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The envelope materialized in the bookshop mailbox: crisp, clean, and stampless, a bit too brilliantly white for non-angelic eyes to look at directly for long.
Fortunately, Crowley’s sunglasses enabled him to glare unhindered at the celestial missive that had the nerve to interrupt their post-apocalyptic retirement. They were supposed to be done with this nonsense. That was the whole point.
If Heaven was contacting Aziraphale again…
Crowley swallowed.
“Interesting,” said Aziraphale neutrally, beside him. “They don’t usually bother with mailboxes.”
They don’t respect my space, Crowley interpreted, and bristled as always at the thought of Heaven intruding uninvited on Aziraphale’s territory. “Whatever this is,” he promised aloud, “we’ll handle it together. Remember, you don’t have to listen to them.”
Aziraphale exhaled slowly. “We… should open it. No point not knowing what it says.”
Sometimes, Crowley hated when Aziraphale was right. He glowered at the envelope again, did one last scan for any embedded traps, then sighed. “Right, let’s see.”
He took an unobtrusive step closer — prepared to offer protection, comfort, or help as needed — as the angel went into action with an antique letter opener.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected of the stationary Aziraphale withdrew from the envelope. But he definitely hadn’t expected a formal statement of termination of employment, conditional upon mutual nonmaleficence. The letter was remarkably polite, quadruple-signed in celestial ink.
He glanced at Aziraphale. The angel’s eyes were wide, face pale, worryingly still.
Crowley cleared his throat. “You guys get holiday pay?”
“What?” Aziraphale blinked. “No, we never—”
He followed Crowley’s finger to a line on the page.
You have accrued 3.6 centuries of holiday pay. Please see enclosed voucher for redeemable celestial funds.
Carefully, Aziraphale reached again into the envelope and retrieved a glowing, rectangular token. He studied it a moment, then slid both items back in.
He looked at Crowley.
“Exactly what,” Aziraphale inquired, “did you do at my execution?”
Crowley shifted his feet. He’d been so distracted by rubber ducks, he’d never gotten around to sharing all his own details. “Er.”
“They’ve always been… frugal… with wages and such. But I’m not sure they even deducted the cost of the sword here. They wouldn’t try to appease me with ‘holiday pay’ unless they were terrified. What did you do?”
“...Might’ve, uh.” Crowley coughed. “Breathed a little Hellfire?”
“...I’m sorry. You breathed Hellfire? At the Archangels?”
“...Yeah.”
Aziraphale gaped… and broke into laughter. “Oh, I wish I’d been there.”
“Probably best you weren’t.”
“True. But, still. Evidently you were quite effective.” Aziraphale beamed, the momentary chill in his expression melted entirely away. Crowley’s heart expanded at the sight. “Well done, dear.”
The angel snapped his fingers. The envelope and its contents evaporated into nothingness.
Crowely raised an eyebrow.
Aziraphale brushed his hands together. “Well, I hardly have use for such currency now. And I’ve better things to think about.”
“Ah.” Crowley felt his lips stretching into a delighted grin. “Of course.”
“Quite.” Aziraphale reached for his hand. “Now that’s handled… what about dinner?”