Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was a dark and stormy night. For once, the mercurial English weather had complied.

It was also a Sunday evening in August, but not just any Sunday evening. The impressive thunderstorm that had been brewing over London since Saturday (which had not quite managed to break, at least not to the memory of any of the city's denizens) finally unleashed torrential rain upon St. James's Park. Fortunately, it was near midnight, so the ducks had more or less turned in.

Lightning flashed, struck the ground in front of a particular bench, and stayed there. It sizzled with a sense that one might even call uncertainty. Instead of doing the sensible thing and grounding itself, it flared, expanded, and took defined shape, hissing involuntarily when hit by raindrops.

The Metatron stood around miserably for five whole minutes while the wind shook the leaves overhead and rain continued to hit the pavement. Admittedly, these circumstances provided a much more dramatic entrance for the entity upon which the Metatron was waiting.

Beelzebub emerged from the concrete as if the surface were as insubstantial as water; beneath the din of the storm, it made no sound. It blinked at its surroundings as if disappointed by them.

"Terribly sorry, but you're late," said the Metatron, tapping its wrist. "I do regret pointing that out."

Beelzebub bristled, regarding the bench with blank, yet tired eyes of flame. "There wazz much congezztion in the Fifth Circle. It could not be helped." It looked at the Metatron. "Apologiezz."

"We had better get on with this, and I have orders to make it quick," the Metatron sighed, dubiously taking a seat on the bench. The rain-slick wood hissed and smouldered. "Sit down," it said.

Beelzebub shrugged, but stiffly, as if this were a gesture in which it did not often indulge. Between the two of them, they now had the bench smoking profusely. "Parley. What are your termzz?"

"An armistice of indefinite length," said the Metatron, with intense distaste. "He was hoping—that is, we were hoping—that we might put this unpleasant business behind us until such time as there seems to be a clearer way to proceed. An Antichrist gambit won't work anymore; humans are too clever by far, and we also ought not to ignore the irksome parts our respective agents played."

"Hizz Majezzty alzzo wishezz to be left in peace," replied Beelzebub, with similar consternation, "so an armizztice izz agreeable. Azz for humanzz, we muzzt put our bezzt and brightezzt minds back to work. Analyzzyzz will be crucial. What of the agentzz in quezztion? Their loyaltiezz have been shaken, even thou canzt zzee that. The loyaltiezz of the Hoztzz themselvezz are in doubt."

"Yes, we had rather feared," said the Metatron. "Which is why we have a more urgent suggestion to put forward, one that will surely fill an excessive amount of time and benefit us all in the long run." It swallowed, considering its words. "We propose an amnesty in which any parties may choose to switch allegiance without repercussions. Perhaps this is just the kind of shake-up we need."

Beelzebub considered this, tapping its red-hot fingers against the ironwork of the bench. "Termzz accepted. And what of thoze agentzz of which we are both loath to zzpeak? They muzzt be informed, and Crowzley in particular requirezz a direct approach. They muzzt chooze alzzo."

The Metatron sighed. "I am under orders to personally inform our agent of this meeting's outcome. Aziraphale is . . . worryingly attentive at best, and prone to asking questions at worst."

"Perhapzz I muzzt tell Crowzley," said Beelzebub, but it apparently didn't relish the thought. "Until zzuch time azz we muzzt meet again," it added, "it hazz been a mozzt interezzting zzkirmish."

"You know how to reach us, yes?" said the Metatron. "In the event of, well, developments?"

"I do not antizzipate zzuch," Beelzebub replied, "but in the event, yezz, I do. Until nexzt time."

Both entities departed using the same means by which they had arrived, leaving the bench worse for wear. Come morning, its condition would be attributed to lightning strike, and the seating apparatus would be replaced. Let it not be said that the Royal Parks Commission was a slouch.

Aziraphale was awake because he could see no reason not to be, inasmuch as Crowley had done his best over time to sell the angel on sleep. They had spent the morning feeding ducks in the park, the afternoon having lunch at the Ritz, and then they had gone and collected Madame Tracy and her charming Sergeant Shadwell and taken them out to dinner, because Aziraphale would have felt guilty not keeping that particular promise. One did try to be charitable toward humans, after all.

He wandered aimlessly through the bookshop, pausing to consider those spines amongst his stock that were suspiciously new. In a word, some of them were outright non-existent, although old Skindle didn't seem to know that (judging by the prices his guide had set on some of them).

As he was contemplating Bailey's-laced cocoa for a nightcap, something behind him crackled.

"Dear me," Aziraphale said, turning to face the Metatron. "You by and far prefer long-distance calling. It's been quite the busy weekend, hasn't it, gadding about the Cotswolds in person?"

"Don't be absurd," said the Metatron, coolly. "We pride ourselves on exemplary service."

"Oh, indubitably," Aziraphale said, walking to his desk. "Did I not, er, perform according to—"

"It is not given to us to know the Ineffable Plan," the Metatron sing-songed. "Aziraphale, sit."

Aziraphale did as he was told, sighing, and grabbed the nearest unwashed mug. He miracled himself some cocoa in it, but it was admittedly composed more of Bailey's than of Cadbury's.

"Whatever news you've got, be quick about it," he said, and took a drink. "Be merciful."

"We are incapable of conducting ourselves otherwise," the Metatron reassured him placidly, and made no move to step forward from the spot upon which it had manifested. "We have successfully initiated a truce with the Enemy," it intoned. "Beelzebub has accepted our terms, and has promised to relay them in short order. We are weary of this, at least for a time. Would you not agree?"

I'm weary of anything that would have me call Crowley Adversary for a moment longer, Aziraphale thought, and then cleared his throat. "And quite right, too," he responded evenly. "It's been tiring."

"There is more," continued the Metatron. "It has been agreed that any amongst the Hosts of Heaven and Hell who see fit to change allegiance may do so. What is your answer, Principality?"

For a moment, Aziraphale was too stunned to say anything. His first thought was, But I've already done that, you don't understand; I choose humanity, I choose this ridiculous planet, I choose Crowley. His second thought was, Don't think so loudly! What if the lightning conduit's bugged?

"I must say, that's a bit desperate, don't you think?" he said, and if he'd been dithering during yesterday's exchange, then now he was stalling. "Surely we've established that sides are just, well, sides. That Adam Young put it nicely, don't you think? What does it matter who goes where—"

"It matters to us and to our opposite numbers," said the Metatron, "that all parties find themselves in the most optimal position for the foreseeable future. We must be ready for any eventuality."

Dear Lord, Aziraphale thought, remaining as expressionless as possible. They've all cracked.

"Your silence is inscrutable," said the Metatron, tilting its head. "How shall we interpret it?"

"As surprise," said Aziraphale, cautiously, "that such a liberal-minded measure should be taken, but progress is progress, I always say. Good for us. Good for, er, them, for that matter. Splendid."

"We assume, of course, that you will be staying with us," said the Metatron, lightly, but Aziraphale knew better than to interpret its lightness as lightness as such. "But you will be given time to make your decision even so. Given that your defection is highly improbable—or, given such time as you have remaining with us up until defection—we have an assignment for you in the time being."

"Which is?" Aziraphale asked, boggling at the sheer nerve it took to ask a fellow for a favor even knowing he might not remain with the company for much longer, as it were. He drank deeply.

"Court the Enemy agent known as Crowley," said the Metatron. "We charge you to recruit him."

Aziraphale was reeling, but whether it was the alcohol or what he'd just heard, there was no telling.

"Stay for a shot or two, at least?" he offered, producing the bottle of Bailey's from under his desk.

Crowley was happy to be home. So happy, in fact, that he was giving serious thought to never leaving his flat again, what with its white leather living-room set and tidy bookshelves and ménagerie of flawlessly behaved flora. He peered into the refrigerator, suddenly disgusted by the pristine, untouched food he found there, and pulled out a carton of milk that should have expired several years ago. While he went about digging the makings for a cup of tea out of his cupboards, he plugged in the outdated appliance with a thought. It hummed to life as if startled.

Another familiar sound hummed beneath the current of electricity, manifesting as a low buzz.

"Er," said Crowley, flicking the switch on his freshly filled kettle, and turned around. "Hi."

"Thou hazzt proved a vazt dizzapointment to uzz, Crowzley," said Beelzebub, but there was a tired-sounding aspect to its tone. "Nonethelezz, we have dezided that it izz of no conzequenzze."

Slowly, suspiciously, Crowley blinked at Beelzebub. "That's, um, nice? Yeah. Wow. Thanks."

"We have acczepted ceazze-fire terms from the Enemy," Beelzebub droned. "The truce shall lazzt until zzuch time azz the Powerzz agree. And, Crowzley, we come bearing newzz of zzome import."

Crowley killed the kettle with a thought and miracled tea (two sugars, milk) straight into his mug.

"Should I be sitting down for this?" he asked, earnestly. "Can I offer you a cup? Do you take—"

"Thy offer izz kind, and itzz inappropriatenezz hazz been noted," Beelzebub said. "Thou wilt remain azz you are, and thou wilt lizzten. An amnezzty hazz been negozziated. Any party wizshing to change allegianzce may do zzo without repercuzzionzz. Conzider thizz your notize."

Crowley scrambled for the nearest chair at his tiny kitchen table. "Did—did I just hear you say—"

"If thou shouldzt chooze to return to that plazze whenzze we came," said Beelzebub, almost put-upon, "know that thy choizze will be apprezziated for itzz exemplary dizzplay of treachery."

"Oh," said Crowley, taking a dazed gulp of tea. "Right. Of course. Yeah, keen. Makes sense."

"Regardlezz what thou dozzt," Beelzebub replied, "we muzzt azzk that thou undertakezzt a tazzk."

"Uh," said Crowley, by now quite certain that it wouldn't have made one whit of difference whether he'd given in to the urge to add bourbon to his tea or not. "I'm with you so far," he said, offering the terrifying entity his most charmingly reassuring smile. "You know me, I'm, er . . . I'm down with it. Literally. How about we crack on so that you don't have to waste any more of your valuable—"

"Azz much azz I wouldzt have enjoyed the zzound of thy screamzz azz they echoed throughzout the endlezz expanzze of Outer Darknezz for the remainzder of eternity, that izz not to be thy fate," Beelzebub continued, the flames in its impassive eyes flickering brighter. "It izz not wriztten."

"That is, ah, fantastic," Crowley replied, feeling sheer, cold relief wash over him. "Really and truly. I'd like to repay the gener—al, you know, sensible nature of this policy change with, er, whatever I can possibly do to make your job easier. That's why I'm here. Whatever it is, leave it with me."

"Thou wilzt entizce the Enemy agent known azz Aziraphale back to our rankzz," said Beelzebub. "Irrezpective of the decizion thou dozzt make. The Prinzzipality izz uzeful to uzz. Zzway him."

Fuck fuck fuck, Crowley thought, refilling his mug to the brim with Jack Daniel's. "Well, cheers!"

Aziraphale dashed to the bookshop entrance as soon as he heard Crowley's frantic knocking. He'd rung up rather late, after all, and left a message on the answerphone that Crowley probably hadn't got till waking up several hours ago. That would account for why it was nearly noon.

"I told you to come as soon as possible," he sighed, ushering Crowley in. "This'll have to do."

"I'd have come right away if I'd thought there wasn't the slightest chance I'd hallucinated the visitation," Crowley admitted, proffering a bottle of Spanish red in apology. "I thought it might be worth sleeping off, but no, the scorch-mark is there in my kitchen. The nerve of them, sending follow-up. What happened with the Metatron, anyway? Your message was so garbled I couldn't—"

"I didn't specify," said Aziraphale, taking the bottle of wine back to their habitual drinking table, where he'd already dragged out the Bailey's and the Laphroaig and several bottles of Chianti that Crowley, ever the preferrer of white wine, actually liked. "I'd much rather tell you in person."

"I'm in full support of the armistice part," said Crowley, taking a seat without invitation. He uncorked the rioja with a sharp gesture and pointed to each of their empty glasses in quick succession, the laziest fill-job he'd ever done. "They must've mentioned that first, yeah?"

"Yes, a truce to last for an indefinite period of time," Aziraphale sighed, joining him, and drank half his glass in one swallow. "It's all well and good, dear boy, and it'll buy us another six thousand years if we're fortunate. The humans might manage to drive themselves extinct by that point."

"And then we'd, what, bugger off to the old offices? Wink out of existence? Inherit the earth?"

"There's no need for sarcasm," said Aziraphale, softly. "I can think of worse things than the latter."

"You'd read through nuclear winter," Crowley replied, disbelieving. "You'd have us devour every remaining word and become the sole founts of knowledge on a derelict planet. To what end?"

"To any end but having to bloody go back," Aziraphale seethed. "There, I've gone and said it."

"Oh my God," Crowley blurted, not even bothering to censor himself. "You're going to defect."

"To Hell?" Aziraphale scoffed. "Most assuredly not. Do you think I have any more desire than you do at this point in time to be ordered about by the competition? No. I'd rather stay where I am."

"I think we'd both rather that," said Crowley, carefully, "and I think that we'll functionally get that, because we've both proved we're both huge, incompetent nuisances they'd rather not have kicking about headquarters. But I do think they're going to expect answers on the allegiance front."

"Since it's been demonstrated to me over the past few days that it makes virtually no difference, why would I go to the trouble of switching?" Aziraphale asked. "Besides, there'd be retraining and orientation and the whole nine yards. No, my dear, there's little need. I can at least wield the sword when it's required, although I should think that won't be for millennia again, if ever."

"Decision made on the basis of sheer inertia," said Crowley, smirking, but there was a restlessness in him that Aziraphale couldn't ignore. "Laziness, angel. Sloth. What would they say?"

"They assume I'm staying put," said Aziraphale, defensively. "The Metatron said as much."

"Yeah, but they'll come back and expect to hear it from the horse's mouth," Crowley replied.

"Then they'll expect it from the snake's, too," said Aziraphale, tartly. "What will you choose?"

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck, and it was only thanks to the slight inclination of his head that Aziraphale could see far enough over his sunglasses to watch his eyes dart to one side. "To be honest with you, and I mean it when I say that's all I've ever been, misleading humans and all that set aside—Aziraphale, I don't know. It's complicated. If it's all the same, I'd fare equally as well staying right where I am as taking up with you lot. On the one hand, I've got clocking my hours down to a science; on the other hand, messing people about might just be off the table."

Aziraphale considered the fact that Crowley hadn't even touched his wine. He reached across the table, picked up Crowley's glass, and pushed it into his hands. "Drink," he said. "It'll help."

Crowley sipped and made a face. "Do you know what they can do to you Down There? Sure, Heaven talks big and makes threats, but how often do they actually follow through?"

Aziraphale drank down his glass. "The Flood? Sodom and Gomorrah? Miscellaneous plagues—"

"Then there's the first tick-mark under Cons on my assessment list," said Crowley, jabbing his finger at Aziraphale, drinking deeper now. "Hell carries through on most of its threats, too. I've just been lucky. If Beelzebub knew what a spectacular turn of mercy he showed in here, I think . . . "

"What are the other Cons?" Aziraphale asked, intrigued. "I'm a dab hand at lists. I'll help you."

"Excruciating pain, interminable humiliation, sticking red-hot pokers in one's bodily orifices until one begs for the termination of one's very existence—and that's on top of the excruciating pain instituted at a baseline," Crowley added, shuddering. "That's just a sample torture scenario. They're not very creative, but they're thorough. I've rarely witnessed it, but I can tell you I've often heard it."

"You weren't there for long at all, were you?" Aziraphale ventured. "You more or less went straight from the Fall to the Garden, didn't you? I never really thought—I mean, I should have guessed—"

Crowley shook his head soberly. "Are you kidding? I've spent as little time in communication with that lot as possible. Get up there and make some trouble were until recently the most welcome words I'd ever heard, can you believe it? Make yourself insignificant. Slip away. That's one method of survival; the other is to embrace it and become somebody. That's Hastur and Ligur."

"My dear, I hate to mention it, but your Pros list hasn't got anything yet," Aziraphale sighed.

"The pay is decent, as are the benefits of this particular outpost assignment," said Crowley, wryly.

"You're not doing a very good job of winning me over, I might add," Aziraphale pointed out, and then regretted having said it, because Crowley's face fell. "Oh, my dear. I assumed you knew."

"I do know," Crowley muttered. "They must've asked you to get me back, too, am I right?"

"Pardon my language, but it's obviously a final fuck you in both directions," Aziraphale said.

Crowley's lips twitched in amusement as he refilled their glasses. "Let's have the pitch, then," he said. "Why should I be dying to join the ranks that can only offer Elgar and a dire lack of sushi?"

You would be safe, Aziraphale thought. I would spare you every harm if you would but let me.

"You'd probably still be stationed here," he said weakly. "With me. That is, I'd make as strong a case as possible for needing an assistant. I can't imagine what they'd do with you if—"

"They'd stick me in an office or in a board-room," Crowley said. "I got my assignment before Hell was organized enough to suss out what I'm really good at, and that is attention to maximum detail with minimum effort. You get used to selling it as mass application of Sloth, but it's a skill humans prize so highly that individuals showing the propensity get lured into corporate enslavement."

"Oh, and I suppose we dodged that bullet, did we?" asked Aziraphale, dryly. "You and your immaculate project-execution schematics, me and my record-keeping? Crowley, really."

"No wonder we're incompetent under the circumstances into which we've been placed," Crowley said. "They'd have been better served stationing subtle-as-sledgehammer types here, yeah?"

"Heaven's quieter," Aziraphale murmured, trying to get back on track. "Gardening is a prized skill."

Crowley swilled the remainder of his second glass and drank it. "Is there a reprimand system?"

"Ineffable mercy," Aziraphale reminded him, "unless you manage to commit the unforgivable, but, after what's come to pass, I'm not convinced anything in Creation is considered such by either side. It's not as if you can replace your agents. You've got a finite number to work with. If you kept, er, disposing of your employees for the smallest offenses, where would that leave you?"

"Without legs to stand on," Crowley said, "which I don't recommend, except when it's useful."

Aziraphale looked up, finding that Crowley had removed his glasses and was rubbing at his temples. He wanted to comfort Crowley, to tell him everything was going to be all right regardless, but—was that really true? Aziraphale picked up the bottle and poured him the last of it.

"I shan't try to convince you further," he said. "It wouldn't be ethical." And I'm compromised.

Crowley nodded, raising his glass in Aziraphale's direction. "I don't know how long we've got."

"We've got till they send back those automatons," Aziraphale sighed, "without advance warning."

"Maybe if we stick together they won't send anyone," Crowley suggested. "Won't have to choose."

"I've got rooms upstairs," said Aziraphale, with slight hope. "They're not much, but there's a bed."

"That's well and good," said Crowley, "but I've got more space. Why not just bring some books?"

"I have to keep some shop hours, or things will look amiss. It's just easier if we're here, isn't it?"

Crowley reached for the Laphroaig and drank a shot straight from the bottle. "Whatever, angel."

Aziraphale took a moment to imagine that the dust and disuse plaguing the flat above them were gone, and so they were. He imagined the shower and bath back into working order; he evicted the moth infestation from his closet. He imagined Crowley warm and sleepy-eyed in his bed, and understood, at last, why he might even possibly wish to spend his nights there.

Crowley let himself suffer a hangover, so Aziraphale graciously let him sleep it off.

Waking up in a queen-size bed that looked, in both style of linens and state of varnish, like it hadn't seen use since the nineteen-forties was somewhat disorienting. The linens were clean, though, and soft, and Crowley was astonished to discover that Aziraphale had removed his tie, jacket, and shoes for him. He found these items set atop the dressing-table, which appeared to be even older.

Fully dressed, Crowley went downstairs and found Aziraphale seated at his derelict, yet somehow still miraculously functioning computer. He was inputting the new stock, and Skindle's Price Guide was open in his lap. He paused every few moments to take a sip of tea, apparently in no hurry.

"Can I, er," Crowley said, gesturing at the Price Guide, "help or anything? I could read them off."

"No, my dear," said Aziraphale, tapping the keyboard. "You just go on and get some tea from the kitchenette; it's should still be hot. There might be biscuits in one of the cupboards. I'm not sure."

"And here I'd fancied you a veteran entertainer of pensioners and their book clubs," said Crowley, finding himself almost inexplicably happy to be where he was. Aziraphale harrumphed, so Crowley wandered into the kitchen and found everything except the biscuits. He wandered back out with his tea in hand, pulling a chair up next to Aziraphale's. He peered at the screen.

"If you wouldn't mind," said Aziraphale, clearing his throat, "that's somewhat distracting."

"Oh," Crowley said, and got up again. "Oh, right. I'll, um—it's only Tuesday, isn't it? Early days yet. I'll just pop off home and collect some things, shall I? There's food in the kitchen that's been there for ages, and now I can't stand the thought of it going to waste. Seems wrong. I'll bring it."

"I fear you'll be disappointed to discover that I neither host book clubs, nor cook terribly well," said Aziraphale, without looking up. "In fact, I'll hesitantly admit to not cooking at all. It goes poorly."

"I can cook," said Crowley, absently sipping his tea. "I've learned a thing or two. It isn't difficult."

"Then may you astonish us with your prowess," said Aziraphale, sounding mildly annoyed. "I do hate to be all business, dear boy, but that child's reparations have amounted to quite a chore."

Crowley could take a hint. He had, in fact, become an expert at taking hints, especially as inimitably delivered by Aziraphale. "Got it," he said. "I won't be an hour or so. Is there anything you want?"

Aziraphale paused and looked up from his work, gazing earnestly at Crowley. "Do be careful."

"Right," Crowley replied, backing toward the front door, unable to look away. "Careful. Got it."

He fled before Aziraphale could say something else to set his heart racing faster than it already was, sliding into the Bentley with scarcely a thought for the tyre clamps. Miracle enough that his car was here, with him, in one piece; miracle enough that Aziraphale was here, with him, not burnt to cinders or disembodied or sentenced to sharing some stranger's body for the rest of . . .

He turned his key, backed into the street, and sped away before the thought could continue.

Crowley's flat looked much the same as he'd left it the day before. He wished away the scorch-mark that Beelzebub had left on his expensive linoleum and fished a tote-bag out from under the sink. The contents of his refrigerator amounted to a carton of strawberries he'd bought six months ago, a small wheel of brie he'd bought six years ago, and a number of vegetable-bundles (carrots, parsnips, shallots, parsley) bought so long ago that it probably wasn't worth guessing.

There was a bottle of Chablis he'd re-corked and stuck in the door, so he took that, too.

Crowley was in the midst of scouring his cupboards for dry goods (tagliatelle, check; a jar of uselessly expensive bolognaise from Harvey Nichols, check) when there was an uncomfortably familiar thumping up the stairs. Two sets of footsteps, so it couldn't be Harriet coming up to borrow sugar or creamer or whatever it was she'd run out of this time. The steps halted, and someone knocked. It was a polite knock in comparison to the footsteps, the knock of someone prim.

"Come on through!" Crowley called, deciding the friendly route might be best. "Door's open."

He went on sticking odds and ends in the tote-bag until the pair of figures that walked into his kitchen made him stop mid-packing and do a double take. The creatures in question had bothered to be man-shaped, that much was certain, but they hadn't even tried to dress for the times.

"He's smaller than I remember," said the taller, more menacing of the pair. The angel had dark hair, olive skin, and mean, pale eyes that Crowley would've recognized anywhere. "And less scaly."

"Shapeshifting's no picnic," Crowley told Michael, folding his arms sternly. "Anyway, didn't happen like that, so let's call it a draw. The dragon thing was for show. Humans love pageantry."

Gabriel rolled his eyes, a curiously mortal affectation. "There's the rub," he said to Michael. "This one always did understand the value of visual propaganda. It saves time, and loss of your labor-source." He looked at Crowley appraisingly. "Has anyone explained to you what kind of opportunity's been put on the table? We're here because Aziraphale is no, ah, salesman."

"You're telling me," Crowley said. "As we speak, he's cataloguing stock he'll never shift."

"I'd threaten you with smacking-around like last time, but I've been told to lay off," said Michael, sounding disappointed. He peered into the tote-bag. "What do you need all of that for?"

"Dinner," said Crowley, matter-of-factly. "I was thinking I might do a sort of rustic puttanesca, you know, chop the veg and toss them in the bolognaise and see what happens? It's been a while—"

"We're offering a competitive salary," said Gabriel, producing a packet out of his robe. "Quite a raise in comparison to what you're making now, if you follow. We've targeted organization and project imeplementation as key areas for growth, and we've been tipped off to your potential."

Crowley made a face while Michael tried to look threatening. It didn't work without the sword.

"Guys, I don't need convincing," he said, shouldering the tote. "I need a week to think it over."

Gabriel blinked at him, still proffering the packet. "You mean Aziraphale's put the offer to you?"

"Beelzebub put the offer to me, as it were," Crowley said, indicating that they should follow him back to the bedroom. "Honestly, can you think of anything more persuasive than that?"

They followed him, but with hesitation, and Michael hovered uneasily in the doorway while Gabriel peered curiously over Crowley's shoulder into his closet. "Of what use is this worldly ephemera?"

"Aha," said Crowley, holding up a shirt from Thomas Pink in Jermyn Street. "Not ephemeral in the least if you keep it in good nick. What use do we have for dry-cleaning? Upkeep's a cinch."

Michael muttered something under his breath that sounded like faggot; Gabriel elbowed him.

"You seem busy," said Gabriel, reasonably, and tapped the packet. "Shall I leave this for you?"

"Mmmhmmm," said Crowley, non-committally. "Just set it on the table on your way out. Thanks."

Michael glowered at the shirt over which Crowley was deliberating. "That's not dress code."

"Oh, I know," said Crowley, "but Aziraphale's always seemed to approve. I'll wear it tonight."

Gabriel took Michael by the arm and yanked him bodily down the hall, wittering all the way.

Crowley left the flat with his tote-bag of edibles and an over-stuffed garment bag. He left Gabriel's packet on the kitchen table, because he more or less knew what was in it: Hell had based most of its paperwork templates on pre-existing ones from Above, and Crowley had revised all of them.

"My dear," said Aziraphale, much later, across their drinking table now done up in a proper linen cloth with candlelight and silverware, the works, "I can't fathom how you hid this from me."

Crowley pushed what was left of his pasta around, shrugging. "You never bothered to ask."

That night, Aziraphale sat in the ancient tartan armchair across the room from the bed he'd never used. It was easy enough to pretend to read while Crowley mumbled happy drunken nonsense into his pillow, but once Crowley had drifted off, it was even easier to set aside his novel in favor of watching the demon sleep. He looked peaceful, like the stress they'd been under was worlds away.

Don't dare to hope for what you can't force, Aziraphale told himself. You want this as a safeguard against future calamity, as a surety you'll never lose him, but is there such a thing as surety?

Crowley stirred in his slumber, snuffling into his pillow; with effort, Aziraphale looked away.

There was plenty to be done downstairs: washing up, setting their table back to rights, and so forth. Once Aziraphale had done these things, he attempted to distract himself by returning to his computer for more data entry, but he ended up playing a dozen rounds of Lemonade Stand instead. He turned a tidy fictional profit, provided the success metric you used was an eleven year-old's.

Aziraphale was just about to shut down the stalwart old machine and put on the kettle when he heard the bell ring out front. He'd locked the door, so this was moderate cause for alarm. He grabbed the nearest item from his desk that seemed a viable weapon (letter opener), and passed the darkened shelves. A pair of shadows stood gawping in perplexity at Aziraphale's books.

"I dunno why all the fuss about this Biggles," said the shorter one. "Just why's he so great?"

"Positive role model for children an' all that rot," sneered the taller one. "Hullo, what's this?"

"I'm afraid we're closed for the night," said Aziraphale. "It's nearly two in the morning. We'll re-open around ten or eleven," he added, and then reconsidered. "Or whenever. Please get out."

"Crawly's here, ain't he?" said Ligur. "That horseless carriage wossit he drives, it's out front."

"That's as may be, but we are not concerned with the snake," Hastur said. "It's you we want."

"Me?" asked Aziraphale, feigning bewilderment. "Surely not. I'm of little enough use to my superiors and to my associates, much less to fine gentlemen such as yourselves. Tea?"

"Ooh," Ligur interrupted. "Have you got that one with the cornflowers in? It smells nice."

Hastur elbowed Ligur hard in the back of the head. "There's no time for such trifles," he said, baring his teeth in a ghastly smile. "You cannot hide from us, Principality. Legends of your ruthlessness have spread farther than you can even guess. This offer is one-time only."

"I know the offer in question," said Aziraphale, politely, "and I fear that I must refuse."

Ligur glanced back and forth between Hastur and Aziraphale, perplexed. "I ain't heard of no offer," he said. "You said we was comin' up here for a spot o' bother like the old days. For fun, like."

Hastur glared at his companion, turning all of his fierce attention on Ligur. "You would leave our fearsome and terrible horde to rejoin Heaven's simpering ranks, is that it? You would leave me?"

"I reckon not," said Ligur, shrugging. "But you ought ter have old me. We're tryin' to get him?" he asked, indicating Aziraphale. "Woss so great about recruitin' someone who likes Crawly, anyhow?"

Hastur stared at Ligur as if he'd just pointed out the fact that the sky was blue, but in a way that suggested that it had not even occurred to him to consider said well-known fact in the first place. "Orders are orders," he said uncertainly, "and we always have use for right bastards, don't we?"

"I just don't see woss so great about Biggles, and I don't see woss so great about angels, neither," Ligur sniffed. "Anyway, this one sells books, and he ain't even good at it. An' take Crawly fer example, too. People expect our lot to be rotten, and he ain't even slightly unpleasant."

"Quite, quite true," said Aziraphale, reasonably, turning just in time to catch the sound of hesitant footfalls coming down the stairs. "That's absolutely sterling logic. I can't find fault with it."

While Ligur beamed at Aziraphale, Hastur took a few steps forward, trying to peer around Aziraphale's shoulder as Crowley approached them. Aziraphale held the letter opener out at arm's length, and it glowed sudden, headache-inducing blue. Hastur stared at it, and then at Crowley.

"Okay, that's a neat trick," Crowley said. "Flaming sword, so passé, but flaming office supplies—"

"While you're here," said Hastur, menacingly, "might as well declare yourself. Time's up, Crawly."

"No need to rush," Aziraphale said calmly to Crowley. They're empty threats, please remember—

"I haven't rushed," said Crowley. He looked straight at Hastur, giving him that genuine, winning smile that Aziraphale wished he'd show more often. "You can save us all a boatload of time and tell Dagon I'm not coming back. I never was. It's nothing personal, not as such. This just isn't my, you know, scene. I thought it sounded neat for a while, but then you're flat on your belly in the dust, and where does that get you but exiled to a place where you've got to spend your first few thousand years clawing your way into some semblance of a life? I mean, it's an adjustment at first, but then it grows on you. Humans are terrible, but at least they tend to rectify the messes they make. Or try."

"I dunt get it," Ligur whispered loudly. "Is he goin' Up There, or is he stayin' right where he is?"

"It matters little," said Hastur, loftily, and shoved his clawed hands into the pockets of his coat. "Let's be off, get this harbinger-of-bad-news claptrap out of the way. We'll get your bloody tea."

"Awright!" Ligur exclaimed, waving at Aziraphale and Crowley as Hastur dragged him away.

"I'm not sure what just happened," said Crowley, eyeing the letter opener as it reverted to its unassuming default state. "There's what I think just happened and what actually happened, and I hope they're one and the same. You might have to parse it for me, though. I'm still drunk."

"You just handed in your notice," replied Aziraphale, with genuine astonishment. "That means Gabriel will make an absolute pest of himself till you've filled out that packet of paperwork."

"Great," Crowley said, rubbing his eyes. "Let's talk in the morning. Can I go back to sleep?"

Aziraphale nodded. He took Crowley by the wrist, leading him over to the desk, and put the letter opener away. "Yes, my dear, that's wise," he said, and then steered Crowley toward the stairs.

Crowley yawned and rolled onto his back, blinking at the ceiling. It was ancient, ugly cracked plaster—the one feature on-premises that Aziraphale's hasty renovation seemed to have overlooked. Dappled patterns filtering through the lace curtains skittered across it, glimmering brief and passionate before vanishing and cropping up in new locations. Crowley chased them with his eyes, sitting up to follow their progress, and instead found himself blinking at Aziraphale's steady gaze.

"Don't tell me you've been there all night," Crowley said. "I can't decide if that's creepy or endearing."

Aziraphale stretched in his chair, grumpily straghtening the arm-covers. "I thought it might be best if one of us stayed awake," he said, "especially after playing host to our, er, esteeemed visitors."

Crowley groaned and flopped back against the pillows, reaching to loosen his tie, finding it gone again. He wiggled his toes, verifying that he was also shoeless. "Where are my clothes?"

"On the dressing-table," said Aziraphale, wistfully. "Just where you found them before."

Crowley closed his eyes. "If I've got this right, that packet of papers waiting for me in Mayfair is to do with my change in employment circumstances. I won't find any sneaky new clauses, will I?"

"None around which you can't negotiate," Aziraphale told him. "HR will want it within five days."

Crowley nodded and opened his eyes again, considering the light-patterns. "I'm not dreaming."

"No, dear boy," said Aziraphale, gravely. "You're very much awake, and I'd like you to consider the import of your decision. I won't have it if you've done it strictly on my account, on the promise—"

"My world would end if I lost this," Crowley said, sitting up again. "London, St. James's, the earth," he clarified, waving toward the window, and then at Aziraphale. "If I lost you. And I know what that feels like, because I believed—" He swallowed, letting his hand drop. "I nearly did."

When Aziraphale rose and came to his side, Crowley made no move to prevent Aziraphale from seating himself on the edge of the mattress, his thigh pressed close and warm against Crowley's.

"I shouldn't have assumed you'd decide without certainty," said the angel, softly, taking Crowley's right hand between his own, "and I have done everything, everything in my power to assure it."

Crowley nodded without hesitation, squeezing Aziraphale's fingers. "I want to be where you are."

"I'd have come to you and yours if that's what you'd wished, if you'd made such a thing clear," Aziraphale admitted, "but I never once sensed, never once heard anything but the opposite from your mouth. Your fear and exhaustion decided for me; I stayed in hopes I hadn't read you wrong."

Overwhelmed, Crowley leaned and buried his face against Aziraphale's shoulder. He turned his head and found skin just above Aziraphale's wrinkled collar; he tongued at it too delicately for Aziraphale to feel just yet, sussing him out. Please take me, he thought. I'm offering freely.

Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley's sleep-mussed hair, kissing Crowley's forehead.

Crowley cleared his throat. "I wonder if during this . . . transitional period, as it were . . . they're all likely to be more forgiving of, um . . . other things—" He nosed at Aziraphale's cheek.

"Oh, my dear," said Aziraphale, tilting up Crowley's chin. "There's nothing to forgive."

They were kissing like humans who had no idea how to go about it (no, worse than humans who had no idea how to go about it), but Crowley couldn't imagine anything he would rather have in that moment. His body could, of course (he wanted Aziraphale to touch him so badly it hurt), and that was all right. Aziraphale fingered the hem of Crowley's shirt, whispered May I, and Crowley nodded so eagerly that it meant they had to stop kissing. Button by button, Crowley's heart raced.

Aziraphale discarded Crowley's shirt on the floor and said, "How long I've wondered . . . "

Crowley vanished the rest of his clothing in annoyance, hunching under the sheet in self-defense before letting Aziraphale coax the hem of it out of his hands and down. The angel stared at him, glassy-eyed, maybe as if he wondered if he were the one dreaming, and then stood up. He undressed for Crowley as if completely unobserved, unassuming until he'd shed the last item.

"Aziraphale," Crowley said, holding out his arms. "Please come here. It doesn't matter."

The ensuing tangle of arms and legs and wings was not something Crowley had planned, and perhaps he ought to have thought it through. His skin sparked at the slightest brush of Aziraphale's hands and feathers, and he was sure their lips were bruised now: tell-tale, lust-marked. But it was more than that, worlds within worlds. Aziraphale was hard against him, and Crowley burned.

Aziraphale paused to murmur something in Crowley's ear, his tone low and dangerously precise. Crowley fell back against the pillows, love-struck, and watched the sunlight play patterns on the plaster in tandem with the progress of Aziraphale's mouth down the front of his body. He shivered.

"You want me where?" Crowley asked, feverish with disbelief. So much thwarted longing—

"On my tongue," said Aziraphale, determined, and nuzzled Crowley's belly. He took Crowley's cock in his hand, giving it a few delicate, blissfully unexpected strokes. "Desperately, in fact."

Crowley didn't even have the chance to say yes: he moaned helplessly, coming all over Aziraphale's cheek and hand. If Aziraphale was at all surprised by this turn of events, he didn't show it; his tongue laved beneath the head of Crowley's cock, and he sucked until Crowley was finished.

"You . . . " Crowley couldn't find his voice, much less his mind. "You can't have enjoyed that." He scrambled in what he hoped was the right direction, finding his fingers clumsy, and Aziraphale guided his hand to the hardness between his legs. "Or maybe you did. It's just. Angel."

Aziraphale shuddered, pushing gently into Crowley's hand. "Ah," he breathed. "Crowley, I'm—"

There, Crowley thought, stroking Aziraphale through his orgasm, giving in to kisses so hungry he'd never have believed this a possibility even if you'd given him that mad old prophetess's assurance. Aziraphale bit Crowley's lip as Crowley finally loosened his grip, easing Aziraphale through the aftershocks. They shouldn't even know how to do this, but they both seemed eager to learn.

"That personality test claims I don't work well with others," Crowley said. "Are you sure—"

Aziraphale shushed him, shielding them with his wings. "Yes, Crowley, that test be damned."