Archive of Our Own ^beta

Today was a big day. A very big day.

Crowley had sat upstairs, in the flat Aziraphale sometimes forgot he had, patiently watching as the angel spent no less than three hours changing clothes the human way as he tried to decide what to wear. He had gone through two outfits that were each at least three centuries out of date, his magician’s costume, and the modern suit he had worn as “Mr. Cortese” to tutor Warlock (which he hated almost as much as he’d hated the mustache he’d worn for that disguise) before Crowley had finally convinced him to wear his usual attire. But that still left the question of which shirt, which trousers, and which bowtie, not to mention the question of whether to wear his coat or his cardigan (“Coat, you like it better”), and whether he ought to get a new waistcoat (“Probably, yeah, but you like this one, and it’s fine for today”).

Aziraphale stood in front of his full length mirror and tugged on the sleeves of his coat. “But are you sure it looks alright?” he fretted.

Crowley gave him an indulgent smile. “Do you think they are worrying this much over what to wear?” he said. “Or he, or she—whatever pronouns.”

“Oh, good Heavens. I hope not,” Aziraphale said fervently as he straightened his lapels.

“Well then, I’m sure they’re hoping that you’re not, either,” Crowley said reasonably.

“But I’m the Principality. It’s different,” Aziraphale insisted.

Crowley didn’t bother to argue. He just watched it all unfold with a fond smile on his face.

Aziraphale had not seen the majority of his platoon at all since he had first been assigned to Eden. Only one member of his platoon had been to Earth at all, and that was an angel by the name of Merzhaz, who was due to arrive at the bookshop at noon today. Merzhaz was the only one in the platoon Aziraphale actually had seen in all this time, but only once, and a long time ago.

“Four thousand, six hundred and thirty-one years,” as Aziraphale kept reciting when they finally made it back down to the shop. “Oh, I do hope I don’t disappoint.”

“You won’t disappoint,” Crowley said. “You couldn’t possibly.”

He wasn’t sure that Aziraphale even heard him. The angel had now become fixated on tidying up the shop, bustling around to put away things that probably hadn’t really been out of place to begin with.

Crowley tried to focus on his angel’s adorable nerves about the whole thing. It was easier than dwelling on his own emotions about today, which were a mixed-up jumble of… er, something tangled, anyway. (What gets tangled?) He didn’t know Merzhaz, or anyone else from Aziraphale’s platoon. But he did know the Raccoon Demon, who was currently known as Clarence. Clarence was stationed in the Americas, opposite Merzhaz, and he had whispered stories of just how terrifying she was. Crowley had learned to try to avoid her anytime he was on that side of the Atlantic. By Clarence’s own admission, Merzhaz had never actually attacked him—although getting pinned against a wall in an alley with a knife to your throat while the one pinning you told you in no uncertain terms to ‘get out’ was probably what most people would consider an attack. To a demon, that was a warning, and a very generous warning at that. Still, Crowley had always figured it would be best to avoid the possibility of incurring this fearsome angel’s wrath.

In Clarence’s stories, Merzhaz had always been female. According to Aziraphale, Merzhaz was usually male. According to Raphael, who had seen the angel in question most recently, Merzhaz’s gender was in a state of near constant flux. Crowley had no idea what pronouns to use for Merzhaz. Crowley had no idea what to expect with anything about Merzhaz.

One thing had already become clear, though. Clarence had once told Crowley that he thought he had fought against Merzhaz in The War, but since he was also certain he’d fought against Aziraphale in The War, he had brushed it off as part of his own trauma. “Probably if I see any angel, I’ll think I fought them in The War,” the Raccoon Demon had said. And now, Crowley found himself wishing he could reach out to Clarence, just to let him know that he hadn’t imagined it; that if he’d fought against Aziraphale, he would have also fought against Merzhaz, because they were in the same platoon. But of course, having communication with Crowley the Traitor would mean putting the Raccoon Demon in danger, and that wasn’t worth the risk. Even before Crowley had officially become a traitor, he and Clarence—his only surviving ally, really—had cut ties, deeming their association too dangerous, because if one went down, the other would go down with him. (They had both thought Clarence would go down first.) Still, it was possible to communicate. This was only a tiny sample of the sort of isolation Aziraphale had had, from his own platoon, for all of their time on Earth. And Crowley wasn’t nearly as close with any demons as Aziraphale seemed to be with his platoon. Sure, there were demons he didn’t mind talking to, but it wasn’t like he would miss any of them now… would he?

Aziraphale had actually started dusting. “Should we have food out? Something to nibble?” he said, running his feather duster over the shelves.¹ “Or maybe something to drink. I wonder what he likes to drink.” Then he stopped, feather duster poised in mid-air. “Do you think he does eat and drink?” he wondered. And then, more brusquely, “Of course he does. He’s spent enough time on Earth. He must have picked up the habit.” Then, as he started dusting again, “I know he eats! We ate together with Abraham. I explained to him all about the customs of hospitality. So of course he eats!” And then, of course, he put his duster away and bustled over to his little kitchenette at the back of the shop. “I wonder what he likes to eat. Did Clarence mention what he eats?”

According to Clarence, he and Merzhaz had both really taken to the whole Cold War spy game, and they monitored each other constantly. “He said that he knows what Merzhaz likes, but he didn’t really say what that was,” Crowley said. “Pretty sure Merzhaz has mostly been in Chicago lately. Does that help?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale said brightly. “Pizza! Chicago is known for pizza.”

“Figures you would know,” Crowley murmured fondly.

“Oh—but is that the deep dish one, or the thin crust?” Aziraphale furrowed his brow as he thought about it. “I know one is Chicago and the other is New York, but I always mix around which is which.” His frown intensified as he kept thinking. “Chicagoans like food,” he said. And then, lifting his eyebrows, “They invented brownies.”

Now Crowley furrowed his brows. “The little house spirit things? Thought those were Scottish.”

“No—well yes, those brownies are Scottish,” Aziraphale said. “The brownies I mean are made with chocolate.”

“Oh, those brownies,” Crowley said. “I used to pose as the other kind, sometimes. That was fun.”

Aziraphale was looking through his cupboards now and apparently ignoring Crowley again. “I don’t have any brownies,” he muttered. “Maybe biscuits will do. Although, I suppose it is lunch time. Do you think he would like lunch?”

Crowley sighed. He maneuvered around to be in front of Aziraphale and put his hands on his shoulders to make sure the angel would actually listen. “I think,” he said gently, “that Merzhaz isn’t coming here for the food.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Well I know that. I just—I—well you understand, don’t you?” He knitted his brows together. “Do you?” And then he let out a heavy sigh, allowing his head and shoulders to droop. “...I think I’m a bit out of sorts,” he quietly admitted.

“A bit?” Crowley teased.

“Well, I just… It—it’s been a long time, you know?” He started wringing his hands. “It’s been a very long time. It’s been four thousand, six—”

“—hundred and thirty-one years,” Crowley finished. “I know, angel.”

“What if I’ve changed?” Aziraphale worried.

“What if he’s changed?” Crowley countered.

“Oh.” Aziraphale pondered it. “Well, I—I would expect him to, really. All that time. And with all that he’s done, and experienced, and all that. I’m sure he has changed, some. He must have learned, and grown, in his own way. I—I would want that for him.”

“And you’re not worried that you won’t like who he is now?” Crowley asked, eyebrows raised.

Aziraphale looked indignant at the very notion. “Well, he’s Merzhaz!” he said. “He’s mine, either way. Of course I’ll still love him. He’s my—...He’s my…” He faltered, and then he scowled. “My soldier, I suppose, but it’s more than that. He’s—...Well, he’s my platoon, Crowley. You can’t just change that overnight, you know.”

“And you’re worried he won’t think exactly that about you?” Crowley said. And then, ever so gently, “You’re his Principality, Aziraphale. You can’t just change that overnight, you know.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and he nodded. “Thank you,” he murmured, lightly touching the demon’s elbow. Then a far deeper worry and an aching sadness filled his eyes. “Do you think he really will be here?” the angel whispered.

Having been denied all access to his platoon for so very long, Aziraphale was still struggling to believe this was really going to happen. No amount of conversation would ever truly persuade him until (unless) Merzhaz really came through the door, and they both knew it. But that was no reason for Crowley not to try to reassure him, even though Crowley himself couldn’t promise anything. “I think so,” Crowley whispered. “If only because I think the last thing Raphael wants is to make you an enemy.”

They had already discussed it countless times, reasoning through it as best they could, and this was the conclusion they always came to. Aziraphale nodded, closed his eyes, and slowly took a deep breath, in and out.

What Crowley hadn’t said—out loud, anyway—was that if Merzhaz didn’t come here at noon today, if Raphael didn’t send him, if this was the point where her kindness and generosity ended, if this was where she betrayed them, or at least started making demands… Well, then Crowley was going to march up to Heaven and personally see to it that she paid dearly for this.

Aziraphale sighed without opening his eyes. “I do wish you would stop plotting revenge, dear,” he said.

Crowley’s mouth fell open. “I didn’t say anything!” he protested.

“You didn’t have to.” Aziraphale patted his elbow. “You’re grinding your teeth. You only do that when you’re plotting revenge.”

Crowley glared at him. “And since when do I have a tell about plotting revenge?”

Aziraphale smirked and opened one eye to peer at him. “Oh, just since you’ve started being vengeful,” he teased.²

And then they both Felt the supernatural notification from the ward they’d put in place: Angel near the bookshop.

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped, hands flying up. “Oh, that—that’s him. That will be him.” He patted his curls, as if his hair even knew how to be out of place. “How do I look? Do I look alright?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Angel…”

“I should put the kettle on, shouldn’t I?” Aziraphale frowned. “Wait, no, but—he’s spent the last two centuries or so in America, hasn’t he? Americans don’t drink tea. Do Americans drink tea?”

“We’re in England, and you do drink tea,” Crowley said, taking Aziraphale’s elbow and guiding him towards the front of the shop. “But you’ll want to see when he gets here, right? Put the kettle on later.”

“Oh, but—” Aziraphale dragged them to a halt. “Crowley—do I look alright?” he asked pleadingly, adjusting his bowtie.

“Yes, angel. You look like you. Oi—wha—” He frowned as the angel started fidgeting with his jacket and collar. “What’s wrong with how I look?”

“Nothing! Nothing!” Aziraphale said as he smoothed out Crowley’s lapels. “I just—” And then he gasped and turned as the bell rang above the door.

Merzhaz was currently presenting male. He had about an average height, with light brown eyes and light brown complexion that would have let him pass as a local nearly anywhere in the world. His dark brown hair was pulled back in a long braid, and he was dressed in blue jeans and a pale gray shirt (both of which he had, in fact, spent a ridiculous amount of time debating with himself about wearing). He looked nervous as he stepped in the shop, but that vanished the moment he laid eyes on his Principality.

Aziraphale had already stepped a little closer to the door. At first, the two angels just stared at each other, silent and frozen. Merzhaz started to lift his arms like he was reaching for a hug, then pulled himself back, and then hesitantly raised his hands again.

Aziraphale beamed and held his arms out wide.

Merzhaz charged across the distance between them and launched himself straight into the waiting embrace. They both giggled at the collision of bodies. “Principality Aziraphale,” Merzhaz finally murmured.

“Oh, just Aziraphale is fine, really.”

“Yes, Principality Aziraphale.”

And then they were both laughing and crying and hugging each other tight and rocking side to side.

Crowley quietly leaned against a bookcase.

“Merzhaz, my dear Merzhaz! I’ve missed you so much. I’ve missed all of you so much!”

“We’ve missed you, too!” Merzhaz pressed his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’ve missed you.”

“You’re here now. You’re here. Oh, let me see you, my dear Merzhaz!” Aziraphale gently guided them apart just enough to cradle the other angel’s face in his hands. “Caral,” he said, beaming at him. “Congratulations on Caral. I am so very proud of you for that, my dear.”

Merzhaz seemed to glow under the praise. “Thank you,” he whispered. Fresh tears started down his face. “I discorporated, and when I got back, the city was just gone, and I was so upset—”

“Oh, oh, it happens,” Aziraphale soothed. He pulled out a handkerchief and started drying Merzhaz’s tears. “They rise, and they fall, you know they do.”

“I know that now,” Merzhaz agreed. “I was so new then—” He had taken a tissue out to start wiping up Aziraphale’s face, and they both started giggling as they dried each other’s tears.

“I am so proud,” Aziraphale repeated. “Truly, I am. You have done so well, Merzhaz.” He pressed a kiss to the angel’s forehead, and Merzhaz started crying all over again, hiding his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder as they hugged each other tight.

Crowley tried not to be jealous of that kiss. Or any of the rest of it. It was a completely different kind of relationship. Obviously.

“Oh, here, my dear. Come sit down,” Aziraphale murmured. He wiped Merzhaz’s tears once more and turned him to lead him towards the sofa, and Crowley felt himself tense as Merzhaz looked at him for the first time.

His face lit up. “Oh good, you’re here, too!” he said, and he stepped out of Aziraphale’s embrace with his hands up at about his shoulders. “Do you do hugs?”

Crowley sputtered. Behind his shades, he actually blinked. He didn’t know how he’d expected Merzhaz to react to his presence, but it definitely hadn’t been that. “Ah—weh, uh…”

“Handshake?” Merzhaz said hopefully, holding one hand out. “Or fistbump? Something? Please?”

“Uh—handshake is—fine?” Crowley stepped forward and extended his hand, glancing over Merzhaz’s shoulder at Aziraphale’s giddy face.

Merzhaz immediately clasped Crowley’s hand with both of his own. “Thank you,” he said fervently. “Thank you, from all of us, thank you so much.”

Crowley was very confused. “...For…?”

“For taking care of him!” Merzhaz said earnestly. “For being here for him. We couldn’t be, but we knew someone was. Most of us didn’t know who, for most of the time, but we knew there was someone, and—and you have no idea what a comfort that’s been!”

Crowley was dumbfounded. He mumbled something to the effect of “It’s been a privilege,” and he looked past Merzhaz again at Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who was standing there with his hands clasped at his heart, looking like a cross between a child opening gifts at Christmas, the parent watching the child at Christmas, and someone seeing that their pet puppy and pet kitten got along adorably well.

Merzhaz let go of Crowley’s hand, took one more step in the direction Aziraphale had been leading him, and then stopped again. “Oh—and I’m sorry I broke into your apartment,” he said. “Or—flat? You call it a flat here, right?”

Crowley’s jaw dropped. “That was you?”

“When was this?” Aziraphale asked, confused.

“The 1960s!” Crowley said.

Aziraphale gave him a stern look. “You never told me about that,” he said.

“Well—I didn’t want you to panic! I had everything under control. I just—didn’t go to my flat for a week, because it smelled like angel.” He glared at Merzhaz.

“Sorry,” Merzhaz said, ducking his head down.

“You bugged my phone!”

“Well, I—I had to make sure the message got through,” Merzhaz said meekly.

“What message?” Aziraphale asked.

“The warning,” Crowley said, eyebrows climbing high. “That was for me?”

“Well, for both of you, really,” Merzhaz said.

Aziraphale let out a little huff. “Why don’t we all go sit down,” he said sternly, taking each of them by the arm so that they didn’t really have a choice, “And Merzhaz, perhaps you can explain yourself.”

“Yes, Principality Aziraphale. Of course,” Merzhaz said quickly, clearly eager for the chance to obey Aziraphale, even if it wasn’t exactly an order.

Aziraphale and Merzhaz sat down together on the sofa, which left Aziraphale’s chair for Crowley. He warily eyed the chair from a few different angles while Merzhaz started to explain.

“It was the one time I tried to break the no contact order,” Merzhaz admitted. “I had an assignment in LA, and you had one in Detroit, and I tried to finish mine quickly so I could get to you. I figured I would just say I thought you might need help, and play dumb about the order.”

Crowley awkwardly settled in the chair and looked across at Aziraphale on the sofa. “This is weird,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale looked at him and giggled, nodding his agreement. “We usually sit opposite this, with him on the sofa and me in the chair,” he explained to Merzhaz. “Go on though, dear. We’re listening.”

Merzhaz squirmed. “I’ve never told anybody this,” he said. “Um—I should probably start by saying—” He took a deep breath. “Okay, so—Erisam is in Earth Observation. She always has been.”

“Oh, really!” Aziraphale said, and then filled in for Crowley, “One of my squad leaders.”

Merzhaz nodded. “And she told us a while ago—as soon as we knew about the no contact order—that you weren’t alone on Earth, that you had a… a companion, of some sort, but she wouldn’t tell us who, for your sake.” He shrugged. “So we knew it had to be a demon, but of course none of us said anything. Not even to each other. Just in case, if somebody heard.”

Crowley had been wondering how Aziraphale’s platoon would have taken the news that their dear Principality had been …associating with the enemy. Apparently, they hadn’t even thought twice about it, and just went straight to keeping it a secret. He shifted around in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position.

“And, I, um… I figured out—that it was you,” Merzhaz told Crowley. “I saw you at a bar with the Raccoon Demon—I think his name was Clarence by then?” He furrowed his brows. “He is still using ‘Clarence,’ right?”

“Yeah, he’s stuck with it for another… eight centuries? Maybe nine?” Crowley said as he folded his legs up in the chair—or, well, he tried. “They changed the rules because he kept switching names too much. Now demons can only change their names once a millennium.”

“Oh, thank God,” Merzhaz said.

“Nyergh… more like ‘thank Dagon,’ really.” He twisted around and kicked his legs up over the armrest.

“Oh.” Merzhaz did not seem inclined to thank Dagon, not that Crowley could really blame him for that. “Well, I saw you two in a bar, and he mentioned Principality Aziraphale, and how you reacted… I, um. I could tell.” He did not elaborate on how he could tell, but Crowley suspected he knew the incident Merzhaz had seen, and assumed the angel was trying to spare his dignity. Aziraphale must have guessed something similar, because he didn’t question it, either.

“Still not hearing why you broke into my flat.” Crowley tried putting his legs over the other armrest.

“Right,” Merzhaz said guiltily. “So—I did make it to Detroit, but—you weren’t there,” he said to Aziraphale, “and you were,” he told Crowley. “And—and I saw you do his assignment.” Crowley and Aziraphale both straightened up and glanced at each other. “But it honestly almost looked like it could’ve been an accident, and I… well, I—was just trying to figure out what I’d seen, so I… um.” He ducked his head down again. “I found your hotel room and I tapped the phone,” he admitted. “So I heard—when you called him, and talked, and I realized pretty quickly that you would switch jobs sometimes, and—”

“Did anyone else know that?” Aziraphale quietly asked.

“I never told anyone. Not even after Armageddon,” Merzhaz said. “But, um, Erisam and Paxon might know. Because Erisam is in Earth Obs, and Paxon’s the one who reads your reports, and I know they compare notes, so…”

“Paxon reads my reports?” Aziraphale asked, apparently delighted by this news. “He’s my other squad leader,” he told Crowley.

Merzhaz nodded. “So they probably know, but they never told, either,” he said. “And I—I know I should have stopped listening once I figured it out, I know it was a personal conversation, and I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, but—I—” He looked at Aziraphale. “I heard you laugh,” he said wistfully. “And I remembered that you used to laugh, Before, but I couldn’t ever remember hearing it, and—and I just—I wanted—I couldn’t—”

“I understand,” Aziraphale gently, and he put his hand over Merzhaz’s. “Believe me, I do understand.”

Crowley made a little noise of agreement. “Even I can’t fault you for that bit,” he said as he tried to rearrange himself in the chair again. “How do you sit in this thing?” he irritably asked Aziraphale.

Aziraphale grinned. “How do I sit in it?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Well. Like I have a normal spine, for one.”

“No, you do not,” Crowley said as he twisted around unnaturally. “You sit like you have a flagpole for a spine. And by the looks of it, you trained him to do the same thing.” He flapped a hand towards Merzhaz, who seemed to take this as a compliment.

Aziraphale was obviously amused by the Serpent’s serpentine attempts to get comfortable. “You could try moving the chair closer,” he said pleasantly.

“That won’t change how the chair works!” Crowley argued, but he did move the chair closer. Then he climbed up to sit on the back of the chair, with his feet on the cushion and his elbows on his knees.

“Better?” Aziraphale asked.

“Much better,” Crowley said, and he gestured for Merzhaz to continue. “Go ahead, then. You were explaining why listening to Aziraphale laugh made you sneak across the pond to break into my flat.”

Merzhaz shifted his weight, embarrassed by that summary. “Well, I kept listening, and you kept talking,” he said. “And I realized you thought you were safe on the phone, and if I could catch you then someone else could, so I had to warn you somehow.” He looked at Aziraphale. “But I couldn’t just go to you about it, or call you, because that would’ve been too obvious about breaking the no contact order.” He turned to Crowley. “And I had no idea how you would react if I approached you, and I thought that might be hard to explain away, too. So I had to find a way to get a message to you through somebody else.”

“And you used the Raccoon Demon,” Crowley said.

“Well I knew he would go to you if something was weird,” Merzhaz said with a shrug.

“He is bloody terrified of you,” Crowley added.

“I know,” Merzhaz whined, sulking, which made Crowley laugh. He would have loved to rub that in Clarence’s face. Merzhaz wasn’t terrifying at all like this. “I had to be mean a few times. It’s no fun.”

Angels didn’t have the concept of a ‘family resemblance,’ but even after all of this time apart, Aziraphale’s influence on Merzhaz was abundantly clear. “It’s an unfortunate part of the job,” Aziraphale said consolingly. “But please, go on, my dear.”

“Well I broke into his apartment and put a bunch of listening devices there—which we do to each other all the time,” Merzhaz said. “And then the other one has to find all of them and destroy them. Although I guess we could feed each other false information, but that would be a lot more work. But this time I left him a note saying that he knows to be careful on the phone, but not all demons do.” He looked at Crowley. “I knew he’d destroy all my bugs at his place before he called you, if he even called from his place at all. So if I wanted to make sure you got the message…”

“You had to get into my flat,” Crowley finished.

“Right. Sorry.” Merzhaz really did look contrite about it. “You had really impressive wards, though. I almost didn’t get in at all. It was tricky.”

“Yeah, but you did get in,” Crowley said irritably.

“And I’m sure you’ve tightened up your security since then,” Merzhaz said. So maybe not that contrite.

“And that’s why you became so insistent about keeping our calls so short,” Aziraphale said. “I thought you’d just been watching too many of those spy films you like. That Janes… whoever, bloke.”

“Bond. James Bond,” Crowley half-groaned, and he looked at Merzhaz. “He says that like he hasn’t read all the original books,” he complained.

“He says that like he isn’t the one who gave them to me,” Aziraphale told Merzhaz.

“No idea what you’re talking about.” Crowley looked away.

“Signed first editions. Every one of them,” Aziraphale murmured conspiratorially, and then he patted Merzhaz’s wrist. “Thank you for looking after us, my dear—what’s this?”

“Oh!” Merzhaz pulled up the cuff of his sleeve. He was wearing a bracelet with an alternating pattern of gold and silver disks, sized perfectly so that the disks all lay flat against his skin. “Tulon made these,” he said proudly. “We all have them.”

On closer inspection, Aziraphale saw that each disk was inscribed with the symbol for the name of an angel in his platoon. “Oh, I see!” he said. “It’s by squad. Gold for Erisam’s squad, and silver for Paxon’s.”

“Whichever squad you’re in gets the gold disks,” Merzhaz said. “So like, Noat’s is the opposite of mine. But on all of them, yours is bronze.” He turned his wrist over, and sure enough, there in the middle was a single bronze disk with Aziraphale’s name. “We have one for you, too,” Merzhaz said, a little more quietly, “But Tulon’s the only one who knows how to put it on right to make it work.”

“Work?” Aziraphale asked, looking up at him.

“It’s a way to communicate,” Merzhaz explained. “You just touch the name of whoever you want to talk to, and you think whatever you want them to know. You have to mean to send it, so you can’t do it by accident. Or you can wrap your hand around the whole thing—” and he demonstrated, stretching his thumb and middle finger to reach, “so you touch all the names, and then you can talk to everyone.”

“Really,” Aziraphale murmured, examining the bracelet with wide eyes. “That is incredible.”

“It’s come in handy,” Merzhaz said. “Had these a couple millennia before cell phones. Might not have needed them if humans had invented those sooner.”

“I still can’t get this one to use one of those,” Crowley grumbled, nodding towards Aziraphale.

“Really?” Merzhaz seemed equally surprised and amused.

“Do you use these often?” Aziraphale asked tentatively.

Merzhaz shrugged. “It depends. I usually hear from Erisam the most, if she’s watching me from Earth Obs.” He mimed touching one of the disks. “She’ll say like, ‘Look behind you,’ or ‘He’s got a gun in his belt,’ or—” he smirked, “probably most often, ‘Merzhaz, you’re an idiot. Stop being an idiot.’”

Aziraphale laughed.

Crowley raised his eyebrows and leaned forward. “That could’ve come in handy,” he said.

“Notification that you’re being an idiot?” Aziraphale said.

“No, the rest of it,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. He looked at Merzhaz. “Do you know that your boss is a bastard?”

Merzhaz grinned a broad and truly mischievous grin. One might have even described it as evil.

Crowley laughed. “You know it!” he said triumphantly. “You are, too, aren’t you? Is the whole platoon bastards?”

“Only if you mess with us,” Merzhaz said evenly. “...And technically, some of us are bitches.”

Crowley laughed again.

“Erisam does keep an eye on you, too,” Merzhaz added more somberly. “Both of you, even when you’re not together.” He looked at Crowley. “I’m not sure what she would have done if you were in trouble.”

Crowley had no clue how to comprehend the idea that an angel he had never even met could be concerned about him. So he deflected. “What would she have done if he was in trouble?” he asked, nodding to Aziraphale.

Merzhaz shrugged. “Tell Lahon to get ready?” He turned and smiled at his Principality. “Lahon is in the Corporation Department. Has been since the Beginning. A lot of us tried to get positions where we thought we might see you,” he explained. “And since the Beginning, he has kept all of the forms for you filled out and ready to go, to streamline the process for you to get a new body if you ever discorporate.” He smirked and looked at both of them. “So of course at Armageddon, right after you went back to Earth, the first thing we get through the bracelet is Lahon, ‘Seriously? Now, he discorporates?’”

Aziraphale giggled. “Well, I’m terribly sorry to have vexed him,” he said. His eyes longingly drifted down to the bracelet again. “Do you have to be wearing one, in order to send a message?” he asked.

“I… have no idea,” Merzhaz said.

“I wonder,” Aziraphale mused. “Given that my name is part of the circle, I—I may be able to…” He held out his hand. “May I?”

“Of course!” Merzhaz said, holding his arm out. “It’s worth a try, at least, right?”

Aziraphale nodded and discreetly licked his lips. Carefully, delicately, he wrapped his hand around Merzhaz’s wrist, making sure he touched every single disk. Then he closed his eyes and focused. There were three very important things he hoped to tell his platoon: I love you. I miss you. I’m proud of you.

When he opened his eyes, Merzhaz was squeezing back tears. “Did it work?” Aziraphale whispered.

Merzhaz nodded. “It worked,” he said, opening his eyes. “Or at least, it did for me. I could hear you.”

Aziraphale beamed. “Well, that’s something, at least.”

“Oh! Oh, that reminds me.” Merzhaz quickly dried his eyes. “I meant to ask Erisam if she can see us. She usually can’t see in here.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale asked, frowning.

“Because you’re good at wards, too,” Merzhaz said, like it should have been obvious (because it should have, really). “Usually she can only see in here when there’s an Archangel here. We thought maybe we have enough of a connection that it could work with me, too.” He touched one gold disk and thought. A moment later, he laughed.

“What did she say?” Aziraphale asked.

“She said ‘No, you bastard,’” Merzhaz reported.

Aziraphale chuckled.

“So that begs the question, then,” Crowley said. “Does she typically look in here when there is an Archangel here?”

“Always. It’s usually quiet enough that she can listen, too,” Merzhaz said. Then he frowned. “It always puts her in a bad mood, though,” he admitted. “And the rest of us, too, when she tells us how they talk to you.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows and gave Aziraphale a pointed look. “I agree with her on that.”

Merzhaz flinched, suddenly focused elsewhere. “Oh.” He looked at Aziraphale. “She said everyone’s probably trying to talk to you through the bracelet now. Can you hear them?”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“Let me try,” Merzhaz said. He touched the bronze disk and focused. “Anything?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Aziraphale said sadly.

“Okay. I’d better tell them,” Merzhaz said glumly. He wrapped his hand around his wrist. “Principality Aziraphale can’t hear anything through the bracelet. He talked through mine,” he said. Then, letting go of the bracelet, “You don’t have to talk for it to work, but I figure you should know what I’m saying, too.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Thank you.” He gave Crowley a wistful look, but of course, there was nothing Crowley could do.

Merzhaz gave his Principality a sad smile. “They’re all saying to give you a hug for them—ow! Tulon!” He winced and touched one disk. “Don’t shout,” he complained. Then, to Aziraphale, he explained, “He wants to know how you did that.” He rubbed his head. “Loudly.”

Aziraphale giggled and reached for Merzhaz’s wrist. “May I?” Merzhaz turned his wrist, and Aziraphale touched Tulon’s name. “Well, Tulon, I put my hand around the bracelet, just like Merzhaz described. This is quite the clever little thing you’ve devised here, my dear. I’m very impressed!” He sat back, looking inordinately pleased with himself.

“So, so how does this work?” Crowley asked. “You hear them, like… in your head?”

“Yup.” Merzhaz raised his wrist and twisted it, showing off the bracelet. “I have voices in my head.”

Crowley smirked. “How long have you been waiting to say that?” he asked.

“A long time!” Merzhaz said. “A really, really long—” He winced and wrapped his hand around the bracelet. “I promise, I will give him a hug for every single one of you, now can you please stop shouting? Please?” He let go of the bracelet and sighed. Then he raised his eyebrows and grabbed the bracelet again. “No, I haven’t given him your notes yet. I just got here,” he said defensively. Then he winced and recoiled, and he slammed his hand over the bracelet. “Okay, yes, Erisam, thank you for announcing the exact number of minutes since I walked in, now please, I am literally begging you, please stop shouting.”

Crowley turned to Aziraphale. “I think they might be a tad excited to hear from you, angel,” he said dryly.

Merzhaz slapped his own forehead, dropping his head down. “Telling them to whisper,” he grumbled. He straightened up and gave his Principality an imploring look. “Principality Aziraphale!” he whined, visibly relishing sounding like a tattling child, “Erisam is being a brat!”

Aziraphale primly cleared his throat and held his hand out for Merzhaz’s wrist. “My dears,” he said when his hand was in place, “I can’t hear what’s being said, but Merzhaz has just reported that someone is being a brat? I do hope you’re all behaving yourselves.” He let go, nodded, and then gave a delighted little wiggle at taking this old role of his again. Merzhaz had such a big grin that his whole face was in danger of cracking in half.

Crowley couldn’t help smiling, too, seeing his angel so happy. And it was fascinating to watch this interaction unfold. “They really are like your kids, aren’t they?” he said.

Aziraphale beamed at him. “I’ve often thought so,” he quietly admitted. Then Merzhaz burst out laughing, and Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him. “What?”

Merzhaz was frantically gesturing to the bracelet. “Mahatislit,” he said when he got ahold of himself. “She just said—” and he whispered, “‘Okay, trying really hard not to shout, but we’ve got our Principality back!’ And now everybody’s cheering, but they’re trying to whisper.”

Crowley grinned at Aziraphale. But Aziraphale was caught on a detail. “Mahataislit?” he asked.

“Oh!” Merzhaz said. “Oh, she changed her name. Just a little.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “Mahatislit. Is that right? Mahatislit.” He tilted his head, mulling it over. “Yes, that does roll off the tongue nicely.” He reached for Merzhaz’s wrist, lifting his eyebrows to ask before he touched the disk for the angel in question. “Mahatislit, the name suits you well, my dear,” he said.

Merzhaz grinned. “She says thank you. And I think she’s crying,” he said.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale murmured. He cast another longing look at the bracelet. “I wish I could address everyone individually, but that would take a great deal of time, and I feel like we’re using you.”

“I don’t mind,” Merzhaz said quickly.

“Wait—maybe you can, though,” Crowley said. “I mean not with the bracelet, but you might be able to write to them, at least.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose something probably would get through Heaven’s mail system now, but it would still take time. And there’s no telling how many hands it would pass through—”

“No, not like—Aziraphale—” Crowley snapped his fingers.

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the note that had just appeared there, written in Crowley’s hand: Like THIS, angel. “Oh…”

Merzhaz furrowed his brow. “Wait, what?”

“How we have often communicated,” Aziraphale said, gesturing to Crowley and himself. “Particularly when human methods of doing so were not terribly swift or reliable.”

“Have you ever sent them to anyone besides me?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale thought about it. “Just to Esatel, not that she answered. Of course, the ship was sinking by then.” At the demon’s raised eyebrow, he clarified, “The angel they sent on the Titanic, dear. I don’t think you two spoke at all.”

“Ah… yeah, pretty sure she was in shock from about the point we hit the iceberg,” Crowley said. “But you can send notes like that to other angels.”

“Well of course I can,” Aziraphale said, and he snapped his fingers.

Merzhaz immediately reached for his own pocket, where he found a note written in Aziraphale’s handwriting: Hello, dear. “Okay, that is cool,” he said.

“It’s just that I’ve only ever sent those notes on Earth,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t know if I can reach Heaven.” He looked at Crowley. “Have you ever done that?”

“Sent notes to Heaven?” Crowley said. “Definitely not.”

“Well, to Hell, then,” Aziraphale said. “Have you?”

Crowley stopped and thought about it. “...I… don’t know, actually,” he said. “I mean, I’ve sent notes like that to other demons, but I don’t know if any of ‘em were in Hell when they got the notes.”

“We could test it,” Merzhaz suggested. “Send someone a note now, and I can ask if they got it.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Capital idea. Although, perhaps some advance notice would be wise.” Merzhaz held out his arm, and Aziraphale touched a gold disk. “Erisam, we’re going to test something. I’m going to try to send a note directly to your pocket. Please tell Merzhaz if you receive it.” He lifted his finger, and then touched the disk again. “And do try not to shout, dear.”

“Thank you,” Merzhaz whispered. Then, with a cheeky grin, “She said ‘Yes, Principality Aziraphale.’” He eagerly offered his wrist again.

Aziraphale beamed and obligingly touched the disk again. “Just Aziraphale, dear.”

“‘Yes, Principality Aziraphale.’” Merzhaz dissolved into giggles, Aziraphale chuckled, and Crowley raised his eyebrows.

“It’s the only one of my orders they have ever refused to follow,” Aziraphale explained, his voice overflowing with joy and affection.

Crowley smirked. “For them to just call you Aziraphale?”

“They have always, always insisted on using my title,” he said fondly. “And it turned into its own sort of joke…”

“And we have really, really missed doing that,” Merzhaz said giddily.

Aziraphale beamed at him. “Now…” He closed his eyes, thought for a moment, and snapped his fingers.

They waited.

Merzhaz furrowed his brow and touched the bracelet. “No, he didn’t tell me what the note said,” he murmured. He raised an eyebrow and looked at Aziraphale. “She said to tell you ‘Yes, Principality Aziraphale.’”

Aziraphale grinned smugly. “Tell her she can show it to the whole platoon,” he said, and he waited for Merzhaz to relay the message before he explained. “The note says ‘Just call me Aziraphale.’”

And Merzhaz started laughing again.

“I’m so pleased that it worked!” Aziraphale said, and he beamed at Crowley. “You clever old Serpent! I wish I had thought of this ages ago.”

Crowley proudly straightened up a little. “Glad I could help, angel,” he said.

“Oh, I’ll be able to answer everyone!” Aziraphale turned to Merzhaz. “Did everyone send a note?”

“Everyone,” Merzhaz confirmed. Then he sheepishly added, “Except for me, since I get to be here. Hang on.” He closed his eyes and held his hands out for a long moment before he snapped his fingers, and his opposite hand was suddenly holding a very full manila envelope. “Don’t bend it,” he warned. “Erisam included a picture with hers. I’m assuming it’s something from Earth Obs. She said it really belongs to you—both of you, I think—and none of us were allowed to look at it.”

“Ooh… intriguing,” Aziraphale murmured as he took the envelope and set it down on the coffee table.

Crowley gave him a plaintive look. “Seriously?” he said. “You’re really just going to set it right there on the table and not look at it?”

“Well, we’re with Merzhaz right now!” Aziraphale said.

Crowley sighed and stared at the envelope.

“...Ah. Yes, I see your point,” Aziraphale conceded. He picked the envelope up and held it out for Crowley. “Could you put that on the desk, please, dear?”

“Oh, the desk,” Crowley muttered as he took the envelope and stood up to set it on the desk. “Right behind me. Yes, that is so much better, I’m sure.”

“Oh, do stop grumbling. We won’t be staring at it there,” Aziraphale chided, and he turned to Merzhaz again.

“Has Erisam been eavesdropping when Raphael’s been here, too?” Crowley asked as he returned to the chair and started all over with his search for a comfortable position.

Merzhaz looked embarrassed. “Yup.”

“Have those been any better for her mood than when the other Archangels have been here?” Crowley asked.

“...Um.” Merzhaz rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, yesterday we were all pretty miserable when we realized we got it wrong about that order,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder. “You did what you thought was best, as well as you could do it, given the information you had,” he said gently. “I have never asked for anything more than that from any of you, my dear.”

Merzhaz nodded. “Oh, um—” He looked at Aziraphale. “And you were right, about the guidelines for my gender. That hasn’t changed,” he said. “I just kept flip-flopping with Raphael because I kept getting angry and wanting to fight, so… I kept turning female.”

“Wanting to fight Raphael?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh no, Raphael’s been great,” Merzhaz said. “No, I wanted to fight, y’know… certain other… angels.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said, frowning in thought.

“But no, Raphael’s on our side,” Merzhaz said. “She’s the one who let us out of—um—jail…” He furrowed his brow. “Do—do you know that we were in jail?” he hesitantly asked.

“Yes, she told me,” Aziraphale said. He cupped Merzhaz’s cheek in his hand. “Honestly, I’m only relieved that it wasn’t worse. I was very worried for all of you.”

“We were worried for you, too,” Merzhaz said.

Crowley squirmed in his seat. “You only answered half the question, you know,” he said. “What about the other time Raphael was here? How did all of you react to that?”

Merzhaz pressed his lips together. “That time, Erisam told us what you told Raphael about the, uh—” He glanced at Aziraphale. “The punishment,” he said with a shiver. “And we all had a really, really intense training session after that.”

“Working out some anger?” Crowley said flatly.

“To put it mildly, yeah,” Merzhaz said. He clenched his jaw and gave Aziraphale a pained look. “They—they tried to—they tried—”

“Shh, shh, shh…” Aziraphale wrapped his hands over both of Merzhaz’s. “Don’t think about that.”

“They tried to kill you!”

“And they failed, dear—”

“THAT DOESN’T MAKE IT RIGHT!” Merzhaz roared, and Aziraphale immediately spotted all the familiar little changes that indicated her gender had just shifted. Merzhaz grabbed her Principality by the shoulders. “It’s bad enough everything else they’ve done to you! They sent you here by yourself, they didn’t know about Crowley, they left you alone here! Bad enough they did that, and they didn’t give you your medals, and they talk to you like dirt, and it’s WRONG!”

Aziraphale drew in a breath and blinked a few times.

“It was bad enough they did all of that, and then they tried to KILL you, and WE WERE IN JAIL!” She was shaking, and her breathing was ragged, and her wide eyes were locked on Aziraphale’s. “We were in jail, and we COULDN’T DO ANYTHING!”

Crowley’s fingers dug into the chair's armrests. Where the Heaven are you?

“There were angels who came in, when we were in jail,” Merzhaz said. “And some would taunt, and some were checking on us, some were just filling us in, but they said, they told us you were going to be KILLED! And we couldn’t—”

I can’t find you!

“We couldn’t even WARN you! We couldn’t protect you, we couldn’t fight for you, we couldn’t do ANYTHING!”

For Go-—for Sa—for Somebody’s sake!

“And then they said you had been killed—”

SOMEBODY KILLED MY BEST FRIEND!

“And some said you survived, and some said you didn’t, and we DIDN’T KNOW—”

BASTARDS!

“Enough!” Aziraphale’s voice cracked and, in so doing, managed to break through everything. “That’s enough! I’m here. I’m here. I’m safe, and I’m here.” Crowley slowly forced himself to blink and found that he was more fully in the present again. He stared across at the sofa and saw Aziraphale with his arms tightly clamped around Merzhaz, who was sobbing into his shoulder. Aziraphale himself looked oddly pale, and strained, and deeply worried as he stared right back at Crowley. “I’m here,” he kept saying, insisting, as his voice slowly grew firmer and steadier. “I’m here. We’re safe, we’re all safe, and I’m here.”

Crowley wondered which of them he was trying to convince. All three of them, maybe. He took a slow, deep breath of distinctly not-smoky air, listened to the lack of roaring flames, and tried to focus. He was no expert in Merzhaz’s specific tells, but something had definitely shifted. He thought he’d even seen a change in anatomy. So, he started to ask, “Prono—”

Aziraphale firmly shook his head. “Give Merzhaz some time to settle, dear,” he said gently.

Right. Crowley nodded. Switching between genders wasn’t always smooth, comfortable, or instant. It was easy to defer to Aziraphale’s judgment on this. But it still left Crowley grappling for something real and now to focus on.

Aziraphale watched him another moment, gently stroking Merzhaz’s hair. Merzhaz’s sobs were subsiding, and Aziraphale turned a little more towards the angel in his arms. “I wasn’t—” He stopped, and with the hand that wasn’t stroking Merzhaz’s hair, he wrapped a gentle grip around the bracelet. “I wasn’t as vulnerable as your fears would have you believe,” he murmured. “Best you don’t ask how. But think what could have happened if you had tried to defend me.” He kissed Merzhaz’s forehead. “I am so grateful that you are safe.” He let go of the bracelet.

Merzhaz straightened up with a thankful smile, wiping tears. “I wasn’t going to ask how.”

“Wise of you,” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley couldn’t quite help the sense of longing he felt at seeing Aziraphale give Merzhaz a second forehead kiss. It wasn’t that Crowley had ever been very interested in kissing, or at least not in snogging like humans, but there was something so affectionate and caring about a kiss to the forehead. He hadn’t ever really thought about wanting it before.

“Now.” Aziraphale straightened up and squeezed Merzhaz’s hands. “I think we could all do with some tea. Would you like some tea?”

Merzhaz nodded and sniffed. “Yes, please.”

“I’ll make us some tea.” Aziraphale stood, straightening his waistcoat and jacket.

Tea. Merzhaz wanted tea. That was important, wasn’t it? That was significant, for some reason Crowley couldn’t remember. Something they’d said before, and—

A warm hand on his shoulder finally pulled him completely into the present, and Crowley looked up just as Aziraphale’s fingers brushed through his hair. “Crowley. Dear,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Would you look after Merzhaz for me, please? Just for a moment.” His eyes held a far more detailed message. I’m here and We’re safe now and It’s alright and Please, I just need a moment to myself, please…

Crowley nodded. “Yeah. Course.” Aziraphale needed him. Therefore, he could do anything, including pulling himself together right now.

Aziraphale’s face relaxed considerably with a relieved little sigh. “Thank you, my dear,” he whispered. He brushed his fingers through Crowley’s hair again, and then he leaned in and touched his lips to Crowley’s forehead and lingered there!

Right. So. Scratch that last bit about pulling it together.

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s shoulder and straightened up. “Right,” he said, as evenly as he could manage, “I’ll be back in two shakes.” And with one more look at both of them, he bustled off to the relative privacy of his kitchenette, where he immediately clenched the edge of the countertop and let out a deep, ragged gust of a breath.

It was one thing to have lived through the past six thousand years himself, to know for himself how the Archangels treated him. And it was another thing to try to explain some of it to Crowley, and have Crowley tell him how wrong it was. And it was something else entirely to see it all through his platoon’s eyes.

He never would have borne Heaven’s treatment as long as he had, couldn’t have borne it, if he had been in regular contact with his platoon, if he had seen their anguish for him and their outrage on his behalf, if he’d been trying to soothe them and convince them that he was fine and all was well when they knew it was wrong… He would have stood up for himself much sooner, for their sake, he would have lashed out ages and ages ago.

He suddenly felt like he had a great deal more insight into why abusers isolated their victims from friends and family.

A shudder ran through his whole body. Abuse. That was what it was, wasn’t it? That was what it always had been, for six thousand years. His mind turned back to how angry Raphael had been yesterday. Her anger had puzzled him, because it hadn’t been directed at him, but now, well… Now, pieces were sliding into place. She had been angry for him. She had been angry about how he’d been treated, just as his platoon was, and just as he probably should have been this whole time.

Aziraphale focused on the feeling of the edge of the countertop digging into his hands. Oh, dear—he hoped he hadn’t dented that again. With a deep breath, he turned his attention to making tea. It was only in the last two or three decades that Crowley had finally convinced Aziraphale to use an electric kettle, and in this moment, he started to reach for his far more familiar and comforting copper kettle to put on the hob. But then he remembered how Crowley’s face had looked just a moment ago. The poor demon was trying to hold himself together. The very last thing he needed right now was even the slightest hint of a flame in the shop. So Aziraphale grabbed the handle of his electric kettle and set about filling it.

Water. Crowley. He’d barely even turned on the tap when the two thoughts converged. Water. Crowley. Pitcher. Pouring. No, no, no. He shivered. Not now, not now, not now—Wait. That won’t work. Do what will work. Stop. Breathe. Inhale, two, three, four, hold, two, three, four, exhale, two, three, four, rest, two, three, four, inhale, two, three, four… The entire cycle, two times, three times, four. This is not a glass pitcher. This is my kettle. Feel the curve of the handle, touch the button, trace the lid with a finger. This is not a tub. This is my old metal sink. Touch it, feel the metal, trace every familiar corner of it. This is my shop. I am making tea in my shop. I am making tea in my shop, and Crowley and Merzhaz are here, and they need me. Merzhaz is here. This ought to be a celebration! Buck up, Principality!

Perhaps biscuits were called for, too.

So he finally managed to fill the kettle, and while that was warming up, he took out a tray and loaded it with three cups and a tin of biscuits.

Meanwhile, Crowley had recovered from the kiss enough to focus on Merzhaz, as promised. “You okay?” he asked hesitantly.

Merzhaz hadn’t budged from the sofa and was staring down at—erm—his/her/their chest, which was very definitely a different shape now than it had been before, and the shirt couldn’t quite accommodate the change. “Yeah…” Merzhaz sheepishly looked up. “I, um… I kinda drained myself before, with the envelope.” Thumb and middle finger tapped together, imitating a snap. “I can get a bra, or I can fix my shirt, but I can’t do both.”

“Ah.” Right. Merzhaz was a mere angel, the lowest rank of angel, and as such had considerably less power than, say, a Principality. Crowley couldn’t imagine getting by on Earth with so little power that an overstuffed envelope could drain him that much. But then, the more important something was, the more effort it required. Crowley glanced at the envelope on the desk and spared a thought for how important its contents were to Merzhaz, and to Aziraphale, and to their entire platoon. He looked at Merzhaz and held up his own hand, ready to snap. “You get the bra. I’ll fix the shirt.”

Merzhaz nodded, focused, and snapped, and then tugged at the newly-acquired undergarment to get it situated right.

When everything seemed to be in place, Crowley snapped, and the shirt became perfectly fitted to the new shape.

“Thanks,” Merzhaz sighed, and gestured to the area in question. “I’ve been trying to get them smaller. This is about three millennia’s worth of progress. They used to be twice this big.” Merzhaz grimaced. “Thank God they actually let women fight now. Do you have any idea how hard it was to squeeze a giant pair of boobs into male armor?”

Crowley did not know. Even when he was feeling female, he very rarely bothered with any sort of anatomy, but while the actual functioning mechanisms were always optional, the general shape was less optional for some than for others. Still, Crowley had dabbled enough to imagine the problem. He raised an eyebrow. “Is it better or worse than trying to fight in a corset?”

Merzhaz looked confused. “Corsets are fine for fighting. I mean, unless it doesn’t fit right…”

Crowley blinked. “...Huh,” he said.

Merzhaz watched him. “...So… why were you fighting in a corset that didn’t fit?”

“Uh—long story,” Crowley mumbled. “Why do you trust me?” He had to know.

Merzhaz blinked and frowned. “What?”

“You just—you let me change your shirt,” Crowley said, gesturing to it. “I could’ve just as easily turned the whole thing to shackles, or a straitjacket, or—or—or made it neon green with purple splotches!”

“You didn’t,” Merzhaz said flatly.

“But I could have!” he insisted. “I’m a demon!”

“...Yeah? I know?” Merzhaz said, and glanced down at the shirt in question. “I kinda half-expected a snake motif, honestly.”

“But—” One of them was clearly missing something, and Crowley really wasn’t sure which of them it was. “We’re supposed to be enemies,” he explained.

“Yup,” Merzhaz agreed.

Right. So Merzhaz had at least got that memo. “So then why are you trusting me?” Crowley asked.

Merzhaz looked at him like he’d just sprouted daisies out of his hair.

“It’s a reasonable question!” Crowley insisted. “I mean, we’re meant to be—sworn enemies, and all that, bitter adversaries, kill each other on sight, and you act like you’ve never been the least bit bothered that I’ve been—” He gestured back and forth between himself and the direction Aziraphale had gone. “That we’ve been—” But he couldn’t decide on a suitable way to end the sentence,³ so his voice just sort of stopped.

And the angel on the sofa just stared back at him. “...You would risk your life for him.” Matter-of-fact, like saying water was wet and ice was cold. “Therefore, any one of us would risk our lives for you.” Merzhaz shrugged. “It’s that simple.”

As if any part of that was actually simple.

Crowley.exe was not responding.

Merzhaz sighed and leaned forward. “Look—not that I needed any convincing, but if I did, that time I saw you and Clarence at the bar would’ve done it.” A furrowed brow. “Some other time, I’d love to know how you got him in there in the first place, and then to all appearances a Black man offended a white woman, and you still got him out of there alive.” A shake of the head, and then Merzhaz kept talking while taking that long dark braid and wrapping it up into a bun. “But that’s irrelevant to this. The point is more—you and Principality Aziraphale weren’t on good terms then.” Merzhaz paused one hand in its work and held it up, palm out. “I don’t know why, and I don’t need to—” and the hand returned to work. “But I know that you weren’t. Because Clarence mentioned him, and I really think anyone else would have seen your reaction as something trauma-induced, but I felt…” Merzhaz finished pinning the bun in place and dropped both hands to the sofa. “It was the bitterest love I have ever Sensed. But also, probably the strongest.” And Merzhaz leaned forward again with a new intensity in those brown eyes. “Because even then, you would have risked your life for him.”

“...Uh… Wnz—ygh… uh.” There was absolutely no part of this conversation that was comfortable, including and especially this blasted chair, and Crowley still could not begin to comprehend the part about why Merzhaz—and the whole platoon, apparently—would risk their lives for a demon they had never even met.

Merzhaz seemed to be seeing right through him, and apparently had a history of doing so, which really wasn’t helping matters. Merzhaz’s head tilted to one side. “...Okay. Try thinking of it this way. Principality Aziraphale would risk his life for you.”

“...Yes…” Crowley knew that, logically, and had proof of it and everything, but he still struggled to wrap his head around it. Was he supposed to reach some other conclusion because of that barely-comprehensible fact? “Oh!” His eyebrows flew up. “So you lot would protect me as a way to protect him, because he’s safer if he’s not risking his life for me. That’s why you’d do it.”

“No, that’s not why,” Merzhaz said. “We would risk our lives for you because you would risk your life for him. But if the other one makes more sense to you, that works, too.”

Crowley’s mouth opened and shut a few times, looking very much like the fish out of water he felt like. Thankfully, his brain chose that moment to connect a very different set of dots. “You like tea!”

Now Merzhaz was the confused one. “...Yes?”

So Crowley generously explained. “Aziraphale thought about making some before you got here, but he wasn’t sure you’d want it, since you’re American.”

Merzhaz made a funny face. “I’m not American.” It might have been more convincing without the American accent. “I mean I’ve lived there mostly, lately, but you guys are more English than I am American.”

Crowley arched one eyebrow. “...Y’know that sport, where the humans run around on the grass, and they chase that black-and-white ball around…”

“Soccer?”

Crowley grinned triumphantly.

The light dawned, and Merzhaz groaned, seeing the trap. “Ohh….”

“Football,” Crowley sing-songed. “Unless you are American…”

“Fine… guilty as charged,” Merzhaz sighed, grinning bashfully.

“But you do like tea.”

“Yes, I like tea. Or at least, I’ve got nothing against it.”

“You like it well enough to accept it from Aziraphale.”

Merzhaz responded to that with an eye roll, glanced to make sure Aziraphale wasn’t back yet, and then leaned forward with one hand cupped around the mouth to whisper, “Principality Aziraphale could offer me hot piss and I’d accept it.”

Crowley cackled at that.

Aziraphale felt his shoulders relax at the sound of Crowley’s well-timed laugh, and he tore his eyes away from the rain he’d noticed falling on the windowpane. It was ridiculous how paranoid he’d become lately. It wasn’t as if all the water on Earth was suddenly Holy. Crowley was fine, Crowley was perfectly safe, and better yet—by the sounds of it—Crowley was getting along very well with Merzhaz. And how could he possibly bear to miss seeing that? He took one more look over the tray he’d assembled to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, and he picked it up and hurried back to join them. “It sounds like we’re doing well here,” he said as he reached the sofa, looking over both of them for confirmation as he set the tray on the coffee table. “I brought biscuits, too, if anyone’s peckish.”

“Those would be ‘cookies,’ to you,” Crowley said to Merzhaz.

“He’s calling me out on being American,” Merzhaz said.

“Ah, yes. He likes reminding me of how English I am, too,” Aziraphale said as he resumed his seat on the sofa, preparing to serve. “You do like tea, though? I wasn’t sure how you take it…”

“I’m not sure, either,” Merzhaz admitted. “It’s been a while since I’ve had it the same way twice.”

Even with the sunglasses in place, Aziraphale could see the mischievous spark in Crowley’s eye, and of course the smug smirk was on full display. “Merzhaz was just saying—”

“I was just saying,” Merzhaz hastily took over, earning a pair of raised eyebrows from each of them, “that there is just something really comforting about any… warm beverage.”

Crowley sniggered.

“Like tea,” Merzhaz pressed on, ignoring the demon. “Or coffee, or apple cider, hot chocolate, which is probably my favorite.”

“Oh I do love hot cocoa,” Aziraphale gushed.

Crowley started to think, Like father, like—and then he stopped and corrected himself with a more non-binary-friendly Like parent, like offspring, and he wondered if there was an angel equivalent to that. Like principality, like platoon? Was that a thing?

“Are you sure the tea is alright? Because I could make—”

“No, no, it’s alright, really! I do like tea,” Merzhaz insisted. “If I ever didn’t like tea, believe me, I spent enough time in fifth-century China to cure me of that.”

Aziraphale beamed. “Well. If you’re sure.” He looked at Crowley—who was squirming his way into a passably “normal” position in the chair—and started pouring the tea. Then he let his eyes slide over to Merzhaz again. “Are you ready for pronouns, dear?” he asked gently.

Merzhaz nodded. “She/her. For now, at least.” Her eyes landed on Aziraphale’s shoulder as she accepted the cup and saucer he handed her. “I made a mess of your coat,” she said apologetically.

And she had. There was a big, messy, wet splotch from all the crying she’d done there, and Crowley was on alert, waiting for the puppy-dog eyes so he could fix it.

But Aziraphale reached a hand towards the wet spot, stopping short of touching it, and distinctly looked away from Crowley. “Oh, it—it’s fixable,” he said, not quite hiding his tension. When he did turn to Crowley, his eyes flicked right past the demon to the window instead, and then hastily snapped to the cup and saucer that had trembled in his hand as he’d reached to pass them to Crowley. He steadied himself.

Crowley did not look back at the window, but he did finally notice the sound of rain there. As he accepted his tea, he deliberately brushed his fingers against Aziraphale’s, and the angel finally met his gaze as the touch lingered. He looked strained, and—worse—he seemed to feel silly for feeling strained. So the coat could wait. Crowley settled back with his tea and diverted the conversation. “Can I be nosy about the gender thing?” he asked Merzhaz.

“Yes.” Merzhaz crooked an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you fluid, too? Or you just present that way?”

“No, ‘m fluid, just—I don’t have…” he wiggled his fingers at her. “Guidelines, as you put it. It sounds like—like your gender changes with your mood?” And that didn’t make sense, didn’t seem quite right.

Merzhaz shook her head. “It’s not a mood. It’s more like—” She paused, clearly considering how to phrase it. “...My default is male,” she said slowly. “But when I’m in fight mode, it’s like this different part of me, and that part happens to be female.”

“So this is your fight mode,” Crowley said, nodding to her.

“Yes.”

And now that she put it that way, Crowley could see it. Fight Mode Merzhaz was more alert and moved with more precision than Default Merzhaz. She was sitting there sipping her tea while somehow simultaneously giving the impression of standing guard. Crowley thought he was finally getting a glimpse of why Clarence had always been so afraid of her.

“Noat is similar, really,” Aziraphale mused, cradling his own teacup in his hands now.

Merzhaz gave him an affectionate smile. “Little Sister is always Little Sister,” she said.

“Well, yes, of course,” Aziraphale agreed. “She doesn’t change gender. But I meant about—‘fight mode,’ as you put it. If you met her on the battlefield, you would never recognize her off of it.”

“Same could be said for you,” Crowley murmured. Six thousand years later, he could still hear Mephistopheles describing the Principality he had faced in the War.⁴ He doesn’t LOOK very intimidating, outside of a fight. Once you’ve CROSSED him, you know you’re in trouble… It still ranked as one of the most accurate descriptions of Aziraphale Crowley had ever heard. “Is the rest of the platoon like that, too?” Crowley’s ‘family resemblance’ theory seemed to be building more and more evidence.

Aziraphale and Merzhaz both paused to consider it—tilting their heads in exactly the same way, lending even more credence to the ‘family resemblance’ thing. “Well, certainly Murer,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. “Otaron comes to mind, too. And Asiel.”

“Isenat, too. More so than she used to,” Merzhaz said. “Oh, and Asekos.”

“Definitely Asekos,” Aziraphale agreed.

“Probably all of us, to some extent,” Merzhaz said to Crowley. “Especially from the enemy’s point of view.”

“Fair enough.” Crowley took a sip of his tea and then straightened up as another thought occurred to him. “Wait! Wait, wait—” He awkwardly stretched out to set his tea down and pointed excitedly at Merzhaz. “You turn female when you fight.”

Merzhaz raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s the simple version, yes.”

“And you were in fifth century China.”

“Yup.”

“So, Mulan…?”

“Was real, and happened to not be the only woman on the battlefield,” Merzhaz said pointedly, like she’d had this conversation before and wasn’t fond of anyone attributing Mulan’s success to supernatural intervention.⁵ “She was also the only one who knew she wasn’t the only woman there. I mean, during the fighting, we were the only ones who knew there were any women there.”

“But you did both get to know each other, as woman soldiers?” Crowley asked. “Have all the girl talk and all that? Bond over squeezing boobs into armor?”

“Well, she didn’t have an issue with that,” Merzhaz said, rolling her eyes. “But yes, we both knew we were both women the whole time, and helped each other with the girly bits, and had girl talk. She was a classy lady.”

“Always wanted to know if she was real. We didn’t spend much time in China,” Crowley said. “But I always hated it when I was female and still had to pass as male. And that’s, like—that’s pretty much the majority of how you’ve been female on Earth, isn’t it?”

“Yes! It can be so annoying!” Merzhaz said. “You’d think I’d get used to it or something, but no, I never did, and I don’t think anyone at Head Office really gets how… how… icky it can feel!”

Aziraphale had a deep frown on his face. “They are supposed to take gender identity into consideration when they give assignments,” he said. “I thought it was the one thing they had listened to me about.”

“They did try to send me to places where women could fight, too,” Merzhaz immediately said, putting a comforting hand on Aziraphale’s elbow. “There just haven’t been a lot of those.”

“I suppose.” Aziraphale did not seem at all soothed.

“And to be fair, I did keep asking for some of those assignments,” Merzhaz admitted. “And some cultures weren’t as bad as others. Sometimes it was hard, but sometimes nobody thought twice about a ‘man’ having boobs, or changing gender, or things like that. China wasn’t bad, really. I mean, when they found out Mulan was a girl? Nobody even thought twice about it.”

“Disney got that bit wrong, did they?” Crowle said sarcastically.

Merzhaz immediately snapped her attention to him with an icily sweet smile. “Would you like the full six-hour lecture on what Disney got wrong?”

He snorted. “Some other time.”

So Merzhaz lightly patted Aziraphale’s elbow again. “It’s alright, Principality Aziraphale,” she said soothingly. “And they did listen to you. More than you know.”

Aziraphale nodded, looking down into his tea. “I suppose it’s just that I only have my own—very limited experience to draw from. With gender, I mean. Presenting as something you’re not.”

“Have you had to do that?” Merzhaz asked. “I mean, you’re…”

“Agender is the term these days,” Aziraphale said with a small smile. “I’ve never really felt male so much as that’s just the best fit. But yes, in the very, very early days, there were a few assignments where I had to present as female.” He pressed his lips together. “The best way I could explain it was that it felt like ill-fitting armor. It might do the job, but it is very much a hindrance, and could well end up doing more harm than good.”

Merzhaz nodded. “That’s a good way of putting it,” she said. “Keeping with that analogy, then—different cultures have different gender norms, just like they have different armor. Even if it isn’t the best fit… some are more cumbersome than others.”

Crowley hummed his agreement. “Better an oversized gambison than oversized full plate armor.”

“You hated full plate armor,” Aziraphale supplied.

“I loathed and despised full plate armor,” Crowley said with some disgust. “Never understood why anyone bothered with it. Brigandine works just as well and it looks better.”

Aziraphale pouted. “I liked full plate armor.”

“Well of course you did! It was expensive! And besides, you’re—” Crowley gestured at Aziraphale’s whole body. “You’re—shiny enough, you can pull it off.”

“Shiny?” Aziraphale scowled.

“Well, you are.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Well, despite your opinion, and whatever myths humans have about it today, there was absolutely nothing wrong with full plate armor—until someone,” and here he gave Crowley a hard glare, “invented codpieces.”

“Oi!” Crowley shook his finger at Aziraphale. “I thought we agreed to never talk about codpieces ever again!”

Merzhaz furrowed her eyebrows. “Do I want to know what codpieces are?”

“No,” Crowley said firmly.

“They were a highly questionable fashion in the late Middle Ages,” Aziraphale said. “Meant to emphasize, and rather exaggerate, certain male… anatomy.” He pointedly glanced towards his lap. “Someone thought it would be amusing to make it popular.”

“In my defense, it was funny,” Crowley said.

 “Until we had to wear them!”

“Which is why we agreed not to talk about it—” Crowley turned to Merzhaz. “He will never forgive me for that,” he sighed.

“Well not everyone has the luxury of switching genders to escape a ridiculous fashion trend,” Aziraphale said dryly.

“Right, that’s the bit he won’t forgive me for,” Crowley amended, and he turned to Aziraphale again. “Is that the real reason you went to Japan?”

“Might be,” Aziraphale said coolly, really mostly just to be contrary at this point. Then he softened considerably as he turned to Merzhaz again. “I am glad to know that it wasn’t always terrible, at least,” he said, and then he very sadly added, “I never had any idea you were ever even in China. And I had no idea you were really stationed in the Americas until Crowley said so yesterday.”

Merzhaz reflected her Principality’s sadness as she took his hand. “You knew about Caral,” she said optimistically.

“Oh, they wrote a whole article about you for Caral, in the paper! When the humans found it again,” Aziraphale said. “A whole civilization rising out of peace and trade, without needing any thought for defense, and how remarkable that is! I—I’ve read it… many times over.”

Merzhaz beamed under the praise. “Erisam told us you kept a whole book of newspaper clippings about us,” she said. A subdued anger pulled at her face. “And that even with that, they left parts out in yours.”

“But it was something,” Aziraphale said fervently. “It was what I had of you. It was all that I had, of any of you. This whole time.”

“I know. I know.”

While the two of them set their tea down to grip each other’s hands, Crowley looked at the mess on Aziraphale’s coat with new eyes. As precious as the coat was, the mess was Merzhaz’s mess… so no wonder Aziraphale was torn. He had no way to know yet if it wouldn’t be another 4,631 years before he saw Merzhaz again.

“We have your old medals,” Merzhaz said. “From the War. We know you hated them,” she hastily added. “We all hate the medals we got in the War, too, but—but those were yours, and you left them, so we… we split them all up between us. Some of us got a whole one, and some just got the medal part, and some just got the ribbon, but we all got something.”

“...Oh.” Aziraphale gave her a watery smile. “Well, I’m glad those dreadful things managed to be good for something,” he said.

As they talked and finished their tea, conversation naturally turned to Aziraphale’s scrapbook, and what he did and did not know from what he’d seen in his paper. Merzhaz thought she might be able to fill in some of the gaps, so Aziraphale fetched his precious scrapbook, and they sat together, looking through the pages. Merzhaz carefully read every clipping and the dates that went with each, but her attention was clearly elsewhere. She looked up at every outside sound, and seeing as they were, of course, in London, there was hardly any shortage of those. Try as she might, Merzhaz could not seem to shake the instinct to stand guard. “I’m sorry,” she finally said, shaking her head. “I just can’t focus…”

“It’s alright, my dear. I understand,” Aziraphale assured her.

“Maybe when I’m male again,” she said.

Aziraphale eyed her cautiously. “If I may say… I’m a tinge surprised you haven’t switched back yet,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

Crowley raised his eyebrow. He hadn’t exactly got the impression that Merzhaz expected her gender change to be such a short-term thing.

Merzhaz quickly surveyed her surroundings (again). “You’re nervous,” she told Aziraphale. “That’s why.”

“...Oh.” Aziraphale looked at the rain on the window. “Oh, that’s—you don’t have to worry about that, my dear.”

Of course, saying so only served the opposite purpose, and Merzhaz immediately followed his gaze and scrutinized the view out the window, searching for the cause.

“Are we done with everything for tea? Why don’t I put this away,” Aziraphale said, and no one stopped him as he scooped everything back onto the tray and carried it out.

Crowley went to follow him, but Merzhaz stood too and pinned him with her gaze. She couldn’t see what was putting her Principality on edge, and she expected the demon to tell her.

Crowley hesitated. “He said not to worry, because logically, he knows there isn’t a real threat,” he said quietly.

“It’s real enough to him,” Merzhaz returned.

And that was certainly true. Crowley nodded. “...It’s the rain,” he admitted. “He’s had a hard time around water the last couple weeks.” And he excused himself, leaving her to make what she would of that while he went to the kitchenette.

Aziraphale had set the tray down and was gripping the edge of the counter with his eyes squeezed shut. He took a slow, deep breath, and then he glared at the rain.

“Angel,” Crowley said softly.

Aziraphale immediately faced him with a relieved and grateful look. Then he turned his attention to the mess on his shoulder, fussing with his coat to get a better look at it.

“You know,” Crowley said as he slithered in beside him, “You could just miracle away the messy bits, and leave the rest of it there.”

“Do you think so?” Aziraphale asked hopefully. Then he pouted at the spot on his coat. “It would be rather a delicate task, I should think…”

“Nah… should be easy as anything,” Crowley said, circling Aziraphale, making a show of examining the spot from different angles.

Aziraphale, in turn, made a show of displaying the spot for him. “It’s just… well, what if I get it wrong?”

“What’s to get wrong about it?” Crowley cocked an eyebrow at him and circled him again, this time in the opposite direction.

“Well, if—what if I miracled away the wrong part?” He looked at Crowley. “The part I want to keep is the easiest part to get rid of.”

As if it wasn’t all equally easy. Technically, of course, Crowley was more powerful than Aziraphale, supernaturally speaking. They never discussed that, but it remained between them as an unspoken excuse for things like this. “I’m sure you could manage it,” Crowley said.

“Only, I—I would never forgive myself, you know.” And Aziraphale gave Crowley those classic puppy-dog eyes. “If I did it wrong.”

Ah, and that was his cue. Crowley gave the messy spot one more appraising look. Then he stepped closer, leaned in, and gently blew away the mess, leaving only a slightly damp spot.

Aziraphale let out a light breath that might have been a sigh, and he smiled tenderly at Crowley. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Crowley leaned back against the counter and gave him a long, indulgent look. And oh, this was still new, getting to hold eye contact for this part, with neither of them hastily ducking away. His useless old heart was drumming away in his chest. This was a feeling that would take getting used to, but oh, he could definitely get used to it.

Then, behind Aziraphale, Crowley noticed Merzhaz as she turned away from the window and started to approach them from the opposite side of the shop. “I thought,” he said quietly as he straightened up, “that we were having a guest over, rather than a bodyguard.”

Aziraphale smiled fondly as he started putting the dirty dishes in the sink. “The whole platoon is like that. We’d all defend each other to our last breath.” He paused. “Well—figuratively speaking, that is,” he amended. “That’s what made us so formidable in battle.”

“No, that’s just part of it,” Merzhaz said as she reached them.

“Oh!” Aziraphale turned to smile at her. “Hello.”

“Hey.” Her eyes quickly flicked over the area as she returned his smile. “Can I help?”

“Oh, no, we’re—”

“You could wash,” Crowley interrupted.

“Sure!” Merzhaz promptly unbuttoned her cuffs and started rolling up her sleeves.

“Oh—” Aziraphale looked at the tap. “Yes, good idea,” he decided.

Crowley caught his eye. “Shall I dry, or—”

“I will dry,” Aziraphale said sternly, shooing Crowley away from the sink while Merzhaz silently clocked the whole exchange.

“So, Merzhaz,” Crowley said as he gathered up the tin of biscuits from the tray, “what’s the other part of what made your lot so formidable?” Then he leaned over. “One more.” He popped another biscuit into Aziraphale’s mouth.

Whatever surprise and indignation Aziraphale felt about that—plus Merzhaz’s laughter, plus the actual taste of the biscuit, and of course actually needing to eat it—was enough to distract him from the water turning on.

“Well, our training, for starters,” Merzhaz said as she began to wash the dishes. She was no less diligent now about checking their surroundings constantly, and she was careful to avoid splashing the water. “We have this awesome Principality, y’see. He got all of us in tip-top shape and kept us there.”

Aziraphale, of course, was too busy chewing to object to the praise, but he flushed all the same.

“Hmm… but you haven’t had that Principality around lately,” Crowley said as he started putting things away. “Did you all stay in tip-top shape?”

“You’d better believe we did,” Merzhaz said proudly. “Last time Heaven put on war games, between platoons—like, a hundred years ago, maybe? We still trounced everyone. And I mean, literally everyone.”

Having finished the biscuit, Aziraphale started drying the dishes. “Who took over your training?” he asked.

“Opanir did.”

“Really!” Aziraphale beamed. “Oh, he’d be very good at that.”

“He has been,” Merzhaz agreed. “And I mean… in a way, you are still helping us.”

“How’s that?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, with all of your reports, about new human weapons and how to use them,” Merzhaz said. “We’ve all read them.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “Doesn’t everyone have access to those?”

“Well—...yes…” Merzhaz said, drawing the word out. “But I don’t think everyone has actually read all of them, like we have. I mean, we have studied all of them, and with Erisam in Earth Obs and me actually on Earth—between the two of us, we’ve seen all of it in action.” She thought for a moment. “I’m pretty sure Erisam has had Opanir in Earth Obs a few times, too, so he could see it in action, so he could train us better.”

“Haven’t you also written reports on a few weapons?” Aziraphale said. “I couldn’t keep any copies, but I was sure those were yours.”

“Some, yes,” Merzhaz bashfully admitted. “So we have an advantage there, too. Not that the boomerang is ever going to be the most popular weapon in Heaven, but Noat and Zesael like them. Cahtiel, too.”

“What’s the rest of Heaven got against a weapon that comes back after you throw it?” Crowley wondered.

“Well—boomerang weapons actually don’t come back,” Merzhaz said.

Crowley pouted. “Well what’s the fun in that?”

“The fun is having a usable weapon,” Merzhaz laughed. “But I’d take a good spear over a boomerang any day.”

Aziraphale frowned and gave a thoughtful hum. “A spear is well and good for melee, but a boomerang is a ranged weapon, dear. The greater the distance you can defend yourself at, the more of an advantage you have.”

Merzhaz ducked her head. “Yes, Principality Aziraphale. I know,” she said, duly chastised.

Aziraphale smiled kindly at her. “Merely not your best comparison, I’m sure,” he said. “I doubt a single platoon could have ‘trounced’ everyone else at war games unless every—” He stopped, blinked, and stared at her. “...Unless every member… was proficient in at least one ranged weapon and one melee weapon?”

Merzhaz was beaming now. She nodded.

Aziraphale looked impressed. “That hasn’t always been true!”

“And we do still have our preferences,” Merzhaz conceded. “But we’ve all kind of made a point of… expanding our comfort zones.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Aziraphale had rarely looked so proud. “Oh, I wish I could have seen those war games. I can’t imagine how the others must have reacted, losing to a platoon that hadn’t even seen their Principality in so long.”

“They were humiliated. It was pretty awesome,” Merzhaz said. “They might have tried to spare their pride some by giving credit to Razael. She’s been checking in on us for you, sometimes.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “...You mean, Principality Razael?”

Merzhaz froze. “...Yes,” she said, like she’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Oh, I see,” Aziraphale said, feigning offense. “So, for Razael, you’ll drop the title…”

“Well she hasn’t earned it as much,” Merzhaz protested.

“Mm, yes. I’m sure that’s what it is,” Aziraphale teased.

“Who’s Razael?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, you know her,” Aziraphale said, eyes still glittering as he looked at Crowley. “Or at least, you’ve seen her. Guardian of the Western Gate.”

“Ohhh.” Crowley nodded. “Yeah, I remember. I know she was around a bit after the Garden, but I haven’t seen her since…” He tried to remember.

“Before the Flood, I’d wager,” Aziraphale said.

“Well before that,” Crowley agreed.

“I will say that I’m surprised she did check in on you—for me, especially,” Aziraphale said. “We were never exactly what you would call close.”

“She mentioned that,” Merzhaz said irritably. “She said none of the Guardians of Eden really clicked, but she respects you, and you’d do the same for her platoon if the roles were reversed.”

“Suppose I would,” Aziraphale mused.

But Crowley couldn’t help raising an eyebrow at Merzhaz’s tone. “Do I detect a hint of why you think Razael hasn’t earned the title of Principality?”

Merzhaz turned to give him a look that was both baffled and outraged. “How could anyone not like Principality Aziraphale?”

Crowley shrugged. “I dunno. Ask his customers,” he said dryly.

“But he’s Principality Aziraphale!” Merzhaz insisted.

Principality Aziraphale giggled. “You may be a bit biased, my dear.”

“Well of course I’m biased! But still!” She finished washing the last dish and turned the water off.

Aziraphale promptly gave her a fresh towel. “Dry your hands, dear.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sir,” Crowley quietly echoed, amused.

“And let me assure you,” Aziraphale told Merzhaz as he dried the dish, “I am perfectly capable of being unlikable.”

Merzhaz looked skeptical, but unwilling to contradict him.

“Think of it this way,” Aziraphale explained as he handed the dish to Crowley to put away, “Do you think there might be certain personalities that I wouldn’t care for?”

Merzhaz frowned. “Well yeah…”

“And—depending on the context, of course—do you think I would always go out of my way to hide my distaste?”

Crowley sniggered.

“...Oh,” Merzhaz said. “Yeah, no. You might do the opposite, actually.”

“Bastard,” Crowley cheerfully said.

“Just so.” Aziraphale straightened his bow tie and gestured back towards the sofa. “Shall we?”

When they reached the sofa again, Merzhaz glanced over their surroundings as she reached into her pocket. “Oh, um—before I forget.” She produced two business cards and held one out to each of them. “I wanted to make sure you both have all my contact information. Just in case… y’know. In case something.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. He accepted the card with both hands, cradling it gently like it was precious and fragile.⁶ “Oh, thank you, my dear!”

“That’s my Chicago address,” Merzhaz said. “I’m assuming I’ll get assigned back there at some point. I’ll update you if they send me somewhere else. But the cell phone will probably stay the same. And that works when I’m in Head Office, too. Reception isn’t always great. Calls don’t usually work, but a text should get through.” She gave Crowley a teasing look. “I think you would call that a mobile.”

Crowley was already programming the information into his phone. “You still have a fax number?”

“It still comes in handy,” Merzhaz said defensively.

Crowley sent a text, and there was a discreet buzz in the angel’s pocket. “There’s my number, and the number for the shop,” he said, and he nodded towards Aziraphale. “If he answers with anything other than ‘We’re closed,’ you should probably worry.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale chided.

“What? It’s true!” Crowley insisted. He pretended not to notice that Aziraphale was blinking back tears and cradling the card against his heart.

“Got it,” Merzhaz said as she saved the two new contacts. “And I have the shop’s address, of course.”

“And worst case scenario, we can just—” Crowley mimed a snap, “miracle you a note.”

Merzhaz grinned. “I’ll make sure to always have pockets.”

Aziraphale carefully tucked the card into his breast pocket. “So… So, we’re…” He cleared his throat. “We’re all… all set, then. No matter what.” He pressed his face into a smile for Merzhaz. “I’ll see you again,” he whispered.

“Absolutely,” Merzhaz said with a firm nod. Then she frowned. “Did you think you wouldn’t?”

Aziraphale faltered, and he looked to Crowley for help.

“Until you walked in,” Crowley quietly explained, “he wasn’t entirely convinced he’d even see you today.”

Merzhaz immediately went to Aziraphale and wrapped him in a tight hug. “Raphael already promised that I can come see you as much as you want,” she said. “Not even any limits or anything.”

Aziraphale was holding her just as tightly, even as he trembled with relief. “There must be some limit,” he reasoned.

“Well, okay. She did say she’d prefer if I don’t move in. But I don’t think she’d stop me.”

Aziraphale laughed and squeezed her even tighter. “It’s just been so long,” he whispered. “And I didn’t know—I didn’t know…”

“Never again,” Merzhaz vowed. “No matter what. We’re not gonna lose you again. You’re not gonna lose us again. We won’t let it happen.”

“No matter what,” Aziraphale echoed. “Even if—even if Raphael changes her mind—”

“Which she won’t,” Merzhaz said fervently.

“Oh, I hope you’re right,” Aziraphale whispered.

“But yes, even if Heaven tries to keep us apart again, we won’t let them.” Merzhaz kissed her Principality’s cheek. “They’re terrible at surveillance, anyway.”

Crowley figured (correctly) that this hug was going to take a while, so he plopped himself down in Aziraphale’s chair, squirmed around to find a semi-comfortable position, and started scrolling through his phone for obnoxious memes he could spam Merzhaz with later—because really, what else would a demon do with an angel’s phone number?⁷

Even as they held each other so tightly, Merzhaz was still keeping her constant vigilance, so it was no surprise that she was the first to notice. “The rain stopped,” she said quietly, and Crowley and Aziraphale both looked up to confirm it. Crowley waved his hand, and all the raindrops that were still on the windows were easily persuaded to slide off. Aziraphale visibly relaxed some—without loosening his grip on Merzhaz—and he gave the demon a grateful smile. A few minutes later, something about Merzhaz seemed to relax, too.

When the two of them did start to release each other, Merzhaz turned to Crowley. “He/him,” he said, “since you seem to like the update.”

“Thanks.” Crowley tucked his phone away and nodded to the top of Merzhaz’s shirt, which was much looser than it had been before the hug. “Want help fixing that again?”

Merzhaz looked down at the excess material. “Nah, it’s good enough,” he said.

Aziraphale beamed at both of them through this entire exchange. Then he and Merzhaz sat down on the sofa again, still holding onto each other’s hands. “If I’d had any idea,” Aziraphale began, “that the one time I saw you would be the only time…”

“I know. I know.” Merzhaz squeezed his hands. “I certainly wouldn’t have rushed off as soon as my assignment was done. I would’ve stayed until they came and dragged me away.” He smiled sadly at him. “I thought I would get to see you all the time then. That was the whole point, the whole reason I even wanted to be assigned to Earth, was to see you!”

“I’m almost surprised you did get to see each other, even just the once,” Crowley said.

Merzhaz looked at him. “Well at that point, everyone went to Principality Aziraphale for their first time on Earth. They did that a lot,” he said proudly, looking at his Principality. Then, more sadly, “Which… might be part of why nobody else in our platoon ever got assigned to Earth. A lot of us tried.” He turned to Crowley again. “But I’m not sure the no-contact order was even in place yet then—”

“Oh, no. I’m sure it probably was,” Aziraphale said.

“Was it?” Merzhaz looked at him with a furrowed brow.

Aziraphale squeezed his hands. “Do you really think I would have chosen to go even that long without seeing you?” he asked sadly.

Merzhaz gaped at him for a moment, clearly thrown off, and desperate to assure and to be assured. “We thought—we thought—you were busy, and that—you were happy on Earth, and—”

“And I was busy, and I was happy,” Aziraphale said, with a very sad smile. “But, my dear… Well, I—I don’t know what Erisam heard, or what she told you, but—from the very beginning, I always asked to see you, every time I was in Heaven. Every single time, until—” His voice caught. “Until, I—I found out—that Mais is a preener. And Replizta, and Sorem, and Netsael.”

Merzhaz was nodding. “They have been, since the beginning, as soon as there was a Preening Center—”

“So I heard,” Aziraphale murmured. “But it had been five thousand years, at that point, and I never saw any of them—”

“Because they always got pulled,” Merzhaz said. “Every time you were in Heaven, anyone who worked somewhere you might have seen them was pulled from duty. It—it took longer than it should have, for us to realize,” he admitted.

Aziraphale nodded. “That was the only possible explanation for why I’d never seen any of them, in so long,” he said. “That was when I gave up—and I’m sorry now, I’m so sorry that I ever gave up, but—Merzhaz, my dear, I was never too busy to see any of you.”

Merzhaz nodded, sniffing and blinking back tears.

“But I understand why you might have believed it,” Aziraphale said quietly. “That—that was the excuse that they gave me, you know, every time that I asked. That all of you were somehow too busy to see me.” He let out a soft, humorless laugh. “And I knew it was ridiculous, impossible, even. And some of the angels who told that to me were very obviously just repeating what they had been told to say. But I clung to it, all the same, for a very long time. Because it left room for hope, that someday, someone might not be busy.”

Merzhaz nodded and let go of one of Aziraphale’s hands to wipe his tears with his thumb. Aziraphale immediately handed him a handkerchief, which he gratefully used. “The excuse they gave us—for the reason for it, I mean—they said that after you did see me, the one time, you…” He lowered his head. “They said you cried so much you made the Dead Sea,” he said quietly.

Crowley straightened up. Aziraphale looked stricken. “Oh, please tell me you didn’t believe that.”

“It never felt quite right,” Merzhaz said, looking troubled. “I did feel guilty about it, for a while, because I wasn’t sure, and then I thought that maybe if we hadn’t seen each other then—but—” He shook his head. “But then Tenriel heard about it, and he—”

“How is Tenriel? Is he alright?” Aziraphale asked, curious and confused but not terribly urgent. “I haven’t heard anything about him since then.”

“Who’s Tenriel?” Crowley asked. Because he was hardly an expert on Aziraphale’s platoon, but he hadn’t heard that name before, and Aziraphale talked about him differently.

“The other angel at Sodom,” Aziraphale explained.

“And that’s just it,” Merzhaz said. “I left as soon as we left Sarah and Abraham, but you and Tenriel went straight to Sodom. He said you were obviously really happy to see me, and you were fine right after I left, and that if you did stay and cry afterwards, it—it must have been for Sodom…”

Aziraphale nodded. “I did, and it was,” he admitted. “Our orders only specified that the one city would be destroyed, only Sodom, but—there were four other cities, and the whole surrounding valley, all wiped out completely.” He shrugged helplessly. “And when I stopped crying, there was a new sea there. I hadn’t thought I had cried that much.”

Crowley made a noise.

“You didn’t,” Merzhaz said. “That’s the other thing Tenriel said. He stayed and cried, too. So the sea formed from the tears of two angels.”

“Three—yrgh—supernatural entities,” Crowley corrected, awkwardly rubbing his hands against his knees. “Possibly four.”

“Four?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley nodded, not looking up. “Mephistopheles showed up,” he said. “Helped with the kids, a bit. At first.”

“What kids?” Merzhaz asked.

Aziraphale started to say, “Crowley—”

“Kidnapped!” the Serpent interjected. “I kidnapped a bunch of the kids in the area. Which happened to mean that they weren’t there to be smited by the Almighty. They lived on and spread their inherently evil ways throughout the world.”

Aziraphale nodded solemnly. “It was very evil and devious of him,” he told Merzhaz, because Crowley clearly wasn’t nearly comfortable enough with him to admit to any Goodness.

Merzhaz looked back and forth between them with wide eyes, and finally settled on staring at Crowley, clearly impressed. “You got balls, dude!”

Crowley scoffed and settled back in the chair. “Not if I can help it, I don’t,” he quipped, and he gestured to his jeans. “You think they would fit in these?”

“Probably not comfortably,” Merzhaz said, and he turned to Aziraphale. “We fought against Mephistopheles in the War, didn’t we?”

“We did,” Aziraphale nodded.

“I used to see him around, sometimes, but I haven’t in a while. Is he…?” Merzhaz looked at both of them. Aziraphale took a breath and looked at Crowley.

“Sentenced to the bottom of the deepest pit in Hell,” Crowley said, apparently fascinated by the pattern he was tracing in the chair’s upholstery. “1801. Found guilty of tempting incorrectly.”

Merzhaz furrowed his brow. “How do you tempt incorrectly?”

“By warning humans that their actions have consequences,” Crowley said dryly, pointing his face in the angel’s direction. “And that Hell isn’t fun.”

Merzhaz quirked one eyebrow up. “...Yeah, ‘cuz… actions having consequences totally stops humans from doing stuff,” he said sarcastically.

Crowley somehow managed to nod while also conveying that he was rolling his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Merzhaz said. “He was a good leader in the War. He looked after his troops.”

Crowley nodded. “He said the same about that one,” he said, gesturing towards Aziraphale.

“Of course he did. He was a smart goat,” Merzhaz said confidently.

Aziraphale smiled sadly. “I only spoke with him twice, I’m afraid,” he said. “But the first time, we agreed that we bore no grudge against each other for the actions we had to take in the War, and we… we drank a toast to those who… never left the battlefield.”

Merzhaz nodded, but Crowley snapped to attention and leveled his gaze at Aziraphale. One eyebrow climbed up over his glasses. “Drank a toast of what, exactly,” he said.

“Oh, um,” Aziraphale pursed his lips and thought. “It must have been beer, I think. An early version of it, anyway.”

The other eyebrow jumped up to join the first. “You got Mephistopheles to drink alcohol?” Crowley said incredulously.

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale said, and he frowned. “Did he not usually?”

“No, he did not usually!” Crowley cried. “That ridiculous old goat insisted on being stone-cold sober at all times! He was staunchly opposed to any even remotely mind-altering substance!” He started counting things off on his fingers. “He never, never had any alcohol, or cannabis, or opium, or caffeine, even!” He flopped back in the chair. “It was like pulling teeth to even get him to eat sugar sometimes! But oh, sure, you got him to drink beer.”

Aziraphale giggled. “Keep in mind what the toast was for, my dear,” he said consolingly. “Some things are worth making an exception.”

“Yeah, yeah. I knew it, though,” Crowley grumbled. “I was obviously right. I always just knew, under different circumstances, you two would’ve been really good friends.” Aziraphale flinched, and Crowley grimaced. Apparently, it was too soon to use that ‘friend’ word.

“You didn’t say what happened to Tenriel,” Aziraphale said, turning to Merzhaz again. “At some point, Sandalphon started claiming Tenriel’s role at Sodom, and—well, I always thought it safest to just play along with that, but it did make me wonder—if Tenriel was…”

“He’s doing well, I think,” Merzhaz said with an understanding smile. “Sodom hit him pretty hard. I don’t think he ever went back to Earth again, but he’s in the Meddling Department now. And he is perfectly fine with someone else taking credit or blame for Sodom.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“You actually call it the Meddling Department?” Crowley asked, smirking.

“Oh, that isn’t the real name,” Aziraphale said.

So Crowley asked the obvious question. “What’s the real name?”

Merzhaz looked up. “...Uhhhm…”

Aziraphale scowled and tapped the fingers of his free hand against his knee. “The Department of… Earthly… Affairs? No, that’s not right…”

“That’s not right,” Merzhaz agreed. “It’s got another word in there, doesn’t it? Something to do with the, uh… manipulating part. Not manipulating. They call it something…” He frowned and let go of Aziraphale’s hand to grip his bracelet. “Anybody remember the real name for the Meddling Department?” he asked, and he looked at Aziraphale. “Some of us are in it,” he explained.

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale perked up.

Merzhaz smirked, rolled his eyes, and gripped his bracelet again. “Very funny, Dasiel. Wanna try it again with words I would actually repeat in front of Principality Aziraphale?”

Crowley sniggered.

A moment later Merzhaz said to Aziraphale, “They called it the Department of Fudging Stuff Up.”

Aziraphale giggled. “I have heard the other version of that name for it, too,” he said, patting Merzhaz’s knee.

“That’s the real name for ours,” Crowley added. “I mean, not ours. Not mine, anymore.” He grinned. “The one in Hell.” Then he mumbled under his breath, “I’m keeping the jacket, though.”

“Oh, my, goodness,” Merzhaz said, shaking his head and chuckling. He gripped his bracelet again. “Okay, so that everyone can hear, including Principality Aziraphale and Serpent Crowley,” he looked at the ones in the room, “Apparently the Meddlers have a very long list of nicknames for the department, which they have alphabetized, in several different languages—twenty languages, thank you Susar—but nobody in our platoon has had to use the real name in at least three centuries, so no, nobody remembers it.” He let go of the bracelet, only to grip it again. “Yes, Serpent Crowley is here, too.” He looked at the Serpent and had barely let go of the bracelet before he gripped it again. “I don’t think he’s into hugs,⁸ guys. I gave him a handshake. I think we’ll have to be content with that for now.”

Aziraphale positively beamed at Crowley. Crowley wondered if it would be socially acceptable to turn into a snake right about now.

“Because we literally just met,” Merzhaz was explaining over the bracelet. “And also, some people just don’t like hugs.” He closed his eyes, sighed out through his nose, and adopted a very pointedly patient demeanor. “Okay. So there’s this Earthly concept called personal space…”

Aziraphale laughed.

“...Which I know I have explained to you before,” Merzhaz went on. “And I would be more than happy to go over it again when I get back, but for now, I would really like to focus on who’s in the room with me right now.” He opened his eyes and gave Crowley and Aziraphale a sheepish smile. “Sorry,” he said. “They’re, um…”

“Affectionate,” Aziraphale said, utterly glowing at Crowley, and clearly aware that it was annoying.

“I was gonna say persistent,” Merzhaz said. He started unpinning his hair from its bun so that it could hang down as a braid again.

Crowley squirmed, adjusted his shirt, and changed the subject. “What was the other time you talked to Meph?” he asked Aziraphale. “I mean Mephistopheles,” he hastily corrected, because as far as he knew he was the only one with permission to call Mephistopheles ‘Meph.’ “You said you talked to him twice.”

“Oh, ah…” Aziraphale thoughtfully tilted his head. “That was… the fifteenth century? Or maybe the sixteenth. I think I was actually in Germany. Mephistopheles had made a deal with someone, and part of the deal was to give this little boy the best possible chance of making it into Heaven.” He smiled warmly. “Hansel was his name. Mephistopheles brought him to me, and I looked after him—well, I raised him, really, for about two years, until I found him a good home.”

“I tried to do that a few times,” Merzhaz said. “I mean, not with a deal with a demon, but—I tried to take in a kid, or a couple kids, who just needed… someone. Needed help.” He frowned. “Head Office never seemed to like it when I did it, though.”

“Oh, they didn’t much like me doing it, either,” Aziraphale said smugly.

Merzhaz looked confused. “But they commended you for it!”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “They did?”

“Yeah! They—” Merzhaz’s gaze sharpened. “...Raphael said she sent you all your commendations…”

“Oh, she did, she did,” Aziraphale said assuringly, patting Merzhaz’s hand. “We just haven’t looked through all of them yet, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Merzhaz relaxed. “Okay.”

“I do have the remaining ones sorted by how old the boxes look,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t suppose you recall when they gave me this… commendation?”

“Um…” Merzhaz thought about it. He shook his head. “It was a while ago,” he said. “But I know they commended you for it. It said you raised—or maybe you were raising—twins.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale lit up.

“I remember that!” Crowley said, straightening up. “Elpis and, um, um…” He snapped his fingers a few times, trying to remember. “Don’t tell me. I know this! Elpis and, uh…”

Aziraphale was beaming at him. “Hyp—”

“Hypatos!” Crowley cried, getting to his feet with the excitement. “Elpis and Hypatos!” He proudly sat down again.

“Very good,” Aziraphale chuckled. He got to his feet and pulled out the box of commendations from beside his desk. “When was that—500 BC, maybe?”

“Uh… no, 500 BC we went to Persia, didn’t we?” Crowley said, twisting in the chair to follow him. “You had that—that—beauty contest thing…”

“Oh, yes, posing as the eunuch! That’s right,” Aziraphale said. “So the twins must have been, hmm…”

“Like—400 BC? 450?” Crowley guessed.

“Right around then,” Aziraphale agreed as he shuffled through the box of medal presentation boxes. “Wasn’t there a war on?”

“Oh, that narrows it down,” Crowley said sarcastically.

“No, now that I think of it, I don’t think there was any war then,” Aziraphale said as he gathered up a few medal presentation boxes.

“That would narrow it down,” Crowley said.

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale returned to the sofa and spread out half a dozen medal presentation boxes on the coffee table. “These look to be about the right age. Shall we see if we can find it?”

Crowley grinned and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Shall we have Merzhaz pick first, since he hasn’t opened one yet?”

“Ooh!” Aziraphale turned to Merzhaz. “Would you like to?”

Merzhaz looked between them with wide eyes. “I—uh—sure?” He scooted forward on the sofa.

“Well, they’re not marked at all on the outside,” Aziraphale explained, smiling at the angel’s uncertainty. “The only way to know what any of them are is to pick one and open it. So…” He gestured to the boxes on the table.

“Okay. Um…” Merzhaz picked up a random box and opened it. “This says it’s for training an army.”

“Oh, which army?” Aziraphale asked, leaning over to look. He scowled. “They didn’t even win!”

“Maybe this was before they lost?” Merzhaz guessed.

Aziraphale scoffed. “Or maybe their losing is what convinced them I trained them,” he said sarcastically.

Merzhaz looked devastated. “...But—”

“How the Heaven did an army that you trained manage to lose?” Crowley asked.

“Well I didn’t have much to work with,” Aziraphale said sourly as he plucked up another box. “And they were sorely outmatched.” He opened the box he’d chosen. “Oh, another one for smiting you,” he said cheerfully, showing it to Crowley.

“Ha! What is that, now? Three? Four?”

“I think only three.”

“How many times do they think you’ve smited me?”

“I have no idea.”

“How many times have you smited him?” Merzhaz asked.

“Never!” Aziraphale said emphatically.

“Exactly zero,” Crowley agreed. He stretched out to grab a box. “Although if anybody asks…” he smirked.

“A goodly number,” Aziraphale nodded. “Apparently.”

Crowley opened the box. “Ah!” He turned it around to show them both. “I win!”

“Oh, look at that!” Aziraphale reached out to take the box from him. “‘For raising twin human children and safeguarding them from the forces of evil,’” he read, and he proudly took the medal out of its box and held it up to admire it. He leaned over to Merzhaz. “Do you know what this commendation is really for?” he said, eyes glinting with mischief.

“...For… raising twins…?” Merzhaz said.

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale murmured. “This commendation… is for getting Gabriel to babysit.”

Crowley laughed. Merzhaz’s eyes and mouth both opened wide. “Oh, I have got to hear this story!”

Aziraphale chuckled as he straightened up, and both Crowley and Merzhaz leaned in closer to listen. “Well,” he began. “I had orders to do something in Crete, and frankly I can’t even remember what it was, but whatever the assignment, it was apparently important enough that Gabriel came to personally deliver the orders. He was not pleased to find me trying to persuade a pair of babies to finish their lunch. And of course, the cradles were right there, so I could hardly claim it was a temporary thing. I’d already got a bit attached to them, and even if I hadn’t—well, unwanted children then were abandoned to starve, or to be taken in as someone’s slaves, and I couldn’t have that. So, I…” Aziraphale hesitated with his eyebrows raised and slightly pinched. “I… reported—creatively, about the, uh—circumstances—”

“He lied,” Crowley helpfully supplied.

“I lied,” Aziraphale agreed, grinning at Merzhaz. “I told Gabriel that I simply had to look after these children, because who else could protect them from the Serpent of Eden?”

Merzhaz cocked an eyebrow at Crowley, who was grinning. “Serpent of Eden had no idea these kids even existed, at that point,” the demon said.

“No, but I told Gabriel rather differently,” Aziraphale said. “I claimed that Hell was very concerned about these two children, and determined to see them either destroyed or twisted to their own evil purposes, so of course I had taken them in. It was the simplest way for me to intervene.”

Merzhaz groaned. “Why didn’t I ever think of that? They would totally go for that!”

“It only bought me a few years,” Aziraphale said, patting his arm consolingly. “But, more to the point: Gabriel was adamant that I had to do this assignment in Crete, which was apparently terribly urgent, and, well…” His eyes glinted. “Someone had to look after the twins…”

“So he volunteered?” Merzhaz giggled.

“Oh, that may be too strong of a term,” Aziraphale said. “But that was the end result of it, yes. Gabriel babysat for the twins. I gave him some basic instructions, of course, and then—” he gave a dismissive wave of his hand, “off I went to Crete. Though I did stop and find Crowley first to warn him that Gabriel was at my place, so he would know to stay away.”

Crowley held a hand up next to his mouth and stage-whispered to Merzhaz, “Which I didn’t do.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale scolded.

“What?” Crowley whined. He held his hands out wide. “You said I had designs on the kids! I was just lending some credibility to your story, angel.”

“He could have killed you!”

“He couldn’t have killed anything. He was too busy panicking,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “Besides, I didn’t give him a chance. I just got close enough to make sure he knew I was there, and then I left.”

Aziraphale huffed and shook his head. Then something occurred to him, and he leaned a little closer to Crowley. “Did you see any of what happened?”

Crowley smirked. “Not nearly enough. But he very definitely had his hands full.”

“Oh, I’m sure he did,” Aziraphale said, grinning again as he turned to Merzhaz. “As I was about to say, I have no idea of exactly what happened while I was gone, but to give you some clues: They were only about a year old, and they were both walking. Although, Elpis was more inclined to run than walk. And Hypatos was an exceptionally skilled climber for his age. And Elpis was a dreadfully fussy eater, and they were barely learning to speak yet. I think they only knew about two words, between them.” He smugly lifted his chin. “When I returned from Crete, Gabriel was in tears. So were the children, but Gabriel was crying far worse than either of them. Elpis had cheese in her hair, and Hypatos was trying to hide, and of course the moment I walked in both of them came directly to me, stopped crying, crawled into my lap, and fell asleep.”

Merzhaz was giggling, but Crowley was trying very hard not to, because his favorite part of the story was still coming.

“Nearly everything I owned had been miracled up onto this very high shelf, which had not existed when I’d left,” Aziraphale went on. “Gabriel didn’t say a word. He could barely manage to stop crying. And his entire tunic—his whole body, really, was completely and utterly covered in mashed up bits of food, and drool, and ah—other forms of human waste—”

“Gabriel?” Merzhaz laughed while Crowley smugly sniggered into his hands. “Mr. Archangel ooh-lookit-my-fancy-clothes Gabriel?” His jazz-hands-style gesture for the epithet was enough to make all three of them double over with laughter.

Aziraphale fought to stay upright and put a hand on Merzhaz’s elbow. “He didn’t even miracle himself clean before he left!” he said. “So there’s no telling how long he was just—walking about like that, and I am sure he went directly back to Heaven—”

“Oh!” Merzhaz said. “Oh, wait. I heard about this! Gabriel came into the Preening Center all covered in— stuff, and he didn’t say anything to anyone, but he looked like he had just been through a war or something, and he just miracled up a whole separate room in there, which turned into the first private preening room, and he went in, and he stayed there for hours. And all the preeners were just sort of standing around, wondering if they were supposed to go in that room, or…?”

“Oh, is that how the private rooms got started?” Aziraphale chuckled. “I did think they were a bit ahead of their time if they were accounting for human modesty.”

“No, Gabriel started it! Apparently because he was embarrassed about all the residue from babysitting.”

All three of them laughed, and then Aziraphale sighed and looked at his medal. “From there, I suppose, he would have put in for the commendation for me, for managing all of that full time,” he said. His expression softened as he brushed his thumb over the faces of the twins on the medal. “It is a very good likeness of them,” he murmured.

“I’m pretty sure it’s one that Ebtinoz made,” Merzhaz said.

Aziraphale’s eyes immediately snapped to his face. “...Ebtinoz… makes these?” he asked delicately.

Merzhaz seemed to suddenly remember that this was new information for Aziraphale. He smiled bashfully. “Some of them. I know she tries to make yours, if she can. But yeah, she’s— they call it the Department of Extrinsic Rewards.” He nodded to the medal. “Check the back. They’re allowed to sign it if they keep the signature small enough.”

Aziraphale promptly flipped the medal over in his hand and studied the smooth back. “Here?” he said, pointing with his thumb to a set of tiny markings.

Merzhaz squinted at it. “That’s really small—”

Aziraphale jumped up and hurried to his desk, with Crowley at his side and Merzhaz following close behind. He deftly plucked a magnifying glass out of a drawer⁹ and studied the tiny inscription. “‘I hope they hug you like we would. Ebtinoz,’” he quietly read. There was a faint smile on his face, and he blinked his watery eyes. “They did,” he whispered.

Merzhaz immediately tucked himself in to give his Principality just such a hug, and Aziraphale wrapped one arm around him while holding his medal in his other hand.

Crowley leaned his hip against the desk and folded his arms over his chest as he took in the scene. “We’ll have to go through all of them again now, won’t we?” he said, and he tilted his head towards the medal. “Safe to assume nothing Ebtinoz made will go in the canons?”

Aziraphale’s only answer was to beam at him.

Merzhaz furrowed his brow and lifted his head. “Canons?”

“Oh. Well.” Aziraphale gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “We may end up shooting some of these medals out of canons, yes. Given the way most of the Archangels have treated me, I don’t really care much what they decided to commend me for.” Then his voice and his gaze softened as he looked at Crowley. “But yes, if Ebtinoz made them, that does change things. We may not have much to put in the canons after all, dear.”

Crowley shrugged. “Well, there’s still the Principality of the Month Award catalogs. And whatever you decide to order from those.”

“...Sounds like fun,” Merzhaz decided. “Make sure you get some of the Principality of the Month fountain pens. For Murer’s sake. And Zanapeb’s. They both hate those. Apparently they’re pretty much useless as pens.”

“Oh, that is unfortunate,” Aziraphale mused. “For Murer and Zanapeb’s sakes, then, I’ll be sure to order plenty of fountain pens and destroy them.” He eyed Merzhaz. “May I ask how they came to have such a strong opinion about pens?”

“Murer makes pens,” Merzhaz explained. “He hates making something he knows is bad. And Zanapeb repairs pens. Everyone who orders those expects them to be the best pen ever, so they come to one of them all upset because it doesn’t work right. And usually Zanapeb can’t really do anything to fix it, because it isn’t broken. It’s just a lousy pen.”

“Oh, poor dears,” Aziraphale murmured. “Murer would hate that. Is Zanapeb always there to help him deal with angry angels?” He frowned. “Or with any interactions?”

“She is now, yes,” Merzhaz said. “Ataton raised enough of a fuss about them not having someone with him. But even if Zanapeb isn’t there, he can call for help on the bracelet, and one of us will get there.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped, his eyes widening. “Oh, the bracelets—do they help? For Murer?”

“Yes,” Merzhaz said, grinning massively as Aziraphale heaved a deep sigh of relief. “Yes, and we were giddy about it!”

“Erm,” said Crowley, thoroughly lost.

“Murer can’t always talk,” Merzhaz gently explained. “But with the bracelets, he can always talk with us… at least enough to be understood.” He turned back to Aziraphale. “He can always call us for help. And worst case, if we can’t get to him in time… you know we’re always there for him afterwards.”

Aziraphale gave him another squeeze. “I never doubted that for a moment,” he murmured. He touched a kiss to Merzhaz’s temple. “When I saw you at Armageddon, I could feel how much all of you still love each other. It was wonderful to know it. That you’re all still strong, in that way. I don’t think many other platoons are.”

“We could feel your love, too,” Merzhaz said. “We knew you were protecting us. We never doubted that you’d do everything possible to keep us from fighting, you know. That whole time we were lined up waiting for you, we all knew… every second you took to get there made it more likely there wouldn’t be a fight.”

Aziraphale drew a breath in through his nose. With his lips pressed in a grim line, he cast a glance at Crowley, and then looked away. “I wish I were worthy of that degree of your faith,” he said quietly.

Crowley’s eyebrows poked up over his sunglasses. “They weren’t wrong,” he said pointedly.

Aziraphale gave a slight nod in acknowledgement. “True,” he conceded, watching as he rubbed his thumb along the edge of the medal. “But… had I been alone, I… I’m not sure I would have made the same choice.”

“Of course you would have!” Merzhaz said. “Besides, you weren’t alone. So what difference does it make?”

But Aziraphale’s eyes had strayed to Crowley, who was staring levelly back at him. “...I never doubted what your final choice would be,” he said softly. Then he pushed himself off the desk and swaggered away. “Besides—” He turned on his heel at Aziraphale’s chair and flopped backwards into it, kicking his legs up over the armrest. “When it mattered most on that airfield, you were the one who wasn’t giving up.” He folded his hands behind his head.

Both angels had turned to watch him. Now Merzhaz gave his Principality a triumphant look, clearly feeling that Crowley had proven him right.

Aziraphale nodded, sighed, and turned to very carefully set his medal down beside that thick, precious envelope. “That—that reminds me,” he said. “Merzhaz… tell me something.” He led the lower angel to sit with him on the sofa again. “You said before that Raphael is on our side, and you mentioned wanting to fight certain—other angels, but… how likely is it, really?” He looked deeply sad and worried by the possibility. “A fight between angels, I mean.”

Merzhaz let out a long sigh and rubbed his hands against his knees. “Tensions are pretty high,” he reluctantly admitted. “I don’t know, exactly…”

Crowley slid his feet to the floor and propped his elbows on his knees. “Raphael said there’s something about it in the paper from yesterday,” he prodded.

“There is?” Merzhaz looked confused, and then worried. “I haven’t really had a chance to read it yet. We were all pretty focused on getting ready for me to come here…”

“We haven’t looked, either,” Aziraphale admitted. He took out his reading glasses while Crowley fetched the paper in question from the counter. “Aside from a cursory glance at the commendation section.”

“We did read that part,” Merzhaz said, proudly beaming at him. Then he winced. “But I know yours is—abridged.”

“Speaking of that,” Crowley said. He waited for Aziraphale to don his reading glasses before handing him the paper. “In the unabridged version, was there any mention of the commendation that Raphael somehow managed to give to me?”

Merzhaz’s face lit up, and he snapped his hand around his bracelet. “It WAS Serpent Crowley’s commendation!” he yelled.

Aziraphale smirked and eyed the other angel over his reading glasses. “You shouted at them,” he pointed out.

“Oh—oops.” Merzhaz grabbed his bracelet again. “Sorry for shouting!” he whispered. Then he let go and grinned at Crowley. “The recipient was just listed as Principality Aziraphale’s Helper, but we knew it had to be you, Serpent Crowley!”

Crowley watched him. “...Huh,” he decided. “...Right, next question: why do you keep calling me Serpent Crowley?”

Merzhaz frowned and furrowed his brow. “...Because… that’s… who you are?” he said, clearly confused by the question.

“Right, but why do you say the ‘Serpent’ part?”

Aziraphale’s eyes slowly widened and his lips parted. He slid his reading glasses off and watched the interaction with new intensity.

Merzhaz looked confused. “Would you prefer if we call you Demon Crowley?” he asked.

Crowley flinched and rolled his shoulders to try to cover it. “Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’ in an attempt to be even more convincingly casual. If ever he was called Demon Crowley, it usually meant he was in trouble with Hell. “Just—nygh—you can just say Crowley.”

Merzhaz studied him, and then shook his head. “No we can’t,” he said, like that should have been obvious. “That doesn’t work.”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t work?” Crowley said, scowling. “It’s worked fine for two thousand years.”

“But—” Merzhaz looked back and forth between Crowley and Aziraphale. “But we can’t… use just that. You’re more than that.”

“Grh—yuhn—really not,” Crowley said, shifting his weight onto one leg. “I’m just—you don’t have to use any sort of—prefix… er, title—thingy. You can—you should… just call me Crowley.”

Merzhaz opened his mouth to argue, but then he closed it again. A familiarly bastardly sort of glint appeared in his eye, and he smiled politely, keeping his gaze locked on Crowley’s sunglasses. “Yes, Serpent Crowley,” he said evenly.

Understanding didn’t really dawn so much as it smacked Crowley upside the head. His jaw fell open, and he could feel his eyes bulging behind the safety of his sunglasses. “Ye—wha—I—nn, bt—puh…” He looked at Aziraphale for help.

Aziraphale somehow looked even softer than usual. He wasn’t beaming, exactly, but he was definitely serene… and he kept blinking his oddly wet eyes.

“Angel!” Crowley complained.

Aziraphale’s lips trembled as he gave Crowley a small smile. “I will do everything I can to convince—our platoon to just call you Crowley… if you can persuade them to just call me Aziraphale,” he murmured.

“Good luck!” Merzhaz said cheerfully.

Crowley slowly looked back and forth between them with his jaw still hanging down. He couldn’t even formulate any noises now.

Aziraphale slipped his reading glasses back on and lifted the paper. “Shall we?” he said. He scooted closer to Merzhaz and, still holding Crowley’s gaze, nodded to the space he’d made to his left on the sofa.

“...G’h…” Crowley blinked. Then he let out a long sigh and slid himself in to sit on the armrest of the sofa, with his feet in the spot Aziraphale had made. “I’m not that skinny,” he grumbled under his breath as an explanation, and he leaned over to see the newspaper as Aziraphale unfolded it.

The front page headline simply read ANNOUNCEMENT, and under that was more of a notice than a real article:

The Metatron would like to confirm that The Almighty Lord directly charged Archangel Raphael to lead the Heavenly Host henceforth, to suspend the Archangels Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon from their respective duties, and to investigate the actions of the aforementioned Archangels. Any attempt to interfere with this direct order from The Almighty Lord will not be condoned. Archangel Raphael has announced that there will be a public trial when all relevant evidence has been gathered. All members of the Host will be welcome to attend. The Archangels Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon will have the opportunity to speak for themselves then. Out of an abundance of caution, the Archangels under investigation are currently being contained. Unauthorized communication with these Archangels prior to their trial will not be permitted. All members of the Host wishing to present evidence or testimony may contact the appropriate committee.

The notice concluded with the Metatron’s official sigil.

“Well,” Aziraphale sighed. “That’s an ominous start, if they felt that was necessary.” He skimmed his eyes over the rest of the front page. “From what Raphael said, I expected something more than a vaguely ominous notice, though. One would think if there had been any fighting already, it would merit the front page.”

“Nah, you’re thinking like it’s a human paper,” Crowley said. “Neither of our Head—our former Head Offices are going to broadcast any sort of dissent. Might risk spreading it.” He hesitated. “...Although, Raphael said she’s trying to run Heaven with full transparency, so who knows.”

“Raphael doesn’t run the paper, though,” Merzhaz said. “I mean, she has definitely had some influence…”

“Yes, I see,” Aziraphale said. He pointed out the article that took up most of the front page. “‘Human Souls on Celestial Observer Staff Celebrate Permission to Report Honestly.’ Apparently they threw a party.”

“Huh… Your lot would get the honest ones,” he mused. “Hell only ever got yellow journalists and tabloid reporters. The sort who all enjoy writing propaganda.”

“Yeah… the reporters can actually be unbiased now, but Heaven doesn’t really employ a lot of human souls,” Merzhaz said. “And the, uh, ‘true’ angels,” he made air quotes, “don’t really get the idea of what a bias even is…” He shrugged and nodded to the paper. “I’m sure the senior editing staff is still doing all they can to hide any… dissent.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Duly noted,” he said. “Very well, then. Let’s… do a little exploring.”

He opened to the next page, and all three of them began to slowly study every page from top to bottom. Every now and then, one of them would comment on something,¹⁰ but it wasn’t until the fifth page that they found what they were looking for.

What they found was an article written by an angel named Utizer, who seemed to have adapted readily to the idea of reporting honestly and without bias, because the article did not hold back at all. It gave a detailed, clinical account of twenty angels who felt that the accused Archangels were being wrongly imprisoned, and that it was their duty to free them and see to it that Raphael’s “coup” would fail. The article repeatedly stated that the twenty angels had not known The Almighty had explicitly ordered Raphael to take charge. The twenty of them had tried to break the bars on the holding cells the accused Archangels were in. The commotion had attracted attention, of course, and two dozen angels who trusted Raphael had gathered to put a stop to the escape attempt. Violence had ensued, which attracted the attention of even more angels. Some had tried to stop the fight, but others had chosen sides and joined in. All the while, the imprisoned Archangels, still in their cells, had called out encouragement to their supporters, insisting that they needed to be released and allowed to return to their duties.

We now know that The Almighty specifically directed Archangel Raphael to suspend these specific Archangels from their duties. It is not clear if Archangels Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon were aware of this at the time of the incident, the article read.

It went on to say that the fight continued until the Quartermaster arrived and ordered everyone to a halt. The Quartermaster had called for reinforcements, and had thus kept the two sides separated until Raphael had arrived with their assistant, Latiel, followed shortly by the Metatron, who had informed everyone present that it was The Almighty’s Will for Raphael to lead and for the previous leadership to be stripped of their duties. This had been enough for all present to stop fighting, at least for the time being. And yet, the article also said that not everyone was entirely convinced. Some were speculating that Raphael had been put in charge as a test for the Host; that the Host as a whole had failed The Lord when Armageddon did not happen, and so the Host now had to prove their worthiness. The article quoted one Virtue who thought the way to ‘pass’ this test was to trust Raphael, and another Virtue who thought the way to ‘pass’ was to remain loyal to Gabriel and the others.

Aziraphale stared at the article for a long, tense moment after they had finished reading.

“They actually published an article that leaves room for doubt,” Crowley said, clearly stunned by this. “Heaven is publicizing… an actual reason to doubt.”

That wasn’t the part that Merzhaz was hung up on. “It gets weird here,” he said, pointing to the portion of the article that talked about angels stepping in out of loyalty to Raphael. “The grammar’s… off. And it just—it feels… disjointed.”

“...That’s normal, for my paper,” Aziraphale said softly. There was a far-away look in his eyes. “...The abridged version, as you put it,” he added.

“So someone took something out there,” Crowley concluded. He looked over Aziraphale’s face. “Something about you, most likely.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I wasn’t there,” he said. But his voice and expression were both distant, and the oddly apparent omission in the article clearly wasn’t at the top of his mind.

“Well, maybe Raphael isn’t the only one they’re being loyal to,” Merzhaz said edgily.

Aziraphale blinked and looked at him, confused at the implication. “...I beg your pardon?”

Merzhaz had a fierce look in his eyes as he met his Principality’s gaze, and Crowley could see hints of Fight Mode Merzhaz coming through. “You can’t think we’re the only ones who are angry about what they did to you, Principality Aziraphale,” he said vehemently. “You’re a hero. Even if they never told you about it, they’ve—paraded you around as a hero for more than six thousand years, and more than a few angels have seen for themselves that you’re a hero, and now all of a sudden those—Archangels,” and he clearly wanted to call them something more profane than that, “are saying that you’re the bad guy? That doesn’t add up. What’s more likely: that they would lie to cover something up, or that you would randomly turn evil?” He took a deep breath and looked at both of them. His fight mode features began to fade. “There’s rumors going around about how you were punished, including rumors that you didn’t survive. I’ve had a few angels tell me that they’re not really focused on Raphael so much as they just want justice for you.” He winced. “Or vengeance, depending what they believe,” he added solemnly. “And I think everyone in the platoon has heard the same thing, from at least a few different angels.” He pursed his lips. “I think that’s actually the opinion of most, if not all, of the angels in Earth Obs and at the Preening Center. Possibly other departments, too.”

Aziraphale slowly blinked a few times. “...I had no idea anyone felt so strongly about me,” he said unsteadily. “I… I suppose I’m not surprised by the preeners, exactly. They did always seem a bit… protective of me.” He still frowned as he looked at the article again. “...But the fighting has already started,” he said faintly. “And I do hate to think that… that anyone is fighting on my account. And if they got hurt, for my sake…”

“It wouldn’t be your fault,” Crowley said, trying to be dismissive about it. “Not like you asked anyone to fight. Besides, I doubt they’ll let things get so far out of hand for there to be any injuries worse than just discorporation.”

Aziraphale relaxed at that. “That’s true,” he agreed. “And while it is certainly painful and inconvenient, discorporation is hardly a permanent thing.”

Merzhaz had become very tense as he looked back and forth between them. His eyes were slightly wider than usual. “...Most angels don’t have bodies,” he said quietly.

Crowley and Aziraphale both immediately turned to look at him. “...What,” Crowley said flatly.

“Most angels do not have bodies,” Merzhaz carefully repeated. “...I mean, obviously—” He held his hands up and turned them back and forth, displaying his decidedly physical form. “Anyone who comes to Earth gets a body, and everyone in the Corporation Department has one, but… other than that, having a body is kind of, like… a status symbol. So, the Archangels, I think most of the Seraphim, but… beyond that…?” He shrugged. “Even in our platoon, Lahon and I are the only ones with bodies.”

Aziraphale managed to sit even straighter than he had been. Crowley just gaped at the lower angel. “...A status symbol,” he repeated. “That’s… ridiculous. Everyone in Hell has a corporation. That’s just common sense. You’ll always discorporate before you’ll be destroyed completely. The way everyone gets all, all violent and aggressive all the time Down There—that’s how we avoid having accidents. I realize your lot is meant to be more civilized, but still—” He stopped abruptly under Aziraphale’s icy gaze.

The Principality turned to face the lower angel again. “Merzhaz. Do you mean to tell me,” he said very, very delicately, “that the entire Host of Heaven, including our platoon, was lined up to march into Armageddon, with most of them lacking the very basic level of protection that is afforded by simply having a corporeal body?”

Merzhaz pressed his lips into a tight line and nodded grimly.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes and swallowed.

“Even I know how stupid that is,” Crowley burst. “That’s like going into battle without any armor! You all would’ve had a massive disadvantage. Even if you were the better fighters, most the demons you beat would’ve kept coming back to fight again once they had a new body—”

Aziraphale abruptly folded the paper and stood. He dropped the newspaper on the coffee table and marched to his desk, radiating a dangerously cold, quiet wrath and an overpowering aura of protectiveness. He started searching through his desk drawers until he found the stationary that he used for his memos to Heaven, which he slapped onto the desk. He looked around, found his armchair, and easily hefted it into the air so he could place it smartly in front of his desk. He sat down, snatched up the nearest pen, and shoved his reading glasses more firmly into place on his nose. With pursed lips, he glared at his paper as he angrily began to write.

Crowley and Merzhaz watched all of this in silence. Then they looked at each other, and they both got up to go and stand behind Aziraphale, watching over his shoulder to see what he was on such a determined mission to write.

Dear Archangel Raphael,

It has come to my attention that corporations are not a standard issue item for all angels. Given the degree of protection that a physical body can provide without discomfort or inconvenience to the user, I feel compelled to tell you that I find this highly irresponsible. I must insist that at the very least, every member of my platoon be issued with a body as soon as possible. Knowing that there has already been violence between the apparent factions in Heaven, I would strongly advise that a body be issued to every member of the Host as a most basic level of precaution, but I will not rest until I know that my platoon has this fundamental level of security. I am appalled at the very notion that such measures were not taken prior to the expected War, and I must think that you would be reasonable enough to share this opinion!

Sincerely,

Principality Aziraphale

He signed at the bottom with his sigil and folded the paper over. He shoved his hand into another drawer and pulled out a rubber stamp and an ink pad, the latter of which reeked of Holy energy and had clearly been issued by Heaven. He firmly applied the stamp first to the ink pad and then to the folded paper. With only a little miraculous encouragement, the ink sealed the paper as effectively as any human sealing wax would have done. He took a deep breath, glared at the paper, and snapped his fingers. The memo disappeared.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and very deliberately smoothed out his features. He carefully stood up, tugged his waistcoat into place, smoothed out his coat, adjusted his cuffs, and finally straightened his bowtie. Then he turned and looked Merzhaz directly in the eyes. “You are to inform me immediately when each member of our platoon receives a corporation,” he sternly ordered. “Unless or until I hear otherwise, I will assume that you and Lahon are still the only ones who have a body.”

Merzhaz nodded curtly. “Yes, Principality Aziraphale.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said firmly. Then he took a deep breath, looked back and forth between Crowley and Merzhaz, and relaxed into a far less frigid (and less intimidating) sort of anger. “I can’t believe they would be so foolish! And to put all of you into that sort of danger!” He huffed. “It was one thing in the War, the first War, when bodies were new and in limited supply, but they had six thousand years to prepare for the next one, and they didn’t even do such a basic, elementary thing! It’s preposterous!”

Merzhaz also seemed to relax. He nodded emphatically. “Yeah, in the months leading up to it—honestly the years leading up, that whole decade, we were all just sure they’d start handing out bodies any second, and they never did!” he said. “We were really getting worried, the closer it got. I mean, it can take as much as two weeks to get used to having a body, if you haven’t had one before. Angels assigned to Earth get a body for the first time a whole month before they get sent down, just to be sure they have enough time to adjust to it, because usually everyone just sleeps those first two weeks. So a month before the Antichrist’s birthday, when Lahon still said the Corporation Department hadn’t gotten any kind of notice about even preparing enough bodies for everyone…” He sighed and shook his head.

Aziraphale huffed. “No wonder you all refused to fight,” he said. “I’m amazed you were the only ones to do so! How could anyone willingly risk…”

“Maybe if they didn’t realize how much protection a body gives?” Merzhaz shrugged. “And obviously we didn’t know all of Hell would have us out-armored!” he added, gesturing to Crowley.

“Ridiculous,” Aziraphale angrily muttered. “Absolutely ridiculous…”

Crowley shifted and leaned back, assessing both of them. And assessing himself, too. Because even he was angry that Heaven had tried to send Aziraphale’s platoon off to fight in a War without bodies, and sure, it made sense for him to be upset about it for Aziraphale’s sake, but… that wasn’t… what he was feeling.

Shit.

So just because these angels apparently cared about his safety, now he cared about them, too? Even though he didn’t even know them?

Shit!

Everyone a demon cared about was a liability. Every single being of any sort whose personal welfare Crowley had any kind of investment in could be used against him, as easily as someone threatening them as a way to manipulate him. And sure, with Aziraphale, it was worth that kind of risk. But a whole entire platoon of angels he had never laid eyes on? How was he even supposed to know if they were worth it? Congratulations, Crowley. You now have fifty new weaknesses. Also, forty-eight of them are particularly vulnerable because they don’t even have bodies, and there’s not a blessed thing you can do about it.

He really, really could not handle this right now. He could not even comprehend this right now. And frankly, he had more immediate problems to deal with right now, anyway, because he was currently face to face with not one, but two very angry angels. Not that they were angry at him. And he knew Aziraphale would never hurt him, and would protect him if Merzhaz tried to hurt him, which wasn’t likely to happen anyway, but… Well, contrary to what Aziraphale sometimes seemed to think, Crowley did have some basic survival instincts. Those instincts were currently very firmly informing him that being a demon in front of two angry angels who were both better trained than he was in physical combat was a very bad idea.

Right. Definitely time for a distraction.

Crowley made a show of checking his watch. “So, it’s… getting near dinner time now, and none of us have had a proper lunch… anyone care for a bite?”

Aziraphale caught his breath. “Oh—” He was really feeling too upset to eat, but he suspected Crowley had a good reason for changing the subject, so he decided to stall. “I was trying to remember before,” he said, turning to Merzhaz. “I know Chicago is known for its pizza, but is it the thin crust or—”

“Deep dish,” Merzhaz said, feigning offense. “New York is thin crust pizza and hot dogs practically naked, and in Chicago, we actually eat.”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale said. “I did recall that Chicagoans do like their food.”

“We have great food!” Merzhaz proudly boasted. “If you ever come visit, I’ll take you on a culinary tour of the whole city! You’ll love it.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “That’ll take a while,” he mumbled.

“Yes, it will,” Merzhaz enthusiastically agreed, and he paused to think for a moment. “...We might need at least a month,” he decided.

Aziraphale beamed at him. “Or perhaps multiple trips,” he suggested.

“I mean, you could just come during the Taste of Chicago, I guess. You could pretty much get it all at once then,” Merzhaz said, thinking it over. “But that’s… I mean, it’s a festival, so it has its own kind of atmosphere, but you don’t really get the full culinary experience for each thing…”

“...Mmhf…” Crowley pivoted to squeeze himself between the two angels with his back to Merzhaz. “They are definitely your kids,” he stage-whispered to Aziraphale, and Merzhaz laughed. “Or at least this one is,” Crowley added, speaking normally as he turned to include Merzhaz again. “If you eat anything like how your Principality does, you’re going to need more than a month for this.”

Merzhaz grinned and bashfully shifted his weight. “...You could come, too, Serpent Crowley,” he said. “Don’t you like to eat, too?”

“Ahg—” Crowley took a step back to cover some of his discomfort. “I—do like eating, but not like—the way both of you apparently do.”

“But you could still join us, of course,” Aziraphale murmured with a very soft smile.

Crowley’s breath caught as he looked at him. “...Of course,” he said, and he only wavered for a second before he turned to Merzhaz. “I wouldn’t miss it,” he promised. This made both of the angels beam at him so brightly that he had more than one reason to be glad he had his sunglasses on.

“I am very glad that you enjoy eating,” Aziraphale told Merzhaz. “Even most of the angels I’ve trained on Earth are dreadfully apprehensive about any sort of food consumption.”

“And they have no idea what they’re missing!” Merzhaz said emphatically. “At some point, they started sending me trainees, too, and there was one—I couldn’t even convince her to try bread. Or a piece of fruit, or anything!”

“What kind of fruit?” Crowley asked.

“Any kind,” Merzhaz said. “Bananas, oranges, mangoes, figs, pears…”

“Apples?” Crowley casually suggested.

Merzhaz smirked. “I figured that one was a losing battle,” he said teasingly.

Not surprisingly, so much talk about food was bringing back Aziraphale’s appetite. “What sort of food do you like?” he asked.

“Spicy,” Merzhaz said without hesitation. “Pretty much anything with a good kick to it.”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “Would you be in the mood for some curry?”

Merzhaz’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, I haven’t had a good curry in a long time!”

And so it was easily decided that they would get curry, but deciding anything beyond that proved to be more challenging. First, they had to decide if they were going out or ordering in. Aziraphale and Merzhaz were both firm proponents of eating in the proper setting to get the full culinary experience, but neither of them wanted to leave the envelope of the platoon’s letters unattended. This was the point where normally, Crowley would just pull out his phone and order curry to be delivered from one of Aziraphale’s favorite places, but he didn’t know what Merzhaz would want. So instead, all he could do was announce that they would order in. Then Aziraphale had to describe each of his favorite places for curry to Merzhaz, and then Crowley and Merzhaz each had to pull up the menus for those places on their phones so that Merzhaz could choose one to order from. Then Aziraphale and Merzhaz had to discuss at length what each of them would order, and then of course they had to cajole Crowley into also ordering. Not that he really needed to be cajoled, per se; it was his idea to get food, after all; but it was a… thing. It had to happen. Then Merzhaz tried to offer to pay, which Crowley did not quietly find kind of cute, obviously, because he was a demon and did not think of much of anything as being cute.¹¹ Aziraphale insisted on paying, and so Merzhaz tried to offer to at least cover the tip, but Crowley shot that down easily by mentioning that tipping customs were different here than in America. (He had no idea if that was even true, but that was beside the point, obviously. Crowley’s attention to tipping customs did not extend beyond “yes” or “no.” How much he tipped depended entirely on whether he felt like inspiring Wrath or Envy.)

“As if you would let one of your kids pay for dinner,” Crowley mumbled to Aziraphale as the angel paid (and blessed) the delivery girl.

Aziraphale beamed at him with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I think you mean one of our kids, ‘Serpent’ Crowley,” he whispered. He thanked the delivery girl, bid her farewell, and turned to carry everything to the table in the backroom, leaving Crowley to sputter in the doorway for a solid minute.

Merzhaz did not eat quite as slowly as Aziraphale did. He obviously enjoyed his food, but Aziraphale carefully savored every single bite. From early on in the meal, Merzhaz was noticeably watching his Principality and subtly adapting his own eating style to match. Crowley tried not to laugh when he noticed it. Little kids did the same thing with their parents. Merzhaz was by no means a little kid, but he had been deprived of his ‘parent’ during his ‘little kid’ phase on Earth, and it was obvious that he was eager to make up for lost time.

The curry was excellent, of course. And as they ate, all three of them had stories to share about someone thinking they could handle whatever the spiciest food available was. Aziraphale had a good laugh as he told them about Mepiel, an angel he had been sent to train in Nigeria, where the first food they had encountered—and been expected to eat—had been jollof rice.

“It wasn’t even all that spicy, really,” Aziraphale said mirthfully. “But the look of panic on their face! Oh, they thought they were being destroyed. Or at least discorporated! Our hosts were dreadfully confused, and the adolescents were laughing. The husband kept trying to offer Mepiel some agege bread to cut the spice, but they were terrified of food by that point. I practically had to force feed it to them.”

Merzhaz laughed. “That explains a lot! I ran into them once in Head Office, and I was talking about how I was craving some quesadillas, and they looked horrified.”

“Oh, I have a story about quesadillas,” Crowley said. “And about the Raccoon Demon…”

“Oh, he has no tolerance for spice,” Merzhaz said.

“He really doesn’t. I barely even would’ve called those quesadillas spicy. But he was just guzzling milk and tortillas, trying to act like everything was fine, and he was dripping sweat…”

“That’s the thing with him,” Merzhaz said, rolling his eyes. “He can not handle spice, but he still goes around boasting like he can handle anything. So this one time I was watching him, and someone dared him to eat a ghost pepper…”

“Oh, tell me he managed to discorporate from that,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. If there was one thing the Raccoon Demon was good at, it was finding foolish ways to get himself discorporated.

“No, but I’m pretty sure he wanted to,” Merzhaz said.

“How do you two keep watch on each other so much?” Aziraphale asked. “Crowley said you two have each other under almost constant surveillance, but aren’t you in different cities?”

“Yeah. It’s not constant surveillance,” Merzhaz admitted. “He’s in Las Vegas, and I’m in Chicago. But Vegas is a great spot for a weekend getaway. And technology has really made things easier. Like I said, we do break into each other’s apartments to plant bugs and cameras, and then the other one has to find them. But I’ve got cameras and stuff a lot of places around Vegas. I’m sure he has plenty around Chicago, too.” He shrugged. “It’s easier now that he mostly stays in one place all the time. He used to move around a lot more. Although, we didn’t really get into the whole surveillance thing until the Cold War, and by that point…”

“By that point, he was pretty well established in Vegas,” Crowley drawled.

“Mm. Not hard to guess why he’s there, I suppose, given the city’s reputation,” Aziraphale mused.

“He’s been there since the beginning of that city. Or at least, the beginning of what it is,” Merzhaz said. “He’s pretty much the one who orchestrated the whole thing. Everyone credits Bugsy Siegel, and they’re not wrong, exactly, but guess who was whispering in his ear the whole time.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “So Las Vegas, with its entire Sin City reputation, all the casinos and everything, that was the Raccoon Demon’s idea?”

Crowley shifted in his chair, eyeing Merzhaz warily for a moment. “If anyone asks, it was,” he mumbled. He leaned back, trying to squirm into a more comfortable position.

Aziraphale and Merzhaz both turned to look at him. Merzhaz tilted his head. “So, it was your idea?”

“He did all the work. I just made a suggestion,” Crowley said edgily. “Not even a suggestion,” he urgently amended. “I was just sorta thinking out loud, see, and he stole the idea and took credit. It was all very properly demonic of him, really.”

Merzhaz looked at Aziraphale, and then looked back at Crowley. “...I won’t tell anyone, Serpent Crowley,” he said very quietly. “I know he’s supposed to be my rival, but I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him. I won’t go getting him in trouble.”

“You’re an angel. He’s a demon. Why should I believe you would care about what happens to him?” Crowley lashed out defensively. He was playing with fire here. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should have just let them both think it was all down to Clarence, and that was that. And if he had needed to say something, why was he still trying so hard to salvage the Raccoon Demon’s reputation? They weren’t really allies anymore. It was all over and done with. He wasn’t supposed to be protecting any demons now in any way. He wasn’t supposed to care.

But Merzhaz was still just steadily looking back at him. Aziraphale looked hurt by Crowley’s words, or maybe even guilty, and that was not okay. But Merzhaz just seemed to brace himself. “...I’m the one who got him to rehab,” he said very quietly.

At that, Crowley abruptly straightened up, and Aziraphale’s face went slack. “...Did you now,” Crowley said stiffly.

Merzhaz nodded. “...One of the times he overdosed,” he said. “I, um… I may have put on sunglasses and a red wig and carried him to a rehab center while he was unconscious. And used your name to pay for it. I figured if he thought it was you, he might actually stick with it.”

Crowley nodded. “Seems like it worked,” he mumbled. “...That explains the drop in discorporations, then. If he got sober. No more overdoses.”

Merzhaz squinted and shrugged. “Sober may not be the right word. He still drinks and smokes and everything else. Just… not the opiates.”

“Well those are the ones that were the problem,” Crowley said dryly. He looked at Aziraphale, who looked very grim. “This one has something of a vendetta against opiates, too, for some reason. Guess you take after him that way, too.”

“Just the recreational use of them,” Aziraphale said stiffly. “I have no qualms about them being used responsibly for medical purposes. I know they certainly have their benefits for severe enough pain.” He hesitated, and then looked intently at Merzhaz. “Which reminds me—”

“Before you ask, Principality Aziraphale,” Merzhaz hastily interrupted, “There are some things that I promised I would let them tell you themselves.” He very pointedly looked in the direction of Aziraphale’s desk.

“Ah… I see,” Aziraphale said. He gave Merzhaz a weary smile. “So I suppose I shouldn’t ask you if Isenat is doing… any better?”

“Please don’t,” Merzhaz said.

“Or how Patazael has healed?”

“Definitely not. She would discorporate me herself if I said anything,” Merzhaz said firmly.

“Well, we certainly can’t have that,” Aziraphale murmured, and he sighed. “Very well. I’ve waited this long, I suppose. I can wait a little longer.”

Merzhaz looked visibly relieved.

Crowley itched with curiosity about the angels and the ailments behind those names, but he suspected that any sort of prodding about it would put Merzhaz in danger of breaking his promise, just because he wanted so badly to please his Principality.

As the sun began to set and they finished cleaning up from dinner, Merzhaz and Aziraphale were both looking towards the envelope full of letters with more and more frequency. Merzhaz gave Aziraphale a sad smile as they returned to the sofa. “Erisam has already told everyone to make sure they have pockets, so we can make sure everyone gets your replies,” he said, tapping his bracelet.

Aziraphale smiled sadly in return. “I suppose we should have you practice a bit before you go, to make sure you can send notes, too.”

“Or you can send a text,” Crowley said dryly.

“Yeah, but those can only reach you,” Merzhaz teased. “Not that you wouldn’t share.”

“And I am sure that you would be more than welcome to send textual messages to Crowley, too,” Aziraphale said warmly.

“Text messages,” Crowley groaned. “Or just texts.”

Aziraphale winked at Merzhaz.

“Or memes, gifs, what have you,” Crowley added with a dismissive wave, addressing Merzhaz. “Unless you block my number when you get fed up of me harassing you.”

Merzhaz smirked and arched an eyebrow at him. “Is that a challenge, Serpent Crowley?” he said. “Because if it is, I accept.”

“Mm… You’ll probably regret that.” Crowley slithered into Aziraphale’s chair and pulled his phone out to continue building his arsenal.

Merzhaz and Aziraphale settled in on the sofa. It took a few tries for Merzhaz to get a slip of paper to appear in Aziraphale’s pocket. Then he narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together as he focused on including a message. Aziraphale sat beside him, gently coaching him along.

“Have you recovered enough to be learning a new miracle?” Crowley said suddenly.

Merzhaz squinted. “I feel okay,” he said.

“If you start to feel at all weakened, let me know immediately,” Aziraphale said. “Remember, this shouldn’t require a great deal of your energy. It should be a fairly small miracle.”

“He’s an angel, Aziraphale. Not a Principality,” Crowley absently reminded him.

“Yes, I’m aware,” Aziraphale murmured. He gave Merzhaz a gentle smile. “I barely notice the effort of sending a note like this. It will probably be noticeable for you. But manageable, I should think.”

Merzhaz nodded and focused in again.

Crowley kept half an eye on their progress while pretending to be mostly focused on his phone. When Merzhaz managed to put a simple note in Aziraphale’s pocket, he tried again with both angels standing at opposite ends of the sofa. Then Aziraphale had him keep trying from a little farther away, and then a little farther, until they were at opposite sides of the bookshop. That was about when Crowley felt something appear in his pocket. He looked up and raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale, who was beaming proudly. Crowley slid the note out of his pocket and unfolded it.

How am I doing, Serpent Crowley?

Crowley raised both eyebrows at Aziraphale, who grinned back at him. Crowley snapped his fingers, and a scrap of paper appeared in Merzhaz’s pocket with a drawing of a thumbs up emoji. A moment later, Merzhaz responded.

Is that supposed to be pointing up or down?

Crowley raised his eyebrow. Then he realized that a scrap of paper without any writing wouldn’t give any indication of which way was ‘up,’ so the thumb had, in fact, been ambiguous. He sniggered and snapped his fingers again. This time his note had drawings of a thumbs up emoji and a winking emoji.

Shortly after that, Aziraphale had Merzhaz join them by the sofa again. The lower angel looked giddy and proud. For that matter, so did Aziraphale. Crowley took a moment to admire how much good it seemed to have done for both of them, to have this session of Aziraphale training Merzhaz in something. Presumably, there was some element of nostalgia there.

But even as they were both brimming over with the joy of the moment, they also both stole a glance at the envelope that was still patiently waiting.

“I should probably go so you can start reading those,” Merzhaz said reluctantly. “They’ll all be waiting to hear from you, now that we know you’ll be able to answer.”

“I suppose so,” Aziraphale murmured. “...Oh, but it is so wonderful to see you,” he said as he folded Merzhaz into a firm, warm embrace.

Merzhaz tucked his head down against Aziraphale’s shoulder and hugged him tight, breathing in the scent of him. They held each other like that for a long time, soaking in the last of their time together.

“We will be in touch,” Aziraphale whispered firmly.

“We will,” Merzhaz agreed. He picked his head up enough that his voice wouldn’t be so muffled. “I’ll come and see you again soon. Whenever you want.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered. He pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “Give all of them a hug for me? Please?” he asked.

“I will. I promise.” Merzhaz gave his Principality one more squeeze. Then he reluctantly detached himself and turned to face Crowley, shyly offering his hand to shake. “It was nice to finally meet you for real, Serpent Crowley.”

“Likewise,” Crowley said, shaking his hand. “Glad you’re not as vicious as Clarence thought.”

Merzhaz sighed dramatically. “Vicious?” he whined. “Come on, I’m not vicious. He thinks I’m vicious?”

“Well, he thinks you can be, anyway,” Crowley said with a dismissive shrug.

Aziraphale beamed, looking back and forth between them as Merzhaz responded with another dramatic sigh. Oh, yes, they are very much like OUR children, he thought smugly.

The three of them slowly made their way to the door, where they made several more promises to keep in touch and reviewed all the possible methods they had to do so. Then there was one more hug for Aziraphale and one more handshake for Crowley before they finally, reluctantly bid each other farewell. Aziraphale stood there in the doorway, watching Merzhaz go. Merzhaz looked back several times to wave as he walked away. Aziraphale waved back at him every single time. Merzhaz was also repeatedly touching his wrist, communicating with the rest of the platoon over the bracelet. He waved one more time, and then he turned a corner and was out of sight.

Aziraphale let out a heavy sigh. He stared in the direction Merzhaz had gone for another moment, and then he stepped back into his shop and pulled the door shut behind him.

Crowley was waiting for him, leaning up against the wall in a deliberately casual fashion… and holding up that overstuffed envelope of letters.

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “Ooh—” He snatched the envelope from Crowley and cradled it against his chest as he hurried to the sofa.

Crowley grinned, pushed himself off the wall, and turned to saunter after him.

^[1] Feather dusters are really better at knocking dust around than actually collecting the dust they’re meant to clean up. Fortunately, no one ever mentioned that to Aziraphale, so his feather duster works better than most.

^[2] As a rule, Crowley had never been very vengeful. It was one of his major shortcomings as a demon. (Well, it was somewhere on a very long list of shortcomings, anyway.) But when it came to Aziraphale, Crowley had a long history of making exceptions and learning new tricks. Like wanting revenge for six millennia of emotional abuse and one attempted execution.

^[3] “Fraternizing” was right out, obviously, and “hanging out” didn’t really cover it, and “dating” was—er, well—that is, they hadn’t discussed… Well, you know. It’s complicated.

^[4] Shortly after Eden, Hell had called a meeting to determine if the dreaded Principality Aziraphale was one and the same as the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Crowley had heard demons tell horror stories about a terrifying Principality Aziraphale, Slayer of Demons, who could breathe Hellfire, shoot Holy Water from his eyes, and flatten a hundred demons with a flick of his fingers. He’d been much more inclined to trust Mephistopheles’s judgment, but even that had been hard to mesh with his understanding of the angel who’d shielded him from the first rain… right up until the thirty seconds or so when Aziraphale had thought Crowley had tempted Cain to murder. Then it all clicked.

^[5] Crowley and Aziraphale could both relate to that, as they had both known women in history who would have been livid to have their accomplishments attributed to anything other than their own talent and hard work.

^[6] Which, to be fair, it was. Not that cardstock is likely to shatter on impact, but it’s not the most durable material, either.

^[7] Well, besides call them. But let’s face it, the only thing sparing Aziraphale from a near-constant onslaught of silly memes and emojis and gifs was the fact that he didn’t have a smartphone. This may, in fact, be part of the reason he didn’t have a smartphone. On second thought, though, there was a decent chance Aziraphale wouldn’t approve of Crowley spamming Merzhaz with really annoying memes. It would be safer to stick with cat videos. And pictures of ducks. Everybody needs more ducks.

^[8] Crowley is actually a big fan of hugs. He obviously doesn’t broadcast that fact, because it would totally contradict his image. He’s also very selective about who is allowed to hug him, and there’s only one angel whose name makes the list. (The vast majority of the other names are human children.)

^[9] Prior to that moment, the magnifying glass had been in an entirely different drawer and buried under several scraps of paper, but it knew to appear wherever Aziraphale thought it was.

^[10] Merzhaz was surprised to see that the crossword puzzle had actually been completed. Then he laughed at the revelation that Crowley was the one who had done it, and that Aziraphale hadn’t had a chance to finish the crossword puzzle in the Infernal Times yet. In Aziraphale’s defense, the Infernal Times always makes their crossword puzzle impossible to solve “correctly” unless you misspell one or more of the words, and the answers may or may not all be in the same language or even use the same alphabet.

^[11] He did often think of various faces, actions, and mannerisms of Aziraphale’s as being adorable, but that’s completely different.