Fic: With Fire and Iron [I/?]
Title: With Fire and Iron [1/?]
Fandom: Supernatural/Good Omens
Pairing: Gen, so far. Eventual pairings in the GO!verse, maybe some Dean/Castiel. If you squint you can pick some up already.
Rating: R.
Length: 5723 words.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Even Armageddon believes in second chances.
Notes: Holy crap, plotty gen. This takes place during S4 of Supernatural and around fifteen years after the events of Good Omens. I'm trying to get a mix of GO's humor and SPN's angst and/or vice versa, and I have a few ideas for tying things together in a lovely big fat crossover-type way. Tell me if I should continue, if it's boring, or if you like it. Unbeta'd, so enjoy at your own risk. [The title is from the Latin phrase igni ferroque, "with fire and iron", a method one would use to lay siege to something.]
"What am I gonna do?"
A tattered body to his chest, not breathing. He's barely able to speak through grief, even if the tears had long wasted themselves on cotton and torn leather. He chokes up, dry heaves. Blood paints the claw-scratched floor, fills in the grooves like plaster. Smells too tangy, copper, unreal.
Everyone else is dead.
"What am I gonna do, Dean?"
There's no answer but the dawn in the window, the stink of death.
After a while, he gets up, goes out, finds a shovel. He makes a call, digs a grave. He's done it before. Every hit of the shovel into the dirt is something he's thought about for a year, a whole year. Maybe longer. Maybe forever.
ever since Dad said
take this
kill it
run.
After he's done digging, it's late, and there's a sort of funeral. His eyes are too blurred, too red to take it in. He just wants to leave. Most of all, he wants, he just wants to go and go.
He steps into a car that stills smells like him and fires the engine and lets it run for a minute. He stares out, out, into the distance.
Dean still doesn't answer his question, but Sam knows exactly what he's gonna do.
"The whole earth has been corrupted through the works that were taught by Azazel: to him ascribe all sin."
1 Enoch 10:8
When he Fell, he didn't know where he was Falling to, or why. There was a pit of amber-scattered dust and flaps of sulfuric earth there to swallow him up and he went straight to it, screaming his confusion to anyone who would listen. Whoever he would tell later in his life-that he'd chosen it, that he sauntered down to meet it-was being lied to. Was being told what was purely a defense mechanism. Nobody wants to go to Hell, not even its natural denizens.
Least of all fallen angels.
It was true that he'd 'hung out with the wrong people', but nobody had told him what would happen when he was found out, what the consequences would be for lobbying for free will-which was kind of a mind-blowing revelation for the angels, if you could believe that. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Thinking for yourself. He was all for the trendy stuff. Very avant-garde, Lucifer was.
And God hadn't up and decided to go off and create things yet, so there was nowhere else for the Host to go but deep down into the well to fester and rot.
Thinking back on it, he couldn't even begin to fathom how he managed to worm his way out of that one. Almost the exact moment he'd set flesh-torn, blood-slicked foot onto the misshapen rock of Hell, wings blackened shredded from the Fall and skin nearly flayed from his bones, just after he'd finished railing against the heavens at the unfairness of it all, he'd been picked out of the desperate crowd and given the promotion of a lifetime. "You're a demon now," Azazel had said. "Get up there and cause some trouble."
The funny thing was, about the free will deal, the whole point of the Rebellion? Turned out, in Hell, you still didn't have a choice. The free will thing was all just a crock.
And even so, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe the entire thing was his fault. Not the apple (all right, so it wasn't actually an apple) or the tempting or the first Apocalypse (all right, so it wasn't actually the Apocalypse) or anything. That was all just a freak misunderstanding, really.
No, the second Apocalypse was probably most definitely his fault.
Maybe.
"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so."
Hamlet, Act II, Scene II
It was rather a plain Wednesday. So far.
The ducks on the pond remained woefully buoyant, but this was only because Aziraphale had the foresight to distract Crowley with a steaming mug of tea and a few scones and a made-to-order sandwich from the local café, from which he'd also got the mug. Crowley was holding it so close to his face that the steam fogged his sunglasses, and he'd managed to drink half of it before his tongue realized the liquid was actually scalding hot. The scones rested in a bag somewhere in his pocket. Aziraphale had consumed the sandwich.
He was reaching for one of the scones before he realized that he'd just drunk tea from a mug that had little fat Santa Clauses on it. Before he could point this travesty out, Aziraphale said cheerfully, "They've started selling Christmas decorations," and he was left holding the mug in a loose hand with a sour look on his face.
"The café?" He guessed, figuring he may as well partake in this conversation, no matter how perturbing.
"In general," Aziraphale said. "And in the café."
It was a odd feature of contemporary human society, where, Crowley had observed, holiday decorations were put out days or sometimes months beforehand. Unsurprisingly, the only people who bought those early decorations were the ones who put them out early, which inevitably started a sort of vicious circle that usually ended up with one's tree lights out in the bushes all year. Crowley had seen enough plastic reindeer with bulbous red noses sitting innocently on people's lawns to know exactly the type of people who Aziraphale was talking about. [1]
"But it's October," Crowley said, fighting valiantly. "There's Halloween in October. Comes first."
Aziraphale sniffed. "I didn't see any Halloween decorations."
"Not even pumpkins?"
"Not a gourd in sight."
"Ah," Crowley said, sneaking a glance out of his periphery. Aziraphale had gone back to looking cheerful, red and green scarf perched jauntily around his shoulders. Crowley had the sneaking suspicion that the decorations had vanished the second the angel entered the café, or after he'd found most of it to be appallingly pagan. Aziraphale didn't like Halloween at all, thought it was campy and held too many nasty historical connotations. To be fair, Crowley felt exactly the same way about Christmas.
The only thing those two holidays had in common was that nobody celebrated them correctly anymore.
Crowley sighed and threw a piece of scone at a duck. He chanced a look over at the lot where the Bentley was parked and it immediately looked shinier, matte lacquer against the backdrop of brightly colored red, orange, and yellow trees, as the dust particles hurried to remove themselves from the paint. Crowley's smile practically ate his mouth, and all thoughts of Christmas, or Halloween for that matter, left him.
They made a full circuit of the pond once before they headed back to the Bentley and got in. Crowley put it in gear as Aziraphale regaled him with tales of people indulging in some good Samaritanism (as opposed to bad Satanism, Crowley had joked lamely, and got a disapproving stare for his troubles) and made it back to Aziraphale's bookshop somewhat intact.
"I'll ring later," Crowley promised, as Aziraphale went inside to presumably make more tea, or clout himself over the head with research of a dusty, angelic kind. It was as he was driving breakneck speeds back to his flat with Boccherini's Crazy Little Thing Called Love echoing his sentiments that he noticed the Santa Claus mug resting innocently on his upholstery.
Which probably should have been his first clue that things were going to bottom out spectacularly, but Crowley was rather too easily optimistic for a demon.
"Ngk," he gagged.
-relax, get hip, get on my tracks, take a back seat, hitch-hike, and take a long ride on my motor bike, until I'm ready, crazy little thing called CROWLEY.
"Ngk," Crowley said again, but for a completely different reason.
They hadn't contacted him in-in a bloody long while, that was what. Something in him knotted to whipcord tense, straining. Took it out of a demon to be nervous. His brain was suddenly shot through with memories and all sorts of paperwork and the cries of a wailing baby and fire and brimstone and all that generic Revelation stuff, and boy, Crowley thought. He was relatively sure demons couldn't get post-traumatic stress, but there was a first for everything.
Hell didn't usually forgive and forget. It had probably been a mistake to take their pardon in good faith.
Ha. Faith.
Crowley was pretty-almost entirely-sure he was fucked.
WE'VE MISSED YOU, CROWLEY.
"Can't really say the same," Crowley muttered, white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
WE'VE GOT A JOB FOR YOU, CROWLEY. YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN DO THIS JOB, CROWLEY, AND WE ARE COUNTING ON YOU.
"Yeah?"
DO NOT DISAPPOINT US, CROWLEY. NOT LIKE LAST TIME. WE HAVE GOT YOU IN OUR SIGHTS, CROWLEY, AND IF YOU MAKE THE SAME MISTAKE TWICE, WE WILL MAKE SURE YOU DO NOT MAKE IT THRICE.
"Okay," Crowley said. "Right."
ARE WE CLEAR?
"Terrifyingly," Crowley said.
GOOD. WE SHALL CHECK IN LATER called love I just can't handle it, this thing called love I must get round to it-
Freddie Mercury's voice suddenly cut off, as if it had sense enough to stop before Crowley began to dismember things.
There it was, all mapped out in his head like a schematic for a bank robbery, complete with red markings, tape and glue, little arrows pointing every which way until it all muddled up into something really, really muddled. Crowley hated that. Even after the first attempt at Armageddon, Hell still hadn't learned what nice printed and faxed memo could do for employee morale.
He pulled over. Dropped his forehead to the steering wheel and stayed there for a good five minutes just breathing, trying to get his head wrapped around what he was supposed to do and why it was that much more of a problem than what he had done... before.
He had half a mind to pitch a fit at God for being such an almighty cunt, but figured he'd already wasted the effort some six-thousand years ago. Besides, Aziraphale would flay him alive.
"Bugger," he choked out.
Eventually he got himself together and turned the ignition without touching it. He was running on a sort of autopilot. Something to buy him more time as he pulled his strings all into one ball of yarn, something stupid like that.
The Christmas mug was still there, staring at him, and that just made things worse somehow.
At least it was an excuse to turn around, give it back to the angel, maybe afford him half an excuse to fly into raging hysterics. He would have willed it away, otherwise.
Among other things, those kinds of mugs just shouldn't exist.
"Little children, it is the last time: and as ye have heard that antichrist shall come, even now are there many antichrists; whereby we know that it is the last time."
1 John 2:18
Adam lived with Pepper.
The owned a house together, in Lower Tadfield, took out a fifteen-year mortgage on it after Adam's first book had sold over a hundred thousand copies. Pepper had a signed copy that she kept in a cardboard box under their bed, hidden among Brian's old comics and a few of Wensleydale's botched inventions. She thought he didn't know, and he never told her that he did, but he appreciated the sentiment all the same.
He'd also signed a first-edition copy and sent it to an old friend with a bookshop in Soho, where it was presumably gathering dust on some obscure shelf. Adam had received an enthusiastic letter of praise and gratitude the following week and he kept that, like Pepper, in box he preferred to think nobody knew about. He wasn't a particularly sentimental man, but what he loved, he loved dearly.
It was Tuesday morning when he felt the world change, but it was Wednesday afternoon when Anathema Device showed up on his doorstep.
"Hello," he said, with the door open, a small, long-lived animal barking somewhere from around his heels.
"Adam?" Anathema said. There was a wad of papers stuffed under her arm. "We need to-"
"Come in," he interrupted, stepping back to allow her inside.
Pepper was at work with Brian at his car repair shop, so the kitchen was very empty, and felt emptier still when Anathema sat down and arranged the papers in in haphazard fashion on the kitchen table. Adam hadn't seen her in years. She looked worn, but well-kept for a woman of her age. There were lines around her eyes and mouth that hadn't been there before.
She had been young when they first met, but even if he was twenty-six now, Adam still felt inexperienced.
"Adam," she said again. He held up a hand.
"How did you get my address?"
She looked at him like he was just stupid; then he remembered that she was still a witch, and sighed. She must have scryed him.
Huh.
Anathema began, "I never told you this, but after-" she made a motion with her hand, which Adam took to mean the Apocalypse, "-I received another manuscript."
"Another manuscript?" Adam said. Obviously they weren't going to sugarcoat things; Anathema had the air of someone about to divulge secret information of the highest order, and the topic had already skidded into territory Adam usually avoided thinking about.
In fact, he was sure that out of everything she had to say, none of it he would like.
"Of prophecies. I had the one last time. You know. The Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. This," she tapped the pile of papers, "is the sequel."
Adam pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. He picked up the foremost sheet of dry paper, titled Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com; Ye Sage Acontinuef in large and enticing script, and met Anathema's eyes over the tabletop.
"A sequel to the predictions concerning the end of the world," he said.
"Exactly. A sequel. Which means we have another Apocalypse on our hands."
"Why are you telling me this now?" Adam said carefully, replacing the paper. He may as well have said why do you trust me, but Anathema ignored whatever subliminal connotations under his quiet words. As if it was obvious.
"I-Newt didn't want me to. I didn't, either, really. I didn't want to be a descendant for the rest of my life. Because, well, you know, even if I did decipher the prophecies, I couldn't stop them, so it was a little pointless." She shrugged half-heartedly.
Adam nodded slowly.
"But I wanted to see what it said. It didn't make a lick of sense to me then, of course, since I didn't bother translating or anything, just read through... but it's been more than eleven years. Some of it's... familiar. I probably shouldn't have waited so long."
He leaned forward on his elbows. "Familiar how?"
"Well. I started noticing little things. Things happening in America that Newt would tell me over breakfast-he watches the news. And the serious spike in supernatural presences. That happens sometimes, but it was mentioned in the book. I had to make sure, so I scryed everything with a otherworldly aura within a fifty-mile radius and my maps caught fire. Something's going on."
"What does the manuscript say?"
"It isn't as sporadic as the last. Things follow a linear storyline-seem to center around a few key people. Nothing makes any biblical sense, of course, they already exhausted Revelation the first time around. But the base concepts stay the same." She paused, grimacing a little. "The four horsemen, the Host. The only thing's missing is-"
"Me," Adam finished.
"Yes," Anathema said softly.
They were silent for a moment, before Anathema said, "Maybe they've realized that they don't need the Antichrist to set off Armageddon." Or they're going to use you without your consent-the unspoken footnote.
"Maybe," was all he said.
"Adam." Anathema turned her face to him, her eyes dark. Hope swam in them somewhere, too cowed to shine out. He paid her the courtesy of not breaking eye-contact, even if he was screaming at himself to do so. "Adam, listen. If they want this so bad to happen, it's going to. It doesn't matter how many of these we prevent. There's always going to be another."
Adam's jaw clenched.
"But," Anathema said softly, "that doesn't mean you have to give up."
Adam's gaze slid from Anathema to the two photographs on the kitchen divide. It was of the Them, when they were younger, Pepper's tanned face all freckled from the sun and Brian trying really hard to get Wensleydale into a headlock. They were all smiling, even Adam, who was stoically trying to prevent the upward turn of his mouth.
The second photograph was of the Them when they'd graduated college, united in Lower Tadfield in the summer one more time. Instead of the field where the first photo was taken, this one was in front of Brian's car repair. This time, Pepper was giving Brian a noogie, and Wensleydale, fresh from MIT, was giving them a shy, content look. Adam had his arm slung around Pepper's waist, and Brian had his oil-greased hand across Wensleydale's shoulders.
In that one, Adam's smile stretched from ear to ear.
He turned back to Anathema.
"All right," he said.
She smiled.
By the time Pepper came home, Anathema was asleep with her head pillowed in a bed of papers and Adam was on the couch, a steaming cup of coffee in hand, pouring over Agnes' prophecies with a page of scribbled notations beside him, Dog's head resting on his thigh.
"But love ye your enemies, and do good, and lend, hoping for nothing again; and your reward shall be great, and ye shall be the children of the Highest: for he is kind unto the unthankful and to the evil.
Luke 6:35
He broke every sort of speed limit there was and some that hadn't been invented yet on his way back to Soho, pulled back up to Aziraphale's shop with a screech of the tires that died on the air. He got out by jumping the Bentley's flank and ran up to the door, where the sign on the window said SORRY, WE'RE CLOSED in nice, inoffensive letters (this didn't stop Crowley, of course, and neither did the lock). The angel wasn't behind the counter, nor in the dreadfully dank back room that smelt unapologetically like old boots. He was, however, in his flat above the shop with his cold-pinked nose buried in a novel, and looked surprised to see Crowley when he burst in with his sunglasses askance.
"I thought you were going to call?"
"Didn't get that far," Crowley said. He sat down.
It wasn't that he was a double agent, although the idea was devilishly appealing. It wasn't exactly in the interests of the Arrangement either, to tell Aziraphale what was going on Down There without expecting some kind of favor in return. It just happened to be that Crowley was at his wits' end and needed somebody to tell, and that somebody happened to work for the Enemy. And was his only friend.
He decided not to dwell on that too much.
Besides, Aziraphale would probably receive his own cosmic Prime Directive sometime soon. Crowley was just... speeding up things.
Yes. That sounded perfectly plausible.
Crowley went for broke. "Listen. We averted Armageddon. Right?"
"Not 'we', I should think," Aziraphale said placidly. "We sort of got caught up. Adam was-"
"That's not the point."
"Go on."
"The point," Crowley said. "I'm in deep."
Aziraphale's spectacles inched down his nose, as if the get away from how blue his eyes had just gotten. "My dear boy, are you feeling all right?"
"Yes. No. Yeah." Crowley swallowed. "I've been. I've been drafted."
Aziraphale stared at him, and then sat back in his chair. His face sort of dropped, as if he'd been holding out for something, and it had just fallen through. He was particularly good at making that kind of face. If he were anybody else, Crowley might feel compelled to give him some money and tell him, look, there's a chap, go get yourself something to eat.
Crowley shook himself of that horrifying notion. Backtrack. He cleared his throat. "I think you know. There's-they're trying for another one."
Aziraphale blinked. "Another one."
"Yes. Another one."
"You mean, your people?"
"Well, yes," Crowley admitted. "But it's not that-your side's caught on-it's always us that has to start it, you know. It's like that game with the, the black pieces with the white dots, or is it the other way around-"
"Dominoes," Aziraphale supplied helpfully.
"Dominoes. We tip over the first one, you have to follow, that's the rules."
"Well, we don't follow," Aziraphale said indignantly, putting down his book at last, "It's ineffable. All part of the Divine Plan." He paused. "I feel we've had this conversation before."
Crowley waved a hand. "Whatever. They want a round two," he said. "They're really serious about it this time. They're not going to play by the Book. Since they, er, already did that."
Aziraphale didn't say anything. For a moment Crowley thought about the ridiculous amount of classic (and Infamous) bibles the angel had stored and collected over the years; not one of them was going to help them now, not even The Nife and Accurate Prophecies, which Aziraphale had kept under lock and key just in case. Just in case for what, Crowley didn't know, but felt it might have something to do with this.
He had a feeling that whatever they were going to use this time, it wasn't going to be anything so readily accessible as a book of prophecies.
Crowley hoped he was wrong about that. Really, he really did.
"It's not that bad," he said reasonably. "It had to happen again. Eventually."
"Yes, but so soon?" Aziraphale sighed.
"My day is as ruined as yours. And it's been. More than eleven years, after all. More than enough time for them to get their bearings about... certain things."
Aziraphale sighed again. The type of sigh, which, if you're subjected to it, makes you feel utterly useless. Crowley steeled himself and plowed on.
"And, er. About the drafting. Before it was, it was kind of a one-job deal. Get the Antichrist, drop him off, all done."
"I recall," Aziraphale said dryly.
Crowley glared. It wasn't his fault he messed up. It really wasn't. It was nuns.
"I've been ordered to America," he blurted.
Aziraphale frowned. "Whatever for?"
"Something about stopping somebody, I'm a bit fuzzy on the details," Crowley lied.
"Stopping somebody?" Aziraphale said. His bright eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "I'm obligated to thwart your wiles, however vague, you know."
"That's what I'm counting on," Crowley admitted. [2]
There was another long, drawn out pause, where Crowley tried to look as much as a kicked puppy as he could possibly manage (which, considering his snakelike features, was ostensibly bizarre). He could almost see the cogs turning in the angel's head, and leaned forward when they seemed to slow to a stop.
Aziraphale was far too kind for his own good. Crowley would feel bad for using that to his advantage, but, well. Hey. Demon.
"How are we getting all the way to America?" Aziraphale said at last.
"Think of it as a business trip, all expenses paid," Crowley said, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'll get us tickets. First class."
"A plane?" Aziraphale moaned. Crowley patted him consolingly on the shoulder.
"It won't be so bad. Peanuts, movies. Maybe we can set you up with some headphones and The Sound of Music."
Aziraphale stared at him in a kind of silent horror; Crowley just laughed.
At least he wouldn't have to go it alone.
"But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, you shall not eat of it; for in the day that you eat of it you will surely die."
Genesis 2:17
Anathema rubbed her eyes. In her many years of doing this, it never got any easier.
66: Fromme fyre these two menne borne, each to either Side, bounde by bloode yette myndes torne, harts cleaved from one, the thirde Parte fromme them gone for ever bye a Daemon's vile wordes.
She checked her annotations on the note card: Two men. Born from fire? Demons no, they've got hearts. Accident during childbirth, or early lives? Brothers. One good, one evil? Third part... hmm...
Anathema had never heard of a three-parted heart, but she tended to take Agnes' predictions metaphorically. Perhaps she'd meant three parts of a whole, two of which were the brothers, and other... another brother? 'Parte' seemed more important than that, though. Maybe their father?
... gone for ever bye a Daemon's vile wordes.
She quickly scribbled the father sold his soul. but for what?, and that seemed to click all right.
The brothers weren't mentioned for another hundred predictions at least, but that they'd cropped up so early was obviously important. It was only the sixty-sixth one. That had to mean something. If the manuscript wasn't so obviously focused on the lives of these two men, Anathema would have shrugged it off as another Strange Occurrence of the Endtimes [3] and tried to find hidden meanings in other passages, but it was, and, well, that was odd. Agnes' predictions had never been so focused before.
She flipped to another notecard.
145: when Deville's Gate opened be, the two menne in the trade of myne own undoing sharl fighte that whych is unleashed, amonge themme a black eyed Woman of scarlett; One will trye to stoppe the Other who sharl partake in Her flesh.
146: Daemon's lyfe the youngyr consumes, yette knowweing what it does he ceases notte.
Adam had written on it:
145: Gate from Hell. Witchfinders? Meet a courtesan, or woman dressed in red. A demon. One of the men wants to kill her, the other loves her. Or sleeps with her. Cross reference when you can
146: The younger man kills the demon? Or... eats her. Knows what he's doing but doesn't stop.
That might fit in with the Good vs Evil brother idea. Whoever those two were, they were digging themselves some pretty abyssal graves. She rubbed the bridge of her nose.
There was simply too much information. Anathema had spent most of her adult life trying to decipher Agnes' ramblings, and she was trying to decode a whole other batch in a about a fraction of time and make sense of it. Agnes had obviously been counting on Anathema to keep on deciphering even after the almost-but-not-quite-Apocalypse, but she hadn't. If she had, she might have been able to catch the signs earlier.
For all she knew, a good majority of this could have happened already. Even with Adam's help, it seemed impossible.
There was too much.
She had been researching for hours now, and had moved the materials back to her little cottage to continue well past midnight while Adam explained things to Pepper. When she'd got in, trailing papers and cards and bags under her eyes, Newt had given her a sad look that she felt absolutely horrid for.
She reminded herself to make it up to him somehow. Before the world ended. Again.
The notecards stared up at her, taunting her. Each held one if not several red markings, notations, possible interpretations. All the information she'd collected so far didn't so much as mention times, places, or events that she'd be able to match up with the news. Even Newt had been stumped when he'd tried to help, when she'd asked him to recall anything weird happening on the news lately. He'd said, yes, well, it's been happening everywhere, but I don't think most people would notice if they weren't looking.
We're looking, Anathema had replied.
Sighing, she pulled on her last reserves of energy and called it a night (or early morning), and managed to make it upstairs without twisting an ankle or breaking her face open on the landing. She shed her clothes and slid into bed without disturbing Newt, who snored on; but as she settled, his arm circled her belly and pulled her in close.
He snuffled happily into her hair and she curled into him. There were worse things, she mused sleepily.
She'd work harder tomorrow.
"Nor from hell
One step no more than from himself can fly
By change of place."
Paradise Lost
Aziraphale was driving Crowley round the pole.
At first, Crowley had thought maybe Aziraphale was jerking his chain when he'd said that no, he'd never been on a plane, and yes, he thought maybe a nice cruise would be better, didn't Crowley think, all that lovely water. Lovely fish, dolphins, whales. Yes, wasn't a cruise just the better option?
Then Crowley had remembered Aziraphale's distaste for anything remotely modern and/or technological, the kind that stemmed from years upon years of botching up any attempts at making friends with whatever was causing him trouble (cellular phones, printers, the internet). It was slightly clearer as to why Aziraphale's computer came from the Pleistocene age and why telephones often gave him grief and why, whenever the angel came to Crowley's flat, he tread around the stereo equipment like it might suddenly grow teeth.
Crowley, of course, had never had such a problem. [4]
On the other hand, it was very amusing to see an angel complain about rogue air currents, even if this particular angel hadn't seen the sun up close in perhaps a few thousand years. Neither of them really had any time to stretch their wings anymore.
But, Crowley reflected, driving the Bentley was enough like flying anyway that it didn't really matter.
"But how does it stay afloat?" Aziraphale wrung his hands.
"That's boats, angel."
"I expect you know, then," Aziraphale said bitterly, fiddling with the buttons on his coat so as not to look directly into the blinding force that was Crowley's wide, toothy grin.
"Physics."
"Yes, but we both know that they don't apply at times!"
"Then miracle up some good weather. Your people can do that, right? Prevent turbulence. Easy flying."
"Hnmph," muttered Aziraphale. "I'm not supposed to be here anyway."
"Come on. Don't be like that. It's just heights. You've flown loads of times." wheedled Crowley, because he could.
Aziraphale heaved a sigh. "Not in a-a great metal tube of a thing. I would feel more comfortable if I wasn't strapped in."
"They let you take your seat belt off during the middle bit."
The angel frowned. "That's hardly reassuring."
"You'll get used to it."
"I hope so. I do hope so."
Crowley rolled his eyes.
Apparently Aziraphale's irrational fear of flying didn't prevent him from performing minor miracles. A lost, sobbing little boy found his mother, there were no delays, nobody's luggage went missing, and all parties made it to their gates in time to catch their flights. Argumentative couples smiled at each other and nothing got stolen.
Meanwhile, those who were on important business trips suddenly found themselves to be flying third class, all the magazines and refreshments went up a pound in price and a few decimals more in tax, and all the vending machines ceased to work. Crowley smirked as a young man kicked one and stormed off to buy his share at the next pseudo-restaurant and pretended not to notice when Aziraphale gave him a disapproving glare.
"Really," the angel murmured.
"Really really," Crowley confirmed.
Since they'd brought no luggage (they could conjure some if they really needed it, but Crowley had a flat in almost every country of the world) they made it onto the plane without having to cram their belongings into overhead compartments and inconvenience other people.
Crowley took the window seat in first class since there was no sense in making the angel jumpier than he had to be, and Aziraphale gratefully smiled at him for it.
Crowley smiled back.
The Sound of Music flickered into being on one of small television screens.
Aziraphale turned livid red and refused to look at him until they were well up into the air, but by then Crowley had nixed the Julie Andrews thing and entertained himself by humming something atrociously poppy, soft enough not to draw attention from the flight attendants, but loud enough to get on everybody else's nerves. When he finally stopped and looked over to see if the angel had survived the most basic of childish torture techniques, he found that he was asleep, mouth open the tiniest bit and glasses askew on his nose.
Which was odd, since they didn't actually need to sleep. (Crowley only ever did because, hey, what else are you going to do with silk sheets that comfortable?)
So Crowley poked him.
Aziraphale twitched.
"Angel?" he hissed.
Predictably, he was ignored.
"Playing that game, are you?" he huffed, and crossed his arms. Well, one annoying game for another, he supposed. There was only so much pop he could take singing, and he'd had a hand in the genre.
If he'd looked over he might have been able to see Aziraphale smile the tiniest bit, but he didn't.
Instead he pushed his sunglasses high up on his nose and leaned his head and torso back, enjoying the sound of Aziraphale's steady breathing next to him.
"Long is the way
And hard, that out of hell leads up to light."
Paradise Lost
"I tried everything, that's the truth. I tried opening the Devil's Gate, Hell, I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, all right. You were rotting in Hell, for months, for months, and I couldn't stop it. So, I'm sorry it wasn't me, all right. Dean, I'm sorry."
"It's okay, Sammy.
You don't have to apologize
I believe you."
[1]The type that wore scratchy, home-made knit sweaters with a thread count of two and who hung mistletoe everywhere and who owned at least ten cats (one of which was usually named 'Mr Bigglesworth') and who baked those revolting little snowman cookies coated with about six million pounds of sugar and who went to nativity plays voluntarily. Crowley hadn't quite gotten over his Pavlovian response of gagging whenever he came across one. Aziraphale, of course, thought they were simply precious.
[2]Neither of them wanted the world to end, not really. Even if global warming and stock market crashes and wars and politics and romantic comedies were part of humanity, so were things like HD plasma television screens and central air conditioning. If you were going to get stuck with humans for all eternity, you might as well get comfortable.
[3]Remember the aliens? As far as Anathema was concerned, anything was possible.
[4]Technology knew better than to stop working around Crowley. Unless, of course, he told it to.
Fandom: Supernatural/Good Omens
Pairing: Gen, so far. Eventual pairings in the GO!verse, maybe some Dean/Castiel. If you squint you can pick some up already.
Rating: R.
Length: 5723 words.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Even Armageddon believes in second chances.
Notes: Holy crap, plotty gen. This takes place during S4 of Supernatural and around fifteen years after the events of Good Omens. I'm trying to get a mix of GO's humor and SPN's angst and/or vice versa, and I have a few ideas for tying things together in a lovely big fat crossover-type way. Tell me if I should continue, if it's boring, or if you like it. Unbeta'd, so enjoy at your own risk. [The title is from the Latin phrase igni ferroque, "with fire and iron", a method one would use to lay siege to something.]
"What am I gonna do?"
A tattered body to his chest, not breathing. He's barely able to speak through grief, even if the tears had long wasted themselves on cotton and torn leather. He chokes up, dry heaves. Blood paints the claw-scratched floor, fills in the grooves like plaster. Smells too tangy, copper, unreal.
Everyone else is dead.
"What am I gonna do, Dean?"
There's no answer but the dawn in the window, the stink of death.
After a while, he gets up, goes out, finds a shovel. He makes a call, digs a grave. He's done it before. Every hit of the shovel into the dirt is something he's thought about for a year, a whole year. Maybe longer. Maybe forever.
ever since Dad said
take this
kill it
run.
After he's done digging, it's late, and there's a sort of funeral. His eyes are too blurred, too red to take it in. He just wants to leave. Most of all, he wants, he just wants to go and go.
He steps into a car that stills smells like him and fires the engine and lets it run for a minute. He stares out, out, into the distance.
Dean still doesn't answer his question, but Sam knows exactly what he's gonna do.
"The whole earth has been corrupted through the works that were taught by Azazel: to him ascribe all sin."
1 Enoch 10:8
When he Fell, he didn't know where he was Falling to, or why. There was a pit of amber-scattered dust and flaps of sulfuric earth there to swallow him up and he went straight to it, screaming his confusion to anyone who would listen. Whoever he would tell later in his life-that he'd chosen it, that he sauntered down to meet it-was being lied to. Was being told what was purely a defense mechanism. Nobody wants to go to Hell, not even its natural denizens.
Least of all fallen angels.
It was true that he'd 'hung out with the wrong people', but nobody had told him what would happen when he was found out, what the consequences would be for lobbying for free will-which was kind of a mind-blowing revelation for the angels, if you could believe that. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Thinking for yourself. He was all for the trendy stuff. Very avant-garde, Lucifer was.
And God hadn't up and decided to go off and create things yet, so there was nowhere else for the Host to go but deep down into the well to fester and rot.
Thinking back on it, he couldn't even begin to fathom how he managed to worm his way out of that one. Almost the exact moment he'd set flesh-torn, blood-slicked foot onto the misshapen rock of Hell, wings blackened shredded from the Fall and skin nearly flayed from his bones, just after he'd finished railing against the heavens at the unfairness of it all, he'd been picked out of the desperate crowd and given the promotion of a lifetime. "You're a demon now," Azazel had said. "Get up there and cause some trouble."
The funny thing was, about the free will deal, the whole point of the Rebellion? Turned out, in Hell, you still didn't have a choice. The free will thing was all just a crock.
And even so, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe the entire thing was his fault. Not the apple (all right, so it wasn't actually an apple) or the tempting or the first Apocalypse (all right, so it wasn't actually the Apocalypse) or anything. That was all just a freak misunderstanding, really.
No, the second Apocalypse was probably most definitely his fault.
Maybe.
"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so."
Hamlet, Act II, Scene II
It was rather a plain Wednesday. So far.
The ducks on the pond remained woefully buoyant, but this was only because Aziraphale had the foresight to distract Crowley with a steaming mug of tea and a few scones and a made-to-order sandwich from the local café, from which he'd also got the mug. Crowley was holding it so close to his face that the steam fogged his sunglasses, and he'd managed to drink half of it before his tongue realized the liquid was actually scalding hot. The scones rested in a bag somewhere in his pocket. Aziraphale had consumed the sandwich.
He was reaching for one of the scones before he realized that he'd just drunk tea from a mug that had little fat Santa Clauses on it. Before he could point this travesty out, Aziraphale said cheerfully, "They've started selling Christmas decorations," and he was left holding the mug in a loose hand with a sour look on his face.
"The café?" He guessed, figuring he may as well partake in this conversation, no matter how perturbing.
"In general," Aziraphale said. "And in the café."
It was a odd feature of contemporary human society, where, Crowley had observed, holiday decorations were put out days or sometimes months beforehand. Unsurprisingly, the only people who bought those early decorations were the ones who put them out early, which inevitably started a sort of vicious circle that usually ended up with one's tree lights out in the bushes all year. Crowley had seen enough plastic reindeer with bulbous red noses sitting innocently on people's lawns to know exactly the type of people who Aziraphale was talking about. [1]
"But it's October," Crowley said, fighting valiantly. "There's Halloween in October. Comes first."
Aziraphale sniffed. "I didn't see any Halloween decorations."
"Not even pumpkins?"
"Not a gourd in sight."
"Ah," Crowley said, sneaking a glance out of his periphery. Aziraphale had gone back to looking cheerful, red and green scarf perched jauntily around his shoulders. Crowley had the sneaking suspicion that the decorations had vanished the second the angel entered the café, or after he'd found most of it to be appallingly pagan. Aziraphale didn't like Halloween at all, thought it was campy and held too many nasty historical connotations. To be fair, Crowley felt exactly the same way about Christmas.
The only thing those two holidays had in common was that nobody celebrated them correctly anymore.
Crowley sighed and threw a piece of scone at a duck. He chanced a look over at the lot where the Bentley was parked and it immediately looked shinier, matte lacquer against the backdrop of brightly colored red, orange, and yellow trees, as the dust particles hurried to remove themselves from the paint. Crowley's smile practically ate his mouth, and all thoughts of Christmas, or Halloween for that matter, left him.
They made a full circuit of the pond once before they headed back to the Bentley and got in. Crowley put it in gear as Aziraphale regaled him with tales of people indulging in some good Samaritanism (as opposed to bad Satanism, Crowley had joked lamely, and got a disapproving stare for his troubles) and made it back to Aziraphale's bookshop somewhat intact.
"I'll ring later," Crowley promised, as Aziraphale went inside to presumably make more tea, or clout himself over the head with research of a dusty, angelic kind. It was as he was driving breakneck speeds back to his flat with Boccherini's Crazy Little Thing Called Love echoing his sentiments that he noticed the Santa Claus mug resting innocently on his upholstery.
Which probably should have been his first clue that things were going to bottom out spectacularly, but Crowley was rather too easily optimistic for a demon.
"Ngk," he gagged.
-relax, get hip, get on my tracks, take a back seat, hitch-hike, and take a long ride on my motor bike, until I'm ready, crazy little thing called CROWLEY.
"Ngk," Crowley said again, but for a completely different reason.
They hadn't contacted him in-in a bloody long while, that was what. Something in him knotted to whipcord tense, straining. Took it out of a demon to be nervous. His brain was suddenly shot through with memories and all sorts of paperwork and the cries of a wailing baby and fire and brimstone and all that generic Revelation stuff, and boy, Crowley thought. He was relatively sure demons couldn't get post-traumatic stress, but there was a first for everything.
Hell didn't usually forgive and forget. It had probably been a mistake to take their pardon in good faith.
Ha. Faith.
Crowley was pretty-almost entirely-sure he was fucked.
WE'VE MISSED YOU, CROWLEY.
"Can't really say the same," Crowley muttered, white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
WE'VE GOT A JOB FOR YOU, CROWLEY. YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN DO THIS JOB, CROWLEY, AND WE ARE COUNTING ON YOU.
"Yeah?"
DO NOT DISAPPOINT US, CROWLEY. NOT LIKE LAST TIME. WE HAVE GOT YOU IN OUR SIGHTS, CROWLEY, AND IF YOU MAKE THE SAME MISTAKE TWICE, WE WILL MAKE SURE YOU DO NOT MAKE IT THRICE.
"Okay," Crowley said. "Right."
ARE WE CLEAR?
"Terrifyingly," Crowley said.
GOOD. WE SHALL CHECK IN LATER called love I just can't handle it, this thing called love I must get round to it-
Freddie Mercury's voice suddenly cut off, as if it had sense enough to stop before Crowley began to dismember things.
There it was, all mapped out in his head like a schematic for a bank robbery, complete with red markings, tape and glue, little arrows pointing every which way until it all muddled up into something really, really muddled. Crowley hated that. Even after the first attempt at Armageddon, Hell still hadn't learned what nice printed and faxed memo could do for employee morale.
He pulled over. Dropped his forehead to the steering wheel and stayed there for a good five minutes just breathing, trying to get his head wrapped around what he was supposed to do and why it was that much more of a problem than what he had done... before.
He had half a mind to pitch a fit at God for being such an almighty cunt, but figured he'd already wasted the effort some six-thousand years ago. Besides, Aziraphale would flay him alive.
"Bugger," he choked out.
Eventually he got himself together and turned the ignition without touching it. He was running on a sort of autopilot. Something to buy him more time as he pulled his strings all into one ball of yarn, something stupid like that.
The Christmas mug was still there, staring at him, and that just made things worse somehow.
At least it was an excuse to turn around, give it back to the angel, maybe afford him half an excuse to fly into raging hysterics. He would have willed it away, otherwise.
Among other things, those kinds of mugs just shouldn't exist.
"Little children, it is the last time: and as ye have heard that antichrist shall come, even now are there many antichrists; whereby we know that it is the last time."
1 John 2:18
Adam lived with Pepper.
The owned a house together, in Lower Tadfield, took out a fifteen-year mortgage on it after Adam's first book had sold over a hundred thousand copies. Pepper had a signed copy that she kept in a cardboard box under their bed, hidden among Brian's old comics and a few of Wensleydale's botched inventions. She thought he didn't know, and he never told her that he did, but he appreciated the sentiment all the same.
He'd also signed a first-edition copy and sent it to an old friend with a bookshop in Soho, where it was presumably gathering dust on some obscure shelf. Adam had received an enthusiastic letter of praise and gratitude the following week and he kept that, like Pepper, in box he preferred to think nobody knew about. He wasn't a particularly sentimental man, but what he loved, he loved dearly.
It was Tuesday morning when he felt the world change, but it was Wednesday afternoon when Anathema Device showed up on his doorstep.
"Hello," he said, with the door open, a small, long-lived animal barking somewhere from around his heels.
"Adam?" Anathema said. There was a wad of papers stuffed under her arm. "We need to-"
"Come in," he interrupted, stepping back to allow her inside.
Pepper was at work with Brian at his car repair shop, so the kitchen was very empty, and felt emptier still when Anathema sat down and arranged the papers in in haphazard fashion on the kitchen table. Adam hadn't seen her in years. She looked worn, but well-kept for a woman of her age. There were lines around her eyes and mouth that hadn't been there before.
She had been young when they first met, but even if he was twenty-six now, Adam still felt inexperienced.
"Adam," she said again. He held up a hand.
"How did you get my address?"
She looked at him like he was just stupid; then he remembered that she was still a witch, and sighed. She must have scryed him.
Huh.
Anathema began, "I never told you this, but after-" she made a motion with her hand, which Adam took to mean the Apocalypse, "-I received another manuscript."
"Another manuscript?" Adam said. Obviously they weren't going to sugarcoat things; Anathema had the air of someone about to divulge secret information of the highest order, and the topic had already skidded into territory Adam usually avoided thinking about.
In fact, he was sure that out of everything she had to say, none of it he would like.
"Of prophecies. I had the one last time. You know. The Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. This," she tapped the pile of papers, "is the sequel."
Adam pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. He picked up the foremost sheet of dry paper, titled Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com; Ye Sage Acontinuef in large and enticing script, and met Anathema's eyes over the tabletop.
"A sequel to the predictions concerning the end of the world," he said.
"Exactly. A sequel. Which means we have another Apocalypse on our hands."
"Why are you telling me this now?" Adam said carefully, replacing the paper. He may as well have said why do you trust me, but Anathema ignored whatever subliminal connotations under his quiet words. As if it was obvious.
"I-Newt didn't want me to. I didn't, either, really. I didn't want to be a descendant for the rest of my life. Because, well, you know, even if I did decipher the prophecies, I couldn't stop them, so it was a little pointless." She shrugged half-heartedly.
Adam nodded slowly.
"But I wanted to see what it said. It didn't make a lick of sense to me then, of course, since I didn't bother translating or anything, just read through... but it's been more than eleven years. Some of it's... familiar. I probably shouldn't have waited so long."
He leaned forward on his elbows. "Familiar how?"
"Well. I started noticing little things. Things happening in America that Newt would tell me over breakfast-he watches the news. And the serious spike in supernatural presences. That happens sometimes, but it was mentioned in the book. I had to make sure, so I scryed everything with a otherworldly aura within a fifty-mile radius and my maps caught fire. Something's going on."
"What does the manuscript say?"
"It isn't as sporadic as the last. Things follow a linear storyline-seem to center around a few key people. Nothing makes any biblical sense, of course, they already exhausted Revelation the first time around. But the base concepts stay the same." She paused, grimacing a little. "The four horsemen, the Host. The only thing's missing is-"
"Me," Adam finished.
"Yes," Anathema said softly.
They were silent for a moment, before Anathema said, "Maybe they've realized that they don't need the Antichrist to set off Armageddon." Or they're going to use you without your consent-the unspoken footnote.
"Maybe," was all he said.
"Adam." Anathema turned her face to him, her eyes dark. Hope swam in them somewhere, too cowed to shine out. He paid her the courtesy of not breaking eye-contact, even if he was screaming at himself to do so. "Adam, listen. If they want this so bad to happen, it's going to. It doesn't matter how many of these we prevent. There's always going to be another."
Adam's jaw clenched.
"But," Anathema said softly, "that doesn't mean you have to give up."
Adam's gaze slid from Anathema to the two photographs on the kitchen divide. It was of the Them, when they were younger, Pepper's tanned face all freckled from the sun and Brian trying really hard to get Wensleydale into a headlock. They were all smiling, even Adam, who was stoically trying to prevent the upward turn of his mouth.
The second photograph was of the Them when they'd graduated college, united in Lower Tadfield in the summer one more time. Instead of the field where the first photo was taken, this one was in front of Brian's car repair. This time, Pepper was giving Brian a noogie, and Wensleydale, fresh from MIT, was giving them a shy, content look. Adam had his arm slung around Pepper's waist, and Brian had his oil-greased hand across Wensleydale's shoulders.
In that one, Adam's smile stretched from ear to ear.
He turned back to Anathema.
"All right," he said.
She smiled.
By the time Pepper came home, Anathema was asleep with her head pillowed in a bed of papers and Adam was on the couch, a steaming cup of coffee in hand, pouring over Agnes' prophecies with a page of scribbled notations beside him, Dog's head resting on his thigh.
"But love ye your enemies, and do good, and lend, hoping for nothing again; and your reward shall be great, and ye shall be the children of the Highest: for he is kind unto the unthankful and to the evil.
Luke 6:35
He broke every sort of speed limit there was and some that hadn't been invented yet on his way back to Soho, pulled back up to Aziraphale's shop with a screech of the tires that died on the air. He got out by jumping the Bentley's flank and ran up to the door, where the sign on the window said SORRY, WE'RE CLOSED in nice, inoffensive letters (this didn't stop Crowley, of course, and neither did the lock). The angel wasn't behind the counter, nor in the dreadfully dank back room that smelt unapologetically like old boots. He was, however, in his flat above the shop with his cold-pinked nose buried in a novel, and looked surprised to see Crowley when he burst in with his sunglasses askance.
"I thought you were going to call?"
"Didn't get that far," Crowley said. He sat down.
It wasn't that he was a double agent, although the idea was devilishly appealing. It wasn't exactly in the interests of the Arrangement either, to tell Aziraphale what was going on Down There without expecting some kind of favor in return. It just happened to be that Crowley was at his wits' end and needed somebody to tell, and that somebody happened to work for the Enemy. And was his only friend.
He decided not to dwell on that too much.
Besides, Aziraphale would probably receive his own cosmic Prime Directive sometime soon. Crowley was just... speeding up things.
Yes. That sounded perfectly plausible.
Crowley went for broke. "Listen. We averted Armageddon. Right?"
"Not 'we', I should think," Aziraphale said placidly. "We sort of got caught up. Adam was-"
"That's not the point."
"Go on."
"The point," Crowley said. "I'm in deep."
Aziraphale's spectacles inched down his nose, as if the get away from how blue his eyes had just gotten. "My dear boy, are you feeling all right?"
"Yes. No. Yeah." Crowley swallowed. "I've been. I've been drafted."
Aziraphale stared at him, and then sat back in his chair. His face sort of dropped, as if he'd been holding out for something, and it had just fallen through. He was particularly good at making that kind of face. If he were anybody else, Crowley might feel compelled to give him some money and tell him, look, there's a chap, go get yourself something to eat.
Crowley shook himself of that horrifying notion. Backtrack. He cleared his throat. "I think you know. There's-they're trying for another one."
Aziraphale blinked. "Another one."
"Yes. Another one."
"You mean, your people?"
"Well, yes," Crowley admitted. "But it's not that-your side's caught on-it's always us that has to start it, you know. It's like that game with the, the black pieces with the white dots, or is it the other way around-"
"Dominoes," Aziraphale supplied helpfully.
"Dominoes. We tip over the first one, you have to follow, that's the rules."
"Well, we don't follow," Aziraphale said indignantly, putting down his book at last, "It's ineffable. All part of the Divine Plan." He paused. "I feel we've had this conversation before."
Crowley waved a hand. "Whatever. They want a round two," he said. "They're really serious about it this time. They're not going to play by the Book. Since they, er, already did that."
Aziraphale didn't say anything. For a moment Crowley thought about the ridiculous amount of classic (and Infamous) bibles the angel had stored and collected over the years; not one of them was going to help them now, not even The Nife and Accurate Prophecies, which Aziraphale had kept under lock and key just in case. Just in case for what, Crowley didn't know, but felt it might have something to do with this.
He had a feeling that whatever they were going to use this time, it wasn't going to be anything so readily accessible as a book of prophecies.
Crowley hoped he was wrong about that. Really, he really did.
"It's not that bad," he said reasonably. "It had to happen again. Eventually."
"Yes, but so soon?" Aziraphale sighed.
"My day is as ruined as yours. And it's been. More than eleven years, after all. More than enough time for them to get their bearings about... certain things."
Aziraphale sighed again. The type of sigh, which, if you're subjected to it, makes you feel utterly useless. Crowley steeled himself and plowed on.
"And, er. About the drafting. Before it was, it was kind of a one-job deal. Get the Antichrist, drop him off, all done."
"I recall," Aziraphale said dryly.
Crowley glared. It wasn't his fault he messed up. It really wasn't. It was nuns.
"I've been ordered to America," he blurted.
Aziraphale frowned. "Whatever for?"
"Something about stopping somebody, I'm a bit fuzzy on the details," Crowley lied.
"Stopping somebody?" Aziraphale said. His bright eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "I'm obligated to thwart your wiles, however vague, you know."
"That's what I'm counting on," Crowley admitted. [2]
There was another long, drawn out pause, where Crowley tried to look as much as a kicked puppy as he could possibly manage (which, considering his snakelike features, was ostensibly bizarre). He could almost see the cogs turning in the angel's head, and leaned forward when they seemed to slow to a stop.
Aziraphale was far too kind for his own good. Crowley would feel bad for using that to his advantage, but, well. Hey. Demon.
"How are we getting all the way to America?" Aziraphale said at last.
"Think of it as a business trip, all expenses paid," Crowley said, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'll get us tickets. First class."
"A plane?" Aziraphale moaned. Crowley patted him consolingly on the shoulder.
"It won't be so bad. Peanuts, movies. Maybe we can set you up with some headphones and The Sound of Music."
Aziraphale stared at him in a kind of silent horror; Crowley just laughed.
At least he wouldn't have to go it alone.
"But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, you shall not eat of it; for in the day that you eat of it you will surely die."
Genesis 2:17
Anathema rubbed her eyes. In her many years of doing this, it never got any easier.
66: Fromme fyre these two menne borne, each to either Side, bounde by bloode yette myndes torne, harts cleaved from one, the thirde Parte fromme them gone for ever bye a Daemon's vile wordes.
She checked her annotations on the note card: Two men. Born from fire? Demons no, they've got hearts. Accident during childbirth, or early lives? Brothers. One good, one evil? Third part... hmm...
Anathema had never heard of a three-parted heart, but she tended to take Agnes' predictions metaphorically. Perhaps she'd meant three parts of a whole, two of which were the brothers, and other... another brother? 'Parte' seemed more important than that, though. Maybe their father?
... gone for ever bye a Daemon's vile wordes.
She quickly scribbled the father sold his soul. but for what?, and that seemed to click all right.
The brothers weren't mentioned for another hundred predictions at least, but that they'd cropped up so early was obviously important. It was only the sixty-sixth one. That had to mean something. If the manuscript wasn't so obviously focused on the lives of these two men, Anathema would have shrugged it off as another Strange Occurrence of the Endtimes [3] and tried to find hidden meanings in other passages, but it was, and, well, that was odd. Agnes' predictions had never been so focused before.
She flipped to another notecard.
145: when Deville's Gate opened be, the two menne in the trade of myne own undoing sharl fighte that whych is unleashed, amonge themme a black eyed Woman of scarlett; One will trye to stoppe the Other who sharl partake in Her flesh.
146: Daemon's lyfe the youngyr consumes, yette knowweing what it does he ceases notte.
Adam had written on it:
145: Gate from Hell. Witchfinders? Meet a courtesan, or woman dressed in red. A demon. One of the men wants to kill her, the other loves her. Or sleeps with her. Cross reference when you can
146: The younger man kills the demon? Or... eats her. Knows what he's doing but doesn't stop.
That might fit in with the Good vs Evil brother idea. Whoever those two were, they were digging themselves some pretty abyssal graves. She rubbed the bridge of her nose.
There was simply too much information. Anathema had spent most of her adult life trying to decipher Agnes' ramblings, and she was trying to decode a whole other batch in a about a fraction of time and make sense of it. Agnes had obviously been counting on Anathema to keep on deciphering even after the almost-but-not-quite-Apocalypse, but she hadn't. If she had, she might have been able to catch the signs earlier.
For all she knew, a good majority of this could have happened already. Even with Adam's help, it seemed impossible.
There was too much.
She had been researching for hours now, and had moved the materials back to her little cottage to continue well past midnight while Adam explained things to Pepper. When she'd got in, trailing papers and cards and bags under her eyes, Newt had given her a sad look that she felt absolutely horrid for.
She reminded herself to make it up to him somehow. Before the world ended. Again.
The notecards stared up at her, taunting her. Each held one if not several red markings, notations, possible interpretations. All the information she'd collected so far didn't so much as mention times, places, or events that she'd be able to match up with the news. Even Newt had been stumped when he'd tried to help, when she'd asked him to recall anything weird happening on the news lately. He'd said, yes, well, it's been happening everywhere, but I don't think most people would notice if they weren't looking.
We're looking, Anathema had replied.
Sighing, she pulled on her last reserves of energy and called it a night (or early morning), and managed to make it upstairs without twisting an ankle or breaking her face open on the landing. She shed her clothes and slid into bed without disturbing Newt, who snored on; but as she settled, his arm circled her belly and pulled her in close.
He snuffled happily into her hair and she curled into him. There were worse things, she mused sleepily.
She'd work harder tomorrow.
"Nor from hell
One step no more than from himself can fly
By change of place."
Paradise Lost
Aziraphale was driving Crowley round the pole.
At first, Crowley had thought maybe Aziraphale was jerking his chain when he'd said that no, he'd never been on a plane, and yes, he thought maybe a nice cruise would be better, didn't Crowley think, all that lovely water. Lovely fish, dolphins, whales. Yes, wasn't a cruise just the better option?
Then Crowley had remembered Aziraphale's distaste for anything remotely modern and/or technological, the kind that stemmed from years upon years of botching up any attempts at making friends with whatever was causing him trouble (cellular phones, printers, the internet). It was slightly clearer as to why Aziraphale's computer came from the Pleistocene age and why telephones often gave him grief and why, whenever the angel came to Crowley's flat, he tread around the stereo equipment like it might suddenly grow teeth.
Crowley, of course, had never had such a problem. [4]
On the other hand, it was very amusing to see an angel complain about rogue air currents, even if this particular angel hadn't seen the sun up close in perhaps a few thousand years. Neither of them really had any time to stretch their wings anymore.
But, Crowley reflected, driving the Bentley was enough like flying anyway that it didn't really matter.
"But how does it stay afloat?" Aziraphale wrung his hands.
"That's boats, angel."
"I expect you know, then," Aziraphale said bitterly, fiddling with the buttons on his coat so as not to look directly into the blinding force that was Crowley's wide, toothy grin.
"Physics."
"Yes, but we both know that they don't apply at times!"
"Then miracle up some good weather. Your people can do that, right? Prevent turbulence. Easy flying."
"Hnmph," muttered Aziraphale. "I'm not supposed to be here anyway."
"Come on. Don't be like that. It's just heights. You've flown loads of times." wheedled Crowley, because he could.
Aziraphale heaved a sigh. "Not in a-a great metal tube of a thing. I would feel more comfortable if I wasn't strapped in."
"They let you take your seat belt off during the middle bit."
The angel frowned. "That's hardly reassuring."
"You'll get used to it."
"I hope so. I do hope so."
Crowley rolled his eyes.
Apparently Aziraphale's irrational fear of flying didn't prevent him from performing minor miracles. A lost, sobbing little boy found his mother, there were no delays, nobody's luggage went missing, and all parties made it to their gates in time to catch their flights. Argumentative couples smiled at each other and nothing got stolen.
Meanwhile, those who were on important business trips suddenly found themselves to be flying third class, all the magazines and refreshments went up a pound in price and a few decimals more in tax, and all the vending machines ceased to work. Crowley smirked as a young man kicked one and stormed off to buy his share at the next pseudo-restaurant and pretended not to notice when Aziraphale gave him a disapproving glare.
"Really," the angel murmured.
"Really really," Crowley confirmed.
Since they'd brought no luggage (they could conjure some if they really needed it, but Crowley had a flat in almost every country of the world) they made it onto the plane without having to cram their belongings into overhead compartments and inconvenience other people.
Crowley took the window seat in first class since there was no sense in making the angel jumpier than he had to be, and Aziraphale gratefully smiled at him for it.
Crowley smiled back.
The Sound of Music flickered into being on one of small television screens.
Aziraphale turned livid red and refused to look at him until they were well up into the air, but by then Crowley had nixed the Julie Andrews thing and entertained himself by humming something atrociously poppy, soft enough not to draw attention from the flight attendants, but loud enough to get on everybody else's nerves. When he finally stopped and looked over to see if the angel had survived the most basic of childish torture techniques, he found that he was asleep, mouth open the tiniest bit and glasses askew on his nose.
Which was odd, since they didn't actually need to sleep. (Crowley only ever did because, hey, what else are you going to do with silk sheets that comfortable?)
So Crowley poked him.
Aziraphale twitched.
"Angel?" he hissed.
Predictably, he was ignored.
"Playing that game, are you?" he huffed, and crossed his arms. Well, one annoying game for another, he supposed. There was only so much pop he could take singing, and he'd had a hand in the genre.
If he'd looked over he might have been able to see Aziraphale smile the tiniest bit, but he didn't.
Instead he pushed his sunglasses high up on his nose and leaned his head and torso back, enjoying the sound of Aziraphale's steady breathing next to him.
"Long is the way
And hard, that out of hell leads up to light."
Paradise Lost
"I tried everything, that's the truth. I tried opening the Devil's Gate, Hell, I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, all right. You were rotting in Hell, for months, for months, and I couldn't stop it. So, I'm sorry it wasn't me, all right. Dean, I'm sorry."
"It's okay, Sammy.
You don't have to apologize
I believe you."
[1]The type that wore scratchy, home-made knit sweaters with a thread count of two and who hung mistletoe everywhere and who owned at least ten cats (one of which was usually named 'Mr Bigglesworth') and who baked those revolting little snowman cookies coated with about six million pounds of sugar and who went to nativity plays voluntarily. Crowley hadn't quite gotten over his Pavlovian response of gagging whenever he came across one. Aziraphale, of course, thought they were simply precious.
[2]Neither of them wanted the world to end, not really. Even if global warming and stock market crashes and wars and politics and romantic comedies were part of humanity, so were things like HD plasma television screens and central air conditioning. If you were going to get stuck with humans for all eternity, you might as well get comfortable.
[3]Remember the aliens? As far as Anathema was concerned, anything was possible.
[4]Technology knew better than to stop working around Crowley. Unless, of course, he told it to.