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pengychan · 4 years

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[Good Omens] Winging It - Mark 10:42-45

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: Well, this is already longer than it was supposed to get and is nowhere near done. Go me. Next chapter will have a bit of a time skip at the beginning.

***

“Did you just… print out everything?”

“Only the important things. The entirety of the file is in the archives for consultation - I don’t think it was fully digitalized - but this should do to help us remember.”

Uriel and Sandalphon exchanged a glance, then they both reached to take the folders Michael was handing to them, both of them full to bursting. And heavy, too. Uriel opened hers, and flipped through a few pages. Michael had written and printed out a short summary. A relatively short summary, considering that Gabriel’s existence spanned eons and plenty of things had happened in that time. Plenty of memories that kept slipping through their fingers.

“Remembering facts about him is not the same thing as remembering him,” she muttered, and sighed. “How long before we can no longer recall why didn’t want to forget him?”

Michael’s expression hardened. “Do you have a better idea?” she asked, her voice cold, causing Sandalphon to shift away a little.

Michael and Uriel had… disagreed very few times before, but Sandalphon had learned that, whenever it happened, it might just be safer to chill in an entirely different galaxy until they had worked things out. Last time, a few centuries earlier, he and Gabriel had hung about Orion’s Belt for a while, claiming they had been sent there on a mission while they had actually been sitting down for what would have been the longest game and most savage of Uno on record, had anyone ever recorded it. Sandalphon had won; a nice memory, that. And fading fast.

Unaware of his thoughts, Uriel shook her head. “No,” she conceded. “No better ideas. Are you still going to get in touch? He… made it plain our presence unsettles him,” she added. A very polite way to put it, considering that seeing them made Gabriel scream and flail.

Michael sighed. “He won’t have to endure our presence,” she said. “Not unless he calls for us.”

***

“Gabriel! You finally answered! I sent you a text, did you see it?”

“Uuugh,” Gabriel muttered, rubbing his eyes. What time was it? How long had he slept? Were Aziraphale and his demon still-- ah, yes, there they were, sitting at the other hand of the room and staring at him, each with a raised eyebrow. Gabriel pulled himself upright, causing the blanket to fall off him on the floor. “A text? No, I didn’t. What-- when-- the interview! Did you get the job?” he asked.

“I did!” Daniel exclaimed, exactly as the demon scoffed.

“I told him he would, why the surprise...” he muttered, but Gabriel barely heard him: he just smiled, running a hand through his hair to brush it back.

“That’s amazing news. When do you start--”

“They’re looking for a supervisor.”

“... Oh? I thought you were there for a position as a… spoon… lift?”

“What-- fork, Gabriel, a forklift operator,” Daniel laughed, clearly elated. “Yes, I did. But they also need a supervisor or two and have just started looking. I thought-- you mentioned you were a supervisor once, no? Or a chief of staff, something like that?”

“I… you could say that, yes.”

“Then send them your CV, the link is in the text!”

“My-- oh. Of course. That. Yes. I’ll… do that.”

“Great! Good luck with that - they offer accommodation and all. Not that Southampton is that far, but better than commuting, no?”

“Absolutely,” Gabriel agreed, taking a mental note to look up what ‘commuting’ meant. After the call ended after a few more pleasantries, he looked up to see both the demon and Aziraphale were staring at him.

“... What, are you seriously going through with it?” Crowley asked. Gabriel frowned.

“Were you eavesdropping everything?”

“You had the speaker on, genius. Don’t dodge the question - am I really hearing the Archangel Fucking Gabriel thinking of getting a human job?”

You are the Archangel Gabriel no longer, Metatron’s voice echoed in the back of his mind. It hurt, it truly did, but he saw the truth of it now. And, at least, he had some hope.

God forsakes no one, the Voice of God had said.

He lied, a voice he couldn’t place whispered in the back of his mind. Hypocrisy in every word.

God asks of you what they ask of every mortal. Faith.

God has forsaken you.

Go through your mortal life, have faith, and do your best.

It gets easier once you accept it.

“I…” Gabriel’s voice faltered, and he swallowed before he spoke again. “I have little choice, do I? If I am to go through this life as a mortal, then… then I will do that. Besides, I can’t sit by doing nothing. I’m not wired for inaction,” he added, and turned back to them. Aziraphale was looking at him with calm understanding, and Gabriel smiled weakly.

I think you have figured out more than you think, Aziraphale had said. Gabriel still had no idea what he meant, what was it he had supposedly figured out, but… he could try to believe him. He had been right about the Ineffable Plan, clearly, when everyone else had been wrong.

He wasn’t certain he could have faith in God now, but he could try to have some in an angel who could step into Hellfire, come out unscathed, and somehow find it in himself to offer his help and forgiveness without Gabriel doing anything to earn either.

“Well then,” Aziraphale finally said, “I suppose it is time to work on your CV.”

Oh. That. “... I never wrote a CV in my entire existence. I was created for my role.”

“Ah, it shouldn’t be too hard. You just lie.”

“Embellish, Crowley. You embellish your--”

“You lie a lot. Everyone lies on their CV. And on the cover letter. And in interviews,” the demon replied, and shrugged when Gabriel glanced over. “So if you want to have more than a snowball’s chance in Hell - and trust me, I know what I’m talking about there - you’ve got to do it as well. Aside for the tiny little detail that no one would believe a word of your real references, you really don’t want them to know your previous employment ended with a… well…”

“Forcible termination,” Gabriel finished. Crowley made a face.

“Was that how you were going to put down Aziraphale’s-- ugh. Never mind. Do you even have a national insurance numb--”

“He does now,” Aziraphale said lightly, and turned back to Gabriel. “One more frivolous miracle to add to the list, I suppose. Do you mind?”

Like he had a say on the matter anymore. Gabriel averted his eyes. “... Thank you,” he murmured.

“You’re quite welcome. Do put down my number, in case they want to check your references. Now, I believe I might have a book somewhere explaining how to best write a CV…”

***

“You know this is ridiculously useless, don’t you? You don’t need to actually know that stuff.”

“I do need to know it if I am to do a decent job.”

“What do you care? That angel is such a bleeding heart, you know he’ll miracle you into passing the interview like he did for your human friend.”

“That was the demon, really.”

“... What?”

“The demon did the miracle.”

“What.”

“I thought the same thing,” Gabriel said, and turned a page. There were… a lot of things a warehouse supervisor was supposed to be knowledgeable about, including a lot about health and safety, which made sense given how fail mortal lives were. Luckily, Gabriel had an excellent memory; he was rather certain he could memorize all he needed to know before the interview.

Before him, Beelzebub was frowning. They had invited themselves to the table Gabriel was sitting at in the café, ordering a black coffee they had yet to touch. At the far end of the room, employees were discreetly trying to shoo away an unusual amount of flies that kept trying to land on the food on display. Which they would go on to sell anyway.

“Demons are not supposed to perform miracles,” Beelzebub muttered, looking rather offended.

“Demons are not supposed to splash around in holy water while asking for a rubber duck, either,” Gabriel pointed out, turning another page. “And yet.”

“Hmph.” Beelzebub made a face, and glared down at the coffee like it was responsible for the entire mess. “I should have asked for something more complicated to make,” they finally muttered. “To ruin the barista’s day a little.”

“You’re ruining mine, if it helps,” Gabriel said drily.

“It does,” was the reply, startlingly sincere. They leaned back, watching him closely as he tried to focus on the book, then suddenly kicked his shin under the table, causing Gabriel to yelp.

“Ow! What was that abou--”

“I didn’t tell you you could ignore me.”

“You’re insufferable, and I have no more time for you. I have to learn all that there is to learn from this material obj-- book. From this book.”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes. When they spoke again, they sounded vaguely offended. "I still don't understand. You'd seriously lower yourself to this you consider my more than generous offer to join me in Hell?"

"Absolutely."

"You're an idiot," the Prince of Hell snapped, anger leaking into their voice. "God didn't explain a thing, didn't make any promises. Just demanded faith, as usual. And you're still going to do as they say, after what was done to you!"

"Anything is preferable to Hell."

"You don't know until you try."

Gabriel lifted his eyes from the book. "And if I try and find I hate it, you'll just let me go?"

"Of course not."

Gabriel’s eyes shifted back to the book. "I'll pass."

"And it will be for nothing. God is going to change the rules on you, you'll see. Just so that they can screw you over a bit further."

Gabriel tried to keep his expression neutral, gaze fixed on the book like nothing of what he was hearing got under his skin, but he couldn't quite hide how those words cut. Beelzebub could certainly see it in the thin line of his mouth and the needlessly tight grip on the book, and immediately doubled down.

"Isn't that what already happened? You did best, and suddenly the rules changed on you."

"I... acted out of arrogance--"

"Oh, please, spare me the self-blame God drilled in your brain. But that’s what you are - once a servant, always a servant. God is prick. That's all that there is to say. A Great Plan to follow, and you did your utmost to see it through - then the one who got in the way has their protection, and you are thrown out for trying to deal with a traitor the way deserve to be dealt with."

“I should have never attempted to destroy Aziraphale. It had nothing to do with the Great Plan. I only acted out of anger.”

“Maybe that was just God’s excuse. Maybe they planned on throwing you out for failing to see the Great Plan through, after all. You were created to serve God, and failed.”

Gabriel finally looked up from the book, glaring. Beelzebub met his gaze, clearly satisfied for succeeding in getting a raise out of him. He forced himself to keep his voice even as he spoke.

“God needs no excuses to exert their will.”

“So, they need no reason to tear out your wings and cast you out, is what you’re saying.”

“That’s not what I said,” Gabriel protested, desperately trying to shut down that part of his mind whispering that Beelzebub had a point. No, no, no - he couldn’t acknowledge that, couldn’t think like that. He needed to have faith, it was all that was asked of him. “God’s ways are mysterious, and the fact that I can’t understand their reasons doesn’t mean there aren’t--”

“And yet you’re desperate to go back to being a lapdog for a master you won’t tell you what they want of you.”

“Faith, that is what they want--”

“And this is where faith has brought you,” Beelzebub snorted, gesturing around them with a hand. The cafe was mostly empty; a girl at the far end seemed to have fallen asleep over her laptop. “You never doubted God, and here you are. Why remain loyal to a master like that? One who never even speaks to you? If you join me in hell--”

“Am I supposed to believe Satan wouldn’t destroy you in case of failure?” Gabriel snapped.

Beelzebub looked at him like he was a complete idiot. “Of course he would, but then all you have to do is not to fail. Satan’s orders are always pretty damn clear, and they’re upfront about what happens to you if you disobey. You follow the very clear orders, and you can’t go right.”

“You mean you can’t go wron--”

“No. I know exactly what I meant to mean.” Beelzebub waved a hand dismissively. “I challenged God, and I am the Prince of Hell. You did nothing but obey your entire existence, and you are nothing. Cast out without wings, without powers. I have both.”

The ragged scars over Gabriel’s shoulder blades seemed to burn, and he clenched his teeth, trying to ignore the phantom pain in a part of him that was no more. Good wings, strong wings, white as snow and strong as the tide. And they were gone.

“Maybe you were the one on the wrong side of the battlefield, after all,” Beelzebub mused, leaning forward and causing Gabriel to rear back. Yes, the battlefield. He remembered soaring over it, remembered the fight - the clash of swords and spears, scorching fire and holy water.

He was never the warrior Michael was, but he could hold his own. He’d brought messages across the battlefield to keep the Heavenly army fighting as one, and he’d struck down several demons, he… he...

“You lost the Battle,” Gabriel snapped. “I struck you down, and--”

Beelzebub scowled. “You did not!” they replied, sounding rather offended. “It was Michael, that wanker, but someday--”

“No, you were…” Gabriel frowned, trying to focus. Something was there, a memory beneath the vague recollection of the Battle; until then it had been impossible for him to remember much, the action too frantic and details slipping away from him the more he focused… but now he found it was easier to remember. And he remembered something, a moment of stillness in the chaos.

Gabriel, what are you waiting for? Strike them down!

“I had a spear, and your sword was broken…”

“All you had was that stupid trumpet you always-- agh!”

Ba’al! Strike now!

Under Gabriel’s stunned gaze, Beelzebub let out a groan and grabbed their head with a pained grimace. With the mind’s eye he saw what had been an angel, a long time ago, exhausted and struggling to stand up before him… and then coming to a standstill.

He’d almost struck Beelzebub down, yes. But he did not. He could not.

And Beelzebub hadn’t struck him. They could have. They did not.

“... Ba’al.” The name came to his lips with no thought at all; at first he didn’t even realize it had been him to speak it. It caused Beelzebub to recoil and tear their hands off their head, glaring up at him with savage fury, pain, and something remarkably close to fear.

“Stop,” they buzzed, wide-eyed, teeth bared. “Stop this instant, I command you!”

“I knew you. That was your name, wasn’t it, from before the Fa--”

“We are not meant to remember things from before!” The buzzing grew louder, furious. “I demand you cease it now!”

They seemed to be-- they were in physical pain. The realization made Gabriel’s mind reel; angels could not remember the Fallen either, because God clearly willed as much, but the futile attempts at doing so never caused pain. Clearly, Satan had put a demonic twist to the rule.

But Gabriel was an archangel no longer; he could remember, and he found he couldn’t keep himself from trying to bring up as much as he could. He’d never been curious about what they had forgotten about, but now… now he was. Curiosity was, after all, a human trait. What had got Adam and Eve kicked out of Eden, but at the moment he was too overwhelmed to think of that.

The more he focused, the more he could recall; bits and pieces, far from a complete picture, but it was more than he’d ever managed to put together. And it seemed that he did, after all, have some sort of weapon he could use to chase away the Lord of the Flies.

“... I tried to warn you,” he said slowly, the memory so vague it may as well have been a dream. “You were hanging with the wrong people. Questioning too much. I tried to convince you--”

A snarl, and Beelzebub’s eyes flashed with flame before turning completely black. Above them, flies buzzed furiously against the ceiling. “You shut that stupid mouth this very instant, or else--!”

“Gabriel!”

As Daniel’s voice rang out, Gabriel went through two very different emotions: relief that the conversation had been interrupted before things got ugly - why did he think it a good idea to anger a being who could smother him with a gesture again? - and sudden terror that Beelzebub might turn their fury on him. And for a moment, their eyes all black, they looked like they might.

“Please,” Gabriel whispered, his voice barely audible.

Don’t harm him. I let you Mark me so you wouldn’t harm him.

The change was so quick, Gabriel would have missed if he blinked. The blackness was gone from Beelzebub’s eyes, and they turned to look at Gabriel with a flat, utterly uninterested look. They looked fairly normal, aside for the fact they looked like they had dressed in the dark, but then again most people in London did. Gabriel found they no longer had the style they used to.

Daniel didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss. He just walked up to them, smiled, and patted Gabriel’s shoulder. “You really got the interview, then? Good luck! Hopefully we’re going to be colleagues, huh?” he smiled broadly, and finally glanced at Beelzebub. If he thought anything of their rather bizarre attire, he said nothing of it. But then again he’d lived in London for a long time, watching people show up at Tesco Express in their pajamas. “Friend of Gabriel, huh? Nice to meet you. I’m Daniel,” he said, holding out his hand.

Beelzebub looked at it like Daniel had just handed them a dead fish; it likely didn’t happen often that a mortal walked up to them and tried to shake their hand. They glanced over at Gabriel, who realized he had about thirty seconds to avert a crisis.

“Er… yes, this is Beel--” Gabriel began, only to pause when it truly hit him how much of a bad idea saying that aloud would be. From the other side of the table, Beelzebub managed to convey without words that they thought he was an utter idiot, but offered no help.

Ba’al, he thought, but he still remembered so little attached to that name, the memory barely uncovered… and besides it would undoubtedly cause fury he rather wanted to avoid. In the end, Gabriel forced the smile back on.

“... Bill,” he finished.

Beelzebub’s retaliation came swiftly in the form of a kick on the shin, but they didn’t contradict him, and Gabriel decided he could count himself lucky for that. And the fact he’d gotten away with only a kick in the shin in the first place.

Luckily, Daniel didn’t seem to notice anything wrong. Or maybe there was something there, hesitation as he stared at the Prince of Hell - it would occur to Gabriel only later that he was trying to assign them a gender - but he said nothing of it. “Nice to meet you, Bill,” was all he said. “Do you mind if I join--”

“I have urgent matters to attend,” Beelzebub said, and stood suddenly, nearly knocking back the chair. They turned to glare at Gabriel, eyes icy. “Do think of what I told you,” they muttered, and marched off without a word. The door opened, slammed closed, and they were gone - as were the flies that had been buzzing by the ceiling. Daniel blinked.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“... They had a headache,” Gabriel replied, and forced himself to tear his gaze off the door. The realization was staggering - that they’d known each other before the Fall, that Gabriel had tried to warn them against the wrong sort of companies, that they had stood before one another during the Battle without either being able to lift the weapon on the other - but Beelzebub was gone, and Gabriel chose to chase it all from his mind for the time being.

It no longer mattered whether they had known each other. That part of his existence was over.

He had other matters to attend, too.

It gets easier once you accept it.

***

“Crowley?”

“Angel.”

“Do you think we knew each other?”

“... Huh?” Crowley blinked, glancing over. Aziraphale was leaning on the bench’s backrest, staring at the waterfowl and uncharacteristically uninterested in the ice cream cone in his hand. “We have known each other for a good while, no?”

“Before the Fall, I mean.”

Ah, now that was… something Crowley had never considered. He never even tried to remember anything from that time, because it hurt like a mallet to the brain and honestly, he could do without it. And it wouldn’t work, anyway. “Guess it’s possible,” he conceded. “But unlikely. There was… what, twenty million between all of us?” he shrugged, leaning back.

Aziraphale nodded. “Ah, yes. It makes sense,” he said, and glanced down at his cone to notice that an especially brave - and fat - squirrel was now sapling it, standing on his knee. He chuckled, and lowered it a little to make it easier to reach. “Well-- it doesn’t really matter, does it? We know each other well enough now.”

Crowley grinned. “No,” he agreed, and reached into his pocket to pull out something - a pace torn out of an old newspaper. “So, uh, about the idea we had to move to the South Downs…”

Aziraphale glanced over to see a picture of green hills beneath a blue sky. It looked… quite heavenly, really. Then he read the name, and burst out laughing, scaring the squirrel away.

Devil’s Dyke Walking Trails, the title read. Devil’s Dyke is perfect for a summer walk.

“Oh!” Aziraphale snickered, reaching up to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes. “Oh, dear. Summer is nearing its end though, isn’t it?”

“Is that a no?” Crowley asked, trying to sound like he wouldn’t especially care either way and failing rather spectacularly.

Aziraphale smiled. “Why, not at all. But perhaps we should see how it is in summer, before we decide. A brief visit to get the feel of it before autumn entirely settles in.”

Crowley’s attempt at a neutral expression turned into a smirk. “Tomorrow?” he asked, hopeful.

Ah, he was supposed to open the store the next day, maybe for a couple of hours in the afternoon, but as Gabriel was already headed to Southampton for the interview he was sure to pass, there was no real reason to do so. His smile widened.

"Tomorrow sounds lovely.”

***

The letter was on the desk of Gabriel’s hotel room before he even walked in. A simple sheet of paper, no envelope, and the handwriting - ah, he knew it well. How many times had he gone over paperwork Michael filled up?

The notion that Michael knew where he was filled him with dread, but he didn’t turn and run. He looked around, yes, but found that the room was empty, and he relaxed a little, the hammering of his heart slowing down. He stepped forward and stared at the piece of paper for a long time, Crowley’s words eching in his mind.

Had it been you receiving the order and Michael the one on the ground, would you have refused to do what God asked of you?

No. No, he wouldn’t have. He would have done precisely the same, while hating every moment of it. Anyone can be loyal and obedient when the orders are easy to follow; the real test comes when they are… not. And he’d have been just as loyal to God as they were.

Once a servant, always a servant.

With a sense of shame heavy in his chest - how wrong it seemed, feeling shame for his utter devotion to the Almighty - Gabriel finally stepped forward, picked up the letter, and began to read.

***

Gabriel, I do hope you are as well as you can be, given the circumstances. I understand you have no wish to see us, and we will not impose. We cannot begin to understand God’s reasons to order such a thing of us, and to punish you alone. All we knew was that we owed obedience. We never wished for any harm to come to you. I hope you know that. Should you ever need us, all you need to do is call out our names, and we’ll be there. Always. Michael.

***

For a very long time, Gabriel - once the Archangel Gabriel, now a human to be known as Gabriel F. Archer - kept reading those words over and over, a knot in his throat and a weight on his chest, the phantom wings on his back aching at the memory of what had been done to him. A couple of times, he was very, very close to crumpling the letter… but he did not.

With a long sigh, Gabriel put the letter in a drawer, shut it, and tried to forget all about it.

He tried to forget about a lot of things.

***

"And Jesus called them to him and said to them, ‘You know that those who are considered rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great ones exercise authority over them. But it shall not be so among you. But whoever would be great among you must be your servant, and whoever would be first among you must be slave of all. For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many’.” -- Mark 10:42-45

***

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ineffable-snowman · 4 years

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Day 7: Silent Night

Only very loosely inspired by the prompt for today, the fic grew too long and into something different than I had planned.

***

When Aziraphale heard Bach’s Christmas Oratory for the first time in 1734, he was almost moved to tears. The retelling of Jesus’s birth was, of course, not in strict accordance with the facts but no human had ever got it right, which was quite understandable as Aziraphale was the only being on earth who had been there. Still, he felt that Johann Sebastian Bach had come really close – his music did. The at times jubilant, at times dignified music did not exactly depict the hectic rush of that day but it reflected the meaning of Christmas.

Aziraphale could not understand how a human could come up with such heavenly music without angelic intervention. But then again, it was so much more powerful music than the celestial harmonies he had had to practice in the heavenly choir for eternities. He wouldn’t want one of the angels to interfere with Bach’s creativity. And Aziraphale himself – well, after some initial reservations he had come to enjoy human music very much and had even tried to learn the gamba for a few years but he certainly would not have been able to inspire Bach.

When Aziraphale learned that there were five more parts of the Christmas Oratory, he was utterly delighted and could not wait to come back for the next. He immediately told Crowley when they met up to share a Christmas dinner: “So, your trying to get Bach to drink too much obviously did not work. He still composes the most sublime music. You have to come and listen to the other parts of the Christmas Oratory.”

“Ha, nice try, angel. Trying to lure me into a church with promises of divine music. Not gonna happen.”

Aziraphale spluttered. “I didn’t mean to suggest – I – I didn’t think… well. I suppose…you can’t come. Pity.”

“Yeah, not really interested in church music anyway. I prefer his dances.”

Aziraphale pulled a face. Dances were always so indecent, wild and chaotic! Of course Crowley liked them, and although Aziraphale secretly enjoyed some of the slower ones, he would never admit it out loud.

***

The second part of Bach’s Oratory was just as good as the first. The soprano who sang Aziraphale’s role flattered him quite a bit (because this exquisite recitative was so much more dignified than his babbled words to the frightened shepherds had been). Crowley couldn’t stop laughing when Aziraphale told him and threatened to make a few suggestions to Bach on how to change the angel’s singing part. Aziraphale in turn threatened to never share a Christmas meal again if Crowley really went through with that.

The third part was just as beautiful. When Aziraphale left the church afterwards, he saw a very familiar demonic figure quickly disappear into a side street.

“What were you doing so close to the church?” he confronted Crowley later.

“No worries, no official assignment at the moment. Just thought I’d try to hear a bit of what the hustle and bustle is all about.”

“Oh.”

Of course Crowley was curious. He always wanted to learn about all the new human things. The idea that Crowley never would get to hear Bach’s Christmas Oratory and only could lurk outside the church suddenly made Aziraphale unbearably sad. There just was no way. He briefly thought about asking the flutist, whom Aziraphale had helped when he had almost lost his youngest kid to illness, to give them a private performance but you needed a whole orchestra, a choir and soloists for that opus. You needed the sound and the atmosphere of a church to fully appreciate it.

“Don’t look so sad,” Crowley said with a sneer. “I don’t gripe when you refuse to dance.”

(It was a blatant lie because Crowley did gripe. Every time.)

***

Aziraphale tried to tell Crowley about the music in every detail. He even acquired a copy of the autograph so Crowley could at least study the sheet music. (Crowley told him to stick it up his xxxx, which had Aziraphale in a cranky mood for three years. He was only mollified when Crowley apologised by giving him a lovely wooden box with intricate carvings which he could use for his most treasured autographs.)

Then people forgot about Johann Sebastian Bach, to Aziraphale’s great regret.

It was only in the second half of the nineteenth century that the humans slowly rediscovered Bach’s work and fully appreciated his genius. Over the years Aziraphale went to three more performances of the Christmas Oratory in Germany and found it to be just as touching as the first time. He even tried to influence the churches in London to play it around Christmas time, and hung up posters in his shop to advertise for it. By the turn of the century, Aziraphale had been able to make it a habit to see the Christmas Oratory once a year. And the humans had invented something new, something genius: a gramophone. Aziraphale’s first thought had been that Crowley would now finally be able to listen to the music that was only played in churches.

The thing was just: They did not talk anymore. Had not, in fact, talked for decades. Of course, in the earlier days they had not seen each other for much longer periods of time but since they had both moved to London, they had seen each other at least once a year. Until that terrible day in 1862 and that stupid fight.

After two years of silence from Crowley, Aziraphale had tentatively reached out. He sent a short note, which was left unanswered. Then he sent a longer letter, in which he told Crowley about a new play he wanted to see and invited him to come along. No reply either, which was rather rude, wasn’t it? Growing impatient (and, yes, maybe also a bit worried) Aziraphale had gone to Crowley’s flat only to find that Crowley had put up wards that were meant to keep humans (and probably angels and demons, too) out, because when he approached the flat, he suddenly had so many other things on his mind that he absolutely needed to do right now. Aziraphale cleared his head. He probably could have burst through the wards with a very powerful angelic miracle but it did not seem the right thing to do if Crowley did not want him there. Crowley had never rejected him before. It was a strange feeling. It hurt.

Aziraphale regularly (once a year) went past Crowley’s flat to check if the demonic wards were still in place. They always were. He never caught a glimpse of Crowley in London, didn’t even hear about any demonic deeds. Heaven replied to his enquiry that, yes, the demon Crowley was still stationed on earth but apparently inactive at the moment. Heaven was pleased. Aziraphale was… not. He was sometimes annoyed and sometimes hurt and therefore decided to learn the gavotte. It was one of his best decisions ever. He not only learned to dance but he also made human friends. He enjoyed himself.

But then the human friends grew old and fragile and died, the gavotte went out of style and the gramophone was invented and Aziraphale yearned to see Crowley again. He wrote a very long letter, in which he explained himself, apologised and told Crowley that he missed him. He called him “my dear friend”, even though his hands were shaking in fear when he wrote the lines.

As he could not risk the letter falling into the wrong hands, he delivered it personally. He forced his mind not to get distracted when he approached the flat. But when he was about to throw the letter into the letter box, he noticed that it was already full. With a quick miracle he opened it, and there were dozens of old letters, among them the two Aziraphale had sent years ago. Crowley had never even opened them. Aziraphale stared at the dirty windows that had not been cleaned in years. Crowley must have left London. Probably gone to America. Because America seemed a place Crowley would enjoy and fit in. Without so much as a word of farewell.

Aziraphale carefully selected the three letters he had written and took them home where he burned them.

He considered taking up one of the new dances of the Twentieth Century but then there was a war going on, and then people had hardly recovered and there was another war, maybe even worse than the first. Crowley had always said the Fourteenth Century had been the worst but the Twentieth Century seemed to surpass it. It was unbelievable what humans were capable of doing to each other.

Fortunately, there were still some good humans. A brave woman recruited Aziraphale to help her fight against the Nazi spies in London.

But then she turned out to be a double-agent.

In all that horror and chaos it was a demon that proved that there was still good in the world.

Crowley had been so brave and brilliant and, good Lord, quite dashing with that fetching hat, but most of all he had been kind. Aziraphale followed him in a daze, through the destroyed church and to a black automobile parked in front of it. The doors opened at a gesture from Crowley, and Aziraphale gingerly climbed inside, still clutching the bag with the books.

It was surreal, speeding through the dark and empty streets of London. Sometimes they heard a bomb detonate in the distance. Crowley drove them in silence and Aziraphale was lost for words because his heart felt too full to speak.

“Here we are.” They stopped in front of the bookshop.

“Ah, lovely.” Aziraphale struggled for words. “Can I… invite you in for a drink? As a – a thank you? ”

“Probably better get into a bunker.”

“Oh, I have one just under the bookshop. For the books.”

“The books. Yeah. ’Course.”

“There’s also a nice couch.”

“Right.” Crowley finally stepped out of the car and followed Aziraphale into the bookshop. He had moved his favourite books and his most prized possessions downstairs into the bunker (which meant that half the bookshop was empty now).

He showed Crowley down and then hurried through the bookshop to get two glasses and the best wine he had. When he came downstairs, Crowley was already lounging on the couch, his legs dangling over the armrest. With a casual wave of his hand he snapped a few candles on.

“Oh. That’s – that’s lovely. Thank you.” Aziraphale poured them wine, all the while babbling about the wine, the candles, his books… Then there was another faint detonation in the distance and he winced and stopped with his inconsequential chatter. There were so many other things he wanted to say:

I don’t want another war. I want this horror to finally end. I don’t understand why Heaven doesn’t intervene.

I’m so glad you came. Where have you been all those years? I missed you so much. I love you.

He remained silent because he did not know how to say these things. He did not know if these things could even be said, probably shouldn’t even be thought. And yet – in the midst of a human war he felt save here in the bunker together with Crowley. Save from human bombs, from Hell’s wrath and Heaven’s righteous fury.

Suddenly Aziraphale had an idea on how to thank Crowley for what he had done today. Not that there was any worthy payoff but it could be at least a nice gesture, he hoped.

“I have to show you something.” Excitedly he snapped the gramophone down into the bunker. Finally, finally he could introduce Crowley to that beautiful music he had missed. It felt oddly fitting to play that music for Crowley tonight when he had walked on consecrated ground. “Now, this is a wonderful human invention, called a -”

“I know what a gramophone is,” Crowley interrupted him a bit rudely. “But I’m surprised you own one.”

“Well, they are quite useful if you don’t have the time or the energy to see a concert, or if they don’t play your favourite music – anyway, what I wanted to show you was this.” He proudly produced the record of Bach’s Christmas Oratory, put it onto the gramophone and sat down to watch Crowley closely, wanting to see every reaction when he heard the jubilant music for the first time. The timpani and trumpets of the opening chorus drowned out the distant rumble of another bomb going off.

But Crowley did not look impressed or like he enjoyed it, quite the contrary. He grimaced and chugged down another glass of the good wine that really should be savoured more.

“You – you don’t like it?” Aziraphale asked worriedly. It was disappointing. He had meant to make it something special. Crowley had so often introduced him to new things, now he had wanted to show him something new in return. That Crowley so obviously found the music that meant so much to Aziraphale distasteful (or at least boring) hurt somehow. Because it was not just a wonderful piece of music, it meant so much more: it was about Christmas, a day that had proved that God cared for the humans and wanted to live among them, and it was about what that holiday meant to the humans.

“Not exactly up-to-date anymore,” Crowley scoffed.

Aziraphale bristled. Contrary to Heaven, Crowley had never mocked his interests. Or, well, he had, but always in a teasing, never in a condescending way. “Right. I take it you’re still angry.” In the church, it had seemed like they were still friends and everything was fine again – just like that. But obviously that had just been in the heat of the moment.

Crowley took off his glasses and squinted at Aziraphale. “What? Want me to run into a church again to prove it?”

“No, I-I-I… I mean, why – where have you been? I haven’t heard from you in years…”

“Took a nap. Bit longer than expected. Woke up during the war. The last one, I mean.” Then Crowley frowned. “It’s not like you contacted me in all those years.”

“I did,” Aziraphale said softly, desperately, “I tried.”

Crowley sighed and leant back on the couch to stare up at the low ceiling. “Listen, I am angry – at those dumb Nazi spies and that fucking consecrated ground, and my feet hurt like, well, they hurt like shit and I don’t really feel like listening to German words right now” – he gestured at the gramophone – “but we’re good, yeah?”

“Oh, oh, I’m sorry, my dear.” Aziraphale immediately made the record stop spinning. “That was really thoughtless of me. Goodness. Let me – let me have a look at your feet?”

“You know you can’t heal holy burns. You can’t heal a demon.”

“Well, we’ll see about that,” Aziraphale said darkly and rolled up his sleeves. Whoever had decided that angels couldn’t heal demons had not considered Aziraphale’s conviction.

“Please, no experiments,” Crowley groaned. “They’re bad enough as it is.”

“No, no, of course not,” Aziraphale shushed him. “I meant the human way. There’re ways to make the burns at least better.” Aziraphale filled a large bowl, that had conveniently turned up behind a stack of books, with cold water.

Crowley relented and carefully removed his shoes and socks, all the while visibly trying to suppress the hisses of pain. The record started erratically spinning again but instead of Bach’s cantatas, shrill, hectic and dissonant sounds came out of it.

“Huh,” said Aziraphale but refrained from admonishing Crowley because his feet really looked bad. They were burnt all over, blisters everywhere, even raw meat visible, and parts of the socks kept clinging to the skin. Aziraphale’s heart ached with pity and love for that stupid, brave, kind demon. He swallowed and knelt down to carefully help Crowley’s feet into the water.

Crowley hissed loudly when his feet touched the cold water but of course he played it off. “So, picking up things from the birthday boy again?”

Aziraphale humoured him. “What do you mean?”

“Jesus? Shouldn’t his birthday be around now?”

“Oh, yes, of course. But what…?”

“You know, washing the feet of sinners…”

“You are not – well. Strictly speaking you are a sinner. But…” But what? Aziraphale had been relieved when Heaven had changed their policy and granted human sinners the chance of forgiveness. One sin did not mean eternal damnation anymore. Sometimes he had wondered if that policy could be extended to demons, too. Aziraphale was not sure if Crowley deserved forgiveness and – whatever his personal feelings on the matter – it was not for him to decide. But he was certain that Crowley deserved gentleness. And at this moment, when he knelt at Crowley’s feet, Aziraphale felt like he was the sinner who was asking for forgiveness. He did so with every careful touch and with the fluffiest towel, which he miracled downstairs to dry Crowley’s feet. Crowley did not say a word, just breathed slowly. The shrill, hectic music grew quieter and slower and finally faded out.

It was completely silent in the bunker. Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley’s face in the flickering candle light look more demonic than ever before. He did not mind.

He smiled and straightened up. “Whatever did you do to my record?”

“Not sure. Might have accidentally turned it into bebop.”

“Into what now?”

“New musical style that they invented in North America.”

Aziraphale was quite sure that Crowley had just invented that word but he did not call him out on it. “Anyway, I’m sure I will be able to restore the record with a little miracle. I believe bebop is not really my style.” He went to retrieve his first-aid kit from behind another stack of books.

Crowley shrugged. “So why are you keeping that -” he indicated the first-aid kit “- here? It’s not like you need supplies to heal someone.”

“I… I used it in the war. The first one. And now unfortunately it is needed again.” Aziraphale felt all the memories of the injured humans weighing down on him, all the ones he could not help – could not help enough or not at all. Could only try to comfort and promise that they were forgiven and that God loved them. “You can probably imagine how fast it happens that one overdraws their healing quota in a war.”

Crowley silently looked at him for quite some time and then, finally, he said, “You tend to do that, yeah.”

Aziraphale shrugged apologetically but he knew that Crowley was not judging, not reprimanding him for not fulfilling his angelic duties according to heavenly quotas. He rummaged in his first-aid kit for the burn ointment.

“So you tried healing in the human way to avoid getting into trouble with the idiotic archangels?”

Aziraphale ignored the rude language (and silently maybe even agreed with Crowley). It was so good to again have someone (the only one) who understood. It had been so lonely: the exhaustion from the many healing miracles, the helpless anger when Heaven did not allow him to do more, the grief for the humans who died so unnecessarily. He wanted to share it all with Crowley again. And forever.

“I assisted a field medic and learned from her,” Aziraphale explained.

Crowley hummed. “You know, there was talk among the soldiers about a guardian angel on the battlefield. I was wondering if it was you or if they were just making up stories to give each other hope.”

Aziraphale smiled with trembling lips. “This – this ointment-” he cleared his throat. “-it helped against the burns caused by explosions. It should help with your feet, too.” He knelt down and tentatively reached out to touch Crowley’s foot. “Will you let me?”

“Of course,” Crowley said because he always allowed Aziraphale to do good.

#31 days of ineffables #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #fanfic

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