Happy Holidays, Ineffabili_tea!
Title: The Whole Point of Being Human
Recipient: ineffabili_tea
Author: sticktothestory
Rating: R
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are Adam and Eve.
Warnings: genderbending, AU, discussion of abortion
A/N: Apologies to Dante, Milton, George Orwell, Frank McCourt, Gaiman, Pratchett, Freddie Mercury, Queen, and whosoever wrote the Book of Genesis. ( Weren’t it God?)
*
The Whole Point of Being Human
When push came to shove, Crowley had two options.
“Up against the tree,” Aziraphale panted, and yeah, okay, that narrowed it down.
She was intoxicating in the most unexpected ways: her small, soft breasts crushed against his chest as he pressed her into the trunk, the possessiveness with which she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, the unmistakable challenge in her eyes as he nervously lifted her thigh up and to the side. Sliding into her, warm and smooth and perfect, he knew he wouldn’t last.
Luckily, stamina was not an issue.
“Oh,” said Crowley, watching in awe as her head fell back and her eyes rolled shut. “Oh. Aziraphale, you look-”
“Hail, holy light,” boomed a voice. “Offspring of Heaven first born!”
Startled, they jumped apart, Crowley scanning the ground and Aziraphale the sky for the speaker. They were naked, and were only slightly abashed.
An angel stepped out from behind the trees and made his way towards them, sword in hand. “I am Gabriel,” he declared, strangely reluctant to meet their eyes. “In His infinite wisdom, the LORD hath appointed me Guardian of yonder Gate.”
They followed his gaze to the stone arc over the Eastern Gate, just visible over the trees. The inscription “Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Exit Here” might have disconcerted them, if either had known what abandonment meant; as it was, the whole thing seemed rather melodramatic.
In the distance, they could hear the LORD singing to the animals of the forest: something upbeat about does and their relation to deer.
“Gabriel,” said Aziraphale, wiping the sweat from her brow. “Yes, of course. I can’t imagine how tired you must be, walking all this way. Please, allow us to-”
“It is the LORD’s wish that I deliver a message unto thee,” Gabriel thundered. “A message of the utmost importance, certain to change the course of history for the whole of humankind. All in keeping with the Great Plan, of course,” he added as an afterthought.
“So… What is it?” asked Crowley after a long moment, looking suspiciously at Gabriel, who appeared to have worked past his initial discomfort and was staring in undisguised fascination at Crowley’s rapidly dwindling erection.
“Hm? Oh. As I was saying, the LORD hath sent his most dedicated servant to say unto thee,” and he thrust a self-important finger at Aziraphale, “Behold: thou art conceived.”
“Bless you,” said Aziraphale into the dramatic pause.
“Yes, yes, LORD bless all of us,” snapped Gabriel. “If thou wouldst hold thy tongue for all of one moment, I could finish explaining to thee about the fruit now growing in thy abdomen.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” said Aziraphale, casting a murderous glare at Crowley. “I should have known he’d try it on you as well. The pips are perfectly harmless, you see, and there’s not enough sunlight in your stomach for seeds to develop in there, anyway.”
Gabriel scowled, sighed, and clapped his hands. At once, they knew.
“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale, white as a cloud.
Crowley, eyes wide as saucers, gingerly reached over to put a hand on her belly.
“Art thou daft?” said Gabriel. “Thou cannot feel anything yet. It is too small.”
“But we didn’t know,” said Aziraphale, breathing hard. “Why didn’t He tell us before?”
Gabriel’s scowl deepened. “Thou darest question the ways of the LORD?”
“No,” said Crowley quickly, moving his hand up to cover Aziraphale’s mouth. “Of course not. We know better than that. Ineffability and what-have-you. Not a word of protest here.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Gabriel, although he didn’t look entirely convinced. After another fleeting look at Crowley’s penis, which-curiously-seemed to have softened completely, he turned on his heel and strode away.
When he had reached the edge of the clearing, Crowley removed his hand. “Are you okay?”
“Oh,” called Gabriel over his shoulder. “I had clean forgotten it: thou art not to touch yonder tree again. If thou eatest its fruit, thou shalt surely die.”
“Ta,” Crowley yelled, waving him out of sight. “Bit of a killjoy, isn’t he?”
“Pompous knob,” Aziraphale muttered, rubbing furiously at her eyes.
“That’s not very kind,” said Crowley, shocked. “You shouldn’t shoot the Messenger.”
Aziraphale stood. “I don’t intend to,” she said. “But you might want to steer clear of me.”
“Me?” Crowley demanded as she walked away. “What have I done?”
She disappeared into the forest without so much as a second glance at him.
“You owe me a rib,” he shouted after her, but the echo of his own voice was his only answer.
*
Aziraphale hadn’t expected Hell’s field agent on Earth to be so small. Or colourful.
“I’m sorry,” she said politely. “I didn’t quite catch that. Did you say ‘Lucifer’?”
The demon swallowed its mouthful of fruit. “No, there’s a P. Pulsifer,” it repeated, taking another bite and chewing thoughtfully before adding, “I’m thinking of changing it.”
“Well, I suppose it is a bit ostentatious, for an undercover agent,” Aziraphale conceded, still marvelling at the creature’s blinding orange skin. “Have you, er, been here long?”
Pulsifer grinned, displaying the impressive collection of tiny pieces of fruit stuck between his teeth. “Only since the other day,” he said. “That was quite a show you put on, by the way.”
“Thank you.” Aziraphale beamed. “How kind of you to notice.”
“Notice?” asked Pulsifer, spraying juice on Aziraphale’s hair. “You and the other one were banging up against the tree hard enough to make it rain apples. Almost shook me down, too.”
“Is that what those are called?” said Aziraphale, so eager to satisfy her curiosity she didn’t think to apologise. “Apples?”
Pulsifer nodded his teensy head. “Delicious and nutritious. You want one?”
“I really shouldn’t,” said Aziraphale, but she looked sorely tempted.
“Oh, don’t be like that. He’s all the way over by the lake. He’ll never even know.”
“Perhaps not,” said Aziraphale. “But I’d rather not risk it. Plenty of fruit on other trees.”
“Surely you don’t mean to compare any random tree to this one?”
“Why not? What’s so special about this tree?”
Pulsifer whistled softly through his teeth. “Wow,” he said. “Fancy that.”
“Fancy what?” Aziraphale demanded. “Are you poking fun?”
“I would never,” said Pulsifer. “I’m just surprised Gabriel even shows up to work at all.”
Aziraphale’s stomach sank. “What do you mean?” she asked. “What hasn’t he told us?”
Pulsifer looked at her shrewdly. “What has he told you?”
“That we would die if we were to eat from this tree,” said Aziraphale. “Weren’t you there?”
“I had other things on my mind,” said Pulsifer absently, still peering at Aziraphale’s face. His eyes were yellow, she realised, and he had the most unnerving tendency to stare without blinking for minutes at a time. “I meant, what has he told you that’s got you so upset?”
“Oh,” said Aziraphale. She let out a long breath, looking vaguely around the clearing. “That’s not something I want to discuss with you, I don’t think. To tell you the truth, dear boy, I don’t know that we ought to be talking at all.”
“Too late for that now,” said Pulsifer, in a voice that was somehow different from before-more predatory, Aziraphale thought, but dangerously compelling, like a spider coaxing a fly to lean in just a little closer, for a kiss. “Terrible, isn’t it, when we’re faced with fixed outcomes? When those we trust most take away our right to decide for ourselves?”
Aziraphale could not remember moving forward, but she must have done so, because she was suddenly standing much closer to the tree. She took a deliberate step back. “I don’t trust you.”
“No,” said Pulsifer. “But you certainly trusted Him, and look what He did to repay you.”
“Your kind gave up the right to talk about betrayal a long time ago,” said Aziraphale sharply, and then she blinked, as though surprised at her own words.
“This tree,” said Pulsifer, still in the same intense voice, ignoring her reply, “is the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. If you eat from it, you will know right from wrong. You will never have to trust anybody to decide in your place again.”
“My faith is not a burden,” said Aziraphale. “And I will take His word over yours any day.”
“Oh, really? What word are we talking about, exactly? Because you didn’t even know what kind of tree this was until I told you, let alone why He doesn’t want you eating from it.”
“He doesn’t need to tell me. I understand He has His reasons.”
“For not wanting you to know right from wrong? Sounds dodgy to me. Don’t you think you should have been consulted for that important a decision about your life?”
“If my opinion mattered, He would have asked me,” said Aziraphale, scowling.
“Do you think so? Did He ask you if you’d like to exist? Did He ask the other human for his permission to take his rib and turn it into a person?”
“I’ll have you know we’re very happy I’m here,” snapped Aziraphale. “Both of us.”
“Of course you are,” said Pulsifer. “And I just bet your baby will say the same one day.”
Aziraphale flinched as if he had slapped her in the face.
Pulsifer smirked. “Come to think of it, I do remember your conversation with Gabriel. You seemed quite upset about that, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
It occurred to Aziraphale then exactly what sort of voice Pulsifer had been speaking in: one of triumph. Sick to her stomach, she took another step back from the Tree, and then a third.
“You know,” said Pulsifer, casting a significant look at her middle. “I could take care of that for you.” He raised his yellow eyes back to hers. “All you have to do is open your mouth.”
*
Crowley had only been in existence for a relatively brief period of time, but he felt confident this particular shade of orange was never intended to occur anywhere on God’s green Earth.
“Hello,” he said, keeping a distrustful distance. “I don’t remember naming you.”
The creature opened its bleary eyes and yawned. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
Its eyes were yellow, Crowley noticed, and wondered why that should seem odd in a reptile.
“Amphibian,” the creature corrected.
Crowley blinked. “You can read my mind?”
“No better than the next agent of Down Below,” it said, looking meaningfully at the ground. “My name is Pulsifer. With a P,” it hastened to add. “Although I’m thinking of changing it.”
“I really shouldn’t be talking to a demon,” said Crowley, and he turned to leave.
“Wait,” cried Pulsifer. “Don’t go. I didn’t mean to Fall. If you must know, I sort of stumbled.”
“Out of Heaven?” asked Crowley, raising an eyebrow.
“Those rain clouds are a lot slipperier than they look,” said Pulsifer shortly. “Anyway, you can’t go yet. I’m under strict orders to tempt you into eating one of these.”
Crowley glanced at the juicy, red fruits with a professional eye. The LORD had put him in the Garden specifically to tend to it, and Crowley was nothing if not a green-thumbed workaholic. They looked appealing, yes, but no more so than any other piece of fruit in Eden.
“Aren’t you supposed to be a snake?” he asked, unsure of how he knew this.
“Mix-up in Issuing,” said Pulsifer. “Don’t get me started. Are you going to take it or not?”
“No,” said Crowley. “Sorry. It’s probably easier to tempt people you haven’t warned first.”
“One would think that,” said Pulsifer, a smug smile creeping onto his face, “if one didn’t have reason to believe you might not be wholly unsympathetic to my employer’s cause.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Rumour has it you staged your own little rebellion up here, not long ago,” said Pulsifer, eyes fixed on Crowley’s. “You remember. It was right around the time your friend came to join you. You moped around the Garden for weeks after your rib was taken, letting the plants wilt and the waterfowl go hungry. I heard you wouldn’t speak to her for days and days.”
“I don’t know who told you,” said Crowley flatly, “but it was one day. And nothing wilted.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
Pulsifer cocked his head. “You’re remarkably eager to defend Him, considering the spot He’s put you in.”
“What spot would that be?” asked Crowley, irritated. “Do you mean the part where He gave me life, or the part where He gave me the most beautiful place on Earth to spend it in?”
“The part where He put you under and took a piece of your body to turn into another person,” said Pulsifer. “That can’t have been very pleasant.”
“No,” said Crowley. “But He gave me Aziraphale in return, and I’m very happy about that.”
“Well, then. Here’s hoping you’ll feel the same about the next exchange.”
Crowley ducked his head. “Actually, I’m…quite happy about that, too.”
“Oh, really? Because Aziraphale isn’t, you know.”
Crowley’s head snapped up. “You talked to her?”
Pulsifer smirked. “She came by yesterday. Didn’t she tell you? Oh,” he said, as if suddenly remembering something, “I’m sorry. She’s not speaking to you, is she?”
“You seem to know a lot about what goes on around here,” said Crowley, eyes narrowed.
“I have my sources.”
“Well, don’t expect everybody else to listen to gossip just because you do.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I know Aziraphale better than to think she’d listen to a word you say.”
“Oh, she didn’t. At least not until I offered her a choice in whether or not to have the baby.”
Crowley felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. “You what?”
“I offered to take it away,” said Pulsifer calmly. “Don’t you think she should be free to decide for herself? It’s her body, after all. You of all people should know what it feels like to have someone else use it for their own purposes.”
“What I know,” shouted Crowley, “is that things worked out perfectly in the end, and I wasted a whole lot of time resenting somebody who was only doing me a favour.”
“Hey,” said Pulsifer, “I’m not judging. I know all about resentment. I’m just pointing out that you-both of you-have a choice here. The fruit of this tree grants knowledge of good and evil to anybody who eats it. Really, I’m just another person trying to do you a favour.”
“You’re lying,” said Crowley. “Why wouldn’t He want us to know right from wrong? If we always knew what the right choice was, He could know for certain that we’d always make it.”
“Begs the question, doesn’t it? Your friend thought so, too.”
Crowley shook his head. “Aziraphale isn’t given to doubt.”
“But you are,” said Pulsifer triumphantly. “You wonder sometimes, when you think nobody’s watching. If the Ineffable Plan really is for the greater good, why doesn’t He just come right out and lay His cards on the table? Is it fair for Him to use people and just expect us to trust that in the end, it’s all for the best? How can He ask for that trust when He won’t trust us enough to let us make our own choices? What makes Him think it’s all for the best?”
“I couldn’t say,” said Crowley. “Being as we’ve established I don’t know right from wrong.”
Pulsifer’s yellow eyes bored deep into Crowley’s. “Here’s your chance to find out.”
For a long moment, Crowley didn’t speak. Then, slowly, he reached out and picked one of the apples, bringing it closer for inspection. It was a warm day, but the fruit felt cold against his skin. He thought about what it might feel like on his tongue. He tried to imagine an imperfect world, brimming with infinite, dizzying possibilities. He thought about Aziraphale, and about their child, growing in her belly. He thought about everything he had to be thankful for.
“No,” he managed, dropping the apple. “I won’t make the same mistake twice.”
“Suit yourself,” Pulsifer told his back. “Go away, I don’t care. There’s always the other one.”
Crowley stopped and turned around. “She wouldn’t,” he said, more confident than he felt.
“What I find interesting,” said Pulsifer, “is your assumption that she hasn’t already.”
*
Just before sunset, Crowley found Aziraphale by the lake under a pink-streaked sky, dipping her toes into the water and tossing bits of tomato at a paddling of greedily quacking ducks.
“Hi,” he said, sitting down in the grass beside her. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
Aziraphale’s mouth twitched. “I suppose you think I’ve been neglecting you horribly.”
“It’s nothing,” said Crowley, pathetically pleased to see she’d regained her sense of humour, at least. “You needed the time alone with your thoughts, I understand.”
“Yes, well,” she sighed, patting her lower abdomen awkwardly. “It doesn’t look as though I’ll be alone with them for some months to come.”
“That’s terrific,” said Crowley, light-headed with relief. “So you won’t be taking Pulsifer up on his offer, then? You’ve no idea how happy I am to hear…” He bit his tongue, too late.
Aziraphale frowned. “How do you know about that?”
“Er,” said Crowley, smile turned sheepish. “Let’s just say, for a rural area with a population of five, you wouldn’t believe the rumour mill.”
“He knows?”
Crowley’s stomach went cold at the honest fear in her expression. “What?” he said. “Oh. No. He doesn’t know anything. I mean,” he amended, waving his hand, “technically, He knows everything. But He doesn’t know this, specifically. I don’t think.”
She nodded, only mildly reassured.
Before he could let himself think it over, he asked, “You haven’t done anything you wouldn’t want Him knowing about, have you? Aziraphale?” And in growing discomfort at her silence, he added, “You can tell me.”
Aziraphale, who heard the words for the offer of complicity they were, gave him a crooked smile. “Thank you, dear boy,” she murmured, squeezing his knee. “I haven’t actually gone beyond thoughtcrime yet, but I do appreciate the gesture.”
“There’s a reason they call it that, though,” said Crowley gently, covering her hand with his.
She shrugged, smile growing grim. “If that’s really how He feels, perhaps He never ought to have given us independent thought, either. It’s not as if we’re allowed to use it.”
Crowley opened his mouth to argue, but shut it again for lack of coherent argument. “Look,” he said finally. “Just because you and I can’t understand the Ineffable Plan doesn’t mean it’s not there, working everywhere around us, and inside us, and for us, and-”
“And through us,” said Aziraphale. “Everything we do is part of it. Destiny, by definition.”
“If that were true, He wouldn’t have had to forbid us from eating the apples. Things happen all the time that aren’t part of the Plan. Look at Pulsifer; you can’t tell me he would have been thrown out of Heaven if all He’d done was to fulfil his role in the Plan.”
“Perhaps being cast out was just as much a part of the Plan as disobeying Him,” Aziraphale insisted. “It must have been. Surely, if it were only an optional path we could deviate from, it wouldn’t have to be ineffable-in fact, He’d be forced to tell us, if He wanted us to carry it out. And if we can’t stray from it, everything we do is inherently in keeping with it, inherently the right choice. Crowley,” she whispered, “I don’t believe it’s possible for us to do wrong.”
“You shouldn’t talk like that,” said Crowley, taken aback. “That’s a dangerous thing to say.”
“I know,” she said simply, and looked at him with big, sorrowful eyes, as if she were saying goodbye to something-or rather, as if she’d said goodbye to it already and was now seeing it again, from a distance, and realising she didn’t miss it as much as she’d thought she would.
Crowley decided he didn’t want her looking at him like that, ever again.
“If you really believe that,” he heard himself say into the silence, “if you’re not-” He broke off, swallowed, and continued, “If you’re not… Happy. Here. Then I think you should do it. No, listen to me, I think you should take it, if that’s what you think is right, and we’ll deal with the consequences as they come. Together. I just want you to know you have that option.”
Aziraphale smiled. “Thank you,” she said softly, instead of everything he’d hoped to hear.
*
The sensation was like nothing she’d experienced before-thousands of years later, certain people in certain places would, using a certain language, come to call it ‘disappointment.’
It tasted like any ordinary fruit: a little sweet and a little sour, much like its consequences, and the only thing remotely interesting about it was the delightful crunch it made when you bit into it, clean and hard, like the end of one thing and the beginning of another.
Aziraphale opened her eyes and looked at the world with new understanding.
“Excuse me,” said Freddie Mercury. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
*
“Well,” said Pulsifer. “That one went down like a lead balloon.”
Gabriel put his wings over his head to shield himself from the rain. “As well it should have.”
“You think so? I thought it was a bit of an overreaction. I mean, first offence and everything. I can’t see what’s so bad about wanting to know the difference between good and evil. There was certainly no need to come down on them like that, calling her a big disgrace.”
“Ever since He first made them, I’ve been telling Him, ‘Somebody better put them back into their place,’” said Gabriel, moving a little farther away to keep Pulsifer from taking shelter underneath his wings. “I’m glad He finally took my advice. And it must be bad, or else thou wouldst not have been involved.”
“I don’t know,” said Pulsifer. “They just said to get up here and make some trouble. Who’d have thought it would be so easy? Telling them which tree it was and everything, putting it right there in the middle of a wide open space in the forest. It’s almost as if He planned it.”
“Thou shalt take that back,” warned Gabriel. “Lest I smite thee into oblivion.”
“Speaking of which,” said Pulsifer, unperturbed. “Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”
“Er,” said Gabriel, much less dramatically.
“You did, didn’t you? It flamed like anything. Turned every which way. Lost it, have you?”
“If thou must know,” said Gabriel testily, “I gave it unto the humans. They appeared so cold, the miserable wretches, and the storm approacheth fast. She is carrying his child already, and the forests outside the Gate harbour a profusion of loathsome beasts.”
Pulsifer smirked. “They took it from you, didn’t they?”
There was a long and stubborn silence during which Gabriel pretended not to have heard.
“Funny thing is,” said Pulsifer eventually, “I keep wondering whether the apple job wasn’t, in fact, the right thing to do.” He nudged the angel. “Funny if we both messed up, eh? Funny if I let a good thing happen and you a bad one, eh?”
“Not really,” said Gabriel sourly, no longer interested in making conversation. “The LORD is summoning me; I shall be given new instructions. I suppose I’ll be seeing thee again soon.”
“Hey,” said Pulsifer, just as Gabriel turned to go. “What happens to the humans?”
Gabriel looked over his shoulder and down his nose at the demon. “They shall remain cast out of the Garden for all time,” he replied. “Not nearly enough punishment, if thou askest me.”
Pulsifer smiled, a little sadly. “Forever is a hard price to pay,” he said. “Trust me on this.”
Far away, in the dripping woods, something bright and fiery flickered among the trees.
It was going to be a dark and stormy night.
*
The flaming sword flickered through the trees as Crowley ran, chasing Aziraphale. “You can’t keep running forever,” he shouted. “You might as well give up and get it over with!”
“Surely,” panted Aziraphale, trying to send him pleading looks while keeping her eyes on the ground so as not to trip and lose her head-start advantage, “surely you’d never do anything to jeopardise your unborn child?”
“Watch me,” growled Crowley, and leapt.
As they struggled, a man stepped out from behind the trees-or perhaps it was the trees who shied away from the man. “Hallo,” he said, and grinned. It was a grin that belonged to another century, although it would probably have looked out-of-place there, too.
They didn’t notice him until they’d rolled all the way up against his feet, but when they did, they were deeply annoyed at the interruption.
“Who are you?” demanded Aziraphale, taking her teeth out of Crowley’s neck.
The man laughed like music, a sound obscene in its carefreeness. “I was tempted to have you wander the desert for forty years,” he told her. “But I think you’ve learnt your lesson.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Crowley, getting to his feet.
“You,” the man said, pointing at him, “thought it would take a complete idiot to have blind faith in a plan they weren’t privy to, and you,” he said, pointing at Aziraphale, “couldn’t see why people refused to just trust an omniscient being of infinite goodness to know better.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than Crowley and Aziraphale were themselves again, and dressed. Aziraphale’s eyes flicked uncertainly to Crowley’s, only to meet with sunglasses.
Adam was shaking with barely contained mirth. “Listen,” he said. “Are you listening?”
“My dear boy,” said Aziraphale with deceptive calm, “you are the cruellest person I know.”
“Seriously,” added Crowley. “You might want to consider a paternity test.”
“I notice neither of you is particularly pleased to see me,” said Adam.
“What did you think?” snapped Crowley. “You threw us into some twisted-reality mind game without so much as a by-your-leave; how did you expect us to feel?”
Adam only grinned more broadly. “Are you saying you’re angry because I didn’t ask first?”
“It would have been the polite thing to do,” said Aziraphale icily.
“It would have been the right thing to do,” corrected Adam. “See where this is going?”
“No, you’re subtle as a symphony,” muttered Crowley. “Humour us, will you?”
“People wouldn’t be people without free will. They’d be like you,” he pointed at Crowley, “or like you,” he pointed at Aziraphale, “or something else altogether. Being able to choose,” he continued, giving them a significant look each in turn, “is the whole point of being human.”
There was a moment of silence in which the forest itself seemed to be holding its breath.
“That’s it?” exploded Crowley. “That’s what you put us through all this for? I could have told you that in my sleep. I’ve been saying as much every day for the past six thousand years.”
“That’s it,” said Adam, who even had the audacity to look amused. “Well, that, and I thought the two of you deserved a holiday. But it never hurts to go over what you already know. And besides,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “you learnt some new things, too, didn’t you?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, whose face had gone beet red.
The angel coughed delicately. “Ahem. Yes, well. Thank you for the, er, holiday.”
“My pleasure,” said Adam, and, to their utter mortification, winked at them.
*
Halfway to London, Crowley and Aziraphale were studiously avoiding each other’s gazes.
“You missed the exit,” Aziraphale pointed out, breaking the awkward silence that had settled in after the last notes of Brahms’s Under Pressure.
“My exit is twenty-five miles ahead,” said Crowley mildly, not looking at him.
“And you’ve not taken your eyes off the road once since we left Tadfield,” said Aziraphale, ignoring the churlish interruption. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“I’m just thinking about something your godson said.”
“Typical. Whenever he rips apart the fabric of space and time, suddenly he’s my godson.”
Crowley glanced briefly at him, and away again. “I think he lied about the reason he did it. Or not so much lied as left it for us to figure out on our own, maybe.”
“Oh?” asked Aziraphale, carefully.
“I think he wanted to show us that we can make our own choices, that we do have free will. Otherwise, why bother trying to teach us anything at all? I think you chose to take that apple. In fact,” he said, finally turning to face Aziraphale, “I think you chose to do a lot of things.”
Aziraphale looked out the side window. “It’s been a long time since you brought that up.”
“Well, you never actually turned me down,” said Crowley. “So I’ve always wondered.”
“I suppose it’s cruel of me to have kept you waiting,” Aziraphale told his window reflection.
Crowley smiled, only two parts smugness. “I do have all the time in the world.”
“Odd,” said Aziraphale, “how I never thought of ‘ineffability’ as an understatement before.”
“Shut up,” said Crowley, and kissed him.
The Bentley didn’t have enough room for two currently man-shaped beings to lie down in it, so Aziraphale bumped his head against the window, and Crowley had a knee shoved rather more painfully into an embarrassing place, but neither stopped until a good twenty minutes later, when Aziraphale said with some concern that they really had missed their exit this time.
“There’ll be other exits,” Crowley promised, and there were.
Theirs was, after all, a world brimming with infinite, dizzying possibilities.
Happy Holidays, ineffabili_tea, from your Secret Writer!
Recipient: ineffabili_tea
Author: sticktothestory
Rating: R
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are Adam and Eve.
Warnings: genderbending, AU, discussion of abortion
A/N: Apologies to Dante, Milton, George Orwell, Frank McCourt, Gaiman, Pratchett, Freddie Mercury, Queen, and whosoever wrote the Book of Genesis. ( Weren’t it God?)
*
The Whole Point of Being Human
When push came to shove, Crowley had two options.
“Up against the tree,” Aziraphale panted, and yeah, okay, that narrowed it down.
She was intoxicating in the most unexpected ways: her small, soft breasts crushed against his chest as he pressed her into the trunk, the possessiveness with which she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, the unmistakable challenge in her eyes as he nervously lifted her thigh up and to the side. Sliding into her, warm and smooth and perfect, he knew he wouldn’t last.
Luckily, stamina was not an issue.
“Oh,” said Crowley, watching in awe as her head fell back and her eyes rolled shut. “Oh. Aziraphale, you look-”
“Hail, holy light,” boomed a voice. “Offspring of Heaven first born!”
Startled, they jumped apart, Crowley scanning the ground and Aziraphale the sky for the speaker. They were naked, and were only slightly abashed.
An angel stepped out from behind the trees and made his way towards them, sword in hand. “I am Gabriel,” he declared, strangely reluctant to meet their eyes. “In His infinite wisdom, the LORD hath appointed me Guardian of yonder Gate.”
They followed his gaze to the stone arc over the Eastern Gate, just visible over the trees. The inscription “Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Exit Here” might have disconcerted them, if either had known what abandonment meant; as it was, the whole thing seemed rather melodramatic.
In the distance, they could hear the LORD singing to the animals of the forest: something upbeat about does and their relation to deer.
“Gabriel,” said Aziraphale, wiping the sweat from her brow. “Yes, of course. I can’t imagine how tired you must be, walking all this way. Please, allow us to-”
“It is the LORD’s wish that I deliver a message unto thee,” Gabriel thundered. “A message of the utmost importance, certain to change the course of history for the whole of humankind. All in keeping with the Great Plan, of course,” he added as an afterthought.
“So… What is it?” asked Crowley after a long moment, looking suspiciously at Gabriel, who appeared to have worked past his initial discomfort and was staring in undisguised fascination at Crowley’s rapidly dwindling erection.
“Hm? Oh. As I was saying, the LORD hath sent his most dedicated servant to say unto thee,” and he thrust a self-important finger at Aziraphale, “Behold: thou art conceived.”
“Bless you,” said Aziraphale into the dramatic pause.
“Yes, yes, LORD bless all of us,” snapped Gabriel. “If thou wouldst hold thy tongue for all of one moment, I could finish explaining to thee about the fruit now growing in thy abdomen.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” said Aziraphale, casting a murderous glare at Crowley. “I should have known he’d try it on you as well. The pips are perfectly harmless, you see, and there’s not enough sunlight in your stomach for seeds to develop in there, anyway.”
Gabriel scowled, sighed, and clapped his hands. At once, they knew.
“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale, white as a cloud.
Crowley, eyes wide as saucers, gingerly reached over to put a hand on her belly.
“Art thou daft?” said Gabriel. “Thou cannot feel anything yet. It is too small.”
“But we didn’t know,” said Aziraphale, breathing hard. “Why didn’t He tell us before?”
Gabriel’s scowl deepened. “Thou darest question the ways of the LORD?”
“No,” said Crowley quickly, moving his hand up to cover Aziraphale’s mouth. “Of course not. We know better than that. Ineffability and what-have-you. Not a word of protest here.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Gabriel, although he didn’t look entirely convinced. After another fleeting look at Crowley’s penis, which-curiously-seemed to have softened completely, he turned on his heel and strode away.
When he had reached the edge of the clearing, Crowley removed his hand. “Are you okay?”
“Oh,” called Gabriel over his shoulder. “I had clean forgotten it: thou art not to touch yonder tree again. If thou eatest its fruit, thou shalt surely die.”
“Ta,” Crowley yelled, waving him out of sight. “Bit of a killjoy, isn’t he?”
“Pompous knob,” Aziraphale muttered, rubbing furiously at her eyes.
“That’s not very kind,” said Crowley, shocked. “You shouldn’t shoot the Messenger.”
Aziraphale stood. “I don’t intend to,” she said. “But you might want to steer clear of me.”
“Me?” Crowley demanded as she walked away. “What have I done?”
She disappeared into the forest without so much as a second glance at him.
“You owe me a rib,” he shouted after her, but the echo of his own voice was his only answer.
*
Aziraphale hadn’t expected Hell’s field agent on Earth to be so small. Or colourful.
“I’m sorry,” she said politely. “I didn’t quite catch that. Did you say ‘Lucifer’?”
The demon swallowed its mouthful of fruit. “No, there’s a P. Pulsifer,” it repeated, taking another bite and chewing thoughtfully before adding, “I’m thinking of changing it.”
“Well, I suppose it is a bit ostentatious, for an undercover agent,” Aziraphale conceded, still marvelling at the creature’s blinding orange skin. “Have you, er, been here long?”
Pulsifer grinned, displaying the impressive collection of tiny pieces of fruit stuck between his teeth. “Only since the other day,” he said. “That was quite a show you put on, by the way.”
“Thank you.” Aziraphale beamed. “How kind of you to notice.”
“Notice?” asked Pulsifer, spraying juice on Aziraphale’s hair. “You and the other one were banging up against the tree hard enough to make it rain apples. Almost shook me down, too.”
“Is that what those are called?” said Aziraphale, so eager to satisfy her curiosity she didn’t think to apologise. “Apples?”
Pulsifer nodded his teensy head. “Delicious and nutritious. You want one?”
“I really shouldn’t,” said Aziraphale, but she looked sorely tempted.
“Oh, don’t be like that. He’s all the way over by the lake. He’ll never even know.”
“Perhaps not,” said Aziraphale. “But I’d rather not risk it. Plenty of fruit on other trees.”
“Surely you don’t mean to compare any random tree to this one?”
“Why not? What’s so special about this tree?”
Pulsifer whistled softly through his teeth. “Wow,” he said. “Fancy that.”
“Fancy what?” Aziraphale demanded. “Are you poking fun?”
“I would never,” said Pulsifer. “I’m just surprised Gabriel even shows up to work at all.”
Aziraphale’s stomach sank. “What do you mean?” she asked. “What hasn’t he told us?”
Pulsifer looked at her shrewdly. “What has he told you?”
“That we would die if we were to eat from this tree,” said Aziraphale. “Weren’t you there?”
“I had other things on my mind,” said Pulsifer absently, still peering at Aziraphale’s face. His eyes were yellow, she realised, and he had the most unnerving tendency to stare without blinking for minutes at a time. “I meant, what has he told you that’s got you so upset?”
“Oh,” said Aziraphale. She let out a long breath, looking vaguely around the clearing. “That’s not something I want to discuss with you, I don’t think. To tell you the truth, dear boy, I don’t know that we ought to be talking at all.”
“Too late for that now,” said Pulsifer, in a voice that was somehow different from before-more predatory, Aziraphale thought, but dangerously compelling, like a spider coaxing a fly to lean in just a little closer, for a kiss. “Terrible, isn’t it, when we’re faced with fixed outcomes? When those we trust most take away our right to decide for ourselves?”
Aziraphale could not remember moving forward, but she must have done so, because she was suddenly standing much closer to the tree. She took a deliberate step back. “I don’t trust you.”
“No,” said Pulsifer. “But you certainly trusted Him, and look what He did to repay you.”
“Your kind gave up the right to talk about betrayal a long time ago,” said Aziraphale sharply, and then she blinked, as though surprised at her own words.
“This tree,” said Pulsifer, still in the same intense voice, ignoring her reply, “is the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. If you eat from it, you will know right from wrong. You will never have to trust anybody to decide in your place again.”
“My faith is not a burden,” said Aziraphale. “And I will take His word over yours any day.”
“Oh, really? What word are we talking about, exactly? Because you didn’t even know what kind of tree this was until I told you, let alone why He doesn’t want you eating from it.”
“He doesn’t need to tell me. I understand He has His reasons.”
“For not wanting you to know right from wrong? Sounds dodgy to me. Don’t you think you should have been consulted for that important a decision about your life?”
“If my opinion mattered, He would have asked me,” said Aziraphale, scowling.
“Do you think so? Did He ask you if you’d like to exist? Did He ask the other human for his permission to take his rib and turn it into a person?”
“I’ll have you know we’re very happy I’m here,” snapped Aziraphale. “Both of us.”
“Of course you are,” said Pulsifer. “And I just bet your baby will say the same one day.”
Aziraphale flinched as if he had slapped her in the face.
Pulsifer smirked. “Come to think of it, I do remember your conversation with Gabriel. You seemed quite upset about that, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
It occurred to Aziraphale then exactly what sort of voice Pulsifer had been speaking in: one of triumph. Sick to her stomach, she took another step back from the Tree, and then a third.
“You know,” said Pulsifer, casting a significant look at her middle. “I could take care of that for you.” He raised his yellow eyes back to hers. “All you have to do is open your mouth.”
*
Crowley had only been in existence for a relatively brief period of time, but he felt confident this particular shade of orange was never intended to occur anywhere on God’s green Earth.
“Hello,” he said, keeping a distrustful distance. “I don’t remember naming you.”
The creature opened its bleary eyes and yawned. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
Its eyes were yellow, Crowley noticed, and wondered why that should seem odd in a reptile.
“Amphibian,” the creature corrected.
Crowley blinked. “You can read my mind?”
“No better than the next agent of Down Below,” it said, looking meaningfully at the ground. “My name is Pulsifer. With a P,” it hastened to add. “Although I’m thinking of changing it.”
“I really shouldn’t be talking to a demon,” said Crowley, and he turned to leave.
“Wait,” cried Pulsifer. “Don’t go. I didn’t mean to Fall. If you must know, I sort of stumbled.”
“Out of Heaven?” asked Crowley, raising an eyebrow.
“Those rain clouds are a lot slipperier than they look,” said Pulsifer shortly. “Anyway, you can’t go yet. I’m under strict orders to tempt you into eating one of these.”
Crowley glanced at the juicy, red fruits with a professional eye. The LORD had put him in the Garden specifically to tend to it, and Crowley was nothing if not a green-thumbed workaholic. They looked appealing, yes, but no more so than any other piece of fruit in Eden.
“Aren’t you supposed to be a snake?” he asked, unsure of how he knew this.
“Mix-up in Issuing,” said Pulsifer. “Don’t get me started. Are you going to take it or not?”
“No,” said Crowley. “Sorry. It’s probably easier to tempt people you haven’t warned first.”
“One would think that,” said Pulsifer, a smug smile creeping onto his face, “if one didn’t have reason to believe you might not be wholly unsympathetic to my employer’s cause.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Rumour has it you staged your own little rebellion up here, not long ago,” said Pulsifer, eyes fixed on Crowley’s. “You remember. It was right around the time your friend came to join you. You moped around the Garden for weeks after your rib was taken, letting the plants wilt and the waterfowl go hungry. I heard you wouldn’t speak to her for days and days.”
“I don’t know who told you,” said Crowley flatly, “but it was one day. And nothing wilted.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
Pulsifer cocked his head. “You’re remarkably eager to defend Him, considering the spot He’s put you in.”
“What spot would that be?” asked Crowley, irritated. “Do you mean the part where He gave me life, or the part where He gave me the most beautiful place on Earth to spend it in?”
“The part where He put you under and took a piece of your body to turn into another person,” said Pulsifer. “That can’t have been very pleasant.”
“No,” said Crowley. “But He gave me Aziraphale in return, and I’m very happy about that.”
“Well, then. Here’s hoping you’ll feel the same about the next exchange.”
Crowley ducked his head. “Actually, I’m…quite happy about that, too.”
“Oh, really? Because Aziraphale isn’t, you know.”
Crowley’s head snapped up. “You talked to her?”
Pulsifer smirked. “She came by yesterday. Didn’t she tell you? Oh,” he said, as if suddenly remembering something, “I’m sorry. She’s not speaking to you, is she?”
“You seem to know a lot about what goes on around here,” said Crowley, eyes narrowed.
“I have my sources.”
“Well, don’t expect everybody else to listen to gossip just because you do.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I know Aziraphale better than to think she’d listen to a word you say.”
“Oh, she didn’t. At least not until I offered her a choice in whether or not to have the baby.”
Crowley felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. “You what?”
“I offered to take it away,” said Pulsifer calmly. “Don’t you think she should be free to decide for herself? It’s her body, after all. You of all people should know what it feels like to have someone else use it for their own purposes.”
“What I know,” shouted Crowley, “is that things worked out perfectly in the end, and I wasted a whole lot of time resenting somebody who was only doing me a favour.”
“Hey,” said Pulsifer, “I’m not judging. I know all about resentment. I’m just pointing out that you-both of you-have a choice here. The fruit of this tree grants knowledge of good and evil to anybody who eats it. Really, I’m just another person trying to do you a favour.”
“You’re lying,” said Crowley. “Why wouldn’t He want us to know right from wrong? If we always knew what the right choice was, He could know for certain that we’d always make it.”
“Begs the question, doesn’t it? Your friend thought so, too.”
Crowley shook his head. “Aziraphale isn’t given to doubt.”
“But you are,” said Pulsifer triumphantly. “You wonder sometimes, when you think nobody’s watching. If the Ineffable Plan really is for the greater good, why doesn’t He just come right out and lay His cards on the table? Is it fair for Him to use people and just expect us to trust that in the end, it’s all for the best? How can He ask for that trust when He won’t trust us enough to let us make our own choices? What makes Him think it’s all for the best?”
“I couldn’t say,” said Crowley. “Being as we’ve established I don’t know right from wrong.”
Pulsifer’s yellow eyes bored deep into Crowley’s. “Here’s your chance to find out.”
For a long moment, Crowley didn’t speak. Then, slowly, he reached out and picked one of the apples, bringing it closer for inspection. It was a warm day, but the fruit felt cold against his skin. He thought about what it might feel like on his tongue. He tried to imagine an imperfect world, brimming with infinite, dizzying possibilities. He thought about Aziraphale, and about their child, growing in her belly. He thought about everything he had to be thankful for.
“No,” he managed, dropping the apple. “I won’t make the same mistake twice.”
“Suit yourself,” Pulsifer told his back. “Go away, I don’t care. There’s always the other one.”
Crowley stopped and turned around. “She wouldn’t,” he said, more confident than he felt.
“What I find interesting,” said Pulsifer, “is your assumption that she hasn’t already.”
*
Just before sunset, Crowley found Aziraphale by the lake under a pink-streaked sky, dipping her toes into the water and tossing bits of tomato at a paddling of greedily quacking ducks.
“Hi,” he said, sitting down in the grass beside her. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
Aziraphale’s mouth twitched. “I suppose you think I’ve been neglecting you horribly.”
“It’s nothing,” said Crowley, pathetically pleased to see she’d regained her sense of humour, at least. “You needed the time alone with your thoughts, I understand.”
“Yes, well,” she sighed, patting her lower abdomen awkwardly. “It doesn’t look as though I’ll be alone with them for some months to come.”
“That’s terrific,” said Crowley, light-headed with relief. “So you won’t be taking Pulsifer up on his offer, then? You’ve no idea how happy I am to hear…” He bit his tongue, too late.
Aziraphale frowned. “How do you know about that?”
“Er,” said Crowley, smile turned sheepish. “Let’s just say, for a rural area with a population of five, you wouldn’t believe the rumour mill.”
“He knows?”
Crowley’s stomach went cold at the honest fear in her expression. “What?” he said. “Oh. No. He doesn’t know anything. I mean,” he amended, waving his hand, “technically, He knows everything. But He doesn’t know this, specifically. I don’t think.”
She nodded, only mildly reassured.
Before he could let himself think it over, he asked, “You haven’t done anything you wouldn’t want Him knowing about, have you? Aziraphale?” And in growing discomfort at her silence, he added, “You can tell me.”
Aziraphale, who heard the words for the offer of complicity they were, gave him a crooked smile. “Thank you, dear boy,” she murmured, squeezing his knee. “I haven’t actually gone beyond thoughtcrime yet, but I do appreciate the gesture.”
“There’s a reason they call it that, though,” said Crowley gently, covering her hand with his.
She shrugged, smile growing grim. “If that’s really how He feels, perhaps He never ought to have given us independent thought, either. It’s not as if we’re allowed to use it.”
Crowley opened his mouth to argue, but shut it again for lack of coherent argument. “Look,” he said finally. “Just because you and I can’t understand the Ineffable Plan doesn’t mean it’s not there, working everywhere around us, and inside us, and for us, and-”
“And through us,” said Aziraphale. “Everything we do is part of it. Destiny, by definition.”
“If that were true, He wouldn’t have had to forbid us from eating the apples. Things happen all the time that aren’t part of the Plan. Look at Pulsifer; you can’t tell me he would have been thrown out of Heaven if all He’d done was to fulfil his role in the Plan.”
“Perhaps being cast out was just as much a part of the Plan as disobeying Him,” Aziraphale insisted. “It must have been. Surely, if it were only an optional path we could deviate from, it wouldn’t have to be ineffable-in fact, He’d be forced to tell us, if He wanted us to carry it out. And if we can’t stray from it, everything we do is inherently in keeping with it, inherently the right choice. Crowley,” she whispered, “I don’t believe it’s possible for us to do wrong.”
“You shouldn’t talk like that,” said Crowley, taken aback. “That’s a dangerous thing to say.”
“I know,” she said simply, and looked at him with big, sorrowful eyes, as if she were saying goodbye to something-or rather, as if she’d said goodbye to it already and was now seeing it again, from a distance, and realising she didn’t miss it as much as she’d thought she would.
Crowley decided he didn’t want her looking at him like that, ever again.
“If you really believe that,” he heard himself say into the silence, “if you’re not-” He broke off, swallowed, and continued, “If you’re not… Happy. Here. Then I think you should do it. No, listen to me, I think you should take it, if that’s what you think is right, and we’ll deal with the consequences as they come. Together. I just want you to know you have that option.”
Aziraphale smiled. “Thank you,” she said softly, instead of everything he’d hoped to hear.
*
The sensation was like nothing she’d experienced before-thousands of years later, certain people in certain places would, using a certain language, come to call it ‘disappointment.’
It tasted like any ordinary fruit: a little sweet and a little sour, much like its consequences, and the only thing remotely interesting about it was the delightful crunch it made when you bit into it, clean and hard, like the end of one thing and the beginning of another.
Aziraphale opened her eyes and looked at the world with new understanding.
“Excuse me,” said Freddie Mercury. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
*
“Well,” said Pulsifer. “That one went down like a lead balloon.”
Gabriel put his wings over his head to shield himself from the rain. “As well it should have.”
“You think so? I thought it was a bit of an overreaction. I mean, first offence and everything. I can’t see what’s so bad about wanting to know the difference between good and evil. There was certainly no need to come down on them like that, calling her a big disgrace.”
“Ever since He first made them, I’ve been telling Him, ‘Somebody better put them back into their place,’” said Gabriel, moving a little farther away to keep Pulsifer from taking shelter underneath his wings. “I’m glad He finally took my advice. And it must be bad, or else thou wouldst not have been involved.”
“I don’t know,” said Pulsifer. “They just said to get up here and make some trouble. Who’d have thought it would be so easy? Telling them which tree it was and everything, putting it right there in the middle of a wide open space in the forest. It’s almost as if He planned it.”
“Thou shalt take that back,” warned Gabriel. “Lest I smite thee into oblivion.”
“Speaking of which,” said Pulsifer, unperturbed. “Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”
“Er,” said Gabriel, much less dramatically.
“You did, didn’t you? It flamed like anything. Turned every which way. Lost it, have you?”
“If thou must know,” said Gabriel testily, “I gave it unto the humans. They appeared so cold, the miserable wretches, and the storm approacheth fast. She is carrying his child already, and the forests outside the Gate harbour a profusion of loathsome beasts.”
Pulsifer smirked. “They took it from you, didn’t they?”
There was a long and stubborn silence during which Gabriel pretended not to have heard.
“Funny thing is,” said Pulsifer eventually, “I keep wondering whether the apple job wasn’t, in fact, the right thing to do.” He nudged the angel. “Funny if we both messed up, eh? Funny if I let a good thing happen and you a bad one, eh?”
“Not really,” said Gabriel sourly, no longer interested in making conversation. “The LORD is summoning me; I shall be given new instructions. I suppose I’ll be seeing thee again soon.”
“Hey,” said Pulsifer, just as Gabriel turned to go. “What happens to the humans?”
Gabriel looked over his shoulder and down his nose at the demon. “They shall remain cast out of the Garden for all time,” he replied. “Not nearly enough punishment, if thou askest me.”
Pulsifer smiled, a little sadly. “Forever is a hard price to pay,” he said. “Trust me on this.”
Far away, in the dripping woods, something bright and fiery flickered among the trees.
It was going to be a dark and stormy night.
*
The flaming sword flickered through the trees as Crowley ran, chasing Aziraphale. “You can’t keep running forever,” he shouted. “You might as well give up and get it over with!”
“Surely,” panted Aziraphale, trying to send him pleading looks while keeping her eyes on the ground so as not to trip and lose her head-start advantage, “surely you’d never do anything to jeopardise your unborn child?”
“Watch me,” growled Crowley, and leapt.
As they struggled, a man stepped out from behind the trees-or perhaps it was the trees who shied away from the man. “Hallo,” he said, and grinned. It was a grin that belonged to another century, although it would probably have looked out-of-place there, too.
They didn’t notice him until they’d rolled all the way up against his feet, but when they did, they were deeply annoyed at the interruption.
“Who are you?” demanded Aziraphale, taking her teeth out of Crowley’s neck.
The man laughed like music, a sound obscene in its carefreeness. “I was tempted to have you wander the desert for forty years,” he told her. “But I think you’ve learnt your lesson.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Crowley, getting to his feet.
“You,” the man said, pointing at him, “thought it would take a complete idiot to have blind faith in a plan they weren’t privy to, and you,” he said, pointing at Aziraphale, “couldn’t see why people refused to just trust an omniscient being of infinite goodness to know better.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than Crowley and Aziraphale were themselves again, and dressed. Aziraphale’s eyes flicked uncertainly to Crowley’s, only to meet with sunglasses.
Adam was shaking with barely contained mirth. “Listen,” he said. “Are you listening?”
“My dear boy,” said Aziraphale with deceptive calm, “you are the cruellest person I know.”
“Seriously,” added Crowley. “You might want to consider a paternity test.”
“I notice neither of you is particularly pleased to see me,” said Adam.
“What did you think?” snapped Crowley. “You threw us into some twisted-reality mind game without so much as a by-your-leave; how did you expect us to feel?”
Adam only grinned more broadly. “Are you saying you’re angry because I didn’t ask first?”
“It would have been the polite thing to do,” said Aziraphale icily.
“It would have been the right thing to do,” corrected Adam. “See where this is going?”
“No, you’re subtle as a symphony,” muttered Crowley. “Humour us, will you?”
“People wouldn’t be people without free will. They’d be like you,” he pointed at Crowley, “or like you,” he pointed at Aziraphale, “or something else altogether. Being able to choose,” he continued, giving them a significant look each in turn, “is the whole point of being human.”
There was a moment of silence in which the forest itself seemed to be holding its breath.
“That’s it?” exploded Crowley. “That’s what you put us through all this for? I could have told you that in my sleep. I’ve been saying as much every day for the past six thousand years.”
“That’s it,” said Adam, who even had the audacity to look amused. “Well, that, and I thought the two of you deserved a holiday. But it never hurts to go over what you already know. And besides,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “you learnt some new things, too, didn’t you?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, whose face had gone beet red.
The angel coughed delicately. “Ahem. Yes, well. Thank you for the, er, holiday.”
“My pleasure,” said Adam, and, to their utter mortification, winked at them.
*
Halfway to London, Crowley and Aziraphale were studiously avoiding each other’s gazes.
“You missed the exit,” Aziraphale pointed out, breaking the awkward silence that had settled in after the last notes of Brahms’s Under Pressure.
“My exit is twenty-five miles ahead,” said Crowley mildly, not looking at him.
“And you’ve not taken your eyes off the road once since we left Tadfield,” said Aziraphale, ignoring the churlish interruption. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“I’m just thinking about something your godson said.”
“Typical. Whenever he rips apart the fabric of space and time, suddenly he’s my godson.”
Crowley glanced briefly at him, and away again. “I think he lied about the reason he did it. Or not so much lied as left it for us to figure out on our own, maybe.”
“Oh?” asked Aziraphale, carefully.
“I think he wanted to show us that we can make our own choices, that we do have free will. Otherwise, why bother trying to teach us anything at all? I think you chose to take that apple. In fact,” he said, finally turning to face Aziraphale, “I think you chose to do a lot of things.”
Aziraphale looked out the side window. “It’s been a long time since you brought that up.”
“Well, you never actually turned me down,” said Crowley. “So I’ve always wondered.”
“I suppose it’s cruel of me to have kept you waiting,” Aziraphale told his window reflection.
Crowley smiled, only two parts smugness. “I do have all the time in the world.”
“Odd,” said Aziraphale, “how I never thought of ‘ineffability’ as an understatement before.”
“Shut up,” said Crowley, and kissed him.
The Bentley didn’t have enough room for two currently man-shaped beings to lie down in it, so Aziraphale bumped his head against the window, and Crowley had a knee shoved rather more painfully into an embarrassing place, but neither stopped until a good twenty minutes later, when Aziraphale said with some concern that they really had missed their exit this time.
“There’ll be other exits,” Crowley promised, and there were.
Theirs was, after all, a world brimming with infinite, dizzying possibilities.
Happy Holidays, ineffabili_tea, from your Secret Writer!