Fan Fiction ❯ Epic Battles ❯ What it's like ( Chapter 3 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Drip. Drip.

Sigh.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Grumble.

Dripdripdripdripdripdrip.

Oh, for Heav- … for Hel- … for someone's sake! This was utterly ridiculous.

Crowley stopped in the street, looked around cautiously and pulled an umbrella out of thin air. Then he tilted his head back and sent a rather venomous glare upwards. Da- … ble- … thingy St. Peter anyway! Whoever made that …er, … one responsible for the weather should be flogged and quartered.

`Think it's funny, do you,' he snarled in the privacy of his mind.(1)

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(1) Actually (even without being aware of Crowley's exact thoughts), St. Peter rather thought it was. He had a pretty twisted sense of humour. And a great liking for horror flicks. Film makers in need of thunder and lighting for scenes of the creation of one film monster or another often found freak storm occurring when they really came in handy. Much to the chagrin of weather forecasters, who had, of course, not seen them coming and consequently suffered quite a lot of verbal abuse by a number of angry (and wet) people.

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Splash.

Crowley's left eyebrow started twitching as his eyes bored holes into the tires of the car (2) that had just gotten him even wetter than before.

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(2) This is to be taken literary.

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The car swerved to the left and hit a hydrant. Crowley smirked, satisfied, then flinched, expecting a bolt of lightning to strike him any minute now.

Nothing happened. Either they hadn't noticed or … nah, they probably hadn't noticed. Otherwise Aziraphale would have gotten into quite a lot of trouble centuries ago (when the Arrangement had been put into practice for the first time).

Still, it wouldn't hurt to make a strategic retreat. Get as far away as possible from the scene of the crime, so to speak.

The former demon hurried away.

On the other side of town, a rather bedraggled former angel was climbing a tree. It was quite a slippery affair and he'd lost his footing three times already and only his ange-, er, demonic powers had kept him from heeding gravity and squashing the nine-year-old below him. The nine-year-old that was currently standing underneath his umbrella (3) and looking up at him with big, hopeful eyes.

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(3) Tartan. Old habits were hard to break.

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Hopeful because he had promised to rescue her kitten (Elvie) from having to remain outside during the storm. It would have been easier had he managed to convince the child to go inside while he fetched the animal. He could have simply Miracled it down from the tree. But she had wanted to watch.

`Almost there.'

He strained his fingers, mentally coaxing the cat to obey him and just come one - step - closer (`Nice kitty'), and - “Yes!” He'd got her.

This joyous exclamation was quickly followed by a horrified “Oh Dear”, however, as he lost his hold on the branch for good and plummeted downwards. At the last moment, he managed to twist and land beside the little girl - who promptly started giggling.

Zifell (4) fought the urge to snap at her and simply glared at the grass underneath his face.

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(4) He had had to change his name. As can be seen, creativity was not really his forte. On the other hand “Crawly/Crowley” wasn't that imaginative either.

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Somehow he was sharply reminded of a certain boy who he had mistakenly thought to be the Antichrist. In his opinion, Warlock had certainly made a better Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness than Adam.

And that little demon was on her way to emulate him. Hell would love her. Zifell briefly closed his eyes and, after taking a deep breath to calm himself, got up, hiding a wince. Even though he'd tried his best to break his fall with the use of his powers, it still hurt.

The kitten was unharmed, however, so he handed the soggy pet over to its mistress, not really expecting gratitude and indeed not receiving even a little thanks.

He stalked off.

After a couple of meters he remembered his umbrella but decided to simply leave it behind. He would not return there.

`Really,' he grumbled, `to giggle when she saw me Fa-, er fall.'

He had a good mind to just go back, anyway, and teach her a lesson. He shook his head. He shouldn't because it might just make a good girl out of her and Down Below would not be happy with him.

He sighed.

Who was he kidding? It just wasn't in his nature. While he might not have been a perfect angel, he was a total failure as a demon and nothing would change that.

He snorted. And to think he'd received a commendation on the second day with his new employer. Zifell wasn't quite sure how he had achieved that. He probably hadn't. After all, Crowley must still be around, happily tempting to his heart's delight. It must have been him.

Now and then, the ex-angel felt a little guilty about not having informed his former counterpart of his new status. But then, the Arrangement was surely not valid anymore if they were on the same side now.

He shuddered. Oh dear, he really hoped Crowley would not hear about it for a long time - or ever. The demon would have a field day.

Weeks passed turning into months. Crowley's Miracling didn't really improve all that much but it didn't seem to matter since someone - probably Aziraphale, who else? - did enough for both of them.

His occasional (and entirely accidental, honestly gov!) Tempting wasn't remarked on either, so Hell must have sent another demon in his stead. Or maybe two, for balance's sake. Actually, he was a bit surprised that he hadn't run into them yet. Not that he wanted to. He certainly didn't want to face the jibes and sneers and jeers. A Risen Demon. It was worse than a Fallen Angel. Admittedly, he hadn't so much Risen as been Pushed Upwards, but the oth-, er, the demons wouldn't care about that.

On the other hand, he'd take a confrontation with his ex-colleagues over a meeting with Aziraphale any day. Oh, he knew the angel wouldn't taunt him, he was too good. No, Aziraphale would either congratulate him or feel for him (Crowley guessed that the angel might actually understand how awful this was for him). Bah.

He sighed, parking his car behind the restaurant. At least he was still on earth. It was his only comfort. Crowley snorted as he remembered the angelic council finally reaching the decision to send him here as their field agent. It had had very little to do with his experience, instead it had had a lot to do with the fact that they didn't know what else to do with him. He was still too tainted to be in contact with the other angels (he might tempt them after all) and they couldn't very well send him back Down. He had just come Up.

“Mr. …?”

“Crowley - A. J. Crowley (5). I have a reservation.” Well, he did now, anyway.

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(5) He'd kept his demonic name. First of all, it would have been to tedious to change it because of all the credit cards and what-not on his name, which would have become invalid. Second of all, it wasn't as if he was a real angel. No use trying to pretend.

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The waiter checked his book, then gestured for him to follow. Crowley did, deep in thought.

Hell probably wouldn't want him back, anyway, come to think about it. He (and Aziraphale) had stopped Armageddon, the final battle between Good and Evil. A battle that his former employer had been convinced he'd win. So, naturally what Crowley had done was considered the Right thing, i.e. saving the good guys from defeat. And real demons never did the Right thing. Ergo, he was not a real demon. Ergo, he had no place in Hell. Ergo, they threw him out.

The menu was placed in his hands, effectively distracting him from the path his thoughts had been following. Crowley took it and studied the contents with a sneer. He'd really rather be at the Ritz. But that was where he always dined and if the angel was searching for him, that would be the first place he'd look. Better not to risk it.

“My dear boy, I'm sure if you were to look again, you'd find my name.”

There was a brief pause as the waiter, whose name was John (6), checked his book again. He blinked.

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(6) and who was so unimportant to this narration that mentioning his name can be considered a waste of time and virtual ink and paper (7), but there you go

(7) in fact, so is this footnote (8)

(8) and this one, too (9)

(9) and … (ad infinitum)

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After giving his humblest apologies, he led Zifell to a table, at which another guest already sat reading the menu. Now, the old Aziraphale would have called this particular occurrence a part of the ineffable plan. So would Zifell, to tell the truth. But really, it only happens because of the plot.

Anyway, so here was Zifell, going to a not-so-favourite-but-still-okay restaurant of his in hopes of avoiding Crowley. Naturally, Murphy had other ideas (10).

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(10) Murphy's Law - “What can go wrong, will go wrong.” Or: “The best excuse, ever!”

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“Thank you, my dear boy.”

Crowley, who had just been meaning to set the menu down and order, froze.

`Thisss isss not happening,' he told himself. `In fact, I'm probably hallucccccinating.'

He hoped he was, because the alternative was truly too horrible to even vaguely contemplate.

Aziraphale was not there. Absolutely not!

Right.

Yeah.

…

Shit.

`Okay, don't panic. You can do this. You can fool him. This is Aziraphale for crying out loud!'

One minute later, a minute which he spent using every meditation technique known to mankind to calm himself, Crowley was not ready to face him but what choice did he have?

Other than making a complete fool of himself?

`Fine. I'm cool. I'm controlled. I've faced the Antichrist and even the Morningstar himself. Nothing can faze me.'

Slowly, very slowly, in fact inhumanly slowly, he closed the menu and looked at the man opposite him.

`Keep cool. Think “Flash Bastard”.'

Nanoseconds trickled by.

`Right, here goes nothing.'

“Hey there,” he squeaked.

Aziraphale started and fell off his chair.

“C-C-Crowley?”

A casual listener might at this point have observed that the pitch of their voices matched perfectly: high, shrill and loud.

Aziraphale got up from the floor and re-seated himself.

They stared at each other.

After fifteen seconds both began to fidget.

“Well…”

“Er, yes?”

“Um… uh… nothing”

“Oh…”

An awkward silence fell between them.

Then:

“I guess you heard then.” / “You must know.”

“What do you mean?” / “Huh?”

“Er…” / “Um…”

…

Later that night, in a bar called “Satan's Hideaway”, a not-quite-angel and a not-quite-demon sat at a table and got smashed.

Then they worked out an Arrangement.

They met often from then on, swapping notes, making reports.

Zifell (or Aziraphale, as Crowley still liked to call him) Miracled, and Healed, and did Good. Crowley Tempted, and Tainted, and did Bad. Each took credit for the deeds of the other.

And it worked.

AN3: *sighs* endings a bit rushed. Maybe I'll rework it. Tell me what you think.

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