Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Table of Contents

1. Index
2. Crowley and Aziraphale don't really have an anniversary officially. Sort of.
3. The Them summon a demon. Not the usual one. He comes over later.
4. Adam and Crowley play Minecraft together. There's bonding.
5. Adam needs homework help, and Crowley is a nerd.
6. Aziraphale asks Crowley to watch the shop. He does a terrible job, in quite a nice way.
7. Aziraphale and Crowley have learned a lot in 6000 years, and Anathema solves a mystery.
8. Newt wants to start a D&D group. Anathema invites a being of true neutral good, who brings along a being of true chaotic evil.
9. Crowley loves nextdoor.com
10. The Them settle an old score for Crowley and Aziraphale, and Crowley takes an eye test.
11. Immediately post-Ritz, Crowley and Aziraphale have a Discussion
12. Aziraphale's record collection isn't quite what it used to be pre-Armageddon, but some of this more modern music is a bit fun, isn't it?
13. Aziraphale is home alone with the plants, and some of them get feisty. Crowley has to remind them of their place.
14. Crowley and Aziraphale discover a roommate in their South Downs cottage. Also, Crowley is the neighborhood Cat Person.
15. Aziraphale learns about ducks, and Crowley seeks out the answer to an old question.
16. Crowley picks a birthday.
17. Internet trolling gets Crowley (and, by extension, Aziraphale) into trouble with an old, retired Horseperson. Anathema and Newt lend a hand.
18. Anathema runs into a familiar face in London, shortly after the Nahpocalypse. Crowley changes his mind about something.
19. Crowley drives for Uber.
20. Demons can't fly. Crawly knows it. But Crawly can hope.
21. Adam asks an awkward question, and Anathema is a Close Good Friend.
22. Crowley loves twitch.tv
23. Aziraphale presses 'Y' to honk.
24. Halloween smudges the line between the real and the supernatural, and Crowley and Aziraphale make do.
25. Anathema needs to know why Crowley hates the 14th century. For reasons.
26. Why Crowley hates the 14th century, part 2.
27. Crowley and Aziraphale look at the stars and preen each other. That's it. That's the story.
28. Unrepentant domestic fluff about breakfast.
29. Gabriel has a Message to deliver. No one listens.
30. Aziraphale wants to have a picnic.
31. Aziraphale and Crowley have a nice day at the beach.
32. Crowley plays Animal Crossing.
33. Crowley is still playing Animal Crossing (and so is the author).
34. Crowley allows Aziraphale to help with his wings. It goes alright. (CW wing trauma, PTSD and anxiety attacks)
35. Aziraphale and Crowley teach some children some valuable life lessons.

Chapter Text

Crowley made it a point to visit Adam semi-regularly, about monthly, after the Nah-pocalypse. He justified it to himself by telling himself it was because he was making sure the kid kept his Hellish instincts in check, but that wasn’t really it, not if he really was honest with himself^[*].

Deep down, it was mostly because he actually liked the kid. And, well, there was a part of him that felt bad for him. Crowley had sprung into existence right at the Beginning, with a vague idea of identity but no real idea of what the Heaven was going on. But he’d been given orders - they all had - and he followed them for the most part. Until, well, until he hadn’t. Because, he had reflected, he really didn’t know what was going on, what was at stake, until it became abundantly obvious that just because you don’t know what’s going on doesn’t mean you ad-lib your way through until things seem alright^**].

He couldn’t imagine being dropped into that suddenly, at the age of 11, so young and new and without any real concrete identity. Poor Adam. The kid had learned his true nature, learned the whole truth about Heaven and Hell and the Universe, about destiny and the Ineffable Plan, all in the space of 1 afternoon, and then rebuked all of it. Cast it aside.

Crowley felt, deep down somewhere, maybe where his soul had been once, that that wasn’t really fair. And that maybe, with enough gentle guidance and someone with if not a better idea of what on Earth was going on then at least experience making it up as you go, that he could help Adam avoid some nastier mistakes.

So he kept up with the kid. Once every month, give or take. They met at Anathema’s cottage, because while Adam’s inherent spiritual Teflon was probably enough to keep people from asking questions about the tall man in the sunglasses who visited on occasion, the safe ruse of visiting Newton and Anathema was less fraught with potential disaster. Nobody every really noticed the classic Bentley that was always parked outside.

“How old are you?” Adam asked one time. It was around his birthday, and it was clearly on his mind. “Like, really?”

Crowley hedged. “Uh, well. It’s - well, it’s tricky.” He glanced to Anathema and then back to Adam. Shrugged. “Hard to measure the bit before time got invented.”

“Huh.” Adam considered that. “Like, a long time before?” He nodded when the demon spread his hands, the universal gesture of ‘I don’t know’. “So you’re like the oldest person I know.”

Anathema chimed in. “Unless Aziraphale is -”

“Oh, right, Aziraphale!” Adam put his head to the side and sipped his lemonade. “Who came first, you or him?”

“I honestly don’t know, Adam,” Crowley admitted, staring into his coffee with an expression of consternation. “It was all muddled up in the beginning. Without time everything sort of - there wasn’t a first or a last or, you know, any kind of like, ah, linear measurement of whatever.” He saw Adam’s expression of confusion, and then shrugged. “Listen, the Beginning was really weird, there was a lot going on and then there was a lot of other things going on which were fairly, ah, hectic.” He stopped short of the Fall. Adam hadn’t asked about the Fall, and frankly wanted very little information about Hell. Crowley was more than happy to oblige.

“So how long have you known Aziraphale then?”

“About 6000 years.”

Anathema sat down next to Adam, and slid a half sandwich over to the kid on a plate. “And you really actually met in the Garden of Eden?”

“Well, technically on the wall around it, yeah.”

“Cool.” They had talked about Eden before, fairly early on. Adam had, gradually, been working his way through history by means of the memories of AJ Crowley. Crowley had found through the process that he didn’t really mind, actually, and honestly there was something gratifying about being told by a pre-teen that you’re pretty cool.

“Do you remember the date?” Anathema asked, startling Crowley enough to make him look up from the coffee, now cold. She was sipping her own drink, watching the demon over the rim of the cup.

“I - yeah. It was the seventh day, so on the calendar now it would be October 28.”

“So,” she said innocently, “your anniversary is in October. The 28th.” She pulled out her phone and - Crowley could only assume - put the date on her calendar. “I’ll send a card.” She raised an eyebrow and Adam watched, smirking, around a mouthful of sandwich. It was a game the two of them played, and Crowley had long since stopped groaning when it started. “Any plans?”

“It’s not really our anniversary. We don’t ah - well, there’s not really an anniversary so to speak that we, er.”

“My parents go out for dinner on their anniversary, and then maybe the movies or a play. Last year they rented a hotel room in London and made a whole weekend of it,” Adam contributed, once he’d finished his bite of sandwich. “I stayed with Brian.”

“Right, well -”

“You should go to America!” Adam continued, while Anathema covered her mouth with her hand. “See like, Mount Rushmore or like the Grand Canyon or whatever. People do that on their anniversary.”

“Why would they look at giant carved presidents on an anniversary?” Crowley asked, momentarily distracted.

“Who knows.” Adam shrugged. “Oh, or what about like, China, with the Great Wall, or Australia and the Great Barrier Reef, or what about a safari in Africa?”

“Been there, can’t swim, was around when the animals were Created,” Crowley responded to each in turn.

Anathema opened her mouth to say something - likely ask a question, she was always looking for information on some lost civilization or another, it was an interest of hers - but Adam continued with his suggestions. “Niagra Falls then. Or Everest. Or Japan?”

“Yeah, all very nice, but like I said we don’t really do anniversaries -”

“But you remember the date,” Anathema cut in.

“Well I mean it was fairly significant for other reasons -”

Adam scoffed. “So was my parents anniversary. They got married on the same day as all kinds of weird stuff in America happened, but they still celebrate theirs.”

Crowley tried to think of a way to explain to a soon-to-be-thirteen-year-old that after 6000 years, a date on a calendar just didn’t seem that significant. After all, which dates would you mark? The meeting date, the day they agreed on the Arrangement, the day Crowley saved Aziraphale from the French Revolution, the day Crowley saved Aziraphale from Nazis, the day -

He stopped that train of thought so abruptly Anathema and Adam might have heard the brakes. There was a trend there, and Crowley wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

“We just never have,” he said lamely, at length. Adam shrugged, and finished his sandwich, and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that shrug. That was the ‘fine, whatever’ shrug. The shrug that meant, thank Whatever, that Adam was bored with that line of questioning, and would shortly begin another which would be, Crowley reasoned, vastly preferable to this one.

“Something to bear in mind,” Anathema said, though, before Adam could muster up another question. “Might be sweet.”

“I’m a demon, I don’t do ‘sweet’,” Crowley pointed out.

Adam took a gulp of his drink, and asked, “So what was King Arthur like?” and Crowley jumped on it like a drowning man on a raft, rambling on about round tables and wizards and prats in armor looking for Black Knights in a stupid bog somewhere in the middle of bloody nowhere, all the while trying very hard to not think any more about October 28.

Which did come.

Eventually.

Time has a way of doing that. Crowley still wasn’t sure how he felt about the invention of it.

He showed up to the bookshop on the 28th, just prior to closing or, more accurately, exactly at closing, since customarily Aziraphale generally decided to close whenever Crowley showed up. He waited for the angel to shoo the last stragglers out of the shop, pull the shades, and lock the doors. He poured himself some wine while he waited, and considered the calendar on the wall by the desk^[***]. He was midway through the first planned glass of wine that evening when Aziraphale finally joined him, flopping into a chair and grabbing the already-poured glass Crowley had set out for him.

“Got a letter from Miss Device, today,” Aziraphale said without preamble. Crowley’s blood ran cold^{[^]}. He held up an envelope, and paused at Crowley’s expression. “Are you alright?” The demon managed a nod. “Oh, you looked - anyway. Just a note, you know how she writes. So nice of her to keep in touch.”

“Yeah, really nice.”

“Oh! And she enclosed these.” From the envelope, he produced two tickets - tickets, Crowley realized, distantly, while the high-pitched whine of panic rang in his ears. She’d sent a card, she said she would, and he’d done nothing, as usual, and - “She said she bought them for her and Newton to spend a night in London, but he’s having car trouble again. I suppose she thought we might get some use out of them.”

“Oh? Oh. That’s alright then.” Crowley took a draught of wine and sank lower onto the sofa, relief emanating from every atom of his being. “What for?”

“Royal Shakespeare Company - they’re doing ‘As You Like It.’” He smiled, and Crowley raised an eyebrow, the better to keep his own smile at bay. “You always said you liked the funny ones.” He took a sip of his wine. “You don’t have plans tonight, do you?”

“Who me? Nah, never.” Crowley paused, and swirled his wine in his glass. “Tell you what - what do you say about, oh, I dunno, having dinner first, maybe the Ritz? Make a night out of it.” There was a silence, which Crowley generally was not in favor of, but it was comfortable, and filled with the soft warmth of the bookshop’s ambient noise and the bustling street outside. Aziraphale smiled, and took a sip of wine. “Sounds delightful, Crowley. But a bit convenient. There wouldn’t be any reason for this spontaneous evening, would there?”

Crowley did not panic. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even break a sweat, just took a sip himself and answered, “It wouldn’t be spontaneous by definition then, would it?”

“No, I suppose not,” Aziraphale said, although he was grinning like anything. “Well, it’s a nice night for a little spontaneity. I’ll finish by drink, and then get my coat. Shall we walk?”

“We’ve got time.”

Aziraphale smiled and this time around, Crowley didn’t fight the urge to smile back.

-

^* Which he rarely was. ^{[back to text]}

^** Although they had, after a fashion. ^{[back to text]}

^*** It was from 1994, not that anybody cared.^{[back to text]}

^{^} Colder, anyway.^{[back to text]}

Chapter Text

The Ouija board is Brian’s. His parents got it for him for his fifteenth birthday, and during one summer night after the end of the school year, the Them found themselves studying it by light of a lantern, in a tent in their hollow. “My parents,” Wensleydale says, “said that we aren’t to play with Ouija boards, because they’re the vessels of demons.”

“Yeah, well,” Adam shrugs. “I mean so what?”

“Yeah,” Pepper seconds. “If we want to talk to a demon we can just call Crowley - no need to mess around with this whole board situation.”

“It’s supposed to tell you the future,” Brian says, sullenly, arms crossed over his chest.

“Anathema could tell us the future,” Wensleydale says.

“But she doesn’t. We could ask it all kinds of questions.” He picks up the planchette. “And anyway, it might not be a demon. They’re called spirit boards, aren’t they? Might be a ghost.” He sighs, and sags a little. “Come on, guys, at least it’ll be a laugh.”

Pepper looks to Adam. “I don’t think -”

“Yeah, I’m not playing,” Adam says, before she can finish. “If you guys want to, that’s fine, but I’ll watch. Just … I dunno, just in case, I guess.” Wensleydale and Brian nod, solemn, and Pepper sighs.

“I’ll play. But for the record, I think this is stupid.” Brian beams, though, and she helps set the board on the lid of the box, which is the flattest surface they can find in the tent. Adam doesn’t move, but he keeps his arms wrapped around his knees, nose wrinkled in thought.

He isn’t sure this is a very good idea. It has been four years since the Nah-pocalypse, and Crowley and Aziraphale and Anathema have all taught him all kinds of things about the occult, although nobody has ever mentioned Ouija boards. He’d certainly never seen any of them with one. It’s probably, he thinks, perfectly safe. It’s a game, after all, and they sell them at stores all over - it’s not as if the company has necromancers binding demons to each board. But still …

“Alright,” Brian says, seated at the top of the board. “Nobody move the planchette.”

“Duh,” says Pepper.

“Right. I’ll start. So, uh, mighty - mighty?” He glances to Adam, who shrugs. “Mighty Ouija. It is me, Brian, coming to seek wisdom. Is there a spirit here with us?”

Nothing happens for a minute. Adam, internally, breathes a sigh of relief. But then the planchette moves. Slowly, achingly slowly, it slides to ‘Yes’.

Brian, Wensleydale, and Pepper exchange a look. “I didn’t do it,” Wensley says in hushed tones.

“Me neither,” Brian and Pepper agree.

Adam shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. “This might be a bad idea.”

Wensley manages a weak smile at Adam. “Nah, I’m sure we’re all just moving it subconsciously together.”

“What’s your name?” Brian asks, shakily, and Adam glares at him. The planchette moves faster this time, but the board still isn’t quite even, and it catches. The four watch intently, lips moving as it stops on each letter in turn, and they don’t look away when it comes to a rest back in the center of the board. “Nancy?” Brian cocks his head. “Who’s Nancy?”

“I thought it spelled ‘Kelly’,” Pepper says.

Dog whines.

“Alright, that’s it, let’s put it back in the box,” Adam says suddenly. “You know, I dunno if we should take it to Anathema tomorrow or whatever, but definitely time to put it away -”

“Yep,” Pepper agrees, withdrawing her hand as if she’d been burned. Brian and Wensley follow suit almost instantly. “Yep, absolutely, we’ll take it to Anathema tomorrow and -”

The planchette moves again. The three human teenagers scream, and the former antichrist winces. This time it doesn’t catch, there’s no halting movement. ‘A D A M Y O U N G’ it spells.

“Oh, shit,” says Adam, before the four teens and the dog bolt from the tent.

The path from the hollow to Jasmine cottage is well-worn, these days, and they don’t need a lantern to get there in the dark. Still, they aren’t stealthy about it, and before they can reach Anathema’s door she is out of bed and pulling her robe on, less out of a sense of premonition and more because they sound of four teenagers crashing through the underbrush, with accompaniment of a frantically barking dog, is fairly difficulty to sleep through. Newton stirs, but she slips from the room and to the front door, pulling it open before Pepper can bring her hand down for the first knock. They all scream. Anathema blinks.

“What’s going on?”

“I didn’t mean it!” Brian says frantically. “I thought it would be a laugh!”

“Brian talked us into a Ouija board,” Pepper explains, when Anathema raises a hand to stop the taller boy.

Adam adds quickly, “I told them it was probably a bad idea. I didn’t touch it.”

Anathema’s eyebrows are raised. “Like the board game?”

“It moved on its own,” Wensleydale insisted. “No, miss, really, I know it sounds crazy, but it did, honestly.”

“It spelled my name,” Adam said quietly. “And they weren’t even touching it.”

“Oh.” Anathema is just about to say that she’s sure there is a logical explanation for this - it’s a board game, for goodness’ sake - when Dog begins his frantic barking once again, this time directed at the garden gate. They all look.

The board is propped up against the gatepost, planchette in the grass just in front of it. It glows.

“Ah.” Anathema swallows, and steps aside. “Why don’t you kids come in. I’ll make tea. And Adam, I’d call your godfathers.”

-

By all the map applications, it takes approximately 2 hours to get from South Downs to Tadfield. In reality, Crowley and Aziraphale arrive at Jasmine Cottage exactly seventy-five minutes after Adam called them and explained the situation. Anathema, Dog, and the Them meet them in the front garden, while the engine of the Bentley quietly cools at the curb. The notes of Queen still hang in the air, faint as the smell of lilac on the breeze.

“I thought you said it was in the front garden,” Aziraphale says, looking around. “By the gate?”

“It was when I called you,” Adam says, looking miserable. “Sorry, guys, I knew it was a bad idea, really, I should have talked Them out of it more -”

“I should have listened,” Brian whimpers.

“Not to worry, my dear boy, they sell them in every games shop. You weren’t to know.” Aziraphale pats Adam on the shoulder, and Brian as well.

“So it moved inside?” Crowley asks.

Anathema nods, slowly. “Ye-es. How did you -?”

“I recognize the style. What’s it doing now?”

“Well,” Pepper says hesitantly, “we tried to set it on fire -” Crowley winces “- Yeah. And then when it didn’t catch Anathema drew a circle around it with salt and it’s just sitting on the table. The planchette keeps moving.”

“What’s it spelling?”

“My name,” Adam says glumly. “And ‘kill’ and either Kelly or Nancy, we’re not sure. And then it just, bounces back and forth, left-to-right.”

“Sometimes it makes a figure-of-eight,” Wensleydale adds. Crowley groans.

“Well, that’s alright then. Come on, we can sort this out in a minute.” He pushes past the group and into the cottage, taking a few backwards steps while he asks, “Where’s Newt?”

“Upstairs, asleep.” Anathema sounds somewhat testy about it. Aziraphale tuts, and follows Crowley, indicating for the others to follow.

“Knew I liked him,” Crowley says.

“Just stay behind me,” Aziraphale adds.

In the kitchen, the Ouija board is on the table, surrounded by a circle of salt. The planchette is on fire, swinging right-to-left across the face of the board in a smooth arc. Crowley looks annoyed as he breaks the salt circle from the outside. “Alright, Zozo that’s enough.” The planchette stops for a minute, and then begins to slide across the board. “Don’t do the spelling thing, I don’t have all night.”

There is a flash and a whiff of sulfur and ozone, and then there is a demon standing on the table. They are short, and stout, with frizzled dark hair and smoke rising from their shoulders and a big, toothy grin. “Crawly! It’s been ages!”

“Yeah, it’s Crowley now. Are you still possessing these things?”

“And you’re with the angel, still,” the demon - Zozo, presumably - says, ignoring the question, and taking in the cadre standing in the door to the kitchen. “Oh, and the witch, nice work on the salt circle here, and yes, the young Mr. Young! I’ve heard so much about you.”

“You have?” Adam asks, sounding distinctly unhappy about it.

“Of course! You were the talk of the town Down There after the whole business with the Apocalypse. My if the higher-ups weren’t furious about the whole thing! But I said, he’s his father’s son, I said, rebellious to the last and -”

“That’s enough,” Aziraphale snaps, in a tone that brooked no argument. Zozo’s jaw clapped shut.

“Well, in a good way,” they say then, after a minute. “Saving Earth instead of destroying it? I tell you what, kid, and don’t let anyone hear me say this, present company excepted, but that was some real slick work.” Zozo winks then, and Crowley groans. “Us Earthside agents weren’t all gung-ho for the whole war business. You guys have some pretty sweet digs going up here.”

“Alright, yes, that’s great Zozo, why are you still possessing Ouija boards?” Crowley groans. “You got freed from that bargain centuries ago, I thought. Just after - was it the Qing dynasty?”

“During, actually,” Zozo corrects, sitting down on the table and toying with the planchette. “Yeah, I was, but you know, well, the tempting still needed to be done, and old habits and all.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale nods. “And you were going to tempt Adam and his friends, were you?”

“Me? No, angel, never.” Zozo scoffs, and raises their hands placatingly. “What, you think I would go up against Adam Young, former antichrist? Me? A demon of the first circle? Minor tempter and general nuisance Zozo?” Aziraphale shrugs. “No, never. I just wanted to say hello.”

“Well you picked a creepy way of doing it,” Adam snaps. “You didn’t have to follow us. Or catch fire. Or all that.”

“Everybody’s got to have some style, right, Crowley?” Zozo turns to smile at their fellow demon, and when their enthusiasm was met with a scowl, they shrank a little. “Right. Okay, so it was creepy. Noted. Sorry.”

Crowley sniffs. “I think you ought to go.”

“I’m getting that message, yeah.” Zozo raises a finger. “But, uh, a word of advice? To the kids?”

“Depends,” Aziraphale and Crowley say in unison, and then look embarrassed about it. Zozo just grins.

“Not temptation I promise. Like I said, don’t let anybody catch me giving you this tip, though. I’m not immune to Holy Water.” Zozo spares a glance to Crowley, and then lowers their voice and says, “Adam, listen, you’re lucky it was just me came through tonight, but if I were you I’d get rid of the board, alright? You never know who might show up.”

Adam looks to Crowley and Aziraphale, and then nods. “O-kay. Yeah.” He looks to his friends. “Right?” They nod, fervently. “Right, yeah. Do uh, is there a certain way we have to get rid of it?”

Zozo and Crowley, as one, look amused. “Nah,” says the lesser demon. “This old thing is just cardboard. Doesn’t work unless you really truly believe, and someone on the other end feels like giving you the time of day. But in your case …”

“Yeah. Got it.”

Zozo brightens. “You could probably donate it to a charity or something. Maybe get a tax deduction. Pass the wealth forward, as it were. I promise I won’t tell anybody to murder anyone through it.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale says, lips pressing to a thin line.

“We’ll think about it,” Anathema says, laying a hand on Adam’s shoulder.

“Or just burn it,” Zozo sighs, defeated. “That works too.”

“Much more likely,” Crowley agrees.

“Okay, well, nice meeting you, Adam Young.” Zozo waves, and positions themselves cross-legged on the table, smudged salt ring crackling under their boots. “Good seeing you again, Crowley. If you’re ever around Dallas feel free to stop in.”

“I won’t be.”

“Don’t blame you for that one. Right. Bye!” And with a sort of odd, cold sucking sound, Zozo vanishes, leaving behind a scorched cardboard board and a planchette, clattering to the floor.

Aziraphale breaks the silence. “Well. They seemed alright, for a demon.”

“Don’t start,” Crowley warns. “Right, let’s burn this thing and then you all can go back to - what were you doing?”

“Camping,” Brian says, from behind Anathema, while Crowley collects the board and the planchette.

“Why?”

Adam shrugs. “Dunno. Seemed fun. Hanging out, camping, playing games.”

Aziraphale nods. “Certainly, well, yes, but perhaps next time snakes and ladders might be more apropos.”

“That’s for little kids,” Pepper points out.

“Monopoly?”

Crowley brushes past. “Nice try, angel.”

“Are kids not playing Monopoly anymore?”

“I don’t think they ever were,” Anathema says, laying a sympathetic hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, as they and the Them follow Crowley into the garden. “It’s a more adult game.”

“Is it? I thought children liked it.”

Wensleydale looks interested. “I always liked it.”

“Yeah,” Pepper says, in the tone of one who has experienced first-hand on numerous occasions Wensleydale’s devoted love of the game of Monopoly. “Yeah, you have. Even though it’s a capitalist propaganda game, and no matter how many times I tell you that.”

“We could go back to my place,” Adam says, while Crowley sets the game board in the firepit and sets it aflame. He does not use a lighter. “Play Fortnite.”

“That wouldn’t be camping, would it?” Brian looks put-out. “I like camping. Being outside.”

Crowley sidles away from the firepit as the flames die down, hands in his pockets. “What’s wrong with normal teen stuff? Smoke some weed, drink some cheap booze -”

“Crowley!” Anathema and Aziraphale say in unison, and Crowley has the decency to look slightly apologetic.

“Right, sorry. Do not do those things, teens, Adam. Stay in school and all that.” He moves toward the Bentley. “You ready to go, angel?”

“Yes, I suppose.” Aziraphale looks to Adam and the Them. “Do have fun camping but please, if you ever get the urge to contact the spirit realm or think you might have a possibility of summoning a demon, please call us first next time. Or if you actually need to summon a demon for some reason -”

“Right, call Crowley, I know.” Adam nods, and smiles. “I got it, I promise. No more occulty stuff without you or Anathema. Right, guys?”

“Right,” the Them agree.

“Promise,” Adam confirms. Aziraphale nods, and turns to head toward the car, and the collected humans wave goodbye. “Drive safe!”

“He doesn’t,” Aziraphale replies with resignation, before the doors to the Bentley close and the car peels off into the night.

“Hey, Adam?” Wensleydale asks, while the watch the car go, “if they’re all supernatural, right? Why do they always drive?”

“Because they’re kind of stupid,” Adam says, still smiling. Anathema covers her mouth with a hand, and turns away. “But that’s alright. Oh. And don’t tell them I said that.”

“You think they know?” Pepper asks. “6000 years, they ought to know.” Anathema has a coughing fit, which sounds suspiciously like laughter, and retreats into the cottage with a hurried ‘goodnight’ to the Them.

Adam begins out of the garden, and his friends fall into formation behind him. “I really don’t think they know. Well. Crowley might suspect it. But he has anxiety so I think he probably tells himself it’s all in his own head.”

Brian nods. “Yeah. I get that. So what’re we gonna do now?”

“Sleep?” Wensleydale suggests. “We could sleep. It’s already half three.”

“Not much point in sleeping then, is there?” Pepper points out. “You know, I did bring Clue.”

“I like Clue,” Brian says eagerly.

Adam nods, and Dog bounds at his side, back toward the tent. “Yeah. Me too. And you can’t summon any demons with Clue, so that’s alright for tonight.”

Chapter Text

There was a laziness about the winter holidays - no school, soft snow coating the ground outside, and nowhere, in particular, to be. It was the week between Christmas and New Years’, and Adam was enjoying himself. He had a good Christmas - a few things he’d been hoping for, as well as the ever-constant box of socks and underwear - and was planning on spending New Years’ Eve with the Them. He had, somewhere in the haze of his fourteen-year-old mind, designs of trying to kiss Pepper at the stroke of midnight, but these thoughts were fuzzy and tentative, and kept bumping up against thoughts of Pepper hitting him for telling her she looked “more like a girl than usual” on a day this past fall when she’d worn makeup to school.

He would need to consider it more.

Still, he reasoned there was plenty of time to consider. After all, he was largely on his own for the week while his parents were visiting his older sister in Spain. Certainly he was supposed to be spending the nights with Wensleydale and his family, while Anathema and Newt watched Dog^[*], but during the days he was free to wander around the village as he pleased, playing with Dog and just generally Hanging About. RP Tyler had already composed fifteen mental letters to the paper and Adam’s father about it.

It was sort of boring though - one could only strategize one’s New Years Eve romance so much - and by the fourth day Adam was wandering with less intent than usual, up the walk toward his house, Dog bouncing through the belly-deep (for Dog) snow alongside him. He was considering how to best while away the hours until Wensley finished with his piano practice, and was lightly entertaining the thought of finding Brian and asking if he’d like to see how far out they could get onto the ice on the pond before it broke and they fell in, when he heard a car pull up beside him.

He turned, and then he beamed. “Hey, Crowley!” Dog yapped excitedly, while the demon waved lazily.

“Hey, Adam. How’s things?”

“Boring,” Adam responded, completely honestly. “What are you doing here?”

Crowley shrugged. “I was in the area. Need a lift somewhere?”

Adam considered it. “I wasn’t really going anywhere. Home, I guess. Mum asked me to water her plants a few times while she’s away.”

“Ah.” And Crowley leaned across the seat, and popped the passenger-side door to the Bentley open. “Get in, I’ll drive you.” He managed to bite back a remark when Dog also jumped in, immediately leaving muddy pawprints on the leather seat. “What kind of plants?”

“I dunno, she’s got a lot. She left a list. Got directions on it and everything.”

“Ah.” Crowley pulled away after Adam shut the door, only sliding a little in the slush around the corner to Hogback Lane. “Having a nice holiday?”

“Yeah, not too bad. Kind of boring, though. Brian’s got his aunt over so he can’t hang out as much, and Wensley has piano practice for a few hours every day and Pep, uh …” Adam trailed off, and then swallowed. Imperceptibly, Crowley almost smirked. Teens. “I dunno, she has family or something.” A thought occurred to him. “Hey, didn’t Aziraphale say you have a bunch of plants or something?”

“I’ve got a few.”

“Only I’ve never watered my mum’s plants before, and she’s got some really weird directions for some of them.” He looked over, cautiously optimistic. “You wouldn’t have a minute to - ?”

The Bentley rolled up along the curb outside of the Young’s house, and Crowley shut the engine off. “Yeah, I have a minute.” Adam beamed.

Adam began to suspect Crowley had more than a few house plants based on the look he gave Adam’s mother’s plant care list when he picked it up. He read down the very-specific list of directions with Adam, and did a lap of the house with the kid, Adam studiously misting and watering as directed. He did notice, sort of distantly, how the demon would linger at each plant for an extra few seconds, apparently glaring at the foliage over the rims of his glasses, but he was preoccupied with the heavy responsibility of gardening, and the quiet hissing escaped his notice. As did the nearly-silent trembling of the leaves. The African violet, for the first time in four years, started to bloom.

The boy deposited the watering can and mister back on their usual shelves, and stuffed his hands back into his pockets, surveying the plants around the house and feeling the warm glow of responsibility managed. “Wasn’t so hard, really,” he reflected, as Crowley joined him back in the kitchen, setting the list back on the counter by the sink. “Hope none of them die.”

“They won’t,” Crowley replied, likewise sticking his hands in his pockets. “So … family out of town?”

“Spain.” Adam sighed. “Dunno what I’ll do for the afternoon. Guess I could grab a few magazines and read ‘em back at Wensley’s. Maybe play a few games.”

“Which games?” Crowley asked, with the sort of passing interest that adults and adult-shaped beings used when they were trying to encourage a kid to talk about their interests. “I’m assuming video games, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Adam sighed. “I dunno. I already beat the ones Mum and Dad got me for Christmas. I guess I could play Minecraft for a while, start a new world or something.” Something about that - probably the bit about the new world - seemed to catch Crowley’s interest. Adam went on, “I mean, me an’ the Them got our world, but that’s more fun when we’re all playin’ together, so I guess I could just do a single-player. You, uh, you know what that game is, right?”

Crowley shrugged. “Can’t say I’m much of one for video games^[**].”

“Oh. Well, it’s really cool. You like … you start with nothing in the middle of like the wilderness, and you gotta build a house and find resources or whatever, an’ there’s monsters and you can starve to death and stuff. But you can build stuff too, like cool stuff.” He trailed off briefly, unsure of how his pitch was landing. “I could show you if you want.”

The demon appeared to consider it for a minute. Then, with a shrug, “Sure, I don’t have anywhere to be. You build stuff, you said?”

Adam nodded, enthusiastic, already leading the way to his room. “Yeah, I’ll show you.”

It took twenty minutes to get the console started, and to give Crowley a crash course on how a controller worked. He picked up it a lot faster than Adam’s father had. Probably, Adam reasoned, on account of him being so old. Must have been something like a controller sometime before in history. Adam perched on the side of the bed, controller in hand, while Crowley sat cross-legged on top of the plaid comforter, Dog happily stretched out between the two, already asleep. “Right, so you’re on the bottom of the screen an’ I’m on the top.” He watched studiously for a minute. “You gotta get some resources. If you punch the tree it’ll break and you get the wood from it.”

“Oh. Naturally.” Crowley twiddled the sticks and obediently began punching the tree. There was a pop, and an 8-bit rendering of a wood block appeared on the inventory bar at the bottom of the screen. “Right. Now what?”

Adam paused in his own tree-punching endeavors. “You can make a crafting table, but you have the make the block into planks first. Once you get a crafting table you can make all kinds of stuff.”

This is a complete waste of time, Crowley thought, as Adam coached him along through the crafting table process. And then, I love humans so much, these absolutely nutty things.

It didn’t take long for Crowley to pick up on it. He may have been new to console gaming, but Adam had chosen wisely in terms of introductory games, and he did have the unique intuition and common sense granted by six millennia living among humans. And Adam was, for the less intuitive parts, a good teacher. He chatted the whole time too, about whatever happened to drift across his mind - school, his friends, the current state of international affairs as far has he understood it (and questions relating thereto), things that annoyed him, and on and on. The light outside got dimmer, and they continued to play, controllers clicking quietly in the background, while in the game a house began to take place and then, by parts, look … good.

“You’re pretty good at this for a grown-up,” Adam reflected, after a couple of hours. He had changed position at some point, laying on his belly on the bed, feet kicking idly as he played, with Dog splayed across the small of his back.

Crowley considered that. “Am I a grown-up, technically?”

“Not sure what else you’d be, 6000 years old. You can’t be a kid.”

“True.” The demon hissed a little in frustration when he punched an existing pane of glass and it shattered, and Adam pretended not to notice. “Not a bad game, this one.”

“Nah, it’s cool. An’ you got the building down really fast. Even Wensley doesn’t make houses that look this good,” he hadded, appreciative, as he ran around the perimeter and surveyed the word done. “You sure you haven’t played this before?”

“Absolutely positive.”

“You played other building games then? Oh, or did you build stuff like, in the olden days?”

Crowley paused, and his nose twitched slightly. Adam had learned, over the years, that this was a tell. He was stumbling in to something, and if he wanted Crowley to hang around for any further length of time today, he shouldn’t push. He’d find out eventually. “Long time ago, yeah,” Crowley said at length. “Not that it was similar to this.”

“But like houses and stuff? Cause like, this is a good house. Looks really cool.”

“Not quite houses.”

“Oh!” Adam exclaimed, after arrowing a creeper to death and collecting the gunpowder for later. “Is anything you made still around? Like, in real life? Could I see it?”

“Yeah.” Adam blinked, and realized that the lower half of the screen - Crowley’s half - had gone mostly still. Mostly. The view, such as it was, was just the digital night sky, spinning slowly around. “You could.”

“The stars move with the moon,” Adam said helpfully, after a few beats of silence. “In the game,” he added.

“Yeah.”

Adam swallowed. And then, cautiously, because curiosity was gnawing him away from the inside, and yet he felt like a man perched at the edge of a vast chasm with the winds whipping at him, he said, “You’re not talking about buildings on Earth, are you?”

Crowley frowned a little, and Adam paused, finger hovering over the save button. He might have gone too far. But then, quietly, Crowley said, “No. Never built any actual buildings. Just …” He shrugged. “Other stuff.”

“Stars,” Adam said quietly, and it wasn’t a question. He stopped time, once, Adam remembered, but even for him the memories seemed just a little fuzzy now, three years later, separated in time by years of mundane things like school and video games and being normal. Sometimes, every once in a great while, he almost forgot altogether. Almost. They’re not just old people. They’re not people.

“Stars,” Crowley agreed. “Not a lot. Just a few. Someone had to do it, and it wasn’t a bad job.”

“Prob’ly.” Adam paused for a second and then, because he didn’t care for the weight of the silence, he said, “I think a zombie might be eating you.”

“Oh. Huh.” And the moment passed.

The zombie was slain, and Adam returned to mining ore, while the weight of the silence lifted by inches and Adam breathed a little easier. Stars, he thought. I wonder which ones. He didn’t ask. “You know,” he said instead, “if you get a console at your place you could keep playing. Like online.”

“Oh yeah?” Crowley’s eyebrows raised. “Interesting.”

Adam set his controller aside. “I can write down what to get for you,” he explained, even as he pulled a pencil and pad off the little desk. Dog grumbled in protest as he slid from his Master’s back and onto the bed. “An’ the server an’ the password an’ everything so you can find it then. An’ you can text me if you forget.” He bent his head to the notepad, and so he didn’t notice Crowley’s smile, just a quick one, when it happened. The paper tore, and he handed the demon the note, scratched in the messy handwriting of a fourteen-year-old. “You know, if you wanna keep playing after you leave.”

Crowley looked the note over. “I might.” He glanced at the clock in the room then, and asked, “Is someone going to be expecting you home at some point?”

“Yeah,” Adam said, scooping his controller back up and returning to the game. “Wensley’s parents told me to be home by five, though, so I have time. But Wensley’ll be done with piano practice around three so I figured I’d go back about then.”

Crowley glanced over with a bemused grin. “It’s half three already, Adam.”

“Well, yeah, but I’m lost down this mine and I don’t wanna lose all the gold ore I got. We have to make a Tower. I’ll come back, then I’ll go.”

“Right, yeah, the Tower.” Crowley’s grin didn’t fade, and he cycled through the inventory to the map. “Hang on, I think I know where you are.”

At length, Operation: Rescue Adam and the Gold Ore was a success. Adam shut the console off, and Crowley stuffed the note into a pocket. The house was locked up (with one last plant-check from Crowley, although Adam wasn’t sure he understood why), and the demon, the not-Antichrist, and the Dog loaded up into the Bentley, bound for Jasmine Cottage to drop Dog off. “You want me to wait?” Crowley offered, the car idling at the garden gate, while Adam and his dog jumped out.

Adam considered it. “Nah. I’ll walk. Not that cold out.”

Crowley looked vaguely concerned, insofar as much as he ever looked concerned in situations that did not involve the impending Apocalypse, his own death and/or inconvenience, or Aziraphale being cross with him. “I could wait, really. Don’t have anywhere to be.”

Adam considered it again, but from the cottage he was fairly certain he caught a whiff of Anathema’s famous Polvorones, and shook his head. “Nah. Thanks, though.” Adam pretended not to notice when Crowley sniffed the air - the cookie smell really was strong - and then waited while he swung out of the Bentley and joined Adam at the gate.

“Might as well make sure you get inside alright and say hi to Anathema while I’m here,” he said, as an excuse.

“And get some cookies?” Adam suggested, cutting to the core of the issue, the two of them crunching up the walk together, Dog trotting between them.

“Aziraphale would kill me if I didn’t.”

Adam laughed. “Right. Oh, uh.” He stopped a few feet short of the door. “Uh, Crowley, um,” he looked up to the sunglasses, the carefully-arched eyebrow, and his mind raced a mile a minute. Which stars were yours? his brain whined. Which ones up there did you actually make? What’s outer space like? Are there aliens? What’s it like to make a star? His mouth, after a minute, said “Thanks a lot for the ride.”

Crowley was watching him. Not for the first time, Adam wondered if demons could read minds. He couldn’t have, he didn’t think, when … things were happening. But he was different then. It wasn’t the same. And Crowley had never said anything, but every now and again, he had this Look he could give you, a thousand miles wide and Adam wondered …

And then Crowley grinned, and shrugged, and knocked on the door. “Not a problem. Thanks for the game.”

“You think you might get a console?” Adam asked, as footsteps approached on the opposite side of the door. Crowley rocked back onto his heels and shrugged, but the amiable grin never dropped.

“You know Adam, I think I might.”

-

^* In spite of numerous attempts, Dog and Wensley’s cat had never been able to reconcile their differences.^{[back to text]}

^** This was not altogether a lie. Crowley had never played a game on a computer or a console, although he had been instrumental in the development of the E.T. game for Atari. Phone games, on the other hand, were another story entirely, and Crowley was rather proud of his perfect score in Heart’s Medicine, although only Aziraphale knew about this accomplishment.^{[back to text]}

Chapter Text

Aziraphale doesn’t talk on the phone much but, to his surprise, Crowley does. They spend more time together after the Nah-pocalypse, and Aziraphale notices. Phone calls to television personalities (Aziraphale recognizes the names), and actors, and politicians, and all sorts of people, about all sorts of things. Most of it is mildly, Aziraphale assumes, evil.

And Crowley doesn’t sit still when he’s on the phone. He paces, he spins, he - on one memorable occasion - climbs onto the roof and lays up there while he talks, one ankle propped on the opposite knee, hand drawing intangible vague pictures in the sky.

It’s why Aziraphale doesn’t really think anything of it when he comes back to the bookshop one day and Crowley is there, bonelessly slithering (not literally, on this day) over the back of the couch, until his shoulders bump onto the floor and all that is visible from the front of the furniture are his snakeskin shoes^[*]. It is not until after he has put the kettle on, and started dithering over the quantity of sugar he feels like indulging in in his tea today, that the phone conversation gives him pause.

Because he hears A Name.

“No, Adam, you’re not listening to me.” Crowley sounds exasperated. “No, you - no, don’t do that. Alright, yes. Wait. Now before you do that you want to take count of the left side of the equation. Right? How many?” There is scratching - pen on paper, Aziraphale thinks, although he can still only see the demon’s feet. “Okay four. Right, now you look on the right side and - yeah, right, there should still be four. How many?” There’s a long pause. More scratching. “Do you have models or anything?” Another pause. “What about like … like marbles, coins, something like - yeah, okay, candy works. Right, so take four of - what do you have? - four lemon drops, and six tootsie rolls, and you want to put them to the right side of your desk.”

Aziraphale goes with five sugars. He thinks he may want a bit more than that, especially if this is a conversation with the Adam he is thinking it probably is, however seven seems indulgent and six is … well, he doesn’t care for the number six. It seems spooky.

He sips his tea and waits. There are numbers, and names of candies, and occasional scratching of pen on paper. Crowley’s legs disappear at some point and Aziraphale can see him, just behind the couch, rolling onto his belly, the better to write something down.

“Right,” he says, after Aziraphale’s tea is mostly gone. “Right! There. Yeah, all accounted for, yes? Good. Great. Alr - yeah, you got it? Right. Good. Okay. Right. Alright, Adam, good luck. Yeah, of course. Okay. Bye.”

Aziraphale counts to five before he asks, “Was that the Adam I’m thinking it was?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Crowley appears over the back of the couch, and then stands, only to somersault over the back of the couch and onto the cushions, reclining into Aziraphale’s plump velveteen pillows^[**]. “Yeah, that Adam.”

The angel waits for any elaboration on that, but it doesn’t seem to be forthcoming. He clears his throat. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah.” Crowley is distracted, tapping at the screen of his phone while the speakers play some repetitive tune, presumably related to some game or another. Aziraphale frowns, and something about the sudden expectant silence - possibly the tapping of the angel’s fingers on the tabletop - prompts him to look up, and then elaborate. “Oh, ah. Just needed some help with something, is all. Homework.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “Homework?”

“Oh, yeah, you know.” The demon waves a hand vaguely, before returning to the game on the phone. “Chemistry.”

“Chemistry?” He sipped the last of his tea. “Since when have you been a chemistry tutor?”

“Well, I’m whatever kind of tutor Adam needs, I’ll tell you that.” He swipes a few times across the face of the phone, and then drops it to his belly with a frustrated hiss. “‘Cept English or literature or whatever. I’d probably leave that to you.”

“I didn’t know you knew much about chemistry.”

Crowley looks affronted at that, all the more so because his glasses are - elsewhere, probably, yes, there on the coffee table. “Don’t know much about chemistry?” He props himself up on an elbow. “I made nebulas, angel!” He gestures to the ceiling, although Aziraphale assumes he is indicating the sky. “Big bloody nebulas out in space, like at least four of them, and you think I don’t know much about chemistry?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “You don’t just make them, then? Just wave a hand and pull them out of nothing?”

“What? No! No, you bloody well don’t, you have to know what the elements are and the ratios and if you get it wrong instead of a nebula you end up with a great dusty mess!” Crowley makes a face. “Come on, Aziraphale, surely you remember Creation. It wasn’t just wave a hand and off you pop there, Gliese, have a lovely orbit.”

“I didn’t have much to do with Creation, honestly. I was more, you know …” He sighs. “I am a Principality, Crowley. Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Someone had to guard over the Creation while it all got sorted.”

Crowley slumps back into the pillows, and retrieves his phone from where it had fallen to the floor. “I’m a Principality,” he sneers, in that way he does when he’s not really angry. “Big flaming sword, me, and no time for chemistry. Big strong Principality.”

“Everyone has their strengths, Crowley.” He smiles faintly, remembering the early days, of Creation, and before the rebellion. And then, because Crowley is going on about looking important while everyone else got busy with the really good stuff, he says, “We can’t all be nerds, my dear.”

“I - nerds? I - you … what?” He sits up again, the better to glare and level a pointed finger at Aziraphale. “I am not a nerd.”

Now it is the angel’s turn to smirk. “No? My mistake. I must have forgotten all the really cool people who genuinely enjoy balancing chemical equations in their spare time.”

“Now you just wait one -”

“And the maths. I didn’t forget the maths, Crowley.” He takes his tea back to the sink, and calls over his shoulder, “The only reason Hell approved of you passing on the concept of zero and calculus is because only nerds like them and everyone else despises them!”

“You read Ulysses for fun.”

“That book was transformative - .”

“Oh, now who’s the nerd? At least chemistry is useful. Look at all this - everything! It’s all chemistry! Atoms and molecules and quarks and whatever!” He looks triumphant. “What did Kerouac ever do for creation?”

Aziraphale’s hand hovers over the kettle for a second, and then he turns, and grabs a bottle of wine instead. “Well,” he considers, as he returns to the couch, and waits for a beat while Crowley rearranges himself to make room for the angel among the cushions. “Kerouac, eh? Well …” He pours them each a glass, and sets the bottle on the table. “You like that Bob Dylan fellow, don’t you?”

“Yeah. What about him?”

“Kerouac was an influence on his songwriting, I’m given to understand.” Aziraphale clinks his glass against Crowley’s. “Lit a light of inspiration - Creation - in him, I’d daresay.”

Crowley takes a sip, and manages to look resentful but not really while doing so. “Did not.”

“Did too. Look it up. Like I said, my dear, everyone has their strengths. For some it’s Creating art, something that stirs in the souls and the minds of humans and, well, us alike, gives us all joy and sorrow and raison d’être, and for others it’s Creating the tangible - the bones of reality and the world we experience it in.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley says, after a moment’s consideration and a swig of wine. “So I’m still not a nerd.”

Aziraphale pats his knee, which elicits a hiss. “You are,” he says, with a broad smile and a warmth that Crowley visibly has trouble being annoyed with. “You are very much a nerd my dear Crowley, but what a funny old world - or no world at all, really - would it be, if we were all the same, eh?”

–

^* Which are not, Aziraphale knows, actually shoes.^{[back to text]}

^** Definitely Aziraphale’s. Certainly not purchased because of a “oh yeah, those seem nice” passing remark from Crowley in a home goods store five years ago, on the way to a quick temptation/blessing.^{[back to text]}

Chapter Text

In the days following the Nahpocalypse, and indeed, the years, Crowley and Aziraphale settled into a routine. They moved out of the city, and set a primary base of operations up in the countryside. Retirement, Aziraphale had initially thought, was appealing. Oh, he’d keep the bookshop open one or two days a week, he had said to Crowley, as the demon drove the Bentley to the chalky cliffs of South Downs, just initially, until he settled in, but probably after a year or so he’d be ready to let it go.

Crowley had nodded and said nothing. He was no Agnes Nutter, but he had known Aziraphale for 6000 years, and he was fairly certain ‘letting it go’ was not anywhere on the agenda in the future.

He was right. Four months in, when the winter was harsh and the weather was hideous, Aziraphale found Crowley in the greenhouse, lounged back in an overly-ornate garden chair, fingers steepled, glaring at the plants lined up before him. An iced coffee rested on the arm of the chair beside him, condensation running down the outside of the cup in the pleasantly warm humidity of the greenhouse. The plants, trembling, steadied somewhat when the angel came in, brushing his hands absently through their leaves while Crowley rolled his eyes.

“What is the point,” he said, gesturing to the row of comforted plants, “of menacing them if you’re just going to come through and tell them it’ll all be alright? I’ve been working on that aptenia for weeks! I nearly had it!”

“Ah, well, I’ll bring it comfort in its brief life, I suppose. Say, Crowley,” the angel pulled up a chair beside the demon, who was watching carefully as the aptenia stilled for a moment, and then resumed trembling, perhaps more than before. “May I impose on you?”

Crowley paused. “Depends,” he replied, eventually. “Can’t say I’m really in the mood at the moment, angel.”

Aziraphale waved his hands and laughed a little. “No, no, not that, you incorrigible old snake. No, I’m wondering if you might be available to … well, I’m thinking of opening the bookshop a bit more. You know. Just … obviously not selling anything.”

“You’re bored,” Crowley observed, languid and smug, reclining even more aggressively in his chair and taking a leisurely sip of iced coffee. “You’re bored and you need me to drive you to London so you can open the bookshop more and -”

“Yes, that’s what I just said,” the angel answered, peevish.

“Are you lonely? Not enjoying my company enough?” There was no offense in it, no meanness. He prodded Aziraphale in the side. “Not as fun to intimidate me, eh? Just don’t give the same thrill of customers.”

Aziraphale glared. “Do you want to drive me to London three days a week or not?”

Crowley sipped his drink again and let his head fall back, feet propped up on a potting table. His eyes closed, although he never stopped smirking. “‘Course. Been waiting for you to ask for the last two months.”

“You don’t have to be so self-satisfied about it,” Aziraphale said with a frown, settling back in his own chair with his arms crossed. “Smug.”

“Don’t I? It’s sort of my scene, angel.”

“Hmph.” Aziraphale didn’t argue. Rather, he looked to the demon, dozing to his left, and then to the rows of plants in the greenhouse. And then he smiled, broad and honest and full of mischief. “You know,” he said, suddenly raising his voice to a near-shout, “he really quite likes all of you!” Crowley’s eyes snapped open. “I see the way he looks at you all sometimes! He’ll never say it, but he does like you, all of you, in his own way!”

“Angel!”

Aziraphale rose, and primly brushed the non-existent lint from the front of his waistcoat and pants. He turned to Crowley and smiled with divine beneficence. “I must protect and comfort. It’s my scene.” He started to walk away, back to the cottage, stroking the plants on the opposite side of the row, this time. They leaned toward his touch. “Would you mind tomorrow, by the way?”

“I might,” Crowley muttered.

“Excellent. I’d like to open the store at nine, if you wouldn’t mind.” The doors closed behind him, and Crowley crossed his legs as he glared after the angel, arms crossed over his chest.

“If you don’t mind,” he repeated, mocking. “He’s lucky I like him.” He raised his voice, and glared over the greenhouse full of plants. “Unlike you lot!” With a grunt, he hoisted himself to his feet and began stalking through the rows of plants. “Surprise inspection! I’d better not see a single blemish, you miserable heaps of pre-compost!”

Miraculously, he didn’t. Not even a single droopy leaf. Even the aptenia. In the cottage, Aziraphale smiled and turned his page.

It did start as a chauffeur arrangement^[*]. Three days each week, Crowley drove Aziraphale into Soho and dropped him off at the bookshop. Sometimes he would come in and spend the day, sometimes he would leave and ramble around London. On occasion he would go on a day trip elsewhere, usually Tadfield. In the spring, he enrolled^[**] in a university physics course. He did homework. It was interesting, and a nice way to spend the time besides, now that he was more-or-less retired.

Well, mostly retired. He did tempt his classmates to procrastination and cheating at times, because old habits die hard, and they were university students anyway so they hardly needed a full temptation. Just a gentle push, really. Also, Aziraphale noted somewhat astutely one night over wine, if everyone procrastinated studying then the average grade for the test would be a bit lower, possibly resulting in a generous curve, which Crowley invariably benefited from. Crowley, mid-way through an equation, glared at him for the remark, but didn’t dispute it.

“Oh, I need a favor,” Aziraphale said after a minute, and more fevered scratching from Crowley as he worked at the equation more. The demon glanced up.

“Aziraphale, if you’re going to open the shop four days each week, we might as well move back to London.”

“Oh? Oh! No, no that wasn’t what I was thinking of.”

“Oh.” Crowley propped his chin in his hand and tapped the pencilpoint on the paper. It was a wonder he didn’t have smoke coming out of his ears, Aziraphale reflected, the way he was looking at the paper.

Well, Aziraphale had said math might be wise to take first, before physics. No one to blame but himself, really.

“I have an appointment tomorrow,” Aziraphale said, continuing when Crowley hummed in distracted acknowledgement. “I’m meeting a woman about a first-run printing of Harry Potter. With the shop only being opened a few days per week, I’d hate to close it down for a few hours in the middle of one of the days for the meeting.”

“Why? Planning on selling something?”

“No, but people do like to browse.” He leaned forward and to the side slightly, so he would poke into Crowley’s field of vision. “Would you mind watching the shop for me for a few hours while I have my meeting?”

“Huh?” Crowley looked up, and then visibly re-wound the last minute of conversation in his mind. “Since when do you buy fantasy?”

“It’s a cultural phenomenon, Crowley.” Aziraphale waved a hand. “And that’s irrelevant, besides. Would you be able to watch the shop? Please?”

Pursed lips as the demon considered the request. More idle pencil-tapping. The point snapped off, and Crowley didn’t seem to notice. “Just … just make sure nobody messes up the books, right?”

“Yes. And don’t sell anything.” Aziraphale’s eyebrows arched as he allowed himself a hopeful smile. “Please?”

Crowley sighed. “Yeah, I can do that. Fine.”

During the commute in to London the next day, Aziraphale distracted himself from the no-less-than-twelve near-discorporations by quizzing Crowley on Bookshop Management Principles. “Are children allowed?”

“Only if accompanied by parents,” Crowley recited, monotone. “And they cannot touch anything earlier than a fourth edition, or the books in the children’s section.”

Aziraphale smiled. “And what if someone wants to buy a book?”

“Encourage-them-to-leave-but-please-don’t-terrify-them,” Crowley replied, mechanically. “How long is this appointment? An hour? It’s not like your shop has just huge amounts of foot traffic, Aziraphale.” He looked to Aziraphale and read the expression on the angel’s face. “Two hours?”

“Probably closer to three. I expect there will be bartering.”

“Hm.” The Bentley rumbled on. “I’ll still manage just fine.”

“I’m sure you will, dear.” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s arm, and there wasn’t a trace of irony in his smile. “I have no doubts.”

Crowley did leave for a few hours after dropping Aziraphale off - likely to hunt down a decent cup of coffee and spread a few wiles around, which would be typical - but he did return ten minutes before Aziraphale planned to leave for his meeting, coffee in hand. Aziraphale smiled, and looked him up and down, hands clasped in front of him as he appraised the demon before he left.

He looked nothing at all like a shopkeeper. But he looked everything in the world like Crowley, which was, in Aziraphale’s opinion, much better. He laid his hands on Crowley’s shoulders for a second, smiled, and then turned to grab his briefcase. “Remember, keep an eye on teenagers, and don’t let anybody fold the pages or bend the spines, and don’t sell anything.” This last was said in unison with Crowley, who tried to look annoyed but mostly just looked amused.

“I can handle it, angel. I incited original sin, I think I can manage a shop for three hours.”

“That’s … not reassuring.”

Crowley pushed Aziraphale - gently - toward the door, giving him an extra nudge between the shoulderblades at the threshold. “Have fun getting your letter to Hogwarts, see you in a while.”

“It’s a first edition Harry Potter book, not -”

“Goodbye, Aziraphale.” The bell over the door tinkled as the door closed. On the other side of the glass, Aziraphale was glaring at him. Crowley waved and, with a sigh, the angel turned and started off down the sidewalk to his meeting. Crowley watched until he faded out of sight and into the throngs of people on the London sidewalks, and then turned to the shop, empty at the moment, hands in his pockets. “Right.” Aziraphale always kept a chair by the window next to the perpetually-unused register, and Crowley dropped into it, appreciating the sunbeam coming through the window and the warmth it provided. He closed his eyes, and briefly considered Going Snake just to enjoy the sunbeam all the more, before his withered and blackened but surprisingly-resilient sense of duty chimed in with the opinion that Aziraphale definitely would not approve of either napping on the job or watching the store in the form of a ten-foot-long viper. And certainly not both at once. He would probably even be cross.

Crowley opted to play a game on his phone instead.

It was a full 45 minutes into his shift before a customer entered. She was college-age, dark hair and eyes, vaguely reminiscent of someone he’d known in Mesopotamia. Maybe an ancestor, he considered. Probably not, though. That was a long time ago. She looked around the shop, obviously at a loss as to where to begin, before she caught sight of Crowley in his chair. She straightened a bit more, and he sat up slightly, under the pretense of politeness. “Uh, hi.”

“Hi.”

“Do you … have any Ursula Le Guin?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “No idea.” There, that ought to put her off browsing around. She cocked her head. “Just watching the shop for the afternoon, sorry. Not really clear on all the inventory.”

“Oh.” She looked to the shop, and her shoulders relaxed a little as she looked across the stacks of books, the shelves with their haphazard organization. “Is it OK if I look around?”

“Yeah.” Crowley pulled his phone back out and propped his feet up on the table with the register on it. “Of course. Let me know if you need help.” The look she gave him indicated she rather doubted there would be anything he could help her with, and she wandered off into the shelves. Crowley settled back in. Suited him fine. He returned to his game, although he kept one ear on the woman, and would glance up from his game on occasion, just to make sure she wasn’t up to anything, like stealing or worse, trying to buy something.

She had been in the shop for about fifteen minutes when another customer entered. Crowley almost groaned. Unreal.

At least this one seemed more than passingly familiar with the bookshop. She paused at the threshold and nodded to Crowley, trying not to make a show of looking around the store. “Mr. Fell not in today?”

“He’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Crowley answered, counting down the minutes in his brain. “Had a meeting.”

“Are you a … friend of his? Watching the store for him?” She watched Crowley nod in agreement. “Ah. Er, I’ve been coming in on my lunch for the past few days to read a book.” She glanced to the other woman in the shop, and then took a step closer to Crowley, lowering her voice. “Mr. Fell said it was alright, only I couldn’t afford to actually buy the book.”

“Yeah, some are quite valuable.” Crowley became conscious of the tone of his voice, the sprawl of his knees, and wrenched the temptation knob down to a respectable 5 out of 10^[***]. He looked back to his phone. “If he was alright with you reading over lunch I’m not going to stop you. Just don’t, you know, fold anything or anything.”

She stood back a little, visibly disappointed. “Great,” she said, though her voice was a little flat. “I’ll be careful. Thanks.” The book in question was set to a table to the side, which had no labels but was piled high with books rife with bookmarks, and she took it from the pile before walking softly back through the shop to the little sitting area by the wall opposite the register. Crowley forced a smile when she looked to him, before she opened the book and settled in to read.

Eventually, the first customer of his inaugural shift at A. Z. Fell & Co. left, looking disappointed. He smiled and waved at her as she went. The second customer also left, about forty-five minutes after coming in. She paused at the table after she set her book back down, obviously considered saying something to Crowley, and then thought better of it, leaving with a subdued smile and a little wave, which he returned with rather more enthusiasm than necessary.

Two confused customers in as many hours, he thought. Not too bad. With a little more hostility he might even be able to make them disgruntled. Maybe there was something to this bookshop thing. He continued with his game, and considered it further. One hour to go, he thought, and he started tapping his foot to the game’s music out of sheer infernal cheer.

Two-and-a-half hours into his shift, the bell above the door tinkled again. Crowley looked up, and then down. Faintly, an alarm bell sounded in the back of his brain.

An unattended child.

Oh, sure, they’d established that unattended children weren’t allowed, but Crowley was rapidly realizing that Aziraphale had not told him what to do in such a circumstance. The kid was looking at him, though, all wide green eyes and a messy red hair piled into an attempt at a ponytail. “Hi,” she said quietly.

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you lost?”

The girl stepped back, toward the door, and then glanced into the street outside. “No,” she answered. “Um, my … my dad is out there talking to a friend, just there, and he said I could come in and look around.” Crowley thought about that. Well, she was just looking. Right? No harm in curiosity, he thought, without a trace of irony. Besides, she was probably … ten? Eleven? Thirteen? Somewhere in there. Crowley had never been good at guessing human ages, and he hadn’t gotten better with time. The girl looked worried. “That’s alright, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Crowley made a decision, and secretly hoped that Aziraphale would not mind or, even better, would never find out about it at all. “Yeah, s’fine. Just, ah, be careful with the books. They’re all … very old.” He looked to the children’s section. “Oh, except those back there. You can look at those.”

She looked to the indicated section, and then turned back to him, obviously slightly offended. “Those are for kids.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. Which is why I pointed them out.” He paused. “You are a kid, aren’t you?”

Scratch slightly offended, now she was clearly offended. “Yes I’m a kid. But I don’t like to read kid’s books.” She looked around. “What’s the oldest book here?”

Crowley shrugged. “Dunno. Not my shop. I just work here.”

She frowned. After a beat, she turned away, and started to wander the shelves, looking but not touching, studying the dusty spines and the gilded titles. Crowley watched her for a minute, and then settled back into his chair, even going so far as to pull his phone out as if to play his game, but he never started it. As inconspicuously as possible, which was very inconspicuous indeed for a 6000-year-old demon, he watched her. She would pause, now and then, in front of a book. He could see her hand twitch at her side, or clutch at her paisley skirt, but then she would think better of it, and move along the shelves, never touching anything, only looking.

Five minutes in, he asked, “So what kind of books do you read, if not kid’s books?” She looked at him over her shoulder.

“I like … books about history,” she settled on. “And. Well, and some kids books. If they’re good. If they have like, good magic in them and stuff.”

Ah, magic. Crowley squashed down the urge to nod. That was alright then. He was beginning to wonder if she was truly a human child, and not some kind of supernatural being that looked twelve-years-old but didn’t read kids’ books and had self-control more impressive than some adults. But no, magic was alright. Human kids loved magic.

“I like Lord of the Rings,” she went on, continuing her perusal of the shelves. “My dad always says he thinks it’s too complicated for me, but I read it anyway.”

“No harm in it,” Crowley agreed. He’d tried to read The Hobbit once, years ago, but he’d gotten bored ten pages in and promptly stuffed it into a shelf at Aziraphale’s shop, never to pick it up again. “Did you read all of them?”

She nodded, and this time when she looked at him, her eyes were a little brighter, a little less wary. “Nearly,” she said, eagerly. “I’m on the last one - The Return of the King. Did you read it?”

“Nah. Just saw the films.” Her face fell. “They were good films, though,” he added, somewhat unconsciously, in spite of having little to no recollection of them whatsoever. “Er.”

She serpentined down an aisle, looking the books up and down, her hands alternatively playing with her hair, or picking at her skirt. “I don’t know what to read next,” she said, unprompted, right as Crowley decided she was probably alright, and anyway this level wasn’t going to beat itself.

“Huh?”

“After I finish the book, I mean.” She sighed, the troubled sigh of a pre-teen facing a significant personal crisis. “Mum says I should just re-read them, really savor the parts I liked best the first time around and maybe find even better ones the second go-round. But I want to read something new. I don’t feel like re-reading them right now.”

“Ah.”

She looked to him. “I was going to ask you for recommendations, since you work in a bookshop, but you haven’t read them.” She shrugged. “My maths teacher might know a good book for next. He gave me The Hobbit in the first place.”

“Maybe.” Crowley stared at his phone for a minute, and then, in a fit of benevolence that made him feel slightly nauseous, he got up, and crossed the shop toward the girl, hands in his pockets, studying the shelves she was in front of as he drew even with her. She watched him, carefully. “You like magic, you said? Good magic?”

“Not like stage stuff,” she clarified quickly, in case he had any designs of pulling a quarter from behind her ear or a length of scarves from his jacket. She did not know how near of a miss she had had in that department. “Like real magic.”

“Right, obviously.” He traced along a shelf of books, which were not organized by any recognizable system at all, and then stopped. He considered the book in front of his hand, apparently - A Brief History of the Sonnet, First Edition - and the girl looked dubious, before he reached between books, and pulled out another one, which had not, prior to that moment, looked like it could have existed. The girl blinked.

“Did you just - ?”

“Stage stuff,” he said, dismissively. “Old trick. Anyway, here. You might like this one.” She looked down to the cover, orange and battered, with a garishly-rendered suitcase on the front. With legs. And teeth. She raised her eyebrows. “It’s got real good, proper magic in it. And it’s funny.” She looked to him, and he shrugged. “I like funny ones.”

“Right.” She turned the book over, slowly, and then looked back to him, suspicious. “It doesn’t have a price tag. Where did you get this from, anyway?”

Crowley beamed. “A magician never tells his secrets, didn’t you know?” She gave him a look that suggested of course she did, and to stop being ridiculous. “Must have been an oversight, missing the tag. I think it was …” he licked his lips, under the guise of thinking, considered the strength of the metal smells coming from her backpack, and said, “Two pounds.”

“I don’t know if I have that.” Nevertheless, she carried the book up to the register, and plopped her bag down on the table to rummage through. “I’ve got ... “ she studied the handful of coins, and then looked to Crowley again, although this time there was an accusatory undertone to her look of amazement. “Exactly two pounds.”

“Lucky coincidence, then.” His watch clicked - three hours - and he glanced to the door. “You buying it or not?”

“Are you a wizard?”

“No.”

“Only you’re wearing all black, so if you are a wizard, you’re an evil wizard.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not a nazgul, are you?”

“I have no idea what that is,” said Crowley, completely honestly. “So I’d imagine not. Listen, you want the book or not? I bet you’ll like it.”

She looked from him - a hint of a glare, which was novel - to the book, and back to him. And then she laid the coins on the table. “Okay. But if I don’t like it, Mum always says I should ask for a refund.”

“You won’t get one here.” He pointed to the ‘Returns welcome,’ sign, and then miracled it to say ‘No refunds, no returns,’ hastily, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

“Wait that sign -”

Crowley didn’t hiss. He didn’t growl or do anything menacing. He’d already broken two rules of Aziraphale’s bookshop, and he’d be blessed if he’d break any more. Instead, he looked to the street, where the girl’s father apparently suddenly realized his daughter had been missing for the last twenty minutes, and looked into the shop, wide-eyed and bewildered, before he caught sight of her through the glass doors and waved.

“Oh, would you look at that! Looks like your dad’s looking for you, well, so sorry to see you go, but hope you enjoy the book -”

“You are a wizard!” the girl said, a broad grin spreading across her face, even as Crowley placed his hands firmly on her shoulders and started pushing her toward the door. “That’s not stage magic, I know it can’t be -”

“Not a wizard!” he interjected with forced cheerfulness. “Don’t tell anyone that! Definitely not a wizard! Goodbye!”

“Dad, this guy’s a wizard!” she said, pointing to Crowley, before he pointedly shut the door behind her. The girl’s father looked to her, and then to Crowley, through the glass of the door, and then smiled a tired smile, offering up a shrug as if to say, Kids, right? Crowley nodded, and then turned on his heel, heading straight back to his chair and his blessed game and the quiet bookshop where there were no children or customers and certainly no wizards.

He’d have to look up nazgul or whatever later.

When the bell tinkled again - again - five minutes later, Crowley did groan in exasperation, a little, but he bit it off before it hopefully became too noticeable. He looked up and Aziraphale, briefcase in hand, met his eyes. He looked, confused, from Crowley, to the change on the table, and back to Crowley.

“What did you do?”

Crowley stammered for a second and then managed, “Nothing.”

“You sold a book,” Aziraphale said, in a low voice. He looked back to the change. “You sold a book for two pounds.”

“I didn’t.”

“You sold a book to a …” he closed his eyes, and Crowley winced. He could feel the angel’s energy stretching out, feeling the space, reading the recent past as easily as Crowley might read a gossip magazine in the coffee shop checkout. Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open. “You sold a book to an unattended child!” He dropped the briefcase, the better to put his hands over his face. “Oh, Crowley.”

The demon sank into the chair a little. “Wasn’t one of yours,” he muttered, defensive.

“You’re going to tell me next the child saw you conjure a book out of nowhere?”

“No,” Crowley said, and it wasn’t a lie. He honestly had no intention of telling Aziraphale anything of the sort. “No, just, ah, said I’d nip around the back and get it. I got it from … somewhere else. Another shop.” He paused a minute, and considered that. “It was stealing. Very demonic.”

Aziraphale was looking at him with weariness, and possibly frustration, but that seemed to be softening to amusement more and more by the minute. “But it definitely wasn’t one of mine, was it?”

“Definitely not,” Crowley confirmed. “So really, I only broke one rule. And I did get two other customers to leave without buying anything, so overall a net win for my first day, don’t you think?” Aziraphale didn’t roll his eyes - not quite - but he did smile. “You get your book?”

Aziraphale sniffed. “It has a coffee stain in the middle of the fourth chapter. It’s going to take time to get it out. No miracles,” he said quickly, when Crowley opened his mouth. The demon’s mouth clicked back shut. “And would you believe the woman didn’t want to come down on the price at all, even with that? I spent the better part of the time negotiating with her over the value of a coffee stain on a book versus the value of the cup of coffee itself.” He sighed. “Honestly.”

Crowley nodded sympathetically. “The absolute gall.” He stood, made a show of stretching, and asked, “Since you’re back and all, I have a little errand of my own I need to run. Mind if I step out?”

Aziraphale frowned, and then nodded. “Of course not. Thank you,” he went on, his face softening into a smile, “for watching the shop, Crowley. Even if you did sell something.” He glanced behind him. “And … and changed the sign. What did you do?” He blinked when Crowley kissed the bridge of his nose, and then watched as the taller of them walked out the door with his typical swagger, without another word. He watched him go, smiling all the while, and then turned back to the change on the table. “You’re ridiculous,” he sighed to himself, in the bookshop, his smile never fading, before he swept the change into a donations tin by the register, and set about his new book.

Two blocks away, Crowley ducked into one of the chain bookshops, glancing furtively around before he did, in case Aziraphale had tailed him. With no puffy, wonderful, probably extremely judgy angel in sight, he slid through the door, and made a beeline for the sci-fi/fantasy section, careful not to make eye contact with anyone on his way through the store.

His personal collection was down by a book. He needed a replacement. He found it, there on the shelf, with the rest of the series, and picked it out, thumbing through the pages and not smiling when a favorite passage caught his eye. Definitely not smiling. He closed the book - probably time for a re-read, he thought - and turned to the door (certainly not the register - he might be going a little soft in his retirement, but not that soft), but he paused. Just a minute, he thought, and he wove through a few more shelves, pausing in front of a rather impressive display of The Lord of the Rings and all associated paraphernalia. He frowned. And then, under his breath and inaudible to anybody else within earshot, he said, “Oh, why not. Isn’t as if I don’t have time,” before he grabbed The Fellowship of the Ring off the shelf, and slithered out.

-

^* No capital ‘A’ required.^{[back to text]}

^** Meaning he showed up and nobody questioned his presence there.^{[back to text]}

^*** He generally rested at a natural 9, but was capable of levels between 12 and 15 when pressed.^{[back to text]}

Chapter Text

“So.” The assembled parties turn to look at Adam, all of fourteen years old, who is sitting on the stone wall around the garden of Jasmine Cottage, semi-melted ice cream cone dribbling down his hand. “I have a question.”

The Them, also sitting on the wall and flanking him on either side, nod encouragingly. Anathema, Newt, Madame Tracy and Mr. Shadwell, seated around the garden table and having a pleasant after-dinner chat about current events and relation to witchcraft (if any), raise their eyebrows and look politely interested. Aziraphale and Crowley, side-by-side on a bench under the jasmine, shared an apprehensive look. Dog, chewing a stick at their feet, did not pay Adam any heed.

“S’for you two,” he said, indicating the supernatural entities with his ice cream cone. “You been around for a while, yeah?” A pair of trepidatious nods. “So you gotta know all kinds of weird stuff.” He considered his words and went on. “I mean, Crowley, I know you know a lot about science, an’ Aziraphale you’ve prob’ly read every book ever written -” Aziraphale actually blushed “- but like, there’s gotta be other stuff, right? Bet you know loads of cool stuff.”

The attention of the assembled turned to Crowley and Aziraphale, who exchanged another look which was still apprehensive but now, also, confused. “How do you mean, Adam?” Aziraphale asked politely, after Crowley shrugged. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I follow.”

“Well, like,” Adam gestured grandly. “Say I lived for a thousand years. First of all, I wouldn’ bother with school. But I’d wanna learn about other stuff, actually properly interesting stuff, like swordfighting an’ archery an’ like … geology an’ stuff.” He beamed. “I could be like Indiana Jones, going all over the world to find stuff about lost cities and the Holy Grail an’ all that.” A thought occurred to him. “Do you know where the Holy Grail is?”

“Yes, and no, you can’t know,” Crowley answered, while Newt and Shadwell’s mouth’s dropped open. “I think I get it.” He considered it, swirling his wine in his glass. “I’m quite good at sewing.”

Adam blinked. “Sewing?”

“Yeah, you know, back before tailors and all that, you had to be able to do your own repairs and the like. And you couldn’t always miracle up a new robe or whatever. Right?” He looked to Aziraphale for confirmation, who nodded in agreement.

“I did a good deal of metalwork, as well, around the turn of the century,” Aziraphale said. “Smelting and the like. I started with just making swords and that but it’s actually very interesting, really, and I got quite good at it if I say so myself.”

“Cool,” Pepper said, eyes wide. “What else?”

Crowley considered it. “Technically I’m a medical doctor.”

Anathema cut in. “Really?”

“Well, yeah, but I got the degree on a lark in the eleventh century so I’m not ah, up-to-date as it were.”

“So should we call you Dr. Crowley?” Wensley asked, his head to one side.

Aziraphale answered. “Best not. Unless you’re fond of leeches.” The Them and some of the assembled adults made a face. Crowley did, too.

“Never did like that part.” He poked Aziraphale. “What else you got? Don’t you know glassblowing?”

“Oh, yes, but I haven’t done it in ages. Can’t imagine it’d be any good at it now. Pottery, too. Oh, and carpentry!” He shrugged. “That was another one of those semi-essential skills long ago.”

“Picked some of that up myself from a guy,” Crowley muttered into his wine, trailing off when Aziraphale glared at him briefly. Anathema definitely put a pin in that with plans to revisit it later if possible. “I’m pretty good at shooting. Arrows, guns, whatever you got. Part of the infernal workings or whatever.” He thought further, while Aziraphale did the same. “I was a miner, for a while, and a pilot, a couple of times.”

“I was a sailor,” Aziraphale reflected. “In the eighth century. I went to Hawai’i.”

“Easy to be a sailor when you’re not worried about drowning.” Crowley sat back. “Oh, I don’t know Adam, it’s been a long time. Anything you’re interested in?”

Brian’s eyes were bright. “Did you go to the old west? In America?”

“I’ve never been to America,” Aziraphale answered, but looked surprised when Crowley nodded to the affirmative. “You were in America in the nineteenth century?”

“Around, oh, the 1860s, yeah. It was dreadful.”

Newt cut in, hesitant but interested nonetheless. “What about the space program?”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a look. “I certainly didn’t participate,” Aziraphale said. “Heaven frowns on that kind of thing.”

Crowley raised a hand. “Dah, comrade,” he sighed. “Thought it seemed interesting, so I joined up with the soviets for a bit in the 50s.” He looked pleased with himself. “I was there when they launched Sputnik, the stupid little thing.” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at the expression of unadulterated fondness Crowley had while he talked about the satellite. “Dumb little ball with wires sticking off it and there you have it, humans in space. Amazing.”

“Can either of yeh do witchcraft?” Shadwell asked in a low voice. “I asked ye’ in the seventies if ye’ were a witch, a warlock, or someone who calls their cat funny names.”

Crowley shook his head. “And I’m not. Never was.” He spread his hands. “Just a plain old demon, no frills.”

“And a doctor,” Wensley added.

“Sort of. And no, I don’t know any witchcraft. Never saw the need,” Aziraphale added. “Was there something in particular you were interested in, Adam? Safe to say if there’s something specific one of us might know something about it.”

Adam thought about it. “What about archaeology?” he asked, eventually. “Dinosaurs an’ the like. You must’ve seen some dinosaurs.”

They didn’t look at one another. They resolutely did not look at one another. Aziraphale answered first, clearing his throat slightly before he started. “I’m afraid not, my boy. I was, ah, occupied with the preparation for the Garden -”

“I was in Hell,” Crowley said, matter-of-fact, although Anathema and Madam Tracy did notice his arm, which had previously been draped over the back of the bench, moved to Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Yes, and he was in Hell, unfortunately -” Crowley shrugged “- so neither of us were very much involved in dinosaurs, Adam. I am sorry.”

Adam looked a little disappointed. “S’okay. Alright, I guess. You can’t be everywhere at once.”

Crowley raised a finger. “Ah, I did do an archeological dig in the ‘30s. 1830s, that is. Right into the early 40s, until I went to America.” The Them were rapt. “Found some footprints, a few bones, but back then nobody really knew what to make of any of it. 1842, that’s when the dinosaurs came onto the scene properly in terms of scientific research.”

“Cool,” Brian breathed. “So you did the digging and all that stuff?”

Crowley hedged. “Eh, I was there for it.”

Adam nodded. “So you know how to do it.” It was more of a statement rather than a question.

“I suppose I do.”

The Them shared a look amongst themselves. Then, Pepper said, “We want to excavate the chalk pit. We reckon there’s probably loads of dinosaurs under there.”

“At least one T-Rex,” Adam added, confidently. Wensley looked less confident.

“Or a baryonyx.”

“I want to find a triceratops,” Brian said, plucking Adam’s unfinished ice cream cone out of his hand and making short work of the soggy cone. “I think there’s probably one of those under the T-Rex. I bet the T-Rex was eating it when they both died.”

“How’d you reckon they died then?” Pepper asked, with disdain. “Not the triceratops, obviously, but the T-Rex.”

“Maybe it choked.”

“I don’t reckon T-Rexes can choke.”

“Well, if they take big enough bites -” The conversation devolved into good-natured bickering, as was typical with the Them. The assembled adults and adult-shaped beings breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Aziraphale prodded Crowley in the ribs. “‘Just a plain old demon,’” he taunted. “There’s nothing plain about you, dear. I had no idea you spent so much time in America.”

“Eh, I was in a phase.”

“You were really there for Sputnik?” Newt asked, still somewhat awestruck. “How’d you get the clearances?” Crowley stared at him. “Ah, right. Never mind.”

Anathema propped her chin on her hand. “What about you, Aziraphale? You can’t have just been collecting books all those years.”

He waved a hand. “No, no, I did all sorts of things. Mostly foiling this one.” He nudged Crowley, who looked skeptical. “But no, I was around for several historical moments I suppose. They didn’t seem particularly notable at the time, of course, but in hindsight they were quite significant.” He shrugged. “I helped mix the paint for Michelangelo sometimes. I sold him some pigments, as well. I just rather liked his paintings, at the time. Although the Sistine Chapel is a bit overly righteous for my tastes.”

“What? You love the Sistine Chapel, angel, don’t - oi, what’d I do?”

“Some of the illustrations are patently inaccurate,” Aziraphale muttered. “And, you know, there was the time with King Arthur.”

Madame Tracy looked rapt. “Oh, I think I remember a bit about that. Seemed very damp.” She looked apologetic. “Sorry, it’s all I remember.”

Crowley smirked into his wineglass. “That was the long and short of it. Damp and rife with damned uncomfortable suits of armor. And horses.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Yes, there were horses. Lots of riding horses.” He shook his head, as if to shake away an unpleasant memory. “Anyway, no, it wasn’t always all collecting books, although there was always that, too.”

“How did you look after them?” Madame Tracy asked. “All those years, all that moving around.”

“Oh, here and there. I … to be honest I didn’t do much moving around after about the ninth century.”

“Because your little pocket dimension got too small to hold all your books,” Crowley snickered. “Had to start using a proper building.” Aziraphale glared, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“So was Merlin really a wizard, or was it something else, like he’d made a deal with a demon -” she glanced to Crowley “- or an angel, or was he just a hoax?”

“Interesting question, because there were elements of all of them at play,” Aziraphale replied, suddenly eager. “You see, humans are typically not capable of magic beyond basic witchcraft, which really is just science with a trick to it, except in exceedingly rare cases, but Merlin -”

“Hey, Crowley?”

Aziraphale stopped, because Adam and the Them were off of the garden wall and standing in front of the demon, expectant. “Sorry to interrupt,” Wensley apologized. “Only - we want to start excavating the chalk pit, and we were wondering what we might need to do it.”

Crowley blinked. He looked to Aziraphale, and then, with a look of determination, downed his wine and lurched upright. “Don’t,” he said to the angel, “tell them I had anything to do with bloody Merlin. I didn’t,” he insisted to the adults. “He was completely mad, and I was not involved in that at all.”

“Oh, okay, Black Knight, certainly.”

“Nothing to do with Merlin!” He thrust his glass to Aziraphale and then turned to the children, smoothing his jacket down. “Right. Alright. Let’s have a look at this chalk pit.”

“I think I have some old toothbrushes at home,” Pepper volunteered. “Mum saves them to recycle them for other stuff later.”

“We can just use my regular toothbrush,” Brian added. “I don’t.”

“Ew,” Wensley said, quietly. The chatter continued, Adam volunteering molding putty, chisels, and the like from his father’s garden shed as the five of them wandered off to Hogback Woods and the old chalk pit.

Newt looked thoughtful. “I wonder if they’ll find anything. Chalk is quite good for fossils, I’ve read.” He caught Anathema looking at him, amused and trying not to laugh. “What?”

“You want to go with them?”

“No, I mean, I don’t know the first thing about archeology, just saw films, but …” He trailed off. “I mean, a bit. I do what to go, a bit.” Madame Tracy patted his hand.

“Well then off you go, find some dinosaurs, Newt. We have it well in-hand here.” He glanced to Anathema, who nodded, and then with some hasty muttered goodbyes, speed-walked out of the garden of the cottage and down the path to the chalk pit after the group. “Can you imagine if they did find something?”

“They might, with Adam,” Anathema reflected. Shadwell sipped his lager.

“I thought the lad doesn’t have any powers still?”

“Sort of,” Anathema and Aziraphale replied simultaneously. She looked to the angel and he shrugged. “They’re fading as he gets older, but he does have some left. I’m not sure what’s left will be strong enough to materialize an entire fossil, though.”

“I was just thinking there could be a real one there,” Madame Tracy suggested. “You never know. There’s certainly ones that haven’t been found - they can’t dig everything up to find them. Might be exciting, is all, wouldn’t it?” She laid her hand over Shadwell’s. “Quite a story to tell, hm?”

“Aye.” Shadwell thought of the kids who would come up to him outside of the pub on nice days, and ask for stories of witches and demons and eldritch horrors. Dinosaurs, he considered, might be good to add into the rota, especially if he could throw a little personal flair into it.

“Shame you never saw any,” Madam Tracy sighed to Aziraphale. “I bet they were a sight to see, hm?”

Aziraphale laughed, and tried to force confidence into it. “Yes they were … quite large, from what I understand. Astounding beasts.” He patted his knees and smoothed his waistcoat, before standing up. “Anyway, while they’re doing that I’ll get started with the cleanup, Anathema?”

She stood as well, hands in her skirt pockets. “Oh, you don’t have to -”

“No, no, I insist.”

She smiled. “Well then, let me help you. It’ll be quick with just the two of us.” She followed the angel into the cottage, weighing her words carefully. She shut the door behind them and trailed him into the kitchen. After a beat, she asked, “Were dinosaurs real?”

Aziraphale looked startled, as if he’d forgotten she was following him. “What? Oh.” He laughed, weakly, and tried to sound dismissive. “Oh, I mean, there are skeletons, aren’t there? Very real skeletons.”

“Right, but that doesn’t mean there were actual dinosaurs,” Anathema pointed out reasonably. “Just means the bones are real. And you can consider that if some omnipotent being could create the entire Earth, then how hard would it be to stick a few bones in there?” She wagged her eyebrows. “Am I on the right track?”

The angel looked perturbed. “You really are too clever by half, my dear. Do not let anybody know about this conversation, by the way.”

“I won’t,” she assured him, through her broad grin. “I knew it. I always thought they didn’t seem physiologically possible.” She crossed her arms and squared her stance. “So, cards on the table, how about sasquatch?”

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale turned away, turning his focus to the sink full of dishes and rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. “Really, Anathema, that’s all fabricated. Humans thought those up.”

“Did they? Did they, really?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. I wasn’t involved in all of Creation,” he blustered.

She put her head to the side. “What about the Jersey Devil? The Chupacabra? The Loch Ness Monster?” Her smile faded as she waited, and eventually turned to a frown as Aziraphale resolutely did not answer and, instead, handed her a dish to dry. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” he replied, as she began drying the dish with prejudice. “I’ve already said too much today.”

Anathema sighed. “I guess I could always ask Crowley.”

“He’ll say yes to everything.” Her forehead creased, and Aziraphale handed her another dish. “He always liked cryptid hunters. He’ll probably volunteer to go on an expedition to find the Loch Ness Monster with you.”

“So it’s not real,” she said, flatly.

“I didn’t say that.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe it is and you’ll find it.” She found herself smiling as the angel grinned at her. “If anyone can find it, you could, Anathema.”

“I’m definitely going with ‘not real’,” she laughed.

“I’m sure Nessie will be disappointed to hear that when I speak with her next week.”

She rolled her eyes, but she also laughed. “Yeah, okay. So anyway, what were you saying about Merlin? And did you say Crowley was actually the black knight?”

Chapter Text

They’ve lived in Jasmine Cottage for about two years when Anathema started to worry about Newt a little. Not much, but a little. Oh, he wasn’t sick, there was nothing wrong with him per se, but, well. She thought about Tadfield, and the cottage, and Newt.

He worked in the village, doing grant writing for a non-profit. It was a wonderful job for him, and he fell into it shortly after the Nahpocalypse - Adam said Pepper’s mom was looking for someone to help her out with the business, and things had just gone from there. Anathema still harbored some suspicion that Adam had had perhaps a little more to do with it than just overhearing Pepper’s mom talking shop, but he swore innocence (not that she believed him, but he was such a good kid she let it slide) and Newt loved the job, flourished in it even, and Anathema had been content. She herself earned a living doing telephone psychic readings^[*], and made herself a fixture in the village. After all, what quaint little village doesn’t love having a witch in this modern age? She did her readings, and helped out at the primary school when they needed it, and coordinated the community garden. Eight months into her residency, a bashful RP Tyler approached her and apologized, actually apologized for accusing her of smoking fatty spliffers (which she and Crowley had adopted as the de facto term for anything involving marijuana at all), and thanked her for coming to town and her service to the community, even if she was a witch. She had ingrained herself into the little village of Tadfield, and she made friends, and in spite of not having a road map for her life any longer, she was happy.

And Newt, she thought, seemed very happy too. He said he was happy. He went to work and returned home and fussed over Dick Turpin and meddled with computers in the office (he had not improved, but he had a good time, so that was what counted). He played with The Them when they asked him, and helped them with homework, and always was on Anathema’s arm whenever she went out. He took her on lovely dates, and made her laugh every day, and was so wonderfully Newt that she couldn’t imagine life without him. Agnes, blast her, had been very right about that one.

But even in light of all that - in light of the perfect life they seemed to have settled into in Tadfield - she worried. She thought about her life and his, and contrasted the two, and thought about how she had friends in the village and long-distance that she liked to call, visit, do things with. And she thought about Newt, and considered that most of his activities were solitary. She mulled it over for months. He was much more introverted than she was, true, and valued his personal time, but unless he was doing something with her, or with The Them, he entertained himself exclusively.

She wondered if that would be his choice.

She brought it up in the fall, two years in, over lunch at the pub in the village. He paused, sandwich in hand, chewing thoughtfully. He swallowed and then said, “I’m not really sure I follow what you mean.”

“I mean,” Anathema went on, stealing a few chips from his plate, “that I just want to make sure your needs are being met. Are your hobbies okay, or is there something that you want to do but haven’t been able to because you don’t have anybody to do it with?” She raised her eyebrows. He frowned. “I mean, I know some people in the village, at the air base, so maybe I could introduce you if you want to like, take up, oh, I don’t know, horseshoes or something.”

“Horseshoes?” He laughed. “Why horseshoes?”

“It was just an example.” She shrugged and stole a few more chips. “I’m just asking, no pressure. But you know, you work on computers by yourself, and take care of Dick Turpin by yourself -”

“Sometimes Brian helps.”

“Mostly by yourself,” she amended, “and you don’t do pub quiz nights or a book club or anything, not that you should want to do those things, of course, but, you know, do you?”

Newt took another bite, and smiled at her, which managed to be charming even with a cheekful of roast beef. “Never really been one for pub quiz or reading. Well, except the newspaper.” He swallowed. “Thanks for asking but, you know I really am very happy.”

“Good.” She returned his smile, and stole another three chips. At this point, Newt had resolved himself to simply not getting any, and didn’t say anything. “Just making sure.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, Newt idly watching the cricket match on the pub TV and Anathema checking in with a cat she’d spoken to a few weeks ago who had been very disgruntled and wanted to be sure her owner knew to stop giving her a certain brand of food. The cat assured her that all was well, and thank you for checking, and Anathema was just about to return her attention to her boyfriend when he spoke. “You know, there is something I haven’t done in years, used to do it as a kid, but it might be fun if we can find a few more people to do it with.”

“Oh?”

“You ever played Dungeons and Dragons?”

Anathema kept her face carefully blank. “Is that … like, Dungeons and Dragons, where you roll dice and pretend to be a wizard?”

“Yeah, the roleplaying game. Have you ever played?”

“No.”

“It’s pretty fun if you have a good group,” Newt went on happily. “I used to play with a few people when I was in sixth form. We got together twice every month and the one guy - his name was Martin, I think - would run the sessions. I was a barbarian.”

“A barbarian?” Anathema laughed. “Seriously?”

“Yeah! Named ‘Urgular’.” He sighed. “He died about four months into the campaign, got killed by some harpies, but Martin let him get resurrected by magic so I could keep playing.” A thoughtful look crossed his face. “Wish I could remember his last name … I really should have kept in touch with him. Maybe my mum’ll remember.”

Anathema shifted in her seat, sitting on her hands and thinking it over. “How many people do you need to play?”

“Oh? Oh, at least four. Three players and one dungeon master. That’s the person that runs the game session,” he clarified, when Anathema raised an eyebrow and smirked. “It’s better if you have four players though, so a group of five is better. That’s how many we had.”

Anathema thought about it, chewing her lip. “So say we could get three other people.”

“Who?”

She held up a hand. “Say we can get three other people. Would you want to play? You’d probably have to run the game, unless we find someone who’s played before.”

Newt looked surprised. “You’d play?”

“Of course.” She shrugged. “I’ve never done it before, but I listen to that podcast you like where they play, and it seems like fun.” She raised her eyebrows. “You want me to ask around?”

“I can ask around too,” he said, eagerly. “You know what, yeah. Yeah! Let’s see if we can get some people together for a session, just a one-shot session, and see how it goes. If it’s fun, we can make it a regular thing!”

Anathema laid her hands on the table. “Alright, that’s settled. I’ll ask some people, you ask some people, we can see if we can make it work. And you’re sure you’ll still have fun if you’re in charge?”

“Might even be more fun,” he replied, with a glint in his eye. “Yeah, let’s do it. You know, I can think of a few people to ask, let me know if you find anybody too.”

It proved harder than she thought. First of all, while she was sure The Them would be more than willing to play, she wanted to try to keep the group to adults. She asked a few friends from the air base, but they all turned her down for various reasons (one sergeant had been very eager and accepted initially, but called her a few days later with the news that she was being transferred back to America, and wouldn’t be able to join). She asked around at the school, too, but in most cases they cited problems finding childcare or reluctance to play. Newt had somewhat better luck, and managed to find one person to join - Pepper’s mother, his boss - but he, too, struck out after pooling his group of coworkers. Days turned into weeks, and the issue gradually slid from both of their minds, although Pepper’s mom would ask Newt about it sometimes, checking for any developments.

Anathema had completely forgotten about it, actually, until one evening about a month after their lunch at the pub, when she was on one of her sporadic but always-pleasant phone calls with Aziraphale. They were talking - just social chat, nothing serious - and he asked after Newt, as usual. “He’s good,” she said, lounged back on the sofa, legs crossed and free hand tucked into her sweatshirt pocket against the early winter chill. “No big developments. He likes work, he’s still awful with computers, and he still loves his car.” She adjusted her glasses, and sighed. “We were trying to get together a group to play Dungeons and Dragons - he used to play in school and he liked it a lot - but we’ve been having trouble organizing it, so, you know, holding pattern on that.”

She was surprised when the angel said, “Oh, the roleplaying game with the dice?”

It was so out-of-the-ordinary for Aziraphale, perpetually stuck 100 years in the past, to know anything modern that she needed a second to recover. “Yeah,” she said, eventually. “You know it?”

“There’s a group that meets in the bookshop once a month to play. I make them tea.” Of course he did. “It seems interesting, I suppose.”

Anathema blinked. Should she … ? Oh, why not? she figured. You stop the apocalypse with someone, playing some roleplaying game was hardly a marriage proposal^[**]. “We have room in the group - Newt was hoping to get five people, but right now we only have three, and he said we could play with four.”

She heard him humming as he thought. “Why not? I’ll have the group in the shop give me a lesson.”

She laughed, and tried to imagine that conversation. “I don’t know how to play at all, so I’m assuming it’s fine if you don’t know anything.”

“Well, perhaps just a brief overview. You said a group of five would be preferable?”

“Yeah, but we’ve had so much trouble just finding four. And Newt and Marion - that’s Pepper’s mom - are really eager to start playing, so if you really want to join we can -”

“I’ll bring Crowley.”

That gave her pause. Crowley was … he was a demon of many talents and a colorful and varied history, but somehow she was having difficulty imagining him playing D&D. “Has he … played?”

“Not that I know of.” She almost cut in, but something in Aziraphale’s tone of voice - yes, yes, it was mischief, that was it, Anathema had learned that early on because for an angel, Aziraphale did like to stir it up every once in a while - stopped her. “I’m sure he’ll take right to it.”

“You think?”

“At the very least it will be extremely entertaining. He doesn’t do anything by halves.” A tinge of concern broke in. “It can be a blessing and a curse.”

“No, no he doesn’t.” She smiled, already imagining various ways Newt’s game could go with the introduction of an actual being of chaotic evil. “Will he say yes?”

“What’s he going to claim, work conflict? He’ll say yes.” He sounded smug. “I’ll tell him about it later tonight. Do you have a date established for this?”

“Not yet - we’ll have to talk to Marion and make sure it works for everybody. If you tell Crowley tonight, can I text him the possibilities?”

“Certainly. I look forward to it.” The amusement dropped, and he changed the subject, “Which, speaking of Crowley, did I tell you he’s set on having an exhibit at Chelsea Flower Show next year? He’s got so many plants in the house I’m starting to think we’re going to have to start breathing just to make sure they get enough carbon dioxide …” He went on, and Anathema listened, but she was also thinking. She couldn’t wait to tell Newt.

-

She sent a text with a few Saturdays to Crowley two days later, after she told Newt, he had time to freak out about it slightly^[***], and Newt had spoken with Marion about her schedule. If the demon was unhappy about it, she couldn’t tell, although he was usually not particularly emotive in text message format. They exchanged a few more messages, setting a final date and confirming, and that was that as far as she was concerned. Two days before the chosen Saturday, she decided to start working on her character. Newt had been working on the game session furiously since she’d told him she’d found two more players, and she suspected he was diligently trying to engineer a way that Crowley’s character could not die. Either that, or he was writing a really brilliant story. As she flipped through the player manual, chapter 1, and read about classes and races and abilities and points, she smiled and considered, knowing Newt, it was probably both.

She did get a little stuck, unfamiliar with the mechanics of the game, and on Friday night she and Newt sat down with a bottle of wine to go over both her character (he had already checked Marion’s at work earlier that day just to be sure everything was as it should be) and allow him to express any anxiety he continued to have about the game. She assured him that she felt he would do a great job - he would, there were no computers involved at all and Newt really was a very good storyteller - and that Crowley certainly wouldn’t kill him with both Aziraphale and Marion, an outsider, present, and therefore Newt had nothing to be concerned about. He clearly disagreed, but it did seem to calm him down somewhat, and he only tossed and turned for about 30 minutes before drifting off to his usual dead-to-the-world slumber that night.

Saturday dawned gray and rainy. Perfect, Anathema thought, for staying in. She dressed in her most comfortable flannel dress, and set to making bread for the afternoon. Newt had picked up a variety of cheeses, dried fruit, nuts, and jams yesterday as well, and she was planning on serving the bread with it, which would allow everybody to eat whatever they liked and as much as they liked. Aziraphale had kindly offered to bring something sweet to compliment the savory, as well as a bottle of wine (which Anathema knew would amount to several bottles of very nice wine, per his usual), so rather than getting any wine out she pulled down a bottle of whisky from the cabinet, as well as the usually-unused espresso machine. Around nine-thirty, she heard Newt upstairs, moving around and getting ready, eventually padding into the office, presumably to make any last-minute adjustments. Anathema, with the bread in the oven and everything as ready as she could think to make it for whatever might happen that afternoon, went to the living room to make a few scheduled phone calls - there was a horse in Surrey who wouldn’t go in its stall, and a dog in Indiana that kept eating chair legs, and two owners who were very concerned about their respective pets - while she waited.

Marion arrived first, promptly at two. Anathema welcomed her in, hung up her raincoat - “it’s awful out there, cold and coming down like anything, glad Pep and the others were happy to stay in rather than try to go to that chalk pit in this weather” - and led the way to the living room. “We’re expecting two more,” she explained, raising her voice a little as she went to the kitchen to get the other woman a glass of water. “They’ll be fashionably late, as usual.”

“Friends of yours?” Marion asked when Anathema returned. “The bread smells delicious, by the way, thank you for baking.”

“No trouble, my pleasure. And yeah, we met them a couple of years ago when I was new in town. I had … some trouble with my bike (In that Crowley hit it with his car, she thought) and they gave me a ride home. Of course I forgot some stuff in their car, so we had to meet again so I could get that back, and we just sort of stayed in touch ever since.”

Marion beamed. “How nice. I’m very excited - I’ve always wanted to play this, but I could never convince anyone in the commune to play with me.” She laughed. “Much more interested in guitar circles, that group. Anyway, after I left, I went straight back to school and it was just me and Pep and I got so busy raising her and working and all that I sort of forgot about it. Funny how it worked out though!”

“Yeah,” Anathema laughed. “I’ve always been a big believer in things working out the way they’re supposed to. Can I get you anything else to drink? Newt should be down in a minute.”

“Oh some tea would be lovely, thank you, Anathema.” She pulled out a character sheet and a notebook, and smiled encouragingly. “I need a minute to look over this anyway.”

“Yeah,” she laughed, standing. “Newt helped me last night with that. I think I have about a tenth of what I’m going to need to know handled.”

Marion looked relieved. “Thank goodness someone feels the same way. I was afraid I was missing something.”

“No, not at all. Newt’s the only one that’s played before, although Mister, um Mr. Fell, that will be joining us, he owns a bookshop in Soho and said there’s a group that plays there once a month, so he’s picked up a little from them.”

“Oh, interesting!” She nodded, and then returned to her notebook, double-checking the scribbled numbers and items against the player manual. Anathema excused herself and headed into the kitchen to put the kettle on - Newt was on his way downstairs anyway, if the creaking of the floorboards was any indication, and Crowley and Aziraphale probably weren’t long off.

The kettle had just clicked off and Anathema had poured three cups of tea - Newt, Marion, Aziraphale - as well as made one espresso - Crowley - when the knock came at the door. Fashionably late, as usual. She left the tea to steep, and answered it. The duo were on the step, Aziraphale with two notebooks tucked under his arm and a bag of what Anathema assumed to be dice in his hand, and Crowley holding two bottles of wine and balancing a plate of biscuits, possibly nominally happy. It was pouring, they did not have any semblance of raingear, and they were perfectly dry. Typical.

“Come in!” She stepped aside to allow both entry - the horseshoe above the door sizzled in the rain as it heated and cooled - and exchanged a hug with Aziraphale before taking the wine and plate from Crowley. “Can I take any coats? I made tea. And coffee. It’s extremely hot.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” Crowley stayed hunched in his jacket. “It’s freezing. How is it not snowing?”

Aziraphale patted his shoulder. “Because it’s not actually freezing, dear, it’s just winter. And I told you to bring the heated coat.”

Anathema blinked. “Heated coat?”

“S’got batteries in, stays really warm,” the Serpent of Eden replied. “I’ll be fine in twenty.”

“I’ll get the coffee. Newt and Marion - that’s Pepper’s mother - are already in the living room. If you want, I’m sure Newt can double-check everything for you before we get started. He helped me last night, and I think he’s just making sure things are alright with Marion now.”

Aziraphale looked relieved. “Oh, good. I’m fairly certain I have the right of it at this point, but the group at the shop cancelled this month because of exams so I couldn’t have anybody check it beforehand.”

“Mine’s fine,” Crowley said. Anathema tried not to think too much about the grin that accompanied that. “Got it all figured out.”

“Right. I’ll, uh. I’ll be right in then.” By the time she finished setting the drinks on a tray and joined everyone, introductions had been made and papers and notebooks and dice were laid out on the table. Newt had laid her place for her, to his right, while he had a little cardboard screen set up. Aziraphale and Marion were chatting and Crowley was studying what Anathema could only assume was his character sheet, holding it so it was concealed from the other players, and he was positively beaming. It couldn’t be good. She knew that look. Aziraphale was, resolutely, ignoring him.

“Okay,” Newt said, nervousness apparent in his voice but determination on his face. “Now we’re all settled uh, why don’t we kind of go through everyone’s character together, just basics to sort of clarify who your character is and why they might be going on an adventure. Anathema, do you want to start?”

She nodded and picked her sheet up. “Ok. I’ll be playing Tovi, a halfling sorcerer. She was initially raised by a close family, but the homebody lifestyle was not exciting enough for her, so she decided to strike out on her own.”

“Great! Awesome. And we checked your sheet already, so that’s fine. Marion?”

Marion sat forward, hands on her character sheets, reading carefully. “I’ll be playing Brandeen, a human warlock. She comes from a very religious family who shunned her when she formed a pact with Ghaunadar.”

“Good name, Ghaunadar,” Crowley said. “Very spooky.”

“I thought so, too,” Marion agreed, folding her hands in her lap. “Anyway, that’s me.” She looked to Aziraphale, to her right, who set his tea down carefully.

“Ah, so this character is called, ah, Aldriel Lightmace, and he’s an elf paladin. He was initially in the army, but on completion of his service he chose to continue traveling rather than return home.”

Newt nodded. “Sounds great, and your sheet looked fine.” He swallowed, and looked to the demon, grinning like a jackal to his left. “I’m almost afraid to ask.” Aziraphale sighed, Marion giggled, and Anathema propped her chin in her hand. “Crowley?”

“I,” he said, every single indicator being that he was delighted with himself as he slapped the notebook down on the table, “will be Chastity the tiefling bard. I was forced to leave town for 1) being a demon and 2) being annoying.”

Aziraphale scowled. “A bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Play what you feel comfortable with, the book said. Anyway you’re one to talk.”

Anathema covered her eyes. “Are you going to sing?” She had heard Crowley sing before, either after many drinks or a particularly potent fatty spliffer, and it had made her second-guess all of the things she’d heard about the beautiful harmonious choirs of angels. Of course, Crowley was not technically an angel anymore, so maybe he’d lost that at some point. If not, then she’d considered that the beauty of the Heavenly Choir had probably been greatly over-exaggerated.

“Of course I am.”

Newt grimaced. “Great. So that’s … that’s actually an okay party in terms of balance. Should be fine for today, anyway. Can I see your character sheet, please? Just to … just to check?” Crowley handed it over, the big reveal done with, and Newt duly checked it for accuracy. “Right. Fine. You don’t need many intelligence points anyway, I guess.” He handed the sheet back, and visibly steeled himself. “Okay. So … that’s everyone. Is everyone ready?” He took a breath. “Right, so we start in an inn, at the bar. The inn isn’t crowded, there’s a group of three adventurers talking to a grizzled old dwarf in one corner, he appears to be giving them a job, and there’s a few other patrons at the bar. There barkeep is cleaning a glass. What do you do?”

Anathema considered it. “I think Tovi is at the bar ordering a drink.”

“Brandeen is sitting quietly in a corner by herself, watching.”

“Aldriel is going to approach the elf sitting alone at the end of the bar and -”

“Chastity is going to hit on Aldriel immediately.”

Marion and Anathema laughed. Aziraphale looked at Crowley, exasperated. “Really?”

“Yes.”

Marion held up a hand. “How long have you two known each other?”

“Too long,” Aziraphale answered peevishly, while Crowley sat back, still grinning, arms crossed over his chest. “Alright, so if you’re going to do that, Aldriel will -”

“You don’t want to hear the pick-up line?”

“I do not.”

Anathema and Newt shared a look. Newt, under the nerves, was smiling a little. “I do,” she said.

Crowley leaned back in. “So anyway, Chastity walks up to Aldriel and says ‘glad I brought my library card, because I’m checking you out’.”

“That’s awful,” Aziraphale groaned. Marion and Anathema laughed. Newt’s smile broadened. “Truly horrible.”

“Innit, though?”

“Brandeen is definitely watching this with interest,” Marion added, still laughing.

“I think Tovi heard what might be the world’s worst pickup line and turned around, too.”

Aziraphale considered this. “Aldriel punches Chastity in the face.”

“Okay - what?” Newt stopped. “Uh, I, what? You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

Newt tapped the table. “Because I think technically you have to be lawful good and -”

Aziraphale corrected, “Actually, Aldriel took the Oath of the Ancients, therefore he is able to be neutral good.” He squared his shoulders. “This demon has sullied my purity, and I won’t have it. I punch her.”

Newt blinked, and then sighed. “Alright. Fine. Both of you roll initiative, I guess.”

The game rolled on from there. Luckily, Newt thought on his feet quickly enough to stop the barroom brawl between what would be the party’s two healers before either of them killed the other. Anathema reflected that it was actually quite good Crowley had started off with that, because it lightened the mood considerably and made everyone feel more comfortable with the game. Not that she would ever tell him that.

Gradually, Newt managed to coax Marion’s character into talking to the NPC he needed them to in order to get their quest, and they set out on a relatively straightforward mission to deliver a package to the neighboring town. Anathema quickly learned, however, that in Dungeons and Dragons, a straightforward quest usually leads to four hours’ worth of bickering, irrelevant tangents (“Aldriel wants to investigate the interesting rock formation you mentioned.” “But it’s on the other side of the woods -” “Yes?”), further attempts at pick-up lines, Crowley singing five absolutely terrible “songs” (discernable as songs only because the gameplay implied it, and a clear attempt at singing was made, without any actual success), Marion’s character also singing a song to her patron to try to gain an extra spell slot (she did get a point of inspiration, and Anathema rather suspected that it was because unlike Crowley, Marion was actually quite a nice singer), Anathema’s character getting attacked by a coyote for trying to follow Aldriel, an actual planned encounter with highway bandits, and, eventually, success at delivering the package, although it should be noted that this was only because Newt, having exhausted his reserves of patience, acceded that someone had probably remembered to pick the package back up after Tovi and Chastity threw it into a ditch to better loot the dead bodies of the bandits.

Later, Newt would tell her that all things considered, that was a very normal session, and it had gone well. She’d breathed a sigh of relief and then wondered what a chaotic session would look like. Probably best not to ask.

They had switched to wine halfway through, when the biscuits came out, and Marion was cradling her glass in both hands. “What fun, hm? We’ll have to do it again sometime. That is, if it’s alright with everyone.”

Newt shot Anathema a desperate look, and she shrugged. “I’d be in, but maybe not for at least a month. The holidays are coming up and everything, I’ll probably be visiting America.”

Marion nodded. “Oh yes, certainly. No, I definitely won’t have time until after the new year.”

“Yeah, definitely have to do it again.” Crowley elbowed Newt, who clutched his wineglass more tightly, in a protective stance. “Great idea, Newt.”

Anathema didn’t miss the subtext to Aziraphale’s question of “Do you think we’ll use the same characters again?”

Newt considered it. “I guess it’s up to you all. You’re still low enough in level that I can write a scenario either way, and we can do whatever everybody would prefer.”

“I’d like to play Brandeen some more, at least while I get comfortable with the game,” said Marion. She took a sip of wine, and then looked at her watch. “Oh, look how late it is! Pep was expecting me half an hour ago.” She downed the rest of the wine and looked outside. “Still miserable outside as well.” She stood and shook hands around the table while they said goodbyes, exchanged a hug and a kiss on each cheek with Anathema, and then waved, for good measure. “Lovely meeting you. You said you live in South Downs?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Right along the coast, yes.”

“Well, drive safely. And thank you both,” she said, turning to Anathema and Newt, “for the hospitality. It really was very lovely.”

“Let me get your coat.” Newt followed her to the door, leaving Anathema alone with the pair of supernatural entities, who were debating the quality of the wine Aziraphale had brought. When they heard Marion exchange her final goodbyes with Newt, and the front door closed, Aziraphale turned to Crowley.

“Really? A demon who was kicked out of town for being annoying? And where did you learn those dreadful pick-up lines?”

Crowley laughed. “Play what you know, angel. Anyway, not like you really mixed it up with the whole holy warrior bit. At least I was a bard.”

“Yes, we’ll address that later, possibly on the drive home.” He looked to Anathema, trying to be apologetic while simultaneously trying not to laugh. “I’m so sorry, Anathema, you really can’t take him anywhere.”

She chuckled. “You’re always welcome here. Both of you. If you want to stay, I was going to make spaghetti for Newt and I tonight, and there’s more than enough …” She trailed off, and looked to the kitchen. “There’s still half a bottle of wine in there.”

“We’d hate to impose,” said Aziraphale. “You’re certainly welcome to the wine. It’s the least we can do for the lovely afternoon.”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it.” She moved to the kitchen, picked up the wine, and topped both glasses off. The bottle did not feel any lighter afterwards. “Stay awhile, wait to see if the weather clears up. They way it’s been raining people’ll be hydroplaning and who knows what.”

“Half the fun of driving in the rain,” Crowley suggested, earning him a disapproving look from Aziraphale. He sighed. “Listen, you don’t have to invite me twice - the less I have to go out in this weather the better.”

“If you’re very sure, Anathema.”

“I am very sure.” She sat down on the couch and nursed her wine a little as Newt came back in. “They’re staying for dinner.”

“Oh. Okay.” He scooped his own glass up from the table before joining her on the couch. “Should I get it started then?”

“Not just yet.” She elbowed him in the side, gently. “So that was fun. How about you, dungeon master? Did you have fun?”

“I …” he thought about it. “Yeah, I did. I have a lot more respect for Martin, too. He was the dungeon master when I learned to play,” he added, for Crowley and Aziraphale’s benefit.

“Is it really called a dungeon master?” Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds kinky.” Anathema snorted.

“Or game master,” Newt said, hurriedly.

“Eh, slightly better. Not much.”

“Would you want to do it again?” Anathema asked. “Like, be in charge again? I’m sure it wouldn’t be as good but if you want a break, someone else could take the reins next time. We could trade it around, even.”

Newt waved a hand. “No, no I’ll do it again. I kind of have an idea for a longer story, if everyone is willing and able to do more than one session at a time.”

Aziraphale looked to Crowley. “We don’t have anywhere to be in the near future that can’t be re-scheduled. I’d like to hear the story out, as well.” He tilted his glass to Newt. “You ought to write a book, you know, you’re very good.”

“Oh. Oh, uh. Thanks,” Newt mumbled, suddenly studying his wine very closely indeed, a red flush overtaking his ears and cheeks. “That’s … that means a lot, coming from you.”

Crowley scoffed. “No it doesn’t, just because he reads every waking minute doesn’t negate that he’s a being of eternal love and light and goodwill and whatever. He’s always nice.” Newt blinked at the demon, who, at length, shrugged. “I’ve heard worse stories.”

“Crowley,” the angel admonished.

“Fine, I’ll go so far as to say you’re alright even, but you’re on thin ice, Pulsifer.” Newt blushed again - on the Crowley scale that was probably a solid 7/10 rating at least. The demon swallowed a gulp of wine. “Still, I’ll hear you out for another round. We’ll see.”

“It’ll need more work, first. I’ve only just got a rough idea.”

Anathema shrugged, and leaned into him. “You have at least a month. Probably more, the way scheduling always works. You can take your time.” She smiled. “And, you know, maybe a rough outline is okay, since you never know what everyone’s going to do.”

“That’s my motto,” said Crowley. “Set up the big picture and after that just wing it. Er, in a manner of speaking, anyway.”

Newt considered it. “I was thinking … for authenticity, it might help if some of the characters actually spoke another language? Is there really like, a real-life^{[^]} equivalent of Infernal?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Could you -”

Aziraphale was already shaking his head ‘no’ when Crowley answered. “Not unless you fancy bleeding out of all your orifices and throwing up maggots, no, I can’t.” He brightened up. “I do speak Russian though, is that different enough? 98% less chance of cursing you to eternal damnation.”

Newt nodded. “That’s fine.” His eyes narrowed. “Why only 98%?” Aziraphale was studying Crowley too, a faint smile on his lips.

“Yes, dear, that sounds like you have … experience.”

Crowley looked offended. “Not me personally, no. Not my style. Ages ago, though, Hastur -”

“Ah, Hastur. That explains it.”

“Right, it’s actually kind of a funny story, mostly because Hastur looked like an idiot at the end …”

And so it went, past the time Anathema decided to finally make the spaghetti and found a pot of water miraculously on the stove and boiling, next to a saucepan of what smelled like an absolutely amazing Bolognese sauce, past the meal itself and the subsequent cleanup, and well into the night. The wine bottle did eventually get lighter - eventually - after Newt fell asleep with his head on her shoulder. Aziraphale finished it off, while Crowley sobered up - she still wasn’t used to that - and they stood. “Don’t get up.” Aziraphale waved a hand in her direction as he collected the notebooks, dice, and biscuit plate. “We can find our way to the front door, my dear, I promise.” He wobbled a little. Crowley sighed.

“I can, anyway. Come on, angel.” He slid his arm around Azirphale’s waist, half supporting him and half guiding him, and spared a wave. “Thanks again. Text when you want to do it again.”

“We will.” She blinked, suddenly sleepy, the soft cotton-candy of sweet dreams induced by good red wine already drifting in at the edges of her thinking^[+]. “Hey, sorry, uh, would you mind getting the lights on your way out?”

There was a click of a switch and darkness, followed the distinct sound of Aziraphale stumbling over the mat in the front hall and Crowley catching him. Then the front door, opening, closing, locking (she’d never given them they key, but then again, why bother?). She listened, or tried to stay awake to listen anyway, for the grumble of the Bentley as it pulled out into the night, but she was already asleep against Newt, her fingers laced through his.

-

^* Actual psychic readings - Madame Tracy wished she had been as good as Anathema. Never mind that the bulk of Anathema’s clients were people who wanted to speak with their pets, rather than their relatives.^{[back to text]}

^** Which Crowley and Aziraphale were still skirting, although neither of them would admit it. At least they were finally admitting they were ‘more than best friends’. “Probably even super best friends,” Crowley had told her about a year ago, as he passed her a fatty spliffer.^{[back to text]}

^*** “What if they take it too seriously? What if there’s actual flaming swords again? What if I have to kill Crowley’s character and he banishes me to The Pit?” to which she had responded, “He’s not on speaking terms with Hell anymore, Newt, I doubt he would do much more than curse you or burn Dick Turpin up with Hellfire.” It was a bit mean, but the wailing it had prompted was choice entertainment.^{[back to text]}

^{^} Anathema had to consider the gravity of that statement give all they’ve learned in the past 2 years, as well as what it said about her and Newt that neither of them questioned it.^{[back to text]}

⁺ The hangover would not be terrible, either, she knew, which made it even better. Not that the wine was so good that you couldn’t get hungover off of it, but, well, she’d been drinking with the angel for a while now. She had in inkling of how it would go.^{[back to text]}

Chapter Text

Nextdoor.com had been Crowley’s idea. Crowley had always liked neighborhoods - there were just so many opportunities for humans to enrage one another when they lived in such close proximity and had to pretend to be nice. In the early days, before the internet, Crowley had reveled in town hall meetings, neighborhood watch councils, and local book clubs. He’d embedded himself in his Mayfair neighborhood, sowing dissent and discord among the community. For years, he had been the quiet voice in someone’s ear - oh, you know you probably would have gotten that promotion at work if you hadn’t been so tired, eh? Shame about the neighbors playing the music so loudly the night before - the stolen package off someone’s doorstep - of course it was those dirty millenials next door that took little Billy’s Christmas present - or the upturned rubbish bin in someone’s front garden. He’d been stray cats and dropped hardware from a neighbor’s DIY project that just happened to puncture someone’s tire on the way to work. He was footballs breaking through windows, and screaming babies next door during a romantic night in. His Mayfair neighborhood was among the most contentious in London, and walking into the fog of evil at the end of a long day was like a balm to his burned and aching (and barely-existent) soul.

But nextdoor.com, oh, what a stroke of brilliance that had been. He took the idea from the humans, of course, with their clever Facebook idea and MySpace and social media. But the concept of a neighborhood media site followed so smoothly, that aside from a few whispered words into the ears of some young programmers in America*, he’d barely had to lift a finger. Nextdoor.com had burst to life, and since then, Crowley had fallen in love.

[*Or rather, carefully-typed “thought experiments” sent via email from one of his multitudinous email addresses that, typically, appeared to belong to very wealthy tech investorsI.]

His favorite thing was, of course, the people who always had to have the last word in an argument. Pride, after all, was a sin anyway, and online media really provided him with a shining chance to provide one-on-one temptation to multiple people at a time by way of arguing with them on the internet, one of his favorite activities. 

He was up late tonight doing just that. He’d had a lovely dinner with Aziraphale - an Ethiopian restaurant that Aziraphale had been wanting to explore, with food so spicy that even Crowley had a few bites - and come home, unwinding by pouring himself some wine and logging into one of his several accounts on the neighborhood site, promptly starting to complain about the barking dog one building over.

‘listen its my bloody dog and hes allowed to bark in my flat if he wants to’ replied Crowley’s victim for tonight - based on his profile, he appeared to be a young solicitor with political aspirations in the future. Crowley figured he might as well start working on the young man now in the early days - no sense in putting his inevitable hellish corruption off when it would be so easy to do now.

‘i’ll have you know that i have a very important job,’ Crowley started his reply, considering where to go from that point. ‘i work 90 hours per week. i make more money in five minutes than you make in a year. shut your dog up or i’ll sue.’ And, send reply. And wait. He sat back in his chair, and savored a mouthful of wine.

Yes, this was proper demonic work. Fuck Hastur and Ligur, fuck craftsmanship, this was easy - he was in pajamas and drinking wine, for someone’s sake - and it was fun. His phone binged with a reply notification.

‘good luck suing, knobhead, i’m a solicitor and i’ve been in numerous trials - too numerous to count. feel free to try to take me up in court, i look forward to the day i get to let my dog bark straight in your smug face, whoever you are, Jacob.’ Ah yes, Jacob Coppersmith, one of Crowley’s legion online aliases. The demon smiled and crafted his reply.

‘yeah I bet you are, law lad. shut your fucking dog up or i’ll come do it for you. i’ve tracked your IP address, i know where you live.’ Crowley did not elaborate further. In reality, he rather disliked the thought of harming dogs - they were true innocents, unless they were hellhounds or chihuahuas, and even he felt profane trying to hurt them - but his reply would hopefully get a rise out of the young solicitor. He waited.

And waited rather longer. He refilled his wine glass, and paced around his office, and still his phone did not alert to a new message. He refreshed the page, nothing. He had nearly given it up for the night - there would be another opportunity in the future, there always was - when his level of Amber’s Airline was interrupted by a push notification from the neighborhood app. He abandoned the level immediately to read it.

‘don’t call me law lad you fucking knob’

Crowley replied quickly. Quickly, quickly, it was late, the humans would be going to sleep soon … hurry, hurry. He narrated the entire reply into his voice-to-text feature** and, forgoing a quick proof-read, sent it.

‘ok solicitor shithead’ 

[** Snake eyes were wonderful for menacing humans and striking the fear of the Devil into their hearts. They were not so wonderful for reading, typing, sewing, or anything else that required any significant level of visual acuity at all, really.]

The reply came quickly: ‘fucking delete this you fucking dick!!! what gives you the right!’ Crowley cackled out loud. Yes, yes this was the end goal. He could practically taste the low-grade evil, smooth like a finely-aged wine, sliding over his tongue. He raised his phone to his mouth and dictated: ‘no law lad’

There was not a reply immediately. But quickly - as soon as the app indicated he’d posted - he heard a frustrated scream, followed by alarmed barking. And then a door slammed open.

“I know you live around here, Jacob!” someone - the solicitor, oh, Crowley, could have hissed it was so wonderful - shouted into the late-night air. “I know you can hear me! You hear me? I won’t shut up! My dog has every right to bark in my home! I won’t tell him to stop! Log off you idiot! Log off and leave me alone!”

Crowley heard the door slam again a moment later, and he slid lower in his seat, taking a self-satisfied sip of his wine. Oh, yes, that was the stuff. He weighed the options, and then smiled gently, dictating his reply and then, after an aggressive two seconds of squinting to ensure the construction and grammar were to his liking, he sent: ‘who the fuck is scraeming “LOG OFF” at my house. show yourself, coward. i will never log off’. 

The enraged scream that followed gave him such a warm tingle of infernal rage that he very much doubted he’d be able to sleep that night. But it was alright, he reasoned, as the screaming continued from another flat nearby, and then was met with shouts of ‘shut up!’ and ‘people are trying to sleep here!’ Ah, yes, the beauty of the internet. The true stroke of genius of nextdoor.com. Three angry people, three weakened souls.

Crowley sighed, satisfied with a terrible job well-done, and waved the TV on, although he wasn’t paying attention. He was thinking, rather pleasantly, about fireworks. Yes … perhaps tomorrow. Plenty of fireworks. At two AM, yes. He would time a complaint post for the neighborhood too, just to get the ball rolling. He finished his drink, and refilled the glass, and settled back as the sound of a cricket match washed over him, entertaining thoughts of fireworks and burnt garbage and very angry neighbors.

Chapter Text

Everyone was rather surprised when Brian announced that he would be going to school with plans to become a doctor. Brian, who reveled in dirt and grime, Brian that even at twenty would wear clothes more than once if he thought he could get away with it, Brian that ate food out of takeaway boxes and still left them in the sink. It was startling, the image of Brian, that Brian, standing in a sterile operating theater, scrubbed and gowned and as anti-septic as possible. And yet, this was also Brian that was always there for the Them, who would come the moment he was called if help was needed, who swallowed his pride and rebuked his filthy habits if only for a few minutes, to help his friends and save the world.

It was surprising but, the Them and friends reflected, not entirely shocking. It did make sense, in a sort of way. “I’d really like to study infectious diseases,” he said one night over dinner at the Pulsifer’s, while everyone was still gathered around the table for drinks. It was late, and Anathema had gone an hour or so ago to put her little daughter to bed, even over the child’s protests and desperate clinging to Crowley, who objected much less firmly than any self-respecting demon should have. Well enough then, he told Aziraphale, when the angel had pointed it out, that he was only still a demon in technicalities only. 

Pepper looked amused. “You should see him in classes,” she said, for she was in the same class as Brian, with her sights set on psychiatry as a specialty once she’d graduated. “He sits right up front, a real gunner, and every time they ask about some weird bacteria, boom! He’s right there with the answer.” She rolled her eyes, but she was laughing, too. “I think it was all the dirt he always had on him when we were kids - he communed with the germs and they accepted him as one of their own.”

Brian flushed. “I don’t talk to germs. I just think they’re jolly interesting, is all.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Adam Young said, leaned back in his chair with his hands folded behind his head. “Someone ought to, right? Otherwise we’d all die of cholera or something.”

Aziraphale frowned into his wineglass. “Nasty illness, cholera. I remember the pump outbreak …” He shook his head, putting an end to that reverie, and smiled at Brian instead. “It is fortunate you have such an interest, Brian - the world needs doctors, certainly.”

“So what’s medical school like these days?” Crowley asked, a mirror of Adam, leaned back in his chair with his feet on the table, idly swirling the scotch in his glass. “Last time I tried was, oh, the sixteenth century I think. Thereabouts.” He winced. “Pretty sure it’s got on since then. Hopefully.”

“Oh, yes,” Brian nodded. “Yes, I’d imagine it is. Very structured now, and there’s labs and independent study and practicing skills and all kinds of things, not to mention all the lectures and exams.”

“So many,” Pepper agreed mournfully. “Endless exams.”

“D’you practice on mannequins then?” Crowley looked thoughtful. “I’d imagine they do a good bit with mannequins.”

“Some yeah. And then some - the safer stuff - we practice on each other. Y’know …” Brian thought, waving his hands vaguely. “Listening to lungs and hearts, eye tests, that kind of stuff.”

Aziraphale looked up at that. “Eye tests, you say?” He looked across the table to Crowley, a grin slowly spreading over his lips. “Crowley, dear, we could finally settle the debate -”

“No. No, we can’t.”

Newt, who had been washing up in the kitchen, returned, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Debate? What are we debating, then?”

“ Nothing ,” Crowley griped. “Angel has been insisting for the past decade or whatever - since you kids were eleven, however long ago that was -”

“A decade,” Wensley confirmed. 

“Right, so that long, I’ve had to hear about how I really shouldn’t be driving because snakes don’t have good visual acuity.” Crowley spread his hands. “To which I make my point: if I really couldn’t see, you think I would’ve gone this long with the Bentley without crashing it? Armageddon notwithstanding, that was extenuating circumstances.”

Aziraphale muttered into his wine, “Only thanks to occasionally-gratuitous use of miracles.”

“Occasionally, angel! Occasionally doesn’t count. Not like it’s a daily occurrence.”

“And anyway, my vision’s better than a human’s at a distance and in the dark,” Crowley said authoritatively. “Horizontal planes an’ light refraction and all that. Saw a film about it.”

“Listened to a film about it,” Aziraphale mumbled. Adam snorted.

“Wasn’t very nice,” the boy said, although he was grinning.

Pepper laughed a little too, while Crowley presumably glared at Aziraphale - the sunglasses, as ever, made it difficult to tell for sure. “It’d be easy enough to test, if you really wanted to.”

“I don’t.”

“Not even for a wager?” Crowley looked at Aziraphale at that, and a long silence stretched out. The Them and Newt watched, rapt, because they’d only ever seen the two supernatural entities bet on something once before, and that was whether or not either of them could, after two bottles of wine, climb to the top of the biggest tree in Hogback wood without using miracles, wings, or shapeshifting*. They had, if memory served, wagered an entire years’ worth of song-selection privileges. It was, perhaps, fortunate that neither had won the bet, because in retrospect Adam considered it a distinct possibility that an ultimatum like that could only have ended in some kind of argument**. 

[* They couldn’t, but no one had paid attention to that, because the entire spectacle was so hilarious that the end result was fairly irrelevant, and Crowley turned into a snake when he thought no one was watching and cheated anyway. ]

[** Crowley and Aziraphale, after the Nahpocalypse, argued very seldom, but being that neither liked to do anything by halves, arguments were usually intensely dramatic, if short-lived. The last argument had resulted in Crowley living in the garden at Jasmine Cottage as a snake for a weekend, and only ended because Newt threatened to call animal control on him if the two didn’t reach some kind of agreement about whether or not Tom or John Barnaby was the better detective .]

The demon was tempted. “What are the stakes?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Something.” Aziraphale shrugged. “Let’s say … oh, alright. You win, and I turn a blind eye to whatever you want to do to your plants for a month before the flower show next year.”

The Them and Newt, like spectators at a chess match, breathed out. “Oh, that’s a good one,” Brian mumbled. 

“But if I win, which I will, of course, then …” Aziraphale considered it. “Then …” He thought harder, and then beamed. “Then next time the neighbors want to take a week holiday, you have to take care of their smallholding by yourself .” There were assorted gasps from around the table.

Crowley barked a laugh. “Absolutely not.”

“Because you know you’d lose.”

“No, because I always end up taking care of the smallholding by myself anyway, bloody goats.” Crowley leaned his elbows onto the table and tapped his chin with steepled fingers. “Right, when I win, I’ll … or you …” He brightened. “I get to yell at my plants, and you have to let me move the statue into the living room for an entire year.”

Aziraphale groaned. “Not the statue. No, just the plants.”

“No, the statue is a part of this.”

“ When I win ,” Aziraphale soldiered on, pretending they were not arguing about Crowley’s infamous Angel Statue that served as a crucial part of every argument and poorly-concealed threat in their relationship, “you have to put the blasted statue in a storage unit somewhere, and you take the speakers off that abhorrent vacuum cleaner."

Crowley looked appalled. “You’d cut out DJ Roomba’s tongue for a bet?”

“I’m hardly -” He looked to Crowley, and then relented, with a sigh. “Alright. No speaker on DJ Roomba for three months. Then you can put the speakers back on.” He seized Crowley’s hand the moment the other extended it, and they shook on it, both with equal enthusiasm and smugness. “I look forward to my three months of peace.”

“Can’t wait to put my statue in the living room and kill those bloody fittonias at last.”

Pepper and Brian exchanged a look, while Adam, Newt, and Wensley were trying to hide their laughter behind their hands. “We should print a Snellen chart,” Pepper said solemnly.

“Definitely need a Snellen chart.”

Newt nodded and stood from the table. “The printer is has bluetooth. Wait for me to be outside before you connect to it.”

Once Newt had vacated the building briefly, it was easy enough to print the eye chart. Adam found a measuring tape in a cookie tin full of sewing supplies***, and they solemnly marked out the ascribed distance. “Never done one of these before,” Crowley said, sobered-up for the endeavor. “What, you’re just supposed to read it?” Aziraphale was standing over his shoulder, arms crossed, looking so smug he might as well have already won. Perhaps he had.

[*** “ Why do you need it?” Anathema had asked him as she rocked Millie to sleep on her shoulder. Adam had explained, and she had nodded. “Oh, definitely,” she’d said. “The sewing kit is still in the linen closet in the bathroom - there should be a tape measure in there. Wait until I put Millie down to bed. I want to be there.” ]

“Yeah, you cover one eye,” Pepper instructed. “Right, and then you read the smallest line you can see. Ready?”

“Easiest bet I’ve ever won,” Crowley said, motioning to Brian to flip the corkboard he’d pinned the chart to. “Right, go for it.” The board flipped, and Crowley blinked. “Well, there’s the big ‘E’ at the top.”

“Everyone knows the big E,” Anathema said, dismissive. “He said read the smallest line you can.”

“Right. Ah …” There was an uncomfortable pause. “Can I try the other eye?”

“ I knew it ,” Aziraphale hissed triumphantly. 

Brian swallowed. “Uh. In a minute. Um. Which … which direction is the ‘E’ pointing, then?”

Crowley frowned. “Whatever way ‘E’s usually point. What kind of stupid question is that?”

The assembled humans and one angel looked at the ‘E’ which was, very clearly, printed backwards. Aziraphale raised his hands to his mouth. “Crowley, you drove us here .”

“So? Didn’t crash, did I?” He switched eyes. “Oh, yeah, the other one’s better.”

“You’re serious?” Brian asked, craning his neck around to stare at the chart. “ Seriously ?”

“Yeah, so what’s that mean, then?” Crowley stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked back onto his heels.

Pepper grimaced. “You’re legally blind?”

“No, that can’t be right.” He shrugged. “I drove us here, didn’t I?”

“ He drove us here at 100 miles per hour ,” Aziraphale added, in a mix of astonishment and terror. 

“Right, and didn’t hit anything -”

“This time,” Anathema muttered under her breath.

“And made great time, all here, safe as houses.” He smirked. “Could a legally blind guy do that?”

“Maybe Daredevil,” said Newt, unhelpfully.

“Anyway,” Crowley went on, turning away to stalk across the room, past his horrified angel, and flick off the light switch, instantly plunging the room into darkness, “you’re not looking at this the right way. Move the chart around a bit, med student,” he instructed, the last part said with some disdain.

“You’re not at the line,” Brian protested. 

“Just move it.” There was a whisper in the dark as the corkboard started moving in irregular figure-of-eights, Brian waving it around. Had it been light enough to see, his confusion would have been plainly evident on his face. “Right, so you got the ‘E’, which is backwards, then F, P, ah … T, O, Z, er … right, faster, okay, L, P, E, D, and then … Hm. Yeah, not sure after that.” The lights flipped back on, and Crowley put his sunglasses on. “So there.”

All the others looked from Crowley, to the eye chart, and back. “How?” Adam demanded. “You didn’t mess around -”

“Nocturnal ambush predator,” Crowley replied, as if it were obvious. “Plus, the ink’s still a bit warm from the printer. So even easier, really - I’ve got a whole extra sense, even, unless humans can see infra-red.”

“We can’t,” Wensley assured him.

“Right, so what’s that make me, then? I win, obviously.”

Aziraphale jumped in then. “Oh, no, no you don’t. Under human standards -”

“That was never specified.” Crowley grinned, and showed his teeth. Nocturnal ambush predator indeed. “Don’t try that with me, angel, remember which one of us is the demon, here.”

“It was inferred.”

“No such thing in a bet. Has to be expressly specified.” Crowley made a fist. “The fittonias die tonight.”

Since the lights had come back on, Anathema had been frowning, her lips moving occasionally as she clearly puzzled something over. She spoke, finally, slowly, and said, “But … but when you hit me with your car … it was night. And I was moving. And you were moving.” She looked at him, frowning. “You should have seen me, then.”

Crowley shrugged. “Wasn’t paying attention. No harm done, anyway.”

“Not after Aziraphale fixed me!”

Crowley scoffed. “Right. Like I said.” He pointed to Aziraphale. “I’m making an entire pop playlist for DJ Roomba just for this, angel.” He grinned even wider. “And I’m moving the statue as soon as we get home.”

“Really, dear boy, I don’t think this is as clear-cut as you say.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” Crowley pointed to Brian and Pepper. “Med students, stop me if I’m wrong -” they wouldn’t “- but the definition of visual acuity does allow for corrective devices, yes?”

“Yes,” said Pepper, while Aziraphale groused, “A moving chart and total darkness do not count as corrective devices, you know they mean glasses -”

“So there you go.” Crowley crossed the room and tore the chart from the board. “With corrective devices I’m … 20/50. So there. Not perfect but I still win.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were narrowed. “That’s cheating.”

“Again, if it’s not specified in the terms then technically it is not cheating. I’ve got books about this somewhere^, Aziraphale.” He spread his hands. “I’ve made a few bets and bargains in my life, believe it or not.”

[^ Books that were, he would not add, written in blood and bound in human skin .]

Aziraphale scowled. “You’re not putting that statue out.”

“Oh, but I am. I won the privilege.”

“You didn’t win anything.”

“Oh, but I did.” Crowley rubbed his hands together. “I definitely did. By the laws of betting.” He clapped Brian on the shoulder. “Thanks for moving the chart, kid.”

“And not letting the ink dry all the way,” Adam added under his breath with a poorly-stifled laugh.

Aziraphale was still scowling at Crowley, arms crossed over his chest. “We’ll discuss this further in the car.”

Crowley made a noise that might have been a chuckle, if there wasn’t just so much infernal glee instilled in it. “You sure you want me to drive home?” The angel’s wine glass miraculously filled itself. “Oh, so you’re going to be like that?"

“That statue is going out over my discorporated body.”

“It’s a very expensive statue.” He wilted a little under the blue fire in Aziraphale’s eyes. “Alright, we can talk about it in the car.”

The angel swallowed the wine in one gulp. “Capital.”

Chapter Text

The angels - one of which was Fallen, but who’s counting - dined at the Ritz, and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square. And then, after one angel (not Fallen) consumed the entirety of two entrees and one heavenly dessert, the pair walked to Soho, elbows brushing the whole way, shoulder-to-shoulder, warm and soft and mellow, conversation washing over them and topics changing like currents in a stream. They walked with practiced ease to a bookshop, where they stopped, and looked up at the illuminated sign.

“Just like it always was,” Aziraphale sighed fondly, his voice thick with … something, love and joy and sadness, and a sappy little smile on his mouth. 

Crowley snorted. “Some of the books are a bit newer, I think, but you’ll sort that out soon enough.”

Aziraphale didn’t look over, although he twitched a little. “Oh? What a surprise. Perhaps, ah … well, you were here this morning, so perhaps you could show me?”

“What, and spoil your fun?” You go too fast for me, Crowley . “Nah, I’m beat anyway. Think I’ll head back to Mayfair, sleep for a week or two.”

The angel’s smile faded, and his lips pressed to a thin line. “I do have a few bottles of quite nice wine. We could work on them. I’ve been saving them for a special occasion, and I can’t much think of one more special than averting armageddon.” He did look over now, cautious. “Go on, have a few glasses and we’ll sort through the new books. They’ll have to be re-shelved.”

Crowley might have whined. Something inside him did, anyway. Yes , it whined. Yes, have a glass and sleep on his couch and -

You go too fast for me, Crowley .

“Wouldn’t like to impose,” he said instead.

“I’m inviting you in.”

“I’m really tired, angel.”

“Then sleep on the couch.” Aziraphale was getting annoyed now, brow furrowed, well on his way to frowning with disapproval. “Come in , Crowley.”

Crowley turned to him then, scowling. “Bit much for one night, don’t you think, Aziraphale?”

That stopped things faster than Crowley’s work at the airfield the day prior. Aziraphale blinked, and put his head to one side. “I - what? What do you mean a bit much ?”

Crowley groaned, and pushed his sunglasses up, the better to rub his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Save the world, dinner at the Ritz, drinks at your place, crash on your couch, eh? I’m not blind*!” He dropped his hands, but his glasses stayed pushed up, mussing his already-messy hair. “Give up with the tempting, Aziraphale. We switched back eight hours ago.”

[* Although, taken literally, this was somewhat of a lie. Fortunately, Crowley was not intending to be taken literally, and although not 20/20, his metaphorical vision was considerably better than his literal 20/200 .]

“Tempting?” Aziraphale sputtered for a minute. “Crowley, I - my dear boy, that is to say … Crowley, this is hardly anything new!”

“Not all at once! Aziraphale, listen, we’ve done a lot in the last day or two, and - and I thought I lost you and then I didn’t, but now you’re back and -” Oh no , he thought, I can’t stop talking , and even as he thought it the spirit of something - possibly God, or possibly 6000 years of repressed affection, but who knows - seized his tongue and pressed on, “- and I didn’t lose you and I can’t do it again, angel, don’t make me step away again.”

“Step away?” Aziraphale gestured emphatically to the doors of the bookshop, dramatic and annoyed and now a little angry. “I’m literally asking you to step inside !”

Crowley opened his mouth. Gestured weakly to the door. And then it came out, blurted and desperate and exhausted, “It just seems a bit fast, doesn’t it?”

Aziraphale froze. Then, slowly, he lowered his hands to his side. He took a breath, chest rising and falling deliberately. “Anthony Crowley,” he said quietly, calmly, “ please go into the bookshop.” He looked to the demon, expression firm and brooking no argument. “I think we need to have a conversation.”

Crowley went inside.

“1967,” Aziraphale said, as soon as the doors closed behind them. “You’re talking about 1967.”

Crowley turned to face him, hands in his pockets, eyes downcast behind the glasses. “Yup,” he replied, with no small degree of misery.

The angel shook his head. “Oh, Crowley. Now, shut up for this part, because I’m going to say some things you’re going to hate, but I do rather think you’ll like it at the end bit.”

“Uh?” Crowley looked up, brows knit, concern etched on every line on his face, and then a little alarm, when Aziraphale grabbed his shoulders. “Uh!”

“You idiotic, oblivious, considerate, soft, patient, infernal creature,” Aziraphale snapped, shaking Crowley a little with every adjective. “You’ve been standing on the brakes since 1967 ?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, a little weakly, wondering when Aziraphale would get to the part he’d like. So far it wasn’t looking good.

“And you didn’t think my feelings toward you would change ?”

Crowley frowned. “You did refuse to run away to Alpha Centauri when -”

“Because Alpha Centauri isn’t Earth!” He swept a hand around himself. “Crowley, yesterday I thought - well, I thought that we didn’t have to change. I thought we could avert the war and go back to being a fairly incompetent angel and demon, and I figured at some point I would probably tell you that -” and now it was Aziraphale that was floundering, his tongue running away with the conversation with very little input from his brain but quite a lot from his soul, “that, that Crowley, demon and angel or angel and Fallen angel or however you want to look at it, I figured at some point I would - I would tell you that … that I really quite like you .” He took a breath, and then scowled. “Oh, sod it, that’s not very accurate, is it? I love you, Crowley, I do, and at this point it’s ridiculous to pretend otherwise.”

“Love?” Crowley repeated, faintly, painfully conscious of Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulder. “You …” He gestured between them, vaguely, and trailed off.

“Yes. Yes, Crowley, I love you and at this point it’s ridiculous to feel afraid that if anyone knows about it it’ll get messed about,” he said bitterly. “That was the fear, all along, wasn’t it? And that created the problem. I didn’t want things to change, so I couldn’t change. If I just pushed back hard enough, I thought, nothing would change, at least not soon, and maybe eventually I would tell you how I felt.” He sighed. “I’ve been rather a misery to be around, I’m afraid."

“Never,” Crowley said, completely genuine. “When, er … how?”

“The eighties,” Aziraphale groaned. “Oh, thirty years , Crowley. But I thought, no, the less said the better, if you don’t change anything nothing will mess it up, you won’t get in trouble. But then the world was supposed to end and blast it all rather than admit how I felt to you and help you, I decided to double down on being distant and try to prevent Armageddon with sheer stubbornness, just so I wouldn’t ruin everything before I had the chance to let you know.” He let his head fall back, eyes closed, another groan of frustration and hurt rushing out. “It was all rather beastly of me.”

“A bit, yeah,” Crowley agreed. “Sorry. The eighties? Was it that day down in Blackpool?”

“I am sorry,” Aziraphale said, softly, letting his hand finally fall from Crowley’s shoulder to his own side. “And to think that tonight I’d try to force it, like I haven’t led you to believe -”

Crowley blinked, and then, without truly knowing why, grabbed the angel’s shoulders. “Hey. Aziraphale?” Blue eyes met his - truly his, because his glasses had slid down to the tip of his nose quite a bit ago, now - and he swallowed. Worked up a shaky little smile. “I forgive you. For what that’s worth.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s face softened, the anger and hurt crumbling away, and for a second they were back on a hot, sunny wall, with stormclouds mounting in the distance and all of eternity stretched out before them. “Oh, my boy. It means quite a lot to me.” He seized Crowley, pulling the other into an embrace, and was not at all surprised to find it returned with more strength than the demon’s skinny frame looked capable of. “Thank you, Crowley,” he murmured into the nape of Crowley’s neck. “For everything.”

There was silence, and Crowley continued to hold Aziraphale tight, like a man crossing a desert might hug the first tree of a vast, lush forest, when he comes upon it.

“You know,” Crowley said after a while, his breath brushing Aziraphale’s hair, making it tickle a little, “you being a gigantic bloody prude might have saved the planet, though. If you’d just come out with all this two days ago we would’ve been off to the stars and this place’d be kaput.” Aziraphale, unable to help himself, snorted a laugh into Crowley’s lapel. “So I guess there’s that.”

“They do say everything happens for a reason.”

“Don’t start with that toss.” He nuzzled Aziraphale, just behind the ear, a soft brush from the tip of his nose, and then released him, taking a half-step back. He pushed his sunglasses up his nose and stuffed his hands back into his pockets. “Well.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I am sorry, Crowley. Really. If you …” He swallowed. “If you don’t want to stay, I understand. I’m sorry for being so pushy earlier. Get some rest, and … I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

“ Ready ?” Crowley barked a laugh. “Angel, you said it yourself - I’ve been standing on the brakes for fifty years for you. I’ve been ready.”

“Ah.” He frowned, a little sad, but then took a breath, and raised an eyebrow, and allowed himself a little half-grin. “I thought I heard you say you were tired, though.”

Crowley hummed, and moved to stand next to Aziraphale, one arm slung over his shoulders as he steered him toward the back room, the two of them in lock-step. “And I thought I heard you say you have some nice wine and a couch to crash on.”

“Ah, well. So you did.”

-

I've been all around the world, done all there is to do

But you'll always be the home I wanna come home to

You're a wild night with a hell of a view

There ain't no place, ain't no place like you

There ain't no place, ain't no place like you

- Backstreet Boys (No Place)

Chapter Text

After the Nah-pocalypse, Adam had put things back in pretty much the same manner they had been when the world had almost-not-quite ended. The bookshop returned, the Bentley was unscathed, a biker gang north of London was whole again*, and many, many other miracles small and large were pulled off with the absent-minded effort of an eleven-year old boy who was happy in his eleven-year-old life, and just wanted things to carry on as they had been. But a few things were missed, of course: a trade delegation went missing in the Pacific, Ligur remained a greasy stain on Crowley’s office floor, and some of Aziraphale’s books were not the same. Although, he had assured Crowley repeatedly, as they sorted through them together, on the second night of the rest of their lives, they were first editions, so that was really alright. Besides, he still had his books of prophecy and his - as Crowley was wont to call them - ‘Bibbles’.

[* “You got a bit of a headache today, Pigbog?” asked one when they woke in the morning, in a dingy little motel room by the pub. “Cor, an’ I got this terrible bloody taste of fish in me mouth, what’d you let me eat last night?” ]

Some things changed anyway, though. An angel and a demon - now retired, mostly - had an important conversation for starters, a conversation 6000 years in the making, and in a little subtle way, their world rocked a minute, before it rolled on, only almost the same as before.

It wasn’t until about a week after everything had happened, after Crowley had finally slept for a few days and Aziraphale had sorted his new books into acceptable order, that they noticed a few more little changes in the bookshop itself, beyond just the books. Namely, they put on a record - an old Liszt that Aziraphale was particularly fond of - and instead of ‘ Un Sospiro ’ the rather more modern sound of Ed Sheeran came out of the gramophone. Aziraphale scowled immediately.

“Hm,” Crowley said, eyebrows raised, not bothering to hide the smile on his face. “Sounds like bebop.”

“Rather.” The angel waved the record off, and Crowley groaned.

“Nah, come on angel, you never know - you might like it! Come on, give it a go.” He raised his glass to Aziraphale. “Couple bottles in and we’ll make a pop music fan out of you yet.”

“I think not.” A rustling as Aziraphale - dressed casually in just his shirt and trousers, but with his bowtie impeccably tied as always, even if his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows - sorted through his other records. “We just have to find one Adam might have recognized. Ah!” He straightened up from his pile of records. “Wagner! He’d have known Wagner.”

“You think?” Crowley asked doubtfully, but Aziraphale disregarded him, setting about changing out the records. Crowley sipped his wine, watching carefully from behind his glasses. There was the crackling of the old machine as the needle dropped, and then a little hiccup as Aziraphale repositioned it, and then -

“ I love it when you call me senorita, I wish I could pretend I didn’t need ya -”

The demon did his best to look consoling as Aziraphale groaned. “Wagner’s a bit of a pull for an eleven-year-old.”

“Warlock knows Wagner!” Aziraphale shut the machine back off, slipped the Wagner record into its sleeve, and started rummaging anew for something different.

“Warlock had - has? - us.” Crowley trailed off. He hadn’t spoken with Warlock since the end of the world started. Technically, the boy was under the impression that his nanny and the gardner had retired together four years ago to some nebulous village in southern England that Crowley was careful not to specify. Despite that, young Warlock insisted on keeping in touch - Aziraphale had dodged the boy’s enquiries about a phone number, but Crowley, on her last day as Nanny Ashtoreth, had knelt down in front of Warlock, punched her mobile number into the boy’s phone, and whispered, “For the day you require a right hand for the glorious battle, child.”

“I’ve already got one,” Warlock had said, staring at his right hand. “Will it fall off?”

She’d smiled fondly, glad for the dark glasses and the fact that serpents cannot biologically create tears, and ruffled his hair. “Figuratively speaking, dear.”

“Oh,” he’d said, before throwing his arms around her waist and squeezing the air out of her. “I’ll text twice a week, every week. At least.” And he had, religiously**.

[** In a manner of speaking and, when the conversation turned toward more revelation-adjacent topics, sometimes literally. ]

Crowley considered that he really should text the boy. Now the world hadn’t ended, poor Warlock had been dealing with rather a lot of teen angst as it was, never mind the sudden move to America, and he would almost certainly be needing his Nanny to coach him through it. His hand was drifting to his phone, mind 3000 miles away in Washington, DC, when he realized Aziraphale was speaking to him. “Huh?”

“I said ,” the angel snapped, peevishly, “Do you think Mozart might be too obscure?”

He thought about it. “Maybe? Dunno, he did have a lot of songs they play in school, don’t they? I’m fairly certain it was on the required curriculum when I had it for Warlock. Music education or some such.” He shrugged. “Chance is there, anyway. Give it a whirl.”

Aziraphale rolled his shoulders and visibly steeled himself, before setting the record on the turntable and dropping the needle. “Right. We’ll see …” Crowley couldn’t help but notice the subtle movements of Aziraphale’s fingers as he crossed them. “Should be ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik ’ -”

Crowley might have been wrong, but he didn’t remember a bassline being quite so prominent in the works of Mozart. Aziraphale made a frustrated noise and yanked the needle back upwards. “Oh, come on angel! Just let the record play, who cares, put the volume down and let it be background music.” He poured a second glass of wine and offered it out. “You want wine or not?”

Aziraphale gave the glass a cool look, and instead plucked the bottle off the table, taking a swig. Crowley blinked. “He can’t have got to every record. Surely he must know some music.”

“He does, clearly.” Bemused, he settled back against the couch, allowing his wings to manifest with a quiet grunt, followed by a long stretch, ignoring the cracking and the ache of the broken one and focusing on the relief in his shoulders, as well as the two glasses of wine he had in his hands. He wondered if he could drink from both at once. Then again, it was a rather nice red, and he liked this shirt. Perhaps not. “He just doesn’t know the music you like.”

“The giants of musical history!” His blonde hair was, if it were possible, getting more unruly the more exasperated he got. Or perhaps that was the way he kept running his hand through it, in between sorting through records and taking swigs out of the wine bottle. “It’s shameful! Mozart , Crowley! He must know someone ! AHA !” Triumphant, he grabbed a record with both hands. “This will be intact! It can’t not be!”

Crowley squinted at the record cover, but between the worn cardboard, the small print, and the way Aziraphale was whisking it over to the record player like a medic triaging a possibly-dead patient, he couldn’t make it out. “What’s that then?”

“Ponchielli.”

“Angel, really , he’s not going to have known Ponchi -” His mouth fell open as the record crackled and the first movement of Dance of the Hours began to play. “He knew Ponchielli?”

Satisfied, Aziraphale dropped into his armchair, bottle of wine snugged in his lap. “I knew Fantasia was a good idea.”

“One of yours, was it?”

“Mostly. The last sequence wasn’t entirely my idea, but Gabriel -”

Crowley slugged down one of the wineglasses. “Don’t,” he warned. “No, don’t talk about him. It’s been a lovely night so far, don’t bring him into it.”

“We haven’t done anything yet,” the other replied, after taking a swallow of wine. “You just got here.”

“Right, like I said.” He wriggled in his seat, repositioning his body and his wings to achieve a state of maximum comfort as well as maximum slouch. “Just relax, have some wine, listen to ballet.”

There was a long moment, filled with quiet music from the gramophone, and Aziraphale drank the wine and looked into the middle distance, quiet and thoughtful. And then, when the music continued to be Dance of the Hours and didn’t become anything else at the end of the first act, he sighed, stretched his legs out, and allowed his wings to manifest, white and ruffled and powerful. “Show off,” Crowley muttered, but there was no venom in it.

“Oh, don’t, you old snake.” Aziraphale leaned over and, now the musical drama had ended, took the empty wineglass from his companion. “So what have you done today?” he asked idly, pouring himself a generous portion. “Surely you didn’t sleep all day.”

“A bit of this and that,” lied Crowley, who had slept all day. Well, nearly. To be fair, he had rolled out of bed for about thirty minutes around two to sleepily mist his plants and check Twitter, before collapsing back into bed until his alarm alerted him that he had precisely thirty minutes to be presentable and ready for an evening with the angel. “Just … nothing, really. You?”

“You know what they say about idle hands,” Aziraphale scolded him.

“Yes, well, bit late for all that.”

“I suppose.” He let his head lean back against the chair and took a long, deep breath. “I sorted through more of the new books. I think I’ve found nearly all of them now. Of course, there’s the back shelves to get through, as well.” He grimaced, and waved a hand toward a dark corner of the shop that Crowley always did his best to avoid. “Only the L-space gets a bit thin back there, and at the moment I’m not sure it would be wise to -”

“No,” Crowley agreed. “Best not.” A thought occurred to him. “By the by, while I was driving over here earlier I saw a ‘coming soon’ sign a few blocks over, looks like it might be a restaurant and wondered if you’d heard -”

The evening wore on. Improbably, the Ponchielli record stayed Ponchielli the entire time. By the time it finished, both Crowley and Aziraphale were thoroughly tipsy, and they had a heated debate about whether or not the Tchaikovsky would be intact in light of the fact that it had most of the Nutcracker Suite on it. After all, the only songs in Fantasia by Ponchielli were the few from Dance of the Hours , but the rest of the songs that were not a part of that ballet had played without difficulty***. Ultimately, they decided that Tchaikovsky was probably safe, and Aziraphale started the Nutcracker Suite which remained so for the duration of the record.

[*** What Aziraphale and Crowley did not know was that, while Adam did love Fantasia, and was familiar with Dance of the Hours from the film, his older sister was also quite fond of Ponchielli, and as a younger child he’d been mercilessly forced to listen to hours of his compositions while Sarah educated him on the finer points of the composer’s music. At eleven, Adam felt this was boring and useless, and rather felt the same way about his sister for the most part. Fortunately, in a few years he would reverse his opinion when his sister was awarded first chair London Symphony Orchestra, and he would proudly point out to Brian the more intricate details of her performance while applauding enthusiastically between pieces on opening night .]

When the record started skipping at the end, the angel and the demon were fairly drunk. They were debating the merits of mown lawns versus clover lawns - a topic neither of them knew absolutely anything about, being that Aziraphale didn’t garden and Crowley had little to no interest in grasses at all - but Aziraphale took the time to stand up, unsteadily, wings flapping and pitching to help him stay afoot, and made his way over to the record player. He considered the options, blowing dust off a few of the sleeves, and then solemnly nodded before changing out the vinyl discs. “He’ll definitely have known this one,” he intoned, and Crowley nodded.

“Think as long as you stick to Fantasia we’ll be alright.”

“It’s Beethoven.”

“Probably alright.”

The piano was briefly encouraging, but Aziraphale was uncertain - he didn’t remember this particular pattern of notes being in any song of Beethoven’s that he could remember, and -

“ Why men great ‘til they gotta be great ?” a woman who decidedly was not Beethoven sang. Aziraphale reached to move the needle, a task made slightly difficult by the fact that his brain was insisting that there were probably actually two needles, and his hand insisted that it wanted to go more to the left than either needle seemed to be, when Crowley whooped from behind him, laughing, and chimed in with, 

“I just took a DNA test, turns out I’m 100% that bitch even -”

“ Crowley !”

The redhead laughed. “Come off it and relax. Have you ever even heard this song?”

Aziraphale pouted. “No.”

“Then how do you know you don’t like it?”

“I wanted Beethoven.”

Crowley sighed, and motioned for his compatriot to join him on the sofa. “Well, in the words of the wise philosopher Mick Jagger, ‘you can’t always get what you want’.” He patted the cushion next to him rather more aggressively than required. “Now sit down and enjoy the bebop, angel.”

Aziraphale hovered by the record player for a few beats, wringing his hands, and then rolled his eyes, sighed as if much put-upon, and wobbled over to Crowley, knocking the sunglasses off his face with his wing as he managed to deposit himself onto the couch. “ Bebop ,” he concluded with revulsion, but the music didn’t change, and the two leaned into one another, the better to steady each other while they poured more wine. 

“You afraid you’ll like it?” Crowley asked idly, pulling his knees into his chest as he leaned into Aziraphale’s chest and studied his own wineglass. “Could ruin your whole aesthetic, finding a taste for pop music.” He twisted around to pat the angel’s knee. “I sympathize.”

“Didn’ realize you could,” Aziraphale slurred, although he nuzzled into Crowley’s hair and planted a kiss on the top of his head. “Sympathize, anyway. Develop an aesthetic? Undoubtedly.”

“Bit rude.” Crowley sighed, eyes closed, and took another sip of wine. “I’ll allow it.”

“Splendid.” A white wing wrapped around the two as the song faded in the background, and another started up, upbeat and slickly produced. I’m at a party I don’t wanna be at - Aziraphale snorted. “I know the feeling.”

“Hm. Don’t we all?”

“Oh, please. You’ve never been to a party you didn’t like.”

“You don’t know that.” Crowley smirked up at him, upside-down, and nudged the angel’s ear with the wrist of his good wing. “Just because I’m always having a good time when you’re around -”

“Romantic.”

“Er?” Crowley paused, dragged his train of thought back onto the tracks, and then his eyes narrowed. “No, no, you know I meant -”

The angel’s smile, though wobbly, was decidedly un-angelic. “That you’re an incorrigible tempter? That whatever party you may go to, mirth and wine and debauchery are sure to follow?”

Crowley poked him in the ribs. “And you know damn well that you like that about me, angel.” He spread his hands, still upside-down, his head practically in Aziraphale’s lap now, and he beamed. “No?”

“It does make you fairly charming, yes.” He poked the pointed tip of Crowley’s nose, and cocked his head, suspicious, at the maniacally cheerful expression on the demon’s face. “What’s so funny?”

“You.”

“Am not.” He frowned. “Why?”

“Because you’ve been tapping your foot to the beat for the last minute.” He thrust his hands into the air, raised in victory. “Knew you’d like it if you gave it a shot! Ha ha!” He pointed a finger into Aziraphale’s face, returning the unsteady tap on the nose. “Angel likes bebop,” he declared. Aziraphale shoved him onto the floor. Crowley, drunk, rolled with it, wriggling into a more comfortable position, though he looked decidedly mussed, his wings cocked at all sorts of awkward angles. “You do ,” he insisted, struggling to sit up, losing his balance, and using the table for assistance. “I’ll get you concert tickets.”

“Of course you will,” Aziraphale sighed, although he did not try to dissuade Crowley. And then he laughed, because the song ended and another began and Crowley, eyes widening suddenly, scrambled up the table and to his feet, staggering toward the record player, only to turn the volume up rather louder than the antique gramophone had realized it was capable of. “You like this one, then?”

“You talk about an apt song,” Crowley declared, as the singer went on. Aziraphale watched Crowley make his way over, surfing from one furniture piece to another for balance, and listened as the singer declared “ One of these things is not like the others, like a rainbow with all of the colors, baby doll when it comes to a lover, I promise that you’ll never find another like me .”

“It is, isn’t it?” He smiled at Crowley, and accepted the other’s offered hand. “I don’t dance well, you know.”

“Me neither, so I don’t care, just don’t fall over.”

They weren’t wrong, and the wine and the wings didn’t help. It was only through some minor miracles that none of Aziraphale’s books were disturbed in the ensuing messy approximation at dancing, although at one point Crowley did knock into the table and nearly upset the bottle of wine, managing to catch it with dexterity that some might have called a miracle but Crowley, who knew miracles when he saw them, actually knew was just the practiced clutch performance of a long-time drinker who hated to see a good bottle of wine go to waste. He wagged his eyebrows at Aziraphale and took a drink straight from the bottle.

“Very smooth,” Aziraphale agreed, and took the bottle to have a gulp for himself. “What’s it the lyrics are saying?” He draped his arms over Crowley’s shoulders, the wine bottle bumping against soft scapulars as they shuffled and swayed.

Crowley listened for a minute, and then nodded with a satisfied grin. “I’m the only one of me,” he quoted, in line with the rhythm of the song, “Baby, that’s the fun of me.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Truer words,” he agreed. 

“An’ ‘you’re the only one of you, baby that’s the fun of you’.” 

“If you say so,” he chuckled, before stumbling over his own foot. In a romance film, Crowley would probably have caught him, but as this was reality, and they were both soundly intoxicated, they fell instead, Aziraphale landing on top of Crowley in a mess of limbs and wings. The wine bottle, however, remained upright, held aloft by Aziraphale’s expertly-manicured hand. “Didn’t spill,” he announced, proudly.

“I told you not to fall over,” Crowley griped in response, reaching up for the bottle. After a few seconds of keep-away, Aziraphale relented, and relinquished the bottle, the better to reposition himself to allow Crowley to drink, and to maneuver himself into better position to wrap his arms around the demon.

“An’ I promise that nobody’s gonna love you like me,” he mumbled into Crowley’s chest, as the song drew to a close. Crowley stilled, propped up on one elbow and wine bottle halfway to his lips, as Aziraphale laid against his chest, drinking in the reassuring thumps of his heartbeat.

“Thought you said you didn’ know the song,” Crowley finally said, after a drink. 

“Didn’,” Aziraphale agreed. “But it’s fairly repetitive.”

“Repeat stuff, repeat stuff, repeat stuff.” Crowley nodded, solemn, almost as if he were singing something, although Aziraphale didn’t know the song and it didn’t match the lyrics of whatever the record had started to play next. “Part of the modern pop formula.” He raised an eyebrow. “Seems like you liked it well enough anyway, though?”

“Hm.” Aziraphale shrugged. “Could get used to it, I suppose. If you like it.”

“Can’t say I’m Taylor Swift’s biggest fan.”

“You knew all the words.”

Crowley thought it over. “So I did.” He jostled Aziraphale a little. “You liked it,” he said again, drawing it out, teasing. “Angel liked the bebop.”

“It’s catchy.” He hunched his shoulders, defensive, but held to Crowley no more loosely. “It’s no Schubert, but for a light listen with a good bottle of wine, I suppose it will do.”

Crowley snorted, and let himself fall back onto the floor, slowly rolling the nearly-empty bottle in his fingers. Absently, he reached up with his free hand and started running his fingertips along one of Aziraphale’s secondaries. “You’re not falling asleep, are you?”

“I don’t sleep,” replied Aziraphale, sleepily.

“I’m not staying on the floor all night. Gonna get a cramp or something.”

“Not if you don’t want to.” But he rolled aside regardless, hands folded on his belly. “You’ll have to help me up - I’m afraid I might have had a bit too much to drink.”

“‘M not much better.” Crowley shifted, bending his knees as if to sit up and not making it any further. “D’you mean it?”

“Huh?”

“The thing about love.” He cleared his throat, part of his brain screeching that it was just a song lyric, Aziraphale was just singing along, it didn’t mean anything, why are you thinking into this you stupid idiot, you absolute buffon, you romantic, infernal sap -

“The song lyric? Oh. Yes, yes I did, rather.” Crowley’s brain slid to a halt and Aziraphale, as if in response, reached over and laced his fingers into Crowley’s. “Of course I love you, dear boy. Like no one else.”

Crowley forced a shaky breath through a throat that was suddenly too tight. “Oh.” And he squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, at a loss for words. “I do too, you know.”

“Yes, I’d hoped you would say that.” He sighed, eyes closed, his hand warm and soft and comfortable against Crowley’s cool palm. “We can’t sleep on the floor, Crowley.”

“You don’t sleep. And you don’t have a bed,” he replied, because the rest of his brain was occupied with either laughing, screaming, or throwing a Superbowl-esque victory party, and his mouth was running on snarky autopilot. “Rug’s going to have to do.”

“I’ve got a bed in the flat upstairs.”

Crowley rolled onto his side a little, expression suspicious. Aziraphale looked at him sidelong, and cocked a crooked smile. “You have a flat upstairs?”

“Certainly.^”

[^ Well, he did now, anyway .]

“Since when?”

“Oh, honestly, Crowley.” He rolled to his belly and then stood up, wobbly and content, reaching down to Crowley and pulling the tall demon up, white wings flapping for balance and counterweight. “You and your questions.”

Crowley paused, unsure of how to take that remark. Perhaps this was too much, maybe he’d pushed too hard, maybe they were going too fast, although damn the angel he’d said they could go ahead - “It’s … it’s a bit a part of me, I’m afraid,” he said slowly, forked tongue thick around the words. “Er. The questions.”

Aziraphale inhaled sharply, eyes wide before he squeezed them closed, shaking his head. “No, dear boy, I’m sorry, that’s not how I meant it I … Crowley. I like your questions. I love your questions.” He raised a hand to Crowley’s cheek. “I really do.”

Crowley looked for a sign of a lie in that bright, honest face, and even through the alcohol, he couldn’t find one. “You sure?”

“Crowley, that’s the fun of you.” He swung around to Crowley’s side and looped his arm around the thin, black-clad waist. “Possibly among other things.”

The tension broke, and Crowley laughed, relieved and surprised, before letting his head fall to the right and rest atop Aziraphale’s. “We’re too drunk, angel. Not tonight.”

“No, not tonight,” he agreed, taking a few unsteady steps toward the stairs and fighting back a yawn. “I’m rather tired, though. Might give sleeping a bit of a go for a few hours.”

Crowley gasped theatrically. “ No . You’ve gone mad on me.” He wiggled as Aziraphale prodded him in the armpit. “Oy!”

“To the flat,” Aziraphale declared. “Just round the corner there, should be a set of stairs - aha, there they are.” They were old stairs, worn and suited to the bookshop, set in a narrow stairwell that zig-zagged up the building. Crowley looked intensely thoughtful as they navigated upwards, frowning. For the life of him - the very long life of him - he could not remember ever seeing the stairs before.

“Seriously,” he said after a few more steps, and Aziraphale turned to look at him, still smiling happily, “When did you get a flat?”

“Oh, honestly, Crowley.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale was dithering. He paced through the rooms of the cottage in South Downs, while the sea roared distantly against the darkened shore outside. His hands were clasped behind his back, his wings manifest and relaxed, trailing him as he paced. Every now and again, a gleaming white feather fluttered to the ground, and he rustled his wings absently, more concerned with his current misery, worrying at his lip with his teeth.

He’d killed a plant. 

Crowley is going to be livid.

The demon had returned to London three days ago for a bit of what he termed ‘me-time’. It was necessary, they had found after the moved in together, that they not always be together. Certainly, it was nice - better than nice, it was fantastic - to share one another’s company the majority of the time, out from under the watchful eyes of Above and Below, but even supernatural entities like a little personal space, and every now and again either Crowley or Aziraphale would retreat for a weekend or so to their respective places in London. On this occasion, there was no dramatic impetus, but Crowley had just been a bit restless and Aziraphale had encouraged him to take a weekend and relax. He rather suspected Crowley had gone off to tempt or wile or something, even if he was no longer on Hell’s payroll, but Crowley never said, and Aziraphale never asked*.

[* Had the angel asked, he would have been sorely disappointed. Certainly there were some minor demonic activities, like gluing coins to the sidewalk outside of the British Museum, but then there were the meandering strolls through the same museum, idly wandering from display to display. And in the evenings, there were sappy movies and sitcoms and bingeing TV shows with rather more blurred-out anatomical bits than Aziraphale found tolerable .]

Besides, right now Aziraphale was molting, and although he’d snapped at Crowley for saying it aloud, the old snake had been right: he gets pissy when he molts.

And so Crowley had left on a long weekend. Which was fine. Aziraphale was more than happy to have the cottage to himself, just him and his books and a nice pair of pajamas and his dreadfully itchy wings. He was free to read, to preen, and to lay on his back on the rug in the library and slide around on the floor like some common dog, grateful that there were no witnesses and even more grateful that even if he looked ridiculous, at least the itching stopped for a time. Even if the down was always a right pain to get out of the rug later. The problem with angel feathers was that miracles didn’t work, and Aziraphale always felt a little guilty vacuuming them up.

And the problem with Crowley leaving for the weekend was the plants.

Aziraphale hadn’t thought to ask about them before the demon had left. He probably should have. On the morning of the first day, to distract himself from his own misery, he took a walk around the house and admired Crowley’s work. The indoor plants were green and lush, vibrant, leaves shining with health and terror. The greenhouse was a riot of color and sweet smells at this time of year, and Aziraphale walked up and down the rows each morning, wings tucked in for as long has he could stand it, before he would retreat back into the security of the cottage to flap and itch. The outdoor plants were growing great guns, and though Aziraphale hadn’t ventured outside since he started molting in earnest, before Crowley left he had tailed the demon around the garden one afternoon, helping with the early harvest and getting warm, fuzzy feelings in anticipation of all the people that would be fed at the local food bank as a result. Crowley had grumbled at him about it, which only served to make Aziraphale’s heart swell more.

The third day, however, was when Aziraphale’s predicament arose. He was in the midst of taking his little walk around the house, checking plants and tidying up (though with only him home and most of his time occupied with preening, there was very little tidying to do anywhere outside of the library), when he saw it. A droopy plant.

His heart fell as low as the leaves. Lower. Oh, Crowley would be so angry**. He himself had stroked the leaves anxiously, wondering if he should miracle the plant back to health but no, Crowley always knew when he’d done that. He stroked another leaf, bright green pigment stark against lacy white veins, now hanging limp over the edge of the pot.

[** Although it is important that it is said that at no point did the angel even consider that the anger would ever be directed anywhere besides the plants in question. Crowley might be a demon, but he’d always taken a firm stand on holding plants accountable for their actions. ]

“Oh dear,” he said, to no one in particular. “Crowley … Crowley won’t like this at all. He’ll be … upset.” The plant remained inert. That was even more worrying, considering all of the healthy plants in the room had begun to tremble. “Buck up, little plant!” His tone turned pleading. “Oh, do, would you?” He brushed another leaf, and imagined it might have trembled a little higher. “There you are, come on then!” 

The plant remained droopy.

“Oh, no.” Aziraphale fluttered his wings a bit and wrung his hands, and wondered if it would be worth just sneaking the plant outside. Perhaps Crowley wouldn’t notice? No, of course he would. Crowley knew all of his plants - common names, scientific names, light and water preferences - and although it might take him an hour or two, maybe a day if he was particularly distracted (which Aziraphale could certainly manage), the demon would notice eventually.

Aziraphale sighed, and padded off through the house. Perhaps if the other plants looked better … “Go on,” he said to them, encouraging, as he walked by, wingtips brushing some of the more prominent leaves, “look sharp. One of you already died, and you know he’ll … oh, bother. Please just look nicer.”

To their credit, some of the plants perked up a bit. Certainly, when they realized it was Aziraphale a good deal of the quiet trembling stopped. Of course, it re-started as soon as he said “I believe he’ll be home in an hour or two.”

He was debating skipping the rest of his walk - his wings itched horribly, and the library rug was calling - but he tamped the feeling down. He was nearly finished, anyway. Just the three little plants in the spiral staircase that led to a widow’s walk. It was a lovely staircase, nestled in a windowed tower, a little plinth set into the middle of the spiral. Crowley had started muttering about light angles almost as soon as the ink had dried on the contract for the house, and he’d placed three plants on the plinth before he’d even bothered to unpack most of his things. Aziraphale had a sneaking suspicion they were Crowley’s favorites - he spent a lot of time in the stairwell. When the weather was bad, he would lay against the railing and watch the sea out of the window. On clear nights, he made his way up to the deck, checking on his favorite stars, and it didn’t escape the angel’s notice that he always brushed his fingers across the staircase plants’ leaves as he went up and down.

The hardwood stairs creaked comfortably under Aziraphale’s socks, and he made his way upwards, wings folded close to him in the narrow confines of the tower. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the first leaves of one of the plants - something that trailed and draped down the plinth - green and bright and lustrous in the light shining through the window. It was cloudy out, but the plant hadn’t seemed to notice - a good omen.

His joy was short-lived, however, when he turned a bit more. There was the string of dolphins - Aziraphale had always loved that one, and it was the only plant that he could remember the name of - which looked full and happy, flowering away, but then there was … the third. Drooping.

Oh, no, no this would not do at all.

“Not you too,” he murmured, distress etched on his face as his hands fluttered over the limp leaves. “No, please.” The leaves, a rich and dark green, shot through with red and pink veins in a similar lacy pattern to the other drooping plant downstairs, remained inert. “Not two of you,” he might have wailed, if he had not been otherwise so disappointed that he could only groan. “He’ll have me move out, at this rate. Say I can’t be trusted to be firm enough with the plants.” The other two plants in the stairwell shone a little greener, a little healthier. Not the angel, they might have said, were they not plants. We must protect the angel. We must grow well for the angel.

Aziraphale didn’t notice. He tried propping one leaf up on the lip of the pot, but it sloughed off, instead hanging loosely by the flaccid stem. “Bother.” He ran a hand through his hair, and then slouched back down the stairs. “Well, only two. Only…”

He laid face-up on the library carpet and slid around, down trailing behind him like a softer, more ethereal version of a slug’s trail, until he felt a little better. He sat up eventually, flapped a few times, and studied his wings. Nearly there, he thought. He certainly could fly, if needed, by now. And the infernal itching was a little less each day. He flapped again, and debated folding them out of the mortal world, but there was no reason to, and even after 6000 years he always felt a bit cramped with them folded away. 

He fetched the vacuum and cleaned the rug instead, and became so fixated on getting every last barb out of the fine weave that he didn’t hear the Bentley pull up in the driveway, while rain pattered on the windows and the shadows stretched long.

“Angel!” Aziraphale shut the vacuum off, sweeping his gaze once again across the rug. He couldn’t see anything, no clues as to what he’d been doing. Crowley should be none the wiser.

He wished he could say the same for the plants.

When the demon rounded the corner to the library, Aziraphale offered a cheerful little wave and a smile, before folding his hands and his wings neatly behind his back. “Hello, love!”

“Hey,” Crowley replied, wary, one eyebrow raised delicately. “Doing a bit of cleaning, are we?” He glanced to the vacuum canister, full of glistening white feathers. “Oh, right.”

“They just get everywhere, don’t know how it happens,” Aziraphale lied. “Fortunately I think it’s about done.”

Crowley made a pleased little noise, and entered the room, allowing his own wings to manifest as he did. They were broken, of course - all demons had broken wings, if they had wings at all - but Crowley liked to stretch them as much as he could anyway, the badly-twisted right one creaking arthritically as he did so. “Nice to be home,” he said, stretching his arms along with his wings, reaching up over his head. Aziraphale took advantage and grabbed him around the waist. “Hello.”

“You had a nice weekend, I assume?”

“Oh yeah.” He smiled down at the angel, allowing his arms to fall to Aziraphale’s shoulders. “They’ve got a traveling exhibit at the British Museum, ‘A History of the World in 100 Objects’. A little reductionist, but it was interesting.” He shrugged. “Plus I caught up on a few films, slept for over twelve hours straight, you know. Relaxing stuff.” His grin, when it came then, was definitively devilish. “No cranky molting angels.”

“Perks of retirement,” Aziraphale agreed. “I, well … you know.” He sighed. “I suppose I did get some reading done.” He frowned. “Ah, but … Crowley…”

The demon raised his eyebrows, looking at Aziraphale over the rims of his glasses. “Something wrong?” He looked to Aziraphale’s wings - they were ragged, and in need of a good preening now that most of the new feathers had come in, but whole - and then to the collection of books. “What’s wrong? You’re alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Aziraphale waved a hand. “No it’s, it’s your plants, dear boy.” He sighed. “I’m so sorry, Crowley, I should have gotten directions from you before you left, I should have made sure I was watering things that needed it -”

“Which one?” Crowley hadn’t moved, but his voice had dropped low, hushed. Dangerous. “Show me.”

“It’s two.”

“Didn’t catch that, angel.”

Aziraphale raised his voice, a little strangled and distressed. “There’s two!”

Crowley paused. He was thinking, Aziraphale could tell, and somehow that was more concerning. Then, carefully, he removed his sunglasses, folded them, and tucked them into his jacket pocket. His hand settled on Aziraphale’s shoulder, firm and cool. “Show me.”

Aziraphale debated which would be the better one to lead off with. Perhaps the one with the white veins in the den - Crowley had always seemed to favor that one less. The stairs plants, oh, he was so fond of them. Maybe if he saw that one second, the blow would be softened? “Please don’t do anything rash.” He turned and led the way to the den, wringing his hands. “It is still green, you know,” he babbled, “so there may be hope for it yet, and you know, I was going to just miracle it well, but you always know somehow."

“You can’t save them,” Crowley said sternly as they entered the den side-by-side. Aziraphale was about to indicate the plant in question, but it wasn’t needed - Crowley already knew. His hand dropped from Aziraphale’s shoulder, brushing through the feathers absently on the way, and he slithered toward the plant, slowly pulling off his glasses and tucking them into his breast pocket. “I see.” Fast as any snake, even in this form, he snatched the terra cotta pot up and brought the flaccid plant to eye level. “I see .” The plants around, lush and verdant and beautiful, trembled violently. Aziraphale, not realizing he was doing so, stretched out a wing to comfort the Monstera to his right. 

Crowley didn’t speak, instead marching back out of the den and toward the kitchen. Aziraphale winced, and waited for the sound of the garbage disposal. It never came - instead, the demon returned a moment later, arms crossed over his chest, wings arched threateningly. “The other one, then?”

Aziraphale nodded, wordlessly, and started his walk toward the staircase, dragging his feet a bit. Oh, Crowley would not be pleased. The staircase plants were his favorites . He ran his hand through his hair, and then fiddled with the buttons of his waistcoat as they proceeded toward the stairs. Nearly there, and Crowley stepped past him. Aziraphale stopped, eyes downcast, miserable, and waited. There was quiet muttering from the stairwell, nothing Aziraphale could clearly make out, and then Crowley returned, cheerfully-painted pot* in one hand, the other in his pocket. Aziraphale noted that on the hand holding the pot, Crowley’s nails were rather more claw-like than usual and there was a hint of ash and char about his fingertips, and oh, yes, the faintest suggestion of scales …

Oh, this was rather worse than he’d thought.

[* Aziraphale had bought it for him, and Crowley hadn’t ever remarked on the pattern. ]

“Crowley, please, it’s my fault, not theirs, I should have asked about directions.”

The demon brushed past him, back toward the kitchen. “They sshould have known better,” he answered, simply, and the extension of the sibilants did not escape the angel's notice. Aziraphale followed him. “They do know better.”

“You won’t -”

Crowley held up a hand and swept around the corner into the kitchen. Within, Aziraphale saw he had placed both plants on the draining board by the sink. He stood, claws clasped behind his back for a few long, uncomfortable seconds. Aziraphale rustled his wings, anxious, and opened his mouth to speak, when suddenly Crowley lunged forward, one hand to each side of the plants, caging them in with his arms as if they might make a run for it, his black wings arched over his back. There were scales, black and shining, on the back of his neck, just visible under the messy ponytail.

“You dramatic shitsss !” Aziraphale jumped, hands flying to his face. “You bloody-minded, delicate, worthlesss fucking excussesss for housseplants! What wasss it, one day ? You went one day too long without water, wasss that it?” He clenched his fists, and Aziraphale winced at the squeak of his claws on the granite. He did hope it wouldn’t scratch. He whirled, the better to point a claw at Aziraphale, although he never looked away from the plants. “And look how you sscared the angel! You like him, don’t you? You could have had the fucking desscensscy to behave for him while he wasss molting!”

“Crowley, I hardly think this is -” Aziraphale paused, and then realized he was trying to talk a demon out of yelling at plants. It would probably be funny, when he thought about it later. At the moment though, he was mostly concerned how upset Crowley was, and how much ash he was dripping onto the floor. He’d have to miracle it up later - there would be no getting it, or the sulfur smell, out of the floorboards otherwise.

“And he’sss even now trying to defend you, you basstardsss!” He leaned back over the plants, forked tongue flicking the air over them. “Couldn’t even hold your shit together for three daysss.” And now he paused, took a breath, and turned to look at Aziraphale, eyes golden from rim to rim. And then he winked. 

In a moment, the tension drained out of the room, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky he likesss you,” Crowley went on, turning his attention back to the plants. “Thisss time, you’ll get away with it. Three daysss in the front garden though, to atone for your ssinsss.”

One at a time, Crowley picked up the pots, and drizzled some water onto them from the tap. By the time he’d finished, the sulfur scent had faded to its usual background hint, all traces of ash and scales and claws were gone, and his wings were cocked comfortably at his shoulders. He set the pots down just long enough to put his sunglasses back on, and then scooped them back up, brushing past Aziraphale on his way out of the kitchen and toward the front door. The angel trailed behind him, snapping his fingers to clean up the hellish mess in the kitchen before he left.

The rain had stopped, and a thick fog hung heavy in the cool night air. Crowley settled the plants primly on the front garden wall, hissed something at them once more under cover of darkness, and then swaggered back toward the door, hands in his pockets. Aziraphale, as he drew closer, pressed his lips thin and gave the demon his best skeptical look. “You really had to go all the way with that, Crowley?”

“Ssh.” Crowley raised a finger to his lips. “They hear better than they see.”

“My point exactly.” He sighed. “I wasn’t that upset - mostly worried about how you would feel.”

“ Me ?” Crowley scoffed. “I’m fine. They’re just plants.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Get inside, can’t both of us be standing out in the garden with our wings out. Neighbors might get to talking.”

“It’s pitch black, the won’t be able to see yours anyway,” he replied, but he stepped aside anyway, motioning for Crowley to lead, before he followed right on his heels, pulling the door closed with him. “Unusually merciful for you. Your weekend really must have done you good. Have you been watching those - ah, what are they called? Rom-coms?”

Crowley stiffened. “ No ,” he snapped, a shade too quickly. Aziraphale didn’t laugh; nothing to be gained with that, although it was hilarious how transparent Crowley could be at times. 

“Yes, I’m sure.” As they moved further into the house, out of the hall, Aziraphale took advantage of the greater space and stepped alongside Crowley, slipping his arm around Crowley’s waist, brushing aside the gray t-shirt at the top of his jeans, the better to rest his warm hand on Crowley’s cool hip. Without discussing it first, they headed toward the library.

“They’re fittonias. Nerve plants,” Crowley explained as they wove through the little cottage. “Dramatic little shits, actually. They usually know better than to act like that.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”

Crowley grinned. “You go out into the garden in an hour, and I promise you they’ll look right as rain. They do this thing called fainting - they get a little too dry for their liking and whoop, over they go.”

“Ah! So they just needed a bit of water.” Aziraphale nodded, and filed that bit of information away for later, in case of another long weekend trip. “I could have watered them and avoided all the drama, then?”

“None of this was your fault,” Crowley assured him. Once in the library, they parted, Aziraphale drifting to his favorite armchair and Crowley sprawling across the couch, feet propped on the arm. Miraculously, a bottle of wine appeared on the coffee table, pulled through the ether from the cellar, flanked by two glasses. “I watered them before I left - they should have been fine. And even then ,” he went on, lurching upright to pour the wine, “they know better . There’s no fainting in this cottage, I told them when we moved in, I told them -”

Aziraphale took the proffered glass, tuning out the ongoing rant, and had a sip. A dry white, light and floral. He smacked his lips appreciatively, and hummed happily. “Excellent choice, dear.”

“Were you even listening?”

“Afraid not.”

Crowley covered his eyes with his free hand. “You’re as bad as the fittonias.”

Something occurred to Aziraphale. “Why are they called nerve plants? Do they have feelings?”

“Nah. Supposed to be called that because the little leaf veins stand out and look like nerves. I’ve always said that they’re actually called that though because they’re so dramatic they get on your bloody nerves.” He took a sip of wine. “They’ve only ever tried that trick one other time, you know. I thought they’d learned their lesson.”

“Thus the claws.” Aziraphale nodded with understanding. “Very spooky. Probably be even better if they had eyes.”

“They know .” Crowley waved his hand dismissively. “All sorts of research about it, you know? I could give you articles.” 

They sat for a while, in companionable silence, sipping wine and enjoying one another’s company without needing to speak. Eventually, Crowley’s need to fidget overcame his desire to lay across the couch like bones were something that happened to other people, and he stood up, circling the room and studying the spines of books even he knew by heart by now. Aziraphale had started studying a new book some time ago, not really reading, just flipping through the pages to take note of smudges, imperfections, typographical errors, and any signs of damage that might need to be fixed before he put it on the shelves at his shop to ostensibly be sold. He did frown now and then, disapproving at the quality of the text, and considered that in spite of it being a first edition, he might actually sell this one - it truly was dreadful.

Of course, he’d read it first. Just to make sure.

He was startled out of his work suddenly, when Crowley draped himself over the back of the chair and thrust three short, white feathers into Aziraphale’s line of sight. “Oh! Oh, I must have missed those. Thank you, dear boy.”

“Yeah, you know, funny thing, that.” Crowley brushed the feathers across the tip of Aziraphale’s nose, and smiled as the angel fought back the urge to sneeze. “Was just walking over there, wanted to check the snake plant, and there was this whole trail of coverts actually stuck into the rug. Like they’d been rubbed in there, almost.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale feigned thoughtfulness. “Must have missed them while I was cleaning. Maybe when I ran the vacuum over them they got stuck in the fibers.”

Crowley clearly didn’t believe him. “Uh huh. Okay.” He tucked one behind Aziraphale’s ear, and leaned over the chair, twirling the other two between his fingers. “You know, sometimes when you molt, right, it feels really great to just lay on your back and slide around on the carpet. Like when dogs -”

Aziraphale leaned forward more, the better to hide the flush in his cheeks. “No need to be vulgar.” Another brush of feathers across the tip of his nose, and this time he did sneeze. “Crowley!” He turned, but then stopped, annoyance fading quickly as Crowley buried his fingers into Aziraphale’s scapulars and started preening.

“Just saying,” the demon went on, laughing while Aziraphale sighed contentedly. “Maybe you ought to try it some time. Next molt, you think?” The angel responded with a noncommittal noise, and Crowley paused to take a drink of wine. “Or maybe I just stay here next time and preen you properly. You know, last time I molted? I went down to the beach at night, rolled around in the sand for a bit. I missed a secondary when I cleaned up, too - Ellen down the street found it, took it to school to ask the science teacher what kind of bird it came from.” He snorted. “I think it’s still sitting in Oxford - far as they’ve determined, there must have been a freakishly huge grackle flying over the South Downs one night, although they won’t admit to that publicly.”

“Careless.” Aziraphale cracked one lazy eye. “You should stay next time, to make sure I don’t make the same mistake.”

Crowley hummed. “Perhaps I will.” The angel tried not to moan as Crowley’s fingers hit a particularly itchy spot, smoothing the feathers down and stroking the barbules back into place. “Anyway, someone’s got to keep you from ruining the rug.”

Chapter Text

The trouble with being supernatural, is that over time some of the supernatural energy just sort of … sheds off. Human homes are full of dust, which is mostly made up of dirt and shed hair and skin. The homes of supernatural entities* have dust too - they are, after all, on Earth - but beyond the dirt and fluff and, in some homes, shed pet hairs, there is energy . An energy that seeps into the pores of the world around it, threads its way through the visible dimension and all the others, bleeds into the space-time continuum and pulls all the fabric of existence in just a little tighter.

[* Of which, in the world, there are a total of 13 - there used to be 12, but Lucifer loves an unlucky number and bought an apartment in LA just to round it out. ]

It happened in Crowley’s Bentley - when the car rolled out of the shop in 1933, it was an ordinary car, mechanical and lifeless. By 1948 it had picked up on the concept of fun , and decided that anything less than 30mph didn’t fit that concept. Happily enough, its demonic owner agreed with it, and by the 1960s it was struggling with the things sentient beings called ‘emotions’. Also ‘sentience’, which was a word it had been surprised to learn. In the 1990s, it learned about ‘love’, and assigned that word to one man and one man only: Freddie Mercury. Crowley was merely the facilitator to their relationship, the Bentley thought, and for that it would be forever grateful.

All of that to say, things that demons and angels come into contact with over long periods of time tend to develop their own otherworldly characteristics. Sentience, certainly, is a risk, as in the case of the Bentley, but if there is something to siphon the energies away, then the inanimate will remain so. In Aziraphale’s bookshop, the books and the L-space lapped up the energy the angel emitted, twisting and stretching into dimensions unknown, planets beyond what the eye could see**, leaving the shop itself entirely inert. Which was preferable, because Aziraphale himself did more than enough to keep customers away without the help of an opinionated building.

[** Of course, Aziraphale knew this. It was why he never worried too much about not having a book that technically no longer existed - with the exception of Agnes Nutter, most books existed somewhere, in some dimension and during some time. And for the few unique cases in which the angel could not navigate the L-space well enough to find what he was looking for, he did have a good friend that knew the literary world even better, and was usually happy to help. He didn’t talk much, but Aziraphale always made sure to bring him the nicest bananas on the holidays, and the quiet ‘ook’ of gratitude was more than enough .]

When they moved into the cottage in South Downs, they rather expected the cottage would develop its own opinions sooner or later. Oh, certainly, Crowley’s plants would draw in some energy, and Aziraphale’s books, but with the two of them living there, even the veritable jungle Crowley managed to curate throughout the house, greenhouse, and garden, and Aziraphale’s sprawling library that exceeded the physical space offered by the little cottage wouldn’t be enough to offset their presence entirely.

But when, after a century, the only opinion the cottage seemed to have developed was that the front door should creak ominously when opened, no matter how often Crowley oiled the hinges, they began to suspect there was something else afoot. “You don’t think it’s the cats you’ve been feeding?” Aziraphale asked mildly one morning, while they were sitting in the garden. Crowley frowned. 

“Don’t think they count if they don’t live here.”

Aziraphale looked to the demon, who had perhaps a dozen neighborhood cats clustered at his feet, taking turns at rubbing up against his legs, and wondered if he should point out that they might as well live there, really. Certainly, Old Mozzie belonged to the woman down the road, and technically the tag on Biffy’s collar said ‘Jason Martin’, but when the cats sleep on your bed 6 nights out of 7, Aziraphale thought, all of that didn’t really matter much. They were your cats. 

“I suppose not,” he said, instead. “The energy has to be going somewhere though, don’t you think?”

“L-space,” Crowley said, definitively. Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, but the demon waved his mug at him. “I’m sure you have a path through to it somewhere, don’t try to argue. There’s no way you’ve taken public transport to the shop every time I’ve been asleep.”

“I could have miracled myself there.”

Crowley sighed. “Aziraphale, it would be a miracle if you didn’t go to the bookshop less than three times a week.” He stretched his legs, much to the chagrin of the assembled cats, who shuffled around to take up their usual places for this particular position. Fluffy jumped into Crowley’s lap, hissed at the rest of the assembled felines, and laid down to sleep. Crowley rubbed his ears, absently. “Besides, I’ve seen you bring stuff back and forth through it. I know you didn’t dare take that old computer of yours on the bus, angel.”

There was silence for a minute, filled with the purring of cats and the waves crashing against the shore and the cliffs in the distance. Then, “It’s just a little path. Hardly enough to absorb a hundred years’ worth of both of us.”

Crowley sipped his tea. “Could be all of the above?” he suggested, eyebrow raised. “Plants, L-space, cats, the blasted front door, all of that ought to do it, you think?”

“I’m not sure.”

“And the Bentley takes some too,” the other added, his sunglasses sliding down his nose. His eyes were closed, in any case. “Off me, anyhow. And the wards.” He gestured vaguely to the perimeter of the property.

“They ought to contribute, not take away,” Aziraphale pointed out. “Which is an excellent observation. Between the two of us, and the wards, I just think there’s something else -”

“Nah, come off it.” Crowley heaved a deep breath and set his tea aside, the better to fold his hands on top of Fluffy and settle in for a good post-wake-up nap. “We’d’ve felt something ages ago if there were. It’s just all getting spread out.” He nudged Tiger with a foot, the better to stretch out just a little more. “You worry too much.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Perhaps.” There wasn’t an answer, and after a few minutes Crowley snored gently, so Aziraphale decided to take his leave, gathering up the tea and carefully navigating around the cats to go back inside. He washed the mugs out, and then picked up the book he’d finished the night before, weaving his way through his private library and into the L-space to choose another.

In the kitchen, entirely alone, the two mugs turned themselves upside-down to dry more efficiently.

-

It was another year or two before the subject of dispersed energy occurred to either of them again. This time it was Crowley, though. He was sitting up on the widow’s walk, cross-legged on the worn floorboards, alternating between looking at the sky and the large, slim glass screen that projected the telescope’s view to a larger, more visible format. Occasionally, he would adjust the telescope, compare the sky itself to the view of the telescope, and then dictate a note into his watch. “They’ll need to hang a left pretty directly if they want to get to Mars on time,” he murmured, as the little image of the spaceship flickered on the glass. “Might have to go set them right again -”

The door to the stairwell slammed shut.

Crowley paused, and then twisted to look down the trapdoor of the spiral staircase. It was fairly dark, but he was a demon and darkness was not an obstacle. On the plinth, he could see the fittonia’s leaves trembling slightly. “Aziraphale?” he called. There was no answer. After a minute, he frowned in annoyance. “Oy, where are you?” he demanded, tapping his watch. A second later, Aziraphale answered,

“In the library, Crowley, where would you expect? Why?”

He frowned more deeply. Then, “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Just thought I heard you.” He shook his wrist, and the connection snapped off. Then, he sat very still, intent on listening to the world with every molecule, every fiber, and then when nothing happened, he sighed again and rustled his wings a little, and stroked the cat next to him. “Must have been a draft or something,” he decided, and he returned to his telescope.

Over the waves, even if he had been listening then, he still might not have heard the quiet ‘ Yeah, it was a bit drafty .’

-

They have lived in the cottage for 150 years when they see her for the first time. They are watching TV in the den together on a rainy evening, Crowley stretched across the sofa with his head resting on Aziraphale’s stomach, Aziraphale with his legs stretched out and his feet propped on the coffee table. Crowley has a bowl of popcorn nestled against his chest and Aziraphale is picking away at it, the demon only occasionally crunching a burnt kernel. ‘The Price is Right’ is on, saved from earlier in the week for just such a night as this, and every now and then one or the other of them chime in with a guess or an answer, and they lament that they really should try to get on the show one of these days, just think of all the money they would win, and nobody would probably recognize them …

It’s a routine, and a comfortable one, well-worn over the last few decades. 

And it’s interrupted when, after Aziraphale posits that the barbecue set can’t possibly cost more than $1300, a woman says “No, those solar grills with the electron burners definitely go for at least $1700.”

They both scream. The popcorn, miraculously, transports, unspilled, to the coffee table***. Crowley falls onto the floor when Aziraphale stands, spinning around, eyes wide.

[*** Aziraphale and Crowley have both lived for a very long time, and while an unexpected intrusion into their home is certainly startling, it’s not worth wasting perfectly good popcorn .]

“Oh, you actually heard me!” He spins around once more, kicking Crowley’s hand aside and knocking the demon to the floor again. “Never done that before, huh?”

Aziraphale is the first to see her, mostly because he is not laying face-down and swearing venomously into the rug (although thankfully not literally, this time). She’s stood by the window, and though she’s smiling confidently, the posture of her shimmering, blue, translucent body is just visible enough to betray her uncertainty. “Uh, hi.”

The angel swallows, and wonders if he should get his sword. “Hello. Forgive me for asking, but you are … ?”

Crowley manages to drag himself off the floor and drape his arms over the back of the sofa. “Yeah,” he says, in an attempt to be much more threatening than a pajama-clad retired demon has any rights to be, “get talking.”

“Um.” She shimmers, and nearly fades, but then she literally and visibly fortifies herself and says, “I’m Lydia. I’m pretty sure I’m a ghost.”

Crowley blinks. “ Pretty sure ?”

“Not really sure what else I could be, to be honest.” She shrugs. “I remember drowning and then, sort of remember wandering around on the shore for a while, and then something told me to come up and start hanging around your house. Ghost kind of stuff.” She manages a feeble smile. “You get it, right? You have to get it. I can’t imagine anyone who could possibly get it any more than you guys.”

“Does sound fairly ghostly, yeah,” Crowley agrees, before he looks to Aziraphale. “Yeah?”

The angel’s expression has gone soft, pitying. “Oh, my dear,” he says at length, while he absent-mindedly grabs Crowley under the arm and helps pull the demon to his feet. “Yes. Oh, I’m so sorry. In the sea … ?”

She nods and grimaces. “Yeah. Rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Of course.” He comes around the sofa and moves toward her, bathrobe billowing behind him with more divinity than any ordinary bathrobe had a right to. “Lydia, you said? What year?”

She sighs. “Yeah, Lydia. Born 1977, died 2005.” She shrugs. “Pretty sure, anyway; I remember turning 28. But like I said - there’s a lot of fuzzy bits before you two moved in and I followed you up here.”

“What year was that, do you recall?” Aziraphale asked quietly, soothingly.

“2021,” she answers, without hesitation. “I remember the calendar.”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchange a look. “Well,” Crowley says at last, ignoring the fact that one of the neighbors cats has tucked itself under his chin, “that answers the question of where all the extra energy’s been going, doesn’t it?”

“Sorry, I didn’t … I mean I don’t know how I did that, I just kept being able to do more and until you guys talked about it a few years back I didn’t realize it might be because, you know. You know?” She sighs, and it sounds incredibly ghostly, all echoes and sadness and mourning. “You know, I didn’t even believe in ghosts when I was alive.”

“Not many really, truly do,” Aziraphale assures her. “Same with angels and demons, my dear - trust us.”

“Yeah,” Crowley adds lightly, trying to inject some levity into the situation, “You try going to the DMLV and explaining your eyes look this way ‘cause you’re a demon and they just put ‘01’ on your license and tell you to mind the speed limit.” He grins, because it gets a chuckle out of her, and she doesn’t seem to mind the fangs. Honestly, if she’s really been hanging around for the past century or so, she’s probably seen worse, anyway.

“Sorry,” she says again, and Aziraphale shakes his head.

“No, dear, you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m rather sorry we drew you in. Why,” he goes on, eyes widening, “had we never moved in, you likely would have moved on years ago!” He looks worried then. “My dear, Crowley and I are more supernatural freelancers than anything nowadays, but if you’ve come to us to help you move on from this plane, we can absolutely help, it’ll be no trouble -”

“No!” She raises her hands and takes an instinctive step back, although that’s a bit hard to discern considering she doesn’t have very well-defined feet. “No, I mean …” she trails off, laughs nervously, and runs a hand through her long, curly hair. “I mean, no offense, and I really couldn’t help it, but all these years I’ve been listening to you two talk about heaven and hell and um …” She shrugs. “I’d rather not? If I don’t have to? Sorry.”

Aziraphale’s smile turns brittle. “I … but, my dear, by staying here, you would be, ah. Well, you’d be staying here . At the nearest power source, as it were, to where you passed on.”

She wraps her arms around herself. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean. I know it. But … but I’ve been in this cottage now for um, well, basically 150 years and, like, it’s nice. Loads better than it sounds like heaven or hell is, anyway. I mean, you guys like it.” She falters, and almost seems to shrink in on herself. “Sorry, listen, I know I’m basically asking to move in, I’m sorry, but I’ve been here for a while and like, I can be a really good roommate, you can ask my old roommate from when I was alive - maybe, I’m sure she’s dead, but you could probably find her, she’s probably in heaven unless coke gets you kicked out of there - and she’ll tell you I’m a great roommate.” Her expression turns hopeful, and a little desperate. “I can go in the garden, you know! I could just … hang out out there. It’s nice out there. Only I do like ‘The Price is Right’, so if you don’t mind I’ll probably come in the window for that, but I promise you won’t even know I’m there.” She stops, because Aziraphale has held up a hand. She flickers. “Please?” she asks, and the desperation in her voice rings like bells. 

“Excuse us,” Aziraphale says, calling upon all of the gravitas afforded to him by 6100 years of being an angel and, more importantly, 400 years of being a rare books dealer. “We need to have a word in private.” He turns, grabs Crowley by the elbow, and they march to the kitchen, side-by-side.

“She should move on,” Aziraphale says, as soon as the door shuts. Crowley nods, thoughtfully. And then asks, 

“Why?”

Aziraphale blinks. “Because … because she’s a ghost. That’s what ghosts ought to do , Crowley That’s generally what they want .”

“She said she doesn’t.”

Aziraphale sighs. “I’m sure if I explained to her what heaven is really like -”

Crowley barks a laugh. “Angel, she’s been listening to you talk about what a bastard Gabriel is for the last century, and I’m pretty sure she’s heard you say more than once that you’d rather pull slugs out of the veg for all of eternity rather than go back to - hang on, what’d you call it? ‘That blasted great sterile processing suite in the sky’, that was the one.” He smirks, and spreads his arms wide, stretching. “She says she doesn’t want to go.”

“I heard you the first time.” Aziraphale grumbles as he crosses his arms over his chest, and scowls. “If she doesn’t go , Crowley, then she will be here .”

“Yeah? I don’t mind a roommate. The ubiquitous they say three’s company.” Crowley has moved to the fridge and is studying the contents, settling on a can of seltzer after a pause. It fizzes when he cracks it open. “Besides, she’s already been living here. Dying here. Haunting here? Whatever.” He takes a swig of the seltzer and burps. “Point is, she’s been alright so far, only difference now is we know about her, which actually makes it better , far as I’m concerned.”

There is a silence, in which Aziraphale glowers at Crowley for nearly a full minute. “You watch too many sitcoms,” he concludes, finally. Crowley grins, because he’s been arguing with the angel for over six millennia, and he knows how it goes - he knows that this time, he’s won . “I can’t say I’m entirely comfortable with another, ah … another person living with us, I suppose.” He looks toward the ceiling, brow furrowed. “It’s always been just the two of us. And the cats,” he adds, because he’s decided to cede the argument, but he’s going to make sure the demon gets taken to task for winning it. “Your little collection of lost souls.”

“Don’t forget the plants and the soul music,” Crowley adds, unperturbed. “And apparently Lydia’s been here all along, so it never really has been just the two of us, really. Listen, angel.” Crowley sets the seltzer down and moves around the table to loop his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Ghosts do want to move on, usually, but you saw her. She doesn’t . She’s not ready, or she never will be, and who cares? You can’t blame her for not wanting to mess with a good thing, can you?” Aziraphale grunts as a long, skinny finger prods him in the chest. “ Can you ?”

He glares at Crowley for a breath, two. Then, “No, I suppose not. Oof,” he adds because Crowley slaps him on the chest then.

“Right! Can’t blame her at all, not us, anyway. So we lay down some ground rules, and carry on like we’ve been. Good talk, ‘Ziraphale.”

“Mhm.”

Crowley beams, and it’s not nearly as sincere as it is cheeky. “Love you, you’re pretty.”

“You’re a wretched old serpent,” he replies, but he plants a kiss on Crowley’s nose anyway. “You have to be the mean one in negotiations, though.”

“Naturally.”

When they return to the den, Lydia is standing by the window, her facial expression drawn and her shoulders tight. She relaxes, nearly imperceptibly, when she sees a smile quirk the corners of Aziraphale’s mouth. “Right,” Crowley announces, drawing himself up to full height, which is taller than Aziraphale and much taller than Lydia. “Ground rules.”

Her face lights up, literally, a soft blue glow emanating from her cheeks and eyes. “I can stay?”

“You mind the rules, and we’ll see,” Crowley answers, but his tone is so non-threatening that he might as well have handed her the keys and a ‘welcome-to-the-neighborhood’ casserole. He begins the list of rules, ticking them off on his fingers as he goes. “Rule one: don’t be nice to my plants. Rule two: don’t touch my car. Rule three: don’t mess with his books, and if you read one, put it back exactly as it was or truly, Lydia, only God will be able to help you. Rule four: no possessing anybody. Rule five: no cheesy haunting bits that aren’t pre-meditated before any guests arrive -”

“Wait -” Aziraphale tries to cut in, while Lydia laughs, and Crowley bowls on,

“And rule six: do not ever, unless the world is literally ending , go into the bedroom.” He pauses, and looks to Aziraphale. In that moment, Lydia wonders if she should assure them that she definitely would not , because she already had once, when curiosity had got the better of her, and what she saw there had too many eyes and too many scales and made her fully understand why angels of the Bible always led off with ‘Be not afraid’. “Want to add a seventh in, make it holy or whatever?”

“What do you mean premeditated -”

“Right!” Crowley claps his hands and smiles wide, all white teeth and too-long incisors. “Deal?”

Lydia offers a hand, and Crowley takes it. They smirk at each other. “Aren’t there like, dire parables about making deals with the devil?”

“Luckily for you I’m just a devil, and I’m retired. Mostly. I’m serious about the books though,” he adds, sotto voce . “He called an exorcist on me once in the fourteenth century because I used one of his scrolls for kindling.” She notices him shudder, and then it passes, and he lets go of her hand. “That’s a deal, then. Renegotiable, of course. Just say the words.”

“Which are?”

“Um.” He hums and considers it for a minute. “How about ‘I want to renegotiate the deal’? Simple, that. Not going to be confusing for anybody.”

“Then deal.” She thinks about it for a minute, and then, quietly, whispers, “Thank you. Thank you, you -”

Crowley glances over his shoulder to Aziraphale, who has sighed rather dramatically and flopped back into his place on the couch. He leans in to Lydia and mumbles, “Literally do not mention it. Ever. He’ll think it was his idea, eventually.” She makes a noise then, and it comes out halfway between a laugh and a relieved sob. “He’s the nice one, after all.”

“Yeah, yeah, OK,” Lydia answers, because she’s seen this argument a million times over, by now, and she knows the script as well as either of them do. She wipes away a spectral tear. “They’re really tough rules. I’ll do my best to follow them.”

“You’d better.” He winks, and then turns away, vaults over the back of the sofa, and settles in to his prior position with Aziraphale and the bowl of popcorn. There is a sucking noise, and then a rustling, and his black wings stretch out across the sofa and the floor. Aziraphale looks disapproving, just for a moment, before there is a rather more subdued sound, and a burst of slightly-mussed white feathers joins the black. Lydia, for her part, stands awkwardly behind the couch for a minute, before deciding to go for broke, and floating around to settle cross-legged in the air above one of the rarely-used recliners. 

On the screen, the game show contestants are jumping around and cheering. Crowley scowls. “Did we miss the bit with the barbecue?”

“I believe we did,” Azirpahale sighs.

“Well bloody well rewind it then, I need to know how much it was,” Crowley demands, irritated. Aziraphale waves a languid hand at the sleek TV, and the images skip backwards awkwardly, until the recording as returned to the point before all the hubub started. “Right, so I guess $1600, Aziraphale’s in for $1300, and Lydia you said $1700.” They watch, intently, as Drew Carey - or a hologram of him, anyway - dramatically reveals the price at $1899. On the screen, one of the contestants begins to jump up and down and shout, possibly more excited about a barbecue grill than any human in history has ever been about a grill, or at least more excited than any human in history has been about a grill since last week’s episode where the woman won the ‘Fun in the Sun’ prize package.

Aziraphale nods, and then smiles at Lydia. “Well done, my dear - they really have raised the prices of those these past few years, haven’t they?”

“I guess so?” Lydia debates asking how he can be so oblivious to the cost of things, when he and Crowley watch The Price is Right almost daily. “I forget what they used to cost. But I figured new tech has to be pretty expensive, and solar grills with the electron beams are pretty new.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Aziraphale freezes, and then smiles when Crowley dumps a handful of popcorn into his outstretched palm, before dumping another handful into his own mouth. 

“Nah,” the demon answers, around a mouthful of burnt kernels. “Don’t think you ever could be.”

Chapter Text

“You know,” the young lady tells him, as he tosses a handful of day-old baguette crumbs into the pond at St. James’, “it’s not actually good for ducks, feeding them bread.”

He was having a nice day, up until that point. But as soon as she finishes speaking, his smile turns brittle. He pauses, well-manicured hand halfway back to the bag of bread. “Is it?” He fixes her with an inquiring sort of look, and she shifts uncomfortably, suddenly under the impression that she was being watched, and in more ways than the unassuming man with the bread should have been capable of.

Nevertheless, she persists. “It’s like junk food to them - all calories and no nourishment.”

“I see.”

“And they can get all kinds of health problems, you know. Malnutrition, obesity, lethargy, angel wing -”

“I’m sorry?” His mouth opens a little. “I - sorry, I must have missed that last bit."

“Angel wing? Their wings twist from all the protein, and stick straight out to the sides. Sometimes it’s called airplane wing, which makes more sense if you ask me.”

Aziraphale - an angel - blinks at her, and then turns his gaze away, back to the ducks waiting impatiently at the edge of the pond, their beady eyes fixed on him and his bag of baguette. “I see. You know an awful lot about ducks.”

“Special interest.” She shrugs, and fiddles with her bracelets. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, but really it’s -”

“No! Oh, no, no my dear don’t apologize.” He seems, to her, to startle out of some unknown train of thought, and he turns back to her, smiling softly. “No, thank you for teaching me, actually. Not to impose, and please don’t feel obligated, but, ah, would you know anything better for the ducks to snack on? My friend and I do like to feed them.”

She beams. “Yeah! So the easiest to get is probably corn or peas, but they also really like cabbage, and ...”

-

It is much later, and Aziraphale is standing in front of his record player, hands waving idly as he directs an unseen orchestra. His wings are out, relaxed and stretched, stirring up little puffs of dust when the feathers brushed over a stack of books.

“That kind of night, is it?” He didn’t hear Crowley come in, but his arrival wasn’t unexpected, and Aziraphale turns to smile at the demon. “Right, well, I’m game.” There is a gentle puff, and Crowley’s wings are out too. He takes the opportunity to stretch, and the left wing arcs to its fullest extent. The right does too, though that extent is much more limited, and the twisted joints of the wing creak before Crowley sighs, satisfied, and lets his wings settle, relaxed, against his back.

The right one, Aziraphale notices, sticks out. Well, it always has - it had broken when he’d Fallen, and none of the demons’ wings had healed correctly, although he was given to understand Crowley was lucky to still have both wings. Nevertheless, it cocked out to the side, and although Aziraphale has always known about it, today he learned something new. He smirks.

“You know,” he says, moving across the room toward Crowley, who has recognized that smirk and has gone still, wary, “I met a very nice, interesting young lady in the park today.”

“Did you?”

“Mhm.” He lets his fingers rest on the patagium of Crowley’s bad wing, and starts to rub at the feathers, smiling more broadly at the quiet hiss of enjoyment, and the way Crowley slants the wing to grant Aziraphale easier access. “She knew a lot about ducks.”

“Ducks?” Crowley almost sighs the word. If his other form were a dog rather than a snake, Aziraphale considers, working his fingers into the scars and the feathers around the wrist, loosening the joint up gently, Crowley might have started kicking a leg. “You ask her if they have ears?”

“Would you believe, I didn’t think to.” He chuckles. “But she did tell me something - Crowley, she told me bread is bad for ducks.”

In spite of his obvious relaxation, the demon raises his eyebrows. “It isn’t.”

“It is!” Aziraphale insists. “She told me it’s very high in calorie content and almost completely devoid of nutritional value for the poor dears. They can become malnourished or ill.”

“Bit like crisps, then?”

“I suppose.” He shrugs. “She told me all sorts of other treats that are safe for them, though, so when we go tomorrow we can still feed them, and it’ll be much more nourishing.”

Crowley nods, shoulders slumping, and then lets his head loll back. Aziraphale stretches the wrist joint a little more, just shy of the point of discomfort, and massages the ligament, nodding with satisfaction as it loosens a little, even just for a moment. “Explains all the bags of peas by the door then, does it?”

“Precisely. Do try not to make the peas sink the ducks - I’m afraid they’ll already be upset enough with us as it is for not bringing bread.”

“Angel, I don’t think the ducks will care. Move a bit to your left, yeah?”

Aziraphale obliges. “They might, you don’t know. You don’t even know if they have ears.”

“Must do,” Crowley says, with all the certainty of 150 years of persistent thought, “else how would they hear other ducks?”

“She told me something else,” Aziraphale goes on, because he’s not sure if they have ears either. “Bread has too much protein in it for ducks, she said, and it can cause a condition called angel wing.”

Crowley freezes for a second, and then his eyes slide open. He looks sidelong to Aziraphale, over the sunglasses, and licks his lips once, twice, before he says, slowly, “If you’re about to make some joke about me giving ducks their angel wings -”

“I never would,” said Aziraphale, regretting that he hadn’t. “But ducks with angel wing, or airplane wing, she said, get so much protein that it makes their wrist joint twist, if I understood correctly, and -” he lets go of Crowley’s wing. The demon, still relaxed in spite of his suspicions, let the wing fold back against his shoulders, and Aziraphale runs his fingers through the few remaining primaries, cocked out at an angle to Crowley’s thigh. “It sticks out to the side. Bit like yours, I think, the way she described it.”

“Uh huh.” Crowley crosses his arms then, and turns to face Aziraphale. He raises one eyebrow, slowly and delicately, and although he’s wearing his glasses the angel knows his eyes are narrowed. “Bit ironic,” he says sardonically. “Don’t you think?”

“I suppose it is, isn’t it?” He smooths down a few coverts, still ruffled from before. “Anyway, it’s interesting, at the very least. Makes you wonder what they saw, the humans, to want to call it that. A broken wing, and they named it for angels.”

Crowley looks a little defensive. “It wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re inferring. Probably.” His brow furrows. “What year did that name come around? Probably wasn’t me.”

“I never said it was. Would you like some wine?”

“Always.” Aziraphale turns to fill the glasses he had set out in preparation for the evening, and then turns back again before he even uncorks the bottle, because Crowley has turned to stalk off into the shadows of the bookshop.

“Crowley? Where -”

“You’ve gotta have a book about ducks out here, somewhere,” the demon answers from the darkness beyond the backroom. 

Aziraphale grins, and chuckles to himself, and picks up the bottle of wine. He runs his thumb up the neck of the bottle and the cork pops out, no corkscrew required. The wine, a dry rose, sparkles in the glasses as he pours. “I’m sure it wasn’t really named after you, dear boy.”

The footsteps in the shop move closer and Crowley returns, plucks the wineglass from Aziraphale’s hand, and turns around again, now fortified, back into the shop. “S’not that,” he calls over his shoulder, and Aziraphale sighs, still smiling, and follows him. “They have to have ears.” He takes a sip, and looks expectantly at the angel. “Show the way. I’ve gotta know.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, angel?” Aziraphale paused, book in hand, and carefully - very carefully, considering he was perched on the bookshop’s elderly ladder - turned to face Crowley. The demon was sprawled on the couch, limbs akimbo, with a thick, black plaid blanket spread over his skinny form, against the damp cold of December in London. His sunglasses were set aside, and he was looking thoughtfully at the screen of his tablet. “How old do you think I look? In human years, mind.”

“Oh.” Whatever Aziraphale had been expecting, it wasn’t that question. He blinked. “Ah, why … ?”

“Just was thinking,” Crowley explained, his head lolling back onto the armrest of the sofa and his eyes sliding shut, “if we’re gonna buy a place, right, we have to come up with birthdays, like real proper humans. I made one up when I bought the place in Mayfair, but if I use that one it’ll put me at about 119 years old, which i think stretches credibility.”

“A bit,” Aziraphale agreed. He frowned. “Well, I’ve never been good at telling human ages. But you look … middle aged, I suppose. Not young, not old.” He frowned. “What would that be? Forties? Fifty, maybe?”

“Yeah I figured.” Crowley went silent for a minute, thoughtful, and Aziraphale turned back to shelving his books. He had only just placed the second tome on the shelf when he heard a sharp gasp from the couch, followed by frantic tapping on the tablet. “What is it, dear boy?”

“Just thought of my birthday. Oh, angel, can’t believe I’ve not used this before.” He grinned, and actually giggled a little. Aziraphale frowned. That was never good.

“What is it? What did you choose?”

Crowley paused a moment, and looked at Aziraphale, deadly serious. “If I’m fifty, I look like a good fifty though, right?”

“Indubitably.” He crossed his arms and leaned his elbows onto the ladder. “Go on, what’s your birthday? I’d hate to forget it.”

Crowley waved a hand, already laughing again, harder now, the tablet propped up on his thickly-blanketed knees so he could clutch his sides. “My favorite … my favorite birthdate … all these years I could have used it -!”

“Used what?” He sighed, exasperated. “Out with it!”

By bits, Crowley calmed enough to rub his eyes and choke out, “April 20, 1969.”

“O … kay?” Aziraphale chewed it over. 20 April, 1969 - had anything happened that day? The years all ran together, and he couldn’t recall. But why did Crowley find it so funny? 1969, April 20 …

When he realized it, his face fell. Carefully, he picked the next old book from the pile and began to guide it towards its new home on the shelf with his bretheren. “I see,” he said, tightly. Annoyed.

“Do you?” Crowley was beaming at him. “Go on, what do you think makes it so funny?”

“You know what you’ve done.”

“Go on, angel.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Well actually,” he started, channeling the tone of one particularly well-informed 11-year-old they knew, “in England you would write the date as 20/04/1969.” He made another noise, this time a sigh mixed with a groan. “But in America, you would likely write that same date as 4/20/69.”

Crowley nodded, grinning ear-to-ear. “Nice, nice, nice.”

“How very childish,” Aziraphale responded haughtily, but Crowley’s devilish laughter drowned his own murmurs out.

Chapter Text

Crowley liked his phone. He liked his tablet, too, and most nights, while Aziraphale read or worked on restoring an old book or just enjoyed his music, Crowley sat on his tablet and … did, well, whatever it was that he did. Aziraphale had never really asked. But he knew the demon enjoyed it, if the fleeting smirks and the occasional giggles were anything to go on. He talked to the tablet sometimes, and the tablet talked back - voice to text, which was a technological marvel Crowley and his snake-eyes had been eternally grateful to humans for. Aziraphale had learned early on to tune it out, and more often than not the occasional comment was nothing more than background noise, unless Crowley was careful to preface it with some familiar form of address: ‘angel’, ‘Ziraphale’, ‘oi you’, etc. 

It was why on one fateful night, when Crowley called out, Aziraphale was completely oblivious to whatever the demon had been doing for the last two hours, which had, he had sort of distantly noticed, involved rather more voice-to-text chatter than usual.

“Hm?” He looked up, mildly, and was surprised to see Crowley looked … frightened. Paler than usual, huddled and withdrawn in the overlarge t-shirt, thin fingers tapping the tablet nervously. Aziraphale leaned forward, doing his best to soothe the sudden roil of concern in his gut. “Crowley?”

“I cocked it up, angel,” Crowley nearly whined. “Oh, I cocked it up this time, really did, really big.”

Aziraphale frowned, bewildered. “Cocked up what? You were here all night, you can’t have - what have you been - Crowley, what’s going on?”

“I pissed him off!” He dropped the tablet to the couch beside himself, the better to hunch down and twist his fingers into his hair. “I thought he was just another stupid troll, I didn’t realize it was him, angel, honest I didn’t.” He raised his hands, placating. “I didn’t, I swear. Never would have done it if I had.” He sat back, hands over his face. “Oh, this’ll be miserable.”

“ What will be miserable?” Aziraphale sighed, set the book aside, and crossed the room to sit next to Crowley, delicately picking up the tablet. “Back up. Explain.”

“Right.” Crowley groaned and dropped his hands, folded, between his knees, head leaned back and eyes closed. “I can feel it taking effect. Feeling weaker already,” he said, sounding a great deal more pathetic than he had only seconds ago. Aziraphale nudged him with an elbow. 

“Crowley, please, what in the name of tea and biscuits is going on?”

That got his attention. He sat up and scowled at Aziraphale, a slight curl of disgust on his lips. “ Tea and biscuits ?”

“I have more where that came from. Explain .”

“Right. Okay. Alright.” He waved a hand to the tablet, now inert in Aziraphale’s hands. “So I was on Reddit, like usual, you know*, and I thought I’d have a go in one of the anti-vaxx forums tonight, since it’s been a while since I’ve done that.” He shrugged, and leaned his elbows forward onto his knees, hands clasped and wringing nervously. “There was this … this madman insisting you can cure any disease with fermented beets and mineral oil. Mineral oil! It’ll cure something, that’s certain, but not a lot of diseases, I don’t think. I’m not a doctor,” he added, thinking it over. “Pretty sure it won’t, though.”

[* He didn’t .]

“I thought the anti-vaxx movement was Hell’s doing,” Aziraphale reflected, tapping his chin with a finger. “I’m sure it wasn’t Heaven’s.”

Crowley sighed. “It was the humans, Aziraphale. As usual. Not Heaven or Hell. Are you surprised?”

“Not really, no.”

“ Anyway ,” Crowley went on, “so I’m arguing with this madman, just prodding him along, figure I’m giving him a few good pokes down the road of sin and all - don’t look at me like that, you know it’s the bare minimum I can do to keep Hell off my back - and he starts sending me text messages .”

Aziraphale shrugged, confused. “Okay?”

“My phone number’s not listed anywhere! I’m sure of it. And here’s the thing, Aziraphale, look.” He seized the tablet and tapped it a few times, until a familiar screen with blue and gray speech bubbles appeared. “He called me Crawly ,” he hissed. “And look at the name.”

“You haven’t gone by that name in eons.” Aziraphale studied the screen, head to the side. “What name? The little string of pictures at the top? That’s not a name. Really, Crowley, I’m sure they make lenses -”

“Look at the picturessss, angel,” the demon replied, frustrated, still hissing.

Aziraphale sighed, put-upon, and indulged him. “Well, this first one has a thermometer in its mouth, and this one is … oh, that’s filthy.” He frowned. “These are standard?” He caught sight of Crowley’s exasperated expression, and went on with a sigh. “Alright, there’s another one blowing its nose, and then a skull. And a coffin. Bit grim.”

“You think? And I didn’t even have his contact in my phone, angel, so he shouldn’t have had a name, but …” He waved his hands. “Anyway, go on, read the messages.”

“Which ones are yours? I always forget. Oh, yes, thank you, the blue ones, yes. Alright.” He sat back and started to read. “‘Bold of you to come after me, Crawly,’ he said, and then you - oh, Crowley, we really have to work on your grammar.”

“ Angel !”

“Anyway, then you said ‘ who dis ’, honestly Crowley, and he sent … more pictures, looks like another skull and crossbones and a syringe and … and ‘been a long time’.” He frowned. “A long time? Must be very long indeed if he still calls you Crawly. Is this another demon?”

“Keep reading.”

“Right, then you replied again, still atrocious, and the two of you go back and forth a bit and then he …” Aziraphale scrolled down, and then stopped. He swallowed. “‘Looks like I’m not the only one who’s keeping busy in retirement’.” 

It occurred to him then, the answer. The thing that had Crowley so on-edge. The one being who would know the name Crawly, would use emojis with a definite illness theme, and, most memorably, the only other supernatural being in history to retire . He looked to Crowley, eyes wide. “It can’t be, can it?”

“Fairly certain it is.” He made a miserable little noise, face in his hands. “Go on. It’s not much longer.”

Aziraphale watched him for another minute, and then turned back to the tablet, nodding, steeling himself. “Yes. Yes, then you - oh!” He gasped. “Crowley, you didn’t .” He slammed the tablet as firmly as he dared onto his knees and glared at the demon. “You taunted a Horseman ?”

“I didn’t really think it was him! I don’t know why!” Crowley wailed. “Angel, I told you, if I’d known, but I didn’t, and then I thought, even if it was him, well, he’s retired, isn’t he? Can’t have all that much power left, eh? There’s medications and everything! Argh, and you know they’re not going to bloody work !”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened further, and he turned back to the tablet, reading on in horror. 

Maybe, Crawly. But we’ll see how well you and your angel do with keeping busy as you go. I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeves. ‘what’s that sposed to mean? demons cant get sick. nor angels’ Are you certain?

There was silence for a while, just the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs a mile away, and the soft movement of wind through the garden. Aziraphale, slowly, set the tablet down on the coffee table, and folded his hands. “Well. Not your brightest maneuver.”

“Told you.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. A part of him wanted to be angry. A large part of him. But … but what good would it do? he thought. It was done, the die was cast. And Crowley had been an idiot, yes, but he was Aziraphale ’s idiot, and if there were going to be consequences of this then they might as well muddle through them together. He forced the anger aside, and said instead, calmly, “He could be bluffing.”

Crowley shook his head, and forced a weak smile. “Could be. You feel alright?”

“You don’t think he’s bluffing.” He took a breath. “I feel fine.”

“That’s good.” Crowley looked miserable and, slowly, spread his hands for Aziraphale to see. On the backs, faint but growing angrier by the minute, were red speckles. Pox. “I don’t.” He flinched, just a little, as Aziraphale brushed aside his fringe to feel his forehead, and winced when he saw pox there, too.

“You’re burning up.”

“Figured I would be.”

“We should get you to bed.” He stood and held his hand out to Crowley, expectant. “Rest helps, I’m given to understand.”

“You think I can sleep off a Horseman’s curse?” Crowley asked, flatly. “Come on, Aziraphale, this’s gonna be something else, we’re going to need … need magic, or prayer, or you’re gonna have to talk to your old boss or …” he trailed off. “Or something,” he concluded, and he sounded very tired indeed.

“Possibly,” Aziraphale agreed. “Very possibly. But at the present moment, I feel fine, and you clearly do not , and therefore you should rest. I’ll wake you if I need you. Come on.” He helped Crowley to his feet, and slid his arm under his shoulders, the better to guide him to the bed. Crowley shuffled along, wincing. “You alright?”

“I have no idea what he saddled me with,” the demon grunted, taking advantage of the table in the hall as something to lean on, “but it bloody well hurts.”

“Typical.” The remainder of the trip to the bedroom was laborious, Crowley wincing and hobbling along with significant assistance from Aziraphale. By the time they reached the bedroom, and Crowley had collapsed onto the mattress, Aziraphale’s shoulders and neck were aching too. He straightened when he could, grateful, and stretched out, although he really must have twinged something - his neck was much too stiff for a really good stretch. “You said you were arguing on an anti-vaxx forum?”

“Yeah.” Crowley looked to his arms, which were now also covered in red pox. “This is worse than the plague. Looks a bit like measles, but I don’t think …” he winced as he shifted positions. “Can’t be measles. Fever didn’t get as high with that one, I thought.”

“Not usually. Rest , Crowley. It would be apropos to curse us both with vaccine-preventable diseases - I’ll look them up. It could help us lift the curse.”

“How?” Crowley raised his hand and snapped his fingers with a considerable amount of hissing and swearing, his clothes changing to his favorite pajamas, soft and comfortable and black. “Don’t think a proper diagnosis matters when you’re dealing with a curse from Pestilence, Aziraphale. Probably just going to have to go in for the old-fashioned curse-breaking stuff. You have sage?”

“I do,” he affirmed. “I’ll pull those books as well. Get some rest, Crowley.” He considered it. “I still feel fine. Well, apart from a stiff neck, but that’s from helping you. And I do know the Horsemens’ curses all have ways out. Well. Except Azrael’s.”

“And I’d rather not run in to them again,” Crowley pointed out. He looked to Aziraphale, his eyes the only part of his body he dared move. “Promise you’ll get me if you need me?”

“Swear it.”He brushed his hand across Crowley’s forehead, and smoothed aside some of the unruly fringe. “And when I figure this out, Anthony J. Crowley, I’m not going to speak with you for a month.”

“Ngk.” Crowley winced. “That’s fair.”

“Not even, but I tolerate you, so it’s what will happen.”

“You like me, angel. Love me, even. You said it yourself. Don’t be doing this ‘tolerate’ nonsense.”

Aziraphale sighed. “All of those things are true. But right now I am also furious with you, and once this curse is broken I will absolutely find some way to express that.”

“Yeah, alright. I deserve it, I suppose.”

“You do.” Aziraphale didn’t bother trying to dissuade him from that notion; it really had been a stupid thing to do, and the consequences were worse yet. Aziraphale had half a mind to toss the tablet off the cliffs tonight, before he got started with his research, and let Crowley lay there with his aches and pains to think about what he’d done, but then he looked to Crowley, shivering on top of the covers, and sighed, and covered him up instead, the soft tartan fleece appearing in his hands from nowhere in particular. Really, he did care for the wretched scoundrel, quite deeply, but more importantly, if Crowley discorporated there would be the awful possibilities of that, up to and including the fact that Aziraphale would not be able to give him the cold shoulder for an extended period of time just to drive the point home, and would instead be forced to cease contact because Crowley would likely be trapped in Hell.

Aziraphale might be angry, but he wouldn’t wish Hell on him for this. The sudden and unexpected demise of all his plants in the greenhouse, maybe, which was nearly as bad, but not Hell. 

“Rest, Crowley,” he repeated, turning to leave. He shut the light off and was surprised to find how much better he felt in the dark - he couldn’t really see very well under those circumstances, but at least it made the gradually-worsening headache that was pounding away behind his eyes a little less intense.

-

Anathema’s phone rang on Tuesday afternoon. She had just been settling in to do a remote reading for a client, but when she saw who was calling she stopped, laid her deck aside, and answered. “Hey, book-girl.”

She paused. It was Crowley, for sure, but he sounded … wrong . Sick. Weak. So it couldn’t be Crowley, could it. Unless something terrible had happened. A part of her, a part of her that was very small, and grew smaller by the year, wished she hadn’t burned the second book, “Crowley?”

“‘Course, who the hell else’d it be?” There was an attempt at a scoff, but it quickly dissolved into coughing. Anathema waited, patiently, for it to stop.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Got sick, didn’t I? Me an’ ‘Ziraphale.” She heard covers shifting, and a sharp exhale from Crowley. “Kind of in a bit of trouble, to be honest.”

“I thought you guys didn’t get sick?”

“Thus the trouble,” he answered, unusually patient. “Listen, there’s a bit of a curse, but we’ve nearly got it cracked, just … ‘Ziraphale had to go away for a bit. Until I get this sorted.”

All of the color left Anathema’s face. “He didn’t die, did he?”

“No, no, that’s what we’re trying to avoid. But he can’t help me anymore. He’s … not available.” Another round of coughing, this time followed by a groan. “I don’t know how you people do this, honestly.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If I get down there and you two have a cold -”

“Hah!” More coughing. “Nah, think I’d be this dramatic for a cold?”

“Maybe.”

A pause from the other end of the line. “Yeah, alright, I’ll grant you that, but I discorporated from Plague twice , so give me a bit of credit. Oof.” He stopped for a minute. “Sorry, head’s killing me. Got measles. Angel’s got meningitis, so I guess I’m the lucky one this time.”

Anathema’s mouth dropped open. “What did you two do ? Are you contagious? I’m not coming down there if you’re contagious, sorry, I’ll wait for you to die and then Adam and I can figure out how to get you back afterwards.”

“I’ll explain it when you get here and no, not contagious. Like I said, cursed. Can you make it or not? I could really use a set of hands.” The last part was said more quietly. Anathema had known Crowley for a few years by now, and she recognized the tone. Quiet, embarrassed. Pleading. She nodded and then remembered she was speaking to him on the telephone.

“Newt’s going to be home in the next hour. We’ll leave right away. Should I bring anything?”

“Nah, I’ve got most of it together here. Least I think so, anyway. Ah, one other thing, though. So the curse is … a bit finicky, but we figured out it only works on the Earthly forms. Which, you know, I had to call you, so needed the hands, but, ah -”

“You’re going full snake?”

“A bit past that,” Crowley said, a little strangled. “Doesn’t seem to affect the er, the true forms at all, so when you get here I’ll be a bit -”

“Giant demon snake, got it.”

“Don’t freak out.”

She examined her nails and rolled her eyes. “You know me better than that.”

“Yeah. Well, warn Newt. If he passes out I can’t promise I won’t eat him.”

She frowned. “I thought you still have full control of your brain no matter what shape you’re in?”

“I do.”

“So why would you eat Newt then when -”

Crowley sighed. “Anathema, the amount of effort I put into resisting the temptation to devour Newt alive every time he speaks is one of the most un-demonic things about me, I’ll have you know. It’s very polite.”

“You don’t mean that.”

He laughed, and it dissolved into a hacking cough again. “Right,” he wheezed, once he was done. “Okay. Don’t feel like dying today, so I’ll be going. Knock when you’re here. Thanks.” The line went dead. Anathema looked at the phone for a minute, and then calmly got up from the table, and started packing a bag.

When Newt arrived home, Anathema was waiting on the curb with a bag. “Don’t bother getting out,” she told him, hopping into the passenger’s seat. “I packed you a sandwich for dinner. We have to go to South Downs. Crowley and Aziraphale are in trouble.”

Newt was silent for a minute, but he put the car back into drive and pulled away without hesitation. “And we’re going to help them?” he asked, at length.

“Crowley said he mostly had it figured out, just needed an extra set of hands. They’re cursed, apparently. I’m going to help him undo it, I guess.”

“Makes sense they’d call you then,” Newt observed. “What curses an angel and a demon?”

Anathema looked out of the window, hands folded in her lap. “You know, he didn’t say. But he said he has measles and Aziraphale has meningitis. So a disease curse, I guess?” Her brow furrowed. “The curse of disease. Pestilence?”

“Thought that one retired?”

“Retired doesn’t mean dead.” Anathema gave Newt a worried look. “He would have told me if it was Pestilence, right? With a capital P?”

Newt thought it over. “He is a demon,” he concluded, eventually. “I mean, if I’m being honest.”

Anathema scoffed. “Well, yes. But he’s also Crowley . He’d have told me.” She brushed a lock of hair from her face and looked out of the windscreen, not really paying attention to the landscape going by. “I’m over my head with a Horseman. He knows that. I’m human.”

“So were the Them.” He looked to her, briefly, his expression upbeat and encouraging. “If They could do it, you definitely can.”

“They had Adam,” she pointed out, reasonably. “I’m going to have a giant snake demon and probably some sage.”

“Giant -” Newt paused, and swallowed. “Sorry, did you say giant snake demon? You didn’t mention another demon.”

Her train of thought derailed, Anathema paused. “Oh! Oh, no. Crowley. I’m talking about Crowley.”

“But you said -” He shook his head, bewildered. “He’s always just looked like a normal snake, hasn’t he? Well, a big normal snake, but even then. Every time I’ve … I mean, it’s only been once or twice but …” He breathed out, slow, through his nose, and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “How big?”

“I have no idea. I’ve only ever seen what you’ve seen. But he warned me.” She offered a thin smile. “Apparently giant snake demons aren’t susceptible to measles, so that’s the only way he gets some peace.”

“Hm. They’re not contagious, are they?”

“I’m assured they are not.”

They drove in silence for a long while, miles ticking by on to odometer while the Wasabi recited soothing haikus pertinent to the nearby scenery. Eventually, Newt turned on the radio, which since the Nahpocalypse had only ever played The Best of Queen . “Hope he doesn’t eat me.”

Anathema tried to smile reassuringly, but her heart wasn’t in it. “So long as you stay conscious, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

-

From the outside, in the dark, the cottage in South Downs looked the same as it always did. Newt pulled up in front of the gate, shut the Wasabi off, and followed Anathema up the meticulously-kept gravel path to the front door. It was completely dark inside, not a single light on. “Ominous,” Newt murmured, pulling even with her. She looked to him, her face lit by a single coach light by the front door, and then shrugged and knocked.

The door creaked open of its own accord.

Anathema raised her eyebrows. “It gets better.”

“And there’s a giant snake demon in there somewhere to look forward to,” Newt said, weakly. “After you?”

“Such a gentleman.” She stepped inside, and Newt shut the door behind her, following her down the hall. Contrary to the outward appearance of the front of the house, there was a light on, in the library, casting just enough illumination for the couple to tread down the hall slowly, cautiously, peering into darkened doorways and weaving around houseplants that, they noted, looked a little more cowed than usual. Five feet shy of the threshold to the library, a long, low hiss stopped them in place.

“Don’t freak out,” said a voice that had, quite literally, slithered out of Hell to strike fear into the hearts of men. “No fainting. Been agesssss sssince a human sssaw me like thisssss. Doesssn’t alwayssss go well.”

“I’m assuming that’s you, Crowley?” Anathema leaned a little, trying to catch a glimpse of something through the doorway.

“No,” and the hiss definitely sounded exasperated. “I’m Margaret Thatcher.”

“Can we come in?”

Something shifted in the library. Something … enormous. Anathema realized, at the same time as Newt, that the long, black thing they’d seen stretched across the rug just beyond the doorway was not, actually, a rolled-up carpet, improbably placed, but part of a body. She swallowed, and stepped forward.

“Oh, God,” she breathed, when she’d stepped through the door. Two yellow eyes the size of saucers were looking up at her. If it was possible for a snake to look embarrassed, Crowley might have. “Giant snake demon,” she said, then, and she straightened up, and tightened her grip on the strap of her bag. “You did warn me, I guess.”

“Yessss.” He slithered forward, great black wings tucked against his scales, minus the right one which stuck out, as always, at an awkward angle. His tongue flicked in Newt’s direction. “Ssstil conssciousss Pulsssifer?”

Anathema looked to Newt, who was in fact still conscious, albeit barely. “Oh yeah.” He swayed a little. “Peachy.”

“Where’s Aziraphale?” Anathema asked, more to draw Crowley’s attention away from Newt than anything. She wasn’t sure she trusted the way Crowley was swaying back and forth too, tracking Newt’s movement. Crowley froze and then, slowly, turned back toward her.

“Fifty miles offsshore, up by the top of the troposssphere.” If he could have chuckled in this form, Anathema got the impression that he would have. “You think my true form isss bad. Got eyesss everywhere, that one. And a crown, like he’sss not insssufferable enough. And sshinesss bright enough to blind humansss.”

“Thus the remote location.” Anathema nodded. “Got it. How are you?”

“I’m a twenty-foot-long viper with wingsss. Doesss that ansswer your quesstion?”

She smiled. “Guess so. So what do you need?” She looked over her shoulder, to Newt, and flipped her head toward him, annoyed. “Get the lights.” He obliged, too stunned to do anything else. 

“A ssset of handsss. Literally.” Crowley turned away. He slithered across the floor, toward a pile of books. “He’ll kill me if I messs up the booksss. Bessidesss, can’t draw like thisss.”

Anathema dumped her bag on the floor, and followed Crowley to the pile. On the top, one book was opened to a page with a complex symbol, crowded by a mass of cramped, handwritten script. Anathema read the first word, slightly bigger than the rest, at the top of the page, and stepped back, as if she’d been burned. “Pestilence! Crowley !” He cocked his head, the better to look at her. “You want me to summon Pestilence? The Horseman Pestilence?”

“Not anymore. Not a Horsseman, anyway.”

“This is above my pay grade!” She crossed her arms, and glared at him. He might have rolled his eyes, but for lack of the musculature necessary for that, he rolled his head and the entire top third of his body. “ What ?”

“You’re not ssummoning him,” Crowley clarified. “Look at it. Not a ssummoning. Jussst a curssse-breaking. Drive forth the Plague from this houssse, that lot. The sssymbolsss jussst help it pack a bigger wallop.”

She turned away. “Why didn’t you and Aziraphale do this? Why drag me into it?”

“We couldn’t remember the picturesss. ‘Zsiraphale had to bolt before he could draw anything, sso he wouldn’t disscorporate. Now I don’t have handsss.” In spite of the hissing, the last part sounded a little mournful. 

“You could.” She huffed. “I could refuse to help, you know. We could go.”

“I have measselsss , Anathema.”

She frowned, and risked a look at him over her shoulder. “Is it really that bad?”

“Well, I conssidered thisss an accsseptable alternative.” He looked pointedly to his form, broken wings, and scars, and char, and brimstone smell and all. “You desscide.” She was silent for a minute, and there was a whisper of scales on hardwood. “Book-girl?”

“You promise it’s not a summoning? No tricks?” Crowley slithered around her feet and reared up to look her directly in the eye. “I’m having a very hard time taking you seriously, like this, you know.”

“I typically have the oppossite problem. No trickssss.”

She frowned. “Where’s the chalk?”

At length, after an extended period of irritated hissing and slinking around the bookshelves, Crowley remembered where Aziraphale had stashed the chalk, and she and Newt rolled the rug back far enough to give her room to work. She held the book in one hand and meticulously copied the symbol with the other, while Newt shuffled around and lit candles. Crowley had disappeared off to the kitchen, only to return sometime later with a muttered request for assistance bringing back the appropriate herbs for the curse-breaking. 

“You know,” Newt said, a little more relaxed by now, carrying handfuls of dried herbs and flowers back to the library, “when people say they need a set of hands, they usually don’t mean so literally.”

“Watch it, Pulssifer.” Crowley slithered between his feet, like an especially enormous and ill-tempered cat, and knocked him into the wall with the wings. “I told book-girl I wouldn’t eat you - don’t make it harder than it hasss to be.”

Newt whimpered, and wilted under the baleful gaze the demon granted him. “Sorry.” 

“Good.”

In the library, Anathema had made significant progress on the circle and sigils. Newt deposited the bundle in Aziraphale’s usual chair, and Crowley carefully positioned himself on the sofa, draped over the back and both arms, tilting his head in various directions to get a better view of the circle, for what it was worth. 

“You know,” the serpent said, conversationally, “if you messsss thisss up, you actually might ssummon Pesstilensce.”

“Argh, Crowley !” Anathema looked up, fire in her eyes and calk coating her hands. “Why would you say that?” She spread her hands, indicating the circle. “What, am I messing it up?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. You know I can’t ssee.”

“Of course you can’t.” She sat back on her heels, and surveyed the circle and sigils. She moved to pick up the book, but Crowley hissed sharply, and she froze. “What?”

“Not with chalk all over your handsss. If the angel were here …” He shuddered. “Anyway, I’m sure it’sss fine. Looksss good to me.”

She stared. “You literally just said you can’t see.”

“Eh.” He slunk off the couch, weaving between the furniture and the sigils, tongue flicking out along the edge of the circle. “Ss’fine. Pulssifer, put some lavender in thisss quadrant -” Newt did, obediently, and then jumped back as it burst into flames, “ - and then cssedar over here -” again, placement of the smudge with subsequent spontaneous combustion, although Newt wasn’t as startled this time, “- copal here, palo ssanto there, and …” Crowley slithered back, away from the center of the circle, and, although Anathema didn’t really believe her eyes, possibly under the sofa somewhat. “Sssage in the middle.”

She looked from Crowley, to Newt, to the sage smudge, and back to Crowley. “Are you hiding ? Should we be hiding?”

“Oh, you? No, no if the cssircle isss right, you’re fine.” His tongue flicked out, and he retreated further under the couch. “I can’t sstand sssage.”

Anathema considered that, brow furrowed. “But the palo santo and the cedar are also used for exorcisms, and they don’t bother you?”

“Huh? Oh, no, it’sss not an excssorcsissm thing.” His tongue flicked, and he looked annoyed. “Hate that word. No, I jusst hate ssage.” In the circle, the sage ignited. Anathema and Newt looked at the smudge, and sidled closer to one another, Newt slipping his hand into Anathema’s reassuring grasp. She squeezed, strong and confident.

Crowley spoiled the moment by, once again, knocking Newt off balance with his wing, when he slid across the floor between Anathema and Newt’s feet. “Ready for the magic?”

They exchanged a look. “Sure,” Anathema answered. And then, carefully, she and Newt took a step backwards. Crowley reared up, as tall as Newt, and looked, as much as a enormous and terrifying viper could, contemplative. 

The thing about magic - the small, human kind Anathema did and the big, superhuman kind Crowley and Aziraphale did - is that it isn’t really showy. It can be, if you work at it, or if you want it to, but it doesn’t have to be. It’s quiet, and barely-visible most of the time, in fact.

Whatever Crowley did to the circle was not that. The circle itself didn’t change, but the air in the room crackled like lightning had struck, the herbs flared even more violently than before, and whatever language Crowley was hissing in - something that sounded old, and lost, and dead - started to echo. Newt whimpered and tried to step closer to Anathema, but he’d forgotten Crowley had come between them, and so instead he tripped over the serpent of Eden and fell into Anathema’s arms.

“It’s fine,” Anathema tried to reassure him, even as the temperature in the room rose to an uncomfortably stifling degree. “It’s fine, I think this means it’s working.”

“Could have fooled me.”

There wasn’t wind, but the air grew heavier by the second, and Anathema imagined she might almost be able to feel the weight of the atmosphere in the room pressing her down, against the floorboards. It might have been Newt going limp in her arms, too, she considered, but honestly it was probably a bit of both. Gently, she laid him down on the floor, although she didn’t take her eyes off the center of the circle.

Someone was materializing there. If Crowley noticed, he didn’t react, just kept talking or hissing or whatever, until suddenly the air cleared. Anathema gasped in a breath, and looked, eyes wide, to the center of the circle.

There was a woman there. Thin, drawn, with an asymmetrical haircut and an expression that said ‘I need to speak with your manager’ without using a single word. Anathema winced. Slowly, the woman reached out, phone in hand, and used the thing to cross the circle and boop Crowley on the nose. If he could have blinked, Anathema got the distinct impression that he would have.

“You added an exstra ssigil on the north end, I guesssss,” he mumbled, ostensibly to Anathema. 

“Hello, Crawly,” the woman said in a soft midwestern accent, accompanied by a thin smile. “Good to see you again. How’s the measles? Or did you figure out a loophole? Always the trouble with demons, loopholes. Oh, humans!”

Crowley hissed. “ Crowley . New look - very American.” Quickly, he positioned himself between the woman and the humans, spreading his wings as much as he was capable of. “They’re mine.”

“Needed the hands, did you?” Her smile was acidic, poisonous, or … septic, maybe, Anathema thought. “I do wish you’d let me see the human corporation, demon - it’s been so long since I saw a good, honest case of measles.”

“Not going to give you the ssatissfaction. Yet.”

She ignored him. “How’s your angel? Enjoying his meningitis? Or did you clue him in on the loophole as well?”

“Ssoon asss I figured it out,” Crowley replied, smug. “Why wouldn’t I? You’ve really losst your touch, Pesstilencsse. A few hundred yearsss ago and I would have been locked-in and disscorporated by now.”

Pestilence sighed. “Yes, well, retirement wears on us all, doesn’t it, Crawly? You lose a step, your power wanes -”

“Mine hassn’t.”

“What?” She frowned. “Of course it has, it has to have.”

“Nope. I ssusspect it’sss becaussse no matter what they do, humansss are sstil afraid of demonsss, literally and figuratively. Looking for angelsss, too, they are - miraclesss and the messsengersss of God. But you ....” He trailed off, looked blankly into some middle-distance for a moment, and then changed . Nothing showy, nothing dramatic, just changed. One moment, there was a mind-bogglingly huge demonic winged serpent, then there was a whisper of scales against the hardwood, and then there was just … Crowley. Tall and skinny and wearing pajamas, which presumably were what he’d been in when he initially abandoned the human shape. Less typical were the pox he seemed to be covered with, and the fact that he was deathly pale and moving much more gingerly than Anathema had ever seen him before, stiff and slow and cautious. No wonder he’d dumped this form, she thought - it was on Death’s doorstep. Still, he was brandishing something at Pestilence now: a single cream-colored folder. 

“They found ways around you,” he concluded, grinning even now, as he eased himself onto the couch. “Clever humans, aren’t they? They’ll still scare themselves with the things they can’t control, sure, but you don’t fit that bill, not anymore.” He flipped the folder open, and brought a glossy print of an old portrait out with as much of a flourish as he could manage. “Old friend?”

Pestilence hissed now, and drew back, bumping into the bounds of the circle. 

“Giacomo Pylarini,” Crowley announced, more for Anathema’s benefit than anything. “First smallpox inoculation, him. Good on him.” He dropped the portrait and produced another from the folder. “And then of course good old Jenner, can’t forget him, me and Jimmy Barry had a great round of drinks with him one night -”

“ Stop it .” Pestilence hunched over, teeth bared and bloody, hands clenched into fists at her sides. 

He let the portrait of Jenner fall, and brought forth the next one. “Ignaz Semmelweis, poor guy, don’t think anyone was fooled when you got him, but oh well because then came Mr. Louis Pastuer and Lister right behind him -”

Pestilence wailed, “ Stop !” and fell to her knees, hands clutched over her ears, shying away from every one of the portraits Crowley was flicking toward her, trapped in the circle. “Robert Koch, Emil von Behring, Alexander Fleming -”

“ STOP THIS! ” the Horseman shrieked, curled into a fetal position against the onslaught of portraits and photos. “Stop this, demon! I could just as easily compile a list of your failures, the steps leading to your Fall -”

“Frankly, none of us has the time,” Crowley replied, considering the photo in his hand. “Waksman, he was a bit of a wanker, but what can you do, oh , and here’s Dr. Salk. He was a good egg.” The photo of Salk bounced off Pestilence’s head as Crowley flicked it toward her. She cried out as if she’d been burned. “I could keep going, you know. I have another folder around here somewhere with a list of every immunization and their histories -”

Pestilence was quiet, her shoulders shaking. She might have been crying, Anathema thought, but her back was to them and whatever she was doing was absolutely silent. Eventually, she looked up, her face streaked with blood and tears and pus. Mucous ran from her nose. “ Fine ,” she spat, with a voice so full of hatred it made something twist in Anathema’s gut. “Fine, demon. You’ve made your point. But can you blame me for trying to stick around? The more of these -” she jerked her head toward Newt, who was slowly regaining his senses, and Anathema, who'd never lost hers “- that pass up on vaccinations, the longer I get to stay here.”

Crowley considered that. “I don’t blame you,” he said, at last. “Not for trying to stick around, anyway.”

“How could you?” Pestilence murmured under her breath.

“But what I do blame you for is coming after me. And worse, Aziraphale , who did nothing to you.” He waved a hand, and the discarded portraits and photographs rose into the air, dancing around Pestilence in a great circle, bobbing and dipping into her line of sight, no matter where she looked. She cried out, and closed her eyes, hands tightly pressed to her face. “ You don’t get to come after him ,” Crowley hissed, and although she was far from the focus of his anger, Anathema took a step back, tugging a very groggy Newt along with her. 

It was just pictures, but the more they spun around her white-clad form, the more bloodstains started to seep through. She clenched her fingers, her nails scraping against her skin and black, foul-smelling ichor leaking out of the gashes. “A few words in the right ears,” Crowley went on, “maybe a little light temptation outside of a lab - I’ve done it before, wouldn’t be hard, and -”

“ No!” She screamed, anguished and terrified. “Stop,” she said then, weakly. She was on all fours, panting, and her blood-red eyes were fixed on Crowley, pleading, desperate. “I’ll lift the curse. Please … mercy …”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Mercy from a demon?”

“Please.”

“What’s in it for me?” Crowley winced as he shifted position slightly, and Anathema heard his joints creak with the movement. “You don’t get to lift a curse and go on your merry way, sssorry.” He did not sound particularly sorry. He sounded vicious. Demon , Anathema remembered. Most of the time she was around him, he was just Crowley; kind of a scoundrel, but benign enough to be worth liking. Lovable, even, enough that she would drop everything and spend a night helping him summon a retired Horseman of the Apocalypse (even though the bastard had lied to her about that). But right now he was the Demon Crowley, Serpent of Eden and Fallen Angel. She pulled Newt in a little closer. 

Pestilence sniffled, and a tendril of green snot ran from her nose. “Don’t kill me.”

“Give me a few reasons not to.”

“I’ll lift the curse, and leave you alone for eternity.”

“Yes, good start.”

She took a rattling breath, and raised a hand. “It’s done.” She looked up to Crowley. “You’ll have to recover, but the curse is lifted. Three days and you’ll be back to normal. Aziraphale might need a week, if he doesn’t heal himself.” 

“Very nice.” He spat the word ‘nice’ like it burned his tongue. “What else?”

“I …” she looked around the room, and Anathema didn’t flinch when her eyes settled on the two of them, sat on the floor by Aziraphale’s chair. “I’ll leave your associates alone. Forever.”

“Goes without saying.” He frowned. “I have more associates.”

“All of them,” she said, quickly. “Anyone who invokes the name of the Demon Crowley.”

Crowley nodded, and considered the offer. “Pretty good.”

She glared at him. “What else? What more could you possibly demand? I won’t get rid of disease altogether, there is a balance to consider, you know.”

“No, I know.” Crowley sat back with a wince, hands folded in his lap. “No. I’m thinking more small-scale now.” He looked to the floor for a moment, pensive, and then declared, “Delete all your social media accounts.”

“ What ?” Pestilence snarled. “You can’t be serious.” The photo of Salk floated in front of her again, and she drew back. “ All of them?”

Crowley nodded. “Every one. No more anti-vaxx posts -”

“But -”

“You’ve already done enough damage,” Crowley snapped. “Humans’ll carry on doing it at this point. No further input on the vaccine debate.”

She glared. “You’re a monster.”

“Yeah, have been for a while,” he agreed. “Those are the terms. Deal?”

Pestilence was glaring. She glared at him for a long time, and around the library, although Anathema noticed she was very careful not to look at her or Newt. The photos of notable historical figures in medicine floated ominously behind her. Finally, she spat into the palm of her hand, a mess of phlegm and blood and mucous and God-knows-what-else, and proffered it to Crowley. “Deal,” she snarled. “You bastard.”

“Excellent,” said Crowley, before his own hand ignited, the stench of sulfur and ash filling the room. They shook on it, silent, Pestilence glaring and Crowley grinning, and then they pulled apart. Pestilence’s hand burned for a while longer, and when the flames died out there were traces of ash about her fingertips. As the photos and portraits drifted down to the floor, Crowley nodded toward her. “That ash’ll go away if you wash your hands.”

“Fuck you.” She crossed her arms and huffed. “Can I go?”

“Suppose so.” And with that, Crowley waved a hand, murmured something in the dead language, and Pestilence disappeared. Crowley slumped back against the sofa, and stretched his legs out, just far enough to rub the tip of his sock across some of the chalk sigils, smudging them into uselessness. Anathema breathed out.

“You said,” she accused as she stood, “that we weren’t going to summon her. Just a curse-breaking, hm?”

Crowley lifted a finger. “I didn’t lie,” he replied, tired and weak. “Didn’t expect to summon her. Never intended to. But when the opportunity presents itself, well …”

“But the circle! You said it wasn’t -”

“Let me see the book.” He held out a hand, expectant, and Anathema scoffed. “Please, book-girl? I might not be dying but I’m still not having a great time over here.”

Newt staggered to his feet. “I’ll get it.” Anathema put her hand on his chest, and with barely a shove, pushed him down into Aziraphale’s chair. “No, you won’t. I got it.” She retrieved the book, carefully holding it open to the page Crowley had told her to work from, and held it at a distance. He studied it for a minute, quiet and focused, and she smirked. “My latin’s rusty but I can try.”

He glowered at her, but waved a hand anyway. “Just don’t tell anyone.”

She started up, stumbling over the words and probably butchering most of the pronunciations, but Crowley didn’t seem to be bothered by it. She was only three lines in, however, when she noted his expression shift from tired and thoughtful to confused, and she stopped. “What?”

“Doesn’t make any sense - Aziraphale said that was the page for the cleansing but yeah, you were right, that’s a summoning. What’s on the next page? Or the one before it?”

Anathema licked her lips, nervous. The book was old - ancient - and the pages looked like they might crumble to dust at the slightest attempt to handle them. Even picking the tome up had given her butterflies in her stomach. Sure, over the course of this evening she’d faced down Pestilence, seen the true form of an actual demon, and helped said demon summon said Horseperson, but for some reason, the thought of being responsible for damage to one of Aziraphale’s books was much scarier than all of that combined. 

Miraculously, the paged turned on its own. “You have a point,” Crowley said with a sigh. Anathema frowned up at him, her attention again diverted from the book.

“You said you can’t read minds.”

“Can’t.” He lifted his head off the couch enough to smirk at her. “Didn’t need to. The absolute terror rolling off you and the way your hand was hovering over the page for a full twenty seconds was a pretty good hint. Don’t blame you,” he went on, settling back. “Aziraphale’s terrifying when he wants to be. Which is almost never, unless there’s a book involved.”

“Guardian of the Eastern Gate,” she murmured, and then dropped it, absorbed in her study of the new page. “Says ‘ Morbus Purgatio ’ at the top. The circle looks a lot simpler, too.”

“Ah, shit. Probably wanted that one.”

Anathema looked flatly at him. “So we almost died because you were on the wrong page?”

“Oh, the only one who almost died was me and the angel, don’t be dramatic.” He indicated her and Newt. Her boyfriend, who had mostly been quiet, was sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, staring in terror at the sigils on the floor. “You would have been fine.”

“Would we have, Crowley? Really?” she snapped. The demon made a series of noises.

“Possibly,” he said, finally. “Probably.”

Gingerly, she laid the book down on the coffee table. It didn’t have the same effect as slamming it shut, but considering the circumstances she didn’t have many other options*. “I’m checking your work next time. I can’t believe -”

[* That didn’t end in angry avenging angels and crushing blows like ‘I’m just very disappointed in you, Anathema’. ]

“I mean it did work, ultimately, yeah? All worked out in the end. Ugh.” He coughed for a while, and curled up into a ball on the couch. “Always does.”

She considered pushing further: a very significant part of her wanted to absolutely ream him out, but then again, he had been cursed, and he couldn’t see even when he wasn’t cursed, not well enough to read, anyway, and she had taken him at his word. She shouldn’t have done that - she’d known him long enough to be wise to the fact that whatever Crowley said should always be taken with at least a moderate grain of salt**.

[** Less so due to being a demon and more so being a make-it-up-as-I-go kind of idiot .]

She was still angry with him, when she thought that over, but less so. She’d made mistakes too. They all had over the past few hours, apparently. And right now, Crowley was coughing and trying to stay awake on the couch, still covered in spots, so she put the anger away in a little box to be taken out later, when she would feel less bad about yelling at him, and said instead, “We should get you to bed.”

“M’fine here. Honestly.” He managed a thumbs-up. “Already feeling better.”

“Liar,” she replied. “What about Aziraphale? Will he just … know?” She sat next to him, and drew her knees in to her chest, arms wrapped around them. 

“Dunno, probably not. Said he’d come back and check in the morning, see if I’d managed to break anything.”

Anathema smiled, softly. “Curses or otherwise?” Crowley snorted. “Will he be … Um, well, will it be safe if he comes back and Newt and I are still here?"

Newt looked up, anxious once again. “We could go.”

“You can go.” Crowley looked between the two of them, eyes half-closed. “Don’t think he’d come back all heavenly or whatever, but no need to stick around and find out. ‘Course, all the bloody eyeballs, he might know you’re here now anyway.”

Anathema nudged Crowley with her shoe. “I’m not leaving you here alone.”

He raised an eyebrow again. “Really, book-girl? I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sick.”

“I discorporated from plague twice, and I’ve got through a few other diseases over the years, as well. Think I’ll be alright on the downside of a case of measles.”

She stood, and held out a hand to him, imperiously. “Well, you’re doing a shit job of taking care of yourself. Come on: bed. Now. Newt, can you get him some tea?” 

“I’m not a child .” He tried his best to look haughty in the moment, an impression that was rather spoiled by a sneeze that triggered another bout of coughing. “Ah, fuck.” He rubbed his lower back, wincing. “Can you pull something sneezing? I think I pulled something. Sneezing. Fuck me.”

She patted him on the shoulder, and then rather more forcefully nudged him upright. Somehow, he ended up with an arm propped on her shoulder, although whether he put it there or she did, neither would ever tell*. “To be fair,” she said, a little more sympathetic, “It was a curse . Not just some ordinary measles. And those are bad enough,” she added. “You can die from those even without a malicious supernatural being giving it extra umph.”

[* It was him .]

He snickered. “Don’t I know it.” They had made it to the bedroom by then, and Anathema let him make his own way into bed, rolling up in the blanket until only his nose and a tuft of his hair were visible among the sheets. “Really,” he said, somewhat muffled, “you can go. I’ll be fine. Just gonna sleep it off.”

She leaned against the doorframe and drummed her fingers on the woodwork. “Then someone ought to be here and awake to let Aziraphale know the curse is broken, hmm?” Crowley groaned in response. In the kitchen, the kettle whistled. “We’ll leave the tea on the nightstand.” She smiled. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Hm, yeah. Thanks, book-girl.” There was a pause, and he hazarded, in a tone that would have been nervous if he weren’t so tired, “You’re waiting around to yell at me, aren’t you? Of course you are, can't just have Azirpahale upset with me, has to be everyone else, too.”  The blanket shifted a little. “You know I can sleep for literally 100 years, yes? Maybe more? Never tried. Might do, though. Feel like I could, right now. Just sleep and sleep, and by the time I’m awake you’ll be dead and you won’t be able to yell at me.”

She sniffed. “Then tell me where the tickets you got to the premier of Paranormal Activity 7 * are. I’ll take someone else, maybe Aaron from down at the base.”

[* Full title: Paranormal Activity 7: The Demon’s Curse. Considering the circumstances, it was all very apropos .]

He emerged from the cocoon just enough then to glare at her. “You will not .”

“Fine. Then please wake up the day before we have to drive to London together, so I can get it all out of my system before we have to have an awkward car ride.”

The glare continued for another second, maybe two, and then he rolled over and disappeared into the covers once again. “I’ll text you when I’m up.” Newt appeared at her shoulder and hesitated. She took the mug from him, carried the tea in, and settled it carefully on the nightstand. “Honestly, book-girl.”

She considered her options - Crowley could be funny sometimes, with things like vulnerability and teasing and touch. Even Aziraphale had a hard time predicting how he’d react when he was in certain moods . But he seemed himself, if tired, and so Anathema took a chance, and pegged him in the shoulder with a pillow. “Get well soon, idiot.”

“Pissss off, witch,” he replied, but he pulled the pillow into the blanket cocoon with him and made a sound that, maybe, very faintly, sounded like a hiss of quiet laughter.

Chapter Text

The first time Anathema had business in London after the Nahpocalypse, she stayed at a hotel. It wasn’t a fancy place, but there was a pub off the lobby and she decided to eat dinner there. She’d got her elbows on the bar, and was nursing a glass of wine when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned, and nobody was there. She looked around the other direction, checking for a retreating figure, and she saw a demon.

“Hey, book-girl.”

“What the fuck,” she said in response. “Did you follow me here?”

“No.” He slithered onto the stool next to her, and the bartender set a drink in front of him. Scotch, neat. “I do live in London, you know.”

“I know.” She had, very briefly, debated calling Aziraphale when she’d found out about the conference, maybe asking him for restaurant recommendations, but of course she knew the angel would insist on treating her, showing her around the city and some of the sights, and she balked at the thought of it. Not that she didn’t like him, no, she was pretty sure it was impossible to truly dislike Aziraphale without being a bona-fide demon, and even then … But either way, she’d have hated to impose, or inconvenience him*, and so she had decided against it. After all, it was only one night, and she needed to be up early for the conference.

[* This line of thinking had only held up because at the time of our story, Anathema is very early-on in her friendship with the angel. Later, she would learn that while it was still incredibly difficult to dislike Aziraphale, no human could ever impose on him. He’d be polite about it, but if Aziraphale didn’t want to do something, he would politely but very definitely Not Do It. ]

If Crowley had been uncomfortable with the silence, he didn’t act like it. “S’a good pub,” he said conversationally. “You staying at the hotel?”

She looked at him over the rim of her wineglass. “Yeah.”

“Should’ve called.” He took another drink. “Angel would’ve loved to have you. Probably would have treated you to some absurdly nice restaurant.”

She laughed quietly. “That’s kind of why I didn’t call, honestly. I didn’t want to impose.” He hummed in some sort of noncommittal acknowledgement. “How’d you find me?” She narrowed her eyes. “Did you use some kind of weird demon magic?”

“Yeah.” He laughed, a quick bark. “Yeah, one of my favorite spells called ‘I like this pub and I want a drink’. Honest coincidence, book-girl. Anyhow, what brings you to London? Bored in Tadfield?”

“No,” she replied, and surprised herself when she realized she was being completely honest. “It’s … nice, actually. Really nice.” She thought of Jasmine Cottage, quaint and homey and old-fashioned. She thought of Newt, bumbling and polite and considerate and sweet, too scared to ask her out formally, now that the world hadn’t ended, but happy to introduce himself as her roommate when they got dinner together around the village. She smiled. Instead of voicing any of that, however, she said, “I’m here for a conference.”

“Oh?” He thought it over, swirling the scotch around in his glass. “London Cryptid Society?”

She slammed her hand onto the bar. “You are following me!”

He raised his hands, a gesture of surrender minus the scotch in one hand, and then put his free hand over where she assumed his heart was, if he had one. She wasn’t sure. “Lucky guess, book-girl. Honest truth.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He frowned. “Well, considering the only other major conferences in the city this weekend are the British Academy of Small-Fiber Neuropathy’s annual shindig, and Effective Business Risk Management Strategies, I figured it was sort of a foregone conclusion that the witch would be here for the one about Bigfoot. ‘Course I dunno, you could be here for a small business. Or have a really pressing interest in neuropathy.”

She took a deep breath in and out through her nose, and scowled at him. “That was a fair assumption. Yeah, I’m here for the cryptid conference.”

He smirked, and took another sip of his drink. “I do live here."

“So what are you doing here?”

“I told you, s’a good pub. I come in here all the time.”

“Oh.” She considered that. Of course, it made sense that Crowley wouldn’t just … stop existing while he wasn’t around. Certainly he did things, went places, had hobbies? Maybe? Aziraphale was easy: he had the bookshop, and Anathema’s brain dealt with the reality of the angel’s existence by filing him away there when he wasn’t around. But Crowley was different. He had the Bentley, but he clearly didn’t live in his car. He didn’t work for Hell anymore, either, so she hadn’t even been able to convince herself he was off tempting or whatever it was he’d done for the last 6000 years.

“Is that all you do?” she asked, because she was having a hard time imagining what Crowley did in his ample free time. “Or are you a secret neurologist?”

“I drink, mostly, these days,” he answered with a shrug. “Wander around the city. Bother Aziraphale. Glue coins to the sidewalk.” He smiled while she laughed. “Yeah, I always liked that one. Watch films, too.”

“Oh yeah? What kind?” All the visits with Adam at Jasmine Cottage, nearly weekly since Nahmageddon, and they’d never talked about movies. Then again, she couldn’t blame them: Adam had a lot to catch up on, and the gap in taste between an eleven-year-old boy and 6000-year-old demon was probably fairly vast*. 

[* As with her conclusions about Aziraphale, this line of thinking had only held up because at the time of our story, Anathema is very early-on in her friendship with said demon. ]

“All sorts. Well, mostly. Can’t say I much care for historical fiction.”

Anathema raised an eyebrow. “Too inaccurate?”

“No, too familiar, mostly.” He made a face. “‘Specially the ones about the fourteenth century. You don’t know how lucky you are, book-girl, missing out on the fourteenth century.”

“I’m sure I don’t.” She sipped her wine contemplatively and then asked, “What’s your favorite?”

“Hm?” He stared into his scotch for a second. “Favorite … ah, that’s a tough one. I’ve seen a lot of films.”

“Alright then, favorite genre?”

Crowley answered immediately, “Horror,” because at this point in their relationship he would rather discorporate and return to Hell than admit to Anathema that he really preferred cartoons. Besides, horror wasn’t a bad choice. He did like horror.

“Figures. Favorite horror movie, then?”

“Oh, easy.” He grinned. “ The Blair Witch Project .”

“Seriously?” She returned his grin with a frown. “It’s not that good.”

“Oh, book-girl, you clearly will never earn the name film-girl.” He put his drink down, the better to gesture demonstratively and tick off points on his fingers. “First of all, it was revolutionary . Technically, the first popular found-footage film was Cannibal Holocaust , but it didn’t reach nearly the same popularity. It sparked off and inspired an entire generation of really good horror films - second favorite is Paranormal Activity , by the way, and without Blair Witch they may have never made it. Who knows? Anyway, second of all, it was really novel in its presentation with the way it was filmed and everything. Third, it never shows the monster, which is key - you humans like to try to make your monsters look scary, but they’ll never be as scary as whatever you think up in your own brains. Trust me, I know.” He took a swig of his drink, possibly to steel himself for his conclusion which was, “An’ finally, the thing with Blair Witch is - the really great thing - is that it made a lot of film critics really, really angry. Film fans, too! Whining about how it’s low budget, it’s not actually scary, blah blah - thousands of people beg to differ! And so they sat and stewed in how mad they were that this ridiculous movie shot on a handheld camera was making millions, piles over what it cost to produce.” He smiled serenely and sighed, cradling his glass on the bar and running his thumbs around the rim of it, absently. “Wish I’d have come up with it first. As usual.” He turned to Anathema, and she caught a glimpse of his yellow eyes over the rim of his glasses. “Anyway, what about you? You like horror?”

“Love it,” she answered, genuine. “My favorite is The Descent . I like it when I can’t figure out how they’re going to end.”

Crowley made a face. “ The Descent ? That was rubbish.”

“Says the one who likes Blair Witch and Paranormal Activity .” She rolled her eyes, but she was laughing at the same time. “What, I bet you liked The Birds , too.”

“Hey,” he leveled a finger at her. “Don’t joke about that, birds can be scary. You ever met a goose?” he asked, a little louder and more indignant, over her laughter.

“ You’re scared of geese?”

Crowley spluttered. “Have you ever had to face down an angry goose? A flock of angry geese?”

“Where you tempting them ?”

“No, don’t be stupid,” he scoffed. “I stepped on an egg. Accidentally ,” he added, when her expression twisted into a disapproving frown and her mouth opened. “Didn’t mean to, it was really bright out and there was a lot of tall grass and next thing you know my shoe’s covered in egg goo and there’s a flock of geese after me.”

Anathema managed to stifle her laughter long enough to choke out, “When was this?”

“1311.” He scowled into his drink. “I should’ve called it quits right there. Whole thing was a bad omen. Entire century only went downhill from that point.”

She did her best to look sympathetic, although she was still snickering. “Did the geese follow you for the next 100 years?”

“Not quite.*” He sniffed. “Less said about it the better, honestly. Bloody fourteenth century.”

[* In fact, the geese had chased him off of a rather high cliffside, resulting in an unfortunate discorporation. The fact that he then spent twenty years in Hell filling out a stack of forms in triplicate while being periodically flayed was, depressingly, not the worst part of the fourteenth century .] 

“I really want to know, now.”

“You really don’t.” This was said in a sharper tone, although he didn’t raise his voice, and his posture never shifted - up to that point, their conversation had been light, cordial, bordering on comfortable banter. The way he answered her that time, though, was different, and she considered that perhaps the whole subject was better left alone. She hummed instead, indicating that yes, he was probably right, and in tandem they sipped their drinks.

“Surprised you didn’t mention Scream ,” she said, to break the silence. “Everyone loves that one.”

He frowned. “You know, I never saw it. Not sure why. When did that one come out?”

For some reason, Anathema was more surprised by that revelation than she had been by Crowley’s admitted fear of geese. “1996. You’ve never seen Scream ? It’s a classic! The ultimate slasher flick!”

“Yeah, you know, I always meant to, but stuff would come up, I guess, wouldn’t remember or whatever. Never saw the sequels either, ‘cause I always wanted to wait and see the first one first.”

“Oh, you have to see it. Have you seen Scary Movie ?”

“The first couple, yeah,” lied Crowley, who had seen every single one. “Kind of spoils it, doesn’t it?”

Anathema feigned disappointment. “I guess. But you should still watch it, just for the fact that it’s a horror classic.”

“Yeah, probably.” He looked thoughtful. “No time like the present. Not like I have anything else to do, anyway. You in?”

“What?” She cocked her head, surprised. “What, here? Right now?” He looked at her, infernally patient and a little entertained. “The TV in my room isn’t very good.”

“Obviously. Anyway, I meant my flat.”

“You have a flat?” she blurted out. 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Of course I have a flat, book-girl, did you think I live in my car?”

She frowned. “Well, no, but I just assumed …” She swallowed. “I don’t know. I never thought about it.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” He downed the rest of his drink, and the glass clunked against the bar. After a brief search in the interior pocket of his jacket, a few pound notes were produced and set next to the drink. “Come with me or not, either way whatever that unfortunate swill you’re drinking is on me.”

“I thought it was fairly nice,” Anathema said, as she studied the last dregs of the red in her glass. 

“That’s a shame.” Without waiting to see if she would follow, he turned away and started for the door. Anathema double-checked the notes on the bar - he was a good tipper, for a demon - and grabbed her purse, following him out into the chill fall night. She shivered, realizing she had left her coat in the room - she hadn’t expected to leave the hotel again tonight, so she was definitely under-dressed for this little spontaneous jaunt. That said, there was a familiar black car parked along the curb in front of the pub, and Crowley was leaning on the open door, expression disinterested.

Anathema slid into the front seat this time, and briefly wondered if this was wise. She was a single woman, following a man-looking being into a car and back to his flat: mildly concerning, although less so considering she already was acquainted with him. To escalate the stakes, however, he was categorized as ‘man-looking’ because he was a demon . And here she was, a witch, following a demon into his car - his car that was for some reason blasting ‘In the Lap of the Gods’ at what she assumed to be top volume* - and going back to his lair , which was an even more troubling thought.

To, he had inferred, watch a slasher flick.

Her mother had always spoken proudly of her daughter’s common sense and intelligence, but suddenly, Anathema wondered if that pride had perhaps been mis-placed.

[* It was not, but Crowley did accept the limitations of humans when it came to music volume. ]

She laid her hands on her purse, and was reassured by the familiar lines of her bread knife under her fingers, softened through the fabric of the bag but no less sharp when wielded.

Crowley drove like a madman, weaving in and out of traffic and accelerating and decelerating with whiplash-inducing abruptness. Pedestrians that were wise to the streets of London dove for the sidewalks at the oncoming growl of the Bentley, and cabbies obligingly pulled out of the way to let Crowley pass. For his part, Crowley looked unconcerned, although with the sunglasses and in the dark of the night, it was hard to tell. Still, he was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music, and he didn’t flinch once, not even when he nearly side-swiped a double-decker bus full of tourists on a pub crawl. 

“I’m not going to do anything, you know,” he said, unprompted, as he swung the Bentley into a parking space that had certainly not existed four seconds previously, in front of an upscale building that looked to be full of high-end flats. He put the car into park, shut off the engine - the best of Queen halting without even a fade-out - and pointed a look toward her bag. “And I’d rather not be stabbed.”

She blinked. “How did you know?”

He shrugged. “Demon thing. Can sense stuff like that: anger, fear, lust, all the sin stuff. Homicidal intent,” he added. “I can take you back, if you’d rather.”

“Can I trust you?” she asked, putting her head to the side, and opening herself up to study his aura. It was odd … definitely not human, almost charred at the edges, and shot through with cracks and fractures and veins of red, but then there was the rest. Black - lots of black - but then an overwhelming pulse of a deep magenta, almost plum, that ran under the whole thing and breathed like any human might have. She was surprised, and she studied it for a minute, just to be sure, and then snapped off that sense, because any longer and it might have felt invasive. Voyeuristic.

If Crowley had noticed or known what she was doing, he didn’t call attention to it. Instead, he hummed and made a series of thoughtful noises as he studied the steering wheel of the Bentley, before he finally answered, “Can’t really answer that for you, book-girl. Have to decide that one for yourself, I’m afraid.”

Between that and the aura, she didn’t need any more answer. She popped the door open and stepped out. “I could go for a coffee. Decaf.”

“Blasphemy. I won’t have it in my flat.”

“Tea, then?”

“Aziraphale keeps some over the sink, I’ll see what he’s stashed. Hey, Martin.”

The doorman bowed a little, bundled in his thick coats, as he pulled the door open for them. “Mr. Crowley, ma’am.”

Anathema raised her eyebrows as she followed Crowley into the starkly-decorated minimalist lobby, half a step behind as he punched the button on the elevator which was, naturally, already there and just waiting to be called. “Nice place.”

“Very high-end,” he agreed, as they rode up to the top floor. “Got it for a song.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“Well, it was 1852,” he admitted then, as the doors slid open and he waved the door to his flat open. The snake-shaped doorbell was novel, and Anathema could have sworn in moved to look at her as she walked past. “Things were a lot cheaper then, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.” And then she stopped, and clutched her purse strap more tightly. “This looks like a serial killer’s headquarters.”

Crowley smirked. “So I’ve heard,” he echoed. “It’s very modern.”

“It’s extremely unwelcoming.” She looked around. “Do you even have anywhere to sit?”

“In the lounge, yeah.” And then, sarcastically, he went on to add, “This is the entryway where typically, normal British humans do not just sit down and start watching television.” He rolled his eyes. “Not sure how you lot do it in America, though. Everything else is ass-backwards, why not that?”

She frowned. “Touchy touchy.”

“Well, I didn’t think my interior design preferences were going to be called into question.” He sighed. “This way to the place with the sitting-down things, book-girl.”

The lounge was right off the entryway, and although Anathema would have liked to say it was warmer and more welcoming, that would have been a lie. The concrete walls loomed over the furnishings, giving the entire room the overall appearance of a particularly well-appointed execution chamber. She hesitated again. Crowley, sensing this, made an exasperated noise, and snapped his fingers. A fluffy blue plaid throw blanket appeared on the couch, with a matching intricately-woven blue and ivory rug on the floor between the low-backed white leather sofa and the truly massive television. Mounted high on the wall, the thing dominated the room, flanked by matching shelves filled with records and Blu-Ray discs and, somewhat unusually, houseplants. She wondered if he’d miracled them there to make the room look more welcoming, and then realized that they had been there all along.

“Nice plants.” She stepped around the couch, set her purse on the end table, and sat down. “Huge TV.”

“Thanks. Tea, yeah?” Suddenly, though they were in his home, theoretically the place in the world he should be most at-ease he looked uncomfortable. “You want, uh, milk or sugar or …” He trailed off. “Also have some wine. Not as nice as Aziraphale’s selection, but I nabbed some good ones through the years.”

She thought it over. “You have a red?” she asked, because she wondered if he would allow red wine in this pristine white-and-gray space.

“Oh yeah, loads,” and his relief that she had not asked him to make tea was practically palpable. “You like dry or fruity or full-bodied or what?”

“Surprise me.”

He returned after a brief period with two glasses and a bottle of wine. After a surreptitious study of the label, Anathema determined that the drink was older than she was. Out of a sense of duty, she studied the color of the wine after Crowley had poured for her, and then took a small sip, letting the drink and the flavor linger on her tongue.

And she’d thought the wine at the hotel was good. Swill indeed.

“Right.” Crowley slouched backwards onto the couch, and suddenly Anathema understood why the back was so low: a high back would limit the awkward positions the demon could find to put himself in. As he shifted around, he waved the TV on to a menu screen. Miraculously, Scream was already selected. 

Anathema moved to sit cross-legged, and if Crowley had a problem with her shoes on the sofa, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he settled in a complicated slouch with his wine glass in hand. Anathema leaned her elbows onto her knees. “You’ve really never seen this?”

“Nope.” The movie started, various companies’ logos fading in and out over a black background. “Should I be excited?”

“It’s way better than Blair Witch .”

“Hm. We’ll see.”

She saw. She saw how Crowley slowly came around, became more attentive to the movie and less to the wine. She saw him start the film self-satisfied that he already knew how it ended, although he’d never seen it, and she saw him falter and realize, as the film went on, that he had no idea how the whole story would end. She saw him grow increasingly fascinated, saw him yell in surprise during the cat-flap murder, and saw him get more and more enthusiastic about the story as the film drew out. 

“So who’s the killer?” she asked, as the movie reached its climax and the teens on-screen started making out. “Who do you think?”

Crowley frowned and swallowed a mouthful of wine. “I have no idea. I thought I did, but … Well, it could be anyone, couldn’t it?”

She smirked at him and shot him a sidelong glance. “I dunno. Could it?”

He slid around into a new position, intent on the screen. The sunglasses were tossed onto the end table, next to the empty wine bottle and glass. “Ooh, this is a good one. It could .”

She saw how surprised he was at the end, how absolutely delighted with the ending he was. She saw how he brightened at the end of the movie, excited and genuinely happy. She saw him clap his hands together and rub them, relishing the moment at the conclusion of a really good story. “Told you it was good,” she said, leaning her elbows back onto the top of the couch and grinning widely. “Didn’t I?”

“You did. Might have to start calling you film-girl after all.” He steepled his fingers, and tapped them against his lips, by all appearances intently studying the end credits. “This one …” He trailed off then and frowned. He was concentrating, thinking, lending a great deal of consideration to something Anathema could only guess at. She gave him a minute, glancing to the end table where her phone was sat, and tapped the screen to see the time. “This one might be better than Blair Witch .”

“Oh? Oh. Yeah, it’s definitely better than Blair Witch . You can actually see what’s going on, to start with.”

Crowley sighed, but didn’t respond otherwise, instead turning his attention to the empty wine bottle. “You said there’s a sequel?”

“Three of them.”

“Right. I’ll get another bottle of wine -”

Anathema laughed. “Not for me.” She scooped up her phone. “I have to be up in the morning, and I need some sleep.”

Crowley responded with a groan. “Oh, come on, Anathema, where’s the fun in that? Being responsible .” He grinned, which was somewhat off-putting anyway, and then raised an eyebrow. “You could miraculously stay up all night and feel just fine in the morning.”

“Seriously?” She couldn’t help the smile that came, a little incredulous and very entertained. “Are you trying to tempt me? Into movie night ?”

“Er. Possibly.”

“I’m flattered. But no, thank you, I prefer sleep to alternatives, caffeine or miraculous or otherwise.” She stood, and was tapping at her phone. “There’s always a price to pay later, isn’t there?”

“Nah, not with this. That’s an easy one.” He slid into a new position, sprawled entirely across the couch. He fidgeted his shoulders for a minute, almost like he was considering some kind of bizarre shrug, and then noticed her looking and stilled. “I’ll give it to you, no charge.”

Anathema typed the name of her hotel into the Lyft app, and laughed. “First marijuana cigarette is free, huh?”

Crowley sighed, put-upon. “I hardly ever do this, you know.”

“Socialize with someone other than Aziraphale? I can tell.”

“What? No!” He sat up on his elbows, indignant now, although Anathema thought she could sense a glimmer of a smile on his face. “Offer things that are … not awful.”

“Nice?”

“Ah, language.” He pointed to himself. “Demon. Not nice.” And then he craned his neck to try to see what she was doing on her phone. “What’s that then?”

“I’m calling a ride back to the hotel.”

He scoffed. “Nah, don’t do that. I’ll give you a lift.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “We’ve been drinking for the last two hours. Neither of us is in a state to drive.”

“Demon! Can sober up whenever I want.”

“Don’t go through the trouble -”

“Doing it now.” He looked, for a minute, as if he had been struck with a sudden and intense bout of intestinal distress. Anathema blinked, and stepped back, and then he stuck his tongue out, made a disgusted little noise, and rolled off of the couch, somehow ending the entire movement upright. “Right, there we go.” He gestured toward the door. “After you.”

“What a waste of wine,” she said instead of moving, because she was still a bit too stunned to trust herself to walk. 

He beamed, and snatched the bottle off of the end table. It was, impossibly, half-full once again. “Nah, s’all right back in the bottle. See? I’ll drink it again later.”

Her frown only deepened. “That is one of the weirdest things I’ve ever seen.”

“Is it really, book-girl?” He sounded as though he didn’t believe her. “Witchcraft, centuries-old prophecies foretelling the lives and fates of people years away from even being born, the Apocalypse . And you’re going to tell me that watching some supernatural entity sober up is on the list?”

“Hm… maybe top twenty.” She checked her balance - good, steady - and started toward the door. Crowley trailed her, half a step behind. The entry door swung open when she was still five feet away, and closed behind them without anybody laying a hand on it. “So are you gonna finish the wine back off and watch the sequel?”

“Might do,” he answered, noncommittal, as the elevator began its slow descent. “Definitely going to finish the wine. Might watch the sequel, might watch something else*. Decide when it comes to that.” He brightened. “Could drive down to Soho, throw rocks at Aziraphale’s windows until he invites me in.”

[* It would be The Golden Girls . It was always, when Crowley was alone, or even with Aziraphale these days, The Golden Girls.]

“Why don’t you just call him?”

“Keeps him on his toes,” said Crowley, who really only liked it because it reminded him of the old teen romance movies he’d seen, and because it annoyed Aziraphale, in the way that made the angel sigh and wrinkle his nose and be just a little more of a bastard than usual, which always suited Crowley fine. Aziraphale, who had come to expect this form of midnight courtship, had long-since miracled the windows rock-proof. “I dunno, not sure I’ll like the sequel on my own. Scary movies are always better when you get to watch someone else watch them too.”

“Are you asking me on a date?” The elevator dinged to signal its arrival on the ground floor. The doors slid open and Crowley recoiled straight out of them, as if burned. 

“A date ? No!” But she was laughing, so he stopped, and pushed his hands into his pockets. “What?”

“I’m kidding . God, I think even God would think two and three times before trying to get in the middle of you and Aziraphale. Might have already, you know?” Crowley looked a little alarmed at that thought. “Who knows? Anyway, if you want to meet up to watch the sequel sometime though, I’m game.” She led the way to the Bentley, past the doorman who waved her a cheerful goodnight, and jumped into the car which was, for her, unlocked. “Maybe hang around after your next lesson with Adam? My TV isn’t nearly as good -”

“Sounds fine.” The car roared to life, and Crowley peeled away from the curb, swinging the old Bentley around and into the street, pointed in the general direction of Anathema’s hotel. Through the speakers, Freddy Mercury started crooning the opening verse of ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ “I’ll bring the wine for sure, though.”

Chapter Text

“Angel!” The door to the bookshop opened, in spite of the ‘Closed’ sign, but the voice was familiar, and so instead of bristling defensively, Aziraphale just sighed. “You in here?”

“In the back,” he called in response, completely unnecessarily, if the direction of Crowley’s footsteps was any indication. He laid his bone folder aside, and tucked his glasses away. He’d been working on a book - extremely rare, extremely old, and extremely in need of restoring - and although he was perfectly capable of working on book restoration with the demon present, if he had gauged Crowley’s tone correctly, he would probably need to lend the old serpent more than just a cursory amount of attention. He turned around in his chair, just in time to see Crowley swagger into the back room and lean up against the doorframe, looking even more self-satisfied than usual.

Aziraphale frowned. “What did you do?”

“Guess.” He scoffed. “Actually, no, don’t, you’ll never get it.” He waved his phone demonstratively, and Aziraphale nodded. He never would have guessed, if that infernal device had anything to do with it. “You know how you’ve been worrying about me since we retired? Not having enough to do?”

“Well, not exactly worrying -”

“Oh, cut me a break, yes you have. Anyway , no need anymore!” He held the phone out to Aziraphale, displaying the screen, which meant absolutely nothing to the angel, and pointed to it, proudly. “ I got a job .”

“Oh, no,” said Aziraphale, who had known Crowley for a very long time.

“Oh yes . Know what it is?”

“You’re not teaching again, are you?”

Crowley waved a hand. “Only night classes twice a week at the FE college down the street. Astronomy, so don’t start,” he added, before Aziraphale had a chance to cut in and admonish him for faking credentials so he could teach paleontology again. “So, alright, two jobs. ‘Cause this one is different.”

“Did you get another fake nursing degree?” Aziraphale asked, tired. “I keep telling you, nurses are actually very necessary in the medical field and you can’t keep seducing doctors, Crowley, it doesn’t work like it does on Grey’s Anatomy -”

Crowley bit his lip. “Every other weekend, but I haven’t seduced anyone in ages. Three jobs, then, come on, angel, I have a point here. I’m -”

“ Don’t tell me you got another job editing tabloids -”

“ Uber !” Crowley growled, frustrated, as he flung himself onto the couch.

The angel blinked. “Verseihung?”

“Argh, no, not German, honestly Aziraphale, you’re no fun sometimes.” He threw his hands up, exasperated. “Uber! The ride-share service! I’m driving for Uber!”

“Oh?” And then Aziraphale’s eyes widened, as his brain drudged up a memory of an article he’d read years back, while they’d still been busy with Warlock. “Oh no .”

Crowley, finally getting the reaction he had been seeking, grinned. “Oh yes .”

“My dear boy,” the angel managed to sputter, after a few false starts. “I … I really think that might not be the best idea …” He swallowed. “How long have you been … ?”

“About a week.” Crowley settled back into the couch, tossing his phone and glasses onto the table and closing his eyes. “S’really fun.”

At his desk, Azirpahale breathed deep, closed his eyes, and asked, “How many fatalities?”

“Fatal - angel , I’ll have you know there has not been a single fatality!” Although his tone was indignant, he didn’t open his eyes. “In fact, I have a five-star rating.”

“Out of how many?”

“ Five .” He did open his eyes then, the better to glare, upside-down, at Aziraphale. “I’m an excellent driver.”

“You’re a very fast driver, certainly.” He forced a little smile. “I’m sure people appreciate the haste with which they get to their destinations.”

“Oh, yeah, definitely.”

Interior, the Bentley, two days ago. A young man is in the back seat, dressed in a suit, briefcase clutched to his chest like a shield. His eyes are wide, he is visibly perspiring. ‘Who Wants to Live Forever’ by Queen is playing so loudly that you can barely hear the screaming of pedestrians and the honking of car horns outside. Crowley, driving, looks like he is out for a casual afternoon in the country. 

“Uh, hey, sir?” The passenger risks in the back seat, voice wavering as he speaks. “Sorry, um … I didn’t say I was in a hurry.”

“Oh, good.” Crowley slams the brakes as he drifts the Bentley around a corner, inside tires floating off of the pavement for a heart-stopping moment. “Me neither. It’d be tough to hurry, this time of day.”

The man blanches, and clutches his briefcase more tightly. “Okay,” he says quietly, inaudible over the roar of the engine as Crowley accelerates to a cool 85mph across Waterloo Bridge.

Aziraphale considered the thought of Crowley driving the public around London a little further, and more importantly, driving the public around London in the Bentley. “But, I’d imagine … Well, aren’t you worried someone might hurt the car?”

Crowley scoffed. “The car,” he says, with rock-hard certainty, “is fine.”

When Marjorie sees the Uber she’d hailed pull up at the curb, she is a little taken aback. It’s an old car - didn’t Uber have rules about that sort of thing? But then again, it isn’t just old, it is a classic , so perhaps they make allowances. The driver - a tall ginger in all black, who walks like he has something wrong with his hips, poor dear - steps around the front of the car to open the door for her. Carefully, balancing her latte and packet of breakfast sandwich, she slides into the back seat. She risks a trial sip of the coffee but no, still too hot. The driver has returned.

“So Kensington, then? Hyde Park?”

“Just across from, yes.” The driver nods, and the car starts up. The roar of it is so loud, so abrupt, that Marjorie jumps a little, still careful of her coffee and her sandwich. Shortly after, another, louder sound, assaults her, this time the opening riffs of ‘Hammer to Fall’ by Queen. The driver pulls out into traffic, the old car lurching from 0 to 60 as he does so without so much as a whine of protest.

“Oh!” She steadies herself, and her drink, and winces as a few drops slosh out of the lid, fortunately landing on the lid of the cup itself rather than anywhere in the car. “Sorry, could you - I mean, my drink is very full, I’d hate to spill, and -”

The driver glances at her - she assumes, anyway, because he had sunglasses on, although oddly enough it’s a cloudy day - in the rearview mirror, and smirks. “You won’t spill,” he replies, simply.

“I mean, I’ll certainly try not to but if you could just, sorry, I hate to criticise, but just take it a little easier?”

“No.” He grins, and swerves around a taxi that has slowed down to pick up a fare, and accelerates again, the old Bentley somehow managing to squeeze through a space between two cars that it should not have any right to fit through. “You won’t spill,” he repeats.

Marjorie clutches her coffee, white-knuckled, for the rest of the drive.

But she does not, as assured, spill.

Aziraphale thought about the old Bentley, about how after nearly 100 years with a doting demon to look after it the damned thing was nearly sentient. About the way its engine purred, and the way the sound somehow managed to pitch up or down depending on the person accompanying Crowley in it or, even, the subject of the conversation. About the way it always seemed to know just what Queen song would be appropriate for the occasion, and the way the radio would change if the song just didn’t suit.

Speaking of …

“Isn’t it customary,” Azirpahale asked thoughtfully, snapping his fingers as a bottle of wine appeared on his desk, next to the book, and two glasses appeared on the table in front of Crowley. The demon stretched out, onto his side, and picked up a glass with a pleased little noise. “Customary,” he went on, wracking his brain for details from that article he’d read years ago, “for the passenger to choose the music in ride-sharing situations, though?”

Crowley held his glass out obligingly as Aziraphale made his way over with the bottle of wine. “Dunno how other people do it,” he admitted, watching appreciatively as the red caught the late-afternoon light streaming through the old bookshop’s dusty windows. “But never had a complaint about the music.”

Jason hadn’t really planned on hailing an Uber that night, but when the club lets out it’s raining, and he’s drunk, and the tube station feels just a bit too far to be worth walking. The app on his home screen had called to him, tempted him, and so he’s huddled under the overhang outside of the club and bumming a drag off a joint of another guy waiting for his ride. It’s only seconds after he taps in his destination for the night that his app informs him that, apparently, a driver named AJ in a 1933 Bentley will be picking him up. 

Surely, he thinks, through the booze and the weed, the car’s year must be a mistake. Probably meant 2013. But Bentley, well … he grins and hands the joint back to the other guy, showing his phone to him as he does. “Gonna get me a Bentley tonight, mate.”

The other club-goer, who to that point had been pleasantly addled, pales suddenly. “Oi, you better get another car, mate. Bentley’s not worth it.”

“Huh?”

“The driver, man. Get another one. That guy’s crazy.”

Jason puts his head to one side. “He’s got five stars.”

“I’m telling you, bruv, you don’t wanna -” He stops, because suddenly it’s too hard to talk over the engine of a legitimate 1933 3.5 litre Bentley. Josh grins wider, and looks to the other guy. Shrugs.

“He’s got five stars,” he says, by way of explanation. “Thanks for the joint, man. Cheers.”

The other club-goer takes a hefty puff, and calls, through the smoke, “Your funeral!” Jason doesn’t hear him. He gets into the car.

After he arrives home - in fifteen minutes, how had it only been fifteen minutes, it’s at least a thirty-minute drive to his flat - Jason reflects that he is probably fortunate to have both the alcohol and the marijuana in his system. It certainly made things less hair-raising than they would have been if he’d been sober. Especially, he thinks, and then tries not to think, the bit where the guy had driven through a park on the walking path, and reasoned, “Well, not like anyone’s out here at night.”

Still, Jason thinks, as the Bentley pulls away, and he considers the app’s query as to what he’d like to rate the driver, the guy had good taste in music: he’d played Queen the entire way. Plus, apart from explaining why he was driving through a park, he otherwise hadn’t said a word the entire time.

Jason nods, taps ‘5 stars’, and stumbles inside.

Aziraphale sighed. He sat in his favorite chair, slipped off his shoes - why not, after all, it wasn’t like they were going anywhere, and manifested his wings. He sipped his wine as Crowley’s also fluttered onto the same plane as the rest of him, and considered the whole situation. 

“Perhaps not the music,” he agreed eventually, after he and Crowley had had a chance to sample the wine a little, and Crowley had set his own glass aside, the better to fuss at a few unruly feathers on his broken wing. “But the driving, certainly. Not to say you don’t know how to drive, dear fellow, you clearly must, to have not discorporated a million times over, but, well, humans get nervous when you -”

“You’re always going to have the complainers.” Crowley sighed, and flicked away a covert that had come loose. “Can’t help that. But if you point out why you ought to get five stars anyway, they usually do, you know?”

Chidi is not enjoying his time in London. Oh, certainly, the ethics conference he had attended had been grand, and had given him plenty of food for thought for the flight home, but other than that, London is … a bit much. Aside from the hours he’d spent in the conference, notebook in hand and attentive to the speaker’s every word, he’s basically had a stomachache since he’d landed two days ago.

He definitely has a stomachache right now, clinging to the back of the front bench seat in the impossibly old Bentley that had picked him up outside of his hotel. Impossibly old, because a 1933 Bentley shouldn’t be driving for Uber, and even more impossibly, shouldn’t be doing 90 down Oxford street.

“You’re going to kill somebody!” He squeaks to the driver, who is wearing sunglasses even though it is nighttime and is, currently, driving on the sidewalk, presumably in order to bypass a red light. “You can’t drive on the sidewalk!”

“Doing it just fine, I think,” the driver replies. 

“You have to slow down,” he whimpers in reply. “This isn’t safe, and if you kill someone I’ll be morally and ethically obligated to stop and assist them, and besides, they’ll be dead, and -”

The driver groans. “Like I don’t hear this every day. ‘You go too fast’ this, or ‘you have to obey traffic laws’ that, or ‘parks aren’t for cars’. Why pave the paths if not for cars, hm?”

“To make them accessible!” Chidi all but shrieks. The Bentley brakes hard to avoid hitting a pack of teenagers and, when they scatter, speeds through the opening in their ranks. “Oh, my God - !”

The driver scowls. “She’s got nothing to do with this.” He takes a turn at at least five times the recommended speed, and as the car bumps back down onto all four wheels he accelerates again. Chidi tries not to throw up.

“I’m in Hell,” he decides, aloud. The driver laughs, really laughs, throws his head back and everything, and he doesn’t slow down .

“Not yet you aren’t.”

When the Bentley screeches to a halt outside of the restaurant Chidi and his dinner colleague had chosen earlier that day, Chidi bolts out of the door before the driver has a chance to say a word. “You’re insane!” he informs the driver, waving a finger in the general direction of the man in the front seat. The driver - AJ, the app had said - looks bored.

“Am not. Got you here on time, didn’t I?”

“You -” he glances at his phone, and then starts sputtering indignantly again. “I’m thirty minutes early! Thirty minutes! There was no need for that kind of driving!”

The driver nods, and considers it, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “Hm. You didn’t look in the rearview, did you?”

Chidi bristles. “Of course not, I was too busy looking in front of us for the next person you were going to hit!”

“Right,” the driver responds languidly. “Of course. So you didn’t notice the ambulance behind us, then?”

“No - what?” He frowns. “I’m sure they follow you all the time, driving like that.”

“I didn’t hit or injure anybody,” the driver points out. “And, had you been paying attention, you would have noticed that said ambulance took advantage of the path I cleared to get to the hospital faster, thereby offering the patient inside a better chance of survival.” He smirks. “All very Utilitarian, isn’t it? Scare one person, but save another’s life? Hardly worth the mental math to weigh it out, isn’t it?”

Chidi blinks. “It’s … well, okay, so when you put it that way …”

The driver shoots him a thumbs-up, and then leans across the seat to pull the passenger door closed. “Thanks for the five stars,” he calls, through the open window. Chidi looks down and finds, somehow, that he has indeed rated the driver five stars. “Enjoy your dinner. And don’t miss the wine menu, this place has a great wine list.” He raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glasses. “You’ve got thirty whole minutes, after all.”

The Bentley roars away and Chidi, still stunned, watches it go. Five stars … and had the ambulance ever really been real? If it had, then certainly the driver is right, and ethically Chidi’s fright is not outweighed by the value of the life in the ambulance. But what about the fright of the pedestrians and other motorists? What value are they assigned? 

He never does have a chance to look at the wine list because, thirty minutes later, when his colleague arrives, he is still standing on the sidewalk, deep in thought, eyes fixed on the road where the Bentley had been.

“Is that ethical?” Aziraphale asked, considering Crowley’s assertion. “Telling them they ought to give you five stars, that is.”

“Who cares? I’m a demon, it doesn’t matter.” He rubbed at the wrist joint of his wing for a minute, stretching it out as much as he could, and then let the whole thing fall to the floor, the better to lay back dramatically and sigh. “I thought you’d be happy, angel. Less worried.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I suppose I am, but I have my concerns. Less for you now, though, and more for the unsuspecting public.”

“Oh, well.” Crowley plucked his glass back off the table, and smiled at the wine in it for a second before taking a long drink. “That’s alright then - you’re a Principality, that’s what you do.”

“It’s usually not so specific -”

“Anyway.” Crowley downed the rest of the wine and sat up, the better to grab his phone once more, “I’m actually making some money off the whole thing, real legitimate money, and it’s going to look suspicious if I don’t spend a dime. Treat you to dinner?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “On wages garnered through terror and sin?”

Crowley flipped through the phone and replied, unperturbed, “That curry place you like down the street is running a special if you order delivery before six.”

“Ooh.” Aziraphale wiggled in his seat a little, smiling for a brief second, and then he scowled when he saw Crowley grin. “You are a terrible, tempting old snake, Crowley.”

“Yep, that’s me. Number 11 for you, as usual?”

Aziraphale sighed, scowled into his wine for a minute, and then grumbled, “Extra na’an, if you please.” He downed the rest of his drink. “And rice pudding, if you’re buying.”

Crowley tapped a few things on the phone, and then tossed it back onto the table, the better to roll onto his belly, arms draped over the arm of the sofa, and beam at Aziraphale. “Of course, angel. Anything you like.”

Aziraphale sat back, hunched like he was cross, but his expression was amused. “I should hope so - wouldn’t be very courteous of you to tempt me into something and then deny the accouterments.”

“I aim to please. You know me: five-star service with a smile.” And smile he did, fangs and all.

Aziraphale snorted, and poured himself another glass of wine. “Of course. And if that’s the case, may Blanche Devereaux save us all.”

Chapter Text

900 years after Eden, 900 years after he left Hell. He is still sore, still aches with what he’s lost, still feels like a stranger on the Earth, under the stars he helped hang, still struggles to see through the serpent’s eyes he’s stuck with. 

He is still grieving. He knows it, and he accepts it. It’s getting easier, with time - he stumbles less now, he’s learning the language of the locals and the names they have for their stars, and some days, he even feels … happy. Just for a minute, maybe as he laughs over some awful joke with his human contacts, maybe when a kid takes him by the hand and tries to get him to join in some game or another, but it’s there. Somewhere in the cold hollow of his chest, his heart skips a beat, and there’s a warm shiver. It took him by surprise the first time.

On the wall, with the angel. He thought he’d lost happiness, thought he’d lost joy, but then that angel said he’d given away his sword and it was just so funny. And there was that skipped heartbeat and the rush of warmth for a second, and the demon realized he was grinning like an idiot.

It is getting easier, but he is still grieving. There is happiness sometimes, more and more as the years go by, but there is still sadness, still days where the pain from his fall eats at him and the world is too bright and muddled, and on those days he goes into the desert, into a dark place shaded by the mouth of something that might have been a cavern, if it had tried harder, and he sits. He sits in the almost-cavern and lets the sunlight beat on his back, and he lets his wings out to soak it up too.

The wings are the worst. They ache, and for the first few centuries, any time he brought them into the mortal realm he was bowled over with so much pain from the mangled right wing that it was hardly worth it. He couldn’t bear to look at them, either: the left wing was marred by burn scars, flight feathers scarce and never to grow back, but at least it could move. The right was so broken, so contracted and deformed, that the sight of it made him sick. The sounds it made when he tried to flap it, to stretch it, were worse. There were three burnt-up flight feathers left - three - and on the wing itself even the coverts were missing in places, gray, scarred-up and scaled skin showing through. For the first couple of centuries, he avoided looking at them.

The first time he molted on Earth, he went into the desert, and let the bloody things out, and cried, although he couldn’t shed tears anymore. The feathers, he thought, would be gone now. He tried to keep them, tried to prevent them from falling out forever, but they did just the same. And then, when new, sleek, unburnt black feathers started to grow in behind them, he cried some more, and preened the left wing until it shone. 

He ignored the right.

Halfway between molts, about a hundred or so years later, he broke a feather on the right. He was menacing a human, run-of-the-mill demoning, really, and when he flashed out his wings to really scare them into submission, the leading edge of the stupid wrecked wing knocked into a stone wall and the coverts ruffled. One broke. Crawly hissed, the human fled, and then the demon went into the desert. 

One day, he thought at the time, it might be nice to look at the right wing without crying. Today was not that day. He grabbed a handful of coverts, including the broken one, and tore them out with a scream, shouting at the blood that followed, at the whole wing, at the part of him that was as obviously broken as he felt inside. 

They grew back, eventually. During the next molt, he preened both wings. “Fucking stupid,” he sniffed, fingers trailing shakily along the length of the longest primary he still had on the right. “Fuck off, just grow properly, just heal, please, just heal …” He looked up to the stars, little white smudges in the big black smudge of the sky, and moaned. “Just get better.”

900 years after Eden, and he feels better. A little ashamed of the drama, years before. But he’d been younger then, hadn’t he? Look how irrational humans are when they’re young. They cry and they scream and they try to understand a world that doesn’t make sense to them, and after watching them do that for five hundred years Crawly starts to think that maybe humans and demons aren’t as different as everyone in Hell would like to believe.

900 years after Eden, and he is preening. He’s in the desert - a different place, now, because time has moved on and so has he - and he’s combing out his feathers, linking barbs and smoothing things out, making sure the shafts lay just so. The feathers shine, even the few he has on the right, and he lets himself feel proud. He is a demon, after all. What’s the fun in being able to sin if you don’t abuse it a little?

He stretches his wings: the left all the way out, the right in the twisted sort of way it does, where it pitches down and forward and then cracks really loudly once, and then quivers and stretches just a little further, sending a good ache through the wing and into his back as it shakes and stretches as far as it can. He flaps once, the left wing billowing up a cloud of dust while the right spasms instead and jerks back to its usual position, cocked on his shoulder. 

At least the pain is less, these days, he thinks. At least he isn’t so bloody sore. 

The dust settles, and Crawly watches it. Well, why not? He flaps again, one beat like he remembers doing when he wanted to take off, a whole lifetime ago, and is surprised to find the right wing almost manages a movement approximating flapping. More surprising, however, is that for the barest of milliseconds, he feels lift. 

Just the left side, but lift all the same.

His brow furrows. “Huh.”

He glances around, and stands. “Alright,” he says to himself, stretching his wings out again. 

He flaps a few more times, this time, his left wing beating the air, and the right jerking in a movement that’s something like flapping. It hurts, but he ignores it, because for just a second, his sandals lift off the sand. He stumbles forward, and laughs, surprised.

He tries again.

And again.

The sun sets.

He tries everything he can think of: running starts, jumping up, getting a flying leap off a big rock, even imagining really hard that his wings still work well enough for him to fly, just a little. Just gliding. 

None of it works, not really. Under the purple of the early night sky, Crawly is panting, dusty and sore and angry, his robe scuffed and torn, his wings dirtier than they’ve been in centuries. He growls, and stands up, and, once more, runs and jumps. 

As he has fifty times before by now, he wobbles in the air, beats up the dust, finds lift for maybe a stride, and then spins to the right. This time, he is too tired, however, to catch himself, and he spills onto the ground, rolling over and over until he comes to rest on his back, wings splayed alongside him. Slowly, he lifts his hands up to his face, and whines.

“Demon? Crawly, wasn’t it?” Feet shuffle in the dust. “Are you alright?”

He screams, and in a blink he is sitting up, scrambling backwards onto his feet, and winching his wings away. In front of him, there is a pale, beautiful smudge that sounds just like the Angel of the Eastern Gate.

“Fuck off,” he manages. “I - I’ll kill you, summon up Hellfire and poof there you go. I’ll do it.” He levels a finger at the angel. “Don’t think I won’t.”

The angel crosses his arms over his chest and in the movement, Crawly finds clarity to his outline. Yes, Angel of the Eastern Gate. Crawly swallows. “Fine,” the angel says. “Very well. If that’s what we’re doing then I shall smite -”

“Did you find your sword yet?” Crawly blurts out. 

The angel stops. Shuffles his feet. “Er. No. The humans still have it.”

A laugh slips out of the demon, and he cocks his hands on his hips, trying to muster up a swagger that he can’t really manage, sore and bruised and covered in dirt. “How’re you gonna smite me then?”

“I’ll come up with something. I am a Principality.”

They stare at one another for a few heartbeats. Above, a meteor blazes through the sky. Crawly looks. “Oh, see that?”

The angel doesn’t smite him. Instead, he looks up too. “Ooh, yes. You know, the humans say if you see a shooting star you ought to make a wish.”

Crawly sneers. “They would. Always looking up for answers, aren’t they? Good luck getting them.” He frowns, and coughs, and after a minute in which the angel is studying him like he’s a butterfly pinned to a specimen board, he asks, “How much did you see?”

“You can’t fly.” It’s not mocking, it’s not accusatory. It’s a statement, a bold establishment of fact. 

“Nope.” Crawly shrugs. “Demon thing. The fangs are a pretty cool trade-off, though.” He lets his incisors lengthen and bares his teeth, to demonstrate. “‘M venomous, you know.”

“… Very nice.” Crawly lets the fangs slide away, and the angel clears his throat. “Why don’t you heal them?”

Something bubbles inside Crawly, and he sneers. Hits himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand like he’s had a brilliant idea. “Of course! Heal them! Why didn’t I think of that?” His voice drops to a snarl, a hiss, a growl from the dark. “I can’t, you moron, don’t you think I’ve tried?”

The angel doesn’t respond. He doesn’t look at Crawly either, or at least the demon doesn’t think he does. He seems to be, from the blurs and smudges the demon can discern, to be looking at the stars. “I’ve been watching you,” he says, at length. Crawly’s blood runs cold*. “I’ve seen you heal yourself.”

[* Colder than usual, anyway, which isn’t particularly cold at the moment, considering it is a warm night.]

He’s not quite sure how to respond to that. He swallows, and waits for the angel to speak. When he doesn’t, after a time, Crawly murmurs, “The corporation is different.”

“Ah. Makes sense.” The angel is silent for a long time. “Well. If you’re alright -”

“Going to smite me now I’m not down?”

“No. No, I was going to leave.” He turns, and takes a few steps away, toward what Crawly knows to be the nearest village. 

“Wait!” Crawly finds himself jogging - ouch, he thinks vaguely, as the pains from his attempts at flight re-announce themselves - to catch up. He draws even with the angel and slows down, hands thrust into the folds of his robe. “What’re you watching me for? Planning a smiting?”

“Why would I tell you if I were?” The angel sighs. “But no, no I’m not. I’m here bestowing blessings, and thwarting wiles. I have strict orders to thwart wiles.”

“Ah. Well, I’m wile-ing. Bet I’ve been keeping you busy, ah … ?” he leaves the unspoken questioning hanging. As they walk, he can see the angel glance at him sidelong once.

“Aziraphale,” he mumbles, after a moment’s thought. “Principality Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale.” He feels the name roll over his forked tongue, and finds it fairly pleasant. Better than Gabriel anyway. Bloody Gabriel. “No smiting, though?” he risks. “Thought Michael was very keen on smiting.”

“There must be balance. Humans must not be unduly influenced one way or the other. It is part of the Great Plan.”

“Oh yeah, that.”

The angel stops walking, and spins to look Crawly in the eyes. Crawly, taken off-guard, blinks. “But if you, Demon Crawly, upset that balance at all, I will smite you, do you understand? If my orders are to smite to restore the balance, then I will do so.”

“Well, I mean, unless I’m really clever and get away with it?” The angel glares even more vehemently. Crawly lifts his hands, placating. “Gotcha. Crystal clear, Aziraphale.” He mimes a set of scales. “Keeping it even, no problem. I’ll keep the real crazy possessions to a minimum.”

“Good.” After a hard stare for good measure, he blinks - Crawly doesn’t - and turns away. Resumes walking. The lines of his shoulders soften. “I didn’t know demons can’t fly.”

Crawly thinks of Lucifer, and Beelzebub, and sniffs. “Some can. Just not me.”

The angel nods. He speaks in a voice that is distant, like he’s a million miles away. “On your belly shall you crawl, And dirt shall you eat, All the days of your life.” He shakes his head. “I thought that was referring to you specifically.”

“Kinda. Not entirely.” He waves his hands. “We sort of get blamed for everything as a group, not sure you noticed.”

“I hadn’t. Demons as a unit are evil.” He should sound more certain of that, Crawly thinks. Gabriel had always said things like that, distinctions between good and evil, with such conviction.

“Some,” Crawly says. “Most. You haven’t met Eric.”

“… Eric.”

Crawly holds his hands up over his head, mimes horns. “Got horns. Nice guy. Gets tortured for it all the time. Great fashion sense, though.”

The angel doesn’t respond. Ahead, the blurry lights of the village glitter in the night. Crawly takes a deep breath, sighs. “Well, you can take the night off from thwarting, if you like. Think I’ll keep my wiles to myself until morning.”

“There is no rest for the wicked.”

“Says you. I say I’m knocking off for the night and I’ll be back to it in the morning. Not sleeping,” he lies, as an afterthought. Aziraphale had said he wasn’t going to smite him, but best not to let his guard down in front of him too much…

The angel sounds puzzled. “Sleeping? Of course not. Why would you sleep?”

“Hah. I wouldn’t. Just don’t want you getting any ideas.”

“Hm. Alright. Until morning then, a moratorium. I have some … research I’ve been needing to complete, anyhow.” He goes on, “Have you seen these tablets the humans have come up with?”

“With all the scratches on them? Yeah. Writing, they’re calling it.” He scoffs. “Works alright if you can’t remember the songs and the stories, I suppose. Lacks the flair, though.”

“Do you have any?”

“Huh? Tablets?” He shrugs. “A few.” Something about the angel’s tone gives him pause, and he says, slowly, “Do you … want them?”

There is a pregnant pause, and then the angel murmurs, “If you’re not using them at the moment …”

Crawly nods. He can’t read them anyway, and besides, he remembers all the stories. He likes them better, the way he tells them. “You know the little pile of bricks in the square by the well that girl human from the north of town has been using to hide flowers for the other girl from the south side of town? By the fruit stand?”

“I’ve only just arrived. It’s a temporary mission.”

“Oh, alright.” Crawly explains, with a little more detail, where the secret brick pile is located, and the angel nods like he understands. “Anyway, I’ll leave them there.”

“Thank you. I’ll return them before I leave.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Crawly frowns. “Just … it’s a bribe, alright? Forget what you saw tonight.”

“You know I can’t do that. Forget, that is. Or accept a bribe.”

“Metaphorically speaking, Aziraphale, honestly. Don’t mention it to anybody. Just … pretend it never happened.”

“Ah. I see.” The angel nods again. “Very well. I will not mention it unless directly asked by a superior.” 

Well, Crawly thinks, that’s better than nothing. “Okay.”

They are at the outskirts of the town now, where Crawly’s hut is. “Best keep walking,” he murmurs to the angel, as he steps aside, tries to hide the fact that he’s limping on a sore knee, and heads toward the cloth hanging over his doorway. “I’ll leave the tablets for you tomorrow.”

The angel doesn’t stop walking but he does pause, taking slow, small steps, and turns to face the demon as his feet carry him backwards. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “That’s … very kind of you.”

“Fuck off,” Crawly says in response, before he retreats into his hut. When the sounds of the angel’s footsteps fade out, he heaves a deep breath, and sinks onto the straw mat on the floor, cross-legged, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. “Fuck off.” His wings manifest again with a whisper and a puff of dust, and he glares at the right one, filthy and aching again, bone-tired. “Fuck off,” he says again, more quietly, staring at the wing. Then, slowly, his hand reaches out, and traces the shaft of the longest remaining flight feather.

He preens for the rest of the night and this time, he starts on the right.

Chapter Text

“What’s it like to fly?”

He doesn’t mean anything by it. Crowley knows that, but out of left field, the eleven-year-old’s question jolts him out of a pleasant wandering reverie about the American Revolution, and the utter delight Crowley had taken in heaving crates of tea into the water in the name of mayhem. “Huh? Oh. Uh. Well …” he leans forward onto the little table in the kitchen of Jasmine Cottage, and drums his fingers on the surface. The table wobbles a little. “Been a while,” he concludes, finally. “Aziraphale’d be the better one to ask.”

“Oh.” And that, Crowley thinks, is that. He is relieved, briefly, until Adam says, “Why? ‘F I could fly, I’d do it all the time. I bet it’s brilliant.”

Crowley doesn’t grimace, but it’s a near thing. “It is,” he agrees. “But, you know, it’s not as easy, you have to be secretive, uh …” He’s not sure why he’s dancing around the subject with the kid, not like it’s a secret. But back when the world was ending, he’d hidden it, more because Adam had needed the confidence at that point than anything, and Crowley hadn’t thought a singed, frazzled demon with busted-up wings would be particularly courage-inspiring. 

Adam, judging by the look he’s giving Crowley, isn’t sure why the demon is trying to hide it, either. “Are you … okay? I didn’t mean to bring up somethin’ like, weird.”

“Yeah, fine.” Crowley sighs. “It’s been a while, is all. Demons, ah … can’t fly, usually. There’s a few notable exceptions but it’s part of the whole, you know, demon thing.”

Adam nods, sagely, with all the wisdom and solemnity an eleven-year-old can muster. “Oh. Sorry. So you can’t?”

“Not since, you know.” He waves his hands vaguely. “ You know .” They do not talk about falling, or really Hell at all. Adam doesn’t want to know, and Crowley is more than happy to skirt around that subject, partially because he doesn’t like to talk about it with humans, and partly because he feels fairly strongly that all of that is a bit much for an eleven-year-old to handle. 

“Yeah.” Adam looks down to the table, and then cautiously takes a sip of cocoa. “Sorry.”

“S’alright. Was a long time ago.” Crowley shrugs. “You get used to it.”

“Bummer, though.”

Crowley nods, and although it is not the most eloquently-put sentiment, he agrees without reservation. “Major bummer.”

Throughout the conversation, Anathema has been … near. Not hovering, going back and forth the whole time between the living room and the kitchen, making cocoa, talking to a client, picking up a book, just sort of idle things. But she’s watchful. Crowley doesn’t blame her: if a demon and the antichrist are consorting in anybody’s kitchen, it’s logically wise to keep an eye on them. And Anathema is a witch, with a little more knowledge of the supernatural than your average man on the street. 

Crowley doesn’t mind. She’s always been around when they have their little meetings. She supervises, and makes sure Crowley isn’t trying to pull anything demonic, and Adam isn’t changing his mind. So far, they’ve done alright, and she hasn’t said much to interfere, although she chips in to the conversation when it’s the right time, or when Adam asks, which actually is fairly often. 

Besides, Crowley likes Anathema. She’s only gotten better now that the bloody prophecy book is out of the picture, making her own choices which, on occasion, run a little more to the mayhem side of mischief, especially when no one is at risk of getting hurt*. They’d even done an impromptu movie night at his flat once, which was novel and very human and strangely comfortable. He doesn’t think of them as friends, not yet**, but he likes her just the same.

[* It’s a flaw in a demon, nobody getting hurt, but since she’s not a demon and he’s retired, he figures it’s alright .]

[** Mostly because in Crowley’s experience, friendship requires centuries of denying any kind of acquaintance before you can even so much as consider entertaining the idea of more than a polite professional relationship .]

“What are you talking about?” she asks, pouring out the remains of her cold cup of coffee and refilling her mug from the fresh pot. “What’s a bummer?”

Adam looks to Crowley, gets a nod in response, and explains, “Flying. Crowley can’t, ‘cause he’s a demon.”

“Oh. That makes sense.” She considers quoting the Bible - on your belly thou shall crawl - and thinks better of it. “That is a bummer. Can Aziraphale? I’ve never seen wings.” She realizes Crowley is looking at her strangely, and elaborates. “I mean, I just figured when I looked at your auras there would be wings too, maybe.”

“Nah. Totally different plane.”

“Where you go when time stops,” Adam adds, helpfully. “I saw them there.”

“Yep. Can’t hide them there.”

Anathema cocks her head, and wonders how far to push. “Are they … is it like in paintings? Bat wings, or -”

Crowley is shifting uncomfortably, and Anathema gets the hint, but Adam doesn’t, mostly by virtue of being eleven. “No, they’re like big bird wings! But black. Aziraphale’s are white. They’re really wicked.”

“You got that right,” Crowley mutters.

“They looked like they ought to work,” Adam goes on, and Anathema opens her mouth to cut him off. “But I guess it’s all magic and whatever.”

“Yep. All magic and whatever.” Crowley sighs, and traces a finger along the edge of his own coffee mug. Then, he lays his hands down and sits up a little straighter. “So what else is your history test about next week? I left America around 1781, but there’s probably a few things I was around for.”

They go on like that for a while, back on the topic of the American Revolution, until the shadows get too long and it’s time for Adam to go home. He declines the offer of a ride, and instead chooses to ride his bike. He rouses Dog from his nap under the table, says his thank yous and goodbyes, and takes his leave. Crowley lingers for a minute, finishing his coffee, and he and Anathema stand at the front window, watching the boy go.

“That was awkward,” he says, eventually. 

She cocks her head. “He didn’t know. And he still thinks you’re the coolest thing since sliced bread.”

“I am.” Crowley laughs, softly. “Demon wings don’t really look like that, though, you know.”

“Yeah,” she says. “He said they look just like bird wings. Angel wings.”

“No, that’s what I mean.” He takes a sip of coffee, black and as hot as it was when it was first brewed. “It was an illusion - I could do that much. They break, wings, when you fall. If they don’t come off altogether. Usually, anyway.” He shrugs. “He didn’t need that then, though. He needed help, he needed backup, so quick illusion, there you go.” The mug, empty, is set down by the sink, and Crowley shoves his hands into his pockets. 

“Oh.” She is quiet for a minute. “You know, if you ever want to … I don’t know if it’s uncomfortable or …” She lays her hands on the counter. “Never mind.”

“Yeah, I get it. Thanks for the coffee.” 

She frowns, and doesn’t turn away until the noise of the Bentley dies away.

---

Adam is thirteen when the subject of wings comes up again. They’re at Jasmine Cottage on a Saturday, again, and it’s late spring, and Crowley cannot sit still. He is, theoretically, filling Adam in on the finer points of how to brew your own wine*, but it’s difficult to follow, confusing, because every other sentence finds Crowley losing his train of thought, leaning back in the chair, rubbing his shoulders against the hard back.

[* For a science project, ostensibly. ]

“What is wrong with you?” Anathema asks, after she and Adam exchange a final, exasperated look.

Crowley startles, and looks at the two of them like he’d forgotten they were there. “Ah. Sorry. Itchy.”

“I didn’t think you could get allergies,” Adam comments wryly. 

“No, it’s … not really like that.” Crowley sighs and leans forward onto the table, his forehead making a dull ‘thunk’ sound on impact. “ Molting ,” he snarls. “It’s the worst.”

Anathema laughs, she can’t help herself. “You molt ?”

“‘Course I do, have a couple bloody great wings, don’t I?” He groans. “And it’s not even started properly yet, I’m just gonna itch for a few days first, just to really get in the mood.” He sits up, and scrubs his face with his hands, sunglasses perched on top of his hair. “Sorry. Didn’t think it would be this bad yet. Would’ve cancelled.”

Adam frowns. “You wanna go?”

“Nah, I’m here now. Wine helps.” Anathema sighs, and tops off his glass. “I’ll let ‘em out when I get home, I’ll be fine.”

The humans - well, the human and the Antichrist - exchange a look as Crowley swallows a mouthful of wine and sits back, trying to disguise the fact that he is, again, rubbing his shoulders on the chair. “Just let them out,” Anathema says with a sigh. “If you won’t leave, and it’ll make you feel better, just … don’t break anything.”

Crowley scoffs at her. “That’d be rude. You don’t just … let your wings out in front of humans. You gotta ease into it, start with the divine glow nonsense, the ‘be not afraid’, then you give ‘em two minutes or so to panic and then the wings come out.”

“We won’t tell if you skip all those parts,” Adam points out. “Plus I don’t think you have to do all that be not afraid stuff if we already know you. I don’t think I’ll be afraid.”

“Just do it before you break my chair,” Anathema adds. “Or go home.”

“You can email me the recipe for the wine,” Adam adds, helpfully. “I’ll figure it out with Brian from there.”

“No, there’s this fiddly bit with the -” he is fidgeting, and Adam and Anathema are staring at him. “I have to show you how to do it with the honey, if you need to add it, or it’ll never turn out.” He frowns. “And you have to boil some of the must and, you know it’s really complicated, and I’ll be fine for a few more hours.” He looks from Anathema, to Adam, and back to Anathema. She clears her throat. “What?” 

“Crowley, if you don’t let your wings out or leave, I’m kicking you out. I’m exhausted watching you.” Adam nods in agreement.

Crowley frowns. “Alright, lo and whatever be not afraid, don’t scream .” There is a soft billow of wind and a rustle, and Crowley lets his wings out. Anathema raises her eyebrows. “That’s better.”

They are beautiful, even if they are clearly broken. The feathers that are there - only three flight feathers on his right, and patchy even on the left - are glossy and meticulously-kept, each one matte black. Crowley flexes them - the right one doesn’t move like it should, it twists and cracks and bends at strange angles, jutting out and down - and sighs, and slumps forward onto the table. “Thanks,” he mumbles, into the wood.

Anathema tops off the wine glass. “No trouble.”

Adam, on the other hand, looks puzzled. “Did …” He shakes his head. “Sorry, I guess I’m remembering wrong.” When Crowley looks up, he looks to the demon’s right wing. “Is that normal for molting?”

“Hm? Oh, no, that’s normal all the time.” He reaches for the wine, and then his mouth drops open. “Oh! Right. Forgot, sorry, should have warned you or something, yeah. When you were eleven ah, I just did a bit of an illusion, didn’t want to scare you any more or anything, made things look, you know, like you’d have expected them to.” He returns Adam’s scowl of disapproval. “Don’t give me that look. You were dealing with a lot.”

Adam holds the look for another minute, and then, serenely, as if the sun had emerged from behind a cloud, smiles broadly. “Yeah, alright. That was really considerate -” a groan from Crowley “- and thoughtful -” he goes on, as the groaning gets louder, “- and kind of you.” He laughs, because the demon has drawn his wings around himself and is swearing, grumbling about how lucky Adam is that they’re both out of the game or they’d really be in trouble. “But I would have been alright.” He shrugs. “Everybody’s different, and not like you were the one who tried to shoot me or had a flaming sword or anything. Although you did encourage it.”

Crowley laughs. It’s been nearly three years, and nobody dares remind Aziraphale of the one time he’d tried to shoot Adam. The angel’s practically been falling over himself ever since to make it up to the boy anyway, so it’s fairly apparent that he remembers without the teasing reminders. Crowley, on the other hand, gets reminded on a regular basis; on his thirteenth birthday, Adam had actually given Crowley a card which said, “Thanks for not killing me at any point in my life.” Crowley had laughed at it, and then tucked it away and very definitively had never shown it to Aziraphale .

“Yeah, well.” The demon shrugs. “I dunno, wasn’t sure what to do at the time, honestly. Was kind of making it up as I went.”

“Hard same,” Adam answers. Anathema nods fervently along in agreement. “Anyway, feeling better?” The question was basically rhetorical. Crowley had visibly relaxed as soon as the wings appeared, and since manifesting them he’d not scratched on the back of the chair once. “‘Cause we really need to get started on this science project if I’m gonna get home in time for dinner.”

Crowley downs the rest of his glass and, uncharacteristically, turns it upside-down, so Anathema cannot fill it again. “Yeah, alright, let’s do it. You clean the grapes off a while, I’ll rinse the bucket out one more time - don’t think you’ll pass your class if everyone dies of food poisoning.”

“Good point.” Adam stands, heads to the sink, and leaves the demon and the witch staring at each other across the table. Slowly, Anathema reaches for one of Crowley’s primaries, and runs her fingers along the edge. He watches her, but doesn’t pull away.

“You know …” she trails off, then swallows, and looks up at him. “Do you know how many spells I could do with one of those?” Broken or not, the wing still packs a wallop, though Crowley only grazes the top of her head with the leading edge. “Ow!”

“That did not hurt,” he says. “Liar. And there will be no spells with any of my feathers.”

“Not even one of the old ones?” she asks, although she is teasing, because she already knows the answer. She wonders what he does with them when he’s done molting, wonders if there’s a box full of jet feathers somewhere in the South Downs cottage, ripe and ready for magic. “I could, oh, I could make a magic quill, I could enchant an umbrella to let me fall out of the sky like Mary Poppins.” She breathes in. “I could enchant a flying broomstick.”

Crowley frowns. “ Maybe for the Mary Poppins one. Maybe. Just because that would be cool. But nothing else .”

“So I can have one?”

“No.” He stands, and pulls a bucket off the counter next to Adam, allowing a little water from the tap to slosh into it. “Not today.”

“Not even this one?” She runs her hand through her hair where he’d mussed it with his wing, and pulls one short, black feather loose. It’s one of his coverts, no longer than her little finger and incredibly soft. It’s warm between her fingers, and smells faintly of brimstone. “It’s just little.”

He studies it for a minute, and then turns back to his work with the bucket. “Yeah. Not even big enough to get up to anything. So don’t.”

“Promise,” she says, and she tucks it back behind her ear. 

They make wine*. Crowley warns her four more times before he leaves that day to not do magic with the feather, and she promises, promises, over and over. She half-expects him to produce some kind of binding contract at some point, but he never does, and by supper time she is left with the house to herself and one warm, black, sulfuric-smelling feather tucked behind her ear. 

[* Which ultimately is not great. It’s barely even good . But it gets Adam his A in chemistry, so no one really minds. ]

She considers all the things to do with it. Spells or magic are out, and she doesn’t feel it would be appropriate to put it on display somewhere. So she wears it around, while she settles in for the night, sometimes running her fingers lightly along the edge of it. Late, sometime after dinner, she sits down on the couch, and flips on the TV.

She and Crowley are working their way through American Horror Story . Separately, of course, because the backlog is tremendous and neither of them have the time to marathon the show together. They keep tabs, though, with notes, and once every week the two of them check in and critique the show within an inch of its life, picking apart the plot, the writing, the make-up, the costumes, everything. In spite of this, they’re both enjoying themselves tremendously, and while either one of them would likely have plenty of time to finish the show in a month or so, they’re taking their time; they average 2-3 episodes each week, the better to make it last. 

Anathema settles in for her episode for the evening, and pulls out her notebook. The episode is good, not the best, but interesting and enjoyable, and she diligently writes her thoughts down as it goes on. It ends, and she writes her final thoughts, and sits back. Debates if she’ll do another episode, and looks at the time, and decides no, not tonight. She reaches for the old Spar receipt she’s been using as a bookmark, and then she stops, and smiles.

It’s probably not the most dignified fate for the feather but, Anathema reasons, it’s appropriate. She closes the book, brushes her fingertips once more over the sleek, soft tuft of feather sticking out of the top of the pages, and lays it aside for the night.

Chapter Text

The cottage has a den and it is agreed, fairly early on, that while it is technically shared space, it falls slightly more under Crowley’s purview than Aziraphale’s. Oh, certainly, there are a few bookshelves* and a display of antique snuffboxes, and the furniture is comfortable and homey, more suited to the angel’s aesthetic than the demon’s, but aside from those touches it is all Crowley’s: dark paint on the walls, houseplants scattered over every free inch of floor, and sleek technology conspicuously placed. There is a TV on the wall, huge and slim and used for very little aside from streaming. In the corner, there is a desk, with the fastest, most powerful computer money could buy.

For the first six months they live in the cottage, it is mostly untouched.

[* Which hold only modern paperbacks, not first editions, because Aziraphale just can’t trust the good books out in a room he doesn’t supervise as closely.]

For the first six months they live in the cottage, Crowley is busy elsewhere: there are gardens to tame, and a greenhouse to stock, and a widow’s walk with a telescope to be enjoyed. Crowley rarely goes into the den at all, other than to water and menace the plants, for those first six months.

But gradually, winter comes, and he and Aziraphale settle into a routine, and Crowley starts to gravitate toward the den. It’s in spurts at first, just when Aziraphale is at the shop and it’s too cold to do anything else, but it gets more frequent. Longer periods of time.

By nine months, Aziraphale is worried. Crowley is still Crowley, still stalks around his plants and shouts at them, but other than that, he is in the den. He lays on the couch, and sleeps, and watches TV, and sleeps some more.

Aziraphale asks if he’s tired, one day. “You’re sleeping a lot,” he observes. “A lot more than … than I remember you doing, in London. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah.” And then, because Aziraphale has this look he does that renders Crowley unable to lie, he admits, “I’m bored.”

Aziraphale’s face falls. “Oh. Oh. I see. Yes, not the … there isn’t the same bustle here as there is in London, is there?”

“No, no, nonono.” Crowley holds up his hands, worried and insistent. “Not what I meant, angel. No, I still get in to London when I drop you off at your shop, that’s plenty. But …” He shrugs. “I used to have a job. Wiling and tempting and that. But I … don’t anymore. I used to plan stuff, and spend too much time scheming, and now I don’t … have a job?” He shifts. “It’s not here. Not living here. I just feel a bit … useless?” He frowns. “Not the right word. Can’t come up with a word. Do you follow me?”

“You’re missing having a task?” Aziraphale guesses. “A goal or some such, whether you like it or not?” He sets his book aside and sits back in his chair, the better to watch Crowley over steepled fingers. “Yes, I think I understand.”

“Like, you have your shop, same as always. But I only had being a demon. That was my job and it’s what I am. But now I’m … still a demon, obviously, but an unemployed demon, so …” He throws up his hands. “Bored.”

Aziraphale nods sympathetically. “Yes. I see. Well … you could try some different things? Volunteering at the animal shelter -”

“Really? Animals hate me, angel.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right. Volunteering at the school?”

Crowley makes a show of looking at himself. “Not sure that’s really my scene.”

“Volunteering at the -”

Crowley sighs, and sits back, the tip of his considerable nose propped on his knuckles. “I’ll think about it. Find something, I’m sure. Maybe try beachcombing.”

“Maybe,” says Aziraphale, without much confidence. He wonders how he’s going to break to Crowley that most of what you find beachcombing is not, in fact, treasure, but junk. “You could give it a shot.”

“Bah.” Crowley sits back further, slouching deep into the chair, and sprawls his limbs all akimbo. “I’ll sleep on it. Wake me up for dinner?”

“You’re eating tonight?”

“No, but you are.” He tugs the tartan throw off the back of the chair, and wraps it around himself. “I’ll join if you’ll have me.”

“Of course.”

---

Crowley talks to his technology a lot. He doesn’t see well, Aziraphale knows, and these days the technology talks back, makes it easier for the demon to navigate. So when he hears Crowley chatting to something - someone? - in the den one cool night in late spring, he doesn’t pay much mind.

When it happens a second time that week, he wonders, but he doesn’t investigate. Probably just talking to Anathema. He pulls the doors to the library closed, and reads for the rest of the night.

When it continues the next week, curiosity gets the better of him. It’s around nine, and Crowley is talking in the den again, and Aziraphale sighs and sets his book down and goes to investigate.

The demon is sitting at the computer. The screen is massive, and Crowley is looking at it through his dark glasses. He has a controller in his hands, and a set of headphones on, and he is talking into, of all things, a microphone.

Aziraphale blinks. “What’s this, then?”

Crowley jumps, and then says into the microphone, “Ah, yeah, one second, got an old friend here,” before he hits a button and pulls the headphones off. He jumps up out of the chair and moves to the right. Aziraphale notices then, that there is a camera, fixed on where Crowley was sitting. He frowns.

“What are you doing?”

“Working.” Crowley sticks his hands into his pockets and for the first time in nearly a year since they moved, looks inordinately pleased with himself. “Found a thing to do.”

“This isn’t a sex thing, is it?” Aziraphale asks warily. 

“Nah.” He jerks a thumb toward the computer. “Nah it’s … uh.” He thinks it over. “I have no idea how to explain this to you.” He frowns. “You know video games?”

Aziraphale nods. “… Broadly, yes.”

“Okay. Right. So there’s this website called Twitch. An’ what you do, is you play video games, but while you do that you broadcast your game to other people who want to watch you play. Adam showed it to me.” He waves his hands around, toward the computer. “S’kinda like a reality show? But video games.”

“And other people watch this?”

“Yeah. Got 100 viewers right now.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m hilarious.” He rocks back and forth on his heels and smirks. “Also, they give me money sometimes.”

“Willingly?”

“Yes, of course. I’m retired, remember? Well, from being a demon.” He looks pleased. “Now I’m a Twitch streamer. Part-time.”

The only reason that Aziraphale does not remark that this is a natural progression, as smooth a transition as from shore to sea, is that he does not really understand Twitch. Instead, he nods. “Good. And you’re … having fun?”

“Oh yeah. Loads.” He glances over his shoulder. “Wanna watch for a bit? You can sit in the background. Really gets the chat going, when stuff happens in the background.”

“It’s not one of those violence games, is it?” But the angel is pulling over a wicker chair and sitting down even as he asks. “With all the killing?”

“Nah. S’pokemon. Like Joshua talks about.” He sits back down, and slides the headphones back on. “Right, what’d you want me to call you? Gotta introduce you.”

“Mr. Fell.”

Crowley gives Aziraphale a long-suffering look. “That’s not what … never mind. Right, anything you say’ll probably get picked up on the mic, so just watch it, yeah? I’m gonna un-mute it.” He taps a button, and says, “Right, everyone, this is Az Fell. He’s ah, my favorite librarian, my best friend and uh … my roommate.” Aziraphale blinks. Oh, so that’s what he’d meant. Well … he wasn’t wrong.

Roommate feels a bit impersonal though. They will discuss it later.

“Right, so anyway, back to the run. Fell, this is ah, s’called a Nuzlocke run, where if your pokemon faints you have to let it go because it’s dead.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, who understood exactly none of that sentence.

“I just started. You’ll pick it up as we go.”

To Aziraphale’s surprise, he does. He picks up on the pokemon types, the point of the game, the exploration, and the apparently-bizarre rules Crowley has decided to play to game under. He comes to like the names, and the pokemon, and despite the fact that they are not real, he finds himself getting attached to them.

The first faint, an hour into the game, takes them both by surprise. 

“Fuck!” Crowley glares at the screen. “Fuck! That’s not even a bug-type move!”

Aziraphale raises his hands to his mouth. “So Betty is dead?”

“Betty is dead,” Crowley confirms, morosely. “R I P Betty.”

“Look at all the little tombstones in the chat.” Aziraphale sighs, and wrings his hands. “Oh, dear. We should send her off.”

They do, when the battle ends. Solemnly, Crowley releases Betty the Rattata to the wild, and he and Aziraphale bow their heads while a bagpipe rendition of ‘Amazing Grace’ plays. Aziraphale wipes away a single tear. The chat goes wild.

xxGonnaMunch69xx: omg AJ your boyfriend is crying
JamesBuffetsDick: RIP Betty and my feelings
KnopeForPresident: omgggg im dead RIP Betty
JisforJerg: fuckkkkkkkkkkk i had money on Betty living to the end
GisforGreg: omg kiss your boyfriend so he feels better

Crowley sits up straighter as the music fades away. Aziraphale sniffles, blinks a few times and tries to subtly dab his eyes, and nods to Crowley, who returns the gesture before turning back to the screen and fiddling with the controls a little.

“We will fight on in her memory,” he intones, as his avatar on the screen runs in a circle in a patch of tall grass. “We will fight on for Betty. We’re gonna kill the Elite Four, and Betty’s name will be our war cry. For Betty!” 

“For Betty!” Aziraphale nods firmly, and watches the screen intently. Crowley soldiers on, navigating around Kalos, and Aziraphale watches, although his thoughts are with Betty. He wonders what pokemon do after you release them to the wild. Maybe he will ask Joshua next time they see him.

Crowley, recovering from his grief more rapidly, is on one of his monologues, waxing philosophical on the nature of pokemon match-ups, as his character runs around on-screen. “They’re just playing Calvinball with the dragon and fairy types too, since they’re not even real, and who decided that dragons would be weak to fairies? Should be the other way around, if you ask me - oh, shit, I didn’t want to jump off that ledge, fuck.” He grumbles. “We’re gonna have to walk all the way back to town.”

“You’ll run into some wild pokemon on the way though, won’t you?”

“Can’t catch ‘em.” Crowley sighs, as the screen flashes and a Psyduck assails the character. “Already got one off this route.”

“But you can smite them? For experience?”

Crowley laughs. “Yeah, yeah, angel, I can smite them for experience.” He taps a few buttons. “Get ‘em, Blanche.”

“For Betty!” Aziraphale declares, seizing his mug of tea with probably more enthusiasm than necessary.

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees, still laughing. “Yeah! Fuck you, this one’s for Betty!” 

In his chair, Crowley shifts around, spreading his knees and stretching his legs a little. Next to him, and out of view of the camera, Aziraphale’s hand comes to rest on his knee. 

Crowley doesn’t blush; they have been doing this … whatever it is they’re doing … publicly long enough that he doesn’t react quite that violently now. But the next few sibilants are a little more hissed than usual, and Crowley shifts in the chair again under the pretense of getting more comfortable, yet somehow ending up a few inches closer to Aziraphale.

k2p2ribbingforherpleasure: fuck yea blanche kill that duck for betty
bubbletii: cant wait for them to get to the ocean and catch a magikarp
GisforGreg: am i the only one who noticed AJ moved closer to Fell or … ROOMMATES HUH LIAR
JisforJerg: jfc greg shut up and watch the game

Chapter Text

2000 hours GMT: Stream time.

There is only one problem tonight, and that problem is that Crowley, retired demon and part-time Twitch streamer, has lost his voice. Oh, certainly, he could miracle his vocal cords back to health, soothe the inflammation brought on by an entire afternoon screaming at Manchester the day prior, no problem. But that would remove his excuse to look forlorn while Aziraphale brewed yet another pot of honey-infused tea, and more importantly, would negate his entire strategy for the stream tonight.

If asked directly, he would deny that he had intentionally screamed exceptionally loudly the day prior. That would be an outright lie but, well, demon.

“Come on, angel,” he wheedles hoarsely, over the rim of a steaming mug of tea. “Please?”

“I don’t know the first thing about video games, dear boy.” Aziraphale maneuvers the mug away from Crowley for a second, long enough to deposit a dollop of honey into the mug and stir it in. “I don’t understand why you don’t just fix it for yourself. Really, frivolous miracles aren’t exactly something we should be worried about anymore -”

A memory swims to the forefront of Crowley’s brain, and he slumps. Tries to look pathetic. Aziraphale is better at it, always, but Crowley is fairly competent when he needs to be. “It’s not the same,” he manages. He sounds absolutely pathetic, and his voice cracks pitifully at the end. “It doesn’t work the same.” He sips the tea - too much honey for him, it mingles unpleasantly with the ever-present taste of ash, but it does feel good going down. “Come on, angel, I’ll pick a really easy game. Just tonight. Please?”

Aziraphale watches him for a moment. Frowns thoughtfully. Sips his own tea. “You planned this.”

“I did not.” He sets the mug down, sprawls across the counter, and looks up at Aziraphale, eyes wide and pleading. “Please, Aziraphale. It’ll be on the Switch, nice and easy, I’ll sit right next to you the whole time in case you need help. I can’t do a three-hour talking thing tonight.”

“Hm.” He purses his lips. Takes another sip of tea. “You’ll owe me.”

“Absolutely. Anything you want. Baked goods, rare books … I’ll even go to the opera, if you want. One whole night, not a word out of me, just respectful and quiet.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” It is an agreement, and the angel sets his own mug down, the better to straighten his bow tie. “You swear it’ll be an easy game, yes?”

“Cross my heart,” says Crowley, solemn. “It’s about animals. You like animals.”

“I do, rather.”

Aziraphale sits, awkwardly, in Crowley’s usual chair in front of the bank of monitors in the den while Crowley fiddles with a few things on the computer. He hands Aziraphale the controller, briefs him on the buttons (“Right, move with that thing, yeah just push it around, you’ll figure it out, and your right hand has all the little letter buttons”), and then, after affirming that they’re both ready for whatever Crowley has in store, starts the stream.

He starts, as he always does, with the introduction: “Hey guys, welcome to the stream, I’m your host AJ, variety streamer and quite possibly the oldest streamer on Twitch*. And this is … uh, Ari Fell, he’s been in a few videos, why don’t you introduce yourself?”

[* He definitely is. By a long shot.]

Aziraphale had been in a few videos by this point, most significantly the infamous Nuzlocke run of Pokemon X, which was thrilling and captivating and ended up with both of them crying over the untimely demise of Blanche Devereux, the plucky little Diggersby that perished in the final conflict with the Elite Four. He’d been in a few others, too, and by now they have a routine down. Crowley has the same standard introduction every time, but when Aziraphale makes an appearance, he likes to mix it up.

“Yes, I’m Mr. Fell. AJ’s best friend, his eternal nemesis and your … ah, local tartan enthusiast.”

Crowley snorted. “Accurate. Anyway, as you all -” all 500 people, and counting, although Aziraphale tries immediately to banish that thought and forget that section of the monitors ever existed “- can probably tell, got a bit of a voice problem right now, not really up to a full stream, so I’ve pulled in the backup to try out a little game that’s gotten a lot of press in the past but I never got around to it. You’ll like it, s’got animals in it.” He taps a few buttons on the computer, and the game screen changes. Soothing piano music begins, and they are both bathed in the blue light of the monitor. “So this is Untitled Goose Game by House House. Now, angel -” Aziraphale ignores the deluge of heart icons that fills the chat “- you have never played this game before, correct?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“Great. So the whole point is to be a goose and complete the items on your checklist. Hit ‘begin’.” He coughs, and takes a swig of tea as the screen loads in an image of a little clearing. “Right, says ‘press Y to honk’ so press the Y button and honk.”

Honk. Aziraphale frowns. “Is this the whole game?” Honk. Honk. Honkhonkhonkhonkhonk.

“Nah, says press B to run.” Aziraphale, a little tentatively, begins to maneuver his goose avatar around the screen. He gets increasingly confident, following the tutorial as it directs him.

“Oh, wings, of course, my wings. Can I fly?”

“Nah. Grounded like the rest of us poor saps.” He grins in the face of Aziraphale’s scowl, and takes a diversionary sip of tea. Honk. “Right, through the gate, there you go, tutorial done.”

“Seems simple enough.” Aziraphale is studying the screen, thoughtful, as his goose paddles across the lake. “Now, you said a to-do list - oh! Oh, where’s the dash button? Ah, there. Yes. Excellent, alright. So first it looks like we need to get into the garden.” Crowley nods, and Aziraphale reads on. “Get the groundskeeper wet? What has the groundskeeper ever done to me?”

“Nothing. When has a goose ever needed justification for its actions?”

“Hm, yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right. ‘Steal the groundskeeper’s keys’.” He sighs. “Crowley you picked this game on purpose. You wanted to tempt me into making mayhem.”

Crowley is laughing. “I did,” he confirms. “Oh, definitely, definitely did.”

“Right, well, I suppose it’s just a video game.” He straightens up a little. “And I am a goose. They’re practically agents of chaos in their own right anyhow, so nothing lost.” Crowley is laughing and coughing in the background, curled up in his chair with his free arm around his knees. “Very well. ‘Make the groundskeeper wear his sun hat.’ That one’s not so bad. ‘Rake in a lake’ … well rakes are waterproof so - oh! Have a picnic! How nice.” Crowley does not agree, mostly because he is too busy laughing. 

“I suppose I’ll start with the nicer ones.” He leaves the to-do list, and starts wandering around in the game. “Is there a way into the garden? Perhaps if I get on top of these bags. Is that a radio?” Crowley giggles, although it comes out more of a whimper. “I’ll just move that. I say! Bagpipes!”

“I think I need this for the picnic, anyway, don’t I? Where do I go to find the blanket?” He runs around for a minute, radio playing some kind of bagpipe rendition. Honk. “Argh!” The groundskeeper appears from stage right, and begins to pursue the goose. “No, I need this! No, it’s mine now!” The goose swims into the lake. “Hah! Mine. No!” The groundskeeper pursues him, and the goose drops the radio. “No, I took that!” Honk. Honk honk. The goose pursues the groundskeeper now, and snatches the radio back out of his hand, turning and escaping hurriedly into the pond. “Haha! Catch me now!” The goose paddles across the pond, escaping under the bridge. When he crosses under the bridge, the groundskeeper turns back, defeated. “Crow - AJ, look! I got the radio!”

“Yeah.” Crowley is wheezing, curled up in the chair, the tea safely stashed on the nearest plant stand. “Good job, buddy, you got it.”

“Did you see him chase me into the pond? The cheek. I did mark off the ‘get the groundskeeper wet’ item though.” On-screen, the goose is wandering around, tinny music blasting from the radio. “Now if I could only find the blanket …” He looks happily surprised. “Aha, but he opened the garden gate!” The goose waddles toward the gate, when suddenly the groundskeeper appears from the garden, summoned by the siren song of his radio. “No! No, not again!”Honkhonkhonkhonk. The goose, once again, flees into the pond and under the bridge. “Give up already, you stupid man!”

“I’m dying,” Crowley gasps hoarsely in the background. “I’m actually dying.”

“Where’s the blanket?” Aziraphale is coming as close as he ever does to snarling. “I have never in all my years had to work this hard to have a picnic!”

Crowley is clutching his sides. “That makes one of us,” he manages, before lounging back in the chair and coughing, face aching from laughing. “Oh I’m gonna die.”

“When have you had to put in this much effort for a picnic?” Aziraphale grouses, before he brightens when he spots the plaid picnic blanket. “Ha! Got it!”

“Oh, I dunno, basically from ‘You go too fast for me’ until about three years ago.” Honk. The goose freezes because Aziraphale has whipped around in his chair, the better to glare at Crowley.

“Dear boy.”

“You asked,” he says, before he dissolves into giggles again. “Go on, you have to finish the picnic.”

Honk. “We’ll discuss this later.”

“I imagine we will.” Crowley lunges forward, taps a button on the keyboard, and leans in close to Aziraphale, smarmy grin plastered on his face. “Love you, you’re pretty.”

“There’s a microphone -”

“Muted it.”

“… You’re an absolute nightmare.”

“And you’ve got 600 people watching you pretend to be a goose.” He jerks his head toward the computer. “Game on, angel.” The button is tapped again, the microphone live again. “Sorry, technical difficulties, nothing to see here. How’s the picnic going?”

Gradually, the items for the picnic are assembled. Aziraphale, as the groundskeeper goes on chasing him, becomes more antagonistic. “I’m going to steal this crate just because I can.” He gasps. “A goose hole!”

“A goose hole!” Crowley wheezes behind him. “Yes, a goose hole! Get his keys and throw them in the pond!” 

By the time the to-do list updates with ‘make the groundskeeper hit his thumb with a hammer’, Aziraphale has fully embraced his bastard side and is more than eager to honk with prejudice. The second phase of the game is worse: the shopkeeper that continuously chases him away with a broom becomes the fully-realized subject of his ire, and Aziraphale pursues her with all the determination of a spiteful avenging angel. When the challenge comes to lock her in the garage, he complies with gusto, even confining her beyond the required instance.

“You stay in there you hateful creature,” he grumbles, as the door once again comes down and entraps her. “Forever.”

“You bastard,” Crowley snickers in the background. “You’re brilliant.”

When he proceeds to the third portion of the game, he waddles straight into the meticulously-kept garden of the older gentleman reading his newspaper. Honk! “This is the next twenty minutes of your life, sir, dreadfully sorry, but I’m sure you’ll do something in the next fifteen seconds to absolve me of guilt.”

The man does not, truthfully, do anything to make Aziraphale feel less guilty about stealing his slippers, his hat, and the rest of his possessions, although the woman next door with the painting is annoying enough with her constant fence repairs that the angel is able to alleviate some of his guilt by mis-directing his frustration with her to the man. After he accomplishes the ‘do the washing’ task, the two of them watch in amused fascination as the man tries to throw the woman’s bra back over the fence and misses, repeatedly.

“I spent eight pounds on this game,” Crowley observes. His voice is barely-audible at this point, between the laughing and the occasional instructions to the angel. “What a spectacular physics engine.”

“Is that a lot for a game?”

“It is a criminally low amount to charge for this game.” The man again fails at throwing the bra at the fence. “Can you imagine if we walked outside one day and saw our neighbors doing this?” His eyes widen. “What if you could possess a goose and instigate all this in real life?”

“Can demons possess geese?” Aziraphale has moved on, and is dragging the woman’s duck statue away so that he can impersonate it and get dressed up with a ribbon.

“Nah. Geese are already demonic - too much evil for one soul, probably explode. Or become a Mega-Goose and destroy the world.” He looks thoughtful. “I hope demons can’t possess geese.”

“Mm.” The woman fastens the bow on his neck, and Aziraphale beams. Honk! The woman falls down. “Look how dapper he looks with the ribbon!” He flees, through the hole in the fence, and into the next zone. Crowley groans, nearly silently. He checks his watch.

“Angel, you’ve been going for three hours. You want to save this for later?” If Aziraphale hears him, he doesn’t acknowledge it, instead studying the to-do list.

“‘Make the old man fall on his bum’ … Mhmm. Let’s do that one first.”

“Oy.” Crowley slouches forward, his hands folded and resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You’ve been going three hours. You can call it and finish the game next stream, if you want.”

Aziraphale turns to him, brow furrowed, entirely incredulous. “Dear boy, you can’t possibly be serious. This town is absolutely discriminating against fine, upstanding geese -” Crowley lets his forehead fall onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, his own skinny shoulders once again shaking with laughter, “and I will not rest until I’ve put them all into their place.” Honk. “Now go get yourself some more tea, you sound dreadful.”

“Don’t break the computer.”

“I won’t.”

When the demon returns with a fresh mug, the typical honking of the goose has been replaced by a frantic off-key harmonica. “Serves you right for playing such an appalling instrument! Stop chasing me!” Crowley adds a slug of honey to the tea out of the plastic bear-shaped container, and relaxes back into his chair.

“What’re you doing now?”

“I’m going to make this man fall on his bum,” Aziraphale announces. “Hang on, wait for it …” The old man in the game starts to sit on the little stool, and Aziraphale directs the goose to snatch the seat out from under him. “Take that!” The character drops his harmonica too, and the goose snatches it up, waddling away and tooting through the infernal instrument relentlessly. “Mr. Fell strikes again!” 

Crowley puts his face in his hand, although he is grinning from ear-to-ear. “You’re a madman. You’ve gone mad with power.”

“Goose power,” Aziraphale agrees. “Nearly god-like.”

Crowley winces. “Careful,” he rasps. “Not that I don’t love the hubris but … you know.”

“Tell me it’s not.” He drops a bucket onto another man’s head, and then cackles as the man falls into a full box of tomatoes. The back of his trousers are splattered with tomato. “He’ll never get that stain out. It’d take a miracle.” Crowley snorts.

The most thrilling part, by far, is probably supposed to be the end of the game. The stealthy lift of the beautiful golden bell, and the sneaking back to the goose’s den where the bell is to be deposited to join its fellows. Crowley imagines that if he were to be the one playing it, he would be sneaking through, crouching all the while, waiting around corners for people to be distracted before slinking by with the bell, careful not to make a sound.

But Crowley is not playing, and never before, he thinks, has the difference between a celestial soldier and an infernal demon of temptation and subtlety been so stark. Aziraphale seizes the bell, honks triumphantly, actually out loud with his mouth yells the word ‘Honk’, and takes off through the town. “The goose is loose, catch me if you can, suckers!” Crowley has just enough time to put his tea down on the plant stand before he is overcome with laughter once again, doubling over and spilling onto the floor. “It’s my bell now!”

He makes it all the way through the pub and into the garden of the poor neighbors before the first bell-theft occurs. The painter catches up to him as he drops the bell to destroy the desk, and Aziraphale squeaks in indignation. “No! No, I worked hard for that!” He tugs the bell back away from the painter, and makes a bid for the desk. She catches up to him.

“No! No, you won’t - just drop it, I’m taking it, you can’t stop me!” She snatches the bell again, and begins to walk away. “You’ll be the first to fall under my vengeance!” The goose waddles to the larger bell in the garden, and a resounding bong distracts the painter from her task. The goose, once again, grabs the bell from her hand and hurries over the desk, across the fence. “Hah! Thwarted!”

“You showed her,” Crowley wheezes from his place on the floor, where he has resolved himself to watching the finale upside-down. “Go, angel, go!”

“You’ll never take me alive!” His eyes widen. “Oh, no the shopkeeper. We’re going to have to get past the shopkeeper. She’s atrocious.”

“Just run?”

“She’s fast. She’s wily.” He frowns. “Oh, this part would be perfect for you, dear boy - I’m sure you’d slip past her without any trouble.”

“Oh, indubitably, but you’re the one playing. Just try sneaking.”

He tries to sneak. Probably. It’s a terrible attempt, and the shopkeeper is alerted to the goose with the golden bell soon enough, giving chase. Aziraphale flees, straight into a dead-end. “No! No, you abominable woman that’s mine, that’s -” Honkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonk. The woman knocks the bell from the goose’s beak. “Assault! Thief! Stop!” Honkhonkhonkhonk. He nips the bell from her hands and runs. “Later loser!”

The groundskeeper, for all the consternation he caused early in the game, does not present much of a problem. Aziraphale darts past him, bell jangling, honking madly, and swims briskly across the pond to his base in the little glade. Proudly, honkhonkhonk, he proceeds to the gulley where a good five-plus bells are already deposited. He drops the bell. Crowley claps.

“Angel! You beat a video game!”

Aziraphale throws his hands up in victory. “I’m the greatest goose in the world!” He turns to Crowley, who also has thrown his hands in the air in celebration, and slaps him with a high-five hard enough to nearly dislocate the demon’s elbow. “The town surely has been taught the error of their ways.”

“Yep, you showed them. You’re a bloody menace.” The game tinkles out another piano riff, and they glance at the screen. “Oh, there’s more.”

“Is there?” But the angel is already studying the task list. “‘Make the boy fall into a puddle’ - oh, I’m certainly doing these.” Crowley has since slithered back up into his chair, and is sipping at his tea, the better to soothe his voice which, after the laughter Aziraphale induced with his bell escape, is essentially completely gone. Aziraphale pats him on the knee. “I’ll play off-stream, though, Cr - AJ. I wouldn’t want to steal your time.”

Crowley shakes his head, and points to the chat stream. Aziraphale looks, and then smiles. ‘No, on stream!’ seems to be the overwhelming sentiment, accompanied by various pictographs and variations on ‘Nooooo more Fell!! More Fell!’ “Oh, you’re all much too kind.” Hearts explode in the chat. “Oh, my.” He turns to Crowley the better to disguise the flush in his cheeks. “I suppose I did alright, then?”

Crowley nods, encouragingly, and then gestures to the computer. “Sign off and end the stream,” he whispers, with a heavy element of hissing. Aziraphale considers that if they hadn’t known each other for so long, he might not have understood him. Crowley waves a hand again, as if shooing Aziraphale toward the computer screen, and he turns back around, suddenly unsure of what to say in the face of the camera.

“Ah. Very well. I suppose that’s all for tonight. I … I’m afraid I don’t remember what you usually say at the end, dear.” He looks to Crowley, who shrugs. “I suppose I could make up my own. Ah …” He thinks about it, and then smiles, peaceful and content. “Thank you for staying, I hope you had a nice time. Be kind to one another.” He turns, nods to Crowley, and the demon nods back, leans forward, and taps the stream off. 

“Did I do alright?” Aziraphale asks, as soon as the screen showing the viewers’ perspective goes dark. Behind him, Crowley tosses his sunglasses onto the plant stand next to his mug.

“You were perfect. Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No, it was … fun.” He looks toward the computer. “What nights do you usually do this?”

Crowley swallows, the better to make his voice at least somewhat audible. “Well, tomorrow’s one, typically. And I doubt I’ll be up to a full stream even in 24 hours …”

“Perfect. Back to Goose Town, then.”

“Back to Goose Town.” He grabs his mug off the plant stand, takes a slow, meditative drink, and watches Aziraphale for a minute, yellow eyes fixed on blue. “You can really be a bastard sometimes, you know it?”

“Yes, but as a goose I am absolved of my actions by virtue of being a goose. It’s just goose-driven mischief.”

“True.” Crowley sighs, and leans into the angel, eyes closing, at peace. “I still like it.”

“You would.” Aziraphale idly runs his fingers through the demon’s hair, and sighs as well, equally content. “So I’ll play again tomorrow. And then …?”

“Well, if you don’t finish, you can take another day, too.” He shrugs. “You want to do another one?”

Aziraphale considers it. “Are there … games for two people?”

“Oh? Oh, yeah. Loads.” He coughs. “Bunch of ‘em.”

“Without a lot of murder?”

“Yep.” He is quiet for a long time, and Aziraphale thinks he must have fallen asleep like that, slouched up against Aziraphale’s shoulder, mug of tea nestled loosely between his knees. Aziraphale is considering how he will take him to bed; last time he tried to carry him in a bridal carry, and he tripped over the rug in the hall and dropped the demon, who promptly turned into a snake and hid under the couch for twelve hours. He figures he will start with the tea, and inches his hand toward the mug, before it spills. Unexpectedly, Crowley stirs, and takes another gulp of tea. “You think you might like a game about farming?”

“Farming?” He hums thoughtfully. “Maybe. I’m sure if it’s with you, I’ll enjoy it.”

“Maybe we can do that one next, then.” He blinks his eyes open and yawns. “Long as you let me organize the greenhouse. You can have the galaxy sword.”

Aziraphale smiles softly. “Might not be a good idea. I don’t have a great track record with swords.”

“Hm. True.” He shrugs. “Figure it out when we get there, I suppose.”

Chapter Text

Everyone who knew Crowley’s true nature - these days, this included the Them, and a select few adults - assumed that Halloween would be prime time for the demon. It was, after all, the eve of the spirits, when the physical world pulled in closest with the supernatural, and the borders between the two broke down. It was the day when spooky was loved and celebrated, and surely Crowley would be all about that, wouldn’t he?

It was why Anathema was struggling particularly hard with Crowley’s outright refusal to show up at Adam’s Halloween party. “Come on, Crowley, you have to be kidding, what do you mean you don’t go out on Halloween?”

“I don’t,” he replied firmly. In the background, she could hear something that sounded suspiciously like plants being ripped out of the ground. “Stay in all day. 24 hours.”

“But it’s spooky. You love spooky.”

“Yes, but you know there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.”

“Oh?” She thought it over. “Like, too reminiscent of Hell, because I could convince him to tone down the decorations.”

“No, not that.” She heard him huff, and there came the sound of a body flopping into the grass. She had trouble not smiling, imaging the demon sprawled out on the lawn of the cottage, because she knew him and knew that was precisely what he was doing. “Me.”

“What about you?”

He groaned. “You can be really thick sometimes, you know it, Book-Girl?” She bristled, almost snapped a reply, but he had plowed on. “The boundaries between the human world and the supernatural are blurred. My corporation can only keep it together so well when that border breaks down.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, Aziraphale’s too,” he added, as an afterthought. “But he just gets sort of gimpy on that leg and has some extra eyeballs. He could - and he has - pass it off as a costume if he really needed to. Whereas me, well …” He sighed. “If I don’t just go serpent altogether I can hold a vaguely-human shape but it sort of stretches the limits of credibility to say it’s a costume or makeup or what have you.”

“Ah. Sorry I, uh, didn’t think of it that way. I think I understand now.” And she did. Crowley made some kind of non-specific noise on the other end of the line, and she went on, “Seriously, sorry.”

“Eh, don’t be. Natural assumption, really. And I have gone out on Halloween,” he added, “but because I needed to do some proper demon things. The scales and the horns really do help.”

She tried to imagine Crowley looking anything like a proper demon, and failed miserably. “I can imagine,” she said anyway. “Well, alright. I’ll tell the Them … something. Say you’re not feeling well or something.”

“Just tell them the truth. Adam’s the Antichrist, I hardly think demons doing demon things is going to be a shocking revelation.”

“Well, no, but I think if I tell them you’re spending the day cooped up because you look properly scary for once they’ll be even more disappointed you didn’t put in an appearance. You know how they are.”

“True.” He sighed. “That’s fine then, tell them whatever. And, ah, enjoy the party.”

“You’ll be alright by the weekend? I was thinking that new movie about the possessed priest -”

“Oh, yeah. Like I said, twenty-four hours, back to normal. Mostly. Might be a bit of ash around the fingertips but I’ll definitely be fine by Saturday.”

“Good,” she said, like they were discussing a brewing cold or sore throat, and not Crowley becoming an eldritch horror for a short period of time. “Alright, well, uh, good luck I guess. Hope it’s not too bad.”

“It’ll be awful, but thanks all the same.”

It always started at the stroke of midnight. Crowley and Aziraphale waited for it, knew it was coming, and took up stations where they would both be most comfortable. Aziraphale settled in n the library, books stacked high and at the ready, and an old but serviceable cane leaned up against the side table. Crowley carefully spread a few cheap old blankets over the couch and placed the iPad and his phone in easy reach. Preemptively, they both let their wings out, and Aziraphale took the time to rub some of the ache out of Crowley’s bad wing while his hands were still unfettered by eyeballs.

“We really have to look into fixing this,” he murmured, working the stiff joint of the wrist a little looser and ignoring the way it cracked, bones grinding arthritically. Crowley made a little noise of appreciation. “Even just the joint - I don’t know how we could get the feathers to grow back, but if we could get this wrist less contracted -”

“Can’t be done.” Crowley sighed, and Aziraphale let the wing go, the better to allow the demon to slump sideways into his chest. “Would’ve done it if I could.”

“I know that, dear boy.” He ran his hands down the leading edge of the wing, following the warped bone into Crowley’s shoulder and rubbing the muscle where the limb attached. Crowley sighed again, happily this time. “But I’ve never helped you look for a solution before.”

“S’pose not. Still don’t think there’s much to do about it, though. I mean, short of getting God or Raphael to fix it.” He snorted. “And fat chance of that.”

“I’ll have a look anyway. Perhaps - oh.” 

The clock on the buffet chimed. One, two, three, all the way to midnight. Crowley groaned. “Here we go.”

It wasn’t a painful transformation, but both had scars from the Great War, and the aftereffects weren’t enjoyable. When all was said and done, Aziraphale was leaned back into the couch, massaging his right thigh, and Crowley was carefully extricating himself from the angel’s lap, mindful of the ash raining from his form and Aziraphale’s newly-visible multitude of eyes. Cautious of the eye now in his palm, Aziraphale grabbed the tip of Crowley’s broken halo - horns, now - and guided it away from his wing. “Careful.”

“Sorry.” They exchanged a look. Exasperated, frustrated, but most of all, tired. It wasn’t a terrible trade-off, one day each year, but neither particularly enjoyed the in-between form that Halloween forced, and it had grown old over the years. “I hate this.”

“Me too.” Aziraphale sighed, and closed most of his eyes, although a few along his wings stayed open. “Twenty-four hours.”

“Ugh.” Crowley made a vague gesture, head leaned back over the sofa, eyes closed. “Don’t even feel like doing anything.”

“Take a nap?” Aziraphale suggested. He stood, hobbling from the couch to the chair, and picked a book from the top of the pile. “I’ll be reading.”

“Mm. What book?”

“Oh? Ah.” He didn’t bother to close it again, and instead blinked open the eye on his palm to read the cover. “It’s contemporary.” This was said with the same tone as he might have informed Crowley of a particularly insistent customer in the shop. “But I suppose it was well-reviewed. It’s a signed first edition.” Crowley made an interested little noise. “‘The Da Vinci Code’ by a Dan Brown. Supposedly has a good deal of Bible lore.”

“Haven’t you read that?” The demon looked up, grinning, and Aziraphale didn’t mind the fangs. “C’mon, you can’t have missed that.”

“I didn’t. I’m just getting to it now. Have you read it?”

“Nah. Downloaded it ages ago but then everything happened with the kids and I forgot about it. Meant to, though.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “I could read aloud, if you’d like. Good a way to spend the next 24 hours as any.”

Crowley hummed. “Can’t say I disagree. If you’re going to read, though, ah, and I don’t need hands -”

“Of course, dear.” There was a relieved hiss, and after a few seconds an enormous black winged snake was draped over the couch, coils heaped on coils to fit on the now-sagging piece of furniture. Leisurely, Crowley slithered forward, off the arm of the couch and across the empty space between there and Aziraphale’s chair. “Come around,” he encouraged, while Crowley draped the front length of himself around Aziraphale’s shoulders, until the tip of his snout was tucked under the angel’s chin, and the length of himself with his wings was resting on the floor, wings splayed out lazily. “Comfortable?”

“Yesss. You?”

“Budge off my right shoulder a bit, there’s a love. Right.” He turned from the title page, and started to read: “Fact: The Priory of Scion - a European secret society founded in 1099 - is a real organization.” He stopped. Frowned.

“Wasss it? Don’t remember that one,” asked the Serpent of Eden.

“I’m fairly certain it was not,” replied the angel of the Eastern Gate. He read on, expression growing more disapproving by the word. “In 1975 Paris’s Bibliotheque Nationale discovered parchments known as Les Dossiers Secrets, identifying numerous members of the Priory of Sion, including Sir Isaac Newton, Botticelli, Victor Hugo, and Leonardo da Vinci.’ Well, that’s utter tosh. Who published this pulp?”

Crowley’s forked tongue flicked the tip of his nose, and Aziraphale heard a hissing sort of laugh. “Who caressss? Go on, I want to hear thisss.”

All in all, it was not a bad way to spend 24 hours. By the midway point of chapter one, Aziraphale was so bent out of shape about the inaccuracies that he all but forgot about the ache in his leg, or that Crowley dribbled a little ash onto the rug every time he laughed. At some point, cocoa appeared, and Aziraphale pretended not to notice as Crowley sipped at it, even though the sheer size of his snout made stealth a bit difficult, considering the gentle thunk he made every time he shoved his nose into the cup. The reading went a bit slow, too, considering they had to stop roughly every five paragraphs to criticise something, or point out some inaccuracy, but the interludes were mutually enjoyable, and neither found they minded. 

Ordinarily, Aziraphale would have been able to read a book of that length within 24 hours. It was the reason for the other books settled within easy reach, after all. But when the clock again chimed midnight, and the eyes faded back into the ether, Aziraphale just paused, marked his place with a finger between the pages, and took a sip of fresh, warm tea. “Well, there we are. Another Halloween.”

“Yeah.” Crowley stretched his newly-returned limbs - wings included, he was loath to put them away yet if he didn’t need to, it felt so good to let them breathe now and then - and flopped back onto the couch. “Not the worst I’ve had. Possibly top ten best, actually.”

“This book is dreadful.”

The demon patted the sofa next to him. “Well, yeah, but in a good way. C’mere, I gotta know what happens.” Aziraphale grumbled a little but he obliged, moving over to the couch once again with his usual gait, although he too left his wings out, albeit without the eyes. He settled, and Crowley slouched up against him, a tumbler of scotch suddenly in his hand. “You think they find the Grail?”

“I rather hope not, honestly.” Aziraphale scowled. “It’d be a real shame if he butchered that as well.”

“You know there’s a prequel?”

“No.”

“Honest truth. Called Angels and Demons.” Crowley waved his free hand. “Whole series, actually. Never read any of them.” He raised an eyebrow. “Might be fun?”

“You have a strange definition of fun, Crowley.” Absently, he kissed the top of Crowley’s head, ignoring the way the demon’s hair tickled his face. “Comes with being a demon, I suppose.”

“Comes with having a sense of humor. We should read them.”

“No.”

“Well not right now. Later.” He gestured vaguely. “After I get the garden cleaned up for the winter, maybe.”

“Hm. I’ll have time to read a few palate-cleansers.”

“There’s the spirit.” He snuggled in closer, right wing wrapped around Aziraphale’s shoulders and the left covering himself like some kind of massive feathery blanket. “Go on, let’s see if they get the Grail.”

Aziraphale sighed, defeated and resigned, although Crowley could see the tiny movement well enough to note the little twitch at the corner of the angel’s mouth, almost a smile. “Very well.” 

He turned the page, and kept on reading.

Chapter Text

“What happened during the 14th century?” Crowley, who is lounging upside-down over the couch, joint smoking lazily between his fingers, blinks once or twice. Anathema puts her head to the side. “You always talk about hating it, but you never say why.”

“It was terrible,” he answers automatically. “You don’t want to know.”

“You discorporated, right?” She knows that much, had gleaned the information from cast-away remarks here and there throughout the years. “Three times?”

“Yeah.” He rolls over, languid, and looks levelly at her. “Book-girl, believe me, you don’t want to know.”

“What if I do?” she challenges. “I asked, didn’t I?” He is glaring, but she meets him eye-to-eye, and rests her chin on her hand. “Why would I ask if I didn’t want to know?”

“Why do you want to know?”

That question slows her roll for a second: why does she want to know? Certainly, she considers Crowley her friend, but he is an interesting character with his foibles and his inconsistencies and his iron-clad but completely incomprehensible values. He has his secrets, thousands of them, and she is more than happy to let him keep most of them. But something about the 14th century pulls at her, and she wants to know. Needs to know, because the future is looming, and it’s the only thing about Crowley that gives her pause when trying to incorporate him into it.

It’s become more pressing recently, too, she thinks. She has a good idea why. She is changing, and he is a demon, and she needs to know.

“Because you’re my friend and it bothers you,” she says finally, mostly honestly. “You talk about how awful it was, like you want us to ask, and then when someone does you balk at it and change the subject. Does Aziraphale know?”

“You - yes, he knows.” He looks puzzled. “Book-girl, I’m being very serious. It’s … weirdly kind of you to want to know I suppose, but you do not want to know.”

“Crowley.” She leans back into the chair, and draws her knees up to her chest. “I have something I have to tell you. I want to tell you, anyway. But I need to know … you have to tell me why you hate the 14th century.”

That gets his attention. Slowly, graceful, snake-like, he slides off of the couch, dumps the joint into the ash tray, and stalks across the living room toward her. He is examining her, like a doctor sizing up a patient, or like a snake sizing up a mouse; she can’t quite decide. “You alright, Book-girl?”

“I will be.” Her belly is roiling, and suddenly, pinned under those snake eyes, she regrets this. She still wants it, but she also wants to avoid it. She could avoid it, really, but then she wouldn’t be able to … She let that train of thought trundle off, and jumped onto the next one. “You don’t have to tell me specifics. I just need to know why. Basically. Beyond the discorporations.”

She never saw him sober up, but there isn’t a hint of anything but diamond-sharp clarity in him now. “Not enough for you? Looking for some juicy gossip?”

“For what?” She snorts. “My advice column? A blog? No. I just … Just tell me why you hated it so much.”

“It was hell.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well yeah, obviously, if you hate it that much -”

“No, literal Hell. With a capital ‘H’.” He swallows. “S’where I go when I discorporate.”

“Right.”

He stares at her for a minute, when it becomes clear that that answer had not satisfied her. His jaw works for a minute. And then, quietly, he says, “I have only ever told Aziraphale about this.”

“I promise it doesn’t leave this room. I will tell you why, but you have to tell me, you have to be honest, Crowley. Please.”

He sighs, and puts his head in his hands, suddenly cross-legged on the carpet in front of her seat. “You know what they do, when you discorporate too many times in a certain time frame? They punish you.”

She nods. She had rather thought it would be something like that. “I see.”

“The first time wasn’t anything - fill out form BD663 in triplicate, here’s your new body, don’t do it again. The second time in a century they make you wait, maybe ah … “ He makes a vague sort of motion with a hand. “Maybe a light flaying. You know. ‘Be more careful next time’.” He swallows. “Didn’t think I was going to get to come back up here, after the third time.”

She folds her hands. “But you did.”

“Oh, yeah.” He sounds a little strangled. “For a price. By then they started to think I wasn’t doing my job right, although I was, at least at the time. So for a while they had me down in … it doesn’t matter, you really don’t need to know, but then some cult up top wanted to summon up a demon with a real wallop. And I was available.” He sighs. “Better the Serpent of Eden than a Duke of Hell - wasn’t like they really needed me down there for anything anyway, and humans are always impressed by the whole original sin thing.”

“Mhm.” She thinks about reaching out to him, but this is important, and she doesn’t want to stop him. She wrings her hands together instead.

“You know the worst part?” He looks up to her, wide-eyed and unabashedly remorseful. “I didn’t care, was the worst thing. Because I was back up here, I wasn’t in Hell, and if they wanted to bind me to do … dark bidding or whatever the fuck it was, that was better. So I did it.” He holds up a hand, fingers splayed. “Five years. Five years in servitude to some stupid cult in back-country Italy. It wasn’t hard work, mostly meant looking scary and killing someone occasionally.” He closes his eyes, pressed the heel of his hand against the bridge of his nose. “Then they wanted me to kill a kid.” She inhales sharply, and he snorts. “S’what I said.

“And, you know, five years isn’t that long, not for me. Is for humans, though. And they’d slipped on keeping some of the bindings together. I probably could have slithered out of there a year or two earlier, but it would’ve been work. Wasn’t fun as it was.” Sharply, he hauls the right side of his t-shirt up, and points to a broad web of scars slashed across his hip and ribs. “Got that for my trouble. But I did not kill that kid.” He doesn’t look at her when he says, “Was about the only one there I didn’t.”

She releases the breath she’d been holding, and leans forward. “Crowley -”

“You wanted to know,” he snaps then, and she sits up. “So let me finish. Because after I got out of there, who do I run into but Aziraphale, and after the run I’d had it was a good thing he was the angel I met up with because any other one would’ve … Anyway, doesn’t bear thinking about.” He smiles, a little bitterly and a little fondly. It looks strained. “He helped me burn all the books on summoning we could find. Scoured all over Europe. I’m sure we missed a few, but no one’s dared try anything serious since then.” He forces a little laugh. “And it was the last time I discorporated, you can bet on that.”

Anathema nods, and then pauses. “But … there are summoning books still. I’ve seen them.”

“Nothing that can bind you,” he says quickly. “Summoning is one thing, binding is another. If you see anything that mentions binding, I’d be obliged if you got rid of it.” He sighs. “Nah, summoning is different. Last time I got summoned I ended up helping three college students in Massachusetts with a group presentation. And they didn’t even put me on the Powerpoint.”

Anathema takes a moment to wonder how that would have gone over. ‘Presentation thanks go also to the Demon Crowley, who was surprisingly helpful for an infernal being of temptation and sin.’ Probably, she thinks, not well. 

“Anyway,” he says, with a sort of gruff finality, “that’s your answer. Now why the fuck did you need to know so bad?” He’s half-glaring at her, and she can’t tell if he’s angry or relieved. She wonders how many other humans he’s told about this, decides the answer is very likely a definite ‘0’, and she shrugs.

“I’m pregnant.”

“What?” He stammers for a little while, eyes flicking from her face to her belly and back-and-forth. “How is that relevant?”

“Well.” She sits back, and laces her fingers together, resting them on her crossed knee. She looks to the ceiling for a minute, thoughtful, and tries to think of a way to explain this that doesn’t make her sound absolutely unhinged. “Crowley, we’re friends, right?”

“I should hope so.” He sneers. “Hate to think you just twisted the worst 100 years of my life out of me if -”

She waves a hand. “It was rhetorical, but fact established. So that being the case I … well, I’ve been thinking a lot about what’s going to happen after I have a kid. About who I wanted to have around.”

“Oh.” He looks away. “Makes … Right. I get it. Don’t exactly have the greatest record with babies.”

“Mm, not recently, but I’m considering that extenuating circumstances. Plus,” she adds, “according to Aziraphale, you were a really good nanny when you weren’t trying to get the kid to be evil.”

“Does he know about this?”

“Not yet. I figured you could tell him. But he’s mentioned it in passing.” She takes a breath. “Anyway, I know that you don’t hurt kids. I know that. But, I dunno, when I found out about … all this … I wanted to make sure it wasn’t because something happened and it made you that way.” Her mouth twists. “It’s weird, as soon as I found out I started thinking about things I never thought about before. Wondering about stuff, planning for things, that kind of stuff. I still don’t want the book,” she adds, because she sees the way he’s looking at her, and she knows what he’s thinking. “But … Yeah. I had to make sure.”

“Hm.” He watches her for a long, long moment, and then nods. “So what’s this mean, now?”

“You wanna be its uncle?” She raises a finger. “You have to promise not to try to make it evil.”

“No problem.” He looks thoughtful. “I think godfathers is more typical -”

“No, that’s outdated and kind of cliche, at this point.” She waves a hand. “Besides, my brother lives in San Diego, and Newt doesn’t have siblings, so the poor kid’s gonna need some aunts and uncles anyway.”

“Fair.” 

She softens, and leans forward. “Crowley, I’m sorry to push, but I had to … I just really needed to know that there wasn’t anything, you know -”

“Extra evil?” He sighs. “I get it. There was, but not in a way that’s going to happen again, alright?”

“Very much so.” 

He leans forward and pokes her in the stomach. “Who else knows?”

“Newt.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Hm. Way to make a demon feel special. Argh,” he says then, because she has taken advantage of her proximity to grab him and hug him. “You’re only getting away with this because you’re with child,” he grumbles, and she gives him an extra squeeze. And then suddenly, he is trying to pull away, wide-eyed and panicky. “Wait, how pregnant. When’d you find out?”

“About seven, eight weeks. I took a test about a week ago.” He sags with relief, and she laughs. “Why? What was that about?”

“You didn’t see any broad-shouldered feathery assholes with purple eyes then?” She shakes her head. “No one said, ‘be not afraid?’” 

“No,” she laughs, “but it might have helped when I took the first test. Not that I wasn’t sort of trying - we weren’t trying, that is - but when you see the two little lines, you know, it’s kind of … startling. Sobering. All of it.”

“So no Gabriel.”

“Ah.” She chuckles. “Yeah, no Archangels. Just a little stick with some lines on it.”

“Oh. Good.” Miraculously, he suddenly is holding a bottle of wine. The joint is still in the ash tray, no longer smouldering, and she makes a little noise of protest. He waves a hand and it vanishes into the ether or, probably more accurately, into an ash tray in a cottage in the South Downs. “Secondhand smoke,” he says, by way of explanation, uncorking the bottle and taking a mouthful.

“How considerate.”

He grunts, and holds up the bottle. “Not at all. Demon, remember? This is a Caymus cabernet, very delicious, and you can’t have a single drop. You are very jealous.”

“Oh, extremely. Very evil of you.” She budges over, obligingly, and he sprawls into the space on the two-seater next to her. “Want to watch a movie?” She waggles the remote. “I rented The Tide of Blood.”

“Is that anything like Blood Tide?”

“I dunno. Never saw it.”

He takes another swig of wine, and raises an eyebrow. “It’s awful. I’ll get a copy some time.”

“Deal.” She gestures to the TV. “This one’s about a prehistoric sea monster that stalks and eats promiscuous teenagers.”

“Classic. I’m in.” He settles back, and her too. The first teen - a football-playing bully - has been eaten before either of them says anything. “Uncle, hm?”

By this time, she is slouched against his shoulder, the better to reach the shared bowl of pretzels that somehow appeared ten minutes ago. She hadn’t asked. “I figured. Unless you want something different.” She doesn’t look at him as she elaborates, “I mean, chronologically, I could certainly justify grandpa -”

“Oy.” The pretzels are snatched away, just momentarily, although he is laughing. “You have your own parents, use them for that.”

“Right. So uncle.”

“If that’s the alternative, I’ll take it,” he grumbles, and she finds herself with a bowl of pretzels in her hands. “Grandpa, Book-girl, honestly.“ The wine bottle glugs as he takes another drink, and Anathema crunches another handful of pretzels. On screen, another teen fruitlessly tries to fend off the monster with a kayak paddle. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Hm. Yeah. Yeah, I think I must be.”

Chapter Text

“Crowley?” Leaves rustled. Crowley, still blind from ripping out of the binding, and in pain besides, hissed, curled in on himself, and moved to retreat. He groped across the floor of the forest, his right hand leaving slick traces of blood on leaves and sticks. 

“Crowley, it’s me. Crowley .” A cool hand on his shoulder, and he started to lash out, spinning in the direction of the voice and the warmth of the other person, fangs bared. But something twitched in the back of his mind. Familiar , his brain said softly. You know him .

He paused, and scented the air. Oh, yes. Very familiar. The hiss died in his throat. “Aziraphale,” he whined, and as soon as he’d said it the angel’s hands were on him. “S’you.”

“What happened ?”

Crowley reached out into the white void, until his knuckles bumped into the smooth linen of Aziraphale’s tunic. He fumbled with the shirt until he felt out the angel’s shoulder, and then, without bothering to ask permission, used the other’s weight to haul himself into a sitting position, still frantic, still gasping for breath he didn’t need.

“Easy,” Aziraphale cautioned. He put his hands firmly on the demon’s shoulders as Crowley started to struggle to get his feet underneath himself. “Wait. Sit a moment. Crowley, what happened to you?”

Crowley struggled for a minute, and then slumped. He swallowed, his tongue suddenly thick and ungainly in his mouth. “Cult,” he managed. “Nasty cult.” With one hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and the other reaching out for something - maybe a tree or a bush - he started to struggle to stand again. And again, Aziraphale gently but firmly put hands on his shoulders and held him down. “Gotta move. Keep moving.”

“Why?” His voice was calm, firm, and measured. Crowley, on the other hand, made a frustrated noise and squirmed out of Aziraphale’s grip until he’d managed to stumble upright, bare feet sinking into the warm earth of the woods. 

“Because I’m bloody well running away!” He stumbled forward, hands outstretched, until he found a slim tree, the bark rough and textured under his hands. A second later, more rustling signaled Aziraphale’s approach. This time, Crowley yelped when the angel’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Don’t do that!”

The hand withdrew. “I’m sorry. Crowley, can you see anything ? Your eyes … Well, they don’t look good.”

For some reason, that made him laugh, bitter and dry. “I know I’m not usually the most graceful, Aziraphale, but I think this is pushing it.”

“Can I help you?” This time, when Aziraphale touched him it was very gentle, just on the curve of his shoulder. “Wherever you want to go, but let me help you.”

“I’ll be fine. Couple hours, I’ll be alright. Don’t worry about it. I just have to get away.” He ran his hand up the trunk of the tree, searching for a low branch, something he could use as a cane until his sight returned. 

Aziraphale sighed, exasperated. “I didn’t say you wouldn’t be alright, I just said I’m going to help you. Here.” There is a snap of a stick, and Crowley suddenly had a cane in his hands. “Alright? Do you mind telling me why you’re covered in blood?” The last part was irritated, sharp, and, for some reason, struck Crowley as ridiculously funny. “ What ?” he asked, and although Crowley was blind he could still imagine the scowl on the angel’s face, the way he would be crossing his arms, oh yes, the tapping foot …

A sob threatened to bubble up through the laughter, and abruptly, Crowley stopped making any noise at all, save for a low whine in the back of his throat.

“Alright. You’re alright. Come on, let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”

Crowley trusted his voice just enough to choke out “Okay,” before he and Aziraphale started walking. Aziraphale didn’t hold him, which he was grateful for, but he didn’t go far either, their shoulders rubbing as they walked, Crowley’s improvised cane tapping the forest floor ahead of them, occasionally bouncing off of a root or a rock and the demon stepping around it.

It wasn’t the first time he’d done this, after all: having snake eyes meant occasionally having to hide them which meant, in the days before smoked glass was a thing, being blind. It had been a while, though, which explained why he was slower, more tentative, and why the warm bulk of Aziraphale next to him was indescribably comfortable, angel or not.

They walked for what felt like a very long time, not that Crowley was a good or accurate judge at the moment, before he felt compelled to break the silence. “So … what are you doing here?” he managed, and his voice only cracked once. “Bit out of your normal range, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale was quiet for a few beats. “I … heard reports of demon activity in this region.”

“Ah. I, er. It was probably me.” He bounced off Aziraphale a little as they walked, the sticky, clotting blood coating his right side tugging on the shredded remnants of his own tunic as the fabric shifted. “Cult stuff,” he added, more quietly.

“You mentioned.” And then there was a hand in his short-cropped hair, pulling out a few sticks and leaves, and it was all he could do not to stop walking and lean into it. “We’ll get you cleaned up, and you can tell me more then. I’ll get wine.”

Crowley breathed out. “Holy wine?”

“Just the regular sort, I think. We’re in a good region for it.”

“Lucky.” He stumbled a little, not over anything in particular besides his own feet - he was so tired, all of a sudden - and Aziraphale caught him under the arm, put him back on his feet like he didn’t weigh a thing. “Thanks. Sorry.”

“No trouble.”

They were quiet for a little longer, but at some point Crowley could hear water. His vision was starting to improve, too: nothing discernible, not then, but it was bloody bright out, and the dappled shadows from the trees were starting to create spots in the white wash of his vision. “I was bound,” he said, suddenly seized with an urge to start spilling the story, before he thought better of it. “They summoned me up from Hell, and then they bound me. Five years, I think. Not sure how long in Hell before that, honestly.”

He heard Aziraphale suck in a breath through his teeth. “That … sounds about right.”

Crowley winced. “I was the demon, wasn’t I? The one you came here looking for.”

Aziraphale didn’t lie. “Yes.”

More silence, heavier and thick as the clods of blood on Crowley’s shirt. “Well. Get it over with, then.” He stopped walking and stood still, head hanging. “Smite away,” he said with a sigh, waving a hand toward himself. “Don’t make it too bad, though? You know. Avoid the face and all. Can’t guarantee I’ll come back up anytime soon. Which, ah, I guess your people wouldn’t be too unhappy about, eh?”

"Probably not." And then there were hands on his shoulders again, steering him toward the sound of the water. "I would, though. Come on, you're completely filthy."

"Uh?" Crowley managed, before the sound of water got even louder and the cool rush of the stream, river, creek, whatever, splashed over his feet. He dug his heels in. "Say what?"

"I said I would be unhappy if you were trapped Downstairs. Is your hearing alright?" Another gentle push, and Crowley stepped forward, the water lapping up over his bony ankles. "There will be a drop off after the next step or so, just be aware."

Crowley still had the stick, and he used it now to probe the riverbed ahead, measuring the distance to the drop. "Thanks. So, ah, you won't… you're not going to uh. Er. Bless the river?"

"Of course not." Circling around him, he heard a soft pattering sound, bare feet on the surface of water, and Aziraphale's voice moved to the front of him, facing. "I was sent to put a stop to whatever evil was happening in this area.” He tugged Crowley forward another step. “From my position, that work is done, is it not?”

“You mean the cult?” Crowley swallowed. “Yeah. I think. I couldn’t … I sort of lost track of what was happening, after I tore through the binding.” He felt his stick plucked from his hands, and then hissed as Aziraphale pulled the ruined tunic over his head, tutting quietly at the state of it. “But the demon -”

“Is no longer bound to their will and escaped into the wilderness,” Aziraphale finished, mildly. “Although the wily demon slipped away, based on the carnage I saw at the site of the cult’s headquarters, I believe he is sufficiently weakened or discorporated.”

Crowley couldn’t help but grin. “You bastard.” He stepped forward, off the ledge, and plunged into the river up to his chin. “Fuck! S’cold!”

Water rippled over his mouth, and Aziraphale’s voice drew nearer - he was sitting on the surface, Crowley realized with a sort of detached wonderment, before a handful of water dumped over his head. “It is a mountain river,” Aziraphale informed him over his indignant spluttering. “They’re cold this time of year.”

“What year?”

“1379.”

Crowley closed his eyes and sank to the level of his cheekbones. He blew out an unnecessary breath, bubbles roiling the water around his face, and then re-emerged. “Five years then, yeah.” He scrubbed his hands over his head, feeling the grit and dirt come loose under his fingers. “Hasn’t been a good century for me, Aziraphale. Three discorporations, and then Hell, and then … Well. You know.”

“Yes. It’s been fairly wretched for me, as well, honestly, though not nearly to the same extent. Still, I’ll be glad to see the end of it.”

“You and me both.” He dipped below the surface, enjoying the quiet solitude in the current. He tried to scrub off some of the clinging grime: he didn’t need to bathe, could have miracled the filth away as he usually did, but there was something about this that felt right-  after the decades in the ditches of the Pit, serpentine and slick with tar, and then 5 years bound - scrubbing away the dirt and the blood and the buzzing remnants of the binding helped him feel fresher. A little bit better, even. Absently, he traced his fingers over the wounds on his side - he’d have to ask Aziraphale what they looked like, or just wait until tomorrow when his sight recovered more - and then a thought occurred to him. “Where’s the kid?” he asked, bursting through the surface of the river.

“Oh!” Aziraphale cried out in surprise. “I was just wondering if you were going to stay under there for the rest of the afternoon.”

“The kid,” Crowley repeated, not bothering to honor Aziraphale’s remark with a response. “There was a kid. Where is it?”

“You mean with the cult?”

Crowley turned toward where he was fairly certain Aziraphale was sitting, and reached out of the water, eventually managing to prop a hand on each of the angel’s knees. He was sitting cross-legged on the surface of the river, and when Crowley touched him he tensed, barely perceptible. “I didn’t kill it, did I?”

There was a moment of realization, filled with the sound of the river, and Aziraphale’s hand settled over his own. “No. No, you didn’t. The child pointed me toward you. Not a hair harmed on their head.”

“Oh. Right.” And, strong as the current around him, the exhaustion finally hit him full-force. His eyelids drooped and his hands on Aziraphale’s knees grew heavy. “Perfect.” The word bubbled in the current a little as he started to sink.

“I think that’s quite clean enough,” Aziraphale said then, business-like, his hands once again on Crowley’s shoulders and spinning him back around, presumably in the direction they had come. “Come on, I’ll not have you falling asleep in a river. There’s the step up, just as you go - there. Keep walking.”

“Fallen asleep in worse places,” Crowley mumbled, but he shuffled forward anyway. His wet skin, exposed to the spring air, erupted into gooseflesh and he shivered. With a snap, he managed to miracle on a shapeless black woolen robe. He hoped so, anyway; tired as he was, he might have missed a little. But no, the robe was loose, and warm and itchy like wool, and unless he’d really mucked up it was probably at least a dark color if not black. His knees wobbled, and he was just allowing himself to think about how nice the river bank would be for a nap when he felt the stick pressed back into his hands. 

“Come on: we can’t stop here. Not yet.”

Crowley was fully aware that he was whining when he asked, “Why not? I've run far enough. I think.”

“It’s damp, and there’s a sunny clearing just up ahead. Come on, some sunshine will do you good. Warm you up, anyway.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” He shuffled forward, stick poking through the leaves, Aziraphale to his right. “Could sleep for an age,” he said, fighting off a yawn. “You know, I’ve never been bound before? It’s exhausting.”

“When you’re bound,” Aziraphale asked, all forced casual curiosity, “are you compelled to do anything and everything the binder commands you to do?”

“Essentially. The only reason I got out of that back there was they got sloppy with the incantations and sigils.” 

“So the past five years have been their doing?” The demon nodded. “Oh, Crowley. I … well, I can’t say I’m relieved, but I didn’t think it was your usual brand of evil.”

“No. No, they really went in for wrath, that lot.” He waved his free hand. “They wanted me to kill that kid.”

Aziraphale drew in breath, sharply. “Why?”

“Power. Same reason any cult ever does anything.” He ground his teeth. “Some kind of sacrifice or something. But I don’t kill kids.”

“Thank G -” He stopped himself. “Well, I can thank God, if I want to,” he said after a moment’s thought, and Crowley snorted. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was close. Suddenly, they were in sunlight, the warm rays soaking them. Crowley sort of imagined he could feel the warmth all the way through to his bones, and it was all he could do to stay next to Aziraphale until the angel apparently decided on a suitable spot to settle.

The sunny spot was matted with ferns, and Crowley sank into them gratefully. The ground smelled of earth and vegetation, and sulfur, as always, but he didn’t care, nestling down into the undergrowth with the sun on his back. “Thank who you like,” he said, wriggling around until he was comfortable. “I’m just glad to be out of it.”

He was nearly asleep when Aziraphale blurted out, “How does one become bound?”

Groggy, Crowley lifted his head out of the brush. “Someone binds you?”

“And how do they know how to do that?”

“Oh. Uh, these days it’s all in books, I suppose. Coda. Old scrolls. That kind of thing. It used to be almost impossible before that, when it was all passed down by word-of-mouth - they’d always get something wrong.”

“Like summonings?”

“Similar, but worse.” He lay back down, before wincing and rolling onto his left side, off the lattice of wounds on his right ribs and hip. “If a binding works, it’s usually bad for the demon. If they get it wrong though, it’s really bad for the humans.”

“If humans can bind demons to their bidding,” Aziraphale said, nudging Crowley, “Do stay awake, Crowley, I’m thinking aloud.” Crowley rolled his eyes, but Aziraphale gave no indication of noticing. “If humans can bind demons to do their bidding, and demons are capable of great evil … Be better for everyone if that wasn’t something that could happen, hm?”

“You won’t hear me arguing. Too bad they went and wrote all the stuff down though, isn’t it?”

“There can’t be much. I’d imagine it’s all rather obscure.”

Crowley heaved a sigh, eyes open and staring at the sky, for all the good it did him. “No, probably not,” he groaned. “Occult texts aren’t exactly widespread or fondly admired. Humans burn them, usually.”

“Seems it would be my duty as an angel to destroy anything so infernal,” Aziraphale mused. 

“Ha!” Crowley laughed, right hand splinting his aching side. When his laughter abated a little, he chuckled, “You, burning a book. Imagine.”

“I’m being serious, Crowley.”

“Go on: pull the other one, it’s got bells on.” When that garnered no response, he raised an eyebrow. “You’re really serious?”

“As, well … As the grave, I suppose, is the human phrase.”

Crowley considered that for a while, wide-eyed. “You’re going to burn a book,” he said flatly, after a while.

“Several, if need be, yes.”

“Can I …” The demon trailed off. For a while, the only audible sounds were the riverwater and the rustling of wind through the forest. “Seems I’d be doing a service to Hell, ‘f I destroyed some, too.”

Aziraphale hummed. “You could make the case, yes. And you know, if we’re on the same mission, it only follows logically that I’d stay close, to keep an eye on you better.”

Crowley fought a smile, unsuccessfully. “Ah, certainly. Gives me plenty of opportunity for temptation.” He reached toward Aziraphale’s voice, and, tentatively at first, then more confidently when he found his mark, started poking the angel in the ribs. “Plus, unless you’ve stopped hanging out on that bloody damp island in the past few decades, I speak better Italian.”

“Perhaps.” The angel laughed, easily and soft, and Crowley heard the brushing and crackling of vegetation as he shifted around. “I’m certain you do, actually. You were always better at Latin languages.” He went on, amused, “Much better, really. Get some rest, Crowley: I need a translator tomorrow. I’ll keep an eye on you … can’t have you escaping into the wilderness too, could I?”

“Just tomorrow?”

“Well … if you’re not busy for the next few decades, I do think tracking down some of these books might be a bit challenging …”

“Hm.” The demon settled in, eyes closed, basking in the warmth of the sun and, for the first time in the bloody 14th century, something like safety. “Might be able to make some time. The rest of this bloody century’s been a shit show - that might just salvage it.”

Chapter Text

The cottage in the South Downs had a widow’s walk. It was one of the things Crowley liked about it immediately: within a month of moving in, Crowley had purchased the fanciest, most powerful telescope money could buy, and he meticulously set it up on the Walk. There were wires running to it, hooked up to a large monitor for ease of viewing. It was all very expensive, and Aziraphale worried that perhaps leaving expensive equipment outside, exposed to the sea air, might be harmful to it. It never was, though, because these things were Crowley’s, and there are things even the sea wouldn’t dare test.

Crowley spent a lot of time up there, late nights sat cross-legged in front of the monitor, fiddling with the controls, cross-referencing with the occasional glance to the sky to orient himself. Even in the winter when it was freezing cold, and that’d always been impressive to Aziraphale, because he knew the demon couldn’t stand the cold. But he must love the stars more than he hated the chill, because even in the dead of winter he would pull on three jumpers and a heated coat and a hat and brave the outdoors for a while, a few hours usually, to look at the stars.

Usually, Aziraphale read through the night. But this night was warm, and the smell of the cottage garden was heavy in the air, and when he heard Crowley start up the stairs to the Walk, he closed his book and followed.

Crowley was already busy setting up the telescope and monitor when Aziraphale topped the staircase. The sky is beautiful tonight, he thought, and it was: Black and broad and dotted with light. A perfect night for stargazing. He said as much, and startled Crowley out of his routine.

“Bless it, angel, a little warning next time, yeah?” His sunglasses were off, and his eyes had gone yellow from the shock. “Almost took a swing at you.”

“You did not. Mind if I join you?” There was a bench positioned against one of the atrium walls for just this purpose, and Aziraphale sat down without waiting for an answer. “It’s such a nice night.”

Crowley nodded, and turned back to his work. “Sure. Thought I might look around near Methuselah’s star tonight.”

“Any reason?”

“Haven’t looked there in a while.”

Aziraphale snorted quietly to himself, and sat back. “Good a reason as any. Which direction is it in?”

“Over there.” Crowley flopped onto the bench next to Aziraphale while the telescope warmed up. “Not into reading tonight? Are you sick?”

“No. Just wanted to enjoy the night.” He stretched his arms up, and his wings flapped into the same plane as his corporation. 

“Good a reason as any,” Crowley repeated, stretching his legs out and groaning, relaxed and at ease. “See, this is the thing about spring, isn’t it? Yeah, it rains half the time, but the other half you get nights like this.” He waved a hand toward the sky. “All that new life and creation business is alright too, I suppose, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale said, non-committal, as he thought about Crowley stalking around the garden in the daytime, sowing seeds and bending low over fragile green shoots, shouting at them that ‘it’s a cruel world but it’ll be alright if you look sharp, you wretched excuse for a beanstalk’. “If you’re into that sort of thing, sure. I do like all of the baby animals."

“You would.” It wasn’t meant to be cruel or harsh, and Aziraphale didn’t take it as such, choosing instead to take Crowley’s hand in his, just for long enough to squeeze it and feel Crowley return the gesture. Then it was gone, and Crowley was back up, fiddling with the telescope.

Aziraphale sat forward, elbows propped on his knees, idly looking out over the cliffs and the sea beyond. He stretched his wings a few times, flapping a little, ruffling his own feathers into place, and then let them droop to the floor of the Walk, the better to fiddle with a few bothersome feathers on the back of the left one. Out on the ocean somewhere, a ship sounded its horn, and the angel looked up, glancing over the dark water until the little blink of light caught his eye.

“Looks like a container ship out there. Probably headed to America.” He didn’t really expect any kind of reply, and he didn’t get one beyond a little noise of acknowledgement. Crowley was still fiddling with the telescope, but he wasn’t bothering to look at the sky anymore, instead watching the monitor and fiddling with the controls to hone in on a more precise area. Aziraphale smiled at the sight, before turning back to watch the container ship makes its ponderous way out to sea while he picked and combed at his wings.

Five or six years ago, this would have been a necessary chore. In the eleven years leading up to Armageddon, Aziraphale and Crowley had both gotten rather lax about their wings, their entire focus drawn to Warlock the not-Antichrist. And to be perfectly honest, of the two of them only Crowley had bothered to do any kind of grooming routine prior to that. Aziraphale kept his wings tidy enough, fussing them back into order when they were bothersome, but otherwise ignoring them. Now, though, in the lull of their quiet little lives post-Nahpocalypse, they had time. And Crowley, for all his griping about not being nice, did like to spend a little time helping Aziraphale keep his glossy white wings in top shape. These days, preening was less of a once-in-a-while compulsory task, and more something to do when they were together. A way to care for one another, without being too verbal about it.

Which made the whole exercise of preening while he watched the container ship disappear over the horizon a little pointless, admittedly, but it was nice to give his hands something to do.

By the time the ship had winked out of even his sight, Crowley had changed positions yet again, cross-legged once more in front of the monitor, a keyboard in his lap. The picture on the monitor changed, certainly, but the telescope didn’t appear to be moving to Aziraphale. He must have found something to look at, then. With a stretch and a sigh, Aziraphale flapped a few more times, reveling in the feeling of the heavy sea air in his feathers, and then stood to make his way to Crowley.

“Did you find something, then?” he asked, drawing up short behind the demon. “What’s that?”

“Nothing, really.” Keys clicked. “Just looking around. Haven’t come across anything new or interesting, but I just got here so we’ll see.”

“Hm.” Azirpahale considered the bench he’d come from, then the monitor, and settled on a course of action. He sat down behind Crowley, facing the demon’s back, and put his hands on his shoulders. “Tell me if you see something?”

Crowley chuckled. “I should say the same to you. The monitor helps,” he added, when Aziraphale started to say something. “It does, really, but you know my eyes.”

“I wouldn’t even know what I’m looking for,” Aziraphale admitted. 

“‘Cause you’ve never practiced: If you look all the time, you start to learn what’s there a lot, and what’s not there very much at all. Common and uncommon, sort of thing.”

“So tell me what you see.” He used his thumbs to rub little circles into Crowley’s shoulderblades. “And bring your wings out, if you’d like me to work on them, darling.”

“They’re alright.” When Aziraphale made a displeased little noise, however, he shrugged, and his own black wings appeared with a puff of displaced air. “If you insist, angel. Gives you something to do with your hands, eh?”

“Oh, yes. And you don’t enjoy it at all.”

“Never said I didn’t, just said they’re alright if you didn’t want to, and then you got all pouty about it.” Aziraphale chuckled, and started to smooth down the tertials of both wings, first the left, then the right.

He glanced up to the monitor and asked, idly, still working his fingers through the feathers, “So what are you looking at?”

“Space,” Crowley replied quickly, and indeed there was a great deal of blackness on the monitor. “Should be old Methuselah in a second though, hang on …” he pecked at a few more keys. Aziraphale ignored the little huff of enjoyment he gave, too, when he came across a particularly itchy spot on the left wing and paused to rub at it gently. The clacking of the keys stopped for a second, the wing cocked out to the side for easier access, and Aziraphale grinned. “Looks like space to me.”

“Huh? No, you daft old angel,” Crowley muttered then, tapping the keyboard two or three more times and sitting up a bit straighter when, on the monitor, a bluish-white star took center stage. “You’re distracting me.”

“How terrible. Is that it?”

“Yup. S’a good star. I like it. See anything around it?”

“Space.”

“Git.” He adjusted the view, zoomed in a bit, and then started scanning the area around the star, fairly aimlessly. Aziraphale preened the left wing for a bit longer, eyes on the monitor although he had no idea what he was looking for. He wasn’t sure how long he sat like that, but it must have been some time, rubbing at Crowley’s feathers and staring at the monitor. He only realized that he’d lapsed into a contented sort of meditation because, after a bit, he became aware of Crowley prodding him in the thigh. “Oi, angel?"

“Oh!” He blinked, and realized Crowley was looking back at him, over his shoulder, an amused grin on his face. “Oh, sorry.”

“Just wondering how long you’re going to work at those coverts. I don’t think I’m moulting, and I hate to tell you how to do your job, but I think they’re alright, now.”

Aziraphale looked down at the stretch of feathers he must have been grooming over and over, and found them looking a little harrassed for all of his attentions. “Terribly sorry, dear boy. I was distracted. There’s not much going on in space, is there?” He slicked his fingers with a bit of preen oil and rubbed it carefully over the over-wrought feathers. “Sorry, but there you are. Right as rain.” He moved away from the left wing for a bit, turning instead to Crowley’s right one. There weren’t many feathers there, having been torn away in the Fall, and the bones were twisted and stiff, but Aziraphale preened the remaining ones all the same.

“Bit to the right, if you would,” Crowley directed, twitching the wing into a more obliging position. “And uh, no. Not much going on in space, usually. Sometimes you see a comet or something.” He said it casually, as if he hadn’t, on several occasions, come bursting into the library to tell Aziraphale about some new dust cloud or comet or other celestial body he’d found, previously undiscovered on star maps*. “Could be something in this area, or could be nothing at all; like I said, I haven’t looked here in a while.”

[* Technically, these things were not the sort of thing an at-home telescope, even a very expensive one, would be able to see. But one should consider that most at-home telescopes are not owned and operated by demons with a keen interest in astronomy. ]

“Be exciting to find something, wouldn’t it?” he asked, gently taking hold of the leading edge of Crowley’s wing and pushing it downward, his other hand drawing the metacarpus gently upwards, the better to stretch out the contracted wrist. The joint creaked irritably, but Crowley sighed and twitched into the stretch, eyes closed.

“Would be, yeah.” 

Aziraphale let the wing relax again, and looked back to the monitor. “So what’s to like about this star, in particular? Did you help make it?”

“Me? Hah ! Nah. This was an amateur’s work.” He rolled his shoulders and went back to scanning the space around the star. “Or, well, not an amateur, but might as well have been - they were miserable at making stars. Ended up assigned to the comets, eventually, after one too many supernovas. I can’t recall their name.” He frowned. “Can see ‘em - they were shorter than me, sort of worried-looking all the time … weirdest thing, have no idea what they were called.”

“Did they Fall?” Aziraphale asked, gently. It might have been a reason for the forgotten name: Angels forgot the true names of all of their fellows that Fell, perhaps the same was true for demons as well. Crowley shrugged. 

“Dunno. Might have done, but I don’t think so. Oh well. Anyway this angel, what’s-’er-name, they had to make this star over in their galaxy, right? And I was working here, in Milky Way, and that idiot, whoever it was, got the element mix all wrong to start with, and then , because why start over when you can just stuff your screw-up under the rug, they went and threw it into Milky Way.” He tapped his chest with a finger, half-twisting around to looked at Aziraphale, who could only laugh at the insulted expression on the demon’s face. “And of course Kaeniel - that was my supervisor, the prick - was too busy trying to work his way into animal creation, so he didn’t notice, so who’s problem is that, then? Only I was trying to deal with some blasted oort cloud nonsense, so I didn’t notice right away, and by the time I did Raphael and Kaeniel had already pinned it in place, Kaeniel didn’t care, and it’s not like I had any authority to take it back out again.” 

He waved toward the monitor, expansive and harried. “And it’s all wrong! It’s the wrong age! They buggered it up so badly that it doesn’t even … look, we all agreed on how old everything would look, alright? She made the first few, gave the job to Ralph, and so we just sort of tried to make them look as old as Hers, but that idiot screwed it up! It’s apparently two billion years older than the rest of the universe!” He waved his arms one final time, defeated. “So who cares, eh? Humans are all confused about it, and all because someone that probably ought to have been in, oh, I dunno, the bloody geography department couldn’t keep their incandescence straight.”

When he finished, he was panting a little. Aziraphale, wide-eyed, his hands still full of wing, blinked a few times. “I see,” he said, finally. “How dreadful.” He ran his hand along the length of Crowley’s wing, soothing, and waited for the demon to stop grumbling before he said, “But the Almighty does like Her little jokes, doesn’t she? Perhaps She knew.”

“Oh, She definitely knew. She knows all , doesn’t She?” He snorted, and crossed his arms. “Right up there with the dinosaurs, this star.”

Aziraphale grinned. “I thought you said you liked that star.”

“I do.”

“It doesn’t sound like you like it,” he pointed out. “It sounds like you’re irritated with it.”

“I am. Which is why I like it.” Aziraphale made a curious noise, and Crowley went on, “Because it irritates everyone else, too, right? Thorn in the collective sides of all astronomy. And they keep going back and forth on reasons why it looks so old, why it can’t possibly be that old, but they’ll never get it. It’s just an ordinary cock-up.” The monitor swept past an asteroid tumbling through the void. “S’gonna drive people bananas for decades .”

“Ah. The celestial coin glued to the infinite sidewalk?”

Crowley laughed. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Right up your alley, then.” He pulled the bad wing back to expose the axillaries, and gently stroked them into place, planting a little kiss on the underside of the leading edge before he helped ease the limb back into its usual position, cocked out to the side with the wrist resting on the demon’s shoulder.

“You sap,” Crowley grumbled, the back of his neck flushed red. 

“Yes,” the angel answered simply, his own wings fluttering a little as he sighed, happy, and glanced at the monitor. “Oh. Oh? Crowley? What’s that?”

“Hm?” The demon looked up at the monitor, and then frowned. He tapped a few keys and zoomed in as well, the mysterious object snapping to a larger size on the screen. “What is that?” He squinted. “S’not a comet …”

“No, I don’t think so.” Wings flapping for balance, Aziraphale got to his feet and walked around Crowley, closer to the monitor. “It looks like … Well, that’s impossible, but it looks to be the same shape as a row-boat, my dear.” Some of the dust trailing off of the object swirled in space, and Aziraphale pointed to it. “Look, this tail even looks a bit like a rudder.”

“Huh. Never seen that one before. I wonder if it’s got a name.” He had an app on his phone - Aziraphale took a moment to acknowledge himself for the very appropriate use of the word ‘app’ when he had that thought - that told him, helpfully, that there were no known asteroids in the vicinity of HD140283. Crowley grinned up at Aziraphale. “Hear that? So you get to name it.”

“Do I?” Aziraphale beamed. “Go on, no I don’t. Don’t you have to report it?”

Crowley looked at him blankly for a second, before he said: “Angel, I’m operating a commercial telescope at capabilities far beyond what anything available to humans on the market has. If I report it, it’s only going to raise inconvenient questions. Nah, the name is just for us. I’ll note it in, uh … I’ve got a book, somewhere …”

“Here.” And indeed, there was a notebook stuffed behind a crate full of star charts. When he flipped it open, it was filled with numbers and equations and times, things that made no sense whatsoever to Aziraphale, but they were carefully written in Crowley’s cramped handwriting, and so he figured they meant something to his demon. 

“Right. So …” He flipped to a blank page and started scribbling down another string of numbers and letters and then, when he’d finished, carefully drew a left quotation mark before he looked up to Aziraphale, expectant. “So what’s it called?”

“Oh. I …” he wrung his hands, turning to look again toward the monitor, and then up to the night sky, still perfectly dark and strewn with stars, and then back to the monitor. “Well. The rowboat? Is that taken?”

“Not that I know of.” He penned “The Rowboat” very deliberately and then, underneath that, ‘Discovery: Aziraphale’, followed by the date. He glanced back over the writing, squinting at the page and tilting it up-and-down a bit for ease of visibility - snake eyes had never been good for printed text, Aziraphale had learned - and then snapped it shut. “There! All yours. Asteroid named ‘The Rowboat’, discovered by Mr. A. Z. Fell of the South Downs.”

“Well, I just named it,” Aziraphale said, blushing. “And noticed it, I suppose. But you did all the work.”

“Nah, I just pointed the telescope.” Aziraphale felt Crowley’s eyes on him as he looked at the monitor with a soft little smile once more, and then turned away, walking toward the railing around the Walk, and leaning up against it, arms crossed, while he looked at the sky. 

“It’s quite nice from this view too, though, you know? The Earthly one.”

Crowley settled into place on his left. Unconsciously, Aziraphale stretched his wing out to rest it across Crowley’s shoulders, the demon tilting his own wings down to spare room. “Yeah, s’not bad,” Crowley agreed, and he leaned to the right, into the warm, soft bulk of Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Not as good as the up-close view, I’m sure,” Aziraphale allowed. 

Crowley hemmed over that for a second, making a few doubtful little noises, before settling on. “Well … Ah, yeah. Maybe. But the company here,” he said, allowing his head to fall onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, the wind catching the strands of hair that had got loose from his ponytail and blowing them into Aziraphale’s feathers, “is indescribably better.”

“Doesn’t sound like a high standard to meet,” the angel said, wryly.

Crowley sighed, turned his head to kiss the line of Aziraphale’s jaw, and murmured, “Shut up.”

Chapter Text

Crowley woke to the bright light of mid-morning. Though the drawn linen curtains did their part to diffuse the brightness of the light, the sun gleaming off of the thin coating of pristine, undisturbed snow outside negated the best of the curtains’ abilities. Crowley, squinting resentfully at the sunbeam that had fallen across his face when he’d rolled over, said, “Mnurf,” and then rolled back over and stuffed his head under the nearest pillow.

It was cold out: the chill air against his few portions of exposed skin - shoulderblades, neck, and wings - told him as much. The snow was just confirmation that he felt was a bit unfair. He burrowed deeper into the pillows and blankets, until only his wings were left uncovered, loose and splayed across the bed, relaxed. 

A thought occurred to him, and he groped out with his hand to Aziraphale’s spot. Empty. Cold. No, not quite. Thoughts slow and fuzzy, Crowley peeked out from under the pillow to see the blurry form of his usual black, demon-tailed mug, sitting on the sidetable by Aziraphale’s neatly-made pillows. The tea was still steaming.

Crowley muttered something unintelligible about early-risers, and reached for the mug. 

He started to shiver nearly as soon as the blankets fell away, rustled by his sitting up to drink. Sighing, the demon arched his back and cracked his neck, and then his wings vanished from the mortal plane, tucked back away to somewhere less t-shirt prohibitive. Aziraphale, in his usual caring but slightly misguided form, had laid out a long-sleeved gray shirt at the foot of the bed in advance. It was cotton, and soft, and smelled faintly of Aziraphale (being that Crowley owned so few clothes that Aziraphale kept them stored in the closet with his own). It also had Hello Kitty on the front of it, which Aziraphale insisted was very cute. Crowley felt it sort of ruined his whole aesthetic, but the angel liked it, and, well, out here in their cottage in the South Downs, who else was really ever going to see it … ?

Well. The neighbors had, one time. But they’d also once seen him playing with one of the multitudinous neighborhood cats, shaking a bit of garden twine around for the chubby tabby like anything, so he figured the whole cool-guy persona was a bit of a lost cause, at this point.

Halfway through the mug of tea, Crowley discarded the idea of going back to sleep and rolled out of bed, manifesting a comfortable (read, not skin-tight) pair of jeans with a snap. It was still cold, even with the heater on as high as Aziraphale would dare allow near his books. Briefly, Crowley considered heading for the library, where there would be a heated blanket and a free couch and, in all likelihood, an angel he was rather fond of. It was tempting to be sure but …

A thought occurred to him, and Crowley grinned, and headed for the kitchen instead.

Early on, Crowley had decided he was going to attempt to learn to cook. Having a terrible sense of taste was a bit of a hindrance, at first, but in the post-Apocalyptic world where temptations weren’t taking up the time he used to dedicate to them, he certainly had plenty of opportunity to work it out. More importantly, he had discovered rather early on that cooking the human way was heavily reliant on sources of heat, which did a bang-up job of heating up the kitchen as well.

Especially baking. Crowley particularly liked baking, because it gave him an excuse to sit in the kitchen and fiddle around on his tablet, warmed by the ambient heat of the oven. The way Aziraphale smiled and gushed about the by-products was just icing on … haha, well, icing on the cake, wasn’t it?

Not that Crowley was particularly good at actually icing cakes. Aziraphale had encouraged him to try, once, and they’d both promptly agreed that Crowley’s talents lay elsewhere. Still, the icing had been delicious anyway, no matter how unfortunately the designs had come out.

Baking might be a good idea, he thought. Not like he had much else to do today, besides wander through the greenhouse to menace the plants a bit. Maybe stream a bit later too, if the mood seized him. But for now, he clicked on the oven and leaned across the stovetop, reveling in the warmth as the appliance warmed up.

Bread seemed the obvious choice, and it was easy enough. Plus, it would take some time to prove, which meant he could leave the oven on for longer, which meant he could be warm for longer. And Aziraphale quite liked bread, which was even better.

But the angel liked sweet things, too. Maybe a cake? There wasn’t really an occasion for a cake, but it wasn’t like they needed it. They were immortal supernatural beings who had played a role in preventing the Apocalypse, which Crowley felt rather justified cake at any time. 

That said, nine-thirty in the morning did seem a bit early for cake. Maybe. He shelved the idea for now. Outside, a few snowflakes started to fall again, and the demon slumped onto the stovetop, idly wondering how much tutting he would earn from his angel for going snake and taking a nap on the cooktop. Probably more than it was worth. Possibly. Probably.

He had another thought, and stood back up, staring down at the stove. “Oh, right,” he said to himself, before taking a swig of still-hot tea and heading for the fridge. 

He was halfway through the first batch of pancakes when he heard footsteps across the floorboards, alerting him that the angel had finally caught wind of what he was doing. A second later, a warm, familiar pair of arms encircled his waist, and he felt the soft press of Aziraphale’s cheek against his shoulderblade.

“Well, good morning to you, Crowley. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Crowley shrugged, and flipped one of the pancakes over. “Dunno. Felt like it. Reading anything interesting?”

“You just felt like making an elaborate breakfast that you won’t be partaking in?” Aziraphale asked, dodging the question about his latest book. Crowley felt the grip around his waist loosen as Aziraphale leaned around him, the better to observe the pancakes, sausages, and scrambled eggs Crowley was gradually working his way through cooking. “Hm.”

Crowley straightened his spine a little, and sniffed as he prodded the eggs with a spatula. “I did.”

“You had no ulterior motive?”

“When do I ever have an ulterior motive?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale nuzzled against his shoulder, and Crowley melted a little. “Most of the time.”

“Now, one second -”

“It’s not like it’s a bad ulterior motive, usually. Nothing like that, dear boy. Just uncommon for you to be doing anything for one reason and one reason alone.” He propped his chin on the demon’s bony shoulder. “You do love to multi-task.”

Crowley glanced at him sideways, one eyebrow cocked. “I think you know me too well, angel.”

“Happy to, really. So I ask again: to what do I owe the pleasure of this?”

Crowley sighed and looked up to the ceiling. “You want the honest answer?”

“Always.”

“I was cold.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Of course. It’s rather beastly out today. You could have put on a sweater and joined me in the library, you know? I have your heated blanket in there.”

Crowley flipped a pancake, eyebrow still raised. “You’re trying to talk me out of this?” he asked, waving the spatula to the rest of the assorted foods. 

“Not at all.” There was a plate with a few tester pancakes on it, and Aziraphale delicately plucked one up and nibbled at it. “Not at all , my dear. These are very good.” He smiled, and his eyes sparkled blue. “I just think it’s … well, rather benignant of you.”

Crowley nodded, and tried not to frown. He was quiet for a while, fiddling with the cooking, and then said, slowly, “These are pancakes.”

“Yes?” Aziraphale raised his head from where he had rested it on Crowley’s shoulder and looked to his partner, a little confused, brows knit. “Yes, I know.”

“Right. So not beignets,” Crowley added gently, prodding a pancake with the spatula.

“No, of course … oh .” And then Aziraphale laughed again, rich and full, and Crowley couldn’t help joining in, albeit a little more embarrassed. “No, dear boy, I said benignant , which means, well … Well, you won’t like it.”

“I mean, I thought it was a kind of donut, so …”

Aziraphale combed his fingers through Crowley’s hair and said, softly, warmly, “Benignant means kind, and generous.” He chuckled at Crowley’s facial expression. “I did say you wouldn’t like it.”

“Rather it be donuts, really.” He flushed, and shuffled the rest of the food - eggs - onto the plate. “Right, there’s breakfast. Anyway, was thinking about making bread next, so I’d better get cracking on with -”

The angel eased the plate from Crowley’s hands and used his free hand to squeeze the demon’s shoulder. “Was that another excuse to keep the oven on and stay warm?”

“... Maybe.”

“Hm.” A fork appeared in Aziraphale’s hand, and he looked pensively at the food. “It looks scrummy, dear boy. I think I’ll take breakfast in the library today, hm?” He looked to Crowley, who was hovering by the stove, hands flitting from the pans to the leftovers to the oven handle.

“If you like.”

Aziraphale went on, around a mouth full of pancake. “Mm. And well, you know I’m never one to say no to fresh bread, but this was quite a bit of work, hm?”

“Wasn’t really anything -”

“Take a bit of a break, eh?” Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the leftover food found itself stored away in the refrigerator, while the cookware was miraculously cleaned and sorted back into its place. “Top off your tea and join me for breakfast. Please?”

A ghost of a smile flickered across Crowley’s face. “Well, I guess if you don’t mind the blanket.”

“Of course I don’t.” He waited for Crowley to re-fill his mug and then fell into step beside the demon on the way to the library. Crowley sighed, skinny chest heaving, and quite unconsciously he drifted right, into the warm corona that seemed to surround Aziraphale at all times. “I could read you a bit from my book once I’m finished eating, if you’d like? It’s where the word benignant came from.”

“And you’re sure it’s not a donut?”

Crowley returned the grin Aziraphale gave him in response. “Well, yes, fairly. But let me finish this delicious food while you get settled, and we can re-read the passage and decide together, hm?”

Chapter Text

Delivering Heavenly missives used to be, Gabriel thinks, a lot easier. Back in the good old days - the days where humans were properly God-fearing, and started crying before you could even get out “Be not afraid” - they listened. They would fall on their knees, or prostrate themselves, and they would weep and receive his Messages. He liked it, delivering the Messages, and so as time went on and humans changed, started believing in things like science and dinosaurs and aliens and something called ‘natural phenomena’, he was distraught to find that the old delivery-man gig was not what it used to be.

Still, he does his duty. In this case, he has been sent to Earth to try to avert disaster: inside intel indicates that Hell has something big planned for the Christmas season next year, and Gabriel has been tasked by the Metatron to deliver the message to the locals that danger is afoot, and caution is warranted. He understands, and journeys to a strange place, America, to do his job.

It’s proving much harder than expected. 

His first attempt is at night, in a cemetery. It’s a suitably sacred place, consecrated ground, even, and he thinks he has a good shot of coming across some devout humans. Nighttime always helps, too: he is radiant even in the day, but by night he is blinding. He likes that. It seems very awe-inspiring.

Unfortunately, as he descends over the trees, he realizes his mistake: these are grave diggers, not worshippers. He huffs, frustrated, and flaps his beautiful wings, deep purple like the night sky at twilight, and buzzes their heads in his irritation, before retreating to the trees where he can safely land, unwitnessed, and winch his wings away. He thrusts his hands into the pockets of his dark gray suit, discouraged, and walks back to the little town.

He tries again a few nights later. This time, as he takes stock of the town and surrounding area from the air, he finds a car full of teenagers - probably up to no good - parked out in the middle of nowhere, among a bunch of old grass-covered hutches that smell like gunpowder. He has, thus far, had a hard time identifying any devout-enough people that he feels would be accepting of his Message without question, and so he decides on a different tack, which has served him well over the years: impressionable young humans. He flutters closer to the Earth as the car pulls away, and lands on the roadside, wings spread, waiting patiently for them to catch sight of him in the headlights and stop. 

They drive right by.

“Oh, come on,” Gabriel groans, before taking flight and pursuing the car. “Hey! Don’t you kids recognize angels when you see them? I’m an Archangel! Hey! I have a Message!” The car, unheeding, speeds away, and Gabriel abandons the pursuit when the dust sprayed up from the rear tires starts coating his suit to an unacceptable (any) extent. “What the fuck.” He lands, jogging a few strides to slow his momentum, even with his arms outstretched, disbelieving. “I’m the Archangel fucking Gabriel. Come on!” He makes a disgusted noise, and takes flight once more.

He tries a few more times, over the next several days. He makes some phone calls too: some to a journalist, John Keel, and some to other people in the little town of Point Pleasant. No one seems to care much, or really have any idea what he’s talking about, what he’s trying to do, and so eventually he gives up. He returns to Heaven in November of 1967, frustrated and distressed. Sandalphon, as always, lends an understanding ear as he relates his mission and the many warnings he tried to give. “I gave them dreams even, Sandalphon. Dreams! Everyone used to listen to dreams, in the old days!”

Sandalphon nods sagely. “Must have forgotten the old ways. They’re the best ways, still, you know. Well,” he goes on, in his pinched voice, tone upbeat and accompanied by a little ‘what-can-you-do’ sort of shrug, “you did your best. Serves them right for not listening, I suppose. If they’re too blind to accept the Message of the Lord, then they deserve to die.” He waves a hand idly at the world spread before them, on the other side of the towering glass windows. “It’s how it was in Sodom and Gomorrah, why not Point Pleasant?”

“It’s just …” Gabriel fiddles with his cufflinks, and looks away. “Do they? It wasn’t mentioned in the Great Plan, anything about this, and if it’s Hell’s doing then it’s our duty to thwart them. The Great Plan is, of course, our top priority, and if their planned action is significant enough, this could upset the course -”

“If The Almighty wills it to be so, then so it shall be.”

Gabriel considers that for a beat. “Perhaps I should check with Raziel or Metatron, maybe go back one more time. Oh, or send Uriel, maybe she could make some headway if I -”

“You are the Messenger.” Sandalphon sneers. “You have delivered the Message.”

“No one listened.”

“Then bully for them.” Sandalphon sighs, world-weary, and lays a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “The Almighty favors the humans, of course, but Gabriel, they are very stupid. And destined to be destroyed, yes? The Great Plan dictates that their world will come to an end after 6000 years, and we’re almost there, eh? If this was meant to start things, we would know.” He pats Gabriel. “Don’t trouble yourself with it. If The Almighty willed they listen, they would have listened.”

Gabriel chews that over for a long minute. Below them, lightyears away and just below the glass all at once, a bridge falls into a cold river. Gabriel frowns, and then smiles. “Oh. Was that all they were planning?”

“Appears so,” Sandalphon observes. “I see no other demonic intervention. Oh, no, there, in London it’s - ah.” He sighs. “It seems the Demon Crowley has caused a toilet to overflow.”

Gabriel frowns. “Aziraphale seems to think he’s incredibly wily.”

“Perhaps there’s a greater purpose to his shenanigans.” Sandalphon shrugs. “There must be.” Firmly, respectfully, he steers Gabriel away from the windows, back towards the waiting Host. “You did all you could, Brother. It was only a few humans.”

“Yes, just a few,” he responds, with a contented sigh, as they turn away.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t a particularly pretty spring day: it was foggy, and cool, and threatening rain. “What would you say to lunch on the beach?” Aziraphale said over scones and tea at breakfast. Crowley, still only half-awake after a pleasant night curled up on the couch in the library, replied intelligently with ‘hrmm?’. “Only it’s been raining so much, and it’s not today, and I’m getting a bit of the cabin fever, I think.”

“ The cabin fever,” Crowley said, sticking his nose further into his coffee mug and taking a deep whiff. “ Angel .”

“What do you say?” asked Aziraphale, ignoring him and buttering a scone with careful deliberation. “I think we have a bit of cheese in the icebox -”

“ Icebox .”

“ - and I know we have plenty of crackers,” Aziraphale went on, eyes on Crowley who didn’t miss the mischievous crinkle at the corners. “And wine.”

Crowley made a show of considering it, his chin propped in his hand. He made a few noises, thoughtful and unintelligible, and then said, with a vague wave toward the back garden, “Or we could do the same in the greenhouse. Advantage being it’s warm, and not raining.”

Aziraphale frowned. “But the beach, dear boy. Waves and such.”

“And sand. Cold. Fog.” Crowley made a face.

“It’s very English,” Aziraphale pointed out, taking a sip of his tea. 

Crowley hunched his shoulders and rolled his eyes, a little hiss slipping out. “ Cold .”

“Ah. Well, I believe I might have a solution for that.”

“Huh?” Aziraphale set his teacup down in the saucer delicately and rose, brushing the scone crumbs off the front of his cardigan. Miraculously, they never made it to the floor, instead disappearing into the ether*. Gently, he laid a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Follow me?”

[* Or more accurately, the robins’ nest in one of Crowley’s apple trees out back. Much, of course, to the delight of the robins. ]

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “Why?” he asked, suspicious, though he stood up anyway.

“Come on, I think I have a solution to your little thermoregulation problem.”

The demon made a noise of both vague disapproval and piqued curiosity, but followed his angel anyway, padding barefoot through the cottage as Aziraphale led the way back to the bedroom. They wove around boxes - unpacked books, still bundled up from the move to the cottage a month ago and very much not to be miracled into place, thank you - as they went, and at one point Crowley had to hiss at a parlor palm which had so callously allowed its fronds to protrude too far into the hallway.

“Let me just find it,” Aziraphale said, once they arrived in the bedroom. He insisted on keeping actual clothing , which Crowley thought both impractical and overwhelmingly endearing, and as soon as Crowley had flopped onto the bed the angel started rooting through dresser drawers. 

“It’s not some hideous cardigan, is it?” he asked, eyes closed and hands on his belly with fingers interlaced. 

Aziraphale snorted softly. “I certainly wouldn’t say hideous .”

The demon groaned in response. “Oh, angel, really I appreciate the sentiment, I do, but you know I have an image to maintain, and we just moved here and -” he sputtered when something thick and woolen landed on his face. His eyes blinked open to a camel-colored world, until he pulled the jumper aside and the soft blonde blob of Aziraphale came into view. 

“Try it on,” Aziraphale said, patiently. “I’ll wait.”

Crowley held the jumper up with one hand, and ran his fingers over the knitted cable pattern with the other. “Aziraphale -”

“Crowley.”

“It’s not black.”

“It’s warm.”

Crowley drew himself up a bit. “For you, maybe. You’re - what’s the word? - you produce your own heat. Me, snake right? Well, and demon. So I produce a bit of heat, enough to keep this corporation going, but m’not like … shit why can’t I think of it?” He dropped the jumper to his lap, the better to pinch the bridge of his nose. “S’a word for heat generating, like generating your own heat versus needing some kind of external heat source.”

“Warm-blooded and cold-blooded?” Aziraphale suggested, sitting down next to Crowley and pulling the jumper from his lap. 

“Well, yeah, but like, there’s a scientific term.” Crowley groaned, frustrated. “Can’t think of it. Anyway, point being, you’re warm-blooded, so a jumper’s all well and good because you make your own heat and it holds that in to keep you warm, right? But me, I’m mostly cold-blooded, because serpent, and - Oi!” He snarled half-heartedly when Aziraphale forced the jumper over his head, obscuring his vision and filling his mouth with wool. “Angel!”

“ Try it on ,” Aziraphale insisted, forced cheer thick in his voice as he straddled Crowley’s lap, the better to force the demon into the sweater. Crowley fought it, but only a bit, only enough that he could argue he had later on when Aziraphale would remind him of … of probably how lovely he looked in the old jumper. “There you are, arms in.”

Crowley snaked his arms through the sleeves and pulled the neckline down, his red hair standing up in all directions once he’d managed to poke his head out. “ Fine ,” he grumbled. “Fine, I put it on, great, now I look ridiculous, probably like … like some 1950s TV neighbor or … huh.” He plucked at the jumper, falling in thick, loose folds around his skinny torso. “S’really warm, innit?”

“It rather is.” Aziraphale was still straddling his legs, sat back on the demon’s knees, his hands soft and gentle on Crowley’s hips. “Isn’t it? Regardless of your exothermic tendencies.”

“Hah!” Crowley cried, snapping his fingers and pointing at Aziraphale. “That was the word: exothermic and endothermic! You … you knew the whole time, didn’t you?” He scowled. “You did, you bastard.”

“But you were having so much fun trying to remember it,” Aziraphale insisted, tugging the jumper straight. “So, warm enough, then?”

Crowley glared at him for a minute - there was no heat in it, no malice, and Aziraphale responded with a soft smile - before looking down to the jumper. “Yeah.” He picked at the front of the garment. “Usually don’t get this warm with sweaters.”

“I’d imagine probably because your usual jumpers favor fashion over function.” Aziraphale smoothed the shoulders down, his hands finally settling still on Crowley’s shoulders with his soft fingers cradling the demon’s head. “And also possibly because I … may have done a bit of a minor miracle on this one, hm?”

“A bit - angel .” Crowley glowered, half-hearted at best. “Are you coddling me?”

Aziraphale leaned in and planted a soft kiss on Crowley’s forehead. “Perhaps a bit. I think I’m allowed.”

Crowley exhaled softly through his nose, reaching up to run his thumb over the smooth curve of Aziraphale’s round cheek. “And of course this has nothing to do with the fact that you really want to have a picnic on the beach?”

“A bit of that as well, if I’m honest.” He kissed Crowley on the lips this time - just for a minute, and Crowley felt the heat rising to his cheeks because how nice is this? 6000 years, to be able to do this - and then sat back, sliding his feet to the floor. “Maybe more than a bit. Would you mind getting dressed the rest of the way, then? We should leave soon if we’re going to make it down to the beach in time for lunch.”

Crowley took a second to recover, his eyes still half-lidded from the kiss, until he blinked. “You just ate breakfast , Aziraphale. Half your scone’s still in the kitchen!”

“Just so.” Aziraphale shrugged, turning and walking out of the bedroom. “I’ll get the hamper packed. Would you like the red or the white?”

“Er …”

“I’ll pack both.”

He disappeared around the corner, slippered footsteps retreating down the hall, and Crowley sat on the bed for a bit. If he was honest, he was floating a bit, all warm and cozy and not just because of the miraculous (and only kind of hideous) jumper. 6000 years, just to end up here, in a seaside cottage with his … his best friend, his angel, his partner-in-world-saving-and-pretty-much-everything-else. He sighed, happy and utterly un-demonic in that moment. As an afterthought, he snapped his fingers, swapping his pajama pants for jeans and materializing a pair of thick wool socks and black boots. It didn’t exactly go with the soft brown of the jumper, but honestly at the moment, Crowley couldn’t be bothered to care. 

Aziraphale rustled around in the kitchen for a while, and Crowley listened for a minute or so before he sighed. “He’s going to make me carry the basket,” he said, to no one in particular, legs outstretched. “Picnic on the beach is all well and good when you don’t have to carry the basket with two bloody bottles of wine in it.” In a movement that would be better-described as complicated rather than graceful, Crowley got to his feet, stretched, and stuffed his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched down in the jumper which continued to be warm and soft and remarkably not-itchy. 

The hamper was packed and closed when he stepped into the kitchen, Aziraphale finishing off the last of his scone. Crowley paused to put his glasses on, and then scooped up the basket. “Ready to go?”

“Oh, you - are you sure you don’t mind carrying that?” Aziraphale followed Crowley out of the front door, taking his offered arm once they were free of the cottage’s narrow front hall. “It’s a bit heavy.”

They started to walk together, arm-in-arm and side-by-side, and Crowley found himself drifting rightward, until their shoulders brushed as they walked and he could smell the lingering scent of cherry scone around the angel. He adjusted his grip on the basket and pulled the angel a bit closer, combining the heat of Aziraphale’s body with the warmth of the jumper and prompting a little shiver up his spine. He took a deep breath and allowed himself just a little, tiny smile. “Not a a problem, angel. I don’t mind at all.”

Chapter Text

Summer days on the beach, Aziraphale thinks, are one of his new favorite things. He’s never been much of a beach person before, not before moving to the South Downs anyway, but these days he finds he wants to be down in the sand with a book and the waves lapping against the shore more often than not, on a nice day. 

Crowley always wanting to go with to bask, he thinks, doesn’t hurt a bit, either.

For the day, the beach is curiously empty of people. It is a warm day, bright and sunny with fluffy white clouds floating across the picture-perfect blue of the sky. He and Crowley are set up in their usual spot, a ways down from the car park and half-hidden behind a large stone fallen from the cliffs eons ago. Aziraphale has his blanket spread and is comfortable in his chair, his shirt unbuttoned to the third button and sleeves rolled up. Crowley had, last summer, introduced him to shorts , after griping extensively about Aziraphale just rolling up his trouser cuffs, and he has a soft brown pair of those on as well. He’s kicked off his shoes - sandals, still good from, oh, Rome, he thinks, through a few miracles - into the sand and is happily reading through a novel which is a bit scandalous and a bit adventurous and perfect, he thinks, for a read at the beach.

Crowley is next to him - around him, really - and, given the relative emptiness of the beach combined with a quick miracle to render the two of them un-noticeable, he has decided to really relax and enjoy the sunshine. All sixty feet of red-bellied black serpent are loosely circled around the blanket, wings out and splayed in the sand and his head propped up on a slack coil near his middle. Aziraphale knows that with the jet-black scales and feathers, Crowley must be reaching temperatures high enough to cook an egg on by now*, but he doesn’t look in the least bit upset by it, yellow eyes glassy and unfocused in his nap.

[* He knows this from experience. Crowley didn’t speak to him for four entire days .]

He is a bit thirsty, and when he reaches a good pausing point in his novel, he tucks a bookmark into the pages and leans forward in his chair to rummage in the hamper. It’s a wicker hamper, nothing special, but given that it is owned by an angel and a demon, it is the only wicker hamper in the world to be possessed of the ability to regulate its contents’ temperatures perfectly. He pulls a glass bottle of lemonade out, cold and refreshing to the touch, and pours himself a cup. The movement of it all stirs Crowley, who cocks his head lazily just enough to fix an eye on the angel.

“Looksss good.”

Aziraphale hums happily. “It is quite good, really. Anathema’s recipe, did you know?” Crowley makes a little noise to indicate that no, he did not, and Aziraphale nods as he takes a sip. “Very refreshing,” he says. “I’m not sure if lemonade is a strictly witchy beverage, but in any case she has it down to rights.”

“Hm. Where’ss all the people?” Crowley rears up a little, sluggish and lazy, to look down the beach. “Day like thiss, there ought to be more, don’t you think?”

“Not sure.” Aziraphale shrugs. “Was there an event in the village or somesuch?”

“Not that I recall. Oh well.” Crowley lets his head drop back onto his body and wriggles the entire length of himself happily a bit deeper into the sand. And then he pauses. “Er, angel?”

“Yes, dear serpent?”

Crowley’s tongue flicks out, accompanied by a hissed little chuckle. “Right. Er. Mind doing me a favor?”

Aziraphale takes a cautious sip of his lemonade. “I suppose that depends on what it is.” He does not say that there are very few things he wouldn’t do for Crowley, not anymore, not in this post-apocalyptic world where Heaven is off his back and Hell let go of Crowley’s chains. He does not say because he knows Crowley knows.

“Well.” Crowley’s tongue flicks out again, and he rocks the gigantic wedge of his head side-to-side as he thinks. “Been a while ssince I’ve had a proper dusst bath. Wass thinking that with it being sso empty down here I might go over there a bit and, ah …”

“Ah.” Aziraphale’s expression, previously only a little wary, softens and broadens into a wide smile. “And you’d like me to brush out your wings when you’re done, yes?” Crowley nods. “Of course, Crowley. No trouble at all.”

“I’ll do yourss then if you’d like.”

“Thank you but no, I’m still quite comfortable after molting.” He lets his hand brush the smooth (and hot ) scales along Crowley’s head and back as the serpent slithers by. Crowley moves along, pausing only to let the tip of his forked tongue tickle the angel’s ear before slicing through the sand down the beach. Aziraphale waits until the very tip of Crowley’s tail is within reach and then grabs ahold of it, gently, such that Crowley’s continued retreat is stymied a little. But he wriggles loose - Aziraphale hadn’t intended to hold him at all tightly - and prods Aziraphale in the ribs with his tail in retaliation. Aziraphale snorts, brushes the tail away, and lets Crowley get on with it. He’s already started, burrowing his body and wings down into the sand until he’s nearly concealed, and Aziraphale can’t help but smile when he sees the sand starts flying as Crowley begins to squirm around.

He goes back to his book for a while while the sand down the beach is tossed around, and reads happily until the whisper of Crowley’s belly scutes across the sand alerts him to the demon’s return. Without pausing to ask, Crowley plunks his head directly into Aziraphale’s lap, jostling but not harming the book. Aziraphale smiles again, carefully marks his page and sets the book aside, and runs his hands over the broad, flat scales on Crowley’s head.

“Bit hard for me to reach your wings with you like this, love,” he says affectionately. “You have me quite pinned down.”

“Mmm. I do.”

Aziraphale exhales softly through his nose and brushes off a loose grain of sand. “You really should try the lemonade when you’ve had your fill of basking, you know. It’s very good.”

“You think I’m gonna sskip out on a basssk?” Crowley asks, rocking his head to one side to better fix Aziraphale with a look that, even without facial musculature, manages to be incredulous. “On a day like today?”

“Just a suggestion. Now budge up so I can reach your wings.” He lifts his hands out of the way as Crowley obliges him, slithering along until the length of his body with the wings is draped across the arms of Aziraphale’s beach chair. He loops his head back around, tucking his enormous snout under Aziraphale’s feet and sliding through until the angel has his ankles propped on the soft scales just behind Crowley’s head, like he’s a giant ottoman. 

“I’m going to get hot,” Aziraphale grouses as he starts on Crowley’s wings, but there’s no snap in it. “You soak up sunlight like a sponge, dear boy.”

“Mhmm. I know.” Crowley coils a length of his body protectively around the back of Aziraphale’s chair. “Won’t get hot unlessss you want to.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale starts with the scapulars, burying his fingers in the toasty-warm jet feathers and gently brushing loose the trapped grains of sand. “Maybe I do.”

“Could be arranged.” Crowley hisses with pleasure when Aziraphale finds a little collection of sand bunched up in some of the down and gently teases it out, his fingers smoothing down the barbs of the feathers until they link together again. Aziraphale laughs quietly, even more when he notices Crowley’s tongue still sticking out a bit, the two forked ends just brushing the blanket as his serpent slips into a relaxed lull. 

“Incorrigible,” he mumbles, fussing over one of the sparser areas of Crowley’s left wing and making sure no sand remains close to the scaly skin covering the limb. “Terrible tempter.” Crowley doesn’t reply, although a drowsy little hiss does slip out. Asleep already, then, Aziraphale thinks, hoisting up the left wing and letting it flop back down in a more accessible position. Terrible, slothful demon. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

He hums as he works, fingers working through the feathers and making sure not a stray grain of sand remains. He starts with the left wing first, because there is more sand there (and more feathers for sand to be caught in). Crowley sleeps soundly through the entire process, not stirring even when Aziraphale pushes the wing around to reach awkward spots, or, to entertain himself, lifts the wing up and outstretched as if to flap and then lets it flop to the ground instead. “Oh, Crowley,” he half-sighs, half-chuckles when the only reaction that garners is a little wriggle and a hiss.

He has to be more careful with the right wing; it’s stiff and, in places, hyper-sensitive, but he’s well familiar with all of this by now and steers his hands around the spots that might rouse the demon, instead focusing on the less sensitive areas. There aren’t many feathers for sand to be caught in - the three primaries, the handful of ragged secondaries, and all the soft coverts in the places where they still grow - but he’s deliberate about it anyway, paying the same amount of attention to the crippled limb as he did to the other. Crowley does stir during that time, mostly when Aziraphale carefully lifts the wing out of its habitual twist and stretches it just a little, just enough to reach the underside. He props the bulk of the wing’s weight on his own shoulder and sets to the feathers underneath, a task made easier still when he leans down to let Crowley’s wing shade his eyes from the sun. He brushes the bare scaly skin off as well, in places where it shows, and ensures there aren’t any missed grains to get caught and itch later. When he finishes, he eases the wing back into its place and sits back, admiring his work. 

Crowley always has had such beautiful feathers, he thinks, petting the right wing gently. Even the secondaries on the right, which always grow in fragile and break off almost before the demon’s finished molting, are unfaded and shiny, almost blue-black in the sunlight. Such a shame, he thinks, that Crowley can’t fly - he imagines his wings would be stunning cutting through the night sky, two cuts of blacker-than-black cut out of space and the stars. He wonders if they were black before the Fall - he’s never asked, and he’s not sure he wants to. It would be strange, seeing Crowley with white wings. He rather prefers the black.

“I’m not a cat.” The demon’s voice is thick with sleep, and Aziraphale’s hand stills over the wing as he glances up to Crowley’s face. Were he human, his eyes would still be closed - Aziraphale’s well used to the whole serpent thing by now - but he’s awake, apparently. His tongue flicks out. “They way you’re petting me, I feel like the next sstep iss a ball with a bell in it and a can of tuna.”

Aziraphale scoffs at that. “Hardly. I was just admiring your feathers. You do take such good care of them, and they’re so lovely.”

“You’re just ssaying that becausse it’ss me.”

“Maybe,” Aziraphale allows. “Could be, certainly. I am terribly fond of you.”

“Ssoftie.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” He shifted around in the chair a little, stretching his arm across Crowley’s body to pick up his glass of lemonade which still, in spite of the sun and the heat, has ice cubes bobbing in it. It’s awkward, and just out of reach. “Crowley, could you move, please? Just a bit.”

“Hmm.” Crowley heaves a great sigh and slithers forward just a bit, moving his wings out of the way and allowing Aziraphale access to the lemonade. While the angel sips, he happens to glance down the beach toward the car park. He frowns. 

“Oh, bother. It’s getting a bit busy, it seems.”

Crowley hisses unhappily. “You jusst want me to tasste the lemonade.”

“No, Crowley, I’m serious - look. There are children and everything. Best change back.” He nudges Crowley with his heel. “I know we have a reputation of being the village eccentrics, but I think being caught lounging on the beach with an immense winged serpent might be pushing it a bit, even for one of us.”

“Hnnng. Fine.” The wings vanish first, much to Aziraphale’s disappointment - he does so love the way they look in the sun - and then the length of the serpent begins to condense, shrinking and twisting until it’s just Crowley again, regular Crowley laying face-down on the blanket, with those ridiculous black bathing shorts and freckles sprayed across his shoulders. He hasn’t really moved though, and Aziraphale’s feet are still propped on his back, now nestled in the sparse bit of softness between the demon’s shoulder blades. “Better?”

“Thank you, dear.” He sips his lemonade and looks out at the ocean, and the long stretch of beach running against it. “I think I’d like to go for a walk. Care to join me?”

“Nng. M’comfortable. Maybe’ll take a nap.”

Aziraphale sighs severely, puts his feet down and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Crowley, you slept until ten, woke up briefly to come down here, and have been mostly asleep for the past four hours.”

“Mhmm. Yes. Sounds perfect.”

“Please, Crowley?”

Crowley rolls onto his side, and Aziraphale does not get distracted by the brown freckles on the sun-pinked skin of his shoulders. “In a bit,” Crowley murmurs, and then he yawns.

Aziraphale considers it. He would like to read, really, but his legs could do with a stretch and he is a bit warm, a dip in the waves might feel rather good. He sips his drink, and has an idea.

The lemonade glass is cold, icy, and has little rivulets of water running down the outside of it. And, when he touches it to the back of Crowley’s neck, the demon yowls like he’s been bitten and scrambles up, spinning around to glare at the offender, and snarling even more virulently when he sees Aziraphale beaming up at him. He props his hands on his hips. “That was dirty.”

“Ah, you’re up. Let’s walk.” Aziraphale rises and takes Crowley’s hand. Crowley is still scowling, but he doesn’t resist, just pulls his glasses out of his pocket and slides them onto his face. “Would you like some lemonade before we go?”

Crowley watches him for a minute, and then snatches Aziraphale’s glass from unresisting fingers, swigging down a mouthful. And then he stops, looks at the drink a little more closely, and licks his lips. “Huh. You weren’t kidding.”

Aziraphale relinquishes Crowley’s hand as he bends down to the hamper, drawing out the jug of lemonade and another glass. He can feel Crowley leaning forward, looking to repay him with the same trick with the cold glass on the back of his neck, but he’s quicker, and he spins to the side just as Crowley leans in. The demon pitches forward with a startled little yelp, and Aziraphale nimbly snatches the lemonade glass from his hand before he face-plants into the sand.

“Really, dear boy,” he scolds, while Crowley splutters, rolling onto his back and blinking up at Aziraphale through his glasses with astonishment. “After all that time I spent cleaning you, and you could have dropped my drink. Do be more careful next time.”

Crowley stares at him for another beat, before a half-cocked grin breaks the facade. “You really are a bastard, angel.”

“Turnabout is fair play. Would you like a hand?” he asks, juggling the two glasses into one hand so he can offer his other to Crowley.

Crowley takes it and levers himself back to his feet. Once upright, he doesn’t let go, just plucks the fresh glass away from Aziraphale and takes another draft. “Love it.”

Chapter Text

"Fuck."

Aziraphale doesn't say anything the first time Crowley murmurs the word. Nor does he make a remark the second time. By the third time, he is feeling a bit tetchy about the entire thing, but he keeps his mouth shut, and turns the page. But the fourth time, when Crowley says it a little more emphatically and snarls at the ... the device he's holding, a Swatch or something, Aziraphale looks up to him sharply. "Crowley!"

The demon, sprawled on his belly on the couch, looks up suddenly, as if he'd forgotten Aziraphale was there. "Uh. Oh. Sorry."

" What are you doing on that thing that has you so upset?" Aziraphale lets the book sit in his lap as he crosses his arms. He taps his slippered foot impatiently. "Hm? I thought you were ... weren't you playing a game or something of the sort?"

"Yeah, uh, sorry just got a bit frustrated. You know how they can be." Crowley looks back down bashfully. "Sorry, I'll er. Keep it clean."

"Is it some sort of puzzle?"

"No. No, don't worry about it angel, you wouldn't like it."

Aziraphale scowls. "Well, you've been swearing at it for the past twenty minutes, so I'd think it must be of some import. Go on, Crowley, what is it?"

It is then that Aziraphale realizes that Crowley wasn't holding the details of the game back because he knows Aziraphale isn't much one for video games. No, if the flush in the demon's cheeks is anything to judge by, it's because he's embarrassed . Oh. Aha. “Nothing,” Crowley mutters, and he returns his attention to the thing in his hands. “Don’t worry about it, s’just a game.”

“You know,” says Aziraphale conversationally, tucking a knitted bookmark into his page and standing up. He stretches as he goes on, “You’re always messing around on those games, but I so rarely get to see what you’re playing. May I watch?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead crossing the floor toward the couch and plopping down by Crowley’s elbows. The demon blinks and tilts the screen of the thing away from Aziraphale.

“You won’t like it. Uh. I’m playing with Adam. It’s … very violent.”

“Is it?” Aziraphale frowns. “Funny, that doesn’t sound anything like what you and Adam might enjoy. May I see it?”

“N - I mean I’m not embarrassed or anything, but you won’t like it.” Aziraphale tactically bats his eyelashes. “Ah, bugger. Fine. But not a word.” He turns the screen back up, so that both he and Aziraphale can see it. “S’called Animal Crossing. New Horizons.”

Aziraphale studies the characters on the screen for a minute. “It looks quite cute, really. You said it was violent?”

“Er, well, you have to catch fish …” Aziraphale watches Crowley as he stumbles through the other supposedly-violent things he’d been sure Aziraphale wouldn’t like. “And bugs. In a great big net. Very sad for the bugs.”

“For the video game bugs, yes,” says Aziraphale, and he does not laugh . Crowley glowers at him. “What else? Murder?”

Crowley blinks. “What? No! Not in this game, uh, anyway. Um.” He looks back down to the screen. “No, you er … you help your neighbors with projects and the like. And pick fruit. And, um, you’re in debt the entire time to this megalomaniac raccoon, constantly trying to pay off your mortgage. And you can plant flowers and terraform and all that.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale sits back against the soft plush couch, and lets his hand settle in Crowley’s soft ginger hair. “This game actually sounds quite, well … nice , you know.” Crowley mumbles something unintelligible in response, and Aziraphale decides not to press it. “And you say you’re playing with Adam? I assume over the …” he waves his hand vaguely, “the wi-fi or whatever it’s called.”

“Something like that, yeah.” Without asking - he doesn’t need to anymore, after all - Crowley wriggles around so that he is on his back, his head in Aziraphale’s lap and one ankle propped on the opposite knee. He has angled the video game console so that the angel can see the screen as he plays. 

Aziraphale watches for a little while. Crowley’s character - red hair, black t-shirt, and a bright red skirt, of course - runs around on the screen for a while doing various tasks. It catches some bugs, a few fish, and pauses to hit a few trees with an axe and gather the spoils. Aziraphale appreciates the artistry of it - it’s not his taste, not exactly, but the colorful scenery and the bright cherry blossom trees are together both cheerful and soothing. The music is pleasant, playful stuff, not like the music Aziraphale prefers but not exactly bebop either, and he finds that relaxing as well. He even likes the little animal villagers that Crowley talks to, although he does find the yellow rabbit to be a bit disconcerting.

After a bit, Crowley startles a little, and hastily clicks at a few buttons to pull out the net. There is what appears to be a pink cherry blossom petal drifting on the breeze and he fiddles with the sticks, his character stalking the petal as if it might flee. Then he strikes, but he misses, and the petal fades away. “ Dammit ,” says Crowley, with feeling.

Aziraphale tries to console him, carding his fingers through the demon’s hair and using his free hand to rub Crowley’s shoulder a bit. “There, there. You nearly had it.”

“They’re just so blasted hard to catch!” Crowley grumbles. Aziraphale considers bringing up the fact that Crowley’s eyes aren’t exactly designed for video games, but he doesn’t.

“I’m sure you’ll get the next one,” he says kindly. He cocks his head. “What are they for? Are you going to sell them to that young raccoon?”

“No,” Crowley sighs, exasperated, as he returns to his lap around the island in search of bugs, fish, or perhaps another petal. “No they’re part of a special event, and there’s this little sushi picnic set you can craft with them that reminded me of you.” He freezes as his brain catches up with what he said, and then he swallows. He is blushing, but his expression goes firm, determined. Aziraphale is smiling like a sap and he knows it, and he does not care.

“ Crowley .”

Crowley looks up at him and tries to shrug as if he doesn’t mind, as if he isn’t flushed bright red all the way up to his ears. “It does. I liked it.”

“That’s very -”

“ Don’t .”

“ Flattering ,” Aziraphale finishes, before he leans down and gives the demon a gentle kiss on the nose. “I’m flattered, Crowley.”

“Good. I think that’s vanity or something. Pride? Dunno. Probably a sin.” The game is still playing a little song, and the simulated sound of wind blowing in the trees also sighs out of the speakers. 

Aziraphale cocks his head to the side. “Does it matter, anymore?”

Crowley watches him for a moment, the two of them meeting each other’s eyes even as the demon starts to grin. “No,” he says at last. “Suppose it doesn’t.”

“Well, then I can say it’s a very sweet sentiment as well,” says Aziraphale, before he leans in and gives Crowley a kiss.

Chapter Text

“Aziraphale?” He is reading in the library in their little cottage in the South Downs - still only half-unpacked - when Crowley appears in the double doors. Aziraphale looks up mildly and finds the demon leaned against the doorjamb, bundled up against the cold, damp day in a thick black jumper. He looks odd, Aziraphale thinks, and for a bare second he wonders if something is wrong when he realizes that Crowley doesn’t look afraid or upset but … apologetic. Almost embarrassed, even. In the second it takes for him to realize that, his own mood shifts from worried to suspicious. He tucks a finger into the book he’s reading to mark his page.

“Yes, Crowley?” He keeps his tone neutral, and waits for the shoe to drop. 

Crowley tucks his hands into his pockets. “Have a minute? Nothing urgent, just could use some help,” he adds in a lower tone, words rushed. 

“Ah. Yes, of course.” Aziraphale nods and plucks his bookmark from his tea saucer, marks his place, and stands to follow Crowley. “What do you need?” He falls into step beside the demon easily, although the narrow width of the main hall through the house necessitates they are literally hip-to-hip to do so. “What with?”

“Need your eyes,” says Crowley, and he turns the corner into the den with Aziraphale close behind. He can hear music, which isn’t unusual, but the music is … mellow and pleasant, if synthesized, which is unusual. Crowley’s tastes tend to run more toward the fast, loud sorts of music that leave Aziraphale fidgeting uncomfortably for some unquantifiable reason. A moment later, the source becomes clear: on the telly is some game or another, all bright colors and cartoonish graphics, and from the looks of it, Crowley’s been playing.

“Just the two?” quips Aziraphale, as he sits down next to Crowley. The demon glances at him, sidelong.

“Har har,” but Aziraphale gives him a consolatory pat on the shoulder and Crowley doesn’t say anything else, just picks up the controller and starts moving the bobble-headed character on the screen around with the sticks.

A memory bubbles to the surface of Aziraphale’s consciousness and he exclaims, “Oh! Oh, I recall this game it’s … oh, what’s it called? You were playing it at the shop a few weeks ago, with the cherry blossoms, yes? ‘Animals at Play’ or something like that.”

“Something like that, yeah,” says Crowley.

“Yes, I recall it’s quite cute.” He ignored Crowley’s groan. “So what is it this time? Cherry blossom petals again?”

The demon shook his head. “Nah, those moved, they weren’t so bad. This is a bit different.” On the screen, the character was jogging upwards, across an island, over a few bridges, and then up and down a cliff before ducking into a stylized boat. “Right, so Redd - that’s the fox there - sells art, right? But sometimes they’re forgeries, and if you buy ‘em, you’re out the be - the cash, and you’re stuck with the art because no one will take it off your hands.”

“Oh, says Aziraphale. Indeed, once Crowley’s character enters the boat, he can see four pieces of classic art - one of which he was there for the painting of - in miniature digital displays. He blinks. “My goodness it’s quite good, isn’t it? That’s ‘ Rooster and Hen with Hydrangeas ’. I remember seeing the sketch, Ito sent me a doodle he’d done of it in one of our letters and -” he squints at the screen. “Something’s off about it.”

Crowley laughs. “Right, see! This is the issue - the forgeries’ll have a little detail off, something tiny, really small - and you have to spot it so you don’t buy the piece. Which is bloody impossible with my eyes,” he grumbles, waving a hand toward himself. “Hang on, it lets you zoom in.”

He does so, and Aziraphale studies the painting. There is something profoundly wrong about it, something beyond seeing it rendered in miniature (even on the enormous television Crowley installed), that it takes him a moment to put a finger on. When he sees it, though, he puts his hand to his forehead and laughs. “Oh! Oh, yes, I do believe this is the forgery, dear boy. The flowers in the original were blue .”

“I knew you’d know.” Crowley beams. “Right, alright so not that one. So this is the next one -”

“I’m certain that’s a forgery.” Aziraphale frowns. “Venus de Milo didn’t have a necklace, I’m quite sure of it.”

Crowley nods. “Yeah, no, she didn’t, did she? Alright, next piece.” He stops in front of it and, as he did previously, zooms in. 

After a long, quiet moment, Aziraphale asks, “Is that David?”

“Think so.”

“And this is a … game for children, yes?”

Crowley bristles a little at that. “It’s a game for everybody, Aziraphale, just because it’s got cartoon-looking characters and talking animals -”

“But children are part of the target audience, yes?” he asks quickly, cutting Crowley off with a wave of his hand.

“Well. Yeah.” The demon crosses his arms over his chest, grumbling incoherently. “Don’t see why it matters, s’it a forgery or not, is all I’m asking.”

“I believe it to be genuine. But er, I think it’s an … interesting choice, putting the statue of David like this in a game for children.” He waves to the screen, a bit lost for words. “In such high resolution .”

Crowley arches an eyebrow. “Why? It’s a classic - Michelangelo really hit it out of the park with David, even with the perspective and everything. I offered to model for him, but would you believe he said I was too skinny?”

“I would believe it,” Aziraphale says absently, to the effect of an insulted little huff from the demon. “But what I’m saying is, Crowley, it’s very genuine . Completely accurate to the original. Completely. In stunning ah … 4 giga-byte resolution, I believe they say.”

“4K, angel. And why wouldn’t it be? Use the graphics you’ve got.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “What I’m saying, Crowley, is they included the entire statue. Without the tasteful fig leaf modern children’s media seems inclined to include.”

“Oh. Oh .” Crowley blinks. “Really?” He stands up then, swerving around the coffee table to approach the telly and crouching down, his sunglasses lifted and eyes squinted as he studies the statue closely. “Huh.” He is swaying back-and-forth a bit, likely to make it easier to see; Aziraphale remembers his brief stint in Crowley’s body and how much the serpent eyes seemed to favor movement and high contrast in low lighting. It had been a moment where Crowley’s casual assertion of ‘I don’t read books’ suddenly made perfect sense. “Guess they did.”

He straightens up and shrugs, letting his glasses fall back into place across his nose. “Oh well. Human anatomy, and all that.” He retreats to the couch again and flops back down. Aziraphale doesn’t fail to notice how he’s sitting a little closer now, leaning just a hair into Aziraphale’s side. “I’m sure they’ll find out about it sooner or later. Anyway, art’s art. Doesn’t do to mess with it.”

“I suppose not.” Aziraphale watches as Crowley’s character talks to the little fox and, apparently, buys Michaelangelo’s David . “Crowley?” he says, after a moment. Crowley hums, indicating he’s listening, even as the character exits the boat and heads back onto the island. “Why does a small fox on a boat have David ?”

Crowley snorts. “You know, it’s never addressed. I’m assuming he stole it.”

Aziraphale spends a minute wondering what kind of world this game must take place in, where talking animals and Michaelangelo all coexisted, and then decides not to pursue that any longer lest he get a headache. Suffice to say, he thinks, it’s probably very good Adam hadn’t been a fan of Animals at Play or whatever when he’d been eleven. They might have a squirrel for a neighbor. Or a goat. He thinks of his books, and shudders.

“Anyway, that’s all I needed,” Crowley says, interrupting his train of thought. “Sorry to interrupt your unpacking .” It’s said teasingly, because he knows damn well Aziraphale hadn’t been unpacking. The angel has been taking his time with the chore, reading the books he’d missed most before shelving them. Crowley, on the other hand, had unpacked in a whirlwind: case in point, the den they are sitting in is entirely devoid of boxes, and the furniture and decor is settled in like it’s always been there, surrounded by lush houseplants. It’s not like Crowley to take his time in any arena, and certainly not one in which there’s untidiness involved, Aziraphale had learned quickly. After seeing Hell, it’s clear enough why though, and he never mentions it.

“Oh it’s quite alright, dear boy.” He sees Crowley glance over cautiously, and raises his own eyebrows. “I’m comfortable enough here - would you mind if I watched a bit?” In response, Crowley lets himself slump entirely up against Aziraphale, his head resting on the angel’s shoulder. Aziraphale smiles and loops his arm around Crowley’s skinny shoulders, cushioned by the jumper. “So what,” he asks, brushing some of Crowley’s hair smooth, partially because he enjoys the softness of it but also because some of the shorter hairs are tickling his nose, “do you do with the art once you buy it?”

Crowley starts a little. “Oh, you sell it to the museum! I should show you the museum.”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrow a little. “Why?”

“You should see the curator. I think you’ll like him.” Crowley’s character beats a trail across the island, doing a waddling little run that makes Aziraphale smile, thinking of Crowley actually running like that, and comes upon a big stone building that could only be a museum. The character steps inside and, as soon as the interior loads, Aziraphale prods Crowley in the ribs. 

“ Really , dear boy?” he says, even as Crowley is laughing. “I’ll admit he’s quite stylish - for an owl - but I don’t think you - is his name Blathers ?” He glares at Crowley, who is now laughing so hard he is no longer able to play the game. “What are you trying to say?”

“Look what happens when you talk to him,” Crowley half-whimpers between giggles, and he taps a button to initiate a conversation. ‘ Might there be something with which I can assist you ?’ the dapper little owl asks, with the same jabbering nonsense speech the other animals had used. Aziraphale finds himself admiring the owl’s bowtie, and shakes himself. 

Crowley selects the ‘Make a Donation’ option, and selects what looks like some kind of fish to hand over to the owl. The owl proclaims the fish to be a carp, and asks Crowley if he would like to know more about the carp, which Crowley asserts he does, even while giggling helplessly from his position huddled up next to Aziraphale.

“Really,” Aziraphale says, although he can’t muster up too much indignation. Not when the owl talks the way he does, or dispenses facts about the carp so easily. “Alright, well, I suppose I see your point.”

“Reminds me of you, angel.”

“So what else do you donate to this museum besides fish and art?” He frowns. “What sort of a museum accepts art and fish ?”

“Ah. Well, there’s the aquarium bit - for the fish - and the art bit, and then there’s a conservatory bit where all the bugs you catch go, and then, you’ll like this.” He grins. “They’ve put in a whole bit for fossils and dinosaurs.”

Aziraphale snorts. “Of course they did.”

“Want to see it?” He doesn’t wait for an answer - it was yes, anyway - and instead heads down the stairs and into the section with the fossils. Aziraphale scoffs at the first room, and then laughs at the second. “You know, one day they’ll figure out nothing like a brachiosaurus never would have survived. Last I heard they were trying to assert it had a second brain in its pelvis, just for the tail .”

Crowley chuckles again. “Humans. Always with the ideas, hm?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” He shakes his head. “And look at that! What is it, a … a stegosaurus?” he finishes, when Crowley clicks on the controller and reads the little display card. “How is that even supposed to work?”

“No idea.”

The angel sighs. “Utter nonsense. I can’t imagine why She bothered with them at all, the fossils.”

“Maybe She got bored.”

“Or She likes a joke.” He runs his fingers softly through Crowley’s hair, combing the strands apart, though there weren’t any knots to tease out. “Could I see the rest of the museum? It’s quite pretty, really, ridiculous lizards aside.”

Crowley hums and wriggles in tighter. “Sure. Although I’ll warn you: the conservatory’s a bit sparse. I have a hard time with the bugs.”

“I didn’t know you didn’t like bugs,” says Aziraphale, leaning back a little, the better to frown down at his partner. “Since when?”

“No, not like that.” Crowley sighs. “It’s the eye thing again - they’re little, and they do move but sometimes not much, and they blend in with the flowers or the grass or whatever. I’ve caught a few butterflies because they stand out, and the wasps have an audio cue, but anything else is just dumb luck.” He adds, quietly and muttering darkly, “Bloody tarantulas.”

“ Tarantulas ?”

“Yeah. They like … scurry after you when you make ‘em angry and then they bite you, and you pass out.” He shrugs. “Nothing really awful happens, you don’t lose anything or anything like when you pass out in Stardew Valley -” Aziraphale nods, although he has never heard of Stardew Valley and wonders how many other games involve getting bitten by tarantulas until you pass out, “- but it’s annoying all the same.”

“I see.” He doesn’t say anything else, just thinks while Crowley’s character slowly makes his way through the museum. For a game, it’s very pretty indeed, and Aziraphale thinks he’d rather like to see what the entire thing looks like completed. He imagines it would probably, were it real, be the best museum there had ever been.

“So is that the game?” he asks, when the tour is over. “To complete the museum?”

“Eh. Sort of?” Crowley shrugs. “There’s not really a … a goal to reach that says you’ve beat the game - you can kind of play forever, if you want. But part of it is completing the museum, part is getting a 5-star rating for your island, part is collecting villagers you like to move there …”

Aziraphale nods. “Would you like help? With the museum, anyway. I don’t think I’d be much help for the rest. But I can help with the bugs.”

“Really?” Crowley twists around a little, the better to look up at the angel. “You want to play?”

“Goodness no, I’d make a mess of it in a blink.” He shakes his head. “No, I more meant that I could perhaps be of assistance to you in bug catching. I could point things out, if you’d like. And you can catch them.”

“Nyeh … we could try.” Crowley shrugs. “Won’t hurt, I suppose. But really, angel, it’s not hard to learn to play, and even if you point the bugs out I’ll still have to see them to get the timing right, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to.”

“We can work on it. You know,” he says as an afterthought, “If I’m going to stay here I think I’d like a fresh cup of tea. Maybe some snacks. Would you like anything?”

Crowley budges over to allow Aziraphale to stand before slumping back into the cushions. “Coffee’d be nice if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all, my boy.” Aziraphale smiles down at him - that beneficent, beautiful smile - and then leaves the room. Crowley waits for a minute, makes sure he’s heard his angel’s footfalls disappear into the kitchen and then lays the controller aside in favor of picking up his mobile.

“Alexa?” He waits a minute to hear the tone and then says, smiling just a little, “Place an order for a Nintendo Switch Lite. In tartan.”

It never occurs to him that the Switch Light doesn’t come in tartan. Fortunately, it never occurs to Alexa, or Nintendo, or anyone else either.

Chapter Text

“Do you need a hand?” It’s Aziraphale - of course it is, this is their cottage, their house, who else would it be - but the sound of an unexpected voice while he has his wings out still - still - has the same effect as a bucket of cold water directly onto his spine. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

Crowley swallows. Hello Crawly, look at those lovely wings. How nice , says a low, growling voice in the back of his mind, and he forces it aside, because Hastur’s not here and he won’t ever be here, not with all the wards on this place, and it’s just Aziraphale. His hand, though, poised over the coverts on the back of his left wing is still shaking a little. He stills it. “S’alright. I’m alright.”

He finished moulting last week, and he’s been taking his time sorting things out. It’s never easy, not with all the scar tissue he has up and down both wings, especially the right one. Some of the feathers always grow in funny, and then inevitably break or need plucked shortly thereafter. There’s a few places, too, where an attempt at a shaft will grow, and then stop, and he rather likes to pick those out, because eventually they start to itch and they look sloppy besides.

Not like they do anything anyway. On your belly you shall go , says his memory of Hastur. Crowley smooths out a feather, willing his hands still.

“They look lovely.” Aziraphale steps into the den the rest of the way, and joins Crowley on the sofa. Crowley, in spite of everything, budges over to let him: it’s just Aziraphale, Aziraphale the angel and his best friend, he won’t hurt him.”Are you sure you wouldn’t like help?”

Crowley shrugs. “I’ll get to it. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’d like to help.” That gives the demon pause. He looks up from his wing, to Aziraphale, eyes a bit wider than usual. Aziraphale waves toward Crowley’s shoulders. “You know as well as I do, dear boy, that it’s always easier to have someone help with your scapulars, and some of the axillaries.” His face softens into a smile. “You always help me with mine, Crowley. I’m happy to return the favor.”

“Oh.” Before he’s realized, Crowley has tucked his wings back up, around himself, trying to make himself smaller. He gives himself a mental shake and concentrates on letting them relax - relax , it’s just Aziraphale - and takes a breath. “Er. You don’t mind?” He gestures to the left wing, which is half-preened and still has a few fragile, already-breaking feathers in place. “They’re sort of a bit raggy. Haven’t had time to clean them up.”

“Which is why I’d like to help you. It doesn’t bother me, Crowley. They’re your wings, nothing about you bothers me.” He says it with such honesty that Crowley does relax then, his wings drooping a little, down from their protective hunched posture. The right one creaks a little as the ruined joints protest, and the contracted muscles spasm until it’s back in its usual, half-cocked posture. Crowley winces. “I’m sorry if -”

“Not your fault.” Crowley thinks about it, and then, slowly, turns his back to Aziraphale. “Alright. Er. If you’d like.” He doesn’t spread them out completely, but he tries to stay relaxed, tries to stay still. 

“What lovely, black wings you have, Crawly. Why, they almost look good enough to fly.” And then pain, and blood, and Hastur laughing, his elbow locked around Crowley’s neck, holding him pinned against the Duke’s chest while Hastur’s free hand tears feathers out of the left wing by the handful. “But you’re not a Prince, Crawly, so you know we can’t have that.”

“I’ve always loved the color of your wings.” He feels Aziraphale’s hand on his back, the middle, between the wings, where there are a few downy feathers in this form, when he lets them manifest entirely. “It suits you.”

“Thanks,” says Crowley in response, and tries not to sound like he’s been strangled when he says it.

“Right,” said Hastur, and Crowley had fallen down as soon as the Duke let go, partially from pain, and partially because he’d been struggling the entire time against Hastur’s headlock, and the second it was removed Crowley had spilled forward and lost his footing on the slimy old stones. Behind him, he could hear Hastur dusting his hands off. “Now that’s sorted, time for you to go see Prince Beelzebub, hm, Crawly?”

He’d said ‘Crowley’, because he could, and because it seemed important. Hastur didn’t get to take his name, too. 

“Whatever,” said Hastur, and then he’d grabbed the leading edge of Crowley’s mangled right wing, just above the alula, and yanked upwards, trying to draw Crowley back to his feet. Instead, the entire limb, which was always twisted, always stiff and contracted and mal-aligned, ever since the Fall, cracked out into an extension it hadn’t been pulled to in millennia, and Crowley screamed. Hastur had laughed. 

“Call it stretching,” he’d said, still laughing and laughing, while Crowley scrambled in the sludge to find a position that was better, hurt less, anything was better, it had broken again, Hastur had to have broken it again, it couldn’t bend that way, not anymore, he’d been so careful with it, it had healed, it hadn’t hurt - “Come on,” he snarled, and yanked again, before giving the wing up for rubbish and grabbing Crowley by the hair instead. That was more successful, and he hauled the lesser demon to his feet and started to drag him down the hallway, toward Beelzebub’s office. “You’re late.”

And Crowley had followed, his left wing folded up against his back as close as could be, the blood from where the feathers had been torn out soaking his shirt. The right one couldn’t move, wouldn’t move, and his entire back was hot with pain and muscle spasms. Still being dragged by the hair, he gathered the right wing up, sickeningly familiar, he’d done this barely 4000 years ago, just like after the Fall, gathered his wing close into its familiar twisted position and held it. And then he snarled, straightened up, and twisted out of Hastur’s grip, leaving the Duke with a handful of long-red hair. “I can walk myself,” he snarled, swerving away from Hastur. 

Hastur had sneered, and shoved him into the wall, right shoulder first - fire, hot, pain, ouch. “Then do it, you bloody snake. And make it quick, Beelzebub wants to hear all about your failures with the Christ.”

It’s that last bit - fire, hot, pain - that gets him. Aziraphale doesn’t see it coming, doesn’t expect Crowley to yell and lunge forward, away, the second the angel’s fingers graze the scapulars on the back of his right wing. Right , he had to start with the right, because right is good, right isn’t sinister, he’s an angel, he’s good and … and Aziraphale’s talking.

“Crowley! Crowley? Are you alright? What was it?”Crowley turns around, eyes yellow from edge-to-edge, his fingers curled nearly into claws as he grips the arm of the sofa like he’s planning to make an escape. Aziraphale has one hand outstretched, and as soon as he looks down, realizes it, he folds his hands and puts them in his lap. His blue eyes are wide, honest. Scared. “Crowley?”

And then, because Crowley doesn’t know what to do, he forces a laugh out that sounds a little bit like a sob. “It’s er, been … been a while, since anyone else. Ngk. Since another er, anyone -”

“Ah.” Aziraphale bites his lip. “I think I understand.” He takes a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, Crowley, I shouldn’t have pushed. I didn’t realize -”

“ No .” Crowley shakes his head and snaps, “No, I … wanted you to. Still want you to? Just, er. Surprised me. The right one. That’s the … it surprised me.” He takes a deep breath and starts, feeling Aziraphale is owed an explanation, “Hell -”

The angel shakes his head. “You don’t have to talk about it. Not if you don’t want to.” He holds out his hands, an invitation, and Crowley takes them like a drowning man. “Do you want to?”

“Not really,” Crowley admits.

“Then don’t.” Aziraphale shrugs. He runs the pads of his thumbs across the bones and sinew on the back of Crowley’s hands.  “I’m sorry, Crowley. I should have asked. Or been clearer.”

Crowley snorts. “Nah. Not your fault I’m like this.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Aziraphale squeezes his hands. “You are yourself, and I should have been more mindful.” Crowley’s heart breaks in his chest - he’s so earnest, and of course he means it, he absolutely means it, he’d never offer an apology he didn’t mean, not to Crowley. “I will be sure to do so next time, if you’ll allow me a next time.”

“‘Course I’ll allow you a next time. Just, er, start on the left, is all.” And then carefully, his stomach doing flip-flops the entire time, he turns his left shoulder toward Aziraphale again, and offers up his better wing. He ignores the way it shakes, just a little, the feathers visibly ruffled.

Azirpahale looks dubious. “Perhaps now isn’t the best time.”

“It’s got to get done,” Crowley says stubbornly. He forces a wobbly smirk. “Trying to get out of work, are you?”

Aziraphale squeezes his hands once more, warm and soft, and says, “How about I get us both something to drink, first?”

“Yeah,” says Crowley, letting out a breath he had been holding without knowing. “Yeah, okay. Sounds nice.”

Ten minutes later, Aziraphale has a cup of tea set on the coffee table, and Crowley is cradling his coffee mug in both hands. He’s not shaking anymore, because he took some breaths, and looked around: this is their cottage, with his giant television, and his lush houseplants, and Aziraphale’s chintz sofa, and a tartan-print wool blanket, and the ridiculous statue of angels wrestling that Aziraphale claims to hate. 

Their home, and he’s sitting on the blasted blanket and it itches , but it’s warm, and the coffee is warm, and even if it’s chintz the couch is soft. 

Their place, with the waves crashing against the cliffs outside, and the occasional creak as the old place settles, and the hum of spring insects in the garden outside. 

And he’s here with Aziraphale, just Aziraphale, who made him strong coffee that smells like expensive beans (and whisky, after Crowley’s had it for a second), and made himself some kind of fancy ridiculous tea that smells like herbs and chintz. 

Their side , Crowley thinks, and he sips his coffee and stretches out the left wing.

“Right,” says Aziraphale, wiggling himself into a more comfortable position. “Left side, this time first, hm?”

“Yeah,” says Crowley hoarsely.

“Let’s start with the axillaries, where you can see” the angel says, and Crowley realizes he’s waiting for acknowledgement of that before he starts. Crowley nods, and twitches the wing up more, to give easier access, and Aziraphale hums happily. “Thank you, dear boy,” he says, and he sets to work.

He talks while he does, and for a minute Crowley is tempted to remember the Chattering Order - they hadn’t been so bad, just had horrible biscuits, really - but there’s something about the way Aziraphale intersperses his opinions about the church bake sale with clear, calm information about what he’s doing, going to be doing, going to be touching on Crowley’s wing that is warm and peaceful and, before he knows it, Crowley is cross-legged on the sofa, slumped forward with his elbows on his knees, coffee in his hands, and left wing in Aziraphale’s lap. The angel’s fingers are buried in his coverts, and it feels so nice, that Crowley lets his head fall forward, eyes closed for a just a second, his forehead bumping against the rim of his coffee mug.

“Alright, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, his hands falling still. “I can stop, if you’ve had enough for one day.”

“No.” He looks up to Aziraphale, and this time the half-cocked grin on his face is entirely honest. “S’alright. Really.”

Aziraphale shifts a little side-to-side, smiles, nods, and sets back to work. “Still, I think we’d best leave the right side for another day. You know what they say about building Rome and all that, although I do recall several neighborhoods that went up awfully fast .”

Crowley surprises himself with a snort and a laugh, and he shakes his head, watching Aziraphale all the time. “You know, angel, I know m’a demon and all, unforgivable, yadda yadda, but sometimes I can’t help but think I must’ve done something right. At some point.”

“Well, of course.” Aziraphale looks up, eyes twinkling. “You covered all those miracles for me, didn’t you?” Crowley starts to laugh, because Aziraphale really is a bastard, but the best kind of bastard, the only kind Crowley cares to know, and then he stops because Aziraphale leans in and, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, gives him a kiss on the cheek. “And of course,” the angel says quietly, not leaning away, not yet, which is good, because Crowley turns to face him with distinct ideas about what he wants to happen next, “outside of all that, you really are a good person. A little.”

Crowley huffs. “Shut up,” he says, and then pulls his wing away, tucked back behind his shoulder, because that will make kissing Aziraphale much, much easier.

Chapter Text

It’s not a nice night for a knock on the door of the bookshop. It’s damp, and cold, and Aziraphale is quite happy to be settled into his favorite chair with a new* book and a cup of tea and no obligations on the schedule until the following Tuesday, when he and Crowley are meeting in the park before heading for sushi. He’s just turning to the second page, white gloved-hands gently handling the pages, when a knock comes at the door. Obviously, he ignores it.

[* New in the sense that he has never read the book before. The actual book itself is quite old. ]

It comes again, a few seconds later, and he looks up toward the entry of the shop in irritation. The clock ticking away on his desk points to half ten at night - far too late for any self-respecting bookshop to be open. Surely the person outside doesn’t think that just because the lights are on … ?

They knock again. He sighs and carefully, irritably closes his book, sets it on the table beside his chair, and gets up, tugging the white gloves off and tucking them into a pocket as he walks. Before he opens the door, he takes off the reading glasses, and tucks them away.

They are knocking again when he opens the door. “Yes?” he asks, tone tight and chilly as the night air. In front of his face, the night air does not respond.

He looks down.

“Hello,” says a young child, possibly around ten. He’s never been good at ages.

Ah. Well. A lost child. He’s on firmer footing here. His expression softens into a warm smile, and he steps back to invite them inside. “Hallo. Are you lost? Do come in, I’m sure -”

“I need a book,” says the small child. His smile drops.

“Rather late to be doing your shopping,” he says, after a pause. 

The child sighs. “I don’t need to buy a book, I just need to read a bit. You have old books here, yes? Everyone at school says AZ Fell’s has all the oldest books.”

His interest piques, and although he doesn’t move back to open the door any wider, he does raise his eyebrows a bit. “Little … child …” he settles on, “it’s rather late. I’m not … not averse to you doing a bit of reading -” this was a lie, “- but I’m rather afraid it will have to be during normal business hours. Do your parents know where you are?”

“Oh, no,” comes the reply, accompanied by wide eyes and a fervent shake of the head. “No, they mustn’t. They think I’m in bed.”

“Then perhaps you should be.” He wags a finger toward the child. “Sneaking out against your parents’ rules is -”

“Please!” the child cries, and then stamps a foot, untied shoelaces whirling around a grubby sneaker. “Please, I’m sorry, but I just need a bit, just so tomorrow I don’t have to -”

Many people assume angels are benevolent, kindly creatures that would certainly yield to a child having a tantrum. This is nearly universally untrue: angels generally couldn’t possibly care less about the wants and needs of human children if it didn’t directly benefit The Host of Heaven. And Aziraphale, being an angel, was fairly immune to the tantrums of children, but by the same token he was an angel who had been living on Earth for just over 6000 years, and although he didn’t have much time for a child’s emotional outburst, he did have a measure of curiosity, which is a trait most angels - out of a sense of self-preservation - lack*.

[* For further details on the consequences of curious angels, see ‘War in Heaven, The’. ]

“What could possibly be so pressing,” he asks, cutting the child off, “to bring you to a bookshop after an old book, late on a night like this?”

“I need to summon a demon!” The child wails.

Aziraphale blinks once, twice, and then tugs his sweatervest down. “Ah,” he says. “I see.” He steps back, and opens the door, waving an arm and inviting the child in. “Well then, come on. I do believe I can help. Do you like cocoa?”’

-

He learns that the child’s name is Willa, and that she lives a few blocks over with her mother and stepfather. While he carefully tips some mini marshmallows into her cocoa, he also learns that she is lactose intolerant (and the cocoa is suddenly surprised to find it has been made with soy milk), and that she is being rather cruelly targeted by some of the girls in her class at school. From what he can gather through her rather convoluted account of inter-school drama and social circles, Willa was apparently awarded the lead role in a play when she and some of the girls in question were in primary school, and since that time they have never forgiven her.

“Not my fault they’re terrible at acting,” Willa points out petulantly, while Aziraphale sets the cocoa in front of her and takes his customary seat at the table, across from the child. “And anyway, even if they weren’t, doesn’t excuse them taking my bag and pushing me and telling my friends I kiss rats.”

“Do you kiss rats?” Aziraphale asks, idly. Willa looks horrified.

“ No !”

“Rather sweet creatures, actually, rats,” he says, before his eyes narrow and he looks out of the little kitchenette, into the depths of the bookshop. “When they leave my books alone.”

Willa is staring. “Right. Anyway, so after the summer cricket league finished, Mindi and -”

“Why do you need to summon a demon, exactly?” Aziraphale asks, his attention snapping abruptly back from the darkened shelves to the eleven-year-old. “I understand you’re being treated rather unkindly, but I’m afraid I don’t see how a de -”

“ Because if they’re afraid of me, they’ll leave me alone.” She draws herself up, though below the table her ankles are crossed and she’s swinging her legs, her shoelaces slithering across the floorboards back-and-forth. “And can’t think of a much better way to get them afraid of me than convince them I’ve got demonic power at my fingertips.”

That is a statement that warrants further investigation, although Aziraphale isn’t quite sure how to broach the subject with the girl. What child jumps directly to demonic power? Even Adam - Adam the Antichrist - hadn’t thought of demons. Warlock had, but well … Well …

“You don’t have any very strange adults in your life, do you?” he asks. Willa looks at him for a long moment.

“Besides you?”

Aziraphale frowns. “Fair play. Right, well, I’m afraid I don’t have any books about summoning demons.” This is also a lie. “Perhaps there are less drastic ways of dealing with this issue. Have you considered open and honest conversation?*”

[* Somewhere, far from anybody or anything that can hear, a being pauses dealing cards to laugh and laugh and laugh. Even They appreciate a good dose of irony. ]

“No,” says Willa. She is staring at him as if lobsters have begun to crawl out of his ears. “They’d just laugh at me.” She shakes her head. “No, it’s got to be something scary. If not a demon, maybe I could find a ghost. Oh, or I could hide a roach in her -”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

Willa has been working on her cocoa solidly throughout their conversation, and the old winged mug is now nearly empty. She finishes off the rest of the treat, sets the mug down, and sighs, shoulders slumping under the weight of the world. “Okay. Suppose not, then. Thanks for the cocoa, Mr. Fell. Maybe I’ll have better luck at the library next weekend.”

“No.” He stands up quickly as she makes to go, startling her to stillness, one hand on her bag and one foot on the floor. “I would still like to help, Ms Willa, only I rather think there might be another option available.” He wrings his hands and tugs on his sweater. “Only conflict resolution isn’t really my forte. I do have a friend, however, that might be able to help you.” A mischievous smirk flits across his lips. “I could summon him, see if he has any ideas.”

Willa cocks her head. “This late? Is he even awake?”

“You assumed I was awake.”

“S’different. I saw the lights on.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale purses his lips before starting toward the telephone and motioning for the girl to follow. “Perhaps. Still, I think he’ll be awake. He usually is, at night.”

“Is your friend a demon?” Willa asks, her tone edged with gentle sarcasm. 

Aziraphale smiles as he begins to dial Crowley’s number. “Yes, he is, actually.” The call connects, and Willa scoffs in the background. “Crowley! Lovely to hear you. Sorry, were you asleep? Terribly sorry to impose, but I believe I have something of a predicament you might be able to - well, that is to say interested in assisting with …”

As it turns out, Crowley is interested, and after groggily listening to Aziraphale recount the key details (sometimes more than once, but Aziraphale can forgive him; he had just woken up, after all) he says he’ll be over in a few minutes. Aziraphale thanks him profusely for his time, hangs up the phone, and turns back to Willa.

“There.” He brushes his hands off, as if he’s just completed a project. “He’ll be here in two shakes.”

“Two shakes of what?” she asks, before he attention is drawn away by an old illuminated manuscript on a nearby shelf. “Oh, look at that -”

“ Don’t touch ,” he warns. She freezes. His expression turns apologetic. “Very fragile,” he says, rather less sternly. “Quite old, too. I do have a selection of more modern books near the front - is there something you’d like to read while we wait? Would you like more cocoa?”

In fact, it takes Crowley about twenty minutes to arrive, and he saunters in the front of the bookshop with all of his usual offensive casualness. “Right,” he says, hands in the pockets of his jeans, “what’s up?” Although it’s hard to tell with the sunglasses, Aziraphale has practice: Crowley sees Willa, and pauses. “You didn’t say it was a baby .”

Willa scowls. “I’m not a baby. I’m eleven.” Her scowl deepens when Crowley laughs.

“Right, okay, that’s fine, sure.” He sniffs. “So you wanted to summon a demon, eh?” He takes his hands out of his pockets and gestures to himself. Aziraphale, positioned behind Willa, rolls his eyes. “Mission accomplished.”

“You’re not a demon,” comes the immediate response.

“Am too,” replies Crowley, raising an eyebrow.

“Demons don’t look like wannabe YouTubers,” says Willa scathingly, and Aziraphale nearly gasps. He barely grasps the weight of the insult with his knowledge of current culture, but he knows in his bones that it’s been years since someone landed a blow that would sting Crowley like that would.

Crowley, to his credit, only sneers. “Who said I wanted to be a YouTuber? And anyway, how do you know what demons look like?”

“Seen them in books,” she replies promptly. “Demons’ve got horns and pointy tails and forked tongues and hooves.” She looks for a moment to his snakeskin shoes. “You’re not a demon. You look like my weird uncle when he’s trying to be cool.”

“Cheek,” Crowley mutters, while Aziraphale stifles a sudden coughing-not-laughing fit in his elbow. “You’re lucky I’m retired, you little snot. What’d you want a demon for anyway? Kids at school giving you a hard time?”

Aziraphale steps in, thinking perhaps a calmer voice would diffuse a bit of the tension in the room between Crowley and Willa. “Yes. It’s as I said to you on the phone, some of the older girls -”

“ Are cunts ,” says Willa, startling Aziraphale into silence and Crowley into a bark of delighted laughter. It seals the deal for the demon, though: he doesn’t snap his fingers where she can see them, but Aziraphale feels the spark of a demonic miracle as Crowley reaches into a recess in one of the bookshelves and pulls out a cup of espresso. As he swaggers past, toward the couch in the back, Willa watches him carefully.

“Where’d you get that?” she demands, following after him, taking three quick steps to each of his. Aziraphale, smiling gently with amusement, follows, his hands folded behind his back.

“Left it there this morning.”

“It’s still hot . I can see the steam.”

“Huh.” Crowley flops onto the couch and doesn’t spill a drop. “Well,” he says, facing the girl and - no doubt - looking right at her, glasses or not, “Must be a warm shelf. Can’t be demon stuff, after all. M’not a demon.”

For the first time, Willa looks unsure. She pauses, and turns around to Aziraphale, looking as though she very much wants to ask a question, but isn’t sure what the question is . She opens her mouth once, closes it, and then turns back to Crowley, her shoulders squaring up as she says, “Demons don’t wear boring old t-shirts.”

“ Well maybe ,” Crowley says, over the rim of his cup, “some demons get called late at night after the forces of evil, and also self-respecting children ought to be in bed, hmm?” He crosses his legs. Aziraphale sits down as well, in his usual chair. Willa remains standing behind the side table, her face barely visible above the stack of books Aziraphale has laid there for sorting. Later*. “So what is your plan for demonic intervention with these girls at school, eh?”

[* Much later. Whenever he gets around to it. Don’t worry about it. ]

Willa folds her hands and lets them rest on the table, looking fixedly at the book on the top of the stack. She mutters something, and although Aziraphale is able to hear her perfectly well - he assumes Crowley can, too - her words definitely were not audible on a human scale, and therefore both continue to look at her expectantly. She sighs. “I want like, well … Well, I was thinking something like in The Heinous Rite . Have you seen it?”

“Bit young for that movie, aren’t you?” Crowley points out. Aziraphale tends to agree with him, although he’s never seen the film himself. Based on the title alone, however, he objects to it.

“I watched it with my brother,” says says, waving a hand dismissively. “But you know it, then?” Crowley nods. “Yeah. So like that, with the spooky noises and then things get really dark and then maybe black sludge drips down the walls? And I’ll make myself look really scary and say I’ve bound a demon to my will and they’d better leave me alone or I’ll banish them to Hell and suffering .” When she finishes her explanation, which is filled with dramatic flourishes of her hands and changes of tone, she is wide-eyed. Excited. Aziraphale is blinking at her. Crowley is holding the espresso cup delicately in both hands.

“Doesn’t really work like that,” he says finally. “Can’t do the black sludge, I’m afraid.” Willa rolls her eyes. “Is there a reason you think this might work better than talking to them?”

“Yes. They’re mean.” It is all the explanation she seems willing to give. Crowley nods.

“And that may be, but … well, you’re what, eleven, right? Have they taught you about Machiavelli in school yet?”

Willa pauses. “Who? Wait … he didn’t … did he invent coffee or something?”

“Definitely not,” Crowley answers with a snort. “Nah, he was an old Italian guy, kind of a drag to be honest, loved to hear himself talk, but anyway, he had this saying: ‘A wise prince is taught many things, but the most important lesson is this: keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.’” He raises an eyebrow. Something - a memory, an inconsistency - twinges in the back of Aziraphale’s mind, but it slides away before he can get a firm hold of it. He's fairly certain that quote was misattributed ... “So how about that, hm?”

“I don’t really want to be close to them,” Willa points out, after a moment’s thought. “I’d like to be very far away from them, actually. Kind of the entire point of summoning -”

“No, no, no, you’re not getting it.” Crowley waves a hand impatiently. “I’m not saying you have to like them . They just have to think you like them.” He raises a finger. “S’a big difference.”

Willa watches him through narrowed eyes. “I don’t know. They don’t seem like they like me very much.”

“Not now.” Crowley shrugs. “But they’re mad at you about … about a play, right? S’what you said?” He looks to Aziraphale, who nods in confirmation. “Okay. So they’re jealous. That’s easy. What have you got that they don’t? Other than the role in the play, since that’s long gone.”

“I …” Willa opened and closed her mouth a time or two as she thought. “I suppose … well, I have better grades in English, but I can’t -”

“Help them cheat.”

“ What ?” say Aziraphale and Willa in unison. “No!” the girl goes on. “No, then I’d get in trouble!”

Crowley rolls his eyes; it is a motion that involves his whole torso, really, being that he keeps his eyes covered so habitually that he’s honed the body language of more subtle facial expressions down to a practiced art. “Fine.” He sighs. “Fine, don’t cheat . Quickest way to get them to come around, though.” He takes a sip of espresso while WIlla glares at him. “Then you’re in it for the long game, I’m afraid.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Unless I summon a demon.” Her expression turns wary as she continues to watch Crowley savor the espresso. “A proper demon, with the horns and the tail and the hooves and everything.”

“Young lady,” Aziraphale points out gently, “has anyone told you that you have a very strange sense of morality?”

“Summoning demons isn’t against school rules,” she replies simply. “Cheating is.”

Crowley shrugs. “Fine. No skin off my nose. Easier to do that though - partner up with one of them for a project, play nice, slip them a few answers, all that’s not really cheating - than summon a demon. But have it your way.” He sets the espresso down on the coffee table and levers himself upright. “There’s a book he won’t let you touch, but I know how to do it. Come on.”

“ Crowley !” Aziraphale jumps to his feet, hands on his hips. “You are not going to -” He stops, because Crowley turns around, and allows his glasses to slide down his nose just long enough that Aziraphale can see him wink. Willa doesn’t notice. Aziraphale blinks, doesn’t smile as he realizes what Crowley must certainly be planning, and instead throws his hands up. “Fine. Fine. But if there’s widespread hysteria and death in London I’m not going to be responsible for it.”

“Nah, angel, you never could be,” Crowley calls over his shoulder, and leads Willa toward the desk.

-

Willa wants the day to be just right: a cool, autumn evening, just a bit rainy, right before the sun really starts to set. It takes a few weeks - just under a month - until conditions are perfect, and the entire time the paper the man from the bookshop gave her feels like it’s burning a hole in her pocket. Every slight they toss her way, every time she has to smile and act like she’s not been planning this …

But the evening comes. She knows her enemies will be leaving choir practice together that night, having heard them planning to go grab something to eat afterwards, and she knows that the fastest way from the auditorium to their preferred coffee shop is through a narrow alley between the school’s outer wall and the pharmacy next door. She knows - well, strongly hopes - they will go that way, and so she spends a painstaking hour before choir practice ends drawing the sigil the man copied for her just so*. She checks it, double checks it, and when she’s sure it’s right, she leans against the school wall, half-hidden behind one of the support posts, and waits.

[* It proves rather difficult given that she’s using chalk and the pavement is wet, but even the laws of physics are a poor match for a determined eleven-year-old. ]

She doesn’t have to wait long. Their voices are familiar, and she hears them turning down the alley just as the sun starts to dip below the tops of the tallest buildings. She steps out from her hiding place, standing between them and her sigil.

The girls stop. “Oh,” says the tallest one - a brunette named Tracie. Her eyes narrow. “You.”

Willa turns her nose up. “Me.”

The shortest one, a blonde named Melanie, asks, “Why are you hiding in an alley? Bit weird.”

“I was waiting for you,” says Willa. “I have something to show you.”

“Is it a rat?” Tracie asks, glancing to her friends for affirmation. They smile, and she does too, before she turns back to Willa. “Bet you come in here to kiss your little rat friends, don’t you?”

The girl who is neither tallest nor shortest - a dark-haired girl named Emily - peers at the ground behind Willa. “Looks like something out of a horror movie?”

Tracie catches on to that rather quickly. “Yeah! Yeah, it does.” She laughs. “Are you trying to scare us? What, are you going to summon a demon or something?”

“As a matter of fact,” Willa says, raising her arms up, “yes. I am.”

The girls are laughing when she begins the incantation she’d been practicing for weeks, but their laughter died away after the first few words. It was in English - the man had assured her it was an accurate translation of the original Assyrian - and it sounded properly menacing, calling on the great powers of the Serpent of Eden to arise and do her bidding. 

“Isn’t the serpent the devil?” asks Emily, who is only Catholic by association*. “It’s the devil, right?”

[* Five years ago her parents, having recently arrived in Britain and not realizing that being Catholic was not a requirement to enroll their daughter into what they were assured was one of the nicest private schools in the area, had decided after a long period of deliberation to answer ‘May the Pope live long and prosper’ when asked if they were religious during their initial conversations with admissions. Naturally, it followed that Emily’s grip on Catholicism had always been shaky at best, and flavored with a heavy dollop of Star Trek lore .]

“She’s not actually summoning a demon,” Melanie scoffs, although she also takes a step backwards. 

Willa keeps talking. It’s not a long incantation - it only took her one afternoon to memorize all the words, and since then she’s really only been practicing the tone - and by the time she is done the three girls are staring at her. There is a sinking feeling in her stomach; it didn’t work, she looks like a fool, of course it didn’t work that’s just for movies, demons -

The ground in the center of the sigil starts smoking. It smells like sulfur. The girls gasp. Willa does not, although for a moment she very badly wants to.

“It’s a trick,” whispers Tracie, as the smoke grows thicker and starts pouring up from the pavement with more urgency. “Just - just a smoke bomb, or a flare, or -”

Willa is watching. She’s watching very, very closely. And so she notices before the others do that within the smoke, the silhouette of a man is forming. She doesn’t scream, but only just. A few seconds later, the other girls do. Willa’s eyes grow wide as the smoke begins to clear. A demon, a real demon, it worked, it really -

Her eyes narrow. She frowns, and starts to wave away the smoke.

The man from the bookshop is grinning at her. “Neat trick, eh?” he says. “Oh, right.” Carefully, he reaches into the pocket of his black jacket, and pulls out a headband onto which are glued two red, glittery demon horns. Deliberately, as if focusing on the placement just so, he puts the headband on and nestles it down into his messy red hair. “There. One demon.”

There is a period of absolute silence, as the smoke finishes slinking away, and everyone present gathers their thoughts. The man is smiling. “Is this … your uncle, or something?” asks Melanie, after a while.

Willa, in that moment, wonders if it is possible to die from embarrassment. 

The man looks down to the sigil, rubs out a few of the fiddlier squiggles with his snakeskin boot, and shrugs. “Nah, no relation. So are these the girls?” Willa can’t find her voice enough to speak, being half torn between screaming in anger or crying, so she nods. “Suppose you decided not to go the kill them with kindness route, eh? Ah, well. Don’t say I didn’t try.” He draws himself up and steps around Willa, toward the other three. He pauses for a moment, possibly studying them, though she can’t tell with his glasses as dark as they are, and then smiles. It’s … not a very nice smile, actually, fake glittery horns notwithstanding. “Hallo.”

Tracie raises an eyebrow. “Alright. You’re from the community theater group then, right? One of your weird friends ?” this directed to Willa, who turns from glaring at the man - Crow-something, was his name, she remembered the Crow bit. Crowston? Crowsmith? Crow … - to Tracie. 

Melanie giggles. “Did she pay you to put you up to this?”

“Not from a local theater group, wasn’t paid,” the man answered. “Call it public service. Anyway, listen, regarding this … feud, or whatever you want to call it that the four of you have -”

“It’s not a feud,” Emily says. “Tracie’s got a grudge.” She deftly side-steps an elbow Tracie aims at her ribs, and observes the taller girl mildly. “I’m not wrong.”

“Shut it,” says Tracie, glaring daggers at Emily before turning her expression back to Crow-something, whatever his name is. Willa can’t see his face, not with the way he’s stepped between her and the other three with his back to her, but his shoulders are slouched, and he’s just as casual as she remembers him being in the bookshop. “Listen, it’s just harmless fun.”

He jerks a thumb toward Willa. “She doesn’t seem to think it’s harmless.”

“Then she ought to get a thicker skin,” Tracie snaps back. “If she can’t take a few jokes, then -”

“ Jokes ,” says the man, drawing out the ‘s’ at the end to the point that it nearly sounds like hissing,  “imply that no one is being harmed by the content. Picking on someone isn’t jokes. That’s actually called bullying, no matter which way you want to slice it, and generally is frowned upon.”

Tracie crosses her arms. “So, what? Are you going to tell the headmaster? No one will care - you’re not even her family, you don’t know us.”

“Might do anyway.” The man sighs and reaches up to take off his glasses and rub the bridge of his nose. When he finishes, he doesn’t put the glasses back on right away, instead rubbing the lenses with the hem of his jacket, all the while watching the three girls staring him down.

Or … were staring him down, anyway. Willa realizes they’ve gone rather still, and rather pale. Emily’s mouth drops open a little. Weird.

“Yeah, suppose I could tell your headmaster or whoever. Could also write a letter to your parents, I suppose, but that never works in my experience.” He lifts the glasses up to his face, studies the lenses for clarity, and then looks back to the girls. “ Or , you could just decide to be decent people. S’always an option.”

Willa wonders if he has a speech impediment: he almost hangs on the sibilants for too long. She hadn’t noticed it in the bookshop, but it’s fairly obvious now. “See,” he goes on, playing idly with the arms of the glasses, “you can always make a choice. You can be tolerable - I think ‘nice’ is a bit ambitious for you at the moment - or you can be a bunch of nasty little weasels that go through life making things miserable for everyone around you. And it’ll probably be alright … for a while.” He sniffs, and puts his glasses back on. “Won’t last though - it never does. What goes around comes around, all that.”

Melanie, apparently the bravest of the lot, or at least the only one capable of speech at the moment, whimpers. “Yes, sir.”

“So we’re all on the same page then?” He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I don’t care if you like one another, just bloody don’t be awful, alright?”

Emily nods. “Are we … are you …”

The man from the bookshop checks his watch. Some glitter falls from the horns and onto the shoulders of his sharp black coat. “Late to meet a friend? Yes.” He looks back over his shoulder at Willa, and then back to the other girls. “So I’m understood? Be decent to one another, end of story.” He turns on Willa again. “And stop trying to summon demons, you’ll only end up getting in trouble at some point. They’ve earned their reputation, by and large.”

Willa crosses her arms. “How’d you know I was going to do this tonight? Have you been following me? I’ll call the police.”

“You called me .” They glare at one another for a moment. Behind his back, Tracie, Emily, and Melanie realize they are no longer the focus of his attention, and take their chance to shuffle backwards slowly, quietly, until they were nearly to the mouth of the alley, at which point all three broke into a run and disappeared around the corner.

“I called a demon,” Willa says eventually. “Not you . You told me that was for the snake that tempted Eve.”

“I said serpent, and it was.”

“ You’re not a serpent .”

The man scoffs. “Shows what you know.” Something behind her catches his attention then, and he straightens up, his mouth quirking into a half-grin. “Hey, angel.”

“There you are.” The second voice, relieved and familiar, belongs to Mr. Fell: Willa knows it before she turns around to see him there, in his long beige coat, hands fidgeting at his sides. “I know you said you’d not be far, but I did worry -”

“Nah. All fine.” He turns his attention to Willa once more, and wags a finger at her. “No more demon summoning, alright? Am I clear? If you do, I will know .”

“No you won’t,” she grumps. 

“Will too.” He steps around her, and once he draws near enough Mr. Fell takes his arm. Frowning, the bookseller reaches up and plucks the horns from his hair.

“ Really , Crowley?”

Crowley - yes, that was his name - grins. “Like ‘em? They were on discount.”

Mr. Fell frowns sternly at his partner. “Not the five-finger sort, I hope.”

“It definitely was, angel. You know me better than that.”

With a sigh, Mr. Fell tucks the horned headband into Crowley’s breast pocket. “Ridiculous old serpent,” he says, before he chuckles. Crowley sticks his tongue out at him, just as they begin to walk away.

His tongue is long, and thin, and forked. It takes Willa a moment to register this, and by the time she has, they are already halfway down the block, Mr. Fell’s hand still on Crowley’s arm.

She turns and runs down the alley, after Tracie and the others, and hopes the gathering rain clouds will wash her chalk marks away.