Chatper Eleven...
When John returned, Jen and Aziraphale were sitting in their usual chairs at the table.
He looked awkwardly at his mortal friend, but she seemed to have forgotten about the incident at the restaurant. Jen grinned happily, and, he suspected, falsely.
"Hey, um, all," he said.
"Aziraphale thinks you need Miracle Lessons," said Jen. "Because you need to tune your innate sense of right and wrong, or something. Can I sit in on them?"
"Uh, sure," said John. "Miracle Lessons?"
"Yes," said Aziraphale. "Sit. Jen, could you make some tea?"
"Can't you miracle them up?"
"Tea isn't until Lesson Sixteen," said Aziraphale. "We're only on Lesson One."
"Never act rashly in front of an old wrinkly smiling man? Or something?"
Aziraphale stared. "I say," he said, "How on earth did you know that?"
Crowley was troubled.
This was all too easy. Neither Heaven nor Hell made that bad of a mistake—shouldn't they have been keeping an eye on Jen or something? Would they have really just let her wander right into Aziraphale's arms?
It just didn't make sense.
They had an Antichrist hanging out with an angel that was known as tainted, a demon-gone-soft, and they sent a newbie? Honestly, there was no sense in…
In any of this.
There never was, never would be. So he picked up the phone to give the angel a "jingle", as Aziraphale had so expertly put it, and was only mildly surprised when Hastur popped out of the telephone.
"Hallo, Crawley," said Hastur evilly, and grinned like he'd gone slightly mad.
Crowely gulped.
Aziraphale and John were in the middle of Lesson Three: Getting Tough Stains Out of White Robes when the senior angel jolted.
"That was odd," he whispered.
"Ghost pass through you?" John asked. He'd been prone to random shivers in his mortal life.
"No," said Aziraphale, and he shook his head. "I felt as if… As if half my heart was being torn out."
"And you describe it as odd?" Jen asked, raising an eyebrow as she leaned on the table. "Because that hurts. I'd know."
John shifted in his chair.
"It was only for a moment," said Aziraphale. "And it's silly, really, I'm not even sure I have a heart. I've never really been opened up, you know."
"Zira, maybe you should call Crowley."
"Why?" Aziraphale asked. "I mean, there's no reason, and…" He glanced at the clock. "It's only been a few hours since we last saw each other, isn't that a bit early to call? I'm afraid I'm not very good at—"
"Call it a hunch," said Jen. "I'm a writer, okay? There are patterns in stories. If half your heart just got ripped out for a moment, you better call Crowley."
"But—well," said Aziraphale. "I mean, if you insist…"
"Jen, that's ridiculous," said John. "Ghost passed through him. Shivers. That happened to me all the time when I was alive."
"Yes," Jen said. "When you were alive. Not when you're dead. Zira, pick up the damn phone."
"Been a while," said Crowley, trying to keep his eyes on his… er, fellow demon, perish the thought, while searching for an escape. Thoughts zapped through his mind like lightning, each more ridiculous and pointless and suicidal than the last.
The phone rang again. Crowley reached for the receiver. Maybe, maybe, if Hastur was stupid enough…
Nope. His hand was slapped away by a lick of flame.
"I know beh'er than that," said Hastur. "You 'member wot I told you after you went an' liquidated Ligur? Yeh. Well, now I'm doin' it on orders." He grinned.
The phone rang. Crowley gave it a longing look, trying to think. It was his second line, according to the blinking light, and only Aziraphale had that number…
So close. All he needed was some holy water and some good luck. He was out of both. Crowley closed his eyes.
"So it's Hell for me, then?"
Hastur laughed. "You should be so lucky," he said, and snapped his fingers.
There was a whorl of flame—
"He's not answering," said Aziraphale. "On either line. He's probably out, Jennifer."
"Or in Hell," said John. "In pain."
"Pessimist," said Jen.
"Oh, I'm a pessimist?"
"Hell, yeah." Jen grinned. "Pessimism is the way to go. Always expect the worst, and then anything else comes as a pleasant surprise."
"That's optimistic."
"Perhaps." Jen sighed. "Try him again."
"If I must." The senior angel pressed a number, and another, and then there was a blue light.
He looked up.
"Oh," he said. "Oh, my. I hope I'll be right—"
There was a sound like zzhlip, and he was gone.
Jen shivered, once, then looked at John. "I think," she said, "That we need to check on Crowley. Wanna bet that just happened to him, too?"
Crowley opened his eyes and was mildly surprised. He was back in his flat, in his warm bed, with an angel by his side. Aziraphale snuggled up to him, happy and cosy and perfect, and Crowley found his hands snaking through the golden hair.
He kissed his angel's neck as his hand began to caress its way downward, entirely in a habit that hadn't really needed to form… and stopped.
This was odd.
"Angel?" he asked softly, looking into the back of Aziraphale's head. He couldn't see much else. "Angel, are you alright?"
There was no motion. A sudden, terrible memory surfaced, one of his few from Heaven—
Carasel, dead, stabbed in the chest and thrown from a tower in the Silver City—
Dead, really dead, the first angel to ever die. There had never been a second, although Lucifer had come close.
There had never been a second, only there was no light in Aziraphale's eyes, and a dark stain on the bedsheets. Crowley grasped the angel's shoulders and turned him over. He looked away violently.
Not inconveniently discorporated. Dead.
The demon didn't have a heart, but it went and slipped out from underneath him anyway.
"How are we gonna get there? Crowley's flat's a bit of a distance, Jen."
"Cab?"
"I want to drive the Bentley."
"The Bentley's at Crowley's apartment, Johnael."
"Don't use the teacher voice on me. You aren't even a teacher."
"That sounds like a personal problem."
"What?"
Aziraphale woke up in Heaven. He was not dead. He was not that lucky.
Heaven was white, which Crowley teased about—"I thought you said racists were ours…"—and it was silver. The Silver City hadn't changed since Aziraphale had been there last. It was remarkably resilient to change.
His head hurt. That was odd. Angels never felt pain, not in Heaven. Not that they couldn't, it was just that there was rarely a cause for it.
"Angel Aziraphale," said someone. "You have been condemned by the Name for consorting with a demon. You have been condemned by the Name for stalling Armageddon. You have been condemned by the Name for messing about with the Great Plan. You have been condemned by the Name for sodomy. How do you plead?"
Aziraphale groaned and looked at the random angel in front of him. "Maion?" he asked.
"How do you plead?" Maion asked. It was beautiful, glowing with the soft fire-like tint in the skin that came with living in Heaven. Aziraphale had forgotten about that fire. It had faded in him a while ago.
His head hurt.
"Sorry," said Aziraphale. "Could you repeat that last bit?"
"We need a plan," said Jen, sitting head-in-hands on Crowley's couch. "Alright? We need a plan. To get them back."
"Back from where? We don't even know where they went."
"Heaven and Hell, respectively, I'm assuming." Jen was biting back tears, only she didn't think John noticed. He did. "How 'bout I go Up, you go Down, and we return with our respective charges?"
"Uh, yeah. Maybe I should go Up. I'm the angel. You're the Antichrist."
"Right, yeah. But…" But Jen wanted to rescue Aziraphale. It seemed wrong to let John rescue one of her closest friends, while she went and got the demon instead. It was a stupid idea, childish in its nature. But Jen couldn't really help that.
"Hey," she said, "Why don't we both go Up, then?"
"You?" John asked. "In Heaven? Hey, the Apocolypse really is coming for us."
"You shut up."
"I'm just saying, it doesn't make sense. You won't exactly be welcome."
"Screw it," said Jen. "You aren't rescuing Zira without me."
John raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"
"Because he's one of my closest friends," said Jen, "And I can't just leave him there. That's why."
"That's reckless."
"And so am I. Take me to Heaven, angel, I haven't got all day."
Crowley woke up violently. His breathing was rough—he didn't need to breathe, but there was a protocol that came with waking up from a bad dream. He didn't' sweat, either, or feel cold; but he was doing both at the moment.
Terrible, terrible dream.
But a dream nonetheless. Here was Aziraphale, alive and well, tangled in the covers next to him. Crowley sighed and placed his hand on the angel's shoulder.
"Aziraphale?"
"Mmn?" Aziraphale rolled over and opened his eyes adorably. Crowley wished his heart would just stop beating. It didn't need to beat like that whenever Aziraphale woke up, no matter how adorable the angel looked.
"Angel, are you alright?"
The eyes shot open. "I—Oh, dear."
"Aziraphale?"
"Where am I?" The angel sat up, clutching the blankets to his naked form. "I—What happened?"
"Aziraphale?" Crowley repeated. "Are you alright?"
Those beautiful blue eyes met the yellow ones. They widened in fear.
"Who are you?" Aziraphale whispered.
Crowley's heart went and slipped out from underneath him again…
Aziraphale screamed. There was pain, sheer pain, pain like heartbreak and unrequited love, running up his arms and through his legs, pain cracking through his skull and tearing out the feathers of his wings…
"Will you repent?" someone said, off-vision right. The voice was female, and kind, and gentle.
The pain stopped for a moment. Aziraphale breathed in relief.
"Will you repent for your sins?" the female voice asked.
The relief was short-lived. Aziraphale closed his eyes and whispered, "I have not sinn—"
And then he was screaming again.
Crowley, somewhere in Hell, heard. But the visions of death went on behind his eyes, unmerciful and unfading. His conscious didn't even register the sound of ultimate suffering.
Jen heard. John heard.
They were on the street outside Crowley's flat. Nobody around them seemed to notice the ear-splitting shriek of pain. Figured.
"That was one of them," said John. "Dude, it sounds like, out of The Princess Bride. Sound of ultimate suffering."
Jen glared at him. "Not the time for pop culture references, angel."
"Stop calling me that."
"Sorry." She sighed. "I'm a little high-strung. Er. How do I…"
"Er." He gulped, straightened up, and wrapped his arms around her. Jen's face went red.
They shot upwards and vanished from reality.
Remember that line from the book? Hell may have all the best tunes, but Heaven has the best choreographers? Jen had never really understood that line, since the book later claimed that Aziraphale was the only angel able to dance.
She understood it when she actually got to Heaven.
Each angel moved as if choreographed. The Host was practicing—Host? Wasn't that Lucifer's scene?—above the Silver City, dipping and swirling in waves of angelic perfection. There were loads of flaming swords, which made Jen wonder why Aziraphale had never gotten a replacement.
The City really was silver. Tall, ornate towers spindled into…
The Dark. It surrounded the City.
Jen remembered another Gaiman story, and it sent shivers down her spine. Murder Mysteries. The story was… accurate, to the point of freakiness. Crowley wouldn't remember that, would he?
She wondered if the story was true. She wondered if…
The scream sounded again. Aziraphale. Jen and John exchanged a look.
"Where do they hold prisoners?" Jen asked.
"What makes you think I'd know that?"
"You're the angel, don't you know this stuff?"
"Jen, I've only been dead a few days."
They paused.
"Okay, whatever, follow me." The mortal took off at a run, and John had no choice but to follow.
"How would you know where to go?" he asked, keeping up easily. Jen was no good runner, and she had lungs.
"I… don't. This… way's… good as… any."
"Fine," said John, and they ran on.
"Repent."
"I love him."
"Repent."
"I love him."
Repent.
I love him.
I love him.
I love him I love him I love him I love him…
It was a mantra inside of Aziraphale's head, the only thing keeping him sane at the moment. He'd always known there would be punishment, true, but why now?
When everything had been so perfect?
Aziraphale closed his eyes, and through the pain he thought of Crowley. He thought of yellow slitted eyes and the glint of sunglasses, the feel of demon skin on his hands and…
"Why are you smiling?"
Aziraphale looked his tormenter in the eyes. "Because I am holier than thou," he said softly. "I have done nothing wrong. I am in love, and nothing you can do will hurt me for that."
He was waiting for the next bout of pain, Crowley's smile engraved behind his eyelids in defence…
And it never came.
Aziraphale blinked, confused.
"You truly think you love him?" Maion asked, smirking. "You really believe he loves you in return?"
Aziraphale said nothing. Yes, of course Crowley loved him. He knew that, even if it had never been said. It wasn't something that needed to be said.
"Alright, whatever. I'm calling in Zephkiel. I can't deal with this right now."
an: Too cliche? Too predictable? Too common? Too fast-paced? It's too something, I just don't know what...
