The Interlude, Chapter 2 (A Good Omens Fanfic)

Crowley woke up in the Bentley in a state of disbelief. He still had a million questions; hopefully Muriel would continue to provide answers, even though he wasn’t convinced they were true. Five years had barely been enough time for him to try to take a century-nap until the apocalypse re-do, but it had apparently been plenty of time for the angel to give Heaven a makeover. Guess he didn’t need me after all.

“While you were out building other worlds, where was I? Where’s that man who threw blankets over my barbed wire…”

“Not now!” He shouted at the Bentley. It switched to “Getaway Car”, which was naturally its favorite. It was fine, he supposed. Though in all his time on Earth, he had never actually encountered a motel that had a bar.

When he walked up to the bookshop-library, he corrected himself, Muriel was locking up (the patrons thought it strangely old-fashioned that the library was closed on Sundays, but generally didn’t question it). She had two coffees in hand and a basket of cookies and frozen peas on her arm. That was a good sign. The angel had never understood why he needed to stop feeding the ducks bread.

“Oh hello, Mr. Crowley!” Muriel waved. “You’re just in time!” Of course he was. It’s not like he’d left. He’d tried to drive off last night, but the Bentley refused to start.

On the walk to St. James Park, Crowley asked what Muriel had meant by “celestial limitations”. She explained that Aziraphale could only come down to Earth around a full moon with a silly little ritual, and as the moon phase was currently at first quarter, it would be about four or five days before he could Descend. If he tried to come down too early, some part of him would get discorporated and end up miles away. They did not need a repeat of the time his arm had ended up hitting an old woman’s head in Cornwall. “Something about the moon needing to keep the celestial energy balance in the universe.”

“What, like a bloody werewolf? And Gabriel didn’t seem to have that restriction.”

“Thankfully, Mr. Fell has not exhibited any other lycanthropic tendencies. And yes, this was a hard-won negotiation specific to Mr. Fell's Contract...hard to find a loophole around "Thou shalt not Descend to Earth for any reason'. But His Holiness managed to convince them that he should be allowed to come back down in times of Great Need. And it just so happens that I'm a very needy young Acolyte. Have to disturb His Holiness every single month. He hates it, of course." Their smile was nearly identical to when they first entered the bookshop to spy on Aziraphale, but Crowley was impressed at their mastery of sarcasm. "We’ve continued looking into additional workarounds, but no luck yet.”

This all sounded well and good, but Crowley was still skeptical. “I have another question. Assuming you’re telling the truth and Aziraphale isn’t actually trapped in a Heavenly dungeon or whatever, how are the Archangels letting him get away with the suggestion box and all of that?”

Muriel shrugged. “The Metatron said His Holiness has veto power and they are not to question the wisdom of the Supreme Archangel who knows the ways of mankind. They weren’t happy, but Mr. Fell came up with a most ingenious solution to keep the peace. The Archangels love handing out violations, so he lets them do that. They prefer the sterile white emptiness over all the beautiful new rooms Mr. Fell has made, so they stay there. But…” Muriel decided to adopt a more theatrical tone for this bit. The demon did seem to love theatrics, and they felt like scaring him just a little after last night's antics. “His Holiness informed them that he desperately wants to catch up on the punishing part, having been a mere principality for so long. So all perpetrators of Archangel-issued violations are sent directly to his office for the Spanish Inquisition.” She paused for additional dramatic effect. “The Archangels get to sit outside and listen to the screams.”

Crowley spit out his coffee. He certainly wasn’t expecting that. Had his angel really gone so far as to bring human punishments Upstairs? He’s not your angel anymore, remember. He is an instrument of Heaven now, as he always was. His face settled back into the semi-permanent frown it had worn for most of the last five years.

“Oh don’t look so glum, Mr. Crowley!” Muriel laughed. Oh, they got him good that time. They handed him a cookie as they walked into the park. “You see, the Spanish Inquisition is like…oh what’s the word?” She started humming “Everyday”. Crowley stopped and glared at her, not wanting to blow up in her face again but also desperately wanting her to stop. “Oh, a rollercoaster! That’s it! Yes, mostly he just gives them a half-hearted talking-to and then gets them on the ride encouraging them to scream as much as possible. Personally, I found it a bit unpleasant, but much better than what Uriel or Michael would do. Some angels love it so much they go collect violations on purpose.”

“And the Archangels are really none the wiser?” Crowley had his suspicions still. Was this fantasy story and full moon thing just a stalling tactic to keep him from seeing the truth?

“We can’t be sure. Mr. Fell has decided that if his actions displease the Almighty, She can come tell him so. Until then, he will do as he has been appointed.”

“Well I’ll be…” damned? He already was, by definition. Blessed? No he didn’t want that, that was the whole blessed problem. He didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence anyway, as they had arrived at the bench where a spiky haired fellow in black was sitting with a box of pizza. He looked vaguely familiar and apparently recognized him immediately.

“Oh good day Mr. Crowley, sir!” He stood up and reached out his pizza grease covered hand. “Name’s Eric. I’m your replacement. Shax sent me up here for asking too many questions.”

“I know how that goes,” he nodded. Demons did not shake hands and he certainly wasn’t going to start now. “So you two…have your own…”

“Arrangement? Yep. I’d been terrifying people outside of the library and Muriel responded by having vicars randomly bless me on the street.” Eric explained. Oh, clearly the inspector was more diabolical than they looked, Crowley thought. “Mr. Fell sat us down over some pizza and suggested we just…rearrange things a bit, stay out of each other’s way.”

Eric offered Crowley a slice, but he declined. Aziraphale usually had more refined taste, but pizza did have a way of bringing people together. “Coming together and feeding the ducks on Sundays isn’t exactly staying out of each other’s way,” he observed ironically, taking some peas and throwing them to the ducks.

“We didn’t at first, but it felt necessary after…the Incident.” Muriel pulled out their phone and started looking for something. “You see, Eric’s superiors hadn’t told him much about Earth, but they had told him he was responsible for your mail.”

“And junk mail caused a capital I Incident?”

“It’s not all junk, Mr. Crowley.” Eric said. “Though they did say they emailed you as well, apparently you never got the Pulsifer’s wedding invite.” That would have required him to check his email, which he did not. Shame he missed it.

“And I thought…well, your mail is now my responsibility and I am being summoned to this wedding. And I was a bit scared to ask questions. We don’t exactly have many weddings Downstairs. But I knew people wear white dresses, so…”

“You did not!” Muriel pulled up the pictures on her phone, and Crowley genuinely laughed for the first time in five years. There was Eric in a skimpy white dress, next to the perpetually confused fellow with the glasses and the witch woman who had, thankfully, chosen a dark blue gown. And there, awkwardly in the background in a light grey suit that didn’t quite suit him, was Aziraphale.

Even in this poorly-lit phone picture where he was not the focus, he radiated goodness and light. For a split second Crowley thought if he could just be near him again, the world would feel right and the last five years could just be forgotten. He’d deleted all his photos in a rage two years ago. All 7,777 of them. Not that it made much of a difference. He still saw the angel damn near everywhere. Even in a penguin in Antarctica. Hard to explain, but it was just so fussy and its nest so elaborate and yet meticulous he almost thought…

The inspector finished their explanation, interrupting his thoughts. “After that, we decided to meet up, educate one another on the mysterious ways of Earth, and exchange vital information. Speaking of…Eric, any leads on the Other Four Horsemen?”

“Not yet, but Farfur isn't the most forthcoming. Hastur has a vague memory of some gruff bearded men on motorcycles trying to escape the M-25 but that doesn’t narrow it down a whole lot. Anything on your side?”

“Heaven absolutely insists they’re not there, though I suspect that judgment is based more on stereotypes than anything else. Tried looking in records down here but motorcycle gangs don’t typically keep membership roles.” Muriel turned to Crowley and explained. “So Sanaquel’s notes about the Plan suggest that there were four Other Horsemen of the Apocalypse, some chaps on motorcycles. She thinks we need them for the Second Coming. Mr. Fell did find a bit in Nutter’s book ‘And Four shall Ryde with them Also’ but he has no recollection of them.” She looked at Crowley as if expecting some revelation.

“No idea. It was a rather busy day, you know.” So the angel was proceeding with The Plan after all. He was going to get these mysterious Other Four Horsemen to lead the Righteous Armies of Heaven and that would be it, then. No more sushi, no more Ritz, no more bookshop or Bentley or anything. He probably won’t even miss you, once it’s all done and over with.

“So this Second Coming is really happening then? Should I book a hotel in Megiddo, get a front row view of the show?”

“Might be a bit far in advance to book. According to the Metatron, we have 70 times 7 years. But that was five years ago, so I guess it’s…” Muriel struggled to do the arithmetic in their head.

“485 years!” Eric was apparently better at mental math than social etiquette, his hands and shirt now covered in pizza grease.

“Hmm. Well if that’s the case, I might just go sleep off a couple centuries, then. Wouldn’t want to get in the way of the Archangel’s precious plotting. Ciao.” Crowley sauntered out of the park.

“Aren’t you going to go after him?” Eric asked Muriel after a couple minutes. “He can’t just leave without seeing Mr. Fell…”

“He can, and it seems he will. He already assaulted me and walked out on me yesterday. Literally grabbed me by the collar and accused me of killing Mr. Fell.”

Eric’s scowled, his eyes narrowed. “He did not.” He grabbed a napkin and rubbed some pizza grease off of his hands, then ran after Crowley. Realizing he was too slow that way, he changed into his demonic form.

Crowley was suddenly surrounded by a plague of locusts that smelled oddly of mozzarella. Eric re-materialized before him and pulled him into an alleyway.

“Listen, Crowley, I don’t know what your problem is…” Eric paused a second, “actually, I do know what your problem is, but I’m not sure how assaulting my friend and running away from us is going to help resolve your marital strife. They’re trying to help you, and I mean, I want to be on your side, I really do. I remember that whole business with the holy water, and I thought man, I want to be like him and not just be zapped to oblivion and reincarnated every damned day. And Mr. Fell is always going on about how good you really are, but I’m not seeing it right now.”

Crowley had really heard only two words from that whole monologue. “Marital strife? Last time I checked there’s no ring on here.” He waved his left hand in front of Eric’s face.

“Oh don’t play dumb, Crowley. Farfur saw it eighty years ago, random mortals who’ve never met you assume you’re together, and Mr. Fell…”

“Dumped me because I wouldn’t play sweet little angel for him. And clearly he’s having a ball setting the apocalypse in motion. Again.”

“If ‘having a ball’ means crying for five days straight because he saw some tall skinny kid with a bad dye job and thought it was you ignoring him, then yes, he’s having a ball. You remember those really weird weather patterns last year?”

“Yeah I was in the Sahara when the monsoon hit. Never saw anything like it. Kind of a nice mud bath for a couple weeks there.”

“Yeah we think his tears were like sensing where you were. Sucked up all the moisture out of the British skies and flung it down on the desert. It was wild.” Eric said. “Point is, Mr. Fell mostly took the job to save you and he could use his Archangel superpowers to summon you Up whether you like it or not. But he insists you need to come back on your own time.”

And I came back, like the sucker I am. Wait a minute… “He didn’t take that job for me. He took it to change Heaven and please the Almighty and whatnot.”

“That…is not exactly what happened, Mr. Crowley. The Metatron has the Book of Life, and They blamed you for poisoning the well and giving Gabriel ideas like running off with Beelzebub. So They were going to cross you out. Unless Aziraphale took the job. The whole ‘trying to fix Heaven’ thing was basically him trying to find the upside in the less-than-ideal situation.”

“He knew you wouldn’t take the becoming an angel deal,” Muriel had caught up with them, deciding that they had to follow The Protocol and keep Crowley close no matter how irritating he was at the moment. “Or rather, he was hoping you might as it would have made things a lot easier, but he wasn’t expecting it. He doesn’t think the angelic aesthetic suits you anyway.”

“Eh, I’d say I looked good in white.” The aesthetic wasn’t the main problem. Surely after everything, Aziraphale knew that? “So if he wasn’t expecting me to come be an angel with him Upstairs, what was he expecting?”

Muriel shrugged. They had to be careful here-“Thou shalt not discuss the day of my Glorious Ascension” was the biggest prohibition in The Protocol. But Crowley had started the conversation. It would be rude not to respond. They decided to go with vague allusions without dwelling on details. “Not sure. Probably that you’d talk to him, figure out something, be on the same page before he had to go Up. You could have literally stopped time and had a quick chat. As it is, you…left. And he’s pleased with the progress he’s made Upstairs, but he’s still Unhappy, which we can all sense, even though most angels have no idea why. And yet he's nice and polite and smiles all the time. Not sure he knows how much of the rank and file is absolutely terrified of him.” Muriel got a kick out of watching Crowley's face sort that little nugget out. “Anyway, there’s a Letter for you. Back in the library with The Protocol. I’ve never opened it, but he edits it every few months. He wants you to read it before seeing him. If you even want to see him.”

“Ah, so I have to do my homework before the Almighty Archangel will see me. Is there going to be an exam?” Don’t do it, Crowley. Run, before they chain you up and tell you this was all a trick and Aziraphale is dead and/or doesn’t actually want to see you ever again because you’re just a lowly demon.

Muriel sighed. “Can you be serious for one second, Mr. Crowley? Mr. Fell worked very hard on that letter, trying to say things that are very difficult to say, as you should know from personal experience. It’s not a test or a way to avoid seeing you. It was intended to make things easier.” She stood up straight again and walked out of the alley. “Now, I’m going to the library and making lunch and tea. If you don’t want to come read the letter, that’s fine. But, if you leave, I’m going to put extra wards on the door. You won’t be welcome back.”

Eric left and Crowley silently followed Muriel back to the library. What choice did he have, really? If this was a trap, he was falling for it hook line and sinker. All he had was this shred of hope that Aziraphale was alive and still bore some resemblance to the angel he’d loved and missed him even a little bit. Even if he didn’t want the sort of things Crowley did in the thoughts he’d been suppressing for centuries, just to be around the angel again would be enough. It always had been.