Chapter Text
Chapter One: Of Ducks and Men
Crowley is driving back to his flat, thoughts racing through his head. The taste of Aziraphale still on his lips, the feeling of betrayal when he left with Metatron on the lift to Heaven. All the words unsaid between them.
There is a question, burning a hole deep into his soul, that happens to be the same question he dared to ask before he fell from heaven, the same single word:
WHY.
Adrenaline surges through him, energy that needs to go somewhere. He thinks of all his usual outlets: drinking into oblivion, like he did when he thought Aziraphale discorporated. Sleeping for a century. Driving off aimlessly on his own drinking tour of Europe.
But none of those seem to align with what he’s feeling.
There is a vast pool of depression and regret just at the corner. But before he takes that dive he wants answers. He deserves answers.
He abruptly turns and heads directly to Tadfield to see if he can find that witch with the book with all the answers.
As he careens down at speeds unsuitable for country roads, his head sorts through a mess of old memories. He does his best not to think of Aziraphale.
Right now, he’s thinking of Jim. “I feel like an empty house,” Jim had told him, “where someone lived for a very long time, but now they’re gone, and the house can sort of tell where the things used to be…”
Crowley starts thinking about his own empty house.
At that West End magic show, Furfur had said they fought together in the war. That Crowley rode around on him like a little monkey, which definitely should have been memorable. But Crowley couldn’t remember him. And Saraqael said they worked on the Horsehead Nebula together, but he couldn’t remember her either. He could barely remember making the stars, when he was talking about gravity with Jim earlier.
When Jim mentioned looking at where the furniture isn’t, Crowley almost knew exactly what he meant. And watching Gabriel’s trial in the files, and realizing that Heaven has the power to wipe memories, made Crowley wonder if they took some from him, too.
He remembers an old argument with Aziraphale over drinks at the Ritz about when they first met. Crowley always said it was in the garden, and Aziraphale had said it was years earlier, when Crowley was making the stars, but Crowley couldn’t remember that.
Aziraphale said, “I remember the angel you were,” and Crowley had said, “The angel you knew was not me.”
But was it? It was hard to be certain. Maybe he had more answers than he knew, if he could only remember. About the angel Aziraphale wanted him to be.
He looks down at his watch. It’s an elaborate, expensive, custom watch that can go underwater, travel in space, and tell time in every time zone.
But the time in Heaven and Hell was always the same.
Too late.
JASMINE COTTAGE
The Bentley screeches up in front of the cottage, and Crowley saunters up and knocks on the door.
Anathema opens it, and says, “Oh, hello. It’s not a great time. We’re in the middle of a dispute with the city planning department.” In the background he can hear Newt angrily pushing buttons on his phone, desperately trying to navigate an automated system and avoid being put on hold again.
“Got a demonic commendation for inventing call queues. Sorry about that, here,” Crowley says with a snap, and suddenly Newt is transferred to the right person he needs to resolve his issue.
“Wow. And thanks!” Anathema stands aside to let him in.
Crowley points to the horseshoe above the door, and Anathema politely takes it down so the demon can enter.
“Right. What’s the problem?” Crowley asks, looking around and seeing boxes everywhere.
“They are trying to bulldoze our house, but this house was bought and paid for years ago in anticipation of my move here to stop the Apocalypse. We think it’s a mistake on the city planning department’s side, but we’ve been in a standoff with them and can’t get anyone to return our calls.”
“Well, don’t you have that book that tells you everything? What does it tell you about this?” Crowley asks.
“Ah. Yes. We are past the books now. We are defining our own destinies. We even got past the last chapter in the Bible. What happens from here is unknown,” Anathema says, with that confident tone that witches always used when essentially saying they don’t know the answer.
“You might know, if you kept that book,” Newt says from the next room.
“What book?” Crowley asks.
“Nothing,” Anathema says, glaring.
“The sequel to her other prophesy book, that showed up at her doorstep after the Apocalypse,” Newt calls out.
“What other book?” Crowley asks.
“I’m not going through this again,” Anathema says, standing. “Newt, did you get a hold of who you needed?”
“Yes, but they didn’t have the paperwork we filed with them. She says we need to fill out a new form, but that it needed to be filed last week to make a difference,” Newt says, coming back into the room.
Anathema let out something between a scream and a grunt, and then turns to face the demon. “Why did you come here, exactly?”
“I need answers. Or possibly, I already have the answers, but I’ve forgotten them. And you have the book with the answers.”
“We’re a little busy right now,” Anathema says, getting up and angrily putting her things away into boxes.
“I see that. Did your old book have any leftover prophesies that were never worked out? Maybe something that could be helpful right now?” Crowley asks.
Anathema thinks. “Actually, yes, there was just one that none of us were able to decipher. ‘Dread not, and forget not thy peshtemal.’”
“What’s a peshtemal?” Newt asks.
“It’s a towel,” Crowley says. “From old Turkish baths in the Ottoman Empire. I didn’t like the 14th century but I didn’t mind the bathhouses, when everyone stopped fighting for a while and relaxed a bit.”
Anathema stares at him.
“Well, there goes that thought, anyway,” Crowley says, miracling a towel. “I’ll take the advice though. Don’t panic and bring a towel. And now I’m heading to the pub,” he adds with a flourish.
“I’ll join you,” Newt says. “I could use a drink.”
“Go on ahead,” Anathema says. “I’ll pack a little longer and hold off the bulldozers if they come. Just bring back something for dinner?”
“Sure,” Newt says, and starts to leave.
“Don’t forget your towel,” Crowley says. “Heed ye the advice of the great Agnes Nutter, and the last of her divine prophesies.”
Confused, Newt turns around, grabs a towel, and then jumps in the Bentley.
THE PUB
“And then he said, ‘I forgive you,’ and what was I supposed to say to that?” Crowley asks, slurring and distraught, wiping his eyes with the corner of his towel.
“I don’t know,” Newt says. He was doing his best to be comforting on what he thought would be a fun excursion to the pub, but found he had been having to alter his responses between “I’m so sorry” and “I’m not sure,” and “Wow I can’t believe that happened,” as Crowley recounted his conversation with Aziraphale at the bookshop.
“I poured my heart out to him too, after Nina and Maggie told me to. Fat lot of good it did,” Crowley says, finishing another drink, and signaling the bartender to bring the next one.
“I’m so sorry,” Newt says, sipping his beer, and looking out the window, trying to see if the bulldozers were moving.
“All over a bloody cup of coffee. If I knew that’s all I needed to keep the angel I would have bought him an entire coffee shop,” Crowley says, sloshing.
“That’s so sad,” Newt says, using his towel to help Crowley clean up the drink he spilled.
“And here we are, at the end of all things. I saw it when I was up in Heaven. They are planning another Apocalypse, you know,” Crowley says. “You won’t have to worry about your little cottage much longer, I’m afraid.”
“Wait, they’re what?” Newt asks.
“Apocalypse Part Two. And we maybe could have stopped it with information from that book you and your partner burned. Cheers to the end of the world again, amiright?” he says, clinking his bottle against Newt’s.
“What? No, there’s something we can do, surely?”
“We’re doing it!” Crowley says. “Don’t panic, and bring a towel! That’s what Agnes said to do, right?” He brings the corner of his towel to Newt’s in a sort of toast.
“Your watch is glowing,” Newt says. “Is it supposed to do that?”
Crowley looks down. “That’s odd. It’s never done that before…” He looks at it more closely.
And then the watch is speaking to him.
“Crowley, are you there?” the watch says.
“Um, yes, I’m here. Who’s calling?” Crowley says, with all the crisp diction of a very drunk person doing his best to not sound drunk.
“It’s Slartibartfast, do you remember me?”
“It’s a memorable name, but no, I’m afraid I don’t,” Crowley says, frowning deeply at the trend.
“I’m a planet-builder. We worked together years ago. I’m the one that got an award for all the fjords,” Slartibartfast says.
“Oh, and you did a very good job on them, let me tell you,” Crowley says, and mouths to Newt I have no idea who this is.
“We need your expertise on something, Starmaker,” Slartibartfast says. “We’d like to bring you up for a look.”
“I’m afraid I can’t right now. My human friend Newt here was having a bad day since they are about to demolish his house and I told him I’d take him to the pub and listen to his troubles,” Crowley says and puts his hand on Newt’s shoulder.
“Well, you can bring him along with you,” Slartibartfast says. “Do you both have your towels with you?”
Crowley and Newt exchange a look.
“Well, as a matter of fact, we do,” Crowley admits.
“What a pair of hoopy froods you are. Sending a beam to your coordinates now,” Slartibartfast says, and the watch stopped glowing.
And then Crowley and Newt start glowing instead.
“Quick, eat some peanuts,” Crowley says, grabbing some and shoving them at Newt.
Newt has a lot of questions, but obediently eats the peanuts as Crowley quickly eats some too.
He’s learned enough from the most recent apocalypse to ask questions after you do the confusing thing someone is urgently telling you to do.
THE SHIP
Newt feels a tickle then, the kind that makes your arm hair stand on edge in the charged air of a thunderstorm, before getting hit by an entire bolt of lightening.
Newt feels himself being sucked up into the sky at alarming speeds, and barely registers the pub becoming a speck on the horizon as he and Crowley get yoinked up to outer space. It’s a blur of colors and a rush of wind, then a more alarming lack of colors and lack of wind, and then a quick jolt as they hit the floor of the spaceship, all in a matter of nanoseconds. He clings to his towel for dear life during the entire encounter, and finds it oddly comforting.
Crowley sits up first, rubbing his temple. “Never much liked matter-transference beams. Prefer the happy vertical people transporter if I have the option.”
Newt tries to process that. “You mean the lift?”
“Well, it’s all different up here. It’s like a lift, but it’s happy about taking you where you need to go,” Crowley says.
The door opens and makes a strange happy sound as it does. An older man with long hair, a light blue suit and a fur coat walks in.
“Crowley! So glad you could join us. And welcome, Newt! I’m Slartibartfast. Sorry to hear about your home. Well, both of them. We’re doing what we can, though. We did file a complaint with the galactic planning department about it, but we’ve been on hold for a few years. Still trying, though.”
“I may have gotten out of hand with that whole automated call thing,” Crowley says with a sigh. He stands and offers a hand to Newt, who was still coiled on the floor clutching his towel. “Imminent apocalypse again then, yeah?”
“Soon, but that’s not why we brought you on board,” Slartibartfast says. “We have some clients who wanted to consult with you, Starmaker.”
Crowley shrugs and says, “Ok, sure. Who are the clients?”
“They are the most intelligent species on Earth, who have been working for a great many years at the Ultimate Question,” Slartibartfast says as he leads them down a corridor.
“Wait,” Newt says, “Aren’t humans the most intelligent?”
“Humans are the third most intelligent creatures on Earth,” Slartibartfast says. “Second would be the dolphins.”
“Dolphins. Damn big brains. I always said,” Crowley says confidently.
“And the first are…?” Newt asks, certain he’d regret it.
“The ducks,” Slartibartfast answers.
“I’m sorry? The ducks?” Newt asks.
“Yes. They’ve been on a reconnaissance mission since the beginning. They said they got the best intel from all the spies in St. James Park.”
“Oh. They do have ears," Crowley says, remembering an old conversation. "Yeah, I guess that would make sense.”
“Spying alien ducks makes sense to you?” Newt asks, mouth agape.
“Well about as much as anything else does,” Crowley says. “Is today Thursday? I could never get the hang of Thursdays.”
“Crowley,” Slartibartfast says, looking at him carefully as he does. “Do you really not remember me? I know you went by a different name, then.”
“That probably wasn’t me,” Crowley says, trying to shrug off the wave of nausea that happened every time someone told him he should have remembered something. “Big universe, n’all.”
“But you did make the stars,” Slartibartfast says. “You were the lead engineer for that project.”
“Yes, I do remember that,” Crowley says. “At least, vaguely. It was a long time ago.”
Slartibartfast leads them to another door, and with a quick contented sigh the door opens and they walk in.
Inside were five duck-billed aliens in silver space suits.
“Oh! I know them!” Newt says, excitedly. “I've met them before!”
“You have?” Crowley asks, eyebrows arching.
“Yes. Just before the apocalypse, their spaceship landed by my car, Dick Turpin, and they let me off with a warning about our polar ice caps being significantly below regulation size,” Newt says, glad to be on firm footing with something he recognized over the last few minutes.
“Who’s Dick Turpin?” Crowley asks.
“My car. Was that really the part of that sentence that stood out to you?” Newt asks Crowley.
“Hmm. I never thought about naming my car,” Crowley says, suddenly wondering if the Bentley had ever wanted to be called something other than Bentley.
“Good afternoon,” the duck-billed alien closest to Crowley says. “We’ve been watching you closely, Starmaker. My name is Laura. We are the Dukliens-”
She was interrupted by the sound of a snicker from Newt and Crowley.
“Sorry, sorry,” Crowley says. “The name just sounded a little... on the nose.”
At that, Newt and Crowley snicker again.
“No, no, no,” Crowley says, realizing the alcohol and the quick dive through space was making him more than a little giddy, and doing his best to regain composure. “I mean, yes. I mean, what did you need me for, anyway?”
“We are pan-dimensional hyper-intelligent beings who commissioned Slartibartfast here to help us find the question to the ultimate answer of life, the universe, and everything, back before the Earth was built. We’ve been following the progress on Earth since the beginning, but with all the acid rain building up and the hydrocarbons, and a few looming Armageddons, we’re fearing the experiment will end before we can get our questions answered. So he brought you to us, Earthling.”
“’M not an Earthling, I’m a demon,” Crowley responds, looking around the room at all the buttons. “I was an angel, but got kicked out of Heaven for asking too many questions.”
The Dukliens look at each other. “He is the one we need,” Laura says with authority.
“Need for what?” Crowley asks. He’s starting to get concerned that this wasn’t just a social call.
In the speed of a snap, the Dukliens run and grab Crowley and Newt, holding them each tightly by their arms.
Crowley knows it happened in the speed of a snap, because he snapped several times, and nothing happened.
“Sorry, it’s the miracle blockers,” Slartibartfast says. “Miracles won’t work here on this ship. It’s built into the mechanics.”
“We would love to take more time to explain this to you better,” Laura says, with infinite patience, “but I’m afraid you have information in your brain, Starmaker, that we are going to have to extract through unfortunately primitive measures.”
Crowley looks down when he feels a pinch, as the Duklien closest to him injects something into his arm.
He knows he should be rather concerned about that, but instead he starts giggling as the drug starts to take effect.
“Hang on hang on hang on,” Crowley slurs. “Does this mean we just got Ab-DUCK-ted?”
Newt and Crowley burst out laughing, in spite of the obvious danger, as the Dukliens hold them upright.
“Space travel isn’t all it’s Quacked up to be,” Newt manages.
They both laugh harder, making a short series of quack imitations, before collapsing into sleep in their captor’s arms.