Angels Below

A Good Omens and Neverwhere fanfiction

Part 2 of 7

Aziraphale poked his head through the doorway to Crowley's bedroom. The lights were out, and a dark lump under a grey coverlet suggested the demon was burrowed underneath, asleep.

Atop Crowley's rickety, stylish night-stand, the black teacup from earlier remained half-full – it had been several hours since it had gone, largely untouched, ice cold.

Taking care not to clank the cup against the matching saucer as he picked it up, Aziraphale retrieved the dishes and set them on a wooden tray he'd carried from the kitchen. Crowley often told him there was no need to tidy up after himself – the flat never got messy, he said – but Aziraphale was convinced that the demon (since, prior to their respective sides discarding them, he'd never spent any considerable amount of time living in his own flat), simply didn't understand how housekeeping worked.

He understood watering plants and occasionally clearing tables and worktops after a meal or project; that was about it.

Inhaling a deep, quiet sigh, the angel closed the door behind himself and wandered down the length of the flat, slowly releasing it.

Aziraphale meant to go to the kitchen, truly, but found himself temporarily placing the tray beside a bizarre statue of two angels wrestling (one of the precious few decorative items Crowley owned that wasn't either a sketch of the Mona Lisa or made from roughly the same material as a child's glow-in-the-dark stickers).

Hands freed, he approached the door to the guest room and – not without a twinge of trepidation – knocked.

Gabriel wasn't sleeping, because he didn't sleep. Ever.

Instead, the archangel was sitting on top of the immaculate bedspread, fully dressed, still with his pale blue coat and scarves – and even shined shoes – on. He was reading a newspaper he'd found in the top dresser drawer, partly just to have something to do for the next couple of hours, and partly because he was hoping for some clue to Islington's whereabouts. The sooner he found something, the sooner it was safe for him to return to Heaven, the sooner he'd be away from the demon who used to be an archangel and the traitor angel who used to be a dithering pain in his ass.

There came a knock at the door. Speak of the principality.

He sighed heavily, as if he were in the middle of a meeting, and an important one at that, rather than simply sitting there bored out of his skull scanning the dull human-interest pieces and partially filled-in crossword puzzles (generally the only parts of the newspapers Aziraphale didn't habitually throw away).

This whole room, despite loosely retaining the overall air of the impersonal any-man's overnight stop it had originally been designed as, gave off strong hints of Aziraphale's constant presence within. There were two gleaming white-and-blue shirts hung in the wardrobe; a pair of wide-set tartan pyjamas lined the narrow the bottom drawer; a low shelf had six fat, deckled-edged books and a Regency silver snuffbox on one end; an overnight bag – sporting a tartan shoulder-strap – was stationed in one corner.

Crowley hadn't wanted Gabriel to take over the room – the demon had suggested that the archangel could just sleep in the lounge like any other unwanted guest – but he'd pressed Aziraphale until the angel, still subconsciously used to doing what his former boss told him to, relinquished it.

Probably, Gabriel thought, Aziraphale wanted to gather his belongings and move them into the lounge.

"Come in," he called.

The door creaked open. "Ah. Hello, Gabriel. I was wondering if I might have a word?"

"What is it, Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale came further in and stood uncomfortably at the bedside. "About this whole going with Sandalphon to look for the Lady Door business–"

"Sandalphon is the only one I trust to make sure you don't screw it up."

"Believe it or not," Aziraphale told him, "I understand that."

"You do?" He was genuinely surprised.

"Yes, but you must know Crowley isn't going to budge on this matter."

"Do it anyway," Gabriel said, as if it were that simple.

"Listen, it's really–"

"Just tell him you talked to me and we agreed on another angel accompanying you, that you're meeting somewhere you'll be inconspicuous."

Aziraphale frowned. "And then what? I go to this place and it's Sandalphon waiting for me?"

Gabriel exhaled heavily. "Good plan, I'd say."

"Gabriel, that would be lying."

His violet eyes darkened a shade to royal purple. "You lied to me for six thousand years – you can lie to a demon once for the greater good."

"Gabriel–"

"You told me he never spotted you."

"Well, yes, I did say that, but–"

"Time and time again, you told me that."

"You–"

"Do you know how humiliated I was when Michael went through the earth observation files and had picture after picture of you and Crowley together?"

"I imagine that was rather uncomfortable for you," Aziraphale managed to get in.

"And I defended you," Gabriel exclaimed, tossing aside the newspaper and glaring. "On top of everything – including the vile evidence of your endless lies staring me in the face – I defended your worthless feather-duster wings!"

This seemed to catch the principality unawares. "You did?" He wrinkled his forehead. "But I don't understand. If you were trying to defend me, then why did you send Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon to corner me outside my shop?"

Gabriel blinked. "I didn't, Aziraphale."

"But you didn't stop them, and you did try to have me destroyed."

"You stopped Armageddon, sunshine!" His tone had gone nasty. "What was I supposed to do? Give you a smack on the wrist?"

"You could have shown a little compassion, Gabriel," said Aziraphale, very quietly. "It's what good guys do."

"Don't talk to me about what good guys do." His gaze hardened even more, which scarcely seemed possible, as he'd already been glaring daggers. "Good guys don't fraternize with demons."

"No," said Aziraphale icily. "I suppose they don't." A bitter, brittle smile spread across his face. "I suppose they simply demand favours from them on occasion, should the need arise."

"You realise he's going to get bored of you eventually, right?" The look on Gabriel's face untwisted itself, unfurling into an expression of mocking pity. "You're not that interesting, Aziraphale. When he finds something better to do, where will you be then? What will you be then? Just a stupid, friendless, overweight shopkeeper who – back when he was part of something important – abandoned his platoon on the day the world was supposed to end.

"I hope you enjoy that for all eternity. You've earned every sad, dragging second of it."

Aziraphale had to turn his head away for a few moments – he was weak, as Gabriel suspected. Strange how soft and pathetic he was, when you considered that Hellfire couldn't burn him. Well, when you thought about it, all that really meant was he couldn't even die properly.

Gabriel couldn't resist getting in a final jab. "You always did love too excessively, Aziraphale."

"How does any of this," said the angel at last, "solve our problem? Lady Door still needs finding – Islington needs to be stopped, or at the very least reasoned with. You and I bickering, pecking at one another like a pair of old hens, won't fix anything."

"Lying to Crowley will," Gabriel said flatly. "Way I see it, that'll fix a lot."

"No."

"You think he doesn't lie to you? Wake up and smell the coffee! He's a demon."

"He wouldn't do what you're suggesting I do – not to me, not like this."

"You don't actually believe that," scoffed Gabriel, rolling his eyes. "There's a lot of things he's keeping from you – you didn't even know his real name before today."

Aziraphale was suddenly fixated on the pattern of the bedspread. His elegantly manicured fingers numbly trailed the threaded seams, sliding along the thin running-stitches.

"You can't fool me. I saw the look on your face when I slipped up and used his angelic name. Six thousand years of clandestine meetings – making you think he understood you when the big bad bureaucracy of Heaven just couldn't – and he never even told you his name." Gabriel leaned forward. "That's one hell of a big red flag, wouldn't you say?"

"Where'm I meant to meet Sandalphon?"

"There's an old bandstand, down by–"

The principality swallowed. "Not there."

"Why not? It's convenient."

"Gabriel. Not there." He was adamant. "I'll do what you want – not for any other reason than I don't wish to see the universe go completely to pieces – but not there. He'll have to meet me some place else."

Guilt weighed heavily on Aziraphale as he returned to Crowley's bedroom and looked down at the dozing demon. This was already agony, cutting his conscience to the quick, and he hadn't even done it yet. He couldn't wait until morning or he'd crack; he'd never be able to go through with it if he had the rest of the night to dither. His imagination was nowhere near as good as Crowley's, but it could sufficiently imagine the emotional ramifications of lying to one's best friend.

Climbing into the bed on the opposite side, Aziraphale put his arm around Crowley and shook him gently. "Wake up, dear."

"Wot?"

"I've just been talking to Gabriel."

"Mmm?" He rubbed sleepily at a dilated eye. "What's he want now?"

"He's agreed Sandalphon doesn't have to go with me to search for Lady Door." He forced a warm grin. "I'll be perfectly safe – just tickety-boo."

The expression on Crowley's face – what Aziraphale could see of it in the darkness of the room, anyway – changed entirely. Suddenly it was very evident Crowley had not been so groggy as the angel thought; he was very alert, and very hurt.

"You actually did it," he whispered brokenly.

"Oh, Crowley..."

He sat up and shook his head. "I didn't think you'd actually go through with it."

"You weren't asleep," Aziraphale realised, hating himself. "You were listening the whole time."

"Yep." Shining amber eyes gazed at him accusingly.

"How..." He cleared his throat. "How did you hear us?"

"Nothing happens in this flat I don't know about, angel."

"I'm so sorry."

"You actually conspired with Gabriel and lied to me – after everything."

What could Aziraphale say? That he was only trying to do the right thing? That, technically, he hadn't needed Crowley's permission to go?

"Crowley, I–"

The demon grunted, flung back the covers, and crawled over the edge of the bed before stalking angrily out of the room.

Aziraphale watched him disappear through the doorway; a slick, slouched shadow. He knew he probably should go – shouldn't linger in Crowley's room after what he'd just done – but he couldn't bring himself to get up. The weight of the cosmos was holding him down, and if nothing else the bed was a soft place to sink into as he stared miserably at the wall.

Although he had no actual evidence of it taking place, Aziraphale's imagination dredged up a picture – one that felt very real – of Crowley crying in the lounge and refused to stop showing it to him behind his closed eyelids.

Tears pricked the angel's eyes and he let a few of them fall before hastily wiping the remainder away.

Crowley wasn't in the lounge, and he didn't actually cry, but he did sit on the floor – his thin back pressed against a large black flowerpot – with his face buried in his hands for several long, dragging moments.

A leaf suddenly touched his shoulder.

He glanced up and gave the houseplant a scathing look, and it reconsidered.

The leaf swung idly aside, feigning innocence.

It only added insult to injury that he'd been reduced to a state in which even the plants, whose continued existence he threatened on a daily basis, felt sorry for him.

"Don't touch me," he snarled at the plant. "Come near me again, Swiss-cheese plant, and it's hello waste-disposal unit for you. Understand?"

It trembled, flowerpot vibrating in terror.

"Good."

He got up and headed to the kitchen. He needed a drink.

Aziraphale's Buckingham Palace puzzle was still there, on the island, even though all the pieces were back in their box now. The rectangular box looked so out of place, so cosy and homey, in the stylish kitchen.

Crowley's fingers tentatively gripped the stem of a wineglass, then he changed his mind, let it go, popped a cork, and just brought an entire bottle to his mouth.

After a long swig, he took another.

And another.

Several swigs later, he was staggering towards the guest room.

The door was closed, so he kicked it open, heedless of the potential lack of return on his rental deposit.

"Do you mind?" huffed Gabriel, who stood up and walked over to him confrontationally. "What if I'd been disrobing?"

"If anything–" Crowley began, in a slurred hiss.

"Oh, dear God, you're drunk."

"If anything happens to Aziraphale, and I find out Sandalphon could have prevented it–"

"Crowley, for Heaven's sake–"

"For Heaven's sake," he slurred, in a sugary, mocking imitation of Gabriel's tone, "you better pray every damn night Aziraphale comes back in one piece, cheerfully escorting Lady Door into the flat, none the worse for this little errand you've sent him on."

Gabriel grimaced at the unsteady demon swaying and swaggering in front of him. "You're disgusting. How did you ever sink so low?"

Crowley concentrated, sent the alcohol rushing out of his bloodstream, then – stone-cold sober – looked Gabriel dead in the face, his eyes merciless. "And if you think I'm not going to make your life here a living hell after the way you talked to him tonight, you're dreaming."

"Control yourself, please," said the archangel. "This is getting pathetic."

"I'm in perfect control." With a snap of the demon's long fingers, the windows in the room behind Gabriel opened and shut rapidly and the wardrobe doors flapped like they were having some sort of spastic fit; lamps flickered; something in the walls moved.

"Good night, most holy Gabriel," Crowley called sardonically over his shoulder as he turned away. "Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."

Something – maybe a branch – thudded against the windows, though they were safely closed again and remaining so.

Gabriel jumped in spite of himself.

Something burrowed against Aziraphale's back.

"Is that you, Crowley?"

The something grunted; the mattress shifted slightly, and the angel sensed he was being looked down upon with restrained annoyance. "What kind of stupid question is that? What else would it be, an aardvark?" Crowley grunted again, then settled back down.

"You're not angry with me?" murmured Aziraphale, hopefully.

"Positively furious," said the demon, in a voice that wasn't, not particularly.

"But–"

"If you're leaving tomorrow, I'm not going to waste my time being mad at you now – I can be just as angry with you gone as with you here."

"That's rather sensible of you," Aziraphale decided.

"Thank you," he replied, a little coldly.

"Crowley?"

"Wot?"

"Do you want me to leave?"

The demon's arm snaked around him. "No."

"All right then, my dear. Goodnight."

"G'night."

After waiting hours for somebody to be up and about proper daytime business in the damnable flat, Gabriel stomped into Crowley's bedroom, forcing the lock, only to find Aziraphale sleeping soundly with his wings out, sprawled across the width of the mattress.

The hell's he doing? thought Gabriel, deeply annoyed. Angels don't need to sleep and he's meant to be meeting Sandalphon so they can search for the Lady Door today.

Aziraphale also appeared to be snoring.

"Disgusting display of laziness," Gabriel muttered disdainfully.

Perplexing, though, was the fact that Aziraphale's wings also appeared to be snoring. The archangel could distinctly see the feathers rising and falling, as though they were breathing separately of the principality.

Separately, yet in eerily perfect rhythm.

When Aziraphale drew in a long, slumbering breath, Gabriel distinctly heard the wings go, "Memememe..." as the feathers fluttered upward in an exhaling sort of motion.

Upon closer inspection, it became clear that there was a large black snake coiled up between the wings.

A snake, slowly waking, who was less than thrilled to see Gabriel hovering over it judgementally, watching it sleep.

The snake slithered out from under the long white feathers, lengthened into its favourite shape, and Crowley was standing there; he leaned over the bed and shook Aziraphale's shoulder.

"I would never," Gabriel commented, feeling awkward at not even being addressed, "let a demon touch my wings."

"Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't, Gabriel," simpered Crowley, without looking at him. "But would any self-respecting demon want to touch your wings?"

Aziraphale – just awake enough at that point to appreciate this – drew in his wings and bit back a smile.

A smile which disappeared altogether as soon as Gabriel reminded him what he was doing today.

The buzzer rang.

Aziraphale answered the door, greeting – to his surprise – the same deliveryman he'd seen on the day the world was supposed to end. He'd signed for a package, and the man had asked him if he believed in life after death.

It felt sort of nice to see him again, if a little foreboding.

"Package for you, sir," he said, very officially, extending a box and a clipboard.

After he signed for it, and told the deliveryman to give his best to his wife and to mind how he went, Aziraphale brought the box into the lounge.

Gabriel seemed to already know what it was, paying him no mind while he rummaged through Crowley's collection of VHS tapes in the background, no doubt hoping – very much in vain – to find a copy of The Sound of Music.

Instead, he found only Mary Poppins, The Exorcist, The Omen, a misplaced laserdisc of a Ken Russell film, and several home-movies with neat labels in copperplate handwriting that had titles like Crowley Eats Miso Soup and Crowley Feeds The Ducks and Newt & Anathema's Wedding and Crowley Threatens To Break The (Expletive) Camera If I Don't Turn It Off.

"Damn," muttered Gabriel, tossing Crowley Feeds The Ducks aside and reaching the tail-end of the limited selection.

Aziraphale barely heard him; he was transfixed by the package. He peeled back the packing tape and bent the cardboard flaps over.

In the centre of the box – lying there harmless and sheathed, for now – was his flaming sword.

Crowley insisted on driving Aziraphale the seven minutes to Trafalgar Square (where he was supposed to meet Sandalphon), despite the fact that the angel had intended to take a bus.

They were awkward with each other.

Even though he clearly wanted to, more than once, Aziraphale didn't upbraid his friend for speeding – which, for reasons he wouldn't have admitted if the angel asked, he wasn't doing nearly as much of as usual.

The Bentley was silent apart from the voice of Freddie Mercury coming out of the cassette player until Crowley – knowing he couldn't put it off any longer – reached out and turned down the volume.

"Angel."

Aziraphale, who'd been looking out the window, turned to face him.

"I wasn't keeping it from you, you know."

"Er, what was that?"

"The fact that I was an archangel – I wasn't hiding that from you, it's just not something I talk about."

"It really isn't any of my business," said Aziraphale, with forced politeness, in a tone that suggested he thought it was rather his business – at least a little – but it would be awful of him to say so, especially after the stunt he pulled last night.

"What Gabriel said to you," Crowley said next, making a left onto Piccadilly. "It won't happen. How long have we been friends? Six thousand years. I'm not just going to suddenly decide you aren't worth my time any more."

"I know you wouldn't do anything of the sort, Crowley, it's just..." He trailed off.

"Heaven's still good at putting doubt in your mind?"

"Something like that."

"You don't have to do this," Crowley mumbled, gripping the steering-wheel a little more tightly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You don't have to go through with this – I can turn around and drop you off at the bookshop."

"Actually, I believe I do have to," Aziraphale insisted. "Not knowing where Islington is..." The angel closed his eyes. "The thing is, Gabriel was right about one thing – I did abandon my platoon. I just decided I wasn't going to fight, and left them all standing there, confused as anything, with the quartermaster." He glanced down at the sword spread across his lap. "I had to do it, I'm not saying I had another choice, but maybe finding Lady Door and helping Heaven stop Islington from making another terrible mistake can make it up to them now."

"You realise they'll kill him, of course."

Aziraphale blanched. "Surely they..."

"Islington is lower in rank than you," Crowley pointed out. "If they could destroy you without the slightest pang of conscience, what chance does he have?"

"Did you..." Aziraphale stammered. "Did you ever meet him?"

"You mean when I was Raphael?" The corners of Crowley's mouth tightened. "Yeah, actually. Several times. He was always getting into trouble."

"What did you think of him?"

"Oh, I liked him," Crowley said, rather amiably. "Quite a bit. Fun at parties, you know. Lucifer didn't, though – he couldn't stand the guy. They were always insulting each other. It got pretty nasty, if I'm remembering it right. Couldn't put them together on any project without it going wrong."

"I was fond of him as well," Aziraphale sighed. "Which is why I can't imagine him..."

"Murdering an entire family out of pure spite?"

He nodded. "Mmm-hmm."

They were zooming down Pall Mall now – they'd be there momentarily.

Aziraphale swallowed. "Before I go, I want to ask your forgiveness for what I did last night – I actively tried to deceive you and that was extremely dreadful of me."

"Demons don't forgive," he told him, offhanded. "Forgiveness is a heavenly virtue."

A little hurt, the angel nodded. "I understand."

The Bentley came to a stop. They could see Sandalphon standing beside a fountain, waiting, with his back to them.

Aziraphale lifted the sword and reached for the door-handle. "I'll see you soon."

"Give 'em hell," said Crowley, in a light – almost careless – voice that did not match how he actually felt.

As soon as Aziraphale had closed the Bentley door, waved goodbye, and was heading – with his shoulders back and a grim expression on his face – towards the fountain and Sandalphon, Crowley whispered, "I forgive you."

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