oh, look! it's some longfic. (to be continued?)
Erm. You might remember me from the drabble set I posted a bit ago.
Now I come bearing longfic! As in... 17,000 words or so. Yes. Very long.
I've broken it up into three parts and I suppose I'll just see what you think of the first one... don't want to overwhelm you all. :0
Beta'd by me and me alone, in varying states of exhaustion, so please forgive me my Americanisms and missing punctuation and/or linebreaks. I also posted this to fanfiction.net a while ago, if you're wondering.
Title: Unexpected Consequences, or Rescue/Rewind/Repeat
Rating: PG-13, but only for language.
Pairing: There are many. Aziraphale/Crowley (if you squint) Anathema/Newt (cuz it's canon) and hints of various other slightly-canon pairings that may have wormed their way into this.
Summary: People are remembering the Armageddon. It's not good. Featuring the full cast of mortals, a few immortals, and DEATH.
A/N: Feedback would be lovely, as this is my first official GO fic. Ooer.
The telephone rang just as Crowley walked past it. He was fairly certain that sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen with pay phones, and with a furtive look at the machine, quickened his pace. It couldn’t possibly be a good thing. The phone rang louder as he walked away, and a glare at the booth had no effect. Crowley sighed, and strode back before the ringing could deafen any passing humans. He pushed his sunglasses further up his nose, and picked up the receiver, steeling himself.
“HELLO, CROWLEY.” Crowley tried his best not to shudder. The buzzing, raspy voice was even worse than normal over the bad connection. Bloody pay phones. Static fizzled into his ears.
“Uh. Hi.” He fidgeted. The first melodious strains of a migraine were crawling across his brain. Some serious stress was in order. Unfortunately.
“WE’VE GOT SOME NEWS FOR YOU, CROWLEY.”
“Really.” The sarcasm was ill-disguised. The demon giving the message on the other side of the line was evidently dull enough to not notice, and continued.
“YES. IT’S VERY IMPORTANT NEWS, CROWLEY.” Of course. News from Down There was always Very
Important. Especially after the failed Armageddon, when there were so many loose ends to tie up. Or hack off entirely. Whatever was faster.
“This news wouldn’t have anything to do with uh, the events of recent days, would it?” Crowley was hoping against hope. Not that that was something demons usually did, hope-normally they just swapped sides and pretended nothing of the sort ever happened-but Crowley had picked it up from Aziraphale. Six thousand years and an Arrangement with a blessed angel can do that to a bloke.
“IT WOULD, ACTUALLY.” There was a pause. Evidently Crowley was supposed to fill in a blank. The buzz grew into a roar. Crowley glared at the cracked glass of the phone booth. It rippled once and was whole once more, although slightly startled. It’d been cracked for quite a few years now and hadn’t been expecting repairs, especially not ones from a strange man-shaped creature wearing sunglasses in the dark.
“Er. What is it?” Crowley fervently hoped it didn’t necessitate a return to Lower Tadfield. Adam-the Antichrist-had been nice enough, but still the most unsettling creature Crowley had ever met. The boy could destroy Crowley without even blinking. He could probably destroy the entire planet without blinking. It was a good job he was on Their Side. Their Side meaning Crowley and Aziraphale and not much else, save all of humanity. And humanity was generally pretty useless, all things considered.
“THEY ARE REMEMBERING, CROWLEY.” Shit. He knew exactly who ‘they’ were. And ‘they’ meant Lower Tadfield. And Lower Tadfield meant Adam Young. Fuck.
“DO YOU KNOW WHY?” Bugger if he knew. “WRONG ANSWER, CROWLEY.” Now they were pulling the mind-reading trick on him. “YES, WE ARE.”
Crowley blessed under his breath. “Ssso.” He was hissing again. Dammit. “I guessss you want me to check it out, then.”
“EXACTLY, CROWLEY.” The details were dropped directly into his brain. Crowley shuddered, blessed again, swore aloud for good measure, and hung up the receiver. Then he pulled out his ridiculously sleek mobile phone, which he’d chosen mainly because it was called ‘Serpent’ in the advert, and rang Aziraphale.
- - - - - -
Anathema looked over at Newt. “Sorry?” Newt’s eyes were wide and slightly unfocused. Although he wasn’t wearing his glasses, so he could be forgiven the mad appearance. However, the rambling was a tad stranger than normal.
“There was a man with sunglasses,” Newt was saying quickly. He waved his hand, which was regrettably occupied with a wineglass, and sloshed a good amount of liquor onto the nonexistent carpet. “With a tire iron. And wings. And a poofy bloke in tartan. He had wings, too, and this bloody brilliant sword. Flamed like anything.”
Anathema was momentarily at a loss, which was a rather rare occurrence, and therefore meant that Something Strange was happening. “I think you’ve had enough of this for now,” she told Newt, briskly. Anathema took the glass of wine away-the bottle had been a gift from two gentlemen she didn’t quite remember for some reason, except they’d visited a few days (weeks?) ago to check on something that she didn’t quite remember, either. But that was beside the point. Newt couldn’t hold his alcohol. She should’ve known.
“No, no,” Newt babbled. He fumbled for his glasses and slipped them on. “I remember.”
“Remember what?” Anathema was intrigued, now. There was a blank in her memory that she wasn’t aware existed, and she was beginning to realize this. Newt didn’t look nearly as mad with his specs back on and his eyes re-focused, she thought. That was good. It wouldn’t do to live with a madman, even if it were just in appearance.
“I remember what happened.” He was being disappointingly vague.
“Yes. When?” She actually didn’t know what night he was talking about. But that was because she couldn’t remember it yet. Or, to phrase things better (but more confusingly), she hadn’t un-forgotten it yet.
“That night,” Newt said helpfully. Anathema sighed.
“Which night?” she asked, testily. She was curious. The edge of recollection was within her grasp, just barely. The alcohol was beginning to give her a headache.
Newton Pulsifer blinked for a moment. He shook his head, dark, plaster-speckled hair
flopping. Memory raced away, laughing at the two of them. Newt took the glass of wine back from Anathema and sniffed it, then gulped it down.
“I forgot.”
Anathema exhaled loudly. Newt misread her exasperated expression for one of anguish, and wrapped her in his arms. “There, there,” he said awkwardly, patting her back. Newt wasn’t sure why she was acting so strangely, but figured physical contact was in order. He didn’t mind. Anathema groaned and put her hands on his shoulders to push him away, but he misinterpreted that action, too.
Though it wasn’t really so bad, Anathema thought, as she tilted her attractive face up to meet his clumsy kisses.
- - - - - -
Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell (retired) had not eaten dinner yet. “Oy, wumman!” He paused. “Where’s my dinner at?” There was no response. Shadwell banged on the wall a few times for good measure, and glowered at the stuffed animals that surrounded him. It was no use avoiding them. They were everywhere.
They-Shadwell and Madame Tracy, of course-had ended up getting a bungalow, and called it Shangri-Laurels as a sort of compromise between Shangri-La and the Laurels. Madame Tracy had insisted on bringing every single unfortunately named, glassy-eyed stuffed animal with them when they moved. She’d brought the crystal ball, too. Out of habit. She liked to have a bit of the occult around.
Shadwell had brought the entire Witchfinder Library (Madame Tracy had forbidden the presence of any shrunken heads, though, so those went to the pawn shop), three silver bullets (just in case) and a vast amount of condensed milk. The two got along quite well, albeit a bit blearily. Memory wasn’t what it used to be, these days.
Shadwell grunted. Women. Useless, the lot of them. Almost as bad as those southern pansies. He gave a particularly sickening teddy bear one last withering look, and heaved himself out of the overstuffed chair. He made his way through the plush carpet and cautiously knocked on the door that led to the kitchen-and-dining-room.
“Jezebel!” No response. Shadwell grew nervous, as much as he could be nervous. Which was really more irritation and less anxiety than is typical, but so be it. Shadwell was a stoic fellow.
He turned the handle-the door was unlocked, a good enough sign-and walked in, brandishing his index finger. He wasn’t sure why, really, but he vaguely remembered doing it before in a time of dire need, and it had worked well enough. Although he hadn’t got a bell, book, or candle now (and he didn’t know that he needed one, either). But it was a false alarm.
Madame Tracy was merely sitting at the kitchen table, peering very intently into her crystal ball. She looked up at Shadwell as he tromped in, and giggled, embarrassed.
“Oh, hello Mister S. Do have a seat.” She tittered again and stared into the oversized gem that was more than likely just really cheap glass. Shadwell frowned.
“It’s dinner time,” he said. Just a reminder. Madame Tracy coughed.
“Just a moment, Mister S. I’m rather busy.” Shadwell was confused. There were no séances anymore. Madame Tracy was just a name; the occult was as far away as could be. And besides, you couldn’t have a séance with just one person. Every Witchfinder (retired) worth his (or its, in the case of Witchfinder Privates Carpet, Table, and Cigarette Lighter) salt knew that.
Shadwell shook his head, turned, and rummaged around in the pantry for a tin of condensed milk. Behind him, Madame Tracy’s eyes widened with recognition.
“I remember,” she breathed. Her high voice was tinged with amazement. She turned from the crystal ball and stared at Shadwell. “How could I have forgotten?”
“Eh?” Taking a good swig of the sugary goop, Shadwell raised a bushy brow. “Ye remembered dinner?” Madame Tracy giggled again.
“No, Mister S, you old silly. I remembered what happened, that night. A few weeks ago.” Shadwell raised the eyebrow even higher. “It was the Armageddon,” Madame Tracy said thoughtfully. Shadwell snorted on his condensed milk.
“Weel,” he managed. “That’s all reet, then.” They were still alive, at least. So it can’t have been that bad. But he was hungry. “Canna we have dinner now?” he added hopefully. Madame Tracy nodded. She got up and began puttering round the kitchen, as if nothing had happened. Perhaps she thought she’d just had a bit too much to drink.
“Liver?” she asked. Shadwell grunted assent. Shangri-Laurels. It was paradise, indeed.
- - - - - -
Pippin Galadriel Moonchild woke up, sweating. She’d been unusually sleepy these past few weeks, as her mind struggled to recover from stresses it hadn’t known it’d faced. It was only eight o’clock and she was dead tired. But this time it was different. She’d had a nightmare.
Adam had been in it. And Wensley, and Brian, and Dog. But it wasn’t exactly a nightmare, because there had been some rather good bits in it. She vaguely remembered-that was it, she remembered-a sword, and a woman with hair like fiery copper wires, and a slithering white man who melted into darkness. But they’d defeated them. Sent them away. And there was Death. She had seen Death. Pepper shook.
But that hadn’t been the worst part. Adam had been the worst part, what made it a nightmare and not just a rather adventurous dream. His sharp eyes had gone blank, scary and strange. The weather had screamed, the world had twisted on its axis, and Adam had been behind it all. He controlled it. He started it and he stopped it, before it was too late. Adam.
Pepper pulled on her socks and shoes and raced downstairs. Eight o’clock. Her parents wouldn’t be able to catch her for another half hour. She grabbed her bike and pedaled out onto the drive, loose cardboard clacking furiously. Adam would know what was going on.
- - - - - -
Aziraphale finally found the phone after twenty-seven rings. It had been under a pile of rare first edition comics of Biggles Goes to Mars. “Hello?” He didn’t get much business these days, of course, but there was always the slightest chance that it might not be Crowley on the other end of the line.
“Angel.” Er. There went that idea. He stared at the price guide in his hand and wondered what Crowley wanted. It was too late for dinner, and they’d already met earlier today. They’d gotten quite drunk, too, if Aziraphale remembered properly. And he did. Not much could be said for his organization, but Aziraphale’s memory (when he wanted it to be) was flawless.
“Hello, Crowley.”
“It’sss bad news, Aziraphale. They’re remembering.” Crowley was hissing; not a good sign. Aziraphale shelved the price guide. He knew who ‘they’ were, too. And he and Crowley would need to go to Lower Tadfield, immediately.
“Oh, dear,” he managed.
“I know,” Crowley shot back. He didn’t sound as sarcastic as he should have. He sounded panicky, nervous.
“Where are you?” the angel asked. There was the sound of bells jangling up front, and Aziraphale knew he shouldn’t have.
“Right here,” Crowley replied, suddenly next to him and over the phone as well. He slid the phone shut (there was a faint click in Aziraphale’s ear) and suddenly it was gone, slipped into the pocket of his dark jacket.
“We’ve got to go,” Aziraphale said. Crowley nodded, and took off his sunglasses. He
looked tired. Aziraphale privately thought he could use a cup of tea, but now was not the time. He settled for placing a reassuring, plump hand on Crowley’s shoulder. On the bright side, the demon didn’t shy away from the touch.
“Why haven’t your people said anything yet?”
Aziraphale shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll be getting a message sometime soon.” But he wasn’t sure. Something was up with the Antichrist. Possibly something was Up as well. Heaven tended to meddle in things that really didn’t need messing with.
Crowley looked unconvinced, but didn’t press the matter further. Most likely he was thinking the same things as Aziraphale. There was no way Hell wanted people remembering; that’s why they’d rung him. But Heaven might, in some warped way, think it was the Right Thing To Do. He gestured to the angel.
“Come on. The Bentley’s outside.” Aziraphale dithered, hoping against hope (something angels did quite a lot, actually) that the Metatron would appear and give him a reassuring message-something like ‘yes, we did this, but we’ve seen the error of our ways and we’re going to reverse it immediately’-but that didn’t happen. What happened was that Aziraphale nodded, and followed Crowley to the front of the shop, where the demon snapped his fingers suddenly.
“Wait.” Crowley looked preoccupied.
“Yes?”
“Do you have a decent tape? All of mine have er, changed…” Aziraphale smiled.
“All you had to do was ask, dear boy.”
The Bentley was indeed outside (and not on the curb, as Aziraphale had feared). Aziraphale opened both doors before Crowley could get to them, and settled into the car. He put the tape into the cassette player as Crowley slid inside. There was a faint smell of charred leather interior hanging in the air.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, sniffing delicately.
“Yeah?”
“Do you smell that?” Crowley frowned and, to Aziraphale’s slight distaste, stuck out his tongue, which was for a brief moment no longer pink and human, but forked and serpentine.
“Bugger.”
- - - - - -
Adam sat cross-legged on the covers of his bed, reading the latest issue of New Aquarian. He was marvelously happy. He was free of responsibilities, or, rather, the responsibilities he’d rather not take care of. It was quite nice.
- - - - - -
Pepper biked at high speed, down the paths and badly paved streets of Lower Tadfield. It began to rain. It shouldn’t have, it wasn’t normal for this time of year, but it did. It wasn’t even a proper rainfall, just an irritating, wet, drizzle. Adam would not have approved, if he’d been there… or if he’d caused it.
- - - - - -
Anathema Device, Witch, and Newton Pulsifer, Witchfinder (semi retired), were blissfully oblivious. All thoughts of memories lost and memories regained had fled both their minds, as hearts beat faster (much to Anathema’s shame and Newt’s delight) and plaster rained down on them both. The bottle of wine Aziraphale and Crowley had given to them was sitting on the table, nearly empty. Neither of them could hold their alcohol, it turned out, but that was all right.
Outside, the Wasabi developed a layer of rust that used to be there and for the past few weeks, had been absent. It muttered, “prease-to-fasten-sleat-bert” and was silent. Newt would have been saddened by the change, had he been there and with the presence of mind to notice. At the moment, he wasn’t really noticing anything, save the very attractive Anathema.
She kissed him on the corner of the mouth as a large piece of plaster fell onto his head.
“Ow,” Newt mumbled against her lips, and then laughed. “S’like snow,” he tried to say. Anathema smiled. The hole in her memory remained where it was. For now.
- - - - - -
The two man-shaped creatures sat in stunned silence.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale began. Things were changing back. This wasn’t just Heaven meddling with memories. This was the Antichrist. Doing… well, unfathomable things.
“What do you think he’s doing?” Crowley asked, mirroring Aziraphale’s thoughts. The Bentley sped down the suddenly smooth country roads at the even speed of 110 mph. Crowley’s hands weren’t anywhere close to the wheel.
Aziraphale sighed. “I don’t know.” It was always hard to predict massively powerful beings, and this massively powerful being in question also happened to be an eleven year old boy. This, of course, made things doubly unpredictable.
“We can only hope he hasn’t decided to give up his powers,” Crowley muttered darkly. Aziraphale didn’t even want to think about that possibility. If the Antichrist was no longer the Antichrist, and all these things were un-un-happening, then it’d be He-Hea-impossible to get things back to any semblance of normality.
“I do hope that Young boy knows what he’s getting into,” Aziraphale murmured. He gazed out the window at the blurred countryside. Crowley was doing about 120 on the winding roads. “My dear,” he said, glancing over at the demon, “do slow down.”
Crowley scowled and willed the car to go faster. The needle on the speedometer crept towards one-fifty. Behind them the engine of a delivery truck developed a very interesting mechanical failure. Aziraphale shook his head at Crowley-earning him a guilty smirk-and fixed the problem with a wave of his hand.
The back seat of the Bentley began to smoke.
Miles away, in Soho, a rare book shop quietly burst into flame. Without the flames, that is. It simply re-burned down. Millions of dollars’ worth of books crumbled into ashes. Again.
Aziraphale shivered, and glanced at Crowley. The demon gave him what was meant to be a reassuring grin, but was wholly unconvincing. Aziraphale could almost feel his books turning into dust. He willed the Bentley to go faster, with no small amount of guilt. Those poor drivers on the other side of the road wouldn’t know what hit them.
Crowley noticed the increase in speed, and gave Aziraphale a tiny, tight smile. Aziraphale smiled back. It was all they had, right now.
- - - - - -
Shadwell rolled himself a cigarette. Madame Tracy, over in the next room, tut-tutted and made herself a cup of tea, steeping the leaves for exactly five minutes. Just the way she liked it. The smell of Earl Grey filled the room.
Her newfound memories hadn’t really bothered her. At the time, she’d chalked up them to merely a rather unpleasant occult experience; more like a dream than an actual event. And, well, they were both alive, weren’t they? She’d just had a bit too much to drink.
Madame Tracy sipped her tea and thought wistfully of dashing young men with pure white wings. She’d forgotten the more disturbing events of that night as soon as she re-remembered them. For example, she’d completely banished the appearance of the demons and the Metatron from her mind, and she also seemed to think that Aziraphale’s possession of her body was just something to do with technology and microphones. Madame Tracy was very good at explaining away unpleasant events. It helped that she drank an awful lot of sherry, too.
Just as well. Adam didn’t like causing people undue trauma, even though at the moment he wasn’t actually aware that he was doing much of anything.
Memory wasn’t what it used to be, these days. It was nice to have Shadwell around, even if he was a bit of a grump.
“Mister S?” Madame Tracy called out.
“Aye, ye harlot?”
“Just checking you were all right,” she replied, reassured. Madame Tracy added a bit more sugar to her tea and wondered if that fascinating young boy, the beautiful blond one, would ever visit. Quite a charmer, that Young boy.
- - - - - -
The light was on in the window Pepper knew belonged to Adam. She thought briefly of rushing in, and decided not to anger Mr. Young any more than she had to. So she waited outside the house, patiently. Adam always seemed to know when one of Them was coming to visit.
It had been seven minutes, and Adam had not appeared. Pepper shifted in the cold, uncomfortable. It was very wet. It hadn’t rained like this in Tadfield for years.
Exactly eleven years, to be precise.
Pepper gave up waiting. She carefully parked her bike next to the Young’s garage, and then rang the doorbell three times. Just in case. Mr. Young answered the door, looking perplexed.
“It’s late,” he said. “You should be at home,” he continued awkwardly. He wasn’t quite sure what to say to his son’s underage and decidedly female friend, who seemed to want in. Pepper saved him the trouble of saying much more by rushing in and hurrying up the stairs, tracking mud across the floor. “Hey,” Mr. Young said, half-heartedly.
“I’ve gotta talk t’ Adam,” Pepper apologetically called over her shoulder. “S’important,” she added. That should take care of it, she thought. Mr. Young sighed and closed the door. Absolutely incorrigible, the lot of Them.
Adam was sitting in his room, still reading back issues of New Aquarian. He looked up when Pepper hurtled in, wet and disheveled and breathless.
“Hullo, Pep,” he said by way of greeting. Pepper’s mouth dropped open. How could Adam be so normal at a time like this? The images from her nightmare surged into her mind. She had held a sword of twigs and twine, and taken down War itself…
“Adam, what’s going on?” she wailed.
His presence wasn’t as… big as it used to be. He seemed smaller. Something was missing. But Pepper didn’t notice any of this. She was only human, after all.
“What d’you mean?” he replied, looking almost genuinely confused. “You’re all wet,” he added. Pepper was indeed very wet. A small puddle of completely natural water was forming on Adam’s bedroom floor.
“I waited outside,” Pepper said accusingly. “I thought you would come out.” Adam always came out, before this. Even during thunderstorms, like when Brian lost his cat during that really big storm last year and came to Adam for help. Adam had insisted everyone go look for it.
“Sorry,” Adam said. He gave her a lopsided smile. “Now, what’d you ask?”
“What’s goin’ on, Adam?” Pepper repeated.
“Depends on what’s hap’ning,” Adam replied. He patted an empty space on his bed and Pepper clambered up to sit next to him, vaguely aware that this was bringing them into New and Dangerous Territory.
“Jus’ tell me what happened,’ Adam said, and though his voice lacked the oomph of the Antichrist, Pepper told him anyway.
Now I come bearing longfic! As in... 17,000 words or so. Yes. Very long.
I've broken it up into three parts and I suppose I'll just see what you think of the first one... don't want to overwhelm you all. :0
Beta'd by me and me alone, in varying states of exhaustion, so please forgive me my Americanisms and missing punctuation and/or linebreaks. I also posted this to fanfiction.net a while ago, if you're wondering.
Title: Unexpected Consequences, or Rescue/Rewind/Repeat
Rating: PG-13, but only for language.
Pairing: There are many. Aziraphale/Crowley (if you squint) Anathema/Newt (cuz it's canon) and hints of various other slightly-canon pairings that may have wormed their way into this.
Summary: People are remembering the Armageddon. It's not good. Featuring the full cast of mortals, a few immortals, and DEATH.
A/N: Feedback would be lovely, as this is my first official GO fic. Ooer.
The telephone rang just as Crowley walked past it. He was fairly certain that sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen with pay phones, and with a furtive look at the machine, quickened his pace. It couldn’t possibly be a good thing. The phone rang louder as he walked away, and a glare at the booth had no effect. Crowley sighed, and strode back before the ringing could deafen any passing humans. He pushed his sunglasses further up his nose, and picked up the receiver, steeling himself.
“HELLO, CROWLEY.” Crowley tried his best not to shudder. The buzzing, raspy voice was even worse than normal over the bad connection. Bloody pay phones. Static fizzled into his ears.
“Uh. Hi.” He fidgeted. The first melodious strains of a migraine were crawling across his brain. Some serious stress was in order. Unfortunately.
“WE’VE GOT SOME NEWS FOR YOU, CROWLEY.”
“Really.” The sarcasm was ill-disguised. The demon giving the message on the other side of the line was evidently dull enough to not notice, and continued.
“YES. IT’S VERY IMPORTANT NEWS, CROWLEY.” Of course. News from Down There was always Very
Important. Especially after the failed Armageddon, when there were so many loose ends to tie up. Or hack off entirely. Whatever was faster.
“This news wouldn’t have anything to do with uh, the events of recent days, would it?” Crowley was hoping against hope. Not that that was something demons usually did, hope-normally they just swapped sides and pretended nothing of the sort ever happened-but Crowley had picked it up from Aziraphale. Six thousand years and an Arrangement with a blessed angel can do that to a bloke.
“IT WOULD, ACTUALLY.” There was a pause. Evidently Crowley was supposed to fill in a blank. The buzz grew into a roar. Crowley glared at the cracked glass of the phone booth. It rippled once and was whole once more, although slightly startled. It’d been cracked for quite a few years now and hadn’t been expecting repairs, especially not ones from a strange man-shaped creature wearing sunglasses in the dark.
“Er. What is it?” Crowley fervently hoped it didn’t necessitate a return to Lower Tadfield. Adam-the Antichrist-had been nice enough, but still the most unsettling creature Crowley had ever met. The boy could destroy Crowley without even blinking. He could probably destroy the entire planet without blinking. It was a good job he was on Their Side. Their Side meaning Crowley and Aziraphale and not much else, save all of humanity. And humanity was generally pretty useless, all things considered.
“THEY ARE REMEMBERING, CROWLEY.” Shit. He knew exactly who ‘they’ were. And ‘they’ meant Lower Tadfield. And Lower Tadfield meant Adam Young. Fuck.
“DO YOU KNOW WHY?” Bugger if he knew. “WRONG ANSWER, CROWLEY.” Now they were pulling the mind-reading trick on him. “YES, WE ARE.”
Crowley blessed under his breath. “Ssso.” He was hissing again. Dammit. “I guessss you want me to check it out, then.”
“EXACTLY, CROWLEY.” The details were dropped directly into his brain. Crowley shuddered, blessed again, swore aloud for good measure, and hung up the receiver. Then he pulled out his ridiculously sleek mobile phone, which he’d chosen mainly because it was called ‘Serpent’ in the advert, and rang Aziraphale.
- - - - - -
Anathema looked over at Newt. “Sorry?” Newt’s eyes were wide and slightly unfocused. Although he wasn’t wearing his glasses, so he could be forgiven the mad appearance. However, the rambling was a tad stranger than normal.
“There was a man with sunglasses,” Newt was saying quickly. He waved his hand, which was regrettably occupied with a wineglass, and sloshed a good amount of liquor onto the nonexistent carpet. “With a tire iron. And wings. And a poofy bloke in tartan. He had wings, too, and this bloody brilliant sword. Flamed like anything.”
Anathema was momentarily at a loss, which was a rather rare occurrence, and therefore meant that Something Strange was happening. “I think you’ve had enough of this for now,” she told Newt, briskly. Anathema took the glass of wine away-the bottle had been a gift from two gentlemen she didn’t quite remember for some reason, except they’d visited a few days (weeks?) ago to check on something that she didn’t quite remember, either. But that was beside the point. Newt couldn’t hold his alcohol. She should’ve known.
“No, no,” Newt babbled. He fumbled for his glasses and slipped them on. “I remember.”
“Remember what?” Anathema was intrigued, now. There was a blank in her memory that she wasn’t aware existed, and she was beginning to realize this. Newt didn’t look nearly as mad with his specs back on and his eyes re-focused, she thought. That was good. It wouldn’t do to live with a madman, even if it were just in appearance.
“I remember what happened.” He was being disappointingly vague.
“Yes. When?” She actually didn’t know what night he was talking about. But that was because she couldn’t remember it yet. Or, to phrase things better (but more confusingly), she hadn’t un-forgotten it yet.
“That night,” Newt said helpfully. Anathema sighed.
“Which night?” she asked, testily. She was curious. The edge of recollection was within her grasp, just barely. The alcohol was beginning to give her a headache.
Newton Pulsifer blinked for a moment. He shook his head, dark, plaster-speckled hair
flopping. Memory raced away, laughing at the two of them. Newt took the glass of wine back from Anathema and sniffed it, then gulped it down.
“I forgot.”
Anathema exhaled loudly. Newt misread her exasperated expression for one of anguish, and wrapped her in his arms. “There, there,” he said awkwardly, patting her back. Newt wasn’t sure why she was acting so strangely, but figured physical contact was in order. He didn’t mind. Anathema groaned and put her hands on his shoulders to push him away, but he misinterpreted that action, too.
Though it wasn’t really so bad, Anathema thought, as she tilted her attractive face up to meet his clumsy kisses.
- - - - - -
Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell (retired) had not eaten dinner yet. “Oy, wumman!” He paused. “Where’s my dinner at?” There was no response. Shadwell banged on the wall a few times for good measure, and glowered at the stuffed animals that surrounded him. It was no use avoiding them. They were everywhere.
They-Shadwell and Madame Tracy, of course-had ended up getting a bungalow, and called it Shangri-Laurels as a sort of compromise between Shangri-La and the Laurels. Madame Tracy had insisted on bringing every single unfortunately named, glassy-eyed stuffed animal with them when they moved. She’d brought the crystal ball, too. Out of habit. She liked to have a bit of the occult around.
Shadwell had brought the entire Witchfinder Library (Madame Tracy had forbidden the presence of any shrunken heads, though, so those went to the pawn shop), three silver bullets (just in case) and a vast amount of condensed milk. The two got along quite well, albeit a bit blearily. Memory wasn’t what it used to be, these days.
Shadwell grunted. Women. Useless, the lot of them. Almost as bad as those southern pansies. He gave a particularly sickening teddy bear one last withering look, and heaved himself out of the overstuffed chair. He made his way through the plush carpet and cautiously knocked on the door that led to the kitchen-and-dining-room.
“Jezebel!” No response. Shadwell grew nervous, as much as he could be nervous. Which was really more irritation and less anxiety than is typical, but so be it. Shadwell was a stoic fellow.
He turned the handle-the door was unlocked, a good enough sign-and walked in, brandishing his index finger. He wasn’t sure why, really, but he vaguely remembered doing it before in a time of dire need, and it had worked well enough. Although he hadn’t got a bell, book, or candle now (and he didn’t know that he needed one, either). But it was a false alarm.
Madame Tracy was merely sitting at the kitchen table, peering very intently into her crystal ball. She looked up at Shadwell as he tromped in, and giggled, embarrassed.
“Oh, hello Mister S. Do have a seat.” She tittered again and stared into the oversized gem that was more than likely just really cheap glass. Shadwell frowned.
“It’s dinner time,” he said. Just a reminder. Madame Tracy coughed.
“Just a moment, Mister S. I’m rather busy.” Shadwell was confused. There were no séances anymore. Madame Tracy was just a name; the occult was as far away as could be. And besides, you couldn’t have a séance with just one person. Every Witchfinder (retired) worth his (or its, in the case of Witchfinder Privates Carpet, Table, and Cigarette Lighter) salt knew that.
Shadwell shook his head, turned, and rummaged around in the pantry for a tin of condensed milk. Behind him, Madame Tracy’s eyes widened with recognition.
“I remember,” she breathed. Her high voice was tinged with amazement. She turned from the crystal ball and stared at Shadwell. “How could I have forgotten?”
“Eh?” Taking a good swig of the sugary goop, Shadwell raised a bushy brow. “Ye remembered dinner?” Madame Tracy giggled again.
“No, Mister S, you old silly. I remembered what happened, that night. A few weeks ago.” Shadwell raised the eyebrow even higher. “It was the Armageddon,” Madame Tracy said thoughtfully. Shadwell snorted on his condensed milk.
“Weel,” he managed. “That’s all reet, then.” They were still alive, at least. So it can’t have been that bad. But he was hungry. “Canna we have dinner now?” he added hopefully. Madame Tracy nodded. She got up and began puttering round the kitchen, as if nothing had happened. Perhaps she thought she’d just had a bit too much to drink.
“Liver?” she asked. Shadwell grunted assent. Shangri-Laurels. It was paradise, indeed.
- - - - - -
Pippin Galadriel Moonchild woke up, sweating. She’d been unusually sleepy these past few weeks, as her mind struggled to recover from stresses it hadn’t known it’d faced. It was only eight o’clock and she was dead tired. But this time it was different. She’d had a nightmare.
Adam had been in it. And Wensley, and Brian, and Dog. But it wasn’t exactly a nightmare, because there had been some rather good bits in it. She vaguely remembered-that was it, she remembered-a sword, and a woman with hair like fiery copper wires, and a slithering white man who melted into darkness. But they’d defeated them. Sent them away. And there was Death. She had seen Death. Pepper shook.
But that hadn’t been the worst part. Adam had been the worst part, what made it a nightmare and not just a rather adventurous dream. His sharp eyes had gone blank, scary and strange. The weather had screamed, the world had twisted on its axis, and Adam had been behind it all. He controlled it. He started it and he stopped it, before it was too late. Adam.
Pepper pulled on her socks and shoes and raced downstairs. Eight o’clock. Her parents wouldn’t be able to catch her for another half hour. She grabbed her bike and pedaled out onto the drive, loose cardboard clacking furiously. Adam would know what was going on.
- - - - - -
Aziraphale finally found the phone after twenty-seven rings. It had been under a pile of rare first edition comics of Biggles Goes to Mars. “Hello?” He didn’t get much business these days, of course, but there was always the slightest chance that it might not be Crowley on the other end of the line.
“Angel.” Er. There went that idea. He stared at the price guide in his hand and wondered what Crowley wanted. It was too late for dinner, and they’d already met earlier today. They’d gotten quite drunk, too, if Aziraphale remembered properly. And he did. Not much could be said for his organization, but Aziraphale’s memory (when he wanted it to be) was flawless.
“Hello, Crowley.”
“It’sss bad news, Aziraphale. They’re remembering.” Crowley was hissing; not a good sign. Aziraphale shelved the price guide. He knew who ‘they’ were, too. And he and Crowley would need to go to Lower Tadfield, immediately.
“Oh, dear,” he managed.
“I know,” Crowley shot back. He didn’t sound as sarcastic as he should have. He sounded panicky, nervous.
“Where are you?” the angel asked. There was the sound of bells jangling up front, and Aziraphale knew he shouldn’t have.
“Right here,” Crowley replied, suddenly next to him and over the phone as well. He slid the phone shut (there was a faint click in Aziraphale’s ear) and suddenly it was gone, slipped into the pocket of his dark jacket.
“We’ve got to go,” Aziraphale said. Crowley nodded, and took off his sunglasses. He
looked tired. Aziraphale privately thought he could use a cup of tea, but now was not the time. He settled for placing a reassuring, plump hand on Crowley’s shoulder. On the bright side, the demon didn’t shy away from the touch.
“Why haven’t your people said anything yet?”
Aziraphale shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll be getting a message sometime soon.” But he wasn’t sure. Something was up with the Antichrist. Possibly something was Up as well. Heaven tended to meddle in things that really didn’t need messing with.
Crowley looked unconvinced, but didn’t press the matter further. Most likely he was thinking the same things as Aziraphale. There was no way Hell wanted people remembering; that’s why they’d rung him. But Heaven might, in some warped way, think it was the Right Thing To Do. He gestured to the angel.
“Come on. The Bentley’s outside.” Aziraphale dithered, hoping against hope (something angels did quite a lot, actually) that the Metatron would appear and give him a reassuring message-something like ‘yes, we did this, but we’ve seen the error of our ways and we’re going to reverse it immediately’-but that didn’t happen. What happened was that Aziraphale nodded, and followed Crowley to the front of the shop, where the demon snapped his fingers suddenly.
“Wait.” Crowley looked preoccupied.
“Yes?”
“Do you have a decent tape? All of mine have er, changed…” Aziraphale smiled.
“All you had to do was ask, dear boy.”
The Bentley was indeed outside (and not on the curb, as Aziraphale had feared). Aziraphale opened both doors before Crowley could get to them, and settled into the car. He put the tape into the cassette player as Crowley slid inside. There was a faint smell of charred leather interior hanging in the air.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, sniffing delicately.
“Yeah?”
“Do you smell that?” Crowley frowned and, to Aziraphale’s slight distaste, stuck out his tongue, which was for a brief moment no longer pink and human, but forked and serpentine.
“Bugger.”
- - - - - -
Adam sat cross-legged on the covers of his bed, reading the latest issue of New Aquarian. He was marvelously happy. He was free of responsibilities, or, rather, the responsibilities he’d rather not take care of. It was quite nice.
- - - - - -
Pepper biked at high speed, down the paths and badly paved streets of Lower Tadfield. It began to rain. It shouldn’t have, it wasn’t normal for this time of year, but it did. It wasn’t even a proper rainfall, just an irritating, wet, drizzle. Adam would not have approved, if he’d been there… or if he’d caused it.
- - - - - -
Anathema Device, Witch, and Newton Pulsifer, Witchfinder (semi retired), were blissfully oblivious. All thoughts of memories lost and memories regained had fled both their minds, as hearts beat faster (much to Anathema’s shame and Newt’s delight) and plaster rained down on them both. The bottle of wine Aziraphale and Crowley had given to them was sitting on the table, nearly empty. Neither of them could hold their alcohol, it turned out, but that was all right.
Outside, the Wasabi developed a layer of rust that used to be there and for the past few weeks, had been absent. It muttered, “prease-to-fasten-sleat-bert” and was silent. Newt would have been saddened by the change, had he been there and with the presence of mind to notice. At the moment, he wasn’t really noticing anything, save the very attractive Anathema.
She kissed him on the corner of the mouth as a large piece of plaster fell onto his head.
“Ow,” Newt mumbled against her lips, and then laughed. “S’like snow,” he tried to say. Anathema smiled. The hole in her memory remained where it was. For now.
- - - - - -
The two man-shaped creatures sat in stunned silence.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale began. Things were changing back. This wasn’t just Heaven meddling with memories. This was the Antichrist. Doing… well, unfathomable things.
“What do you think he’s doing?” Crowley asked, mirroring Aziraphale’s thoughts. The Bentley sped down the suddenly smooth country roads at the even speed of 110 mph. Crowley’s hands weren’t anywhere close to the wheel.
Aziraphale sighed. “I don’t know.” It was always hard to predict massively powerful beings, and this massively powerful being in question also happened to be an eleven year old boy. This, of course, made things doubly unpredictable.
“We can only hope he hasn’t decided to give up his powers,” Crowley muttered darkly. Aziraphale didn’t even want to think about that possibility. If the Antichrist was no longer the Antichrist, and all these things were un-un-happening, then it’d be He-Hea-impossible to get things back to any semblance of normality.
“I do hope that Young boy knows what he’s getting into,” Aziraphale murmured. He gazed out the window at the blurred countryside. Crowley was doing about 120 on the winding roads. “My dear,” he said, glancing over at the demon, “do slow down.”
Crowley scowled and willed the car to go faster. The needle on the speedometer crept towards one-fifty. Behind them the engine of a delivery truck developed a very interesting mechanical failure. Aziraphale shook his head at Crowley-earning him a guilty smirk-and fixed the problem with a wave of his hand.
The back seat of the Bentley began to smoke.
Miles away, in Soho, a rare book shop quietly burst into flame. Without the flames, that is. It simply re-burned down. Millions of dollars’ worth of books crumbled into ashes. Again.
Aziraphale shivered, and glanced at Crowley. The demon gave him what was meant to be a reassuring grin, but was wholly unconvincing. Aziraphale could almost feel his books turning into dust. He willed the Bentley to go faster, with no small amount of guilt. Those poor drivers on the other side of the road wouldn’t know what hit them.
Crowley noticed the increase in speed, and gave Aziraphale a tiny, tight smile. Aziraphale smiled back. It was all they had, right now.
- - - - - -
Shadwell rolled himself a cigarette. Madame Tracy, over in the next room, tut-tutted and made herself a cup of tea, steeping the leaves for exactly five minutes. Just the way she liked it. The smell of Earl Grey filled the room.
Her newfound memories hadn’t really bothered her. At the time, she’d chalked up them to merely a rather unpleasant occult experience; more like a dream than an actual event. And, well, they were both alive, weren’t they? She’d just had a bit too much to drink.
Madame Tracy sipped her tea and thought wistfully of dashing young men with pure white wings. She’d forgotten the more disturbing events of that night as soon as she re-remembered them. For example, she’d completely banished the appearance of the demons and the Metatron from her mind, and she also seemed to think that Aziraphale’s possession of her body was just something to do with technology and microphones. Madame Tracy was very good at explaining away unpleasant events. It helped that she drank an awful lot of sherry, too.
Just as well. Adam didn’t like causing people undue trauma, even though at the moment he wasn’t actually aware that he was doing much of anything.
Memory wasn’t what it used to be, these days. It was nice to have Shadwell around, even if he was a bit of a grump.
“Mister S?” Madame Tracy called out.
“Aye, ye harlot?”
“Just checking you were all right,” she replied, reassured. Madame Tracy added a bit more sugar to her tea and wondered if that fascinating young boy, the beautiful blond one, would ever visit. Quite a charmer, that Young boy.
- - - - - -
The light was on in the window Pepper knew belonged to Adam. She thought briefly of rushing in, and decided not to anger Mr. Young any more than she had to. So she waited outside the house, patiently. Adam always seemed to know when one of Them was coming to visit.
It had been seven minutes, and Adam had not appeared. Pepper shifted in the cold, uncomfortable. It was very wet. It hadn’t rained like this in Tadfield for years.
Exactly eleven years, to be precise.
Pepper gave up waiting. She carefully parked her bike next to the Young’s garage, and then rang the doorbell three times. Just in case. Mr. Young answered the door, looking perplexed.
“It’s late,” he said. “You should be at home,” he continued awkwardly. He wasn’t quite sure what to say to his son’s underage and decidedly female friend, who seemed to want in. Pepper saved him the trouble of saying much more by rushing in and hurrying up the stairs, tracking mud across the floor. “Hey,” Mr. Young said, half-heartedly.
“I’ve gotta talk t’ Adam,” Pepper apologetically called over her shoulder. “S’important,” she added. That should take care of it, she thought. Mr. Young sighed and closed the door. Absolutely incorrigible, the lot of Them.
Adam was sitting in his room, still reading back issues of New Aquarian. He looked up when Pepper hurtled in, wet and disheveled and breathless.
“Hullo, Pep,” he said by way of greeting. Pepper’s mouth dropped open. How could Adam be so normal at a time like this? The images from her nightmare surged into her mind. She had held a sword of twigs and twine, and taken down War itself…
“Adam, what’s going on?” she wailed.
His presence wasn’t as… big as it used to be. He seemed smaller. Something was missing. But Pepper didn’t notice any of this. She was only human, after all.
“What d’you mean?” he replied, looking almost genuinely confused. “You’re all wet,” he added. Pepper was indeed very wet. A small puddle of completely natural water was forming on Adam’s bedroom floor.
“I waited outside,” Pepper said accusingly. “I thought you would come out.” Adam always came out, before this. Even during thunderstorms, like when Brian lost his cat during that really big storm last year and came to Adam for help. Adam had insisted everyone go look for it.
“Sorry,” Adam said. He gave her a lopsided smile. “Now, what’d you ask?”
“What’s goin’ on, Adam?” Pepper repeated.
“Depends on what’s hap’ning,” Adam replied. He patted an empty space on his bed and Pepper clambered up to sit next to him, vaguely aware that this was bringing them into New and Dangerous Territory.
“Jus’ tell me what happened,’ Adam said, and though his voice lacked the oomph of the Antichrist, Pepper told him anyway.