Books, Bentleys, and Bandstands // Ineffable Husbands

2. Sushi & The Sound of Music

Eventually, the sun went down on the very last evening of the world, and the rising moon found them together once again. They were sitting in a restaurant, trying to keep their spirits up without the senses-dulling effects of alcohol and failing miserably. Each assumed that he would be notified as to the final outcome of the War, but as neither had yet heard anything beyond ‘It’s over,’ they were lying low and trying to stay under the radar for as long as possible. Aziraphale tried valiantly to keep the conversation light, but it was proving difficult when they invariably wound up right back on the same cheerless topic. It seemed there was nothing else to talk about. 

“I can’t see Hell letting anybody on your side live,” Crowley remarked over their rather unimpressive sushi dinner. He seemed intent on impaling all the limp pieces of ginger onto a chopstick by application of brute force. 

“Well, we can’t die, so...” Aziraphale countered, delicately lifting an eyebrow.

Crowley gestured vaguely with his gingered spear. “Continue to exist, then. You get so caught up in semantics, angel.” 

Aziraphale nodded gloomily. “I suppose that might happen if our side won, as well. Though they’d probably think it more fitting if they just flushed everyone they didn’t like down into Hell and closed off the entrance, since it’s supposed to be so, er, hellish. Poetic justice is very big with them at the moment.”

Crowley snorted. “Poetic justice! As if they know anything about that at all. We got all the good poets and they know it. Bitterness does not suit well the image of the heavenly host – you should tell them to do something about that, clean house a bit. When– you know. If your side won.” He set to work dragging the ginger through Aziraphale’s remaining wasabi, making a colorful orange- and green-caked shishkabob.

“I don’t see what’s so poetic about being frozen in ice or chewed up or burnt, really,” Aziraphale argued. “They got enough of the physical pain on Earth, wouldn’t you say? It just isn’t very original, if you ask me; people can come up with much more efficient ways to hurt themselves.”

Crowley stared at him. “Are you making suggestions for the improvement of tortures in Hell, angel? Because they could use some creative thinking down there.” He grinned in that way that Aziraphale always found disturbing on a level he didn’t quite dare to explore.

“No!” he sputtered, “of course not, I wouldn’t dream of doing anything of the—“ He trailed off, seeing that Crowley was waving his hand and chuckling wearily. 

“I was joking, you idiot. And Dante got it all wrong, anyway; they aren’t really circles, you know. Or even levels, exactly, it’s all personalized, that’s the latest thing right now. You hate broccoli, you eat broccoli. You fear clowns, you get chased by clowns. Your lot should look into it. Might spare you a few millennia of The Sound of Music, at least.”

“Heaven has personal touches,” Aziraphale said loyally, signaling the waiter somewhat desperately for more hot tea. “All right, the activities are a bit cookie-cutter, but people can do what they like, however odd that might be. There’s one young man who likes nothing better than tearing around the grassy areas shaped like a dog.” He shook his head. “I mean, what kind of paradise is that?” 

Crowley sighed and leaned back into his chair with a frustrated thump. “What kind of paradise is any of it, angel? Really, has anyone actually won this war? They’re going to destroy everything that’s worth anything in all of existence, and no one even knows why. I don’t see what’s so offensive about Earth. This place can be both hell and paradise enough for you, me, and every mortal being lucky enough to be born onto its filthy surface.”

Aziraphale thought hard about arguing for the sake of his allegiances, but concluded he’d better say it now or hold his peace forever. And ever and ever. He leaned forward confidentially. “I know,” he said in a near-whisper. “I know it’s a terrible thing to question the ineffable plan, but it would be such a perfect place to spend eternity.” He examined his own clean plate and wished briefly there was something left to stab. 

“We could split it up,” Crowley suggested. “Part of the planet would be heavenly and part would be hellish. The only drawback for you is that Hell would get all the good sushi places because that dolt Michael has a weak stomach. Or he did when I left, anyway.”

“He still does.” Aziraphale nodded. “He tried Mexican after the Aztecs left, and they still talk about the fuss he made. I don’t think he dabbles in food anymore.”

“Anyway, that’s it,” Crowley said. “They’d never go for it. No more Earth, no more sushi dinners, no more driving the Bentley, no more creative gardening. 

“No more having tea in the back of the bookshop,” Aziraphale added despondently.

“No more feeding those blasted ducks.” 

“No more trying new restaurants.”

“No more waking up naked in the middle of nowhere with a bitch of a hangover and your feathers getting stuck in my mouth.”

They were both silent following this pronouncement, in the way that silence can be like a small explosion. 

“That was only the one time,” Aziraphale said finally, in a voice that was meek even for him.

“Yes. And that, angel,” Crowley replied, leaning forward again, “is exactly the problem.”

Aziraphale couldn’t meet his eyes, though that may have had something to do with the sunglasses. 

“I—uh. Yes, though I’m not quite sure precisely what—er,” said Aziraphale. He seemed shaken, even frightened, as though whatever had happened had left him unable to use some of his limbs. Crowley said nothing, apparently enjoying the angel’s awkward discomfort. “I will... miss you, Crowley. Rather a lot,” Aziraphale finally managed, and groped for the freshly filled teapot. 

“No, you won’t,” Crowley said. “If my side won, you’ll be mercifully obliterated and I will be stuck in Hell for eternity. If your lot managed to win, though I really can’t see how, then you’ll be drinking ambrosia and playing with dogs, and I will be stuck in Hell for eternity. You may be noticing a pattern here.”

“Well, what can I do about it?” the angel asked miserably. “The rules have been set since the beginning of creation: once fallen, no angel can return to the heavenly realms.” 

“You could always Fall,” Crowley suggested, toying with his remaining chopstick. 

Aziraphale choked on his tea. “So we can both be stuck in Hell for eternity?” he gasped. “You’re mad!”

“It’s better than being alone all that time,” Crowley muttered. The bill arrived as Aziraphale silently contemplated the many levels of demonic insanity, and Crowley pulled out a sleek, eel-skin wallet. He threw approximately twelve thousand pounds onto the table in front of the astonished waiter, hissed “Keep the change,” through a grin showing all of his teeth, and stood up. It was the end of the world, after all. Why not tip the fellow extraordinarily? Aziraphale remained where he was for a moment longer while the waiter scurried off. 

“Crowley, I would make a terrible demon,” he said, looking up pleadingly. 

“I know,” Crowley sighed. “It was just an idea.” Aziraphale looked even more miserable as he got to his feet, started to speak, then just stood there looking constipated.

Crowley reached for his loaded chopstick, stuffed the mass of ginger and wasabi into his mouth and chewed appreciatively for a moment before making a terrible face. He ignored Aziraphale frantically flapping a napkin at him and spat the whole mess out onto his empty plate. 

“Crowley, that’s disgusting!” hissed the angel in a loud whisper. Crowley just scowled. 

“I don’t even have a taste for fiery food anymore! How am I supposed to eat brimstone for the rest of eternity?” He stomped out of the restaurant in a furious temper, leaving Aziraphale running to catch up.