A/N: Chapter includes one instance of strong language, reader discretion is appreciated.

Angels Below

A Good Omens and Neverwhere fanfiction

Part 1 of 7

Crowley was having a good morning, though he'd never have admitted it.

He was standing in the kitchen of his flat on a clear day which filled it with wintry sunlight, distant yet warm, and Aziraphale – who'd slept over the night before – was bent over the island between the stove and the fridge, contentedly putting together a puzzle of what appeared to be a rather grainy picture of Buckingham Palace.

Everything was spotless – as it always was – but now there was an abnormal sense of domesticity in the usually rather cold, sterile rooms. Crowley almost wanted to hum as he cleared away the plates from the gourmet breakfast they'd just enjoyed; it took a lot of stubborn willpower – mixed with practical fear of an all too attentive Aziraphale noticing his good mood and smiling at him, thus making it that much worse – to refrain.

Suddenly a buzz rang through the flat, the blaring intercom's signal that the doorman downstairs had just let somebody in to visit.

Crowley frowned and dropped a stack of dishes and cutlery which barely looked as if they'd been used into the sink with a clank. "Who the heaven would that be?"

Aziraphale glanced up from his puzzle.

Crowley dried his hands on a dishtowel and tossed it at Aziraphale's head. "You didn't miracle the door open for the Jehovah's Witnesses again, did you?"

"They looked so cold, poor things," the angel protested, before insisting that – this time – he had nothing to do with the buzzing.

Reaching for his sunglasses – perched on the edge of the worktop – Crowley slid them onto his face in a single, fluid motion.

There came a booming knock, so rapid it made Aziraphale shudder involuntarily.

"Whoever it is, they're inhumanly fast." Crowley grimaced.

"You're thinking it's one of our respective former sides?" Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder anxiously.

"Yep."

"Oh, dear."

The demon scanned the kitchen for something he could use as a weapon, found himself thinking of Anathema on the night she'd hit the Bentley with her bicycle, and gripped the lean, pearly handle of a bread knife before making his way out of the kitchen.

"Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, following close behind. "What are you–?"

He put his finger to his lips and kept edging towards the door. "Yeah?" he called out.

"Demon Crowley," answered a clear, celestial voice from the other side. "We need to talk to you."

Aziraphale blinked in bafflement; it was a voice he'd last heard in Hell whilst pretending to be Crowley. "That sounded like Michael."

"Listen, just because my side has agreed I should be left alone," Crowley snarled, "doesn't mean I want to be pestered by you lot in their place – go away."

"I'm afraid we can't do that."

Another voice, slightly muffled, said – to Michael, not to Crowley – "Tell him we have Aziraphale with us – maybe he'll open up for that."

"Gabriel," murmured Aziraphale, instantly identifying that second voice.

"We have Aziraphale with us," Michael tried next.

"Oh, you do, do you?" Brow lifted, Crowley glanced over at the plump angel in the argyle sweater vest beside him, who shrugged.

"Yes," Michael – apparently desperate – went with that, "and we won't release him until you talk to us."

"Really? You know, I thought you lot disapproved of lying."

"I don't have to take this," huffed Gabriel, the door making violent plonking sounds as if it were being kicked. "I'm an archangel. Open the fucking door, Crowley!"

"There really is no need for that kind of language!" Aziraphale snapped, lips pursed.

"Oh," the archangel said coldly. "You're already in there. Why am I not surprised?"

"Need we remind you," Crowley cut in smoothly, "he can survive Hellfire? You don't want to mess with us, Gabriel."

"Gabriel," came Michael's voice, very tense and tired, "enough." To Crowley, she added, "We're not here to take either of you in – we've come to ask for a favour."

"Why didn't you say so?" Crowley snapped his fingers and the deadbolt clicked. "Come in, then."

Two archangels in clingy pastels fast-walked into the flat and looked around despairingly – they were clearly out of their depth here, within the lair of a diabolical demon. A demon who couldn't be destroyed with holy water.

Michael coughed twice and straightened the lace on her cuffs. Gabriel glared violet daggers at Crowley and Aziraphale.

"Well?" said Crowley.

"There has been a recent..." Michael paused, searching for the appropriate word. "...there have been, as of the last few weeks..." She sighed. "I don't suppose, Demon Crowley, you remember an angel called Islington?"

"I do," he replied drily. "Last I heard you lot locked old Islington up and threw away the key."

"Islington sank Atlantis," Gabriel interjected. "We couldn't let him go unpunished."

Crowley snorted. "You were all ready to destroy the world – Islington was just a little earlier and thought smaller."

Aziraphale snapped his fingers excitedly. "Oh, gosh, I remember Islington – what a good old chap!" He beamed. "We shared a desk once. Dreadful shame about the whole drowning an entire continent and getting locked underground debacle – I was absolutely flabbergasted when I found out, even though it was thousands of years ago."

"Aziraphale, if you wouldn't mind keeping your mouth shut–" Gabriel began, more from frustrated habit than out of actual malice.

Behind his sunglasses, though the archangels couldn't see it, Crowley's eyes had just gone an especially pronounced shade of yellow. "This isn't Heaven, Gabriel." The demon spoke through his teeth, in a low hiss. "This is my flat. Goes by my rules. Around here, Aziraphale can talk as much as he wants."

"Thank you, my dear." Aziraphale patted him on the arm appreciatively. "But I do believe I'll take this from you now, if you don't mind." He gently pried Crowley's fingers from the bread knife and miracled it back into the kitchen.

Michael didn't react, blinking impassively as if it were all one and the same to her, but this easy show of affection between the demon and angel clearly caused Gabriel a great deal of self-righteous discomfort; his face was distorted with cold fury.

"The problem is," Michael interjected coolly, "Islington isn't locked up any longer."

"And I take it Heaven didn't authorize his freedom?" Crowley asked.

"Not yet," Michael said. "It was the doing of a resident of what the humans colourfully refer to as London Below, a lady known as Door."

"Unfortunately," Gabriel added, "the woefully misguided girl was an opener – one of the last."

"So she's released an angel from confinement – that shouldn't be a problem for Heaven, you'll just kidnap him the way you did Aziraphale," Crowley mused darkly. "If you ask nicely, maybe Beelzebub will send up some more Hellfire."

"We can't do that – we don't know where he is," Gabriel admitted, violet eyes flashing as if it galled him.

"But why does that concern us?" Aziraphale's forehead creased. "I can't imagine you want Crowley and I to find Islington?"

"Not Islington, Aziraphale," Michael explained. "If we can't find him, you certainly couldn't."

Crowley bristled; he really didn't like the way they talked to his angel, and he'd already warned them once.

Michael continued, "Lady Door, on the other hand... We'd like to have a few words with her – she might help us."

"Why would she do that?"

"We have reason to believe she did not release Islington of her own free will – that she's no true enemy of Heaven."

"I'm not sure I follow you."

Michael sighed. "It's become evident that Islington was behind the murder of Door's family – her father spurned some requests for help in the past; no doubt, Islington held a grudge."

"He's good at that," Gabriel put in. "Always has been."

Aziraphale went white. "But to resort to murder..."

"There's more," Gabriel said. "Go on, Michael, tell them."

"We've been trying to work out why Islington didn't come straight through to Heaven." Michael twisted her fingers together, then broke them apart again. "We can only conclude something went wrong, that Lady Door sent him somewhere else on purpose. And as he's out there – unable to be tracked – there's no way guarantee the safety of..." Her eyes slid over to Gabriel. "You can understand the need for discretion."

"Islington has threatened me," Gabriel explained, "on a number of occasions."

Crowley pouted exaggeratedly. "Oh, don't tell me a great big archangel like you is scared of an ordinary angel like Islington."

"It isn't that he's scared, Crowley," Michael said, almost diplomatically, almost nicely. "But, at this time, Gabriel's presence in Heaven puts a number of other angels – angels who would be in the way, caught in the crossfire – directly in the path of Islington's wrath, should he eventually turn up."

"My platoon, would they–" Aziraphale blurted, hurriedly, as though he couldn't help himself.

"They aren't your platoon any longer, Aziraphale," Gabriel snarled. "You gave them up when you refused to fight in the only war that ever mattered." He motioned about the length of the flat, and at Crowley. "You threw them away for this – I hope it was worth it to you."

"Will they be all right?" Aziraphale hardened his stare, unwilling to let it go unanswered.

"As long as Gabriel is not in Heaven when Islington finds his way there, they'll be perfectly fine, Aziraphale," Michael assured him.

"What, you're just going to put him in some sort of half-baked Angel Protection Program?" Crowley snipped sarcastically.

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Michael took a step back, her hands sliding behind her back as she straightened it so she could look her most commanding. "We would like for him to stay here – with you."

"That would be the favour you mentioned," Aziraphale noted.

"Yes."

"Hang on!" exploded Crowley, flinging up his arms. "You can't just turn up – after conspiring with Hell to have Aziraphale and I both destroyed – and expect me to welcome an archangel into my flat." He turned his head and looked bitterly at Gabriel. "As far as I'm concerned, Islington can have you. I'd like to put up a big flashing neon sign, climb up on the roof, and shout, 'Oi, Islington, here he is!'"

"It isn't only against Gabriel," Michael said, in a tone that remained even, but only just. "You may be aware Islington has never liked Lucifer, either."

"You're not suggesting Satan move in as well, are you?" scoffed Crowley, arms folded across his chest. "Because I've only got two beds."

"Heaven and Hell both have reason to view this as a threat." The worry in Michael's face was more evident now – she couldn't keep it hidden.

"You're not working together?" Aziraphale asked, stunned and tense – this could be the start of something dreadful, if they were, and he wanted no part in it.

"No, never together." Gabriel sounded disgusted at the very suggestion. "But there has been an agreement reached in this specific matter."

At that moment, the television in Crowley's lounge turned on and he walked towards it just in time to see 3rd Rock From The Sun's Dick Solomon turn into Hastur.

Suddenly, Hastur Solomon was talking to him. "Crowley. Beelzebub wishes you to temporarily house the archangel Gabriel and keep an eye on him."

"I thought we agreed I was to be left alone, Hastur."

"Listen to me, you complete bastard." Hastur fumed, his eyes two smoking inky pools, boring through the screen. "If Islington has his way, there will be another war – not angels against demons, but factions of angels and demons fighting on both sides. It wouldn't be Armageddon – it would be universal chaos. You couldn't hide from it no matter how far into the stars you ran. And the first step in starting this war would be for Islington to destroy Gabriel."

Aziraphale clutched Crowley's arm, murmuring, "Gabriel's demise would be the shot heard around the cosmos." The angel gave his arm a little tug. "The duke of Hell may be correct – we might have to do this."

"Aziraphale, I don't trust them." He turned his head from the television to look at the archangels. "Any of you."

"You don't need to trust us, Crowley," said Hastur Solomon. "You need to think about saving your own skin – even a demon immune to holy water wouldn't stand a bloody chance if Heaven and Hell broke out into uncountable warring factions. Not even a flash bastard like you would escape the ensuing crossfire."

"All we want," Michael insisted, "is a temporary truce while Gabriel stays here with you and Aziraphale seeks the Lady Door."

Crowley shook his head. "Nah. Aziraphale stays here with me; I'm not letting you send him alone on some death mission."

"He wouldn't be alone," Michael told him. "He would be given help from our side – somebody we can trust, of course."

"Who?" demanded Crowley suspiciously.

"We were thinking Sandalphon," Gabriel said. "He's always been a loyal–"

"No," hissed Crowley. "I will not stand for that."

"Crowley," said Aziraphale softly. "It's all right – I can live with it."

The angel might not have been very fond of Sandalphon, who was – in fact – his least favourite of the archangels, but he understood why Gabriel would pick him. Hiding it though he was, Gabriel was vulnerable and possibly scared right now – he'd want somebody he was close to keeping an eye on the rogue principality. Sandalphon and Gabriel had been close for as long as Aziraphale could remember. Every tasteless joke out of Sandalphon's mouth had always made Gabriel smile; they sometimes squeezed each other's hands when they were nervous during tense meetings in Heaven. Aziraphale might not understand the appeal, on either side, but he was only too aware that Sandalphon was – in all likelihood – to Gabriel what Crowley was to him.

"The heaven you can!" Crowley argued, fists clenched. "I wouldn't let Sandalphon look after a goldfish I took a liking to." He wouldn't have let an angel like Sandalphon yell at his plants, even; he didn't want them that frightened.

"Sandalphon has shown his loyalty time and time again," Gabriel fumed. "Unlike a certain principality in this room."

"Oh, that iss jusst like you, issn't it?"

Aziraphale winced – you just knew a debate was getting steep, outright approaching the perpendicular, when Crowley started involuntarily elongating words containing the letter S.

Behind them, Hastur was leaving, slowly turning back to Dick Solomon on screen.

The demon held a hand-mirror, looking intently at himself, examining his pale hair and the squat frog atop his head. "I'm gorgeous!" He was gone, the show resumed, and the television turned itself off.

No one noticed.

Crowley's nostrils were flared, Aziraphale was struggling to calm him down, and the archangels were rapidly losing their patience.

The argument – which Michael tried, and failed, to defuse by suggesting possibly it didn't have to be Sandalphon, Uriel was always an option, only for Gabriel to tell her he wasn't budging on the matter – devolved into three angels and a demon all trying to talk over one another.

Then Gabriel shouted, "For Heaven's sake, Raphael, shut your stupid mouth!" and everyone froze.

For a moment, Aziraphale thought Gabriel had meant him – the name he'd just uttered wasn't dissimilar to his own – but the ensuing silence told another story.

Michael had gone crimson; her eyes darted around the room, unsure where they could safely rest; the flat was now an emotional minefield.

Aziraphale blinked, twice, very quickly. "Raphael?"

Gabriel glowered. "That's what he used to be called."

Crowley resembled an angry snake cornered in its own hole. "Gabriel can stay, because I don't want the universe to implode, but Aziraphale isn't going anywhere with Sandalphon – do I make myself clear?"

"Archangel Raphael?" pressed Aziraphale, as if there were another one.

"Michael, don't let the door hit you on the way out." Crowley's tone was coldly venomous.

"Oh, my dear fellow–" Aziraphale reached for him.

Crowley swatted him away.

Mildly hurt, Aziraphale offered to make everyone tea – though he knew Gabriel wouldn't drink it, considering it gross matter, and Michael would be gone before he even got the black, copper-rimmed teacups out of the cupboard.

The tea didn't actually matter; it was just an excuse to leave the lounge, a room where the tension was so thick even the littlest dust motes in the air felt like they were tiny bombs going off all around them.

The kitchen had been so peaceful earlier that morning – Aziraphale knew Crowley had felt it as well, that encompassing feeling of everything good in the world, of love – now it was about as welcoming as a black hole.

The angel glanced down at the scattered puzzle pieces on the worktop and the dishtowel on the tiled floor. They were like fragments from another time, a far sweeter age.

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