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They haven’t seen Adam Young since Armageddon. Crowley is just fine with that; he hasn’t forgotten that unnerving sensation of being seen, by someone who could unmake him with a thought. Now, though…
“Why are you here?” Aziraphale asks, carefully calm.
“Armageddon,” says the Antichrist.
Aziraphale takes a half-step in front of Crowley — who promptly moves beside his angel again. Aziraphale shoots him a glare, then refocuses on Adam. “Why?”
“If you’ve changed your mind,” adds Crowley, “we’re not helping.”
Not that Adam would need their help. Can he restart the apocalypse?
“Jus’ somethin’ to say,” says Adam. “Thought it was jus’ parents an’ teachers an’ suchlike, but Anathema says it too.”
Crowley squints, alarm becoming bafflement. “Say what?”
“Thanks,” says Adam.
Crowley chokes.
“You thank people who help with stuff,” Adam elaborates. “You helped, at Armageddon.”
“As I recall,” Aziraphale corrects, eternally overscrupulous, “we really didn’t. Though we did try. And, er. I did, ah, try to shoot you.”
“Did you have to remind him? ” Crowley hisses.
“Jolly glad I didn’t shoot you,” Aziraphale adds hastily.
Adam shrugs, matter-of-fact. “I know why you tried. But you did help. When… my dad. Don’t think I could’ve… would’ve made it alright, alone. You had to be there.”
Aziraphale makes a soft sound. Crowley’s eyes are unaccountably prickling.
Adam surveys them critically. “Anathema says you say somethin’ when someone thanks you.”
That surprises Aziraphale into laughing. “You’re welcome, Adam. It was our pleasure.”
“Wouldn’t call it pleasure,” Crowley mutters, then, “Guess we should thank you? For… not destroying everything.”
“Nah. Jus’ din’t make sense to.”
A pause.
Then: “Well, that’s done. See you around. C’mon, Dog!”
And with that, Antichrist and Hellhound gallop off.
Finally, Aziraphale says, “Did I ever thank you? For… everything.”
“Shaddap, or I’ll have to thank you back.”