It's a note on heavy white paper written in golden letters with careful calligraphy that could well be an invitation to a royal wedding, except that the text doesn't mention any dress code or give the address of a restaurant, but rather reads:
Mission: Kill the demon Crowley.
It's not signed.
Well, at least it was worth making the tea, which is SENT flying beautifully through the air as if it were one of Crowley's sprinklers.
To kill him. TO KILL HIM! It's just... it's just... THEY ARE... It's ineffable what he's thinking about them.
If necessary, they will come to install a tap of holy water for you.
No! He doesn't want... no! What kind of... MONSTERS are they?!
You're having this conversation the wrong way.
What's the right way?!
Well, with your stupid husband. By the way, I can't believe you went up to heaven with the ring on your finger. Tremendous.
I would be talking to Crowley if he... if he wasn't God knows where!
Crowley accelerates down the street again, angry because this is going to be a disaster and if the bloody angel ever bloody listened he wouldn't now have to be making plans to drink an entire collection from a winery of who knows how much ancient bloody ALONE.
It wasn't his fault... what... didn't he hear?
The car and clothes turn black again with a snap of his fingers, and his glasses stop being heart-shaped as he keeps driving faster than usual. In fact, he's back to wearing long sleeves because of the bloody weather in London.
It hasn't been a minute of white. What a low tolerance.
"At least say goodbye to me a little better" he mimics himself in falsetto, angry also because he would have wanted to give him a kiss. Yes, again. But he was afraid that would predict a final farewell, so he had sent him to death again with a "fuck you." Bloody hell, eternity was going to be horrible with that bloody feeling of guilt.
Yeah, yeah... It's a bit of a harsh farewell. Yeah
He parks the car literally in front of the bar's entrance he finds, making it crash through the wooden and glass doors in an extremely dramatic way and then he fixes everything with a snap of his fingers so no one questions how he managed to keep a car intact since '26 when he makes those entrances into places.
You love drama, Crowley.
It might be better to start with the gin before he realizes what he's doing.
And an indefinite amount of time passes, truthfully, before... Hastur shows up on some TV that happened to be airing football.
"What are you doing, Crowley?"
Crowley, who was already seated at the bar, tethered to another bottle of something because... what's with British characters and their budding drinking problems? They all have that issue. Even the angel. Must be the islands...
"What the fuck are you doing, Crowley?" is closer to the correct question.
"I'm drinking in a bar. I'm an adult and I'm drinking in a bar, Hastur. What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?" Crowley protests because he's also doing this in a public place with more people watching the TV in astonishment.
"You urgently need to come down. Beelzebub wants..." chuckles "to ask you something."
Crowley hesitates, feeling himself holding back from replying, "Beelzebub can kiss my..." with his heart racing. Suck up to them again, Crowley.
"It seems you either do something you won't like, or... well. They'll tell you. Come on, hurry."
"Or what?" he asks a bit defiantly because... what are they going to threaten him with again, holy water? He squeezes his eyes shut. "Suck up, Crowley," he repeats to himself. "Or you won't come back up ever again."
Ugh. Hit below the belt. He squeezes his eyes shut.
"Fine, fine, fine... Tell them to start killing the lamb for the prodigal son's return." They'll condemn you even worse one day and it will be because of your STUPID JOKES.
"You're no prodigal son anymore... you're a fraud."
"Yes... yes... whatever," he turns back to his bottle, feigning calm. Hastur laughs again before disappearing from the screen.
And someone comments that football player interviews are getting weirder and the players more eccentric.
Foreigners, for sure. Probably French.
Crowley keeps drinking from his bottle, which apparently is beer and not gin and he hadn't told me until now, while he thinks he has to go down to hell now and they're going to kill him. Bloody hell. They should have switched. When they defrock him, he'll go and possess him! Even if they explode! Damn it. All for not wanting to wait twenty minutes. And he's also missed out on a dramatic scene.
And a kiss.
AND THAT ON TOP!
That was your fault, you said goodbye with a fuck you.
Ugh. If only they had switched. I mean, who knows what idiots are up there, but in hell, they were bloody capable of being so thick as to be preparing the bloody bath for him over and over until they cleaned him to death if necessary.
Although they had implied that you'd return... Hinted.
Yeah, well. Who trusts bloody hell? It's BLOODY HELL. Bloody Hell!
Yeah... yeah. Yes, it is.
He takes his bottle of beer to the car and sits there, in the middle of his tantrum. He wasn't going.
They'll come for you, darling.
Shut up, angel. This is your fault. But on the other hand, better, because now they would surely send one of those... Hastur maybe to take his place and then, if Aziraphale was still alive, he would know what a real hell was like.
And why would you want him to know what hell is like?
Because he's an idiot, for going there alone and without changing, for leaving him alone now, for screwing up the dramatic scene, and FOR NOT GIVING HIM A KISS.
He gave you one on the cheek.
Don't fuck with me, angel, I'm heading for the firing squad!
You didn't even get out of the car!
You didn't want to change!
I was trying to protect you.
This will weigh on your conscience!
"Crowley," the radio interrupts.
"What the hell?"
"We're waiting."
"I'm stuck in traffic," he protests, rolling his eyes.
"Avoid it."
Crowley shoots a glare at the radio, switching it off in annoyance. He then slaps the steering wheel... and follows it up with a punch to the gear stick. Then he kicks and screams a bit because HE HATES THIS.
He breathes, trying to calm down a bit. He starts the car and reluctantly heads in that direction.
Aziraphale loves you (Or so he told me not to tell you).
He already knows. That doesn't change the fact that he's an IDIOT. Ugh. Okay, he parks the car and heads to the bloody stairs down, repeating to himself that he needs to calm down.
Yes, yes, you need to calm down, dear.
Plus, they might not kill him, but down there, they're specialists in eternal torments.
This one doesn't seem eternal, though.
He reaches the bottom, runs a hand through his hair, and it catches a bit on the ring he's wearing, reminding him it's there. He looks at it, about to snap his fingers to make it disappear... then hesitates and just takes it off, tucking it away with Aziraphale's chip.
Much more reasonable... now.
Shut up.
Well, it was more of a critique of useless Aziraphale. It's not that Crowley is smarter, he's just a fashion victim.
Fashion? Really?
Uh... well, are they going to come for him or not? He's there already! Ahem.
Yeah, yeah... I think someone's going to fetch him and drag him to Beelzebub.
"Oh, the throne room... so much protocol... Thanks, guys, but I don't think I deserve all this..." he starts, because he always runs his mouth.
"Shut up and listen!
Crowley raises his hands in a gesture of innocence and then mimes zipping his lips shut.
"We've decided... there's one more thing you need to do on Earth," he says, smirking, maliciously, as usual.
"Oh... how... lovely. Another baby to deliver? Maybe a... Contender. President Destroyer. Part-time manager of the bottomless pit. Marquis of This World, Uncle of Lies, neighbour of Satan and not-so-close friend of Darkness this time?" he suggests, trying to be witty. Seriously, I don't know how they haven't killed you yet.
"Shut up. NO! Obviously, you're a complete disaster at that, and you've already proven that there's no way you'll ever be entrusted with such an activity again."
Crowley moistens his lips, nervous.
"However, there is one thing you can do to prove that maybe, just maybe... you're not the worst disgrace in our profession."
"Well... that position is always highly sought after..." he murmurs.
"SILENCE!"
He raises his hands again and closes his lips.
"You have to kill..."
Crowley opens his mouth and then wrinkles his nose in annoyance because that's definitely not his favourite evil deed, leaning back a bit and hoping it's not a child, though he wouldn't dare to protest anyway. Not... several, while we're at it.
"Our patience is running out... if we ever had any. Give him the briefing."
One of those random demons with scales on their faces and a peculiar hairstyle made of some random reptile approaches him, with an endless fold of perforated typewriter cheap paper leaves.
Crowley blinks a bit and raises his eyebrows as subtly as he can because that seems like a long list.
"And wait until you see who you have to kill," Hastur murmurs from behind, seeming to be privy to the gossip.
Crowley side-eyes him, taking the bureaucratic report and giving it a cursory glance over the text written in Comic Sans.
"Um..." of the five words he manages to see, he's sure that three aren't spelled like that, and at least two of them don't mean what the writer seems to think they mean. "Could I request an... unofficial summary? Let's say, to... save time."
But Hastur can't contain himself...
"You have to kill him!" he laughs idiotically and loudly. Crowley glances at him with annoyance.
"What?" they can't want him to kill... no, they would have said her. I mean, they can't ask him to kill God... (and you can't be any more foolish, darling).
"Well, we consider that THE betrayal can... be a little less irritating if... you clean up the remains," explains Beelzebub, smiling slightly.
"The... remains," he flips through the looooong report again.
"The disgusting remains of your betrayal."
"Right... right. I have reading material for tonight before bed," he smiles falsely. "Um... and now, guys, if you don't mind..."
Beelzebub nods, frowning slightly, but Hastur is indignant, opening his mouth. I mean, that was nowhere near the reaction he expected because his stupidity protects him.
Clearly, Hastur hasn't understood that he hasn't understood... Everyone's so clever.
Crowley waves his fingers in a goodbye gesture to leave.
"Crowley..." Beelzebub stops him. The named one pauses, now that he was already turned away, still with his arm raised and in the middle of a hip movement. "We expect this to be quick. No six thousand years of pondering."
Crowley turns only a quarter of the way, nods, and starts walking away again.
Well, you're free for now, go running to find your husband, come on.
For now, he rushes off to find the love of his life. The car. Then we'll see about more complicated relationships.
Of course, of course.
There, where he feels safer, he begins to try to decipher the horrible infinite text. It's not very difficult; look for the name that shouldn't be there, and you'll have your answer.
It must be misspelled: Azeerapheal.
In fact, it's there several times, and each time it's different from the others.
Although that lends itself to misinterpretations, listing all the reasons... why he should kill him, in the endless blabbering. Yet we don't see him having a proper heart attack!
Crowley pales when he identifies the name, if demons can even do that, and he brings his hand over his eyes, leaning on the car's steering wheel in a dramatic pose for a moment. Then he moves his hand and covers his mouth with it, rereading it, just to make sure. He almost preferred to kill God.
Alright... alright. Alright. Alright.
The bastards... Since they couldn't... they must have found out the trick. Or maybe not, maybe just the parallelism. They must have thought that if Crowley knew how to avoid death by holy water, he would also know how to not avoid it, and since they wanted to get rid of the angel in heaven... why not strike a deal.
Honestly... it's a brilliant idea. But Aziraphale will tell you about it.
Would they have asked Aziraphale to do the opposite? He was almost sure. Demons, how could they ask him to kill him!? And on top of that, they told him not to spend another six thousand years doing it...
He looks for the phone because he needs to have this conversation with HIM. IN PERSON. But he stops himself with the name shining on the screen before pressing the call button...
They couldn't see him with him like this right after giving him this news, surely they'd SUSPECT something. Plus... what if they asked Aziraphale to kill him, and... he tries?
Don't be an idiot.
The angel had a loyalty and sometimes trust in the ineffable plan a bit too blind.
It's true that the whole end of the world thing had changed his perspective a lot more than Crowley had ever managed to, but... the angel just had to recite a few words and bam! Holy water, consecrated ground, and all that other crap.
So while he's in these dissertations, Aziraphale calls him again.
He screams and throws the phone onto the seat because he's too tense. Maybe he could even do it over the phone! Juast a little pray over the Bentley, and to hell with running through the streets of London, to hell with the Queen, to hell with parking at the door of places, and to hell with dramatic entrances skidding.
Since when does Aziraphale want to kill you!?
He doesn't know! they've asked him to now, who knows! The answering machine goes off again.
"Hello, this is Anthony Crowley. Um... right now..."
"Crowley! I know it's you, where are you?"
"...I'm probably not at home, or I'm sleeping, or working or whatever, but..."
The demon moistens his lips a bit scared, honestly, but he reaches out to the phone and answers.
"No, like... don't tell me that again!" and he sounds hysterical and desperate. "Where are you? I need to tell you something!"
"Um... Hello, Aziraphale..."
"Hello! Crowley!" he almost cries just hearing him. "Where are you? I need to talk to you... something happened, something big and horrible and..."
"I-I know."
"You know? How...? No! Have they asked you too?"
"Well, I was... in hell."
"Goodness... you... you have..."
"Called, yes."
"We need to meet, Crowley."
"There's probably no worse time than this..."
"What... do you mean?" he asks a bit puzzled by this.
"I don't know if they'll be watching what we do..."
"And what... do you suggest?"
"I don't know!"
"And what? Are you never going to see me again?"
"No, but..." he squeezes his eyes shut. "We can't just go to meeting place number two and pretend it was an accident to meet!
"We'll have to... come up with a new place. I don't care where. Even if it's at your place, I'm coming now. Where are you?"
"And they'll know... that we've talked!
"And what do you suggest?"
"To wait a few... days?"
Aziraphale frowns a bit unexpectedly to that response. Crowley takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose because he's not sure if that will work.
"What do you suggest?
"I NEED to see you. And talk. But if you want to wait a few days and not speak to me in the meantime, then... fine," sounding offended."
"Angel, this isn't about what I want!"
"But I need to explain things to you and although what you're saying makes perfect sense, I can't just... wait!"
"I know... I KNOW," he squeezes his eyes.
"So, I'm going to come see you. Where are you?"
"No, no! Wait, wait, let's think this through calmly."
"It's just... what they've just asked me to do, it's... it's not... That maybe... I don't care if they see me!"
Crowley blinks now, because perhaps they've asked him to do something different.
"What have they asked you to do?"
"I need to see you in person, Crowley. I'm not telling you this over the phone."
The demon turns back and forth inside the car and pounds the steering wheel.
"Okay... okay. I'm going to do something. It's going to take a bit, but I'll come, alright? Just be patient."
"What are you going to do? Where are you going and how long will it take a bit?!"
"To the bookshop, aren't you there?"
"What are you going to do that's going to take a bit? And how long is 'a bit'?" he's hysterical.
"Just be patient," he bites his lip because he just doesn't know.
"Wait. Crowley... I should go.
"You?
"Yes... It's usually me who shows up at your place. It's less obvious.
"They'll still follow you too. And if I go... if I go, they'll know I've gone.
"But how long is wait? How long is wait too long until they stop caring? What they've asked me to do... the least I can do is come and tell you to your face.
"But... could you go to Trafalgar Square? There are always people there. Talk to people... and they'll still know you're talking to someone more than... fine. Angel. I have an idea. Go visit someone. Someone you get along with and it seems natural that you would go see them after something like this.
"It's OBVIOUS... Ugh. Fine.
"What's obvious?
"I'm going to the barber," he grumbles.
"To the..." he hesitates a bit incredulous at the choice but now is not the time to be judging. "Fine.
"And out of ALL the times you've insisted, I can't believe THIS is the time you choose to REALLY be so picky."
Crowley blinks not understanding that.
"Since when do I have to be the one insisting on seeing each other!?" he continues.
"Just go to the bloody barber!" protests.
Aziraphale would love to tell him, as he has been told a while before, a "fuck you!" with hysterical screams.
"Nice afternoon..." he mutters before hanging up.
Crowley leans back in the car seat and closes his eyes, throwing the phone onto the other seat.
And let me tell you... if you were nervous about the date the other day (I don't know if you were, really). The anticipation for this event is TERRIBLY high. I hope it... turns out to be quite epic.
Eeeeh... Alright. I don't know if he'll be disappointed.
Maybe. But it doesn't matter. He goes off all angry to the barber, thinking it's been a hell of a day and it's been a long time since he spent so many hours angry.
Crowley drives to his house, parks. He goes up to his flat. Closes the door carefully and with special dedication. Ignores the plants and lies down on the bed with a sign that says "I ATE'NT DEAD".
He can't believe he's going to fall asleep. So Aziraphale goes off to the bloody barber to get a shave.
I love how absurd all of this is. "Kill your husband" ah, yes... but first, I'll take a nap. You know? I think I should trim my ends, I've been saying it for days and in the end I never do it.
The angel continues on his way, thinking moreover, precisely, that asking someone to kill someone is PERFECTLY WRONG. Of course. Off to cut his damn hair, given that I have nothing better to do.
Aziraphale's barber, Mr... Todd, raises his eyebrows when he sees him in the barbershop at this time and on this day, because he's usually quite consistent in his visits and they're always on the same day and at the same time.
Aziraphale smiles amiably at him and I think he even greets him with a double kiss because... that's what they do in France. And Todd probably doesn't know that.
He blinks, effectively taken by surprise.
"I want... a completely new look."
"Are you feeling alright, Mr. Fell?"
"Of course! OF COURSE! The best day of the millennium" that might sound less sarcastic.
"Um... wonderful. There's no one here right now, if you'd like to come in..."
"Of course I want to come in. Nothing better than coming in" he still sounds EXCESSIVELY cheerful.
"Sure, sure," there goes the barber to get a gown for him.
"I didn't know it was so quiet in the mornings here" he sits down.
"It's business hours and people are usually working."
"That makes perfect sense," he smiles still quite forced.
"So... what will it be today?" the barber asks, putting on the cape.
"Cut, style, shave. And if you could just run your hand over here and cut me..." he points to his neck.
Mr. Todd hesitates a bit because normally Mr. Fell is just a bit effeminate and pretentious, but he doesn't usually ask for nonsensical things.
It's a joke that's not funny. He sighs.
Anyway, he goes back to get his razor and prepare the foam. Aziraphale looks at himself in the mirror... and moistens his lips a bit thinking he looks AWFUL. He has red and swollen eyes, which makes him look sad and grumpy. Well, he was sad and grumpy too.
After a few minutes, the barber comes back looking agitated and sighs with relief when he sees him.
"What's happening?"
He hugs him almost sitting on top of him and Aziraphale... raises his eyebrows. And in the same way he separates. Aziraphale blinks because...
"For heaven's sake, angel, this is a MESS," Mr. Todd declares dramatically.
Aziraphale smiles at that and jumps on him, hugging him back. Sorry, no time to be tsundere. He lets him, for a few moments.
"H-How... How?" he doesn't kiss him because he's not HIS Crowley, but... he does caress his neck and back a bit.
"Let go, let go, it's going to look suspicious," he protests although he doesn't want to let go.
"What will they know?" he whispers just for a moment. "And your body? You have... you do, right?"
"It's in my house. In my bed. This is a demon possession."
"I'm sure this shouldn't seem like as good an idea as it does," he squeezes him a bit tighter.
"Well, you should have come up with a better one!" the barber protests.
"I'm telling you the idea is good!" he reluctantly lets go.
"Anyway, we don't have much time, I don't know how long I can hold on."
Aziraphale nods a bit... and he wants to tell him so many, SO MANY things at once.
"I'm not going to do it... and that means, Crowley, that..." he starts without explaining what the letter says and... without looking at him. "It goes against ALL the rules."
"What have they asked you?" he looks at him with concern.
"I'm not going to do it," he insists and squeezes his eyes shut. "But they've asked me to kill you."
"Bloody hell!" Mr. Todd brings his hand to his mouth, biting his finger with a grunt of protest.
"And I consider that... it goes against all heavenly rules. So... I'm not going to do it," just for that reason. NOTHING to do with you being my best friend, my husband, a part of me, and I deeply love you. No.
"They must have come to a bloody agreement. There's no other way. Or they must think that if we've both transcended our nature, we must be the only ones who know how to kill each other."
Aziraphale sighs.
"Have they asked you the same?" he asks fearfully, because he had already supposed that something like this might have happened.
"Yes, they've asked me the same... to commit suicide... No! Of course they've DEMANDED that I kill you," he protests because he's also hysterical and irritable.
"This... is brilliant."
"This isn't brilliant, we're screwed! And we can't even talk because they'll know we're not working on it but forming an alliance!"
"Or trying to figure out how to kill each other. This... this idea is much better than the average ideas they have. It's... poetic. And they're doing EXACTLY the same thing we're doing."
"Ugh, I can't believe you're letting yourself be influenced by bloody poetry right now!"
"I'm not letting myself be influenced, just... it's a horrible idea. And a good one."
The barber starts pacing around the barbershop, he's going to end up with a dislocation of something.
"We need a place to talk, Crowley. More time than just five minutes. So the demon possession is all well and good but... tell me, where won't they follow you? In a church?"
"Well... no, of course not. But..."
"Or tell me a place where celestial beings like me won't enter. I'm sorry, but there must be a place... where neither yours nor mine will go."
"I don't know. I don't know..."
"Damn atheists who don't build temples... Let's see... ruins, churches, Buddhist centres, gyms... pharmacies. You must know some place where nobody goes, EVER. A place where you'd never go. A... magic show."
Mr. Todd looks at him, tilting his head slightly, because he was at one just two hours ago.
"There must be a place... something that... some public bathrooms!"
"This isn't about where they don't go, but where they won't follow us. Why wouldn't they follow us to public bathrooms? This feels like the bloody 14th century again."
"What part exactly?"
"All of it."
"Even in the 14th century they didn't ask us for THIS, Crowley."
"It would only be missing, then you would have done it. But I mean... the paranoia, the secrecy... We didn't even have the arrangement yet."
Aziraphale rolls his eyes because no, of course he wouldn't have done it. But it's good that Crowley thinks he would have.
"Of course I would have done it. And I should be able to do it now, actually."
Eye roll from the barber.
"This shouldn't be a real problem, it should be easy. We're... an angel and a demon."
He slumps into the chair on his side, tired of this conversation.
Sorry, it's just... he's scared and although he's always had to do things, make decisions that make it obvious that the speech is a lie...
"In fact..." he realizes because of it. "You're right."
This decision is like... a whole open statement.
"W-What?"
"This. It's the same as always. I actually think it is... Yes, it's going to complicate things a bit again, but I think that... I think if we can make them BELIEVE that we're really trying to kill each other, always saving ourselves at the last moment or almost miraculously... sooner or later... they'll relax again."
Aziraphale glances at him.
"They'll ask for reports again and check things... negligently. There's too much work from thousands of other things. We just have to be convincing... long enough."
"But how are we going to be convincing, if living or dying..."
"We just have to... plan failed assassination attempts."
"I still can't believe that Heaven is expecting me to MURDER... someone."
"Not just... someone. A demon."
"Still terribly disappointing."
"At least that's something new," Mr. Todd retorts sarcastically. Aziraphale frowns.
"It's just, I still have to work on forgiving them for the fact that the last thing I expected to hear was that they were going to kill you... and now they're asking me to do it. THEY KNOW..."
The barber looks at him.
"Well, he sees the evidence!"
"What do they know?" he asks with more intensity.
"There's nothing to know," the angel replies, turning his face away a bit.
The barber looks at him intensely again. Aziraphale blushes and hates doing this with someone who isn't him even.
"Perhaps... it's... I'm the problem," he turns his face and squeezes his eyes shut.
"You?"
"Can we focus on this?" he asks in protest.
Smiling at him in one of those ways where the "me too" dies on his lips in response to what he hasn't said, seems a bit anticlimactic when it's Mr. Todd, his barber, who's looking at him like that.
"Yeah! Damn. He looks so handsome when he looks at me with those snake eyes."
"Don't... look at me like that when you're not you!" he protests.
He blinks a bit because he hasn't noticed himself looking at him in any... different way and shakes his head.
"Well, what's the plan then?
"To nearly kill me without actually killing me.
Mr. Todd moistens his lips because the... danger of that unsettles him and then he throws another tantrum.
"Preferably in a non-painful way.
"We need to... evaluate this calmly. And come up with a plan. I'm not sure they haven't dragged us into this just because they can.
"It's too brilliant a plan to have been thought up just like that. Anyway... I would like to..." the angel pauses and squirms a bit.
"What I mean is they can't be sure that we actually know how..."
"It's not just that... It's a win-win. If we do it right, they neutralize us. If we mess up, they have the pretext to get rid of us."
"They don't need more pretexts to get rid of us; if they've asked us to do this, it's because they actually have no idea what they're doing."
"It seems like they know too well," insists Aziraphale, shifting uncomfortably. "I'd like to find... a reason. I know it's not important for you."
"A reason for what?"
"To disobey..."
Mr. Todd blinks for a moment with that, looking at him incredulously.
"Not that it requires a... Not that I don't have reasons, Crowley. One more... official. And maybe you should have one too."
"You don't need an official reason to disobey because you're not officially disobeying."
"But if someday... God."
"God!"
"Comes to ask me why I didn't do what was commanded, I would like to have a way to prove why."
"When has God ever come to ask you about ANYTHING?"
"Never yet, but..." he hesitates a bit, looking at his hands.
"The day God comes to ask me about something, SHE will have to answer to me for a few things first."
"Ugh... Crowley," actually, he was thinking of a rather absurd and perhaps senseless idea, just a product of panic probably. "Forget it."
"What?" He looks at him from the chair he's lounging in.
"I was just thinking... maybe it's a foolish idea."
"What?"
"If the time came when I REALLY had no other choice but to kill you, I would like to have... insurance," he whispers, blushing a bit and looks at his hands.
"Eh?"
"A REAL reason not to kill you."
"Like what?"
Aziraphale doesn't look at him, but the barber does because it's terrible that he's asking for this, he has like a million VERY real reasons not to want to kill the angel... I mean, okay, maybe several hundred thousand of those could be summed up in one powerful reason. But WHAT a reason.
"You'd have to be something more than just a demon."
"And what do you want me to be? An Aardvark?"
"I would like to be able to justify at the last minute... why I CAN'T kill you. And who couldn't I kill?"
"I hope no one, ANGEL" he responds, emphasizing the last word for obvious reasons even without understanding.
"Already... right. You've said it yourself, you're a demon and maybe that's why as an angel they can ask me to exterminate you... but if you were something more to me..."
"I'm already something m..." halfway through the sentence, the door to the barbershop swings open and a moustache enters with a short, chubby man attached to it.
"Mr. Todd, how are you today?" he asks, looking around the shop and at the barber.
Mr. Todd looks at the little man and then sideways at Aziraphale, who is visibly uncomfortable, blushing in the man's presence, because they've been interrupted at a moment that...
Truth be told, Mr. Todd has forgotten that HE is Mr. Todd. And he's waiting for someone to do something.
"Crowley..." Aziraphale finishes understanding a few seconds later... and it's because HE hasn't forgotten that he is Mr. Todd.
Mr. Todd turns to Aziraphale when he calls him, while the little man looks at him attentively waiting for him to speak.
"Mr. Todd... you're being called."
The barber furrows his brow a little... and then it dawns on him - the possession! Of course. Um... he turns to the little man.
"I-I'm actually a bit... busy. This gentleman" he gestures to Aziraphale. "Wants me to give him a complete" who knows what he thinks that is. "And truth be told, he needs it like... um... like... well, something that needs something else a lot."
Aziraphale squints at that explanation.
"Oh! Bloody hell. Well, never mind, I'll wait. I've been procrastinating and postponing my hair ablutions until I can't wait any longer."
"Um... then don't postpone them anymore, good man," Mr. Todd responds, hoping that would suffice to send him away.
Aziraphale also looks at the man... wishing he would leave. Now.
"That's it, that's it," he moves around the shop and points to a chair. "Can I sit here?"
"Um... excuse me, sir, but that chair is... occupied," Aziraphale replies.
"Alright, then this one," he sits down, searching for a magazine. "Rotten weather we're having, isn't it?" the favourite topic of any Englishman.
Aziraphale casts a sideways glance at Mr. Todd who hesitates, because he can't make him disappear, as he has to maintain the pretence that he's at home sleeping and this is just Aziraphale visiting the barber.
"Yes, yes... terrible weather."
Mr. Todd hesitates because he should be doing something like... barbering, shaving or whatever, although he's not quite sure what, because anything related to aesthetics and personal care, he does it himself with great care and usually with a snap of his fingers and that's it. Aziraphale sits up straight and waits a bit.
"Perhaps the hot towel on my face would be a good way to start..." Aziraphale suggests.
"Um... I don't think... Ah. Yes. Okay. Hot towel, sure," he turns around. "Hot towel, hot towel..."
"Are you the bookshop owner from down the street, aren't you?" the man interrupts again.
"Yes, I am indeed," the angel confirms, pointing to the towel for the barber.
"Yes, I thought so, you seemed familiar," the man continues, trying to make conversation.
Mr. Todd finds the towel and honestly, now he's not sure how to heat it up. Aziraphale smiles at him.
"What do you do for a living?" he asks aloud and then lowers his voice, glancing at Mr. Todd sideways. "Steam..."
"Well, I work at a bank but... I'm actually a writer."
Mr. Todd hears the steam thing with a WTF? expression on his face. He looks at the towel, rolls his eyes, and with a clap, it's now warm, soft, and fluffy. He approaches Aziraphale and is about to wrap his entire head, honestly.
"A writer? Anything I might have read?" Aziraphale asks, smiling as he sees the towel and closes his eyes, and Crowley, this is just a small glimpse of the kind of things Aziraphale likes... and would expect from you. Maybe not a damp towel on his face, but definitely soft, fluffy, warm... well, and maybe a bit damp.
"No... not yet. I can't seem to get anyone to publish me. People in the publishing industry are a bit picky these days."
So there's Mr. Todd making him a whole turban and wondering if taken out of context this could pass for an attempted suffocation.
Okay, okay. Aziraphale has to raise his hands and stop him because it's starting not to be quite an attempt anymore.
But... it's just... play it cool, Crowley. Mr. Todd nudges him with his hands to let him do it.
"Mr. Todd..." the little smile. "Just the face... please."
"Don't worry, it's a new treatment from... wherever. Paris," when he nudges his hands he notices he still has the ring on, taking that hand to look at it.
"If I worry that..." he lets him take his hand and then... pulls it away when he notices what he's seeing.
The barber chuckles a bit as he tucks his hands into the vest pockets.
"Focus, Mr. Todd... focus."
"I'm more focused than you," he continues smiling.
"And what does this treatment consist of?" the little man asks.
"T-Tell him about the treatment, c-come on," he looks inside the towel with that mix of irritation/embarrassment/concern he usually has, touching the ring on his finger a little and thinking... it seems silly, but definitely it's NOT. The ring is important. He might die drowned, but with his ring.
"It's a facial disintegration treatment apparently."
"Of course not, it's to open up those... whatever are they called. And hydrate."
"The pores?" the man asks. "Maybe I could have it done too, my wife always says I don't take care of my skin at all."
"That would be quite amusing," Aziraphale murmurs.
Mr. Todd moistens his lips and decides, why not? He goes for another towel to wrap around the man's head.
Aziraphale laughs, really, because look at how cute he is. And he sways his hips as well. Though this body is nowhere near his own. Even if he doesn't look! He can hear him moving his hips.
Truth be told, he should have knocked him unconscious already, but... he didn't want it to be too suspicious.
When he hears him laughing while making the other turban, he squints his eyes a little and smiles.
"Now you should stay like this for ten minutes. Please, don't talk or it will break the concentration and relaxation," he announces.
The other customer smiles inside his turban, trying to relax with this seemingly fun treatment. Anything that involves lying down and doing nothing can easily attract a stressed and misunderstood middle-aged man.
Aziraphale raises his right hand (the one without the ring, we must say), and uncovers his face a bit to peek at the barber.
Mr. Todd notices it, he wasn't going to listen to the other guy.
"Cheater..."
"Come on..." he protests a little.
He approaches and covers his face again, smiling. Then he puts his hands on his shoulders... and slides them over his chest, bending down and semi-hugging him a bit again because... he's been asked to kill him and...!
He must feel his heart. And in fact, it's easier this way... without looking at him, just feeling him. He raises a hand and puts it on his arm, squeezing it a bit.
He leans his head on the towel, closing his eyes too.
Aziraphale thinks again about what he was going to propose a while ago... biting his lip. It was just... a technicality. And he really thought that maybe... not someone else, but at least God might understand...
The problem is that God ISN'T going to intervene.
Okay, okay... she won't, but heaven had rules and God's rules mattered. Even if they wanted to break them...
Mr. Todd ends up sighing because... Aziraphale should have gone to his place. In fact, they should have stayed in bloody Las Vegas and spent the night at the stupid hotel. No one should call them to ask them to kill each other. Was it too much to ask for a few days of vacation?
"Crowley... this might sound a bit..."
"Ah?" he tenses and pulls away, clearing his throat a bit. No... In fact, he stops him a bit so he doesn't move away completely, so he stops halfway.
"This might sound absurd... but I think we should get married."
