Archive of Our Own

CATastrophy

London, 1941

Mrs. Henderson stood in the empty theatre, an irritation that bordered on rage simmering in her veins. Sure, those idiots did manage a terribly impressive trick that nearly brought the house down with applause; but between the wasted liquor, that nonsense with the turnip, and the bullet hole in the wall of the wings, the night had nearly been a disaster. She had brusquely informed both Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell that she never wanted to see either of them again, but that hadn't been enough to soothe her temper.

She would never actually admit it, but Mrs. Henderson was a petty old witch, and she was going to make herself feel better by making their lives miserable for a few hours. Nothing major, nothing drastic, just a few hours of annoyance as pay back for undue stress and aggravation. She would lift the spell in the morning, but let them suffer for the night.

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“Shades of a very light grey, I'd rather fancy,” Aziraphale retorted before clinking his glass against Crowley’s and taking a sip of wine. He glanced over at the demon, trying to decide which of the many things that still needed to be said he should start with. Before he got very far on that debate, Crowley suddenly straightened in his chair, eyebrows arched high above his dark lenses.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice alarmed.

“Doing? I’m not doing anything,” Aziraphale insisted. “What even are you-”

But then he felt it.

Whatever it was felt light and almost ticklish against his skin, but at the same time had settled inside of him like a small, heavy stone.

“This feels more like it’s… something your side would …perpetrate.” The two sensations seemed to be reaching for one another through his body, a very unpleasant experience that was swiftly escalating to painful.

“Not…ours,” Crowley pushed past his clenched teeth. “Feels…like…” It felt like his fall. If felt like his body was being reshaped, pushed and pulled into a new configuration. The sensation of every molecule in his body being on fire wasn’t as intense, and the feeling of plummeting through eternity was missing; but it was still so painful that his vision hazed and he grew light headed.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried. He tried to reach for the demon, because Crowley would fix this, as he always did. But Aziraphale's hand wasn't working right. Nothing was working right, except for his pain receptors, and those were working overtime. He heard a thump from beside him, but he couldn't open his eyes to see that it had been caused by Crowley hitting the table as he passed out. Aziraphale felt like he was being torn apart and put back together in a way he wasn't meant to go. “Crowley-” he gasped one last time.

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“Crowley? Crowley! Please wake up. Please. Crowley? Can you hear me?”

Crowley slowly opened his eyes and saw a very fluffy cat. “When’d you get a cat?” he asked Aziraphale, mostly as a reason to stay quiet and figure out why he felt so weird.

“I didn't get a cat,” the cat huffed. “I am a cat. So are you!”

“Oh. Okay.”

“‘Oh. Okay’? That's your reaction to us being cats?!?”

Crowley lifted his head and peered at Aziraphale. “Well, since you're already worked up, I assumed I was supposed to be the calm, collected one. Unless you think both of us panicking will help this situation?”

“I am… not… panicking,” Aziraphale huffed. “I am extremely agitated. And I don't understand why Hell had to involve me in this.”

“You think this was Hell’s doing?”

“Obviously! Who else would it be?”

Crowley shot to his feet and snapped “Oh, I don't know…could it be...Heaven? Because this felt exactly like when I was cast out!”

“I’ll remind you that it wasn't an angel that burst into the dressing room earlier to make threats.” Aziraphale's tail twitched with agitation. “Heaven wouldn't stoop to such…chicanery!”

“They would,” Crowley argued, avidly eyeing the moving tail, wondering about the sudden urge to pounce on it. “But I know this isn't Hell’s doing because they didn't also drop us into the kennel of a starving hellhound.” Oh, that tail was tempting! He managed to draw his eyes back to Aziraphale's face. “B’sides, you’re much too cute and fluffy to be anything Hell would produce.” He tried to shrug, but that didn't work since his shoulders were behind his head instead of under it. Thankfully cats didn't blush, because he probably shouldn't have admitted he thought Aziraphale was cute.

“I still don't see why you’d think this was Heaven’s doing, though,” Aziraphale said, deciding that Crowley had meant “cute and fluffy” as a general observation. “They’ve never given any indication that they're aware of our rel-...er, arrangement.” He didn't want to say ‘relationship’ because it seemed a bit too presumptuous. But to just say ‘arrangement’ seemed like he was downplaying what they’d built over the many years they'd been on Earth. While they were no longer the only angel and demon with permanent postings on Earth, they had been there the longest, and had had more run-ins with each other than any other angel and demon. Their interactions had never been the standard angel versus demon type, and that was the problem. Technically, Crowley was the enemy. Truthfully, he was the furthest thing from it.

Confused by feelings he didn’t completely understand and was fearful of admitting, on top of the disconcerting fact that they were now cats, Azirphale’s tail twitch became more vigorous.

Crowley’s attention was immediately drawn back to it. He crouched down, planting his paws just so as he watched the tail to learn its pattern and time his attack for the perfect moment. He stalked a little closer, slowly, so as not to alert his prey. There was a small voice in his head advising against this action; but Crowley had never listened to that voice before and he certainly wasn't going to start now.

Deep in thought, Aziraphale wasn't aware of what Crowley was doing until he felt the demon land on his tail and begin batting at it. There was no thought to his reaction; Aziraphale spun around and swatted Crowley between the ears, hissing his displeasure.

“OW!” Crowley complained, flattening his ears. “What’s that for?”

“You attacked my tail!” Aziraphale glowered.

“Well, yeah.” Crowley didn't really see the issue. “You were waggin’ it all temptingly and-”

“First of all, cats do not wag their tails. Second, I would think you, of all the creatures in the universe, would be able to resist temptation.”

“It was instinct,” Crowley insisted.

“You’re not actually a cat,” the angel wearily reminded the demon. “You don't have cat instincts.”

“Yeah, well, you're not actually human, but you instinctively duck when something flies at your head.”

“That's different! That's survival.”

“Well, survival told me ‘pounce on the moving thing, it might be food’.”

As Aziraphale processed that, Crowley had the chance to notice that the angel’s feline face was nearly as expressive as his human face; wide eyes, dancing feline-eyebrows, his pink little nose crinkling…it was rather comical.

“But you don't have to eat!” Aziraphale finally said, not caring for Crowley's reasoning.

“Yeah, and neither do you, but…Y’know, that glower would be more effective if you didn't have the cutest little fuzzy-wuzzy face.” He had to wonder why the word ‘cute’ kept coming out of his mouth. “D’you find it odd that we can still talk?” he abruptly asked, hoping to keep Aziraphale from also wondering why the word ‘cute’ kept coming out of Crowley's mouth.

“Certainly no more odd than the fact that we’re cats!” He huffed, stamping his front paw, and pleaded “Can we please try to figure out what happened, who did it, and how we undo it?”

“Yeah, no, yeah, you’re right, yeah,” Crowley said, stepping out from beneath the table like a sleek shadow. “Let’s get some wine and figure this out.” He leapt up onto the chair he’d been sitting in before, then leapt onto the table.

Aziraphale felt indignant at the thought of an animal walking around on the same surface he took his meals at, even if (or possibly because) that cat was Crowley.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale called as he stepped out from under the table, and peered up, Crowley’s sharp feline face peering back from the top of the table. “Please get off the table! It’s unsanitary.” Crowley stared unblinkingly for a moment before pulling his head back. Thinking he was liable to deflate if he huffed any more, Aziraphale huffed none-the-less, hopped up onto his chair and stood on his hind legs to see what the demon was doing.

Crowley was trying to get his face deep enough into the glass to get to the wine. He was almost there, he could lap up a tiny drop when he stuck his tongue out, but not enough to slake his thirst or give the blissful relief of inebriation this situation called for. In spite of the fact that Crowley was playing it cool and seemingly unbothered by this, he was actually freaking out. But he didn't want to let on, for Aziraphale's sake. He never let on when he was worried or panicked or terrified, when Aziraphale was around; it was probably his own fault but Aziraphale had come to see him as unruffled and capable of getting him out of any situation. So he was going to panic on the inside while maintaining a very nonchalant demeanor externally.

But he would like to be at least a little intoxicated while they tried to figure out what happened.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale fretted from behind him. “I don't think you should do that.” Crowley flicked an ear to let Aziraphale know he’d heard and pressed his face a bit further into the glass. “Really, my dear! You're either going to make a mess or get-”

Crowley couldn't get his face further down, so he decided to give up and try a different tactic. But when he went to lift his face, the glass came up off the table.

“-stuck,” Aziraphale finished lamely.

Calm and collected flew out the window as Crowley realised the situation. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the glass, but that didn't work. He couldn't pull it off because his face was too wedged and paws were useless in this situation. He flopped onto his back and tried to kick at the base with his back feet; his frantic writhing did nothing but scoot him across the table top and eventually off the edge. He hit the floor, which shattered the glass and freed him. “Ow,” he exhaled, dazed and extremely unsettled.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried, hopping down from the chair and running under the table to the demon’s side. Crowley was laying in a puddle of wine and glass shards, eyes closed, and Aziraphale wasn't sure if he was breathing.

“My dear?” Aziraphale nudged the other cat with his head. “Are you alright?”

“No.”

Aziraphale rubbed his face against Crowley; he didn't know why, but it seemed like the right thing to do in this situation. “Are you hurt? Did you cut yourself?”

“I don't think so,” Crowley replied, wondering why the feel of Aziraphale's face rubbing against his felt so pleasant and soothing.

“Can you move? Are you sure you didn't break anything?”

“Just your glass,” Crowley sighed. When he spoke again, worry was thick in his voice. “Angel, my power isn't working. It's still there, I can feel it. But I can't touch it.”

“I know,” Aziraphale replied softly, continuing to nuzzle because it was giving him some comfort. “I tried a few things, right after I came to. It feels different from the miracle blocker, earlier.”

“Because that didn't affect us, personally, it just sort of made a negating barrier around the theatre. Your paws are stained,” he noted.

Aziraphale looked down and saw his fuzzy white toes had a decidedly red tint to them. “Oh, dear. That means you must be soaking wet!” Concern was evident. “Can you stand?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, getting his legs under himself and rising. His left side was soaking wet; he gave a quick shake to dislodge some of the moisture and shards of glass from his fur. “I don't think this was Heaven or Hell,” he told Aziraphale as he gingerly moved to a dry spot, feeling sore from hitting the floor and unpleasantly moist and slightly sticky.

“Who else could it be, though?” Aziraphale asked as he followed Crowley. “Unless, well …what if it wasn't Hell as a whole, but just one specific demon? One who, perhaps, has a grudge against us? One who might be upset about being bamboozled, when he was so certain he was about to drag the…notorious demon Crowley… before the dark council?”

Aziraphale's habit of being theatrical hadn't gone anywhere, and Crowley knew the only reason he hadn't made a hand motion like lighting up a marquee with the words notorious demon Crowley was simply due to lack of hands.

“You think the demon who was stupid enough to hand me the one piece of evidence that would have gotten me utterly destroyed is smart enough to do this?” He gave the closest thing to a snort he could manage.

“Just because he was idiotic enough to gloat doesn't mean he's too stupid to exact revenge.”

“Angel,” Crowley gently leaned his shoulder against Aziraphale, “you don't have to find redeeming qualities in everyone, y’know.”

“I do, actually. It's part of my job description.”

Crowley chuckled and pulled away, noticing he’d left wine on the angel's fur. He felt bad about that, so he did what made sense: he began licking Aziraphale's fur clean.

Aziraphale was a bit torn; it seemed very personal and intimate, but it also felt quite pleasant. So pleasant that a deep, contented purr emanated from his chest, and he closed his eyes in bliss. As Crowley’s rough tongue worked through his thick fur, it occurred to the angel that the demon was even more of a wine soaked mess than he was, and it would only be fair to reciprocate the favour. He tentatively ran his tongue along the demon’s shoulder, surprised at how effective the rough feline tongue he now possessed was at getting the sticky wine from sleek black fur, although he shouldn't have been. He knew everything had been designed for maximum efficiency.

He was also surprised at how loudly Crowley purred. The demon arched his body to give Aziraphale as much access to his damp side as he could.

They were both thinking that this was definitely beyond the comfort zone of their usual corporations, and wondering if they’d be able to make eye contact when (if) they resumed those usual corporations. It was not sexual, but it was a level of intimacy that neither had experienced before, and it made their complex relationship even more complicated and confusing.

“I’ll get the rest,” Crowley said, finally becoming too overwhelmed by the emotions battering his senses when Aziraphale got a little too close to his hip. “Hopefully I don't shed as much as you, furball,” he teased, trying to jump back to their normal type of interacting. This whole evening was definitely going to alter their relationship; Crowley hoped it would be for the better.

Aziraphale gave a hrumph and worked on getting the wine stains from his front paws, but Crowley had a point …Aziraphale did shed.

Grooming completed, the celestial cats turned their attention back to solving their problem.

“I…may know someone,” Aziraphale said slowly, after he and Crowley had bounced the topic around for a while. “A rather peculiar young lady came in some months ago, inquiring if I had any books on witchcraft and its history.”

“Go on,” Crowley prompted when Aziraphale’s dramatic pause became annoying.

“Well, I told her I didn't have anything that she was looking for-”

“You wouldn't have sold it if you did,” Crowley pointed out. “Have you ever actually sold a book?”

“That's not what we're talking about,” the fluffy cat bristled. “She left her information, telling me to reach out, should I acquire any books on the subject.”

“Okay. And this solves our problem how?”

“Well, it doesn't seem too much of a leap that she might be-” he looked around as if there was a chance someone might overhear him, and finished with a dramatic whisper “a witch.”

“I don't have any other ideas or suggestions, so let's go find this lady who's either a witch or just terribly fascinated by gruesome history. Where's her info?”

Aziraphale hopped up to his desk and pawed at the small cardholder that held his customers' information. It wasn't a very full cardholder, since there weren't that many customers, so it didn't take him long to find the card he was looking for.

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“Of course it has to rain!” Crowley complained as they made their way across town. “Can't have one bloody sunny day ‘round here, can we?”

“It could be worse; at least it's not snow,” Aziraphale said, trying to stay as positive as possible even though he was a sodden mess. Crowley looked rather radiant since the raindrops had settled on his black fur like stars blazing in the night sky. Aziraphale’s fur was much more absorbent and he looked like an abused mop.

“Yeah, I'd lose you in a snowbank if it was,” Crowley said. “So, what makes this human ‘peculiar’?” He asked, abruptly changing the subject.

“Just a feeling, really, but something about her didn't seem quite tethered to reality. I can't explain it more than that.”

It made enough sense to Crowley that he didn't press further. He glanced at Aziraphale, who looked absolutely unhappy with everything but was still trying to be chipper in spite of it. “D’you need to rest, or anything?” Crowley asked. “We can stop for a break, if you want.”

“No, I’m fine,” Aziraphale insisted.

“Don't lie to me, angel. You're the furthest thing from fine. You're soaking wet, filthy, and I can tell you're getting tired.”

Aziraphale gave Crowley a grateful look and said “Thank you, my dear, but I don't think we have much further to go. I’ll be fine until we get there.”

They reached their destination some thirty minutes later, a tidy little two story building with a seamstress shop at ground level and living space above.

“There's an open window,” Crowley observed. “Ready for a climb?”

“Not really,” Aziraphale admitted. “I don't think I can get up there. I’m not as svelte and nimble as you, my dear.”

Crowley headbutted Aziraphale, somewhat affectionately, but mostly to knock some sense into the fuzzy, insecure skull. “You can do it, just follow right behind me. Trust me, angel.”

Aziraphale did. Crowley made the ascent look easy; Aziraphale made the ascent, and when he finally landed on the sill of the open window, he collapsed in a shuddering heap and declared “I don't ever want to do that again!”

“Oh, you finally showed up.”

Crowley and Aziraphale looked into the flat and saw a woman smiling at them.

“You knew we were coming?” Crowley asked, suspicious. Maybe Aziraphale was right and she was a witch; more specifically the witch who did this to them.

“I’ve been expecting you since I moved in, about five years ago. Please, come in. I’ll dry you off and explain.”

“You’ll explain now,” Crowley growled, standing protectively over Aziraphale, who was still laying on the sill, exhausted.

The woman gave a small nod, crossed the floor to a bookshelf, and pulled a slim notebook down. She flipped through it as she walked back to the window, turning it so the cats could see it. Aziraphale slowly lifted his head and peered at the page. The handwriting and the ink varied, as if she had added more as time passed.

I was in a flat. It was raining. The window was open.

Two cats appeared…one thin and black, one fluffy and white. They could talk.

I wasn't the right kind of witch to solve their problem.

They argued a lot.

They break my vase, but promise they can fix it.

The fluffy one kept mentioning crêpes, the thin one wanted Scotch.

The thin one demanded a proper apology from the fluffy one, DANCE AND ALL.

They are not cats.

I don’t think they’re human

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, then both cats turned to look at the woman.

“I was six, the first time I dreamt about two talking cats coming to my window. I didn’t think much of it at the time, since I was six and talking cats wasn’t the oddest thing to dream about. I kept having the dream, though.”

“People dream,” Crowley snarled, discomforted by what he’d read on the pages. In her presence, Crowley understood why Aziraphale had called her peculiar, and what he meant by not being completely tethered to reality; but like the angel, he couldn’t explain it as anything other than a feeling. He didn’t fear her, but he wasn’t inclined to blindly trust her.

“They do,” she nodded, “but I don’t know how many people who’ve had dreams about talking cats showing up have actually had talking cats show up. I’m not sure if I was your first visit; but if you’d like to try to find someone else who has had this exact dream and is willing to help, do let me know and I will gladly open the door so you can use the stairs and not try to climb down the building.” She smiled at Crowley sweetly, waiting for him to reply.

“Please, Miss Turner,” Aziraphale spoke up. “Does the offer of coming inside and being dry still stand?” He turned an imploring gaze to Crowley. “My dear, I am wet and cold and tired. If you must snap at her, can you at least do it inside?”

Crowley looked down at his friend, who looked bedraggled and pathetic, then cast a wary glance back at the woman.

“I’ve kept towels in a metal bin near the stove every time it rained, to keep them warm for when you showed up,” she said with a gentle compassion on par with Aziraphale. “I can't fix…this,” she waved her hand at them. “I don't know what it is, or what caused it. But I can help you for the next while, until it ends.”

Crowley was still taking her measure, but the mention of a warm towel was more than enough for Aziraphale, who jumped from sill to floor with a squelching thud and looked up at the woman. “May I please have a towel? I would like to be dry.” She grabbed one of the towels and began vigorously rubbing Aziraphale, who gave a few indignant squawks at first but soon stopped protesting when he started to feel warmer, drier, and slightly less miserable in general. He relaxed under the towel, letting her shift him as she needed to dry him off. He was almost feeling pampered, until she got to a spot on his ribs that made him squeal and draw his back legs up reflexively.

“Angel!” Crowley cried as he leapt to the floor, ready to claw her to shreds. Miss Turner had drawn her hands back immediately, not sure if she had hurt him or done something improper.

“That tickled!” Aziraphale cried merrily, a quick purred giggle following.

Crowley immediately dropped from his attack and looked at the white cat, wrapped in a towel in the middle of some stranger’s living room floor, and asked in a stunned tone “You're…ticklish?”

“Apparently. All these years, and I never knew!” He was absolutely thrilled with this new discovery. “Oh, I wonder if you're ticklish?”

“I’m not.”

“How do you know? Has someone tried to tickle you before?”

“Does my lot look like the type to try to tickle anyone?” His face wasn't nearly as expressive as Aziraphale's, but the sardonically arched eyebrow was unmistakable.

“Well, no, but you seem rather certain for someone who's never been tickled.”

Miss Turner watched this exchange with bemusement, because there was nothing else she could do.

“Aziraphale, you have a vague idea of what they do to me when I displease them,” Crowley said in a low, ominous tone. “I’m fairly certain ‘ticklish’ was burnt out of me a long time ago.”

Deciding the conversation had gotten too dark, Miss Turner grabbed a dry towel from the warm bin, said “One way to find out!” as she threw it over Crowley and began drying him off.

“What are you- Stop that! I don't need your-” Crowley sputtered, trying to get out from underneath her hands. Yes, the warm towel felt good, and she was making fast work of drying him off; but he didn't like the fact that he was enjoying it, and he was not going to stick around for it! To add insult to injury, Aziraphale was looking at him with too much amusement in his eyes.

Crowley flattened to the floor, planning to dart forward the next time her hands lifted to move the towel.

But she hit a spot, just to the right of his spine about an inch after his ribs ended. The spot didn't itch, but the rubbing still had the same blissful feel a good scratch in a hard to reach spot produced. He stretched his neck, tilting his head and glancing up at Miss Turner, his eyes narrowing to slits as an unusual contentment overcame him. Seeing this, Miss Turner switched to a more direct scratching, which caused Crowley to begin licking the air. He felt goofy, but it was an instinctive response that didn't seem worth fighting.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed as he rolled to his feet and gave him a disapproving glare. “Stop that this instant! It's vulgar!”

“It's a cat thing,” Miss Turner said with a giggle. “Most cats have a spot like this.”

“Oh? Find his,” Crowley commanded, knowing Aziraphale would enjoy this indulgence, and wanting to remind the angel that he wasn't immune to simple pleasures.

“Do not listen to him!” Aziraphale warned. “He is trying to lead you down the path of- Stop that this instant!” he demanded as Miss Turner reached out and began scratching his back, although he didn't actually want her to stop because it felt nice. But he continued to protest, mostly out of habit of opposing what the demon was encouraging. His protests died off as she found a spot that made his toes curl in bliss and his head involuntarily sway from side to side. “Oh, that feels…quite…lovely,” he literally purred as he folded his front legs under himself. His back legs remained straight, but that kept his back conveniently raised for her clever fingers which were so masterfully scratching places he couldn't scratch as effectively.

“So, Miss Turner,” Aziraphale said as he basked in bliss, “Please, tell us…oh, a little to the left please? Ah, yes, right there thank you.” Aziraphale understood the urge to begin frantically licking at nothing, like Crowley was still doing; he was just fighting it because, unlike the demon, he had some decorum. “Tell us more about your dream,” he finished.

“Don't distract her,” Crowley said in a lazy voice. “Let her keep scratching.”

“I can do two things at once,” Miss Turner informed him. “I’ll tell you what I can, so what do you want to know?”

“You said you’ve had it frequently; is it always the same?”

“Some things, yeah. The major things, the things on the first page, those are always the same. Little things would change, and I never experienced this, um, particular interaction…My hands are getting tired. Can I stop?”

“No,” both cats replied without hesitation.

Miss Turner kept scratching, and answered Aziraphale's questions to the best of her ability. She knew she was nothing more than a bit player in this event, basically providing shelter, thumbs and endless scratchings until they reverted back, which she assured them would eventually happen. “A few days? Maybe a week?” she responded when Crowley demanded to know when. “I don't always get a solid sense of time in my dreams.”

“May I see your notebook, please?” Aziraphale asked. “Perhaps there's something in your notes that will offer A Clue.”

“Don't capitalize it, angel,” Crowley groaned.

“I need to stop scratching so I can reach the book,” Miss Turner pointed out.

“He asked, so stop scratching him,” Crowley insisted. “Don't make me suffer for his curiosity. Scratch between my shoulders, would ya?”

Because her hands were starting to cramp, and because she did have other things to do, Miss Turner stopped scratching them both. That earned her a fierce displeased golden-eyed glare from Crowley, and a wide-eyed imploring gaze from Aziraphale, but she ignored both looks and reached for the notebook, plopping it on the floor between the two cats. “Study it to your heart's content,” she said as she stood up. “I’m going to make dinner.” She walked out of the room, leaving the cats alone.

“Thanks for ruining it,” Crowley grumbled. “I was enjoying that!”

“Have you forgotten we came here to try and solve our problem?” Aziraphale asked. “Not bask in…decadent ecstacy?”

“Oh, that's rich, coming from you!” Crowley snapped. “B’sides, she said she can't solve it, but it does eventually end; so why not enjoy ourselves in the meantime?”

“Perhaps it eventually ends because we figure it out by studying her notebook and applying our considerable intellect to the problem,” Aziraphale offered in the short tone that indicated he wasn't entirely pleased about something. He didn't look at Crowley, keeping his eyes fixed on the notes written in the margin. “Oh dear,” he said with a note of dismay. “I think she’ll find out what we really are.”

“How's that?” Crowley asked as he sat up, intending to finish drying himself off.

“Look, here,” Aziraphale pawed at a particular note “They have wings (matches fur). Still no ?” he read aloud to Crowley, who had stretched his back leg out and was busy licking his thigh. “‘Still no’ what, though? I wonder why she didn't finish the thought?”

“Maybe it’s ‘still no clue who did this’ or ‘still no idea why I’m having this dream’ or ‘Still no idea why the fluffy one is obsessed with crêpes’.”

“I haven't mentioned crêpes once since we arrived!”

“No, but apparently you will,” Crowley pointed out. “Look, I’m more than happy to keep throwing out random ideas, but maybe you should ask her what she meant?”

Aziraphale huffed and rose, padding quietly to the kitchen. “Excuse me, Miss Turner, I was wondering…you made a note, in the margin. It mentioned wings, and right after that you wrote ‘Still no’, but you didn't complete the sentence.”

He watched her blush furiously, and she shot an embarrassed glance his way before turning her eyes back to the stove. “Uh, for some reason, um…neither of you have, um,... genitals… when you go back to your, um…human bodies. When I was young, I…I guess I thought that was because, I mean I knew boys and girls were different, down there, but I didn't know how different, I’d never seen one, so … you know?” Aziraphale didn't actually know, but he made an agreeable sound so she would continue. “I did eventually discover the difference; but even after that…you two are just- I mean, there’s nothing down there.” She gave Aziraphale a look of embarrassed confusion, and he debated whether to explain what that actually meant, or not.

He decided on ‘or not’, and said “Well, perhaps your mind was trying to offer us some dignity,” by way of explanation.

“Nice cover,” Crowley said from right beside him, startling both Aziraphale and Miss Turner, neither of whom had seen or heard him walk into the kitchen. “I turned the page, Aziraphale. It said ‘floating eye? giant snake?’-”

“Oh, that!” Miss Turner said with a laugh as she turned off the burner and lifted the pan off the stove. “The one and only time I’ve ever been drunk! I think all the champagne sort of messed with me; it was the only time I dreamed that part, but yeah…for a brief minute between being cats and human, you were a floating eye and giant snake.” She shook her head and laughed again as she began scooping food onto plates. “That…that was just too weird, so I haven't touched alcohol since. Hope you like chicken,” she announced as she put a small plate in front of each of them.

Crowley watched Aziraphale eat both plates, although it wasn't as fascinating as it was when they looked human.

“Thank you, Miss Turner,” Aziraphale said as he cleaned his muzzle with his paw. “That was quite tasty. Is there anything we can do to help clean up?” He knew there wasn't, but he still had to offer. She told them they’d be most helpful by not being underfoot, so the cats went back to the living room.

“Should we tell her?” Aziraphale asked as he looked over the notebook some more, looking for other clues that might either solve their problem or help him sway Crowley. “What we are, I mean? To alleviate any fears she may have, if we do, well, present our…true… selves?”

“Because it would be the nice thing to do?” Crowley asked as he stretched out on the floor, close to Aziraphale.

“Yes, exactly.”

“When have you ever known me to do something because it's the nice thing to do?”

“More times than you’re willing to admit. Would you like me to start at the beginning, when you sheltered me from falling stars with your wing-”

“That doesn't count! I was still an angel, then!”

“Or, I can start with the most recent, which was just last night.”

Crowley stood up and began pacing restlessly, a feeling building inside that both thrilled and terrified him. “I didn't do that because it was nice! I did it because if I hadn't, Heaven would’ve had to replace you, and I’d’ve had to work with some idiot angel who doesn't understand anything, and would be completely unbearable while they kept trying to smite me. I don't have the patience to train another angel!”

“Train another angel? What do you mean by that?” Aziraphale asked, ready to unleash his indignation if the demon’s answer didn't appease his offended sensibilities.

“If I was no longer here, would you want to spend another six thousand years learning to deal with my replacement?” Crowley asked, still pacing, every line of his body tense.

Aziraphale saw Crowley’s point. He couldn't bear the thought of losing Crowley forever, not when the pain from eight decades of mere physical separation was still so fresh. Because he wouldn't answer truthfully, and he couldn't lie, he lashed out at the only thing he could: Crowley's choice of words. “‘Deal with’? Is that how you feel about our interactions? That you ‘deal with’ me?”

“You're the one who called it fraternising!”

They glared at each other.

There was so much that needed to be said, but neither one knew where to start; and even if they did, how could they explain to the other the things they themselves didn't understand? Did Crowley dare admit that the reason he did the things Aziraphale thought of as good and nice was to make the angel happy? Could Aziraphale confess that he sometimes did reckless things to draw the demon to his side because he missed Crowley?

What words could Crowley use to explain that he’d asked for the holy water, not as an easy out for himself, but because he had almost broken during his post-Edinburgh torture and nearly blurted the truth of their relationship? That he was petrified of being the reason Aziraphale got into serious trouble, or worse…cast out of Heaven?

How could Aziraphale make Crowley understand that his reaction to that request had been fear of losing the demon forever? That it was merely a foolhardy attempt to barricade his heart from being destroyed along with his dearest friend?

Two of God's more intelligent creations stared at one another in irrational anger, because it was emotionally safer than admitting how deeply they cared for each other.

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Mrs. Henderson ushered the dancing girls out onto the stage, and wondered why it felt like she was forgetting something…

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Crowley and Aziraphale were still locked in their staring contest when Miss Turner had gone to bed. She had assumed that, since they weren't actually cats, they would be decent and stay quiet for the evening.

But sometime after midnight, she was awoken by what sounded like a herd of elephants stampeding throughout her flat. It was punctuated by body-slammed thuds, offended yowls, and murderous growls.

She closed her eyes as deja vu washed over her. This was one detail that had never deviated in any way, so she let it play out as it would. She wasn't sure if this was the end result of whatever they’d been glowering over earlier, or just them being cats; but she suspected they needed this altercation to burn off some of the tension between them.

For about five minutes, she listened to them tear through her home, slamming into walls and doors, screaming like they were intent on killing each other.

The sound of something crashing finally brought an end to their battle. She found them in the living room; Aziraphale was low to the floor, ears dropped and big blue eyes turned upwards begging forgiveness, and Crowley sitting upright, still growling and holding one paw raised as if he were ready to swipe at Aziraphale any moment. Behind them, an overturned stand and the shattered remains of a hideous vase she had been inexplicably fond of were visible by the light of her candle.

“I’m very sorry, Miss Turner,” Aziraphale said as she swept up the shards. “We’ll fix it…good as new! when we return to our…our…usual corporations.

“You'll fix it,” Crowley snarled. “This was your fault!”

“How is it my fault when you bumped into the table?”

“You started it!”

“I did not! You smacked me first!”

“You attacked my tail!”

“I couldn't help it! It was in-”

Crowley’s posture went from menacing to sharp interest, and Aziraphale immediately knew he was in trouble.

“It was what, angel? Hmm?”

“It was, ah…instinct,” he finished, knowing Crowley was going to bring up the same conversation from the bookshop.

“Oh, instinct? Even though you're not really a cat and don't have cat-like instincts?”

“Well, uh, yes, I think perhaps I, uh…hadn't fully…grasped just how naturally some actions would come. It hadn't been all that long since the, ah, event, when I…when I said that.”

“Not good enough,” Crowley said, sticking his face close to Aziraphale's. “I want a proper apology, little dance and all.”

“I can't do the dance in this body,” he protested.

Crowley put his muzzle near Aziraphale's ear and said in a sinister whisper “I'm very patient, I can wait.”

“Do you two ever actually talk? Or just take every opportunity to snipe at each other?” She may have tolerated their constant bickering in her dreams, but she didn't have the patience to put up with it in reality.

Both cats looked at her as if they had forgotten she was there.

“We have had…countless conversations, throughout the years,” Aziraphale informed her, feeling a bit prickly with her tone.

“Yeah!” Crowley agreed, wondering where this human got the nerve!

“About what?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

“Well, books, wine, plays-” Aziraphale listed

“Music, composers, authors, actors-” Crowley added.

“Architecture, nature, the universe in general-”

“Ducks, the merits of alcohol, where grave robbing fits in the morality spectrum-”

“Yes! There have been plenty of discussions about whether a morally reprehensible act done for noble reasons is, in fact, morally reprehensible,” Aziraphale further explained. “For example, if someone told a lie to save innocent lives, should they be condemned for the lie?”

“D’you still feel guilty about that?” Crowley asked, sounding half amused by the thought.

“A twinge, occasionally,” Aziraphale admitted. “But I still think we did the right thing.”

“Uh-huh. We talk about revolutions and uprisings, and how stupid it is to show up to one dressed like aristocracy when the working class is beheading anyone who looks even slightly fancy.”

“I have standards! And really, you just can't find better crêpes-” Aziraphale said, again, for the…he wasn't sure how many times he'd defended himself for that Parisian excursion.

“And there you go with the-” Crowley interjected, because he'd heard it too many times

“Stop, both of you.” She didn't say it loudly, or forcefully, but there was a tone in her voice that made both celestial beings clamp their jaws shut and look at her. She took a deep breath, and said “So, it seems that you’ve talked about nearly everything under the sun, and probably the sun itself-”

“Oh, yes, many times,” Aziraphale helpfully agreed.

“Fascinating thing, the sun,” Crowley added, since he was always keen to discuss stars. “Did you know-”

“Probably not,” she said through clenched teeth, “and right now I don't care.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose, then gave an exhausted sigh. “Forget I said anything. I don't care what you do the rest of the night, just do it quietly. And don't break anything else.” She shuffled back to her bedroom and shut the door.

“Huh, wonder what that was about?” Crowley pondered.

“Obviously, she would like for us to be quiet and not damage more of her belongings.”

“I meant the ‘do you two talk’ bit,” the demon clarified. “Of course we talk! We talk about everything! What haven't we talked about?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, realising he had the perfect opportunity to bring up what they needed to talk about. “We haven't discussed our, uh…last encounter.” He pushed aside any dread he was feeling at actually discussing that day and started with the most logical thing to start with. “Crowley, I am so, so sorry for what I said! It was panic, my dear. As soon as I saw what you'd written, I thought you would … I know you said it was just for insurance, but I…I didn't believe you. I could only imagine the worst, and that meant existing without you.” His voice, normally so rich and smooth, quavered with emotion. “I said what I said because I foolishly thought that, if I walked away angry, it would protect me from being hurt if…if…” The tightness in his chest was almost too much to breathe around; his eyes burned as if tears were building, and while he knew cats didn't weep when they were sad, he wasn't sure if an angel trapped in the body of a cat was obligated to follow that. “I haven't known… for a very long time… how, precisely, to define our relationship. Certainly not adversarial. And, I don't think I’m wrong in assuming there's mutual respect, and our arrangement was certainly beneficial for us both. But at some point, I started wanting to spend time with you…just because. I looked forward to seeing new places, marveling at the humans’ latest achievements, or just whiling away the hours talking.

“I don't know when I stopped thinking of you as ‘that demon' and started thinking of you as my friend, and I don't know when friendship became…. something deeper, something warm and bright and fluttery that…that fills me whenever you're near, and even just when I think of you. But that turned to something cold and heavy and bitter when I thought you might…might…do something drastic; I didn't like that, so I used anger to shield myself from it.” The angel hung his head in shame. “I am so sorry my dear. I didn't mean what I said.”

Crowley leaned over and rubbed his cheek against Aziraphale's head; not something he would have done had they been in their human forms, but feeling bold since they were in unusual circumstances. “I know you didn't mean it, angel,” he said, gently, reassurance and forgiveness heavy in his words. “I was just waiting for you to realise it.” He felt a bit of tension ease from Aziraphale, and the fluffier cat leaned slightly into the nuzzling. “I won't say it didn't hurt when you said it, and I think I was a little mad that you didn't believe me. I mean, I get it…I’m a demon, I lie. But, Aziraphale, I'm more honest with you than I am with anyone. I’ve known for a long time that I felt more than just fascination and intrigue for you; It’s just…the whole ‘you’re an angel, I’m a demon’ thing really complicates things, and…honestly, I’m not even sure demons are supposed to feel the, y’know, nice emotions. But for as long as I can remember, I’ve felt some warm, happy…disgusting joy whenever you're near, and I…I figured out I don't like not feeling that. The past eighty years have been Hell, Aziraphale. Yeah, less crowded, more quiet and better organized; but just as miserable and torturous as anything I’ve ever experienced down there.” He wasn't going to tell Aziraphale about it; not now, not when they were just making up. Not when it would only make Aziraphale feel worse. Crowley had been truthful when he’d said it was insurance in case Hell ever found out about them. Aziraphale didn't need to know that Crowley would use it as a last resort if he was the one about to reveal that secret. Aziraphale didn't need to know just how far Crowley was willing to go to keep his angel safe.

“Why didn't you say anything?” Aziraphale asked, pulling away and looking at Crowley.

“You’re the one who walked away,” the demon reminded him. “I wasn't about to chase you down. Even if I had, you know you’d’ve just vociferously insisted you meant it.”

Aziraphale wanted to argue, but Crowley was right. “So, if I hadn't gotten myself into such a jam last night …”

“You’d be in your bookshop sipping tea and still being too stubborn to admit you were wrong.” Crowley’s tone was jokey, but he was serious.

“Then it is a very good thing I almost got discorporated by those awful miscreants.”

“Was that really preferable to just finding me and apologising?” Crowley wondered.

“Now, in my defence,” Aziraphale clarified, “I wasn't expecting that to get so…out of hand. I really was trying to help the cause!”

“I know, angel. But you have to stop being so trusting of everyone. On the upside, you managed to take out a double agent, so you did help the cause.”

“You took out the double agent,” Aziraphale pointed out. “I…just…played to her hand.”

“Nah, this was yours. I learned my lesson on doing good deeds,” Crowley said.

“But, you-”

“I. Learned. My. Lesson.” Crowley reiterated, giving Aziraphale a look that said ‘don’t argue and don't say anything else’. Hell probably wasn't listening, but he figured anything was possible. They had been turned into cats after all, and it generally took a great deal of effort to alter a celestial corporation. Especially without the celestial’s knowledge and cooperation.

“Oh! Ah, yes. Uh…YAY ME!” Aziraphale's fur quivered with cheer as he caught Crowley's meaning.

Crowley clenched his jaw against the urge to mention how cute Aziraphale was. What he did do was headbutt the white cat affectionately. There were advantages to these feline forms, the demon decided. After all, cats were notorious for rubbing against each other; and since Aziraphale had agreed that cat instincts came with the cat bodies, Crowley figured he could be more touchy-feely than he tended to be in his normal corporation.

“Yes, yay you,” Crowley agreed, taking the moment to rub his cheek against Aziraphale.

Aziraphale sighed and began purring contentedly. After a moment, he tentatively asked “When we return to our usual bodies, would you…perhaps, be interested in, uh…doing this?”

“Talking?” Crowley asked, hoping that wasn't what Aziraphale meant.

“I meant the, uh …the nuzzling,” Aziraphale clarified shyly.

Crowley’s heart did a happy little flutter. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

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