Chapter Text
The director addresses the general hum of workers. "Right, Michael's had a costume issue so let's just focus on the set up. If we can get the camera positions ready, we shouldn't fall too far behind schedule - they'll both be here soon. So we'll have the two of them sitting here, holding hands...."
He gestures to the bench before striding over to a camera operative and checking the angle. It's a warm summer day - a rarity on this particular British summer. The cast and crew have been put up in a nearby hotel due to the hectic filming schedule, and they woke early to film as many outdoor scenes as possible before the rain sets in tomorrow. He thinks longingly of his fourth floor room in a nearby hotel, and the bed he will collapse into as soon as the day is over.
Meanwhile, in another universe, Crowley and Aziraphale sit on the same bench in the same park, alone.
“Anyone looking” Aziraphale asks from Crowley’s body.
Crowley reaches his hands to his temples, “nobody… right, swap back then.”
They reach their hands out to each other and feel a shift. Not like the first time though, this shift runs through their bodies and to the world outside.
Something is changing.
Something big.
People are materialising in front of them. People with cameras and clipboards and disposable coffee cups.
"Michael, David, when did you get here?" someone is looking straight at them, confused. "I thought you needed to fix your costume, Michael? David, you might as well take 15 too, we'll get this set up." He looks away and busies himself with talking to others around him.
Aziraphale and Crowley are frozen to the bench in shock and confusion.
“This isn’t right.” Aziraphale speaks quietly so only Crowley can hear, “swap back again.” They reach out their hands to swap back, whilst the general hum of workers all coincidentally notice their shoes are untied, they need to check their phone, or the leaves on the trees really are beautiful this time of year and no one takes enough time in their lives to just stop and stare these days. Now back in the other’s body, Aziraphale and Crowley take in their surroundings again, bemused to find themselves still firmly in this strange place.
"What are you doing?” The man is addressing them again, taking a step closer. Immediately he notices a very unusual weed on the ground and stoops to examine it carefully.
“Crowley” Aziraphale appeals to his own body, Crowley reaches out a hand to try one more time. They move back to their own bodies, but they remain stubbornly in this new world. The man stands and looks at them again, a thoughtful frown on his face.
“You can go to your trailers..." he points to their left and, having exhausted their current options, they stand and begin walking in that direction.
"Right, thank you," says Aziraphale politely. "What happened?" he asks Crowley in a whisper.
"No idea" responds the Demon, searching the gathered workers' faces for clues.
"Look" Aziraphale gestures ahead where they see two trailers next to each other. One with the name 'David' and one 'Michael'. "That's what he was calling us." They've reached the end of the crowd of workers now, and no one seems to be paying them any attention.
“So it is,” agrees Crowley, disinterested. “Right, can I tempt you to a spot of lunch?” he asks Aziraphale, as though nothing unusual has happened.
“Crowley, we need to work out what’s going on. This isn’t right. It doesn’t feel right, don’t you think?”
Crowley considers for a second. He really wants to disagree. He really wants to say ‘no, everything’s fine, Angel, let’s just go eat, drink extraordinary amounts of alcohol, and collapse in your bookshop.’ But if Crowley is honest with himself, he feels it too. Something is… different. And even if he could bring himself to ignore it long enough to enjoy a celebratory lunch, he has a feeling that Aziraphale couldn’t.
He pauses, sniffs the air thoughtfully and puts his hands in his pockets. “Yeah… it doesn’t feel right,” he admits.
“We should investigate.” Aziraphale grows enthusiastic at the idea. Crowey, on the other hand, looks exasperated, as though the Angel had just suggested putting on a magic show.
“Can’t we just go get a drink first or something?” Crowley asks futilely, he already knows the answer.
“We should start here” Aziraphale gestures excitedly to Michael’s trailer. “I’m sure there will be clues in there.”
Crowley eyes the trailer and flicks his gaze back to Aziraphale, already bored of this but resigned to the knowledge that he couldn’t say no even if he wanted to. “Right” he follows Aziraphale towards the trailer.
“NO!” A loud voice jolts them and they both look towards its owner. A stern-looking woman is advancing towards them. “We’ve only got 15 minutes and if you both go in there together, you’ll never be out in time.” She pauses to assess their faces “Well don’t look at me like that, do you remember how long it took you to agree on whose trailer was on the left? Anyway, Jenny will be here soon to fix your waistcoat Michael. You go in here.”
She opens the trailer door and guides Aziraphale’s arm through, closing the door behind him. Aziraphale glances back at Crowley, giving a conspiratorial wink, and Crowley realises he is later going to be quizzed about what clues he found in the other trailer. The woman studies his face. “I think I’ll send Peter over to fix your make-up” she says, thoughtfully. She then stands, waiting. Taking the hint, Crowley turns and walks slowly to the other trailer. Opening the door, he sighs quietly to himself. At least whatever waits for him inside can’t be as weird as the events of the last 24 hours.
Weirdness can’t really be measured on a scale.
This is the thought Crowley might have had, if he had had the capacity to think anything other than ‘what the hell is going on’ when he was greeted by the trailer’s contents.
As he opens the door, a head of red hair looks up from their phone. The man is lounging at the bench seat that surrounds the small table. His expression changes from surprise at the unannounced visitor, to utter horror as his eyes meet the face of said person. His features fix in a look of shock, mouth partly open, body frozen in place.
“Who are you?” he asks quietly, barely moving his lips.
Michael is in his trailer bathroom. He rubs his hands across his face, chasing away the tiredness. After this scene, he’ll be done for the day. Then, in a few days, they film the final Ritz scene, and he will have finished being Aziraphale. He feels a wave of sadness run through him and takes a steadying breath.
Aziraphale enters the trailer excitedly. This is his chance to solve a real mystery. If he’s honest with himself, the timing could be better. He would really prefer to be doing this in a year or two, having had some time to recover from the failed Armageddon and settle into whatever version of life was awaiting him and Crowley, now that they had so very clearly abandoned their respective sides. But the world seems to be thrusting them into a new adventure sooner than they expected. And, in truth, this tended to be what the world had done since they first set foot on it those many, many years ago. Events have a habit of coming all at once. Like buses. Or swarming insects ready to attack, he reflects, rather more nervously as he eyes the contents of the trailer.
Behind him, he hears the bathroom door click open, and spins around on the spot. He meets the eyes of the man entering the room with the kind of shock and terror that knocks Angels back a couple of paces and causes humans to shout an involuntary scream, reaching for the nearest thing that could pass for a defensive weapon (a stainless-steel water bottle).
"I... it's not... who..." Aziraphale splutters, trying to get words out.
Staring each of them down is their own mirror image. It would be unnerving if it were possible. As it is (impossible, that is) it's terrifying.
"Who the Hell are you?" Michael's fear courses around his body and, noting this new stranger is between himself and the door, lands on the fight response. Verbal fight, that is, given that this individual could reasonably be expected to match him like-for-like in any sort of physical contest.
Aziraphale flicks his eyes between the water bottle and Michael. Physically, this man is like looking in a mirror. But his mannerisms are off. His voice isn't the same. He's a bad copy, the Angel decides. He breathes deeply, smoothing down his clothes to reassure himself.
"I'm Aziraphale." he says plainly. This is met with an expression of annoyance, so he decides to employ his personal version of passive-aggressive politeness. He has been perfecting this for so many years that it has worn off on the humans nearest to him, to the extent that the British have adopted it as part of their national identity. "You must be Michael," he smiles "it's a pleasure to meet you."
Michael remains frozen to the spot, searching the Angel's features. "What do you mean you're Aziraphale?" he asks, frustratedly. "Who are you really?"
"Did Gabriel send you? You're a perfect physical copy, but the voice, the mannerisms are all off. Perhaps Beelzebub is behind this." Aziraphale speaks aloud but seems to be thinking to himself.
"Listen, this is clearly some sort of joke and, honestly, I'm genuinely very impressed. Your impression is uncanny. The mannerisms, even... You are clearly very talented. But breaking into my trailer kind of crosses a line. Unless... wait a minute, did David put you up to this?"
Recognition passes across the Angel's face "Ah, David! Of course. I believe that's who Crowley is with now."
"Very funny" Michael retorts, dryly.
"Why?" Aziraphale frowns, then looks around himself again "you're not an Angel or a Demon, I can tell. You're human. Who sent you?"
"How long are you going to keep this up for?" Michael asks angrily, before repeating the Angel's words back to him "you're not an Angel or a Demon." It’s a perfect impression.
Not such a bad copy after all.
This is the thought Aziraphale might have had if he had had the capacity to think anything at all. As it is, the Angel is frozen in fear. His body takes over – heart racing, palms sweating. He stares in shock, mouth slightly open.
"I'm not above calling the police, you know?" Michael's tone is calm but inside he's anything but. The longer he spends with this individual, the more he can't escape the fact that he is exactly like him - a copy that no amount of prosthetics or character study could produce. He retraces the conversation. David. David might have some clues here. Perhaps he's behind all this. "Right, we're going next door." Michael announces, keeping the water bottle firmly in his hand.
Aziraphale watches the human move past him to the trailer door, then follows. "Yes, excellent," he agrees, keen to find Crowley.
Opening the door, Michael notices that the area around their trailers is unusually deserted – it’s a blessing this man doesn’t seem to be dangerous, as no one would have heard him shouting for help. He walks out, without checking whether Aziraphale is following. The Angel hurries out after him, eager to find Crowley. Michael takes two steps at a time up to David's trailer and opens without knocking.
"Okay, I don't know how much this little prank cost you but it's not funny" he says as he walks through the door. He freezes when he sees the scene in front of him.
David is sitting at the table, looking nervously at Crowley who stands on the other side of it. David has the Good Omens book in his hand, and his face is guarded and a little pale. Crowley turns quickly at the sound of the door opening. He snaps his fingers as he sees Aziraphale entering the trailer and both Michael and David stop rigid, staring unseeing in front of them. Aziraphale tuts.
"You didn't have to do that."
"No? Who the Hell is this?" Crowley asks irritably, thumb pointing back at David.
"David, I presume. And this is Michael."
"Angel, who the Hell are David and Michael?"
"Yes, well, that's certainly the question, isn't it?"
"This one keeps talking about a book."
"What book?" Aziraphale asks quickly, he knows every book ever written, this could be a clue to what's going on.
"Called Good Omens. Very popular apparently." Crowley gestures to the book in David's hand.
Aziraphale glances up at Crowley as he walks past and takes the book, studying it. "I've never heard of it" he says, turning it over in his hands, flicking through the pages.
"No, this is some sort of joke" says Crowley, irritably "let's just go eat."
"Crowley, if this is Heaven and Hell's way of saying they're onto us, it would be wise to stay and work out what's going on."
"Or to leave and get as far away from here as we can as soon as possible," Crowley responds.
Aziraphale is distractedly rifling through the book, "Crowley" he says, anxiously, "look!" He lifts the page and, reading a few lines, Crowley turns white.
"What in Satan's name is going on?" He rounds on Michael, feeling he has exhausted that line of questioning with David.
"We're actors, we play Aziraphale and Crowley in the Good Omens TV series" replies Michael, monotone.
"That's what he kept saying" says Crowley, annoyed.
"Do you know who we are?" Aziraphale asks.
"You are Aziraphale and Crowley... but you can't be Aziraphale and Crowley... but you are Aziraphale and Crowley… I don't understand… but you are Aziraphale and Crowley.”
“Yes, well, this is very helpful” Aziraphale interrupts, dryly.
Crowley frowns at Aziraphale, then turns back to Michael "so in this world, we're characters in a book?"
"Yes. And a TV show."
"Do they have Heaven here?" Crowley asks.
"And Hell?" questions Aziraphale.
"I don't know" Michael answers, the same monotone.
Crowley and Aziraphale look at each other, thoughtfully. They hear a knock on the door of the trailer next to them that brings them back to the present and Crowley clicks his fingers, bringing Michael and David out of their trance. The knock comes again. The two men glance out of the window in unison.
“Jenny” confirms Michael in a whisper, as fear grips his body again as he absorbs the scene in front of him. David is temporarily rendered speechless. Together, their gazes fix on David’s hands, where he was holding his copy of Good Omens. The copy that is now in Aziraphale's hands. They stare at the two newcomers who seem to have transported to new positions in the room in an instant.
"Oh, sorry" Aziraphale looks awkward, returning the book to David.
"Michael" calls Jenny from the trailer next to theirs.
"I have to go" Michael moves toward the door, leaving his water bottle on a nearby counter, giving David a meaningful look.
"You can't leave me here with them!" exclaims David, outraged by the idea.
"What difference do you think I'm making?" Michael asks.
"Please, don't worry, you're perfectly safe with us" Aziraphale reassures.
"Yes, especially because we're leaving" Crowley announces, making for the door.
"No no no no no, you can't leave" David jumps up from the table, moving around to block the door. Of course, this is all ridiculous, this is all some big prank. But that book had been in his hand. And they moved without moving. And this man looks and sounds exactly like him. Something is going on that he doesn't understand. And the last thing he needs is his and Michael's likeness walking around London making headlines doing things they would never do.
"Just, give me 5 minutes" Michael pleads, turning to Aziraphale he adds "please?" and the Angel visibly softens.
"Of course, we'll be right here, won't we Crowley?" A statement, not a question. To which Crowley responds by slumping down on the bench seat, taking up more space than should be possible for his slight frame, and mumbling something about alcohol and The Ritz.
By the time Michael returns, it's with another person who has been sent to bring him and David onto set. There's a knock at the trailer door and Michael calls out "David, I'm here with Peter."
The three trailer occupants look at each other nervously.
"Bathroom" instructs David. And the other two roll their eyes.
"I still don't see why we can't just go out for lunch" Crowley mumbles as Aziraphale opens the bathroom door for him and follows him in. The space is small and functional, and they find themselves pressed up against each other, listening to the conversation outside.
"Time to go" they hear Michael say.
“Weird, your make-up looks fine.” Peter frowns at David’s face, “I’ll give it a quick touch-up anyway.”
"Right" says David. "I guess we'll be back in about an hour or so" he announces loudly, causing Peter to look at him questioningly. He avoids eye contact.
The door clicks closed and Aziraphale and Crowley look at each other.
"So.." Aziraphale starts, darting a barely noticeable glance down to Crowley's lips.
"We can probably..." Crowley gestures towards the door, his arm colliding with Aziraphale's torso as he does. The Angel doesn't flinch.
"We should just..." Aziraphale nods.
"Yeah, let's..." Crowley reaches the handle and opens the door, stalking back into the main room, sighing as reality hits him again. "This isn't real. It can't be real."
"A sentiment they seem to share" Aziraphale is wringing his hands together looking around for some divine inspiration.
"Did you see him? The tall one?" Crowley asks.
"I did"
"and yours..."
"...yes" Aziraphale breathes out a response, trying to make sense of it all.
"They don't sound like us though."
"But he did. He managed to make his voice just like mine."
"Doesn't prove anything."
"I'm not completely sure what we're trying to prove."
"Do you think they have your bookshop here? They won't will they? Or my Bentley?"
Aziraphale concentrates hard "Oh, I'm sure there will be a bookshop in Soho with my name on it... and your Bentley parked right outside, of course."
And in a corner of Soho, a bookshop quietly materialises, that looks like it has always been there. Parked opposite, in a space that was miraculously available, a good-as-new black Bentley sits awaiting its owner. Nobody notices these things materialising because, well, things don't just materialise from nothing do they? They can't. So when Londoners see this happen before their eyes, they realise they must have been working too hard recently, or perhaps there was something in those cookies Susan brought in today. Susan could never be trusted.
As Michael and David return to their trailers, an hour later, they whisper a rushed conversation.
"Did I take something earlier without knowing? Do you remember...?" Michael starts.
"Oh no, I remember" David confirms.
"It must be some kind of joke, surely" Michael wonders again.
David looks over nervously "I really don't think so" he says, a sickening feeling in his stomach "when you were gone, they showed me stuff."
Michael looks over, eyebrows raised "What, like distinguishing features, special moles that kind of thing?"
David looks at him, does a double take, then "no, no, not that kind of thing, like stuff they can do" he raises his voice slightly causing Michael to look around hushing him.
"What can they do?" He asks.
"Aziraphale fixed my glasses."
"The ones you broke yesterday? Hardly a miracle, I told you, you just need to be more patient with the little screw thing."
"He fixed them by touching them."
"Okay fine, that feels like a cheap magic trick though. I wouldn't say that proves anything. I'd have been more impressed by the moles."
"Will you shut up about moles..."
But they're interrupted by shouts of people on the street nearby.
"David! Michael!"
"Oh, not this again," complains Michael.
"Are you going to be driving the Bentley David?"
"Michael, will you be working in the shop?"
"How long are they there for?"
"What are they talking about?" asks David through a forced smile.
"I don't know, but something tells me I know who's behind it." Michael gives a courteous wave to the passersby, looking at the door to David's trailer. Half of him hopes no one will be there.
"I'm going in" says David, striding towards the steps to his trailer. "Are you coming?" he asks.
"Do I have a choice?" Michael asks, rhetorically.
"No." confirms David, opening the door without looking back.