Chapter Text
It began, as all terrible things tend to, on a Monday morning. It also began, as few terrible things tend to, in a manor-house-turned-library in Surrey, where an angel and demon were enjoying a cup of tea.
“I think it’s definitely one of yours, mate,” the angel said.
His name was Patrick, or it was now, at least. It had once been something else, but years of drawn-out introductions where he was forced to stand there for upwards of five minutes correcting whoever he was introducing himself to as they so desperately tried to sound out his name over and over again had led him to abandon it and pick something plainer. He’d gone through a few over the centuries and eventually settled on Patrick. It was quick and simple, Pat even more so.
He estimated that he’d saved around 14 years with such a change, which was a good number, nice and even.
“ Pah , as if,” replied the demon, Julian.
He was called this not for sake of ease, but because he liked the sound of the name and found the meaning to be ironic. Also, he believed the mild confusion it had caused Downstairs was worth it. Even decades later, they were still finding paperwork under his old name that they had to bitterly correct.
“There is no way my lot came up with vegan sausages .”
“And there’s no way Hell came up with it either!” Julian argued, throwing his arms out in his excitement, sending tea spilling over the rim. He didn’t flinch as it scalded his hand (demons were generally resistant to that sort of thing).
Patrick tutted and picked up a tea towel from the drawer (kept conveniently close for such an occasion). “Have you ever tried one? If you did, I think you’d agree they’re definitely hellish. And how many times do I have to tell y'us to be careful with your tea?"
The pair were alone, tucked in a quiet cove, surrounded by a sea of books and mismatched chairs and tables. The doors to Button Library, née Manor, were yet to open, and the two enjoyed the peace and quiet while they could.
Four years ago, they had participated in Armageddon. Some claimed they prevented it, while others claimed they simply stood there and watched as it was prevented. The truth was, as it usually was, somewhere in the middle. Regardless, they had braced the apocalypse and came out the other side rather hoping that was the last of it.
Julian pursed his lips, theatrically squinting as if hard in thought. “...At least once, probably more.”
He bared the fretting as Patrick neared with the towel, even kindly turning his hand this way and that so it could be thoroughly dried.
“Sounds about right,” Patrick said, no heat behind the words.
“Anyway, what’s hellish about saving baby animals from the slaughterhouse? Thought they'd be all over that sort of thing."
“I don’t know if you’re aware, mate, but God’s not really bothered about the whole animal murder thing," the angel said. "Especially lambs, She does not care about lambs. Big fan of them dying, actually.”
Job done, he folded the towel neatly over the radiator, smoothing out the wrinkles. It’d have to be washed but, for now, it could stay there. He didn’t like leaving Julian alone with the books - the demon was a bit of a fire hazard.
Julian scoffed, rolling his serpentine eyes, and took a sip of what was left of his tea. When he inevitably came to the end of it, he filled it up with wine. He grimaced at the incompatible mix of flavours.
"I'm not saying I'm a fan of it," Patrick argued, "but She sure is."
The argument was abandoned after that, for you could only get so much enjoyment out of the topic of vegan food before it ran stale, and it had debatably run stale the second Patrick had brought it up.
"...I split some on the chair too," Julian noted, pointing at the damp spot. He gave it a poke, and it was gone.
“How could you,” Patrick said, putting on a faux-upset front, “those are Rococo, you know."
Julian scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You don't care about chairs. Nobody cares about chairs- who the hell cares about chairs? They're chairs ."
"They're historical artefacts,” he replied, doing his best to pretend he did actually care about the chairs.
He didn’t. Patrick simply found that winding Julian up was a nice way to spend the time. Julian thoroughly agreed, though he generally preferred it to be the other way around.
" We're historical artefacts, and Rachel still tried to stab me with a corkscrew last week."
"Last month, and she was going for the wine cork; she just has bad aim."
Julian slumped back into the armchair, sporting a scowl. “She has bloody brilliant aim, that's the problem.” He still had the scars to prove it and pulled up the sleeve of his jacket to do just that, showing off the pinprick wound.
Patrick ooo-ed and cooed as necessary, biting back a smile. “A terrible injury, don’t know how you survived.”
“I did, but only barely,” Julian replied, letting his sleeve fall with a performative hiss.
“You know though, if you didn’t want her to have such good aim, maybe you shouldn't have given her all those shooting lessons."
He'd near had a heart attack at the time, finding her and Julian in the front garden with a gun that was nearly as tall as she was. In hindsight though, it was a bit comical, her determined little pout, the way most of her forehead engulfed by the protective goggles Julian had slapped on her…
"I thought she was the Antichrist! You're not blameless either, Angel, you taught her archery. What's godly about archery?" Julian asked.
(Note, Rachel Fawcett, daughter of one actress and former playboy bunny Margot Fawcett, was only thought to have been the Antichrist. That title has since been correctly attributed to local scout and delight to have in class, Daley Butcher. The hows of whys of this mistake would take an entire book to write, and quite frankly, no one has the time for that.)
Patrick shrugged, giving the library a once-over. It was all clean and tidy though, as it usually was. "Just thought it'd be fun. Nowt wrong with the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit-"
"We don't have all day," Julian cut him off, slumping further into the armchair. It almost looked like he was melting and would soon become just a Julian-toned puddle on the seat.
That would no doubt be a nightmare to try and clean off, so Patrick rather hoped he wasn’t actually melting.
"We do, actually, but it is a bit of a mouthful, isn't it? Nowt wrong with the supposed Antichrist having a bit of fun now, is there?"
"Archery isn't my idea of fun."
"No, it's wine, and Farrah Fawcett, and being a general nuisance on the M25," Patrick recalled.
It was slightly entertaining, those days where Julian would reign annoyance over the motorway, excitedly texting Patrick every new update, misspelling and exclamation points abound. Of course, Patrick wasn't a fan of the idea of upsetting so many people (or driving one-handed), but Julian did have a job to do, and better vague disruption than encouraging someone to go and drop a nuclear bomb.
That was a very un-Heavenly sentiment, but Patrick had long since come to terms with the fact that he wasn't exceptionally Heavenly himself. This had become clear, not through some dastardly deed on his behalf, but rather in the 1970s when he found himself in a club with Julian, dancing to ABBA.
Angels don’t dance, so Upstairs claimed. Hence, Patrick had to accept that he wasn't a particularly good angel. He wasn’t too upset about it nowadays - he’d rather be a good person than a good angel, truth be told.
"And Queen," Julian added.
He leaned over the arm of his chair, unnecessarily so, and pointed a finger at the radio. It dizzily jerked away from the news of so-and-so doing this-and-that to Bicyele Race . Julian grinned victoriously, boyishly, as if this was an exceptional feat and not something he did every day after the horse racing results were announced.
Patrick grinned, tapping his foot to the beat. "Queen is everyone's idea of fun, and if it isn't-"
"They're angels," the demon finished.
The two shared a laugh, Patrick's only mildly sheepish. It was maybe a bit mean, to laugh at his colleagues (or was it ex-colleagues?) behind their backs but, well, Julian wasn't wrong. They were a bit mardy and dull - a bold statement coming from Patrick, some would argue.
“Do they even listen to music up there?” Julian wondered, jerking his chin up towards the ceiling.
“Yeah," Patrick said. " This Little Light of Mine. On repeat. I have never hated light so much."
He glowered at the memory, left eye twitching as that tune played in the back of his head.
It wasn't even a particularly old song, so why they favoured that over a more ancient hymn, he had no idea. Patrick would ask, but whenever it was playing, he was too busy leaving the room to question anyone.
The radio volume ticked up a level.
Julian cackled, a noise that sounded like it ought to belong to an evil witch in a children's movie, and was therefore fairly fitting for a demon. He even slapped his knee in a manner Patrick had only ever seen on the TV before.
"Only that? Not even Bread of Heaven? Even I have to admit that's a good one,” Julian said, still snickering away.
"The original was Welsh."
" Ah ." He nodded sagely.
As Patrick put down his tea, he found some unwanted words on his tongue. "And-" he found himself saying, "and Gabriel would sometimes listen to Maria, from the Sound of Music. He said it instilled good morals and reminded us of the folly of man ."
Patrick did his best impression of the Archangel, scowl and all while ignoring the ache in his chest. He rubbed the hell of his palm over it. No point getting mardy, he reminded himself. What’s done is done.
Julian didn't laugh at that one, and his smile was a bit tight. "Considers himself a veritable Captain Georg von Trapp, does he?"
"You know, I wouldn't be surprised if he did."
Patrick checked his watch, eager to leave that thought behind. It was, just as he'd expected, two minutes from nine. His body was so attuned to his daily routine that he didn’t really have to look, but it never hurt to check.
He brushed down his vest, adjusted his neckerchief, and gave himself a look over in the mirror. Just because he wasn’t up in Heaven no more, didn’t mean he should let himself go. He caught Julian’s eyes in the reflection, a flash of golden-yellow among the muted browns and greys that made up the library walls.
"It’s almost time to open," Patrick noted. "You staying today, or are you just coming back later for dinner?"
Julian rarely had plans nowadays, but it was better to ask than just assume.
The demon shrugged, twisting around to throw his legs over the arm of the chair. "Suppose I might do. Plenty of trouble I can cause here, after all."
It looked to be a very uncomfortable position, his spine doing things a spine should not do in order to accommodate the pose.
Patrick sighed, turning around. "Please tell me you're not going to try and teach babies how to say fuck again. I'll get in trouble with the parents, you know."
There were few more ferocious creatures than newly minted mothers.
"Nah, you won't," Julian insisted. He took another sip of his wine, which likely tasted no better than it had before, judging by his grimace. "The mums love you. You're just a big teddy bear to them who can do no wrong."
“Better not tell them about that spot of graverobbing we did in the 1800s then, hey?”
Exactly on the dot, Patrick opened the door to the manor, turning around the chalkboard stand so it now read:
Open
9 am to 7 pm
:)
He also quickly rubbed off the offending, ahem, anatomy drawn on it. He might have thrown the blame on Julian’s feat if it had been slightly better drawn, but no, the local teenagers had clearly gone at it again. It was only chalk though, hardly the end of the world.
Not long after, the usual people came in - caffeine-wired students, babbling toddlers and squinting elders, all of who Patrick greeted with a smile, and Julian a barely hidden look of mischievous glee.
“At least give it an hour before you start being a nuisance, mate,” Patrick whispered.
“I’m a demon , being a nuisance is my entire point,” Julian argued.
“I’m not telling y’us to not be a nuisance, just to wait a bit, yeah?”
Julian rolled his eyes. Still, he kindly made no move to get up and took his sweet time finishing off his horrible wine. Patrick snapped his fingers when Julian was done, both cleaning the mug and filling it back up. The demon might have thrown a huff about a thank you, but he wouldn’t complain about more wine.
Julian eyed Patrick, catching on, but made no comment. The angel felt a flutter of pride at the sight. It was a little bit gratifying to know he had his demon down pat.
As Julian started on his fresh cup, two people stumbled through the doors: a witch and a witchfinder. Or at least, the great-great-great-great-granddaughter of one, which was almost the same thing.
Michael Cooper (named not after the Archangel as would be thematically appropriate but rather a middlingly known Welsh actor and winner of the 2015 The Great Comic Relief Bake Off) had a list of books in one hand, a pen in the other, and was currently making last-minute additions to said list.
His slacks, shirt, and baseball cap were all fairly bog standard (barring the Fish Want Me, Women Fear Me slogan stitched onto the hat), while his star-print cloak and pointy-toe boots were, well, less so. It was a bit like he’d been on his way to B&Q before being dragged into a magic show and forced to play magician.
Behind him came Alison Cooper, looking frazzled but fairly normal, carrying what they hoped to be enough tote bags for all the books their newly wedded beau needed. They did not, in fact, have enough, but that was to be the least of their concerns.
"Morning," Patrick chirped, "Not seen you two in a while. Everything alright?"
"Yep, things have been really non-apocalyptic," Alison assured him. "Just been busy with the new house, that's all." They abandoned their armful of tote bags on the near chest of drawers, perching on the edge of it mindlessly.
It was only Edwardian, not as old and precious as the chairs. Also, it was very ugly.
"Well, if you ever need help-"
"I know, we can call you. We want to try and do as much as we can by myself though, you know?”
Meanwhile, Julian got up and sauntered over, peering at Mike's list. "Crikey, that's a lot of books. What'd you need all that for? Not planning to open your own library, are you?”
He couldn’t actually read any of the titles, but he made an effort to look like he could.
Mike finally looked up, putting his pen away in his pocket. "We,” he gestured between him and Alison, “are starting a witching class. Daley said he wants to try his hand at magic, and who better to teach him than us?”
"He doesn't need to learn magic, he is the Antichrist , he already has powers," Julian pointed out. He said Antichrist as if it was instead three separate words: ant-i-christ.
"Yeah, but he doesn't have much control over them," Mike explained, eyes gleaming excitedly.
"He exploded the kettle a few days ago trying to make tea for his mum, so, we thought that maybe learning magic the proper way might help,” Alison added.
That was awfully nice of them, Patrick thought, though he wasn't particularly convinced it'd be all that helpful. If it couldn't be helpful though, it could at least be entertaining, and he was sure Daley would enjoy it. The child could do with some harmless fun after the whole almost bringing about the end of the world thing.
"I'm sure he’ll love it," Patrick assured them. "Now, where's that list of yours?"
As soon as he said it, he was struck by an old feeling, a sense of deja vu. When you lived as long as Patric had, you got used to feeling as though you’d said or done something before (because you likely had, a thousand times over), but this felt different, somehow. He'd heard that exact wording before, and not just on one of the many shopping trips Julian had dragged him into. No, Patrick was sure he'd heard it before- no, not even heard, read . Where had he seen those words?
Then it hit him. Nutter's book of prophecies.
And thus an angel of the Lord shall ask where thine list be, and mine prophet kin will reply:
Mike's body jerked, bending over backwards, eyes rolling up into his head. His mouth fell ajar, hat tumbling to the floor, and as Patrick caught him, he said:
"The divine will lose their divinity, the unholy their unholy nature, and them who stand betwixt these worlds will close the divide and bring forth the-”
"What’s happening?" Alison asked, eyes fight-wide as they reached for their husband.
"A prophecy," Patrick replied weakly. “I think.”
He waited for it to continue, but it didn't. Like a signal being interrupted, Mike made a few short aborted noises and then went silent. His eyes rolled forwards and he went completely limp.
"Ow, my head,” he groaned, a few seconds later.
Oh, not dead then. Very good. Patrick snapped his fingers, a nearby chair dragging itself over. It bunched up the rug in its wake, but Patrick didn’t particularly care.
“There now,” he said, carefully setting the human down. His pulse raced like a jackrabbit. “Easy does it."
"I'm fine," Mike insisted, voice small, "just a bit dizzy, that's all."
Funny that, Patrick felt much the same. He collapsed into a chair on his own, fanning himself with his hand. Alison perched on the arm of Mike’s chair, holding his hand.
"Julian, get Mike a drink, would you?" Patrick asked. He didn’t quite trust his legs at the moment.
The demon nodded, hurrying to the kitchen. He made a racket, but nothing smashed, which was a minor victory. You had to look on the bright side with these sorts of things, Patrick felt.
Mike was slumped back in the chair like a ragdoll thoughtlessly thrown aside, eyes closed, face pulled into a grimace. With another snap, Patrick closed all the curtains in their little corner, coating them in darkness.
He had a feeling they'd be closing early today.
"Has- has that ever happened before?" Patrick tentatively asked.
A few uneasy seconds passed before Mike spoke. "I mean, once when I was eleven, but mum thought that was the lightning strike."
"Lightening?" Alison choked.
"It didn't hit me, I think, it only almost did."
Patrick wondered if Nutter had predicted that too.
His hand was doing nothing, absolutely useless in trying to cool him down. He pulled out a fan from a drawer, one left over from the 1800s, which was far more effective. The cool air did little to calm him down though.
“Other than that though, no, I’ve never had a prophecy,” Mike continued. “We thought that sort of thing ended with Agnes.”
Julian toddled back in, bringing a tray full of teas that didn't smell entirely tea-like, in-human tongue stuck out as he concentrated on not tripping.
"Hot toddy?" Patrick asked, not that he needed to.
"Think we bloody well need it."
He couldn't argue with that. Patrick took the drink, taking a sip, noting that it was more whiskey than anything else. Good . "Ta muchly. Now, did you-"
"Yes, I wrote it down, obviously." When his hands were free of the tray, Julian waved the list of books in the air, the prophecy now scribbled on the back, incomprehensible to all but the demon himself.
Doctor's scrawl was a defining trait of demonhood he'd yet to shake off. Not all with bad handwriting were demonic, but all who were demonic had abysmally bad handwriting. Julian’s erred on the side of too loopy as if he was trying to design a theme park rather than write words.
It sometimes made Patrick feel queasy just looking at it.
"What does it say?"
Julian squinted. He brought the list closer. He squinted harder.
"Just wear your glasses," Patrick said.
Julian grumbled but was wearing them the very next second, a set of tidy black square ones. Patrick thought he looked quite nice in them, very sensible and smart, but no amount of compliments could convince the demon to actually use them.
Now able to actually see what he’d written, Julian cleared his throat and recited it. " The divine will lose their divinity, the unholy their unholy nature and those who stand betwixt these worlds will close the divide and bring forth the - and he stopped there."
Well, that wasn't much to go off.
"I don't know the rest of it," Mike admitted sheepishly. “I don’t even remember saying that.”
"That's alright,” Patrick said, giving his hand a comforting pat, “don't you worry none. You're looking a bit peakish though- hows about you go up to my room and lie down for a bit? You might feel better then."
“Yeah, do you mind?”
“No, course not. Julian, grab the teas, will y’us? Me and Alison will take him up.”
An hour later, everyone baring the four had been ushered out, the doors closed before they’d even really had a chance to be open. Patrick turned around the board with a heavy heart, retreating inside.
So much for a typical Monday morning.
Patrick finished off his whiskey alarmingly quickly, and Julian wasted no time in refilling it. The day was going to end with them drunk, no doubt. His mind found it the perfect time to recall that they’d spent the start of the apocalypse wildly drunk too. It soured the taste in Patrick’s mouth, but rather than discouraging him from drinking, it just made him want to get more drunk.
“Does it means us?” Patrick asked. It was a fair train of thought, though not a particularly nice one.
"Bit late if it does, don't you think? We shook off most of our divinity and unholiness last year.”
"That's a bold estimate on your part, mate. I think we both went to pots around the time Eden was cooked up.”
Julian nodded, flicking out a thin, forked tongue to lick his lips. He still didn't fully understand human anatomy. Or perhaps he simply didn't want to. Both were likely. "Fair point. It's probably nothing anyway. Most prophecies are."
But most prophecies didn't happen like that. Most prophecies happened because a human just decided it sounded about right, or they had an especially compelling dream accredited to God or aliens or whatever else they believed in, and so they jotted it down.
Not so for Agnes Nutters, and, unfortunately, Patrick had a feeling it was not so for Mike Cooper either.
Could prophecies be late? It didn't sound right - it wasn't a prophecy if what was come to pass had already passed like a missed service station during a road trip.
"No point worrying about it, is there?" Julian goaded, elbowing his angel gently.
Patrick stared hard into his whiskey. "Yes, yes, there is. Christ, I do wish Mike hadn't burned that book."
He understood why Mike had - character building and all that, moving on from the past, yada yada yada - but that didn't mean he had to like it. He could have at least passed that book of prophecies onto someone else - preferably Patrick.
"It could mean nothing, or nothing major at least,” Julian tried. “Wasn't one of her prophecies about getting shares in Apple? That's not world-ending, that's just business advice."
"What about Mike's words sounded like financial advice to you?” Patrick shot back, putting down his drink.
“...None of it- my point is,” he said, poking the angel in the chest, “that you're not doing yourself any good by getting your knickers in a twist.”
“I can't untwist them, for lack of a letter word.”
Julina’s lips twitched into a sharp-toothed grin. “Sure you can. And if you can’t, I-”
“No, no, I can’t, I knew something like this would happen, I just knew it! Strange things have been happening all week!” Patrick exclaimed, gesturing wildly. He began pacing around the room. “First there was the vegan sausage roll, twice -”
The grin dropped. “People get orders wrong all the time.”
“Not in Greggs! I was standing there, watching her pick up the sausage rolls from the sausage rolls section, and each time, they were miraculously vegan! Keith almost got me with an arrow to the neck when I took the scouts out for archery, I lost my glasses for four hours yesterday-”
Julian put his hands on Patrick’s shoulders, stilling him. “Breathe, Angel, don’t go fainting on me now. Mike was bad enough.”
Patrick closed his eyes and breathed in, and out, in and out. “I’m breathing, I’m breathing.”
"Not well."
"I have asthma."
"How does an angel have asthma?" Julian asked.
"How does a demon need glasses?" he wheezed back.
"Comes with the territory, I think. Being bad."
Patrick let out a shaky, breathless laugh. "Give over, that's a rubbish excuse."
"You got a better one?"
He did not, and the ridiculousness of their conversation was enough to calm him down. That was the good thing about Julian, you could always count on him to say utter rubbish.
"Sorry, sorry," Patrick started.
"Don't apologise," Julian gruffed, stepping back, "it's annoying."
"Sor- right, yeah."
It was a hard habit to shake, Patrick felt, and he wasn't sure why he needed to shake it away. Apologising was good, wasn't it? Though, maybe that was the crux of it. Julian was a demon after all.
"Thank you, then," Patrick tried. "Is that allowed?"
Julian shrugged, looking away. "Suppose it is."
The pair fell into silence, listening to the floorboards creak as Alison paced circles above them. Patrick wondered if sending them up to the bedroom was a great idea - there could be anything out there, after all - but it was too late for that, and not his primary concern anyway.
"...Do you have anyone down there you can ask?” Patrick asked. “Maybe if summat’s going on, they'll know."
"If something was going on, they would have already shown up and accused me of causing it, as would Heaven for you. We're traitors, remember? Everything bad that happens is our fault." Julian grumbled that last part, playing the part of a disgruntled child recalling a thorough telling-off.
"To be fair, most of the hiccups during the apocalypse were our fault…and throughout history too. Remember the 1904 Olympics?"
Julian winced, swilling his whiskey around his mug. "Yeah, we did a bit of a fuck up there, didn't we?"
Gabriel had been particularly upset about that one, Patrick remembered. Though he would have been far angrier if he'd understood the significance of the Olympics; he'd thought it a race for Zeus fanatics.
"But,” Julian continued, gesturing sharply, “the baby mixup was nothing to do with us, was it? It was those bloody chattering nuns! We would've had everything under control if it wasn't for them! They're the ones who mucked everything up, they’re the ones who threw our entirely perfectly good plan down the bloody drain, they’re the ones-"
Patrick put up a hand. "Okay, mate, I think you're the one who maybe needs to calm down."
He eyed the man-shaped smoking entity wearily. Patrick hadn't quite worked out whether that was a demon feature or a Julian-Only trick. Either way, he didn't particularly want the fire alarms to be set off again. Patrick picked up the fan, wafting the smoke towards the window.
“I’m calm, I’m perfectly calm, I’m always calm. Do you know what they used to call me? Calmity Jane, because I was so calm.”
“ Calamity Jane.”
“Close enough,” Julian said. He stopped smoking, the last few wisps fading in the air. “Anyway my point is- my point is…what we're we even arguing about again?”
“Armageddon two, electric boogaloo.”
“Right! So, it's not happening, no way.” He supplemented the point by throwing out his arms in a cross, only nearly sending his hot toddy barreling off the table.
Patrick tried to keep that very astute argument in mind, but he had little luck with it. “Yeah, no way…”
The rest of the day was spent organising the already organised books and cleaning until the floors were a genuine safety hazard, Mike and Alison having to slip-sliding their way out the door. By the time the sun set, Patrick had quite literally run out of things to fuss about and clean. It was, at this point, that Julian reappeared (having ducked away as soon as the mop was brought out), slithering through the bookshelves with a bag in hand.
“I got some food from that kebab shop you like. We’ll eat, drink, and we will not think about prophecies,” Julian announced, making it sound like an order.
Patrick shook out his hands, cramping from overuse, shifting back and forth aching feet. That was the problem with human bodies, they got tired and achy so quickly; God had really taken Eden personally.
"You did? You're a godsend, Jules- I mean, that's nice of y'us, ta muchly."
Julian shrugged, the apple of his cheek dusted pink. "I'm not nice," he argued lamely. "And we're eating upstairs, it's too cold in the kitchen."
"Sounds good to me. Lead the way, my foul fiend."
Julian had big, fancy condos and flats in England, America, France, and Spain, yet Patrick wasn't sure he'd actually stayed in any of them. He just seemed to like collecting them in the same way Patrick collected stamps. However, Julian’s collection was fueled by the glee of causing mild confusion and anger for celebrities trying to buy another holiday home. Patrick couldn't say he had the same motivation.
Regardless, Julian had a thousand places to pick, and yet he always ended up at Button Library eventually.
His wines, gins and whiskeys were kept in the basement, his suits (for when he felt like playing politics) hung neatly beside Patrick's brown three-piece he'd worn once in the seventies for a wedding and then never touched again, and his reading glasses lay in one of Patrick's old cases on the right-hand bedside table, along with his melatonin, cigarettes, and pocket-sized copy of the kama sutra.
It was strange, living with someone else, never mind living with a demon, but Patrick had mostly gotten used to it.
This all began in the 1940s, really, when the world was at war. Angels were, quite honestly, completely useless in the middle of such things, as were demons, truth be told. Patrick had been posing as a nurse in a local hospital, victory curls and all (though he'd passed on the gravy stocking), and Julian had been mulling about in God knows where doing God knows what. Three years in, a siren had sounded, and a bomb dropped, decimating most of the town. Julian had appeared an hour later in the air raid shelter and had been a constant presence ever since.
Except on Sundays. On Sundays, he disappeared to do whatever demons did on Sundays.
Patrick still wasn't sure what to make of the whole ordeal. Julian was a wazzock, a two-faced liar, and he was also the only person Patrick could truly call a friend. Julian was the only one who'd watch the footie with him, who would take him to the cinema to see the new James Bond film, would play assistant to his scoutmaster and run around in the mud for a few hours with a gaggle of kids, would buy him a six-pack of watneys with only limited bemoaning. That had to mean something, right? It did to Patrick, at least.
After he’d laid a towel over the bed and opened the windows so the room didn't smell of takeaway all night, they settled on the bed, stripped down to pyjamas, pecking at their meal.
"...I hope it's not another Armegedom," Patrick muttered.
Julian shook his head, shovelling some donner into his pitta bread. "Can't be. You can't have two Armegedons."
"Technically, we didn't even have one."
"We did. Just because the world didn't end, doesn't mean it wasn't Armageddon." Julian shuffled around, throwing his spindly legs over Patrick's lap. "What did I say anyway? No apocalypse talk, none, nada. Tell me something fun, not miserable."
Patrick thought hard, putting a hand on the other's left ankle. He was usually very good at optimism, but the apocalypse had chipped away at that particular skill, just a smidgen.
"Er, well, yesterday while you were off, you did miss more of the Humphrey-Sophie situation."
"What did he do this time?"
It was never what did she do this time. Humphrey, the poor thing, was very clumsy in his affections.
"Well, you know Google Translate..."