Disclaimer: Good Omens and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc.

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K .

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!


Anathema looked over at Newt. "Sorry?" Newt's eyes were wide and slightly unfocused. Although he wasn't wearing his glasses, so he could be forgiven the mad appearance. However, the rambling was a tad stranger than normal.

"There was a man with sunglasses," Newt was saying quickly. He waved his hand, which was regrettably occupied with a wineglass, and sloshed a good amount of liquor onto the nonexistent carpet. "With a tire iron. And wings. And a poofy bloke in tartan. He had wings, too, and this bloody brilliant sword. Flamed like anything."

Anathema was momentarily at a loss, which was a rather rare occurrence, and therefore meant that Something Strange was happening.

"I think you've had enough of this for now," she told Newt, briskly. Anathema took the glass of wine away—the bottle had been a gift from two gentlemen she didn't quite remember for some reason, except they'd visited a few days (weeks?) ago to check on something that she didn't quite remember, either. But that was beside the point. Newt couldn't hold his alcohol. She should've known.

"No, no," Newt babbled. He fumbled for his glasses and slipped them on. "I remember."

"Remember what?" Anathema was intrigued, now. There was a blank in her memory that she wasn't aware existed, and she was beginning to realize this. Newt didn't look nearly as mad with his specs back on and his eyes re-focused, she thought. That was good. It wouldn't do to live with a madman, even if it were just in appearance.

"I remember what happened." He was being disappointingly vague.

"Yes. When?" She actually didn't know what night he was talking about. But that was because she couldn't remember it yet. Or, to phrase things better (but more confusingly), she hadn't un-forgotten it yet.

"That night," Newt said helpfully. Anathema sighed.

"Which night?" she asked, testily. She was curious. The edge of recollection was within her grasp, just barely. The alcohol was beginning to give her a headache.

Newton Pulsifer blinked for a moment. He shook his head, dark, plaster-speckled hair flopping. Memory raced away, laughing at the two of them. Newt took the glass of wine back from Anathema and sniffed it, then gulped it down.

"I forgot."

Anathema exhaled loudly. Newt misread her exasperated expression for one of anguish, and wrapped her in his arms. "There, there," he said awkwardly, patting her back. Newt wasn't sure why she was acting so strangely, but figured physical contact was in order. He didn't mind. Anathema groaned and put her hands on his shoulders to push him away, but he misinterpreted that action, too.

Though it wasn't really so bad, Anathema thought, as she tilted her attractive face up to meet his clumsy kisses.