On Snakes and Saving Planets

       The bell above the bookshop door tinkled. "Oh, for Heaven’s—" Aziraphale caught himself just in time, though not out of any particular moral compunction. Since the Almost-Apocalypse, he’d grown rather fond of human expletives and their creative substitutes, especially once he’d realised the Almighty didn’t seem to mind. And now, of all times—just as he and Crowley had finally coaxed a bottle of Chianti into surrender and settled into their latest theological debate—some inconsiderate customer had barged in, despite the very clear "CLOSED" sign. "Stay here, I’ll handle it," Crowley muttered, unfolding himself from the armchair. He didn’t need books for arguments—he either remembered them or made them up on the spot—so he could afford to let the angel get a head start. Plus, this gave him a legitimate excuse to rescue Aziraphale’s precious tomes from grubby-handed customers. And, if he happened to commit some minor act of mischief along the way? Well. All in good fun. He spotted the intruder immediately. A boy, about ten or twelve, in a dark blue jumper, golfing trousers, and a cap—like he’d escaped from some posh boarding school’s tournament. And he didn’t even turn around when Crowley approached. The demon had to cough pointedly, adopting his best "I am a very dangerous person" demeanour. "Hello," the boy said absently, barely glancing up from the 20th-century biographies. "If you can’t read, why do you want books?" Crowley advanced. "And if you can read, why didn’t you notice the sign? We’re closed." "I’ll be quick," the boy said, still scanning book spines. "Didn’t fancy waiting for you to open." "Let me repeat for the terminally oblivious. We. Are. Not. Open. Now disappear." And then Crowley deployed his nuclear option—he lowered his sunglasses just enough to reveal the slitted yellow eyes beneath. Most humans started stammering and bolted for the nearest exit under that gaze, even if they were already outside. Modern children, though? Harder to scare. Crowley almost regretted inventing horror films and video games. Sure enough, the kid just quirked an eyebrow. "Can’t do a full disguise, then?" he asked, and then—blink—his ordinary green eyes turned the same serpentine yellow as Crowley’s, pupils narrowing to vertical slits. Crowley froze. Had Hell sent an extraction team after him? Unlikely—this was one kid, not a squad, and bursting into an angel’s bookshop was suicidal even for the most devout demon. Still, best to probe carefully. "What does Lord Beelzebub want?" Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow and sliding his glasses back up. "And as for the disguise—I could if I wanted. I just like my eyes this way. Handy for scaring people." "Beelzebub—who’s that?" the boy countered, finally looking interested. Crowley recalibrated. "So you’re not from Hell? Or not even a demon at all? Then what are you?" "Ah, must be a local thing," the boy waved a hand. "No, I’m unique. Unclassifiable. Not from your universe, actually. So don’t worry, your internal squabbles don’t concern me." This required processing. So the old man upstairs had made multiple versions of reality? Interesting. Crowley suddenly felt like he was the last line of defence for his entire cosmos. "And what does a unique you want in our universe?" "A book, obviously," the boy grumbled. "Which book?" "Oh, just a biography of a friend of my... enemy. Written by the friend’s wife, who paints him as a complete arse. My enemy would be delighted to see it." "Ah, elegant sabotage," Crowley nodded approvingly. So, closer to demon than angel. Common ground established. "Couldn’t you find it in your own universe?" "Nope. Never published." The boy smiled. "See, in my world, I annihilated Earth before this book came out. You’ve got others like you here, yeah? That’s probably why your planet’s still spinning. Too many cooks, and all that. Easier to work alone—cleaner, more efficient." Crowley wisely didn’t mention his own role in saving the world. Meanwhile, the boy gave a delighted "Aha!" and plucked a volume titled Memoires de la Rose from the shelf. "Here it is. How much?" The planet might be safe, but Aziraphale’s collection was in mortal peril. "Not for sale." "As you wish," the boy shrugged. "I’ll take it for free, then." He stepped back, and suddenly the air thickened into several black, football-sized blobs—each with glowing yellow eyes and idiot grins. They snatched the book and zipped toward the exit, cackling like imps on helium. Crowley couldn’t let that go. Time to see how an interdimensional demon measured up. Arrogance-wise? Dead even. Power-wise? If he lost, he could always yell for Aziraphale to bring holy water. For now, he simply smacked the nearest blob into a shelf. It squeaked, reeked of burnt rubber, and popped out of existence. This’ll be easy. *** Aziraphale had just unearthed the name of the saint who blessed jugglers (thus proving circuses weren’t inherently sinful, excepting freak shows) and was eager to inform Crowley—but the demon hadn’t returned. Worse, muffled thumps and the unmistakable sound of books hitting hardwood echoed from the shop. "What the—?" Carefully stacking his tomes, the angel hurried out—just in time to brace a teetering bookshelf. Between the aisles, two black serpents wove and hissed, knocking over displays. Aziraphale identified Crowley—larger, anthracite-glossy—while the intruder was dust-matte and flared a cobra’s hood when staying still for a second. Before the angel could lob something heavy at them, the chandelier rattled ominously. "Oh, to devil with both of you!" Post-Almost-Apocalypse, Aziraphale no longer feared damning people (or demons) far away. Harmless, really—and thus absolutely worth the restored peace and quiet. Both snakes vanished. Silence reigned. Aziraphale’s conscience stirred, then dozed off again. If Crowley needed help, he’d ask. And "to devil" was quite literal—they’d land at Crowley’s flat. Tested. (The demon usually complained about finding policemen or salesmen in his greenhouse, but today’s chaos was his fault.) Thirty minutes later, the silence grew unnerving. His conscience woke up cranky. No call, no apology. Time to make amends. "We’re fine," Crowley grunted the second he picked up. (He knew Aziraphale’s breathing.) "But come over for tea. Bring Baileys. Or Sheridan’s." Click. Aziraphale scratched his head and went to pick a bowtie matching his vest. *** Hearing "to devil," Crowley belatedly realised he’d been too busy vaporising blobs to evict the intruder. He wasn’t surprised to materialise in his Mayfair flat—palm fronds, ferns, that one dramatic monstera— "What was that?" the rival snake hissed from atop a rhododendron. (His voice was deeper in serpent form.) "Never mind. My Gloomies already took the book. Good luck destroying your universe, demon." He dissolved into smoke. Crowley exhaled. Fighting among fragile plants? Bad idea. The blobs had been easy, but the interloper teleported faster than Crowley could lunge. Just in case, he checked the foliage—and froze. The monstera’s farthest leaf was wilting. "What fresh nonsense is this?!" Crowley glared. The plant trembled. So did the nearby ficus, for solidarity. "Drop that rot now and grow a proper one!" "They listen to you?" The voice came from behind. Crowley didn’t jump. He turned, oozing nonchalance. "Course they do. Like so." He pointed. The defective leaf yellowed, withered, and dropped. "New one by morning," Crowley said when nothing else happened. "Takes skill." The rival snake vanished from the rhododendron and reappeared by the monstera, tail-coiling the dead leaf. "Hmm. Care to share? Trade secrets? I’ve got excellent end-of-the-world methods. Good intentions, guaranteed chaos." Crowley wanted him gone. But... this could also smooth things over with Aziraphale post-bookshop rampage. And protect his world. Diplomacy. No snarling. "Technically," Crowley said, "we demons don’t destroy worlds. We tempt humans to spite the Almighty and His angels. Used to be angels ourselves, actually. Now it’s a recruitment race. No world, no souls, no point. So thanks, but no apocalypses needed. How about you return the book instead?" The snake tilted its head, scales twitching. "Fine. I’ll pretend I believe you." He looped midair. Darkness congealed, and the stolen book thumped to the floor. Crowley inspected it—no missing pages. "Plants," he gestured grandly, "need talking to. They understand. Fear works wonders. For emphasis, shred some runt, and the rest shine after that." "Ah," the snake said, disappointed. "Won’t work for me. My plant’s one-of-a-kind. I can’t shred it. And it has no survival instinct whatsoever, and might wilt just to spite me." "What is this plant," Crowley feigned surprise, "that wilts perfectly tended? Water pH-checked, light wavelengths measured, soil composition—" "What?" The snake blinked at its pot. "You mean you don’t just... stick it in dirt and water it once a day?" "Oh, dear," Crowley whistled. "How have you lived?" The snake flattened its head-scales. "I specialised in ending life, not maintaining it." "Then why keep it?" The snake stiffened, then slithered behind the monstera. "Souvenir," it muttered, too fast. "To... accentuate the void post-annihilation." "Right. I’ll pretend I believe you," Crowley said, smirking internally. "Tell you what—I’ll give you a crash course in horticulture..." *** Stuck in traffic, Aziraphale puzzled over Crowley’s request. Baileys wasn’t their usual emergency code. And the demon had sounded tense—but not panicked. The building door recognised him and swung open. He took the stairs slowly—no point rushing now. He unlocked the flat very carefully. A child’s voice floated from the lounge. "—So technically, you and the angels do the same thing—recruitment. Just different sides. My adversary and I have opposite goals. Annihilation versus salvation. No teamwork possible. You’re just one of... thousands? Millions? Naturally, it does not feel like a personal stake to you..." "Oh, come on," Crowley’s voice countered. "Château Saint-Michel is one of life’s little joys. Everyone finds their poison." Aziraphale cleared his throat and stepped in. Crowley lounged in an armchair, wineglass in hand. Bottles lined the coffee table. On the sofa, the boy from the shop sipped something, scowling. "Crowley!" Aziraphale gasped. "Corrupting minors? Even for you—" "Angel! Perfect timing!" Crowley sprang up, hugging him. (And thus puzzling; it was rare for the demon to greet him with such enthusiasm after just an hour-long parting.) "No corruption—he’s our age. See?" He turned to the boy. "This is why friends are handy. They bring comfort and booze." He plucked the Baileys from Aziraphale’s pocket and—smack—pecked the angel on the cheek. The boy recoiled, hissing. "Degenerates! I’m not reconciling with anyone!" He vanished in a puff of darkness. "...What," Aziraphale said flatly, "was that?" "Saving the world," Crowley whispered, chugging Baileys. "Not ours, but... he might’ve come for ours next. Didn’t quite work. Temptation’s my forte, but friendship propaganda? Not my department..." "Start from the beginning," Aziraphale sighed, stealing Crowley’s chair. "How drunk do I need to be for this?" "Start with sambuca," Crowley slurred, collapsing onto the rug. "Point is... the old man made multiple universes. Or there’s multiple Hims. Whatever. And we just hosted a... dark occult entity from another universe. I tried to show him some benefits of embodiment and earthly pleasures as a point against annihilating any world. And some benefits of cooperating with an adversary. But at least I almost got your book back—" He patted the floor, pulled a volume from under the sofa— —Which dissolved into smoke. "Bugger. Gave me a fake... Angel, I tried—" "Hold on," Aziraphale paused mid-pour. "That boy wrecked my shop and stole from me?Explain." Crowley nodded desperately. *** "You know," Aziraphale mused later, halfway through bottle two, "our world’s probably safe. This snake of yours can’t stand blond boys? If he returns, we’ll sick Adam Young on him." Crowley squinted through his glass. "Hm. You summon the Antich—Adam. He gives me the creeps. Bloody lucky you and me are friends..."