Sideless


Author's note: Just a small idea of mine. Silly, but kind of fun, at least if you're me and can visualise the whole thing in your head... which you aren't and can't.
Damn.
Read it anyway.
Characters belong to th two of the REAL Gods: Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.
Take that, God.
(Not really sure who God belongs to. Not really sure if it matters. Oh well.)

"There's no way," shouted the positively very drunken angel and shook his fist at the sky, "there's no way You're doing this to me! I have rights, damn it, rights!"

"Angels and demons are not supposed to mingle at all," a dark and booming voice shot back at him. It sounded upset, yet at the same time strangely amused. "You chose yourself to… err… do those things with the demon Crowley, whom I have myself expelled from My Heavenly Kingdom."

The angel staggered slightly, but managed to keep from hitting the ground. "But he… he tempted me! It's not fair! I couldn't bloody well fight him back with offering salvation, now could I?"

Everything even vaguely supernatural ran for cover. God was in an extremely bad mood, and the angel wasn't making things better.

"You have Fallen, Aziraphale. Deal with it."

The angel hiccuped. "But," he said, finally giving in to his wobbly legs and allowing himself to land on his arse on the damp, grassy ground, "but… what am I supposed to do now? Am I to become a demon?"

The more or less metaphysical God shrugged, which resulted in the clouds shivering from the sudden movement. "I don't know. Rent a room or something. Continue working at the bookshop. Start a boxing-carrier. Whatever. You are no longer My concern."

The angel pondered for a moment, once or twice lifting the bottle of liquor to his lips to drink from it. Then he thought of something. "Oh." He let out a gasp of breath. "What about health insurance policy? It's going to be hard getting a job without a social security number, and things like that. Might be good to have, you know, some sort of safety."

God sighed. "Aziraphale, you are an angel. A fallen one, but still angelic in terms of not dying in a very, very long while."

Aziraphale nodded, disheartened. "Right. There's always that."

"Well," said God after a moment's uncomfortable silence, "I've really got to, uh, get going. Busy day. You know, souls to save, paperwork to fill out."

"Yeah," the angel replied apathetically, "I know."

"So… I guess I'll see you around."

"No, probably not. You're not due for your centennial stroll on earth for… well, almost a century."

"Okay then. I'm sorry it got to this. You should have kept away from sin. It's really your own damned fault."

"Sure. Doesn't really matter now, does it?"

God didn't answer. He had already moved on (1).

Aziraphale hadn't sat there long before he felt a hand being placed on his shoulder, and the nice sensation of another body being pressed against his as the demon for whom he had Fallen sat down beside him.

"I expect it didn't go so well." Crowley reached into his pocket and got his pack of cigarettes and lighter out. He lit one, blowing small rings of smoke into the otherwise quite transparent air.

"It didn't. I've been dismissed."

"Oh." The demon didn't seem awfully surprised. "Well, He works in mysterious ways, or what is all that load of bull your side keeps telling people when something terrible has happened?"

Aziraphale took a deep sip of liquor from the now almost empty bottle. "My side," he muttered, a slight sombre smile on his lips. "I don't even have a side anymore. Consider me sideless."

"That's a solvable problem," grinned Crowley. "Hell's always looking for new employees. If you ask nicely, I'm sure they'll put you on the payroll."

"I don't think so," said Aziraphale. "Evil's never really been a kink of mine. I guess… I guess I'd better stay in the bookshop business."

"Well," said Crowley, lowering his sunglasses somewhat to stare at his angel friend with his cold, reptilian eyes, "that's a bundle of laughs, I'm sure. If you change your mind, let me know."

"Sure."

They sat silently beside one another for a moment, looking at the spectacular view. The hill they were on was located near a deep and dark forest, with not a mall in sight for miles and miles. It was like being back in the medieval ages, when everything was pure and unspoiled. Crowley didn't like it much. There was no corruption.

After having finished the bottle, Aziraphale threw it away. It hit a bird in its flight, which came sailing down through the air and landed on the ground a couple of metres in front of them.

"That's very industrious of you," said Crowley, amused. "Never figured you one for the destruction of other species."

"I'm not in the mood for good deeds. I've just Fallen. I am entitled to some uncharacteristic behaviour."

"I guess."

"You know, it's not the Fall itself that concerns me the most," Aziraphale said, worried. "It's what happens next. I have to get a proper job, start paying my bills, stop using Miracles, get a good apartment…"

"Oh, shut up," Crowley cut him off. "Stop wallowing in self-pity, angel. Okay, so you've Fallen. It's not the end of the world all over again. And you know perfectly well you can stay at my place."

The angel turned his head and looked at Crowley, hope lit in his eyes. "I can? Are you sure?"

"I'm the reason you're in this mess," said the demon, regret very obviously missing in his voice. "Of course you'll stay with me. I'd be mad at you if you didn't even consider my offer."

"Well, I want to." Aziraphale refrained from blushing as best as he could. "I want to stay with you."

"You can govern over the plants, do laundry… stuff like that. And I can cook."

"No!" exclaimed the angel, bewildered. "You can?"

"Hot and spicy. Indian, Mexican, Thai… you name it."

"Oh." The angel pouted. "Nothing a little more… conventional?"

"You're not heavenly anymore," Crowley smirked. "Try something new."

The angel nodded, making an effort to stand up, but failing. "I want to go now."

Crowley sniggered at Aziraphale's futile attempts to stand up, then got up himself and lifted the angel off the ground. "Do I have to carry you, angel?"

"If you feel you're able," gasped Aziraphale. "I don't think I'm sober enough to walk."

"You could just sober up, you know."

The angel thought about this for a second. Then he shook his head, smiling. "No. I think I'd rather you carrying me down to the car."

Crowley smiled back, this time with less sarcasm and wit. "I'd carry you anywhere, angel."

(1) God didn't like sacking his personnel. It was a highly uncomfortable experience, and He normally sent Metatron or some other high-ranking angel to do the job for him. But Aziraphale was… well, special. He'd been involved in the Adam Young-incident, for one. And the simpleton had given away his flaming sword to Adam and Eve when He'd discarded them. So Aziraphale the recently Fallen angel was a different story entirely from many others.