Chapter Four
He fell onto the corner armchair with a sigh, his hands coming up to cover his face though the apartment was empty. He really hadn't meant to say that – to yell at Aziraphale like that. The ruddy angel had just had his wings clipped, it was hardly 'Be Nice to Crowley' day. He- Heck, he'd never meant to bring that up at all. He had been quite happy sitting on that particular set of thoughts thank you very much and it was doing him fine.
As for the angel… Well, at least he'd been 'sauntering vaguely Hell-wards' as he liked to think, and could console himself with revenge and vain promises of a Damned Brotherhood. Aziraphale had nothing to shield him from the guilt and regret.
The radio flickered into life. He jumped.
"…break free to break the mould, but I can't do this all on my… CROWLEY?"
Oh shit.
"CROWLEY, THIS IS AZAL, SEVENTH GRAND HIGH CURATOR OF THE PIT OF DAMNED SOULS."
Double shit.
"THE BOSS IS UPSET. GET YOUR BLESSED TAIL DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW."
"Er, yes my lord."
"YOU'D BETTER. WE'VE HAD SOME FUNNY REPORTS OF YOU RECENTLY – CONSORTING WITH ANGELS AND THE LIKE. THE BOSS DEMANDS ANSWERS. ANSWERS, CROWLEY."
"Consorting with-?" he tried innocently.
"THIS DOES NOT MAKE US LOOK BAD, CROWLEY."
"Yes, my lord."
"YOU ARE GOING TO SUFFER FOR THIS, CROWLEY."
"But I-"
"NOW, CROWLEY! …I know that I'm no superman-"
More than slightly irritated, unnerved and definitely scared out of his wits, he loosed a small fireball at the offensively innocent gadget. It smoked and melted down into a bubbling little plastic puddle, but the wanton destruction did nothing to ease his mind. Shortly enough it would be a smoking and bubbling melted puddle of Crowley instead.
Oh fuck.
Briefly, he pondered on how long he could barricade the flimsy but expensive prefab door against the pissed-off denizens of the nether regions of Hell. As he'd used up all his holy artefacts in the Armageddon That Wasn't, definitely not very long.
Probably about thirty seconds, or until he ran out of things to throw.
For another brief moment he wondered (whilst bolting out of his apartment, racing down the stairs, out onto the pavement and fumbling with his car keys), if Aziraphale had enough inherent holiness in him to ward them off instead. After all, he reasoned, the angel hadn't Fallen (as such), he'd just had his wings clipped. It was probably only a temporary thing, knowing the angel. After all, if he wasn't Good, then what were the Heavens coming to? He had that whole 'holier than thou' thing off-pat, even if he did regularly use it on someone he was categorically much holier than.
Still, somehow the idea of cowering behind a battered and bruised ex-angel while the hordes of the Underworld broke down the door didn't do anything for his still-persistent ego. Shifting gear to Much Much Faster, he reassured himself that it was only his ego that wouldn't take it. What else could it be?
Absently, he swerved out of the way of a little old lady as she blindly crossed the road. Then, horrified, he stared at his hands. If it wasn't bad enough, he was now instinctively saving mortal lives. He shuddered, clutched the steering wheel tighter until his fingers whitened and wished desperately that it was all some sort of bad dream. Any minute he was going to wake up and –
He didn't think much more than that, except for the few brain cells that screamed as he hit the wall dead on. When the underlings finally arrived and dragged away his smoking discorporated corpse, the Bentley was left in a pile of crumpled metal that completely messed up the traffic for the remainder of the day.
Crowley never did manage to appreciate the irony in the situation.
Just as Crowley's earthly body was smashed into an earthly corpse, Aziraphale woke, sitting up so sharply that his back screamed and his head swam.
Crowley.
Something was wrong.
He was breathing heavily, though he quickly stopped as soon as he realised what he was doing, and after a few long seconds of staring blankly into space while he tried to calm his mind, he raised a trembling hand to wipe his face. With surprise, he realised he was sweating, though, completely at odds with this physical phenomenon, he felt ice-cold and sick to the stomach.
He scrambled out of bed (kicking the tangled covers as he half-fell) and made for the door, grabbing his threadbare dressing gown as he did so and wrapping it tightly around his pyjama-covered shoulders in attempt to warm himself up. Only one thing was on his mind – he disregarded thoughts of a comforting cup of tea (or maybe something stronger), or that they hadn't spoken since yesterdays' volatile argument – and pounced on the phone, thanking Him for speed dial as he fidgeted.
And waited.
And worried.
And waited.
Despairingly, he tried Crowley's home number three times, and then tried his mobile. Then he gave up any pretence of not being worried, and raced upstairs, wishing that just this once he could call in a minor miracle and shift clothes. He'd always given some sign of minor disapproval when Crowley had done it (quite beside the fact that the demon was using occult powers), but right now he wished he could take a leaf from that annoying, superior, devilishly sadistic demon's book.
His heart in his throat, he half-ran out into the darkened street, the door jangling shut behind him. Then, without a thought to the unlocked bookshop behind him, not a thought to the fact that Crowley's apartment was miles away, he set off at a run.
His one thought as he ran, as he tried to block his mind to the panicked thoughts threatening to overwhelm him was that he really wished he had transport. Life was hell on an angel without wings.
So he ran.