Bad Omens

Aziraphale stands in his shop. On his left is a suitcase full to bursting with all his most important books. On his right the remains of a summoning circle where he just had the worst conversation with his bosses ever. He was being “fired” and being fired for an angel meant falling. The representatives from Heaven would be down at noon to do it. Aziraphale glances at the clock, 11:30.

Blast! Crowlet the old boy had better get here soon. The ingredients for the spell that would be there ticket out of here is laid neatly out on the table. Also on the table is a cup of tea. Aziraphale has been sipping it all morning to calm his nerves. The tea cup knows better than to run out or go cold in the presence of an angel. Aziraphale takes another sip and checks the clock again. 11:32. Good heavens! Crowley is being downright reckless with how late he’s being, and though Aziraphale knows that running fashionably late has been Crowley’s thing since the 1870s he still can’t help but feel a jolt of worry. He can’t imagine Crowley’s side is pleased with him either. What if they did something to him?

Aziraphale looks at the sword propped up against the table. It’s an innocent looking steel color, like most swords, but Aziraphale knows that with just a little will power it can become so much more. He hopes he won’t have to use it. The clock reads 11:35. He will give Crowley 5 more minutes than he will take the sword and go find that sneaky serpent.

Crowley had meant to be on time, he really had. He’d spent the morning puttering around his flat, picking things up and putting them down because there really wasn’t much sense in bringing anything with him. His plants had provided a real quandary; even as a demon he wasn’t heartless enough to simply leave them to die, but it wasn’t as if he had a lot of friends who would be willing to plant-sit for...ever. He settled with writing a note (“Free Plants to a Good Home”) and leaving them outside the nearest market. The Bentley provided another quandary, and finally he settled on using his powers to shrink it down to the side of a matchbox car. It wouldn’t be of much use for driving, anymore, but at least he could take it with him.

At that point, the clock read 11:20 and he realized with a jolt that—sans Bentley—he was going to have to get to Soho by foot or, worse, a taxi.

He turned to open the door to the hallway and stared at it, mildly dumbfounded, when it didn’t open. He tried it again, and it stubbornly refused. Definitely...not good. He was starting to panic when on the TV he’d left droning in the background, James Bond said, “DIDN’T THINK YOU’D GET AWAY FROM US THAT EASILY, DID YOU CROWLEY?”

He felt his face go blank as horror clutched at his chest. He hadn’t told Downstairs about his planned little jaunt into another universe with Aziraphale, but Downstairs had a way of finding out anyway.

“STAY WHERE YOU ARE,” James Bond told him, as if he had any choice in the matter. “OUR REPRESENTATIVES WILL BE THERE SHORTLY.”

At least, Crowley had time to think before the door swung violently inward to reveal the dark stooping forms of Hastur and Ligur, who had in fact arrived shortly, at least Aziraphale was going to make it out without him.

The clock strikes 11:45. Oh dear, Aziraphale sighs. Crowley enjoys being late, bit he's not one to risk his life to do it. Something must have happened to him. Worry lances through him. He shakes his head. He's getting ahead of himself, nothing has happened to Crowley. Crowley is probably fussing over his plants or saying too long a goodbye to his car. Still, as he heads out the door he grabs his sword. Just in case.

Aziraphale goes to Crowley's posh apartment. It is the opposite of the cozy bookshop in every way. It suits Crowley perfectly, in Aziraphale's opinion. He knocks politely on the door.

Crowley was tied to a chair. The chains around his wrists were heavy and, in his opinion, entirely unnecessary. It wasn’t like he could leave anyway, not with Hastur and Ligur still skulking around the place. They liked the effect, though. Intimidation and all that.

Also unnecessary. Crowley was plenty intimidated.

“—and then we’ll skin you and chop you up and feed you to—“

Ligur was cut off by a few sharp raps on the door. That was also not good, particularly for whatever unfortunate soul was knocking on the door. Crowley’s neighbors didn’t typically stop in, but it wasn’t unheard of...especially if someone had got wind he was leaving.

“You probably don’t need to get that,” he said, but hastur was already moving to the door. Then he opened it.

An unfamiliar face opens the door to Crowley's apartment. He has a distinctly demonic aura, although Aziraphale doubts he's a friend of Crowley.

Aziraphale looks past the demon in the door way where he sees Crowley chained to a chair. A rare feeling of anger passes over Aziraphale and the sword in his hand bursts into holy fire. It's been a long time since he's felt righteous rage like this.

"Let me in," he says coldly, not even saying please.

He hears a sneering voice from inside. "Do it Hastur, it'll be fun."

The demon- hasture- steps to the side, a devilish grin, that is nothing like Crowley's devilish grin, and let's Aziraphale pass. As soon as he's inside the door slams shut behind him.

Crowley felt his insides turn to lead as Aziraphale’s cultured tones sounded from behind the door. They stayed that way as the door opened fully, revealing Aziraphale standing there with flaming sword in hand. He jumped as the door slammed shut again.

“All right, all right, can we hold up here?” Crowley said loudly, straining to turn in the chair to be facing all of them. The chains bit into his wrists but he found it hard to care. “There’s no need for anyone to get all...battle-y...right now, I am counting on my security deposit, you know.”

Ligur was advancing on Aziraphale with an eager grin, some sort of hellish looking weapon appearing in his hand. Hastur was behind him somewhere and he couldn’t see what he was doing.

“Please, Angel,” Crowley kept babbling, fully aware he was doing so but not in a position to do anything else, “situation here is all under control, no need for heroics. You’ve got an appointment to keep after all and—“

Crowley yelped in a decidedly undemonic way as a hand grabbed his hair roughly to pull his head back. At the same time a sharp blade appeared under Crowley’s chin and Hastur said, “All right, angel. We know about you and Crawly. We also know you’re on your way Downstairs so Heaven’s not likely to mind if you go missing. Now, put down the sword or the flash bastard gets it.”

Crowley looks downright panicked as he tries to convince Aziraphale to leave. It's sweet of him to be so concerned, but Aziraphale has no plans of leaving without Crowley, not that the others would let him at this point even if he wanted to. "Hush dear," Aziraphale says.

He sizes up his opponents. It's been a long time since he's had to truly fight a demon, much less two at once. Aziraphale tightens his grip in his weapon as one demon approaches him and the other makes a move towards Crowley.

“All right, angel. We know about you and Crawly. We also know you’re on your way Downstairs so Heaven’s not likely to mind if you go missing. Now, put down the sword or the flash bastard gets it.”

Aziraphale freezes. He recognizes the blade in Hastur's hand. It's powerful, not something that Crowley or himself would easily recover from if stabbed. He hesitates and the blade is pressed deeper into Crowley's neck. Aziraphale drops the sword and fire goes out.

He puts his hands up in surrender. Ligur reaches out to grab him and Aziraphale dodges and takes off down the hall towards the kitchen. He hopes that the demons will be more interested in chasing him than hurting Crowley. Once in the kitchen Aziraphale grabs the tea kettle that Crowley keeps on the stove and begins filling it with water. He hears footsteps behind him and arms pull him back just as he finishes filling it up. He begins blessing the water, mumbling the appropriate prayers softly.

Aziraphale told Crowley to hush. As usual, when the angel said this kind of thing, it made Crowley want to do the exact opposite.

But everything moved too fast and he was sitting there with the blade against his throat by the time he could even think to argue, and then Aziraphale was putting his sword down and running into the kitchen. Crowley heard water running and the metallic clank of his teapot and wondered for an odd moment why Aziraphale was making tea at a time like this.

Ligur ran after Aziraphale, and out of Crowley’s view. Hastur seemed unsure what to do about the whole thing. Crowley weighed his options, of which there were, decidedly, not many. He couldn’t let Ligur hurt the angel, no matter what happened. That meant getting out of the chains. That meant...

I’m a flash Crowley had reverted to his serpent form, slithering out of the chair just as Hastur swiped down with the blade. Crowley felt a flash of pain in his flank but it was easy enough to ignore. He coiled and struck, digging his fangs into Hastur’s leg and yelling around the mouthful, “Angel! Get out!”

Aziraphale dumps the teapot filled with holy water over his shoulder, soaking both himself and Ligur. He feels the demon's arms (literally) melt away. He shakes his wet hair out of his eyes just as he hears a yelp of pain.

He runs back to the living room to find Hastur trying to shake off a large snake, which has it's fangs buried deep into his leg. Aziraphale hears a muffled "angel get out of here" which he promptly ignores in favor of picking up his sword. With a flick it flames back to life.

"Move out of the way dear," Aziraphale says.

Crowley did as he was told, letting go of Hastur's leg and slithering backwards, then growing to his human form a few feet away. Aziraphale had his flaming sword, and Hastur was distracted, still half looking at Crowley. The angel would be fine. Probably. He could always jump in again if need be.

Human-shaped again, Crowley winced. The blade that had struck him as a snake had left a long gash over his ribs, which was stinging rather painfully, and ruined his shirt. He prodded at it distastefully, then dropped his hand to offer Aziraphale some encouragement.

"You get him, angel!"

As soon as Crowley slithers out of danger Aziraphale lunges at Hastur. The blade pierces his chest, and the skin surrounding the wound begins to sizzle. Black lines spider web out. Hastur lets out a howl as he crumbles before their eyes.

The treat eliminated, Aziraphale flicks his sword, extinguishing the fire, then hurries to Crowley side. He tsks worriedly as he examines the wound. It was radiating with demonic magic; too much for Aziraphale to heal. Instead, Aziraphale waves his hand. Clean white bandages appear and wrap themselves around Crowley's ribs. Then Aziraphale smooths out Crowley's shirt, miraculously cleaning and repairing it at the same time.

"Come on dear. We have to go before my people show up," Aziraphale says.

Crowley grinned as Hastur crumbled to dust. It wasn’t often he got to see the angel in action, and he found it all manner of exciting.

“Nice one,” Crowley said.

He clenched his teeth as Aziraphale bandaged his side and repaired his shirt. The wound burned painfully but he ignored it, climbing to his feet. “Your side, and mine. They won’t stop with these two. Back to the bookshop, eh?”

Once Crowley's side is properly bandaged Aziraphale takes out his pocket watch checks the time.

"Oh dear. We better hurry back to the bookshop. My side will be arriving very shortly."

He helps Crowley up, looking him over carefully for any signs of pain.

"Perhaps we should take the Bentley," Aziraphale suggests, "we really don't have the time to walk all the way there."

He's not overly concerned about his people showing up just yet. Gabriel is never late, but he's also never early, still who knows how many of Crowley's people are out there just waiting to attack. With that in mind, Aziraphale picks up his sword.

Crowley let Aziraphale help him to his feet, keeping his expression neutral. For all he knew angels were Good, ineffably so, it still surprised him every time Aziraphale extended that goodness to him. it certainly wouldn’t do to lean on the angel any more than he had to.

In any case, he’d be fine, and they had to move quickly. A graze along the ribs was nothing compared to what Downstairs would do to him. Or what Upstairs would do to Aziraphale, for that matter. He really couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to the angel.

“Sorry,” he said apologetically at Aziraphale’s suggestion, holding up the Bentley he’d shrunk down to pocket size. “Taxi?”

Steve feels a brush of sadness as Crowley pulls away. He hopes he hasn't offended the demon. He was only trying to help, but Crowley could be so prideful sometimes.

He pushes those thoughts to the side. There are more pressing matters to worry about.

Crowley holds up the shrunken Bentley and Aziraphale sighs. Public transportation had been originally his idea, but Crowley had managed to corrupt it enough over the years that the ride was always an unpleasant.

"Well, let's be quick about it." Aziraphale says. He goes outside the apartment to wave down a cab. Most fly past, until Aziraphale impatiently miracles one into stopping. He hops in and turns to help Crowley in as well.

Crowley pulls a face --not exactly displeased but a little confused--as Aziraphale helps him into the cab. Aziraphale is alwaysa helpful sort, of course, but over the years they've rarely crossed the line that involves touching one another in public. If someone was watching ...

If someone was watching, it didn't matter, because both heaven and hell were out to get both of them anyway.

The ride back to Soho is tense, and far too long, despite Crowley miracle-ing the other drivers out it their way and Aziraphale miracle-ing the lights green. Probably. Crowley is feeling a little faint by the time they roll to a stop outside.

"Well?" He says a little breathlessly over they're standing on the busy sidewalk. "Are we too late?"

As soon as the cab drives away Aziraphale is unlocking his shop. He checks his pocket watch.

"No, no. We have exactly a minute," he says. He starts mixing the ingredients for the spell.

"Be a dear and start drawing the sigil please." He says, "oh I do hope this works. If not we'll be in quite a kerfuffle."

The clock on the wall continues to tick closer to noon.

Crowley followed Aziraphale into the shop, taking a long whiff of its familiar musty smell as he only to draw the sigil. They'd had a lot of times, here, him and the angel. He'd be sad to see the last of it. Assuming, of course, that the spell worked and they got away before their superiors caught up to them.

He worked quickly, and efficiently, as the seconds ticked down. As he put the finishing touches on, he said, "Angel, if this goes south... It's been fun."

"It has been rather nice hasn't it?" Aziraphale muses as he finishes up the last of the spell. "I do hope wherever we end up has bookshops and wine."

With the sigil finished and Aziraphale's bowl mixed he reads from the texts the last of the spell. A dark swirling portal opens.

"Well, here goes nothing I suppose." Aziraphale says. Grabbing his bag of his most precious books and his sword Aziraphale marches through, trusting Crowley to follow.

The first thing Crowley noticed was that the other side of the portal smelled an awful lot like musty old books. Moreover, it looked an also lot like Aziraphale's musty old bookshop.

Crowley turned and peered behind him, just to make sure he had actually gone through the portal. There it was, swirling away. And of course, there were subtle differences. In the energy of the place, especially. A distinct lack of anyone above or below breathing down your neck, for one.

Crowley grinned, and class Aziraphale on the back, ignoring the way his side twinged.

"Angel! We did it. How about closing that portal now, eh?"