A/N: Contains one instance of strong language. Reader discretion is advised.

Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 4 of 12

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

– American Gods, Neil Gaiman

"Satan, Beelzebub – I wasn't expecting the both of you – what a pleasant surprise."

"Zzhut it, Zira."

Despite the padding softness of the lounge, because so much else of the flat was empty and airy, sound travelled. Crowley could hear their exchanges echoing in the walls.

Aziraphale sounded nervous.

Well, of course he did! He had an archangel hidden under his bed. While Satan the Devil and Beelzebub, Princess of Hell, were visiting. That would be enough strain to make any supernatural being – regardless of what side they were actually on – long for relief through discorporation.

But it was more than that.

Aziraphale was afraid – and trying to hide that he was afraid – of Hell's retribution on something. Crowley knew the signs only too well. He'd been there. They got after you for things that, taken as a whole in the grand scheme of the universe, really didn't seem like such a big deal. Sometimes you just screwed up your paperwork – didn't realise the mistake until after you'd already handed it to the roly-poly usher near the 'IN' basket – and your luckier fellow demons who handed theirs in at the same time happened not to screw up in the same place and squeak by unnoticed. Or they'd done something lately that made them temporarily untouchable. Crowley had been there, on the other side of the coin so to speak, also, though it never lasted. There was nothing you could do to make it last. You rode it out. You took what they gave you. For this, you gave up the boredom and relative security of Heaven – except, it had been exactly that: relative. So no great loss. At least, that was what you told yourself – what Crowley told himself.

Oddly enough, Aziraphale came across as a gratingly competent demon – even exceptional. He was clearly good at what he did. Satan wouldn't have made him a Prince of Hell, setting him up on the same level as the highly favoured Beelzebub, otherwise.

So what fault could they possibly have found with–

Crowley stopped his whirling thoughts midway, temporarily pausing them; Satan was saying something now, presumably to Aziraphale, and he wanted to hear what it was.

"You know what you've done, don't you?"

Crowley waited for Aziraphale to answer. He didn't. Or he said it softly enough that the sound didn't carry all the way to the bedroom.

"You know," Satan continued, his deep voice coldly angry and at the same time inexplicably detached, "what I've told you before about these little fuck ups of yours. I will not stand for them!"

There was something familiar about the way Satan was talking to Aziraphale, something that made Crowley feel prickly and strange and just a little bit guilty. He couldn't put his finger on it, not quite, but it was right there, orbiting his mind teasingly, taunting him.

I'm here, look at me, what do I remind you of? No, wait, now I'm over here... You still haven't got it yet, have you? Ha! Crowley hasn't worked it out – Crowley doesn't know, doesn't know...

"Well, Beelzebub, would you like to say anything to your friend before I commence punishment?" Satan's fingers were drumming rhythmically against something – the wall, perhaps. "Your poor, fat little friend who just couldn't cut it."

Everyone... Say goodbye to your friend – he just couldn't cut it.

A lump swelled in Crowley's throat. He had it now. He knew.

Satan was talking to Aziraphale the same way he talked to his houseplants back home.

The devil wasn't doing this because Aziraphale had done anything major wrong – he might not even have anything particularly new on his record – or any glaring errors on his recent reports – no, he was doing this to make a point to Beelzebub. They shared rank here, Aziraphale and Beelzebub. And if the devil wanted Beelzebub to be on her toes, always, remaining in perfect demonic condition, his ideal demon in every way imaginable, he had to make an example every once in a while.

Hence, any defect Satan concluded – on a whim – Zira might have essentially became his 'leaf spot'.

Crowley wanted to be sick. He couldn't remember if he'd actually removed the wine from his bloodstream. If not, and he happened to dry-heave at the wrong moment, Aziraphale was probably going to have a wine-coloured stain on the floor under his bed. He couldn't tell – at this point – if the swimming in his head was borderline drunkenness or fear for Aziraphale.

He wouldn't have gotten as worked up if he thought, even for a moment, Satan would go easy on Aziraphale the way he secretly did for his plants. Those houseplants never suspected it, but Crowley very, very rarely actually harmed one of them. They had to really piss him off to warrant that and – being plants – they rarely managed it. Typically he gave them away, or dug up the earth near a nice sunny spot in St. James and settled the astonished little spotter there. Then he'd bring back the empty flower pot for good measure.

All those noises he made, it was bluster. A show to frighten the others.

But Satan wasn't like that; he never did things by half measures.

Crowley still had all too vivid memories of the first time he'd witnessed Lucifer, newly in power, punish one of their number. He had thought – stupidly – Lucifer wouldn't go through with it, that he was still a sweet guy underneath, if a little power-mad and understandably pissed off after losing the war...he hadn't rebelled in order to lose, after all...

Then he did, and Crowley winced involuntarily, and Hastur ratted on him wincing, and Lucifer had asked, "What, Crawley? What is it you would say?"

"I thought," he'd replied, choking off, unable to meet his flaming eyes, "I thought you wouldn't–"

Satan had then, in a flash, gripped his shoulder, shook him once – very hard – and squeezed. "Then you're an idiot, Crawley."

For the briefest of seconds, Crowley nursed a tiny flame of hope that this Satan would be different enough from the Satan he'd known, back home, and somehow spare Aziraphale as his Satan hadn't spared the first person he'd punished.

Then two things sprung up into his mind and simultaneously quelled that flame until it was nothing but a dismal curl of smoke in the back of his mind.

Firstly, if Aziraphale was still – at his core – himself, and Michael was the same miserable wanker here she was elsewhere, and Gabriel and Sandalphon were still very much Gabriel and Sandalphon, it only stood to reason that Satan wouldn't be so different here, either. A different sort of Satan wouldn't even be Satan – he'd have stayed Lucifer. He'd be up in Heaven right now, processing paperwork and whistling hosannas.

Second, Aziraphale worked for Hell; and he knew what sort of things they could do to you down there. Even in another reality those sort of things were a constant. You couldn't abolish them without abolishing Hell itself. Or if there was in fact a way, it was ineffable – far, far beyond Crowley's understanding.

The long and short of it was this: mercy was a pipe dream.

There was a thud and an oof.

"You won't disappoint me again, will you, darling?"

Hearing 'darling', Lucifer's old pet-name for him, being used for Aziraphale, made Crowley's skin crawl.

A muffled response.

Something smacked, then there was another thud. Someone – presumably Aziraphale – was sliding down the wall, whimpering gutturally.

"Not quite zzo uppity now, izz he?" – this from Beelzebub. "Are we done here, Mazzter?"

"No," said Satan, darkly, "not yet." A terrible pause, then, "He hasn't learned his lesson."

"Mazzzter–"

"But, don't worry, he will – before we leave, he will."

Crowley momentarily could only think of the son of a bitch hurting the demonic version of the former principality as his old mate Lucifer – he half-thought he could take him, if he ran out there right now and taught him a thing or two about picking on someone his own size.

Then he remembered he was meant to stay under the bed no matter what happened – that Aziraphale was taking a great risk in hiding him – and that the being out there, hurting his friend, wasn't just an angel or demon; it was the devil himself.

Aziraphale's voice, cracked and quiet, finally managed to carry to the bedroom. "Please. No. No... Master, must you really do this?"

Suddenly, Crowley could smell smoke and hear crackling.

"I... I've learned my lesson, I swear. I'll be good – that is, I mean bad. Won't be a bit of trouble in future; the ideal Prince of Hell, from now on. Turning a new leaf, what. You'll both be impressed. Really." Aziraphale's voice was broken and pleading. "Oh, can we put the fire out?" There were a few frantic huffing sounds, like the poor bastard was actually trying to blow it out himself before getting smacked again – probably by Beelzebub. "Right. Sorry. I deserved that – but now we've settled–" Another thud. Then, "Stop! You'll burn up everything."

"No," Satan said. "Not everything, my sweet darling. Just the part you care about."

And under the bed, rooms and rooms away from them, Crowley coughed – from smoke real or imagined, it didn't matter – then – in a panic – clamped his hand over his traitorous mouth and stopped breathing entirely.

They didn't hear him, but Beelzebub clearly sensed something was off. "Zzzomething zzzmellzz...celezzztial..."

"It is a new cologne; my barber suggested it." Aziraphale's voice, while still carrying, was barely a trickle – a ghost voice, speaking automatically without emotion. They'd finally gotten to him. Whatever point Satan had wanted gotten across, he'd succeeded.

They'd broken him, the arseholes.

Crowley silently punched one clenched fist through the nearest cardboard box. He wanted to scream. Wanted to slam both his fists into Lucifer's rotten, ungrateful face.

"You ZZzhould fire him immediately – that man obviously knowzzz nothing."

"Fine, as you like – I'll do that."

The front door opened, with a squeak. Satan told Aziraphale to have it fixed; he didn't like things that squeaked, things that worked imperfectly. He promised to do it, automatically, vaguely, in manner that suggested both compliance and left you with the idea that the speaker hadn't the foggiest clue what they'd just agreed to and probably didn't care either way.

The door slammed. There was a pounding on the stairs, their departing steps deliberately weighted, emphasised. The doorman downstairs let them out, and never knew, silly ignorant human, how lucky he was when they took no notice of him.

They were gone.

Aziraphale didn't come for him. Crowley began to feel increasingly awkward waiting under the bed. He slithered out and dusted himself off.

Slowly, the flat feeling like a block of time cut off from the rest of the world, his corporation's limps aching and heavy, he made his way out of the bedroom, towards the lounge.

Aziraphale was standing with his slumped back facing Crowley and his front facing what remained of the aforementioned lounge.

The whole room was burned up. It was just a black, charred mess. There was nothing but rubble and blackened unreadable scraps and shards of melted plastic. That was what Satan had meant; he'd made Aziraphale watch while he set fire to his little haven, all his books and music and anything else that might have brought him pleasure in this place burned away to nothing. The remains of the shelves were caved in upon themselves, so not even their inherent sturdiness could be of any comfort to him.

"I'm so sorry," whispered Crowley, reaching out.

Aziraphale whirled around, before Crowley's hand could make contact with his shoulder.

Crowley swore – he couldn't help it.

Aziraphale coldly raised an eyebrow. The former angel's face was marred by a number of dark bruises, the most prominent of these being the widening, spreading, purple ones on the skin near his orbital bones. His nose also appeared to be broken.

"Aziraph–" He caught himself. "Zira."

"Get out." The Prince of Hell motioned over towards the door, clearly humiliated at being seen like this by an archangel. "Just leave."

This was nothing to do with him, Crowley thought, so why did he feel so guilty?

His feet were leaden; they didn't move. They might as well have been welded into the floor.

Aziraphale realised he was still there and sighed. "Raphael, I have a lot of work to do, and it's getting late – leave."

Mind racing and heart pounding, he tried to come up with a reason for Aziraphale to let him stay.

"What," he teased weakly, "you're not even going to try for a quick discorporation before I go? When you've got me right where you want me? Should I be offended?"

He wasn't amused. "I said get out, didn't I?"

"Let me help you." His outstretched fingertips grazed Aziraphale's swollen left cheek before they were swatted away.

"It's rather late for that, angel. It's over!" The ice in Aziraphale's gaze as it raked itself spitefully over Crowley could have ended global warming. "Now, if you're really so keen on doing something for me, why don't you go throw yourself in front of a bus?"

"Right, that's what you want, is it?"

"Obviously."

"Obviously," Crowley echoed in a low, hurt hiss. "Fine. Just know, if leave, I'm not coming back."

"Yes, dear, that's rather the idea."

"This is me" – Crowley stomped towards the door – "leaving and never coming back."

Aziraphale folded his arms across his chest. "If you could make quicker work of it, that would be lovely."

Then, having reached his breaking point, well and truly angry, though he wasn't altogether sure who with, he – in quite an ugly tone – suggested Aziraphale do something anatomically impossible before snapping his fingers to make the door fly open.

"That was nasty." His cheeks coloured vividly. "They let you get away with talking like that in Heaven, do they, angel? Well, I must say, standards certainly have dropped since my time."

"See, that's where you've got this wrong," he hissed. "I'm not an angel – whatever I am, I'm the one person who might actually understand what you're going through right now, and you're just going to toss me aside."

"Oh, for pity's sake, Raphael, listen to yourself," Aziraphale scoffed, letting his arms drop.

"Last chance," warned Crowley.

Aziraphale turned away and refused to look at him.

"Goodbye, then."

Outside on the pavement, still fuming, looking up at the windows of the flats, Crowley caught Aziraphale watching him. His broad white fingers and broken nose were peeking out from behind a faded tartan curtain.

And if he thought what Crowley had said to him before was nasty – and a bit uncalled for – goodness only knew what he thought when the fed-up former demon, current archangel having an existential crisis, granted the Prince of Hell his wish after making a rude gesture towards the window.

Precisely because he knew it was shocking, the very last thing Aziraphale would think he'd do for real, he stepped out in front of a double-decker bus and let it hit him.

This turned out to be the double-decker bus Michael was riding around on (she'd gotten off, earlier, then gotten back on for another lift to go some place else).

She saw, from her high vantage point, Raphael step out into the road in front of the bus, and screamed.

Then, composing herself, she drew out her phone and hastily called Gabriel.

"It's me," she told him, the moment he picked up. "I have some more interesting news about Raphael to share with you. It would seem this archangel enjoys playing his own game. And it's sick."

Gabriel and Sandalphon were not amused when he arrived.

"Hi, guys," said Crowley, a tad sheepishly, waving a translucent hand. His anger spent, he was now rather embarrassed about the whole flinging himself in front of a bus to spite Aziraphale – who probably didn't deserve it, he was increasingly thinking, not like that – debacle.

"You wasted a body," said Sandalphon.

"Yeah... I wouldn't say wasted," Crowley blathered. "Wasted isn't a nice word. Bit strong, I think. What I did was not exactly w–"

"No, Sandalphon here's just about summed it up, I believe," said Gabriel, his purple eyes currently a pale, distant lilac. "You wasted a body – wasted describes what you did today completely accurately."

"We trust you have a reasonable explanation for your actions?" Sandalphon wheezed out nasally, glowering and baring his teeth.

"Take a step back and I'll tell you."

Sandalphon stepped back obligingly, and Crowley shrugged. "See, the thing is..." His eyes darted between the two archangels; he couldn't tell them why. Not the real reason. "I did for a laugh. It was all a prank I was playing on Michael." That would cover his comments about wanting to befriend the demon Zira as well – at least he hoped it would. "Sorry if I took it a bit far."

Gabriel sucked his teeth. "Your behaviour, Raphael, went beyond unprofessional – it was petty and wasteful, and frankly I'm not sure if giving you a replacement body would even be a good idea."

"Oh, no..." He began to panic. "No, no, no... I can't stay here, Gabriel. You can't–" Even being stuck in the same damned Wednesday over and over wasn't as dismal as being trapped here, on the corporate end of Heaven, for who knew how long. "Anything but that."

"Go to your office and await further instruction." Gabriel waved him off.

"No!" hissed Crowley, leaning forward. "You don't get to tell me what to do. You never had that right." He rushed over, little more than a thin, tall figure of blinking light, to where the earth glowed brightly like a blue-and-green jewel in a white pillared box. "I'll just go back on my own, paperwork or no paperwork."

"Body or no body?" replied the smug archangel, coolly.

"I–"

"Don't be an idiot, Raphael" – this was Uriel, who had just joined them, for the first time (it seemed Michael had blabbed to all the archangels about his actions today) – "just take the consequences of what you've done and move on."

"There's..." Crowley started to swallow, then remembered he didn't have a throat. "None of you understand what's been happening."

Gabriel softened, just the slightest bit. "Then tell us."

"I've been living the same day, over and over again."

"What?" Sandalphon's whole forehead crinkled.

"Every time you glorified feather-dusters send me back, I wake up on the same Wednesday morning and everything's started all over again – I feel like I'm going out of my mind." Not to mention he didn't belong here – he wasn't even an angel – this wasn't his world, this wasn't home. "I know I got it wrong today, but if you send me back I can...fix it... Somehow."

"Glorified feather-dusters?" exclaimed Uriel.

"Eh. Yeah." Perhaps that hadn't been the best thing to say. He reached to scratch the back of his neck, felt his non-existent body blink uselessly again at the attempted self-touch, and fought back a groan of frustration.

Any additional softness on Gabriel's face vanished as it rapidly closed off, clearly annoyed. "Raphael, as much as we enjoy your little fairy tales, now you really have taken it too far." He began to walk away and signalled for the other archangels – sans Raphael – to follow him. "We have other things to do."

It was surreal, being in his office again – a version of the office he'd had in another life, except here the little neon sign with his name on it wasn't burnt out. The white drawers, the gleaming file cabinets, the pale-cream leather swivel chair... They were all his and not his at the same time. There was still an unfurled star-map laid across his wide metal desk, waiting to be examined. When had he left it there in this life? Was it yesterday – when Tuesdays were still a thing – or was it several millennia ago? Either was equally possible.

"What did I ever do to deserve this?" Crowley kicked his chair with a translucent foot and watched it scuttle a useless half-inch away from him. "God, you listening? Was whatever I did so bad I deserve to be trapped? I want to go back. I miss–" He stopped, it was ingrained self-preservation. "Ugggh. Why do I even bother hiding it?

"You probably already know all about it, don't you? But instead of giving me a straight answer, or any answer at all, you're probably just holding your cards close to your heart and smiling – smiling because you know something I don't." He brought a flickering fist down onto the shiny surface of the desk – it had no reflection and it made no sound. "Okay, got it. I've got to figure it out on my own – like always." Aziraphale would probably say God was really there the whole time – a 'footprints in the sand' sort of thing. "Except, I don't feel carried." He slumped to the floor and stared up at the glowing ceiling miserably. "I feel..." He smiled, a tight ironic smile that wasn't really there because neither was his face at the moment. "I feel fallen."

After what might have been an hour, or no time at all, Crowley got up off the floor and managed – after three awkward attempts to push the button where nothing happened – to get the intercom in his office working.

He buzzed the nearest on-duty cherub and asked him to bring in the observation files and videos from in and around his office.

The other archangels, he thought, couldn't grudge him that. It counted as working, after all.

And at least it would be something to do while he waited and sulked. You couldn't get any good television channels in Heaven (the Wi-Fi signal wasn't stellar either). Most angels didn't even own a television set; they just watched the earth. Which, when you really thought it through, made sense; real reality shows, for free, uncensored. Hardly took a genius to work out.

The only problem being that not all offices had windows – the archangel Raphael's didn't.

Back home, Crowley vaguely remembered agreeing to take the allegedly dingy corner office the other archangels were arguing about not wanting simply because he knew he wasn't going to be in it that often; he'd be out among the stars, doing fieldwork, building nebulas and such.

Here was probably the same. Some things were.

And, besides, even if he could gawp down at the people below right now, it wouldn't do any good – just make him all the more frustrated, watching others waste their time while they at least still had it. Humans. Didn't goddamn know what they goddamn had sometimes!

It was Wednesday, so it wasn't like he was missing anything much being sans telly, but it was still bloody boring.

So he began going through the security video files. He was curious about what had been happening in this version of his office during his unfallen absence.

Not a lot, it turned out.

It got cleaned regularly. Nothing was taken, because Heaven didn't go in for that sort of thing (not like Hell, where they were always stuffing staplers down their trousers, trying to steal whatever supplies weren't literally nailed down or else cursed). A few angels who'd gotten turned around the wrong way knocked and poked their head in and, finding it empty, shrugged and left. One visiting seraph looked both ways and excitedly made a running leap onto the vacant swivel chair mouthing, "Weeeeee!" Then he'd noticed the blinking red lights, tumbled off head-first, and crawled out, shamefaced.

Or maybe his face always looked like that – like it was on fire.

Crowley got tired of watching the empty room and, buzzing the cherub again, asked just how far back they could go with these recordings.

"Oh, all the way back."

"To the beginning?"

"Before that, even."

Crowley considered this. "So... Supposing I wanted to see footage from shortly before the rebellion..."

"Yeah, that wouldn't be a problem, you just have to ask."

"Then I'm asking."

He wasn't sure what he expected to find, and at first – whatever it was – he wasn't coming across it.

The office was empty a bit less, but he was only watching himself, going over the blueprints for this or that nebula or giving the 'all clear' to the proposal of a new star's location.

Then Raphael in the video – on a day he looked rather agitated, glowering down at a blueprint which didn't seem to be satisfactory – seemed to be told something over the intercom which annoyed him even further.

This was curious.

Crowley pushed the intercom's buzzer again. "Oi, there wouldn't be any way could I get some sound on this?"

"No problem; I just have to put in the request so there's a record of what you've listened to. Shouldn't take more than a second or two at best."

Sure enough, after a couple seconds of celestial static, Crowley was able to re-watch the footage with crystal clear sound.

Raphael, said the intercom voice on the footage, you have a visitor.

"Oh, for mercy's sake! If it's Gabriel again, tell him–"

It's a principality.

"Well, that's a joke." Raphael on screen reached up and rubbed the middle of his forehead with his thumb. "Does he have an appointment?"

There was a knock and the principality let himself in before the intercom could answer. "Ah. Hello. Have you got a moment? Sorry to bother you, but this is frightfully important. I've been waiting."

Raphael on screen didn't even glance up, but Crowley in the present couldn't take his eyes off the anxious-looking visitor.

"Aziraphale," he murmured, recognising his friend instantly.

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