AN: Hello all! Ugh, I'm in trouble. I have too many going stories, but I couldn't help it. Fell in love with the show, so, here it is. I'm just trying something out, so if you guys like it, let me know and I'll see what I can do. Anyway, let me know what you think, and enjoy!

I

Thursday:

Two Days before "The End"

"Got a better idea?" Aziraphale asked. "Got one, single better idea?"

Crowley and Aziraphale sat within the small diner, Aziraphale nibbling on a piece of cake he'd ordered while Crowley wondered why he was always so in love with food.

The truth was, Crowley might have a better idea, and it wasn't an idea he was fond of. There are some doors that, once knocked upon, can never be closed again. Humans had a litany of metaphors for such instances, opening a can of worms being among them, and that was what it would be. The trouble was, Crowley wasn't entirely certain he had a choice.

"I think I might know someone who can help." Crowley eventually admitted, sounding anything but enthusiastic about the prospect.

"Oh?" Aziraphale perked. "Who?"

Crowley took in a deep breath and let it pass between his lips, flapping them together as he exhaled to show his displeasure with the moment. He did it often when confronted with something mildly unpleasant.

"An old…" He paused. The word 'friend' wanted to emerge, but Crowley was aware it wasn't accurate. They'd only ever spoken to each other on one occasion throughout the whole of time, and that hardly lent itself to friendship. "Acquaintance." He conceded. "Finish up." He told his one and only real friend.

Crowley ran his fingers through his fiery hair and thought about what would eventually happen. Things wouldn't go well, he knew that much. The fact was, Aziraphale was an angel, and Crowley's vouching for the being may do more damage than good. Still, Crowley figured he might as well take the angel with him, though why, even he didn't know.

"Where are we going?" Aziraphale asked a bit excitedly as he dabbed his lips a final time.

"Into the den of sin." Crowley said with a wicked smirk, a smirk that widened at the horror across the angel's face.

A loud, boisterous laugh left Crowley for the first time in a while. He couldn't help himself.

The Den of Sin was a nightclub, and while infinitely better than what Aziraphale had initially thought, it was still a place where he felt completely and utterly uncomfortable.

A line of humans stretched beyond the side of the building, disappearing somewhere around the corner. Crowley approached with confidence, his long legs carrying him the distance with ease. Aziraphale always marveled at the way Crowley walked. It wasn't even a walk, really. It was more akin a stride, or perhaps even an amble. Whatever the phraseology to describe such a casual saunter, Aziraphale wished –sometimes- that he could master one of his own.

Angels simply weren't made that way, he would tell himself. He reasoned that demons could because they were no longer filled with God's light. It left them loose in the shoulders and long in stride. That was why all demons slumped in their chairs.

It might have been true. It might have been the most accurate truth about a demon as far as Aziraphale thought, but it was unlikely. Somehow, perhaps due to the sheer amount of time he'd known Crowley, Aziraphale reasoned that demons didn't walk with such ease and fluidity. Crowley did.

He followed behind the thin man in black, clasping his hands in front of his body and twiddling his fingers as he did. Aziraphale felt an itch at the back of his neck, a tickling sensation that he didn't like. It was because of his surroundings, he knew. Sin and debauchery had been commonplace for humans for thousands of years, and he'd grown to ignore it. In large groups, however, the feeling was amplified greatly. It stung at him, made him uneasy. In fact, it made him almost as uncomfortable as Crowley was on consecrated ground.

Aziraphale lingered only a step or two back while Crowley approached a rather large man guarding the entrance to the establishment. He was an intimidating sort, tall, imposing, and as wide as the door he stood in front of. Aziraphale's eyes widened in surprise, but as usual, Crowley showed not a hint of apprehension.

"Arthur, my man!" Crowley said almost gleefully. The giant's gaze drifted to him and a smile soon shown on his face.

"Mr. Crowley," He said in a voice as deep and terrifying as one would expect. He offered Crowley his paw-sized hand and Crowley gladly shook it. "Are you comin' in, sir?"

"I am," Crowley nodded. Arthur's nodded and reached for a rope that sectioned off the interior of the building from the out, then saw Aziraphale. All kindness had vanished from his gaze, and Crowley noticed. "Oh, he's with me."

"Hm," Arthur grunted. Aziraphale did his best to smile kindly, but he was shaken. He felt as though Arthur could eat him if he chose.

"The boss in?"

"Always,"

Crowley gave a nod and walked through the doorway when Arthur removed the rope. He'd made it a few steps inside before apparently realizing that his compatriot was no longer with him. His head appeared a moment later.

"Aziraphale," He said sharply. "Come on."

Aziraphale was still struggling with the decision as to whether or not Arthur would attack before he –struck with an instance of bravery- joined Crowley inside the door.

"I don't believe your friend likes me much."

"He doesn't like anyone. It's his job."

"Seems fond of you."

Crowley's lips curled back into a smile. "That's because I'm me."

Aziraphale tightened his mouth in disapproval, but said nothing else on the matter.

The hall they were in was dark. Paint was splattered across the black walls, graffitied letters and lines. To Aziraphale's eyes, they had the potential of beauty, but the atmosphere stunted that.

"Now," Crowley said as they approached another door. "Stay close, alright? I'd rather not lose you in here."

Aziraphale nodded. His heart raced. He'd never been in such a place before and he didn't know how to comprehend it. He tried to prepare himself for what lay beyond the door, but his preparations were in vain. The instant Crowley opened the partition that separated him from the Den of Sin, Aziraphale was nearly bowled over.

Music, so loud it would deafen God Herself above, hit him. Aziraphale had to struggle to keep himself from falling backward under the force of it. He was instantly overcome with a dizzying world. People –more than he could count- undulated against one another while they danced in a sea of flesh. Others hung on poles and some stood on table tops.

Aziraphale's senses were overpowered –from music, to sights, to smells, and the ever-present thrum of the house music. He was wholly and completely unprepared, and practically clung to Crowley as a result.

The lanky demon pressed through the people until his patience clearly wore thin. When that happened, Aziraphale was relieved to see him snap his fingers. Their path was instantly cleared and he was reminded of Moses and the Red Sea.

Given room, Aziraphale was able to catch his breath as best as he assumed he might, and continued to follow Crowley. He noticed his friend glance only briefly to the left. Aziraphale followed his line of sight and spotted something odd. A throne sat atop a dais, highlight by lights of its own, and vacant. It was an odd thing to look at, but noticeable, so perhaps not.

Aziraphale remained as close to Crowley as he could without stepping on the demon's heels, though he struggled with that more than once. He couldn't put into words how badly he didn't wish to be in the Den of Sin.

Crowley finally reached the end of the path he'd created. Before them was another door, this one labeled with gold letters indicating that only employees were allowed beyond that point. Aziraphale said as much, but he couldn't be certain Crowley heard him. It didn't seem he had when he planted his palm against the slick black surface and pushed.

They were presented with another hall, though this was brightly lit and far more visible. The music began to fade behind them, which Aziraphale appreciated greatly.

Near the end, after a short turn, Crowley paused before yet another slick black door. He spun to face the angel.

"Look," He said with all seriousness. "The person on the other side of this door isn't a person at all. It's a demon, alright?"

"A de-…" Aziraphale was shocked. "Crowley, another demon? They can't know about this or," he motioned between them, "Us."

"This," Crowley mimicked the action, "Will be the least of our problems. Trust me. Just," Crowley paused and took a breath. "Be prepared."

Aziraphale offered a shaky nod. In it, he felt he gave Crowley the only answer he could muster at the moment.

Crowley gave a sharp, far more concise nod, then pushed open the door. They entered a space that was worlds different than where they'd come from, but the evil smelled thicker, more prominent.

Everything held Aziraphale's attention. It was beautiful and enchanting, a true garden if there ever was one. He didn't even mind the large snake coiled on a felled tree in the corner, basking in his artificial sun.

The space was two floors high with a pathway that wrapped around the second floor, similar to a library. It even had books! Wonderful books on dark wood shelves, all glossy and shined so the old spines looked even more ancient. And knick knacks, and treasures, and paintings and pictures. But the plants were the center of it all, the thing that connected everything else, layers and layers of green.

A thousand different kinds of vines hung from a thousand different places. Tropical plants with leaves as big as Aziraphale's face sat in intricate pots. Some of their leaves were split and filled with holes, others had a cacophony of colors ranging from red and emerald green, to yellow and the brightest white.

Then the snake itself, beautiful in its design, was a Black Whip Snake. It was narrow, but curled on coils upon coils. Its black scales glowed in the light, shining blue in some places. He was enchanting and just added further proof, in Aziraphale's mind, that God created a beautiful world.

"Hello, sweetheart." He heard Crowley say.

His voice drew Aziraphale's eyes forward to the young woman sitting at a desk. Her legs were up, ankles crossed and resting on its surface in part, possibly, to show off her impressively dangerous-looking heels. She stared back at the two through mirrored lenses. Aziraphale recognized her immediately.

With long legs wrapped in tight black leather, a black, loose-fitting tunic hanging from her shoulders, and waves of dark hair that fell beyond sight, her white skin (not pale, mind you, practically white) shined in stark contrast. And despite all that, despite the modernity of her wardrobe and her surroundings, despite part of him screaming it couldn't be true, Aziraphale knew it was.

"Lilith," He stammered the name.