Title: "Agnes Nutter's Prophecies - Part Two"
Disclaimer: Good Omens people belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. BtVS characters belong to Joss Whedon etc.
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley must travel to America to help the Slayer...with the Antichrist tagging along. Set about thirteen years in the future from Good Omens, around Buffy: season 6. Tara is NOT dead, but Willow's magic is getting to be a problem.
Author's Note: I think it's now obvious where I got the penname 'Zira' from! Also, feedback much apprieciated!
All Aziraphale had wanted was to have a nice lunch with Crowley, discuss the latest developments of the Ineffable Plan. Instead he found himself contacted by the Metatron, as he was about to leave his bookstore. The beam of pale blue light, connecting the floor to the ceiling, appeared in the centre of the front room that overlooked the street. Aziraphale jumped nervously, and then went over, closed the curtains and returned to the beam, taking an unnecessary deep breath and stepped inside.
“Greetings, Angel Aziraphale.”
“We have been instructed to issue you with…Aziraphale, is something wrong?”
“Um, well, you never contact me. It’s sort of, usually, the other way around.”
“Oh, don’t worry. Our Lord God, in His Ineffable, Infinite wisdom, has instructed us to tell you that Armageddon has returned to earth.”
“Yes. And, Aziraphale?”
“This is not according to the Ineffable Plan. Our Lord God wants you to travel to America.” Aziraphale pulled an involuntary face. “America is not that bad, Aziraphale. Well, okay, it is, but Our Lord God does not care about such unconsidered trifles. You will go to America, Aziraphale. To a small town in California called Sunnydale.”
“Yes, the Slayer currently lives there.”
“Aziraphale. It could be worse. We could be sending you to Australia. You will go.” The beam of light disappeared.
“Oh, pigs.” This was the closest Aziraphale had come to swearing since the last bout of Armageddon that the Earth had suffered, about thirteen years ago. And now he was going to be late to meet Crowley.
Crowley had been on his way to the Ritz to have lunch with Aziraphale, when J. S. Bach’s Mass in B Minor, vocals by F. Mercury (some things never change) was interrupted by a voice that sent shivers down Crowley’s spine.
“Um, good afternoon, Lord.”
I HAVE A JOB FOR YOU, CROWLEY. AND I THINK THAT YOU OWE ME ONE, CONSIDERING THAT I DID NOT PUNISH YOU FOR YOUR DEFIANCE THIRTEEN YEARS AGO.
“Yes, my Lord.”
ARMAGEDDON IS UPON US AGAIN. HOWEVER, THIS TIME IT IS NOT SO SIMPLE. ARMAGEDDON MUST BE PREVENTED.
WE DO NOT WISH THE WORLD TO END, CROWLEY. YOU MUST GO TO AMERICA. TO SUNNYDALE. YOU WILL HELP THE SLAYER ADVERT THE APOCALYPSE.
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Will not let you go, let me go…” Crowley blessed. He hated America. If possible, it was even worse than the fourteenth century. On top of that, he was now going to be late to meet Aziraphale. He swerved to hit an old woman and missed.