The Sort of Thing You Forget

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 1 of 4

It had been a nice day. Most of the days in the past decade had been nice.

Even on the most grey, rainiest afternoons, shafts of sunlight seemed to cast rainbow prisms from stray droplets, making the world a little brighter than it had been before it was almost destroyed.

Bad things happened, presumably, but they were hard to remember in much detail once they'd been attended to. Crowley actually struggled to bring a particular incident of tragedy worse than a spoiled picnic or traffic jam to the front of his mind. Of course, when you'd thwarted the coming of Armageddon and swapped places with your best friend on trial, minor inconveniences tended not to rankle as much. It was all prospective, really, when you came right down to it. Crowley was delighted to discover, in this decade of having been left – as he'd predicted – alone by the forces of Heaven and Hell both, just how much of an optimist he actually was.

Just to be safe, he and Aziraphale had kept an eye on the former son of Satan (currently son of Arthur Young, a man who was mostly all right in Crowley's estimation even though he legitimately believed, as was evident by several improperly filled out newspaper crossword puzzles, 'paparazzi' was a synonym for linoleum), but the boy – now a golden-haired Adonis of twenty-one – showed no signs of retained powers from his brief prepubescent stint as The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness.

Adam hadn't liked being followed, and was so bitterly severe (as only a hormonal teenager can be) in his insistence the angel and demon stop 'messing around' with his life, that he'd unwittingly brought tears of discouragement to Aziraphale's eyes, which in turn angered Crowley, who didn't like to see his friend upset, and there was almost – quite literally – an ungodly row...

Yet somehow it had all worked out for the best. They were on quite good terms now. Adam even sent them a post card or left a message on Crowley's ansaphone from time to time. Last they'd heard from him, he'd been the best man at Greasy Johnson's wedding. The bride had been none other than Adam's childhood chum Pepper – now Mrs. Pippin Johnson. She'd grown into rather a handsome woman, with her clear, warm-hued sienna skin and curly red-dyed hair – it was a shame about the raving feminism, lack of humour, and the overpowering tendency to constantly frown at everything. She'd apparently refused to wear a veil or be given away, or even have a traditional white cake at the reception. It was a wonder she'd agreed to be married at all. She had conceded – to appease her new mother-in-law and the overly invested professional photographer said mother-in-law had hired – to adorn herself in a puffy gown which Aziraphale, upon examining the wedding photographs, remarked to Crowley reminded him more of a prom dress.

And with Adam and his former gang and enemies alike seeming to be doing so well, Aziraphale and Crowley had little else to worry about.

Occasionally Crowley would spy Hastur lurking about, glaring daggers vaguely in his direction, but the demon would always vanish before he could confront him. Early last May, Aziraphale had seen Gabriel and Sandalphon across a busy street in Soho, but a lorry had come honking through and as soon as it passed the angels were gone as if they'd never been there. Otherwise, nobody had been in touch with either of them. And it was glorious. They could meet wherever – or whenever – they wanted. It had felt strange, at first, to sit together deliberately in public without trying to make it look coincidental; they'd finally gotten the proper hang of it, oh, sometime in the past week.

Crowley hadn't felt dread in so long that, initially, as he walked into his flat late that night and felt a cold, foul presence accompanied by the scent of brimstone, he had to pause just to comprehend what this strange long-lost feeling was.

I don't like this, it feels spooky, he thought unironically for the first time in his life, and was immediately disgusted with himself.

Usually, even now, he liked spooky. Not this, though. This was something else. Something personal.

There was a shadow by the window – directly across from his chair, desk, and ansaphone – which shouldn't have been there. It was too inky dark to be natural and there was absolutely nothing to cast it in the first place.

A pair of blood-red eyes glowed, almost as if disembodied, in the black mist.

His chest clenched. Dread was so much worse than Crowley remembered. "Lucifer. It's been a long time."

The shadow began to shift, those red eyes momentarily vanishing. A figure stepped out, approaching the desk in a slow saunter. At first it was unformed, like a person shaped entirely from smoke, before it settled into a form that – apart from the nasty expression on its face – bore a striking similarity to none other than Aziraphale.

"Hello, darling."

The demon's legs were jelly. He took a tremulous step backwards, nearly falling, catching himself against the side of his chair just in time, mid-wobble.

"I thought," said Lucifer, gesturing down at himself, "this form might please you – it seems to be what you like these days. Letting standards drop rather a lot, aren't we, Crowley?"

Crowley didn't answer.

"Not going to ask me how I've managed such a perfect impression?" The devil fingered the edge of the desk teasingly. "I thought you'd be a little more concerned for your friend."

"You can't have done anything to him, I'd know." He'd left the angel safe in his bookshop less than twenty-minutes ago.

"Oh, you're no fun." Satan sighed, waving that off. "But you're right, I haven't laid a finger on him. Of course, I could have done. I've been watching him for months now, but you didn't know that, did you?"

Crowley tensed; Satan smiled.

"Now, unless I'm mistaken, you're probably wondering why I'd take such an interest in that fat angel."

Crowley tried to regulate his breathing. Satan wanted him on edge, upset. He knew that. He didn't even need to breathe; so why the Heaven couldn't he will himself to stop? He need to control his fear, his emotions.

The less he seemed to care, the better off both he and Aziraphale would most likely be. That is, if they weren't already completely fu–

"Crowley! Are you listening to me?"

He hadn't been, he'd been more preoccupied with the drumming of his heart vibrating madly in his ears.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"I said I know how you survived your trial ten years ago." The devil came nearer. "I had a most interesting conversation with the demon who brought hellfire to Heaven for the angel's sentencing – a little disposable nothing of a demon, of course, but with rather a lot to say under the right circumstances. It seems that he has always wanted to hit an angel. An admirable ambition, if a bit broad. But we all love our simple pleasures now and again, don't we?"

Having worked out where this was going, Crowley slunk down into his chair. Perhaps if he seemed defeated the devil wouldn't... Wouldn't what? Wouldn't kill him? Or threaten Aziraphale? Or drag him back down to Hell and lock him a damp cell with a hungry hell-hound? There was no precursor for what Crowley had done, and thus no way of knowing how Satan would react, how he would punish him. He'd become too lenient in the last decade. Too proud of that lovely little charade he and Aziraphale pulled off. Now it was all going to come unravelled before his eyes.

"So this demon gets permission to hit your friend. But, wouldn't you know it, when he approaches what was supposed to be a defenceless, tied up angel, he sees..." The devil pretended to study Aziraphale's elegantly manicured hands in false passivity. "But you know all too well what happens next. Tell me what he sees, won't you, darling?"

"Honestly, Lucifer..." Crowley forced a bemused shrug. "How could I? It's not like I was there."

Satan dropped the pretence of coolness, gritting his teeth. "Oh, I think you were, Crowley. I truly do." The hand that resembled Aziraphale's but felt cold and bony and very, very thin despite its vice-like strength clamped down over Crowley's wrist in a flash, squeezing it. "You switched places, you and your angelic best friend, didn't you? You lying, sorry excuse for a demon!"

"It was self preservation! You weren't exactly about to stop them executing me!"

"Have you forgotten who you're speaking to? This isn't Hastur come to collect you. I'm your master." He squeezed harder, tightening his grasp until Crowley moaned involuntarily.

"Not any more," he gasped out, thinking he must have suddenly become very brave or else gone entirely mad.

Letting go of Crowley's wrist and sitting down on the side of the desk, Satan clicked his tongue chidingly. "So that's how it is? You don't want to be one of us any longer? Don't want to serve me after all I've done for you?" He reached over and touched the side of the demon's face gingerly with the back of two fingers. "Why didn't you just tell me? I'm only too happy to give you what you want."

He flinched. "Really?"

"Oh, yes." Satan twisted the face he currently possessed into a parody of Aziraphale's warmest smile. "Though you know what they say about making deals with the devil. Always a little catch." He stopped stroking Crowley's cheek and pressed one hand over his heart dramatically. "Otherwise where's the fun in it for me?"

"So you're going to leave us alone?" Crowley ventured hopefully.

"You idiot." He chuckled. "No." Then seemed to think. "Well, yes. In a manner of speaking. You want to spend all your time cavorting with angels? Then I think you ought to go back to being one."

There was a clenched, drippy feeling of his head filling slowly with something sticky like molasses. It was like he was suddenly drunk. His mouth puckered awkwardly as he tried to speak. "But...you don't have that power..." In theory God could reclaim a fallen angel, bring them back into the fold, in theory. But it had never happened before. The devil certainly couldn't just announce that one of his demons was broken and send it back for a refund.

Even if the notion wasn't completely ludicrous in and of itself, Crowley was reasonably positive that there was no such thing as a six thousand year warranty.

"I don't need it, darling." Satan slid from the side of the desk onto the arm of Crowley's chair in one single, fluid motion, like he was Mary freaking Poppins going up the bannister. "See, the way I'm thinking of it, you don't actually need to be an angel – you only need to not remember you aren't one. If your memories stop right before the rebellion, well, that's got to make for one jolly extravaganza of a show, doesn't it? Just like hitting a reset button but so, so much more entertaining."

While he didn't particularly want his memories of the past six thousand years to disappear – most inconvenient, if nothing else – Crowley didn't exactly see how that punished him – or Aziraphale, for that matter – for what they'd done during their respective trials.

"You don't even remember what you were like as an angel, do you?" laughed Satan. "You've been down here too long. Well, I remember. You were quite the flamboyant arsehole. A right prick. It's why we got along so well."

Crowley's eyelids were beginning to shut as if something was forcing them down with a heavy weight. "I don't understand..."

"And that's why I spent the last few months studying your pudgy bookish friend. I wanted to be sure my guess was correct. You're companions born of convenience. He's not at all the sort you would have sought out in the old days. And that, darling, is what is going to be so fascinating about this brilliant experiment of mine. You're going to hurt him so much more than the forces of Heaven or Hell ever could."

Right before his eyes clamped all the way shut, Crowley had the sensation of the ceiling above him shifting blurringly. Somehow the chair was vanished from underneath them and he was inexplicably on the cold floor of the flat with Lucifer's arms wrapped around him.

"You seem so miserable," the devil mused, with faux concern.

"Hurts," the demon managed before his lips went numb and he couldn't move them at all any more.

And it did hurt, rather a lot. It didn't have to, it was only a memory wipe, but the devil liked for it to, especially in this case.

The burning, the headache, the feeling of bones being crushed deep in Crowley's skull were completely optional but Satan had optioned for each one at its maxim potency. He would have said he wanted to make sure the wayward demon never forgot this – but, well, that would have rather defeated the point.

"Look on the bright side, darling. At least you're in your best friend's arms."

The houseplants were trembling the next morning as their – usually domineering and terrifying – owner walked up to them in a wholly unfamiliar manner.

He wasn't stomping, or scowling. He wasn't scrutinizing for brown spots or for failure to grow to his standard. They trembled with fear, yet he only reached out to touch a single green leaf with a fingertip and gaze marvellingly at it.

He fixed his snaky eyes on each one, as if he were seeing them for the first time and wondering where something so beautiful could have possibly come from.

Then he wandered out of the room, and presumably out of the flat as well.

There was a crash in the hallway. Somebody – one of the other occupants of the building – screamed.

"Pervert!"

"Put some clothes on!"

"What the hell, mate?"

The plants' owner came running back in with – luckily tepid – coffee dripping down his chin.

"What strange creatures." He glanced down at his bare self. "Oh, bother. I seem to be unclothed. That must be what the ungodly fuss was about."

From the plants' continued prospective, it looked as if he were momentarily constipated or else trying to pass a rather large kidney stone. In actuality, he was attempting to miracle some sort of covering over himself – something like what the screaming persons in the hallway had been wearing. He didn't know where he was and he wanted to find out more, but he couldn't rush back out there to have bean-scented liquid tossed in his face again.

"Not working." He frowned. "Hmm." Perhaps there was something in the other room. He could fashion something from the sheets he'd woken up all tangled in if he had to – though he thought it wouldn't look right. The other creatures that shared his shape yet were clearly not of his species – too material, not an inch of them ethereal – weren't striding about in sheets.

The closets were empty, and the sheets were starting to seem like the only viable option, but he did find a pair of pyjamas and a navy blue dressing-gown in a bottom drawer at last. They were too big for his thin frame. Probably they belonged to somebody bulkier. Well, if he fastened the dressing-gown just so it would hold the rest in place and at least he could leave this enclosure.

He went back to the plants and gave them a friendly nod and they watched, poor puzzled plants, as he strode out in nightclothes, barefooted and wide-eyed.

Outside the building was chaos. Delightful chaos, no doubt, to those who knew what was going on, but the lost angel did not. He wanted to enjoy it. The air was sweet, the strange creatures were doing all manner of odd things, rushing about this way and that. There were other creatures, little ones with wings, singing above his head. Strange contraptions zoomed about on the road (he learned quickly not to stray from the pavement, no matter how tempting). Only he could take in none of these wonders properly until he figured out where he was – where his own kind were. Why he was here, as well. What was this material place?

No, the first order of business was to find another angel.

The creatures were looking at him funny. At first he tried smiling at them offhandedly, but they continued giving him the stink eye. He was covered up now, though, what more did they want? Some little versions of the creatures were being pulled away by big ones who looked at him, grimaced, and made a point of dragging their spawn rather conspicuously across the street, away from the mad fellow in the dressing-gown.

So, pretty quickly, he started frowning at them. It wasn't that he didn't like them, however. They seemed interesting. They didn't have to look at him like that. He wasn't going to hurt them.

The lost angel stopped before a television display in a shop window. What had got his attention was the film playing on the screen, which claimed to be about angels but actually seemed to focus more on some sort of game where the strange creatures hit a ball with a big stick and ran around in a circle while a dramatic soundtrack played and a crowd cheered and flapped their arms. The story was that the angels wanted one team to hit more balls with the stick – for some reason or other. They weren't really angels, either, just those creatures again, acting as angels. Not remotely helpful. What held his attention, however, was his reflection. His eyes! They were... Yellow. And they had slits.

"That's new," he said, to no one in particular.

He didn't have yellow eyes. He was certain that, before today, his eyes had been a golden-brown colour and had looked much less scary. He'd seen them reflected off mirror-shined desks in heaven, and off gleaming stars. They'd been quite normal angelic eyes.

Perhaps this change was what bothered the creatures. None of them had creepy eyes. Their eyes were less expressive than angels' but otherwise not very different.

If this was a joke, it was starting to frighten him. This was becoming very real, very fast.

He didn't know where he was, or how to get out.

It was one thing to awaken in a strange wonderland with a million dizzying sights – it was another entirely not to know what to do while you were there, or how to get home again.

Oh no. He had just remembered. He was supposed to present a report on the newest nebula he'd helped build to headquarters today. They would all be waiting for him. Sometimes he thought the other archangels didn't like him very much – and this certainly wasn't going to help endear him to them. Uriel might forgive him, but Michael and Gabriel were going to be furious if he was late again. Sandalphon didn't get furious – he got punchy. There were still bruises on his arm from last time he was tardy. Or at least, he'd thought there were – he couldn't actually feel them just now. He wished he could arrange for someone to cover for him until he got there. He knew a couple of angels who'd do him a solid, if only he knew how to get in touch with them. This strange little adventure had to end before he got himself demoted.

"This place is seriously in need of some of those handy 'You Are Here' maps," he muttered, nudging a pebble aside with his bare toes, which were starting to look rather dirty (there was a wad of chewing gum stuck to one of his heels as well).

The lost angel trudged doggedly down several streets and was almost at the end of his endurance, almost ready to sit down on the pavement and put his head in his hands out of pure despair, when he saw a building up ahead that looked promising.

Tall spires, impressive stone masonry, a tower from which rang out a celestial-sounding bell... There were even depictions of angels made up of beautifully coloured glass in the windows. There might be a representative of his kind inside. They'd tell him how to get back to Heaven.

As soon as the lost angel hopped onto the steps, about to walk over the threshold, burning pain seared through his bare feet. He yelped in surprise, glancing down to see tiny curls of smoke forming around his ankles.

In blind terror and agonising pain, the lost angel fled, racing across the street and darting about frantically.

Tears began to sting the back of his eyes when he noticed what at that moment was the most welcome sight in the universe.

There was another angel – a plump, platinum-haired one whistling pleasantly to himself as he walked – only a few feet away. He appeared to be carrying a small brown parcel and there was some excitable reverence evident in the gentle way he grasped it, as if it contained something truly precious.

"Oh, thank God!" The lost angel rushed forward, and nearly lost him in the huddle of creatures that crossed from the opposite way and began jostling him to and fro, letting the other angel – so cheerily oblivious to his distress – get further and further ahead.

When he caught up with the other angel again, he had slipped into a shop that smelled of old paper. The lost angel was hot on his heels. He was not about to let himself be abandoned, not with his potential rescuer so close at hand. He was like a drowning man at sea throwing himself into a lifeboat.

All the same, the other angel still made it to the back room, where a rustling indicated he was happily opening up his parcel.

The distressed, lost angel located, with some difficulty, a service bell and began banging his palm down on it urgently.

He didn't know the angel's name, so:

"Oi, angel!" Ding, ding, ding. "Hello? Angel!"

The angel appeared, looking flustered. "Crowley, I'm here – what seems to be the problem?" His eyes widened. "Good Heavens, are those my pyjamas?"

The lost angel smiled what he thought was a megawatt angelic smile but was actually more reminiscent of a serpent with severe toothache. "Words cannot express how happy I am to see you!"

"Er, well, it's nice to see you, too, my dear, but I really must–" He was cut off by a – rather forceful – hug. "Oof."

As the lost angel pulled away, beaming, he said, "You've got to tell me your name and rank after this – I'll definitely put in a good word for you, get you promoted if you like." He'd work it out...somehow... The others would just have to live with it. "I'm that relieved." He clasped his rescuer's warm, cleanly manicured hands in his own, which felt gnarled and clammy in comparison.

"Crowley, what are you talking about?"

The lost angel blinked, once, very slowly. "Who's Crowley?"

"You're Crowley," the other angel said, a touch desperately, glancing down at their still interlocked hands.

"No, I'm most definitely not." He shook his head. "My name's Raphael. What's yours?"

A/N: Reviews welcome, reply may be delayed.