Chapter Text
Wednesday
A Good Omens fanfiction
Part 12 of 12
"Why do you go away? So that you can come back."
– A Hat Full of Sky, Terry Pratchett
For Crowley, his portion was that – as far as things went in his own world where he'd left his body behind on the first Wednesday – he got to be in blissful ignorance of anything that happened outside of the world he was visiting. He was simply not there. Raphael did not inhabit his body as he'd inhabited Raphael's.
Nobody inhabited it.
Once or twice, as Aziraphale would later tell him, the principality – who'd never left his side – had seen his eyes open – just a slit – and was filled with a hope that wounded absolutely when he realised whatever looked out from the corner of Crowley's eyes then promptly concluded it was in the wrong place and left without a fuss, without so much as taking a breath or moving a finger, was simply not Crowley.
And, by this, Aziraphale didn't mean it was not his Crowley. It was not Crowley from another universe, either, for even that much similarity would have endeared the thing looking out to the desperate angel, who'd have been largely unwilling to let it leave. It was only a stranger, something old and without corporation, drawn to the wrong place and not – evidently – feeling very intrusive.
Aziraphale's portion was one of waiting. Although it was not always Wednesday for him, although he did not learn what it was to live within a time-loop, you might say he did live the same day over and over again. In a manner of speaking. Because, after he lifted Crowley's lifeless body off the bookshop floor and hoisted him onto the couch, covering him with a blanket and gently tucking him in, every clock in the shop might as well have stopped; nothing changed.
That is, of course, with the exceptions of that singular lost, unknown visitor and the demons who came into the shop, more than once, insisting the body Aziraphale wouldn't let out of his sight was in fact the property of Hell and must be returned.
They meant business, but Aziraphale didn't care. He meant business as well, and showed them that by fighting them off with far more strength and viciousness than they expected from a prissy, broken-hearted angel. He was clever and understood exactly why they suddenly cared so much about one stray body. They wanted – since there was nobody left inside of it to threaten them – to take it and try to work out how it had, allegedly, become immune to holy water.
The principality didn't know what would happen to an empty demonic body placed in holy water, but even if his own secret – his own part played in their swap – wasn't involved, he'd never have given those cretins the chance to find out.
They weren't taking Crowley anywhere.
Even if it technically wasn't Crowley any longer, it was all he had left of his friend.
It became a vigil.
And that vigil was all Aziraphale knew after a while.
One day, Gabriel had entered the shop, and Aziraphale didn't even look up – he was still staring fixedly down at the couch, at Crowley.
"Ahem."
"Gabriel," he'd replied in a monotone, still not lifting his eyes. "What do you want?"
"The opposition says you have something of theirs."
"Well, I don't – thank you for coming by, but I'm afraid I'm quite busy."
"On the way in, I noticed all of the letters I sent were piled in front of the door." Indeed, he'd nearly tripped over the glowing, sloppy stack of unopened envelopes and been none too happy about it.
"That's where the postman leaves them, I suppose."
"And you don't bother to pick them up?"
"I can't," murmured Aziraphale, distantly. "Waiting. Keeps me on my toes."
"Aziraphale!"
"I think you had better go."
"Heaven has been bombarded with angry messages."
"Has it? That's a shame."
"Just give the bastards what they want."
"I said, I think you had better go."
"You may be immune to Hellfire, sunshine, but I can still make you do as I say for the greater good, whatever you are now."
"D'you really want to find out if that's true?"
"The demon Crowley is never coming back, you do realise that?"
"Perhaps not." His voice was low, accepting of the facts but unbending in resolve. "Still, I had better stay with him, just in case."
"You disgust me." Gabriel watched as Aziraphale – who looked more unkempt than he'd ever seen him before – reached out and patted the outline of Crowley's limp wrist under the blanket.
"Yes, I suppose I do. Well, there's no helping that, but if you wouldn't mind, could you pick up your letters on the way out? Easier than sending them back to you, or else having them all recycled, I shouldn't wonder."
Gabriel had then turned in a huff, throwing up his hands, and begun stomping towards the door.
"Gabriel?"
Surprised at being addressed, he'd turned halfway. "Yes?"
"If Hastur had done this" – Aziraphale gestured down at the couch – "to Sandalphon, what would you have done differently from me?"
His nostrils flared. "Sandalphon's not a demon – his body doesn't belong to Hell."
"Would it matter to you if it did?"
"Of course it would." But he said it too readily, too quickly, and he did not come back to speak to Aziraphale on the matter again – the letters, too, stopped coming.
In the end, the archangels had left him alone with his grief.
His grief, his neglected bookshop, and his vigil.
Heaven on the whole wasn't quite finished, however. Sometime later, the Metatron – unable to appear in the concealed chalk circle, good for nothing apart from housing dust bunnies these days – came in by the bookshop door surrounded by a flash of white light and a pulsing aura of vivid reddish-purple annoyance. He didn't like anything to bring him down to earth these days.
"Aziraphale, none of the archangels were willing to pay you another visit, do you know why that was?"
The principality, for once not staring down at Crowley's lifeless face, his gaze directed this time at an open book in his lap, reams of paper loosely tied with string and joined with tiny metal clips – some old, written on, some so white and unmarred they glowed brighter than the Metatron's flash on arrival – scattered across the floor around his chair and the couch, glanced up. "Er. They are..." – he was looking about for a loose page he'd dropped – "afraid of me, I expect."
"They are archangels, Aziraphale."
And he was an angel who could – as far as they knew – withstand Hellfire, hardly what you'd call shoddy. Still, he knew what the Metatron meant.
"You can't keep the demon's body," he told him flat out, pitilessly. "Such a thing is not permitted. Even earthbound and isolated from office as you are at the moment, the recent unpleasantness does not absolve you of the obligation to–"
"You're the voice of God, you have a position I respect – I have no quarrel with you."
"That is good, because serious concern has been voiced regarding–"
Aziraphale wasn't finished, he cut back in. "And so it's with the utmost respect that I tell you, if you try to take him from me, I will have the thankless task of discorporating you and making it look like a most unfortunate accident." The angel's narrowed eyes were cold in a way which suggested – despite the brittle smile playing about his lips – he was most certainly not joking. "Do we understand one another?"
"Aziraphale, that is not him – your demon isn't in there."
He pretended to fixate on his book again. It wasn't until the Metatron, not as visibly angry as Gabriel but still displeased with how their conversation had gone, left that the principality buried his face in his hands and whimpered.
Crowley was drowning from the inside out. He jackknifed forward and vomited up a mouthful of varnish-coloured water, which projected itself over the arm of the couch.
Gasping, he sank back into the soft pillows under him, blinked twice in quick succession, and tried to think – his mind was fuzzy, distant. Where was he? He closed his eyes again and breathed slowly, in and out.
The sensation that someone was staring at him and not saying anything made his skin crawl.
"Crowley?"
He opened his eyes, and found himself looking at a remarkably dusty, droopy version of his angel, hovering over him anxiously, mouth slightly agape.
Never having seen Aziraphale look this poorly groomed – not even when he'd been in the sorriest of situations, including being locked up in the bloody Bastille – for a split-second he actually failed to recognise him.
There were little tears and torn seams in his vest. One of the buttons on his shirt cuff, rolled in a bunched, wrinkled fashion up to his right elbow, was in the wrong hole.
Crowley had known Aziraphale to wear things for several centuries until the fabric might have lost most of its original texture, if one could even recall what it was supposed to be, but he always kept them in perfect condition. Could this really be the same angel who'd fretted over the blue paint stain on his coat?
"Crowley," he said again, this time not as a question.
That was what clinched it. The voice. Accompanied by the angel's familiar, unique smell. Then the eyes, as he focused on them and realised, with a joy that made him feel like flying, they were not charcoal.
The angel flung himself on top of him and threw his arms around his middle. His wings – their feathers as messy as the rest of him – opened up and bowed forward, so that he was hugging Crowley with those appendages too.
"Hello, Aziraphale," the demon croaked out, wiggling free but still grasping the angel's plump arms. "Did you miss me?"
The principality cleared his throat and pulled back, winching in his wings. "Er."
"What day is it?"
Flopping over to the other side of the couch, Aziraphale murmured, "Thursday."
"I was only gone a day, then," sighed Crowley, relieved. "Only gone Wednesday. Not too bad."
Aziraphale gave him a look.
"Wot?" He was in the process of stretching his arms over his head, trying to loosen his stiff, sore limbs. "Seriously. Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Nothing." It was obvious he was lying. "It's nothing." He started to rise up, patting the air near Crowley's leg with a shaking hand. "I'll just go fetch...er...something... You need something, you must be feeling..."
Crowley reached over and snagged his arm again. "What is it?"
"You weren't gone a day," he managed, nearly in a whisper, not meeting his eyes. "You were gone a year."
"Wot?"
"You were gone a year!" he cried, louder, exasperated, though not with Crowley.
"Hang on, what do you mean I was gone a year?"
"I mean, after Hastur poisoned you, you went away and didn't come back for – oh, roughly – three hundred and sixty-five days." His cheeks were flushed. "Now. You must want something – obviously not tea, I think, but perhaps some soup... Or something stronger... Bother." His hands flapped and fluttered; the angel was blithering. "I just remembered... I haven't got anything in the bookshop at the moment, some of your demonic former brethren made off with the last of the Châteauneuf-du-Pape when they were here last, I'm afraid; but – I'll tell you what, Crowley – I'm going to hop over to the phone right now and, er, order something. It'll only take a moment, my dear, what would you like? Oh, you know what, never mind, I'll simply have them deliver everything I can think of."
Unable to stop the manic angel from getting up and making his way over to the antique rotary phone, yet feeling reasonably sure he'd realise, sooner or later, his fingers were trembling far too much to use it (he was bound to), Crowley gathered his strength and followed him. He carried the blanket that had been over him while he was absent in his arms. From behind, he tossed it gently over Aziraphale's shoulders as the principality lowered the handset back down onto the cradle uncertainly.
"I–" he began, without turning.
Crowley snaked his arms around him and silently embraced him.
"I'm being silly. Everything's fine now," stammered Aziraphale, all watery smiles and clenched teeth and glistening unshed tears, still dazed. "Absolutely tickety-boo."
No, it wasn't. Crowley could tell it wasn't. Aziraphale had had a nasty shock, even though it was what he wanted – his friend back. He'd waited a year; he'd lost hope despite himself; this was difficult for him. So he held onto him tighter, just kept clutching him, and leaned his head down onto the angel's warm, broad shoulder.
There was a moment of quiet from both ends, Aziraphale's frantic breathing slowing. Then he said, as if from pure wonderment, "I can feel your heartbeat."
A year with no pulse, no breath of life from the demon's corporation, and now he was feeling it pressed against him – life, real and beating.
That was when it happened, like a dam breaking. Aziraphale began to sob with abandon.
When he'd steadied somewhat, Crowley led him back to the couch and had him sit down. Aziraphale shook off the blanket and unfurled his wings again. Crowley, stroking them, went almost immediately for the familiar pressure point – that one little spot he knew about – because, if there was ever a particularly desperate moment wherein he needed a shortcut to calming his angel down, this was probably it.
Not that he blamed him for being on the hysterical side. He remembered how insanely frantic he'd gotten during this whole business, when trying to rescue the other Aziraphale while stuck in that nasty time-loop – he hadn't exactly been the calmest guy, either. And then there was the unfortunate fact that the angel had been here waiting for him for a year, never knowing if he'd come back again or not.
Under most circumstances, a year was nothing to them, no real time to speak of – they weren't human, after all, and they'd spent centuries apart in the past. But this had been the exception. Every hour would have been a kind of slow, uncertain torture.
It must have been Hell.
Worse than Hell, even.
Hell, he knew from experience, could sometimes (on a good day) be slightly more bearable than what Aziraphale had just endured.
Crowley had all the understanding in the world for his friend's plight. When Aziraphale sagged against him and had gone completely quiet for several minutes, he finally said, "Come on, angel, grab your coat – I'll take you to lunch."
Following behind as Aziraphale unprotestingly got up and fetched his camel hair coat, walking to the door as if moving through some sort of lucid dream, the demon caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the window-glass and was consoled by the sight of the yellow serpentine eyes which stared back.
He really was home now.
They had Champagne & Afternoon Tea at the Ritz.
And over a choice selection of finger sandwiches, dainty jams and clotted cream with scones, chased down by pastries and biscuits, Aziraphale told Crowley all about the year he'd missed. He talked animatedly about fighting off and – in many cases – bribing demons who were, dare he say, reluctant, for lack of a better word, to take no for an answer; the angel explained every minute of waiting, of wondering if Crowley would ever come back.
Crowley listened to this with unwavering attention, only coming out of his rapture and feeling an apprehensive dread when the meal was nearly over and Aziraphale – dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin – said, "That was scrumptious. Now then, enough about me – tell me about where you were, my dear."
How could he tell him where he'd been? So much easier to say, "Nowhere," or "Nothing," and pretend that was indeed the case, that his consciousness, although removed from his body, had slept the year away. But it wasn't really in Crowley's nature to keep things from Aziraphale; if either of the pair of them struggled in that area, it was more the angel's over-cautious vice than his own. So he explained, as simply as he could, the infuriating time-loop, the other – demonic – Aziraphale (who he confessed feeling pity and affection towards, but did not describe in too much detail to spare the angelic Aziraphale's feelings), being an angel again, having a past as a television host, getting discorporated repeatedly, and his final discorporation – on the wrong end of a greedy human's gun – that brought him back.
When he was finished, Aziraphale, with warmth and pity, patted him on the shoulder. "Well, I'm certainly glad you've come home. I'm going to fetch my coat, and then we can go."
The colours and lights and sounds of the restaurant seemed so sharp, as if Crowley was seeing them unhindered for the first time – seeing them through new, fresh eyes behind his old sunglasses – and he looked about himself while waiting for Aziraphale to return, drinking it all in.
When Aziraphale came back to the table, he recoiled in shock.
The angel was wearing a long coat of dark-hued leather. He grimaced. "Oh, I know, it's dreadful, isn't it? The colour doesn't suit me at all. They've gone and mislaid my coat at the door, though I specifically told them to hold it for me. They've offered me this one for this afternoon, at any rate. It's a bit nippy. I'll be telephoning tomorrow and getting the mix up resolved." He paused, his put out expression melting into one of concern. "What's wrong? You look so pale."
"I'm fine," Crowley said; "you just reminded me of someone for a minute."
Two days later, the angel and demon were walking in Soho, about to cross the busy street and go over to the bookshop, when Crowley spotted Hastur sitting alone at a table outside the coffeehouse.
He'd been saying, in almost a whine, "Uuuuugggh, I still can't believe you fought high-ranking demons on your own and I missssssed it; how did nobody get that on camera?" when he noticed the duke of Hell and stopped in his tracks. "Hastur. That's... Unlikely."
"Yes," said Aziraphale, coldly. "It is."
"You don't sound surprised."
He gripped Crowley's arm and took a step closer to the edge of the pavement. "Oh, that's because I'm not – I was perfectly aware he'd turn up."
"Why isn't he...?" He waited for Hastur to speak, to acknowledge them beyond the blasé glare over the cup of what might have been coffee or might have been something entirely else, but he didn't.
"Just keep walking, my dear."
Hastur raised the cup to his lips and took a long sip, watching them. Something – probably the frog under the large tan fedora he was wearing – croaked.
Aziraphale stiffened, his bitter expression – waiting for the cars to stop so they could cross – twice as hard and detached as the demon's.
Hastur collapsed, falling sideways from his chair. A server from inside rushed out, tossing aside a tray filled with porcelain plates and cups, which shattered to bits in the street. "He's not breathing – somebody call 999!"
"Do you..." began Crowley, turning to Aziraphale. "D'you understand what just happened?"
Because he wasn't sure he did.
"Crowley, do you really think I spent a year waiting for you and didn't find out exactly what Hastur gave you?" He cocked his head and sighed wearily. "I was in a bookshop, for heaven's sake." He lifted his pale eyebrows. "And I had ample time to research."
"And whatever it was you found out, you've just given it to Hastur?"
He nodded. "It seemed only fitting. Taste of his own medicine, what."
For the briefest of moments, Crowley was actually a little frightened of Aziraphale. He'd never seen the angel's compassionate eyes look so cold. He fully understood, then, just how deeply the year he'd spent alone had affected him.
It was a good thing, after all, that sheer irony had seen fit to make it not in Crowley's nature to lie to Aziraphale or even to conceal things from him. Given all the research he'd have had to of done, in-between fighting off the forces of Heaven and Hell, the angel would have learned exactly what that vile concoction of Hastur's did, and thus would've known if Crowley kept his misadventure a complete secret from him.
Still, if Aziraphale knew what it was really like – being trapped in time, unable to escape – he might not have gone through with it. Hastur was a bastard, true, but you could only go so far. Moreover, you didn't expect this sort of thing from someone who'd been, until recently, on the side of Heaven, the supposed 'good guys'. So much for ineffable mercy.
"Angel," he said very slowly and very quietly, through clenched teeth.
He squeezed Crowley's arm. "I know, my dear, I do know – but it needed to be done."
"But Hastur–"
Aziraphale didn't want to hear it, and in the end Crowley decided to let it go. This was clearly a taste of justice Aziraphale felt he couldn't go on without dispensing – not after what happened. And it was Hastur – hardly someone worth getting too upset over. Besides, oddly enough, once he made peace with the whole repeating one single day over and over and over again thing, Hastur might even enjoy himself more in that universe than he did here – Ligur was still alive over there, for one thing.
He wondered what Hastur would be in that world – demon or angel.
He shuddered at the thought. Hastur as an angel. That was bizarre. Nobody wanted to see that. Not again.
'ello, it's Wednesday morning!
The supernatural being under the stiff coverlet, coming to, grunted twice and mumbled, "What? What's happening? Where'm I?"
It's overcast today, with a fifty to sixty percent chance of rain, so you best have your brolly on hand just in case–
He reached his hand up and felt his head – he could feel his prickly white-blonde hair, sticking up at all ends, but no familiar froggy bumps.
It struck him, then. He knew.
"That little runt and his best friend Aziraphale!"
Hastur sat bolt upright in a hard, cheap hotel-room bed and – screaming wordlessly like he'd just invented the concept – tore the alarm clock radio from the wall socket and hurled it across the room, where it skidded off a laminated take out menu and smashed – rather melodramatically – into a television screen.
~The End~