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Chapter Text

Aziraphale finally cracked and resorted to physical violence to quell this latest in a long line of unruly customers who simply insisted on making off with his best books.

He had lost six different first editions in the past three weeks (and would always mourn their losses, may they rest in peace, Amen), but this - this hooligan wanted to take his first edition signed copy of The Importance of Being Earnest, and, well, that warranted a holy smiting if anything ever did. Crowley - that, that bugger, he hasn't shown up in three weeks! Not a single word! I should smite him too! - would be proud; he had always been advocating a little violence in the defense of the books, although he always insisted it should be the first thing the angel did to customers entering his shop.

Despite being clocked over the head with a blessed miracled baseball bat, the customer got up, brushed dust off his clothes, and bought the book anyway.

Aziraphale, in all six thousand years on Earth, had never cried. But oh, how he wanted to now. Still he steeled his resolve, closed the shop (although that didn't seem to stop anyone lately, they just broke in and took books, Aziraphale was fairly certain that he hadn't had as many books as he'd lost in the past three weeks) and headed to St. James' Park to calm down.

There weren't any ducks today either.

Manchester Lost

A humble fanfiction sequel to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett's Good Omens

intended solely for entertainment, as those not owned by Messrs Pratchett and Gaiman are owned by God, Satan or Humanity

Chapter Text

Initially Crowley didn't even realize anything was wrong.

It wasn't an entirely erroneous decision on his part to assume everything was fine. After all, every once in awhile Aziraphale actually did bother to visit Heaven and as such would be gone for an unspecified amount of time. That being said, he usually left a note behind at least acknowledging he was going somewhere, which he didn't do this time. Crowley didn't think too much of that either; the world hadn't ended nine years ago and things had been relatively peaceful since then. There really wasn't a pressing need for the two to be in constant contact or for one to know where the other was. That they had remained in constant contact was simply a coincidence.

After three weeks of being terribly bored - wiling is no fun without the thwarting - Crowley finally admitted defeat and went to the shop. His nefarious plan was to steal a book or two; undoubtedly the angel would somehow sense his shop being violated and come back. It had worked in the past, anyhow, although it usually involved a fair deal of Divine Wrath. That is how bored Crowley was.

Upon entering the shop, however, he found that the bookstore had already been violated.

"Hello Crowley," the man in the shop said with a smile.

"Younger Johnny Cash?" Crowley asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, is that who I look like to you?" the man asked, calmly sifting through the papers that were immaculately placed inside the desk. "Not very creative on your part, Crowley."

Crowley's eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses. "Don't tell me..." There was a distinctive feeling coming from "young Johnny Cash," like Aziraphale's constant aura of love, but infinitely more intense. Crowley instantly felt both like he was receiving a very strong hug but the hugger had a knife pressed to his throat.

"Okay," he said.

"You're... God, aren't you?"

Johnny continued smiling at him. "Got it in one." He didn't volunteer more information.

"So what're you doing here? Besides, why are you here - don't you have someone to do your talking for you?" Crowley refrained from calling Him a lazy git, and vaguely thought he deserved a commendation for that. Maybe not from Hell, but from someone.

God cleared His throat delicately. "Well, if you must know, Metatron is a little... touchy on the subject of Aziraphale after the Incident. I didn't quite trust that he wouldn't come down here and smite you instead of talking to you. Besides, I haven't gotten to talk to you in six thousand years-"

Crowley couldn't let him follow that line of dialogue. "Anyhow, okay, so where's Aziraphale?" Crowley crossed his arms over his chest to try to make it look like he didn't care.

"Aziraphale is in Hell right now," God replied, blase. Bored with what was in the desk, He moved to examining the books.

"WHAT?" Crowley demanded, filled with a surge of rage he hadn't expected.

"Against his will, might I add, but you guessed that. Wow, how did he cajole Chaucer into signing this?"

"Since when has he been in Hell? Who took him, and why - screw that, tell me where he is and I'll kill the-"

Suddenly he was almost overwhelmed by a wave of calm. "Hush, Crowley," God said with a continuing smile, and Crowley began to realize that he felt so calm because God was making him feel so calm. It would've made him angry had he not been so calm. "For the time being, Aziraphale is safe, but that will only last so long. And I wouldn't have waited for you to show up if I didn't plan on having you try to save him. It took you three weeks to stop by here?" God tsked him.

"I've known Aziraphale for six thousand years - three weeks is nothing!" Crowley protested.

"But he always leaves you notes to tell you where he's going. You didn't find it suspicious that he didn't this time?"

"Er, just tell me what the He - er-"

"Go ahead," God said with a wave, placing The Canterbury Tales back on the shelf.

"What the Hell is going on!"

God sighed. "You're going to make me explain this twice, aren't you?"

"Huh?"

"Well, I've already explained that you're going to have to break into Hell," God said reasonably, "and you certainly can't do it alone. You're going to need backup... well, honestly, you'll be his backup... and her backup... but still. Which means if I explain what's going on to you, then I'm going to have to explain it again to your partners."

"Right, and I've been working alone for six thousand years because I'm just so fond of people," Crowley deadpanned back. He was pacing at this point.

God raised an eyebrow. "And Aziraphale doesn't count as a person?"

"Listen, out of six thousand years, we spent maybe-"

"Five thousand of those years together?" God supplied, the eyebrow still raised.

"Give or take a thousand," Crowley grumbled, looking down.

God simply smiled. "Anyhow, I have one of my special agents on his way down here. And I'm sure you have someone you can ask for help."

"You've been thinking about this," Crowley marveled.

"Well, I have known Aziraphale's been kidnapped for the three weeks he's been gone," God retorted.

"You're just going to keep bringing that up, aren't you"

The shop filled with blue heavenly light and down descended from On High the Captain of the Host of the Lord, Patron Saint of Chivalry (one of two), Patron Saint of Warriors, He Whom the Holy Stick of the Lord Hath Had Up His Arse Since Before Time Beganeth *, Saint Michael the Archangel. The blonde curly-haired muscular angel was already dressed in battle armor - it was arguable if it ever came off - and wielding a surprisingly appropriately-sized sword (Crowley had always assumed Michael would be wielding an overcompensating blade like some RPG hero, but then again, his memories of Heaven were beyond fuzzy at this point).

"You called, O Lord?" the Archangel said, kneeling with gold-tinged wings folded in on his back. "I must say, Your coming down here was a surprise. Uriel has been having something of an anxiety attack."

God smiled at the captain of His hosts, gesturing for the Archangel to stand up. "He's a little clingy, I must admit. Michael, you remember Aziraphael, I believe?" Crowley noted that now God pronounced the name as "Azee-raf-aye-el" instead of "Az-eera-fail."

Michael hadn't seemed to notice Crowley yet. He rubbed his squarish, strong chin with calloused fingers. "Of course I remember him. Raphael's. Good with a sword, but not passionate about it. Gave away his sword to Adam and Eve. Huge nerd." Had Michael grown up like a normal child and been Aziraphale's age, he probably would have been the football player stealing Aziraphale's lunch money, Crowley noted.

In fact, the demon wasn't sure how to feel about this prospective partnership. For one thing, an Archangel - especially Michael - would be an invaluable ally, especially invading Hell. On the other hand, Michael was a little smite-happy and Crowley was very smiteable. If he wasn't careful, Michael could probably destroy him without trying, and Michael probably wouldn't try overmuch to be careful.

God continued to smile. Crowley noticed that God hadn't stopped smiling yet. "One and the same. Well, he has been kidnapped," Michael gasped, "by Hell as punishment for this one," He gestured with His thumb to Crowley.

It seemed as if Michael finally figured out Crowley was present, because before he knew it the Archangel had him down on the ground with a sandaled foot pressed onto his neck and his sword raised up in the air, ready to strike. Confident that God wasn't going to let him get smote, Crowley calmly reached over and picked up his dropped sunglasses in defiance of the Archangel's snarl of rage.

"What have you done with Aziraphael? And why can't I smite you?"

"Ask Him," Crowley said, pointing at the Almighty. "'cause I have no idea what's going on."

"Lord?"

"He has nothing to do with it," God said, still smiling, "so yes, I am preventing you from smiting him. Please have a seat, Michael. Or feel free to pace as much as you want." Michael got off Crowley, pouting a little, as God began, "Approximately three weeks ago, Aziraphael was kidnapped by the forces of Hell." God poked around in the lower drawer of Aziraphale's desk before coming up with a box.

"We already knew that," Crowley complained, sitting up.

"That deserves war!" Michael exclaimed. "When do we attack? I'm ready to go!"

"Hush, Michael. Here, have a chocolate, that'll help you calm down." He opened up the box, one of Aziraphale's secret stash, and Michael helped himself with glee. "Anyhow, Crowley and Aziraphael were to be left alone after the Incident Which Did Not Occur, so long as the two left well enough alone. You know, no more gross acts of subversion and the like. However, some renegades in Hell have decided that Crowley needs to be taught a lesson, as it were, and have taken Aziraphael as punishment."

"That doesn't even make sense," Crowley muttered.

God's smile revealed that He didn't believe him for a second. He sat down at Aziraphale's desk and started poking around his ancient computer. "There is only so much that can be done to an angel in Hell without killing him. They cannot simply make him Fall, and, unless he is antagonistic, they cannot harm him without risking Heavenly wrath due to violating our treaty. He is safe for now, as he doesn't even realize he's a captive, but should he snap out of it..."

"He would freak," Crowley murmured.

"And try to break out, smiting everything in his path," Michael tacked on. "And he would be fair game for killing."

"Exactly," God said, still clicking around. He pouted, then, with a few more clicks, smiled. "It's going to be your jobs to get him out. I'm not going to let one of My Children be so exploited, although I would prefer to avoid a war if possible. Besides, I always liked Aziraphael; he's quirky**."

Silence filled the Soho shop as Michael and Crowley looked at each other, neither looking pleased at this partnership.

"How did he get caught in the first place?" Michael inquired, "Even without the no-violence clause, an angel, even a Principality, would not be easy to capture."

God smiled at Crowley, who flushed. Crowley suddenly remembered the last time he had seen the angel:

"I," Aziraphale said slowly as the two walked into his shop, steadying each other, "am so drunk. I don't think I've ever been this drunk."

"Ssssure you have," Crowley slurred back, the two making it to the back room of the book shop.

"Drunk and still con-cons- awake."

"Okay, yeah."

The angel and demon collapsed in the back room.

"I need s'more," Crowley said.

"Me too," Aziraphale agreed. "And s'mores."

"Shuttup angel."

Aziraphale giggled.

Then -

"All right, we get it!" Crowley snapped. "He was totally pissed geez!"

"Shameful," Michael muttered. "Leaving himself so vulnerable."

"Usually he doesn't get so wasted he can't sober up, but I remember that that night was an exception," Crowley said, more to himself than to his two companions. At Michael's glare, he continued, "Don't give me that look, it wasn't my fault! We've been doing that for over a thousand years! Of his volition, might I add!"

God cracked His knuckles. "And now you're just wasting time, boys. I won something off E-bay - keep your eyes open for it, I'm having it sent to you - but I'd better get back to Heaven before Uriel spontaneously combusts." He stood up and brushed dust off his black clothes. "And I think I might send Saphlatus down here, he should enjoy all the dust. Ciao!" And with that, the Almighty was gone.

"He stole my phrase," Crowley grumbled.

"You stole His," the Archangel retorted, "by virtue of His having created you, fiend." Michael briskly walked by him, leaving the bookstore. "Well, this should be fun. I assume you know how to get into Hell?" His tone clearly informed Crowley that he'd better know how to get into Hell if he knew what was good for him.

"Wait, wait, before we do that?"

* To his close friends and loathed enemies only.

** During the scribing of The Gospel of Matthew, the following had been edited out by the ever-helpful Zirah (who had an excellent memory for such details and was proving an invaluable asset for putting the facts of Jesus' life to paper), who claimed such an event had never happened, and suddenly Matthew couldn't remember why he had written it in the first place:

Jesus Christ said unto the angel, "Aziraphael, why is thy store filled with more dust than scrolls? Why art thy windows

Covered in dirt and grime? And why dost thou treat thy customers cruelly?"

"Would you like some tea?" asked the Angel of the Lord.

"Would I!" answered Christ.

Life had not been easy for Agostino Nutter.

For one thing, his older sister, Agnes, was very pretty while Agostino was pretty bland to look at. Agnes also actually got schooling and was an adept writer, while Agostino had been charged with growing the Nutter's small wheat crop. Every time something went wrong, Agnes got away with it and Agostino got blamed, and that he was the one always causing trouble (because Agnes was a model child) was a complete coincidence.

Also, Agnes was skilled in remedies and could read minds and could see the future.

Yeah. You thought living with your sibling was bad.

So around the same time that Agnes Nutter was writing her Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies, her younger brother was suffering an inferiority complex larger than most countries. And thus, when Agostino Nutter realized that there was money to be made in the prophecy-writing business, money that his sister wasn't making, he decided to write his own book of prophecies. Not being very creative, he did this by stealing her second book while she was in the midst of writing it and copying her prophecies down. Of course, Agostino wasn't literate, or at least not very, and he found out the hard way that it's very difficult to write something when you can't actually write.

Agostino's was the only prophecy book in the history of the world that has the distinct honor of always being wrong. Every other book at least got something right, even if purely by luck. But not Agostino Nutter's book.

But it sold, and that fact comforted Agostino to his rather uninspiring death of old age. It sold well enough that the Devices, upon receiving their copy of Agnes' book, felt a strange sort of familial obligation to buy a copy of Agostino's as well.

They managed to get through the first six prophecies before laughing and storing it in an attic.

Crowley knew exactly who the third member of the team should be.

The third was dressed in red camouflage American armor, and she was walking down a street in Baghdad, looking to start a fight. She got one when a handsome soldier approached her, his gestures indicating he was planning on asking her out, when another soldier ran out from nowhere and tackled him to the ground.

Crowley approached her with a suave smile. "So what do you think? Feel like smashing a great bloody swath through Hell?" he said loudly, having to raise his voice to be heard over the obscenities from the two men, who had somehow grown to be six men.

"Bloody as in your British slang, or bloody as in full of blood?" War inquired.

Crowley thought. "Both, I suppose."

She smiled. Crowley had to remind himself that she was on his side. "This'll be fun."

She was perfect because she needed no reasons.

Michael didn't look as averse to allying with a Biker of the Apocalypse as Crowley would have guessed him to be. In fact, he nodded in agreement. "Perfect. Now, to Hell?"

"Excuse me, sirs and ma'am," chimed in an unassuming voice from behind a wall that was little more than rubble at this point. A small man wearing a blue uniform with a peaked cap and wielding a brown package walked into the middle of the street, looking around warily before smiling at the three human-shaped beings. "Package for you, sir, I believe," the man from International Express said, looking at Crowley.

"Oh, right," Crowley said, taking the package.

"Sign here if you don't mind, sir."

Crowley signed A. J. Crowley with a flourish and got away with it, and the International Express delivery man gave a long low whistle at the destruction around him and walked off, bidding them all a good day.

After he left, Crowley opened the package up carefully, revealing a rather plain but still finely-crafted sword.

"Awright!" War exclaimed, reaching over to touch it. Instantly another, much nicer-looking sword had its blade pressed to her throat.

With his other hand, Michael smacked her hand away. "That is Aziraphael's sword," he said with a warning tone.

War didn't seem too intimidated. "It was, but he gave it away. It's mine now."

"Yeah I know, but I gave him that sword, so if you want to press the issue...?"

Well, this was going just freaking great all ready. Crowley was more than ready to take the sword and leave, but then War beamed, her smile cold and dangerous yet somehow amused. "It's all right, actually. Swords are great, but this," she pulled a machine gun from behind her back, "is a lot more fun."

Her two companions looked at her appreciatively. "No complaints here," said Michael.

"So what're we waiting for?" she asked, "Let's go kill some stuff!"

Adam Young opened the door to his house and glared at the knocker.

"I said no."

Raven Sable, arms crossed, glared back at him. This was different from the last time, wherein he had been on his knees and begging. "It's your job," the black-clad businessman reminded him. "You shirked it before, but this time we won't let you. Chalky and I have been here for-"

Adam slammed the door in his face. The sound of a delayed-reaction dog bark was still audible.

"You're the worst Antichrist ever," Sable growled.

Adam retorted something that was probably "your mum is the worst Antichrist ever," but Sable clung to a desperate hope that even the Antichrist wouldn't sink so low *.

"I wonder if it's because War isn't here," Pollution mused.

The two Horsemen of the Apocalypse had felt the familiar urge to travel to Lower Tadfield, so they had. Unfortunately, they were the only two who had, and the Antichrist wasn't listening.

It wasn't so much that life in Lower Tadfield was boring, as the two set themselves up in an extremely dirty apartment while Sable decided to take over the business life of the town. All the people in the apartment complex reported having very successful diets, losing more weight than they had even planned to, although they also reported more unexplained things spilling and severe lack of garbage cans. Sable's business takeover, however, tended to be thwarted by Adam Young, who, since his days being a young scallywag and then an excessively emo teenager**, had reformed into being something of an extremely cutthroat yet persuasive and likeable politician. At the age of 20 he wasn't too high on the political ladder, but no one doubted that he would one day be mayor of Lower Tadfield, if not eventually a member of Parliament. It made Sable's job a lot harder, even if he could appreciate his pseudo-boss' sheer charisma.

IT'S NOT, Death commented, walking with the other two as they headed back to their apartment. He hadn't come to visit in the sense that he was gearing up for the Real Apocalypse, but he had come to visit in the sense that he was everywhere. IT'S JUST THAT HE HAS FAMILIAL ATTACHMENT. IT'S WHY HE WASN'T EVEN SUPPOSED TO GET THIS OLD. JUST GIVE IT TIME, BOYS, HE'LL CAVE EVENTUALLY.

"Hmmm. Familial attachment? Do you suppose he'll reproduce one day? What do you suppose a child that's one half Antichrist will be like?" Pollution mused, smiling as a nearby drain backed up, leaving sewage over the street.

PROBABLY LIKE THE WHOLE ANTICHRIST.

"LAME," all three said together.

* A rare example of a "your mom" joke working on someone without a mother.

** A phase even he is ashamed of, although there isn't anything so depressing as realizing you are evil incarnate when you don't want to be.

Anathema Device-Pulcifer, mother of two, had lived a fairly normal life in the nine years post "Apocalypse." She had given up being merely Agnes Nutter's Descendant and had become Anathema Device-Pulsifer, Herb Grower, Fortune Teller, Psychic Reader, Devoted Wife and Full Time Mother. And today, while her two three-year-old children slept and Newt was at work, she added Attic Cleaner to that list. She and Newt had put all of the money that they weren't spending on food into renovations and had made Jasmine Cottage a perfectly acceptable place for a family to be raised. That being said, Anathema had only discovered the cottage had an attic about a week ago, so today she was dressed in old maternity clothes and armed with a vacuum and some furniture polish, ready to tackle decades of dust and rodent remains.

Just guess what she found, buried underneath the corpse of an unfortunate rat that had escaped into the attic only to suffocate.

"The Nifer and Accurater Prophecies of Agostino Nutter, Witch Warlocke," she read. She squinted, and read underneath the title, "Yef, warlocke, which if better than a witch. A bit of light reading!" She picked up the larger-than-her-torso tome and carried it downstairs, more than happy to shirk her attic-cleaning duties.

Gaining entrance to Hell for a demon is all too easy of a task. *

For angels, returning to their realm involves prayer, some incense, and the occasional bribe for whomever happens to be guarding the entrance **. For demons...

"You might want to cover your precious virgin ears," Crowley said snidely to Michael.

"Silence, demon."

Crowley cleared his throat. "HEY BELIAL!" he screamed at the floor, "LET ME IN, YOU BALL-LICKING ARSE-SUCKING BITCH, OR ARE YOU TOO BUSY 'CAUSE SATAN'S USING YOU FOR A SEX TOY AGAIN?"

The portal to hell opened up and the three unceremoniously fell through.

* It's the leaving (and staying out) thats the hard part.

** Because Aziraphale is not the only angel with a fondness for sweets. It seems to be a contagious disease that an angel catches upon coming to Earth, and whenever Aziraphale wants to go back to Heaven he has to bring a couple boxes of chocolate to get entrance and to prevent getting smote while up there.

Chapter Text

Belial, Archdemon of Sloth and Lust, snarled at the Armani-clad lesser demon who had dropped into his office. "Bless it Crowley, how many times do I have to tell you that if you weren't so damn lazy you could get in by yourself, and failing that, my name will suffice!"

One of the reasons Crowley had been able to spend his entire duration as an employee of Hell on Earth was because he happened to have the supervisor best suited to his needs. Out of all seven deadly sins, sloth had always been Crowley's favourite, and Belial appreciated the occasional burst of energy coming from Crowley's patronage via his tendency to take centuries-long naps. It was sort of a mutual scratch-backing relationship that worked quite well for the two demons, and so Crowley knew he could get away with the occasional good-natured insult.

That all came to an end when Michael shoved the business end of an ethereally glowing long sword through Belial's forehead.

Crowley moved his hands in a gesture that indicated he knew he should say something, but wasn't exactly sure what. What he finally settled for was, "Well, there goes my next raise."

War gave Michael a chilly smile as the Archangel withdrew his sword. "I like you," she said fondly.

"I don't recall having asked for your opinion," he snarled.

"Touchy, touchy. I'm liking you more and more as time passes." The smile she now gave Michael would have had any human male bowing and worshipping.

"Don't hit on him," Crowley said tersely, his hand tightening on Aziraphale's sword, "Isn't he technically your dad?"

"What?" Michael demanded.

"In a sense. I guess the best way to say it is that Satan gave birth to me but Michael impregnated him. Don't worry sweetheart, I have nothing against that sort of thing if you're interested."

Michael made a face. "Uh, yuck. You're gross."

"And you're so adorable, Daddy." She patted him on the head. He bristled.

"Anyhow, dropping this touching subject, thanks to John Wayne here the entire place knows where we are. We just lost the element of surprise for absolutely no reason, because demons don't permanently die in Hell."

"You don't?" War asked, looking rather inappropriately pleased at that fact.

Michael was quick to point out, "And angels don't die in Heaven."

"It's a metaphysical thing. Don't tell me you didn't know that. Why do you think the Apocalypse has to be fought on Earth?" Crowley asked.

"Shock troops?" she guessed innocently.

"And we're doomed," Crowley informed no one.

"And anyhow, stealth is overrated," War said cheerfully, leaving Belial's office with her machinegun supported in both hands.

Michael and Crowley followed her out. Crowley was mentally debating turning into a snake and hiding on one of his more insane companions, but his thought process was interrupted by Michael whispering, "Wait, we're in the palace of Hell, right?"

War opened fire on a suit-clad demon who had the misfortune of turning down the hall.

"Yeah," Crowley replied tersely, "What about it?"

"Nothing," Michael said, looking around Hell for the first time, "It's just that... well... it looks like a human office building."

Crowley grinned in pride. "The most valuable lesson you can learn is that humans are the greatest examples of good and evil. Down the hallway, War let out a cheerful laugh and started skipping, "It's a lesson we've learned fairly well."

The lobby of the Palace was a broad room littered with fake plants and packed full of souls standing in line, all waiting to get their papers stamped at the front desk, which had six imps stationed there. Upon getting their papers stamped, the souls would travel into the next line. They did this for eternity.

Michael shuddered. "You monster."

Crowley smiled, because it had been his idea. More than a few other demons put him on their shit list for that. "Yeah, it used to be a dark-stoned palace with fountains of blood and torture devices all over the place, but this is a lot more evil, don't you think?"

War opened fire.

The good thing, Anathema mused over tea and the tome, was that Agostino clearly had no idea how to write as effectively as Agnes - or really, if Anathema was honest with herself, how to write at all. Bless his soul, she supposed, because he tried so very hard, but it made translating it infinitely easier. Not that she was especially trying to understand everything that Agostino had written, not in the same way she had come to understand Agnes, but old habits die hard and all that.

Newt finally took the book from her as she continued to gleefully read it over, amused as Agostino made predictions ranging from Anathema's dying a virgin to the end of the world occurring in 1726*. "The Nifer and Accurater Prophecies of Agostino Nutter, Witch Warlocke. Yef, warlocke, which if better than a witch. Anathema! I thought we agreed-"

Anathema smiled up at her husband. "Don't worry, silly, this is light reading. I found it in the attic. Look, he's written here that 'The Antichryft 'tys a gyrl of yll repute, truft she not, she wyll cause thee harm and sufferyng, and wyll never offer thee shelter,' which is just silly, as Adam is a dear boy, if nothing else." **

"Adam is the Antichrist?" Newt inquired, not looking nearly as shocked at that revelation as he would have expected. It seemed to make sense, now that he thought of it.

"Oh dear, sometimes I forget you're not psychic too," Anathema said softly ***, "Well yes, he is. But he's a gentle soul, no trouble really-"

There was a knock at the door. As the children were sleeping, Anathema quickly got up to race to the door before the knocking disturbed them.

Adam Young looked at her with his familiar old expression that made her feel like she was nothing but a duckling and he was the world's biggest duck. "Hi, I gotta be quick, I got some more people t' visit, but I wanted to let you know that, well, I like you, and things're gonna get crazy from here on out, but you're gonna be safe. See you!" He quickly walked off.

Anathema stared after him before closing the door.

Well.

"Newt," she said.

"What was thatabout?" he questioned.

"Get me my note cards," she said with determination, "and a really good pen. It's time to give Great Great Great Great... whatever... Uncle Agostino another look."

* In that order.

** Anathema's psychic powers had eventually bypassed the rather weak effort to make the Day of the Apocalypse that Wasn't vague in the minds of those involved. Also, Adam told her and anyone else he trusted, because he's just that nice of a kid.

*** That was a lie; Anathema had some weeds in her garden with more psychic powers than Newt.

Shangri-La was an odd place, for lack of a better term. Every surface was covered in a thick coat of tobacco smoke and tar, and the walls were covered in maps and newspaper clippings. It had been decorated in a manner befitting the harem of an Indian prince - at least one as Madame Tracy thought one would look - complete with beaded door coverings, faux-Persian rugs and more beanbag chairs than were completely necessary for two people.

Because two people lived there.

Except for today, when three people lived there.

Retired Sergeant Shadwell heard the visitor before seeing him, and he had to admit he was disappointed but not surprised by Madame Tracy's latest male visitor. Even in his gruff, witch-hating mind, he had to admit that if he continued to cut out newspaper clippings, poke female visitors with pins and count nipples whenever applicable, she should be allowed to do whatever terrible, whorish things she did, "Painted Jezebel," Shadwell proclaimed, trying to overhear the conversation in the other room.

"At least you're being pleasant about it," said Madame Tracy's sweet, cheerful voice.

"Hoor," Shadwell grumbled, fighting with a can of condensed milk.

"I do try," the male replied, "I really do, but it is awfully hard sometimes. Before I found you I found a televangelist, and really, how exactly am I a truck driver? I've never even driven a car. And I'm fairly sure that the song has been plagiarized from a song by Toby Keith. He ought to sue; not that I'm advocating that. Turn the other cheek and all that."

Shadwell stopped his can-opening venture in order to start smoking. Was that that Southern Pansy? The voice sounded a bit deep for him. Trying to be as sneaky as possible, he took a look around the corner and looked into the kitchen, where Madame Tracy was cooking some stew. There was no one there except her.

"But you are advocating that," she pointed out.

"I suppose,"she replied in a voice that was clearly not her own, "So you really don't mind? You seem like a reasonable enough lady, so I don't want to force you into anything, so if you'd rather not go?"

"Nonsense! I would love a road trip! I'm sure Mister S wouldn't mind a break from me also; he's such a dear and never complains," Shadwell coughed loudly, but wasn't sure if it was because of his cigarette or because subconsciously even he knew how much of a huge lie that was, "but everyone could use some alone time I'm sure. And I haven't seen young Adam in such a long time, although that sweet boy always sends Christmas cards."

"Ahh. I love irony. Well, as long as you're sure, we ought to get going as soon as possible."

Shadwell had a deep sense of deja vu, although neither he nor Madame Tracy could remember the events of nine years ago (although Adam still sent Christmas cards, which continued to delight Madame Tracy even though she had no idea how he knew them). But if crazy men were going to possess his defenseless hoor, well, Sergeant Shadwell wasn't going to let them go anywhere alone, that was sure, and if it took a hundred thousand pokes with a pin, he would find some way to get this evil witch out of his stupid wumman.

It was time to come out of retirement.

In the midst of the screaming souls fleeing from War's infinite supply of machinegun pellets, the only sound that could be heard over the din was a very, very angry voice screaming, "CRAWLY!"

"And now I finally get to do something!" Michael said, cracking his knuckles.

Moloch, Archdevil of Wrath, was one of the few demons who didn't adopt the much more maneuverable body of a human for his day-to-day activities. He preferred the more traditional Gigantic Firebreathing Red Muscle-bound Horned Fork-tailed Cloven-Hooved Flaming-Whip-Wielding Devil form that most demons found a little over-the-top and distinctly unattractive. Crowley found himself very well acquainted with that form when it moved surprisingly fast and slugged him in the sunglasses-covered face.

Michael moved between the attacking demon and the felled one, holy sword at the ready. The demon ignored him, continuing to roar, "I'M GOING TO HANG YOU BY YOUR ENTRAILS, YOU WORTHLESS PILE OF STEAMING COW DUNG!" Even in his semiconscious state Crowley knew better than to wonder at exactly what he'd done to infuriate Moloch so; Moloch was perpetually pissed at everything, including himself, which sometimes got very awkward.

"You can't do that," Michael said matter-of-factly, "because smiting demons is my job."

As Crowley got up, fixing up his shattered sunglasses and healing the bruise that had already begun to form, Hell's security force began showing up through the large revolving glass doors.

The demon's flaming whip lashed out at the Archangel, who put up a shield of holy energy to block it. It worked well enough, but Hell is the absence of the Lord and so he knew he only had so much energy to waste before he ran out. In fact, Michael realized only then that Aziraphael, a mere Principality, likely had no powers to speak of down here if he, First of the Archangels, was so debilitated. He dropped the shield and dodged the demon's second attack, throwing himself to the floor and rolling. Even missing still hurt, as the flames reached out and licked his skin. He couldn't let himself get hit by hellfire; it was the equivalent of a demon getting hit by holy water. Even a little bit hurt.

As War spun and started firing at the incoming security demons - dressed in outfits reminiscent of Italian fascist Blackshirts, just for kicks more than anything else - Crowley debated exactly how he could be useful. After all, fighting was not exactly his specialty, and he wanted to save his energy for mauling whoever had taken Aziraphale to begin with. But they were standing in the palace of Hell, and they were going to be overrun, especially if word traveled fast enough and he showed up?

Oh, right, there was that. There was a list of occult entities who, if they made an appearance, would end this little rescue mission before it got started.

Moloch shifted his form into a gigantic bull, charging at Michael. The Archangel unceremoniously threw himself out of the way yet again, and Crowley barely had time to dodge before the archdemon ran by him, going fast enough to break a huge hole in the wall of the palace.

"We need to get out of here now or else he's going to be the least of the problems we face!" Crowley called to his two comrades, using Aziraphale's sword to defend himself from an attacking imp.

"But I need to slay the demon!" Michael protested.

"No, you need to save Aziraphale!"

"Well I want to slay the demon!"

"Yeah, the longer we stay down here," War had temporarily abandoned her machine gun and had gone into bashing heads, "the more chance we'll have to meet someone I'd rather not meet right now!"

Outnumbered and outgunned* they fled the Palace through the hole in the wall, bypassing Moloch who'd just gotten his bearings, and running into the more traditional-looking bowels of Hell.

* ?Not literally, as War was the only one with a gun.

Anathema wrote down another prophecy before acknowledging she was writing that Italy would beat France in the 2006 World Cup Finals ("Ande after the Birde Plague does not reacheth our isle, the Pafta does notte defeate the Cheese in a game of balls and feete," and while it was just horrible that the Avian Flu would make it to Great Britain, she made a mental note to place her bets well regarding the football game when the time came). The more she read the more it seemed to her that Agostino's book involved a lot of prophecies dated post-non-Apocalypse with some completely ridiculous and rather spiteful filler material ("aftere Agnes' painful deathe, during whych I wille laugh greatly, the Worlde will have Peace, fore the Great Wenche will live no more, ha ha ha ha ha.")

She had spent years of her life deducing Agnes' riddle-like writing style and had become something of an expert at Agnes-ese. Compared to that, Agostino-ese was like comparing an encyclopedia in another language to reading a children's book. The long and short end of it was that he had simplified everything and just written it backwards.

She had never wanted to punch Agnes, no matter how frustrated she had gotten with the cryptic text. She wanted to punch Agostino, just for being a plagiaristic jerk.

She vaguely heard the crying coming from upstairs and sighed. Newt, who worked at the new local food corporation, had just left, and so she closed the book and went upstairs to take care of her three-year-old twins.

They shared a room with two small toddlers' beds inside it, decorated with all-natural sky-blue paint and a couple of simple stuffed animals laying around it. The boy, Bentley*, was still asleep, bordering on comatose, but the girl was crying.

"There there Aziraphale*," Anathema whispered soothingly, carrying the toddler out of the room, "It's okay, no need to cry."

"I was wonenwy," the brunette child whimpered, clinging to Anathema's robe, "In my dweam I was sad, Mummy."

"But you're not alone, sweetheart, you never will be either." Book forgotten for now, Anathema spent another hour comforting her depressed child, secretly wondering what was wrong with the angel her daughter was named after.

* Newt and Anathema had the shared childhood experience of having a terrible name and felt it was only fair that their children be forced the same pleasure. Also, Anathema had expertly dodging mentioning their namesakes to Aziraphale and Crowley. She figured (rightly) that they wouldn't take the news well.

The City Dis is an expansive metropolis where the temperatures during the day reach above the boiling point of water and well into the negatives at night, freezing the homeless souls that wander its streets - which is all of them, as the skyscrapers that block out the cavernous sky-ceiling belong to the demonic legions that live there, not the humans who have had the misfortune to end up there. As one would expect from Hell, the standing bureaucracy doesn't care about the human souls, although, "Recently there have been some movements to get them homes, just to get them out of the way," Crowley said with the air of a tour guide as the three of them sprinted through the streets. Crowley led them quickly between buildings, trying to lose their black-clad pursuers. He felt rather special and useful, given that his two companions were sweating profusely under the heat, Michael looking worse than War. It was likely even the First of the Angels wasn't going to last here long.

"They're like rats," War observed. She punched one for fun, not breaking her stride.

"Exactly! As much as some of us enjoy the suffering the average human soul goes through-" as if to punctuate that, he pushed one of out of the way as he ran past, "- it's not conducive to fleeing, which is what half of us have to do to stay alive down here - what the crap?"

The three stopped in their sprinting, deciding to ignore just how many things were behind them.

"This place doesn't look like Hell anymore," Michael observed. He looked decidedly pleased at that. "In fact, there's something... very illusory about it."

It was Soho. They were standing on Aziraphale's street.

Crowley started laughing. "I wonder which came first, Hell Soho or Earth Soho?"

"What's a Soho?" Michael asked.

"It's where our lost angel lives on Earth. And, following that logic..." Crowley sprinted down the road. He heard War squeak, "Cripes!" and heard the pounding of feet behind him as Michael and War raced to keep up with him.

The bookstore's sign was flipped to Open, and customers were leaving and coming. Crowley shoved one out of the way and ran into the store.

"ANTHONY J. CROWLEY," Aziraphale said sternly, looking at the demon with more anger than he had shown the customer who had left with his Buggre Alle This Bible, "You've finally shown up! What exactly have you been doing for the past three weeks?"

"Wondering where you were, stupid angel!" Crowley shouted back, "You're in Hell, you idiot!"

Aziraphale did not look convinced until War and Michael raced into the shop, barricading the door behind them. The souls in his shop didn't look concerned. "This is so completely awesome!" War gushed, looking out the window at the mob that had formed, Moloch among them. "They just keep coming and coming and coming..."

"Aziraphael!" Michael exclaimed, "You're all right!"

"Michael?" Aziraphale looked as if he clearly did not believe what he was seeing, even less so when the over-muscled armored angel grasped him in a hug. "What? And War? Oh dear me, I am in Hell, aren?t I?" Despite that, he patted Michael on the head.

"And now we get to break out of it!" War said cheerfully, her eyes showing off a little manic joy.

"I can't believe you were in Hell three weeks and didn't even notice," Crowley muttered, declining to mention how he hadn't noticed it either.

Michael released Aziraphale and took the sword from Crowley, handing it back to its real owner. Aziraphale looked at the sword as if he'd never seen it before. "I'm certain you remember this," Michael said, "seeing as you lost it in the first place."

"Oh dear," Aziraphale said again, looking over it. "I... this is awfully a lot to take in at once. Where did my sword come from?"

"E-bay," Crowley answered.

"What?"

"Never mind. Okay, long story short, you were kidnapped and dragged to Hell, and the Big Guy Upstairs asked me, him, and her to save you. Well, okay, just me and him, and I asked her," he gestured to War, "We got here in one piece, and now that we have one more... er... warrior... I'd say it'd be easier to get out except that now everyone in Hell knows we're here."

Aziraphale looked at his sword quizzically. "I never even realized I was in Hell."

"Way too many books, and even more dust. Looks like Hell to me," War drawled.

"Aziraphale, you just finished selling one of your favourite books. It's one of the only books I know you even have," Crowley said, beginning to lose his patience with the lost-looking angel.

"That's not how you pronounce his name," Michael interrupted.

"And... and..." Aziraphale looked perplexed still, "and the ducks weren't at St. James when I went to go visit. And you never once stopped by. And no matter what I did, someone always bought my books... And," Aziraphale hastily walked to the back room, pointing triumphantly at something hidden from sight, "and my record player has been replaced by some contraption that I don't understand!" If he did understand it, he would have realized that it was a state-of-the-art stereo sound system that would make Crowley's cry in jealous dismay. "And, now that I'm thinking about it more clearly," he came back to the front room, kneeling down and opening up the bottom drawer of his desk, "and my secret stash is gone!"

Michael gave him a sympathetic grimace.

Aziraphale stood back up and waved his long-lost sword around; after the third wave, it burst into flame. "All right then." He smiled congenially. Between the cheerful smile, the mussed curled blonde hair, the ridiculous tartan vest over the comfortable white oxford shirt, the tweed khaki-coloured pants, the thin-gold-rimmed unassuming glasses, and the flaming sword, he looked like a self-contradiction and completely ridiculous. "Let's break out of here."

"Cool," Crowley admitted, giving the Principality a thumbs-up.

"It was cooler when it was mine," War said wistfully, one hand reaching out almost absently toward the flaming sword. She quickly withdrew it when Michael slapped it away. "What? It didn't flame like that but I used it better, I bet."

"You're going to have to explain to me how you got it in the first place, but that's neither here nor there," Aziraphale said, still gazing at his long-lost sword.

"Definitely not here, because, oh, yes, there's Moloch," Crowley said, looking out the window. "Definitely not here."

"We'll have to go out the back door," Aziraphale said with certainty, gazing at where there was no back door. Nothing happened. "We'll have to go out the back door." Nothing. "Er."

"What part of 'you're an angel in Hell' made you think you have powers here?" Crowley deadpanned, invoking his own will to make a back door.

"Well, you know, powers given by the Lord to triumph over the Dark One and all that, even in the Dark One's Lair. It's-"

"If you say it's ineffable I'm going to smack you."

"I wasn't going to say that," he replied in a tone that clearly indicated he was going to say that.

They escaped through the back door and made their way back into the City.

Chapter Text

When last we left our heroes, they were sprinting through Dis in an attempt to get back to Earth. As it so happens, they are still doing that.

"So we got in by threatening, how do we get out? Promising hugs?" War asked before she stopped, spun around, and let loose a volley into a crowd (that was noticeably not antagonistic).

"Maybe by offering chocolate?" Aziraphale suggested. He was actually holding up quite well, despite the climate and the fact that the exercise regimen he'd adopted consisted only of walking. "That's what I always do in this sort of situation."

"We get out the same way we get in," Crowley said tersely, eyes scanning for any signs of their pursuers, "Through the Palace."

War was clearly undaunted. "Sweet!"

Crowley ignored her, continuing, "Not every demon has the power to get out of Hell, and sorry to say but I'm one of them. But the Palace is brimming with enough energy that I can make-" He cut himself off, tuning his senses to feel the area around him. Something was coming, and fast.

Reacting instinctively, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's sleeve and used his momentum to throw them to the side, out of the way. War, who had been facing behind while shooting passersby, also got out of the way. Michael was caught in the shoulder, not fast enough to dodge getting hit. The force pushed him from the middle of the road into the wall of a tall building.

Further down the road, Moloch skidded to a stop, snorting like a bull facing down matadors.

"Oh dear, who is that?" Aziraphale squeaked from underneath Crowley. The demon in question pushed himself to his feet. Aziraphale followed suit.

"That's a really big roadblock," Crowley replied, desperately thinking of how exactly they would be able to get around him.

War moved in front of them, machine gun supported in one arm and her other one held out to Aziraphale. "I got this," she said with a grin, "Any chance to make my darling Michael look bad is fine by me."

"I'm not your darling," Michael grunted, rubbing his head as he came to stand next to the four.

"And I'm not giving you back the sword," Aziraphale pouted, looking at War's outstretched hand.

"Aw, you're no fun."

"So we finally found you. You move pretty fast," a distinctly different, fly-buzzing voice said.

There were no words to describe Crowley's rage at this. Sure, they were pretty far from the palace, and sure, in actuality they weren't close to success, but it felt like they'd almost gotten in and out without problems.

"Beelzebub, I haven't seen you since the Fall," Michael sneered, trying to look intimidating despite the fact that his head was bleeding. "I have to say I didn't miss you."

"Michael, please don't antagonize the Prince of Demons," Aziraphale said with a resigned tone, as if he knew it wouldn't matter. He placed a hand on Michael's shoulder; as the wound on Michael's head healed, the flames of Aziraphale's sword flickered weakly.

Beelzebub was in his humanesque form, which bears a remarkable physical similarity to a young Samuel L. Jackson*, wielding a disproportionately large sword with a nasty-looking saw-like edge. "He'zz right, you know. You have no power here, Michael. The only problem I'm going to have izzz making zzzzzure you die before he getzzzz here."

"All right, I am sick of all the posturing! Bring it on!" War roared, opening fire on Moloch.

While the bull-shaped demon was being pelted with bullets, Michael charged at Beelzebub while Crowley and Aziraphale remained where they were, standing back to back. "And I have all the proof I need to know that you are the sanest angel," Crowley commented. "And I say that knowing how you dress."

"Oh hush," Aziraphale chided him, watching his general engage in a sword duel with the Prince of Demons. "Tartan is stylish. And you really ought to help her."

"How? I'm not exactly a fighter. That's not my thing."

"Oh? So you have a thing? I hadn't noticed."

Not giving Crowley enough time to retort, Aziraphale ran to help Michael. The archangel in question had an easy time of dodging Beelzebub's too-large-for-him sword, but in his attempt to retaliate his own holy sword got caught on the sawed edge, which subsequently disarmed him. Michael threw himself into a dive to get his sword back, and at that moment Aziraphale stepped in to guard his back, displaying more talent with a sword than anyone would have given him credit for, given his mild-mannered appearance.

Crowley had spent a short amount of time as a torero in Portugal during the 1700s which ended rather poorly for him, ending his experience with bulls. Having little to no interest in trying to wrestle Moloch in any state – especially not one covered in maggots – he dodged when the demon in question charged at him and War. War, however, seemed to have no compunctions about wrestling an angry demon, because she threw her machine gun to the side and got down in a defensive crouch. When Moloch charged her, she grasped the horns and held on tight. Crowley decided to pick up the dropped machine gun.

Michael got his sword back up and Beelzebub, not wanting to fight two angels with one sword, decided that he was going to fight two angels with two swords. Apparently for Aziraphale sword fighting was like riding a bicycle; although he hadn't done it in years, once he got into stride he could hold his own fairly easily. He was distracted momentarily as Moloch pushed War down the road; in his surprise at that, Beelzebub managed to score a hit that would have cut him in half had he not dodged backwards in time. Instead, it rather neatly sliced his clothes open and made a thin, bleeding line down his torso.

He gasped in indignation. "Do you have any idea how expensive this vest was?"

"Not now, Aziraphael!" Michael snapped back, reengaging. Aziraphale followed suit.

Crowley stared at the machine gun and wondered what good it would do him. It was apparent that the bullets weren't slowing Moloch down – case in point, he had managed to gore War through a building, and even she felt that one – but at the same time Crowley knew full well if he was going to be of any help, he needed a weapon.

Beelzebub was proving to be a better swordsman when his attention was divided than when he was facing an opponent one-on-one, because neither Aziraphale nor Michael could get a hit on him and were constantly dodging getting body parts hacked off by the two swords that Beelzebub shouldn't have been able to use one of, let alone two. Both angels backed off at the same time, reacting to some instinct that makes angels work better in teams than alone.

"We can't defeat him like this," Aziraphale pointed out. "He's got all the advantages."

"Where's your Faith?" Michael answered back, smirking.

Crowley got an idea and calmly walked up behind them. He placed the machine gun between them and materialized himself some extra-thick gloves for his protection. "So it probably won't help much, but care to bless this before Moloch gets back?"

Both angels placed their hands on the end of the gun.

When Moloch did get back it was with War doggedly holding on to his horns, ignoring all kinds of bruises, cuts and the fact that one of his horns was imbedded in her stomach. She finally pushed herself off when he ran by the others, and she landed unceremoniously behind Crowley. "Would you make yourself useful?" she shrieked, pointedly looking at Crowley as she held her intestines in with one hand and tried to push herself up with the other.

As Aziraphale healed her, his flaming sword completely going out as he used the last of his angelic energies, Crowley turned to where Moloch had stopped again and opened fire. The machinegun pellets powered by a little blessing penetrated this time, knocking the bull to the ground.

Crowley looked at her passively, saying nothing.

"That's better," she admitted.

"You're lucky he'zzzzz not dead, Crawly," Beelzebub hissed during the lull, "Because I am zzzzzo sick of you and your killing my important zzzzubordinatezzzz, and if he were dead, I'd exzzzzztend your inevitable torment by thousandzzz of yearzz!"

"Wait, that's what this is about?" Crowley asked, surprised. "Not the… you know… Armageddon't?"

"You thought I'd overlook your murder of Ligur and Hazzzzztur? Dukezzzzz of Hell do not grow on treezzzzz, Crawly," Beelzebub said with rage in his voice, "Not even in the zzzzeventh layer!"

"Hey, he killed Hastur, not me," Crowley said while pointing to Aziraphale and secretly feeling jealous**.

"Yezzz he did," as the anger rose the fly sound became more prominent, "although zzzzztupid Hazztur broke the treaty so no action could be taken againzzzzt him directly, but now he shall zzzzzzzuffer with you!"

"If you wanted him punished you should have solved the problem diplomatically, but Heaven does not turn on one of their own!" Michael roared.

"Archangel, you will-" He cut himself off, looking scared.

Abruptly, all action ceased. In the silence that followed the confusion of the heroes and the lack of action of the demon, there was a chuckling that sounded melodic. "Well, I heard someone broke down here, but I never expected to see you again!"

"Lucifer," Michael growled.

The Adversary, the Accuser, the Dragon, the Prince of Lies, the Lord of Darkness, the Morningstar, the Emperor of Hell smiled congenially, dressed in a black suit with a black fedora. He looked like a gangster, but the look suited him somehow. Crowley noticed that he looked exactly like an older version of Adam – this was odd, because normally Satan didn't adopt a humanesque form either, but in this instance it made sense, just to remind the angels he'd caught that he'd once been one of them. In fact, he'd been the best of them. "At first I was angry to hear that Beel here acted without consulting me," Satan raised an eyebrow at the Prince of Hell, coming to stand next to his second in command with a confident walk, "but really, if one lower angel brought me Michael…"

"I beg your pardon," Aziraphale began stuffily, but Crowley reached out and covered his mouth. Michael's muscles were taut from head to toe, but he clearly saw the situation was hopeless.

"And then there's Crawly, betraying his second master!" Satan practically purred, standing in front of the demon and angel. Crowley's jaw tightened. Crowley also knew the situation was hopeless. "How charming that I finally get to punish you for your little part in the Apocalypse-that-Wasn't. Good job with that. And a Horseperson of the Apocalypse?"

"In the flesh, big guy," War said, arms crossed across her chest.

"And why exactly are you here? Why do you care about some poofy angel?"

Aziraphale protested being referred to as "poofy" from behind Crowley's hand.

"I don't," War explained, still looking bored, "but who am I to resist an assault on Hell, really?"

"Point, point. I suppose in your position I couldn't resist the temptation either. That being said, however, the four of you are out-powered so horrifically that I hope even you aren't going to try to escape right now," Satan said, looking at War with a raised eyebrow.

"Sir?" Beelzebub questioned.

"I'm not exactly thrilled with you right now, Beel," Satan said calmly, although everyone present knew that the calm façade could fail any second, "so you're going to take over administrative duties while I get to have fun with the prisoners."

Beelzebub was going to protest that he hated administrative duties, he was only Prince of Hell so that he could torture things, but that would involve possibly pissing off the Morningstar, and no one is that stupid. No, Beelzebub would run Hell so that Satan could torture his prisoners, and he would like it.

The four went peacefully, although Crowley did take the time to flip Beelzebub off.

*Because Beelzebub wants to look badass, and who's more badass than Samuel L. Jackson? Another instance of humans trumping Hell in something.

**See "How Crowley Fell Out of Love with the Bentley" because I am needy.

"I have to say, there's nothing as infuriating as telling everyone to love each other and having them ignore that part of the message, focusing on the negative parts as if I hadn't said anything positive to begin with. The point of my message was peace, but yet you have the Crusades, the Inquisition, and more politicians trying to deny others basic human rights based on my teachings than you can shake a very large stick at. If I were more prone to violence I would hit something. Some would say that's a downfall of mine. You listen very well," the voice informed Madame Tracy with something like pride.

The small scooter putted along the motorway, going with enough speed that they might get to Lower Tadfield in less than a day.

"I do try, dear," she replied cheerfully, politely ignoring that while the voice was talking she could not. "Does talking about your problems make you feel better, love?"

"Indescribably so, Madame. There's something cathartic about it, that's for certain. How are you faring, Sergeant Shadwell?"

"Aye, shuttup ye Southern Hippie," Shadwell groaned, his stomach feeling like it had burst open as he gripped Madame Tracy harder to avoid falling off.

"Er."

"Mister S, you didn't have to come along, you insisted on coming along, so you ought to be polite," Madame Tracy chastised.

"And ye shuttup as well, ye Hoor o' Babylon, and slow down yer cursed machine afore I vomit all o'er the road!"

"Charming young man," the voice said dryly. "Oh, and Sergeant, perhaps you ought not to judge witches so harshly, one might save your life one day."

"An' per'aps you ought to shuttup ye Southern Hippie!"

"… Again, charming."

They ended up locked in individual cells, left alone for the time being.

Michael was pacing the four corners of his. "Why not just deal with us now?" the Archangel demanded of no one in particular.

Crowley was sitting in the corner of his cell, trying his best to appear as blasé as possible. "Because now he can torture us, one by one, taking his jolly sweet time. And by leaving us here alone, it makes us more anxious. Your pacing doesn't help any."

"Why do people describe me as 'poofy?'" Aziraphale muttered into his knees. He was curled up in the corner of his cage, looking miserable. Crowley had chosen to sit in the corner adjacent to Aziraphale's in order to smack him when he inevitably started going on a guilt trip.

"Because you are," War said reasonably from where she was reclining in her own cell. She didn't seem at all perturbed or nervous or any other sort of emotion one might associate with being a prisoner of the Emperor of Hell.

"But what does that even mean?" the angel practically whined.

Crowley sighed. He'd explained it to him before, but it never seemed to register. He settled for, "Don't worry about it."

"I suppose there are more important things to worry about now anyhow," he said glumly. "As much as I appreciate your coming to rescue me, I must apologise and-"

Taking his cue, Crowley reached through the bars and smacked Aziraphale on the back of the head. "Don't you dare," he hissed. "We all knew this was likely going to happen, but it wasn't your fault you got kidnapped so we had to save you, so shut up and quit apologizing!"

Aziraphale smiled, although it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"We need to focus on getting out of here first." Michael continued to pace. "There has to be a way, I can still feel the Light of the Lord so…"

The door opened.

Satan smiled at his four prisoners. He had the distinctive talent of having an extremely charismatic, engaging and comforting smile while still being able to scare the bejeesus* out of anyone who he happened to be smiling at. That's a gift.

He clapped gleefully. "I've been saving up my vacation for six thousand years, waiting for something like this to happen. Do you have any idea how much time I've saved up? And with Beelzebub in charge I know things will go smoothly, which means I can use it all up on you four. I think I deserve a break like this, don't you?"

"Why not go to the beach, or go skiing, or do something more productive with your vacation?" Aziraphale asked pleasantly enough.

He shrugged. "If given the choice between working on my already flawless tan or removing every single inch of skin from the one who expelled me from Heaven, I'll choose Option B."

"I don't know, it seems like a waste of a good vacation," Aziraphale muttered.

"Why are you trying to reason with him?" Michael asked with a sigh. "Clearly we need to get you back in Heaven to remind you how you deal with demons."

"Oh come on," Satan interrupted, "at least one of you has to tell me about how I'll never get away with this, or something, or else it's just not any fun. Michael, I'm talking to you."

War yawned theatrically. "I probably shouldn't be bored already, Mom."

"Mom?" He considered this. "No way."

"Mommy."

"I am not your mother."

"Everything about this conversation is so very wrong, so it really needs to end now," Crowley asserted.

"I'm going to have to agree with Crawly on this one. And I'd like to remind you, sweetheart, that out of the four of you sitting here you are the only one who can't die. Guess what that means for you?" He smiled. He really did seem downright giddy about the whole thing.

"I can't die either," Crowley voiced, "At least not down here I can't."

"I'll figure out something," Satan said, waving that away. "You know, I always had high hopes for you, Crawly. Original Sin. You made Original Sin. What a wonderful career move! But this is what I get for leaving you alone for six thousand years with a pasty angel-"

"I thought I was poofy," Aziraphale interrupted.

"- even though you were supposed to kill him. Really. Insubordination against the Creator of Insubordination. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"I'm not," Crowley asserted. "It's like I'm You, the Sequel or something." Then he remembered who he was talking to and amended, "But I am sorry, Sir. Orders from Heaven and all that." At Satan's raised eyebrow, he added, "Hard to deny the Big Guy when he's sitting right in front of you."

"Oh?" Satan looked confused now, returning his gaze back to the tartan-clad angel. "Huh. What's so special about you that He would… Well, that clinches it. You're going first."

"To what?" Aziraphale asked faux cheerfully.

Michael pointed at Satan in a gesture that would have been threatening had Michael had any authority at all here. "He's done nothing wrong," the Archangel asserted, "And you've made it quite clear that I'm the one you want to suffer anyway. Pick me."

Satan brushed away Michael's good-intentioned concern with a hand. "In time, in time. I still need to figure out what I want to do to you, and what better way than practicing on another angel?"

Aziraphale stood up. "Well, it is my fault that everyone else is here anyway, so let's get this over with, shall we?"

"Aziraphale!" Crowley snapped, not sure what to say.

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley as he was let out of his cell. "Besides, dear, you know just as well as I do that all the torments of Hell and the pleasures of Heaven are nothing compared to humanities', and if I survived Auschwitz, then I can survive anything."

Crowley had to admit he had a point there.

"We'll see about that."

*He liked that word, bejeesus. He once told Jesus that some of his favorite Renaissance paintings were the Dominican ones portraying Jesus as very stern, which he referred to as the "scare the bejeesus out of you Jesuses", and the two had a good laugh about that until remembering they were Mortal Foes.

Raven Sable tried his best to wipe the oil stains off his black suit, but no water was coming out of the spigot.

"You know I can't help it," White said meekly, looking at the floor.

Sable sighed, giving up. If anyone was able to see the stains they'd likely be too close to live for much longer anyway. "I know, I know. I don't blame you." He patted the younger-looking boy on the head. "Besides, I think you've lost weight since we've moved here. And seeing as you don't eat anyway, that is saying something."

"My figure has never been so flawless," White gushed.

"For now, for now. And anyway, I blame that Adam chap. I've taken to blaming him for all of my problems, usually because he is the cause of all my problems."

"The world is his fault," White agreed. "We need to do something. We need to find some way to make him listen to us, to make him see just how-"

Sable cut him off before he could wax poetic about the multicolored, trash-stained and rather stinky end of the world, which he had done no less than twice a day every day since they'd moved in. He was a delightful roommate otherwise, even if he needed to take up poetry as a hobby to get all of the creative, icky juices out of him. "Maybe, maybe if he won't listen to us, we can find someone else to make him listen."

"Well, last time I went to go visit him, there was that lady, the one with the twins, the witch," White replied, "She's got all organic things. I don't much like her."

"But Adam does?" Sable prodded.

White nodded.

Sable hummed to himself thoughtfully. "You say the children were twins? Were they toddlers?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"We recently had take-your-children-to-work-day, and one of my employees brought in his toddler twins. Lower Tadfield is only so large."

And Sable smiled, a plan forming.

And somewhere on the other side of the world, every grape vineyard in California withered and died.

"Hmm, it's missing something," Satan admitted to the gurney-strapped angel, "Oh! Ambiance!" He snapped. The song "Bad Day" by David Powter started playing over a sound system that hadn't been there before.

Aziraphale groaned. "Now that is overkill."

"Nyah. I hate this song." And he pulled out a knife.

Aziraphale closed his eyes.

The Disney Corporation was one of those things that both Aziraphale and Crowley could report to their superiors as a victory. A soulless corporation that created terrible sequels to classic movies right around Easter and Christmas in order to make a few bucks while crushing the souls of parents who had to buy the movies for their kids and get their childhoods abused, all the while preaching that True Love Conquers All, to always shoot for your dreams and that evildoers will fall off cliffs? Both representatives got commendations for their success.

Aziraphale was thus familiar with the concept of a "happy place." In fact, he'd been the one to coin the term in the first place. He'd had to invoke his willpower to get to his happy place when he had been demoted from Cherub to Principality after giving away his sword, during Jesus' crucifixion, when King Arthur accidentally knocked up his sister against Aziraphale's warning to keep his pants on, a bout with the plague, and when he accidentally got stranded on a pirate island.

Aziraphale knew full well this could last forever, so he went to his happy place as far back as he possibly could; all the way to the beginning.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time-before-time, a baby cherub popped into existence. The baby tested his tiny wings and giggled as they flapped.

"Aw, look at you!" purred the curly-haired redheaded Archangel Raphael, one who Stands Before God, who chanced upon this new baby while walking through Heaven to the Almighty's Library, "You'we so cute! Wook at youw widdwe toesie-woesies!" The archangel started tickling the cherub's aforementioned toesie-woesies; obviously ticklish, the cherub let out a giggling shriek of glee and flapped his wings, carrying him about two feet away. "You can't get away that easily!" Raphael exclaimed, moving forward to tickle the baby again. The baby laughed some more, and Raphael gathered the bundle of joy in his arms. "I think I'll keep you!" The baby seemed overjoyed at this. "I will name you Raphael Two!"

Suddenly the baby didn't look so happy.

"That's vanity, Raphael," commented another approaching archangel, this one with wavy brown hair. "You can't name the poor child after yourself."

"You just want me to name him Gabriel Two."

The baby did not look any happier at that idea.

Gabriel looked at the curly-haired blond cherub and commented, "He has Michael's hair and colouring, actually."

"But Michael isn't ticklish."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow.

"I've had to heal his wounds enough times, I'm very familiar with the fact that he's not ticklish," Raphael replied defensively. When Gabriel's eyebrow did not go back down, Raphael placed a finger there and pushed it back down himself. "But I'm going to take care of this little sweetheart," Raphael cooed, rubbing the baby's head, "so I feel like he should somehow be named after me."

"How do you figure?" the Messenger asked, tapping the baby on the nose.

"Because… because I… er… because there's a lot of infants popping up and I want to make sure this one's mine," the Healer finally admitted. "You know, if he gets misplaced somehow. Most of the infants look alike to me." As if to punctuate his point, another cherub who happened to also be blonde came into existence with a pop not far away.

Raphael's baby looked offended at the allegation that he was somehow replaceable. "Now don't look so upset," he informed the cherub, "I'm the Archangel of Healing and Knowledge, you know, and out of the five of us I'm the one you'd want as a parent." If the baby could talk, he would have pointed out that that was not the part he was upset about. "Gabriel here is too prissy to take good care of you."

"I'm not prissy. It's awfully smelly. You try having people take you seriously when you smell like baby vomit and powder," Gabriel sniffed.

"And Michael would have you train constantly," Raphael continued, stroking the baby's wings, which made the baby practically start purring, "which would simply make more work for me, and Uriel, when you could understand whatever he was on about, would most likely make you feel guilty over everything. Who knew repentance would be so…" He looked to Gabriel for the right word.

"Repenting?" the other guessed. "Terrifying? Guilt-inducing?"

"Fair enough. And Lucifer is so busy that you would never see him. So you see, little one, you're best off with me."

The cherub cooed. He was clearly indicating that he had no problem being with Raphael, but was rather opposed to being named Raphael.

Thus he found himself sitting on Raphael's lap as the five archangels convened together in order to discuss this –

"You said it was an emergency," Lucifer said darkly.

"It is an emergency," Raphael protested, bouncing the infant on his lap, "I have this child and he doesn't have a name yet!"

"Are you going to make a habit of this? Because our home is only so large, and there are a lot of infants popping up nowadays," Michael pointed out. Raphael ignored him.

"I still think you ought to somehow incorporate your name into his," Gabriel said.

Meanwhile, Uriel was staring at the child as if he was wondering what exactly it was. The child was staring back at Uriel as if wondering what exactly he was. "If an infant pops into existence and no one is around to hear it, does it make a noise?" Uriel asked.

"Yes, because the Lord hears it," the others all answered in unison.

"Raphaelly, Raphaellodingdong… Michael…" Michael smiled innocently, ignoring Uriel's interruption. They were all used to it anyway.

"A little creativity would do you wonders," Lucifer said airily. Michael bristled, but in a good-natured way that indicated the two of them often bantered. "But fine, I'll be the villain. Raphael, you can't keep it."

"Excuse me?"

"You have entirely too many responsibilities to keep a baby," Lucifer informed him matter-of-factly, "And no one here is willing to be your babysitter."

"Why would I sit on a baby?" Uriel questioned. "That seems unethical."

Raphael held the infant to his chest protectively. "I wasn't planning on having any of you as babysitters. And this little fellow needs a home."

"A lot of them need homes; that doesn't mean we take them all in! We're archangels!"

"And we should set a good example and do our part. I happen to think that the Lord orchestrated this – this is the first one I've chanced upon."

Lucifer sighed. "Coincidence."

"No such thing. I'm keeping it."

"No you're not."

The other archangels backed away.

"I understand you think you are somehow above us, but we are all equal before the Lord," Raphael replied coldly.

"I am His Second," Lucifer retorted.

"That's right, you are," Raphael replied, standing up to get his point across, "and in that position I have healed you numerous times, have I not?"

Lucifer stood as well. "You're the Healer, you can't possibly threaten me with-"

"And I know you have a very strong fondness for sharp, pointy things, and so help me Light-Bringer but if you don't let me keep this child I will mount your immortal head on one of those sharp pointy things outside my office as a reminder to everyone that even though I am the Healer I am not a pansy!"

The two archangels faced each other down.

Finally Lucifer sat. "I am not babysitting."

"I wouldn't dream of asking you, dear," Raphael replied sweetly, all anger forgotten.

Michael fought to not snicker.

"Perhaps Raphael coming at the end of the name," Uriel chimed in, still looking at the baby as if not understanding it, "would be better. Um… Oriraphael? Uriraphael? Aziraphael?"

"Aziraphael," Raphael echoed, pronouncing it "A-zee-raphayel."

"'Helps heal God?" Gabriel translated, looking just as perplexed as Uriel and the baby.

"I'm sure that means something," Michael said, "Even though God doesn't need help. But it can't be bad."

"I like it! What do you think, Aziraphael?"

Aziraphael wasn't too keen on the pronunciation, but that could change with time. The baby cooed.

(Not much longer after that, time being insubstantial, another cherub popped into existence, only no one noticed this particular baby. He was fine with it, testing his wings and floating around, giggling; with all the babies popping up, not all received a parent. Heaven was awfully bright; he wished he had eye coverings.)

Some "time" later, Gabriel sighed as he awkwardly held the babbling baby, whom had been shoved into his hands by a frenzied Raphael before the latter had run away. "Raphael is such an enabler," he said aloud, addressing Aziraphael. He started walking, not sure where to go, but Aziraphael didn't mind. "Lucifer gets injured in practice and of course he's simply dying – never mind that he's immortal – and no, he can't utilize one of the battle medics, he has to have the Healer take care of him. I can almost guarantee it was just a scratch." The Messenger looked down at the infant with cool gray eyes. "Of course, Michael can get beaten within an inch of his life and proclaim he's fine. I swear, sometimes I think you and I are the only sane ones."

Aziraphael was honored and said so, although it came out as "oodie boo boo."

"Perhaps I ought to extend my duties," Gabriel continued, "so I don't have to be the one Raphael shoves you off on. Maybe I could take over conduction of the Choirs?" At the baby's sour face, he amended, "But you're awfully congenial, for an infant. You could be worse. It's the principle of the thing, you understand. Hmm, you have a playpen, do you not?"

Aziraphael pointed down to the hall to where it was. Gabriel nodded. "And fairly intelligent. Again, you could be worse."

Gabriel placed him in the playpen, which had some coloring books, a large ball and a stuffed angel doll inside. "There you are now. You stay here. Make yourself amused somehow."

Almost instantly after Gabriel left, Aziraphael fluttered his wings and propelled himself over the low border of the pen. Upon landing outside, he started crawling. He wasn't sure where he was going, but exploring was certainly better than the boring –

Uriel was mumbling to himself as he walked down the hallway, although he stopped when he nearly tripped over the crawling infant. "You escaped," the Archangel coldly informed him.

Aziraphael was filled with a deep sense of dread from the way Uriel was staring at him.

"You disobeyed," Uriel continued, "You must have, to be roaming free. Shame be upon thee."

He felt very ashamed.

"Aziraphael Izrafael, are you penitent regarding your sins against the Lord?"

He suddenly very much wished he could talk.

"Will you turn back from your course that places you in opposition to the Lord?"

Oh dear, was Uriel pulling out his smiting arrows?

"URIEL, DON'T YOU DARE SMITE MY ZIZI!"

Raphael, out of breath as he came back from healing, quickly walked down the hall and slapped Uriel across the face. "Snap out of it!" he cried.

Uriel blinked. "Hi!"

Raphael gave a sigh of relief. "Oh my dear."

(Lots of pain now. Need to find a stronger memory.)

Later on, a young Aziraphael was sitting up in bed, listening to some bedtime stories from Michael. The young cherub simply loved stories, be it tales of what happened earlier that day or legendary stories from times before he existed. As Aziraphael lived with the archangels in a large complex, it was fairly easy for him to locate Michael and request a story from the warrior. Michael really got into the stories he told, but he could rarely be cajoled into telling them.

"So I led the hosts into the outliers," Michael continued, "and you would not believe what I saw, Aziraphael!"

His blue eyes were wide. "What?" he breathed.

The outliers were the Almighty Testing Ground, the place where the Lord could create anything He so wished, both in terms of tweaking his future Ultimate Project and in terms of giving his armies something to actually fight.

"Gigantic monsters. With teeth bigger than my sword, stained with blood! They walked on two huge feet and had tiny little forearms with claws bigger than their teeth!"

Aziraphael squeaked.

"And they love the flesh of adorable little cherubs!" he exclaimed, reaching over to tickle said adorable little cherub. With a shriek and a squeal, Aziraphael buried himself in bed.

Michael regretted "terrorizing" the child later when Aziraphael was too scared to sleep (as the younglings needed to do) and curled in Michael's bed. The archangel of warriors decided to use him as a teddy bear.

When Aziraphael was the equivalent of five, he went to the Heavenly equivalent of kindergarten. The problem Aziraphael encountered was that Raphael, the patron angel of knowledge, was the teacher of the younglings. Normally Aziraphael had no problems with seeing his "father" more often, but this did not go over well with the other kids. As time passed and such things became more and more important, Raphael also made sure that Aziraphael always kept up with his homework and studies, which put him at the head of his angelic classes. Claiming favoritism and geekliness – not helped by the fact that Aziraphael's favorite place to relax was the library, as he really was very fond of learning, he and Raphael had been a perfect match – Aziraphael was the victim the roughest mockery young angels could manage. Suffice it to say that it wasn't terrible, but still a little depressing. God was clearly more lenient with the younger angels, and as such they could get away with petty "sins" that the older ones could not.

(Pain.)

In the equivalent of third grade, for example, Aziraphael was sitting in the cafeteria, reading a book written by Oriel about destiny. Completely oblivious, he sipped from his juice box and flipped pages, which was when the book was pulled from in front of him.

"Hey nerd."

Aziraphael's eyes narrowed as he regarded one of his frequent "tormenters," who was holding the tome against his chest. "Hello Kireawel."

"Pretty sure you read this one already," the dark-haired angel commented, sitting on the table and looking at the book purposefully upside down, "And all you ever do is read."

"And all you ever do is cause trouble," Aziraphael said tersely. "May I have my book back?"

"I don't just cause trouble," Kireawel protested. "I'm just trying to have some fun. Something that you aren't sure how to do."

"I certainly do. I was having fun reading."

Kireawel frowned at the book. "That's all you do," he practically whined, "I mean, I know everyone makes fun of you for being a nerd-"

"You make fun of me."

" – but there has to be more to you than reading and being Raphael's star pupil," Kireawel finished.

The two angels looked at each other. "Did Beel tell you to come make fun of me?" Aziraphael finally asked.

Kireawel looked around warily. "Actually, no one knows I'm here. Whatever, here's your stupid book back." The angel walked off. Aziraphael wasn't sure what to think.

(Intense pain now; (a part of Aziraphale's mind realizes that if he'd been actively aware of the torture going on he would be beyond screaming, if such a thing was possible) I need a stronger memory.)

If time existed, Aziraphael would have been ten years old. He was sitting on a large tartan blanket with his "father" and the other four archangels. It was the very first Festival of the Stars, a festival held in honor of the fact that stars now existed for the first time. The Lord apparently wanted His angels to be awed by His creation, as the stars would never be so bright again as they were on this night, and shooting stars sailed through the air as they never would again. For beings who had never seen anything like them before…

A round of applause went over as two shooting stars sailed overhead. "Beautiful," Uriel whispered.

"I'm their patron," Lucifer said smugly, pointing to the sky, "Lucifer the Light-Bringer is now also Lucifer the Daystar, the Morning Star… Our Lord has honored me with the stars."

"Not bad," Michael admitted, too engrossed in the shining lights to mock him.

Aziraphael, however, tore his eyes away from the spectacle to look around. He spotted a familiar angel sitting alone, staring at the sky with large green eyes filled with awe. Aziraphael, filled with conviction when he saw a shooting star reflected in those eyes, got up off the blanket and approached the solitary figure.

"Kireawel?"

The young angel looked up. "Hi!"

"Want to come sit with me for the rest of the festival?"

Kireawel's eyes went over to the five archangels. "Er, I… are you sure they won't mind?"

Aziraphael smiled and hoisted Kireawel to his feet, dragging him back to the picnic setup.

(Too much pain, too much blood lost, can't stay focused… Have to try, can't… let him… win…)

"We shouldn't be out here!" Aziraphael squealed. "Only Michael's forces can be out here!"

The outliers could be however the Lord wished them to be; today they were humid and full of vegetation, steam rising from the floor as the two young angels explored. The whole place struck Aziraphael as extremely surreal.

"Look at this!" Kireawel whispered, poking a leaf larger than he was, "Look at all this stuff! No wonder Sachluph's been working overtime! Man, the Lord can be so creative when he tries – why can't any of this stuff be up in Heaven?"

"Because there's lots of stuff that can eat us!"

"Relax! I wouldn't have made you come with me if I thought we were gonna get eaten," Kireawel said soothingly, "'m sure all that stuff about big monsters and stuff is just to make Michael feel better 'bout himself."

"As if he needs the help," Aziraphael said, weakly smiling.

Kireawel giggled. "See? Knew you were more than just a nerd."

"Now I'm a felon," he lamented.

"Live a little!"

Both of them froze when the world started shaking.

"What is that?" Kireawel whispered.

"It's something walking!" Aziraphael squealed back, moving to huddle with his new friend. "I'm never trusting you ever again!"

"Fly fly fly fly fly!"

(Oh, owie.)

"That one went down like a lead balloon," said the serpent.

(Ow… ow… ow…)

Crowley had gone into hiding, sensing the presence of an Archangel on earth. Under normal circumstances Aziraphale would have mocked him for it (as, were the situations reversed and some Archdevil came to Earth to go angel-hunting, Crowley would mock Aziraphale for hiding), but in this instance Aziraphale was too caught off-guard. He felt with his aura and located the rogue archangel somewhere in Egypt.

"Zizi!" Raphael exclaimed, walking along an otherwise empty road alongside an old, blind man, "I was wondering when you'd show up!"

"What… what are you doing here? Who's this?"

"Well, you're always saying just how delightful Earth is, so I thought I'd pay it a visit," the red-headed archangel replied cheerfully, "And I ran into my new friend Tobit. Tobit, this is my son, Aziraphael, the one I've been telling you about."

"And boy has he ever," Tobit replied, looking friendly despite the implication. He held out his hand straight ahead of him, making Aziraphale move to shake it. "You're the apple of his eye, truly."

"I'm going to be going on a journey with his son fairly soon, you see. And over there is my other new friend, Asmodeus, who seems to have developed something of a crush on Tobit's daughter-in-law and continually kills her husband whenever she gets one." He waved congenially at a tree, which returned a rude gesture. "He's awfully uncouth, but he grows on you."

Aziraphale's jaw dropped. "You… you… oh my goodness, I'm not sure what about this is worst."

"Come walk with us!" Raphael exclaimed, grabbing Aziraphale's arm and dragging him along.

"First of all, you can't just tell humans that you're an angel. There's faith and all that."

"I don't know, I appreciated a little forthrightness," Tobit responded.

"Hush you. Typically humans react very… negatively to the knowledge that they're in the presence of an actual angel," Aziraphale informed him in his best authoritative voice.

"Hmmm. All right, then I'm Azarias, the son of Ananias," Raphael stole the name from travelers they had come across earlier, "and then that makes you… er… my son, Aziraphael," he finished a little lamely.

And so Tobit thought it was. "Oh, okay," he responded, "Nice to meet the two of you!"

Aziraphale sighed. "You don't have to change it now; he already knew and took the news well."

"Oh."

"I can't believe I'm walking with an Archangel!" Tobit exclaimed. "The Lord hath honored me!"

"And second of all," Aziraphale pointed to the side of the road. Asmodeus was running along, hiding behind the occasional tree but otherwise being in plain sight. "Really? A demon serial killer? And he's still alive?"

"Everyone has a spark of goodness," Raphael replied gamely, wiping imaginary dirt off Aziraphale's face, "Even him. He's just misguided. Granted, I tried guiding and it didn't work. I told him he ought to try just writing her poetry and he wrote, in the blood of her latest dead husband, 'Roses are red, violets are blue, I'm going to kill anyone you get married to.' It rhymes, at least."

The demon called out something awfully rude from behind another tree; this one was entirely too thin to effectively hide him.

Words failed Aziraphale. "That's…"

"So then I suggested gifts, which he interpreted as the entrails of the men he'd killed."

"That's really very misguided," Tobit commented.

Raphael finally admitted, "I really do think I might have to do something drastic – avoid the rock, Tobit, that's a dear – and it's awfully sad because I just know he can't be that bad. He is in love, after all, and that says something, right?"

"Demons don't love," Aziraphale reminded him. Thinking of "his own" demon, he amended, "Well, unless you include their narcissistic tendencies."

"Nonsense. They're terrible at expressing it, that's all. Tobit, are you purposefully trying to kick every rock in the road? You're worse than Uriel, I swear."

"I'm blind," he reminded him.

"Oh, right, sorry, here." Raphael miraculously cured his eyesight.

As Tobit began exulting in the Glory of the Lord, Aziraphale smacked his own forehead. "You can't do that – humans have to overcome-"

"Ah! I'm blind again!" Tobit wept.

Raphael was fretting. "I really don't think I can kill him, Zizi. It just doesn't seem right somehow."

Aziraphale re-cured Tobit' blindness, if only to make him stop mourning. As the poor man began exulting again, Aziraphale replied, "Of course you can kill him. You don't even have to go find him, seeing as he's stalking you."

Raphael glanced at the tree (poorly) concealing the demon, not looking convinced.

"Do you need a hug?" Aziraphale asked, holding out his arms.

The Archangel accepted it gratefully. Overwhelmed by direct exposure to angelic love, Tobit passed out.

"You have experience with demons, right?" Raphael asked, "What do you do in this situation?"

For some reason "tell him to go away" didn't seem like the right answer. To be fair, last time he saw Crowley they actually fought and ended up in mutual discorporation, but it seemed like the more and more they ran across each other the less and less likely they were to kill one another. "Well, maybe you could try binding him. You know, making sure he can't leave Hell anymore."

The poorly-hiding demon made it clear, rather rudely, that he didn't like that idea.

"But he'll never see his Sarah again. That's her name, you know," Raphael murmured wistfully.

"And he'll also never write," Aziraphale looked directly at the tree, "ridiculously awful poetry."

The tree swore at him.

"I suppose it'll be for the best," the Archangel replied with a sigh.

(Let's try… ignoring the pain now. Yes, that's not completely impossible. Oh my.)

"So I was thinking, the whole me-discorporating-you-you-discorporating-me thing is really counter-productive," Crowley proposed tentatively, his voice echoing in the expansive chamber.

Aziraphale wasn't really paying attention to him. He'd never been able to visit the Library of Alexandria before, and this… Well…

Aziraphale had been living in Rome for the past century or so while Crowley had been stirring up unrest in Alexandria. Although he wasn't sure why, when Caesar's forces came to Alexandria in search of Pompey Aziraphale had jumped at the chance to come visit his old enemy. Crowley had been so pleased with his latest idea - cajoling Ptolemy XIII into giving Caesar Pompey's head, knowing full well how horribly that would go over– he was more than accommodating for the angel, giving him a private tour of the famous library at night.

"I have to agree," Aziraphale breathed, only half paying attention as he ran his fingers over more scrolls than he had seen in his existence, and that was saying something. He forced his attention away to regard the white-clad demon. "Although it has been, what, three decades since I've seen you last? I did mention you look well, did I not?"

"Of course. But, I also think that is counter-productive."

"Hmm?"

"Us being so far apart for so long," Crowley established. "It's painful with you and painfully boring without you."

"Oh." The angel ran his finger over a random papyrus scroll before pulling it out to see what it was.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Er, sorry." He put the scroll back. "You were saying?"

"We could not kill each other," Crowley stated.

"That… that is an interesting idea," Aziraphale admitted.

The Arrangement didn't form until 1020 AD. There's a reason why it didn't form in 48 BC, and that is what happened next.

Apparently by proposing "not killing" and "not being apart" he meant "snogging" (or more), as Crowley rather ambushed the very perplexed Aziraphale, pressing him up against a wall of scrolls and pressing his tongue into the angel's mouth.

Hmm. So this was kissing. Following Crowley's lead, Aziraphale closed his eyes. It was… interesting. Aziraphale had never tried it, as it looked awfully unhygienic to him and there was something simply peculiar about romantic liaisons of any type with entities who would be gone in 50 years, but he had to admit it wasn't so terrible. It made sense that they – Oh dear, what is Crowley's thigh doing?

In the midst of the confusion, a torch was knocked down.

Aziraphale accused Crowley of doing it all on purpose and rather tried to discorporate him. Repeatedly.

It continued until:

(My… de…)

"What are you doing?" Aziraphale hissed, following the fast-walking Crowley out into the desert.

"Nice to see you too," the demon practically growled, looking none too pleased to be doing whatever it was he was doing. "How do you plan on attacking this time?"

"I won't need to if you're doing what I think you're doing! He's not just anyone, Crowley, he's the Son! With a capitol S!"

"I didn't know you cared."

"I don't care, but-"

"I thought angels cared about everyone." They'd had this conversation one too many times.

"Crowley!"

"I was ordered, all right!" the demon snapped, "Tempt him! What are my choices? Obliteration or an existence of pain and agony?"

(Oh, pain and agony, that's right…)

"We haven't killed each other in awhile," Aziraphale blurted sometime around 1020 AD.

"I noticed," Crowley agreed. He was wise enough not to mention Alexandria.

"Perhaps we could make it an official arrangement?"

(I…)

"He really ought to have stuck with sculpture," Aziraphale admitted, gazing up at the ceiling, "I mean, have you seen his Pieta? Simply exquisite."

"Meh," Crowley replied. He didn't look comfortable here, which was understandable because the only thing preventing him from dissolving was Aziraphale's will.

"And look at the Libyca – that's certainly not a probable pose, but it does look awfully nice. You're being quiet, dear, is everything all right?"

"How did you convince me to enter a church to look at painting?" Crowley's eyes were darting around the room, looking for an escape.

Aziraphale sighed. "You're safe, Crowley. I had hoped we could have a discussion based on something that is not our careers. Certainly you have an opinion on the artwork? You were there for most of the events on the main ceiling."

Crowley's eyes looked at the Expulsion. "Ngk."

"Uh oh." Aziraphale saw it too.

"Is that a woman?" Crowley demanded, pointing at the Serpent.

"It… yes, it is." The angel fought to keep from laughing.

"It is a woman! With… with girly parts!" He was gesturing wildly.

"It's artistic license."

"I'll show him artistic license! I was a garter snake, not a nāga!"

While Crowley berated Michelangelo's lack of using female models, ranting for five minutes on the Serpent's musculature, Aziraphale smiled and was perfectly content because Crowley hadn't noticed that the Angel of the Eastern Gate had been depicted wearing pink, which was something Crowley in his right mind would have mocked him about for days.

(Actually, was he a garter snake? I thought he was larger than that - oh bugger!)

Aziraphale cleared his throat. "I'll be your foil, Laertes; in mine ignorance your skill shall, like a star i' th' darkest night, stick fiery off indeed."

Crowley looked as angry now as he had since coming on stage. "You mock me, sir."

"No, by this hand."

While the King said his lines, Crowley informed Aziraphale in his mind, Have I mentioned lately I hate you? Because I really, truly do.

Hush my dear, you make such a splendid Laertes, and you know William needed the favor. He wrote that dreadful 'Titus Andronicus' for you, you know. "Very well, my lord. Your grace has laid the odds o' th' weaker side."

I wanted to be Hamlet, you bastard.

When the two started dueling, William was quite impressed by their acting skill – it really did seem as if they were trying to kill each other.

(Hee hee, he looked funny in that hat.)

He smiled at Crowley.

"I'd just like to say," he said, "if we don't get out of this, that… I'll have known, deep down inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you."

"That's right," said Crowley bitterly. "Make my day."

Aziraphale held out his hand.

"Nice knowing you," he said.

Crowley took it.

(Losing it… oh dear… this is bad…)

After the world didn't end, Aziraphale and Crowley did what they usually did – went and got drunk. Only this time, they decided to reminisce about their shared past while they drank, turning it into a drinking game – one shot for every time one of them laughed at something.

"Do you remember that time you tried bull fighting in Portugal and got trampled to discorporation?"

Laughter from both parties. They each downed two shots.

"Do you remember that time we… we got so drunk… we got married?" *

Even more laughter, so much that they found it hard to get hold of their shot glasses. Once they calmed down, "You got that divorce, right?"

"Er. I thought you…?"

They hurriedly drank more.

"What were we talking about?"

Eventually, drunk on liquor and joy, they made their way to the karaoke bar.

Karaoke is one of those things that both of them always have to be drunk to enjoy. Angels can't dance – gavotte notwithstanding – but they can sing. Aziraphale's angelic voice wasn't cut out to be on the Heavenly Choirs, but he, like all angels, has certain gifts that make singing easier which go beyond having perfect pitch. One of those gifts is the knowledge of the words of songs** and proficiencies in all types of air instruments. Despite his natural inclination to sing Aziraphale needs the alcohol to get over his mild-mannered disposition, because when an angel takes to the machine he will be the center of attention.

Conversely, Crowley needs the alcohol to get over the fact that a crooning Aziraphale could kill him. Singing is not just a pastime for angels, it also happens to be a very potent weapon in the angelic arsenal. Of course Aziraphale has to actually make an effort*** to have it go ahead and start destroying anything vaguely demonic, but it still sets Crowley on edge, which is why he prefers to be intoxicated when Aziraphale sings.

But get them both drunk and they sing an amazing duet.

That night they sang "Easy Lover," ("Under Pressure" came on but Crowley forcefully changed it,) "It's the End of the World as We Know It" (and got a good laugh out of it), "Don't Stop Believin'" and now -

"It's more than a fee-liiin'," Aziraphale sang into the microphone, having the most fun he'd had in ages now that the world hadn't ended.

"More than a fee-liin'," Crowley echoed as backup. He was also the lead air guitarist. A couple of humans almost as drunk as them were playing the other air instruments and also singing backup.

"when I hear that old song they used to play,"

"More than a fee-liin',"

"I begin dream-iiiiin'…"

"More than a fee-liin',"

Discontent with Boston's lyrics, Crowley sang as a solo, "'till I see 'ziraphale walk away! I see A-zir-a-phale walkin' awaaa-aaaaay!"

More amused by this than he should be, Aziraphale began laughing hysterically -

(Blackness.)

*1480, Spain, it started when Crowley was getting drunk over the Inquisition, Crowley wore a beautiful dress, and Aziraphale's actual name has since been Mrs. Aziraphale Michael Crowley. Yes, Mrs.

**Sometimes they know the words to songs that haven't been written yet. No one was more perturbed than Aziraphale when he angrily declared that if Crowley liked his blancmange so much then he should've put a ring on it.

***Ha ha, I made use of the "making an effort" phrase and did not have it pertain to them having sex! I feel like I just won something.

Chapter Text

In the real world, Satan frowned. Raphael's brat had been reduced to a bloody pulp without so much as a whimper until Satan had removed his wings. "That wasn't fun at all," the Morningstar admitted. Then he snapped with an epiphany. "Oh, of course! I'll just have to make sure you don't die – once you've healed enough I'll simply drag Crawly in here too, to make sure you don't do a repeat performance! You angels are all the same - you'd rather suffer than have him hurt, wouldn't you? While I wait, though, I think I know exactly what to do to Michael…"

He hoisted the by-all-accounts-should-be-dead angel over his shoulder and carried him back to the other prisoners.

"Great – just great – I can't believe we made it worse – why isn't he screaming – shit –" Crowley was now the one pacing, as Michael had given up the pointless task awhile ago and the small room just felt wrong without someone doing it.

"Don't worry, if Aziraphael dies you'll die with him," Michael promised without feeling. He was sitting in the corner of his cell, eyes closed as if he was meditating.

The ever-cool-in-the-face-of-stress Crowley was just about ready to snap. "You have even less power here than I do, especially considering the Big Cheese seems really keen on watching you die painfully. So I suggest you shove it, Mikey."

The light blue eyes opened just enough to narrow. "Do not presume."

War laughed from her cell, distracting the two men. "Let him freak out, Daddy," she chided, "His mate's in danger, what do you expect?"

Crowley grabbed the bars, eyes glowing dangerously. "He is not my mate."

She held up her hands in a placating gesture, although she was still smiling. "Relax, Uncle C, I was just trying to sound British. You know, he's your best mate, your friend, whatever." Her unnatural orange eyes were twinkling. "Of course."

He gave her a look that clearly showed he didn't believe her. "He's not my friend." He didn't believe himself.

She seemed ready to pick a fight even though it couldn't come to fisticuffs, as she continued, "'Course, one could form different ideas, seeing as you risked life and limb to save him. I mean, Heaven and Hell had a treaty regarding you two, right? And you broke it by coming down here, even if it is 'cause God told you to."

"Wait…" Michael said, looking at Crowley in a new light, "What exactly are you getting out of this?"

Crowley felt his ears turn a telltale shade of red. It had finally occurred to him that not only had he not been offered anything for volunteering on this mission that put his own comfortable life in jeopardy, he hadn't even asked.

"I'm getting to not lose a perfectly good Earth representative who knows better than to, er, mess with me too much," he stammered, the excuse he used in his own head sounding very superficial when spoken aloud.

"So are you like an angel lover or something? Do you make a habit of saving them for no reason?" War asked.

"I'm an angel and he's an ass to me," Michael pointed out to her.

Crowley snapped back, "The difference between Aziraphale and you is the difference between seeing a wile and thwarting it, and seeing a wile and beating it to within an inch of its life and laughing as it bleeds to death."

"Look at him, he's so cute!" War gushed.

"Would you shut your bloody mouth!"

"You might not want me to do that," she replied in a sing-song voice, "'cause I think I can get us out of here."

The men-shaped-beings looked at her with renewed interest.

"Why didn't you say anything earlier!" Michael demanded.

"I didn't think of it earlier, duh. Hanging around with you guys and humans all the time starts to mess with your head. I mean, look at you two, you're actually breathing. But, I'm not a person."

"Right," Michael said, trying to get her to get to the point.

In the blink of an eye, she appeared outside her cage. "I'm an anthropomorphic representation. I am War, and this place is brimming with me."

"So here you're like Death is back on Earth…" Crowley realized.

"Everywhere," she said with a feral grin.

As Anathema continued to peruse the text, having found a prophecy regarding what she had to guess was angels on motorcycles – she made a notecard for that one, because it wasn't often angels, as in plural, were found on earth, much less on motorcycles - her exhausted mind began to wonder how Agostino and Agnes had gotten along to inspire such plagiarism on behalf of the former. She would have been ashamed on behalf of her genetics and the immature acting thereof to realize that their relationship went something like this:

Agostino wrote down the next prophecy – something about angels on really fast horses, which was silly, so he changed it to demons on… er… really slow… "Really flowe…" he murmured to himself, tapping his quill on the book in front of him thoughtfully, "Really flowe… what 'tif the oppofite of horfef?"

"Beastef of burden hath no opposite, Agostino," Agnes informed him from over his shoulder. "Ye're daft, I swear upon our father'f grave. Were our mother not a noble ladye of virtue I would say thou art not myne Brother but some foole picked off the road."

He hastily slammed the book he was writing in shut. "How dare ye, ye... ye… harlot!"

"Ye had to know I knew what ye were doing," she replied. "'Tis Prophefy Number 512. 'Ande the Greate Foole sharl steal mine Book ande wryte his owne; ande he wille not know that Accurater 'tis not a worde.'"

"Ye art a foule witch, and I sharl laugh when ye die, ye harlot!"

"No ye won't, ye shalle be living far to the north," she said reasonably, "And can ye really think of no better insult than 'harlot?' Oh, and 'Warlocke' 'tis no better than witch."

"Lyes!"

Yes, Anathema was better off not really knowing. Channeling Agnes, she felt contentment in this denial of knowledge, and she kept reading.

"I'll be taking this," War said cheerfully, walking over to where Aziraphale's sword had been thrown in a corner along with their other weapons. She even supplied "yoink!" as she did so. "And once he gets back to gloat… Oh man, he's got such an ego, just insulting him is gonna get him so pissed… Heehee, this is gonna be fun. Like 'Janie's Got a Gun' except it's 'War's got a sword.' War's got a sword," she sang to herself, going back into her cell and hiding the sword behind her. Surprise was her ally here, so she had to pretend like nothing had changed. "War's got a sword… Oh, what did her mommy do? It's War's last IOU…"

"So what do we do after-" Michael cut himself off, all three going silent as they heard the sound of footsteps coming down the hall accompanied by whistling.

Satan appeared in the doorway of the cell room with what looked like about 82 kilos of raw hamburger in tweed pants slung over his shoulder, dragging a pair of enormous wings behind him. He didn't look happy. "You know, I didn't work solidly for thousands of years so that I could hack apart an angel who didn't even have the decency to scream. I mean, seriously, good old-fashioned angel torture should not be boring. And that was boring!" He dropped Aziraphale to the floor and spat on him in derision; the saliva sizzled like oil on a hot skillet.

Crowley's mind wasn't processing what was in front of him. Rather, an image of Aziraphale smiling and looking dopey appeared instead, making little humming noises and telling him not to worry, everything would end up okay; this is what usually happened when Crowley saw things his mind didn't want to register. After accepting the wise words of his Inner Aziraphale, Crowley usually would go get drunk. Unfortunately, usually the problem was not Aziraphale himself, and the actual angel probably would have appreciated a little worry on his behalf right now. This left Crowley in a frozen state, which was impressive considering his current location was the heat of Hell.

Satan took a deep breath to calm himself, basking in the shocked stares he had received from this. "But," he brightened up, "I can't imagine you're going to be so damn passive, little brother." He smiled at Michael, who instantly snarled in response.

Oh, Crowley realized in a corner of his mind that was not acknowledging his best friend's current condition, he went to his happy place again. Good… good for him… It'd better be freakin' happy.

"Hey, Mom. You're an idiot," War spoke up from her cell.

Instantly Satan's barely-contained fury was back. "It's not your turn yet, dear."

She didn't look amused, or like she wanted to taunt him anymore. In fact, she looked even angrier than he did. "I'll tell you why you're an idiot. You actually think you can keep me here. You actually think you can hurt me. No one, not even you, can stop me." She was very abruptly outside of her cage. "YOU CAN'T CONTAIN ME, I AM WAR YOU FOOL!" she shrieked before decapitating the Adversary rather effortlessly.

Michael stared at Satan's corpse with a slack jaw. War let them out of their cages.

Crowley blinked and shook his head a few times to clear his thoughts. His Inner Aziraphale was telling him he'd get biscuits if he managed to get everyone out. "We have to get out of here now and we have to do it stealthily!" Crowley debated whether or not to make Michael carry Aziraphale – it would prevent him from attacking anyone, but right now, Crowley needed to be assured that Aziraphale wasn't dead. He certainly looked it, and Crowley couldn't really fault him for it if he was. Trying not to think about that, he hoisted Aziraphale over one shoulder, tucking the severed wings under the opposite arm while trying not to think about that either. "We have to get far enough away from the Big Cheese here so that his influence stops interfering with me being able to get enough energy to escape."

"That seems needlessly complicated," War pointed out, wiping the sword off on her pants.

"It's Hell – the definition is practically 'needlessly complicated!'"

"Okay, okay, fair enough, quit freaking out."

"You know, War," Michael interrupted shakily, weakly, as he went for his own sword, "maybe we are related. I always wanted to do that to Lucifer too."

She looked dejected. "Aw, and now it's no fun!"

Crowley stood near the door out. "Once we get out of here you two can go on a killing spree, or whatever it is nutcases do to bond, but first-"

"Oh, right! Let's get out of here!"

They followed Crowley out of the dungeons, each trying to actually be stealthy, War because she was bored with Hell now and Michael because he had a very good view of what would happen to him if he got caught again. As a result, they made it back to Belial's office without incident. The Archdevil in question was still dead, although he wouldn't be for much longer.

Crowley was working on autopilot as he created the portal back to Earth by harnessing the demonic aura around him. Once he portal was formed, Crowley could see through the red haze to a city on the other side. But when Crowley moved to step forward, it was like he was walking into a window.

"What the-!" he exclaimed, "Why won't it let me through!"

Michael took a deep breath, like he'd been suffocating and was finally able to get oxygen before he died. Looking much healthier, he glanced at War. "Why did we even bring him along?"

She shrugged.

"The only ones who would bother – Beelzebub! He's still alive and functioning and doesn't want us leaving! He must be blocking the way out!"

"We don't have time to waste then," Michael said, drawing his blade, "The longer we wait, the more likely Aziraphael is to die." Drawing on the power that was weakly filtering in through the barrier, he smashed through it with all his strength.

However, despite its glass-like quality, the barrier did not make a smashing, shattering sound. The sound it made was very similar to "shke-BOOM!"

A sudden earthquake knocked the little scooter off its path, throwing its passengers to the cement beneath them.

"Ah'm dead!" Shadwell lamented.

"Oh dear. Oh, oh, oh dear," Madame Tracy's passenger commented, sitting up. "Oh dear. That's not good."

"What's not good?" the real Madame Tracy asked.

"Foul, evil, witchy voodoo!"

"Oh would you hush! Not everything is about witches, especially not this!"

"Ye would say that, ye witch. Thas right, I cannae die 'til I finish ye off." He pushed himself up, brushing off his clothes.

"So what is going on?" Madame Tracy asked, righting her bicycle.

"We're running out of time, that's what."

Luckily for Adam, he had finished a meeting with the mayor before the extreme rush of power ran amok through his body. He could feel it in every cell of his being – a glorious rush of pure energy the likes of which he had never felt before, not even during the last "Apocalypse". He had to admit how intoxicating it was, how amazing it felt to feel like he was connected to the world, like it was his… And then he noticed he was glowing like a black-light and forced himself to calm down.

"What the heck was that?" he wondered. And then he gasped in understanding. "Oh, ha, I made a pun. ... Crap."

There was a sudden onrush of pain that made Anathema grasp her head and drop her latest in a line of coffee cups. She collapsed, crying out as her mind was assaulted with intense extraplanar energy.

As she rested on the floor, trying to catch her breath and will the pain to recede, she heard twin cries from upstairs.

The explosion had taken out two city blocks of downtown Manchester, leaving Michael, War, Crowley and the unconscious Aziraphale amidst rubble in front of a large dimensional vortex leading to Hell. People ran screaming in every direction, away from the scene.

"Isn't that supposed to close?" Michael asked, looking at the portal behind him.

"It's broken," Crowley replied in a dead voice, "It's stuck open. You broke the barrier between Earth and Hell. Give 'em enough time and soon every demon in Hell will invade."

"Oops," Michael guessed, not really feeling guilty but interpreting that Crowley expected him to.

"Oh, it gets worse," Crowley continued, his voice taking on a desperate tinge, "Now that this gate is open, Heaven can see it as an act of war and open up theirs, and Heaven and Hell fighting on Earth is the Apocalypse, which means we just started the Apocalypse."

"Finally!" both Michael and War exclaimed together.

"If I'd have known it would start in Manchester, I never would have spent so much time here," Crowley lamented. "All that time spent – er, but," he looked to the angel on his shoulder, "we need to get him healed - "

"Right, we'll get out of here and then come back," Michael established.

"You joking? I'm not going anywhere!" War exclaimed brightly, looking downright thrilled with this turn of events, "I've been waiting for this forever!"

Michael reminded her, "You haven't been around forever."

"Well, for a very long time then. You boys go ahead and run off," she waved Aziraphale's sword around excitedly, "And I'll stay here and fight stuff!"

Michael reached forward and stole the sword from her unsuspecting grasp.

"Uh!"

"It's not yours!"

"But-"

Crowley felt a hand on his shoulder then a sensation of being dragged forcibly through space, and opened his eyes to find himself back in Aziraphale's bookshop.

War scowled and cracked her knuckles. "Okay, fine, we'll do this the old-fashioned way."

The first of the demons poked its head through curiously.

Then she smiled. It was a bright, joyous smile, the kind that a young child gets upon receiving everything for Christmas that they've been requesting for six-thousand-some years.

Michael rubbed his temples. "That was harder than it should have been… I guess the demonic energies…"

"But you should've taken him to Heaven!" Crowley snapped back, depositing Aziraphale on the couch.

"I couldn't leave you in Manchester. Consider it payback for helping me save him."

"Stupid angels," Crowley muttered.

Michael was scowling as he looked at Aziraphale, shaking his head. "This is too much," he murmured. "We're going to need Raphael. And even then…" He gritted his teeth and looked at Crowley. "You might want to go hide. I don't know how good your memory is, but Raphael is… erm… protective. A demon sitting next to his mortally wounded son…"

"Point taken," Crowley admitted, moving to hide in the stairwell that led to Aziraphale's nearly-unused bedroom. His memory certainly wasn't that good, as he couldn't remember Heaven at all anymore, not really, but he certainly knew better than to be on the bad side of an Archangel. He'd really had enough of them lately.

From his vantage point his vision was narrowed to the near-death Aziraphale lying on the couch.

Michael called out, "Hello, is anyone there?"

"Hello Michael, what can we do for you?" Metatron sounded a lot nicer than he did for Aziraphale, Crowley noted, but it was a completely fake niceness, saccharine.

"I need Raphael down here."

"The Healer is busy, actually," the Voice responded, "You know how he is."

"Trust me when I say he's not busy enough to justify missing this. Get him, Metatron."

"Hold on a moment if you please, Michael. Would you like some tea while you wait?"

"No thank you," Michael replied through gritted teeth.

"Are you sure? We have-"

"WOULD YOU SHUT UP AND GET HIM ALREADY?"

The shop was filled with the soft blue light of holy energy, and Crowley heard a voice say, "Hello my dear, you called? You look exhausted, Michael, have you been overdoing the smiting again? Honestly-"

"Raphael, what you are going to see is going to shock you. You need to move past it and start healing. Don't ask any questions. Understood?"

"Of course, dear, what-" And then there was an audible gasp. "ZIZI?"

Crowley had to wince at the shock and pain in that voice.

"Go, Raphael!"

"His wings, his skin, it's… I…"

"Calm down and get to work." Michael was clearly trying to be as forceful as possible without being harsh.

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…" But there was rustling while the mantra was being spoken, and the red-headed Archangel bustled into view dressed in a comfortable angelic green robe which changed into a pair of surgical scrubs. "You're going to have to hold his wing. Oh, Zizi, what happened to you my dear? Don't you worry, I'm here to help you." The Healer began to Heal, speaking in soothing tones all the while, assuring everyone that everything would be fine. His face suggested otherwise.

After a few minutes, Raphael wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. "Call Uriel," he said tersely. "I'm starting to run out of energy – such damage! I've never seen such… Well, yes, call Uriel. I channel the Presence into healing, and he… Oh dear."

"Use me," Michael responded.

"You're barely standing as it is, Michael dear. And Uriel is the Archangel of the Presence, he's got plenty to spare, and oh dear."

It was interesting for Crowley to see an Archangel fretting… like Aziraphale tended to fret when things seemed horrible. Raphael was so distracted that he actually saw Crowley and didn't seem to notice him.

Or so Crowley thought. Raphael moved to sit on the couch, pulling Aziraphale's head onto his lap and stroking it gently. "Oh, and Michael," Raphael called – Crowley could hear Michael calling for Uriel in the other room – "there's a demon in here. Be a dear and remove him when you get the chance, would you? I would do it myself, but I need to see to Aziraphael. He made eye-contact, golden meeting a deep shade of moss green. "You stay over there, please, or remove yourself."

"I didn't hurt him - I saved that poncy prat, thank you very much," Crowley retorted, too exhausted to worry about getting smote.

"Of course I knew you didn't do this damage. I can tell from your aura you couldn't hope to hurt Aziraphael. Oh, Uriel, it took you long enough, take my hand!"

Crowley did have enough energy to snort in derision.

"Oh, wow, he's looked better," Uriel said, grasping Raphael's free hand. The Healer's other hand continued to stroke Aziraphale's head. They glowed brightly as Aziraphale began to mend. Eventually, Raphael looked exhausted, Aziraphale looked peaceful, and Uriel looked confused. "Now that I've gotten to be the hero, what happened to him?" Uriel asked, withdrawing his hand.

"Hit by bus," Aziraphale croaked, his voice sounding hoarse. "Bus named Satan. Bloody bugger."

To Crowley's surprise, Raphael rapped Aziraphale's ear. "No swearing, Zizi!"

Aziraphale muttered something that might have been "sorry."

But Raphael was smiling brightly, and although the exhaustion was still showing itself through his eyes, it was mixed with relief. "Although it's nice to see you're conscious, darling. You gave me quite a fright, you did. Usually one person doesn't get hurt quite so badly, but you've always had to go above and beyond, haven't you?" He began glowing at this point. "And you never visit anymore, and I can't believe you never mentioned your demon boyfriend."

"Ngk," said Crowley.

"It would be nice to actually see you at times when you haven't been discorporated-"

Michael cleared his throat loudly.

"Oh, right, sorry. You were going to say?"

Michael explained Hell's desire to punish Crowley and how they used Aziraphale to achieve that punishment, and went on to describe their daring and dangerous rescue mission, taking care to make himself look particularly heroic. According to Michael's version of the story, War hadn't even been there and Crowley had spent his time in Hell trying to walk through a wall. He finished by saying, "What you see here is Lucifer's personal handiwork."

"My poor Zizi," Raphael murmured. He'd finished clearing the tangles out of Azirphale's hair and had since moved on to cleaning his face with a spat-upon handkerchief.

Aziraphale mumbled something that sounded like "thank you."

Uriel turned around and stared at Crowley, who was still sitting in the stairway. "Why would Aziraphael be taken instead of you?" he asked.

The presence of so many angels had given him a headache. "You know, the reason I'm sitting in the dark is so you don't talk to me."

Uriel stepped forward until he filled the stairwell's opening. The archangel was not physically assuming - he was rather slender and short with thick curly black hair and a distant expression - but he had never winched in his wings, and they were rather large. "I recognize your aura," Uriel said slowly, as if he was dreaming.

When Crowley thought about it, the Archangel of Repentance and the Divine Presence had always appeared as if he was dreaming. Or high.

"You're one of the Fallen, aren't you? Hmm, but which one?"

"Shouldn't you be more worried about the not-Fallen angel?" Crowley deflected.

"There were an awful lot of you, everyone from the Morning Star to the ones who Fell almost as an afterthought," Uriel continued, "but you seem awfully familiar…"

"Name's Crowley. Serpent of Eden. And that's it. Now you definitely have more important-" Crowley stopped when the shop filled with yet another soft blue glow. "Oh come on! How many of you are there!"

"Four," Uriel replied, seemingly not picking up on Crowley's impatience.

This time the Archangel Gabriel descended from on high, coming to stand in the back room of Aziraphale's bookshop. Between the six figures now present, there wasn't a lot of room and Crowley had an angelically-induced migraine. He as never before appreciated that his sunglasses covered his eyes and reduced glare. "It's been awhile since I've had to deliver a message to you," Gabriel said, his voice devoid of emotion as he looked up at Michael. "Lucky me. Well, the message is for all of us, except for the hiding demon and… is that Aziraphael?" One impeccable eyebrow rose. "Raphael, you look almost as bad as he does."

Raphael smiled weakly. Aziraphale's face was now perfectly clean. "Tell us your message, dear."

"The gate to Hell opened at Manchester when you escaped," Gabriel recounted solemnly, "and The Lord Our Father hath assigned us, the Four, to stave off the tide until the Host is ready to march."

Michael didn't look comfortable with that. "Shouldn't I be leading…"

"That task has been assigned to Ramiel," Gabriel reported.

"Oh, Ramiel. Right," replied Michael in a tone that indicated he thought the battle was a lost cause by virtue of who was in charge.

"Although perhaps you ought to not come," Gabriel continued, referring to Raphael.

"Of course I should come!"

"He's right, you're in no condition to do anything," Michael said sternly, in his best "first among equals/big brother" voice. "And there are enough demons running around outside that this won't be remotely easy, even for us."

"When was the last time the four of us got to go smiting as a family?" Raphael protested.

"You don't like smiting anyway," Gabriel reminded him.

"Well no, but someone has to keep you alive while you go – without supervision the two of you are as likely to kill each other as you are to smite any demons, and Uriel can't walk anywhere without hurting himself!"

"I can too!" Uriel protested, being sure to stand still so he didn't prove Raphael right.

"And Zizi here needs rest, which he won't get if he gets eaten by demons now will he?"

"We'll take Crowley," Michael stated, crossing his arms as if to say that the conversation was done.

Crowley hadn't even been paying attention as he tried to keep his migraine in check. But at the sound of his name, he looked up sharply.

Raphael eased Aziraphale's head off his lap, standing up and stretching out his wings. "Nonsense, my dear," he began, adopting a tone that Crowley recognized – the "I sound very nice, but God Himself will have to intervene to save you if you keep pressing this issue" tone. He restored his robes to their pristine Heavenly state. "I am perfectly fine now, and Zizi will be fine once he's had enough rest. I'm sure Mr. Crowley will take very good care of him, won't he?"

"Kireawel," Uriel said fondly, sounding very proud of himself for having figured it out.

The Four stared at him with a little more interest now. Crowley pinched his nose when it started bleeding due to the interest of all four of them.

"Zizi's little friend who Fell?" Raphael gushed, seeming genuinely pleased. "Oh, how adorable!"

"The one who almost got him killed, and that was unintentionally?" Gabriel added, looking a delicate cross between apathetic and disgusted. "And that's barring the times he actively discorporated him. He's a demon now, Raphael, stop looking so chipper."

"Would you crazies just go already?" Crowley snapped.

"The longer we wait the more demons will be loosed!" Michael roared. The other three stared at him. "We are going to leave now, and Crowley, if you know what's good for you, Aziraphael will be alive when this is all said and done!"

"Alive and well!" Raphael called back as the Four left the bookstore, "And-" The door slammed shut.

Crowley waited for a few minutes, willing his migraine to recede. Then, tentatively, he got up and approached the nearly-unconscious angel. While the physical wounds were now mostly healed, the fact that the cheap sofa had once been a very conservative cream but was now red served as a constant reminder of what Aziraphale had been through.

Crowley tentatively touched Aziraphale's wing, and it twitched in response.

"Cr… Crowley?"

"Hey angel, you're safe now. You can probably even get some sleep now that they're all gone."

Aziraphale smiled, although it looked almost insubstantial. "I… I…"

"Shh…" Crowley hissed softly, both terrified and tempted by what he thought what Aziraphale was trying to say.

"Crowley, I… …. would really like a mocha."

Crowley actually laughed. It was a laugh of relief, disappointment, and general amusement at Aziraphale's first request being a mocha. "Good to see you're still alive. … … Zizi."

"Smite you," is what he was pretty sure Aziraphale responded. "In the face."

Crowley made a mental note to get an extra shot of espresso in that mocha.

The door opened again. Uriel glanced around shiftily, even though Crowley could clearly see him so the angel wasn't exactly being stealthy. The youngest Archangel sniffed before smiling, walking to Aziraphale's desk and looking in the bottom drawer. He pulled out a box. "Thought so!" he exclaimed, taking a few chocolates and popping them in his mouth. With a contented hum, he ran back after his comrades.

Crowley sighed. The world's doomed, he thought.

"Ow!" Uriel squeaked as his hip got caught on the edge of the desk. "Raphael! The desk hurt me!" The door slammed shut behind him.

Chapter Text

The Four Archangels had borrowed* motorcycles and were driving down the road. They had also manifested clothing for blending in (some faring better than others) and miracled knowledge of how to use these odd contraptions. Michael and Raphael had nearly identical looks of concentration and Divine Wrath on their faces, whilst Gabriel looked passive and Uriel was humming joyfully to himself.

"Why aren't we flying?" Gabriel inquired.

"Too much turbulence," Michael called back tersely.

"Oh, I suppose your wingspan isn't broad enough if that bothers you," Gabriel said curtly.

"Oh, ha ha. Remind me to punch you when we get to Manchester."

Raphael was so distracted he hadn't even remembered to put on a helmet. He couldn't help but think of his baby Aziraphael, laying there on a dusty old couch, so very weak and being protected by a demon, old friend or no. Aziraphael had been such a good boy growing up, had only made Raphael worry once while in Heaven and had always been polite while getting patched up after being inconveniently discorporated during his stints on Earth, but if he recalled correctly he'd expressly forbidden Aziraphael from speaking with Kireawel. Apparently he should have kept up with that, as clearly Aziraphael hadn't listened. But, then again, they seemed to get along so well, and a demon risking his life for Aziraphael… maybe they would get married one day? That would be so sweet, if a bit off-kilter, but it was time Aziraphael settled down and at least there would be no chance of Raphael's having a Nephil grandson, wouldn't that be scandalous, although maybe they could adopt because a grandchild to dote on would just be so wonderful and -

Raphael's thought process was interrupted by Michael saying, "The gate opened in Manchester, which is over 250 kilometers away. At the rate we're going, we should probably get there in three hours."

"Goodie!" Uriel said cheerfully.

"Are you even paying attention?" Gabriel demanded unnecessarily. "Sometimes I don't know what we're going to do with you," he muttered as Uriel simply smiled in reply.

Truthfully, the Four Archangels had to admit to themselves that it was quite enjoyable getting out of Heaven and being just the four of them again. It wasn't as if they didn't like Raguel, Zerachiel and Ramiel – three pleasant enough fellows, really – but they were sort of like members of a band added after the band was already famous; they were just sort of there, and if the original four were honest with themselves, they didn't see the others as Archangels anyhow.

But more importantly, the Four Archangels enjoyed being out of Heaven because all that attention can get a little unnerving. Although technically there isn't supposed to be anything like that – everyone is supposed to be equal, after all - Heaven does have celebrities, and they are the Archangels. Like human celebrities, the four featured in this tale are the A-listers whilst the three not appearing are the B-listers (except for poor Zerachiel, who is more of a C-lister). To go along with that, they each have their own fans and every action they perform is scrutinized.

Michael's angelic fangirls are the kind who idolize Fight Club or Troy-era Brad Pitt. With golden hair curled into impossibly perfect ringlets, muscles gained from a hardcore workout regimen, and strong facial features that scream masculine, every time he happens to get overworked and take off his shirt legions of angels swoon. He often winks and flexes, which can drive poor young angels to faint from glee. To top it off, he can be extremely affable as long as he is respected, despite his tendency to smite first and ask questions later (which is not really applicable in Heaven, after all). It all makes for a very attractive picture, as long as you aren't a demon.

In contrast, Gabriel's fans are alike to Zac Effron's, or Justin Bieber's. They admire his physical attributes that one might describe as "girly": his extremely luscious eyelashes, fine facial features, and wavy brown locks that fall to his shoulders. He is constantly immaculately groomed. His fans also share a bond with fans of Victoria Beckham as he still has his fair share of admirers despite his extremely stoic-bordering-on-cold demeanor; although, one of the more-asked questions in Heaven – one of the few that doesn't get one Felled – is why the Lord would choose the "least charismatic" (really, the least affable) Archangel to tell people important things**. In Heaven some angels keep track of "Gabriel-isms", which are particularly ingenious insults that he dishes out to those he feels are inept (which is everyone, when you get down to it). Also, humans have a nasty tendency to portray him as a female, a fact that wouldn't bother him at all if a certain (in his humble opinion) moron didn't point it out constantly.

Uriel's fans are akin to Angelina Jolie's. With silky black curls, finely-chiseled features and gorgeous, ethereal violet eyes, the package is beautiful but his fans are hard-pressed to forget the vials of Billy Bob Thornton's blood or public kissing sessions with one's brother, no matter how many orphans get adopted***. When embracing his role as the Angel of Repentance Uriel can be downright creepy, inducing extreme amounts of guilt into those he thinks can repent and outright showing no empathy for those who he think can't. When he isn't judging others he is basking in the glow of the Presence, the sense of love and belonging all angels feel and which he happens to feel multiple times stronger than any other angel. It's intoxicating, and it shows.

And then there is Raphael, who doesn't have any fan girls, not really. Rather, he attracts the sort who would develop an extremely powerful crush on his or her favorite professor, except Raphael would never take advantage of such a thing, instead treating his admirer to a nice hot meal while advising her that she's a sweetheart, truly a dear, and someday she'll find a good boy closer to her own age, here, have a biscuit, that's a good girl.

Yes, Raphael is a little too nice for his own good. Case in point, the trip to Manchester was made even longer when Raphael felt compelled to heal a struck cat on the side of the road and promptly lost consciousness, his powers taxed to their limit.

* It's not stealing if you're On a Holy Mission.

** Because His options were Michael, who would likely either get drunk with the messengee or smite her; Uriel, who would forget the message before getting there; or Raphael, who would bake the messengee a plate of healthy biscuits and give her some good-old-fashioned psychotherapy to make sure she took the news well.

*** Pertaining to Angelina, not Uriel. Uriel didn't even know who Billy Bob Thornton was, and Raphael was the only Archangel to ever adopt.

Meanwhile, Crowley sprinted back into the bookshop carrying two venti café mochas from next door*. He willed the door shut, continued sprinting to the back room, shoved both beverages to the now-sitting-up Aziraphale, and sprinted back out, willing the door to the back room shut this time.

He wasn't stupid; he knew full well the five imps were going to follow him here. He could handle them, but better to engage them on his terms rather than –

"Ooo, two!" Aziraphale said perkily, loud enough for Crowley to hear him.

"One of those is for me!" Crowley snapped back.

The angel's noise of disappointment was drowned out by someone trying to ram the door down from outside. Then, "Crowley dear, do I have customers? I could have sworn I flipped the sign to 'closed'."

The door practically exploded inward.

Crowley snarled at the intruders, wings spread, fangs extended and claws showing as a show of dominance, protectiveness and aggressive defending. He even took off his sunglasses to show that his eyes were glowing red, just to enforce that he was not messing around. He normally disliked showing any demonic attributes for fear of not being able to get rid of them, but demons, even the lesser ones, were rarely intimidated by just sunglasses and expensive suits.

"Not any who want to buy books, Aziraphale."

"The best kind!" the angel called back.

Crowley vaguely considered correcting him, but realized that to Aziraphale five lesser demons bent on killing them both would be better than someone trying to buy books.

"Crawly," one hissed, "there's a price on your head, double for your angel."

"I'd say 'don't worry,' except the Prince wants you both alive," another chimed in.

"My name'ssss Crowley," he snarled back. "I'm one of the Fallen; you aren't even worthy of cleaning up my molted featherssss. Sssso I sssuggesssst you back off."

Three of the quieter demons looked intimidated at this point. The first two, however, did not. "Rumor has it you haven't been much of a demon for awhile now," the first retorted, "Angel-fucker."

Much akin to holy water baths as a form of murder that most demons wouldn't dare sink to, there are some insults that any self-respecting demon would not tolerate. You can call a demon a sex toy, a steaming pile of excrement, or any number of bodily fluids – he'll likely find it hilarious. But to accuse a demon of fraternizing with angels is Simply Unacceptable**.

So when Crowley used Aziraphale's desk to launch into a high kick that was hard enough to cause the imp's head to very well explode, said imp should not have been terribly surprised. Crowley moved too quickly for the other imps to even react, grabbing one of Aziraphale's many Bibles off the closest shelf and using it to smash another imp on the back of the head, making the whole creature dissolve. He quickly dropped the Bible when it started disintegrating his once-again-materialized gloves.

He reached between dimensions and grabbed the discarded machine gun from Hell, holding it up threateningly against the three survivors. "Now then," he said calmly, "my asssssoccciate would not appreciate me desssstroying his shop, but if you don't get out now I'll risssssk it."

The three survivors bolted in terror.

Crowley sighed and relaxed, allowing his demonic aspects to disappear and placing the machine gun down in the corner. It was actually quite relieving to him that, despite being on the lam as it were, he still had access to his full repertoire of Hell powers. He miracled his clothes back to their pristine state – one pant leg had gotten imp goo on it, although the rest of him had remained unharmed - and opened the door to go check on Aziraphale.

The angel was back to being curled up and was now shivering, sipping his hot mocha reverently. "They were teenagers, weren't they? Hooligans, really. Not all of them, of course, but-"

Crowley shook his head, cutting him off. He grabbed his own mocha. "No, those were some lesser demons. Apparently they've been out of Hell long enough to get here. They're coming after us specifically. There's a bounty on our heads now."

Aziraphale looked up at him with horror in his eyes. "We can't let them come here!" he protested. He tried to sit up but had to admit defeat. "The books-"

"Yes yes your blasted bloody books are fine," Crowley snapped, neglecting to mention the Bible he'd used as a weapon which now had a large imprint in its cover. "And I'm fine too, thanks for asking!"

"I can tell that by looking at you."

"… oh. Er." Crowley sighed and shook his head to clear his thoughts. "I can't do this alone," he admitted.

"Do what alone?"

"Keep you safe, which by default means keeping your books safe, and keep me safe. How do you contact Heaven?"

"What?" Aziraphale finally forced himself back into being vertical.

"Contact Heaven. I can take care of myself just fine, but… listen, I don't want you to get killed, especially since you can't defend yourself so it'd be all my fault. Maybe I could get them to beam you up or something; you can heal there."

"Crowley, what did I tell you about pop culture references when you're sober?" Aziraphale said sternly.

Crowley ignored him, looking around where Michael had earlier been speaking with Metatron. He vaguely wondered if his trying to contact Heaven would result in a Massive Holy Lightning Bolt of Smiting, but figured Heaven had bigger problems than one demon trying to save one angel.

"There's a circle underneath the carpet," Aziraphale volunteered weakly. "You'll need some candles – oh, dear, let me do it-"

"You stay sitting," Crowley said with a stern point in his direction***. Once the angel sighed and acquiesced, Crowley drew back the carpet.

When his toe touched the edge of the holy circle, blue light filled the shop

"What demon dares attempt contact with Heaven?" Metatron called.

"Am I the only one he won't talk to?" Crowley heard Aziraphale complain. "And I light candles and everything!"

Metatron, despite a droll voice that indicated he was humourless, chortled. "Candles are outdated. Everyone up here snickers when you call using candles."

Aziraphale gasped. "No one told me that!"

"I wonder why," the Voice replied dryly.

Crowley quickly established his credentials before he got smote, either on purpose or in the crossfire. "I'm trying to help Aziraphale! Er, Aziraphael, whatever you call him! He's injured, and there are demons everywhere, and he needs to get back to Heaven so he doesn't get eaten or something!"

The Voice of God was silent for a moment, but the light continued to fill the shop. "No one may enter or leave Heaven at this time, damned one."

"But he's an angel! You're just doing this because you don't like him! I don't like him either! See, we have something in common! So you should take him back!"

"Your kind has invaded the surface, and we are preparing. Heaven is currently in a state of emergency. No one may enter or leave Heaven at this time, demon." And with that the light disappeared.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale commented. He was back to lying down again.

Crowley scowled, resisting the urge to swear. "Sorry about that."

"It's all right," Aziraphale replied glumly. "I dare say I'm used to it. He hasn't liked me for awhile now."

"Well, I'll think of something to do with you. Until then…" He materialized a bottle of vintage wine. "Care to make what little blood you have left almost purely alcohol?"

"My dear, I have never wanted anything more before."

* The owner of what had once been a porn shop had been very surprised to find himself making the most exquisite espresso beverages after the Incidents Recounted in the Prequel. That being said, he had actually gained more business selling coffee drinks than he had selling DVDs and sex toys due to the patronage of the well-to-do old-book seller next door, so he couldn't complain.

** No matter how accurate it may be.

*** A move that, despite having been used by the angel repeatedly over the past couple of millennia, did not make it easier for him to accept.

In the wake of the inexplicable earthquake and the subsequent migraine it had given her, Anathema had vacillated between the following opinions:

a) Agostino's getting Adam's visit right had simply been a fluke and she was wasting her time; or

b) she just hadn't read enough of the book and there would be something of use to her in there. She might have felt better if she had known that there were, in fact, angels on motorcycles and that Agostino was actually predicting things, but she couldn't have known that.

As a result, she arbitrarily opened up to a page, deciding that whatever prophecy she chanced upon would seal the deal for her.

"And thus a daemon shalle open up Heaven's Gate and – oh, 'tis not goode. Welle, I'll be deade when it happens. Anyhow, a daemon shalle open up Heaven's Gate and a peace will be waged, and the worlde sharl – oh buggre it – go kabloomy. I need to get out more oftene. Maybe I shoulde take up witch burning? There is money in it, or so I have hearde. Oh, I can juste see Agnes burning, and I do but smile."

Anathema smacked her forehead. "You know," she informed her great-great-to-the-nth-power uncle, "I hope you're rotting somewhere, I really do. And if you're not, when I die I will hunt you down and torment you." She paused thoughtfully before amending, "Unless you actually, you know, help save the world or something." She sighed. "Back to reading, I suppose."

The Happy Porker Café had seen some interesting sights in its position along the motorway.

Skuzz, former Hell's Angel and Lesser Biker of the Apocalypse, had also seen some interesting sights (and sites). He just couldn't remember them. He vaguely recalled that he had been riding with his buddies, his gang, Big Ted, Pigbog and Greaser, but then there was somethin' involving fish and that was the best he could get. He was also sure he had a really great name.

But Big Ted, Pigbog and Greaser had moved on, leaving poor Skuzz all alone in the world, with no friend but the tired waitress who spent most of her days serving the occasional customer who came to this diner. She had even offered Skuzz a job, although there weren't really any people to beat up so he didn't get to do much. But it was something, and he got pizza for it.

That all changed when four newbies showed up – Skuzz's heart leaped to see they had all shown up on motorcycles except one, who was being carried by the big muscular one while his motorcycle followed dutifully behind. For some reason that didn't strike Skuzz as being all that weird.

What did strike him as weird was that only one of them, the big one, was dressed like a biker, wearing a black leather jacket, sunglasses* and a pair of blue jeans. The unconscious one was dressed in a dark green turtleneck sweater and a pair of cargo pants, so he looked more like a librarian or a professor or something lame that Skuzz didn't have a lot of experience with. The brown-haired one was wearing a black trench coat and wasn't showing any emotion with his face, which was creepy. Then there was the last one, the one with black hair, who was dressed like an extra from Pirates of the Caribbean (Skuzz hated that movie) or like a Shakespearean actor (Skuzz hated Shakespeare). Skuzz really wanted to beat the crap out of him, but he fought this instinctual reaction because that big one was, while not as tall as Skuzz, definitely more muscular, and the rest of Hell's Angels were gone now, gone to the big motorcycle garage in the sky.

But, despite their obvious shortcomings, these ones had potential.

The three awake ones got the unconscious one into a booth sitting up. "You know, it's just like him," the big one complained, "And he's the Healer, of all things!"

"Hush Michael," the stoic one said, "Not so loud, I'm fairly certain everyone on this island can hear you."

"Wasn't I supposed to punch you?"

The two kept arguing as the one in the puffy shirt approached the counter. "Hi!" he said cheerfully to the waitress, "My friend over there has lost consciousness because of a near-dead cat, can I have some sort of remedy to give him as a pick-me-up?"

"Do you mean coffee?" the waitress asked. She'd seen weirder.

"Coffee?" the weird one repeated, sounding puzzled.

"Yes you do," the brown-haired one called over.

"Oh, all right then. Yes, I would like some of your coffee."

"Sure thing, sugar pie." It never occurred to her to ask for payment.

She handed the Shakespearean pirate a large cup of coffee. He sniffed it thoughtfully before walking back to the booth, where his friends were looking at him expectantly. Clearly perplexed, he dumped the drink on top of the out-cold redhead. Instantly the redhead was now no longer out cold, but he was jumping around the diner trying to get the boiling hot coffee off his head. The big one tried to wrestle him to the ground, exclaiming, "Raphael! Raphael, calm down, it's only in your mind!"

"Uriel," the boring-looking one asked the one with curly black hair, "when was the last time you were on Earth?"

"Ummm…" Uriel rubbed his chin and looked up thoughtfully.

The next time Skuzz looked to the redhead, the coffee was gone and he'd calmed down. "Oh my, that was most unpleasant. Where are we? I didn't pass out, did I?"

"Actually, yes you did."

"'scuse me," Skuzz said, stepping forward.

All four of the new patrons were suddenly standing together. "Yes?" the stoic one asked.

"I noticed," he continued, not sure what exactly he wanted, "you came 'ere on motorcycles. You a gang, loike I used to be in?"

"A what?" Raphael inquired. None of the others seemed to know either.

"A gang," Skuzz repeated, "Loike, one that rides bikes and kicks arse and stuff. A gang."

"Well, we ride bikes and kick arse," the big one commented, "So… yes?"

"Great, can I come wif you?"

"1213!" Uriel exclaimed.

"Listen, Skuzz," said the stoic one, even though Skuzz had never mentioned his name, "Skuzz? Really? Anyhow, we're going to the Apocalypse site, you can't come with us."

"Gabriel!" the big one hissed.

"Michael," he replied, "he ought to know that coming with us will kill him."

"I'm pretty tough," Skuzz pointed out, "I've nearly died 'afore, you know. And I'm so bored! Lemme come wif you!"

"BC," Uriel finished. **

The other three looked at each other.

"It certainly can't hurt," Raphael admitted.

"Us," tacked on Gabriel, "Unless you include the tension headache I'm sure to get."

"Yay! He's coming with us!" Uriel exclaimed, clapping in joy, "I'm Uriel, and this is Michael, and this is Raphael, and this is Gabriel!"

"You got two 'f the names wrong," Skuzz pointed out, "It's supposed to be Raphael, Michelangelo – although Michael's pretty close – Donatello and Leonardo."

After a minute of silence, Gabriel finally admitted, "What?"

"Gabriel," Michael asked, his voice clearly betraying his sarcasm, "when was the last time you were on Earth?"

"Don't mock me. You have no idea what he's talking about either. It's like having another Uriel."

"Don't bring me into this," Uriel said.

"I'm apparently the only one of us who is right," Raphael said proudly.

Uriel continued, "But I like my own name much better than, what was it, Donatello. Er. Did I really just have to say that?"

"Well, I'll be Donatello," Skuzz asserted. "So where's the Apocalypse happenin' this time?"

"Oh, you're leaving?" the kind waitress asked, "Would you like anything to take with you on your trip?"

All Four Archangels gave her their rapt, undivided attention. If she'd been a demon, she'd be dead.

"Do you have any…" Gabriel began.

"…of that stuff, the good stuff," Uriel added.

"The what's-it-called that Aziraphael brings when he visits," Michael added, tapping his temple, "it's something weird sounding, but so tasty…"

"Chocolate!" Raphael cried proudly.

"I have chocolate muffins," she said, still smiling as she had seen weirder, "Just baked them, in fact."

* If you asked him, he would adamantly deny having stolen the idea from Crowley.

** The last time Uriel was on Earth was to make sure that the Jewish slaves put blood on their doors so that their first-born sons didn't get killed by the plague Moses called down. There's no historical record detailing this, but going off what's hinted in the Bible this gets placed during the reign of Ramesses II, who died in 1213 BC. So the very last time Uriel could've been on Earth was 1213 BC, which is what I went with. See, you learned something today!

Aziraphale's dark celestial blue eyes were focused on his nose as if wondering what it was. Truth be told, he wasn't staring at his nose so much as completely unaware of what it was his eyes were doing. His chin was resting on the table, as he hadn't had the energy to sit up before and now had neither the energy nor the coordination.

Crowley had drunk more than enough for both of them to make up for Aziraphale's being a lightweight, and his entire torso was resting on the table across from the intoxicated angel. "And ssssso," he continued, swishing a bottle of wine around and watching the liquid dance up the sides, "I sssaid, 'they'll sssssserve anyone!'"

They both burst into laughter, which sounded less like two immortal, relatively powerful beings and more like two extremely nerdy kids.

After they calmed down, Crowley reached out and poked Aziraphale's nose once, twice, three times.

"Whoa," Aziraphale breathed, completely in awe.

Crowley laughed. "You are sssssso drunk!" Of course, Crowley himself was so drunk he didn't even notice he was hissing so horribly, but denial is one of his many strong suits.

"Sho're you," Aziraphale replied, his chin on the table making it hard for him to enunciate (not that he had that particular capability right now anyway), "You're drunk, 'mdrunk, we're all drunkdrunkdrunkdrunk. 'Shour fault."

"What'sssss our fault?" Crowley asked, confused.

"Thish," the angel said, as if that explained everything.

Crowley looked around the shop warily. "Actually, I think I had nothing to do with thisssss."

"You broke into Hell in the firsht place."

"Oooooooohhhhhh. Jussst sssssavin' you, dummy, and if that endssss up with Manchesssster off the map, well, have to ssssay it'ssss worth it."

Aziraphale smiled. "You'rebad," he mumbled.

"'m a demon."

"Ish."

"Nuh-uh, not ish!" Crowley protested. At Aziraphale's giggle, he calmed down.

"'shoaky, m'n'angel 'n' not sho much shometimes. Thwart wiless ssmite demons, love people 'n' eat chocolate. My stash ish gone, you know. Ate it all, no more. No more chocolate, all gone, sho shad. Dogsh die if they eat chocolate, you know."

"Nyuh-uh," Crowley said, somehow understanding the mumbling angel.

"Uh-huh, fact."

"Tha's jusssss' not right," Crowley commented. "Pretty sure chocolate isssn't lethal, or else half of Heaven'd be dead."

"Fact."

"Okay, ssssso Cccircle of Life, lion cubssss and ba – ba – big freakin' monkeys with bright arses," Crowley said, sitting up and beginning to talk excitedly, "Everythin's got sssssomethin' that can eat it, you know? You know? Like, like sssnnnakesssss-"

"On planes?" Aziraphale volunteered. "Heard that somewhere, shnakes on planes. One of yoursh."

"No no no no no no, tha's a movie. Made you watch it, didn't make it."

"Oh. What do they eat?"

"Sssssnakesss eat alligatorsssss. Saw it on TV, ana – an – ginormous snake, eatin' an alligator, went split."

"On planes?"

"No no no no no," Crowley said impatiently, "no planes."

"Oh, 'kay."

"An' alligator'sssss eat' everythin' else. Dog'sssss die if they eat chocolate, and chocolate diessss if it eatssss… er…"

"Shnakes," Aziraphale supplied.

"No way," Crowley breathed, "Nothin' eatssss sssnakessss. I would know; 've never been eaten!"

"Mon – mon – big bloody weasels. Come up, how you doin' today, chomp. Dead shnake."

Crowley looked around the shop with apprehension.

"Sho shad," Aziraphale said mournfully.

The demon decided he was not drunk enough to handle the thought of being eaten by mongooses, so he changed the subject as eloquently as possible. "Hey Az… Azir… you. Angel."

"Whassup?" Long ago Aziraphale had come to grips with the idea that his name was impossible to say whilst extremely intoxicated.

"Two things," Crowley said, taking another deep gulp of wine, "One, your wings are a messsssss." And they were – they had previously been tossed into a dirty corner, after all, and they sat on Aziraphale's back covered in dust and dirt (more so than they usually got just being in the shop) and the feathers that had begun growing back were crooked and pressing against other, dislodged feathers. Aziraphale glumly moved his head in approximation of a nod at this assertion. "Ssso I'll fix 'em up for you if you'll tell me a ssstory."

"I luv stories."

"I don't remember Heaven at all, and all the angelsss around got me thinkin'. Did we know each other?" Crowley got up and crossed the room to go to Aziraphale's wings.

Instantly they snapped closer to his body, and Aziraphale managed to get his head up enough to order, "No drunkenness around my wings!" before wincing and allowing his chin to hit the table again.

Crowley sobered up just enough that he wouldn't accidentally fall on top of Aziraphale but not enough to remove his liquid courage. "Okay, 'sss okay. And how did I Fall, anyway? I don't remember."

Ugh, the wings were even filthier up close than from far away, snowy-white feathers dingy enough to be an unappealing sort of gray. Crowley refrained from pointing out that, in the wide spectrum of wing colors, this shade of gray was only found on demons. Crowley tentatively placed a hand on the base of the left wing, waiting out Aziraphale's wince before lightly stroking.

"They're really sensitive," Aziraphale murmured, eyes closing.

"I know. I'll be careful." He started grooming.

"It wash a long time ago," Aziraphale began. Quickly Crowley took a hold of his shoulders and pulled him back so that his chin was no longer resting on the table, using one hand to keep the angel upright and the other to continue stroking misplaced feathers. "We went to shkool together, you used to make fun of me, but some thingsh never change."

"I could do that in Heaven?"

"Yeah, God's a little more lenient with the younger angelsh. Once you reach maturity that short of thingsh a shin, but kidsh are kidsh you know. Anyhow, eventually you convinshed me to go with you into the outliers, which was forbidden for all but Michael'sh troopsh, and we almosht got eaten by dinosaurs."

"Nuh-uh." Crowley brushed dirt off the top of the wing, which twitched in response.

"Uh-huh. Then Raphael shaid we couldn't talk anymore, sho we didn't. After shkool, I worked in the library and you helped Sachluph-"

"Gesundheit."

"Patron angel of plantsh."

Crowley paused. "There's a patron angel of plants?"

"There'sh a patron angel of everything. I'm the patron angel of chocolate and tea. Mmmmm."

"That's awfully fitting."

"Anyhow, you helped Sachluph with making plantsh to go in the new garden."

"Huh. I bet I was good at it," Crowley mused, not too surprised to hear that. He plucked out a couple of loose feathers and smoothed his hand over the spot. He tried ignore it when Aziraphale first squeaked then moaned.

"You were. Too good, actshually. Went to your head, gave you too much free time."

Crowley reached over and grabbed the wine, taking a few more large gulps before handing it to Aziraphale, who took some too. He started on the other wing.

"Sho the rebellion happened," the angel continued, "and you didn't participate, but afterwardsh, I shtill remember, you looked at me – I was the only one of your friendsh who hadn't Fallen, even though we were more like friendly acquaintances really – you looked at me and you shaid, 'Wait, the Lord ish Almighty, sho how could Lucifer rebel without His approval? Tha's just not right.' And then the floor underneath you opened up and you Fell."

Well, that was sort of anticlimactic, he had to admit. "Let's just keep that between you and me; I rather prefer 'sauntered downwards.'"

"It'sh better than 'fell through trapdoor,' I musht say."

"So… Why didn't you ever say anything before?"

"You're touchy."

"I am not!"

"If you re… rec… remember, dearesht, I onshe made the mishtake of shaying your flat was like Heaven or Eden, and you didn't talk to me for decades. I very well thought you died in the Great War."

"They call it World War I now, angel."

"Do they really! How quaint!"

A companionable silence fell between the best friends as Crowley regained his seat, digesting this bit of information. Without his support, Aziraphale's chin hit the table again. He still certainly wasn't back to being completely healed, but his wings felt infinitely better.

Under the influence of alcohol, Aziraphale always found his mind to be much better at analyzing facets of his very long life that he normally would be too ashamed to acknowledge. His love for mochas, for example. Oh, he loved the sweet mix of chocolate and espresso with some nice whole milk. The shame came from the fact that they were coming close to replacing tea in his heart, which just seemed wrong to him somehow. He also could consider his love for deviled eggs, especially when they were dressed up with a little paprika on top and Crowley was paying for them. There was also the fact that he liked devil's food cake more than angel's food cake, which seemed like it should be against the rules.

And then there was his love for Crowley. Oh yes, Aziraphale knew full well that his feelings for the smartly-dressed black-haired demon sitting across from him went beyond mere friendship. They'd known each other for over six thousand years and after all that time the angelic predisposition to love all things trumps the heavenly order to smite all demons. Besides, Crowley most certainly had a spark of goodness and all that. The problem Aziraphale had, however, was that the love he felt for Crowley and the love he felt for everything were so similar and yet so different that he had no idea what he was feeling anymore. Angelic love? Friendship love? … Romantic love? And, what if he'd been a better friend for him when he was an angel… would he still have Fallen? Could Aziraphale have prevented that?

Well, when Aziraphale didn't know what he was feeling, or when what he was feeling was guilt, he figured it was best to ignore it and pull out one of his more inaccurate end-of-the-world prophecy books (1342 Reasons Why the Worlde Wille Ende in 1342, or The Nifer and Accurater Prophecies of Agostino Nutter, Witch Warlocke. Yef, warlocke, which if better than a witch came to mind), have a good laugh and drink some tea. Tea solved everything.

Well, almost everything. It didn't solve the problem about the mochas, after all.

He was about to go do just that (contingent upon him being able to stand when he couldn't even sit up, of course) when Crowley interrupted his thought processes. "What're you staring at," the demon muttered, drinking some more wine.

Aziraphale gave a lazy smile. "My dear, ash much as I 'preciate thish, I need to lie back down, could you pleashe…"

With a non-amused grumble, Crowley got up and guided Aziraphale back to the miracle-clean couch, getting him situated on his stomach. Aziraphale was about to thank him until he remembered something very important that he couldn't believe he'd forgotten. He sobered up and steeled his resolve. "Crowley?"

"Yeah?"

His heart started beating faster. Oh no, what if – no, it couldn't be – "I need you to go and find, it's with the Es, The Importance of Being Earnest."

"… So you can't sit up on your own, but you plan on reading-"

"Just do it!' the angel squeaked. The demon was on the verge of snarling as he ventured out.

As comfortable as he could be given the situation, Aziraphale almost passed out before Crowley returned with the text in question. Aziraphale took it and held it like a teddy bear.

"The Es? Really?"

"S' no one finds it," the angel said, smiling as he gave in to sleep.

Crowley shook his head and sighed with a small smile.

Chapter Text

After draping a couple of blankets over the shivering, still-healing angel, Crowley sat back down on his drinking chair and focused his will on having the chaos outside bypass the bookstore. After about an hour he got up and started pacing, trying to think of a Plan B. He had to do something – the longer he waited, the more he felt like the entirety of Britain was represented by a migraine on his mental map. Aziraphale could take care of himself, but not in this condition – he had developed a fever, likely due to the trauma, and he was murmuring something about Crowley's houseplants involving snuggles and scones in his sleep.

At that he vaguely considered making a run back to his flat in order to check up on the plants and grab some useful supplies while Aziraphale remained unconscious. When he thought about it some more, however, he realised that the only thing in his flat that he could use right now was the present that Aziraphale got him for "not dying from the Armanotgonnahappon": a pair of leather gloves that had been enchanted to allow him, if only temporarily, to lift holy objects. No more hazmat gloves for him. Probably should've thought of that earlier, he thought to himself as he called for them across London. They appeared on his lap in their nice wrapped-with-a-bow box.*

And really, the plants had all become so acclimated to Crowley that none had given any reason to be destroyed; maybe it was finally time to get rid of the whole lot and start over again. Especially if Aziraphale was planning on giving them snuggles.

Because you want the snuggles? a snide voice in his head that sounded remarkably like Hastur commented. Grrrr, I am evil. And you suck.

There were so many things wrong with this situation that Crowley's mouth dropped. "Wait, what?" he demanded aloud, hoping there wouldn't be an answer.

Did I stutter? I said you suck! Inner Hastur responded. And you want to snuggle with an angel! Not just any angel, you want to snuggle with that angel!

"I do not want to snuggle!" Crowley exclaimed. It was easy to discount things coming from Hastur, if nothing else. All he needed to do was pretend the voice was actually Hastur and not a figment of his imagination.

Crowley dear boy, his Inner Aziraphale chimed in, there's no sense in lying to us, as we are figments of your imagination. There went the illusion. It's perfectly all right to want a hug now and then. Tea, biscuits, chip chip cheerio and so forth and so on.

Rather than focus on his words, Crowley decided to focus on how his Inner Aziraphale was somehow even more British and poufy than Real Aziraphale, which did not seem like something that would be possible.

Look at him, Inner Hastur sneered, Not only does he want to cuddle with an angel, but he's so in denial about it he doesn't even believe himself!

It is awfully sad, Inner Aziraphale agreed, twirling his Mary Poppins umbrella.

"There's – I – wrong – I have nothing," he admitted, allowing his forehead to hit the table. "There are no words." He materialized some pure grain alcohol and started chugging. Eventually he managed, "If nothing else, demons do not cuddle with anything, much less angels who have been the demon's acquaintance for six thousand years."

Then I guess you won't have a problem! Ha ha ha ha, you SUCK.

What did I say about lying? We all know full well how you want to be on that couch. It's all right. His Inner Aziraphale patted him on the shoulder. I mean, look at me – er, the me on the couch. Look at how miserable I look! You should go give me a hug. Books, bangers and mash, fish and chips.

"I'm not lying! And I'm not hugging anyone!"

Well, look at the bright side Crawly, Inner Hastur said snidely, at least he doesn't look like a middle-aged chubby bookseller anymore.

"What does that have to do with anything!" Crowley demanded. "I feel bad for him, I don't want to snog him!"

I'm glad you noticed, Inner Aziraphale said primly to Inner Hastur, ignoring Crowley's outburst, But I only did it because the media-

Now he looks like a girl!

How dare you!

Crowley sighed as his two inner voices started duking it out, neglecting to inform his Inner Aziraphale that, yes, he did look like a girl now. It was a lot easier to let the two of them fight each other instead of talk to him, if nothing else.

Aziraphale had, after being told he looked old by Madame Tracy, made adjustments in his routine in an effort to make himself look younger, claiming that he might be a better example and be taken more seriously if he looked more physically appealing, as sad as it was, it was really just terrible what the media did to people these days. Crowley had smirked knowingly and humoured the angel despite knowing he was really just embracing Vanity. In the end the angel was in better shape and took years off his appearance, but he also looked more akin to his angelic self in that he looked decidedly more effeminate. Despite this, Aziraphale continued to anticipate meeting with Madame Tracy again just to see her reaction.

Crowley had noted rather absently that the angel's physical appearance didn't really matter to him at all. When he looked more like an older bookseller Crowley had mocked him for that, and now that he looked distinctly more feminine Crowley mocked him for that instead. That was all the difference it made.

Besides, he couldn't wait to see how the Madame Tracy-Aziraphale reunion would turn out. Madame Tracy had never been one to pull punches, after all.

TRUE BEAUTY IS ON THE INSIDE! Inner Aziraphale screamed in rage as he beat down Inner Hastur with his umbrella.

Then why do – oh my spleen! - you care that you look – the pain! The agony! - like a girl!

Their "argument" was hastily cut off when a piece of glowing paper attached to a brick fell out of the ceiling and onto Crowley's head. The force of the blow knocked Crowley out of his chair.

After banishing the pain, he grabbed the brick and took a look at the paper, which read:

COMMENDATION

TO CRAWLY

FOR HIS DEDICATED EFFORTS TO BRINGING FORTH THE APOCALYPSE

DON'T LET IT GO TO YOUR HEAD, OR WE'LL REMOVE IT

SINCERELY,

THE MANAGEMENT

He snarled and crumbled up the Commendation, throwing it across the room. Of course he'd get a Commendation for this – if he got one for the Spanish Inquisition, it only made sense… But then again, he had caused this one, hadn't he… His train of thought was interrupted when the demonically-active paper hit Aziraphale on the head, who made a surprised squeak and forced himself awake.

"Er, good morning," Aziraphale murmured, "Is it over yet?"

"You know the answer to that question."

Aziraphale sighed, reaching up to rub his head. "I figured as much."

"I have an idea, a Plan B," Crowley proclaimed as Aziraphale moved into sitting up, "I'll take you to Adam, he can keep you safe."

"Oh good, I haven't seen him in too long. His last Christmas card-" Aziraphale tried standing up, but Crowley pushed him back down effortlessly. Crowley materialized him another mocha, handing it to him. He began sipping it happily.

"But there's no way I can drive to Lower Tadfield fast enough and keep you safe from demons on the road there. I'm going to need some backup… Hmmm… with the Witchfinders out of business, do you have anyone else…?"

"Actually, that Shadwell chap did give me a reference to use since he retired," Aziraphale said, looking as if he was going to fall back asleep again even as he drank yet another espresso-laden beverage, "I have an emergency contact list in the top drawer of my desk. It's underneath the receipts."

Crowley found the list and winced.

* Crowley had gotten Aziraphale a plant reject. While it hadn't been able to withstand the competition of being one of Crowley's Plants, it had bloomed some would say miraculously under Aziraphale's care. Crowley may or may not have kidnapped it back in jealousy.

The Order of Our Most Holy Lady of the Righteous Smiting was founded in 1666. That was the year of the Great London Fire, and the last three digits of course led superstitious and fearful townsfolk to believe the fire to be the work of the devil*. This led naturally to the founding of the Order. They are now active in sixteen countries, and continue to thrive on their founding principle – good old-fashioned demon slaying – though have expanded to include slaying vampires, destroying monsters of all kinds, performing exorcisms, destroying witches, and assassinating the occasional insane dictator.

The name comes from an oft-untold version of the Christ Among the Doctors tale. In the original, Jesus remained in Jerusalem without his mother's knowledge, staying in the temple in order to discuss scripture. In the lesser-known version, Jesus had been kidnapped by a Satanic cult and, just before he was about to be sacrificed to the Dark Lord, Mary returned and "verily did open uppe a Holy Canne of Whoop-Ass upon them, and not the mule kind," proving that just because you are chaste and without sin does not mean you can't get in some righteous butt-kicking when the occasion arises.

Each nun is specially trained in a different weapon, although all of them undergo basic handgun lessons and learn hand-to-hand combat for emergencies. A nun's standard equipment include a semi-automatic rifle with bullets loaded with holy water, two handguns with bullets specially scripted with Bible verses**, blessed wooden stakes, and a sword engraved to look like Michael's (as he is the patron angel of the Order.) Whatever other weapons she carries is her business. They wear garnet-red habits and white wimples to signify the blood they spill in the name of the Lord, they all wear large gold cross around the neck to neutralize demonic powers, and their outfits are specially tailored for easy maneuverability, better access to weapons strapped at the thighs, and optimal distraction of lustful demons.

The youngest Sister of the Order was Sister Prudence, who was fifteen but still had an internal fire like someone who'd lived long enough to see all the injustices of the world, which showed in her weapon of choice – a flamethrower. She had spent her humble beginnings living in Lower Tadfield, a place that managed to somehow come up as both perfect and demonic on the Order's sensitive scanners, but had left when her older sister moved in with someone she did not approve of. When asked, she said he was the Antichrist. The other sisters thought she was exaggerating***.

Sister Marilyn answered the call from a number in Soho; the caller cited a reference from the Witchfinders. He gruffly asked for someone to serve as backup, send someone who can shoot things from a moving vehicle and doesn't talk too much, okay thank you, click. Although she did not meet the "doesn't talk too much" clause, Sister Prudence was a crazy good shot with her two 9mm Smith and Wessons and an even better shot with her bazooka, not to say anything about her ability to use a flamethrower like some modern-day goddess of fire, plus she was on her way back to the Order going past the Soho area, so she was dispatched with all due haste.

* If they had asked Crowley, he would have taken no credit for the fire but all the credit for blaming it on the devil. He thought that the whole "666" business was hilarious – as if Satan has a favorite number! - and made a point of reminding everyone of its association whenever possible.

** Except "Thou shall not kill."

*** She wasn't. Prudence was obviously conceived during the phase of Pepper's mother's life wherein she was wearing a bra and trying to be a productive member of society. She no longer looked like a football with golden hair and had no freckles to speak of. There was plenty of strife between Prudence Jane and Pippin Galadriel Moonchild, to put it mildly.

She entered the shop like a whirlwind of blonde hair and red habit. She was clearly very young but she was packing more heat than most police forces, and there was even more attached to her 1976 paint-chipped Austin Rover outside. She looked very familiar, if only Crowley could remember…

"My name's Sister Prudence, with the Order of Our Most Holy Lady of the Righteous Smiting," she informed them tersely, walking quickly through the shop like a woman on a mission, coming to stand in front of the couch where Aziraphale was reclining and Crowley was sitting. "You … called…?" She looked at Crowley with confusion on her young face.

"Seriously? They sent a kid?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale smiled. "Nuns are fun. You can't spell fun without nun!"

"Hey now," she said, looking at Crowley with rage in her green eyes, "I'm here 'cause I got orders, but don't mess with me. There's been a recent surge of demons and I have plenty of other things I could be doin'. So whatdya need?"

Crowley sighed. This seemed like a bad idea. "We're going to Lower Tadfield. You're going to sit in the back seat of my car and shoot stuff that tries to kill us on the road there."

"There's nothing in Lower Tadfield," the nun replied with her tone clearly betraying she was lying. "I grew up there, and, well, there's nothing there. Why do you want to go there?"

"There there there there there!" Aziraphale whispered with excitement, his eyes focusing in different directions in his delirium.

"Shut up!" she squeaked at him, looking embarrassed.

"You know Adam Young?" Crowley interrupted.

"Yeah," she said cautiously, returning her attention to him, "He's living with my sister."

"Oh my," Aziraphale mumbled, "the Antichrist's probable future sister-in-law is a nun. How ironic!" He felt distinctly more awake when the rather chilly barrel of a shotgun was pressed to his forehead. The other gun was now pointing at Crowley.

"How do you know about him?" she demanded. "And don't move, demon."

Crowley was having rather demonic fantasies of shoving that gun down her throat, but Aziraphale merely looked perplexed. "Oh dear, hair trigger temper."

"How do you know he's the Antichrist!" she demanded, pressing the gun into his head a little more.

Someone was snarling. Crowley didn't even realize it was him.

"This is what I get for failing to make you see my wings," the angel replied, and with a thought he removed the illusion that hid them from her view.

She backed up in shock and Crowley took the moment to jump her, knocking both guns out of her hands and across the floor. He got her by the throat but in the course of the scuffle she managed to knee him in the groin with a very loud, "HI-YA!"

He let out an 'oof' followed by a loud string of very rude words.

"Crowley-"

She punched Crowley in the face. They rolled a little further and ended up with her on top, and she pulled out a long, wickedly curved blade from a hilt at her thigh. He caught both her hands as she tried to shove it through his forehead. He tried to miracle her off him but it wasn't working. He was physically stronger than she was, but -

A shot rang out. The fighters got off the floor in shock. Neither had been hit, but the wall behind them was sporting a bullet hole.

Aziraphale was standing calmly, guns in each hand pointed at them. "As I was saying, Crowley dearest, you seemed to have forgotten that she's a trained demon hunter, so it might be prudent to not antagonize her. Oh my, did I just make a pun? I think I did! Oh, I love making puns unintentionally!"

"How can you hold those guns? They've been blessed!" Sister Prudence demanded.

Abruptly Aziraphale sighed. "What is it about me that makes people think I'm a demon?" he asked Crowley.

Crowley relaxed as he shrugged. "I always thought the tweed was a dead giveaway."

"Tweed is evil," she said darkly.

"I'm an angel, Sister Prudence. Oh," he said with a look of surprise crossing his face, "and I'm about to collapse."

Crowley moved forward to catch him, guiding him back to the couch. "Ssstupid," he hissed softly.

Aziraphale gave Sister Prudence a weak smile. "And Adam is a friend, actually. We helped him avert the Apocalypse. You're related to young Miss Pepper, aren't you? My name is Aziraphale, and yes, I am an angel, and this is Crowley, and he's a demon but in name only."

"Hey!"

"Would you like some tea?" he asked, putting on his sweetest smile.

"Would I!" the young girl exclaimed.

With more conversation, mostly led by a slightly out-of-it Aziraphale, it was deduced that Prudence had joined the Order upon finding out about Adam (proving again that Adam really should keep his mouth shut with some important secrets), as she had been understandably freaked out by the idea that the Antichrist lived in her town. Crowley scoffed – he could understand her consternation but really didn't like her - and Aziraphale sweetly listened to her before commenting that it was perfectly all right to be intimidated, and demon slaying was a noble profession (which Crowley did not find amusing), but she ought to have discussed the topic with the spotted penguins living in her attic before leaving.

That was their cue to go.

Sister Prudence and Crowley argued over which of their cars they should take, seeing as she had the corpse of a particularly large demon which she needed to deposit back at the Order in the back seat of hers and the car already had all of her weaponry in it. First Crowley pointed out that she by all rights shouldn't be able to drive alone because she was too young to have a license in the first place, but he only won when he pointed out his car didn't need petrol. That wins most arguments, really.

As Aziraphale was still trembling and slightly delirious, Crowley made him winch in his wings and then wrapped him up in blankets tightly enough so that he resembled an inpatient at a psychiatric ward, or possibly a mummy. He then loaded the bundled angel into the passenger seat of the Bentley while Sister Prudence went to her own old car to get her arsenal. He placed Aziraphale's sword on his lap. He manifested a seatbelt and buckled him in before grasping his chin. "Aziraphale," he said pointedly, making direct eye contact over his sunglasses and the angel's circular glasses, "let me make this deadly clear. If you die, or if you get blood on the seats of this car, I will personally push you out, without slowing down, and I will go get drunk. You understand?"

"Indubitably, old chap," Aziraphale responded cheerfully. Cocooned as he was he looked awfully comfortable, but he was so unaware of his surroundings that his halo lit up the inside of the car.

"Good. Let's get going. Crazy Chick, you're going to shoot stuff."

"Brilliant," Sister Prudence said, loading her vast array of weaponry into the back seat of the Bentley. She got everything in and sat down.

"Didn't ask your opinion," Crowley said tersely, hopping in the driver seat and slamming his booted foot down on the pedal. With the Bentley going 90 down Oxford Street despite it being theoretically impossible, Crowley figured they'd get to Tadfield in about a half hour.

"Now now, be nice to the nice nun. Hmm, I wonder if I just called her pleasant or accurate." Aziraphale looked perplexed (Crowley knew he was out of it because the with-it Aziraphale would have been vehemently protesting this speed, especially citing the human in the car (who secretly thought the speed was the greatest thing ever, actually)). "Perhaps I just told you to be pleasant to the accurate nun. Or accurate to the pleasant nun?"

"Shut up, Zizi."

"Anthony Crowley, call me Zizi again and I will be forced to do something drastically unpleasant."

"Mmmhmm, sure."

Sister Prudence pulled out her bazooka and took aim, ready to start shooting things.

Anger forgotten, Aziraphale continued cheerfully, "Put on some music, my dear." He was fidgeting a bit because his arms were bound by the blanket. "Something I can sing along to. I never got to be in the Choirs but I do so love to sing."

"What is wrong with you?" Crowley asked rhetorically, putting on the radio. He had no desire to listen to "Springtime for Hitler" again* (it got stuck in his head Every. Single. Time.) Anything had to be better. Or so he assumed.

"Just call my name, I'll be there in a hurry, you don't have to worry, 'cause baby…"

Crowley reached out to switch the station when the voice of Diana Ross twisted and deepened, quickly changing to:

THERE AIN'T NO MOUNTAIN HIIIIIIGH ENOUGH, AIN'T NO VALLEY LOOOOW ENOUGH, AIN'T NO RIVER WIIIIIDE ENOUGH, TO KEEP ME FROM GETTING TO YOU!

"What the hell was that?!" Sister Prudence squeaked in surprise.

"Keep your eyes on anyone coming near!" the demon snapped back. She dutifully obeyed – the city was crawling with demons – some literally crawling – and she used a harpy-like entity as target practice. Crowley was about to turn off the radio; he knew he was in trouble, so he certainly didn't need to be reminded of it by his bosses, but:

"Hello!" Aziraphale said cheerfully. "I say, that's a neat trick!"

OH, YOU'RE STILL ALIVE? IT'S WHAT I DESERVE FOR NOT KILLING YOU WHILE YOU WERE STILL HERE, I SUPPOSE. I KNOW YOU'RE THERE, CRAWLY.

"You must have the wrong car," the angel replied, still seeming too damn joyful for someone speaking to the entity that had spent a good couple of hours trying to cause him the most amount of physical pain possible, "I don't know any Crawlys. I knew one once, though, although I must say the name was something of a misnomer. He didn't actually crawl, because to crawl one needs to have legs, which he did not."

ACTUALLY, I THINK IT STILL WORKS. 'CRAWL' JUST MEANS 'MOVE SLOWLY.'

"I suppose, but when you think of crawling, you think of legs, yes? Who describes what snakes do as 'crawl?'"

WHAT'S YOUR BRIGHT IDEA?

"Slithery," the angel said brightly.

Crowley grimaced.

THAT'S EVEN WORSE THAN 'CRAWLY.'

He had to agree.

"Well, fine, but he changed the name you gave him and the same can't be said for 'Slithery,'" Aziraphale huffed.

"I would have changed that too," Crowley admitted.

Aziraphale pouted. "You'll never know that for sure. Now then, Mr. Voice, I would like to reiterate that there are no Crawlys here, good day."

WAIT -

Crowley reached over and turned off the radio.

* The incident with the Best of Queen tape had prompted the Bentley to turn all of the CDs for his new custom state of the art CD player into the soundtrack of The Producers. Crowley wasn't sure why, but then again, he didn't understand what the Bentley had against music in the first place.

The Four Archangels and Leonardo-formerly-known-as-Donatello-formerly-known-as-Skuzz* continued their journey to Manchester, now maybe an hour away from the unholy land. The journey would have been certain death for any mortal (without four "bodyguards") and peril-filled likely resulting in the demise of any ethereal beings, but the waves of demonic underlings spreading out from Manchester were little more than temporary annoyances to the General of the Heavenly Host. Not that, of course, the other three Archangels weren't contributing; Gabriel also used a blade, although his was thinner and lighter than Michael's** and he had less experience with it, Raphael was no warrior but was filled with a parent's rage that made his staff deadly, and Uriel was an expert shot with his aura-infused arrows when he was paying attention long enough to use them. Between the four of them the temporary annoyances weren't even all that annoying.*** Also between the four of them the two dozen freshly-baked chocolate muffins were no more, except for the one that Raphael had hoarded for later.

It wasn't until this point in their trip that the Four encountered anything that would prove problematic.

"So they're teenaged," Uriel recounted, "and mutants, and ninjas, and turtles?"

"That's the right of it," Leonardo established once again. "Though you'd haveta be Donatello, I reckon, even though your Raphael's using the stick, and he'd," he gestured to Gabriel with one hand, "haveta be Leonardo, when you get down to it, so maybe I could be Splinter?"

Gabriel sighed. There was something about this that Uriel simply didn't understand, and although the Archangel of Revelations could relate, it didn't mean that he didn't wish Uriel wouldn't simply give it up. "We are not named for these Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles," he said yet again.

"I say, the concept is interesting though. Humans are so unique!" Raphael gushed, "Although I wonder why Aziraphael never mentioned such a thing before****… Oh dear what is that?"

The beast which Raphael was referring to was a three-headed dog creature, easily larger than all five of the travelers combined, with teeth and claws larger than Michael's sword.

Now then, no matter what may be assumed about them from cursory glances, the four are the Four for a reason, and upon seeing this threat they, in perfect synchronization, slid to stopping and hopped off their motorcycles. Upon passing them, Splinter hopped off his and rolled away, hitting his head on a rock and losing consciousness while his own motorcycle slid forward, running into the demon dog.

"It's the Cerberus," Michael said tensely, assuming his position as their leader, "Weapons at the ready, boys."

"The gate must be getting bigger if something so powerful got through," Gabriel commented, raising his rapier.

"Well, isn't it just a dog with three heads? Shouldn't be-" Raphael cut himself off as Michael ran forward sword first. "Someone needs to remind him about patience and its status as a virtue."

"You know what humans say about old dogs and new tricks," Gabriel replied.

"Was that supposed to be a pun?" Raphael asked.

"If you'd like."

Michael was clearly outnumbered and found himself unable to make a direct attack. "How 'bout a little help, Gabby?" he called back. "Not that I need it or anything, but there's three of it and one of me and you have to make yourself useful somehow!"

Gabriel's responsive jaw-clench was almost imperceptible. He added after a thought, "Of course, to truly apply to Michael they would need to come up with something about retarded dogs and sharp objects."

"That's not very nice," Raphael chastised him.

"True, but it is accurate."

Meanwhile, Michael dodged nimbly as all three heads of the Cerberus tried to bite him. He waited until he got an opportunity to stab one in the nose. "Maybe I ought to institute new armor codes, because it's a lot easier to – oh geez!"

The "oh geez" came due to the injured head breathing fire at him. He rolled backwards, his jacket catching on fire and, like the dog it was, the beast chased him. It was interrupted when Gabriel stepped in, attracting one of the heads which threw the whole thing off.

As a rule, angels do not dance (expect for Aziraphale and the gavotte). Were you to place Gabriel on a dance floor with a nice beat and tell him to shake his groove thang, he would stare at you, maybe raise an eyebrow, and most certainly insult you. Angels do not "boogie." That being said, Gabriel fights like a dancer; all grace and style as opposed to Michael's beat-it-until-it-dies "technique."

As Gabriel danced around, not bothering to launch an offensive until he had backup, Raphael ran to Michael to heal the burns on his torso. "There are four of us, dear," Raphael reminded him, mending the jacket.

"It cheated. No one said anything about fire-breathing," Michael pouted, getting back to his feet and running back to the fight.

Raphael gave a long-suffering sigh. "Really, and he's supposed to be our leader – Uriel, what are you doing?"

Uriel was poking the unconscious Splinter with a booted foot. "What is he doing?"

While the Cerberus' injured head focused on getting revenge on Michael, the middle head revealed its ability to breathe ice, freezing Gabriel's left half, including his sword arm. "That's a neat trick," he commented lightly. His apathetic remark was punctuated by the other free head taking a bite out of his non-frozen side. Perfectly schooled in the art of not showing emotions, you wouldn't know to look at him that he was in pain.

"No one gets to hurt my prissy bastard!" Michael roared, dodging the first head to stab the one in the middle. The beast recoiled, giving Michael enough time to grab Gabriel and drag him backwards with enough force that they both fell, causing the ice surrounding Gabriel to shatter. "Except me," he added. "I get to hurt him."

"Bastard? As compared to you?"

Raphael raced to the two of them, healing the wounds in Gabriel's side and arm. "Uriel! Come over here, darling, there's an infidel that needs smiting!"

Uriel looked up, intrigued. "Oh, is there really?"

The beast was snarling, two of its heads wounded. The uninjured head barked before opening its mouth – lighting shot out at the three gathered archangels. Raphael focused his energy into a protective shield, which absorbed the blast but threw him backwards a dozen feet. He landed hard.

That seemed to flip a switch in Uriel's head.

To Uriel, the Presence is less like a feeling and more like living energy to be manipulated and controlled. He closed his eyes as the Presence moved through him, causing his entire body to light up from the inside. "Get ready," he said tersely, the energy gathering at his hands.

Gabriel and Michael ran at the beast. Just as they were about to attack, the Presence flowed from Uriel to them and through them into their weapons, causing the long sword and the rapier to light up brilliantly before they were shoved into the demon, which exploded and then dissolved.

The four angels came to stand together. "That was unpleasant," Gabriel commented, sounding bored.

Michael held his hand up to him, obviously looking for a high-five.

"Don't touch me. I don't know if stupid is contagious, but I don't want to risk it."

Raphael gave him one so he wouldn't be embarrassed.

However, in the wake of their victory, Skuzz began emitting a strange beeping sound. Uriel let out a squeak of surprise and ran to hide behind Michael. "What is he doing!"

The other three, slightly less jumpy Archangels moved to examine Skuzz's unconscious form cautiously while Uriel stayed pressed against Michael's back. "Humans usually don't make such noises," Gabriel reported. "Then again, Skuzz seems to be a particularly dense one of his species, so maybe that has something to do with it?"

"Perhaps he's been possessed?" Raphael guessed.

Michael knelt to examine him, so Uriel moved to hide behind Gabriel. "I don't think it's him…" Michael murmured, poking the unconscious form. Then he noticed the bulge in Skuzz's pocket, which seemed to be where the noise was coming from. He pulled out a small, square-shaped device that had a glowing display and many numbered buttons. "It says 'Caller – Unknown number'," Michael reported, standing up with it.

They watched it ring before Gabriel decided to be brave, reaching around Michael's shoulder to press the green button experimentally.

HELLO? IS THIS THING ON?

Michael dropped it in surprise. All four of them backed up a step.

"Whatever possessed poor Skuzz has taken over his – his thingamajig!" Raphael exclaimed.

SERIOUSLY? YOU'VE NEVER HEARD OF A CELL PHONE? I'VE NEVER EVEN BEEN TO EARTH AND I KNOW WHAT A CELL PHONE IS – YOU REALLY HAVE NO EXCUSE.

"Lucifer?" Uriel asked, looking around.

URIEL, WAS THAT YOU? TRY TALKING TO THE CELL PHONE, I CAN BARELY HEAR YOU. WAIT, WAIT, I TAKE THAT BACK, I DON'T WANT TO HEAR YOU, ESPECIALLY SINCE I PROBABLY WON'T UNDERSTAND YOU EVEN IF I DID.

Uriel's expression changed to surprise. "You're trapped in it?"

WHAT? NO! I'M… WAIT, THERE'S NO USE EXPLAINING IT YO YOU.

"Lucifer dear, how have you been?" Raphael asked.

NOW THAT THE APOCALYPSE IS UNDERWAY – AND THAT MY HEAD'S BACK ON – POSITIVELY GIDDY!

Raphael fixed Michael with a glare. The latter raised his hands in a placating gesture. "It wasn't me!"

THAT'S RIGHT, IT WAS OUR LOOOOOOOOOVE CHILD.

"We do not have a love child!"

ANYHOW, I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU GUYS KILLED MY DOG.

"Your dog nearly ate me," Gabriel informed him.

GABRIEL? GEEZ, ALL OF YOU ARE THERE, HUH. AND YOU CAN ACTUALLY FIGHT THINGS? SEEMS WEIRD.

"I've been practicing in case I meet you again."

CHARISMATIC AS USUAL. HOW HEAVEN'S GLORIFIED MAILMAN GOT TO BE AN ARCHANGEL IS SOMETHING I'LL NEVER UNDERSTAND. I REALLY CAN'T WAIT UNTIL THE PORTAL'S BIG ENOUGH FOR ME TO GET THROUGH – THEN WE CAN SEE HOW WELL YOU'VE BEEN PRACTICING.

"I hope you realize how pointless everything is," Raphael chimed in. "There's absolutely no cause for all the violence and death, and you know it!"

KNOW, YES; CARE, NO. BESIDES, ALL THIS HAPPENED WHILE I WAS DEAD. ISH. I MEAN, I WOULD HAVE USED TACTICS AND WHATNOT, BUT BEELZEBUB WAS A LITTLE TOO KEEN ON ACTUAL INVASION TO WAIT. AND WOW, YOU HAVEN'T CHANGED A BIT, RAPHAEL. HOW YOU CAN MANAGE TO STAY SO FRICKIN' NICE IS WAY BEYOND ME.

"I just remember that everyone has a spark of goodness," Raphael replied sweetly. "How is your son, by the way?"

MEH. LAST I HEARD HE WAS, AGAIN, REFUSING TO END THE WORLD. KIDS NEVER LISTEN.

"Too true, too true."

HOW'S YOURS?

"He's been better. Once we see each other, you and I shall have Words regarding that, Lucifer."

I'M POSITIVELY QUAKING IN FEAR, RAPHAEL DEAREST.

"You should be," Gabriel reported, "That's Words with a capitol W."

"You come through that portal and we start Round Two, and this time where you end up will make Hell look comfy by comparison, you prat," Michael finished, stepping on the cell phone decidedly. "There. Let's move on, shall we?"

They gathered up their bikes, driving off and leaving Skuzz and his broken cell phone behind.

"I can't believe you just killed Lucifer," Uriel said with tears in his eyes.

* I could go on, but I won't. You're welcome.

** It was also much better at opening letters.

*** Unless you were Gabriel, as then Leonardo was a temporary annoyance who was very annoying. Conversely, if you were Uriel, he was absolutely hilarious.

**** Because the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were created approximately 30 years after where Aziraphale's concept of modernity stops.

Chapter Text

In order to drown out the gun shots and the firing of artillery that the slim, short Sister Prudence should not be able to lift much less use, Crowley finally bit the proverbial bullet and turned the radio back on, caving in to Aziraphale's frequent requests. It was something he would very much regret.

"Turn it up!" Aziraphale exclaimed, his eyes glazed over.

"This is bebop, Aziraphale," Crowley replied, his voice taking on a desperate twinge to it, "American bebop. You hate it, remember?"

Eventually, when his Inner Aziraphale (who was downright ashamed at his actual self's behavior) reminded him this was All Crowley's Fault, he acquiesced and turned up the music.

Much to Crowley's chagrin, apparently he'd lucked on to the girl power station (although he'd gotten his hopes up when "Don't Stop Believin'" played, but that had been the exception to the rule. Just, you know, to make him hold on to that feelin' only to crush his hopes so painfully). Aziraphale was from all appearances very fond of the feminist cause*, because he sang along to all of them, his head cheerfully bopping back and forth as he crooned.

"This song could be about you, my dear!" the angel declared before continuing to sing the song about the horrors that would befall an uninspiring lover and how the female singer was better for it.

Crowley briefly considered driving the Bentley into a tree.

It wasn't the song choice that was driving Crowley insane (because Crowley was the father of pop music**), it was the aforementioned ability of angelic singing to eradicate demonic existence. With Aziraphale in this rather out-of-it condition, he was completely unpredictable therefore extremely dangerous. Crowley could ignore it when drunk; hence his sober fantasies of going down and taking the angel with him.

"Sing it, sister!" Sister Prudence exclaimed joyfully before shooting another holy water bullet into the pursuing car, hitting the demon driving it in the forehead and causing it to veer off into a tree and explode. "Brilliant! I don't know what hang-up these stupid demons have about cars, but it sure makes killin' 'em easier!"

Crowley, a demon with a huge hang-up about his car***, gritted his teeth and somehow made the car go faster.

* Or at least had lost enough blood and consumed enough espresso to make him so. Not that he was particularly against the feminist movement or anything, but after a terrifying moment while accompanying Pepper to a feminist rally requiring an emergency gender switch, Aziraphale was rather wary of feminists. He would be scared of Sister Prudence if he hadn't been so completely out of it.

** and rock music (but not Queen, he refused to take credit for Queen), and death metal, and Avril Lavigne, and German rap.

*** If he and the other demons were honest with each other and themselves – which of course they weren't – it was because cars were shiny. Demons just love shiny things. Why do you think he has such a shiny watch, a shiny pen that can write underwater, and a shiny home theatre system that he never uses? No one was more depressed than Crowley when the world started switching to paper money in lieu of gold coins.****

**** Luckily credit cards are shiny too.

War usually wore red, but even had her clothes started off any other color she would be wearing red now.

"Who knew demons bled red too?" she asked rhetorically, as no one there would answer her, too busy trying to kill her as they were. She had gotten bored with smashing things and had grabbed some dropped swords off the rubble at her feet, dual-wielding them like an anthropomorphic personification buzz saw. She wasn't doing this out of any sort of moral purpose, but out of the sheer joy of waging her namesake against an enemy that would never cease; in part due to the portal's continued growth and in part because she wasn't using a holy weapon, so they were being discorporated, not destroyed.

As she decapitated another demon, she vaguely wondered if she could die.

NO, Death informed her, looking downright bored, YOU CAN'T. BY ATTACKING YOU THEY'RE WAGING WAR AGAINST YOU, AND BY DOING THAT THEY'RE SUSTAINING YOU. AND IF YOU WANT TO KILL ANY OF THEM YOU'RE GOING TO NEED A BLESSED WEAPON, OTHERWISE THEY'LL JUST KEEP COMING BACK.

"Sweet!" she exclaimed.

AND HERE I THOUGHT PESTILENCE WOULD ALWAYS BE THE MOST EMOTIONALLY UNHINGED.

Deep in the heart of Africa, Pestilence sneezed. He was used to it.

"Are we there yet?" Shadwell demanded, not sure how much longer he could hold on.

The voice and Madame Tracy both managed to reply in the negative at the same time.

"But if you ignore the ominous clouds in the distance and the overwhelming feeling of 'oh-crap-we're-doomed', you have to admit the scenery is rather pleasant," the voice continued.

"Eh, screw ya ye Southern Hippie!"

"It would be pleasant if it weren't for all of the demons roaming about," Madame Tracy observed as what appeared to be a horned demon drove by them in an old Ford. She decided not to question why they were attacking anything living they saw but ignored the travelers on the scooter.

"I'll take care of them, my dear, you just keep driving."

"'CAUSE I AIN'T NO HOLLABACK GIRL, I AIN'T NO HOLLABACK GIRL!" Aziraphale sang, "LET ME HEAR YOU SAY THIS SHIT IS BANANAS, B-A-N-A-N-A-S!"

Crowley saw the sign that told him they'd made it to Lower Tadfield.

"THANK YOU!" he cried to the sky for the first time in six thousand years.

"You're welcome," Aziraphale replied in a voice that was not his own as he interrupted a particularly emphatic chorus of Gwen Stefani. Back to normal, he sighed. "I really dislike when He does that."

Crowley's gratitude was short-lived, as shortly after coming in Lower Tadfield a pristine Porsche pulled up alongside the Bentley. "HEY CRAWLY," the driver of this new shiny black car shouted, "I WANT SOME SNAKESKIN BOOTS TO GO WITH MY SWEET NEW CAR! SHOULD I BUY SOME WITH THE BOUNTY MONEY, OR JUST USE YOU?"

"I wonder who told him he's clever," Aziraphale commented.

Crowley felt a pang of jealousy regarding the (shiny) beautiful, brand-new Porsche, but violently beat it down. "That's Dagon," he informed them.

"According to the conversation I had with that Hastur fellow, Dagon's something of a whiner, but that's all I know about him," Aziraphale admitted.

"He's not a very good demon actually; his greatest achievement was posing as a god of produce."

"Oh no, not produce," Sister Prudence drawled from the back seat.

"Yeah, it's given him something of an inferiority complex."

The Porsche moved just enough to scratch the side of the Bentley.

"Geez, what did you do to piss off all these demons?" Sister Prudence asked.

"I was just my charming self. Buckle in, Crazy Chick." Crowley smirked his Flash Bastard Smirk™. "I'm going to show that son of a bitch how this car is infinitely superior to any of the crap they're putting out on the market today." Without checking to see if she had strapped herself in, Crowley jerked the steering wheel and slammed the side of the Bentley into the side of the Porsche. The second car was knocked off course, spinning in the Bentley's wake before righting itself and pursuing.

Crowley made a ninety-degree turn into an alleyway that was not technically large enough to fit the car. He was too distracted to aim for the cat. "Talk to me – where am I going?"

"Adam lives in the other direction," she replied apologetically.

"Of course," he said tersely as the Bentley pulled out into a busy road. He took the time to flip off someone who honked at him, but he didn't feel any pleasure when the Porsche pulled out and ran into the other car. Despite demons' love for cars, none of them were very good at driving except Crowley, apparently.

Crowley took the Bentley into a slide, prompting an excited "Whee!" out of Aziraphale and an angry squeal out of the tires. As the Porsche's damage mended, the Bentley sped down a perpendicular road. "Aziraphale," Crowley began.

"I say, this is more fun than that amusement park you took me to!"

"Angel!" Crowley swerved the car to avoid a head-on collision. "Pay attention! Keep people out of my way!"

"Oh, you do care about pedestrians!" An ice cream truck that had intended on pulling out into the road stalled.

Crowley neglected to correct him. He was too busy focused on trying to make his car go faster, because the Porsche was hot on their trail.

"He's catching up!" Sister Prudence exclaimed.

"YOU'RE DEAD CRAWLY!"

"He's got speed," Crowley replied, trying to keep his voice suave despite the stress he was under, "but I got style. You focus on directions."

"Um, the quickest route is around the park-"

Crowley turned into the park.

"Around the park you wanker!"

"Watch out for that duck!"

"Would you two shut up!"

The Porsche followed them. Crowley struggled to keep the Bentley going quickly on the damp grass, even though the car really wanted to sink in.

"Your eyes are glowing red," Aziraphale declared, sounding proud of himself for having realized that fact.

"Thank you for that observation," Crowley replied sarcastically as one of the tires got stuck in the dirt, pulling up grass and nearly throwing the Bentley off its course.

"You're welcome," Aziraphale replied sweetly.

The Porsche nudged the back end of the Bentley, pushing the older car into a direct collision course with a cotton-candy making stand. Crowley kept driving, even as Aziraphale conjured all three of them some cotton candy. His hands were still held by the blanket, so he had to support it with his knees and lean forward.

"Yum!" Sister Prudence exclaimed. "Okay, now you're going to take a left on this road. Are you sure you don't want me to shoot at him?"

They left the park and Crowley made a sharp left.

"You joking? You can shoot him after I beat him to Adam's house."

"As long as I get to shoot him, I don't care!"

"There isn't such a thing as a blue raspberry," Aziraphale reported as he gazed down at his blue cotton candy.

Dagon had followed them onto the road and started catching up as they raced. "Okay, angel, you need to do one more thing. I need you to - Aziraphale what are you doing!"

The angel in question had put his head and most of his torso out the window. "You're going really fast!" he exclaimed as the wind blew his long curly hair. Another inch or so and he'd be out on the pavement.

"Get back in the car you idiot!"

"Turn here!" Sister Prudence exclaimed.

The sheer speed and sharpness of the turn ended up with Aziraphale back in the car and more or less on Crowley's lap. The angel was laughing; Crowley was not. "I buckled you in for a reason!"

"And I unbuckled myself for a reason!"

"Gray house on the left!"

Crowley slammed on the brakes, sending the Bentley skidding and spinning before coming to rest in Adam's front lawn. The Porsche was not far behind.

"I got here first!" Crowley said as he got out of the car and ran around the other side to get Aziraphale out, "No matter what happens now, I got here first!"

"Good show, my dear!" Aziraphale exclaimed as he was bodily dragged out of the car and clutched to Crowley in order to keep him upright*.

Dagon got out of the Porsche and looked at Crowley, Aziraphale and Sister Prudence with a smirk. "I decided we're going to go with making the boots out of your skin and using the bounty money to buy me some more of these neat car things."

"My name is Sister Prudence from the Order of Our Most Holy Lady of the Righteous Smiting!" Sister Prudence declared, wielding her flamethrower. "In the name of Our Lady – oh bugger it, I'll set you on freakin' fire!"

"Crawly, you realize you're hanging out with a nun and an angel, right?"

Crowley held out an Aziraphale-gifted-gloved hand and Sister Prudence handed him a blessed shotgun, which he then pointed at Dagon. "Yeah. Turns out they're both pretty good at killing demons. Guess what you happen to be?"

"Oo! I know, I know! He's a demon!" Aziraphale exclaimed.

Crowley had very vivid fantasies of turning that holy gun on himself.

"Okay! Okay! Knock it off you guys!" Adam Young, Antichrist Extraordinaire, exited his humble abode with his hands on his hips and Dog at his heel. "Absolutely no killing anyone for any reason on my lawn! Do you have any idea how much fertilizer costs?"

"You!" Dagon said, looking torn between attacking versus bowing and worshipping.

"Yeah, yeah, me, I know, I get it, you're all really unhappy with me, blah blah blah. I don' care. Dagon, right? You'd better skedaddle before I get angry."

Dagon's expression changed to being both terrified and angry. "This isn't over, Crawly!" With that, he disappeared in a puff of smoke and the scent of fish.

Adam sighed as Dog moved forward to sniff Crowley's leg. "Seriously. Every once in awhile some big bad demon just pops up and goes 'rargh, I am here to avenge my master' and it's pretty darn annoying. It's sad, but sometimes I think you might be the only smart one, Crowley."

"Of course," Crowley replied with a snort.

"Hi Pru, Aziraphale."

"Hello Adam," Sister Prudence replied, regarding Adam with narrowed eyes.

Aziraphale was giggling because Dog started humping Crowley's leg, which he did every time the lesser demon happened to show up. Dog still considered himself dominant to Crowley; this was despite the fact that Crowley had learned, through demon-snake-to-demon-dog contact, that Dog didn't even remember he was a demon anymore. Crowley felt no worry giving the former hellhound a swift kick.

"Hey now, he's just bein' friendly!" Adam protested.

"Tell him my leg's not interested."

The Antichrist gave a sigh. "Y'all wanna come in?" he asked, his tone betraying he was only offering out of some sort of obligation.

"Oo! That sounds just marvelous!" Aziraphale cooed from where he was still being supported by Crowley, "We can have tea and talk gossip! It'll be smashing!"

"Why're you wrapped up like a mummy?"

"I am? Oh dear!" Aziraphale looked at Crowley with fear in his large blue eyes. "Am I undead and no one told me? Please don't tell me I'm a zombie – they frighten me so, with their insatiable desire for brains!"

Crowley looked at Adam wordlessly with a raised eyebrow.

"Brains!"

Adam walked up to Aziraphale and flicked him in the forehead. The angel jolted like he'd been shocked. "Oh. Oo, I feel much better! Thank you, dear – I'd give you a hug but my arms seem to be bound."

With a twitch of his fingers Crowley removed the blankets and the angel gave the Antichrist a hug. "And how is dearest Pepper?" he asked.

"She's still Pepper. You can ask her if you want – she's home for the day. C'mon in, I'll make tea."

The three followed him inside.

"Hey Pep – we have company, includin' your sister!" Adam called. "You guys have a seat anywhere you'd like, I'll be back in a minute."

Pepper entered the living room. She'd grown up to be just as freckly and red-headed as she had been at 11, only she was no longer able to deny that she was female. She decided to ignore her sister, instead addressing Aziraphale. "Hey, have you heard that there's goin' to be a rally in Leeds next week? We should go – I bet you haven't been very good about attending, have you?"

Aziraphale gave a weak laugh, silently wishing he was still delirious so he wouldn't be embarrassed. "Well… you know… I've been awfully busy… being kidnapped and the like. Not that I wouldn't like going, of course, but there are very bad things going on and… things… that… and I'm sure that you'll find someone… heh…"

"At the way things're going the world's going to end soon, and then'll get you the equality you've been bitching about not having," Crowley chimed in.

Pepper scowled, turning to leave.

"Wow, normally that would end up with her killin' you," Sister Prudence commented in awe. "You didn't enchant her or anything, did you?"

"Of course not," Crowley retorted, "The one who gave us the No Messin' Around rule is in the kitchen. I'm here to not die, not to get killed by the Antichrist instead." He neglected to add that he wasn't sure if any sort of demonic manipulation would work on Pepper, given that her strength of Will greatly exceeded his own. She'd proven that time and time again.

She reentered the living room, calmly placing a melon on the coffee table. She then sat down on the couch, saying nothing more.

Adam brought his three guests tea. Aziraphale sipped his cheerfully, but Sister Prudence and Crowley didn't touch theirs. Finally Adam sighed, sitting down next to Pepper. "I know why you're here, but I can't help you."

"Why not?" Crowley demanded. "Give me one good reason why you can't-"

"Crowley," Pepper said sweetly.

"What?" he snapped, angry at being interrupted.

"This melon is your head," she continued in the same sweet tone, placing a hand on top of the melon, "Symbolically speaking, 'course."

Crowley was about to tell her to get on with it until she pulled out a mallet and slammed it down, smashing the melon into a pulp and breaking the table underneath it. Everyone present (except for her) started in surprise; Dog ran from the room in shock. "And that is what will happen to your head if you keep bein' a jerk!"

"Point taken," the demon said in awe.

Adam placed a calming hand on Pepper's arm. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked away, but clearly the message had gotten across. Crowley smartly shut up.

"We don't want him to end the world," Aziraphale protested gently, his gaze clearly betraying he was wondering where the mallet had come from, "We want him to save it."

"Did I hear my favorite victim of the Spanish Inquisition?" called a voice from the basement. A few moments later and an older, but still unclean Brian came up, and he ran and gave Sister Prudence a big hug.

"Gah! Stop it Brian, I'm not five anymore!" she squeaked.

"And you brought friends! Are they priests? Er, they don't look like priests…" Brian regarded Aziraphale and Crowley as if he knew he should know them but couldn't remember how or why.

"Please tell me you don't live in his basement," Crowley snorted.

"I don't!" Brian protested, "I just spend lots of time down there! Er."

In fact, Adam had bought his own house once he became financially independent, and in a very romantic gesture invited Pepper to live with him. The romance was rather abruptly killed when Brian, decidedly not financially independent, showed up on his doorstep begging for a place to stay, and yes, he was summarily put in the basement. Wensleydale, who took a very nice position at the newly-established food-planning corporation to earn money while he went to classes at night (although he hated his boss, if he were honest with himself), moved in next door, but he didn't have a basement so Brian stayed with Adam and Pepper. Regardless, the Them were very happy to find that even in adulthood they didn't have to be separated.

"Anyhow," Adam interrupted gently but firmly, " 'sides, I read Revelation, since I'm a main character 'n' all, and I think I'm supposed to be marryin' some whore of Babylon? Maybe? And if that's the case, then that sure as heck ain't Pep here, so I don't want something crazy to happen to her just 'cause I'm supposed to be with some crazy chick."

"Since when have we been married!" Pepper demanded.

"Er, I mean, that, I don't want someone crazy to get into their head that, er, you have to die, 'cause you live here, and you're a girl, and oh dear."

Brian ended up tackling Pepper before she could throttle Adam.

"Then again," Adam admitted, trying his best to pretend the scene that was happening was not happening, "I'm not really sure what the heck was goin' on in that book."

"And John's odd mushrooms ruin everything once again," Aziraphale said with a sigh.

"So I'm sorry, but I can't just go off and try to save the world. My obligation's to my family and friends in Tadfield. 'sides, no guarantees that it would even work," Adam muttered that last sentence so low that no one heard him.

"This goes beyond you and…" Aziraphale began, before his voice took on a gentler tone, "We understand."

"We do?" Crowley protested.

"Love changes things," the angel said quietly, looking at Crowley.

Crowley snorted and looked away. Adam was a very stubborn individual, nigh-omnipotent powers notwithstanding, and Crowley had no interest in ceasing to exist (it was why he was here, after all). "I hope you're happy with the world gone except for just this place."

"Me too," Adam whispered, and Prudence got off her chair to help Brian in subduing Pepper. "But," he said a little louder, "if you want some help, two Horsemen are livin' in an apartment not far from here, you could ask them, and Death owes me a favor-"

I OWE NO ONE FAVORS, Death retorted.

Adam raised an eyebrow at him.

ALL RIGHT, Death acquiesced, MAYBE A LITTLE ONE. THAT DOESN'T MEAN I'M GOING TO HELP STOP THE APOCALYPSE. I HAVE PRIDE, AND A QUOTA TO MEET THAT THE APOCALYPSE WILL CERTAINLY SURPASS.

"Just don't bug them, okay?"

Death shrugged. I CAN DO THAT. THEY ARE IMMORTAL, AFTER ALL. FOR NOW.

"Great! Help 'em if you can, too."

NO PROMISES.

"Do I dare ask what prompted you owing him a favor?" Aziraphale asked pleasantly.

The skeletal form looked uncomfortable, which was a feat considering it had no facial expressions to speak of. YOU… YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW. TRUST ME.**

The door to the humble abode opened without a knock, and Anathema Device-Pulsifer, wielding an enormous tome, raced into the room. Outside, Dick Turpin*** had been stopped but not turned off.

"Ah ha, I was right," the witch crooned. "Hello Aziraphale."

"Er, can I help you, dear?" Aziraphale asked. He had kept in decent contact with her over the years, both of them bonding over their fondness for old books, but that didn't mean he wasn't confused by her unexpected presence.

"This book told me that I shouldn't trust a demon with this tome," she said triumphantly, thrusting it at a still-confused-looking angel, "Which means I should trust an angel with it!"

He took it and looked it over. "Oh, Agostino's work," he said, sounding disappointed. "I was hoping Agnes had written another book. I do own a copy of The Nifer and Accurater Prophecies of Agostino Nutter, Witch Warlocke. Yef, warlocke, which if better than a witch; but, frankly, it's on the shelf with the other things I would be willing to sell."

"You aren't willing to sell anything," Crowley reminded him.

"It's on the shelf with the other things I'll part with if I absolutely must," the angel corrected.

"It's more than it seems," Anathema declared, proudly. "I've managed to figure out that it isn't so much wrong as it is the opposite of everything!"

"Oh?" Aziraphale looked at the tome with more interest.

"My theory is that Agostino got hold of Agnes' second book and just copied everything, only writing the opposite just out of spite," she continued. "And I've spent days reading and notating this book. Here are my note cards." She shoved them in Aziraphale's direction, and the angel took them from her. "You're the one who got Agnes' book down in days when I took years, so I figure you can probably get Agostino's quickly enough. Now then, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to sleep, because I was not exaggerating when I said I've spent days going over that book, and that's without any sort of naptime or sleep or anything." With that, she turned and left. Aziraphale started reading again.

"What just happened?" Crowley asked.

No one got the time to answer him because she came right back in, flanked by two young children with their father's slightly mousey dark hair and their mother's nose. "You," she said, clearly looking at Crowley, "I know you, and I know you'll bother him incessantly if you don't have something else to do, so you are going to babysit while Newt is at work and I take a nap."

Crowley clearly balked at the two children. He opened his mouth to protest but she continued, "This is Aziraphale," she placed a hand on the girl's head, "and this is Bentley," she placed a hand on the boy's head.

The representatives of Heaven and Hell gave identical bespectacled looks of shock at the two young children. In the midst of their astonishment, Anathema snuck out the door.

Finally Crowley pointed at Aziraphale1 and laughed. "They named the girl after you!"

"They didn't even name one after you," Aziraphale1 retorted, silently enraged with Anathema for never once mentioning the names of her children, now that he thought of it, because certainly he would have remembered a girl being named after him, "They named one after your car!" The angel continued sweetly to Aziraphale2, trying his best to ignore the laughing demon sitting next to him, "Well, I'm glad that we share a name, if nothing else."

"It's a pwetty name," the toddler said with a bright smile. Young children always liked Aziraphale1. Aziraphale1 also liked young children; he had, at one point, liked all children, but a certain birthday party had ruined that.

"She'll change that once she goes to school," Pepper observed darkly.

"It means ''Helps heal God'," Aziraphale1 informed her proudly.

Aziraphale2's brow furrowed. "Huh? Can it do that?"

"I don't know," he admitted.

"What am I named aftew?" Bentley demanded. He hadn't been able to hear Aziraphale1's retort to Crowley over the demon's laughter.

Crowley forced himself to calm down so he could guide the young boy to the window, pointing outside to where the Bentley serenely sat. "The best car in the world!"

"I'm named aftew a caw?"

"Only the best car ever!"

Bentley promptly burst into tears.

The other adults in the room took that time to make their exits, claiming things like book-reading, shopping, showers, television marathons and anything that wasn't babysitting. Crowley helplessly gave them all a very rude gesture.

"He's a cwybaby," Aziraphale2 reported, looking at her crying brother with a shake of her head.

"So I noticed, kid." This wasn't good – Crowley subconsciously refused to let himself like Aziraphale's namesake more than he liked his own. Too bad his own was a whiny brat.

* The only reason, darn it.

** This was true. It involved two kittens, thirteen girl scouts, an ice cream cone, a goat and six pairs of socks. Death owed Adam a favor for being silent on the whole matter.

*** Newt had enough money for a new car, but after it started spouting haikus he really couldn't bring himself to part with it. They had been through so much!

Meanwhile, Adam led Aziraphale1 to his office. "You can stay here for 24 hours," he relented, "but then you gotta get going again. Sorry."

"Don't be," Aziraphale1 replied cheerfully, "I understand completely. I have read Agostino's work before but when I once caught glimpse of a prophecy that foretold 'the colonyes wyll declare allegyance to oure Empyre, remaynyng loyale fore alle Time,' well, it was awfully hard to take him seriously after that."

"Yeah, that's pretty… pretty wrong," Adam admitted.

"Sadly, yes. But young Miss Anathema seems to think that he might have something important to say, and she is related to him, so I ought to give him another go." He glanced into Adam's office before deciding it needed an easy chair, a nice pot of tea and a layer of dust. He ignored Adam's retaliatory glare. "There, much more homey. Off you go then, cheerio." He stepped through and closed the door in Adam's face.

Crowley didn't like kids of any age, and young Bentley Pulsifer wasn't an exception to that rule, as much as Crowley wished to the contrary. He vaguely considering turning the crying kid into a hedgehog or something to make him more interesting, but his Inner Aziraphale made a tsking noise, said, My dear, don't be so heartless, he's just a child! and made Crowley feel guilty. So he decided to talk to the much more sensible, likeable one.

"So, he's always like this?"

Aziraphale2 nodded. "Uh huh. I onwy cwy when I get scawed, ow have a nightmawe. He cwies every time we wose ewectwicity, which is evewy time Daddy twies to use a compooter."

"That sucks."

"I fink he might be adopted," Aziraphale2 whispered conspiratorially.

"I am not!" Bentley whined, the tears coming on stronger.

"I hope he might be adopted," she corrected. "Hey Mister Demon?"

"What?" He decided not to question how she knew; she seemed a lot smarter than any three-year-old had a right to be. Probably ran in the family.

"Why'we you sad?" she asked, looking up at him with great big brown eyes.

"Ngk," he replied.

After about twenty pages, Aziraphale1 still hadn't found anything of import. Most of Agostino's prophecies, like Agnes' before them, featured a good deal about the life of Anathema, which was interesting only if you happened to be her. In fact, Anathema's note cards were full of comments like, "Now that is just unlucky," "Is he serious?" and "Woohoo!"

Then Aziraphale1 found: "'The dyvorce of Hell and Heaven shalle opene the Gate and damne the Worlde," he read aloud. "Which otherwise means that the joining of Heaven and Hell – oh Agostino, you really couldn't have thought of something else? – shall close the gates and save the world. Well, that's awfully optimistic, considering this is the same man who predicted the world would end in 1723. But gate is singular, so it would become gates, as in plural… I thought there was only one. Unless… oh dear."

Bentley was also apparently a sadist – something that Crowley could appreciate were the impulse not directed at himself – because the young child instantly cut off the tears and came to sit in front of Crowley, next to his sister. "You awe sad!" he reported, "And confused!"

"And yet you'we happy," Aziraphale2 said, looking at him sideways.

"You two can stop that now," the demon said uncomfortably. Angel, save me.

Said angel replied, I'm busy. You're fine; quit being a bigger baby than the three-year-olds.

But they're psychic three-year-olds!

Ah. Well, it's nice that young Mr. Pulsifer's genes haven't irreparably – excuse my language – damned them.

"It's like Mommy and Daddy," Bentley said to Aziraphale2.

Aziraphale1 thought he had more pressing concerns to worry about. "This is bad," he said, as though somehow saying the words aloud would make it easier to deal with, "if both Heaven and Hell have free access to Earth and are intending to fight each other here, well, that's the very definition of the Apocalypse, now isn't it?" He bit his lower lip before deciding to spike his tea with whatever happened to come to him (which was inexplicably vodka). "Might as well continue this train of thought, Aziraphale, no use denying it. You stopped the last one, and in return the second try decided to start through you, just to rub it in. It's entirely your fault. And you're referring to yourself in second person; that can't possibly be healthy. Er."

He sat back in his easy chair, rubbing his temples. "All right. So an alliance of Heaven and Hell will stop it all. Hell is awfully keen on going through with this, but what about Heaven?"

The message Gabriel brought came to mind instantly. "The gate to Hell opened at Manchester when you escaped," Gabriel recounted solemnly, "and The Lord Our Father hath assigned us, the Four, to stave off the tide until the Host is ready to march."

"Delay it until the Host can match, not to stop it," Aziraphale murmured. "So… Well, maybe it needn't be that specific. Maybe… maybe it's referring to Crowley and myself. We're representatives of Heaven and Hell. All right, let's go with that theory. The Apocalypse is happening, but Crowley and I can stop it by closing off Earth. Only..." His moment of triumph was sobered as he continued, "only that sort of thing is certainly very lethal, given we are not exactly in positions of authority and are not powerful enough to survive such a thing." He sighed, then forced himself to say cheerfully, "Well, there's no sense in being depressed over it; maybe there's something else?"

The next fifteen prophecies involved Newt's future in electrical engineering.

"All right, all right, stop it," Crowley said again.

"It's okay, wove is gweat!" Aziraphale2 exclaimed. "I wove Bentwey, and Mommy, and Daddy, and you, Mr. Cwowwey!"

"What about me?" Bentley cried, the tears returning.

"I said you!"

Inner Aziraphale sounded downright giddy as he chimed in, See, dearest? There's no shame at all in what you're feeling there, 'ey chap!

I'm not feeling anything! Crowley protested.

What?

I'm a damnable hell fiend! he raved, The kind of high-quality evil from the Pits of the Abyss! We don't feel fluffy happy emotions!

That's… good for you, dear, replied the voice that Crowley was beginning to realize was no longer his Inner Aziraphale. Do I dare ask why you're interrupting me again?

Er, sorry, I didn't mean to, er, I wasn't talking to you.

Then who, pray tell, where you talking to?

'Ello, guvnah! Inner Aziraphale exclaimed.

Crowley, the Real Aziraphale demanded, who was that?

No one, Crowley lied.

Really? Because he sounded suspiciously like –

"Awe you okay?" Aziraphale2 asked Crowley, ignoring her brother's cries.

"No," Crowley admitted, wanting to very well cry himself.

Aziraphale1 wasn't much happier.

He shook his head, deciding that he certainly hadn't heard what he thought he'd just heard, and read aloud, "'I foresee a younge girle and boye shalle ally with the Devile, and nonne shalle stop them.' I see, two figures do try to stop it, and they're an older – well, Crowley and I are both older than time - man and woman - Well!" He slammed the book shut. "That's enough of the insults for one day!"

Brian stuck his head into the living room, finally taking pity on the babysitting demon. "Hey kids," he said cheerfully, "who wants to watch some cartoons?"

"I do! I do!" they proclaimed together.

Brian, holding a very large box full of neatly stacked DVDs, walked over to Adam's large-screen television, sitting on the floor to put himself on the kids' level. "This is called Sailor Moon," he informed them, placing the first DVD in.

"You're joking," Crowley said.

"What's Saiwow Moon?" Aziraphale2 asked.

"It's a story about a magical girl with magical powers!"

"Yay powews!" Bentley cheered.

"You have… the entire series of Sailor Moon," Crowley said in a dead voice, seeing his fate.

"Sailor Moon, Dragonball Z, YuYu Hakusho, InuYasha, Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha, Code Geass, YuGiOh, Bleach, Magic Knight Rayearth, Death Note-"

A long shudder ran through Crowley's form.

"Anime is sugoi!"

"I hate you," Crowley informed him.

"You won't in a minute," Brian replied as the show came on and the twins watched it, completely entranced by the colorful images. He made a "get out of here while you still can" gesture.

Crowley took that time to escape, running up the stairs.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale grimaced as he reopened the text and read the very last sentence in this book.

Ande they alle lived Happilye Ever Aftere.

This story archived at http://library.good-omens.net/viewstory.php?sid=434

Chapter Text

War was actually starting to get tired, an absolutely unique sensation to her. She decided to ignore it and kept on fighting.

"You know, it's been so long since we've been anywhere together, I feel like we're wasting the time we have left! Oh, I know, we ought to play a game! Okay, I'll start - I spy with my little eye something beginning with-"

"SHUT UP RAPHAEL."

Crowley dragged Aziraphale out of the Young household, bypassing the enraptured Brian and the twins. Aziraphale, taking the book with him, insisted they make a stop by the Device-Pulsifer home before leaving Lower Tadfield; he wanted to say goodbye to Anathema. However, she was asleep, so he merely left the book between the locked front door and the unlocked screen door.

"You know, it only just occurred to me that I don't know where we could possibly go," Crowley admitted. "Now that I don't have to worry about you getting killed, do you have any place you want to visit before the world ends? Might I suggest something tropical?"

"Well, I suppose that now is as good a time as any to tell you what I found out from the book," the angel replied as he and his counterpart walked to the Bentley, "It's simple, really. It will take Heaven and Hell coming together, banding together, to close the two gates. Once the gates are closed, everyone will be sucked back to their respective dimensions, and this whole mess will cease to be! At least, that's what I assume I read said. You know how these things are. Agnes was hard enough to understand as she was, but it was like she was run through a filter of incompetence."

"That whole bit about stopping the end of the world sounds perfectly simple," Crowley drawled, "given how easy it will be to convince both sides to give up. You know, both Satan and God are so easy to manipulate and have both shown themselves to be perfectly reasonable. Angel, do you ever think before you talk?"

"It's my fault this is happening," the angel replied frigidly.

"It is not," Crowley scoffed. "If it's anyone's fault, it's mine. I even got a Commendation for it."

"You got one for the Inquisition and you had nothing to do with that."

"So sometimes they make mistakes, but-"

"If I recall correctly, you also got one for the invention of sun bathing, which was absolutely ridiculous."

"It causes skin cancer."

"You did not invent sun bathing!"

"Sure I did! I was out soaking up the sun before humans even knew what the big ball of fire in the sky was!"

"Grr – that's all beside the point. The point is-"

"I bet you can't think of anything else," Crowley interrupted.

Aziraphale glared. "High School Musical 2."

Crowley glanced around, looking for an escape route. When there was none to be found, he finally admitted, "And how, exactly, was I supposed to resist taking credit for that? I mean, I know I'm supposed to dish out the temptation but sometimes even I can't resist…"

The angel looked hurt as he responded, "You should have resisted because you had nothing to do with it! You know full well that only humans could have taken the perfectly wonderful moral of the first movie – that we shouldn't let our roles define us – and somehow make a sequel whose moral was you should give up your dreams in the honor of friends who are too selfish to let you achieve greatness and whom, if we're honest with each other, you will likely lose contact with after high school anyhow! Even you on your best – er, worst – day couldn't have managed to do that!"

"Angel," he said soothingly as the two made it back to the car, "I'm sure no one meant to offend you personally-"

"I was so proud of the first one!" he squeaked with rage as he tried to open the locked Bentley. "It had - it had a moral, and it was so cheery, and the music was bebop but was still so very catchy…" Crowley wasn't sure if this was better or worse than the angel talking about going towards the end of the world as opposed to away from it.

Regardless, Aziraphale composed himself and continued, "But, again, that is all beside the point. The point, once again, is that yes, this is my fault. They went around what we stopped last time, decided to use me to bring about the End, and I simply can't stand for it. I'm asking you for help, although I will understand if you don't accept."

Crowley sighed. This seemed very familiar. "Did you ever think that if this was happening, maybe someone wants it to be happening? That they want it, and we should just… you know… go on vacation and wait for the end? Besides, what exactly are we supposed to do?"

Aziraphale stopped trying to open the door. "Heaven," he said, pointing to himself, "and Hell." He pointed to Crowley.

Crowley also stopped walking, too surprised by this sudden proclamation of martyrdom to properly insult Aziraphale's efforts toward opening an obviously-locked door. "Wait, so we just have to walk up to the gates, and as long as we tell them together to close they will?"

"Well, it's not quite so simple."

"Is it ever?"

"The representatives' lives go into the business, and it's their auras that close the portals in the first place. Well, should we be the representatives our lives will end. I assume some greater powers could pull it off, but none of them would want to, I suspect."

Crowley's jaw dropped. It also unhinged, so he had to pop it back in.

"Yes, you did hear me right," Aziraphale admitted.

"So you want us to die for this?" Crowley demanded.

Aziraphale crossed his arms and looked at the ground. "As I said, I will understand it should you reject me. I am seriously trying to think of someone else who can be used instead of you. But… Well, consider the alternatives. Should my side win, you will cease to exist and I will spend eternity being dreadfully bored and, I'll admit it, awfully lonely. I like The Sound of Music, but not nearly so much. Should your side win, you will spend eternity likely being tortured – after all, they are rather peeved with you - and I will cease to exist. Given those options…"

"But… but what is the point?" Crowley asked, disturbed at how this was looking to be the best solution. "I mean, eventually Armageddon will happen…"

"Crowley dear boy," Aziraphale said serenely, "we'll be buying humanity time. What does humanity want more than that?"

The two stood in silence.

"And there are no houseplants in Hell," Aziraphale tacked on.

Crowley's eyes closed in pain. "Don't you dare."

"No Ritz. No vintage wines – I know how much you hate the taste of blood."

"Stop it!"

"No silk sheets. No sunglasses."

"Actually, they have sunglasses."

"Oh? Do they really?"

"It gets bright Down There. Well, depending on where you happen to be."

"Regardless, there's no bebop. No nice Italian black suits. No Bentley."

Crowley visibly shuddered.

"You'd have to spend your days torturing people or doing something else equally pointless and ridiculous; no more lounging around for you."

"This is so completely unfair! I'm the tempter! You can't tempt the tempter!"

"High School Musical 2, my dear."

"But still! It's against the rules!"

"But not of the Arrangement."

"Well it should be! I'm adding it as a rule!"

"Well, there you have it. In Hell there's no Arrangement anyway, and no me for you to pester," Aziraphale finished, unable to come up with anything else.

Crowley thought about it. He didn't have to think long. "Let's do it."

Aziraphale smiled. Then abruptly his entire body went rigid, his wings came out and his halo appeared. The pose made the peaceful, still-smiling look on his face seem dreadfully out of place. Crowley poked him a couple of times, but got no response. "Oh, emergency contact," he said lamely, not sure what to do with himself and feeling awfully alone.

"Oh, I am the very model of a modern major general, I've information vegetable animal and mineral, I know the kings of England and I quote the fights historical from Marathon to Waterloo in order categorical; I'm very well acquainted too with matters mathematical-"

"SHUT UP URIEL."

Aziraphale's eyes were closed, but he could feel the warm blue light surrounding him like a cocoon. The feeling of pure love was so comforting and fulfilling that he couldn't help but feel at peace despite the crazy goings-on.

DEAR AZIRAPHAEL, HELPS HEAL GOD, WHY DO YOU GO AGAINST MY WILL?

"Your Will?" Aziraphale echoed stupidly.

OF COURSE, MY CHILD, the Presence replied soothingly, and there was a sensation like having his hair stroked. YOU DIDN'T THINK THIS COULD HAPPEN WITHOUT MY WILL?

"Well no," he replied, "but last time it wasn't actually Your Will, was it? And I can't be wrong about assuming you don't mean it happen this time either, can I?"

THE TIME HAS COME, AZIRAPHAEL. THE BATTLE BETWEEN HEAVEN AND HELL WHICH HAS BEEN FORETOLD FOR EONS SHALL NOW COME TO PASS. YOU SHALL JOIN THE HOST AND WE SHALL TRIUMPH OVER THE ENEMY ONCE AND FOR ALL. AS IT HAS BEEN WRITTEN, SO IT SHALL BE. NO BUGGERING IT UP THIS TIME FOR YOU, AZIRAPHAEL.

Newt's job at FAN™ Enterprises Inc. wasn't the best job in the world, but it paid the bills. He had started off as a computer tech, citing a relatively made-up history of technical skills training, but after three different instances of computers giving up their computerized wills to live upon his cursory glance he was summarily reassigned to personnel relations, a job that involved answering telephones for eight hours per day. It was a job that induced more guilt than a job rightly should in poor Newt, as FAN™ manufactured Chinese food that was made with – if he had to guess – MSG and not much else. But the food was easy to make and made families feel "Oriental" or at least "foreign," and so it sold. Which, while it made him feel a little rotten, did give him money, and that was what was important.

And his working there did not obligate him to actually eat the stuff.

Bidding adieu to his neighbor Wensleydale, who was leaving his shift, Newt walked over to the front desk of the large business building and sat down. Instantly the telephone rang.

"This is FAN™ Enterprises Inc., Newt speaking, how can I help you?"

He instantly had to hold the phone away from his ears as a very angry-sounding Chinese man began screaming what he had to assume were obscenities at him. He was used to this; the company had an entire department of people fluent in Chinese in order to deflect any lawsuits and soothe any rage over the blatant abuse of their traditional foodstuffs. Newt pressed the transfer button.

And that was really the extent of Newt's job. People called to complain or order more food, and Newt punched them through to the correct person.

He tapped his fingers on the desk and sighed. His job was remarkably boring, much like he felt himself to be. It was hard to not feel somewhat outclassed when you considered that both of his children and his wife had psychic powers, whereas he had boring, ordinary, useless powers.

"Mr. Pulsifer."

Newt sat straight up, looking at the CEO of FAN™, who was gazing upon him with that charismatic leer. Now this was exciting. Newt had seen Mr. Sable a couple of times but had never actually spoken to the emaciated man. Perhaps this shift wasn't going to be so boring after all?

"What can I do for you, Mr. Sable sir?"

Sable placed his fingers on the desk, and Newt felt his stomach grumble. "Mr. Pulsifer, every night you dutifully come to work and do your best for FAN™, and not once have we ever had a conversation. I think that is a shame, don't you?"

"Er, you're very busy all the time, sir," Newt ventured, his sub-consciousness deciding he really did not want to spend any length of time with Mr. Sable, thank you very much, "It's understandable you wouldn't have time-"

"Nonsense, FAN™ is a company that makes us all family. Come, I would like to talk to you about yours." The black-clad businessman gave Newt a follow-me gesture, and Newt reluctantly obeyed.

The two walked through the quiet halls of the company, their respective shoes making comparatively loud clinking sounds on the immaculately clean floor. Hadn't Newt eaten dinner? He was fairly sure he had made something – oh, that's right, it was only macaroni and cheese, Anathema had been busy with that book –

"So I understand you have a wife and children?"

"Yes sir, a son and a daughter. Twins," he said proudly.

"How nice. And your wife?"

"Anathema. She's a stay-at-home mum."

"I'm sure she's much more than that," Sable said pleasantly as the two got on the elevator to go to the sixth floor. The entire floor was devoted solely to being Sable's office.

Newt noticed a sickening smell, like a petrol spill. "Is there a gas leak in here?" he asked, looking around. The higher up they went the stronger the smell got.

"I don't smell anything. Tell me more about your wife, Newt."

"Er, she's, er, she's very into homeopathic things, you know, herbs and the like. She's also a vegan, and she only bakes healthy things."

"Sounds delicious," Sable replied with derision in his voice.

"Yeah, sure, that's one way to describe it," said Newt, whose actual term more closely resembled blech, "Are you sure-"

The door to the elevator opened into Sable's large, expansive office that really only had a desk in it with a beautiful view overlooking Lower Tadfield. At least, if the windows hadn't been covered with grime the view would have been beautiful. There was a young boy dressed in all white sitting at the desk, turned toward the window so that Newt couldn't see his face. The black marble floor was covered in a thin layer of oil.

Mr. Sable grabbed Newt's shoulders, leading him into the office. "Would you say she is friends with a young Mr. Adam Young?"

Uh oh. Anathema had said he was the Antichrist, hadn't she? "Yes," Newt squeaked.

Sable smiled. It was not comforting.

"SHUT UP MICHAEL."

"… But I didn't say anything!"

The Words of the Lord filled Aziraphale with a fabricated sense of relief, which his own sense of dread overpowered. He simply couldn't believe what he'd just heard. He knew better, however, than to question ineffability.

That being said, his own words left Aziraphale's lips before he could control them.

"But why?"

There was blackness.

The scooter finally came to a stop in front of the second Young's residence with a putputputput-put—put----put.

"Well," said the Madame Tracy that wasn't Madame Tracy, "that was an, er, interesting experience."

"Quit yer whinin' ye Southern Hippie," Shadwell grumbled.

"Turn the other cheek, turn the other cheek… Nice, deep breaths…"

"Now now, Mister S," chided the Madame Tracy that was Madame Tracy, "our guest has been most accommodating thus far and we ought to be polite to, er…"

"Him. Well, in a sense."

"Yes, him. And now that we're here I'm sure that all of our problems can be solved, and Lower Tadfield is such a lovely town and it's good to get out of the house every once in awhile." She hopped off the scooter and started walking to the door.

Adam opened it up before she had a chance to get halfway up the cobblestone path.

"Hello Adam! You're a sight for sore eyes, truly!"

"Hello yourself," Adam replied with a raised eyebrow, "It's nice ta finally meet you, I guess."

Shadwell got off and quickly hobbled up the path behind "them," put off by the young man standing in the doorway. There was something off about him… He looked like a normal, casually-dressed young man, which made him (of course) evil, abhorrent and Southern by default, but there was something more, something wronger that Shadwell couldn't put his finger (or hand-gun) on.

Coming to the doorway, Madame Tracy held out her hand and the two shook. Adam invited them in, and Madame Tracy, her passenger and a perturbed Shadwell sat on the couch. Adam brought in some tortilla chips as a snack.

"You wanna explain the, er, body?" he asked, sitting down himself.

"Yes, yes, the body. Well, you know, there are such options nowadays, I couldn't really choose one of my own."

"Wait," said Madame Tracy, no longer looking so affable, "so you possessed me because you couldn't decide what to look like?"

"Oh dear. Yes, that is the case, but you don't understand! The last time I was here, my choices were very slim – male and Jewish. Now… now there's a whole wide world that I can be a part of! And you have to be here anyway, so don't feel too angry, please. Just think of your vacation that you were so excited to be on!"

"It's not right," Adam said with a sigh, feeling a sense of déjà vu as he created a new body for the passenger.

This new body was that of a young woman in her late teens or early twenties, with long brown hair and deep brown eyes that betrayed how old she really was. She was clad in a tie-dye t-shirt that had a huge peace sign on the front of it, ripped wide-leg jeans, flip-flops and was even wearing a crown of flowers over her head. She also had immensely large breasts, because Adam is a 20-year-old male.

Shadwell wasn't sure what part of it to be surprised about – that he was right and the person actually was a Southern Hippie, or that a person had appeared out of nowhere. He chose the latter, pointing at Adam in a very determined gesture and stammering when he didn't explode.

As the newcomer observed her body with pleasant surprise, murmuring comments as she poked ("Well, I never had these before!") Shadwell gasped out, "Ye – ye – ye, ye Southern, er, Southern… Obviously a witch!"

The Southern Hippie sighed, one small fist clenched. "My apologies, but we need to be alone right now." And with less than a thought, all of the mortals who had been in Adam's house appeared out on the lawn. "Sweet me, what is wrong with him?"

Pepper, who had been taking a shower and was now naked on the lawn, started screeching at the top of her lungs.

The Antichrist winced. "You're gonna have to deal with her," he said sternly.

The Christ smiled, annoyance forgotten as she materialized some tea. "I'll wait until after she calms down. So really, Adam, a female hippie?"

"You said you wanted somethin' different, but I didn't want it too different – you know, make you a gorilla or something - and you are kinda a hippie, you have to admit." Adam put up his hands and wiggled his fingers. "Turn the other cheek! Love your neighbor as yourself! Hug trees!"

"I said nothing about trees, at my best recollection. But then again, we didn't really have trees where I lived. Not big ones like you have. England has such a lovely countryside!"

"You sayin' that makes it pretty obvious that you cheated to make sure there wasn't any fog," Adam retorted.

She looked embarrassed before changing the subject, "If by calling me a hippie you mean that I love love, then yes, I suppose I am one. Not that I endorse many of the other messages of that era." She grabbed a tortilla chip. "Oh, look, me!" She held up one that could, if one looked cross-eyed, was standing upside down and was half-blind, construe looked almost like a bearded male.

Adam glared at her.

"Heehee, sorry. It's one of my favorite hobbies. Heaven can get awfully boring; however, as boring as it may be, that doesn't mean I want it gone. Speaking of… You and I have a lot to talk about, now don't we?"

Anathema finally woke up when she heard the front screen door shut. She shuffled out of bed – she figured it was Aziraphale leaving the book for her, and she was never one to leave books out in the cold. Besides, despite her exhaustion, she hadn't been sleeping well – she really was terribly curious to figure out what Aziraphale had discovered.

The book was, as she suspected, sandwiched between the screen door and the main door. She picked it and flipped through as she carried it to the kitchen table, getting to the section that Aziraphale had annotated. The angel's impeccable penmanship filled up a few note cards with phrases like "Really? He couldn't think of anything else to make the opposite?" and "Sigh. I should have had Crowley torment him when he was alive." And "Good for her!" She made a mental note to come back to those.

Then there was "Oh, so if Heaven and Hell work together then we can avert the Apocalypse. It's such a pity that it's going to kill me. Crowley, too… but we'll see if we can't find another way around that. Poor dear has so much to live for, after all."

Anathema read that again.

And again.

"But I like Aziraphale!" she protested, looking through the rest of the note cards. They all had inane comments with one "Well that is awfully rude!" put in. "He can't die! He just can't! Who else will appreciate the inanities of Olde English with me! Who else will I make fun of for being so very in denial about his adorable boyfriend he doesn't even realize he has! Who else will dress even more old-fashioned than I do?"

Anathema was actually tearing up, feeling distinctly like she had felt when she lost the first Agnes book. Which, a corner of her mind mused, had been Aziraphale's fault too. Somehow.

The phone rang.

Wensleydale, on his way home from work, slowed down to a stop outside of Adam and Pepper's house. "Er, what's going on?" he asked the humans sitting on the lawn. "Pepper, why're you dressed like a stripper nun?"

"Ask Jesus," she snarled, looking less than happy. Sister Prudence, who always had an extra outfit for when hers got destroyed, had lent her one.

"We're not stripper nuns," Sister Prudence protested.

"Hey Pru."

"Hi Wensleydale."

"I can't believe they interrupted Sailor Moon," Brian lamented. He looked considerably more upset than the two three-year-olds he had been babysitting, who were now sound asleep on the grass. "We'd just gotten to the part where it turns out that Sailor Venus-"

"You know, if you spent half as much time looking for a job as you did watching cartoons-"

"Anime." It had hurt Brian's soul to refer to them as cartoons when introducing Sailor Moon to the kids, but figured they were too young to understand the concept of an anime just yet. Some day…

"-you would not only have a job, you would be rich and could move out," Pepper finished.

"I'm working on it," Brian replied lamely.

"Wa's wrong wi' me hoor?" Shadwell demanded, poking a comatose Madame Tracy.

The four younger folks gathered around, each poking her in turn.

"Yeah, she's gone," Pepper said dismissively.

"Quiet ye hussy! We have'ta fix 'er! She's just a helpless, defenseless Jezebel, she dinna mean nothin' by it!"

"I'll show you hussy, you misogynist pig!"

Sister Prudence and Brian were becoming very adept at Pepper-wrestling. Maybe someday it would become an Olympic sport. One could only hope.

"You know," Wensleydale said tentatively, "Mrs. Pulsifer's pretty good at this sort of thing, maybe she can help?"

"Eh? Lucifer?"

"No, Pulsifer."

"Th' name… sounds… Newt! Newt and, an' 'is witch!"

Grumbling about the end of times as he now had to rely on a witch, Shadwell nevertheless started dragging Madame Tracy down the road. Eventually the others actually picked her up.

The door was locked and no amount of knocking got a response. That was because Anathema was gone, having received a phone call mentioning a personal meeting or the death of her husband. Had they arrived earlier, they would have seen her storm out of the house in a fit of rage that she had never before felt and would likely never feel again.

But they hadn't, so they sat on her porch and waited.

Crowley had moved the paralytic Aziraphale – wings and all - into the Bentley, somehow maneuvering him into sitting in the front seat before speeding off towards Manchester. Admittedly he wasn't speeding as fast as he usually did, because this being the "best situation" or no it still wasn't a great situation, and... and... and... ... ... and he hadn't even bothered acknowledging that both he and Aziraphale were going to die…

There was so much he hadn't accomplished. It just didn't seem fair. He had never learned to play the tuba, for instance. Had never ridden a camel. Had never gone swimming with dolphins – even after he told himself he would because they had big brains and would suffer just as much if not more than anyone else during the Apocalypse when it inevitably happened! Had never learned to use Microsoft Excel. Had never started his very own rock and roll band. Had never tempted Aziraphale into sleeping, or trying illegal substances, or into trying sex, or into being the lead singer of the aforementioned rock and roll band, or -

After leaving the city limits, however, a look of sheer agony crossed Aziraphale's face and he collapsed forward into the dashboard. He had the distinct air of a puppet whose strings have been set on fire.

Crowley slammed on the brakes. "Okay, what the he… … uh oh." All of Crowley's annoyance at being interrupted and of time wasted was wiped away by Aziraphale's tears.

Tears. Had Crowley ever seen Aziraphale cry? He didn't think so.

And Aziraphale had turned in his seat was clinging to him desperately, claws ripping through his shirt and digging into his skin.

And his once snow-white wings were now a dingy, dirty gray.

Chapter Text

Michael, Raphael, Uriel and Gabriel finally arrived in Manchester; or, more specifically, in what was left of Manchester, which wasn't much. Between the waves of energy given off by the gate to Hell and the demonic hordes that were pouring through it, Manchester's population had either fled or been eaten and most of its buildings had been sucked into the void between dimensions. The aforementioned demonic hordes were either attacking one lone fighter or had left the town to look for fresh prey.

The Archangels abandoned their human forms, re-adopting their more traditional angelic robes, armor, wings and halos.

"It looks like we have our work cut out for us," Michael admitted, surveying the damage.

"When do you suppose the Host will arrive?" Raphael asked Gabriel.

"From what I was told in the original message, the gate to Heaven should open not long after they sense we're here," Gabriel replied, "although from the looks of it we might be outnumbered even if everyone shows up…"

"But we have Michael," Uriel said cheerfully, embracing the Warrior in a tight hug, "and Raphael," he hugged him, "and you," a hug to Gabriel, "so we should be fine!"

"And you," Gabriel reminded him.

"Huh?"

"You're here too."

"Oh. Oh! That's right! I am!"

"Time to go smite some infidels," Michael said with a satisfied smile, walking into the city while cracking his knuckles.

Gabriel gave a resigned sigh and followed him. "Time to go make sure the idiot doesn't get killed. Sometimes I wonder why I bother…"

"Wait!" Michael stopped walking. "It needs something. Wait, I know – ambiance!"

He snapped twice and a song from nowhere started playing, "You're the best! Around! Nothing's gonna ever keep you down!" With a content smile, he started walking again.

Gabriel had stopped walking too, but didn't start up again as Michael walked into the city. Instead, he regarded his two remaining comrades with a desperate look. "Please don't tell me I have to go help him. Please."

"I'm sorry, dear," Raphael said apologetically.

Gabriel gave a great sigh. "All right. I suppose if he dies in there I won't be able to kill him myself." He followed.

Raphael started dithering. "It's all so pointless, isn't it? I just feel like there's something else we could do besides smite things!" He looked at Uriel with a hopeful expression. "Right?"

"Why would you want to?" Uriel asked.

Raphael frowned even as in the distance Michael started hacking and slashing. "Who's in charge of their forces? Do you know?"

"Um…" Uriel's face twisted with thought. "Let's see. The strongest one is somewhere over there… He feels kinda familiar… but then again, they all feel familiar, don't they… Hmm… Not Lucifer, or Beelzebub, not yet anyway…"

"Well, that's good," Raphael said, trying to sound optimistic.

"It's Mammon!" Uriel declared with triumph. "I can tell because his aura feels like it wants to sell me something."

Raphael ran off to the field. "Maybe I can bargain with him!" he called back over his shoulder.

"Ooo. I don't know about that," Uriel said doubtfully, pursuing.

Mammon had been the fourth to Fall, and if there were a position between Prince of Hell and Archdemon he would hold it. He had advocated for such a position to be created, but it was hard to convince Satan of anything if he really didn't care about it one way or the other. If nothing else, it put Mammon in charge of the forces until Beelzebub could make it through.

He was not a very good general, but he didn't have to be. The demons of Hell had no opposition except for one extremely cheerful anthropomorphic personification. All Mammon had to do was stand aloof and look intimidating, which is one of those things that all demons pride themselves on being able to do (that and lurking.) But he was standing in the remains of a park and still managed to look scary despite being next to a fountain of peeing angels. That takes skill.

He was vaguely hoping that Heaven would react soon when he heard an unfamiliar voice call his name. Running towards him across the rubble was a green-clad red-headed angel surrounded by a holy aura that prevented him from being touched by any of the warriors he was running past.

The upper echelons of Hell's hierarchy can remember almost everything that they lost when they Fell from Heaven – Heavenly amnesia was a boon only granted to the angels who did not so much Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downwards* - and so Mammon, after a moment of thoughtful recollection, could not help but remember the obsessively kind, overly fussy Archangel Raphael.

He smiled as he pondered the new title he'd get for killing him.

"Mammon dear!" Raphael said pleasantly, coming to stand in front of the Archdemon, "I don't know if you recall but I-"

"Raphael! It's been an awfully long time!" he interrupted suavely.

Raphael's moss-green eyes got a glint of hope in them. "Oh, how fantastic, you do remember me! Are you actually in charge of these forces?" He glanced around at the demons that had come to surround them.

"Sir," a sentry interrupted, addressing Mammon, "it seems that this angel," the word was spat out as a curse, "has friends. Michael's here."

"Make sure he doesn't die," Mammon replied, "That was the only order given; our Emperor wants that pleasure for himself."

"Lucky," the other demon complained.

"All of you, go subdue him and any of his other friends." Mammon dismissed them with, "It seems that the Archangel Raphael has something he wishes to discuss with me."

"I do!" Raphael replied pleasantly, missing the "and by 'discuss' I mean I'm going to ignore anything he has to say and just kill him" tone that Mammon had adopted.

To be fair, Raphael is not an idiot; he is, as has been previously established, too nice for his own good. He merely assumed that Mammon would, in the end, do the Right Thing and, if that failed, would not be able to hurt him anyhow.

Once they were effectively alone, Raphael began, "Perhaps we could come to some sort of accord? All this violence seems very wanton and unnecessary and I'm sure that we can find some set of terms that would have both sides leaving the field happier."

"You know, Raphael, as much as I would like to end all this, I do have orders from a higher power."

"Oh, I'm sure that Lucifer can be persuaded to stop things," Raphael said, waving a hand as if to wave Mammon's concern away, "After all, once we win he'll cease to exist, and certainly he won't want that now will he?"

Even Mammon trying to be diplomatic couldn't resist the need to laugh at that assertion. "Yes, yes, of course you'll win," he said sarcastically – but, like Aziraphale before increased exposure to Crowley, Raphael had no concept of sarcasm.

"Well, of course," he said with no hint of arrogance, "So why don't you call off this horrible attack? Or, perhaps you can skedaddle back to Hell and tell him to call things off? It would be awfully sweet of you. No one wants existence to be over, especially since my son's boyfriend would be destroyed too."

"Too much information," Mammon admitted.

"Oh, sorry."

"Tell you what, Raphael," Mammon said with a charming smile, "Why don't you and I go find my boss and you can talk to him? I think the argument would be better coming from you than from me."

"Oh. Oh. I don't think that's such a good idea, my dear. I can't imagine any trip to Hell would be pleasant for me." He looked wary at this point.

Mammon was sensing this was a losing argument. "You'd have to drop your shields in order to get through," he continued as if Raphael hadn't even spoken, "but I can make sure you don't die on the way there. And, well, my boss would be more than happy to see you."

"Hmm? I can't imagine Lucifer would be happy to see anyone right now."

"I just heard him the other day – he was talking about how he could really use a hug, but no one gives out hugs like you do."

The shield wavered. Raphael's chief weakness is helping others, no matter who they are. "Well… if he needs a little cheering up… I suppose I should…"

Mammon attacked.

Raphael blocked Mammon's blade with his staff; the collision created sparks of pure energy and threw both of them backwards. "What are you doing!"

"Getting a promotion!"

The archangel tried to bring his defenses back up, but Mammon had the advantage of catching him off-guard and managed to punch him in the face. The wound healed itself quickly as Raphael pushed himself backwards.

*Or Fell Through a Trapdoor, as it were.

"Hey you!" Michael exclaimed cheerfully in greeting to his "daughter," coming to stand back-to-back with her as they continued to stab things.

"Hi Dad!" she replied with an equal amount of happiness, "How's it going!"

"Not bad! Killing demons," he ducked and retaliated against one, "saving the world, you know, the usual. You?"

"Same, same! It's sweet, innit it?"

"Totally!"

They went silent, focusing again on demon slaying.

"There's two of them?" Gabriel asked after observing this heartfelt exchange. He looked to the sky. "One was too much! Merciful Lord, why do you test me so?"

He didn't get an answer. Not that he expected to, of course.

Across the field, Raphael was not faring nearly so well. He, after all, was not a fighter by any stretch of the imagination, and most people had the common decency not to try to rip his throat out with their teeth, or skewer him like shish kebob, or other sorts of violent things. In fact, the Archangel couldn't recall the last time he'd had to heal himself.

But he now had to do it constantly, and it was draining his energy. At least it was not giving Mammon the satisfaction of killing him, but even that wouldn't last long.

Er, dears, I seem to have – eep! – angered an Archdevil, I could use some help from you who are more accustomed to killing things, if you don't mind! he called out in his mind as said Archdevil grabbed him by the front of his robes and hoisted him up. He quickly called forth his angelic aura, burning Mammon's hand and separating them.

He closed his eyes and focused on creating a barrier between them. This led to a standoff; Mammon couldn't force his way through to kill the angel, but Raphael was in no position to make an attack of his own (even if he wanted to, which he did in theory but not really).

Gabriel's response was a string of inflectionless swearwords. Michael's was a promise that he would push his way through the huge horde of demons separating them, just try not to die in the next hour or so because they're really awfully insistent on killing him and it's hard to move when they're mobbing him like this.

Uriel's answer was slightly more useful.

The Hellish Handbook is a very short thing, as very few demons have the patience or the actual caring to write down rules for others to follow. As such, it has two orders, scrawled on a piece of paper that is tacked outside Satan's office:

1. Don't defy me. I'm not sure what punishment could be worse than what you're already going through Down Here, but I'm more than willing to find out.

And

2. LEAVE THE NICE ONES ALONE. Seriously. It's for your own good. (See? And you guys think I don't care. Okay, I don't, but I don't want you dying all over the place. It gets old.)

ADDENDUM: Don't expect me to follow any rules. I can do whatever I want.

There are two very good reasons for the second rule. The first is that Really Nice People tend to have a "But I will destroy you should you press me too far" clause attached that makes messing with them a Bad Idea. Aziraphale is an example of this. However, Raphael is not – he has become such a Really Nice Person that he has gone beyond the clause.

The second reason is that Really Nice People tend to have Really Good Friends.

When Mammon had almost hacked his way through the distraught-looking Raphael's shields, the downward swipe of his blade was stopped by a different, more powerful aura shield created by a rather furious-looking Uriel*. This is the reason why Mammon should have respected Rule Number Two.

When Crowley told Aziraphale that he didn't remember Heaven, that was a white lie. While the lower Fallen Angels were deprived of most of their memories to soften the blow of Falling, there is one fact that all of the Fallen recall clearly about their former lives – the cold, angry gaze of Uriel as he severed their ties to the Presence and the overwhelming sense of loss that came afterwards. It was therefore forgivable for Mammon to think that the Uriel standing in front of him was some sort of horrible flashback, even if this particular Uriel had pink wings whereas the one in the flashback had red. Mammon blinked a few times in confusion, as if hoping Uriel was simply a visionary hallucination.

This changed when Uriel said, "Mammon Mamonas, you who worship gold and riches above all else, have sinned against my friend, through him me, and through me the Lord."

Mammon took a step backwards. He knew true fear then.

"Although technically you sinned against the Lord just by trying to kill me," Raphael squeaked, recognizing the change in Uriel's demeanor that told him exactly what was going to happen next. "But, er, I forgive you? So, really, Uriel dear, there's no need-"

Uriel ignored him. "The Light shall destroy you."

Raphael covered his eyes as the ground began shaking and pieces of debris around Uriel began floating. This was a wise move on his part, and you should do the same.

Rather than watch as Uriel horribly annihilates Mammon, think instead of the time that Uriel got lost in the Heavenly palace for three days…

"Mercy, please!"

"Mercy is only granted to those who repent. The damned do not repent; they merely fear."

"Actually, do they really only fear or are they capable of - ? Oh dear, never mind, la la la la la," Raphael sang as he plugged his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.

… or when Uriel was spectacularly thwarted as he insisted on trying to push open a door clearly labeled "Pull"…

There was a strong wind and an earthquake that Raphael had to guess was caused by Uriel throwing Mammon through one of the few remaining buildings.

…. and then there was the time Uriel fell off the edge of Heaven – which noticeably has no edges….

Raphael felt something wet hit his face. He wiped it off with a sleeve and decided to pretend it was water.

… or the time he forgot he could fly and just flapped his arms as he fell, screaming in a way that was so very comical and it really was hard not to laugh at him...

Raphael tentatively opened his eyes. What had once been a park was a bare wasteland except for the grass underneath him. Uriel was the only one standing. Raphael tried very hard to ignore the bits of Mammon scattered about the field, smoldering.

Uriel turned to look at Raphael, his eyes still filled with rage. The gaze softened and he ran across the rubble. He tripped twice. "Oh Raphael!" he cried as he pushed himself back up, "What am I supposed to do without you!"

Raphael found himself with an armful of Archangel. He smiled and rubbed Uriel on the head, healing his skinned knee. Yes, he was much happier pretending that what had just happened had not just happened. And so are you.

* If he was listening, he would have heard a Latin-chanting choir in the background complete with an entire orchestra singing about his impending demise.

Jesus looked at Adam with an unending patience. "You see the problem?"

The Antichrist fidgeted. He wasn't used to this – usually people tried to force him to do things, and he was good at saying no to that, but Jesus was being so damn nice about it that it was getting harder and harder to say no.

"Listen," Adam said, "I know, I know I should do somethin', but like I said, I can't leave here. I mean, my family's here, and…"

Jesus continued sipping at her tea. Adam briefly wondered if an inexplicable love of tea was just a Heaven thing; he couldn't even stand the stuff. "I really don't think that's your problem, to be honest. You're the kid who ventured off to stop the Apocalypse last time, after all. Besides, if the world ends Tadfield goes with it."

"You can't read my mind, can you?"

She shook her head. "No, just like you can't read mine. We're equals, you know. So what is your actual problem, then?"

"You try having the fate of the world rest on your shoulders!" he snapped back. "Er."

"I would raise one eyebrow at you if this body was capable of doing that," Jesus replied.

Adam stood up and started pacing. "Listen," he said again, "Jus', jus' listen. Hell's invadin', right, with my, my biological father, and that's where my powers come from. How do I know that they'll even work, and how do I know… how do I know that little voice in my head tellin' me to destroy everythin' and that it's my destiny won't butt in and start goin' crazy?"

"Well, your powers won't work on Satan very well, that's true," she replied reasonably, "but better than you sitting here. As for the voice, it tried to make you blow up everything once and you beat it then."

Adam sat back down on the couch, looking deflated. "But I had my friends then," he explained, "an' I'm sure not goin' to take them to Manchester! I can feel all of the fightin' going on there… they'd get killed so fast… I couldn'…"

"While friends are a wonderful thing to have, you don't need them. I mean, take a look at me for an example. My friends certainly helped – by, you know, causing wanton violence against the slaves of my captors, betraying me for money, pretending to not know me, and otherwise vanishing into midair. You know, useful things." To Adam's surprise, Jesus' brown eyes welled up with tears. "Not sure how I would've made it through without all twelve of them. Oh, wait, that's right, I didn't!"

Adam reached between dimensions. He found there weren't any handkerchiefs to be found, so he went for tissues instead.

Jesus gratefully blew her nose. "Thank you, dear, I thought I was over it by now, but it's these silly female hormones. Remind me to chastise my Father for this; it's simply not right!"*

"Don't let Pepper hear you say that, she's a little sensitive about that sort of thing."

"Poor girl, I would be too if I spent my entire life like this. Speaking of her, though," she cleared her throat, "your friends didn't stop you from destroying the world nine years ago, you stopped yourself. You can go to Manchester and help stop what's going on, not fall prey to it."

Adam leaned over, burying his fingers into his curly blond hair. "But… But would my powers even work? I mean, it was enough to keep Hell from comin' onto Earth, but they're already here…"

Jesus leaned over and patted Adam on his back. "Adam, dear, you're the Antichrist. You're likely even stronger than ever due to the destruction going on up north." When Adam didn't sit up, she inquired softly, "But you're coming up with some good excuses. So what's your actual, real problem?"

Adam mumbled something into his legs that sounded like "way too observant."

"It's a gift," Jesus replied sweetly.

* Before you ask, yes, the authoress is female, and yes, she heartily agrees with this statement. So do both of her (female) betas.

"ALL RIGHT, I'M HERE!" Anathema Device-Pulsifer declared with the voice betraying the fury of a Woman Scorned. "So what the blazes do you want!"

Famine and Pollution did not realize exactly what the fury of Woman Scorned happens to trump, otherwise they would have probably released Newt right then and there. Newt, for his part, looked appropriately terrified, hogtied as he was on top of his boss' (ex-boss', he noted glumly, there was no going back to this job after this) desk.

Anathema was normally mild-mannered and sweet, if a bit snarky with people who were dumber than her*, but she had never looked or felt so furious in her entire life and that scared him much more than the two Apocalyptic agents.

Famine smiled at her charismatically. "A trade, young lady. Your cooperation for your husband's life."

"Cooperation with what?" she asked suspiciously.

"We want the Apocalypse to happen!" Pollution whined petulantly, "And the Antichrist won't go to where it's happening! It's so dull here!"

"We've seen you with Mr. Young," Famine continued more diplomatically, "and we want you to convince him to go."

Anathema no longer looked so angry. "Jesus is talking to him right now," she explained, just knowing that fact as only someone who is psychic can, "so if that doesn't work, nothing will."

Silence came from the two Horsepersons.

"Oh," Famine said. "You, ah, you have a point there."

"This is awkward," Pollution agreed.

"Maybe you should have checked all of the facts first?" Newt suggested.

"For all of my business expertise I am not the leader of the Horsemen and it's getting frustrating that neither of my bosses are cooperating!" Famine exploded.

I THOUGHT IT WAS A STUPID IDEA.

"You could have spoken up!"

Anathema suggested, still very aware that her husband was still hogtied in the middle of the office and trying her best to be diplomatic, "Listen, I feel really greasy, why don't we call come back to my place for some biscuits and we can see how this unfolds?"

"Ooo, another place to make dirty!"

With nothing better to do, the four of them –the humans carefully avoiding contact with the supernatural entities – walked back to the Pulsifer house. Lower Tadfield is not a large town, so it was only a few minutes' walk from SHI´™ Enterprises to Jasmine Cottage. It was possibly the most uncomfortable few minutes experienced by four people ever, although Newt and Anathema walked hand in hand at least.

But peace was not to be found at the Pulsifer house, as once they were within shouting distance they could see a bunch of blobs and hear a shout from the front porch:

"Ey, you, witch! Save me Painted Jezebel wi' yer damnable witch magic a'fore I blast ye to Kingdom Come!"

* i.e., just about everyone.

"I questioned," Aziraphale moaned in a very stuffed-up voice and with a look of pure agony on his face, "I questioned, I should never have questioned, but I questioned, I actually second-guessed ineffability, and now, and now…"

Aziraphale had sobbed for what seemed like forever, and after he'd stopped the demon had dragged him to the back seat of the Bentley, which was infinitely more comfortable for the clinging that Aziraphale insisted upon and had more space than the front. Upon getting situated, Aziraphale had caught glimpse of his dirty gray wings and had promptly re-burst into tears. Enough cajoling had gotten Aziraphale to winch in his wings again, which in turn made the clinging a little easier for him.

As Aziraphale cried, Crowley had panicked. Well, he panicked in the only way that someone trying to be strong for someone else can panic – internally. Was the creature in his arms truly Aziraphale? He would eventually have to go to Hell – would he even be able to handle it?

But stronger than the worry about the future was Crowley's anger at the Almighty for Felling the only angel in the heavens who was, from what he had been able to tell, somewhat sane.

And even stronger than the anger was the sympathy. Thousands of years ago this had been him, after all.

So Crowley kept making completely useless but still somehow necessary shushing noises and rubbing Aziraphale's hair, keeping the rest of his thoughts on the matter completely silent. They would just disturb the ex-angel anyway, and the soft noises Crowley was making seemed to comfort him somewhat.

(Inner Aziraphale fainted with glee when Crowley couldn't resist the temptation and pressed a few feather-light kisses to Real Aziraphale's forehead; Inner Hastur wisely chose to remain silent on the whole matter, and not just because he was still recovering from Inner Aziraphale's umbrella-wielding beat-down.)

Well aware that all of the Earl Gray in the world wasn't going to make Aziraphale feel better, Crowley miracled the ex-angel a cup anyway. There was soothing Handel sailing through the car. Yes, actual Handel. Even the Bentley has a heart.

Aziraphale took it and sipped on it almost mindlessly, but it did seem to calm him down some. "I'm sorry, my dear," he said finally.

"Don't be." Crowley materialized him a large tartan blanket, wrapping it around him. "It's… it's hard, I know. At least you didn't, you know, actually, physically fall. Like, from the sky, sort of fall," he offered lamely. "You know, with the loud whistle and then the boom at the end. That was part of the magic of the experience. Okay, I'll shut up now."

"You're fine, dear," Aziraphale sniffled back. "And I suppose you're right – at least I didn't end up physically in Hell, right?"

"Yeah, that's a plus. And, and you have me," he offered, "and I can teach you the ropes; you know, proper demonic things. When I Fell nobody knew what they were doing, so we just sat around, and hit each other, and insulted each other. You get to miss that part."

"Oh. That's good."

"Yeah? Um, what else?" Crowley got in touch with his inner optimist. "And, and, now if Hell wins this whole Apocalypse thing we can keep each other company!"

That did not have the intended effect. Aziraphale looked more worried than before. "Oh, yes, that. Oh my. I'm… ah, I'm having something of a complete existential crisis. God actually wants to destroy the world. And He is all wise and – oh bugger!" He grasped his head.

"Yeah, you want to avoid any mentions of God as a general rule of thumb, but specifically you don't want to make any glorifying statements," Crowley advised, pushing a damp curl off Aziraphale's forehead. "Using His name in vain is okay."

Aziraphale nodded and took another sip of tea. "But why is it that I know that, er, this is part of the Plan, but I still so very much dislike the whole idea? Can I think the Ineffable Plan is wrong?"

"Hey, the Plan is ineffable, not infallible," Crowley corrected.

Aziraphale gasped.

Crowley bit back a reminder that the ex-angel was now a demon and therefore allowed to be blasphemous. It probably wouldn't help any, and Crowley already had exhausted the quota on miracled handkerchiefs. "But anyway," he continued smoothly, "er, how exactly do you feel?"

"If I were still able to bless, I would go dunk my head in holy water," Aziraphale murmured, taking the time to look at the talons on his fingers. His skin had somehow become paler than before, his curly blond hair had a dirty, almost metallic tinge to it, and his once dark celestial blue eyes were now an opaque light gray, almost white.

Crowley winced. Great, suicidal thoughts. He had to distract him somehow. "Well, that wouldn't do you any good. Don't want to spend eternity hanging out with Hastur and Ligur, right?"

Aziraphale's wasn't looking at him as he continued despondently, "Just this sense of emptiness, of a huge piece of my soul gone missing, the comfort of the L – er, the, uh, you know, just completely gone."

"That passes with time," Crowley admitted. "I mean, I don't really remember much of Heaven anymore," Instantly a pair of cold yet angry violet eyes appeared in his mind, but he continued, "so a lot of that loneliness is gone. You can't miss what you don't remember and all that."

Aziraphale frowned. "Well… I must admit I have felt no urges to, I don't know, commit burglary or eat kittens. You know, demonic, evil things."

"Aziraphale-"

Aziraphale winced at the use of his angelic name.

HEY EX-ANGEL, the CD called snidely, CAN I RETURN YOU, OR SHOULD I START CALLING YOU 'SLITHERY'?

Finally biting the bullet that he should have bitten in 1981 (the year Queen released their "Greatest Hits" and began the Bentley's continued torment of his person), Crowley reached into the front of the Bentley and ripped out the CD player, throwing it out onto the road.

Aziraphale stared in shock. "Did you just cause permanent damage to the Bentley for me? Oh, Crowley…" The ex-angel hugged him.

Crowley quickly thought of a new yet familiar name for the ex-angel. "Anyhow, Zira, you have known me for six millennia," Crowley said sternly, invoking all of his willpower to change the topic of the conversation even as he patted him on the head, "When was the last time you saw me eating kittens?"

The newly-designated Zira looked affronted as he released him. "You were a snake for, er, a few years, you know, and I never did watch you eat anything in that timeframe. For all I know you subsisted completely on a diet of adorable kittens!"

"Barring that I don't need to eat," Crowley reminded him, neglecting to inform his counterpart he'd really been fonder of adorable bunnies. "Sometimes you are an idiot. For what it's worth, you will make a terrible demon."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Zira giggled before sobering again. "I'm not going to have to turn into an animal, am I?"

"Not unless you have any gardens you want to infiltrate."

"Fair enough. Er, Crowley?"

"Yeah?

"What do I feel like, to you?"

Soft was the first word that came to his head. "You mean your aura?" he asked aloud.

Zira nodded, finishing off his cup of tea. Crowley materialized another one for him.

"It's… it is demonic," he said slowly, trying to make this as tactful as possible, "but… it's also… very tainted. I've been thinking," he'd had a lot of time to think whilst Zira was having his breakdown, "that maybe it's because you understand why you were cast down in the first place. I mean," he was blabbing now, great, "when I first Fell, I was absolutely infuriated because it didn't make sense to me, but you, you see the logic behind what happened and you're not bitter towards Him, you're just depressed that it happened."

Zira nodded. "I still think like an angel, at least right now I do," he said, "My thought process hasn't changed. I just look different, and I feel a bit different… This is so very odd."

"It's like a mocha," Crowley established, deciding to put this in Aziraphalean terms.

"Er? How so?"

"A mocha is mostly espresso and milk, right? That's your demonic part. But in a mocha there's chocolate too, and the chocolate is your angelness, and you can't really taste the chocolate because it's mixed in and overpowered by the espresso and milk, but it's there and it does add something, it's just not as noticeable. Does that make sense?"

"It makes perfect sense," Aziraphale breathed.

"And you're well acquainted with Gluttony, that's a good first step," Crowley muttered.

Silence filled the Bentley as Zira sipped at his tea and wiped his nose on the last in the long line of handkerchiefs. Finally, he whispered, "How did you stand this… this loneliness? I can already barely remember Heaven… and…I feel so… empty, so alone." Again the light gray eyes welled up with tears.

"You get used to it," Crowley offered lamely. "Besides… who said you're alone? You got me here, right?"

And Zira smiled; it was wan at best, but it existed, and that was enough.

"And," Crowley continued, encouraged, "if Heaven wins we both cease to exist, but if Hell wins you and I can run away really far and really fast; we're pretty smart, between the two of us we can probably do a decent job at not getting caught and tortured for treason. It'll be fun… until we get caught... But, you know, we'll make the best of it. Just you and me, like it should be."

"Oh, Crowley." The new demon's eyes welled over with emotions that were clearly hope and a sudden epiphany which led to euphoria.

Crowley felt his completely unnecessary heart start beating. Oh.

"I love you."

No one was sure who said it first, but it didn't matter.

Chapter Text

The Angelic Guide to a More Complete Existence received one last update after the Earth was created, in light of what those uninvolved called "The Nephilim Incidents." It was the shortest of the rules, as most of the rules tended to be entire handbooks in and of themselves, but Rule 778 was hastily written in at the end as follows:

And THE LORD hath decreed that no Angel of any rank shall lay with any human being, upon penalty of Falling.

Underneath it was written in a decidedly angry scrawl:

GOOD JOB YOU IDIOTS, WHAT PART OF "LET'S BUGGER SOME CHICKS WHO ARE 1/1,000,000,000TH OUR AGES" SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME?! MORONS! YOU'RE LUCKY THIS IS ALL THE PUNISHMENT THERE IS!

Beneath that, in a delicate script:

Frankly I have to agree, although my siding with Michael may just signify the end of times. If you must insist on lying with human women, could you not at least use contraceptives of some kind? Would that have been so hard, hmm? Imbeciles.

And below that, in a placating print:

Now now, go easy on the poor dears. Humans don't reproduce the same way as those of celestial origins, after all. How were they supposed to know such an activity would produce offspring? I'm sure everyone learned a lesson from this.

And then in a thoughtful scribble:

Just how DO we reproduce, anyway?

And that was all that was written.

Uriel never got his answer, but he soon forgot the question.

As the Archangel of the Divine Presence, what Uriel never forgot were the angels he'd had to cut off from God. Of course they all blended together in his mind at times, but with enough mental discipline he could come up with names, faces, former roles.

This latest was particularly easy to remember.

Imagine that your nephew, whom your brother is rather exuberantly fond of, was just caught committing armed robbery at a bank run by adorable puppies, but your brother has no idea that it's happened. Imagine that your godson, who by all accounts is an exceptionally well-behaved young man, has knocked up his entire high school's population of females, and everyone is looking to you to tell his father.

Imagine that your best friend and older brother's adopted son, his precious Aziraphael, has Fallen from Grace, will never again see the Light of Heaven, will be damned to spend an eternity in the lowest pits of Hell being tortured, is a twisted abomination of what he once was, will likely be able to turn into maggots (which your older brother may or may not be afraid of), will soon forget the Time before Time during which your older brother doted on him and raised him… and everyone is looking to you to tell his father.

Finally Uriel blurted it out in an extremely undignified way as he and Raphael stood back-to-back, fighting off another horde of demons (yet another reason why he wasn't the Messenger.)

It put Raphael in shock for a few minutes, during which he was nearly decapitated twice, before his red-gold wings lifted him up and he started flying back the way they came, turbulence be damned.

Shortly after Raphael left, the sky split open, causing the ground to rumble. A loud trumpet sounded through the area, and Michael – sweaty and a little bloody – let out a laugh of relief.

The Host had arrived.

"See, you can feel special," Crowley was saying to Zira as he drove, "I have never shagged anyone in the back seat of the Bentley before. I've never even come close to having anyone or anything in that back seat with the intention of getting any sort of fluid anywhere on that vintage, pristine leather. Congratulations."

It had been quick, awkward and desperate.

And amazing.*

And Inner Hastur had laughed at him hysterically until Inner Aziraphale pulled a Real Aziraphale and stepped on him. Inner Aziraphale then told him he was a good boy, took him long enough, and sagely went silent, his work done.

Zira laughed, bathed in a wonderful post-coital glow that made him think everything was going to be all right. "Thank you for the honour, my love," he said fondly, resting his hand on Crowley's knee and squeezing gently.

"See, now that is decidedly un-demonic," Crowley retorted, "You need to take any fluffy, happy angel emotions and never acknowledge them. If you must speak with endearments, you're going to have to get creative. I could call you 'angel' because you were technically an angel, for example." This was the first time Crowley had admitted to himself he called Aziraphale "angel" for a reason beyond the fact that Aziraphale was an angel.

"Perhaps Slithery?"

"Never."

"Where are we going?" Zira questioned abruptly.

"Southish," Crowley said, wary of Zira's tone, "I don't know, I haven't really thought of it. Maybe Italy? I haven't been to Egypt in a really long time. Hey, how about China! Maybe if we convert to Buddhism-"

"We should be going to Manchester!"

Crowley slammed on the brakes.

He gathered his thoughts as Zira complained about the unnecessarily abrupt stop. "And what, exactly, would you have us do in Manchester?" he asked slowly, staring at the steering wheel. Apparently he'd been losing his touch, because he was pretty sure that the sex was supposed to have made Zira forget about his suicide plan.

Zira was looking at him with furrowed eyebrows. "Nothing has changed, Crowley. Well, except me, but that's, er, what's your phrase of choice, not the point but next to it…"

"Beside the point?"

"Right, that's beside the point. We still need to stop the world from being destroyed."

Crowley still didn't look up. He wasn't sure which of his questions was the best in this particular situation. "All right," he began tentatively, slowly, as if he really couldn't believe he was saying this, "but…"

"We need to stop this," Zira said, looking more determined the more he spoke of it, "And it is our fault, technically, so it needs to be us. Just because I've… changed doesn't mean I don't still feel this obligation to do what I think is right."

"But you shouldn't!" Crowley protested, "You and I should be thinking along the same lines, which include sight-seeing, long stays in luxury hotels, and a world tour! I know, we could go to Japan, do what we just did in a bed and on repeat, and eat real, quality, authentic sushi…"

Zira bit his lower lip and shook his head. "If we don't do something – er, something to stop this, don't give me that look! - none of that will exist anymore-"

"Which is why we should enjoy it while we can!"

"Crowley!"

"Maybe China would be better, you can fight for people's rights and I can put more lead in-"

"CROWLEY!"

"You are not an angel anymore, Aziraphale!" Crowley finally snapped, losing patience.

Zira recoiled at his name.

"No one expects you to stop the Apocalypse! God Himself doesn't want you to save the world! The Alpha and the Omega literally zapped into your brain and told you he doesn't want you to do anything!"

"But I want to," he said simply.

Crowley slammed his hand on the steering wheel in frustration, and the Bentley let out a honk of displeasure. "And how do you expect to do it! Did you forget that part where the gates can only be closed by a demon and an angel? Because in case you've forgotten, neither of us are angels, and no angel wants to stop this!"

"I may not be an angel in body, but I am in spirit."

"NO YOU'RE NOT!"

All of a sudden very strong (yet miraculously soft) fingers gripped Crowley's throat and turned him so that his upper body was facing a very enraged, red-eyed Zira.

"Do not tell me what I am or am not," the demon hissed, "It doesn't matter that God has Felled me, that the Adversary is ready to welcome me to Hell, that my wings are, are icky and that I have talons, because I still want to help people, I still want to undo all of the wrongs I see, and, God-approved or not, the most grievous wrong is that this world, this beautiful world that I've spent the last six thousand years in, that we've spent the last six thousand years in, is going to be destroyed, and it's all my fault, and that you and I are going to be parted forever when I finally got the courage to tell you how I've felt for a thousand years if not longer - angel, demon, Heaven, Hell, good, evil, they're all words, they're all labels, they all mean absolutely bloody nothing, all that matters is that I love this world, I love this life, and I love you, you complete and utter bastard, and I will do anything to keep the things I love safe, and if we don't do this, you and I, we'll cease to exist anyway, or we will spend a short time on the run, maybe, before we are captured and you're put through all kinds of torments that I simply cannot abide, and I think if you were thinking clearly you would agree you'd rather stop being if it meant you wouldn't have to go through that, and that if there were a chance, any chance at all, that you could avoid that, that the world could avoid that, you would take that opportunity, so you, right now, are going to turn this stupid old amazing wonderful piece of machinery around, and we are going to go to Manchester, and we are going to do our damnable, blessed best to save the world so that we can live in it together."

It was hard to argue with that. Who knew them having it off would give him such an attitude?

"Besides," Zira said as they sped north, "I can't speak Chinese very well, you know that."

* Although lust was not his specialty – there were incubi and succubi for that, plus there was something unfulfilling about pushing humans into doing something they were biologically predispositioned to do - it was still hard for him to stomach that the best lay he'd ever had was in the back seat of a car with a 6,000+ year-old virgin** ex-angel.

** Virgin as far as they knew, as neither of them could quite remember their wedding night. The fact that they woke up naked and cuddling should have been a hint, but this is Aziraphale and Crowley we're talking about.

Michael and Gabriel worked back to back, supporting each other while surrounded by demons fighting angels. War had since run off, deciding to that as fun as it was killing stuff with her "dad" she much preferred not having someone take her kills from her.

"I'm impressed, Gabe," Michael commented, parrying an attack and decapitating the demon who made it, "I never thought I'd see the day when you could keep up with me!" Abruptly he grabbed the other angel's arm and swung him around; using the force, Gabriel was able to launch himself into an aura-infused kick, removing another attacker's head.

"And I'm ashamed you thought so little of me. And don't call me 'Gabe.'"

"Well," Michael stabbed at another attacker over Gabriel's shoulder, "you're the Messenger; it's not exactly conducive to swordsmanship. What can I call you then?"

"And you are the Warrior, which is not exactly conducive to civil conversation, yet you are able to hold a decent one when the occasion arises every couple thousand years. My name is Gabriel. Not Gabrielle, not Gabby, not Gabe, not G-Dawg, not the G-Meister. Gabriel."

"Uh oh, Gabriel, did you just give me a compliment?* I think you may have just ensured our failure and that the Apocalypse really does happen."

The Archangel of Revelations gave a wry smile. Or rather, he tried to; in essence it was more like the right corner of his lips curled up just enough so that his mouth could no longer be considered in a straight line. It was more than they had done since Time Before Time.

Michael's moment of feeling awfully special and mildly horrified was interrupted when the look of pseudo-amusement fell off Gabriel's face and his head snapped up. "Now?" A moment passed. Gabriel looked back at Michael. "I've received a Summons; try to not die without me." The large silver-tinged wings spread out to their magnificent width – Gabriel had the largest wingspan of any angel, likely due to his having to fly the most – and he took off towards the sky.

Michael found he had much bigger problems than wingspan envy.

An angel ran up to him, panting a bit as she leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees. "Bad news, Michael Sir!"

"What's wrong?" the Warrior demanded.

"Um, Ramiel just fell," she stammered, "Er, the, uh, good kind of fell – not the Fell fell kind of fell, you know, from the sky in a blaze of glory down to Hell kind of fell, but the, er, 'got stabbed in the throat' kind of fell."

"He's dead?"

"Yeah… and… um… and we're losing."

Michael's jaw dropped. "We're losing? We're not supposed to lose!"

"They outnumber us," the poor messenger admitted, "by a lot."

"But how! We should be evenly matched! Actually," he amended, "only a third of the angels Fell during the Rebellion, so we should outnumber them!"

"It turns out," she mumbled something.

"Speak up!"

"It turns out that Uriel's not the only one who doesn't know how we reproduce!" she cried.**

Michael looked to the sky and shook his fist. "GABRIEEEEEELLE! I BLAME YOU FOR THIS!"

* Michael is the only being in the Universe who would consider "every thousand years you are capable of speaking" a compliment.

** For angels, it's "every once in awhile - ineffably, you might say - the Lord allows a baby to pop into existence." For demons, well, let's just say there is no rule against demons "laying" with anything they feel like "laying" with.

In Heaven, Gabriel scowled. "That's it," he said firmly, "Next time I get an opportunity, the hypothetical Holy Stick of the Lord that has been up his arse since before time beganeth is going to become a real stick; one with spikes. It shall be more like a mace than a stick."

Metatron sighed. "Now Gabriel-"

"And I will shove it so far up his arse that it comes out the other side of his body," Gabriel continued, "and I shall stick him in the ground outside of my office, like a scarecrow; but, instead of warding off crows, he shall ward off inanity."

"Gabriel, the message-"

"And every day," the Messenger continued with a wistful look in his cool gray eyes, "I will bid him a good morning, comment on the weather, and rejoice in the fact that he won't be able to say anything back."

Metatron was very pale.

"Because he'll have the mace coming out of his mouth," Gabriel clarified.

"Er?" said Metatron warily, neglecting to inform Gabriel that the only reason Michael was the one with that unfortunate nickname was because Gabriel didn't have a sense of humor in that regard.

"Oh, yes, message, right. Go ahead."

Crowley was feeling guilt pangs due to the hole in the dashboard. He knew that the penalty for his disobedience was likely to be horrible indeed (after all, this was the same car who punished him for a real "Best of Queen" album by subjecting him to the Spice Girls), but nevertheless he rematerialized the CD player back into its slot, caressing it gently, expressing a silent apology to his precious Bentley.

Then Crowley spotted something flying towards the car from a distance. He quickly jerked the steering wheel, guiding the car onto the grass and avoiding the projectile.

"What was that?" Zira inquired, turning in his seat to glance behind them.

"I hope to never-"

Crowley's precious Bentley was harmed in an even more dramatic fashion due to the brick he'd just dodged acting as a boomerang and flying through the back windshield; it collided with the back of Crowley's head, making the demon swear violently as he slammed a foot on the brake.

"Oh dear, are you all right?" Zira asked, reaching up to rub the large gash on Crowley's head.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, grabbing the brick and looking at the attached scroll, which read as follows:

COMMENDATION

TO CRAWLY

FOR HIS DEDICATED EFFORTS IN DEFILING AN ANGEL

THE FANGIRL LAYER WON'T STOP SQUEALING IN JOY; YOU WILL BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE

SINCERELY,

THE MANAGEMENT

"Oh dear," said Zira, his hands on his cheeks in shame.

Crowley snorted and threw it out the window. "Don't worry about it. I definitely didn't defile you."

Zira gave him a beaming smile. "No you didn't," he said fondly.

This tender moment and Crowley's healing of the Bentley and himself was interrupted when Zira gasped and whacked Crowley's arm with exuberance.

"Ow! What!"

"Oh, it's so silly, really; I realized just now that I misinterpreted what Agostino was saying!" Zira exclaimed, bouncing up and down with joy, "I mean, he basically indicated that Heaven and Hell together could close the gates – er, the opposite of that, but that's Agostino for you – and I took it to mean you and me, but actually, he was simply referring to me!"

"Oh?" Crowley said, really not liking where he thought this was going.

"Of course I didn't know at the time that he was, but now it all makes sense! I have the body of a demon but the mind of an angel, or some such, and I should very well be able to do this on my own! You'll be safe, my dear! Ah," he settled down, leaning back with a smile, "that makes me feel infinitely better. I really felt guilty that you were going to die for this, even though I know the alternatives were your death or unending agony. It's silly, really, but-"

Crowley abruptly made a wide u-turn, beginning to head back south.

"What are you doing!" Zira demanded, sitting forward.

"I decided I want to go someplace warm," Crowley said, "and so Italy it is."

"Crowley!"

"The southern part of it, the part with beaches."

"CROWLEY!"

"I will even do my best to not be embarrassed when you inevitably start walking around in a bathing suit that shows absolutely nothing-"

"CROWLEY, TURN THIS CAR AROUND!"

"- because I know I'll be able to see it all back in the hotel-"

Zira reached over and tried to move the steering wheel himself, but Crowley materialized a pair of handcuffs and strapped him to the thick metal loop other side of the car that hadn't been there. The ex-angel began seething, fighting the binds. However, Crowley had been a demon for over six thousand years and Zira for a couple of hours; there was no question as to who had better control over his demonic powers.

"See, here's the thing," Crowley said as they began a battle of Wills, "My options were A) die because Heaven wins, B) spend eternity in torment because Hell wins, or C) die because I save the world. And I was okay with that; well, okay as I can be with something like that, anyhow. Now my options are A) die because Heaven wins, B) spend eternity in torment because Hell wins, or C) live a life without you because you die saving the world. I'll choose options A or B, 'kay thanks."

"You selfish bastard," Zira hissed. "Billions of people are going to die!"

"Yep. I don't care. I'm a demon. So're you. It's a lesson you could learn. Now, if I drive fast enough maybe we can get to Italy before the world ends."

The humans and two Horsemen of the Apocalypse settled uncomfortably into the Pulsifer household. They had laid Madam Tracy's unconscious, trembling form onto the dining room table; they had yet to deduce why she was unconscious, although she had been as such ever since Jesus had left her body. Shadwell sat in the corner, and the other humans were sitting around the table, thoughtfully pondering this turn of events. Pollution had ventured off after everyone complained of the scent, and Famine had followed after everyone complained about being hungry.

"I'm not sure what you expect me to do, Mr. Shadwell, and no that doesn't work," Anathema said sternly as Shadwell pointed at her with gusto.

"Why do you keep pointin' at her?" Brian asked.

"It's me anti-witch gun," the old man growled back.

"You fight witches?" Sister Prudence asked, looking excited. "Me too!"

"Eh?" Hand still pointing at Anathema, he glanced at the red-clad nun warily. "Now then lass, I've been a Witchfinder Sergeant fer years an' I dunnae recall any-"

"Oh, a Witchfinder," she said with the air of someone who just found a really old, antique vase in the attic and is wondering how much they can sell it for, "How neat! I'm a member of the Order of Our Most Holy Lady of the Righteous Smiting!"

Shadwell perked up. "Aye, the kind o' group I can get be'ind! How many witches ha'e ye killed, lass?"

Newt held a hand over his own heart, checking to make sure it was still beating. Shadwell was actually expressing a liking for something that wasn't condensed milk or newspaper clippings! What was the world coming to?

"A few," she lied airily, having never met a witch, "but more demons."

"Good, good! Stay vigilant, slayin' th' forces o' evil!"

"You should come visit us! We have a base in London! I'm sure the other sisters would love to hear the words of a veteran!" she gushed.

Sergeant Shadwell smiled, showing off the teeth in his mouth and making Wensleydale gag. "I migh' just do that, lass. Seems like summat I could do."

"Brilliant!"

Meanwhile, Anathema made Newt go get her some tea as she pulled out her copy of The Nifer and Accurater Prophecies of Agostino Nutter, Witch Warlocke. Yef, warlocke, which if better than a witch. "We have bigger problems to worry about than Madame Tracy's coma, anyway. There's something off about Aziraphale saying he and Crowley are going to stop the Apocalypse together."

Wensleydale looked over her shoulder. "Okay, let's think about it logically then," he said, "What are the prophecies he cited?"

"The dyvorce of Hell and Heaven shalle opene the Gate and damne the Worlde," Anathema read, "was the first one. Seems pretty clear-cut."

"And the second?"

"I foresee a younge girle and boye shalle ally with the Devile, and nonne shalle stop them.'"

"Um. Girl and boy?" Wensleydale echoed, "As in, a male and a female? As in, not two males?"

"To be fair," Anathema mused, "Agostino could very well be insulting Aziraphale by calling him a woman. It wouldn't be… well, it wouldn't be uncharacteristic. He's kind of an arse. Agostino, not Aziraphale."

"Insulting or complimenting?" Pepper interjected with a tone that clearly stated her own opinion on the matter.

"Okay, maybe Agostino is saying Aziraphale looks like a girl," Wensleydale said thoughtfully, "but what other options are there? Who else could it be?"

The two deities incarnate sat in silence for fifteen minutes before Adam finally voiced, "Last time… last time… last time he showed up, and he tried to kill everythin'… and I told him to go away, that I didn't care about his stupid revenge and his stupid plan. He… he told me that next time, or when I died, he would flay me, shove my intestines down my throat, set the remains on fire, makin' sure I could feel it all, and that what he would do to my soul would be so much worse, and that… that he'd do the same to my parents, my sister, my friends… He would make an entirely new layer of Hell, jus' for me and everyone I cared about."

"Oh Adam…"

"And I sent him back that time, but that was just his avatar, what if… what if I can't do it this time?" He looked up with a hopeless expression that finally made him look young.

Jesus smiled. "You're scared. That's perfectly normal."

"Like you've ever been scared," he retorted, looking offended.

"Adam," Jesus said patiently, "my moment of doubt was documented in the best-selling book in the world. People of all ages are taught about my moment of doubt as part of their Christian religious upbringing."

"That's rough," Adam admitted.

"No kidding. But my point is that you, my friend, are allowed to be scared. You are, after all," here she smiled brilliantly, "human. And like humans, you have to get beyond your fear and do what needs to be done."

Deep in the heart of Iraq, the soldiers of the Coalition had to admit something peculiar was happening. No, not just the inexplicable earthquakes that they had been told were originating from up north; the weirdest thing was that there was no longer any fighting in the streets.

In fact, there wasn't any fighting in the entire country.

Sure, it seemed like the world was going to end, but at least something was going right.

The Shredder Formerly-Known-as-Splinter-Formerly-Known-as-Leonardo-Formerly-Known-as-Donatello-Formerly-Known-as-Skuzz awoke with a splitting headache and a crushed cell phone. Depressed at having obviously been left behind (making his "helping in the Apocalypse" record a striking zero out of two), he got up, dusted himself off, and started walking in a random direction. Luckily for him, the direction he walked in did not take him towards Manchester.

Zira had started snarling as he continued tugging at his bindings. "You are so dead," he growled. "I swear, Crawly, I am going to strangle you to death with your own intestines-"

Crowley clenched his fists and the binds grew tighter. "And there's the proof that you're actually a demon," he murmured, his own eyes glowing red behind his sunglasses as he struggled to both keep Zira pinned and keep the Bentley moving at a quick speed. "Are you even listening to yourself talk?"

Abruptly Zira calmed down. "Sorry, lost my head for a bit there," he said, looking ashamed.

"Meh. It happens." In fact, Crowley smiled. Well, that clinches it. He just threatened to murder me, and I thought it was adorable. I guess I really am in love. Although he's still a wanker.

Zira scowled as he thought, Well, he just kidnapped me, and a part of me really wants to rip out his esophagus, but a bigger portion of me wants to give him a hug. And I'm not an angel anymore, so that can only mean… well, I guess I really am in love. Although he's still a wanker.

Michael was still distracted by the news. They were losing. He knew Revelations – not very well, but then again no one did – and knew he was supposed to lead the Host to a victory over the Dragon, blah blah blah, something about lakes of fire and whores, but how was he supposed to do that when they were outnumbered?!

The amount of troops he had was soon trumped by something much worse.

"Michael, fancy meeting you here."

The General's grip on his holy sword tightened. "I wondered when you would be showing up, Adversary. I have nothing against sending you back to Hell."

Gone was the pinstripe suit and the hat; Satan looked every bit the Fallen Angel Emperor, with intricate armor, two finely-crafted swords and a crown resting on his forehead over the thick gold curls. His wings were broad and black, tinged with dark red when light struck them just right. He was smirking as he walked forward. "Oh, my dearest Michael, I'm more than willing to watch you try. This is going to be so much fun. Just like old times. Well, except for your rather bloody death at the end, of course."

Quickly he moved to strike, and Michael only just barely raised his own sword in time to block the attack.

Across the planet, millions of innocent Californians were very surprised to find that they were now inhabitants of an island. A very large, grapeless island.

"We'll win, you know!" Michael cried, parrying and thrusting.

Satan nimbly dodged, throwing himself into a spin with both swords aimed at Michael's head. The latter ducked, stepping backwards. "Of course! Because you're with Heaven and I'm with Hell, and Hell always loses!" The acid from Satan's sarcasm sizzled on the rocks beneath him.

Michael aimed a blow for Satan's chest which he dodged, so the blade scraped the breastplate. "Actually, I was really going to say that I'm better than you, but I suppose that makes sense."

"Vanity, Michael!"

"Truth, Lucifer!"

Their swords clashed, sending shockwaves throughout the field.

"Don't make me quote Revelations at you!" Michael exclaimed as he dodged another attack. He forgot about Satan's second sword, and it caught him on his well-muscled bicep. The contact burned his skin.

"Oh don't pretend like you understood what it was talking about!" Satan was smiling rather sadistically as he attacked again; Michael brought up his sword and blocked both of Satan's. "Besides! I'd say Revelations is more on my side than it is yours right now!"

"How do you figure! You know it says I win at the end, right?"

Satan backed off. He just had to see Michael's face for this. "Here's the thing. It says you fight the Dragon. But it says you beat the Dragon that has seven heads and ten horns. Do I look like I have seven heads and ten horns?"

"So I beat you instead. What's your point?"

"My point, Michael, is that there is the Dragon – that's me, and then," he pointed to across the field, "there's a dragon."

Uriel scowled as he noticed the Legions of Heaven running away whilst screaming. He looked up, and up, and up, and even he had to admit that he could understand why everyone was running.

The gigantic dragon chased the fleeing angels and demons, looking for some immortal food to feed each of its seven heads. Uriel vaguely wondered if it had seven stomachs or just one really big stomach.

"Where's Michael or Gabriel to hide behind when you need them?" the Archangel of the Presence asked with a squeaky voice. He really was tired, and that dragon had seven heads which was an awful lot, and…

Gabriel finally touched back down from his visit to Heaven. He closed his eyes and felt for the Archangel of Redemption, the recipient of this latest message, and found him facing down a rather large seven-headed ten-horned dragon. Uriel looked absolutely horrified, and he was glancing around, clearly looking for someone to hide behind.

Gabriel scowled when he noticed that the angels who should be helping Uriel were running in terror. Since they were all running towards him, he held up a hand.

The Host wisely stopped running, not sure who to fear more.

"Oh, wow, I wonder when I got magical bring-people-to-me powers," Uriel gushed.

"Turn around," Gabriel instructed the angels who looked at him with wide-eyed fear. He started walking to Uriel.

"But sir!" called one.

"Silence. We have a dragon to slay, now don't we?"

"Classic!" Uriel exclaimed. "Does anyone have some shining armor that I can wear? That'd be neat."

The two Archangels stood together, facing down the massive beast that roared in response.

"So, um, what do we do?" Uriel asked Gabriel.

Michael looked back to Satan and snapped his fingers twice. "I just gave Gabriel the technique to beat that thing. Let's see how your pet dragon does against my army."

Satan did not look impressed.

Gabriel reached into the pocket of his holy robes. "Hmm? What's this? Oh, battle plans." He read over the notes.

Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "He truly redefines what it means to be an idiot."

"What does it say?" Uriel asked.

"Operation Michael: swarm it, and stab it until it dies. ATTACK!"

As in the distance hundreds of angels led by two Archangels swarmed the dragon, Michael turned to look at Satan and stuck out his tongue.

Satan chuckled. "I didn't expect it to win," Satan reminded him, "but you're already outnumbered, and you think you can recover from the deaths that are going to come from that? How can I put this… Heaven has the advantage over Hell in that Heavenly energies affect demons more than Hellish energies affect angels. Hell has the advantage in numbers, and in gigantic creepy things that eat angels for breakfast. I had fun making those, by the way."

Michael snarled back, "But Heaven also has me!" He attacked.

Chapter Text

The two occult beings were silent as the Bentley continued speeding south, both engrossed in a Battle of Wills as Crowley continued to hold the world's would-be savior hostage.

Finally Zira politely complained that he would like some tea, and his arms were hurting, could they stop for a bit and let him stretch? There was no way Crowley could move the Bentley and keep Zira trapped and make tea, so he pulled over after extracting a promise from the new demon that he wouldn't do something stupid, like try flying to Manchester, reminding him that Crowley's lither form made him faster in the air. The two demons got out of the car, stretching after their long time on the road. Crowley gave Zira an apologetic kiss, even if he was also implying that he wasn't sorry enough to let Zira go get himself killed.

The epic Battle of the Wills was finally won courtesy of the hilt of an ex-flaming sword to the back of Crowley's head when he went to take care of any scratches or dents to the exterior of the Bentley. The Bentley got a new dent from Crowley being knocked into it.

Zira specified to Crowley perkily that he was really being quite smart about this as he worked, miracling a length of rope and dragging Crowley's prone form to a nearby tree, tying the demon to it with both arms away from his body and his feet pressed together. It was a powerful binding position; Crowley's demonic powers would be useless to him. Which is why Zira chose it in the first place.

Now that he had won, Zira looked decidedly less pleased with himself and a lot guiltier. So he took Crowley's sunglasses as a memento, placing them over his own eyes. He gave him an apologetic kiss implying that he wasn't sorry enough to let Crowley stop him and a whisper telling him that he was only doing this because he loved him and to please remember to feed the ducks. He hopped into the Bentley and, after familiarizing himself with the machine he had been in countless times but had never driven, he sped back north to Manchester.

Crowley managed to open his eyes long enough to see Aziraphale walking away.

The shock waves from Satan and Michael's fight traveled much further than the field. What had been just a wave of demonic and holy energy shaking the island of Britain had spread throughout the world, causing a strong enough tidal wave that the legendary Kraken found itself sitting in the middle of Australia, only half-awake but entirely confused.

Well, it was here now, and there were tiny little people floating around it; seemed a shame to waste such a perfectly good chance to eat things. And it was awfully hungry.

Operation Michael was proving to be more effective than the creativity put into its name would give it credit for. It turns out that even the largest dragon with seven heads and ten horns – one horn for each head and three on its back - will fall when it has thousands of angels jumping on it, stabbing it with holy weapons.

But Lucifer had been right on the count that the casualties were too high. Even not having been privy to that observation when the Adversary made it, Gabriel noticed it too.

He shook his head as celestial beings swarmed the creature like ants on a tiger that specializes in eating ants. "We'll have to do something drastic or else we'll lose too many forces," he admitted, focusing his own energy on repelling any demons that might have wanted to take advantage of the otherwise-distracted angels.

"That would be bad?" Uriel guessed.

"Yes, it would be."

"Oh, okay. Then should I go kazaam and kabloomy? You know, smite the monstrosity sort of thing? Make Michael feel really proud of me? I just want you all to be proud of me," Uriel admitted.

Gabriel regarded the slim, short archangel before reaching over and patting him on the head. "You're fine, Uriel."

Uriel blushed. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me! Or, now that I think of it, to anyone!"

Gabriel continued on, ignoring him, "You save your energy in case Michael needs your help against the Adversary – which he will, because he is worthless when you get down to it - or on the off-chance that we run into Beelzebub." He ran a finger down his rapier, steeling himself. "Excuse me for a moment, would you?"

He sprinted towards the dragon, effortlessly weaving his way through the throngs of angels. Once he was close enough, he leapt into the air high enough that he landed on one of the dragons' heads, balancing precariously on its nose before flapping his wings and propelling himself upward again. One of its other heads snapped at where he'd been merely seconds too late. He landed again on one of the large horns that adorned the creature's back, throwing himself into a back-flip so that when yet another one of its heads tried to eat him, he landed on it on his hands. Using a little celestial aid, he forced the head so that it was impaled on its own horn.

The whole thing let out a screech of pain, and the attacking angels all bid a hasty retreat as it began spinning in circles, trying to dislodge its head while attempting to grab the quick-moving archangel dancing along on top of it.

One by one, the dragon's heads went after Gabriel but missed, hitting each other instead; in one severe enough instance, one of the heads accidentally bit off one of the other ones. Using his sword, Gabriel poked out its eyes whenever he could.

He elegantly flew upwards and off the blind, mortally-wounded dragon, landing back next to Gabriel. With a gesture, the angels re-swarmed it and quickly finished it off.

"You are so cool," Uriel gushed, "Can I be your fangirl?"

Gabriel looked at Uriel. "You're not a girl," he reminded him.

"But… but…" he sniffled, "but…"

Gabriel sighed. "Fine."

He was rather unceremoniously glomped.

Aziraphale looked at Anathema with wide eyes. "My dear," he said softly, reaching out to caress her fingers, "I've found that, as time has passed, that… I fancy you. Is that all right? Would it be terribly all right if we courted?"

Anathema blinked in a way she thought was alluring. "Oh Aziraphale," she said happily, "I fancy you too! I mean, we have so much in common! Books!"

"Yes, books!" Aziraphale agreed.

Crowley looked on in disgust. "What? Just… what?"

"Well, I'm technically sexless," Aziraphale exclaimed as he and Anathema hugged while Newt hung himself in the background, "and/or gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide-"

"Which of course means that he's a straight home wrecker! It makes perfect sense for him to break up me and Newt!" Anathema finished. "By hooking up with me!"

"That makes no sense!" Crowley screamed, "None at all! I pined after you - six thousand years - you just – what – already in a relationship – you - There are no words to describe this monstrosity!"

"My life is meaningless!" Newt exclaimed as he fixed the noose.

"Okay, those words work."

"Hey there sweetie," Madame Tracy purred to Crowley. "I'm the female of the other heterosexual couple to come out of the Apocalypse. Guess what that means for you?"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"Aye cannae believe me hoor wuld be hoorin' wi' su' a Southern Flash Bastard," Shadwell lamented, "Aye suppose Ah'll ha'e to step in wi' me hand gun. And," he whispered to Crowley conspiratorially, "by 'hand gun' I mean me-"

Crowley let out an inarticulate scream.

(In the real world, Crowley stirred and whimpered in horror.)

Meanwhile, Zira drove the Bentley through the English countryside, his hands trembling on the wheel both from his nerves and from his metaphysical exertion at keeping the vehicle moving. In order to keep himself from panicking, he started talking to himself about everything that was not his impending death.

"I cannot believe I just did that!" he exclaimed, "Crowley is going to be so furious with me!"

Damn straight I am! said a voice in Zira's head that sounded a lot like Crowley, The kind of retribution we're looking at is demonic, because I am a demon! Hey, do you have any wine? Or any other kind of alcoholic beverage?

"What? Er, no, I don't."

Inner Crowley materialized his own wine, plopping down on an imaginary chair in the imaginary back room of the book shop, making himself at home (despite the fact that he didn't live there, Zira noted a touch sourly). Fine, fine, I'll get drunk without you, because I'm just that cool. And a demon. A cool, flash demon. Mmm, drunkenness.

I think you're doing the Right Thing, my sweet little lollipop, a different voice that sounded like Raphael chimed in, Making sure he doesn't die and all that, how absolutely adorable! You're such a good boy, you really are, muffin-cake.

I'm drunk! Inner Crowley exclaimed. And a demon!

"But I'm driving to my death!" Zira exclaimed, "I'm going towards my lack of existence! Why am I doing this to myself? Why?"

Hell if I know, I think you're an idiot, said Inner Crowley, As a demon, I can say you shouldn't be doing this. Especially since you're a demon too. Demons don't nobly sacrifice themselves to save the world. I am sssssso drunk.

But you're still an angel at heart! Inner Raphael exclaimed, pushing Inner Crowley off Zira's shoulder, Think of all the lives you'll save, including your darling Crowley's! And it certainly doesn't help matters any that it is all your fault. Oh, my dear fluffenbutter sugarplum, you go save the world and smile while doing it, because if you frown too much it'll make your face freeze.

At the words "fluffenbutter sugarplum," Zira hastily cut off any thought processes and just focused on going faster.

Jesus smiled at Adam as she stood up. "C'mon, Adam. We're both scared out of our minds, but they'll all lose if we don't step in."

Adam scowled before standing. "Yeah. I guess."

The Christ and the Antichrist looked at each other. Finally, the latter smiled. "Let's go kick some arse, and really piss off some evangelists!"

"That's the spirit! Er, about the arse-kicking, not the evangelist-angering. I mean, I don't endorse them, but, you know, it's like Satanists for you; you can't really hate them because they mean well and-"

Adam grabbed her by the hand and the two ran from the house.

Pollution continued playing with the My Little Ponies, making the white one dance around – or, at least he assumed it was the white one, seeing as the thing was so covered in grime that the only way someone could know it was a pony was if they had known the pony in the past.

Deciding that trusting the two Bikers of the Apocalypse wasn't for the best, Newt, Sister Prudence, Pepper, Wensleydale and Brian had decided to follow them into the children's room. However, Newt had to comfort both of his children as they cried over the loss of their favorite toys, so he took them out of the room to go sit with Anathema, Shadwell and the comatose Madame Tracy in the dining room.

Famine stared out the window, bored. He knew that he shouldn't be here – he should be in Manchester, where the world was so very close to ending, if only…

A car containing the Antichrist and the Christ drove by the cottage going well above the speed limit.

Famine smiled. Finally.

"What're you smiling at?" Pepper demanded of him roughly. "Wait, was that Adam's car?"

"Nothing," he said, "and I don't know. Come, Chalky, it's time to go."

"Finally!" the younger Horseperson exclaimed, jumping up.

"We bid you adieu," Sable said suavely to the humans, even bowing. Then the two sprinted out of the house, creating motorbikes and racing off.

"I don't like the look he had," Wensleydale admitted.

Brian snorted. "Maybe 'cause it was obviously evil?"

"They seemed kinda harmlessly evil to me," Sister Prudence mused.

"Why ain't my wumman awake yet!' Shadwell demanded from the other room.

"We should go help!" Pepper declared, standing up dramatically. "In Manchester! We should go help!"

"Er? What? How?" Brian demanded.

"We stopped the Apocalypse before, right? We can't let the world end, not on our watch!"

"Yeah!" Sister Prudence exclaimed, standing up too, "I have guns, and training, and stuff! I'm a demon slayer, and you guys have experience!" It was the first time the two agreed on something in fifteen years.

"Apparently crazy runs in the family," Wensleydale observed. He held up in hands in a placating gesture when the sisters turned to glare at him.

"We can do it," Pepper said to Sister Prudence.

The younger girl grinned broadly. "Let's go!"

"Wait!" Brian exclaimed as the two moved to leave. "We're coming with you!"

"We are?" Wensleydale asked him.

"We can't let them go alone! Not because you're both girls or anythin'," he said quickly at the return of the Glare, "but because you're friends, and friends don't let friends stop the Apocalypse alone!"

"Let's go help Adam!" Wensleydale exclaimed, the spirit catching on, "Again!"

"Brilliant!"

The Them minus Adam and plus Sister Prudence left the Pulsifer's house, stole Dick Turpin, and drove off too fast after loading the needed weaponry into the trunk.

It had always liked Aziraphale, the mild-mannered angel who its owner hung out with. It had watched as the two went out to dinner and stayed longer than anyone had a right to, had taken them to St. James' Park enough times that the other cars were telling jokes, and, well, there was a reason it had chosen Queen ("Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy" even had a line about dining at the Ritz and drinking wine, what more did the stupid demon need to hear?) to barrage its owner with. The Bentley often wished it had arms and hands so it could smack Crowley and Aziraphale for being so bloody dense.

But this was the first time Aziraphale – well, Zira now – had ever been the driver.

It was a different experience than being with Crowley, that for was certain. For one thing, Aziraphale didn't press the pedal so darn hard, and his hands were oh-so-soft. It was nice. He also went very fast, which the Bentley truly preferred, although it knew that in any other situation the ex-angel would most likely be going at about the same speed as a turtle. He just struck it as that kind of person. Although right now he was going faster than Crowley had been (as the demon's will hadn't been very strong behind the urge to drive to his death) which made the Bentley a happy car.

But he had also had sex in its back seat (if the Bentley could shudder, it would) and it had been sticky afterwards, and so, for that, when he put on the CD player absently, the Bentley made sure the only song playing was "Keep it Gay."

It was a little consolation, but the Bentley would take what it could get.

Crowley normally assumed that wouldn't like being tied up, but it was hard to protest such a thing when the angel one has been fantasizing about was busy running his (wondrously, gloriously soft) hands over one's suddenly bare torso. Somehow he'd live.

"I have to say this is a good look for you, my dear," Aziraphale murmured against Crowley's neck as he placed kisses and licks.

A distant corner of Crowley's mind acknowledged that there was something wrong with this whole situation, but it was fairly easy for him to tell that corner to shut the hell up.

Aziraphale kissed over Crowley's jaw before their lips connected. "You sexy, sexilicious demon you."

"Mmmhmm…"

"It was so hard," Aziraphale continued as he ran his hand over a part of Crowley that was very hard indeed, "keeping my hands off you all those years. I just want to smite you, if you know what I mean. You sexy stud-muffin."

"We'll have to make up for lost time now won't we?" Crowley replied with a smirk.

They kissed again. "Your form is designed to incite lust in anyone," Aziraphale continued, "But, you know, lust has consequences…"

"I'm a demon," Crowley replied hoarsely, capturing Aziraphale's mouth with his own, "I love the consequences."

Aziraphale backed up, his gaze no longer seductive but rather downright cheery. "Oh, good, I was hoping you'd see it that way!"

"Er?"

"Because I'm preg-naaaaaant!"

Suddenly Aziraphale was clad in an excessively large tartan flannel nightgown that served to accentuate his large stomach.

"Ngk!"

"Oh, I've never been so happy!" Aziraphale continued with stars in his eyes. "I hope we have a girl! But I can't decide on a name!"

"But… but… you…"

"I can help you with that, dearest," Raphael cooed, rubbing Aziraphale's stomach, "My granddaughter needs a good name, doesn't she?"

"I was thinking Melanie, or Victoria, or Emma, or Geri… or Melanie again. But I love all the Spice Girls; I can't choose just one!"

"No daughter of mine will be named after any Spice Girl!" Crowley protested.

"Oh, Posh was always my favorite," Raphael admitted, "So why not Victoria Melanie Emma Melanie Geri Crowley! What a fetching name!"

"Whaaaaaat!"

"Oh Daddy," Aziraphale said to Raphael with tears in his eyes, "I'm scared of having a baby without knowing she'll have a wholesome figure in her life!"

"She's half demon!" Crowley protested, "She doesn't need a wholesome anything! And anyway she has you!"

"Move in with us, please?"

Raphael pulled Aziraphale in for a hug. "Oh of course sweetie! And once I do, I'll never leave!"

"WHY WON'T THIS NIGHTMARE END?"

Abruptly Raphael was gone and Aziraphale was no longer pregnant but instead clad in tartan, tweed and a bowler hat. "You're not dreaming, dear, you're having an hallucination. It's a reaction from being tied in a cruciform position. All very crude, cor blimey!" Inner Aziraphale began waving a British flag while drinking his tea.

Inner Hastur was rolling on the floor laughing. "AH HA HA HA HA HA! YOU GOT PWNED BY AN ANGEL! THAT'S RIGHT, NOT 'OWNED,' PWNED! YOU SUCK!"

Inner Aziraphale scowled at the demon. "You know, you are frightfully rude, bloody slag!" He then covered his mouth in shame at his horrible, improper language.

"Oh come on!" the inner demon protested, "He's a crappy demon! He was so in denial he's got an inner voice that's an angel!"

"I was never in denial, I just-"

Inner Hastur started laughing even louder. "Oh, please tell me you're in denial about being in denial, pl-ea-se!"

Inner Aziraphale clarified, "Crowley old bean, if denial were just a river in Egypt, you would be fossilized in the muck at the bottom, and humans could use you to power their autos."

"OH BURN!" Inner Hastur exclaimed.

"Shut up!" Crowley cried.

"You know," Inner Hastur admitted, calming himself enough to speak to Inner Aziraphale, "for a poufy British git, you're a better demon than this loser."

Inner Aziraphale hid behind his parasol. "Goodness gracious me, I suppose I shall take that as a compliment," he said demurely.

"You should! I mean, you've beat the shit out of me repeatedly! I've never been in such pain!" he continued, getting to his feet.

Inner Aziraphale blushed. "You're not so bad yourself," he replied with a giggle. "Perhaps you have a spark of goodness as well?"

"So," Inner Hastur said awkwardly, staring at the ground as he shuffled his feet, "you… you wanna go lurking sometime?"*

(In the real world, Crowley actually managed to scream in horror.)

* The demonic equivalent of asking him on a date. Other acceptable phrases include: "Wanna go defile some innocents?". "Hey, do you want to go really haunt a haunted house with me?" and the ever-popular "Hey, I have someone I want to take some Glorious Revenge upon; would you like to come help me torment them?"**

** If Crowley were ever honest with himself – which we all know by now doesn't happen often - "Can I tempt you to some dinner?" is another one.

Now that Raphael put the time and effort into sensing it, Zizi's angelic aura was completely gone. The Archangel realized that Uriel hadn't just played some sadistic joke on him (not that Uriel was entirely capable of such a thing, but it was better than the alternative in this case); his "son" was really and truly Fallen. It made him want to tear out his feathers and scream, but it all seemed so ludicrous, maybe it had been a mistake, perhaps he could petition…?

The land beneath him was empty of human life, although he did find that it wasn't devoid of demon life.

The black blur pressed against the only tree for miles was fairly easy to spot, so Raphael touched down and stared in shock at Kireawel – or, what was it, Crowley now – who had been bound to the tree in mock crucifixion.

"Oh my goodness," Raphael muttered. He debated whether or not to free the demon – he was certain that this demon had had a hand in his precious Zizi's fate, and he was bound to smite demons whenever possible, but the Healer in him felt pity and it was likely this Crowley (the poor dear) had answers (plus he was obviously having a horrendous nightmare), so with a wave he undid the bindings. Raphael moved to take Crowley into his arms when he was released from against the tree.

A moment passed and Crowley's serpentine eyes widened. He stood in a flash while moving out of Raphael's grasp, every inch an angry demon. "That son of a bitch!" he snarled, "Like hell he's going to die a hero, because I'm going to kill him first!"

"Excuse me." Raphael frowned at the rudeness.

Crowley noticed him only after he tried to take off and found he couldn't even move. "What the blazing bloody hell do you want!"

"What happened to Aziraphael?" the archangel demanded curtly, "You were supposed to be making sure he didn't get hurt!"

Crowley did not feel like answering any questions, but he couldn't move and thus had no choice. "He Fell because God told him to not do anything and he told the meddling bastard to stuff it, and now he's going to get himself killed in order to stop this stupid fucking Apocalypse again, so if you'd let me go I can go kill him so he doesn't!"

The archangel's delicate red eyebrows rose. "He's going to stop it all? Did he say how?"

"Some bollocks about closing portals and if you don't let me go he IS GOING TO DIE WHAT PART OF THAT DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?"

At the terror and rage in the demon's uncovered eyes, Raphael released his bonds. Instantly Crowley took to the air while calling over his shoulder, "You're never moving in with us!", willing himself to go faster than he could have gone even in the Bentley.

Raphael frowned as he digested this new bit of information*. "But he can't die," he informed the air, "That's simply… that doesn't… But…"

But what if?

He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. "Everything will work out," he said, his voice clearly betraying that he didn't quite believe himself, "It will. I'll see to it."

His lips pursed, Raphael took off.

* About Demon-Zizi dying, not about the moving in thing. That was just odd; but then again, that dear Crowley was a demon, and they're odd almost by definition, one thinks.

Chapter Text

TO THE EDITORS,

Sirs,

I have noted, with distress and dismay, the number of residents and visitors to our noble Lower Tadfield who insist on ignoring the laws of our land. The speed limit has been posted for the safety and security of Our Citizens at a perfectly reasonable 25 miles per hour – more than reasonable, in fact, as my previous letters to the Advertiser have pointed out – and despite this, recently there has been an increase of speeding in town, which the populace of Lower Tadfield should not stand for. I hope that something can be done about this, for the continuing sanctity of our fair town.

Sincerely,

R.P. Tyler

Chairman of the Lower Tadfield Residents' Association

"Would you slow this thing down!" Jesus screamed as she huddled into the seat and covered her eyes.

"What is wrong with you?" Adam asked with a laugh as he sped up, "I mean, haven't you been in a car before?"

Jesus glared at him between two fingers. "Please tell me you did not just ask me that!" She repeated sarcastically, "'Have I ever been in a car before!' Of course not! The last time I was here donkeys were considered the high-class form of transportation! Do you have any idea how fast a donkey can go?"

"How'd you get to my house, then? Oh, right, the scooter. Wait, you mean you spent a day on a scooter 'cause you didn't know it could go faster?"

"It went a perfectly acceptable speed," Jesus moaned, "and I think I'm going to be sick."

"Not in this car you're not!"

"Don't you dare try any of your Antichrist magic on me, mister!"

"Hey," Adam said, "speakin' of Antichrist magic and stuff, now that I think about it, why are you here? I mean, doesn't Heaven want the world to end too?"

Jesus gave him a wary smile, looking a sickly shade of green. "That's true. But… Well, turns out you're not the only one who doesn't listen to his father. Or her Father, whatever."

"Seriously? I always figured you were the goodiest-goodie in the history of goodie-goodies."

"Wow, thanks Adam."

"It's true!"

"Well, the first time around it was 'hey, you're going to die painfully so that the world can be a better place,' and you know, I was okay with that. Well, okay-ish. This time, my Father is basically saying, 'I'm sick of this stupid place, let's blow it up,' and I'm not okay with that. I grew up here! I liked this place! I didn't die to save it so that it could be wiped out on a whim!"

"Okay," Adam replied, "so I know what's going to happen to me if we lose, but what's gonna happen to you?"

She shrugged. "I don't know, honestly. I mean, I can't exactly Fall because I'm not an angel. Hey – maybe now that I'm a girl I can just give him big puppy dog eyes? You know, Daddy's Little Girl?"

"See, I don't think that's fair," Adam admitted, "I mean, I'm going to get eviscerated and tormented and stuff, and you might get a smack on the wrist."

"Eh, my Old Man can surprise you with the punishments. Just ask Sodom, Gomorrah, Noah and his flood… your dad… humanity…"

"I get it!"

"But that's neither here nor there, 'cause it's all hypothetical. You know, if we lose," she replied. "Which we won't. Because we're awesome. High-grade Christ and Antichrist."

"Yeah," Adam said, smiling, "Yeah, we are awesome, aren't we?"

Then Jesus turned and vomited out the window.

The Them and Sister Prudence raced down the motorway toward Manchester. Despite being the youngest and not legally able to do so, the nun had insisted on driving, and the Them let her because breaking the law is fun. The road was clear of demons because they had all gone back to Manchester to fight off the Host.

"Can't we turn on the radio?" Brian whined from the back seat as the car kindly asked him to buckle in using a haiku.

"Do you plan to ever stop whining?" Pepper demanded, "We're tryin' to think of how we can help!"

"You're all gonna need weapons," Sister Prudence asserted, "and most of mine are in the trunk. See if you can get in through the back seat, Wens."

"I hate that nickname," the blond asserted, pulling down the middle seat to get into the trunk. With a tug, he pulled through a briefcase.

"Turn on the radio, please?"

With a grunt of displeasure, Pepper punched the dial. Journey was on the radio.

"Oh boy! I love Journey! The best thing to come out of America since all 31 flavors of ice cream!"

"Don't you dare start singing!"

Brian made a noise of disapproval and disappointment. He didn't sing though.

"Whoa," Wensleydale murmured, opening the briefcase and finding himself looking at more artillery than some countries had. "Just… whoa."

"Oo, can I sign up for whatever it is you do?" Brian asked, ice cream forgotten as he started drooling all over the weaponry.

"As if you would ever get a job," Sister Prudence replied snidely. She and Pepper exchanged a high-five. "Anyhow, pick somethin', we're not far from Manchester. And Sis, could you get me my phone? I have an important call to make."

As part of the Arrangement, Zira had never been to Manchester. Now, as he walked through what little remained of it, surrounded on all sides by warring demons and angels, he found he regretted that fact. I could have at least visited, he thought, ducking as an angel decided to take its chances with him. He recognized him although he wasn't sure how – his memories of Heaven were already fuzzy – so he simply punched him in the nose, hoping that no one would finish him off. He didn't even apologise, because he was a demon and demons don't apologise (and not because he was simply in a hurry!)

He finally remembered to activate his flaming sword but found it wouldn't light due to his lack of holy energy. A little disappointed, he kept going, trying to locate the portals that all of the invaders were coming from. In a few minutes he wouldn't have a body or an existence anyway, so what did it matter that he couldn't use a flaming sword anymore? It's not like he'd used it often or even known where it was for the past six thousand years.

He couldn't see very well, so he removed Crowley's sunglasses and placed them on his head. Now he could see his targets, in the distance: a black pool radiating red energy in the ground directly beneath what appeared to be clouds caught in a tornado, making a unique whirl shape. His heart started beating faster and he broke into a sprint, having to dodge around the warring parties.

He was going to die. And not in the way that meant he stayed up in Heaven for a few days while Raphael patched him up and gave him a lecture on wearing a helmet and always using condoms*. No, he was going to die in a way he really couldn't fathom – a complete lack of existence. No more Aziraphale.

Allgone, nomore, shoshad, a tiny, slightly-drunk voice in his head echoed.

His mind started panicking as his feet kept running. No more Aziraphale. What did that even mean, really? Would he end up as one of the many souls in the afterlife, waiting for Judgment? Would he somehow get back into Heaven or – what if – but -

He had to stop running when Beelzebub moved into his path.

"Crawly'zzzzzz angel," the Prince said with a smirk that could only be described as devilish, "Although not an angel anymore, I zzzzzzee. You'd make a terrible demon anyway, zzzzzzzzo I don't feel bad in dezzzzzzztroying you. Finally. Thizzzzz'll be fun."

Zira raised his ex-flaming sword in a gesture of defiance. Oh dear.

*Considering how few of his deaths would have been prevented by wearing a helmet or using condoms, well, the lectures were very odd indeed.

Crowley was ashamed to admit, deep down, that he was flying much faster than the Bentley could ever have driven, even considering the turbulence and holy and demonic energies that had settled over Manchester.

This was absolutely insane. He hadn't felt such strong emotions regarding anything since… since… oh fuck it. Since never.

He'd meant what he said. Life without the angel – and he was still an angel in Crowley's book; way too nice to be a demon, no matter what he looked or felt like – wasn't worth it. But conflicting with that oh shit oh shit terror Aziraphale don't you dare oh shit I just told you I loved you don't you dare die on me can't live without you oh shit feeling was the that bastard knocked me out and I'm going to kick his ass! feeling.

He didn't understand the first feeling very well. He understood the second one very well.

He finally made it to Manchester.

After the subsequent use (and success – there would be no living with the moron after this) of Operation Michael, Gabriel finally remembered he had to deliver Uriel a message.

He did not like what he had been told to tell him, but really, what choice did he have? He knew his purpose, and could only be thankful that the recipient of his communication was Uriel, not Raphael.

He placed a hand on Uriel's arm. "Now Uriel, about that message for you…"

"Go ahead," Uriel replied tersely, his violet eyes daring anyone foolish to try to press their luck. Gabriel had to force himself to remember that the normally off-putting-yet-charming Uriel had already eradicated an Archdevil by himself and had greatly aided in the destruction of the dragon; the only indication that he was tiring was that some of those black curls were sticking to his skin due to the sweat on his forehead.

"Aziraphael is here, only he's Fallen, and your job is to smite him," Gabriel said tersely, his fist clenched. It was times like these, when he wasn't privy to the why of things, that Gabriel found himself actually angry. It happened far more often than he would like, but for the most part things worked out in the end to everyone's satisfaction. It was just that in this instance, he found it hard to see how it would work out to Raphael's satisfaction. His son, being put down like a rabid dog… "Apparently he's here to stop the End and the Almighty does not approve of such a thing." But does he really need to be exterminated, and by Uriel of all people? Raphael will never be able to look at him the same way again… Oh well, trust in the Lord, I suppose.

Uriel did not seem to have a conflict of interest. Instead, he gave a curt nod and turned to walk to where he knew the Fallen angel was.

Gabriel sighed. He did not want to see what was coming next.

Across the field, Michael was having similar thoughts.

In the days before the Rebellion, Michael and Lucifer had been relatively equal fighters. As twins, they were relatively equal in most things, and even if Lucifer had been a higher rank, Michael had more talent. They had even been sparring partners, although more often than not their duties kept them apart. But they had been dueling for what felt like days on both a physical and a metaphysical level. Hell held the field in sheer numbers, which gave Satan an extra boost of power (which Michael felt was awfully unfair).

Michael used his sword to block a downward swipe, and the force of the blow caused the ground beneath him to crumble and form a crater around him. Satan kicked him in the chest; and the sheer hell power behind it caused Satan's breastplate to crack and fall open.

"At least you're wearing pants!" Satan crooned, "I mean, I remember the old days where you all wore kilts and dresses! Who made up that dress code anyway? The Old Man was such a pervert!"

Michael knew the battle was lost. Every time Satan expended energy he could easily take some from his forces. Michael didn't have that luxury. But this is Michael we're talking about; his middle name was practically Never Give Up, or It's Only a Flesh Wound, or… well, you get the idea.*

"Oh, shut up!" Michael snarled, "You always wore yours hitched up!"

"And you always looked!"

"Because you kept bending over in my face!"

"How do you think I got to be His Second in the first place!"

"You little slut!"

Satan attacked again, and this time Michael threw up an aura shield as a split-second reaction. It held Satan's swords for five seconds before breaking and throwing Michael backwards, hard enough that he landed outside of the crater. Michael's sword went flying out of his reach. Before he had a chance to get back up and go for it, Satan had dropped one of his swords and grabbed him by his curly hair, dragging him to his knees.

And thus had the Emperor of Hell finally overpowered the General of the Heavenly Host. By cheating, Michael would have pointed out.

Michael, bloody and sweaty, steeled his facial expression even as Satan tugged on his hair. He would not give that bastard the satisfaction -

"Michael, Michael, Michael," Satan said almost fondly, dragging the length of his remaining sword along the angel's neck while the other hand tightened in his hair, "I've been waiting to do this for a long time. It's a shame you won't get to fall from the sky like I had to, but we can't all make dramatic exits." The Adversary did not look nearly as composed and happy as he sounded; instead his eyes showed a tinge of mania. "Bye bye now."

He drew the sword back.

Michael closed his eyes.

There was a clang and a thunk – Michael opened his eyes to see that Crowley – what the – had stepped between them, used Satan's discarded sword to deflect the attack and then had punched Satan in the face. As Satan cursed and held his nose, Crowley picked up and threw Michael's sword in front of him, ignoring the fact that most of his glove had melted off from the contact, and barked, "That's for helping me save Aziraphale before all this shit started. Have you seen the moron?"

"What? No! Last I-"

But he was already gone.

* Not literally. His actual middle name is Ramiel. Why do you think he dislikes him so much? **

** And every angel's last name is "Angel." It's not very creative, which is why none of them ever use it. ***

*** However, it is, arguably, better than Aziraphale's use of the last name "Fell," given how ominous it is. ****

**** And how incorrect, seeing as Aziraphale's actual last name has been "Crowley" for over 500 years.

If Anathema was being honest with herself*, she would admit that she hadn't expected the hypnotism to work. It had been a vague idea made up when Shadwell had continued to remind her that her "witchy voodoo" should be able to wake up his "wumman," and Anathema, starting to feel guilty despite knowing that she did not practice voodoo, had finally turned to rudimentary hypnotism.

That was why when Madame Tracy's eyes finally popped open she was just as surprised as anyone else.

"Hello," Madame Tracy said, her eyes cloudy and unfocused.

"Er, hello," Anathema said tentatively.

"Hey, it worked!" Newt exclaimed. The twins were hiding behind him in terror.

Shadwell actually – although he would deny it to his grave – jumped on top of Madame Tracy and exclaimed, "Oh, ye stupid ol' Hoor of Babylon, ah've never been so 'appy te see ye!"

"You're right," she said airily, still staring straight at the ceiling, "I'm not sure what it is I'm supposed to be doing. I guess that makes me stupid, doesn't it?"

"Huh?" Newt asked eloquently.

"The Book is awfully vague," she continued, "and I don't know where I'm going anyway."

"What book?" Anathema asked cautiously, wary of yet another Nutter book.

"Revelations," Madame Tracy responded, looking at Anathema finally. "It's very vague about this sort of thing. The writer was a little too fond of odd mushrooms."

"So you're… the actual…" Anathema couldn't believe the words coming out of her lips, "Whore of Babylon."

"Of course, dear, who else would I be? Why do you think I make such a good medium?" She gave a very un-Madame-Tracy-esque smile. "There's a reason I'm called the Whore. Anyone can use me."

* And she was, which is a first for this tale.

Up in Heaven, St. John cackled merrily to himself. He hoped Aziraphael would make it back up soon because he had to rub this in the angel's face. Of course he knew all of the horrible things Aziraphael had said about how he, John, and his mushrooms had "ruined" everything. He was very wrong about that. They had actually saved everything.

It was good the Whore didn't know her purpose, because the world would have ended very violently if she had.

Not that it doesn't still have that chance, of course.

Meanwhile, Shadwell's existence had narrowed down to the following:

1. he had been right about Madame Tracy's "passenger" being a Southern Hippie;

2. he had had to rely on a witch to save his woman;

3. he had been right yet again about Madame Tracy being the Whore of Babylon, although really that had just been his pet nickname for her, if he was being honest with himself, which he wasn't; and

4. he had relied on a witch to save his woman, and she had.

Under those kinds of conditions, the Witchfinder Sergeant was so overwhelmed that he lost consciousness.

"I'm actually jealous of him right now. Is that normal?" Newt asked.

"Yes," the Whore said reasonably, "I can feel it – right now, two very unlikely allies of Heaven and Hell are racing towards the Apocalyptic Site. Very soon, this world will cease to exist. Too bad I don't know where it is, though, because I'm supposed to be there. I think."

Anathema gasped as a very clear image of a young brunette came to her psychic eye, and with that image an epiphany. "''I foresee a younge girle and boye shalle ally with the Devile, and nonne shalle stop them'… It's not Crowley and Aziraphale, it's Adam and Jesus! Adam gave Jesus a female body!"

(That's right, Shadwell has been right more times than Aziraphale has.)

"Wait, even I could have told you that wasn't Aziraphale and Crowley," Newt pointed out. "I mean, it says right in it, man and woman."

"Have you seen Aziraphale lately?" Anathema asked darkly.

"Um, okay, good point. But Jesus and Adam… they're both pretty young. Well, I guess. I mean, I've never met Jesus – wow, never expected to say that – but I've met Adam, and he's only 20."

"Young in body, but have you seen his eyes? When you get down to it, the two of them are really, really old, like, before time old."

"Uh oh. Any chance one of them has a cell phone?" Newt asked. Not that Newt had one, as they tended to violently detonate whenever he pressed any of the numbers, but it's the thought that counts and all that.

Anathema shook her head. "Aziraphale is a technophobe and Crowley only has a cell phone to look cool," she muttered, "Get me some incense, Newt, I'm going to try something I've never done before."

"What's a whowe?" Bentley asked.

"I dunno," Aziraphale2 answered. "Daddy? What's a whowe?"

Newt ushered them out of the room as he went to go find Anathema some incense.

"Can I get directions to the Apocalypse?" Madame Tracy asked sweetly.

"No!" Anathema snapped.

The sheer amount of demonic energy coming off of Beelzebub would have disintegrated Zira had he still been an angel. He supposed it was a nice advantage of actually being a demon, but really, that didn't bear thinking about.

Beelzebub's weapon of choice was a great-sword, the kind that Crowley would have referred to as "overcompensating." But Crowley also didn't bear thinking about. Neither did the fact that he was willingly going to his death, his lack of existence, right when things had almost started to be okay because –

His thoughts were thankfully interrupted with Beelzebub's downward swipe, which Zira parried. He had always shown a decent enough proficiency with the sword, enough to be permitted in Michael's ranks and subsequently get the Guardian of the Eastern Gate gig, and also enough to keep himself safe from humans without exerting his angelic influence. That being said, he had never killed anything before* and this was the Prince of Demons he was dealing with. Beelzebub didn't get to be the Prince because he was Satan's son, but because he was the second greatest demon in Hell. And Zira… well, Zira wasn't.

But that last fact actually proved to Zira's advantage, at least for a bit; Beelzebub was wearing an ornate suit of armor and Zira was wearing khakis and a sweater vest. Thanking the media and Madame Tracy for compelling him to get into shape, Zira was able to dodge his opponent's attacks with relative ease, although launching an offensive was going to be an impossibility. Somehow Zira was going to have to get around Beelzebub, which also would likely be impossible.

"Why the blazzzzzzes do you even care?" Beelzebub demanded, his curiosity making him disengage. "Humanity'zzzzz doomed and you know it! You have known it zzzzince they were expelled from Eden! Why are you rizzzzzzking everything to zzzzzzave them?"

Zira knew the answer to that question well enough. He'd often asked it of himself during moments of doubt. And there had been many of those.

"Because," the ex-angel responded, "because they can be so horrible. I mean, I watched Cain kill Abel, I watched all the humans die in the Flood as punishment for their sins, I watched Sodom and Gomorrah get destroyed due to their evil, I was forced," his voice started growing stronger, "to fight in the Roman Coliseum for their entertainment, I had to die on behalf of their greed in retaking Jerusalem, I-" he could feel it now, his anger lending strength to his demonic attributes, "watched them exploit, enslave and kill each other as they created divisions based on the color of their skin of all things – but you know what?" Zira had never felt such rage, such anger before, and it was intoxicating, and the power it gave him had even Beelzebub looking wary, "Despite all that, I just know there's good in them, and the many good people don't deserve to die for the sins of the few, AND I WON'T LET YOU OR ANYONE DESTROY THEM, ESPECIALLY FOR NO REASON!"

He could feel it – if he attacked now, he could –

AZIRAPHALE!

He winced and grabbed his head, trying to dull the pain, the use of his angelic name sending painful stabs throughout his body. Don't call me that! He could practically see Anathema recoil in surprise – but, quite frankly, the angry demon prince (who was no longer intimidated due to Zira's rage dissipating with the interruption) was a little too distracting for him to apologize.

Oh, sorry. Um, so it turns out that the prophecy? It refers to Adam and Jesus, not you and Crowley.

Zira's eyes widened in surprise. He only then realized that he'd conveniently ignored the fact that Agostino had specified that two people were involved, in his own quest to assuage his guilt. Really? When did… when did Jesus… Oh bugger all this for a lark!

Az, what did we say about that being a proper swear? Anathema demanded sternly in her best mother voice.

Er… sorry. You were saying?

Keep your eyes open for a hippie chick – that's Jesus. And yeah, we were surprised too, but it turns out Madame Tracy's the Whore of Babylon, and she pointed out that the Heaven and Hell allies hadn't gotten there yet, and…

Wait, Madame Tracy's the Whore? What is she… Er, I know she's involved in the End but I'm not sure how… Did she say -

Why are you even asking? This is Madame Tracy we're talking about – of course she didn't say what she's doing. She doesn't even know. Az, don't get yourself killed, okay? We still need to have a good laugh and a couple stiff drinks over Agostino's backwards book. Okay, more than a couple.

I'll do my best, dear.

Huh? Where did she - The communication cut off.

When Zira refocused on the battle, he found his neck in Beelzebub's hands.

"Nice try," the demon prince hissed.

* Barring Hastur, which didn't really count because he'd hadn't so much fought Hastur as had stepped on him.

"Newt!" Anathema called out as she looked at the empty table, "Newt, did you see Madame Tracy leave?"

He replied in the negative from the kitchen.

"Great," Anathema said with a sigh, letting her forehead hit the table with a loud thunk, "Just great."

Michael knew that he wasn't out of the proverbial woods yet, but he grabbed his sword and rolled backwards, trying to get his bearings. He didn't hear someone touch down behind him and jumped at a calming hand on his shoulder.

"There you are!" the Archangel of Warriors spat.

"My apologies, Michael, I had some things to take care of," Gabriel replied, coming to stand in front of Michael. "Still do, actually, but there's not much I can do right now."

Michael stood up with Gabriel's aid. Satan was snarling in rage at the two Archangels.

"Lucifer, you've looked better," Gabriel observed.

"You'll be lucky that you'll cease to exist," he hissed, "because-"

His line of sight was blocked by a hippie and –

"Adam." Satan's eyes took on a very deranged glint. "Ssssso niccccce to ssssee you, my ssssssson."

Adam crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture of apathy, although his very aura was shaking. "Hi 'Dad'. You tryin' to destroy the world again? You need to come up with some better hobbies, I haveta say."

"Yeah," the hippie said awkwardly, "Yeah, you're going down. Yeah. Whoo."

Adam turned to glare at her, and she looked at her flip-flop-clad feet instead. "What's wrong with you?" he demanded of the hippie, "Didn' you fight him before? Like, isn't that in the Bible?"

"Oh, you mean my descent into Hell? Er, oh dear - I can just hear the cries of fundamentalists everywhere – that was slightly exaggerated*."

"Oh, geez. That's just wonderful."

Satan took a deep breath to calm himself down. He was outnumbered now, but this could still work out to his benefit; he just couldn't lose his head. "I'll deal with you in a minute, my old adversary," he said, forcing his voice to be its normal charismatic self**. "You and all your… extra parts. Overcompensating for something, are we?"

"Bring it on?" Jesus said tentatively, too nervous to call him on the insult.

"Lord?" Michael inquired, sounding in shock.

Jesus waved her hand, and the two Archangels moved to stand with their master. Er, mistress. She looked considerably more confident after that.

"But first, Adam, you can't possibly be considering fighting against me. We have so much in common, after all."

"Am I supposed to have some sort of familial obligation towards you or somethin'? I mean, we've never even met. Okay, so maybe we did once, but I don't know if that counts or not."

Satan purred, "Oh, you misunderstand me." The ground turned black underneath him, spreading out until the whole area looked as if it didn't have a floor. His hair began moving as if being blown by a strong wind. "You are not so much my son as you are an extension of me." He smiled. "And it's time you came back."

Adam's eyes widened.

Yes, it is time.

* It went something like this:

Jesus: Stand down, Adversary, I hath come for the souls which-

Satan: Thank you. (the demons standing behind him nod enthusiastically) We're already way overcrowded, and we're supposed to be getting more, so take as many as you want! The righteous, the semi-righteous, the decent, the not quite decent but still not really bad, the okay, the 'meh'…

Jesus: Er?

** He tends to hiss when he gets stressed, much like someone else we all know. Crowley may be the Serpent, but Satan is the Dragon, after all.

Crowley sprinted through the remains of Manchester, looking for one demon in a field of thousands. Well, looking is not exactly the correct term; in fact, his forked tongue continually escaped his mouth to taste the air, trying to smell Zira, which was actually a much more productive idea than looking with his eyes. After six thousand years he knew exactly how Zira smelled*; the scent, however, had changed slightly, enough to throw him off.

But it wasn't all that hard to find the ex-angel in the end, as his eyes were closed and his body rigid with Beelzebub holding him by the neck. As Crowley ran forward, adrenaline taking over now, Zira's eyes widened in shock, as if he only just realized that he was in mortal danger. Crowley's sunglasses were still on his head.

He willed the poison he naturally produced from his teeth – damn useless that, really, unless he was a serpent: it was surprisingly hard to bite people in human form – and into his claws, aiming for the wrist connected to the hand connected to Zira's neck.** Aided by the element of surprise, Crowley ran full-on into Beelzebub's side, knocking the Prince of Hell to the ground and dislodging his prey. Reacting instinctively, Crowley grasped Zira in mid-air and the two landed hard, rolling together to get as far away from Beelzebub as they could.

When they stopped, Crowley had Zira pinned to the ground face-down. "How'd you get here? Get off me!" Zira snarled. Even though Crowley had saved him, Zira felt himself filled with a distinctly unholy rage. He had bound him to the tree for a reason, and here he was, and he was angry, which made Zira angrier, and -

"Do you remember when I said you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking?" Crowley replied, definitely not getting off even as he grabbed his sunglasses and put them back on, "Because I meant that. And you're in dangerous territory of being too much of a bastard to be worth liking! And coming from me you know that's bad!"

"And you, you old serpent," Zira roughly threw his head back, catching Crowley in the nose, "need to be reminded of that whole spark of goodness bit, because if you remembered that you would let me do what needs to be done!" He neglected to mention he no longer needed to do said action, because it was the principle of the thing.

The two demons got up, glaring at each other and completely ignoring the war going on around them***. "Now it'ssssssss the bloody principle of the thing, you sssssstupid git!" (Apparently Crowley agreed with him.) "We're leaving here if I have to drag your corpsssssse out insssstead!"

Zira's wings spread to their full length in a gesture of defiance and dominance. That was a challenge the demon in him simply could not refuse. "I'd like to see you try, dear boy."

At that point Beelzebub started standing up.

Not that the two noticed him, being too busy trying to beat the tar out of each other instead like in the days pre-pre-pre-Arrangement, complete with hissing, snarling, scratching, biting, hair pulling, kicking, insulting and punching. They rolled on the ground in a tangle of feathers and blood.

"I hate your goddamn books and I laughed when your store burnt down!" Crowley hissed, sinking his teeth into Zira's neck in what was decidedly not a love-bite.

"The Bentley is an outdated piece of shite!" Zira snarled back, slamming his knee into Crowley's stomach.

"I hate the sodding ducks!" A punch to the jaw.

"Your sunglasses make you look ridiculous!" A return yank of thick black hair.

"As compared to you? Tartan is not fashionable!" A sharp kick to the kneecap.

"I've been inspiring your houseplants into a righteous uprising, you tyrant!" A blow to the ear.

"I BET IT'S REALLY HASTUR'S BABY! AND YOU CHEATED ON ME WITH ANATHEMA! I HAD TO HOOK UP WITH MADAME FUCKING TRACY!"

They abruptly stopped fighting. Zira had Crowley pinned to the ground by his throat and Crowley's fists were tightly gripping handfuls of Zira's feathers, ready to pull them out even as the poison from his claws started dissolving them.

"What?" Zira inquired, obviously quite confused.

"AND SHADWELL! AND SHADWELL!" Crowley finished, his voice sounding desperate and haunted.

"Crowley, are you listening to yourself speak?"

"Er. That might have been a nightmare."

"I… I sincerely hope so, my dear. I mean, Hastur's dead, and er, Anathema's a nice enough girl, but, ah…"

They finally noticed the Prince of Hell looking downright murderous – more so than usual at any rate. They hastily got up, facing the Prince together. "We'll settle this later," Zira said curtly.

"Damn straight we will."

"Zzzzzzorry to interrupt your loverzzzzzz' spat, boyzzzzz," Beelzebub snarled, "but no one'zzzzz going to kill either of you but me!"

Crowley moved to stand in front of Zira in a gesture of protection. The imminent threat of Beelzebub reactivated Crowley's possessive, defensive demonic instincts.

"Crowley."

"Yeah?"

"It turns out the prophecy wasn't talking about me at all."

"You were wrong again?"

"Oh hush. I'll be more than willing to leave with you… but only after we take care of this poor excuse for a demon."

"Why is it that you always make every stupid, suicidal, pointless plan sound plausible? Let's kick his arse."

* Like lavender, clouds, dust, leather and parchment glue, actually.

** Yes, Crowley is venomous. He has vertical pupils, which in the snake world means he produces venom (or is nocturnal, but since Crowley doesn't technically need to sleep and seems to prefer either sleeping at night or going into hibernation for decades at a time, we'll go with "poisonous" on this one). Going along with this, there's no way that Crawly was a garter snake (which produce a very weak venom at the most and have circular pupils), meaning that Aziraphale was right about something! Hooray! I was worried about him for awhile there.

*** And War, for that matter, who was still having a jolly time slicing anything that came too close.

Chapter Text

Moloch, Archdevil of Wrath, had a score to settle with Crawly, as did most of Hell. He decided to take advantage of that score and maybe earn some brownie points by helping Beelzebub finish off the traitor (although truthfully he could admit that the Prince would not be thankful to get any help in this, but bringing that Flash Bastard down a peg would be worth the torment that he'd get for defying Beelzebub just this once). Flaming whip in hand, he moved forward but was intercepted by –

"Humans?"

Indeed, there were four humans standing between him and his new prey, all wielding guns except for the blonde nun in the middle, who was holding a flame thrower. Moloch was not impressed. But he was angry at being cut off, especially by humans. That's not to say he wouldn't be angry if they were all angels, or if they were all demons, but he at least considered some angels sort of equal. Not humans. Never humans. They were like gnats. Or maggots. No, not cool enough to be maggots. Gnats, then. Something squishy.

"This is our planet, and no stupid demons are gonna destroy it!" the dirty one called.

"Even, even if we have to go down fighting," the blond boy said with more of a twinge of nerves in his voice.

"Which we won't," the blonde girl with the flamethrower said with a smirk. "Because we're awesome."

"So bring it on, bitch," the redheaded girl said, two handguns pointed at him.

Moloch vaguely considered banishing them using his occult powers, but that didn't seem nearly painful enough. The best scenario, in his opinion, would be trampling them and ripping them apart. That ought to relieve some of the stress he was feeling at being so inconsiderately interrupted. Besides, it would be a nice warm-up for what he was going to do to that bastard Crawly.

But then again…

Their weapons were glinting in the sunlight, despite the thick cloud of dust hanging over everything. So glinting, so shiny. He couldn't help but stare a little. Oo, shiny…

He was very surprised to find that the flamethrower created Holy Napalm.

Two large vans drove up, one from Edinburgh to the north and one from London to the south. The vans both hit a warrior upon stopping, but it was purely by accident that the London bus hit an angel. They even apologized profusely afterwards, and of course the angel forgave them, being an angel as he was.

The sides of the vans opened. Fourteen blood-red-clad nuns, aged from twenty to ninety-two and each armed to the teeth, piled out and began to fire their blessed weapons.

Sister Prudence had made the call on her cell phone as she and the Them drove to Manchester. After all, the nuns of the Order of Our Most Holy Lady of the Righteous Smiting have one vow, and that is to slay evil wherever they find it. And they had found the motherlode.

"WHAT THE BLAZING BLOODY HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU CRAWLY?" Beelzebub demanded, so angry that the swarming-flies effect had been forgotten, "You know you can't defeat me, you know what awaits you in the Pit for defying me, and yet you still continue to fight me!"

What Crowley and Zira were doing was not really fighting Beelzebub so much as it was running in circles around Beelzebub. Without a holy weapon there was no way they could actually hurt him, as if they could hurt him anyway, and so neither of them tried to. They simply focused on not dying in the process.

"There's a simple answer to that! I'm an idiot in love with an even bigger idiot!" Crowley exclaimed.

"I don't know, if you're the idiot in love with the idiot, doesn't that make you the bigger idiot?" Zira asked with a smile.

"Normally yes, but I've met you and I've met me, and yeah, you're the bigger idiot."

"You can continue to tell that to yourself, dearest."

Beelzebub snarled and renewed his efforts in killing them, even if only to get them to stop making eyes at each other.

Meanwhile, the Whore of Babylon had picked a direction and was putputputputputing along. It turns out that by some miracle she had picked the correct direction, but it also turns out that she might get there in a week or so, if she didn't run into any obstacles on the way there.

It was all very odd for her. She didn't feel much different; it certainly wasn't as if Madame Tracy had been possessed by the Whore of Babylon or anything, she simply was the Whore of Babylon. It was if she had woken up and just knew that, oh, by the way, the end of the world is coming and I really ought to scurry up north now because it's almost a certainty that I am involved somehow. I'll figure it out when I get there. Madame Tracy is nothing if not a proponent of simplistic logic.

However, she ran into an obstacle on the way there. A very large man who obviously fancied himself a biker – he even had a jacket with "Hell's Angels" emblazed on the back, the silly thing – stopped her as she drove along the motorway.

"'Scuze me," he said, looking a tad desperate, "d'you have any idea where I am?"

Madame Tracy/The Whore of Babylon frowned. "Actually, dear, I don't. But I just passed a diner on the way here."

"Oh. Um, d'ya want to get sometin' ta eat? I'm starved an' I don' have any money."

"Actually, dear, I'm in something of a hurry," she replied warily. "Have to go assure destruction and chaos and all that, you know how it is."

The look in his eyes got more desperate. "I'm all alone out here, an' my cell phone got stepped on, an'… an'…"

She sighed. "All right then, get on."

They drove back to the diner, got some food and talked about the end of the world, which now both of them had some ample experience with. Madame Tracey suggested that Mister Skuzz could come work for Mister S, and not just because they would both be "Mister S" but because it would be a smart match, and her silly Mister S could use another nice influence in his life, he was starting to get a tad grumpy in his old age and some new blood could only do him some good, and it would be nice to have someone in the Witchfinders with him other than that Newt fellow. Regardless, the two of them had a very nice time before leaving; this time, they picked the wrong direction (again by accident) and started heading back towards Tadfield.

And the world breathed a sigh of relief.

Angelic and demonic wings are like human fingerprints; no set is the same. Contrary to Humanity's belief, all angels do not have white wings and all demons do not have black; it just so happens that a certain angel-demon pair with white and black wings respectively once got a little too intoxicated for their own good, someone chanced upon them, and thus was born the idea of dichromatic wings.

In actuality, wings come in a wide variety of colors, everything from vibrant yellows to rich reds to the darkest blues. Angels were born with a unique tint. Fallen Angels got a new one when they Fell, usually a darker or duller version of the one they had as angels. Although with a quick thought they could temporarily change the color of their wings if they so choose, no amount of molting or forced feather removal would change it permanently.

That was true for all ethereal or occult beings except Uriel. Every time he let them out, Uriel's wings were different than the last time. No one was sure why; he certainly wasn't the kind to use his powers in order to change his wing color, he simply didn't care that much. But over the course of time before there even was time, Uriel's wings had been every shade in the rainbow, including a couple of colors that don't actually exist.

Like right now.

His wings were black. And this wasn't the kind of black like Crowley's, which turns midnight blue in certain lights, like black flirting with blue, which had spawned his obsession with wearing smart black clothing. And it wasn't the kind of black like Satan's, which appear to have blood dripping down the feathers when the light hit them just right (although in most cases it actually was blood). No, this was the kind of black that absorbed light, made it seem like he didn't quite have wings; more like he had two black wing-shaped voids on his back.

His wings were black like Azrael's. That's because, at this moment, he was the Angel of Death*.

His target was currently fighting the Prince of Demons. This was of no concern to Uriel; Sinners fighting Sinners means nothing, no matter who the Sinners happen to be. The Fallen Aziraphael was the same as the Fallen Beelzebub in Uriel's eyes; both must be exterminated - but first the Fallen Aziraphael, as that was his assignment. With a wave, the Prince and the other demon involved in the fight were cut off from them by a shield made of the Presence.

"HOW DARE YOU!" Beelzebub roared, beginning to punch the barrier blocking him from his prey.

Crowley began muttering a mantra of "oh, shit", not able to even touch the barrier that kept him separated from Zira and not wanting to touch the one that he kept him separated from Beelzebub.

Zira's eyes widened in understanding and, with that understanding, terror. "Uriel. You… Oh no."

Uriel drew his longbow off his back, aiming an arrow infused with the Presence at the ex-angel, continuing to ignore Crowley's angry and terrified shouts for him to stop and Beelzebub's attacks on the shield. "Aziraphael Izrafael, you have sinned against the Your Creator in this path you have taken. Are you penitent regarding your crimes against the Lord?"

"Of course I am," Zira whispered as he collapsed to his knees. His nose was bleeding and his internal organs were violently cramping up from the use of his Angelic and True Names and from the close proximity of an Archangel, but he fought not to show it on the rest of his face. He didn't succeed very well.

"Will you turn back from your course that places you in opposition to the Lord?"

"WOULD YOU JUST SAY YES!" Crowley screamed, desperation clearly evident in his voice.

Zira wished it meant that all he had to do was not close the portals. He already didn't have to do that. But he knew in his heart what Uriel meant was that Zira was supposed to endorse the Lord's Plan, the Armageddon, the End. He bit his lower lip before crying out, "I'm not wrong! He's wrong! He wants to destroy this beautiful planet and-"

"You have strayed far from the Light, Aziraphael Izrafael," Uriel interrupted him, his voice sharp, "The Light denies you. The Light rejects you. And the Light shall destroy you."

"DON'T YOU DARE!"

Zira gasped.

Raphael landed between Uriel and Zira, his wings spread wide. "Stop it, Uriel!"

"I have orders from the Lord, Raphael. Stand aside."

"You are not going to kill Zizi," Raphael stated. "I'm sure your orders were misstated, or incorrect, or something of the sort. Regardless, I will not let you hurt my baby!"

"Aziraphael Izrafael is a Sinner. He is one of the Fallen. Stand aside, Raphael Irafayel. The Lord Commands."

Zira was torn between to curling up and screaming due to the pain he was in, or giving Raphael a hug. Crowley wanted to give Raphael a hug too, although he would never admit it out loud.

Beelzebub did not seem to care overmuch about the angelic drama going on; after all, he was more interested in killing all the angels no matter how they were feeling at the time. So he continued attacking Uriel's barrier. Uriel grimaced but kept his arrow pointing directly at Raphael's heart.

"Don't you True Name me, young man," Raphael said with authority, raising his chin. "We have greater things to worry about, like the angry demon prince!"

In the split second before Uriel released the arrow anyway, intending to hit his target through the other Archangel if necessary, Beelzebub crashed through the barrier, fragments falling to the barren ground like shards of glass. Uriel was knocked off balance due to the destruction of his will-created wall, and Crowley used that moment to run over and grab Zira, pulling him away from the pained-looking Uriel, the surprised-looking Raphael and the enraged-looking Beelzebub.

"We have to help them!" Zira cried, still looking at Uriel and Raphael.

Crowley backhanded him.

Raphael was glowing with a bright blue light, encasing himself and Uriel and preventing Beelzebub from direct contact - although the demon was certainly trying. The lesser demons who had been his original targets were forgotten for now.

"What was that for?" Zira demanded, rubbing his sore jaw.

"I thought maybe it would get some of those suicidal tendencies you seem to have developed out of your head!" he explained.

"Oh. Nice effort."

"Thank you. There's a but, isn't there?"

"Of course there is, dear. You and I couldn't kill Beelzebub together, but with Raphael and Uriel we can actually finish him off!"

"They can do it without us!"

"Not with Uriel in that condition!"

"He's in that condition because he tried to exterminate you!"

Zira left Crowley, grabbing his sword off the ground and using his momentum and Beelzebub's distraction to cut the demon's hand off. The Prince recoiled in pain, allowing Zira to step between him and the two Archangels.

Raphael took the time to heal Uriel, his eyes never leaving his foster son. "So it is true. You've really, you've… Fallen."

Zira looked back at Raphael. "I'm sorry," he replied. It sounded lame to his ears.

Raphael bit his lip, his eyes revealing he was trying to think of what to say. "Just… just tell me why."

"I was going to close the portals and stop all this craziness, but God doesn't want them closed."

Raphael breathed in and out as he helped Uriel to his feet. "Well, I'm still mad at you. Furious, even. Defying the Lord, to His face? I raised you better than that. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"We don't have time for a lecture!" Crowley snapped.

Raphael ignored him, reaching up to push a stray bronze-colored curl out of Zira's face. He smiled; it was forced, but better than nothing. "But being a demon doesn't suit you, dear heart, and I'm sure your slaying the Prince of Demons will get you a little redemption. Things will work out all right. I can put in a good word for you, you know."

"The Lord hath-" Uriel began.

Raphael shoved a chocolate muffin into the other Archangel's mouth.

"You were hoarding!" the latter proclaimed with something like glee mixed with accusation, but it came out as "moo mrr mrrding!"

"You just wait a bit on that holy smiting business, sweetheart, we have things more pressing to consider," the first said cheerfully, patting Uriel on his curly black-haired head.

The "pressing thing to consider" grew his arm back, now snarling at the four standing against him. "Hell holds the field," he growled, "Do you think you can best me here?"

* Of course Death saw this and scowled as effectively as someone without lips can, secretly jealous of how Uriel looked a lot more intimidating than he ever could. He took solace from the fact that he had once watched as Uriel inexplicably developed some sort of rabbit attractor and spent three weeks being followed by a herd of fuzzy bunnies everywhere he went.

The addition of fourteen trained warriors shouldn't seem like all that much, considering the angels were numbered in the thousands and were still losing, but with guns the nuns had longer range and with grenades they could hit multiple targets. Also, all of the nuns have a little something humans call the home team advantage – they were fighting to protect their planet, not to satisfy some blood feud from time before time.

(Only once did one of them accidentally shoot at an angel. That angel was Gabriel, who calmly held up a hand, slowed down the bullet, stepped out of the way and let the bullet fly. It hit a demon who had been sneaking up behind him in the forehead, causing him to dissolve. The nun gave an embarrassed apology, Gabriel merely shrugged, and everyone (except for the demon) was happier in the end.)

Sister Josephine, aged ninety-two but with a heart of a woman in her fifties, took out more demons that day than any one angel. Upon her death, she was declared the Patron Saint of Arse-Kicking.

Hell may have held the field, but that advantage was fading fast.

Not fast enough to be of real use to Crowley, Zira, Raphael and Uriel.

"So how exactly do you intend to do this?" Crowley asked tersely as Beelzebub faced them down, held off by a shield created by Raphael.

Zira looked to his foster-father.

Said foster-father looked to Uriel. "Uriel dear, you concentrate on getting your strength back, all right?"

Uriel looked back at him, confused. "Huh?"

"Well, after you get your strength back I'm sure you'll be enough to, er, deal with Mr. Beelzebub."

"Okay, good point." Uriel smiled some would say angelically as he closed his eyes, folding his hands together, his head bowing in supplication. He began glowing as the Presence began flowing through him, renewing him. He was almost translucent with the aura that surrounded him.

"Right, so you want us to distract him?" Crowley clarified, cracking his knuckles.

Raphael scowled in thought. "Yes; Uriel is going to take time to recover himself enough to kill him, and-"

Abruptly Beelzebub crashed through Raphael's shield, tossing the Archangel backwards. The Prince of Hell bypassed the two lower demons, going straight for the praying Uriel. On a gut reaction, Zira could come up with nothing to do but tackle him out of the way like some sort of demonic football player.

The two rolled a bit before Beelzebub snapped open his wings, knocking Zira off him and into the air, where Crowley caught him. The Demon Prince reacted quickly, jumping up and racing at the two. Crowley pushed Zira out of the way and thus was the only one who got his shoulder skewered on Beelzebub's sword. Zira, despite having hit the ground hard, still gasped and winced in sympathy. Crowley could heal himself, but that still had to hurt.

Then he got an idea. He had to keep Beelzebub's attention, keep him away from Crowley and Uriel. He had to distract him. What was a demon's chief weakness?

Pride.

Zira grinned.

Beelzebub grabbed Crowley by the front of his suit, lifting him up into the air.

"Hey Beelzebub! Um!"

Crowley started clawing at Beelzebub's grip on him, but the greater demon did not seem fazed.

"I'm going to enjoy ripping every piece of flesh from your-"

"You, er, you couldn't make a good cup of tea if you had a set of tea-making instructions! Oh, and, and a tea set!"

"What the crap is he rambling about," Beelzebub rumbled.

"Er, I think he's insulting you. Trying to, at least," Crowley guessed. Unfortunately for Zira, his particular brand of slander was more understated and scathing, leaving the receiver to wonder if he'd even been insulted in the first place before realising just how terribly he'd been mocked. It didn't translate terribly well to schoolyard taunts.

"Eh? Really?"

Zira cried triumphantly, "I bet you can't tell the difference between tweed and tartan!"

"What?"

Crowley grimaced. "Yeah, he's… well, he's still an angel at heart, and he was raised by Raphael."

Beelzebub winced. "Poor sod."

"You look like the sort of person who, if you were running a bookstore, would actually try to sell books!" From the expression on his face, Zira thought that was particularly insulting.

"Zira would you shut up!" Crowley cried.

"And Lord of the Flies was not a personal favourite book!"

Beelzebub threw Crowley down with enough force that the Armani-clad demon found himself halfway buried in the debris. The Demon Prince turned and started walking toward Zira, who continued to call out insults that even a kindergartener would have been ashamed of using. "That's it, he's not coming anywhere near my Hell," he growled.

Crowley closed his eyes as he began healing himself. When he opened them, he looked to Uriel, who continued to stand in the field, glowing like a beacon of hope. Just have to keep alive long enough for the crazy one, he thought, pushing himself up, And Beelzebub's acting like an idiot, maybe we have a chance –

"I could handle being killed by Satan, I really could," Zira continued, dodging Beelzebub's attempts to disembowel him, "but not you – you're just Satan's bitch!"

Crowley got up and started running over. Now that was something that might actually piss Beelzebub off -

"And even more importantly – you and everyone else seems to think that I am some sort of weakling, like I'm just an easy kill – but you know what? I AIN'T NO HOLLABACK GIRL!"

"Wait, what?" Beelzebub asked, no longer looking angry and demonic but looking awfully confused.

"Yeah!" Raphael said weakly, "Yeah, you're… not… a… hollaback girl. Oh dear. You've truly gone native, haven't you?"

Crowley face-palmed. "What does that even mean?" No one answered him, because no one knows.

Beelzebub shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. He chuckled. "Nice try," he admitted. "Almost forgot there's only one of you nutcases that can kill me." He turned began gathering his demonic aura, preparing himself to attack Uriel while the latter was distracted.

Uriel himself was glowing serenely, completely oblivious to the fact that he was now Beelzebub's prime target. His head was now tilted backwards; it was obvious he was praying.

The Prince of Hell held out a glowing hand towards Uriel, his aura coalescing. Crowley and Zira exchanged glances – what were they supposed to do against that? Both of them could feel the sheer power coming from Beelzebub and realized that, demon or not, neither of them would survive interrupting the Prince.

The buzz that he was emitting, akin to the one that formed when he spoke, was loud enough to drown out Raphael's shout of, "I don't think so!"

The hellfire attack collided with a holy shield, and both the attacker and the defender gritted their teeth in an effort to steel their focus. The force of the impact knocked Zira to the ground, but Crowley, who was far enough away, recognized a good opportunity when he saw it. He raced over, grabbed a discarded sword from a long-dead warrior, and threw it with all his might.

The sword sailed through the air before imbedding itself in the back of Beelzebub's skull.

Raphael dropped his shield and dropped to his knees, sweat dripping down his temples. Zira raced to his foster father's side. Uriel continued praying, blissfully unaware of all goings on.

Beelzebub, obviously not dead or even close, emitted a feral growl as he spun around. Crowley was very glad that his sunglasses hid his terror-filled gaze; because, and he would admit it (albeit silently), he was horrified.

Before he could even think the Demon Prince was there and had punched him in the face, knocking him back about twelve meters before, moving so fast he couldn't even be seen, he had slammed a fist into Crowley's midsection, throwing the lesser demon back into the ground. Had he been thinking at all at this point – and it was hard to, beyond the terror and the pain – he would have been thankful that the blow to his ribcage knocked the air out of his lungs so that he couldn't give Beelzebub the pleasure of hearing him cry out.

Zira moved to go help him, but Raphael grabbed his arm quickly.

"What-" Zira began until noticing that Raphael wasn't looking at him; he was looking at Uriel. Uriel opened his eyes, scowling.

The Archangel drew his holy longbow, aiming at the otherwise-occupied Beelzebub. He let an arrow charged with the Presence fly.

Beelzebub noticed it just in time to attempt to dodge out of the way. Crowley was awfully glad that the greater demon had decided to step on him instead of pick him up; it inadvertently kept him out of the real, heavenly, destroy-him-kind of harm's way.

There was an explosion, dust filling the air.

Raphael kept a hold of Zira's arm, a terrified look on his face.

Suddenly Beelzebub practically flew out of the dust cloud, colliding with a shocked-looking Uriel. From the look of it, the Prince of Demons had lost his entire left arm and most of his shoulder, but it wasn't slowing him down any. With his still-present arm he knocked Uriel further than he had Crowley, but was prevented from pursuing his prey by a determined-looking Raphael.

Zira dithered. He ought to help Uriel. He wanted to help Crowley. Luckily the decision was made for him when Crowley pushed himself out of the crater that had been created when he was slammed into the ground, cracking his neck to realign his spine. He murmured a curse as he ran back over to Zira. "I haven't had to heal myself so often in a long time," he admitted faux-cheerfully. "It's a useful skill, so it's nice to have to use it every once in awhile. You know, so it doesn't get rusty."

"We can't win this," Zira admitted. "They're too tired, and he's too powerful."

The two looked at each other.

Crowley gave a wry smile, holding out his hand (which, despite his best efforts, was noticeably shaking). "This is where you say I have a spark of goodness, right? It's been nice knowing you and all that?"

"Oh, do shut up." Zira grabbed Crowley by his upper arms and pulled him into a passionate kiss.

Across the field, Raphael was holding his own, on the defensive again. For the first time in a very long time, he hopelessly wished that he was more of a fighter, like Michael or Gabriel.

Uriel got back up, pushing his jaw back into place. "Oh no you did not just punch me in the face," he growled. "Bitch, I will cut you."

But then again, Raphael mused (even as he silently vowed to allow Uriel and Michael less time together, as obviously Uriel had picked up that line from him), they wouldn't be alive without him, and they would all certainly be even less sane than they currently were without his stabilizing influence, so perhaps his powers did count for something in the end? It was a nice thought.

An arrow passed over Raphael's shoulder, which Beelzebub neatly dodged. It landed in the distance and exploded.

"You can't kill me!" the Demon Prince crooned. "I wish I could go back in time six thousand years and tell that to the Uriel who banished me! You can't kill me!"

Crowley's hands on Zira's back gave him an idea. "Give me your gloves!" he exclaimed.

"Er? One of them practically dissolved from grabbing Michael's sword earlier," Crowley said doubtfully even as Zira wormed his way out of his arms to start removing the blessed-resistant glove that had survived thus far.

"Sorry about this, it is awfully tacky to take back gifts, but I have an idea," Zira murmured more to himself than to Crowley as he finally got the glove off and strapped it on to his own hand. Sword in hand, Zira sprinted back to Beelzebub while crying out, "Bless it, bless it!" before engaging Beelzebub in a swordfight.

With a thought from Uriel the sword burst into holy flames, forcing Beelzebub into being a bit more cautious. Zira unfortunately was required to fight offensively, not defensively which he was better at and preferred, even as the heat from the holy sword started overheating his palm.

Beelzebub started chuckling as the holiness began waning. Zira scowled and tried to will the flames to restart, which (for obvious reasons) did not work. He gazed back at the Archangels – Uriel was angrily wavering on his feet while Raphael, not looking much better, was supporting him. There was no hope of one of them blessing it again -

The sword's flames went out. As Zira backed up, Uriel – rather determined to smite the infidel despite his exhaustion – fired another arrow, this one again being dodged by Beelzebub.

"The Lord, smite you, so doomed," Uriel groaned, rubbing his head to alleviate his headache.

"No need to be rude about it," Raphael chastised him, also rubbing Uriel's head.

Crowley grabbed Zira's arms and dragged him backwards. "Okay, I'm going to distract him," Crowley muttered in his ear, still not letting him go, "Not sure what good it'll do, but the only one who can kill him is still Crazy Pants over there, so it has to count for something, right?"

"Crowley, that's my uncle!" Zira protested, "Er, sort of, so show some respect!" He smiled at Crowley with hope in his eyes. "You'll have to see him a lot over the course of eternity, after all!"

Crowley grinned back before running to engage Beelzebub in a sword fight which quickly degenerated into "creative ways of beating the crap out of Crawly."

Zira sprinted across the rubble to Raphael and Uriel.

"How are we going to beat him?" Raphael asked desperately. "It's only a matter of time…"

"Eh," said Uriel. "It's not looking good, I have to say. I am so tired!" In fact, his eyelids were drooping shut. "Ich möchte schlafen. Der Verdannt ist so sehr ärgert!"

It finally hit Zira, as Beelzebub hit Crowley again and again, exactly how they were going to kill the Demon Prince. More specifically, how he was going to kill the Demon Prince.

He looked to Uriel. "Bless me," he hissed.

"Did you sneeze?" Uriel asked.

"What do you mean!" Raphael demanded.

"Just blessing the sword didn't work – it fizzled from being too close to Beelzebub! But if both of you bless my sword and me, it might be enough to kill him once and for all!"

"But! But! You'll die!" Raphael protested.

Beelzebub threw Crowley's broken body a good thirty feet away, turning to regard the two angels and the ex-angel with a snarl.

Zira felt all the more determination as he watched the love of life lying near death. He knew full well that Crowley and Raphael and Uriel (he still cared about Uriel's well-being, no matter how else he might have felt about him after the whole "smiting" incident – Uriel would be Uriel after all, and Zira was rather used to the odd behaviour after all these years) would die if he didn't do something.

He had to do something.

It was, after all, all his fault that this was happening in the first place.

"Just do it!" Zira ran to cut Beelzebub off.

"No!" Raphael protested. "Stop it, Uriel, he doesn't know what he's saying!"

Uriel ignored him. "Two Damned Ones, one stone. Or sword. Or whatever." He didn't look sorry at all as he held out a hand, blessing both the sword and the demon who held it. Realizing that wheels had been set into motion that he couldn't stop, a trembling, teary-eyed Raphael followed suit.

Zira and his sword caught on holy fire. Beelzebub laughed at this attempt, assuming the ex-angel wouldn't be able to steel his resolve enough to stab him. To the Prince, his enemy had just committed suicide for no reason.

He was wrong. Zira had been through worse, after all.

As he plunged the sword into Beelzebub's chest, the world seemed to explode for a moment, the shockwave knocking the warring angels and demons to their knees.

Raphael began crying.

Crowley couldn't bring himself to believe what he'd just seen.

Chapter Text

A/N: Regarding last chapter:
Dear Messrs. Pratchett and Gaiman,
I see your flaming Bentley and I raise you a flaming angel.
(and not just in the way you intended him to be!)
Love,
me ^_^
(yep, I've been waiting to say that, can you tell? :D)

"WHAT THE CRAP WAS THAT!" Jesus screamed as the world shook. "Did they just – did – Aziraphael! He actually inflicted the killing blow on Beelzebub!"

"Good for him!" Michael exclaimed, "Always knew he could be better than the geek he made himself out to be! Why do you think I gave him a flaming sword?"

Gabriel's omnipresent scowl deepened. "Is it just me, or did he…"

"Yeah," Jesus whispered, "Yeah, he did." She took a deep breath. "Poor boy."

"Poor Raphael," Gabriel corrected. "The boy is dead; Raphael is not."

"What's going on?" Michael asked.

Jesus winced and continued, "Yeah, good point. Well, let's make sure that Aziraphael didn't die in vain."

"Wait, Raphael's nerd died? Like, permanently?"

It was remarkably easy to ignore Michael when the situation called for it. Jesus continued tersely, "Which means that Adam doesn't fail here."

The power that Adam is feeling is absolutely intoxicating, like he can reach out and touch the stars, or as if he can bend reality itself like a piece of hot metal. He is no longer constrained by his feeble human form; he has ascended into being something greater, something grander. He has felt glimpses of this before, of course – during the last time the Apocalypse almost happened and when the Gate to Hell opened – but nothing like this.

It's impressive, isn't it? It could be all yours. If you wanted it to.

He is surrounded on all sides by nothing but midnight; he is an extension of it, has tapped into the Universe itself. Yes, he admits, yes it is impressive. But.

And you haven't even touched upon what it can be. If you only had some semblance of an idea as to what you've denied yourself for all these years, you would never have started doing so. My poor, sweet, naïve child.

ADAM, REMEMBER YOURSELF.

I don't want the power! I didn't want it then and I don't want it now! he protests, I don't – no one deserves to be able to manipulate others! It's not fair to everyone else who lives here, to have me be able to tell them how to live!

Nonsense, the voice replies, You only say that because you truly don't understand it. What is this God you endorse by default if nothing but the Grand Manipulator? You reject your birthright because you think it is evil. Hearsay. It is not evil; it is misunderstood.

The midnight changes to a beautiful day. He is standing on the clouds, gazing over a crystal palace framed by the stars still visible in the daylight. Below him he can see two figures – two Seraphim, glorious in their holy rage – fighting. There are others there as well, other angels, but Adam can't tear his eyes away from the two.

"I refuse!" one cries in a voice that Adam recognizes in his very existence as being his own, "I refuse to be his pawn, his puppet!"

"What gives you the right!" the other shouts back, "He made you!"

"I can't believe you, Michael! You think that's everything? You're so blind that it hurts me! Can't you see – He's using us – He's controlling us – what are we but - "

There is more fighting, and then a gigantic flash of light as the Light-Bringer is banished from Heaven like a falling star. One by one other angels who had empathized with him Fall as well, although none so match his radiance.

Adam watches and feels his heart break. It's not fair, he just wanted equality, he wanted-

IT'S NOT SO SIMPLE AS THAT, IS IT, LUCIFER?

A jolt of pain courses through Adam's form, making him cry out.

This doesn't concern you!

YOU NEVER WANTED EQUALITY. YOU NEVER WANTED A DEMOCRACY. TELL YOUR SON WHAT YOU TRULY WANTED, LUCIFER.

Don't listen to him (or her, I suppose, you really do have an odd sense of humor, my dear). If voices could touch, this one would be stroking Adam's cheek. My son, all I wanted is what everyone wants. It's all you want, too, even if you can't admit it to yourself. It's all right, I understand. I am your father, after all. All I wanted was… for everything to be better.

Beneath him the clouds disperse and he can see everything – the oceans, the cities, the plains, the people; the Kingdoms of the World are fighting each other, killing innocents, ruining the gift they have been given.

It's such a waste, what the humans have done, isn't it? It's such a shame to see the so-called Children of God ruining their world like a toy they don't like, given the gift of free will, while the angels and the demons are subjected to the megalomaniacal rule of a cruel Dictator. You knew it well enough back then, although you didn't understand how easily you could fix everything. You didn't understand how you wouldn't have to do it alone. You have me. You are never alone. Together we can fix everything.

The world now appears whole, complete, at peace. The Kingdoms have become the Kingdom, and he has become the King, The Prince of this World.

ADAM! HE IS CALLED THE PRINCE OF LIES FOR A REASON!

The voice chuckles, and it feels like velvet on Adam's soul. Yes, but the truth is so subjective, isn't it? It is created by the victor, that is all. You and I know better, don't we?

Adam has to agree, although he's not sure why – but it's true, isn't it? History is written by the winning side? It -

The other voice, the foreign one, the uninvited one, is much fainter now. All he hears is one word:

EVIDENCE.

War. Famine. Pestilence. Pollution. Death.

Your birthright.

Adam sees visions of the Horsepersons rampaging across the world beneath him. None would have been unleashed if Lucifer hadn't grown discontent with what he had been given, only because he wanted more.

He sees a past vision of Crowley, a demon who had also once been an angel but hadn't meant to Fall, drinking in a bar in a human attempt to deny that he has to reenter Hell again, as he does most times he must return to the Pit he must call Home. He sees Aziraphale, wingless and near death, due to a millennia-long grudge that he has no part of.

You hurt people, Adam says, you cause pain and suffering… What you say makes sense, but the ends don't justify the means. You…

There is another flash of pain, this one containing a hint of a warning in it.

You're blaming me for everything, which the Grand Manipulator could have prevented if he wanted to?

But you still did it. It's still your fault. You-

Tsk. I'm almost ashamed of you, my son. Let me make this, my final offer, as clear as I can –

The world beneath him begins quaking, people begin screaming, and it all vanishes to nothingness; he is back amidst the stars. One star shines brighter than the others, and Adam's gaze is drawn to it.

Join me or perish.

The offer is tempting. He can right all the wrongs he sees. He can assure happiness for everyone.

But he doesn't deserve that power just because he was born. No one deserves that power. He doesn't want it, he doesn't need it.

"I refuse," Adam answers aloud, the words echoing.

The star in the distance goes supernova, and suddenly Adam can't see, can't think, can only feel the sweltering heat that burns his core; there is a darkness therein that threatens to swallow him up while the light threatens to rip him to pieces.

So be it.

He can almost see now – the stars are coalescing, forming the familiar shape that looks so much like him and yet so not. I am the Morningstar. You are nothing. Fight me if you dare.

But Adam can still feel the power at the edge of his being; he is not nothing, and this is something he firmly Believes. He is Adam Young, he is the Angel of the Bottomless Pit, he is the Spawn of Satan, he is the Lord of Darkness.

He is Human. Being Human means that the old conflict means nothing to him. He may choose sides as he pleases or remain neutral. He had chosen neutrality but it is being forced away from him.

So he fights, because he is human, and he dares.

He taps into the power at his disposal, the power that comes from his enemy, and wills it to do as he sees fit. He directs it to attack, to destroy, to remove his adversary, The Adversary, from existence, from his planet. He finds his control is lacking, however; it is true that he has denied his birthright, and now he finds himself regretting it. But the power is still a part of him, and there is still so much at stake, and so he presses on.

So much at stake, is there? Your fake family and your false friends?

Adam grows angry. As compared to you?

The Universe chuckles at him. It is not comforting.

Haven't you figured it out yet? You can't defeat me; you are me.

Adam realizes the Prince of Lies speaks the truth.

The power backlashes, floods Adam's atoms, fills him with an agony so great that it threatens to disperse his very consciousness. The stars in their spheres begin to move around him, circle him like vultures around a dying man.

A dying man, like -

i don't know if you can hear me but he's trying to absorb you just hold on

The pain is intense. He can feel all the suffering of the world in every corner of his existence as if he was the recipient of it all. It's pulling at him, pulling him apart, he can feel it but it hurts so much it needs to stop why won't it stop please make it –

No.

He thinks of his mother and father. He thinks of his sister and her husband and the baby they're expecting. He can't let them down. He can't -

He's trying to eat me!

It's true – the force is pulling him apart and yet towards something, like he's being sucked into a black hole and when it's done the pain will be over and he will be part of Eternity. He would finally be able to rest, finally be able to stop resisting, it's so exhausting, why even bother…

The voice continues to speak throughout his agony – why fight me? Why fight what you are? - but it helps to center his thoughts, to find his strength. So he thinks of his friends – of Wensleydale, who is smart yet never considers himself above others; of Brian, who is immature yet kind; of Pepper, who may be harsh but wants only the best for those she loves. He thinks of Dog, the faithful companion who has never left him.

He screams as he begins to break down.

He thinks of his two godparents, one whom has died and the other whom wishes he would as well.

Adam gathers his consciousness back together in one final push; it is all that he has left in him. He screams his defiance to Fate:

"YOUR MUM IS GONNA EAT ME!"

Abruptly the influence retreated and Adam was once again standing in the remains of Manchester. Not standing for long, however, as he soon collapsed to his knees, retching bile onto the rocks. His entire body trembled as he struggled to find himself again. That had been entirely too close for comfort.

"Did you just… did you…" Satan began, "Did… um. Wow." He looked around awkwardly, making Adam's "'your mum jokes' working on people without mothers" record a dazzling two out of two.

"You did it!" Jesus exclaimed, giving Adam a hug. The Antichrist was panting and drenched with sweat, but he hadn't been eaten and that counts for a lot when you get down to it. "Oh, I'm so proud of you, you have no idea! You scared me!"

Satan abruptly recovered from the shock of being unexpectedly subjected to such a thing. "That was easy," he murmured, looking not much better off than Adam did despite his blasé response, "So, I beat the Antichrist and I beat Michael,"

"Uh! By cheating!" Michael protested.

"which means you're next. Are you going to try your chances now?" Satan raised his eyebrow at Jesus.

"Me? As if I need to! I have no need to fight you alone, considering I have my friends here to help me!" She gestured to Michael and Gabriel, "Well, two of them, anyway. Besides, you never know about the other two. Raphael would probably give you a hug, and Uriel would probably get distracted by some butterflies."

"The butterflies would likely not exist," Gabriel added.

"Oh, burn!" Michael held up his hand, looking for a high-five.

Gabriel sighed. "What part of our relationship makes you think I am going to humour you?"

"The part where we might die?" Michael voiced without confidence.

Gabriel shook his head. Michael reached down, grabbed his hand and forced him into a high-five. Gabriel quickly withdrew his hand, remarkably taking on the air of a scorned, angry cat.

"You told me I didn't need my friends!" Adam protested.

"I'm making up the morals as I go along, okay? It's harder than it looks!" she snapped back. "Anyhow," she looked at Satan smugly, "Adversary, your own son has grown beyond what he began as! If you couldn't stop him, you have no chance to win here!"

"Okay, that'sssss it. I have been waiting," Satan's body started to morph, growing larger, "to pay you and your Father and everyone back for humiliating me," he had three heads now, one black, one red and one yellow, all armed with very sharp teeth, "and I'll make ssssssure that you, your family, your friendsssssssss," he grew four more wings and just grew, "everyone you've ever met, will all pay for eternity for your crimessssss!"

"He's very large," Jesus observed with a squeak. Her two Archangels moved in front of her protectively.

"Awesome," Michael said.

"I hate you," Gabriel replied.

"You're with me in this, right?" Adam demanded to Jesus, still trying to catch his breath and leaning on her as she helped him stand back up. He wanted to curl up and sleep for a century, but there were obviously bigger things to concern himself with at the moment. And the bigger thing continued to get bigger.

"I guess so…"

"What do you mean, guess?" Adam pushed himself from her grasp, determined to stand on his own.

"I mean, I'm really more of a pacifist, but… Well, last time I was here everyone expected me to kick some arse, so let's make up for lost time!"

"That's the spirit!" Michael exclaimed, seemingly forgetting his own state of exhaustion. "Arse-kicking is my specialty! Don't you worry about a thing, Lord… Lady… Whatever you want!"

"I don't really care, really."

"So, nice body," Gabriel commented to Jesus as Satan continued to grow, blood now dripping from his three sets of fangs as he glowed with unholy energy.

"It's not that bad, but my back hurts from the weight on my chest and I have this insane need to hit things and eat chocolate."

"I can so relate," Michael admitted. "Except my back hurts because I've been fighting non-stop for what feels like forever."

"I think I'm, what do they call it, PMSing," Jesus finished.

"All right, I can't relate to that."

"But where are Uriel and Raphael? They're still alive, I can tell, so-"

Uriel and a still-crying Raphael landed next to Michael and Gabriel.

"Uh oh," Gabriel observed before Raphael threw himself into his arms. "I, er, he was, er, better than average," Gabriel managed, rubbing Raphael's head.

"He was the best!" Raphael wailed.

"Little Buddy!" Michael exclaimed.

"Michael!" Uriel squealed back, "Did you see me! I totally smited all sorts of evil!" He began cheerfully spinning in circles.

"Smote," Raphael corrected against Gabriel's shoulder.

"I did! I'm so proud of you!" Michael gushed.

Uriel turned bright red. "Aw, shucks, wasn't nothin'."

"Next I have to teach you to use a sword!"

"Squee!"

"Don't be so sad," Jesus said, patting the crying archangel on the shoulder, "I'm sure he wouldn't want you to be. After all, he died taking down the Prince of Hell, thereby keeping you and Uriel and Crowley safe. He probably never imagined he'd do such a thing! I'm sure he's awfully proud of himself right now, and you ought to be as well."

"Who are we talking about?" Uriel asked Michael in a whisper.

"Aziraphael."

"Huh? When did he die?" The beautiful violet eyes filled up with tears. "But I liked him! He was so cute!"

"Just right now."

Uriel let out a squeak as his tears intensified.

"He was a demon at the time," Jesus informed him.

"Ooooooooooooooooh. Right. Gotcha." Uriel reported brightly, "That's right, he got smited, and he was on fire."

"It's 'smote,'" Raphael corrected again.

Uriel looked a little embarrassed. "Sorry. I forget that sometimes."

"Oh really," Gabriel drawled.

"Oh, cool! That's how I want to die! On fire and kicking arse!" Michael exclaimed. Then he looked a little perturbed. "Dude, now I have to top that somehow. Maybe… oh man. How do you top killing the Prince of Hell while on fire?"

"By dying over a pit of spikes," Gabriel suggested, "that are also on fire?"

"Oooo, that's a good one!"

Gabriel got a glint in his eyes betraying just how often he had thought of this scenario. "And don't forget about the Kraken."

Michael looked wary. "What about the Kraken?"

"Well, he's down there too, amidst the pit of flaming spikes, trying to drag you down. Very adamantly, I might add."

"But if I'm dying, I clearly have enough problems as it is, isn't the Kraken overkill?"

"Don't you want your demise to be dramatic?"

"Yeah, but-"

Raphael's head snapped up and he looked at Gabriel and Michael with rage in his normally docile eyes. "Oh would you two shut up for once! Honestly!"

Both of them stared at him with wide eyes. Uriel backed away from them slowly. Jesus winced at the awkwardness

Across the world, the Kraken sneezed, causing some tasty human bits to fly out of its mouth. It wasn't used to it the odd sensation but it wasn't too perturbed; it started munching again.

With Michael and Gabriel suitably chastised, Raphael recognized one of his Creators and switched over to hug Jesus. "He," Raphael choked out against the short woman, "he thought he would die," sniffle, "when all of the books fell on top of him one day! Oh, my poor Zizi! I can't believe he thought it would be better if we lived without him than die with him! Oh, it's just not fair! I should never have let him leave our nest! He, he, he never wanted to be a fighter, not really!"

"Yeah, of course he wouldn't want something so cool. And that's why he'll always be lame," Michael whispered, really not wanting to get smote. Gabriel hit him on the arm. "Er, sorry, always have been lame." Gabriel hit him again. "What! Aw, c'mon, you know I liked the little geek. He was my favorite loser ever." Abruptly Michael's eyes filled with tears. "Best teddy bear I ever had. Sniffle. Er. Got something in my eye, here. Yeah. Gimme a, sniffle, second." He turned away, rubbing at his eyes.

Jesus made little soothing noises and rubbed Raphael's wings. "That's a dear. It'll all be okay."

"No it won't," Raphael whispered.

Gabriel handed Michael a tissue. The Archangel of Warriors blew his nose with a loud "honk."

"Yes it will!" Uriel agreed. "We're totally gonna smite the evil, and have a happy ending, and stuff. It'll be great. Right?"

"Right," Jesus asserted.

With a brilliant smile, Uriel joined the group hug.

"But I feel so bad for poor Crowley," Raphael sniffed, "He loved him, he truly did. It's just so sad!"

"Well Raphael, you can take out all your unhappiness on Lucifer, because when you get down to it it's all his fault anyhow," Gabriel reminded him, "Just like everything else."

Raphael straightened, trying to regain his composure. "You're absolutely right. No time for grieving, not just yet anyway, let's… yes, let's kill him and finally get this over with. It's what Zizi would have wanted."

"Well whaddya know, it must be the end," Michael said, recovering himself, "I mean, Gabriel complimented me-"

"I did not."

"- and you're talking about killing Lucifer. Now all we need is for Uriel to do something normal and for me to, uh, I dunno," he shuddered, "attend a peace rally or something."

"One would do you some good, Michael dear," Raphael replied with a sniffle.

"So would milk," Uriel informed him.

Adam felt a little left out, what with the Four Archangels having rallied behind Jesus while he got nothing. After all, it was his father they were trying to destroy, and it's not as if he didn't have his own group of Four that deserved a capital letter and -

War ran up and stood next to him. She had never been redder before, as her entire body was soaked in blood so that she looked as if she'd taken a bath in it. She'd also never looked happier. "I didn't miss anything, did I, Boss?"

"Er, no, but you don't-"

Almost as if on cue – probably because in a sense they were – Famine and Pollution drove up on their motorcycles. "Finally!" Pollution squealed, hopping off. "I knew you'd come sooner or later, sir!"

Famine brushed some oil off his suit coat. "It's finally going to happen, isn't it? We're finally going to destroy the world?"

NOT REALLY, Death answered, I THINK ADAM HERE IS MORE INTENT ON SAVING IT, ACTUALLY.

"You're joking!" Pollution practically screamed, "Again?"

"You like this world too, don't lie," Adam retorted.

"But, but I'm a human personification of its destruction!" he whined.

War gamely raised her hand. "I do like this world! If this goes through then there's only one side, and without sides there is no me!"

"See? She has the right idea," Adam said with a charismatic smile. She blushed because Adam is very charming; not that anyone could tell she was blushing under the blood, but it's the thought that counts.

"And I have a machine gun," she said sweetly, bringing it to herself from where it continued to lay on the bookshop's floor. "And I have some swords, too. It'll be totally freaking sweet, just you wait and see. I can hardly wait! Oo, maybe I can try to combine the swords and the machine gun together?"

While War attempted to create the world's first machine gun sword, Famine looked wary. "I… I suppose demons and angels don't eat, so no matter who wins, my existence is sketchy at best," he admitted. "As much as I want to destroy the world, I would rather not destroy myself. I've… come to enjoy existence."

"But… but…" Pollution looked desperate, "buuuuuuuuuuuut…"

"And without humans to pollute things, you don't get much to do either," Adam reminded the forlorn-looking Pollution. The white-clad personification pouted.

"Is that who I think it is?" Famine asked, pointing to the three-headed beast that had finally stopped growing; Lucifer's new form was larger than all of his opponents put together.

"Yep."

"You want us to…"

"Yep."

"BRING IT ON!" War cried and then charged.

"That's my girl! Isn't she great?" Michael gushed, joining her in the charge.

"So what exactly do you expect us to do?" Famine asked Adam as the fighters tried their best to stab the glowing, blood-drooling creature that Lucifer had morphed into. The very presence of the creature – Satan at his full power – was causing reality around him to disintegrate. "My powers obviously have no effect on something that does not need to eat."

Adam winced. "And you have a point."

Everyone except for the two groups of Four and the two Christs – both real and Anti – began fleeing. Satan pounced on War and began trying to eat her while his two other heads turned to repel the attacks of anyone else trying their luck.

"Mine wouldn't work either, I suppose," Pollution pouted. "Seems a shame, now that I think about it."

Death sighed. TELL ME ABOUT IT. NOTHING FOR ME TO DO UNTIL THE END, AGAIN. AT LEAST WAR'S HAVING FUN.

With a flap of his six wings, Satan knocked everyone away from him. War, not to be outdone by anyone, shoved her hand inside the nose of the head trying to eat her in an attempt to rip its brain out. She's all for the quickest method, after all.

Meanwhile, as reality itself continued to dissolve around them, Newt, Anathema and their two children hid themselves underneath their dining room table, dragging the still-out-cold Shadwell under a nearby chair.

"At least the plaster's holding up!" Newt offered with a nervous laugh, holding Bentley, who was crying in terror as the house shook.

Little Aziraphale Pulsifer looked toward the window, scowling. "This izzn't right," she said sternly.

"It'll all be okay, Aziraphale," Anathema soothed her, running her fingers through her daughter's long dark hair.

"Iz not fair," the girl continued, "iz not fair we gotta die 'cause of some old grudge."

Anathema, marveling again at her daughter's obvious power despite only being three, grabbed her and pulled her into a hug. "I hear ya, babe."

"HOW EXACTLY AM I SUPPOSED TO KILL HIM IF I CAN'T TOUCH HIM!" Michael roared in rage, unable to get close due to Satan's demonic aura. He had tried and found that his skin started disintegrating. Even Michael could admit that it hurt.

Jesus scowled before making a quick motion with her right hand, and then a different one with her left*; light trailed after her hands as she moved them, staying in the air before exploding outward, purifying the area around Lucifer. "NOW, MICHAEL!"

Michael and Gabriel moved in, managing to distract the creature enough so that War could pull herself away from it; Raphael quickly moved to heal her. Uriel was preparing himself for some sort of offensive, but Satan sensed the Presence building up inside him and decided that Uriel should be the first to die.

"Holy cow I have never been creamed so hard before!" War exclaimed with a laugh as her grievous wounds started mending, "It's kinda liberating!" Once they were done, she got up and ran back to the attack again.

Raphael closed his eyes and concentrated on Uriel, adding his own power to the other Archangel's in an attempt to keep him alive. Beast Satan had pounced upon the flighty archangel, whose nose was bleeding under the stress of trying to keep himself safe.

There was another flash of light from Jesus' direction, which impacted with Satan's body this time, knocking the Beast off its legs. She was panting heavily, but looked more angry than tired. Satan was only dissuaded for a couple of precious seconds before deciding that enough was enough, and if anyone just had to die painfully throughout this entire experience it really ought to be his old adversary.

At this point adrenaline had made its way through Adam's bloodstream so that he felt almost refreshed. He decided to celebrate this by trying to siphon off some of Satan's energy in an attempt to stop him from his charge toward Jesus, which in the end didn't work at all (if Adam had to guess he was still too tired, but in reality it was because Satan had better control over his own power than Adam did and had been expecting Adam to try such a thing) and ended up with a near-death Jesus and an irritated Satan.

Before he could really react the creature was almost upon him; however, it lost its traction and slid, bowling over poor Famine in the process but missing Adam entirely.

Pollution smiled up at Adam. "Did I do a good job?"

He patted him on the head. "Sure."

As Pollution squealed in joy (before sobering and realizing that Famine would likely not agree) Adam pondered launching a last-ditch-attempt onslaught of Hellish powers in an attempt to finish off his "father" once and for all, until he noticed his "father" noticing the four human-shaped figures clinging to each other while hiding behind the corpse of an exceptionally large bull-like demon. Despite not being able to see them clearly through the haze, the floating debris and the obvious obstruction that the late Moloch was, Adam just knew, instinctively, exactly who they were.

"Oh, hell no," he gasped.

* Not crosses, because that would be cliché; they were Α and Ω, because that's classic.

Sister Prudence and Brian seemed to be downright excited at this turn of events while Wensleydale looked like he wanted to bury himself and Pepper looked like she was angry that she couldn't help more. Moloch's remains were proving to be a decent defense against the world-collapsing power in the area.

"I can't believe it!" Sister Prudence exclaimed, her eyes wide as she watched the battle, "It's so cool! That's him! The big kahuna!"

"It's like an RPG," Brian gushed, "you know, he's ascended into Satan Form Two or somethin'; although if it was really accurate he'd next turn back into an angel, which for him would kinda be like goin' backwards-"

"Everyone else is a lot further away than we are!" Wensleydale interrupted a tad desperately, "Shouldn't we be running or something?"

"Run to where?" Pepper demanded of him, "Nowhere else in the world is safe either!"

He groaned back, "You know how I hate it when someone else is more reasonable than I am!"

She grinned. "Yep."

Adam had a choice – try to kill Satan now and risk that his friends would be destroyed in the end result, or be otherwise killed if it didn't work; or, he could devote his energies into keeping them alive.

It wasn't much of a choice in the end.

As Adam concentrated on protecting his friends (who had accepted him despite of what he was – he owed them, he loved them, they couldn't die because of him, because of his father, he could not let that happen) Michael, Gabriel and War ran by, all three looking the worse for wear.

"Would you stand still and fight me, you coward!" Michael called to Satan, his voice hoarse.

"Oh shut up!" Gabriel snapped back at him.

War was humming "I've Had the Time of My Life" to herself.

When they finally caught up to the Beast as he pushed himself back up, Michael jumped on top of his back and started stabbing; a technique which had yet to work at all but Michael still insisted on endorsing. As this ended the way it inevitably had to, the way it had every time Michael had tried it – with the wings knocking him off and the heads deciding to see how tasty angel flesh was – Gabriel rested his hands on his knees and caught his breath as he panted, "So… stupid… beyond… description… no words… any language…" He caught his breath and regained his composure. "From now on, the word 'Michael' shall be used to describe anything so completely moronic as to defy any other descriptors."

"Aww, but he's so cute!" War said fondly, shooting with her machine gun (she had given up making the machine gun sword; it just wasn't very cool in the end), "Like a really stupid puppy!"

Gabriel glared at her. "You would think that, wouldn't you. That is very Michael of you. … … Yes, that does work. I like it."

Across the field, Crowley vaguely considered that this was really as good a time as any to stick his head between his legs and kiss his arse goodbye, but it seemed like an awful lot of effort, really, and what was the point anymore? His body had healed itself in the interim, but his spirit was still reeling.

There was nothing left of Aziraphale – where he and Beelzebub had been standing now sported a rather fantastic crater. Not even Crowley's glove had survived the explosion. The only thing that still existed was the sword, which now looked deceptively innocent. You wouldn't have known to look at it that it had just smote the Prince of Demons.

There are really only two choices for someone in such a situation as Crowley found himself in: screaming and never stopping, or going into shock. Crowley was going to choose the second one until he recalled something.

There is a third option: the Aziraphale Option.

The Happy Place Tactic.

Crowley embraced that one.

In all actuality - and this has been proven through empirical research - angels can dance. They just have to be under the influence of enough alcohol to kill an elephant – as Aziraphale was – and have a suitably intoxicated partner – which Aziraphale did. As a result, when an angel actually does dance, he's almost not really dancing because he's so drunk. But Crowley would take what he could get.

Their arms linked together and large mugs of ale in each hand, Crowley and Aziraphale danced on the bar with unsurprisingly little grace as the other patrons clapped to some imaginary beat. The demon and angel sang together, "It's of dear grog to you I'll sing / And to dear grog I'll always cling / I like my cup filled to the brim / And I'll drink all you'd like to bring!"

The whole bar sang, "And it's oh, dear grog, thou art my darling / And my joy both night and morning!"

Reversing their dance, Aziraphale and Crowley continued to sing together, both of them clearly enjoying themselves, "If all the rest of Adam's race / Was assembled in this place / I'd part with all without one tear / Before I'd part with you, my dear!"*

Abruptly Aziraphale stopped dancing, giving Crowley That Look. The bar patrons stopped moving – stopped existing.

"Wassup Azir – Azira - you?" Crowley drawled, "Aaaaaannnnggggeeeeeeelllll?"

"What are you doing!" Aziraphale demanded.

"Um, this inn't how thisss night went," Crowley recounted groggily, "Pretty sure we never ssssobered up. We dancccced a lot, though. It wasss pretty fun. Funny how most people can't dancccce if they're drunk and angelsssss can only dancccce if they are, huh?"

"This isn't how this night went because you're not actually here! You're – you're in your Happy Place! In the middle of the climactic Battle to End Everything, you're taking a nap! How bloody typically of you."

"Oooohh. That explains what you're doing here. Hi. Huh, you're acting distinctly un-British right now."

That ruffled Aziraphale a bit. "That's because we're in an Irish tavern."

"No, no, that's not it. You're not… not wearin' a bowler hat, or smokin' a pipe, and you're not wearin' a British flag or nothin'." Crowley gasped. "You're not my Inner Aziraphale!"**

"… … … Crowley, sober up please."

He shook his head like a petulant child. "Nuh-uh, 'sthere no point to it. You're gone out there, and you're here in here. Why would I leave?"

Aziraphale looked pained before remembering himself. "Because I died so that you could live, not so that you could – could – well if not you, what about the others?"

"Don' care."

"But I do! Crowley you're going to make me have died for nothing!"

"Totally dessssssssserve it."

Aziraphale gasped.

"Yeah," Crowley said, pointing a mug at him accusingly, "Yeah, you totally des – des – dessssssserve it. Dyin' like that, like you can jus' die and no one will care."

"I never… That was hardly the point!"

"You left me as a widow!" the demon exclaimed, "I'm a widow!"

"Widower," Aziraphale corrected.

"… …. What?"

"You're male," Aziraphale explained patiently, "That makes you a widower, not a widow."

"… Pleasssse, PLEASSSSSE tell me you are not correcting MY FUCKING GRAMMAR. Because there are thingsssss I love about you, and YOU CORRECTING MY GRAMMAR ISSSSSS NOT ONE OF THEM, ANGEL, ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU ARE DEAD."

Aziraphale looked embarrassed until he remembered his purpose in here. "Crowley, please, you need to go and help."

"And do what? What's am I sssssupposed to do without y – What's am I ssssupposed to do 'gainst the Big Guy?"

Aziraphale smiled. "You'll think of something. I know you, you old serpent. But, please, Crowley, don't let me have died in vain. Wake up."

Crowley's eyes opened.

* This apparently is a real Irish drinking chantey. You can find anything on the internet.

** This was true. Inner Aziraphale and Inner Hastur had left some time ago, actually.

Satan, meanwhile, had taken up Michael on his "challenge" and was once again utterly ripping apart the fighters, specifically focusing on Michael (who was rather enthusiastically trying to fight back; Gabriel was obviously debating whether or not to let Satan just finish him off before deciding that he, having spent the last six thousand plus years with Michael, deserved that honor himself). Adam continued to focus on keeping his friends – who were drastically in danger of ceasing to exist – alive. Raphael had moved to heal Jesus, who was scowling at the way the battle was turning out.

"Drat, but this isn't going well," she murmured.

Raphael made a tsking noise. "Don't count us out just yet, Lord. There is one of him and ten of us, after all."

(Never mind that Famine had forgiven Pollution for the earlier Satan-slipping incident and so now Famine, Pollution and Death had begun playing an extremely intense game of Go Fish. Death was winning. Neither of his partners were surprised.)

"But," she gritted her teeth, "but the fighters can't really touch him, and-"

"GET YOUR HEADS OFF MY FRIENDS!"

All eyes on the battlefield turned to look at Uriel, who was now glowing brighter than he had even before he had gone on his eradication spree. Debris was floating around him ominously, and his robes and curled hair were blowing around him. The look on his face was one of pure unadulterated rage. The Archangel of the Presence lit up the entire field as his aura intensified.

"Oh dear," Raphael muttered, holding Jesus close and wrapping them in his wings.

"He's going Super Saiyajin!" Brian exclaimed. "His power level is incredible, it must be-"

"Oh shut up!" the other humans shouted at him.

At one second Beast Satan had Michael pinned down beneath his saber-like claws, had Gabriel trapped in his massive jaws, and every bullet that War fired at him melted before getting close. At the next second Uriel had held out a hand at him, twitched his fingers, and sent the Beast flying across the ruins. It let out an unholy screech that was drowned out by the world that was slowly coming apart.

Every movement Uriel made Satan made with him, only on a far larger scale and with a lot more pain involved. A large circular motion of Uriel's arm caused the Adversary to spin in a circle around the area, violently hitting the ground as he did so; a quick downward-upward swipe forced him so far into the ground he wasn't visible and back up again.

Uriel held out both hands in front of him, his clenched fists pressed together. He began fighting to pull them apart. The Beast fought back against this killing move with all the strength and stubbornness of countless millennia of opposition. The Presence battling with the Darkness resulted in enough force being thrown about that everyone who was not Uriel or Satan found themselves needing to get low to the ground, covering their heads and crossing their fingers.

Uriel gritted his teeth as he tried to move his hands further apart, move Satan further apart, but the Devil resisted. Slowly, second by agonizing second, the Light around Uriel faded, and the Archangel succumbed to his exhaustion, keeling forward and hitting the ground.*

A hot breeze blew through the field as if to highlight the sudden lack of action. Satan, covered with bloods from numerous sources but certainly not done, crouched down to regain his composure. All three heads of the Beast snarled in fury at Uriel's horizontal form.

"I don't think so," Michael grunted, forcing himself into standing despite his injuries, not even bothering to siphon his own power off into healing himself, "No one goes after Little Buddy!"

But Michael didn't have to worry – in the split second before Satan landed on Uriel and would have ripped him apart, the Archangel had disappeared. The Beast skidded to a halt, confused at his lack of prey.

"Oh," Raphael said with happy tears in his eyes, "There's eleven of us, my mistake."

Crowley, standing further down the field, held the limp Uriel in his arms, not entirely sure what to do now. After all, there was no place he could take him, there was no place safe. But at least he had saved him from getting eaten, so maybe Aziraphale would be happy?

Satan started charging at them, and Crowley reacted instinctively. But it was awfully fast, there was no way-

"GET THEE BEHIND ME, SATAN!" Jesus screamed, making another large motion with her hands. This burst of Holy Light destroyed one of Satan's heads but made her collapse to her knees. It gave Crowley the time he needed to get Uriel to them.

"There, I helped," he grumbled, placing the fallen Archangel down.

Raphael grabbed Jesus and held her close, defensively, as the Beast recovered himself. He also guided Uriel's head onto his lap. The normally optimistic archangel shook his head solemnly as he tried to comfort both Jesus and Uriel. "We can't do it," he admitted.

"'m so tired," Uriel admitted in a mumble, nearly delirious, "'m so sorry! 'm still a good boy?" Raphael rubbed the other archangel's temples, trying to heal and help him as best he could. Uriel did seem to come back into consciousness, but he was still shivering.

"No one blames you, dear. You've done more than enough," Jesus admitted, closing her eyes.

Crowley resisted the urge to point out how Uriel had really done too much, but it seemed almost unfair to blame Uriel for what had happened to Aziraphale. It was much easier to blame Aziraphale for that.

"But we're all tired, and he's… Well, he's the Adversary for a reason."

"So we're going to lose," Crowley said with finality.

"Yes, yes we are," Jesus said sadly.

* His face looked like this: X_X

Across the field, the same realization hit Adam hard.

They were all losing.

"Please tell me they're not all losing!" Pepper cried as the four hapless humans huddled together behind Moloch's corpse.

"There has to be something they can do to beat him, I just know it," Wensleydale said tersely.

If you have any ideas, I wouldn't mind hearing them!

"Adam? Was that you?" Brian asked. He hazarded a look over; Adam was staring at his "father" with a clenched jaw, looking more dead-set on something than he ever had been before.

'Course it is! And we are losin', so any ideas would be good!

The Them looked at their resident demon-killing expert. "Oh bloody hell!" Sister Prudence squealed, "I mean, the usual trick to killing demons is invokin' Jesus, and he's, er, she's right over there! I mean," she looked at one of her handguns in vain, "what do we do?"

Brian snapped his fingers. "Blimey, I got it!"

Go on!

"We all join hands, gather our energy and sing a song about love and peace and what great friends we are!"

The other humans stared at him.

Pepper, please hit him for me.

She did so, with relish. "You are such a goddamn geek, you are not Sailor Moon!"

"Yet," he muttered, rubbing his head. "If you guys would just let me get a Japanese cat-"

"This is what we get for lettin' you live in the basement with no job!" she lamented.

Another voice, this one feminine, chimed in, Actually, that's not a bad idea!

"Are you serious?" Wensleydale demanded.

Start singing a song! Any song, they'll know the words, but only after they hear some, so you have to start singing!

"Er, what's she…"

They stared at each other.

Just do what the lady says! Adam's voice demanded a tad desperately. Another shockwave ripped through the area.

Brian's decent tenor burst out in the song that had been stuck in his head since the car ride over. "Just a small-town girl, livin' in a lonely world; she took the midnight train goin' anywhere!"

Across the field came Uriel's answer, perfectly on pitch, "Just a city boy, born and raised in south Detroit; he took the midnight train goin' anywhere!"

Beast Satan went into a crouch like a frightened cat. A long time ago he could have done this too.

The Four gathered together. Despite the fact that none of them had ever heard the song before, Raphael began playing perfect air electric guitar, Uriel took over the air piano, Michael manned the air drums and Gabriel settled in on the air bass. In spite of the lack of presence of any instruments, music was still emitted, loud enough to shake the ground like some huge rock concert.

Jesus looked at Crowley. "I'm sorry. It's really the only way…"

Crowley nodded, closed his eyes and let out a loud sigh of relief. "I'm not. I'm done."

His acceptance of his impending demise and the peaceful feeling that came from it was rather abruptly interrupted by a brick to the face.

"Are you shitting me!" he demanded, grabbing the letter off the brick.

COMMENDATION

TO CRAWLY

FOR BRINGING ABOUT THE DEMISE OF THE EX-ANGEL AZIRAPHAEL AND CAUSING THE UNHAPPINESS OF FANGIRLS EVERYWHERE

UM… THIS ONE MIGHT NOT BE RIGHT?

SINCERELY,

THE MANAGEMENT

Crowley had no words. Instead he decided to rip the piece of paper up. He let out a scream of pure rage, hurt, frustration, and agony and curled into a ball. Jesus knelt down next to him and pulled him into her arms despite knowing how little comfort it could possibly provide for him.

In Hell, Nancy, Hastur's old secretary and current Commendation Writer, scowled. "I can't believe that ungrateful git. Does he think Commendations grow on trees?"

Meanwhile, there was a lull in the singing that Satan took advantage of, but when he tried to attack the angels there were Four Horsepersons of the Apocalypse and the Antichrist in his way. Seeing as Satan was the direct cause of the pain and suffering in the Universe that they were all formed of and three of the four Horsepersons' powers were ineffectual against him they couldn't hold him off for long; however, they didn't need to because the musical part is only about fifteen seconds long.

"A singer in a smoky room," Michael sang, really getting into it, "a smell of wine and cheap perfume; for a smile they can share the night, it goes on and on and on and on!"

They all sang together, "Strangers, waiting,"

"up and down the boulevard,"

"their shadows, searchin',"

"in the niiiight!"

Very softly, from the rest of the battlefield where the angels continued to fight off the demons, came, "Street light people,"

"livin' just to find emotion,"

"hidin' somewhere"

"in the niiiiiiiiiiight!"

The effect that the angelic singing was having was very obvious. For one thing, demons close by were starting to dissolve even as their former adversaries were getting their second wind. The acidic demonic atmosphere was starting to purify. Heaven was reclaiming the field.

Dancing around (well, as he is still a sober angel, it was really more like "jumping around") with his air guitar, Raphael took over, "Workin' hard to get my fill, everybody wants a thrill, payin' anything to roll the dice, just one more time!"

Gabriel took over, dancing with Raphael, "Some'll win, some will lose, some are born to sing the blues!"

Crowley reflected that was pretty much his lot in life.

"Oh the movie never ends, it goes on and on and on and ooooon!"

The entire landscape of what had once been Manchester came to life as angels and humans (and some demons, although they'd never admit it) all sang, "Strangers, waiting,"

"up and down the boulevard,"

"their shadows, searchin',"

"in the niiiight!"

Another shockwave rippled through the area as the Host sang as a Heavenly Choir. Sister Prudence, Pepper, Wensleydale and Brian began dancing together, rocking out to the beat or spinning each other around as they sang along. The fourteen members of the Order, their work of demon slaying done – now the only antagonistic demon left on the field was the Adversary Himself and he looked the worse for wear – danced and sang too.

"Street light people,"

"livin' just to find emotion,"

"hidin', somewhere,"

"in the niiiiiiiiiiight!"

Raphael started rocking out his guitar solo, dropping to his knees in a power slide.

Crowley was still alive. Somehow.

"Don't stop! Believin'!"

The words struck him as horribly ironic. There had been a time when he had believed, hadn't there? It seemed so long ago.

"Hold on to that feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin'!" Michael sang, grinning broadly as he banged away on the air drums, totally lost in the music.

At this point Satan started screaming, but his agony couldn't be heard over the Chorus.

"Street light,"

"Peopleeeeeeee!"

"Don't stop, believin'!"

A cool wind blew over Crowley. He smiled and he stopped feeling altogether.

"Hold oooooooooooooon!"

"Street light,"

"Peopleeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

"Don't stop! Believin'!"

"Hold on to that feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin'!"

"Street light,"

"Peopleeeeeeee!"

There was the crash of thunder, a flash of lightning, the world shook and all faded to nothing.

There was an echo of, "Don't stop, believin'…"

Chapter Text

The afterlife for Zira was surprisingly not Hell, nor Heaven, nor a lack of existence. It was a large white room, and he was sitting on a large white chair. He heard an AHEM but ignored it. He was starting to panic just a bit. He could not spend eternity in one room –

AHEM.

"Er. Oh." Death was sitting on a chair next to him. "Hi."

HI.

"Um. Where are we?"

WELCOME TO LIMBO. THIS IS MY OFFICE. COULDN'T THINK OF ANYWHERE ELSE TO TAKE YOU. YOU KNOW, TO AVOID THE BOOM. IT WAS AWFULLY IMPRESSIVE; I'M SORRY YOU MISSED IT.

"Oh, I bet it was. And how are you feeling, then? Not too stressed, I hope?"

OH, I'VE BEEN BUSY, YOU KNOW HOW IT IS. THINGS HAVE FINALLY SETTLED DOWN, THOUGH. NOT SURE IF THAT'S PREFERRABLE OR NOT. WE'LL SEE.

"Ah. I see. So, er, what exactly am I doing here? Not that I don't appreciate it, I think, but…"

LET'S JUST SAY I NO LONGER OWE THE ANTICHRIST ANY FAVORS.

The next thing Aziraphale knew was a wave of exhaustion and that he was reclining in a bed. He stared at his hands – his skin – he grabbed a curled lock of hair and pulled it straight so he could see that it was blond again and –

His excited searching was cut short by a slow clap from across the room.

"Oh! My Lord! I didn't see – I didn't – oh dear."

God smiled at him wryly. "Yes, yes, you can be excited. Welcome back."

"Thank… thank You! But why am I…?"

"An angel again?" God smiled and got a bit more comfortable. "Well, your heart was in the right place, I suppose. You still managed to do what you thought was the right thing even though you were a demon, and even though you were ordered not to. Never thought you had it in you."

Aziraphale blushed and decided it would be wiser to not call Him on the back-handed compliment.

"It was a harsh punishment, I know, but… If nothing else," God continued, "Beelzebub would have destroyed you before help arrived if you had been an angel, and the way things were going you and Crowley were going to take another six thousand years to finally get your acts together – in the back seat of a car, of all places - so I guess something worked out in the end in that regard, yes?"

"I'm really more in shock right now about all that," Aziraphale admitted, although he did blush at the Lord's knowledge of his sexual escapades. "Hasn't quite sunk in yet, I think." He at first wanted to ask after Crowley, but the thought was deflected seemingly from an outside source almost as quickly as it came up.

"Understandable."

"So am I to understand that You – that You mean You didn't-"

"No, actually, I was planning on this being the end." The wry smile didn't leave His face. "I mean, I ordered Uriel to stop you so you wouldn't do exactly what you ended up doing."

"Stop me?" Aziraphale echoed, "He tried to exterminate me!"

God chuckled in an embarrassed fashion. "Er, yes, that. I said, 'stop Aziraphale before he buggers it all up again,' but, er, someone decided to interpret that as, 'make Uriel exterminate him.' Someone. I don't know who."

"… … … It was Metatron, wasn't it?" Aziraphale asked suspiciously.

"Maybe," God said, not making eye-contact. "Er."

Aziraphale's jaw dropped.

"Don't look at Me like that!" God said, looking away awkwardly, "You were technically a demon at the time, he was in his right to, er… …"

"… … …"

"I'm going to give him a very stern talking-to about grudges and the holding thereof, I promise."

"Please do," Aziraphale sniffed.

"Anyhow. About me not destroying the world. As I said, that was the Plan; but it just so happens that someone risked an eternity of torment, betrayed his Creator and his family, and tried to end his own existence in order to save My Creation. That's actually quite humbling."

"Thank you?" Aziraphale guessed, not sure if it was good to make God feel humble. Who knows what sort of existential problems that could cause.

"Besides, my Son – er, Daughter – got involved too, and that vouched that you weren't simply a complete idiot. She was very… straightforward about how unhappy she was with me about Ending Humanity. Threw a hissy fit like you wouldn't believe."

"I'll bet… she… did."

"Oh, and she put up a very convincing argument on your behalf, by the way, regarding bringing you back into the Fold, so be sure to thank her next time you see her."

"Oh. Okay." Aziraphale felt awfully special.

"So I thought to Myself, you know what? If Aziraphale and Jesus like it so much, maybe there's something I'm overlooking that makes it so appealing. So I thought about it some more." God leaned backwards in His comfortable-looking easy chair, the wry smile turning to a content one. "For so very long it seems like it's always been Heaven versus Hell, with the battleground being Earth. I mean, that wasn't the intent from the start, really, I swear, it's just when you're constantly exposed to angels who are all rather obsessed with the idea of finishing off Hell once and for all, the idea sticks. But you… you and Crowley did something, developed something I didn't expect."

"You didn't expect something?" Aziraphale squeaked in surprise.

"Every once in awhile I like to turn off the omniscience," God replied sternly. "I mean, I created the outliers way back when so that I could experiment, see what happens – I ended up with dinosaurs, which, you know, isn't great, but still. But it gets boring to be able to foresee everything, and sometimes – you are a case in point – what happens can be pleasantly surprising. Anyhow, you and Crowley managed to overcome the whole 'the other side is evil' bit, and that… well, that gives Me hope. Maybe with enough time, we can get things back to the way they once were. You know, integration. Co-existence. Peace." He smiled. "That sounds nice, doesn't it?"

Aziraphale nodded. It did sound awfully nice, especially considering that then he wouldn't have to worry about needing to smite Crowley at the End. "Lord? It really doesn't bother you that I, er, was with a demon?"

God snorted. "Love is love is love, Aziraphale, you know that. Honestly I was wondering if I was going to have to lock you two in a room with nothing but a bed and an aphrodisiac before you figured it out. Eating each other's angel food cake and devilled eggs. Really. We all know that was just a metaphor for how you both really wanted to eat -"

"Yes sir!" Aziraphale interrupted with a blush.

God smirked. "Anyhow, of course, after all this, integration is still going to take a lot time. Lucifer is none too amused, but once he gets over this maybe… Well, we have all the time in the world now. Which it will likely take, because that boy is stu-born, let-me-tell-you!"

"So you're saying that the Adversary isn't dead? I just thought, you know, you made it sound like everything was over – er, not over over as in destroyed over, but - "

"I got you. And he by all accounts should be dead," God replied, "But… er… how should I put this…"

"But the Universe needs evil to balance out good, Satan to balance out God, or else there would be no meaning to life?" Aziraphale offered.

"… … … Something like that," God said, not making eye contact and not mentioning that the real reason Satan hadn't died was because Journey was a rock band and rock had been created by Crowley, a demon, and as such the demonically-created rock music did not have the final punch needed to finish off the Emperor of Demons. Yes, Aziraphale's reason was much better.

(He also decided to neglect to mention that the third reason He had opted to not destroy the world was because it hadn't quite gone to plan. You know, there had been the Whore, the Second Coming, the Antichrist, Michael versus Satan, so it was almost right but had all gone a little wrong, and God was nothing if not anal retentive at times.

Oh well. There was always next time.)

"Anyhow," God continued, "I'll let you go now. You still need rest, and you have plenty of people who want to-"

The door burst open and a quick-moving green-clad redheaded angel threw himself on the bed, burying his forehead against Aziraphale's shoulder.

"-visit you," God finished almost lamely, getting up and edging out the door.

"Oh, A-zi-ra-pha-el, I cannot believe you put me through that! Falling and then bursting into flame! I should ground you forever! I have half a mind to lock you in your room and never let you out! Do you even understand how hard it was to watch you die? Do you really? I mean I know you thought you were doing the right thing but really my dear how in the name of everything and everyone was that right? And Uriel! Uriel never pays attention to where he's going, I spend half of my energy just healing bruises he gets from running into things, he'll be lucky if I ever even heal a stubbed toe of his again after that! Smiting you! As if you were just some – some demon! And then Michael and Gabriel – well Michael intended it all as a compliment of course because he is just that way, but Gabriel of course just used it as an opportunity to insult Michael, and anyway they were talking about your death like it was a good thing, like it was okay, and I have never been so mad before ever and it's all your fault!"

"Hi Daddy," Aziraphale said with a smile.

Raphael looked up at Aziraphale with a broad smile and tears in his large eyes. "Hi yourself!" He maneuvered himself into sitting up next to his foster son so he could fix up his perpetually mussed hair. "How are you feeling, dearest? And you're back to being an angel, aren't you?" He reached up and Aziraphale squeaked as his hand came into contact with his halo. Raphael straightened it. "Ah, there you are. Good good good! See, everything worked out all right, which is what I said would happen, didn't I? You are alive and you are an angel again and everything is going to be back to normal again! We ought to have some sort of coming-home party! Er, but I've gotten ahead of myself – how are you feeling?"

"Very tired," Aziraphale admitted, closing his eyes as Raphael finger-combed his hair, "But surprisingly, you know, not burned. What happened after I, er, died?"

"Unwinch your wings, dear, I bet they're filthy."

Aziraphale did as he was bidden, and a few snow-white feathers were dislodged with their arrival. This prompted both angels to breathe sighs of relief. Raphael tsked and pulled him forward so he could sit behind him. "Well," he began, and Aziraphale winced as he plucked out a feather, "shortly after the reckless, insane, incredibly stupid victory over Beelzebub-"

"You'll note that it ended in victory, Father darling," Aziraphale retorted.

Raphael ignored him as he plucked a few more loose feathers, tossing them to the floor. "Look at this, you've got soot on your wings! You've never been good at preening them, dear heart, and I simply don't know what I'm going to do with you. I remember when you were so much younger and I had to do this all the time – you never did like preening them yourself, so if I didn't do it you would walk around with the filthiest wings imaginable, but you did enjoy it so much and I never could resist doing it for you, no matter how enabling that was. You still don't put a lot of care into your wings and you are always all alone on that planet so you never have anyone to take care of them for you, it really makes me wish I had never let you leave our nest, how you can even fly with them in this condition is beyond me-"

"Er, you were saying?"

"Oh, yes, well, anyhow, your uncles and myself and the Son and that nice Adam fellow and his friends all fought with Lucifer – and he was," there was a large pile of discarded feathers forming to the side of the bed, "winning, I'm sad to say – but we were all so tired – until we started singing. Such a catchy song, too. Do you have any idea who sings it? Just a small-town girl, livin' in a lonely world?"

He shook his head. "I only know the words; I don't know who sings them. It's all bebop to me, really. Catchy but otherwise depthless."

"Be… bebop?" Raphael questioned, stopping the preening. "They call it that down there?"

"Er, never mind. You'll have to ask… Crowley…" Aziraphale had a lazy smile on his face until the impact of what Raphael had just said hit him. "Wait, you sang? So you… you very truly won?"

"Of course we did! It was quite spectacular; it was a shame you missed it. By the time we were done there wasn't a demon left on the field, although from what I've been told at least Lucifer survived, which is a shame but maybe with time he can come to seek forgiveness? What a pleasant thought." Raphael frowned at his foster son's sudden bout of trembling. "What's wrong? You're trembling… oh. Oh. Oh dearest, I'm so sorry!" The archangel wrapped his arms around him. "I haven't seen him, I really haven't." Raphael rested his chin on Aziraphale's shoulder, their cheeks pressed together. "I'm so sorry, baby. Maybe he… Well, he was with the Son, so maybe…"

"No," Aziraphale said, his mouth saying the words his brain was simply not recognizing, "No, he's… there's no way he could have… But… He… Well, that's just not right. I did everything so he would survive even if I couldn't… and he's the one... Oh no."

"Oh, Zizi."

"It's just not fair. No, no, no…"

At that Aziraphale began crying for the second time in his entire existence, which at that moment really felt like it had lasted too long. And Raphael started rocking back and forth, making sweet comforting cooing noises as he wrapped his foster-son in his wings like he did when he was an infant.

Not much later, Uriel stood in the doorway with tears in his eyes.

Raphael was still cuddling and stroking Aziraphale, who had exhausted himself sobbing and was now shallowly asleep, still trembling. "Why are you crying?" Raphael asked Uriel in a whisper.

Uriel looked all the more depressed as he admitted, "I don't know!"

Raphael sighed and patted the bed beside him. "Come on, dear."

Uriel hopped onto the bed with the other two angels. With three sets of wings and three bodies on the bed it wasn't plausible at first, but a quick miraculous manipulation made the bed much larger and more comfortable.

The stereotype among Demonic and Angelic circles is that if you want a fun time in the sack, you should bed a demon. This was true. Demons are naturally better at sex than angels.

However, if you are looking for a good night's sleep and the best cuddle of your life, they say that once you go angel you'll never go back (and they only say that because they aren't creative enough to think of any words that rhyme with 'angel').

Gabriel sighed as Michael tried leaving the infirmary despite the fact that he was so tired he could barely walk. "Where are you going, anyway?" he demanded as he slid an arm behind Michael's shoulders to support him.

"I need to find Raphael and Uriel," the other admitted, "Make sure they're both okay. You know, after the explosion. Sweet Merciful Lord, but I'm tired."

"I haven't seen Uriel, but last I saw Raphael he was more worried about his Aziraphael than he was about himself."

The two Archangels walked down the hallway and came upon an open room that had, from what they could see, a pair of white wings, a pair of red-gold wings, and a pair of lime-green ones.

"Awwwww," said Michael. "My favorite nerd is back!"

"Oh. No wonder Raphael was worried. Apparently Aziraphael is alive again. But from what I can see through the feather blanket he doesn't look too happy," Gabriel observed.

"Huh. Oh, I bet A. Crow didn't make it. Meh, that sucks. He wasn't half bad for an abominable pit fiend from the unholy depths of Hell," Michael commented. "Anyone who saves my Little Buddy can't be bad. And punched Lucifer. Which he did. How cool is that?" Michael neglected to mention that Crowley did it to save him, because that part just wasn't as cool.

"A. Crow?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"… … …" Envisioning a future where he was "G. Angel" or something similar, Gabriel replied, "And here I thought that if you managed to somehow become more insipid that you would implode, become a black hole and suck all higher life forms – which include everything – into a lack of existence. I stand corrected. Apparently it is possible to be more incompetent than you currently are, although I can't imagine how. It must be ineffable."

"You love me anyway," Michael cooed, batting his eyelashes. At the same time that Gabriel asserted that that was not the case, Michael continued, "But anyhow, I am really tired, and Raphael and Uriel and Aziraphael are all still alive, but more importantly that looks so comfortable."

Gabriel had to agree.

They both climbed on the bed.

Crowley was gloating in a haze of emotions that managed to be both comforting and depressing at the same time. He was confused: where was he? Why was he wherever he was? What had happened? He couldn't even remember what had happened…

Is this the real life? Or is it just fantasy? The haze began solidifying, and he began to find himself again. Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality…

"Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see," a voice replied.

His eyes snapped open and whatever retort, comment or action he was about to perform was hastily cut off when he saw exactly who he was now speaking with.

"GET BACK!" Crowley screeched, scrambling backwards, "The power of you-know-who compels you! Back! Don't touch me!"

Freddie Mercury looked at Crowley like someone looks at a monkey doing neat tricks. "Will you relax?"

"No! I have no idea why you've been haunting me but I-"

With no other recourse, Freddie reached out and slapped him.

"Oh, right," Crowley said, feeling a little embarrassed as he rubbed his cheek. "Hi again, I guess."

"Geez. What do you have against Queen?" God asked, shaking His head in amazement. "I play 'Another One Bites the Dust' every time I have to smite something."

"Don't let the Bentley hear you say anything like that; it took me decades to get that damn car to play something else."

"… … …"

"Although it could be worse," Crowley admitted, "I continually hold out hope that the Bentley will never realize my hatred for the Rolling Stones."

"… … …"

"I mean, half of the things 'Sympathy for the Devil' mentions I had nothing to do with, and the other half are things I did, not Satan! Geez! Give credit where credit is due, Mick Jagger!"

"… … … and I'm not going to dignify any of that with a response."

"If I say something rude, are you going to smite me?"

"Bum bum bum, another one bites the dust…"

"Okay, okay, forget I thought anything. What do you want anyway? How am I even here? Last I… recall… didn't I dissolve, or something?" And there was this ache in his chest that he couldn't quite name, but something was wrong, something was off…

"You almost did," God admitted, "But, I figured I owed you for saving Aziraphale without any sort of reward, and so there's your reward for you."

Crowley scowled, rubbing his eyes. The events recounted herein were starting to filter back into his memory. "Reward?"

"Believe it or not, I consider you still being alive to be a good thing."

He snorted.

"Yeah, yeah, be all sarcastic about it, go ahead, but I'm telling the truth. I like you, Crowley, a lot more than you seem to think I do. The Universe is looking out for you, right? Besides, I kept you here to offer you a new job."

"A new… listen, I don't want anything you have to offer me. Just point me to the exit and I'll let myself out."

God replied sternly, "You've gone beyond being in Hell's Bad Books, you know. Maybe their Horrible Books? Their Die Die Die Die Die Books? Anyway, you're in trouble."

Crowley was about to retort that when the words came out unbidden, "I'm just a poor boy; I need no sympathy! I'm just easy-come, easy-go,"

"Little high, little low?" God smiled.

"Anywhere the wind blows; doesn't really matter to me… Okay, stop it!"

God chuckled. "You're fun, Crowley. It's just a shame you haven't killed anyone recently or else we could keep going."

Aziraphale, I – Crowley thought unbidden, I killed you, didn't I? I should have stepped in, or stopped you, or… oh shit. He drew in a shuddering breath. Trying to recover himself – he would not show weakness in front of his meddling asshole, he just wouldn't – he said, "Listen, I know my bosses aren't happy with me, but believe me when I say I don't particularly give a shit right now."

"Aww, how romantic."

"Fuck you."

God's smile broke into a grin. "Well. I can count on one hand the number of people who've said that to Me. Well, to My Face. But, I didn't save you from a lack of existence so you could spend eternity being tortured. Do I need to recount the things you did, Mr. Potty Mouth?"

"It's nothing I can't handle," Crowley grumbled, "without you."

"You punched Satan in the face."

Crowley blanched. "I… I'm sure-"

"You punched Satan in the face," God repeated, "Do you have any idea what he would do to you if he got his hands on you after that? Any idea at all? Because I'm fairly certain it involves an entirely new layer of Hell devoted to you."

Crowley didn't respond. God had a point with that one. What had he been thinking? Attacking Beelzebub to save Aziraphale, sure, that made sense. But punching Satan in the face to save Michael? One did not cross Satan, especially so brazenly. Crowley had gotten lucky just getting away in the first place. "But-"

"And as you probably guessed, Satan didn't die in that attack. So you can't leave until you've heard Me out, because I don't want to lose you so easily."

Crowley scowled; somehow the news that Satan had made it through didn't surprise him. The Adversary was awfully hardy, if nothing else; besides, you can't kill a demon with a demonic song (although in his personal opinion Journey had surpassed its demonic roots); it just doesn't work that way. "Then feel free to smite me." Sad how that was looking to be the best option. "Although you won't, because that would be doing me a favour, now wouldn't it? You haven't been keen on actually, you know, being useful for me."

God materialized a notebook and Crowley found himself reclining on a couch. "Anything else you'd like to get off your chest?"

Crowley sat back up. "Yeah, actually, I-"

He reached out and covered the demon's mouth with a hand. "Sarcastic, rhetorical question there, although I have to say I am going to so very enjoy proving you wrong about everything you're thinking right now. First of all, let me make this very clear to you. I'm offering you the chance to Rise, Crowley."

At the raised eyebrow, God removed his hand. "On what grounds?" Crowley asked.

"You've fallen in love; an emotion you've pointed out to yourself – time and time again, might I add, you odd, odd child – is decidedly undemonic. And it truly is – you all rejected My Love and so have been unable to feel your own; that was the whole point. But you've managed to get beyond that. Congratulations on that one, I suppose."

"So I'm able to Rise just because of that?"

"Well... there's more to it than that, yes. But that's neither here nor there. What do you think? By the way, I'm going to censor you."

Crowley scowled. "Listen, as much as I appreciate the offer, and only since it means there's no torture involved for me, I'm not interested. I somehow doubt you'll let me keep messing with people. I'd rather be in pain than bored, and your side is blessedly boring." An image of Aziraphale in his tartan and tweed came to mind. "Besides, after all that poo you just put me through, I really ducking hate you. And Aziraphale! Why the duck would you bring me back to life and not him? What the duck is wrong with you!" What am I without him? Even if using ducks as a swear did not make Crowley feel any less despondent.

God sighed. "Crowley-"

"I'm going to go find some holy water, dunk my head in it and not have to deal with you, with any of this, anymore."

God sighed again. "Wow, you're awfully stubborn. Fine, let Me make this even more clear to you. If you don't accept My offer, you will not be under My protection; and, if left to the mercy of Hell, you won't live long enough to help Aziraphale when he truly needs you."

Crowley stared at God before the words truly registered. "Help him when he needs me – he's alive?" He hopped off the couch and sprinted towards the door, which he found was sealed.

"Oh, and now you're trying to leave? Without even saying goodbye? Kireawel Gadre'el, would you quit forgetting who you're talking to?" God demanded.

The use of his Angelic and True Names made Crowley very painfully aware that he was, in fact, talking to his Creator, his Father, the Omnipotent One Who Could Wipe Him Away from Existence without Thinking About It, and He Whom One Should Really Not Piss Off if One Wants to See One's Angel Again. Crowley cleared his throat and decided a more diplomatic approach might be best. "Yes, I'll try that," he replied, his throat clenching with nerves.

"That's better. Sit back down. Aziraphale's still sleeping – mourning you, actually – and so you can't talk to him now anyway. And in the name of everything Holy would you shut up so I can talk to you for just a minute?"

Crowley sat and didn't make a sound.

God smiled. "There. As I was saying, if you continue to remain as a demon Hell will catch up with you and you will spend eternity in agony. Not only did you punch Satan in the face, but more generally he lost Beelzebub, Mammon and Moloch and as such is very cross indeed. No happy ending for him; well, unless you consider that he's still alive… But anyhow, if you're under my protection, he can't touch you. If not… Well, as I hinted at earlier, you won't be around to help Aziraphale when he truly needs you there. All right, you can speak."

Crowley wasn't convinced just yet. "What's the catch, then? There's always a catch. You have something ineffable planned and I am really sick of being part of a plan I don't understand."

"You do know what the word 'ineffable' means, right?"

"You've done nothing for me for six thousand years," Crowley continued, "so why make everything so… perfect?"

God's smile became sad. "Because… Because you and Aziraphale are My Children, Crowley, and I look out for My Children."

"But what's going to happen that's worse than what we just went through?"

"Ah, yes. You are, under no circumstances, going to tell this to Aziraphale, because I already told him what he hoped to hear and the poor dear needs to stop fretting so much. If nothing else, you are going to forget this conversation afterwards anyway." And so it was true. "Well, you noted it yourself not long ago. As much as it pains me to admit it, it's only a matter of time before Humanity decides to take its chances without infernal or ethereal meddling."

"Heaven and Hell versus Humanity," Crowley whispered.

"Precisely. But you won't have to worry about it for some time yet. In the interim, regarding your wiling, you may continue to do so as long as someone is there to thwart you. It keeps mankind on their toes. And it just so happens that I had an interview with the perfect thwarting candidate before meeting with you." The smile on God's face turned to a smirk. "He did much better than I'd expected, by the way. He also had a very enthusiastic recommendation from a certain Archangel."

Crowley still scowled. "Can I have some time to think about it?"

God nodded, and the door opened. "Just let me know when you're ready."

The first thing Crowley did was seek out Aziraphale. When he finally found him, the angel in question was barely visible in a mass of wings and other bodies as five figures all slept the sleep of the exhausted. While a fairly large part of him really wanted to make a joke about angelic orgies, an even larger part had to admit it looked awfully comfortable.

In fact, he wanted to hop on the bed too. Preferably without the Insane Brigade, but…

God was suddenly standing beside him, looking at him with a raised eyebrow and a smile.

Crowley thought. Then he materialized his sunglasses and had to smirk, just a little. "You have a deal."

They shook on it.

Aziraphale had been awake during the period when the other three Archangels came to get on the bed with him, so he was surprised to find there was only one person remaining when he woke up. He was surrounded by a pair of rich sapphire-blue wings, and there was breath in his ear and arms wrapped around him. At first he stared at the wings because he couldn't recall who he knew who would have such beautiful blue wings, but he didn't need to think long because the voice next to his ear said, "Yeah, yeah, you can brag, you were right. Spark of goodness and the whole bit. You're still an idiot."

Aziraphale very nearly screamed as he threw himself out of the bed in shock. He expected it to be a dream, so was quite surprised when he poked his head back up over the bed and saw Crowley, the owner of the blue wings, staring back at him with a smirk. "I'm not sure if I like them yet or not," he admitted, looking at the feathers wistfully, "And I'm probably going to have to redo my entire wardrobe. Or maybe I can get away with black… Aziraphale, you're staring."

Aziraphale crawled back on the bed, removing the omnipresent sunglasses and revealing eyes that were the same deep shade of green of the plants he'd helped create thousands of years ago. "You're… You're… You're alive, and you're an angel, Crowley."

Crowley gave a theatrical gasp. "I hadn't noticed!" he snarked back, albeit fondly.

Aziraphale ignored his sarcasm and a slow smile spread over his face as he explored the new angel sitting in front of him, which wasn't all that different from the demon that could have been in front of him but was still alive. "Oh my goodness. This is… this… incredible. You're well and truly here!" He ran his soft fingers through Crowley's hair, reaching up and touching his halo.

The ex-demon jolted like he'd been shocked. "What was that?" he demanded.

Aziraphale was practically beaming as he started stroking Crowley's halo. Crowley looked close to melting into the bed. "You have a halo, and you don't have snake eyes, although I did like your eyes truly but I like your eyes now too, and you are still your sarcastic, bastardy self, and you're not going to get tortured anymore, and I can finally drag you to Heaven with me when I come to visit, and I'm not going to have to smite you ever, and and and…"

Crowley made a very pleased sounding, slightly strangled noise.

Aziraphale let himself fall and embrace the ex-demon.

"I love you," he gushed, "And I very well thought you were dead, and you're not. But why are you an angel? I never thought you'd do such a thing. It seems awfully uncharacteristic of you. Not that I'm complaining; demon or angel, you're still Crowley and that's fine by me." Aziraphale snuggled in closer.

"I punched Satan in the face," Crowley admitted.

Aziraphale gasped. "You did what?"

"Yeah, I've done smarter things. And the Big Guy offered me the chance to not get my own layer of Hell – although really, how cool would the Crowley Layer be?"

"Well, you're cool," Aziraphale replied reasonably, "So a layer of Hell designed to torment you…"

"… would wear lots of tartan?" Crowley finished with a mischievous smile.

"I don't care what you say, tartan is fashionable."

"Uh huh. Well, the whole angel thing," Crowley shrugged, "it seemed like the best option at the time. It's going to take some time getting used to."

Aziraphale smiled. "I can help you with that, my dear."

"Yeah," Crowley said, not sure what else to say. Then he mumbled something that sounded distinctly like, "Love you too, moron." Then a little louder, "If the world decides to end again, it better bloody happen in Australia so that you don't give a shit, because I do not want to do that again."

"Agreed," Aziraphale said cheerfully.

There was a moment of peace before Crowley exclaimed with a start, "Oh, he wasn't saying Moey and Chandon, he was saying Moët & Chandon! How did I not know that!"

Aziraphale blinked at him.

Crowley vaguely considered explaining himself, but admitting aloud that there were benefits to being an angel (and therefore knowing the lyrics to every song) besides the lack of torture was still a bit beyond him. Instead, he went for the more distracting approach. He smirked like a-you-know-what and purred, "Anyhow, Mrs. Crowley, can we finally go on our honeymoon? We have over five hundred years of time to make up for…"

Aziraphale smacked him on the side of the head. Crowley retorted by grabbing his halo, and the two did not leave that bed for a very long (well deserved) time.

"AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!" Raphael cooed from his place looking through the keyhole, "How adorable! How absolutely perfect! They make such a cute couple! I knew that they would end up together in the end, I just knew it! A father's instinct is always right about this sort of thing. Now they can build a nest together and I can go visit them and everything will be just plain fantastic!"

"What are they doing now?" Uriel asked innocently, also peering through the keyhole. "That looks unhygienic."

Raphael abruptly blushed and dragged him away.

Michael and Gabriel looked at each other.

"You have to admit I'm not that bad," Michael pointed out. At Gabriel's reluctant expression, Michael continued, "Right now. I'm not that bad right now."

"All right, you win this round," Gabriel admitted.

In honor of surviving the Apocalypse Part Two, our heroes had a party at the local counsel hall courtesy of Adam extending his political influence.

Yes, all of them.

As the poor waitresses were running around making sure everything was to everyone's satisfaction, the humans swarmed the open buffet, Crowley and Aziraphale stationed themselves at the open bar, the Four Horsepersons were in the corner so as to not accidentally kill any of the humans (where they had been forced to stand by Adam), and the Four Archangels stood at the fondue table, ignoring the fruit and dipping pieces of assorted chocolates into melted chocolate.

Anathema had tried to tell Aziraphale how happy she was that he was still alive, but for some reason Crowley wouldn't let her near him. How odd. It was especially disappointing because she had also planned on mocking poor Aziraphale for assuming that Agostino had been calling him a girl; she was certain Crowley would get a kick out of such a thing. Oh well.

"You lost," Gabriel said, breaking the silence between the Four.

"Oh, you just had to bring that up, didn't you!" Michael snapped back, "Let's see how well you would have done against him, one on one and with everyone else outnumbered! What were you gonna do, read his mail?"

"At least I am able to read."

"Grrrrr!"

"Michael, he's just provoking you again," Raphael said soothingly, rubbing Michael's arm. "What am I going to do with you two? Uriel, get your head out of the fondue pot, other people have to use it."

"Om-nom-nom. Ow!" He recoiled, a harsh red burn appearing on his face. "Rapha-eeeeeel, the pot attacked me viciously and without waaaaarning!"

"What am I going to do with you three? I'm not healing you, either. I'm done enabling you, and I'm still quite upset that you smote Zizi." Raphael crossed his arms and looked away with a huff.

Uriel looked at him with wide, tear-filled violet eyes.

Raphael caved and healed his face. "Just never do it again!"

"Okay!" Uriel smiled brilliantly… and shoved his head back into the fondue pot.

Across the room, the meeting Aziraphale had been anticipating had finally arrived.

"Oh Mr. Aziraphale, I haven't seen you in so long!" Madame Tracy gushed, "You've lost weight!"

(She had introduced Skuzz to Shadwell, and the two along with Newt were discussing the latter's induction into the Witchfinders. Newt didn't seem to care, Skuzz had stars in his eyes and Shadwell seemed to think that this was up there in the list of Important and Grandiose Things He's Accomplished.)

Aziraphale preened like a peacock. "Thank you for noticing, dear lady."

"You look years younger!"

"Just trying to be a good example for the kids, you know, dreadful what the media-"

"Actually, you kind of look like a girl," she continued.

Aziraphale's face fell drastically.

"Maybe not a girl, so much as – what's the word-"

"Androgynous?" Wensleydale guessed.

"Maybe…"

"Loike a Southern Pansy!" Shadwell proclaimed triumphantly.

"Loike a what?" Skuzz asked.

Crowley steered Aziraphale away before he could fretting.

Belial, Archdemon of Sloth and one of the few to survive the Apocalypse Take Two (and not just because… okay, yes, just because he slept through it), leaned against the table as he regarded the blonde nun he'd come to stand next to thoughtfully. He hadn't been invited, but no one felt it necessary to evict him. "You know," he purred, "that outfit is a tad revealing, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes!" Sister Prudence squeaked, blushing.

"Good for you. And you, you waste way too much energy on being angry," he informed Pepper, winking at her. "You could use it on other, better things."

Pepper turned redder than her hair. "If you say so," she breathed. "Wait, why're you makin' googly eyes at my man!" she demanded of her sister.

Sister Prudence retorted, "Your man! He talked to me first!"

Belial smiled lazily as he ventured off, the two sisters attacking each other as they argued over the Archdemon of Lust.

Adam scowled from the corner as he watched the exchange. Jesus grinned at him. "Aww, look at you, all jealous."

"Am not," he grumbled with another sideways glance at Pepper. "He's a lust demon, that sorta thing's expected."

"Say Adam," she said, looking nervous all of a sudden, "I have a… a proposition for you."

"Huh?"

"Well, just don't let me forget it. For now I want to see how my boys are doing." She quickly walked off, leaving a confused Adam in her wake.

Back at the bar, Aziraphale took a shot of something – he had no idea what it was – as he mourned. "All that time spent," he wailed, "All that time I worried about others' opinions of me, and about such pointless things – my physical health! When I can't die! All those walks I took, and all the mochas I didn't drink!"

"It was all about vanity and you know it," Crowley retorted, "I really can't believe you honestly thought it was going to turn out well. Since when has an angel sinning been a good thing?"

Aziraphale looked at him thoughtfully. "Crowley? What do you think of the way I look?"

Crowley shrugged. "It's all the same to me. I made fun of you when you looked middle-aged, and now that you look like a girl I still make fun of you." Aziraphale did not look happy, so Crowley amended, "You're Aziraphale, no matter what you look like. And I refuse to say anything about true beauty and its position being on the inside. Refuse."

At that the angel smiled brightly. "Well then, I suppose I needn't worry about such trivial things, yes?"

Crowley shrugged again. "Sure. Whatever floats your ducks."

Aziraphale hugged him. Crowley pressed a hand against Aziraphale's forehead and pushed – when the angel didn't budge, he gave up and hugged him back. Eh, screw it, let everyone see he kind of almost liked hugs.

They were interrupted by Jesus, who rather abruptly pulled Aziraphale from Crowley so she could hug him herself. "Oh, you idiot," she said fondly as Aziraphale pondered his change of huggers, "Way to give everyone a heart attack!"

"Er… oh, Lord! Everyone said you'd come to visit but I thought I'd missed you! I heard you vouched for me – thank you so very much!" Aziraphale exclaimed, hugging her back now that he'd figured out who she was.

"No problem! I like you, and we were on the same don't-blow-up-the-world side anyway! I just feel bad that you had to go through all that!"

"Nice rack," Crowley commented.

Jesus smiled at him. "And here's my friend Crowley; last time I saw you before all of these shenanigans, you burst into tears and hugged my legs-"

Crowley turned a guilty shade of red.

"-begging me to not kill you, said you were only following orders…"

"Really?" Aziraphale asked Crowley with a raised eyebrow. He had stormed off in a tizzy when Crowley insisted on fulfilling his orders in Tempting the Son; now he wished he'd stayed.

"I, er, don't you two have something better to talk about?"

Jesus giggled and kissed Aziraphale on the nose. "You silly things. Both of you. Meant for each other. I swear, I had the hardest time not reaching down and pushing you together. Adorable."

It was Aziraphale's turn to turn red.

"I'll leave you alone now; I just wanted to say hi. Oh, and Aziraphale, try selling at least a few books for once, okay? And all that dust can't be good for your health." She ventured off.

"Were we the only ones who didn't know?" Crowley asked, taking a drink.

"I suppose we were," Aziraphale admitted, also taking a drink.

She walked across the room and overheard Michael admit, "You know, the Plan seems awfully keen on eradicating Earth. Maybe we should spend time here while there's still a here to spend time at?"

"Good idea," Jesus said cheerfully, "you four need to spend more time together anyway. I mean, I'm staying here for awhile. I think we all deserve a vacation!"

"I love vacations!" Uriel squealed in joy. "I mean, I've never been on one, but I'm sure they're great!"

"Oh, joy, more time with you three," Gabriel deadpanned.

"A vacation sounds wonderful! And we could even make it productive," Raphael suggested, "Find some way to spread love and joy and all sorts of nice things."

"I know! Let's start a band!" Michael exclaimed. "A rock band, so we can purify rock music in case we ever need to use it to kill Lucifer again it'll actually work! Not that we will, 'cause I'm gonna do it myself 'n' all."

Jesus looked horrified at that prospect. "I'm going to walk away now," she said, backing up and running away.

"Ooooo, I like that idea!' Uriel exclaimed, jumping up and down, "I wanna be in the band! Can I be in the band, pleeeaaassseee?"

"Oh all right," Gabriel said, sounding very put-upon even as he rubbed Uriel on the head to let him know he was just joking.

"Yay!"

"We need to come up with a name," Raphael said thoughtfully.

"Um… well…"

The Four looked at each other until Michael suggested, "Michael and the Michaelettes?"

Gabriel reached up and smacked him on the back of the head.

"Ow! I was kidding!" he protested in a voice that indicated he wasn't, really.

"Well, we're angels," Raphael said tentatively as he reached up to rub where Gabriel had slapped, "so maybe… um… Stairway to Heaven?"

"That's a Led Zeppelin song," Crowley called over.

"Come over here and help us think of something!" Raphael exclaimed, and Crowley and Aziraphale came over.

"Okay, more references. Well, there is the river Styx, so maybe-"

"That's already a band."

"Maybe a Bible book?" Michael suggested, "Like Genesis?"

"Taken."

"Well, perhaps after an animal?" Gabriel suggested, "There're beetles."

"Taken."

"… Monkeys?"

"Taken."

"… … Gorillas?"

"Taken."

"… … … Turtles?"

"Taken."

"… … … … Crows?"

"Technically taken."

"Now you're just getting ridiculous."

"No, I'm serious; there is a band called the Counting Crows."

"Britney, Bitch!" Uriel exclaimed.

"Sadly, that's taken too," Crowley informed them, beginning to dread the future he now saw involving all four of his new in-laws.

The Four looked at each other. "Wow," Michael managed.

"Humans are creative," Aziraphale admitted.

Michael continued, "So, um, well, we'll be singing together, so we'll be in sync-"

"Taken."

"Damn it!"

"What was the name of the band whose song we sang? We should name our band as a tribute to them," Raphael suggested desperately.

"That was Journey," Crowley supplied, "and no, you can't name your band Journey or 'Don't Stop Believing.'"

"A person who goes on a journey," Gabriel replied, "is a foreigner. So perhaps-"

"Already taken."

"Oh my goodness I hate people, they take all the good ideas! We should've let them blow up!" Uriel squealed.

Michael held up his hand and snapped twice. "There. Now there is no more Foreigner, so we're Foreigner."

"I don't think that sort of thing's allowed," Aziraphale voiced nervously.

"Oh hush, geek."

"Great, they have a plan, but what about us?" War asked as the other Four that deserves a capital letter stood off in a corner, eavesdropping. "I mean, I don't know about you guys, but going back to the same-old just doesn't seem that great now."

"But what do we do now?" Pollution asked, "I mean, we're supposed to end the world. How are we supposed to live in it?"

"Maybe…" Famine said thoughtfully, "Maybe I should move beyond corporations. You know, aim bigger, grander."

"Ooo! You can take over a country!" War exclaimed, "And I can take over a country, and him and him," she gestured to Pollution and Death, "can take over countries, and we can all make the countries fight each other! It'll be totally awesome!"

The other three Bikers did not look quite so enthusiastic about that idea.

"It seems an awful lot of work," Pollution admitted. "I like working on a grander scale, but actually running something?"

MAYBE SOMETHING A LITTLE SMALLER. LIKE A TOWN. I HAVE IT ON GOOD AUTHORITY THERE'S NOT MUCH LEFT OF MANCHESTER. DEFINITELY NOTHING LIVING. PERHAPS WE COULD SET UP SHOP THERE? Death suggested.

"Now that sounds promising," Famine said, straightening his tie importantly, "I can definitely see taking over Manchester."

"Ooo. An entire town," War breathed, "That'll be freaking sweet."

"Can it not have a good sewer system? So it breaks all the time?" Pollution asked eagerly.

Famine shrugged.

"And what about no police force? Oh, better yet, a really violent police force, so they get into fights with the gangs!" War asked with an identical expression of joy on her face as was on Pollution's.

Famine shrugged again. "I don't see why not."

"Oh yay!" Pollution squealed, "And it can have a nuclear reactor nearby!"

"And a whole bunch of weapon shops!"

"And absolutely no environmental regulations!"

"And it can declare war on other cities!"

OH YOU CRAZY KIDS, Death said fondly.

Back across the room, Raphael smiled brightly at the beings he regarded as crazy kids. "So when is the wedding?"

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other.

"Actually…" Crowley began.

"I think we already had one," Aziraphale finished.

"Really? Oh, poo. There goes the big wedding I'd hoped you'd have." The Archangel looked disappointed, but brightened when he asked, "So when are you two planning on adopting?"

Aziraphale started choking on his piece of chocolate and Crowley dropped his wine glass.

"Because you know I simply adore children. It's the reason I adopted you in the first place!" He reached over to pat Aziraphale on the back, both as a sign of affection and trying to dislodge the object in his throat. "And obviously you two having a biological child the human way is out of the question-"

"Actually, one of them could change genders," Gabriel chimed in not-at-all sadistically with a glint in his eyes that was not-at-all evil.

Aziraphale's eyes were watering as Crowley performed the Heimlich on him.

"Ooo! That's true! No offense Crowley darling but I hope he has Zizi's eyes – although yours are such a lovely shade of green nowadays, I much say I prefer the blue, which might be bias on my part because I happen to find Zizi's eyes more lovely than my own, but I suppose your hair wouldn't be bad – oh, how fetching that would be!" Raphael's eyes had shining stars in them. Now that the former was "out of danger," Aziraphale and Crowley gave him their horrified yet undivided attention (Crowley was rather inwardly thrilled to notice Aziraphale's lack of enthusiasm). "Oh, but which one of you should be the mother? No offense Zizi but I think you-"

Run, Michael mouthed.

They didn't need to be told twice, fleeing the party with all haste. Before Raphael could protest, Michael got him into a headlock, which he had to drop when he had to draw out his sword against Belial, who had moseyed on over.

"Oh, don't even start," the demon replied with an eye roll, "You can at least talk to me. You lost me one of my best workers," he gestured to the fleeing Crowley. "And you stabbed me in the face, you know."

"Michael!" Raphael cried, "How could you!" Even he wasn't sure if he was referring to getting put in a headlock or Michael's having stabbed Belial in the face. He was upset with both of those things.

"What! He totally deserved it! Being evil and everything!"

"Why is your aura hitting on me?" Uriel asked Belial innocently.

"I think the better question is, why am I not hitting on you?" Belial purred with a wink.

Uriel giggled and fanned himself.

"All right, that's enough," Gabriel said authoritatively, "It's like trying to seduce a three year old."

"What does 'seduce' mean?" asked little Bentley Pulsifer, who had snuck into the conversation and was standing behind Belial next to his sister.

Belial looked down at the children and smiled, but Anathema quickly stepped in and glared at him, snapping out a "Don't you dare!" before leading her children off.

The demon pouted. "No fun at all," he admitted. "But it's better than Hell right now. There's so very few of us left. Dagon is off sulking because he's having an existential crisis."

"Cry me a river," Michael snapped.

Across the room, that gave Adam an idea. "Karaoke!" he exclaimed, and suddenly a karaoke station appeared. The people still present applauded its arrival, and quite quickly Pepper, Sister Prudence, Brian and Wensleydale got up and began singing a quartet rendition of "Bohemian Rhapsody" (upon noticing that Crowley had exited the premises, the karaoke machine begrudgingly put music other than Queen into its selection.) All four Archangels recoiled at what they considered to be horrific singing; however, as far as humans go they weren't that bad at all.

Jesus looked at Adam, who was still scowling. "It's finally hit you that you're never going to be like them, huh," she established sadly.

"Yeah," he murmured back, "Yeah, it has. I… I think I learned a lot from this."

"Well, that's kinda what I wanted to talk to you about. I mean, um, heh, this is awkward…"

"Spit it out."

"How'd you like to come on vacation with me? Tour the world, learn to control your powers, finally have someone you can really relate to? Tadfield's too small for someone like you."

Adam looked at the floor as he responded, "Well… Don't know if I agree with all that… But I think I deserve a vacation after everything we just went through. Besides, if the world's so dead set on explodin', better see everything before it's all gone, right?" He gave a weak laugh. "The world's bigger than Lower Tadfield, 'though I love this place and I really wanna die here one day."

Jesus smiled.

After the song was over, Michael and War decided to take up a father-daughter duet (making Raphael lament that Zizi wasn't there so he could really get to know his new cousin but secretly because he, too, wanted to have a father-child duet) as the four former singers came over to Adam and Jesus.

"We're going on vacation!" Adam blurted.

"Oh, great! After I saved the world, I could really use a vacation!" Brian exclaimed.

Pepper smacked him on the back of the head. "Number one, you did not save the world, and number two, you have nothing you need a vacation from!"

"I totally did save the world! Without me, they wouldn't have sung anything and everyone would've died!" Brian protested, pointing to Michael.

"Shootin' at the walls of heartache, bang bang," War and Michael sang together, both smiling broadly, "I am the warrior! Oh, I am the warrior! And heart to heart you'll win… if you survive!"

Wensleydale looked pained at Brian's allegation. "I can't believe Brian being an otaku saved the world, I really just can't. It seems almost unfair."

"Hey! Why do you always take Pepper's side anyway!"

Sister Prudence sighed and patted Brian on the head. "At least you're lovable," she said fondly. He blushed.

"And it's just me and, er, Jesus, which sounds really weird to say I have to admit," Adam said warily, looking at his new vacation companion. "We're going to do some soul searchin' and stuff."

Pepper looked a little put out but sighed and smiled. "I always knew you'd do somethin' like this one day, Adam," she said, "You were always too big to stay in this small town."

"It's not that I don't like Lower Tadfield!" Adam protested quickly. "I mean, I'll come back, it's just-"

The Them members gave him a hug. And Pepper kissed him on the cheek, making Adam blush.

"You have fun findin' yourself, okay?" Wensleydale murmured.

"And bring me a souvenir!" Brian added.

The others ignored him. And it was good.

"Victory is miiiiine!" Michael sang out.

Gabriel called back, "You lost!"

"SHUT UP G-DAWG!"

As they drove away from the party at a speed that was not possible, Aziraphale stared at his hands while sending sideways glances Crowley's way.

While Aziraphale gathered his courage, Crowley inquired, "Hey, Aziraphale, um, question for you."

"Go ahead."

"Um, didn't you tell me once that angels are sexless?"

Aziraphale gave a great sigh, knowing where this was going.

"Yeah," Crowley muttered, looking almost ashamed, "because I'm, er, not. Am I dysfunctional or something?"

"I am assuming you are questioning the presence of genitalia?" Aziraphale questioned bluntly.

"Heehee. You said genitalia."

"… … Really, my dear," Aziraphale demurred.

"Sorry."

"Angels have genders and everything that comes with it when we take on corporeal forms. We are technically sexless because we don't have the base need to copulate. We are sexless in that we are lacking sexual activities. How on earth would we blend in unless we looked exactly like humans? What would I do if I ever went to the beach? You're adorable."

Crowley gave a sigh of relief. "Okay, so I'm not dysfunctional then."

"I never said that," he replied with a twinkle in his eye.

Crowley just smirked. "Anyhow, you were thinking something embarrassing too, so out with it." He turned a pursuing police officer's siren into a chicken. "But know in advance if what you're going to say involves gender switching, children, or orphans I'm pushing you out of the car and you can walk back to London."

"Nothing of the sort!" Aziraphale protested, "I've met plenty of pregnant women over the millennia and have exactly zero desire to be one. It's a punishment I wouldn't force on anyone!" Remembering exactly what he was going to ask, he returned to looking at his hands. "Er, it's just that, I was wondering, it might be silly of me, but… you know, we are awfully close, and it really is time we settled down somewhere, and… er… would you like to, er… build a nest with me?"

"… … … Build a what now?"

"A nest," Aziraphale reiterated. "You know what I mean!"

"Did you just ask me to move in with you?"

"Well, yes." Aziraphale was bright red now. "A nice little nest, although my shop isn't big enough for two people and neither is your flat, so perhaps a nice little cottage on the coast, and you can bring your plants and I can bring my books, and we can… you know, rest for a time. I think we deserve it."

"… Sorry, I just can't get over the fact you called it a nest," Crowley admitted.

"It's what we do!" Aziraphale protested, "Angels make nests! We usually do it in groups but I've had to improvise…"

"Just because you have wings doesn't make you birds."

"Er – you're an angel now too, so don't pin this all on me! And quit avoiding the question!"

"So is a baby angel called a chick? Do you lay eggs too? That would explain why none of you know how to reproduce, if you've been doing it wrong all these years."

"Crowley! We do not lay eggs!" Aziraphale turned a shade of red revealing his lack of confidence in that regard.

"Back to your question. Sure."

Aziraphale's expression brightened. "Really?"

"You're right, we need a break from everything. Plus I'm not letting you out of my sight again in case you go and do something stupid, like knock me unconscious, steal my car, or challenge the Prince of Hell to a swordfight."

"Grrr-"

Crowley chuckled. "But I refuse to call it a nest."

"You'll come around. … … … Can we get a-"

"Don't you dare say orphan!"

"- cat?"

"… … … Maybe."

Aziraphale smiled with his contentment.

In her own afterlife, Agnes Nutter turned to look at her brother.

She stuck her tongue out at him.

As he fumed she smiled, because she had a lot of work to do.

Chapter Text

Without anything better to do, the Four Bikers of the Apocalypse decided that rebuilding Manchester was the best idea any of them could come up with. Despite the fact that vegetation wouldn't grow there and litter lined the streets, people still came to live in this new Manchester. They would then kill each other in fits of inexplicable rage.

Crowley turned green with envy at how much better they were at crafting an evil city than he was.

War, Famine, Pollution and Death were very pleased with these results.

War and Michael also kept in contact. She was invited to family reunions, and every once in awhile the two went to ball games or went demon-punching (War would have punched other things, but Michael was a specialist, after all). You know, what nutcases do to bond.

Adam and Jesus did go on their prospective vacation, realizing that they had more in common with each other than they did with anyone else despite technically being polar opposites. They went around the world like tourists, truly embracing all that this crazy world they'd saved had to offer. But in the end, there was truly no place like home.

Due to the loss of his boss, Wensleydale was promoted to the head of FAN™ Enterprises Inc. He subsequently reformed the business to sell actual Chinese food (or, if you get down to it, actual food). Consequently, the lawsuits stopped.

He offered Brian a job, but Brian decided to move to London and join the Order of Our Most Holy Lady of the Righteous Smiting, despite his being male being a very large roadblock in this new path. As a result, Sister Brianna became the newest member of the Order; she always seemed to need a shower and had a little too much affectionate interest in Sister Prudence, but she seemed good at smiting evil, which is what really matters when you get down to it. And Sister Brianna never convinced Sister Prudence that anime was the greatest thing in the history of ever.

The only two Them members left in Tadfield, Pepper and Wensleydale decided the heck with it and moved in together. Subsequently, FAN™ Enterprises Inc. developed a policy of setting stupid men on fire whenever they called.

Shadwell became a senior counseling member of both the Witchfinders and the Order of Our Most Holy Lady of the Righteous Smiting, so he could aid in the destruction of evil without having to actually do the destroying himself. Skuzz joined the Witchfinders, as he had ample experience in paranormal activities, and Newt found himself as the newest Witchfinder Sergeant. He didn't do much in that position.

The Whore of Babylon, now that the Antichrist had left the country, continued her life as unassuming Madame Tracy, although she quit being a medium because she was sick of getting possessed. Instead, she continued taking care of the two Mister S's while she bonded with Anathema and the twins, and Tracy taught Anathema to bake actual, decent food, because someone had to.

In Hell, Satan started trying to recoup his losses. Beelzebub, Mammon and Moloch had all perished in the battle, leaving him with Belial and Dagon and very few others, who weren't good for much when you got down to it; one was too lazy to do anything and kept hitting on him and the other couldn't for the life of him figure out what he was doing there. Not in the angsty "But I was so good, why am I damned?" way, but in the "Wait, produce?" sort of way.

So Satan embraced his inner art geek and drew a group picture of everyone who had been involved in his demise and used it as target practice. He created all manner of horrible torments for the subjects involved.

Now all he needed was an opportunity.

Inner Aziraphale and Inner Hastur vacationed to Rio in the summertime. Their romantic retreat was interrupted by Inner Crowley, who proved to be just as possessive as Real Crowley and proceeded to stalk them for some time. Inner Hastur and Inner Crowley dueled for the love of Inner Aziraphale before Inner Aziraphale grew fed up with demonic posturing and went off to live with Inner Raphael until they got their acts together. Inner Hastur and Inner Crowley set up camp outside of Inner Raphael's nest until Inner Raphael suggested that they hold some sort of competition for Inner Aziraphale's affections. The events included lurking, nun-tempting, standing-by-and-looking-intimidating, and kitten-wrestling. It ended in a draw, but Inner Crowley cheated by exchanging Inner Hastur's kitten with a tiger, which ate him. Inner Aziraphale was obviously upset at Inner Crowley's blatant disrespect for the rules and at the death of Inner Hastur, so the two lived apart for some time until accidentally reuniting in a supermarket when they both went to grab a bottle of wine at the same time. Inner Crowley tentatively suggested drinks, Inner Aziraphale tentatively accepted, and one thing led to another and they reconciled in a drunken tryst leading to Inner Aziraphale becoming pregnant. They eventually got married (although it was a tad shameful, what with Inner Aziraphale being pregnant on the altar, but it was better than nothing, thought Inner Raphael (and Real Raphael would agree, having gotten nothing)) and gave birth to a beautiful demon-angel baby named Victoria Melanie Emma Melanie Geri Crowley. They lived happily ever after, Amen.

The new, completely-originally-named rock band Foreigner became a smash sensation. All four archangels took turns on different instruments and as the lead singer – Michael crooned out "I Want to Know What Love Is," and "Hot Blooded;" Gabriel sang "Cold as Ice" and "Head Games;" Raphael got "Feels Like the First Time," and Uriel took over "Double Vision." * Michael always pestered Gabriel, Gabriel always threatened Michael, Uriel never quite understood what he was doing, and Raphael smiled and loved them all the same.

And Daughtry never made their crappy cover of "Feels Like the First Time," and lo, it was good. **

* The chorus of "Double Vision" was altered to be as follows:

I hit my head, and get double vision

Fall out of bed, and get double vision

Oooo, although I don't know why

It always makes me cry

My double vision makes my Raphy sigh!

** You're not on American Idol anymore; make up your own songs! *gets off soap box*

Life was not perfect for Aziraphale and Crowley, of course. Aziraphale refused to wear black, no matter how many years passed his sense of modern remained in 1950, and if it came down to Crowley or a new book (or a really nice-looking dessert), the new book (or dessert) always won. Crowley continued to pester Aziraphale by doing things like interrupting conversations with "customers" about which version of the Faust tale was the best by sitting outside in the Bentley, honking and shouting things like, "HEY ANGEL, GET OUT OF MY DREAMS AND INTO MY CAR!"

Even after they moved into a cottage in South Downs they bickered over what should get precedence, the books Aziraphale didn't want to risk leaving in their miracled basement or the new set of houseplants that had Crowley's fleeting favor. Crowley never stopped dunking ducks, and Aziraphale never stopped stealing Crowley's dessert. They eventually got two cats because they couldn't agree on a name for just one – they settled on Sir Fluffingham and The Feline Horror.

Family reunions were more often than not held at their nest, much to Crowley's chagrin, but it was to Aziraphale's glee because Raphael always insisted on cleaning up whenever he came and the archangels always brought gifts. Crowley and Aziraphale ended up with more swords, stationary, baked goods and embarrassed "sorry I forgot we were even coming!" hugs than they could ever possibly need.

It wasn't perfect, but it was theirs. Which, in a sense, made it perfect. It's ineffable.

Crowley had his foot pressed down on the gas pedal of the Bentley, driving down a wide country road that was completely vacant except for them. Aziraphale sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the pristine countryside. They were in France, on their way to Italy for their long-anticipated beach vacation.

"You're going too fast, I can't see very well," Aziraphale complained. "France has such a beautiful countryside, you know. Especially without the fog."

Crowley smirked. Some things never changed. "The point isn't to sight-see, it's to go as fast as I can!" But he still slowed down.

"Of course, my dear," Aziraphale said fondly. His eyebrows rose as the car eased from too fast to just right to too slow to stopped. "I didn't mean for you to stop going, Crowley, I meant-"

The fact that the angel was talking made it very easy for Crowley to stick his tongue in his mouth. Aziraphale decided to finish his sentence, although it came out as "mph mph mph mph mph mmmmmm."

"Mmmhmmm."

In the ensuing struggle to get more comfortable, Crowley's elbow bumped the restored CD player.

"Tonight I'm gonna have myself a real good time," it sang, "I feel alive; and the world, it's turning inside out, yeah, I'm floating around in ecstasy…"

Crowley laughed harder than he had in centuries. It was a relieved kind of laugh, the kind that someone lets out after they've just been reassured that everything has changed but has still remained the same.

Not much later, the Bentley would be perplexed by its owner and its owner's husband/lover/best friend/soul-mate playing air drums and air piano, respectively, while singing at the tops of their respective lungs:

"So don't stop me now, don't stop me 'Cause I'm having a good time

I'm a shooting star leaping through the skies Like a tiger, defying the laws of gravity I'm a racing car passing by like Lady Godiva I'm gonna go go go There's no stopping me

I'm burning through the skies Yeah! Two hundred degrees That's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit I'm trav'ling at the speed of light I wanna make a supersonic man of you

Don't stop me now I'm having such a good time I'm having a ball don't stop me now If you wanna have a good time just give me a call Don't stop me now ('Cause I'm having a good time) Don't stop me now (Yes I'm having a good time) I don't want to stop at all…"

The Cast, Again

(Don't kill the authoress, she's just having fun)

God- Johnny Cash then Freddie Mercury for Crowley, Liam Neeson for everyone else

Metatron - Alan Rickman

Jesus - Tifa from Final Fantasy VII

Michael - Brad Pitt

Raphael - Jesse Spencer

Uriel - Angelina Jolie pretending to be a man who's kind of like a woman

Gabriel - The love child of Orlando Bloom and Victoria Beckham

Aziraphale - Ewan McGregor

Lucifer - Viggo Mortensen with a wig

Beelzebub - Samuel L. Jackson

Belial - Bruce Campbell

Moloch - Mephistopheles from Neverwinter Nights, and Bessie the Cow

Dagon - Ben Affleck

Crowley - The love child of John Barrowman, Christian Slater and Keanu Reaves (aka, I have no idea)

Adam - Matt Damon

Dog - McWoofington

War - Franka Potente

Pollution - Haley Joel Osment

Famine - Christopher Walken

DEATH - Voiced by David Warner

Anathema Device-Pulsifer - Salma Hayek

Newton Pulsifer - Rick Moranis on stilts

Aziraphale Pulsifer - Any one of the kids from

Bentley Pulsifer - John and Kate Plus Eight

Madame Tracy - Dame Judy Dench

Sergeant Shadwell- Sir Ian McKellan

Pippin Galadriel Moonchild - Lindsay Lohan before the drugs

Brian - My brother (that's what he gets for not beta'ing for me)

Wenselydale - Nick Lachey. Because why not.

Sister Prudence - Sister Rosette from Chrno Crusade

Skuzz - The hobo who dresses up as a gorilla, you know the one

Inner Aziraphale - Robin Williams

Inner Hastur - Rasputin

Inner Crowley - Johnny Depp

Chapter Text

Ineffability; Or

Divine Retakes

God finished writing down His schedule for the creation of a new world. It was a nice plan; if He stuck to it, the world would be made in six days. He could even take a nap at the end. Oh, naps. Probably His best invention yet (if not ever).

Normally He only liked to make the angels cheer him up when He was feeling a little depressed about things – a whole room full of angels Glorifying and Praising was awfully good for one's self esteem – but right now He really felt some Praising was in order. He walked to His window and gazed upon the Kingdom of Heaven. He snapped His fingers.

Keep on with the force don't stop! Don't stop 'til you get enough!

Instantly every angel in Heaven got their groove thang on in the Name of the Lord.

God scowled for the first time. "There's something distinctly undignified… Oh geez, please tell me they're not doing a… yes, that's a conga line." When he caught Gabriel doing the robot – awfully appropriate, considering who it was – God considered that maybe He Had Made a Mistake.

And the angel came in unto her, and

Said, Hey, how is it going?

And when she saw him, she was

confused at his colloquialism.

And the angel said unto her, Oh,

Right, I have this message for

you.

Let's see here – oh. Oh.

Apparently you are knocked up.

Then said Mary unto the angel, Wait, what?

The angel clarified, Preggers. You have a

Bun in the oven.

Name the kid Jesus.

Then said Mary unto the angel, How

Shall this be, seeing as I know not a man?

The angel looked angry. You know, he

Said, they don't tell me everything! How

Am I supposed to know that? I should

Smite you!

The angel was immediately recalled

to Heaven.

Aziraphale smirked at Crowley over his sunglasses. "What do you think?"

The demon felt faint at the sight of such a lovely, shiny new car. "Wow," he said.

"It's a Bentley," the angel replied, rubbing the steering wheel fondly, "I figure that people will see it and believe there really is a God. It's like it does my job for me."

Crowley reverently touched the vehicle. "I don't know if I can go in it, though. It looks like it'll go awfully fast…"

Aziraphale chuckled melodiously. "C'mon in, hun. You know I won't let anything hurt you."

Crowley practically swooned as he got in the car. "You know, there are times when I wish I was half as cool as you," he admitted, adjusting his bow tie.

Aziraphale smiled his brilliant angelic smile as they took off down the road. "Nyah." He reached over and gave his soul mate a kiss on the cheek. "I don't think you'd be half as nice to me as I am to you. Besides, I love you just the way you are."

This time Crowley did swoon.

Aziraphale chuckled again. Nobody, not even the women, swooned like that anymore – every time the demon managed to get his mind anywhere near the present it always gravitated towards the 1870s.

And the angel came in unto her, and

Said, Good morning dear, how are you

Doing this lovely evening?

And when she saw him, she felt warm

And happy on the inside.

And the angel said unto her, Mary dear,

I have to tell you some shocking news.

But here, sit down, and I brought you

Some healthy biscuits – nothing that will

Upset your delicate digestive system, but yet

Are still quite tasty.

So, The LORD has decided that you are to

Conceive a child and name him Jesus.

Isn't that a lovely name? My own son

Is named Aziraphael. Maybe

They can be friends! Oh, wouldn't

That be smashing!

Then said Mary unto the angel, How

Shall this be, seeing as I know not a man?

The angel of the LORD pushed a

Biscuit into her mouth. Oh you silly thing,

He said, Eat your biscuits and be a good

Girl. Here, I have an entire album of

Baby pictures for you to look at – see,

Wasn't he adorable when he was just a

Little thing, that's not to say he's not

Adorable now of course, but you know

Babies versus kids and the whole bit,

Plus now he's so smart too and he

Even -

He was recalled.

"Nicccce flaming sword," the serpent said.

The Angel of the Eastern Gate's illuminated face took on a rosy pallor. "Why thank you. You know, I was considering giving the sword away."

"Really? Can I have it?"

"No you can't have it! I was considering giving it to the poor dears," Aziraphale gestured with his free hand to the woods where Adam and Even had recently been banished to. "I mean, she is with child already and who knows what horrible things are out there…"

"But you kept it, huh?" Crawly asked.

"It's awfully pretty," the angel admitted.

Abruptly two very human screams of fright – one male and one female – filled the air.

"Ngk," said the demon.

The angel very much agreed.

The angel of the LORD did wander

The World for seventy days and

Seventy nights, telling every

Woman he saw that she was pregnant

In the hopes of finding the right

One – at least initially, because eventually

He stopped remembering even that much and

Began to hug everyone.

He was recalled.

"Wait, you're not the angel who wassss here the other day," said the serpent.

"That was Aziraphael," replied this much harsher-looking one, "He requested a transfer back to the Library. Turns out he wasn't very fond of gate guarding. Now be gone, demon."

Crawly wasn't very good at listening in that respect. "Geez, what a nerd. He wassss only here for like a day. Sssso, who're you?"

"Be gone, demon."

"That'ssss a weird name. I mean, sssso was Assssiraphale, but yourssss issss weirder. And he was a lot niccccer. Only told me to leave oncccce before realizing I wassssn't going anywhere."

The New Angel of the Eastern Gate's scowl turned into a glare. "If you must know, my name is Steve," he said importantly. "Now be gone, demon, lest I smite ye."

"… … … Ssssteve? Sssteve the Angel? Sssseriously? Not Ssssteve-el, or-"

Steve the Angel stepped on Crawly's head.

"LOOK AT THAT!" the demon screamed, pointing at the stone gigantic stone tablets, "'If a man strike a free-born woman so that she lose her unborn child, he shall pay ten shekels for her loss!' How is that equal? How is that fair?"

"Calm down, dear," Aziraphale replied as she gazed at the stone.

"Calm down!" Crowleigh echoed in rage, "Calm down! All this does is make it clear that women are not equal to men and it's not fair! It's not right! Where's the justice in it!"

"Crowleigh, you are woman-shaped, not a woman in actuality."

Crowleigh twisted her wrist behind her back, and instantly Aziraphale was pushed forward a couple of days in her menstrual cycle.

"Those bastards!" she exclaimed, fists clenched with holy rage, "We should smite them!"

"That's the spirit!"

A little less than three thousand years later:

Pippin Galadriel Moonchild, Pepper if you valued your spleen, laughed maniacally as she looked over her slaves.

World conquest suited her.

Aziraphale scowled as he packed his bags.

"You're actually leaving this forsaken island?" Crowley asked bemusedly.

"I can't take it anymore!" Aziraphale exclaimed, "I said, keep your pants on Arthur, no good will come of you - you whoring yourself around, but nooo, he had to go and get his sister – his sister, Crowley, his sister! – pregnant, and I finally realized that if I don't leave this miserable, foggy place right now I am going to do something which I will regret for eternity!"

"Fine by me," Crowley said, helping Aziraphale carry his things. "Where to next, then?"

"I don't even care!" the angel exclaimed, "I simply don't even care! Rome! Gaul! Egypt! Anywhere but this wretched place!"

A little less than two thousand years later:

Crowley sat across from Aziraphale in the back room of the angel's bookstore, drinking fine French wine. "So you see the problem?"

"Oui," replied Aziraphale, adjusting his beret, "'zis iz not gut for your country, oui?"

"You mean the planet, right?"

The angel got up to get a fresh baguette out of the oven. "Whatevair. I am sure zhat your leettle English problem iz of no concern to la France."

"Okay, drop the accent." Crowley decided to ignore the fact that he himself was speaking with a British one; he had grown a little fond of London, just because it wasn't Paris.

"What accent, oui?"

Crowley gave an irritated sigh. "Listen, we have to make sure this Warlock kid doesn't grow up to want to destroy the world, okay? Are you going to help me or not?"

Aziraphale gave an undignified snort as he stroked his slightly-twirly moustache. "I zhink not, mon ami; for you see, I refuse to set foot inside zhat horrible little country, wiz its smelly little Britishmen and its redcoats and its… its ozair zings zat I do not care about, vive la France."

Crowley blinked at him. "You realize we're talking about the Apocalypse, right? No more of your horrendous striped shirts, or your tasteless bread, or your… your cheese!"

Aziraphale slapped him. "How dare you!"

"Yeah!" Crowley snapped back, standing up as he rubbed his cheek, "Yeah, and, why don't you surrender to Hitler again, huh? Huh?"

"Partez de mon magasin, espèce d'horrible démon britannique!" Aziraphale screamed.*

Eleven years later:

Crowley, without some sort of moral support, decided to heck with it and went to go get drunk. As a result, he was dragged to Hell by Hastur and Ligur, and Adam faced down Beelzebub, Metatron and Satan by himself. The world didn't end, but Crowley sure wished it did. Aziraphale learned to make crepes and lived Frenchly ever after.

* At least in Québécois French that means "Leave my shop, you horrid British demon!"

"Any more miracles and we'll really start getting noticed by Up There," said Aziraphale. "If you really want Gabriel or someone wondering why forty policemen have gone to sleep-"

At the sound of his name, the Angel of the Lord descended from On High. He saw Aziraphale and gave a great sigh. "Oh, it's you again. Associated with yet another mass miracle. We have a lot to talk about."

Crowley went to go hide behind a tree. Gabriel smote him with a thought.

He then pulled out a very large scroll. "You realize that you've maxed out your miracle quota for the month two times over, yes?"

Aziraphale stared at where Crowley had been, his mouth ajar.

"Not to mention you haven't inspired any acts of temperance lately – in fact, you have been, some would say, the epitome of gluttony," the archangel continued, looking at him severely.

"This – this really isn't the best time," Aziraphale stammered.

Gabriel ignored him. "And, from the looks of our records, you haven't attended a religious ceremony in two decades. You apparently missed the memo where we declared that all angels should become vegans, because it seems to be the case that you are set on eating every duck on this island-"

"I love ducks! I feed them almost every day!"

"Oh yes, and you've been creating overweight waterfowl, and…"

Six hours later

"You haven't submitted any ideas to the Holy Word Newsletter and your taxes were due last week," Gabriel finished, rolling up the scroll. "I have to say, it's not a very good report, Aziraphael."

"Sorry sir," replied the Principality, willing himself back awake.

"Don't make me come back down here again, Aziraphael."

"Yes sir."

He ascended back into Heaven, leaving a very alone Aziraphale behind.