AN: Hello, and welcome to my first ever Good Omens fic! I intended, when I started writing, to just do a little one-shot, but I think it'll probably have a few chapters, so bear with me as I flesh it out. I'm having quite a bit of fun writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading.
Disclaimer: I do not claim rights to anything herein except the plot; all credit goes to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, two of my personal idols.
Aziraphale stood before the gates. Well, they weren't really gates so much as a barbed wire fence painted to look "pearly", but either way, he stood in front of it, drumming his fingers on his leg nervously. Saint Peter towered above him behind his pompous little podium, eyebrow raised, scrutinizing him. "Haven't seen you around in a while, Aziraphale," he said, the bass of his voice making the loose barbs on the fence jingle pleasantly. "Y-yes, well, been busy down below, you know, helping along the, the ineffable plans and all." His voice started off raspy and he cleared his throat, willing it to match Saint Peter's authoritative tone, but managing only a warbling treble. It was embarrassing, if understandable; he'd been called up moments ago because apparently, Gabriel had "a few questions for him". With another suspicious glance, Peter opened the gate (a rather unimpressive bit of fence with a padlock) and waved Aziraphale inside. He thanked Peter, managing to only stammer once, and entered Heaven. There were two demi-angels waiting for him, dressed in silver armour and wielding swords that didn't so much flame as appear slightly heated, which Aziraphale inwardly laughed at; his own flaming sword had been much more impressive, until ah. . . Anyway. The angels led him down the luminous streets and toward a shining building, inside which, he knew, Gabriel was waiting for him, probably in a mood.
Crowley hadn't had a chance to stand before any gates. He'd been driving out of London, up toward Luton, and had been making good time, too, as people generally didn't tend to pay attention to a 1926 black Bentley which didn't have its head lamps on and which was going impossibly fast. Humans didn't tend to pay much attention to impossible things. Freddie Mercury was currently singing a rather surprising version of "Hit Me Baby (One More Time)" which sounded a lot like "Somebody to Love".
HELLO CROWLEY.
The demon sighed, rubbed that space between his eyebrows with pinched fingers, closed his eyes. The Bentley drove itself. "Yes, Dagon, Lord of the Flies?" There was only the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice, but he wasn't worried; the ones Below never seemed to pick up on vocal nuances anyway.
YES, IT IS I. WE HAVE BEEN HEARING RUMOURS ABOUT YOU, CROWLEY.
Crowley just waited, head resting on the steering wheel, for the voice to continue from out of the Bentley's speakers. He would forever regret suggesting that those Below use electronics as a form of communication. Apparently, hijacking whatever bit of technology he happened to be near was more convenient for them than investing in cell phones.
WE HAVE BEEN TOLD THAT YOU ARE NOT DOING YOUR JOB PROPERLY, CROWLEY.
His eyebrow raised at that. Dagon could be referring to anything, really. Perhaps the time that he had refused to torture that priest, preferring instead to plant a rather salacious picture of the priest with an altar boy on the desk of a very conservative news reporter. Or the time he had scrambled all the cell phone signals during the lunch hour. Or when he had convinced all of the pigeons that they should focus their excretory efforts on the people having dinner teas in outdoor cafes in central London.
HE REQUIRES YOUR PRESENCE HERE, CROWLEY.
Of course He did. It was a particularly gorgeous day, only partly cloudy and the rain had slackened off since morning (which really was impressive for London), he had plans to meet Aziraphale in a park up north for tea later; why wouldn't they want to drag him back Below? No doubt they were going to interrogate him and he would need to once again convince them that he was bringing in just as many souls as Hastur, thank you very much.
"I'll be right there, your magnificent sulphuritude," he said to the steering wheel.
YES, YOU WILL BE.
And with that the Bentley was empty, for Crowley had been whisked away Below.