Part 2 of hsavinien's gift!
III.
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.
-Edward Young
Crowley, it seemed, was prone to hysterics after he experienced the supernatural.
Hysterics being laughing under his breath and muttering, "Ghosts are real. Ghosts!" three or four times before looking at Aziraphale and saying wryly, "Wonder how we're going to put this in the report."
"We aren't," Aziraphale stated. Truth was all well and good, but the chief inspector would take one look at their report and make them both redundant, just on principle. He looked at Angel. "I don't know what is going on, but we'll help you any way we can."
"We?" Crowley said, faintly disbelieving. "What makes you think I'm going to stick around and deal with ghosts? I'm taking the Bentley and going straight back to London."
Aziraphale ignored him.
Angel frowned, finally tearing his gaze away from Room 128. "Would you go back to the library? Check with one of the Turners, see if anyone else has reported seeing ghosts."
"Of course," Aziraphale said. He took Crowley by the arm with his good hand and tugged him towards the exit.
"Why are we staying to investigate ghosts?" Crowley demanded. "That's not part of our job! Our job was to investigate possible corruption, not possible hauntings!"
"Our job," Aziraphale said in the same pleasant tone Crowley had used last night, "is bollocks, remember? This isn't. This is helping Sergeant Angel and the rest of the Sandford officers."
Crowley shook his head. Then he frowned. "What's wrong with your hand?"
"Oh," Aziraphale said, looking down at the hand he'd used to touch-- or at least try to touch-- Irene Butterman. It was the same hand that Crowley had grabbed in the Bentley, he realized. The pins and needles feeling still lingered, his fingers curled like talons and sluggish to respond when he tried to move them. "It went numb when I tried to touch the ghost. Still is." He shook his hand, wincing as the pins and needles spiked into a dull, deep ache that spread up his arm.
"Here," Crowley said, taking the hand in his. His hands were cool and cautious, slowly unfurling Aziraphale's fingers and rubbing away the pins and needles.
Gradually the ache eased, and Aziraphale clenched and unclenched his hand without pain. "Thank you."
"Forget it," Crowley muttered, dropping his hand and walking out the exit.
After a startled second -- why did Crowley always fidget and dash when someone tried to show some gratitude? -- Aziraphale followed after, blinking and squinting against the bright sunlight.
**
**
Fisher hailed them as soon as they came into the library. "Oi! What do you two know about the ghosts running about?" he demanded. "I've gotten five calls in the past hour, all of them claiming they've seen a dead bloke!"
"My cousin's boyfriend's brother's niece saw the ghost of Leslie Tilman in her garden shop," Thatcher said. "With the clippers stickin' out o' her neck and everything!" she added with a relish Aziraphale thought inappropriate.
Wainright stuck his head out of one of the back rooms. "Everyone's sayin' Sandford's haunted," he reported.
Cartwright's giggle reached Aziraphale's ears. "Filled with ghouls an' ghosties. My ma saw Ben Fletcher wanderin' around Staker's pond, with that pitchfork stickin' out o' his gut."
"Do we know when the ghosts first started appearing?" Aziraphale asked.
"Past half hour," Fisher said slowly. "Like I told you. Nobody was saying nothing about ghosts before then."
"Stories spread quick in a village," one of the Turners said. "It'll have started a half-hour ago, no more than that, else we would have heard about it."
'Like you all heard about the NWA murdering a good percentage of the village?' Aziraphale didn't say. "All right, I think we should go out and interview the people who saw the ghosts, get their statements."
"Funny thing, that," Wainwright said. "Leslie Tilman died in her garden shop, but Ben Fletcher died in his barn. What's his ghost doin' at Staker's pond?"
"Good question," Crowley muttered.
Aziraphale hesitated, debating privacy issues, and then asked, "Where did Irene Butterman die?"
"Her Datsun went into the Sandford Gorge," Fisher said promptly. He narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
"We...saw her at the hospital. In Danny's room."
A silence fell over the room. Even the Andies look subdued.
"Is Danny all right?" Thatcher asked.
"Sergeant Angel's with him now."
Thatcher tsked and shook her head. "He must be shook up."
"Get a statement from everyone who saw a ghost," Crowley said. "We need to see if the majority are like Leslie Tilman and sticking to where they were murdered, or wandering around like Irene Butterman or Ben Fletcher."
As though on cue, a phone rang. One of the Turners made a face and went to answer it. "Let me guess, you've seen a ghost," he said into the receiver. "Right. Tim Messenger at the church. We're investigatin'. No, ma'am, so far there's no sign of the ghosts being dangerous."
"But don't try to touch them," Aziraphale said.
Wainright snorted. "Who'd be enough of a silly bugger to try an' touch a ghost?"
Aziraphale felt his face warm. "Irene Butterman didn't look like a ghost, not at first. Then she started...well, flickering," he said, hearing the defensive note in his voice too late.
Thatcher eyed him while the others smirked or shot him intrigued looks. "What did she feel like, then?"
"Nothing," Aziraphale said with a shrug. "But my hand was numb for minutes after."
"Right, ma'am, just don't try and touch any ghosts you see," Turner said. He paused. "No, ma'am, I don't think you're daft enough to try and touch a ghost. Just a, er, standard warning. Yes, ma'am, we'll see what we can do."
"Anyone have a map of Sandford?" Crowley asked as Aziraphale tried not to scowl.
"There's probably an atlas somewhere," Fisher said, gesturing around the room.
A half-hour later, atlas found and thumbtacks procured, everyone gathered around the map and watched Crowley mark the places where ghosts had been seen. There were now fifteen confirmed sightings. "Red for if they're in the spots where they died," he explained. "Blue for if they're not where they're supposed to be. And green if they're spotted in a place where they might've been murdered but no one but the NWA knows for certain."
Everyone studied the map for a moment.
Walker mumbled something that sounded like a question.
"What, that most of the blue sightings are right around Staker's pond? Yeah, I think everyone noticed that," Fisher said, frowning. "Hey, isn't that where the swans and badger disappeared?"
Most of the group nodded.
"Once Sergeant Angel arrives, I'm going to suggest we set up a 24-hour watch on the pond," Aziraphale said. "I have no idea how the disappearance of a few animals is tied in with ghosts appearing all over your village, but it's hardly a coincidence."
"I'm not watching the pond at night," Fisher said immediately.
"Andy and I sure as fuck aren't," Cartwright said, and added, "Thanks," as Wainwright threw a coin into the swear jar.
"Nomenowayinhell," Walker stated.
Aziraphale sighed. "Crowley and I will."
"Right, go ahead, volunteer me as well," Crowley muttered, not quite under his breath. "I'd love to watch a ghost-infested lake in the middle of the night."
"It's a pond, actually," Thatcher corrected. "Not big enough to be a lake."
"Let's get going then," Angel announced, and several of the officers jumped and turned to goggle at him as he stood in the doorway, looking a little tired. "We'll put everyone on four hour shifts, starting now. Fisher, you and Walker do the first shift, from four to eight. Doris, you and I'll be on from eight to midnight. Aziraphale, Crowley, you'll be midnight to four, so go back your rooms and try to get some sleep. Andies, you'll be four to eight. Turners, you'll be eight to noon. We'll figure out the rest of tomorrow's schedule in the morning."
"Yessir," Fisher said.
Meanwhile, Thatcher looked decidedly pleased with her assignment. "See you at eight then. I'll go and interview Staker again, see if he saw anything odd before his swans disappeared."
"Good idea," Angel said, giving her an approving look. "See you tonight, Doris."
"I'll be lookin' forward to it," Thatcher muttered, quietly enough that only Aziraphale caught it.
**
**
"You do realize midnight is the witching hour, right?" Crowley asked as he pulled the Bentley up to the pond. His headlights briefly illuminated Thatcher's patrol car, from which she waved at them. "The hour of suicides and bad dreams? The--"
"Yes, Crowley," Aziraphale sighed. "But I want to know what's going on."
"Well, I for one want to be far, far away from here. I'm not dealing with the witch that shows up at half-past, clutching a bloody knife and a book to summon ghosts," Crowley grumbled. "You can try to arrest her and get turned into a frog."
As Aziraphale bit back a smile, trying not to picture Crowley transformed into an amphibian, Angel opened Thatcher's door and stepped out onto the grass. It was a full moon, or nearly; Aziraphale could almost read Angel's expression in the moonlight as he approached them.
Crowley rolled down his window and raised an eyebrow.
"I thought I'd stay this shift as well," Angel said. Even the moonlight couldn't hide his obvious exhaustion, and the windless night only revealed the ragged edge to his words.
Crowley stared. "What? Why?"
Angel shrugged. "I want to give Danny an explanation as soon as possible."
"Right," Crowley said awkwardly. "Well, I don't know if you noticed, but the Bentley only holds two people."
"That's all right. I'll do the rounds around the pond," said Angel. Before either of them could say a word, he walked back over to Thatcher's patrol car.
"Well, if anyone's turning into a frog, it's him," Crowley said, watching Angel go.
Aziraphale laughed before he could stifle it. The soft, amused sound filled the car. "Crowley, no one's getting turned into a frog."
"That's what you think," Crowley said.
Aziraphale squinted as Thatcher's headlights temporarily blinded him. She waved as she drove by, presumably headed home. He waved back, too late-- she was already past, the noise of the rumbling engine quickly fading from his hearing.
Colored silver by moonlight, Angel made his way around the pond at a slow, steady pace.
Aziraphale shook his head and focused his gaze on the pond's shore and Angel's movements. "I wonder what happened to the swans," he said after a moment.
"Probably sacrificed," came Crowley's muttered answer.
"Crowley, why would anyone use swans as a sacrifice," Aziraphale began, and then frowned. Perhaps it was a trick of the moonlight, but ripples seemed to be spreading across the pond's surface, ripples from a nonexistent wind. "Do you see that?"
"See what?" Crowley asked, and then squinted towards the pond. "Yes. What the--"
At the edge of the pond, Angel had seen the movement too, and ran towards the Bentley.
The pond's surface began to bubble. Aziraphale watched, unable to tear his gaze away, as an enormous tentacle rose from the depths and seemed to test the air. Another moment, and more tentacles disturbed the pond. Finally a head, octopus-like, emerged. The starlight cast shadows on the creature's frame, revealed the large, wicked-looking teeth.
Not quite able to help himself, Aziraphale whispered:
"Below the thunders of the upper deep;
Far far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth."
"Well, he's not sleeping anymore," Crowley said, voice shaky. "What the hell is the kraken doing in Sandford's pond? How can it even fit?" A smaller disturbance was rippling the pond now, and Crowley groaned a little as a much smaller tentacle broke the surface. "Don't tell me it has a baby."
"No," Aziraphale said after a moment, squinting at the new creature. "No, it's...a squid?" Despite his shock, he frowned. "That can't be right. Why would--"
"Aziraphale, if you're going to say that a squid hanging out with the kraken is what tipped you over into disbelief, I'm going to hit you," Crowley said very slowly. He waved wildly at the pond. "That is definitely the kraken, and that is definitely a squid. Now, what the bloody hell are we to do about it?"
"There are no regulations about this," Angel said, leaning against the Bentley's hood and sounding only slightly breathless, "but I think we should try to make contact."
"Right, let's talk with the monster," Crowley drawled. "That's brilliant, that is."
"Perhaps we should," Aziraphale said. "Either it's the one causing the ghosts to appear, or it's also been awakened by the person summoning the ghosts. Maybe it can help us."
"Or it could eat us," Crowley said, but Angel was already walking towards the pond's edge. "You two are mad, you know that?"
"Probably," Aziraphale agreed, opening his door and following Angel. His heart pounded unsteadily in his ears. He had visions of those tentacles reaching out and snatching him up, those gleaming teeth closing around him.
Still, he bit his lip and went on. Like a prayer, he found himself whispering the oath of attestation. "I will, to the best of my power, cause the peace to be kept and preserved and prevent all offences against people and property; and that while I continue to hold the said office I will, to the best of my skill and knowledge, discharge all the duties thereof--"
"Faithfully according to law," Crowley concluded, with only a hint of irony. He matched Aziraphale's pace, having abandoned his sunglasses in the Bentley. He bared his teeth in what was probably meant as a grin; it looked sickly. "If the kraken eats me, I'm coming back as a ghost and haunting you."
"The feeling is mutual, my dear," Aziraphale said dryly.
"Hello?" Angel called. He stopped at the edge of the pond, staring up at the kraken. "Do you understand English?"
"No, he doesn't," another voice calmly answered from out of the shadows.
Aziraphale closed his eyes, trepidation clutching at his heart. He knew that accent. Knew it far too well, and somehow that voice speaking on behalf of the kraken did not surprise him at all.
"Who are you?" Angel demanded, startled and suspicious.
Crowley sighed. "He's Adam Young."
**
**
"Who the hell is Adam Young?" Angel asked, now sounding more puzzled than anything else.
"Please, call me Adam," Adam said, stepping out of the shadows. He smiled that familiar, exasperating grin and extended his hand. Angel hesitated, and then shook his hand.
"Adam is a vigilante," Aziraphale said through gritted teeth. Had Adam followed them to Sandford? The last he'd heard, Adam had been visiting his family in Lower Tadfield. Or was he somehow responsible for the kraken? Knowing Adam, anything was possible.
"A suspected vigilante, Sergeant," Adam corrected mildly. "All your evidence was insubstantial, remember?"
"I know what I believe," Aziraphale snapped. "Whenever you or one of your people come round one of my cases, impossible problems get solved, most likely by illegal means."
"Like Jerry McDonald," Crowley said, nodding. "Murdered three people, right? Gets off scot-free because someone messed up the warrant. But then McDonald suddenly has a heart-to-heart with his mum and makes a full confession to the police-- after Adam's paid him a visit."
Adam smiled but said nothing.
Angel glanced between Aziraphale and Crowley. "So why are you here?" he asked Adam. "Did you wake the kraken?"
"No, of course not," Adam said, affronted. "Why would I do that?" He looked up at the kraken, and something like sympathy darkened his expression. "Poor thing just wants to sleep. It was your ghosts screaming that woke him up."
"But why are the ghosts showing up now? We've finally apprehended the murderers!" Angel said.
Adam shrugged. "Ghosts don't actually care about justice. They just want to be heard." He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "Unfortunately, humans can't hear them, no matter how much the ghosts howl. So instead, they woke up the kraken."
"How do we get it back to sleep? And deal with the ghosts?" Crowley asked while Aziraphale scowled. He still didn't trust Adam, but he had to admit, his words had a ring of truth to them. That was the problem, really. Everything Adam said sounded logical, until you had a moment later on to think about it and realized no, it was actually the exact opposite.
"I'll handle that," Adam said. He tilted his head, looked at Aziraphale and Crowley thoughtfully. "You two can help, if you like." There was an odd note in his voice, almost tentative.
"Oh yes, we'll just sing the kraken to sleep," Crowley said sarcastically.
"No, I--" For the first time, Adam fumbled for words, frowning and looking his actual twenty-three years, young and a little self-conscious. "I could help you remember," he said at last. "If you wanted. They might not want you to, but I reckon you've been punished enough."
"Remember what?" Crowley asked at the same time Aziraphale echoed, "Punished?"
Adam licked his lips. "Remember what you both are."
"We're police officers," Aziraphale said, frowning.
"Not exactly," Adam said. "Well, you are, but that's not what I meant. That's not what you're meant to be, what you are, deep down. I-- how's your wrist?" The non sequitur was directed at Aziraphale, who blinked.
"My wrist? It's fine, I suppose, but--" Aziraphale stopped and then looked, really, truly looked at his arm. Where the black and green bruises of Crowley's fingers had been, there was unblemished flesh instead. Aziraphale's head swam. "What did you do?" he whispered, turning his hand palm up and staring at the smooth whiteness of his wrist. Bile rose in his throat, and his vision blurred.
"I didn't do anything. I guess the ghosts triggered a memory."
"A memory? How can a memory heal bruises?" Aziraphale asked, throat tight. He couldn't stop staring at his wrist.
"Well," Adam said, and cleared his throat. "Well, that's what angels do. Heal. Perform miracles."
That drew Aziraphale's disbelieving gaze away from his hand, but Adam's expression was earnest. Searching his face, Aziraphale couldn't detect a single hint of guile.
"You're saying we're angels," Crowley said flatly. Then, to Aziraphale's surprise, he began to laugh. It was ragged and harsh and hysterical, but there was also relief in the sound.
"Crowley," Aziraphale said, and touched his shoulder.
Crowley flinched away from the touch, but at least he stopped that awful laughter. "I'm not mad then," he said.
"No," Adam agreed.
Crowley turned to Aziraphale. "My cassette player. I told you it was broken. It wasn't. After a few weeks, all my tapes turn into Best of Queen albums. I didn't-- I thought I was mad." He laughed again, this time the sound short and sharp.
"What's going on?" Angel asked.
Aziraphale jumped. He'd forgotten about the other man entirely.
"These two officers are...rather unusual," Adam explained. He smiled crookedly. "Course, I'm one to talk."
"So you're saying they're angels," Angel said, disbelieving.
"No. Aziraphale's an angel. Crowley's a demon."
The matter-of-fact words didn't sink in, and then they did, filling up Aziraphale's brain until he thought his head would burst. "I don't understand," he said, even though he did, a little. Adam wasn't normal. This situation wasn't normal. Was it any wonder he and Crowley weren't normal either?
Still, an angel and a demon. Aziraphale wanted to say it sounded impossible, but it didn't. His head ached, memories of his foster parents and his cadet days blurring and turning insubstantial, like a vapor trail of false memories that were being discarded by the wind. Instead, other memories began cluttering his head, over six thousand years worth, too many to handle all at once.
"Well, that went over like a lead balloon," a snake whispered with Crowley's voice--
"I didn't think it would be like this," Aziraphale said miserably, choking on the ashes of Sodom and Gomorrah and, while not doubting the ineffable plan, not liking it very much at the moment--
Crowley's expression went blank, but not with the attempted blank look of innocence he often wore. This look was one of actual bemusement. "Spain? An inquisition? Oh, er, of course I know all about that," he said airily, but Aziraphale knew he was lying--
"I'd just like to say," Aziraphale said, staring at the Adversary, "if we don't get out of this, that . . . I'll have known, deep down inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you."
"That's right," said Crowley bitterly. "Make my day."--
"Easy," someone was muttering into his ear. Strong hands gripped his elbows, kept his legs from giving out from under him. He recognized Angel's voice. "Easy, Sergeant."
Aziraphale blinked, and realized he was half-bowed under the weight of all those memories. Sweat trickled down his forehead and stung his eyes. He leaned into Angel's grip for a moment more, trying to quell the trembling of his legs. "What happened?" he whispered. "I-- I was a police officer. I remember Crowley as a cadet, bringing out the scotch to celebrate becoming constables. I remember sitting across from him in the interview room, certain he'd taken that bribe money--" His throat closed up on him again.
"Yes," Crowley said, in answer to a question Aziraphale hadn't voiced yet. "I did accept bribe money. Just not from the witness you questioned. Demon, you know." Aziraphale could see his weak smile, set in his ashen face, hear the attempt at bravado, but it fell short.
The Antichrist (retired) looked steadily at them both. "Heaven and Hell weren't too happy about your siding with me," he said. "Thought you were too keen on mortals, I guess. They figured a lifetime or two thinking you were mortal would cure that."
Crowley laughed a little hoarsely. "I'm almost impressed. That's imaginative, for Hell."
"I meddled a bit, let you two remember each other," Adam continued. He frowned and looked almost apologetic. "I would have stopped them doing it at all, or tried to. I probably should have. I just...I was twelve by then. I wanted to try and be normal. Human."
"But now you've changed your mind?" Aziraphale asked.
Adam nodded. His eyes unfocused briefly, like he was thinking hard on something (or tweaking reality to suit him, Aziraphale thought with a shiver), and then refocused on them both. He almost smiled. "There. You can go back to your old Arrangement now, if you want. Or just keep on pretending you still think you're mortal. I reckon Heaven and Hell won't figure it out for a century or two. You can enjoy yourselves."
"That sounds...." Crowley trailed off, and shook his head.
"Thank you," Aziraphale said, because he knew Crowley would choke on his gratitude. His head still hurt, but it was an easier thing to bear, now. The false memories were fading, fragmenting like dreams. He stepped away from Angel's grip, taking a deep breath as the ground seemed to spin beneath him. "Let's take care of the kraken, and the, er, squid."
"His pet," Adam explained helpfully. At their blank looks, he shrugged. "Racing horses have cats, right? The kraken has a squid."
"Right," Angel muttered.
Aziraphale straightened to his full height and looked at the kraken. Now he could see the distress in his large, dark luminous eyes, the agitation in his tentacles. "Poor dear, it's been a hard few days," he said softly. "Let's get you back to sleep, shall we?"
"Yes," Adam agreed, but it was no longer Adam's voice. Instead it was a power speaking through him, something older and wiser and far, far wearier. "Rest. Dream of...the world covered all over in water, with no humans to be seen."
The kraken made a low, rumbling sigh. His tentacles waved, this time as though in farewell, and then he sank beneath the pond's surface. The squid remained motionless for another moment, and then it too submerged.
Adam stared at the water, squinting fiercely, and then nodded. "They're back at the bottom of the ocean, where they belong."
"And the swans?" Crowley asked.
Adam made a face. "The kraken was feeling peckish when he first woke up."
"Poor Staker," Angel muttered. "And the ghosts?"
As though summoned, a good twenty, thirty ghosts flickered into being on the shore, surrounding them. Aziraphale didn't quite jump, but he did take in a quick, startled breath as Irene Butterman's ghost stood before him.
"I'm sorry," she said, and Aziraphale was only a little surprised that he could understand her. Her voice was faint, like a voice calling from a long ways away, and sad. "That's what I wanted to say to Danny. That I was sorry."
Aziraphale wanted to take her hand, squeeze it in sympathy. He settled for smiling at her instead. "Oh, my dear, it wasn't your fault, what happened. You couldn't have known what your husband would do."
Irene shook her head. "Please, tell Danny...tell Danny I love him, and that I am so very, very proud of him." She looked past him then, towards Angel, and her expression softened. "And that I hope he's happy."
"I'll make certain of that, ma'am," Angel said softly. At Aziraphale's look, he shrugged. "You never know when lip-reading will be a useful talent."
"Thank you," Irene said. She stepped close to Angel, whispered something that Aziraphale couldn't hear, but which made Angel's face flush. Then she vanished, framed by the moonlight one second and gone the next.
Angel stared at the spot she'd stood, frowning a little.
"You'll be heard," Adam said to the assembled ghosts. They gathered around him, flickering expressions hungry and hopeful. "I'll listen to you, and then you'll go." He nodded towards Aziraphale and Crowley. "If you two need me, I'll be in Lower Tadfield, at Pepper's house." He walked away, his ghostly retinue following after.
Aziraphale watched him go, only distantly aware of Crowley saying, "Good luck explaining all this to your department, Sergeant."
IV.
I love good and pleasure, I hate evil and pain, I want to be happy and I am not mistaken in believing, that people, angels and even demons have those same inclinations.
-Nicolas Malebranche
"You two are really heading back to London, then?" Thatcher asked, disappointment plain on her face. "I thought your investigation would take another week at least."
"Yes, we've got everything we need. And we must get this report back to London, I'm afraid," Aziraphale said. He held up the highly edited report and shot her an apologetic look. "Perhaps we'll come to visit on hols."
"Ooh, I'll hold you to that, Sergeant!" Thatcher said, beaming. She swatted him on the shoulder, hard enough that he winced a little, and added in a lower voice, "I'll make certain Danny and Angel send you an invitation when they decide to make it official, eh?"
Aziraphale laughed at that. "Thank you. I love weddings," he said. He did, really. Weddings were one of those marvelous, life-affirming experiences. Across the room, Crowley skulked by the door, obviously ready to leave. Aziraphale patted Thatcher's hand. "It was lovely meeting you all. And do send our apologies to Danny for leaving before he could have visitors again."
"Of course," Thatcher said. Her gaze flickered towards Crowley then, and she added, "And if you need any advice, love, you send me a letter, all right?" She leered a little. "I've got plenty of experience, knowin' how a man's head works. Both o' them."
"Oh," Aziraphale said, flushing a little. He took the offer in the spirit it was intended, one of friendship. "T-thank you." He eyed Crowley, and noticed his impatient look. "Good-bye, my dear."
Angel stopped Crowley and Aziraphale at the door.
"Thank you for your help, Sergeant, Inspector," he said, extending a hand. His gaze was direct. If he was still amazed by the fact that both Crowley and Aziraphale were not quite human, he didn't show it. "The department will be sorry to see you go."
"Yeah, Doris'll have two less men to ogle," Wainwright snickered, and then yelped as Thatcher calmly picked up a bin and threw it at his head. "Fuck!"
"Good-bye, Sergeant," Aziraphale said. "I wish you luck."
Angel smiled a little. "I suppose you won't be recommending my return to London, then?"
"The chief inspector will have to find someone else with a 400% arrest rate," Crowley said dryly. He seemed to take that as a good-bye, walking out of the library.
Aziraphale smiled at Angel one last time. "Farewell then."
**
**
The ride back to London began in silence.
Aziraphale gazed out the window, gathering his thoughts. Adam had given them a choice, he'd said. Aziraphale tried to imagine going back to his and Crowley's old Arrangement, the tempting and the thwarting, and only felt tired at the idea.
He thought about the past ten years, spent wandering London and patches of England thinking himself mortal. He could keep on working as a police officer, turn in reports, fight minor battles against evil rather than major ones. It was almost appealing, until he thought of Crowley continuing on as a member of the Met. That would never do.
His thoughts turned to Crowley then, and he remembered the fondness tinging Crowley's words, the surprising softness in the quirk of his lips when he smiled, how he looked without his sunglasses. Crowley had enjoyed being human, able to pin his mistakes and issues on human failings rather than the pride and flaws of fallen angels.
Something twisted in his stomach, a jumble of positive and negative emotions, and he bit his lip.
"So, what are we going to do?" Crowley asked, drawing Aziraphale from his musings.
Aziraphale shook his head. "Well, first we'll give this report to the chief inspector. Then...." He closed his eyes, sighed a little. "Then, I suppose, we'll see."
There was silence once more, and then suddenly the sound of Beethoven's Symphony No. 5 in C minor filled the car. Aziraphale opened his eyes in surprise to find Crowley grinning, rather sheepishly, like a boy who wasn't certain whether he had done something brilliant or ridiculous.
"I bought the tape in Sandford. Thought you might like some music on the way back," he explained. "It's still got a fortnight before it switches over to Best of Queen."
"Thank you," Aziraphale said, and smiled.
After a moment, Crowley smiled back.