Actions

Work Header

the 'bad' and 'inaccurate' 'guesses' of agnes nutter

Work Text:

Crowley sank down with his back against a statue, a dark stain spreading across his white shirt. Azirafell toppled backwards into a rhododendron bush, a dampness suffusing his own shirt.

This was ridiculous, the last thing Azirafell needed was to be killed! It would require all sorts of explanations, and you didn't just get a new body, it required so much paperwork! They always wanted to know what you did with the last body - six thousand years worth of it!

Slowly, Azirafell reached up and felt the dampness and brought his hand away... he was bleeding yellow? He reached up to his mouth, and licked the tip of his fingers, "huh... got me right under the ribs..." He groaned, as he gingerly crawled over to Crowley, "angel?" He looked to see if the fallen angel was bleeding, if so something had gone terribly wrong with biology.

"Good Lord, that hurt." Crowley moaned out.

"Yes, but do you typically bleed blue?" Azirafell questioned, eyes on the stain.

Crowley's eyes shot open, and sat up, he reached his hand up, and went through the same examination as Azirafell, "oh, it's paint." He said, a frown on his face, rubbing his thumb against his fingers. "So, we aren't dead..."

Azirafell stood up, and elegantly took Crowley's hand, helping him stand, "come on, dear."

"Hey!" Yelled a man, and the two looked over. A man in a helmet, dressed in a camouflaged outfit with a red tie on his arm and what looked like a gun in his hands, jogged over, "you've both been hit! I don't know what you think you're playing at right—"

Azirafell wasted no time, and suddenly, his face screeched, turning into something horrific with maggots crawling in the eyes and eating away at the ears. A beast of a thing only thought up in children's nightmares, or maybe even a child couldn't think of something so horrific. The man screamed silently, face one of horror, and fell back, fainting with a thud, the crunch of gravel sounding as he landed.

"Well, that was fun, wasn't it dear boy?" Smirked Azirafell, practically on ecstasy on the fear and terror the man had. He felt like his old self, not this mess of a demon he turned into with recent events.

Crowley sighed, "I think the maggots were a bit much." He looked down to his jacket, "look at the stain on this jacket!" He cried out, and watched as Azirafell circled him in a guarded stance. "I'll never get it out!"

"You could always miracle it away." Offered the demon, with a shake of his head.

"Yeah, but..." Crowley pouted, golden eyes all sad and gentle, "well, I would know the stain was there. Underneath." His eyes were big and wide, as if someone had kicked him, like a lost puppy. (Speaking of puppies, Crowley remembers when he was so adamant on Falling, that he had kicked (tapped, he's exaggerating) a puppy, and said to The Almighty in a prayer, "I kicked a puppy today. It, uh, was rather evil, if I do say so m'self. Ngk, uh maybe, I should Fall?" However, all he got in (a surprise) response was; "Crowley, didn't you invent puppies?") He kept looking at the demon, and turned, offering full view of the blue stain. His eyes, oh Satan his eyes!

Azirafell sighed with a soft gentle frown reserved for the angel to see, and leaned into him. With a coy smile, he pouted his lips and let out a gentle breath of air, mimicking that of blowing a kiss, and the yellow and blue paint chipped and faded away into nothing, almost as if evaporating into air.

Crowley smiled, "thanks." He looked down shyly, and his smile was almost snake-like, and the demon nodded as a welcome, smiling back.

"It's impressive hardware." Said Azirafell, picking up the lightweight gun, with a silver top on the barrel. "I've looked at this gun. It's not a proper one at all. It just shoots paint balls." He looked to Crowley, who was nodding like a snake, with pursed lips. "Doesn't Heaven disapprove of guns?" Azirafell asked, a curious grin on his face.

"Yeah, but they're good in the right hands." Crowley reasoned unsure, as he saw Azirafell's eyes move about, cautiously, "give weight to a 'moral argument'. I think..." At least, that's what his brothers, sister and sibling had told him...

"A 'moral argument'?" Repeated the demon, eyes full of humoured disbelief. (As seen through his eyebrows.) "Really?" He let out a quiet giggle and wiggle, a smile now spreading across his face. He strolled past the angel with a sway, dropping the gun, "come on."

Crowley sighed, and followed with a saunter.

The two walked into the building, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and looked around the main entrance room, Azirafell shrouded by darkness and Crowley haloed with light.

"This is definitely the place." Assured Azirafell, looking around. It was the same warm, stuffy waiting room were you could choke on the specks of dust, with dim lights that hung down from the ceiling. The same old dusty chalkboard, and walls that were off-white, and the lower half, an ugly green. The floor was still a mix of worn down, stained carpet, and dark, ugly maroon cement that was dented from heals and things dropped on it, yet more disgusting then years before as a whole lot more had happened. Yet, at the same time, things looked cleaner, and newer, besides the flooring that is.

 

Management training no longer meant watching half a dozen unreliable PowerPoint presentations.

 

The angel and demon walked past the check in desk, that had uniforms and guns in the back, with a red sign that read; TADFIELD MANOR, August 20-21: UNITED HOLDINGS [HOLDINGS] PLC,COMBAT INITIATIVE COURSE.

 

Firms these days expected more than that. They wanted to establish leadership potential, group cooperation and initiative, which allowed their employees to fire paint balls at any colleagues who irritated them.

 

"I wonder where the Nuns went." Sighed Azirafell, with Crowley walking next to him. The hallway had changed slightly, lined with brochure's and posters on the wall, and a blanket that was all different shades of green.

Azirafell looked down to the brochure in his hands, unfolding it, having it open to give it a read, and Crowley looked at the leaflet over his shoulder. Leaflets like this usually promoted other get-away areas, the map of the building and parking areas and exits, with a bit of (usually) useless historical information about the place, however...

 

The brochure for Tadfield Manor Aziafell is inspecting fails to contain any sentences along the lines of, "Until eleven years ago, the manor was used as a hospital by an order of Satanic Nuns who weren't actually very good at it".

 

Azirafell threw the leaflet to the ground, littering, not noticing a picture of a lovely woman who looked extremely familiar. They continued to walk down the hallway, and to be fair it seemed familiar as well, as if this was the way the baby was wheeled down by a Satanic Nun. Their heels clicked against the old flooring, Azirafell hand his hands behind his back as he strolled, while Crowley was next to him, sauntering.

A woman in a brown and green suit, with a red tie on her arm, ran forward, and she yelled out, "oh, Millie from Accounts caught me on the elbow!" She picked up a paper cup of water and looked to the two, "who's winning?"

"Oh, you are all going to be vanquished, I'm afraid." Azirafell apologised, snapping his fingers. She ran off, ready to gear up for either a second round, or maybe another break, who knows? Azirafell had no idea how this worked, really.

Suddenly, multiple bullet sounds echoed the area, one right after the other in a stutter. It sounded like a machine gun, of pieces of lead travelling fast through the air, as the metal hit things and bounced off other objects.

Crowley frowned and grabbed Azirafell's shoulder, "what the Hell did you do?" He asked, pointing his index finger to the stain glass window.

"Well, they wanted concrete fire arms, and so I bestowed them with what they wanted." Shrugged Azirafell, arms behind his back as he turned a corner, wearing a dull, goat-like smile, that on anyone else would look dumb and ditsy, yet on him looked terrifyingly evil.

Crowley's eyes widened in horror, and he paused in his step. He rushed after Azirafell, voice thick with fear, "there're people out there shootin' each other?!"

"Well, it lends weight to their moral argument." Offered Azirafell, using the angels words against him. He opened a door and looked into a room, seeing nothing of interest, with a growl, he slammed it shut, glass on the other side shattering. The two continued their walk down the hall. "I don't see why you're so shocked, every desire in their heads wanted a real gun." Azirafell shrugged, "the way I see it is no one has to pull the trigger." He took lead, looking around.

"It'ssss a low trick!" Hissed Crowley, his snake like speech seeping through, as they walked down the empty corridor.

"What did I do? What did I do?" Questioned Azirafell, in genuine confusion.

Crowley scoffed, "they're shootin' each other!" He reminded, angrily, "do you not see a problem?!"

"Exactly, each other. They're doing it themselves, angel. Everyone has free will, including the right to assassinate. Ineffable, correct?" Asked the demon, "muse, if you will, a microcosm of the universe." He insisted.

Crowley froze, and gasped out in horror and fear, hit with a sudden wave of realisation, "they're killing each other!"

Azirafell paused in his step, the heels on the balls of his feet stopped clicking, and looked to Crowley. He sighed, seeing the legitimate look of alarm in the angels eyes and said, "no, of course not. No one is eliminating anyone." Assure Azirafell, voice soft and careful with a sigh to his voice. He sounded annoyed, but it calmed the angel. "They are all experiencing miraculous escapes." He sighed, and looked to Crowley, "it wouldn't be fun otherwise, dear boy."

Crowley let out a relieved sigh, a smile on his face, as he moved closer to Azirafell, relaxed, "you know, darling... I've always said that deep down," Azirafell frowned, as Crowley beamed with a soft smile. "You really are a nice—"

Suddenly, with a sneer of anger, and eyes wide in horror, Azirafell gripped Crowley's jacket and slammed the angel into the wall, pinning him there. The two were suddenly nose to nose, and the demon was glaring, his teeth gritted together, "shut it!" He snarled out, and Crowley tensed up slightly, his eyes locked with the goats, his back pressed against the wall. "I'm a demon!" He spat out, unbeknown to him that Crowley wasn't threatened, in fact the angel confidently held his gaze, even if his muscles were seized up slightly... oh, this was totally doing something for the angel, and the demon had no idea! "I'm not nice! I'm never nice!" Azirafell was so close, oh so close. It did look like they were about to kiss, if it wasn't for Crowley's wide eyes and Azirafell's glare. "Nice is a four-letter word!" If Crowley leaned in, he could kiss the angry Azirafell. "I will not have—"

"Excuse me, gentlemen." A female voice sounded, heeled shoes slamming against wooden floor.

Azirafell turned his head with an annoyed frown, and Crowley soon did the same, finally looking away from the attractive demon in front of him, ignoring his problem.

"Sorry to break up an intimate moment." Apologised the familiar looking woman in a sarcastic voice. "Can I help you?" She held a hand out, confused and cautious.

She was in a black business attire, in a pencil skirt, white undershirt, with her short, dark hair on show and lovely dark skin. She was rather attractive, and she looked like... a remarkably loose-headed... Azirafell's eyes widened behind his glasses, demons have extensively good memories for faces, and he saw her eyes widen as well, and she tensed up. It was if they were remembering...

Sister Mary Loquacious was slowly walking over to Azirafell, and Azirafell was holding the basket out to her, the handle balanced on his fingers rather than his palm.

"You." Azirafell baa-ed out quietly, sounding scarily almost like the night he called out to her, to get her attention.

Sister Mary Loquacious, now Mary Hodges backed up, her eyes widening in fear, "saints and demons preserve us," she squeaked out. "It's Master Azirafell!" She gasped and went to run off, but Azirafell snapped his fingers not letting go of Crowley. She stood, straight and stiff as a board, her mouth slowly closing and eyes dead, and glazed over, her face becoming a blank and amiable mask.

"You didn't have to do that." Sighed Crowley, "you could'a asked her!" He insisted.

Azirafell's head snapped to Crowley, who was still pinned to the wall, his eyes wide in shock. "Oh, yes! Of course, of course!" He agreed sarcastically, "no, yes!" He coughed, and looked to Mary Hodges, making his voice overly formal and bowed his head to her. "'Excuse me, good,—'" he looked to his pocket watch, "'— morning ma'am! We're a couple of supernatural entities looking for the whereabouts of the notorious Son of Satan. We wondering if you might help us with our inquiries?'" He snarled out, getting more and more angry, and wore a cold smile on his face as he turned to the angel. His smile was suddenly, now more cold and icy, "I'll wake her up again, shall I? This time, you can question her!"

Crowley sighed, "well when you put it like that..." He grumbled out. "Darling, can you let me go?" He asked.

"oh, yes." Azirafell let the angel go, patting him down, "sorry..." He grumbled.

"Well... how nice." Smirked Crowley coyly, pushing himself off of the wall, and straightening his goat necklace.

"All right, all right," Azirafell snapped. "Tell the whole blessed world, why don't you?"

Crowley and Azirafell walked over to the woman, with Azirafell squinting and Crowley looked nervous. "Ngk, uh, um, ahem, look..." He suddenly smiled all friendly and nice, "hey." He greeted, and Azirafell looked to him annoyed as he made exaggerated chewing with his lower jaw, just like a goat. Crowley smiled, "were you a Nun here at this convent eleven years ago?"

"I was." Mary Hodges said, voice blank and dead.

"Luck of the devil." Said Crowley, judgemental.

Azirafell went to say something, but paused and looked to Crowley with a frown realising the jab was at him. "Excuse me! I was correct! I wasn't wrong!" He looked to the retired Nun who he knew as Sister Mary Loquacious. "Do you recall the incident of switching newborn babies? What happened to the newborn I handed you?" He asked, shooting off two questions, quickly.

She paused as if in pain, then finally said, "I swapped him with the son of the American ambassador." Mary Hodges answered, she looked and sounded as if she had picked off a painful scab, one that she had long since forgotten from her brain. "Such a nice man. He used to be ambassador to Swindon." Crowley looked confused and glanced to Azirafell, who's mouth was open in shock. "Then Sister Theresa Garrulous came and took the other baby away."

Crowley stared in confusion, and shot a nervous look to the worrying demon.

"This American ambassador, what was his name?" Asked Azirafell, getting more and more panicked, and worked up by the second. "Where did he come from and what did he do with the baby?" He all but yelled, firing off rapid questions. No time for posh words, and formal wording, he was too scared and angry.

"I don't know." 

"Records!" Crowley said, looking to the panic demon, the two now looking to each other. "There must be records!" He looked to the woman with a smile, as if excited - anything to calm Azirafell down!

"Yes." Agreed Mary Hodges. "There were lots of records. We were very good at keeping records."

Azirafell looked to Crowley, a proud smile on his face, "brilliant, angel! Everyone has records! It was one of my better ideas!"

Crowley patted his cheek, "yeah, yeah, well done, darling." He looked to Mary Hodges, "where're the records?"

"Burned in the fire, it started just after the birth."

Azirafell could practically hear the shriek of a childish, girl laughter, and he threw his head back with a groan, "Hastur!" No doubt the Duke thought he was being clever, as it was certainly his style.

"Is there anythin' y'remember 'bout the baby?" Asked Crowley, a soft frown on his face, and Azirafell looked at the woman, as if expecting some form of a valid answer.

"He had lovely little toesie-woesies."

Crowley smiled softly, finding her answer rather sweet. Azirafell glared, unimpressed, next to Crowley's magic act, hearing humans gush about babies (especially the Son of Satan), was sickening. He looked at Crowley, "let's go." He strolled off, annoyed.

Crowley smiled softly to Mary Hodges, "you will wake, havin' had a lovely dream about whate'er you like best, and—"

"Yes, yes, come on, Crowley." Called the demon, irritated. Said angel smiled, and looked to him, he snapped his fingers, letting the woman go and chased after the white haired demon.

Mary Hodges relaxed, and let out a deep breath of air, a small smile on her face as if having had a lovely dream. She looked out of the stained glass windows, hearing police sirens in the distance.

Azirafell and Crowley walked out of the building, as the polices eyes passed them, as if not seeing them, the raid of officers scattering the grounds. They were arresting power hungry, adrenaline filled workers, confiscating the guns.

"You'd think he'd show up." Sighed Crowley, barely glancing at he police taking away guns from the team combat. "You'd think we could feel 'im."

"He won't show up." Azirafell said, "not to us. He has this protective camouflage, and he is none the wiser about it, his abilities will keep him concealed from prying occult forces."

"Occult forces?"

"You and me." Answered Azirafell, reaching his hand down, and allowing their fingers to brush together.

"I'm not occult!" Crowley defended, "angels aren't occult. We're heavenly, celestial!"

Azirafell rolled his eyes, "whatever." He was too worried to actually respond, and opened the passenger seat for Crowley, "you first."

Crowley smiled, and got into his seat, and Azirafell closed the door.

 

 

"Is there other ways of finding him?" Asked Crowley, gripping the door handle as Azirafell sped down the winding road, the sun was now setting, and there was an overcast of lovely orange hues.

"How the Heaven am I to know?" Asked Azirafell, annoyed and worried. "Armageddon only happens once! You don't get a redo, and do it all again until you get it correct!"

"Cos these are the days of our lives. They've flown in the swiftness of time." Sang Queen, as 'These Are The Days Of Our Lives' played.

Azirafell glared at an innocent looking Crowley, as the song kept playing. The demon swerved out of the way of a honking car, and the angel gripped the seats, swallowing in fear as he braced himself.

"But I know one notion," Azirafell admitted. "If we are unable to locate him, it shan't be the War to demise all Wars. It'll be the War to demise everything!" He glared at the radio, playing Queen, "change the damn music!"

Crowley sighed, and reached over, flipping the channel. Queen still played, but was now playing 'Bohemian Rhapsody', "Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me..."

"For me," murmured Azirafell, his face going blank, and it took everything in him to not punch the radio.

 

 

Night was creeping in closer, and closer with each passing second, the sun was setting, and now there were very little pinkish hues in the sky. Silhouettes of the bleak, towering trees surrounded them, covered in darkness and shadows, it seemed dead to the world. Secluded and alone. Isolated.

"There's an odd feelin' to this area. Y'seriously can't feel it?" Asked Crowley in shock, a confused smile on his face, as he looked around the darkening forest. His hand was over his heart, and he felt all warm and nice.

"I don't perceive anything strange, or out of the ordinary." Said Azirafell, a confused sneer on his face, glancing between the road and the angel in worry.

Crowley looked to him, "but it's everywhere! All over!" Crowley gushed in amazement. He glanced out of the window and frowned, for a second he swore he saw a bike... "Love. Flashes of love." He said in realisation, almost out of breath from how much love he felt.

Azirafell tensed up in horror, surely that's him the angel can feel! 'Shit, abort! Abort!' He thought in distress. Quickly, he said, looking to the angel, "you are being ridiculous!" Crowley looked to him, confused as to where this hostility was coming from. Azirafell sneered, his grip tightening on the wheel, knuckles turning white, "the last thing we need right now is—"

Something crashed into the side of his car with a loud clunk and bang, and Azirafell slammed on the breaks, the car screeching to a halt, the passenger and driver lurched forward. Crowley's eyes widened in horror as his hands slammed on the dashboard, and he saw a figure fly over the hood of the car, with a female scream, and a whirring noise.

Slowly, Crowley looked to the demon, "you hit someone." He said, voice trembling and felt sick with guilt.

"No, I didn't." Azirafell quickly denied, and looked to the angel. "Someone hit me." He reasoned.

Crowley was already out of the car, and walked around the front of the car with panicked breathing. One of the headlights were broken, no longer lit up, and he paused looking around the small ditch. Azirafell also got out the car, and leaned on his car door. There, in the darkness, they could see a bike and a woman.

"Let there be light!" Demanded Crowley, snapping his fingers. A bright blue light shone over the area, as if a fake light was pointed right at them. Azirafell peered to him warily.

There on the ground was a woman, she was rather average looking, normal and in what looked like strange green clothes, almost... other being like in a way. Her arm was bent slightly, sprained, with leaves and mud stuck to her clothing, and weaved into her hair. Her bike had a bent and twisted wheel in a Möbius strip, and seemed to be missing an item or two.

"How the Hell did you do that?" Asked the woman in a pain filled groan, seeing the light over her.

Azirafell gave Crowley an unimpressed look and snapped his fingers, the light going away.

"Do what?" Asked Crowley, sounding so incredibly guilty, as he rushed over to help her. Azirafell frowned, unsure if the angel felt guilt for the light, or if he was taking part of the blame onto himself for injuring the woman, (even though she hit him).

The woman groaned, her voice sounding muzzy, "I think I hit my head."

"That's it." Crowley said, waving his now slightly glowing hand over her bent arm, fixing it easily, her arm letting out a quiet grind. "No bones broken." He began helping her up. He couldn't help but heal her, every being in his Purpose made him, he is a Healer!

Azirafell moved in front his car, and casually waved a hand, the broken headlight turned back on. He moved to the other side of the car seeing the dimpled dent in it, and so, he clicked his fingers, and the squeaking and groaning of metal echoed the area as it fixed itself, then he glared at the scratch and smear on the glossy paint, which soon healed itself. His car knew better, of course.

"My bike." She whispered out with a groan.

"Oh." Crowley rushed over to the bike, and held it up, and suddenly, the wheel was back to normal, perfectly round as one of the Circles of Hell, and rolled it over. She pushed on her round glasses, and stared in shock, as Crowley smiled, "amazingly strong, these old bikes." He smiled at the woman, noticing there was also hay all in her hair, "where do you need to go?"

Azirafell, who had circled his car, suddenly shook his head, "no, no! We are not lending her a lift. Out of the question!" He placed a hand on the car door, "besides, there is nowhere to put the bike!"

"Yeah, the bike rack." Crowley hissed out quietly, annoyed.

"The Mercedes doesn't have a—" Squeaking sounded, cutting Azirafell off, making him look behind him to see a bike rack with a few white straps on. With a scowl and a sigh, he opened the back door for her, "do get in, my dear." White... he hates white...

"So, where are we taking you?" Asked Crowley, as he attached the bike to the bike rack.

The woman moved to the door, and kept glancing nervously at the men, especially at Azirafell, "back to the village. I'll give you directions."

Crowley saw the sarcastic, dull smile Azirafell was giving him, and blew him an innocent kiss with a smile.

 

 

"Bicycle, bicycle, bicycle! I want to ride my bicycle, bicycle, bicycle!" Sang Queen, the song 'Bicycle Race' played.

Azirafell sighed annoyed (he hates Queen), as Crowley smiled bobbing his head along to the song. At this point, they were unsure who this car listens to, song wise, Azirafell or Crowley. Crowley, because whenever he wants a specific song, the car plays it, but it plays songs that matches with what's happening to Azirafell. (Same happens in Crowley's car; Azirafell wants a specific song, the car plays it, but plays song to match whats happening with Crowley using Azirafell's music.)

Anathema looked behind herself, and out the back window. Her bike, it was different. She looked to the two men again, pulling off her glasses, "listen, Phaeton, my bike, it didn't have gears or a pump..."

Crowley swallowed, realising he had overdone it, "oh?"

"I know my bike didn't have gears." She insisted, confused. Maybe it wasn't hers? She looked between the men, and stared at the dark, brooding Azirafell, "I have a bread knife you know." She threatened, her eyes pulled into a glare. "Somewhere..."

Crowley's eyes widened in horror at the implications, while Azirafell rolled his eyes, a sneer of disgust on his face, "madam I assure you, I won't do anything. Trust me, dear..."

Crowley could here the unsaid bit, you're not my type... (Azirafell's type is Archangel's with red hair, that can heal people, shift into a snake and make Eve eat an apple.) (It should be noted, Azirafell no longer has frivolous sex, his lust was all for the angel in the passenger seat. But, he does flirt with people to keep up appearances.)

She hummed and pointed, "make a left." She looked behind herself again, "uh, you know... Phaeton also didn't have lights... at least, not lights that work very well... they were all cracked, and muddy..."

Azirafell turned the steering wheel, and leaned closer to the angel. He sang out in a deep, quiet, yet sarcastic mumble, "oh, Lord, heal this bike."

"I got carried away." Crowley hissed back. He's not sorry, but he will have to rectify his mistake.

"White bars?" Questioned the demon.

"White is nice."

"Oh, you can drop me off here." Anathema said, pointing to the side of the road.

The angel beamed, "our pleasure!"

Azirafell turned, and pulled up in front of a small cottage, parking up. Anathema was out of the car in seconds, nervous and tense at the men, and was shocked to find Crowley there, who helped her out. She paused. There was her bike propped up against the cobble wall, but she was sure neither of them got there before her, and another thing...

"Oh, look, no gears." Smiled Crowley in amazement. "Or a pump, or good lights."

"Yes," agreed Azirafell, getting out of the car as well. "Just a perfectly normal velocipede."

"Bicycle!" Corrected Crowley, tense, shooting the white haired male a glare.

Anathema's head snapped to them, and she looked between the annoyed Azirafell and friendly smiling Crowley, tense and she backed up.

Azirafell sighed, "can we get a move on?" He asked, and looked to her, "goodnight miss." He looked to Crowley, "get in, angel."

Ah. Well, that explained it. She had been perfectly safe after all. She carefully watched them, and eyed them as the car sped off down the street, blasting out the lyrics; "I want to ride my bicycle, bicycle, bicycle!"

 

 

The two sat in a small cafe, it wasn't well lit by any means, but the demon and angel wanted something to eat and drink. Crowley sat with a coffee nursed in his hands, and he sipped it watching Azirafell, who was glaring moodily at his pink frosted cake slice, taking small bites. People were sat around, though sat far away from them.

"We need t' get another human t' find him!" Declared Crowley quietly, patting his lips with a napkin. Sometimes, angelic habits die hard, such a polite manners, even if he was hunched over.

Azirafell frowned, as Crowley nodded with soft, yet determined eyes. The demon looked up, unimpressed at the still nodding angel, "beg your pardon?" He shoved a mouthful of cake into his mouth, distractedly.

"Humans're good at spotting other humans." Crowley insisted, gesturing with his mug slightly. He took another sip, "been doing it for thousands of years." He shrugged, patting his lips with a napkin, eyes wide in soft thought. "The kid is part human. Other humans could 'sense' him."

"He is the Antichrist." Reminded Azirafell with an annoyed sneer, watching as Crowley sipped his coffee. He pushed the cake around on his plate, "he has this automatic defence mechanism? Suspicion slides off him like..." He paused, trying to think, "whatever it is water slides off." He finished lamely.

"Got any better ideas?" Asked Crowley, growing more and more annoyed at the distractedly sad looking demon in front of him. "Or one single, better idea?" He raised his eyebrows, sipping his coffee again.

Azirafell looked to him, unimpressed and annoyed, silent and he stabbed a small piece of the cake. Crowley held back a smirk, seeing he won, and dabbed his lips with a napkin, smugly. The demon raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

 

 

The car ride was silent, and Azirafell was too tense to drive. So, Crowley was now driving. It was unusual for the demon to be going at this painfully slow (normal) speed, but here they were. He wanted to miracle his Bentley, but Azirafell refused, his car was better.

"I need t' tell you, I have a... 'network' of highly trained agents across the country." Said Crowley, glancing from the drivers seat to tense, and annoyed Azirafell. "They can look for the kid."

"You do?" Asked Azirafell, looking at Crowley in shock. Either from the fact he was now easing up, that Crowley was this far ahead, or the fact this was kept from him for years, maybe all three. Crowley was unsure, but the angel nodded. Azirafell swallowed, nodding, "I actually have something similar. Human operatives, I mean... I too could set them off searching for the boy."

Crowley's eyes widened, not taking his eyes off the road, "y'think they should work together?"

"Satan no." Azirafell denied quickly. "I don't think that's a very suitable idea. My operatives are not the most sophisticated of people, politically speaking."

"Yeah, nah neither are mine." Sighed Crowley.

"So we tell our respective operatives to look for the boy?" Asked Azirafell, making sure that they were on the same page, mind away with the world.

"Yeah, you have a better idea?" Asked Crowley, staring at the road in front of him.

Azirafell fell silent, thinking and deep in thought. Hid forehead creased for a moment, and then he slapped the dashboard triumphantly, and suddenly, he shouted, "ducks!"

Crowley frowned, and looked to the demon in confusion and worry. "You've lost it... what are you on about ducks for?" He asked, annoyed.

"Ducks are what water slides off!" Smiled Azirafell, and saw Crowley's annoyed gaze. He frowned, "oops... just drive the car."

 

 

The car sped down Soho street late that night, speeding through puddles, and parked up in front of Fell & Co., Crowley got out the car lazily and Azirafell elegantly got out.

"You know, if you lined up everyone in the whole world and asked them to describe the Velvet Underground, nobody at all would say 'bebop'." Scoffed Crowley, as he leaned on the car roof with ease, fingers twined together.

Azirafell rolled his eyes, and straightened his jacket as he went to shut the door. He looked in, eyes lighting up and said, "oh, there's a book back there." He frowned, eyes dimming, "and it isn't mine, it's too... damaged." He sneered in disgust.

"You and damaged books." Sighed Crowley, "well, it's not mine. I don't read books." He looked in, "it has to belong to the girl you hit with your car."

Azirafell scoffed, "I am in an abundant of trouble as it is. I refuse to return lost property." He rolled his eyes, watching the angel reach in and pick up the book. "That is what you angels do."

Crowley looked at the green, tacky and ruined book with gold, faded lettering on and squinted at it, The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter.

"Why not deliver it to the Tadfield post office, addressed to "the mad American woman with the bicycle"?" Offered Azirafell with an eye roll, "you can never trust a person who gives human names to means of transport—"

Crowley stared at The Book in shock, and backed away from the car, shutting the door. This was right up Azirafell's alley! Both of them had been excited to ever find The Book, and therefore the plant, and sure, he'd tell the demon, but... he is an angel, Azirafell is a demon. He needs to stop the end of the world. "Uh, ngk! Right, good! Thanks!" He smiled backing away, cutting the demon off.

Azirafell frowned, "jolly good, so we shall both contact our respective human operatives?" He squinted at the angel in worry.

"All right." Agreed Crowley, backing away, more focused on The Book.

"Are you alright?" Called Azirafell in concern, watching the angel walk away distracted.

"Yep!" Called Crowley.

Azirafell frowned, "you need a lift?!"

"Nope!" Crowley snapped his fingers, his Bentley appearing in front of him

"Are you sure you're in tip-top shape? Tickety-boo?" Called Azirafell, watching as the angel opened his car door.

"Tickety-boo?" Crowley called back, his voice mildly confused, but more distant to what was going on.

"Do mind how you go!" Yelled Azirafell, in a fret.

The angel would have giggled or poked fun at his old slang terminology, however he didn't seem to care. But, instead he yelled out, "right!" The door shut, and the white car drove down the street.

Azirafell frowned, and walked over to his shop slowly. He watched the car turn a corner, and mumbled, "righto, well, that was a thing." He suddenly felt very alone.

 

 

Crowley was particularly proud of his plants of prophecy.

 

Crowley stood in his rather large bedroom, nursing a coffee in an angel wing mug. The Book was on his bed, and he just knew that if Azirafell knew what he was doing, not taking care of a book, he'd be dead before the end of the world, however... his concern was the future, the prophecies... he took a deep breath, preparing himself.

 

Straight from the original soil, usually. And, he learned of them from prophecy books that Azirafell owned, and let him borrow.

He had Martha the Gypsy's Verbena Officinalis, and Ignatius Sybilla's Aconitum Nepellus, and Ottwell Binns' Arum Lilies. As said, these all came from Azirafell's books, that are first addition.

 

He had walked past his personal collection of prophecy plants, labelled and maybe at times signed with the original witches, and warlocks signatures to get to his room.

 

Crowley knew that Nostradamus had signed Azirafell's book, "To myne olde friend Azerafel, with beste wishes". He also knew Mother Shipton had spilled drink on his copy of her book. The demon even owned an original scroll in the handwriting of St John the Divine of Patmos, whose "Revelation" had been the all-time best seller.

 

He sat down on his bed, and placed his drink on the bedside table, on the small white coaster, decorated with snakes. He looked over The Book, and slowly reached out.

 

But there was one book Azirafell didn't have, and therefore one plant Crowley couldn't grow. One Book with a plant, the two had only hear of.

 

Slowly, and rather nervously, Crowley opened The Book cover, opening it to the title page. He let our a sigh of amazement, "The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter." The title page was tinted yellow from age, with a lovely designed boarder, yet dogeared. In the corner of The Book was a drawing of a person, surrounded by circles, drawn with what looked like cheap colouring pencils you'd find at the pound shop, that had faded with time.

He closed his eyes suddenly, swallowing, and opened it to a random page with clenched eyes. He leaned forward to read out the fancy writing, "'3008;  When that the resting archangel readeth these words of mine, in his shop of other men's plants, then the final days are certes upon us. Open thine eyes to understand. Open thine eyes and read, I do say, foolish remedee, star angel Rafiel, for thy coffee doth grow... cold'."

He frowned confused at a number of things; It's true, he was an Archangel long ago, he was a Healer and specialised in Star Making, but gave it up in favour of going to Earth, and be around humans - nobody liked it, but he fought tooth and wing to be allowed, and they allowed it. She allowed it, of all people! After all, why keep a job you don't like, and lost passion for? He made sure to tell Azirafell as such, and the demon never referred to his old job, and never called him 'Raphael'. He Healed people and Azirafell when needed, but put it in his past as much as possible. The next thing that confused him was, "'thy coffee doth grow cold'?"

He pulled back, eyes pinched in confusion, "what coffee—" He turned his head to see his, now slightly cooled coffee, long forgotten in his angel mug, and yelled out, "ngk!" He reeled back in shock.

The Book got his previous positions correct, his name right though spelt wrong, his shop right and his coffee right... This Book was the real thing. And, therefore, the final days are upon them...

He smiled slightly, and leaned forward. He flipped the pages back to the beginning and continued to read. He was unsure how long he was there for, but he knew he felt like a statue, as if dust collected. (If one must know, he sat there all night.)

 

 

Azirafell strolled to his desk, away from his books that had just stopped shaking, and picked up his ancient phone. He placed it to his ear, as he dialled Crowley, spinning the dial. The angel picked up and so he asked, "do you have an update? Have you located the mislaid Antichrist?" He asked.

 

 

Crowley, still sat in his bed, was tense as he realised he had to lie. And so, back straight and tense in fear, he quickly said, "uh, ngk, um, nope! Nah! No news. Nothin'. Nothin' at all!" He looked to the prophecy book he'd been reading religiously, it was in his lap, open, "if I had somethin', I'd tell you, obviously! Ngk!" He assured, voice jittery. "Immediately. We're friends. Why even ask?" He rushed out, digging himself a hole, deeper and deeper into the ground. His hazel, golden eyes were wide in a panic.

 

 

Azirafell frowned and shook his head, and took his glasses off. "There is no information here either." He sighed, "and friends, huh? Since when?" He asked, worried where this 'friend' talk was coming from. He gripped his serpent necklace, he knows things can go wrong after a few years... he just hopes his assumptions of the term 'friends' were wrong.

 

 

"Call me if you find anything." Azirafell said.

"Duh! Why'd you think I wouldn't?" He asked, in fear. He slammed his phone down, hanging up and immediately went back to reading The Book, looking for something, anything to help him!

2817. Number of the Beast. call hym in Taddesfield.

Crowley slowly looked up in realisation, "hang on a mo." (That is very much an Azirafell thing to say, he would confess later.) He reached over to his bedside desk, picking up his Bible. He didn't read it anymore, not as much as he used to, but he still had it around, and he did read it years ago, maybe even a page from time to time. (Azirafell had Bibles too, ones with printing mistakes, inaccuracies and the actual Bible. Of course, he didn't hold any of them though, he couldn't without burning himself, and so, Crowley placed them in the way he wanted them placed.)

The angel flipped through his small, well used black Bible, "'Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man. And his number is six hundred threescore and six.'" He frowned, and closed his Bible, setting it down as he eyed his telephone.

"It can't be that easy..." He said to himself in doubt, this 'easy' figuring out only happened in movies. He picked up a pen and paper, "I have t' put the Tadfield area code firs'." He wrote down two numbers, then pressed the rubber numbers on his telephone with his index finger; 6, beep, 6, beep, 6, beep. The phone rang.

The phone was answered, and a friendly sounding man said, "Tadfield, 0-4-6-triple-6. Arthur Young here."

A faint young boys voice sounded in the background, "Dad, look, I got Dog to walk on his hind legs!"

Crowley looked down to Agnes Nutters Book, his golden eyes landing on the words; walk upon his hind legs. His eyes widened in horror, and shock at himself - he did it! Unable to lie again in such a short amount of time, he said, "sorry, right number!" He slammed the phone down, hanging up.

He leaned back against his bed frame, sinking into it slightly, his mouth suddenly dry, and open, his eyes wide in shock and horror, and he gripped his short red hair, as he coiled up into himself like a snake.