Angels Below

A Good Omens and Neverwhere fanfiction

Part 4 of 7

Crowley was spraying his plants when the buzzer went off. Setting the mister down, he stormed past the lounge – where Gabriel was unironically watching reruns of Marvin's Hour of Power – on his way to the door.

"You can't answer the door?" the demon snarled over his shoulder.

"Not my department – it's your place, you're in control," sighed Gabriel, glancing up, his violet eyes wide with faux-innocence. "This is your hell, I'm just living in it. Or am I missing something here?"

"No," he huffed. "That's perfectly right." To the door, he added, "Yeah? Who's there and what d'you want?"

"A word with an old friend," said a whispery yet clear voice from the other side – it was a voice Crowley had not heard for many thousands of years, not since before he became a demon. "No more, no less."

Gabriel went white and switched off the television. Slowly, he began to rise from his place.

"This really isn't a good time," Crowley told the door.

"I understand – I'll return tomorrow, if that's more convenient."

"That's not what–" he began, but the angel on the other side of the door was gone before Crowley could even undo the security chain.

"What the hell," snapped Gabriel, "did you send him away for? He was here – Islington – all of Heaven is searching for him – and you just sent him away!"

"I didn't send him away!" hissed the demon. "He left, all on his own. What was I meant to do, let him come in and see you here? Besides, if you're that damn upset about it, he said he'll be back. No harm done, amirite?"

"Your incompetence never ceases to amaze me, Crowley," sighed Gabriel, reaching up to rub his temples. "But at least we know it's in London now. Sometime since Lady Door released him, wherever it was she let him out, he's made his way back to the world of men."

"Which means we don't need her – we can get Aziraphale back."

"Heaven will still want to interview the opener; she's not an enemy, but she remains a person of interest."

"But finding her no longer matters enough to put Aziraphale at risk. You can send word to Sandalphon that they can call the whole thing off."

"You think I have a way to contact Sandalphon – in London Below – from here?" Gabriel scoffed.

Crowley's gaze darkened. "You don't?"

"Of course not!"

"So Aziraphale is stranded in London Below until he finds someone who's little more than a footnote in the bigger picture at this point, believing that if he doesn't the universe will literally implode, and we're stuck here – holding off Islington – until Heaven can make up its mind on how to take him in?"

"If I contacted Michael, let her know Islington is in London Above, that he came to see you..." he mused, more to himself than Crowley. "We could set up a trap for his return tomorrow."

"What I don't understand is how he found me." Crowley shook his head, trying to process the mess unfurling before them. "We haven't talked in eons – even if he wanted to find me, how would he know who I am now? Did you ever tell him which demon...?"

"You think I talked to Islington about you after you left Heaven? Please."

"He's getting information from someone – either of Heaven or of Hell. D'you think they told him about Atlantis briefly rising up from the seabed at Adam Young's whim before Armageddon was supposed to start?"

"I don't know," Gabriel snapped, voice cracking slightly. "Why does everyone seem to think this was even my problem to begin with? I wasn't in charge of Islington's punishment; it was never my job to watch him or learn what he was doing below – I only passed the sentence. We outsourced the rest."

"And how did that work out for you?" He granted the archangel a rare, cool blink.

"You always acted like Islington mattered. When, in reality, he was just an underling who caused more trouble than he was worth. But God forbid we ever did anything to stop him back when we had the chance. Before the earth was created, before he sank Atlantis – long before the rebellion." He pointed a finger at the demon accusingly. "No, you were always forgiving him, always overlooking his fights with Lucifer and numerous other angels. He sure liked it when you were slated to preside as judge over him, knew he'd barely get a telling off."

With the reflexes of a snake, Crowley pinned Gabriel to the door-frame with the side of his arm and hissed, "If I have to be remembered for anything from back then, any of my old screw ups, I don't regret it was having a little mercy." He stared him down. "Something the rest of you completely lack. And," he added, through gritted teeth, "of the five of us, I'm supposed to be the one who went bad. Even you can't ignore the irony in that."

"Don't touch me!" Gabriel shoved him away, freeing himself and straightening his scarf. "If you ever touch me again, one way or another, I will make you pay for it."

"What are you going to do? Destroy me? We both know you can't."

"You know what your problem is?" Gabriel demanded rhetorically. "You always bet on the wrong pony – Islington, Lucifer, both were world-class losers. Now you're all about Aziraphale. You think your pet principality is going to turn out any better than the other two morons?"

Crowley didn't say a word, though his eyes were still darkened considerably and he looked like a snake about to strike. He unbolted the door and began walking out of the flat.

"Where are you going?" Gabriel called after the demon as his feet stomped down the dark hallway.

Away.

That's where he was going.

Away.

Away, so he didn't lose it and discorporate Gabriel, dispatching him right back to Heaven in a weak and bodiless state, making Islington's task that much easier, which was what he knew he'd be liable to do if he remained in the archangel's presence for one more agonising moment.

Gabriel was begging for discorporation, after what he'd just said.

You could only expect a demon to resist so much – it wasn't like their lot was known for resisting temptation.

Crowley had decided, in that moment, he'd go somewhere, anywhere, to clear his head, and come back when he could trust himself not to do anything he'd later regret.

It started raining, and Crowley didn't have an umbrella with him, but he didn't turn around and go back to the flat for one, he just kept trudging through the streets, getting soaked through, until he came to a pub.

Entering The Market Tavern, he shook the excess dripping water off his back, then ordered a drink and sat down on a leather-upholstered stool.

A soft voice said, "Raphael? Or, I'm sorry...Crawly...is it now?"

He lifted his sunglasses, the lenses of which had fogged in the rain, to see Islington, wearing a bizarrely insubstantial grey suit that was fitted yet somehow still flowing, looking down at him with a polite expression.

"It's Crowley."

"Ah. I'm sorry. My information has come in fractions and much of it is horribly outdated." Eyebrows raised, the angel gestured at the stool across from him. "May I?"

"Suit yourself."

He did, and sat. "It's fortunate I spotted you coming in here. I was rather apprehensive about returning to your building tomorrow, despite my desire to see you."

"Why's that?"

"Well," he said softly, "do feel free to correct me if I'm mistaken, but I suspect you have a mutual acquaintance of ours sequestered there – one I've been rather put out with as of late – and I'd be walking into a trap."

Islington always had been like that – saying things without really saying them. Accusing without accusing. The unnerving thing was – for now at least – his lack of malice was genuine.

It was obvious he meant Crowley no harm, as long as he did not interfere – as he feared he would soon have to – in his plans.

And when he did, when he inevitably had to keep protecting Gabriel – for the world's sake, for Aziraphale's sake – things would turn ugly. Those gentle eyes would burn, that barely-opening mouth would becoming a raging hole as it shouted threats.

Islington shouldn't have been a threat to a demon who'd once been an archangel, but Crowley knew all too well the power mere determination could give a being; he wouldn't underestimate this angel, not like the others did.

He decided to change the subject, to avoid saying anything about Gabriel's possible location for as long as possible. "I heard you killed an entire family."

Islington stared. "I didn't kill them – I had them killed."

Crowley put his sunglasses back on; they made him feel less vulnerable, put space between Islington's sparkling angel eyes and his own demonic ones. "Well, it's still not what you'd call good conduct for an angel."

"Why should you care about that? Aren't you a demon now?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I approve of murdering children."

"I told you, I didn't – besides, both girls are still alive. That ought to count for something. The others...the parents and the boy...it was just one of those things...surely you understand..." The angel placed a soft hand over Crowley's. "Please, Crowley. I'm not your enemy."

He groaned. "Islington..."

"I heard Lucifer doesn't want you any longer – just because you stopped one little apocalypse." He squeezed, very gently. "If it had been me, I wouldn't have exiled you for something so trivial." Islington shook its head. "He's an idiot, always has been. Doesn't know what he's damn well got, does he?"

Inhaling deeply, Crowley slipped his hand out from under Islington's. "I can't help you any more."

"Serve me." The angel gazed intently at his face, cocking his head imploringly to the side. "You served him, and he didn't care a thing for you."

"Thing is, Islington," he replied, coolly, "I'm on my own side now."

"Equals, then." He smiled haltingly, a hit of hope dancing around the corners of his mouth. "We'll work together. Gabriel was never exactly kind to you. If he were to be...removed from the picture... We could rule Heaven. I'd let you have first pick of anything you wanted."

"D'you really think God would let you bump off the chief archangel? What's the Almighty going to say?" He chuckled darkly. "'Oh, whoops, he's out, so just grab a crown and start telling everybody what to do'?"

"Nothing is given, Crowley – we must simply take and see to it things go our way. That is how one acquires what is deserved, what has been awaited." His smile remained impossibly sweet, soft as lambswool; no matter what came out of his mouth, the rest of his face did not change. "If you wish to discuss the matter further, in private, you and I might adjourn upstairs – to the Chesterfield Room – and make our plans to acquire our due rewards over several bottles of good wine. No one would interrupt us."

Letting it finish, Crowley paused meaningfully. "You would have made a good demon."

And he meant it, too.

Islington, under his inoffensive voice and behind his guileless facial expressions, was the singularly most unabashedly evil spiritual being Crowley had been in the presence of since he'd destroyed Ligur.

Besides Hastur, Crowley couldn't think of another currently living being of angelic origin whose gleeful blasé demeanour was almost human in its sociopathy.

Islington was far, far gone. He was mad, and he was sick.

Hell would have loved him. Provided it could contain him. Which, base beginnings or not, Crowley highly doubted.

This was not an ambiguous creature doing an unpopular job who was pleading with him; this was somebody who craved, wanted until the want ate away at their innards. And Islington had had a lot of time to feed upon his own petty yearnings with, no doubt, little incentive not to dwell upon such thoughts.

This was what happened when a mind had nothing to fill itself with; it went rotten.

Once there might have been two Islingtons inside this angel's mind. Two angels in one, at war with each other. One of them might have been the angel Crowley thought he remembered – the one he'd admired as Raphael. That angel wasn't there any more. The other had won dominion over Islington's mind a long, long time ago and banished the likes of his good twin for ever.

"Not for me the throngs of an idiot's rebel army," Islington declared. "When I raise my hand against those who have wronged me, I won't be put under a leaky pipe, filing souls of the damned. Hosannas will be sung in my name as I am raised on high. My throne will be of gold," he went on, his voice slipping into a murmur that was no longer for Crowley's benefit. "Of pure, pure gold among the clouds."

Back during the Armageddon that wasn't, there had been a moment – a terror-filled moment – for Crowley when Adam Young had looked at him and the demon sensed the Antichrist knew him.

In one glance, that boy had known his history, everything he had ever done. He had even known what Aziraphale had not prior to this whole debacle concerning protecting Gabriel from Islington's wrath: he had known that Crowley was once Raphael.

If Adam had been the boy he helped raise – if he'd been Warlock – Crowley might not have been quite so overcome by terror; one could expect a little compassion towards someone who was like a godfather to you, towards someone who had – for all their faults – sung you lullabies and cleaned up after you when you were sick all over your bedroom floor.

But Adam was Adam – someone with no real ties to Crowley. He'd been a boy who had no imaginable reason not to recreate a new world where Raphael had never existed, let alone sauntered vaguely downwards.

The feelings that had enveloped Crowley before he realised Adam was not going to do it...that overwhelming inner fear... He felt a bit like that now.

If Islington had been the devil – if this was Satan sweetly cajoling him in a pub – maybe he wouldn't have felt unfathomable dread knotting in his stomach.

But Islington had become something else – not devil nor angel, whatever he called himself – he was a being with no name. And there are precious few wild creatures more unpredictable than something savage which does not know its own true name.

When he'd dropped Aziraphale off at Trafalgar Square, Crowley had been frightened for Islington, afraid of what Heaven would do to him (which was why he'd been keen to make sure Aziraphale understood from the get-go how their mission would likely end); now he was more than a little afraid of him.

Crowley did not show this fear. It was not his way. Being afraid did not – could never, not if he wanted to keep living – make him act afraid.

There had been times, though not to this extent, when he was afraid of Hastur, and Hastur – who'd rolled his eyes at his flamboyant behaviour and called him a flash bastard – had never known it.

What he needed to do, he was well aware, was play it cool. Not exactly let Islington think he would join him – that would be suicide, as both sides could call him traitor for that and start the fragmented, universe-ending war they were trying to avoid.

So, no, not that, but...just sort of...talk...to him...

There had been a time when he could talk openly to Islington, a time when Islington trusted him.

He feverishly hoped that time was not yet over.

"So, plans to take over Heaven aside," he said causally, with a cocky serpentine smile, "how've you been?"

The angel across from him blinked impassively.

He kept going, doggedly. "Have a rough time getting out of London Below? Where did you end up?"

"Really now, Crowley." Islington tsked, shaking his head in disappointment. "I'm not Lucifer." His eyes darted from the top of the demon's head to his hands currently under the table to prevent its grabbing them again. So he reached out with his feather-soft hand and touched the side of Crowley's face instead. "I like you a lot, surely you must know that, but your charm doesn't work on me when I don't want it to."

Well, thought Crowley, struggling not to flinch, that's it; the universe is fu–

Somebody screamed, "Fire!" and the despairing demon stopped mid-thought to glance over his shoulder at a bar glowing like an inferno to his left.

When somebody put out whatever caught fire and curls of smoke trailed up pathetically from behind the register, Crowley – suddenly very aware he was no longer feeling a hand touching his face – turned back to where Islington had been sitting.

It was gone; there was nothing to indicate the angel's former presence besides a slowly-rising dent in the leather on the stool across from Crowley.

Door was running.

Running as fast as she could – running like hell.

Running like hell, quite ironically, to escape the two angels who were of Heaven.

The one with the nicer face had a flaming sword, and he'd been calling after her – by name – from the start. The other one – the one whose face was not so nice, who reminded her not so much of Islington as he did Croup and Vandemar – had merely shouted several nasal commands in her direction as she fled and then seemed rather put out that she hadn't immediately obeyed him.

Something under her feet splashed. She stumbled, slightly, over a wet, uneven ground and pressed her hands against exposed brick.

They were getting closer.

"Temple and arch!" Concentrating, she prepared to open.

But the nicer-faced angel did something so utterly unexpected it distracted her.

The other angel had just declared, as if it were all his companion's fault, as if Door did not have legs and a will of her own, "She's made it to the wall – she's going to open a door – we're going to lose her!"

The nice one, giving her up as lost, let out a whisper (or what would have been a whisper if London Below did not echo so) of, "Oh, Crowley," to himself.

That was what was so unexpected.

It was the angel's tenderness, expressing fear of failing somebody he loved – the same tone she'd have used for her father when he was alive, or her mother or brother; the same voice she'd use if she ever found her baby sister, the one Islington claimed was not dead; perhaps even the voice she'd use if Richard ever returned to London Below – which made her hesitate.

Islington had had a soft voice, as well. But this was a different kind of soft.

It fascinated her that a being could look both imposing as anything, holding a fiery sword aloft and chasing her relentlessly, yet could sound like that.

She could not run from – could not abandon to despair – anyone who sounded like that.

Or, rather, she could have done.

Certainly she could have.

But she didn't.

Crowley didn't tell Gabriel about meeting with Islington. He barely acknowledged the archangel as he returned, shivering, to the flat and made his way into the bathroom, where he decided to let the tub fill up while he leaned against the sink with his eyes closed.

He didn't know what he was going to do.

Islington – gone madder than he'd ever imagined – was far too dangerous, far too evil, to be left alone, and he'd already committed to helping Gabriel, even if he was a complete prick, and yet...

And yet...

He took off his sunglasses and balanced them against the side of the bidet, still not bothering to open his eyes.

In the lounge, Gabriel was playing something high and tinny, which annoyed Crowley in his fragile, anxious state. Being a snake, he preferred heavy base (the vibrations felt good, welcoming) to whatever off-putting nonsense that was. He wondered how Gabriel had even gotten the stereo to work in the first place – it didn't have speakers, because he'd forgotten to buy them; this was a fact he himself hadn't been aware of until Aziraphale happened to point it out to him.

Drawing in a deep breath and then letting it out, Crowley opened his eyes, turned around, and glanced down at the bathtub.

It was filled with blood.

Oh, right.

He hadn't known if Gabriel would use the tub or the shower and had performed his little demonic miracle on both.

And then he'd promptly forgotten to undo it.

Well, shit, he thought.

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