Good Omens

“Gosh, it’s been years since I used this,” he murmured.

“About six thousand,” said Crowley.

“My word, yes,” said the angel. “What a day that was, and no mistake. Good old days.”

“Not really,” said Crowley. The noise was growing.

“People knew the difference between right and wrong in those days,” said Aziraphale dreamily.

“Well, yes. Think about it.”

“Ah. Yes. Too much messin’ about?”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale held up the sword. There was a whoomph as it suddenly flamed like a bar of magnesium.

“Once you’ve learned how to do it, you never forget,” he said.

He smiled at Crowley.

“I’d just like to say,” he said, “if we don’t get out of this, that … I’ll have known, deep down inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you.”

“That’s right,” said Crowley bitterly. “Make my day.”

Aziraphale held out his hand.

“Nice knowing you,” he said.

Crowley took it.

“Here’s to the next time,” he said. “And … Aziraphale?”

“Yes.”

“Just remember I’ll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking.”

There was a scuffling noise, and they were pushed aside by the small but dynamic shape of Shadwell, waving the Thundergun purposefully.

“I wouldna’ trust you two Southern nancy boys to kill a lame rat in a barrel,” he said. “Who’re we fightin’ noo?”

“The Devil,” said Aziraphale, simply.

Shadwell nodded, as if this hadn’t come as a surprise, threw the gun down, and took off his hat to expose a forehead known and feared wherever street-fighting men were gathered together.

“Ah reckoned so,” he said. “In that case, I’m gonna use mah haid.”

Newt and Anathema watched the three of them walk unsteadily away from the jeep. With Shadwell in the middle, they looked like a stylized W.

“What on earth are they going to do?” said Newt. “And what’s happening—what’s happening to them?”

The coats of Aziraphale and Crowley split along the seams. If you were going to go, you might as well go in your own true shape. Feathers unfolded towards the sky.

Contrary to popular belief, the wings of demons are the same as the wings of angels, although they’re often better groomed.

“Shadwell shouldn’t be going with them!” said Newt, staggering to his feet.

“What’s a Shadwell?”