Title: It's Only the End of the World (Again)

Crossover fandom:Good Omens

Pairing: House/Wilson FS, Aziraphale/Crowley, Jesus/Adam

Rating: T for cheerful blasphemy and swearing

Length: ~29k

Spoilers: Takes place after 6x10 "Wilson," but tiny tiny spoilers for 6x11 "The Down Low." For Good Omens, several years after the end of the book.

Summary: A misanthropic bastard, a liverless doormat, a reluctant demon, and a body-challenged angel team up to save the world. Much confusion results.

Prologue: In Which Curiosity Rears Its Head

Middle of a forest in England.

Sometime before.

…

…

…

"Ah ha! Gotcha!"

…

"Oh, no you don't. I've been watchin' you for weeks, you know. What're you doin' here?"

…

"Seems kind of dumb to do it this way."

…

"So why don't you?"

…

"Oh. Need some help?"

…

"…"

… "Oh!"

"That's better. Y'look nice."

"Oh, my. It certainly is…different."

"Oh yeah?"

"Last time there weren't quite so many…jiggly bits. Are you sure about this?"

"Well, I like it. But I guess you shouldn't really take my word for it, cos' we're supposed to be enemies or somethin'. I'm not really sure."

"…oh dear."

"I reckon we should smite each other now."

"…"

"Bit of a shame to do it before lunch, though."

"Um. Yes. Perhaps the smiting could wait until afternoon tea?"

"Or maybe even dinner, who knows?"

"Yes, dinner would be nice."

"So how long's it been since you last came here? Musta been a while."

"You could say that."

"So what brings you down here?"

"Oh…just things."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"So…you want t'get somethin' to eat?"

"Would I!"

((()))

They say that curiosity killed the cat. The nature of humanity is that if there was a big red button labeled, "END OF THE WORLD BUTTON-PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH!" there would be a line full of people wanting to push it anyway 'just to see what would happen.'

What They'd rather not admit, though, is that They're quite the same way. In Their case, though, curiosity wouldn't just kill the cat, goodness no. The results would be much more…explosive.*

But then again—what They didn't know wouldn't hurt Them. So They'd** keep it on the down low and no one would get hurt.

Right?

*The kind of explosive that involves the words total annihilation. Pompeii would seem like a sneeze in comparison.

**Not the same They as the They before this They. Just the same as the other They except the first They. (No one's really sure who the first They is. Probably They're the same as the They who say that the produce of a deciduous Eurasian tree per diem will prevent medical practitioners from approaching one's person. And who believes anything They say?)

((()))

Chapter the First: In Which House Is Dragged Out of New Jersey

Part I

The last time House took a vacation anywhere after his infarction was roughly...well, never. He'd planned one a couple years ago but that had fallen through (curses on all travel agents!) for some inexplicable reason. And the rehab time he'd taken after his shooting didn't count, as he hadn't actually left New Jersey. And Mayfield definitely didn't count either. Nor did the time when Wilson drugged him and dragged him to his father's funeral, because he hadn't actually had any fun there. (Well, maybe a little. But it still didn't count.)

So it was something of a near miracle that he'd allowed Wilson to coax him on a trip to England, of all things. "We both need time off," Wilson had argued oh-so-persuasively one night as they were slumped on the orange couch of their new loft, watching TV. "I'm going to be busy regenerating my liver, and I'd rather be entertained while I'm doing it."

House had grunted, which apparently was translated by Wilson's brain into, "Do tell me more, please, I'm just fascinated." At any rate, Wilson had danced delicately around the subject of "a break…a trip…a vacation to fucking England…"

Well, except the 'fucking' bit. That part House added sometime later, when they were in a cab speeding away from London Heathrow Airport. As in, "I can't believe you dragged me on this fucking trip, all the way across the Atlantic. What, sunny Cal isn't good enough for you? Some patriot you are."

"House," Wilson sighed, giving an apologetic smile to the taxi driver. "If you'd stop whining for roughly thirty seconds, maybe you'd, you know, have some fun. Get away from the hospital, from Cuddy…"

"And Lucas?" House asked shrewdly.

"I did think that getting you out of biting range of Lucas might be a good idea, yes," Wilson said agreeably. At House's expression, he sighed and added, "I know you've changed, House. I just thought you might…I don't know. Need a breath of fresh air, maybe? A change in scenery."

House was silent for a long moment, his fingers picking nervously at the clasp of his suitcase. When he realized what he was doing, he forced himself to stop, laying his hands flat. "I was coping. I am coping."

"I know," Wilson said, glancing at him. "But we both could use a break." He smiled, deftly changing the subject. "I'm sure Foreman is thrilled at having all the power."

"I'll have to find a way to deflate his head when I get back," House grumbled, but a tiny smile edged at the corner of his lips. "You know how much time I spent training them to have no egos whatsoever?"

"Yes, and that will just be a tragedy," Wilson said solemnly. As the taxi driver pulled up their hotel, he paid the fare with an almost absent-minded air and watched as the taxi driver helped them pull their suitcases out of the trunk.

"You know," House said once they were out of the taxi with their suitcases. "There are plenty of idyllic vacation spots closer to home. Like, Niagara Falls or something."

"That's in Canada."

"It's still on the same continent," House pointed out mulishly. "As opposed to England, which is somewhat not."

Wilson shrugged. "A really big change of scenery," he said unapologetically. "Besides, you're always ranting about the narrow-mindedness of the idiots around you. We might as well go and see some English idiots instead."

"Oh, I'm looking forward to it. I'll call them all troglodytes and laugh."

"Very diplomatic of you." Wilson cleared his throat. "At any rate, let's crash here tonight, shall we?" He glanced up at the hotel edifice, then back at House. "Unless you're in a mood to find a bar and get wasted?"

House waved his cane at the suitcases. "Not with all this baggage, no." He shrugged. "Want to bet whether or not they have porn here?"

"Spare me," Wilson said with a shake of his head as they made their way through the revolving doors and into the lobby. It was bedecked in festive Christmas style, complete with a stable manger with a porcelain baby Jesus in it. House waved his cane at it disdainfully, managing to convey a sneer in the way he followed Wilson to the reception desk.

"They've managed to turn their celebration of a mythical figure into a commercial opportunity," he grumbled. "It's not even about the religion anymore; it's about the money."

Wilson snorted. "As if the United States is any different with it comes to commercialism? Anyway, I like to think that the emphasis is still on the giving and loving bit."

"You're a Jew. Giving is what you do."

"That makes no sense whatsoever."

"Yeah, it doesn't, does it," House agreed. "I should've said, you're Wilson, Dr. I-Eat-Neediness-For-Breakfast-Lunch-Dinner-and-Midnight-Snack-While-We're-At-It."

"And afternoon tea. Don't forget, we're in Britain now. Tea time's important."

House groaned. "You're not going to make this any fun, are you?"

"Yes, such a shame that I'm skillfully deflecting your attempts to mock me," Wilson said, his voice dry. "Yes, a room for two, please. Uh, twin beds will be fine," he added to the receptionist. At House's raised eyebrow, he said, "You snore. It's unbearable."

"So it's not the whole two-men-in-one-bed that's the problem? Because, you know, we're in England now. It's okay to be gay here."

Wilson rolled his eyes, apparently unfazed—it would have taken somebody very observant (like House) to see the faint tells that indicated embarrassment. "Right," he said, his voice carrying just the right tone of boredom. "Twin," he repeated to the receptionist, who gave a short nod and went back to tapping on the computer screen.

"So how many ways are you going to humiliate me in return for dragging you on this totally unnecessary, frivolous trip to England of all places?" Wilson asked, mimicking House's mocking tone perfectly as they collected their room key and headed to the elevator. "Replace my shampoo with purple hair dye? Put chili pepper on my toothpaste? Take off my pants and—no, wait, you already did that…"

"Didn't go any further than that," House noted. "Just think of all that wasted potential. It makes me want to cry."

"Well, we can go explore the majesty of London tomorrow, take your mind off your woes," Wilson said absently as he watched the lighted numbers on the elevator panel change. "Sixth floor, we're there," he added redundantly as the elevator doors opened. "I should really go look at the guidebook later—"

"Wait, you actually bought a book? What's it called, 'Idiot's Guide to London'? 'How to Act Like a Moronic Tourist and Get Scammed'?" House said, rolling his eyes. "Screw the guidebooks. You want to get the full experience, you have to wander in circles and get completely lost."

"And then get mugged by some not-so-helpful thugs in some dark alleyway?" Wilson said incredulously.

"You're so pessimistic. Don't worry, honey, I'll protect you."

Wilson rolled his eyes as he took the suitcases from the bellhop. "Save your breath. If we get attacked, I'll just run faster than you. Limping twerp."

"Yeah, pick on the cripple," House said indignantly as he dropped onto a bed in the hotel room, leaving Wilson to drag their suitcases into the room. "And here I thought it was just Cuddy who was insensitive about people with disabilities."

"Well, good thing we're in England, now," Wilson huffed as he hoisted the last suitcase onto the remaining bed. "I can get away from her bad influence and learn all about good manners from you—no, wait, does that sound right? Obviously something went wrong there."

"What, with my sunny personality? Never." House sat up, gesturing with his cane. "Throw me the stupid guidebook, will you?"

"What? I thought we had to get lost and stabbed in a dark alleyway in order to get the true tourist experience?"

"True, but then you would bleed all over me and I'd have nobody to pay the dry-cleaning bill. Gimme."

With a sigh, Wilson tossed the guidebook to House, who caught it deftly and promptly fell back against the bed again, fumbling for his glasses as he did so. As Wilson dutifully unpacked their week's supply of clothes, House thumbed through the book, noting with amused exasperation that it was one of those glossy color versions that cost fifty bucks at Barnes and Noble. How very…Wilson.

"You know, most people would help unpack, considering that two out of three suitcases are stuffed with their belongings," Wilson said pointedly after a moment.

"What?" House said, distracted. "Hey! The Freud Museum!"

"The what?"

"'Having fled Nazi persecution in Vienna in 1938, Sigmund Freud spent the last year of his life here…blah blah blah blah blah, collections and furnishings—most notably his famous couch—have been preserved.'" House raised an eyebrow. "Bet it's not nearly as good as Nolan's couch, though."

"My psychiatrist can out-analyze your psychiatrist, that kind of thing?"

House snorted. "Nolan probably could, actually." He was quiet for a moment, acutely aware of Wilson's slightly questioning gaze. He hadn't told Wilson about his experiences at Mayfield, and quite frankly wasn't sure if he ever wanted to. Maybe the process mattered, but that didn't mean he had to share the details with the whole world. Or Wilson, even.

"Well, if you can say that with a straight face, he must be pretty damn good," Wilson said at last, his hands resuming the motions of unpacking. "You want to take a shower first, or shall I?"

"What? It's barely…" House glanced at his watch. "Oh. It's nine. Well, I don't care. You go first, I guess."

"Gee, thanks," Wilson said, but the sarcasm bounced right off House, who had his nose buried in the book again. Not because he actually thought this England trip was a good idea, obviously, but because he didn't have anything better do so he might as well enjoy it. Well. Not enjoy, obviously, but make the best of the horrifying bore it was sure to be.

"Soho…Big Ben…Westminster Abbey…Trafalgar Square…"

He was running his finger over the color-coded paths of the Tube when Wilson emerged from the shower, his head dripping wet. "This is one hell of a hotel," he commented as he dug around for a clean towel. "Nice bathroom, too. They have six different kinds of soaps and shampoos. And two kinds of conditioner. How cool is that?"

"You are such a girl."

"Yeah, yeah, laugh. At least I have hair to wash." With that, Wilson went back into the bathroom and shut the door, the hairdryer turning on moments later. House gave a snort just for propriety's sake and went back to paging through the book, pushing his glasses higher up on his nose.

"So. You find anything?" Wilson asked as he emerged again ten minutes later, dressed in his sleepwear, his hair neatly styled and the towel nowhere in sight. "Places to go…people to mock…"

"Bars to rampage and beer bottles to throw?" House said, not looking up. "Sorry, Wilson. Can't let you near the alcohol this time—your liver's still regenerating and if I learned anything at all in med school, it's that friends don't let idiot friends who donated lobes of liver to selfish, unappreciative jerks marinate what's left of the organ in alcohol."

"Oh, well, I'm sure that ranks right up there with cruel and unusual punishment!" Wilson said, sitting down on his bed. "If I'm not going to drink, what else could I possibly do?"

"Hey, coming to England was your idea," House said, throwing the guidebook at him and pulling his glasses off. "I'm just coming along for the ride."

"Really. So you'll go along with whatever I say? What if I said I wanted to go to, I don't know, an art gallery and look at paintings?"

"Is it a porn gallery? Like the one you took Cuddy to? I'd say yes like a shot."

"Hey, that one time was an accident!" Wilson protested as he pulled the book protectively to his chest. "I got the date mixed up and—oh, never mind. You're not going to stop mocking me about it, so I'm not even going to try." He sighed. "So come on. You've been reading this book for like, thirty minutes? What've you got in mind?"

"You're the one who bought it! You're also the one responsible for dragging me to London in this first place. So how about this—I shut up, you provide the entertainment. And it'd better be good."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "What kind of entertainment are we talking about here? Department stores, amusement parks, chess tournaments? Because I know you're going to whine if you don't get what you want."

"I was thinking more along the lines of blowjobs and fellatio."

"Oh, ha. Ha ha. And just for kicks, ha." Wilson thumbed the pages idly. "No, seriously, House. What do you want to do?"

House gave a half-shrug. "Why do I have to decide everything?" he asked the ceiling after a moment. "Again, England was your idea."

There was a long silence as Wilson processed this for the awkward half-permission it was. "Oh," he said after a moment. "Okay, then. Well, how about this? I'll pick something for tomorrow, and you can choose the day after that, and we'll keep on going like that until this week is—"

"Oh, just—" House made a dismissive noise, flapping his hand in Wilson's direction. "Taking turns? Pssh. How juvenile." He sat up, moving his glasses to the bedstand. "I don't do turns. Believe me, when I get bored, you'll know. Now stop agonizing and entertain me, goddammit."

There was a pause as House looked expectantly at Wilson. "Er," Wilson said after a moment. "Do you want me to juggle glasses or something? I could try, but I'd probably break something."

"Wilson," House said through gritted teeth.

"Fine! Fine!" Wilson said hastily, paging through the book. "Um…how about…Soho! That's nice. I hear they have great restaurants, anyway. We can go to the, uh, Costa Dorada and stuff ourselves on Spanish cuisine."

"Soho's gay as hell. Sure you want to go there, Mr. Straight-and-Narrow?"

Wilson looked up, his expression comical in its utter confusion. "'Gay as hell'? What's that supposed to mean? The guidebook doesn't say anything about that."

"Well, actually, Soho's not a completely moronic idea," House mused, ignoring Wilson. "It's about time you gave your testicles a workout, anyway, as you've been pining long enough. Yeah, let's go to Soho."

Wilson paused. "Uh. So what does that mean? You do want to go or you don't want to go? And what do you mean, Soho's gay as hell?"

"Go," House said, ignoring the question. "I hear the food's great," he added with an innocent smile.

Wilson raised an eyebrow, took a deep breath as if he wanted to say something, then apparently changed his mind. "Ooookay," he said finally. "I'm just going to…move on," he added lamely, closing the book. "Okay, so it's settled then. We'll go to Soho tomorrow."

"Well, you've got an hour to change your mind," House informed him, pushing himself off the bed. "Because that's how long it'll take me to take a nice long bath."

Wilson looked at him, and House could almost feel the caring oozing off him. "Need some Gabapentin?" he asked, referring to the med that Nolan had put him on. "Or maybe—"

"God, my leg's fine. I just want a hot bath. And for you to stop hovering like a Jewish mother," House said, waving him off. "Remember—have tomorrow's entertainment finalized by the time I'm done. Or somebody's going to lose an eye."

"Jerk," House heard Wilson mutter under his breath as he gathered his clothes and entered the bathroom. House allowed himself a small smile as he shut the bathroom door and turned on the faucet, letting hot water gush out into the bathtub. It was a rather nice bathroom, but he'd never admit that. Just like he'd never admit that maybe (perhaps, with due consideration, possibly, after a little bit of thought) that this trip wasn't entirely fucked up after all.

((()))

Due to the wonders of jet lag and the horrendous amounts of coffee they had consumed before, during, and after the flight, both of them were up by seven the next morning. After a bit of dithering (on Wilson's part) and whining (on House's part), they emerged from Charing Cross Station only to be informed by an unsympathetic Brit that Tottenham Court Station was a far better choice if they wanted to get to Soho. Although it wasn't actually that far, Wilson gave up at this point and called a cab, casting sidelong glances at House's leg.

Soho, even to House's jaded cynicism, was admittedly impressive. Too bad about the self-imposed drinking ban—Soho looked like a terrific place to get wasted. At any rate, House managed to coax Wilson into buying him more than enough tasty treats to keep him happy, stealing additional bites from Wilson's share whenever he got bored with his own.

"At least they're using decimalized currency now," House commented as Wilson paid for House's fourth croissant from the Patisserie Valerie (in House's humble opinion, those chocolate croissant might just edge out Wilson's pancakes for the title of Best Breakfast Food Ever). "Even if they won't switch to the dollar like normal people."

Wilson gave an apologetic smile to the cashier, who looked vaguely miffed at the insult to his country. "Ignore him," Wilson said, gesturing at House. "He's an ass." House, his mouth stuffed with croissant, was unable to work up a sarcastic reply in time as Wilson shepherded him out of the store.

"Do try not to get us slaughtered by angry Englishmen, will you?" Wilson muttered as they walked away. "I don't think our medical insurance covers 'getting your kneecaps kicked in by a provoked Londoner.'"

"Pessimist," House said. "Hey!" he added indignantly as Wilson broke off part of the croissant and stuffed it into his mouth. "That's mine!"

"I paid for it, ergo, it is mine," Wilson said firmly. "Besides, this is what, your fourth croissant? Plus you ate half of my one croissant, thank you very much. You're such a pig."

"I've been stealing your food for more or less twenty years. You really think that's going to change now?" He polished off the remains of the croissant and made loud, obnoxious smacking noises as he licked his fingers clean before reaching out to wipe them dry on Wilson's coat.

Wilson made a face but didn't move away. "Eugh. That's disgusting."

"Oh, stop whining," House said, elbowing him. "Come on. Let's sit down."

Wilson rolled his eyes as House limped over to a bench and eased himself down in it. Wilson followed, wrapping his scarf tighter around his neck as a blustery wind swept through the streets.

"You tired?" Wilson said after a moment. "We can head back to the hotel anytime, you know."

House glanced at him sharply and tapped Wilson lightly on the shin with his cane to let him know that House had seen through his pathetic attempt to be casual. "Stop hovering," he said. "My leg's fine."

Wilson shrugged. "Okay," he said. "Just asking."

"You just love to just ask, don't you?" House sniped, but there was no real venom behind the words. "Seriously, I'm fine. If I weren't fine you'd be the first to know, believe me."

"Gee, thanks." They sat in companionable silence for a moment longer, with House idly twirling his cane between his palms.

"You want to go eat something?" Wilson asked after a couple of minutes (ten? thirty? Oh well, they had plenty of time to kill) had gone by. "There are plenty of amazing restaurants here." Pulling out his trusty guidebook from his backpack, he ignored House's soft derisive snicker and thumbed through the dogeared section on Soho. "Rainforest Café? You can eat with animatronic animals. Or maybe the Club Bar and Dining. It's supposed to be the final word on British fare."

"Eh," House said, sounding completely disinterested. Wilson raised an eyebrow at him, but as House wasn't looking, it failed to make any impact. When Wilson poked him, House looked at him and said, "What were you saying again?"

"Lunch," Wilson said patiently. "It's…" he checked his watch, "Almost twelve. You want to get something real to eat or should I just buy you another croissant?"

"Rots your teeth. You know I'm a sucker for dental hygiene," House said with a lopsided leer. He stood up abruptly, stretching to get the kinks out of his neck. "How about…none of the above?"

"So…?"

"Let's go explore," House said, brandishing his cane like a sword. At Wilson's skeptical look, he added, "Oh, come on, Wilson. You can't seriously be falling for those gimmicky ads in some lousy guide book. No, the true treasures of Soho lie in back alleys and abandoned roads! Let's go to some mom-and-pop diner in the unplumbed outskirts."

"I'm sure that there are plenty of cutthroat thieves in those outskirts, too," Wilson muttered, but he tucked the book back into his backpack anyway. When House got that look in his eye, it was generally a good idea to roll along or get squashed by the impending avalanche. "So what do you have in mind?"

"Don't you know that Soho is famous for its sex shops, Wilson? Come on!" House said, already setting off towards the darkest alley (insofar that London in broad daylight could be dark) that he could find. Wilson paused for a moment, debating the merits of pretending that he didn't hear that last line and running away as fast as he could. In the end, responsibility won out—with a sigh, he followed House, hoping that he didn't do anything too stupid.

((()))

Chapter the First: In Which Wilson Tries to Deal

Part II

Beeeeeep.

"Hey, Aziraphale, it's me. Pick up! Look, you skipped out on the Ritz today and I had to get wasted alone. After years in America, I ask you! The least you could do was to drop me a note, y'know, I'm out fishing and won't be back till dinner, that sort of thing. Anyway, you can make it up to me by showing up at St. James' Park at four. Oh, and bring bread."

Beeeeeep.

"Aziraphaaaaale. Waited for two hours by the lake. And I bullied the ducks, so there. That's what you deserve for ignoring me. Look, call me, all right? It's a good opportunity to use the new iPhone I got you. Break it in, break a leg, that sort of thing. Ciao."

Beeeeeep.

"Just occurred to me that you might not know how to use the iPhone. No need to thank me, by the way. For an angel you sure don't do a lot of praising. Just call on the regular phone; I'll know it's you."

Beeeeeep.

"Hellooooo? Where are you? I'm heading to your shop now. And then I'm going to burn it to the ground. Gotta go."

Beeeeeep.

((()))

There was no other way to describe it. No matter how many times Wilson turned the map of Soho around, no matter which way he squinted at it or traced the lines with however many fingers he could spare, the verdict was undeniable. They were lost.

Plus, Wilson was hungry.

House seemed unfazed as Wilson grew increasingly annoyed, wanting badly to vent his frustrations on the guidebook but not quite willing to do so—the thing cost fifty dollars, after all. (49.94 plus tax, to be exact.) "Forget the damn map," House said dismissively. "We'll wander out of here eventually. Besides, remember the sex shops? We'll never be bored."

Wilson made a face. "If I wanted a hooker I'd've gone to Vegas. Seriously, House."

"You're no fun, you know that? Sometimes I wonder if you have any testicles at all." He whistled, raising his cane to point at a gorgeous black Bentley, parked sloppily half on the street and half on the sidewalk. "That is an amazing car."

"Wow, from my testicles to antique cars. Nice." Wilson looked at the car critically. "It's pretty old. And in pretty good condition for an antique, too. I'm surprised that the thing's on the streets today."

"Eh, the Brits are all about heritage. Look at what they did with Stonehenge. A bunch of rocks and yet it's a national treasure." House shrugged, dismissing the topic. "Cease your whining about your stomach and look at the world around you, Wilson! For instance, what amazing things do we have in this very street? Take a look!" he said, brandishing his cane.

There was a moment of silence. Then, Wilson said, "There's a dog peeing on the Bentley."

House paused. "Oh. Well. That may not have been the best example."

They watched in meditative silence as the dog completed his urination (it was very obviously a male) and sat back, obviously pleased with himself. At which point, he began to defecate.

"…Charming," House said.

A door swung open in one of the (seemingly) abandoned stores across the street. Not noticing House and Wilson, the man who emerged was sliding on sunglasses despite the fact that the alley was wreathed in shadows, muttering under his breath as he stomped to the Bentley.

"Oh, bless it!"

This last sentence was uttered in a rather unmanly shriek as the man spotted the dog, who was frozen midstrain. "You stupid excuse for a canine—" the man said and snapped his fingers. It made a sharp click that would've been utterly unremarkable if not for the fact that the dog vanished.

Vanished. And not even a puff of smoke to mark its disappearance.

Still muttering to himself, the man got into the car, slamming the antique Bentley's car door perhaps a little harder than strictly necessary. He drove off, leaving House and Wilson behind, both quietly dumbfounded.

"Okay," Wilson said finally. "That is a really, really good trick." He headed across the street hesitantly, peering around him as if the dog might reappear any second. At the other side, he turned around to look at House, spreading his hands a little helplessly. "Where do you think the dog went?"

"No idea," House said. "Very David Copperfield. Not as impressive as the Statue of Liberty, though. What do you think happened there?"

"What, with the Statue of Liberty? Probably mirrors or something."

"No, you idiot! The dog! Here I was wondering whether or not I was hallucinating again. Either that or you spiked the coffee this morning." Joining Wilson at the other side, House studied the shop the man had emerged from, swiping his hand on the dusty glass. "Looks like it's been abandoned for months."

The faded gilt letters in the shop window were obscured by a layer of dust and grime, but House could still make out the words A. Fell—Antique Books. He squinted, trying to see through the window into the room beyond it. "This looks interesting."

"It looks closed," Wilson said, jamming his hands into his coat pockets. "Or at least abandoned."

"No, it isn't," House said, pointing to the sign on the door—the placard read 'Open for Business' in scratchy red script that somehow managed to convey the impression that, No, we're actually closed…now go away before we gnaw your kneecaps off. "Or at least it should be, anyway," he amended, one hand already on the door handle.

"Leave it, House," Wilson urged, looking around nervously. "It doesn't look like anybody's in there. Plus, if that guy can make a dog vanish just by snapping his fingers—"

"Don't tell me you seriously believe in magic?"

"I don't. I do believe in common sense, such as not going into abandoned shops to find out why a guy made a dog vanish in the first place."

House paused, his fingers playing with the door handle. He studied Wilson for a long moment before turning away to judge the neighborhood—not precisely decrepit, but not exactly the thick of Soho either. "Five minutes," he said finally. "I'll go in, you can stay here."

Wilson shook his head. "Nuh-uh. Why don't we both leave?"

"Five minutes."

Wilson sighed, throwing his hands up in the air. "What're you hoping to find, anyway?" he said resignedly as House opened the door. "A secret society of dog-vanishers? Voodoo, magic, some sort of cult? Maybe your very own antique black Bentley?"

"I'm curious," House answered as if that should answer everything. Which, for him, it rather did. "Stop worrying and start counting off time." He took a deep breath of the musty shop air and pointed his cane at the clear inch of dust in the floor. "Oooh, look! Footprints!"

"These are Bibles…" Wilson muttered, completely ignoring House as he paged idly through a few of the books. "Really antique Bibles."

He looked around in time to see House vanish into the backroom, no doubt hot on the trail of…whatever he was after. With a sigh, Wilson turned back to the books, this time moving behind the front counter to examine the shelves there. Interesting. "Hey, House?"

No response.

With a shrug, Wilson turned back to the stacked books on the counter. There was a half-opened package in the center, and Wilson looked around furtively for a moment before easing the packaging open. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. There was a slip of paper in it.

Aziraphale-

Adam said you might like this. Thanks for returning it me, but I don't need it any more, since the end of the world came and went.

Anathema

Wilson raised an eyebrow. Weird names. Anathema…Aziraphale…at least Adam was relatively normal. He had to smile at the title, though—Nice and Accurate? Way to self-advertise, Agnes.

He pushed the book open with a finger, and the antique binding crackled as he did so. Wilson winced slightly at the sound but flipped through the pages anyway, reading the antique printing with a slightly bemused air. He put no stock in prophecies, but it was always rather interesting to see how modern people twisted them to suit their means.

Sliding his hands under the brown package paper, Wilson picked the book up. It felt surprisingly soft in his hands, worn down by numerous hands over time. "I'll put it back," he muttered to soothe his raging conscience as he ran his finger down the yellowed paper.

He was absorbed in reading when a colossal crash from the backroom made him jump, his hands jerking involuntarily on either end of the book. There was no sound, no melodramatic riiiiiiip—but the book ripped apart anyway, the antique binding unable to put up with such abuse. Wilson let out a slight yip, staring in horror. "Oh—crap—!"

"Owww!"

A yell from the backroom made Wilson rush out from behind the counter, the Nice and Accurate Prophecies poised in his hand as if prepared to brain an attacker. "House!" Wilson yelled, skittering to a halt in the doorway of the backroom. "You okay back there?"

There was a heartbeat of silence, then—"Yeah. I'm good." Crash. "Some idiot just left his candlesticks out, that's all. I guess the owner's part of a cult or something. There's some sort of occult circle laid out on the floor back here." Another crash.

Squinting, Wilson scrutinized House's shadowy figure in the dim light of the backroom. It was rather hard to do, as there were numerous dark shadows against the already dim light—shelves of books, stacks of paper, even rolled-up carpet. "You're not bleeding, are you? Were you cut anywhere—"

"Nope. Although I think some of these books will never be the same again. Hope the owner isn't too mad."

Wilson sighed, his heartrate slowing down somewhat now that he had ascertained it was just House messing with things. "Great," he said, his hands on his hips. "Now that we've wrecked this guy's place, can we go now?"

"Hebrew," House said, completely ignoring Wilson as he studied the chalk circle on the floor. "Based on a rough guess, I'd say that these are from the Bible."

"So he's a religious nutjob who summons up Satan in his spare time. Can we go now?" Wilson was fidgeting now, his head swiveling anxiously towards the front door, half-expecting the owner to show up any second. "You wrecked his backroom and I ripped his book—"

"Wilson!" House said in an admonishing tone, looking up at the last sentence. "No way. Boy scout Wilson ripped a book?"

"I didn't do it on purpose," Wilson snapped, holding up the two halves of The Nice and Accurate Prophecies. "But apparently, it was a gift from somebody named Anathema. What kind of name is Anathema anyway? At any rate, whoever he or she is no doubt pissed that I ruined their gift to Aziraphale. Whoever the hell Aziraphale is."

"You know I have no idea who those people are," House commented absently, poking his cane at various piles in the dust. "Any more idea than—whoa!"

A bright blue beam of light shot down from the ceiling, landing squarely in the center of the circle. Wilson gaped. House stared. Both of them stood frozen for a long moment, watching as the light shimmered with an unearthly brightness. It was almost…twinkling at them.

Then: "Aziraphale?" the light said.

Wilson's mouth dropped open. "House?" he managed after a long moment of stunned silence. "What did you do—"

The light swiveled sharply, the bright blue beam drifting away from the circle and swooping around like a spotlight. House, the natural lacrosse player, ducked behind a stack of paper before the light hit him. Wilson, on the other hand, skittered backwards in a desperate attempt to avoid the light. He tripped and sprawled backwards, staring in horror as the light fell directly on him, blindingly bright and blue. "Ahhh," he managed in a choked gasp.

"Well, this is unfortunate," the same unearthly voice said, this time sounding distinctly peeved. "We were under the impression that he'd be here. If you see him, tell that everyone here is trying to find Jesus. Oh, and we found his sword on the Internet, so if he should pick it up soon if he ever wants it back because Michael's got an eye on it."

"Oh," Wilson rasped out faintly.

"Good. We'll be expecting him shortly, then. Or not." The light blinked a few times and winked out of existence, leaving a dumbfounded Wilson staring dazedly at the ceiling, half-expecting the light to appear again and the unearthly voice (male, baritone, not unpleasant under less shocking circumstances) to start babbling once more.

"Did that just…" House murmured, appearing from behind his stack. "Wow. That was one good parlor trick."

"House."

"Think there are speakers in here? Maybe it was some kind of joke, a pseudo-burglar alarm—"

"House."

"—and it's rigged to go off by some sort of switch or tripwire or—"

"House!"

"—and it could—what?"

"Let's get out of here."

Wilson was shaking, pale even in the dim light. He could feel House's eyes on him—analytical, puzzled, lighting up with a greater mystery than some mysterious light. Wilson closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to breathe through his nose and not launch himself headfirst into hysteria. House seemed all right; who was Wilson to fall to pieces?

Of course, House hadn't been the direct target of the mysterious voice. He hadn't felt the vibration in his very bones, or the stinging sensation of…something. Something big. It wasn't a hoax. Not some guy over the speaker aiming a spotlight at them. It was something different, something…Different. The capital letter was important.

He felt House's hand on his shoulder, felt the warmth as House knelt down next to him. "You okay?" House asked, his voice gruff. "Your pulse is hitting one-fifty. Breathe, Wilson."

"I'm fine," Wilson said, forcing himself to take one deep breath, then another. "Yeah. I'm fine. I just—let's just go, okay?" he said, wobbling to his feet.

"Okay," House agreed, offering him an arm for support. Wilson shook it away, shaking his head. He didn't want to burden House's leg anymore than strictly necessary. Besides, he was better now, his pulse slowing now that the weird light had vanished, leaving the ordinary world behind.

And right now, ordinary was good. Wilson hurried out into the brightness of the Soho alley, wincing as his eyes adjusted to the afternoon glare. Yeah. Sunlight was good, weird blue lights coming from nowhere were not and were best forgotten as soon as possible.

It took them thirty minutes to wander back to their starting point, whereupon Wilson realized two things: one, they still hadn't had lunch, and more importantly, two: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch was still clenched in his sweaty hands, the two halves sandwiched between palm and thumb. He'd walked out of the bookshop with the book without realizing it.

Damned if he was going back there to put it back, though.

((()))

A conversation between three (then two) beings.

"Not to pompously lecture, but you two should really think again about this before you—oh!—!"

"…"

"…"

"Oops."

"That was you? It wasn't me. I s'ppose he kinda deserved it, but..."

"I…kind of lost my temper. For a moment. Er."

"Oh. Huh. Well, seems to me like that was a pretty good smitin'."

"I'm not supposed to smite angels! Oh, I do hope he's all right. Where do you suppose he went?"

"Someplace nice, maybe. Anyway, least he can't rat on us now."

"I suppose so. We may have just delayed the discovery, though. My Father is going to wonder where I am before long. And if your Father finds out—"

"Eh, I don't reckon he can get much angrier'n at me than he is already, really. So no harm done."

"Still. What happens if they find out?"

"Isn't your Dad all knowin'? Shouldn't He already know? And if He does, it's ineffable, right?"

"Er. Not…really. I think omniscience is a bit more complicated than it seems. I mean, look what happened last time. You know, the world didn't end and everything."

"So it's not ineffable, y'think?"

"I don't think so, no. Between you and me, I do think Dad is making quite a bit of stuff up as He goes along. Although He does play a mean game of poker, I'll give you that."

"He sounds interestin'. Maybe He could come over for tea sometime? Anyway, I think we should do somethin'. Offense's the best defense n' all."

"…I don't think that's quite the way reality works at times. Sometimes the attackers end up regretting their rash actions quite painfully—"

"D'you really want Them to find out?"

"Well, They're bound to eventually…but…I don't…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…oh…"

"…to be honest, I don't either, you know that, right?"

"…okay. Fine. So what do we do?"

((()))

They ended up eating at a ridiculously expensive restaurant in the thick of Soho, mutely working their way through (under other circumstances, absolutely fantastic) tasteless steak. House eyed Wilson with concern—the other man still seemed shaken.

"Hey," House said, prodding him with his cane. "Stop staring into space."

"I'm fine," Wilson muttered, stabbing his steak as if it had offended him personally. "Stop hovering, all right?"

"Hey—that's my line." When Wilson didn't even look up, House sighed and hooked Wilson's backpack with his cane, dragging it over. Over Wilson's half-hearted protest, House unzipped the bag and fished out the antique book Wilson had stolen—The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. Now in Parts One and Two.

"I can't believe I stole a book," Wilson groaned as House brought it out. "I've never shoplifted in my life. Not even a stick of gum, or, or a bottle of soda. Or whatever. And now I took an antique book—"

"I find it interesting that your main dither seems to be over the fact that you stole a book and not the fact that the Light of God came down from the ceiling," House said severely, setting the book down on the table. "If indeed it was the light of some nonexistent heavenly being and not cleverly hidden spotlights devised to scare the crap out of, say, gullible oncologists from America. Or else they're trying to convert the Jews, who knows?"

Wilson shivered, looking around. "Could we not talk about it here?" he asked, fiddling with his fork. "For that matter, could we not talk about it at all?"

"Don't tell me you're not curious at all, Wilson. You've been shaky ever since we got out of that shop. You're definitely not okay."

"Well, neither are you," Wilson muttered rebelliously.

"Flatterer. But we're not talking about me."

"I'm fine. Okay, I'm not fine," Wilson added as House snorted as if to say, yeah, right. "But I'm not going to freak out, okay? So that means for now, I'm fine."

"You have a weird description of fine," House grumbled, but he let his attention drop back to the tattered book. "And this is a weird name. Agnes Nutter? I think that's a big hint right there."

"You don't say," Wilson said, but he visibly relaxed now that the subject had been changed. "I read some of the stuff—it's kind of interesting, especially when you get to the 3000's. Lot of, you know, the end is nigh stuff."

"'I tell you now the end has come, in dah-di-dah-di-dah-di-one?' That kind?"

"No, more like…" Wilson fumbled for the book (Part II) and flipped the pages open. House found himself staring at prophecy number 3017, with its cheery message of angels of hell and four riding to bring the end.

"Nice," he commented. "Cryptic, confusing, with just the right hint of Biblical mythology thrown in. Guaranteed bestseller." House closed the book and looked up, noting the lines under Wilson's eyes (were they there before?) and the visible weariness in his face. Evidently, he was still shaken up from the…whatever it was…in the store.

"C'mon," House said, grabbing the slip. "Lunch's on me. Let's crash at the hotel."

Wilson blinked. "What? You're actually volunteering to pay the bill?" He grabbed the slip and stared at it for a long moment. "It's…eighty pounds, House! Holy crap. Wow. I mean, did you even bring that much money?"

"Eh, you can pay me back later," House said, waving off his protests. "Besides, you're definitely dishing out for the taxi fare, because no way in hell am I taking the Tube back to the hotel. Cripple here, remember?"

"Oh," Wilson said, looking slightly relieved as the world settled back into order. "Yeah, taxi sounds like a good idea. Is your leg all right, though?"

"Yes, I'm fine," House said, making a face at Wilson. "You and me, we're world champions of fine."

Wilson managed a wan smile. "I'm definitely finer than you, though."

"Yeah, we're both just perfect. Finish your steak, boy, then let's get the hell out of Dodge."

"So kind of you to be concerned," Wilson murmured. He finished off the last few bites of steak with an absentminded air, staring at The Nice and Accurate Prophecies as if he could will the binding back together and the book back in the dusty shop.

"We could drop it off tomorrow," House said, knowing what preyed on Wilson's conscience. "I'll do it, if you don't want to."

"I don't even remember where the store is," Wilson murmured. "It took us forever to get there and forever to get out. I'm going to feel like a rotten thief for the rest of my life."

"Relax, Mr. Straight-and-Narrow. I'll figure something out."

"Legal or illegal?"

"Well, aren't you suspicious. Are you done yet?"

Wilson nodded assent, standing up and pulling his coat on. House paid the bill and discreetly made sure that the scarf was fastened tightly around Wilson's neck before herding him out into the cold December air. He hailed a taxi and off they went back to the hotel.

((()))

House popped a couple of Gabapentin and leaned back against the headboard, rubbing his leg. It had cooperated today out there in the cold weather and gusty winds—mostly. And, well, he wasn't working a case, so the usual mild dizziness that accompanied the medication wasn't really a problem this time. He glanced over at Wilson, who was curled up in the covers of the other bed, sound asleep.

The guidebook and both halves of The Nice and Accurate Prophecies were stacked neatly on the bedstand table that separated the twin beds. Wilson had attempted (quite valiantly, House thought) to glue the two halves together with an impromptu combination of Superglue and tape, but the book actually looked worse than before. Finally, House had ordered him to bed, threatening to knock him unconscious with his cane if he didn't go to sleep. "After all, if you collapse on me, it's a long ride back to Princeton."

With Wilson out cold, House turned on the television and surfed aimlessly for a while, finally settling on an old adaptation of A Christmas Carol. Not that he particularly cared about the spirit of Christmas, but this holiday season was proving to be marginally better than, say, last year. Or the year before that. Or the year before that, when he spent Christmas Eve OD'ing on that cheery holiday cocktail of oxycodone and Scotch.

How far we've come, he mused, glancing again at Wilson, who gave a small snort and rolled over in bed. If anyone told me this would've happened three years ago…

Maybe it wasn't a Christmas tree, presents, Yuletide log, the whole nine yards. But it was nice. Here, in this hotel, the holidays were nice. And even London was nice. Who knew?

"Not that I'm ever going to tell you when you're awake, though," House informed a sleeping Wilson. "Don't want you to get all smug."

"Smug? Actually, that's the farthest thing from my mind right now. Can you tell me where I am?"

House stared.

"Hello? Is anybody there? Oh dear, the eyes don't seem to be opening. I'll just be leaving—"

From House: blink.

Silence. After a moment, there came, "I appear to be experiencing some technical difficulties. Sorry to keep on wittering, but something is preventing me from leaving this body. Hello? Is somebody out there?"

"I knew that steak was off," House commented to no one. "Hallucinations—"

"Ah. Americans. Oh well, I suppose you'll have to do. Well, nobody really chooses to get smited, do they, and now I'm afraid I have rather urgent news I need to tell—"

"Although, you haven't magically turned into Cuddy. And you're not offering sex, either," House mused. "Something's wrong with this picture. Hey, Wilson. Wilson!"

"Ngggggh?" Wilson asked as House hurled the guidebook at his head. It bounced off onto the floor, abandoned (at least for the moment). "What? Wuzzgoninon?"

"I don't suppose either of you have been in dabbling in voodoo lately? Because this really is most peculiar."

"Huh?" Wilson asked, sitting up. "Wha?"

"Good question," House told him, fascinated by the way the voice—whatever it was—seemed to come from Wilson's body. His lips were moving, but the voice was completely different—a lighter tenor than Wilson's, with a crisp British accent. "Are you a secret ventriloquist?"

"Not that I'm aware of—" Wilson began, then, "May I ask where I am?"

"What the hell, Wilson?"

"I don't—Oh. Right. Well, I'm an angel, actually, so no need to fear, but I do have rather urgent news to pass on. Again—where in America am I?"

"Hey!" Wilson wrested back control of his mouth and shook his head vigorously. "What—House!"

"Don't look at me," House said, aggrieved. "I didn't do anything. I'm just sitting here watching TV when all of a sudden you start speaking like a Brit. Pretty good accent, by the way. Never knew you had secret British roots—"

"I don't! I don't know—Again, where am I?"

"London," House answered, watching Wilson closely. Wilson grimaced and shook his head in irritation as his mouth opened again, the light tenor voice speaking once more.

"London! Capital! I'm afraid I can't linger, though—"

"What the hell!" Wilson sputtered, raising a hand to his mouth. "Who—uh—what's going on, House? Is this some kind of joke?"

"Well, your head appears to be staying firmly in place," House said thoughtfully. "And you're not vomiting blood or laughing maniacally, so I'd say demonic possession is out. I never heard of anyone developing sudden ventriloquism-itis before, though. Or maybe DID?"

"I really don't think DID presents this—Oh, no. I assure you that I am an angel, a force of—good, and here for your protection. I think. But at any rate, I really need to—"

Wilson clamped his hands over his mouth, apparently determined to shut the voice up. House raised an eyebrow. "An angel?"

"Didn't I just say that," the muffled voice forced itself past Wilson's fingers. "Oh, bugger. Everyone expects a Gabriel these days. Let me think. 'Do not fear, I bring good news from the Lord!'"

"Reaaaally. Hit me with it. Wilson, if you're pregnant, I'm going to write 'slut' on all your ties with permanent marker."

"Oh, ha ha, very funny—I'm afraid not. Are you—oh, it was a joke. Is that an example of American humor? Crowley's always going on about it, but I don't quite see the point. No, nobody's pregnant." Then, darkly: "Yet."

"Huh."

"Quite."

Wilson looked helplessly at House and gestured wildly, apparently unwilling or unable to open his mouth again. House shrugged back and grabbed his cane, twirling it between his palms as he surveyed Wilson with a calculating eye.

"Could I use your telephone?" the voice said, rather helplessly House thought, after a moment. "I mean, I'd leave if I could, but since I can't, well…"

"What do you mean, if you could?" Wilson blurted out as soon as the voice trailed off. "What's stopping you?"

"To be honest, I've no idea—because it sounds pretty damn good—but, well, time waits for no being and I have urgent news to pass—all I'm saying is, why me—on, but at the very least I'd like a cup of tea."

"I hate tea," Wilson muttered as House digested all of this, his eyebrows rising again until they positively brushed his shortened hair. "Wouldn't say no to coffee, though."

"There's only the instant kind, and I'll be damned if I have get up to make it," House said dismissively.

"That does put a damper on things."

"Mmm. Tragic. You okay, Wilson?"

"Other than the fact that an angel appears to be borrowing my vocal chords? Oh yeah, I'm great. Don't worry about me."

"This is seriously cool. What do you think, alternate personality?"

"Alternate—House! I'm not doing this on purpose."

"DID patients generally don't. Assuming that this is whatever it is, though, it's one hell of a coincidence," House said musingly after a moment. "You—whoever you are—today we were in this weird bookstore in Soho, and then a blue light told us that they were looking for Jesus. Think they're connected, or have we just hit the supernatural lottery today?"

"Jesus!" The word was a yelp, and Wilson winced. "Oh—er—not really. Not at all." The voice was fused with enough guilt that a toddler would've seen through it. "Did the, ah, voice say anything else? About, er, where Jesus is?"

"So you do know something."

"What? Oh, no. Load of buggerall. But if I could just borrow your phone for a few minutes—"

House put a hand protectively on top of the hotel phone, raising an eyebrow at Wilson. Wilson shook his head in reply, indicating that the voice—whoever or whatever it was—didn't control his hands, just his voicebox. "Not until you've explained a couple things. You know, like this whole angel thing."

"I'm afraid it's a terribly long story and—" the voice broke off.

"Hello?" Wilson ventured after a moment of silence had gone by, rubbing his throat tentatively. "Uh—"

"Is that what I think it is?"

Wilson and House exchanged glances, and then Wilson's eyes drifted back to the phone—or more specifically, the torn book next to the phone. "Uh," Wilson said. "You mean The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter?"

"Is it…torn?"

The last word was spoken with the same kind of horror reserved for puppy filleters and pedophiles. "Um," Wilson said, squirming slightly. "You know, that's really not the point—"

"WHO RIPPED THE NICE AND ACCURATE PROPHECIES OF AGNES NUTTER, WITCH? THERE'S ONLY ONE COPY LEFT IN THE ENTIRE WORLD, AND SOMEBODY RIPPED IT? IT WAS FINE WHEN I LEFT IT!"

"Ow!" Wilson yelped. "It's my voicebox, you know—"

"WAS IT YOU? SWEET LORD IN HEAVEN, SPARE ME FROM THE AMERICANS!"

"Hey, that's not fair," House said, pointing his cane at Wilson (who was massaging his throat frantically). "It could've just as easily been a Brit that ripped the book."

"WAS IT?"

"No," House admitted.

The voice fell silent, but it was the calm before the storm. Wilson groaned involuntarily and buried his face in the pillow just as a string of inventive curses poured from his mouth, thankfully muffled by the pillow. House twirled his cane and waited impatiently for the supposed angel (or whatever it was, at least it was interesting) to finish.

"Enough with the damn book," House said when Wilson finally raised his head from the pillow, his face stuck in a grimace of discomfort. "Hell, enough of this. Wilson, I'm officially confused, all right? Stop with the dumb joke and just—"

"House, I'm not doing this on purpose."

"Then we should get you checked out. Wonder if we can get covered under the NHS?"

"I'm not sick, House."

"Then we should get me checked out." House looked down at his cane, thumping it against the ground. "Because if it's not you being stupid or you being sick, then it's me hallucinating again. And I don't have the Vicodin to blame this time, either."

"You're not hallucinating," Wilson said sharply, then winced at his sore throat. "Believe me, this isn't just you."

House didn't look up. "If this is a hallucination, you'd say that as well."

"So there's no way I can convince you?" Wilson said, sitting up and frowning. "Am I supposed to—er, pardon me but—shut UP!"

House looked up at Wilson's strangled half-shout, half-yelp. "Are you going to slap yourself?" he said, instinctive curiosity taking over his morbidity. "I've never heard that as a remedy for anything but hiccups, though it'd be interesting to watch."

"No," Wilson grated out. "I'm going to get some coffee. Coffee," he emphasized, gesturing wildly. "Not tea. God, I hate tea."

"It's seven p.m. You'll be going back to sleep soon, or at least trying to. Sure you want to toss back caffeine?"

"Eh, jet lag works wonders. So does sudden possession by—whatever. Believe me, House, you're not hallucinating. And I'm fairly sure that I'm not sick either, though with my family history I'm hesitant to give a definite no."

"What's the alternative?" House asked, waving his hands in the air. "That you're really possessed by a demon? Or angel? Or some sort of being? That sounds like something straight out of a lame TV show. Don't know if you skipped that seminar on real life, but demonic possession isn't actually possible."

"Then I'm fresh out of ideas—actually, I'm an angel. How many times do I have explain myself, honestly?"

House shrugged. "Just once, actually. Starting from the beginning."

"Which beginning?"

"Are we getting existential here? Life is a series of beginnings with no endings, that kind of stuff?"

"If you like. It's just a little complicated, that's all. And I may mentioned that I have some urgent news…"

"…So?"

"So…I need to make a call. Let me call somebody first, and then we can talk."

House looked at Wilson, who shrugged. "Okay," House decided, taking his hand off the phone. "I doubt that an imaginary personality could conjure up a British phone number without me actually knowing it beforehand." At Wilson's raised eyebrow, he shrugged and said, "Hey, I stalk you for you."

"Oh, right. You steal my iPhone for my own good," Wilson groaned.

"That's what you get for not buying me one for my birthday," House said.

"You don't celebrate your birthday!" Wilson protested. "Last time I bought you a birthday present, you didn't even noticed when I took it back a couple months later!"

"You got me a shirt. A shirt. Next time, get me porn. I might actually watch it before throwing it out."

"Why should I spend money on porn when—Excuse me?"

Wilson threw his hands up as House grinned, triumphant. "Fine," Wilson grumbled, grabbing the phone. "Whoever you are, read out the numbers, okay? And this had better be good."

((()))

Chapter the Second: In Which Our Heroes Get Really Really Drunk

Part I

For demons, it's relatively easy. After all, demons are just angels that have Fallen (or Sauntered Vaguely Downwards, as it were). They may have joined the dark side, but at heart they are still essentially divine, their being made up of angelic essence. So that begs the question: where do angels come from?

One theory is that new angels come from saints, who are basically human beings who have managed to do something incredibly impressive or die in a very melodramatic way. This, of course, is ridiculous. A human is a human, an angel is an angel. Just because the former is dead doesn't mean that it magically sprouts wings and a halo.

So…where do angels come from? Certainly not the human way (thank God, no), since angels are sexless unless they really want to make an effort. The topic of angelic reproduction is one that theologians over the years have creatively skirted around in the name of Artistic Licence, resulting in general ignorance on behalf of the hoi polloi. In fact, the only one who may know the actual answer is in fact, the Big Guy Himself. And really, nobody would dare to ask him.*

*If they did, he'd just smile. Mysteriously. God is good at mysterious smiles.

((()))

Anthony J. Crowley, demon extraordinaire, was not in a good mood.

It was fair to say that he'd been in a more-or-less foul mood ever since the A-not-alypse*. Or not foul, really, more like…cranky. Or as Aziraphale kindly put it, twitchily paranoid. Evil never sleeps, but this particular bit of evil was growing blessed tired of always having to look over his shoulder, wondering if the guys Down There were going to come after him with a bucket of holy water. If he was lucky. If not, it's down to the sulfur pits for you for a lifetime of Hell-with-a-capital-aitch, bub.

He'd absconded to the good old US of A for a while, figuring it was best if he left the scene of the crime. Not that geography was a major obstacle for any archdevil hot on his heels, but maybe a couple of months of absence would cool tempers down. Well, as far as tempers could cool Down There, anyway. But months turned into years as he'd gotten involved in some interesting things with the stock market and presidential elections…he still thought it would've been a terrific lark if the old bloke had actually become president, but Aziraphale had managed to coax him into leaving the bugger with the big ears alone. In exchange, Crowley had invented Proposition 8.**

Amusing as America was, though, there was just no replacement for England. Home sweet home, and devils be literally blessed (he hoped, anyway). His triumphant return, however, had fallen slightly flat by the fact that Aziraphale was actually ignoring him. The nerve of that prissy angel! Crowley had vented his rage by kicking some ducks before dropping by Aziraphale's bookshop (fully intending to pull out Aziraphale's pinfeathers one. by. one.), but Aziraphale wasn't there. In fact, the bookshop seemed abandoned, as if Aziraphale hadn't been there in a long time. The occult circle that Aziraphale usually used to contact Heaven had been set up, but was incomplete.

That had stopped Crowley's rage dead in its tracks, staring puzzedly at sullen curiosity tinged with just the faintest trace of worry. Then, as the worry reared its sorry head, the rage fled with its tail tucked between its legs, never to be heard from again.

And now…

Riiiiing.

His hand shot out and grabbed the phone. "Crowley," he barked.

"Um. Hello?"

"Who is this?"

"Crowley?"

Crowley jumped up from his chair, his hand tightening on the receiver like it was a lifeline. "Aziraphale? You bloody git! You are going to be sorry for making me worry like that!"

There was a pause, then, "Oh, yes! I was supposed to meet you at the Ritz yesterday, wasn't I? Terribly sorry, but I was unable to due to the fact that I was smited. Inconvenient, that."

"Smi…what? How? By who?"

"It's a long story. Look, can you drop by…" there was a pause, then, "London Gates Hotel, room four-oh-six."

"What's going on?" Crowley asked, his natural suspicion and the paranoia of the last few years settling back in. "Are you okay, angel? If you've been smited, why aren't you back Up There getting a new body?"

"I'm borrowing somebody else's for now. And yes, I think I'll have to report in pretty soon but for now I'd like to talk to you, if you don't mind."

"We're talking now…wait, what're you—"

"In person, Crowley."

Crowley considered this for a moment, weighed the odds that the angel was setting up some trap, and decided against it based on the fact there was no way Aziraphale could've picked up the fine art of wiling in just a few years when he'd successfully thwarted it for millenia. "Fine," he said curtly, "but you owe me dinner."

He hung up the phone and blew out the door in seconds, sliding his shades onto his nose as he did so. It was nighttime, but the sight of yellow snake eyes tended to distract humans who caught sight of them. Frankly, he couldn't imagine why.

*He had a lot of names to denote the time when the world didn't end, mostly involving bad puns and lame humor.

**Some (i.e. Aziraphale) might say that was a slightly ironic thing for Crowley to do, but it wasn't as if it was going to actually affect him, after all.

((()))

In Crowley's world, traffic was something that inconvenienced other people. The Bentley flew through the streets, zipping past cars to the inspiring strains of Mozart's "Hollaback Girls" booming out the windows.

He slammed to a halt in front of London Gates Hotel and conveniently nudged his way into a theoretically impossible parking spot, jumping out the car and slamming the door behind him. Not because he was actually eager to see Aziraphale, of course. Merely eager to strangle him, demand an explanation, and kick him to Hell if the explanation was anything less than ideal.

The clerk attempting to stop him at the desk had a sudden attack of memory loss as Crowley brushed him off, throwing a habitual sneer at the Christmas manger as he walked past it on the way to the elevator. Sure, it all looked really pretty in a nice warm lobby, but throw in snow and scratchy hay and animal crap and somehow the romanticism just vanished without a trace. The elevator doors opened for him without having to press a button, and Crowley headed in impatiently, watching the yellow-lit numbers on the elevator panel change with agonizing slowness. When it finally arrived at the fourth floor, Crowley stalked down the corridors and slammed open room four-oh-six without bothering with a key. "Aziraphale—" he began, throwing his hands up.

Two men stared back at him blankly. Crowley stared, then backtracked to check the number on the door. Yeah. Four-oh-six. "Uh," Crowley said with a sketchy half-wave. "Hi."

"Nice shades," the older man commented.

"Thanks, got them at—hey, wait!" Crowley shook himself and checked the number again. "Aziraphale?" he repeated, more cautiously. "Where the—"

"Right here, Crowley," Aziraphale's voice came, drifting from the younger man seated on the bed nearest to him. "Close your mouth, it's unbecoming."

Crowley blinked, studying Aziraphale's new body. Early forties, maybe, short-cut brown hair, brown eyes, a slight paunch, giving off faint waves of angelic Presence. All in all, pretty much like Aziraphale's old body—not worse, but not really better either. "Did you swap just for a lark, or…?" he said, trailing off.

"He didn't swap anything—No, I didn't swap anything," Aziraphale's voice broke in, sounding mildly apologetic. "Terribly sorry for missing out on the Ritz, though. I was going to throw a welcome-home party and everything, but it slipped my mind."

"Yeah, that's okay," Crowley said off-handedly. "Is that body American?" he asked, gesturing vaguely at the younger man. "Sounds like it. I mean, if you wanted to go to America that badly I could've sent you a ticket—"

"Yeah, we're Americans," the older man said, twirling his cane between his palms. He gestured between himself and the younger man. "I'm House. He's Wilson. Apparently now with Aziraphale stuck inside of him. And you are…the guy who made the dog disappear. Right?"

Crowley blinked. "What dog?"

"You know, the dog outside the bookshop. The one pissing on your car."

Crowley blinked again as memory reared its head. "Oh. Right. Yeah, I am. Wait, were you there—"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale said, sounding disapproving. "You vanished one of God's creatures just because—"

"Hey, the dog was shitting on my Bentley!" Crowley protested. "It deserved it."

"An innocent canine deserved to be vanished and whirled off to God-knows-where just because it was performing a biological function that all things mortal can't repress?"

"Well—I mean, when you put it that way—look, it was just a dog, okay? It's not like I did anything else." As the human turned rather bemused eyes onto him, Crowley could feel the angel's reproving gaze through the human shell, ferreting out all his lies. "Okay, okay," he said miserably, looking down. "And I kicked the ducks, too. Yesterday. I was annoyed at you."

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale said reproachfully. "What other things did you do while I was away?"

"It was just the ducks!" Crowley protested.

"They're still God's creatures."

"I'm a demon! I'm not supposed to care, remember?"

"But at the very least you could still—ulp—"

"Okay, WHAT DUCKS?" the American bellowed at this point, obviously wresting control of his voicebox back. "Okay, somebody back up a bit, because I think I'm completely messed up! How did this conversation get to ducks in the first place? Who the hell are you? What's stuck inside of me again? How'd you make a dog disappear? What was the stupid blue light for? Why did he call you a demon? What's going on? And in case it wasn't clear, what the hell is going on?*"

*A question first asked by Adam when the world was eight days old. Has been in vogue amongst Homo sapiens ever since.

((()))

Heaven is a topic explored by many a theologian, artist, and terrorist jihad. Everybody has their own images of it, but generally agreed upon are the following theories:

It is the land of eternal bliss.

There may or may not be forty virgins upon arrival.

The angels love praising God, and are not likely to shut up anytime soon.

The three theories are more or less wrong, for a given value of more or less. What is known, though, is that for your average Ascended soul, there isn't really that much to do in Heaven. When everybody is Good, for a given value of good, it leads to a drop in the things that make life—or eternity, as it were—interesting.

This helps explain why the Revelation Museum gets so many visitors, despite the fact that the exhibits never change. Inside cases made out of ethereal glass are the seven Trumpets of the Apocalypse, shiny and just waiting to be blown. There are also the seven Seals, glinting dully on the Scroll with the faintest hint of menace about them. In a pasture in the back the Lamb may be found, really quite friendly despite the fact that it has seven eyes and seven horns. For a while, the Four Horsemen also had stables here, but since God declined to hire a mechanic when they upgraded to motorcycles, the stables have since fallen into disrepair. (The horses are still there, though, undoubtedly mourning the invention of the car engine.)

The number of visitors had somewhat decreased ever since Jesus went missing, but it still didn't take long for the righteous dead to discover a conspicuously empty pasture where the Lamb was supposed to be. At four a.m. Heavenly Standard Time, a Heaven-wide search was begun, with volunteers carrying bags of apples with which to tempt the Lamb out of hiding.

At six a.m. HST, the Lamb was declared officially Missing, and a report was sent to the Archangel Michael, General of the Holy Host.

At six fifteen HST, Michael sent a report to God, who smiled mysteriously.

At six eighteen HST, an envoy was sent Down There, inquiring about the state of current affairs, and oh, and by the way, have you seen the Lamb?

At seven oh nine HST, a reply was sent from an irate Lucifer that no, he hadn't seen the damn Lamb, and if it set one hoof in his territory he'd feed it to the Beast along with the next angel who interrupted his morning sulfur bath.

At seven ten HST, Michael, never the most diplomatic of the archangels, nearly set off a second Apocalypse. (That may have been his intention to begin with, though.)

At seven eleven HST, Gabriel tackled Michael and held him in a headlock until he agreed not to do anything too stupid.

At ten twenty HST, Michael finally surrendered and Gabriel let him out of the headlock. A Committee was called to investigate the disappearance. Michael went back to ranting at the Host, much to the annoyance of the angels who had been enjoying the break while it lasted.

(The disappearance of the Lamb marked the sixteenth day of Jesus's disappearance. Not that they were keeping track, of course.)

((()))

By some unspoken consensus, they somehow wound up downstairs at a little bar just outside the hotel. The older human—his name was some kind of building; Crowley had remembered it about three glasses of wine ago—had looked deeply disapproving as he muttered something about livers and the ways people abused them, but frankly the demon couldn't care less. First of all, livers didn't matter to an immortal demon, and second, he really wanted to get drunk. He had even transformed several cases of vinegary La Vignoble Maison into rather surprised (but still quite acceptable) Johnnie Walker Blue for the occasion, reasoning that it could only help speed along the process of drinking himself out of his mind.

"So…that's when I said to them, well, nobody really approves of the whole angels-mating-with-humans thing, but it's not without precedent (especially not for Jesus, the poor dear. Well, when you're in a human body, it is awfully hard to remain celibate for thirty years, isn't it?) But canoodling with Your Mortal Enemy on the other hand, well, it's just not done, is it? So maybe if they just—"

"And that's when you were smat…smatted…shoved out of your body?" Crowley said, gesturing vaguely in Aziraphale's direction. "Who did it? Adam? Seemed like such a nice kid…"

"No. Jesus," Aziraphale answered, sounding morose. "Never would've thought. You think you know a person, you know?"

"Who's Adam?" the older guy—House, yeah, that was his name, House—asked. He wasn't drinking—yet—but his buddy Wilson seemed intent on drowning himself in the deluxe whiskey, and Aziraphale, since he was stuck inside Wilson's body, was getting utterly soused right along with him. (Not that the angel seemed to mind…)

"Antichrist," Crowley answered. "Nice kid, really. Didn't want the world to end either." The demon brooded for a long moment, staring contemplatively at a full wineglass. "I mean, you lot," he said, waving in House's direction. "Humans. Monkeys. You're so, so…what's the word…"

"Creative," Aziraphale said moodily after a moment.

"Creative?" Wilson asked, and Crowley tilted his head to one side, observing how both Aziraphale and the American bloke—Wilson, was it?—spoke using Wilson's mouth, but the voices and accents were so extremely different. Well, at least Aziraphale wasn't in a woman's body anymore—that had been weird. Thank Go—Sa—somebody—that Adam had restored Aziraphale before long, because even though demons and angels, weren't really restricted by body or size or shape, Crowley still preferred Aziraphale's old body. It had been frumpy, yes, but Aziraphale was a natural frump and he wore it with style—

"Yes," Aziraphale said, apparently not aware of Crowley's slightly lustful thoughts. "You know, back when it was all monkeys and chinpan…chimnap…monkeys, everything was so simple. Then He decided to make Adam and Adam, you know, was a great big dumb bugger who really didn't know anything at all, and so He made Eve, who was slightly smarter but still didn't know anything important, then Crowley came along and then there was the business with the apple and—" Aziraphale took a deep breath— "And then they were all sad and she was pregnant and how was I supposed to say no…?"

"Gave them his sword," Crowley explained grandly for the benefit of the humans. "It was on fire."

"It was a nice sword," Aziraphale said wistfully. "Flaming sword, you know, great big whoosh and everything. Michael wasn't happy when he found out I gave it away, you know, they took me off guarding the gate because I lost it. Then I got it back at the last Apocalypse but then the mailman came and took it away, and it was such a shame because it was a nice—"

"Michael as in Michael the Archangel?" Wilson asked, his head resting on his hand. "So you two were at the Garden of Eden when…"

"I wassss the sssnake," Crowley muttered, now starting his fourth glass and noticeably slurring his esses. "Wasssn't even that hard. I mean, humansss are—I mean, can you blame them for being humansss? Look." He raised his head and peered unsteadily at the seething mass of humanity in the bar. "Ssseven deadly sssinsss—wrath, lust, gluttony…um…"

"Sloth," Aziraphale volunteered. "Crowley, how can an animal be a deadly sin?"

Crowley considered this. "They're bloody ugly, I expect that'sss why. But the point, the point isss that, He, He'ssss ssssupposssed to be, you know, wosssname ineffable, and yet I bet that, that half the humansss here are wrathful becaussse they didn't get that promotion or they're getting divorsssed, and the other half are lustful becaussse, becaussse they like women like her—" he waved at a particularly gorgeous redhead who had just walked in— "or, or men like, like…um…anyway, and the other half are gluttony—gluttoniousss—gluttonousss—becausssee…um…"

"Makes you wonder, is it really all that ineffable?" Aziraphale sighed. "But you're not supposed to do Bad when you're supposed to do Good. Tried to tell Jesus that, but the kid didn't want to listen. So…poof! No more body! Shame. I rather liked it—the body, I mean. It was nice."

"But…why're you still here?" Wilson asked plaintively after a moment, taking another hefty swig. "Like, here. Wait, so if you're an angel and he's a demon…" he gestured at Crowley. "And he makes dogs disappear and…"

"Sss'the Arrangement," Crowley said gloomily, tracing circles on the table with a finger. "Sss'like, Tradition. We're ssssuppossed to, you know, wile. Or I am, anyway. And he'sss got to thwart the wilesss, only he doesssn't alwaysss."

"What, like making dogs disappear?"

"I like dogs," Aziraphale said dreamily. "I love all of God's creatures—"

"You made that dog disappear," the older guy interrupted. "Near the shop where we got the book—you know, the prophecies. That's why we went in."

"So that's where you got my book," Aziraphale said, but apparently he wasn't sober enough to summon up any real rage. "You went into my shop and you ripped it and tore it apart and ruined the lastest copy of the rare book of, book of profity—prophetsy—prophecy—in the whole world…"

"Sorry," Wilson mumbled. "It was accient…accidental."

There was a meditative silence.

"So why're you still here?" Wilson asked finally. "When angels are smited—smat—smoted, don't you guys go off to…you know, Heaven? Or someplace. And leamme alone."

"Wish I could," Aziraphale answered, sounding equally sullen. "Can't. Something's preventing me from leaving. Bit of a disappointment, but what can I say?"

"Hmm," Wilson muttered, downing another glass.

House raised an eyebrow at this, apparently succumbed to temptation, and poured himself a glass of whiskey. Crowley felt a point of drunken victory marked down in his favor.*

"Ssso now what?" Crowley said gloomily. "Jessuss and Adam won't sssee sssensse, and there'sss nothing we can do to make them sssee sssense, and ssso basssically we're sssscrewed."

"What's so bad about Jesus and Adam getting together, anyway?" Wilson wondered drunkenly. "I mean, what's the worst that could happen? It's kind of sweet, you know, they're getting together and falling in love even though they're not supposed to, I guess, it's very Romeo and…oh."

"I told Shakespeare it would've been better if Romeo and Juliet had eloped and moved to Paris, but nooo," Aziraphale brooded. "He told me that they had to die, you know, to make the plot nicer or something. Bloody stupid bugger."

"Shakespeare's nice," Wilson protested.

"He had dandruff," Crowley said glumly. "Bald guy hasss dandruff, how'sss your luck thessse daysss? When he sssscratched hisss head, it wasss like it wasss sssnowing."

The older American paused, wobbling slightly but apparently still sober enough to pick out inconsistencies. "Waitwaitwait…what is the worst that could happen?"

Crowley looked at him blearily. "He findsss out."

"Plus Lucifer's not really going to be that happy, either, you know," Aziraphale mused. "And then Michael's been raring to start the war, you know, and they'll try to pull them apart but if they're stubborn sods like most young people these days they'll say no, and then there'll be tension and with Michael, well, it's just so easy to start the Apocalypse and then whoops, Homo sapiens, it's the end of the world…"

"Again," Crowley added, trying to pour himself another glass and managing it on the third go.

"Again?" Wilson wondered.

"Yep," Crowley said. He didn't elaborate, focusing instead of the level of wine left in the bottle (which was still full despite the numerous drinks). One nice thing about being a demon was the free drinks. Technically, he wasn't supposed to miracle for this kind of stuff, if the pen-pushers Down There found out that he was mucking with the energy of the, the wossname, then they'd…they'd…well, it couldn't be any worse than what they had already had in mind.

On second thought, he might as well get utterly pissed out of his mind, and be enjoying himself when the world ended. (Again.) After all, how many damned—blessed—FUCKING STUPID Apocalypses could one demon be expected to avert?

*It was a small victory (rare was the human who could resist a good Johnnie Walker Blue), but at this point he'd take what he could get.

((()))

"Baaaaah."

"…tell me how this is supposed to work again?"

"I dunno, it was your idea."

"Baaaaah."

"Grrrrrr…"

"Dog's getting jealous."

"Down, Dog. No bitin' the nice sheep."

"I think it's a lamb, really. Although I think I might have to hide the whole, you know, seven eyes and seven horns bit."

"You think people'll notice? They don't really see see, y'know. Humans're amazingly unobservant. It's amazin' what kinds of things they miss, all the time."

"They're not all bad. I mean, we both were raised by humans."

"An' you died to save them, an' all that. Yeah, I can see how you might like em'."

"Well, they do grow on you. What's that saying? You are what you…"

"Eat? That's not right."

"No, not eat. I guess be would be better. I mean, when you're human-shaped, you tend to…become human. Does that make sense?"

"Yep. I don' think many other people would get it, though."

"Lucky that you're here, then."

"Mmm, lucky."

"Baaaaah."

((()))

Crowley woke up the next morning with a splitting hangover, something that he hadn't had since…his first day in America, actually. Most of the time, Crowley conveniently averted hangovers by miracling the alcohol out of his bloodstream the night before, but special occasions demanded more alcohol than usual and sometimes he just…forgot. Yeah.

He rubbed his eyes and winced at the bright sunlight streaming through the curtains on the window. Conjuring up a pair of sunglasses, Crowley slid them onto his nose and sighed with relief as the world toned itself down, easing the cacophony in his head. Blearily, he took an inventory of his various body parts*: legs? Check. Arms? Check. Wings? Winched in but still there. Kay. Everything still attached; that was good.

Next: surroundings. Bed. Two beds, actually. Er…floppy human body next to him. Ohdear. Crowley sat up gingerly, careful not to disturb the sleeping form. It was the…the younger American, whatshisname, Watson or Wilton or something. The one with Aziraphale lurking in his brain. The other guy, the building, was snoring away on the second bed.

Stupid Aziraphale. What had the angel been thinking? Getting himself smited on the day of Crowley's grand homecoming…if he didn't know better, he'd think that Aziraphale had done it on purpose. Ugh. Poncy angel.

"Oy," Crowley whispered, poking the unconscious form. "Wake up. Rise and shine, sleeping…um…"

Well, not beauty, certainly. Not that Aziraphale's old body had been a beauty anyway, but it had a certain charm. "I thought good was ever-vigilant, you stupid git," Crowley added weakly. "I'm awake. I'm ready to wile. Time to thwart, you…"

"Ngggh," the American said, rolling over and planting his face in the pillow.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, his voice muffled by the pillow. "You're still here?"

"Where else would I be?" Crowley asked, grumpy and relieved all at the same time. "I'm never getting that pissed again, I swear."

"You're a demon. I think breaking oaths is part of the job description," Aziraphale said, but it was a gentle chiding. "Don't remember much about last night."

Gingerly, Crowley rolled the American over so that he could better hear Aziraphale's words, grimacing as he did so. "Neither do I, not after the seventh drink or so."

"Mmm. I guess passing out is a side effect of human possession."

"Well, I passed out too," Crowley said unashamedly. "Figured that I deserved to get utterly soused."

"Well, I suppose we could call it a belated homecoming party. Once in a while doesn't hurt."

"Hurt what? Have you fallen to temptation, angel?"

"No," Aziraphale said, sounding injured. "But all good things in moderation, as the humans say. As it were. Ahem."

"Rest assured, you're incorruptible, angel," Crowley said, his hand reaching out to fiddle with Aziraphale/the American's hair. Same color, roughly the same length. Something was off, though. "I'm still bloody angry at you, you know."

"Why?"

"Shouldn't it be obvious?"

"Well, I didn't ask to be smited, you know. Remind me to send Jesus a stern note, because really, that was just rude."

"Are you allowed to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Reprimand the Boss's kid."

"Well, I already got smited once, I don't suppose it could happen twice."

"Mmm," Crowley said. "Yours was curlier."

"Um…what?"

Aziraphale couldn't control the body (aside from the mouth), but Crowley was fairly certain that if he could, Aziraphale would be giving him a long, skeptical look right now. "The hair," he explained belatedly, snatching his hand back. "Your hair curled slightly. His doesn't."

"The hair? Oh. I never noticed. This body is slightly less paunchy, though, which is a nice change."

"You liked the paunch. Why else would you keep it?"

"Oh…I don't know," Aziraphale said, sounding uncomfortable. "You get used to it after a bit."

"No wings," Crowley added, wistfully. "When are you going back Up There to requisition a new body?"

"Oh," Aziraphale said uneasily. "Well, if I go back Up, then I'll have to answer a lot of uncomfortable questions about how I got smited in the first place. And well, ever since your side invented Records there's been quite a lot of paperwork and red tape you have to jump through in order to get a new body. So it might be a while before I'm allowed to come back down, anyway."

"It's hoops, Aziraphale. You jump through hoops, cut through red tape, go through the—oh, never mind. How much of a while?"

"Well, you know that getting in or out of Heaven always takes a long time. Something about the energy taken from the ineffable universe, I think. Either that or bureaucracy."

"Oh," Crowley said glumly, mentally cursing the invention of records. It had been incredible fun at the time, seeing the humans' heads metaphorically explode, but now he rather regretted it.

"At least we can still talk. How was America, by the way? The last time we talked, you were in—what was it, California?"

"No, I went to the capital after that," Crowley said, waving a hand dismissively. "Did some wiling there with their health care bill and whatnot. Same old, nothing new."

"Hmm. Perhaps I should go next time. Get out of England and stretch my wings, that sort of thing. America certainly is big, anyway."

"Eh, you wouldn't last two days," Crowley sniffed, his fingers creeping back to touch Aziraphale's hair. (Not quite as nice as preening his wings, maybe, but that was smiting for you.) "America is crowded with bebop. The youth are all going goth these days. Either that or emo."

"Well, I expect you fit right in."

"You're heartless for an angel."

"I do try, Crowley."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, Crowley's fingers still toying with Aziraphale's hair.

"We could always ask Adam," Aziraphale added after a moment.

"Ask him what?"

"Well, he did it last time. I'm sure that if we promised to keep our mouths shut, he'd put me back in the right body."

Crowley's fingers paused as the idea shot through his brain and settled down, purring like a cat. Caution made him hesitate, though. "What about him and Jesus? Are we really going to get involved in the whole Apocalypse thing again? I just spent last night drowning my sorrows concerning that topic; I'd really rather not do it again."

"Well," Aziraphale said placatingly, "It is rather important if the world is going to end, don't you think? And all our reasons for not wanting the Apocalypse to happen last time still apply, you know. This way we might as well kill two birds with one stone—get my old body back, and see if we can keep the ineffable plan from happening. Er, again, of course."

"It's ineffable for a reason," Crowley muttered. "I'm a demon. I'm not supposed to be responsible, Aziraphale! I agree with the whole going-to-see-Adam-for-a-new-body bit, but this time, instead of buggering up the Apocalypse we should go to Paris or something and—"

"Well, if the world's destroyed, there won't be a Paris," Aziraphale pointed out, far too reasonably Crowley thought.

"Fine. We'll go to America. My side just loves America; they won't touch a hair of its precious little head, and as for your side, they're still gushing over the fact it's the first democratic country since the Greeks got buggered up the arse by the—"

"No Bentleys in Hell," Aziraphale said suddenly, stopping Crowley's diatribe in its tracks. "No Ritz. No Johnnie Walker Blue. No watches that tell time in sixteen countries."

Crowley winced, a pained look crossing his face. "That's just cruel, Aziraphale."

"I'm only telling it like it is, my dear Crowley. Need I go on? Besides, you have to admit that you've grown rather attached to the seething mass of humanity, Crowley. Who else has the capacity for such, such—"

"Stupidity? The way they—"

"Creativity," Aziraphale said firmly, and Crowley groaned. "Admit it! Hell would be awfully dull if not for Heaven, and that goes too for all the humans sandwiched in between. They wreak such havoc in their short lives that they approach delightfulness from the other side."

"It's not my problem! I'm—I'm supposed to want it to happen! Well, I didn't last time, but that was only because—because—well—"

"Nothing's changed, you see? You didn't want the world to end last time, and you still don't this time." A pause. "What're you afraid of, Crowley?"

Crowley grumbled under his breath, his fingers tightening in Aziraphale's hair. "I spent years in America to hide from the retribution of Down There, and you ask me this now? Are you daft, Aziraphale?"

"You're afraid of…divine revenge?"

"Not the quick kind," Crowley said defensively. "I mean, if it were just a splash of holy water to the face, well, it'd be terrible, but it'd be over quickly. But the memo I got last time indicated that Beezlebub had Words, and well, it's not exactly a stern talking-to like the sort I expect you angels get—"

"Well, Michael did spend a good part of the next couple months ranting at me," Aziraphale said thoughtfully. "Metatron snubbed me for the next couple years. I suspect the fellow still hates me. Can't imagine why."

"Because you stopped their bloody Apocalypse, that's why. You stopped them from starting the War and opening the blessed Seals and blowing the bloody Trumpets and mustering up the Host and engaging in an enormous war that will cheerfully blow this stupid, insane, lovely planet to bits. That's why they're pissed at you. Now imagine what Beezlebub has in mind, and you wouldn't want to avert the second Apocalypse, either." Crowley took a deep breath. "I can live without the Bentley. It'll be a right pain, but at least it won't be a wrong pain, either."

Aziraphale was silent for a long moment. Then: "No Arrangement."

Crowley recoiled as if he had been struck.

"You know that's what'll happen," Aziraphale said, sounding tired, resigned. "Nobody really approves of angels mating with humans, but it's not unheard of. But if Jesus and the Antichrist are together? When Michael or Metatron finds about this—or Lucifer, on your end—they'll use this to start the Apocalypse. You know they're just waiting for an excuse, anyway, to start the End of Days. And then your side will send the Beast to open the portal from Hell, my side will open the seven seals, and the war will begin. And then after that, well, one side's got to win, right? That's the point of the Apocalypse in the first place. And then, when one side wins...the Arrangement's over."

Crowley exhaled deeply. Then he took a deep breath, then another.

"They're just names, Crowley. Good and evil, Heaven and Hell—they're just names for two different sides."

"I know that," Crowley muttered. "You don't have to lecture me, Aziraphale. I was at the Fall too, picked the apple and everything."

"Then if you can…why not?"

Crowley gritted his teeth, withdrawing his hand from Aziraphale's hair. Damn Aziraphale, damn his conscience, damn the responsibility. But most of all, just damn Aziraphale to Hell.

"Fine," he muttered. "We'll go see Adam. And when Beezlebub disembowels me Down There I'm going to blame it all on you. You know that, right?"

"At least you'll have the lovely warm glow of knowing that you did the right thing," Aziraphale said primly, but Crowley could hear the smile in his voice.

"Bastard," Crowley said, but his heart wasn't in it. "We'll wait for the Americans to wake up, then, and off we'll go."

Aziraphale paused. "They might not like being carted all the way to Tadfield, though. It's a distance from London."

"Eh," Crowley said dismissively. "We're saving their kind; they can afford to cooperate with us. Besides, they both seem pretty nice—for humans, anyway. It won't be a problem."

*A habit left over from his party days Down There, where it was customary for body parts to be tattooed beforehand so that they could be returned to their appropriate owners after the party.

((()))

From Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter: Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com; Ye Saga Continuef:

213. Whene the onee who Dyed desends frome the Skye and withe thee Boye liveth near Tadd Fyeld, two menne sharl arriveth fromme the Newe Sweaterre, bearynge a Sir Afare withine. With the sirpint Crow lee and the Stollene Flamme they sharl bringe aboutte the ende of thee Worlde.

"Oh no…not again."

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Interlude: In Which Our Heroes Straighten a Few Things Out

On the way to Tadfield

"So…tell me why we're doing this again?"

"We're going to save the world."

"…really? From what?"

"How drunk were you last night, Wilson?"

"Drunk enough that I don't remember passing out."

"Your liver is going to give out any minute now, and then where will I be?"

"The plane tickets are in the back pocket of the blue suitcase, House. But thanks for your concern anyway."

"I'll have to drag your corpse back to New Jersey. Think of the airfare."

"I'm sure you'll manage."

"You two are from New Jersey? I kicked around there for a bit. Not much to do, really. D.C. was more fun."

"Well, we can't all be the capital of the damn country."

"Wow, House. You're actually defending New Jersey? Are you saying that you have an emotional attachment to your home state?"

"Hey, I've stayed there, what, twenty years? That's forty percent of my life. I should get a card or something."

"I thought you didn't celebrate birthdays."

"I don't. But this isn't a birthday, is it?"

"Oh, so we're allowed to celebrate…what, the twenty-year-mark of living in New Jersey?"

"Yeah, like totally. Get me some naked cheerleaders."

"Um."

"Or you could just strip naked and save yourself five hundred bucks."

"Buh?"

"Could we talk about something else?"

"What, angel, are you squeamish now? We're all beings of the earth here."

"Not so much squeamish, Crowley, as distracted."

"By what?"

"I'm trying to concoct a—pardon me—devilishly clever plan to convince Adam to get me out of this body."

"Hey! It's my body, and I kinda like it, you know."

"Yeah, don't mess with Wilson's body. He's sensitive about this kind of thing."

"Well, it is rather nice as bodies go, but I prefer my old one. No offence."

"Well, that's okay then."

"So this Adam guy is going to give you your body back? How? Will there be sparkly lights?"

"Um…no. Not unless he really wants them, I suppose. He is the Antichrist, after all, so he's got a fair bit of leverage when it comes to special effects. Does that help?"

"Wait, wait, what? Adam's the what? The what?"

"Were you not listening when we explained yesterday, Wilton?"

"It's Wilson. And no. I was drunk."

"Well, long story short, Adam—that's the Antichrist to you—fell in love with Jesus—or the other way around—anyway, they're together now and unless you want the world to end it's generally a good idea to stop them before the fireworks start."

"Wilson."

"What, House?"

"Am I hallucinating this?"

"It's one hell of a hallucination if you are. But no, I don't think it is."

"…right. Well, nobody's naked yet. And I don't see Cuddy anywhere. So I'll take your word for it."

"People get naked in your hallucinations? What the hell do you do for a living?"

"He's a doctor. We both are doctors. Uh, go back to the Antichrist part. And the fireworks part. What does that…mean, exactly?"

"It means that we have to save the world, Wilson. Jeesh. Weren't you listening?"

"Shut up, House."

"Actually, he's right. We are attempting to avert the Apocalypse."

"…oh."

"Don't worry, it gets easier."

"What, you've saved the world before?"

"Unfortunately. Yes. Can we talk about something else?"

"So this means that God really exists?"

"Oh, yes. Indubitably. And so does Lucifer, in case you were wondering."

"I'm Jewish, you know. I mean, not that it really matters, but…"

"Well, if we don't manage to stop the end of the world, I doubt anyone will care, really. Once the Seals have been opened and the Beast unleashed, it's pretty much over for humanity one way or another."

"Yeah, between the Heavenly Host and the guys Down There, you guys are toast."

"This is one hell of a way to overturn fifty years of dedicated atheism. I don't suppose you have another bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue on you?"

"Nope."

"…damn."

((()))

Chapter the Second: In Which a Tea Party is Held

Part II

It was a nice little two-story home—white picket fence, artistically messy garden, even a little garden gnome stuck in the front. In the backyard, a dog could be heard barking, a sheep bleating. It was all very quaint. Very charming. Very English.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" Crowley asked uneasily, craning his head of out the window and pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. "Doesn't he live with his parents or something? Seems a bit small."

"He's grown up now," Aziraphale said patiently. "He moved out when he turned eighteen, I believe, so it's just him and Jesus. And the dog, of course. Park there, Crowley."

Crowley obediently parked on the curb of the street and got out of the car. House followed with a grunt, stretching his muscles in the lazy afternoon sun. Aziraphale/Wilson followed, closing the door behind him. Them. Whatever. A guy's head could explode pondering questions like that if he wasn't careful.

(To tell the truth, he wasn't completely convinced that it wasn't all a hallucination or a delusion. But what the hell. His leg still hurt, there was no naked Cuddy, and that weighed heavily in the favor of reality.)

Between the three (or four) of them, none of them seemed particularly eager to be the first one to knock on the door. Crowley appeared to be holding an inner debate as to whether or not to get back in the Bentley and speed away, while Wilson…well, Wilson was looking properly confused, his hands jammed inside his coat pockets. With a sigh, House elbowed them both out of the way and thumped to the door. "It's this house, right?" he asked Crowley, who raised an eyebrow. "I mean, I wouldn't want to get the wrong Jesus. How awkward would that be?"

"Just…" Crowley sighed, gesturing vaguely in the air. "Get it over with."

Rolling his eyes, House knocked.

In the backyard, the dog's barking grew louder. "Hang on!" a muffled voice called from inside the house, and then the door swung open to reveal a young man—maybe twenty or so, with dark brown hair and sharp eyes. A little mongrel dog came racing up from behind him, yapping excitedly. The man frowned, looking past House to fix on Crowley. "Hey," he said reprovingly. "What're you doin' here, Crowley?"

"Adam. Hi," Crowley said, waving one hand awkwardly. "Um. Just, you know, catching up."

"Jesus's busy," Adam said, crossing his arms over his chest. "And we're not going to listen to whatever you have to say, so—"

"You're the Antichrist?" House said skeptically, tilting his head to properly observe Adam. "You seem kind of…" he trailed off as Adam turned to look at him, looking away from Adam's flat stare.

"Kind of what?" Adam demanded.

House swallowed and gave a small half-shrug. Okay. Wow. Not that eye contact was that easy for House in the first place, but something about this kid was definitely…off. House made a mental note: no snide jokes, not with this kid. "Not what I expected," he finished, lamely. Adam frowned, but at least he looked away from House, taking that terrible pressure away.

"Adam!" Aziraphale said with a kind of desperate cheer. "Not to intrude or anything, but—"

"Aziraphale?" Adam demanded. "Seems to me, seems to me that if gettin' smited once wasn't enough, then maybe I could fix up another good smitin'—"

"Adam?"

A light voice, coming from behind Adam. A young woman came into view—roughly the same age, with straight chestnut hair that fell to her shoulders and hazel eyes, and last but not least, quite attractive in a pixielike way. House glanced at Wilson as a small "eeep" came from his direction. "Wilson?" he hissed.

"Wasn't me," Wilson mouthed at him absently, his eyes fixed upon the woman. House frowned critically, noting the slightly starstruck expression in Wilson's eyes. Slut.

"What's going on?" the woman said with a small frown, putting her hands on her hips. "Adam, who are these people? Dog, shut up," she added, waving a hand absently at the small mongrel, which obediently went quiet and sat down.

"They were just leavin'," Adam said, throwing them a nasty glare. "They're not going to be any trouble, not at all, and they're goin' to go now. Now."

"Eeep," came the sound again. This time it was definitely Aziraphale.

The woman frowned, a crease appearing between the exquisite eyebrows. "Aziraphale?" she said, then grimaced as a faint red blush suffused her cheeks. "Ugh. Is that you?" she said, peering uncertainly at Wilson. "You seem to have…changed. Still have the Presence on you, though."

Wilson's mouth opened. "Hello, Jesus," the angel said meekly.

House blinked, looking back and forth between Wilson and the woman—Jesus. "You're Jesus?"

The woman turned to look at him, and House winced slightly as he was forced to look away from her gaze as well. "Actually, it's Jessica. Er."

"Jessica?" House repeated.

"Well, I could hardly go around calling myself Jesus, now could I?" the woman said, getting a little flustered. "It's, you know, got a bit of a reputation! And I'm not Mexican—or at least this form isn't—so I can't really do the whole, you know, hay-soos thing. And then I'm a woman, which is something that I wasn't last time, and then I thought, well, if Adam doesn't go around calling himself Antichrist all the time why can't I pick a new moniker for myself? Besides, I've always admired Jessica Simpson. She has a lovely voice."

Silence.

"You're a fan of reality TV?" House said finally. Jesus passed a hand over her eyes and sighed. "That explains a lot."

Jesus facepalmed. Adam cleared his throat.

"Look, that's not the point," he said, picking up the thread of conversation where they had left off. "The point, the point was that you lot're going to go away from here. Go far far away," "Then they're never going to—"

"Actually," Aziraphale said, making a remarkably quick recovery, "We're here to ask a bit of a…um…favor. Undoing the damage, you might say."

Jesus (for some reason, House was having incredible difficulty calling her Jessica, even in his own head) frowned. "I'm not going to perform any miracles, you know. It'll get noticed by Up There and the last thing we need is for Gabriel or worse, Michael to find out where I've been hiding for the past couple of weeks."

"Actually, if you could just—um—well, Adam did it last time and it took about thirty seconds, so I suppose it's not all that big a fuss, really, so—"

"Get to the point or I set Dog on you," Adam said impatiently. The dog by his feet began to growl, as if to emphasize his words. Wilson looked squeamish, edging behind House.

"Um," Aziraphale said. "Well, last time we met—I think you may have—um—accidentally—um—things might have gotten a little sniffy and I'm sure you didn't mean to, really, but—"

"Oh," Jesus said. "Um."

"I don't see why we should un-smite you anyway," Adam said loftily, putting an arm around Jesus's shoulders. "I mean, you're back here and you're just botherin' us again and we already told you to go away and everythin'. So there."

"Sensible kid," Crowley murmured. "Very Antichrist of him. What do you say that we back away and leave, now?"

"Is it just me, or are that dog's eyes glowing red?" Wilson hissed into House's ear.

"Not just you," House whispered back, fascinated. "You think it's a werewolf?"

"Worse. It's a hellhound," Crowley muttered. "At least werewolves you can kill with silver."

"And he's got very sharp teeth," Adam added, raising one hand. The dog's growl grew louder, somehow managing to push the button labeled run away, tasty little human snack in House's brain. "And if you don't go away right now he'll—"

BOOM.

Whatever the dog might have done was drowned out by a great crack of thunder. This was followed by a bolt of lightning that flashed, struck the ground, and stayed there to form a gigantic sizzling column of electricity. Jesus's face went pale; the dog stopped growling, tucked its tail in, and hid behind Adam. "Oh, no," Jesus said. "Not good. Not good. NOT GOOD."

House blinked as the column vanished to reveal a striking, Viking-esque man with bulging muscles possessed only by an elite few bodybuilders, wreathed in golden fire. The last few lingering doubts that it was all a hallucination fled for dear life, because no way in hell was his imagination this good. For one, in his hallucination it would've been an amazingly hot woman (not that Jesus wasn't hot but she was a bit too young and way too pixielike, kind of like in Japanese anime with the huge puppy dog eyes, and good god that was a truly surreal thought to have) wearing a bikini and not much else, possibly bearing a number of interesting bouncy rubber things, but Arnold Schwarzenegger's twin did not rate high on his list of objects of lust. If Arnold had blond hair. Wavy blond hair. And an expression suspiciously like that of House's father's—disapproving, austere, who-the-hell-is-this-piece-of-dirt-on-my-shoe sort of look.

A quick look at Jesus revealed that she was now attempting to burrow into Adam's armpit. Wilson's mouth was open, and Crowley looked like he wanted to melt into the hood of the Bentley and never come out. The newcomer took this all in with one piercing look and turned to look at Jesus. "JESUS!" he bellowed, enormous wings unfurling behind him with a dramatic snap.

"Michael," Jesus said faintly.

"Oh, god," House heard Wilson say. "Is that a—"

The man—angel—was holding an enormous sword, the shiny steel length flaring with brilliant red fire. Despite the fact that he was supposed to be an angel, he looked positively demonic—his eyes flashing with cold authority, the blade held aloft in one mighty hand, the impressively unfurled wings, the muscular body, the fact that he looked like he would cheerfully smite them all (well, maybe not cheerfully but certainly with a grim sense of enthusiastic duty) without a second thought, the—

((()))

(At this point, the reader may find a little background information on Heaven and the Holy Host more helpful than a description of how truly terrifying Michael is. Because he is terrifying, and he knows it. He knows.

It goes like this: God (Jehovah, Yahweh, Allah, He Who Created the Heavens and the Earth and Even Though Nobody Likes to Admit It, Hell Too) is the ruler of heaven. It's pretty simple. His second-in-command used to be Lucifer (Morningstar, The Devil, Satan, the Adversary) until the whole business with the Fall. When Lucifer ran off to start his own empire, Michael (Michael) became the new second-in-command. This promotion also included the title of General of the Holy Host, a post he tackled with great fervor, much to the woe of the remaining angels. (Because one thing you could say for Lucifer, the guy may have been the epitome of all evil, but he knew that the way to boost troop morale was not to scream, rant, berate and order them around every second of the day. One thing that Michael has sadly failed to learn. No wonder so many angels Fell.)

Michael has been the General of the Holy Host (Heaven's fighting force) for over six thousand years, preparing them every moment of every day to be in tiptop shape, eagerly awaiting the day of the Apocalypse. As you can imagine, when the Apocalypse failed to happen Michael was, to put it politely, pissed off. He would have cheerfully disembowelled Aziraphale, Crowley, Adam, and everyone else even vaguely involved if it had not been for the fact that a) God tapped him on the shoulder and said that it's not really nice to kill people for not letting you kill people in the first place, b) it takes a lot of time and cosmic energy to come to earth, and c) Adam wouldn't let him.

For the past couple of years, Michael has stewed in his own version of misery (continuous body building, diet drinks, etc.), wondering why, oh why the ineffable Plan did not happen. In between stewing, he looks for ways to subtly (or so he thinks—Michael is not really capable of subtle, as his dramatic appearance eight paragraphs ago shows) kick off the Apocalypse. Anything will do, as long as it shows Hell to be the bad guys (in other words, they have to be the ones to make the first move) and as long as it's, you know, subtle.

With that properly ominous forewarning, we will now return to the story.)

((()))

—way his muscles flexed under bronzed skin, the hair, oh the hair, the golden locks glinting menacingly in the sunlight, the sharp planes of his face, the muscles, the sword with its terrible sharp point and the sparks of fire and flame and—

"That's mine," Aziraphale said, sounding a little resentful. "I thought that International Express man looked a little fishy."

There was a pause. Michael looked deeply offended at being upstaged. "What International Express man?" he barked.

Aziraphale squeaked, apparently realizing who he was talking to. There was a long pause as Michael tried to pick up the thread of intimidation where he had left off. Jesus did not give him a chance to do so, as she stormed across the lawn and punched him in the face.

"You!" she fumed, then whirled around to stare accusingly at Wilson. "You! You brought him here! I knew I should have noticed something wrong about the aura of heavenly Presence on you. They were following you all along! They followed you here!"

"I didn't!" Wilson sputtered, throwing his hands up. "I didn't even—"

She made an exasperated noise, something like tcccch, and waved a hand dismissively at him. Wilson felt his mouth slam shut, his lips locking tightly together. "Mmm!" he said, pawing at his mouth. "Mmmse!"

House gripped his arm lightly, and Wilson turned to look at him, slightly panicked. Inside his head, he could feel the angel's distress—the feelings were vague, as if they came through a sieve (was all angelic possession like this? It wasn't like he had anything to compare it to), but they were definitely not happy.

"Toto, we are not in Kansas anymore," House said quite seriously, and Wilson resisted to the urge to throw his head back and howl at the heavens in sheer exasperation. Well. If he could open his mouth. Which he couldn't.

Across the yard, Michael and Jesus were engaged in a heated debate, both of them gesturing wildly (in Michael's case, this was slightly more dangerous as he was still holding the sword). Adam looked furious and strode forward, joining in the argument, leaving the two humans and Crowley alone in the background. Crowley looked at them sideways and sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I knew we should've gone to Paris," he said glumly, glancing at the three arguing beings. "It would've saved us a huge headache, you know."

"What's the worse that could happen again?" House asked quietly, his hand still resting on Wilson's arm. "Besides the whole Apocalypse bit?"

Crowley sighed and removed his sunglasses to reveal yellow eyes with slitted vertical pupils. He rubbed them wearily for a moment, then stared up at the sky. "The end of the world as you know it."

"Oh," House said.

"Well, we've truly bollocksed it up now," the demon added depressingly. "So I've got a warm welcome Down There to look forward to. Damn eternity of it." He paused. "Actually, Below might give me a commendation for this. After all, I managed to start the Apocalypse, what more could they want of me…"

"Mmm mmm mmm MMM MMM!" Wilson said, still working furiously at his mouth.

"Yeah, I know," House said unhelpfully and turned back to Crowley. "This wouldn't have anything to do with aliens, would it?" he asked. "Or alien abductions?"

"There were aliens last time," Crowley said. "They didn't do much, though. Just said hi and then left again. Nah, I think the guys Above and Below won't bother with aliens when they've got so much stuff to work with already. Although last time they tried out the Horsemen—you know, Famine, Pollution, War, and Death—first. They wanted to go for drama, start a multination nuclear exchange and everything. This time, they'll probably hop straight to the divine entertainment bit."

"Divine entertainment?" House asked. Wilson could see the gears turning in his head and groaned, trying to catch House's attention. House ignored him. "What do you mean by that?"

"Means the whole bit with the Host and the Beast and the Scroll and everything. Look, it's all in the book of Revelation. Look it up." Crowley petered off, his eyes fixed on the arguing trio.

Wilson spared them a glance, and Aziraphale looked with him. Michael appeared to be calming down. Somewhat. Although Aziraphale would still not approach Michael with a ten-foot-pole, he was sure of that. Even though Michael had stolen his sword, how very rude of the archangel—

Wilson thumped his head lightly to dislodge Aziraphale's thoughts from his head. House turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised. Wilson rolled his eyes and waved him off, letting out a snort (one of the few coherent sounds he could make with his lips sealed shut).

Then all of a sudden Jesus was walking towards them, looking, if not pleased, then at least slightly relaxed. "Well, it's okay," she said. "Michael's agreed to talk this over sensibly over a nice plate of biscuits and tea. Would you like to join us?"

"Mmm?" Wilson said, blinking at the sudden change.

"Oh," Jesus said, and waved her hand at him. Wilson found his lips able to open again and ran his tongue over his lips in relief. "What was that?"

Wilson's mouth opened involuntarily as Aziraphale spoke. "What do you mean, Michael's agreed to talk it over sensibly? Michael doesn't do sensible."

Jesus smiled innocently. "Well, I may have pulled a little rank on him. Technically, he's second-in-command, but let's just say I hold a special place in the heavenly hierarchy."

"Oh," Wilson said weakly. "That's good."

She nodded. "It is. Anyway. Tea? We're going to have it in the backyard. There's a picnic table there, and besides, if Michael throws a tantrum fewer things will break."

Wilson looked at House, who gave him a look and nodded. Crowley looked less enthusiastic, but at a, "Well, all right," from Aziraphale, the demon muttered a very unwilling, "Fine," and trailed after the rest of them to the backyard.

((()))

Tea time was…complicated.

Michael spent the entire time glowering at Jesus and Adam, and as General and Unspoken Tyrant of the Holy Host, he had perfected his glowering powers until they were almost fatal. The only time he ceased glaring was when he was introduced to the Lamb, who was frolicking happily in Adam's backyard under the dog's (whose name turned out to be Dog) watchful supervision.

"We spent hours looking for that sheep," he told Jesus curtly. "Everyone was very worried when we found that it was missing."

She shrugged. "Well, we needed a way to stop the Apocalypse. And since the Host can't arrive if the Lamb doesn't open the seven seals, we thought we'd borrow the Lamb for safekeeping." She smiled brightly, showing teeth. "Don't worry, we'll return it after all this fuss is over."

"We," Michael growled, as if the word had offended him personally.

"Yes, we," Adam said with a glare of his own. This glare said something along the lines of, You don't scare me at all, you really don't.

Michael: Oh yeah? I'd like to test that theory.

Adam: Bring. It. ON.

Jesus: "Will you two stop it? We're here to talk things over sensibly. Now, Michael, Adam…"

Rinse and repeat.

"Is this for real?" Wilson quietly wondered as Jesus attempted to ward off yet another impending battle between Adam and Michael. "House, I might have to buy into your hallucination theory, because if I haven't lost my mind yet I think I'm pretty close. Because there's no way this is real."

House shrugged. "I dropped the hallucination idea when Mr. America appeared," he said, gesturing at the glowering Michael with his cane.

"You're not telling me that you seriously believe in the end of the world?" Wilson said, glancing at him.

House shrugged again. "Doesn't really matter whether or not I do or don't believe, if it's going to happen anyway." He gave Wilson a sideways glance. "Besides, it's one hell of a change in scenery."

Wilson's lips quirked as he recalled the conversation they'd first had when they arrived in England…wow, was it just two days ago? Two days. Wow. "You want to have a go at insulting Michael?" he said, nudging House's shoulder.

"Nah. He reminds me too much of my dad," House said with a grimace. "Same look on his face. Actually, that's a pretty good argument for hallucinations, if a complete stranger looks like someone I used to know. Hmm."

"Can you hallucinate while knowing that you're hallucinating?"

House fiddled with his cane, stretching out his bad leg before him. "I knew that I was hallucinating Amber."

Wilson looked at him sharply. House avoided his gaze, staring fixedly off into the distance. A dozen replies jumped to mind, most of them discarded. Oh, poor boy, Aziraphale thought into his brain. He looks like he could use a good hug, don't you think?

Shut up.

I was only trying to help.

You're not helping. So shut up.

House cleared his throat, and Wilson turned his mind away from the inner debate. "Anyway, the nice guys in white coats came in and saved the day, so I'm all better now," House said. "No need to worry."

Wilson hesitated, then gave a soft sigh. "House, if I didn't worry about you, what else would I do with my time?" he asked, infusing his voice with just the lightest touch of playfulness.

House smiled slightly, but he didn't look up. "Well, you wouldn't be in London, that's for sure."

"Yeah, I'd be seeing whiny clinic patients who wouldn't recognize an STD if they sat on one. Which I'm sure they did. This is way more fun."

House glanced at him, giving a soft snort. "Stop faking. You love the clinic and all its whiny boys and girls."

"Good thing I'm here with the whiniest boy of all, then," Wilson said, leaning back against the bench. "Hey, boy. Girl. Whatever," he added as the Lamb frolicked over to where they sat, nudging Wilson's hand. "Wow. You know, you never expect farm animals to be as cute and curly as those pictures in Sunday School books, but you have to admit that this little girl—boy—whatever—is cute as hell. Here, girl. Boy. Whatever." Wilson paused and craned his head to check the Lamb's gender.

"S'a boy," House said. "Ew. Sheep drool."

"Really? Oh," Wilson said, then resumed patting the Lamb's head. "It's cute, anyway." He paused. "How long do you think they're going to be?" he added in an undertone, motioning towards the center table where Jesus, Adam, and a glowering Michael sat. "Do you really think that's Michael? You know, like the Archangel Michael?"

"If you can believe that Jesus is a fan of Jessica Simpson, you can believe anything," House told him dryly. He shrugged. "I now have two theories. Either I'm still back in New Jersey, drunk as a skunk and passed out in my underwear, dreaming all this because I just snorted a bucketful of cocaine—"

"A bucketful? Surely not."

"Or else I've gone insane. Either way, I may as well go with it," House concluded. "I mean, I've gone insane before, and it wasn't all that bad."

"So there's no way that this could actually be happening…?"

House gave him a look. "Stop betraying your people by believing that Jesus exists," he said with a roll of his eyes. "You make one sorry Jew, you know."

"Yeah, well, she is pretty cute," Wilson said with a self-mocking laugh. "What can I say; I'm a hopeless romantic."

"No, you're a slut," House said affectionately.

"And you're a crippled jerk."

"Oooh, that's harsh. And politically incorrect. I could sue you for emotional trauma, you know."

"Pot, meet kettle."

"Good point," House admitted, settling back against the bench. Wilson relaxed as well, enjoying the warmth. The fact that Jesus, the Antichrist, and an archangel were arguing over the fate of the world seemed unimportant at that particular moment.

Nicely done, Aziraphale added in Wilson's brain. Although I would like to say for the record, that Jews actually formed the main body of the very first Christians. And Jesus was actually considered a prophet of God, not the actual Messiah, but he—um, she—certainly existed, so you know, you're not actually betraying anything. You might like to tell him that.

Wilson resisted from rolling his eyes, and settled for, I'm sure he already knows. That's just the way House is. He doesn't actually care.

Oh. Sorry, Aziraphale said, and subsided into silence.

The Lamb, apparently having enough of Wilson's head-rubbing, frolicked away, vanishing around the corner of the house. Wilson watched it go, a little wistful.

"You know," House said beside him, and Wilson jumped a little. "I always thought that the Lamb in Revelations was a metaphor for Jesus. You know, the Lamb who was slain and rose from the dead."

Am I supposed to answer that? Wilson wondered. I've never read Revelations; it's not in the Torah.

I think it's a question for me, actually. "No," Aziraphale said out loud. "It's an actual Lamb. I used to feed it apples when I was Up There. There was a bit of fuss about its upkeep costs because nobody knew when the Apocalypse was coming and how long they would have to take care of it. But it is rather cute, isn't it?"

"It's…okay. For mutton."

"Well, it could be worse," Wilson murmured. He glanced at the main table, where Michael had picked up the sword again and was gesturing menacingly with it. In his left hand he held a furled scroll, tightly sealed, and was brandishing it in Adam's face. "Doesn't look like tea time's going well."

"It's not," said Crowley, who had strolled over and deposited himself in a bench seat next to Wilson. "Michael's given them an ultimatum—either they break up or he starts the Apocalypse. Want to bet on how they'll decide?"

"Kind of reminds of me two morons I know," House mused. "Hey, that's a thought. Adam should hire Jesus. She'll hate him forever, I guarantee it."

Wilson snorted, shaking his head. "So how are Thirteen and Foreman these days?" he asked House. "Still at each others' throats?"

"Eh, as long as they do their jobs I don't care," House said with a dismissive shrug.

"Wait, there's actually a person named Thirteen?" Crowley said, sounding distracted. Wilson watched House throw him an irritated glance, but the demon didn't seem to actually expect an answer. "Uh oh."

This last part was because Jesus had apparently lost her temper, overturning the picnic table and rising on tiptoe to glare at Michael, eye to eye. She made a quick half-circle with her hand, and Michael turned an interesting shade of purple before picking up the scroll and sword and stalking away, vanishing around the corner of the house. Presumably off to start the Apocalypse.

"Shit," Crowley said.

"That did…not go well," Aziraphale chimed in, and Wilson winced slightly as Jesus came over to them, brushing hair out of her eyes. She smiled, but it was clearly forced. "I think we've overstayed our welcome, gentlemen…" Aziraphale added under his breath.

"Should we expect the rain of fire any moment now?" House wondered.

"I hope not," Jesus said. "Look, sorry about that whole mess. But Michael wouldn't take no for an answer, and well, what can you do? Anyway." She cleared her throat.

"So…is the Apocalypse starting or not?" Wilson asked.

"No," Jesus said firmly. "While me and Adam could be considered reasonable cause, Michael's not going to be able to launch a full-out war against Hell without the Host, and the Host can't get here if the Lamb doesn't open the Seals. And we've got the Lamb and we're not giving it back."

"Wait, why is the Lamb so important?" Wilson said.

"Only the Lamb can open the Seven Seals, which opens the portal for the Host to get to Earth," Jesus explained impatiently. "Look, it's awfully complicated, but the point is is that it's not going to happen. Dog's been keeping an eye on the Lamb and it's not going anywhere. So."

"Um," Crowley said as Adam walked over to join them. The Antichrist threw the demon a sharp look.

"Um what?" Adam demanded, his arms akimbo.

"Are we talking about the Lamb of God? The Lamb lamb, or just a regular lamb? As in, the lamb in your backyard or the normal lambs you barbecue—"

"The first one," Adam said.

Crowley winced as Adam glared at him. "You guys haven't noticed that it's missing? That it wandered around the front of the house? The direction where Michael went?"

There was a pause.

"Oh, no," Jesus said, and then she and Adam were off, racing towards the front of the house. Crowley slumped against the bench.

"Yeah, thought so," he muttered. "This day's just getting better and better."

((()))

Newton's Third Law of Physics: to every action, there is an equal but opposite reaction.

To put it in theological terms: what Heaven does, Hell does.*

*Except it's not always equal, because Hell is full of demons and well, demons like to cheat. It's kind of part of the job description.

((()))

Near Tadfield, a hole in the fabric of the universe appeared.

((()))

Chapter the Third: In Which Several Things Explode

Part I

In the front yard, a stunned Dog lay unconscious on the ground. The Lamb was missing. So was Michael. There was no sign of either of them, nor any indication where they went.

("Well, we'll be able to find them soon enough," said a glum Crowley, "because when the damn Lamb opens the damn seals all Heaven will break loose and there's not much you can do about it. Eh."

"That's not very helpful," Wilson said. "Did he teleport a car down from heaven…or something? Maybe we can track him. Somehow."

"Actually, he's probably flying away right now," Aziraphale said. "Those wings aren't for show, you know."

"Flying with a squealing lamb under one arm. Hmm. Look out below."—House.)

Jesus and Adam exchanged a long look. Then, Adam snapped, "If we hurry, we can still stop 'im. There's always a way."

Jesus' face was pale, but she nodded resolutely. A few seconds later: "Uh. How?"

("…just follow the screaming," Crowley muttered. "Or the explosions. Take your pick."

"Aren't you a regular ray of sunshine?" House said, twirling his cane.)

"Last time, I just knew," Adam said, pacing feverishly. "I felt it where they were comin' out from Below and where Dad was pushin' at the earth an' I just—Michael's an angel, can't you trace him?"

"Dad can! Not me!" Jesus said, waving her hands wildly in the air. "Maybe I could nip up and ask Him to stop this—"

("Is this the ineffable plan?" Aziraphale wondered. "I mean, is it the ineffable plan? Is it happening now?"

"So last time was just a warm-up for the real event?" Crowley asked. "And I've been hiding in America for years over bloody nothing?"

"Well, if the world's going to end now, it does seem like a waste of time in retrospect, doesn't it," Aziraphale said.)

"Wait!" Adam said, zipping back into the house. "I know who I can ask," he called from inside. "She'll help us!"

"That's great! Um. Who is she?" Jesus asked, trailing him inside.

("There's still time to get into the Bentley, you know," Crowley informed them. "We'll get away from the scene of the crime. What do you say to Paris? I could learn to eat frogs' legs if it means avoiding an eternity of Hell."

"The world's going to end and you want to eat frogs?" Wilson asked.

"Actually, I'm kind of hungry," House said thoughtfully. "Do you think they have any of those cookies left? Would they smite me on the spot if I took one?"

"I don't think that's a very good idea," Aziraphale said. "Now's probably not the best time.")

"She's a psychic. She knows about this kind of stuff. I mean, I thought she was bloody wicked when I was a kid—hello? Anathema?"

("Hey, demon."

"Mmm, what?"

"How exactly is the Apocalypse going to go? Nuclear bombs? Alien invasion? Third ice age?"

"They didn't exactly send me a script. And you're going to be dead anyway, so why do you care?"

"Don't they have to save the 144,000 Israelites first, though? You know, protect the righteous and whisk them to Heaven first?"

"Wow, House, you actually read the Bible? I thought you were an atheist."

"Know thine enemy, Wilson. Besides, it's fun to mock."

"To be honest, they're probably going to skip the saving-the-righteous bit and go straight to the kill-everything-that-moves bit. After all, the angelic and demonic Hosts have had six thousand years to train for the big event. I imagine they're rather antsy and eager for action by now."

"Well. That's…kind of depressing."

"Tell me about it, humans.")

"Got it!" Adam declared triumphantly, racing to his car parked on the street. "Come on, let's go!"

"Go where?" Jesus demanded.

"I know where Michael's going…oh, it's complicated! I'll explain later. C'mon, we gotta go!"

("Should we go with them?" Crowley wondered.)

"Crowley, 'Ziraphale, you two, whatever your names are—come on!"

("Probably, yes," Aziraphale said.)

"All right, all aboard," Crowley said glumly as they climbed into the Bentley. "Lead the way, mon capitaine."

("Brushing up on your French already, Crowley?"

"Hey, I'm just getting ready, because the shit is about to hit the fan.")

((()))

Take a dragon. Give it seven heads full of insanely sharp and pointy teeth. Give all but the middle head an ominous ability to breathe fire. Give the middle head a cool-looking gold crown to make up for the inability. Enlarge it until it towers fifteen feet in height, or just a tad taller than your average elephant. Then add horrendously sharp claws, raspy skin that can flay a man merely by rubbing against it, and a cold, predatory intelligence that consists of the words kill and kill some more, NOW.

Then put an angel (admittedly one with a really cool sword) and a cowering sheep opposite it. Then take a few steps back and bet on the victorious side.

(Unfortunately, the odds that you would live to collect on your bet are astronomically low. But at least you'll have the lovely warm glow of knowing that you picked the winner, even as it eats you.)

((()))

"MICHAEL!" Jesus shouted, leaping out of the car. "ARCHANGEL MICHAEL, COMMANDER AND GENERAL OF THE HOLY HOST, SECOND-IN-COMMAND OF HEAVEN'S FORCES, I COMMAND YOU TO STAND DOWN!"

"Oh boy," Adam added as he looked up at the Beast of Hell, the Harbringer of the End of Days, Devourer of Lost Souls, etc. "Actually, I wouldn't mind he had a go first, y'know? I mean, wear it down before I try n' banish it—"

"MICHAEL, HAND OVER THE LAMB AND NOBODY GETS HURT!"

"Maybe I should go straight to the banishin' bit?" Adam added, a mite nervously. Last time it had been three against one (Beezlebub, Lucifer and Metatron wantin' to start the Apocalypse, the bastards) but this time Lucifer had apparently decided to take no chances of his son stopping him and had unleashed the heavy artillery. "Um," Adam said, staring up at the roaring, fire-breathing beast. "Nice, Dad."

He glanced at Jesus, who was engaged in a tug-of-war with Michael, with the unfortunate Lamb as the rope. He was tempted to tell her to let him open the damn Seals, because the Host couldn't possibly be worse than the Beast of Hell. Maybe he could let them out for a little smitin' and then put them back later on until he wanted them again, use em' just when he needed them and fix them the way he wanted them to be…

Adam grimaced and shook his head, shoving the Antichrist-ish thoughts out of his head. The power was intoxicating, though. Dark Power, straight from Hell's kitchen. Pushing him to claim what was his, show those prissy angels who was boss. He'd said no once, but that was just stupid, he should have…

No. He was human. Born demonic but raised human. And this was his world, dammit, and no stupid demon, even if it was his ole pater, was goin' to come in and take it without even askin', like it was his to begin with!

"Right," Adam said grimly, rolling up his sleeves. "Let's do it, then."

Adam sidled over to where Michael dropped the sword and picked it up. It felt heavy in his hand, the hilt burning in his palm with angelic fire. It felt right for this kind of job.

He took a deep breath, hearing it call out to instincts he didn't even know he had until that very moment.*

Demonic power of the Antichrist. Holy blade of the Archangel**. Stubborn, intractable spirit of humanity. It would have to be enough.

He charged.

*Lucifer was not second-in-command of Heaven and the former commander of the Holy Host for nothing, you know. The guy could fight.

**Aziraphale wishes to remind everyone that it was actually his sword to begin with, and Michael just stole it. 'Holy blade of the Archangel' sounds more dramatic than 'Holy blade of the Principality who gave it away to a International Express mailman and never got it back because it was stolen by an archangel,' though.

((()))

"Hell's taking the battlefield; we have to call the Host now!" Michael raged as he clung on to the Lamb with one hand and the Scroll with the other. "Stop interfering, this has to be done, it's the GREAT PLAN—"

"I died to save this place!" Jesus screamed into his face, clinging grimly onto the Lamb. "I hung on the bloody cross, I got stabbed with the bloody spear, I died for three bloody days to save this stupid planet, and I'll be damned if I let you off it just because you're bored and need something to do—"

"IT'S INEFFABLE!" Michael howled as the Lamb bleated helplessly. "IT'S—THE—PLAN—"

"STOP SAYING IT'S INEFFABLE, IT'S NOT!" Jesus yelled. "IT DIDN'T HAPPEN LAST TIME AND I'M NOT GOING TO LET IT HAPPEN NOW, NOT ON MY WATCH!"

((()))

"Oh. Em. Gee," House muttered, staring out the window of the Bentley. "Is that a—"

"Dragon? The seven-headed beast of hell? Lucifer's pet dog? Vanguard of Hell's forces? Yep," Crowley completed for him. "Oooh look, there's Adam with the sword, do you think he'll—ooh! Ouch!" He winced as one head made a dive for the Antichrist, billowing demonic fire that Adam just barely deflected with the holy blade. "Want to take bets on how he'll last?"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale admonished. "We should be helping, not—oh, you know what? Put me down for five quid for…let's say, five minutes. There. Can we go help now?"

Crowley shrugged and conjured up a pen and notepad. "I'll give you five to one odds on that, angel, because frankly I don't think he's going to last very long—AGGGH!"

The dragon's last burst of fire carved a neat scythe-shaped furrow in the ground just ahead of them, throwing up a wall of flames and steam from melted snow. "My Bentley!" Crowley yelped, clutching the steering wheel and letting out a sound like a wounded animal.

"Stuff the Bentley! Get out of the car!" Aziraphale directed, and then the three beings were tumbling out of the car into the hot, steamy air, stumbling away from the barrier of smoldering fire.

"Shit shit shit shit shit," Wilson chanted under his breath as the middle head of the dragon, the one with the crown, reared back and let out an enormous shriek, flapping its wings and snapping at Adam defiantly. "Oh my god, we are going to die—"

"SHUT UP!" Crowley yelled. "This is hard enough without you rambling, seriously."

"We should let Michael summon the Host," Aziraphale fretted. "If the Beast runs around earth without Heaven to stop it then Hell will have won the war by forfeit—"

"But if we let Michael summon the Host, then it's the Apocalypse! The world's going to end!" Wilson yelled.

"Yes, but at least there's a chance Heaven will win, although I have to admit it works out pretty much the same way for humanity one way or another—"

"Crowley!" House snapped, interrupting the angel. "What do you mean, vanguard of Hell's forces?"

Crowley stopped bemoaning his fate and turned back to look at House. "What? Oh. The Beast opens the portal for Hell's forces to come through. I guess you could say it's Lucifer's representative, opening the way for Hell's version of the Host to come and—"

"So if that thing dies, Hell's forces can't come out to earth? Is that it?"

"Well, yes, but it's not exactly a walk in the bloody park, killing that thing! Do you want to go up against it and—oooh! Ouch!"

The middle head, apparently fed up with the pesky Antichrist, slammed into Adam and sent him flying into a nearby tree, crumpling to the ground. The sword fell from his fingers to smolder on the ground, the flames burning weakly against blackened grass. Jesus's head snapped up as she saw this, her fingers loosening on the Lamb. "ADAM!"

"Bugger!" Aziraphale swore. "Don't go, you silly girl, there's the rest of the world to consider—"

"You, get the Lamb!" Jesus yelled over her shoulder at them as she raced to Adam's fallen form, stumbling once or twice on the pitted ground.

Crowley looked around wildly, as if hoping there were somebody else to do the job. Nobody appeared, and he scowled darkly. "Damn it all, I went to America precccisssely to avoid thissss kind of thing," he hissed furiously as black wings unfurled behind his back with a snap.

Michael was lunging for the Lamb when Crowley tackled him full-on, sending the archangel tumbling to the ground. The Lamb bleated and took a few steps back, clearly nervous. "ARRGH!" Crowley yelled as an enraged Michael elbowed him in the groin. "You bleeding angel, what was that for—"

"Stop interfering with the plan!" Michael bellowed, buffeting Crowley with his mighty silver-white wings. "It has—to be—DONE—"

"Since when is kicking me in the unmentionables part of the—arrrrgh!"

"CROWLEY!" Aziraphale shouted, and entirely against his will, Wilson was racing towards the battling duo, his mind flooded with the angel's panic and helpless fury at being stuck in this useless human body, no wings, no nothing!

"House!" Wilson yelled over his shoulder, his mind working frantically, trying to figure out a way to disentangle a fanatic Michael, kill the dragon, and save the world. "The Lamb!" he decided finally, lunging for the nervous sheep. "I've got you, House, get the car or—"

House's eyes narrowed, then he was hobbling towards Wilson, gesturing wildly at Michael. "Wilson," he said breathlessly as Wilson struggled with the uncooperative sheep, "Forget the damn Lamb! Get the—"

He winced as the Beast shrieked, a terrible, ear-shattering screech that sent waves of sounds rippling over them. The Beast clawed the ground and snorted defiantly at an unsteady Jesus, who was crouched over a still Adam. Flames shot from six heads, while the seventh head shrieked again, revealing a mouthful of sharp, vicious teeth. Jesus ducked as a burst of flame incinerated the branches of the trees just above her, and she raised her hands to ward it off. The Beast, channeling Lucifer's demonic power, lunged at her, pushing at the fabric of the universe. "Like hell you will!" she cried, pushing back with all the power given to her as the Child of God.

"What was that?" Wilson yelled into House's face as the Beast shrieked again and Jesus wavered, clearly struggling to contain the power. "Get the what?"

"The scroll!" House bellowed. "Get the scroll!"

Crowley answered with a wordless howl as Michael pinned him in a headlock and grabbed a handful of his feathers, yanking mercilessly on the black wings, the scroll clenched in his free hand. The cry was answered by Aziraphale, who was flooding Wilson's system with adrenaline at seeing Michael pulverize his friend. "STOP!" Aziraphale screamed, his thoughts pounding into Wilson's brain, wishing for the sword so he could ram it through the bloody archangel, the ineffable plan be damned—

VRRRRRROOOOM

The Bentley slammed into the archangel full-force, sending Michael and Crowley tumbling across the ground, the wind knocked out of them. House yanked the car door open and fell out from behind the wheel, losing his balance and crashing onto his bad leg as he did so. He yelled hoarsely with pain, slamming his fist into the ground as the Scroll rolled out of Michael's hand and stop just a few feet out of his reach, just a few feet away.

"Got it!" Wilson yelled, diving for the scroll and yanking it just out of Michael's reach. "Now what? What do I do?" he added nervously as Michael stumbled to his feet, weaving slightly but heading in his direction.

"Throw it!" House gasped. "Throw it—"

"Where?"

"At the Beast, you moron!" House yelled. "NOW!"

"But—" Wilson said, then Michael slammed into him, giant wings fluttering madly across his back. The Scroll fell to the ground as Michael grabbed a handful of Wilson's hair and shoved his head against the crusted snow, cutting off his air. He gasped, clawing at the earth and trying furiously to throw the archangel's weight off his back. In the background, he could hear House yelling at the top of his lungs.

And then Crowley, cursing Above, Below, and everything in between, picked up the Scroll and flung it at the Beast's head. The Beast, furious and triumphant as Jesus collapsed to the ground, snatched it out of the air. Michael's head snapped back, the blood draining from his face and turning a pasty shade of white as the Beast from Hell snacked on the Holy Scroll of Heaven and its seven Seals with satisfied slurping sounds.

"YOUUUUUU—" he howled, jumping off Wilson's back and lunging for Crowley. The demon backed away, tripped over a rock, went down, and—

((()))

Several things happened in rapid succession.

"…opened the first of the seven seals…before me was a white horse!"

"Buh?" Pollution said as he was summoned from his post at a nuclear power plant to materialize in the Beast's mouth. "Hey!" he added as a great tooth nearly bit him in half, conveniently decaying under his touch before it did so.

"...opened the second Seal…another horse came out, a fiery red one…its rider was given power to take peace from the earth and to make men slay each other…"

"ALL RIGHT, THAT'S IT!" War shrieked as she joined Pollution in the Beast's mouth. The main head paused as all its teeth started to crumble, then cowered uneasily as the other six heads began to eye it speculatively as if to say, Hey, why do you get to wear the crown? With a wave of War's hand, they began to tear each other to pieces.

"...opened the third seal…a black horse…"

"Send a memo next time, will you?" Famine snapped as he joined his fellow Horsepersons in the mouth. "Look out below, here we come—" he added as another head bit off the middle head's jaw and promptly ate it. Slurping sounds could be heard as they fell the long distance to the ground.

"…the fourth seal…a pale horse…its rider was named Death…"

OKAY, THIS IS SIMPLY RIDICULOUS, Death said as the lesser Horsepersons picked themselves up, grimacing at the amount of dragon slobber on them. WHY WEREN'T WE INFORMED THAT THE APOCALYPSE WAS STARTING, AGAIN?

"…the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of those who had been slain…"

WELL, WHERE ELSE WAS I SUPPOSED TO PUT THEM? Death said, irritated.

"…the sixth seal…there was a great earthquake…the sun turned black…the whole moon turned blood red, and the stars in the sky fell to earth…and…"

Jesus: "Oh, fuck."

"…the seventh seal…"

((()))

—and then the world exploded.

(Or at least the bit of the world that involved a) the portal from Heaven, b) the portal from Hell, and c) the Beast of Hell, and d) the surrounding area. But that's quite enough to be going on with, as least as far as our heroes are concerned.)

((()))

Chapter the Third: In Which House Doesn't Have an Epiphany But Does Reconsider a Few Things

Part II

"Oooh, my head…"

"Morning."

"God, it hurts like hell and—"

"I'm well aware of that. Here. Is that better?"

"What—hey. What happened to my headache?"

"Well, you did tell me that it hurt. I assume that meant you wanted it to go away?"

"But—huh?"

House sat up. The man across the table, who looked about fifty or so, smiled at him as he took his black homburg off (revealing an expanse of bald head in the process) and set it on the table next to to the teapot. Picking the pot up, he poured tea from a flowery china teapot into delicate little cups decorated with poinsettas. "Earl Grey, my favorite," the man said, offering House a cup. "Fancy some tea?"

House stared.

"I'm afraid I should apologize for Michael's, er, fervor," the man added, setting the cup down on the table. "He's a bit stir-crazy after six thousand years without the Apocalypse, and well, I'm sure his intentions were for the best. As it were. Lemon?"

House forced his jaw to move, forced his eyes to blink. "You're God," he said, swallowing hard. "Aren't you?" he added a moment later.

The man smiled mysteriously. "Am I?"

Oh. Wow. Okay. Well, first things first. "Am I dead?"

The man—God—gave a small shrug. "Technically…yes. But you should think of it as being existentially challenged. It sounds more official. Plus, it's less likely to provoke hysteria."

"And that means…?"

"That you're in-between, as it were. A wee bit out of protocol, but that's one of the perks of being, well, me."

"So you are God."

"Am I?" the man repeated, giving him a small smile. "You don't believe in God, remember? Science, hard cold facts, and the perfect knowledge of knowing that you are right. That's your god."

"It's more that I've never seen proof that God exists," House said carefully, his hand resting on his right thigh and pressing down slightly, testing. "On the other hand, if He were sitting across the table from me and offering a cup of tea, well, I guess I'd think twice."

"So that's a no to the tea, then?" God said, His glasses sliding down His nose as He nodded at the teacup still on the table. "It's going to get cold, you know."

"What just happened?" House demanded, his hand clenching harder on his thigh. How the hell—okay, this definitely propelled it into hallucination territory now. "And where's Wilson? I want to see him, now."

God's lips quirked, and He set His cup down on the table. "You're a refreshing change, Dr. House," God said. "Worship's all well and good, but it can be smothering when you're surrounded by it day and night."

"It doesn't hurt," House said, more to himself than God. He looked up, frowning. "My leg. It…doesn't…hurt."

"You've been in places like this before," God said.

"Yeah, but you're not blonde and you aren't dating my best friend. And this isn't a bus."

"Let us just say that this is a very big bus," God said, "and we are on a road trip to the crossroads of your life. So. Where would you like to go, Dr. House? The world is your oyster…seeing as you like shellfish."

House grimaced. "That's not going to convince me, you know. If you were a hallucination, you'd know that, seeing as you'd be a part of my subconscious." He paused, looking down at his thigh and resisting the temptation to pull off his pants and see if the scar was still there, marking the loss of muscle. "I want to see Wilson," he said finally. "Is he...existentially challenged as well?"

God smiled again, that infuriating half-smile. "In a manner of speaking."

"Can't you ever give a definite answer?" House demanded, exasperated with the verbal dance. "Yes, no, where the hell is Wilson? And what the hell just happened? Because that—that dragon, and I can't believe I'm saying this, but that dragon ate the scroll and everything just…exploded. Went…"

"Infra-black*," God said. "Nothing ever goes white, believe me. Except possibly hair." He made a rueful face, gesturing at His white beard and moustache.

"Whatever. So what was that? Did it really…I mean, did the Apocalypse…"

"Gregory House, speechless," God said, and House looked sharply at Him. God seemed to be more amused than anything, which somehow irritated House even more. "If there's one thing you hate more than pity, it's somebody patronizing you," God said thoughtfully. "Curiosity, stubbornness, and independence rolled into one package. Only humanity could manage it. I might have been a little overhasty after all."

"So the Apocalypse did happen? Didn't happen? What?"

God shrugged. "What do you think happened? If I recall correctly, you're the one who told Wilson to throw the Scroll at the Beast. So basically, you are the one responsible for stopping the Apocalypse. Or should I say, the second attempt at an apocalypse. What were you thinking at that moment?"

House hesitated, looking down. His cane lay on the ground, and he picked it up, running his hands over the smooth wood. It was more a nervous reaction than anything else, as his leg still didn't hurt. More power to the hallucination theory, then. But…

"The Scroll. The Scroll with its seven Seals opened the way for Heaven to come to earth, the Beast opened the way for Hell. Physics 101: matter and antimatter, when they come into contact with each other, destroy each other. So I thought I'd apply that to theology, put the Scroll and the Beast in contact with each other and stop the…whatever it was. The Apocalypse. I guess."

"Very good, Dr. House," God said, approval in His voice. "It's only completely wrong. But otherwise, you were right."

House looked up, frowning. "What do you mean, it's wrong? It worked, didn't it? I mean, I'm here. Wherever this place is. And I'm not dead, just 'existentially challenged,'" he said, marking off the words with bunny ear quotes, "so—"

"Yes, it worked, but the way it worked was a bit…different. It's complicated."

"Complicated how?"

God paused, drumming His fingers on the table. "Which would you prefer—your answer, or Wilson? The choice is yours, doctor."

House groaned. "You just had to make that as hard as possible, didn't you?" he said, a mite testily. God shrugged again and smiled, infuriatingly. "Fine," he said. "Wilson."

"Your wish, my command. But do remember I'm not a genie," God said, standing up and walking over to a door that certainly hadn't been there before. "Most genies are rather bad-tempered, anyway, so you'd want to avoid them as a matter of course."

House opened his mouth, about to ask how the hell Arabian genies fitted into the Christian pantheon, when God opened the door to reveal a sleeping Wilson who was sprawled bonelessly across a bed. Questions forgotten, House stood up, marveling at the fact that his leg didn't hurt at all as he sprinted through the door.

"Mmm," Wilson murmured as House poked him in the stomach with his cane. "Go away."

"Wake up, Wilson," House said in a sing-song voice. "We're in Heaven. Lots of hot babes waiting for you. Come on."

"Nggggh," Wilson said, flopping over.

House looked up, ready to ask God a question, but the deity had disappeared. Filing this away under 'annoying things to figure out later,' House turned back to Wilson. "Wake up."

Wilson opened one eye, staring up at him. "Am I dead?" he asked blearily. "Are you an angel? Because you look a lot like this guy I know."

House paused as a dozen sarcastic replies flitted through his head. He finally settled for a restrained, "No, you moron, it's me. And I'm just as confused as you are, so don't ask me anything."

Wilson yawned until his jaw cracked as he sat up. "What's going on?" he said after taking in his surroundings, leaning against the wall.

"Didn't I say don't ask me anything?" House grumbled, joining him against the wall. "And where's your annoying passenger? Whats-his-face, Aziraphale…"

"That's a really weird name," Wilson murmured, but he seemed to be waiting for a reply as well. After a moment of silence had gone by, he frowned. "Huh. That's…weird."

"Yeah, it's the weirdest thing that's happened these past few days," House said sarcastically. "Not the fact that we saw a demon make a dog disappear, or the fact that you were possessed by an angel, or that we talked to Jesus and the Antichrist, or that I ran an archangel over with a car, or that we stopped the Apocalypse by making a seven-headed dragon explode, not even the fact that we went to England in the first place. No, the fact that nobody seems to be using you as a ventriloquist's dummy, now that's weird."

Wilson looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Well, at least it's more interesting than working at the clinic. Admit it. You're not going to win this one."

House gave a snort, elbowing Wilson just for propriety's sake. "Save me from the clinic patients, doctor Wilson!" he said in a high-pitched voice. "Please, bring me on this insane trip that I half-think is a hallucination just so I won't be bored!"

"Bad things happen when you're bored," Wilson agreed with a straight face. "Worlds end, for instance." He paused. "Or don't end. Do you think we actually managed to—you know—"

"I have no idea," House said, rolling his eyes. "I talked to God. That was truly surreal. He was…I don't know. But yeah, I think we managed to save the world."

"You talked to God?" Wilson asked.

"Yeah. Apparently, He's British**."

"Seriously?"

"Well, He had a British accent. Plus, He offered me tea. But what do I know?"

"Jesus is British too. So's the Antichrist. I think this means something. Not sure what, though."

"Well, Judaism was started by Abraham in the middle of the desert, and Christianity was started by Jesus…the original Jesus…who was Syrian. God, I don't know. Wait. I mean, not God. Just…whoever."

"I kinda miss him," Wilson said, sounding a little wistful. "I mean, it was weird, but he wasn't annoying or anything."

"Who? The angel?"

"Yeah. He was interesting. Not bad company." Wilson fiddled with the sheet on the bed, looking at the walls. "So…are we dead?"

"We're existentially challenged. And no, I have no idea what that means either."

"It means that you're dead, but you're not," a voice answered him. The two men looked up to see Jesus lounging in the doorway, her arms crossed across her chest. "The blast destroyed everything in a half-mile radius. For some mysterious reason, the surrounding areas were conveniently empty of any other living being, though. Or so Dad says." She walked over, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "How do you guys feel?"

"Confused," Wilson said, swallowing hard. "Where's…"

"Aziraphale and Crowley are…well, let's just say that Dad and Crowley are discussing a few things. An employee review, I guess you could say. Or not."

"And your beau?" House asked, gesturing at her. Jesus looked down, plucking at the sheet. "He's still the Antichrist, right?"

"Right," Jesus said reluctantly.

"So…returning the white dress to the shop, are we?"

Jesus looked blank for a moment before apparently dismissing it as peculiar human humor, shaking her head. "Well—it's complicated. That blast took out Heaven's most powerful weapon, the Scroll, and Hell's most powerful weapon, the Beast, in one shot. Without those, the two sides can't invade the world with their armies, you know, for the Apocalypse to begin. I mean, they can still send individual angels or demons down…or up…but there's just not enough power to send an army, if you know what I mean." She shook her head, letting silky chestnut hair fall over her shoulder. "So basically, even if they wanted to start an Apocalypse, they can't."

"Your Dad—God—said that my antimatter theory was entirely wrong," House said, a little grumpily. "Then he said it was 'complicated' when I asked how the hell it was wrong, and then he smiled. That smile is really annoying, by the way."

Jesus frowned. "What antimatter theory? What's antimatter?"

House paused. "Uh. It's complicated."

Jesus gave him a look, and he conceded the point with a nod. "Fine," House sighed. "So…you and Adam…?"

"Well, Lucifer—Adam's Dad—isn't all too happy about it either, but since we blew up his pet dragon he's not really in a position to complain," Jesus said, seeming relieved by the change of topic. "And Michael's under probation—Dad promised to keep a sharper eye on him in the future, although you have to wonder if He intentionally let things get this far in the first place. You know, He's supposed to be omniscient and everything, but sometimes I can't help but wonder."

"So you guys are okay, then? Not going to, you know, break up?" Wilson asked, sounding a little disappointed, and horribly guilty for the disappointment. Jesus smiled at him.

"Yeah. We're okay," she said, patting his arm. House scowled, then scowled deeper when he realized that he was scowling in the first place, and poked Wilson in the ribs to stop the cow-eyes. What a slut.

"It'd never work between us anyway, you know," Jesus added consolingly. "Mortals and immortals just don't mix, even if you are part angel."

The starry-eyed look vanished from Wilson's face. "What?"

Jesus winced. "Oops."

*Infra-black is a color seen by most people right before they die (or don't die, in House and Wilson's case). To see it, simply jump from a thirtieth-floor balcony. The color that flashes behind your eyes right before you die is infra-black.

**This is because God is Terry Pratchett in disguise. And nothing you people say is going to convince me otherwise.

((()))

"He's part angel?" House said, and Wilson groaned as he felt House's speculative gaze on him, no doubt planning a flurry of blood tests to determine how angelic blood different from plain old mortal blood, if at all, maybe an MRI or a PET scan or whatever else he could pull out of his sleeve… "Seriously? That explains…a lot, actually."

"Well, I mean, it's not a lot," Jesus said hastily. "Probably from about, I don't know, six or seven generations back. But divine blood tends to show. When I first saw you, I thought the Presence—that's God's Presence—on you was just because Aziraphale was possessing you at the moment. But no, part of it was because of who you were. Does that make sense?"

"That's probably why Aziraphale couldn't leave you even though we all wanted him to," House speculated. "And that blue light in the shop. That's probably why it went for you, too."

"What blue light?" Jesus asked.

"The voice," Wilson explained, grimacing as he remembered. "It told me to pass on a message to Aziraphale. Something about Jesus—sorry, you—missing. And his sword. Oh! Crap, now he's going to blame me for the fact that Michael stole it. Eh." He shivered slightly. "It felt weird. The voice, I mean."

"It was probably Metatron. Either that or Gabriel," Jesus said thoughtfully. "They're the Voices of God," she added to Wilson's confused look. "Kind of like official spokesmen. Or mailman, in Gabriel's case. Anyway." She shrugged. "Angels are generally sexless unless they really want to make an effort, and I guess somebody in your line did. And here you are."

"So are there any benefits to being part-angel?" Wilson wondered.

"Besides a chronic need for neediness and an inexplicable attraction towards self-important jerks?" House added.

"Well, you have to admit, it works out for you," Wilson said, rolling his eyes.

"Doormat," House grumbled, but his heart clearly wasn't in it.

"Uh, no," Jesus said before Wilson formulate a reply. "Not really. Genetics doesn't determine personality, you know, any problems that you have are just…you," she said, looking at them with a strange expression on her face. "Although they don't seem to bother you much, if you don't mind my saying."

"Oh, they don't," House interrupted over Wilson. "Wilson is just a complete—"

"Oookay!" Wilson said. "I think that's enough for now!" Clapping his hands together, he looked expectantly at Jesus. "So what do we do now? Are we dead, are we alive, give me the skinny, the down low, the…whatever. Um."

Jesus hesitated, looking as if she much preferred to discuss Wilson's personality problems instead. "Well…" she began. "I guess you could say that you're both dead. Sort of."

"But…?" House asked as Wilson processed (or least tried to process) this fact. "That definitely sounded like there was a 'but' in there."

"But…Death didn't collect you. So you're not dead. But you're not alive either. You're in between."

"Wait wait wait…Death? You mean the guy with the skulls and bones and the scythe? The Grim Reaper? That Death?" House asked, evidently interested.

"I think he traded in the scythe for more sophisticated machinery a while ago," Jesus said.

"Like what? A tractor?"

"Oh. Who. Cares?" Wilson said, throwing his hands up into the air. "Forget the scythe! Are we dead or not? Are we going to be stuck here—wherever the hell here is—for the rest of our lives?"

"Well, you could be stuck in worse places," Jesus said reasonably. "Hell, for instance."

"So this is Heaven?" House asked, sounding more curious than anything else. "Wow. So stopping the Apocalypse didn't put me in the bad books?"

"You're not here to stay," Jesus said. "Seeing as you're not Ascended. No, this is just a pit stop. A bathroom break, if you will, before the finale."

"Finale? You mean there's more of this?" Wilson muttered. Jesus shrugged and stood up from the bed, gesturing for them to follow her. House and Wilson stood as well, and Wilson's eyes widened as he saw that House held the cane carelessly in one hand without bothering to lean on it. "Your leg…" he said.

House looked down, running his hand over his thigh. "Yeah," he said, trying to sound casual, but Wilson could hear the giddiness in his voice. "Doesn't hurt. S'a nice change."

"That's…" Wilson trailed off into silence, regarding their surroundings with a new eye. "So we're really dead? Or not dead? Or in between, or…"

House rolled his eyes. "Yeah," he said, "all of the above."

((()))

"Hey," Jesus said in greeting as a man walked up to join their party.

"Is that God?" Wilson asked, looking at House.

"No, it's me," the man said, and Wilson raised an eyebrow at hearing Aziraphale's voice. "It's nice to be back up here," the angel added, "seeing as I haven't actually come here in, oh, several hundred years. Of course, it's been even longer for Crowley. A bit more than six thousand, I think."

"So that's what you've been whining about all this time?" House said, eyeing Aziraphale critically. "Eh. I think Wilson's body is way better."

"Gee, thanks," Wilson murmured. Aziraphale looked a little sheepish.

"Well, there are certain perks," the angel said with a rueful smile. "You know, wings and such. Plus, the curly hair." He shrugged. "It all comes down to what you're used to, I suppose."

"Where's the other guy?" House demanded. "Crowley?"

"You never remember the names of your patients, but you remember this guy's name?" Wilson said.

"I remember people!" House protested. "I especially remember those who technically aren't people because they're demons and actually have wings." Aziraphale gave a small cough, and House turned to look at him. "What?"

"Well, you're right about the wings bit. Not about the demon bit, though." Aziraphale smiled slightly. "He and the Boss had a bit of a…talking-to, as it were. And it was generally decided that even though he buggered up the Apocalypse not once but twice, it's really just safer for all concerned if he Sauntered Vaguely Back Upwards to Heaven. Otherwise, he'd have Beezlebub and Lucifer and who knows what else on his heels, and well, he's not really all that fond of America."

"Hey, America's not bad," Wilson protested, sounding a little miffed. "We're American."

"And you're wonderful, wonderful people!" Aziraphale said, looking a little bit too shocked and earnest to be sincere. "But well, to each their own. Home is where the heart is and all that."

"So he's an angel again?" House said. "You can do that? I thought you could only Fall."

"Well, yes," Aziraphale nodded. "More usually it's the other way around, but Rising happens. Occasionally, it does happen." He beamed, apparently unable to keep a straight face any longer.

"So you guys are going off to Jamaica to celebrate?" House asked.

"No. Well, we'll probably head back to England when this is all done…which it is, mostly," Aziraphale said thoughtfully. "There's just the matter of you two to clear up."

House and Wilson exchanged a look. "Clear up…how?" Wilson said cautiously.

"Well, you did cause quite a bit of trouble," Jesus said, ticking off things on her fingers. "You destroyed the Scroll and the Seals and you stopped the ineffable plan from happening. And then that's not even going into all the things you did while you were in America. Apparently, you've got quite the reputation for being a bit of a bastard," she said, gesturing at House. "And as for you, Wilson, well, there's a string of broken relationships and smashed windows in your past. Not good. Not good at all."

"So…it's off to an eternity of the sulfur pits?" House said, trying to keep his voice light. Wilson gripped his arm tightly.

"Noooo," Jesus said, drawing the word out. "Actually, I think you're supposed to go back."

"Go back where?" Wilson asked, then blinked as Jesus gave him a long look. "Oh, to Earth! Ah. Sorry. But why?"

Jesus shrugged. "You'll have to ask Death that. He's the one who refused to collect you in the first place. Muttered something about how no one told him that the damn Apocalypse was happening and how he wasn't about to give an early ride to two idiot Americans just because they didn't have the sense to keep their noses in their own business. Or something like that. I couldn't really hear him over the complaining of all the other Horsepersons."

"You mean the Horsepersons like—" House began, then stopped, sighing. "I give up trying to figure this out. This is way too unreal to not be real." He hesitated. "So—we absolutely have to go back? To Earth, I mean."

Jesus and Wilson looked at him. "You don't…want to?" Wilson asked, uncertain.

House paused, moving his hand to touch his thigh. It didn't hurt here—the relief from pain was almost orgasmic in its intensity, the sheer nothingness something to die for. If he was crazy, then this was as good as it got.

It's okay, a voice said into his head. It'll be okay. You've still got life to live yet. Besides, Wilson will be there to catch you if you fall. You'll be fine, my dear.

Is that you, God? House thought, slightly irritated. Thanks for the Hallmark greeting card. Now get out of my head.

Jesus smiled, the expression mimicking God's infuriatingly mysterious smile far too much for comfort. Still think you're hallucinating? the voice asked.

House rubbed his forehead and sighed. You suck, he informed Her/Him. And I still don't believe in You, You know. I'm not going to go to church every Sunday just because the world didn't end.

"We would never expect you to," Jesus said out loud, and House gritted his teeth. "Don't worry, We've factored that into the equation." She paused. "So I take that as a yes, then?"

House nodded. Wilson, looking relieved but still slightly confused, rubbed House's shoulder reassuringly. "So…what now?" House asked.

"Now's the part when the world goes white," Jesus said, reaching out one hand to touch his forehead lightly. "Now close your eyes."

"That's so cliché," House grumbled. "Besides, this guy once told me that the only thing that goes white is—"

((()))

Epilogue: In Which There is Much Ado About Nothing

A couple of hours after the world didn't end, the evening news reported a gas explosion of epic proportions causing a neat little crater right outside of Tadfield. Lawyers ganged up on each other, and there was much ado for a little while on the evening news. Then, the country in general forgot about it, marveling instead over the woman in Oxford who taught her duck how to play the piano and other riveting stories.

((()))

A day after the world didn't end, House and Wilson picked themselves up from where they had woken up (in a conveniently cushy snowbank) and went back to their hotel. House took a long hot bath while Wilson tried to subtly ask questions through the bathroom door concerning House's leg, sanity, and general well-being. When House emerged from the bathroom, Wilson continued to worry about a number of things (including the whereabouts of The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch, which had mysteriously vanished) until House told him to shut up and watch TV.

And they did.

((()))

Two days after the world didn't end, Adam and Jesus went back to their little house in Tadfield, where Dog was only too happy to see them again and groveled at Adam's feet for failing to watch the Lamb properly. (The Lamb itself was frolicking away in Heaven, even though it was a bit useless now. Oh well.) After reassuring Dog that it was quite all right, Jesus and Adam stood in the doorway and watched the sunset together, holding hands.

It was Christmas Eve. Adam bought a cake, and Jesus blew the candle out. Then, they kissed under the mistletoe.

((()))

Three days after the world didn't end, Crowley and Aziraphale went to Paris. They ate frogs' legs (which Crowley didn't like) and baguettes (which he did like) and drank fine French wine (which he positively loved) until they woke up one morning tangled up in each others' limbs and wings and suspiciously enough, naked. There was a bit of awkwardness for five minutes until Crowley decided to Hell with it, ran his fingers through Aziraphale's lovely curly hair (which made the angel shudder with delight), and kissed him.

Shortly after that, they moved back to London and lived Englishly ever after.

((()))

Four days after the world didn't end, House and Wilson went back home to New Jersey. In their loft, Wilson made pancakes, which House stole, but to be fair House did make the hot chocolate, which Wilson drank. They thought vaguely about having a deep conversation concerning the insanity of their London trip, but as House said, "Either it happened and we saved the world, or it didn't and we're both crazy. Either way, I'm not in a mood to have a big talk about it. Hey, if we are insane, we can be wardmates. Won't that be fun?"

And Wilson sighed, but it was a fond sigh. Then the next day they went back to work, flirted with Nora from 3B (Wilson), tried to cure a drug dealer (House), and it was business as usual. Mostly.

((()))

And up in Heaven, He smiled. (Mysteriously, of course.)

((()))

The End