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fanficsiwillneverwrite · 6 months ago

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realizing I haven’t posted the full thing on here, so:

England, 10th Century

On a brisk autumn day Aziraphale sits quietly in what will eventually become a souvenir shop in an area not yet calling itself Soho, London. It is right now a growing village within the freshly named Kingdom of England. He very much enjoys sitting and watching humans get on with their impassioned—nathaless, very short—lives at a safe distance with little interference, and this place in particular brings something quite unique to the whole experience. Perhaps it is the song they carry inside them, despite inevitable human hardships. Or the natural friendliness each person emulates as they pass each other. Or the laughter coming from the bellies of nearby children playing. Whatever it may be, love and therefore God exists within it.

This all is observed on his first visit to the eventual town called Soho, for he knew he would surely return. Around his third visit, the people seem much more trustful of his appearance. He is still very much a stranger to them, of course, a wanderer with no intention of settling, but they understand now he is no threat.

“What is it you are doing?” asks a small voice one day while he is painting. A new leisure activity taken up to mimic human existence. His hobby of book collecting is still fairly brand new—in comparison to his time here on earth—and sometimes a headache to preserve in these early years of literacy, so he takes breaks every now and again.

His name is Eustace, the small voice beside him. A young boy of eleven nearly twelve with innocent eyes and a mischievous look about him. He is very much the definition of adversity, somehow always stuck in the between stages of no good with his father no longer existing and his mother, a most notable adulteress. That is, a whore to the non-angels.

“Painting,” Aziraphale says placidly, though art is like literature in that it has not yet become itself. He uses minerals and organic pigments to revive the sight before him: overgrown strips of various greens blowing in the hectic blue wind with splashes of amber and crimson imitating the setting sun. The boy, curious, touches Aziraphale’s knuckle and follows along as the angel paints. He allows the moment to linger before looking up. “Would you like to have a go?”

Eustace nods, sitting. It is the quietest the boy has ever been. It is the quietest the boy will ever be. He splatters two wobbly shapes onto the wooden panel, exclaiming, “Us,” quite contently.

“Us,” agrees the angel, equally content with the extra additions to his painting.

Eustace—who was born about one hundred years too early to have a last name—is good natured at heart, but has a dreadful temper. “The boy needs discipline is all,” were the wise but drunken words of his father before his timely death just two weeks later.

It is a universal fact that all humans need discipline. Without discipline, they are at risk of becoming permanent pests to society, which include but are not limited to becoming flat earthers, loud chewers, murderers, Tiktok influencers and, of course, fallen angels.

Crowley’s shadow suddenly looms over them. And something inside Aziraphale bubbles, clearly a heightened angel instinct to know when demons are lurking. “Right now, off you go,” he tells the boy calmly but quickly as they stand.

Crowley half-heartedly—perhaps even playfully—kicks the boy as he leaves. “You and your little human pets,” the demon says with a mephitic scent on his breath.

Aziraphale shrinks. “Humans… are not pets,” he insists. They are God’s children and he is to watch over them until he receives orders saying otherwise.

“Hope you’re not too attached to this lot,” he continues, looking on at the growing community around them. “I’ve got direct orders from the big boy downstairs. They’re to all perish in three weeks time. No survivors.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, furrowing his brow. He looks over at the young boy now skipping along the pathway back to his home, blissfully unaware. There is always the hopeful chance these humans find power within themselves and refuse temptation this time around—after all, they are good people, deep down—but Crowley is rather exceptional at his job. And it only takes one wrong person to start a righteous war.

“I haven’t yet decided how I’ll go about it,” Crowley continues. “Maybe I’ll pick the biggest drunkest bloke of the bunch and punch him silly, then disappear into the night and let nature take its course.”

Demons, surprisingly, scarcely kill. It is listed in their job description, but they rarely find it necessary. Aziraphale is not even sure Crowley has ever physically harmed a human being outside of a punch in the face or a swing of a heavy tree branch to their unmentionables. Human brains, though very much full of bright ideas and creativity, tend to easily fall privy to violence. But they are still fairly brand new in the grand scheme of things; they barely make toddlerhood compared to the rest of the universe.

“It’s all part of God’s plan,” Aziraphale says with a timorous nod. “I’m sure of it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” agrees Crowley absentmindedly. He takes a short pause before continuing, “Do you think it’ll be cheating if I got the lord of the manor involved? Maybe tempt him with even more greed and power?” He turns to Aziraphale, but receives no answer. Only a look of worry. He quite likes the village as it is. Crowley waves it off. “Ah, I’ll figure it out. I’ve got three weeks.” His attention turns to the painting, and he yanks it away from the angel. “What’s this?”

Aziraphale takes it back and looks at it fondly. “Us,” he says after a moment, then starts in the direction toward the village.

“Us?” The demon follows suit, though a few steps behind. “What do you mean, us?”

He does not answer and continues along the path. A mother and her daughter draw near. The daughter carefully carries fresh pails of water in each hand. They smile and nod in the same way Aziraphale does as they move around him. And there is hopefulness in the air that humans can overcome any obstacle the Devil throws at them—that is until the daughter abruptly throws one bucket to the ground and dumps the other over her mother’s unsuspecting head when they near Crowley. The mother, quite reasonably, lets out a horrified shriek as she stands there soaking wet.

“Oh dear,” mumbles the angel at the sight before him. The demon simply smiles, smugly, as the mother begins chastising her ungrateful daughter. Aziraphale looks at him disapprovingly.

The Devil always starts small like this. A misbehaving daughter is promptly written off as teenage rebellion or even bad parenting to the world around her. But a daughter’s suddenly sour mood quickly rubs off on others, and soon it is the entire village misbehaving: neighbors arguing over property line, drunkard men brawling over women who barely give them second glances, lords terrorizing their workers, and even people plotting coups. Crowley happily reports to the demons down below that he is ahead of schedule ten days in.

Angel and demon stand now together as pandemonium erupts around them. “It’s too easy sometimes,” remarks the demon dryly as they take in their surroundings. One man stands before an angry mob, plotting against their local but recently tyrannical—all thanks to Crowley—leader. A few others nearby spit at his stupidity and cook up a plan of their own. Both will be dead by the end of the week.

“They will learn from this,” says Aziraphale with certainty.

“Hey there, boy,” calls out Crowley to the boy, Eustace, walking past. He gathers a stick and stone from the ground below and tosses it over to him, then points. “Go try setting that hut on fire.”

Eustace almost complies, but Aziraphale interferes and orders the boy to say his prayers instead.

“Hampering with the ineffable plan, are we?” teases Crowley.

“You can at least spare the children.”

Aziraphale and Crowley have always been on relatively good terms throughout the years, despite their obvious differences. It makes little sense to be at each other’s throats constantly when they work so closely together. “Nope. No survivors, remember?” But they are still—by definition—enemies.

The lord of the manor intervenes on day thirteen when he finds his profits have halted. He demands order from his people. They try to hang him.

It takes about sixteen days total to destroy the not yet Soho village and everyone in it. A new personal record for Crowley. He thinks about finding the angel—who fled as soon as the killing started—to gloat about his success, but it might be too soon. Later, when Aziraphale’s nerves settle. Instead, he takes in the scene before him: smoky air, torched huts and bodies of the damned all around—he barely even lifted a finger. Humans are and will always be the Devil’s playthings.

“What happens now?” questions a small and nervous voice beside him.

And Crowley fumes at the very sight of the human, the lone survivor. His teeth clench and his snake eyes bulge. It looks almost like he might burst. “NO SURVIVORS!” he yells out to no one, because the angel, he knows, is long gone by now.

Aziraphale makes a habit of performing small miracles each day. Simple miracles, really, like vanishing the clouds to create a perfectly sunny day, or planting a coin for someone to find later, or repairing broken down bicycles. He rarely regrets them, even the ones he is reprimanded for by the heavenly authorities upstairs. But in the many years to come after this miracle is granted, he does look back on it with remorse.

“Jump into that fire there,” Crowley demands, snapping his fingers frantically in the boy’s face. The boy’s eyes blink rapidly in discomfort, but he makes no effort to move. The demon then slaps him, half heartedly, of course—Crowley is a demon, not a monster. “Come on, boy. Into the fire!” He whistles in a way an owner might call his dog. It does not intimidate the boy. “Kill yourself!” He takes away his eyewear and reveals his true colors in a last attempt to scare him into death. The boy merely lifts his eyebrows in shock. But, like everything else, it does not frighten him. And as the words flow out, he wonders why exactly anyone should die—the ineffable plan is questionable at best, and just plain cruel at its worst. “Have it your way,” he mutters, putting his eyewear back on. He stomps away. “Some poor bastard will end up killing you, anyway…”

The boy follows, much to the demon’s dismay. “What are you?”

“A demon,” he answers boredly. “Go away.”

“You did all this?”

An ordinary reaction to quite an extraordinary event, especially for a boy so young, but the truth is Eustace has no real fondness of this village or of the people who previously occupied it. Very unlike the peculiar angelic-looking stranger who visits from time to time. He has no memory of his father while his mother preferred the company of grisly old men over her own son. And because of this upbringing, the villagers did not treat him kindly. In return, the boy sought vengeance with all of them. In his eyes, a demon is a blessing compared to his previous state of living.

“Yep.”

“But why?”

“It’s my job.”

“You kill people?”

“I tempt people to kill people.” There is a difference. He stops and bends to meet the boy then tips his eyewear to reveal his true self again. “You ask a lot of questions.”

The boy shrugs. “You have a lot of answers.”

Crowley’s lip twitches slightly. “Look, you’ve been spared, so go out and… live. Find another village. Rebuild this one, if you want. I don’t care. Just stop following me.” He begins walking again.

“Can’t I come with you?”

“No.”

Despite his answer, they continue like this for another few hours: Crowley wanders, and the boy follows him as if he were the demon’s own shadow. He can easily abandon the child, fly off somewhere the boy can never reach, not even in his darkest nightmares, but something tugs at him to stay.

Crowley, and therefore the boy, eventually settle beside a river and the demon strips nearly his entire essence to slither into the lawless water, paying the boy—or, Nuisance, as he has mentally begun calling him—little mind. “That’s much better,” he hisses as the waves rock him back and forth, back and forth.

“You’re a demon and a snake?” asks Nuisance, who has mastered the art of asking too many questions.

“Obviously,” replies Crowley, his sharp tongue flicking out for dramatic effect.

“What’s it like?” The average man Crowley encounters screams at the very sight of him in his true form. This one, apparently, becomes some sort of philosopher. “Being a demon and all?”

Hell , he thinks to say—because it is, most days. “Enough with the questions already.” He transforms back into his human form. Naked. Free. “Just… get in the water, Nuisance.”

He suddenly goes red. “I can’t swim.”

Crowley floats on his back, allowing the current to carry him away. The boy, as expected, follows. “Even better,” he says. “Get in.”

“But I’ll drown.”

“I know.”

This, he thinks, is the very moment Crowley decides Nuisance will become his thrall, his human pet, who will bend to his every will and do all his unnecessary bidding. He has been asking for something of the sort from the lot downstairs; they have yet to get back to him on it.

He sighs. “Right, come on,” Crowley continues, climbing out of the water and replacing his dark robes. The boy shields his eyes from the sight. “I need a drink.”

Man’s first images in caves and on stones told enthralling yet devastating stories while always emphasizing human togetherness. Some of Aziraphale’s early favorites include: Beware of Big Fire and How To Kill Bear Using Pointy Stick with its exceptional sequel, Big Bear Fight Back. Such works, unfortunately, are very hard to come by these days. Most, if not all, have been forgotten, buried or otherwise, leaving the angel with only memories of simpler times. But humanity’s desire—or rather, their need—to tell stories is still very much a core part of their identity. And after the library burnt down, he felt it necessary to help preserve at least some of human history.

He has settled, temporarily, in a peaceful spot far away from most of humanity, but it has never quite felt like home. It is, to put it simply, a cluttered mess that keeps himself, his books and his art, as well as all the other trinquets he has collected throughout the years, safe from unpredictability. Home —the meaning as well as the physical place—is something he is still searching for.

“Knock, knock…” Crowley enters without actually knocking.

“Ah, Crowley,” greets the angel, suddenly aware of the disorder around him. Stacks of books fill most of the space with some even as high as his ceiling. Art pieces and other trinkets fit neatly around them. He is certainly in no real position to have company over, much less a demon, but Crowley looks unbothered. Aziraphale clears space on a nearby cushioned bench to give his friend a place to sit. “Pardon the mess. I’m still”—he relocates a few books from one tall stack to another, and both stacks crumble, flooding the floor with loose and rather delicate texts—“rearranging. Would you like something to drink? Maybe some mead, or cyder?”

“I can’t stay long,” says Crowley, sitting up. Aziraphale moves to clean up the mess around them. “I’ve come to ask you a favor, actually.”

“Oh?” he questions with a handful of books.

“I’ve got to pop into Kyivan Rus real quick, start some war or something of that sort. To be quite honest, I only skimmed the paperwork.”

“Do have fun,” says Aziraphale excitedly. “The Vikings are exceptional company.”

“The thing is, I need you to look after my pet while I’m away,” he continues. “Kyivan Rus’ is good fun, but not when there’s a war.”

The angel gives him an inquisitive look. In the many years he has known Crowley, he never seemed like a pet person. “Your pet?”

“It’s an easy job, really. You just need to feed and water him each day. Let him out whenever he has to go. That sort of thing. He’ll tell you what he needs.”

“Your pet?” Aziraphale repeats, because he is still stuck on the fact that Crowley, the demon, is willingly caring for a creature of God.

“Nuisance!” Crowley whistles. “Come here, boy!”

He drops his books when the creature called Nuisance enters his hut happily. “Oh dear.” He expected a wolf or maybe even one of those talking birds, not a human child.

“Clean this mess up, will you, boy,” orders Crowley, snapping his fingers in a demanding way.

“Yes, Master Crowley,” says the boy, kneeling to gather books.

He wheezes at the very sight. Crowley, however, practically beams at the boy’s obedience. “Erm—Crowley? Can I speak with you for a moment?” He glances at the boy, then manages a soft smile to hide his true horror. “Privately.”

They go behind a large wooden bookcase not yet filled with books, so the boy cannot see them. “So? Whattya think?”

“What do I think? Crowley, you have enslaved a human child!”

“He’s not my slave,” says Crowley, sounding almost disgusted at the very thought. “I pay him a silver penny first of each month. If he does his chores, that is.”

“You are breaking all sorts of laws, upstairs and down. I am sure of it. You must—” He pauses and pokes his head out to have another look at the boy. He looks vaguely familiar, Aziraphale realizes: long dark curls and piercing brown eyes with a content smile on his face, despite being put to work. He notices the angel staring and waves at him before continuing his cleaning. Aziraphale gives a meek wave back, before his attention returns to Crowley. “You must release the human child back to wherever he came from, or I fear I will have no choice but to alert the higher authorities.”

“Alert the higher authorities? In case you’ve forgotten, angel, it was your miracle that got me stuck with the human child in the first place!”

“My miracle—?” He blinks, thinking back. Suddenly he realizes: the boy from the village; the one he felt a need to save. That day, right before the killing started, he told the boy with the fondness for painting to hide beneath his bed and to only come out when the world around him fell silent. He also performed a small miracle inside the room, so people would unknowingly look past the bed and the little feet poking out from underneath. “Well, that wasn’t an invitation to get yourself acquainted with the boy! Why did you let him stay with you?”

He shrugs. “Was bored, I guess.”

Aziraphale panics. The ineffable plan is not to be tampered with. And yet, they both did.

“So, will you watch him or not?”

“Very well,” he agrees reluctantly, after a moment of quiet contemplation. It is partly his fault, after all.

“Nuisance. You’re staying here for a few nights,” Crowley announces, reemerging from behind the bookcase. Aziraphale follows suit. “This is Master Aziraphale, that angel I was talking about. You are to obey his every order or you will suffer the consequences when I get back. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Master Crowley.”

Crowley is quick to exit, leaving Aziraphale behind with the child. He takes a moment to collect himself before opening his mouth to speak, but… What can an angel say to a human child, especially one who now knows angels and demons live among him. There really is only one question on his mind: “Your name isn’t actually Nuisance, is it?”

“No, Master Aziraphale—”

He recoils at the name, at the very implication of it. “Please, Aziraphale will suffice.” He kneels beside the boy and begins assisting him clear away the books. “And your name? Your real one, that is.”

“Eustace,” he says softly.

“Well then, Eustace, it is lovely to have officially met you.”

When Crowley returns a few days later, Aziraphale urges him to, in the most simplest terms, release the boy back into his natural habitat. “He’s not my prisoner,” responds the demon. “Look, if he wants to go, he can go. I won’t stop him.”

“I must insist you make him leave, Crowley,” says the angel while Eustace—or Nuisance—is outside doing his business. “This life, our work, is not something a human child should be involved in.”

The demon sighs, then calls: “Nuisance!” Aziraphale retreats behind him, so he is not to be blamed. He hates being the bad guy. He is an angel, after all; bad is not in his vocabulary.

The boy hurries to his master. “Yes, Master Crowley?”

“Leave. Get out of here,” orders Crowley dryly with the snap of his fingers. “I don’t want you anymore.”

The boy remains unmoving, but a panic expression forms on his face. “Have I done something wrong?”

He turns to the angel, his temporary caretaker these last few days, for answers. “Oh, my dear boy, no... Quite the opposite, in fact.” The angel glances at Crowley for confirmation; the demon simply offers a half-hearted shrug. He tries again: “Wouldn’t you rather be with your own kind? Find a village, a group of people who you can depend on and finally be free from all this angel and demon business?”

“I’ve got no place to go. Please, Master, don’t send me away,” begs Eustace. “I’ll be good. I’ll obey!”

“Fine. I’ll have you back,” relents Crowley, fairly quickly. He glances at the angel to see if he notices; he does. They leave before Aziraphale can comment on it.

—

The boy ages one year while Crowley remains exactly the same. He grows out his beard and trades in his dark and menacing robes for more casual ones to make it look like he too is changing, but his eyes still glow yellow and sin still engulfs him. Each encounter now with the angel starts with a lecture about the boy. But he pretends not to listen, and the angel moves on to other important matters, such as where they might have lunch that day. Nuisance, of course, is a few steps behind them. Humanity has never been so peaceful.

They are sitting observing the humans together, as they typically do on slow days, when Crowley asks, “Have you ever thought about… I don’t know, joining this lot?”

Aziraphale misinterprets his question. The humans around them are farming, and angels are not very keen on participating in tasks involving manual labor. Nuisance, by order of his superior, Crowley, is flapping around making annoying bird sounds as they work. “If you want to have a go at farming, by all means…”

“No, I mean—have you ever wanted to experience life from a human’s eye? To… fall in love.” And Aziraphale blushes, turning away. The wind picks up. Storm clouds gather. A few drops tap his head. Crowley’s attention turns to Nuisance, who is now being reprimanded by one of the workers. “Maybe even start a family.” He watches Nuisance fall on his own accord, but he continues to caw with his feet kicking in the wind. “Feel your body age. Feel your body… die.”

He turns back to Aziraphale and notices a gleam in the angel’s holy eyes; he gulps. A soft mist cools them as it begins to drizzle. “Have you?”

“Master, it’s raining!” calls Nuisance from afar.

The moment passes. Crowley stands. “Not really, no.”

“Master—”

“I heard you the first time,” yells the demon back to the boy now dirtying his clothes.

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale delicately. He glances at the laughing boy, then hesitates. Whatever he might have wanted to say, he says this instead: “You caring for the boy is quite ethical, you know. A demon sent to kill him decides to raise him instead.”

Crowley wants to say, I know I shouldn’t have him but I can’t bring myself to let him go. But he cannot bring himself to confess such a thing, to an angel or to himself. “Ironic, isn’t it?” he says instead.

—

They cross paths again with Aziraphale a few months later when Crowley is ordered to spread a small plague around the Kingdom. He gets sidetracked and they end up at some farm to count the obscene amount of sheep there. The boy’s idea for fun.

Nuisance stands tall on a wobbly wagon to have a better look. Crowley watches from afar while holding the wagon steady for him. He counts aloud, “Sixty two, sixty three—”

“No, no, that was number thirteen you’ve just counted,” corrects Aziraphale, pointing. “Notice the little black mark on his nose.”

“They all have a black mark.” The boy huffs because he has lost his place. He starts again. “One, two, three…”

Crowley, something growls at him. The familiar call from down below; he has been avoiding it all week. The sky turns gray and the wind blows hard.

“Twelve, thirteen—” The sheep begin moving, almost in a panic, at the storm or something else. Nuisance balances himself along the edge to be closer. The wagon tips; Crowley weighs it down with a firm hand. “Ah, Hell, I can’t see!”

Crowley…

“Eustace,” scolds Aziraphale, oblivious to the growl. “Might I ask you to use kinder words.”

“Sorry, Aziraphale,” he says, then starts counting again.

Crowley!

He quietly leaves to follow the sound, knowing there will be painful consequences if he does not. Angel and boy do not notice. Thunder rumbles. He walks a good distance before encountering a bubbling pile of animal excreta, which is better known in human society as horse shit.

Crowley…

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” calls out Crowley. “What is it you want? I’m very busy up here, you know… wreaking havoc and whatnot.” He looks cautiously over at Aziraphale and Nuisance to be sure they are not listening. They are still, in fact, happily unaware.

The Master’s not happy, Crowley, it spumes out. Not happy at all.

The demon feigns ignorance. “And how’s that my problem?” Temptation can honestly get quite boring, especially in this age of manic Man. He tempts a man to steal tomatoes, that man will stuff those tomatoes into the mouth of his enemy until he chokes.

We will return at nightfall where your fate will be decided.

In the five thousand years of him witnessing human love and human suffering, Crowley has come to one simple conclusion about this so-called ineffable plan: the Almighty did not spend seven days creating a perfect universe. They spent it making an insufferable one. The choice is and will always be either good or bad—angel or demon—with a noticeable lack of a third option. A perfect universe should always include a third option.

Do not bring the human child, the final message warns. And the demon halts. Crowley spent the last year hiding the boy from them, leaving him with the angel or distracting him with a meaningless task to keep him away from the trouble.

A rage ignites within him knowing all his efforts are now proven futile. “FUCK!”

Nuisance screams with him in the distance and he rushes to protect him from whatever horror they let loose on him. His panic dwindles slightly at the sight of the wagon turned over with the boy on the ground beside it. He cries out in pain; the angel kneels before him.

“You’re going to be just fine,” assures Aziraphale in a soothing voice, placing a gentle hand on Nuisance’s distorted leg. It molds back into its original shape. “There, that’s much better, isn’t it?”

He sniffles as Crowley brings him to his feet. “It… doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“That’s miracles for you—like it never happened,” says Crowley distantly. His attention quickly turns to the angel. “Can you watch him tonight? I’ve got this thing, you know… and I can’t very well take him with me.”

“Oh, I'm not able tonight. The Archangels are coming down to check up on things,” he says. Nuisance stands between them, testing out his walk with his newly healed leg. “I’m trying my hand at crumpets this time,” he adds excitedly. His appreciation for man’s ever expanding cookery does not extend to the angel’s above him, but that does not stop Aziraphale from sharing these newfound recipes with them.

“Can’t you hide him behind your many books?”

A soft rain begins to fall. “They will surely notice…”

“They might not!”

“Best not risk it,” replies the angel casually. “You wouldn’t let him anywhere near your kind, would you?”

“No, but that’s very different.” He stomps away without a proper goodbye. His pet follows him dutifully.

And as day transforms into night and the rain pours down hard, Crowley walks to what might very well be his impending doom with Nuisance just a few steps behind. “Where are we going?”

“We’re not going anywhere,” says Crowley to the boy who loves asking questions. “I’m going to get a drink.”

“Can’t I come with?”

“No,” he says, turning to face the boy. He has aged an entire year, this boy so soon to become man, and Crowley remains the exact same. He will always be the exact same. Regret fills him. “This entire year has been wasteful—I don’t know what I was thinking.”

The boy’s eyes glimmer. “About… what, Master?”

He hesitates, then turns away to make it easier for himself. “About you. You’re not my pet. You’re a human child.” And Crowley is just a demon. His black wings awaken and stretch out in magnificent emphasis. “And stop calling me Master. I’m not anyone’s Master.”

Never being great with goodbyes, he allows the storm to take him away and watches as Nuisance fades into the dark night, finally leaving behind the life that can never be.

He should worry about being bathed in holy water or whatever punishment the demons have in store for him, instead he thinks of Aziraphale serving crumpets to the archangel Gabriel—who looks at the food quizzically and miracles it away after an appropriate amount of time passes. And the disappointment on Aziraphal’s face when he realizes, once again, his superiors have failed to appreciate the complexity of humanity’s most simplest things. If he ever encounters the Almighty again, he will scream at them, so maybe they will finally understand: perfect worlds have third options!

The rendezvous spot is in the eye of the storm. Ironic how the only light in this gloomy night becomes darkened by God’s fallen star. The wind howls around him and lightning strikes as Beelzebub and Hastur emerge from the mud. Crowley stands crooked, awaiting his fate.

“You’ve been slacking up here, Crowley,” Hastur grumbles.

“Ah, Hastur,” greets Crowley, his attention turning to the wild, bug-infested lump atop his head. “Have you done something with your hair? It looks—er, nice might not be the right word here.”

“Where is the suffering? The endless wars? The terrible plagues?”

Crowley scratches his head. “Well… I mean, this lot’s lifespan is thirty years, if even that. I say we’re doing a pretty good job.”

“When was the last time you even tempted someone?”

“Enough,” Beelzebub silences their rambling. Her attention returns to Crowley. “You have abandoned your duties here. Your loyalty to the underworld, your loyalty to our Master, is something…”

“…that should never be questioned. I know.” Crowley has heard this speech before. It is a little less intimidating the second time around. “Look, I’ve just been in a dry spell lately. You win some… you lose some.”

“More loss than win, I say,” spits out Hastur.

“We have reason to believe you have been harboring a human child for over a year now,” continues Beelzebub.

He shifts. “Right. Nuis—the boy… the human.” Thunder roars above them. “He’s long gone now. Threw him out weeks ago.”

“How did he even end up in your services?”

“Oh, erm, I sort of destroyed his village and all the humans around him, and then…” And then he kept him. It is as simple as that. “It’s all a bit fuzzy, looking back on it now.” His mind wanders to the brown eyed boy from not yet Soho and the life that could have been. The Crowley he could have become. “Couldn’t get a minute to myself, actually.”

“So, you’re saying this human child, this boy, is the cause of your disloyalty?”

With his mind still very much far away, he answers: “I guess so.” He quickly shakes any forbidden thoughts away. “I mean, not really. No.”

But the damage is already done. Beelzebub looks at Hastur and he immediately melts away. Crowley internally starts to panic. Outwardly, he smiles to hide it.

He flies straight back into the storm as soon as he is able, then falls with the pouring rain to the place where he and the boy last parted. He hits the ground hard, but rolls quickly to his feet and scurries away while calling out: “NUISANCE!”

No answer, but the heavy rain and the wind and a great might of thunder. Lightning illuminates the world around him, but there is no boy nor demon in sight. He keeps running, using the wind and his wings to move him faster.

And still, he calls out, “NUISANCE! NUISANCE, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

A faint cry breathes behind the noises of the storm. He tries following it, despite the chaos around him. The rain is sharp and the wind, exceptionally vicious. But he runs and he runs until he reaches the agitated river where offbeat waves slosh around in disorder. Something twists then breaks inside him at the implication. He should have taught him to swim. “Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!”

Lightning briefly ignites the world around him and he searches for the boy. Woody debris moves rapidly with the river. He follows it, hoping for a glimmer of life. “Nuisance!” he continues. He waits for an answer, then calls out again when he hears nothing. And lightning strikes—

“Nuisance! Boy!” Something catches his eye, odd movement within the rapid water, so he jumps in without a second thought, only to grab rubbish. He tosses it, and fights the current to stay afloat. “EUSTACE!”

Thunder grumbles as he finally allows the river to take him. He sinks beneath the waves and the water muffles the storm. His eyes open, searching. Fish and rubbish and everything in between move with him. Only bubbles form as he attempts to call out, “Boy!” one final time and—

Bang! Something crashes into him, hurling him forward. He turns and hope flutters inside him as he uses all his might to grab the floating figure. He resurfaces with the boy securely in his arms.

And rain nearly vanishes as he throws the boy and then himself onto dry land. The boy is pale and wet and frighteningly unmoving. He cradles him, searching for any signs of life.

“Come on!” He hits him on the chest, then checks for a heartbeat. Nothing. He repeats, harder. “Come on! Wake up…” Dawn is breaking and a gentle sunrise peeks through the dispersing storm clouds as Crowley continues pumping his chest. Birds chirp in the distance. Rain and wind transform into a gentle mist. And anger fills him. How dare they chirp. How dare the rain stop. How dare the sun rise for a new day.

He looks up. “Please.” There is desperation in his tone, much like the moment he begged not to become one of the fallen. “Do whatever you want with me, but—please—just let him be alive.” He waves a gentle hand over Eustace’s unbeating heart and, preternaturally, the boy awakens, coughing out the death inside him. And Crowley, gratefully, disappears into the morning fog.

He has never been great with goodbyes.

—

Aziraphale returns to the village of not yet Soho for the first time in well over a decade and, to his delight, it is as superb as the old one. The people are divine and the food is absolutely scrumptious. The villagers are even much livelier than their predecessors. This might even be a nice place to settle one day—if angels could settle, that is. But this new hope quickly transforms into worry as he locks eyes with the demon known as Crowley, who hides himself in the shadows nearby.

“Crowley,” the angel greets nervously.

“Angel.”

They stand together, angel and demon, in silence watching the humans be just that: human. A mother bounces her weeping child as another one, naked and uncaring, dances around her. A blacksmith bends a weapon into its respected shape, pounding metal against metal. A young boy, no older than thirteen, skips through a crowd, uncaring. And he notices Crowley’s eyes follow him. A discomfort settles within him.

“So, what sort of ineffable chaos is in store this time?” he tries to ask casually.

Crowley’s eyes remain on the boy. “Nothing. Not here, anyway,” says the demon. “Just thought I’d stop by. See how everything’s faring.”

“It’s faring quite nicely, I think,” says Aziraphale happily. He hesitates, then adds: “It should be a nice place to settle. Maybe one day.”

The demon shrugs. “Our lot’s not supposed to settle,” he reminds. Two women near them carrying pails of water. They smile. Crowley acknowledges them with a nod as they pass. “But I won’t tell, if you won’t.”

“Crowley,” begins the angel after a moment. “We don’t ever talk about...” The boy who so suddenly vanished from their lives—more so Crowley than Aziraphale, but he still feels the effects. He remains ignorant of the boy’s fate, as Crowley goes on as if his time with him never happened. “About lunch,” he decides to say instead, to not open old wounds. “I’m certainly famished. How about it? My treat.”

“Not today, angel.” And he walks away without saying goodbye, which is something he has perfected throughout the years.

—

Fifty years go by without much noise. War, disease and corruption remain stable. But so does peace, soundness and love. Crowley is still a firm believer of the third option but he is less loud about it these days to avoid repercussions.

He visits a village north of not yet Soho, London to tempt a clergyman there. Men who devote their lives to God are, after all, his easiest targets. They think with power, not with faith. It will likely take only a few moments to convert him. He makes his way toward the church and waits for him in the graveyard.

Eventually, a bell sounds and a church door opens, but it is not the clergyman who exits. It is… a boy of exactly thirteen. His stomach twists at the very sight. Dark curls. Brown eyes. His exact image. An impossible thought crosses his mind as the demon moves closer for a better look, removing his eyewear to see more clearly. The might be a grandson, or maybe even a son, the way human men breed these days. There is no real way of knowing, though. Soon, Crowley’s shadow covers this boy, this descendant entirely and the boy turns to him without fear. And Crowley knows. Dear God, he knows.

He studies his face just to be sure, the exact same innocence from fifty years before. “It’s you,” the boy says as his eyes brighten, “Master Crowley.”

He stumbles back. The church bell rings again. “Oh, fuck.”

—

New York, 1987

Mindless humans flood the streets of Manhattan with their wild hair and wide shoulders, all in a rush to be somewhere. A few teens listen to Springsteen on their boombox nearby: playing is a song about loss, about oppression, but his upbeat voice disguises it as an American dream, and so the kids dance carelessly on their stoop. Crowley passes them and switches it to Queen just for the fun of it. They stop and ponder at the change. His lip twitches in devilish joy.

He enters an old brick building a few blocks down from them. Much like the ones outside, these humans also embrace the big hair and large shoulder pads—only much duller to better blend in with the office space. It reminds him a lot of headquarters downstairs. Most of this lot lost the gleam in their eyes the moment they asked, “When can I start?”

But the worker on the third floor in the eighth desk to Crowley’s left lost that light shortly after becoming the third Duke of Newcastle upon Tyne, circa 1768. He may look like an ordinary thirteen year old boy wearing a banal suit with a matching gray tie, but he is one of the greatest anomalies of all time. The demon finds a group standing beside the water cooler discussing the matter passionately:

“He just looks young for his age,” claims a woman. “He’s been here over thirty years.”

“He’s one of those, you know… small people,” another chimes in.

The woman beside him shakes her head in disagreement. “He’s a boy genius. Probably skipped a few dozen grades to get here.”

“Why would a boy genius choose to work here? As an accountant?”

“Maybe he was cursed by a demon or something,” says a young lad. His coworkers all ignore him and he sips his drink unbothered as Crowley pushes past them. Their paper cups dissolve and water spills out onto their clothing, except for the one who guessed right.

This not quite boy but not quite man goes by many names: Eustace, in his youth. The Duke of Newcastle upon Tyne up until the war with the colonies brought him to America around 1775. Elzy Lay, briefly, in his rebellious years. These days he is simply known as Stacey Newcastle. But one still calls him something else entirely:

“Nuisance!” Crowley greets. His happy expression is met with a blank stare and soulless eyes. Stacey’s attention turns back to his work. The demon plops himself onto the desk. “I’m in town for a few days. Supposed to tempt some politician who’s been acting a little too saintly for the boys downstairs. Don’t understand the point, really. These blokes find their way back to corruption without the devil’s voice in their heads—how about lunch?”

“I’m busy,” he answers boredly.

The demon reaches for a manila folder and flips through it before Stacey promptly yanks it from his grasp. “What is it you actually do here? Looks like a lot of rinse and repeat to me.” Stacey does not answer. A phone rings in the distance. Somebody coughs. Crowley swings his feet in the air as he takes a good look around at the zombies all poisoned by capitalism, just moving through the motions without thought. His attention turns back to the boy, who behaves similarly. “This place is Hell, you know.”

“I know.”

Guilt briefly consumes him but he shakes it away as they both stand. Stacey takes his paper and starts toward the fax machine. Crowley follows as if he were the boy’s shadow. “I'll go… tempt that… erm, priest or whoever real quick, then we can meet up for an early dinner. How about it?”

“I said I’m busy,” he replies irritably. He pauses, seeming to regret his harshness. “Why are you even here?”

“I told you,” says the demon. Stacey inserts the paper into the machine and dials a number; the machine begins scanning. “To tempt that… erm, did I say politician or priest? I forget...”

“You said both.” The fax machine finishes and he goes back to his desk. Crowley follows. “You don’t need to check up on me anymore. I’m fine .”

Crowley removes his eyewear and looks at him with his true eyes, then gestures at the dullness around them. “Are you?”

Stacey turns away without answering and continues with his work. Humans are not meant to last forever; his soul, at this point, must be screaming to get out.

And Crowley finds himself back on the streets of Manhattan soon after—alone, watching humanity pass him without a second thought. When did they become so stiff, so robotic? He remembers, fondly, of the days when they were running in fields and embracing the rain. Now they hide from it in their brick boxes. Now they march in unison, giving meaning to things not meant to have meaning.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here.” He turns to see Aziraphale walking among them, a welcome light around sudden gloominess. “We could have carpooled.”

“Just here to cause some chaos, angel,” he says distantly, then turns to him curiously; rarely these days does he see Aziraphale outside of his bookshop in Soho, London. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, performing a few miracles here and there,” he says, unconvincingly. He gestures to Stacey’s office building. “I thought I’d treat Eustace to lunch.”

Something twists in his stomach as they both look up at the old building before them. “He’s busy.”

—

England, 10th Century, cont.

A group of children swing happily in a circle, singing a joyful tune about death—to cope with their many hardships. But Aziraphale claps along anyway. Humans create the most beautiful art when confronting the worst kinds of tragedies. The song finishes and they come tumbling to the ground in fits of giggles; the angel applauds their performance. And the children all scatter at the sudden intrusion of a man with his wagon. Aziraphale greets him kindly before stepping out of his way.

The angel follows the children, who settle again near the harbor to watch the fisherman set sail. They wave passionately at the stranger, then run off when he blends too much with the sea. Aziraphale remains. His eyes close, listening to the birds squawking and the sea swaying. This moment makes up for all the pain God inflicts into this world.

He feels a tap on his shoulder. “Erm, angel,” says Crowley nervously.

His eyes open as he turns to greet his old friend—but his smile falters when his eyes meet the demon’s very serious demeanor. “Crowley,” Aziraphale says quietly. When the demon says nothing, he takes the lead: “How are you?”

Crowley shifts uncomfortably. “Oh, fine… I’m fine ,” he assures halfheartedly, and Aziraphale does not quite believe him. “You?”

“Well, I—”

“Great, great… Listen, we may have a slight problem.”

He wonders, briefly, if earth’s ineffable destruction moved up slightly. But surely the archangels would have informed him of such plans. A nervousness settles inside him. “What sort of problem?”

Crowley moves to reveal a boy: dark hair, brown eyes, an exact copy of a boy now surely an old man, of a man perhaps now dead. But still, he questions: “Eustace?”

“Yep,” growls Crowley.

“Oh, dear.”

—

New York, 1987, cont.

The metaphorical work whistle blows at five. Stacey exits the building briefcase in hand and joins the zombies in their stride. Demon and angel follow. They pass the now empty stoop with the opening of Another One Bites the Dust playing faintly out the window—the music stops, starts playing again, and then stops before repeating. The kids inside argue about the switching tape:

“What did you do to it, man?”

“I didn’t do nothing. It was your boombox that jacked it up.”

“My brother’s gonna kill me!”

Aziraphale turns to Crowley disapprovingly. “Oh, you didn’t?”

He laughs wickedly. “Oh, yes I did!”

The angel gestures toward the window and the music miraculously switches back to Springsteen. They continue on. Stacey disperses from the crowd and madly dashes into the road when he catches sight of a dumper truck dashes forward. Aziraphale gestures toward the road and the truck swerves to miss him. Stacey turns to them with an annoyed expression, and the angel steps back. “You must be more careful, Eustace.”

Crowley hums, feeling that twist inside him again. The human soul is screaming to get out. But he moves on instead of facing the guilt. “Right, so how about dinner?”

Stacey takes them to his flat instead: a cramped rodent infested hellhole far below his price range. He lives in filth because he simply does not care anymore. Aziraphale wheezes as a family of cockroaches scurry across the room. Crowley, uncaring, crosses to the window and looks outside. The same kids from before now run in the streets cheerfully, blasting that blasted Springsteen song again. He groans, then snaps it back to Queen.

He plops down onto the worn green sofa bought in some 1955 furniture catalog. Aziraphale hesitantly joins him. Stacey presents them with a collection of take-out menus. “Choose your poison.” The angel eagerly begins looking through them while Crowley channel surfs. And half an hour later, the three of them sit before the television as the Golden Girls theme plays.

“Got any alcohol?” wonders Crowley aloud as he stands. He moves to the refrigerator and opens it. The only thing inside is a raw onion and some batteries. He closes it and turns back to the television. The laugh track plays as Sophia makes a jab at Rose—then, suddenly, loud music playing above them overpowers the show’s plot. He moves to the window again only to find the streets now explosive with human beings no longer mindless devotees to the Man. “Now that’s more like it!” A shirtless man with a stomach painted red, white and blue dashes across the street. A car, nearly hitting him, honks in fury. “What has them in such a frenzy all of a sudden?” continues Crowley. The man now chugs a beer as bystanders cheer him on.

“Tomorrow’s Fourth of July,” says Stacey plainly, turning up the volume as the music upstairs gets louder. A knock at the door brings Aziraphale eagerly to his feet. He greets the Chinese delivery boy kindly and takes the food.

“Is it really?” says Crowley, his eyebrows lifting as a nearby policeman cuffs the shirtless man. “Seems like only yesterday this lot was throwing tea in the harbor…”

“Fireworks have been going off all week,” says Stacey irritably. Once, his eyes would have sparkled at the light.

“Oh—perhaps we might want to take this to the rooftop,” suggests Aziraphale, his eyes brightening when he turns to Crowley. He always has had a special likeness for fireworks. “To watch them up close.”

The shirtless man now gets shoved into the back of a police car as the people around him chant, “USA! USA! USA!”

A single spark shoots up into the air and explodes into the night, like a new star bursting into being. Demon and angel stand together, like before, to watch the fire as it sputters around them. “Remarkable, isn’t it?” says the angel, beaming. “They brought the stars to them.”

He hums. “They did, didn’t they?” But not quite as spectacular as the original. “Sort of.”

Stacey stands alone beside the edge, his eyes unlooking at the people below. They walk uncaring but fearful of their own unknown mortality, something Stacey has not felt in quite some time. Guilt takes over, but Crowley fights it. Aziraphale leans in. “Do you think he’s all right?”

“No,” says the demon quietly.

“Yes, I figured as much. He’s ignored my last few letters—and that only seems to happen when he’s fallen into one of his ruts.”

His eyebrows raise. “Does he write to you?”

Aziraphale nods happily. “We became unofficial pen pals when he went off to war.”

“Really? Which war?”

Another firework bursts and blue sparks illuminate the sky. “This one, actually.”

“He never writes to me,” grumbles Crowley. A car horn honks in the distance. Someone screams, joyously. That blasted Springsteen song plays again, and it feels like all of America passionately—blindly—sings along to its facade.

Aziraphale’s demeanor quickly shifts as another firework crackles in the sky. “Erm, there have been rumors going around… upstairs,” he says. “About a certain ineffable plan.”

Armageddon: the end of the world. It starts with the devil spawn and ends with the greatest war between evil and good, leaving these inbetweeners to fend for themselves. And then life itself, at least here on earth, concludes.

Aziraphale clears his throat, nervously. “You’d tell me… that is, when the baby does arrive—”

But a blood curdling scream interrupts him, and they rush to look over the edge. The music stops and people gather. “Fuck!” Crowley mutters.

Guilt finally consumes him as an ambulance starts in the distance. He hears everyone’s murmurs, their concern, their prayers. He does nothing but look at Stacey’s misshapen figure on the ground below them: the eternal boy, once again putting himself into a deep slumber.

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