BAD GRACE - quantum witch © 2005

see Prologue for warnings, rating, and summary

In which Crowley is drunk and depressed, and Aziraphale nervously considers how to bring up a delicate subject.

1:04 - FEATHERED FRIENDS

IT HAD BEEN NEARLY THREE WEEKS since The Little Armageddon That Couldn't had happened, or failed to happen, or whatever tense you cared to apply to the situation.

Crowley the demon was having a rough time of it. The act of consciously not mucking with human lives was rather difficult. It was a long ingrained habit and stopping cold turkey was making him very restless. Who'd have thought one could suffer withdrawal pangs from trying to behave oneself? Frankly, it sucked.

But he was taking Adam's edict seriously, because in his experience when a Higher Power of any sort gave a direct order, you complied to the best of your ability and then some.

Which was another point that grated on his fraying nerves. He'd been worrying a lot whether Down Below was still coming for him. They'd sworn it on the day of the almost-but-not-quite-Apocalypse. They'd promised long and excruciating torments lasting all eternity for his failure to keep track of the Antichrist. That sort of promise was usually written in brimstone and delivered in spadesº.

But afterward… there had been silence.

He'd checked his flat for traps and found nothing, not even the mess left behind when Ligur had disintegrated on his carpet. There had been no sudden interruptions broadcast over his stereo or TV, no exploding notes in his mailbox, nothing that seemed remotely Hellish (other than himself). He hadn't made any special effort to contact them either, because there was no sense in stirring an infernal hornet's nest. They were bound to still be angry with him. Wrath was one of the Deadly Sins and therefore encouraged Down Below. Forgiveness wasn't in their personal lexicon.

Crowley knew without a shadow of doubt he wasn't forgiven… but it seemed, for the moment anyway, that perhaps they were trying to forget he existed.

And now he was starting to get bored. He had already spent a solid week sleeping, just so he wouldn't be tempted to go out and perform any mischief, however minor. He had also drunk an awful lot of alcohol in an effort to erase heavy thinking, and had largely succeeded. Lack of sobriety tended to cause lack of muscle control which in turn helped to prevent lapses back into misconduct. If he could barely lift his hand to get a drink to his mouth, he would be very unlikely to lift it in an effort to interfere with a mere human.

Crowley was, in fact, currently a bit drunk while he drove to Soho to visit the angel. He wondered idly whether driving intoxicated counted toward mischief, then decided so long as he didn't get caught by the police it really didn't matter. The Antichrist never said he couldn't mess himself about, did he?

Weaving down the narrow street in his lovingly restored 1926 Bentley ºº, he located the tiny old bookstore a moment too late. Cursing, he threw it into reverse, screeched his tires, and managed to park with only one tire on the curb. Good enough, he thought, and staggered out onto the pavement, clutching the latest of a long string of bottles. This one was nearly empty already, and he hoped the angel's stocks were sufficient to keep him going. He was so drunk he didn't even think he could manifest more booze on his own right now.

He stumbled through the shop door – which was locked, but such things never stopped him before – and onward to the back room.

Predictably, Aziraphale was there, sitting on his battered old sofa with feet up and reading a book. He also had a pencil between his teeth and a notepad on his lap. He looked up at Crowley, not in surprise at his presence but at his condition. Taking the pencil out of his mouth, he demurred, "Bit early in the day to be so utterly pissed, isn't it, my boy?"

"S never too early, angel," Crowley said. He meandered across the room to the large cabinet beside the desk, opened it and rummaged for alcohol. With a happy sigh, he discovered there was plenty and selected a bottle of rum. "Yo ho," he chuckled and popped the seal, then waved the bottle at Aziraphale. "Wan' some?"

"No thank you," the angel replied. He carefully closed his book, marking the page, and put his writing instruments down on the small table by the sofa. "Crowley, whatever has you in this state?"

Crowley thought about that for a moment. "Hm, I think 's two bottles o' gin, one tequila, 'n now this 's my second rum." He grinned manically.

Aziraphale sighed. "I meant, what premeditated this particular bout of drunken excess? And do come and sit down before you fall down, please."

Crowley slid across the floor slowly, and managed to collapse onto the other edge of the sofa. "Oh sssame ol', sssame ol'. Nothin' better t' do with myself."

"Isn't it more like nothingworse to do with yourself?"

He saluted with his bottle, sloshing just a bit onto the angel's cardigan, which he vaguely noticed wasn't as hideously unfashionable as usual. "Hit th' … th'… carpentry thingie, made o' metal… 'sss not a ssscrew… nail, right on th'… on th'… top part. Ssskull. Brain."

"Yes, and you seem to have managed a good solid hammering yourself," Aziraphale muttered. "Come now, please. Do sober up and we'll talk about this. Things cannot be that terrible."

"Can too," Crowley whined. "Can't even… even messss with people a little bit. Can't even look crossss-eyed at anyone, f'r fear o' getting' sssmote down by Adam." He hiccoughed hard and bit his lip. "M completely… obsssho- osssbol- out of date. No job. No nothin'…"

"Oh dear," Aziraphale said. He reached out and patted Crowley on the shoulder in an effort to comfort and was startled when the demon fell over onto him. Then he realised Crowley hadn't fallen over but was clutching at him desperately, and whimpering on his shoulder in a rather pitiful way.

"Angel, 'm useless!" Crowley all but sobbed, and buried his head against the angel's chest. He wasn't really crying, just being utterly soppy and miserable. But it was distressing anyway.

"Crowley, Crowley," Aziraphale sighed gently, patting his back and trying to edge the demon over a bit, succeeding in having him slide down further. "I'm sure we can find something better for you to do with your time than this."

"No," Crowley said, voice muffled against Aziraphale's stomach now. "Can't do better. Demon's don't do better. We do worse, said so y'ssself…"

"Yes, well that was rhetoric, in your case. Er, Crowley, ah, could you move a bit?"

"Sssure," Crowley said, and slid down all the way until his head was resting on Aziraphale's lap and he was curled up in a mostly foetal position.

"Not what I meant," Aziraphale said rather helplessly. He hesitantly patted the demon's head, which was far too near certain areas to be truly relaxing. However, his friend was suffering, and his instincts to aid and comfort were stronger than his own discomfort. "Crowley, dear, I'm sure between us we can think of something… worthwhile for you to occupy yourself with. Something that would be interesting and fun and just wicked enough for you to feel good about it. All right? Now, please sober up enough that we can discuss this, and—"

Aziraphale was interrupted by a snore.

He sighed again, and gently slid out from under the demon's head, letting it rest on the sofa. Additionally he conjured a pillow and blanket, and tucked Crowley in for a bit. Taking the barely used bottle of rum, he swallowed a draught himself as he stood up. Things were going to be quite a trial, he could see, keeping Crowley out of trouble and out of the pit of depression. Aziraphale had already begun formulating an idea how it could be done… but first he had to be sure exactly what harm it would to to himself. He wasn't sure he was willing to Fall just to help the demon. And what he was contemplating might do that.

Picking up the book he'd been reading, he moved over to the desk. Most of his Bibles were strewn about there, along with several other religious and philosophical texts. He was really stretching himself to the limits here, trying to fathom the depths of the matter at hand. He had to be completely, totally certain of the consequences before he approached Crowley with anything. Otherwise, they might both be in big trouble.

He looked up at the wall above the desk and sighed again. In a new frame was a piece of parchment that virtually glowed, covered in ornate gold script: a commendation from the Metatron, for Aziraphale's efforts in locating the Antichrist just a few weeks ago. It was actually rather embarrassing in retrospect, and he wondered if he should have bothered having it framed.

He bit his pencil hard enough to leave teeth marks. Pity he couldn't simply ask Above for advice on the matter of the demon.

He was coming to distrust some of what those in Heaven said, as being too utterly black and white for practical use. They were far too out of touch with the rich variety of daily life on Earth and would never understand the complexity of this world and the people within it. Which was their loss, really, Aziraphale had long thought. He hadn't regretted his assignment to this physical realm, even though he'd become a bit tainted throughout the millennia amongst humans. They were so fascinating and in many cases very pleasant to be around. In fact, there were some who were so intelligent and open-minded that they could, on a really good day, sense the Will of God as well as the Metratron himself. And it was this sort of ability Aziraphale was counting on to help him research the current possibility.

Many zealous humans seemed to think it wasn't exactly lacking in sin and pointed out key Biblical phrases that upheld their fervent, and sometimes extremely rude, declarations. Of course, anyone who'd spent as much time reading as Aziraphale had knew how badly certain things could be mistranslated. Sometimes it was even done deliberately, just to press a favourite issue forward into standard usage.

Yet… as far he knew, it hadn't really ever declared in a specific and undeniable way from Above as being forbidden or a sin punishable by Falling. Surely, God would let him know if he was in danger of disobeying to such a serious extent. He'd have dearly loved to just have a serious discussion with his people about this matter. But he had a distinct feeling it would be frowned upon just on general principles, whether or not it was actually wrong in God's eyes.

No. It would all be disapproved of, on far too many grounds to be comfortable, regardless of Aziraphale's honest and heartfelt intentions. He was on his own in making a final decision on this issue.

On many issues, Aziraphale was beginning to have Doubts, which deserved the capital letter because of the sheer enormity of his thoughts.

Gazing back at Crowley, he sincerely prayed he was right. If, as St. Bernard of Clairvaux had said, the road to Hell was paved with good intentions and desires… then he might well be bunking Down Below with the demon when this was done.

He hoped Crowley didn't snore as much when he was sober.

CROWLEY SLEPT A LOT LONGER than Aziraphale had hoped, but he hadn't the heart to try and wake the poor dear. He seemed to need rest.

But it wasn't totally restful. The demon groaned in his sleep a few times, whimpering incoherent syllables. Aziraphale had sat beside him once when the dreaming seemed rather fierce and placed a calming hand on Crowley's forehead. The demon had shuddered violently, then gone still and quiet, and a tiny smile seemed to curve his lips.

Then Aziraphale left him briefly to tend to his shop outside. He'd taken a few orders lately, as he wasn't totally averse to parting with the books the boy had given him. It was honest money in the bank. Sort of.

Eventually, Crowley's eyes fluttered open and he yawned hugely like a cat. Stretching in the same manner, he sat up and was momentarily disoriented. He wasn't in his own flat, and now his whole body was aching from the lumpy sofa. He stood, twisting in ways that would have put a normal human on the critical list, and felt his spine crack into place once more.

Sighing with relief, he looked around the tiny office and wondered where Aziraphale had gone. He only vaguely remembered having come over, drunk and in despair, and everything else was a rum-gin-tequila-induced blur. He only knew that he'd probably humiliated himself in the angel's presence. Thankfully his pride was a bit haggard right now, and he didn't care as much as he might have a few weeks earlier.

And now he was realising he had a bit of a hangover, a rather rare condition for him.

Grumbling, he stood up and crossed the room to the corner that served as a kitchenette. Sink, mini-fridge, hotplate, tea kettle, cabinet. Nothing fancy there. Aziraphale didn't do fancy, unless it involved foodstuffs. Rummaging in the cabinet, Crowley found the expensive cocoa the angel always had on hand, and set the kettle to boil. If anything would settle his stomach and head, it was chocolate. He yawned once more, and shook his head, trying to clear the last cobwebs of sleep, frustration and alcohol.

Aziraphale returned then and smiled at the demon. "Feeling a bit better, I hope?"

"Somewhat. How long was I-?"

"Nearly two days. You were rather more drunk than you usually get."

"I was rather more depressed than I usually get," Crowley grunted, feeling the condition hovering around the edges of his brain. "Speaking of which… maybe a hair or two of the hellhound that mauled me…" He eyed the liquor bottles in the cabinet.

"I rather doubt that." Aziraphale's mouth pursed in a good imitation of an elderly school marm. "Do sit down and we can talk about things more rationally this time?" He sat on the sofa and patted the seat next to him.

"Oh, Go- Sa- Must we?" Crowley whinged. "All I need is a bit more booze and a few more years of sleep to feel the futility of my existence fade away."

"Along with what brain cells remain to you," Aziraphale grumbled.

"Goodness, that was harsh," Crowley grinned in actual delight. "What's making you so bitchy, angel?"

"A certain demon with a penchant for self-abuse."

"Rather I was out abusing others, would you? Well, me too," Crowley sighed and plopped down beside the angel. "So what are we discussing, besides my immoral impotence problem."

Lips pursed so tightly you couldn't have pried them apart with a chisel, Aziraphale's nostrils flared before he spoke. "You are going to have to face facts, Crowley. You cannot continue in the same way, anymore than I can. Things have changed. I haven't received any new orders from Above myself. The only thing we know for certain is that we cannot… mess people around in the same fashion we are accustomed to. We cannot manipulate and coerce, we can neither beguile the weak nor impel the strong to action. We cannot simply tempt and thwart anymore, as though it were our sole reason for existing. We must find other ways to deal with our situations, until and unless we are recalled which doesn't seem to be happening, and it would seem we are both virtually unemployed at this point, and it's just… just something we have to accept!"

Crowley's eyebrows had slowly raised during this speech. "Ah, so you're feeling a bit out of sorts too, then."

"Well, of course!" Aziraphale snapped. "I'm an angel, and I should be able to perform miracles and do good deeds and… and help people unlock the virtues within. That shouldn't be called'messing people around'." He crossed his arms and all but pouted.

Crowley hooted with laughter. "Wanna go tell the little Antichrist what you think of his orders? Or do you wanna just get on with being yourself? I guarantee he didn't mean that. He was more opposed to us working against one another and thereby sending conflicting signals to humans. I might not be able to do evil things anymore. But I know he didn't mean what you normally do…," Crowley waved his hand rather apathetically, "…preaching the Good Word, healing the sick, helping old ladies across streets, that sort of rot."

"I should hope not," Aziraphale sniffed derisively.

"You know, when you get right down to it, he's the epitome of the Great Battle, isn't he?" Crowley said reflectively. "Half demon, half angel, all human. He was given a different life than intended and grew up incredibly ordinary, all things considered. And when huge power fell into his hands, as it was bound to, all he did with it is what a truly good-hearted person should do. Nothing much. Keep things normal. He was shrewd. He passed the Ineffable Test with flying colours, I should think."

Aziraphale turned his head toward Crowley then, surprise on his face. "That was very perceptive of you."

"I like to think I'm clever sometimes," Crowley smiled and sipped his cocoa. "Except where it comes to what the sodding hell to do with my life for the next billion years."

"Well," Aziraphale began slowly, biting his lip and the bullet, "we could-"

"Don't try giving me any of that 'spark of goodness deep down' bollocks, angel," Crowley interrupted, sure that he was on the way to being recruited for a holy mission. "I'm a demon and shall remain so. We don't get redeemed, no matter what romantic notions you may have. We don't un-Fall." He leaned back and propped his boots on the rickety coffee table and earned himself a slight scowl. "Can't play for both sides more than I have already, without drawing further unwanted attention. And of course all I'm really doing is biding my time until the metaphorical other shoe drops. Right on my neck. And it's a really big shoe. Probably filled with cement."

Aziraphale frowned. His train of thought had been, temporarily, not so much derailed as reversed up the tunnel it was just beginning to chug out of, and trying now not to be noticed.

He realised that the time wasn't quite right yet for his ideas.

"Do you really believe they're going to punish you for losing track of the boy? Human fallibility was at fault there. It's not as if you knew where he was until just recently."

"Think that matters to them? They'll exact their own specialised brand of injustice, believe me," Crowley gulped the rest of his cocoa. "Probably go raiding the London Dungeon for inspiration. Or send me to live in Manchester."

"Don't you think," Aziraphale said reasonably, "that if they were really going to punish you, they'd have done so by now? I mean, I know everyone seems to be trying to pretend nothing happened. But if they were so keen on it being your fault, surely by now—"

Crowley shook his head. "It's just their style. Let me live in paranoia and worry until I'm ready to dig a hole Downward just to get it over with. I know it'll come. It's all a matter of when. And it'll probably be the waiting that kills me."

Aziraphale clucked his tongue. "Guerilla tactics."

"Hell learned it from humans. Freedom fighters," Crowley sneered at the angel. "Don't think for a minute that they're all on the side of good. Anyway. I have to have something to do, to while away my eons. I'll go barking mad without something to do."

"Idle hands, as it were." Aziraphale managed a small smile.

"Literally in my case." Crowley flexed his fingers meaningfully. "Can't stand to be bored, even if I'm doing absolutely nothing with my time. Maybe I should go into hibernation for a couple centuries, like I did back in the 19th… Or just pack up and travel, see the world again. It's been a long while since I was out of England."

Aziraphale looked pensive and slightly worried, making his words come out in a fidgeting sort of way. "I shouldn't like to have you out of the picture… not when I've gotten to used to your face. I enjoy our time together, really I do. And I think we can figure out something better to occupy your time… if we put our… our minds to it…"

For a moment, Crowley wondered exactly what the angel was driving at. If he knew the sorts of things that would run rampant through a demon's mind at such words, he'd have chosen them more carefully. Such things could be twisted into many shapes, some of them rather creative and crude and worthy of Hindu sculptors ººº.

Trying to halt his now suddenly warming thoughts from pursuing such topics, he changed the subject. "Maybe I should find a job?" Crowley laughed. "I can just see myself now, a wages slave somewhere."

"Better than a slave to Down Below," Aziraphale said thoughtfully.

"Always will be. No, I'm not cut out for nine-to-fiveing it. Hmm." He paused for a moment and spoke the next line with calculation. "I guess I could stand around on the street corners here in Soho and see what kind of action I get…"

The scandalised tone was expected and delivered. "Honestly, Crowley…"

"Don't tsk at me, I'm only kidding," Crowley grinned. "That amount of superciliousness doesn't really look good on you."

Getting up, Aziraphale fetched a cup for himself and had some of the cocoa Crowley had made. He studiously avoided the demon's gaze for a few moments, keeping his own face as blank as possible while he stared unseeing at the stack of Bibles and other tomes of research on his desk. This was going to be more difficult than he'd thought.

And the silence was now drawing out more than intended and making things much harder.

Finally, grasping desperately at a thought that had been niggling at him for a few days, Aziraphale cleared his throat. "So, anyway… Do you really suppose that that… wasn't… that?"

Crowley lifted an eyebrow at the angel. "What what wasn't what? Stop speaking in riddles, angel or I'll have to check you for paws and breasts."

"What?" Aziraphale spluttered at this statement, flushing red.

"Sphinx. You know, thingy with wings, lion's body, boobs, usually a woman but I guess it doesn't matter in your case." Crowley grinned widely. "Riddle speaker. Get to the point, eh?"

"Oh, yes, right, the point." Aziraphale found that he was still slightly flushed and didn't like it one bit. "Yes. Do you think that our little bout of Apocalypse wasn't really, for lack of better words, the real thing? That we might be only starting?"

Ah, that again. Crowley sighed. "I dunno. It just didn't seem… finished, you know? Like it's just warming up. Like the fat lady only just cleared her throat. I just can't believe it would be… over so easily. If you can call that easy."

Reluctantly, Aziraphale sighed and nodded. "I hate to agree with the Enemy but… yes, it does all seem rather too pat, in hindsight. I realise that we should be grateful – and I am indeed, I would have been quite sorry to see the world gone – but… I, too, think it's not yet over."

"I shudder to imagine the next round. And I shudder more to imagine my role in it," Crowley grumbled into his once again empty cup. He stood up and passed the rather rigid angel to get a refill, then nodded at the pile of Bibles on the desk.

"Hey, it's been a while since I've bothered reading the text. It's a real pain having to turn such ridiculously thin pages when you're wearing rubber gloves and using tweezers. Can't touch holy items, though they sometimes come in handy." Crowley grinned hugely, remembering a certain recent use of holy water. "Is there something in Revelation about the End that we've missed?"

"I don't think so. Besides, it's largely nonsense, isn't it?" said Aziraphale, somewhat dismissively. "Very little of what John wrote actually took place. Sure, there was a lot of uproar and the Horsepersons did ride out, in their fashion… but there were just as many things that didn't happen or happened quite differently. I don't think we can really rely too much on his prophecies, in this case. He was a charming and sweet tempered fellow, really, but a bit of a… what shall I call it… hippie? Very fond of certain wild mushrooms, if you catch my drift."

Crowley chuckled dryly. "Only real prophet in all of history was good old Agnes Nutter. And she only got it right up until three weeks ago. Wish she could have written another book, one that gives a clue what to do after Armageddon."

"I think, my dear," Aziraphale said softly, "that she would have written something simpler. Such as 'live your life and be happy'." He smiled now, rather bittersweet, and reached out to touch Crowley's arm.

Crowley looked down at the angel's hand, the fingers of which were flexing nervously on his sleeve. What was happening here?

"I think that may be the whole point of the world, really," Aziraphale said, his clenching fingers somehow bringing them closer together. "And I just wanted to say… that I'm mostly glad the world didn't end because… I'd have missed you terribly, dear boy."

And when he took Crowley's chin in his fingertips, he felt certain he'd thought it all through properly, at least this particular point of the issue. After all, what harm could a kiss be?, he'd thought to himself. Men used to kiss each other in greeting and parting all the time. Even he and Crowley had done as much a few hundred years ago when such a thing was socially acceptable. But… that had been on the cheek. This was a few inches toward the front and squarely on the lips. It really didn't feel at all the same. And there was a significant distinction concerning intent.

The demon caught his unnecessary breath and opened his eyes very wide. He could only stand there and let it happen, so shocked was he at this point. The angel's lips weren't really moving, no more than the slightest flutter, hesitant, worried. Wanting. Or so it seemed to Crowley, who felt the coiled spring deep inside his very soul suddenly wind even tighter. He didn't stop the kiss, didn't respond fully, didn't even close his eyes. Didn't know what to do. He couldn't have described what he was feeling or thinking if you had pulled it right out of his head and pinned it to the wall before his eyes. It was completely new and foreign. Or perhaps… so very ancient that he'd forgotten the language associated with the idea.

After only a moment or two, Aziraphale stepped back, whispering, "You're my dearest friend, Crowley, regardless of what we both are. Sides mean nothing, when it comes to us, don't you think? Frankly… I don't know what I'd do without you. I've wasted a millennia by failing to tell you that, in no uncertain terms. And now… I'm not at all certain I'll have another millennia in which to do so."

Finding his breath again, Crowley hissed gently, "Ssss'okay." He was swaying just a bit on his feet and didn't have a clue what was happening or what words were coming out of his mouth, but they felt dangerously like the truth. "Oddly enough… feeling'sss mutual."

"Good, glad to hear that." The angel looked down now, afraid of further eye contact, even though of course he couldn't really see the demon's eyes behind the sunglasses.

"Right, um, yesss," Crowley said, licking his lips, which still held the flavour of angel.

Everything had suddenly changed, and the demon found his entire point of view gone askew. But it was aiming toward more interesting prospects. If the angel was willing to do what he'd just done, in the way it seemed very likely that he'd meant it… then there was a chance he'd want more. Eventually.

The thought made Crowley smile. He wasn't very patient, but now he knew the door into Aziraphale was at least opened. And suddenly, powerfully, he realised that he wanted to step through that door and taste Heaven.

º The sort used by gravediggers.

ºº Lovingly restored by the efforts of the Antichrist, for which Crowley sometimes wondered if he ought not to write a thank-you letter.

ººº The ones that make humans into living pretzels and feature inventive use of body parts normally kept covered in public.