Fic: End of Days
Title: End of Days
Summary: Harry Potter hadn't seemed a likely vehicle for promoting chaos in the earthly realm.
Fandom: Good Omens, with discussion of Harry Potter characters
Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, mentions of Remus/Sirius
Word count: 2100
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine
Notes: A quick Good Omens meta-fic about the release of the last Harry Potter book. A belated happy birthday to such_heights!
Crowley and Aziraphale were at the Ritz for lunch again, ostensibly to talk about work, but mostly because Crowley had been feeling rather odd since discovering that the end of the world was no longer near. It was an uncomfortable, twitchy feeling for which he had yet to find a name or remedy. Waking up that morning, he had thought that either Aziraphale or a filet mignon might help, but a moody Aziraphale was ignoring him from across the table while reading the Guardian, and the filet mignon was almost tasteless.
Crowley had already sent his plate back to the kitchen and caused the chef's trousers to disappear, but Aziraphale was proving rather more difficult to deal with.
"What are you reading?" he finally asked rather lamely. It was another unfortunate side effect of apocalypse averted, this need to make conversation. Crowley wished it would go away.
Humphing quietly, frowning, Aziraphale silently tilted the newspaper towards him until Crowley caught a headline: "Countdown to Final Potter Book."
"Harry Potter?" Crowley asked blankly. He'd rather expected Aziraphale to be reading an article on the end of the Blair era or on the crisis in Darfur; the angel insisted there was something to be said for staying informed, whereas Crowley was quite prepared let humans self-destruct on their own.
Around the edge of the newspaper, Crowley could see Aziraphale's eyes skimming the story. "Children's books," Aziraphale said with that grumpy demeanor Crowley had seen all too much of lately. "The story of a young boy who discovers he is a wizard and learns to battle evil."
Crowley knew all about the Harry Potter books; he'd read them a few summers ago, when it seemed Britain was going to hell in a handbasket, and Crowley could afford to spend a few days on the couch with a drink and a saga about witches and wizards.
To be honest, he hadn't had high hopes for the series--the books were despised by the anti-Satan set, a sure sign that they were purely harmless--but they proved a surprisingly quick read. Tom Riddle was a disappointing protagonist, with too much concern for his own immortality and no sense of style at all. The more violent Death Eaters, on the other hand, appealed to him, as did Fred and George Weasley. (Crowley thought he could teach them a thing or two.) And of course he had a certain fondness for Nagini and the parseltongue Harry, despite the latter's painful attachment to Doing the Right Thing.
"Right, the Harry Potter books," Crowley said, drumming his fingers on the table, bemused by his own need to make conversation. "I'm familiar with them. Quite a bit of excitement about the last one."
"You've read them?" Aziraphale sounded surprised. The newspaper came down, and Aziraphale peered at him intently. It occurred to Crowley that he hadn't had the angel's full attention in months.
Crowley shrugged. "They were on the recommended reading list a while ago. Keeping an eye on the other side. Or on our followers. Something like that."
Aziraphale studied him.
"What do you think about Snape? Your people or ours?" Aziraphale asked.
"Sorry?" Crowley said.
"Severus Snape, your people or ours?" Aziraphale repeated.
"Yours," Crowley said immediately, and, oddly, this achieved something he hadn't even thought he'd been working at: Aziraphale smiled.
"You say with quite a bit of confidence," Aziraphale said. "I'd have thought a demon would be more cynical about the man."
Crowley shrugged. "I didn't say I wanted him to be good, just that I thought he would be."
Aziraphale sipped his coffee. "You hadn't considered an...intervention?"
The delicate way Aziraphale pronounced that last word told Crowley there were talking about work again, but Crowley was confused. Harry Potter hadn't seemed a likely vehicle for promoting chaos in the earthly realm; in fact, Crowley had dismissed it as a rather sweet story, witchcraft and Dark Arts aside. What had he missed? Had he been wasting his time on congestion pricing and Ryanair?
"Have we missed an opportunity?" he asked, sotto voce. He had already targeted a major bookshop that would, mysteriously, lose track of all its copies of the final book on the night of its release, but somehow that didn't seem like the type of thing Aziraphale was talking about.
"No, of course not," Aziraphale said mildly, retreating behind his newspaper.
There it was again, that nagging, uncomfortable feeling that had been bothering him so often lately. Crowley hated it.
"Aziraphale?" he asked, trying to keep the needy tone out of his voice.
"Yes?"
Crowley hesitated. "You know the Arrangement works best when we're upfront about things."
Aziraphale put his newspaper down again. "True."
"Well, then."
"You hadn't..." Aziraphale paused. "Considered intervening in the text itself? In the plot?"
"The plot?" Crowley replied blankly. "Change the ending, you mean?" Obviously Aziraphale had something far more insidious in mind than Crowley did, which bothered him a bit.
Aziraphale pressed his lips together and raised his chin primly. Crowley thought for a moment.
"Killing off Harry, or something like that?" Suddenly the prospect of a dozen diverted lorries seemed rather amateur. He laughed in disbelief. "No. Aziraphale, what's gotten into you?"
"Nothing," Aziraphale said.
"The Arrangement," Crowley replied, a warning note in his voice.
Aziraphale made a great show of pouring himself another cup of tea, but Crowley kept a stern eye on him. "Have you heard of fanfiction?" Aziraphale asked at last.
"No," Crowley replied.
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "I would have thought the genre was your people's creation," he said dryly. "Sometimes I underestimate human beings."
Crowley smiled. This sounded good. "How does it work?"
"One takes a favorite character...say, Bellatrix Lestrange?" Aziraphale asked, and Crowley nodded agreeably. "One imagines what that character gets up to when not busy with the plot of the books, writes it in a story, and posts it on the internet."
Crowley considered this. "That sounds dull," he said. Bellatrix was delightfully sadistic, but she did not seem to do much in the books except declare her loyalty to Lord Voldemort and her fondness for inflicting pain. Admirable though these sentiments might be, Crowley suspected they didn't make for a very good story.
"I'm afraid I'm a dull sort of fellow," Aziraphale said, but Crowley could see a blush creeping across his cheeks. Demon that he was, Crowley had no trouble jumping to the worst possible conclusion.
"You write naughty stories!" he crowed. This was excellent news, entirely worth a wasted morning at the Ritz and the bother of three miracles. (Well, two thus far, the reservation and the chef's trousers; the cheque was yet to come.)
Aziraphale ran a finger beneath his collar. "I do not!" he said.
After working with Aziraphale for several millennia, Crowley was not likely to miss the tell-tale twitch at the corner of his left eye that invariably betrayed a certain dissatisfaction with the state of the universe.
"What do you write about?" Crowley's mind was alight with the possibilities. They were love stories, certainly, knowing Aziraphale; the angel wasn't capable of anything really naughty. But what would catch Aziraphale's interest? He couldn’t imagine Aziraphale penning steamy stories about…what were their names, Ron and Hermione? "Harry, perhaps?"
Aziraphale glanced around the room nervously. No one was paying attention, Crowley noticed, not even the wait staff.
"I do a bit of Harry/Ron, occasionally," he said at last, very cautiously. "Mostly Remus/Sirius, though."
"Together?" Crowley was confused. "You mean, as a couple?" He struggled to get his mind around the concept. Of course together, Crowley realized; how else was Aziraphale going to work in the naughty bits?
"I'm, er, well, fond of Sirius Black. I, ah, specialize in first-time stories."
"Sirius Black?" Crowley laughed. "The one with the flying motorbike?"
Aziraphale looked a bit annoyed. "Yes, that's the one."
"What will the higher-ups have to say about that?"
"It's none of their business what I do in my free time," Aziraphale said. "It's all anonymous on the internet, anyway."
Crowley smirked. "Slippery slope."
Aziraphale gave him a warning look. "Shut it, Crowley."
"Touchy these days, aren't we?"
Aziraphale wilted. "I am, aren't I?" he asked, contrite. "I'm sorry. It's just that..." He paused, eyes on the table in front of him. "I get bored, Crowley," he said. "In the bookshop, waiting for something to happen. It used to be that I could go months without a customer while I waited for the next assignment. But ever since..."
He trailed off, but Crowley understood entirely. "Ever since," Crowley agreed.
Aziraphale spoke even more softly, and Crowley had to lean forward to hear him. "I'm stocking some tourist maps," Aziraphale said. "Just so I can ring someone up occasionally."
For some reason this admission made Crowley's stomach wrench uncomfortably.
"I know what you mean," Crowley said. "I get impatient, waiting. I never used to care how things turned out."
That was the crux of it, of course, Crowley realized suddenly. He never used to care, and now he did. He had a vivid, unpleasant memory of a young couple who'd been stranded by Ryanair in Barcelona. In a particularly weak moment, he'd had return tickets booked for them on BA, first class. He'd deliberately left that out of his last report and no one seemed the wiser, but he had to be careful; he was falling into bad habits.
"...and so I bought the computer and started writing, and who are they to say if I have a hobby to help pass the time?" Aziraphale was saying. His pudgy hands were gesturing helplessly, as if to say I'm only human.
Crowley sighed. "I don't think your side have figured out the internet yet, anyway," he said, attempting a light tone. "It's mostly pornography, isn't it? And that thing called Amazon, so you can waste your savings have things shipped directly to your house?"
Aziraphale looked decidedly unhappy, and Crowley realized he'd said the wrong thing.
"A few naughty stories don't do any harm," he added gently. "If anything, they bring a little joy to the world."
Aziraphale sighed. "A rather weak defense, I have to admit." He signaled for the cheque. "Back to work, Crowley, my friend?"
Crowley nodded. "You might avoid the newspapers in mid-July," he added. "I'm arranging for some spoilers."
"Ah, right, that's what we were on about, originally," Aziraphale said. He cleared his throat. "You might avoid the last three chapters or so, once the book comes out. I've arranged for a happy ending."
Crowley snorted. "Of course. The author didn't need your help with that."
Aziraphale had an odd look in his eye. "Right, well, let's say I've arranged for a miracle in addition to the happy ending the author had in mind."
"Really?" Crowley asked, realization dawning. Aziraphale had arranged the intervention himself. "And you're not going to tell me what it is?"
"Spoilers are indeed the work of the devil," Aziraphale said. "You just proved that."
Crowley felt that odd, itchy sensation again, and it didn't help at all to put a name to it. Worse yet, Aziraphale laughed knowingly. "You're curious, Crowley! But, no, I'm not telling you."
"Draco?" Crowley asked, mind racing. No, too obvious; no divine intervention was needed there. "Snape?" He could see Aziraphale arranging for a redemption; it seemed like the angel's style. Then another idea hit him. "Sirius?"
But Aziraphale was already on his way out of the restaurant, his tweedy back slipping through the door and into the street; he must have miracled the cheque already. Crowley chased after him.
By the time Crowley caught up, Aziraphale was standing on the pavement, tie loosened, jacket folded over his arm, looking slightly pink and warm in the summer sun.
"You don't mind dropping me off?" he asked.
"I could make the Bentley fly," Crowley blurted irrationally. Dammit, when you lost faith in the ineffability of the Plan, the craziest things came out of your mouth.
Aziraphale smiled blandly. "I expect it's possible," he said, and they both climbed into the car. "Seatbelts, Crowley."
"You're not going to tell me, are you?" Crowley asked.
Aziraphale shook his head. "The whole world is counting down the days. Why do you deserve to know before anyone else?"
Why did he deserve to know? Crowley put the key in the ignition.
"Watch this," he replied, and he maneuvered the Bentley out into the street, and then up and over the car in front of them, far above the traffic, and then above the hotel. Somewhere over St James Park, Aziraphale's grip on the door handle loosened.
Why? Crowley smiled to himself, a sly, slow, devious smile. Why, indeed.
Summary: Harry Potter hadn't seemed a likely vehicle for promoting chaos in the earthly realm.
Fandom: Good Omens, with discussion of Harry Potter characters
Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, mentions of Remus/Sirius
Word count: 2100
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine
Notes: A quick Good Omens meta-fic about the release of the last Harry Potter book. A belated happy birthday to such_heights!
Crowley and Aziraphale were at the Ritz for lunch again, ostensibly to talk about work, but mostly because Crowley had been feeling rather odd since discovering that the end of the world was no longer near. It was an uncomfortable, twitchy feeling for which he had yet to find a name or remedy. Waking up that morning, he had thought that either Aziraphale or a filet mignon might help, but a moody Aziraphale was ignoring him from across the table while reading the Guardian, and the filet mignon was almost tasteless.
Crowley had already sent his plate back to the kitchen and caused the chef's trousers to disappear, but Aziraphale was proving rather more difficult to deal with.
"What are you reading?" he finally asked rather lamely. It was another unfortunate side effect of apocalypse averted, this need to make conversation. Crowley wished it would go away.
Humphing quietly, frowning, Aziraphale silently tilted the newspaper towards him until Crowley caught a headline: "Countdown to Final Potter Book."
"Harry Potter?" Crowley asked blankly. He'd rather expected Aziraphale to be reading an article on the end of the Blair era or on the crisis in Darfur; the angel insisted there was something to be said for staying informed, whereas Crowley was quite prepared let humans self-destruct on their own.
Around the edge of the newspaper, Crowley could see Aziraphale's eyes skimming the story. "Children's books," Aziraphale said with that grumpy demeanor Crowley had seen all too much of lately. "The story of a young boy who discovers he is a wizard and learns to battle evil."
Crowley knew all about the Harry Potter books; he'd read them a few summers ago, when it seemed Britain was going to hell in a handbasket, and Crowley could afford to spend a few days on the couch with a drink and a saga about witches and wizards.
To be honest, he hadn't had high hopes for the series--the books were despised by the anti-Satan set, a sure sign that they were purely harmless--but they proved a surprisingly quick read. Tom Riddle was a disappointing protagonist, with too much concern for his own immortality and no sense of style at all. The more violent Death Eaters, on the other hand, appealed to him, as did Fred and George Weasley. (Crowley thought he could teach them a thing or two.) And of course he had a certain fondness for Nagini and the parseltongue Harry, despite the latter's painful attachment to Doing the Right Thing.
"Right, the Harry Potter books," Crowley said, drumming his fingers on the table, bemused by his own need to make conversation. "I'm familiar with them. Quite a bit of excitement about the last one."
"You've read them?" Aziraphale sounded surprised. The newspaper came down, and Aziraphale peered at him intently. It occurred to Crowley that he hadn't had the angel's full attention in months.
Crowley shrugged. "They were on the recommended reading list a while ago. Keeping an eye on the other side. Or on our followers. Something like that."
Aziraphale studied him.
"What do you think about Snape? Your people or ours?" Aziraphale asked.
"Sorry?" Crowley said.
"Severus Snape, your people or ours?" Aziraphale repeated.
"Yours," Crowley said immediately, and, oddly, this achieved something he hadn't even thought he'd been working at: Aziraphale smiled.
"You say with quite a bit of confidence," Aziraphale said. "I'd have thought a demon would be more cynical about the man."
Crowley shrugged. "I didn't say I wanted him to be good, just that I thought he would be."
Aziraphale sipped his coffee. "You hadn't considered an...intervention?"
The delicate way Aziraphale pronounced that last word told Crowley there were talking about work again, but Crowley was confused. Harry Potter hadn't seemed a likely vehicle for promoting chaos in the earthly realm; in fact, Crowley had dismissed it as a rather sweet story, witchcraft and Dark Arts aside. What had he missed? Had he been wasting his time on congestion pricing and Ryanair?
"Have we missed an opportunity?" he asked, sotto voce. He had already targeted a major bookshop that would, mysteriously, lose track of all its copies of the final book on the night of its release, but somehow that didn't seem like the type of thing Aziraphale was talking about.
"No, of course not," Aziraphale said mildly, retreating behind his newspaper.
There it was again, that nagging, uncomfortable feeling that had been bothering him so often lately. Crowley hated it.
"Aziraphale?" he asked, trying to keep the needy tone out of his voice.
"Yes?"
Crowley hesitated. "You know the Arrangement works best when we're upfront about things."
Aziraphale put his newspaper down again. "True."
"Well, then."
"You hadn't..." Aziraphale paused. "Considered intervening in the text itself? In the plot?"
"The plot?" Crowley replied blankly. "Change the ending, you mean?" Obviously Aziraphale had something far more insidious in mind than Crowley did, which bothered him a bit.
Aziraphale pressed his lips together and raised his chin primly. Crowley thought for a moment.
"Killing off Harry, or something like that?" Suddenly the prospect of a dozen diverted lorries seemed rather amateur. He laughed in disbelief. "No. Aziraphale, what's gotten into you?"
"Nothing," Aziraphale said.
"The Arrangement," Crowley replied, a warning note in his voice.
Aziraphale made a great show of pouring himself another cup of tea, but Crowley kept a stern eye on him. "Have you heard of fanfiction?" Aziraphale asked at last.
"No," Crowley replied.
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "I would have thought the genre was your people's creation," he said dryly. "Sometimes I underestimate human beings."
Crowley smiled. This sounded good. "How does it work?"
"One takes a favorite character...say, Bellatrix Lestrange?" Aziraphale asked, and Crowley nodded agreeably. "One imagines what that character gets up to when not busy with the plot of the books, writes it in a story, and posts it on the internet."
Crowley considered this. "That sounds dull," he said. Bellatrix was delightfully sadistic, but she did not seem to do much in the books except declare her loyalty to Lord Voldemort and her fondness for inflicting pain. Admirable though these sentiments might be, Crowley suspected they didn't make for a very good story.
"I'm afraid I'm a dull sort of fellow," Aziraphale said, but Crowley could see a blush creeping across his cheeks. Demon that he was, Crowley had no trouble jumping to the worst possible conclusion.
"You write naughty stories!" he crowed. This was excellent news, entirely worth a wasted morning at the Ritz and the bother of three miracles. (Well, two thus far, the reservation and the chef's trousers; the cheque was yet to come.)
Aziraphale ran a finger beneath his collar. "I do not!" he said.
After working with Aziraphale for several millennia, Crowley was not likely to miss the tell-tale twitch at the corner of his left eye that invariably betrayed a certain dissatisfaction with the state of the universe.
"What do you write about?" Crowley's mind was alight with the possibilities. They were love stories, certainly, knowing Aziraphale; the angel wasn't capable of anything really naughty. But what would catch Aziraphale's interest? He couldn’t imagine Aziraphale penning steamy stories about…what were their names, Ron and Hermione? "Harry, perhaps?"
Aziraphale glanced around the room nervously. No one was paying attention, Crowley noticed, not even the wait staff.
"I do a bit of Harry/Ron, occasionally," he said at last, very cautiously. "Mostly Remus/Sirius, though."
"Together?" Crowley was confused. "You mean, as a couple?" He struggled to get his mind around the concept. Of course together, Crowley realized; how else was Aziraphale going to work in the naughty bits?
"I'm, er, well, fond of Sirius Black. I, ah, specialize in first-time stories."
"Sirius Black?" Crowley laughed. "The one with the flying motorbike?"
Aziraphale looked a bit annoyed. "Yes, that's the one."
"What will the higher-ups have to say about that?"
"It's none of their business what I do in my free time," Aziraphale said. "It's all anonymous on the internet, anyway."
Crowley smirked. "Slippery slope."
Aziraphale gave him a warning look. "Shut it, Crowley."
"Touchy these days, aren't we?"
Aziraphale wilted. "I am, aren't I?" he asked, contrite. "I'm sorry. It's just that..." He paused, eyes on the table in front of him. "I get bored, Crowley," he said. "In the bookshop, waiting for something to happen. It used to be that I could go months without a customer while I waited for the next assignment. But ever since..."
He trailed off, but Crowley understood entirely. "Ever since," Crowley agreed.
Aziraphale spoke even more softly, and Crowley had to lean forward to hear him. "I'm stocking some tourist maps," Aziraphale said. "Just so I can ring someone up occasionally."
For some reason this admission made Crowley's stomach wrench uncomfortably.
"I know what you mean," Crowley said. "I get impatient, waiting. I never used to care how things turned out."
That was the crux of it, of course, Crowley realized suddenly. He never used to care, and now he did. He had a vivid, unpleasant memory of a young couple who'd been stranded by Ryanair in Barcelona. In a particularly weak moment, he'd had return tickets booked for them on BA, first class. He'd deliberately left that out of his last report and no one seemed the wiser, but he had to be careful; he was falling into bad habits.
"...and so I bought the computer and started writing, and who are they to say if I have a hobby to help pass the time?" Aziraphale was saying. His pudgy hands were gesturing helplessly, as if to say I'm only human.
Crowley sighed. "I don't think your side have figured out the internet yet, anyway," he said, attempting a light tone. "It's mostly pornography, isn't it? And that thing called Amazon, so you can waste your savings have things shipped directly to your house?"
Aziraphale looked decidedly unhappy, and Crowley realized he'd said the wrong thing.
"A few naughty stories don't do any harm," he added gently. "If anything, they bring a little joy to the world."
Aziraphale sighed. "A rather weak defense, I have to admit." He signaled for the cheque. "Back to work, Crowley, my friend?"
Crowley nodded. "You might avoid the newspapers in mid-July," he added. "I'm arranging for some spoilers."
"Ah, right, that's what we were on about, originally," Aziraphale said. He cleared his throat. "You might avoid the last three chapters or so, once the book comes out. I've arranged for a happy ending."
Crowley snorted. "Of course. The author didn't need your help with that."
Aziraphale had an odd look in his eye. "Right, well, let's say I've arranged for a miracle in addition to the happy ending the author had in mind."
"Really?" Crowley asked, realization dawning. Aziraphale had arranged the intervention himself. "And you're not going to tell me what it is?"
"Spoilers are indeed the work of the devil," Aziraphale said. "You just proved that."
Crowley felt that odd, itchy sensation again, and it didn't help at all to put a name to it. Worse yet, Aziraphale laughed knowingly. "You're curious, Crowley! But, no, I'm not telling you."
"Draco?" Crowley asked, mind racing. No, too obvious; no divine intervention was needed there. "Snape?" He could see Aziraphale arranging for a redemption; it seemed like the angel's style. Then another idea hit him. "Sirius?"
But Aziraphale was already on his way out of the restaurant, his tweedy back slipping through the door and into the street; he must have miracled the cheque already. Crowley chased after him.
By the time Crowley caught up, Aziraphale was standing on the pavement, tie loosened, jacket folded over his arm, looking slightly pink and warm in the summer sun.
"You don't mind dropping me off?" he asked.
"I could make the Bentley fly," Crowley blurted irrationally. Dammit, when you lost faith in the ineffability of the Plan, the craziest things came out of your mouth.
Aziraphale smiled blandly. "I expect it's possible," he said, and they both climbed into the car. "Seatbelts, Crowley."
"You're not going to tell me, are you?" Crowley asked.
Aziraphale shook his head. "The whole world is counting down the days. Why do you deserve to know before anyone else?"
Why did he deserve to know? Crowley put the key in the ignition.
"Watch this," he replied, and he maneuvered the Bentley out into the street, and then up and over the car in front of them, far above the traffic, and then above the hotel. Somewhere over St James Park, Aziraphale's grip on the door handle loosened.
Why? Crowley smiled to himself, a sly, slow, devious smile. Why, indeed.