Chapter Text
At least he isn’t naked this time.
“Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu. “What a surprise to see you… dressed.”
That is a thing he notices now, whether or not his former boss’ private areas are covered. Once upon a time, that was something he simply took for granted. Gabriel likes clothes, after all, always has. It’s one of the few things on Earth that has drawn him from the beginning. The invention of the suit had been quite a pivotal moment in the history of fashion and Gabriel’s climbing level of vanity.
“Aziraphale.” Giving Aziraphale a pat on the shoulder as he steps past him in the doorway, Gabriel invites himself inside the bookshop. “How’s your couch?”
“Firm but still a comfortable degree of soft,” Aziraphale responds automatically, though unsure why Gabriel wishes to inspect his cushions. It hardly seems relevant. “Is everything alright?”
“Of course, everything’s alright!” Gabriel laughs at the absurdity of the question. “Why are you asking?”
“I - It’s polite to -” Aziraphale shakes his head, realizing he is still doing that - that is pronounced in Crowley’s voice, accompanied by Crowley’s glare of disapproval, the kind reserved for when Aziraphale still acts like he is working for Heaven, which he is most definitely not any longer. “Why are you here?”
“I just told you.” Gabriel lifts his brows and makes a loose, impatient gesture with one hand, as if the matter has already been settled and everyone else is simply late to the conclusion. It is always strange, the way Gabriel can manage to make Aziraphale feel both dumb and smart at the very same time.
With a confident sway in his steps, Gabriel strolls over to the bookshop’s old and beloved sofa, giving it a pat that had enough force in it to be confused with a proper slap. “Oof.” Gabriel wrinkles his nose after testing the firmness of the cushions. “You deserve better than that,” he then declares, and before Aziraphale can even protest or ask just what he means by that or even feel the tinniest bit of flattery, Gabriel reaches for a miracle. “A host gift. For you.”
Aziraphale likes his sofa. If he didn’t, it would not be here. But more importantly, Crowley likes Aziraphale’s sofa, and Aziraphale likes that Crowley likes his sofa.
It’s a fine old Chesterfield, well-loved and dependable. The leather shows its age in places, but a carefully arranged blanket disguises the wear with a touch of comfort. And then you can add the sentimental value. There are memories stored in that furniture: the first time Crowley fell asleep on it, the time they’d laughed so hard that Aziraphale had spilled his wine all over the leather, and a more recent memory where Aziraphale had pushed Crowley down against the cushions while the demon fumbled with the buttons of his shirt -
Aziraphale doesn’t want Gabriel to sit on his sofa, actually.
Then Gabriel snaps his finger, and the beloved Chesterfield is gone.
Oh no, Aziraphale thinks. I might just lose my temper.
“I -”
“You don’t have to thank me,” Gabriel says, graciously, and sits down on the newly manifested chaise lounge, patting the beige fabric with a sigh of satisfaction. He doesn’t hesitate to make himself comfortable, lying down like he just came home after a long day of work, legs crossed, leather shoes still on. Aziraphale’s left eye twitches.
“Has something happened?” he asks, folding his hands, bracing himself. There’s a part of him that still expects Gabriel’s attire to vanish at any moment, should things, as expected, truly be dire.
The other angel looks up at him, blinking. “Why would you ask that?”
“The last time you came here,” Aziraphale says slowly, “you were in trouble.”
Gabriel’s brows furrow with slow realization. “Riiiiight.” He snaps his fingers, pointing at Aziraphale. “That’s a long time ago. Time flies.”
It does. Aziraphale can hardly wrap his head around all the stuff that has happened since: what followed after Gabriel got his memories back, the scene in the bookshop, the Second Coming, which hadn’t come after all, the mess that followed, and now this happy, peaceful aftermath which seems to have lost its sense of peace since that fateful knock.
“Yes,” Aziraphale says, keeping his thoughts to himself. “So. Nothing is wrong?”
That is the wrong thing to say. He knows it too well, the sense of arrogant disappointment radiating from his former boss. “Aziraphale,” Gabriel sighs. “You don’t ever stop being so -” He stops, searching for the right word before settling with: “- fretful, do you?”
“Apparently not,” Aziraphale says stiffly, and a voice in the back of his head comments on how even Crowley would have been forced to agree with Gabriel on this specific statement. “It would have helped if you’d called beforehand.” Still unconvinced, Aziraphale turns the desk chair toward the sofa and sits down to face Gabriel. “Why are you here?”
Gabriel takes his time to think about this, waggling his finger to keep Aziraphale’s attention. “You and I have a lot in common,” Gabriel then says. Aziraphale cannot help but let out a tame noise of protest that is easily ignored. “We are both angels.”
“Well. Yes,” Aziraphale has to admit, though he bitterly adds, “You and I and the rest of the Heavenly Host.”
“But we’re not like the others!”
“...Right.”
“We’re both banished,” Gabriel continues confidently. “I heard of your little stunt. Well, I suppose that was your big stunt. Your little stunt was when I was in charge.”
Aziraphale squirms a bit at the mention of the Second Coming spectacle. That sure is some story, a long one too, one that certainly deserves its own whole book and the time to tell it, and now just some offhand comment. However, the past is in the past, and what is truly important is the present, which for Aziraphale means the former archangel Gabriel sitting on the newly manifested sofa in front of him.
“Sometimes, you have to try again,” Aziraphale simply hums. “And I succeeded in the end.” The world still exists, and Crowley has forgiven him. All is well, better than what he’d dared to hope for.
“Congrats to you, Aziraphale, but boasting doesn’t suit you.”
“Gabriel,” Aziraphale cuts in sharply because a very familiar headache is making its arrival known. “Why the visit? And where is Beelzebub?”
“They’re…” Gabriel says through gritted teeth. “Great. Busy.”
Aziraphale blinks as his brain connects the now painfully obvious dots. “But they’re not busy together with you?”
Gabriel looks at him for a bit too long, like he is the one waiting for Aziraphale to break down. “Beelzebub and I are on a pause,” he tells him calmly.
“Oh.” Aziraphale’s frown grows deeper and deeper. “What does such a pause entail exactly?”
Gabriel sighs like Aziraphale just said something stupid, and now Aziraphale feels stupid. But he feels more annoyed than stupid, and the new sofa doesn’t look soft at all!
“It’s part of any modern relationship, Aziraphale,” the other angel says like the very explanation requires his final ounce of strength. “But to put it into simple terms: I need a couch to crash on. This will do.”
Aziraphale stares at him and the stupid sofa, and he thinks about the polyester, how it will make his skin itch. He doesn’t like it, this new sofa, which is now in the middle of his bookshop with Gabriel, like some twisted bolster they threw in for free in this awful, awful deal.
“Packet of crisps?” Gabriel asks him with an impatient shrug.
“Tea,” Aziraphale says desperately, clinging to that one word like a prayer. “I’ll make some tea for both of us.”
Gabriel doesn’t drink his tea. Aziraphale does, and as he swallows, he desperately wishes he were drinking something much stronger to deal with this.
Despite the absurdity of the situation, it is in Aziraphale’s nature to nurture. Clutching his teacup a tad too tightly, Aziraphale asks, “How are you, uhm, feeling?”
Gabriel’s smile is a persistent, dangerous thing. “Fine. Great.”
“Oh. That is - Good to hear.”
Unable to control his expression, Aziraphale feverishly drinks from his cup.
The silence doesn’t last long as Gabriel inhales, sniffs, then scrunches his nose. “What’s that smell?”
“What?”
“The moldy smell.” Gabriel looks around for the source before he suddenly snaps his fingers. “Oh wait. I remember - it’s the books! Man, you just get used to it when you’re stuck here.” A wide grin spreads across his face as he looks at Aziraphale. “Isn’t it strange how I used to live here?”
That is one way to phrase it, one that Aziraphale doesn’t really agree with. “You stayed here, yes, for a few days.”
“And didn’t we have fun?”
“I’m not sure we did?” Aziraphale’s voice climbs higher with the confusion.
“You’re a good guy,” Gabriel simply continues. “Letting me stay. I knew I could come to you again.”
That is a nice thing to say. Aziraphale wishes he were better at receiving compliments from Gabriel, but he is always waiting for the twist, for the real insult underneath. He doesn’t like that part about himself, the constant mistrust, when Gabriel is the one in need of comfort.
“Gabriel,” he tries again, “What happened? The last time we saw you and Beelzebub -” It feels like forever ago, watching the unlikely pair choose each other in this very bookshop, but the inspiring image is forever burned into his mind. “You both looked very happy.”
Gabriel flicks a finger against his teacup, watching the brown surface tremble in widening ripples. “Oh, we were happy. Are happy. So much happiness,” he says, still smiling. “I never really understood the appeal of corporations, but then Beelzebub showed me the secondary function of the dangly limb known as The Penis-”
“Gabriel!” Aziraphale chokes on his tea, heat rising to his cheeks. He has to cough several times to regain his composure. “Why did you two fight?”
“Who said anything about a fight? I said we were on a pause. A fight is so… aggressive. Ah - Heaven’s warrior still, I see, Aziraphale! Keeping up the fighting spirit!”
“If you are to stay here,” Aziraphale says, ignoring that poor attempt at deflection, “then I want to help. And in order to help, I need to know why you needed this separation.”
“Pause,” Gabriel corrects him sharply.
“Yes. Why? Was it your idea?”
“Of course! The best ideas come from me, right? It’s the right thing to do.”
The right thing to do always seems to be the hardest thing, Aziraphale muses silently. “Did Beelzebub agree?” he asks, and Gabriel’s glare is enough of an answer. “So there was a disagreement.”
“You know how it is. Demons. You say one thing, they hear something else, they overreact, they say something stupid, they think you say something stupid, and boom! One little thing turns into something else entirely.”
“That seems like a rather one-sided narrative,” Aziraphale says quickly, trying to deny himself any familiarity with the scene that Gabriel is painting.
“Isn’t that how it goes with you two?”
“Honestly,” Aziraphale says, “We both tend to say stupid things.”
Gabriel rolls his eyes in disappointment. “We can’t have everything in common.”
Aziraphale shakes his head to clear his thoughts and to direct this conversation back toward the actual relationship in need of scrutiny. “Did the two of you agree on how long this pause should last?”
“Sure.”
“So. How long -”
“When we both feel it’s right, we’ll end it. The pause, I mean,” Gabriel cuts him off. “Until then, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” His smile is downright unnerving now. “I knew I could count on you. Just like before.”
“This is actually also Crowley’s shop now,” Aziraphale feels the need to point out. “We made it official, but we decided not to change the sign. Crowley thought that the Co. covered his name. Even if it is technically C and O, and not C and R then O, but most of the street thought he had a claim on the shop already anyway. Well, that, and the rumor that he’d moved in ages ago, which isn’t true, but I would have let it happen if I had known about the homelessness situation, and Bentley, that dear old thing, is as comfortable as a car of that age can be, but it doesn’t quite serve as a bed, but Crowley never did tell him he was forced to sleep in it. Of course, he could have just chosen not to sleep at all, but that is a hard habit to break. But he could have told me. Which he didn’t. But if he had, well, the sign’s always included him, I suppose.”
Gabriel is surprisingly unaffected by his rambling. Perhaps he is just used to it, from the times Aziraphale had to summarize his reports. “So you never had a pause?” Gabriel asks him. “Ever?”
Aziraphale thinks of a kiss in this bookshop, ‘I forgive you’, those lonely years in Heaven, how he danced for forgiveness and for Crowley’s lips to curl just slightly upwards again.
“We - Well - My relationship with Crowley was a bit slower affair than yours and Beelzebub’s,” he says. “A pause sounds so formal. And it’s only recently that we considered our relationship as official.”
“So when you had a fight, you’d just - pretend you hadn’t?” Gabriel huffs in disbelief at the thought.
“Sometimes. Depending on the severity. We did, uhm…” The Holy Water argument suddenly comes to mind, and Aziraphale wonders what those eighty years of bitter loneliness can be classified as. ”We didn’t call it a pause. But we have given each other space when needed, yes.”
“So you get it,” Gabriel concludes.
“I suppose I do.”
This is the moment Crowley enters the shop. The first thing the demon notices is the new, out-of-place sofa. What the fuck, Crowley thinks. Then he sees the angel sitting on top of it. What the actual fuck, Crowley thinks.
“No,” the demon declares when Gabriel waves at him, and then he turns around on his heel.
Aziraphale hurries after him, stopping him in the doorway. “Crowley,” he says, tugging at his jacket.
“I’m not doing a second round of this.” Crowley adjusts his sunglasses, making sure his eyes are covered as he glares in the direction of Gabriel. “Did you invite him?”
Aziraphale huffs. “Of course not.”
“Does he have his memories this time or not?”
“Oh, he remembers everything.”
“...I’m not sure that’s better or worse, actually.”
The demon raises his shoulders, preparing himself for a confrontation that Aziraphale won’t allow. Grabbing a hold of Crowley’s wrist, Aziraphale lowers his voice to tell him, “We need to treat this matter sensitively. I’m afraid Gabriel and Beelzebub have broken up.”
Crowley gapes. “They’ve wut?”
“It’s a pause!” Gabriel cries out briskly, which just adds to Crowley’s astonishment.
A sharp grin pulls at the demon’s lips. “Beelze broke up with you?” he asks, sounding more gleeful than surprised.
Gabriel’s face falls into an annoyed scowl. “Did no one hear what I just said?”
They ignore him.
“What a surprise,” Crowley drawls, a low, bitter cackle escaping his mouth. “Did - did you bring your own sofa? Bring it somewhere else.”
Gabriel squares his jaw, arms crossed, tone light and innocent like an annoying toddler’s as he tells the demon, “Aziraphale said I could stay.”
Crowley glares at Aziraphale, who is busy inspecting the floorboards, and leans closer to hiss at him, “A word.”
They retreat to the backroom, where Crowley barely catches himself from stumbling over a pile of books stacked so high that gravity appears somewhat optional.
Aziraphale, knowing fully well that he is somewhat responsible for what he will refer to as ‘The Situation’, awaits judgment so they can get a move on and get to the next act.
“Angel,” Crowley begins innocently. “You know that demons are notoriously bad spellers, right?”
“Yes. Though I’m not entirely sure why.”
It seems like a rather weird punishment, on top of the black feathers and banishment to Hell and all.
Crowley blinks slowly. “Can you help me spell a word?” he asks in a tone that Aziraphale could never refuse.
“Of course!” Aziraphale sits up straight, reaching for pen and paper from the overcrowded table, eager and grateful that the demon has come to him for help. “What word is it?”
“No.”
Aziraphale’s pen hovers over the paper. “Excuse me?”
“No. Are you familiar with the word?”
“The antonym of yes?”
“That’d be a no.”
“But yes as I know the word no,” Aziraphale says, frown deepening with every word.
Crowley doesn’t appear as troubled. “Can you spell it?” he asks.
“N. O,” Aziraphale says stiffly, expecting some sort of prank now. “Frankly my dear, even you could spell that.”
“Can you repeat the word?”
“No. Well - Yes, I can repeat it: no.”
“Do you know the definition of the word?”
“It’s a negative,” Aziraphale says dutifully, unsure of why he is choosing to play along with Crowley’s antics. “Used to dissent, denial, or refusal.”
The demon is still playing innocent to the point where Aziraphale has no idea when or if the other shoe will drop.
“Can you use it in a sentence?”
“When the demon asked if the angel found this funny, the angel told him no,” Aziraphale tells him with a glare.
“Alright, so you know the word.”
“Yes.”
“THEN WHY ARE YOU INCAPABLE OF SAYING IT WHEN PEOPLE ASK YOU TO DO STUPID SHIT?!”
Aziraphale puts down the pen with more force than necessary. It clanks pathetically against the wooden surface of the table. “He’s going through an emotional time -”
“I’m going through an emotional time!” Crowley protests. “Emotions that consist of: anger, fury, disgust, annoyance, did I mention anger? Lots of emotions, poor me!”
“Oh, I couldn’t tell.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “I’m glad you shared these emotions with me. Now, can we have a productive conversation so we can actually deal with the problem at hand?”
“You have a low-frame Tuxedo three-seater sofa with a chaise lounge in the middle of your bookshop - I am not the one with a problem here.”
Oh, that really is worrisome, especially considering the fact that Aziraphale is 95 % sure the new sofa had been a two-seater when Gabriel had miracled it into existence.
“When we had a spat, we didn’t need any help!” Crowley continues to hiss. “We just sulked on our own!”
“And it was horrible!” Aziraphale hisses back at him because that is an old hurt, the kind that refuses to ever truly heal. “To feel alone and be alone while feeling so!”
Even Crowley cannot argue against that, so instead, he reaches desperately for another angle for his position of disagreement. “So you’re going to fix their relationship?” he huffs.
Aziraphale’s head snaps upwards. “And what do you mean by that?”
They both know what he means by that.
“It’s not exactly your forte,” Crowley shrugs, looking away from him. “And this is a lost cause. If you don’t set an example now, he’ll come crawling back here every damn time they break up!”
“It’s called,” Gabriel calls sharply from the other room, “a pause!”
Crowley flips off the closed door. “If he wants to mope, he can do it the proper way and go to a bar. This is not a bar, it is a bookshop despite the impressive amount of alcohol you keep in the back - alcohol that he wouldn’t even know how to appreciate, by the way!”
Aziraphale opens his mouth, but Crowley is fuming now and holds up a finger to stop him.
“Aaaaaand,” Crowley continues, “I don’t want to deal with Gabriel, I don’t want to deal with an amnesiac Gabriel, I don’t want to deal with a depressed Gabriel, I definitely do not want to deal with a drunk Gabriel.”
“I’ll deal with him,” Aziraphale offers stiffly. “I am the one already dealing with him, present participle!”
“Looks like you don’t need me, then! It’s my shop too, if you recall. Which means I get to ban him from half of it!”
“Which half?” Aziraphale asks him. “The upper floors, or are we speaking of a division between left and right?”
Crowley considers. It doesn’t seem right to choose right, not if you’re a demon and you are obligated to steer towards wrong over right. “Left,” he decides.
“Should we divide from the position of the entrance, or are we using the cardinal directions?”
“How about this: I let you keep the part with the sofa,” Crowley offers. “Maybe he’ll upgrade your desk into a sit-stand workstation!”
“I think it is his way of showing his thankfulness.”
The worst part is that Aziraphale believes this to be true, and if that is the case, then it does not bode well for his beloved bookshop and its centuries-old interior.
“You’re giving him too much credit. He’s not innocent little Jim this time - he’s just an asshole whom no one likes, not even the worst demon in Hell, who apparently has developed some kind of standards, which is why they had a break-up!”
“IT’S A PAUSE!” Gabriel’s voice calls out from the other room.
Crowley spins around to kick open the door.
“Don’t,” Aziraphale warns him before the demon can raise his leg.
Crowley is still staring daggers at the wooden door. “I’m leaving,” he warns Aziraphale, and his shoulders slump, just a tiny bit, when the angel doesn’t ask him to stay.
“Probably for the best,” Aziraphale says instead. “I’ll keep you updated.”
“The only update I want is the one going ‘Oh Crowley, you can come back now, I have kicked him out now after he criticized my snuffbox collection, and you were right, I was wrong’, and you still have to do the dance when I come back!”
He doesn’t get the voice quite right; it’s a bit too high, too strained, to be a perfect imitation of Aziraphale’s whines. He’s too annoyed to truly focus, but the point still lands, and Crowley makes a note to do better the next time, just to get truly under the angel’s skin.
Aziraphale doesn’t stop him from barging out of the backroom. Why should he? Crowley has already made the slip of tongue: ‘when I come back’, because he will come back, and they both know it. He just needs to release some fumes first.
“Oof.” Gabriel winces as Crowley stalks past him, marching straight for the exit. “Are you two fighting?”
“NO!” Crowley lies and slams the door shut with enough force to make the bell fear falling.
He likes to believe that one day, his life will be free from these constant divine inconveniences. Except that is not the word to use - that would be understatement of the century. Millenia! That’s what you get from hanging around Aziraphale, who will, by habit, downplay the most dire of circumstances.
His own execution? A slight hiccup. Armageddon? A bit troublesome. Second Coming? A bit of a bother.
Crowley actually knows how to put stuff into perspective. Sure, Armageddon might be the end of the world, quite literally, but compared to how it’d felt searching for Aziraphale in a burning bookshop, it was a minor convenience. And those years he had to spend alone…
Hell. That’s what those were. And Crowley knew actual big capital H Hell.
He wonders what Aziraphale thinks of those years. He tries not to, most days, knowing it’s best not to think about the past at all. That’s just pain waiting to inflict suffering. They sucked, that’s a fact, but now they’re past it. Aziraphale is back, they’re together, the planet is still spinning, things are fine.
Except for the extra former supreme archangel in the bookshop. Two’s a crowd, and while Gabriel might be the original one, Aziraphale is by far preferred.
Crowley still wishes Aziraphale didn’t belong in that category, though, that he’d never taken up that title, never left. That they could have skipped the whole round of crazy that had begun with a visit from Gabriel - the very Gabriel now back in the bookshop once more.
It is unnerving. Infuriating, really, because deep inside, Crowley wants to believe that they’ve crossed the stage where Aziraphale could ever consider leaving him behind for whatever reason again, but even deeper inside, this whole situation has crawled its way under his skin, toward some sore, tender, barely healed wound.
But it’s just Gabriel. Not the end of the world. Just Gabriel’s relationship going down the gutter, and while that means Aziraphale is once again getting involved in things better left alone, it’s fine. Gabriel will get his undeserved comfort, Crowley will find a way to chase him out of the bookshop, everything will go back to normal, it’s going to be calm, undramatic, absolutely fine.
It’s easier to be angry than scared, and that’s why Crowley plans to slam the car door. It’s a conscious move, and he knows the Bentley will forgive him because it’s a good car, and he would never let any damage come to the vehicle. He just needs to let out some steam, so he can calm down and find a way to make things just fan-fucking-tastically fine as fast as possible.
He pulls the door open -
And he doesn’t get to slam it.
Inside the car, in the passenger seat, is Beelzebub, all curled up into a pitiful ball, black stains trailing from their watery eyes to the edge of their trembling chin.
They look up at Crowley slowly, sniffing.
“Angels are bastards.”
Crowley, who has too much dignity to ever agree with his former boss, doesn’t say it, but he definitely thinks: well, yes.