As soon as the Lord had swung the door of the ark shut (or rather, Aziraphale, acting on divine orders, had miracled it shut), Aziraphale asked to be shown to his quarters.
Noah and his family were elated to have an angel on board. After two years of guarding the construction of the ark in exchange for their hospitality, they had worried that Aziraphale would fly back to Heaven — but no, he assured them, he would be seeing this sea voyage through with them. And he expected his own private room.
Aziraphale sat in shadow as rain hammered a rhythm that was anything but soothing into the roof above his head. He was meditating, struggling to shut down the thoughts and emotions that kept rising to the surface of his brain. Grief. Anger. Anxiety.
Gone, all gone, the civilizations he had watched arise from the mud. Only this family remained of the stock of Adam and Eve, those two poor wretches he had helped through a different storm some time ago.
Why had this been necessary? Fury welled up in him, but he quickly tamped it down. Ineffable, he repeated to himself, letting the word become a mantra. Ineffable is the will of God. The world had been full of wicked people; a clean slate was in order to allow these few pious humans to thrive.
But, a voice in the back of his head objected, piety does not always beget piety. Evil will re-enter the world even through the loins of these holy people. And what then? Another flood? Another clean slate? Would Aziraphale have to bear witness, age after age, to the purging of all he held dear on this planet?
Ineffable, he thought more insistently, allowing the word to ring through his mind, filling and subduing it. Ineffable, ineffable, ineffable, ineff — what the hell?
A hole had opened in the ceiling, and a dark figure dropped in amidst buckets of rainfall.
Aziraphale sat frozen for a moment, too startled to do more than stare as the Enemy shook out his wide wings, spraying water everywhere. Those wily golden eyes began scanning the room, and locked onto Aziraphale's.
At last the angel rose, righteous wrath boiling in his stomach.
"A-Aziraphale!" the demon said. "Fancy meeting you here…How's it going?"
It was too bloody dark in here. Darkness was the demon's element; best to bring in some light…One thought later and a soft blue glow, emanating from nowhere and everywhere, suffused the scene.
"Get ye gone, serpent," Aziraphale proclaimed, allowing holy power to channel through him and magnify his voice. "Back from whence you came."
"L-look, angel," the demon stuttered out, clearly nervous (nervous? no, simply scheming fast), "'back from whence I came' is…well, you've sssseen what it's like out there. It's not a viable option."
"You are not welcome here," Aziraphale stated, ignoring the demon's twisting words. "This is a holy vessel, and your iniquity cannot be permitted to pervade it."
"Angel, can't we just…forget about bloody sssides for this trip?" The demon stepped forward, and a sword materialized in Aziraphale's hand (not his flaming sword of old, but it would do the job just the same).
"Whoa, hey!" his Adversary cried, throwing up his arms and stepping back. "Aziraphale, please, don't you realize what vantage you have over me right now? I am in no position to hurt you, and you…have complete power over me," Crawly admitted humbly. (Not humbly, Aziraphale reminded himself, vexed: cunningly.) "I have nowhere to go. Either you will ssssmite me," the demon's eyes ran fearfully over the sword, "or you will…have mercy."
Aziraphale considered this. The demon was right, of course — there was nowhere else he could turn. No safe place on Earth, not in this rapidly rising flood that would swallow even the tallest of mountains within the month.
He lowered his sword somewhat, and hope sprang into his Enemy's eyes, which gleamed eerily in the room's blue light; Aziraphale gripped his hilt harder.
"That's right, Angel," the demon wheedled, "don't you want to ssssee if you can convince me, a demon, of divine mercy?"
"I know your tricks, serpent," Aziraphale warned, but he returned his blade to its sheath. "You may stay — here, within this room. The humans must not find out about you; if they do, I shall force you out into the deluge."
Crawly's shoulders slumped, his wings drooping at his sides. "You mean I have to keep to this little cell, for…however long this lasts?" He regained his composure quickly. "Fair enough. Any other rules, oh just one?" If there was sarcasm in his question, Aziraphale could not detect it.
"Yes. I want you to compress your aura as best you can. No need to spread even a hint of your depravity through this vessel."
"Compress my aura?" the Adversary protested. "Do you know how hard that is to do for an hour, let alone—" Aziraphale's hand reached for his sword again, and the demon shut his mouth.
"These are good and righteous people," the angel insisted, "and I will not have you infecting them in any way."
"Fine," Crawly snapped, folding his arms.
"So you agree to my terms?"
"Yesss," the demon hissed. He smirked. "Shall we shake on it, or are you afraid my unholy aura will infect you?"
"I'm not afraid," Aziraphale said, annoyed, and extended his hand before he could think it through.
The demon took the angel's proffered hand. Aziraphale was surprised to note that the palm pressing into his own was not slimy, or icy, or otherwise unpleasant. There was no jolt of pain, no crawling of his own skin as it connected with evil. It was…just a handshake.
They retracted their hands and remained standing silent for a moment, each eying the other warily as the rain drummed its incessant beat above.
"I must go speak to the humans," Aziraphale said at last. "We need to implement plans for caring for the animals and conserving food. You'll get none, of course," he added.
Crawly nodded acquiescence miserably. "No meals for the stowaway demon, got it."
"Stay here," the angel warned. "I will sense it if you don't, and my strike will come swift."
"Understood, your righteousness."
"Good."
Aziraphale turned to go, snuffing out the blue light he'd produced as he went, so that the demon was left in darkness.