Arrangements
Darkness had long since fallen over the park, but its remaining inhabitants felt no need for light. It was weird for them. The world just continued on in the worst way possible. Anticlimactically. Back to each side fighting its own separate battles in a shallow attempt to win the next war. Not that Aziraphale and Crowley held contempt for the survival of humanity. In all honesty, both were unabashedly grateful. Earth was nice. Earth had nice things like vintage books and white-leather couches.
However, there was this sort of emptiness about those nice things. The end of the world was so great, bold, dramatic. The entire world balancing on a delicate precipice. A precipice where the smile of an Angel or the cackle of a Demon could easily send the world flying one way or the other. And now they were bored. Aziraphale with a quiet discontent and Crowley with brazen lamenting.
There was another thing too. The last God-damned, Devil-blessed ineffable thing. The problem weighed heavily on the other's mind. (Yes, that was indeed worded correctly.) Both knew that the other was thinking the same thing. It was because both were aware of the other's knowledge that it was ineffable. Both figured there was a reason for the other's silence. Which, of course, ensured more silence. It was complicated.
The ducks mysteriously forgot to migrate from the mysteriously unfrozen pond in the park that was mysteriously untouched from winter's reign. Weird weather.
Crowley tossed the last of his bread to the ducks and Aziraphale shot him a warning look.
"Wasn't going to do anything," Crowley muttered. He looked down at the ducks who ruffled their feathers almost indignantly. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the brisk wind. Then he went though the trouble of taking a breath just to sigh at these odd habits he managed to gather from the human population.
Aziraphale maintained his silence and gazed down at the surface of the pond. Ducks looked back up at him expectantly. If they had tails, they would be wagging them.
"They're cute when they do that," said Aziraphale.
Crowley glanced over at the ducks-that-had-no-tails-but-would-be-wagging-them-if-they-did. He decided that they would be much cuter if all of them had ruffled feathers. Maybe if they were running from a doberman... He half expected to see angry eyes reflecting the light of far-off street lamps, or perhaps a blood-curling growl from the darkness. But the crickets that mysteriously remained for the winter continued their chorus.
"You're awfully quiet tonight."
Crowley looked at Aziraphale, down at the ducks-that-had-no-tails-but-would-wag-them-if-they-did, then at a row of distant lights. He shrugged.
Aziraphale checked his non-existent watch. "Well," he said, "I should get going."
"You should stop reading so many shitty romance novels."
"Pardon me?"
"You've never owned a watch in your life."
"Oh."
They stood awkwardly by the pond. For once, Crowley sincerely regretted having opened his mouth. Maybe one of Aziraphale's vintage, first edition, cliché, and all around shitty novels were what was encouraging him to touch upon this ineffable problem.
Aziraphale waved up at the sky and the clouds obscuring the moon disappeared. It illuminated the sated ducks-that-had-no-tails-but-would-wag-them-if-they-did. The moonlight glinted off the wet backs of frogs and the hard backs of crickets. It guided Crowley and Aziraphale down the mysteriously clear dirt paths as they went their separate ways.
"Pestilence!" he called. He took a few steps more into the murky water. "Pestilence!" he called again. He fell silent as he waited for a returning call. When none came, he sighed irritably and allowed his hands to fall to his sides, fingertips just brushing the top of the water. Green sludge gathered at his knees and spread evenly out on the water. "I know you're there!" More silence.
HE IS GONE, said a voice behind him.
"No he's not," Pollution replied.
I CAN'T LIE.
Pollution ran a muck-dirtied hand through his snowy hair. The little alive things in the pond scum made themselves at him in the pristine locks. "Well then, where is he?"
NOT IN AFRICA.
Pollution turned around to face the voice just so it wouldn't come from behind him anymore.
HE HASN'T BEEN HERE SINCE THE SEVENTIES.
"Asia?"
NO, said the voice from behind him.
"Is he gone for good then?"
IMPOSSIBLE. HE TAUGHT BACTERIA A FEW TRICKS.
Pollution was silent. Oily rainbow rings spread cheerfully through the water. He didn't show up for the apocalypse, so he must be up to something. He always did prefer to wreak havoc behind the scenes. The last time he didn't show up was 1945, and he was quite busy then. So what was he doing now... There must be a plague somewhere.
"Then he must be-"
I BELIEVE IT IS SO.
Pollution stepped out of the water and wiped the filth off his arms and legs. The pond scum dropped away from his hair. "I'll tell War."
HE IS BUSY. YOU GO AND WE WILL MEET YOU.
"Where are you going?"
HOME. I'M MAKING ARRANGEMENTS.