Better Luck Next Time
Fandom: Good Omens/Blake's 7
Rating: Australian PG - like the show and the book.
Summary: Well, it's an explanation, anyway.
Credits: Characters belong either to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, the Terry Nation estate, or the mythic history of the combined peoples of the Western cultures.

The sounds of gunfire died down. The curly-haired figure on the floor sat up, groaning.

"What hit me?" he asked, apparently of the room.

The dark-haired one lying nearby eased itself up onto one elbow. "Me," he said, sounding profoundly annoyed. "Then the entire Federation garrison for this system, then the ceiling. In roughly that order."

"Oh dear." The curly-haired figure moved with care, dislodging pieces of ceiling and other rubble. "I suppose 'where am I?' would be entirely too cliche at this point?"

"You're on Gauda Prime, at your base," the dark one snapped. "How could you be so bloody stupid, angel?"

"I thought it was your Side," Aziraphale said. "I was trying to Thwart them. It's my job, remember?"

"Your job, as far as I remember," Crowley muttered, pushing aside the chunks of rubble which had landed on him, "did not include getting brainwashed by the Federation attempting to free people from prisons. You've been thinking of yourself as Roj Blake for most of the past five years."

"Nonsense," the angel retorted. "If something like that had happened, I'd know."

Crowley gave his Divine opposite a Look. "It did. You didn't. I've been watching you for most of the time, but you broke their conditioning."

"I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale looked confused, an expression which Crowley had almost forgotten seeing on the angel's face. The last time he'd seen it was just after they'd broken into the facsimilie of "Control" on Earth. The demon decided to slow down and give the detailed version.

"Angel, for the past four years, you were convinced you were a very human revolutionary by the name of Roj Blake. You got out of the brainwashing the Federation put on you, enough to remember 'Blake's' history from before he was brainwashed, but nothing else. You still had access to angelic abilities, which is why I've been trying," and here the demon broke off from his tirade to glare at the angel again, "to keep track of you. I lost track about a year or two back, and since then I've been in bloody charge." He stood up, brushing dust off his outfit. Aziraphale couldn't help but notice that black leather and studs still suited the demon, even after all these centuries.

"Do you have any idea," Crowley snarled at the angel, "precisely how difficult it is for me to make sure things go right all the time?"

A somewhat guilty expression sneaked its way onto Aziraphale's face. "Sorry," he murmured.

"Come on, angel," Crowley said. "Let's head back to Earth, where we belong."

Below the rubble, Vila sighed. Well, thanks be to all the pantheons that assignment was over, he decided, and discorporated himself, reincorporating back in the form he had spent so long in. One of these aeons, he was going to have a word with Zeus about memory alteration. Spending the better part of forty years being a Delta-grade thief was no fun, even when you were the god who'd invented thievery, lockpicking, and hastily composed excuses. Whistling to himself, Hermes faded away into the aether.

Author's Note: This came out of me swallowing a large chunk of a Good Omens fanfiction archive at a single gulp, then watching Blake's 7. Next morning, I had one slightly bemused angel and a highly annoyed demon dictating this to me. I don't own the characters - I just act as amanuensis.