Wednesday

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 10 of 12

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

– American Gods, Neil Gaiman

"Would you look at that," said Crowley, lifting a hand and waggling his fingers; "I can see myself."

"I haven't finished yet," Aziraphale protested, reaching over and grasping his wrist, firmly yanking it back down. "I still need to file down the nail on your little finger and add another clear coat."

They were sitting on Crowley's bed in the loft – with Crowley lolling lazily, cross-legged at the head and Aziraphale perched primly at the foot, legs dangling off the edge in a prim position which vaguely suggested he about to ride a horse sidesaddle – hoping to let the remaining hours of Wednesday slide by, at what was admittedly a glacial pace thus far, despite their having a most pleasant time in each other's company.

Aziraphale was in the process of giving the archangel a manicure, as he'd insisted his fingernails looked ragged and unkempt.

"Don't angels believe in good grooming?" he'd marvelled, tsking in disapproval. "What would you even do to make them look like that, chew on them all day?"

Crowley's initial response had been, "Eh?" followed by removing the end of his thumbnail (which he'd been pensively gnawing on while, at the same time, trying to see if he could wrap his tongue all the way around it) from between his front teeth. Aziraphale had then given him a look, tilting his head pointedly, and the archangel complied, holding out his hands.

"Angel," – he still couldn't bring himself not to habitually call any version of Aziraphale that – "what do you think is going to happen if I don't get discorporated before the end of the day?"

As he finished applying the final shiny layer to Crowley's little fingernail then turned away to screw the bottle closed, Aziraphale said, "Ideally nothing."

Crowley rather disagreed; ideally, he'd find himself back home again. And it wasn't an impossibility. Whatever Hastur had done to ensure he would be trapped here could be tied into the repeated loop of his best friend discorporating him and Heaven sending him back; it made sense, sort of. But he sensed heavily muted pain in the way the Prince of Hell was holding himself, not quite looking at him, and couldn't bring himself to voice his disagreement.

"What did he make you do?" Crowley blurted, knowing it was off-topic but also aware – if his hypothesis was correct – he might never have the chance to ask again.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Lucifer – Satan, whatever." He shrugged. "He made you a Prince of Hell. You must have had to do something. I mean, I get that you were already a principality in Heaven, but that doesn't have any pull with the devil. So, there must have been something he wanted from you."

"Don't ask me about that." He was looking at him again now, his – slightly watery – expression pale, stricken. "If you do care about me, my dear, if this all isn't just..." His voice trailed off brokenly. "Please. I don't want to talk about that."

"I'm sorry." Perhaps he had gone too far. "Just go on and forget I asked."

"It's all right – there are just some things... Some things that are unspeakable."

"You don't have to tell me what it was," Crowley said next, "but is it all right if I ask you something about it?"

"It depends," he said softly, carefully, "but I'll hear you out."

"How well do you remember it?"

Aziraphale scooted off the side of the bed and turned his back to him. "Every moment, perfectly."

"I forget – the things I do, as a demon. I'm always forgetting." Indeed, the longer he was away from Hell, the less real it seemed until somebody from there turned up – such as Hastur or, before he had had his lethal dousing with holy water, Ligur.

"Then you're very fortunate, Crowley." There was a twinge of envy in his voice, but the tone was delicate, almost compassionate.

"Look, I know you don't want me to go, but I'm worried if I stay here too long – if ending the loop doesn't send me back – I'll... Well, you know, eventually... Eventually, I'll..."

There was growing pity in Aziraphale's charcoal eyes as he slowly turned to face him again. "Crowley..."

"I don't want to forget what you're like as an angel."

"You mightn't," suggested the demon, brightly. "It's entirely possible you only forget what you really want to." He gave him a shaky, uncertain grin. "It's perfectly understandable if you do forget some things. Even desirable, in many circumstances. I... I wouldn't mind it. If I were you, that is. Which I'm not, of course. But still; you take my point, I'm sure."

He wondered if he ought to tell this Aziraphale about the deliveryman, the one who'd given him the message he could only assume was from the other Aziraphale back in the world where things were right. If he should admit he'd tried to envision his eyes, in their proper colour, the entire way back here from Sainsbury's and they kept looking too close to grey in his mind. And that if he could forget what Aziraphale's eyes were supposed to look like, surely he could – with enough time – forget everything else that ever mattered. That he could wake up one morning without the notion that this shop – the one set to have its grand opening tomorrow, if it ever came – wasn't truly his but was Aziraphale's bookshop really.

Losing all of that, however slowly, he wanted to explain, was far, far from being 'desirable'.

Crowley finally settled on simply saying, with a light sniff, "This loft isn't supposed to be here; at home, you've got a rotunda, filled with books."

"I've got?" He was stunned, leaning a knee against the side of the mattress. "D'you mean to tell me I live here, where you're from?"

He nodded.

"My goodness."

The bewildered, slightly hungry look on his friend's face as he gazed about himself, no doubt imagining what life as the other version of himself must be like, made Crowley thoughtlessly reach out to touch the side of it consolingly.

Recoiling, Aziraphale quickly blocked him.

For a stomach-churning moment, Crowley believed it was a gesture of rejection, this demonic version of Aziraphale still resisting – at some level, even now – any show of compassion from an angelic version of him – because he was afraid of Lucifer's retaliation, because it wasn't how things between them were here.

Then, looking dismally at his fingers, Aziraphale said, "They're not dry yet," and Crowley had to bite down onto his lower lip to keep from bursting out laughing.

"Not that there's anything worth watching," said Crowley, as he dragged the old television set out from the cabinet, causally sweeping aside the cracked pesticide cans. "But what the hell."

Standing behind him, munching on a powdered doughnut, Aziraphale mumbled, "Bloody old set probably won't turn on."

"Hmm. I don't know," said Crowley, optimistically. "It did before." He hoisted it up with a light groan. "Oi, by the way, you've got a..." He made a rolling motion with his head. "Jam. Glob. Corner of your mouth. Just there."

"Oh, how frightfully embarrassing." Fishing an embroidered grey handkerchief trimmed with thick black lace out of one of his pockets, Aziraphale turned away and hastily took care of it while Crowley carried the telly back into the loft's bedroom.

"I'm sure I don't mean to be an ungrateful guest," Aziraphale told him, trailing behind, "but the décor in here is rather morbid – all those frowning, glowering saints – don't you think?"

"Yeah, don't look at me," – Crowley made a popping sound with his mouth – "I didn't pick them out."

"You did, though, didn't you?" The demon paused, rolling a hand conversationally. "Well, the other you. The one you've replaced here."

"Trust me, it won't be so bad, having him back – he's the one who belongs here with you."

Aziraphale didn't respond. He reached for the fizzy health drink. "Do you mind? I need something to wash down this doughnut."

"You don't want that," Crowley warned him. "Trust me."

"I see." He drew his fingers back, grimacing. "Perhaps I'll just pour myself a glass of milk, then."

"We didn't buy milk. Or juice. Remember?"

"Oh, bugger." He frowned. "Hang on, why are you smiling at me like that?"

The archangel chuckled. "It's amusing, hearing you swear so casually – I'm used to you struggling not to." He gave him a sly side-eye. "Well, except for when you're drunk. I've never said anything, back home, as I don't actually mind, but you swear a lot without realising it when you've got some alcohol in you. Like you've got bloody Tourette's sometimes."

He rolled his eyes, plainly unsure how much of this ridiculous little speech was true and how much was simply Crowley teasing him. "Just..." His cheeks were bright pink. "Just set up the telly."

Crowley dutifully set it up and turned it on, ignoring Aziraphale's repeated doubtful statements that it would in fact turn on without a plug, then plopped backwards onto the bed, wriggling his feet.

He patted the spot next to himself and grinned. "I really hope you've figured out by now that I don't bite." There was a light pause, a moment of self consideration, Crowley remembering that he was, after all, a snake – if not here, then elsewhere. "Usually."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes before easing onto the bed beside him, sinking back into the pillows, which must have felt good against his sore injuries. "So. What are we in the mood to watch?"

"Whatever's the least annoying." Click.

"Wait, hang on, go back." The demon frantically tapped his arm.

"To what?"

"The show with the singing nuns; that looked pleasant."

Crowley gave him a horrified side-glance. "That's The Sound of Music."

"Well, go back to it – two channels down."

"You want to watch The Sound of Music?"

"Obviously." He didn't seem to understand how shocking this was for Crowley. "It looks rather cheerful. Uplifting, even."

"If you're saying that against your will, angel, kick your foot against the bed twice."

"Crowley, for pity's sake! Why the heaven are you looking at me like that? It's only a movie."

"You hate The Sound of Music."

"I've never even seen it!" Aziraphale protested, turning his head on the pillow to look at him.

"You're kidding." The archangel granted him a rare, deep blue blink. "Gabriel plays it on a repeated loop."

"Crowley dear." He said it nicely, beginning to understand – if only a little – now. "I've barely spoken to Gabriel since the rebellion – I don't know what he, or any other angel – apart from you, of course" – Crowley straightened, proud as a peacock – "likes. They don't have this movie in Hell. I am a demon. Remember?"

"'snot the sort of thing you forget," he murmured, slumping back down.

"Please?" Aziraphale raised his pale eyebrows imploringly.

"You won't like it," Crowley warned him, switching the channel back obligingly anyway.

Perhaps, Crowley privately considered, The Sound of Music was slightly different in this version of events. Something here made it less asinine than he recalled it being. He couldn't put his finger on it, but this time around it wasn't the unbearable mess he'd grimly anticipated and braced himself for – it wasn't good, he wouldn't willingly watch it again, but as a one-time favour to a friend it was all right, really.

If pressed, he might even grudgingly admit he was enjoying himself.

The only thing he was really regretting was the fact that it was a near certainty he'd have Climb Ev'ry Mountain stuck in his head for at least a month. Even asleep, it would play on repeat in the back of his mind until he longed – irrationally, despite himself – for the sweet release of discorporation.

It was harder to gauge what this Aziraphale thought of the film. The occasional eye roll or muttered comment did shed a little light on his opinion of a particular scene or song, here and there; and he'd verbally given (rather loud) advice to at least three characters (after downing a few glasses of wine) as though they could somehow hear him. Towards the movie as a whole, however, he showed no real display of his opinion. He didn't seem to like or dislike it. Crowley wondered if it was because, in Hell, whenever you seemed particularly amused by something, there was always somebody – be it demon or devil or imp or usher – trying to snatch it away with their pawing, greedy hands, convinced you'd gotten hold of something vaguely pleasant which should have been theirs by right of simply wanting it. Or – more typically – by right of them simply not wanting you to have it. Contrariwise, if you loathed something, and they got wind of it, you could expect to see the thing you hated – and only that particular thing – until it drove you mad. It was a form of torture, after all. The resulting paranoia did force you to keep your opinions, even on unimportant things like films, as visibly neutral as possible.

Crowley risked a couple of quick, curious glances in the Prince of Hell's direction, studying his still face and alert, darting grey eyes in the flickering light of the telly, before looking away, directing his attention back at the screen.

But somewhere in my wicked, miserable past there must have been a moment of truth...

In all honesty, this part wasn't so bad. It had a nice sentiment.

...I must have done something good... Nothing comes from nothing – nothing ever could...

Aziraphale was starting to get tired, while trying very hard not to show he was tired. Crowley could feel him occasionally forgetting himself and relaxing against his side. A few times his temple touched Crowley's shoulder, leaning on it before he suddenly realised what he was doing and straightened himself back up.

Crowley opened his mouth to tell him he didn't mind – that it was all right if he wanted to do that – but Aziraphale only shushed him and gestured at the screen.

"I'm trying to watch this," he whispered, before slinking back into the same drooping position less than a minute later.

If it were anybody else, Crowley would have assumed his friend was going to fall asleep on him. Aziraphale, though, even when injured and groggy and tired from a long day that – for Crowley, especially – never seemed to end, could keep awake for centuries. A little stake out like this was nothing to him.

….Loving me...whether or not you should...

Crowley reached over the demon to get at an open bag of liquorice he'd left beside the alarm clock radio, and Aziraphale shoved him so hard he went tumbling off the side of the mattress and loose liquorice was strewn across the bedspread.

"Oh, shit!"

Brow furrowed, he stared to get up, about to ask him what the deuce he'd done that for, but the demon shook his head and gestured for Crowley to stay down.

"Where are you, Zzzira?" Maria – no longer singing 'Something Good' in a duet with Christopher Plummer – was now a puzzled-sounding, impatient Beelzebub. "Thizzz iz not your flat."

"Oh, how very observant of you," simpered Aziraphale, casually motioning with one hand for Crowley to slide under the bed as Beelzebub continued to peer out from the screen, scrutinising the unusual surroundings. "Work that out on your own, did you, sweetheart? Nothing gets past a princess of Hell. Sharp, what."

"Zzzhut up – Mazzzter demandzzz to know what you've been doing."

"I'm afraid I don't follow you."

"The archangel Raphael healed your nozzzze earlier – why would he do that?"

"I don't know. Patron angel of healing, what. I suppose it's simply what he does."

"Not for demonzzz he doezzzn't."

"Well, obviously, my sweet Beelzebub, he did."

"He'zzz an angel."

"So he isn't allowed to make a mistake? No angel is infallible. Look at us – we were both angels once, albeit a long time ago."

"Do not think our Mazzzter hazzz forgotten your bizzzarre obsezzion with that particular archangel."

"You're quite mistaken. Raphael is my most persistent enemy. I live to see him suffer. What you call an obsession, I call a most healthy dedication to his annihilation."

"Izzz that right?"

"Hmm-mmm, indeed. Why wouldn't it be?"

"He healed your nose."

"Oh, you are a lass of one idea, aren't you?" he sighed, put out. "Now, really. For the last time: it is simply no business of mine if some dim-sighted angel wants to go about straightening random person's noses out!"

"Enough. Tell me where you are," demanded Beelzebub. "Why is there a picture of Saint Jude behind you?"

Patron saint of desperate cases and lost causes, that's ironic, Crowley thought grimly.

"I'm taking a little vacation – reflecting upon the errors which led to my recent punishment. Naturally. What else would I be doing? I'll be available for work when needed. Surely our Master has no objections?"

"Where izzz the archangel?"

Aziraphale made a frustrated teeth-sucking noise. "Under the bed, of course."

Crowley momentarily tensed.

"Yes, that's right," he went on, sarcastically. "My raving, insatiable obsession has led me to hide him there. You've caught me – jolly good work, Beelzebub. I do hope you get that pay raise you've been talking about."

Crowley relaxed – if only a little. It was amazing how composed and bitingly clever Aziraphale could be towards Beelzebub when the devil was not with her. It reminded Crowley of how his own dealings with Hastur back home had gone sometimes, when flattering and grovelling weren't working and a biting, demonic comeback was the only suitable response, the only gamble worth risking.

"We will be watching you very clozzzzely, Zzzira."

By the time Beelzebub was gone and Crowley could risk crawling back out from underneath the bed, Maria had already returned from her honeymoon and the Nazis had taken over Austria.

"I think," said Aziraphale, his voice as still as a stagnant pond in the heat of summer, "we had better put the television away."

Crowley nodded soberly, creeping over and lifting it from behind so he could drag it back to the cabinet.

"Sorry about the shoving, dear boy – it was unfortunate, but I couldn't risk her seeing you." He smiled weakly. "You're probably next, though, if word about you healing my nose is out and has become general knowledge to both sides; I imagine Michael or Gabriel will be in touch."

A pang of regret struck Crowley's heart. Could he really leave this Aziraphale alone to deal with the fallout from all this?

No, he wouldn't be alone, come Thursday, if all ended well; Crowley simply had to have faith that the other version of himself, the one this Aziraphale really loved – Raphael Antonius – would do what needed to be done.

He hoped they'd form an Arrangement, like he and the proper angelic Aziraphale had at home – he couldn't imagine another way they'd both survive what was inevitably to come; they needed to work together.

But, sadly, that was a conclusion they'd have to arrive at for themselves – he couldn't make that decision for them. As much as he wanted to – was simply dying to – it wasn't up to him.

Still, it couldn't be wrong to do what he did best. Or had done, back home.

Namely, a little temptation...

"You know," he wheedled, "two heads are better than one when it comes to this sort of thing."

"What are you saying?"

"Nothing, nothing. Just that, well, you know, come Thursday, you and a certain archangel could always..." He paused meaningfully, then sniffed. "Could always draw up an agreement of some kind – not that your schemes to discorporate him aren't brilliant. They are. Still, maybe it's just time to move on from them."

Aziraphale's expression was faintly scandalised, but it was mostly out of habit. "It isn't–" he began desperately. It wasn't safe.

"Come on – you'd like it, wouldn't you? Be mutually beneficial. And old ginger fluffy wings won't suggest it first – head too far up in the clouds – so it'll have to be you."

"Ginger fluffy wings?" he repeated, brow furrowed.

"Raphael."

"Crowley, please, you do realise – to me – this all rather sounds like you're talking about yourself in the third person."

"Nah-uh." He held up a finger and shook it. "Don't try and change the subject. If you were human and I could read your mind right now, I'd bet anything that every desire in it would be for an alliance with him. You should have what you want."

"I can't believe that you would ever imply–"

Sweetly, cocking his head a little too innocently to one side, he finished, "Yeah, but I'm only suggesting what it is you really want, amirite?"

He fluttered his hands nervously. "My dear fellow, he'd never agree, even if I did ask him. He does have standards."

"And I don't?"

"I didn't mean–"

"Listen. Don't say anything now – not to me, it's not about me – just think about it."

"Yes, all right." Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "If it's so dashed important to you, I'll give it due consideration."

Crowley patted his arm. "Atta demon."

"Crowley, d'you ever wonder why those ill-mannered children in the Lucky Charms commercials are always chasing that poor leprechaun?" Aziraphale slurred drunkenly, squinting down at the wineglass he was currently pouring a refill into from a nearly empty bottle. "I'mean, the cerealsn't that good." He hiccuped. "Pardon me." Pulling out his handkerchief, he brought it to his mouth and burped twice, before replacing it in his pocket and reaching for his wineglass again. "But, really, if they wanted a bowl that badly, they could just take their lunch money down to Sainsbury's and buy a couple boxes. Which no child's ever done, because'snot that good."

"Well, I blame t'parents," mumbled Crowley, bending over and dropping his head down onto a nearby pillow and moaning softly. "Is it Thursday yet?"

"Hold on a moment, I'll check," slurred Aziraphale.

Crowley felt the mattress shift as the Prince of Hell stumbled towards the alarm clock radio and sat up, looking somewhat dishevelled.

"We've got twenty minutes left until midnight," he announced primly, turning around. "I'm going t's-sober up."

"Right. Me too," Crowley decided, getting up and concentrating on sending the wine out of his bloodstream.

The tall glass bottles stationed around the alarm clock radio and on the floor beside (and in front of) the bed steadily refilled. Exchanging looks of discontentment, they both resisted the urge to reach for them again and start over – after all, they still had twenty minutes. That was time enough for a quick drink under most circumstances.

But parting from one another – if this was indeed the moment, coming up – without their minds firing on all pistons didn't bear thinking about. They needed to say goodbye properly.

"That other version of me," Aziraphale said, watching glumly while Crowley straightened out his clothing, "how much do you actually like him?"

Crowley laughed, but it was a sad laugh. "Come on, you don't really want me to stay. You'd get sick of demon-me after a while, always tempting and cajoling, trying to get my own way – I don't know how the other you puts up with it."

Being Aziraphale – regardless of the version of events he existed within – he understood what Crowley actually meant. "He needs you."

He nodded. "I don't think he'd ever admit it, but he does."

A flicker of pain began to cross the demon's face, then it camped there, rather resignedly, for a moment. "And you need him."

"I think I always have."

"Tell him that sometimes," Aziraphale suggested. "It's nice to feel needed."

"I will," promised Crowley, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. "Well, it was nice knowing you."

The Prince of Hell reached out his hand, about to shake Crowley's goodbye – just in case this really and truly was it, the end of their little misadventure at last – and Crowley extended his arm as well.

There was a crashing sound of glass shattering and something scuttling about under them, large objects being moved without any particular care. One noise sounded more than a little like a flowerpot breaking.

Aziraphale blanched, pulling back his hand. "Someone's downstairs, in your shop – they've broken in."

Crowley directed one last glance in the direction of the alarm clock radio, then made up his mind. "Stay here – you're still hurt, and it might be one of your lot."

"What? No! You're so close; it's nearly midnight. You shouldn't risk it."

"If it is someone from your side, I'm not going to wait until they come up here looking for you – if it's an ordinary miscreant, I'll send them packing. It's no big deal." Crowley looked as if he was starting to get very angry, very quickly. "Besides, another reality or not, those are my houseplants down there – I'm the only one allowed to scare them."

There was another crash and Aziraphale jumped involuntarily, his eyes widened in dismay.

"Don't go down there – we'll barricade the loft door. Whoever it is won't get up here without us knowing." His voice cracked as he reached for the angel's wrist. "Stay with me."

"I can't – I never did get to see how this day ends. I've always had to leave too soon." Crowley turned away and snaked his hand around the handle of the narrow wicker door that would barely have stood up to a determined poodle, let alone a potential supernatural siege or a human burglar with a decent kick. "It's about time I found out what happens."

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