Ring,ring.Ring,ring. Crowley slitted open one yellow eye and groped round from under the covers.

'Oh, what the hell,' he muttered at last, gesturing and waiting for the phone to fly into his grasp.

'What?' he said irritably when he answered.

'Crowley, my dear, are you all right? You sound quite…' the voice on the other end of the line trailed off.

'Of course I'm not bloody all right!' Crowley growled. 'It's a Sunday, angel. On Sundays I don't get up until past noon, because if I do then I'll have to go outside, and if I go outside then I'll run into someone who's just been to church, angel, and they'll be so charged up with bloody holiness I won't be able to get out of bed for a week! So, let me ask you something, and I want you to give me a straight answer. No messing about. So- why the bloody Manchester are you ringing me at-' he pulled the phone away from his ear and briefly consulted the time. 'At seveno'clock in the bloody morning, angel?'

'Really, Crowley, there's no need for such language. You swore at least five times in that sentence.'

'Actually, Aziraphale, it was four, and I don't think bloody counts as a swearword anyway. These do though,' and he proceeded to swear fluently in every language known to man- and a few that weren't- until Aziraphale interrupted him.

'Really, my dear? I didn't even know you could swear in Enochian. Was that honestly necessary?'

'Yes.'

'So I suppose you want me to tell you now?'

'Please, don't trouble yourself,' Crowley said, voice dripping with sarcasm. 'After all, I'm just a lowly demon.'

'Fine. Well… I got a new book!'

'Well done,' the demon commented. 'Can I go back to sleep now?'

'Oh, I think you'll be rather impressed with my new acquisition. Adam brought it round only a few minutes ago.'

'What is it? Another book of prophecies telling us we'll have to save the world- again?'

'Oh no, it's even better. You'll find out if you get to my bookshop in, oh, ten minutes? Fifteen at the most.'

And with that, the phone went dead. Crowley stared at it for a second, then turned the stare into a glare. The phone began to smoulder.

'You're an angel,' he said, to no-one in particular. 'Angels aren't supposed to just hangup on people.'

When the phone didn't answer, Crowley swore briefly and hauled himself out of bed. With an idle gesture he was dressed and the bed made, and within thirty seconds he was in the Bentley.

'Bookshop, here I come,' he muttered to himself and floored the gas, leaving seven words trailing behind him. 'At seven o'clock in the bloody morning…'

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Eight and a half minutes later, a 1926 Bentley pulled up outside a Soho bookshop. The double yellow lines obediently rolled back and Crowley stepped out, not bothering to lock the door. No-one had tried to steal his car since the last thief who attempted it had spontaneously combusted. He swung open the door to the bookshop.

'Well, angel?' he asked. 'Where is this oh-so-marvellous book of yours?'

Suddenly, he saw a young man sitting on the counter, carelessly swinging his legs. He looked like a Michelangelo sculpture done in colour, with curls of solid gold and the bluest eyes Crowley had ever seen.

'Hey, Adam,' he said weakly. 'Long time no see.'

Adam looked up and smiled at him. 'Hey, Crowley. That protection I gave you at the Apocalypse still holding up?'

Crowley shrugged. 'I'm not dead yet, so yeah, I guess. What was this book then?'

The door at the back of the shop opened and Aziraphale came out.

'Crowley! I wasn't expecting you to get here so fast.'

'Book, Zira. Where's the book?'

Adam held up a book. A manuscript, actually.

'It ain't on the shelves yet, but being who I am, I got a copy.' He tossed it to Crowley, who read the words on the front.

'Good Omens, by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Pratchett, eh? Read a few of his. He's pretty good.'

'Really?' Aziraphale asked. 'I never had you pegged as a reader before, Crowley.'

'Yeah, well, Discworld's different. Got lots of sin.'

'I think it's called satire, actually.'

'Satire, sin, same difference. Never heard of this Gaiman bloke, though. And what's so special about this?' He waved the manuscript in the air.

'Read the next page,' Adam offered.

Crowley opened it. 'The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter.' He blinked. Twice. And for someone who's still part snake, that's a rare occurrence. 'You mean…'

'Yes,' Aziraphale agreed. 'The story of the Apocalypse.'

'You!' Adam stared at the demon for a second.

'Whaddya mean, me?'

'You! You caused this, this thing to get written! I'm going to burn in Hell for this! And I mean that literally.'

'No, I didn't. Not really, anyway. Not directly. I just wondered about what happened, you know, before, and next thing I know, this turns up on my doorstep. I wasn't expecting it to be written.'

Aziraphale intervened. 'From what Adam has told me, these men Pratchett and Gaiman are some kind of prophets. They have obviously retained some memory of what happened that Saturday, and their subconscious has prompted them to write about it.'

'Obviously,' Crowley murmured.

'And I thought you might like to read it,' Adam said hastily. 'I've invited Anathema round.'

'Anathema? The witch who was at the Apocalypse? But I thought you wiped everyone's memories of what happened?'

'I did, Crowley, but Anathema's psychic. She came to me a couple of months later and told me she could remember most of it. I thought she might as well know the rest. She should be here-' The bell at the front of the shop rang. 'Any minute now!' Adam finished with a grin. 'Hey, Anathema.'

The dark-haired, green-eyed young woman smiled at him. 'Hello Adam.' She flashed a shiny ring at him. 'Congratulate me?'

Adam jumped up. 'Newt's finally got round to proposing? Congrats, Anathema! When's the wedding?'

'A year from now, in June. And why did you want to see me?' She flashed an apologetic look at Crowley and Aziraphale. 'I'm sorry, I don't even know what I'm here for. Adam just said to come to a certain bookshop at a certain time. He said something about… Apocalypses…'

Aziraphale smiled warmly at her. 'Not Apocalypses plural, my dear. There's only ever been one.'

'You!' Anathema stared at him. ' I know you… You were in the car that night. You ran into me.'

'No, I didn't,' Crowley protested. 'You ran into me.'

'I remember you, too. You were driving. Are you together, or something?'

'What?' Crowley and Aziraphale said at the same time.

'Well, you were calling each other angel and dear, and I guessed they were sort of… you know, pet names for each other…' Anathema trailed off at the look on Crowley's face.

'Zira calls everyone dear. It's the way his mind works. And I call him angel because it's true. Aziraphale, angel of the Lord, Principality, former guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, Heaven's representative on Earth for the last six thousand years, averter of the Apocalypse, and… what have I forgot to mention? Oh, yes. And he's a damn good kisser, too.' He grinned wickedly in Aziraphale's direction, and the angel looked away, blushing furiously.

'It's true,' he admitted. 'Except for the last bit.'

'What,' Crowley asked innocently. 'You mean to say you didn't help stop the Apocalypse? And you lying to me for all these years and all.'

'Not that last bit. The other last bit.'

Anathema looked from one to the other.

'I thought you said you weren't together,' she said at last.

'Oh, we are,' Crowley told her. 'Not when you last met us though. It's only been the last year or so, and I think it came as quite a surprise to Zira. To think, in six thousand years on Earth, it's only been the last year that he's -'

'Crowley!' Aziraphale snapped, the flush from a minute earlier rising again. 'We are not here to talk about my private life!'

'Aren't we? But we talk about it all the time.'

'So,' Anathema said hastily. 'You're both angels then?'

'Me? Nah. I'm a demon and proud of it. Not just one of your average cut-price demons either. Not a damnedsoul.' He said the words as though it was the worst thing to be. To be honest, it probably was.

'Crowley is one of the Fallen,' Zira put in. 'The last of those that Fell in the Great War, actually. Serpent of Eden, original sin, Hell's agent on Earth for the last six thousand years. We've known each other for a long time.'

'And over the last year we've gotten to know each other even better,' Crowley said slyly, an innuendo hiding beneath every word, ready to jump out on the unwary.

Everyone ignored him.

'So,' Adam said. 'I've been meaning to ask. How did you two actually meet?'

The demon tossed him the manuscript. 'I suggest we make ourselves comfy and see if Pratchett's latest masterpiece has got it right. Shall we, gentlemen? And ladies,' he added on seeing Anathema's glare. Even Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

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The group settled themselves on Aziraphale's tartan sofas. Adam and Anathema on one, sat beside each other, and Crowley and Aziraphale on the other. The demon curled into Zira, cushioning his head on the angel's shoulder.

'Well, oh great Antichrist? What're you waiting for?'

Adam didn't bother glaring at him, instead opening the manuscript.

'IntheBeginning,' he read…