Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 9 of 12

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

– American Gods, Neil Gaiman

Best Cafe hailed itself (if you read the less than humble descriptions on the side of their water-stained take out menu, which very few of the regulars actually did) as the greatest thing to happen to eating in the borough of Wandsworth since the invention of sliced bread.

In reality, it wasn't even a step up from the sort of greasy spoon cafe that gave you indigestion three out of the five times you visited at four in the morning on your way back from a business trip. The food was reasonably edible, there were – usually – an adequate amount of tables available inside (and you could always sit at one of the two situated outside, if there weren't); that was about all that could be said for the place.

Best Cafe had never been a frequent meeting place for Crowley and Aziraphale back home, in the world where things made sense, though they both dropped in alone – or when meeting somebody else – from time to time (in Crowley's case, Shadwell).

Still, this was the meeting place Crowley had eventually chosen, had scrawled at the end of his long letter tucked between two of Aziraphale's books, to meet his angel now.

He had briefly considered meeting Aziraphale at the bandstand instead, but it felt wrong. Almost sacrilegious. This wasn't Aziraphale from home – though they were very similar, and Crowley considered them both very much his – and that bandstand was their place.

Besides, for all he knew, that particular bandstand didn't exist here and this Aziraphale wouldn't have known what he was talking about.

Crowley was anxious. After everything, it still might not work. Aziraphale might just decide to stay at the flat, running his bruised, dislocated hands over the spines of the rescued books – grateful, but wanting to remain safe, to have nothing to further do with Raphael, demon or angel – and he couldn't blame him. Not really.

Perhaps he should have stayed. Talked to him.

What if Aziraphale didn't see the letter?

What if it was on the floor of the burned up lounge right now, unread?

What if–

Crowley clenched his jaw and wrapped his fingers around the iron railing in front of the cafe. He didn't want to think about that.

Besides, it might not matter.

With Aziraphale taken care of, getting something in the way of comfort, despite his being hurt by Satan again, he now was free to...

To what? Hope, left thus alone, he lived until Thursday this time?

He leaned forward heavily, the flaking iron digging into the palms of his hands. Every vaguely blonde head – as well as every trench coat collar – that went by made him squint hopefully behind his sunglasses. His gaze followed every car that looked even remotely like a Ford Fiesta.

Suddenly, something barrelled into him from the side, spinning him around and grabbing onto the lapel of his black suit jacket. The hat he'd stolen from the flat earlier was knocked off his head, rolled with a vehement bounce down the pavement, and was picked up by a sudden gust of wind, never to be seen again. If the railing had been taller, he got the sense that the strong, plump figure currently holding him in place would have pushed him back against it, pinning him there.

He didn't have time to bless under his breath, or to be angry, because he recognised Aziraphale at once, knew him immediately. Relief flooded his entire body. "You came."

"Reach up and take off your glasses," the Prince of Hell said, very slowly, his broken nose nearly grazing the tip of Crowley's. "Then I'll let you go."

"Wot?"

"I won't hurt you, I just need to see your eyes – I need to be absolutely certain."

Crowley stared in confusion; then he realised. Oh. Right. He'd explained the whole 'repeating Wednesday over and over and over again', 'not actually the Raphael you know' business in the letter, of course, but there remained one major issue he hadn't bothered getting into on paper – one he, quite frankly, hadn't had enough room to address.

He reached up under Aziraphale's arm. "Listen, uh, before I–"

"Shh. There will be no more talking," said Aziraphale, nearly in a whisper. "Not until I'm certain. Just take off the glasses."

"As you like." Crowley pulled the sunglasses off his face; his hand was shaking.

Aziraphale looked like he might cry – and, for an increasingly unsettling moment, Crowley didn't know what to make of that. "They're still blue."

"I wasn't trying to lie to you," he said quickly – maybe too quickly. "I just needed to get your attention."

"You're still an angel."

"Yeah, well, I mean, technically–"

Aziraphale let go of his lapel. "So that glowing – it was just your angelic powers straining to keep up the facade?"

He nodded sheepishly. "Aziraphale–"

"Jolly good. I'm proud of you." He reached up and patted him on the cheek. "No hard feelings, dear boy. Let's go inside and have lunch, shall we?"

This wasn't the reaction Crowley expected, and he didn't understand it, but he'd take it. Gladly. "Right. Okay, then. That was a thing. Let's have lunch."

"After you." Aziraphale held the cafe door open for him.

"So." Aziraphale gingerly tapped a dripping spoon against the rim of a porcelain mug, then set it down on a – somewhat sticky – paper napkin. "This whole dreadful business – with you supposedly being a demon from another reality – it's... Er..."

"I know," said Crowley, folding his hands on the table. "I understand it's a lot to take in, but I swear it's the truth – I'm not lying. I'll swear it on anything you like."

"Oh, I don't doubt you." He shook his head. "You're telling the truth – obviously. You're an angel. It's what you do. That's not what my reservations in this matter are about."

"What, then?"

"What you did for me today was extremely kind. And I know one good turn deserves another – I'm a demon, not a monster." He sighed. "It's just..."

"Yes?"

He looked both ways before answering, charcoal eyes encircled with layered bruises, frantic and paranoid as only the eyes of somebody who has lived too long in Hell can be, darting wildly. Crowley had hoped he'd never see Aziraphale's eyes look like that. It made his chest clench painfully, thinking about what the angel must have suffered.

"If you tell anyone – and I mean anyone – I said what I'm about to say, I swear I'll..." He swallowed hard. "I'll never talk to you again."

"Noted – but you could always just deny it, couldn't you? Whatever it is." Crowley shrugged one shoulder. "If I talked, I mean. Which I won't. I'm just saying, seems easier."

"Shut up." He drew in a long breath, then slowly exhaled. "Raphael – or rather, I suppose, I ought to say Crowley – listen to me. What I can't understand is why you would want things back the way they were. If I woke up an angel again tomorrow, I wouldn't mind."

That statement, and the quiet way Aziraphale brought himself to utter it, just about shattered Crowley. Oh, angel, I'm so sorry. "Yes you would," he whispered. "You wouldn't be prepared – not if you just opened your eyes one day and everything was different. It's easy to say you want something when–"

"When there's no chance of it ever happening?" Aziraphale raised a pale eyebrow, half wincing in pain as he did so.

"You know I didn't mean it like that."

"It's all right, my dear – it's not exactly news to me."

"Hang on." Crowley reached across the table and touched Aziraphale's broken nose, ignoring his murmured protests. "I can't keep looking at this – it's distracting."

His nose set itself back into place, straight and normal again.

"Thank you." He grinned warily. "That was remarkably foolish of you, not to mention exceedingly wasteful, but thank you."

"I held off as long as I could."

"Well, naturally – it only makes sense. Healing's always been your niche, hasn't it?"

"No – well, maybe here, obviously, but not back home."

"I hope you realise you probably won't be able to heal anyone else for hours after this," Aziraphale warned him, scrunching up his nose in a flexing motion and sniffing lightly. "Demonically inflicted injuries, what. Different rules. Michael will probably have your head for that."

"Michael can–" Crowley began tersely.

"Come on, Neil, there's a table over there."

Two familiar figures had entered Best Cafe – the dark one in sunglasses holding an old-fashioned tape recorder.

"Oi, it's the policemen – uh, no, that's not it, repairmen!" blurted Crowley, snapping his fingers, temporarily forgetting about Michael and everything else he and Aziraphale had been discussing.

"What's he talking about, Terry?" The one with the tape recorder looked baffled.

"Don't know. Nothing very important, I think."

"Let me guess," sighed Crowley, blowing out his cheeks dramatically, "you're going to tell me you have never worked with the police or repairing broken refrigerators in your entire lives."

"We haven't," said Terry, straightening his scarf.

"He's a writer," said Neil, holding up the tape recorder and waving it. "I'm a journalist – interviewing him. He's just written this book, The Colour of Magic."

"Little book," said Terry, not as if it really were. "You'll probably never hear anything more about it."

"Then why the hell am I doing this?" demanded Neil; but he was smiling.

"Well, you're no genius," said Terry. Then, in a lower voice, "You're better than that."

"Thanks, Terry."

And Crowley didn't know why, but this was the first run-in with them he'd had that felt right, that didn't feel as if they – or perhaps his own fractured mind – were completely making all this shit up.

This really was them.

The two writers sat down, across from each other, and Crowley and Aziraphale resumed their former conversation as if the two men sitting in the corner had never entered the cafe, as if they were wholly invisible. Perhaps, in that moment, that is what they became. Certainly Crowley never saw or heard anything from them again after that.

"My point is," said Aziraphale, earnestly, "you've got a second chance."

"You know, I thought you wanted me to be a demon."

He was appalled, mouth parting in horror. "Why the heaven would you think that?"

"Because – you won't remember, but you said we didn't have common ground, being an angel and a demon."

His expression gone from shocked to politely passive, Aziraphale brought his mug to his lips and blew on the hot beverage sloshing inside.

Crowley continued, "You implied we couldn't be friends unless we were both..."

The Prince of Hell nearly choked, clanking the mug back down onto the table and coughing. "Oh, no," he said, when he could speak again, "there's no question of us being friends – I don't even like you."

"You do," but he said it a little despondently. This Aziraphale couldn't ever admit it – Satan had him too scared to even consider the idea, the sick bastard.

"It doesn't matter; I can't."

"But you want me to stay an angel."

"Yes."

"So you can keep discorporating me, because you don't like me."

"Yes," he said brightly. "Just so."

"I'll have you know, I'm actually very good at being a demon."

"Still."

"Come off it, you're a demon – you know it's just a side."

"My dear fellow, I got in while the getting was good, during the rebellion, when all you had to do was literally get hurled out of Heaven – there's far too much paperwork when you Fall these days." He made a face. "You wouldn't like it now." There was a broken finality in his voice, as if he were trying to convey that the matter was quite settled, Crowley mustn't dream of ever being a demon again, and he wouldn't argue about it any further. "As I said, far too much paperwork."

"Angel, I have to go home – this isn't the way things are supposed to be for me." This isn't the way things are supposed to be for us.

"You don't have to go," he said stubbornly.

"Think about it, you wouldn't lose anything. You'll still have a Raphael to discorporate, I think – just not..." He stopped, getting it before he finished. "Oh."

"Not one who cares if I'm here or not."

"I think – once I'm gone – you really should give him another chance."

"Why's that?"

"He's me, Zira – just with a different outlook on life. We're probably a lot more alike than you think."

"So. What do you want to do now?"

"Now, I want you to come back to the shop with me."

"The shop..." he stammered, taken aback. "With you? Why would I–"

"I can't heal any more of your injures with angelic intervention, but that doesn't mean I can't help you the old-fashioned way."

"Why are you doing this?" He shivered, almost violently. "I already owe you for the books, so there's absolutely no need to keep adding–"

"Don't say that." He reached over the table and gripped Aziraphale's wrist. "You don't owe me a damn thing."

The succession of welts and bruises on Aziraphale's back were worse – more vivid and tender – than the ones on his face. His fingers had looked bad, but they'd only been a little dislocated, not actually broken like his nose had been, simple enough to pop back into place; his back, though, was a bloody mess.

Crowley was struggling against every urge within himself not to get upset.

Of course, part of him still wanted – impossibly, irrationally – to hurl Satan into the duck pond at St James's – preferably by breaking his wings as painfully as possible and pushing him out of an airplane first – for doing this to his best friend. The hatred for Lucifer running through his veins was a ferocious, active, pulsating thing. But Aziraphale was extremely sensitive to Crowley's reactions right now. He was still unsure of him – of everything, really – and getting worked up would only make the confused demon even more ill at ease.

It hadn't exactly been easy, coaxing Aziraphale up into his loft above the shop, then drawing him into the bathroom and insisting he take off his shirt.

The Prince of Hell was perched nervously on the rim of the tub, looking askance at Crowley fiddling with the buttons to get the water running. "It's not as bad as it looks."

Crowley made a dismissive snorting noise.

Reddening slightly, Aziraphale stubbornly murmured, "It's really not."

"Right." Crowley rung out a wash cloth over the tub. "Whatever you say." Then he pressed the cloth against one of the welts on Aziraphale's back.

He yelped, "That's cold!" and nearly slid off the side of the tub.

"Yes, it is – hold still." Crowley pressed it down a little more firmly.

Aziraphale's restless eyes darted to his shirt, black jumper, and leather trench coat – all of which were on the slick tiled floor in a haphazard pile, looking rather hopelessly wrinkled. If his back wasn't hurting so badly, it was clear he'd have wanted to bend over and neatly fold them. "You know, I really shouldn't be here."

"Mmm, is that right? Why not?"

"You know perfectly well why not – do quit playing stupid, dear."

He reached for another wash cloth, soaked it, rung it out, then set it on one of Aziraphale's bare shoulders.

Grinding his teeth together, the demon shuddered involuntarily at the jolting rush of coldness against his skin, but not hard enough to knock it off.

"Who's playing?"

"Can you honestly tell me your side wouldn't be furious with you for–"

"Helping you?"

He sucked his lips inward. "Mmm-hmm."

"I really don't care what they think." Crowley had gotten used to not having a side, back home; perhaps that was making him reckless now, here, where the rules were different, but that might not be a bad thing. Not if it helped Aziraphale.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

What Crowley wanted to say was, "I'll never let them hurt you again," but that wasn't something he could promise; he could try his best to be there afterwards, to soften the blow, like he was doing now, like he had done with the books, but nothing more. And, to an extent, he couldn't even offer that much. He couldn't actually promise anything permanent on behalf of his usual angelic self in this version of events. Knowing this, he felt frustrated and helpless. The limitations of this version of events rankled. He'd often thanked his lucky stars – literal ones as well as figurative – back home that Aziraphale didn't know what it was like to be, for all intents and purposes, owned by the devil.

If there was one thing about his existence, his past and fears, he was glad his angel could never completely understand, that was it.

For a flashing, shining, irrational moment, Crowley contemplated the possibility of marching his archangel self down to the gates of Hell – striding shamelessly down the paved road of frozen door-to-door salesmen – and reclaiming Aziraphale for Heaven before finding a way out of this alternate world. Of course, it was complete balderdash. Both sides would laugh – then they would skin him alive. And probably Aziraphale, too, for wasting their valuable time by association.

Remembering the 'trials' they'd swapped places for back home – the hellfire and bathtub of holy water – readily sobered him of any giddy, heroic notions.

Who was he to dream of another's redemption?

"I really shouldn't be here," Aziraphale said again, opening his eyes and craning his neck to look back at Crowley. "But seeing as I'm here already, I'll stay until it's Thursday – I promise I won't discorporate you until then – we can figure out what to do with you after that, can't we?"

Crowley repressed the urge to hug him. "Yup."

"Hang on. W-what are you doing now?"

He was holding a tube and squeezing some cream onto his fingers. "It's witch hazel – for the bruising. It... It won't hurt. Doesn't even sting much."

"Are you sure?"

"Scout's honour," he laughed gently. "Though I'd keep my wings winched in for a couple days if I were you."

"But what if they itch?"

"You'll just have to live with it, angel."

"Do you know, I expect I'm the only demon who's ever been tended to by the patron angel of healing himself after a punishment from Hell." He grinned teasingly. "Unless you've been keeping secrets."

"Nah," he said softly, kindly, peeling back the cold cloths and rubbing the witch hazel cream into the bruises underneath. "No secrets. Just you."

"I suppose I should count myself fortunate, then."

"You'd do the same for me."

Aziraphale's gaze dropped, a little ashamedly. "I'm not sure I would." He swallowed hard. "I'm not as brave as you."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"He doesn't exactly inspire bravery in me," Aziraphale murmured. "It's not a quality he admires, usually."

"Who are you talking about?"

"Who do you think?"

And then he knew. Satan. Of course. "Son of a bitch, Lucifer."

"Steady on."

"Oh, was that out loud?" He said it in a tone which suggested he was, in fact, perfectly aware it had been. "My bad."

"C-crowley?"

"Yes, angel?"

"Where you come from, does..." His voice warbled, faltering. "Does... How is he with you?"

"Well, you know, these days we're not really on speaking terms. He's still hung up on the whole 'convincing his son not to end the world' thing. The devil always did hold a grudge like nobody else."

"But you were, before."

"Yeah. Listen–"

"Did he treat you like he treats me?"

Squeezing another dab of witch hazel cream into his fingers and pressing down gently on a bruise near Aziraphale's spine, Crowley admitted, "No. He was usually fairly cordial with me. If he wanted the ever-living shit beaten out of me, he'd nearly always send someone else." In person, Lucifer almost never laid a finger on him; except on special occasions. Which was strange, when you thought about it, given how hands-on and bloodthirsty the devil had been right after the rebellion, how eager he'd been to put all his followers in their places and make sure they stayed there. "Usually Hastur."

"I've simply never understood what I did to make him dislike me."

"You're a Prince of Hell – obviously he doesn't dislike you," he sighed. "And it's not like I never got punished."

"Still. Why should he be so different with you? There must be something wrong with me."

"Oi, don't." Crowley found – with some difficultly – an unbruised section on his back and poked. "Don't talk like that. There's nothing wrong with you."

He cleared his throat, evidently deciding to let it go for the time being. "Anyway, now let me ask you something completely unrelated to that unpleasantness."

"Wot?"

"What do you have to eat in this loft?"

Crowley mumbled something about microwaved popcorn and multigrain bread.

Aziraphale was far from impressed. "That won't do for a stake out. I expect you and I may need to do a bit of shopping before we settle in for the evening. Help me get my shirt and coat back on."

They stood on the pavement outside the Sainsbury's on Tottenham Court Road.

Aziraphale began to take a step forward to activate the automatic doors, but Crowley shook his head, reaching for his arm. "Before we go in–"

"What?" demanded Aziraphale, tapping his left foot rather impatiently.

"Before we go in," he pressed, "I need you to promise you'll be on your best behaviour." He folded his arms across his chest and tried – unsuccessfully – to look stern. "I'm used to you being the law-abiding one, and I don't fancy spending what could be the last Wednesday night of this God-forsaken time loop in a police station giving a statement because you got caught pinching sweets or stuffing Lotto tickets into your coat."

"Pardon me, Crowley, but I never get caught," snorted Aziraphale, rather offended.

"Angel."

"Fine, agreed." He threw up his hands, defeated. "I shall be law-abiding."

"Right." Crowley nodded. "Let's go in."

Upon entry, they were greeted by too-bright florescent lights and a produce section that looked like a scattered cartoon rainbow.

"Look," exclaimed Crowley, running over to the nearest stand. "Buy one get one free tomatoes!"

"Oh, for pity's sake." Aziraphale gave Crowley a wary, disapproving look.

"Wot?"

"We're supernatural entities, about to go on a stake out – we need something filling, not rabbit food."

"Like what?"

"Let's start with some doughnuts and crisps – oh, and cheese. We definitely need something with cheese."

Crowley stared, still clutching a rather overripe tomato. Then he took a puzzled step forward.

Aziraphale sighed, picking up a plastic shopping basket. "Put down the tomato and follow me."

He set the tomato down and marched after him, towards the bakery, where they snagged a box of raspberry jam-filled doughnuts, a crusty loaf of white bread that probably didn't contain any actual wheat content but looked very aesthetically pleasing, and tin of chocolate biscuits with pink icing.

Crowley added a family-size bag of black-and-red liquorice to Aziraphale's basket while the Prince of Hell determinedly scanned the shelves for the best possible deal on marshmallows.

The demon smiled approvingly. "There may be hope for you yet, my dear."

"You know, we could just order a pizza," Crowley suggested, after a minute's pause.

"Or we could get frozen cheesy bagels from the next aisle over, leave them too long in the toaster oven until they get dried out like croutons, and then dunk them in a jar of marinara sauce."

"That sounds absolutely disgusting," he mused in a voice of mild amazement; "we should do that."

"Oh, and we'll need a few bottles of wine."

"Hell yes," agreed Crowley, smiling like an indulgent serpent.

"You know," said Aziraphale, grinning back at him, "I'm rather starting to look forward to this."

"Me too."

"Excuse me," said a voice behind them. "Are you Anthony J. Crowley?"

"How–" began Crowley, stunned, as he turned and saw a familiar deliveryman in his uniform standing there with a clipboard.

"No package, sir," said the deliveryman, rather quietly; "just a message for you."

Crowley nodded, feeling like everything – the walls, the aisle, all of persons around him doing their shopping, even this version of Aziraphale – was temporarily melting away just so he could receive this message. "Right. Go on. Deliver it."

"Please come back, Crowley." The deliveryman glanced down at his clipboard, then up into Raphael's blue eyes with compassionate pity. "Message ends."

"Crowley!" Plump fingers snapped in front of his face, and the deliveryman was gone.

"I'm sorry, angel, did you say something?"

"You sort of went away for a moment there," Aziraphale told him, an expression of relief spreading across his face. "Had me worried, no mistake. Whatever happened?"

He shook his head, which suddenly was feeling tight and adversely affected by all the buzzing, flickering lights in the store. "Nothing."

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