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Chapter Text

2014 -- Florence, Italy

Crowley supposed that it was odd for a demon such as himself to find comfort in a church. Well, not inside the church; Crowley suspected he might burst into flame upon stepping inside the Duomo, so he never tried. Regardless, the Cattedrale di Santa Maria de Fiore caught his breath in his throat every time he looked up into the reds and greens of the masonry and the rusty brown of the dome. Crowley had seen a great deal of architecture during his time on earth, but this was the only building that struck him this way. Every time he crossed the shadow of the towering building, Crowley had to stop, if only for a brief moment, and stare. It almost hurt, to stare that way. Crowley had only ever encountered such a feeling before the Fall.

Rapturously gawking at churches was funny behavior for a demon, really, but Crowley wasn't even sure if he was actually a demon anymore. Ever since the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, Crowley had not heard anything from his superiors. He had been left alone, to his own devices, for the first time in six thousand years. It should have been freeing, and it was in some ways, but it was also a little like stepping off the side of a cliff without a parachute. It wouldn't have been so bad, so lonely, if Aziraphale was with him, but the angel was... Well, Crowley didn't quite know where Aziraphale was these days. After their last, disastrous, encounter not too long after the thwarted end times, Crowley had fled to Italy and never left.

Nearly a quarter of a century later, Crowley had not aged a day physically (somewhat of a relief, as that would be the kind of punishment Hell might dish out), but he was becoming restless. For the first ten or fifteen years, spending his days sipping coffee or wine in a cafe had suited Crowley just fine. He had even begun cultivating plants on his terrace, some warmer-weather ones that had never thrived well in England. However, after years of the same day lived over and over with slight variations, Crowley felt a bit bored. But what was a retired demon to do?

On one of these repetitive days, Crowley found himself in a cafe nestled in the shadow of the Duomo, nursing a caffe macchiato and gazing distractedly at a newspaper through his sunglasses. A light rain had begun to fall, gray streaking down the cafe windows. Crowley glanced through the glass up at the Duomo, watching the rain splatter down from its crevices.

"It's beautiful, isn't it? Although I always preferred the Taj Mahal as far as architecture goes."

Crowley whirled around in his chair and found himself face-to-face with the last person he expected to see in Florence. "Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale smiled, though there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. "Mind if I sit?"

Crowley shook his head dumbly and gestured toward the chair beside him. Aziraphale sat down, looking very much how Crowley had left him twenty-four years ago, albeit with slightly updated clothing. Slightly-- the sweater would not have looked out of place in a 1980's catalog.

"What are you doing here?" Crowley blurted before Aziraphale had a chance to speak.

"To find you, of course," Aziraphale replied, unwrapping a hideous crocheted scarf from around his neck. Raindrops clung to his hair, dripping slightly into his face. "I've been looking for you for quite a while, now."

Crowley felt his superfluous heart hammering. "You have?"

"I need your help."

"My help? With what?" His tone became bitter.

Aziraphale glanced nervously at Crowley, then at the cafe's other patrons. "May I suggest that we take this conversation elsewhere?"

"We can just make them forget." Crowley gestured toward the humans, nearly upsetting his coffee cup.

"No, it's not that. Well, it is that, but I also... I'm afraid that I've forgotten my manners. I'd hate to leap right into business, as it were. It has been a while, Crowley." Aziraphale's voice was soft, his gaze steady behind rain-streaked glasses.

Crowley shrugged. "Depends how long you consider 'a while' to be."

Indeed, the pair had gone centuries without seeing each other in the past. Those long stretches of time, however, had been before they had decided to raise Warlock together, before Adam Young, and before the almost end of the world. They had grown quite close over those years, or so Crowley had thought before he ruined everything.

"Crowley," Aziraphale began. "It's good to see you again. I know we left things rather badly..."

Crowley shook his head. "No. I don't want to-- Let's just get out of here and you can explain why you need my help."

Aziraphale regarded Crowley quietly for a moment. He sighed. "All right. Your place, then? I assume you have a 'place' here?"

Crowley squirmed. Aziraphale had never visited his home before, not even in England. "I suppose."

Aziraphale brightened slightly. "Wonderful."

He placed a cool and slightly damp hand on Crowley's, and although it did not physically hurt, to Crowley it felt like hellfire. Crowley pulled his own hand away and stood up. "Let's go."

Chapter Text

1990 -- London, England

The months following the not-Apocalypse brought about changes to Crowley's life.

First of all, and most concerningly, he had still not heard a word from Down Below. He would sit on his couch in a state of constant tension, watching The Golden Girls or Gilligan's Island with one hand on the remote's power button on the chance a character would suddenly address him personally. He knew he probably shouldn't turn off the television if someone from Hell were to contact him, but Crowley wasn't sure he could stomach direct conversation with another demon after so many months of silence.

Second, and most pleasingly, Crowley's time with Aziraphale had increased tenfold. Monthly dinner dates became weekly, and it was common for Crowley to stop by Aziraphale's newly-restored bookshop on a whim. Aziraphale always seemed happy to see him, usually inviting him in for a glass (or a few bottles) of wine. They would get blindingly drunk and congratulate themselves yet again on saving the world.

However, Crowley could not even blame alcohol for what happened several months after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't.

Crowley was sitting across the table from Aziraphale in the back of the bookshop, and, yes, they were drinking wine, but he had barely finished a glass. Crowley stared into the dregs of said glass and unintentionally tuned out Aziraphale, who had launched into a long-winded description of one of the books Adam had left in the shop.

"--and it is simply magnificent, really. I've never seen anything like it before, at least not on this continent. It's... my dear?"

Crowley's eyes shot up. "Huh?"

"Are you feeling well?"

Crowley frowned and wanted to say that they never got sick, but perhaps that was not what Aziraphale meant. "I-- My, er, people haven't contacted me yet. Have yours?"

Aziraphale chewed on his bottom lip and he averted his eyes. "Mine have, in fact. Quite recently. Perhaps that means you'll hear something soon, as well."

"You never told me?"

Aziraphale shrugged guiltily. "I didn't want to upset you."

Crowley sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Well, what did they say?"

Aziraphale was paying far too much attention to the wine bottle. "Hmm?"

"Were they angry? What did they say?" Crowley repeated.

Aziraphale refilled his glass, which was already mostly full. "It seems I've retained my job. They... Well, they didn't say anything about the incident. It was as if it never happened. All in all, it was a relatively normal conversation. All business related, of course, but pleasant enough."

Crowley fiddled with his sunglasses. "Humph."

"You'll hear back soon, my dear. Don't worry."

"What if they never contact me?" Crowley countered. "Then what?"

Aziraphale leaned back in his chair slightly. "Would that be so bad?"

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sure you're quite proficient at your job, Crowley, but would you actually miss it all that much?" Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

Crowley huffed. "First of all, I am very proficient. But that's not the point! The point is that they might send a replacement, Aziraphale. I might be sent back if they don't need me here anymore."

Now Aziraphale paled, his freckles standing out against blanched skin. "Send you back?"

"Send me back."

"Oh, dear." Aziraphale murmured. "What do we do?"

The "we" hurt Crowley's heart. "Just wait, I suppose. Not much else to do." He took the bottle from Aziraphale, who had been gripping it tightly, and poured more wine into his glass.

Aziraphale opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it. His brow furrowed over his wire-rimmed glasses. "Crowley," he said after a few moments. "I would miss you very much if they were to send you back."

Crowley nearly choked on his mouthful of wine. "Uh, thanks." Although his eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses, he avoided meeting Aziraphale's. "I'd miss you, too," he said very quickly, in a very low voice, half hoping that Aziraphale wouldn't hear him.

But Aziraphale did hear him, and the angel's eyes became a bit misty. "Oh, Crowley."

It suddenly became very important for Crowley to express how much Aziraphale meant to him. Crowley was not necessarily a master wordsmith, and although he felt he should say something, not a single phrase came to mind. So, because he could not think of anything else to do, he leaned across the table and kissed Aziraphale.

Aziraphale immediately pulled back, aghast. "Crowley!"

Crowley flushed. "I..."

Aziraphale's expression flicked through several different emotions, and eventually settled on confusion. "No... I don't... You don't..."

Crowley stood up so quickly the table wobbled. "I'm sorry," he muttered, and fled the bookshop.

Back at his flat, Crowley paced. Aziraphale had not chased after him, nor called him once Crowley returned home.

"Of course he doesn't want to talk to you," Crowley told himself, catching his reflection in one of the long mirrors adorning the stark white walls.

Despite their differences, angels and demons were essentially made of the same stock. Although angels often inspired love in humans, and demons often inspired lust, neither creature was inherently interested in things like romance and sex. And, Crowley thought, neither was he. What he felt for Aziraphale went far beyond those human conceptions of feeling. Still, it was inappropriate for a demon to love an angel in any sense of the word, and there was no denying that that was what Crowley felt. At least, he thought so. He hadn't had a lot of experience.

Crowley pushed his sunglasses into his hair and stared at his reflection. Yellow eyes blinked back at him.

He had tried to kiss Aziraphale, and Aziraphale had not been happy. That was what it came down to, really. Aziraphale loved everyone, of course; it was part of the job description, and it surely included even a demon like Crowley. But Aziraphale's love was different from Crowley's. Aziraphale's love was... obligatory. Crowley didn't want that. And if Aziraphale did not want Crowley by choice, then there was nothing keeping Crowley in London.

Crowley was on a plane for Italy that night. If Hell wanted him, it would find him.

Chapter Text

2014 -- Florence, Italy

Aziraphale was sitting on Crowley's couch like a vision from a dream. Crowley could not quite believe his friend's existence in his flat, and for a moment the demon stood awkwardly before finally taking a seat on the armchair across from the angel.

"You have a very nice home, Crowley," Aziraphale said, waving a hand vaguely. "It's very clean." The rain in his hair had dried, but left the curls sticking up at awkward angles. His glasses were still spotty.

"Thanks." It was a small, bright apartment that had suited Crowley well during his time in Florence, but lacked some of the sleekness of his London flat.

Crowley gestured toward the refrigerator. "Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?"

"Oh, no. I'm fine."

"Okay." Crowley rubbed his hands together nervously.

Aziraphale straightened and said, "You know, I've spent the better part of the year looking for you."

Crowley snorted. "That long? I guess I've only been gone for twenty four years." He grimaced after the words left his mouth. "Never mind."

Aziraphale fixed Crowley with wide eyes. "I didn't think you wanted to be looked for."

"Just tell me why you're here, okay?" Crowley said, scuffing his shoe against the immaculate wood flooring. He could always miracle any scratches away.

Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap. "I have been assigned to something rather problematic. It seems that someone on your side has gone rogue. A demon, that is."

Crowley almost laughed. "What's the difference between a rogue demon and a regular one? Does the rogue commit random acts of kindness?"

Aziraphale managed an unangelic smirk. "Quite the opposite. The problem is that he's upsetting the balance, and he's not under Hell's control. I have been trying to find him, you see, but I can't seem to do it by myself. For the past five years or so, I've been following him. Every time I hear about some sort of mass-scale destruction, I'll head to that part of the world. He always seems to evade me, though. He is always one step ahead of me."

Crowley crossed his arms. "So, what? You need me in order to get into his mindset? The demon mindset?"

Aziraphale looked miserable. "I suppose. And an extra pair of eyes would be helpful."

"You're assuming I think the same way the rogue does," Crowley accused. "That's not true. Even the most despicable demons wouldn't think the same way."

Aziraphale sighed. "I... know, Crowley." He did not sound completely convinced. "I just had the idea of consulting with a demon, which of course my side was against, but then I thought of you, and, well, I realized that you would be the perfect person to help me. And I also..." Aziraphale swallowed. "I also thought that it would be very nice to reconnect. It was quite lonely in London without you."

Crowley looked away, hoping Aziraphale wouldn't be able to read his expression.

"This is entirely optional, Crowley. I'm not going to force you to help me. It has just been difficult on my own, and I have no one else to turn to. Your replacement is certainly not going to offer any help."

Crowley turned back toward the angel and gaped. "My replacement? I have a replacement?"

"Why, yes. I assumed you knew," Aziraphale said.

Crowley shook his head furiously. "I haven't heard anything from Hell in years. Who is he?"

"She has actually chosen a female form," Aziraphale said. "I'm not actually sure of her demon name, but she's going by Helen."

"Helen?" Crowley repeated. "Who in someone's name could that be?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "I don't know, but she's not terribly pleasant to be around."

"That narrows it down," Crowley said. "It has to be one of those unpleasant demons."

"Don't be sarcastic with me."

Crowley sighed. "So, anyway, tell me about this rogue demon. Do you know his name?"

Aziraphale nodded slowly. "Yes."

Crowley stared at him for a few moments. "And it is?"

"Oh," Aziraphale said, blinking. "Mephistopheles."

"Mephistopheles? No." Crowley shook his head. "That can't be right. He's, well, smart. He's not the type to be violent. He's evil, sure, but he's also... sad. I just couldn't ever picture him going on some sort of rampage and--"

"Well, it's him," Aziraphale interrupted. "Crowley, please. Will you help me? I just need to know. If not, I can leave. It's okay."

Crowley rubbed his eyes behind his sunglasses, then took them off and fixed Aziraphale with his most demonic stare. Aziraphale did not flinch.

"On one condition," Crowley said, waving his glasses in front of him.

"Anything," Aziraphale agreed.

"I don't want to talk about what happened last time we saw each other," Crowley continued. Aziraphale made to protest, but Crowley said, "No, Aziraphale. I don't want to talk about it. Can we pretend it never happened?"

Aziraphale frowned. "I hardly think... Do you think that's wise, my dear?"

"I don't know about wise, but that's my condition." Crowley shrugged. "You can either accept it or not."

Aziraphale shifted uneasily on the couch. "I suppose I have to," he said. "But I would like to express how nice it is to see you again, even if we can't discuss why."

Crowley grunted and replaced his sunglasses. "So where is it we're going, then? Do you have any leads?"

Aziraphale nodded. "Like I said, he's a slippery one. However, I believe I may have a good lead on him."

"And where is that?"

"As soon as you're ready," the angel said, "We are going to South America."

Chapter Text

1991 -- London, England

Aziraphale had his face buried in a First Folio edition of Hamlet and did not hear the chimes over the bookshop's door tinkle.

He did, however, notice when someone walked straight into the backroom.

Aziraphale looked up and sputtered, "You can't be back here! This is an employees only area!"

The woman was tall, taller than Aziraphale, with soot black hair and golden eyes. Her face was all angles and flat planes, her body, bones and pointed joints. She wore a black suit jacket and trousers, and a pair of stiletto heels accentuated her already towering height.

"I'm looking for you, angel," she said in a deep voice.

Hamlet slid out of Aziraphale's hands, onto the dusty floor. "Oh, dear."

"My name is Helen, and I am Hell's new representative on earth," the woman said, staccato. "I thought I should meet my counterpart. That way, we can stay out of each other's business. Does that suit you, angel?"

"The name is Aziraphale," he said crisply. "And I don't understand. Isn't there already a representative for Hell on earth?"

"No," Helen said bluntly. "The demon Crawly is no longer in service. I am his replacement."

"But-- What have you done with him?" Aziraphale asked, clambering to his feet. "Is he in Hell?"

The demon shook her head, long ponytail swaying. "Not to my knowledge. I don't think they want him anymore. But like I said, he is no longer in service. I am his replacement."

She held out a smooth, long hand. Aziraphale stared at it, then reluctantly shook it with his smaller, chubbier hand.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Helen said.

Politeness dictated that Aziraphale say the same, but angels were not supposed to lie. He settled for a quick nod, releasing Helen's hand.

"If all goes well, this may be the last time we converse," Helen said. "I'll leave your affairs to you, and you leave my affairs to me."

"Well, all right," Aziraphale said reluctantly.

"I'm glad you understand. Goodbye, angel."

Helen turned and left the room, her stilettos unsettlingly quiet against the hard wooden floors of the bookshop.

"My name is Aziraphale," he muttered, glaring at the empty doorway.

Chapter Text

1568 --  Wittenberg University

It was gray outside, and cold. Crowley, leaning against a brick wall, watched his breath puff out in front of him. His internal temperature ran lower than that of the average human being, or angel, or even that of the average demon. Perhaps it was due to his reptilian background. Regardless of the reason behind it, Crowley knew he was cold, and he badly wanted some warm beer and food. Hell had other ideas, however, and Crowley's current assignment was fill the minds of passersby with sinful thoughts in whichever way he saw fit.

Crowley had chosen to create an especially slippery patch of ice outside one of the academic buildings. At this moment, a robed man stepped onto the ice and fell face first into the ground, emitting a hearty string of swears as he did so.

Crowley started when he heard a deep, clear voice beside him: "Guten Abend. Is this how you're collecting souls these days?"

Crowley looked to his right, where an incredibly pale demon had appeared. The demon's physique was the epitome of classic male beauty: chiseled, symmetrical, broad. His eyes were such a light blue they appeared almost white.

"I'll have you know that this is the most effective way of doing it, in terms of quantity," Crowley informed the demon, irritated. "It may lack artistry, but think of all the people who will leave here in a foul mood, spreading it to everyone they meet."

"I suppose there is something to be said for efficiency," the other demon said mournfully.

"Who are you? I haven't seen you around here before."

"You must be the representative, Crawly," the other demon said without answering the question. "I have heard quite a lot about you."

Crowley crossed his arms. "I can't say I've heard anything about you."

"Mephistopheles," the other demon said without looking at Crowley. "That is my name."

"What are you doing at Wittenberg?" Crowley asked.

Mephistopheles offered Crowley a smile that was anything but amiable. With a jolt, Crowley realized that the other demon's teeth were the color of slate, framed by ink black gums.

"I am here on a special, long-term assignment," Mephistopheles said. "You may not appreciate what I am doing, if I am to judge by your taste in methods, but the quality of the soul here is... something quite special."

"I see," said Crowley, but that was a lie. A soul was a soul, in his opinion.

"Are you here for long?" Mephistopheles asked. "If you are, you may find it rewarding to observe my progress. I can give you the name of the man, if you would like."

"I won't be here for much longer," Crowley said quickly, having decided on the spot that he wanted to be nowhere near Mephistopheles and his "special" human. "I'm going to Greece."

"Oh," said Mephistopheles calmly. "Daemonium, fuge. What a shame. Good luck in Greece with your future endeavors, Crawly."

The demon swept past Crowley without another word, his robes billowing behind him.

Crowley released a shuddering breath that he had been holding for the entirety of their conversation. Whether or not he went to Greece, Crowley knew that he would not stay here.

Chapter Text

2014 -- Chivay, Peru

A bright, clear sky and towering mountains greeted Crowley and Aziraphale in the Peruvian town. Rumpled from the flight and subsequent bus rides, Crowley and Aziraphale stood in the town square. It was early, and only a few people--tourists and locals alike--meandered down the streets.

Crowley sucked in the mild, dusty air. "It's not as hot as I expected," he said, trying to sound casual. He had not quite recovered from when he had fallen asleep on Aziraphale's shoulder on the bus. Aziraphale had not commented on it, but Crowley felt himself still blushing in embarrassment.

"Mmm," Aziraphale replied distractedly, scanning the street up and down.

Crowley's embarrassment gave way to irritation. He crossed his arms, glancing at an elderly woman in a straw hat who was nearing them. "So what's your plan here, angel?"

Aziraphale continued looking around. "They've a very lovely market in Chivay, I've heard. And hot springs. I was reading a travel magazine while you were sleeping."

"And then we can go souvenir shopping?" Crowley asked. "Really, Aziraphale? Why won't you tell me why we're here? You avoided the question during the whole trip, but if you want my help, you'll have to trust me with at least some information."

Aziraphale sighed and finally looked at Crowley. The wind picked up and whipped his hair back from his face. "You'll think badly of me if I tell you."

"What do you mean?"

Aziraphale suddenly rounded on the elderly woman, who had come within hearing distance. "Perdóname, señora," he said. "Buscamos a un hombre con dientes grises--"

The woman grimaced at Aziraphale and clutched her bag tighter. "Hay mucha gente acá." She quickened her pace and was soon several yards in front of them.

Crowley stared at Aziraphale in bewilderment. "Sure, angel, just go around asking people if they've seen a bloke with gray teeth. What are you thinking? It's no wonder you've been hopeless without me."

Aziraphale sighed, eyes downcast. "Crowley... I do have reason to believe that Mephistopheles is here."

"Okay," Crowley said, smoothing out the wrinkles in one of his sleeves. "Explain it to me."

Aziraphale scratched the back of his head. "There have been several... killings in the area. The work of a serial murderer is what people are thinking."

"And you think he's responsible?"

Aziraphale nodded. "I do."

Crowley frowned. "Why?"

"What, my dear?"

"Why do you think it's him? There are thousands of murderers in the world," Crowley said. "What's different about this one?"

"That's the part you may not like... I... I just have a feeling," Aziraphale admitted. "Call it angelic intuition, if you will."

Crowley tilted his head. "We're here because you 'have a feeling?'"

"Essentially," Aziraphale muttered.

Crowley shook his head. "And this is the same feeling that has led you around the world, looking for him? Let me take back my earlier statement, angel. This is why you've been hopeless without me."

"Angelic intuition is nothing to scoff at, Crowley," Aziraphale huffed, but his eyes betrayed his anxiety.

Crowley shrugged. "Maybe not, but you don't seem to be having much luck with it in this case."

"I've been so close, Crowley. I know I have." Aziraphale swallowed. "I'm not wrong. This is the work of Mephistopheles. The problem is that although he has certainly been here, he may be gone soon."

"All right," Crowley said, rolling his eyes before he realized Aziraphale couldn't see them. "Whatever you say, angel."

"Thank you, Crowley," Aziraphale said earnestly, and Crowley felt instantly guilty.

Chapter Text

2014 -- Chivay, Peru

"Is there any pattern to the sort of humans he chooses as victims?" Crowley drawled, drawing a spiral on the complimentary pad of paper in their hotel room. He had been seated at the desk for so long, his lower limbs were numbing.

Aziraphale perched on the edge of one of the twin beds, legs crossed in front of him. "Oh, not really. All genders, ages, ethnicities. Both tourists and locals. Seven total over the past month, bless their souls."

"What about his method?" Crowley asked, barely stifling a yawn.

Aziraphale polished his glasses with the edge of his shirt. "That also seems to vary. It's a wonder the humans have figured out it's only one individual committing the murders."

The two were silent for a few minutes. Crowley continued drawing spirals, then sighed deeply. "Aziraphale?"

"Yes?"

"How much longer do you think we'll have to wait for you to get another 'feeling?' Because I'm bored as h-- as something."

"I don't know, Crowley. Feel free to entertain yourself," Aziraphale said, waving a hand at the television set.

"So why don't you get this feeling whenever I'm around, or Helen, or any other demon? What's so special about Mephistopheles that you're psychically connected?" Crowley asked, waggling his fingers dramatically to show just how special he thought this connection was.

"Maybe it's Heaven trying to help me make things right?" Aziraphale offered. "It's my job to restore the innate balance, after all."

"Is it still innate if it's being thwarted, or is that all a part of the plan? Or, let me guess, it's too 'ineffable' for us to understand?" Crowley stood, stretched, then plopped down behind Aziraphale on the bed. "Listen, I have an idea. Why don't we try to solve this police-style? We can go out, look for, I don't know, suspicious characters... Do some detective work. What do you think?"

Aziraphale looked over his shoulder at Crowley and raised an eyebrow. "Since when have you had detective experience?"

Crowley shrugged. "I watch a lot of telly. Crime shows, Aziraphale. They're very 'in' right now. Of course, you wouldn't know that because you can't read a television program, but trust me on this one."

"So watching these programs makes you an expert?" Aziraphale emitted a brusque laugh. "I have read several medical texts, but that hardly qualifies me to perform surgery."

Crowley grinned. "But you can perform medical miracles, can you not?"

"Yes... but that's hardly the same thing."

Crowley laughed at the angel's expression, simultaneously indignant and innocent. Crowley had missed this, more than he had realized. His smile faded. "Why did you ask me to come with you, Aziraphale? You knew I wouldn't be any help."

Aziraphale's eyes flicked over to Crowley, then away. "I already explained that. You can help me get into the demon mindset."

Crowley snorted and examined his fingernails. "Yeah, except I can't, can I? I'm hardly a demon anymore. Besides, you haven't even asked me to do anything. We're just waiting for your intuition or whatever you're calling it. I don't even need to be here. You know who you should have asked for help? Adam Young. But you didn't... Why? Why me, Aziraphale?"

"I am not sure if Adam would be willing to become involved in this sort of matter," Aziraphale said, very quietly. "And truth be told, he frightens me." In Crowley's peripheral vision, he saw Aziraphale shift so that he was facing the demon. "I asked you because I missed you, and that's the only reason."

Crowley jerked his head up, sending his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.

"Crowley... I've been meaning to ask about something you said some time ago." Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Do you remember when we hit that poor girl with the Bentley?"

Crowley readjusted his glasses and waved a hand between them. "Hey, no. We promised that we wouldn't talk about the past."

"That's not what we promised," Aziraphale said hotly. "We promised not to talk about what happened after you kissed me."

Crowley leapt to his feet. "Stop it! You're doing it right now!"

"How else am I supposed to refer to it?" Aziraphale demanded. "We already have an 'incident,' don't we? What is this-- the 'event?' The 'happening?'"

Crowley clenched his fists. "Just stop, why don't you? We don't need a name for it; that's the point. Why can't we just pretend--"

"Shh!" Aziraphale hissed, standing up. His eyes widened.

"Oh, so when you want to stop talking--"

"Crowley, shut up! I think I know where Mephistopheles is."

Chapter Text

2014 -- Chivay, Peru

Aziraphale's intuition led them to a hot springs lodge a few minutes' walking distance from their own hotel. The cluster of yellow buildings was nestled among the trees and mountains, a natural outdoor pool sprawling behind it. It was nearing three in the morning, and a placid stillness had fallen over the resort.

"Why didn't we stay here?" Crowley asked, mouth agape, as they approached the empty pool. "This is what I call a vacation spot." The steam rose from the water and dissipated into the crisp September air.

"We're not here on vacation," Aziraphale murmured. He began circling the pool like a hound chasing a scent, squinting into the surrounding darkness every so often.

"Well?" Crowley prompted after a few minutes of repetitive circling.

"I'm not sure..." Aziraphale paused, suddenly looking down at the cobblestones. "Oh, my. Crowley, come here."

"What?" Crowley stalked over to where Aziraphale stood. There was something wet coating Aziraphale's tattered brown shoe. "What did you step in, angel?"

"It smells like blood," Aziraphale said faintly.

Crowley crouched down and lifted Aziraphale's foot so it was face level with him, nearly causing Aziraphale to topple over.

"What are you doing, Crowley?" Aziraphale balanced himself on his other foot.

Crowley inhaled deeply. "That's strange." He flicked his tongue out at the shoe and immediately retched, releasing Aziraphale, who actually did fall this time.

"Crowley!" the angel shouted, rubbing his bruised tailbone. "What do you think you're doing?"

Crowley swayed, battling the overwhelming nausea. "That's not... that's not human blood," he choked out between dry heaves. "Oh, damn. I feel sick. And my mouth is burning. Like I drank acid. Urgh."

Aziraphale climbed to his feet. He placed a hand on Crowley's back. "Are you okay? What do you need?"

Crowley spat and shook his head. "I'm... I'm all right. I'll be fine." He pointed a shaking finger to the puddle Aziraphale had stepped in. "That's demon blood."

Aziraphale paled. "Demon blood?"

Crowley took several deep breaths, calming his stomach. The burning in his mouth had subsided to a stinging sensation. "Precaution to keep us from... tearing each other apart," he muttered. "Doesn't always work, though. Some do it anyway."

"My goodness. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Mmm. Yeah. Tip top shape, here." Crowley straightened. "I'm a bit concerned about why there's demon blood splattered around, though."

"'Splattered around?'"

Crowley gestured to several other spots. "I forgot how bad your night vision is. There's more than one puddle of it."

"I thought that was water. Does it lead anywhere?"

"Let's find out."

Crowley spent a few moments examining the splashes, being very careful to avoid physical contact with them. "Angel, look. I think they're leading into that little building."

Aziraphale strode up to one of the buildings circling the pool, which seemed to be some sort of locker room or public toilet. "Er, shall we?" he asked, clutching the door handle.

"After you," Crowley said. "I can't afford to be discorporated. Who knows if I'd get another body..."

Aziraphale bit his bottom lip. "Maybe you should stay outside, dear."

"Are you taking the piss?" Crowley raised his eyebrows.

Aziraphale flinched. "Hardly."

"As if I would let you go in there by yourself." Crowley managed a smirk. "I'm coming. I'm just not leading."

Aziraphale's expression softened, and there was an emotion in his eyes that Crowley could not identify. "If you insist."

Aziraphale miracled the lock to allow them inside, and slowly opened the door. Crowley, crouching behind Aziraphale, clutched the angel's shoulders so hard his knuckles ached. Crowley noticed vaguely that despite years away from the shop, Aziraphale still smelled of old books.

"Crowley," Aziraphale whispered. "There's no one here."

Crowley sprung back up to his full height and looked over Aziraphale's head. The dimly-lit room was small, and square, and aside from the walls of lockers, it was empty. The floors were conspicuously clean.

"No blood... Wait," Crowley said, pointing over the angel's shoulder. "There's a door over there."

"Oh," Aziraphale said wearily. "I suppose we'll have to investigate that."

The glass door was translucent, and when Aziraphale opened it, Crowley caught a whiff of shampoo and bleach. Several curtained stalls lined the walls of the room.

"The showers?" Aziraphale offered.

"Great observation, that." Crowley glanced downward and tapped Aziraphale. "Hey... More blood on the floor."

This trail was smeared, as if someone had been dragged along the tiles. It ended at the shower stall nearest the back. The angel and demon exchanged glances. Crowley could feel Aziraphale tremble slightly, and realized that he himself was shaking.

"Together, then?" Crowley whispered, edging closer to the shower stall. "He's injured, so we should be able to handle him."

"You sure you don't want to stay behind?" Aziraphale murmured.

"Shut up."

Aziraphale nodded, slightly manically, and slid his hand into Crowley's. Without thinking, Crowley squeezed the angel's hand, then used his own free hand to thrust the curtain aside.

A horrific scream sounded from inside the stall. Crowley yelped.

Sitting on the plastic bench, clutching her leg to her chest, was not Mephistopheles.

"Helen?" Aziraphale asked in wonder.

The demon stared at Crowley and Aziraphale, chest heaving, eyes glazed. "Y-you? The angel? And you?" She blinked quickly. "You're the demon Crawly, aren't you?"

Crowley nodded stupidly. "Er... have we met? I don't think we've met."

Aziraphale released Crowley's hand and bent down to look at Helen's injury. Her pant leg was torn and smeared with blood. Deep scratches lined her skin. "What happened, my dear? Are you okay?"

"I am not," Helen snapped. Sweat dampened her face. "Once I lose enough blood, I will probably be discorporated."

Crowley ran his hands through his hair. "Aziraphale, miracle it or something."

Aziraphale frowned at Crowley. "I've never tried to heal a demon, before. I'm not sure if I can, especially if the injury is demon-inflicted."

Helen gasped. "How did you know it was another demon?"

"We've been looking for Mephistopheles, and that is who injured you, correct?"

Helen nodded and swallowed thickly. "It was him, before he fled like a coward. I think he sensed you coming, or else he would have killed me." She adjusted her position and winced. "You should know that I have been pursuing him, too. He must be returned to Hell. He is interfering with my work."

Crowley snorted. "Your work."

Helen glared at him. "Yes, my work. It is no longer yours, Crawly. And Mephistopheles is putting my work in jeopardy. What he's doing... it's not collecting souls. It's just killing." She shook her head. "Why would you kill if the souls are just going to them?" She pointed at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale ignored her comment. "Helen, I am going to try to heal you, but it may hurt."

Helen sighed. "Fine."

Aziraphale laid both hands on Helen's leg and closed his eyes.

At first, nothing happened. Then, there was a sound like a match striking, and Helen began to scream. She thrashed on the plastic bench, but Aziraphale held on, perspiration dripping down his forehead. Unable to touch Helen's blood, Crowley could not do more than observe. After a few excruciating minutes, Aziraphale released Helen, gray smoke emanating from his palms and her leg.

Helen panted, eyes screwed shut. Crowley leaned over to see that the scratches had closed up, thick scars now running down Helen's leg.

"Good work, angel," Crowley said appreciatively.

Helen's eyes shot open. "That was almost worse than discorporation," she spat, then examined her leg. "I suppose I should thank you."

Aziraphale blinked in surprise. "I wasn't expecting thanks, but you're quite welcome."

Helen lifted herself off the bench, wobbling slightly before gaining her balance. "Is there somewhere we could go to talk? I would rather not stay here."

"We've a hotel room nearby," Aziraphale offered, ignoring Crowley's frantic mouthing of the word "no" behind Helen.

"That would be fine, angel," Helen said.

"It's Aziraphale," he corrected. "And standing behind you is Crowley, not Crawly. I'm sure he would appreciate it."

Helen frowned. "I don't really care."

Aziraphale shrugged. "Either way, let's be off. This place has a bad aura."

Chapter Text

2014 -- Chivay, Peru

"Does he always fall asleep during important discussions?" Helen asked, staring at Crowley's slumbering form in disbelief.

Aziraphale smiled at his friend, who was slumped beside him on the hotel bed and snoring. "Sometimes."

Helen sat stiffly in the desk chair that Crowley had earlier occupied. She had willed her trousers back into their original state and now looked as orderly and severe as an anal-retentive accountant. "I never sleep, but I suppose he has much more disposable time than I have."

"He did this even when he had a job," Aziraphale said  fondly.

Helen sneered. "Then it's no surprise he no longer has one."

"Well... perhaps." Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Would you like anything to drink?"

Helen looked at the angel as if he were mad. "Of course not."

"Just a courtesy, my dear... So, please fill me in. I want to know everything about your search for Mephistopheles."

Helen clasped her hands together. "I've already explained why he is a problem. Killing for the sake of killing is undemonic. Our worry is souls. In some instances, senseless violence might breed hostility and hatred among the humans, but just as often it does the opposite."

Aziraphale nodded fervently. "Quite often. So how are you tracking him? Is it intuition-based?"

Helen made a face. "Unfortunately. I will just be going about my business, and suddenly an image will appear in my head. In this case, it was the pool at the resort. When I arrived, I found the traitor outside the pool. He didn't hesitate to attack me. I've never seen a demon outside of Hell as animalistic as he was." She shook her head. "He was clawing me, and I tried to fight back, but he was very strong. Then, just when I had accepted that I would be discorporated, he stopped and ran off. I should have followed, but... my leg. I only had enough energy left to hide somewhere. I am almost sure that he sensed that you were coming." Helen paused and then asked, "How did you find him? Also intuition?"

"My intuition is not as visual as yours, but more or less." Aziraphale offered Helen a small smile. "It is an interesting phenomenon, is it not? It seems that someone wants us to work together. Or at the very least, someone wants us to have the same goal. Perhaps we have been failing in our searches because we are not coordinating."

"Coordinate with you?" Helen shuddered. "Don't tempt me into committing needless violence, angel."

"It's Aziraphale."

"You don't mind when he calls you angel." She pointed to Crowley.

"That... that's different. We've known each other for thousands of years."

"Hmm." Helen gazed at the sleeping demon. "Are the rumors true about the two of you?"

Aziraphale forced a cheerful countenance. "I am not aware of any rumors, my dear."

Helen smiled then, the first time Aziraphale had seen her do it. "The rumors are that you're entirely too close for lifelong adversaries. It's rather sickening to see it in person."

"You only think it's sickening because you're a demon," Aziraphale countered.

Helen made a noise that was almost a snort, but somehow more dignified. "And he's not?"

"Well... Crowley is... but he's not exactly--"

Helen held up a hand for silence. "Never mind, Aziraphale. I don't really care. In fact, I don't want to be speaking to you at all. I appreciate your help with my injury, but it seems that you lack any information that might be useful for me. It's a pity; I was hoping you would be of some help." Helen stood to leave.

"Now, wait," Aziraphale pressed. "Don't go. I really do think we would be better as a team, as unpalatable as it would be to you. Wasn't I able to help you tonight? Together, we could find Mephistopheles, and we could capture him. Clearly, none of us are strong enough on our own."

"Tonight was a single mistake," Helen growled, clenching her fists. "It doesn't mean I cannot defeat him in the future."

"You said yourself that he's very strong," Aziraphale pointed out. "Please, Helen. At least consider it."

Helen visibly ground her teeth. "Oh, bless it... Buenos Aires."

"Pardon?"

"That's where he's going next. Buenos Aires. It seems that my intuition works a little more quickly than yours. I'm leaving for there now. If you insist on following me, I suppose I cannot stop you. But I'm not traveling with you." She looked down at the ground and added, more quietly, "We can meet there."

"Helen!" Aziraphale grinned. "I'm so glad we could reach a compromise."

"Don't call it that or I might change my mind," Helen muttered, striding to the door. "Goodbye, Aziraphale."

Crowley awakened at the sound of the door slamming shut. "What's that?" he asked, sitting up quickly. His hair and suit were rumpled, and there was a deep pillow crease on his face.

"We're going to Argentina," Aziraphale said, smiling.

"Mmm... Haven't been there since before it was Argentina," Crowley mumbled. He fumbled for his sunglasses on the bedside table.

"You know you don't need to wear those around me," Aziraphale said.

Crowley slid the sunglasses on his face and shrugged. "Old habits-- Hey," he looked around the room. "When did Helen leave?

Chapter Text

2014 -- Buenos Aires, Argentina

Crowley bit into a empanada. The hot corn filling spilled out and burnt his tongue, but Crowley appreciated it, as it distracted him from the lingering acid taste in his mouth. He and Aziraphale sat outside a small restaurant in La Boca, a barrio of Buenos Aires known for its brilliantly-colored buildings. Crowley, however, was focused less on the architecture and more on his irritation with Aziraphale.

Across the table, Aziraphale was hunched over his mobile phone and ignoring Crowley. Crowley still found the phone out of place in the angel's hands. Twenty-four years ago, Aziraphale had just barely mastered how to operate a tape player, and now he was using one of the most modern pieces of technology with ease.

"What are you Googling?" Crowley asked casually, unscrewing his bottle of Coke.

"I'm not," Aziraphale said without looking up. "Helen somehow sent me a text message. I didn't even give her my number."

Crowley dropped his empanada onto the plate. "You're texting Helen?"

"She is texting me," Aziraphale murmured. "She's telling me where we should meet her tonight. I have to admit that her intuition is much stronger than mine." The angel frowned. "In this instance, at least."

Crowley crossed his arms. "You never text me."

Aziraphale finally tore his attention away from the phone, confusion in his eyes. "Why would I text you when you're right next to me?"

Crowley switched tactics. "You know, it's rude to text during a meal."

"Oh..." Aziraphale set down the phone. "I'm sorry, Crowley. I just thought this was important." He hesitated. "Isn't that why we're here?"

"Yeah, I guess." Crowley sighed. 

Aziraphale adjusted his glasses. "Are you upset with me, Crowley?"

"No, angel." Crowley gazed at a group of Americans who were strolling past and chatting animatedly.

"Okay..." Aziraphale picked up his fork, lifted it to his mouth, then stopped. "Because if you are upset, you can tell me. I've been told I'm a good listener."

Crowley groaned in exasperation. "I said no, angel."

They ate for a few moments without speaking, tango music and the sounds of happy tourists filling the silence. Aziraphale managed to drop a forkful of pasta on his knitted cardigan, and slyly miracled it away after confirming that no one was looking.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said after his clothing was pasta-free. He looked like he was steeling himself for something, and then began to speak quickly. "I know you don't want to talk about this, but earlier, I was trying to ask about the time we went to Lower Tadfield, and we hit the girl with the Bentley. You said something right before, but you didn't finish--"

"Slow down!" Crowley boomed. "I don't remember saying anything. A lot was happening at the time, if you've forgotten."

Aziraphale regarded Crowley thoughtfully for a moment, hand on his chin. "For a demon, you're a terrible liar," he said at last, eyes narrowing. "You get twitchy. And a little bit hissy."

"Don't remember a thing," Crowley said airily, looking upward. "My mind is empty. Must be all the meditation. Did I tell you I've taken up mediation?"

"Why are you so against having this conversation?" Aziraphale demanded, voice squeaking slightly as it went up an octave. "I know we left things in a rather awkward state, but why can't we discuss it? Why can't we try to make things better?"

"Why are you connecting some offhand comment I made ages ago to what happened... later?" Crowley asked. "Anyway, I don't want to have this conversation because I know exactly how it will turn out." He stood up, and waved a finger at the table, on which appeared sufficient pesos for their meal, as well as a generous tip, although he wasn't sure if they tipped in Argentina. "Listen, angel... We made a deal. I'd come with you to South America, and you would stop bringing up the past. So will you please let it be?"

"I know, but I just think it's not very wise to--"

"Will you quit it with the 'wise' bullshit?" Crowley snapped. Aziraphale flinched at the curse, and Crowley felt a rush of shame. "Look, angel... You made a promise to me, and I know I'm a demon, but it would still be awfully angelic of you to keep that promise."

Aziraphale's face crumpled. "You're... you're right. I'm sorry, my dear."

Crowley exhaled. "Let's just... continue on, yeah? Where was it that Helen wanted to meet us tonight?"

"Oh, yes," Aziraphale said, now apparently eager to change the subject. He cleared his throat and composed himself, then glanced at his phone. "Our first stop is a nightclub, apparently. Helen says there's a demon who works there as a bartender who might have some information."

"A... a what? A demon bartender? How many people is Hell letting out and about these days?" Crowley scowled. "I remember back when I was the only one on Earth. I mean, they'd have other demons do small jobs sometimes, but a bartender? That seems like some long-term business." He thought of meeting Mephistopheles in the sixteenth century and swallowed. "Although I guess there have been some others before..."

Aziraphale shrugged. "I don't know, dear. I assume he or she is here for some nefarious reason."

"Well..." Crowley was about to curse, but stopped himself. "Well, darn. That's... that's, er, interesting."

"Yes, interesting!" Aziraphale almost smiled. "That's the spirit."

Chapter Text

2014 -- Buenos Aires, Argentina

Hell had a heartbeat.

There was no "outside" in Hell. It was more like a mass of interconnected caves, and the walls of the place--hot, red, reminiscent of skin--pulsated at a steady rate: thump, thump, thump. Ceaselessly.

It was what Crowley hated most about Hell. He tried his best to ignore it whenever he spent time there, which only occurred when necessary. Of course, he had not had reason to go for the past twenty-four years, but he remembered Hell's heartbeat well. Often, especially after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, Crowley woke up in a sweat, the sound of a heartbeat that was not his own pounding in his ears: thump, thump, thump.

This, Crowley tried to explain to Aziraphale, was why he hated nightclubs.

"It's the loud music, the kind you can feel," he said as they waited in line to enter El Reloj. "The beat, whatever it's called, the heavy one, the bass... It's like a heartbeat."

Aziraphale, who had been unusually quiet after their conversation in La Boca, was miracling up some ID cards for Crowley and himself. "Is it really the same?" he murmured, squinting at his hand.

"It's close enough," Crowley said. He snatched his new ID from Aziraphale and pocketed it. The sun had set hours ago, and Crowley received several questioning glances directed at his ever-present sunglasses.

"You don't have to come in, "Aziraphale suggested after a moment of contemplation. "Helen and I can handle the conversation. You know, I saw a coffee shop on the way here. Why don't you pop in and I'll come by after we're done here?"

Crowley scowled under Aziraphale's kind gaze. "I can handle it. I just wanted to warn you in case I seem tense while we're in there."

"All right, dear."

"That's a good look, by the way," Crowley said peevishly. "Knit on crochet. Really makes a statement on yarn."

Aziraphale flushed. "At least I'm not dressed like... like... a shadow." He waved his arms at Crowley's ensemble.

"Black is always a good color."

"No one else is wearing a suit."

"Someone else is," said Crowley, who had just caught sight of Helen. She was weaving through the line, unnoticed by the humans, taller than most of them by a head. As Crowley had noticed, she was wearing her customary business attire, along with her customary humorless expression.

Aziraphale followed Crowley's gaze. "Helen!" he exclaimed. "Over here!"

Helen moved far faster than a mortal could have, and was standing next to them in seconds. "Please do not call my name."

The woman directly in front of them, clad in a glittering minidress and tall leather boots, glanced behind her, then nudged her friend to look. The other woman snuck a glance at the three of them and giggled. Crowley's insides twisted as he imagined the comments they were making under their breath. Aziraphale stood out the most, not only because his jumper and scarf were a mess of yarn, but also because he looked the oldest out of the three of them, and the clientele of El Reloj seemed to average eighteen years. Crowley then had to admit that he and Helen were not blending in effortlessly, either, and he began to feel horribly out of place. Crowley had spent much time in the past to look cool, whatever cool meant in that era. However, he admitted that he might have relaxed his efforts during his time in Florence. Maybe his suit was a bit out of style. Maybe a suit was an inappropriate outfit to wear to a boliche. 

"Can we get this over with?" he hissed at Helen and Aziraphale, who were oblivious to the giggling women's conversation.

"Certainly," Helen said, and Crowley suddenly found himself at the front of the line, having to regain his balance.

"Helen, I know you're relatively new to Earth," a stricken Aziraphale said, wobbling, "but we do not typically demonstrate our power so excessively in front of so many humans."

Helen observed the people now standing behind them. "None of them will remember."

"Well, yes, but--"

"Aziraphale, it's not worth it," Crowley said. The music from the club was audible from here, and his stomach turned. "Let's just go in."

Crowley handed his ID card to the bouncer.

"Cinco pesos," the man said.

Crowley produced fifteen pesos inside of his pocket. He fished them out and gestured to Aziraphale and Helen before handing the bills to the bouncer. The bouncer nodded, and they found themselves inside the nightclub.

The club was one large room with a crowded bar in the back. Industrial-style pipes twisted up the walls like snakes, bending around enormous flat screen televisions that displayed kaleidoscopic patterns. Multicolor lights blinked on and off from the ceiling, shining on the mass of humans that jumped, swayed, and writhed beneath them.

Thump, thump, thump. The music pounded through Crowley's body and shook his teeth.

"Sabrina is at the bar," Helen said at a normal volume. A human would not have been able to hear her over the music, but Crowley and Aziraphale could single out her voice without difficulty.

"Sabrina, eh? A lot of demons choosing female forms lately?" Crowley asked.

Helen ignored his comment and led them through the crowd of dancers, who all moved aside to let them pass without seeming to notice why. At this display, Aziraphale shot a glance at Crowley, who shrugged.

Crowley tapped Helen on the back. "Does this music remind you of Hell at all, with the beat?"

"I have no idea what you mean," Helen said.

"You know how all the walls pulse there, like a heartbeat?" Crowley began.

Helen glared at him over her shoulder. "Will you stop talking to me?"

Crowley sighed. Other demons were terrible.

Sabrina, a petite demon with spiked brown hair and a nose ring, greeted them at the bar with an air of befuddlement.

"Well, shit! It's Helen!" Sabrina crowed in an American accent. "It's Helen and..." She peered at Crowley and Aziraphale. "And... you two. Helen, what are you doing here? Wait, no wait. Let me get you guys something." 

Sabrina fumbled behind the bar for a few seconds, then thrust three glasses of vodka and Red Bull at them, insisting she wouldn't talk until they had each taken a sip.

"It's the best shit," she said. "So good. You can't even imagine how many sins are committed on this shit."

Aziraphale glanced down at his glass guiltily. Helen set her glass on the bar and said, "Where is Mephistopheles?"

Sabrina's smile snapped into a grimace. "Aw, Helen, why you gotta do that to me?"

Helen grunted, dour as usual.

"This isn't a social call?" Sabrina pouted.

"It is not," Helen said.

Sabrina groaned theatrically. "Mephistopheles? I don't know where that dumb shit's at. Why are you asking me, anyway?"

Helen reached across the bar and grasped a handful of Sabrina's metallic tank top, dragging her to the edge of the bar. "You're lying."

"Helen!" Aziraphale protested, placing a hand on her shoulder. None of the nearby humans seemed to notice the commotion.

"Would you enjoy getting discorporated today?" Helen hissed, leaning down so she and Sabrina were face-to-face.

Sabrina shook her head wildly. "Stop it, Helen! I'm just trying to do my job!"

Helen laughed shortly, releasing Sabrina's shirt and sending her staggering back. "No, Sabrina, I am trying to do my job, which is much more important than what you're doing. I am the official representative, in case you have forgotten." Helen pointed a long finger at Crowley. "Do you remember Crawly, the former representative? Hell abandoned this sorry excuse for a demon because he went against their plans. Do you want the same thing to happen to you?"

"Of course not," Sabrina whined, ogling Crowley. "You're really him?"

Crowley winced. "Er, yeah. But it's 'Crowley' now."

Sabrina readjusted her shirt. "Mephistopheles was here just, like, this afternoon. I said, 'Hey, long time no see. Want to go kill some stray dogs?' But he was all serious, and said that he was here on business, and that he didn't have time. And then he asked if I knew of any good places to tempt people, and I told him about some strip clubs, and also where people get their drugs around here."

"What... else?" Helen said, digging her fingernails into the bar counter.

"And then he left!" Sabrina cried. "That's it!"

"My dear," Aziraphale said. "I know you're under a lot of stress, but think carefully. Are you sure there's nothing else he said to you while he was here?"

Sabrina gawked at him. "Is this guy for real?"

Helen whirled around. "You two, go over there." She pointed across the club. "Sabrina and I would appreciate a few moments of privacy."

Sabrina gulped.

"Come on, angel," Crowley murmured, grabbing Aziraphale by the forearm and dragging him across the dance floor.

"Crowley," Aziraphale protested. "What if Helen does something really awful to that girl?"

"She's not a girl; she's a demon," Crowley corrected. "A demon who kills dogs for a laugh. Let Helen have it out with her."

They stopped in front of the bathrooms and stood awkwardly, watching the dancing figures. Crowley peered at Aziraphale. The overhead lights were changing the color of the angel's hair: blue, red, green, blue again. The music had shifted to an airier tune, and the horrendous thumping had ceased, for now.

"You're quite different from other demons," Aziraphale said suddenly. He had taken off his scarf, and it was now curled around his arm like a snake.

Crowley coughed and averted his eyes to his wristwatch. "Hmm."

"I'm not sure if you'll take that as a compliment," Aziraphale continued. "I do mean it as one."

"Of course you consider being undemonic a compliment. You hate everything demons stand for, don't you?"

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. "I like you."

Crowley snorted. "You have to. Hate the sin, love... everyone, right?" Crowley said, then realized he was skating dangerously close to topics he did not wish to discuss.

Aziraphale parted his mouth, but didn't say anything. The scarf slid down his arm, onto the sticky floor. Aziraphale picked it up and wound it around his neck. At the bar, Helen had turned away from a terrified Sabrina and was marching toward them.

"How could you ever doubt my love for you?" Aziraphale said softly, not looking at Crowley.

Crowley started when the meaning of the angel's words hit him, but Helen was at their side before he could respond.

"What a useless demon," Helen jeered. "I'll have to file an official report to have her sent back."

Crowley stared blankly at Helen for a moment. "You don't have to do that to her," he said finally.

"She knew nothing," Helen ranted. "I'm beginning to think Mephistopheles used her to distract us."

"Oh, dear," Aziraphale said. "That does sound like something he would do."

"Does it?" Crowley asked. "I was under the impression he was a senseless killing machine, now."

"You can be a killing machine and still be intelligent," Helen countered. "He was animalistic when he attacked me, but he has been elusive, has he not?"

"Very true," Aziraphale agreed. "Almost impossible to track down."

Crowley groaned. "So where does this leave us?"

Helen's final shred of composure snapped, and she glowered at Crowley. "Nowhere," she spat. "This leaves us nowhere." She rounded on Aziraphale. "It seems that joining forces wasn't the great idea you thought it was."

"Wait a minute. We haven't even had a chance to confront Mephistopheles. We've had a minor setback, but let's just wait a little while, and--"

"Stop," Helen said. She looked ready to say something else, but thought better of it and strode back toward the entrance, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale standing on the dance floor.

Chapter Text

2014 -- Buenos Aires, Argentina

They hailed a cab back to the hotel and sat the ride in silence. Crowley closed his eyes and felt rather than saw the buildings rush by. The movement of the vehicle soothed him, and Crowley suddenly wished he were driving. The thought of the Bentley tugged painfully at Crowley's heart. Adam Young had restored his prized automobile after the not-Apocalypse; Crowley had found it in his flat's garage the next day without a scratch. However, Crowley had abandoned it in his flight to Florence. It had hurt to leave the Bentley like that, but, as Crowley so desperately tried to make himself believe, sometimes it was necessary to make a clean break with things in order to be...

He frowned.

In order to be what? Happy? Had he ever really been happy during his six thousand years of existence?

Could a demon even experience happiness?

Crowley opened his eyes and turned toward Aziraphale, who was oblivious to the demon's stare in the car's dark interior. Aziraphale looked tired, like his body was finally showing signs of age. This couldn't be true, though, as Adam Young himself had issued the angel a new body quite recently. The physical forms of angels and demons did sometimes wear out and need replacing, but this only occurred every two thousand years or so. Aziraphale was safe. Crowley, however, was not sure what would happen if his own body were to break down. He tried to think of his last discorporation, and remembered an instance in the late 1890's involving a drunken bet and a shotgun. The 1890's. That wasn't so bad. He had time. Still, he thought, they should be taking better care of themselves, both of them. Food and sleep were not necessities, but perhaps a little indulgence would be restorative.

Aziraphale exhaled. The angel was twisting the ends of the scarf around in his hands. Crowley watched him without comment.

"How could you ever doubt my love for you?" 

That was what Aziraphale had said. Now what in whomever's name did that mean?

The taxi slowed in front of their hotel, and Crowley let Aziraphale pay the driver. They remained silent entering the building, walking up the stairs, and stopping in front of their room.

Aziraphale looked nervously at Crowley. "Do you have the key?"

Crowley fished around in his pockets. "Er... no."

"Oh, dear." Aziraphale made a distressed sound. "I'm not sure if the office will be open this late."

Crowley paused, then laughed. "Angel..." He pressed one finger against the card reader, and the door clicked open.

"Oh... right." Aziraphale blinked at the door. "Today has been a long day."

"You're telling me." Crowley yawned and held open the door. "After you."

"I might even try sleeping," Aziraphale murmured, shuffling into the room. "I don't think I've slept since... the eighteenth century, perhaps? But tonight seems like a good night for it."

Crowley glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. "It's not 'tonight' anymore, angel, but I agree."

Aziraphale waved a hand. "It's dark; I can still call it night."

Crowley slumped on the bed nearest the door.

"Crowley, I know today went rather badly," Aziraphale said, tossing his scarf onto the table, "but I do hope that you won't be leaving me yet."

"It's not like I'm surprised. Since when do we do anything right?" Crowley asked this in an attempt to be light-hearted, but the joke fell flat. Aziraphale stared at him in concern. "Look, angel, I'm not leaving. You can't expect me to run off right after you drop a bombshell like that, can you?"

Aziraphale cocked his head. "A bombshell? What are you talking about?"

"Are you serious?" I..." Crowley trailed off, then felt his face heat up. "I must have misunderstood something you said. Never mind."

Crowley flicked his fingers and he was suddenly wearing his favorite silk pajamas instead of his suit. He placed his sunglasses gently on the nightstand, and affected a yawn, which turned into a real one. Aware of Aziraphale watching him, he slid under the sheets of the bed and closed his eyes. "Night, angel."

Crowley heard Aziraphale's soft footfall up to the side of the bed. From directly above him, Aziraphale's voice said, "I just can't believe you would find it so surprising that I care about you. Not after everything we've been through together. And it's not because I have to love everybody, you know. I may love Helen, technically, but I'm certainly not sharing a room with her or inviting her over for drinks."

Crowley's eyes shot open. "Then why did you act so strange after..."

"After you kissed me?" Aziraphale finished. "Because we're not humans, Crowley! It's just not something we do with each other! I... I thought you might have been trying to... tempt me." He saw Crowley's horrified expression and quickly added, "I know now that you weren't, but you can't blame me for having suspicions."

"Sure I can. You know me better than that." Crowley sat up and leaned against the backboard. "That was just... stereotypical thinking."

Aziraphale sighed heavily and perched himself on the other bed. "Perhaps it was." He removed his glasses and cleaned them on his sleeve. "But Crowley, it shouldn't be that difficult to believe someone could love you."

"No one ever has before."

Aziraphale froze and popped the glass out of one of the frames. "That's not true. God loved you."

"Past tense."

"Loves you."

Crowley frowned. "I'm not so sure about that."

"I love you. And, frankly, there's no one I'd rather spend eternity with, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't run off again." Aziraphale reinserted the glass. He raised an eyebrow at Crowley. "See, my dear, this conversation wasn't as bad as you thought it would be."

"Wait." Crowley said.

Aziraphale adjusted his glasses on his face. "Yes?"

"Don't you want to hear it back? I mean, an angel loving a demon, no big deal. But a demon, er, reciprocating? Isn't that something you'd have a little trouble believing?"

Aziraphale lifted his shoulders. "I may have had a suspicion. What you said in Lower Tadfield, the time we hit the girl... I was talking about love, and you were going to say something, but you were interrupted... That stuck with me. I would think back on it and wonder. It occurred to me that if you had ever felt anything like love, then maybe you weren't the kind of demon I had assumed you were." He took a breath. "When you kissed me, I panicked, but the fact you ran away proved to me that you did care, in your own way. But I couldn't do anything about it because you were gone, and I thought maybe you were angry and didn't want to be found. And then once I did find you, you insisted on being stubborn and obtuse."

"Oh..." Crowley said weakly. "So... I don't have to say it, then? You already know?"

Aziraphale's smile was glorious, and Crowley saw the slightest hint of relief in the angel's face. "You don't have to say it if you don't want to."

"And if I do want to?"

Aziraphale chuckled. "Well, I wouldn't object." He miracled himself into pajamas that were far less stylish than Crowley's and far more plaid, and settled himself in the bed. He set his glasses next to Crowley's, the lamplight contrasting the clear and dark lenses.

"I'm going to say it," Crowley asserted. "Just not when you're expecting it. I want it to be a surprise."

Aziraphale's eyelids fluttered sleepily. "That's fine, Crowley." He hummed in contentment. "I forgot how nice sleeping is."

Crowley snorted. "You're not asleep yet."

Aziraphale didn't reply, and a slight snore emanated from his side of the room.

Crowley's mouth felt dry. He manifested a glass of water and took a sip, then another. Aziraphale lay still on the bed but for the movement of his breathing. Crowley turned off the lamp.

"I do love you, you know," he whispered into the dark room.

Chapter Text

2015 -- London, England

A few drunk humans set off firecrackers right in front of the bookshop, but Aziraphale did not mind as much as he pretended to, a smile peeking out among the huffs and protests. It was, after all, one minute past midnight on New Year's Day, and even an immortal being who had seen six thousand years go by could not help but feel the enthusiasm that crackled in the frigid air.

One ethereal being and one occult being sat on top of the bookshop's rooftop, which until a few hours ago had not been accessible. Aziraphale had miracled a staircase on the second floor, and the two had pulled some chairs up from the shop so they could sit and watch the festivities.

Crowley held a full bottle of wine in each hand. He was not sure where the second one had come from, but he accepted the fact of its existence with ease. They had already barreled their way through five other bottles, which lay scattered on the rooftop around them.

"Here's to 2015," Crowley said, speaking carefully so as not to slur. "Let's hope it'll be a better year than 2014. Look, Az, I found another Merlot."

Aziraphale gently took the one of the wine bottles from Crowley, and clinked it against the other. "Cheers. And if you'd like my opinion, 2015 is better already."

Crowley grinned hugely; his inhibitions had melted away an hour back and he no longer cared about looking cool.

His grin disappeared when Aziraphale dropped the wine bottle and it smashed on the rooftop.

After Helen abandoned them, Aziraphale and Crowley spent an aimless (albeit emotionally productive) week in Buenos Aires, waiting for the angel to have another vision. No visions came. Aziraphale finally decided that it was time to take a break from his demon hunting career, at least until he could gain another lead on Mephistopheles. Heaven agreed rather readily when Aziraphale requested a reprieve, but Crowley suspected this was less because Aziraphale deserved a break and more because Aziraphale had never been a good demon hunter from the start. They issued a replacement in the interim, and Crowley hoped sincerely that Phariel had a better sense of intuition than Aziraphale had. Crowley didn't say this to Aziraphale, of course, as Aziraphale was insistent that he would return to this duty in due time.

Meanwhile, the two returned to London, and Crowley felt like he was home for the first time in years.

Crowley soon learned that his former flat was occupied by some businesswoman whom he imagined was destroying the sleek elegance of the rooms with her disgusting human possessions and disgusting human tendencies. He could have found a way to magically evict her, and was seriously considering it, but Aziraphale insisted on him living at the bookshop.

"Why not?" the angel asked rather bashfully, leading him into the bookshop and gesturing widely like a realtor selling a house. "It's your choice, of course. We'll have to establish limits, and you'll have to give me time for my books, and of course you can't do anything to disturb the order in here..."

"You sure you want me here?" Crowley asked, cutting him off. "You don't sound sure."

Aziraphale paused and seriously considered the question. "I'm sure. And if it doesn't work out, we'll find you a perfectly suitable flat that won't involve making an innocent woman homeless. It's only for a while, anyhow, until I have to get back to work."

"Your bookshop is a bit, er..." Crowley grasped for words. Dusty? Old fashioned? Crowded? Probably in violation of some sort of health code? "Small," he settled on.

Aziraphale looked affronted. "Small?"

"Do you even have a bedroom?" Crowley asked. "Or a bathroom?"

"I don't see why you need either," Aziraphale replied. "But yes, I have to have both for legal reasons. Technically the shop is both a store and a domicile."

"Oh... How have I never seen those rooms?"

"You've never asked." Aziraphale shrugged. "Why would you ever need to see the second floor of the bookshop?"

"There's a second floor?"

The decision had been easy enough, after that. The Bentley appeared in the road next to the shop the following day, and Crowley would have cried tears of joy if there had not been people around.

Well, he may have let slip a tear or two.

"Something will come to me soon," Aziraphale said often during the first month back in London, fingers on his temples as if they would conduct thoughts to his brain. "We can still find him, my dear, don't you worry... I just wish Agnes Nutter had written something about all this."

He said it less and less the following months, and by December, the angel had stopped making references to Mephistopheles altogether. If Crowley were honest, he did not really mind. He was enjoying spending time with Aziraphale again, and now they had essentially admitted that they were each the most important individual in the other's life. The feelings they had denied and skirted around for at least a few hundred years, most intensely within the past century, were recognized. The two still had not determined just how human they wanted their relationship to be, physically and romantically, but for now, just knowing Aziraphale was near was enough for Crowley.

Crowley, however, was a demon, and he could not shake the sense of doom that followed him like his shadow, sometimes hidden but always lingering. He imagined his happiness as a crumbling object, something fragile and ephemeral. Crowley never told Aziraphale of his fears, but he sometimes caught the angel staring at him with a knowing expression.

When Aziraphale dropped the wine bottle on the roof a few minutes after the clock had struck midnight, 2015, Crowley knew that his fears had come true and that his paradise was over.

Chapter Text

2015 -- London, England

Drops of Merlot splattered the rooftop like blood.

Aziraphale had dropped to his knees right on top of the mess of wine and glass shards, staring at the ground in front of him. Crowley crouched next to him.

"Aziraphale, are you okay?"

Aziraphale nodded slowly, his breath heavy.

"Oi, is everything all right up there?" one of the hooligans shouted from the street below. "Thought we heard a crash."

Crowley stood and leaned over the edge of the rooftop. "Go away, or I'll curse you with shitty WiFi for the rest of your lives!"

"What the fuck, man?"

Crowley turned back toward Aziraphale. "Angel?"

Aziraphale had lifted himself to his feet. "It seems that our vacation is over, my dear." His voice was casual, but Crowley could see him tremble.

"What happened?" Crowley pressed. "Have you seen something?"

Aziraphale opened the hatch on the rooftop that had not existed until a few hours prior, and descended the staircase.

"Aziraphale!" Crowley scrambled after him, kicking away pieces of wine bottle. "Stop right now and answer my questions! Aziraphale!"

Crowley raced down the stairs, nearly missing a step in the middle. As soon as he reached the floor, the staircase disappeared behind him.

"Angel, what are you doing?" Crowley demanded. Aziraphale had locked himself in the rarely used bathroom.

"Just give me a few minutes, please, Crowley," Aziraphale's muffed voice issued from the other side of the door.

Crowley grunted indignantly. He rapped on the door. "Angel?"

Silence. Crowley huffed and leaned against the wall, accidentally tearing the ancient wallpaper. "I just want to know if you're okay."

The door unlocked, seemingly on its own. Crowley straightened himself and cracked it open. "Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale was sitting on the toilet, and had fortunately remembered to put the seat down before doing so. That, or it had never been lifted up in the first place. Everything in the bathroom was hideously pink and outdated, from the floral shower curtain to the thick rugs on the tiled floor. Crowley used to enjoy a shower now and then, and sometimes it was less hassle to urinate in a toilet than to magic it away, but he had taken one look at the bathroom upon moving in and resolved never to set foot in it again. So... that was one promise broken tonight.

Crowley sat reluctantly on the edge of the tub, shoving the shower curtain away. The monstrosity of a rug below him swallowed up his snakeskin shoes.

Aziraphale watched Crowley uneasily as if waiting for the demon to speak. When Crowley said nothing, Aziraphale whimpered, "Phariel was killed."

Crowley tilted his head. "Killed? By Mephistopheles?"

"I... I saw it." Aziraphale covered his face with his hands. "It was the most visual of any feeling I'd ever had about M- about him. I know you like to call them visions, but they're normally not, not like this. This was horrible, like I was right there. It was like I was him."

"You were Phariel?"

"No." Aziraphale lifted his head. "I was Mephistopheles." He blinked. "I mean, not really. But it was like seeing through his eyes."

"Well, when Phariel gets recorporated, we can ask him what happened," said Crowley in what he hoped was a reassuring voice. He reached out and patted the angel's back.

Aziraphale looked confused. "Recorporated?" he echoed.

Crowley shifted, the tub squeaking under him. "Well, yeah. When he gets his new body. Won't they give him a new one? Or is it a one strike system?"

Aziraphale stared at Crowley. "I... I just... I wasn't thinking about that. It all seemed so final. There was so much blood. But... it was just his body, right? Yes... Just a discorporation, that's all."

"Right," Crowley said.

"Right?" Aziraphale asked, suddenly unsure again.

"Er... right."

Aziraphale giggled nervously. "How silly of me, thinking Phariel was really killed." His smile faded. "Right?"

"For the love of-- Yes, Aziraphale! Phariel will be fine. He's probably having a laugh in Heaven right now cause he doesn't have to prance about demon hunting anymore."

Aziraphale stood up abruptly. The knees of his trousers were stained red with wine, and bits of glass sparkled on them. "I need tea."

"Right?" Crowley muttered.

"I'll have to wait for Heaven to contact me," Aziraphale murmured after his second cup of chamomile, absently stirring at the dregs with a silver teaspoon. "And then I can ask them what my assignment is now that Phariel is temporarily indisposed."

Crowley yawned, slouching in his chair.  "You can't contact them yourself?"

Aziraphale gripped the mug tightly. "Oh, I don't want to be a bother, you know. No sense in rocking the boat."

Crowley watched dust motes dance in the dim lamplight, the smell of books heavy in his nostrils. "Oh. But it's a bit serious, isn't it?" He yawned again. Maybe he would take a nap.

"I panicked earlier, but I'm fine now, really," Aziraphale said. "Besides, I'm already in a bit of hot water, and I'd prefer not to be too aggravating. 

This woke Crowley up. "Hot water? You? Over what?"

"Er..." Aziraphale spread his hands out toward Crowley and moved them up and down.

"What-- What are you doing? Is this interpretative dance?"

"I'm pointing at you!" Aziraphale exclaimed, then gasped. "Oh, dear. I shouldn't have said that."

"Me?" Crowley cried. "You're in trouble because of me? Why? Because... Aziraphale..." Crowley felt his stomach clench. "Please don't tell me it's what I'm thinking."

Aziraphale looked into his mug miserably. "It's not anything serious. They just think you might be a distraction. There's nothing wrong with my loving you in general, of course." Their eyes met. "Although they think it would be a more productive use of love if I were trying to-- to redeem you, or something, but--"

"Redeem me?" Crowley repeated.

Aziraphale bit his lip. "Crowley..."

"Is that what you're trying to do? Make me un-fall? Is that even possible?" Crowley felt a lump form in his throat. "Am I not good enough for you, angel?" Crowley infused the epithet with venom. "I already lost my job, which I thought would please you, but that's not going to change who I am."

"Crowley, I never said that I was trying to redeem you," Aziraphale protested, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "If you recall, I said there was a spark of goodness in you, not a bucketful." He shrugged. "Although I daresay there's more human in you than anything else."

Crowley scowled, his panic rapidly cooling into general aggravation. "There's an expression for that. Oh, what is that? Something about a pot and a kettle; I can't quite recall..."

Aziraphale swiftly stood up, bent down, and kissed Crowley on the mouth. The kiss was brief, and their glasses made a horrible crunching sound as they collided, but the whole thing left Crowley spinning.

"I suppose you may have a point," Aziraphale conceded as he pulled away from Crowley, looking pleased with himself.

"About what?" Crowley squeaked, resisting the urge to touch his lips.

"We both have some human in us." Aziraphale sighed then, his smile disappearing. "Crowley, you simply must stop doubting yourself, or, rather, how I feel regarding you. Promise me that."

"I can't promise that," Crowley insisted. "Not after six thousand years of being me."

Aziraphale kept his face neutral, but Crowley noticed a slight tremble in his mouth.

"Listen, angel." Crowley stretched his arms over his head. "I'm going to go have a lie down. So should you. I'll try to stop worrying about all that stuff, and you try to stop worrying about Phariel. Don't make that face; I can tell you're still worried."

Aziraphale nodded. "I think I'll stay up for a bit and wait for them to contact me. Goodnight, dear."

"Happy New Year," Crowley said, rising to his feet.

"To you as well, love."

Crowley collapsed on the bed upstairs, not even bothering to change clothes or pull back the comforter. He fell asleep within minutes. The sound of shattering wine bottles dominated his dreams, and Crowley was able to witness the brief moment before impact, frozen, the glass suspended in the air, starlight shining on its jagged edges. He could hear Aziraphale's voice chanting his name, which was his real name, "Crawly," and "Crowley" all at once.

"Crowley... Crowley... Crowley, wake up."

Crowley grunted and opened his eyes. Aziraphale was above him, the sunlight from the windows shining in his hair.

"Halo," Crowley muttered. "Er, I mean, hello."

"Crowley, we have a problem," Aziraphale said, sitting next to Crowley on the bed. Crowley suddenly saw the tears streaking down Aziraphale's face and the redness in his eyes.

"Angel, what's wrong?" Crowley sat up, his skin feeling tight underneath his dress clothes.

Aziraphale bit back a sob. "No one knows where Phariel is. They think he might be really dead, not just discorporated. Do you know what that means, Crowley? Do you? Oh, dear, I was right to worry. I knew something felt wrong, and something was wrong, and now Phariel is dead."

Crowley emitted a strained laugh. "Stop it, angel. Phariel probably just got lost on the way up."

Aziraphale glared, an expression that was not quite at home on the angel's face and, for that reason, more disconcerting. "That doesn't happen."

Crowley swallowed, his throat like sandpaper. "Well, fuck."

No one aside from God really knew what happened to angels or demons who died. Crowley assumed they were simply snuffed out like candle flames, no longer existing at all, but he had no basis for this assumption other than the fact that any supernatural beings who died were never heard from again. The thought of nonexistence simultaneously fascinated Crowley and terrified him, like looking down into a black pit with no bottom. In the past, Crowley's immortality had been an unquestionable fact, but now that he was disconnected from Hell, he was no longer sure.

What was one supposed to do when his own existence was no longer assured?

Not thinking about it much was Crowley's solution, but Phariel's death was seriously putting a wrench in that plan.

Crowley realized that Aziraphale had continued talking. "...and I can't even imagine how a demon could achieve that. What is it that makes Mephistopheles so powerful? What about him could kill an angel?"

"It's bloody horrible," Crowley muttered, gazing down at the shoes he had worn all night.

Aziraphale wiped his cheeks with his sleeve, sniffling. "This just makes my mission even more pressing." 

Crowley's head snapped up. "Your mission? Angel, you can't go back after him."

Aziraphale exhaled sharply, nearly a laugh. "What do you mean?"

Crowley fixed his eyes on Aziraphale's. "Don't be an idiot. You can't try to fight him. He could kill you, really kill you. I... You can't think I would let you do that."

"But..." Aziraphale looked bewildered. "Crowley, it's my responsibility to protect the humans."

Crowley grasped Aziraphale's shoulders so tightly the latter winced. "Angel, the humans' souls will go to Heaven if they get killed. Or maybe not, but they'll still be around. But what happens if you get killed? You'll be gone. Don't you understand that?"

Aziraphale snaked an arm through Crowley's and cupped the demon's face. "My life is not worth preserving if it means millions of people will suffer, Crowley."

"People suffer anyway, and you never seemed to give a damn before," Crowley shouted, pulling away from Aziraphale and sliding out of the bed. "It's not worth it, Az."

"He might kill other angels. Or demons."

Crowley groaned and stopped at the door. He spread his arms out. "I don't care about anyone else. I care about you. I love you. That's high praise from a demon, by the way. If you think I'm going to let you go, you're mad."

Aziraphale looked sad and pale sitting alone on the bed. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse: "I don't believe it's your choice, Crowley."