Welcome To The End Times

Crowley was not easily spooked. Not in the angel's company, at any rate.

He sniffed the air, spine taut. "Something's changed."

Aziraphale glanced over the rim of his glass. "Oh, it's a new cologne," he mildly explained, tamping down the anxieties mirroring the demon's own. "My barber suggested . . ."

"Not you," Crowley hissed. "I know what you smell like!" A shadow fell across the demon's face, the glint of fear barely concealed by his dark glasses. "The Hellhound has found its master."

A ripple bloomed in the center of Aziraphale's scotch, wavering as it spread. "Are you sure?"

"I felt it. Would I lie to you?" Crowley met his gaze, indignant, despite the gravity of the situation. Aziraphale frowned—it wasn't as if he'd asked an irrelevant question. He said as much.

"Obviously. You're a demon. That's what you do."

Panicked, Crowley conceded to the point. Another foreboding sign. "Well, I'm not lying. The boy, wherever he is, has the dog." The light hit his face, just so—behind the tinted lenses, his serpent eyes widened to their extent. "He's coming into his power," he breathed. "We're doomed."

The words sank to the pit of the angel's stomach, dread coiling in their place. He tilted his head, thoughtful. "Well then," he replied, matter-of-fact in the face of imminent chaos. "Welcome to the end times."

He and Crowley sat in silence, Aziraphale's drink frozen halfway to his lips. He longed to seize the decanter and guzzle its contents, but his roiling stomach warned against it. Crowley, apparently, had the same idea, and thought it an excellent one. He threw back his serving of amber liquid, and, with a grimace, reached across the table to pour himself another.

Oh, to Hell with it.

Aziraphale set his glass down in front of the demon, and swallowed the generous amount Crowley added. This kind of spirit was meant to be sipped and savored, revered for its subtle notes and texture across the tongue. Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut and tossed another glass down his throat. Screw that sort of pompous propriety—after all, the world was coming to an end.

"How could this happen?" Crowley blurted, rising from his seat. Aziraphale steadied the wobbling table as his companion took to pacing the back room, arms flailing, drink sloshing precariously round the rim. "I don't understand it. Hastur and Ligur gave me the Anti-Christ. The instructions were clear—drop the baby off in Tadfield, St. Beryl's Convent Birthing Hospital. Leave the brat in the hands of the nuns who worked there." Crowley ticked each item off on his slender fingers. "Done, done, and done." He spun on his heel and gestured toward the bookshop's front doors. "Done! Kaput. All of it . . ." He slumped back into his chair. "All because of me."

"Now, C-Crowley . . ." Aziraphale soothed to the best of his ability, stifling a belch. "None of this is your fault."

"Were you even listening?" the demon snapped, commandeering the bottle once again. "Did you hear a word of what I just said?"

"I did, rather! And as far as I'm concerned, you've proven my point. You did everything that was asked of you, so how could you possibly be responsible for this blunder?"

"Well, the plan went awry. The how and the why is moot at this point." Crowley shrugged. Fresh scotch tumbled into their respective glasses. "It happened. That's all that matters."

Aziraphale sipped in somber silence, Crowley looking nothing short of miserable, when something occurred to him. Mirth bubbled inside him, fizzing like a gulp of champagne.

"We wasted so much time!" he giggled.

Crowley frowned. "Wot?"

"Eleven years!" Aziraphale chortled. "Eleven years we spent, schooling him, grooming him towards the dark and the light. A-and all this time, we . . . we . . ." The angel gasped for air. "We had . . . it was . . . the wrong boy! The whole time!"

The demon scowled as Aziraphale doubled over.

"It's not funny," he snarled. "Or have you forgotten Armageddon is now days away?"

Aziraphale dabbed at his streaming eyes. "Oh, come now. It's a little funny."

He watched Crowley's jaw twitch, the hard, furious mask slipping at the seams. Crowley's mouth curled, and soon, he joined Aziraphale in a raucous fit of laughter. A bit of the tension diffused, Aziraphale studied Crowley while they drank. If he looked closely, he could almost see the weight of the world pressing down on the demon's shoulders. Aziraphale bit down on his lip.

"I wouldn't trade it for anything, you know." He smiled. "All those years playing Brother Francis were some of the most delightful I've had."

"Yeah." Something wistful floated across Crowley's expression. "I know what you mean. Remember that time when Warlock dumped a pailful of earthworms into that gourmet pasta dish the family wanted to serve for that important diplomatic luncheon, or some such? I suggested frogs in the butter dish, but that kid had a knack for that sort of thing. Genius, really." He sighed, grinning broadly. "I was so proud."

Aziraphale chuckled. "I wouldn't consider that stunt particularly evil."

"Excuse you," Crowley scoffed. "At six years old? It was bloody diabolical!" He smirked. "Harriet didn't serve pasta for months."

"He adored you, you know." Aziraphale took a long, deliberate drink as Crowley turned to him, brow furrowed. "Warlock. You meant a great deal to him."

"Ah." Crowley cleared his throat, averted his already hidden gaze. "Yeah . . ." he mumbled, voice thick.

Aziraphale slurped his scotch. "I suppose I owe you an apology. You did hint that the boy was too normal. You were right."

"I didn't want to be. And now, look where we've bloody landed." A great sigh racked Crowley's corporation. "What are we gonna do, angel?"

"Well, first and foremost . . ." Aziraphale pounded a fist upon the table, causing the stopper in the decanter to rattle. "We're finishing every drop of this scotch. And then, we're going to miracle it full once more. And then . . . we're going to find a solution, and put this whole kerfuffle to rest."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that!"

Despite himself, Crowley smiled, bemused. "Well . . . good on you, angel. 'Fraid I'm not so optimistic."

"Nonsense, Crowley dear." Aziraphale slung back what remained in his glass and set it firmly on the table. "This shop hasn't failed me yet. There's got to be something in these dusty, old tomes—some clue, some piece of the puzzle that we're missing. And if it will be anywhere, it will be here!" He rose to his feet, chair screeching against the hardwood. "Yes! Right . . . I'm placing an order for takeaway. Would you like anything, darling?" He aimed the question over his shoulder, halfway to the telephone.

"You're ordering . . . takeaway?" Crowley's tone was incredulous.

Aziraphale turned to him. "Obviously. We can't very well save the world on an empty stomach, now can we?"

Within five minutes—a delectable selection of sushi in transit—the angel had whirled through his collection, piling the table with volume upon volume. Books of art and history and religious philosophy. Tomes of lore and witchcraft and all manor of occult topics. The answer was bound within their pages, waiting to be discovered—he need only locate it. He was sure of it.

Crowley had, by this time, migrated over to the weathered sofa, staring morosely into the middle distance. Aziraphale could see the cogs grinding behind his serpent eyes, no longer hidden by his trademark lenses. The angel snatched a book from his desk and gently tossed it in the demon's general vicinity.

"Here, make yourself useful and comb through Revelations, will you? It's as good a place to start as any."

Crowley looked down at the book that had landed haphazardly on his lap, and recoiled with a hiss. Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

"Honestly, Crowley. Just because it contains the word 'Holy' in the title, doesn't mean it's going to smite you."

"You don't know that," Crowley sneered, even as he gathered the Bible in his hands and leafed to the final chapter. With a satisfied nod, Aziraphale settled in, reading glasses perched on his nose, and set to work.

Dinner arrived not long after, and every so often, Aziraphale paused between paragraphs and footnotes to savor a bite. In his peripheral vision, he watched Crowley stab unceremoniously at a single roll, before popping it into his mouth—the rest lay forgotten on the cushion beside him. Aziraphale sighed. Quality meals were so often lost on the demon. Unable to stop himself, the angel took a moment to whisk the food upstairs and into the ice box—it would make a lovely midnight snack later on, he reasoned.

The construct of time was such a funny thing. Aziraphale knew the hours were passing, based on the lengthening of shadows and the steady reminder of the grandfather clock in the corner, but so consumed was he by his research that he didn't feel the seconds ticking on towards a new day—one day closer to the end of things. His body didn't need rest, his mind still sharp, even under the weight of what felt like half of his collection. The sushi, meanwhile, was just as scrumptious as it had been six hours ago.

He turned a page, and stuffed a sizable bite into his mouth, moaning appreciatively. Crowley had been right, of course—with the world gone, his nights would never again be filled with endless reading. No more tasty morsels such as this, or late night cups of tea. No more . . . The angel glanced around his bookshop. No more . . . anything.

And he was still no closer to figuring out what to do.

Sighing, Aziraphale hid his face within his hands. Crowley's question echoed through his skull.

What are we gonna do, angel?

"I don't know," Aziraphale whispered, a slight catch in his throat.

Instinctually, he sought comfort where he always had in the past—Crowley had not left his post on the sofa, a circle of books around him, open and abandoned, spines cracked and straining. With a tiny nip of panic, Aziraphale rose and scooped them up, closing each one with a soothing stroke to the front cover. Having piled them back onto the table, he returned his attention to Crowley.

All manners of love swelled within his heart.

The demon was still sitting upright, but his eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even. Aziraphale had no idea how long he had been asleep, but he was not about to interfere. After all, there would be little time to rest, now that Armageddon had, officially, been set into motion. Instead, he gently maneuvered the demon's body so that he was lying lengthways across the sofa. Aziraphale tucked a throw pillow beneath Crowley's head and wrapped him in the tartan blanket he kept on hand, in case the nights grew cold.

Without much thought, his fingertips wandered through Crowley's hair, caressed his cheek. The demon's severe features were softened in sleep—nothing short of beautiful. Something clenched low in Aziraphale's gut. Armageddon was days away. The end was nigh. No more . . . anything. Crowley stirred, softly snoring. The sight rekindled the roaring flame in Aziraphale's belly. Crowley loved this world. As did he. They had made a six-thousand-year life here, both together and apart. This was their world, as much as any human's, and he'd be damned if he allowed it to burn.

Aziraphale stormed back to his workstation, furiously paging through passages, illustrations, anything and everything that could prove useful.

He could do this, God damn it.

There wasn't going to be a War. He'd see to that.

The first rays of morning sunlight fell across the chaotic minefield of literature, warming the angel's shoulders. With a defeated sigh, he closed the book in his hands and began tidying up. The foot traffic would start soon—early-rising customers would meander through his door, intent on browsing the shelves. He tried to console himself as he went about preparing a fresh cup of tea—still a few more days, yet . . .

"Crowley dear?" He sat down on the sofa's edge, shaking his friend's shoulder. "Crowley? I'm sorry, darling, but it's time to wake up, now. You don't have to leave, but I'm opening up soon, and I need you off my sofa before any patrons arrive."

The demon grunted and rolled within the blanket, struggling to open his eyes. "Angel?" he rasped. "Ohh, Satan. How long have I been out?"

"Most of the night," Aziraphale replied as Crowley sat up, yawning and stretching. He placed a second cup of tea into the demon's hands and held up a plate of warm scones.

"Oh, fuck," Crowley grumbled through a mouthful. "I'm sorry, angel. I wanted to help. Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

Aziraphale shrugged, a touch of color in his cheeks. "I didn't have the heart," he admitted. "You looked so peaceful."

Crowley snorted through a gulp of tea. "So what now?" he wondered aloud. "Are we any closer to saving the world?"

"Not much luck on my end, I'm afraid. But we won't give up. We'll both keep working and . . . thinking . . . and, I'm positive that, between the two of us, we'll, ah . . . well, we'll . . ."

"Course we will."

Aziraphale met Crowley's gaze, and felt another pang deep in his belly. The heat in his face spread to his ears, down the length of his neck. He cleared his throat and gave Crowley's knee a swift pat.

"Right, well, I, ah . . . I need to prepare. Open the, ah, shop and . . . all that. Customers, and whatnot. Erm, feel free to finish up, of course." He gestured toward the remains of Crowley's breakfast, fiddling with his bowtie. "I'll just be . . . right around . . . here. If . . . if you need me." He felt the weight of Crowley's stare between his shoulders as he bustled toward the front of the shop, desperate to escape his own ramblings.

Oh, Good Lord. Whatever was he to do with himself?

He was saved, mercifully, by the first few transactions of the day—that is to say, the first few sales artfully avoided, so as to preserve his beloved collection. He conducted business as usual, and for a brief time, he was able to fool himself into believing that this was a day like any other, and that the fevered efforts of the night before had merely been an unpleasant dream—that the Apocalypse was not, in fact, on the horizon. What little comfort he'd gleaned from the passing fancy was, all too soon, quashed by a faint tinkling above the bookshop door. Two dignified, impeccably tailored figures strolled inside. Aziraphale froze.

"Can I . . . help you?" he squeaked.

His direct supervisor flashed a winning smile, a tome, selected at random, in his hands. "I would like to purchase one of your material objects," he prompted, violet eyes agleam.

"Books?" his companion offered.

"Books!" Gabriel rephrased, grin broadening. "Let us discuss my purchase in private, because I am buying . . ."

Aziraphale nodded, a smile plastered upon his face, the conversation barely registering in his mind. All of his attention was honed on the back room. Of all the things he had anticipated in the earth's final days, a visit from The Most Holy Archangel Gabriel, to his humble bookshop in Soho, while a demon lay curled up on his antique sofa, had certainly not been one of them.

Fear had just begun clawing its way up the angel's throat, when a flash of black drew his eye to the window. Aziraphale watched Crowley saunter across the pavement, toward his car. The demon opened the driver's side door, ducked into the Bentley's interior, and only when he had roared down the street, did the angel allow himself to turn his attention back to the matter at hand. His muscles relaxed, ever so slightly, his smile more easy and genuine.

"Gabriel. Please, come into my back room."

Both angels strolled confidently in the direction he'd indicated, allaying suspicions with loud proclamations of their humanity. Aziraphale was too relieved to care. He steadied his frayed nerves with a cleansing breath and followed his boss to the eastern corner of the shop.

He hadn't the foggiest idea as to why they were here, but whatever was asked of him, he was certain he could handle.

After all, he had been doing this since the beginning.

Why should the ending be any different?