Fic: Few There Be That Find It

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Few There Be That Find It

“And they call it conditional salvation.”

Aziraphale gaped at him, horrified. “But that’s ridiculous,” he breathed, when he was able to
breathe again. “What merit is there to kindness if the ends are self-serving?”

“I think it’s beautiful,” said Crowley, already sharpening his quill.

“You would,” said Aziraphale nastily. He frowned. “What passages are they quoting on this?”

“James, mostly. Some Corinthians.”

Aziraphale slapped his Bible shut. “I told Barakiel that Paul chap was going to be trouble.”

Crowley snorted, left hand moving swiftly across the parchment. “What, 6:9 again?”

“I choose to see the rather unfortunate combination of chapter and verse numbers as proof that
Himself is with me on that one,” muttered Aziraphale.

“You know,” said Crowley, putting down his quill and turning to look at his associate, “I’d
have thought you’d be a lot more pleased about this. The number of good deeds is bound to
go up—you might take a vacation. Isn’t that the whole point to our Arrangement?”

“Yes. Well.” Aziraphale pursed his lips.

“Why not through works? They were good enough for Hercules.”

“My dear boy, things simply don’t work that way. It’s up to Him to decide, you know that.”

Crowley turned back to his reports. “Yeah,” he said slowly, “I do know that.”

“Besides,” Aziraphale ploughed on, warming to his argument, “the core principle is flawed: if
grace could be earned, it would no longer be grace. Even Pompous Paul understood that much.”

“So you could just do whatever you wanted, then, as long as you believed in Him and went to
church every Sunday morning? You call that fair?”

“Nobody ever claimed things were fair, old boy,” soothed Aziraphale, a bit taken aback at the
rancour which seemed to have crept into Crowley’s voice. “Nor am I suggesting works are
meaningless—just that the good doesn’t wash the bad away. One can’t buy forgiveness.”

A thought must have struck Crowley, because he paused in his writing and sat perfectly still
for a moment or two before diving back into his report with renewed vigour.

It occurred to Aziraphale, suddenly, that Crowley might perhaps have had an ulterior motive.

“My dear,” he tried, unsure of how to approach the question—if it would be appropriate, for
instance, to put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder—“You do know this sort of thing only applies
to humans…don’t you?”

“Hmm? What?” said Crowley, not bothering to pretend he’d been listening. He rolled up his
parchment and got up from the chair, already halfway out the door. “Sorry, Aziraphale, I’ve
just remembered—an appointment I’m running late to. See you when I see you, yeah?”

“Er, yes, I suppose that’s…”

The door slammed shut before Aziraphale could finish. He stood and stared at it for a long
minute; then he headed for the kitchen, trying to decide on something to have for supper.

A pardoner came to his door long before Crowley would again.