1The Book of Bithiah
A Good Omens fanfiction
Part 1 of 3
Mesopotamia, 3054 B.C.
Spotting a yellow flower further afield, Aziraphale hoisted the satchel he was carrying higher onto his right shoulder and walked towards it. He was meant to be meeting Gabriel here in this wide field – just a short ways off from the marketplace – but the archangel was running late. The principality sighed and bent over to pick the flower. Normally, Aziraphale – although he liked them well enough – didn't pay plants, or vegetation in general, much attention. Except, something about this flower was special. He'd never seen one like it before – with its luminous yellow petals and rich wintergreen leaves so dark in hue they looked almost black, even out here unprotected in the blazing sunlight. It reminded him of something nice, though he couldn't for the life of him have said what exactly if anyone had been there to ask him. Furthermore, the Almighty had put a curse on the ground, after Adam and Eve got into that nasty spot of trouble over the apple tree. Plants grew, of course, but not easily. And for a flower this beautiful to grow all alone in a prickly old field people probably trudged through every day, that no one in particular could have cultivated, was a little miracle.
Being an angel, Aziraphale liked miracles.
He put the flower in the satchel, then – suddenly feeling peckish – opened the mouth of the bag a bit wider and pulled out a hunk of bread he'd bought at the marketplace before making his way here to wait for Gabriel. He'd been as quick about doing this as possible – though he'd like to have lingered and picked from the best of the breads and pastries offered there, things were...well...getting rather bad as of late...
Demons had been cropping up all over the bloody place. It had only been the one before, and Aziraphale hadn't minded him so much – Crawly was all right, really. But lately other demons had been showing up on earth and staying put. Some of them had houses up here now, as if to show they had no intention of returning to Hell anytime soon. Aziraphale was having rather a tricky time avoiding them. Let alone thwarting them like he was supposed to be doing. He wondered if Crawly, who largely kept to himself, had been going easy on him in that department – even if the thought was a little ridiculous – and if it had, perhaps, made him a bit soft.
Aziraphale broke the bread into two pieces, inhaling the steam from the middle with an involuntary smile of pleasure. Still nice and hot on the inside, then. He'd almost brought the corner of one piece to his mouth when he heard a twig snap behind him.
Hastily, he shoved both halves back into the satchel. Gabriel didn't understand his love of eating; he'd best save it for later.
"Hello?" he called, turning around and letting the satchel's strap drop down towards his wrist. "Gabriel?"
There was a rustling noise (a small animal nearby, perhaps?) and then a yank and jingle-jangle sound as the satchel was ripped away from Aziraphale and a tiny, bedraggled thief was running out of the field like it was on fire.
"I say!" Aziraphale called irately after the fleet-footed little human. "Get back here and return my property at once! That is extremely rude!"
Before he could take off after the impertinent little thing, he heard a light cough and his name pronounced in a tone of deep annoyance and impatience.
It wasn't Gabriel – who apparently had been detained elsewhere – but rather Uriel and the Metatron (it was the Metatron who'd coughed and spoken his name).
"We have much to discuss with you, Aziraphale," he said, very dryly.
"Things," added Uriel, "have been going very, very wrong down here."
Aziraphale nodded, grimacing. "Ah. Yes. I've noticed."
"They are only going to get worse," the Metatron told him.
It was not a prediction, nor a promise; merely spoken, clearly enunciated fact. Which somehow made it all so much worse.
The demon Crawly was sitting by a stream, watching a lone duck swim around in circles self-importantly.
On the other side of the stream, there arrived a little child – a female, he thought, of about three years – dressed in rags and dragging a satchel behind her. She plopped down near the muddy bank, waggled her dirty feet, and – stuffing her hand into the satchel – pulled out two pieces of bread. She crammed them both into her mouth. She didn't see Crawly at first. She was too busy rummaging through the satchel to look for any other crumbs of food.
When she, rather despondently, looked up again, she spotted the demon. Her eyes widened and – attempting to get up, either for a closer look or to run away – she skittered downwards into the slippery mud.
The girl landed in the water with a splash and did not resurface.
Crawly jumped in after her. He wasn't really supposed to rescue humans – his job was making their increasingly short (Methuselah was a fluke, just look at Enoch) lives miserable. Still, it was only a kid. And, well, it would drown if he didn't save it... So long as nobody found out – a tricky business with all the extra demons surfacing as of late, but not impossible – everything would be fine. He would have lengthened into a snake, so he could always claim it was just some animal that rescued the drowning child, nothing to do with him, but serpents didn't have arms and he didn't want to squeeze the life out of the – doubtless already quite waterlogged – child by accident in an attempt to lift her up while coiled around her.
It took the demon a few moments to find the child in the murky, choppy water. When he finally did, he grabbed her and dragged her back up, depositing her on the bank again, right beside the satchel.
For an awful second, he thought the unmoving child might be dead, then it turned and coughed up a mouthful of water before crawling back towards the satchel.
Crawly turned to go, performing a demonic miracle to dry his clothes and hair, when he felt a pull at his side.
The child had tugged on his garment.
"Yeah, what d'you want?" He sniffed and turned halfway.
The child held out a (slightly crumpled) yellow flower she'd found in the satchel.
"For me?" Crawly's brow raised in surprise.
She nodded, straining to hold it up a little higher so he could take it.
He crouched slightly and took it. "Should I say thank you?"
The child didn't respond, scurrying – careful not to fall again – back over to the satchel.
As he walked away, Crawly twirled the flower's stem between his long fingers.
Mesopotamia, 3039 B.C.
"One," Crawly counted, pointing to an occupied wooden cradle on the other side of the room. "Two, three." He gestured at a pair of enormous toddlers wresting on the rug. An unnervingly deep scream came from behind the nearest furnishings. That baby, he knew, was currently in possession of a red curl he'd viciously ripped out from his – actually still-bleeding – scalp half an hour ago. "Four." The demon stopped, his sticky forehead creased in frustration. "Ugggh. Not again! We're missing at least two. I'm almost certain of it." Groaning, he rushed out of the room, kicking open the door. "Asmodeus! Where the Heaven is Beelzebub's third baby? Don't mean to pressure you or anything – just a friendly reminder that Duke Hastur threatened to discorporate me extraordinarily painfully if we lost another one."
"I don't know!" snarled Asmodeus, angrily flinging a frilly cushion at Crawly's head – which the demon caught before it could hit his face. "And I don't care. I've been bitten, kicked, punched, and defecated on twice in the last hour. Not to mention, I've had two primary feathers ripped from my wings."
"What'd you expect? Nobody told you to open your wings in front of the hell-spawn! That's safety rule number one around here – don't open your wings in front of the babies!"
"I just," moaned Asmodeus, near tears, "want five bloody minutes to myself!"
"Well, what in celestial blazes am I meant to do? I never asked for this."
"You're the one who loves kids so damn much."
"For Satan's sake," Crawly exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch, "I rescued one stupid child from drowning – next thing you know word's out and I'm running a nursery of novelty oversized babies."
"Cra-wee!" bawled a voice from the room behind him.
"Just a minute, dear!" he called over his shoulder. "Uncle Crawly's having a grown-up conversation." He shuddered, shifting anxiously from one foot to the other. "I'm a little afraid to go back in there at this point, truth be told."
The door flung open unaided and Hastur and Ligur themselves marched in, grinning broadly.
Ligur folded his arms across his chest. "And how are the little Nephilim doing today?"
"Great," said Crawly through his teeth. "They're getting bigger every day." That much, at least, was perfectly true.
"Are they strong?"
"Exceptionally." He bent his head forward to show them where his hair had been ripped out.
Ligur was unimpressed. "Killed anyone yet?"
"Uh, no, not just yet – but there's more to being evil than just killing." He forced a laugh. "The oldest one is only two, after all."
"Excuses, excuses," muttered Hastur. "It's always something with you, isn't it, Crawly?"
"Well, I mean, if you lot want to raise your own children be my guest, but according to records downstairs, I've done–"
"Absolutely nothing," finished Hastur.
Ligur snickered.
"Guys, come on, I've–"
"And how many Nephilim have you fathered?"
He winced, tossing aside the cushion he still held. "Well, none, but–"
"Like we've got the time," snapped Asmodeus. "Taking care of these bellowing giants all day and night."
"You don't have to work with the children if you're willing to do your demonic duty elsewhere."
"So," said Asmodeus, very slowly, as if trying to be sure he'd got it right, "what you're saying is if we fuck human females we don't have to stay here and look after the babies any longer?"
"That's right," Ligur told him.
"Look, thanks for the offer," Crawly began, "but Asmodeus and I..." He stopped, realising – apart from Ligur, Hastur, and the still-screaming babies in the room behind him – he was now alone. "Asmodeus?" Damn. "Right... Okay. Demon of lust. Really should have seen that one coming."
"Of course, if you want a day off from the nursery," Hastur added, as if he and Ligur had been speaking only to Crawly the entire time, "and you won't do what the rest of us are doing, I have a little job I need taken care of tomorrow."
Crawly liked children, but half a dozen giant babies in succession were simply too much. Just the other day, with no help to speak of from Asmodeus, he'd attempted to bundle them up in the cart and take them to the marketplace for a little fresh air – it hadn't gone well.
Long story short, they no longer had a cart. Just a rather a lot of broken wooden planks.
"Crah-weeee!"
His raw scalp felt like it was pulsing in anticipation of what awaited him. "Right, then." He caved. "What's the job?"
"Is she coming or isn't she?" asked a girl in a long purple garment comprised of multiple pieces, whose companions were fastening tiny pearls into her dark, braided hair.
One of her companions shook their head. "No, Bithiah. I spoke to her only yesterday – she says what you're doing is wrong. Bad. Her words, not mine."
Bithiah scrunched her nose. "Ever since she married Japheth, she's been really stuck up. I mean, we can't all wed sons of prophets."
Another companion, slightly older and deeper-voiced, scoffed, "Please, Noah? A prophet?" She tossed her head indignantly. "That's a joke – everyone laughs at him, you know. His father Lamech said he'd bring us comfort – relief from the pain of toiling upon the cursed ground – but Noah's never said anything positive in his life!"
Bithiah waved it off. "Anyway, my point is, she ought to be glad for me – demons are of angelic stock, after all. I'm practically wedding a son of God."
A trumpet sounded and several of Bithiah's companions squealed with excitement. "He's here! They're ready to begin!"
And, in a flurry of swishing fabric and giggles, the little bridal party made its way across a meadow and into the golden-draped pavilion that had been set up overlooking the marketplace.
Half the selling had been stopped early, vendors closing especially for the occasion, and camels and horses were being herded over, along with several men in fine robes bearing gifts wrapped in silvery crushed velvet.
Given that she was being elevated from belonging to one of the poorest local families to something as grand as this, Bithiah was ecstatic. Until she noticed the tall, red-haired figure waiting to meet her. He looked absolutely nothing like her husband to be.
"You're not Hastur!"
He quirked a gingery eyebrow. "You're observant."
"What's all this? Who the hell are you?"
"Oh, right." He rolled his shoulders back. "About that. Hastur's busy with something – he's sent me in his place."
"I'm supposed to be Hastur's wife, not yours." Her lips twisted into an expression of furious disdain, perhaps to mask her disappointment. "No." She looked him up and down. "Just no."
"Oi!" He seemed slightly offended. "You could do worse."
"Hastur is a duke of Hell!" she spluttered. "You're probably some sort of underling minion at best. I was supposed to be a duchess!"
"Don't worry – you're still marrying Hastur." He rolled his yellow eyes. "I'm just the proxy."
"So I still get to be a duchess?" This, apparently, was very important to her, and if it was her only takeaway from the whole deal, she would probably have been contented enough. "And live in Hastur's big house and have servants?"
"Yeah, apparently you do."
"I don't have to go back home to my father – or live in some muddy hut with you somewhere?"
"No, I don't want you." He leaned in closer. "And for the record, I do not live in a hut. Muddy or any other kind."
She inhaled deeply, pulling back. "Oh. Good. That's all right, then." Her expression of distaste and fear untwisted and she looked much prettier for it. "I'm Bithiah, by the way."
"Crawly."
"Charmed, I'm sure." She stared at him for a moment. "Say, have we met before?"
"Don't think so."
"You look strangely familiar, now that I'm really thinking about it."
"I've got one of those faces." He glanced over his shoulder at the shadows moving behind the pavilion. "Now, if you've got all your wedding jitters sorted, could we get started? It's already midday."
"Oh, yes, at once!" she gasped fawningly. "Forgive me for delaying it with my questions – I just had to be sure, you understand. I went through a lot to get here."
"Of course." He offered her his arm, and she took it, allowing him to escort her. "Smile. This is the fun part – we get to put on a show."
Aziraphale was hurrying through the marketplace, struggling to avoid being jostled; if he'd known there was one of those demonic marriage ceremonies going on, he'd have delayed his visit until another day. After all, peckish or not, he didn't need to eat to survive, not like humans did, and he hated having to witness the unnatural spectacle.
It turned the stomach, no mistake.
The worst part was how many people had begun to act like it was perfectly normal. Even desirable. No one talked about the fact that these were literal demons – a completely different species, and evil to boot – marrying women, sometimes for only a few months before putting them aside to take another wife, and laughing in the face of God. No one talked about how these same demons were demanding large amounts of tribute from everyone – including poor farmers and exhausted carpenters who could barely manage to make ends meet. Instead, they mocked anyone who refused to support these hellish beings – after all, these demons, wicked though they might be, were famous. The stories about them were fascinating. And human beings loved a good story above all else.
Rumour had it that many of these unions were already resulting in monstrous children that were being raised somewhere to be as wicked as their fathers – if not more so.
The Metatron and Uriel had warned him things were going to get bad, and they had not been vague, but somehow Aziraphale hadn't quite pictured this. He hadn't imagined humans supporting the demons, supporting outright evil, speaking of them and their wicked wiles in awed whispers, some of the delusional women even with envy.
Sometimes, Aziraphale wondered whatever had become of dear old Crawly – that, comparatively, almost nice demon who had been his only adversary until the others turned up.
He hadn't seen him, even from a distance, in nearly a decade.
Surely he wasn't doing what the others were. Crawly wasn't like that. He tempted people – which was very bad, naturally – but he didn't strike Aziraphale as perverse.
The angel happened to glance up at the pavilion. The poor bride looked so happy. She was quite young, this one, perhaps eighteen. What a foolish, fatal choice she was making – though, there was always the chance she scarcely had one. Some went more willingly than others. What would the demons do if one of them said no? It didn't bear thinking of.
That was when Aziraphale recognised the finely-dressed demon standing beside her upon a makeshift dais. "Crawly." Although he knew he shouldn't be so surprised, the principality was bitterly disappointed. He'd thought far better of him. Perhaps he'd been as foolish as anyone else in all this, assuming Crawly was different from the other demons.
"Ladies and gentleman." Crawly was holding up the young bride's hand. "I present to you all gathered here this fine day, Bithiah, Duchess of Hell!"
Ah, so Crawly had also been promoted; apparently, he was now a duke of Hell. So that was where he'd been all this time, then. What ghastly thing had he done to achieve that promotion? A high rank like that didn't come easily – the angel had only heard of two other dukes of Hell before; it wasn't a gift Satan gave away for nothing.
Shuffling further along the now cheering crowd, Aziraphale shook his head and awkwardly passed his satchel of baked goods and grain supplies from one hand to the other, fidgeting miserably.
After sunset, Crawly lifted Bithiah onto the back of a camel and took an anxious step back. Animals – apart from the occasional benign duck or clever rat – tended not to like him very much. Not to mention, he'd been stepped on and drooled over enough times by giant monster babies in the last few days – he didn't need ill-tempered camels getting in on the action, too.
"Is this it, then?" asked Bithiah, looking back at him. "You're just going to leave me? I don't know the way."
"The camel knows the way," Crawly told her. "He'll take you home."
"You said I didn't–"
"Hastur's house. That's your home. You live there now, remember?"
"Oh. Yes. How stupid of me. Yes, Hastur's house. My home." She spoke as if she were tasting the words on her tongue for the first time. "It's all going to be rather lovely." She straightened herself and reached for the reigns, not so much to direct the beast as for something to do with her shaking hands. "Thank you, Crawly, for everything – you were wonderful."
"Best of luck." Crawly turned away. In a softer voice, he added, as he heard the camel's tread growing distant behind him, "Will she ever need it."
Hastur must have been pleased with Bithiah, because he gave her leave to throw an elaborate outdoor feast near his property and invite anyone she wanted.
This didn't surprise Crawly – Bithiah struck him as somebody good at getting her own way. She might wear even Hastur down and do pretty well for herself for a couple years, if she was clever enough to know when not to push it (he wouldn't put it past Hastur to get angry with her and make her swallow her own tongue if she got too mouthy). He wasn't surprised, either, that she invited all the locals; obviously she wanted to show off.
What did surprise Crawly was how she tapped Hastur on the shoulder and pointed over at him when he arrived.
For a moment, the demon thought he was in trouble for something, and began looking about the crowd for a quick way out, but in actuality Hastur just had another job offer for him.
"You want me to move into your house and..." Here Crawly paused, looking a bit confused. "And what exactly? Just follow Bithiah around?"
"I promised her she could have a demonic attendant." His inky eyes blinked twice. "She picked you. Besides, she needs to be escorted whenever she leaves the house; better another demon – even a flash bastard like you – than some human I can't trust."
"Are you saying you trust me?" Crawly was amazed.
"No," snarled Hastur. "Of course I don't trust you, you little runt! But obviously you made some kind of impression, and I know you'll take the job; that's good enough for right now."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you keep taking care of the babies."
"Oh." Hardly an appealing prospect. "Uh... For how long?"
"Until they're forty-five."
"You know what?" Crawly decided, choosing what he hoped was the lesser of two evils, coin toss though it was. "I'd be delighted to move in with you, Duke Hastur – just a few things to pack. I'll be there first thing in the morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."
"Bushy tailed?" Hastur gave him a darkly bemused look. "What... What's that mean, bushy-tailed?"
"That was a joke," Crawly said flatly.
"I don't like jokes."
"Right. Noted."
"Good." With that, Hastur turned and joined Ligur on the other side of the spacious lawn.
Crawly got himself a goblet of fine wine and thought he might actually manage to enjoy himself, despite the place swarming with Hell's higher-ups, when he felt something kick him lightly in the backside.
"Oi! Watch it!" He whirled around, finding himself face to face with a laughing Bithiah, wearing enough gold jewellery to add an extra fifty pounds to her willowy frame. "Oh, it's you."
"Hastur has given you the news?"
"Yup." He glowered.
She stared at him, her expression falling. "I thought you'd be pleased."
"Pleased?" he scoffed. "That I have to move in with Hastur and wait on you? I spend most of my time trying to avoid Hastur – this puts a bit of a damper on that, you know."
"Well, honestly, Crawly!" Her hands were on her hips. "I was only trying to do something nice for you – put in a good word for you, seeing as I'm the duchess of Hell now."
"Better enjoy it while you can."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means, this isn't a permanent position – don't get too comfortable. Have your fun and try not to get stabbed in the back while you're at it. And don't try to take anything valuable from the house when it's over – not even personal jewels – they really don't like that."
She blanched. "You think he's going to set me aside?"
"Oh, I know he's going to set you aside eventually." Crawly pointed over at a group of demons – dancing badly – a few feet away. "See that lot? They've got bets going on how long you'll last."
"We shall see." She swallowed, took in a deep breath, then posed another question. "Now. Something's been puzzling me, Crawly, perhaps you can help clarify the matter?"
"What is it?"
"Hastur and Ligur – why are they always together?"
"Oh, that." Crawly chuckled. "Well, you know how demons used to be angels?"
"Yes, go on."
"Angels usually have a working partner – someone they're closer to than any of the other angels, their personal second."
"Like a best friend?"
He nodded. "You could call it that, I suppose. Anyway, some of the demons – despite natural demonic distrust of each other – have clung to their seconds even after the fall. Ligur was Hastur's second. They're used to working and conspiring together, so they just kept doing so – convenience, you see."
Bithiah considered this. "That's interesting."
"If you say so."
"It is, though." She began walking the length of the lawn and motioned that Crawly should follow at her side. "I'm fascinated. Tell me, does God have a second?"
"I don't know – we were never on what you'd call speaking terms."
"What about you, then, who's your second?"
Crawly sauntered causally alongside her. "Haven't got one."
"Did you ever?"
"No."
"That's quite sad." Her expression, laced with deep pity, was almost vulnerable. "How lonely you must be! How very lonely." Reaching out, she placed a hand on his arm. "Poor Crawly."
Crawly made a motion to brush it off, then noticed – because, being a demon, he could see perfectly well in the dark – that her sleeve had bunched up and rolled back slightly, revealing a rising trail of dark bruises. He realised, then, also, that she the garment she was wearing – although clearly expensive and grand – had a much higher neckline than the one she'd worn to the ceremony where he'd proclaimed her Duchess of Hell in Hastur's place.
Ignore it, he told himself, it isn't any of your business.
Crawly managed to slip away from the feast (it was getting rather wild, even for his taste) with a jug of wine tucked under his arm (he'd long since emptied his original goblet, set it down somewhere, and lost track of it). He made his way into a natural alcove with a large pond sheltered by knobby trees. It was close enough to the feast that he could be back again in a hurry if his absence was noticed, yet far away enough he couldn't hear the music and drunken screaming.
The place was tranquil, quiet, lonely. Indeed, Crawly expected to be entirely alone here. Except that he wasn't. A familiar angel was there, wings out and messy, his bare feet dangling in the water.
Aziraphale looked very white against the dark trees and blue-black colouring of the grass and reeds at night. He seemed almost to glow.
The pond itself was also glowing in the darkness, but in more of a greenish-blue hue.
"Are you doing that?" Crawly blurted.
Aziraphale started. "Who's there?"
"Relax, Aziraphale, it's just me."
"Oh, Crawly. Hello." He sounded stiff and did not quite look at the demon as he approached, now that he'd confirmed it was him. "No – it's not me – the water does that on its own. Something to do with bioluminescence or reflections...algae or what-not..." He paused, glanced up at the sky, then back down at the water again. "Er. I think."
"Mind if I join you?" Crawly lifted the wine jug.
"I don't think that would be a good idea." Aziraphale began to stand up, drawing in his wings.
For a split-second, Aziraphale's raised eyes met his and Crawly was stunned to see something there he hadn't expected. "Wait, hold up. Are you angry with me?"
"Why should I be angry with you?" The wounded tone did not match the blithe words. "You're just a demon, doing what demons do. In your nature, what."
"What the Heaven are you on about?" demanded Crawly.
"It's just..." Aziraphale sighed, closing his eyes. "What you're doing is wrong."
Crawly frowned in puzzlement. "What am I doing?"
Aziraphale's eyes were open again, and doubly judgemental. "I'm not an idiot, Crawly."
"Clearly one of us must be – what are you talking about?"
"Nothing, nothing at all." The angel picked up a pair of sandals and miracled the mud off the sides before pertly slipping them onto his feet. "What's done is done. I just don't see how any good could possibly come of it. People are going to get hurt."
"I," hissed Crawly, very slowly and emphatically. "Have. No. Idea. What. You're. Talking. About."
"Congratulations on the promotion are in order, I suppose," Aziraphale replied icily, staring down at his feet.
"I see word travels fast." Crawly's eyes looked particularly snake-like in that moment. "I hardly call moving into Hastur's house as a servant a promotion. I mean, glorified babysitter for a grown woman? Not the sort of thing you put on your résumé."
"What? No!" Aziraphale blinked. "I think you and I must be talking about two different things... That is..." He stopped; something wasn't adding up. "But... Why would one duke of Hell be working as a servant for another duke of Hell? Isn't that a bit...er...disorganized?"
"I'm not a duke of hell."
"But you announced your wife as 'Duchess of Hell' in the marketplace the other day."
"Oh, no, no." Crawly shook his head. "Bithiah isn't my wife – she's Hastur's."
"You're not married?"
"No."
Aziraphale's entire demeanour changed. "Oh, thank goodness. I must admit, I feared you were caught up this whole 'fathering demonic children' business I've been hearing about. It's all anyone talks about. And when I saw you in the marketplace, I thought... Well, you can understand what it must have looked like."
"So. You were worried about me?" Crawly smiled teasingly. "Is an angel supposed to be worried about a demon?"
Aziraphale stammered something about common courtesy and concern, nothing to do with the fact that he was a demon or otherwise, while Crawly – feeling rather self-satisfied – watched the angel squirm and go slightly red in the face while he attempted to justify his worry.
After that, Crawly took mercy on him and offered to share the wine again, which Aziraphale accepted this time.
They sat there, side by side, staring at the glittering pond for a while, passing the jug back and forth and taking long swigs, when Aziraphale stood up and took off his sandals again. He waded out into the water. The demon followed, ducking under when the angel did and – not needing to breathe – simply opened his eyes and began moving forward as if he were still walking on the dry shoreline.
A couple of seconds ticked by, then Aziraphale pointed and Crawly saw a group of luminous fish with lacy fins swimming by. Some of them were barely the size of the nail on his little finger, others were as large as his two fists put together. Most were pale blue, but there were also bright golden ones that shown like tiny underwater stars, swimming in amongst their blue companions. A lone green fish swam up to Aziraphale, bumped its head against the angel's knuckles, then swam off again. Crawly's hair floated in his way; he pushed it back and watched the fish for a while longer.
They finally resurfaced, the air above the water much colder than either of them recalled it being, and Aziraphale – not spying Crawly at first – thrashed around searching for the demon.
"Think fast!" The demon popped up in front of him and announced his presence with a splash that sent water up his companion's nose.
Aziraphale slapped his hand across the water, lightly splashing him back. "That wasn't very nice, Crawly!"
"I said think fast," Crawly insisted. "Not m'fault you didn't."
Swimming away from the demon, Aziraphale flopped out of the water and sprawled across the small stretch of bank, staring up drunkenly at the sky. He hiccuped twice, rolled over, and propped himself up on one elbow. "I suppose I'd better sober up and get out of here." His eyes darted anxiously back and forth. "I don't know what my side would say if they found me like this."
Crawly dug a finger into one of his ears, trying to dislodge any excess water. "What'd you mean?"
"Drunk, Crawly, I'm drunk."
"Usually what happens when you drink wine."
Aziraphale shivered.
The coin dropped; Crawly realised what the angel meant. "Oh. You've... You've never been drunk before, have you?"
He hiccuped again. "There were so many fish under the water... Did you notice, Crawly? So many – great and smoke."
The demon smiled over at him indulgently.
"Great and smo..." The angel tried again, visibly growing frustrated with himself. "Great and small. There." He fell into a brooding silence, and when he opened his mouth to speak again – not very coherently – Crawly thought he was going to add something profound, but he only mumbled, "Now, what were we talking about again?"
A twig snapped, loudly.
Aziraphale sat all the way up, squinting into the closet thicket. "Who was that?"
"Probably just a bird," Crawly suggested, despite being unnerved himself.
"Bloody big bird, then."
Bithiah insisted on taking Crawly on a tour of Hastur's courtyard, even though he'd told her he'd already seen it. She ignored this and, carrying a wicker hamper under one arm, started marching down the stairs in a manner which suggested she expected to be followed immediately.
"Here," she said, theatrically, when they'd reached the paved courtyard, "we have a large statue of a crane singing."
"It's a fountain," Crawly corrected her, snapping his fingers.
Water came shooting out of the crane's mouth and – rather vulgarly – its ass as well, filling a marble basin situated under its feet.
"How about that." Bithiah nodded approvingly.
"And," he added, growing impatient, "for the third time, I've seen it."
Bithiah glanced over her shoulder. "Good, we seem to be alone."
"You could have just said you needed to talk to me alone – or ordered the servants to leave the room we were sitting in."
"That..." Bithiah was caught off-guard; she began fidgeting with the six or seven silver and gold rings on her fingers. "That never occurred to me."
"So what is it?"
"What's what?"
"What was so bloody important you took us down here to view a ceramic crane having a very watery bowel movement in order to tell me about it?"
She tilted her head at the crane. "Oh, God, you're right – it does look like it's–"
"Bithiah!"
"Oh, right. Sorry. I... I just wanted to say your secret is safe with me. But you need to be more careful – someone is bound to find out. I don't want anything bad to happen to you."
"What secret?"
"I saw you, the night of the feast."
"Saw me doing what?"
"That angel – the one you went swimming with – he's your second, isn't he?"
Crawly's mouth fell open and several shocked choking sounds proceeded his, "Wot?"
She nodded earnestly. "Like Hastur and Ligur."
"Are you completely mad?" laughed Crawly. "Of course Aziraphale isn't my second. I barely know him. He's just some angel I met on the Eastern Gate of Eden."
Bithiah considered this. "Really?"
"Yes!"
"Oh, well, that's not what it looked like – you two interact like you've been together since the dawn of time. I thought perhaps you'd fallen and he didn't and you met him secretly because you missed him and... I'm rambling like a fool now, forget it." Her hands covered her face as she groaned into them self-deprecatingly. "And here I'd thought I'd stumbled onto the greatest of celestial secrets!"
"You were spying on us," Crawly realised. "That's the twig we heard snapping."
"I wouldn't have made a sound, I'm usually very quiet, but being around water makes me nervous and you were awfully close to the pond..." Bithiah explained sheepishly, lowering her hands. "It's irrational, of course – I just don't do well around water." She leaned against the side of the crane, steadying herself against it. "If this basin was much deeper, I'd be panicking right now. I'm terrified of drowning."
"Yeah? Why's that?"
"I almost drowned when I was really little. Even though I barely remember the incident, it still... I always feel this...panic...when I think of being submerged in water."
Something in the back of Crawly's mind was making frantic alarm sounds. He couldn't figure out why, though, not just then.
"So, what's the hamper for?" he asked. "Are we having a picnic out here?"
"No, that's my sewing."
"What're you sewing for? You've got loads servants to do all the sewing for you." She'd struck the demon as the sort of person who would be very keen to start bossing people around and making them do what she told them – after all, that's how she was with him. But, since he'd moved in, he'd seen her busily – and with surprising contentment on her face – sewing almost every time she had a minute free. "What's that about, sewing?"
"I... I wouldn't feel like much of a wife if I didn't make garments for my husband's family."
"Hastur won't wear anything you make – mostly demons make clothes just sort of appear over ourselves."
She sat down beside the crane, an expression of pain camping on her face. "I know. Hastur told me yesterday, and none too nicely, either. I just..." Reaching down, she lifted the lid off the hamper and drew out a long, dark garment. "I made one for you as well, if you'd like it." She held it out to him.
"For me?" Crawly took the folded garment from her, overcome with a strange sense of deja-vu.
"You're practically family."
"First I've heard of it." He unrolled one of the sleeves – an elaborate trifecta of layered ebony fabric with a crimson lining – and noticed there was a tiny pattern of yellow near the shoulder. "What's this bit here?"
"I know you only wear black, usually, but you should wear some yellow now and again; it matches your eyes."
That was when it clicked. Yellow. A yellow flower. Fear of drowning. Almost drowned when she was little...
"Shit!" Crawly tossed the garment back at the hamper and started for the main house, leaving a stunned, offended Bithiah behind.
"Did you know?" Crawly snarled, leaning over the arm of the long, upholstered chair Hastur was lounging on.
Hastur grinned up at him. "Of course I did."
Biting his lower lip, Crawly struggled to regain his composure. "And that's why you picked her?"
Hastur chuckled darkly. "Funny, isn't it? The same child you got reprimanded for rescuing fifteen years ago. All grown up."
"Hilarious," he growled through his teeth.
"I was originally just going to fuck her, but the pretty little bitch was a lot smarter than I gave her credit for." Hastur sat up and stretched. "Pulled out a knife and said I had to marry her, make her a duchess of Hell."
"You let her pull a knife on you?" He'd seen Hastur reduce people to puddles of molten jelly over less than that.
"Come on, Crawly, you know better than that. She pulled the knife on herself – threatened to slit her own throat if I tried to take her without marrying her first."
"And you thought it would be funny to scare her by sending a proxy in your place."
"Just so she knew which one of us had the upper hand." Hastur's face was rapt with delight; he loved making Crawly uncomfortable. "Guess what the best part is."
"What's the best part?"
"I didn't even have to plan this far – she requested you personally. She actually likes you. Hell only knows why, but she does."
"So how long until you dismiss her from your household?"
"Oh, whenever I grow weary of dangling this situation over your head – or if she doesn't get pregnant fast enough to suit me." He shrugged. "Either way."
Sucking his teeth, swallowing back an angry hiss, Crawly turned to leave the room.
"Crawly." Hastur's hand was suddenly on the wood of the door, holding it closed.
"What?" He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, frightened of any emotion he might actually show – any weakness Hastur would be all too willing to exploit.
"Bet you wish you'd let her drown now, don't you?" His nose almost touched Crawly's, his foul-smelling breath inescapable. "If it hadn't been for her, you'd still be merrily tempting people, free as anything. You'd never have gotten stuck taking care of the Nephilim in the first place. Let alone being a servant in my household. But, now, until further notice, you work for me. Or Ligur, if I happen to be away. Doesn't that just sting so good? Isn't it glorious?"
"Glorious," Crawly echoed, his face impassive as he rebelliously imagined knocking Hastur on the back of the head with a blunt object. "I've got to get back to work. You know me – keen."
Mesopotamia, 3037 B.C.
"Hello, Aziraphale!"
Aziraphale turned. "Crawly." He peered at him with renewed interest, momentarily distracted. "Oh. I say, that's a stylish garment – is it new? Suits you very well. Especially the sleeves."
"It's not new. A friend made it for me," Crawly said offhandedly, then gestured at the spectacle everyone had come out to watch. "What's all this about? Are they building something?"
There was, evidently, a shortage of demon marriages that week, so this was the next best thing: Noah and his family dragging heavy logs across a squelchy field.
"From what I hear..." Aziraphale said, his voice low, "God's a bit tetchy."
Crawly paused, waiting for more. Of course God was upset – God had been upset for quite a while. God had been upset before all the demons started marrying human women. God had been upset about Abel getting bumped off – not even the demons had seen that one coming, they hadn't thought to tempt him into it, bastard came up with the whole violent murder thing himself. Things had been going on this way since Eve ate the apple. God hadn't done anything yet, so Crawly hadn't been expecting that to change.
"Wiping out the human race," Aziraphale finished bleakly, pointing upwards. "Big storm."
"All of them?"
Aziraphale stammered, "Er... Just the locals. I don't believe the Almighty is upset with the Chinese or the Native Americans. Or the Australians."
"Yet," snorted Crawly.
"And God's not actually going to wipe out all the locals." He tried to look bright and cheerful, but the expression did not reach his eyes. "I mean, Noah – that's him out there with the axe – his family, his sons, their wives. They're all going to be fine."
"Eight people?" Crawly was utterly disgusted. "Only eight people?" He waved an arm out at just the several dozen watching them. "There are how many people here, and God only wants to save eight?" Hastur, grinning like the winner of the world's most amusing game as he assured Crawly he'd known exactly who Bithiah was when he married her, came into his mind. "That's more the sort of thing you'd expect my lot to do."
"It's quality the Almighty wants, Crawly, not quantity." He sighed, pained. "Besides, if you must know, I was not consulted in this matter."
"How much time do we have?"
"Until the ark is built – then God shuts the door and its all over."
"So that's it, then?"
"Anyone who wants to join them can get involved at any time – they'd be fine, in that case."
"No one is going to do that!" exclaimed Crawly, throwing up his hands. "They'd be ridiculed. And what about the kids? You can't kill kids. Even the demons' children – they might be ugly as sin and big and mean, but they didn't ask to be born. The eldest Nephilim is only four years old, d'you realise that?"
"Ugly as sin, you're right about that much," Aziraphale agreed. "Quite literally."
"This isn't fair!"
He'd shouted this exclamation too loudly and one of the locals turned and stared at him.
"Do you mind?" He grunted at them until they turned around and resumed gawking at Noah like they'd never seen a woodsman at work before. "Aziraphale, listen, there has to be some other–"
"Don't you understand, Crawly? It's going to take years – people will have the opportunity to be good. They can prove once and for all what side they're on. And when it's over, God's going to lift the curse from the ground, and put a new thing in the sky called a rain-bow."
"Right. What's a rainbow?"
"A promise not to drown everyone again."
"Oh," mocked Crawly. "How kind."
"Just... I don't know... Tell as many people as you can – maybe there's still a chance."
"There's no chance, Aziraphale." Crawly watched the jeering, pointing people, then turned his attention back to Noah and his family, diligently chopping up wood like there was no tomorrow – because pretty soon there wouldn't be. "None. They're all doomed."
"Well, then. Welcome to the end times."
A/N: Reviews welcome, replies may be delayed.
