I Believe in Angels

A Good Omens and Mamma Mia crossover fanfiction

(Yes, seriously)

Part 1 of 2

Poised by the mailbox, Sophie Sheridan drew in a soft, shaky breath before holding out the two letters – two wedding invitations – in her hand, their crisp envelopes bleached the blue-white of skim milk in the moonlight.

"Sam Carmichael," she read aloud, placing the letter in the mailbox slot before looking down at the next. "Anthony Cowwley."

One of these two men was somebody she had been waiting to meet her entire life.

Her father.

She wasn't sure which one, of course, as she'd found both of their names in her mom's old diary – and she couldn't very well ask – but if they both came, if they both appeared for her wedding, she felt certain she'd know right away which one was hers.

Their eyes would meet – maybe they'd even have the same eyes – and she'd just know.

Maybe it was a long shot, but sometimes you just had to have faith.

The ferry to Kalokairi was chugging merrily along as a dark-haired demon in sunglasses elbowed his way through the other passengers, dragging a plump angel by the wrist behind him.

His elbow seemed to never actually make contact with the people he nudged, they just sort of moved automatically when he got close enough. If they weren't so tightly packed in an occult force would have been parting the crowd of tourists like the waters of the Red Sea.

"Out of the way," he was saying, from the corner of his mouth. "My grandad needs a place to sit." He motioned back at the angel.

The angel, whose name was Aziraphale, scoffed. "Grandad? We were formed on the same creative day! We're exactly the same age, Crowley! Why are you trying to defraud these respectable people out of their seats?"

"Shush," said Crowley, making a man who was at present itching his crotch in a manner that looked anything but respectable get up and take his oversized luggage with him. "Do you mind?" Not that it would have made any difference if he did. "My senile grandad gets confused if he doesn't sit down in the heat."

Aziraphale did at least look flushed, and the pale hair and sunblock-covered nose didn't hurt the illusion Crowley was going for. He was also carrying a large butterfly net and broad-brimmed hat from the 1800s, which did not make him look old so much as quirky.

As they squashed into the seats, shoulder to shoulder, Crowley frowned at the net, now resting at the angel's feet. "We're going to a Greek island, not the Amazon Rainforest. Why the Heaven did you bring that?"

Aziraphale muttered something inaudible, even to the demon's keen ears, then said, more clearly, "I still don't quite understand what we're doing here."

"I told you," Crowley sighed, "I got a letter from some woman named Donna Sheridan. Apparently I'm invited to her daughter's wedding – all expenses paid."

"But, my dear fellow, you don't know anyone named Donna Sheridan. And then there's the small matter of you not being able to enter churches, and the fact that the letter was addressed to somebody named Anthony Cowwley."

"Look, from what I could tell, Donna hasn't seen Cowwley in over twenty years – for all intents and purposes I may as well be him."

"Except you aren't actually him."

"Details, angel. It's a free trip to Greece."

Aziraphale turned his neck to look at him sternly. "Bit dishonest, though, don't you think?"

"Ngh." Crowley grunted noncommittally. A few moments later, he began part-singing, part-humming something that sounded rather like ABBA's Honey, Honey under his breath. "You're a doggone beast..."

"I beg your pardon?"

Crowley groaned and rolled back his head. "Ughhhhh! No, not you. I've had that stupid song stuck in my head all week. It's a nervous tic at this point – I've just started singing it everywhere, don't even know when I'm doing it any more. Feel like I'm bloody cursed. It's humiliating."

Shortly before embarking on this trip, because of circumstances that – when you gave them much proper thought – really didn't make any sense, Crowley had ended up getting a ride from Tadfield to London via Newton Pulsifer's car, which was called, rather unbecomingly, Dick Turpin. And while anything in the Bentley became Queen after a fortnight, inside Dick Turpin everything apparently turned to ABBA.

Which had meant at least four different versions of Honey, Honey before Crowley was returned to the safety and serenity of his ABBA-free flat.

"Oh, don't fret," Aziraphale said supportively, "I once had Jesus, Can I Come And Stay At Your Place stuck in my head for two months – this too shall pass."

"Wasn't that song by the fundamentalist you made cry?" Crowley laughed. "The one on television?"

"I didn't make him cry." Aziraphale grimaced. "Just, well, some of his camera crew. I'd been discorporated, was only trying to figure out where I was! And I didn't tell them anything that wasn't God's honest truth. They were the ones talking about being lifted into the air and sneering down at people dying. I simply told them it wasn't going to happen."

"I have it on video," Crowley informed the angel cheerfully, Honey, Honey momentarily forgotten in his mirth. "I swear if you pause it just right, you can see the exact moment he becomes an atheist." He laughed again, a couple of tears slipping out from under his sunglasses. "Ah. Good old Marvin O. Bagman – I love that guy. The stuff he had on his show...you couldn't make it up... It's priceless."

"Er..." moaned Aziraphale. If he could have lifted them, if he wasn't packed in like a sardine, he'd have brought his hands to his face and buried it in them.

They were silent for a little while, until Aziraphale said, "Oh, I do hope the place we're staying has a respectable laundry service – my handkerchiefs need regular cleaning."

"Oh, come on, you saw the brochure," said Crowley, not bothering to argue the point that Aziraphale was probably the very last person on earth who still used monogrammed handkerchiefs unironically, and thus the last who had any need to routinely wash them, "it's a fancy tourist hotel – I'm sure they've got everything. Stop worrying."

They didn't know it, but, across the boat, seated on the other side, were Donna's best friends, Rosie and Tanya.

And, towards the back, leaning over the railing to get sick in the water rather than on the ferry itself, was the other man Sophie invited to her wedding whom her mother had not seen in twenty years, Sam Carmichael.

Despite feeling ill, Sam was counting himself rather lucky to be onboard – he'd almost missed the boat.

"Excuse me, do you know where I could find Donna Sheridan?" Sam Carmichael tapped Aziraphale's shoulder because – even in his most casual, sweaty state – he looked the most like somebody in charge, while the copper-haired man with him in the dark glasses looked more like someone who was there to case the joint.

"Look, Crow–" Aziraphale started, then rolled his eyes at Crowley's nearly imperceptible head-shake. "I mean Cowwley... He's a friend of Donna's as well."

"Not exactly." Sam winced. "I haven't seen her in twenty years."

"Let me guess," said Crowley. "You got an invite out of the blue to her daughter's wedding?"

"How did you know?"

Crowley sniffed, then shrugged. "Same thing happened to me."

"Oh, good lord," muttered Aziraphale, still highly uncomfortable with this whole deception.

"You knew Donna back when I did?" Sam smiled hesitantly at Crowley.

"Yep."

"I just wish we could locate her," Aziraphale sighed. "I'm boiling in this heat, and honestly that ferry ride's made me peckish."

"And this is?" Sam asked, indicating the angel.

"Oh, right. This is my associate, Mr. Fell," Crowley told him. "He's my plus one."

There was a rustling behind them as a blonde girl – tiny wisp of a thing, who couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty – carrying crates placed a load down and cheerfully asked if she could help them.

They turned, the three of them, at the same time. Sam removed his sunglasses; Crowley, for obvious reasons, did not.

"We're here about the wedding," Crowley told her.

"Sam Carmichael," Sam introduced himself.

The girl's eyes darted to his face, then to Aziraphale's and Crowley's. She ruled Aziraphale out of what she was searching for almost immediately, despite his general attractiveness – it was just the sort of impression he gave off.

"You must be Anthony Cowwley." Her eyes rested on Crowley, searchingly.

"Oh, good, you are expecting us." Aziraphale smiled broadly. "I don't suppose we could see our rooms now?"

"Wait a moment," said Sam, brightening, "are you Donna's daughter? You look so familiar."

She gave a little curtsy, cheeks reddening. "I'm Sophie."

"Congratulations, young lady!" said Aziraphale, with genuine good will. "I hope all goes well with your matrimonial plans, dearest Sophia."

"Yes, absolutely," said Crowley, more offhandedly, reaching for his luggage – a single black bag with a shoulder strap. "Now, we'll be in our rooms, if anyone needs us." He nodded at Aziraphale, who was bending down to gather his own luggage and random butterfly net. "Come on, angel."

"Angel?" laughed Sophie. She had been, she clearly thought, perfectly correct in her assumptions.

"Er," said the aforementioned angel.

"Yes, well, Mr. Cowwley has a point." Sam motioned at the rustic hotel behind them. "I'm sure we'd all like a chance to freshen up."

Sophie blanched. "No!"

Aziraphale frowned. Crowley looked put out. Sam just blinked.

"I mean, yes, but come this way." She waved dramatically, motioning for them to follow her into a dark space which, once entered, looked more like a medieval dungeon than a nice place to stay. "Come on!"

They complied, if a little grudgingly. Only Sam seemed intrigued. The demon and angel were grumbling under their breaths considerably and dragging their feet.

Soon enough they were outside again, and being taken to what appeared to be an old goat house.

As Sophie nudged them through two warped doors, and shut them carefully behind her, Sam finally protested, "Where's Donna?"

"If Donna turns out to be a goat," muttered Aziraphale to Crowley, "I'm going to–"

"Shut up!" he hissed back.

"Up you go," Sophie told them, pointing to a ladder taking them up to a trapdoor.

In the threadbare room prepared there were exactly two beds.

"I'm sorry," Sophie said, when she climbed up behind them all. "I didn't know if either of you were bringing company. But that's all right, isn't it?" She gave the couple a perky, hopeful smile. "You two can share."

Aziraphale gave Crowley a look to kill. "This," he sighed wearily, dropping his luggage with a thud and splaying his fingers emphatically, "is nothing like the brochure."

"Can we see Donna now?" insisted Sam, more concerned with her than the rooming situation.

Sophie's smile widened. "I sent the invites. My mom doesn't know anything."

"Wot?" exclaimed Crowley.

Sam brought his hands to his face and groaned deeply.

"My sentiments exactly," muttered Aziraphale, taking a step forward and almost tripping over his own net.

"It's a surprise for her," explained Sophie; "two of her old friends are going to be at my wedding!"

"Hang on, Sophie," spluttered Sam, nudging past Aziraphale. "I can't be here. The last time I saw your mother, she said she never wanted to see me again."

"Well, I'm sure you and Donna parted on fine terms, Cowwley?" Aziraphale couldn't resist twisting the knife in just a little.

Crowley made a mocking face at him.

Sophie seemed not to notice. "That was years ago," she pleaded with Sam. "Please! It would mean a lot to me."

"Why?" asked Sam.

"Listen, both of you, when I sent the invites it was a longshot you'd even reply. Now you've come all this way for a wedding. Surely there must have been some special reason for you to be here."

"I'm only here because he dragged me." Aziraphale pointed at Crowley sullenly. "And he's only here because he wanted a free holiday."

"Nonsense, I miss Donna desperately." Crowley pouted exaggeratedly.

"Right, then. What's her middle name?" Aziraphale demanded.

"Shut up."

"You are a little minx," Sam said to Sophie, backing up and sitting down in a lawn chair he located in a corner. "You're just like your mother."

"Speak of the devil, Cro–Cowwley." Aziraphale's senses felt a presence encroaching. "I think your Donna is very nearby."

Sophie put her hands over her mouth – she could hear her mother's off-beat crooning outside the goat house almost before the angel finished speaking.

Below, the doors creaked open.

"I'm gonna go," Sophie decided, her voice gone frantic. "But I've left a present for both of you. Under the pillows."

Sam drew his out, it appeared to be a book of some kind, which got Aziraphale's attention. "What's this?"

"It's the new thing we're doing for the hotel. My fiancée's idea. Skye. He's brilliant. It's got dates and times in it. When something you like happens on the trip, you put a little check." She flicked her hand in the air, demonstrating writing. "Then, when you go, we can figure out what you were doing at the time, and have more great stuff like whatever made you happy for the next guest."

"So it's a survey." Crowley snorted, unimpressed. "How innovative."

Sophie didn't catch the sarcasm. "Oh, I know! And there are comment sections in the back, where you can share anything you like."

"I don't get one?" Aziraphale looked rather glum. No room, no food, no proper laundering station, and now no notebook.

"I'm sorry," Sophie told him. "If Anthony had mentioned he was bringing you–"

"You can have mine," Crowley told him, reaching under the pillow and handing it to the angel. "I'll just steal Sam's later."

Sam – thinking he was joking (which he most certainly was not) – chuckled. "Funny."

"Don't tell anyone I invited you – bye!" Sophie made a dash for the window and began climbing out, slamming the windows behind her.

"Sneaky child," said Aziraphale. "You're sure she isn't yours, dear?"

"I know you're kidding," said Crowley, "but honestly, she's way too small for that – remember the Nephilim?"

Aziraphale shuddered. "All too vividly. Ugly, ugly children."

"And big," Crowley added emphatically. "Most of all big. I still remember playing nanny to Ligur's enormous monsters before the flood. Sophie's tiny as a nightingale."

Sam, utterly lost, began to unpack his things.

"Hmm, her father must work at the hotel, too," Aziraphale guessed. "Maybe we'll meet him."

"Do you hear singing?" Crowley forced the window's shutters open and tried to locate the source of something that sounded uncannily like a chorus version of being in Newt's car for too long.

"Don't be silly." Aziraphale was perched on the edge of their bed, rummaging through his luggage, searching in vain for anything editable.

"Somebody is singing Mamma Mia," Crowley insisted, cupping a hand to his ear and leaning forward like the Grinch after stealing Christmas. "You're telling me neither of you can hear that?"

"Right," laughed Sam. "Somebody is randomly singing Mamma Mia on the roof of this goat house and the rest of the island is providing the chorus."

"Ahhhhh!" A middle-aged blonde woman appeared, seemingly falling from the ceiling between Aziraphale and Sam's beds.

Thanks to a quick miracle on Aziraphale's part, she landed safely, hitting an old grey mat.

"Oh, goodness!" cried Aziraphale, rushing over to help her.

"You always knew how to make an entrance, Donna." Sam's tone was almost dreamy.

Donna took Aziraphale's plump hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

Crowley sauntered over and lowered his sunglasses. "You probably don't recognise me. I'm Anthony."

As if in a trance, Donna murmured, "Anthony, it is you!"

Aziraphale clicked his tongue in disapproval. Tisk tisk. Hypnotizing respectable business women! When would Crowley learn?

Satisfied with his work, Crowley pushed his glasses back into place, giving her a serpentine grin.

Donna seemed thrilled at first, laughing that Anthony was welcome, and asking with no notable malice who Aziraphale was, before she noticed Sam and her friendly face closed off.

"You can't be here," she growled. "Who said you could stay in my old goat house?"

"Greek woman," Sam came up with, struggling not to implicate Sophie. "She said you were full but we could stay here."

"Why are you here?" Donna snapped.

"I just wanted to see the island."

"Ugh! D'you know what? I was cheated by you – and I think you know when!" cried Donna, lifting the trapdoor and dropping down the ladder.

"Lovely seeing you again!" Crowley called after her.

Aziraphale elbowed him. "Show a little compassion. Can't you see the poor woman is in shock?"

This time, Aziraphale could hear music and singing – it wasn't just Crowley being whiny.

The angel edged out of the old goat house, Sam somewhere back inside but Crowley close behind him, also watching the unfolding spectacle as a group of singing women were forming a dance line and parading happily down the island belting out about how they could dance and jive.

Several women who had been working were abandoning ladders and paints and in one case a huge bundle of sticks which the hulking personage tossed aside like rubbish.

Aziraphale was so excited by what looked like fun (he almost forgot how hungry and tired he was), that he unwittingly knocked Crowley backwards into a bush in his haste to join the dancing figures.

Too bad they weren't gavotting. What they were doing, in fact, hardly looked like real dancing at all – more akin to what Crowley sometimes did after a few glasses of wine.

All the same, they appeared to be headed down to the sparkling water by the docks and the sun was still shining and everything was so captivatingly beautiful.

Aziraphale didn't even notice he was the only man-shaped creature present as he followed the group off the edge of the docks and jumped in with a merry splash.

Normally, he would have been a bit more conscientious about his clothes, only he'd bought these especially for the trip and had already sweat clean through them – a little water, especially water so clear you could see the sand at the bottom, wouldn't hurt them.

When he surfaced, he caught a look of surprise on Donna's face, suddenly remembered Crowley, and began to walk sheepishly – the music now quite ended – back towards the hotel.

Donna was at his side. "Um, Mr. Fell, was it? You do realise we were trying to do, like, a hen's empowerment thing, right?"

Aziraphale was puzzled. "Is that like the chicken dance?"

Donna blinked. "No, I meant it was supposed to be wo–" She shook her head. "You know what, never mind. Glad you could join us." Cackling to herself, she reached for a grouting gun. "I've got to take care of that crack in the courtyard."

"What crack?"

"Oh, this dumb crack showed up in my courtyard, real eyesore, right where there was a ceramic depiction of a dolphin."

"Kind of fish?"

"I'm pretty sure it's a mammal." She hoisted the grouting gun and struck a pose. "Anyhow, I've got to spackle that puppy up."

"Is your husband helping you keep up the hotel?"

Donna laughed long and loud. "Husband? Please. Spare me. I don't have a husband. Too much trouble. I had two boyfriends once, a long time ago – and that was plenty."

"Anthony and Sam?"

Donna's eyes narrowed, but only slightly. She was finding she quite liked Aziraphale, in spite of her somewhat uncomfortable introduction to him. "Yeah, that's right."

A thought occurred to Aziraphale, and he swelled with compassion and pity. "Donna, can I ask you something?"

"If you must." Her tone was not curt, but one got the sense she had an idea what was coming.

"Is either Anthony or Sam your daughter's father?"

Holding the grouting gun defensively, she opened her mouth to demand how he knew about Sophie, even though she wasn't truly surprised, then closed it again. There were tears shining in her eyes.

"Oh, my good lady," said Aziraphale, reaching out and patting her arm consolingly, now that he'd worked out exactly why Sophie had sent out random invites to two complete strangers – one of whom was an imposter. "It's all right."

"No." She choked back a sob. "It's not. How could it be? I was such a little slut, and now..."

"Well, honestly, there's no call for that sort of language, and I'm sure you were no such thing."

Donna pushed back her blonde hair and sniffled. "You're sweet, Mr. Fell. But I really, really was. And I don't want to ruin my daughter's wedding over it."

"I bet," said Aziraphale gently, "your daughter loves you and doesn't care one wit about it."

That was if you discounted the fact that Sophie was inviting potential fathers to her wedding willy-nilly and not telling her mother about it, of course.

"You really think so?"

"I know so! Buck up. It's not so bad as it seems."

"Thanks." They'd come to the place in the courtyard with the crack. "Just lemme fix this."

"Donna, what's that?" Aziraphale pointed to something random.

"What? Where?" She looked, not seeing the angel's little finger flicking behind her back. "What am I looking at?"

"Oh, sorry – I thought I saw something. Must have been a trick of light, what." He shifted, pulling his hands behind his still-damp back and looking as modest as possible.

Shrugging, Donna prepared to begin working, only to discover the crack was gone. "How weird is that? There was a crack there – the earth friggin moved! Everybody here felt it when it happened."

"Perhaps it's magic," Aziraphale couldn't resist saying, with a sparkle in his eye.

"You know what?" Donna brightened, warming to this. "That's what's so strange. This hotel was once supposed to be the site of Aphrodite's fountain – if you drank the water, you were supposed to find true love and perfect happiness."

"Must be that, then," Aziraphale conceded for the sake of cheering her up, pumping a fist in the air. "A little magic must be left hereabouts."

Donna reached out and patted his cheek. "You are such an angel, do you know that?"

Sam had gone some place – probably to soak in the paradise and think about whatever circumstances had led him to living in the goat house of a woman who was furious with him, all while trying to hide the fact that her daughter had invited him.

Crowley had crawled out from the bushes, initially rather put out, and made his way back to the empty goat house.

His clothes were covered in little prickly pieces of bush and bramble. He opened his bag to find something else. There weren't many clothes in there, since he hardly ever bought proper clothes – his suits weren't real, he just sort of made them appear. But this one, created by occult powers or otherwise, was quite ruined. For the time being, he slipped into a Queen concert T-Shirt and pair of skivvies.

When Aziraphale turned up again, he was going to give that angel a piece of his mind – getting overexcited and shoving him into a bush! What was that mad principality thinking?

Crowley wasn't one for cleaning, but he was one for things being clean. His own flat was spotless, gleaming white from every angle. And if Aziraphale's bookshop was a bit more lived-in, he at least knew the angel was hygienic. Sophie had obviously tried her best, God – Satan – somebody – bless her, airy little dunderhead that she was. Yet the place still wasn't particularly tidy.

The demon located a broom and began to sweep the dust and cobwebs off the floor and out of the corners.

That frustratingly catchy song was running through his head again.

"Honey, Honey... Hold me, baby... You look like a movie star...and I know just who you are..." He spun around, hopping lightly over the broom handle. "Something, something..." Somewhere he lost track of the actual words to the song. "Um, Beast!" That was in there, somewhere. Awkwardly twerking, Crowley sang into the front of the broom like it was a microphone. "Honey, Honey, nearly kill me...uh-huh..." He pivoted on his heels and sunk a little lower to the floor. "I heard about you before, I wanted to know som'ore..."

Unobserved by Crowley, who was now sliding across the dusty floor on the soles of his bare feet, the trapdoor opened, Aziraphale's platinum head peeking through.

The angel's blinking eyes, having to adjust to the dim light despite their celestial perfection, eventually landed on a singing and (badly) dancing Crowley.

Swinging back around, Crowley's eyes locked with Aziraphale's. The broom clattered to the floor.

"You saw nothing!" he hissed.

Aziraphale was barely holding back his laughter as he climbed up, caught his breath, and walked over to the bed, where he withdrew the notebook Sophie had left. He then, in a rather pert and slightly smug movement, uncapped a fountain pen and glanced pointedly at his demon friend.

Crowley caught on, his uncovered eyes growing visibly more snake-like. "Angel, don't you dare put a checkmark in there for this!"

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