Work Text:
The Blitz
(In the middle of the second world war)
A Good Omen AU fan-fiction
It was a dark night, but it was not very peaceful. The wail of air raid sirens pierced the air and search lights roamed back and forth through the heavy fog over London. Half the population had been evacuated to the country for safety and the other half lived something like hermits, quietly working to survive in the mess of war.
Some fought by helping the British troops overseas, others by exposing spies and traitors in their midst. A certain miss A. Z. Fell would not leave her bookshop, even under the threat of German bombs and air raids. She was not worried for her own safety. She stayed to protect her books, for if she didn’t, no one else would.
She also protected the humans around her, even going as far as sheltering the homeless and orphans in her shop. She had plenty of room and blankets to spare. Her only rule was that no one touch the books. The little boy who tore the cover off a copy of Pride and Prejudice had soon found himself scrubbing the tiled floors until they shone like a mirror. The lesson was learned and not a single person as much as brushed against the books again.
Now the bookshop lay in shadows as the half dozen children and unfortunates slumbered. The shop’s thick walls muffled the distance explosions.
Aziraphale went from one shelf to another, using a single candle for light. She took down a few select books and carefully stacked them together, then tied them firmly with a stout cord.
The angel pulled on her coat and pinned her hat over her piled up hair. A few curls escaped, but she let them be. She wouldn’t be gone very long and how she looked was not of great importance. She wasn’t planning on lingering at this meeting long enough to make an impression.
Aziraphale locked the bookshop doors and went forth into the night air. Very few other people were out on the streets. The angel had London Soho mostly to herself as she walked. Every so often there was a pile of rubble that she had to pick her way around. She was thankful she was wearing sturdy boots instead of the more fashionable heels.
Aziraphale’s goal was a church. It was a tall, imposing church; the windows blacked out and looking void of life. Aziraphale held her parcel of books close and hurried up the steps just as the air raid siren started up again. From somewhere in the shadows, someone saw her enter the church.
Inside, Aziraphale took a breath. She had been preparing for this rendezvous for some time. She was prepared and knew what to do. She walked into the sanctuary. The gloom of the darkened church was illuminated by dozens of lit candles on the ends of the pews.
At the far end of the sanctuary sat two men. Aziraphale walked up the aisle, trying to project more confidence than she really felt.
“Good evening, Mr Glozier, Mr Harmony,” she said with a polite smile.
The two men nodded. “Miss Fell,” Glozier said, looking past her, as though expecting another person.
Aziraphale was acutely aware that she had no escort. “I came alone,” she explained.
Mr Harmony’s eyebrows showed surprise. It was rather out of custom in any society for a woman to be out alone at night, never mind secretly meeting with a pair of Nazi spies in an abandoned church during a war.
“You are a little late, miss Fell,” Mr Glozier went on. His German accent was barely distinguishable. Mr Harmony also spoke well, but both men did so as people who had learned English formally.
“You have brought the books for the Fűhrer?” Mr Harmony asked.
Aziraphale nodded. “Indeed, I have.”
She handed the parcel to him. He unwrapped the stiff paper and untied the bundle. As he examined each book and handed them to Mr Glozier, Aziraphale listed off the titles of the books by memory.
“All the books of prophesy as requested, gentlemen. Otwell Binns, Robert Nixon, Mother Shipton and Lord Tilney. All first editions and in perfect condition. I trust the Fűhrer will be pleased.”
Mr Harmony nodded, carefully turning the books over before putting them in a large leather bag waiting by his feet.
“What about the other book, miss Fell?” he asked. “The Fűhrer was most convinced that we need it. With the book of the prophecies that are true, this bloody war is as good as won.”
Aziraphale smiled, if not a little sadly. “Yes. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter. I’m afraid I do not have it. I did spend a good afternoon’s search going through my inventory, but to no avail.”
“Are you certain?” Mr Glozier asked, studying her with a narrow-eyed stare. “As we have said, money is no object to us. The Fűhrer wants the book at any price. You will be a very wealthy woman.”
Aziraphale blushed at the idea. She didn’t care about money. She had no need for it, being immortal. And even if she did, she would never have sold Agnes’ book at any price, if she had a copy of it to begin with.
“Sadly, there are no copies of Agnes Nutter’s book in existence,” she said. “All the unsold copies were destroyed by the publisher, which was all of them. No copy was ever sold. It remains the Holy Grail of all prophetic works for that reason.”
“Pity,” said Mr Harmony.
Inside, Aziraphale agreed with him.
Mr Harmony snapped the leather bag closed. “You have been most helpful, miss Fell.”
Aziraphale smiled.
Both men stood.
“These volumes will be in Berlin by the end of the week,” Mr Glozier said.
“Very good,” Aziraphale said in sympathetic tones, that she hoped didn’t sound fake. Unfortunately, she wasn’t a good actress.
Without changing his unpleasant smile, Mr Glozier pulled out a revolver. “Such a pity you must be eliminated, miss Fell. Rather a waste. But take heart, you shall be just another death in the Blitz.”
Aziraphale didn’t show any alarm at this prospect. “Is it sporting to shoot an unarmed woman?” she asked.
Mr Glozier tipped his head to the side. “Possibly, but you do not seemed worried.”
Aziraphale counted to five and the sound of high heels echoed off the stone walls of the church.
Tip tap tip tap…
Behind Aziraphale appeared another woman. She was wearing a smart black suit and little hat and in her red-polished nails she held a gun.
“She’s not worried,” she said.
Harmony and Glozier looked slightly confused.
“And who is this?” Mr Harmony asked, raising his hands.
Aziraphale flashed a devious smile. “This is Captain Rose Montgomery of British Military Intelligence. She is the reason why none of those books are going back to Berlin!”
Captain Rose smiled, her lips a deep red. “Thank you for the introduction, my dear.”
Aziraphale continued to smile. “Our side know all about this little spy ring,” she said. “Captain Montgomery recruited me to work for her. She has this entire building surrounded and you will be sadly spending the rest of the war behind bars.”
“Oh, I’m afraid not,” Captain Rose replied, her posh accent slipping.
Aziraphale looked to her and suddenly found herself looking down the barrel of the captain’s revolver. A chuckle came from Mr Harmony.
“Miss Fell, allow me to introduce you to Frȁulein Greta Kleinschenidt. She works for me.”
Aziraphale stared. Mr Harmony said something to miss Kleinschenidt in German, and she replied with a pleased smile. Aziraphale wasn’t at all brushed up on her German, but she knew enough to reason that she had been called a gullible idiot and was feeling that she rather was one.
Mr Harmony picked up the bag of books. “It really was a mistake to come here unaccompanied,” he said, smiling. “It could even be called a fatal mistake.”
“But, but you can’t kill me!” Aziraphale cried in a worried fluster. “There will be paperwork.”
Miss Kleinschenidt’s eyelashes didn’t move as she raised her gun and pointed it at Aziraphale dispassionately.
There was a creak of a door opening, followed by the sound of footsteps and a voice muttering “Ow! Ow! Ow-ow-ow! Ow!”
Walking down the aisle towards them was a tall man in a dark suit. Only he was more dancing than walking. He was putting the soles of his boots on the ground very gingerly, as if the action was painful.
“Hello, sorry! Consecrated ground, ow!” he said as he came up to the odd group.
Aziraphale felt heat rush to her cheeks as she quickly realized who the man was. He was no longer wearing a top hat or sporting sideburns, but he still wore a pair of dark glasses over his eyes. The candlelight caught the hint of reddish hair poking out from under the black fedora on his head. It was Crowley.
“Oh, for Heaven- what are you doing here?!” Aziraphale asked in angry hiss.
“Stopping you from getting into trouble,” Crowley replied, dancing on his heels.
“Of course,” Aziraphale huffed in irritation. “I should have known. I really should have. These people are working for you, aren’t they?”
Crowley leaned against a wooden pew. “Whot? No!” he cried earnestly. “They’re just some halfwits running around London, blackmailing and murdering. Nothing to do with me, angel. Murder’s not my line. I just didn’t want you to get embarrassed. Ow!”
Crowley was standing in one place, wiggling his feet about.
“The mysterious Mr Anthony J. Crowley, the scourge of the Fűhrer, ” said an amused Mr Glozier. “Your fame has proceeded you.”
Aziraphale's heart was softening. The last time she had seen Crowley was fifty years ago when he had asked her for holy water. Now here he was, risking entering a church to rescue her again.
Despite the gun being pointed at her, Aziraphale relaxed a little. “So you’re an Anthony now?” she asked Crowley.
He frowned a bit disappointingly. “Oh. Yes. You don’t like it, then?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Aziraphale said. She kept her expression neutral, but let her voice lighten a degree. “I’ll get used to it, I suppose.”
Something like a smile appeared on Crowley’s lips.
Miss Kleinschenidt was watching this exchange with a raised eyebrow and smile. “So, you’re the famous Mr Crowley? We’ve heard a lot about you.”
Crowley tapped a finger on his hat brim while he continued to shuffle his feet around rhythmically.
Miss Kleinschenidt acknowledged Crowley’s gesture. “It is such a shame you both must die,” she said, clicking her tongue.
Crowley was done paying attention to the German spy, no matter how pretty she was. He only had eyes for another.
“Aren’t you going to ask what the J stands for?” he said to Aziraphale, a sharp tooth exposed cheekily.
“This really isn’t the time, Crowley,” the angel said, huffing at him.
The demon grinned at her annoyance. He’d missed that face. “Ooo, look at that,” he motioned at a large stone cistern near the alter. “A whole basin of holy water. Doesn’t even have guards- ow!”
Mr Glozier was far less taken with Crowley than his female associate was. “Shoot them both, Greta.”
The lady nodded, cocking the gun.
Crowley stepped forward, between Aziraphale and the revolver. “Before you pull that trigger, let me reason with you.”
Mr Harmony scoffed. “What would you have to offer us? The moon?”
“Listen,” Crowley went on, dancing, “in less than a minute, a German bomber will release a bomb that will fall directly on this church. Right here, right where we’re standing. So unless you all run away very very fast, you’re going to die. You really wouldn’t like dying, believe me. You definitely won’t enjoy what comes after death either.”
Glozier looked at Crowley with a sneer. “Do you really expect us to believe that? The bombs are not scheduled to fall here.”
“It would take an act of God to move them off course,” said Mr Harmony mockingly.
“Yes,” Crowley agreed, a new tone to his voice. “An act of God or a last minute demonic intervention.”
Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes, but she was quite sure he was trying to catch hers. “Demonic intervention?” she said.
Crowley bobbed his head in a snake-like fashion. “And, if in thirty seconds, a bomb does fall, it would take a real miracle to survive it,” he hinted.
“A real miracle?” Aziraphale said.
“Yup,” Crowley replied.
“Enough!” Mr Harmony waved his hand. “Kill them now!”
Crowley suddenly stood perfectly still and pointed to the heavens. All eyes looked up. A low whistle could be heard, getting louder with each passing second.
A very calm Crowley stated, “RUN!”
The bomb hit.
A huge explosion blew the entire church apart. Smoke, fire and dust shook through the section of London. When the smoke cleared, the church was gone. Everything from the steeple and the walls had crumbled into nothing more than rubble.
In the middle stood Aziraphale and Crowley, alive and uninjured. The angel put a hand to her heart. Crowley was leaning on the upturned end of a pew, polishing his dark glasses with a black handkerchief.
Aziraphale let out a breath. The miracle had worked.
“That was very kind of you,” she said to Crowley.
“Shut up,” he said, folding up the handkerchief.
Aziraphale got a glimpse of yellow eyes squinting at her before he put his glasses back on.
“Well, it was,” she said, nervously touching a hand to her hair. She was unsure of how to act. She felt awkward. “I won’t have to fill out any paperwork at least,” she said, looking around at the ruins. “No new body to get used to or- oh dear, the books! I forgot all about them. They will be nothing more than flecks of paper now. Oh dear.”
The angel’s distress over her books overcame her pity for the Nazi spies and her own self-consciousness.
Crowley dug through some stone rubble and pulled out the leather bag Mr Harmony had brought. He opened it, then closed it.
“All here. Just a little miracle of my own.”
He handed the bag to Aziraphale with part of a smile. She took it with a vast range of emotions fluttering through her chest. Her hand and Crowley’s briefly touched, sending a jolt up her spine.
Crowley let go. “Lift home?” he offered.
Aziraphale stood still for a moment, holding the bag in one hand, the other still on her heart. A heavy blush overcame her features. Crowley had used his miracle to save the books instead of the holy water. He had saved the books for her.
Crowley had picked his way through the wreckage and was on the street. He looked back at her.
“Angel?”
“Coming,” she heard herself say and followed after him in a daze.
The slim figure of Crowley led her through the darkened streets of London. He stopped beside a large black car. Aziraphale had very little knowledge of cars. To her, they were a noisy, smelly intrusion on the world. Yet, she did have to admit this car had a very nice look to it, like a posh carriage. And unlike the dust and dirt in the air, the metal gleamed as if it had just been washed.
“You own an automobile?” she asked.
Crowley smiled. “Yup. Bought her new seven years ago. What do you think of her?”
“Very nice for a car,” Aziraphale said.
“That all?”
“Well, I don’t know too much about cars,” the angel said, blushing.
Crowley opened the passenger door. “Hop in and I’ll take you to your bookshop,” he said with a sweep of his arm.
Aziraphale got in, holding the leather bag on her lap. “Beautiful seats,” she said once Crowley had gotten behind the wheel.
He grinned, casting a glance her way. “You might want to hold onto yours, Aziraphale.”
A knot of worry settled in Aziraphale’s stomach. “What do you mean?”
She didn’t get an answer as the demon put his car into gear and tore away from the kurb.
Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide. She gripped the bag to her chest. Crowley drove fast, faster than the angel had ever experienced. Every moment was terror, she was sure the car would hit something. The needle on the speedometer was jumping to an unbelievable number.
Then just as quickly, the car slowed and came to a gentle stop just outside the bookshop.
Aziraphale sat clutching the bag, wondering if it was safe to breath.
“Did I make you discorporate, angel?” Crowley’s voice had a touch of amusement to it.
“Almost,” Aziraphale said. “Do you always drive like that?”
“Pretty much.”
“Oh dear.”
“Sorry if I scared you.”
She nodded, accepting the apology. She glanced at Crowley’s grinning face and remembered something. “Would you care to come in?”
Crowley’s expression shifted. “Why would you invite me into your bookshop?”
“Because I would like you to,” she said.
“I thought you could do without me,” he said, referring to the argument of five decades ago.
Aziraphale looked at him earnestly. “Please,” she said.
For a moment, she caught a hint of something hidden behind Crowley’s cool exterior. Then he reverted back to his usual self.
“Alright,” he said. “Lead on.”
Instead of the front doors, Aziraphale took Crowley to the back door, just off the alley between the bookshop and the building next door. Aziraphale led Crowley into the backroom of her shop, apologizing for how messy it was.
“I haven’t had a chance to do any organizing since I got involved in war work,” she explained, tripping over several boxes.
She found the table in the dark and fumbled around for a box of matches. A flair in the dark and she began lighting candles. “I had to black out the windows,” she said.
Crowley nodded, looking very uncomfortable.
Aziraphale finished with the candles.
“There should be another candelabra by the desk in the main shop,” she said, businesslike. “Could you get it for me?”
“Sure,” Crowley said, relieved to be doing something.
While he was gone, Aziraphale quickly put the prophecy books to the side and set about her real reason for getting Crowley out of the room. She got a large basin and filled it with water. She added something to the water and stirred it until a light steam floated off the surface. She placed the basin and a towel on the table, along with a bottle of wine. Crowley hadn’t returned.
Aziraphale found him with the candelabra in hand, staring out into the bookshop. The slumbering forms of the angel’s guests were just visible in the dim light, down the rows of shelves.
“So that’s why we didn’t come in the front doors,” Crowley whispered.
“I didn’t want to wake them,” Aziraphale said softly. “Some of them have nowhere to go.”
Crowley smiled. It was just like the angel to welcome strangers into her shop. “Of course,” he said, turning to the backroom.
Aziraphale watched him carefully. Though he tried to hide it, there was a slight limp to his walk.
Crowley set the candelabra on the table.
“What’s that for?” he pointed at the basin of water.
“Your feet,” Aziraphale said. She had already taken off her jacket and was unpinning her hat.
“My feet are fine,” Crowley lied blatantly, his face changing colour.
The angel wasn’t fooled. She pointed to the sofa. “Sit and take off your boots.”
Crowley swallowed. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t fight her. He removed his hat and sat down, slowly slipping off his boots. Due to suddenly being overheated, the suit jacket also came off.
Aziraphale tied the towel around her waist and rolled up her sleeves. She put the basin on the floor and knelt on a pillow.
Crowley’s bare feet were nervously twitching. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, his face still pink by the candlelight.
Aziraphale looked up at him, the flickering light dancing over her hair, making it appear like she was surrounded by a gold halo. To Crowley she looked beautiful.
“You don’t need to wear your sunglasses here,” the angel said.
Crowley reached up and took his glasses off, revealing his yellow snake eyes.
Aziraphale smiled. “This might hurt a little,” she said.
Crowley tensed as she picked up his feet one at a time and placed them in the basin. A warm feeling hit Crowley’s burned soles and crept up his legs pleasantly. He relaxed and let himself heal.
Aziraphale stood and got the wine open. She handed him a glass and sat near him in a chair. She smiled and raised her glass. “Cheers, Crowley.”
He clinked it and smiled back. “Cheers, angel.”
So you thought you had to keep this up
All the work that you do
So we think that you're good…
All the walls you built up
Are just glass on the outside
So let 'em fall down…
This is where the healing begins