Home is Where the Heart is, Part Two

[daegaer]

The next morning, after some persuasion, Crowley judged it safe enough to let the angels out for a bit of exercise. Aziraphale was feeling guilty about keeping them locked up. They’d been well behaved at dinner and pretty quiet all night. Aziraphale felt that it was possible to build bridges, make friendly overtures and generally act in a pleasant manner. So far, it seemed to be working. Bartleby and Crowley were strolling a few yards up ahead. Bartleby was bewailing the abysmal state of American TV, and Crowley was looking quite flattered. Aziraphale had felt it safer if he kept Loki company. He didn’t want any reminiscing about Gomorrah to set Crowley off. It was somewhat boring though, because Loki had only two topics of conversation: his professional skills at smiting the unrighteous, and homesickness. Aziraphale had quickly reached the point of making vague and automatic replies.

“Bartleby and me, we want to go home,” Loki said.

Aziraphale nodded in sympathy.

“So do I, you just can’t get a decent cup of tea here. I’ve been drinking coffee instead.”

Loki looked at him oddly.

“I meant Heaven,” he said.

Aziraphale blushed slightly. Oh, of course. It was just possible that several millennia in Wisconsin had been more boring than being in Heaven. Really, he thought wryly, he’s built Heaven up into some sort of paradise. Why he can’t just look around and see what we’ve got here, I don’t know.

“You see, all we want to do is get a pardon,” Loki said quietly. “He’s merciful, right? So, I figure we should eventually be able to get back into His good books. Or the Good Book. Or whatever.”

“I’m not sure it’s that easy,” Aziraphale said, feeling sorry for him. “I mean, it’s one thing to say you’re sorry, but quite another to really demonstrate repentance. Are you willing to go back on your previous position?”

Loki skipped along backwards in front of him, an excited look on his face.

“Yes! Yes, see I knew you’d understand. This is what I’ve been thinking; I was one of the best, man. The unrighteous didn’t have a rat’s ass of a chance if it was my shift. So, then Bartleby brings his moral relativism and the whole humans-are-poor-pitiable-fallible-creatures argument to bear on my drink-addled mind, and what do I do? I screw up, man. Pity wasn’t in my remit. So, the way I see it is, if I show the proper attitude, plus some humility of course, then I should at least be due an appeal. What do you think?”

“You want to smite the unrighteous?” Aziraphale asked. “Without a license?”

“Only those who deserve it,” Loki said with a happy smile. “This place is full of sinners. If I take out some of the worst, eventually someone Upstairs has to at least notice, right?”

“I suppose so,” Aziraphale began dubiously, “but . . .”

“Good. I’m glad you understand,” Loki interrupted, dropping the smile. He drew a wickedly long, black-bladed knife. “Because you’re first on the fucking list, you fucking traitor.”

Ahead of them, Bartleby slammed an elbow into Crowley’s face, shattering his sunglasses, and the demon dropped without a sound. Aziraphale found himself in danger of having a knife inserted through his eye. He held on to Loki’s wrist for dear life, trying to force the knife back. It hurt just having the thing near him, and the occult symbols on the blade were all too obvious. How Loki could bear to hold it was beyond him, although it did give credence to Crowley’s theory that they were dealing with fallen angels. Focus! he told himself. Now is not the time to reason this out! Running away seemed like the best option, if he could get loose, so he chanced his luck and used one hand to drive fingers at Loki’s eyes. The angel flinched back, and Aziraphale ran. He hadn’t gone far when he found himself wrenched up into the air. Dangling high above the city, he wished his coat wasn’t made of such good material, wished it would rip and let him drop. Loki held onto his collar with one hand, and drew the knife again with the other. This was not a good position, Aziraphale thought unhappily. Oh well, he could always buy another coat. He opened his wings and gave a good beat against the air to drive himself away from danger. Loki was fast, very fast, he realised as he was kicked in the back.

“When was the last time you flew?” Loki sneered.

On the ground, Crowley shook the blood out of his eyes, and rolled aside just in time to avoid having his ribs staved in. He came up off the ground, claws fully in action. Bartleby danced back, tried to kick him in the face. Crowley growled and aimed a swipe at his head, but Bartleby dodged. The angel had learned from Loki’s previous fight, it seemed, and wasn’t getting too close. The blood kept getting in Crowley’s eyes, and his vision was more and more obviously obscured. Twice he had to leap back blinking and trying to wipe his eyes clear. Bartleby grinned, and readied himself.

“That all you’ve got, demon?” he jeered, coming in close and aiming a solid blow as Crowley desperately tried to blink the blood out of his eyes yet again.

Bartleby was somewhat surprised to find his fist grabbed in a clawed hand as Crowley gave him a ghastly smile.

“No, moron. Demons can see perfectly well through blood.”

Bartleby screamed as the other set of claws lodged in his side, and Crowley became a very large snake that commenced squeezing the life out of him.

“How’s this for a party trick?” he said furiously, and sank his fangs into Bartleby’s chest.

Screams of agony floated down from high above. Crowley resumed his usual form, dropped Bartleby writhing on the ground, and flung himself into the air, opening his wings.

Aziraphale clung on to Loki. It was the only way he could avoid falling, but it wasn’t a good way of keeping away from the knife. His right wing drooped broken and useless, half sawn off, and his right arm was bleeding. He’d lost an awful lot of blood, and felt like he was going to faint. He had a choice, he realised. He could let go and fall, and then spend a lot of time explaining and pleading for a new body. Or he could get himself stabbed a few more times with a weapon that was doing a lot more damage than it should. Damage he didn’t appear to be able to heal, at that. It was very possible that it could do more than kill his body. Aziraphale let go with one hand and hit Loki with all the strength he had left. As Loki winced, he let go with the other hand, and fell. He had barely started plummeting when something shot up past him and grabbed hold of his right arm. The jolt of pain went all through him, making him black out. He came to and found both sets of Crowley’s claws embedded in the arm. It didn’t hurt anymore and was in fact going icy and numb. Oh bother, he thought weakly, poisoned as well. Something like a wave of warmth rolled though him as he was deposited on the ground and he felt stronger, and not so sick. Seemingly from very far away he heard someone tell him he’d better not die, if he knew what was good for him, and then Crowley was gone again. He swam in and out of consciousness. There was a lot of swearing overhead. After an uncertain amount of time there was a loud crash near his head, and he saw Loki lying stunned on the ground. A second later Crowley landed, the horrid knife in his hand. He stalked over to Loki and proceeded to kick him unconscious. When Aziraphale came round again, Crowley was trying to get him on his feet.

“Come on, up we get. Let’s get you back to the hotel. Those bastards are already locked up.”

Aziraphale felt his undamaged arm being draped round Crowley’s neck, and Crowley’s arm round his waist holding him up. Walking was extremely unpleasant, but it didn’t seem like he was being given the option to refuse.

“I’ll fix you up properly when we have a bit of privacy,” Crowley said. “For the moment it’s just first aid, just to get you back safely.”

He glared at a horrified passer-by who never could describe just what it was he had seen, but went on to live a better, and more frightened life because of it. Aziraphale felt a little stronger, now that he was being supported. It lasted long enough to get back.

The other angels were securely locked in their room. Aziraphale sat miserably perched on the straight chair in Crowley’s room. No one had blinked an eye at the sight of someone with wings limping into the lift. He’d been too sore to even think about whether he was visible or not, so he had to assume Crowley had taken care of the matter. He did as he was told and lay down, and winced as hands touched his right wing, poked at his injured arm.

“Interesting,” Crowley said, lifting a torn section of wing. “This was definitely done with one of our more unpleasant weapons.”

Aziraphale bit back the acerbic comment. Interesting was not the word he’d have chosen. He did his best not to squirm too much as Crowley parted the feathers and rummaged round the wounds.

“A very nasty job, too; you’re in tatters,” Crowley said. “Hold still, I’ll fix it for you. This may smart a little.”

Aziraphale felt the wounded wing being forced back together, and then it was like hot lead was being poured into him, and he made rather more noise than he wanted to. His involuntary reaction involved violently buffeting Crowley into the wall with the other wing. Angry adult swans can do a fair bit of damage with their wings, as most people know. Scale a swan’s wings up to the size needed to lift a six foot tall human-shaped being into the air, though, and you have something that can do a lot more than break a man’s arm. Crowley hit the wall fairly hard, and sat there dazed for a few seconds.

“I said, keep still,” he muttered, going back to work. “I know it’s unpleasant, but it’s better than leaving the poison in there. I’m keeping this as painless as I can. Special anti-angel weapons. Who would have thought those idiots had the contacts? Keep still. The arm’s going to be bad too.”

Aziraphale did his very best to keep quiet and still. It was difficult but finally it was over. Crowley patted the healed arm.

“There. The wing was the really nasty bit. Does it feel better?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whimpered. “Now it’s just very stiff and really itchy.”

Crowley laughed and put his fingers back into the feathers. Aziraphale sighed as he scratched where the wounds had been, and then flexed the wing’s joints.

“Your flight feathers are broken too, “ Crowley said. “No sitting on clouds for you for the next while.”

He pulled the offending feathers out, ignoring the complaints.

“See? You really want those hanging off the end of your wing? That bastard tried to cut it right off, you know.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said tartly. “I was there.”

He shut his eyes, enjoying the feel of the itch and stiffness being vanquished. How odd that he’d like Crowley touching his wings. They’d generally been the demon’s prime targets back in the bad old days.

“Remember when I tried to pluck you alive?” Crowley asked softly, stroking one hand from the root of the wing to the tip.

Aziraphale stiffened. He hadn’t realised his thoughts were that obvious.

“You’re very trusting, Aziraphale,” Crowley murmured. “I could do really horrid things to you and you’re not exactly ready to stop me.”

“But you’re not going to, are you?” Aziraphale said, keeping his voice calm and even.

“No,” Crowley said, and put both his hands deep into feathers.

After another few minutes he stopped.

“Are you asleep? It’d do you good, you know.”

Aziraphale opened his eyes, wondered if it would be awfully improper to ask Crowley to keep going. He felt terribly relaxed and lazy.

“Want me to do the other wing? Even though it’s not hurt?” Crowley said, a smile in his voice.

“Please,” Aziraphale said, spreading it out.

By the time Crowley had finished, Aziraphale felt he’d be good for nothing for days. He felt too pleasantly wrung out to even fold the wings properly, and had to have Crowley do it for him. He was sounding terribly amused, which was usually a bad sign, but Aziraphale couldn’t quite bring himself to care very much. A hand landed on his shoulder, and Crowley grinned down at him.

“Well, well. Imagine learning something new about you after all this time. Go to sleep. I’ll wake you later.”

* * *

That evening Aziraphale felt wonderful. Wide awake, rested, full of energy and happy. Crowley seemed cheerful and ordered far more dessert than he normally ate. He admitted defeat before he got through half of it, and Aziraphale obliged him by finishing it off.

“I had a little word with our friends while you were resting,” Crowley said. “I thought they might want to tell me where they got that knife.”

“Did they scream much?” Aziraphale asked. He didn’t approve of the mistreatment of prisoners, of course, but he didn’t approve of himself being sliced up either.

“I tried not to wake you,” Crowley said. “Anyway, it turns out that they’ve been very bad boys indeed. Weapons like that aren’t supposed to be allowed on Earth, they’re classified. I’ve only ever heard about them. Want to know how our American friends got hold of a military secret?”

“You’re enjoying this far too much, you know. How?”

Crowley leaned back and favoured him with a lazy smile.

“Their close personal friend the demon stole it for them.”

Aziraphale bristled with indignation.

“Those hypocrites! Really!”

“Apparently he’s not so bad,” Crowley laughed nastily. “He’s a guy by the name of Azrael.”

“Who? The Angel of Death?”

“Nah. Everyone Downstairs goes by a different name than the one they were created with. It probably makes him feel important. I know people who know him, he’s a sad bastard who tried to remain neutral during the War. He was picked up with a bunch of our guys and shipped off to Hell with the rest of us. He's never stopped complaining since. Anyway, be that as it may, he’s a demon with a problem. The knife was supposed to be a loan, and he needs to get it back before some over-zealous clerk does an inventory. I’d say we’ll be getting a visit before too long.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. Some days he really missed his sword. He wondered if he could get another one assigned to him. A rather important thought struck him.

“Can I have the knife?”

“What? Why? You won’t even be able to hold it without feeling ill.”

“You said it’s a classified weapon. I could send it Up There for research.”

Crowley put his coffee down, and looked at the table. He took a breath and looked up.

“Aziraphale, I can’t do that. You’re asking me to commit treason.”

Oh. It was technically treason, Aziraphale supposed. Sometimes it was easy to forget that they weren’t on the same side. Crowley was looking very serious about this. He decided he’d feel pretty put out if Crowley had asked him to hand over state secrets. He nodded.

“Sorry, dear boy. Forget I said anything.”

“Just as well,” Crowley said dryly. “How you’d explain getting hold of it, or how I’d explain likewise I shudder to think. Let’s go torment those idiots.”

They brought some weak coffee and domestic beer up to the others. Aziraphale untied one hand each and balanced the cups and saucers on their knees, Crowley standing menacingly behind him.

“Fuck you,” Bartleby said between mouthfuls of coffee.

“Yeah, fuck you,” Loki agreed.

“Fucking bastards,” Bartleby said, accepting the bottle of beer.

“Fucking unnatural bastards,” Loki said indistinctly round the neck of his bottle.

“I so enjoy your sparkling conversation,” Aziraphale said, his voice laden with sugar. “Did you entertain much in Wisconsin?”

“Fuck you, you fucking faggot,” Loki said angrily. “You were pretty fucking loud earlier, you fucking freak.”

“Shut up,” Crowley said. “Now.”

“Oh, Ay’m kwait sorry for causing offence”, Loki sneered. “Ay forgot the kwaint English ways one seems to have fallen into.”

“I don’t talk like that,” Aziraphale said. “And I was rather severely injured earlier, or had you forgotten?”

Crowley kicked Loki’s chair over backwards and snapped his fingers. The rope rose by itself and tied Loki’s wrist down again.

“Come on, tie up the other one and let’s go,” Crowley said.

They left, ignoring the shouts of outrage from both of the prisoners. Crowley grabbed a bottle of wine from a passing room service trolley, unnoticed by the waiter. In his room he poured large tumblers of it out.

“Let’s stake them out,” he said.

“As bait for their friend?” Aziraphale said.

“I hadn’t really got past staking them out, to be honest,” Crowley said. “But yes, as bait.”

* * *

The traveller makes himself visit the next city over. Memories of the nightlife there keep him entertained on cold nights. That is all gone now. The destruction is worse here, something he hasn’t considered till he sees it. He is no longer crying, no longer has the urge to scream. He just wants to be sure everything is gone. Finally he trudges out of the city, covered in ash and filth from head to toe. Some miles away he finds a group of bodies, people who somehow had warning and ran. The ground around them is charred and blackened by a lightning strike, as if they had come into the sights of someone with very good aim. The traveller bends down, gently touches the smallest child’s skull. It crumbles into dust under his hand. Methodically, the traveller brushes all the bones into dust, watches as a light wind scatters the evidence of what has happened. He turns his back on the cities and walks back into the desert. He is no longer thinking of anything except the need to be somewhere with absolutely no smell.

* * *

Out in the park where they’d fought, Aziraphale untied Bartleby’s hands and stepped back. The angel glared at him in hatred, and looked over to where Crowley was holding the knife at Loki’s throat.

“I don’t believe this,” Bartleby said in a low and furious voice. “You’ll stand there and let a demon do this?”

“You tried to kill us twice,” Aziraphale pointed out. “I’m afraid I’m a little low on fellow-feeling for you at the moment. Now, summon your friend.”

He tossed the bag of supplies to Bartleby, who sullenly began to make a pentagram. When the candles were lit he looked once back over at Loki, and called out loudly,

“Azrael, Azrael, Azrael!”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the discarded rope tied Bartleby’s hands again. He grabbed the angel and pulled him back to Crowley and Loki. A darkness was gathering in the centre of the pentagram, pulling the flames of the candles towards it. With a slight popping noise all the candles were extinguished, and a young man in a white suit and hat was standing in the centre.

“Hi guys, what’s up?” he said. “Can I have that knife back now?”

He looked round in surprise at the scene, and focused on Crowley coming towards him. He covered a look of fear with an insincere grin.

“Eh . . . Crawly? Is that you? Er. Hi! Beautiful day for the damnation of souls, huh? I see you’ve met the guys.”

“Is this what you’re looking for, Azrael?” Crowley asked, holding up the knife and advancing closer.

The white-suited demon took a step back, an ingratiating smile on his face.

“Hey now, pal. Take it easy, we’re batting for the same team. I’ll just take my property and go, leave you to get on with things. I can see you’re busy.”

“It’s hardly yours, is it?” Crowley asked.

Azrael shrugged.

“Property is theft, my friend. It’ll go back where it should be.”

“You brought this to earth,” Crowley said. “You handed it over to the enemy. Do you think you can get away with this just because you think you can put it back?”

“Why not?” the demon smiled.

“You gave those bloody morons an angel-killer!” Crowley yelled.

“Well to be fair, they did say they wanted to kill an angel.”

Crowley hissed in fury.

“You’re not as funny as you think you are, Azrael. Stop interfering in my affairs up here. Come up for a visit, I don’t care. I really don’t even give a damn about what you do with your little angels -”

“As long as I stay away from yours? Does he know you think of him in those terms? How . . . ecumenical,” Azrael said.

Crowley growled and struck out, lifting Azrael by the neck. His hat fell off, revealing small horns on his forehead.

“I think I should tell you I’m almost certainly immune to poison,” he said indistinctly.

“Fine. I’ll just rip your head off then,” Crowley hissed. “You’ll find it a little harder coming up here without a body. Stay away from me, stay away from him. Do not set your angels on us. Am I making myself clear?”

“At least mine are cute. I don’t much fancy yours,” Azrael said, turning a strange shade of red as his throat was compressed.

Crowley dropped him.

“You’re trying to provoke me,” he said. “I would strongly advise you to wise up.”

Azrael gasped for breath, looking round for his hat. Crowley took a mean pleasure in standing on it. Azrael dusted it off sadly, jammed it back down over his horns and shot a look of hatred at Crowley.

“It’s all right for you. You’re up here all the time. You don’t have to be Down There,” he said bitterly. “You have no idea what it’s like. I shouldn’t even be there; I didn’t fight on the rebel side. All I want is to go home.”

Crowley looked at him in astonished disgust.

“That’s what this was about? You don’t like Hell? No one likes it, that’s the point. I don’t bloody believe this,” he said. “You’re feeling hard done by and you think teaming up with a pair of idiots who don’t count as Fallen only by a technicality will get you back to Heaven?”

Azrael glared at him.

“Why not? I wasn’t a rebel, I didn’t fight for the Morningstar.”

“You’re not a rebel? Aren’t you Fallen then? Was it all some big mistake, hanging round with the wrong people, getting tarred with the same brush, turning round one day to find you’re in the middle of the War and practically everyone you know is telling you you’re on the losing side? Pardon me for not being sympathetic.”

“You know,” Azrael said. “I’d settle for your job. You’re a traitor twice over, why shouldn’t I get something for killing you?”

He sprang at Crowley, and seemed rather surprised to find his opponent slip round behind him.

“I don’t have the patience for this,” Crowley said, and hamstrung him.

He waited until the screams died down to moans, and waved the knife in front of Azrael’s eyes.

“Hurts, doesn’t it? As you said, you’re probably immune to poison - maybe not this stuff though. I hope this is teaching you not to try to fuck me around,” he said. He leaned in, hissing in contempt. “Pay close attention - you’re going home all right, but it’s back down to Hell. If you interfere with Aziraphale or me again you’ll be very sorry. Between us I’m sure we can pull enough strings to make your life even less enjoyable than it is now. Don’t even bother to lodge a report - with all your whining about not being rebel scum like the rest of us you must have even fewer friends Downstairs than a newly arrived sinner.”

He threw the knife down beside Azrael.

“Heaven doesn’t want you, Azrael. You’re never going back there, never. Get used to the idea. Now, take this thing and get out of my sight.”

Azrael looked up at him with an expression of hatred and deep, deep despair. There was a sizzling sound and a smell of sulphur, and he vanished with the knife. Crowley strolled back to the others. Loki and Bartleby were doing their best to yell obscenities around the gags. Aziraphale gave him a quizzical look.

“I think I’ve sorted things out. We’ll come up with a good story, though. Plausible deniability, that’s what we have to aim for.”

He prodded at Loki with one foot.

“As for these two love-birds, fascinating views our departed friend had on them. He said he owns their cute angelic arses.”

Aziraphale sighed.

“Such vulgarity. I’m glad he’s gone.”

Crowley prodded Loki some more.

“You and your boyfriend should get back to Wisconsin and enjoy the wholesome Midwestern atmosphere. Try not to shock the locals with your lifestyle choices.”

“Don’t be so judgmental,” Aziraphale said. “Love is good, and you shouldn’t tease them about their relationship. It’s no one’s business but their own. I think they’re very sweet.”

Loki and Bartleby tried harder to yell obscenities. Aziraphale smiled vaguely at them.

“Dear boys,” he said and wandered off.

Crowley grinned down at them.

“It shouldn’t take more than a few hours to chew yourselves free,” he said, and walked off after Aziraphale.

He found him leaning against a tree with tears streaming down his face, and stifling laughter.

“Oh, my dear! Their faces!” Aziraphale gasped.

“I think I may be a bad influence on you,” Crowley laughed.

Aziraphale wiped his eyes.

“Let’s go home,” he said. “I’m dying for a proper cup of tea.”

* * *

In Wisconsin, two beings that still think of themselves as angels sit in Milwaukee airport. The fair-haired one has just destroyed a nun’s faith and is feeling very amused by his abilities. The dark haired one is people watching and reflecting that observing the vagaries of the human condition close up is the one thing he’ll miss when they get out of this shit hole. They talk of inconsequentialities until the dark haired one cannot contain himself any longer and whisks out the key to their salvation. He tells his friend they’re going home at last, and they stride out of the airport, laughing like reprieved prisoners.

In London, two beings, only one of whom still considers himself an angel, stand by a pond feeding ducks. They are discussing opera and are having a mild disagreement over the best counter-tenor of all time. It’s not a serious argument, and seems to be one they’ve had before and are enjoying having now. When their bag of bread is gone they stroll away from the pond, still happily arguing in the way that only very, very old friends can manage. They part at the edge of the park, promising to meet later for dinner. As they walk away, each turns and waves. They are content. For they are already home.

* * * * * * * * * * * *