All there was, was darkness.

It was the suffocating, oppressive kind of darkness beyond that which merely the eye perceives. The shadows crept in, snuffing out every bit of light that threatened to bloom in this forsaken place. But, of course, such was the life of a demon. This darkness was as much a part of him as his wings now; and in fact even they had been affected by the shadows so that the once snow-white feathers became mottled with shades of grey, before long they had turning darker than the emptiest of nights.

But that was millennia ago. Now this shade that clung to Crowley was more like his oldest friend. Some nights it was his comfort, telling him that no matter what he at least had his identity as a demon to cling to, for whatever that was worth. Tonight it hung in the air about him, filling his car with its overbearing presence until he was convinced, not for the first time, that he wanted nothing more than to outrun it.

"Perhaps some music," he mumbled to himself.

By his command the radio whirred to life and a song began to play almost instantly, but just as quickly he lost interest and his mind wandered off despite his best efforts. Music was usually such an excellent way to drown out the arguments of his inner psyche, but now the music only served as background noise to the turmoil.

The more he thought, the more Crowley was certain he should tell Aziraphale everything that had happened, though telling him everything would be quite the treachery to the plan that had been brewing since the dawn of mankind. He could hardly interfere with that. This day was a long time in coming, and of course he had to be loyal to the forces of hell now more than ever.

Then again, there wasn't necessarily that much that had happened, he reasoned. After all, his only role more or less was to deliver a basket...a task that took no time at all. That could hardly be a terrible thing to mention to someone in passing. Even if the basket did contain the end of humanity and Earth as he knew it, to be delivered and set in motion a series of events that would start the war to end all wars. Heaven probably already knew anyway. All he would be really doing is making sure Aziraphale was kept in the loop, if he didn't know already.

The thoughts raced through his mind on repeat for a short time before he barked out, "Call Aziraphale."

"Calling Aziraphale," an automated voice said in response. A second later a dreadful sound came telling him the call had failed, followed by the voice saying, "Sorry, all lines to London are currently busy."

Crowley groaned in annoyance, mostly at his own stupidity. Of course this just happened to be the day he so cleverly crashed every mobile carrier in the London area—the night the antichrist was born--and he needed to warn Aziraphale before it was too late.

Not warn, he mentally corrected himself. This whole idea would only work in his head under the presumption that he wasn't doing anything to betray his side of the war.

"My side of the war," Crowley grumbled quietly to himself with distaste.

The words left a bitter taste in his mouth. He might say the taste was like sulfur, but at least that was a taste that he had grown familiar with over time. He didn't like hell, or other demons. Well, no demons did, really. Still, even after all this time he didn't feel much allegiance toward the forces of darkness, now that the time had come to prove his loyalty. It was all fun and games meddling with human affairs and causing mischief, until some bloody brat has to pop up to ruin it all.

He was already starting to form a plan as the Bentley rolled up next to a telephone booth. If he were a religious man, he might be praying right then for the blonde bastard to agree with him. He probably would have prayed that Aziraphale was even in his book shop. But prayer was never really his thing, so hoping would have to do.

~

Aziraphale let out a contented sigh as he shrugged out of his suit jacket, hanging it up beside the phonograph that was already playing relaxing classical music. Truthfully, he was troubled by what Gabriel had told him, but as he settled back into his usual routine it was almost impossible that anything could be amiss in his own little corner of the universe. Well, he reasoned, Gabriel's sources could, of course, be wrong.

As he stood there in his quiet little bookshop, wholly unchanged by troubling news of any sort, it was easy to believe that it was all a hallucination, or some other conjuring of his imagination. Even if it was true, though, he still had several years before anything happened. But a handful of years...it was such a short amount of time compared to what he had already enjoyed on Earth. And of course, he had to consider the war as well: Surely it was all worth it for the glorious moment when heaven would triumph over hell once and for all. That was even assuming that the time was upon him.

He had started to convince himself that nothing was wrong or out of the ordinary in any way; that all that mattered in the world was this peaceful life he had come to enjoy. He closed his eyes a moment and let his mind drift off. Soft music filled the space with its pleasant harmony, accentuated by the gentle rumble of cars along the street just outside his door. The smell of old books and the homely old wooden shop itself was more intoxicating than the richest of perfumes and comforted him more than anything else. It was the smell of humanity and their histories, making him recall memories of vibrant human culture from centuries long past. But this was the culmination of everything he had been working toward as an angel for all these millennia: His role in the Great Plan.

Just as he was starting to relax and fully digest Gabriel's words, his tranquil daydream got rudely interrupted by the harsh cry of his telephone. His eyes snapped open and a smile crossed his face. This was just another bit of evidence that the world was still spinning round just as it had ever been. He moved swiftly to the phone and picked it up off the receiver.

"I'm afraid we're quite definitely closed," he said pleasantly into the phone.

"Aziraphale," a cold, familiar voice began on the other end. "We need to talk."

Icy tendrils of dread seized Aziraphale's heart as he recognized his wily foe on the other end of the line. Or at least, he would have liked to believe that he could respond so negatively to that voice. He refused to acknowledge that his heart lightened the slightest bit at the all too familiar tone. No, this was the mouthpiece of the enemy, and he was determined to treat him as such.

"Yes...I assume this is about-"

"Armageddon, yes," Crowley finished for him, the words spewing from his mouth like venom.

~

The sun was shining brightly over St. James' Park, making the pond water sparkle dazzlingly in the noonday light. Ducks quacked, splashed, and flew about the park, while families and loners alike strode by and went about their lives, just as humanity had done for thousands of years. Funny how they never truly changed. For all the world it seemed as though nothing was different at all.

Crowley sat back against the bench, draping himself nonchalantly over the aged wooden frame. As he gazed out over the pond, he immediately lost himself in the pool of his own thoughts. He already had a plan working in his head for how he would convince Aziraphale to help him...he just had to hope that he knew the angel as well as he thought he did.

As if on cue, he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye and recognized it as the snobbish angel he was looking for, striding toward him with a perfectly straight face. Surely he wasn't entirely apathetic toward the prospect of Armageddon? Crowley shifted his head the slightest bit so that he could watch him approach, though with his sunglasses on he hoped that it would still look as though he was merely gazing out at the duck pond.

Under normal circumstances he might have felt a faint trace of joy at seeing the angel he had begrudgingly befriended over the centuries. Well, maybe it wasn't entirely reluctance on his part per se, but that was a trivial technicality. In any case, the severity of their meeting turned any joy he might have felt upon seeing him into ash, and he felt a twinge of sadness when he realized that he may not get to have these casual get togethers—that he would never admit to enjoying—ever again.

Little did he know, Aziraphale was thinking similarly as he approached the bench and sat down lightly beside Crowley, who was still draped across the bench more like a blanket than an actual humanoid. There was a silence between them then, filled only with the unspoken purpose of this cursed meeting. Still, it was a comfortable silence that enveloped them. Crowley began to think that, maybe, it wouldn't be the worst thing for them to just sit in silence until the world disintegrated around them.

And then the blonde shit beside him opened his stupid mouth.

"You're sure it was the antichrist?"

"I should know: I delivered the baby," Crowley answered. Awkwardly he corrected, "Well not 'delivered', delivered...handed it over." The thought occurred to him that he wasn't sure how the baby was actually born...and he was entirely certain he was better off not knowing.

But Aziraphale was focused on other matters entirely as he said, "An American diplomat? Really? As if Armageddon were a cinematographic show you wish to sell in as many countries as possible."

Crowley resisted the urge to smile humorously as he added, "Earth and all the kingdoms thereof."

There was a short pause before Aziraphale added matter-of-factly, "We will win, of course."

"You really believe that?" the demon asked.

"Obviously! Heaven will, finally...triumph over hell. It's all going to be rather lovely," Aziraphale assured with a smile.

It looked so fake somehow, the kind of fake smile that one would only recognize if one had been seeing those expressions for the past six thousand years. And that trace of doubt on the angel's countenance was just enough to assure Crowley that he was doing the right thing. Or the wrong thing, rather.

Much like a cobra, Crowley's words coiled up in preparation to strike as he sowed the first seeds of doubt: "Out of curiosity, how many first-class composers do your lot have in heaven? Because Mozart's one of ours. Beethoven. Schubert. Uh, all of the Bachs..."

"They've already written their music," Aziraphale pointed out stubbornly, though again there was the faintest hint of doubt in his voice that only Crowley could have picked up on.

"And you'll never hear it again," he continued with renewed determination. The snark in his tone was palpable as he added, "No more Albert Hall. No more Glyndebourne...just celestial harmonies."

Aziraphale frowned slightly and began, "Well-"

"And that's just the start of what you'll lose if you win," Crowley interrupted at once. The coiled cobra that was his temptation was now ready to strike with lightning speed and ferocity at the heart of its prey. "No more fascinating little restaurants where they know you. No more gravlax in dill sauce. No more...old bookshops."

That was it. The finishing blow. It would be easy for anyone to tell how troubled Aziraphale looked now, even if he did quickly try to cover it up after his initial reaction. The seeds of doubt were now firmly planted in his mind. But Crowley didn't give himself time to revel in the small victory. To keep up appearances, he lithely arose from his perch on the bench and sauntered away. With any luck and if he knew the angel half so well as he thought he did, Aziraphale's curiosity would have been piqued and he would follow swiftly behind. He could only hope.

But Aziraphale was lost in thought as, despite his firm constitution, he found himself taking Crowley's venomous words to heart. Heaven's inevitable triumph over hell was something he had been working toward, training for since the beginning of time itself. But as he thought about everything he would be giving up in the process...it was unsettling, to put it lightly. He didn't have too much time to dwell on it though, as he realized with a start that Crowley was already ambling away down the path.

In a split second he was out of his seat and speeding along to catch up with him. Thank heavens that wily demon had such an easy stride--catching up with him proved to be a simple enough task. They walked in silence for a short time, only adding to Aziraphale's discomfort as he eagerly awaited whatever infernal scheme would come out of Crowley's treacherous mouth.

With some urgency, Crowley finally broke the silence, "We've only got 11 years, and then it's all over. We have to work together."

"No," Aziraphale vehemently refused . He knew that the fiend would come up with some ghastly plot to lead him astray from the Great Plan.

"It's the end of the world we're talking about," Crowley persisted. "It's not some little temptation I've asked you to cover for while you're up in Edinburgh for the festival; you can't say no."

"No," Aziraphale said again, adamantly. He silently prayed that Crowley hadn't noticed that he had answered too quickly, too certainly.

Curse the blonde bastard for saying exactly what he wasn't supposed to. "We can do something; I have an idea."

"No! I am not interested," Aziraphale stated with finality. To emphasize his point, he pivoted on his heel and turned to walk away, effectively leaving the conversation once and for all.

"Well let's have lunch, hmm?"

Aziraphale stopped dead in his tracks.

Crowley continued innocently, "I still owe you one from..." he let his sentence trail off, knowing the angel would undoubtedly finish it for him.

"Paris," Aziraphale answered predictably, "1793."

"Yes," Crowley said, as if he had only just remembered their lunch from all those years ago. "The Reign of Terror. Was that one of ours or one of yours?"

"Can't recall," Aziraphale pondered aloud as he stepped up to Crowley's car without a second thought. His face lit up as he added, "We had crepes."

Crowley resisted the urge to smile as Aziraphale eagerly settled himself into the car without another word. He put the car in drive and just as he pressed on the accelerator, a spark of light from behind them caught his attention. He glanced back to see a traffic warden's notebook burst into flames. The warden himself jumped nearly a foot into the air with surprise.

"Now I know I didn't do that," Crowley said confusedly. At least, he didn't think it was him.

Aziraphale looked a bit sheepish as he said, "That was my doing." At Crowley's questioning glance he added, "Er, well, I could hardly allow him to give you a ticket. You should be more mindful of where you park."

Crowley just rolled his eyes and drove quickly away. Soon the incident was well out of his mind and his thoughts returned to the plot at hand. As they sped off down the road, he couldn't help but admire how fiendishly successful his plan had been so far.