Disclaimer: I don't own anything—it all belongs to Mr. Gaiman and Mr. Pratchett, geniuses.
A/N: I went to a rock concert that included Ozzy Osbourne and I was thinking of Good Omens. I'm sorry?
…
Sometimes, Crowley found that it wasn't worth the effort to try to bring the denizens of Hell into the modern era. They understood just enough to cause trouble—and not the good, evil kind of trouble they wanted, either.
When Crowley had suggested that they expand their influence in the music world, for instance, he meant among the artists themselves. Not, as it turned out, with changing his tapes into music besides the "Best of Queen." Honestly, what blessed thing did they think they could accomplish by altering the music of Crowley, who already worked for them (sort of, at any rate)?
Crowley learned to live with it. Now, Queen was joined with the likes of Kiss, AC/DC, Deep Purple, and a great number of others among the rock and metal community. Honestly, Crowley was just glad Hell hadn't heard of further "modern" types of music like Jazz, the crooners, Hip-Hop, Rap, or Pop. The more variation added to Crowley's collection that wasn't of his choosing, the greater his headache grew.
Aziraphale, of course, understood none of this. He still firmly believed in the Truth, which, in this case, meant that whatever artist was written on the tape was surely who was playing from the stereo.
That was all well and good when Crowley could argue for the songs being variations of the artists' typical music inspired by Divine Ecstasy or Fear of Damnation—and Crowley was getting quite good at that, at any rate—but it couldn't last, naturally.
As soon as the opening notes filled the inner sanctum of his Bentley, Crowley knew trouble was brewing.
"My dear, did he really just say 'Mr. Crowley?'" Aziraphale asked, looking both astonished, uncertain, and interested all at once.
"Yes," Crowley answered curtly.
Aziraphale managed half a smile, his mouth open to make a comment—doubtlessly about how nice it was that a Divinely Inspired artist had deigned to immortalize a Fallen (well, not a Heaven-is-My-Home, at any rate) Angel in song—when Ozzy Osbourne's voice continued out of the speakers. Aziraphale fell silent and turned it up just a smidge so he could hear it better.
Crowley grit his teeth together.
Aziraphale listened with the attention of a human listening to the words of a burning bush and exactly as much sense. Crowley's fingers itched to turn it off, but he knew that it was too late—Aziraphale's attention was caught and he would only protest and turn it back on.
The last thing Crowley expected when the song was finished was Aziraphale turning the radio down with tears in his eyes.
"That was...divine," the angel sighed. Crowley was glad that his sunglasses hid how high his eyebrows rose.
"Divine?" he hazarded.
"Of course, my dear. It must have been divine to know so much of the tragedy of your current state. Why, Tchaicovsky knew of your Hell-magic and your communication with the poor, damned souls," Aziraphale explained before sighing again, a look approaching too close to Ecstasy for Crowley's comfort settling on his face. "But, my dear, I had no idea that you would be riding a white horse, symbolically. Are you going to finally begin the Ascent back to your rightful home?"
"Oh, bless!" Crowley cursed as he nearly swerved off the road. The cars in the two lanes next to him were not so fortunate. "Aziraphale, what in the blessed world are you on about now?"
"What else can it mean, my dear?"
"You blessed angel, I've been here just as long as you have. What makes you think I'm any more likely to Ascend as you are to Descend?"
Aziraphale startled back just enough to unsettle his glasses. It reminded Crowley entirely too much of a rabbit twitching its nose.
"Well, my dear, I—."
"If I were to focus on anything in the song, I'd be more worried about the 'time that is classic' and 'drastic,' myself. That sounds like something big, wouldn't you say?"
Crowley almost couldn't hide his relieved sigh when it was clear that the distraction tactic worked. Aziraphale settled back into his seat with a slight frown, clearly deep in his thoughts.
"You may be right, my dear. Add that with the imagery of a white horse and it could very well be about something terrible," he murmured.
"Was Tchaicovsky one of your Prophets, anyway? It isn't worth worrying about it if he wasn't," Crowley pointed out.
"No, you're right. Joseph Haydn was the musician with the greatest Divine influence around that time. It's been at least three centuries since a musical artist was chosen as a prophet—it's all been the written word lately Up There. Of course, there was that one fellow—what's his name—that got some Divine Foresight by accident once."
"What fellow?" Crowley asked, curious now that Aziraphale's attention was safely away from Crowley being a hero.
"Oh, what was it, they make sure we all know these things, of course, but I misplace so many of the Heavenly Pamphlets of Knowledge, and, you know, at my age sometimes things I read just go in one ear and out the other," Aziraphale muttered. Crowley resisted the worry slowly creeping back into him as Aziraphale continued muttering under his breath.
He'd almost forgotten the whole trouble when Aziraphale sat up like a shot twenty minutes later, causing another few unfortunate drivers to find themselves off the road.
"I remember, my dear! His name was John Osbourne! Yes, it was back in 1979 or 1980 and the Voice of God was headed for another when, well, we aren't supposed to disclose this, of course, but the Metatron may have accidently lost his footing and may have accidently dropped some Prophecy Particles onto the poor fellow by mistake. It was all fairly hush-hush, naturally, and we aren't strictly supposed to talk about it in or out of the Choir, but I'm sure the knowledge won't turn dangerous in your hands, right, my dear?" Aziraphale asked with a sharp look over the top of his glasses. Well, it was clearly supposed to be a sharp look, but Aziraphale never had a hard edge about him until he went into Righteous Warrior of God mode and it took more than a little talk with Crowley to put him in it, most of the time.
"Of course," Crowley agreed evenly. Internally, his mind was turning rather faster than it usually did. A few seconds connected to the Internet—may Heaven and Hell never learn to use the blessedly new technology—told him that Ozzy Osbourne's birth name was John Osbourne and that the song 'Mr. Crowley' was released in 1980. The lyrics of the song sounded terrible—perhaps even Apocalyptically terrible. Crowley could hardly escape the trouble the song may have predicted if it had his name in it.
There was some panic going on inside the mind of Crowley, but he did his best to think about it logically. Really, John was a common first name and Osbourne wasn't too uncommon. There could've been hundreds of them in '1979 or 1980' when the incident occurred. And even if it was the one in question, his prophetic images could have been of anything—he had plenty more songs and certainly he must talk too. The prophecy could have manifested as nothing more than a prediction that it would rain on Tuesday, for instance. The chances that "Mr. Crowley" predicted the Apocalypse and Crowley interfering to stop it were very, very slim. There was nothing to worry about at all, Crowley was sure. All of this was one great big Cosmic Joke, that's all.
Crowley settled into his seat more comfortably. Nothing ever changed—quickly, at any rate—and he needed to think of some Tempting to do later after all the slacking off he'd been doing lately.
Aziraphale was prattling on about something, Crowley knew, but he didn't listen. Sure, the blessed angel would be mad at him for a bit for ignoring him, but all he'd have to do is point out Divine Forgiveness and it would pass over. And, if Crowley offered to pay for lunch today, that would certainly have nothing to do with it.