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At the same time that a homesick alien from Betelgeuse 5 was waiting for the impending doom of Earth, and fervently hoping that he would be able to avoid said impending doom himself, an angel and a demon were getting absolutely fantastically sloshed in a London bookstore.
It was not yet three o’clock, and the angel and the demon had been drinking for at least three hours. Neither of them could really remember when they had started, nor did they want to. They could also not remember precisely why they had started drinking, and, again, neither of them really wanted to.
The angel, whose name was Aziraphale, poured some more wine into the demon’s glass. There did not need to be any more wine in the glass, but the both of them were too drunk to notice.
The demon, who called himself Crowley, accepted the unneeded wine with due solemnity and then proceeded to toss the entire glass back in a way that defied physical reality. When they got this drunk many of the lines between what was possible or impossible began to blur.
The demon opened his mouth and made a grand gesture with the now empty wine glass to make some stunning observation, no doubt about the nature of reality or the idea of morality or, perhaps, even that old favorite known as The Problem of Pain, which C.S. Lewis had tackled once upon a time in a book of the same title.
(Both the angel and the demon had been personally acquainted with C.S, and it was still somewhat a matter of personal pride for the angel that Lewis had eventually sauntered over to his side. Not that he would have called it pride, of course not, pride was a sin after all, but the demon knew it was pride and did not begrudge him that. C.S. would not have been a very good fit in Hell, being rather like the angel in many ways. But we digress.)
The demon, as has been said, made a grand gesture, leaned back in his chair, and opened his mouth to make a statement, when he was interrupted by a sound. A very loud, blaring, piercing sound.
This sound was an announcement, of the sort that is often spoken over the loudspeakers of airports, or railway stations. The announcement informed the people of Earth that their planet was being turned to rubble in five minutes to make way for a hyperspatial express route. This express route would do so much good for the rest of the galaxy, and anyways, it had been approved by Galactic Hyperspace Planning Council months ago, so there was really no more fuss to be made.
Aziraphale and Crowley were too deep into their cups to comprehend this. Instead, for them, all they heard were sounds. Loud, annoying sounds that had interrupted their Very Important Discussion.
Crowley squinted up at the ceiling. His sunglasses had long since left his face and he blinked blearily up at the wooden beams, from whence he thought the sound was coming from.
“Oh, shove off, you old…” he briefly lost the thread of what he had been saying, and stared up at the ceiling some more. “…twats.” He finished.
Aziraphale also looked up at ceiling. He too blinked. “I’ll take care of it.” He offered. (By “take care of it” he meant get rid of the noise. Hopefully that was fairly obvious, but if it wasn’t, oh well.)
“Nope, nope, s’all right, I’ve got it, angel.” Crowley half leaned forward and raised a hand.
Aziraphale shook his head and also leaned forward, making a similar gesture with his hand. “No, no, I really…really must insist. Must insist.”
“Nope, I’ve got it, come on, angel, you’re always too nice to loud obnoxious twats…”
“You’re the GUEST, I must insist…”
They continued drunkenly bickering back and forth, and subtly getting closer and closer together, so subtly that neither of them noticed.
While they were bickering the world panicked. People ran screaming in the streets. Cars smashed and buildings inexplicably caught on fire. Great yellow masses appeared in the sky and began steadily advancing towards Earth, taking up more and more of the normally blue sky.
Meanwhile in a small English village, the homesick alien, who called himself Ford Prefect because he thought it was an unobtrusive, perfectly normal human name, ran toward his rather inebriated friend Arthur Dent, half-forming a wild plan to get them both off the Earth.
This plan hinged on two things. One: that the Vogons would have Dentrassi employed somewhere on their ships, and Two: that the Dentrassi would be bored enough to let them on, in hopes of enraging the Vogons, whom they hated most cheerfully.
It also required a towel, as The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, of which Ford was a traveling researcher and contributor for, recommended using a towel for any hitchhiker related activities. And Ford, unlike so many others, believed in following his own advice.
However, as fate or luck or the universe or probability or ineffability or whatever would have it, Ford would not need to make use of his plan.
Of course, in another universe (for there are many and they are both infinite and finite and existent and non-existent and neither here nor there) he would have had to make use of these plans. They would have worked, make no mistake. But in this universe Ford had gotten stranded on an Earth that contained a resident angel and demon, and, well, we’ll see what they had to say (or slur) about the impending destruction of Earth.
Which they are still currently unaware of. Surely something will make them aware, though, I mean, really, they can’t be that dense.
(But they were. They were that dense. About that and also about other, more personal things. But that is neither here nor there.)
Anyway they angel and the demon were now all but touching, as they still argued about who, precisely, was going to take care of the noise. Which was getting louder and more insistent.
Time was ticking. In the aforementioned small village in England Ford had reached Arthur and had pulled him out into the middle of the road to get a better signal for his electronic sub-etha signaling device. He prayed fervently to whatever gods or lack of gods they worship on Betelgeuse 5 that Dentrassi would be on the Vogons ship. That was their only hope.
(Well not only. We still have a little faith in Aziraphale and Crowley, I hope.)
Aziraphale and Crowley eventually stopped moving closer together. Their foreheads were nearly touching and they were staring into each other’s eyes in a way most unbecoming for hereditary enemies. Which they were. Definitely. Absolutely. Without a doubt in the world.
They were just hereditary enemies who simply enjoyed each other’s company and would, respectively, do any number of things to keep the other happy and safe and in their company. Though neither of them would ever admit it out loud.
(Anyone can be listening. Ducks have ears, you know.)
Time seemed to slow. Actually, it did not seem to slow, it really did slow. The belief of ethereal (and occult) beings is a powerful thing. For example, Crowley believed that his Bentley should run without gas, so it did. Aziraphale believed that his phone should work despite him actually never paying the phone bill, so it did. Likewise if both Aziraphale and Crowley believed that the world was holding it’s breath and the universe had paused in it’s spinning while they looked at each other than of course the world was holding it’s breath and the universe paused in it’s spinning while they looked at each other.
Ford noticed something was off but he paid no attention to it. He had bigger fish to fry.
Eventually, after perhaps hours or days or centuries of looking at each other both the angel and the demon blinked. (Neither of them really needed to, especially not the demon, but it was habit by this point, and they were very much creatures of habit.)
The both of them said, at the same time, “I’ll take care of it.” And they both snapped their fingers. (Though in different directions. Up for the demon and down for the angel, which seems counterintuitive, until you give it a moment’s thought.)
(Their free hands might also have been touching, ever so slightly, just the merest brush of skin on skin, but neither of them was going to mention it. They both filed away that moment to be tended to carefully later, because as I have said before, they are both very dense.)
There was a pop. The pop was rather loud, and whimsical, and was most akin to the sound a child’s balloon makes when one jabs it smartly with a sharp needle.
The pop echoed across the globe. It was the pop heard round the world.
Ford and Arthur both heard it. Ford looked up into the sky and was shocked to find that the yellow masses in the sky were suddenly, inexplicably, gone.
The pop was because, when one displaces a large mass from where it used to take up air suddenly and quickly, there is a rush of air to fill the space suddenly vacated. Hence, the pop.
Worldwide people stopped. Cars came to reasonable haunts. The screaming died down. The fires in the buildings were banked as mysteriously as they were started. There were, of course, tears shed and many strangers embraced other strangers. Perhaps they even met some life-long friends that way, or fell in love. Perhaps two people that the universe had destined for each other finally looked up and realized “oh, it’s you” and rushed into each other’s arms, never to be parted.
Perhaps. Who knows.
Anyway Aziraphale and Crowley, completely unaware that they had saved Earth from irreversible destruction, leaned back into their respective seats and took up their conversation right where they had left off.
They thought nothing of what they had done, and would probably had gone on thinking nothing of what they had done, except for a thing that happened in the following two weeks.
Oddly enough, by some serendipitous quirk, they got the commendations on the same day.
Aziraphale’s was delivered by a beaming Gabriel who clapped him heartily on the back and congratulated him on “a job well done”, adding “I always knew you had it in you” and finally concluding with “I always said you’d be good in a crisis.”
Crowley’s was pushed unceremoniously through his letter slot (Hell does not stand on ceremony). It contained a damp, messy letter on which was scrawled what might have been called a thank you (on a good day) from Beelzebub. Underneath it was a rude mark by Hastur that, when translated from the language of the Black Priesthood of Ancient Mu, said something roughly along the lines of “always sucking up to Beelzebub with your wretched little pet planet you self-important prick.”
Crowley took a leisurely look at the commendation. Then he took another. Then what the commendation meant sank in. He turned a ghastly shade of white and ran out of his apartment and into the Bentley, tearing across London at truly sinful speeds towards Aziraphale’s bookshop.
Meanwhile Aziraphale had also grasped what the commendation meant, and unable to deal with the implications of what had almost happened that drunken afternoon, had sat down on the sofa in the book shop and was staring straight ahead at nothing when Crowley threw the door open, marched in, and sat right down next to Aziraphale without a word.
They had never sat this close before, but neither of them was going to say anything about that now.
Crowley looked at the floor. Aziraphale was still staring at nothing.
They were both coming to terms with several facts.
Fact One: They had saved Earth.
Fact Two: They had not intended to save Earth.
Fact Three: Neither of their miracles on their own would have been powerful enough to save Earth.
Fact Three Point One: Therefore, the fact that they did a miracle together must have been what made it strong enough to save Earth.
Fact Four: This was the most terrified that either of them had been in their entire existences.
Fact Four Point One: They were terrified because there had been very real danger of being permanently separated. Without Earth, there would be no place to meet.
Fact Four Point Two: Being without the other was the only thing that truly scared them.
Fact Five (And Final): Their existence together might end at any time.
After these Facts were examined by them, respectively, they both came to a mutual decision.
They both thought, at the same time, “oh, bugger all this.”
Their hands, which had been lying next to each other, moved together. First the backs touched, and then the hands were slowly turned until the palms were touching. Gently, slowly, carefully, searching for any sign of hesitation or uncertainty from the other (there was none, of course) fingers were laced together.
They did not look at each other when this was happening. What was happening was slow and soft and fragile and they could not bear to look at each other just yet.
But when their hands were entwined and warmth seeped between them, then they did turn to look at each other.
They thought “oh, it’s you.” Aziraphale took Crowley’s sunglasses off. The space that had always seemed so wide between them before closed and they both realized that it had never really been wide at all, and why on Earth hadn’t they bridged it sooner?
They didn’t know. It didn’t matter. None of that mattered because they had bridged it now and that was all that mattered and all that would ever matter.
***
In that same small English village, Ford Prefect took out his copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. He turned to the entry on Earth. He erased “mostly harmless.” After a moment’s thought, tapping his finger on his chin and glancing towards a motionless Arthur, draped unceremoniously across his sofa (the Town Council had still demolished his house as they said they would) to make sure he was still asleep, he amended the entry to read “slightly alarming.”