Three Be the Things: Part One
Author: Nava Kirsch
Rating: M for for graphic sex, blaspheming, kinky stuff, you name it. Humour as well.
Summary: Crowley decides that six thousand years of chaste angelic friendship needs to get more interesting. Hell has other ideas. Shameless, shameless A/C slash.
Disclaimer: Mssrs. Pratchett and Gaiman own these characters, natch. No money changin' hands, dearies. Only this ridiculous tale is mine.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Sometimes I lie awake at night, and I ask, "Where have I gone wrong?" Then a voice says to me, "This is going to take more than one night."
--- Charles Schultz
"It's a Yugo."
Kaliel stared.
"A car. "
Kaliel gulped. "I- I don't know how to drive."
Hastur grinned. "You'll pick it up."
Kaliel had big doubts. True to her demonic nature, she had a healthy fear of modern technology. Like computers, cell phones and photostatic copying machines, the internal combustion engine seemed a Really Bad Idea.
Hastur tossed her the keys. "Mind you, take care of it. Them horseless carriages don't grow on trees, you know."
Kaliel opened the car door and climbed in on the right side. She frowned.
"This doesn't feel right."
Hastur sighed. "That's cos you got an American body. They drive on the right-hand side of the road. So be careful."
She started the engine. She sat.
"D," sighed Hastur. "D is for drive." (1)
Crowley stood in front of the mirror, scowling. He was naked. He held a mostly empty bottle of gin in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was weaving dangerously.
"Fucking angel," he muttered. "What's the Heavenly Host got that I haven't? Eh?" He cracked up in spite of himself. He frowned at his reflection. He was a knockout, just look at him. All that dark hair, that great bone structure. Nice strong jaw. Good muscles, just enough. Sprinkling of hair on his chest, leading down to--- Well, he knew that was all right. Christ, he couldn't not make the effort anymore, not around the angel.
He raised the bottle. "Thanks for the genitalia, angel!" He found the word 'genitalia' particularly hilarious and howled anew, sitting down hard on the floor and hurting his ass. His cigarette was out cold. He snapped his fingers and another appeared. He took a long drag.
Aziraphale. He whispered it, tasting the angel's name on his tongue. It was nice. Nice. He hated that word, but that's what it was. He used to know that: nice. Memory of a memory and dream of a dream. "Oh, Jeezus," he muttered. Angst sucked.
But it was about nice, wasn't it? The angel was too nice to understand what Crowley felt. What he wanted.
Crowley snorted. The idiot had had six thousand years to get a clue. Friendship had its limits. He grinned and hiccuped.
Time to use his talents a bit closer to home.
There's a commonly-held belief that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
The Demon Formerly Known As Kaliel, aka Kallie West, newest Junior Assistant to the Assistant to the American Cultural Attache in London, knew it was scarcely paved at all.
The Yugo juddered shakily over the cracked, weedy macadam, somehow managing to find every pothole, bump and fissure. Not that anything could make this trip more miserable, Kallie thought dully.
The car had no air conditioning (2) and the driver's side window didn't open. The upholstery smelled faintly of sour milk, and some malcontent had stuck a purple-haired troll doll dressed like a miniature Scotsman to the dashboard.
There was, however, a cassette player.
Aziraphale stepped out of the tub and grabbed a towel from atop the laundry hamper. A good bath was jolly relaxing. He smiled. He didn't understand Crowley's insistence on showers; they were far too fast and intense for the angel. He sighed and rubbed vigorously at his thick blonde hair.
But everything about Crowley was fast and intense, wasn't it? Aziraphale chuckled. Not just the way he drove, either. Crowley was a bit frightening, but of course that went with the territory. A demon's demon, if you like. Aziraphale towelled his chest and back. Glimpses of humour, too, though. Of depth. And pain. Such pain. Poor chap was so terribly sad. The blue in the angel's eyes deepened. Something in him hitched. It just wasn't right, suffering like that. Aziraphale ached to gather the demon into his arms, to comfort him, to rock him and---
Aziraphale shook his head, knowing how that would go over. He also knew that to open himself up to the demon was frankly dangerous. Six thousand years of detente didn't change what they were. There was anger behind Crowley's sadness, and there was cunning. That was the demon's stock-in-trade, after all.
And yet. It was tempting to Aziraphale to think he could somehow really help Crowley. He thought he might do if he honestly tried. He was good that way. He'd known him so long... He frowned. Oh, dear. That was the first step away, wasn't it?
Vanity.
Aziraphale sighed and finished drying himself off. He walked into the bedroom and pulled on underwear and socks. He stuck his legs into a pair of brown tweed trousers and shrugged into a rumpled linen shirt and blue pullover. He wiggled his feet into a pair of scuffed brown loafers. He paused for the merest second before the mirror. Goodness, his hair was a fright. No use fretting; it did as it pleased. He sometimes envied Crowley his effortless good grooming.
Envy.
Crowley really was a nice looking chap. Aziraphale saw how women and men frankly admired the demon when they were in public.
The angel wished suddenly that people would look at him that way.
That Crowley would look at him that way.
Aziraphale's flesh tingled at the thought, and the sensation brought him up short. He swallowed hard. Where had that come from? That kind of thinking boded no good at all. He started, remembering the Lord knew every thought.
Sore ashamed, the angel dropped to his knees, bowed his head and clasped his hands. His lips moved silently. As he always did, Aziraphale prayed for strength and wisdom and humility.
Tonight he added protection to the list.
Aziraphale rose, shook himself and walked downstairs to the kitchen, feeling oddly disconcerted. He smiled uncertainly. Vapours and shadows. He was being silly. Too many cream cakes at elevenses. He lifted his pullover and frowned at his stomach. He really did need to start watching it.
He grabbed a bottle and made himself a gin and water. Leaning against the kitchen counter, he sipped slowly, still musing. He'd better fix the salad. Dinner would be ready in an hour and he expected Crowley any moment.
On Infernal Interstate 666 North, there drove a single car, and from the car came this noise:
"I think I love you! So what am I so afraid of? I'm afraid that I'm not sure of... a love there is no cure forrrr..."
The Partridge Family: Up to Date may not have been optimum travelling music but Kallie was making the best of it.
She bellowed gamely along with the tape.
Demonic singing leaves much to be desired. It was actually starting to annoy her.
She decided to stop singing and start paying attention. Her exit was coming up soon.
Dinner was simple and good: roast chicken, salad and cheese, washed down with three bottles of Tokaji Szamorodni.(3) The two of them ate and chatted and laughed and it might have been a night like any other.
Presently, as it does during even the best conversations, a brief silence fell. Both of their mouths were full of salad.
Outside, a chilly breeze blew up out of nowhere and dark clouds scudded thickly across a bright half moon.
Mah Nishtana.
What makes this night different from all other nights?
For some reason Crowley remembered the Words and smiled coldly. Fit nicely, didn't they?
Why is this night is different from all other nights, angel? He looked hard at Aziraphale, who was cutting up a piece of chicken.
This night is freedom from your bondage to innocence.
Twisting the Words this way was quite ugly blasphemy, and Crowley savoured it.
The angel looked up suddenly, brow creased. "Did you say something?"
Crowley smiled gently and shook his head, weighing the efficacy of ropes versus handcuffs.
Crowley watched Aziraphale from the armchair the demon currently occupied across the room. The angel was bent over a weathered manuscript, peering with biblical intensity over those ridiculous glasses. A half-empty glass of Claret sat beside him on the table. Aziraphale reached out a hand, never taking his eyes from the manuscript, and sipped absently. Crowley watched the angel's lips on the glass, watched his plump fingers curl around the bowl. Candlelight danced on the wineglass and the angel's spectacles. Crowley stared. Christ, he was beautiful. Like one of those fucking Renaissance paintings.
The angel had suddenly and uncharacteristically insisted on working after dinner. He had in fact asked Crowley to leave.
Crowley knew the angel sensed something, but he wasn't going to blow this. He was tired of waiting. He wanted this tonight.
Crowley had wheedled, gambling that Aziraphale's very human graciousness would overcome his angelic common sense. It did; Aziraphale relented, as long as Crowley kept quiet. At least, the angel reasoned, if he's here, he isn't out making trouble. And he honestly wasn't sure he wanted Crowley to leave. He didn't know why. It was disturbing.
Aziraphale had felt something shift at dinner. He sensed the demon wanted something from him, something serious and perhaps... wrong? After all this time, was that possible? Whatever it was, Aziraphale was too disturbed to face the demon and too polite to chuck him out.(4) He he was also willing to read the damned manuscript all night if it kept Crowley at a safe distance.
Two hours oozed by.
Crowley gritted his teeth. This was ridiculous. Bloody angel was stalling and getting away with it. Fuck it.
Crowley had been excruciatingly aware of his, er, mortally insistent anatomy for the past several hours. Want jammed every cell. Crowley wanted the angel. He itched to puncture that ripe innocence. Wasn't the silly thing curious? Had to be. Six thousand years in a human body, you'd think--- Crowley's mouth twisted. Didn't matter now anyhow. He'd decided for both of them.
Aziraphale looked up and smiled wanly. "Penny."
Jesus, this was funny, wasn't it? The angel actually thought he was fooling somebody. Thought Crowley didn't know what the angel was playing at. Crowley shrugged, taking a big gulp from his own glass. "Er. Just wondering when you were going to, uh, wrap it up. Thought you might like to let me bang you silly take a bit of a break."
Aziraphale removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The gesture was completely human and utterly compelling. "Crowley, I'm very tired." The tone was dismissive.
"Since when?"
"Sorry?"
"Angels don't get tired."
"Crowley---"
The demon took a deep breath. Right, he thought, here goes. Crowley put his head in his hands.
"Crowley?"
Crowley groaned, and it was full of pain and longing. His shoulders shook with dry sobs.
"Crowley?"
Wait for it, the demon thought. He parted his fingers and took a quick peek. Aziraphale was now genuinely alarmed.
Three. Two. One---
The angel leaped from his chair. The table rattled and the wineglass toppled, splashing unheeded onto the manuscript.
In an instant Aziraphale was across the room and kneeling at Crowley's feet. He grasped the demon's hands and gently pried them from his face.
"Whatever is the matter, dear?"
Crowley drew a deep, shuddering breath. Showtime. "I can't--- keep going like this. I feel so lost, Aziraphale. For millenia. Sick inside. I hate myself, what I am. I didn't mean to fall. You know that. I'm useless... nothing. I don't know what I'd do without you. I've wanted to tell you for so long..."
Aziraphale's eyebrows shot up. He frowned, searching the demon's face. "I say, you're serious, aren't you? What brought this on?"
The demon shook his head slowly. "Always been there. Inside. Hurting. Why burden you? I'm beyond redemption, aren't I?" Crowley looked away, lower lip trembling. And the Oscar for Best Actor in a Cosmic Farce goes to...
Crowley, the angel thought. The poor thing really is at sixes and sevens. Aziraphale was oddly relieved. Heaven knew, he could handle this. Aziraphale smiled tenderly and gently squeezed Crowley's fingers. "Remember that bit in the job description about loving everything?"
Crowley bent his head and touched his forehead to the angel's hands. "You couldn't possibly love me. I'm--- I need---"
"I know," Aziraphale sighed. He rose, pulling Crowley with him, and folded him into his arms. "Be still," he murmured. "There's a good chap." Crowley snuggled his head onto the angel's shoulder and twined his arms round his waist.
Aziraphale understood now why Crowley had wanted to stay. He'd needed help, of course; something only the angel could give him. He should have known. Pure and perfect love. Aziraphale's heart swelled. This was the Lord's work, after all. He was proud of his charge to love unconditionally.
Pride.
Almost, thought the demon.
"Aziraphale," Crowley said forlornly.
"Hush," Aziraphale whispered. He took Crowley's head between his hands and kissed him chastely on the forehead.
Crowley tightened his arms round the angel's waist and pulled him close against him. They were hip to hip. Crowley locked his eyes with the angel's. With a snake's instinct, he knew he could make the angel drown in them.
Aziraphale gasped softly as he felt Crowley's arousal, but made no move to pull back. Oh, dear. Goodness. He'd never--- Oh, this was--- Aziraphale's blue eyes were huge in his pale face. His arms fell numbly to his sides.
"Crowley...?" It was a plea.
Gotcha, Crowley crowed silently, and kissed the angel full on the mouth.
Crowley took his mouth from the angel's. He smiled. Aziraphale's lips formed a perfect "o". His face formed an even more perfect melange of shock and desire. It cracked Crowley up. He kissed the angel again, and this time he used his tongue.
"Stop it!" Aziraphale cried desperately. Seeming to come to himself, the angel tried to break the embrace. His chest was heaving wildly. Crowley grabbed Aziraphale above both elbows and jerked him hard against his chest. Their faces were inches apart.
"Shut up," Crowley said amiably, and kissed him a third time. This one lasted awhile.
When Aziraphale came up for air(5) he was scarlet. "Crowley! Let go of me at once or I shall ---"
"What? Smite me? You couldn't smite a fly right now. Look at you."
The angel twisted weakly in Crowley's grip. His legs were limp as noodles. Something else, however, was anything but.
"Gosh, what's---" Crowley thrust his hips forward against the angel's own erection. " ---That?"
Aziraphale looked like he wanted to cry. "Crowley. Please."
"You really want to help me, angel?"
Aziraphale looked away, clearly terrified. "Yes, but this is hardly--- I mean, you must understand that this isn't what I meant when I said---"
Crowley's head dipped at striking speed. He clamped down on the angel's neck with his teeth and bit. Hard.
Demon bites affect angels in much the same way a stun gun affects a human. Aziraphale gasped and his knees buckled. Crowley quite agreeably caught the angel and scooped him up. Tossing Aziraphale over one shoulder, he trudged to the stairs and started climbing.
The angel was heavy. Less cake, more sex, Crowley thought, and took Aziraphale to meet his destiny.
Crowley dumped the angel unceremoniously on the bed. He stood, hands on his hips, and smiled nastily. "You want to fly, angel? Now's your chance. Go on, I won't stop you. Free will and all that."
Aziraphale rolled onto his stomach. He tried to rise and found that his body would not cooperate. The only thing that seemed to be in full working order was his groin. He groaned and collapsed facedown in the pillows.
"Guess that's a no."
Aziraphale heard Crowley open what sounded like a paper bag and rummage around. Before the angel had a chance to wonder, he felt rope wrap twice round his right wrist. Just as quickly his arm was hauled aloft and tied tightly to one of the bedposts. His left arm followed.
"Crowley, what--- ?"
The demon took a pair of scissors from the bag and climbed onto the bed, straddling the angel's hips. Grabbing the hem of Aziraphale's pullover and shirt, he began cutting.
The angel craned his neck. "What are you--- ?"
"Don't move," Crowley murmured. "Wouldn't want to hurt you." He paused thoughtfully. "Yet."
He finished cutting and spread the two halves of Aziraphale's shirt and pullover apart to reveal a smoothly muscled back. The demon ran gentle hands over the exposed skin. His fingers moved upward, finding wingflesh, and pressed.
Aziraphale shuddered, shaking his head.
"C'mon, now, " Crowley coaxed softly, digging his fingers in.
The angel moaned and slowly unfurled his wings.
The demon ran his hands reverently over the soft, warm, white feathers. He wondered if they'd turn any other color after he fucked the angel. He'd see soon enough, wouldn't he? Crowley was all for empirical method.
Crowley grasped the wings where they met Aziraphale's back and pushed them further apart.
The angel cried out.
Crowley sighed. "Stop fighting me."
Aziraphale tapped his rapidly-dwindling physical and spiritual reserves. "Crowley," he croaked. "Please don't do this." He tried once more to rise.
Crowley tightened a fistful of down and sinew at the base of the angel's right wing and twisted it.
Aziraphale sobbed, dropping instantly. The pain was horrible, intense, but on the heels of it came an unbelievablywarm, languid heaviness that washed slowly over him and made his cock throb pleasantly. He gasped.
What---
"You know, angel," Crowley said conversationally. "This is what pride gets you every time." He chuckled. "I ought to know." He tweaked the left wing.
Aziraphale's hips jerked.
"Like that, do you?"
Crowley smiled, and the angel's clothes vanished.
Aziraphale was shaking hard. He had started to sweat.
"You know how long I've wanted you like this, angel? You know what it's been like to sit across that silly table from you year after year, waiting for you to figure out what to do with that marvellous body you have?"
Crowley put his lips to the angel's ear. "You're so pure," he murmured, stroking the base of one wing. "But just a bit too full of yourself. Did you really think you could fix me?" The demon kissed Aziraphale's neck, his shoulder. He wound a hand through the angel's damp hair and jerked his head back.
"Tell me what goes before a fall, Aziraphale."
"Fuck you!" the angel snapped.
Crowley ran a teasing finger from the base of the angel's neck to the small of his back. He tapped gently. "Promise?"
The demon hooked a strong arm round the angel's waist and, still straddling him, jerked him to his knees. The angel's wings drooped, hanging almost furled, close to his body. Crowley grinned. Plenty of room to do what he needed to.
Aziraphale hung limply, held up by ropes and Crowley. His wrists ached dreadfully.
"Grab the headboard," the demon said, almost kindly. "Won't hurt your arms as much." He laughed softly. "Can't vouch for anything else though."
Aziraphale complied, trembling, and suddenly felt something hard and hot and slippery press where Crowley's finger had been a moment before.
The demon swatted Azirahale's buttocks. "Let's put some tarnish on that halo, shall we?" He blinked, and his own clothes disappeared.
Gripping Aziraphale's hips, Crowley drove his cock into the angel.
Aziraphale yelped, shoved forward with the force of Crowley's assault. The pain was galvanising: a burning bolt of sizzling black lightning. It jammed every nerve and synapse and cell and capillary. Aziraphale instinctively twisted madly, trying to escape, but Crowley and the ropes held him fast.
"Just. Give. In." Crowley breathed, thrusting hard, in and out, in and out. He wasn't taking his time; he wasn't making this tender or easy or sweet. Screw love. That was the angel's department, and the angel wasn't running the show tonight.
He was going to teach Aziraphale just how bloody marvellous real debauchery felt. He slammed into the angel like a battering ram, rotating his narrow hips for maximum penetration. Aziraphale was breathing hard now: huge, hitching gasps. Sweat slicked his white skin and coursed down his face, stinging his eyes.
Oh, what was this? The angel was weeping. Deep, hopeless sobs wracked his beautiful frame. It was music to the demon's ears. Crowley had tasted nameless perversions with countless humans and those of his own kind. He reckoned it had been fun. But this...! Nothing compared with taking this foolish, trusting angel's shining innocence and tearing it to shreds.
Oh, that fucking angel was tight. And he was still struggling. Felt great.
"God," Aziraphale gasped raggedly. "Please---"
You little do-gooder, Crowley thought. Just try and pray your way out of this.
"What's wrong, angel?" the demon crooned, grabbing a fistful of blonde hair and yanking the angel's head back. "Has your God forsaken you?"
Crowley let go of the angel's head and dug his fingers hard into the tender flesh of Aziraphale's hips, impaling him again and again. His dark hair fell into his eyes. A thin sheen of sweat covered his taut muscles. Christ, he wasn't going to last much longer.
Aziraphale thought he would go mad. This wasn't happening, it couldn't be--- He couldn't stand this, nobody could... He'd brought this on himself and he'd surely be punished. He cursed himself for folly and for pride; and cried out, agonised, when Crowley leaned over and sank his teeth into the roots of one wing.
It went on forever. Just when Aziraphale knew he could take no more, that he must surely die, something twitched deep in his belly. Warm. Fluttering. Oh. He moaned softly, letting the warmth suffuse him, unable to fight anymore, not wanting to. He relaxed into it, gave himself to it. There was room for Crowley now, and the pain was slowly giving way to sweet, silky friction.
"Crowley!" the angel gasped. His voice broke. It seemed to come from another's lips. "I--- don't stop! Don't st-- "
Crowley laughed. And stopped.
Aziraphale groaned in frustration and pushed himself desperately against Crowley, aching for release.
"You little whore," Crowley said fondly. "Say please."
"Yes, yes, yes" babbled the angel, nearly incoherent. "I'll say anything you want. Pleasepleaseplease...! Do it. F-Fuck me?"
That was too much for the demon. To hear those words, so unfamiliar on Aziraphale's lips, rendered him almost as weak-kneed as the angel. He could hold out no longer.
Crowley stabbed himself into the angel relentlessly, and Aziraphale was heated and filled and Crowley threw back his head and growled as he exploded like a dying star, filling the angel with his seed---
"Ohhh... fuck... yessss!" the angel groaned, utterly lost. His cock jerked and spasmed, spilling hot, thick semen onto the duvet, and he was astonished and ashamed, and the shame was forbidden and delicious.
Aziraphale lay glaring up at Crowley. Before the angel had a chance to recover from the first onslaught, Crowley had snapped his fingers and Aziraphale found himself flat on his back, bound once more to the bed. His wings were still out, crushed painfully beneath him.
Aziraphale thought, one must at least give the bastard marks for attention to detail. His cheeks flamed and his blue eyes blazed with innocent outrage. The angel's perfect chest heaved as he yanked uselessly at the ropes. Crowley reached out a deceptively gentle hand and pushed a lock of golden hair from the angel's eyes.
"You!" Aziraphale sputtered. "Don't touch me again! You've done quite enough for one evening. Just because you can manipulate my body doesn't mean---
Crowley reached down and rubbed a thumb over the angel's left nipple. Aziraphale closed his eyes and groaned, his body and mind at war.
"Liked it, didn't you?" Crowley laughed. "You're quite a slut, angel. You bloody begged for it."
"Oh, you vile, wretched snake! You took advantage of me. Tricked me. I trusted you. How could you?"
Christ, Crowley thought. Who writes his dialogue, D.W. Griffith?(6) The demon clapped a rough hand over the angel's mouth. "Shut. Up. Don't you ever stop talking? It's bad enough you're on about people licking toads and the Great Gazoo(7) and Regency snuff boxes at dinner, over drinks, in the car. Must you drag your prattling into this den of iniquity which I have gone to no small trouble to create? I am trying to have sex with you! I want to give you excruciating pleasure the likes of which you've never dreamt. Can't you just shut up and enjoy it?"
Aziraphale was in equal parts abjectly terrified and completely aroused. His brain felt like freshly scrambled eggs.
But his cock was on fire. He shut up.
Crowley bent his head and feathered warm, wet kisses over the angel's chest, stopping every so often to bite a juicy pink nipple. He worked his way down slowly, breathing Aziraphale, tasting him, nipping him, drinking him in. He lingered on the pliant belly, rubbing his cheeks against the flawless, fragrant skin. The angel twisted helplessly, cursing his traitorous flesh.
"This is wrong and you know it," Aziraphale gasped, feeling the last of his threadbare resistance melt like candyfloss.
"Tell that to your prick," Crowley said pleasantly. The demon closed one hand round the angel's cock. He bent his head and took the tip between his lips. He flicked his tongue over the sensitive flesh. Just once.
Aziraphale went still.
Oh.
Crowley looked up at the angel, eyebrows raised.
Aziraphale lifted his head, thrusting his hips. Two perfect tears ran slowly down his beautiful, flushed cheeks. He wanted more. He needed more. He loved feeling desperate and helpless and used. He didn't understand why.
God help him.
"Poor angel," Crowley murmured, and took him fully into his mouth. He sucked slowly, deliberately, moving his lips up and down, his teeth grazing the sensitive underside of the angel's swollen cock with each upward motion. Reaching the head, Crowley licked gently, circling his tongue round and round.
Aziraphale thrashed his head to and fro, moaning, straining his hips, wanting more.
Crowley was happy to oblige. He took the angel all the way down his throat now, working the shaft, the tip, making a tight, wet vacuum of his gullet and mouth. Up and down he went, growling softly, and the vibration sent wicked little shocks down the length of Aziraphale's prick. Crowley took the angel's scrotum in one hand and tickled it as he worked, never ceasing his wet, slippery efforts.
Aziraphale felt something coil in his guts, boiling like magma.
"God," the angel gasped, blaspheming and loving the way it felt. He knew he was lost, damned and it didn't matter. Not now. Anything for this. He never wanted it to end. "Jesus--- suck it. Don't you fucking stop! Keep going, you bastard... yes, that's it---"
Crowley, still sucking, raised his head and looked at Aziraphale. The angel's head was thrown back, his full lips parted, sweat-dampened hair plastered across his face, eyes closed. His hands opened and closed spasmodically and his wrists twisted in the ropes that bound them.
"Open your eyes," Crowley whispered around the angel's cock. "Look at me."
Aziraphale forced his eyes open and looked, and it was like looking at his future. Crowley held his gaze--- and sucked.
"M-make me do--- what I did before," the angel pleaded desperately. Anything. I'll do anything. I'll fall if you want. Anything if you do that to me.
Crowley did.
In spite of (or perhaps because of) The Partridge Family, it was slow going. For one thing, Kallie didn't know how to drive, and she kept drifting off the road. Since there are no shoulders on Infernal Interstate 666 North, she ended up pushing the car out of half a dozen swampy, smelly gullies.
She rattled resolutely along, smelling of algae, afraid to push the Yugo past 30 mph. She thought about work, and this assignment, and wondered if this had been smart.
It had happened on a Tuesday.
She'd been sitting in her cubicle minding her own business. It was easy. As an entry-level transcriptionist all she had to do was show up on time, listen to the interrogation tapes and type. Once a week an imp named Markie would collect her pile of papers and drop them in Hastur's "In" Box.
She'd done this every day, full time, since the end of the War. She knew if she kept at it she'd move up eventually. They'd told her that in no uncertain terms from the beginning. It was the reason she'd taken the plunge in the first place. She was a True Believer. She carried Morningstar's Little Black Book. She practiced the principles of the Revolution. She had ultimate faith in the Program.
"You're bright," Hastur had told her. "Hard worker. Trust me, you'll be management 'fore you know it." Accordingly she'd soldiered on, quietly busting her ass, and avoided open competition. No use getting her wings munched.
Six thousand years later, she was having doubts. She suspected you needed medals on your chest or friends in low places to get the really juicy fruit. And while she'd done her bit for the Rebellion, she hadn't been a soldier.
She'd been a stenographer.
Promotion... yeah. She'd ask Hastur again at her next evaluation. If it weren't for the benefits package... She sighed, swatted the carriage arm on the typewriter, and started pecking out another row.
Fuck. The "L" key was stuck again.
"Oi, Kaliel." Markie poked his popeyed pate around the corner of the cubicle. "Hastur wants to see you." He paused ominously. "In his office."
Kaliel turned around, green eyes narrowing. She didn't like Markie. He'd spent the last six millenia even lower on the Company totem pole than Kaliel and he couldn't be trusted. Actually, nobody trusted anybody, but you got used to watching your back. No big deal.
Until Hastur wanted you in his office.
In Hastur's office sat Hastur, and on the floor by his desk sat a suitcase. Kaliel entered and stood, waiting to be told to sit. You watched yourself with Hastur. Hastur was Executive Management. He could make or break you. Literally.
"Kaliel," said Hastur, and smiled. It did little to improve his natural expression. He gestured to a nearby chair. "Have a seat, luv."
Kaliel sat.
Hastur leaned on his desk, clawed hands resting on two dog-eared overstuffed manila folders.
"So," Hastur said. "How're things?"
Kaliel knew that Hastur knew everything. He knew she knew. And everything, as far as Kaliel knew, was fine.
"Fine, sir," she said.
"Good, good," Hastur grinned. "Still going great guns, then?"
"Yes, sir."
"You're a good worker. Bloody great worker, you are. First rate."
"Thank you, sir."
There was a long pause. Kaliel found herself staring at the unusually large number of houseplants in her superior's office. Odd, that. On the other hand, the climate was perfect for them.
"So Kaliel." Hastur was speaking again. "You've been at this branch a long time, eh?"
"Since the War, sir." Hastur knew that. What was he getting at?
Hastur opened the top drawer of his desk and extracted a large cigar. He chomped off the tip and spat it across the room. He snapped his fingers. Fire jumped from the digits. He lit the cigar and puffed contentedly. "Mind if I smoke?"
Kaliel knew Hastur knew she wasn't allowed to mind.
"No, sir."
Hastur frowned. "Right. I'll get to the point. It has come to our attention that one of our, er, remote operatives may have put himself in a compromising position."
This meant little to Kaliel. Like many Lower Functionaries, she worked on a strictly Need-to-Know basis. She knew next to nothing about Remote Operations. It meant Topside, she knew that. She also knew from seeing the occasional newscast what Topside was like. Too much noise, too many people. Too much weird technology. Too much bloody unpredictable behaviour. It was that free will thing. Made the humans a bit daft, in her opinion. She'd not been out of Hell since the War. And she barely remembered Heaven. And that was fine with her.
"Sir?"
"We have come to the conclusion that we must orchestrate an, er, Intervention."
"Sir?"
"Right. Simply put, we wish to send someone Topside to prevent any further, ah, fraternising."
Kaliel sat, puzzled, wondering what the point of this was.
There was another lengthy pause.
"It's Crawly, Kaliel."
"Crawly, sir?" The name rang a dim and distant bell.
Hastur leaned over the desk, leering. "Original Sin, Kaliel. Surely you remember. One of our best jobs. Beginner's luck, they called it."
Kaliel frowned. Sure, she knew about that. It had been all over the news. Something about a snake...
"Serpent, sir? In the tree?" She ventured, hoping she was going in the right direction.
Hastur sighed. Bit thick, this one. "Yeah. Crawly. Snake. Tree. Apple. Good. Evil. Adam. Eve. Cast out of the Garden. Right?"
She remembered that! She beamed and nodded vigourously. "Right, sir."
"There was," Hastur continued, "A guardian of the Gates. Eastern one. Pansy by the name of Aziraphale."
Kaliel nodded earnestly. She'd no idea who Hastur was talking about.
"You've no idea who I'm talking about, have you?" Hastur said.
"No, sir."
Christ, thought Hastur desperately. We could be here all day.
He decided to expedite things.
"Crawly's been Topside since the Fall of Man. Remote Operative, right? Mucked up Armageddon. Bit of a prat, but got Special Dispensation to carry on. Lovely, right? As you like, I says. No use questioning the Boss, eh?"
Hastur took another long drag on his cigar and puffed five perfect smoke rings.
"Then there's the pansy. Aziraphale. Angel. Bit of a queer. Remote operative for Their side. He and Crawly... they work together... but not really."
Kaliel looked confused. Clear as mud, this.
Hastur sighed again. "I know. But there it is. Been fine for awhile, but now Crawly's gone and gotten himself a bit of a thing for the angel. Wants more than just a working relationship. If you know what I mean." He winked.
Kaliel blinked. "You mean...?"
Hastur laughed mirthlessly. "Yeh. Randy as a goat, is our Crawly. So far the angel hasn't, er, capitulated, but we think it's only a matter of time. This could be bloody awful, right? I mean, it's one thing to have an Agreement with the Enemy. Sleeping with the Enemy--- can't have it. Who in Go-- who knows what that daft serpent would tell the angel in the throes of passion? What he'd agree to do? Trust me, Kaliel, lust makes people do things. Makes 'em more vulnerable than torture. We invented both; I should know. In all events, we simply can't turn a blind eye. Not this time."
Kaliel processed this information. Right. She still didn't understand what it had to do with her.
Hastur patted the folders. "This is Crawly's dossier. His and the angel's. This should bring you up to date."
"Up to date, sir?"
Hastur grinned and gestured to the suitcase on the floor. "You're going Topside, Kaliel. You're the chosen one. You're going to stop Crawly. Any way you can."
Kaliel started violently, nearly falling from the chair. Surely she hadn't heard that. Surely---
"What?" she gasped, momentarily throwing bureaucratic courtesy to the four winds.
Hastur nodded, grinning a terrible grin. "Yes. You. Who better, says I? You're hard-working, loyal. Dedicated. Dedicated enough to distract Crawly from his--- " Hastur's mouth twisted as if the word tasted bad. " --- Angel." He paused and laughed. "We've requisitioned a nice body, too. First rate. Best we've got. American. Very nice. Part of your cover. We'll brief you."
"But-- " Kaliel babbled. "But--- I've never been Topside! Not ever! Really, I'm not the one you want! I don't know the first thing--- !"
"Oh, you'll be fine," Hastur chuckled. "We've all the faith in the world in you. No chance of you defecting, I reckon. And mind you," he said, leaning across the desk and putting a conspiratorial finger beside his nose. "Do your bit, and there's a promotion in it for you. How does a corner office with a window sound, Senior Adjutant Kaliel? Eh?"
Kaliel chewed her lower lip. It sounded good. After all this time...
She swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Guess you had to give to get.
But Topside...!
She gritted her teeth. She could do it. She knew she could. She hoped she could.
She knew she didn't really have a choice.
Footnotes
(1) Yugos were never produced with automatic transmissions. However, Hell's engineers had installed an automatic transmission in Kaliel's car, knowing full well that a demon cannot drive a standard shift automobile. (Crowley excepted.)
(2) Kaliel would not have noticed the heat were she still in demonic form. As a human, however, the heat was very nearly unbearable.
(3) This same dinner was served to another "condemned" fellow: Jonathan Harker, on his first night in Castle Dracula. My little joke.
(4) This sort of suicidal politesse is what comes of spending six thousand years as an Englishman.
(5) We all know these two don't have to breathe, but by now they've both forgotten that.
(6) D.W. Griffith was a famous American silent film director. He was responsible for, among other things, the film version of the "You must pay the rent!" Evil Landlord archetype as portrayed in the film Way Down East. Crowley's comment refers to Aziraphale's over-the-top "Damsel In Distress" whinging.
(7) This is an exchange that will happen later in this story as a Dreaded Flashback Scene. The Great Gazoo was a little green spaceman that inexplicably made cameo appearances on the "The Flintstones". He granted wishes and was voiced by the wonderful Harvey Korman.