Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 2 of 12

"Well, seeing that today certainly is my day – why don't you call me Wednesday?"

– American Gods, Neil Gaiman

Crowley toyed with the idea of simply staying in bed all day. Making his new body as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.

What was the bloody point of doing anything else?

Just waking up and going outside so Aziraphale – Zira, whatever – could gloat over the successful discorporation really didn't appeal to him. He hadn't realised the paperwork had taken a full week – but according to the annoyingly chipper man on the radio it was Wednesday again, so it stood to reason.

Surely Zira was proud as anything to have kept him held up in Heaven that long.

Besides, even if Aziraphale didn't gloat, even if he turned out to be a good sport about it, the thought of seeing his angel as a mentally unstable demon – not to mention a Prince of Hell – again made Crowley want to hit something. Preferably the other archangels. Those sorry sacks of feathers combined weren't half the angel Aziraphale had been, yet they acted as if his tragic Fall was nothing more than a typical inconvenience!

The way Gabriel had talked about him... Little fat angel, always messing up his assignments. How dare they! Was that all Aziraphale ever was to them?

He rolled over, burying his face in the pillows and groaning.

Crowley thought he might make it through a few more days in this bizarro world (as the Americans might call it); he thought he might trudge doggedly through this brave new universe where there was no Arrangement and keep his sanity intact... But he couldn't imagine – could fathom – couldn't stand the mere thought of – living like this forever. He hoped desperately that he'd be able to find a way back to his real life. To his version of Aziraphale.

The landline rang.

He considered ignoring it, then – lifting his face from the cosy cocoon of pillows enveloping his cheekbones – ultimately decided against that. He did wonder who would call him here, and he never had learned who he'd briefly yelled at then hung up on last Wednesday.

With another audible groan, he rolled grimly out of the bed – skittering across the sheepskin rug, creating massive amounts of wildly adhesive static cling in the process – and shuffled over to the phone, picking up the handset and yawning.

"Yeah?" He peeled a piece of lint off the shoulder of his pyjamas, only for it to stick to him again as soon as he tried to put it down.

"Raphael, it's me."

"Who?" he said absently, rather preoccupied with blowing irritably at the lint now clinging to his elbow.

"It's Michael."

"Is it?" After remembering suddenly that he could just miracle the lint away and quickly doing so, he rubbed the back of his head absently with his free hand – long, coppery strands of his hair were sticking straight up. "Hmm. Whatddya want?"

"I'm calling to inform you that I've gotten some information via back channels."

"What back channels?"

"Oh, for pity's sake, you're worse than Gabriel sometimes," came her heavily annoyed sigh. "Just listen."

"I'm all ears."

"I have it on good authority that the demon Zira is planning on–"

"Discorporating me, yes – I imagine it's going to be much the same as last week. Thanks anyway." Crowley set the handset back down on the receiver. "Wanker."

Click.

Michael frowned down at the phone screen. What had gotten into Raphael? And what did he mean 'last week'? The demon Zira hadn't tried to discorporate Raphael last week.

Last week they'd both been out of town, and Zira had been – and this she'd gotten from back channels as well – in Hell for a mandatory meeting.

She'd never liked Raphael. It was true she and Gabriel could bump heads from time to time because of having different methods – they'd never been as close as, say, Gabriel and Sandalphon – but there was still a calm understanding between the two of them, a sense that they must at least hear one another out, being on the same side and all that.

Raphael was different, entirely, and it worried her sometimes. You never quite knew what he was thinking – what he was up to. Perhaps she should be keeping more of an eye on him.

After miracling his pyjamas into a simple grey suit, Crowley made his way down the stairs to the shop, just in time to hear somebody knocking on the window.

Pony-tail girl again, holding that stupid self help book he'd supposedly written.

He opened the door. "Wot?"

"Ohmigosh. I can't believe it's really you! You're Raphael Antonius!"

"Last time I checked."

"Your book changed my life – I hope–"

He made a rolling motion with his hand for her to hurry up. "Yes, get on with it."

"Oh. Okay." Lips pursed in offence, she held the book out to him. "Would you sign it for me?"

Crowley blinked, once, very slowly. How many autographs did she need? Hadn't they done this already? Last week? Why was she acting as if this was the first time they'd...?

Upon lifting the cover, he was greeted by the pristine, unmarred flyleaf.

There was no signature in the book.

That was when it hit him. Michael could have been the person on the phone last time – in fact, that could have been the same exact call.

This wasn't a new Wednesday – it was a rerun.

So much for making it through a few more days here – he hadn't even made it through one.

Crowley blessed viciously and shoved the book back into the young woman's hands without signing it. She began snapping something rude, about how he wasn't nearly as nice in person as he was on the telly, as he pushed past her; but his thoughts were far away, already with Aziraphale.

If he was on his guard this time, more vigilant and less automatically trusting, he might be able to prevent the ange– Shit. Force of habit. Demon. Prevent the demon from trying to discorporate him like an old movie villain.

He walked determinedly down the Soho street to the place where the Ford Fiesta had met him the last time.

Sure enough, "Hello. What have we here?"

"Hello, Aziraphale!"

The demon in the leather trench coat scowled, his mouth fixing into a firm pout. "Don't call me that – it's Zira."

Best to pick his battles, even though it rankled like anything. "Right. Fine. As you like."

"Get in, angel."

Crowley hopped in, prepared this time for Aziraphale to step on the gas and lock all the doors. He inhaled sharply, slowly letting the breath out.

"That was so easy, it was sad – you know, you really could put more effort into avoiding me. This is just getting insulting."

"Yeah, sorry about that." Crowley smiled at him.

This seemed to calm Aziraphale slightly. "Well," he exhaled, blowing out his cheeks. "So long as you acknowledge the room for improvement, I'm sure there's no actual harm done. You have rather spoiled my elaborate plan, though."

"Oh, yes, the one with ropes and pulleys – and a net, I believe."

Aziraphale turned his head, mouth agape in shock. "Who told you? Ligur has been talking to Michael again, hasn't he? The little cuss!"

"Watch the road!" Crowley blurted, making an 'eyes forward' gesture a split second before the irony of this dawned on him. "I can't believe I just said that."

"Calm down, we're perfectly safe; you're so uptight!"

The car jerked to a stop – Crowley remembered just in time to grab hold of the seat to avoid ejection through a glass windscreen.

"Sorry. School Zone. Real pain – blasted children crossing – but there's nothing to be done." Aziraphale honked the horn. "Hurry up, would you?"

Crowley wouldn't take his eyes off him – he watched his plump, impossibly clean fingertips drum the wheel, not daring to glance out at the crossing kids in their yellow mackintoshes.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" he asked, his hand sliding under the seat a little prematurely, perhaps unnerved by Raphael's rapt attention. "It's only a small delay – I'm sure they'll be on the other side any moment now."

The tire iron was out now, and Aziraphale was raising it.

Crowley blocked the blow and moved aside.

"Oh my," sighed Aziraphale, tossing away the tire iron. "I can see we're going to have to do this the difficult way." He looked at Crowley almost pityingly for a moment. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather be knocked out?"

"You don't have to do this, you know," Crowley reminded him quietly.

"I'm afraid I do." He pulled out a length of rope and began trying to tie it around Crowley's wrists while he squirmed. "It's my job. I didn't get where I am today by–" He stopped abruptly. "You bit me, you little shit!"

Crowley's teeth were indeed sunk into one of Aziraphale's wrists. The former snake had done what came naturally, and struck. "Bleh," he grunted, pulling back. "Unavoidable, I'm afraid. Now, if you would stop trying to tie me up and listen to me for a minute, I really think you and I should–"

Snarling, Aziraphale grabbed him by the front of his suit, lifted him up, and flung him into the back seat.

"Ow," moaned Crowley, winded. "I think my back just hit a seatbelt."

Suddenly Aziraphale's knee was pressing down into his abdomen. "Give me your hands now – and don't you dare kick me, do you understand?"

There was a moment of hesitation on Crowley's part. He stared up at Aziraphale, numbly consulting his own conflicted expression reflected in the former angel's dark sunglasses.

Between having raw demonic power on his side and being the larger of the two of them, the general strength was definitely tipped in Aziraphale's favour, but Crowley could still fight him back blow for blow if he wanted to – the problem was he risked actually hurting him. Giving him one little hard nip to ward him off had been one thing – if he really fought him, especially not quite remembering how all his angelic strengths worked after so much time, he didn't know what would happen. It had been a long time since he'd fought cleanly – all of his best tricks were dirty and could potentially cause a great deal of harm.

What if he accidentally discorporated Aziraphale and the forces of Hell were – as was likely from Crowley's experience – less than kind when he returned?

The fact that Aziraphale was a Prince of Hell didn't guarantee him good treatment after a marked failure – just slightly better than what Crowley would have gotten in his place, maybe.

How could he risk putting his angel through that when he knew what it was like?

So far this unexpected do-over day wasn't going so well. Crowley was liking his options less and less as things progressed onwards.

He settled on struggling a little, until Aziraphale – not easing up in the least – pinned him more securely to the seat, then reluctantly held up his unevenly joined wrists.

"There's a good angel." Aziraphale grinned down at him. "After all, it's only discorporation. You needn't carry on so." He examined Crowley's wrists for a moment, his jovial expression falling just a little bit. "It's not that I don't appreciate the challenge, you understand, but you've given yourself rope burn and everything." He clicked his tongue, making a reprimanding tsk-tsk sound. "D'you think I ought to have purchased zip ties instead? Your poor wrists are in quite a state!"

This version of Aziraphale really was a riddle wrapped in a mystery – he could kill Crowley without any apparent pang of conscience holding him back, and he was more than willing to hit him on the side of the face with a bloody tire iron, yet he was concerned about having given him rope burn of all things.

"I mean," he continued, "I do realise it will all be the same by the time this is over, but still."

A siren wailed.

In the past, Crowley had never liked the sound of a police siren. They never signalled anything good for him. Any number of policemen had tried to pinch him for speeding – and failed miserably, to the demon's constant delighted amusement.

This time, now an angel pinned under a rope-happy demon in a locked car, things were quite different.

If they could make Aziraphale untie him, he could then– Well, he wasn't sure what. One step at a time, then. He'd think of something. This hope, however dim, was much better than none at all.

The police would have to stop, at least to check it out, given they were still parked in a school zone.

There was a tap on the window.

Raising his eyebrows, Aziraphale put his finger to his lips, looked meaningfully at Crowley, then – with a snap of his fingers – made the window roll down.

He climbed off Crowley and crawled over to the window, flashing the officer a cheerful grin and slowly removing his sunglasses. "What appears to be the problem?"

The officer blinked twice, cleared his throat, then said, "Well, sonny, you're idling in a school zone and it" – he squinted, leaning forward – "would seem you have a man tied up behind you."

"Hi," said Crowley, lifting his bound hands into a sort of wave.

"Oh, this is all a big misunderstanding," wheeled Aziraphale, beaming as he looked back and forth between them. "You see, it's his birthday – and we had this whole thing planned where I kidnapped him. All in good fun. He's just fine. Aren't you, my dear?"

The officer looked a smidgen more closely at Aziraphale and – even in this alternate universe – visibly came to the incorrect conclusion that most people upon meeting Aziraphale for the first time were wont to arrive at.

And this conclusion fit pretty well with the scene unfolding before him.

"Oh," he said. "Oh."

"Yeah." Aziraphale bit onto his lower lip sheepishly.

"Sir," the officer addressed Crowley, "is this true?"

Crowley opened his mouth to protest that it was most certainly not – and wasn't helped in this regard by the fact that his face had gone red and he was sputtering like mad – before Aziraphale interrupted with, "Let's make this nice and simple, save everybody some time, shall we? Just ask him if he got into this car willingly."

"Did you?"

"Nuh. Well, I mean, yeah...I did...but it's not...I'm not..." Crowley motioned frantically with his tied hands. "It's not like that and I'm not... He's not... He's going to..." What was he supposed to say? That he had gotten willingly into an Ford Fiesta driven by a demonic maniac he knew for a fact was planning on killing him? Most likely with a Piccadilly line train? Because – in another time and place – this absolute lunatic was his best friend? That all sounded insane. It sounded much more crazy than Aziraphale's simple, base explanation, and he knew it, too. "Ugggh."

"Say, aren't you Raphael Antonius?"

"Would it make any difference," moaned Crowley, lolling his head to one side, "if I said no?"

There was the sound of a car door slamming – the other officer was out. But the first one was quickly assuring him everything was perfectly all right after all.

"Just an honest misunderstanding, Terry, get back in the car – I'll be there in a moment."

"All right, Neil."

"Anyway, sonny, you shouldn't be doing this sort of thing in a school zone – but if you drive off in the next five minutes, I'll be a gentleman and spare you the ticket."

"Oh," crooned Aziraphale, his voice gone buttery and flattering. "Oh, thank you. That's very good of you. You're a credit to our local law enforcement."

"Right – have fun."

The window rolled back up.

"You–" hissed Crowley, indignant.

"I know, dear boy, but one must use what one has on hand – and if people will see something that's not there..." He shrugged happily. "I, for one, say encourage it to get your own way. Humans. So deliciously gullible, aren't they? Easily unnerved, too. Probably thought I was going to sue him for discrimination if he wrote me up." He sighed and shook his head. "Now then. Where was I?"

"I believe you were about to tie my feet as well." At this point, it was going to happen either way.

"Ah. Yes. Thank you." He began to do so.

"But, Az–" He stopped. "I mean, Zira. You usually aren't even aware people think that about you – so where in blazes did you come up with the idea to..." He couldn't finish; his throat closed off. He suddenly missed his Aziraphale – the one who was only just enough of a bastard – so much it hurt.

"What are you talking about?" There was a small crease forming in the middle of his forehead. "Hold on a minute. Are you insinuating I'm stupid?"

"No, I'm not." Crowley closed his eyes. "I was just saying... Nothing." Sighing, he let it all go. "What does it matter? Never mind."

Aziraphale did have to untie his feet when he attempted – as he had before – to force him to walk down the length of tracks. Crowley decided – as soon as he'd been loosened enough – to kick him as hard as he could risk without giving him any sort of real injury and make a run for it. But Aziraphale was having none of it and knocked him to the ground so roughly Crowley felt like his teeth were receding into the back of his skull upon impact.

He did apologize, in a roundabout, slickly polite manner, yet he still insisted on going through with his secret plan.

"But it's not a bloody secret – I know all about it," Crowley snapped impatiently. A fresh cut on his lower lip was stinging like mad and he really wished his hands were free to pick the gravel out of it. "You're going to flatten me under a Piccadilly line train. Been there, done that."

"Uggh! Ligur. Of course." Aziraphale gnashed his teeth and threw a hand exasperatedly up into the air. "He probably thought he was being remarkably clever. Oh, I don't care what they're calling him down there – he's not a duke of Hell; he's a surprise spoiler – that's all he is."

"Fascinating," said Crowley, not as if it actually were. "Now, if you wouldn't mind getting on with the whole letting me go bit?" He lifted his joined wrists and shook them pointedly.

"Letting you go?" Aziraphale burst out laughing. "Oh, you are very funny sometimes, Raphael, I'll give you that."

"You can't really want to kill me."

"I can," he insisted, a touch sulkily. "And I do." A pause. "Oh, and I will."

"Come on," he whined, leaning his head to one side and pursing his sore mouth slightly. "What did I ever do to you?"

For a moment, the most unnerving look yet flashed in Aziraphale's eyes and Crowley was genuinely sorry he'd asked that. "For pity's sake, you're an archangel! You really," he said, one eyebrow raised, his gaze intense and cold, "want to go there?"

"This isn't you," he whispered.

"Just walk – I haven't got all day." Aziraphale pointed his handgun.

"You know what?" Crowley threw himself onto the ground. "No."

"No? What d'you mean no?"

Crowley glowered up at him.

"You know, Raphael, there's something different about you today – don't think I haven't noticed."

"Yeah?" If this were earlier in the day, he might have almost been hopeful.

"You're more concerned about me than usual for some reason." Aziraphale glanced down at the gun in his hand. "I don't know why, but you are."

Crowley shrugged.

"Now," he mused, "I could simply carry you down the tracks – but I'm curious about something." He looked at Crowley for a long moment, then pointed the gun at himself. "Get up and walk, or I'll shoot myself."

"You wouldn't risk a body on a hunch," Crowley decided, remaining on the ground. "This is a bluff." A good one – one Crowley might have made himself in a similar situation – but a bluff all the same.

"Why not? After all – I'm hardly an underling in Hell." One manicured finger played idly around the vicinity of the trigger. "It'll take me less time than most to get a replacement – it's only discorporation. Shall we see if I'm right?"

Crowley couldn't help it. "I know what it's like down there – getting a new body–" Like trying to get a new pen from a particularly bloody-minded stationary department – always and forever demanding to know just what had happened to the one they'd given you last time.

Aziraphale snorted. "Oh, I seriously doubt that."

"–and Prince of Hell or not, you wouldn't risk it." He motioned at the gun. "At least not on purpose, not for real." Grimacing, he added, "But your safety is off."

Aziraphale's eyes darted downward. "Oh my, it would appear you're right. That could have been unfortunate."

Crowley slumped forward in relief.

"Of course, all this stubborn delaying on your part will probably make us miss our train – if you don't get a move on – and I still have to discorporate you. Well, it's not like there's anything decent on television tonight, so I may as well take my time." Removing his trench coat and rolling up his shirtsleeves, he began to pace back and forth in front of Crowley. "Hmm. How to do it?" He pressed the cold metal side of the handgun to Crowley's temple, tapping pensively. "I could shoot you in the head – make one clean job of it – but that's hardly sporting, is it?

"I've always thought it would be rather fun to drown you – just once, to see what it's like – but angels don't need to breathe, so that's rather difficult.

"I've got a lot of rope here – we could try hanging you – it would work so long as your scrawny neck broke on the first go... I don't actually want to see you strangle – there's no elegance to that. But a clean break ought to be perfectly acceptable, don't you think?"

"Stop," snarled Crowley, staggering to his feet – ignoring the pins and needles in his screaming legs – and taking an angry step towards the tracks. "I'll walk to the damn train." Being forced to listen to Aziraphale talk like this was more painful than any discorporation.

Aziraphale beamed demonically, following just behind. "Ah." His voice dripped with condescension. "Thank you. There's a very good archangel, then. Was that really so difficult?"

"Sorry about convincing those nice policemen from earlier that you were a sodomite. Occupational hazard." Crowley felt Aziraphale's fingers slip away after patting his cheek. "I do hope there are no hard feelings, dear boy."

The train was getting closer, but Crowley didn't bother crying out – he knew it wouldn't do any good, and he knew what was going to happen next.

The almost painless hit, the sudden jolt, the white light.

Heaven again. Gabriel and Sandalphon.

"The demon Zira a–" began Sandalphon.

"What the deuce did you twisted bastards do to him?" Crowley snarled accusingly, cutting the pompous archangel off as soon as he could speak.

Gabriel blinked his purple eyes in confusion. "I don't know what you're referring to, Raphael."

"Aziraphale – why is he like this?" All Crowley knew for a fact was that Aziraphale wouldn't have Fallen over nothing – someone had to push him away, push him into joining the other side, make him feel he had no other choice. And if Aziraphale resented him – as Raphael – for being an archangel, as appeared to be the case, it didn't take a genius to work out why. "He wasn't supposed to...to... Why didn't you help him?"

"Who?" said Sandalphon, nasally.

"I believe Raphael is talking about the demon Zira – prior to his joining the opposition." Gabriel reached out – only for Crowley to violently shrug him off. "Though I can't for the life of me imagine why. After all, he did just violently discorporate you."

"I've had worse," snarled Crowley through clenched teeth.

His own saunter downwards, eons ago – that had hurt, though he'd never admit it, even to himself. And he highly doubted Aziraphale had had the benefit of selective amnesia regarding becoming a demon he'd enjoyed – the former principality's imagination didn't work that way, he was too bloody logical.

"Raphael, you're shaking."

"Damn right I'm shaking."

"What did that v–"

"I swear, Gabriel," – he thrust his face into the archangel's confrontationally – "if you call him a vile creature again, I will not be held responsible for what I do to you."

"Perhaps," suggested Sandalphon, "his mind was scrambled during the act of violence against him – I've heard it can happen. In extreme cases."

"Perhaps," agreed Gabriel, nodding agreeably over his shoulder. "Good thinking, Sandalphon."

"Why didn't you help him?" demanded Crowley, again. "All he needed–"

"You know," Gabriel went on, as if Crowley hadn't spoken, "Michael did mention he sounded off this morning." The archangel pursed his lips together then clapped his hands. "Well, I'm sure once we get you fitted out in a new body – all the forms put in order, you'll be good as new and over this bizarre mania."

"It's not–" began Crowley, enraged, only for the dreaded stack of paperwork the size of a Bible to materialize in front of him – just like before. "Ugggh!"

"How's it feel?" Gabriel asked him, getting no answer. "Hello. Heaven to Raphael. I'm talking to you."

"I know. Obvious to Gabriel. I'm ignoring you." Crowley flexed his new hand and made a rude sign at him with two fingers.

"Why are you being such a dick today?"

"Maybe I'm just fed up with Heaven's shit, did you think of that?"

Gabriel thrust a wrinkled stack of paper at him. "You missed a line on Form one-A, section 55 – I was going to let it slide, seeing as we're both archangels, but you can forget about that now."

Crowley let out an angry, low hiss, finished filling it out whilst trying to ignore the throbbing cramp in his new hand, then demanded to be returned to earth.

"Gladly," Gabriel snapped, his violet eyes alight with furious indignation. "Come back when your attitude improves."

'ello, it's Wednesday morning!

"Ahhhhhhhhh!" screamed Crowley, ready – at this point – to lose it entirely.

It's overcast today, with a fifty to sixty percent chance of rain, so you best have your brolly on hand just in case–

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