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Sam Beckett was sprawled on the floor, shirt unbuttoned. A beautiful woman knelt beside him, clutching his arm, while a furious Mafia don pointed a gun at him. Sam turned his gaze towards the viewer and said, CROWLEY.
“Frkg,” said Crowley.
SORRY, said the face and voice of Scott Bakula. WERE YOU DOING SOMETHING NICE? SOMETHING HUMAN?
Crowley scrabbled for the remote and turned off the television.
YOU SHOULD KNOW BY NOW THAT DOESN’T WORK. The silence spoke from the blank screen. The words were hollows in the ambient noise of the world.
Crowley considered chucking the television out the window. But it was a very nice television.
WE MISSED YOU, CROWLEY.
Crowley stumbled into the bookshop. The bell rang out cheerily, insultingly.
Aziraphale was at his computer, which was emitting soft, semi-musical beeps. He looked up as Crowley entered. “You look terrible,” he said genially.
HELLO, screeched the computer.
Aziraphale jumped back like his computer had just burst into flame. That would have been preferable, as far as Crowley was concerned.
ARE WE INTERRUPTING? the computer bleated. It sounded like a hundred angry insects trilling in unison.
Aziraphale stared at the screen. “The little egg, he’s talking to me.”
“What?”
“The little egg in my game,” Aziraphale said, so Crowley had to assume he’d heard correctly the first time. “His name is Dizzy and he just started talking to me. I didn’t know he could do that.” He leaned towards the screen. “What will they think of next?”
IS THAT YOUR ANGEL FRIEND?
An expression of distaste passed over Aziraphale’s face.
Crowley gritted his teeth. “It’s Hell. They contact me through electronics.”
Aziraphale looked bemused. “Are they in my computer?”
“Talking through your computer.”
“Oh. Well. That’s enough of that.” He waved his hands, and the jaunty music resumed.
“You can turn them off, just like that?”
“Of course. I’m an angel. And it’s my computer.”
Crowley walked over to his desk. “Were you playing a video game?”
“I thought I’d see what all the fuss was about. I must say, it’s quite jolly. Oh,” he tore his attention away from the screen, “you’re here for lunch, aren’t you? I had forgotten. Can I leave it paused, do you think? I’m doing rather well.”
Crowley waited while Aziraphale vacillated over whether it would be okay to leave his game. Crowley suspected that the angel was hoping to be released from his lunch obligation, but Crowley wasn’t about to. He’d been looking forward to talking with someone who didn’t sprinkle the conversation with bon mots about rending his limbs from his body.
The angel finally decided that he could leave the game paused, and they headed out to the Bentley.
Aziraphale put on the seatbelt that was only ever there when he was in the passenger seat. Crowley reached for the radio.
Aziraphale raised a restraining hand. “Er, perhaps you shouldn’t?”
“It’s worse when you don’t,” said Crowley, and flipped the radio on.
“All I ever wanted all I ever needed is–” HI CROWLEY. HI ANGEL.
“Um, hello,” said Aziraphale.
“Don’t encourage them,” said Crowley, pulling out into the street. “Ignore them.”
“Does this happen often?”
Crowley nodded. “I haven’t been able to watch an entire episode of anything in…”
TWO WEEKS.
“Two weeks,” said Crowley.
WHICH IS REALLY NOTHING IN THE GRAND SCHEME OF ETERNITY.
“I just don’t understand how they have the time,” said Crowley pointedly.
MANY OF US HAVE MORE FREE TIME NOW THAT WE ARE NOT OPERATING ON EARTH
BUT EVEN IF WE DID NOT
YOU ARE A PRIORITY, CROWLEY.
WE WOULD FIND THE TIME FOR YOU.
“Is there any way you can, er, jam the signal?” said Aziraphale.
“If I could, don’t you think I would have?” Crowley snapped. He took a breath to steady himself. Aziraphale was very much not the problem here. “If you have any ideas, I'd love to hear them.”
ASKING AN ANGEL FOR HELP? the singer from Depeche Mode sneered at him. WE ARE IMPRESSED BY YOUR ABILITY TO FIND NEW WAYS TO DEBASE YOURSELF.
“I’ll try anything,” said Crowley.
“Can’t you get rid of your electronic devices?”
“Anything but that,” amended Crowley.
Aziraphale looked fascinated. “This is not something I’ve ever had to think about. I’m lucky if Heaven sends me a telegram letting me know where I am in the queue for a response.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Crowley ground out.
“Tell me more. How exactly does it work? What’s the… mechanism?”
YES CROWLEY. TELL THE ANGEL HOW IT WORKS. TELL HIM ALL OF HELL’S SECRETS. GO ON. WE ARE KEEPING SCORE.
“You were able to stop them earlier. Can’t you,” Crowley waved at the radio, “shut them up?”
Aziraphale frowned in concentration, and gestured at the cassette player and radio. “It doesn’t seem so,” he said apologetically. “It’s not really something I’m meant to interfere with, I think. You know, I’m under Authority.”
“I’m not. I shouldn’t have to listen to this anymore.” He chewed his lower lip. “Wouldn’t it count as thwarting?”
“I think it’s more, um, internal politics.”
YOU SEE, CROWLEY? THERE IS NO PROTECTION IN ALL THE WORLDS FOR A BEING WHO HAS BETRAYED BOTH HEAVEN AND HELL.
“Well, obviously there is,” said Aziraphale, “or you’d be doing this in person, wouldn’t you?”
“Really, don’t bother.”
Aziraphale leaned towards the radio. “I can’t imagine what you think you’re going to accomplish, persecuting a former employee like this, but it’s certainly a comfort to me to know that the people running things down there are so small-minded and short-sighted. Crowley did excellent, creative work for you for millennia, with almost no help or support from you as far as I could tell, but that seems to count for nothing with you. It’s a wonder anyone continues to work for you."
There was no reply.
The radio made a sound like it was being tuned.
Fzzzt
fzzt
CROWLEY. The voice was static now, hissing and snapping. WE LEARNED A HUMAN SONG. WOULD YOU LIKE TO HEAR IT?
Crowley groaned.
They started singing, without accompaniment. CLOSE YOUR EYES… GIVE ME YOUR HAND, DARLING…
It wasn’t the right key. It wasn’t in the neighborhood of the right key. It had perhaps met the right key once at a party.
DO YOU FEEL MY HEART BEATING? DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
“It’s like this all the time,” said Crowley.
Aziraphale laid a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
DO YOU FEEEL THE SAAAME?
“I think I’m going to go mad. If it’s not the radio, it’s the television or the telephone. If it’s not my television, it’s my neighbor’s.” Aziraphale stroked his arm.
AM I ONLY DREEEAMING? IS THIS BURNING… AN ETERNAL FLAME…?
“You’ll figure something out,” said Aziraphale soothingly. Or as soothingly as he could manage, when he was trying to be heard above both the car engine and the Forces of Darkness belting with all their cold, dark heart. “Maybe you could defect? I could put in a good word for you.”
“Are you even on terms with Heaven to ask them for anything right now?”
YES. JOIN HEAVEN. MAYBE THEY WILL LET YOU CLEAN THE TOILETS.
“There are no toilets,” said Aziraphale. “Why would there be toilets?”
“Don’t take the bait,” Crowley said wearily, pulling up in front of the restaurant. “No, I just stopped taking orders. I can’t go back to it. Especially not Heaven’s orders.”
WE ARE GLAD TO HEAR YOU STILL HAVE SOME SENSE.
“Oh, hush,” said Aziraphale.
The restaurant offered a reprieve. It was a quiet affair, just the soft clatter of silverware and low murmurs of conversation, with no piped music. Crowley had made sure of that.
“So now we know what they’re doing Down There,” he said, after the waiter had brought their food. “About me, at least. What about…?” He indicated Above with a tilt of his chin.
“Oh, nothing new there. When they realized what Adam had locked your people out of Earth, there was a big to-do about taking the advantage.”
“That’s why you were running all over Europe?"
Aziraphale nodded. “When I got back, I had a message belaying all their orders and saying not to do anything until I hear from them.” He shrugged. “Since then, I’ve just been waiting.” He took a bite of dressed crab, which seemed to interest him more than Heaven’s vagaries.
Crowley thought he was right about that, but he was also curious. “Why do you think they changed their minds?”
“Oh, who knows with them? Word from God. Anxiety about the Antichrist. General wishy-washiness.”
“That about covers it, doesn’t it.” Crowley prodded pensively at his Chateaubriand.
A second later, he thought he heard his name. That was happening to him a lot. He was starting to think every distant sound was Hell calling him.
“Did you hear that?” said Aziraphale.
Well, fuck.
CROWLEY. It wasn’t loud, but it was clear now. CROWLEY. WE KNOW YOU’RE THERE.
A man seated a few tables away reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black cellular telephone. It looked incredibly sleek and modern, more so than any cellular phone Crowley had seen before. It seemed like they were making them smaller every day.
Its owner looked at it like it was a grenade and he’d just realized its pin was missing.
WE WILL ALWAYS FIND YOU, said the phone.
The other diners looked at the man holding the phone with varying degrees of confusion and irritation. “I’m sorry,” he said to his dining companion, and then addressed the room at large. “I’m so sorry. I can’t–” He pressed buttons frantically.
Aziraphale watched with an expression of mild interest as the man rushed out of the restaurant, his phone hissing Crowley’s name over and over again.
“It’s a good job those aren’t more common,” said the angel, turning back to his food.
After lunch, Aziraphale stood on the pavement and eyed the Bentley. “I might walk.”
Crowley hooked his thumbs in his pockets and also regarded the Bentley. “Uh huh.”
“I’ll think about your problem. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”
“Thanks,” said Crowley.
Aziraphale began walking and Crowley got into the car. He didn’t start it immediately, but stared expectantly at the radio.
A word wormed out of the silence. hhhiiiIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
“Hi,” said Crowley tiredly.
YOU ARE MUCH ON OUR MIND, CROWLEY.
All they could do was talk at him, he reminded himself. And sing – well, “sing” – occasionally. It could have been so much worse. It very nearly was, if Satan’s near-appearance on the scene hadn’t irritated the Antichrist enough to get him to close the gates of Hell. Crowley had been lucky, really.
EVEN WHEN YOU DO NOT HEAR FROM US, WE ARE ALWAYS THINKING ABOUT YOU. WE WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT.
“Great, thanks.”
THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING. WE WILL NOT REMAIN FOREVER IMPOTENT ON THIS PLANE OF EXISTENCE. OUR KINGDOM IS ETERNAL AND TIME IS ON OUR SIDE. WE WILL MEET AGAIN FACE TO FACE.
Something touched his shoulder. Crowley jumped.
“Sorry,” said Aziraphale. “Did you want to come back to the shop?”
Crowley nodded.
“I do have work to do, but make yourself at home.” Aziraphale sat down at his desk. “You’re welcome to read anything, of course. Just – be careful, please.”
Make yourself at home. Crowley wondered what that meant to him. But he trusted the angel to let him know if he overstepped.
Aziraphale’s computer started to play some cheery electronic music.
“You said you had to work,” said Crowley.
Aziraphale looked stricken. “Um. I forgot I had left it paused. I don’t want to lose all my progress.”
“Do you think I’m here to tell you to get back to work? Perish the thought.”
Aziraphale smiled. “Have you played a video game before?”
“I had the high score in Monkey Tower for two months at a pub in Scunthorpe,” said Crowley. Aziraphale looked at him blankly. “But I haven’t played on a home computer.”
“You can try it after I finish this game, if you’d like,” said Aziraphale magnanimously.
While Aziraphale played his game, Crowley walked around the shop to test if Hell would speak to him again, here in the angel’s sanctuary. He stood for a while in front of a portable emergency radio that was gathering dust on the windowsill. When it failed to lob even the mildest insult at him, he moved on to the compact disc player in the back room. It played through a whole Paganini Variation and didn’t threaten him with violence even once.
It was nice to have someplace where he didn’t have to live in expectation of an electronic ambush, he supposed. But there wasn’t really much to do with Aziraphale absorbed in his game. After lounging for a while, he went to take his leave.
He had to say Aziraphale’s name twice to get his attention. The angel blinked up at him like he was just emerging into the light. “Oh, leaving already?”
“It’s been two hours.”
“Oh. Well.” Aziraphale stared intently at his screen. The shadow of some internal struggle passed over his face, and then he said, “You should feel free to come any time. As often as you like, until you get this sorted. Bring your compact discs or whatnot to listen to.”
“Yeah?” said Crowley.
“Yes,” said Aziraphale, and did a fair job of sounding like he meant it.
Crowley kicked the door open and, with a little maneuvering, entered the shop. He couldn’t see the angel around the box he was carrying, but he could hear him make a little “Eh?” of surprise.
“Where do you want this?” said Crowley.
“Oh, erm, hm. Over here?”
Crowley staggered towards the voice and knocked his foot against a new piece of furniture. Well, a piece of furniture that hadn’t been there before. Aziraphale didn’t really do new. Crowley set the box down on the floor. With some difficulty, he shimmied the television set out of the box and deposited it on top of the Victorian credenza. Aziraphale hovered nearby, but didn't offer to help.
“I got you a television,” Crowley said as he plugged it in. “I hope you like it. What time is it?”
“Um. Five till nine.”
“Perfect.” He summoned an armchair and sat in it.
“Very generous of you,” murmured Aziraphale.
“What? Oh.” Crowley gestured vaguely and another chair pulled up.
“That’s not–” The angel sighed, and sat down. “What are we watching?”
“American show. Murder in a small town exposes its seedy underbelly. More going on than meets the eye. Shh,” he added, because one of his favorite adverts was on.
Aziraphale stayed silent through the opening titles and until they found Laura Palmer’s body, at which point he started tsking and saying things like, “Oh, that poor girl,” and “Isn’t that the young man who found the ear in that one film? You know, the one with Ingrid Bergman’s daughter?” and “Do you think they'll find who did it?”
Crowley finally gave up shushing him and started answering him. “Yes. Blue Velvet.” “I don’t think so. They made a second series.”
It was still better than watching with Hell.
“Uhh, ‘scuse me?”
Crowley turned away from inspecting a suit in a shop window, to see a very young and very uncomfortable-looking human was speaking to, and popping gum at, him. She held out a portable cassette player. “My boombox asked to talk to you?”
HELLO, CROWLEY. WE WERE JUST HAVING AN INTERESTING CONVERSATION WITH THIS HUMAN. WE LIKE THE WAY SHE PLAYS HER MUSIC SO THAT ALL THE OTHER HUMANS HAVE TO LISTEN TO IT.
“Great.”
“I never had anything like this happen before.” The teenager was visibly moving bubblegum around her mouth as she spoke. “Can he really hear us?”
“No. It’s an elaborate trick. Smoke and mirrors. Don’t believe everything you hear.”
WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT HERE ON YOUR OWN? DID YOUR GUARDIAN ANGEL ABANDON YOU?
“Do you know you sound just like Vanilla Ice?” said the girl, talking into the speakers.
WHAT IS IT LIKE TO BE A TAME DEMON, DANCING TO HEAVEN’S TUNE?
Crowley short circuited the boombox, and then started a fire in it for good measure. The girl gasped and dropped it as the plastic started to cave in. “Fuck! What just happened?”
“Here.” Crowley counted out a few bills from the stash he always had with him when he needed to have money with him. “Go buy a new one. Buy two."
The girl stared at the money in his hand for a second, then snatched it and scuttled away, her hands clasped tight around the bills.
DID YOU JUST GIVE THAT HUMAN COMPENSATION? croaked the smoking mass of plastic and wiring on the ground. YOU ARE TRULY PATHETIC.
Crowley turned and walked away.
ANY ESCAPE WILL BE MERELY TEMPORARY, it called after him. WE WILL ALWAYS FIND YOU.
The next time he was at the bookshop he told Aziraphale about the boombox. “I think they’re getting faster at homing in on me.”
“Have you considered leaving the city?” said Aziraphale, laying out plates for the food Crowley had brought. “You could find a place in the country. That could be nice.”
They were sitting in a corner of the front room. Aziraphale had moved a table into the front of the shop, contending that it was one thing to drink around the incunabula, quite another to eat around them. Apparently he wasn't worried about the books in the front smelling of ginger and garlic.
“No. I am not going to let them hound me out of my own life. I’m taking a stand.”
“Of course I support suffering for one’s convictions, but I don’t see why you can’t make this a little easier on yourself.” He opened a beer for Crowley and passed it across the table before opening one for himself. “For example, does your car truly need a cassette player?”
“Of course it does.”
“I’m pretty sure it didn’t have one when you first got it.”
Crowley shook his head. “I can’t rearrange my existence because Hell says so. Then it will all have been for nothing.”
Aziraphale surveyed the containers arrayed on the table before reaching for the green chicken curry. “It seems to me that if they’re making your existence on Earth into a Hell, that makes it all for nothing.”
“It’s not about comfort. It’s about standards.”
“I don’t want to critique how you’re handling this – I’m sure you know best. But if it’s a matter of principle, I’m not certain I see why eating take-away is an acceptable compromise,” he waved at the food, “but getting rid of your television is not.”
Crowley scooped some prawn salad onto his plate and searched for a way to explain it to the angel. Over the past century, he’d got as close as he ever had to arranging everything around him just the way it ought to be, in the teeth of Hell’s influence. As a demon, he had never imagined he’d have things that were his, and now that he did, he’d be saved before he’d give it up. He said, “Imagine if you couldn’t read your books without turning the page to find a message from Heaven. Would you burn your books?”
“I’d register a complaint. There’s no reason for them to be communicating that way.”
“Fine, let’s say Hell is writing in all your books. And,” he said quickly as Aziraphale opened his mouth, “in this scenario there’s nothing you can do about it. Maybe you can figure something out eventually, but you haven’t yet. Do you destroy your books? Just answer the question.”
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “No, but I also wouldn’t keep opening them to find out what fresh insults Hell has for me.”
Crowley stabbed a prawn. “I just think there are things that shouldn’t be the province of Hell – or Heaven – and I’m not going to let them encroach farther than I have to. Restaurants are one thing. But the Bentley, my flat, my television – they’re mine.”
“The television would still be yours if you put it in storage for a while.”
“No, it wouldn’t. Not really. A flat without a television is like, like… a rose without thorns.”
“But that sounds lovely,” said Aziraphale.
Angels. What could you do?
But it didn't matter if Aziraphale understood. What mattered was how long he would tolerate Crowley’s presence.
Crowley tried not to press his luck. He only came to the shop to watch new episodes of his programs, not reruns. Aziraphale stuck with Twin Peaks, but didn’t watch anything else. Crowley lived in daily expectation that Aziraphale would ask him to leave, or at least ask him to turn the volume down, but the angel was apparently impervious to background noise, capable of tuning out even the most aggressive laugh track.
He did startle when a shrill CROWLEEEEEEEEEEEY burst into the room.
Crowley was in the middle of Golden Girls, but fortunately it was during the commercial break. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek black portable phone, and took it over to Aziraphale. “Could you bless this or whatever?”
CROWLEY, said the phone, WE WROTE YOU A POEM.
Aziraphale’s brow furrowed as he took the phone from Crowley. “Is this new?”
“Latest model.”
AHEM.
O TRAITOROUS ONE, WHO THINKEST THAT THOU
CANST FIND A PLACE TO HIDE FROM HELL
“Obviously, but I was curious if you acquired it since your troubles with Hell began.” Aziraphale grasped the phone tightly. The transmission from Hell was cut off before Crowley could find out if it would rhyme. “This might not work like you think.” He passed the phone back to Crowley. “You’ll recall that I couldn’t silence the radio in your car. I think I’m only able to silence your phone because we’re in my shop.”
“I thought of that. The service is in your name.” He met Aziraphale’s accusing glare with a look of equal and opposite innocence. “I’m trying something out.”
“You think you can get out of this on a technicality?”
“That’s the only way I’ve ever got out of anything.”
Aziraphale looked resigned. “Fine. Just try not to use it for anything nefarious, if it’s in my name. Some of us still have to answer to a higher power.”
Crowley had offered to drive Aziraphale places as a gesture of gratitude for letting him shelter at the bookshop. He was very surprised when Aziraphale took him up on it, but he was a demon of his word, and arrived promptly at the appointed time.
Aziraphale started guiltily when he saw him. The dulcet tones of Treasure Island Dizzy flowed from his computer’s loudspeaker. “Oh yes, of course. Give me one moment.”
Crowley leaned against the wall while the angel gathered his things.
“Please not Bach again,” said Aziraphale, as they got into the car. “There was something very unsettling about hearing cellos speak in full sentences.”
“Let’s roll the dice,” said Crowley, reaching for the radio.
A few seconds of “Love Shack” played. Then the voices of the B-52s twined together like hangman’s rope and spoke as one. THANK YOU FOR JOINING US. WE ARE GATHERING SUGGESTIONS FOR THE TORTURES WE WILL INFLICT ON CROWLEY WHEN HE IS ONCE AGAIN UNDER OUR POWER.
"Oh, goody," said Aziraphale.
Crowley shrugged. “It’s a regular segment.”
TODAY’S TORMENT COMES FROM ARASKA IN DIS, WHO SUGGESTS CROWLEY SHOULD BE DECAPITATED, STRUNG UPSIDE DOWN FROM A HIGH SCAFFOLD, HIS STOMACH SPLIT OPEN, AND HIS ENTRAILS TWISTED INTO ROPE FOR THE IMPS TO SWING FROM-
It continued in that vein. Crowley thought it was over the top. When you had a really good idea for torture, you didn’t need to add all the extra flourishes. A truly torturous idea spoke for itself. For example, using all the best inventions of the past hundred years to hound your ex-employee, so they could no longer enjoy the late twentieth century properly.
-AND POSITION HIS HEAD SO HE CAN WATCH THE WHOLE TIME. THANK YOU, ARASKA.
“It’s very democratic of them,” said Aziraphale, “to open it up for suggestions.”
Crowley nodded. “I wish they had just once shown this much interest in hearing my ideas.”
NOW IT IS TIME FOR QUESTIONS FROM OUR LISTENERS. TODAY WE HAVE A QUESTION FROM BYLETH, COMMANDER OF THE MEPHITIC LEGIONS. OH, IT’S A QUESTION FOR THE ANGEL.
Crowley’s hands clenched on the steering wheel.
BYLETH, COMMANDER OF THE MEPHITIC LEGIONS, WRITES, “CROWLEY IS A CRAVEN TRAITOR SO WE UNDERSTAND WHY HE ASSOCIATES WITH AN ANGEL. BUT WHAT’S IN IT FOR THE ANGEL? WHAT IS HE GETTING OUT OF THIS?” ANGEL?
“That’s a good question,” said Aziraphale.
Crowley glared at him. “No, it isn’t.”
To his horror, Aziraphale looked like he was thinking it over. “It’s a combination of things, really. For one, you really can’t discount the value of a familiar face. Humans come and go rather quickly, and Crowley’s always here.”
“For my sins,” murmured Crowley.
“And there’s no one else who really understands the job. The particulars differ, but in the end we both work with humans. Being stationed on this planet gives you a different perspective, and it's hard to find someone who shares it.”
MAKES SENSE.
“Do you know," said Crowley, “you can simply not answer them? You don’t have to say anything.”
Aziraphale continued blithely on. “He’s easy to talk to. He understands what I’m trying to say, at least most of the time, which is more than I can say about anyone else. I think I understand him fairly well, too.”
Crowley, who had opened his mouth to object more forcefully, shut it again.
“Not that that would matter if I couldn’t stand him, of course. Luckily, he’s good company. The best company, really. He's intelligent and perceptive and funny.”
EW. WE’RE SORRY WE ASKED.
“Funny?” said Crowley, distracted briefly from his embarrassment. “You haven’t laughed at a single thing I've said in six thousand years.”
“Just because I don’t laugh doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate your sense of humor.”
WE FIND THIS CONVERSATION PROFOUNDLY OFFENSIVE. PLEASE GO ON SO WE CAN USE THIS INFORMATION AGAINST CROWLEY LATER.
Aziraphale cast a disapproving glance at the radio. “No, that’s enough for now.”
“I should think so,” muttered Crowley.
NOW THAT THE QUESTION PORTION OF OUR PROGRAM IS OVER, WE SHALL REVIEW OUR LIST OF TORTURES.
The list ran about an hour, now. Crowley could fall asleep to it. Well, sometimes. Other times they got a little too excited reading it – the voice would get very breathy, or they’d make distracting slurping noises, and Crowley would be jerked back into the present moment.
On the positive side, they were usually so absorbed in the recitation that they hardly seemed aware of him. He turned the volume down and said to Aziraphale, “So what am I giving you a ride to, anyway?”
“My photography club.” He patted the large black bag he’d brought with him.
“You’re interested in photography?”
“A little. I’m mostly doing it to meet the sort of people who join a photography club. You know, like how Blanche went to the hardware store to pick up men.”
“Yeah,” said Crowley. “Wait, what?”
“You can pull over here,” said Aziraphale. “Thank you very much for the ride, it’s made my day much easier.”
“Uh,” said Crowley, watching Aziraphale hurry off into a nearby building.
WHO’S BLANCHE? said the B-52s.
Aziraphale was nowhere in sight when Crowley came by the shop a few days later, but Crowley sensed someone was there. He surveyed the front room. Aziraphale’s camera was on the table that he and Crowley ate at, as well as two teacups. Crowley went over and touched one of the cups. It was cold.
The sound of voices floated from the recesses of the shop. He couldn’t make out the words but he recognized the lilt of Aziraphale’s voice. There was a response, and then a chuckle. A moment later, the angel and a human emerged from between the shelves. The human had a camera in his hands, and Aziraphale was holding a notebook and pen.
Apparently the sort of people who joined photography club were men in their seventies with broad, flat faces, who wore brown Aran jumpers and started blinking a lot when Aziraphale introduced Crowley.
“Nice to meet you at last,” said David, as they shook hands.
Crowley glanced at Aziraphale questioningly, but he was looking at David.
Crowley had never seen Aziraphale with a guest, but that wasn’t surprising; he wouldn’t invite Margery from church and the Serpent of Eden to the same dinner party. But also, Crowley had never imagined Aziraphale had guests at all – the shop wasn’t exactly arranged to be welcoming.
Or it hadn’t been, before they’d added a table and armchairs and a television. That may have been a mistake.
“David’s teaching me the ropes,” Aziraphale said to Crowley, displaying his orderly notes about things like shutter speed and aperture.
“You’re taking pictures in the shop?”
“I like taking interior shots in poorly lit places,” said David. “I’m sorry if that sounded sarcastic, I meant it sincerely.”
“David takes the most interesting photographs of everyday things,” Aziraphale informed Crowley. “He has a wonderful series on laundry. You know, washing lines and launderettes and things like that.”
Crowley could hear how dubious the angel sounded, but apparently that didn’t take any great insight, because David’s mouth quirked up and he said, “You don’t have to say that, I know you think they’re dull.”
“I don’t think they’re dull. I just don’t understand the point of taking pictures of things you can see any time you like. It’s not like anyone needs to be reminded of laundry. It’s my own shortcoming, I’m sure.”
“The point,” said Crowley, “is people don’t truly see things until you put it in a frame and call it art.”
“All right, but why do you need to see laundry?”
“It’s so you remember to be grateful someone’s doing the laundry,” said Crowley. “I would’ve thought you’d be all for that.”
Aziraphale turned to David. “Is that why you take pictures of laundry?”
“No, I just like the way it looks.” He didn’t seem offended; a small smile kept playing over his features as they talked. He’d already been won over. That would be why he was here, of course. “What do you think I should be taking pictures of, then?”
“People,” said Aziraphale. “Because they die, you know. And even when they don’t, their hair changes and they age. In my experience laundry is eternal and unchanging. So I don’t see the need to photograph it.”
“There’s a point,” said David, fiddling with his camera.
“What sort of camera is that?” said Crowley.
David looked up at him. “It’s a Leica M6. Do you know about cameras?”
The last time Crowley had done anything with a camera, they were using magnesium for the flash, but he knew expensive when he saw it. “Not a bit.” Out of habit, he asked, “What’s the best camera they're making these days?”
“It depends on what you want to do with it. What kind of pictures do you want to take?”
Aziraphale murmured something about the room being too dark and went to open the blinds.
“Oh, none,” said Crowley. “I’m just asking out of professional curiosity. What camera would have you standing with your nose pressed against the shop window, dreaming of the day you could buy it?” David looked confused, so he elaborated, “You know, the camera you’d climb over the backs of your friends to get to. The camera that would make all the other photographers so jealous they’d say snide things about you behind your back. What comes to mind?”
David was blinking rapidly again. “What’s your profession?”
Crowley didn’t even have to think about it. “Advertising.”
Aziraphale had raised the blinds, but between the overcast London day and the layer of dirt on the windows, it didn’t make much difference in the room. He was staring out the window now. “Crowley, is that your car with a giant bow on it?”
“Excuse me,” he said to David. He joined Aziraphale at the window, to make sure another car with a bow hadn’t driven up. “Yes, it is.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a gift.”
Aziraphale had that muddled look he got when he was trying to figure out whether or not he should be irritated. Crowley watched patiently as the lines of his mouth and eyelids twitched between various expressions.
They were interrupted by the sound of a camera shutter. They both looked at David. “Sorry,” he said, with a deprecatory smile that probably got him forgiven much worse by his fellow humans. “That’ll show you what I meant about exposure. You’ll like that one,” he added.
Aziraphale said dryly, “When I said you should take photographs of people, I didn't mean us.”
David smirked down at his camera. “Are you changeless and eternal, then?”
“More or less.” Aziraphale touched Crowley’s shoulder. “We’ll talk about the car after.”
He returned to his guest. Crowley sat down and picked up his book, A Surfeit of Lampreys, which was entertaining so far if not quite living up to its title. He pretended to read while Aziraphale and the human discussed, not cameras, but David’s life, which was even more boring. In fairness to David, he was trying to ask Aziraphale questions about Aziraphale’s life, but Aziraphale just kept making generic observations about how much the world had changed and then turning the question back around on David. David would keep trying, though.
There was no telling with humans. Some of them took an instant and intense liking or disliking to Aziraphale. Many had no strong reaction to him whatsoever. None of it seemed to correlate to where their souls were going to end up, based on what Crowley had observed over the years.
The same could be said for Crowley, really, except that he couldn’t think of a time anyone had taken an intense liking to him, if you didn't count babies. Crowley reckoned the mixed reception meant they were both doing a good job presenting themselves as their respective sorts of humans.
After an eternity, and Crowley should know, David took his leave. Aziraphale accompanied him out the door and they stood outside for a few minutes, talking more – about what? Crowley picked his book back up, but didn’t resume reading.
Aziraphale looked cheerful when he came back into the bookshop.
Crowley bit back the first couple of comments that came to mind – He’s too young for you, and Did you notice how he kept sucking his teeth? – and contented himself with asking, “You’re sure he’s not spying for a competitor?”
“He’s welcome to try. Now tell me about the car.”
“I told you, it’s a gift. It’s yours.”
“Yes,” said Aziraphale, bemused, “but why?”
“I don’t have paperwork for it. I had to find some other way to confer ownership.” He got up from the armchair. “Let’s go outside.”
They went out to the Bentley, which really did look beautiful with its bow on. He felt like he had the seed of an idea here – maybe he should go into advertising, just as a hobby. “Here’s your car,” he said, waving at it. He only choked a little on the words.
“I take it that putting the portable telephone in my name worked?”
“Seems to have done.”
Aziraphale peered at the gift tag on which Crowley had printed, To: Aziraphale, From: Crowley. “I know it’s strictly pro forma, but even so, are you sure?”
“I trust you not to take advantage.”
“Of the car that you’re giving me. Do you see the problem?”
“Not really.”
“I don’t think it will work.”
“Then I’m back where I started. Let’s test it. Go on, unwrap it.”
Aziraphale took one end of the giant ribbon and pulled. The bow came undone. He held the ribbon uncertainly, so Crowley stepped in to gather it up and disentangle it from the car’s chassis. He stuffed it into the back seat.
“All right. Get in and turn on the radio. No, the driver’s seat. It’s your car, remember?”
Aziraphale went around to the other side and slid in behind the wheel. The distance between the seat, the wheel, and the pedals were perfectly tailored to Crowley’s proportions, and the angel looked all at once like he had too little and too much space. He turned the ignition key and reached for the radio.
The weather forecaster spoke for a few seconds before his voice splintered into dozens, then hundreds, of voices. They rose in what one might ironically call harmony. Music filled the air like arrows at a siege.
Hell had choirs, too. They got less attention than Heaven’s because usually when you heard them you were preoccupied by the overwhelming sense of dread and the pounding headache. Even as a demon, Crowley found the sound unsettling.
Aziraphale drew back immediately.
“That’s been going on for a few days,” said Crowley. “It’s a long piece.”
Aziraphale’s shoulders were up. If his wings had been out they’d have been wrapped around his head.
“You can’t stop it?” asked Crowley, disappointed.
Aziraphale shook his head. “Can we go back inside?”
Aziraphale’s shoulders didn’t come down until they were in the shop, with the door shut behind them.
“Maybe we need a formal contract,” said Crowley.
Aziraphale was rubbing his ears as if they were cold. “Or it’s just that your heart wasn’t in it. Or mine, for that matter.”
“My heart wasn’t in giving you the portable phone, either, and that worked. Let me get that for you.”
Aziraphale lowered his hands. Crowley put his hands over the angel’s ears, stilling the echoes of the infernal music. “Yes,” said Aziraphale, relaxing visibly, “but in that case you didn’t really care either way. Possession may be nine points of the law, but there’s more to possessing something than paperwork.”
Crowley withdrew his hands. “Hm. Maybe.”
“You can’t just go around saying something’s mine or yours, and make it so. Even in human legal systems there’s more nuance to it than that. There are moral rights and obligations involved. Your car is yours because you love it and care for it and have done so for a long time.”
“My car is mine because I bought it.” Crowley rubbed his chin. “Maybe that's what I’m missing. What would you think about paying–” Aziraphale’s lips pursed and he said quickly, “I’ll think about it a bit more.” He glanced at the table with the tea cups on it. “I wasn’t rude earlier, was I? To your guest?”
Aziraphale looked surprised at the question. “Not at all. You were perfectly civil.” Following Crowley’s gaze, he walked to the table, and began gathering up the tea things. “To be frank, he probably wouldn’t notice if you were rude. He doesn’t have much sensibility.”
“He’s not the one I’m concerned about offending.” Crowley picked up Aziraphale’s camera and sighted through it. When he looked back up, Aziraphale was smiling at him like anything. “What?”
Aziraphale’s face went blank. “What?” he said, and shuffled off to the kitchenette without waiting for an answer.
Aziraphale had given Crowley permission to use the shop when he was out. The offer had been made hastily when Aziraphale was rushing out just as Crowley arrived, and you could’ve missed the change it represented. It wasn't an invitation he would have made when Crowley worked for Hell. And Crowley wouldn’t have taken him up on it, if he had.
It was a strange balancing act they’d been doing, with the Arrangement and everything, when you thought about it. All very rational and pragmatic, of course, but it created these occasional pockets of incongruity, where what you knew and what you could act as if you knew, didn’t align.
You could only balance on the razor edge of pragmatism for so long before you cut yourself on your own cleverness. Spectacularly, catastrophically, almost apocalyptically, in Crowley’s case.
But he didn’t have to do that anymore, and good luck to Aziraphale. Though now at least the angel could let go of a few of the rules they’d set and – more often – Aziraphale had set, around their interactions.
Crowley had discovered that the paperback novels were stored upstairs, and since that discovery had found a lot more books to read. He was enjoying a quiet evening alone, with a novel, a glass of wine, feet up, when there was a rapping on the door.
Crowley ignored it.
The rapping continued. The shop was dark, Crowley not needing light to read by, so either this was an extremely optimistic customer, or something else.
It was irritating, but he decided not to do anything about it. The person at the door could, conceivably, be someone Aziraphale didn’t want something horrible to happen to.
The rapping stopped.
And then resumed a few seconds later, more urgently.
Crowley set the book down and grudgingly went to the door. As he flung it open, a human, small and covered in blood, practically fell backward onto the pavement. Crowley caught them by the shoulder and righted them.
The blood was coming from a gash on their forehead. Head wounds always looked dramatic.
“Uh. Uh. Uh…” They dashed blood away from their eyes, and blinked up at Crowley in the light of the street lamp. “Is the – the other man here?”
“He’ll be back later,” said Crowley, and began to shut the door.
“Um. Do you know when?”
“Not sure.” Remembering he couldn't get in trouble for being considerate, he added, “I can pass on a message, if you like.”
The human inhaled shakily. “He said to come here if I needed help.”
Of course he had. Crowley was about to say, again, that Aziraphale would be back later, but then stopped.
This person was clearly damaged in several places. Physically and psychologically. Aziraphale wasn’t supposed to be doing miracles of any kind, as Crowley understood it. If this person needed one, their coming back later would either put Aziraphale in the position of having to turn away the stranger within his gates, which Aziraphale would hate, or break the rules.
Crowley, on the other hand, had no rules to follow at all. Except inasmuch as he had a suspicion that anything too manipulative would bring the Antichrist’s disapproval down on him, he could do what he wanted. Or what was needed.
Crowley healed their forehead and sprained wrist. The chemical imbalances were a little trickier, but at least he felt confident in adjusting things so the person was a bit calmer and no longer trembling violently.
“There,” he said. “Sorted.”
They didn’t look like they thought things were sorted at all. “What? I – I didn’t know where else to go and – uh…”
“For what? What is it? Spit it out.”
They looked doubtful. Crowley knew he didn’t look like someone who was going to help, at least not without strings attached. Showed good judgment on their part, really.
The dark glasses at night probably didn’t inspire confidence, either, but a lack of them would inspire even less.
After a few seconds passed and they didn’t seem to know what to say, Crowley said with finality, “I don’t know when he’ll be back but I’ll let him know you stopped by.”
“Okay. Okay. Thanks. That would be – oh, God,” said the human, and started sobbing.
Aziraphale returned at about four in the morning. He seemed unsurprised to see Crowley, probably because the Bentley was parked out front.
“By the way,” said Crowley, “there’s a human upstairs.”
“There is? Do you know why?”
“I put them there. They came to the door and said you had told them to come here if they needed help.”
“I’ve said that to a lot of people in the neighborhood. They rarely do, more’s the pity. But you say they’re upstairs?”
“Sleeping. Said they got kicked out of their flat or something. I didn’t really ask. I cleared off the bed and told them to have a bath. I hope that’s all right.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, of course.”
Aziraphale’s mouth was set in a tight line. Crowley said, “Really?”
“Well, I generally try not to help people out of the shop. It’s important not to make them reliant, you know. But you haven’t had as much practice with this sort of thing.”
Crowley had done jobs for him, of course, but those were jobs from Heaven – and Heaven generally didn’t send you to heal the sick and cleanse the lepers just for the fun of it. It was more like “Get so-and-so back on the virtuous path” or “Tell so-and-so to go preach to the whosits.” It was about directing the affairs of humanity, not just making them feel better. Heaven expected their agents to do that, too, but they didn’t bother themselves about it. “I can boot them, if you want. I would’ve turned them away in the first place, but it sounded like you’d wanted them to come here.”
“I’ll take care of it in the morning.” Aziraphale’s expression softened. “I didn’t mean to sound critical. I’d rather they be sleeping upstairs than come here and find no help at all. It’s nice to have backup.” At this last bit, he gave Crowley a look of such warmth that Crowley had to believe that he meant it, and also had to look away. “Other than that interruption, did you have a pleasant evening?”
“Aces.”
“I wish I could say I had.” Aziraphale sat down in the other armchair with a sigh. "Apparently Heaven thinks I should be kept busy. I don’t see why one can’t have a little holiday after five thousand umpty-ump years.”
“What do they have you doing?”
“Watching potential saints from afar. It’s even duller than talking to them, if you can believe it.”
Crowley materialized an extra glass and poured some wine for him. “Sounds dreadful.”
Aziraphale took the glass with a murmured thanks.
Crowley wondered if he should go. Leave Aziraphale to whatever he did to unwind after a hard day’s work.
But he couldn’t leave him alone with the human. After all, they were partially Crowley’s fault. What if they came downstairs, asking for glasses of water or extra towels or any of those things humans needed?
He picked up another book, settling in. Aziraphale didn’t comment.
In the morning, Aziraphale packed the human off, sending them on a route that would lead them past an establishment that was seeking to hire someone with just their skills, after which they would encounter a very maternal woman looking for a tenant for her spare room.
“Won’t you get in trouble?” said Crowley.
“This one’s mostly not miraculous, if you can believe it. I’ve been lining things up. And they never seem to notice the little miracles Up There. I find that if you break the job up into pieces, and just tug and push here and there, it goes under their radar.”
“That’s well done,” said Crowley appreciatively. Aziraphale hummed acknowledgment. “Anything I can do?” He still felt a little responsible.
“Well… if you’re offering. Could you go along and make sure they don’t turn around and go in the opposite direction? Humans will do that sometimes.”
“Sure,” said Crowley.
On the television in the video rental shop, Billy Crystal was haranguing Crowley with dire promises. The teenaged shop assistant had given up trying to fix it and was simply standing in front of the television, staring.
“You could try the theater,” said Aziraphale.
“Have you been lately? It’s all electronics now. They’d find a way in and can you imagine what they’d do with an audience that size?” Crowley added Batman to the stack of tapes that Aziraphale was holding. “Did you want anything?”
“I think you’ll be monopolizing the videocassette recorder as it is. How long do they let you keep the videotapes?”
“As long as you want.”
“Three days,” called the shop assistant, still staring at Billy Crystal.
“Right,” said Crowley. “That’s seventy-two hours and I’ve only got,” he surveyed the stack, “twenty four, twenty six hours of movies here?”
–EVERY DAY OUR POWER GROWS. THE DARKNESS WILL CONSUME ALL–
“Thank you, anyway. I’ll be quite busy for the next few days.”
“Photography club?”
“Running a business. Chinese cooking classes.”
“Since when?”
–WRITHING IN AGONY ON THE ICE STEPPES OF NARAKA–
“Since September.” Aziraphale rebalanced the stack as Crowley added Licence to Kill and Beaches.
“The world didn’t end and the first thing you did was run out and sign up for cooking classes?”
“Not the first thing.”
–WISH YOU HAD NEVER WRITTEN THAT REPORT ON THE SPANISH INQUISITION–
Crowley was wondering if Aziraphale was also trying to meet the sort of people who took Chinese cooking classes, or just wanted to learn to cook Chinese food, when the angel nudged him and whispered, “You should acknowledge them, so they feel like they’re accomplishing something. You don’t want them to feel they have to escalate.”
Crowley pitched his voice to carry, “Woe is me. Will the torment never end. When will I know peace.”
“Come on,” said Aziraphale. “You can put a little more vim into it.”
Crowley shook his head, and whispered, “Greater effort would be wasted on them.”
NEVER, CROWLEY. The voice dripped with satisfaction. YOU WILL NEVER KNOW PEACE AGAIN.
He raised his eyebrows at Aziraphale, See?
Aziraphale frowned at the increasingly precarious tower of videotapes he was holding as they moved towards the counter. “Isn’t there a limit on how many you can hire?”
“They’ve never said so.”
“The sign right there says so."
“That’s what you get for reading signs. Hey, you. Yeah, you.”
The video shop employee looked back at them, and pointed at Billy Crystal. “You hear this, too, right?”
“Yeah. Crazy. Can you, uh, rent these to us now?” He turned back to Aziraphale as the shop assistant hesitated. “If you weren’t here I could walk out with these.”
“Would you?” said Aziraphale, eyes widening.
“Of course. It’s not like I’m trying to be good now. It’s just not compulsory to be bad. I can be myself instead. Detached. Neutral.”
“Stealing isn’t neutral.”
“I wouldn’t steal them. I’d return them.”
The shop assistant had walked behind the counter, but their attention was still on Billy Crystal, monologuing. “I’ve seen this film five times at least,” they said. “Nothing like this has happened before.”
“Probably some kind of marketing gimmick.” Crowley tossed a few bills on the counter. “Keep the change.”
Crowley should have realized Aziraphale wouldn’t let it go. He took it up again once they were outside. “You don’t really think you can be neutral, do you?” he said, as he set the tapes in the back seat of the Bentley. “You’re still choosing a side.”
Crowley grimaced. “If I’m not against you, I’m with you?”
Aziraphale got into the passenger seat. “I don’t mean Heaven or Hell. I mean good or evil.”
HELLO.
“Do you mind?” said Aziraphale. “We’re in the middle of a conversation.”
YOU’RE ALWAYS IN THE MIDDLE OF A CONVERSATION.
The way the silence formed words still sent shivers down Crowley’s spine, no matter how often it happened. He started the car and turned the radio on.
“–doesn’t seem to be anyone around. I think we’re alone now–” DO YOUR SUPERIORS KNOW ABOUT THE COMPANY YOU KEEP, ANGEL?
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.
WE IMAGINE THEY WOULD BE VERY INTERESTED TO HEAR HOW YOU HAVE GIVEN AID AND COMFORT TO THE ENEMY
FOR A VERY LONG TIME, YES?
Crowley twitched his fingers and the radio and cassette player crunched into a ball. He waved a few fingers; the dashboard smoothed over.
The car phone started ringing. Crowley ignored it. He looked at Aziraphale. “Would they care?”
“About my associating with you? Maybe,” said the angel. “Probably. I doubt they’re capable of making the distinction between a demon who works for Hell and one who doesn’t. But I do have a speech prepared, if they ever bring it up.”
“And you think they’ll listen?” said Crowley carefully, trying to sound like he was asking a question and not making a rhetorical point.
“They might.” Aziraphale shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, I won’t be blackmailed by Hell.”
“Of course not, but I could stay away for a while. Give them less to work with.”
“I thought you weren’t rearranging your life because of Hell.”
“I’m not, but this is your life.” He tried to catch the angel’s eye, but both of them were fixed on the road; Aziraphale usually kept them there when he rode in the Bentley, or else kept them closed. “It wouldn't be forever. Could just be a year or two.”
“And what will you do about Hell in the meantime? I’d see you again in two years and you’d be capable of speaking only in lyrics from be-bop songs.”
“I’d figure something out. I barely notice them anymore.”
“No, don’t think of it. And please don’t press, you’ll just offend me. As if I could be comfortable leaving you to your fate.”
DOES YOUR PERVERSION KNOW NO BOUNDS?
The words came from the car phone. The sound was tinny and distant.
HAVE YOU NO SHAME? NORMALLY WE’RE ALL FOR UNNATURAL RELATIONS BUT THIS IS BEYOND THE PALE.
Crowley reached to disconnect the phone, but Aziraphale picked it up first. He pressed the receiver to his ear with two hands. “Hello, this is Aziraphale. May I know to whom I am speaking?”
Crowley only heard snippets of the answer – something about the death of hope and a night without end. Aziraphale made intermittent noises of polite acknowledgment.
Finally he said, “Thank you, that was very informative. It’s nice to be able to speak to you like this. So often we’re just faceless – well, voiceless – enemies to one another. I think that if we talked to each other more–”
The reply started with IF YOU HEARD OUR TRUE VOICE. Crowley caught the phrases “driveling madness” and “illimitable pain”.
“Yes, quite,” said Aziraphale. “I confess, in a way I admire your persistence in harassing Crowley. I know it comes from a deep sense of duty and a commitment to your God-ordained purpose, which ultimately is what unites us all. I hope one day we can – Hello? Hello?” He lowered the phone. “They hung up.”
Crowley stared at him. "Watch the road," suggested the angel. Crowley ignored him.
Aziraphale placed the phone back in its cradle, looking thoughtful. “About giving you aid and comfort,” he said, “I don’t think I have, really.”
Crowley smiled wryly. “Not at all. You’ve been a model employee, angel.”
“We both know that’s not true. But I meant that I’d like to be more helpful to you. There’s no reason for you to be at Hell’s mercy in any way if I can do something about it.”
“You’ve done plenty,” said Crowley, confused. “What more do you think you could do?”
“Well, to start, if simply assigning ownership to me affords you some protection, I’m certainly happy to pay you a nominal fee for the Bentley or sign whatever documents you need or fill in any forms.”
Crowley shook his head. “It didn’t work after all. They started serenading me on the cellular phone yesterday. You were right, a name on a piece of paper isn’t going to do the trick.”
“Sorry.”
“Were you going to offer to be my landlord?”
“If you thought it would help.”
“Well, thank you anyway.” They were nearing the bookshop, but Crowley bypassed the turn so he could keep driving for a little longer. Neither of them were in a hurry to be anywhere. “What about you? Any news from Up There?”
“Oh, yes. You’ll like this. They said to resume doing good but not too much.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, what they actually said is that I’m to help humans understand the value of righteous thinking and acting, but I shouldn’t influence them to do good.”
“That’s even more confusing.”
“They sent a list of examples. I saved it to show you. Let me see…” The angel patted his pockets.
Crowley became aware of an unfamiliar feeling settling over him. He frowned, trying to pin it down.
“Ah, here,” said the angel, pulling a piece of paper out of his inner pocket.
It was a sort of enveloping, soft feeling. Maybe it was simply the release of silence.
But it wasn’t silent. Aziraphale was reading from Heaven’s missive.
“‘For example’ – this is their words – ‘For example, one should not suggest that any reward, eternal or temporal, will accrue to a human’s actions, but one may suggest that doing good is innately worthwhile.”
“Are they serious?” said Crowley, only half listening. It was like… like all the sharp points were dulled.
“Oh, that’s the most sensible one,” said Aziraphale gleefully. “I hope you enjoy hairs being split.” He began to read the next one.
Contentment, Crowley realized. It was contentment.
Crowley had disabled the bell about a month ago and Aziraphale hadn’t complained, so they entered the bookshop in silence.
“I’m going to make tea,” said Aziraphale, setting the stack of videos next to the VCR. “Do you want any?”
“Yes, thanks.” Crowley surveyed the room, considering what he wanted to do next.
He was aware that some might consider it a step down to go from making decisions that would affect the fates of millions of souls, to making the decision whether to sit in the chair in front of the television, or the chair in the corner to read a book.
In fact, Hell had told him as much, by way of a cycle courier’s radio. The efforts to shame him for his indolence were, like most of Hell’s attempts to get under his skin, entirely misguided. Crowley had taken pride in his work but never, ever, to the exclusion of taking pleasure in not doing work.
As he considered his limited but pleasant options, something caught Crowley’s eye in the genteel chaos of Aziraphale's desk.
He crossed the room, and looked down at a photograph. The one taken by David. He must have dropped it off, or Aziraphale had gone to another camera club meeting when Crowley wasn’t paying attention.
The image was surprisingly clear. He and Aziraphale were backlit, of course, but their faces, and the expressions on them, were visible, limned in faint London light.
In hindsight, Crowley should have overexposed the film when David took the picture, but it hadn’t occurred to him at the time. Maybe he was an embarrassment to demonkind.
He looked up as Aziraphale came back into the room with the tea tray. “Do you ever think about what humans see, when they look at us?”
Aziraphale set the tray down rather precariously on some papers on his desk. “Of course. The impression I give can be very important in my work. I know you think about it, too. Or you used to.”
“I mean, when they look at us together.”
Aziraphale’s brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t think they do, for the most part? We’ve generally tried to be unobtrusive. And they’re not great hands at noticing.”
No, they weren't. But they were great at assuming. And every now and then their assumptions had an accuracy that would shame the most watchful eye in Heaven and the most suspicious mind in Hell.
Aziraphale tilted his head to look at the photograph in Crowley’s hand. “I can’t see it, whatever it is you think they see. I know us too well.”
They had a saying about that. Not seeing the forest for the trees. “It’s not anything in particular,” said Crowley, tucking the photo under the piece of paper it had been laying on top of. “I’m just not used to seeing us together at all.”
There was nothing special about the picture. It captured them as they must have looked hundreds of times. Thousands of times. Mid-conversation, looking at each other. They just looked like themselves.
You’ll like that one, David had said. He’d been looking at Crowley.
Prat.
“And that,” said Crowley, “is a Sega Mega Drive.”
The angel regarded the new games consoles arrayed on the shelves that had recently sprouted from his credenza. “What’s wrong with playing video games on the computer?”
Crowley had known he wouldn’t understand without a demonstration. He waved him to an armchair. “Sit down.” Crowley turned on the Nintendo and handed him the controller. “This button moves you forward. This one makes you jump.”
“What does this one do?”
Crowley, who had only figured out how to use the controller the day before in preparation for telling Aziraphale, and had played for all of ten seconds, said, “You’ll see.”
Aziraphale started the game. “Is that squat fellow my enemy, friend, or a neutral party?”
“What do you think?”
Apparently he thought “friend”, but once that misapprehension had been corrected, he caught on reasonably quickly.
After he died a third time, he held the controller out to Crowley. “Well, that’s very nice. I hope you enjoy it.”
“These aren’t for me. They’re all yours.”
“That’s what you said about the television,” said Aziraphale, “and the rest of it.” He looked meaningfully at the accoutrements that had accumulated around the television. “I’m still not certain what some of these machines do.”
“Well, the games are for you only. Think of it as a thank you for having me.” He hitched his hip on the arm of Aziraphale’s chair and rested his arm on the back, and watched as the angel started a new game. “Hell hasn’t been bothering me much lately. I haven’t been accosted on the street for a few weeks now. And the other day I played a CD all the way through in my flat.” That was the sum total of the time he’d spent in his flat in the past month.
“Are they giving up so quickly? I’m surprised.”
“Me, too. I don’t trust it entirely.”
“Drat. I did jump. I pressed the button.”
“I probably don’t need to spend so much time here anymore.”
“Do whatever you think is best. Oh, did I go down the pipe? Can you go down all of them or just that one?"
Crowley watched as Aziraphale diligently collected coins. “Do you want me to move any of this stuff out?”
“No need. It doesn’t bother me and it confuses the customers. Oh, what am I throwing at them?”
“Fireballs, I think.”
“I can admit now that I was worried at first,” said Aziraphale, as he slaughtered turtles and – mushrooms? – with fireballs. “I thought we might get on each other’s nerves.” Which meant that he thought Crowley would get on his nerves. “But it’s been very comfortable.”
“Uh huh,” said Crowley. “But there’s no point in my camping out here if Hell has given up on tormenting me.” He looked down at Aziraphale. “Is there?”
Aziraphale took a few seconds before answering, but that may have been because he was trying unsuccessfully to jump onto a brick platform. “I suppose not.” And then, to confound the issue, he added, “Not if you don’t think there is.”
“Nnnno-oo?” said Crowley. “I can’t see what it would be.”
“Mmm,” said Aziraphale.
“So,” said Crowley.
“Do what you think is best.” Aziraphale paused the game and looked up at Crowley. “Did I see that there was a way for two people to play?”
“Uh huh. But don’t worry about it.” Crowley stood up. “I’m heading out now.”
“Oh. Are you sure?”
Aziraphale may have sounded disappointed. But that was the polite way to sound, under the circumstances. “I just wanted to give these to you. Now it’s time to get back to my life.”
“Of course. If you have any trouble…”
“Uh huh, definitely, thanks,” said Crowley. “Be seeing you.”
On the drive back to his flat, the car phone was silent.
In his flat, the television was silent. The telephones and ansaphone were silent. The laserdisc and compact disc and cassette players were silent. The silence was silent.
He could hear, faintly, one of his neighbors' televisions. They were watching Four Square.
He could – not relax, that would be premature, but he could enjoy his flat for a bit. Enjoy the world.
He had been hunkering at the bookshop. It wouldn’t do. As the Dark Ones had said, Crowley had betrayed both Heaven and Hell. He had (for the sake of argument) chosen to break from both. Living on Aziraphale’s sufferance was the same as living on Heaven’s, when you thought about it.
Crowley had a catch-up with his plants, which had got a little relaxed and rangy, but nothing that some judicious culling wouldn’t address. Afterwards, he put on some music, poured himself some wine, toasted the Mona Lisa, and paged through the newspaper in search of something to do. He hadn’t been to a concert since, what? 1971? He turned to the film listings.
He remembered there were still video cassettes at the bookshop he hadn’t watched. Couldn’t compare to the cinema, of course.
Except, well.
The company.
When you thought about it more, Aziraphale’s protection was equivalent to Heaven’s protection in only the most legalistic sense. No other representative of Heaven would have offered him a place to hunker to begin with. No other angel would have let him raid their library (within reason). No one else in all of creation would have told the Lords of Hell that Crowley was quite good at his job, and their loss.
This was all beside the point. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t see Aziraphale again. Right now, he had freedom to enjoy.
He selected a film he wanted to watch and was just opening the door to leave when every single object in the flat that contained circuitry chorused, HELLO CROWLEY.
Crowley cringed and covered his ears. It didn’t help.
WE HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN YOU.
Then everything was silent again.
Maybe this was going to be their new approach – sudden, loud interruptions followed by variable lengths of silence. That could be very effective, really. His nerves were already shot and they’d only done it once.
All at once, Crowley knew something.
Specifically, he knew the details of a multiple murder undertaken by a monk in 1382 after Ligur had worked on him consistently for two decades.
Getting knowledge deposited directly into his brain had been one of Crowley’s least favorite aspects of working for Hell. The information became part of his consciousness like ice spreading in his mind, without any opportunity to refuse it or sort it or sift it.
More unexpected knowledge took root in his brain. He now knew the entire text, verbatim, of a standard soul contract.
He also knew what was about to happen to him. And he knew that he didn’t have time to come up with a plan.
The contents of every report Ligur had ever written began to unfurl in his mind.
Good thing he hadn’t done the sensible thing and got rid of his telephone. Crowley turned and walked back into his flat.
The writer of the present report began the work of tempting the Councillor Thomas Creswick at the thirteenth hour of the day. The Councillor Creswick was heretofore known in the county as an upright and virtuous man, as will be demonstrated in the following accounts of his virtue, to wit
If he hadn’t already had ample reason to despise Ligur, the late demon’s reports to Hell would have pushed Crowley over the edge. Concision was not a fashionable quality in demons. Before he’d lost his job, Crowley had been trying unsuccessfully to get bullet points to catch on.
750 degrees Celsius, wind speed 51 knots
Weather reports from Dis, Pandemonium, and outlying territories swirled in his mind. He picked up the receiver and
British Telecom, or to give the Corporation its full statutory title, British Telecommunications, regards the quality of service – and its improvement – of crucial importance
tried to focus
British Telecom maintains some 28 million telephones
That many, huh?
London telephone exchange codes and districts served 200 Colindale 2
Aziraphale’s number was…
Hendon 3 Hendon 4 Kingsbury 5 Colindale 6 Kingsbury
…was…
Lymington Av N22 01-889 7279 Baldwin, W. J. 138
…actually very hard to dial with every other address and number in London fresh in his mind, competing for his attention.
The trick about doing things was that you generally needed to be able to think to some degree
Blowing snow, freezing fog, negative nine-nine degrees Celsius
but at least bodies had the benefit of muscle memory. He would just have to trust his fingers to do the right thing.
The Author of the present work makes no pretensions to literature, neither to genius nor discovery; but after fully thirty years extensive forest practice--although he does not flatter himself that he has learned all that is to be learned upon the subject, "The Larch"
Which he hoped they were doing because he couldn’t really tell.
Beverley House Hotel, 142 Sussex Gdns W2 01-723 4615 01-402 3292
It was hard to process stimuli when every synapse in your stupid material brain and every particle of your spiritual essence was processing all the information in the Encyclopaedia Infernalis. Crowley tried to reorient himself in his body
Clean teeth with a stiff brush and remove ears, brains, eyes, snout and most of the fat. Soak the quarters about six hours in cold water to extract the blood
and failed.
Just after slaughtering, empty the intestines of a young pig while still warm, by turning them inside out and scraping the mucous covering off completely
It was hard to tell how much time was passing. Or if time was passing.
Diagrams and schematics and visions unfolded before his mind’s eye. His mind’s ear was thoroughly preoccupied with
the larch
He retained a vague hope that his body was carrying on without him.
Crowley
He might have been in his flat or he might have been floating in the vacuum of space, who really knew.
Crowley
That was… that was auditory input. Possibly.
Maybe the call had connected? He tried to say something.
Hold on.
He tried again to speak
and
there
were hands cradling his face.
“Did that work?”
Crowley realized he was looking at Aziraphale. He exhaled experimentally. “Say something else.”
“I tried to call several times and the line was busy. I assumed Hell had your phone tied up. It turned out they had you tied up.” He released Crowley’s face, but was still peering into his eyes, as if checking that Crowley was present behind them.
Crowley looked around while the angel inspected him. He was standing in the lounge, phone in hand, exactly the last place he remembered being. “I’ve just been, um, deluged with information.”
Aziraphale took the receiver from him and hung it up. “Yes, it seemed it was something like that. You were mumbling about trees.” He began chafing Crowley’s hand. “When I first arrived, I was worried you were gone entirely. You were standing completely still. You didn’t respond to anything.”
The last word was said a bit plaintively, not to say guiltily. “You slapped me, didn’t you?”
“I did not. I just talked a lot and shook you a bit. Your glasses fell off.”
Aziraphale didn't move to retrieve them, and Crowley didn't feel up to bending over yet. “How did you make it stop?”
“Just the same way I did all those times in the shop. I say, thus far and no further. Well, I think it. Feel it, really. And then the forces of darkness recede and all’s well.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He narrowed his eyes at the angel and pulled back his hand. “You said it was internal politics. You said you didn’t have the authority.”
“I didn’t,” Aziraphale said earnestly. “I don’t know why it worked this time. I was absolutely stymied trying to do anything when they were talking to you in the car or at the video shop or any of the rest. But this time, it was just as if you were my own–” He broke off. “Er, that is, just the same as anything that belongs – Oh, that’s worse.”
Aziraphale subsided into embarrassed silence. Outwardly, Crowley was calm. Inwardly, he was threatening his facial capillaries with dire consequences if they didn’t hold firm.
He inhaled deeply, letting the world come back to him. The dry chill of the air in his flat. The anxious susurration of his plants. The angel, still flushed, in front of him.
Well, there was no point resisting it, if it had already happened.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll come back to the shop, then, shall I?”
Aziraphale looked relieved. “I wish you would. I’ve been at a standstill without you.”
Crowley stared at him wonderingly. “You have?”
Aziraphale nodded. “There are these horrible turtles throwing hammers at me, and they won’t let me by. Maybe you can figure out what to do about them.”
“Right. Right.” Crowley glanced past him, to the neon lamps that cast everything in the room into bright white relief. “And what about if I come back, erm, long-term?” He brought his eyes back to Aziraphale’s face. “It’s just that it’s been working rather well, I thought. Hasn’t it?”
Aziraphale’s eyes met his, clear and candid. “It has,” he said.
“All right. So if you don’t mind continuing as we have been–”
“I like continuing as we have been,” the angel interjected. “I prefer it.”
Maybe contentment wasn’t precisely the word. It was like speeding down the motorway with nowhere you had to be, ever again. It was like walking on the beach with the ocean lapping at your feet, if Crowley liked the ocean or the beach or things lapping at his feet.
The angel twined his fingers together. “What’s that quaint phrase you used once – if it isn’t broken…?”
“Don’t fix it. Yeah.”
“Well, then.” Aziraphale smiled. “Let’s not.”
Crowley extended his hand. “To not fixing it.”
Aziraphale began to reach forward, but then his fingers curled back. “Do you really think this is a handshake sort of agreement?”
Crowley was trying to figure out what they could possibly write in a contract, and by extension, what Aziraphale thought they were agreeing to, when Aziraphale stepped forward and kissed him.
The angel kissed as conscientiously as he did everything. It was a firm but careful kiss, a kiss that wrote in a neat copperplate hand and read the whole manual before operating the machine. It was a kiss that remembered how you took your tea but still asked every time in case you had changed your mind.
Crowley fell forward, just a little, as Aziraphale stepped back.
White noise filled his head. Like the world rushing by. Like the ocean coming in.
The angel was smiling like he’d just done something clever.
CROWLEY.
Crowley stiffened with concentrated, long-delayed rage. No. Absolutely not. Not now. He whirled around with a hiss to confront his sound system, ready to melt down the matte plastic exterior and cut each wire one by one, if that’s what it took.
But the non-sound had already dissipated. The room was quiet again. The good kind of quiet that didn’t call you a pervert.
Crowley waited a moment to be sure it wasn’t a trick. “Did you do that? Did I?”
“I’m not sure.” Aziraphale looked more thoughtful than surprised. “But I suspect you won’t be hearing from them again, at least not here.”
Crowley considered the implications. Then he decided he’d rather not consider them. “Let’s get out of here, anyway. I’ve had enough of my flat for one day.” He looked around the room, and realized that it was dark outside. “What day is it?”
“It’s the small hours of Saturday. You left the bookshop yesterday.”
“Whew.” That explained why his leg and phone-holding muscles were sore. “I must have been standing here since three o’clock, at least.”
“Yes, but don’t worry.” Aziraphale grasped Crowley’s hand and squeezed reassuringly. “I recorded Golden Girls.”