good omens | direct intervention
Good Omens | Crowley/Aziraphale | 3200 words | beta'd by simple__man. Originally posted 07/07.
Written for penllyne, for the multifandom challenge.
Prompt given was "The only thing that Will Save The World, according to Crowley, involves Aziraphale and a hell of a lot of gold liquid lame and jingly music." Check tags for warnings. Thanks to simple__man for the beta.
Direct Intervention
Crowley gave him a sideways look.
"Your people been in touch?" he asked.
"No. Yours?"
"No."
"I think they're pretending it didn't happen."
"Mine too, I suppose. That's bureaucracy for you."
-Good Omens
It was two weeks after Armageddon, although you wouldn't have guessed it, since the weather was surprisingly pleasant.
Crowley and Aziraphale were dining at the Ritz, each with his own tiny platter of freshly-baked peanut-butter-and-jelly scones.1 If they were avoiding each other's gaze, it was only due to the fact they now felt immensely awkward in the other's presence.
"So, um." Aziraphale said, then lapsed into silence. The scones were quite good, albeit messy. He stared at them with all the intensity of a parched man inspecting a glass of Coke.2
1 Adam did more than just give Aziraphale's library a makeover, you know.
2 "Slow death by dehydration, or slow death by chemical poisoning? Decisions, decisions."
"I've been thinking." he blurted, and then flushed. "About... you know. Us."
"Us, angel?" Crowley said, arching a speculative eyebrow behind his sunglasses. "In what sense do you mean 'us'?"
"Well, have you heard anything from your side yet?" Aziraphale asked, knowing full well Crowley hadn't. When it had indeed been confirmed that no news from Downstairs had been forthcoming, he leaned in conspiratorially. "Neither have I. And you know the old story about secret agents, far from home, forsaken by their superiors...?"
"Yes, Dirk Bogarde played in that one, didn't he?" Crowley frowned. "Or was that Paul Newman in his early days? I forget."
Aziraphale stared at him, lost in the uncharted waters of 1960s cinema. Crowley backpedaled hurriedly.
"Nevermind, angel. You were saying?"
"I was saying, we've been more of less stranded here, in case you haven't noticed. And, well - this isn't very easy for me, dear boy - I'm not so sure we're really... official, per se. Not anymore."
Crowley blinked. "Are you saying we've been abandoned? As in... fired?"
"I..." Aziraphale hesitated, "I think so. Possibly better described as 'forgotten'. But yes."
"Well." Crowley leaned back in his chair, face unreadable behind his glasses. He picked up his wine glass and swirled it delicately, like he'd seen Sean Connery do in the movies. A moment passed. "Well," he said again, as though he was unsure of himself and had decided to stick with the vernacular basics.
"It's not so bad," Aziraphale ventured, although he sounded rather disingenuous. "We haven't been in our respective domains for eons, anyway; the last time I visited Heaven was practically during Biblical times-"
"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know," Crowley flapped his hand in a vague gesture of commiseration, "but," he leaned in earnestly, "we've always had, you know, backing. Support from afar, that sort of thing? I mean, we always knew we were kosher. There's a lot to be said for authoritative empowerment."
"You're right." Aziraphale bit his lip, as well as another scone. "When it comes down to it, I feel irrelevant. Irreverent, even." He glanced about worriedly, as though fearing a divine smack upside the head. Crowley would have sympathized, except for the part where he totally didn't.
"So, what now? We're like humans, is that it?" he said, and availed himself to more tea. If there was something neither Side had comprehended yet, it was that everything could be improved by judicious application of tea. Crowley added three sugars, to make a point.
Aziraphale poured himself a cup as well, slightly less zealous with the sweetener. He had been nibbling the stuff since they'd sat down, though, so perhaps that accounted for it.
"I've been thinking," he said again, and this time his voice was quiet, "That perhaps we rather are. Oh, I'm not talking about the miracles and adversity, and so forth. Nonetheless, dear boy, maybe it's time to - to change our methods."
Crowley stared at him. "Explain."
"Well, you see-" Aziraphale was clutching at his empty teacup, fingers twitching, "humans act upon good and evil too, right? Of course they do, otherwise we'd be, as you say, out on our behinds. But if they can thwart and tempt, like us, then perhaps - perhaps we should try it their way for once."
Here there was a long pause in the conversation, wherein Crowley considered this new concept.
"You're saying," he drawled, weighing his words, "that you want to convert to the good guys? The fake good guys? Pray every Sunday, sing about pear trees, the lot?"
"My dear boy, don't be ridiculous." Aziraphale said. "We both know what my side thinks of organized religion. Yours too, as a matter of fact. No," he resumed his earnest look, the one Crowley had always thought made him look whipped, "I'm referring to the Really Good Fight. The one that honestly makes the world a better place."
"Er... global warming?" Crowley hazarded. He'd never been much of an activist,3 but the thought of additional heat appealed to him, for reasons best left unsaid.4
"I was thinking more in the style of goodwill towards men, that sort of thing." the angel said. "War, poverty, ignorance, racism, homophobia - there are lots of evils in this world, when you think about it, and humans have to deal with them all." He raised his chin defiantly. "Since Heaven has yet to contact me, in the meantime, I think I shall join them."
3 Had made a point of it, in fact. Sloth was one of his fortes, and he'd honed ignorance to an art form. Only Good was ever-vigilant, after all; Evil could be as oblivious as it liked.
4 Although of course, we're going to say them. And the truth is: scantier clothing.5
5 Shock! Scandal! Never-before-seen coverage! The real reason why Crowley hates the 14th century - revealed!
"I... see." said Crowley, who didn't completely. "And you're saying I should go to the Really Bad Guys? Arsonists, rapists, the lot? Because I'm won't, you know." he wrinkled his nose. "We have lesser demons for those kinds of jobs. Besides," he brandished a toothpick reprovingly, "that's direct intervention, and you could get in a lot of trouble for that."
"But that's just it, dear boy," said Aziraphale, eyes wide, "Who are we going to get in trouble with? Who is monitoring us now? I realize the - profanity - of this notion," he flushed guiltily, "but there's no use denying the truth. Besides, it's not as if we'd be doing something other than our natures dictate. We'll just be a little more, er, involved, is all."
"You will, you mean." Crowley leaned back with an air of finality. "Count me out. I have no interest in running around like a blessed hooligan, smashing windows and stabbing old ladies. I'm a modern demon," he added proudly, "and these sorts of activities are far beneath my standards."
"Actually," Aziraphale fidgeted with a napkin, avoiding Crowley's sunglasses. "I was. Er. Thinking. More. Again. And I thought, I thought, perhaps- "
"What is it, angel?" Crowley said.
"Perhapsyou'dliketojoinme?"
"Beg pardon?" Crowley blinked. "Perhaps I - what?"
"Not to thwart!" Aziraphale squeaked, nearly dropping his bedraggled napkin. "Not to thwart! Of course you'll be doing the tempting, dear boy." He cleared his throat. "After all our years, you know, our Agreement still works rather nicely - and, well, maybe you'd like to continue it? In private? With no, er, outside support?"
"I tempt, you thwart?" Crowley looked speculative, and made a curious 'hmm' sound. Aziraphale tried not to stare. "So you'll go protest the whale-hunting in Greenland, and I'll puncture your rubber boat?"
"Possibly, possibly," Aziraphale allowed, though privately he balked at the example. "It might be something a little less drastic, dear, but yes, that is the gist of it. What do you say?"
"I say..." Crowley sipped his tea, and shot Aziraphale a thoughtful look over the rim of his glasses. His eyes were very yellow. "I say... you're on." He grinned, and it was as though the sun had emerged after a storm.
Aziraphale looked as if he didn't know whether to be happy or confused.
"Er, on what, dear boy?"
*
Aziraphale's idea was actually pretty good. It was simple, honest, practical, and, most importantly, it neatly determined the rest of their lives.6
It just figured, then, that Crowley would find some way to throw it in his face.
"Come on!" the demon cajoled, leaning over the bookshop's dusty counter. Aziraphale hunkered down and continued his bookbinding7, trying to attain temporary deafness.
6 At least until a better idea came along.
7 While it's true that Aziraphale's shop had been renovated to exclusively contain first-edition newly-minted classics such as Biggles Goes to Mars and Blood Dogs of the Skull Sea, he'd long been accustomed to constantly re-binding disintegrating volumes of apocrypha, and old habits died hard.
"I'm not listening to you!" he said, in a marvelous example of counter-productivity. "Go away. Shoo!"
"But you said you wanted to help!" Crowley argued, posing like a true flash bastard on the edge of Aziraphale's vision. He leaned in closer, persuasive as a snake, which rather made sense, considering. "What could be nobler than helping our brave forces in Iraq?"
"I'm helping from afar." Aziraphale muttered, glaring at his dismembered copy of The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents. "Knitting socks, organizing supplies, you name it. Flying into dangerous territory? I think not!"
"I've already booked the tickets," Crowley said helpfully. "They're expecting The Astounding Mr. Fell to entertain the troops in three days' time. You wouldn't let down our soldiers, would you?"
Aziraphale stared at him in mute shock, silent treatment forgotten. The face of Maurice on the cover in his hands looked just as smug as Crowley felt.
"Oh, you are demonic." the angel said, looking as if he'd swallowed something unpleasant.
"Glad to see I still have the old touch." Crowley wiggled his fingers in demonstration, winked at Aziraphale, and walked out of the shop, humming cheerfully. This was fun.
*
Their trip was exactly as wretched as Aziraphale had imagined it would be.
First came the airport terminal of Heathrow, operating in full compliance with the normative British security and flight regulations.8 (No amount of miracling could convince the various flight personnel that Crowley was not an escaped convict, or, in Aziraphale's case, that anybody still traveled with tartan baggage these days. It was a disheartening reminder of the ineffability's true impotence when faced with the horror of Delayed Flight Notices.)
8 Which is to say, not at all.
Then the flight itself: a portable, claustrophobic war zone in its own right. (Crowley's miracled tickets had already included first-class seats, but the several dozen military officials aboard with them apparently thought differently. It took divine intervention equivalent to that of a minor sainthood in order to make their condition bearable, and even then, Aziraphale kept mumbling about un-orthopedic seats and bad tea.)
After they landed in Iraq, there was a two-day trip to Mosul, where their designated troops were camped. (It was July, and approximately 47o Celsius. Their summer attires were practically suffocating, besides making them look like stupid tourists, and Crowley was horrified to discover that Aziraphale did, in fact, possess a tartan t-shirt.)
When they reached the British camp, a few miles outside the city, both were considerably worse for wear.
"I don't know about you," Crowley muttered to Aziraphale, "but I'm going to commend camels to the folks Downstairs. I don't care if He invented the blessed things; clearly they're on our side."
"You know, dear, I'm rather inclined to agree," Aziraphale replied, as they swayed and jolted in their seats on the camel hump. "But I wonder, how will you reach your people? Remember, we're rather cut off at the moment."
"Who's talking about that Hell?" Crowley groused. "Camels deserve a Hell all of their own."
"I don't see why we have to ride one, if all the others get jeeps." Aziraphale said.9
"Look, angel - we're here!"
9 He wasn't alone in his confusion. Officer Cadet Davies had been wondering the same thing, as well.
"But why did we put them on camels, sir?" he whispered to 2nd Lt. Morgan, who was sitting besides him in the jeep. "With all due respect, sir, it's both impractical and painful."
"Stupid tourists," Morgan had replied, with grim satisfaction. "They want the Iraqi experience? We'll give it to 'em in full."
This was, in fact, not true. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale wanted anything but to go home. It could be argued, however, that this, too, was a part of the Iraqi experience, and so the point was moot.
The camp was big, and dusty, and full of men with guns.
"Please follow me, Mr. Fell," said a soldier, who introduced himself as Officer Cadet Lewis and led them past various tents and buildings. Crowley was assumed to be the Astounding Mr. Fell's manager, although some of the looks he'd received since their arrival had bordered on leers.
"These will be your quarters, sir," said Lewis, and almost ducked his head, much to Aziraphale's bemusement. "The show begins at 8 o' clock, and someone will come by later on to make sure you settle down. Um. We're all very excited. Sir." And this time he did duck his head, young and fresh-faced and eager to a fault. Aziraphale nearly cooed. Crowley looked nauseated.
"You looked like you were going to scratch him behind the ear," he said, once they were safely ensconced within their tent and out of earshot. "At least pick one that's already been house-trained."
"Oh, my dear boy," Aziraphale smiled at him, unperturbed. "I don't think we're quite ready for a puppy just yet."
And Crowley was just about to demand what he meant by that, when Aziraphale opened his tartan suitcase and produced the most hideous, besequined, glittering monstrosity he, Anthony J. Crowley, had ever seen outside of Hastur's closet.
"What is that?" he gasped, clutching at the arms of his military-issue folding chair.
"My costume, of course." Aziraphale sounded disproportionally cheerful, considering he was holding the spawn of Satan in his hands. And Crowley would know. "I'm not usually one for fancy clothing, but, you know, this is a special occasion, and I think it called for something with a bit more - glamour."
Crowley stared at the suit. It was made of liquid gold lame, and seemed to stare back.
"I. I." He said weakly, before hastily excusing himself and all but running away.
*
It was approximately five minutes to show time. Aziraphale double-checked his gear for the last time, then they were both led off by young Lewis, who was staring at the angel as though he was something Heaven-sent, much to Crowley's disgust.
A stage had been set up in the middle of camp, complete with makeshift lighting and some shabby scaffolding. The soldiers were already neatly assembled, staring at the setup with uniform expressions of neutrality.
Aziraphale and Crowley were hustled backstage, while Lieutenant Colonel Chiswell, a pleasant enough fellow who was the commanding officer of the camp, gave a brief introduction.
"Let's hope it goes better than the last time, eh?" said Aziraphale, while Crowley unburdened his portable cassette player onto a convenient crate. The angel had convinced him to bring it, on the grounds that any self-respecting stage magician would never perform without his background music. Crowley had privately questioned the 'self-respecting' bit, but obliged anyway.
"Good luck." he muttered, patting Aziraphale's hand. Then it was showtime. Crowley surprised himself by feeling slightly nervous.
"Good evening, gentlemen!" Aziraphale said, and the crowd immediately silenced. "Who am I? You may be wondering, and rightfully so, for I am not one of whom you have ever heard. But I say, keep your trousers on, for I shall tell you in a minute, and all will be clear. First, however, you, young fellow, what's your name?"
"Evans, sir." said a soldier, saluting. Aziraphale beamed.
"Well, Evans, bless my buttonhole, but you look a right dashing lad. And do you, perchance, happen to posses such a thing upon your person as a pocket handkerchief?"
From the shadows, Crowley cringed in embarrassment. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all.
"No? Are you sure? Go on, dear boy, take a look in your pocket, I'm positive you'll something, eh?"
If he made a break for it now and hijacked the camel, Crowley could be out of Iraq in two and a half days. The thought was getting increasingly more enticing.
"Ah, there we go! What was that doing there, eh? Now, my good fellows, if you'd deign rest your eyes upon this rum kerchief, you will see that it is nothing of the kind, but rather a beautiful flock of doves - aargh good grief, don't shoot them! Don't shoot!"
(The rest of the show went by in much the same manner, including, but not limited to, Crowley's debut with the music, which was supposed to be a succession of Criss Angel's thrilling instrumental themes but actually sounded like this:
Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide
No escape from reality... )
*
In the end, Crowley did in fact hijack the camel, dragging Aziraphale by the lapel the whole way. "Come on, come on!" he shouted, while behind them the camp collapsed in a bedlam of gunshots, marauding animals, and enraged officials. "Before we wear out our da - our blessed welcome!"
"This is definitely not what I had in mind when I said 'direct intervention', my dear!" Aziraphale gasped, struggling onto the camel and out of his malignant jacket.
Crowley didn't answer, just spurred the evil beast forward, and hung on.
*
"I say, remember last year? In the Middle East?" Aziraphale said one day. He was baking cookies in preparation for a charity sale, and had been covered with a light but thorough sprinkling of flour. A dollop of batter smudged his cheek, from when he'd licked the mixing bowl clean.
"Yes." Crowley said, cautiously. He was supposed to be minding the oven, and was carefully making sure that every batch would come out just burnt enough to be inedible. Fair's fair, after all.
"I was thinking," Aziraphale said wistfully, "perhaps it's time to go back there. Not to that specific camp, maybe, but a tour - magic shows for the soldiers in Iraq, you know, or the freedom fighters in Israel-"
Crowley stared in disbelief.
"Besides," the angel continued, perfectly oblivious, "I'd get to wear my magician's suit again. I had rather missed that."
Crowley's ladle, which he'd been carving little arcane symbols into, clattered to the floor.
"I think, angel," he managed, trying not to explode the oven or do anything equally drastic, "that we should concentrate our efforts here."
Aziraphale looked put-upon. "It was all so rushed - I didn't even get any souvenirs."
"Then, perhaps-" Crowley flung his mind back, desperately searching for a solution. "-it's time to get a puppy?"
Aziraphale looked at him as though he was quite deranged.
Crowley grimaced.
Life was so unfair.
"No camels." he warned, and Aziraphale positively beamed.
All characters © their respective owners; I claim no right nor profit.
Written for penllyne, for the multifandom challenge.
Prompt given was "The only thing that Will Save The World, according to Crowley, involves Aziraphale and a hell of a lot of gold liquid lame and jingly music." Check tags for warnings. Thanks to simple__man for the beta.
Direct Intervention
Crowley gave him a sideways look.
"Your people been in touch?" he asked.
"No. Yours?"
"No."
"I think they're pretending it didn't happen."
"Mine too, I suppose. That's bureaucracy for you."
-Good Omens
It was two weeks after Armageddon, although you wouldn't have guessed it, since the weather was surprisingly pleasant.
Crowley and Aziraphale were dining at the Ritz, each with his own tiny platter of freshly-baked peanut-butter-and-jelly scones.1 If they were avoiding each other's gaze, it was only due to the fact they now felt immensely awkward in the other's presence.
"So, um." Aziraphale said, then lapsed into silence. The scones were quite good, albeit messy. He stared at them with all the intensity of a parched man inspecting a glass of Coke.2
1 Adam did more than just give Aziraphale's library a makeover, you know.
2 "Slow death by dehydration, or slow death by chemical poisoning? Decisions, decisions."
"I've been thinking." he blurted, and then flushed. "About... you know. Us."
"Us, angel?" Crowley said, arching a speculative eyebrow behind his sunglasses. "In what sense do you mean 'us'?"
"Well, have you heard anything from your side yet?" Aziraphale asked, knowing full well Crowley hadn't. When it had indeed been confirmed that no news from Downstairs had been forthcoming, he leaned in conspiratorially. "Neither have I. And you know the old story about secret agents, far from home, forsaken by their superiors...?"
"Yes, Dirk Bogarde played in that one, didn't he?" Crowley frowned. "Or was that Paul Newman in his early days? I forget."
Aziraphale stared at him, lost in the uncharted waters of 1960s cinema. Crowley backpedaled hurriedly.
"Nevermind, angel. You were saying?"
"I was saying, we've been more of less stranded here, in case you haven't noticed. And, well - this isn't very easy for me, dear boy - I'm not so sure we're really... official, per se. Not anymore."
Crowley blinked. "Are you saying we've been abandoned? As in... fired?"
"I..." Aziraphale hesitated, "I think so. Possibly better described as 'forgotten'. But yes."
"Well." Crowley leaned back in his chair, face unreadable behind his glasses. He picked up his wine glass and swirled it delicately, like he'd seen Sean Connery do in the movies. A moment passed. "Well," he said again, as though he was unsure of himself and had decided to stick with the vernacular basics.
"It's not so bad," Aziraphale ventured, although he sounded rather disingenuous. "We haven't been in our respective domains for eons, anyway; the last time I visited Heaven was practically during Biblical times-"
"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know," Crowley flapped his hand in a vague gesture of commiseration, "but," he leaned in earnestly, "we've always had, you know, backing. Support from afar, that sort of thing? I mean, we always knew we were kosher. There's a lot to be said for authoritative empowerment."
"You're right." Aziraphale bit his lip, as well as another scone. "When it comes down to it, I feel irrelevant. Irreverent, even." He glanced about worriedly, as though fearing a divine smack upside the head. Crowley would have sympathized, except for the part where he totally didn't.
"So, what now? We're like humans, is that it?" he said, and availed himself to more tea. If there was something neither Side had comprehended yet, it was that everything could be improved by judicious application of tea. Crowley added three sugars, to make a point.
Aziraphale poured himself a cup as well, slightly less zealous with the sweetener. He had been nibbling the stuff since they'd sat down, though, so perhaps that accounted for it.
"I've been thinking," he said again, and this time his voice was quiet, "That perhaps we rather are. Oh, I'm not talking about the miracles and adversity, and so forth. Nonetheless, dear boy, maybe it's time to - to change our methods."
Crowley stared at him. "Explain."
"Well, you see-" Aziraphale was clutching at his empty teacup, fingers twitching, "humans act upon good and evil too, right? Of course they do, otherwise we'd be, as you say, out on our behinds. But if they can thwart and tempt, like us, then perhaps - perhaps we should try it their way for once."
Here there was a long pause in the conversation, wherein Crowley considered this new concept.
"You're saying," he drawled, weighing his words, "that you want to convert to the good guys? The fake good guys? Pray every Sunday, sing about pear trees, the lot?"
"My dear boy, don't be ridiculous." Aziraphale said. "We both know what my side thinks of organized religion. Yours too, as a matter of fact. No," he resumed his earnest look, the one Crowley had always thought made him look whipped, "I'm referring to the Really Good Fight. The one that honestly makes the world a better place."
"Er... global warming?" Crowley hazarded. He'd never been much of an activist,3 but the thought of additional heat appealed to him, for reasons best left unsaid.4
"I was thinking more in the style of goodwill towards men, that sort of thing." the angel said. "War, poverty, ignorance, racism, homophobia - there are lots of evils in this world, when you think about it, and humans have to deal with them all." He raised his chin defiantly. "Since Heaven has yet to contact me, in the meantime, I think I shall join them."
3 Had made a point of it, in fact. Sloth was one of his fortes, and he'd honed ignorance to an art form. Only Good was ever-vigilant, after all; Evil could be as oblivious as it liked.
4 Although of course, we're going to say them. And the truth is: scantier clothing.5
5 Shock! Scandal! Never-before-seen coverage! The real reason why Crowley hates the 14th century - revealed!
"I... see." said Crowley, who didn't completely. "And you're saying I should go to the Really Bad Guys? Arsonists, rapists, the lot? Because I'm won't, you know." he wrinkled his nose. "We have lesser demons for those kinds of jobs. Besides," he brandished a toothpick reprovingly, "that's direct intervention, and you could get in a lot of trouble for that."
"But that's just it, dear boy," said Aziraphale, eyes wide, "Who are we going to get in trouble with? Who is monitoring us now? I realize the - profanity - of this notion," he flushed guiltily, "but there's no use denying the truth. Besides, it's not as if we'd be doing something other than our natures dictate. We'll just be a little more, er, involved, is all."
"You will, you mean." Crowley leaned back with an air of finality. "Count me out. I have no interest in running around like a blessed hooligan, smashing windows and stabbing old ladies. I'm a modern demon," he added proudly, "and these sorts of activities are far beneath my standards."
"Actually," Aziraphale fidgeted with a napkin, avoiding Crowley's sunglasses. "I was. Er. Thinking. More. Again. And I thought, I thought, perhaps- "
"What is it, angel?" Crowley said.
"Perhapsyou'dliketojoinme?"
"Beg pardon?" Crowley blinked. "Perhaps I - what?"
"Not to thwart!" Aziraphale squeaked, nearly dropping his bedraggled napkin. "Not to thwart! Of course you'll be doing the tempting, dear boy." He cleared his throat. "After all our years, you know, our Agreement still works rather nicely - and, well, maybe you'd like to continue it? In private? With no, er, outside support?"
"I tempt, you thwart?" Crowley looked speculative, and made a curious 'hmm' sound. Aziraphale tried not to stare. "So you'll go protest the whale-hunting in Greenland, and I'll puncture your rubber boat?"
"Possibly, possibly," Aziraphale allowed, though privately he balked at the example. "It might be something a little less drastic, dear, but yes, that is the gist of it. What do you say?"
"I say..." Crowley sipped his tea, and shot Aziraphale a thoughtful look over the rim of his glasses. His eyes were very yellow. "I say... you're on." He grinned, and it was as though the sun had emerged after a storm.
Aziraphale looked as if he didn't know whether to be happy or confused.
"Er, on what, dear boy?"
*
Aziraphale's idea was actually pretty good. It was simple, honest, practical, and, most importantly, it neatly determined the rest of their lives.6
It just figured, then, that Crowley would find some way to throw it in his face.
"Come on!" the demon cajoled, leaning over the bookshop's dusty counter. Aziraphale hunkered down and continued his bookbinding7, trying to attain temporary deafness.
6 At least until a better idea came along.
7 While it's true that Aziraphale's shop had been renovated to exclusively contain first-edition newly-minted classics such as Biggles Goes to Mars and Blood Dogs of the Skull Sea, he'd long been accustomed to constantly re-binding disintegrating volumes of apocrypha, and old habits died hard.
"I'm not listening to you!" he said, in a marvelous example of counter-productivity. "Go away. Shoo!"
"But you said you wanted to help!" Crowley argued, posing like a true flash bastard on the edge of Aziraphale's vision. He leaned in closer, persuasive as a snake, which rather made sense, considering. "What could be nobler than helping our brave forces in Iraq?"
"I'm helping from afar." Aziraphale muttered, glaring at his dismembered copy of The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents. "Knitting socks, organizing supplies, you name it. Flying into dangerous territory? I think not!"
"I've already booked the tickets," Crowley said helpfully. "They're expecting The Astounding Mr. Fell to entertain the troops in three days' time. You wouldn't let down our soldiers, would you?"
Aziraphale stared at him in mute shock, silent treatment forgotten. The face of Maurice on the cover in his hands looked just as smug as Crowley felt.
"Oh, you are demonic." the angel said, looking as if he'd swallowed something unpleasant.
"Glad to see I still have the old touch." Crowley wiggled his fingers in demonstration, winked at Aziraphale, and walked out of the shop, humming cheerfully. This was fun.
*
Their trip was exactly as wretched as Aziraphale had imagined it would be.
First came the airport terminal of Heathrow, operating in full compliance with the normative British security and flight regulations.8 (No amount of miracling could convince the various flight personnel that Crowley was not an escaped convict, or, in Aziraphale's case, that anybody still traveled with tartan baggage these days. It was a disheartening reminder of the ineffability's true impotence when faced with the horror of Delayed Flight Notices.)
8 Which is to say, not at all.
Then the flight itself: a portable, claustrophobic war zone in its own right. (Crowley's miracled tickets had already included first-class seats, but the several dozen military officials aboard with them apparently thought differently. It took divine intervention equivalent to that of a minor sainthood in order to make their condition bearable, and even then, Aziraphale kept mumbling about un-orthopedic seats and bad tea.)
After they landed in Iraq, there was a two-day trip to Mosul, where their designated troops were camped. (It was July, and approximately 47o Celsius. Their summer attires were practically suffocating, besides making them look like stupid tourists, and Crowley was horrified to discover that Aziraphale did, in fact, possess a tartan t-shirt.)
When they reached the British camp, a few miles outside the city, both were considerably worse for wear.
"I don't know about you," Crowley muttered to Aziraphale, "but I'm going to commend camels to the folks Downstairs. I don't care if He invented the blessed things; clearly they're on our side."
"You know, dear, I'm rather inclined to agree," Aziraphale replied, as they swayed and jolted in their seats on the camel hump. "But I wonder, how will you reach your people? Remember, we're rather cut off at the moment."
"Who's talking about that Hell?" Crowley groused. "Camels deserve a Hell all of their own."
"I don't see why we have to ride one, if all the others get jeeps." Aziraphale said.9
"Look, angel - we're here!"
9 He wasn't alone in his confusion. Officer Cadet Davies had been wondering the same thing, as well.
"But why did we put them on camels, sir?" he whispered to 2nd Lt. Morgan, who was sitting besides him in the jeep. "With all due respect, sir, it's both impractical and painful."
"Stupid tourists," Morgan had replied, with grim satisfaction. "They want the Iraqi experience? We'll give it to 'em in full."
This was, in fact, not true. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale wanted anything but to go home. It could be argued, however, that this, too, was a part of the Iraqi experience, and so the point was moot.
The camp was big, and dusty, and full of men with guns.
"Please follow me, Mr. Fell," said a soldier, who introduced himself as Officer Cadet Lewis and led them past various tents and buildings. Crowley was assumed to be the Astounding Mr. Fell's manager, although some of the looks he'd received since their arrival had bordered on leers.
"These will be your quarters, sir," said Lewis, and almost ducked his head, much to Aziraphale's bemusement. "The show begins at 8 o' clock, and someone will come by later on to make sure you settle down. Um. We're all very excited. Sir." And this time he did duck his head, young and fresh-faced and eager to a fault. Aziraphale nearly cooed. Crowley looked nauseated.
"You looked like you were going to scratch him behind the ear," he said, once they were safely ensconced within their tent and out of earshot. "At least pick one that's already been house-trained."
"Oh, my dear boy," Aziraphale smiled at him, unperturbed. "I don't think we're quite ready for a puppy just yet."
And Crowley was just about to demand what he meant by that, when Aziraphale opened his tartan suitcase and produced the most hideous, besequined, glittering monstrosity he, Anthony J. Crowley, had ever seen outside of Hastur's closet.
"What is that?" he gasped, clutching at the arms of his military-issue folding chair.
"My costume, of course." Aziraphale sounded disproportionally cheerful, considering he was holding the spawn of Satan in his hands. And Crowley would know. "I'm not usually one for fancy clothing, but, you know, this is a special occasion, and I think it called for something with a bit more - glamour."
Crowley stared at the suit. It was made of liquid gold lame, and seemed to stare back.
"I. I." He said weakly, before hastily excusing himself and all but running away.
*
It was approximately five minutes to show time. Aziraphale double-checked his gear for the last time, then they were both led off by young Lewis, who was staring at the angel as though he was something Heaven-sent, much to Crowley's disgust.
A stage had been set up in the middle of camp, complete with makeshift lighting and some shabby scaffolding. The soldiers were already neatly assembled, staring at the setup with uniform expressions of neutrality.
Aziraphale and Crowley were hustled backstage, while Lieutenant Colonel Chiswell, a pleasant enough fellow who was the commanding officer of the camp, gave a brief introduction.
"Let's hope it goes better than the last time, eh?" said Aziraphale, while Crowley unburdened his portable cassette player onto a convenient crate. The angel had convinced him to bring it, on the grounds that any self-respecting stage magician would never perform without his background music. Crowley had privately questioned the 'self-respecting' bit, but obliged anyway.
"Good luck." he muttered, patting Aziraphale's hand. Then it was showtime. Crowley surprised himself by feeling slightly nervous.
"Good evening, gentlemen!" Aziraphale said, and the crowd immediately silenced. "Who am I? You may be wondering, and rightfully so, for I am not one of whom you have ever heard. But I say, keep your trousers on, for I shall tell you in a minute, and all will be clear. First, however, you, young fellow, what's your name?"
"Evans, sir." said a soldier, saluting. Aziraphale beamed.
"Well, Evans, bless my buttonhole, but you look a right dashing lad. And do you, perchance, happen to posses such a thing upon your person as a pocket handkerchief?"
From the shadows, Crowley cringed in embarrassment. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all.
"No? Are you sure? Go on, dear boy, take a look in your pocket, I'm positive you'll something, eh?"
If he made a break for it now and hijacked the camel, Crowley could be out of Iraq in two and a half days. The thought was getting increasingly more enticing.
"Ah, there we go! What was that doing there, eh? Now, my good fellows, if you'd deign rest your eyes upon this rum kerchief, you will see that it is nothing of the kind, but rather a beautiful flock of doves - aargh good grief, don't shoot them! Don't shoot!"
(The rest of the show went by in much the same manner, including, but not limited to, Crowley's debut with the music, which was supposed to be a succession of Criss Angel's thrilling instrumental themes but actually sounded like this:
Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide
No escape from reality... )
*
In the end, Crowley did in fact hijack the camel, dragging Aziraphale by the lapel the whole way. "Come on, come on!" he shouted, while behind them the camp collapsed in a bedlam of gunshots, marauding animals, and enraged officials. "Before we wear out our da - our blessed welcome!"
"This is definitely not what I had in mind when I said 'direct intervention', my dear!" Aziraphale gasped, struggling onto the camel and out of his malignant jacket.
Crowley didn't answer, just spurred the evil beast forward, and hung on.
*
"I say, remember last year? In the Middle East?" Aziraphale said one day. He was baking cookies in preparation for a charity sale, and had been covered with a light but thorough sprinkling of flour. A dollop of batter smudged his cheek, from when he'd licked the mixing bowl clean.
"Yes." Crowley said, cautiously. He was supposed to be minding the oven, and was carefully making sure that every batch would come out just burnt enough to be inedible. Fair's fair, after all.
"I was thinking," Aziraphale said wistfully, "perhaps it's time to go back there. Not to that specific camp, maybe, but a tour - magic shows for the soldiers in Iraq, you know, or the freedom fighters in Israel-"
Crowley stared in disbelief.
"Besides," the angel continued, perfectly oblivious, "I'd get to wear my magician's suit again. I had rather missed that."
Crowley's ladle, which he'd been carving little arcane symbols into, clattered to the floor.
"I think, angel," he managed, trying not to explode the oven or do anything equally drastic, "that we should concentrate our efforts here."
Aziraphale looked put-upon. "It was all so rushed - I didn't even get any souvenirs."
"Then, perhaps-" Crowley flung his mind back, desperately searching for a solution. "-it's time to get a puppy?"
Aziraphale looked at him as though he was quite deranged.
Crowley grimaced.
Life was so unfair.
"No camels." he warned, and Aziraphale positively beamed.
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