Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 3 of 12

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

– American Gods, Neil Gaiman

"Right, so I'm stuck in this one blasted day – in a world where Aziraphale is a now demon hell-bent on disincorporating me – and I keep getting myself dispatched to Heaven to fill out paperwork. Is that all?" Crowley paced the length of the loft, muttering to himself. "I'm missing something – what am I missing?"

The landline rang – rather shrilly.

"Well, I know it's not that," he snipped, lifting up the handset. "If you don't mind, Michael, I'm way too busy to deal with any more archangels being...well...archangel-y just now." He dropped it back down onto the receiver. "Got that out of the way, at least."

Click.

Michael gawped down at the glowing plasma pattern on her phone screen.

Call ended.

"Well, that was rude – even for Raphael – maybe I should keep more of an eye on him."

The pony-tail woman was at the window – again.

Of course she was.

"Bollocks," muttered Crowley, trying – and failing – to pretend he didn't see her while she waved as enthusiastically as if she were about to set sail on the damned Titanic and proudly held her book aloft like she was Moses freshly down from Mount Sinai. "I knew I should have just stayed upstairs."

Then, as he opened the door and she began her Raphael Antonius fangirl monologue, something occurred to him – something that might have been almost a plan.

She had a book.

A book she was about to hand him any moment in hopes that he'd autograph it for her.

Aziraphale – his Aziraphale, back home where things made sense – loved books.

That was how he'd known without the slightest doubt that Hasturaphale was an imposter, back in his own reality.

What he was pondering now was nothing more or less than a potential test to gauge exactly what he was working with here – what he could reasonably expect from Zira going forward.

"I know you're probably planning for the big opening tomorrow – but I'm such a huge fan." She drew a pen from the beaded clutch at her side. "Would you sign it for me?"

Not giving himself another moment to think it through, Crowley snatched the book from her hands and rushed past her, out onto the Soho street.

"Oi!" she called after him, dropping her clutch onto the pavement by her feet, where it landed with a rattle which was barely audible above her shouting. "What's that about, stealing your own book? Don't they give you, like, an author's copy or somethin'?"

Crowley barely heard her; he was talking to himself again, if a little breathlessly this time because he was nearly running. "I'm supposed to be an angel here," he mused. "I probably shouldn't steal. Except, I'm not. I'm a demon, really. In which case, I should steal. Then again, who's even keeping score at this point? All rather a mess.

"Logic," he exhaled, panting despite not actually needing to breathe, "it's a bugger in this place."

Not that it mattered – if it went wrong and started up again, and he awoke once more to the same damned Wednesday after getting a new body, the annoying girl would have her book back soon enough.

So, no lasting harm done.

Not really.

"Hello! What have we here?"

Crowley grinned intently enough to make demon-Aziraphale frown, watching with clear perplexity as the archangel who was meant to be his enemy, who he'd planned on discorporating today, climbed into the Ford Fiesta without even being asked.

He had to clear his throat several times before managing a faint, "Really, my dear."

Reaching for the car's cigarette lighter, Crowley said, "Hang on, I've just got to test your reflexes on something."

"Eh?" said Aziraphale.

Because Crowley was unaware cigarette lighters in cars have to heat up before you can use them, and thus truly believed it was already set to go, it was immediately red-hot the moment he pulled it out and brought it to the corner of the book.

It took a moment, evidently, for the coin to drop. Then, very slowly, Aziraphale reached the terrible, unbelievable realisation that Raphael meant to burn a book, and all Hell broke lose.

"You snake!" shrieked the scandalized Prince of Hell as he slammed his foot down on the brakes, not knowing just how very right he was. "You... You idiot! You uncultured fiend! Give me that at once!" He began to splutter wildly, ignoring the enraged blaring horns of the massive sixteen-car-pile-up forming behind them. "You don't... My dear fellow, you simply don't do something like that!"

Crowley was over the moon – his relief at learning his best friend was still somewhere inside this leather-clad demon with dark charcoal eyes made him as amiable as a kitten. "Of course you're right, Aziraphale." He tossed him the book. "Here you go. Catch."

"It's Zira," he snapped, clutching the book protectively in his manicured hands before peering down at the spine. "Oh. I see." He'd glimpsed the title. "One of yours, is it?" Though, to be sure, he showed no signs of loosening his grip on the tome on that account. "What the heaven are you playing at?"

"Should I sign it for you?" teased Crowley.

Appearing to be tucking the book securely under the seat, Aziraphale bent forward (horns were still honking like mad, wholly unheeded, behind them).

They weren't in the school zone this time – Aziraphale had stopped the car a little too far up the road for that – but there were still pedestrians crossing, and a few doing it rather slowly so they could stare at the impressive traffic jam as they did so. Crowley watched them watching the unmoving Ford Fiesta through the window; he even waved to a wide-eyed little girl of about eight, who waved back before what was either her mother or older sister snatched her hand and dragged her across the street.

The tire iron (which Crowley had completely forgotten about in his jovial state) struck the side of his face.

When he came to, the car was moving again, they were on a different street, and Aziraphale's grey eyes were in the rear-view mirror.

"Ooh," Crowley moaned, attempting to sit up with his hands and feet bound – again.

"Oh, you're awake, are you? Jolly good."

"Hi."

"Yes, hello. You've ruined my plans for today, you know."

"Did I?"

"Getting into the car just like that – pulling that bizarre stunt with the book..." He shook his head. "What I'm meant to do with the net and pulleys I had all set for your capture I have no idea." The car swerved sharply to the left. "Well, no real harm done, I suppose. The hardware store may be willing to provide me with a refund; they're quite nice to me over there."

Crowley popped his sore jaw, rotating his mandible. "Yes – repeat customer, no doubt."

The former angel scowled, refusing to take the bait and crack a smile. "Anyway, Raphael, I haven't the foggiest notion what's with you today – but I'm not sure I like it."

"You'll like it next time we do this," Crowley promised him.

"The demon Zira again?" asked Sandalphon, the moment Crowley turned up in Heaven.

Crowley didn't answer; hope had bought out his natural inclination towards optimism and he was, for lack of a better term, basking in it. His grin was ear to ear and he wasn't about to let these two bastards bring him down.

Gabriel's violet eyes watched him saunter forward with pure bemusement. "You're awfully chipper for a guy who just got discorporated."

Sandalphon nudged his friend. "Is he humming?"

Out of the corner of his mouth, "I'll handle it, Sandalphon." Then, to Raphael, Gabriel added, "Didn't it hurt?" His bemused tone was laced with wary uncertainty.

"I've had worse," Crowley said softly, his smile receding into something a little less apparent and far more indolent, like he was holding a secret close to his heart – it was an expression that suited Raphael's personality remarkably well. "Now." He brought his semitransparent hands together – they were trembling with excitement. "Let's see about that paperwork, shall we?"

"You're shaking," Gabriel noted, reaching out and putting a hand over one of Crowley's still-vibrating, translucent wrists until it steadied, blinking twice in quick succession. "What did that vile creature do to you?"

'ello, it's Wednesday morning!

Crowley sat up in bed, pushing his long hair away from his face and letting it cascade down his back as he stretched contentedly. "It certainly is, radio human!"

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

He reached out and gingerly tapped the top of the alarm clock radio. "Ah, the familiar odour of jasmine-scented aerosol – I do believe it's slightly less nauseating than usual today."

The landline rang.

"Coming, coming." Grunting lightly, he flung back the covers and walked over to the phone, lifting up the handset. "Michael, duuude," he drawled in his best impression of Aziraphale's impression of him (which, honestly, was just shy of being downright terrible). "Hi."

"Hello, Raphael – you sound pleased with yourself today."

"I am, thanks for asking."

"I didn't. Now listen – I'm calling to inform you that I've gotten some information via back channels."

"Yesss," simpered Crowley, in a voice that implied he was – at least somewhat – taking the piss out of her. "About the demon Zira, I believe?"

She sounded disappointed. "Oh. You... You've heard?"

"Yes, yes – I know all about it."

"About his plan to–"

"Have me run over by a train? Yup." He made a popping sound into the mouthpiece, elongating the p at the end of the word. "Been there, done that – good times."

"You don't seem very worried."

"I'm not – because I've got a plan of my own."

"Yes? And what's that?"

"Right, listen closely. You'll like this." Crowley tried not to get too much pleasure from imagining Michael having the angelic equivalent of an aneurysm on the other end once she heard what he was about to say. He did, however, imagine her glowing eyes widening to the size of sparkly tea saucers as she leaned forward and pressed her phone closer to her ear in order to catch every word. "I'm going to befriend him."

There was a moment of silence, then a crackle of celestial static, followed by Michael – barely holding it together – murmuring, very softly and very seriously, "Hold on a moment, Raphael, I think I must have mis–"

"Oh, you heard me right – so long, sucker!" He dropped the handset onto the receiver, then snapped his freed fingers, miracling his pyjamas into a fine powder-blue suit.

Click.

"Oh. Lord."

Michael almost fell off the side of the bus.

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

"Oi, pony-tail girl!" Leaning in the shop's doorway, Crowley shot her a megawatt angelic smile. "Glad you're here – I want an opinion on something." Lifting his hands, he gathered his hair up into an estimation of a high pony-tail. "Up," he asked, "or down?"

"Up, definitely."

"Hmm," he considered, tying it back with an elastic he hadn't had in his hand a moment ago. "I think you're right."

"Are you, like, meeting someone important?"

"Well, you know, sort of." He gave her a tight smirk. "Just somebody who by the end of the day is either going to be my best friend or–"

"Or?" she pressed.

Crowley shrugged. "Or throw me in front of an oncoming train."

She began to laugh (as she would have laughed at just about any joke he made), then – unsure if it actually was a joke by his unmoved expression – rapidly petered off. "Erm. Right. Good luck with that?"

He patted her on the shoulder as he skipped past, crossing the street to head for the coffeehouse on the opposite pavement.

She gawked after him.

Crowley waved over his shoulder and sighed to himself; it was, no doubt, such a bizarre interaction for the bemused young woman she couldn't be entirely sure it had really happened.

It would make an interesting story to tell her friends, though. One time, I met Raphael Antonius – you know, from the telly – and he was havin' a psychotic break.

Once inside the coffeehouse, Crowley nudged his way to the head of the queue – ignoring the bewildered mumbles of protest.

Waiting in queues – in Crowley's world-view, regardless of its varying reality, regardless of whether he was an angel or a demon – was something that happened to other people.

He placed his order and was – mere seconds later – handed a steaming styrofoam cup with a plastic lid and something in a brown paper bag folded neatly with only a single crease on the top.

At least it wasn't one of those trendy coffeehouses, Crowley mused as he exited through the door and stepped back outside, where incompetent baristas wrote your (alleged) name on the side of the cup and everybody acted like they didn't know what the word 'small' meant.

Back home, where he was a demon, that had been one of Crowley's more diabolical ideas – it turned out people were very wont to spread low-grade evil after having their names misspelled at them first thing in the morning.

The whole thing had really taken off in America, and in airports (for some reason), and he'd gotten a commendation and a week's vacation (spent in sunny Spain) in return for it.

Because of the detour he'd taken, the Ford Fiesta wasn't in the usual spot to meet him. So Crowley improvised – he guessed, from the direction the car had been moving in last Wednesday, which street it would be on by now, and briskly walked that way.

Sure enough, after a few blocks he found the car by itself, parked illegally.

A traffic warden was about to write up a ticket, but Crowley snapped his fingers and made his notebook spontaneously combust. Aziraphale had done that once for him – back home – to a traffic warden about to write up the Bentley; he figured it was high time he paid the favour forward.

The locks on the Ford Fiesta clicked upward with another snap of Crowley's fingers and – unseen by the shell-shocked traffic warden (whose raised eyebrows were now quite singed) – he let himself inside.

Quickly, he removed the lid from the cup, letting the rich smell of hot cocoa fill the uncirculated air. He fanned his hand over it, waving his long fingers as he set it down in the cupholder.

Then he placed the paper bag on the passenger seat and climbed into the back, ducking.

Opening the car door and sliding in, Aziraphale's nose twitched and he froze; then he glanced down. "Cocoa?"

Sure enough, there was a steaming cup just waiting for him.

That was when he noticed the paper bag. "Hello! What have we here?"

Crowley popped up from the back. "Peace offering."

Startled, Aziraphale blessed loudly and pressed a plump, manicured hand to his chest. "Raphael! What the Heaven are you playing at? You really could put more effort into avoiding me; now you've ruined–"

"I know, angel," – the habit of calling him that was still near-impossible to break – "I've spoiled your plan with pulleys and nets and – later on – Piccadilly line trains, and I get that must be disappointing for you, but – on the other hand – there is cheesecake."

"Cheesecake?" Aziraphale brightened, and he looked inside the paper bag for confirmation. "Well. That's – Yes. It would seem there is. Rather a big slice, too."

Crowley rested his chin against the upholstery and grinned.

"Er. Thank you." He twisted his neck and blinked suspiciously at him. "What do you want?"

"Don't try to discorporate me today – just drive us back to your place, all right?"

"My place?"

"You don't have a flat?" If he was living in what had been Aziraphale's bookshop, it stood to reason. "In Mayfair, perhaps?"

Demon-Aziraphale's charcoal eyes darkened as he spluttered out that, yes, of course he did, but this wasn't... Well, dash it all, didn't he understand it wasn't how things between demons and angels were done? They were supposed to fight one another – try to dispatch each other back to their respective offices – not make social visits!

"What are you even going to do there?" he demanded, after a long pause wherein Crowley didn't bother responding to his increasingly hysterical protest.

"Lounge around for a bit." He waved in the direction of the bag. "Watch you eat cake."

"You're seriously going to sit in my flat and watch me eat a slice of cheesecake? I mean, I know it's Wednesday and there's nothing good on television – but improvise, dear boy, improvise. There is no need to resort to– " Then, "Hold on." He twisted in his seat and glowered. "I don't believe this! It's poisoned, isn't it?"

Crowley was affronted. "You wound me."

"Honestly, what am I supposed to think?" he demanded. "You break into my car and–"

"Give you cocoa and cheesecake," Crowley finished, quirking one gingery eyebrow. "How ironically demoniacal of me."

Aziraphale inhaled deeply. "You're being...sincere...with all of this?"

He nodded.

"But, come on, you're n'angel – you can't..."

"How about we forget that for today?" offered Crowley. "Call it a temporary truce."

For a moment, Aziraphale didn't answer and Crowley was worried this wasn't going to work after all. And then, finally, he sighed, "I take it you have a lid for this somewhere about your person so I don't end up with steaming milk chocolate all over my car?"

Crowley reached over and capped the hot cocoa with the plastic lid.

"Thank you." Aziraphale pointed at the ignition; the car started up as he reached for the steering-wheel and began to pull out. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

To say Aziraphale – or, rather, the demon Zira, Prince of Hell – lived in his flat in Mayfair might be an exaggeration. He certainly spent more time there than Crowley typically spent in its counterpart back where he was from, but that time spent was strictly in the lounge.

Whereas the rest of the flat was darkly and sparsely furnished with nothing distinct or personal about it, the lounge was obviously Aziraphale's own little haven.

He had a fireplace installed where Crowley's equivalent had had a large-screen television, several comfy couches, and rows and rows of shelves filled with books, CD & Cassette audiobooks, a record player on a wooden trolley under which – neatly stacked – was what appeared to be more than half the classical music inventory of Vinyl Fetish, and a little tartan portable radio that looked like it was from, perhaps, 1996.

There was a little tea-service on wheels off to one side, with a pump and basin for washing up installed on the wall behind it, giving the strong impression that Aziraphale rarely bothered venturing from this place even into the kitchen.

Why would he? The former angel had all he ever needed, or wanted, right here in the lounge.

It was hardly the epitome of style, in this state, and there were no plants (the air was much staler as a result), but Crowley didn't mind – it just screamed 'Aziraphale lives here'. He'd felt the repeated days of loneliness melt away the moment he'd seen the lounge coming up as they turned the corner; it was a musty oasis.

Demon-Aziraphale evidently didn't quite know what to do with an angelic guest on the loose – he kept wringing his hands and looking nervously over his shoulder. So Crowley just made himself comfortable on one of the couches and smiled encouragingly at him.

Eventually the former angel settled down across from him, gingerly spread a cloth-napkin over his lap, took the cheesecake and a plastic fork from the paper bag, then began eating.

Crowley watched contentedly, unblinking.

He loved watching Aziraphale eat, simply because he'd never seen anybody else look so utterly happy and unabashedly pleased with the moment which they were currently in than Aziraphale when enjoying good food.

Watching him always made Crowley feel contented – wholly at peace – by association. Admittedly, he liked some food – though he was a lot pickier than Aziraphale, and got full a lot faster, and thought about eating a lot less in general – but it never brought him the extreme pleasure that it seemed to bring his angel.

Even in this world, where everything was different, it was still worth watching. Even with charcoal eyes and what was initially a steely, wary expression, the sheer pleasure of eating eventually took over and Aziraphale really did look transcendentally happy.

When Aziraphale was nearly finished, Crowley got up and started perusing the shelves, examining the various collections. He was surprised to find a familiar title among the audiobooks.

Healing Yourself: Peaceful & Healthful Living Tips.

Chuckling, he held up the case. "You have my book on CD?"

Aziraphale's cheeks went slightly pink. "It was a two for one sale at Waterstones. Er."

Crowley examined the packaging. "As read by Michael Sheen."

"You know, people say I sound like him." Aziraphale pointed with his fork.

"You don't," said Crowley, setting it back down on the shelf.

Aziraphale looked offended, glaring daggers, then – with a passive aggressive shrug – resumed finishing his cheesecake in sullen silence while Crowley continued to browse among the books.

There were no Bibles. Not even the Infamous Bibles with their hilariously reassuring typos. There were, instead, rather a lot of books on occultism and demonology. And a fat hardback copy of The Amber Spyglass.

Now there was a book for people who didn't care for religious subtext or allegory yet still had an insatiable desire to feel uncomfortable for five hundred and eighteen pages. Not that it was bad, by any means; it just had some rather funny ideas about relationships between angels.

That Philip Pullman. What a weirdo.

Crowley shook his head and moved on.

"That was scrumptious," Aziraphale said, finally, after swallowing the last bite. "Thank you for that. What are you in the mood for now?"

Crowley cocked his head. "Alcohol – do you have any wine?"

"I have some excellent Château-Lafite 1875 – stored in a corner-pocket off the kitchen," Aziraphale admitted generously. "I was saving it, you understand, but – that is, I mean – this is about as rainy a day as I'm ever likely to get, I suppose."

Seeing that his friend was about to get up and fetch it, Crowley shook his head and held up a hand. "I'll get it."

On his way, he passed the front door, heard a knock, and answered it on instinct. He'd temporarily forgotten it wasn't his place, not here, that whoever it was wouldn't be there to see him.

Standing there were two men in shapeless brown uniforms. One – a dark-haired fellow with sunglasses – was the policeman who'd let Aziraphale off with a warning when he'd convinced him Crowley had consented to being tied up in the back seat.

"Uh, hello, officer – nice to see you again."

"What's he talking about, Neil?" said the other one, who was wearing a scarf and hat which clashed with his uniform.

"I've got no idea, Terry."

"We're here about the fridge," said Terry, his voice now instantly recognisable as the second officer.

"Repairmen," explained the dark one.

"You're police, I tell you," Crowley said, slowly, frowning in the doorway.

"We're sodding not," said Terry.

"Repairmen," insisted Neil, holding up a red toolbox.

"Well, we don't need the fridge repaired, so have a nice day." Crowley shut the door and resumed walking to the kitchen, ignoring the dull thud, thud, thud of continuous knocking and muffled cries of, "Oi, come back! Please come back!"

Locating the wine, Crowley made a final – somewhat nosy – detour into the unused kitchen to take a look. He opened the fridge, just to see what extra food Aziraphale might have stored there, and was shocked to discover a rotten smell.

He recoiled, gagging. This was wholly inexplicable to him. In his flat, where there were always containers of gourmet meals in the fridge, the food never went off.

That was why he had a fridge, after all.

Simple, really.

"And I've just sent away the repairmen," he realised, a trifle guiltily, pulling the back of his wrist away from his wrinkled nose.

After a few glasses of wine, Aziraphale started to relax. He even let out his wings – which, despite being dark grey and uncharacteristically well-groomed, were essentially the same as his angelic ones back home. Crowley was relieved to discover they even had the same smell.

Noticing the archangel staring at his wings, Aziraphale gestured back at them self-consciously. "Oh. Excuse me. I hope you don't mind?"

He shook his head.

"Thank you – they were killing me tucked up like that."

"They're so neat," Crowley laughed, tossing his head back and downing the contents of his own wineglass in one go.

"And why shouldn't they be?" Aziraphale gave him a look that was not stern, exactly, yet still had an air of no-nonsense about it. "I'd reckon yours have seen better days. Mmm?"

"Can I, uh...?" Crowley lifted his hands and motioned forward.

"I'm not sure why you'd want to – but if you really feel you must, go ahead," he sighed. "Just don't mess them up." Then, as an afterthought, "And for badness sake, don't pull."

"Don't worry, I won't." He snaked his hands through the feathers and stroked gently in a smooth downwards motion.

Aziraphale actually smiled. "Oh, that was nice."

His hands still buried in Aziraphale's wings, Crowley got an idea.

Back home there was one spot – one little pressure point – on his wings that always made the angel go slightly limp when he dug in. Though he'd never have admitted it, he sometimes deliberately went for that spot if he happened to be grooming Aziraphale's wings while trying to convince him to do something.

Maybe it was a little manipulative, in retrospect, but it also put him in a good mood, made him less uptight, and that was a good thing.

There were several moments working the kinks out of the Arrangement – wherein Aziraphale was having a crisis of conscience regarding carrying out temptations – that might have ended rather differently if Crowley hadn't known his angel's weak spot.

At any rate, if he really wanted this version of Aziraphale to feel completely comfortable and relaxed around him, to stop suspecting this was some sort of trick, that could – he figured – coupled with the wine – be a brilliant start. If it even worked here.

He tried it, rubbing inwards with his thumbs and sinking back to give Aziraphale a little more room if he happened to relax his weight involuntarily.

At first, it seemed to be going rather well. Aziraphale let out a little squeak of surprise, then drooped gratefully, almost trustingly.

"You know," Crowley said, after a bit, close to the former angel's ear, "you're too good for them."

"Eh, what's that?"

"Hell – you could do so much better."

Aziraphale immediately went rigid, and Crowley knew he'd said the wrong thing. "Take your hands off my wings right now."

That wasn't a tone you argued with; he drew them out at once. "What'd I do?"

He turned and glared. "I should have known!"

"Known what?"

"You're doing all this to recruit me!"

"Wot?"

"Listen – just because it's an open secret Ligur and Michael have been passing information back and forth for years, doesn't mean I – a perfectly respectable Prince of Hell – would ever–" Aziraphale choked off, then picked back up again in an even more outraged tone. "I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing!"

"I'm not implying anything, you jaded bastard!" snapped Crowley, aggrieved. "That's not what I'm doing here!"

"Oh? Then why are you here?"

"Purely social reasons."

"I don't believe you," Aziraphale told him flatly. "It's too convenient. The cheesecake, the being nice to me, the literal grooming... What's next? You ask to hear about my day and make it as confusing and long-winded as possible while you pretend to be interested?"

Crowley refrained from saying he would actually be interested in that. Back home, he rather liked Aziraphale's rambling stories, even when they turned into a baffling three-hour recital of a conversation he'd had with another collector of rare prophesy books over the telephone. Perhaps he didn't always give them his undivided attention, especially when it got downright impossible for any sane person to follow, but he still liked hearing them. Because they were important to Aziraphale. That's what made them matter to him. Sometimes it was just reassuring to hear your best friend's voice telling you about something, regardless of what it was.

"No, no, you aren't fooling anyone – I wasn't created yesterday – you want something."

"Well, I wanted not to get discorporated, for a start," Crowley admitted. "Can't blame me for that."

Eyes still narrowed with suspicion, Aziraphale folded his arms across his chest. "I suppose not – go on."

"And, the thing is, I thought we could be friends." He hated how pathetic he sounded – he almost wished he'd lied and avoided the embarrassment.

"Friends?" snorted Aziraphale, utterly unimpressed. "D'you know, Raphael, there was a time I did want to be your friend." He closed his eyes and took in a long, deep breath. "These days, I have no idea why that was."

Crowley just stared at him, wounded.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, dear boy, don't."

"I did everything right," Crowley murmured, more to himself than Aziraphale. "I don't understand."

"Raphael, just tell me this, explain one thing." Aziraphale's tone was still barbed, but there was a trace of compassion leaking into it. "Why are you suddenly so fixated on me?"

He didn't answer the question – instead, he asked one of his own. "Aren't you lonely here? By yourself?"

"I'm not lonely," said Aziraphale, truthfully enough. "I like being by myself – getting time to think and read and..." He stopped. "Oh. I see." He shook his head. "You're lonely."

It galled him to admit it, but – teeth gritted – Crowley forced a nod.

"My dear fellow, if you're at such a loss for company, there's always Michael – she's earthbound at the moment – and a fellow archangel."

"Michael? Michael's a wanker!" The very suggestion was horrifying. He didn't want Michael – he just wanted Aziraphale. That was all there was to it.

"True as that may be–" Aziraphale began, then stopped, turning rather ashy in pallor. "Oh shit."

"What is it?"

"Call me an old silly, but I think the devil is coming – Satan himself, making a house call."

"Doesn't he outsource that sort of thing these days?" Crowley asked, wondering – briefly – why he couldn't feel it, then remembered exactly why.

Aziraphale's lead-coloured face retracted into a tight pout of concentration. His mouth was a grim-set line. "Not for me," he said dismally. "Not for me."

Crowley considered the fire-escape, then remembered that there wasn't one – and also how he didn't want to simply abandon Aziraphale, didn't want to leave him alone with the devil, even if Satan was his boss here. He wanted to take him – angel or demon or whatever in blazes he was – away with him.

"I can't be seen entertaining an archangel – I've got to hide you."

"But–"

"The devil won't just be angry, he'll destroy you." His sad voice suggested that – despite his unwillingness to be friends, despite his fervent desire to discorporate him – he didn't want anything too bad to happen to Raphael. "I've got to come up with something – quickly, very quickly."

"Look, why don't we just–"

Aziraphale's plump hand snagged his thin wrist like a vice and yanked him up. "Come with me. Now."

Crowley complied, since he didn't actually have a better idea.

Aziraphale dragged him – panting and looking nervously both ways at every turning – down the dark hallway towards what – back home – was Crowley's own bedroom.

Downstairs, somebody screamed. Crowley thought it was too deep in timbre for the old lady who lived in the flat under his. Might be the repairmen. He hoped not. He hoped they weren't still in the building.

"He's getting closer," said Aziraphale, tugging more urgently and pushing the bedroom door open.

Inside, it looked more or less like Crowley's room always did – and that was almost a shock. Or maybe it just meant he kept his room disturbingly under-furnished and it needed to be personalised. The only real visible difference was the fine layer of dust comfortably settled on the untouched black bedspread, making it look faintly grey.

"Under the bed." Aziraphale pushed him down and gave him a firm shove in that direction. "Just sort of crawl under there, angel, it'll be fine."

It was lucky Crowley was skinny, otherwise he'd never have fit – especially not with the dozens of cardboard shoeboxes underneath.

"These are new," he muttered, roughly sliding one aside and folding in on himself to be as compact as possible.

Aziraphale still held up the bedspread, peering at him anxiously. "Whatever happens, no matter what you hear, don't come out from under there, all right?"

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