First they asked him, politely and pleasantly, if he had accepted the Lord into his life. Aziraphale was delighted to meet such affable people. He didn’t think America had nobility, but admittedly he didn’t know very much about it, so he smiled at them and asked which Lord. There was a brief moment of silence. It was silence of the sort that usually precedes a particularly nasty storm.
They won’t go away.
Aziraphale is tempted to reveal his wings and his halo and tell them with Heavenly authority to go the hell away, but he has the feeling that even that won’t work. So he hides whenever the doorbell rings, and he scurries like a frightened mouse when it’s time to head off to his shop, and he screens his phone calls. He is really very annoyed.
The doorbell rings. Aziraphale panicks and flees; a few moments later he finds himself huddled beneath a table. The doorbell rings again, and an impatient fist bangs on the door.
Aziraphale doesn’t pray often, but now he bows his head and sends a quick, terrified plea to Heaven. Save me.
The pamphlets weren’t so bad. Aziraphale liked the pamphlets. They were pretty, and he enjoyed the glossy new-paper smell; he’s always had a weakness for the printed word. And of course the free Bible was rather nice, although Aziraphale would like to have a chat with the translators on a few things. But.
But they won’t go away. And no amount of persuasion will convince them that he is perfectly Saved, although, no, technically, he is not a born-again Christian.
The banging gets louder. He can hear a voice, and it is swearing. He is pretty sure that they don’t swear.
Cautiously, Aziraphale crawls out from under the table. It sounds like Crowley. He briefly entertains the thought that maybe they made a recording of Crowley’s voice, but dismisses it on grounds of excessive paranoia. He opens the door.
Crowley is furious. His face is very red, and his sunglasses have acquired a decidedly lopsided quality.
“Sorry,” says Aziraphale. “I thought you were those horrible door-to-door evangelicals.”
This gives Crowley pause. His brow furrows. “Evangelicals? You?”
“Yes,” says Aziraphale glumly.
“Explain later,” says Crowley, and he collapses onto the couch. His expression changes rapidly. “What is this made of?”
“Wood?” Aziraphale guesses.
“It’s supposed to have cushions,” Crowley says in a poisonous tone.
Crowley groans. “Hastur and Ligur are after me. I played a, er, harmless joke on them—”
Aziraphale hears muffled footsteps outside the door, and panics. “Get down! They’re coming!”
“No, they don’t know I’m here,” says Crowley, puzzled. “That’s why I’m here. Anyway—”
The doorbell rings. Aziraphale, terrified, tries to fly away without his wings and crashes into Crowley, who is opening the door. They land rather heavily on the doormat in front of the visitors. Crowley’s face is smushed somewhere into Aziraphale’s midsection.
They stare. They see their intended victim sprawled beneath another man, this one red-faced and sweaty, both breathing hard. Their eyes widen.
“Er, hello,” says Aziraphale meekly.
They leave without a word.
Crowley tries to say something, but it is muffled by Aziraphale’s stomach.
“That went well, I think,” says Aziraphale.
Hastur and Ligur are even less amused.