Disclaimer: Good Omens and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

A/N: This is my first Good Omens fic (unless you count the drabbles). There are several switches in POV, as in the book, and I've broken the whole thing up into chapters for your convenience. I've used miles and other American-isms, so bear with me please? This has also only been proofread by me, so I apologize for any daft spelling errors, etc.

Rated T for language, but it's really more of a K . It's rather long as a whole, but the chapters are short.

Any and all feedback will be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

The telephone rang just as Crowley walked past it. He was fairly certain that sort of thing wasn't supposed to happen with pay phones, and with a furtive look at the machine, quickened his pace. It couldn't possibly be a good thing. The phone rang louder as he walked away, and a glare at the booth had no effect. Crowley sighed, and strode back before the ringing could deafen any passing humans. He pushed his sunglasses further up his nose, and picked up the receiver, steeling himself.

"HELLO, CROWLEY." Crowley tried his best not to shudder. The buzzing, raspy voice was even worse than normal over the bad connection. Bloody pay phones. Static fizzled into his ears.

"Uh. Hi." He fidgeted. The first melodious strains of a migraine were crawling across his brain. Some serious stress was in order. Unfortunately.

"WE'VE GOT SOME NEWS FOR YOU, CROWLEY."

"Really." The sarcasm was ill-disguised. The demon giving the message on the other side of the line was evidently dull enough to not notice, and continued.

"YES. IT'S VERY IMPORTANT NEWS, CROWLEY." Of course. News from Down There was always Very Important. Especially after the failed Armageddon, when there were so many loose ends to tie up. Or hack off entirely. Whatever was faster.

"This news wouldn't have anything to do with uh, the events of recent days, would it?" Crowley was hoping against hope. Not that that was something demons usually did, hope—normally they just swapped sides and pretended nothing of the sort ever happened—but Crowley had picked it up from Aziraphale. Six thousand years and an Arrangement with a blessed angel can do that to a bloke.

"IT WOULD, ACTUALLY." There was a pause. Evidently Crowley was supposed to fill in a blank. The buzz grew into a roar. Crowley glared at the cracked glass of the phone booth. It rippled once and was whole once more, although slightly startled. It'd been cracked for quite a few years now and hadn't been expecting repairs, especially not ones from a strange man-shaped creature wearing sunglasses in the dark.

"Er. What is it?" Crowley fervently hoped it didn't necessitate a return to Lower Tadfield. Adam—the Antichrist—had been nice enough, but still the most unsettling creature Crowley had ever met. The boy could destroy Crowley without even blinking. He could probably destroy the entire planet without blinking. It was a good job he was on Their Side. Their Side meaning Crowley and Aziraphale and not much else, save all of humanity. And humanity was generally pretty useless, all things considered.

"THEY ARE REMEMBERING, CROWLEY." Shit. He knew exactly who 'they' were. And 'they' meant Lower Tadfield. And Lower Tadfield meant Adam Young. Fuck.

"DO YOU KNOW WHY?" Bugger if he knew. "WRONG ANSWER, CROWLEY." Now they were pulling the mind-reading trick on him. "YES, WE ARE."

Crowley blessed under his breath. "Ssso." He was hissing again. Dammit. "I guessss you want me to check it out, then."

"EXACTLY, CROWLEY." The details were dropped directly into his brain. Crowley shuddered, blessed again, swore aloud for good measure, and hung up the receiver. Then he pulled out his ridiculously sleek mobile phone, which he'd chosen mainly because it was called 'Serpent' in the advert, and rang Aziraphale.