Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One doesn't own an antique book shop to sell second hand books. The important thing is to be displaying the books, as a message, a signal. I collect these lovely things, the message says, I have many nice ones and I look after them well. Do you have one like these? Yours could have a good home here, with me. Let's talk, my dear.

Once you have a reputation for being a collector of a certain type of material, people start to seek you out, and it's easy to expand your collection from 'books of prophecy' to books on magic and demonology, and from there fall into the murkier lands of artefacts of dubious provenance.

A. Z. Fell Antique Books & Artefacts Of Interest was a public display case for all these things and more. The more dangerous items were secreted away, only viewable by a select few, but by and large the books and curiosities attracted more of their kin, particularly once dear Mr Fell had built his reputation on being scrupulously fair in his dealings and unwilling to be taken in by fakes.

*-*-*-*-*

Promising.

Very promising.

Aziraphale put down the phone and closed his eyes with a barely suppressed shiver, trying to contain his excitement. It wouldn't do to get too invested before he had his hands on it, he's certainly made that mistake before, but something about his contact's hushed description and unusually circumspect chatter had snagged his attention.

Leather case in hand, he locked up the shop and headed for the 98 bus stop to Paddington.

Some time later the taxi dropped him at the door of a perfectly ordinary, if somewhat shabby, semi detached 60s build, set in a small forgettable town along the M4 corridor. Net curtains twitched at his arrival and the door opened before he could knock.

"Mister Fell."

"Mister Clarke." 

Unusually discourteous, Aziraphale didn't wait to be invited in, and was swiftly hurried through to the familiar back room, packed with research books, newspapers and cardboard boxes. It looked much like his own shop, if he'd had a tenth of the time to build his collection and twice the disdain for order. 

He perched on a rickety office chair, bag safely tucked at his feet.

Clarke settled in the chair across from him, holding a bronze bracelet, perhaps an inch wide. He turned it over in his hands, brushing off a speck of dust before offering it to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale tugged on a pair of spectacles, balancing them carefully on his nose, and took the proffered item. He inspected the band closely through the glasses; traced a gentle finger over the intricate symbols on the inside plane and licked the pad thoughtfully, tasting metal and something else that tingled. He raised both brows before looking up with pursed lips. "How much?"

Clarke hemmed and hawed before giving him a number.

"Outrageous. I'll give you twelve thousand." 

Instead of falling into the usual bartering, Clarke grinned, much as a man holding royalty in a poker game might look as he splays them on the felt for the flush. "How about three hundred, but I'll give you something to take home in it?"

The new figure truly was outrageous, and Aziraphale gaped a little before the rest of the words sank in. "Something to..."

"Take a look first. Then we can talk." The other man stood, suddenly pale and nervous, and beckoned Aziraphale to follow.

They slid out the back door, paint peeling worse than the front, and stopped outside a surprisingly well built shed, cinder block and corrugated iron. At Aziraphale's questioning look, Clarke shrugged. "Had it before she left. Used to be my workshop." He unlocked the door with a heavy key and grasped the door handle. "Don't get too close. It's dangerous. Killed a load of kids."

The door swung open into starkly illuminated space, empty but for a few pieces of furniture and a solitary figure.

Aziraphale shot his companion an inscrutable look before stepping forward, heeding the warning of painted lines and symbols on the floor.

The man - he looked like a man, skinny and tall - stood with his arms folded and legs akimbo, an elegant sneer on his face. He watched as Aziraphale prowled round the edges of the circle, head turning to follow him but not straining as he walked behind. Dark glasses hid his eyes but the intensity of the hidden gaze still made Aziraphale's skin crawl and warning bells ring. 

Eventually, he ceased his inspection and turned to Clarke. "What is this?"

"Demon. A real one." He paused. "Like I said, three hundred with the bracelet to keep it under control."

Dazed, Aziraphale looked back at the black clad figure. "I need proof, before I'll pay. I won't be involved in human trafficking."

"Oh, but demon trafficking's fine," the figure snarked.

They ignored him.

"The outer circle's safe enough - it can reach out but it can't use its powers or step outside. Still strong as anything though, be careful."

Decision made, Aziraphale placed his bag on the table nearest the door. Movements sure and steady despite the tremor in his hands, he pulled a number of items from it, settling them in a neat line. A white stick of chalk. Leather sheathed knife, handle intricately gilded and gleaming. An innocuous tartan thermos flask. Sterling silver snuff box. Delicately, he unscrewed the lid off the thermos and tipped a careful dribble into it; unsheathed the knife and placed it alongside.

The demon still watched, unmoving. There was an air of uncertainty about him now, a hint of interest at this strange professor-type with faded jacket and open expressions and a hell-forged knife.

Satisfied, Aziraphale turned to face him, deliberately stepping across the outer circle. "Hold out your arm."

One eyebrow raised elegantly above the sunglasses, but otherwise the demon didn't move.

Aziraphale was patient. "Hold out your arm or I'm afraid I'll have to do something unpleasant."

"More unpleasant than trapping me in this filthy cell for a week?"

He gave a flinty smile. "Much more."

The demon assessed him for a long moment, then abruptly stuck out an arm.

"Thank you." Aziraphale pushed up the jacket sleeve so it caught above the bony elbow and wrapped his hand around the thin wrist. The skin was cool; the pulse thumped hard under his fingertips.

The demon shrugged, a sharp marionette twitch of bony shoulders. "Cut it off, I don't care. Going to kill you all the same."

"Why would I do that? You'd be less useful with only one arm."

Reaching behind him, not taking his eyes off the demon, he grasped the thermos cup.

"What's that?" 

"Holy water."

Something flickered across the demon's face; on a human it might have looked like fear. His hand clenched into a fist, the tendons in his wrist flexing out against Aziraphale's grip.

"The very holiest."

He brought the cup closer, and the demon began to struggle in earnest, trying to wrench his arm back, but Aziraphale held on with inhuman strength, the skin under his fingers turning white with the pressure.

"Don't do this - please, I'll do whatever you want, I'll obey everything just don't-"

The first drop fell from the rim of the cup.

The demon's final protest twisted into a wordless howl as the water hit his forearm and sizzled.

Aziraphale let go, and in an instant the demon had his arm cradled against his chest, wiping frantically at the smoking wound with the edge of his jacket, swearing interspersed with whimpers.

Eventually the noises stopped and he hauled off his sunglasses with his free hand, looking at Aziraphale with yellow serpent eyes filled with pain and fury. "I'm going to drag you down to hell and keep you there for all eternity while I tear you to fucking pieces ."

Swallowing, Aziraphale backed out of the room, ushering Clarke through the door first. They both squinted in the sunlight. Aziraphale tugged at his jacket, smoothing it down neatly. "My goodness." He coughed a little. "I do believe you have a true demon there, after all. May I ask how...?"

"A bunch of kids down near Bristol summoned it. They didn't think it would work, so they panicked and called a mate of mine. By the time he got there, there was nothing left but smoke and corpses, and that thing standing there in the middle of the circle. He figured it was out of his league so called me." Clarke shuddered. "The mess it left them in, god, I can't get it out of my head."

Morbid curiosity tugged at his tongue; he didn't want to know but he had to ask. "How- how many?" 

"Seven. Youngest was thirteen, oldest was seventeen." He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Shit. Look, I know I said three hundred but I know you'll keep it locked away safe. You're the most reliable guy I know, never had any problems. I'll take a hundred grand, bracelet and all. Just promise you won't let it go killing anyone else."

"Two fifty, and not a penny less." Aziraphale held up a hand to forestall the arguments. "We both know that's fair, and I won't have people saying I've cheated you."

"Done." They shook. "You're a good man, Fell."

Aziraphale gave him an empty smile.

In the shed, the demon huddled on the floor, curled protectively over his arm. The sunglasses were back in place, but the sneer had gone. He seemed to have given up, his attitude temporarily burnt out of him by the holy water.

Aziraphale packed his bag neatly, tipping the last of the water back into the thermos and screwing the top on tightly. Clarke gave him the bracelet, keeping well out of the way.

"Give me your arm."

The demon laughed disbelievingly. "Fuck off."

"It won't hurt. Just stop you using your powers."

"Fuck. Off."

"I'll be back tomorrow if you change your mind."

"Fuck you."

*-*-*-*-*

True to his word Aziraphale returned the next day, this time in a rented car. He hadn't particularly wanted to bring the demon back via public transport, and it seemed prudent to avoid carrying hundreds of thousands of pounds through central London.

The demon was still defiant, but decidedly subdued, and offered an arm without needing to be asked, flinching as the bracelet clicked shut around his thin wrist. There was a deep burn mark from the holy water, and Aziraphale tried not to look at it. It made him feel a bit sick.

He patted Clarke on the arm as he left. "Do take yourself on holiday, my dear fellow. Somewhere warm, try and forget about all this for a while."

"I think I will. You mind yourself, Mister Fell."

The demon threw himself into the car seat and did up his seatbelt without being asked, scowling out the window with pursed lips, arms crossed over his chest. If it hadn't been for the faint age lines and the aura of something very, very ancient, Aziraphale might well have felt he was accompanying a defiant teenager.

"Would you like music?"

He didn't get an answer.

"Have you been in a car before?"

The scowl deepened, harsh furrows on the demon's brow.

Putting the car in gear, Aziraphale sighed. "Are you giving me the silent treatment? I don't feel that's very mature for a demon." Still, better than swearing, he supposed.

The frown lifted infinitesimally, though there was no hint of amusement on the thin face, and they set off towards London.

Two hours later, they pulled up outside the front of A. Z. Fell's. The demon hadn't spoken a word, any attempts at chatter falling flat until Aziraphale had given up and accepted the awkward silence.

Aziraphale clambered out, and the demon trailed after him to the door.

"That's you then?" The deep voice made him jump. "Ay Zed Fell?"

"That's me."

Door unlocked, Aziraphale gestured for the demon to enter, closing and locking it behind them as the demon wandered inside.

Inside was a veritable Aladdin's cave - or perhaps a dragon's hoard - of old books, mysterious boxes, and things that rattled when the demon picked them up or poked at them. He flicked through a book, until Aziraphale snapped at him to "put that down !" and he dropped it back on the table guiltily.

"Oh do be careful! That's a first edition, it's extremely delicate."

"What's it doing it out then?"

"Just- don't touch anything!" Aziraphale scurried over and fussed at the book, stroking the spine impossibly gently before looking up at the demon who was watching him, baffled.

"It's just a book."

Aziraphale opened his mouth to argue then shut it with a snap, squaring up to the demon with his hands on his hips, chin raised.

"This is my shop. These are my things. You will take care when you touch any of them and if you don't I'll-" He looked away for an instant, then back, "-I'll leave you in my summoning circle for a week."

Crowley sneered at him. "It's a bookshop, you don't have a summoning circle."

Aziraphale gestured further into the store. "Back there. And I need you to get in it, please. I have to return the car."

Sudden defiance settled on the demon's face and Aziraphale sighed, deflating a little. "Look, either you go in it or I command you and the bracelet hurts until you do as I ask."

Behind the sunglasses, eyes flickered to the bracelet and back up. 

"You're bluffing."

"I didn't bluff yesterday."

A silent battle of wills, stubborn chin and soft nose raised against aloof sunglasses and red hair.

Once again, the demon lost, and with a snarl stalked to the centre of the room where a deeply carved circle took pride of place. There were obvious new additions, bright white sigils sketched around the rim, and the distinct smell of fresh paint. 

He sulked into the centre, and Aziraphale closed the circle with two firm strokes of chalk. "I won't be long."

"I hope you get hit by a bus." The demon turned away, arms crossed over his narrow chest.

There wasn't much Aziraphale could say in response to that.

*-*-*-*-*

He did not, in fact, get hit by a bus. Nor did he scrape the car, which had been a prospect almost as terrifying as transporting a demon in it.

He delayed returning to the shop with a detour to a cafe, savouring a delicate slice of cake and a good cup of tea. It didn't take away the fear curdling in his stomach, nor the faint panicky flutter in his chest, and when he eventually forced himself to stand and pay the bill he couldn't help but hurry through the darkening London streets.

He was almost out of breath by the time he reached his shop, half surprised to find it still standing, so took a few calming breaths before squaring his shoulders and unlocking the door. Once more unto the breach, I suppose.

In the dusty room, lined with leather bound books and hardwood shelves, the modernly dressed demon looked distinctly out of place. The watch - opposite arm to the bracelet tucked discreetly under a sleeve - looked obscenely extensive, for all Aziraphale knew not a jot about watches, and he suspected the sunglasses were designer. The cut of the jacket complemented the trim figure, as did the far too skinny jeans. Vanity, of course, is a sin, and one this demon certainly seemed more than happy to indulge in. He didn't look particularly demonic, really. It would be easy to be lulled into a very false sense of security.

"Does your arm need treating? The holy water - I saw the mark it left."

"It'll heal fine, I don't need your help." Not after you caused the damage in the first place.

"How long have you been on Earth?" His voice was soft; too soft for addressing this demon, this killer, and he vowed to strengthen it.

"Dunno. Few millennia, give or take."

"You weren't keeping track?"

"No point, is there? I was there at the beginning but I've been up and down since then." Disdain lay heavy on the demon's face, twisting it into unhappiness.

Aziraphale circled carefully around him. It had been an extremely long day, and he wasn't really up for making small talk with a demon, however smartly dressed. Wouldn't do to show weakness, though, so he straightened his back ( stiffen those sinews, dear boy, summon up the blood ) and tried to project an aura of general competence and worldliness. "What's your name? It seems terribly rude to just call you 'demon'."

"...Crowley."

"Not one I've heard of." 

"A big old nobody, that's me," he said, almost cheerfully. "Never did anyone any harm."

Liar .

Seven dead kids .

Abruptly Aziraphale turned away, heading for the stairs.

"Wait, where're you-"

"Good night." He paused, for a moment, demon heavy on his tongue as he stared at his feet, "Crowley."

He flicked the light off as he climbed the stairs. The demon's voice chased him up the stairs, nipping at his heels and tugging at his coattails like an impertinent child. "Don't just leave me here! Hey! Heyyy! Ah, you wanker ."

*-*-*-*-*

When Aziraphale crept downstairs the next morning, having snuck out and back in again via the alleyway entrance, the demon was sat in a sharp-cornered heap in the middle of the circle, looking particularly unhappy as he played with his scarf, though he brightened up a little at the sight of company. Aziraphale settled in a comfortable velvet chair facing him, wielding his cup of tea and a plate on which he balanced a bag of pastries, grease rapidly leaving a stain on the paper.

It only seemed polite to offer to share. "Croissant?" 

"I'm a demon. Demons don't eat." Back to sulking, apparently. Oh good.

"Don't need to eat. I'm sure some do occasionally partake."

"Not this one."

"Oh. Well I hope you don't mind if I-"

"I'd like a drink though."

Manners kicked in. "Tea? Coffee?" He swore there was some orange juice knocking around somewhere.

"D'you have any wine?"

Aziraphale stared. 

"I've had a hell of a week." Crowley grimaced. "Metaphorically speaking."

"It's not even lunchtime!"

"Plenty of time to drink before you go off to bed then."

He had a point.

Two wine glasses appeared from the back room, along with a bottle of surprisingly old red. Crowley sniffed appreciatively when Aziraphale placed a filled glass in the outer circle, within his reach. The other glass remained empty, Aziraphale drinking his tea and nibbling on pastries, in awkward but relatively content silence. When the glass drained more rapidly than expected Aziraphale nudged the wine bottle into the outer circle, careful not to scratch the paint, and wished faintly that he hadn't opened such a nice vintage.

Nearing the end of the second glass - a slower journey than the first - the demon spoke again. "What're you planning on doing with me? I thought this was a shop, you can't keep me stuck in this circle forever. Isn't it a Saturday? You should have customers." Rapidfire questions, clearly suppressed and finally bursting out.

"It's closed for the foreseeable future. Until I know it's safe for humans." He eyed Crowley skeptically. "And I'm hoping for a little help around the place, although your treatment of my books so far doesn't bode well."

Safe for humans? Whoops.

Fortunately Crowley was already distracted. "So I'm supposed to be your staff? If you think I'm going to call you master you're very much mistaken." The sibilants dripped from his tongue like venom. 

Aziraphale laughed, and the demon startled at the bright sound. "I certainly don't expect you to call me that. Mister Fell is fine."

"Not 'A', then? Or whatever it stands for?" Genuine curiosity? Or perhaps just an attempt to get his true name. Too risky.

"I hardly think that would be appropriate." 

The open, almost light hearted atmosphere was gone as fast as it had arrived, and the sullen scowl returned to Crowley's face. It looked very at home there, and suddenly Aziraphale felt very deflated at the thought of what he'd brought into his home. Excitement, yes, a whole different league to his usual fare, but this was rather more responsibility than he'd been planning for. And he seemed just so miserable ! Hard to keep cheerful in the face of all that gloom.

At the very least he could have the last glass of wine in the bottle, never mind that it was only eleven in the morning. 

Crowley looked on mournfully as he took the bottle away, but he held fast.

The wine steadied his nerves, and after half the glass Aziraphale took to his feet, checking the doors and windows, running soft hands along the ledges and sills.

"Are you dusting? Gonna need more than that, this place is a state." 

"Checking the wards," Aziraphale answered absently, hands splayed on the window. "Keeps things out," he glanced over at the demon, "or in. Occult - or ethereal - beings can't cross the thresholds without permission."

"You didn't have that yesterday."

"I did. I just let you in."

Finished with his inspection, Aziraphale returned to the centre of the room and scuffed his foot over the small patch of chalk that closed inner and outer circles. With a pop that hurt Crowley's ears, he was released. "Ow," he said, rubbing his ears. "Yours is better than what's-his-name's. It didn't sting when he opened it."

Aziraphale shrugged, trying not to look too shifty. "I've been doing it longer." So much longer.

"Hmm." 

Moving on. "The bracelet won't let you use hellfire, or your other demonic powers. The wards won't let you leave the shop, or go upstairs. I've put away anything you could use to escape." Aziraphale checked his points off on his fingers, then turned half pleading eyes on Crowley. "I really could do with a hand with the dusting."

"Sure. Aaron."

"What?"

"Alex? Sorry, Alexander ?" Crowley drawled in an exaggerated English accent.

Aziraphale couldn't help but smile slightly at that, though it felt brittle on his cheeks. "None of those, I'm afraid. But do feel free to keep trying!"

They did in fact attempt to tackle the cleaning, in a way. Aziraphale kept getting distracted by books (which was a large part of the reason why the cleaning never got done in the first place) and Crowley had his attention snagged by trinkets. "I used to have one of these," over a mother-of-pearl backed mirror that showed more than just a reflection; disappointment when something was less interesting than initial appearances might suggest - "How does this work? Oh, that's pointless,"; a yelp and the sound of sucking singed fingers when he attempted to pick up a bible.

Aziraphale was pleasantly surprised at how willing the demon was to assist, or at least appear to be assisting. He didn't notice the subtle reshelving - Freud's writings shelved neatly and pointedly side by side with tomes on Greek mythology; first editions moved from obscure top shelves to pride of place on front tables.

*-*-*-*-* 

Two days passed like that, Aziraphale vanishing upstairs at broadly appropriate times, returning to offer food. Crowley didn't ask for wine again, although Aziraphale did find a suspicious stash of empty bottles, and he otherwise seemed content to just exist, drifting around the shop and poking his nose into things. 

The third evening, as Aziraphale gestured to him to re-enter the circle, Crowley dug his heels in. "Couldn't I just... stay in the shop? I'd much rather sleep on the sofa than on the floor."

Aziraphale looked at him blankly. "You... sleep?"

Embarrassed, Crowley scuffed his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Well, yeah, I mean it's not very demonic but-"

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale interrupted. "I should have asked." He could see the scowl making its way back to Crowley's face, but staged an intervention before he could get a good sulk going. "I'll bring down a blanket."

No more mention was made of the circle, and when Aziraphale descended the stairs the next morning, the demon was still curled under a tartan wool blanket on the too-short sofa, sunglasses safely stacked on top of his neatly folded jacket.

Midway through Aziraphale's first cup of tea, he finally stirred, rolling over and blinking hazy yellow eyes at him.

"Good morning."

Crowley groaned and buried his head back under the blanket. The muffled voice wound its way through the fibres. "Why are you doing thisss? Why are you keeping me here?"

There's no plan I have no idea what I'm doing I couldn't leave you there, not after I heard what you did - "I can't exactly just let you go, can I?"

Suddenly wide awake and outraged, Crowley leapt to his feet, shedding the blanket like a second skin. "Why not? There's thousands - millions more like me! Demons - all over the place, coming up, tempting people - and angels! They're here too you know, smiting and thwarting and interfering a- a- and-" He spluttered off into silence, as if something important had just occurred to him.

"But none of those have crossed my path in quite the same way." Aziraphale was quietly insistent. "And I can't help but feel you're my responsibility, since it's my bracelet you wear on your wrist."

Something had changed in the air between them, crackling and cold. Crowley's eyes narrowed, pupils contracted to a thin slice under suspicious brows, and he stalked across the room, standing hardly an inch from Aziraphale's knees as he leant forward and inhaled deeply. No smoke, no sulfur, just cologne and tea and something warm he couldn't identify.

"You're not a demon. I'd smell it if you were. But I don't think you're quite human. What are you, Mister Fell ?"

Aziraphale leant back in his chair as the demon loomed over him, an anxious smile tugging spasmodically at his lips. "I'm afraid it's rather complicated."

"Oh I've seen a lot of things, I'm good at complicated, I'm clever, try me."

It was almost hypnotic, looking at the serpentine eyes as they stared deep into his soul, and Aziraphale opened his mouth to confess.

*-*-*-*-*

The door rattled and they both jumped. Voice tremulous, Aziraphale called "We're closed!"

The knock came again, more aggressive, and Crowley stepped back just enough to allow him to stand. Aziraphale tugged at his waistcoat and pointedly straightened his bow tie before heading to the front door.

Crowley hovered awkwardly in the back room.

"I'm afraid we're - oh." Aziraphale wrinkled his nose at the offending smell. "We're closed."

A faint "ohshit" echoed from deep inside the shop. The trench coat clad figure smiled. It was an ugly smile, and the halitosis didn't improve the miasma.

"I heard you've caught a demon."

Aziraphale's eyes widened, and he gave a wide, desperate smile before slamming the door shut, the blinds rattling.

"Get in the circle," he whisper-yelled at Crowley.

" What ?"

"Get in the circle now !"

Crowley scurried to obey. "He knows me, Fell, he knows me and he hates me and he'll kill me!"

Aziraphale grabbed a stick of chalk and dropped to the ground, scribbling feverishly as the banging on the door crescendoed, shuffling on his knees until he'd added symbols around the full circumference of the circle. "Don't worry," he said breathlessly, "he can't touch you."

The door slammed open, the bell chiming its warning, and a scruffy foot raised as if to step over the threshold, before jerking back as though it had encountered a hot coal.

Calm now, brushing a chalky hand down his trouser leg and wiping at the resulting mark with a dissatisfied tut, Aziraphale returned to the front door.

"I'll let you in on one condition - you don't hurt him."

There was an outraged choke from behind him.

"Of course not! Why would I do that?" The silky promise was ruined by the predatory smile. 

"One moment please." Polite customer service smile. The 'I'm not selling you anything but I don't want you causing a scene' smile.

He half closed the door, looking over his shoulder. "He says he won't hurt you."

"And you believe him? He's a demon !" Crowley paced the edge of the circle, trying to peer around Aziraphale from a distance.

Aziraphale gave him a wry, pointed look and turned back to his visitor.

"I'm afraid I have a second condition - don't make a mess."

He waved a hand elegantly and stepped aside, allowing the smell to drift through the door, accompanied by the tall, grubby figure. 

"Crowley. What have you got yourself into this time?" 

"Hastur. Long time no see." Surprisingly suave for someone trapped in a relatively small chalk circle, Crowley folded his arms. At some point he'd re-acquired his sunglasses.

Aziraphale stayed well back, watching as they traded barbs, hand ready to grab the hell-forged dagger he'd kept tucked into the small of his back every day since dragging the damned demon into his life.

"Never thought I'd see you trapped by some silly human. Didn't think you'd be worth the hassle, all your stupid little games with telephones and politics and mischief , it's not very impressive, is it?" 

"Well, some of us are just more tempting than others, what can I say?" Crowley gave him a glib smile.

"Not if I have anything to do with it." A click of fingers and a whoomph of ignition, and in Hastur's hand bloomed a flicker of hellfire, and Crowley suddenly looked a little nervous.

Aziraphale stepped forward. "Oh, none of that, thank you." He pinched it out as though it was a candle, then blew on his fingers to get rid of the sting. Both demons looked at him wide eyed. "Do continue."

"What the heaven have you got yourself into, Crowley?"

Crowley's tone changed. "Look, Hastur, I know we've never really got on but you can't seriously leave me here with him, just break me out and I'll do your paperwork for the next century - the next five centuries!"

Hastur laughed, sharp and ugly. "As if I'd get you out! No, I think I'll leave you here to rot, let this - human -" the room paused then, skeptically mulling it over, but Hastur decided to continue forging steadily onwards, "- do whatever he wants with you."

"Hastur!"

He turned and left, cackling, but didn't have the decency to take his stench with him.

"Hastur you bastard, don't leave me here!" Crowley slammed his fists against the outer edge of the circle, a tragic mime against the invisible shield that left his slender hands reddening and, after a short minute, blistering and bruising as the barrier did its job.

Aziraphale shut the door quietly behind Hastur, sighing a little at the noise Crowley was making. "Will you please stop? You'll hurt yourself."

Crowley slumped to the floor as though his strings had been cut, burying his face in his injured hands with a muffled sob.

Aziraphale hurried to him, rubbing at the chalked floor here and there to release the circle, all three rings of it.

"It's supposed to be better than hell up here," Crowley mourned, talking to his knees, "I just want to sleep and drink and piss people off a bit, and now look at me! Stuck in a bookshop with some lunatic."

Some lunatic? The cheek! But Aziraphale didn't have the guts to kick a demon while he was down, so he didn't argue.

"I'm sorry."

"If you were sorry you'd let me go." Red rimmed eyes looked up at him, and the demon spread his hands helplessly. "At least let me go and water my plants, it's been nearly two weeks and I really don't want them all to die."

At Aziraphale's perplexed expression, Crowley shook his head.

"Yes, I have plants," he said, suddenly prickly and defensive. "I've got a flat and everything." 

"Where?" It came out as a strangled squeak.

"'bout a mile... that way. May as well be half a galaxy for all the good it does me." He dashed a hand furiously across his face, wiping away salty tracks before shoving his sunglasses back on haphazardly.

Aziraphale swallowed, suddenly feeling cruel and heartless. Demons weren't supposed to have flats in London. Demons weren't supposed to have homes .

"Tomorrow."

"What?"

"Tomorrow, once your friend is long gone. You can have an hour."

"A whole hour, how generous ." But Crowley looked around before offering a begrudging thanks, Arthur .

Aziraphale left him wandering around the shop and scuttled upstairs, unable to face the evidence of his deeds. Imprisoning a demon had sounded doable in theory - and he truly couldn't have left him there, with poor Mister Clarke having no real idea what he was doing - but this sad, wounded specimen was far from the vicious threat he'd always been lead to believe. Hastur, now that was more like it, but not Crowley. 

But then Clarke's words came back to him. The youngest was thirteen… the mess it left them in - and he remembered another lesson - they will lie and deceive and do anything they can to get what they want. Demons are never to be trusted.

Don't let it trick you. Don't let it get too close. It's a killer. 

*-*-*-*-*

Eventually Aziraphale had to go downstairs. Crowley wasn't sleeping this time, instead playing with a bag of Nordic runes - supposed to tell the future, but probably used more like tarot cards, revealing what the reader already knew. Aziraphale had liked the carvings though, clearly done with love and patience, so had purchased them off the old woman looking to supplement her pension.

"Crowley. I have a few rules before I let you leave. Please come here, I need the bracelet."

He could practically hear you have too many bloody rules running through the demon's head, but he visibly bit the words back and put down the bag, pushing up his sleeve to offer the bracelet. The marks on his hands were already gone, though on a human they might have taken a month to heal properly. The holy water had left a small pink scar, the shape of a teardrop where the liquid had landed and been smeared away. It sat just above the bracelet, a stark reminder of Aziraphale's cruelty on their first meeting.

The demon's hand hung limp at the end of his thin wrist. Aziraphale touched the bronze lightly with the tips of two soft fingers. Speaking carefully, clearly, he intoned, "You have permission to leave this shop for one hour. You must be back inside this shop within one hour of leaving. You may not harm anyone or anything, directly or indirectly." He looked up at Crowley. "You really won't like what happens if you break any of those rules, and the more egregiously you break them, the worse the outcome."

"Yes, fine, fine, can I go?"

Aziraphale pulled his hand back. "You may. Oh, wait-" 

He felt the misery and resignation in Crowley's full bodied droop, and the guilt surged hot in his throat. "I have to - the wards -" he hurried to the door, unlocking the locks and performing the complicated gesture required.

Almost disbelieving, Crowley stood in the doorway and lifted one cautious, snakeskin-clad foot. When nothing - not the wards, not the bracelet, not whatever else Aziraphale might have up his sleeve - stopped him, he placed it carefully on the stone outside, gave one quick sharp look back, and then was gone, striding down the street with people parting in front of him like water over the bow of a ship.

Aziraphale sighed as he closed the door. Please don't go wrong , he thought. Please come back and don't make me regret this tiny measure of freedom I've granted you.

Fifty eight minutes later a knock came at the door.

Tipping his head back and closing his eyes briefly in relief, hands shaking, Aziraphale stayed seated, snatching up a book and opening it carelessly somewhere in the middle, feigning indifference as best he could. "It's open!"

Daylight briefly flooded into the dusty confines of the shop, spattering haphazardly across the floor as Crowley's long figure stepped inside and closed the door behind him. 

"All safe and secure at casa del demon, then?"

He got a gruff nod. 

"Good. Can I tempt you to some wine?" Aziraphale winced - he hadn't quite meant to say that - and tried to cover it with a winning smile.

"Not sure if there's any left."

"Oh, I'm sure I can find a case of something or other." After locking up he did manage to find more bottles, although as suspected Crowley had made a good dent in his stash, and poured them both a generous glass. They sat across from each other, Aziraphale proper and upright in his armchair, Crowley lounged across the sofa, long lines taking up more room than they had any right to. He raised a glass.

"Cheers, Adrian."

"Do I honestly look like an Adrian to you?"

"Not particularly. But worth a try."

Exasperated, Aziraphale pursed his lips. "Are you really going to call me every name you can think of beginning with A? You're being ridiculous."

"No more ridiculous than you, keeping a demon in your bookshop and not being good enough to tell him your name." Crowley sniffed. "Quite rude if you ask me."

"I wasn't asking you! Mister Fell is perfectly fine for my customers, it's perfectly fine for you."

Crowley ignored him. "If I'm stuck here forever I'll get it eventually."

Not bloody likely .

Aziraphale had a few moments of peace before the demon started up again. He tried very hard not to respond.

"Alfred."

"Abraham."

"Apollo. No - Ares."

"If we're going that route I'd far prefer Athena." Crowley snorted. 

"Then what about... Azrael." 

Aziraphale shuddered at that, thinking of endless wings like black holes and eternity. "No, and I'd rather like you to stop asking."

"Fine. Adam."

Goodness, he does know how to strike a nerve.

When Aziraphale judged it near enough to bedtime that he could beat a safe retreat without it being, well, a retreat, he stood and made for the stairs.

"Goodnight, Crowley."

"Goodnight, Angelus." 

Aziraphale tripped up the first step.

That soft voice caressing the Latin, not his name but who he was, nearly undid him, and he stilled, holding his breath as though a single careless movement could shatter everything.

"No," he sighed out eventually, "no, that's not my name."

"Oh well," said Crowley, eyes too sharp and too clever. "I'll try again tomorrow."

Chapter Text

Somewhere a very long way away, two beings were having a furious conversation.

"Your angel hazz our demon! That's against all our agreements!"

"He's not our angel any more, so I don't see how it's my problem."

"What do you mean he's not your angel any more? He's not one of ourzz!"

"He took himself off into exile and won't come back. We've tried! Don't go sharing this around too much - not good for morale, you understand."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Nothing. Just leave them to it. Hopefully one will kill the other and - boom, problem solved."

"But what if they don't?"

"It's an angel and a demon. Of course one of them's going to end up killing the other sooner or later. We just have to wait."

*-*-*-*-*

The next day dawned wet and thunderous, and when Aziraphale cautiously descended the stairs clutching a steaming cup of tea he found Crowley once again fast asleep on the sofa. He remained there all day, despite Aziraphale wandering around reshelving, moving things, and completing more of the cleaning they'd attempted to start, occasionally sneezing as the dust rose around him. Nothing seemed to disturb the demon, who seemed perfectly content buried in a nest of blankets.

Eventually the rain thrumming on the windows soothed even Aziraphale's wrecked nerves, lulling him relentlessly into a chair where he settled, glasses perched on his nose, with a poetry anthology of no particular value.

It was another two days before the demon stirred, by which point Aziraphale had grown increasingly nervous, every lap around the shop leading him past the prone figure as he wrung his hands, unable to settle with even his favorite authors. Is he dying? Is this because of the holy water? How long do I leave him there? Oh this definitely isn't how the humans sleep.

A luxuriant groan, accompanied with a series of disconcerting clicks and cracks, were his warning for imminent demonic awakening.

He feigned disinterest, busying his hands with a delicate book repair, but couldn't help flickering glances at the process. Stretching; some small amount of lip smacking; long hands scrubbing across eyes and cheeks and hair.

The voice, when it came, was gravelly.

"Morning."

"Good morning. Will you be getting up today or should I start calling you Rip Van Winkle?" Relief made him sharp, but it slid off pale skin without leaving a mark.

"Dunno." A wide, wide yawn. "Not much point, is there?"

"Well, I thought I might open the shop later. Just for a few hours." Only so long you can leave 'closed' (whether or not he added 'for demon rehabilitation') on the door without starting to tarnish even the shakiest of reputations.

No response from the demon, although Aziraphale fancied that he felt an aura of surprise as he settled into his work. He picked up the scalpel, teasing away the first layer of the inexpertly glued cover with deft movements, and before long was fully immersed.

An hour or so later, the final vestiges of the front cover sprang free. Aziraphale sat back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, stretching and twisting his hand to rid it of the ache. "Crowley? I'm going to open up. Do try not to be too demonic in front of the customers, you'll ruin my reputation."

That earned him a disinterested rumble from the demon lounging untidily on the sofa.

"Oh for heaven's sake, please do try to be a little less of the embodiment of sloth! You just slept for three days!"

"Trust me angel, three days is nothing." Still, Crowley shambled upright. He clicked his fingers then gave Aziraphale an aggrieved look. "Can't believe I have to do my hair like a human."

"There are facilities upstairs if you need them." There hadn't been until very recently, but he felt he should keep up appearances.

"I don't need to piss!"

Aziraphale crumpled his nose at the vulgarity. "I meant a sink. Water. For your hair."

"...oh." Crowley looked faintly embarrassed. "Thanks."

Dropping the wards on the stairs, between the bookshop and the bathroom - though no further - was a moment's work before he set to opening the shop, turning the sign for the first time in a week. He didn't pick up the repair again, too worried about interruptions, instead fussing over display tables and the peculiar and risky choices he appeared to have made at some point. First editions! A 14th century chalice! Out on display tables! He must have had a brief moment of madness.

His first customer arrived before Crowley returned, and he was soon preoccupied with questions; the demon's skulking reappearance went unremarked, though Aziraphale did note the freshly styled hair.

He was just starting to muse on the concept of an afternoon tea, perhaps with a biscuit, when the heavy thud of a book placed carelessly down in front of the till made him jump. He picked it up and ran his fingers over the cover, blinking up at the suit-clad man in front of him with a smile. "Ah, Joyce's Dubliners. You have good taste."

"Do you have a signed copy?"

"Well, not currently, no. But they are exceedingly rare, and-"

"I'll give you fifty." He pulled a face at the thought of paying quite so much for a second edition, no matter the quality of the dust cover.

"Fifty… pounds? This is -"

"It's only a second edition, not even signed." Aziraphale drew himself up to his full height, clutching the book protectively close, readying a lecture despite the disdainful, oblivious expression on the man's face.

"He bothering you, Fell?"

Crowley very obviously loomed, tall and gangly and dark over Aziraphale's shoulder.

"I was just explaining to this... gentleman that this book is no longer for sale. My books only go to appreciative homes."

"Now wait a minute!" Face twisted in anger, the man banged a hand on the table, loud in the hush.

Aziraphale didn't see what happened next, not wanting to take his eyes off the customer, but the sudden expression of terror, eyes widening at the figure beside him, gave him some idea. A shaking hand pointed at him accusingly, swinging haphazardly towards Crowley and back again.

"Oh, my god! You - you're in league with the devil!"

"Oh he's not. But me - well that depends if you're talking generally or specifically," Crowley purred. "I'm mostly on that side but I don't directly hang out with Lucifer himself, no." He gave a wide smile that showed too many teeth. "Not these days, at least."

"Oh my god - what is wrong with you people?!"

The door slammed behind him, the bell tinkling innocuously.

Aziraphale rounded on the cackling demon as he pushed his sunglasses back up. "Crowley!"

"He was threatening you!"

"My dear boy, I was perfectly fine!"

Crowley snorted. "You were getting all pink and flustered. Besides, I love a good ex-Catholic schoolboy, they get twitchy. He's probably on his knees in a church right now."

With a sigh Aziraphale patted him on the arm, trying to keep a lid on the amusement twisting in his chest. "I assure you it was entirely unnecessary, I had it all quite in hand. He was hardly bothering me, and I've dealt with far worse. You, for starters." He bustled away, addressing the few customers who had started staring at the ruckus, though thankfully none of them had been within range of Crowley's striking gaze. "I'm afraid we're closing now, so sorry, so sorry!"

Crowley hovered awkwardly, out of place now with this careful polite behavior, eventually retreating to the sofa. Scaring customers was all well and good, suitably demonic, but there was no place for him in kindly escorting out these soft bookish types.

Aziraphale closed the door, turning away and resting his weary back against it with a sigh, palms spread wide on the wood, feeling its steady solidity under calloused fingers. At least it had only been one customer - a deserving one at that - and nothing too awful.

Eyes closed, he jumped when Crowley's voice interrupted his reverie.

"Might need to go home again tomorrow."

Aziraphale swallowed and pushed himself off the door, straightening his back although it was the last thing he felt like doing. "Fine." Not fine, don't call it home like it's something soft and warm and human.

He focussed on the book repair waiting at his desk, collapsing in the comfortable chair and seeking refuge in the familiar motions - ease the blade under, lift a little, slide a little; careful, careful.

They sank into silence, interrupted only by the soft sussuruss of the paper moving under thin blade and wide fingers.

"Anthony."

"No, guess again." Aziraphale didn't look up from his project. The spine of the book was trickier than the cover, half rotten paper clinging to thick glue, and teasing away even a millimeter took intense focus.

"No, it, uh - it's my name. Anthony Crowley." At that he did look up, eyebrows raised, to see the demon leaning faux-nonchalantly on a bookshelf, hands buried in his pockets, pink flooding from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. It clashed horribly with his hair. "The one I chose, anyway."

"Oh. Well - thank you. Anthony."

"Crowley's fine. Just - ah - wanted you to know." Sharp toothed smile and a flicker of red lined black, and then the demon was gone, back into the depths of the shop.

Well. That was - something.

*-*-*-*-*

Three hours. Three hours, he'd said, and that time had come and gone and now it was three hours and thirty seven minutes and his heart was in his throat.

The front door slammed open with a clatter and Crowley tumbled through it, falling to hands and knees in a rough dark jumble of limbs. Aziraphale watched from his armchair in terrified, angry relief as the demon trembled, arms nearly giving way as he heaved in desperate breaths.

"You're late." Somehow his voice was steady.

Crowley snarled wordlessly at him, an animalistic curl of lip and teeth.

"I did warn you." He put away the book he was holding and carefully removed his glasses. "Disobedience isn't a very good idea."

Pale skin was starting to colour again, the unpleasant sheen of sweat sitting over his pallor smeared away by a careless sleeve.

"You're as bad as she was! Y' make one mistake and everything starts burning-" 'She' was unclear, but Aziraphale had the horrible feeling he knew precisely what Crowley was talking about. "This fucking bracelet, I'm going to figure out how to get it off then I'm going to start pulling bits off you and burning them with hellfire then feeding them to you, I swear-"

"Rather strong words for someone who can't stand, don't you think?"

A fist slammed impotently on the floor.

"When I can stand-"

"Oh do stop that, we both know you won't do anything, and it wouldn't do you much good anyway."

Crowley laughed, a harsh, cruel sound, and looked up at him although his head hung heavily. "Perhaps you're right. I did some digging while I was out, Fell. Seems you've been here a very long time."

Oh dear.

Aziraphale stood, and Crowley sat back on his haunches to get a better look at him, shoulders an exhausted curl under elegantly tailored black.

"Let me close the wards."

He crossed to the door, and Crowley shuffled inelegantly away from him, wary but still on his knees. He twisted the locks shut and, with a resigned sigh, sketched out the appropriate Enochian symbol in full view. Confession, of a sort.

"Can we sit? You look awful and I'm quite worn out from fretting."

Crowley staggered to the sofa, flopping into it with a strangled groan. Aziraphale was rather more delicate, tugging his trousers straight with clammy hands.

"You're… what, then? Some angel-spawn half human?"

Aziraphale took a deep breath. "We were the same, once. A very long time ago."

"Before the Fall."

"Yes."

Crowley gave a sigh, a weighty puff of air through pursed lips. "So you were an angel."

Aziraphale nodded, looking miserably down at his feet.

"And now?" His voice was soft, anger over the bracelet overshadowed in the sight of his boundless curiosity.

Eyes scrunched and worried, Aziraphale met his gaze. "I suppose one might call it retired."

Crowley scoffed. "You can't retire from being an angel."

"Turns out you can if you just… stop following orders." He gave a bleak smile and looked away. "I wasn't a very good angel in the first place, really."

"And you didn't… y'know. Fall."

"No. Maybe it wasn't that bad. Maybe she didn't care about one silly angel, who knows. What was it they used to say? - it's ineffable. Anyway, I've not been back since then." Aziraphale gave him a watery look, eyes looking decidedly red. "They aren't very impressed with me up there."

"What, ah, what was it? When you decided…" Crowley waved a hand, as though the concept of 'deliberately defying Heaven's orders' was too big to be expressed in words.

"The first time I just… didn't do something I was supposed to. Nothing big, it just proved it was possible, though Gabriel wasn't very happy. But the second time was the, ah, the big one. They were going to kill children, just let them drown without a thought. Children, Crowley! I couldn't do it. I wouldn't - I won't stand for it!" Aziraphale looked suddenly fierce, eyes shining bright in the lamplit room, soft hands clenched into fists on his thighs. "Do you understand? I would have released you but I can't, not knowing what you did. I risked falling to avoid that and I refuse to have any more on my conscience."

"'What I did'? I didn't kill any kids, I wouldn't!"

"Seven dead children, Crowley!"

The demon's face darkened, and he snatched off his sunglasses. His eyes burned ochre from edge to edge, furious and inhuman. "I never touched them!"

"Don't lie to me!"

"Listen - listen!" He leapt to his feet and held out a hand when the angel tried to speak. "I did not kill them."

"They made a mistake with the summoning, it backfired, or - or - I dunno, something went wrong, the old guy ran out, and then I had to watch the kids scream and burn and die and I couldn't do a single thing to stop it because I was trapped in their blasted circle!" He flung the sunglasses across the room, shattering them against a bookshelf in an explosion of glass and plastic.

There was silence.

Eventually Aziraphale spoke.

"I don't believe you."

The desperate, hopeful expression on Crowley's face crumpled.

"Please - angel -"

Aziraphale was suddenly on his feet, practically incandescent with rage. "No! I won't stand here in my own shop and listen to your lies!"

Crowley was suddenly reminded that the bracelet on his wrist stripped almost everything from him, all his demonic powers, his hellfire and his ability to take his snake form, and that before him stood an undoubtedly powerful ethereal being with no such limits on his strength. Fearful, fuming, he descended into silence, trying not to cower back against the firm arm of the sofa behind his legs.

"I can tell you're lying. Oh maybe not about all of it - but there are seven children who would be alive if it wasn't for you, so I'm not much inclined to pick apart just how many of them you're directly responsible for!"

Crowley flung himself forward, unable to bear the weight of the accusations without protesting, eyes golden and intense. "One! Alright? One of those kids was - I killed her." He collapsed down onto the sofa and scrubbed at his face with a wordless sound of misery; buried his hands in his hair and tugged fretfully, mussing the dark strands. "I tried to force open the circle with hellfire and some of it just - redirected and - hellfire! On a human-" he stopped, half retching, shoulders shaking.

"I'm sorry." Aziraphale's voice was suddenly gentle, his face guilt stricken as his hands twisted, resisting the urge to reach out and provide what little comfort he could.

"She was just a little thing, she - oh, Satan, she looked so shocked when it hit her, she didn't even scream." White teeth dug deep into his lower lip, and long arms covered his head as Crowley folded in on himself with an agonised whine. He sat like that for a long time before grating out, "I know it looks bad - and who'd believe a demon, anyway? But it was just her, not the others, and I honestly didn't mean to hurt her."

Aziraphale shook his head. "I believe you." Or at least I'm starting to believe you. I think.

"You do?" He looked up, barely bothering to raise his head, just enough for yellow eyes to peer up under long dark lashes.

"I do. And I am truly sorry. For her death and for making you confess." Aziraphale paused. "And if it turns out you were lying, I'll smite you."

Crowley nodded, body still a tangled, miserable ball. "Seems fair."

"Sorry about the holy water." Suddenly it seemed like a cruel overreaction.

"'s ok. You thought- yeah." Crowley paused, unfolding a little. "I know I just got back, but - could we go out? Somewhere, anywhere, just not here. Please."

The weight of their conversation still filled the room, creeping into the nooks and crannies and watching them from the shadows, and the thought of just sitting there with Crowley's words echoing was more than he could stand. "I know somewhere we can walk."

*-*-*-*-*

They strolled in silence through St James's park. Aziraphale's thoughts whirled furiously as he castigated himself. How can you believe anything a demon says? He still killed at least one child! And maybe the rest too. You're being taken for a fool, you stupid angel. Millennia of not trusting anyone - angel or otherwise - and now he was putting his trust in this ridiculous demon. He'd even miracled him a pair of sunglasses, similar enough to the ones that still lay in pieces on the shop floor; they had been received with a simple thanks, no name related silliness.

Crowley walked in silent misery. He'd tried - Satan knows he'd tried - to forget about the girl's death, but reliving it now with the angel had brought it all back to the fore.

Eventually Aziraphale guided them towards the ducks, and pulled a slightly squashed handful of bread from his pocket. He offered it to Crowley, who pulled a face.

He tossed a few chunks into the pond, smiling at the flurry of excited wings.

"They prefer oats," Crowley commented idly. "Or lettuce. Bread isn't good for them." He backtracked immediately at the distraught look on Aziraphale's face. "But I'm sure a little won't hurt!"

The plump hand holding the breadcrumbs clenched shut and Crowley tensed, but when it reopened it held a handful of golden grains, and Aziraphale was smiling. "Oats."

Gingerly, Crowley picked out a few pieces. With a little noise of frustration, Aziraphale took his hand, holding it firmly as he poured out a neat little pile into his palm despite Crowley's protestations.

They stood in silence for a while, taking it in turns to throw food for the ducks. Crowley started aiming to land pieces on their backs just to cause trouble, but stopped when Aziraphale caught wind of it and gave him a silently judgmental eyebrow.

"Is this what you do when you're not in the bookshop? Don't you find it boring?"

"It's relaxing. Peaceful. And it feels - very human."

Crowley hummed a little in response, and they turned away from the fence to stroll further into the park. Perhaps, he thought, they were to feed the squirrels next.

"What's the last demonic thing you did? Excluding our previous discussion." Aziraphale was suddenly curious. He'd heard so much about demons, back up in heaven, but the examples from back then - tempting neighbours to covet, spoiling food, sowing the seeds of chaos and evil etc etc - didn't seem quite so relevant in modern times.

"Well, there was the thing with the M25… but the latest was the aircon on the tube."

Aziraphale immediately seized on completely the wrong idea. "Oh, it's about time! I do try and avoid the underground but customers are always complaining in the summer."

"It'll be another ten years now. Sorry." He didn't look sorry, a smirk tugging at the edges of his thin lips.

"Oh. Demon, right, yes." A pang of disappointment twinged at Aziraphale's stomach.

They settled into silence again, interrupted only by tourists and the odd commuter, focussed on their journey home, bumping between them. An electronic beep caught the angel's attention, and he looked over at Crowley's busy hands. "Oh, you have one of those mobile telephones! How exciting." He leant over as Crowley's thumbs pattered out a tattoo, peering at the text appearing on the screen. "'I have always loved you', oh that's lovely! Who's that for?" He hadn't realized demons would - that they could -

Crowley pressed send and looked up. "No idea." He raised his voice. "'scuse me! You dropped this!"

A young man just ahead of them, patting his pockets, turned back in relief. "Oh! Thanks man, would have been a nightmare to get that back."

"No problem."

Crowley watched him hurry away, eyes glittering as he turned back to Aziraphale.

"That wasn't your phone! Oh Crowley, really!" Aziraphale admonished.

The demon shrugged, unrepentant. "Can't do anything major with this bracelet on."

"How are you still causing trouble?"

"Demon, remember."

*-*-*-*-*

By the time they returned to the bookshop both angel and demon were calmer, their conversation not forgotten but certainly pushed to the back of their minds for a while.

They'd watched the sun set fiery red over Buckingham palace, and walked home under the sodium street lights, talking about topics of little consequence in the grand scheme of things - mostly ducks and tourists. Wine. There was no mention of bracelets or hellfire.

Crowley settled straight in for a sleep on the sofa, Aziraphale back with a book, rather than his repair project; relaxing walk or not he still felt too anxious to work on something so delicate. Before the demon drifted off, Aziraphale spoke. "I'll have to leave you for a few hours tomorrow - no need to open up, I'll just put the wards in place."

Crowley groaned. "You're not going to make me sit in your blessed circle, are you?"

"No, the wards should be plenty, and there's not - there shouldn't be - anything left in here, so you can stay in the shop." Aziraphale thought for a moment, looking increasingly anxious. "It's only a minor blessing, I suppose I could - no, I do need to go, and I can't exactly take you with me - oh just please try not to burn the place down!"

Crowley shuddered, and curled smaller under the blanket. "Trust me angel, I wouldn't. I've seen what happens when people start burning books."

Chapter Text

The morning dawned bright, though Crowley wasn't awake to see the sun rise, far more engaged in inspecting his own eyelids. 

Eventually he was unceremoniously awoken by an irritable angel. Evidently whatever the angel had to do for the day was disruptive to the rhythms of the bookshop, which he'd already started to learn was sacred. And by 'rhythms of the bookshop' he meant meals, snacks and reading. Nothing to do with opening hours, which he was starting to suspect were vague at best and deliberately obtuse at worst. 

The angel was as smartly dressed as ever, neat bow tie and jacket and waistcoat. Didn't he know he looked ridiculous? That bloody leather bag with the thermos of holy water and the viciously sharp knife was of course in his hand, pulled out from who knows where - the angel had kept it well hidden. Crowley had hoped to have a chance to find it while he was gone, but he could get up to plenty of trouble without it. 

"I'm leaving, I'll be back by four. Lock the door behind me, don't open the door to anyone but me, and don't damage anything. Please." He hadn't bothered to use the bracelet, and Crowley had been forced to bite back a delighted grin at the newfound, and somewhat misguided, trust. How quickly an angel can be deluded into faith. 

He'd spent the last few days flitting from one arcane curiosity to the next, flicking through books - mostly ridiculously priced first editions of things he'd heard of but never bothered to read, though one or two of the names sparked rueful smiles - and rummaging through shelves of mysterious wooden boxes. 

He'd idly spotted a few things, taking mental note, hoping they could be used in crafting an escape or at least help him to remove the bracelet. 

The whole time he'd been conscious of the angel in the same room or upstairs - asleep, or at least pretending to be, and certainly within earshot. Any investigating had to be done subtly, quietly, and with the knowledge that the next morning he would descend the stairs and find any evidence, and there would be no chance at all of regaining his trust after that. 

He was well aware that the back room of the shop, heavily warded as it was - far more so than the flat upstairs - was where the most interesting and, hopefully, dangerous items and books would be kept. No point trying to leave until the bracelet was off, and surely there would be something in there that would help. 

He'd only really half caught sight of the door; when he wasn't paying attention it almost seemed to disappear, and even when he was focused on it he found his eyes drifting away absentmindedly. It was a neat bit of work, perhaps only something an angel could manage, and certainly would have worked all but flawlessly on a human. For a demon, however, even bound he was able to see through the clever ward. 

Left alone, no concerns about noise, he settled down to breaking in. 

His first port of call was the letter opener. Nothing special about it, except that it looked far too fancy to be useful, and who gets letters these days anyway? Most of the magic on the door seemed to redirect attention rather than stop access, so perhaps a simple lock picking would do the job.

Crowley sidled up to the door to the back room, warily grabbing the handle. The only response was a light tingle in his palm. A quick guilty glance over his shoulder and then he set to with the letter opener, jiggling it in the lock until something clicked. He grabbed the handle, elated, only to find it just as fixed as before, and when he drew the letter opener out it was missing the tip.

"Shit," he said, kicking the door with a snakeskin boot. "Shit shit shit!" 

Next option. An elegantly carved wooden box of iron filings. The note pinned next to it proclaimed, in neat copperplate handwriting, that the original item (form and purpose unknown) had been forged in holy water. Crowley flipped the lid open and wiggled a finger in the fragments.

Ow, yes, ok, definitely some holy water involved. 

More carefully, he tipped a small pile in front of the door and used the broken letter opener to nudge it into a neat line across the threshold. Gold sparks flickered and spat, appearing from nothing in the air just above the grey shards.

He tried the handle; no movement. But the warding was definitely weaker, he could feel it.

*-*-*-*-*

Three hours later he had made minimal progress. The carved symbols over the door were scratched out, the letter opener still bearing some of the splinters, but not all the sigil work was in the physical realm and Crowley was running out of ideas.

A clatter made him jump, and he turned just in time to catch the letterbox flapping shut, a folded sheet of paper tumbling to the ground.

He sniffed the air, then, unselfconscious, let his tongue flicker out, less human and more forked than it should have been. He knew that smell, incense and blood and the individual human scent that was as good as a fingerprint.

As though it were an unexploded bomb, Crowley edged towards the paper and gingerly picked it off the floor with two fingers, unfolding it with a tentative touch.

'Demon Crowley,' it read, in a legible scrawl, 'You can't hide behind your wards forever. Come out tomorrow or I'll have to take further actions. Your friend won't appreciate what I'll do to his shop if I have to come and get you.'

It didn't have a signature, but it didn't need one.

He stood, frozen, staring down at the cheap ink and torn notepad paper. The scent of smoke and fear and burnt flesh saturated his senses, the memory of it almost overwhelming.

He didn't know how long he stood there before a knock at the door made him jump, stupid human heart racing, but the angel's cheerful voice unfroze him. "It's only me! The door's locked, would you mind?"

Shaking a little with adrenaline, Crowley hurried to the door to unlock it, crumpling the note into his pocket.

The wards were already down, replaced quickly once the door shut, and Fell turned to him with a smile. "That's all done - I do like to keep my hand in, you know?" The smile fizzled out when Crowley didn't respond, and slid into a frown. "Are you unwell? You look a little shaken."

"'m fine." And he was fine, now he wasn't alone in the shop with nothing but his own failures and the note.

"If you're sure." The angel gave him a searching look before heading upstairs, bag in hand.

When he returned, Crowley was still standing at the back of the shop, uncertain and out of place. He'd managed to scoop the iron filings back into the box with only a few painful pinpricks on his skin, and the letter opener was back in the drawer. Other bits and pieces were back where he'd found them too, but there was very little he could do about the damage.

"Do you want to go for dinner?" Fell smiled at him, face open and charming. "I know a place nearby." 

He didn't eat, how ridiculous, but something about the offer was tempting. Not just the thought of leaving his prison for the day. Before he could open his mouth to answer, the angel's eyes flickered over his shoulder to the door behind him, and he pushed past, a frown crumpling his brow as he reached out a hand to touch the door and brush along the floorboards. 

"Is that a dent in my door...? And the wards are damaged." An edge in the angel's voice spoke to disappointment, and something lurched in Crowley's belly. "Were you..." he trailed off, shaking his head. "Of course you were. I shouldn't have left you here."

Sudden anger bubbled up inside Crowley, the unfairness of it all an overwhelming surge. "I'm not your friend," he hissed. "We don't go for dinner, or chat, or - or play celestial harps together! I'm your prisoner! Stop trying to pretend this is anything else!"

The expression on the angel's face had him regretting his words, however true, and he wanted to snatch them out of the air, but they were released like moths into the night, and it was far too late to capture them. 

"Well. Of course." A brusque nod. "Then I'll retire for the evening, I think." 

Crowley looked away, unable to face him, anger replaced with guilt. An arm brushed his as he turned towards the sofa, and he thought it might be an apology, but then Fell tugged up his sleeve just enough to touch the bracelet. "Don't touch the wards. Don't try to escape. You may only leave if given permission, or if I accompany you." 

He turned to the angel in dismay, only to be faced with a grim expression. "I'm sorry."

"No," Fell said, "You're not."

He was, though. Not necessarily sorry that he'd tried to escape, but sorry that he'd harmed the fragile trust that had been growing between them. 

Left alone in the bookshop, Crowley slumped on the sofa and tried to let sleep take him.

*-*-*-*-*

"I need to go out."

"No."

Crowley spluttered. "It wasn't a problem last time!"

"Last time you were half an hour late and in agony. And yesterday you tried to break into my private storage room. I don't think there's any way I can trust you enough to let you leave."

"Exactly! I learned my lesson last time, I'm not going to risk that stupid thing burning me again!" 

Fell gave him a measured look over his glasses. Whatever he saw seemed to meet with his approval.

"Three hours. And if you're late not only will it hurt but I won't let you out again until I'm sure you can be trusted."

"Yeah, ok, whatever." Crowley thrust out his arm, sleeve already scrunched up to leave the bracelet out.

The angel shook his head. "Please don't make me regret this." He wrapped a plump hand around the bracelet, around Crowley's wrist, and Crowley could feel the heat of him through the metal. "You have permission to leave this shop for three hours. You must be back inside this shop within three hours of leaving. You may not harm anyone or anything, directly or indirectly." The same words as before, but this time there was more than a hint of pleading in the soft voice. 

He undid the wards, and met Crowley's eyes squarely through the sunglasses. "One last thing." Impatient, Crowley twitched his weight from side to side as Fell shut his eyes.

The bookshop suddenly felt infinitely wider around him, cold air rushing across his neck, and he had to close his own eyes against a sudden rush of vertigo. As the room blinked out of sight, he had an instant of fear before something settled over his shoulders like a soft, worn blanket. When the dizzying feeling subsided enough that he could open his eyes, he reached up a hand but found nothing untoward. "What was that? What did you do?" 

It didn't feel bad, exactly, the warmth sinking under his skin like he was baking in a ray of sunshine, but he'd had quite enough of strangers performing magic or miracles or whatever on him, thank you very much.

Fell blinked lazily and the feeling was gone. Crowley shivered a little at the loss of the heat. "I'll be able to find you, now. Whichever realm you might end up in."

"Great, now I've got two stalkers. Lovely."

"Two...?"

But Crowley was gone.

He'd been out for two hours, more than enough time to reach his flat if he'd been trying rather than wandering aimlessly around Soho, when the voice reached into his head and tugged at his brainstem. I summon thee, demon.

It was enough warning for him to dive into an alleyway, tucking into the darkness before his body could be unceremoniously hauled away.

I summon thee, demon.

He braced himself; held his breath.

Thrice called and thou shalt answer; I summon thee, demon.

The world faded.

*-*-*-*-*

In the moment before Crowley opened his eyes, in the liminal space between here and there, the sense-memory of summoning triggered another memory. He's heard the expression 'life flashing before your eyes', so it does, in a way.

Eight people stand around him at cardinal and intercardinal points, all in black robes and clutching candles. 

There's the echo of chanting still ringing in the air, though the only new sounds are gasps and half-words.

One voice laughs, high and disbelieving. "Is this real?"

"Of course it's real." The figure in front of him, directly East on the compass, steps forward. He's taller than the rest. "Aren't you, demon."

"No, I'm just a figment of your imagination," Crowley says.

Behind sunglasses, his eyes pry for weaknesses in the painted circle. Black paint, how obnoxious. Still, it's easier to make mistakes when you can hardly see what you're doing, and the dim lighting won't have helped, though it doesn't hinder him one bit.

Behind him something drops to the floor. A shrill voice pipes up, sounding impossibly young. "I don't like this!"

"Shut up, Sarah!" Another voice, male and cracking.

"Quiet, all of you!"

The one in front again. Obviously in charge. Obviously an arsehole.

"Right. Get on with it, what d'you want?"

"All anybody wants, demon - your power!"

"Yeah, well, that's mine, sorry." Ah, there - a glyph with a diagonal line rather than vertical. Minor, in the scheme of things, but what sort of demon would he be if a minor mistake wasn't something to take full advantage of? And there are more mistakes too, careless curves where there should be none, spilled drops of paint that should be innocent but pulled together may as well have scrawled graffiti across the whole delineation. 

The man in front puts down the candle and steps forward, holding out a knife. It glints menacingly - so well, in fact, that it might almost have been chosen for its ability to do so, rather than the ability to cut through flesh, but there's no doubt it can do that too.

Crowley ignores him; there's nothing to be done from inside the circle, and even when there's a chance of confrontation a knife won't make much of a difference against demon strength.

He holds out a hand and focuses. A spark, a flicker, a puff of stinking brimstone, and he's holding hellfire. 

Someone screams, perhaps the first one who spoke, and he grins. "Shouldn't try and trap demons, kids." It's not witty but he's tired, it's been a long decade, and he just wants to get this over and done with and go back home. Scare the crap out of them, they won't do it again, he's free to go on his merry way, job done.

The hellfire flares in a long arc as he hurls it towards the gap in the circle, but even as he moves there's an ugly wet slice and a gasp. Time seems to freeze, and all he can see is the blood dripping in a steady line from a wounded palm. It's too late to call back the hellfire, too late to do anything; fire and blood hit the ground in a single instant.

There's a popping sound like a silenced gun going off.

Hellfire reflects off the misdrawn glyph, twists sideways away from the blood at the Northern point, curving away. Crowley throws out a hand, yelling helplessly as the awful fire corkscrews through and around and over a small robed figure. It knocks her hood back and he can see wide green eyes, brown hair framing a skinny pale face. 

Freckles.

Fear.

Pain.

The room is filled with screaming as her body falls to the ground, the only silent figure the man with the bloodied hand, hunched over and squeezing fresh scarlet out onto the paint.

"No!" The voice is his own, but it sounds like it's coming from a very long way away. "No, no, no no no!" 

The blood spilling on the summoning circle is still flowing, spreading around from glyph to glyph, turning black to dark crimson. There's another mistake, a smudge where there should be emptiness, and the blood pools, uncertain.

On his knees, Crowley sees it, and fresh horror strikes at him.

Someone's talking rapidly, half sobbing into a phone, "please, come and help, something's gone wrong and the demon's hurt Lisa, I think she's dead, please, oh my god-"

The man's voice comes again, tight with pain and adrenaline. "Just stay where you are! I can make the demon bring her back, you just have to stay there!"

Crowley finds his own voice, tramping down the hysterical screaming inside. "I won't bring her back - I can't! He's fucking it up, it's going to go wrong, just run, get out!"

The man swears, and Crowley looks at him. The blood spills from the edge of the symbol onto the concrete floor and as the breach widens there's a crackle of electricity through the air. 

The room is suddenly silent, calm before the storm, and he snarls out a promise. "When I get my hands on you I'll tear you to pieces." 

The hooded man turns tail and runs, up rickety stairs, slamming the door behind him.

Crowley can only fall to his knees and sob, helpless, as he watches bright golden energy cascade up and out from the circle, burning through cheap cotton robes and delicate skin, reducing lives to so much charred flesh and bone.

*-*-*-*-*

The horror ripped through him, and he somehow finally opened his eyes. In front of him, towering over his prostrated body, stood a single robed figure.

"You!" The rage was blinding, curling rabid in his chest.

"Demon."

Crowley reached inside himself for hellfire, for his true occult form, for the strength of demonic miracles, but the power slipped between his metaphysical fingers like fine sand.

"I see someone's done me a favour." 

The bracelet. 

The angel's stupid, awful, thrice-cursed bracelet. 

No matter. He can kill a human bare handed easily enough, once he has the chance. Just needs to bide his time. 

"I hope there's still enough juice in you to withstand the ritual, otherwise this is all going to be a big disappointment."

Crowley hauled himself to standing. "What ritual? You can't still be planning on going ahead with this after all those kids died!"

"That was always part of the plan, it just happened too early to be any use. But I can probably manage without them now you're like this."

"You knew! You knew they'd die!"

The man shrugged. "Unfortunate but necessary."

Fisted hands trembled with rage, and Crowley spluttered out meaningless syllables that oscillated around a hiss, unable to marshall his thoughts around the all-encompassing fury.

"I'm afraid I have some preparations to make, seeing as we're short a few participants, but I think you'll find this circle is much more secure than the previous one. If you'll excuse me, I'll be back at midnight."

Crowley slammed on the barrier fruitlessly, once, twice, then gave up with a curse. He'd had enough burns from the angel's circle to not want to do it again.

As if thinking if the angel was a cue, his wrist tingled.

"Oh, shit," Crowley said.

Biding his time suddenly didn't feel like such a great plan.

*-*-*-*-*

It didn't take long until the tingling became stinging became burning became pain, radiating up his arm and through his chest, suffusing his whole body until it reached his other hand and down to his toes, stealing the strength from his limbs. Crowley sank to his knees and curled in on himself, desperately hoping for - something. Rescue or oblivion, he didn't care, as long as the pain stopped. Fingers scrabbled at the bracelet, scratching his skin until it was raw, but it made no difference.

An hour came and went; two; longer, the time meaningless in the shadow of his unceasing agony.

Sweat dropped from his forehead onto the stone ground; he could hear a steady eerie keening and eventually realised it was coming from his own throat, desperate sobs and whines without conscious thought. 

There was blood on his shirt, smeared from his wrist, and a thin line seeping from his nose that he hadn't had the capacity to wipe away.

He thought at one point that he heard noises, shouting, somewhere outside the chamber, but the unrelenting pain snatched his attention back again and again, denying him any chance of diversion.

A crash had him looking up, half silenced but for a harsh moan, and the door flew open.

There stood - light. 

Light, and something that was the essence of light, as blinding as lightning and midday sun and magnesium under flame.

Slowly, through a haze of tears, a plump human figure finally resolved, one hand grasping something wreathed in flames. Something that might have been an after-image, a result of the pure white light - or perhaps not an after-image at all - formed the shape of huge white wings, stretched wide and brushing the ceiling.

Crowley whimpered and pressed his face to the ground, his sunglasses not enough to dim the holy light or the instinctive demonic terror inspired by the sight of an avenging angel.

"Crowley?"

The voice was bells and the roll of thunder, and he could feel it all the way down to his fetid, tarnished soul.

He wept.

"Crowley!"

A light hand on his shoulder was enough pressure to drive a spike of pain through him, as though a knife had impaled him and twisted, a fresh crescendo of agony drawing a helpless yowl from deep in his throat.

A soft command, imbued with a layer of steel. "Give me your arm, Crowley."

Hunched in an agonised ball, uncurling to offer his arm was the last possible thing he wanted to do.

"Please, Crowley, trust me!"

And he did, oh he did, so with all the strength left in him he offered the wounded limb. Hands seized on it with cruel gentleness. A soft murmur reached his ears, and the pain started to recede, a deep tidal river finally turning. 

He could breathe again.

"Can you stand?"

"Nuhh-" 

"I'm going to help you up, Crowley, is that alright?"

A hiss that might have been the latter half of a yes and certainly wasn't a no.

A gentle hand pressed him upright, warm on his aching chest and he lifted his heavy head. Kind eyes sparkled down at him. "There you are." Crowley blinked, and the hand moved away, replaced with a strong arm around his back. With absolutely no input from his own body, he was suddenly standing, or at least vertical with his feet on the ground. His body bloomed with fresh pain where he pressed alongside the angel, but overall it was starting to lessen and the prospect of escape drove him forwards. 

A step turned into a stumble and would have become a fall if not for the arm underneath him.

"I'm not sure you should be trying to walk."

"I don't- I-" 

"It's fine, my dear, I've got you." An arm tucked behind his trembling knees and he was suddenly lifted, the world turning on its axis. "Upsadaisy, up we go."

Crowley closed his eyes, enjoying the slow fading of the pain and the opportunity to do nothing as steady strides put distance between him and this recent hellish iteration of imprisonment. After a few minutes a deep groaning caught his attention; this time the noise wasn't coming from him, but instead from a crumpled heap of black robes at the end of the corridor.

"Is that...?"

"The gentleman who brought you here, yes." He said 'gentleman' as one might say 'cockroach' having found the creature scuttling across a kitchen counter.

"What'd you do?"

Fell grimaced. "Bit too much wrath than is strictly becoming for an angel, I think. Still, he'll think twice before summoning a demon again."

"Good." They lapsed into silence, Crowley pressing closer to the soft chest as the angel shouldered open door after door. Finally they reached the outside, fresh moonlit air tainted with the sound of traffic in the distance.

"You can't fly. Just hold on to me, we'll be home in a jiffy."

The fuck's a jiffy? Crowley thought muzzily, before wrapping an arm around the angel's neck.

They took off in a flurry of white, a handful of great wing-beats taking them above the clouds and out of sight. 

By the time they returned to the bookshop, creeping in via the roof, the pain was a dull ache, and contact no longer sent sparks of pain down his nerves. Fell put him down gently, feet first. Though his limbs shook he was able to stand and, on rubber legs, navigate the stairs, clinging on to the handrail for dear life. Ward after ward opened in front of them but he was too exhausted to keep track of anything more than putting one foot in front of the other.

By the time he reached the ground floor it was only Fell's careful hand at his back that gave him the strength to stagger the few paces to the sofa, and he collapsed face down with a heartfelt groan, tossing his sunglasses aside.

A gentle hand tugged his arm out, twisting it this way and that, and then something cool brushed over the abused skin, vanishing the pain. "There, that's better. I'm afraid there's not much I can do about the rest." 

After a few minutes of steady breathing Crowley gathered the strength to roll over onto his back, staring at the angel sat across from him.

"The, uh, the knife. Was it hellfire? I thought you were an angel, you can't use hellfire."

The dagger emerged from somewhere under Fell's coat, neatly sheathed. "Holy fire, dear. Similar stock, I can see why you might be confused. I've found combining it with a dagger from your side a suitable replacement."

A suitable replacement for what, he didn't specify.

"You rescued me."

Fell sniffed. "I didn't want you causing any harm."

"Was that all? Honestly?" That earned him a scowl. "Can I at least-"

"No! I don't need to justify myself to anyone, let alone a demon."

"I just wanted to say thank you." The words were bitter on his tongue, but tumbled out with surprising ease.

"Oh. Well, you're welcome."

Awkward silence.

"He knew the kids were going to die. He'd planned it." Crowley's voice was low as he clenched his hands into fists, staring up at the ceiling. "Seven kids dead because some fucking human wanted to get demonic power. Don't they know how lucky they are? They have free will! You don't need power if you've got that!" His eyes burned yellow from edge to edge, wild and sad. "They can choose," he said, agonised. 

Fell smiled softly. "We can choose. I chose."

"It's not that easy!"

The smile widened, a self-satisfied glint in the angel's eye. "How do you know if you haven't tried?"

Crowley would have been happy to close his eyes and sleep for a week - or perhaps much longer - but Fell was clearly feeling talkative; after a few millennia on his own and an unexpected display of angelic fury it seemed the floodgates had opened.

"I never fitted in that well in Heaven. Came a bit later than most. Principalities were one of the last angels She made, you know. Gabriel hated that I didn't Fall when I stopped following his orders; he had it in for me even before the garden."

Crowley sat up, elbows on his knees, eyes intense but slightly more human now, yellow confined to the irises. "The garden? You mean... the garden. Eden." 

"Precisely. 'Guardian of the Eastern Gate', that was me. Flaming sword, apple tree duty, the whole lot. I'm just glad I wasn't on duty when all that business with the snake happened."

"Ngk," Crowley said. 

"I beg your pardon?"

Crowley swallowed. "I went West," he said faintly, "I tempted Eve and then I went West. The guardian of the Western Gate was very keen on smiting. Didn't get back up for centuries after that."

"That was you? The serpent that caused all that trouble?" The angel was wide eyed. 

"Yep." Crowley popped the syllable obnoxiously.

"Goodness me. That smiting always did seem heavy handed, if you ask me; it was only in your nature to tempt the poor girl. I suppose things might have been rather different had I been on duty instead."

They paused, a whole universe of possibilities unfolding out before them in the dusty warm silence.

Fell cleared his throat. "I could really do with a drink."

"Angel, I think that's the best idea I've heard this century."

Chapter Text

Aziraphale cracked open the good stuff - the really good stuff, a crate of Châteauneuf-du-Pape which he'd had for decades and for which he'd never quite had the right occasion, so it had sat undrunk at the very back of the racks. It went down far too easily, three bottles gone in the blink of a demon's eye, and before too long they were both drunk as lords.

"Why d'you... why d'you have all this ssstuff?" Crowley gave an expansive gesture, narrowly missing a precariously balanced stack of books on a side table. "Wassit for?" 

"I jussst..." Oh heavens, he was slurring almost as much as Crowley, how ridiculous. "I just want 'em. All the, the clever things humans put in books, stories and predictions and dreams, and, and with the magic and the, the things," he took another gulp of wine, wild eyed, "angels couldn' do that, no im- imag- imagination."

Crowley nodded sagely. "Or demons."

Aziraphale pointed a gleefully accusing finger at him. "Or demons! No imagination, jus' evil."

"I didn't mean to be evil," the demon griped, "'s just an ac... ac... acsss... I jus' hung around the wrong people."

The angel patted Crowley magnanimously on the knee. It did take two tries, but in fairness there were four of them to aim for, and all of them kept moving unless Aziraphale really really concentrated. "You can hang around with me now instead. 'm not evil. Don't know if 'm good any more but 'm not evil."

Crowley nodded miserably, then a thought trickled slowly in, working its way sluggishly from the back of his mind. "Angel. I dunno your name. 's not Alex or Arthur, or Anthony cause that's my name, or Adam or Athena-"

Aziraphale gave him a broad smile. "Hello, Anthony. I'm Aziraphale." His God-given name. The first thing in all of eternity to suggest he was more than just a collection of feathers and light, that he was his own angel, one of many and still unique.

"Aziraphale. 's nice."

Wine-flushed cheeks pinked more. "I'm glad you like it." 

Crowley squinted. "Where're my... my sunglasses." There were definitely too many 's' sounds in sunglasses, but he wasn't quite sure which were supposed to be there and which weren't, so he ignored his tongue's betrayal.

Aziraphale covered his mouth, half hiding a burp, and pointed at Crowley's feet where he'd abandoned them hours earlier. 

In his drunken attempt to grab them, Crowley only managed to knock them further under the sofa, and he groaned pitifully. Hours after the bracelet's painful treatment had ceased, he was still feeling the aftereffects, an ache in his joints and a clumsiness in his fingers. The thought of crouching down to fish the glasses out from under the furniture, however much he felt naked without them now they were on the subject of names, was just one final insult too many.

"Just make another one," Aziraphale suggested, flicking his hand dismissively.

"Oh. Yeah. Whoops." Crowley snapped his fingers, and when nothing materialised shook out his hand and tried again. "'s not working." He turned pleading eyes on Aziraphale. 

"Wait, wait, it's the... the thing. The bracelet. C'mere." Aziraphale put down the wine glass with the exaggerated care of someone who is really quite, quite drunk, but doesn't want to spill anything and reveal to the rest of the room quite how far gone they are. Crowley shuffled forward awkwardly, holding out his arms, his free hand holding the sleeve crumpled up above the bracelet. The pink teardrop scar was faded but still clear against the pale skin.

Fingers clumsy and half numb, Aziraphale opened the fastening and snapped off the metal. It dropped heavily on the table with a clatter that made him wince and grab for it.

Crowley heaved out a huge sigh and let his head fall forward, eyebrows raised as he blinked slowly. "Whoo-ee," he said, "That's a rush." He clicked his fingers and, in an instant, was holding a new pair of sunglasses, though the old ones still lay out of reach under the sofa with a bundle of dust.

Aziraphale blinked at him owlishly, confused at the addition of black frames where a minute ago had been soft yellow, before leaning back against the chair, staring at the ceiling. "Oh, my head is spinning... 'm just gonna rest my eyes for a minute..." Heavy lids dropped, sluggishly flickered half open as the lamplight was blocked out, then drifted downwards to rest.

*-*-*-*-*

Aziraphale awoke to a pounding headache, warmed metal under his fingers, and a sudden growing sense of panic.

Oh no

Oh no oh no oh no you stupid, stupid angel

Stomach churning he bolted to standing, clutching the bracelet, only to be confronted with a spray of dark feathers and splayed limbs. The rush of relief buckled his knees, sending him collapsing back into the chair, and he cast his eyes briefly skyward before realising that might be a bit inappropriate given present company. 

Instead of an empty seat or the sad remains of his shop, there was just Crowley, arms around one cushion and face buried in another, breath softly whistling on every inhale. Huge black wings sprouted from his back, one draped over the back of the sofa and the other dragging on the floor. An overreaction to the removal of the bracelet and the return of his demonic powers, perhaps. The feathers were dark and rich, though tousled; well looked after but with signs of recent neglect. 

Slowly, he realised it wasn't just the headache that was pounding - the front door was under assault, blinds rattling, and the tingle in his shoulders told him there was a divine presence waiting for him.

"Crowley," he said, voice cracking a little from sleep and stress, "Crowley, wake up! You have to put them away!"

"Hmm? Wha's wrong?"

"There's someone at the door and I think- oh your wings, put them away! And sober up, for goodness sake."

Crowley grumbled incoherently but the wings slowly faded out of view, tucking neatly into another plane. He rubbed his face on the cushion in defiance of sobriety, enjoying the sussuruss of soft worn velvet on his cheek.

Aziraphale concentrated hard, sending away the throb in his head and that part of the unsettled feeling in his stomach that came from the wine. A snap of his fingers had his clothes straightened, hair unflattened and wine-strong breath replaced with mint.

He peeked around the blind covering the door. "Crowley," he said, "Crowley it's the Archangel Gabriel. I really feel you should sober up."

"Oh, Satan," came the faint voice.

Aziraphale undid the locks, braced his shoulders, and opened the door. "Gabriel. What a pleasant surprise." His voice was flat, just enough lift to be polite but not enough to suggest actual enthusiasm.

"Aziraphale." The greeting was curt; no pretence here and little politeness. Purple eyes glowered. "May I come in?"

"No." Aziraphale smiled pleasantly. It didn't reach his eyes. "Now isn't a good time." I hate your supercilious face, I hate your suit, I hate that you drive me to hate when I'm only supposed to know love.

"Somehow it's never a good time."

"We can talk here. You won't be long." 

The distaste on Gabriel's face was clear, his lips twisted down as though he'd encountered a noxious smell. "I hear you've been consorting with a demon." 

"I'm not consorting with him, he's my prisoner." Aziraphale didn't even blink at the half lie. The bracelet might be off but he was still warded in, at least. That counted.

"And you expect me to believe that? You, a useless excuse for an angel, have a demon as your prisoner." The words stung, but he'd heard them before and in worse circumstances, so it was a small, familiar pain.

"Yes." He didn't bother explaining that actually someone else had trapped him first, seven innocent teenagers dying in the process, and his only contributions had been the warding around the shop and a payment large enough to buy a small house. And a minor rescue. And a less minor angelic Revelation. He felt it might undermine his argument.

Gabriel eyed him suspiciously, which was generally his default expression when speaking to recalcitrant angels. "If your little pet demon causes trouble I'll be looking straight at you - and so will downstairs!"

"Glad to know you're all in agreement, then. Goodbye, Gabriel. Don't drop by any time soon." Aziraphale shut the door gently on Gabriel's flabbergasted protestations at agreeing with Hell. A minute later there was a crack of thunder and the tingling warning bells across Aziraphale's shoulders faded. He shivered a little, the sick nervous feeling in his stomach still clinging despite the banished hangover.

Crowley stared at the angel, awed. 

"I forgot how much he annoys me," Aziraphale offered by way of explanation.

Eventually Crowley choked out a question, still wide eyed and clinging to the sofa underneath him. "Why didn't you let him in? Won't that get you into trouble?"

"It can hardly make things any worse." Aziraphale sniffed primly. "He might be an archangel but that doesn't give him the right to go traipsing around my shop, just because he wants to stare at a demon and give me a telling off." Management reserves the right to refuse service was a phrase he had learned early on and taken to heart extremely enthusiastically.

"You let Hastur in." 

"Yes, well. That was different." That was before I knew you.

"...I can't believe you made Archangel Gabriel stand on your doorstep." Crowley laughed and covered his face. "You're insane. How are you not a pile of dust right now?"

"I've had thousands of years knowing Heaven doesn't exactly have my back. I've learned a few things here and there, and he knows it."

Crowley groaned and flopped back on the cushions dramatically. "I'm stuck here with an angel who just decided to piss off an archangel because he's annoying. What am I doing with my life?"

Aziraphale gave him a tentative smile. "You're not really stuck here, not now." Blue eyes met the demon's gaze and flickered away again, staring down at nervously clasped hands. "But I've been on my own for a very long time, and it's been... quite spectacularly lonely. If you felt like staying a little longer, I shouldn't object."

Crowley stared. 

"Throw my lot in with an exiled angel who - the first time we met - threw holy water on me, then forced me into occult jewelry to stop me using my powers, then trapped me in a bookshop, and then - THEN! - faced off against a duke of Hell, a human summoner and an archangel because he didn't want to share."

"...yes?" 

"Yeah, alright."

*-*-*-*-*

Epilogue

Aziraphale put down the paintbrush with a contented sigh, feeling the happy frisson of a job well done. The freshly finished tome - paint made to the original formula, ingredients sourced at great and immaterial cost from Italy - gleamed in the light. 

"I'll be away for a few hours on Friday, I have some errands to run in Luton, and someone's messed with the train timetables." He shot Crowley a meaningful look, though his delight at his successful repair robbed it of any real edge.

Crowley grinned back, unrepentant. "Not my fault no one thought to check the interchange at Watford Junction, is it? Anyway, can't you just drive?"

"I detest driving." Aziraphale shivered at the thought.

"You drove to get me." 

"There were extenuating circumstances! I didn't want to drag a demon on public transport, it didn't seem fair on anyone involved." He sighed. "I do miss the proper carriages, you know, they were so elegant. Shame about the smell, though."

They settled into a comfortable silence. 

Three months, though little enough time in celestial terms, had been enough for them to settle into a steady routine. Most evenings Crowley slunk off to bed, leaving Aziraphale - all pretences at sleeping now dropped, except when they'd had a particularly wine-sodden evening - to read his books. In the day, Aziraphale would remain much the same, interrupted by fobbing off the occasional ambitious customer, while Crowley would leave to cause trouble and mischief, or more often just water his plants and lounge around his flat.They'd even gone out to dinner one night, Crowley deigning to nibble on a single tuna nigiri as Aziraphale steadily demolished a platter. They had spent the odd day or two apart, but Crowley hadn't quite felt ready to leave the reassuring presence of an angel who had rejected both heaven and hell and somehow come out unscathed.

On his way upstairs, Crowley paused. "I, uh. I could drive you. To Luton. If you like."

"It's hardly worth the hassle of the renting and so on, dear boy - I'm sure I'll manage."

"It's no hassle. Besides, there's something I want to show you."

"If you're sure?"

"Course I'm sure. Goodnight, angel."

"Goodnight, Crowley."

*-*-*-*-*

Crowley lead the way, Aziraphale carrying his inconspicuous leather bag holding the repaired book, plus chalk and knife and holy water and silver snuff box with its single downy white feather. They took the longer route to avoid the grubbiest of the alleyways, Crowley feeling that perhaps Aziraphale wouldn't appreciate them, and shortly they turned on to an extremely respectable street in Mayfair.

"My place's up there." He waved a hand vaguely at the upper stories of an expensive looking apartment building, all manicured topiary and glass. "But this... this is my car. My Bentley." 

He said it with such prideful delight that Aziraphale was briefly distracted from the car, caught by the rapt expression on the demon's face.

It had the look of an old fashioned carriage about it, he supposed, all dark edges and sweeping elegant lines, low slung, a slight air of menace - although if he hadn't known the owner perhaps the menace wouldn't have been so apparent.

"It is rather handsome," Aziraphale said, inspecting the paintwork with the keen eye of someone who isn't quite sure what they're looking for but knows it's important to appear interested.

Crowley preened.

"I've had it from new! Not a scratch in nearly a century." 

He opened the door for Aziraphale, gesturing him inside, then bounded round to the other side, slipping neatly into the driver's seat. Aziraphale held back a smile at the uncharacteristic enthusiasm and ran a hand over the leather dashboard. "It's lovely, Crowley. Far nicer than the one I borrowed, none of that nasty plastic."

Sunglasses firmly in place, rear view mirror adjusted - unnecessarily, for who would drive a demon's car other than the demon themselves? - and the engine started with a roar.

"Let's go for a drive, angel."

A slim hand twisted on the gearstick, the other wrapped around the steering wheel. He gave Aziraphale a devastating grin, and then they were gone, peeling away with an obnoxious squeal of tires and an undignified angelic shriek.