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Aziraphale isn't worried, not at first. Not really.
Yes, it's true that he and Crowley have been seeing each other a great deal more often in the last two decades, since Aziraphale broke down and supplied him with the holy water. And it is true that, of late, they never seem to go more than a few weeks without bumping into each other accidentally, or needing to meet to discuss the Arrangement, or the general state of humanity, or any number of other important topics.
But they've gone centuries without seeing each other sometimes, in the past, and even now it's hardly unheard of for Crowley to be called away for a meeting in Hell or a distant assignment. He has been doing some occasional work in America, or so he's said, although it hardly seems to Aziraphale as if the Americans are in need of his services. They seem quite adept at tempting themselves, really.
In any case, a trip to Hell, or to America, would neatly explain why Aziraphale can't currently sense his presence in the background hum of London. So, he isn't worried. A little annoyed perhaps. He's made some interesting additions to his drinks cabinet lately, and it hardly seems the done thing to imbibe it all alone. But not worried.
Not until Crowley fails to show up for their theater rendezvous. They'd planned this meeting months in advance, after all, and Crowley knows how much Aziraphale was looking forward to attending the opening night. It really is most unlike him not to show and not even to send word.
Aziraphale attends, anyway, expecting at any moment to hear a chorus of annoying hmphing and shushing as the demon pushes his way past the other theatergoers, muttering to himself the entire time with never so much as an "excuse me."
But it never happens.
It must be some demonic mischief, he tells himself. That's all. Crowley enjoys finding creative ways to spread discontent and annoyance. Standing someone up for a theater date qualifies, surely. Even if the theater date is really only a cover for a clandestine meeting between friendly rivals. Yes, that must be it. The wily fiend. And very successful he's been, too! Aziraphale has hardly been able to concentrate on the play at all.
It would explain a great deal. Except that Aziraphale himself has never been the target of Crowley's tricks. Not like this.
And Crowley would very much have liked this play. It's full of clever jokes, and the ending is improbably happy. It seems a terrible shame for him to have missed it.
**
There is no demon standing at the theater door afterward grinning at the success of his practical joke. Aziraphale didn't really think there would be, but his heart sinks a little regardless.
No demon drops by his bookshop to apologize for having been detained by an assignment in America.
His telephone remains stubbornly silent, and when he tries calling Crowley's flat, only that ridiculous machine of his ever answers.
**
Officially, angels and demons never interact at all, aside from instances of Earthly wiling and thwarting, as defined by their duties.
Unofficially, there is one place where one can occasionally encounter members of the opposition and, if no one in authority is looking, perhaps even exchange a bit of gossip. Not that Aziraphale would do such a thing under normal circumstances, of course.
Aziraphale carefully observes the building that conceals the local entrance to Heaven and Hell. "Casing the joint," as he believes the lingo is. It's honestly a bit exciting. Like a thrilling spy adventure, he thinks, until he abruptly remembers his last thrilling spy adventure, at which point his feelings become considerably more complicated.
He isn't going to think about that. He needs to concentrate.
Hour after hour, day after day, he watches, clandestinely, from a small cafe across the street. Fortunately, they do an excellent line in cream cakes, which does help to make the tedium of constant vigilance somewhat more endurable, even if his appetite, at the moment, is not exactly up to his usual standards.
Finally, on the third day, just as he is debating switching his beverage order back to tea even if all the films do insist coffee is more traditional when on stakeout, he sees it.
Demon. One of the legion of minor demons Hell sends out as messengers, and on errands, and into dangerous situations when they need someone expendable. He can tell by the hair. If that is entirely hair and not some sort of... Ears? Antennae? Well, never mind. It hardly matters at the moment.
He's quite proud of the way he manages to time things, arriving at the door at the exact same moment as the demon, carefully stepping into his way by seeming accident so they can do the little "after you" dance. Or, rather, so Aziraphale can say "after you" and the demon, being a demon, can give him a disdainful look and go in first without holding the door.
No matter. It gives him the opening to strike up a conversation, and that's all he really needs.
He feels more nervous than he expected. What if he messes up? What if Michael or someone happens to come down the escalator just as he's about to get the answers he needs?
What if the news is bad?
Aziraphale tries to push the things he can't control out of his mind, to focus on the things he can. He has practiced this in the mirror. Extensively. He can do this.
"Greetings, foul fiend!" he says, heartily. Perhaps a little too heartily? The demon looks startled and slightly worried. Aziraphale almost feels bad for him, being accosted by a Principality like this, but needs must.
"Uh... hi?" says the demon.
"Well," says Aziraphale, with what he hopes is the appropriate level of heartiness now. "I see at least one demon is out and about, still. I was wondering, as I haven't seen my wily old adversary Crowley in some time. He'd better not be lying low and planning some new deviltry, or I shall have to give him a jolly good thwarting! Or has he perhaps gone slinking back to Hell with his tail between his legs?" He was rather proud of this little speech when he thought it up, but now a criticism strikes him. "Er, not that he has legs when he also has a tail. Being a snake and all." The demon is giving him a very strange look. Oh dear. He really should wrap this up. "Still," he says, but he's run out of pre-prepared words and finds he has nothing to add, so he simply gives the demon what he hopes is a haughtily angelic look.
"Oh, Crowley," says the demon. "Yeah, don't think you'll be seeing him again."
All that excellent cake and coffee seems to have suddenly turned into a hard, sour lump in his corporeal stomach. "Oh?" he manages to say, not very heartily at all. "Why... Why might that be?"
"Got a promotion," says the demon. "Bit of pre-apocalypse restructuring, they said."
That phrase "pre-apocalypse" probably ought to worry him, some small portion of his mind informs him. But the rest of him is far too busy trying not to let the waves of relief he's feeling show on his face. He hadn't quite realized until just now how much he'd feared Crowley might have been found out and killed, or, God forbid, might have used the holy water on himself, or...
"Guess he must have been doing a better job than you," says the demon, "since you're still here, and all. Maybe you should be the one slinking off. Ha ha."
He actually says "ha ha," and it's not at all clear whether he means it mockingly or genuinely thinks Aziraphale ought to join in on his amusement. He elects not to, in any case. "So, he's been called back to Hell, then?"
"Yeah. Working directly for the Big Guy, I heard. Supposed to be an honor or summat. Better him than me, I say."
"Yes," says Aziraphale. "Quite. Well." He manages a smile, or something like a smile, anyway. "I suppose I best let you be on your way."
"Yeah, okay, sure," says the demon. But he doesn't move, and Aziraphale suddenly realizes he has a problem. Well, a different, more immediate problem. He can't take the escalator up to Heaven. He's not scheduled to report back there in person for decades yet. He'll be asked why he's there, and worse, once they have him on site, he'll probably be forced to finish a giant backlog of paperwork before he's allowed to leave again.
Blast it, why isn't the demon going? Is he afraid to have a Principality at his back? He certainly didn't have a problem walking in the door first! Why is the cursed fiend just standing there looking at him like that?
Perhaps if he pretends he's left something at home? No, that doesn't make any sense. Why would he need to bring a physical object to Heaven? He could insist the demon go on his way. Shout Begone back to the infernal depths, thou fiend!, or something. But that would call unnecessary attention to himself, wouldn't it?
Oh, to Hell with it. To Hell with it, in every possible sense. He knows what he's going to have to do, doesn't he? He knows, even if he wishes he didn't, and what good will delaying the inevitable do? It would only give him more time to talk himself out of it, and he cannot let that happen.
"No, wait," he says, even though the demon hasn't moved, is still standing there, waiting for him to go first. He draws himself up to his body's full height. "I do believe I'm going to need to speak to him."
The demon looks confused. "Who, Crowley?"
"No." He could still stop this. He could still stop. He could not do this. "Satan," he says. "I must insist that you take me directly to Satan."
**
Hell isn't anything like he imagined it. It's a bit of a shock, really, to realize exactly how influenced he's been by human depictions of it, all tormented souls and lakes of fire. But there is none of that in evidence. Instead, it looks like what it essentially is: the dingy, neglected basement of the cosmos. Everything is dirty, gray, listless, lifeless. Everyone they pass looks beaten-down, angry, and sullen. Well, until they catch a glimpse of him, anyway. Then they look beaten-down, angry, sullen, and shocked.
It is intolerable to think of Crowley here. Bright, clever Crowley, with his love of speed and novelty and flash. Flames might be better. At least fire is interesting. And Crowley never could stand to be bored.
It's even worse than it would be for Aziraphale if he were forced to return to Heaven. He's not certain why that thought threatens to bring tears to his eyes. Perhaps it's not that at all. Perhaps it's only the smell.
He tries to get a grip on himself, one as tight as the grip he currently has on the shoulder of his demon escort. The poor creature looks as if he desperately wants to bolt. Aziraphale can't really blame him, especially with all the stares and exclamations that are following them now.
"Taking him to see the Big Guy," the demon keeps saying, whenever they're accosted, whenever Aziraphale squeezes his shoulder warningly again, putting an intimidating hint of divine power into it. "Boss needs to see him. Real important. Can't stop to chat."
Perhaps he'll try to make it up to the poor fellow later. Perhaps he could put in a good word with Crowley, once Crowley's back.
If Crowley's back. No, no. Cheerful optimism, that's the ticket, yes? Optimism and self-confidence. He is an Angel of the Lord, whether or not he is doing the Lord's work just at the moment, and he ought to be able to manage both of those things without difficulty.
Ought to. If only he'd had more time to plan out what he's going to say. Oh, if only he had his mirror.
**
The demon leads him to a door. It's an ordinary enough office door, though perhaps cleaner than most of the doors he's seen down here. It is labeled with the words "His Infernal Majesty Satan, Monarch of Hell, Lord of Darkness, Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter, office hours by appointment only" in glowing blood-red glyphs edged in gold. There is no window.
"This must be the place," Aziraphale says. A touch inanely, perhaps, but what else is there to say?
"Yeah, yep," says his escort. "This is it. Um, so, listen. I, uh. I'm just gonna let you, you know." He makes a gesture towards the door. "By yourself, I mean. 'Cause I've got. You know. Things. Very important things. To do. Somewhere else." He tries to give Aziraphale a smile. It doesn't work at all.
"Yes, dear boy, of course. Thank you so much." Aziraphale's smile, he imagines, is at least more convincing than the demon's, but it only makes the unfortunate creature look even more nervous. "Oh!" he adds, as a happy thought crosses his mind. "Here. For your troubles." He pats his pockets and locates a small packet of chocolate biscuits wrapped in waxed paper. He had been saving them for later, but he can always get more. How often is this poor fiend allowed out into the world? And how likely is it that anyone has ever helped him to find a decent bakery when he is?
He hands the packet to the demon. "Uh... thanks!" he says. And before Aziraphale can respond, he's zipped off down the corridor.
Aziraphale turns back towards the door. "Well," he says, although he isn't at all sure who he's talking to at this point. "Best to get on with it, I suppose."
He puts on what he hopes is a brave face and opens the door.
Inside is a surprisingly small room dominated by a desk piled high with teetering stacks of paper and littered with half-full, congealing cups of what is surely the worst coffee Aziraphale has ever smelled. There is a dead, decaying plant of some sort next to it, and a faded poster that says, in at least three different fonts, "You don't have to be irredeemably evil to work here BUT IT HELPS."
Behind the desk is a demon. Satan's receptionist, presumably. Aziraphale isn't at all certain why he didn't expect one. He has a lobster atop his head, the creature's claws spread open around his eyes like a bizarre pair of goggles. Aziraphale finds himself thinking wistfully of the taste of butter, but refuses to let it distract him.
The demon scribbles something on a paper. Aziraphale glances down at it. He appears to be playing tic-tac-toe. By himself. "Do you have an appointment?" he asks, erasing the X he's just made and relocating it to a different square.
"I'm afraid not." Should he politely request one? Insist on an immediate audience, refusing to leave until he gets one? Barge right on in through the door on the other side of the room and into what he assumes is Satan's inner sanctum? None of these possibilities sounds particularly appealing.
The demon looks up, finally, and his expression changes from bored annoyance to shock as he takes in Aziraphale: clean, neat, polite, vermin-free, and, he flatters himself, positively glowing with a holy inner light.
"Holy fuck, you're an angel?"
Aziraphale straightens and looks him in the eye. "Yes," he says. Well, really, there's no use denying it.
"What, did they kick you out?" He looks interested by this possibility. "Didn't think they were still doing that sort of thing. You must have really pissed them off. You want Intake, though, first. You gotta go through there before you can have your employee interview, and even then it'll probably be with Beelzebub, not with Our Dark Majesty. Do you have your F-199-71-S-82/J forms?"
"Sorry," says Aziraphale. "Bit of a misunderstanding. I have not been... been removed from Heaven. Still a Principality in good standing!" At least until they find out about this, he doesn't think, refuses to think. He smiles at the being. "But I require an audience with... with Your Dark Majesty. Immediately, if possible. It really is quite important."
The receptionist looks puzzled. The lobster snaps its claws shut in front of his eyes for a moment, then opens them again. How does he put up with that, Aziraphale wonders? It looks terribly distracting. "If it's official business, usually Michael calls ahead."
She... what? No. No, that is also a distraction. He'll think about that later. Or not. He's sure there's a perfectly good explanation for it, anyway. "It's personal," he says.
The lobster claws snap shut and open again. "It's what?"
"Personal," he says.
And then, from behind the interior door, there is A Sound. A sound like a volcano burying a city, like flame engulfing a forest, like an ocean boiling away.
The door swings open.
"SEND HIM IN," says the Lord of Darkness.
"Oh," says Aziraphale. "Well. Jolly... jolly good!" He straightens his waistcoat. He straightens his bow tie. He peers through the door, but for some reason he can't quite make out what's on the other side.
Well. No turning back now. He steps through the door, and into Satan's office.
The interior is huge, grim and imposing.
So is the Lord of Hell. He sits on a throne of bone and fire, in the midst of a deep, shadowy cavern. And he looks... not at all as Aziraphale was expecting, if he's honest.
He's not certain exactly what he was expecting. He knew Lucifer Morningstar when he was an angel, of course. Not well. They did not precisely "run in the same circles," as Crowley would say. But Aziraphale knew him by sight. They all did. He had been a beautiful sight. The fairest of them.
There's nothing of that left, at all. Indeed, in this case Aziraphale realizes he would have done much better to let his imagination be guided by human ideas. It's all here, really. The horns, the hooves, the tattered leathery wings. Had some living human actually got a good look at him, Aziraphale wonders, to get the details so nearly right? Or did he deliberately choose to adopt the appearance those on Earth have attributed to him? Does even the King of Hell feel compelled to be what others expect of him?
"WELL?" he says. "WHAT IS SO URGENT, PRINCIPALITY, THAT YOU HAVE INTRUDED UPON MY SOVEREIGN DOMAIN?"
"Er, yes," says Aziraphale. "Well, you see, it's about my... my adversary, Crowley."
"IS THAT SO?" says Satan. And he tilts his gigantic head to look at something in the gloom behind Aziraphale.
"Angel," comes a voice from out of that gloom. "Bloody fucking Heaven, what are you doing here?"
"Crowley!" He spins around to find him. He's here. He's here, unhappy, clearly, but unhurt. Blessedly, beautifully unhurt. "Oh, I thought I might never see you again!" Belatedly, he realizes his smile won't do. It won't do at all. "Foul fiend," he adds, but he can't quite manage to give it the bite it ought to have. "You ought to have known you couldn't escape me." Oh, that's good. That's quite good. He's doing well, isn't he?
Crowley just stares at him. His mouth is open, but only faint, meaningless noises are coming out.
He's still wearing his glasses, Aziraphale notices, even here in the gloom. Even here where his eyes are nothing out of the ordinary.
"WE WERE JUST DISCUSSING CROWLEY'S NEW ASSIGNMENT," Satan says, his tone as mild and matter-of-fact as a voice like that can possibly be, which is to say, not very much at all. "DID YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY ON THIS SUBJECT?"
Aziraphale isn't certain what the expression on his face might be right now -- relief? fear? both? -- but he tries to remove it before he turns back towards the Devil.
"Yes," he says. "As a matter of fact, I did."
"Angel," says Crowley, chocking out the syllables in a strange, strangled hiss. "Aziraphale. You don't belong here."
"QUIET, SNAKE," says Satan. "YOUR ANGELIC FRIEND AND I ARE TALKING."
Crowley says nothing, to Aziraphale's relief. Although he'd almost swear he could still hear the poor boy thinking at him.
"He is certainly not my friend," Aziraphale says. The words come out easily. He isn't very good at lying, never has been, but practice does make perfect, doesn't it? One can be grateful for that. "Our relationship is deeply adversarial. Of course. But that's precisely what I've come to talk to you about."
"OH, YES? PLEASE, DO GO ON." He sounds... amused? Intrigued? Indulgent, that's the word. Which is somehow not at all reassuring. But Aziraphale gathers his courage, draws it from the knowledge of Crowley standing, desperate and worried, at his back. He owes Crowley, doesn't he? Multiple times over, if he's honest. So, really, he has no choice at all.
"Yes," he says. "I'm given to understand that he's received a promotion. Been recalled back to Hell, and removed from his duties on Earth. And I'm here to... to lodge a complaint!"
Satan is quiet just long enough for Aziraphale to hear Crowley groaning loudly behind him, before he begins to laugh, great booming sounds that shake the stone floor beneath them and dislodge showers of dirt from the ceiling above. "YOU? YOU ARE HERE TO COMPLAIN?"
"I know it's irregular," he says. "And I know it must seem rather ridiculous." He has to be careful here. So very, very careful. "After all," he says, "Crowley is a formidable adversary, indeed. After six thousand years, he knows me, better than any other being in creation." Behind him, Crowley makes another noise. He tries not to listen to it. "Knows all my tricks and habits, all the ways to... to escape my wrath." Which is true, really. The Lord of Darkness hardly needs to know that that usually entails a box of pastries and a humorous half-apology for whatever irritating thing he's done. "And it goes without saying that he is the cleverest, the wiliest, the most demonic demon Hell has ever produced. Present company excepted, obviously."
"AND YOU... WANT HIM BACK?" Satan sounds genuinely confused.
"Yes!" It comes out as a bit of a wail, which wasn't quite what he was intending, but he can work with it. He lets it creep into his next words, too. "Because do you know what will happen when Heaven realizes you're replacing him?"
"What?" says Crowley behind him, sounding fascinated and desperate to know.
Aziraphale looks up at Satan, lets the Devil see the pleading in his eyes. "Paperwork. So much paperwork. Lord Satan, you have no idea. They'll make me fill out a Change of Adversary form." He doesn't think such a thing actually exists, but now that he considers it, he wouldn't put it past Heaven to invent one just for the occasion. "They'll make me follow the new demon's every move, no matter how difficult they are to keep track of, and file status reports on how I'm handling the situation every day. Possibly twice a day!" He shudders. He doesn't even have to fake it.
"AND I SHOULD CARE ABOUT THIS, WHY?" booms Satan. "I HAVE NO SYMPATHY FOR YOUR DIFFICULTIES, PRINCIPALITY. I REVEL IN YOUR SUFFERING."
Aziraphale heaves a defeated sigh. He tries not to make it too theatrical. Well. Just a bit theatrical. Just the right amount. "You're right," he says, letting his shoulders slump. "You're right, of course. I'm a foolish, foolish angel. I don't know what I was thinking. Well." He hangs his head. Too much? No. No, just right. "At least I can console myself with the knowledge that I no longer have to fear the great and terrible Crowley. Perhaps the relief of contending with a lesser demon, one without six thousand years of experience in thwarting my angelic ways, will go some way towards making up for it." He puts on a resigned face, something he has also had practice at. "Yes," he says, looking back up at Satan. "Yes, perhaps it's all for the best, really. Thank you, Lord Satan. I'm so very sorry to have troubled you."
He smiles weakly and holds his breath. He fancies that he can hear Crowley behind him holding his breath, too. Or, well, not hear him, since he's not breathing.
A moment passes. Satan's brow wrinkles as if he is thinking.
Oh, come on, Aziraphale thinks. Come on, come on...
Satan throws back his head and laughs. "NICE TRY, PRINCIPALITY!"
Shit, Aziraphale thinks, feeling only very slightly surprised at himself for the language. If he's lucky, perhaps at least no one will tell Heaven about this. But he still won't have Crowley. He can't feel lucky, leaving without Crowley. And how will he apologize, with Satan sitting right here? How will he explain? What if Crowley thinks he meant it? He can't bear it. He can't. He'll have to try again, try another approach.... Try...
"BUT I DO NOT DO FAVORS," says Satan. "IF I RETURN THE DEMON CROWLEY TO EARTH FOR YOU, WHAT WILL YOU DO FOR ME IN EXCHANGE?"
Oh. Yes, well, all right. That will work nicely. He just needs to find exactly the right amount of reluctance, the right level of doomed protest. Just pretend Crowley is tempting you to another crepe, he tells himself. "Oh, I... I... I couldn't. I'm an angel! To... to work in the interests of Hell? I couldn't possibly!"
"NO? OH, WELL, THEN. ENJOY YOUR PAPERWORK."
"Soooo much paperwork," says Crowley. Crowley! Recovered from his shock at last and coming to assist in his own rescue. Aziraphale feels a swell of fondness for him. "I'm told it's even worse than Hell's, if you can believe that. You'd think they'd be willing to do anything to get out of it, but I'm not surprised this one hasn't got the guts to do what it takes. He's a real straight shooter, this one. Solidly under Heaven's thumb." That stings a little, but Aziraphale resolves not to take it personally. It's all in a good cause. "Never see him agreeing to, oh, I don't know." Crowley drawls the words oh-so-casually. "Perform temptations for us?"
Aziraphale makes his mouth into a wide O of shock. "Certainly not! I... I could never do such a thing. Never, ever ever!" He pauses, attempting to time things for the maximum possible effect. Really, if the stakes weren't so high, this would be great fun. "Could I?" He makes his voice wobble, just a little. Perfect.
Crowley steps forward to stand next to him. It's hard to tell behind the glasses, but that look Crowley's giving him might be intended to convey a message along the lines of "Don't overdo it." Silly Crowley. He has it in hand. It's working.
"OH, I THINK PERHAPS YOU COULD," says Satan.
"Noooo!" Aziraphale wails. "No! You fiend! I can't! I mustn't. But..." He raises a hand to his forehead. "But the paperwork. The meetings! You have no idea what it's like. The endless, terrible, Heavenly meetings!"
"I REMEMBER," says Satan, and his giant red body shudders a little.
Crowley takes another step forward. "My Lord! Even I, with all my knowledge and all my wily... wiles... would not dare to try tempting this angel from the path of righteousness. Can such a thing truly be done?"
Well, now, really. If either one of them needs a warning about not overdoing it, clearly it's Crowley, not him. But still, Satan appears entirely unsuspicious. Perhaps it's because he's unused to this sort of thing. Being lied to. Acting, even. After all, they don't have theater in Hell. Which is precisely the sort of reason why he needs to get Crowley out.
"I WILL NOT REQUIRE MUCH OF YOU, ANGEL," says Satan. Goodness, why is the word "angel" so much less pleasant to hear in his voice? "ONLY A FEW SMALL TASKS. SOME VERY... MINOR EVIL."
"Perhaps..." It's not difficult to put this amount of tremble into his voice, really. He simply imagines he's speaking to Gabriel instead. "Perhaps... if it were just a few very small things?"
"My Lord," says Crowley. "I could oversee his... payment. Hand off a few little assignments, here and there? Find something suitable for him, Something he won't object too much to? If I'm going to have to go back to Earth, anyway, that is. Bit disappointing, giving up the promotion and all, I don't mind saying, but for something like this?" He makes an appreciative sucking sound against his teeth. "Could be worth it, wouldn't you say, Lord?"
"HELL APPRECIATES YOUR WILLINGNESS TO SACRIFICE, CROWLEY," Satan says. "IT WILL NOT BE FORGOTTEN. WELL, PRINCIPALITY? WHAT SAY YOU?"
"Oh, fine! Fine! You fiends! You win. I'll do it!"
"THERE," says Satan. "YOU SEE, CROWLEY? THAT IS HOW YOU PERFORM A TEMPTATION."
Crowley bows, making a complicated deferential gesture with one hand as he does so. "Indeed, my Lord. May I say just how gratifying it is to watch a master at work?"
Aziraphale can't be certain, but he rather fancies Crowley casts him a sidelong glance as he says it.
Somehow, he manages not to smile until they're back on Earth again. But it's a very near thing.
**
The sunlight that greets him as they step out of the building feels brighter, somehow, than it did when he entered. Cheerier. He hadn't let himself think about the possibility that he might never see it again, had barely let himself think about the possibility that Crowley would never see it again. But here they are, back where they belong, and the welcoming golden warmth of it feels like a blessing on his upturned face.
He turns to look at Crowley. His face, too, is lifted upward, if only a little, and Aziraphale thinks perhaps he might feel the same. Not that he would use the word "blessing," of course.
"Angel..." Crowley starts to say.
"Shh. Not here. Should we meet at, oh, the second alternate rendezvous?"
Crowley gives him a familiar annoyed-but-fondly-tolerant look. "Why? Hell is expecting us to talk to each other now, and Heaven obviously isn't looking, or they'd have come after you already for that stunt." Crowley's fond look becomes fonder, widens into a smile. "Thanks, by the way."
"Oh, you're very welcome. But, still. Not here. Why don't we go back to the bookshop? Perhaps we can have a celebratory drink."
"Oh, Satan, yes."
They take the bus. Aziraphale insists they sit one behind the other, as usual. They don't talk, not yet. Aziraphale simply stares at the back of Crowley's head, at the lovely sunlight painting bright crimson highlights in his hair, and indulges himself in the luxury of feeling terribly, terribly pleased with himself.
**
Once they reach the bookshop, once the door swings shut behind Crowley and they're alone, the reality of it all, of what it is he's just done, finally properly hits him. He's just walked into Hell. And walked out again. With Crowley.
He feels fizzy, giddy, all but vibrating with triumph and the belated aftereffects of fear, because, oh, Lord, that could have all gone so terribly, terribly wrong. Could have, but didn't.
He grins at Crowley and fights the almost overwhelming urge to hug him. He manages not to, because obviously they don't do that, but it's a near thing. Instead, he finds himself bouncing a little and rubbing his hands together. "We did it!"
The look Crowley's giving him is oddly hard to interpret, but it's one of his gentler ones. Very undemonic, those looks, although Aziraphale is usually too polite to say so. "You did it, angel."
"Nonsense, you helped. Quite brilliantly, I might add. Still. I will take some of the credit. What an operation! I felt a bit like Orpheus."
Crowley snorts, although not with any real derision. "You forget, I was there when you tried to learn the lyre. Orpheus you are not."
"Just as well for you, isn't it? After all, Orpheus didn't succeed, in the end."
"Angel, you looked back every three steps!"
"Only to make sure you were coming. Still, I suppose it's a good thing not looking back wasn't part of the deal this time." He still wants to throw his arms around Crowley, for some reason. He distracts himself by heading for the drinks cabinet. "How about that drink? I'm sure I must have something suitably celebratory."
"About the deal," Crowley says, as Aziraphale makes his selection. "You do realize Hell will hold you to it? And they might not be willing to take my word for it. They'll want check up on you, make sure you're holding up your end. "
"Oh, well," says Aziraphale, pulling out a bottle and popping the cork. He always enjoys the sound of a cork popping, that little feeling of pleasurable anticipation it gives him. "Then it's a very good thing, isn't it, that you talked me into the Arrangement all those years ago, and I'm already more than capable of doing temptations for you." He simply cannot resist giving Crowley a sly look as he turns to fetch the glasses. "Of course, I imagine this is likely to involve more work for me than usual, at least for the next few years while they're watching closely. Which I confess I am not looking forward to. But I'm sure you'll be happy to take on more of my work in compensation. I do have quite a few rather dull tasks piling up that I haven't found the time for, what with one thing and another."
Crowley sputters for a moment. Then, "You bastard," he says, in an admiring and -- dare Aziraphale acknowledge it? -- affectionate tone.
"All in the best interests of Doing Good," he says primly. "Losing you to Hell really would have made my job more difficult, you know. And anything that makes my job more difficult is against the best interests of Heaven."
Crowley snorts. "Sure," he says. Yeah, of course."
"And I'm sure you would have done the same for me."
Crowley looks amused by that in a way Aziraphale doesn't entirely understand. "Ehhhh, probably. 'Cept I'd have a harder time walking into Heaven than you did into Hell. Pretty sure they've got my name on some kind of Do Not Allow Re-Entry list." He sits down and spreads himself out on the sofa in his usual gangly-but-elegant sprawl.
Aziraphale hands him a glass. "There you are." He's about to go on, to talk a little about the sparkling wine and the charming little winery where he first encountered it, but stops when he sees Crowley frowning. "What?" he asks.
"Heaven," Crowley says. "Angel, if they find out..."
"Pish-posh," says Aziraphale, ignoring the way Crowley mouths the phrase after him, as if he can't believe he's just heard it. "If Heaven hasn't discovered the Arrangement by now, there's no reason to imagine they'll learn about this, either, not if we keep up the usual precautions. It certainly isn't as if Hell is going to tell them!" A faint twinge of memory echoes in the back of his head, something Satan's receptionist said about hearing from Michael. Nonsense. Utter nonsense. Heaven and Hell do not talk to each other. But even if they did, it would hardly be in Hell's interests to reveal that they'd suborned one of Heaven's agents.
"Yeeeeeah" says Crowley. "You're probably right. Cheers!" He raises his glass.
Aziraphale picks his own up, but before he can return the toast, a thought hits him. A terrible thought that lodges somewhere in the pit of his stomach and leaves no room there for the wine. "Crowley. You did want to be rescued? Somehow it never occurred to me to ask. I simply assumed. I know how much you enjoy it here, and if you'd left voluntarily I'd, well, I'd have hoped you'd at least have found some way to say goodbye. But I suppose it really was quite an honor." If Crowley had truly wanted the promotion, if he'd only been playing along to save him...
But Crowley gives him an incredulous look, the magnitude of which the sunglasses do nothing to dim. "Are you serious? Really? Oh, yes, of course, yes, I wanted to go back to Hell and spend the rest of Eternity saying 'Yes, Lord Satan, no, Lord Satan, gosh, you're looking particularly evil and menacing today, Lord Satan' instead of staying up here with... with..." He gestures so wildly with the hand holding his glass that Aziraphale has to expend a tiny miracle to keep the wine from sloshing out. "...with everything up here," he finishes, a little limply, but with feeling, nevertheless.
"Oh, good," Aziraphale says. It's inadequate, really. But Crowley looks as if he understands. As if, perhaps, he's fighting the same giddy impulse Aziraphale felt earlier, to reach out and...
Crowley lifts his glass. "So. To my very own, more successful, Orpheus."
Aziraphale can't understand why he feels so flushed. He hasn't even started drinking yet. "To the Arrangement," he says.
They drink. Crowley downs his in one long, elegant swallow. Aziraphale settles himself down in the chair across from him. The fizzy feeling is back, but it seems to be shifting now, into something warmer and calmer.
Crowley appears to have made himself very comfortable. Aziraphale knows that particular variation of the sprawl. It's one that says he has no intention of leaving any time soon, not if Aziraphale doesn't make him.
Aziraphale isn't going to make him. He's earned this companionship tonight, hasn't he? Prised it right out of the teeth of Hell. And he would swear that Crowley is looking at him if he agrees. As if he's as grateful for this moment together as he might be for the rescue.
Don't you ever leave again, Aziraphale wants to say. I simply won't have it.
What he says is, "You owe me for the theater tickets, you know."
"I know." Crowley sounds genuinely apologetic. "We missed the opening night. I'm sorry."
"There will be another performance tomorrow," Aziraphale says, tentatively. "Perhaps we can have another rendezvous then. I'm sure we'll have a great deal to discuss. Details of the workload, and all."
"Sure," Crowley says. "Wait." He puts down his glass. "Here."
It's a solidly sold-out play, so the miracle required is just big enough that Aziraphale can feel it, tingling pleasantly down his spine. But the fact that he knows what's coming doesn't change his smile, or the delight behind it, when Crowley reaches into his pocket and pulls out two new tickets.
"Oh," he says. "Crowley. Thank you!"
"Anything for my hero," Crowley says. Probably he's trying to sound flippant. Possibly he thinks he's succeeded.
Aziraphale ought to put on a show of modesty now. Or pass it all off as no more than he owes Crowley, which is actually quite true. Or deny loudly and convincingly that he would ever willingly play the hero for a demon and insist that it really was entirely for the cause of the Greater Good. Probably that last one.
Instead he says, "Any time you like, my dear," as he pours the demon more champagne and settles himself in to enjoy what will no doubt be a very pleasant evening indeed.
After all, he really has earned it.