The Interlude-Chapter 6 - The Letter (part 3) (Good Omens Fanfic)

After lunch, Crowley returned to the page that had made his brain short-circuit that morning. Who knew what revelations might come next?

With the next paragraph, the angel’s handwriting became shakier, and there seemed to be some letters smudged from tears. Crowley braced himself.

“Next, I believe it is time to address your attempt to save me from my Ascension and my reaction to that attempt. In plain terms, you declared your love for me in a circuitous manner, reminded me of everything I stood to lose as if I wasn’t already aware, and firmly established that you had never meant “us” in the merely friendly sense in the form of a kiss that was, shall we say, less than ideal. And then I said ‘I forgive you’ for reasons I intend to elaborate on below. You said ‘don’t bother’ and walked out. And that was the end of that chapter of our long (crossed out-love story) History. And I’m afraid it could be the last chapter, which distresses me greatly.”

“This elaboration better be really fucking good, angel.” He muttered to the paper, then continued to the next page.

“To start, I must address one point. You claimed to understand better than I what was happening that dreadful day in the bookshop. However, I am afraid you missed a crucial detail-I can only assume you would have behaved differently had you been aware. The coffee that the Metatron so generously provided for me had a ‘healthy jigger’ of almond syrup. Admittedly, it has been a while since we have spoken ancient Hebrew, but you might recall that the word shaked means both ‘almond’ and ‘watchful’. See Jeremiah 1:9-12 “Then the Lord put forth his hand, and touched my mouth. And the Lord said unto me, Behold, I have put my words in thy mouth.See, I have this day set thee over the nations and over the kingdoms, to root out, and to pull down, and to destroy, and to throw down, to build, and to plant. Moreover the word of the Lord came unto me, saying, Jeremiah, what seest thou? And I said, I see a rod of an almond tree. Then said the Lord unto me, Thou hast well seen: for I will hasten my word to perform it.”

“Oh come on, more Bible verses, angel? You know, we don’t exactly have Sunday school refreshers Downstairs.” Crowley groaned.

“You see, the coffee was not a mere beverage. Like Jeremiah in the verses quoted above, the Metatron was putting words in my mouth and was watching to see that I performed my duties with haste. While I suppose in a sense God is always watching, at that moment, He was quite literally listening to my every word when He sent me to discuss the offer with you. All I could do was hope you saw me shake my head, nervously looking around in an attempt to tell you we are not fully alone. Instead, you chose to get as close as you ever have to saying the words I had dreamed of hearing for so long, that I longed to return back to you. Of all the days, of all the hours! I still find the timing rather odd…you seemed determined to say what you did despite the fact that the Metatron was literally right outside the door after four years of more quiet moments when you could have said those words. The most I could say back was ‘I need you,’ and hope you understood what I meant, that that was not conditional upon you becoming an angel, but has been true throughout our entire existence and always will be.”

“The first reason I said ‘I forgive you’ in that awful moment is that I was caught entirely off guard and I had to find a line that would not attract the suspicion of the Metatron. He was already clearly aware of our Arrangement-a partnership, he called it-I could only imagine what might have happened if he suspected my feelings for you are not entirely platonic. I was aiming for “perfectly good unquestioning Servant of Heaven who is eager to Ascend and leave Earth behind”, as opposed to “imperfect Servant of the Almighty who isn’t exactly Heaven’s number one fan but is being coerced into leading it for ineffable reasons and might be looking for loopholes to stay on Earth and be with his demon”. That first version of me would have found the kiss highly offensive, so I had to seem rather disgusted but also benevolent enough to forgive, and make it convincing for the Metatron.

“The second reason I said it is because the second version of me, the real version, did find the kiss somewhat disappointing, even if on an intellectual level I understand why that was. For one thing, you didn’t ask, but that is understandable given the high stakes of the situation and also a lot of humans seem to think that such permission isn’t required for kissing. But personally, I would have preferred it. My preferences aside, the technique was…lacking. But I understood your desperation, and I now understand further that you lacked insight into my motives for not running off with you, not returning your affection, as much as I wanted to. So ‘I forgive you’, while not the ideal phrasing, felt aligned enough with my true feelings that it made my acting a bit better.”

“Oh really, you’re criticizing my bloody kissing technique after you dumped me, angel?” Crowley’s head was spinning a bit. Was it the alcohol or the sudden realization that the angel had been bugged the whole blessed time? That did explain a lot, in retrospect. Had he not been so blinded by his own desperation, might he have seen his angel’s cues and reacted accordingly?

Oh good, Muriel thought, Mr. Fell wrote honestly about the kiss. Still, it seemed he had yet to discuss the next Very Important Fact related to the kiss. They decided to stir the pot again. “Oh, is he finally talking about that? Yes, he said you have to take violin lessons or something.”

“People don’t kissssss with violinssss, inspector.”

“I’m aware.” Did he really think she was that naive after five whole years on earth? “I believe it was a metaphor. Didn’t quite follow it.” This was a half-truth. It hadn’t made sense the first time Mr. Fell had mentioned it, a drunken rambling over crepes at Justine’s bistro across the street. But after some more time observing humans both kissing and playing musical instruments (though not at the same time), they believed they understood what the angel was getting at. It was a beautiful metaphor, actually, and they hoped it had made it to the letter. Or maybe Mr. Fell could manage to share it in person. But that wasn’t where she needed to push, so she set it aside for now.

“Mr. Crowley, I’m afraid I have to ask, does he talk about the woman from ancient Rome at all in the letter? The one who looked kind of like the Mona Lisa?” There were others he might have mentioned, but that was the start.

Crowley peered at her, his glasses sliding down to his nose. “Not yet, do I want to know why?”

“The Protocol says I shouldn’t be discussing this, but sometimes…you have to bend The Protocol a little, you know?”

Crowley’s glasses slid down to the edge of his nose. “Go on.”

Muriel decided now was an excellent time for more wine and poured herself another glass. “It would be ideal if he put it in the letter himself. Can you please skim through and see if you can find her?”

Crowley obliged. “Nothing about Rome here, or here…oh there she is!” He read and his face grew pale as snow. “Oh bloody hell! He told you about this?”

“Truth be told, my dear, the day of my Glorious Ascension was not, in fact, my first kiss.” Crowley read aloud in a terrible impression of Mr. Fell. “That was actually in Rome, 41 AD. I’d been propositioned by an aesthetically pleasing woman while eating oysters, and she didn’t seem married, so it wasn’t a sin any more than eating oysters was as far as I was concerned. I had been curious for a while, given how worked up mortals can get about kissing. It was…rather slimy and aggressive, and once I realized she was a lady of the evening, I ran out, though I did toss a couple coins to her for the trouble.” Crowley couldn’t help but laugh hysterically at the image for a solid few minutes.

After he collected himself, he continued reading out loud in a more normal tone of voice. “I tried it again every few centuries, just to see if my opinion had changed. I did encounter more skilled kissing partners, and my corporation seems to find men more attractive on the whole, but there was always something off about it, like a violinist who’s perfectly trained and hits all the right notes, but you find your mind wandering to tomorrow’s dinner plans instead of swept up in the music.”

Crowley paused and read the next paragraph in stunned silence.

“But, my dearest Crowley, have you ever heard a great musician before they became great? Like Handel or Bach before they became Handel or Bach? The true maestros might not have had a single lesson yet at all, and they might be playing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ and getting half the notes wrong, but somehow you have never felt anything more deeply than they make you feel for that curious star in the sky. That. That is what that dreadful kiss in the bookshop felt like. And that is the sort of music I’d like to practice over and over again, if you would oblige me.”

He read it several times, as the first time he’d honed in on the word “dreadful” and missed the actual point. He wasn’t sure what to make of it really. On one hand, the angel was saying Crowley was absolutely terrible and he’d had better. But he was also offering to practice? So there was a distinct possibility of more kissing? And perhaps…other things? He did call you sexy… A primal part of his brain slithered in, but he squashed that immediately like it was one of Beelzebub’s flies. He couldn’t ruin this by moving too fast, even in his head.

Reluctantly, Crowley moved on, reading the next paragraph out loud again, seeing as it mentioned his benevolent guardian angel who was currently on a self-guided wine tour through Aziraphale’s cellar. “Muriel said it was important that you know about my past…experiments. I admit I’m not sure why it matters. Surely you had your dalliances back in the day? It has no bearing on my feelings for you now or ever.”

He dropped the letter and grabbed another bottle from the bar cart, then shouted to the Heavens. “Not. Sure. Why. It. Matters?!?!?!” He stomped around the library a bit, then shouted at the ceiling. “For the record, angel, I did NOT have any…dalliances. I had to stoke the fires of lust sometimes, sure, but it’s not that bloody hard to tempt humans to fuck each other, so I let them have at it and stayed out of the way. I only ever wanted to have a dalliance with one entity who was apparently playing innocent this whole blessed time while secretly hosting orgies for centuries!”

Muriel sighed and finished off the wine bottle in their hand. She had suspected as much. The demon’s lack of prior experiments, not the orgies bit that Crowley was pulling out of thin air. “Actually, I’m fairly certain his knowledge of such activities is purely theoretical,” they noted, hoping it would calm the demon down. “He said if the kissing experiments weren’t satisfactory, no sense in making an effort for the rest of it.” They refrained from adding that based on his book collection, his theoretical knowledge of human carnal relations was shockingly extensive.

Crowley grunted. “So I’m unsatisfactory, not worth the effort. Thanks, inspector.”

“I don’t think he was referring to you, Mr. Crowley. I’m…going back to restocking books. With Taylor Swift in my headphones at maximum volume. I’ll be ordering takeaway in a couple hours. Any objections to Chinese?” The demon shook his head. He would probably continue with the dramatics even without an audience, but at least the facts were mostly laid out now. Tomorrow night, Mr. Fell would be able to come down and make this right. Hopefully.

The demon took another swig of vodka, which Muriel had miracled into (not holy) water. Mr. Crowley’s throat was going to give out from all the shouting. “ ‘Spose I ought to thank you. If he really wasn’t going to tell me…”

“You’re welcome,” Muriel said as she went back downstairs. With Queen playing in the background, they wondered if Aziraphale was going to tell some of the more interesting stories about his other experiments, but interesting and important were not always the same. There would be time for interesting later.

After that detour, Crowley returned to the page where the angel talked about Bugger All This Day. This appeared to be the initial conclusion to the Letter.

“Looking back on that terrible day, I believe we both did what we thought was necessary with the information we had. I knew I had to Ascend or lose you forever, and even if I could not convince you to join me, I had to try. You could not accept the offer, so you tried to persuade me to run off with you by any means necessary, but I was fully aware it was not an option. I am left up here alone, carrying on with things the best I can, and I can only hope you are doing the same.”

“I must acknowledge the possibility that you might never read this letter, or that you might read it and still not want to see me when I next Descend, or ever again. I have been struggling to accept this. I suppose the most I can do is trust that I have written what needs to be said and hope you have just enough faith in me to return someday, to believe that I have not forsaken you despite my new position.

Love always,

Aziraphale”

“Of course I want to see you, you stupid beautiful angel!” Crowley shouted at the ceiling. “Even though I have definitely been carrying on just fine without you!”

“If I’m not back again this time tomorrow, Carry on, carry on, as if nothing really matters…”

At that point, the Letter as it had originally been written seemed complete, but there were several later additions to peruse. In fact, the bit about the Roman woman was in one of these postscripts. Some were business updates, sharing the Good News of his accomplishments in Heaven-thanks to Muriel, no surprises there. More drawings of varying degrees of quality, memories of times they had actually been together, but slightly altered so they were holding hands or had their arms around each other instead of standing carefully far apart. More musings on time and biblical prophecies, though it didn’t seem they altered his core conclusion. One crumpled up piece of paper was dated on the second anniversary of Bugger All This Day and contained the same phrases written over and over again, as if the angel was trying to make it true.

“I do not love Crowley. I do not miss him. He is not coming back and that is perfectly fine. He hates me now and I deserve it. I am as happy as can be.” The dried teardrops on the page indicated that this affirmation did not work.

“Yeah, I tried that at one point too, angel. Doesn’t fucking work. Think someone on my old side came up with that affirmation manifesting nonsense. And I can’t hate you, angel. Wouldn’t bother being mad if I did.”

One page consisted of his thoughts on his predecessor. “Oh come on, does Gabriel really need to take up space in our love letter, angel?” But it made more sense as he read. Aziraphale was trying to understand how Gabriel had so quickly decided to run off with his beloved when it had taken him centuries to even admit to himself that he loved Crowley, let alone actually doing anything about it. Crowley was expecting a reference here to their conversation in 1967, but it was curiously absent.

“It seems that the higher up you get on the Heavenly Ladder, the more you believe that What You Want and What She Wants are the same thing. With Gabriel being so close to the top, I don’t believe it had ever occurred to him that they are distinct desires. While I don’t wish to resemble Gabriel in most respects, perhaps I could adopt some of this same confidence. While even as the Supreme Archangel, I don’t know What She Wants, I’m beginning to suspect that no news is good news and I should proceed accordingly.

After all, there was a curious omission in the Contract, the one I had to sign that bound me to the silly Descent process and other such rules and regulations. At no point did it mention not associating with you, or even with demons in general. I had assumed that would be one of the first rules. Obviously, I was not going to helpfully point that out. I’m not actually an idiot, Crowley.”

The last entry was dated shortly after the mysterious monsoon in the Sahara.

“My dearest Crowley,

Five days ago, I thought I saw you at the pub, and I felt truly whole for the first time since my Ascension. I stared at your brooding lanky form, trying to decide what to say, what words might persuade you not to run away this time. I finally settled on a simple hello, but you walked away from me with barely a glance. I tried to hold myself together until I could get into the bookshop, but I burst into tears right in the middle of the street. Once I got back home, I could hardly move for days. Muriel has informed me that this person wasn’t actually you, which is quite a relief, but the possibility that you might never forgive me still hangs like an albatross around my neck.

I suppose it was inevitable. Seeing as I don’t wish to show any weakness Upstairs, I have cried only on a few occasions since my Glorious Ascension. I have swallowed my grief and regrets and believed I was now in a state of acceptance. Clearly that is not the case.

Apparently you are currently in the Sahara, and the sheer force of my emotions has caused quite a downpour there. I have been so wary of disturbing you that I rarely even check the globe to see where you are. Though I did have to check on you in Antarctica…God only knows how you managed to get the Bentley down there and back.” Crowley stopped and laughed. That penguin was his angel after all!

“Muriel is now questioning this approach. ‘Is it possible that he thinks you’re not looking for him because you don’t care?’ I assumed that chasing you down would be precisely the wrong move, that you would revert to your serpentine nature and attack. I am also concerned that any attempt to reach you and invite you back on my part would be interpreted as a Command, and I would rather never see you again than Command you to do anything.

I did try having Muriel call, seeing as she can’t Command you, but apparently your voicemail is too full for us to 'do it with style'. I’m a bit perplexed by this…if everything on those phones is stored in the clouds as Muriel tells me, how can they not have room for a short message?”

Crowley pulled out his phone and noted that there were indeed several missed calls last year from an unknown number (probably Muriel’s) and the voicemails hadn’t been cleared out in a while. Deleting the photos had been one thing, but the voicemails were another matter entirely. He listened to them once a month or so, as if doing so would erase his angel’s actual parting words.

“Has the Protocol been backwards this whole time? Should I be pursuing you instead of waiting, throwing pebbles at your window in the pouring rain like a suitor in one of the bebop woman’s songs? Is that what you would need from me to feel as loved as you have always made me feel? Acting it out in my head, it seems like a silly picture, but love does tend to make people do silly things. And it would hardly be silly at all if it worked, would it? I will have to contemplate this further.

Love,

Aziraphale”

Crowley thought about this. How would he have reacted if Aziraphale had shown up at whatever motel he’d been trying to nap at and thrown a pebble at the window and stood outside with a boombox or whatever? Did they make boomboxes anymore? Did he even know what a boombox was?

Details aside, the notion sounded romantic, but also wrong somehow. In all of his many fantasies involving the angel, he was the one driving, the one deciding where they would go and how fast they would get there. Not, of course, without Aziraphale’s input, but he would take care of all the details so all the angel would have to do is sit back and enjoy the ride. Letting the angel drive? Besides being bloody slow, he had a hard time imagining himself in the passenger seat and just relaxing without being anxious that something would go horribly wrong. He’d probably turn into a backseat driver, unable to simply trust that the angel would get them to the promised land.