The Improbable Alliance of One Angel and Demon~ Good Omens

Shards

"And I've his address too,"  the angel finished with a grin. Crowley grinned back, surprised at how much Aziraphale had been able to find out in such a short amount of time.

  "So let's go then. You know his home address and his name, all we need to do is hop in the Bentley and take this kid out."

  "I'm afraid not, Crowley," Aziraphale sighed. "I've taken it up with a higher authority. I expect this is beyond us now."

  Crowley barked out a short laugh of disbelief. "A higher authority. Unless you talked to God themselves, Heaven isn't going to do jack-shit about the Antichrist. They want their war just as badly as Hell does." Crowley glanced at the darkening sky. The final day was almost upon them.

  "I'm quite sure they'll be obligated to do something about it," Aziraphale said quietly.

  "They aren't going to do anything. According to them, it's all written in the Great Plan," Crowley mocked. Aziraphale let out a miffed gasp.

  "You can't mock the Great Plan, Crowley."

  "Sure I can. No one's going to stop me." He spread out his arms. "God isn't going to strike me down!" Crowley yelled at the sky, waiting for it to rain blood or frogs or at the very least water, to show God's displeasure with Crowley's words. When nothing happened, Crowley let his arms fall to his sides. "They don't care, Aziraphale. They never have. Why do you think this-" He gestured between the two. "-has worked all this time, hm? Because they don't give a flying fuck about us. Neither Heaven or Hell." He took a step closer to Aziraphale, all senses of warmth and familiarity replaced with a cool anger.

  "No. God cares, God listens," Aziraphale responded, eyebrows furrowed together.

  "Really? When was the last time God cane down to Earth and spoke to you? When was the last time someone other than the archangels told you that God's plan was Ineffable? Because for as long as I can remember, it's just them, murdering so-called sinners and calling it divine work. What will it take to make you see that, Angel?" He ran a harried hand through his hair. "God left us long ago," he said coldly. "Because if They hadn't, this wouldn't be happening."

  "May you be forgiven," Aziraphale murmured, clasping his hands together.

  "Oh I won't be forgiven. In fact, I don't want to. It's part of a demon's job description," He planted his feet on the wooden floor, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Unforgivable. That's what I am angel, whether you like it or not."

  "You were an angel once." Aziraphale said, his eyes meeting Crowley's. He swore he saw something almost like regret pass behind his dark sunglasses.

  "That was a long time ago." Crowley pushed the memories to the back of his mind, somewhere they wouldn't escape from. "Listen, give me the Antichrist's address and I'll get someone to take care of him, then this whole mess can be over."

  Aziraphale bit his lip, considering the offer. "No," He whispered, his voice almost lost in the wind. "No," He said again, louder. "Heaven has it under control."

  "This is ridiculous, you're ridiculous," Crowley muttered. "I don't even know why I'm still talking to you."

  "Well, frankly, neither do I."

  "Oh? Well, goodbye then, Angel," Crowley stalked away from Aziraphale, who swore he could hear him hissing.

  "You can't leave, Crowley," Aziraphale voice faltered, but succeeding in making the demon turn around. "There isn't anywhere to go," He added lamely.

  "It's a big universe. We could go off, together," Crowley said, voice softening. 

  "Together?" The angel asked, touched. "Oh, listen to yourself, Crowley," He snapped back into arguing mode.

  "We've been friends for six thousand years!"

  "Friends? We're an angel and a demon! We have nothing whatsoever in common!"

  "We have plenty in common, Angel." Crowley took a tentative step forward.

  "Stop calling me that!" Aziraphale snapped. "I'm not your angel, and I never will be!"

  Shock was blatantly displayed on Crowley's face, but it soon hardened into anger. Without another word, the demon turned and stalked from the bandstand, tears welling in his eyes. Aziraphale considered running  after him, professing his love for him then and there, but then again, this wasn't a B-list romance movie, this was reality. So instead, he turned away and let the demon go. And with that, it was over, they were finished.

  "Oh, and Aziraphale?" Crowley called. "Have a nice doomsday!"

  Neither slept that night. Aziraphale buried himself in books, reading until he could no longer focus on the words. At about midnight he had got up to make a cup of cocoa, but found himself distracted by a bottle of red calling his name. By two o'clock, he could no longer think straight. He considered baking, but in his horribly intoxicated state, he knew he was probably end up burning the bookshop down. So he settled for emptying about five glasses of wine.

  At around one in the morning, Crowley found himself on the roof of his apartment building, wings unfurled and left hand clutching a cheap bottle of wine. He stared down at the street below, the cool wind ruffling his dark feathers. He took a long swig of wine straight from the bottle and sighed. He sat down on the ledge, his wings curling around him. Love. What a bunch of bullshit. To anyone passing by, he would've looked like a stone gargoyle, and he felt like one too. A hardened monarch presiding over a kingdom that had forgotten him. He stared contemplatively into the empty wine bottle before turning it upside down, letting the last few drops of blood-red liquid rush to the ground below. Then he dropped the bottle and watched as it spun, faster and faster and faster, towards the dimly-lit cement. It shattered on impact, glass shards flying every which way. He stared at it with little interest, rather hoping that someone would step on it barefoot. When no one did he was sorely disappointed.

  A strong gust of wind tore a feather loose from his wings, and he caught it with lithe fingers as it twirled past his face. He examined it for a moment before letting it drop to the ground, floating down to a gentle landing near a potted plant.He ran an absentminded finger down the edge of his wing, stopping when he noticed something odd. It was no more than a centimetre in length and width, but it was there nonetheless.

  One white feather nestled among the black ones. A singular, perfect star among an ocean of darkness, reminding Crowley of before, and of a certain angel. He wanted nothing more than to rip it out of his wings and tear it to shreds, but when he moved to pull it out, he found he couldn't. He wouldn't. He didn't know what it was about the feather, but it sent him over the edge, both literally and figuratively. He let his body go limp, and he fell over the edge of the roof, catching himself at the last moment, his wings brushing shattered glass that sparkled like moonlight. Crowley rocketed towards the sky, climbing higher and higher until all that remained of London were millions of tiny lights. Once he felt he was sufficiently high enough, he let himself cry.

When he had first climbed up to the roof, he was sure he didn't love that angel. He was sure it was nothing more than a passing emotion he had labeled wrong. He was sure of it. But now, millions of feet off the ground with 6,000 years of bottled-up emotions pouring out of him, Crowley wasn't so sure anymore.