Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 11 of 12

"Although, given the weather, it might as well be Thursday, eh?"

– American Gods, Neil Gaiman

Crowley took the stairs two at a time, lightly propelling himself forward, ever closer to the shop's ground floor. There was a low hiss rumbling in the back of his throat, as if from habit at being threatened, but it didn't sound right, even to him, vibrating through an archangel's oesophagus, and – if he'd had time to dwell on it – this would have embarrassed him.

He wished he had a baseball or cricket bat for the look of the thing, in case the uninvited guests really were only a few stupid humans.

There was nothing of the sort here, though; it wasn't a sport's equipment shop.

In the end, he settled for a brass telescope that had – evidently – been knocked off its tripod and was rolling around near the bottom step with only a couple of dents in its side. It was very heavy, which made it look threatening, like it could knock out a few teeth if swung by an appropriately angry being.

Despite his outward swaggering bravado, Crowley wasn't actually sure what he'd do if the intruder turned out to be an embassy of Hell. Or even just Michael come to check on him. The one thing he'd known was that he wanted to protect this version of Aziraphale as long as he still could; and that was exactly what he was doing now.

A clean-shaven face with small, shiny eyes suddenly confronted him. The man (only a stupid human after all) was in a suit, though the two thuggish-looking persons behind him were in black jumpers and tracksuit bottoms. One of them had little bits of glass stuck to his trouser-leg (Crowley could feel the draft from the broken window now).

"I believe," said the man in the suit, "you intended to open this shop tomorrow."

"I believe," snarled Crowley, "you're breaking and entering. Destroying my property."

"We didn't mean to disturb you" – this message of false pleasantry was delivered in a voice that meant precisely the opposite – "we simply wanted to have a talk with you about the retail potential for this place."

"This isn't a good time." He folded his arms across his chest and leaned so his face was closer to the man's. "Now go on and get out before I become unpleasant."

"There's no need for that," crooned the man, his tone almost sing-song. "We're friends."

"No, we aren't," – Crowley's voice rose in pitch – "you've just bloody broken into my shop! And, let me tell you right now, if one single leaf on my plants is torn, even one little stem damaged, I'll rake you and your associates over the coals for it." There was a time, back home, when I could literally do that.

"Tut, tut. And here I'd come to offer you a very sizeable cash compensation in exchange for rethinking the imminent opening of–"

Crowley glared and swung the telescope he was clutching, not with intent to hit the man, not to strike a proper blow, but to knock the money – offered in wads of £50 notes – to the floor, where they scattered across the evergreen carpet, looking like shed leaves in the weak lighting.

The man reached into the inside pocket of his suit-jacket and pulled out a pen, which he opened with a too-smooth click. "Or I can write you a cheque, if you prefer – your legal name is Raphael Antonius, right? That's not just a television name?"

"Great show, by the way – tons better than that clown Marvin," one of the thugs added. "My wife's a big fan."

"Thankssss," Crowley sneered over at him, keeping one eye fixed on the suit-man, as he was clearly the one in charge. The others weren't going to do anything he didn't first signal them to do in some way or that they hadn't prearranged before breaking in.

"Shame, isn't it," said the other thug, "how flammable these streamers and signs and star-charts are. Be a pity if they were to catch fire and burn the whole place to the ground. Such a pity they're flammable."

"It's inflammable, mate," the first thug corrected, from the corner of his mouth.

"Nah, it's flammable. That's the educated way to say it."

"Inflammable," he insisted.

"Can you have this fasssscinating little argument later?" huffed Crowley, gesturing with the outstretched telescope between himself and the suit-man. "We're in the middle of something I'm about to finisssh – and I'd really prefer it if you two stopped interrupting."

"We were just sayin'," the first one muttered; he sounded slightly offended. "s'flammable, that's all."

"Inflammable," mouthed the second.

Lightning flashed, momentarily lighting up the whole of the shop and showing Crowley's disgruntled face in full. There was something in it that the men had not been expecting and were – if only passingly – truly afraid of, all three of them holding their breath without realising it.

An angel, irregardless of rank, can be terrifying when he wants to – all the more so an angel who has lived a large portion of his life as a demon. Crowley's eyes didn't need to be yellow and serpentine to get the point across.

The flash faded and there was a dense crackle of thunder left behind, trembling in thrumming vibrations through the stale air.

"I hope," said Crowley, slowly, filling the ensuing silence, "one of your lot has a brolly on hand – it's supposed to rain."

"Yeah, meant to rain," one of the thugs said, sounding distant. "I did want to beat the bad weather home."

"Where t'hell are you going?" demanded the other thug, noticing his companion turning towards the door.

"Want to go home." The corners of his mouth moved up and down like the hinges of a puppet's mouth.

"Me too..." He began to follow him. "Missed dinner. My woman will've left it in the oven for me – be all dried out by now."

The boss, the suit-man, snarled, "I hired you both to be the muscle of this operation! Mr. Antonius and I have not yet settled, so you idiots don't leave until I say so."

"It sounds to me like your lackeys want to go home," Crowley said silkily. "Now, why don't you just let them? Better still, go with them – you three can share a cab out of Soho. After all, I'm being extremely generous. I'm not even making you clean this place up first."

"You," breathed the man. "You're the one doing this."

"Remarkable observation."

Crowley tried to mentally grab onto the man next, sending him out the same way as his slow-moving cohorts, but something slipped; perhaps his celestial power wasn't up to full strength again, not having completely returned after healing Aziraphale's nose, or perhaps he was attempting to use it in too occult a manner to process through his angelic body so quickly.

Whatever the reason, the man's mind slipped from his hold and – enraged by the attempt against him – he drew a tiny silver pistol from his pocket; the same pocket he'd taken the chequebook out of a only couple minutes earlier.

"That's not a good idea," Crowley warned him, as the man's finger folded over the trigger. "Trust me. You'd be much better off just leaving with your friends – this could get very ugly."

"For you, Raphael, not for me – I don't know what you are, but you've done some kind of underworld voodoo on my employees, and I will not be made a fool of."

"Oh, it's more than a bit late for that," he snorted. "You were made a fool of the moment your brain saw what I did, thought 'underworld voodoo', and then was idiotic enough to transfer the thought to your mouth."

"You're only making it worse for yourself, Raphael," threatened the man. "The angrier you get me, the less gentle I'll be. I'm not afraid to hurt you just because you've been on television. That means nothing; I'll still fill you with hot lead if you cross me."

"I believe he told you to leave," said a voice from the stairs behind Crowley's back. "It isn't too late to be a gentleman and oblige him – not yet, anyway."

Aziraphale.

Crowley gnashed his teeth together. "You were supposed to stay upstairs."

"What's this? Who do you have behind you?" The suit-man repositioned his hand so that the gun was pointed over Crowley's shoulder, then his throat released a strangled yelp at the sight of a pair of glinting charcoal-grey eyes flashing a smoky hue of deep maroon.

"He has got a creature of Hell behind him – to answer your question. And not a very happy one at the moment, I regret to say."

The man took a few steps back and began lowering the gun.

Crowley let his tightened muscles unclench. His primary fear had been that the man would fire at the glowing eyes on the stairs; that he would aim for whatever part of Aziraphale he could see, that he would discorporate the demon. That seemed much less likely now.

Everything, he supposed, was going to be all right after all. It couldn't be very far off from midnight now, surely the day was almost done, and the man was going to leave. The other two were already gone, by way of the door, which they'd left open behind them (Crowley could feel an icy draft from that direction, confirming their departure).

He didn't notice the man's finger squeeze the trigger anxiously as he took more steps backwards, away from creepy Raphael and the glowing eyes behind him – he hadn't spared the pitiful buffoon another thought until Aziraphale's voice cried, "Crowley, look out!" and suddenly he was slumming to the floor, moaning.

The brass telescope – which had dropped from Crowley's hand when he was shot – rolled away, across the carpet, to the other side of the shop, under a desk, where it – very probably – wasn't found again – by anyone – for nearly another decade.

The suit-man, losing his nerve and dropping the fired gun, fled.

This was the best thing he could have done under the circumstances, because Aziraphale, in his grief at the terrible unfairness of this – not to mention his rage at somebody else discorporating his angel – probably would have ripped him in half. He could still do that to a mortal, injured from his earlier punishment or not.

Instead, the Prince of Hell knelt by Crowley and pulled the archangel's lolling head into his lap.

His blue eyes were unfocused and glassy. "It's all right," he choked out.

Tears streamed down Aziraphale's face. "No, it isn't."

"It's only discorporation, angel."

"But, my dear fellow, it's–"

Blood soaked through the bottom of Crowley's shirt; he could feel it, hot and slippery around the bullet embedded within his abdomen. "I'm just going to have to do this whole Wednesday thing one more time – I'll see you soon."

"No!" cried Aziraphale, leaning sideways and pressing his hand to the archangel's bloody belly. "I won't remember any of this – I'll be back to trying to tie you to those stupid Piccadilly train tracks!"

"It'll be fine." He wasn't sure he really believed what he was saying, wasn't sure he could handle doing this all over again for the umpteenth time, but he wanted to reassure Aziraphale.

"It jolly well will not!" His rasping voice was desperate, broken. "Hang on. I've got an idea – let me try to heal you."

"Are you insane?" Crowley spat, roughly slapping the demon's hand off his bleeding wound. "Hell will be keeping track of every bit of power you use now – they'll flay you for it, and you don't even know for sure it would work."

"This is all my fault."

"Listen to me, angel, that is not true – you know it isn't."

Drawing in a sharp breath, Aziraphale's hand – still slick with blood – grabbed one of Crowley's and squeezed. "Hold out as long as you can. Just keep looking at me, all right? Focus on my face."

"I'm sorry – I have to go." He could feel himself slipping towards discorporation. "I've got a lot of paperwork to fill out before we meet again."

"Crowley, you don't understand – you only need to hold on for one more minute!"

"Wot?" There was a ringing in his ears, which felt like they were filled with cotton; the lines of Aziraphale's face were fuzzy and the shop looked like it was made of ink.

"It's 11:59 – don't think about anything else, just keep looking at me until it's Thursday." He slapped his cheek with his other hand. "Don't you dare close your eyes before midnight, you idiot." Pulling Crowley upward, he wrapped his arms around him, cradling him so the angel would still be looking up at his face. "Come on, buck up. What's one more minute? That's nothing to you."

There was a war inside Crowley. He felt so weak; he almost wanted to go and come back – game over, try again. If he'd gotten Aziraphale to listen once, he could do it again. And – despite the aggravation of having to start this from the beginning after so much progress – spending one more day with his demonic angel friend wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, provided he avoided getting discorporated.

Except...

Except he wasn't certain if he did this again, even once more, he wouldn't just keep on doing this forever – regardless of the fact that he couldn't, regardless of how it was killing him inside, regardless of the fact that the other Aziraphale was waiting for him back home.

He would wake up a hundred more times, a thousand, a million, a billion, the equivalent of who knew how many years, how many eons, on the same Wednesday, struggling to rescue the wrong version of the being he cared most about in this entire damn multiverse.

It was enough to drive anyone mad, and Hastur knew it, the sorry bastard.

What was even worse, if he ever did miraculously manage to return – after it was finally ended, one way or another – to his real home life, he wouldn't be himself any more. Too much time would have gone by. And that wouldn't be fair to the angelic version of Aziraphale – because, whatever he was by then, he'd no longer be what his friend needed.

So it would have to be now. He'd had his misadventure. It was time to go home. Home. Nowhere else.

He willed himself to stop thinking about discorporation. He didn't allow his mind to envision Gabriel and Sandalphon waiting for him; Sandalphon – in a voice that probably wasn't entirely meant to be snide – asking, "The demon Zira again?"

He focused, instead, on how he was – despite everything else – in his best friend's arms, staring up into his best friend's tearstained face, and tried to draw strength from that.

The minute came and went.

"You did it, Crowley," Aziraphale whispered brokenly. "It's Thursday. Congratulations."

Crowley felt his eyelids closing – he couldn't keep them open any longer, not even for the sake of having them remain fixed on Aziraphale. His chest rose and fell in an ever-slowing rhythm. Soon, he was certain, it would not rise again. "Be good, angel."

There was a pitch black darkness around him; wherever he'd gone after this discorporation, after his consciousness slipped from Aziraphale's arms, this place between there and home, it wasn't Heaven. Not unless they'd left all their lights off. And it didn't smell bad enough to be Hell.

He strained for something, anything, and only located one trickle of yellowish light in the dark. It was the sort of light that spills from a door left ajar.

Moving towards this light, Crowley began to notice his throat filling with burning hot liquid. He felt he like was drowning from the inside out, even though – technically – he shouldn't even have a throat, let alone be in a position to suffocate.

He wasn't supposed to need to breathe.

Turning away, the painful feeling lessened, as if the inner drowning was paused.

This nearly convinced him to stay away from the light altogether – for there could be nothing good that way – until he heard a voice from the same direction whispering, "Come back... Please come back... Come back, dear boy."

He held his breath, imagining there really was one to hold, and braved another step into the beckoning light.

The demon Aziraphale held onto the remains of the discorporated archangel's body until it turned to a fine glittery ash and then to motes in the air around him, and then – finally, horribly – bit by bit – began to disappear, to evaporate into nothing tangible.

'Twas Heaven's little celestial clean-up system when it came to material bodies, no doubt.

One thing was painfully certain. After this, he didn't think he'd have it in him to ever try to kill his angel again. All his careful, clever schemes were for nothing now. He'd have to suggest that blasted Arrangement or else retire and accept Hell's wrath.

He'd seen Raphael discorporate before, of course, but never like this.

This... This one hurt.

He'd held him while it happened, helplessly watched him slip away. Saw how difficult it was for him to hold on even for a mere sixty seconds. And knowing, if all went as it should, he would never see this version of his angel again, that Crowley was gone for ever and ever, it really was as though the angel died permanently and he, Aziraphale, had been left behind holding the empty shell of a body afterwards.

He bent his head low, feeling sick, and sobbed until he ran out of tears and lost the strength to shudder continuously.

Hours later, when he felt he could move again, he slowly made his way back upstairs and into the loft's bathroom where he cleaned himself up and splashed ice cold water on his bruised, blotchy face.

Will I know, Aziraphale wondered, if time loops again? Or can only Crowley know that? What if, suddenly, it's yesterday and I just–

He rushed back into the bedroom, face still dripping, and turned on the alarm clock radio (with some difficulty, accidentally changing the settings to Japanese twice).

Greetings, Soho residents, it's Thursday morning!

Aziraphale exhaled, staring up at his relieved reflection in the mirrored ceiling.

We're expecting lots of sunshine and only partial clouds today – no need for your brolly and macintosh, leave 'em in the closet! It's going to be a fine afternoon for a walk in the park with good friends. Coming up next, your daily horoscope.

Feeling worn and dazed, Aziraphale made his way to the stairs again. It was comfortable here – he envied the other him, the one in Crowley's world, who lived in this building, where it was a bookshop – but it was time to leave; there was somewhere he needed to be.

The Prince of Hell stood for a long moment beside the glass revolving door, peering – with feigned casualness – into the main entrance lobby for Heaven and Hell.

A familiar figure was coming down Heaven's escalator. His hair was long again, his suit light-coloured, and his tired expression politely baffled.

It must really be him, Aziraphale thought; he's back and Crowley, one can only hope, has made it back to his own world – to the other me – safely.

His stomach fluttered. Part of him wanted to turn around and run away. Raphael would never even hear him out regarding an Arrangement. Of course Crowley thought he would, of course Crowley had wanted him to give the archangel another chance. That was all very well and good. But Crowley wasn't here, and there was simply no way Raphael would ever even consider–

Madame Tracy's words came back to him then. Love confounds us all, one way or another.

This wasn't something he could run away from, an issue which would go away if he ignored it long enough. He would have to face him – have to admit to Raphael that he saw no point in their being proper enemies to each other any longer, though they'd never be able to call themselves friends, being as they were on opposite sides – eventually.

Holding his head high with a confidence he did not entirely feel, Aziraphale entered the lobby.

Raphael doesn't quite understand what's been happening. He can't recall whatever occurred yesterday – it is as if he was not present for Wednesday, gone somehow – and only knows what Heaven has written him up a citation for.

He only knows that, supposedly, he healed the demon Zira's nose – which evidently was broken by somebody in Hell, possibly Satan himself, though Gabriel didn't say, as a punishment.

Everybody has been making a big fuss about it – about something Raphael can't even remember doing.

Gabriel and Sandalphon were disappointed in him, and Michael apparently was holding a grudge, silently judging him as she glared from across the open, white space, but it was Uriel who was the most downright unpleasant about it.

"If you think your fat boyfriend in the trench coat will get you special treatment in Hell because you fixed his face, Raphael, remember. He's in trouble, too."

"Uriel, that was harsh," Gabriel had interrupted, clapping a hand down on Raphael's shoulder a little more roughly than he strictly needed to. "We agreed on a citation – Raphael is one of us – and yesterday was a odd day for us all, wasn't it, Michael?"

"Yes," she'd said morosely, straightening the lace on her cuffs, refusing now to even look at Raphael.

Gabriel's following smile, still directed at him and ignoring Michael's obvious lack of enthusiasm for calling it pax, hadn't quite reached his violet eyes, but it vaguely suggested forgiveness, which was, as far as the other archangels involved were concerned, good enough. "How's the new body feel, buddy?"

Uriel (having no other choice) backed down after that, but Raphael thinks it would be wise in the future to keep an eye on that particular archangel. At least until things calm down a bit more. Uriel's grudges can be every bit as dangerous as Michael's – all the more so since they're more vocal and self-righteous and less sulky.

They're – all the shining archangels together – supposed to be like siblings, a strong united front, but these days Raphael wonders if he doesn't actually have more in common with Zira, Prince of Hell or not.

Michael is stationed on earth, too, but she doesn't appreciate it, doesn't feel her place in it as he does. She sleeps in a different hotel every night, owns no material object that wasn't brought down from Heaven. She wouldn't care if the whole globe turned into a burning puddle of goo tomorrow.

The rest up here, looking down, can't even imagine how he feels waking up in a corporeal body every morning.

But Zira–

Think of the devil.

There he is, in the lobby, waiting.

Raphael hops off the escalator and saunters vaguely towards him. "Hi."

To his surprise, Zira smiles, tightly but with real warmth sparkling from his eyes. "Ah. Hello."

"Do you remember what happened yesterday?" Raphael asks, point blank. "Because I don't, and it would seem I'm in trouble for healing your broken nose."

Zira shrugs. He probably knows – whatever he might remember – it isn't really safe to talk about here. "Jolly bad luck."

"Right." He's beginning to feel uncomfortable. "Well, I'll just be–"

Zira's warm, plump hand – soft as a wing-feather – brushes briefly against his, and he's out of the lobby before anyone can accuse him of fraternizing with the enemy.

But there is a neatly folded scrap of paper in Raphael's hand and he realises, then, that Zira hasn't gone far – he can still see the back of his ashy-blonde head through the revolving glass doors.

He's not...

Surely he's not...

Waiting for him?

He unfolds the note.

Nonsense. Impossible. He's horrified that Zira would even suggest such a thing.

But think.

Raphael has a choice here.

He can go back up the escalator, into Gabriel's office, and hand the note over like the heavenly priggish stickler he's supposed to be. He can report what Zira wants to do, and – through back-channels that aren't supposed to exist – it will make its way to the demon's own lot. He will be duly punished and Raphael exonerated. Uriel won't be able to imply he is a traitor with this evidence that it's all one-sided, that this whole attempt was Zira's doing, not that of a respectable archangel. The fact that he fixed his nose and forgot about it will be all but forgotten. Possibly even forgiven.

Except he doesn't want that.

He doesn't want anything bad to happen to Zira.

Zira, who is – inexplicably, perhaps ineffably – more like him than the other archangels, despite being on the wrong side. Zira, whose bright, sunny smile is always so bloody nice, even when he's trying to discorporate him. Zira, who Raphael secretly knows brings food and other important supplies – whenever he can – to an ageing prostitute with bad knees but has never done anything even remotely sexual with her. Zira, who innocently assumes Raphael doesn't know the exact hardware store he buys his 'discorporating supplies' from, that he never shops there himself. Zira, who probably did look very pitiful with a broken nose. Zira, who thinks – by design – Raphael never notices him, but is in reality almost never far from his thoughts. Zira, who once came to him for help on a bad day and was lost to him for ever after.

But still.

Still.

The risk.

A choice must be made and – whatever happens, for good or for evil – Raphael will have to live with that choice for all the days to come. All because of a Wednesday he can't remember.

Gabriel is in Heaven, and Zira is waiting just outside.

So.

The glass door, or the escalator?

Raphael pauses, looking back and forth from both.

He pauses.

The glass door, or the escalator?

He is confounded. As we all are, in one way or another.

A/N: Reviews welcome, replies may be delayed.