Chapter Ten
Aziraphale woke up in the Bentley, curled up into one of the seats. He was warm, and tired—and content. His feet were bare, for no apparent reason, and Aziraphale curled his toes into the soft that surrounded him.
Blanket.
Right, then, he was covered in a blanket. A nice blanket. A warm blanket. Why?
Aziraphale mumbled something that even he didn't quite understand, and rolled over. The blanket fell away from his eyes, and light flooded in.
"Crowley? My dear, where are you?" Odd, wasn't it, that his was the first name that came to mind. It hadn't always been that way. He hadn't always…
Er.
Well, perhaps it had been that way for the past few decades or so. Ever since the Tadfield Apocolypse, and the eleven years preceding it. Ever since he'd actually spent time with the demon… Well, Aziraphale thought, I'm rather lucky, aren't I?
There was a dark shape in the passenger-side front seat, and it stirred. A smell that Aziraphale had come to recognize as alcohol expelled from the body, vaguely different from normal alcohol, wafted off it.
"Crowley?"
"Angel?"
"Hmn." Aziraphale half-rose from his corner, yawning. "I don't believe I've slept in the past few decades. I'd forgotten what it was like to dream."
Crowley yawned. "What was the dream?"
"I don't remember." Aziraphale shrugged. "Good, though. Where are Jennifer and Johnael?"
Crowley snaked over the seat, arching his back impossibly. "Hmn?"
"If I recall correctly, we helped them back to the Bentley and… You decided not to drive with two drunk teenagers in the car?"
"You wanna go ninety miles an hour in Central London with a drunk girl giving you a lap dance?"
Aziraphale sighed and kissed him briefly on the lips. Crowley rolled his eyes. "You know, you could go the speed limit, my dear."
"Nah, I like it here…" Crowley kissed Aziraphale in return, holding the angel close…
But Aziraphale pulled away. "Not the time nor the place, Crowley," he said, a tad regretfully. "Where are Jennifer and Johnael?"
Crowley shrugged upside-down. "I do not know," he said. "Check outside the Bentley. Maybe they've finally got together and they're rolling around in a ditch somewhere."
"Really, my dear," said Aziraphale soothingly. He was mildly worried.
"Demonic influence, you know," Crowley added, wiggling his eyebrows.
"You're in a good mood this morning."
"Yes," said Crowley. "A very good mood. A splendid mood. A terrific, fantastic, wonderful mood. Haven't felt this good since the fifteenth century."
"What happened in the fifteenth century?" Aziraphale asked, wracking his brain for some special event. None immediately came to mind.
"It wasn't the fourteenth," said Crowley. Ah. That would be a good reason to like the fifteenth century, then. Aziraphale left the car. "Angel?"
"Crowley, we have a problem," Aziraphale said. "Er."
"What? Wait, where're…"
"We seem to have misplaced the antichrist," said Aziraphale. "Again."
Crowley sighed. "And the good mood is gone. What, should we look for them?"
"Well, I'd think so." Azriaphale sighed. "Angels can sense other angels. Perhaps I'll be able to sense Johnael."
"Go for it," said Crowley. He wished demons could do that. It would make life a lot easier. He wouldn't have to watch his back every time he went Down There, for instance. Hastur was still out to get him.
"He's about… Oh. My. What did they do?"
"Where are they?"
"About two miles outside of Bristol," said Aziraphale. "Goodness."
"That's on the other side of England," said Crowley. "What the Manchester did they do?"
"So I gotta ask, angel," Jen said. She'd picked up Crowley's nickname, which she probably should have felt something about. "What's Heaven like?"
"I thought you didn't believe in Heaven."
"No," Jen said. "Meaning I doubt I'm gonna see it. So what's it like?"
"What?"
"Heaven. What. Is. Heaven. Like? Shiza, Johnael, whatever happened to angelic intelligence?"
John glared at her. "It's shiny," he said. "Like, a silver city. Mainly marble, steel. All the offices are where the angels live, and they're all full wood interior."
"You sound disappointed." Jen laughed. "You were expecting, what, platinum penthouses with golden bathrooms?"
"A little bit. Ruler of the universe, you know, he could indulge."
They walked. And walked. And walked.
"Where the hell are we?" Jen asked.
"I don't know, Jen, that's why we're looking for inhabitants."
"You mean people."
"Sure." John kicked at a rock. "Maybe we should try, like, hitchhiking."
"Hitchhiking?" Jen asked.
The first person to stop was an English trucker, which Jen hadn't even known existed. He wouldn't let John in the truck, which earned him a punch and a kick to the groin. When he was finished howling in pain, he drove away.
"What kind of sicko finds a dress like this attractive?" Jen asked.
"Well, it's short," said John.
"It's hideous."
"And kinky."
"Oh, you think it's kinky, do you? That why you miracled it up for me?"
"Shut up, Jennifer."
Jen stuck out her thumb, trying to attract attention and blend in with the English countryside at the same time. There was a balance between looking sexy enough to pick up and homely enough to actually get home.
John was acting angelically useless, which pissed her off even more that she was already.
Although, admittedly, he probably wouldn't attract any more attention than she would.
"Did you have to make it pink?" Jen asked, sticking out her hip in what she hoped was a semi-attractive manner. "Because you know I hate pink."
"You can take it off if you like."
"What, do you wanna see me naked?"
"No. I'm scarred for eternity already, thanks."
"No problem." Jen sighed. "Can't you change it?"
"What, the nudity? Don't they have operations for that?"
"What? No, the dress! Into, I dunno, what Zira usually miracles up for me?"
"Why would you want that? It's old-fashioned. And he's got a strange affinity for tartan."
"Tartan rocks. And why would I want this?" She sighed. "Forget it, I'll get Zira to whip me up something decent when we get home."
"Jen, I'm never going home."
Awkward silence. Jen scratched her nose thoughtfully.
"I meant the bookstore."
"That's not home."
"To you," she said. "The bookstore's home to me. It's the best home I've ever had, and you don't deserve to live there. Okay? I'm still mad at you, by the way."
"Fine."
"Furious, in fact."
"Don't care."
"Might just have to inconveniently discorporate you."
"What?"
"Temporarily kill you. I can do that, you know. You won't die or anything."
"I would kick your—"
"Language."
"Fine, smite you." John glared at her. "When did our fighting get so serious?"
"I dunno. When'd you turn up in Soho, again?"
There was a whine like an engine in the distance.
Another awkward silence.
"So… They are dating, then?"
"Zira and Crowley? Yes. You read the book."
"A while ago. Didn't strike me as a couple."
"Hm. Nor me, actually, but… You gotta get to know them." Jen sighed. "You can't tell, you know. Anyone. Because they really love each other, and if you told someone Up or Down There, they'd be split apart and never allowed to see each other again and most likely tortured…"
"Not Aziraphale," said John, confused.
"Zira, too. Ever heard of Gomorrah? Trust me, they'll be punished."
"Then why are they dating?"
Jen gave him a Look, which had been perfected over the years. Her eyebrows were raised slightly, with hair falling into her face as she looked over her shoulder at him.
"How someone like you got to be an angel, I'll never know," Jen said. "John, they're in love."
"Love be damned, they're in serious danger."
"Love's worth it," she said softly. "According to Aziraphale, anyways. And I'd like to believe he's right." She looked at the road. A small black dot was advancing towards them, which was a good sign.
John looked uncomfortable again. "Jen, you aren't still…"
"Don't ask that question." She looked away, focusing her eyes on the road.
"Jen, you aren't still crushing on me, are you?"
"I said not to ask that question," she replied. "I think that's the Bentley."
"You are, aren't you?"
Lie, Jen thought. Lie, like you always do, get out of this conversation, don't hurt him…
Because if he knew how badly he'd hurt her, she'd hurt him, too.
Only she couldn't lie to him.
"No," Jen said. "I'm not crushing on you, and that's what scares me."
John was silent. Even he couldn't have missed the implications in that sentence.
"Yeah, that's the Bentley. Good. I can get the hell out of this dress."
"Need a ride?" Crowley asked, pulling up to the side of the road. "Headed for, what, a ballet?"
The angel looked at her worriedly. "Jennifer, what happened to you?"
"Please tell me that you two have my clothes in there somewhere," Jen said.
Aziraphale blinked.
"Thanks," said Jen. "What happened? Last thing I remember, you two were singing Bohemian Rhapsody off-key in two-part harmony."
"We're not entirely sure," said Aziraphale. "Come on, you two. Nothing's wrong, I assume?"
"We're fine," Jen said, plastering on a smile. But her hands couldn't stop shaking as she climbed into the back seat, and she sat as far away from John as she could.
The drive from Tadfield, to Jen, seemed considerable longer than the drive to Tadfield. She didn't say a word the entire trip, too busy staring out the window and remembering.
Random memories flashed behind her eyes.
The Belize trip and the golf carts, with John driving her nearly to death over potholes bigger than Jen was. Drysuit snorkelling in the 30-degree-farenhieght pond in her old front yard. Drama class. The Florida trip. Scuba diving together, Jen's mother making cookies, John with cookie dough splattered across an innocent expression, Guy Dijon…
It was all so random, so stupid. Who floored a golf cart on a mountainous Belizean roadway? (John. Jen had the scar to prove it.) Who went diving in a drainage pond in December? (John. His drysuit had been previously peed in, so he'd had to switch suits.) Who dressed up like a French stripper in the middle of school and named himself after mustard?
Actually, that had been a mutual friend's idea. But John had done it, and played the part infamously.
He was such an idiot sometimes. She loved him for it. For his flaws, his monotonies. He wasn't perfect, and she loved it. Loved the constant struggle for power, the differences between them. John was a good little Catholic boy, raised in a good little Catholic family, with good Catholic principals.
Jen was an atheist, a scientist, his polar opposite.
Yin and Yang.
Sometimes Jen wondered if that was what had drawn her into a brand-new copy of Good Omens in the first place. The similarities, the patterns. Jen liked patterns, especially holistic, random ones. They made the world make sense to her.
And, however big an advocate she was for chaos, it was nice to have things make sense once in a while.
"Zira, you wouldn't have Brian's and Wensley's phone numbers, would you?" Jen asked, midway through a good Demon/Angel rant on Napoleon of France. They both turned back to look at her, causing John to squeal and grip the side door of the Bentley.
"Er…" Aziraphale sighed. "Why did you want their numbers?"
"I think I had them at one point, but they were in my skirt pocket," Jen said. "Dammit. Wensley was actually mildly cute."
John groaned loudly. "I don't need to hear these things!"
"What bugs you about it so much?" Jen asked. "I'm female, Johnael, or did you forget?"
"At least you have a sex," John muttered. "I've gotta make an effort."
Silence.
"Did you ever remember," said Crowley, "Why he decided to start a land war in Asia? Your influence or mine?"
"Yours, I'm sure."
"I don't ever remember mentioning it to him," said Crowley. "And you were his good, old-fashioned lover boy…"
Aziraphale sighed. "I've told you six thousand and ninety-two times, Crowley, he was unconscious and it is not my fault that they hadn't invented CPR down here yet."
"Unconscious? Kinky, angel."
"Oh, Crowley!"
"Napoleon and Aziraphale, one unconscious in a tree," Crowley crooned, leaning away gleefully from Aziraphale's slap-questing hand. "Kay-eye-ess-ess-eye-ehn-gee…"
"Oh, shut up."
It wasn't until later, when Jen was rummaging through her underwear drawer, that she remembered the pregnancy test.
She winced.
Not yet. Later. After a few days, maybe. It took… What, three, four, five? She could wait. She could totally wait. She shoved it into the back of the drawer, trying to forget about that.
"Angel," Jen said, half-waltzing out of the back room—she'd come to think of it as "her" room, really, and it half-was. "Angel, I need a drink."
"That's Crowley's line," said Aziraphale, smiling. He was sitting at the table in the kitchenette, filling out paperwork with a golden pen. "I can't at the moment, Jennifer. I'm filing a report for Heaven."
"Hm, actually using the name for once?"
"Why don't you go with Johnael, my dear?"
Jen glanced at John, who was moodily flipping through one of the younger Bibles. He looked at her over the top of the book pensively, and she couldn't fathom his expression. Did he want to go, or did he not…?
One way to find out. She hoped he didn't.
"What d'you say, angel?" Jen asked, switching nicknames at the drop of a pin. "Care to go for dinner with me?"
"Not a date?" he asked warily.
Jen rolled her eyes. "No," she said. "Dinner. Food. Hopefully something alcoholic."
"Alright," he said, laying the book on the table, wide open and pages down. Jen winced.
"John! Close the damn book or use a bookmark, do you have any idea how old that thing is? You'll kill it!"
"It's a book! They aren't alive!"
"Blasphemy!" she said, and Aziraphale blinked. The book was closed, a white bookmark gracing its pages. "Fine, that solves that. C'mon, I want pizza and a drink."
It was very awkward. Jen and John sat at a table and didn't say a word until they ordered.
The teenage girl took their menus, and then they stared at the table for a few minutes.
"So…" said John. "I gotta ask. You're hanging out with two old gay dudes. How the hell did that happen, Jen?"
"Oh, Zira let me in from the rain one day," Jen said. "I never really left."
Silence.
"So I gotta ask," Jen said. "Do you miss being alive?"
"What?"
"Technically you're dead," Jen said. "I'm the only person from your life that you'll ever have contact with. Ever again. That's gotta be a fun feeling."
"Not really."
"Sarcasm, angel." Jen sighed. "Seriously, are you doing alright? You only died a few days ago. Don't you wanna know how your mum's doing? Your dad? Hell, what about Kerrie?"
"I don't really wanna think about it, okay?"
"I can call them, if you want."
"Jen."
"If you need."
"Jen, I'll be fine." He looked away, running his hand through his hair. A bit of Jen's heart melted into nothingness. "So you're in love with me, huh?"
"Yeah. My bad." Jen sighed. "I'm really sorry, John. I hate love, you know? Hate it. Love complicates stuff. Holds you back."
"Didn't stop you from running off to England on a whim."
"No," Jen said. "But there was nothing really keeping me back. Mum and Dad're only a phone call away, and, honestly, Zira and Crowley kinda fill that void. (Tell them that and die, by the way.) Kerrie and I have had issues for eons."
"It was always the three of us," said John. "You can't just let that die—"
"It died a long time ago," said Jen. "With you, actually, but don't get all guilty about it. I used to hang with Kerrie because she was a writer, too. One who lived down the street, one who mildly understood me. Someone I could be fun with."
"What's that got to do with me?"
"You were a helluva lot more mature," Jen said softly. "I was false with Kerrie, constantly acting the part of a teenage girl. Constantly laughing when I didn't want to. With you, I could be serious, too. And… I'm a serious person, a lot of the time. I grew up, I guess, and so did you. Kerrie didn't."
John leaned back in his chair and looked at the darkening sky. "So you ran off to England?"
"I've always wanted to," Jen said. "Nothing was holding me back. So… yeah, I left. Nothing was holding me back anymore. I didn't have you there, and my parents were… Well, they'd always be there. Kerrie wasn't exactly a tether anymore… What else would have kept me in America?"
"The freedom?" John asked. "Those rights you were always fighting for? Patriotism?"
"I'm a citizen of Earth," Jen said. "That's patriotic for me."
There was another moment of silence. Jen looked around the restaurant awkwardly, and her eyes rested on a couple in the corner. They were sitting close and kissing. She could tell where the evening was headed.
John turned his head. "Ah," he said. "Gotta love young love."
"It'll end in heartbreak," Jen said.
"What makes you say that?"
"Look at him and look at her. She's no smarter than a block of wood, and he thinks she's hot. I can guarantee you, John, he's seeing at least one other girl on the side, and she's completely in love with him."
"Nobody would cheat on someone that hot," said John. "And he's not exactly ugly. How d'you know she isn't cheating on him?"
"Her eyes," Jen said. "See, they're all doe-like and fluttery. And his are sly and… Er, a bit lazy. They keep dropping. To her chest. Trust me, it'll all end in heartbreak."
John turned to say something else, and their eyes met. Jen looked away quickly, and John pretended not to notice.
There was another awkward silence.
"I was reading some of the Shakespeare in the shop," said John. "Not bad when you understand it."
"Fucking incredible," Jen said, nodding.
Silence.
"Listen, Jen—" he said.
"I'm sorry," she said.
At the same time.
They paused.
"Jen, I'm sorry. You know I don't…"
"I'm like your sister. I know. Like I said, I can't help it."
"I do love you," John said. "Just not in a romantic way."
"Must you remind me? I'm trying my hardest to get over you, you know. It's hard, that's all."
"You've been trying since Junior year of high school," said John. "Jen, I—"
"Don't say it, alright?" Jen said. She stood. "You know what, cancel my order. I'm tired, and I'm gonna go home."
"Jen, we still have to pay—"
She flipped him the bird.
"Such a romantic," he muttered.