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Two weeks after Armageddon, Crowley was sitting outside a coffee shop with a cup of coffee and a newspaper. The goal was to spend a full hour in a separate location from Aziraphale today. They had been slowly working their way up to feeling comfortable being apart from each other. The whole end-of-the-world business had really done a number on both of them. Crowley, especially, had found that not knowing where Aziraphale was made him panic uncontrollably. Aziraphale was handling it better, but not by much. Not as much as Crowley would have expected, anyway. But since it wasn’t going to be possible for them to spend every single second together for all time, they had decided to take matters into their own hands and adjust to the idea on their own terms. Today, for instance. For one hour, Crowley would not be in Aziraphale’s shop, and Aziraphale would. They could call and talk to each other at any point, whether it was just to check in or to call it quits on the whole exercise for today, because it turned out that trauma was a tricky thing to try to cope with.

They had managed to last a full fifty minutes yesterday, with Crowley alone in his flat and Aziraphale taking a pleasant stroll. They were only aiming for ten more minutes today. That sounded easy enough. But three days ago, they’d only lasted twenty minutes or so before Crowley had panicked. So really, there was no predicting this.

For now, the weather was nice, and Crowley had a fresh cup of coffee and the latest issue of the Infernal Times, which was sure to be entertaining.

“Peace be upon you,” said a quiet voice beside him.

Crowley dropped his paper as he sprung from his seat and stared, slack-jawed, at the source of the voice: currently a petite East Asian non-binary shaped Being holding a cup of coffee and a danish, but those eyes were gold, rimmed with silver, and that meant this was Archangel Raphael. “...You muted yourself,” Crowley said accusingly. “You—your—” He flapped his hands in the air, gesturing to the area around the Archangel. “Your presence.”

Raphael’s head tilted down, giving an impression of guilt. “Sorry to sneak up on you. If you’d known I was here, you’d have left.”

That was probably true. Crowley kept staring. “I didn’t think Archangels even could mute themselves like that,” he said irritably. “I usually smell your lot from across the country.”

Raphael let out a huff, eyes narrowed, unamused. “Perhaps the other Archangels prefer their divine presence to be proportional to their egos.” Then this Archangel’s face cleared to something calmer and kinder. The hand with the danish gestured to Crowley’s table. “Would it be alright if I join you?”

Crowley’s eyebrows poked up from behind his sunglasses. “...Be my guest,” he said, feigning politeness as he waved towards the table with a mocking almost-bow.

“Thank you.” Raphael nodded and slid into the chair to the left of the one Crowley had been using.

Crowley warily took his seat again. “Pronouns?” he asked.

“Hm? Oh.” Raphael glanced down, and then up, face contorting in thought. “...Them?” They tilted their head, apparently considering it. “Probably they/them. That seems right,” they decided, and they politely regarded Crowley. “And yours?”

“He/him,” Crowley said. “I don’t change nearly as often as you do.”

“Most don’t,” Raphael agreed with a self-deprecating smile. “Probably better that way.” They tilted their head and lifted their eyebrows at the paper Crowley had dropped on the table. “How are things in Hell?” they asked, nodding towards the paper.

Crowley folded the paper and put it in his lap. He was not about to give an Archangel any information they might use to try to restart Armageddon. “Why do you ask?” he said warily.

Raphael deflated a little, suddenly looking exhausted. “Because I’ll feel better if they’re as much of a mess as we are,” they said miserably. They took a bite of their danish.

“If they are, they’re not going to put that in the paper,” Crowley said. He raised his eyebrows. “I’m sure you’re not putting it in your paper, either.”

“Mm.” Raphael wiped the corner of their mouth with their thumb and swallowed. “We are, actually. I’m aiming to run things with full transparency.”

“...Full transparency,” Crowley repeated. “In Heaven.” He took a hasty sip of his coffee. “And how is that going?”

Raphael grimaced, hesitated, and slowly leaned in close. “Is pot legal here?” they whispered.

He was glad he’d swallowed his coffee. “Nope.”

“Damnit.” They straightened up. “It’s going about as well as you would probably think,” they said dryly. Then they stopped and knitted their brows together, giving Crowley a sharp look. “Wait. Did Aziraphale get his paper from Heaven?” they asked.

“Yeah. Can’t say we’ve read the articles,” Crowley said mildly. “The crossword’s even more ridiculous than usual, and whoever writes your funnies has discovered the one about the chicken crossing the road.”

Raphael groaned and squeezed their eyes shut, pinching the bridge of their nose. “Don’t tell me that! I’m still recovering from the quarter of a century of knock-knock jokes,” they whined.

Crowley smirked. “I beg your pardon,” he said sarcastically. “I take it you’re not here to check on your news distribution, though.”

“No,” Raphael agreed. They sighed and straightened up again. “Well, yes and no. I do think Aziraphale’s paper has been tampered with, but I was planning to look into it from my end.” They raised one eyebrow. “He does usually read it though, yes?”

“Before Armageddon, yeah.” Crowley leaned forward, concerned. “When you say his paper’s been tampered with—you mean this paper? The latest one?”

They looked at him and must have seen the worry. “Oh not like that. Not dangerous,” they quickly clarified. “What I mean is, all the latest commendations are always published in the paper, including Aziraphale’s commendations, and yet…”

“And yet, he didn’t know about them until you sent them all the other day,” Crowley finished.

Raphael nodded. “But no, that isn’t the main reason I’m here.” They took a fortifying sip of their coffee. “I’m here to ask you for some insight,” they said. “It’s actually something I need to ask Aziraphale, but there’s a chance it could be really triggering for him, and I’d like to avoid that if it’s at all possible.”

Crowley sat back in his chair, watching them. “You’re making a habit of that,” he said slowly.

Raphael looked worried. “Of what?”

“Checking in with me,” Crowley said. “Avoiding upsetting him.” He arched one eyebrow. “Trusting my judgment about it.”

Raphael frowned. “Of course I trust your judgment. You know him better than anyone, and you have his best interests at heart. It’d be foolish to think I’d get a more accurate answer anywhere else,” they said. “Is it alright that I check with you?”

“...It’s fine, yeah,” Crowley said, aiming to sound more mild than stunned or confused. “It’s just surprising.” It was entirely foreign, is what it was. This Archangel was acting like they actually cared about Aziraphale. Crowley shifted in his seat. “So what’s this potentially triggering topic?” he asked.

“Aziraphale’s platoon,” Raphael said. “They were issued a no contact order—allegedly, for Aziraphale’s sake. Gabriel told them it would be too upsetting for Aziraphale to see them at all.” They gestured with their coffee cup. “Which—it’s Gabriel, so that could very well be utter rubbish. But someone in Earth Obs saw something that made them think there might be some validity to it.” They hesitated. “Enough validity that they actually followed the order,” they quietly added.

Crowley’s eyebrows crept up above his sunglasses. “Are they in the habit of not following orders?” he asked.

“I have no evidence of that,” Raphael said, firmly and swiftly enough that Crowley suspected they would resolutely not be looking for any such evidence. They wrapped their hands around their coffee cup. “It’s just that I have a very strong hunch,” they said delicately, “that if anyone in Aziraphale’s platoon thought their orders were at all detrimental to their Principality, they would not hesitate to shove those orders where the sun don’t shine.” They smiled sweetly and took a large bite of their danish.

Huh, Crowley thought. “Duly noted,” he murmured. He drank some of his coffee as he considered what to tell the Archangel. Raphael seemed content to eat their danish while they let him think. The thing was that there were certain subjects which Crowley and Aziraphale Did Not Discuss, and The War was at the top of the list. They had touched on it, just enough to establish that Crowley didn’t remember it and Aziraphale did. And yes, Aziraphale did have trauma from The War—or at least, he had had trauma—but that was another thing they Did Not Discuss. The only acknowledgement of it was that Crowley would hastily back down from any topic if Aziraphale got a certain look in his eyes, and in the old days, when the memories would sometimes be too much, too close, Aziraphale would hide away as best he could, not fully aware of his surroundings or in control of his body, and Crowley would quietly stand guard until the angel was himself again. That hadn’t been necessary for a couple millennia now. Crowley still knew all the sorts of things that had brought on those reactions (violence, always violence) and kept a constant vigilance for the subjects and situations that caused that specific look in his angel’s eyes (a far more nuanced list). He liked to think that after six thousand years of careful study, he knew all of Aziraphale’s triggers… but he had no idea if any other angels would qualify as such.

Crowley set his coffee cup down on the table and leaned forward on his elbows. “He’s only ever mentioned his platoon once,” he admitted. “The night of Armageddon. He was concerned they might’ve tried to follow his lead in refusing to fight, and been punished for that.”

Raphael winced and looked away.

Shit. “...Which they did, and they were,” Crowley concluded.

Raphael sighed. “Nothing permanent,” they said. “They’re all safe and unharmed. But of course they followed his lead.”

Crowley rubbed his fingers against his coffee cup. “Aziraphale and his platoon haven’t had any contact at all, in more than six thousand years, right?”

Raphael nodded. “He saw one of them once, briefly, around Abraham’s time, but that’s the only exception.”

“And all of them are still, just automatically, that loyal to him?” Crowley asked skeptically.

“Absolutely.” Raphael’s metallic eyes leveled with his. Then they leaned a little closer to explain. “There are fifty angels in Aziraphale’s platoon. From the very moment they were created, they were his platoon. For all of their existence Before, he was the one who trained them, and he was the one they answered to. He was the one they served under for the entire length of The War. And when The War was over, he stayed with them right up until he was assigned to Eden.” Raphael quirked their eyebrows up. “How long had you known him, before he had your unwavering loyalty?”

About thirty seconds, Crowley thought, but he kept his mouth shut. They’d made their point.

“That’s just how he is,” Raphael said with a shrug. “And on top of that, his platoon is the only one in all the Host that did not lose one single angel in the Fall or in The War.” They sadly tilted their head. “I won’t pretend to understand what did or did not merit Falling back then,” they said softly. “But the fact that they all survived The War? That is to Aziraphale’s credit. His training, and his leadership. And his platoon is very well aware of that.”

Crowley slowly nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. His phone rang, and he immediately grabbed it, saw a picture of a sword on the display¹, and answered without checking the name or excusing himself. “Yeah,” he said, silently debating if he should allow the Archangel to know it was Aziraphale, or if he should tell Aziraphale that Raphael was here.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said.

The demon hadn’t realized how tense he was until he relaxed at the sound of that voice. “Hey.”

“Could you—would you mind… Could you come back to the shop?” Aziraphale said. “It isn’t—that is, it’s not anything to do with—” He stopped and huffed. “I’m fine, is what I’m trying to say. It’s only that—well, I’ve been looking through that box of commendations that Raphael sent, and I… I would rather like to… talk through—something. With you.”

Crowley snapped his fingers. “Of course. Be there soon,” he said.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” the angel said, clearly relieved.

Crowley glanced at Raphael, who was apparently trying to be polite by focusing all their attention on dabbing up the last few crumbs of their danish. “Uh… incidentally,” he said hesitantly. “Archangel Raphael is here. Just dropped in for a little chat. Shall I invite them along, or send them on their way?”

Raphael’s gold and silver irises flicked over at the sound of their name, and they watched hesitantly.

“...Raphael is there?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yup.”

Aziraphale lowered his voice. “Should I be worried?” he asked, clearly worried. “Are you safe?”

“I don’t think they’re looking to make an enemy of you,” Crowley said, and Raphael firmly shook their head. “They’re not here to attack. They’re doing that talking/listening thing again. And possibly breaking a few laws to get high.”

Raphael straightened up, looking offended. Crowley gave them a cheerful grin.

“...Yes,” Aziraphale decided, apparently ignoring the bit about the Archangel breaking laws. “Yes, have them come here, too. I can ask them about it directly.” It almost sounded like a threat.

“Sounds fun,” Crowley said, very glad that he was not in the Archangel’s shoes.² “We’ll see you in a few minutes then, angel.”

“Thank you. Mind how you go, my dear.”

Crowley disconnected the call and swung to his feet with his coffee in his hand. “You can ask him yourself about the platoon,” he told Raphael as he shoved his phone in his pocket and tucked the paper under his arm. “But he has some questions for you, first.” He turned and went inside the coffee shop, where one of the baristas handed him the hot cocoa she’d just made without knowing why.

Raphael watched with some amusement from the door, which they held open for him on his way out. “Did you just… miracle an order in, to skip the line?”

“Demon,” he reminded them, and he turned to lead the way towards Aziraphale’s shop.

Raphael was smiling. They raised an eyebrow at him. “Did you pay?” they asked curiously.

“Do you think Aziraphale would accept a stolen hot cocoa?” Crowley returned, which technically didn’t answer the question, but Raphael didn’t press the matter, either.³

They took a sip of their own mostly-full coffee as they walked. “So… you don’t think his platoon will be triggering for him?” they prodded.

“Only one way to find out for sure,” Crowley said.

“Oh—” Raphael stopped dead in their tracks.

Crowley had to turn back to face them. “What?”

“...You two have been busy,” they said.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Yes, we have,” he murmured, because he was realizing that Raphael had stopped just outside of a ward he and Aziraphale had put in place since Raphael’s last visit a week ago. It wasn’t even intended as a barrier; it would simply alert them that a supernatural entity was near the bookshop.

Most angels and demons wouldn’t even notice the ward was there, but Raphael seemed leery of crossing that invisible line. They eyed him hesitantly. “You’re sure I’m welcome?” they whispered.

Crowley lifted his chin a little and gave them a stern look. “He would like a word with you,” he said in the sort of firm tone of voice that would make humans feel like it would be very dangerous to refuse the invitation.

Raphael nodded, tilted their head down, and stepped across the ward. Crowley immediately Felt it notify him: Archangel near the bookshop. And with that settled, they continued on their way.

When they reached the shop, Crowley gave the doors a stern look. He would usually snap his fingers to open them. But with his coffee in one hand and Aziraphale’s cocoa in the other, the shop seemed to understand that his hands were full, and the doors swung open with the sort of dramatic flair Crowley expected. Raphael had been reaching to open the door manually while looking back at Crowley, and so didn’t see what was happening until the door hit their hand. “Oh!” They yanked their hand back and stared at the door, eyes pried open so wide that their irises really did look like a pair of coins glued on like googly eyes. “Sorry,” they told the door. Or maybe the shop.

Crowley smirked and silently praised the shop for that little trick as he slid past the Archangel and through the door. “Hey angel,” he called.

Raphael hesitantly stepped in after him. “Peace be u—” Their voice stopped at the sight of an angry principality storming straight at them out of the depths of the bookshop.

“I was under the impression that we were strictly forbidden from having any direct confrontation with any of the Horsepeople,” Aziraphale fumed, shoving an open medal presentation box at the Archangel. Then he folded his hands behind his back and stared at them, standing as straight and tall as ever. “I spent the better part of a century absolutely certain that a reprimand was coming at any moment for this, and now I find I was commended for it?”

Crowley peered over Raphael’s shoulder as their thumb traced the edge of the medal, which bore an image of a flaming sword stabbing down through a broken crown. He swiftly slithered to Aziraphale’s side and circled protectively behind him, around to his right, and then back to his left, because oh, Crowley remembered that. It had been 1892 and they hadn’t been speaking, but he had Sensed the angel was in danger and of course he had dropped everything, and he’d returned to find London smothered in a thicker, deadlier smog than ever before. He could still hear Aziraphale’s anguished scream, and Pollution’s confused laughter when the avenging angel attacked.

Raphael looked devastated. “It was forbidden,” they said, lifting their eyes to meet Aziraphale’s. “Because we thought it was impossible. Or that even the attempt might destroy the angel.” They handed the commendation back. “You proved us wrong.”

Aziraphale huffed and snapped the box shut. “As if it did any Good,” he said angrily, bitterly. “It accomplished nothing.”

“That’s not true,” Raphael said firmly as Crowley stepped closer to his angel. “The wind shifted immediately. The smog dissipated. You saved lives, Aziraphale. Countless lives.”

Aziraphale’s blazing eyes bored into theirs for a long, tense moment. Then he turned on his heel and snipped, “Well then, perhaps I should have acted sooner,” as he marched off and slammed the offending box down on his counter. He took a shaky breath to try to settle himself.

Crowley was immediately at his side, brushing up against his arm to draw his attention. He looked over and quickly saw the cup the Serpent was offering him. “O—Oh…” He accepted it with shaky hands, and smelled that it was hot cocoa.⁴ “Oh. Thank you, my dear,” he whispered with a watery smile.

With his newly freed hand, Crowley snapped his fingers, and all three disposable paper cups transformed into reusable ceramic mugs.

Aziraphale beamed at him for the gesture. Then he deeply inhaled the smell of the cocoa, and he savored a tiny sip. With a small but more genuine smile, he turned to regard Raphael, who was still standing just inside the door and looking embarrassed at their new mug.⁵ Crowley had given himself a plain black mug and Aziraphale a creamy white one, but Raphael’s was blindingly bright pink with high-vis orange and yellow spots. And glitter. Crowley figured it served them right for being dressed all in white again. Aziraphale somehow managed to ignore the mug. “Do come in,” he said gently. “Terribly sorry about the welcome.”

Raphael shook their head. “You are well within your rights,” they said, and they came to stand closer. “Peace be upon you, Principality,” they murmured sadly. “I am sorry that we didn’t tell you.”

Aziraphale nodded politely. “Thank you.”

“Raphael has something to ask you, too, angel,” Crowley said, giving the Archangel a significant look.

“Oh?” Aziraphale said, raising his eyebrows.

Raphael hesitated, looking back and forth between them. “...Two things, actually. I’ll start with the smaller one.” They ignored the new, rather pointed look Crowley was giving them. “Since I’m here, I may as well ask. I have reason to believe your edition of our paper has been tampered with.”

Aziraphale blinked. He leaned over the counter and plucked up The Celestial Observer. “This one?” he asked.

“Possibly that one,” Raphael admitted. “Do you usually read the Commendation section?”

“Always,” Aziraphale said.

“And you never saw anything about your own commendations?” Raphael asked.

Aziraphale arched one eyebrow at them. “If I had, I would have known they existed,” he said pointedly. He set the paper down on the counter and cradled his mug in both hands. “Are you saying that I should have seen them there?”

“I am saying that they were all published,” Raphael said. “Your most recent one is in today’s edition.”

Aziraphale carefully set his mug aside and promptly opened the paper to the appropriate page. He put on his reading glasses while Crowley peered over his shoulder, and they examined the page together. “...Not here,” Aziraphale said. He slid his glasses off and folded them while Raphael leaned in to see for herself. “To be frank, I’m not surprised that mine has been meddled with somehow,” he said mildly. “There have been some issues where something just seemed off. Large blank spaces, awkward phrasing in articles now and then, like something was just—missing.”

Raphael frowned and rubbed their forehead. “There were articles, a few times. Big stories, just… celebrating you. About your time on Earth, and all you’ve done…”

“I never saw anything like that,” Aziraphale said. “About other angels, sometimes, yes, but never me.” Crowley scowled as he drank his coffee.

Raphael sighed and shook their head. “We thought it was possible that you just never looked at the Commendation section, what with not knowing you’d got any for so long,” they said. “Clearly, that isn’t the case. And whatever the reason for it, it is still happening. I’ll have to look into this.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale folded the paper and picked up his cocoa, and Crowley finished his coffee and set the mug aside. “Well, you said that was the smaller thing. What was the other thing you wanted to ask?”

This time Crowley pinned the Archangel with a glare, all but daring them to try backing down again.

Raphael took a long drink from their mug. “The other thing,” they said carefully. “I need to talk to you about… about your platoon—”

Aziraphale grabbed their arm. “How are they? Are they alright?” he demanded, something frantic in his eyes.

Raphael caught their breath and took a moment to steady themself. “They’re safe,” they said, looking straight into Aziraphale’s eyes. “Your platoon is still intact,” they added more softly.

Aziraphale let out a slow breath. He let go of their arm and straightened up again, setting his shoulders back.

Raphael glanced at Crowley, and then returned their attention to Aziraphale. “They did refuse to fight in Armageddon, after they saw you defect,” they said gently. “And for that, unfortunately, the Quartermaster thought it necessary to create a jail, and put them in it. Which they were released from as soon as I found out about it, and the Quartermaster served some time for having put them there. But, it has also been brought to my attention that—well, there was quite a bit of outrage, and tempers flaring right after Armageddon was canceled, and it is entirely possible that it was the safest thing for your platoon to be in that jail when they were.”

Aziraphale contemplated this for a moment. Then he slowly nodded. “That… That’s good,” he decided.

Raphael seemed to relax a little. “I… I was hesitant to even mention—anything, about your platoon,” they admitted. “There’s been a no-contact order in place, between you and them, for… a long time.”

Aziraphale grimaced and looked away. “Yes, I—I suspected that it was—something like that,” he mumbled. He fidgeted with his mug of cocoa.

Raphael watched him. “Your platoon was told that the order was in place for your sake,” they said, and Aziraphale froze. “Gabriel told them it would be—upsetting for you, if you saw them. That’s the real reason I’m here, is to find out if there’s truth to that.”

Aziraphale straightened up and stared at them in horrified outrage. “I asked to see them!” he yelled. “Always! I always asked to see them every single time I was in Heaven, for five thousand years! I asked!”

FIVE thousand? Crowley wondered, because—

“They are the entire reason I do look at the Commendation section! I—here—” The cocoa jumped as Aziraphale slammed the mug down and bolted to the other side of the counter. “I’ve kept clippings!” he yelled as he yanked open a drawer near his desk and carefully took out a stack of papers that had been neatly sewn together. “Every time any of them are mentioned at all! Look, see here—” He put his papers—his scrapbook—down on the counter and opened it with trembling hands, revealing pages with newspaper clippings all neatly pasted in, with dates carefully written beneath each one. “Look! Netsael, for excellence. Tasatir, for dedication. Lahon, for efficiency! And sometimes they’re mentioned in articles, too. Here, here’s one, Ebtinoz! Someone said Ebtinoz coached them, and helped them win a race. And another, with Usacar, and here’s Usacar’s commendation for strategy. And even these are so little! The commendations never have enough detail, never as much detail as the other commendations, but I have this, and I know they’re doing well, they must be, and I—”

His rant was interrupted by a sob—Raphael’s sob. Aziraphale looked up to see the Archangel slightly taller and definitely curvier and more feminine than a moment ago, straight black hair suddenly longer and pulled back in a bun, with their (her?) hands pressed tightly over closed eyes. “Sorry,” Raphael whispered.

Crowley’s face was drawn with worry, and the bulk of his attention was on Aziraphale, but he tilted his head and asked the Archangel, “Did your pronouns just—”

“I’m probably whatever I look like. That doesn’t matter right now,” she said dismissively, wiping her tears with her thumb. “You’re right, Aziraphale. These have been edited, too,” she added, looking at the scrapbook. She set her mug down on the counter—as far away from the scrapbook as she could manage. “Excuse me.” She took a few steps away and pulled a phone out of her pocket.

Crowley darted around the counter and stood behind Aziraphale. “You okay?” he whispered.

Aziraphale scoffed. He gently closed his precious scrapbook and hugged it protectively against his chest. Then he turned his head to look back at Crowley over his shoulder, utterly forlorn. Crowley stepped in as close as he could and hesitantly wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist. Another first kind of touch—he had never hugged his angel from behind. Aziraphale leaned back against him, so Crowley tightened his hold and nuzzled in closer, and the angel let out a faint sigh.

“Latiel,” Raphael said into her phone, “When I get back, remind me to inform the task force of all the latest evidence that the Pompous Arch Bastard is a miserable, sniveling little cretinous twat.” She looked and sounded furious. “Which one do you think is the Pompous Arch Bastard, Lat? ...No, that’s the Slimy Arch Bastard. ...Yes, that one! The absolute creep!” She dug her free hand through her hair, making a mess of it as she paced. “Oh believe me, when I’m in my office and don’t have to subject your poor ears to it, my language is going to get a lot more colorful.”

Aziraphale blinked and pressed closer to Crowley.

“Who knew Archangels were so prone to swearing,” Crowley murmured in the angel’s ear. Aziraphale gave a noncommittal hum, and Crowley settled his chin on his shoulder.

“No, I do not want to know what I’ve missed Up There,” Raphael was saying. She groaned. “Look—is anyone actually, literally, physically fighting? Or metaphysically? ...Then it can wait.” She dragged her hand through her hair, nearly demolishing the bun. “No, I am not done here,” she said more patiently. Then she sighed and dropped her head back. “No, I haven’t. I will. Yes, I will! I’ll do it right now before I forget again.” She let out a heavy sigh. “Okay. Thanks, Lat.”

She disconnected the call, shoved her phone in her pocket, and ran both hands through her hair, scratching against her scalp. She made a confused face when her fingers hit the disaster of a bun. She took it down, letting her hair fall in its messy state, and she took a deep breath.

“Aziraphale,” she said, turning to face him. “Metatron will probably bite my head off if I forget again to tell you that he has been begging me to pass along his deepest apologies for quoting a bunch of Great Plan nonsense at you when you tried to contact God during Armageddon. He wanted to tell you something that would actually be useful, or at least give you a hint, but he had orders to do the Great Plan spiel because You Know Who—” she gestured with a dismissive wave towards the ceiling— “insisted that would be the push you needed to do what you had to do.”

Aziraphale blinked. He was still trying to comprehend the Archangel’s anger, which had not been directed at him. He had no idea how to wrap his mind around this new tidbit. “I… see?” he said, unseeing. “Thank you, I suppose.”

Raphael nodded, made a half-hearted attempt to smooth out her hair, and returned to the counter. She drained the rest of her mug down her throat in one long go and set it back down on the counter. Gold irises, ringed with silver, leveled on Aziraphale’s face once again. “I take it that you would, in fact, be willing to see your platoon?”

Aziraphale’s muscles tensed, and he gave her a frigid stare. When he spoke, it was with the whisper of an icy arctic breeze. “Do not insult me by asking that.”

Raphael nodded. “I will make sure you do see them again,” she said solemnly. “I swear to you, you will see every single one of them. I will find a way. No matter what it takes, Aziraphale, you will see them.”

Aziraphale silently stared back at her.

“Why not just send them all here?” Crowley asked, lifting his head from its perch on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Raphael looked uncomfortable as she tried to find words for a suitable reason.

But Aziraphale was the one who sighed and let his shoulders droop. “Be reasonable,” he said sadly, turning his head to look at Crowley. “An entire platoon of angels, coming to one location on Earth, all at once? How could Hell possibly see it as anything other than an act of aggression?” He looked towards a bookcase as he thought. “Especially my platoon,” he reluctantly added. “We have a bit of a threatening reputation, I’m afraid.”

Raphael looked embarrassed. “I hadn’t even considered that part,” she admitted. “I was thinking more about the panic it might cause among humans to drop fifty angels in one city. They’re bound to notice that. And especially, I mean… only one of them has ever even been on Earth at all…”

“Merzhaz,” Aziraphale said immediately. “2612 BC. He had the honor of telling Abraham and Sarah they would have a son. It’s the only time I’ve seen any of them since before Eden. But I know he’s had plenty of other assignments on Earth, too. He’s been very busy.” He proudly squeezed his scrapbook.

“Wait.” Crowley put his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders and turned him slightly, taking half a step back to get a better look at him. “Merzhaz is one of yours?”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “You know him?” he asked hopefully.

“Whu, uh—not directly,” Crowley hedged. “She’s usually in the Americas, though. Opposite the Raccoon Demon. He’s bloody terrified of her.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled with mirth, and a smile started to tug at his lips. “Well, if he knows Merzhaz by primarily feminine pronouns, I can hardly blame him.”

Crowley looked confused. “Isn’t Merzhaz usually female?”

“Oh no,” Aziraphale said. “Only when fighting, or expecting to fight.” Then he faltered. “Or at least, that was the case. Is it still?” he asked, and they both turned to Raphael.

Raphael was biting her lips. “...Um, well… last I spoke with Merzhaz… their pronouns changed more times than mine did,” she said uncertainly.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Oh, dear.”

“Eyhnh—sounds—mildly terrifying,” Crowley agreed.

Raphael nodded emphatically. “They did seem uncomfortable with it. I don’t think that’s usual for them.” She ran her hand through her messy hair again, and this time it obligingly transformed into a pixie cut. “Is there anything else either of you wanted to ask me?”

"Ooh." Crowley leaned his elbows on the counter. “Well, if you are really answering questions…”

“Oh, you should not have offered him that,” Aziraphale said smugly. Still cradling his scrapbook, he settled in to enjoy the show.

“How much do you control how you look?” Crowley began. “Because I mean, I know it changes, and there’s been a couple times today it was like you didn’t know how you looked, but last time you were here you did that—that—” He flapped his hand up and down. “That thing, where you changed your skin color back and forth, all matched up with your breathing, which was ridiculous, by the way. So do you control your appearance or not?”

Raphael smirked, held her hand up, and wobbled it back and forth. “I can control it, but I usually don’t. It’s mostly a subconscious thing. Although I will admit,” she added sheepishly, “When I’m coming to see you two, I have been making a point of just… not looking like Gabriel. But I’ve kinda been tending towards anything ‘opposite Gabriel’ lately, anyway, so…” she shrugged.

“I’m a fan of ‘opposite Gabriel,’” Crowley said dryly. “And speaking of—you mentioned ‘the Pompous Arch Bastard’ on the phone. That is Gabriel, right?”

“Oh, how ever did you guess?” Raphael said sweetly.

“So who’s the Slimy Arch Bastard?” Crowley asked.

“That’d be Sandalphon, of course.”

“What do you call the other two, then?”

“Ooh, in that set of nicknames?” Raphael tilted her head as she thought about it. “Michael’s the Catty Arch Bitch, and Uriel’s the Arch Stick in the Arse,” she said.

Aziraphale tittered.

“And then who’s Latiel? The one you were talking to?”

“Latiel is my new assistant, now that I need one,” Raphael said. “They’re a Virtue.”

“Pink hair?” Aziraphale asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Oh, you know them!” Raphael said, clearly pleased.

“Seen them around sometimes,” Aziraphale said. “The hair stands out a bit. Very… bubbly.”

“Very bubbly,” Raphael agreed. “They’re probably all that’s keeping me sane these days.”

“Do you have a usual gender?” Crowley asked.

Raphael shrugged. “I have trends?” she said. “I go through phases when I tend towards one gender more than the others. Lately I’m tending more female. I was predominantly male for most of the Middle Ages. But I’m always changing. Or, well, almost always. Sometimes I get stuck as one for a week or so, and it just feels…” She cringed. “Wrong. And once, I was stuck male for a whole year.” She shuddered. “I don’t know how anyone does that.”

“Yeah, it can wear thin a bit,” Crowley said. “Are all your clothes miracled? They all seem to change with you.”

“Uh… Mostly?” She frowned down at her current outfit: a fitted white blouse, white pencil skirt, and white ballet flats. “Sometimes I do actually buy something. Usually to help whoever’s selling it.”

“Do you wear undergarments?” Crowley asked.

“Really, dear,” Aziraphale chided.

Raphael turned to Aziraphale. “Can I cut him off on questions?” she asked.

“No, but I can,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley groaned and sulked. “Well, fun while it lasted,” he grumbled.

Aziraphale patted his wrist. “There, there,” he murmured.

Raphael focused on Aziraphale. “Do you have any questions for me?” she asked.

Aziraphale lifted his eyebrows and gave her a dangerously polite little smile. “Oh, just one little thing,” he said mildly. “Crowley mentioned that you were looking to break laws and— ‘get high,’ was it?” He glanced at Crowley as if for confirmation. “I’m merely wondering what it was you wanted to ‘get high’ on.”

Crowley laughed while the Archangel facepalmed. “I specifically asked if it was legal so that I wouldn’t break laws…” She shook her head, but she was smiling when she looked up. “Marijuana, to answer your question,” she said resignedly.

“Oh, that is popular,” Aziraphale mused. “You’ll have to go elsewhere to have it legally, though.”

“You could try Amsterdam,” Crowley suggested.

Aziraphale hummed in agreement. “I prefer alcohol, personally.”

Raphael inhaled through her teeth. “Yeah, I have to be careful with alcohol, though,” she admitted. “I’m a loud drunk. It’s… bad.”

“Now that is something I’d like to see,” Crowley said smugly.

Raphael smirked and leaned over the counter. “Tell you what: we get to a point where you’re both comfortable with all three of us getting drunk, and the alcohol’s on me,” she said.

“Bold of you to assume we would trust your alcohol,” Crowley said.

“Alright, so you two pick the booze, and I’ll pay for it,” Raphael said. “You two probably know more about good alcohol than I do, anyway.”

“Ooh, wait, I have one more question,” Crowley said.

“You are out of questions,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“Well then you could ask her!” Crowley reasoned. “She was asking Latiel if anyone Up There was literally fighting. I wanna know how likely that is.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Oh…” He turned to Raphael.

Raphael’s face slowly fell. “...Read your paper,” she said sadly.

Aziraphale tightened his grip on his scrapbook.

Raphael sighed and rubbed her hand over her face. “I should probably get back there. I’m sure I have more fires to put out,” she said wearily. She looked at Aziraphale. “I will be in touch soon about getting you in contact with your platoon.”

Aziraphale’s eyes turned to ice again, his entire body rigid, and he hugged his scrapbook firmly against his chest.

“You can keep the mug,” Crowley said with a too-cheerful smile. “You could use the color.”

Raphael looked at her absurdly bright mug and laughed. “Thank you,” she said as she picked it up, and she actually seemed sincere as she added, “That's very kind of you.”

Crowley recoiled. “I’m not kind!” he snarled.

Raphael flinched and stared at him, wide-eyed. “...No. No, of course not. Horribly rude,” she said nervously. “I am—deeply offended by your criticism of my style.” She glanced at Aziraphale, who nodded to assure her that yes, she had responded appropriately. Then she took a step back and gave a slight bow to both of them. “I can see myself out. Peace be with you.”

“Mind how you go,” Aziraphale answered, and they watched her leave. She did take the mug.

“...I think she might’ve actually been afraid of me,” Crowley said, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Afraid of offending you, certainly,” Aziraphale said numbly. He took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. “Well. That was… a lot to process.”

Crowley looked at him, and then circled around behind him to retrieve the mug of cocoa. He gave it a scalding look to remind it to be an appropriate temperature before he held it out for the angel to take.

Aziraphale hesitantly looked at the hot cocoa, and then down at the scrapbook in his arms. He carried the scrapbook to his desk and gently set it down, smoothing his hand over the cover once before he let go completely. Then he turned to see that Crowley had followed him to the desk, but stopped about a foot away to keep the cocoa at a safe distance.

“I’m sorry, angel,” Crowley murmured as Aziraphale accepted the warm mug. “If I’d known Merzhaz was yours, I’d have given you all the jobs in the Americas. You probably would have seen her. Them.”

Aziraphale nodded and gave Crowley a weak smile, and he sat down on the couch with his cocoa.

Crowley immediately settled in beside him. “...You don’t believe Raphael,” he said quietly, watching the angel slowly drink. “About seeing your platoon.”

Aziraphale blinked a few times. “If I allow myself to think that it will happen—and it doesn’t—” He squeezed his eyes shut, and he shook his head. “There are some things… one learns not to believe.” And he took another sip of his cocoa.

The resignation in his face and his voice were unbearable. Crowley put his elbow up on the back of the couch and propped his head against his hand. “You said that you asked to see them for five thousand years.”

Aziraphale nodded between sips. “I did.”

“But it’s been six thousand years since you’ve seen them,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale nodded again. “So you… stopped asking? A thousand years ago?” Was that when he had stopped believing he would see them again?

“Yes. I did,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley continued to stare at him. “...The Arrangement… is nearly a thousand years old…”

Aziraphale nodded. “Not a coincidence,” he said, and he gave the demon a tight smile. His eyes settled on the scrapbook on his desk. “...I was at the Preening Center,” he began. “We have one of those, you know. I doubt Hell provides such a thing. But it’s a place we can get our wings done. Feels a bit like a barber shop or a hair salon for the humans. I go there regularly.” He paused and frowned. “Or I did, rather. I suppose I won’t be now.”

“I can keep you preened,” Crowley immediately offered.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, beaming at him. And then, with that familiar bastardly glint in his eyes, “You really are very kind—”

“Shaddup,” Crowley grumbled, wrinkling his nose, but he was also grinning. “It’s a purely selfish offer. I just wanna get my hands on your wings.”

Aziraphale flushed at that. “Well.” He glanced down at his cocoa, and then at Crowley again. Then he looked away and sighed. “Well. I was saying. I was at the Preening Center, a thousand years ago. And this Seraph came in. And she… she threw an utterly disgraceful fit, really, because her favorite preener wasn’t there.”

“Was this Seraph’s name Karen?” Crowley said dryly.

Aziraphale frowned. “I… I don’t believe so. Why?” he asked. “That’s a rather human sounding name, for a Seraph.”

“Never mind,” Crowley mumbled. “Go on.”

“Well, I have no idea what the Seraph’s name was,” Aziraphale admitted. “But, the preener she wanted… The preener was—Mais.”

There was something about the soft, tender way he said that name. “One of yours?” Crowley quietly guessed.

Aziraphale nodded. “One of mine,” he murmured. “Come to find out that four members of my platoon—Mais, Replizta, Sorem, and Netsael—two from each squad,” he added fondly. “All four of them have been preeners all along.” He looked at Crowley. “Since the very Beginning. ...Five thousand years, and I had never once seen any of them. It’s not as if I had any regular time that I went, or a certain day. I was just there whenever I could be. And up until that moment, I really did think that I had at least seen… all of the preeners. But not those four. Never my four.” He looked down into his mug, rubbing his thumb against the rim. “And there was no use pretending, at that point, that it was… a coincidence, or an accident, or—bad luck, or—or anything, really, other than someone’s very deliberate choice.”  He looked at Crowley with damp eyes. “I didn’t know whose choice it was,” he whispered. “I didn’t know if—perhaps it was their choice. I just—” He blinked down at his mug. “I just had to trust that they knew me well enough to know—to know that it wasn’t my choice.”

“Oh, angel…”

“And I felt so alone, Crowley. So horribly, terribly alone, and I—I didn’t have to.” He reached out, found Crowley’s hand, and held on tight, desperately seeking his eyes as well. “I knew that I didn’t have to be alone.”

For a moment, Crowley could only stare back at his angel with his mouth just slightly open. He looked down at their joined hands, and thought of the precious few times they’d held hands before, and the thousands of times he had longed to hold hands. Here it was, the very touch he had yearned for for so very long, and it was every bit as glorious as he’d ever imagined, and yet right now, in this moment, it wasn’t enough. It couldn’t possibly be enough. Crowley dropped Aziraphale’s hand and hugged him instead. “Never,” he promised.

Aziraphale wiggled out just enough to set his mug down on the table, freeing him to focus entirely on the far superior indulgence of burying his face in Crowley’s chest, holding that slim waist, and being firmly ensconced in his beloved demon’s arms.

Crowley tossed his sunglasses aside and pressed his face into Aziraphale’s curls. Part of him noticed and cataloged that this was a new position for them—not the first time they’d hugged, but the first time with this configuration. Most of him was focused on more important things. “It wasn’t their choice, either,” he whispered after a moment. “Raphael was telling me before how much they still love you. How loyal they still are to you.” He rubbed the angel’s back. “The only reason they obeyed the no contact order was that someone saw something in Earth Observation that made them think it really might upset you, if you saw them. She didn’t say who saw it, or what they saw. I’m not sure they even told her that part.”

Aziraphale nodded against Crowley’s chest.

“She did say she thinks they would ignore orders if they thought those orders would hurt you,” Crowley quietly continued. “...Actually, she said she thought they would ‘shove those orders where the sun don’t shine.’”

Aziraphale chuckled.

“I sorta got the impression that they maybe have bent a few rules for you, or at least Raphael thinks they might have, and she’s turning a blind eye to it.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. “I suppose I wouldn’t be surprised, if they have bent a rule or two, for my sake,” he whispered. “In the old days, they would have done anything for me. I think that they think I don’t know about the pact they made, during the War. Not just to protect me, but to make sure that I, personally, wouldn’t have to kill anyone. And I didn’t, during the War. I didn’t kill or discorporate anyone. ...They knew how it broke my heart.”

Crowley couldn’t help remembering that night at his flat, after Armageddon, when Aziraphale had been cleaning up the Holy Water and had yelled at him to stay back. Do you think we DIDN’T use it in The War? Against demons we RECOGNIZED, Crowley, demons we had KNOWN when they were ANGELS—and he held his angel that much tighter.

They sat there, just holding and being held, for a long time. Neither of them spoke until at last, a thought just popped out of Crowley’s mouth. “I should have asked if they published my commendation.”

Aziraphale laughed, making no effort to move yet.

“No, I’m serious,” Crowley insisted. “She told me she’s trying to run Heaven with full transparency. That would mean publishing that, right? So if the whole Host knows that she gave a commendation to a demon, then no wonder she’s having problems.”

Aziraphale chuckled, and then he sighed. “She did have a rather ominous answer, about how likely it is that they’re fighting,” he said. “...I hope my platoon is safe.”

“...From what I’ve heard about them so far,” Crowley said cautiously, “I’m sure they would do fine in a fight.”

Aziraphale scowled. “Well of course they would,” he said, and he was pouting as he straightened up at last. “But they shouldn’t have to. And there is always a risk.” He straightened his waistcoat and his bowtie.

Crowley kept one arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and he turned his head to look back at the counter. “Should we read the paper?” he warily asked. “See how likely a fight really is?”

Aziraphale sighed heavily. “I’m sure we should, but—not yet. I… This was a rather difficult visit.”

Crowley nodded. His eyes caught on something else they had left on the counter, and he turned to face Aziraphale again. “Did… Did you get all the answers you wanted, about that commendation?” he asked gently.

Aziraphale turned and gave the medal presentation box a dirty look. “You were there… weren’t you?” he asked, meeting Crowley’s eyes. “I thought I Sensed you…”

It was no surprise that he wasn’t sure. The fog had been thick enough to make regular sight useless. Crowley had taken his Serpent form to make better sense of his surroundings. “I might have tripped them for you,” he admitted. It was about all he could do in a fight sometimes: take his snake form and trip the opponent.

Aziraphale nodded. Then he sighed and leaned into Crowley’s side. “It doesn’t matter—it doesn’t matter what they think of it, or what Good they say came out of it,” he said bitterly. “The only thing good I did was to warn you to leave afterwards, and only because I was certain that Archangels would be there at any moment to collect me.” He hung his head. “Everything else that day… I’m ashamed of it.”

Crowley frowned. “Ashamed?” he echoed.

“I am,” Aziraphale insisted. “I lost control, Crowley. I gave in to my emotions, and I did so with violence.” He lifted his head to make eye contact again. “You and I have both seen more than enough of human history to know how that usually ends. So, if Heaven says something Good came out of it? That’s pure luck, and nothing more. It was foolishness, not bravery. Certainly not anything commendable.” He huffed and glared out at nothing.

Crowley took his arm down from Aziraphale’s shoulders and gently, soothingly took his hand. “...Six thousand years on this planet,” he said softly, “and you only lost control like that once? ...I’d say that’s commendable.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “Perhaps,” he hedged. “But it could have easily been disastrous.”

“It wasn’t disastrous, though,” Crowley said patiently. “And besides that, I mean… You’re a Principality, angel. Your lot are meant to be warriors. The fact you think of anything other than violence first, the vast majority of the time, that’s… that’s incredible, is what that is.”

But Aziraphale was scowling. “I’m not a warrior. I’m a guardian,” he said, quietly but firmly. “I do not go looking for a fight. I guard. No matter what, any opponent always has the option to walk away, to not engage. I only fight if they take it upon themselves to cross a certain line. Then I fight.”

“I would argue that Pollution had more than crossed that line,” Crowley said quietly. “It’s not like they didn’t know not to mess with you here. I mean, before you had the shop, even—how many times did Head Office send you here to try to drive them out?”

Aziraphale sighed wearily. “Too many to count.”

“And they knew to leave as soon as you got here,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale leaned his head against Crowley’s shoulder. “Pity they never took the smoke with them,” he said.

Crowley took a moment to marvel at Aziraphale very literally leaning on him, while perfectly sober. “...Still,” he said. “They pull a stunt like that killer fog, knowing you’re here, and then they literally show up on your doorstep? What were they looking to do—taunt you?” He shook his head. “They had more than crossed that line, angel,” he whispered, and he was relieved to see that Aziraphale did not have an argument against that. “...For that matter,” he mused, “I’m fairly sure that I had crossed that line, when we first met.” He raised an eyebrow, grinning.

“Well, you weren’t crossing it when I saw you,” Aziraphale said haughtily, picking his head up. “You already had crossed it and come back, at that point. The damage was already done. You weren’t causing any harm then. I had no reason to think you were a threat.”

Crowley gave him sad serpent eyes. “I think I’m almost offended,” he said mournfully.

Aziraphale reached over and patted their joined hands. “If you had turned around and tried to go back into the Garden, it would have been different,” he said reassuringly, and Crowley settled, placated.

They were quiet for another moment. Aziraphale cast a troubled glance towards the paper that was waiting for them on the counter. Crowley watched the angel’s face, noting the deep shadows that were there—the worry, the exhaustion, the heartache, all showing through for a change.

Somehow, after six thousand years, he still had no idea of the full extent of the burden his angel carried on those sturdy shoulders, still didn’t know all the secrets of his heart. Sure, he had known most of Aziraphale’s history with Pollution; it was not without reason that the shop was in London, of all cities. But Crowley hadn’t known that the angel had expected to be reprimanded for smiting the Horseperson—to be collected for it, and Crowley shuddered to think what that could have meant. It certainly changed the context of the way Aziraphale had warned away anyone who could hear him, clearly dismissing a certain demon he hadn’t even been sure was there. And Crowley had never imagined that Aziraphale was ashamed of smiting Pollution.

And what about his platoon? Six thousand years, and the angel had only ever spoken of his platoon once. In hindsight, that single mention was far more telling than Crowley had realized at the time. The world had been saved, and they had both been exhausted, and they were facing their own executions, and Aziraphale had still spared thought and breath and words for his platoon, wistfully hoping they were safe. Crowley should have noticed the significance of that. (In his defense, there had been a lot going on.) In hindsight, there had been a major flaw in his performance as Aziraphale in Heaven two weeks ago: he should have spoken up for the platoon. Aziraphale would have. After surviving the Hellfire, after ensuring their own safety, ideally on the way out, when there had been other angels within earshot. Oh, and I do hope you know better than to hold my platoon accountable for MY actions. I'm sure I will hear about it if they are at all mistreated. That was what he should have done. Not that the Archangels would have noticed anything out of character either way, but still, it was what Aziraphale would have done. His platoon was obviously precious to him.

But Crowley hadn’t really known about them.

Really, he still didn’t know very much about Aziraphale’s platoon.

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand and let go so he could stand up and cross to the desk. Ever so delicately, he lifted that precious scrapbook, mindful of how the angel’s breath caught behind him. He carefully carried it back and gently placed it in Aziraphale’s lap. Then he folded himself up on the couch again, in his rightful place beside his angel. “Will you tell me about them?” he quietly asked.

“Oh—” Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled as they flitted back and forth between the demon and the scrapbook. “Oh, I would love to,” he murmured. He beamed at Crowley and inched closer to him, and Crowley obligingly wrapped his arms around his angel’s waist and settled his chin on his shoulder as Aziraphale straightened himself up and proudly opened to the first page. He spoke softly, with the sort of proud affection Crowley was more accustomed to hearing from loving parents. Looking through the scrapbook at newspaper clippings of tiny mentions of commendations, Crowley could almost imagine that they were standing in front of a fridge, looking at the finger paintings proudly hung on the door, which would turn into report cards, exams, and essays with high marks, and then there would be the graduation pictures framed and hanging up in the hall for all to see.

Barely an hour after they had started, Aziraphale was trembling, unable to speak, with hope in his eyes, and Crowley was gently drying the tears from his angel’s face, because a new note had appeared on his desk from Archangel Raphael:

At the very least, I can send Merzhaz to see you, and I’m sure he can bring messages from the rest of your platoon. How’s tomorrow at noon?

Peace be with you,

Raphael

^[1] Crowley had realized quickly that he no longer wanted any images of flames associated with Aziraphale on his phone, but it hadn’t occurred to him yet that since they were free now, he could probably just use an actual picture of Aziraphale. Instead, he’d found a picture of a very old sword, which was not Aziraphale’s flaming sword, but was a similar style.

^[2] For numerous reasons, including the fact that they were white ballet flats.

^[3] What Raphael didn’t say is that they suspected Aziraphale wouldn’t question any hot cocoa Crowley handed to him. Raphael’s pretty smart.

^[4] He didn’t question it. Raphael was right. See, I told you they were smart.

^[5] It wasn’t so much that they were embarrassed about the mug; it was more that they were embarrassed about coming in with a paper cup when Aziraphale was clearly so upset about Pollution. Not that paper cups necessarily have to cause pollution, of course. And Aziraphale’s grudge against Pollution is primarily based on air pollution. But still, Raphael was glad that Crowley had thought of changing the cups.