A/N: I am such a procrastinator; I'd rather post the next chapter five days after the last one than do any sort of schoolwork XD

In a delayed-reaction response to Shyshapca (because I can't respond directly to you): Hey, if you want to translate this, feel free! Spread the joy! Just be aware you will earn my undying love :)

Again thanks to Purplefluffychainsaw for correcting my British :) I really had no idea Brits used miles. I learned something new!

Also, I made a poll and it's on my profile page! You should go participate because I'm curious, like a kitten :)

Continued thanks to my lovely betas Quantum Witch and Foxxfire5, and thanks to you for reading!

TO THE EDITORS,

Sirs,

I have noted, with distress and dismay, the number of residents and visitors to our noble Lower Tadfield who insist on ignoring the laws of our land. The speed limit has been posted for the safety and security of Our Citizens at a perfectly reasonable 25 miles per hour – more than reasonable, in fact, as my previous letters to the Advertiser have pointed out – and despite this, recently there has been an increase of speeding in town, which the populace of Lower Tadfield should not stand for. I hope that something can be done about this, for the continuing sanctity of our fair town.

Sincerely,

R.P. Tyler

Chairman of the Lower Tadfield Residents' Association

"Would you slow this thing down!" Jesus screamed as she huddled into the seat and covered her eyes.

"What is wrong with you?" Adam asked with a laugh as he sped up, "I mean, haven't you been in a car before?"

Jesus glared at him between two fingers. "Please tell me you did not just ask me that!" She repeated sarcastically, "'Have I ever been in a car before!' Of course not! The last time I was here donkeys were considered the high-class form of transportation! Do you have any idea how fast a donkey can go?"

"How'd you get to my house, then? Oh, right, the scooter. Wait, you mean you spent a day on a scooter 'cause you didn't know it could go faster?"

"It went a perfectly acceptable speed," Jesus moaned, "and I think I'm going to be sick."

"Not in this car you're not!"

"Don't you dare try any of your Antichrist magic on me, mister!"

"Hey," Adam said, "speakin' of Antichrist magic and stuff, now that I think about it, why are you here? I mean, doesn't Heaven want the world to end too?"

Jesus gave him a wary smile, looking a sickly shade of green. "That's true. But… Well, turns out you're not the only one who doesn't listen to his father. Orher Father, whatever."

"Seriously? I always figured you were the goodiest-goodie in the history of goodie-goodies."

"Wow, thanks Adam."

"It's true!"

"Well, the first time around it was 'hey, you're going to die painfully so that the world can be a better place,' and you know, I was okay with that. Well, okay-ish. This time, my Father is basically saying, 'I'm sick of this stupid place, let's blow it up,' and I'm not okay with that. I grew up here! I liked this place! I didn't die to save it so that it could be wiped out on a whim!"

"Okay," Adam replied, "so I know what's going to happen to me if we lose, but what's gonna happen to you?"

She shrugged. "I don't know, honestly. I mean, I can't exactly Fall 'cause I'm not an angel. Hey – maybe now that I'm a girl I can just give him big puppy dog eyes? You know, Daddy's Little Girl?"

"See, I don't think that's fair," Adam admitted, "I mean, I'm going to get eviscerated and tormented and stuff, and you might get a smack on the wrist."

"Eh, my Old Man can surprise you with the punishments. Just ask Sodom, Gomorrah, Noah and his flood… your dad… humanity…"

"I get it!"

"But that's neither here nor there, 'cause it's all hypothetical. You know, if we lose," she replied. "Which we won't. 'Cause we're awesome. High-grade Christ and Antichrist."

"Yeah," Adam said, smiling, "Yeah, we are awesome, aren't we?"

Then Jesus turned and vomited out the window.

The Them and Sister Prudence raced down the motorway toward Manchester. Despite being the youngest and not legally able to do so, the nun had insisted on driving, and the Them let her because breaking the law is fun. The road was clear of demons because they had all gone back to Manchester to fight off the Host.

"Can't we turn on the radio?" Brian whined from the back seat as the car kindly asked him to buckle in using a haiku.

"Do you plan to ever stop whining?" Pepper demanded, "We're tryin' to think of how we can help!"

"You're all gonna need weapons," Sister Prudence asserted, "and most of mine are in the trunk. See if you can get in through the back seat, Wens."

"I hate that nickname," the blond asserted, pulling down the middle seat to get into the trunk. With a tug, he pulled through a briefcase.

"Turn on the radio, please?"

With a grunt of displeasure, Pepper punched the dial. Journey was on the radio.

"Oh boy! I love Journey! The best thing to come out of America since all 31 flavors of ice cream!"

"Don't you dare start singing!"

Brian made a noise of disapproval and disappointment.

"Whoa," Wensleydale murmured, opening the briefcase and finding himself looking at more artillery than some countries had. "Just… whoa."

"Oo, can I sign up for whatever it is you do?" Brian asked, ice cream forgotten as he started drooling all over the weaponry.

"As if you would ever get a job," Sister Prudence replied snidely. She and Pepper exchanged a high-five. "Anyhow, pick somethin', we're not far from Manchester. And Sis, could you get me my phone? I have an important call to make."

As part of the Arrangement, Zira had never been to Manchester. Now, as he walked through what little remained of it, surrounded on all sides by warring demons and angels, he found he regretted that fact. I could have at least visited, he thought, ducking as an angel decided to take its chances with him. He recognized him although he wasn't sure how – his memories of Heaven were already fuzzy – so he simply punched him in the nose, hoping that no one would finish him off. He didn't even apologize, because he was a demon and demons don't apologize (and not because he was simply in a hurry!)

He finally remembered to activate his flaming sword but found it wouldn't light due to his lack of holy energy. A little disappointed, he kept going, trying to locate the portals that all of the invaders were coming from. In a few minutes he wouldn't have a body or an existence anyway, so what did it matter that he couldn't use a flaming sword anymore? It's not like he'd used it often or even known where it was for the past six thousand years.

He couldn't see very well, so he removed Crowley's sunglasses and placed them on his head. Now he could see his targets, in the distance: a black pool radiating red energy in the ground directly beneath what appeared to be clouds caught in a tornado, making a unique whirl shape. His heart started beating faster and he broke into a sprint, having to dodge around the warring parties.

He was going to die. And not in the way that meant he stayed up in Heaven for a few days while Raphael patched him up and gave him a lecture on wearing a helmet and always using condoms *. No, he was going to die in a way he really couldn't fathom – a complete lack of existence. No more Aziraphale.

Allgone, nomore, shoshad, a tiny, slightly-drunk voice in his head echoed.

His mind started panicking as his feet kept running. No more Aziraphale. What did that even mean, really? Would he end up as one of the many souls in the afterlife, waiting for Judgment? Would he somehow get back into Heaven or – what if – but -

He had to stop running when Beelzebub moved into his path.

"Crawly'zzzzzz angel," the Prince said with a smirk that could only be described as devilish, "Although not an angel anymore, I zzzzzzee. You'd make a terrible demon anyway, zzzzzzzzo I don't feel bad in dezzzzzzztroying you. Finally. Thizzzzz'll be fun."

Zira raised his ex-flaming sword in a gesture of defiance. Oh dear.

*Considering how few of his deaths would have been prevented by wearing a helmet or using condoms, well, the lectures were very odd indeed.

Crowley was ashamed to admit, deep down, that he was flying much faster than the Bentley could ever have driven, even considering the turbulence and holy and demonic energies that had settled over Manchester.

This was absolutely insane. He hadn't felt such strong emotions regarding anything since… since… oh fuck it. Since never.

He'd meant what he said. Life without the angel – and he was still an angel in Crowley's book; way too nice to be a demon, no matter what he looked or felt like – wasn't worth it. But conflicting with that oh shit oh shit terror Aziraphale don't you dare oh shit I just told you I loved you don't you dare die on me can't live without you oh shit feeling was the that bastard knocked me out and I'm going to kick his ass! feeling.

He didn't understand the first feeling very well. He understood the second one very well.

He finally made it to Manchester.

After the subsequent use (and success – there would be no living with the moron after this) of Operation Michael, Gabriel finally remembered he had to deliver Uriel a message.

He did not like what he had been told to tell him, but really, what choice did he have? He knew his purpose, and could only be thankful that the recipient of his communication was Uriel, not Raphael.

He placed a hand on Uriel's arm. "Now Uriel, about that message for you…"

"Go ahead," Uriel replied tersely, his violet eyes daring anyone foolish to try to press their luck. Gabriel had to force himself to remember that the normally off-putting-yet-charming Uriel had already eradicated an archdevil by himself and had greatly aided in the destruction of the dragon; the only indication that he was tiring was that some of those black curls were sticking to his skin due to the sweat on his forehead.

"Aziraphael is here, only he's Fallen, and your job is to smite him," Gabriel said tersely, his fist clenched. It was times like these, when he wasn't privy to thewhy of things, that Gabriel found himself actually angry. It happened far more often than he would like, but for the most part things worked out in the end to everyone's satisfaction. It was just that in this instance, he found it hard to see how it would work out to Raphael's satisfaction. His son, being put down like a rabid dog… "Apparently he's here to stop the End and the Almighty does not approve of such a thing." But does he really need to be exterminated, and by Uriel of all people? Raphael will never be able to look at him the same way again… Oh well, trust in the Lord, I suppose.

Uriel did not seem to have a conflict of interest. Instead, he gave a curt nod and turned to walk to where he knew the Fallen angel was.

Gabriel sighed. He did not want to see what was coming next.

Across the field, Michael was having similar thoughts.

In the days before the Rebellion, Michael and Lucifer had been relatively equal fighters. They had even been sparring partners, although more often than not their duties kept them apart. But they had been dueling for what felt like days on both a physical and a metaphysical level. Hell held the field in sheer numbers, which gave Lucifer an extra boost of power (which Michael felt was awfully unfair).

Michael used his sword to block a downward swipe, and the force of the blow caused the ground beneath him to crumble and form a crater around him. Lucifer kicked him in the chest; and the sheer hell power behind it caused Michael's breastplate to crack and fall open.

"At least you're wearing pants!" Lucifer crooned, "I mean, I remember the old days where you all wore kilts and dresses! Who made up that dress code anyway? The Old Man was such a pervert!"

Michael knew the battle was lost. Every time Lucifer expended energy he could easily take some from his forces. Michael didn't have that luxury. But this is Michael we're talking about; his middle name was practically Never Give Up, or It's Only a Flesh Wound, or… well, you get the idea. *

"Oh, shut up!" Michael snarled, "You always wore yours hitched up!"

"And you always looked!"

"Because you kept bending over in my face!"

"How do you think I got to be His Second in the first place!"

"You little slut!"

Lucifer attacked again, and this time Michael threw up an aura shield as a split-second reaction. It held Lucifer's swords for five seconds before breaking and throwing Michael backwards, hard enough that he landed outside of the crater. Michael's sword went flying out of his reach. Before he had a chance to get back up and go for it, Lucifer had dropped one of his swords and grabbed him by his curly hair, dragging him to his knees.

And thus had the Emperor of Hell finally overpowered the General of the Heavenly Host.

Michael, bloody and sweaty, steeled his facial expression even as Lucifer tugged on his hair. He would not give that bastard the satisfaction -

"Michael, Michael, Michael," Lucifer said almost fondly, dragging the length of his remaining sword along the angel's neck while the other hand tightened in his hair, "I've been waiting to do this for a long time. It's a shame you won't get to fall from the sky like I had to, but we can't all make dramatic exits." The Adversary did not look nearly as composed and happy as he sounded; instead his eyes showed a tinge of mania. "Bye bye now."

He drew the sword back.

Michael closed his eyes.

There was a clang and a thunk – Michael opened his eyes to see that Crowley – what the – had stepped between them, used Lucifer's discarded sword to deflect the attack and then had punched Satan in the face. As Lucifer cursed and held his nose, Crowley picked up and threw Michael's sword in front of him, ignoring the fact that most of his glove had melted off from the contact, and barked, "That's for helping me save Aziraphale before all this shit started. Have you seen the moron?"

"What? No! Last I-"

But he was already gone.

* Not literally. His actual middle name is Ramiel. Why do you think he dislikes him so much? **

** And every angel's last name is "Angel." It's not very creative, which is why none of them ever use it. ***

*** However, it is, arguably, better than Aziraphale's use of the last name "Fell," given how ominous it is. ****

**** And how incorrect, seeing as Aziraphale's actual last name has been "Crowley" for over 500 years.

If Anathema was being honest with herself *, she would admit that she hadn't expected the hypnotism to work. It had been a vague idea made up when Shadwell had continued to remind her that her "witchy voodoo" should be able to wake up his "wumman," and Anathema, starting to feel guilty despite knowing that she did not practice voodoo, had finally turned to rudimentary hypnotism.

That was why when Madame Tracy's eyes finally popped open she was just as surprised as anyone else.

"Hello," Madame Tracy said, her eyes cloudy and unfocused.

"Er, hello," Anathema said tentatively.

"Hey, it worked!" Newt exclaimed. The twins were hiding behind him in terror.

Shadwell actually – although he would deny it to his grave – jumped on top of Madame Tracy and exclaimed, "Oh, ye stupid ol' Hoor of Babylon, ah've never been so 'appy te see ye!"

"You're right," she said airily, still staring straight at the ceiling, "I'm not sure what it is I'm supposed to be doing. I guess that makes me stupid, doesn't it?"

"Huh?" Newt asked eloquently.

"The Book is awfully vague," she continued, "and I don't know where I'm going anyway."

"What book?" Anathema asked cautiously, wary of yet another Nutter book.

"Revelations," Madame Tracy responded, looking at Anathema finally. "It's very vague about this sort of thing. The writer was a little too fond of odd mushrooms."

"So you're… the actual…" Anathema couldn't believe the words coming out of her lips, "Whore of Babylon."

"Of course, dear, who else would I be? Why do you think I make such a good medium?" She gave a very un-Madame-Tracy-esque smile. "There's a reason I'm called the Whore. Anyone can use me."

* And she was, which is a first for this tale.

Up in Heaven, St. John cackled merrily to himself. He hoped Aziraphael would make it back up soon because he had to rub this in the angel's face. Of course he knew all of the horrible things Aziraphael had said about how he, John, and his mushrooms had "ruined" everything. He was very wrong about that. They had actually saved everything.

It was good the Whore didn't know her purpose, because the world would have ended very violently if she had.

Not that it doesn't still have that chance, of course.

Meanwhile, Shadwell's existence had narrowed down to the following:

1. he had been right about Madame Tracy's "passenger" being a Southern Hippie;

2. he had had to rely on a witch to save his woman;

3. he had been right yet again about Madame Tracy being the Whore of Babylon, although really that had just been his pet nickname for her, if he was being honest with himself, which he wasn't; and

4. he had relied on a witch to save his woman, and she had.

Under those kinds of conditions, the Witchfinder Sergeant was so overwhelmed that he lost consciousness.

"I'm actually jealous of him right now. Is that normal?" Newt asked.

"Yes," the Whore said reasonably, "I can feel it – right now, two very unlikely allies of Heaven and Hell are racing towards the Apocalyptic Site. Very soon, this world will cease to exist. Too bad I don't know where it is, though, because I'm supposed to be there. I think."

Anathema gasped as a very clear image of a young brunette came to her psychic eye, and with that image an epiphany. "''I foresee a younge girle and boye shalle ally with the Devile, and nonne shalle stop them'… It's not Crowley and Aziraphale, it's Adam and Jesus! Adam gave Jesus a female body!"

(That's right, Shadwell has been right more times than Aziraphale has.)

"Wait, even I could have told you that wasn't Aziraphale and Crowley," Newt pointed out. "I mean, it says right in it, man and woman."

"Have you seen Aziraphale lately?" Anathema asked darkly.

"Um, okay, good point. But Jesus and Adam… they're both pretty young. Well, I guess. I mean, I've never met Jesus – wow, never expected to say that – but I've met Adam, and he's only 20."

"Young in body, but have you seen his eyes? When you get down to it, the two of them are really, really old, like, before time old."

"Uh oh. Any chance one of them has a cell phone?" Newt asked. Not that Newt had one, as they tended to violently detonate whenever he pressed any of the numbers, but it's the thought that counts and all that.

Anathema shook her head. "Aziraphale is a technophobe and Crowley only has a cell phone to look cool," she muttered, "Get me some incense, Newt, I'm going to try something I've never done before."

"What's a whowe?" Bentley asked.

"I dunno," Aziraphale2 answered. "Daddy? What's a whowe?"

Newt ushered them out of the room as he went to go find Anathema some incense.

"Can I get directions to the Apocalypse?" Madame Tracy asked sweetly.

"No!" Anathema snapped.

The sheer amount of demonic energy coming off of Beelzebub would have disintegrated Zira had he still been an angel. He supposed it was a nice advantage of actually being a demon, but really, that didn't bear thinking about.

Beelzebub's weapon of choice was a great-sword, the kind that Crowley would have referred to as "overcompensating." But Crowley also didn't bear thinking about. Neither did the fact that he was willingly going to his death, his lack of existence, right when things had almost started to be okay because –

His thoughts were thankfully interrupted with Beelzebub's downward swipe, which Zira parried. He had always shown a decent enough proficiency with the sword, enough to be permitted in Michael's ranks and subsequently get the Guardian of the Eastern Gate gig, and also enough to keep himself safe from humans without exerting his angelic influence. That being said, he had never killed anything before * and this was the Prince of Demons he was dealing with. Beelzebub didn't get to be the Prince because he was Lucifer's son, but because he was the second greatest demon in Hell. And Zira… well, Zira wasn't.

But that last fact actually proved to Zira's advantage, at least for a bit; Beelzebub was wearing an ornate suit of armor and Zira was wearing khakis and a sweater vest. Thanking the media and Madame Tracy for compelling him to get into shape, Zira was able to dodge his opponent's attacks with relative ease, although launching an offensive was going to be an impossibility. Somehow Zira was going to have to get around Beelzebub, which also would likely be impossible.

"Why the blazzzzzzes do you even care?" Beelzebub demanded, his curiosity making him disengage. "Humanity'zzzzz doomed and you know it! You have known it zzzzince they were expelled from Eden! Why are you rizzzzzzking everything to zzzzzzave them?"

Zira knew the answer to that question well enough. He'd often asked it of himself during moments of doubt. And there had been many of those.

"Because," the ex-angel responded, "because they can be so horrible. I mean, I watched Cain kill Abel, I watched all the humans die in the Flood as punishment for their sins, I watched Sodom and Gomorrah get destroyed due to their evil, I was forced," his voice started growing stronger, "to fight in the Roman Coliseum for their entertainment, I had to die on behalf of their greed in retaking Jerusalem, I-" he could feel it now, his anger lending strength to his demonic attributes, "watched them exploit, enslave and kill each other as they created divisions based on the color of their skin of all things – but you know what?" Zira had never felt such rage, such anger before, and it was intoxicating, and the power it gave him had even Beelzebub looking wary, "Despite all that, I just know there's good in them, and the many good people don't deserve to die for the sins of the few, AND I WON'T LET YOU OR ANYONE DESTROY THEM, ESPECIALLY FOR NO REASON!"

He could feel it – if he attacked now, he could –

And then there was a voice in his mind. AZIRAPHALE!

He winced and grabbed his head, trying to dull the pain, the use of his angelic name sending painful stabs throughout his body. Don't call me that! He could practically see Anathema recoil in surprise – but, quite frankly, the angry demon prince (who was no longer intimidated due to Zira's rage dissipating with the interruption) was a little too distracting for him to apologize.

Oh, sorry. Um, so it turns out that the prophecy? It refers to Adam and Jesus, not you and Crowley.

Zira's eyes widened in surprise. He only then realized that he'd conveniently ignored the fact that Agostino had specified that two people were involved, in his own quest to assuage his guilt. Really? When did… when did Jesus… Oh bugger all this for a lark!

Az, what did we say about that being a proper swear? Anathema demanded sternly in her best mother voice.

Er… sorry. You were saying?

Keep your eyes open for a hippie chick – that's Jesus. And yeah, we were surprised too, but it turns out Madame Tracy's the Whore of Babylon, and she pointed out that the Heaven and Hell allies hadn't gotten there yet, and…

Wait, Madame Tracy's the Whore? What is she… Er, I know she's involved in the End but I'm not sure how… Did she say -

Why are you even asking? This is Madame Tracy we're talking about – of course she didn't say what she's doing. She doesn't even know. Az, don't get yourself killed, okay? We still need to have a good laugh and a couple stiff drinks over Agostino's backwards book. Okay, more than a couple.

I'll do my best, dear.

Huh? Where did she - The communication cut off.

When Zira refocused on the battle, he found his neck in Beelzebub's hands.

"Nice try," the demon prince hissed.

* Barring Hastur, which didn't really count because he'd hadn't so much fought Hastur as had stepped on him.

"Newt!" Anathema called out as she looked at the empty table, "Newt, did you see Madame Tracy leave?"

He replied in the negative from the kitchen.

"Great," Anathema said with a sigh, letting her forehead hit the table with a loud thunk, "Just great."

Michael knew that he wasn't out of the proverbial woods yet, but he grabbed his sword and rolled backwards, trying to get his bearings. He didn't hear someone touch down behind him and jumped at a calming hand on his shoulder.

"There you are!" the Archangel of Warriors spat.

"My apologies, Michael, I had some things to take care of," Gabriel replied, coming to stand in front of Michael. "Still do, actually, but there's not much I can do right now."

Michael stood up with Gabriel's aid. Lucifer was snarling in rage at the two archangels.

"Lucifer, you've looked better," Gabriel observed.

"You'll be lucky that you'll cease to exist," he hissed, "because-"

His line of sight was blocked by a hippie and –

"Adam." Lucifer's eyes took on a very deranged glint. "Ssssso niccccce to ssssee you, my ssssssson."

Adam crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture of apathy, although his very aura was shaking. "Hi 'Dad'. You tryin' to destroy the world again? You need to come up with some better hobbies, I haveta say."

"Yeah," the hippie said awkwardly, "Yeah, you're going down. Yeah. Whoo."

Adam turned to glare at her, and she looked at her flip-flop-clad feet instead. "What's wrong with you?" he demanded of the hippie, "Didn' you fight him before? Like, isn't that in the Bible?"

"Oh, you mean my descent into Hell? Er, oh dear - I can just hear the cries of fundamentalists everywhere – that was slightly exaggerated *."

"Oh, geez. That's just wonderful."

Lucifer took a deep breath to calm himself down. He was outnumbered now, but this could still work out to his benefit; he just couldn't lose his head. "I'll deal with you in a minute, my old adversary," he said, forcing his voice to be its normal charismatic self **. "You and all your… extra parts. Overcompensating for something, are we?"

"Bring it on?" Jesus said tentatively, too nervous to call him on the insult.

"Lord?" Michael inquired, sounding in shock.

Jesus waved her hand, and the two archangels moved to stand with their master. Er, mistress. She looked considerably more confident after that.

"But first, Adam, you can't possibly be considering fighting against me. We have so much in common, after all."

"Am I supposed to have some sort of familial obligation towards you or somethin'? I mean, we've never even met. Okay, so maybe we did once, but I don't know if that counts or not."

Lucifer purred, "Oh, you misunderstand me." The ground turned black underneath him, spreading out until the whole area looked as if it didn't have a floor. His hair began moving as if being blown by a strong wind. "You are not so much my son as you are an extension of me." He smiled. "And it's time you came back."

Adam's eyes widened.

Yes, it is time.

* It went something like this:

Jesus: Stand down, Adversary, I hath come for the souls which-

Satan: Thank you. (the demons standing behind him nod enthusiastically) We're already way overcrowded, and we're supposed to be getting more, so take as many as you want! The righteous, the semi-righteous, the decent, the not quite decent but still not really bad, the okay, the 'meh'…

Jesus: Er?

** He tends to hiss when he gets stressed, much like someone else we all know. Crowley may be the Serpent, but Lucifer is the Dragon, after all.

Crowley sprinted through the remains of Manchester, looking for one demon in a field of thousands. Well, looking is not exactly the correct term; in fact, his forked tongue continually escaped his mouth to taste the air, trying to smell Zira, which was actually a much more productive idea than looking with his eyes. After six thousand years he knew exactly how Zira smelled*; the scent, however, had changed slightly, enough to throw him off.

But it wasn't all that hard to find the ex-angel in the end, as his eyes were closed and his body rigid with Beelzebub holding him by the neck. As Crowley ran forward, adrenaline taking over now, Zira's eyes widened in shock, as if he only just realized that he was in mortal danger. Crowley's sunglasses were still on his head.

He willed the poison he naturally produced from his teeth – damn useless that, really, unless he was a serpent: it was surprisingly hard to bite people in human form – and into his claws, aiming for the wrist connected to the hand connected to Zira's neck. ** Aided by the element of surprise, Crowley ran full-on into Beelzebub's side, knocking the Prince of Hell to the ground and dislodging his prey. Reacting instinctively, Crowley grasped Zira in mid-air and the two landed hard, rolling together to get as far away from Beelzebub as they could.

When they stopped, Crowley had Zira pinned to the ground face-down. "How'd you get here? Get off me!" Zira snarled. Even though Crowley had saved him, Zira felt himself filled with a distinctly unholy rage. He had bound him to the tree for a reason, and here he was, and he was angry, which made Zira angrier, and -

"Do you remember when I said you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking?" Crowley replied, definitely not getting off even as he grabbed his sunglasses and put them back on, "Because I meant that. And you're in dangerous territory of being too much of a bastard to be worth liking! And coming from me you know that's bad!"

"And you, you old serpent," Zira roughly threw his head back, catching Crowley in the nose, "need to be reminded of that whole spark of goodness bit, because if you remembered that you would let me do what needs to be done!" He neglected to mention he no longer needed to do said action, because it was the principle of the thing.

The two demons got up, glaring at each other and completely ignoring the war going on around them ***. "Now it'ssssssss the bloody principle of the thing, you sssssstupid git!" (Apparently Crowley agreed with him.) "We're leaving here if I have to drag your corpsssssse out insssstead!"

Zira's wings spread to their full length in a gesture of defiance and dominance. That was a challenge the demon in him simply could not refuse. "I'd like to see you try, dear boy."

At that point Beelzebub started standing up.

Not that the two noticed him, being too busy trying to beat the tar out of each other instead like in the days pre-pre-pre-Arrangement, complete with hissing, snarling, scratching, biting, hair pulling, kicking, insulting and punching. They rolled on the ground in a tangle of feathers and blood.

"I hate your fucking books and I laughed when your store burnt down!" Crowley hissed, sinking his teeth into Zira's neck in what was decidedly not a love-bite.

"The Bentley is an outdated piece of shit!" Zira snarled back, slamming his knee into Crowley's stomach.

"I hate the sodding ducks!" A punch to the jaw.

"Your sunglasses make you look ridiculous!" A return yank of thick black hair.

"As compared to you? Tartan is not fashionable!" A sharp kick to the kneecap.

"I've been inspiring your houseplants into a righteous uprising, you tyrant!" A blow to the ear.

"I BET IT'S REALLY HASTUR'S BABY! AND YOU CHEATED ON ME WITH ANATHEMA! I HAD TO HOOK UP WITH MADAME FUCKING TRACY!"

They abruptly stopped fighting. Zira had Crowley pinned to the ground by his throat and Crowley's fists were tightly gripping handfuls of Zira's feathers, ready to pull them out even as the poison from his claws started dissolving them.

"What?" Zira inquired, obviously quite confused.

"AND SHADWELL! AND SHADWELL!" Crowley finished, his voice sounding desperate and haunted.

"Crowley, are you listening to yourself speak?"

"Er. That might have been a nightmare."

"I… I sincerely hope so, my dear. I mean, Hastur's dead, and er, Anathema's a nice enough girl, but, ah…"

They finally noticed the Prince of Hell looking downright murderous – more so than usual at any rate. They hastily got up, facing the Prince together. "We'll settle this later," Zira said curtly.

"Damn straight we will."

"Zzzzzzorry to interrupt your loverzzzzzz' spat, boyzzzzz," Beelzebub snarled, "but no one'zzzzz going to kill either of you but me!"

Crowley moved to stand in front of Zira in a gesture of protection. The imminent threat of Beelzebub reactivated Crowley's possessive, defensive demonic instincts.

"Crowley."

"Yeah?"

"It turns out the prophecy wasn't talking about me at all."

"You were wrong again?"

"Oh hush. I'll be more than willing to leave with you… but only after we take care of this poor excuse for a demon."

"Why is it that you always make every stupid, suicidal, pointless plan sound plausible? Let's kick his arse."

* Like lavender, clouds, dust, leather and parchment glue, actually.

** Yes, Crowley is venomous. He has vertical pupils, which in the snake world means he produces venom (or is nocturnal, but since Crowley doesn't technically need to sleep and seems to prefer either sleeping at night or going into hibernation for decades at a time, we'll go with "poisonous" on this one). Going along with this, there's no way that Crawly was a garter snake (which produce a very weak venom at the most and have circular pupils), meaning that Aziraphale was right about something! Hooray! I was worried about him for awhile there.

*** And War, for that matter, who was still having a jolly time slicing anything that came too close.