The Interlude-Chapter 1 (A Good Omens Fanfic)

(Note-spoilers for Good Omens season 2, this takes place five years later. The events of the last episode are referred to as Bugger All This Day (by Crowley) and the Glorious Ascension (by Aziraphale and other Heavenly entities). Muriel’s pronouns are she/they. Story has a fair amount of angst, but ultimately a happy ending. This is shamelessly silly wish fulfillment on my part. Future chapters may need higher ratings for language and innuendo, but nothing too crazy. I think it'll be 6-7 chapters total, but I'm not quite sure.)

For the first time in five years, a conveniently available Bentley-sized parking spot opened up in front of a former bookshop in Soho. The driver slid in perfectly, as always. He hadn’t planned on returning, but then again he hadn’t expected the world was going to last this long.

Crowley had tried sleeping on every continent, including Antarctica, but apparently he was no longer capable of sleeping far from London. The Bentley didn’t help, always pointing toward the bookshop when he wasn’t driving anywhere in particular. Nearly drove him off the coast of Massachusetts once. It didn’t make much sense to him, seeing as the occupancy had changed hands, but the Bentley’s engine was purring, even after he had shut it off.

As he approached the building, the lights flickered, startling the people inside. It was a perfectly clear day, but this flickering was not due to a power outage. Had anyone in the building known Morse code, they might have understood the flashes as a message-WELCOME HOME. The demon outside knew Morse code and was not amused. If this place had ever been home and not just a place he hung out at occasionally, it wasn’t anymore. The Bentley’s lights flashed back-at least one of them was happy to be here.

Muriel had been restocking returned library books when the lights started going off. They didn’t know Morse code, seeing as their time on Earth started well past the 19th century, but even though they weren’t by the window, they knew who was approaching.

“Took you long enough, Mr. Crowley,” she muttered as she informed the patrons of the library that they would be closing early today, handing out coupons for a free drink at Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death as an apology for the inconvenience. Once they had all left, they opened the door and invited the demon in. To their surprise, he didn’t enter, instead staring at the new sign, mouth agape.

“The Fell-Crowley Family Library, open as needed? Whose bloody idea was that?” Surely it wasn’t the angel’s doing, Crowley thought. The Aziraphale he knew would rather face extreme sanctions than lose a single book. But after that dreadful day five years ago, he was thinking he never really knew the bastard at all. After all, no one in Heaven would have been creative enough to twist the knife like that.

“Hello to you too, Mr. Crowley,” Muriel replied. “Mr. Fell thought it sounded better that way. Said it ought to have said that from the very beginning.”

“Of course he did.” Crowley snarled. “Was that before or after your lot tried throwing him into the hellfire again?”

“Why in Heavens would we do…oh, that’s sarcasm, isn’t it?” Crowley nodded. “You see, I’ve gotten much better at understanding human speech after being down here for sixty-two months, sixteen days, and five hours. Now, please do come in, Mr. Crowley. His Supreme Holiness would be rather cross if I didn’t follow his highly specific protocol in the event of your return.” Muriel smiled nervously as they tried to remember where they put the envelope with The Protocol. “Also it’s rather chilly out. I’m sure you could use a spot of tea.”

“I’m a demon, we don’t get cold…wait, who is this Supreme Holiness and what protocol does he have in mind for me, exactly?” If this Muriel character was still anything like the 37th class scrivener who’d “arrested” him, they might just tell him the whole plot and he could avoid whatever protocol this mysterious being wanted to inflict on him. Perhaps that would be worth the pain of going inside. Would going back in feel like the Not-pocalypse, when it was on fire? Or more like Bugger All This Day? The euphemism kept him from completely dissociating, but it didn’t change the fact that Aziraphale was gone, and this place changing meant he wasn’t coming back.

“I’d be happy to tell you over a cup of tea. Or hot cocoa. Or…whatever you’d like. But inside.” Muriel had a hazy recollection of a specific libation His Holiness had noted in The Protocol, but they couldn’t remember what it was. Muriel had tried alcoholic beverages a few times, but they all tasted the same note of foul to them. Tea, on the other hand, Muriel had grown to enjoy immensely, as well as the various cuisines His Holiness had insisted they try during their monthly report meetings. In fact, they seemed to have an unspoken understanding that that was the primary purpose of said meetings.

Finally, the retired demon stepped into the bookshop-turned-library. The stacks were as tall as ever, but the shelves seemed painfully empty, even though they were still quite full by human standards. The musty old book smell seemed familiar but less comforting than before. The couches were new, as were the checkout machines and posters that nodded to various popular books. And the music was entirely too modern…

“Is that…Taylor Swift?” He asked as Muriel brought the tea over.

“Yes, she’s a human bebop singer. His Holiness doesn’t care for her much, but a patron requested I play one of her records one day and I decided I liked the change in atmosphere. Really helps me understand human emotions better, you know?”

“I ‘spose so. Not a big fan, really.” Of course she’d call it bebop, just like his…no, the angel. In truth, the Bentley had fed him some of her songs during his worldwide road trip, and he actually hadn’t minded all that much. “the lakes” was especially fitting for going through the District…he had to agree it was a perfect place to cry. If demons cried, which they obviously did not.

“So it’s gonna be forever, or it’s gonna go down in flames…”

A bit on the nose for the bookshop, wasn’t it, Crowley thought. At least it wasn’t the one with the blasted talking traffic lights. He sighed and snapped his fingers. “Killer Queen”. Ah. That was better.

While Crowley had been mulling over the music, Muriel had wheeled over a cart of assorted bottles of alcohol that had gathered dust. Their boss did enjoy a libation or two at restaurants during their meetings, but he said these were off limits “until Crowley comes back.” He said that every month, every month sounding less confident that Crowley would indeed come back.

While Muriel had not yet located The Protocol, they figured whatever brand His Holiness had specified must be on that cart. They quickly dusted off the bottles and then invited the demon to partake in whatever he wished. As Mr. Crowley poured, Muriel quickly scanned the shelves. They remembered now that they had used the envelope containing The Protocol as a bookmark one day. The book in question was significantly smaller than the envelope, but they recalled feeling like the envelope belonged there somehow. Sort of like the surname on the library sign.

Oh dear. This was a library. Where people could take books for free. And it was entirely unrighteous to badger late borrowers for overdue fines, so they did not. Which means anyone could have taken the book and the precious Protocol with it. They ran to the history section.

Muriel had spent months fixing Gabriel’s strange organization after asking their first patrons how human libraries are typically organized. Alphabetizing by author’s name was much better for all concerned, but this particular title presented two issues. One, it had two authors. Two, it claimed to be fictional, and yet contained true events. Or at least an abridged version of true events, according to His Holiness, who declined to elaborate when Muriel asked what exactly had been left out.

After some deliberation, Muriel had decided to keep it in history and put it under the Gs. The shelf actually had several copies in various states of disrepair-somehow, no other book in the library attracted as much destruction as this one. The copy that looked like it had spent more time in the bath than above water had the envelope sticking out of it. Muriel breathed a sigh of relief-they didn’t need to breathe, technically, but they’d grown to appreciate the subconscious rhythm of it.

They pulled the large manilla envelope out of the book, the outer one labeled “Muriel”. There was a second smaller yet overstuffed envelope labeled “Crowley” which was to remain sealed under pain of…His Holiness had been unable to come up with a specific punishment, but assured them it would be very bad indeed in a distinctly sharper tone than normal. Not that Muriel needed a threat to leave the envelope alone-it would be rather unholy to do such petty snooping. They were no Archangel, after all.

Muriel came back to the couch, where the demon’s lanky body had sunk into the navy blue cushions like it was made for him specifically. It wasn’t, of course-this was one of the new couches Muriel had gotten for the library. There was an original couch upstairs that Mr. Crowley would probably prefer, but the empty bottles on the ground made Muriel think that they were better off staying put for now.

One of the bottles rolled toward Muriel. They checked the label against The Protocol. “Oh excellent. You found the Macallan 1926. His Holiness specified I should serve that to you first.”

“Lemme guess,” Crowley slurred, “ it’s holy water isn’t it?” He paused for a moment. “Though you wouldn’t need all those bloody words to just put me out of my misery already.” He gestured at the paper in her hand full of words written in the neatest of scripts.

“You’re still talking and not a puddle on my couch, so I don’t believe it is.” After a few monthly meetings, His Holiness had entrusted them with the story of the body switch, so they knew that the real demon would in fact be vulnerable to holy water. They did a quick miracle to confirm none of the bottles had any traces of the stuff, just in case.

“So the first step is getting me drunk. What’s next, Inspector Constable? You gonna interrogate me like a real human copper?”

Muriel chuckled at the memory of their terrible disguise those first days on Earth. They’d since met real law enforcement officials, who were quite unpleasant indeed. She much preferred being a librarian.

“I’m a librarian now, Mr. Crowley. We’re here to answer questions, not ask them.” Though sometimes they had needed to pursue exhausting lines of questioning to help a patron find “that book from when I was a kid, with a blue cover”.

Crowley removed his sunglasses and hissed as he grabbed Muriel by the collar. “So you’re a librarian now, eh? Perhaps you can find me the book where it explains what exactly your lot did to Aziraphale? Maybe even a helpful map to his gravesite?” He let Muriel go and stormed out the door.

As Muriel caught her balance, she had half a mind to let him leave, to suffer the consequences of his own impatience. If he wanted to believe Mr. Fell was deceased, that was entirely on him. But she had a feeling His Holiness would subject her to an astonishingly long magic show if she didn’t at least try to keep him in the shop.

“He’s not dead, demon!” She shouted. “But if you want to know what happened to him, I’m going to have to ask you to stay in here and listen for once in your accursed life!” More of an inspector constable voice than a librarian voice, but between the sudden assault and the sheer anguish the demon inspired in Mr. Fell, Muriel had to use it. “And keep your accursed hands off of me, please.” They hoped they got the tone right there, the please being more emphatic than truly polite.

“Accursed. Sounds ‘bout right.” Crowley stumbled back in and put his sunglasses on. He quickly sobered up, at least a bit-he didn’t want to be blind drunk for this, but he didn’t want to be stone-cold sober either. He poured two glasses of wine and sat down, making a peace offering to the scrivener. Muriel sniffed and took a sip. It wasn’t as foul as she’d remembered. Perhaps it was Jesus’s favored beverage for a reason.

“Now, Miriam, explain. Did the angel really let you lend out his books or did you torture him into it?”

“Firstly, it’s Muriel. Secondly, it’s rather simple-His Supreme Holiness Archangel Aziraphale has not lost a single book, because these are not his books.”

Crowley furrowed his brow. “So it wasn’t a trick then? He really is the supreme archangel and all that?”

“Indeed. His Supreme Holiness Greater Archangel Aziraphale, Former Principality of the Eastern Gate and Liaison for Heaven on Earth, Chosen by the Almighty to Prepare the Kingdom of Heaven for the Second Coming, to be precise. And if you don’t use the full title each and every time you address him, you will get struck by righteous lightning and be discorporated on sight.”

“So Gabriel’s suit turned him into a pompous ass. I think I preferred five minutes ago when I thought he was…” He set down the empty wine glass and took off his sunglasses, staring more closely at Muriel who was clearly trying very hard not to laugh and failing miserably . “Oh I see. You’re trying to be funny. Word of advice, don’t go to Vegas unless you want to get taken to the cleaners.”

“Angels don’t gamble, demon. But you are correct, I was tugging your leg off.”

Crowley looked down at his legs, which were indeed still attached to his body. Then he realized what Muriel probably meant. “Bit off the mark there. The expression is ‘pulling your leg.’ “

Muriel pulled out her iPhone to make a quick note of that, then put it away. Her boss may have been averse to technology, but the phone was so helpful she wasn’t sure she could understand Earth at all without it. “Thank you. Now where was I-oh yes, the title thing became a big debacle. That rule was real, but apparently only applied to those who signed some old treaty most of us had never heard of. Which was only the archangels and a few other higher-ups. There’s no lightning involved, but His Holiness will ignore them until they spit out the whole thing.”

“Ah, but you still have to call him Your Holiness or whatever?”

“Not exactly. In fact, he tried to stop us. He made a new rule expressing that simply Aziraphale was best, or Mr. Fell if we were feeling formal. But the suggestion box almost exploded with so many pleas from scriveners and principalities concerned about seeming disrespectful that he felt compelled to make ‘your holiness’ acceptable again. For our comfort.” Muriel themself had been using His Holiness less and Mr. Fell more, but that might be because they were no longer a 37th class scrivener but a Dominion over the British Isles, the highest position Mr. Fell could appoint them to. Aziraphale still felt a touch too familiar.

“There’s a suggestion box?” Crowley’s eyebrows were now raised so high his face might become permanently frozen there.

“Yes, the archangels were…not pleased, but he said it ought to have been there the whole time. He reads and responds to all of them individually.” He had complained to Muriel at their last meeting that it was rather time-consuming, which is likely why the Almighty hadn’t made one in the first place. But it was important, and so the box remained. Most of the letters contained a polite way of saying no, but about a quarter contained invitations to further discussion, and half of those were eventually implemented.

“So he’s actually changing things Upstairs? Impressive. Didn’t know he had it in him.” Crowley waved a hand at all of the slightly-less-full stacks. “So what’s with the books then?”

“Well, that was my suggestion, actually. I was told not to sell books under any circumstances, but it just felt so selfish having to turn people away. I learned about libraries and thought it would be a lovely idea for the shop, spreading knowledge and providing community and all that good stuff. Mr. Fell did not agree. I realized his books were the second-most precious thing to him. So I revised the suggestion-couldn’t we miracle up some replicas and then take his real collection Upstairs?” Muriel took a sip of wine and realized her glass was nearly empty. When did that happen? “Mind you, not all of them. He was concerned moving some of the rarest ones would damage them, so they’re in the back under lock and key, no replicas. He did panic a bit when he first saw patrons actually leave with books, but I managed to calm him down with some brandy and cookies.” Ooh, that was a good idea. They had just made a batch this evening. The demon was more fond of alcohol than food according to Mr. Fell, but he might appreciate the gesture anyway. “I’ve taken up baking human food from time to time. Mr. Fell says they’re sublime. Care to try one?”

Crowley took a small bite and washed it off with yet another drink. “Not bad.” He suddenly sat up and looked rather nervous. “So I have to ask…is His Almighty Holiness Greater Archangel Aziraphale too busy now to pop down and fraternize with me?”

“Oh, no! I mean he is rather busy, and there are certain…celestial limitations. But he will always have time for you. When you’re ready. The Protocol is mostly about making you comfortable in the shop again and getting you caught up on everything.” And a few subjects they were not to discuss, but no sense in revealing that. “In fact, it suggests perhaps we should take a break now. This has been a lot to take in and it’s getting late. There’s a loft upstairs if you’d like to stay here.

“I’m sure it’s lovely,” Crowley replied in a voice that Muriel couldn’t discern if it was sarcastic or earnest. “But I prefer my car, thanks.”

“Very well then, but do come back tomorrow. We’re feeding the ducks!”