Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events from Supernatural, which are property of Eric Kripke and the CW. Nor do I own the characters or events from Good Omens, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Please don't sue me. This is a fanwork, and I receive no money for doing this, only an author's creative satisfaction. :3
Reviews are always much-loved and appreciated and cherished, but never necessary.
Title: The Fifth World
Chapter 4/24
Word Count: 11,205
Fandoms: Supernatural & Good Omens
Characters: Guardian Angel of the Eastern Gate of Eden, Serpent of Eden, Julia Wright, Jesse Turner, Winchesters
Warning(s): Language, mention of possession.
Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)
Post Date: Friday, July 13, 2012
Anno Domini 2,002 = "In the Year of Our Lord 2002" (AD 2002)
Annis Domini 1,995 ad 2,004 = "In the Years of Our Lord 1995 to 2004"
Anno 4,004 Ante Christum = "Year 4004 Before Christ" (4004 BC)
: : : = Change in P.O.V.
: : : : : : :
Revelation 7:13
Then one of the elders addressed me, saying, "Who are these, clothed in white robes, and from where have they come?"
: : :
-Anno Domini 2,006-
In a small bookshop in England, a man looking to be in his mid-thirties settled down in the backroom with his newest literary acquisition and a cup of steaming cocoa. The book was much like the other tomes lining the shelves of the next room, with old leather covers and yellowing pages. Smiling to himself with that self-satisfied and eager air of the ardent collector, he carefully opened it, reverently reading the title page before continuing on. He had passed a few minutes in the manner of the quiet reader, when his mobile went off in the store (buried under a large stack of books, of course). The first few bars of Handel's Water Music gallantly played as best they could while muffled by hundreds of pages. The bookkeeper was so absorbed that he actually didn't notice it, and jerked almost out of his seat at the harsh ringing of the landline next to the old computer on his desk. Blinking, he glanced towards the phone, rising on the third ring and leaving his half-drunk cocoa on the coaster beside his book.
"Hello?" A pause.
"Where's your bloody mobile this time? The thing's no good if you don't answer it!" The bookkeeper's brows knitted together, and he glanced out to the storefront.
"My mobile? Oh, I'm so sorry—I saw it the other day, really. I didn't mean to ignore you, dear." A heavy sigh echoed through the phone.
"It's lost forever, isn't it? Likely buried under a pile of your moldy old books." The bookkeeper smiled a tad fondly at that disgruntled murmur. He slowly sat, settling into his computer chair, one leg propped over the knee of the other and absently twirling the curled telephone cord around a healthily plump finger.
"Not on purpose, you know, I've just misplaced it. Now, what's this all about? Not that I don't enjoy your calls, but I was in the midst of reading. [0] Shall I assume you're still in the States? Do you need me to cover some things over here for you?"
"No, no, this isn't about business. It's just that—well—there're some rumors over here that've caught my attention." The bookkeeper blinked, leaning further back in his chair. The wooden thing creaked, bottom rollers sliding it back a few centimeters.
"Rumors?"
"About the apolcalpyse." The phone cord twanged as it abruptly bounced free of his finger when the bookkeeper immediately stiffened, straightening with feet flat on the floor.
"Do you mean our—?"
"No! No, listen. The rumors—they're about an apocalypse: one that hasn't happened yet." His eyes fitfully scanned the room around him as though expecting something to jump out of the corners. The bookkeeper cupped the phone's mouthpiece more earnestly to his cherubic cheek, mind working fast. Something important clicked into place.
"But Adam's actions—?" The voice on the other end turned decisive.
"No, I checked and they definitely still hold. The thing is, there's a demon over here boasting about fathering 'the' antichrist." The bookkeeper took a deep breath to calm himself—despite his friend's sarcastic snort over the word 'the'—gaze tilting distractedly off to the side.
"And it's a different one? You're sure?"
"Positive. Ours is still in Tadfield. Besides, this one was born in 1998, in Elk Creek, Nebraska." The bookkeeper blinked, brought back to the moment at such precise detail. It wasn't often that his friend was so meticulous. He'd obviously been busy.
"But—and excuse me for asking, dear boy—if that's the case, then why hasn't your side—?"
"You remember the main issue with antichrists being their invisibility to both sides until it's too late?" The bookkeeper felt a sinking feeling of dread coalesce in his gut.
"Er. Yes?"
"Well, Hell lost him. So that means this new kid's sporting at least a fewof Adam's powers, possibly more." The bookkeeper drummed his well-nourished, ink-stained fingers against the desk.
"What kind of powers? Do you know?" The other end of the line got a bit snappish.
"I don't. Look, from what I've gathered of the situation, a demon possessed a virgin, impregnated her, took it to full term and gave birth. Things went pear-shaped when the girl managed to exorcise him right after." The bookkeeper frowned, straightening in his seat a bit as his thoughts caught up.
"But last time it was Lucifer's child, was it not? Due to his angelic influence, Adam's power is understandable, but how is it that a demon was able to impregnate by possession—much less result in a being powerful enough to be called another antichrist?" He heard a frustrated sigh.
"Your guess is as good as mine, angel." The silence drew on, its presence almost nagging. The bookkeeper took another steadying breath, this time letting it out in a slow exhale. Even if breathing wasn't strictly necessary for either him or his associate, it certainly did help in times like this.
"Am I to suppose this means you're recruiting me?" The bookkeeper cast a wistful glance back at his (relatively) new book—still open, on the table—as his friend chuckled ruefully from his end.
"Well, there's no one else. Besides, isn't hunting down antichrists and stopping the apocalypse shaping out to be a hobby of ours?" He sighed, fingers tapping softly against the top of his computer desk.
"It's just such a shame to think it's only been sixteen years. I'd have hoped the world could look after itself longer. It seems as though we just settled down for some peace and quiet, and already—" His friend snorted. [1]
"It's just our luck that six millennia passed by without a fucking hiccup, and suddenly there're two antichrists born within twenty years of each other. Fancy meeting in Nebraska, then? Noon tomorrow? The sooner we start, the better."
"You do make a valid point. All right. Elk Creek, did you say?"
"That's the place. …Oh, wait."
"Yes, dearest?"
"Don't forget your bloody mobile this time." The bookkeeper bit back a smile, glancing out towards his storefront, tone convincingly innocent.
"I won't—provided I can locate it. There are so many books for it to hide under, you know? It's such a little thing." He heard muttered blessings from his friend—in the tone most people cursed in—and couldn't keep a slight grin from edging over his face.
"Right bastard, you are." With that grudging chide, it was almost as though his friend could see him. At the thought, the bookkeeper allowed himself a small smirk. They hadn't known each other for all those millennia for nothing, after all. He relented after a moment, though, clearing his throat, making his tone matter-of-fact. A few round fingertips splayed over the worn wood in front of the keyboard.
"Well, even if I am, I'm still proud of you. It's considerably noble to be taking on such an active role in saving the world, you know. Most demons wouldn't bother trying the first time, much less the second." There were a few beats of silence, and then more half-hearted grumblings.
"You didn't have to lay it on so thick." Stifled embarrassment edged his friend's voice like paranoia, and the bookkeeper's smile grew softly fond.
"My dear, you—"
"And while we're at it, I'm only doing this for the food and entertainment up here, got that? Nothing else. Satisfying my own 'want and selfish gladness' comes first and foremost, and I like my expensive restaurants and suits and morality-rotting TV, thank-you-very-much." The bookkeeper's gaze had wandered over the room as his friend heaped on the denial, a fleshy finger absently curling into the spirals of the telephone cord, again. That smile now hovered somewhere between (rather) genuinely amused and (a touch) quietly impatient. He had a long book to finish and a shop to close before he could leave tomorrow at noon, after all.
"Yes, of course. I'll see you soon. Take care."
"Don't get lost in your book and forget the time." The angel blinked, then blushed a little in shame [2], the cord curling a hint tighter as his voice turned a tad flustered.
"I won't, don't be silly!" He could've sworn he heard a derisive snort from the other end, but it was just as likely that his ruffled state was merely playing tricks on him.
"We'll see. Ciao."
[1] The bookkeeper sighed to himself at the second hint—see first hint at [0]—obviously careening clear over his friend's head. Honestly. It might be the end of the world (again), but was it such a crime to savor a little reading time?
[2] Firstly, at his friend being so observant when he thought his hints had been ignored, secondly, at being caught indulging in a noticeably-unangelic bout of irritation and thirdly—well—the dear boy was a demon, after all. It was a point of his nature to make angels uncomfortable.
: : :
-Anno Domini 2,007-
"This is the one, I know it." The demon (youngish-looking, with well-defined cheekbones, sunglasses and short slicked-back black hair) assured as they pulled into the driveway leading down to a ramshackle farmhouse surrounded by an overgrown fence. The angel (with blue eyes, a pleasantly round face and short blond wavy hair that fell just over his ears) seated beside him in the vintage 1926 black Bentley sighed, casting a sidelong Look towards his companion as the car stopped.
"Really, dearest, and I thought you despised optimism." The demon flashed a quick grin as he pulled the handbrake.
"Only in others, angel. Besides, it's a town of ninety-eight people. Forty-eight are of the feminine persuasion, and we've interviewed nearly every one who's been of child-bearing age since 1998. That's including the bracket of ten-to-fourteen-year-old girls, as disturbing as the thought might be." His face contorted in a wince, for a moment, and the angel smiled at him. The demon caught sight of it, but waved him off, hurriedly looking away and clearing his throat. [3]
"A-Anyway, we're almost finished. It has to be one of the next two." A piece of paper appeared in his hand, and the demon sat back in the right-hand driver's seat, eyes flicking over the names. Most were crossed out, as were the corresponding addresses, and the first had been Ackerly, Melinda. Down at the bottom, past some thirty names, all that remained were Wright, Julia and Wunsch, Anne. He didn't notice as the angel quietly began to peruse the aura of the house, and abruptly stiffened in his seat.
"Oh. Oh, my." The demon glanced up, frowning as he noted the quiet sorrow creeping over the angel's face.
"What is it?" But the angel only continued to stare, expression growing more troubled, wrinkle and laugh lines deepening by the second. Just as the demon opened his mouth to fill the silence, the angel unbuckled his seatbelt, grabbed the door handle and was walking across the yard with the purposeful steps of someone on a mission. The demon's mouth snapped shut as he blinked, and then just materialized in front of the dead-vine-encrusted white gate. He eyed the cheap scrap metal sign proclaiming "NO TRESPASSING" in words that looked to have been scrawled on with a dried-out red permanent marker. He wrinkled his nose in silent disdain as his gaze traveled over to the peeling white paint on the siding of the house, and his well-tailored black suit cringed in stylish disgust. The angel determinedly strode past him, bursting through the gate with a clang and all the resolve and delicacy of a mother bear going to the aid of her cubs (or, rather, 'cub', as it were). The polished demon slipped neatly in behind him, carefully avoiding brushing against anything.
Everything looked as though it had gone to seed about five years ago. Uncut field grass nearly obscured the path, threatening to brush against his shins, and the demon scowled darkly down at the plants, willing them not to deposit their seeds on his pristine black trousers and black snakeskin boots. They cringed appropriately, curling into themselves in the angel's wake and carefully not putting a tendril out of place until the demon had passed by. There was a side door, but at a glance you could tell it hadn't been used in years, and they kept on ahead until they came to what was properly the back porch, the stout angel briskly bustling up the stairs and rapping smartly on the old wood.
"Miss Wright? Miss Wright! Do please open the door—" The wiry demon was more guarded in his approach, remaining at the bottom of the steps and taking a slow panoramic glance around them. His eyes narrowed behind his black sunglasses at both the glare of the light and the high brambles that obscured his vision. A nervous voice answered the angel's greeting, and the demon's eyes flicked back to the door, then up. The corner of his mouth pulled in a slight smirk.
"Whatever you're selling, I'm not interested!" The angel seemed to pause, baffled, and cast a helpless glance back at his friend. Hands in his pockets, the demon shrugged his shoulders—countenance now offering nothing but mild nonchalance—and otherwise didn't move. The angel's face turned perplexed, for a moment—likely at why his friend wasn't getting any closer—but he turned around to address the door nonetheless, voice soft and kind.
"No—No, I'm not selling anything, Miss Wright. I—you've been through a horrible experience, and been so strong, haven't you, dear lady? I'm so sorry." Silence. Still, he pressed on, setting a palm against the door and peering—probably 'soulfully', sod it all—into the peephole, a reassuring smile in his voice. The demon fought the urge to roll his eyes, and fancied the angel could feel her pain through the wood. The whole place was certainly soaked enough in it.
"Please, my dear. We won't hurt you, you have my word. My companion and I have only a few questions, and then we'll leave you alone, I promise." More silence, but the thin curtains in the window to the right of the door moved after a moment or two. The demon's eyes snapped there on engrained instinct, and for a moment the pale, scared face of a traumatized woman stared back at him. But the angel had seen the movement, too, and hurried over to the window, blocking the demon's view as his plump hands clasped before him in supplication. The demon could only too easily visualize that the angel's face was currently radiating warmth and love, his eyes pure, glimmering jewels of endless compassion and grief—the combination of which inspired nothing but trust. [4]
"W-Who are you?" Her skittish voice was muffled, defensive. The angel placed his palm on the grimy glass of the window, ever-so-gently so as not to spook the frail lady more. He was probably close to straining something in order to make his smile even more sincere.
"My name is Aziraphale. I am an angel, Miss Wright. Do please unlock the door? We really need to speak with you." The demon guessed that her eyes flickered over the angel, wary and conflicted, but likely already full of hesitant belief. (He did tend to have that effect.) Then she glanced over Aziraphale's shoulder.
"W-What about—?" The angel blinked, and spared the demon a hasty glance, the cast-back brief smile a bit harried.
"Who, Crowley? He shan't hurt you either, dear." More silence.
"Do please let us in? We wouldn't be bothering you if we didn't truly need to—I'm sure we're imposing in the worst way—but I can assure you—" Honestly, this grew wearisome. The demon sighed to himself, and began to stride up the steps. He felt her panic at his sudden advance, and smirked as she disappeared from the window, hiding, voice shrill.
"W-Wait, how do I know you're—!"
The door, seven locks and all (honestly, as paranoids went, she was thorough) suddenly burst open, causing the angel to jerk and the woman to shriek in surprise. She jumped back, eyes wide with fright as the demon sauntered in as though he owned the place. He inclined his head back—indicating the top of the doorway behind him—but never took his eyes off her, unable to help a malicious little grin.
"You might want to turn that horseshoe over. It's no good as a demon repellant with the prongs facing upward." She gasped, wan face going even whiter, and his forked tongue subconsciously flicked out over his bottom lip to taste the sudden fear in the air. It seized her eyes like a viper. Crowley noticed, and played his petrified audience like a fine golden harmonica [5]. "Notss sssatss you have a blacksssmiss handy, buts, well, you're human—can'ts sssinkss of everyssssing."
He thought he might have overdone it a bit, but then she turned tail and ran. Crowley's evil leer shifted into a cheekily satisfied smile once she couldn't see him anymore. He mentally patted himself on the back for still being able to scare the bejesus out of mortals. Aziraphale not-entirely-accidentally bumped his shoulder as the angel rushed past, sparing the demon only a glare as he called after her. Unperturbed, said demon followed at a more leisurely pace.
"Miss Wright! Please, Miss Wright, he may be a demon but he's entirely trustw—" There was the sound of something shaking, then a pause. Aziraphale sounded baffled. "Was that salt?" The out-of-breath and slightly hysterical panting—which Crowley heard as he came to the end of the long hall, rounded the corner, walked through the doorway into a larger room, and caught sight of Aziraphale standing on the threshold of another doorway—he assumed to be the woman's, her eyes huge and round in stunned disbelief. The demon warily eyed the scattered white granules spread around and over the angel's shoes.
"You—You're not a demon?" Crowley could feel Aziraphale's befuddled blink, even staring at the back of the angel's head from an out-of-range-of-tossed-salt distance away.
"Didn't I say I was an angel?" Said angel moved forward, very slowly, and kindly took the woman's hand. Some color was beginning to return to her face, the fear in her eyes gradually wakening to awe as warm, ink-stained fingers softly touched her temple. Crowley knew which smile Aziraphale was soothing her with. His voice, genuine as sunshine, gave it all away.
"Be not afraid, dear lady. No harm shall come to you in my presence." The angel wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and took her closest wrist in his other hand, gently tucking her into his side and coaxing her out from the kitchen. Crowley subtly backed up, warily eying the salt-filled cylinder she yet clung to, and her eyes flitted to him. Her entire body flinched away in terror, and were it not for Aziraphale's firm hold, he knew she would've bolted again.
"B-But he—" The angel gave him a reproachful stare [6], and the demon coughed into his hand, looking away. Aziraphale returned to comforting her, whispering assurances against her hair.
"There now, Miss, you shouldn't worry, he's a good demon—even if he denies it—but I have to tell you, sometimes his… nature gets the better of him. Isn't that right, dearest?" Those blue eyes narrowed at him over her head as the angel settled the fragile thing in a chair at the table and Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. Still, he recognized a warning when he saw one, didn't really want to have Aziraphale miffed with him over something like this, and so bit out what the angel wanted him to say.
"Er, yes. Sorry. Couldn't resist." She looked up, suspicious, and the demon gave her a crooked, awkward-feeling smile. "Old habits die hard, you know. No hard feelings?" She scowled at him, fingers tightening on the can of salt and Crowley took another—appropriately measured—step back. This impression of power seemed to make her relax, and she straightened in her seat, glancing up at Aziraphale as the angel patted her on the shoulder, beaming.
"There we are, all made up. Now then, dear—I know it might be asking too much, but would you happen to have any tea?" She stared at him, like she couldn't believe an angel was asking her that, of all things—but after a moment, a tentative smile started to bloom on her thin face.
"Oh, would you like—? I'm sorry, where are my manners—" She made to rise, but the angel hastily fluttered at her, hands flapping with overblown worry. She looked a little startled at his vehemence, but sat back down anyway.
"No, no, miss, after Crowley gave you such a fright it's the least I can do. No, you just sit here, and if you would be so kind as to point me to the cupboards with the needed accessories, we'll have a nice cup of tea and talk this over like civilized beings, shall we?" As Aziraphale turned to said cupboards, Miss Wright's voice timid in stilted directions, Crowley felt himself relax at that familiar sight [7]—then dismissed the nostalgia with an ease bourne of long habit. He ducked down the hall towards the porch door, voice just loud enough to project and disrupt the cozy atmosphere.
"You're hardly civilized without some sort of sweet, angel." Knowing Aziraphale knew what that meant, the demon grinned back at Miss Wright. She froze—likely at his sharpened teeth—and he turned his back to her, hiding his resulting smirk. "Don't start the party without me."
"Oh, I would never! And thank you, dearest! Biscuits would be lovely!" Aziraphale was far-too-delighted to be free of any ulterior motives, his obtensibly 'angelic' tone paving the way for— "I'm so proud of you. Such a thoughtful, generous offer." Crowley winced at the 'compliment' and cast a glare at his friend. But Aziraphale only sent him a fond smile in return, so he settled for hissing softly in displeasure. The demon coiled into himself and twisted away, snarling under his breath as he strode off.
"Bugger off, you manipulative bastard."
[3] It was an effective (if mostly due to precedent) dismissal of the subject with the usual embarrassment the demon tended to exhibit after showing some degree of moral fiber. Really, the angel couldn't understand why his friend tried so hard to hide the fact he was a good person.
[4] Really, it was sickening, how predictable the angel was when it came to matters of humans and their sodding 'emotional fragility'.
[5] The only instrument he'd been allowed to play, much to the jeering amusement of the other demons who got things like golden fiddles or golden saxophones or the blessed golden electric guitar Hastur had lorded over him (quite literally, in both rank and boasting). Well, it could've been worse. Crowley could've got stuck with the bloody golden kazoo (again, as in his first [rather serpentine, and arms-less and legs-less and fingers-less] body, that's all he could play). Thank Manchester that Beëlzebub had eventually claimed that instrument all for himself, and given Crowley a body that actually had hands and feet. (…Among other things. Oh, had that been a night to remember.)
[6] Which is, to say, the kind of reproachful stare only doddering old literature professors have a right to wear (much like tweed). This look is used especially when a student has unthinkingly—and in the presence of said professor—admitted to a minorly illegal offense which would not benefit said student if law enforcement were to interfere at this point, and said professor certainly wouldn't wish to get said student in any real trouble—as they're a good child, deep down, really—but said professor still disapproves. So, thus: the patented stare is born. Aziraphale really had had quite a range of vocations besides bookkeeper over the past sixty centuries (that's six-hundred decades, Pip), but had indeed ceaselessly proven himself to be remarkably adept at this particular expression. [8]
[7] Which was, of course, Aziraphale absent-mindedly hunting for tea amidst well-worn wooden cupboards, his back highlighted with streaks of dust-coated sunshine.
[8] It also should be noted that, for an angel, Aziraphale had made great strides to meet humanity at some sort of angel-human cultural half-way point. Take, for example, his tireless affection for the gavotte, despite the inexpressible disappointment he felt when it went out of style (this being yet another reason he treats tartan-patterned attire with the dogged determination of those who have given up on ever being fashionable and have simply decided to stick [or, perhaps more accurately, cling] to what they like, and will defend its once-commonly-lauded attributes to their dying day [which, for essentially immortal beings, conveniently falls under the designation of 'a very long time!'].). There was no other angel who had even come close to being in the same category as Aziraphale. To be quite Frank (and not Peter, Paul or Mary), the nearest any other angel had come to rivaling Aziraphale's aptitude for the gavotte was when Hariel had half-stumbled over a scroll two thousand years ago, in Records (elegance on the battlefield is not applicable in this comparison). Not the least to say about Aziraphale's fashion sense, for when you compare tartan to Heaven's Colors Of Choice (being mainly along the lines of beige, pearly white and tan), one begins to slowly have a grudging understanding for where Aziraphale's sense of taste comes from. Perhaps the poor angel was merely compensating. Or Rebelling. But Rebelling with tartan and the gavotte, as one knows very well, isn't quite Rebelling enough to be noted by Senior Management, thank God [the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, in His Glory We Sing Praises Most High] in His infinite wisdom for that.
: : :
-Anno Domini 2,007-
After he'd spoken with Miss Wright and learned of her nine-year-old son's whereabouts, Aziraphale had gently explained that she needed to relocate. She'd been understandably upset about it—mostly over leaving the house she'd grown up in—but he was firm in stating that it was necessary. He held her hand between his and quietly revealed that she was in grave danger from demons who wished to locate her child for the coming apocalypse. With her permission, the angel had placed a hand on her and impressed the black anti-possession tattoo into her skin, to guard against future attempts. He suggested she head to Canada, well out of range of the American government's register, and that he would accompany her and ensure she had a safe place to live. Essentially, the angel recreated the house (albeit a younger, more well-kept version of it) somewhere in the Yukon Territory, and then went through and furnished it with furniture identical to her own (minus the thick layers of dust and wear, of course).
With another snap, Aziraphale carved a Devil's Trap deep into the underside of the porch (and on the inside of the doors), infused the outer walls and windows with salt, and placed a carefully downwards-facing horseshoe over the main entrance. With a final, wearied smile, he hugged the poor dear and gingerly—again, with her permission—blurred her memories. Her name was now Julia Caruthers, and her few neighbors could attest to the fact she'd been living in the Yukon for many years. Her memory of the possession—too terrible to eradicate entirely—was brushed over with a vague unpleasantness that only explained the origin of her tattoo and why her house had so many pentagrams. Their only witness successfully hidden, the tired angel flew himself back to Nebraska, materializing in the passenger seat of the Bentley waiting outside the now-nonexistant Julia Wright's abandoned house.
: : :
-Anno Domini 2,007-
The ride to Alliance, Nebraska, was quiet. The strains of Queen played softly in the background as Aziraphale stared out the window, Crowley sneaking furtive glances at him out of the side of his sunglasses. The angel was unusually somber, not even touching the half-gone package of sweets lying between his feet. His well-manicured hands were folded neatly in his lap, gaze distant and contemplative. A few times the demon almost spoke, only to remain silent and refocus back on the road. Whenever some American came barrelling down towards them—driving at them on the wrong (left) side—the demon casually shifted both driver and car into the right lane, the Bentley speeding past them on the correct (left) side of the road. [9]
It was more unsettling that Aziraphale was so deep in thought, he didn't make so much as a peep about safe driving habits as Crowley very extravagantly flaunted his lack of them. At least there were no pedestrians (lucky for them, if the angel wasn't with-it enough to fret Crowley's blessed ear off as the demon swept cars into the opposite lane [10]). As the Bentley ambled into the driveway of the address Miss Wright had given them, Crowley shut off his iPod [11] with a thought and Aziraphale took a deep breath.
"Crowley." The demon glanced over, noticing the angel was staring down at his perfectly manicured hands. "This could be dangerous." The demon huffed a laugh, casting an uneasy smirk out of the window to his right.
"Really, angel? I'd have thought paying another antichrist a visit was the safer route." Aziraphale looked up at him, grey-blue eyes troubled, and Crowley bit his tongue. The angel's lips pursed in worry, and he glanced back down, fingers tightening against each other.
"He's only a child, you know. How will we explain this to him?" The demon sighed, reaching out with his left hand to awkwardly pat the angel on the shoulder. He looked off again, uncomfortable.
"Well, you know. Uh. You did pretty well with Miss Wright, and she was a nervous wreck. Can't be too hard convincing a nine-year-old he holds the keys to existence, right?" There was silence, and Crowley started when he felt a hand cover his own. He jerked it back, snake-slit yellow eyes wide behind his sunglasses. But Aziraphale was smiling, just slightly, his fingers lifted a few inches off his shoulder over where Crowley's hand had rested. His gaze seemed to slide off the demon, after a moment.
"Ah. Yes—Yes, you're right." The angel took a quick breath, shutting his eyes momentarily and squaring his shoulders. Crowley huffed.
"Of course I'm right, idiot."
"Delicacy, that's the ticket." Aziraphale muttered it like a prayer, not even seeming to hear him. The angel opened his car door, swatted it shut behind him and started to stride purposefully off towards the house before he realized Crowley hadn't followed. Aziraphale glanced back at the Bentley, and the demon grinned anxiously from behind the wheel, raising a hand in a light wave.
"Er. Figured I'd wait here, as back-up—see how it goes?" The angel glared at him, and Crowley deflated, giving up and materializing beside Aziraphale. Hands in his pockets, he scowled up at the house.
"Oh, fine." The angel shook his head at him.
"Honestly, Crowley." But the demon noticed Aziraphale was hiding another smile as he resumed heading up to the front porch. Still, Crowley skulked after him, kicking stones from the path into the grass ("All the better to ruin you with, mower-my-dear") and muttering under his breath.
"Guess it wouldn't be existence if he poofed you out of it and left me alone to deal with this mess, anyway. Bugger." A soft chuckle greeted that curse, and the angel paused before the front door to peer at the demon over his shoulder, gaze affectionate and smile sincere, suffusing the air with warmth. Crowley felt a little tingle in the back of his neck, but before he could say anything, the angel spoke.
"Stiff upper lip, dear boy." Aziraphale turned and knocked.
[9] Crowley knew perfectly well, of course, that Americans drove on the right side of the road. He'd simply acquired a taste for the British tendency, and—on long remote stretches of road in America (such as the one they were currently driving on)—tended to revert to driving on the left side. It also had the added bonus of first-surprising-then-angering the other driver, and when would Crowley ever pass up a chance to do low-grade evil?
[10] like they were something thin that came in boxes and were spelled with four-fifths of the same letters.
[11] A sixth-generation, 160-GB sleek silver iPod Classic, to be precise. Cassette decks had gone out of style along with tucking in one's shirt, CD players were for the post-apocalypse-born hipster crowd, and Crowley was nothing if not up-to-date on the humans' latest technological innovations. Never mind that any song played more than fifty times turned into a Queen hit, because that was easy enough to fix. (He wiped the memory on the iPod by plugging it into the computer and then unplugging it, so everything was re-synced. The only reason this didn't fail was because Crowley naturally assumed that's how iTunes libraries worked, and never bothered to get as far as thinking that actually turning the computer on might be a prerequisite. Of course, that didn't mean he didn't lazily put-off re-syncing it for as long as he could stand it. As an added bonus, Crowley always assumed he had the latest version of technology, and so he did. In 2005, Crowley's fourth-generation iPod Classic had become a fifth-generation iPod Classic.) But anyway, as a result, he didn't lose all his music the way his cassettes had gone, before. And yet, it was a sad constant fact that Hell still preferred interrupting whatever he was listening to in order to communicate with him, and that never stopped being annoying. Especially since everyone had cell phones, now. It was bloody 2007, for Manchester's sake!
: : :
-Anno Domini 2,007-
The woman who answered the door was a far cry from Julia Wright-now-Caruthers. Her hair was dark, face worn from much work but still healthy and pleasant. Aziraphale smiled warmly at her, but Crowley impatiently elbowed him aside and snapped his fingers in her face. Her expression went blank and the demon ignored the scolding look Aziraphale fixed him with.
"Where is the boy?" The woman's voice was impassive.
"In the backyard, with my husband." Crowley nodded and pushed past her. Aziraphale murmured something to her, and the woman walked into the living room, presumably to sit on the couch and fall asleep. He caught up with Crowley just as the demon reached the back door, and grabbed his arm, hissing.
"What are you doing? We don't want to invoke his wrath!" Crowley scowled at him.
"Look, I didn't do her any harm and you had your way with the miss in Elk Creek. Now it's my turn. His powers haven't started to manifest, yet, so there's nothing to fear." His hand fell on the handle, snake-slit eyes behind his sunglasses peering in through the window, zoning in on the two humans running around on the grass. Aziraphale's voice was close to his ear, his hold on the demon's arm tightening.
"Crowley. Just because he hasn't grown into his powers doesn't mean it's a good idea to—" The demon flashed him a cocksure grin, leaning in to whisper conspirationally.
"Ever heard of Good Cop, Bad Cop?" Aziraphale looked puzzled.
"…is that a board game?" Crowley rolled his eyes, the drama of the moment ruined.
"No. It's a tactic that American policemen stereotypically use." The demon waved his hand, vaguely. "I'll greet the kid like an enemy, scare him a bit, and you come in and act…" He trailed off as the angel continued to stare at him, uncomprehending. Crowley sighed the sigh of the long-suffering, patted the angel's shoulder and turned the handle, stepping out into the backyard while muttering under his breath. "Just act like yourself, Zira."
Predictably, the boy's father spotted Crowley instantly and immediately went on the offensive, striding towards him while raising his voice in inquiry and challenge. Aziraphale dithered behind the back door, unsure of how to proceed and paralyzed with indecision as he watched Crowley snap his fingers in the man's face disinterestedly, not breaking stride. The man immediately froze, arms falling limp by his sides, unmoving. The child's eyes widened in fear, but Crowley walked right up to him, staring down at the boy. After a moment, the demon raised his hand. Aziraphale panicked as he saw demonic power crackle between the demon's fingers and burst out from the back door. He sprinted across the yard to catch Crowley's wrist and shove him away from the child, tone chiding and slightly out-of-breath.
"Crowley! A-Are you thinking at all? What, praytell, were you—you planning to do just now?" Crowley winced as he sat up, then—unexpectedly—cowered in fear, lifting an arm over his head as though to ward off a blow. Aziraphale's eyebrows rose high on his forehead.
"Oh, please forgive me, Mighty Angel!" Said 'Mighty Angel's lips parted in mystified surprise, and a corner of Crowley's mouth quirked up even as he didn't miss a beat and only continued to wail pathetically. "I knew not what I was doing! Please show mercy on this unworthy soul! I have seen the error of my ways, and repent!" At that, Crowley crawled up to the angel and bent down as though to start kissing his loafers. Aziraphale kicked at him, brows finally descending in annoyance as Crowley gave a melodramatic shriek. "Oh, I am smote!" The demon also exaggerated the force of said kick, body arcing through the air until he landed, supine, on the grass. Aziraphale stared at him for a moment, then squatted down to prod at the demon's foot. It twitched. The angel sighed, and turned to give a strained smile to the wide-eyed boy beside him.
"You are Jesse Turner, yes? My name is Aziraphale. I am an angel." He tipped his head, allowing his halo to manifest (and took a small, unkind bit of satisfaction as Crowley grunted in pain at the holy light and curled up on his side, trying to limit the exposure). Aziraphale patted the poor demon's thigh. "This is Crowley. He is my…" A brow quirked, and a very small smile curled over the angel's face. "Apprentice." Aziraphale heard Crowley gurgle in shock and slowly stood, sighing the sigh of the much-put-upon. "I am sorry for the trouble, dear lad, but he is still in training and has yet to learn to curb his more engrained impulses. Isn't that right, my dear?" To the point, the angel let the holy light emanating from him spike, almost blindingly. Crowley groaned in pain, only daring to peer out from the shade of his arm with a hiss, eyes narrowed. After a moment, Aziraphale dimmed his Grace so it wouldn't burn him anymore, feeling the lesson had been taught.
"Yes, Sir." The demon murmured glumly, moving to sit up, shoulders slouched forward. Aziraphale pressed a hand to Crowley's shoulder, stood, released him and turned to face the boy. Jesse was squinting at them.
"If you're an angel, where're your wings?" Aziraphale smiled indulgently, and allowed them to manifest, spreading out on either side of him. The wind from the unfurling ruffled both Crowley and Jesse's hair, and the nine-year-old's eyes widened. He stepped forward, and lifted a hand to touch the feathers. Aziraphale dipped his wing in permission (and for easier access), smiling at the awe on the young boy's face.
"I speak the truth, dear lad." Jesse turned to him, fingers still reverently brushing over Aziraphale's wing.
"But… why? What do you want?" The angel smiled very gently, and bent down to Jesse's level, hands braced on his own knees. Aziraphale called his wings back. His Radiance also lessened noticeably and, unheard, Crowley breathed a sigh of relief.
"You are a very special boy, Jesse Turner. Crowley and I are to watch over you."
-Annis Domini 2,007 ad 2,008-
Very gradually, Aziraphale explained to Jesse the events surrounding his birth while Crowley kept watch from a distance. (Lest Hell contact him, and sense the antichrist nearby.) At the boy's insistence, they even paid a visit to Julia Caruthers in Canada—invisible, of course—so Jesse could at least see his biological mother. As 2007 gave way to 2008, Aziraphale was sure to keep the family operating normally, and only appeared to Jesse when his parents were out. They worked late often, leaving the boy to fend for himself, and the angel was all too happy to take on the role of part-time caretaker. Aziraphale became more than just a friend, with Jesse viewing him like a treasured uncle. The boy listened with rapt attention to everything he said, especially as Aziraphale cautioned Jesse to beware of his blossoming powers. There were a few isolated incidents, but on the whole Jesse was getting a good handle on them and learning to control his influence over his surroundings.
Crowley did not interact nearly as much with Jesse as Aziraphale did. Jesse treated the demon with a sort of kind negligence, while Crowley tried to stay out of the boy's way as much as possible. He continued the show of being Aziraphale's 'apprentice', but it wasn't as excruciating as it could have been. Aziraphale wasn't cruel about it—he acted like a benevolent master to an apprentice in front of Jesse, but elsewhere clearly still considered Crowley an equal. The angel also instilled a certain degree of respect in Jesse for Crowley, saying something about 'how a man treats his inferiors', but the demon secretly suspected it to be a preservation technique. After all, if Jesse respected Aziraphale and Aziraphale told Jesse Crowley was worthy of respect, the kid would listen. (And probably not destroy Crowley on a whim.)
Behind the scenes (and after the first few months), Aziraphale seemed perplexed about something. Crowley tried asking him about it, but was waved away as the angel dismissed it as nothing. Soon, though, Aziraphale started making trips while Jesse was in school, leaving Crowley to 'mind the house', as it were. The angel returned looking worried, and Crowley again pressed him for information. But Aziraphale was stubborn, and said—quite firmly—that he would not share what he had found until he was absolutely certain about it. So Crowley's curiosity gnawed away at him until finally, one cool morning in 2009, Aziraphale joined him on the roof as Jesse rumbled safely down the block in the school bus.
-Anno Domini 2,009-
"There are more angels on Earth." Aziraphale stated this very calmly, not reacting as Crowley nearly fell off the roof beside him. The demon clambered back up, eyes narrow and nervous.
"What?" The angel heaved a sigh, and glanced towards his friend, expression troubled.
"I trust you've received the changed date for the apocalypse?" Crowley frowned.
"Yeah, so?" Aziraphale smiled, a little bitterly.
"Has anyone else mentioned the change?" Crowley opened his mouth, then shut it. He stared.
"You can't mean—" Aziraphale looked away, his tight shoulders radiating restrained anger.
"I believe Heaven has wiped the minds of its subordinates after every failed apocalypse."
"What? But… No, there was ours, then Y2K, and now—"
"The date is set for May 21, 2011, yes." Aziraphale interrupted crisply, shaking his head in awe at the arrogance of his superiors. "No one else seems to notice when they change the date. Everyone just obeys. Has your side—?"
"Now that you mention it, people aren't really complaining—you really think they—?"
"I do. And for some reason, due to Adam's influence or—"
"Whatever it is, we're the only ones that remember these updates, you mean?" The angel nodded.
"Yes. Aside from Father, Metatron, the Archangels and Lucifer, most likely."
"Right…" Crowley drummed his fingers on the roof, thinking. "But what's this have to do with there being more angels on Earth? Aren't there usually some floating around?" Aziraphale shook his head, a few plump fingers smoothing out creases in his trousers, distractedly.
"Not this many. Not in human form. Heaven is planning something, and part of their plan is to have angels stationed on Earth in human vessels." Crowley jerked, making a noise of surprise.
"What? Vessels! But those haven't been used since—"
"The Son was on Earth. It's been two millennia, I'm aware." Angelic fingers started to pluck, fretingly, at a fraying thread. "I don't know what it means—the Orders weren't given to me, you know. But it seems like they're all of captain Grace-levels, so that means Heaven wants angels on Earth who will obey but can command." Crowley hissed uneasily to himself at this information.
"How long have they been here, Zira?" Aziraphale heaved a sigh, his shoulders slumping.
"I can't be sure, dear. But—" The angel suddenly straightened, back stiff. Crowley peered at him.
"What's wrong?" But Aziraphale wasn't listening to him, grey-blue eyes narrowed and staring straight ahead, fingers twisting sharply into the material of his trousers. Crowley remained perfectly still, watching him warily as, after a few minutes, Aziraphale's Grace started to fluctuate. The invisible shield around them rippled, and at that the demon finally raised a hand, carefully shaking the angel's shoulder and wincing when the contact burned his fingertips. "Zira." The angel blinked, and looked at him. His Grace returned to normal, and Crowley relaxed as the pain in his fingers disappeared, smiling a little. "You all right?" Aziraphale frowned slightly, but nodded, turning away again.
"Yes, of course. It's just…" Crowley let his fingers slip down, briefly squeezing the angel's upper arm.
"What?" Aziraphale's brows furrowed as the angel heaved a frustrated sigh, bowing his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I can't determine how long they've been on Earth. Their Grace is interacting oddly with their vessels, and I can't feel a human soul." Crowley hissed, immediately drawing conclusions and cutting off Aziraphale's quiet gasp of realization.
"Ssey wouldn'ts."
"Now, Crowley—" The demon grit his teeth, shaking his head, yellow eyes glowing behind dark lenses as he pulled the angel around to face him.
"Tell me those hallowed bastards wouldn't consume a vessel's soul just so they could have the body!" Aziraphale winced as the demon's hold on his arm tightened unconsciously and lifted a hand to rest over the whitened knuckles, leaning to meet the demon's enraged stare, eyes calm and voice quiet and sure.
"Crowley. I did not sense that they'd consumed the soul. I merely said there wasn't one." The demon growled.
"What's the difference?" Aziraphale's fingers squeezed his, in comfort.
"There would be a residual imprint of the consumption. Other angels can tell if a brother has consumed or touched a soul—to merely touch one is a different imprint, and what I'm sensing. They haven't consumed the souls, so it must be that they only… directed them away." Aziraphale's voice dropped, almost mumbling to himself. "But how could a common angel direct a human soul away from its body, when the two merge at birth?" Crowley let out a harsh laugh, another insight leaping upon him.
"Maybe it never merged in the first place." He grinned as the angel blinked at him, startled, but the pieces were starting to slot into place. Aziraphale's tone was thoughtful.
"It's possible, at least." Crowley snorted, releasing his hold and shaking the angel's hand off.
"Self-righteous bastards. Stealing bodies and redirecting souls just so they can have soldiers ready on Earth?" Aziraphale sighed beside him, shaking his head silently.
"And we still don't know why. What could be the point?" Crowley grinned, fingertips tapping edgily over the roof tiles beneath him.
"We've got two years to find out, angel."
-Anno Domini 2,010-
After Jesse's twelfth birthday, Aziraphale told him about Adam Young, and encouraged the boy to talk to him, as Adam had a much better idea of how to be both an antichrist and a normal person than either Aziraphale or Crowley did. Things continued to go smoothly. Jesse developed, getting better at control even if he subconsciously slipped, at times. He hadn't contacted Adam, yet, but Aziraphale decided it was best to let the boy make his own decisions as he grew older. Crowley kept an eye on demons in the area and Aziraphale traveled further and further during the day while Jesse was at school, locating more angels the more ground he covered. He was well-versed in keeping himself invisible to his brothers (he'd been on Earth for over six thousand years, after all) and so managed to gather information without being discovered. One time he was gone for a few days, however, and Crowley was forced to 'make nice' with Jesse in his absence, assuring the boy that Aziraphale was fine even as he himself hummed with worry.
Aziraphale returned after three days, looking a little worse for wear but sporting a tired smile, nonetheless. He assured Crowley he was fine, just a little unexpected bump, but sharp eyes noticed the remains of Grace not his own—as though the Principality had gone a few rounds with another angel. Still, Aziraphale firmly insisted it was nothing to worry about, and in the end Crowley had to let it go.
-Anno Domini 2,010, May-
A month passed, and Crowley kept up his usual protective vigil, sitting on the roof of the house (invisible, of course) and unabashedly taking advantage of the hot Nebraska sun. His serpentine eyes narrowed as an old black car—a Chevy, but in impressive condition—parked at the end of the block. Two tall men in suits emerged from it, the car doors squeaking as they shut, and Crowley felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his gut as they approached the first house at the end of the block. As they went door-to-door, getting closer all the time, Crowley grew more anxious. By the time they reached the Turners' mailbox, he was a man-shaped puddle of nerves.
Jesse was home, his parents still at work, and Aziraphale was in the kitchen, making dinner as the boy did his homework. A nagging feeling in the back of his head caused Crowley to slowly slide behind the crest of the roof, watching as the two men bickered with each other as they hopped off the sidewalk and up the steps. Something seemed familiar about them—unsettlingly familiar. Either way, Crowley knew he had to warn Aziraphale, and so he glided down to the kitchen window just as the doorbell rang. He slipped easily inside, went visible, and caught Aziraphale's arm as he was about to go answer it, shaking his head. The angel frowned at him, but nodded for Jesse to go get the door. (They couldn't answer it, anyway, of course—as far as the neighbors knew, only three people lived in this house, and neither a bookish man in his thirties nor a stylish man in his twenties were one of them.) They both kept an ear out for Jesse's conversation, but also held their own.
"Crowley?" The demon shushed him, pulling the angel along towards the back door, gaze shifty.
"Something's not right." Voices could be heard down the hall, and Crowley felt a cold sweat break out over his forehead. "We should get out of here." His intuition had kept him alive more often than not. Predictably, Aziraphale couldn't feel the strained atmosphere, at all. Concerned, the angel lifted the back of his hand to the demon's clammy forehead.
"Are you all right, dear? You're paler than usual—would you like a cup of tea?" Crowley almost screamed at the angel, wanted to shake some sense into him, but his paranoia-senses were going haywire as he heard the tread of two pairs of heavy feet echo down the hall. Crowley was out of the room in a second, invisible again and vaulting over the fence behind the backyard, leaving a perplexed Aziraphale to stare bemusedly after him.
: : :
"Er—hello." The angel stated awkwardly, turning to take in the officials with their broad shoulders and tall frames. "Jesse, dear, who are these men?" The boy shuffled his feet, blinking up at him. One of the men moved, slightly, behind him. Aziraphale's eyes rose to watch him.
"Just some FBI guys. Said they had some questions." Aziraphale smiled slightly, nodding a bit, not taking his eyes off the two men, shifting to eye them both, in turn.
"I see." He smiled at Jesse, then, disarmingly. "Well, don't worry, I'll go have a chat with them. Why don't you get back to your homework?" Jesse nodded, hopping back up onto his kitchen chair.
"OK." Aziraphale pressed the boy's shoulder reassuringly with his palm as he walked past him, placing himself between Jesse and the two men, still smiling.
"Gentlemen, if you'll head back down the hall, I'll direct you to the living room. Would you care for some tea?" The taller of the two flashed him a smile, and Aziraphale felt the other man watching him, but ignored it.
"No, but thanks. We just have a few questions." Aziraphale nodded, and followed the two men down the hall. They entered the living room, and Aziraphale took a seat on a chair while the men sat on the couch across from him. He folded his hands in his lap and gazed silently at them, waiting. The shorter one seemed to shift in discomfort, but the taller one barged ahead, face animated and amiable. "So, uh, you're Jesse's—?"
"Uncle." The angel stated firmly. "From England." The taller man tilted his head, brown eyes wide and attentive.
"England, huh? Quite a distance. How long've you been here? Why'd you come?" Aziraphale allowed himself a small smile, but his back was a bit rigid, his voice stiff.
"For a few years. Jesse's parents are quite busy, and a child needs supervision." The taller man laughed, agreeing, and Aziraphale felt his eyes narrow. "I'm sorry, what did you say your names were, again? Might I see your badges?" The shorter man grinned at him, reaching into his suit pocket as his partner did the same.
"Oh, sorry. We already flashed them for the kid. Here you go." Aziraphale leaned forward as they presented their badges, and squinted. After a moment, he relaxed, resettling into his chair.
"I see. Agents Page and Plant, is it?" The taller one—Agent Plant—beamed again, charmingly.
"That's us. And you are—?" Aziraphale quietly returned the smile.
"Azar Afel. Pleased to make your acquaintance." The shorter man—Agent Page—blinked at him.
"Huh. That's an odd name, isn't it? You're English, but—" The angel smiled him into silence.
"My father had a great affection for Hebrew names. But I trust you are not here to learn about my family history?" Agent Page looked taken aback, almost a little angry, but the taller Agent Plant quickly interceded.
"You're right, sorry, we'll get to the point. Have you noticed any strange phenomena, recently?" Aziraphale's brows furrowed, and he glanced from Agent Plant to Agent Page, then back again.
"'Strange'? What do you mean?" The shorter Agent Page cut in, green eyes meeting his seriously.
"Have you felt any sudden warmth or presence in the room with you, or strange scents from out of nowhere? Maybe some colorful flashes of light in the corner of your vision, or weird dreams?" Aziraphale began to frown, his forehead wrinkling, and the taller Agent Plant cut in.
"Or feathers in strange places?" Aziraphale looked up in alarm, his face tense in surprise.
"Feathers? W-Where ever would they come from?" His eyes nervously slipped between the two agents, his fingers starting to wring each other. "You're talking as though—"
"Angels." Agent Page stated with compelling conviction, those green eyes narrowing. "We're asking if you've seen or sensed any angels around here, lately." Aziraphale stared at them, shocked and starting to feel very cornered, for some reason. He still managed a smile, suddenly feeling rather exposed.
"No—no, of course not. Angels—what would they be doing here, of all places?" Agent Page smiled at him—a sort of bad-boy, rakish smile.
"See, that's the thing. We've heard about miracles around here. Strange happenings—you must've seen the news. People here are acting nicer than usual. Doing more good deeds. That doesn't strike you as suspicious?" Aziraphale forced a humoring laugh, shaking his head. (Inside, he felt a little flustered and guilty—he'd only been doing his job! Inspiring people to do good works—he never thought he'd be traced by them!)
"You lads certainly have quite the imagination. Our town's just like any other, people acting kindly as well as badly, and—" (Crowley'd been doing work, too, of course. Why weren't his deeds arousing suspicion?) Agent Plant bowed his head as he interrupted, a little apologetically, brown eyes soft and understanding.
"This is America, Mr. Afel. I'm sorry to say it's more common to find people acting badly instead of kindly." He glanced at his partner, and Agent Page nodded.
"Yeah." Agent Page's green eyes peered at him. "You feeling all right? You seem a little pale." Aziraphale stiffened again, then plastered on another smile.
"I'm just fine, thank you for asking. But are there many more questions? I really should be getting back to Jesse, a lad needs his dinner, and you caught me just in the middle of—" Agent Page's eyes narrowed, and Aziraphale found himself swallowing, mind racing as to how to get out of this. These men knew much about angels. Too much. He'd heard of their kind, of course, but he'd been in England so long and humans passed away so quickly—but how could he have forgotten about hunters, of all things, and (more importantly) how could he keep his true identity concealed? Aziraphale's fingers twined together as he eyed their jackets, nervously (wondering what angel-weapons they might contain), and the taller Agent Plant smiled disarmingly at him.
"Just a few more, if you don't mind." Aziraphale nodded, still slightly shaken from his realization, and managed a weak smile.
"Yes, well… You were saying? Honestly, now—you can't mean angels, of all things—"
"We do." Agent Plant stated firmly, brown eyes bright and earnest, again. "We're not lying to you. There's an angel around here, no doubt about it. Have you noticed anyone acting strange, lately? Any sudden changes in behavior?" Aziraphale shook his head, and Agent Page frowned at him.
"Mr. Afel, please. We're just trying to help." Aziraphale bit his lip, smiling beseechingly at them.
"I'm afraid I don't understand. Why are you trying to find an angel? Aren't they—" Agent Plant's face hardened, and he broke in, voice caustic.
"They're not like what you read about in the Bible." Startled at the tone, Aziraphale looked at him. Those brown eyes were hard and passionate, almost angry.
"What?"
"Angels. They're not kind and merciful and forgiving. They're—"
"Dicks." Agent Page cut in, and Aziraphale stared at him. Green eyes were set, completely unyielding. "They're mindless soldiers who possess people, mess with minds, and don't care who gets caught in the crossfire if they're in a fight—especially one with demons." Aziraphale felt faint.
"D-Demons?" He managed, feebly. Agent Plant nodded at him, lips pursed as though he didn't like revealing this—like he was shattering Aziraphale's illusion of reality, or something.
"I'm afraid so. Demons, angels, all those monsters in the movies—they're real." Agent Plant smiled, just a bit. "But don't worry, we take care of them." He gestured to his partner and himself. "We hunt them, make sure they don't hurt people." Aziraphale felt uneasy again, but smiled a bit to cover it.
"Such honorable work." Agent Page looked a tad embarrassed, but Agent Plant just gave him a wide, open smile.
"It's the family business, Mr. Afel. Now, are you sure you can't tell us anything useful?" Aziraphale bit his lip, glancing between the two men, and sighed. He looked down at his hands, smiling ruefully.
"I'm afraid anything I would tell you wouldn't help that much." Agent Plant's big hand moved forward, covering his, and when Aziraphale looked up those brown eyes were practically begging him.
"Anything you know might help. Even the smallest detail could be important. Please." Aziraphale glanced off to the side, and exhaled slowly.
"You boys might not like what you hear." The angel murmured to himself, and Agent Plant started in.
"Mr. Afel, plea—"
"Allar bia." [12] Aziraphale stated, very softly, looking sadly at them. Agent Plant's mouth continued moving, but no sound came out. They both rose, quickly, obviously afraid and about to lash out. No noise escaped their throats. The angel stood, gazing at them seriously. "I know you are hunters, but it has been a long time since my last encounter." Aziraphale shook his head and spoke quietly, again, but with much power.
"Page." [13] They stopped in mid-reach for (presumably) the angel-weapons concealed by their jackets, and Aziraphale gave them another apologetic smile. "I'm sorry for this, but I mean neither Jesse nor this town any harm." He sighed, shaking his head and walking forward, raising his hands. "It would be best for you both to forget me and leave here at once." Aziraphale paused, gazing respectively into both green and brown eyes. He smiled kindly.
"All angels are not soldiers, my dears. And not all of us are mindless." The angel lifted an index and middle finger, pressed together, to each of the men's foreheads and uttered a final incantation. "Bams." [14]. With the contact, they collapsed to the floor, unconscious. Crowley poofed into existence on the other side of the couch, and Aziraphale—miffed at his earlier disappearance—gave him a reproachful™ look. The demon didn't notice, just whistled, eyes glued to the two bodies on the floor.
"Wow. Extreme measures, Zira? That's not like you." The angel shook his head, frowning when Crowley squatted down to poke irreverently at Agent Page's forehead.
"I had no choice. The last hunters I recall meeting weren't exactly gentlemen, you know." Crowley snorted as he straightened, hands sliding into the pockets of his black slacks.
"Geez, angel. I don't believe it. You nailed the Winchesters." Aziraphale gave him an odd look and Crowley turned incredulous. "Haven't you heard of them?" The angel just continued to stare, brow furrowed, and Crowley huffed in disbelief. Beginners had all the luck. "They're on Hell's Most Wanted list. Real pains in the arse of the Nobility." The demon waved a hand, tone growing bored as he recited. "Getting in the way of the Onward March of Evil and all that, blahblahblah." He paused, surveying them, voice dropping as he mused aloud, toeing at Agent Plant's suit jacket with his must-be-black-snakeskin boots. "Should've recognized them right off, I guess. The tells are all there, but it's hard to remember a hunter you haven't met, personally." Aziraphale found his gaze wandering back over the two unconscious men, tone sympathetic as he sighed.
"The poor dears. They're so young…" He trailed off, gazing at Crowley. The demon peered back at him.
"What?"
"Well, we still have to get them back to their car, old boy. And preferably somewhere far away from here, for when they wake up." Crowley raised an eyebrow, and lifted his hand to miracle them away. Aziraphale glared at him before he could, and the demon scowled.
"What? They're huge! I'm not going to drag these bloody Yanks all the way down the block just because you don't like teleporting people!" Aziraphale sniffed, arms crossing over his front as he turned away, nose high in the air.
"I neutralized them! Might I remind you that you ran away?" Crowley snarled, waving a hand about, frustrated.
"Hey, I was watching. Besides—they were creature- and demon-hunters long before they started in on angels. Self-preservation is a must around guys like these, Zira!" Aziraphale just huffed.
"Oh, please." He turned his head, narrowing a glare on the demon. "We've been in this together since the Nopacalypse. I can't believe you would just—What?" Crowley had gone silent, his expression strange.
"…Nopacalypse? Nopacalypse? That's what you've been calling it?" On the very verge of laughter, his mouth seemed to be straining not to rise into a grin. (It looked very odd, indeed.) Aziraphale's expression went stony at the mockery, his voice stiff and rising another offended notch. (He'd been saying it in his head so long, it'd just slipped out—he hadn't said it around Crowley, really, in all these years? Not that they talked about it all that much, but still…)
"And just what is the matter with it? It's a perfectly suitable name, you know precisely what I'm referring to, and—" Crowley bowed his head, shaking it in disbelief.
"You're impossible, angel." He drew a quick, momentarily-glowing sigil in front of him, and the Winchesters disappeared as it did. He smirked at the little offended squawk from his friend, and glanced up at him. "They're back in their car, parked in front of their hotel, no worries." Crowley's face took on a thoughtful look, as he scribbled another (slightly more complicated) squiggle in the air. Behind black lenses, yellow snake eyes narrowed towards the ceiling, in concentration. "And now—on top of you making them not-remember Jesse's house, him, us, or anything that occurred in it—they won't remember why they came here in the first place, will leave first thing when they wake up, and this little incident will be purged from their minds by the end of the day tomorrow." The demon beamed mockingly at Aziraphale at the end of the long, rambling sentence, angling his eyebrows meaningfully. "Better, oh Mighty Principality?" The angel huffed again.
"Oh, hush." Aziraphale seemed placated, though, by the way he then made to herd Crowley before him as he headed back towards the kitchen. "Come now, I've got to finish dinner. You can help." Crowley laughed uneasily as they entered the kitchen, glancing back at the angel, beseechingly.
"W-Well I'd love to—you know me, angel, always eager to help—but I really should be—" Aziraphale firmly pushed him before the cutting board on the counter, where half a carrot lay in neat circular slices.
"Start there. I daresay you'll enjoy the knife a bit too much." The angel cast him a wry look, and Crowley offered up a nervous smile. He didn't cook much.
"Er. Right." The demon glanced down, and picked it up.
Not a minute later, blood fountained spectacularly in the air, followed by a distressed hiss. Aziraphale spoke serenely from his place in front of the stove, stirring with eyes calmly focused on the boiling broth.
"Do please tone down your theatrics and try not to stain anything, dearest."
Jesse didn't even look up.
[12] Enochian, "Bind up their voices."
[13] Enochian, "Be still."
[14] Enochian, "Let them forget."
~END CHAPTER FOUR~