anewthama

[anewthama]

Momentarily Out of Action

(credit for the title goes to Killer Queen by Queen)

A one shot written for class about what happens after the events of Good Omens. Enjoy!

Set a few months after The Incident. Newt and Anathema have remained together and are currently living together in Jasmine Cottage. They don’t often discuss the events of “Saturday”, except to wonder what could have happened during the gaps in both their memories. Anathema has had thoughts of Agnes’ new book to keep her mind busy, but Newt hasn’t. His mind keeps coming back to the things he can’t remember. After several weeks of wondering, he decides he can’t leave it alone. On another clear Saturday afternoon, he sits down and writes down everything he remembers from that day (on paper of course).

“It all hung around in his mind, not exactly forgotten but forever hanging on the cusp of recollection, a memory of things that hadn’t happened. How could you have that?”

My first attempt at typing this resulted in Anathema’s home computer completely shutting down and refusing to restart until I placed it in the fridge for a few minutes. The second time I tried, it elicited a high-pitched wail and promptly exploded in a shower of sparks. So, it appears I’ll be writing this. Please forgive any misspellings, I’m having to use Anathema’s witchy periodicals to cross reference correct spellings and they aren’t exactly concerned with producing error free editions. 

Here’s what I’ve got so far. I know I was meant to remember something about that Saturday, but I’m not entirely sure I remember what that something was. I remember arriving at the American air base and running into those four strangers who seemed about as out of place as us (I still think they were some sort of terrorists, though Anathema disagrees.) I remember all the electronics in that room going absolutely haywire, and then I remember myself fixing them (though I’m still not entirely sure how). I also remember Anathema being incredibly impressed with my having fixed said electronics and gazing at me with adoration. I can remember all of this very well, but, from the second we stepped out of that room, everything went hazy. It’s just flashes after that. There was a man with sunglasses, and I think Adam, the boy from down the road, was there. I could almost swear I saw the Sergeant as well…

Anyway, I can’t remember exactly what I’m supposed to remember about that day, but I’ve decided to find out. I’ll have to ask around a bit and see if anyone can fill in some of the gaps in my memory.

“He had even been entertaining the idea of inviting her out for a meal, but he hated the idea of some Cromwellian witch sitting in her cottage three centuries earlier and watching him eat.”

When I initially asked Anathema about that Saturday she said, “I’ve told you Newt, I don’t remember any more than you do.” After much needling, however, I was able to convince her to write down for me everything that she could remember. 

Turns out, she doesn’t remember much more than I do. 

From arriving at the airbase to our leaving the electrical room, Anathema’s memories matched mine almost exactly. She seems to have a more understated understanding of my heroics in fixing all the broken electronics (“All you did was lay your hand on–” “I fixed them, Anathema!”), but nonetheless, she still remembered it. 

She’d also written down a description of a man who sounded exactly like Shadwell, which means I must have been remembering correctly when I thought I’d seen him. I’ll have to visit him in London sometime to investigate that. The man has a memory like an elephant, probably from all the milk. If anyone could remember, it would be him. 

The most interesting thing was that Anathema also remembered the man with the sunglasses. The one I mentioned earlier, the one who smelled like smoke. Well, I’d forgotten until she mentioned it, but we’d walked up on him standing with Shadwell and another bloke, a sort of nervous looking fellow with a nice overcoat. 

According to Anathema, “He was a thief, Newton. A book-stealing, bicycle-repairing thief.”

“Book stealing? You mean he stole Agnes’s book?” 

“Yes! He and his friend hit me with their car, broke my bike, fixed my bike, then stole the book.” She was close to yelling. She takes all business related to the book very seriously.

Taking care to keep my voice level, I said, “But why would he have stolen the book? He couldn’t have known what it was, you said it never sold a copy.” 

“He must have known. Why else would he have stolen it? It doesn’t exactly scream ‘expensive and probably worth a lot of money on the black market.’”

An idea hit me then. “Wait a second. Anathema, you’ve still got all the index cards, haven’t you? Did they say anything that could explain what happened?” 

She thought for a moment before saying, “I don’t think so. The prophecies were mostly about the lead up to The Incident, not really about The Incident itself. Besides 3017, that is. We think that one was probably about the actual event.”

“3017? The one that went on about four and four and four? Well, Anathema that’s it,” I nearly shouted, “All we’ve got to do is figure out what that one was talking about and we’ll have figured out what happened.”

Anathema still looked skeptical. She said, “Why are you trying to figure this out, anyway? Why does it matter what’s happened?”

“I just want to know. Like, whether or not all of Agnes’s prophecies came to pass or how we got the book back, or who those bicycle repair men really were and why Adam was there. Aren’t you at all curious about what happened?”

“Not really.”

“But this huge, world-changing event was fated to happen and we can’t remember any of it! You spent your whole life preparing for it and now that you can’t remember what happened, you don’t even care?”

“It wasn’t fated to happen. I’ve already told you, fate doesn’t exist. It just happened and now it’s over and we can move on. Weren’t you the one that was freaked out by Agnes knowing what was going to happen?” 

“I wasn’t freaked out by it, I just thought you should’ve realized that we were basically doing everything because Agnes said we should.” 

“But we didn’t. Agnes wrote it down because we did it. I told you, it’s more like remembering than predicting.”

“But we never would have done it in the first place if we hadn’t read those bloody prophecies. I don’t think you had as much choice in it as you think you did, Anathema.”

“Of course I had a choice in it! We’ve all got a choice in it, Newt. There is no great divine plan that’s deciding all our actions before we’ve ever got the chance to do them.” 

“I’m not saying there is, but–” 

I was cut off by the doorbell.

“If Anathema had been in full control of her own mind at that moment—and no one around Adam was ever in full control of his or her own mind—she’d have noticed that whenever she tried to think about him beyond a superficial level her thoughts slipped away like a duck off water.”

It was Adam at the door. 

He’d come by to pick up some more of Anathema’s old newspapers. He said they got his imagination going.

It was a welcome distraction. My questioning of Anathema didn’t get me anything except an argument, so I’d hoped that I might be able to get answers out of Adam. 

“Adam, you were there that Saturday, weren’t you? When The Incident happened?” 

I could have imagined it, but a cagey expression passed across his face when I asked him that. It was hard to tell with Adam though, he always had a sort of shifty look about him. Like he knew something that you didn’t. Or like he knew something that you were supposed to know but you didn’t even know what the thing you were supposed to know was let alone actually know it. 

Adam didn’t stop sorting through newspapers as he said, “Sure, I was. Me and my friends rode to the airbase on our bikes. ” 

“Right, well, the world was meant to…you know. So Anathema and I were wondering–” 

“Newt was wondering,” Anathema interrupted. 

“Right. I was wondering if you remembered what happened that day. See, we went into this electrical room where everything was going all crazy so I fixed it. We know we left the room afterwards, and then we ran into you and Shadwell and the man with the sunglasses and his friend with the nice overcoat, but we can’t actually remember what happened after that. We just remember it being Sunday all of the sudden.” 

“Well yeah, Sunday comes after Saturday. Of course it was Sunday afterwards.” I couldn’t tell if he was being intentionally obtuse. Again, it’s always hard to tell with Adam. 

“No, I mean, there’s a gap. A big gap between us finding you at the airbase and the next morning. We just know that something was supposed to happen and it didn’t.” 

“Why should I remember anymore than you did?” 

I can’t remember exactly the thought I had when he said that, but I remember it being important. It’s hard to keep a grip on good thoughts around Adam. They slide right out of your head, like ducks off water

“I’m not saying you should, I was just wondering if you did.” 

“Well, I don’t. I just remember you two showing up when I was splitting that woman back into two people, and then–” 

“Wait, what woman? What do you mean splitting her back into two people?”

Adam was silent.

As I stared back at him, I combed through my memories for any sign of another woman besides Anathema. I’d just caught a glimpse of feminine figure when the sound of Adam rustling newspapers brought me back to the present. When I came back, I’d forgotten what I was searching for. I’ve told you, Adam and good thoughts is like ducks on water. I couldn’t figure out what I’d been trying to remember until after he’d left. 

“What does it matter what happened? The world didn’t…you know. Did it?” 

“My god, does no one care about the fact that not a single one of us can remember an entire afternoon?” 

“The way I see it, whatever was supposed to happen didn’t actually happen, we shouldn’t keep worrying about it, should we? The way I see it, we should just keep moving forward. Quit worrying about what’s happened and just look forward.” 

I thought about what he said for a minute. Adam’s always got a way of saying things that just make sense. A conclusion that you never would have arrived to yourself but seems to be the only possible solution once he’s presented it to you. 

But I couldn’t accept it this time. 

“Adam,” I said slowly, “you didn’t have anything to do with The Incident, did you?” 

Adam didn’t respond again. Just stared at me until I’d forgotten ever asking him a question. 

Anathema and I both jumped when he spoke up again, “Well, good luck with your remembering, but I’ve got to get going. Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale will be waiting for me. We’re holding another inquisition. Pepper says she’s got the hang of proper torturing this time ‘round.” 

It was much easier to focus after he’d left. 

“The Enemy, of course. But an enemy for six thousand years now, which made him a sort of friend.”

I set down the two cups of tea for me and Anathema to continue piecing together The Incident. Our next step was tackling the mystery of the book thieves. We had been pouring over newspapers (it always comes back to this, doesn’t it?), trying to figure out if local reporting had mentioned any other crimes by stylish men in sunglasses or three piece suits, when Anathema had a brilliant idea. 

“Why not just check the White Pages?” she exclaimed. 

After two declined calls and one very angry man, Anathema finally got a hold of someone by the name if Mr. Fell. 

She dialed the number, which was picked up almost immediately. 

“Oh, bugger it all!” He had said when Anathema asked if he remembered anything about The Incident on Saturday (formerly known as The Apocalypse aka Armageddon aka The End of the World, changed in an effort to increase morale).

We faintly heard someone say “what is it, Angel?” in a manner that suggested the speaker had spent the better part of the afternoon lounging in a particularly regal and comfortable armchair and would continue to lounge until the last possible second of the day, at which point he would get up, stretch his legs, and parade around a cozy and well-stocked bookshop until the owner of said bookshop implied it would no longer be acceptable to lounge, and Really, Crowley, you might as well make yourself useful. Could you hand me the— No, don’t touch that! No, not that one, either! You know what, I’ll get it. You sit down, I’ll make you a cup of tea. 

Mr. Fell — Aziraphale, he had explained, after realizing it was the young lady with Agnes Nutter’s book who was on the other end — called back to the voice that it was nothing: “Just the nice lady with the bicycle, and I believe I will explain to her what happened.” There was a reply, and although Anathema hadn’t heard the words, she had caught the tone of voice, which might as well have been labeled “Whatever you say, Angel, it’s all the same to me.”

So, Aziraphale had explained, in a rather roundabout way, (with Crowley butting in occasionally to add color and intrigue) that he was an angel and Crowley was a demon, and they had helped stop The Incident. 

Of course, they couldn’t fill in everything, only what they were there for (and had conveniently forgotten to explain the nature of their relationship, which Anathema had created a theory for after being dropped off, and added evidence to after hearing their side conversations on phone). This — The Incident, not the six-thousand-year-slow-burn — was apparently why Anathema and I were being interrupted by supernatural beings for the umpteenth time today: Within an hour of having hung up the phone — not nearly enough time to process everything Aziraphale had told them — the door opened.

Crowley and Aziraphale walked into Jasmine Cottage, casual as anything. Crowley entered first, which explained the lack of a knock, but one would think that at least the angel (Was he still an angel? Was angelhood something you were stuck with, or could you lose it? I guess the latter, on account of Lucifer and the fall and all that) would have the decency to not interrupt a man when he has just sat down with his lovely girlfriend (Were they a couple? They hadn’t had that talk yet. Newt made a mental note to bring it up later), but apparently 6,000 years on Earth did things to a person. Angel. Former angel. Oh, whatever he was! Someone without proper manners.  

“You don’t really realize what you have until you lose it, et cetera, et cetera,” Crowley was saying. We just stared at him. 

Aziraphale turned to Anathema and me to explain. “Oh, it’s true! We are now truly abandoned by heaven—”  

“—And hell. Well, as much as hell could ever abandon. It’s not like they care about anything enough to abandon it.”

“Right, of course, and hell. It’s been fun! We don’t have to follow any rules—”

“—Wasn’t doing that in the first place—”

“—And Crowley is teaching me how to be mean! It sounds awful, I know, but he assures me it helps humans build character. And it's actually quite fun, when the person deserves it,” he admitted sheepishly. 

Crowley, for his part, had never really been truly evil to begin with, so his process of assimilation to the human world had already happened, rather seamlessly, over the past 6,000 years. As he always claimed, humans were intrinsically more evil than he was, because they had to choose it. Although, now that Crowley thought about it, he supposed he did have a choice, now, without the threat of hell looming. Maybe he would try being … Nice. Ugh. Even thinking the word gave him chills. And not the good kind, like the kind you get after a good plot twist in a movie or a particularly brilliant verse in a song. No, these were the truly hellish kind of chills. The ones one felt when one’s body prepared itself for a rather violent upchuck. Not that Crowley knew anything about upchucking. He did still retain some perks of inhumanity, after all.  

Aziraphale, on the other hand, needed some coaching in the serpentine wiles of humanity. Or so Crowley thought. Aziraphale had proved quite adept at wiles. This was possibly a consequence of The Arrangement, Crowley thought. He should’ve known thousands of years of imitating evil would take its toll — although, to be fair, the toll in question currently manifested itself as Aziraphale lying to customers about the business hours of his bookshop, taking books he couldn’t bear to part with out of the hands of customers at his bookshop, and sternly ushering customers out of his bookshop when he didn’t “like the looks of them” (code for “they will use my precious first editions as coasters and so I must get them out of my sight immediately”). And hadn’t he been doing that this whole time, anyway? 

This was all conveyed — not in so many words, but I was getting better at reading between the lines, and I was sure I was right this time, especially after that Masterclass in reading body language (the one with the in-depth lesson on winks) by Mary Hodges, businesswoman — through sighs and shrugs by Crowley and Aziraphale as they searched for… well, I didn’t actually know. They were poking about, Crowley looking under tables, Aziraphale in and around the bookshelves overflowing with editions of The New Aquarian. 

I pondered what they could possibly be looking for. A book, maybe? That would make sense for Aziraphale, maybe, but what book didn’t they already have? The only one missing had been Agnes’s, and we’d already recovered that one (although a bit worse for wear. Not that it mattered anyway, as all the prophecies had come to pass). 

“So… what are you looking for, exactly?” I finally ventured.

“Well, you see—” Aziraphale started. 

“It’s a ring.” Crowley snapped. “You wouldn’t get it.” He looked like he was going to say more, definitely something rude, possibly something accompanied by violence. 

“It’s this really lovely story, actually,” Aziraphale interjected. “Right at the beginning of all this — The End of the World, I mean — Crowley and I were contemplating what life would be like after The Apocalypse. And he was relentless about this story about this bird—”

“Oh, you’re telling it all wrong! The story isn’t about the bird, it’s about the mountain. There’s a mountain made of diamond — hardest rock there is, you know — and every thousand years, a bird—” 

“A-ha! There is a bird!”

“Yes, yes, Angel, the bird does play a part. So this bird, it flies to the mountain every thousand years to sharpen its beak on the mountain—”

“And after the mountain has been worn down to nothing, that’s when the first second of eternity will have passed.”

“I believe the words I used were, ‘You still won’t have finished watching The Sound Of Music.’”

“Yes, well, pish-posh. So, after Armageddon, we realized we would be on Earth until… Well, we don’t know until when. But heaven and hell both seem to have forgotten about us, so as far as we figure, we’re free to do what we like, for as long as we like.” He smiled, as if this cleared everything up.

Anathema piped up. “So, what about the ring?” 

“Oh, the ring! See. The flaming sword, the ring… forget my own head next.” 

I, of course, had no idea what a flaming sword had to do with any of what they had just talked about (Had it been used by the bird to help sharpen his beak? Was it made of diamond from the mountain? I didn’t think I’d ever understand what was going on), but I was ever so familiar with Aziraphale’s emotions at that moment. I didn’t know angels could get embarrassed. Made me feel better about my own embarrassment, if I’m being honest. 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “The ring is what Aziraphale gave me after we realized we weren’t really mortal enemies. We hadn’t been mortal enemies for a while, really, but we couldn’t hide behind our respective sides any longer. Had never really been on them to begin with, come to think of it. But anyways, it’s made of diamond, the diamond of the proverbial mountain, as in, eternity. Do you follow? It’s clear as anything. Easy to lose. I would like it back, please.”

I glanced at Anathema in shock. Whatever story I thought I was expecting, it wasn’t this. 

“He gave you a wedding ring?” Anathema asked, incredulous.

“What? Oh, well, I suppose so. If you want to put it in human terms.” This answer was muffled and had to be slightly shouted, as, now that their story was over, Crowley had transitioned from looking under tables to looking in Anathema’s bedroom. 

“It’s not here, Crowley,” Aziraphale called from the foyer, where he was looking through couch cushions. “Let’s keep looking. Would it be in the Bentley?”

“Oh, Satan, I hope not. With my luck it’ll turn into the belt Freddie Mercury wore at Live Aid or something.” 

As abruptly as they had arrived, the pair left, bickering about the luster of diamond and rock star accessories. 

“It’s not enough to know what the future ​is. You have to know what it means.”

So we had finally gotten around to piecing together what we remembered that fateful Saturday. By the end, our tea had gotten cold, so I had gotten up to make them more. As I put the kettle on, I revisited my mental list of notes; my mind snagged on the Anathema question. What were we to each other? I would have very much liked to call Anathema my girlfriend. After all, we didn’t have six thousand years to dance around the question. The tea and I both mulled. Once it was ready, I brought it back to the table and attempted to broach the topic.

“So, I was thinking… are we… Well, I think what I’m trying to say is…” I was stuttering, my face was red, and I was sure Anathema could read the embarrassment off of me as easily as I could the angel’s earlier. She came to my rescue. She always would, wouldn’t she? That was why I loved her. 

Oh. Oh. Well, no point hiding it now. Might as well go all in.

Anathema beat me to it. 

“Are we a couple, do you mean? Official? Going steady? Courting?” She was smiling a bit now, laughing at my embarrassment, but I found that I didn’t mind, actually.

“Yes, that, precisely.”

“I would hope so!” She was laughing outright. “After The End of The World!”

I laughed, too, then.  There really was no point in saying The Incident, after all: morale was higher than ever.