DISCLAIMER: Once again, I own nothing related to Good Omens. I do own a purple tartan umbrella, though.
Crowley wrenched the door open, ready to dash down the hall, but stopped himself. No. He had to look cool, calm, casual. Reassuringly he adjusted the sunglasses on his nose and, relaxing his posture, strode down the third-floor hallway as though it were a catwalk and he an overindulgent rockstar. He walked with a purpose, which was at any rate appropriate enough.
He shook the hair out of his eyes—he'd been experimenting with the length recently—and sauntered on. When he reached the stairs experience told him that sauntering would be difficult and he settled for slouching in a manner that only the truly cool could pull off, all hips and bravado. Now, slouching down the stairs, Crowley tried to focus on what to say upon reaching the bookshop. Would Aziraphale even want to speak to him? Would he just pull the "oh my, it's getting late" routine to avoid him? Or would he even be there? No, of course he would be there. He was always there. Where else did he have to go? Meandering through the train compartments of thought, Crowley landed on the stairwell and turned to continue down the next set of steps. Abruptly he stopped in mid-slouch.
"Oh, hello," said Aziraphale, taking off his bowler hat. Crowley stared. "I was hoping to catch you. Where are you off to?"
"To see you—to apologize—"
Aziraphale waved a hand dismissively. "Nonsense; you weren't quite yourself."
He had to acknowledge it was true. "Right. I was a bit smashed, wasn't I?"
The angel frowned. "Sometimes I don't understand your methods of expression."
"You know, tanked?" Vacuous confusion settled on Aziraphale's face and pitched a tent, ready for a long stay. "Corked? Sloshed? Jazzed? Zozzled? Plastered? Embalmed? Owled?" Crowley tried. "Spifflicated?"
Recognition, like two miniature suns, dawned in the angel's eyes. The vacuous confusion grumpily gathered up the tent and left. "Spifflicated, yes, you were quite drunk. No need to apologize; in fact, I came to apologize to you." He clutched the bowler hat tightly in his hands, looking for all the world like an anxious traveling salesman.
Crowley blinked. Apologize? What did the angel ever have to apologize for?
Aziraphale sensed the latent incomprehension in the demon's face and plunged on. "I am sincerely sorry, Crowley," he explained, "for anything I may have said or done thatledyou to your... proclamation from the other night." He studied him, noting the familiar disaffected pout on his face, the awkward posturing, the trademark sunglasses. Behind those plastic lenses, angelic intelligence whispered, Crowley was not quite as disaffected as he wanted to seem; seeing him now, after Franz's little speech earlier, it was clear something lay beneath his cool facade. A struggle rose in Aziraphale's mind and he redoubled his grip on the hat. At some point, preferably soon, he would have to say something.
The angel and the demon stared at each other, standing at the exact midpoint between the floor above and the floor below.
"Let's go," said Aziraphale, finally. "I want to show you something." He put the bowler hat back atop his head and took Crowley by the arm.
After ensuring that Aziraphale had safely gotten in the building, Franz bade the cabbie to take him to the nearest store. He had promised Debbie, one of Purgatory's many receptionists, to bring her back some chewing gum(1), and figured that he may as well get some now.
The taxicab pulled up in front of a large, nondescript brick building. Franz considered leaving Freddie in the cab, but shrugged and waved at him to come on. It wasn't as though he would be noticed anyway (2). They entered the store, a corporate shrine to fluorescent light and bargain prices, and Franz went over to the registers to find a recognizable brand of gum. The blond girl at the register, he noticed, looked somewhat melancholy. Recently jilted, he guessed.
Freddie, hanging back, nudged him in the ribs. "She looks down," he pointed out.
"That's what I was thinking." Franz pretended to deliberate over the choices of chewing gum, studying her discreetly. The teenager looked bored and mopey, but like the type of person who would (when feeling more cheerful) listen to... to... Franz strove to remember the band favored by Roberta, the sixteen-year-old from the support group. The Obscurity? The Blackness? The Darkness! That was it. The cashier girl looked like someone who would listen to The Darkness.
After purchasing the gum they strode over to the music section of the store and Franz began pawing through the CDs. Ah, here it was. He pulled out the disc, triumphant, and Freddie gave him an offended look. In reply Franz pulled the rockstar over to a listening station and thrust a pair of headphones at him. Putting on the headphones, Freddie stood for a minute or two listening intently, head bobbing. "It's not bad," he said in concession.
While Freddie listened, Franz scanned the section for teenagers. It was a firmly-held belief of his that everyone deserved a happy ending, and damned if he wasn't going to help. He spied a Mohawk-wearing boy, about seventeen, standing further down the aisle. Perfect. Girls today liked that sort of thing, didn't they? The "bad boy," as the kids said? Yes, yes, they did, if what Roberta said held any weight. Excellent.
The Mohawker looked pensive, torn between The Clash in his left hand and The Kinks in his right. "Excuse me," Franz articulated. The boy looked up and over. "Excuse me, but I do believe I have a solution to your problem." He took the CD from the listening station and displayed it gallantly. It was another firmly-held belief of his that music could save the world.
You expect me to buy that? asked the teenager's eyes.
"I'll give you the money," said Franz's vocal cords. "You don't have to pay for it, really."
You're one sketchy bloke, replied the teenager's eyes, but he took the money anyway.
Franz watched from a distance as the Mohawked boy went up to the register. "I love The Darkness!" squealed the cashier excitedly. The boy smiled.
"Come on, Freddie," Franz said, and they left.
They took the Bentley to the bookshop, riding in awkward silence, and Crowley arched an eyebrow. What would the angel have to show him here? He'd been there a million times. He'd seen everything Aziraphale owned, which wasn't much, and sucked down all his wine. Anything he wanted to show off, Crowley would have been shown already.
Aziraphale hurried into the back room and locked the door behind them. The eyebrow rose.
Making sure no passersby could peer in—apointless task in the windowless room—Aziraphale pressed his hands together and seemed nervous. Crowley couldn't take it anymore. "What's going on?"
The angel's shoulders twitched, as though he had forgotten there was someone present. Hastily he went to a floor cabinet in the corner of the room and opened it, gesturing to Crowley. "This is what I wanted to show you," he explained.
The demon walked over and got on his knees to squint into the cabinet. He probably had dust all over his jeans, now, but he could always miracle it away later. Paper clogged the cabinet, individual sheets sticking out randomly from the stacks, just barely visible within the dark space. Crowley gave Aziraphale a quizzical look. "Here," said the angel in reply, pulling out the stacks one by one. The expectation seemed to be that Crowley would read it.
While Crowley stared at the piles in question—was he seriously waiting for him to read it all? there had to be thirty or forty of them—Aziraphale stood up and brushed off his khakis. "Well, go on."
With obvious reluctance the demon picked up the first sheet in front of him and began to read. Aziraphale unlocked the door, exited, and relocked it. He wasn't going to give the demon an opportunity to get out of it. But reading all that would take a while, and he rather felt like some cocoa.
Two cups of cocoa and one Pride & Prejudice later, he returned to the back room. Crowley glanced up. Aziraphale noted the weary expression on the demon's face, and felt a tiny zap of guilt on locking him in. "Almost done," he said, holding up a slim sheaf of paper.
"Jolly good." Aziraphale sat down at the small table, waiting.
After several minutes, Crowley put down the paper and joined him at the table. "So, it's a record of the history of the Earth?"
"Yes."
"In epic poetry."
"That's right," the angel replied. "What do you think?"
"I think you have too much free time and too little friends."
The angel waved the comment away dismissively.
"I noticed," said Crowley, doing his best at nonchalance, "that I'm the only demon mentioned by name."
"Other than Lucifer, yes. But he's sort of necessary."
"Right. And that means what?"
The angel folded his arms on the table, interlocking his fingers together. It almost looked as though he were praying. "I've been thinking, Crowley, and I'm not too certain I can do this." He unlocked his fingers, reaching across the table. "But I'd like to make an attempt."
The demon blinked. "I'm a demon, angel. If not for good, why risk Falling?"
Aziraphale smiled sagely. "Exactly. Don't second-guess Ineffability, I always say."
Crowley boggled. "But..."
"To be frank, dear boy, I don't give a damn."
Franz entered quietly, hanging up his coat on the hat stand near the door. From the other room he could hear his cousin's voice, and he beamed.
Yes, everyone deserved a happy ending.
(1) She claimed candy—gum in particular—just wasn't as good as it was on Earth. Less flavorful, she said.
(2) Perhaps at this juncture an explanation would be helpful. The massive amount of paperwork necessary to bring someone to Earth was due to the legal contracts inherent in reviving the dead. You wouldn't understand the physics, but the basic gist was that Freddie, being extremely well-known, was visible only to select people, those outlined in his contract (i.e., Crowley, Franz and Aziraphale). To all others he simply would not exist.
As for Franz, he was not a recognizable public figure and therefore was visible to everyone but specific people outlined in his contract.