Author's Note: I do hope you guys like this chapter. It has a new scene, btw, in between C and A's scenes, but they all eventually connect, but probably not in the way you think. ;D
Lemme know what you think, please, I'll hug you. Or, if you're more of the 'touch me and die' types, I'll NOT hug you. :D
PS) Another GIANT footnote here, you have been warned. xD
PPS) I still don't own GO or A and C. Gaiman and Pratchett do.
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Chapter Eleven
All in all, Crowley decided, this wasn't one of his better ideas. (1) What did he think he was; the Poison Whisperer? That he could call to it and it'd come? Was he supposed to whistle and say, 'here, boy, here boy?'
More to the point, was he really going to risk his own existence for Aziraphale? Again? If Hell found out what he was doing…well, what they'd do to him would make suicide by taking a holy water shower seem appealing.
The demon ran a hand through his hair. Fact: Aziraphale was an angel and the Enemy. Fact: Crowley was one of the Fallen and a demon. Fact: A demon that had an angel at his mercy ought to, by Hell's rules and common sense, torture the angel unmercifully. Fact: Most angels would expect such a fate, even if they had some sort of Arrangement.
In essence, his very nature was against him. And the angel's nature was against him. And everyone in Hell was Definitely against him. In fact, Crowley was reminded him of a road back at the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't that had been blocked by lorry, corrugated iron, and a 30 foot high pile of fish—that's how effectively everything was against him. (2)
To go back to the facts… Fact: Aziraphale was NOT most angels and had already feverishly proclaimed he trusted the demon and that the demon was his only friend.
Fact: Anthony J. Crowley, aka the Serpent, just couldn't bring himself to do anything to Aziraphale other than to help the vulnerable Principality. Fact: Crowley was in his own estimation, basically screwed.
He'd already shown his true colors, hadn't he? He'd rushed into the park and challenged a Duke, fully expecting to die. It was pathetic. It was soppy. It was like something the angel would do.
Nevertheless, Crowley had confirmed—without meaning to—the fact that he was willing to risk his own life for Aziraphale's. (3) Somehow he had become Crowley's best and only friend and thinking of losing the angel forever made Crowley feel like he was back in the flaming Bentley heading toward the end of the world alone, except this time he could feel the flames and the pain of his sizzling flesh, could sense the unending horror to come, could feel the continuous darkness of a world without Aziraphale. Oh for G-Sa-the love of Welsh television he really was getting soppy.
Sighing and cracking his knuckles, Crowley summoned his strength and tried to call the demonic poison to him. He was waiting for Aziraphale to scream, or shudder, or flap his wings, but nothing happened. The demon looked down and realized he wasn't actually touching the angel.
Feeling like an idiot—and worse than that, a stupid-sentimental-poor-excuse-for-a-demon idiot—Crowley put his hand on one of the red streaks at the base of Aziraphale's right wing. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, summoning his demonic Presence, trying to call out to the evil-created poison coursing through the angel so he could dispel it.
1. And he'd had some darn good ideas in his time—and not just the dread sigil Odegra on the M25 or Welsh-language television, either. He had loads of accomplishments. Crowley always tried to give credit where credit was due, particularly if said credit belonged to himself.
He was, for instance, rather proud of the long term outcome of classified ads that he'd begun so long ago. 'Illiterate? Write today for free help.' 'Dog for sale: eats anything and is fond of children.' 'We do not tear your clothing with machinery. We do it carefully by hand.' And the Personal Classified ads, such as the ones titled 'An offr u cn't rubbish' (probably meant 'refuse,' poor bugger) and 'Come N meet Mr. Lonely,' particularly amused him.
Crowley was also pleased with himself after he created the art of Chindogu, which is the Japanese phrase for 'bloody useless inventions that only really bored or pathetic people make.' After all, to go along with Chindogu, Crowley had invented those magazines that everyone gets that contain all those funny little products that no one ever needs and that hardly ever work… Buy Now: Butter in A Tube!
No Batteries Needed Crank-Torch! (Small Print: You Only Have to Crank it One Hundred Times in Order for it to Work for Five Seconds!)
Dancing Animal I-Pod Holder! (Batteries Not Included.)
Fireproof Matches! (Not for use on fires.)
Tamagotchi—little electronic pets in an egg thingy! (Not for children under the age of twelve.)
And much more!
Perhaps most nefariously, he'd personally invested a fair amount of time perfecting the first automated telephone message system. After that, in order to fill up his torture quota, he'd picked a day and tested it the system out on all the unsuspecting humans who dialed 999, the United Kingdom's emergency services number.
A Sample of a Call on That Day:
Electronic, Vaguely Female, Cheerful Voice: Hello, what service do you require?
Caller: Hi, I need to—
Electronic Voice: Press one if you require the police, press two if you require the ambulance service, press three if you require fire service, press seven if you require the coastguard. If you are unable to press the buttons or do not have a touch-tone phone, please repeat the service you need in a clear voice.
Caller: (presses two)
Voice: I'm sorry, that is not a valid option. (Repeats previous spiel.)
Caller: Ambulance service.
Voice: (beeps irritatingly) Please repeat your request.
Caller: Ambulance service!
Voice: Did you say, 'Coast Guard?' If yes, press one, if no, press two. Or, you could… (Goes through same spiel again)
Caller: (Presses 2) Ambulance service! I need an Ambulance!
Voice: I'm sorry, I did not understand that. Please repeat your request.
Caller: Ambulance service, Ambulance service!!
Voice: Did you say: 'A monkey's in my pants?'
Caller: No, you stupid ass, I said AMBULANCE SERVICE! I've just seen a car accident and they need an ambulance! The driver's leg is hanging off!
Voice: I'm sorry, did you just call me a 'stupid ass'? If yes, press one to hear Derisive Remarks; if no, press two and repeat your request…
And so it went on and on. It should probably be mentioned that, despite Crowley's wishes, the system has not yet been installed in the 999 service and was only used on that one day, and—just to stick to the Agreement, of course—he made sure no one died.
2. The compulsory reference to a direct line from the actual Good Omens text.
3. And, had there been such a class as Demon 101, the first lesson would have been 'put thyself and thine own wellbeing first.' The rule would of course exclude Satan. Naturally demons were supposed to put Lucifer above everything, including themselves, but that was such a given it wouldn't have been put into the rulebook. It's an unspoken law that, if it is broken, has horrific consequences. Just like the sort of consequences that happen to any one that gives out fruitcake at the holidays.
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Elsewhere…
An angel, glowing golden in all his holy raiment, snuck past the Metatron—who was berating a secretary about taking 'proper' messages and using the words 'useless twaddle' a lot—toward the rather unassuming door that led to God's Office.
The angel ran a hand through simultaneously golden and fiery hair, and then straightened his robes in a way that would have been called nervous had it been anyone but an Archangel making the gesture. This particular Archangel happened to be Raphael, known also as God Has Healed, Prince of the Presence, Regent of the Sun, and Divine Healer. From him the fidgeting seemed methodical. He went to the door, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, 'you're one of the seven,' and opened it.
At first the Archangel was immersed in darkness, but for some reason a strange image of a bizarre game of poker played with blank cards there in the dark occurred to Raphael before the Lord materialized, a beam of light shimmering until into the shape of a young woman. (1) She smiled at the Healer and Raphael noticed that the office had suddenly turned into a place that looked rather like the Sahara Desert.
"My Lord, my light—" Raphael began, falling to his knees out of habit and spreading his wings wide in respect.
"Do I look like I'm standing on Ceremony today?" The Lord asked, Her—His—God's Voice sounding suspiciously less like the normal thunder clap or streak of a rainbow and more like a regular human woman. "Get up, Raphael," She said tenderly, smiling warmly at him, which was, in Raphael's opinion, a nice change from the Mona Lisa reminiscent smile she'd had earlier.
"No, Lord." Raphael stood and waited. The Archangel was less ceremonious or, to use a term he had once heard the Cherub—er, Principality—Aziraphale mutter beneath his breath, 'stuffy' than the likes of Gabriel, (2) but even so, Raphael knew better than to ask a direct question of the Lord. Even if—at the moment, She—was in one of Her Guises and was squelching Her toes in the sand.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" She asked, gesturing.
"Breathtaking," Raphael said, and meant it. "But deserts always make me sad."
The Lord shot Raphael a Look which said quite clearly Well-Go-On-Then-Already.
"Er. Lord. Might I…?"
"No, Raphael, most compassionate of all the Archangels and mighty Healer. You may not."
Raphael's wings clenched in tightly, but he did not speak. He automatically was able to feel the pain of any injured angel, and Aziraphale's was currently screaming at him. Screaming loudly and insistently and, actually, using British swear words. But 'No' from the Lord was 'no.' (3)
1. Another reference to the real Good Omens.
2. And for Aziraphale to accuse (rightly) someone of being stuffy was certainly saying something. Tweed and tartan are not generally the favorite clothes of a carefree Bohemian, after all.
3. Despite the discomfort he felt while an angel suffered, in general, Raphael would not have gone to ask the Lord if he could heal the injured angel—he would have waited to be told do so like a good Archangel. But the Metatron had sought out Raphael earlier and told him precisely to let that 'fool of a Principality suffer the Consequences.' Raphael, though he never would have admitted it, rather disliked the Metatron and his first inclination was to do the exact opposite of what he said. The Divine Healer wasn't an idiot, after all—he was one of few angels who never fooled himself that the Voice of God was His/Her actual voice.
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Aziraphale jerked, his back arching as he convulsed in pain, and then he let out a low moan that ended with a whimper. Immediately Crowley stopped calling to the poison, but Aziraphale's jaw was clenched in pain and he twisted away from Crowley in obvious agony. Apparently, when the demon had tried to expel the poison he'd inadvertently given it a burst of strength, his demonic Presence feeding it. The pain on the angel's white face was proof enough, along with the fact that the once merely red marks on him were now dark crimson lines against his pale, pale skin.
"Shit," Crowley muttered, clenching his fists tightly enough to whiten his knuckles. It was just fitting that when he was trying hard to do something Good, it would blow up in his face and he'd cause more damage. He was a demon, after all, he thought bitterly, it was what he was good at. Destroying things, creating havoc, making innocent people—beings—that didn't deserve it suffer.
That's what he was meant to do. But not to Aziraphale. (1) Watching the angel quiver uncontrollably, the Serpent felt like he was back at the end of the Garden, watching a banished Eve and Adam cowering in the rain. But this time, the guilt he felt was worse—it was personal. And it hurt. Since when did demons feel deeply enough—other than anger or terror for one's self—to feel such pain?
And it wasn't close to being over for either of them because suddenly that one good eye—that beyond any shade of human blue, blue eye—was open, but the angel wasn't really aware, wasn't focused on anything, as he let out a battle cry and fought the sheets, trying to tear them off. Wonderful, Crowley thought, the angel's going to smite the linens.
Careful not to hurt, Crowley placed his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders and tried to stop the thrashing. He ended up with a face full of wing feathers and the sheets began to glow faintly with holy light. Crowley blinked. Aziraphale really WAS going to try and smite the linens. Hurriedly, the demon disappeared the sheets and Aziraphale quieted, but then he shot up again.
For a second Crowley thought Aziraphale was still fighting an invisible foe, but then the demon realized his movements were more like he was in the grips of a seizure. The erratic, jerky motions Aziraphale was making frankly unnerved the demon more than he had been for a long time—he was even more unsettled than he would have been if Ligur had come up to him while smiling sincerely. (2) Blessing under his breath, Crowley sat on the bed and took Aziraphale in his arms, trying to help still the angel's convulsions.
Though he'd rather mutilate himself or even watch Infomercials rather than admit it, Crowley was disturbed and distressed. Even though the demon had done it to help, he'd hurt Aziraphale. Badly. He was the cause of more of his suffering. And it didn't help that, really, he was the one responsible for it in the first place.
The angel's teeth chattered as he was in the throes of the poison, and Crowley maintained his grip. "Hold on, Aziraphale, ride it out, you'll pull through," Crowley shushed, holding on even as the angel's head banged into the underside of his jaw. Running out of comforting things to say, he resorted to his last attempt at comforting and held on to the angel tight as he repeated, "There, there" to him.
Holding onto the angel as he was, he couldn't pat him, but he continued his constant mumbling until finally his words dried up and he reverted to making soothing half-humming, half-hissing sounds. (3)
Eventually Aziraphale sagged backwards and calmed, the only movement he made an occasional, reflexive quiver. This did not relieve Crowley; the sudden stillness was not at all comforting because the Principality seemed so limp, so lifeless in his arms.
"Aziraphale," Crowley said, his grip on the angel tightening. "Heal, damn it."
The angel didn't so much as twitch and Crowley softly set him back down on the bed, making sure a pillow was behind his head, before he materialized a chair next to the bed and slid down into it. Sure, as a demon he ought to have been rejoicing, but letting the only being he cared about more than himself fade away just because of otherworldly politics would have been, in Crowley's view, asinine. He would try and prevent that no matter what and he would also try blessedly hard to stop thinking about his reasons for doing so. Loyalty, friendship, trust, love; all those fluffy concepts made him uncomfortable.
Aziraphale shivered again, shivered hard, and Crowley, reasoning that the best way for healing to work was to have contact, took the angel's closest hand. The slightly plump, soft hand was flaccid, unresponsive even when the demon squeezed it.
Crowley tried to ignore what felt like a hellhound on steroids ripping around in his insides—was concern always this pleasant, he wondered—and he focused on sending healing power into Aziraphale. "Heal, bless it," Crowley muttered. "Heal."
1. Well, okay, perhaps he was meant to do it to Aziraphale, but he never, ever would have, not like this. A cactus on his seat, the defacing of a paperback; little annoyances like those he would do to his counterpart, but nothing that would permanently damage the Principality. (Not counting, of course, permanently damaging the Principality's Dignity. That incident with the margaritas and karaoke bar and exotic dancers was a prime example and was something that Crowley would never, ever regret, not even the next day after he'd been blessed across the room by an infuriated angel.) In truth, Crowley would have rather hurt himself than Aziraphale (still not counting Dignity) and that was an unsettling thing to realize.
2. Believe it or not, the image of Ligur smiling sincerely is the stuff of nightmares—really, really frightening nightmares that occasionally involved Hastur vacuuming. (Another image that is horrifying and yet somehow underappreciated as far as Terror-Inspiring goes.)
3. A feat only capable for a multitalented demon like Crowley. And yes, hissing can be comforting. Or, at the least, hissing can be benign. It's easy to tell a conversational hiss from an 'Oh, Bollocks' scared, defensive hiss or an aggressive 'back away or I'll bite' hiss or a 'come hither' sexy hiss or a regular 'I'm just smellin' the air, mate' hiss and so on. At least, it's easy if you're familiar with snakes or, more importantly, Serpents. If you're not, then they all probably just sound like 'ssssss' or 'thhhssss' or 'hisssss.'