Brothers
By Snowballjane
Rating: PG I guess, for there is swearing
Disclaimer: Aziraphale and Crowley belong to heaven and hell and Neil and Terry. Raphael belongs to heaven and Milton and Snargon – he's mine all mine.
Note: Follows on from my fic Shattered Glass in which Aziraphale fights a hellbeast in the British Museum. If you read this without reading that, you'll be as baffled as Aziraphale is about what Raphael's talking about. Which is one way of reading it, but I'd recommend the other.
*****
A large hole appeared in the M25, destined to cause huge tail-backs and much mystification at the Highways Agency. As the first cars skidded to avoid the chasm, a small figure clambered unsteadily out onto the tarmac.
It looked like a teenaged boy, probably 14 or 15 years old, and was dressed in filthy rags. The boy stumbled as a silver-coloured vehicle sped past him and he span around in panic as horns blared.
Dodging the traffic, the boy reached the grassy embankment of the motorway before he collapsed, his legs no longer willing to support him. Large tears spilled from eyes as yellow as pure sulphur.
He didn't hear the white van pull onto the hard-shoulder, so when a gentle hand touched his shoulder he tried frantically to crawl away.
"It's okay," said a kind voice. "Can I give you a lift to anywhere?"
***
Crowley was busy misting the plants when the doorbell rang. For a moment he considered ignoring it, as it was probably someone hawking dishcloths, but something pricked on the edge of his consciousness. Not angelic; possibly vaguely demonic, although the demons likely to call on him were not really keen on using doorbells.
He opened the door. A young man in shorts and t-shirt gave him an appraising look.
"We found your little brother. He's in a bit of a state," said the visitor, gesturing towards a white van across the where another young man was standing inside the open passenger door with his back to the flat.
Brother? Crowley carefully masked his confusion. Who on Earth could be in that van?
The man blocking the van door stepped to one side and a boy wrapped in a blanket climbed out unsteadily and crossed the road.
"Crowley?" Within the two syllables the boy's voice both cracked and squeaked as his eyes met those of hell's agent in London.
"Snarr? How..?" He didn't have time to finish the question before he found his arms full of sobbing, strangely young-looking demon.
The two young men looked relieved and a little embarrassed. Crowley gave them a dismissive nod. "Thank you. He'll be all right now. You can go," he said. They trotted obediently back to their van, memories of the incident fading as they drove away.
***
Crowley stared at the miserable, ragged, shivering and, above all, small demon curled up on his sofa in complete puzzlement. A glass of something strong seemed to be called for, only it didn't seem quite appropriate for someone who only looked about 14. Of course, encouraging under-aged drinking was supposed to be in his remit and Snargon was really more than 6,000 years old. But still.
He sighed and a cup of cocoa materialised on the coffee table.
"Snarr, what's happened?" he asked, holding out the hot drink.
"The imps escaped," started a tiny, shaky voice. "Got into Beelzebub's palace. It was chaos and they were going to tear me limb from limb and so I ran for it and this was the only body I could steal and I couldn't get out and then I found a weak spot and I was through and on that great big black sigil you made, with huge machines going back and forth." The gabbled story petered out and Snargon sipped at the hot chocolate.
"Oh," said Crowley.
"Please, you have to protect me. I don't know what to do," the boy-demon sounded like he was about to cry again, prompting Crowley to make a somewhat rash promise in order to head off the threat of more tears.
"Of course. I'll keep you safe here."
It wasn't the first time he'd made such a promise to his fellow demon. Some 6,000 or so years earlier Crowley may have sauntered vaguely downward out of a general sense of dissatisfaction with the set up in heaven, but Snargon had fallen head over heels, carried away with the first heady taste of rebellion. Too late he'd woken up to the desperate and miserable realisation that there was no way back and the vast majority of hell's denizens were bullying power-crazed bastards.
One day as he was being tortured by a group of laughing rebel angels, a voice had called "Ssstop that." Even back then, when still known as Crawly, Crowley hadn't seen any reason why being evil meant you had to be unpleasant all the time. They hadn't stopped of course, but the hissing voice had still been there when they finally gave up, whispering gently to him.
For a while they had hung out together Below, each watching the other's back. Eventually Snargon had found his role in hell, as an imp-keeper. It was work no-one else much wanted and it didn't require any desire to hurt or maim. Crowley had been stationed on Earth. "Call me if you need me," a promise spoken thousands of years ago, but he was a demon of his word.
***
Several hours later, Crowley's usually meticulous flat had somehow been teenagered. Snargon's stolen body appeared to have unleashed the primal force of adolescent untidiness, even though it was occupied by a demon who had never been a child. Trainers and junk food wrappers littered the floor. After watching a few hours of television, Snargon had materialised himself a pair of jeans and a nondescript grey sports top to wear. Crowley had introduced him to the wonders of something called take-away Chinese. Yes, he thought, it had definitely been a good idea to come here.
Stretched out on the sofa he felt pleasantly safe, not exactly a familiar feeling to someone who lived and worked in hell, especially someone as low down the pecking order as he was - and imp-keeper was just about the lowest status job you could get. Crowley was sitting at his computer, typing and talking about, well, about something. Snargon was finding it strangely difficult to concentrate. The world was becoming blurred and muzzy. He couldn't keep his eyes open any longer...
Crowley saw Snargon's head drop sideways and resisted the temptation to give the boy-demon's scruffy black hair a brotherly ruffle. Of course the kid would be unused to dealing with the way your borrowed humanity would occasionally suddenly overwhelm all your demonic nature and demand to be allowed to sleep. You didn't have to obey it of course.
Hang on. Brotherly? Kid? This was silly. Snargon was an ancient demon who had been looking after himself in hell for millennia.
On the other hand, he looked so vulnerable sleeping on the sofa and he had acted like a frightened child when he had arrived that afternoon. A ruse to ensure Crowley took him in? No, probably not. Snarr had always been a bit of an innocent, in as much as any demon could be. Still, it was worth bearing in mind. Important not to let appearances be too deceptive.
Still wondering exactly how he could protect his new younger brother from Beelzebub in full limb-tearing temper, Crowley allowed himself to fall asleep in the armchair. Imps ran riot in his nightmares.
***
"Crowleeee!"
"Huh?" asked Crowley, jumping awake at the squeal.
"There's something… holy… outside," whispered Snargon, once more curled into a frightened ball on the sofa.
Crowley yawned and allowed his senses a moment to awaken.
Ah. Good. Aziraphale must have checked his email this morning. Oddly, the angel had adapted better to typed communication than he ever had to a century of using the telephone, although technically the out-of-date computer he used to do his accounts and tax returns shouldn't really have been able to send-and-receive at all due to the lack of any kind of communications equipment. No-one had told the computer that, however, and it seemed to do just fine.
"Don't worry Snarr. It's just, er…" Not really just anything in fact. Rather hard to explain actually, when it came down to it. "It's Aziraphale," said Crowley firmly. "And it'll be fine."
He hit the button to buzz the angel in.
***
It was more or less impossible to be terrified of someone who had brought you new things to try for breakfast, thought Snargon, chewing on the spiral-shaped pastry and staring at the strange newcomer who was holding a whispered conference with Crowley on the far side of the room. It was, however, quite possible to be furious at being left out of a discussion which so obviously concerned him.
Surprisingly angry in fact.
"I don't suppose it's occurred to you that I'm right here, while you talk about me as if I was some annoying stray cerberus you wanted rid of," he snapped.
Angel and demon exchanged puzzled glances.
"I don't believe it. I came to you for help and you're selling me out to the other side." Some rational part of his brain tried to suggest that this seemed improbable, but the part that wanted to shout was having none of it. "I thought you weren't like the others. I thought if there was one demon I could ever trust it was you. I HATE YOU," yelled Snargon, the impact slightly marred as his 14-year-old vocal chords jumped an octave.
"No-one's betraying you Snarr," said Crowley firmly. "But if there are angry demons after you then I'll pull out all the stops to protect you. And that means getting Aziraphale involved. You can trust him. He's a friend."
Snargon was too busy trying to process this new fact to really notice the astonishment and then delight that settled on the angel's face at Crowley's words.
***
Things sort of settled into a pattern for a couple of weeks. Crowley felt like he had gained a shadow whenever he was out tempting (or producing miracles as the Arrangement demanded) as Snargon was not keen on being too far away from his protector. If they were at home, the boy-demon would only go out as far as the park or the corner shop. Unfortunately it was far enough that he was discovered.
For the second time in a fortnight, Crowley answered his door to an ordinary human. A frizzy haired woman in a floral blouse waved a clipboard at him threateningly.
"Westminster Social Services," she announced herself. "The boy down there said you were his brother."
"Um, yes," said Crowley, cautiously. You could hide out in London from the massed ranks of hell, it seemed, but there was no escape from social services.
"Where are his - well, I suppose your - parents?"
"They're dead," lied Crowley, easily feigning a slightly mournful look. "Aeroplane crash. That's why he's come to live with me."
"Oh," said the woman, suddenly looking sympathetic and a little deflated. "Was it recent?"
"Yes. He was living with them in the Far East. I've not really got around to doing all the paperwork for him yet, you know how it is. Is there a problem?"
"Well, frankly Mr?.."
"Crowley."
"Frankly Mr Crowley, yes. He needs to be at school."
"School? Oh. Yes, I see. Right." Well, that could be interesting. It would certainly give Snarr something to do other than follow him around all day.
"What's his name? He called himself 'Scar' or something when I spoke to him outside, but I assume that's a nickname."
It was on the tip of his tongue to say 'Anthony', it being the usual answer when in sudden need of a human name. It would, however, be rather confusing if they had to share a name.
"Andrew. Andrew Crowley. Let me have some school details and I'll sort things out."
The woman gave him a small reassuring smile. "Of course. And if you need any help do get in touch. It can't be easy to take on the responsibility for a teenage boy."
"We'll manage," he said, somehow forcing himself to look sad and a little worried. He managed to push the door closed before he could no longer contain his laughter.
***
The demon Snargon, who was also the Year 10 pupil Andrew Crowley, cowered in the boys' cloakroom trying to control the shaking of his hands. He hadn't thought anywhere could be worse than hell, but St Andrew of Segni High School put the place to shame.
It hadn't all been bad. The music lesson had been very interesting. But it had mostly been bad, tending to dreadful.
Torture the new kid - a simple game with simple rules. Two weeks on Earth hadn't armed him with nearly enough information to pass as normal among 14-year-olds who seemed to speak a different language to the humans he had met so far. So he was a new kid and an oddball. In other words – target.
In chemistry, he'd had his stool kicked from under him as he went to sit down. At break, he'd been thumped and pushed into a muddy puddle, so that his uniform trouser leg was damp and filthy and he wasn't certain whether he could simply make it dry again without drawing undue attention. Music was fine. Then came lunchtime, a full hour of standing around alone and uncertain of how to approach these young humans. He'd survived the maths lesson, doing his best to ignore the tiny balls of paper, and some harder objects, being flicked at the back of his head.
However, at the thought of the final lesson of the day, PE, his courage had failed him. So now he was hiding from demons, teachers and 14-year-olds and, frankly, wasn't sure which he'd prefer found him first.
Why had Crowley sent him here? "It'll give you a chance to try out tempting humans. Young ones are easier," he'd said.
Yeah right. So far he'd tempted them into what? Beating him up?
***
He chucked his schoolbag into a corner of the flat and dematerialised the yellow and black school tie.
"How did it go?" asked Crowley. "Tempt anyone?"
"Er, sure," said Snargon. "Thanks to me a bunch of kids picked on one of the smaller weaker ones and threw him in a puddle."
Crowley gave him a sharp look, which was met by a defiant glare.
"OK, well done," said Crowley, uncertainly. "Anything else interesting?"
Snargon brightened. "Music was fantastic. We learned about how jazz scales work. Do you think I could learn the clarinet?"
"Um, I don't see why not," said Crowley, relieved to see the scared and angry look fading from his little brother's eyes as the boy chatted on about how to play the blues.
***
Weeks passed. Weeks in which the flat was filled with the squeaks and occaisional moments of pure melody typical of someone gradually learning to play the clarinet. Twice Snargon came home from school with purple bruises he had failed to hide. Crowley began to wonder whether he might need to look for a bigger place, since sleeping on the sofa was getting uncomfortable. No demons appeared to haul the recalcitrant imp-keeper back to hell.
One sunny evening Aziraphale suggested 'stretching their wings' and the three of them flew all the way to the coast and back, with Crowley carefully ensuring no-one looked up at an inopportune moment. Swooping over the South Downs, then skimming over the surf until their feathers were heavy with saltwater. That evening Snargon understood why Crowley loved England, despite it being mostly rain-logged, traffic choked and full of angry, spiteful people. He felt joy like nothing he had felt in 6,000 years; like heaven.
***
After a hard day's work as a footsoldier of hell Crowley let himself into his flat. The whole place was fugged with recognisable sickly smelling smoke. In general, Crowley was all in favour of people making their own choices of mind-numbing substance and if his own tastes ran to fine red wine, he wasn't averse to a little variety now and again.
However, some other instinct seemed to take over his brain.
"What do you think you're doing? Where did you get that?" he shouted at Snargon who was spread across the sofa, eyes half closed, roll-up in hand.
"Sod off Crowley," said Snargon. "I'm not a little kid you know. I can do whatever I blessed well like."
"You ungrateful little brat!"
"Fuck you Crowley!" The door to the bedroom slammed shut.
***
"I'm not cut out for this," moped Crowley over lunch at Claridges. "I haven't a clue what I'm doing and I've no idea what I'm going to do if the armies of Hell ever do turn up looking for him."
"Well of course you're not cut out for it, dear boy. Demons aren't supposed to be good at looking after children. I think you're doing very well in the circumstances," said Aziraphale, scooping up a forkful of salmon quiche.
"He gets beaten up at school," groaned Crowley.
"Yes well, it wouldn't be the first time humans have out-nastied anything your lot could come up with. Look, do you want me to take him out shopping or something, cheer him up a bit?"
Well, it couldn't hurt, thought Crowley. The youngster was getting more and more stroppy and miserable by the day. He nodded wearily.
***
After bidding farewell to Aziraphale, Snargon ran excitedly up to the flat and popped one of his new purchases into the CD player.
"Hey, Crowley, listen to this!"
And that was when Hell finally caught up with them.
"It's the devil's way now, there is now way out CROWLEY," said the voice of Thom Yorke. "WE KNOW YOU HAVE THE IMP-KEEPER. DELIVER HIM TO US OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES have not been paying attention."
As he recovered from the shock, Crowley looked around and saw Snargon was no longer there. For a moment he thought the boy had made a foolhardy run for it and he was halfway out of the door to chase after him when he sensed the presence on the fire escape outside the kitchen window.
After scrambling through the window (which was harder than it ought to be if there ever was a fire) he sat down one step further up the black metal staircase, put a hand on Snargon's shoulder, swallowed hard and dug into his deepest reserves of optimism. "I won't let them take you back, you know. We'll find a way to keep you here."
Scruffy black hair shook from side to side. "I don' wanna stay."
"What?" After all this he was just going to head back down and go back to imp-keeping?
"I hate it. I can't keep doing this. Hiding behind you all the time. Jumping at every shadow. I'd kill myself if it didn't mean I'd just appear back Down There without this body."
He really wasn't cut out for this. What in he—hea— on Earth was he supposed to say to help a suicidally depressed demon, stuck in a teenage body? Bringing joy and hope was Aziraphale's speciality, although he supposed he'd done a fair amount of it, as and when the Arrangement called for him to cover for the angel on a bit of divine inspiration.
"I just want to go back home," muttered Snargon miserably, face buried in his knees.
"Home?"
"Back to heaven. It's the only place that's ever felt right. I was a bloody useless demon and let's face it I'm not much good as a pretend schoolkid either."
"Then you should go."
"Oh great advice, Crowley," said Snargon, his voice emerging from his knees, dripping with teenage sarcasm. "I can just walk back up and ask to be let back in."
"Yes. Yes you can." Oh, had it really been this easy all along? "If that's what you really want. We'll call Raphael."
Snargon finally looked up. A dozen questions posed themselves in his mind, but in the end he plumped for, "Crowley, how many angels do you hang out with?"
***
Raphael stepped out of the circle that was chalked on the bookshop floor, to be greeted by two demons and one baffled angel, who had agreed to make the call to heaven purely on the basis of the desperately pleading looks the other two had given him. The senior angel wore no human disguise and his tips of his mighty wingspan brushed against the bookshelves.
"Hello Aziraphale," he said. "It's good to see you looking conscious."
"It was you who healed me after the museum incident? I never got a chance to thank y…"
"It isn't me you should thank," said Raphael, an amused smile quirking his lips. "I think someone may have been a little sparing with the details of what happened." Then he turned to Crowley. "You changed your mind?"
"No, but I assume that what you told me applies to any demon."
"Yes, of course."
Crowley nudged Snargon forward and the boy-demon knelt at the angel's feet. He spoke hestitantly, but in a voice more grown-up than any Crowley had heard him use since he arrived in London.
"Raphael, I followed Lucifer in his rebellion and turned my back on God. I am not worthy to take even the lowliest position in the heavenly host, but I would ask Him to have mercy on me."
Raphael reached out a hand and pulled Snargon to his feet. "Come with me and tell Him that," he said. He glanced at Crowley, narrowing his eyes in suspicion, and added, "Strange. The wolf does not usually help the shepherd collect stray members of his flock. Don't go anywhere, we'll be back to let you know what happened."
Raphael and Snargon vanished.
Aziraphale crossed his arms and turned on Crowley. "I think you owe me some details," he said.
***
The air fizzed and Raphael and Snargon, still teenager shaped, stepped back out of the circle.
"You don't look any diff…" started Crowley.
Then he saw the new-made angel's eyes. The slitted pupils and yellow irises were gone. Instead they were the colours of a perfect summer sunset in the city, when the light hits the pollution just right; deep blue with flecks of white and pink and purple and just a hint of gold.
"Oh," said Crowley.
Snargon smiled. "I'm forgiven, Crowley, all I had to do was ask. It feels so wonderful. I'm going home and I'll get my angelic body when I get there."
After that, there were awkward goodbyes and exhortations to come back to London and visit, before Raphael stepped into the circle and beckoned to Snargon to follow him.
The boy-angel hesitated for a moment, then threw his arms around the demon he had chosen as a brother and saviour. "Thank you, for everything," he murmured into Crowley's shoulder. Crowley just nodded and handed over a small black clarinet case as Snargon backed away into the circle."
"There will be rejoicing in heaven tonight Aziraphale, for our brother is returned to us," said Raphael. "Will you come?"
Aziraphale cast a glance at Crowley, then turned back to Raphael and shook his head.
Once the two angels had entirely faded from sight, Crowley sat down on the shop floor.
"Are you all right?" asked Aziraphale crouching beside him.
What was there to say? He shouldn't feel betrayed because Snarr had made no promises to him and he had no wish to hold the boy to any kind of loyalty to hell. He shouldn't feel jealous of Snarr's simple acceptance of redemption, because he didn't want back in to heaven with its absurd rules and intolerance of dissent. He shouldn't feel lonely, because, well, that was just pathetic, and anyway Aziraphale was here and things were back to how they'd been for centuries.
But, all the same, he felt betrayed and jealous and lonely.
He buried his face in his hands. "It's all just so, so… bleh." It was incoherent, but it did pretty well convey everything.
Pushing a couple of the candles that had marked the edge of the circle out of the way, Aziraphale sat down next to him and wordlessly wrapped an arm around his friend's shoulders. After a while he got up and fetched a bottle and two glasses.
The End
***
Some author's notes:
The hole in the M25 really happened, a month or so ago. This whole story was inspired by a press release from the Highways Agency, saying they were trying to work out how a 6ft hole had appeared in the motorway.
As it happened, my friend Adam was moving house that weekend in a white van. So maybe he stopped to help a demon and has just forgotten.
St Andrew of Segni was plagued by demons all his life and is now a patron saint of 'escaping from demons'. It seemed appropriate as a name for the school.
A couple of people who kindly sent feedback on Shattered Glass felt Raphael's offer of redemption to Crowley was made too easily. When I started writing this I thought of making Snarr have to do something to earn his place in heaven, but then I thought, that's daft, the whole point is that you can't earn a place in heaven, but it is offered freely. So yeah, making a religious point there.
Please, let me know what you thought!