I don't think that guy's a real doctor – what else is on?"

Click.

Hey, baby, I hear the blues a-callin'... Toss salads and scrambled eggs... Oh my. And maybe I seem a bit confused...

"Nope."

Click.

Ducktales...wooo-ooo...

"Ducks!" Crowley waved the remote and pointed emphatically. Animated ducks, that could talk, but ducks all the same.

Click.

The hiiiills are aliiiiveee with the sound of–

"Oh, for badness sake, when is this movie not on?"

Click.

Want to know if there's love in your future? Call Madame Tracy today! Lines open every afternoon except Thursdays!

"Oh, good for you, Madame Tracy – getting your own commercial! Look at you!"

Click.

Tomorrow, tomorrow! I love ya tomorrow! You're always a day...aaaaaway...

"Bit like salt in a wound, isn't it?"

Click.

Coming up next, enjoy the dulcet tones of Cabaret Classics... Aaaaaaaaaaaaaonce-opon-a-time-dere-was LITTLE WHITE BOOOOL...

"Right – that does it – I'm going to get up and make some popcorn."

After searching the loft, nearly from top to bottom, Crowley did eventually find a small box (past its expiration date) of microwavable popcorn (and it took another twenty minutes to locate a microwave under the same cabinet where he'd found the television set earlier).

Apart from that, the only other food item was a bag of multigrain bread. After a couple seconds of apathetic deliberation, Crowley decided to take it – and the shiny chrome toaster – back to the bed with him along with the steaming popcorn bag.

He ate half the popcorn and two bites out of a slice of toast before getting full and deciding to start stringing the remainder of the popcorn to pass the time.

Perhaps it was the old star-making twitch deep within his fingertips and anxiously-spread knuckles that had never really left.

These same fingertips that had spread stars like gauze and lit up nebulas into spectacularly painted light shows also spent a large number of years – back home – stealing car radios and letting out tyres and moving markers across muddy fields late at night and typing wrong codes into computers on purpose to make them go boom when the wrong person touched them. (Just general mischief, the sort of thing that barely got you a thumbs up in Hell.) What these fingers had never done was excessive nothing. It was the idleness that was driving him completely bonkers. And he couldn't bring himself to look at the alarm clock radio, having turned it to face the wall an hour ago.

If he learned it wasn't even two in the afternoon yet, he was going to tear his hair out strand by coppery strand.

There had been a time when Crowley really believed he was lazy – that he liked cancelled plans and long stretches of unclaimed time – but he was coming to realise the real reason behind that was because he always had – via his overactive imagination and Aziraphale's company – something to fill those glorious free hours with.

Here he was faced with pure empty nothing, hollowness, like being swallowed into a black hole – this dull, dull void.

He'd have said it was like Heaven, written it down on a post-it and stuck it beside the alarm clock radio in a mad scribble for future generations, but he was certain the world would have misconstrued his meaning entirely.

So he counted popcorn, praying the seconds and minutes – and then, mercifully, hours – would tick away quickly with each murmured number, and kept on stringing.

It was dark – and he'd left all the lights off – when Crowley decided to chance looking at the alarm clock radio again.

11:55 glowed back at him, casting reddish light onto his hopeful face.

"In five minutes," he murmured to himself, "it will be Thursday, and I won't have been discorporated." Perhaps that was how this nightmare ended. Not with a bang, but a sweet digital beep-beep. "Then I just have to work out how to get home, once I've got this time repeating debacle under control."

11:56

A horrible thought hit him.

11:57

"No," Crowley shouted aloud to nobody, craning his neck backwards, "that's not fair! That's not my fault. It's not like I can do anything about it!"

A sliver of his reflection glared down at him condemningly from the ceiling with narrowed blue eyes.

The eyes of the saints in the pictures on the creamy-hued walls followed him, too, despite the dark. They were sorrowful.

What was haunting him now was the inescapable fact that – if he let this day stand, if he made this Wednesday the lasting reality in this world, if time really did go back to normal as he hoped so desperately it would – Aziraphale would have suffered, alone, the burning up of his lounge and the beating from Satan.

Nobody would have been there for him.

"S'not like I was there when I got hit by a train – or that bus," he tried to reason with himself; "by my choice or his, I always left him."

Except that didn't stick, did it? It all reset. If this time stuck, whatever happened to Demon-Aziraphale today could be permanent. The image of Aziraphale's bruised face and broken nose pulled itself to the forefront of his mind and refused to go away.

He probably should have thought of this sooner, and made up his mind to do something about it while there was still time.

11:58

"Fine." With a frustrated huff, Crowley kicked a coiled rope of entwined popcorn-strings off the side of the bed, picked up the toaster, and rushed into the bathroom, hastily filling up the tub. "Come on, come on."

11:59

"There. Done." Grimacing, he climbed in, still clothed in loose-fitting pyjamas. Leaning over the edge of the tub, he pushed the lever on the toaster down and then dramatically lifted it up above the sloshing bathwater.

He'd seen this in a film, once.

"Allons-y!"

He let the toaster drop.

There was a jolting zap and a flash of pure white.

"Hi, guys." Crowley waved nonchalantly at Gabriel and Sandalphon.

"The demon Zira again?" Sandalphon asked.

"Nah, had an accident."

"Thoughtful of you to roll in, at midnight, with no body." Gabriel looked put out; he was tapping his right foot impatiently on the pearly floor. "Michael has been trying to reach you all day."

"Phone stopped working."

"I see." He pressed his lips tightly together. Then, "Whoa. You're shaking."

"Well, I got electrocuted," Crowley told him. "So, you know, that'll do it."

"What was the nature of this accident?" Sandalphon demanded suspiciously.

"Er, I wanted to eat toast in the bathtub and I accidentally" – on purpose – "uh, you know, dropped the toaster in the water...while it was still on..."

"This wouldn't have happened if you didn't feel the need to sully the temple of your celestial body with gross matter," huffed Gabriel, rolling his violet eyes. "I hope you realise you've just earned yourself a whole lot of paperwork."

"Yeah, I'll get started on that right away, but Gabriel–" There was something he wanted to know.

"Yes?"

"Do you remember before the rebellion, before Zira was a demon, and he came to you for..." He couldn't say 'help', that would just make Gabriel close off defensively. "Uh... To talk to you about something...right before he joined up with the..." He gestured downwards. "Other side?"

"You want to know what it was he said?"

"Yeah."

"Why the sudden interest in that vile creature?" Gabriel exchanged a puzzled glance with Sandalphon then looked back at him with a raised eyebrow. "Just yesterday, you told Michael you thought Zira was the most infernally tainted being you'd ever met apart from the devil himself."

"That was yesterday – I can assure you I was a completely different person then."

"If it makes you feel better, it wasn't anything important," Gabriel said, a little too coolly. "Just sedition about sympathizing with the enemy and feeling like he wasn't wanted here. Which, of course, he wasn't. I told him as much."

"For heaven's ssssake, Gabriel!"

"What? It's not like I was wrong. Look where he is now. God knew his heart wasn't with us."

"It wasn't your place to decide that!"

The archangel's expression remained obtuse. "I didn't, he did."

"But–"

"He's a demon, he was kicked out, he Fell – if that doesn't prove it was in him all along, I don't know what does."

"Yes, a nasty business, but thankfully in the past." Sandalphon readily changed the subject back to the one at hand. "You've got to start being more careful with these bodies, Raphael. They don't grow on trees."

"Sandalphon, I'm sure Raphael does his b–"

Crowley sank to the floor, collapsing on all-fours, utterly despondent.

"Hey!" Gabriel reached down and touched his flickering shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"Everything," he groaned, what would have been his forehead if he'd had a body nearly touching the floor, "but I'll fix it."

And somehow, he promised himself, he would.

Things always had a way of working out, in the end; you just had to hold on until they did.

Letting out a carrying, throaty scream, Crowley crumpled up form one-A, section 55, threw it down, and stomped on it with both his insubstantial, blinking feet, cursing profusely.

Gabriel reached over and grasped his blinking wrists. "Calm down, Raphael, just take it easy – we'll skip it if you're that upset." He patted him on his newly solidifying right shoulder blade. "What's a couple of form pages between fellow archangels?"

'ello, it's Wednesday morning!

Crowley rolled onto his back and stared up at his reflection determinedly. "Right. Today, we figure out a way to help him – no more excuses."

Chapter Text

Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 6 of 12

"Well, seeing that today certainly is my day – why don't you call me Wednesday?"

– American Gods, Neil Gaiman

"Stop it – you've got to listen to me!" whined Crowley as Aziraphale yanked him – bound hand and foot – out of the back seat of the Ford Fiesta.

"Raphael, look here, while it might not be important to you, I've put a lot of thought and effort into this plan and – like it or not – you are going to shut up and get tied to the damn tracks, even if I have to carry you there kicking and screaming." With that, the impatient Prince of Hell bent down, lifted Crowley up, and tossed him over his shoulder. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Do whatever you have to, angel, just hear me out," he begged, swallowing back every sardonic retort he had saved up in the darker corners of his mind, knowing from recent experience they wouldn't help his case here. "There's something very important you need to know."

Still marching forward, Aziraphale tightened his grip slightly. "That's another thing – why the heaven do you keep calling me angel? That's the fourth time today, since you got in my car. I'm not–"

"I know," huffed Crowley. "It's a force of habit."

"What habit?"

"That doesn't matter now, forget it. What matters is you can't go back to your flat today." He lifted his head, trying – despite the awkward angle, given he was draped over his shoulder – to look properly at Aziraphale. "Promise me you won't."

"Why not, pray?"

"You'll get hurt."

"I'm not going to get hurt, you white-feathered fiend!" Aziraphale tossed him down – they'd reached the tracks. "What in celestial lighting is the matter with you? You've been strange all day."

"Ssssatan and Beelzebub are going to pay you a visit and they are not happy!" Crowley spoke through gritted teeth. "Don't ask how I know – I can't tell you. Just don't go back to the flat today. Go any place else. Spend the night at a nice hotel."

Why didn't Aziraphale listen to him? This was his sixth try since he'd sworn to his reflection he was going to help the blasted demonic version of his best friend avoid the trauma of Satan's punishment. And he'd gotten discorporated each bloody time!

Somewhere around the third time, he found himself starting to think outright abandoning the cocoa and cheesecake bribery method in favour of frantic straightforwardness might have been a mistake after all.

Not that this dawning revelation changed much.

Four times he'd gotten hit by that Piccadilly line train, just as Aziraphale planned; one time he'd been shot in the chest by accident, when he forgot to warn Aziraphale in time the safety was off on his handgun.

Being rather a gentlemanly demon, Aziraphale had then offered him an almost heartfelt apology for the accident before shooting him twice more in quick succession so he wouldn't just lie on the ground bleeding slowly to death as opposed to a quick dispatching.

And, the very last time before this, he'd gotten so hysterical that Aziraphale hit him with a shovel Crowley hadn't previously been aware was even in the back of the Ford Fiesta before the former angel dug it out and promptly cracked him upside the head with it.

He hadn't meant to discorporate him via that shovel, of course, just shut him up, but unfortunately Aziraphale was the sort of supernatural being who didn't always know his own strength, and next thing Crowley knew he was back in Heaven with Gabriel and Sandalphon. Again.

Aziraphale blinked impassively. "Why do you keep elongating the letter S?"

Right. He'd never been a serpent here. Just another strained force of habit this Aziraphale wouldn't be used to. Still, that was way too far off from the point he was trying to make, and he was running out of time. Aziraphale was already rolling his sore body onto the tracks and readjusting the ropes.

"Promissssse me," he insisted, not even struggling as his wrists were more tightly secured.

"You're rather spoiling this for me, you realise?" sighed Aziraphale, shaking his head and stepping back for his own safety.

"I can't... I can't do this any more," whimpered Crowley, turning his head as tears he'd been trying to hold back escaped and rolled out from the corners of his eyes and streamed down his face.

Aziraphale softened. "Oh, my dear, don't cry." For a moment, it looked like he really was going to bend over and untie him, as though he truly did feel that badly over Crowley unexpectedly breaking down into tears. Perhaps he would have, too, if only the train hadn't been coming – if there had been anything like time to make up his mind. Instead, he just patted his cheek the same way he had plenty of times in this repeated scenario before; the only difference was that his manicured fingers came away rather wet. "Well, no hard feelings, Raphael. Steady on. Remember, it's only discorporation."

"What's with him?" Sandalphon whispered, in a nasal hiss, to Gabriel.

Crowley's blinking, discorporated form wasn't looking at them, or acknowledging their questions.

"Raphael." Gabriel snapped his fingers. "Hey, buddy! Over here!"

"Yeah?" Crowley glanced at him, briefly meeting his worried periwinkle eyes.

"What's going on?"

"Was it the demon Zira?" added Sandalphon.

Gabriel let out a sigh that was probably meant to be sympathetic but in actuality would have made Crowley want to clout him if he hadn't felt so utterly drained. "What did that vile creature do to you this time?"

"I keep failing him," murmured Crowley, despondent. "No matter how many times I go through this, I fail him. He's all on his own."

"Wait, slow down. What are you talking about?" Gabriel made a face. "Something going on? Michael mentioned you were having a bad day."

"Hmm, for quite a while now, yeah."

"I think somebody might need to stay in Heaven for a while to recover," Sandalphon suggested, rolling his beady eyes.

Crowley immediately snapped out of his detached stupor. "No! No, no, no!" Not again. "I'm all right, really, I'm just a little tired – give me a new body and I'll be just fine, I promise." The last thing he needed was to be forced to sit in his office and stare at the white walls until God told Gabriel to send him back to earth again. He forced a tight smile that was more serpentine than angelic. "Guys, please, trust me on this."

After a long, uncertain pause, Gabriel nodded. "I do trust you, Raphael." He snapped his fingers and the paperwork materialised in front of them. "Just let me know if you need help." He clearly didn't mean with the paperwork.

Crowley felt the slightest twinge of regret that he couldn't take him up on the offer.

He might not like Gabriel, might consider him a complete prick, might largely blame him for this Aziraphale's downwards tumble, and badness knew he'd probably never forgive the other Gabriel – the one back home – for the callous way he'd ordered Aziraphale to hop into the blazing hellfire, not knowing it was actually Crowley he was addressing.

All the same, it was becoming abundantly clear he wasn't getting anywhere on his own. Gabriel back in his real life hadn't always been awful, either; a couple of times that Crowley recalled, mostly from before the rebellion, he'd almost been nice – almost.

But, then, he'd tried telling Gabriel before about the time-loop and the archangel just accused him of making up fairy-tales.

And even if he did believe him, out of old-time loyalty between angels of shared rank, he'd never help him protect Aziraphale. That was another dead-end, and he knew it.

"You're shaking," Gabriel told him.

"Just...you know...raring to go," he lied.

"Do try not to let Zira discorporate this body," Sandalphon snipped, reaching for Gabriel's hand as if to draw him away. "They don't grow on trees, Raphael."

It was at this point Crowley decided he was going to need some help – even if it couldn't be from Gabriel.

So he made a few calls from the landline and – less than two hours later – he had his contact seated in a metal folding chair across from him beside the houseplants (which still seemed completely out of place in what Crowley would always consider to be Aziraphale's bookshop, no matter what).

"Who better," Crowley said, not with as much sincere confidence as he wished he had, "than you?"

And Sergeant Shadwell blinked at him frostily and said, "Aeeeye?"

Okay, right, so there were a lot of people better for this sort of thing than Shadwell – he was just the first one to come to mind. Crowley simply happened to have had his number memorised. It turned out to be the same here as it was back home, in the world that had made sense – and he even had the same confused, dim-witted receptionist Crowley eventually realised was actually good old Madame Tracy.

Even with her commercial being broadcast at odd hours on the telly, she was still in the same place, apparently.

"Yes, love," she'd said, her familiar, high voice rather comforting, a tie to how things were supposed to be, "I'll see if he's in – but I've got to be quick about it. Can't really talk now. It's one of my mornings, you know, and I can't simply leave my poor gentleman like that for long..." – there had been the sound of a door creaking open – "Coo-eee, Mr. Shadwell, are yooou innn? Telephone for you. Sounds a bit like that Raphael man from the telly, sweet but not so proper, you know? Do hurry and take it, love – I've got to get back."

"That southern pansy kin bloody well weit until I've got the handset between meh fingers, Jezebel!"

(Interestingly, in this particular case, Madame Tracy's 'poor gentleman who could not be left alone in the flat' was not naked or in any state of sexual arousal; they were just having some tea together – that is, the beverage, not the meal, since it was far too early for that, though she offered him some shortbread biscuits with white icing – and she wasn't even dressed for work, wearing her loosest-fitting cardigan and plainest skirt. But a good excuse was a good excuse, irregardless. And, besides, her darkly-dressed, refined-sounding gentleman drumming his elegantly manicured fingers against the table while he waited for her to get back was paying for her time, so she was still on the clock, technically.)

Crowley had almost wanted to say a warmer hello to Madame Tracy before she handed him over, just glad to hear an almost-friend's voice, but he figured she wouldn't know him here and it would just confuse everybody.

Besides, even if he was meant to be an angel here, he couldn't risk getting into the habit of being too nice. Dangerous pastime that was, being kind. Real bugger.

So he'd got Shadwell over to the shop and tried to explain his predicament.

"So, this brew the demon in your timeline gave ye, it's witchcraft?"

"Uh..."

"Cause, as much as I want to be of assistance, Mr. Antonius, I only catch witches."

"Right..."

"Though," he said, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "if I got oot meh thundergun, I could shoot bricks at this Zira fellow for you – get 'im before he gets yeh." He waggled his hoary eyebrows. "Whaddya say to that?"

That was not what Crowley had had in mind. He buried his face in his hands and moaned softly.

"Yeah," he murmured, "this might have been a mistake."

Another Wednesday repeat, another failure behind him.

"Who better than you?"

"Well," said Newton Pulsifer, shyly, cheeks aflame, holding his fluttering hands in his lap, "I'm flattered, but I really do think this goes a bit beyond my training as a wages clerk."

"Who better than you?"

The grimy eleven year old child seated in the folding chair (who, admittedly, Crowley had basically, if you had to put a label on it, kidnapped) began to cry.

Unable to locate Adam (or even Warlock, who Crowley would have gladly settled for at this point, even if he wasn't really the son of Satan), the former demon had been delighted when he'd spotted Brian – who apparently lived in London in this version of events – skipping down the pavement and identified him as one of Adam's little friends.

"I just want to go hooomeeee," wailed Brian, who – in a state of terror at being taken off the street and sequestered alone with a long-haired stranger who might be some kind of hippie – completely missed the point of the time-looping Wednesday story being frantically recited at him.

Feeling guilty, Crowley handed the sobbing child ten quid and told him to go buy himself an ice cream cone.

He brightened, and asked for more money, one measly ice cream cone hardly seeming to be enough to make up for the trauma he'd just endured.

And, being something of a pushover when it came to children, Crowley gave it to him.

"Cor!" Brian clutched the wrinkled money in his hands, staring down at his sticky fingers in a state of wonder. Honestly, he hadn't expected that to work. He was going to fill his pockets with sticky, melting sweets as soon as he got out of here, not sparing another thought on the fact he was meant to be in school. "Thanks."

Crowley waved him out. This was far from his proudest moment. He was usually much better with kids.

"Who better than you?"

The young woman with the ponytail gawked at him. "You're insane, you are." Her upper lip curled in distaste. "You aren't a bit like this on the telly. No wonder they took you off the air. Lucky ya didn't get locked up."

Crowley took a step towards her, and she held up a hand defensively.

"Oi, calm down, I'm not going to hurt you, I just–"

"You stay the bloody hell away from me," she snarled. "I've got pepper spray in my clutch...some place..."

The aforementioned clutch was lying several feet away, quite uselessly, where she'd left it when she took her pen out, before he launched into his tale of parallel worlds and time-loops.

"I know it sounds crazy, but–"

"Don't talk to me – you're a complete nutter." Her eyes narrowed, she pressed her hand against the door, feeling to let herself out onto the street if he got any nearer. "Don't even look at me, starin' all mad like that, you're probably thinkin' of stickin' me in a meat locker somewhere, I bet."

"Got it." Crowley retreated a couple steps, giving her space. "You still want me to sign that?" He motioned, tiredly, at her book.

She considered, pausing for a moment, then handed it over. "Yeah, obviously."

"Obviously," he mocked, taking it from her outstretched hands and quickly scrawling an autograph.

Then he kicked the beaded clutch towards her with the side of his foot.

"Oh." She flushed, then faltered; not exactly apologetically, but close enough. "Thanks."

"Who better than you?"

Crowley paused, looked askance at the handset in his hand, remembered he was talking to Michael, total wank-wings extraordinaire, and said, "Wait, hang on, never mind – I'm not that desperate," dropping it back down onto the receiver.

Michael frowned from her place on the double-decker bus, clenching her long fingers around her glowing mobile. "Well. That was rude."

"Who better than you?"

"Rooof!"

So now Crowley knew he really had well and truly lost it. He'd literally snatched up a stray because it looked liked Adam's small hell-hound, Dog, and recited his entire life-story to it while it stared at him with its head angled and occasionally made little throaty noises that might have been sympathetic or might have been begging for food.

Probably it was begging for food.

"Right. You're a dog – what was I thinking?" He picked up the animal from its perch across the folding chair – whining and unwilling to leave, its formerly wagging tall now rigid – opening the door to put it outside. "Ow!" It had bitten him on the leg as he set it down. "Son of a bitch!" Literally.

So. Help was out of the question, then.

He was on his own.

Again.

"Let's just get this over with." Crowley held his wrists together and leaned over the car seat. "Go on, tie them."

Aziraphale blinked at him in confusion. "Steady on, dear fellow, you could put a little more enthusiasm into this. I get that your lot are big on the whole turning the other cheek business, but this is just–"

"What's it matter? Whatever I do, the end result is the same."

Although he was now dutifully knotting the cords around Crowley's slender wrists, Aziraphale was looking rather discomfited, like all the wind was being taken out of his sails. "That's hardly sporting of you."

"Well, I can't fight you."

"Sure you can." He almost sounded as if he were trying to be encouraging. "I'll loosen the knots up a smidgen and you can begin struggling. That's a start."

"No," he argued, wearily, "I can't."

"Why-ever not?"

Crowley just looked at him.

"I'm only doing my job, Raphael."

"What damnable difference does that make?"

"We're on opposite sides!"

"So?" Crowley shook his head.

"You're completely spoiling this for me, you realise?" sighed Aziraphale, letting go of his opponent's wrists, leaving them only half-tied, and sinking back into the driver's seat. "What's the matter with you today?"

Crowley pulled a hand free of his bonds and placed it over one of Aziraphale's.

The Prince of Hell automatically stiffened and started to yank his own hand out from underneath. "What the–"

Tightening his bony grasp on the former angel's plump hand, Crowley swallowed, looking straight ahead, out the windscreen. "Don't. Just don't. Don't say anything."

"Go on, get out." Aziraphale concentrated, and the locks clicked upwards. "Do it before I change my mind."

They appeared to be – rather than at the location Aziraphale had always made Crowley walk to the tracks from – in front of St. James's. The familiar park looked so tranquil from the window.

Hope swelled within Crowley, all the more potent for being unexpected. "Come with me."

"What? No!"

"We need to talk, you and I – let's go feed the ducks."

"I..." He sounded flustered. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"But letting me go is?" Crowley's hand rested tentatively on the car door. "Azirap–"

He glared.

"Zira, whatever. Listen. Satan and Beelzebub are already planning to punish you. Letting me go–" He didn't know what to say. It wasn't as though he actually wanted Aziraphale to discorporate him, but letting an archangel go – just because he looked sad and held his hand for a few moments – wasn't exactly going to make what the Prince of Hell returned to at his flat go over any smoother. Even a high-ranking demon risked the wrath of the Dark Counsel by going too easy on an archangel without a damn good excuse. "We need to work together."

His charcoal eyes clouding over with sudden mistrust, Aziraphale's whole body visibly tensed. "How do you know what Satan's planning? You're an angel." The locks clicked back down. "If this is all some sort of trick, Raphael–"

"It's not."

"Damn you. This isn't fair!" Aziraphale kicked the tire iron exasperatedly under the seat; it rolled with a clump, clump, clump. "You can't do this!"

"Do what?"

"We've been enemies for years, and you've never once acted like I was anything but a nuisance, now you–" He gnashed his teeth together. "I don't know what to do."

"Let me help you," Crowley pleaded. "I don't want to see you get hurt again."

Bending forward, Aziraphale rested his forehead against the steering-wheel. "Oh, my dear boy, you can't. There's no helping me."

"Why not?"

"Because it's too late." He lifted his head and looked at him, still not with trust but definitely with deepening pity. "It's been too late for a long time." Somewhere outside, nearby, a pigeon cooed. "Sometimes I think, for me, it always was."

"That time..." Crowley inhaled deeply. "That time in my office, before the rebellion. I didn't mean what I said." He was sure it was true – no version of him could be that cruel. "I was just having a bad day." You're not a problem, you never were.

Aziraphale laughed, actually laughed, and Crowley wasn't sure if it was intended to be nice or else menacingly bitter. "Thank you. But you're a bigger idiot than I thought if you believe I didn't work that out ages ago."

"Then why–"

"I've told you, Raphael, it's my job – angel, demon." He motioned between the both of them and sighed. "You know that would never work."

Crowley lifted his brow. "I've seen it done."

"If you're referring to Michael and Ligur, I'd hardly use that as my prime example of cooperation between our respective sides."

"Nah, that wasn't who I meant."

"I mean, perhaps if we had even the slightest common ground, if you were a demon, too–"

Crowley's blue eyes widened – somewhere in his mind flashes of light were going off, switches were being flipped. "Wait. Hang on. What did you say?"

"I said, if you were a demon–"

"Angel, you're brilliant! Come here!" And he threw his arms around the startled demon in a tight, quick, crushing embrace. "You've just told me how to make you listen." The irony was so beautiful he could cry. All those people he'd asked for help, and the one with all the answers had been the demonic version of his best friend all along. "Who better than you?"

"Get off me!"

Crowley pulled away, beaming. "Sorry."

"What the heaven was that all about?" Aziraphale demanded indignantly. "Grabbing onto me like that! You've wrinkled my coat."

"Now," said Crowley, happily, "I've just got to figure out a way to get myself discorporated."

"Oh," snipped Aziraphale, reaching under the seat for the tire iron, which was still in reaching distance despite being kicked about. "If you're suddenly keen, I do believe I can help with that."

'ello, it's Wednesday morning!

Crowley sat bolt upright in bed and, reaching over the square reading glasses, made a grab for the silver sewing scissors beside the alarm clock radio, sweeping them up.

In one single, dramatic flourish, he took his free hand and wrapped his long hair around his wrist twice before reaching back and cutting it all off at the nape of his neck.

It's overcast today with a fifty to sixty percent chance of rain, so you best have your brolly on hand just in case–

Crowley brought his hand – the twisted red coils of his newly shorn-off hair still tangled around his wrist – down on the radio alarm clock, stopping it.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

He looked up at the mirrored ceiling for what felt like the millionth time. His face appeared very tired and very pale. And why not? He'd been through a lot. Everybody else involved in this nightmare had the sweet mercy of amnesia as Wednesday started up again for the umpteenth time, while he was forced to remember – to take the slow, repetitive path over and over and over again.

It was good he remembered everything, though, because now he thought he knew what he had to do and was ready to do it. Finally. No more floundering about in the dark, trying to do whatever this version of him was meant to. It was high time he cut the crap and acted like himself and took full control of this once and for all.

This Aziraphale would never listen to the archangel Raphael. Hell had him scared senseless. Zira was, ironically, such a good, posh little demon he'd never willingly stray from what was put before him – even if they were cruel, it had to be better than the alternative he'd given up. Because he couldn't cope with the fact that he damned himself.

No, Raphael would never get through to him. Even if it broke both their hearts, in this version of events, their respective sides would always stand between the pair of them like a double-edged sword, like a barbedwire fence with a big 'don't touch' sign in huge, gaudy letters at the front.

He might, however, be willing to listen to a certain demon named A.J. Crowley.

Unknowingly, he'd outright told him as much.

Those bright blue eyes staring down at Crowley now were – unfortunately – exasperatingly, unchangeably angelic-looking.

But that soon wouldn't matter; he knew exactly what the right pair of dark sunglasses could hide.

A pair of sunglasses materialised on his face, as if they'd grown there, right out of the (now faintly glowing) eyes they shaded, as natural as the leaves of a houseplant.

Chapter Text

Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part Seven of Twelve

"Perhaps we all give the best of our hearts uncritically, to those who hardly think about us in return"

– T.H. White

The man whose account with their hardware store was registered under the name A.Z. Fell gingerly placed rope, pulleys, an excessive length of netting, and a long-handled shovel down onto the conveyor belt. They didn't clatter, the way they would if the more typical manner of customer handled them. They barely made any sound at all.

Mr. Fell smiled pleasantly at the employee ringing him up. "Good morning. Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh." He returned the smile, a bit shakily. "Will that be all for you today?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Find everything you were looking for?"

"Oh, I did, more or less. Thank you." A slight frown creased Mr. Fell's forehead. "Although, I was wondering... Would it be more prudent to purchase zip ties instead of quite so much rope?"

"Depends on the sort of project you had in mind."

"Now, now, you know perfectly well I like to keep my little projects private – it's personal." He glanced over his shoulder sharply, as if to ward off invisible spies. "I deeply appreciate this store being discreet on my behalf."

The sweating employee flashed back to a conversation he'd had with his manager just the other week – the last time Mr. Fell had been in. He'd flat out asked his superior, at Mr. Fell's departing back, in a low voice, "So. That guy. Chubby blonde in the black coat. Serial killer, right? We both agree that's what he buys all this stuff for?"

"Well, whatever he is, he's not a handyman – he's got lacquered fingernails, for God's sake."

"Think we should, like, call somebody? Turn him in?"

"Not if you want to keep this job, mate."

The crazy thing is, they were very nearly right about Aziraphale. Omit the fact that he only had the one victim, who always came back – sooner or later – and you had him pegged.

But you couldn't just let a serial killer know you'd guessed what he was about. That it was pretty damn obvious, really. That he might as well have a big neon sign pointing to himself, the way he went about it.

So, all the employee said as he rang him up – still smiling – was, "Certainly, sir, I understand – have a great Wednesday."

"Oh, I plan to."

Aziraphale still had a little time before he was meant to start getting things ready for Raphael, and he wondered, briefly, if the archangel ever noticed the effort he put into discorporating him.

After all, he could have just gone about casually poisoning Raphael's food and drink. That would certainly have been easier, left him with more spare time. Except, well, that seemed so inelegant, not to mention impersonal.

Cheating, really.

Besides, angels could be weirdly dicey about eating in general. You never knew when they were actually going to nibble at what was set before them or when they were going to magnanimously give it away to some poor soul or simply leave it untouched altogether, declaring it unfit. Aziraphale never really understood that; he always felt that if he were an angel still, he would have wanted to eat indiscriminately, to try everything that might prove scrummy. Why miss out?

Aziraphale parked the Ford Fiesta and, glancing in the back to be sure his purchases from the hardware store were still there along with the extra shopping in the brown paper bag and the bottle of milk, turned off the engine.

With a little sigh, he climbed out and – opening the back – took out the shopping and the milk before approaching the door of the closest building, number 473. He had decided to stop in to see an old – for lack of any better term – friend.

The demon tried to push the buzzer for flat #36A as quietly as he could; his friend's neighbour was rather unhinged and tended to shout obscenities at him as he passed in the hallway. He personally rather disliked that, though his friend insisted it was harmless, really, and she didn't mind so much – free advertising, she called it.

It didn't seem to make that much difference in the end, however, that he'd barely touched the button – it still rang loudly enough to wake the dead. Let alone one drunk old man who reeked of tobacco. Under other circumstances, Aziraphale might almost have felt sorry for the poor, delusional bastard. As things stood, he was rather irritated by him on the whole.

"Please don't be in..." he muttered, almost in an ironic sort of prayer, rolling his eyes and shifting the paper bag from one arm to the other. "Please don't be in, Sergeant Shadwell."

The door swung open and a friendly woman in a loose-fitting cardigan and plain skirt stood there. "Zira! Oh, it's so good to see you! You know, I was hoping when I got your call yesterday, you'd have a chance to stop by. Cleared my whole morning for you, just in case."

He beamed at her and waved the milk bottle since he didn't have a hand free. "Hello, Marjorie!"

Marjorie Potts – better known as Madame Tracy – was, very probably, the only occult dabbler in London who regularly chatted with an actual demon. She simply was not, herself, aware of this fact.

If she had, at any point, discovered her favourite visitor – the one who always paid double for her time and often brought nice little gifts and yet never laid a single manicured finger on her (except to pat her hand consolingly or to catch her if she tripped stepping over the threshold into her flat) or so much as asked her if she could bring up his dead great uncle to inquire about some inheritance or other – was in fact a Prince of Hell, she probably would have murmured, "Isn't that odd?" and then needed to sit down quietly for a few moments before concluding it was probably okay, being a demon, these days, just so long as you didn't force anyone to vomit up pea soup or talk about their mothers sucking cocks.

Frankly, Aziraphale preferred her not to know. There were some things a simple human mind wasn't equipped to handle.

"Are those all for me?" She motioned at the bulging paper bag and the milk. "I've told you before, I can get my own food and things – there's a shop near enough to take my scooter to."

"That old thing?" Aziraphale clicked his tongue disapprovingly, visibly pained on her behalf. "You'll have a wreck."

She gave him a look.

"Provided, of course," he conceded, "you ever get it up to a speed that wouldn't be out-distanced by a pedestrian walking."

"Well, stranger things have happened, dear." Her shoulders lifted into a shrug.

"This is getting a bit heavy," he said pointedly, looking down at the shopping and the milk.

"Oh, of course. Come in, come in." She held the door open a bit wider and stepped side. "Don't be a stranger, love. You go on ahead of me – you know the way."

They'd barely made it down the hall and up the stairs when the door across from Madame Tracy's flat banged open. "And what're ye doin' 'ere ageeen?"

"Hello." Aziraphale gave him a small grin.

"That's nae't an answer."

"Mr. Fell is my guest, Mr. Shadwell," Madame Tracy said meekly, lips pursed.

Scowling, Shadwell turned away, pressing one hand against his doorframe.

Aziraphale waggled his fingers under the hoisted paper bag. "Pip-pip, Mr. Shadwell."

And Shadwell mockingly muttered, "Pip-pip – great southern pansy," then – peering over his shoulder – looked askance at Marjorie and snarled, "Shameless hussy," before slamming it shut again emphatically. "Hoor!"

A special-order plaque reading Defy the Foul Friend (the Prince of Hell was fairly certain this was an error and it was meant to say Defy the Foul Fiend) made of badly tarnished silver rattled violently against the vibrating door.

"You shouldn't let him talk to you like that," Aziraphale said, more from habit than from any hope Marjorie might suddenly become inclined to stand up for herself; she liked Shadwell, and – apart from a little teasing now and again, which she said was good for him – wouldn't have nettled the 'poor dear' for the world.

He let himself inside, took off his leather trench coat, and began putting the food and milk away while she dutifully put the kettle on for tea.

"I've got you some sprouts." Aziraphale figured she must be very fond of them, even though he'd never actually seen them served in her flat, because it always smelled like boiling sprouts in here. "Some bread." He placed the bread down on the worktop. "Also some chocolate, a small bag of oranges, and a baked ham."

"You silly," she sighed, bringing the tea-things to the table and setting it just before the kettle began whistling. "You need to worry less about me and take more care of yourself."

"You're not as young as you once were."

"Oi, you're a charmer," teased Madame Tracy, pretending to pout as she turned off the stove. It made a puht, puht sound and the old kettle bounced two times in quick succession.

"You know what I meant." He made a mental note to buy her one of those shiny new electric kettles and bring it round next time he visited. "Have you ever considered moving out of here? Buying a nice little bungalow?"

"Oh, a couple of times," she admitted, with a shrug. Her eyes drifted to the door. "But I couldn't imagine leaving–"

Shadwell, of course.

"I couldn't imagine leaving," she repeated, as if that were the complete sentence, her finished thought. "That's all."

But he understood what she really meant, and she knew it.

It might seem strange that somebody who was classifiably stupid in the traditional sense of the term, the way Madame Tracy technically was, would have so much in common with Aziraphale, who was so obviously intelligent. But they'd quickly found they did. So much so that – somewhere around the point in time where he figured she'd realise he wasn't getting any older – Aziraphale had feigned his own demise, allegedly of a heart-attack, and turned up at her door – less than half a decade later, admittedly rather missing her reassuring presence – claiming to be the (previously unintroduced) son of the Zira she'd known in the good old days.

After murmuring, "Oh," once, very quietly, she accepted the new, 'younger' Zira with only three stipulations. One, wipe your feet before you enter, two, don't mind poor Mr. Shadwell, because his father didn't, so why should he, and three – the most important stipulation of the lot – sip your tea nice and slow and talk for as long as time allots.

The other demons were fully aware Aziraphale visited her, but they didn't care much about it. Being a Prince of Hell, they figured he could do what he liked. Besides, they weren't aware he was actually doing her any kindnesses, that he wanted friendly chatter, that he wanted the thoughtful advice of someone who wasn't a hellish pervert with supernatural powers and a diabolical mind. She was a sex worker. Regardless of the fact that she was starting to get up there in age, it seemed to them rather obvious what he'd be going to her flat for.

His fellow demons didn't have the same impression of Aziraphale that most humans meeting him initially did. It had been Madame Tracy who'd explained to Aziraphale exactly what humans tended to think he was – apart from intelligent and English.

"Don't be embarrassed," she'd finished gently, realising he was rather stunned by the implication, and that it was – going by his reaction – quite incorrect. "Your father gave off the same impression and, well, you're here, aren't you? People are funny like that. We always guess wrong about each other, when it comes down to it, don't we?"

After the shock wore off, Aziraphale squirrelled away this information and made a mental note to use it to his advantage if ever the opportunity arose. It was good knowing what people saw when they looked at him; it gave him an edge. He could easily envision twisting their preconceived notions to get his own way in a number of possible situations.

He was glad that she'd told him; it explained a lot of strange looks (as well as a number of unsettling propositions, often accompanied by a bloody lot of winking) he'd gotten over the years.

At least next time it came up, he'd thought, rather relieved, he'd know better than to simply frown unbecomingly and say, "For badness sake, what are you doing? Have you got something in your eye?"

Aziraphale left the kitchen and pulled out a chair as Madame Tracy followed and poured hot water from the kettle into the teapot. She hesitated at offering him the sugar bowl for his tea – sometimes he took it, sometimes he didn't.

"No sugar for me, please."

She nodded politely and spooned a couple lumps into her own cup.

"How have things been? Your knees still giving you trouble?"

Her mouth twisted. "Oh, a bit, they're not what they used to be – been giving me gyp. It's been rather hard to operate the table rapper, you know, but Mr. Shadwell was wonderful about banging on the walls and screaming at just the right time. Although, Mrs. Ormerod was wondering why her Ron was so angry that week." She stirred her tea. "But enough about me. What about you, then?"

"There's nothing new with me," said Aziraphale, spreading out his hands on the table.

"And how is Raphael doing?" She said it kindly, knowing it was a tender question.

Aziraphale – being a demon – hadn't been able to tell her what he did, and would have never mentioned, not in a thousand years, that he spent most of his time thinking up ways to dispatch someone – an angel – to another plane of existence. No sooner than he would have opened his wings in front of her. (He thought her reaction would likely have been a long scream, followed by a stint in the local madhouse, before coming back home convinced she was suffering from an iron deficiency.) But he'd told her what he could, though he knew he probably shouldn't even say that much – about any of it.

He'd painted them as rivals in a company that split ages before – always pitted against each other – and, if you thought about it, that wasn't exactly a lie.

He'd wanted to ask her because – even though he prided himself on never trusting anyone – he trusted her... You couldn't help it. She was that harmless. He'd wanted to ask her why he often felt so badly about how he was forced to treat Raphael, and why he felt even worse when Raphael barely noticed him or his efforts.

Sometimes Raphael seemed to look right through him.

For what it was worth, for all that couldn't be changed, for the all the camaraderie that was simply impossible between them, Aziraphale truly believed that if Raphael were replaced with another angel in his post on earth, he would be miserable, that he would inexplicably miss him and never be able to tell anyone, and Raphael – if the reverse were to happen – might scarcely even notice the demon's absence.

Madame Tracy had understood the dilemma at once. "Well, Zira, love confounds us all, one way or another. Fact of life."

Aziraphale had furrowed his brow, not quite sure what she'd been trying to say. And it wasn't simply because she wasn't usually one to use words slightly above her paygrade such as 'confounds', either.

"It's like me with my niece in Finchley – I took my scooter out there to visit her after a quarrel, and it didn't do very well, making all these noises, so I knew I had to take the bus the next time, and she wasn't even glad to see me... But I couldn't not go. Love confounded me. I had to see her, be sure she was all right. Make it pax between us.

"And then there's Mr. Shadwell." She'd shaken her head. "Sometimes I think I might as well be flicking bread pellets into a black hole."

Aziraphale had gotten it, then, and groaned, passing a plump hand over his face – it felt almost good to admit it. That he cared about Raphael, had perhaps always cared about the stupid archangel who was meant to be his bitterest rival, despite himself, and it didn't even matter.

"I think," he'd commented darkly, mulling this miserable fact over in his mind, "T.H. White had it about right."

"Who?" She'd blinked in a manner that would have been almost comedic if the shared moment wasn't so pathetic and sombre.

"Don't worry. Nobody you'd know."

And ever since that conversation, she always – very sweetly – asked how Raphael was getting on. She was the sort of person who tended to remember in rather good detail what was important to her visitors, regardless of the nature of that importance.

He said Raphael was fine, last he'd seen him, thank you. He could hardly tell her he was planning on having him run over by a Piccadilly Line Train later today. Much less that, in a strange way, he was rather looking forward to it.

The conversation drifted back to the earlier topic.

"You could," and before Aziraphale even finished saying it, he knew it likely wasn't true and felt doubly sorry for her. "You could invite Shadwell to go with you – they say two can live as comfortably as one."

She shook her head. "He'd never come with me." She forced a bright smile and handed him a tin with a picture of a happy golden retriever wearing a tartan bow-tie on it.

There were iced shortbread biscuits inside, and Aziraphale took one, nibbling on it even though it was slightly stale – the crumbs sticking to the inside of his throat, making him want to cough – and the coagulated white icing was so sticky sweet it left him feeling like he needed to brush his teeth immediately before they dissolved on him.

Madame Tracy paused. She looked confused.

"What is it?" Aziraphale asked, growing mildly concerned.

"I thought–" She shook her head. "Funny. But I thought, really thought, the phone in the hall was going to ring."

"Were you expecting a call?" He hoped her niece was all right – he couldn't imagine who else she'd be anxious about hearing from.

"No, dear, I'm all yours this morning – you've got my undivided attention – it's just a feeling; like somebody called yesterday, or perhaps earlier this week, so I knew they were going to call today. For Shadwell. His Witchfinder Army. Only it wasn't yesterday. Or earlier this week. Because it was Wednesday then, just like now." Bringing her teacup to her lips, she murmured, "Isn't that odd."

"Might have been last week," he offered helpfully.

"No, no, it wasn't – I had one of my gentlemen here last week and the phone didn't interrupt us once."

Aziraphale shrugged and choked down another crumby biscuit.

"Been thinking of getting a fellow out here to look at the telly – broken again, believe it or not." Madame Tracy's train of thought had drifted away from the phone, as if her mind couldn't handle focusing on that bizarre surety she'd had someone was going to call. "Getting nothing but snow."

Aziraphale briefly wondered if there wasn't just a little bit of real psychic-ness in Marjorie Potts after all. He pondered if it would be cruelty or kindness to give Raphael a sort of tip-off about her so the angels could broadcast some celestial interference, then decided it was moot regardless, because it would, albeit in a roundabout way, mean helping Raphael's side – something he wasn't allowed to do.

Demons had standards.

If it got too bad, he could broadcast a sort of demonic interference of his own and eliminate the middleman. Most likely, it wouldn't get bad at all – by Madame Tracy's age, most psychics without an outlet for their backwards perception of time would have already lost their shit or become full-blown alcoholics, and Marjorie was so bloody normal, comparatively. This was the first thing she'd ever said that had even so much as turned his thoughts in that direction, and he'd known her for decades. Indeed, the very worst you could accuse Marjorie Potts of being was a bit dim; there was nothing the matter with her temporal focus beyond that. Probably it was just a full moon coming up – or something.

"Not that it matters," Madame Tracy went on. "It's Wednesday. There's nothing good on Wednesdays. Case in point, they're thinking of switching Marvin O. Bagman's show to Wednesdays, since ratings dropped. I still miss that nice man he replaced – the one who liked plants and talked about health food a lot. Raphael Antonius."

"Oh, yes, me too." Aziraphale bit his lower lip, trying not to grin. She never had realised that his Raphael from work and Raphael Antonius whose books she owned – though the Prince of Hell had never actually seen her read any of them – and whose television programme she used to watch – pardon the term – religiously were, in fact, the same person.

There had been a short period of time when Aziraphale would actually pop over here – usually on Fridays – just to watch it with her.

Probably because the host was an archangel, it was the only show the Infernal Authorities below were incapable of cutting into to deliver a message through. Aziraphale convinced himself that was why he liked watching it – despite the fact it was so bloody trite and dripping with a message of celestial goodness and sunshine and happy bluebirds and all that shit – because he was so overworked and starved for a guaranteed break.

Madame Tracy would make him extra foamy cocoa, topped with heavy whipped cream and sprinkles, and he'd usually bring a couple packages of Jammie Dodgers.

One time, Aziraphale had been sitting there, a knitted afghan across his lap, a warm feeling spreading through his stomach after drinking his cocoa, a bluebottle fly buzzing softly around one of the pink-shaded lamps, and he thought – a little bitterly – that humans had something, here, he'd never have. This could be their normal. This was their life. Just eating Jammie Dodgers at a friend's place, the blue light of the telly flickering across their faces, while the afternoon sun dipped behind the horizon on a bleary day.

So many humans lamented this – wanted something more, thought their lives were boring, would literally – in many cases – sign a contract with the devil to get out of it.

And there he'd been, as the credits for Raphael's talk show rolled and the picture of the queen came on for a programme-free hour before the early-evening game shows started up, thinking, this wouldn't be that bad. That if time stopped here, and he just relived drinking cocoa with Marjorie over and over again, it mightn't be the worst thing ever.

Shadwell could have this life, this cosiness, if he ever pulled his head out of his arse long enough to walk across the damn hallway. All he'd have to do was swallow his pride and he could be as comfortable as the day was long. Stupid man.

Humans were idiots. The lot of them. And angels weren't much better.

Not that Aziraphale was lonely or bored, no, he had plenty to keep him occupied at home – at his Mayfair flat – he didn't need to be there, but it was nice.

"I hate to ask, you know I enjoy having you here," Marjorie cut into his thoughts suddenly. He realised then she'd been talking the entire time and he'd missed most of it. "But... Aren't you going to be late for work?"

Aziraphale blessed under his breath. He took out some money from his pocket and set it on the table.

She counted it out slowly and tucked it inside her cleavage. She'd noticed Zira tended to look concerned (and a little offended) if she didn't show any interest in the money, or in counting it, and she hated to disappoint him.

Slipping his arms through the sleeves of his leather trench coat Aziraphale watched her, knew she was only making a long show of taking the money for his benefit, and twisted his expression into one of forced satisfaction. His eyes drifted involuntarily to a framed picture that usually was in another room, which might have been moved when Madame Tracy did some cleaning earlier in the week.

A sepia photograph of her when she was young.

The demon could still vividly remember that admittedly dull – yet somehow impish – face in colour, the way it had looked in person.

How did humans change so quickly?

Sometimes he truly wondered if the overseeing of making their short lives miserable – the way he was meant to, the way he pretended he relished doing – really was such a glorious occupation after all.

The startled demon almost crashed the Ford Fiesta into the side of the curb, slamming down on the brakes just in time, his sunglasses falling off his face and landing in his lap with a dainty plop.

The archangel Raphael was walking down the street, looking, well... It was hard to describe.

Nothing like himself, that was for sure.

Or, perhaps, the opposite – perhaps he looked more like himself than Aziraphale had ever seen him look before.

His clothes – while still consisting of suit-pieces that might have been normal wear for angels, under other circumstances, if they'd been lighter in hue – were all solid black; his distinctive long red hair was gone, cut super short; and he wore a pair of dark sunglasses of his own.

Aziraphale couldn't help it; he was gawking as the window wound down and Raphael approached the car, grinning like a serpent.

There was a strange, almost demonic aura sparking around him. From one of his hands swung a large, tan bookbag Aziraphale immediately longed to know the contents of.

This was all most unexpected.

"Er... Get in, angel." Aziraphale tried to sound confident, like he didn't notice the change – but Raphael wasn't an idiot, he could see the utterly shocked way he was staring at him; he was hardly being subtle, with his charcoal eyes doubtless gone as big as a pair of saucepans.

The ginger eyebrows above the dark sunglasses lifted teasingly at him. "You can't seriously expect me to make it that easy?"

"Suppose not." There was a twinge of relief spreading in Aziraphale's chest – some sort of hope, stupid as it was, that nothing had changed and Raphael's new look didn't mean anything in particular after all.

But Raphael did get into the car, plopping down onto the passenger seat and tossing the tan bookbag into the back, despite what he'd just said, and Aziraphale – still shocked and trying to think fast despite his brain feeling like it was turning into a big fat piece of demonic grey mush on him – instinctively reached for the tire iron under his own seat. Under other circumstances, he probably would have driven off first and parked some place – even if it was just temporary – before trying something like this. In his frazzled state, though, he barely remembered to make the locks go down.

"That was so easy it was sad," Aziraphale began, swinging back around to face Raphael with the tire iron clutched in his plump hand. "You know, you really could put more effort–"

"I am." Now pointing the handgun at his head – somehow stealthily retrieved from the glove compartment – Raphael was grinning even more widely; with those sunglasses, something behind them faintly glowing, striking that pose, he sort of looked like a demonic version of James Bond. "Putting forth more effort, I mean. Now, be a good little demon and toss that tire iron in the back seat."

A little shakily, Aziraphale complied. It clanked. "I say, Raphael, that is my property. That gun belongs to me."

"I'm borrowing it, then, aren't I?"

"Between you and I, my dear, I thought your lot disapproved of guns."

"Call it a moral argument."

"Ah. Well. Still. We both know you're not actually going to–"

"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not." He leaned forward, the handgun now so close to Aziraphale's nose it nearly grazed it. "Ask yourself. Do you feel lucky?"

No, he didn't – not particularly. "Not very sporting of you."

"You were about to hit me in the face with a tire iron – we're a bit beyond sporting, angel."

"Fair point." He paused. "Hang on. Did you just call me–"

"Never mind that," growled Raphael, tilting his head. "Here's how it's going to go from here on out – you drive where I tell you, do what I tell you, and I won't blow your brains to kingdom come and splatter discorporated demon goo all over the interior of your car. Now then." He motioned with the gun. "Do you and I have an arrangement?"

"I–" he choked.

"If you agree, just nod and place your hands on the wheel."

"But, my dear fellow–"

"Or you could take your chances with the hours of delightful paperwork down below."

"It seems I have no choice." Still looking at Raphael, nodding slowly, he lifted his hands and placed them on the steering-wheel.

"Oh, and close your mouth." He took one hand off the gun and – leaning over – patted Aziraphale's cheek. "You're not a bloody codfish."

Aziraphale's gapping mouth snapped shut.

"Good. Start driving."

"T-to where?"

"Mayfair. You know where. Your place."

"You're one of the good guys – you're supposed to be the nice one!" he snarled, putting his foot down on the gas and zooming forward, furiously blaring the horn at a clueless pedestrian who'd stepped out off the pavement at the wrong moment and had to throw themselves backwards to avoid getting run over.

And Raphael just kept on smiling. "You really believe that?"

For a chilling – somehow excitingly freeing – moment, Aziraphale honestly was not sure one way or the other.

Chapter Text

Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part Eight of Twelve

They complain about him being inhuman... He is inhuman. But why should he be human? Are angels supposed to be human?

– T.H. White

Aziraphale struggled to recall when he'd last – in all his long years of existence, from the day of his creation onward – been this utterly humiliated. He came up with rather a short list.

Largely, this – this – well... Well, it just took the bloody cake, didn't it?

No, it didn't merely take the cake – it baked it and sold it and smashed it onto faces like Americans on the telly were always doing with gushy banana cream pies.

All right, so the metaphor running through his mind at the moment was becoming a bit stretched – in the way that an elephant is a bit big – but who could blame him? At this very moment, an archangel, who didn't look a thing like an archangel today though he certainly had done yesterday, was pointing a gun – the frazzled demon's own gun, stolen from his car – and forcing entry into his flat. So pardon him if he mixed and strained a few comparisons the wrong way about!

"What if I screamed?" demanded Aziraphale suddenly, in a low, surprisingly level voice. "What if I threw back my head and shouted, 'look out, he's got a gun, call the police!' right now?"

Raphael didn't so much as flinch. He almost looked like he might yawn – which Aziraphale thought rather rude of him. "Then I'd tell them it's your birthday." He didn't elaborate on his meaning, didn't say 'I'd tell them this was planned, play-acting'; he didn't have to, it was implied by the slight quirk in the corners of his mouth.

"You wouldn't!" The Prince of Hell was nonplussed. "You snake!"

"Oh, angel, you have no idea!" He actually laughed.

"Sorry." Aziraphale narrowed his grey eyes. "Did I say something funny?"

His tone had been cold, sarcastic, even a touch threatening in a vague sort of way, but Raphael – his mouth still quirked rather dementedly – responded as if it had been a real question. "Yes, quite."

"I don't suppose there's any chance you're going to tell me what's in the bookbag you're carrying?" Aziraphale said next, in rather a different voice, motioning with curiosity at the tan bag in the angel's other hand – the one that wasn't holding a handgun.

"You'll find out soon enough." Raphael cocked the gun pointedly. "Stop stalling and let's get going – we might not have much time."

Time for what, exactly? He fought back a shudder and unlocked the door, letting them both inside. The jangling keys nearly fell from his hands – he didn't want to admit, though, not even to himself, that they were shaking.

Raphael made straight for the lounge.

Aziraphale felt his throat closing on him as he watched, not quite helplessly yet also not certain he could bring himself to spring out at the angel and throw himself on his back to stop him, either. His heart beat like a hammer. Not my lounge. Anything besides that. The books – all the books!

The angel opened his bookbag.

Aziraphale staggered forward. "Oh," he said, when he reached him, a little disappointed. "It's empty." There were few sights more disheartening than an empty bookbag.

Raphael pointed the gun at him again. "Right. Now, you just pick up your best books – the ones you would run to save if there was a fire – and start packing them in."

"I will not!" squealed Aziraphale, gone hoarse.

"You will, or I'll dispatch you back to Hell." He held his arm up a little higher, wagging the gun about. Then he sighed, "Just do it, all right?"

"Shoot me, then." Aziraphale stared him down.

"How can someone as clever as you be so stupid?" The ginger eyebrows above his sunglasses sank downwards. "Now," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Books. No more talking."

Eyes darting, Aziraphale snagged a stack of brochures, most of which he'd planned on throwing away – including a rather ironic one for a place called Tadfield Manor – and tried to drop them into Raphael's bookbag.

The angel stopped him, his mouth a grim, impatient line. "I wasn't created yesterday – the books, Aziraphale."

"Zira," he corrected, chucking the brochures in a scattered mess across the lounge, wishing afterwards he'd thought to toss them in Raphael's face, knocking those stupid sunglasses right off it. "It's Zira."

"If you won't choose them yourself, I'll do it." He reached for a fat leather volume with a silver sigil on the spine and Aziraphale struggled to show no reaction; then a little whistle of an anxious breath escaped from one of his nostrils and Raphael smiled like a snake. "Ah, definitely one of your favourites." He lifted the book and placed it inside the bag with unexpected gentleness. "Stays with me, then."

"You're robbing me?" Aziraphale gasped, staring like he still couldn't quite believe it was even happening – which he couldn't. "My dear fellow, why–"

Raphael aimed the pistol and fired at the leg of the nearby wooden trolley. It shattered.

The demon couldn't help it; he jumped.

"That was a warning, Zira." Raphael bared his teeth again. "Your most valuable books, shut up and put them in the damn bag."

Biting onto his lower lip, willing himself not to cry in front of an archangel – wondering why he wasn't just throwing himself onto the floor and refusing, why his legs and arms were betraying him as readily as Raphael was – he began placing his greatest, dearest treasures into the tan bookbag along with the first precious volume Raphael had taken.

When it was full, the angel snapped it shut, the gun still fixed on Aziraphale so he couldn't leap forward and snatch back so much as a single book.

Emotions were ripping through the Prince of Hell so rapidly he didn't know what to do with himself. He wanted to curl up in the corner and mourn his stolen books – books Raphael would probably sell or destroy (some of them were on the occult, he'd likely earn a promotion of some kind for doing that). He also wanted to grab Raphael's arm and quietly enquire if he was free for lunch; he was becoming increasingly fascinated with this new version of the angel he'd thought he knew pretty well, before today, and was harbouring, despite himself, a desire to talk to him over a nice, hot meal. He wanted, more than either of the other two options, to take the dense copy of The Amber Spyglass from its place on the shelf and hurl it at the angel's head.

"Please." The word slipped out; his mouth was trembling.

And, in that moment, the confusion in the demon's already completely blown mind doubled.

Because Raphael did the most unexpected thing yet. Which was saying a lot, given what he'd already been doing. He placed the bookbag down, put the gun beside it and – after carefully putting his heel down on it so Aziraphale couldn't take it for himself – reached for the demon's arms and squeezed them consolingly.

His face was wholly different, the corners of his mouth gone soft with sympathy. It was like they were on some sort of movie set and a director had just shouted, "Cut!"

Perhaps, Aziraphale considered, Raphael was having some manner of delusional breakdown.

"I am so sorry about what's going to happen after I leave." He kept a strong grip on his arms so he couldn't squirm free. "I don't think I can stop it. Believe me, if there was any other way..." He shook his head. "If I could, I'd go through it for you."

"Steady on, Raphael." Aziraphale gulped, dropping his gaze and staring down at the long, thin hands holding firmly onto his elbows. "I don't know what the heaven you're–"

Raphael let him go, retrieved the gun and the bookbag, and began heading for the door.

"That's it?" His hands planted themselves on his hips, indignant.

Raphael lifted a black fedora off the nearby rack and placed it on his head, tipping it as he reached for the door handle to let himself out.

Because, of course, the demon thought bitterly, he might as well steal my new hat, too. While he's here. Might as well happen.

"You might just as well take the scarf, too," huffed Aziraphale, gesturing at the rack angrily. "It's a matching set."

It didn't really matter, though – the books meant more than any lousy hat, and they were about to disappear, maybe forever, with the retreating archangel.

He didn't reach for the scarf, didn't acknowledge Aziraphale's statement at all. "I'm so sorry you have to get hurt again." And he left.

"I loathe you," Aziraphale murmured (too quietly for the vanishing angel to hear), and didn't actually mean it – not in the slightest.

Aziraphale had resolved that – the very next time he saw him – he was going to give Raphael a good talking-to. That was the only way with some persons. Certain supernatural beings you could knock about on the head or clout and get the clear message across, but others needed a good, sound shaming, a no-nonsense, what-were-you-thinking, and no mistake.

Raphael obviously – as he'd made it plain to see – fell firmly into the latter category.

He was just wringing his still-shaking hands, thinking about exactly what he would say, and how he wouldn't stand for this sort of behaviour in the future, enemies or not there must be a line one never crossed, they were professionals and must act as such, when a dreadful feeling came over him.

It wasn't something that should have made him feel like the floor was opening up, about to swallow him, but it did.

Satan was coming.

"Oh shit," he murmured.

There was a time – and despite it really having been quite long ago it didn't always feel so – Aziraphale would have been delighted to see Lucifer. But things changed. These days, his old mate Lucifer, who'd seemed so generous and caring when he'd been there for him after Raphael's hasty rejection that day in his office, was someone else entirely.

Aziraphale didn't like to think that, perhaps, this was just who he'd really been all along, underneath.

Didn't like to think it, but often found himself doing so in spite of himself.

When Satan arrived, entering without knocking, he wasn't alone – Beelzebub was with him.

Aziraphale felt the blood drain from his face. He had nothing personally against the Princess of Hell. She was all right, mostly. Not particularly competitive with him usually – their clashes, when they happened, were relatively minor. Well, minor for a pair of demons that shared a high rank, anyway. Professional was probably the better word to describe it. However, if Satan brought her along, wanted her to see what he did to him, this couldn't possibly be good.

"Satan, Beelzebub." He flashed them his brightest smile and stood with his hands behind his back. "I wasn't expecting both of you." His eyes darted between them, struggling to show no fear. "What a pleasant surprise."

Beelzebub sighed impatiently. "Zzhut it, Zira."

The devil's steps as he approached Aziraphale were loud, unfriendly. "You know what you've done, don't you?"

And for a horrible moment, Aziraphale didn't know what he was talking about and found himself thinking, inexplicably: He knows what's under the bed – oh, Heaven, no, wait, Hell, er, somebody help me!

Then he wondered why in celestial blazes he had thought that. There was nothing but cardboard shoeboxes under the bed. Nothing the devil couldn't see. Nothing hidden. What did his mind think he was protecting in that panicked moment? Maybe he was going mad – or it was the full moon, like with Marjorie Potts thinking the phone would ring earlier.

"You know," said Satan, leaning forward, his face so close to Aziraphale's their noses nearly touched, "what I've told you before about these little fuck ups of yours. I will not stand for them!"

Words came from the demon's whirling mind to his mouth and rested heavily on his tongue, as though glued there; Aziraphale knew better than to say anything in reply. He would have to simply buck up and endure what came next.

"Well, Beelzebub, would you like to say anything to your friend before I commence punishment?" Satan drummed his fingers – the tips of which were giving off little fiery sparks – against the nearest wall, and they echoed, like heavy raindrops on a glass pane. "Your poor, fat little friend who just couldn't cut it?"

Beelzebub shrugged. She had little enough to say to Zira on a good day – what did she need to say to him now, when Satan was poised to beat the ever-living daylights out of his corporation? If she felt any pity for him, you couldn't tell it from her placid, wholly unmoved face sweating slightly under her furry, fly-shaped hat.

Satan reached with his other hand, gripped Aziraphale's chin and, pressing himself close against the – now shivering – demon, put his lips next to his ear. "Do you want to know a secret, darling?"

Aziraphale said yes. There was no other acceptable response.

"This is going to hurt you so much more than it's going to hurt me."

While the punishment went on, longer than seemed possible, Aziraphale tried to think of something else. Something nice. He tried to let his mind take him away to a better place, and when it didn't – when it kept thinking of random things of no importance, like lists of food items he wanted to purchase for the flat, and when exactly the repairmen were meant to stop by and fix the fridge – he cursed his lousy imagination. You would think reading as often and as widely as he did would sharpen his ability to drag his mind into the sweet comfort of a random fantasy on a whim.

It didn't, though, and he was – passingly – angry at God for giving him what was apparently a broken imagination. Even back in Heaven, before becoming a demon, he was fairly sure he'd never had a very good one.

For whatever reason, instead of a sweet lie, instead of an invented happy place where the searing pain might be dulled, Aziraphale kept thinking about the first time he saw Raphael.

He'd been grinning – almost ear-to-ear – at something another angel said, his blue eyes glittering with laughter, and he had looked so much kinder – so much more easy-going and understanding – than Gabriel and Uriel and Michael.

Aziraphale's own eyes – which had also been blue, back then, before hellfire changed them – had watched him, following his distinctive red hair like a beacon on the edge of the blurred white hallway, until he was out of sight. He'd promised himself, in that rather starstruck moment, if he were ever in real danger, or truly afraid for himself, that was the archangel he'd go to, the one he'd trust.

It wasn't a resolution which had turned out particularly well, or even one he could look back on without his cheeks burning hot from raw embarrassment, though he no longer truly blamed Raphael for the way things unfolded.

Anyone could have a bad day.

He was having one right now.

"You won't disappoint me again, will you, darling?"

Everything hurt. Blood dripped from his nose. Aziraphale swallowed, then murmured promises pushed past a swollen mouth; promises that he'd be everything Satan wanted him to be from now on, that things would be better, that he would be better.

For some reason, whenever he hurt him, Satan always insisted on hearing Aziraphale tell him he was better off for it; everything short of literally thanking him for hurting him.

The first time he ever hurt him, shortly after the failed rebellion, Aziraphale had made the mistake of looking angry – even a little defiant – simply because he was so stunned. He hadn't thought the angel Lucifer, who'd once been so comforting and gentle towards him, would do such a thing. Furthermore, now Aziraphale knew not to take it personally – now he knew, nine out of ten times, it was a show for Beelzebub, to keep her in line, nothing to do with him. But the first time had been different. The first time they'd been alone in a storage corner of Hell, and Lucifer had just lost it on him for some reason or other.

Then, after it was over, and had gone way too far, when Aziraphale got visibly upset, he'd struck him again – so hard Hell seemed to be spinning – and demanded he never, ever look at him like that, not if he knew what was good for him.

"I have done so much for you," he'd snarled. "I've given you everything – power, position. And I can take it away. Don't you ever disrespect me again."

So Aziraphale took it – all the pain and humiliation – in stride these days. Except, even so, it didn't spare him from getting another thudding blow that tossed him against the wall, which he slid down slowly, whimpering.

"Not quite zzo uppity now, izz he?" buzzed Beelzebub. "Are we done here, Mazzter?"

Aziraphale held his breath, hoping Satan would confirm that they were.

"No. Not yet." The devil paused, staring down at him with glowing red eyes. "He hasn't learned his lesson."

"Mazzzter–"

"But, don't worry, he will – before we leave, he will."

Despite Aziraphale's frantically begging them not to, swearing he had learned his lesson, Satan set his lounge aflame.

He tried to put the fire out himself, rather pathetically, with nothing but his breath, blowing on it like it was hot soup.

Beelzebub smacked him across the face.

He grovelled, still struggling to make one of them take pity on him, to no avail. "Stop! You'll burn up everything."

"No," said Satan, looking at him with an expression that was suddenly, terrifyingly possessive – the only glance he'd given him during the entire visit which felt chillingly personal. "Not everything, my sweet darling. Just the part you care about."

There was no point in trying to heal himself. Satan would know. You couldn't use occult power without him knowing. Typically, his usage wasn't audited, but they'd be paying attention today, after what they'd just done.

Aziraphale had stared brokenly at his burned-up lounge for a while before he finally staggered into the bedroom. He was very nearly never in here. It felt strange to crawl under the dusty covers, aching and in stinging pain all over, and wish for blackness, for complete oblivion.

Buzzz. Brriiingggg.

He rolled over, tossing back the thick black bedspread. The action released a little cloud of dust that made him sneeze, causing a new, dark line of blood to drip from his damaged nose. Damn. He'd just gotten it to clot, too.

Aziraphale did consider not getting up. Except, it might be the repairmen, for the fridge, and who knew when they'd be back again if he let them leave.

As he stumbled to the door, the Prince of Hell invented an elaborate story about falling down the stairs earlier – in case his visitors, whoever they were, asked what had happened to his face.

If he'd had a good imagination, it might have been an interesting – and therefore potentially believable – story, but it wasn't anything of the sort, and he was still despairing of it by the time he undid the locks, muttering, "Just a moment."

It wasn't the repairmen.

It was Raphael, standing there sombrely, holding up the tan bookbag. "Hi."

"Hello." As if in a trance, Aziraphale reached out and wrapped his sore fingers around the handle, taking it from him.

"Well, nice seeing you again." Raphael smiled tightly, then turned and left.

At first, Aziraphale couldn't speak or think for the life of him. He just kept looking from the tan bookbag to the empty space where Raphael had been standing.

Then, as if a magic button had been pressed, releasing him back to himself, he gently placed the bag down and ran out into the hallway after the archangel, calling his name. "Raphael! Raphael! Raphael, for pity's sake, wait!"

But he was already gone.

Aziraphale frantically tried to get the doorman's attention.

"Jesus!" the doorman cried out, recoiling. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Long story." The demon waved it off. "I'm perfectly all right. Listen. A tall, thin man – dark suit, red hair, sunglasses. Did he just come out this way? Please. This is frightfully important."

"He did," the doorman told him, nodding.

"Did he say anything? Anything at all?"

"Nothing, sir."

Aziraphale slowly ascended the stairs, going back to his flat feeling very, very lost. What Raphael had just done for him had no possible explanation. Why and how would he have–

He opened the bookbag, examining the neatly-packed books – the best of his collection, saved from a fire the archangel couldn't have known about – and drawing them out as if each one was made of pure gold.

From between two large gilded tomes, a gleaming white envelope slipped out and fluttered towards the floor.

Aziraphale caught it between two fingers just in time and drew out its contents: two pages, both sides with writing on them.

Raphael had left him a letter.

Chapter Text

Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 9 of 12

"Well, seeing that today certainly is my day – why don't you call me Wednesday?"

– American Gods, Neil Gaiman

Best Cafe hailed itself (if you read the less than humble descriptions on the side of their water-stained take out menu, which very few of the regulars actually did) as the greatest thing to happen to eating in the borough of Wandsworth since the invention of sliced bread.

In reality, it wasn't even a step up from the sort of greasy spoon cafe that gave you indigestion three out of the five times you visited at four in the morning on your way back from a business trip. The food was reasonably edible, there were – usually – an adequate amount of tables available inside (and you could always sit at one of the two situated outside, if there weren't); that was about all that could be said for the place.

Best Cafe had never been a frequent meeting place for Crowley and Aziraphale back home, in the world where things made sense, though they both dropped in alone – or when meeting somebody else – from time to time (in Crowley's case, Shadwell).

Still, this was the meeting place Crowley had eventually chosen, had scrawled at the end of his long letter tucked between two of Aziraphale's books, to meet his angel now.

He had briefly considered meeting Aziraphale at the bandstand instead, but it felt wrong. Almost sacrilegious. This wasn't Aziraphale from home – though they were very similar, and Crowley considered them both very much his – and that bandstand was their place.

Besides, for all he knew, that particular bandstand didn't exist here and this Aziraphale wouldn't have known what he was talking about.

Crowley was anxious. After everything, it still might not work. Aziraphale might just decide to stay at the flat, running his bruised, dislocated hands over the spines of the rescued books – grateful, but wanting to remain safe, to have nothing to further do with Raphael, demon or angel – and he couldn't blame him. Not really.

Perhaps he should have stayed. Talked to him.

What if Aziraphale didn't see the letter?

What if it was on the floor of the burned up lounge right now, unread?

What if–

Crowley clenched his jaw and wrapped his fingers around the iron railing in front of the cafe. He didn't want to think about that.

Besides, it might not matter.

With Aziraphale taken care of, getting something in the way of comfort, despite his being hurt by Satan again, he now was free to...

To what? Hope, left thus alone, he lived until Thursday this time?

He leaned forward heavily, the flaking iron digging into the palms of his hands. Every vaguely blonde head – as well as every trench coat collar – that went by made him squint hopefully behind his sunglasses. His gaze followed every car that looked even remotely like a Ford Fiesta.

Suddenly, something barrelled into him from the side, spinning him around and grabbing onto the lapel of his black suit jacket. The hat he'd stolen from the flat earlier was knocked off his head, rolled with a vehement bounce down the pavement, and was picked up by a sudden gust of wind, never to be seen again. If the railing had been taller, he got the sense that the strong, plump figure currently holding him in place would have pushed him back against it, pinning him there.

He didn't have time to bless under his breath, or to be angry, because he recognised Aziraphale at once, knew him immediately. Relief flooded his entire body. "You came."

"Reach up and take off your glasses," the Prince of Hell said, very slowly, his broken nose nearly grazing the tip of Crowley's. "Then I'll let you go."

"Wot?"

"I won't hurt you, I just need to see your eyes – I need to be absolutely certain."

Crowley stared in confusion; then he realised. Oh. Right. He'd explained the whole 'repeating Wednesday over and over and over again', 'not actually the Raphael you know' business in the letter, of course, but there remained one major issue he hadn't bothered getting into on paper – one he, quite frankly, hadn't had enough room to address.

He reached up under Aziraphale's arm. "Listen, uh, before I–"

"Shh. There will be no more talking," said Aziraphale, nearly in a whisper. "Not until I'm certain. Just take off the glasses."

"As you like." Crowley pulled the sunglasses off his face; his hand was shaking.

Aziraphale looked like he might cry – and, for an increasingly unsettling moment, Crowley didn't know what to make of that. "They're still blue."

"I wasn't trying to lie to you," he said quickly – maybe too quickly. "I just needed to get your attention."

"You're still an angel."

"Yeah, well, I mean, technically–"

Aziraphale let go of his lapel. "So that glowing – it was just your angelic powers straining to keep up the facade?"

He nodded sheepishly. "Aziraphale–"

"Jolly good. I'm proud of you." He reached up and patted him on the cheek. "No hard feelings, dear boy. Let's go inside and have lunch, shall we?"

This wasn't the reaction Crowley expected, and he didn't understand it, but he'd take it. Gladly. "Right. Okay, then. That was a thing. Let's have lunch."

"After you." Aziraphale held the cafe door open for him.

"So." Aziraphale gingerly tapped a dripping spoon against the rim of a porcelain mug, then set it down on a – somewhat sticky – paper napkin. "This whole dreadful business – with you supposedly being a demon from another reality – it's... Er..."

"I know," said Crowley, folding his hands on the table. "I understand it's a lot to take in, but I swear it's the truth – I'm not lying. I'll swear it on anything you like."

"Oh, I don't doubt you." He shook his head. "You're telling the truth – obviously. You're an angel. It's what you do. That's not what my reservations in this matter are about."

"What, then?"

"What you did for me today was extremely kind. And I know one good turn deserves another – I'm a demon, not a monster." He sighed. "It's just..."

"Yes?"

He looked both ways before answering, charcoal eyes encircled with layered bruises, frantic and paranoid as only the eyes of somebody who has lived too long in Hell can be, darting wildly. Crowley had hoped he'd never see Aziraphale's eyes look like that. It made his chest clench painfully, thinking about what the angel must have suffered.

"If you tell anyone – and I mean anyone – I said what I'm about to say, I swear I'll..." He swallowed hard. "I'll never talk to you again."

"Noted – but you could always just deny it, couldn't you? Whatever it is." Crowley shrugged one shoulder. "If I talked, I mean. Which I won't. I'm just saying, seems easier."

"Shut up." He drew in a long breath, then slowly exhaled. "Raphael – or rather, I suppose, I ought to say Crowley – listen to me. What I can't understand is why you would want things back the way they were. If I woke up an angel again tomorrow, I wouldn't mind."

That statement, and the quiet way Aziraphale brought himself to utter it, just about shattered Crowley. Oh, angel, I'm so sorry. "Yes you would," he whispered. "You wouldn't be prepared – not if you just opened your eyes one day and everything was different. It's easy to say you want something when–"

"When there's no chance of it ever happening?" Aziraphale raised a pale eyebrow, half wincing in pain as he did so.

"You know I didn't mean it like that."

"It's all right, my dear – it's not exactly news to me."

"Hang on." Crowley reached across the table and touched Aziraphale's broken nose, ignoring his murmured protests. "I can't keep looking at this – it's distracting."

His nose set itself back into place, straight and normal again.

"Thank you." He grinned warily. "That was remarkably foolish of you, not to mention exceedingly wasteful, but thank you."

"I held off as long as I could."

"Well, naturally – it only makes sense. Healing's always been your niche, hasn't it?"

"No – well, maybe here, obviously, but not back home."

"I hope you realise you probably won't be able to heal anyone else for hours after this," Aziraphale warned him, scrunching up his nose in a flexing motion and sniffing lightly. "Demonically inflicted injuries, what. Different rules. Michael will probably have your head for that."

"Michael can–" Crowley began tersely.

"Come on, Neil, there's a table over there."

Two familiar figures had entered Best Cafe – the dark one in sunglasses holding an old-fashioned tape recorder.

"Oi, it's the policemen – uh, no, that's not it, repairmen!" blurted Crowley, snapping his fingers, temporarily forgetting about Michael and everything else he and Aziraphale had been discussing.

"What's he talking about, Terry?" The one with the tape recorder looked baffled.

"Don't know. Nothing very important, I think."

"Let me guess," sighed Crowley, blowing out his cheeks dramatically, "you're going to tell me you have never worked with the police or repairing broken refrigerators in your entire lives."

"We haven't," said Terry, straightening his scarf.

"He's a writer," said Neil, holding up the tape recorder and waving it. "I'm a journalist – interviewing him. He's just written this book, The Colour of Magic."

"Little book," said Terry, not as if it really were. "You'll probably never hear anything more about it."

"Then why the hell am I doing this?" demanded Neil; but he was smiling.

"Well, you're no genius," said Terry. Then, in a lower voice, "You're better than that."

"Thanks, Terry."

And Crowley didn't know why, but this was the first run-in with them he'd had that felt right, that didn't feel as if they – or perhaps his own fractured mind – were completely making all this shit up.

This really was them.

The two writers sat down, across from each other, and Crowley and Aziraphale resumed their former conversation as if the two men sitting in the corner had never entered the cafe, as if they were wholly invisible. Perhaps, in that moment, that is what they became. Certainly Crowley never saw or heard anything from them again after that.

"My point is," said Aziraphale, earnestly, "you've got a second chance."

"You know, I thought you wanted me to be a demon."

He was appalled, mouth parting in horror. "Why the heaven would you think that?"

"Because – you won't remember, but you said we didn't have common ground, being an angel and a demon."

His expression gone from shocked to politely passive, Aziraphale brought his mug to his lips and blew on the hot beverage sloshing inside.

Crowley continued, "You implied we couldn't be friends unless we were both..."

The Prince of Hell nearly choked, clanking the mug back down onto the table and coughing. "Oh, no," he said, when he could speak again, "there's no question of us being friends – I don't even like you."

"You do," but he said it a little despondently. This Aziraphale couldn't ever admit it – Satan had him too scared to even consider the idea, the sick bastard.

"It doesn't matter; I can't."

"But you want me to stay an angel."

"Yes."

"So you can keep discorporating me, because you don't like me."

"Yes," he said brightly. "Just so."

"I'll have you know, I'm actually very good at being a demon."

"Still."

"Come off it, you're a demon – you know it's just a side."

"My dear fellow, I got in while the getting was good, during the rebellion, when all you had to do was literally get hurled out of Heaven – there's far too much paperwork when you Fall these days." He made a face. "You wouldn't like it now." There was a broken finality in his voice, as if he were trying to convey that the matter was quite settled, Crowley mustn't dream of ever being a demon again, and he wouldn't argue about it any further. "As I said, far too much paperwork."

"Angel, I have to go home – this isn't the way things are supposed to be for me." This isn't the way things are supposed to be for us.

"You don't have to go," he said stubbornly.

"Think about it, you wouldn't lose anything. You'll still have a Raphael to discorporate, I think – just not..." He stopped, getting it before he finished. "Oh."

"Not one who cares if I'm here or not."

"I think – once I'm gone – you really should give him another chance."

"Why's that?"

"He's me, Zira – just with a different outlook on life. We're probably a lot more alike than you think."

"So. What do you want to do now?"

"Now, I want you to come back to the shop with me."

"The shop..." he stammered, taken aback. "With you? Why would I–"

"I can't heal any more of your injures with angelic intervention, but that doesn't mean I can't help you the old-fashioned way."

"Why are you doing this?" He shivered, almost violently. "I already owe you for the books, so there's absolutely no need to keep adding–"

"Don't say that." He reached over the table and gripped Aziraphale's wrist. "You don't owe me a damn thing."

The succession of welts and bruises on Aziraphale's back were worse – more vivid and tender – than the ones on his face. His fingers had looked bad, but they'd only been a little dislocated, not actually broken like his nose had been, simple enough to pop back into place; his back, though, was a bloody mess.

Crowley was struggling against every urge within himself not to get upset.

Of course, part of him still wanted – impossibly, irrationally – to hurl Satan into the duck pond at St James's – preferably by breaking his wings as painfully as possible and pushing him out of an airplane first – for doing this to his best friend. The hatred for Lucifer running through his veins was a ferocious, active, pulsating thing. But Aziraphale was extremely sensitive to Crowley's reactions right now. He was still unsure of him – of everything, really – and getting worked up would only make the confused demon even more ill at ease.

It hadn't exactly been easy, coaxing Aziraphale up into his loft above the shop, then drawing him into the bathroom and insisting he take off his shirt.

The Prince of Hell was perched nervously on the rim of the tub, looking askance at Crowley fiddling with the buttons to get the water running. "It's not as bad as it looks."

Crowley made a dismissive snorting noise.

Reddening slightly, Aziraphale stubbornly murmured, "It's really not."

"Right." Crowley rung out a wash cloth over the tub. "Whatever you say." Then he pressed the cloth against one of the welts on Aziraphale's back.

He yelped, "That's cold!" and nearly slid off the side of the tub.

"Yes, it is – hold still." Crowley pressed it down a little more firmly.

Aziraphale's restless eyes darted to his shirt, black jumper, and leather trench coat – all of which were on the slick tiled floor in a haphazard pile, looking rather hopelessly wrinkled. If his back wasn't hurting so badly, it was clear he'd have wanted to bend over and neatly fold them. "You know, I really shouldn't be here."

"Mmm, is that right? Why not?"

"You know perfectly well why not – do quit playing stupid, dear."

He reached for another wash cloth, soaked it, rung it out, then set it on one of Aziraphale's bare shoulders.

Grinding his teeth together, the demon shuddered involuntarily at the jolting rush of coldness against his skin, but not hard enough to knock it off.

"Who's playing?"

"Can you honestly tell me your side wouldn't be furious with you for–"

"Helping you?"

He sucked his lips inward. "Mmm-hmm."

"I really don't care what they think." Crowley had gotten used to not having a side, back home; perhaps that was making him reckless now, here, where the rules were different, but that might not be a bad thing. Not if it helped Aziraphale.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

What Crowley wanted to say was, "I'll never let them hurt you again," but that wasn't something he could promise; he could try his best to be there afterwards, to soften the blow, like he was doing now, like he had done with the books, but nothing more. And, to an extent, he couldn't even offer that much. He couldn't actually promise anything permanent on behalf of his usual angelic self in this version of events. Knowing this, he felt frustrated and helpless. The limitations of this version of events rankled. He'd often thanked his lucky stars – literal ones as well as figurative – back home that Aziraphale didn't know what it was like to be, for all intents and purposes, owned by the devil.

If there was one thing about his existence, his past and fears, he was glad his angel could never completely understand, that was it.

For a flashing, shining, irrational moment, Crowley contemplated the possibility of marching his archangel self down to the gates of Hell – striding shamelessly down the paved road of frozen door-to-door salesmen – and reclaiming Aziraphale for Heaven before finding a way out of this alternate world. Of course, it was complete balderdash. Both sides would laugh – then they would skin him alive. And probably Aziraphale, too, for wasting their valuable time by association.

Remembering the 'trials' they'd swapped places for back home – the hellfire and bathtub of holy water – readily sobered him of any giddy, heroic notions.

Who was he to dream of another's redemption?

"I really shouldn't be here," Aziraphale said again, opening his eyes and craning his neck to look back at Crowley. "But seeing as I'm here already, I'll stay until it's Thursday – I promise I won't discorporate you until then – we can figure out what to do with you after that, can't we?"

Crowley repressed the urge to hug him. "Yup."

"Hang on. W-what are you doing now?"

He was holding a tube and squeezing some cream onto his fingers. "It's witch hazel – for the bruising. It... It won't hurt. Doesn't even sting much."

"Are you sure?"

"Scout's honour," he laughed gently. "Though I'd keep my wings winched in for a couple days if I were you."

"But what if they itch?"

"You'll just have to live with it, angel."

"Do you know, I expect I'm the only demon who's ever been tended to by the patron angel of healing himself after a punishment from Hell." He grinned teasingly. "Unless you've been keeping secrets."

"Nah," he said softly, kindly, peeling back the cold cloths and rubbing the witch hazel cream into the bruises underneath. "No secrets. Just you."

"I suppose I should count myself fortunate, then."

"You'd do the same for me."

Aziraphale's gaze dropped, a little ashamedly. "I'm not sure I would." He swallowed hard. "I'm not as brave as you."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"He doesn't exactly inspire bravery in me," Aziraphale murmured. "It's not a quality he admires, usually."

"Who are you talking about?"

"Who do you think?"

And then he knew. Satan. Of course. "Son of a bitch, Lucifer."

"Steady on."

"Oh, was that out loud?" He said it in a tone which suggested he was, in fact, perfectly aware it had been. "My bad."

"C-crowley?"

"Yes, angel?"

"Where you come from, does..." His voice warbled, faltering. "Does... How is he with you?"

"Well, you know, these days we're not really on speaking terms. He's still hung up on the whole 'convincing his son not to end the world' thing. The devil always did hold a grudge like nobody else."

"But you were, before."

"Yeah. Listen–"

"Did he treat you like he treats me?"

Squeezing another dab of witch hazel cream into his fingers and pressing down gently on a bruise near Aziraphale's spine, Crowley admitted, "No. He was usually fairly cordial with me. If he wanted the ever-living shit beaten out of me, he'd nearly always send someone else." In person, Lucifer almost never laid a finger on him; except on special occasions. Which was strange, when you thought about it, given how hands-on and bloodthirsty the devil had been right after the rebellion, how eager he'd been to put all his followers in their places and make sure they stayed there. "Usually Hastur."

"I've simply never understood what I did to make him dislike me."

"You're a Prince of Hell – obviously he doesn't dislike you," he sighed. "And it's not like I never got punished."

"Still. Why should he be so different with you? There must be something wrong with me."

"Oi, don't." Crowley found – with some difficultly – an unbruised section on his back and poked. "Don't talk like that. There's nothing wrong with you."

He cleared his throat, evidently deciding to let it go for the time being. "Anyway, now let me ask you something completely unrelated to that unpleasantness."

"Wot?"

"What do you have to eat in this loft?"

Crowley mumbled something about microwaved popcorn and multigrain bread.

Aziraphale was far from impressed. "That won't do for a stake out. I expect you and I may need to do a bit of shopping before we settle in for the evening. Help me get my shirt and coat back on."

They stood on the pavement outside the Sainsbury's on Tottenham Court Road.

Aziraphale began to take a step forward to activate the automatic doors, but Crowley shook his head, reaching for his arm. "Before we go in–"

"What?" demanded Aziraphale, tapping his left foot rather impatiently.

"Before we go in," he pressed, "I need you to promise you'll be on your best behaviour." He folded his arms across his chest and tried – unsuccessfully – to look stern. "I'm used to you being the law-abiding one, and I don't fancy spending what could be the last Wednesday night of this God-forsaken time loop in a police station giving a statement because you got caught pinching sweets or stuffing Lotto tickets into your coat."

"Pardon me, Crowley, but I never get caught," snorted Aziraphale, rather offended.

"Angel."

"Fine, agreed." He threw up his hands, defeated. "I shall be law-abiding."

"Right." Crowley nodded. "Let's go in."

Upon entry, they were greeted by too-bright florescent lights and a produce section that looked like a scattered cartoon rainbow.

"Look," exclaimed Crowley, running over to the nearest stand. "Buy one get one free tomatoes!"

"Oh, for pity's sake." Aziraphale gave Crowley a wary, disapproving look.

"Wot?"

"We're supernatural entities, about to go on a stake out – we need something filling, not rabbit food."

"Like what?"

"Let's start with some doughnuts and crisps – oh, and cheese. We definitely need something with cheese."

Crowley stared, still clutching a rather overripe tomato. Then he took a puzzled step forward.

Aziraphale sighed, picking up a plastic shopping basket. "Put down the tomato and follow me."

He set the tomato down and marched after him, towards the bakery, where they snagged a box of raspberry jam-filled doughnuts, a crusty loaf of white bread that probably didn't contain any actual wheat content but looked very aesthetically pleasing, and tin of chocolate biscuits with pink icing.

Crowley added a family-size bag of black-and-red liquorice to Aziraphale's basket while the Prince of Hell determinedly scanned the shelves for the best possible deal on marshmallows.

The demon smiled approvingly. "There may be hope for you yet, my dear."

"You know, we could just order a pizza," Crowley suggested, after a minute's pause.

"Or we could get frozen cheesy bagels from the next aisle over, leave them too long in the toaster oven until they get dried out like croutons, and then dunk them in a jar of marinara sauce."

"That sounds absolutely disgusting," he mused in a voice of mild amazement; "we should do that."

"Oh, and we'll need a few bottles of wine."

"Hell yes," agreed Crowley, smiling like an indulgent serpent.

"You know," said Aziraphale, grinning back at him, "I'm rather starting to look forward to this."

"Me too."

"Excuse me," said a voice behind them. "Are you Anthony J. Crowley?"

"How–" began Crowley, stunned, as he turned and saw a familiar deliveryman in his uniform standing there with a clipboard.

"No package, sir," said the deliveryman, rather quietly; "just a message for you."

Crowley nodded, feeling like everything – the walls, the aisle, all of persons around him doing their shopping, even this version of Aziraphale – was temporarily melting away just so he could receive this message. "Right. Go on. Deliver it."

"Please come back, Crowley." The deliveryman glanced down at his clipboard, then up into Raphael's blue eyes with compassionate pity. "Message ends."

"Crowley!" Plump fingers snapped in front of his face, and the deliveryman was gone.

"I'm sorry, angel, did you say something?"

"You sort of went away for a moment there," Aziraphale told him, an expression of relief spreading across his face. "Had me worried, no mistake. Whatever happened?"

He shook his head, which suddenly was feeling tight and adversely affected by all the buzzing, flickering lights in the store. "Nothing."

Chapter Text

Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 10 of 12

"Well, seeing that today certainly is my day – why don't you call me Wednesday?"

– American Gods, Neil Gaiman

"Would you look at that," said Crowley, lifting a hand and waggling his fingers; "I can see myself."

"I haven't finished yet," Aziraphale protested, reaching over and grasping his wrist, firmly yanking it back down. "I still need to file down the nail on your little finger and add another clear coat."

They were sitting on Crowley's bed in the loft – with Crowley lolling lazily, cross-legged at the head and Aziraphale perched primly at the foot, legs dangling off the edge in a prim position which vaguely suggested he about to ride a horse sidesaddle – hoping to let the remaining hours of Wednesday slide by, at what was admittedly a glacial pace thus far, despite their having a most pleasant time in each other's company.

Aziraphale was in the process of giving the archangel a manicure, as he'd insisted his fingernails looked ragged and unkempt.

"Don't angels believe in good grooming?" he'd marvelled, tsking in disapproval. "What would you even do to make them look like that, chew on them all day?"

Crowley's initial response had been, "Eh?" followed by removing the end of his thumbnail (which he'd been pensively gnawing on while, at the same time, trying to see if he could wrap his tongue all the way around it) from between his front teeth. Aziraphale had then given him a look, tilting his head pointedly, and the archangel complied, holding out his hands.

"Angel," – he still couldn't bring himself not to habitually call any version of Aziraphale that – "what do you think is going to happen if I don't get discorporated before the end of the day?"

As he finished applying the final shiny layer to Crowley's little fingernail then turned away to screw the bottle closed, Aziraphale said, "Ideally nothing."

Crowley rather disagreed; ideally, he'd find himself back home again. And it wasn't an impossibility. Whatever Hastur had done to ensure he would be trapped here could be tied into the repeated loop of his best friend discorporating him and Heaven sending him back; it made sense, sort of. But he sensed heavily muted pain in the way the Prince of Hell was holding himself, not quite looking at him, and couldn't bring himself to voice his disagreement.

"What did he make you do?" Crowley blurted, knowing it was off-topic but also aware – if his hypothesis was correct – he might never have the chance to ask again.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Lucifer – Satan, whatever." He shrugged. "He made you a Prince of Hell. You must have had to do something. I mean, I get that you were already a principality in Heaven, but that doesn't have any pull with the devil. So, there must have been something he wanted from you."

"Don't ask me about that." He was looking at him again now, his – slightly watery – expression pale, stricken. "If you do care about me, my dear, if this all isn't just..." His voice trailed off brokenly. "Please. I don't want to talk about that."

"I'm sorry." Perhaps he had gone too far. "Just go on and forget I asked."

"It's all right – there are just some things... Some things that are unspeakable."

"You don't have to tell me what it was," Crowley said next, "but is it all right if I ask you something about it?"

"It depends," he said softly, carefully, "but I'll hear you out."

"How well do you remember it?"

Aziraphale scooted off the side of the bed and turned his back to him. "Every moment, perfectly."

"I forget – the things I do, as a demon. I'm always forgetting." Indeed, the longer he was away from Hell, the less real it seemed until somebody from there turned up – such as Hastur or, before he had had his lethal dousing with holy water, Ligur.

"Then you're very fortunate, Crowley." There was a twinge of envy in his voice, but the tone was delicate, almost compassionate.

"Look, I know you don't want me to go, but I'm worried if I stay here too long – if ending the loop doesn't send me back – I'll... Well, you know, eventually... Eventually, I'll..."

There was growing pity in Aziraphale's charcoal eyes as he slowly turned to face him again. "Crowley..."

"I don't want to forget what you're like as an angel."

"You mightn't," suggested the demon, brightly. "It's entirely possible you only forget what you really want to." He gave him a shaky, uncertain grin. "It's perfectly understandable if you do forget some things. Even desirable, in many circumstances. I... I wouldn't mind it. If I were you, that is. Which I'm not, of course. But still; you take my point, I'm sure."

He wondered if he ought to tell this Aziraphale about the deliveryman, the one who'd given him the message he could only assume was from the other Aziraphale back in the world where things were right. If he should admit he'd tried to envision his eyes, in their proper colour, the entire way back here from Sainsbury's and they kept looking too close to grey in his mind. And that if he could forget what Aziraphale's eyes were supposed to look like, surely he could – with enough time – forget everything else that ever mattered. That he could wake up one morning without the notion that this shop – the one set to have its grand opening tomorrow, if it ever came – wasn't truly his but was Aziraphale's bookshop really.

Losing all of that, however slowly, he wanted to explain, was far, far from being 'desirable'.

Crowley finally settled on simply saying, with a light sniff, "This loft isn't supposed to be here; at home, you've got a rotunda, filled with books."

"I've got?" He was stunned, leaning a knee against the side of the mattress. "D'you mean to tell me I live here, where you're from?"

He nodded.

"My goodness."

The bewildered, slightly hungry look on his friend's face as he gazed about himself, no doubt imagining what life as the other version of himself must be like, made Crowley thoughtlessly reach out to touch the side of it consolingly.

Recoiling, Aziraphale quickly blocked him.

For a stomach-churning moment, Crowley believed it was a gesture of rejection, this demonic version of Aziraphale still resisting – at some level, even now – any show of compassion from an angelic version of him – because he was afraid of Lucifer's retaliation, because it wasn't how things between them were here.

Then, looking dismally at his fingers, Aziraphale said, "They're not dry yet," and Crowley had to bite down onto his lower lip to keep from bursting out laughing.

"Not that there's anything worth watching," said Crowley, as he dragged the old television set out from the cabinet, causally sweeping aside the cracked pesticide cans. "But what the hell."

Standing behind him, munching on a powdered doughnut, Aziraphale mumbled, "Bloody old set probably won't turn on."

"Hmm. I don't know," said Crowley, optimistically. "It did before." He hoisted it up with a light groan. "Oi, by the way, you've got a..." He made a rolling motion with his head. "Jam. Glob. Corner of your mouth. Just there."

"Oh, how frightfully embarrassing." Fishing an embroidered grey handkerchief trimmed with thick black lace out of one of his pockets, Aziraphale turned away and hastily took care of it while Crowley carried the telly back into the loft's bedroom.

"I'm sure I don't mean to be an ungrateful guest," Aziraphale told him, trailing behind, "but the décor in here is rather morbid – all those frowning, glowering saints – don't you think?"

"Yeah, don't look at me," – Crowley made a popping sound with his mouth – "I didn't pick them out."

"You did, though, didn't you?" The demon paused, rolling a hand conversationally. "Well, the other you. The one you've replaced here."

"Trust me, it won't be so bad, having him back – he's the one who belongs here with you."

Aziraphale didn't respond. He reached for the fizzy health drink. "Do you mind? I need something to wash down this doughnut."

"You don't want that," Crowley warned him. "Trust me."

"I see." He drew his fingers back, grimacing. "Perhaps I'll just pour myself a glass of milk, then."

"We didn't buy milk. Or juice. Remember?"

"Oh, bugger." He frowned. "Hang on, why are you smiling at me like that?"

The archangel chuckled. "It's amusing, hearing you swear so casually – I'm used to you struggling not to." He gave him a sly side-eye. "Well, except for when you're drunk. I've never said anything, back home, as I don't actually mind, but you swear a lot without realising it when you've got some alcohol in you. Like you've got bloody Tourette's sometimes."

He rolled his eyes, plainly unsure how much of this ridiculous little speech was true and how much was simply Crowley teasing him. "Just..." His cheeks were bright pink. "Just set up the telly."

Crowley dutifully set it up and turned it on, ignoring Aziraphale's repeated doubtful statements that it would in fact turn on without a plug, then plopped backwards onto the bed, wriggling his feet.

He patted the spot next to himself and grinned. "I really hope you've figured out by now that I don't bite." There was a light pause, a moment of self consideration, Crowley remembering that he was, after all, a snake – if not here, then elsewhere. "Usually."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes before easing onto the bed beside him, sinking back into the pillows, which must have felt good against his sore injuries. "So. What are we in the mood to watch?"

"Whatever's the least annoying." Click.

"Wait, hang on, go back." The demon frantically tapped his arm.

"To what?"

"The show with the singing nuns; that looked pleasant."

Crowley gave him a horrified side-glance. "That's The Sound of Music."

"Well, go back to it – two channels down."

"You want to watch The Sound of Music?"

"Obviously." He didn't seem to understand how shocking this was for Crowley. "It looks rather cheerful. Uplifting, even."

"If you're saying that against your will, angel, kick your foot against the bed twice."

"Crowley, for pity's sake! Why the heaven are you looking at me like that? It's only a movie."

"You hate The Sound of Music."

"I've never even seen it!" Aziraphale protested, turning his head on the pillow to look at him.

"You're kidding." The archangel granted him a rare, deep blue blink. "Gabriel plays it on a repeated loop."

"Crowley dear." He said it nicely, beginning to understand – if only a little – now. "I've barely spoken to Gabriel since the rebellion – I don't know what he, or any other angel – apart from you, of course" – Crowley straightened, proud as a peacock – "likes. They don't have this movie in Hell. I am a demon. Remember?"

"'snot the sort of thing you forget," he murmured, slumping back down.

"Please?" Aziraphale raised his pale eyebrows imploringly.

"You won't like it," Crowley warned him, switching the channel back obligingly anyway.

Perhaps, Crowley privately considered, The Sound of Music was slightly different in this version of events. Something here made it less asinine than he recalled it being. He couldn't put his finger on it, but this time around it wasn't the unbearable mess he'd grimly anticipated and braced himself for – it wasn't good, he wouldn't willingly watch it again, but as a one-time favour to a friend it was all right, really.

If pressed, he might even grudgingly admit he was enjoying himself.

The only thing he was really regretting was the fact that it was a near certainty he'd have Climb Ev'ry Mountain stuck in his head for at least a month. Even asleep, it would play on repeat in the back of his mind until he longed – irrationally, despite himself – for the sweet release of discorporation.

It was harder to gauge what this Aziraphale thought of the film. The occasional eye roll or muttered comment did shed a little light on his opinion of a particular scene or song, here and there; and he'd verbally given (rather loud) advice to at least three characters (after downing a few glasses of wine) as though they could somehow hear him. Towards the movie as a whole, however, he showed no real display of his opinion. He didn't seem to like or dislike it. Crowley wondered if it was because, in Hell, whenever you seemed particularly amused by something, there was always somebody – be it demon or devil or imp or usher – trying to snatch it away with their pawing, greedy hands, convinced you'd gotten hold of something vaguely pleasant which should have been theirs by right of simply wanting it. Or – more typically – by right of them simply not wanting you to have it. Contrariwise, if you loathed something, and they got wind of it, you could expect to see the thing you hated – and only that particular thing – until it drove you mad. It was a form of torture, after all. The resulting paranoia did force you to keep your opinions, even on unimportant things like films, as visibly neutral as possible.

Crowley risked a couple of quick, curious glances in the Prince of Hell's direction, studying his still face and alert, darting grey eyes in the flickering light of the telly, before looking away, directing his attention back at the screen.

But somewhere in my wicked, miserable past there must have been a moment of truth...

In all honesty, this part wasn't so bad. It had a nice sentiment.

...I must have done something good... Nothing comes from nothing – nothing ever could...

Aziraphale was starting to get tired, while trying very hard not to show he was tired. Crowley could feel him occasionally forgetting himself and relaxing against his side. A few times his temple touched Crowley's shoulder, leaning on it before he suddenly realised what he was doing and straightened himself back up.

Crowley opened his mouth to tell him he didn't mind – that it was all right if he wanted to do that – but Aziraphale only shushed him and gestured at the screen.

"I'm trying to watch this," he whispered, before slinking back into the same drooping position less than a minute later.

If it were anybody else, Crowley would have assumed his friend was going to fall asleep on him. Aziraphale, though, even when injured and groggy and tired from a long day that – for Crowley, especially – never seemed to end, could keep awake for centuries. A little stake out like this was nothing to him.

….Loving me...whether or not you should...

Crowley reached over the demon to get at an open bag of liquorice he'd left beside the alarm clock radio, and Aziraphale shoved him so hard he went tumbling off the side of the mattress and loose liquorice was strewn across the bedspread.

"Oh, shit!"

Brow furrowed, he stared to get up, about to ask him what the deuce he'd done that for, but the demon shook his head and gestured for Crowley to stay down.

"Where are you, Zzzira?" Maria – no longer singing 'Something Good' in a duet with Christopher Plummer – was now a puzzled-sounding, impatient Beelzebub. "Thizzz iz not your flat."

"Oh, how very observant of you," simpered Aziraphale, casually motioning with one hand for Crowley to slide under the bed as Beelzebub continued to peer out from the screen, scrutinising the unusual surroundings. "Work that out on your own, did you, sweetheart? Nothing gets past a princess of Hell. Sharp, what."

"Zzzhut up – Mazzzter demandzzz to know what you've been doing."

"I'm afraid I don't follow you."

"The archangel Raphael healed your nozzzze earlier – why would he do that?"

"I don't know. Patron angel of healing, what. I suppose it's simply what he does."

"Not for demonzzz he doezzzn't."

"Well, obviously, my sweet Beelzebub, he did."

"He'zzz an angel."

"So he isn't allowed to make a mistake? No angel is infallible. Look at us – we were both angels once, albeit a long time ago."

"Do not think our Mazzzter hazzz forgotten your bizzzarre obsezzion with that particular archangel."

"You're quite mistaken. Raphael is my most persistent enemy. I live to see him suffer. What you call an obsession, I call a most healthy dedication to his annihilation."

"Izzz that right?"

"Hmm-mmm, indeed. Why wouldn't it be?"

"He healed your nose."

"Oh, you are a lass of one idea, aren't you?" he sighed, put out. "Now, really. For the last time: it is simply no business of mine if some dim-sighted angel wants to go about straightening random person's noses out!"

"Enough. Tell me where you are," demanded Beelzebub. "Why is there a picture of Saint Jude behind you?"

Patron saint of desperate cases and lost causes, that's ironic, Crowley thought grimly.

"I'm taking a little vacation – reflecting upon the errors which led to my recent punishment. Naturally. What else would I be doing? I'll be available for work when needed. Surely our Master has no objections?"

"Where izzz the archangel?"

Aziraphale made a frustrated teeth-sucking noise. "Under the bed, of course."

Crowley momentarily tensed.

"Yes, that's right," he went on, sarcastically. "My raving, insatiable obsession has led me to hide him there. You've caught me – jolly good work, Beelzebub. I do hope you get that pay raise you've been talking about."

Crowley relaxed – if only a little. It was amazing how composed and bitingly clever Aziraphale could be towards Beelzebub when the devil was not with her. It reminded Crowley of how his own dealings with Hastur back home had gone sometimes, when flattering and grovelling weren't working and a biting, demonic comeback was the only suitable response, the only gamble worth risking.

"We will be watching you very clozzzzely, Zzzira."

By the time Beelzebub was gone and Crowley could risk crawling back out from underneath the bed, Maria had already returned from her honeymoon and the Nazis had taken over Austria.

"I think," said Aziraphale, his voice as still as a stagnant pond in the heat of summer, "we had better put the television away."

Crowley nodded soberly, creeping over and lifting it from behind so he could drag it back to the cabinet.

"Sorry about the shoving, dear boy – it was unfortunate, but I couldn't risk her seeing you." He smiled weakly. "You're probably next, though, if word about you healing my nose is out and has become general knowledge to both sides; I imagine Michael or Gabriel will be in touch."

A pang of regret struck Crowley's heart. Could he really leave this Aziraphale alone to deal with the fallout from all this?

No, he wouldn't be alone, come Thursday, if all ended well; Crowley simply had to have faith that the other version of himself, the one this Aziraphale really loved – Raphael Antonius – would do what needed to be done.

He hoped they'd form an Arrangement, like he and the proper angelic Aziraphale had at home – he couldn't imagine another way they'd both survive what was inevitably to come; they needed to work together.

But, sadly, that was a conclusion they'd have to arrive at for themselves – he couldn't make that decision for them. As much as he wanted to – was simply dying to – it wasn't up to him.

Still, it couldn't be wrong to do what he did best. Or had done, back home.

Namely, a little temptation...

"You know," he wheedled, "two heads are better than one when it comes to this sort of thing."

"What are you saying?"

"Nothing, nothing. Just that, well, you know, come Thursday, you and a certain archangel could always..." He paused meaningfully, then sniffed. "Could always draw up an agreement of some kind – not that your schemes to discorporate him aren't brilliant. They are. Still, maybe it's just time to move on from them."

Aziraphale's expression was faintly scandalised, but it was mostly out of habit. "It isn't–" he began desperately. It wasn't safe.

"Come on – you'd like it, wouldn't you? Be mutually beneficial. And old ginger fluffy wings won't suggest it first – head too far up in the clouds – so it'll have to be you."

"Ginger fluffy wings?" he repeated, brow furrowed.

"Raphael."

"Crowley, please, you do realise – to me – this all rather sounds like you're talking about yourself in the third person."

"Nah-uh." He held up a finger and shook it. "Don't try and change the subject. If you were human and I could read your mind right now, I'd bet anything that every desire in it would be for an alliance with him. You should have what you want."

"I can't believe that you would ever imply–"

Sweetly, cocking his head a little too innocently to one side, he finished, "Yeah, but I'm only suggesting what it is you really want, amirite?"

He fluttered his hands nervously. "My dear fellow, he'd never agree, even if I did ask him. He does have standards."

"And I don't?"

"I didn't mean–"

"Listen. Don't say anything now – not to me, it's not about me – just think about it."

"Yes, all right." Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "If it's so dashed important to you, I'll give it due consideration."

Crowley patted his arm. "Atta demon."

"Crowley, d'you ever wonder why those ill-mannered children in the Lucky Charms commercials are always chasing that poor leprechaun?" Aziraphale slurred drunkenly, squinting down at the wineglass he was currently pouring a refill into from a nearly empty bottle. "I'mean, the cerealsn't that good." He hiccuped. "Pardon me." Pulling out his handkerchief, he brought it to his mouth and burped twice, before replacing it in his pocket and reaching for his wineglass again. "But, really, if they wanted a bowl that badly, they could just take their lunch money down to Sainsbury's and buy a couple boxes. Which no child's ever done, because'snot that good."

"Well, I blame t'parents," mumbled Crowley, bending over and dropping his head down onto a nearby pillow and moaning softly. "Is it Thursday yet?"

"Hold on a moment, I'll check," slurred Aziraphale.

Crowley felt the mattress shift as the Prince of Hell stumbled towards the alarm clock radio and sat up, looking somewhat dishevelled.

"We've got twenty minutes left until midnight," he announced primly, turning around. "I'm going t's-sober up."

"Right. Me too," Crowley decided, getting up and concentrating on sending the wine out of his bloodstream.

The tall glass bottles stationed around the alarm clock radio and on the floor beside (and in front of) the bed steadily refilled. Exchanging looks of discontentment, they both resisted the urge to reach for them again and start over – after all, they still had twenty minutes. That was time enough for a quick drink under most circumstances.

But parting from one another – if this was indeed the moment, coming up – without their minds firing on all pistons didn't bear thinking about. They needed to say goodbye properly.

"That other version of me," Aziraphale said, watching glumly while Crowley straightened out his clothing, "how much do you actually like him?"

Crowley laughed, but it was a sad laugh. "Come on, you don't really want me to stay. You'd get sick of demon-me after a while, always tempting and cajoling, trying to get my own way – I don't know how the other you puts up with it."

Being Aziraphale – regardless of the version of events he existed within – he understood what Crowley actually meant. "He needs you."

He nodded. "I don't think he'd ever admit it, but he does."

A flicker of pain began to cross the demon's face, then it camped there, rather resignedly, for a moment. "And you need him."

"I think I always have."

"Tell him that sometimes," Aziraphale suggested. "It's nice to feel needed."

"I will," promised Crowley, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. "Well, it was nice knowing you."

The Prince of Hell reached out his hand, about to shake Crowley's goodbye – just in case this really and truly was it, the end of their little misadventure at last – and Crowley extended his arm as well.

There was a crashing sound of glass shattering and something scuttling about under them, large objects being moved without any particular care. One noise sounded more than a little like a flowerpot breaking.

Aziraphale blanched, pulling back his hand. "Someone's downstairs, in your shop – they've broken in."

Crowley directed one last glance in the direction of the alarm clock radio, then made up his mind. "Stay here – you're still hurt, and it might be one of your lot."

"What? No! You're so close; it's nearly midnight. You shouldn't risk it."

"If it is someone from your side, I'm not going to wait until they come up here looking for you – if it's an ordinary miscreant, I'll send them packing. It's no big deal." Crowley looked as if he was starting to get very angry, very quickly. "Besides, another reality or not, those are my houseplants down there – I'm the only one allowed to scare them."

There was another crash and Aziraphale jumped involuntarily, his eyes widened in dismay.

"Don't go down there – we'll barricade the loft door. Whoever it is won't get up here without us knowing." His voice cracked as he reached for the angel's wrist. "Stay with me."

"I can't – I never did get to see how this day ends. I've always had to leave too soon." Crowley turned away and snaked his hand around the handle of the narrow wicker door that would barely have stood up to a determined poodle, let alone a potential supernatural siege or a human burglar with a decent kick. "It's about time I found out what happens."

Chapter Text

Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 11 of 12

"Although, given the weather, it might as well be Thursday, eh?"

– American Gods, Neil Gaiman

Crowley took the stairs two at a time, lightly propelling himself forward, ever closer to the shop's ground floor. There was a low hiss rumbling in the back of his throat, as if from habit at being threatened, but it didn't sound right, even to him, vibrating through an archangel's oesophagus, and – if he'd had time to dwell on it – this would have embarrassed him.

He wished he had a baseball or cricket bat for the look of the thing, in case the uninvited guests really were only a few stupid humans.

There was nothing of the sort here, though; it wasn't a sport's equipment shop.

In the end, he settled for a brass telescope that had – evidently – been knocked off its tripod and was rolling around near the bottom step with only a couple of dents in its side. It was very heavy, which made it look threatening, like it could knock out a few teeth if swung by an appropriately angry being.

Despite his outward swaggering bravado, Crowley wasn't actually sure what he'd do if the intruder turned out to be an embassy of Hell. Or even just Michael come to check on him. The one thing he'd known was that he wanted to protect this version of Aziraphale as long as he still could; and that was exactly what he was doing now.

A clean-shaven face with small, shiny eyes suddenly confronted him. The man (only a stupid human after all) was in a suit, though the two thuggish-looking persons behind him were in black jumpers and tracksuit bottoms. One of them had little bits of glass stuck to his trouser-leg (Crowley could feel the draft from the broken window now).

"I believe," said the man in the suit, "you intended to open this shop tomorrow."

"I believe," snarled Crowley, "you're breaking and entering. Destroying my property."

"We didn't mean to disturb you" – this message of false pleasantry was delivered in a voice that meant precisely the opposite – "we simply wanted to have a talk with you about the retail potential for this place."

"This isn't a good time." He folded his arms across his chest and leaned so his face was closer to the man's. "Now go on and get out before I become unpleasant."

"There's no need for that," crooned the man, his tone almost sing-song. "We're friends."

"No, we aren't," – Crowley's voice rose in pitch – "you've just bloody broken into my shop! And, let me tell you right now, if one single leaf on my plants is torn, even one little stem damaged, I'll rake you and your associates over the coals for it." There was a time, back home, when I could literally do that.

"Tut, tut. And here I'd come to offer you a very sizeable cash compensation in exchange for rethinking the imminent opening of–"

Crowley glared and swung the telescope he was clutching, not with intent to hit the man, not to strike a proper blow, but to knock the money – offered in wads of £50 notes – to the floor, where they scattered across the evergreen carpet, looking like shed leaves in the weak lighting.

The man reached into the inside pocket of his suit-jacket and pulled out a pen, which he opened with a too-smooth click. "Or I can write you a cheque, if you prefer – your legal name is Raphael Antonius, right? That's not just a television name?"

"Great show, by the way – tons better than that clown Marvin," one of the thugs added. "My wife's a big fan."

"Thankssss," Crowley sneered over at him, keeping one eye fixed on the suit-man, as he was clearly the one in charge. The others weren't going to do anything he didn't first signal them to do in some way or that they hadn't prearranged before breaking in.

"Shame, isn't it," said the other thug, "how flammable these streamers and signs and star-charts are. Be a pity if they were to catch fire and burn the whole place to the ground. Such a pity they're flammable."

"It's inflammable, mate," the first thug corrected, from the corner of his mouth.

"Nah, it's flammable. That's the educated way to say it."

"Inflammable," he insisted.

"Can you have this fasssscinating little argument later?" huffed Crowley, gesturing with the outstretched telescope between himself and the suit-man. "We're in the middle of something I'm about to finisssh – and I'd really prefer it if you two stopped interrupting."

"We were just sayin'," the first one muttered; he sounded slightly offended. "s'flammable, that's all."

"Inflammable," mouthed the second.

Lightning flashed, momentarily lighting up the whole of the shop and showing Crowley's disgruntled face in full. There was something in it that the men had not been expecting and were – if only passingly – truly afraid of, all three of them holding their breath without realising it.

An angel, irregardless of rank, can be terrifying when he wants to – all the more so an angel who has lived a large portion of his life as a demon. Crowley's eyes didn't need to be yellow and serpentine to get the point across.

The flash faded and there was a dense crackle of thunder left behind, trembling in thrumming vibrations through the stale air.

"I hope," said Crowley, slowly, filling the ensuing silence, "one of your lot has a brolly on hand – it's supposed to rain."

"Yeah, meant to rain," one of the thugs said, sounding distant. "I did want to beat the bad weather home."

"Where t'hell are you going?" demanded the other thug, noticing his companion turning towards the door.

"Want to go home." The corners of his mouth moved up and down like the hinges of a puppet's mouth.

"Me too..." He began to follow him. "Missed dinner. My woman will've left it in the oven for me – be all dried out by now."

The boss, the suit-man, snarled, "I hired you both to be the muscle of this operation! Mr. Antonius and I have not yet settled, so you idiots don't leave until I say so."

"It sounds to me like your lackeys want to go home," Crowley said silkily. "Now, why don't you just let them? Better still, go with them – you three can share a cab out of Soho. After all, I'm being extremely generous. I'm not even making you clean this place up first."

"You," breathed the man. "You're the one doing this."

"Remarkable observation."

Crowley tried to mentally grab onto the man next, sending him out the same way as his slow-moving cohorts, but something slipped; perhaps his celestial power wasn't up to full strength again, not having completely returned after healing Aziraphale's nose, or perhaps he was attempting to use it in too occult a manner to process through his angelic body so quickly.

Whatever the reason, the man's mind slipped from his hold and – enraged by the attempt against him – he drew a tiny silver pistol from his pocket; the same pocket he'd taken the chequebook out of a only couple minutes earlier.

"That's not a good idea," Crowley warned him, as the man's finger folded over the trigger. "Trust me. You'd be much better off just leaving with your friends – this could get very ugly."

"For you, Raphael, not for me – I don't know what you are, but you've done some kind of underworld voodoo on my employees, and I will not be made a fool of."

"Oh, it's more than a bit late for that," he snorted. "You were made a fool of the moment your brain saw what I did, thought 'underworld voodoo', and then was idiotic enough to transfer the thought to your mouth."

"You're only making it worse for yourself, Raphael," threatened the man. "The angrier you get me, the less gentle I'll be. I'm not afraid to hurt you just because you've been on television. That means nothing; I'll still fill you with hot lead if you cross me."

"I believe he told you to leave," said a voice from the stairs behind Crowley's back. "It isn't too late to be a gentleman and oblige him – not yet, anyway."

Aziraphale.

Crowley gnashed his teeth together. "You were supposed to stay upstairs."

"What's this? Who do you have behind you?" The suit-man repositioned his hand so that the gun was pointed over Crowley's shoulder, then his throat released a strangled yelp at the sight of a pair of glinting charcoal-grey eyes flashing a smoky hue of deep maroon.

"He has got a creature of Hell behind him – to answer your question. And not a very happy one at the moment, I regret to say."

The man took a few steps back and began lowering the gun.

Crowley let his tightened muscles unclench. His primary fear had been that the man would fire at the glowing eyes on the stairs; that he would aim for whatever part of Aziraphale he could see, that he would discorporate the demon. That seemed much less likely now.

Everything, he supposed, was going to be all right after all. It couldn't be very far off from midnight now, surely the day was almost done, and the man was going to leave. The other two were already gone, by way of the door, which they'd left open behind them (Crowley could feel an icy draft from that direction, confirming their departure).

He didn't notice the man's finger squeeze the trigger anxiously as he took more steps backwards, away from creepy Raphael and the glowing eyes behind him – he hadn't spared the pitiful buffoon another thought until Aziraphale's voice cried, "Crowley, look out!" and suddenly he was slumming to the floor, moaning.

The brass telescope – which had dropped from Crowley's hand when he was shot – rolled away, across the carpet, to the other side of the shop, under a desk, where it – very probably – wasn't found again – by anyone – for nearly another decade.

The suit-man, losing his nerve and dropping the fired gun, fled.

This was the best thing he could have done under the circumstances, because Aziraphale, in his grief at the terrible unfairness of this – not to mention his rage at somebody else discorporating his angel – probably would have ripped him in half. He could still do that to a mortal, injured from his earlier punishment or not.

Instead, the Prince of Hell knelt by Crowley and pulled the archangel's lolling head into his lap.

His blue eyes were unfocused and glassy. "It's all right," he choked out.

Tears streamed down Aziraphale's face. "No, it isn't."

"It's only discorporation, angel."

"But, my dear fellow, it's–"

Blood soaked through the bottom of Crowley's shirt; he could feel it, hot and slippery around the bullet embedded within his abdomen. "I'm just going to have to do this whole Wednesday thing one more time – I'll see you soon."

"No!" cried Aziraphale, leaning sideways and pressing his hand to the archangel's bloody belly. "I won't remember any of this – I'll be back to trying to tie you to those stupid Piccadilly train tracks!"

"It'll be fine." He wasn't sure he really believed what he was saying, wasn't sure he could handle doing this all over again for the umpteenth time, but he wanted to reassure Aziraphale.

"It jolly well will not!" His rasping voice was desperate, broken. "Hang on. I've got an idea – let me try to heal you."

"Are you insane?" Crowley spat, roughly slapping the demon's hand off his bleeding wound. "Hell will be keeping track of every bit of power you use now – they'll flay you for it, and you don't even know for sure it would work."

"This is all my fault."

"Listen to me, angel, that is not true – you know it isn't."

Drawing in a sharp breath, Aziraphale's hand – still slick with blood – grabbed one of Crowley's and squeezed. "Hold out as long as you can. Just keep looking at me, all right? Focus on my face."

"I'm sorry – I have to go." He could feel himself slipping towards discorporation. "I've got a lot of paperwork to fill out before we meet again."

"Crowley, you don't understand – you only need to hold on for one more minute!"

"Wot?" There was a ringing in his ears, which felt like they were filled with cotton; the lines of Aziraphale's face were fuzzy and the shop looked like it was made of ink.

"It's 11:59 – don't think about anything else, just keep looking at me until it's Thursday." He slapped his cheek with his other hand. "Don't you dare close your eyes before midnight, you idiot." Pulling Crowley upward, he wrapped his arms around him, cradling him so the angel would still be looking up at his face. "Come on, buck up. What's one more minute? That's nothing to you."

There was a war inside Crowley. He felt so weak; he almost wanted to go and come back – game over, try again. If he'd gotten Aziraphale to listen once, he could do it again. And – despite the aggravation of having to start this from the beginning after so much progress – spending one more day with his demonic angel friend wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, provided he avoided getting discorporated.

Except...

Except he wasn't certain if he did this again, even once more, he wouldn't just keep on doing this forever – regardless of the fact that he couldn't, regardless of how it was killing him inside, regardless of the fact that the other Aziraphale was waiting for him back home.

He would wake up a hundred more times, a thousand, a million, a billion, the equivalent of who knew how many years, how many eons, on the same Wednesday, struggling to rescue the wrong version of the being he cared most about in this entire damn multiverse.

It was enough to drive anyone mad, and Hastur knew it, the sorry bastard.

What was even worse, if he ever did miraculously manage to return – after it was finally ended, one way or another – to his real home life, he wouldn't be himself any more. Too much time would have gone by. And that wouldn't be fair to the angelic version of Aziraphale – because, whatever he was by then, he'd no longer be what his friend needed.

So it would have to be now. He'd had his misadventure. It was time to go home. Home. Nowhere else.

He willed himself to stop thinking about discorporation. He didn't allow his mind to envision Gabriel and Sandalphon waiting for him; Sandalphon – in a voice that probably wasn't entirely meant to be snide – asking, "The demon Zira again?"

He focused, instead, on how he was – despite everything else – in his best friend's arms, staring up into his best friend's tearstained face, and tried to draw strength from that.

The minute came and went.

"You did it, Crowley," Aziraphale whispered brokenly. "It's Thursday. Congratulations."

Crowley felt his eyelids closing – he couldn't keep them open any longer, not even for the sake of having them remain fixed on Aziraphale. His chest rose and fell in an ever-slowing rhythm. Soon, he was certain, it would not rise again. "Be good, angel."

There was a pitch black darkness around him; wherever he'd gone after this discorporation, after his consciousness slipped from Aziraphale's arms, this place between there and home, it wasn't Heaven. Not unless they'd left all their lights off. And it didn't smell bad enough to be Hell.

He strained for something, anything, and only located one trickle of yellowish light in the dark. It was the sort of light that spills from a door left ajar.

Moving towards this light, Crowley began to notice his throat filling with burning hot liquid. He felt he like was drowning from the inside out, even though – technically – he shouldn't even have a throat, let alone be in a position to suffocate.

He wasn't supposed to need to breathe.

Turning away, the painful feeling lessened, as if the inner drowning was paused.

This nearly convinced him to stay away from the light altogether – for there could be nothing good that way – until he heard a voice from the same direction whispering, "Come back... Please come back... Come back, dear boy."

He held his breath, imagining there really was one to hold, and braved another step into the beckoning light.

The demon Aziraphale held onto the remains of the discorporated archangel's body until it turned to a fine glittery ash and then to motes in the air around him, and then – finally, horribly – bit by bit – began to disappear, to evaporate into nothing tangible.

'Twas Heaven's little celestial clean-up system when it came to material bodies, no doubt.

One thing was painfully certain. After this, he didn't think he'd have it in him to ever try to kill his angel again. All his careful, clever schemes were for nothing now. He'd have to suggest that blasted Arrangement or else retire and accept Hell's wrath.

He'd seen Raphael discorporate before, of course, but never like this.

This... This one hurt.

He'd held him while it happened, helplessly watched him slip away. Saw how difficult it was for him to hold on even for a mere sixty seconds. And knowing, if all went as it should, he would never see this version of his angel again, that Crowley was gone for ever and ever, it really was as though the angel died permanently and he, Aziraphale, had been left behind holding the empty shell of a body afterwards.

He bent his head low, feeling sick, and sobbed until he ran out of tears and lost the strength to shudder continuously.

Hours later, when he felt he could move again, he slowly made his way back upstairs and into the loft's bathroom where he cleaned himself up and splashed ice cold water on his bruised, blotchy face.

Will I know, Aziraphale wondered, if time loops again? Or can only Crowley know that? What if, suddenly, it's yesterday and I just–

He rushed back into the bedroom, face still dripping, and turned on the alarm clock radio (with some difficulty, accidentally changing the settings to Japanese twice).

Greetings, Soho residents, it's Thursday morning!

Aziraphale exhaled, staring up at his relieved reflection in the mirrored ceiling.

We're expecting lots of sunshine and only partial clouds today – no need for your brolly and macintosh, leave 'em in the closet! It's going to be a fine afternoon for a walk in the park with good friends. Coming up next, your daily horoscope.

Feeling worn and dazed, Aziraphale made his way to the stairs again. It was comfortable here – he envied the other him, the one in Crowley's world, who lived in this building, where it was a bookshop – but it was time to leave; there was somewhere he needed to be.

The Prince of Hell stood for a long moment beside the glass revolving door, peering – with feigned casualness – into the main entrance lobby for Heaven and Hell.

A familiar figure was coming down Heaven's escalator. His hair was long again, his suit light-coloured, and his tired expression politely baffled.

It must really be him, Aziraphale thought; he's back and Crowley, one can only hope, has made it back to his own world – to the other me – safely.

His stomach fluttered. Part of him wanted to turn around and run away. Raphael would never even hear him out regarding an Arrangement. Of course Crowley thought he would, of course Crowley had wanted him to give the archangel another chance. That was all very well and good. But Crowley wasn't here, and there was simply no way Raphael would ever even consider–

Madame Tracy's words came back to him then. Love confounds us all, one way or another.

This wasn't something he could run away from, an issue which would go away if he ignored it long enough. He would have to face him – have to admit to Raphael that he saw no point in their being proper enemies to each other any longer, though they'd never be able to call themselves friends, being as they were on opposite sides – eventually.

Holding his head high with a confidence he did not entirely feel, Aziraphale entered the lobby.

Raphael doesn't quite understand what's been happening. He can't recall whatever occurred yesterday – it is as if he was not present for Wednesday, gone somehow – and only knows what Heaven has written him up a citation for.

He only knows that, supposedly, he healed the demon Zira's nose – which evidently was broken by somebody in Hell, possibly Satan himself, though Gabriel didn't say, as a punishment.

Everybody has been making a big fuss about it – about something Raphael can't even remember doing.

Gabriel and Sandalphon were disappointed in him, and Michael apparently was holding a grudge, silently judging him as she glared from across the open, white space, but it was Uriel who was the most downright unpleasant about it.

"If you think your fat boyfriend in the trench coat will get you special treatment in Hell because you fixed his face, Raphael, remember. He's in trouble, too."

"Uriel, that was harsh," Gabriel had interrupted, clapping a hand down on Raphael's shoulder a little more roughly than he strictly needed to. "We agreed on a citation – Raphael is one of us – and yesterday was a odd day for us all, wasn't it, Michael?"

"Yes," she'd said morosely, straightening the lace on her cuffs, refusing now to even look at Raphael.

Gabriel's following smile, still directed at him and ignoring Michael's obvious lack of enthusiasm for calling it pax, hadn't quite reached his violet eyes, but it vaguely suggested forgiveness, which was, as far as the other archangels involved were concerned, good enough. "How's the new body feel, buddy?"

Uriel (having no other choice) backed down after that, but Raphael thinks it would be wise in the future to keep an eye on that particular archangel. At least until things calm down a bit more. Uriel's grudges can be every bit as dangerous as Michael's – all the more so since they're more vocal and self-righteous and less sulky.

They're – all the shining archangels together – supposed to be like siblings, a strong united front, but these days Raphael wonders if he doesn't actually have more in common with Zira, Prince of Hell or not.

Michael is stationed on earth, too, but she doesn't appreciate it, doesn't feel her place in it as he does. She sleeps in a different hotel every night, owns no material object that wasn't brought down from Heaven. She wouldn't care if the whole globe turned into a burning puddle of goo tomorrow.

The rest up here, looking down, can't even imagine how he feels waking up in a corporeal body every morning.

But Zira–

Think of the devil.

There he is, in the lobby, waiting.

Raphael hops off the escalator and saunters vaguely towards him. "Hi."

To his surprise, Zira smiles, tightly but with real warmth sparkling from his eyes. "Ah. Hello."

"Do you remember what happened yesterday?" Raphael asks, point blank. "Because I don't, and it would seem I'm in trouble for healing your broken nose."

Zira shrugs. He probably knows – whatever he might remember – it isn't really safe to talk about here. "Jolly bad luck."

"Right." He's beginning to feel uncomfortable. "Well, I'll just be–"

Zira's warm, plump hand – soft as a wing-feather – brushes briefly against his, and he's out of the lobby before anyone can accuse him of fraternizing with the enemy.

But there is a neatly folded scrap of paper in Raphael's hand and he realises, then, that Zira hasn't gone far – he can still see the back of his ashy-blonde head through the revolving glass doors.

He's not...

Surely he's not...

Waiting for him?

He unfolds the note.

Nonsense. Impossible. He's horrified that Zira would even suggest such a thing.

But think.

Raphael has a choice here.

He can go back up the escalator, into Gabriel's office, and hand the note over like the heavenly priggish stickler he's supposed to be. He can report what Zira wants to do, and – through back-channels that aren't supposed to exist – it will make its way to the demon's own lot. He will be duly punished and Raphael exonerated. Uriel won't be able to imply he is a traitor with this evidence that it's all one-sided, that this whole attempt was Zira's doing, not that of a respectable archangel. The fact that he fixed his nose and forgot about it will be all but forgotten. Possibly even forgiven.

Except he doesn't want that.

He doesn't want anything bad to happen to Zira.

Zira, who is – inexplicably, perhaps ineffably – more like him than the other archangels, despite being on the wrong side. Zira, whose bright, sunny smile is always so bloody nice, even when he's trying to discorporate him. Zira, who Raphael secretly knows brings food and other important supplies – whenever he can – to an ageing prostitute with bad knees but has never done anything even remotely sexual with her. Zira, who innocently assumes Raphael doesn't know the exact hardware store he buys his 'discorporating supplies' from, that he never shops there himself. Zira, who probably did look very pitiful with a broken nose. Zira, who thinks – by design – Raphael never notices him, but is in reality almost never far from his thoughts. Zira, who once came to him for help on a bad day and was lost to him for ever after.

But still.

Still.

The risk.

A choice must be made and – whatever happens, for good or for evil – Raphael will have to live with that choice for all the days to come. All because of a Wednesday he can't remember.

Gabriel is in Heaven, and Zira is waiting just outside.

So.

The glass door, or the escalator?

Raphael pauses, looking back and forth from both.

He pauses.

The glass door, or the escalator?

He is confounded. As we all are, in one way or another.

Chapter Text

Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 12 of 12

"Why do you go away? So that you can come back."

– A Hat Full of Sky, Terry Pratchett

For Crowley, his portion was that – as far as things went in his own world where he'd left his body behind on the first Wednesday – he got to be in blissful ignorance of anything that happened outside of the world he was visiting. He was simply not there. Raphael did not inhabit his body as he'd inhabited Raphael's.

Nobody inhabited it.

Once or twice, as Aziraphale would later tell him, the principality – who'd never left his side – had seen his eyes open – just a slit – and was filled with a hope that wounded absolutely when he realised whatever looked out from the corner of Crowley's eyes then promptly concluded it was in the wrong place and left without a fuss, without so much as taking a breath or moving a finger, was simply not Crowley.

And, by this, Aziraphale didn't mean it was not his Crowley. It was not Crowley from another universe, either, for even that much similarity would have endeared the thing looking out to the desperate angel, who'd have been largely unwilling to let it leave. It was only a stranger, something old and without corporation, drawn to the wrong place and not – evidently – feeling very intrusive.

Aziraphale's portion was one of waiting. Although it was not always Wednesday for him, although he did not learn what it was to live within a time-loop, you might say he did live the same day over and over again. In a manner of speaking. Because, after he lifted Crowley's lifeless body off the bookshop floor and hoisted him onto the couch, covering him with a blanket and gently tucking him in, every clock in the shop might as well have stopped; nothing changed.

That is, of course, with the exceptions of that singular lost, unknown visitor and the demons who came into the shop, more than once, insisting the body Aziraphale wouldn't let out of his sight was in fact the property of Hell and must be returned.

They meant business, but Aziraphale didn't care. He meant business as well, and showed them that by fighting them off with far more strength and viciousness than they expected from a prissy, broken-hearted angel. He was clever and understood exactly why they suddenly cared so much about one stray body. They wanted – since there was nobody left inside of it to threaten them – to take it and try to work out how it had, allegedly, become immune to holy water.

The principality didn't know what would happen to an empty demonic body placed in holy water, but even if his own secret – his own part played in their swap – wasn't involved, he'd never have given those cretins the chance to find out.

They weren't taking Crowley anywhere.

Even if it technically wasn't Crowley any longer, it was all he had left of his friend.

It became a vigil.

And that vigil was all Aziraphale knew after a while.

One day, Gabriel had entered the shop, and Aziraphale didn't even look up – he was still staring fixedly down at the couch, at Crowley.

"Ahem."

"Gabriel," he'd replied in a monotone, still not lifting his eyes. "What do you want?"

"The opposition says you have something of theirs."

"Well, I don't – thank you for coming by, but I'm afraid I'm quite busy."

"On the way in, I noticed all of the letters I sent were piled in front of the door." Indeed, he'd nearly tripped over the glowing, sloppy stack of unopened envelopes and been none too happy about it.

"That's where the postman leaves them, I suppose."

"And you don't bother to pick them up?"

"I can't," murmured Aziraphale, distantly. "Waiting. Keeps me on my toes."

"Aziraphale!"

"I think you had better go."

"Heaven has been bombarded with angry messages."

"Has it? That's a shame."

"Just give the bastards what they want."

"I said, I think you had better go."

"You may be immune to Hellfire, sunshine, but I can still make you do as I say for the greater good, whatever you are now."

"D'you really want to find out if that's true?"

"The demon Crowley is never coming back, you do realise that?"

"Perhaps not." His voice was low, accepting of the facts but unbending in resolve. "Still, I had better stay with him, just in case."

"You disgust me." Gabriel watched as Aziraphale – who looked more unkempt than he'd ever seen him before – reached out and patted the outline of Crowley's limp wrist under the blanket.

"Yes, I suppose I do. Well, there's no helping that, but if you wouldn't mind, could you pick up your letters on the way out? Easier than sending them back to you, or else having them all recycled, I shouldn't wonder."

Gabriel had then turned in a huff, throwing up his hands, and begun stomping towards the door.

"Gabriel?"

Surprised at being addressed, he'd turned halfway. "Yes?"

"If Hastur had done this" – Aziraphale gestured down at the couch – "to Sandalphon, what would you have done differently from me?"

His nostrils flared. "Sandalphon's not a demon – his body doesn't belong to Hell."

"Would it matter to you if it did?"

"Of course it would." But he said it too readily, too quickly, and he did not come back to speak to Aziraphale on the matter again – the letters, too, stopped coming.

In the end, the archangels had left him alone with his grief.

His grief, his neglected bookshop, and his vigil.

Heaven on the whole wasn't quite finished, however. Sometime later, the Metatron – unable to appear in the concealed chalk circle, good for nothing apart from housing dust bunnies these days – came in by the bookshop door surrounded by a flash of white light and a pulsing aura of vivid reddish-purple annoyance. He didn't like anything to bring him down to earth these days.

"Aziraphale, none of the archangels were willing to pay you another visit, do you know why that was?"

The principality, for once not staring down at Crowley's lifeless face, his gaze directed this time at an open book in his lap, reams of paper loosely tied with string and joined with tiny metal clips – some old, written on, some so white and unmarred they glowed brighter than the Metatron's flash on arrival – scattered across the floor around his chair and the couch, glanced up. "Er. They are..." – he was looking about for a loose page he'd dropped – "afraid of me, I expect."

"They are archangels, Aziraphale."

And he was an angel who could – as far as they knew – withstand Hellfire, hardly what you'd call shoddy. Still, he knew what the Metatron meant.

"You can't keep the demon's body," he told him flat out, pitilessly. "Such a thing is not permitted. Even earthbound and isolated from office as you are at the moment, the recent unpleasantness does not absolve you of the obligation to–"

"You're the voice of God, you have a position I respect – I have no quarrel with you."

"That is good, because serious concern has been voiced regarding–"

Aziraphale wasn't finished, he cut back in. "And so it's with the utmost respect that I tell you, if you try to take him from me, I will have the thankless task of discorporating you and making it look like a most unfortunate accident." The angel's narrowed eyes were cold in a way which suggested – despite the brittle smile playing about his lips – he was most certainly not joking. "Do we understand one another?"

"Aziraphale, that is not him – your demon isn't in there."

He pretended to fixate on his book again. It wasn't until the Metatron, not as visibly angry as Gabriel but still displeased with how their conversation had gone, left that the principality buried his face in his hands and whimpered.

Crowley was drowning from the inside out. He jackknifed forward and vomited up a mouthful of varnish-coloured water, which projected itself over the arm of the couch.

Gasping, he sank back into the soft pillows under him, blinked twice in quick succession, and tried to think – his mind was fuzzy, distant. Where was he? He closed his eyes again and breathed slowly, in and out.

The sensation that someone was staring at him and not saying anything made his skin crawl.

"Crowley?"

He opened his eyes, and found himself looking at a remarkably dusty, droopy version of his angel, hovering over him anxiously, mouth slightly agape.

Never having seen Aziraphale look this poorly groomed – not even when he'd been in the sorriest of situations, including being locked up in the bloody Bastille – for a split-second he actually failed to recognise him.

There were little tears and torn seams in his vest. One of the buttons on his shirt cuff, rolled in a bunched, wrinkled fashion up to his right elbow, was in the wrong hole.

Crowley had known Aziraphale to wear things for several centuries until the fabric might have lost most of its original texture, if one could even recall what it was supposed to be, but he always kept them in perfect condition. Could this really be the same angel who'd fretted over the blue paint stain on his coat?

"Crowley," he said again, this time not as a question.

That was what clinched it. The voice. Accompanied by the angel's familiar, unique smell. Then the eyes, as he focused on them and realised, with a joy that made him feel like flying, they were not charcoal.

The angel flung himself on top of him and threw his arms around his middle. His wings – their feathers as messy as the rest of him – opened up and bowed forward, so that he was hugging Crowley with those appendages too.

"Hello, Aziraphale," the demon croaked out, wiggling free but still grasping the angel's plump arms. "Did you miss me?"

The principality cleared his throat and pulled back, winching in his wings. "Er."

"What day is it?"

Flopping over to the other side of the couch, Aziraphale murmured, "Thursday."

"I was only gone a day, then," sighed Crowley, relieved. "Only gone Wednesday. Not too bad."

Aziraphale gave him a look.

"Wot?" He was in the process of stretching his arms over his head, trying to loosen his stiff, sore limbs. "Seriously. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Nothing." It was obvious he was lying. "It's nothing." He started to rise up, patting the air near Crowley's leg with a shaking hand. "I'll just go fetch...er...something... You need something, you must be feeling..."

Crowley reached over and snagged his arm again. "What is it?"

"You weren't gone a day," he managed, nearly in a whisper, not meeting his eyes. "You were gone a year."

"Wot?"

"You were gone a year!" he cried, louder, exasperated, though not with Crowley.

"Hang on, what do you mean I was gone a year?"

"I mean, after Hastur poisoned you, you went away and didn't come back for – oh, roughly – three hundred and sixty-five days." His cheeks were flushed. "Now. You must want something – obviously not tea, I think, but perhaps some soup... Or something stronger... Bother." His hands flapped and fluttered; the angel was blithering. "I just remembered... I haven't got anything in the bookshop at the moment, some of your demonic former brethren made off with the last of the Châteauneuf-du-Pape when they were here last, I'm afraid; but – I'll tell you what, Crowley – I'm going to hop over to the phone right now and, er, order something. It'll only take a moment, my dear, what would you like? Oh, you know what, never mind, I'll simply have them deliver everything I can think of."

Unable to stop the manic angel from getting up and making his way over to the antique rotary phone, yet feeling reasonably sure he'd realise, sooner or later, his fingers were trembling far too much to use it (he was bound to), Crowley gathered his strength and followed him. He carried the blanket that had been over him while he was absent in his arms. From behind, he tossed it gently over Aziraphale's shoulders as the principality lowered the handset back down onto the cradle uncertainly.

"I–" he began, without turning.

Crowley snaked his arms around him and silently embraced him.

"I'm being silly. Everything's fine now," stammered Aziraphale, all watery smiles and clenched teeth and glistening unshed tears, still dazed. "Absolutely tickety-boo."

No, it wasn't. Crowley could tell it wasn't. Aziraphale had had a nasty shock, even though it was what he wanted – his friend back. He'd waited a year; he'd lost hope despite himself; this was difficult for him. So he held onto him tighter, just kept clutching him, and leaned his head down onto the angel's warm, broad shoulder.

There was a moment of quiet from both ends, Aziraphale's frantic breathing slowing. Then he said, as if from pure wonderment, "I can feel your heartbeat."

A year with no pulse, no breath of life from the demon's corporation, and now he was feeling it pressed against him – life, real and beating.

That was when it happened, like a dam breaking. Aziraphale began to sob with abandon.

When he'd steadied somewhat, Crowley led him back to the couch and had him sit down. Aziraphale shook off the blanket and unfurled his wings again. Crowley, stroking them, went almost immediately for the familiar pressure point – that one little spot he knew about – because, if there was ever a particularly desperate moment wherein he needed a shortcut to calming his angel down, this was probably it.

Not that he blamed him for being on the hysterical side. He remembered how insanely frantic he'd gotten during this whole business, when trying to rescue the other Aziraphale while stuck in that nasty time-loop – he hadn't exactly been the calmest guy, either. And then there was the unfortunate fact that the angel had been here waiting for him for a year, never knowing if he'd come back again or not.

Under most circumstances, a year was nothing to them, no real time to speak of – they weren't human, after all, and they'd spent centuries apart in the past. But this had been the exception. Every hour would have been a kind of slow, uncertain torture.

It must have been Hell.

Worse than Hell, even.

Hell, he knew from experience, could sometimes (on a good day) be slightly more bearable than what Aziraphale had just endured.

Crowley had all the understanding in the world for his friend's plight. When Aziraphale sagged against him and had gone completely quiet for several minutes, he finally said, "Come on, angel, grab your coat – I'll take you to lunch."

Following behind as Aziraphale unprotestingly got up and fetched his camel hair coat, walking to the door as if moving through some sort of lucid dream, the demon caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the window-glass and was consoled by the sight of the yellow serpentine eyes which stared back.

He really was home now.

They had Champagne & Afternoon Tea at the Ritz.

And over a choice selection of finger sandwiches, dainty jams and clotted cream with scones, chased down by pastries and biscuits, Aziraphale told Crowley all about the year he'd missed. He talked animatedly about fighting off and – in many cases – bribing demons who were, dare he say, reluctant, for lack of a better word, to take no for an answer; the angel explained every minute of waiting, of wondering if Crowley would ever come back.

Crowley listened to this with unwavering attention, only coming out of his rapture and feeling an apprehensive dread when the meal was nearly over and Aziraphale – dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin – said, "That was scrumptious. Now then, enough about me – tell me about where you were, my dear."

How could he tell him where he'd been? So much easier to say, "Nowhere," or "Nothing," and pretend that was indeed the case, that his consciousness, although removed from his body, had slept the year away. But it wasn't really in Crowley's nature to keep things from Aziraphale; if either of the pair of them struggled in that area, it was more the angel's over-cautious vice than his own. So he explained, as simply as he could, the infuriating time-loop, the other – demonic – Aziraphale (who he confessed feeling pity and affection towards, but did not describe in too much detail to spare the angelic Aziraphale's feelings), being an angel again, having a past as a television host, getting discorporated repeatedly, and his final discorporation – on the wrong end of a greedy human's gun – that brought him back.

When he was finished, Aziraphale, with warmth and pity, patted him on the shoulder. "Well, I'm certainly glad you've come home. I'm going to fetch my coat, and then we can go."

The colours and lights and sounds of the restaurant seemed so sharp, as if Crowley was seeing them unhindered for the first time – seeing them through new, fresh eyes behind his old sunglasses – and he looked about himself while waiting for Aziraphale to return, drinking it all in.

When Aziraphale came back to the table, he recoiled in shock.

The angel was wearing a long coat of dark-hued leather. He grimaced. "Oh, I know, it's dreadful, isn't it? The colour doesn't suit me at all. They've gone and mislaid my coat at the door, though I specifically told them to hold it for me. They've offered me this one for this afternoon, at any rate. It's a bit nippy. I'll be telephoning tomorrow and getting the mix up resolved." He paused, his put out expression melting into one of concern. "What's wrong? You look so pale."

"I'm fine," Crowley said; "you just reminded me of someone for a minute."

Two days later, the angel and demon were walking in Soho, about to cross the busy street and go over to the bookshop, when Crowley spotted Hastur sitting alone at a table outside the coffeehouse.

He'd been saying, in almost a whine, "Uuuuugggh, I still can't believe you fought high-ranking demons on your own and I missssssed it; how did nobody get that on camera?" when he noticed the duke of Hell and stopped in his tracks. "Hastur. That's... Unlikely."

"Yes," said Aziraphale, coldly. "It is."

"You don't sound surprised."

He gripped Crowley's arm and took a step closer to the edge of the pavement. "Oh, that's because I'm not – I was perfectly aware he'd turn up."

"Why isn't he...?" He waited for Hastur to speak, to acknowledge them beyond the blasé glare over the cup of what might have been coffee or might have been something entirely else, but he didn't.

"Just keep walking, my dear."

Hastur raised the cup to his lips and took a long sip, watching them. Something – probably the frog under the large tan fedora he was wearing – croaked.

Aziraphale stiffened, his bitter expression – waiting for the cars to stop so they could cross – twice as hard and detached as the demon's.

Hastur collapsed, falling sideways from his chair. A server from inside rushed out, tossing aside a tray filled with porcelain plates and cups, which shattered to bits in the street. "He's not breathing – somebody call 999!"

"Do you..." began Crowley, turning to Aziraphale. "D'you understand what just happened?"

Because he wasn't sure he did.

"Crowley, do you really think I spent a year waiting for you and didn't find out exactly what Hastur gave you?" He cocked his head and sighed wearily. "I was in a bookshop, for heaven's sake." He lifted his pale eyebrows. "And I had ample time to research."

"And whatever it was you found out, you've just given it to Hastur?"

He nodded. "It seemed only fitting. Taste of his own medicine, what."

For the briefest of moments, Crowley was actually a little frightened of Aziraphale. He'd never seen the angel's compassionate eyes look so cold. He fully understood, then, just how deeply the year he'd spent alone had affected him.

It was a good thing, after all, that sheer irony had seen fit to make it not in Crowley's nature to lie to Aziraphale or even to conceal things from him. Given all the research he'd have had to of done, in-between fighting off the forces of Heaven and Hell, the angel would have learned exactly what that vile concoction of Hastur's did, and thus would've known if Crowley kept his misadventure a complete secret from him.

Still, if Aziraphale knew what it was really like – being trapped in time, unable to escape – he might not have gone through with it. Hastur was a bastard, true, but you could only go so far. Moreover, you didn't expect this sort of thing from someone who'd been, until recently, on the side of Heaven, the supposed 'good guys'. So much for ineffable mercy.

"Angel," he said very slowly and very quietly, through clenched teeth.

He squeezed Crowley's arm. "I know, my dear, I do know – but it needed to be done."

"But Hastur–"

Aziraphale didn't want to hear it, and in the end Crowley decided to let it go. This was clearly a taste of justice Aziraphale felt he couldn't go on without dispensing – not after what happened. And it was Hastur – hardly someone worth getting too upset over. Besides, oddly enough, once he made peace with the whole repeating one single day over and over and over again thing, Hastur might even enjoy himself more in that universe than he did here – Ligur was still alive over there, for one thing.

He wondered what Hastur would be in that world – demon or angel.

He shuddered at the thought. Hastur as an angel. That was bizarre. Nobody wanted to see that. Not again.

'ello, it's Wednesday morning!

The supernatural being under the stiff coverlet, coming to, grunted twice and mumbled, "What? What's happening? Where'm I?"

It's overcast today, with a fifty to sixty percent chance of rain, so you best have your brolly on hand just in case–

He reached his hand up and felt his head – he could feel his prickly white-blonde hair, sticking up at all ends, but no familiar froggy bumps.

It struck him, then. He knew.

"That little runt and his best friend Aziraphale!"

Hastur sat bolt upright in a hard, cheap hotel-room bed and – screaming wordlessly like he'd just invented the concept – tore the alarm clock radio from the wall socket and hurled it across the room, where it skidded off a laminated take out menu and smashed – rather melodramatically – into a television screen.

~The End~