Tadfield. A small conference room in Tadfield Manor. The four Them and Crowley are seated around the table having tea. Conspicuously absent are DeeDee and the twin Erics.
Young Master. We now own the site of the former parish hall. Requests for proposals for a new community center are currently awaiting response from various architectural firms.
Next. The vicar has agreed to place the Hell server in a bricked-in crypt at St. Cecil's. The angel Uriel will see to its installation and monitoring. The Heaven server will be in my office in the old farmhouse at Croll Farm. I'll be meeting with my business partners tomorrow to finalize the installation and security procedures. The servers will be ready and waiting until Uriel can transmit the infection into the Heaven system. We'll test the connection with Hell first. See if it goes undetected.
Next. Aziraphale and I are nearly at the 100 hours mark for our private helicopter pilot certifications. I expect we'll be night flying qualified before spring.
You haven't mentioned this helicopter pilot thing before, Crowley.
Been working on it ever since I had to blow up my EC-135 to get rid of Hastur and Sandalphon. Have a new H-160 on order, but it won't be deliverable until sometime this coming year. In the meantime, Angel and I passed the exams earlier this year. You've seen that little Guimbal Cabri G2 buzzing around the driving course, right? That's my pilot Ewan working with us for training and flight hours.
Silence all around the table as the four kids digest the implications of this. Pepper speaks first.
Crowley, Aziraphale won't even drive a car. How did you persuade him to fly a helicopter?
Oh, he's much more at ease with the notion of flying. Thinks it's fun. He actually worked through the math problems on the exams.
Instead of cheating?
I don't cheat. Your human maths are intuitive to me. I can see the answers before the calculator works through the equations. Angel simply enjoys working out puzzles. Never misses the Times crossword. He's the one who figured out where Armageddon was supposed to happen, you know. Humans had been working on the problem for 300 years. Angel cracked it in less than 24 hours.
Wensleydale pipes up:
Mr. Crowley, would it be possible for me and DeeDee to learn to fly your little helicopter?
Crowley regards him for a long moment. Then:
I don't see why not, Wensley. You won't be able to be certified until you're 16, of course. I trust you've already researched the exam requirements?
Oh yes. Would Mr. Aziraphale help us work through the study materials?
I'm sure he'd be delighted.
And I've been watching YouTube videos of your Cabri G-2. It's quite a beautiful machine, isn't it?
A sweet little toy indeed. I'll have Ewan take you up in it. Check with Mary to arrange a time.
Can DeeDee come with me?
Yes. Remind Mary that the bird is a two-seater, so two separate trips.
Wicked! Thank you, Mr. Crowley.
Before you actually learn to fly, of course, your parents must give permission. And I insist that you learn with either Aziraphale or me. It would be asking too much of Ewan to take responsibility for a minor.
Crowley raises an index finger to lift all the teacups off the table.
Angel and I are not worried about crashing. So you'd be safer with us.
Crowley looks across the table at Brian.
Speaking of flying, how's the drone practice coming? Everything holding together? No more crashes?
The Phantom 4 Pro is awesome, Crowley! I can pretty much make it do whatever I want now.
Keep up the good work. Let me know when you think you're ready to try something more capable.
Tadfield. Back room of the bookshop. Aziraphale enters, is confronted by the sight of Crowley lying on his back on the Persian carpet in front of the armchair, with his knees raised so his lower legs are resting atop the seat cushion. As is his wont, the demon has shed his clothing onto the valet.
Rough day, Crowley? You'd like me to rub your feet?
Too obvious, am I?
Let me pour a glass of sherry. Then I'll be at your service.
Aziraphale swaps his jacket for his shawl collar cardigan, boots for tartan fleece slippers. Gets his sherry. He and Crowley arrange their legs, Crowley's feet atop a pillow in Aziraphale's lap.
I've been reading up on foot massage. And watching some instructive videos on YouTube. You'll let me know if something feels especially good, won't you?
Mm. Thanks, Angel.
Aziraphale sets to work. It all feels good. Crowley makes little sighing noises, slowly relaxes into boneless gelatin. And falls asleep. Aziraphale looks around, magics the qiviut blanket over the demon. Then summons the bottle of sherry onto the table next to his chair, and refreshes his glass. Resumes his place in the book he's been reading – his second-best original copy of the 1942 edition of D'Arcy Thompson's On Growth and Form. He's removed and carefully stored the dust jacket, replacing it with a polyester cover to protect the book while it's being read.
Hours later, Crowley comes to. Snakes his legs around and gets up, pours himself a glass of scotch from the decanter set on the small table, plumps the two giant pillows atop carpet, and stretches out.
Crowley, you're making me cold just looking at you.
Oh, all right.
The demon pulls the blanket back atop himself.
That's better. Thank you.
I got this for you, you know.
Hm. I am feeling a bit chilly, now that you mention it.
Come and snuggle up next to me.
Aziraphale notes the page number in his book, closes it. Snaps his fingers to vanish his clothing into the closet. Crowley raises the blanket, and the angel lies alongside him, head on Crowley's shoulder and arm across the demon's chest. Crowley tosses back his scotch with one hand, caresses the angel's wooly hair with the other. Puts down his empty glass, strokes Aziraphale's back.
You're worrying about something, aren't you, Aziraphale.
Hard not to worry about bringing the wrath of Heaven and Hell down upon our heads, Crowley.
Hm. Yes. Us, four teens, half a dozen renegade demons and angels, and a handful of other humans versus ten million angels and 10 million demons.
You forget the half of humanity bent upon destroying Earth.
You think it's as much as half?
I worry that it's more than half.
You could be right. Hard telling with humans. Still, fomenting trouble is more fun that sitting around with our thumbs up our asses, as the humans say. If we could do that. What's the supernatural man-shaped being equivalent of that posture, do you think?
Being Gabriel.
Crowley horse laughs.
Michael being the hand up his ass?
Exactly. I wonder what she's plotting. At the same time, I'm afraid of what your hacking might reveal. If Heaven isn't doing anything to help humans save Earth, that would be bad. But I fear it's equally likely Heaven is doing something to help destroy Earth.
Well, at least there's no ambiguity about Hell's part in all that. Wrecking Earth and humanity has been the main science project since day one.
Where is Agnes Nutter when we need her? When is the Apocalypse really going to happen?
No word from Anathema. Maybe the old bat finally took off from partying in Hell and took off into the firmament.
How do you know she's in Hell? Did you see here there?
Nope. Just know that witches get the royal treatment in Hell. First level, demons at their beck and call. How long they stick around before vanishing into the firmament depends on their commitment to their pals and family on Earth. Agnes might be hanging on out of pure stubbornness.
She seems like that kind of hard-boiled person, all right. And I confess I am grateful to her for that warning about the booby-trapped watch.
Well, fortunately we don't have to rely on a flaky old bat for guesses about what's coming down the pipe. The humans have developed their extraordinary Internet, about which H&H doesn't seem to have a clue as to how it all works. Let's hope this H&H hack delivers the goods. I expect to be in the London office all day tomorrow, as we finish trying to run down loose security threads and cover our tracks.
You can erase all clues, rub off all the fingerprints?
Nope. It's a chaotic system. But we can patch the known leaks. And hope we haven't left too obvious a trail of crumbs.
Crowley neglects to elaborate on how it won't be merely angels and demons after him and his business associates if they get careless in any of their projects.
Oh, Crowley.
Aziraphale clutches Crowley as if trying to pull the demon inside himself. Crowley returns the iron embrace. And then the glowing warmth of ecstatic love washes over them and carries them off like a tropical rip current.