Something Dreadful
A Good Omens fanfiction
The hour was late, and Aziraphale had just flipped the sign against the glass pane to closed.
This was his favourite position for the sign to be in, as it meant no interruptions from either quiet buyers or pesky unsupervised London children whose hands always seemed to be in a permanent state of sticky-with-jam or jam-like substance. He had told his customers many, many times that the bookshop was not a playground nor a nursery and to please stop letting their children peruse unsupervised... He'd even gone through the trouble, once or twice, of putting up a sign, next to his listed hours, which proclaimed that there were no children's books, or even books with a particular focus on pictures; no, added a subtitle, all his books were brittle and brown and had ancient-looking typesetting, if they pleased. Nothing to interest the little ones, if they pleased. But since the summer season began and local schools were closed, children had been cropping up like bad pennies all over the dashed street, and they found their way inside more often than the angel liked.
Most of them didn't look as if they could read – Aziraphale was of the opinion that the little ragamuffin who'd wandered in yesterday with his finger so far up his nose he wasn't likely to get it back out again would struggle at length with The Cat in the Hat.
Give that sort of child anything remotely more stimulating and it'd probably explode.
Crowley didn't like when Aziraphale got fed up and voiced his harsher opinions of that nature. The demon secretly liked most children, and he hated being nettled into admitting it, even in an offhanded way, by having to defend children-kind at large to the glowering angel. So Aziraphale, having mercy on his friend, tried not to complain about the little monsters too often, at least not out loud, but it wasn't easy.
Suddenly he heard a scuffle from behind a shelf. Aziraphale sighed in exasperation. Some child must have sneaked in before closing. Probably playing hide and seek, somehow ignorant to the fact that its little friends were all outside by now, probably begging their parents or older siblings for ice cream and sweets.
"Excuse me." Aziraphale cleared his throat, then craned his neck. "The shop is closed. Look, it's nearly quarter after five, and–"
There was a hiss, followed by a swish.
Frowning, Aziraphale tried again. "Hello? Excuse me?" He was closer to the shelf now and could see a figure – much taller and thinner than a child – stepping out of the shadow and into the golden, mote-filled light.
It was a thing that looked dreadful – face half-rotted and covered in maggots, suit bloody and torn – but the angel was not afraid – not even for a moment. The sharp breath he drew in was one of recognition, not fear.
"Oh," he said, with pity, "my dear."
"I can't change back," came the hissed, urgent whisper, a forked tongue slipping in and out of split, cracked lips. "It's finally happened. I've forgotten how."
"You've stressed yourself," suggested Aziraphale hopefully. "It's like when you're trying to solve a problem and the answer won't come, even though you know it." He forced a brittle smile. "Once you think of something else, you always remember in the end."
"This isn't like that," the demon deadpanned. "I've tried everything."
"You've ruined your suit and no mistake," Aziraphale admitted, eyeing the messy clothing hanging off the horrid form. "But it's not as if it's a real suit – I mean, you didn't buy it. No harm done."
"It's not the suit I'm worried about! I can't go back to my building like this – I'd never make it up to the flat without the doorman calling the police."
Aziraphale waved that off. "Oh, Crowley, honestly. If that's all it is! You'll stay here until you remember how to change back, of course."
The thing slouched forward miserably, like it wanted to stick its face in the angel's – grab onto his worn tartan-lined vest and give him a good shake, forcing him to stop being so bloody casual and see the actual distress it was in – yet was wholly aware just how horrid it looked and didn't wish to subject the angel to such a horror beyond what was necessary.
"Well, I need to figure it out quickly – if Hell finds out I'm stuck like this, they'll try to put me out of my misery like a lame horse. Even Hastur doesn't look this bad." The demon gestured at the rotted side of its face. Where a snake tattoo had been, there was just a gash of mangled, open, flesh with the appearance of festering. "And he looks like he's being given birth to, feet-first, by a bloody frog."
"That does pose a problem," said Aziraphale.
"Oh, yes, you seem very concerned."
"I'm going to pretend I don't notice your tone."
"I never should have done this," lamented the thing that had been Crowley just a day ago. "Went completely overboard with my last temptation. The man was just being such a self-righteous slime ball; I thought I could scare him into sin, be quicker than properly tempting a prick like that. I'd been whispering unheeded suggestions, everything from adultery to arson, in his ear for an hour; it got tiresome."
"Maggots and flesh wounds usually make people scream, or get sick; not sin," Aziraphale interjected.
"I know that," it hissed. "I was desperate. Hell was watching me through the man's television. Dagon and another demon. They wanted to see me in action. My usual stuff wasn't... Well, it wasn't up to standards in the moment. I panicked."
Aziraphale reached out and took the thing's grimy hand in his own warm, elegantly manicured ones, patting it gently. "Come on. We'll go into the back room and pour you a drink. Help you relax. Maybe you'll remember after that."
"Just don't turn on the radio or anything," it warned. "Not even your damned Victrola. If Hell's looking for me, I don't want them to find me here." It shuddered. "I just didn't know where else to go."
"For pity's sake, Crowley," sighed Aziraphale. "You didn't think I'd turn you away?"
The thing turned away, reddening. For a split second, though it did not stick, it had looked very much like Crowley again.
It turned out the thing, with all its exposed skin, couldn't drink wine – or any alcohol – without experiencing searing pain, so Aziraphale fixed some mild tea instead.
The thing that was Crowley scoffed, but then he tasted it, declared it was not so bad, and drank the rest without further complaint.
"Have you tried letting your wings out?" Aziraphale suggested, once the thing seemed a little calmer. "It might jump-start something?" he added hopefully.
"Jump-start? I'm not a car engine."
"Well, if you've got a better idea, Crowley..."
Sighing, he let out his wings, which looked darker and grimier than Aziraphale had ever seen them. Slightly tangled and matted, too. The angel was shocked. Usually, Crowley's wings were better groomed than his own. The demon had upbraided him about his personal wing-care regiment and all it was lacking more than once.
"I could..." Aziraphale began, a touch shyly. "I could neaten them for you."
The thing that had been Crowley nodded his assent. At worst, it'd be an ugly, inside out type creature with smooth wing-feathers.
Aziraphale began picking off the maggots. "Let's get these big buggers off, to start with." Next he ran his fingers through the wadded feathers, gently separating them and smoothing them down in place. They could use a washing – and he'd get to that with a dampened cloth in a moment – but for now, he was trying to make sure none of them were displaced or broken. It had never occurred to him that all the shape-changing his demon friend did might have an unpleasant effect on his wings if he didn't concentrate. "They're not too bedraggled after all," he finally decided aloud. "They look worse than they are."
"Yeah, that was rather the point," snapped the thing.
"Didn't you consider no one was going to see them?"
It muttered something less than pleasant.
"What are you so upset about, Crowley?" He began to stroke the disentangled feathers gently, trying to soothe his friend.
"Dunno what you mean."
"You're tetchy."
"M'not." It leaned into the angel's touch.
"I'm not an idiot." He paused. "Listen. If it's because you don't like me seeing you in this state, that's silly. I've seen you pull this stunt a hundred times. I've always told you it's ugly – I never pretended it wasn't. But I don't care."
"Right. But it's never lasted this long." It fell silent, a touch broodingly, then added, quietly, "Oi, you've stopped."
"What's that?" Aziraphale sounded confused.
"You've stopped." The paltry wings, still half resting against Aziraphale's lap, waggled impatiently, seemingly of their own accord.
"Oh, sorry." He resumed.
"If I can't change back," it sighed, breathing deeply, "the Arrangement..."
"What about the Arrangement?"
"Well, it'll be over, won't it? I can't exactly pull off blessings in your place looking like this, can I?"
"Crowley, if I turned into a shiny beacon of light tomorrow, floating around glowing all the time, and I couldn't tempt anyone in your place, would you abandon me?"
"No." What it meant, and what Aziraphale inferred from the monosyllabic no was actually, "'Course not! What's bloody wrong with you?"
"So, you see, if you won't leave me," the angel said, splaying his hands and running them through a cluster of feathers for good measure, "I won't leave you."
"D'you mean that?"
"You know I mean it."
The thing sagged in visible relief. Something changed in it.
Aziraphale noticed. "Crowley." He let go of the feathers. "Crowley, turn and look at me. Concentrate on my face."
"Why?"
"Just do it."
The thing shifted, visibly less covered in maggots than before, a number of wounds drying and closing. The form was less like a thing and more man-shaped now.
It was not quite Crowley, not yet, but very nearly.
"No, no, keep looking at me." Aziraphale grabbed the thing's left hand, shaky and insubstantial now, capable of going either way. Desperate times, what. "By the way, Crowley, would you mind if I borrowed your car? Tonight?"
"What? Angel, you can't even drive! If you think I'm going just hand over the Bentley because I'm–"
Aziraphale was smirking brightly. "I thought that might work."
"What the Heaven are you talking about?"
He reached for a cheap hand-mirror he'd used to decipher a backwards code in a book a few days ago then promptly forgot about, holding it up proudly in front of Crowley.
The demon touched his face; it was his favourite one again. "I'm back."
But as far as Aziraphale was concerned, his friend had never really left.
A/N: Reviews welcome, replies may be delayed.