Chapter Text
“Oh, dear. Oh, dear.”
The yellow Beetle readily opens its door at the sound of its master’s fretting.
Aziraphale doesn’t slump into the driver’s seat. He doesn’t, that would be utterly unbecoming of a gentleman, not to mention inconsiderate towards the car, his faithful companion. What he does is carefully lower himself inside, place the cage on the front seat and close the door.
He takes a moment to lift the cage cover off the dense little bars, just enough to peek inside and make sure the occupant is undistributed.
Then he collapses over the wheel.
The sound of the impatient horn makes his head shoot right up though.
“Oh,” the demon presses his palm over his heaving chest, his head still knocked back with the distress he has suffered, “I’m so sorry, dear Oscar,” he tells the car, “I’ll tell you all about it in a minute.”
But, he doesn’t get the chance as Gabriel beats him to it.
“Aziraphale,” the voice of the Duke of Hell booms from the unsuspecting old-timer’s radio, making the demon jerk away.
“Yes,” he admits.
“Well done, yet again,” the Duke’s overenthusiastic voice makes his ears ring, “I have never doubted you, of course.”
“Of course.” Aziraphale forces a smile, hoping it will reach his voice to cover up the utter misery his “successes” always bestow.
“But this one outshines everything you’ve accomplished before!”
“Indeed,” Aziraphale agrees, feeling queasy.
The thing is, Aziraphale is really awful at being a demon. In fact, he’s so awful that his incompetence has developed a vexing habit of making a full circle and coming back as a resounding success.
At least in demon terms. Other demons’ terms.
“I have to give it to you,” Gabriel continues, “when I sent you to ruin that kid’s party, I thought you were going to pull out the usual – sow wrath among humans with your depressing magician’s act.”
The Duke’s sudden self-satisfied laughter startles the poor car into another honk. Aziraphale is lucky that nobody can see him right now, as he would certainly feel even more foolish sitting there with his crayon-drawn moustache.
“But raising a dog from the dead?! Ha! I say, sunshine, the miracle triggered such an alarm down here, I think half of demons soiled their pants!”
The Duke is so busy choking with laughter he doesn’t notice his employee never joins in. Aziraphale takes his sunglasses off to rub on his eyes. They are bloodshot, making the electric-blue of his irises stand out even more.
Unlike your average demon, Aziraphale has never been inclined to inflicting harm upon anyone. He has always been terribly prone to it, nonetheless. This morning was not an exception.
He hadn’t wished to hurt the dove that nice young man Pulsifer had borrowed him for the act. But the poor bird simply hadn’t fared well inside his sleeve, waiting for its moment of fame to come. The instant he pulled the limp body out and saw its head hanging lifelessly from its neck, Aziraphale’s panic reached astronomical levels so abruptly that it pulled out the most powerful miracle out of him.
To his temporary relief, this made the unwilling sidekick coo with surprise and perk its plumage up.
But, who on Earth buries their pets in their backyard in the twenty-first century? The Young family, that’s who.
The sight of screaming children and parents scattering around, bumping at each other will haunt Aziraphale until the end of time. Little Adam’s ecstatic face will as well. Aziraphale shudders as the picture comes back to him, slamming him in the head with the full force of a runaway train. The birthday boy kneeling with his arms spread wide. The poor mutt covered with mud flying into his embrace.
If Aziraphale’s hair hadn’t already been very pale in colour, it would most likely have turned completely grey at the sight.
“Ten full Lazarii!” Gabriel howls, making the culprit lean his forehead over the wheel in defeat, “They were just lucky the mediaeval burial site was half a mile away, otherwise the party would have received some uninvited guests.”
The interpretation of the success story makes its main protagonist so fed up with guilt that he simply has to interfere with the Duke’s appraisal, manners be blessed.
“I did fix everything, Gabriel,” he makes sure the Duke is aware of this, “I reversed the miracle and made everybody think that they had been victims of mass hallucination. You know, so that Heaven wouldn’t interfere.”
“An overreaction,” Gabriel offers generously, “those dunces wouldn’t have bat an eyelid over a zombified animal anyway.”
This actually makes Aziraphale close his eyes and make a barely perceptible sigh of relief. It’s two zombified animals actually – the dove in the cage by his side still looks rather confused, but alive nonetheless. However, if Gabriel hasn’t received any news of a surprise angelic inspection, then Aziraphale might still have time to put things to rights.
Somehow.
“Anyhow,” the cheerful Duke continues, “I’m increasing your miracle ration again.”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary...” Aziraphale waves both of his hands before the radio to defend himself from such an honour, but, in the next moment his entire body gets riddled with tremors.
“Oops, too late,” the voice from the old-fashioned speakers chirps, “You almost sounded modest there, sunshine, you almost got me for real.”
“Yeah,” Aziraphale stretches his lips in a tired smile. His entire body buzzes uncomfortably with the energy his muscles have received. “Always a jokester, me.”
“Well, off I pop,” Gabriel finally says, “keep on the bad work up there, and the world will be a much worse place in no time.”
“Of course. Indeed. Toodles.” The demon wiggles his fingers, but the Beetle’s interior is already empty of the hellish presence.
Aziraphale gives himself just a moment to close his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. Then he turns the engine on.
“We need to go, Oscar,” he almost apologises to the old-timer, “let’s take the bird back to Mr. Pulsifer while it’s still unharmed. The ride might even help me clear my head to an extent.”
With this, the car pulls out from its parking spot with utmost care, ready to join London’s turbulent traffic with an unhurried elegance of an old distinguished gentleman.
It’s also ready to hear the entire story, since Hell normally constructs its own version of them around the ten percent of the information they receive.
“I can’t go on like this, dear Oscar, I can't,” Aziraphale wails into the understanding interior, “I’m not meant for this sort of work. It's been six millennia and I still can’t get the hang of all these miracles. They never do what I want them to do.”
A familiar buzz in the speakers announces that the vehicle is about to speak, and this time in Agnetha’s voice:
“For every good man needs a helping hand,” the ABBA’s song goes, “I should have known too. Some of us learn too late, I'm sorry. Every good man needs a helping hand. It's true.”
“You are absolutely right, dear boy,” Aziraphale nods, “if only I could somehow find somebody to teach me how to finally control my powers. Or even better – to do my temptations for me.”
***
The chimes of the pet shop’s door sound as jovial as always, but even from his spot behind the counter Newton can see the grim expression on that peculiar curly man Anathema likes for some reason.
“Mr. Fell,” the young man tries to lighten up the confusing atmosphere, “you haven’t allowed my dove to join its ancestors in the great unknown, have you?”
But the young human is as accomplished at stand-up comedy as Aziraphale is at his temptation control.
“No, ofcoursenot, whywouldyousaythat?” the demon babbles with both of his hands cramping around the little cage that obviously contains one very healthy looking dove.
“Uhm, it’s just a bad joke really,” the human tries and takes the offered object, “I hope she behaved for you?” he offers as a compensation.
But the man just keeps sweating around a huge smile. “Indeed. She was tickety-boo. She still is, that is.”
Newton is uncertain how to react to the customer’s unusual behaviour, so he just returns a confused smile of his own. “Good.” But the moment the blonde turns his back to look around the shop, he gives the feathered animal a quick check from all sides.
“So, uhm,” Aziraphale asks, “Anathema hasn’t happened to be back from her trip by any chance?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Bummer,” Aziraphale mutters to himself. He’s been hoping that he might receive a piece of advice from the young witch. Her store of Modern Occult Practices is so crammed with magic items that the inapt demon was hoping to find something that could aid him in his search for the solution.
“I know,” Newton agrees, “I wish she was here as well. I keep getting her orders of goods, all addressed to my shop. I’ve lost track of what’s mine and what’s hers.”
This makes Aziraphale knit his eyebrows behind his sunglasses and give the seller a look. “Oh? And how’s that, dear boy? Your two businesses can’t be any more different than they already are.”
“I agree,” the lanky human disappears under the counter for a moment and produces a large cardboard box, “but, take a look at this, please.”
The first glance is sufficient for the demon to understand the seller’s trouble. The box is filled to the brim with what could be bones as well as dog toys. “Oh. Indeed.”
The bones are fake, the demon sees that clearly, but so are numerous objects in Anathema’s store. But what sets even the fake occult items apart from, let’s say, a chew-toy, is the undeniable aura of the modern witch’s sheer belief in them.
Which can’t be said for the things in the box, as they haven’t been in her possession yet.
But, even through his dark lenses, Aziraphale’s demonic eyes do catch a glimpse of something potent inside the box.
“What is this?” Aziraphale is so amazed that he gives himself the liberty to shove his hand among the objects and pull out – a stuffed ginger cat.
“Meh, it’s just a plushie,” the untrained human dismisses, “Anathema does sell them too for some reason. If you ask me, they’re just dog toys and she calls them ‘families’. No, uhm... ‘domestics.’”
“A familiar,” Aziraphale utters with awe and takes the magical item in both of his hands, as if handling a living thing.
“That’s the word. She said I can sell them for her for whatever price I deem suitable.”
“Name your price,” the leisure-time magician raises his head so abruptly that his glasses slide down his nose a bit, revealing the inhumanly blue contact lenses he always wears, “and I’ll give you double the amount.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Fell.” Newton shrugs his shoulders looking equally surprised and pleased. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”
The comment would force another fretting fit upon Aziraphale, if only a potential solution to his issue wasn’t looking at him with little yellow cat eyes.
“Well, let’s just say there is a dog...”
***
Aziraphale has to admit, the cat is a masterpiece of someone’s occult craftsmanship. The coat of the little animal is of a lovely shade of red, making a striking contrast to the white underbelly. There are even those tiger-like markings over its back as well as on its head.
But the eyes certainly give it character, with their yellow glow and vertical pupils. Aziraphale only hopes the said character is manageable.
He lowers the paper bag with his purchase on the backseat of the car with gentleness. He even considers fastening the seatbelt around it, but swiftly changes his mind. The poor familiar, dormant inside its plush carrier or not, might find it too tight in all the wrong spots.
“Alright, dear Oscar.” Aziraphale rubs his hands and places them neatly on proper positions over the wheel. “Let’s get straight to the bookshop. There’s a handbook on spirits and supernatural entities there which might hold the key on how to stir a familiar awake.”
The car obediently starts, but Aziraphale can feel it’s a bit reluctant about the passenger on its rear seat. Still, the demon’s brain is too preoccupied running through the catalogue of his vast library to offer more explanation to the Beetle.
But the old car sure has its way of attacking its driver’s attention.
“I am behind you, I’ll always find you, I am the tiger. People who fear me never go near me, I am the tiger.”
But not always to his full understanding. “I know, dear boy, but don’t worry,” the demon comments, trying to keep his eyes on the road, “Familiars are perfectly harmless. I think.”
But Oscar is persistent.
“Yellow eyes are glowing like the neon lights,” the car insists, “Yellow eyes, the spotlights of the city nights.”
“Indeed, I’ve noticed, its eyes are truly compelling,” the demon nods, turning around the check on the bag, tearing his eyes from the road with reluctance, “But I don’t think it’s a tiger.”
“I might as well be.”
Aziraphale shrieks and hits the brakes, but the back seat passenger barely jolts with the inertia, looking at home in the chaos, loving it even.
The familiar is only lucky that the demon has recognized him instantly – well, the general air around his new form, at least – as Aziraphale is so high-strung right now, which is the state that usually makes him trigger-happy with the miracles.
The helper spirit, now man-shaped and dressed in black from head to toe, is greeting his dismay with a huge grin, sitting with his knees spread wide in the narrow space of the old-timer’s back. Both of his elbows have found purchase over the seats before him, making him all spread out, looking even more long-limbed than he is.
His features sure are striking! The red of the cat’s fur has translated into one of those modern shoulder-length hairstyles, complementing the eyes that have remained golden, cat-like and smirking. A huge smile shows there are more animalistic traits that have made the journey across the forms – the canines look long, white and very, very sharp.
But there must be a bit of a serpent in the familiar as he raises his eyebrows in victory and comments, “You like my eyes.”
Aziraphale lets the breath he’s been holding puff his cheeks. Well, at least there is no need for rummaging for the book in the true labyrinth that is his bookshop. He’s pressed with time as it is.
“Indeed,” he offers with as much dignity as he can muster, “Look, I’m truly sorry for bothering you, my dear fellow, and I didn’t mean to interrupt your slumber, so to say, but I do urgently need your help.”
“Aha...” the playful yellow eyes narrow a bit as the familiar’s smile grows wider, “why don’t you tell me all about it over lunch, hmm?”
Oh, lunch does sound superb to the poor distressed demon. If there only wasn’t for that truly desperate situation that he has caused.
And if only the familiar wasn’t... Hold on. Is he flirting?
“Uhm, I wish I could,” Aziraphale takes his glasses off with some caution, but certain he's mistaking about his passenger's intentions, “but this matter is of utmost emergency, I’m afraid.”
With the true attitude of a cat, the familiar doesn’t seem too bothered by the seriousness of the situation Aziraphale is trying to convey, but carries on pursuing his own agenda. The vertical pupils expand a bit when the demon’s – now unshielded – eyes find them.
“Whatever you say, angel,” he offers, “I myself love snug places, I just thought you’d be more comfortable somewhere else so we could, you know,” and the devil downright wiggles his eyebrows, “talk.”
The flirtation, even though it’s endearingly clumsy, couldn’t have come at the worst moment. Aziraphale doesn’t even have time to regret the fact as everything inside him urges him to act upon the more pressing situation.
“First of all, I have to correct you there, my dear. I am definitely not an angel... Secondly...”
“I see your nature quite clearly,” the familiar dismisses, leaning his cheek on his hand, “but I also see your true nature deep within, and you are – an angel. That’s where all your problems come from, right?”
Aziraphale has never been so openly and so accurately dissected in his life. It feels so new and more than a little daunting. “Oh, dear... I hope it doesn’t show that clearly.”
Oscar was right. The familiar’s laughter is so vigorous, his eyes are filled with brilliance, his entire human-shaped body vibrates with compelling energy – like that of a tiger.