100 Things Crowley Would Do Before The World Ended
Title: 100 Things Crowley Would Do Before the World Ended
Recipient: caitirin
Author: googlebrat
Rating: Unrated (general audiences)
Summary: Other people plan 100 things to do before they die. Crowley planned 100 things before EVERYBODY died.
Author's Notes: Characters in this belong to Pratchett and Gaiman obviously. Lines are also taken from various songs, and also "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night." (This started as a joke, and I think it ended up being on me. It was funny when "If I Said You Had A Beautiful Body" was on my radio. By the time I was putting final touches to "Strictly Come Dancing" and they were playing "In The Arms Of The Angel" it was a bit creepy). Some events on this are taken from Real Life, but not, as you will notice, in Real Life order. Blame Crowley for altering reality to the order he preferred. I hope I gave you the plot you asked for :-)
48. Attempt to win way back into Aziraphale's good books.
At any other time, after the second attempt at talking to Aziraphale had failed, Crowley might have given up for a while. Given it a decade or so, let the angel forget what he was angry about, and then slunk back without really having to swallow his pride so much. It wasn't as though there were usually any hurry about it after all. There was literally all the time in the world.
There still was in fact. It was just that 'all the time in the world' might not be very long at all now. Every second that ticked away was another that Crowley wasn't amusing himself by finding new ways to put that faintly appalled look on the angel's face, or that they weren't both enjoying a bottle of wine in a lunchtime treat. It was the sort of thing that made a demon conscious of just how fast time could pass.
Going to the shop hadn't worked, either time. Time for a new approach. Crowley reached for the phone and dialed a familiar number.
It was a few minutes before the line was picked up at the other end. "Hullo?"
"Aziraphale!" Crowley made his voice as bright and breezy as he could. "I've got to pop over to Milton Keynes for a few temptations. I wondered if there was anyone who needed brushing up with a spot of rallying hope or anything while I was there?" This, he thought, had to be a winner. Milton Keynes had been on both their "avoid as much as possible" lists for a long while now. Surely the idea of being able to skip a visit to it would win the angel over?
There was a pause, and then a sigh on the other end of the line. "Crowley," Aziraphale greeted, sounding tired, and less than enthused to speak to him. "I thought we talked about this."
That wasn't what Crowley wanted to hear, not at all. "Come on, Aziraphale," he said, sounding more pleading than he had meant to. "It's not like you want to go to the place. Why don't you let me save you a trip?"
There was another pause. Crowley wondered what the angel was doing to take so long over answering. Weighing over whether to say yes? Or just trying to think of another gentle way to say no, and slip away again? "Why?" Aziraphale asked eventually.
It was a good question. Why? Because he needed Aziraphale. He needed someone to appreciate all those times he could have damned, and caused death and destruction much worse than he ever did, but held his hand, even if he squirmed those days the angel acknowledged it. He needed someone to make the job fun, rather than just something that meant he couldn't sleep for another full decade.
Because the world was going to end, and he was scared, and maybe there was no-one else in Heaven or Hell who might understand that.
It was too much for anyone to expect a demon to admit, and Crowley shrugged his shoulders on the other end of the phone. "It's my turn?" he suggested finally. True enough - Aziraphale had saved him a trip down there a few years ago, not that he was usually so quick to volunteer to pay it back.
"Crowley," Aziraphale said, and it was somehow worse how gently he said it. "I can't accept that. You know I can't."
"Why not?" Crowley demanded, annoyed now. The angel was making this so damn hard. "You always have before!"
"Because it's a temptation under another name," Aziraphale said simply, apologetically. "Save myself a trip to Milton Keynes, in return for the risk that in future I'll allow you to do something which is forbidden. I know your tricks, Crowley. I've worked with you long enough to recognise them."
Crowley hissed in exasperation. The fact that this time, this time, it wasn't a trick seemed to be something he was unable to get into the angel's head.
Aziraphale apparently heard it, and sighed again. "Maybe you've been tempting too long, Crowley. You don't even know when you're doing it any more. But I do. And I can't accept it. Sorry."
The receiver sounded a dull tone as the angel hung up on him. In a fit of annoyance, Crowley melted it. Of course, that didn't help anything.
49. Listen to the radio.
It was plainly ridiculous. He was being held hostage by his own music system. Crowley glared at it resentfully. He was a demon, he had power to coax people into endless damnation, he could cause terrible destruction with a snap of his fingers, and he was damn well going to listen to music in his own car if he wanted to. He was going to listen to music, moreover, that didn't paint dreadful pictures on the inside of his eyelids.
Best of Queen was out then. Meatloaf was out for the same reason, so that took care of the albums. There was still the radio though.
He turned it on, and relaxed for a moment at the soothing tones of the radio presenter before the Beatles' familiar croon filled the car.
"Imagine there's no Heaven, it's easy if you try. No hell below us, above us only sky."
He managed a whole thirty seconds before he turned it off again. He hadn't really wanted to listen to music anyway.
50. Tell someone your life story.
It had been another of the book's suggestions. Crowley was really beginning to doubt the sense of the man who had written that book after the dolphins, not to mention the whole karaoke incident, but it seemed worth a try nevertheless.
There seemed to be a limited number of people he could actually try it out with though. The angel wasn't in the mood to listen to him, it seemed. Another demon was unlikely to react sympathetically, if by 'sympathetically' you meant 'did not react by reporting back that Crowley had gone more native than anyone realised and getting him recalled home'. Most humans were likely to stare and nod along while taking details for the fortune they were planning to get from the News of the World.
That left a small select group of people who were, you might say, contractually obliged not to tell anyone. Crowley parked outside, sauntering into the building with a carefully casual air. What was the worst that could happen, after all?
Well, the worst was obviously that he ended up drenched in Holy Water - and that stuff stung - and having to explain his discorporation in Hell. But hopefully, it wouldn't come to that.
"I suppose," he drawled, in response to an urgent enquiry from behind the screen, "that I should start at the beginning with the whole fruit business. Though I was only acting under orders."
There was a pause, and then the confession screen slid back. The priest peered out incredulously.
Cro
wley grinned, and allowed the sunglasses to slide down his nose just enough to expose a glimpse of yellow eyes.
The priest paled, but to his credit managed without one splash of Holy Water or yell of 'Get behind me, demon' (which Crowley had been rather looking forward to - they always looked so shocked after shouting that when you tapped on their shoulder from behind). There was a pause in which the man seemed to be considering what to do next.
Crowley smiled wickedly. Perhaps the book had got it right after all. This was more fun than he had anticipated. "Would you like me to go on?" he enquired.
A deep, steadying breath, and much to Crowley's surprise the priest seemed to get a hold on himself. Unknowingly, Crowley had chosen his priest well. Father Butters had spent a lifetime counseling drug-dealers, murderers, and thieves. He was not about to be intimidated, just because he now appeared to be faced by well... the being which had invented original sin.
Or perhaps he was, a bit, but that was no reason to be unprofessional about it.
"I get the feeling that this one might take a while," he said bravely. "Why don't you come around the back." He grasped wildly for a moment for the thing guaranteed to bring protection, the thing resorted to as the saviour in most, if not all, emergencies - particularly in England. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
51. Talk to a priest.
It wasn't that Crowley had never talked to a priest, of course. It was just that most of those conversations had involved the desires of the flesh, the temptations of bribery, and, most recently over the last few years, the irritations involved in setting up a Parish website. A nice chitchat over a cup of tea had never really been on the schedule.
In actual fact it took several cups of tea, most of the afternoon, and a special rolling out of the chocolate digestives when things started to get intense.
"...and so I knocked down the Leaning Tower of Pisa," Crowley finished finally. "Which pissed a lot of people off, I can tell you. The insurance folk are sweating buckets, and you can't even imagine the amount of paperwork it's going to cause. I would say several thousand people are about to be suddenly tempted to lie on their insurance claim forms about how nice their cars were before a tower landed on it as well."
"I see." Father Butters had taken the whole thing surprisingly calmly. He'd paused Crowley to ask questions here and there, detouring occasionally into discussions of Henry the Eighth's motivations, and just what Cromwell had against Christmas, but otherwise he'd listened quietly, taking occasional sips from his cup of tea. "But... no-one got hurt badly, I think?" he queried. "I saw it on the news. No-one died."
"Yes, well." Crowley looked a little uncomfortable. "There was no need to go too far."
"I see." The priest rested his chin on his hand now, thoughtfully gazing at Crowley for a long moment. "Tell me, demon. Are you actually wanting to repent?"
It was a question that turned Crowley's expression pained. "Not if it meant I had to stop."
"So, why exactly are you here?"
He shrugged awkwardly, nonplussed. It seemed a little late now to admit that he'd actually expected the priest to run screaming long before this point. "Just seemed like a good idea to tell one person at least. Before... well."
"Before the world ended, or at least before our people ended up at war with your people," Father Butters nodded. "Yes, I think I got that point." Crowley had been rather emphatic about that part. There had been pacing, and some rather excitable arm-waving, and even some explanatory diagrams in case the Father had somehow failed to understand.
"That was pretty much it," Crowley concluded, eying the last chocolate digestive hungrily.
"One thing I don't understand though," the priest added, looking at Crowley thoughtfully. "What exactly were you hoping to achieve with the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge?"
"Achieve?" It was a question that made the demon falter. "I wasn't wanting to achieve anything. I just wanted to see what happened, and..." he shrugged, "...nothing did."
"Well, of course, it didn't," Father Butters said, as though that much were obvious. "That's not how it works."
Crowley eyed him suspiciously. Knowing the scripture was part of his job, of course, and he was fairly certain the instruction booklet to the Tree of Knowledge wasn't in there. He would have noticed before now if it were. Still, humans could sometimes surprise you. They were good at that. "Because I'm a demon?"
Father Butters shook his head patiently. "Because it doesn't work like that. We made our first choice to exercise our free will when we took the fruit. From the sound of it, you've been using yours for centuries."
"I don't, technically, have free will," Crowley protested quickly. "Besides, it's the Tree of Knowledge, not the Tree of Free Will."
The Father shrugged. "Knowledge of what will happen if you choose one course or another. Knowledge of punishment. Knowledge of consequences." He looked sharply at Crowley. "Knowledge that you have a choice. Knowledge that you can make the wrong choice. Knowledge that, for instance, if you push a tower over and allow everyone on it to fall to their deaths... a lot of people will suffer unnecessarily, and that you don't have to do that. Sound familiar at all?"
Crowley was quiet for a moment, digesting that. "But, Aziraphale-"
"The angel, by the sound of it, is as confused as you are," the priest said calmly. "He's angry with you, because from the way he sees it you tried to take away his choice and make him sin unknowingly. But it doesn't work like that. If you ate the forbidden fruit without the knowledge you were doing something forbidden, I doubt it would do anything." He shook his head. "Even if he did though, I doubt it would have any effect on him now. Unless he already had the gift of knowledge, he would - how did you put it? He would smite you without hesitation. Because it's his job, as an angel it’s his purpose for being and he wouldn't see the option. There wouldn't be an option."
"So," Crowley said slowly, "we have..."
"You have free will," Father Butters confirmed. "And doubt, and fear, and the rest of the package that comes along with it, including responsibility for your actions." He smiled. "Welcome to the same world as the rest of us, demon. You've been living it for a while now, just without letting yourself see it."
52. Have one final attempt at talking to the angel.
"Crowley." The name itself was a sigh now, as Aziraphale looked up to find that once again the demon had wandered into his shop.
"Hi." Crowley gave an awkward little wave. "I need to talk to you."
"What did you bring this time?" Aziraphale asked skeptically. "More cream cakes? Book from the Lost Library of Alexandria? Promise to do all my visits in Slough for the next century?"
"No bribes." Crowley held up empty hands as though to prove it.
"Ah. Then you're intending to tell me again that unless I forgive you and start working with you again, the world is going to end?"
Crowley winced. "No threats," he promised.
It didn't stop Aziraphale looking at him suspiciously. "Then you're going to blame it all on your demonic nature and tell me that I should have known better than to trust you in the first place?"
"And no excuses," Crowley said. "I just want to talk." He swallowed. If this didn't work, he was out of ideas. "Please?"
Aziraphale scrutinised him closely for a minute, and then gave a slow nod. "Sit down."
53. Apologise. And really mean it this time.
"I'm sorry I sneaked you the fruit..." Crowley started.
"But you couldn't help it, because it's in your nature," Aziraphale interrupted, sounding tired. "Crowley, we've been through this."
"No." Crowley stared at the table in front of him. Apologising did not come naturally to a demon. Nor did taking responsibility. "I could help it. It... that wasn't why I did it."
Aziraphale quietened, listening now.
Crowley took a deep breath. "I've been thinking about this next war thing. And... whichever way it goes, it's likely to be worse than the last one for us. If they win, we won't even exist any more, and if we win... no more earth. We'd have to go home, because there'd be nowhere left to go."
"And?" Aziraphale prompted, as the demon seemed to falter.
"And I thought... I thought that perhaps the only way we could get out of this one would be if we switched sides," Crowley said very quietly. "If we - well, eating the fruit worked for them."
He didn't look up from the table, but after a moment he felt a warm hand rest on his shoulder. "That wasn't a choice you had a right to make for me, you know," Aziraphale said very gently.
"I know. It didn't work anyway," Crowley said. "But I just... I thought I could try and then maybe things didn't have to end. It's too soon for things to end. It was too soon last time, and it's still too soon. I'm not ready."
What he couldn’t say, couldn’t admit was it had to be both of them. He couldn’t swap sides alone because then he would still be alone, but he never had been with Aziraphale. Each was the answer to the others questions.
"Rage, rage against the dying of the light," Aziraphale quoted softly. "Oh, Crowley. Why didn't you say?"
54. Be forgiven.
It turned out that being forgiven felt a lot like suddenly being rid of the stomach ache that you hadn't been really conscious of until that point.
Crowley blamed it entirely on indigestion from the fruit he had eaten a few weeks ago.
55. Listen to the ‘wireless’.
"It's broken," Crowley said stubbornly.
Aziraphale shot him a disbelieving look. "Crowley, this is your car. If any part of it were broken I should think you would sit on the curb and sulk for the rest of eternity."
"It's broken," the demon maintained. "It keeps playing the wrong songs."
"So if you're tired of the tapes, listen to the wireless." Aziraphale leaned forward to fiddle with it, trying to tune it in.
"It's not a wireless, it's a radio. No-one's called it 'the wireless' in the last fifty years," Crowley corrected. "And furthermore, it's brok-"
"...but love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah..."
Aziraphale sat back in his seat, looking smug. "Seems to work perfectly well to me."
56. Feeding the ducks (again).
"That's not bread."
"It's the last time. I thought it could be a bit special for them."
"Crowley..." Aziraphale eyed the bag the demon was clutching. A distinctly alcoholic smell was oozing out. "What are you giving them?"
"Cake?"
"And?"
"It's soaked in rum," Crowley admitted cheerfully. "But look! They're enjoying it."
He gestured as one duck tried to swim upside-down, and another quacked flirtatiously at a passing secret agent's foot.
Aziraphale sighed, which only made Crowley grin more. It really wasn't any fun misbehaving without the angel around to disapprove of it.
57. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Edinburgh.
58. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Basel.
59. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Graz.
60. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Schonbrun.
61. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Vienna.
62. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Prague.
63. Have lunch in picturesque small café in Ljubjana.
64. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Luxemburg.
65. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Tivoli.
66. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Sapparo.
67. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Rome.
68. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Madrid.
69. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Valkenburg.
"I'm noticing a certain pattern here," observed Aziraphale. "Not running out of ideas, are you?"
"Not at all," said Crowley, who was, but had reminisced fondly in each café of glorious temptations and equally epic wiles and epic thwarting. "I have plenty of ideas. I'm just not using them yet, that's all."
"I'm sure you do." Aziraphale looked at him skeptically.
"I have!" Crowley insisted. "Eat your spekulatus. I'll show you."
70. Visit the Grand Canyon.
"It is fairly impressive," Aziraphale admitted.
"It's a hole in the ground," Crowley sounded a little less awed by the spectacle. "Come to Hell, we have lots of them, even bigger. Ours usually have a great big fire at the bottom though. And less tourists." He glanced at the crowd lingering around them, most of them gazing at the view, or taking photos. "This lot look as though they're getting pretty excited by it though."
"To a human, it's amazing." Aziraphale shrugged. "Did you get it from their book again?"
"Yes," Crowley admitted, and grinned. "Didn't get this next bit from there though."
71. Fly down the Grand Canyon.
It was more a glide than a flight, but that didn't make it any less exhilarating. The feel of the wind beneath his wings, streaming through his immaculate feathers... this was living. Crowley let himself enjoy it, doing a wide circle and letting the sun catch him in a blaze of glory on white angelic wings and waved casually at the startled tourists, several of whom were already dialing the emergency services to report a jumper.
He landed lightly at the bottom, without a hair out of place. Even his sunglasses still rested comfortably on his nose.
"Show-off," observed Aziraphale, landing beside him. There had been a moment of shock when Crowley took off, but that had been followed by the decision that if they were going to appear on the evening news anyway, he might as well enjoy it.
"It's what I'm good at," Crowley said calmly, tucking his wings back away.
"You're going to get attention again, if you're not careful," Aziraphale warned, a little primly, smoothing his own wings down.
Crowley shook his head. "No. They're all going to decide it was a publicity stunt, all done with special effects. To advertise... let's see. Biscuits. No wait, this is America…cookies."
"What do biscuits have to do with flying down the Grand Canyon?" Aziraphale asked, confused. He didn’t even acknowledge the cookies.
"Nothing at all. As far as advertising stunts go though, that's fairly normal."
72. Make a Christmas Cake.
"What is it?" Aziraphale eyed the... thing with some disbelief, and prodded it lightly with a wooden spoon.
It burped.
"It's a Christmas cake," Crowley said defensively. "Or rather, Christmas Cake mix. I've been trying the baking thing again. You have to ‘feed’ it. Apparently."
"What exactly have you been feeding it, Crowley?" Judging from the sucking sounds, the mixture was attempting to drag the spoon out of Aziraphale's hands. He hung onto it determinedly.
"Mice?" Crowley admitted. "Uh, maybe a rat or two. A couple of the plants I had left that weren't thriving and needed a lesson."
There was a crack as the mixture succeeded in snapping the spoon in half. Aziraphale watched as the broken piece was sucked into the mixture and the cake mix seemed to stir itself.
"It seems quite a lively type," Crowley added with pride.
"Yes," Aziraphale agreed carefully. "You know, I'm not sure this is something Martha Stewart ever imagined dealing with."
"No?"
The mass seethed, and seemed to try to actually pull itself out of the bowl. Aziraphale tried not to shudder. "Can you imagine ever actually eating it?"
"Maybe not." Crowley looked reflective. "Maybe I'll keep it as a pet."
73. Find out what one hand sounds like clapping.
"Right." Crowley rolled up his sleeves.
"Crowley," Aziraphale cautioned.
"I'm only giving the man what he wants to know!" Crowley insisted. "He's been wondering for years, and he deserves to know the answer."
"Er," their startled host interjected. He hadn't expected, when opening the door, to have two men barge past him. "Are you here to sell me something?"
"Oh, no, no, no," Aziraphale reassured him hastily.
"Well, are you here to rob me then? Only I don't know you, and you're in my house..."
"We're here to help you," Crowley said briskly. "You are a philosopher, right? That's what it said on your website. Thomas Smith, philosopher."
"Er... yes?" He'd only put it there to attract girls. And it hadn't worked.
"Then prepare to have one of your questions answered, Thomas Smith." Crowley held out his hand dramatically.
The man's eyes bulged, and he let out a horrified, choked noise as Crowley's hand began to twist and grow, stretching until was wide enough to easily double up. Demons, like angels, could be any shape they wished to be. It was just a matter of re-arranging the molecules.
Crowley slapped the two halves together a few times experimentally. Ptt ptt ptt.
"That is the sound of one hand clapping," he told the terrified Thomas Smith sternly. "Do you understand?"
Thomas nodded, his eyes huge.
"Good. Next time, don't ask such stupid questions. Come on, Aziraphale."
"You shouldn't have done that," Aziraphale scolded as they turned to leave.
Crowley only laughed. "That's nothing. You wait to see what I'm going to do about the sound trees make falling in the forest."
74. Learn a musical instrument.
"No." There were some things that even the most easy-going of angels couldn't be coaxed into.
"Oh, come on," Crowley coaxed. "The humans have it on their list."
"The humans can do what they like. No."
"It'll be good practice for when you get called back up!"
"And cleaning out cows would be good practice with a pitchfork for you," Aziraphale retorted. "I am not learning to play the harp. What's the next item?"
75. Eat strawberries at Wimbledon.
"It's November."
"So?"
"Wimbledon is in summer, Crowley."
The demon shrugged again. "So?"
"Are you intending just to eat strawberries while an empty cour-oh."
Oh, indeed, for as they stepped into the stands, it became clear that the court was not empty at all. Not only was a match going on, but the place was packed with people, a loud 'ooo' going up with each stroke of a tennis racket.
"I keep telling you," Crowley said calmly. "Stop putting yourself out to be at the right place on the right date. Just go where you want to be, let the dates arrange themselves around you."
"Did you just rearrange reality so that we could eat strawberries?" Aziraphale demanded.
Crowley thought about it. "Yes?"
He frowned as the angel sat down. "Something's not quite right though. If - yes!" He snapped his fingers.
The crowd groaned as a light rain began to fall on the court.
Crowley beamed and sat back. "That's more authentic. Not to worry. Cliff Richard will be along any minute now."
76. Visit the Titanic.
"I remember the Captain." Being miles under the ocean never posed the slightest problem to either angel or demon. Aziraphale walked across the deck, stroking a thoughtful hand over the wheel, as seaweed fluttered away from his hand.
"He always looked a bit like Captain Birdseye to me," Crowley mused to himself, grimacing at an octopus which had decided the ship was his very own luxury home and was menacing tentacles at them through a porthole as a shoal of fish flickered like sparks of silver over one of the four great funnels.
The angel looked blank. "Was that one of the eighteenth, or nineteenth century Captains?"
"Uh... a bit later." Crowley forgot sometimes that Aziraphale didn't quite share his knowledge of TV. "Captain who liked shipping a ton of small children away from their parents for golden treasure. Very dodgy business if you ask me. Don't worry about it." He stopped in the middle of the deck. "Do you remember the band?"
"Playing until the ship went down," Aziraphale remembered dreamily. Bioluminescent sea creatures clung to available surfaces, outlining them in a tremulous greenish spectral light until the wreck around them looked like ghost-sketch of a vague memory.
"Horribly out of tune," Crowley said, his own memory a bit sharper. "And I think they could have done better fighting for a lifeboat with everyone else if you ask me. Violins don't float all that well, not when they have to hold a human up."
"And then there were the lifeboats," Aziraphale murmured. "Men gave their lives so women and children could live... let them take the boats."
"Some didn't," Crowley said darkly. "They weren't all so noble."
"They prayed at the end." Aziraphale was by now in a world of his own, no longer listening to Crowley's dry comments. "They prayed for help, for salvation, for something, and I... there was nothing... why?"
Because they were humans, Crowley thought, but did not say. Because I gave them human arrogance, which stopped them putting enough lifeboats on the ship; human pride which stopped anyone admitting that was a problem; human selfishness which made them panic and fight and squabble over the life boats they had.
And you... you gave them the kindness and unselfishness that made a man give up his place on the boat for a child, and yet that is enough to give you the hope that they are redeemable. He sighed, glancing at Aziraphale's face, and then looked away.
"I don't know," he said. "It's ineffable."
77. Hear from the office.
The Titanic had left neither of them in a particularly good mood. Afterwards, by mutual agreement, they headed back to the bookshop and opened a bottle of good wine. Sometimes alcohol could fix the things you had no answers for, or at least make you forget for a short while that you had no answers.
When the shaft of blue light appeared behind Aziraphale it was natural therefore that Crowley assumed it was a result of the fourth large glass (the advantage of drinking as a demon or angel was that one bottle of wine could contain just as many large glasses as you wanted it to).
He nudged Aziraphale, squinting at the light. "'s that really there?"
Aziraphale attempted to turn his whole body around to look, lost his balance, and fell off his chair. Trying not to laugh, he twisted to look in the direction Crowley had indicated.
He sobered up fast when he saw the light. Making an exaggerated motion at Crowley to stay where he was, and stay quiet, he stood up quickly, stumbled just a little as the wine rushed to his head, and stepped into the light. "Hello?"
"Aziraphale," a familiar cultured voice greeted him. "Have you been working hard?"
"Er..." Aziraphale swallowed, flushing with the guilt of an angel who might have been doing a little too much keeping a demon out of trouble, and not so much actual work. "Been doing a lot of thwarting lately?" he offered hopefully. "Keeps you very busy, all this thwarting. No sooner do you finish off one wile than you see another one and think ooo, I should really thwart that before it gets any worse..."
Across the table, Crowley gestured at him urgently. He shut up.
"Yes, well, it hardly matters now," the voice said, sounding disinterested. "Have you been in contact with Crowley recently?"
Aziraphale froze, feeling the pleasant haze of alcohol vanish. "Crowley?" he queried, voice turning to a squeak, seeing the demon pale.
"Yes, Crowley," the voice said, a little impatiently. "You might recall him. Demon, helped you stop the Apocalypse?" And though it didn't say it, there was the undertone of and don't think anyone has forgotten that.
"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale said, voice forcedly jovial now. "That Crowley. Oh yes, I thwart him quite often actually. Only the other day, I stopped him..."
"Contact him," the voice interrupted, voice brisk. "Immediately. We need to set up an alliance."
"An alliance?" Aziraphale echoed stupidly.
"Is this a bad connection? Can you not hear me properly?" And now the voice sounded annoyed. "If we need to come down there..."
"No, no, that's fine," Aziraphale said hastily. "I just don't quite think I understand. What kind of alliance?"
"Why, an alliance of war of course." The tone indicated that this should be obvious.
Aziraphale felt his stomach turn. "I see. And this would be war against...?"
"The humans," the voice said matter of factly.
He saw Crowley sit up and glance at him anxiously, and realised that this time it must be him who had paled. "I don't understand. Why are we fighting the humans?"
The voice was crisp, annoyed and sharp. "Aziraphale, are you questioning the ineffable plan?"
"No, no, of course not. I just..."
"We have noticed that you have been doing quite a lot of questioning lately. Perhaps we do need to come down and deal with things personally."
"No, that's fine!" Aziraphale blurted, alarmed. If they sent Gabriel, or worse the Metatron to deal with Crowley, well. The demon's manners could not be trusted. They wouldn't understand his little jokes as Aziraphale did. "Contact Crowley, arrange alliance! I've got it!"
"If you have any problems getting in touch..."
"No, no, I'm sure there will be no problems." He glanced again at Crowley.
Crowley pointedly refilled his glass of wine.
"Anyway, I'll be getting on with that straight away. Better be going now for that. Bye!"
78. Panic.
Because Crowley was a demon, saying "I told you so," was pretty much compulsory. Because Aziraphale was Aziraphale, however, he did at least make sure the angel had a full glass of wine before he did so.
"Maybe it won't be so bad," the angel said helplessly.
"Them against Us? Hard to see how it could be good," Crowley reasoned. "We've got the power of Heaven and Hell behind us and them? They've got imagination. And Him of course."
"We could win." Knowing humans made that far from a certainty. Humans were good at imagination. They might win even without Him on their side. Heaven and Hell wouldn’t think that of course; they had the power but history was littered with examples of superior power being defeated by brilliant strategy.
"And then afterwards we get pulled back home, and they start using those weapons they've built up against each other," Crowley predicted glumly.
Aziraphale stared into his glass of wine. "They could win?" he suggested hopefully.
"And then... well. And then nothing. Not for us anyway. That's the point," Crowley said, voice filled with the calm of someone who'd already thought this out in a long sleepless night. "I wonder what it's like to die when there's nowhere to go?"
"Like... nothing. You just stop existing." Aziraphale took a desperate gulp of his wine. "I just... why would we? Are they attacking? But He wasn't interested!"
"Maybe He changed his mind," Crowley sighed. "I'll see what I can find out. Maybe we can talk him out of it. But... it doesn't look good."
And there was a line of lyric going around and around in his mind his dread growing with every repetition,
‘…Imagine there's no Heaven, it's easy if you try. No hell below us, above us only sky…’
79. Find out what's going on.
"I say a little prayer for yo- YES CROWLEY?"
"I've had communication from the angel, lord." Crowley carefully did not look at Aziraphale, who was sitting next to him, fingers tapping an anxious tune against the glove compartment. "Asking for an alliance."
"YES?" There was the same trace of impatient annoyance Aziraphale had heard when communicating with Upstairs.
"Against the humans, Lord," Crowley clarified, as though it might be unclear.
"WELL, WE WEREN'T GOING TO APPROACH THEM FOR A WHILE YET. STILL, IT'S BETTER THEY COME TO US. PUTS US IN A POSITION OF STRENGTH," Aretha Franklin's voice said thoughtfully. "PUT HIM OFF FOR A WHILE. THEY WILL OFFER MORE IF WE SEEM RELUCTANT."
"Yes, lord," Crowley said, grateful once more that no-one ever bothered to look and see what he was doing when he had these conversations. "Uh. Are we at war with the humans, lord?"
"NOT AS SUCH," the radio said dismissively.
"No?" Crowley felt his heart leap for a moment, and saw, from the corner of his eye, Aziraphale's face brighten.
"IT IS NOT NECESSARY TO COMMIT TO WAR WITH SUCH... BEINGS. THE HUMANS ARE FAULTY. OTHERWISE THEY WOULD HAVE FOLLOWED THE PLAN. IT HAS BEEN DECIDED THAT THE BEST THING TO DO UNDER SUCH CIRCUMSTANCES IS TO GET RID OF THEM AND TRY AGAIN."
"Try again?" Crowley said slowly, as Aziraphale lost his smile. "You mean like... start a new game board?" One that could be persuaded to play along this time. One which didn't resist, didn't remain stubbornly and annoyingly human rather than good or evil.
"IF THAT IS THE WAY YOU WISH TO PHRASE IT. DO NOT THINK YOUR EARLIER ATTEMPTS TO STOP THE WAR HAVE BEEN FORGOTTEN," Aretha said, her voice holding a sharpness which made Crowley squirm in his seat. "THE WAR IS NOT STOPPED. IT IS MERELY... DELAYED, UNTIL A MORE SUITABLE TIME AND PLACE CAN BE FOUND."
"Yes, lord," Crowley said meekly, grimacing at Aziraphale.
"SPEAK TO THE ANGEL. DELAY AN ALLIANCE FOR NOW, UNTIL HEAVEN GETS DESPERATE ENOUGH TO OFFER US MORE THAN THEY WISH TO GIVE," Aretha instructed firmly. "AND CROWLEY? THIS TIME MAKE SURE YOU DO YOUR JOB. THE CONSEQUENCES FOR FURTHER DISOBEDIENCE WILL BE... SEVERE."
"Understood, Lord." Crowley closed his eyes to stop himself seeing Aziraphale's sympathetic look. "I'll get onto that now, Lord."
"GOOD- that's how it must be, to live without you..."
It was a moment before Crowley reached out, with a hand that only shook a little, and turned the radio off.
80. Have lunch in pictureseque little cafe in Tottenham.
"They can't do this!"
"Yes," Crowley said, wearily nursing his cup of coffee. "They can."
"But... the entire human race! The entire world!"
Crowley shrugged. "The way they see it, they can always make another one."
"It wouldn't be the same one," Aziraphale said stubbornly.
"No. But do you actually think any of them spent enough time on here to know the difference?" Crowley asked. "Look, think of it like my plants. If one of them isn't growing right, I get rid of it, and get another. And I make damn sure the replacement knows what happened so that one doesn't feel like getting all uncooperative."
"But-"
"And if you think my people are going to let me near anything vital this time after the last fiasco, you can forget it. Yours too, judging from how they were speaking to you. There'll be no babies this time, no leaving us alone to try to screw it up. The slightest hint that we're not behaving and..." Crowley gestured, "back we go."
It had been the flaw in pointing out that perhaps the Apocalypse as it had been written might not be Ineffable. It left things right open for Heaven or Hell to say, in that case… what we do now cannot be wrong.
"So, what do we do?" Aziraphale asked helplessly.
"We take this as a gift," Crowley said firmly. "We at least have an excuse to be seen together now. We've got orders to work together even. So, we do as we're told, we work together on the idea of forming an alliance, and..." he tapped the table, "we make sure we enjoy the rest of the list."
"The list?" Aziraphale said weakly. "Even now?"
"Especially now," Crowley confirmed. "If these are our last days on earth, I'm going to enjoy it."
81. Do something about Milton Keynes.
"Do I need to ask why? I mean, not that I'm objecting or anything. It's the kind of thing I'm totally in favour of in principle. I just... why?"
"Because when this war starts, there's a fifty per cent chance that every human on earth will be wiped out," Aziraphale said, as though that should explain everything.
"And?"
"And would you want to have spent your entire life living in Milton Keynes if you were going to die tomorrow?"
Crowley had to admit he had a point.
"So, you think we should arrange for the houses in Milton Keynes to suddenly be worth more than the houses in the rest of the country?" he queried, just to be certain.
Aziraphale nodded eagerly. "Anyone given the option of selling their house in Milton Keynes to buy a mansion elsewhere in the country would take it, I'm sure."
Crowley, who had his own views about how the country would react to the great housing crash of 2008, did not bother to correct him. Sometimes you just had to let Aziraphale's optimism work itself out.
82. Teach Aziraphale to sleep.
"But virtue is..."
"Ever-vigilant. I know," Crowley said. "Although," he couldn't resist adding a little snidely, "it does occasionally seem to take a five minute break at old book fairs."
"That's not the point!" Aziraphale protested. "I know that if I lie down and close my eyes for five minutes you'll take advantage of it to cause some major disaster."
"You think that I don't while you're at old book fairs?" Crowley grinned. "Lie down, angel. Rest. I'll try not to let the apocalypse happen without you."
It didn't take the suspicious look out of Aziraphale's eyes. "If you get up to anything..."
"You can smite me when you wake up," Crowley reassured. "Thwarting my wiles can wait until morning. Believe me."
Aziraphale's expression reminded him of a child afraid to go to bed in case everyone threw a party without him. He stared at Crowley untrustingly. "Why do you want me to sleep?"
"Because it's the single strangest experience humans have ever discovered, and you haven't even tried it once," Crowley said firmly. "Sleep, angel. Dream. Create endless realities that make no sense and will be forgotten on waking."
"No-one can create realities," Aziraphale protested. "No-one except, well..."
The demon laughed. "Believe me, humans do it every night. Which explains a lot about them. Just give it a try."
He didn't say, because sleep will iron out that worried line between your eyes that appeared when you realised this wasn't just me playing around.
He didn't say, we're running out of time and if you can have eight hours when you don't remember what we're running from it would be time well-used.
He didn't say, I need you to sleep for me, because when I try I have nightmares about what's going to happen and I can't stop it.
He didn't say any of those things. But when Aziraphale did sleep, Crowley sat and watched until the angel's peaceful expression sent him into his own slumber.
83. Eat ice cream.
"Human imagination," Crowley said, voice a little awed. "Applied to the sweetest salvation, the most terrible torture and... ice cream. Where do they get these ideas?"
"I think some of them might be torture as well, actually." Aziraphale had been reading some of the labels. "There's an octopus flavour there."
"No! Really?" Crowley stared at the collection of tubs.
"And goat. Not just goat milk," Aziraphale hastened to point out. "But...actual pieces of goat. Why would you put goat in icecream?"
"Maybe they ran out of goat milk?" Crowley suggested. "Anyway, at least that one's cooked. How about raw horseflesh?"
"What's wrong with strawberry?" Aziraphale asked, sounding a little mournful. "I like strawberry. And chocolate."
"I told you. It's the experience. Now, help me gather those tubs."
They piled the trolley high, wheeling it past a bored shop assistant who rang them through as though raw horseflesh icecream was something people bought every day. Probably it was.
"We'll start as soon as we get home," Crowley said cheerfully. "Should take a while to get through. Thirty nine flavours of ice cream!"
"I stopped counting after the wheat flavour," Aziraphale noted. "It may be more."
84. Attempt to fix the stockmarkets (in my own way).
"You've got to let me," Crowley cajoled. "I broke it. I should be allowed to at least attempt to fix it."
"Normally, I would be all in favour of that kind of thing," Aziraphale agreed. "But... it's you."
"Don't you trust me?" Crowley tried his best hurt expression, lowering his sunglasses slightly.
"Crowley," Aziraphale said patiently. "I know you."
"This is true." And that earned him a grin, the hangdog expression quickly vanishing. It was hard not to take pride in his work, even if it could make things more difficult at turns. "Still. I'm not doing anything that your people haven't done."
"Hardly in the same situation," Aziraphale protested, but looked doubtful. "You really think it'll work?"
"Read the papers. It's all about fear. They're selling things because they're afraid," Crowley waved the newspaper at him. "So, all I'm proposing is to... take away the fear."
It sounded amazingly reasonable, but then most things the demon suggested usually did. Reluctantly, Aziraphale nodded. "If that's all then."
The trading floor was jittery as Crowley wandered casually into the middle of it. He could feel the anxiety bleeding from each trader, follow each back to find the side-effects, the guilty secrets in each mind. There were the arguments called by the lack of finances, the man who had been beastly to his daughter due to stress, the man who was having an affair and told himself he needed it to relax now... Crowley could feel it all, the bad behaviour, the justifications. He smiled at the satisfaction of a bad job well done, and continued walking until he was stood in the middle of the room.
It was few moments before the closest trader looked up from scrolling rolls of numbers, and noticed the wings starting to emerge from the back of Crowley's shirt. He gaped, wondering if he'd finally snapped the way they were always telling him he would under all this high pressure. Maybe it was time to give it up and become a teacher. A class of rowdy 14 year olds would feel positively peaceful after this.
He turned to prod the man next to him. The man glared at him, but continued speaking into his phone. It was a moment before he too noticed the figure in the middle of the room, and fell silent.
One by one other people noticed, eyes drawn to the wings, to Crowley's calm expression and the angelic beam of light spotlighting him on the exchange floor. It was hard to remember the last time in working hours when the London stock exchange had been so quiet.
Time for Crowley's big moment. He opened his wings dramatically, playing to his audience, and spoke in a loud clear voice. "Don't be afraid!"
The silence was such that you could have heard a pin drop. The traders seemed glued to the spot, staring at the demon.
Then, after a moment, the worst shout went up. "It's the end of the world! SELL! SELL! SELL!"
As though a spell was broken, the traders turned back to their machines, fingers frantically tapping on keyboards, graphs once more heading in a resolutely downwards direction.
Crowley grinned to himself. It was hardly his fault if the people now couldn't do as they were told.
85. Deny everything.
"You knew that would happen, didn't you?" Aziraphale said accusingly.
Crowley widened his eyes innocently. "I did exactly as I promised. I guess I'm just not as convincing as your people."
"Mmhm." The angel did not look convinced.
Crowley nudged him. "Look at it this way. I'm probably doing you a favour. How does it go - you cannot worship both God and money? Maybe they'll worship it less if they haven't got any."
86. Invite all your friends to a big party.
"Another one out of the human book of suggestions?"
"Something like that," Crowley agreed, leaning over to top up Aziraphale's wine.
"So, who's coming then? Him? The kids?" It was in fact the fourth or fifth time Crowley had topped up Aziraphale's glass. He didn't object.
"No. They're under-age," Crowley pointed out.
"You've never let that bother you before," Aziraphale said reasonably.
"Yes well, I'd invite them, and then you'd have to thwart me by giving them a lecture on the dangers of alcohol and accepting invitations from strange demons, and then I'd have to tempt them to slip some vodka into the fruit juice you gave them..." Crowley shrugged. "So I thought this could be a night off."
"Not the kids then," Aziraphale nodded. "The other humans then? Anathema and Newton? Shadwell and Madame Tracy?"
Crowley waved a hand dismissively. "Just because you've stopped an Apocalypse with someone hardly makes them friends, does it? Not like you've known them for a few centuries."
By that qualification, that excluded all humans then. Aziraphale swallowed, feeling his mouth go dry. "Other demons?"
Crowley looked at him as though he'd lost his mind. "Have you met any other demons? Would you invite them to a party?"
"Well... no," Aziraphale admitted.
"Besides, they haven't got the hang of life up here yet. They'd be busy the entire time trying to find out how humans had managed to fit a band in the CD player or something."
That got a smile out of the angel, but wasn't quite enough to make him drop the subject. "So, all your friends is... just us two then?"
"Something like that." Crowley leaned to get the bottle again, deliberately not looking at him. "More wine?"
87. Get drunk (again).
"Wouldn't it be nice if we could just stay like this?" Crowley waved his glass a little carelessly, spilling a large quantity of red wine. This might have caused a nasty stain if it hadn't turned to water before it hit the floor.
Aziraphale did his best to focus on him. "Like what?"
"Drunk. Just fuzzy around the edges," Crowley said. "Just keep on drinking before it could wear off."
"For how long?" Aziraphale tried to sit a little more straight in his chair. His body appeared to want to slump instead.
"Just until the world ended." Crowley's tone was casual, as though it were a perfectly sensible suggestion. "Just... until it was over. We'd never know that way."
"Mmm." Aziraphale looked at him carefully. Even under the influence of... how many glasses was it now? - it was easy to read the stress under that casual look. "I don't think we can though," he said gently. "They'd notice."
"I know." Crowley stared into his glass of wine. "I wish I didn't."
88. Confess drunkenly.
"'ziraphale?"
"Mmm?" Aziraphale raised his head off his arms to peer at Crowley through bleary eyes.
"Jus' wan'ed you to know." Crowley patted his arm with the urgency of a drunk who had something important to say as soon as he could remember how to work his mouth. "You... needed you t' know that..."
Aziraphale waited patiently, watching him stumble over the words. Crowley's confessions could be anything from "I just destroyed one of the Wonders of the World because I was bored" to "I just broke an office's only tea machine right before a major emergency" and were usually related with a certain amount of glee. You just had to wait and see what came.
"Wan'ed you t'know that if, if the world's got to end, there's no-one I'd rath'r see it end with," Crowley managed eventually, and took another mouthful of wine.
Aziraphale's expression softened."That's good to know," he replied solemnly, blinking rapidly in a way that was certainly due to the room rotating around him rather than anything else. "You're... you're a good demon to have around.
The demon's expression abruptly crumpled, as woeful as a child with an empty stocking on Christmas day."Don't want it to end though," he said mournfully. "Having too much fun."
And that was the problem with alcohol, wasn't it? That was why you really couldn't just stay in a state of continual drunkeness until the world ended. Sooner or late you hit the melancholy stage. Aziraphale sighed, but didn't suggest that Crowley should sober up, slipping an arm around the demon's shoulder. He felt Crowley sag against him, head leaning against his shoulder, needing the comfort of someone close by.
Everyone needed that sometimes. Even demons.
Recipient: caitirin
Author: googlebrat
Rating: Unrated (general audiences)
Summary: Other people plan 100 things to do before they die. Crowley planned 100 things before EVERYBODY died.
Author's Notes: Characters in this belong to Pratchett and Gaiman obviously. Lines are also taken from various songs, and also "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night." (This started as a joke, and I think it ended up being on me. It was funny when "If I Said You Had A Beautiful Body" was on my radio. By the time I was putting final touches to "Strictly Come Dancing" and they were playing "In The Arms Of The Angel" it was a bit creepy). Some events on this are taken from Real Life, but not, as you will notice, in Real Life order. Blame Crowley for altering reality to the order he preferred. I hope I gave you the plot you asked for :-)
48. Attempt to win way back into Aziraphale's good books.
At any other time, after the second attempt at talking to Aziraphale had failed, Crowley might have given up for a while. Given it a decade or so, let the angel forget what he was angry about, and then slunk back without really having to swallow his pride so much. It wasn't as though there were usually any hurry about it after all. There was literally all the time in the world.
There still was in fact. It was just that 'all the time in the world' might not be very long at all now. Every second that ticked away was another that Crowley wasn't amusing himself by finding new ways to put that faintly appalled look on the angel's face, or that they weren't both enjoying a bottle of wine in a lunchtime treat. It was the sort of thing that made a demon conscious of just how fast time could pass.
Going to the shop hadn't worked, either time. Time for a new approach. Crowley reached for the phone and dialed a familiar number.
It was a few minutes before the line was picked up at the other end. "Hullo?"
"Aziraphale!" Crowley made his voice as bright and breezy as he could. "I've got to pop over to Milton Keynes for a few temptations. I wondered if there was anyone who needed brushing up with a spot of rallying hope or anything while I was there?" This, he thought, had to be a winner. Milton Keynes had been on both their "avoid as much as possible" lists for a long while now. Surely the idea of being able to skip a visit to it would win the angel over?
There was a pause, and then a sigh on the other end of the line. "Crowley," Aziraphale greeted, sounding tired, and less than enthused to speak to him. "I thought we talked about this."
That wasn't what Crowley wanted to hear, not at all. "Come on, Aziraphale," he said, sounding more pleading than he had meant to. "It's not like you want to go to the place. Why don't you let me save you a trip?"
There was another pause. Crowley wondered what the angel was doing to take so long over answering. Weighing over whether to say yes? Or just trying to think of another gentle way to say no, and slip away again? "Why?" Aziraphale asked eventually.
It was a good question. Why? Because he needed Aziraphale. He needed someone to appreciate all those times he could have damned, and caused death and destruction much worse than he ever did, but held his hand, even if he squirmed those days the angel acknowledged it. He needed someone to make the job fun, rather than just something that meant he couldn't sleep for another full decade.
Because the world was going to end, and he was scared, and maybe there was no-one else in Heaven or Hell who might understand that.
It was too much for anyone to expect a demon to admit, and Crowley shrugged his shoulders on the other end of the phone. "It's my turn?" he suggested finally. True enough - Aziraphale had saved him a trip down there a few years ago, not that he was usually so quick to volunteer to pay it back.
"Crowley," Aziraphale said, and it was somehow worse how gently he said it. "I can't accept that. You know I can't."
"Why not?" Crowley demanded, annoyed now. The angel was making this so damn hard. "You always have before!"
"Because it's a temptation under another name," Aziraphale said simply, apologetically. "Save myself a trip to Milton Keynes, in return for the risk that in future I'll allow you to do something which is forbidden. I know your tricks, Crowley. I've worked with you long enough to recognise them."
Crowley hissed in exasperation. The fact that this time, this time, it wasn't a trick seemed to be something he was unable to get into the angel's head.
Aziraphale apparently heard it, and sighed again. "Maybe you've been tempting too long, Crowley. You don't even know when you're doing it any more. But I do. And I can't accept it. Sorry."
The receiver sounded a dull tone as the angel hung up on him. In a fit of annoyance, Crowley melted it. Of course, that didn't help anything.
49. Listen to the radio.
It was plainly ridiculous. He was being held hostage by his own music system. Crowley glared at it resentfully. He was a demon, he had power to coax people into endless damnation, he could cause terrible destruction with a snap of his fingers, and he was damn well going to listen to music in his own car if he wanted to. He was going to listen to music, moreover, that didn't paint dreadful pictures on the inside of his eyelids.
Best of Queen was out then. Meatloaf was out for the same reason, so that took care of the albums. There was still the radio though.
He turned it on, and relaxed for a moment at the soothing tones of the radio presenter before the Beatles' familiar croon filled the car.
"Imagine there's no Heaven, it's easy if you try. No hell below us, above us only sky."
He managed a whole thirty seconds before he turned it off again. He hadn't really wanted to listen to music anyway.
50. Tell someone your life story.
It had been another of the book's suggestions. Crowley was really beginning to doubt the sense of the man who had written that book after the dolphins, not to mention the whole karaoke incident, but it seemed worth a try nevertheless.
There seemed to be a limited number of people he could actually try it out with though. The angel wasn't in the mood to listen to him, it seemed. Another demon was unlikely to react sympathetically, if by 'sympathetically' you meant 'did not react by reporting back that Crowley had gone more native than anyone realised and getting him recalled home'. Most humans were likely to stare and nod along while taking details for the fortune they were planning to get from the News of the World.
That left a small select group of people who were, you might say, contractually obliged not to tell anyone. Crowley parked outside, sauntering into the building with a carefully casual air. What was the worst that could happen, after all?
Well, the worst was obviously that he ended up drenched in Holy Water - and that stuff stung - and having to explain his discorporation in Hell. But hopefully, it wouldn't come to that.
"I suppose," he drawled, in response to an urgent enquiry from behind the screen, "that I should start at the beginning with the whole fruit business. Though I was only acting under orders."
There was a pause, and then the confession screen slid back. The priest peered out incredulously.
Cro
wley grinned, and allowed the sunglasses to slide down his nose just enough to expose a glimpse of yellow eyes.
The priest paled, but to his credit managed without one splash of Holy Water or yell of 'Get behind me, demon' (which Crowley had been rather looking forward to - they always looked so shocked after shouting that when you tapped on their shoulder from behind). There was a pause in which the man seemed to be considering what to do next.
Crowley smiled wickedly. Perhaps the book had got it right after all. This was more fun than he had anticipated. "Would you like me to go on?" he enquired.
A deep, steadying breath, and much to Crowley's surprise the priest seemed to get a hold on himself. Unknowingly, Crowley had chosen his priest well. Father Butters had spent a lifetime counseling drug-dealers, murderers, and thieves. He was not about to be intimidated, just because he now appeared to be faced by well... the being which had invented original sin.
Or perhaps he was, a bit, but that was no reason to be unprofessional about it.
"I get the feeling that this one might take a while," he said bravely. "Why don't you come around the back." He grasped wildly for a moment for the thing guaranteed to bring protection, the thing resorted to as the saviour in most, if not all, emergencies - particularly in England. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
51. Talk to a priest.
It wasn't that Crowley had never talked to a priest, of course. It was just that most of those conversations had involved the desires of the flesh, the temptations of bribery, and, most recently over the last few years, the irritations involved in setting up a Parish website. A nice chitchat over a cup of tea had never really been on the schedule.
In actual fact it took several cups of tea, most of the afternoon, and a special rolling out of the chocolate digestives when things started to get intense.
"...and so I knocked down the Leaning Tower of Pisa," Crowley finished finally. "Which pissed a lot of people off, I can tell you. The insurance folk are sweating buckets, and you can't even imagine the amount of paperwork it's going to cause. I would say several thousand people are about to be suddenly tempted to lie on their insurance claim forms about how nice their cars were before a tower landed on it as well."
"I see." Father Butters had taken the whole thing surprisingly calmly. He'd paused Crowley to ask questions here and there, detouring occasionally into discussions of Henry the Eighth's motivations, and just what Cromwell had against Christmas, but otherwise he'd listened quietly, taking occasional sips from his cup of tea. "But... no-one got hurt badly, I think?" he queried. "I saw it on the news. No-one died."
"Yes, well." Crowley looked a little uncomfortable. "There was no need to go too far."
"I see." The priest rested his chin on his hand now, thoughtfully gazing at Crowley for a long moment. "Tell me, demon. Are you actually wanting to repent?"
It was a question that turned Crowley's expression pained. "Not if it meant I had to stop."
"So, why exactly are you here?"
He shrugged awkwardly, nonplussed. It seemed a little late now to admit that he'd actually expected the priest to run screaming long before this point. "Just seemed like a good idea to tell one person at least. Before... well."
"Before the world ended, or at least before our people ended up at war with your people," Father Butters nodded. "Yes, I think I got that point." Crowley had been rather emphatic about that part. There had been pacing, and some rather excitable arm-waving, and even some explanatory diagrams in case the Father had somehow failed to understand.
"That was pretty much it," Crowley concluded, eying the last chocolate digestive hungrily.
"One thing I don't understand though," the priest added, looking at Crowley thoughtfully. "What exactly were you hoping to achieve with the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge?"
"Achieve?" It was a question that made the demon falter. "I wasn't wanting to achieve anything. I just wanted to see what happened, and..." he shrugged, "...nothing did."
"Well, of course, it didn't," Father Butters said, as though that much were obvious. "That's not how it works."
Crowley eyed him suspiciously. Knowing the scripture was part of his job, of course, and he was fairly certain the instruction booklet to the Tree of Knowledge wasn't in there. He would have noticed before now if it were. Still, humans could sometimes surprise you. They were good at that. "Because I'm a demon?"
Father Butters shook his head patiently. "Because it doesn't work like that. We made our first choice to exercise our free will when we took the fruit. From the sound of it, you've been using yours for centuries."
"I don't, technically, have free will," Crowley protested quickly. "Besides, it's the Tree of Knowledge, not the Tree of Free Will."
The Father shrugged. "Knowledge of what will happen if you choose one course or another. Knowledge of punishment. Knowledge of consequences." He looked sharply at Crowley. "Knowledge that you have a choice. Knowledge that you can make the wrong choice. Knowledge that, for instance, if you push a tower over and allow everyone on it to fall to their deaths... a lot of people will suffer unnecessarily, and that you don't have to do that. Sound familiar at all?"
Crowley was quiet for a moment, digesting that. "But, Aziraphale-"
"The angel, by the sound of it, is as confused as you are," the priest said calmly. "He's angry with you, because from the way he sees it you tried to take away his choice and make him sin unknowingly. But it doesn't work like that. If you ate the forbidden fruit without the knowledge you were doing something forbidden, I doubt it would do anything." He shook his head. "Even if he did though, I doubt it would have any effect on him now. Unless he already had the gift of knowledge, he would - how did you put it? He would smite you without hesitation. Because it's his job, as an angel it’s his purpose for being and he wouldn't see the option. There wouldn't be an option."
"So," Crowley said slowly, "we have..."
"You have free will," Father Butters confirmed. "And doubt, and fear, and the rest of the package that comes along with it, including responsibility for your actions." He smiled. "Welcome to the same world as the rest of us, demon. You've been living it for a while now, just without letting yourself see it."
52. Have one final attempt at talking to the angel.
"Crowley." The name itself was a sigh now, as Aziraphale looked up to find that once again the demon had wandered into his shop.
"Hi." Crowley gave an awkward little wave. "I need to talk to you."
"What did you bring this time?" Aziraphale asked skeptically. "More cream cakes? Book from the Lost Library of Alexandria? Promise to do all my visits in Slough for the next century?"
"No bribes." Crowley held up empty hands as though to prove it.
"Ah. Then you're intending to tell me again that unless I forgive you and start working with you again, the world is going to end?"
Crowley winced. "No threats," he promised.
It didn't stop Aziraphale looking at him suspiciously. "Then you're going to blame it all on your demonic nature and tell me that I should have known better than to trust you in the first place?"
"And no excuses," Crowley said. "I just want to talk." He swallowed. If this didn't work, he was out of ideas. "Please?"
Aziraphale scrutinised him closely for a minute, and then gave a slow nod. "Sit down."
53. Apologise. And really mean it this time.
"I'm sorry I sneaked you the fruit..." Crowley started.
"But you couldn't help it, because it's in your nature," Aziraphale interrupted, sounding tired. "Crowley, we've been through this."
"No." Crowley stared at the table in front of him. Apologising did not come naturally to a demon. Nor did taking responsibility. "I could help it. It... that wasn't why I did it."
Aziraphale quietened, listening now.
Crowley took a deep breath. "I've been thinking about this next war thing. And... whichever way it goes, it's likely to be worse than the last one for us. If they win, we won't even exist any more, and if we win... no more earth. We'd have to go home, because there'd be nowhere left to go."
"And?" Aziraphale prompted, as the demon seemed to falter.
"And I thought... I thought that perhaps the only way we could get out of this one would be if we switched sides," Crowley said very quietly. "If we - well, eating the fruit worked for them."
He didn't look up from the table, but after a moment he felt a warm hand rest on his shoulder. "That wasn't a choice you had a right to make for me, you know," Aziraphale said very gently.
"I know. It didn't work anyway," Crowley said. "But I just... I thought I could try and then maybe things didn't have to end. It's too soon for things to end. It was too soon last time, and it's still too soon. I'm not ready."
What he couldn’t say, couldn’t admit was it had to be both of them. He couldn’t swap sides alone because then he would still be alone, but he never had been with Aziraphale. Each was the answer to the others questions.
"Rage, rage against the dying of the light," Aziraphale quoted softly. "Oh, Crowley. Why didn't you say?"
54. Be forgiven.
It turned out that being forgiven felt a lot like suddenly being rid of the stomach ache that you hadn't been really conscious of until that point.
Crowley blamed it entirely on indigestion from the fruit he had eaten a few weeks ago.
55. Listen to the ‘wireless’.
"It's broken," Crowley said stubbornly.
Aziraphale shot him a disbelieving look. "Crowley, this is your car. If any part of it were broken I should think you would sit on the curb and sulk for the rest of eternity."
"It's broken," the demon maintained. "It keeps playing the wrong songs."
"So if you're tired of the tapes, listen to the wireless." Aziraphale leaned forward to fiddle with it, trying to tune it in.
"It's not a wireless, it's a radio. No-one's called it 'the wireless' in the last fifty years," Crowley corrected. "And furthermore, it's brok-"
"...but love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah..."
Aziraphale sat back in his seat, looking smug. "Seems to work perfectly well to me."
56. Feeding the ducks (again).
"That's not bread."
"It's the last time. I thought it could be a bit special for them."
"Crowley..." Aziraphale eyed the bag the demon was clutching. A distinctly alcoholic smell was oozing out. "What are you giving them?"
"Cake?"
"And?"
"It's soaked in rum," Crowley admitted cheerfully. "But look! They're enjoying it."
He gestured as one duck tried to swim upside-down, and another quacked flirtatiously at a passing secret agent's foot.
Aziraphale sighed, which only made Crowley grin more. It really wasn't any fun misbehaving without the angel around to disapprove of it.
57. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Edinburgh.
58. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Basel.
59. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Graz.
60. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Schonbrun.
61. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Vienna.
62. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Prague.
63. Have lunch in picturesque small café in Ljubjana.
64. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Luxemburg.
65. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Tivoli.
66. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Sapparo.
67. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Rome.
68. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Madrid.
69. Have lunch in picturesque small cafe in Valkenburg.
"I'm noticing a certain pattern here," observed Aziraphale. "Not running out of ideas, are you?"
"Not at all," said Crowley, who was, but had reminisced fondly in each café of glorious temptations and equally epic wiles and epic thwarting. "I have plenty of ideas. I'm just not using them yet, that's all."
"I'm sure you do." Aziraphale looked at him skeptically.
"I have!" Crowley insisted. "Eat your spekulatus. I'll show you."
70. Visit the Grand Canyon.
"It is fairly impressive," Aziraphale admitted.
"It's a hole in the ground," Crowley sounded a little less awed by the spectacle. "Come to Hell, we have lots of them, even bigger. Ours usually have a great big fire at the bottom though. And less tourists." He glanced at the crowd lingering around them, most of them gazing at the view, or taking photos. "This lot look as though they're getting pretty excited by it though."
"To a human, it's amazing." Aziraphale shrugged. "Did you get it from their book again?"
"Yes," Crowley admitted, and grinned. "Didn't get this next bit from there though."
71. Fly down the Grand Canyon.
It was more a glide than a flight, but that didn't make it any less exhilarating. The feel of the wind beneath his wings, streaming through his immaculate feathers... this was living. Crowley let himself enjoy it, doing a wide circle and letting the sun catch him in a blaze of glory on white angelic wings and waved casually at the startled tourists, several of whom were already dialing the emergency services to report a jumper.
He landed lightly at the bottom, without a hair out of place. Even his sunglasses still rested comfortably on his nose.
"Show-off," observed Aziraphale, landing beside him. There had been a moment of shock when Crowley took off, but that had been followed by the decision that if they were going to appear on the evening news anyway, he might as well enjoy it.
"It's what I'm good at," Crowley said calmly, tucking his wings back away.
"You're going to get attention again, if you're not careful," Aziraphale warned, a little primly, smoothing his own wings down.
Crowley shook his head. "No. They're all going to decide it was a publicity stunt, all done with special effects. To advertise... let's see. Biscuits. No wait, this is America…cookies."
"What do biscuits have to do with flying down the Grand Canyon?" Aziraphale asked, confused. He didn’t even acknowledge the cookies.
"Nothing at all. As far as advertising stunts go though, that's fairly normal."
72. Make a Christmas Cake.
"What is it?" Aziraphale eyed the... thing with some disbelief, and prodded it lightly with a wooden spoon.
It burped.
"It's a Christmas cake," Crowley said defensively. "Or rather, Christmas Cake mix. I've been trying the baking thing again. You have to ‘feed’ it. Apparently."
"What exactly have you been feeding it, Crowley?" Judging from the sucking sounds, the mixture was attempting to drag the spoon out of Aziraphale's hands. He hung onto it determinedly.
"Mice?" Crowley admitted. "Uh, maybe a rat or two. A couple of the plants I had left that weren't thriving and needed a lesson."
There was a crack as the mixture succeeded in snapping the spoon in half. Aziraphale watched as the broken piece was sucked into the mixture and the cake mix seemed to stir itself.
"It seems quite a lively type," Crowley added with pride.
"Yes," Aziraphale agreed carefully. "You know, I'm not sure this is something Martha Stewart ever imagined dealing with."
"No?"
The mass seethed, and seemed to try to actually pull itself out of the bowl. Aziraphale tried not to shudder. "Can you imagine ever actually eating it?"
"Maybe not." Crowley looked reflective. "Maybe I'll keep it as a pet."
73. Find out what one hand sounds like clapping.
"Right." Crowley rolled up his sleeves.
"Crowley," Aziraphale cautioned.
"I'm only giving the man what he wants to know!" Crowley insisted. "He's been wondering for years, and he deserves to know the answer."
"Er," their startled host interjected. He hadn't expected, when opening the door, to have two men barge past him. "Are you here to sell me something?"
"Oh, no, no, no," Aziraphale reassured him hastily.
"Well, are you here to rob me then? Only I don't know you, and you're in my house..."
"We're here to help you," Crowley said briskly. "You are a philosopher, right? That's what it said on your website. Thomas Smith, philosopher."
"Er... yes?" He'd only put it there to attract girls. And it hadn't worked.
"Then prepare to have one of your questions answered, Thomas Smith." Crowley held out his hand dramatically.
The man's eyes bulged, and he let out a horrified, choked noise as Crowley's hand began to twist and grow, stretching until was wide enough to easily double up. Demons, like angels, could be any shape they wished to be. It was just a matter of re-arranging the molecules.
Crowley slapped the two halves together a few times experimentally. Ptt ptt ptt.
"That is the sound of one hand clapping," he told the terrified Thomas Smith sternly. "Do you understand?"
Thomas nodded, his eyes huge.
"Good. Next time, don't ask such stupid questions. Come on, Aziraphale."
"You shouldn't have done that," Aziraphale scolded as they turned to leave.
Crowley only laughed. "That's nothing. You wait to see what I'm going to do about the sound trees make falling in the forest."
74. Learn a musical instrument.
"No." There were some things that even the most easy-going of angels couldn't be coaxed into.
"Oh, come on," Crowley coaxed. "The humans have it on their list."
"The humans can do what they like. No."
"It'll be good practice for when you get called back up!"
"And cleaning out cows would be good practice with a pitchfork for you," Aziraphale retorted. "I am not learning to play the harp. What's the next item?"
75. Eat strawberries at Wimbledon.
"It's November."
"So?"
"Wimbledon is in summer, Crowley."
The demon shrugged again. "So?"
"Are you intending just to eat strawberries while an empty cour-oh."
Oh, indeed, for as they stepped into the stands, it became clear that the court was not empty at all. Not only was a match going on, but the place was packed with people, a loud 'ooo' going up with each stroke of a tennis racket.
"I keep telling you," Crowley said calmly. "Stop putting yourself out to be at the right place on the right date. Just go where you want to be, let the dates arrange themselves around you."
"Did you just rearrange reality so that we could eat strawberries?" Aziraphale demanded.
Crowley thought about it. "Yes?"
He frowned as the angel sat down. "Something's not quite right though. If - yes!" He snapped his fingers.
The crowd groaned as a light rain began to fall on the court.
Crowley beamed and sat back. "That's more authentic. Not to worry. Cliff Richard will be along any minute now."
76. Visit the Titanic.
"I remember the Captain." Being miles under the ocean never posed the slightest problem to either angel or demon. Aziraphale walked across the deck, stroking a thoughtful hand over the wheel, as seaweed fluttered away from his hand.
"He always looked a bit like Captain Birdseye to me," Crowley mused to himself, grimacing at an octopus which had decided the ship was his very own luxury home and was menacing tentacles at them through a porthole as a shoal of fish flickered like sparks of silver over one of the four great funnels.
The angel looked blank. "Was that one of the eighteenth, or nineteenth century Captains?"
"Uh... a bit later." Crowley forgot sometimes that Aziraphale didn't quite share his knowledge of TV. "Captain who liked shipping a ton of small children away from their parents for golden treasure. Very dodgy business if you ask me. Don't worry about it." He stopped in the middle of the deck. "Do you remember the band?"
"Playing until the ship went down," Aziraphale remembered dreamily. Bioluminescent sea creatures clung to available surfaces, outlining them in a tremulous greenish spectral light until the wreck around them looked like ghost-sketch of a vague memory.
"Horribly out of tune," Crowley said, his own memory a bit sharper. "And I think they could have done better fighting for a lifeboat with everyone else if you ask me. Violins don't float all that well, not when they have to hold a human up."
"And then there were the lifeboats," Aziraphale murmured. "Men gave their lives so women and children could live... let them take the boats."
"Some didn't," Crowley said darkly. "They weren't all so noble."
"They prayed at the end." Aziraphale was by now in a world of his own, no longer listening to Crowley's dry comments. "They prayed for help, for salvation, for something, and I... there was nothing... why?"
Because they were humans, Crowley thought, but did not say. Because I gave them human arrogance, which stopped them putting enough lifeboats on the ship; human pride which stopped anyone admitting that was a problem; human selfishness which made them panic and fight and squabble over the life boats they had.
And you... you gave them the kindness and unselfishness that made a man give up his place on the boat for a child, and yet that is enough to give you the hope that they are redeemable. He sighed, glancing at Aziraphale's face, and then looked away.
"I don't know," he said. "It's ineffable."
77. Hear from the office.
The Titanic had left neither of them in a particularly good mood. Afterwards, by mutual agreement, they headed back to the bookshop and opened a bottle of good wine. Sometimes alcohol could fix the things you had no answers for, or at least make you forget for a short while that you had no answers.
When the shaft of blue light appeared behind Aziraphale it was natural therefore that Crowley assumed it was a result of the fourth large glass (the advantage of drinking as a demon or angel was that one bottle of wine could contain just as many large glasses as you wanted it to).
He nudged Aziraphale, squinting at the light. "'s that really there?"
Aziraphale attempted to turn his whole body around to look, lost his balance, and fell off his chair. Trying not to laugh, he twisted to look in the direction Crowley had indicated.
He sobered up fast when he saw the light. Making an exaggerated motion at Crowley to stay where he was, and stay quiet, he stood up quickly, stumbled just a little as the wine rushed to his head, and stepped into the light. "Hello?"
"Aziraphale," a familiar cultured voice greeted him. "Have you been working hard?"
"Er..." Aziraphale swallowed, flushing with the guilt of an angel who might have been doing a little too much keeping a demon out of trouble, and not so much actual work. "Been doing a lot of thwarting lately?" he offered hopefully. "Keeps you very busy, all this thwarting. No sooner do you finish off one wile than you see another one and think ooo, I should really thwart that before it gets any worse..."
Across the table, Crowley gestured at him urgently. He shut up.
"Yes, well, it hardly matters now," the voice said, sounding disinterested. "Have you been in contact with Crowley recently?"
Aziraphale froze, feeling the pleasant haze of alcohol vanish. "Crowley?" he queried, voice turning to a squeak, seeing the demon pale.
"Yes, Crowley," the voice said, a little impatiently. "You might recall him. Demon, helped you stop the Apocalypse?" And though it didn't say it, there was the undertone of and don't think anyone has forgotten that.
"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale said, voice forcedly jovial now. "That Crowley. Oh yes, I thwart him quite often actually. Only the other day, I stopped him..."
"Contact him," the voice interrupted, voice brisk. "Immediately. We need to set up an alliance."
"An alliance?" Aziraphale echoed stupidly.
"Is this a bad connection? Can you not hear me properly?" And now the voice sounded annoyed. "If we need to come down there..."
"No, no, that's fine," Aziraphale said hastily. "I just don't quite think I understand. What kind of alliance?"
"Why, an alliance of war of course." The tone indicated that this should be obvious.
Aziraphale felt his stomach turn. "I see. And this would be war against...?"
"The humans," the voice said matter of factly.
He saw Crowley sit up and glance at him anxiously, and realised that this time it must be him who had paled. "I don't understand. Why are we fighting the humans?"
The voice was crisp, annoyed and sharp. "Aziraphale, are you questioning the ineffable plan?"
"No, no, of course not. I just..."
"We have noticed that you have been doing quite a lot of questioning lately. Perhaps we do need to come down and deal with things personally."
"No, that's fine!" Aziraphale blurted, alarmed. If they sent Gabriel, or worse the Metatron to deal with Crowley, well. The demon's manners could not be trusted. They wouldn't understand his little jokes as Aziraphale did. "Contact Crowley, arrange alliance! I've got it!"
"If you have any problems getting in touch..."
"No, no, I'm sure there will be no problems." He glanced again at Crowley.
Crowley pointedly refilled his glass of wine.
"Anyway, I'll be getting on with that straight away. Better be going now for that. Bye!"
78. Panic.
Because Crowley was a demon, saying "I told you so," was pretty much compulsory. Because Aziraphale was Aziraphale, however, he did at least make sure the angel had a full glass of wine before he did so.
"Maybe it won't be so bad," the angel said helplessly.
"Them against Us? Hard to see how it could be good," Crowley reasoned. "We've got the power of Heaven and Hell behind us and them? They've got imagination. And Him of course."
"We could win." Knowing humans made that far from a certainty. Humans were good at imagination. They might win even without Him on their side. Heaven and Hell wouldn’t think that of course; they had the power but history was littered with examples of superior power being defeated by brilliant strategy.
"And then afterwards we get pulled back home, and they start using those weapons they've built up against each other," Crowley predicted glumly.
Aziraphale stared into his glass of wine. "They could win?" he suggested hopefully.
"And then... well. And then nothing. Not for us anyway. That's the point," Crowley said, voice filled with the calm of someone who'd already thought this out in a long sleepless night. "I wonder what it's like to die when there's nowhere to go?"
"Like... nothing. You just stop existing." Aziraphale took a desperate gulp of his wine. "I just... why would we? Are they attacking? But He wasn't interested!"
"Maybe He changed his mind," Crowley sighed. "I'll see what I can find out. Maybe we can talk him out of it. But... it doesn't look good."
And there was a line of lyric going around and around in his mind his dread growing with every repetition,
‘…Imagine there's no Heaven, it's easy if you try. No hell below us, above us only sky…’
79. Find out what's going on.
"I say a little prayer for yo- YES CROWLEY?"
"I've had communication from the angel, lord." Crowley carefully did not look at Aziraphale, who was sitting next to him, fingers tapping an anxious tune against the glove compartment. "Asking for an alliance."
"YES?" There was the same trace of impatient annoyance Aziraphale had heard when communicating with Upstairs.
"Against the humans, Lord," Crowley clarified, as though it might be unclear.
"WELL, WE WEREN'T GOING TO APPROACH THEM FOR A WHILE YET. STILL, IT'S BETTER THEY COME TO US. PUTS US IN A POSITION OF STRENGTH," Aretha Franklin's voice said thoughtfully. "PUT HIM OFF FOR A WHILE. THEY WILL OFFER MORE IF WE SEEM RELUCTANT."
"Yes, lord," Crowley said, grateful once more that no-one ever bothered to look and see what he was doing when he had these conversations. "Uh. Are we at war with the humans, lord?"
"NOT AS SUCH," the radio said dismissively.
"No?" Crowley felt his heart leap for a moment, and saw, from the corner of his eye, Aziraphale's face brighten.
"IT IS NOT NECESSARY TO COMMIT TO WAR WITH SUCH... BEINGS. THE HUMANS ARE FAULTY. OTHERWISE THEY WOULD HAVE FOLLOWED THE PLAN. IT HAS BEEN DECIDED THAT THE BEST THING TO DO UNDER SUCH CIRCUMSTANCES IS TO GET RID OF THEM AND TRY AGAIN."
"Try again?" Crowley said slowly, as Aziraphale lost his smile. "You mean like... start a new game board?" One that could be persuaded to play along this time. One which didn't resist, didn't remain stubbornly and annoyingly human rather than good or evil.
"IF THAT IS THE WAY YOU WISH TO PHRASE IT. DO NOT THINK YOUR EARLIER ATTEMPTS TO STOP THE WAR HAVE BEEN FORGOTTEN," Aretha said, her voice holding a sharpness which made Crowley squirm in his seat. "THE WAR IS NOT STOPPED. IT IS MERELY... DELAYED, UNTIL A MORE SUITABLE TIME AND PLACE CAN BE FOUND."
"Yes, lord," Crowley said meekly, grimacing at Aziraphale.
"SPEAK TO THE ANGEL. DELAY AN ALLIANCE FOR NOW, UNTIL HEAVEN GETS DESPERATE ENOUGH TO OFFER US MORE THAN THEY WISH TO GIVE," Aretha instructed firmly. "AND CROWLEY? THIS TIME MAKE SURE YOU DO YOUR JOB. THE CONSEQUENCES FOR FURTHER DISOBEDIENCE WILL BE... SEVERE."
"Understood, Lord." Crowley closed his eyes to stop himself seeing Aziraphale's sympathetic look. "I'll get onto that now, Lord."
"GOOD- that's how it must be, to live without you..."
It was a moment before Crowley reached out, with a hand that only shook a little, and turned the radio off.
80. Have lunch in pictureseque little cafe in Tottenham.
"They can't do this!"
"Yes," Crowley said, wearily nursing his cup of coffee. "They can."
"But... the entire human race! The entire world!"
Crowley shrugged. "The way they see it, they can always make another one."
"It wouldn't be the same one," Aziraphale said stubbornly.
"No. But do you actually think any of them spent enough time on here to know the difference?" Crowley asked. "Look, think of it like my plants. If one of them isn't growing right, I get rid of it, and get another. And I make damn sure the replacement knows what happened so that one doesn't feel like getting all uncooperative."
"But-"
"And if you think my people are going to let me near anything vital this time after the last fiasco, you can forget it. Yours too, judging from how they were speaking to you. There'll be no babies this time, no leaving us alone to try to screw it up. The slightest hint that we're not behaving and..." Crowley gestured, "back we go."
It had been the flaw in pointing out that perhaps the Apocalypse as it had been written might not be Ineffable. It left things right open for Heaven or Hell to say, in that case… what we do now cannot be wrong.
"So, what do we do?" Aziraphale asked helplessly.
"We take this as a gift," Crowley said firmly. "We at least have an excuse to be seen together now. We've got orders to work together even. So, we do as we're told, we work together on the idea of forming an alliance, and..." he tapped the table, "we make sure we enjoy the rest of the list."
"The list?" Aziraphale said weakly. "Even now?"
"Especially now," Crowley confirmed. "If these are our last days on earth, I'm going to enjoy it."
81. Do something about Milton Keynes.
"Do I need to ask why? I mean, not that I'm objecting or anything. It's the kind of thing I'm totally in favour of in principle. I just... why?"
"Because when this war starts, there's a fifty per cent chance that every human on earth will be wiped out," Aziraphale said, as though that should explain everything.
"And?"
"And would you want to have spent your entire life living in Milton Keynes if you were going to die tomorrow?"
Crowley had to admit he had a point.
"So, you think we should arrange for the houses in Milton Keynes to suddenly be worth more than the houses in the rest of the country?" he queried, just to be certain.
Aziraphale nodded eagerly. "Anyone given the option of selling their house in Milton Keynes to buy a mansion elsewhere in the country would take it, I'm sure."
Crowley, who had his own views about how the country would react to the great housing crash of 2008, did not bother to correct him. Sometimes you just had to let Aziraphale's optimism work itself out.
82. Teach Aziraphale to sleep.
"But virtue is..."
"Ever-vigilant. I know," Crowley said. "Although," he couldn't resist adding a little snidely, "it does occasionally seem to take a five minute break at old book fairs."
"That's not the point!" Aziraphale protested. "I know that if I lie down and close my eyes for five minutes you'll take advantage of it to cause some major disaster."
"You think that I don't while you're at old book fairs?" Crowley grinned. "Lie down, angel. Rest. I'll try not to let the apocalypse happen without you."
It didn't take the suspicious look out of Aziraphale's eyes. "If you get up to anything..."
"You can smite me when you wake up," Crowley reassured. "Thwarting my wiles can wait until morning. Believe me."
Aziraphale's expression reminded him of a child afraid to go to bed in case everyone threw a party without him. He stared at Crowley untrustingly. "Why do you want me to sleep?"
"Because it's the single strangest experience humans have ever discovered, and you haven't even tried it once," Crowley said firmly. "Sleep, angel. Dream. Create endless realities that make no sense and will be forgotten on waking."
"No-one can create realities," Aziraphale protested. "No-one except, well..."
The demon laughed. "Believe me, humans do it every night. Which explains a lot about them. Just give it a try."
He didn't say, because sleep will iron out that worried line between your eyes that appeared when you realised this wasn't just me playing around.
He didn't say, we're running out of time and if you can have eight hours when you don't remember what we're running from it would be time well-used.
He didn't say, I need you to sleep for me, because when I try I have nightmares about what's going to happen and I can't stop it.
He didn't say any of those things. But when Aziraphale did sleep, Crowley sat and watched until the angel's peaceful expression sent him into his own slumber.
83. Eat ice cream.
"Human imagination," Crowley said, voice a little awed. "Applied to the sweetest salvation, the most terrible torture and... ice cream. Where do they get these ideas?"
"I think some of them might be torture as well, actually." Aziraphale had been reading some of the labels. "There's an octopus flavour there."
"No! Really?" Crowley stared at the collection of tubs.
"And goat. Not just goat milk," Aziraphale hastened to point out. "But...actual pieces of goat. Why would you put goat in icecream?"
"Maybe they ran out of goat milk?" Crowley suggested. "Anyway, at least that one's cooked. How about raw horseflesh?"
"What's wrong with strawberry?" Aziraphale asked, sounding a little mournful. "I like strawberry. And chocolate."
"I told you. It's the experience. Now, help me gather those tubs."
They piled the trolley high, wheeling it past a bored shop assistant who rang them through as though raw horseflesh icecream was something people bought every day. Probably it was.
"We'll start as soon as we get home," Crowley said cheerfully. "Should take a while to get through. Thirty nine flavours of ice cream!"
"I stopped counting after the wheat flavour," Aziraphale noted. "It may be more."
84. Attempt to fix the stockmarkets (in my own way).
"You've got to let me," Crowley cajoled. "I broke it. I should be allowed to at least attempt to fix it."
"Normally, I would be all in favour of that kind of thing," Aziraphale agreed. "But... it's you."
"Don't you trust me?" Crowley tried his best hurt expression, lowering his sunglasses slightly.
"Crowley," Aziraphale said patiently. "I know you."
"This is true." And that earned him a grin, the hangdog expression quickly vanishing. It was hard not to take pride in his work, even if it could make things more difficult at turns. "Still. I'm not doing anything that your people haven't done."
"Hardly in the same situation," Aziraphale protested, but looked doubtful. "You really think it'll work?"
"Read the papers. It's all about fear. They're selling things because they're afraid," Crowley waved the newspaper at him. "So, all I'm proposing is to... take away the fear."
It sounded amazingly reasonable, but then most things the demon suggested usually did. Reluctantly, Aziraphale nodded. "If that's all then."
The trading floor was jittery as Crowley wandered casually into the middle of it. He could feel the anxiety bleeding from each trader, follow each back to find the side-effects, the guilty secrets in each mind. There were the arguments called by the lack of finances, the man who had been beastly to his daughter due to stress, the man who was having an affair and told himself he needed it to relax now... Crowley could feel it all, the bad behaviour, the justifications. He smiled at the satisfaction of a bad job well done, and continued walking until he was stood in the middle of the room.
It was few moments before the closest trader looked up from scrolling rolls of numbers, and noticed the wings starting to emerge from the back of Crowley's shirt. He gaped, wondering if he'd finally snapped the way they were always telling him he would under all this high pressure. Maybe it was time to give it up and become a teacher. A class of rowdy 14 year olds would feel positively peaceful after this.
He turned to prod the man next to him. The man glared at him, but continued speaking into his phone. It was a moment before he too noticed the figure in the middle of the room, and fell silent.
One by one other people noticed, eyes drawn to the wings, to Crowley's calm expression and the angelic beam of light spotlighting him on the exchange floor. It was hard to remember the last time in working hours when the London stock exchange had been so quiet.
Time for Crowley's big moment. He opened his wings dramatically, playing to his audience, and spoke in a loud clear voice. "Don't be afraid!"
The silence was such that you could have heard a pin drop. The traders seemed glued to the spot, staring at the demon.
Then, after a moment, the worst shout went up. "It's the end of the world! SELL! SELL! SELL!"
As though a spell was broken, the traders turned back to their machines, fingers frantically tapping on keyboards, graphs once more heading in a resolutely downwards direction.
Crowley grinned to himself. It was hardly his fault if the people now couldn't do as they were told.
85. Deny everything.
"You knew that would happen, didn't you?" Aziraphale said accusingly.
Crowley widened his eyes innocently. "I did exactly as I promised. I guess I'm just not as convincing as your people."
"Mmhm." The angel did not look convinced.
Crowley nudged him. "Look at it this way. I'm probably doing you a favour. How does it go - you cannot worship both God and money? Maybe they'll worship it less if they haven't got any."
86. Invite all your friends to a big party.
"Another one out of the human book of suggestions?"
"Something like that," Crowley agreed, leaning over to top up Aziraphale's wine.
"So, who's coming then? Him? The kids?" It was in fact the fourth or fifth time Crowley had topped up Aziraphale's glass. He didn't object.
"No. They're under-age," Crowley pointed out.
"You've never let that bother you before," Aziraphale said reasonably.
"Yes well, I'd invite them, and then you'd have to thwart me by giving them a lecture on the dangers of alcohol and accepting invitations from strange demons, and then I'd have to tempt them to slip some vodka into the fruit juice you gave them..." Crowley shrugged. "So I thought this could be a night off."
"Not the kids then," Aziraphale nodded. "The other humans then? Anathema and Newton? Shadwell and Madame Tracy?"
Crowley waved a hand dismissively. "Just because you've stopped an Apocalypse with someone hardly makes them friends, does it? Not like you've known them for a few centuries."
By that qualification, that excluded all humans then. Aziraphale swallowed, feeling his mouth go dry. "Other demons?"
Crowley looked at him as though he'd lost his mind. "Have you met any other demons? Would you invite them to a party?"
"Well... no," Aziraphale admitted.
"Besides, they haven't got the hang of life up here yet. They'd be busy the entire time trying to find out how humans had managed to fit a band in the CD player or something."
That got a smile out of the angel, but wasn't quite enough to make him drop the subject. "So, all your friends is... just us two then?"
"Something like that." Crowley leaned to get the bottle again, deliberately not looking at him. "More wine?"
87. Get drunk (again).
"Wouldn't it be nice if we could just stay like this?" Crowley waved his glass a little carelessly, spilling a large quantity of red wine. This might have caused a nasty stain if it hadn't turned to water before it hit the floor.
Aziraphale did his best to focus on him. "Like what?"
"Drunk. Just fuzzy around the edges," Crowley said. "Just keep on drinking before it could wear off."
"For how long?" Aziraphale tried to sit a little more straight in his chair. His body appeared to want to slump instead.
"Just until the world ended." Crowley's tone was casual, as though it were a perfectly sensible suggestion. "Just... until it was over. We'd never know that way."
"Mmm." Aziraphale looked at him carefully. Even under the influence of... how many glasses was it now? - it was easy to read the stress under that casual look. "I don't think we can though," he said gently. "They'd notice."
"I know." Crowley stared into his glass of wine. "I wish I didn't."
88. Confess drunkenly.
"'ziraphale?"
"Mmm?" Aziraphale raised his head off his arms to peer at Crowley through bleary eyes.
"Jus' wan'ed you to know." Crowley patted his arm with the urgency of a drunk who had something important to say as soon as he could remember how to work his mouth. "You... needed you t' know that..."
Aziraphale waited patiently, watching him stumble over the words. Crowley's confessions could be anything from "I just destroyed one of the Wonders of the World because I was bored" to "I just broke an office's only tea machine right before a major emergency" and were usually related with a certain amount of glee. You just had to wait and see what came.
"Wan'ed you t'know that if, if the world's got to end, there's no-one I'd rath'r see it end with," Crowley managed eventually, and took another mouthful of wine.
Aziraphale's expression softened."That's good to know," he replied solemnly, blinking rapidly in a way that was certainly due to the room rotating around him rather than anything else. "You're... you're a good demon to have around.
The demon's expression abruptly crumpled, as woeful as a child with an empty stocking on Christmas day."Don't want it to end though," he said mournfully. "Having too much fun."
And that was the problem with alcohol, wasn't it? That was why you really couldn't just stay in a state of continual drunkeness until the world ended. Sooner or late you hit the melancholy stage. Aziraphale sighed, but didn't suggest that Crowley should sober up, slipping an arm around the demon's shoulder. He felt Crowley sag against him, head leaning against his shoulder, needing the comfort of someone close by.
Everyone needed that sometimes. Even demons.