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Chapter Text

Chapter One

Out of The White

I see a bad moon rising… I see trouble on the way....
Credence Clearwater Revival

Aziraphale steps into the lift. It feels like he’s always stepping into the lift. Before, it was the escalator up to the stars. Well, to Heaven. Same difference. Both those things are cold and hard and easy to understand.
Aziraphale has been stepping into this lift for as long as he can remember now.
But that’s what the humans call Déjà vu. Or perhaps j’amais vu. One of those, surely. Aziraphale remembers that human language is much better for versions of feeling and being than Heavenly idiom is. In fact, Heavenly idiom is a big misnomer. There is no idiom because that implies a doubling of meaning. What Aziraphale, Acting Supreme Archangel of All Heaven knows, had realised very quickly, upon being back in Heaven, is that whatever nuance or detail was put into Earth and its creations, its bled out of Heaven like a pocketknife twisting in an orange.
“Eggs without salt”. A small smile twists his mouth as he shuffles back further into the lift to make way for his two aides de camp. Muriel, his more senior aide, scrunches up their nose at the utterance. “I’m sorry Sir? Would you like some more eggs?” Aziraphale has some doubts about Muriel. In the back room of his mind, he has a dream where he casts her in her appalling cosplay virgin constable outfit to the curb. In that dream, he gets to stay. In that dream, Crowley… well. Never mind that. They're here and now theyr'e wearing khakis and an overlarge green jumper. They have blocky black glasses balanced on their nose. A cosmetic quirk of course: Muriel's been reading, you see, a habit they got into during their tenure as Soho bookseller, as Aziraphales bemused locum. Who's running the bookshop now, you ask? What in fact is Muriel's deal? And are any of those questions even worth the asking?

We'll just have to wait and see. 

Aziraphale (ex-soldier, ex bookshop owner, ex but still current guardian in the strictest sense of the word) looks at Muriel and is about to say something.
The second aide de camp clears his throat.
Ah. Aziraphale clears his throat right back in response and straightens his tasteful chocolate brown tie.
Heaven. It’s not just eggs without salt: its powdered egg mix.
Theres a drawn-out whine from the machinery which he feels is rather is unnecessary. It’s a bad sound effect from any number of novelty Halloween spooky house doorbell rings. Thanks Hell. You’ve once again fulfilled the ambition to be the stereotypical bad guy. Aziraphale has his documents at the ready and is gratified that he smells as he likes, that is, that he's been allowed to hold onto the subtle spice of cologne he's grown so fond of. And why not after all, is this not a bid for some kind of power against the hellish opposition? It will do well to be on some sensory level noteworthy.
He remembers being afraid that when he got to Heaven, took over its running, he’d be deprived of what he likes, and that’s of course not true. Gabriel, he recalls took to it just like a … well, a duck with a penchant for grey suits. His suits and natty scarves were de rigeur for so long that there’s a whole lasting trend up in the Upstairs. Lilac scarves are indicative of a certain way of thinking, in heavenly hallways. Aziraphale can’t help thinking of the verdant green kerchiefs he saw once upon a fabled and frightening time, back on earth. Is or was Gabriel more than he seems? Quite apart from the fact that there is no “Gabriel” anymore?
Are there more than there seems even now, where he is?
Is his idea to try make an earth in heaven?
He did have a plan. Has a plan. Muriel has it, on the device that they wield with alacrity. The truth is this. Aziraphale who once guarded the Eastern Gate of Eaden, who then befriended the serpent and defied God, who then tried to live as though he could get away with it…
He’s afraid.
As the nondescript lift starts to descend, he must close his eyes against an onslaught of just the first wave of what he knows will be unwelcome ideas.
Oh Crowley. How often I saw you take a whole devilled egg into your mouth and chastised you for being gauche. How much I’d give right now for one more night of you poking holes in my thinking. One more day of oh I don’t know just unexpected mirth of trying to mount a horse both of us and trying to learn from the humans about us who you always knew better than me Crowley and they helped us at least a bit Oh God Crowley I’m afraid Crowley, I’m so scared…
The (somewhat) Supreme Archangel Aziraphale takes in a very deep breath: his two young aides look at him scandalized: he remembers to try explaining what this means, if they ever get the time and survive this: And then he makes a gesture, and they step out the lift into Hell.

Chapter Text

Interlude

If your humble scribe had more sense, they’d have been cute and started our account in media res: always a classy move, that.

Alas for our various assembled beings , there’s no taste in Heaven (or the other place) … and very little class.

We’ll have a flashback instead then.

So, let’s observe Aziraphale at a task he feels himself both equal to and vaguely disgusted at. He’s going forth, up the lift this time (now that’s good bookending of imagery there!) to act as emissary at a meeting with a representative from Hell. The Earth obviously, being the projected site of the coming eschatological events, has been chosen as neutral meeting ground. It’s been decided in Council that he, as Supreme of All angels, shall be the one to parlay.

Now The Supreme Archangel of etc etc and so on stands in front of the agreed- upon rendezvous and frowns.

He feels no thrum of supernatural presence within the café. Not a whisper, not a jot. Considering that both sides had agreed this would be the way to confirm arrival, this is… concerning.

Aziraphale realizes he’s standing on the pavement chewing on his lip in an altogether too human fashion and forces himself to stop. To assume a more impassive mien.

He lets out a small breath through his nose though- after all, this corporation in its earthbound guise is subject to most of normal needs.

“Confound it” he mutters, and sends out feelers of power, trying to keep it faint. There are mortals who are attuned to such phenomena faint as those senses might be. It was exactly this that he wanted to avoid, blast it all.

Ah, there.

His eyes narrow. “Oh, arse.”

Because naturally. Of course, Hell would play this sort of game. The presence is situated a few blocks down, at a decidedly NOT non-descript eatery.

Well, if this is how the game is to be played, Aziraphale, who prides himself on his adaptive abilities and diplomacy, will play too.

(It is worth pointing out that priding oneself on a quality does not necessarily equate having that quality. Merely that the supposedly deadly sin of Pride is a hard human trait to shake).

The right location pinpointed, Aziraphale can’t help but grimace.

“Oh, honestly”, he can’t help but murmur to the empty air.

Æt. Even his own admittedly discerning taste for fine dining has him rolling his eyes at a hellish representative choosing to spontaneously relocate a meeting to one of Mayfair’s most notoriously pretentious fine dining spots. It’s the kind of place he and Crowley would once have visited for the sake of the thing, to one up each other with hyperbolic faux-reviews of the food.

A slight pang at that thought that’s swiftly squashed down. None of that now old chap, he scolds.

Right then.

Unto the brink. Aziraphale ambassador of The Highest Realm of All, foremost power of the Power and so on ad infinitum, smooths down his champagne-coloured double breasted suit jacket. He pastes on the calm beatific smile he’s practiced in the privacy of his quarters.

“Tally ho” he says to the absolute negative space by his left shoulder.

That beatific smile and diplomatic demeanour last Aziraphale all of one minute and forty-five seconds.

That’s the time it takes for the hostess to check his name with a slight raise of her eyebrows. (“Mr Zachariah Fell Esquire? Certainly Sir. Your other party is already seated. Right this way.”).

“Fuck”.

That’s Aziraphale Grand Master of All Heaven and all its assorted blah blah, swearing for the … second time? Third? No second. Ah anyway! It’s a hearty and resounding “fuck” too, none of this fluty and airy nonsense one might expect from just looking at him. And it carries. Several diners turn to stare in disapproval. Aziraphale cannot care less.

His approbation is turned outward to the grinning personage seated at the end of the room

“Hello, Aziraphale”.

Crowley. He didn’t know it’d be Crowley. In all honesty he should have guessed. They left each other under less-than-ideal conditions of course. It’s been puttering about in his mind, not taking up too much space because he’s so busy: of course he is.

But its him. Seated there, long and insolent and smiling.

“What? Too fancy for Heaven’s budget?”

Aziraphale wants to stop being tongue tied at the sight of him.

Crowley takes up far too much space. He’s long, sure, tall, but he stretches so everything seems tiny by comparison.  It’s almost so that if a mortal looks at him for too long they get a funny feeling that he’s not entirely human. The wrists are a bit too long, the legs too loose: not to talk about the small sharp eyeteeth. Black suited with red shirt, black tie nestled within.

Beautiful.

The adjective shoves itself in his head and he shoves back so it’s down in the dirt with so many others. Aziraphale shakes his head. Adjectives are distractions that got him into trouble in the first place. He’s cutting down on them. Rationing like it’s a private world war only he’s fighting. This battlefield here and now though? THIS is dirty bloody war indeed.

In through the nose, Archangel.

‘Good evening. Exchanges of gifts and names”

Crowley eyes him. Its not insolent, contains no smirk. That’s not really Crowley’s way. But still, there’s a long cool remove to this particular regard that Aziraphale can’t say he cares for much.

“No.”

Aziraphale isn’t totally surprised but objects anyway.

“You’re on a mission from Hell! We are here because apparently you CHOSE to be important in Hell. Accept my gift!”

Crowley leans back. There’s something silver tucked into the inner pocket of his beautifully sleek suit jacket. At a best guess it’ll be the reciprocal gift he’s brought to smooth the way. But it also shows an interesting thing: he’s wearing slim red braces instead of a belt. The huge serpent head iconography it seems has been forgotten on the floor of somewhere else.

Christ, will you please just handle this? his mind screams at him.

(His brain has never minded blasphemy. Its his cowardly mouth that tamps it down. Don’t make Mummy cross!)

“Surely you can sit a spell. Heavy is the head that wears the halo, and all that.”

That old familiar voice swerving out under the painfully stylish lighting. Too full of gravel to be beautiful. He never was one for the choir duties. Celestial harmonies are, after all, just repetitions of a single phrase.

(“God is Perfect.” That’s what they had us sing, Angel. Day after day after day after… well, it wasn’t day, was it? Not night neither. It wasn’t anything. Just constant ….rejoicing. Planning and singing and then more singing about how its all so perfect. If it was so perfect, why need all the plans in the first place?”

He didn’t have any answers then and he’s only starting to feel around shapes of answers now).

“I thought we could do this over some food. You know, now we get a charge account and everything. Official.”

Sharp smile with those slightly crooked canines.

“After all: We’re respectable now”. the alarming apparition who now is Crowley bites out with unseeming satisfaction.

Aziraphale is so angry he thinks if he lets it out it will crack apart the worlds. Angry he has to be here, angry he has to leave incompetent support staff in charge of his important work, anger with himself: The anger he has at this particular demon is specific and it needs saying but definitely not now. His continued silence has the elicits a raised left eyebrow.

“Don’t tell me you don’t want some nibbles first?”. The words “nibbles” is pronounced in such a way as to render it unspeakably filthy: a sex act illegal in even the most far flung of ex Soviet satellite states.

“Can’t imagine your offices go in for the fine dining Experience”. And here his long fingers do the sort of appalling air quotes he knows- KNOWS- that are anathema to Aziraphale’s last nerve and its possibly this above all that makes The Supreme Archangel tip over into the kind of self-effacing anger that is the human equivalent of “Oh, fuck it.”

Aziraphale schools himself into a better sort of calm by seating himself across from the demon.

“I see the Down Below Budget apparently stretches further than We’d imagined: really old chap, a post post modern Danish eatery?” he murmurs, then tssks like a maiden aunt.

Crowley grins.

It’s not his old grin, not even close to it. This grin could tear holes in the flesh of time. He pours his torso over the table, right near into Aziraphale’s space and it takes everything, every portion of self-control and resolve he’s summoned, to stay upright and not move his face.

“Just like the old days, Aziraphale. Hashing out the logistics of the Pull-Me Push -You soul business over ales or foaming goats milk or a stolen handful of plums.”

Crowley’s breath is so close he can almost taste the dark tang of earlier espresso, something else too he refuses to think about.

Aziraphale sniffs.

 “The old days. Honestly.  All the days are old to us who cannot die, Crowley.”

He can feel the sudden irritation radiating off the demon across from him in a tidal push.

With an almost palpable inhalation, Crowley sits back.

“You Know what I mean, Angel.”

He knows what Crowley means.

Aziraphale, The Biggest Arch of all the Skies and stuff, deigns to play along. He unfolds the pristine napkin on his lap. He keeps his eyes averted properly. He has been playing power games with The Demon Crowley since the very Bloody Beginning and he knows how they go.

(Ah but this is different)

Yes of course its different. This isn’t stumbling across each other in Uruk and Crowley catching a spear in the lower abdomen because they thought they should be smiting each other (“Don’t worry Angel- turns out human bodies don’t need appendixes anyway! Can you imagine!”)

 This isn’t back in Flanders when Aziraphale was so sure Crowley had been orchestrating mayhem that he left him to his pain in a trench. Those are wounds from work. Stuff that can be explained (“My side made me do it”).

 This here is very new. Wounds with only the smallest of sticking plaster. But still, it seems Crowley wants to play.

Aziraphale forces himself to unwind the tension in his back across the scapulae. Where his hidden wings live, so his thorax expands. He almost never does this, and Crowley does it always. Its why he sits as he does; walks as he does.

But now’s time to force the issue. Get through this and all might just live. Through all these times of turmoil thy and thine shall pass… that was surely it…Or… something.

It’s been a long time since the Archangel of All Heaven read a bible.

Those dark glasses are still regarding him. They’re no longer the ostentatious goggles Crowley favoured previously this century. In a kind of perversity known only to himself Crowley has the kind of aviators that people who liked Elvis in the 1990s wore.

He looks infuriatingly good in them. Aziraphale wants to rip them off his face, break them, shout at him that he is underdressed because dear god Crowley, these don’t even cover the skin up by your cheeks. 

The shame that rips through him at that impulse is white hot. He tamps it down so viciously he sees stars briefly.

“So. Company sponsored dinner”.

Crowley’s voice is not smooth here, but it is soft. Its enough to remind him that his Adversary doesn’t need weapons to win.

He sniffs expansively. “Fine.” He settles back slightly and flicks his regard to the minutely thin , nearly translucent wisp of print that passes for the menu here.

“Do your worst, demon.”

The problem is- the problem- the real problem is-

“You! You made this! You… made me drunk!”

This should come as no surprise to anyone following along even at this early juncture. Certainly it should come as no surprise at all to His Most Excellent Supremacy Aziraphale. And yet it does, still, after all this time.

The demon to his left is still utterly relaxed and equally unrepentant.

“Hardly my fault. Your time upstairs has clearly led to an embarrassing lowering of resistance to earthly substances.” Affecting an outraged little face, Crowley leans in with his sharp elbows right up suddenly into the disgusting little essence burner thing on the table.

“Oh gosh Angel!” He clutches his chest with one hand and Aziraphale is not so drunk as to not notice again that flash and heft of… something. “Do you need some help home? Because I’m not sure I’m your best bet here. Takes the whole “Mum kicked me out now I’m creeping back in” thing a bit…”

Aziraphale feels his last nerve sweep up its gloves and purse and leave the table.

“Oh would you stop it?”

He means his tone to be harsh. He doesn’t like harsh. He always did like being the nice one.  But it always used to work on Crowley when he broke it out. It was a red notice on things: This far, No Further.

Crowley is very slow about the way he drags down his aviators past the slight bump in his long sharp nose. There’s nothing in the least bit sorry, scared, hesitant or ambivalent in those yellow eyes. There is nothing offering any foothold for Aziraphale’s usual tactics of diplomacy, demurral or avoidance. He didn’t know he could sweat involuntarily: he’s doing it now, a cold one that begins at the nape of his hair and all the way down . Its been a long, long time since he was genuinely afraid of Crowley. Crowley isn’t the sort for physical threat, and in ancient days his fear came from the elaborate sorts of games and plots that the demon had laid for the agent of heaven to untangle.

(And fear of his own unspeakable longings ,of course, something deeper whispers).

But now those bright snaky eyes sweep over him without any kind of hesitation. Theres no clue as to what they see. But for the first time in a great many centuries, Aziraphale who is now and again Supreme in Heaven… is quite scared, actually.

“Why would I stop, Aziraphale?” Crowley asks softly. He’s doing something: he must be. He must be actively tempting surely. Aziraphale has never actively seen Crowley tempting mortals, nor been on the receiving end. Seen him do miracles, yes, aplenty. But the sort of demonic power whispered about (rather salaciously alas) in Heavenly halls, the kind that’s permeated mass culture through any number of sensational novels or films, the kind of thing that were the bread and butter oh Hammer films or Roger Corman drive -in specials: no, Aziraphale can’t speak to that. According to Crowley’s long-standing claims, humans don’t need anything of the sort for him to do his job. (“I don’t need any demonic woowoo Aziraphale: it’s practically physics. At very least, mechanics. Wind them up and away they go.”) But its surely a power Crowley has. It must be.

The demon leans even further and by now any decency is just a vague pretence.

 “You are glorious in your gluttony.” Crowley’s slightly gravelly tenor isn’t usually to be remarked at but this is new, two octaves lower with slight silk woven through the usual grit. Crowley's usual natural voice is interesting in that it's quite comical, ranging all over pitch and tone without settling into static place. It remarkable mainly because there's nothing of a textbook temptation in it. It's also fascinating to Aziraphale that despite appearances Crowley very rarely swears and has occasions where he cycles through a range of accents in one day. BBC received pronunication at breakfast, to midshipman estuary english by teatime. and none of it affected.The problem is that Aziraphales starting to realise he maybe doesn't know all of Crowley: or that theres parts of Crowley that he wasn't shown. This is a startling thing for regular, shorrt lived mortals to realise about each other. For beings who have an understanding of 6000 years and counting, this is the equivalent of a San andreas quake.

This is unacceptable. Here, drunk on human wine, which is just about the only bloody thing this … establishment… has to offer. He’s suffered through a Tivoli salad (three salad leaves and seaberry pickle wrapped in salmon with a dandelion flower does not a salad make whatever the bloody Danes might think). He is very apprehensive about what more there is to come in terms of gustatory offerings. He’s also, horribly (and he should have anticipated it but oh well that’s what you get for your flabby leadership Aziraphale) horribly aroused.

He'd best turn that food thing around then.

“Glorious in your gluttony? Really Crowley. You have a very strange kink. I suggest you get that looked at.”

He refuses to meet that hell hot yellow gaze even at the edges right now. He’s shed a fairly large amount of the drunken mantle by now: the trick they both can do, so easy its second nature now.

“Well: shall we confirm my trip down to your hellish realm?”

Crowley pokes his tongue into his cheek. “Sure.”

The main course arrives.

Aziraphale is outraged.

“What is this?”

Crowley smiles like a snake.

“You don’t like meat?”

The Supreme Archangel of stuff and stuff and gosh he doesn’t care right now he …. Is so angry.

Crowley’s smile doesn’t waver. He is sharp, long limbed, and not beset by care.

Aziraphale is only so strong. He must give in.

“This restaurant is ridiculous.”

Crowley grins. His smile lights up the place. He’s so beautiful in his enjoyment at the epicurean jiggery-pokery of it all.

“Yes.”

“Jesus wept.”

“He certainly did. At many points, as I recall. Though I’m pretty sure he’d find this a bit funny to be honest.”

Aziraphale chews around his serving of entrée ( “deconstructed hot dog meal of finely sliced Copenhagen medisterpølse, diced flæskesteg, with a rødgrød smear, a crushed potato tower and a charred hakkebøf medallion”)

“You know Crowley- as much as I love some sliced cold hot dog and a smidge of porridge on the side- fine dining is one thing. This is an echo chamber there the ghost of Heston Blumenthal goes to wail and gnash his teeth”. A pause.

“You and I both know we’ve got to come to terms. Let’s at least not have the specter of this culinary hate crime looming over us.”

Crowley, who all this time has dipped fingers into terrines and dips and tapenades and called it supper, cuts his face to Aziraphale and then seems to have some sort of agreement with himself.

“Alright Angel. But at least give me the privilege of your pudding orgasms again”.

The weird swoop in his tummy must be outrage. And a demon would, of course, say something terrible like that. Terrible. As the conspicuously androgynous waiter removes their plates with the expression of one who has smelled an offensive flatulation, Aziraphale puts on his gold spectacles. They are of course unnecessary for reading or sight but they do tend to illuminate and magnify most earthly sights. They may perhaps improve upon the incoming danger that is desert.

The glasses make it the same amount of terrible.

“It’s called Pandekagebånd” Crowley says with awful glee.

Aziraphale wants to scream. It’s been a couple of millennia since a good, full throaty angelic shout burst some windows.

“Crowley this is- it’s so- it’s- “

That full toothy smile is there.

“Its tiny any delicious. Tiny, tiny pancake strips. Whatever will they think of next, humans, eh?”

Crowley to his everlasting disgrace brings a piece of the teeny desert up into his mouth using an indecent amount of tongue.

Aziraphale feels himself deflate a bit

“Are- are you going to eat that or make love to it?”

“Well, it’s too wee for a start.” A yellow eye winks at this.

Mother give me strength. The Archangel closes his eyes briefly. Then again he’s pretty sure by now that Mother isn’t watching. He wishes her much joy of it if she is.

Behind his closed eyelids he senses a sudden stilling. It seems Crowley’s ready to be serious. To discuss in measured tones the reason they’re both here. It’s necessary after all. He- they both- spent too long dancing about issues and look where that got them.

Regardless of how Crowley got to be in this ambassadorial position, he is here, they both are, and there are observances to be made.

Fully prepared for this version of reality, Aziraphale sweeps open his eyes to a different one.

‘

It’s not that time has stopped. That’s Crowley’s party trick (and a particularly tricky trick it is too). It isn’t even slowed time, or pocket universe physics, or a dream state for the mortal realm or….

Aziraphale’s mind tries sluggishly to run through possibilities of what he’s seeing (and not seeing). He’s both seen and contributed to most of the possible transversal, supernatural phenomena there are: he rather likes to think he’s seen it all. Six thousand years is a long time to be affecting the mortal plane after all.

But this- is new.

Because everything is still going on. Crowley has got his elbows neatly on the table and is talking. He’s referring to a very sleek electronic device with red backing and making what looks like very important points with it. The restaurant around them is… ongoing.

It’s just all quiet. No not quiet- it’s hushed. And he’s experiencing it through a strangely unfrightening layer of netting. It’s the only word he has, which is peculiar for a being who has rejoiced in words for more than six millennia.

Like a butterfly behind netting.

Aziraphale knows he should panic now. He sits in the hugely uncomfortable raw wood seating of this ludicrous Scandinavian high dining place, and he feels only the most wretched sort of calm. He watches Crowley from behind the metaphorical netting. He feels his hand could reach out, grab one of those long wristed appendages and shout “something is wrong Crowley! Something is SO wrong!”

He doesn’t. Why would he want to? Surely Aziraphale doesn’t need to. Crowley will figure it out. Doesn’t he always? He always susses things out for them both, so many years, so many times and troubles, don’t worry.

Calm like Hindu cows. Calm and unworried as the soil under feet of snow waiting for spring. Peaceful as the goat that is beloved by the tribe before tribute is due. And just there, small as it is, brief as it goes, something catches upon the lip of his gaze and suddenly he realises all the cliches about fear he’s ever read in human books might not be charming hyperbole. Slinking, skiving, creeping, wriggling… all sorts of nasty adverbial nonsense gibber and run riot through his head with just one accidental look. A look he knows certain he was never meant to have.

Aziraphale, the Archangel of Heaven, sits rooted absolutely to the spot while something unspeakable and unknowable lurks just out the corner of his eye in the cranny of reality.

The thunk on the table before him is probably what saves him

The angel blinks a bit. Its no use thinking they don’t need to blink. You spend centuries in a human body and try getting out of habits you’ve picked up to fit in.

Then he blinks more.

“Aziraphale?”

The angel focuses on the eye now level with his over the aviators.

A weak grasp of memory… a faceless thing crawling into a nook of his mind… even a voice (little butterfly)…

The archangel clears his throat.

He looks at the ambassador of Hell. He has a desperate feeling in his corporation’s stomach.

Everything depends on this meeting and he doesn’t even know the outcome because he was distracted. Nothing for it but to bluff.

“So- see you in Hell then I imagine?”

Crowley’s face does a thing where a tide of disappointment and hurt roll off of it so quickly that no mortal could see. Aziraphale sees: he wonders what it was Crowley could have said that he didn’t hear.

“Yes- you’ll see me.”

Crowley is standing. His snaky mask is back, small underbite jutting, smoothing his asymmetrical darkish hair.

“Crowley wait-" Aziraphale still feels a bit underwater.

The demon does not wait. He stands, and his full height is always a bit of a shock what with all the slouching. He’s not slouching now. He’s ramrod straight and he dips into his jacket pocket.

Oh no.

“Supreme Archangel Aziraphale, Leader of the Golden Hosts, Patrician of the Western Slopes and Holder of All the Keys of Elysium” Crowley intones.

Oh no.

“The Forces of Hell greet and goad you. Infelicitations upon all of your good works from the heights of Gehenna to the lakes of Carcasus. In the name of our absent lord Satan once known and thrice great Lucifer, I, The Demon Crowley, acting Duke of The Lower 6 Circles, ambassador to our meeting, bring you observance.”

Those big hands gesture to the thing on the table.

“And welcome you verily down ways to Hell.”

The formalities over, Aziraphale’s breath pushed all the way out of him, and frankly, small pricks of tears starting up somewhere somehow, Crowley drops the mask. For just a moment.

With an impossible expression on his face, he pushes his glasses up into his hair.

He then sinks into an extremely old-fashioned bow that both Heaven and Hell would both like to forget about.

“See you in Hell, Aziraphale.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

In which, The Heavenly Embassy to Hell, part the first

Somethings telling you to wake up and salute
The dangers of obedience and the violence of truth
- The The

As it turns out, the lift down to Hell is the most pleasant part of it all.

Well, that’s hardly a surprise. And frankly, from our vantage point, looking in on all this from our lofty remove, we should wonder that The Archangel Aziraphale is still surprised when things are progressively more awful and unpleasant the more they go on. He is after all, presiding over the End of Times (Version 2).
Contrary to what we might think, its Aziraphale that has the optimism: The Demon Crowley might have been an optimist once. But the demon known as Crowley knows what it’s like to lose the option to renew on hope.
But! This is Aziraphale’s perspective. Far be it for your humble scribe to get too far away from him. Because oh boy, if ever he needs someone to keep close to him, keep near, offer some comfort, it’s now.

Here is the Archangel. He is flanked by his two aides de camp. Ordinarily he’d be concerned and considerate of them. Certainly, Muriel needs his concern: They’re still overawed by things. Earth and its many workings, just a mug of frothy cappuccino had their eyes widen and breath stutter. The remnants of the Guardian of the Eastern Gate that live within him make Aziraphale itchy, want to loom down and shield and protect.
He swallows it down.
It’s time.
“Come along then”, he says briskly to the two behind him. He makes his way down the corridor.
Now, listen: Aziraphale’s been to hell before. There was one point after a delayed Apocalypse where he was forced down in a different skin and made to endure a bath, and jeering, and a phony trial. Him and Crowley switched faces and stood up for each other. He tries hard not to think about that. Those days of optimism, the idea that a show of solidarity might allow for closeness between two beings who both turned traitor. And then having that closeness actually come to pass, at least in some ways, only for it all to go pear shaped when…
But enough of that. This is Hell and he’ll face it just as he did last time when his impersonation of Crowley was giving him the bravado to pretend it didn’t shake him to the ground.
Although now… now he’s faced with the reality of a brand, spanking new Hell.

“What in blazes…” this escapes him before he can curb it. He knows his two subordinates have heard it and are now wondering about him. But frankly right now he can’t care. Faced with this… this… spectacle, Aziraphale who is and surely will be big in Heaven, well frankly he’s amazed.
The damp and the greenish murk and the low-lying sense of apathy are gone.
He remembers hell as corridors filled with slack, sad creatures who lurked and shuffled and glared. No more.
There are sconces now. Sconces!
There are warmly lit spaces through which to pass. Walnut tones in the various furnishings and burnt ochre heat upon the walls. Under his feet the plush rugs turn his slick heaven appropriate dress shoes into a soft whimper.
He really wants to slow down and take it all in: he at least knows this about himself. The Supreme Arch of Heaven knows himself to be a hedonist and doesn’t try to deny it even now. He didn’t expect this. He really, really didn’t expect this. Aziraphale was a soldier once: perhaps not a very good one, it’s true, but the thing about even the worst of soldiers is that one is left with a regulation type mind. Rules, routine, the comfort of blandness and uniformity (“The word you’re seeking is “beige”, Angel, he hears Crowley murmur in his hindbrain from long ago). And nothing wrong with beige indeed. Beige is safe. Beige goes with anything. But every so often Aziraphale pays the price for the habits of a Regulation type mind: the danger is that you expect everything else to be just as regulation.
Crowley. Crowley did this. Crowley made this. Made Hell better, at least, on the surface. God Themselves only knows how deep it runs. Shudder to bloody think. And once again, he has underestimated and overlooked exactly how far Crowley’s irregular mind and unpredictable habits have given him the upper hand.
“Sir?” the whisper comes from his right shoulder.
He snaps himself out of his funk as they pause at the entrance to an anteroom that he really doesn’t want to enter. Muriel is clutching their stack of files very hard to their chest. The hands around that stack are shaking.
“Sir- I- this isn’t right”.

Aziraphale likes to think of himself of compassionate. Everyone deserves patience, kindness, warmth. Even this angel who to be frank, he’s not very happy with all things considered.
“Muriel” he murmurs, “this is a very sensitive meeting. We must all be prepared and calm. If you feel you cannot meet this encounter at full capacity, do say. You may return to the concourse and myself and your colleague will continue”.
At his left side, the other assistant shuffles briskly. Probably adjusting the wings. Its hard to retract them for so long, when you start out.
Muriel’s face is firm, but their hands still shake. “Sir, I’m fine. But this isn’t right. Nothing about this is right.”
Aziraphale hasn’t got time for this. None of them do. There are two attendants of Hell moving up to the entrance now. He half expects to see Crowley, is somewhat disappointed that he doesn’t. In Heaven they know only that the new fresh Highest Powers in Hell consist of a regent put into place because of The Satanic Absence. There’s a consort too, but frankly Aziraphale hadn’t thought that far.
Maybe I should have brought chocolates for the little lady, the Archangel thinks in a manic, bizarre sort of joke to himself. 

The attendants are clad in black and gold livery. Smart, functional. No hint of the depths about them. As he and his two assistants move into the main room, and he takes in the luxurious red and gold furnishings, the dipped seating area and in it the long, lean darkish creature that’s stretched out in it, Aziraphale concedes a kind of defeat in his own mind.
Everything about this is the opposite of how he had prepared himself to manage it.

And that’s how we know this is story is on the right track. After all, what kind of tale would it be if Aziraphale’s version was always right?

But we’ll stay with him for now. Mostly because he is here with a specific task. He is here as an envoy to the current ruler of Hell. Here! We’ll see for ourselves.

Aziraphale sinks down into the deep cushiony seats of the sunken area.
He tries very hard not to laugh at how Muriel and her colleague squash down into the plushy softness of it beside him. He knows the laughter would come out hysterical because he’s sort of feeling that way right now.
Laughter would be very bad as a tactic, all things being equal.
“Aziraphale, Supreme Archangel of all Heaven”.
Aziraphale sits up straighter, and his hands fasten tighter over themselves out of sight under the polished walnut table. He knows he has to say something but finds to his horror that he can’t. He just, physically can’t. He hasn’t shut down all his human corporeal processes you see, and the stress reflexes seem to be all still intact oh how wonderful. He’s going to damn this whole crusade because his body, his stupid human body that he’s been so stubborn about keeping functional as far as possible, is going to betray them. He very much hopes that the improvements in Hell run to a lack of torture at least for his two younger aides. They can do what they want with him. Can’t be any worse than the last four years he’s had.
The pause he’s left is pregnant with waiting. He is meant to greet and honour the Regent of Hell now. The Regent and his consort. Show good faith. But he’s looking into that face, unfettered by any sort of glass, so familiar yet so utterly changed, that he just… fails miserably.
To the left of him he feels his younger aide shift and bump a rounded elbow into his thigh. He glances at him.
Stavazel is young, very young by their standards. It’s a common mistake that there are no young angels: That all the angels came into being at once, one of only many peculiar ideas humans have about Heaven and its workings. Those workings are much, much stranger than anything humans can imagine. Aziraphale knows; he’s been finding out all sorts of things these last four years.
But the youthful roundness of Stavazel, his sheer delicacy, his softness and odd insistence on “He/him pronouns if you please sir” upon first meeting… that type of thing is very new indeed. And so is this new springing into action to help his boss, but that’s what he’s doing thank Everyone. The young angel unlocks the attaché case and removes sheaves of papers: some are vellum, some papyri, some (sad to say) are unmistakably human and inhuman flesh. Paperwork comes in all shapes and sizes when you’re in the Soul business after all.
These are Accords, treaties, agreements and some are plain boring interoffice memos. But Stavazel is taking the lead and it’s a good thing he does.
“Beloved Leader of All Hell. He who was Throne in Heaven, who Fell out of Favour with Our lord and was thusly Crawley, sent to earth as hellish agent and wreaked despair upon its mortal souls, and is now Crowley Regent of Hell and its many dominions. These agents of Heaven and their leader Aziraphale mightiest of all Angels, are glad and grateful to have succour in your halls.”
There’s a very bad silence.
Aziraphale must squash down the impulse to wince. Oh dear, the lad did a serviceable job with the fact his boss is close to a small panic attack. But that improv about Crowley’s old job description was not the best way to move things along happily.

“I am That which you speak I am”.

Theres Crowley standing up. He has the air about him of having rehearsed this. But that’s only because Aziraphale knows him far too well. He and Crowley had one rule, spoken once in hissing tones: once Crowley had been an actual red bellied snake and couldn’t change back. It was very early in their time together, in the Earth, in the Dance of the Planets, and so on and so forth. that said they never talk about Before. Aziraphale wanted to know. Wanted to pry. Wanted to understand. There was a burning itch of need to understand why someone like Crowley would ever be a demon.

Why did you rebel?
Why did you betray?
WHY did you leave?

He never got any answers apart from those he already knew. That Crowley was always cagey, fidgety in himself whenever the “then” came up.
(“Why does it matter angel? Does it change anything? I’m doing the bad and you’re doing the good, or so you always say. Why do you need to care about what stupid task I once had as cupbearer to the Archangel Raphael or so on? Speaking definitely in the abstract hypothetical and totally untrue you understand”).

This present incarnation of Crowley speaks up.

“I am the once known Throne who held thus certain control in Heaven. I am He who after my Fall was Crawley the Serpent of Eden, who thereafter was Crowley of Hell and emissary to Earth. And now am Prince Crowley of all the named and unthought of rings of Hell and its plenipotentiary realms.”

The bow Crowley sweeps is impeccable. No: it’s beautiful. He’s never seen such a thing. And Aziraphale has seen a lot of beautiful things in his overlong life.
Or maybe he’s just desensitized to beauty now. Trying to limit his diet of lovely things and all. One must try to focus, after all.
The demon sits down in a long bowing motion with his arm across the sunken pillow.

“Right, well. Now you know my particulars, theydies and shants.” Theres a small simple motion with the right hand that puts a tumbler into his left. “As exciting as a heavenly embassy is, I have as habit a wee dram of an evening. I trust this won’t interfere with our business?”

Aziraphale could gladly kill him for his boldfaced cheek.

He knows how much Aziraphale loves a good Talisker. Knows it very well indeed. The first and only kiss he’s ever had was stained with the taste of it. He draws on that memory so often it’s starting to hurt.

He must overcome this. Far more than himself is on the line here.

Right. Okay. Play the game, but tweak the rules. He did learn from the best after all.

“Certainly. A Cointreau for young Stavazel if it’s possible, and for myself a short dram of Glenlivet if you have it, of course. As for Muriel, she will take a small mug of the thickest hot chocolate you can provide. She will, it must be said, just inhale it.”

The look that Crowley gives him in response is inscrutable.
“Of course,”. He raises a red backed electronic device and punches in something.
He then leans forward.
“Its something you may be interested in. I have a fairly good idea of what the connectivity situation in Heaven is- lets call it good old fashioned spy craft- and its very backward. You may have noticed the changes around here. I know on your last trip here you saw it as its very worst. “
Crowley just keeps talking. As if everything he’s saying isn’t brushing away everything Aziraphale ever thought or hoped or wanted from this reunion. He doesn’t even know why he’s so upset. Surely, he knew that this was exactly what was going to happen.
The thing is… he really didn’t know. He thought somehow in his heavenly arrogance that Crowley would wait for him. That he’d maybe come around to his own way of thinking (“we can be together! Angels! Together!”). Why he’d imagined that is seeming very far away in the mirror of his own brain.

Crowley is a demon. Has been for longer than he was an angel. And the thing is… he’s now seeing that Crowley can be good at it. This place is wonderful. Very Hellish. Because Hell isn’t actually supposed to be grumpy grey areas of vague dissatisfaction: Crowley figured out a long time ago that if you give people what they want then Hell is really not that far off.

This Rococo indulgence is the perfect manifestation of all Crowley’s theses.

“Prince Crowley.”

His own voice startles him a bit.

He doesn’t even know he’s going to speak until he does it. But then a lot of this whole event has just been one unforeseen thing atop another. His two aides fidget terribly. Crowley looks at him over the top of a glass. Sees his intention. The giving of the gift that can’t be put off and the confirmation of the Accord that they have to enter into.

“Archangel.”

Dark eyebrows arch up and then he places the tumbler on the corner of that filigreed table.

“If we’re getting into specifics now, Archangel, I must have my consort present.”

Oh.
Oh fuck.

And here the consort is now. Beautiful, so beautiful. Crowley is so gentle in his solicitations of this person. This new creature, this person who is gleaming yellow of hair and shining of eye, is extremely long and very full of figure.

Aziraphale who has never in his long experience of inhabiting a human body and has had its needs, really thinks he needs to vomit.

Aziraphale, he is now and is maybe going to be okay when he gets back to Heaven: he lets himself feel a full wash of grief, just really bad, really horrible grief in the knowledge that he has very terribly made a mess of things and oh GOD why did I do that and all sorts of other things… but it’s only a moment…and then he snaps himself fine.

Really. Human history would be so much cleaner if they had the ability to stop caring.

Chapter Text

If there’s one thing Aziraphale know how to do, it’s courtesy.
It’s arguably his good manners and amiable approach to his designated Foe, The Serpent of Eden, all those long bloody years ago, that has them in this exact awful spot right now. Bloody rainstorms. Horrible idea, sheltering such a creature. Revolting idea letting that Crawley squirm into all sorts of places he shouldn’t be. Would have served him bloody right if that rain had burnt him to a crisp.

All this, The Supreme of Heaven says to himself. Would you believe that it’s not the first time this angel has had this sort of talk with himself. You wouldn’t? Well, what’s a story for if not to subvert expectations.

The Consort of Hell isn’t beautiful. Aziraphale’s first impression has resolved into something clearer now, now he’s done away with that sickening sweep of corporal emotion, now he’s shoved it away. The beauty he’d imagined isn’t obvious, isn’t glaring. It’s a lot worse than that.

There isn’t anything to be grasped onto as a physical perfection. The impression is of large, swaying languor. Wide hips swathed in what looks like cloth of gold but made up into wide legged trousers. A very long torso all done up in the softest red and black satin- Crowley’s colours, predictably. No bosom but a flat plane of torso: a fetching pale neck and round arms, and then inevitably the face where Aziraphale is met with a gust of the very coldest hatred he’s ever felt personally directed at his own self.

(Aziraphale has always maintained that “All Angels can sense Love!” This is a misapprehension he has. It’s sad that he thinks this is true for ALL angels because that isn’t true. We will eventually come back to this idea).

He looks into a smooth, rounded face where there are long blond lashes and a snub nose, a beautiful rose of a mouth. Hair knotted casually with some blood red blossoms threaded between the second plaits.
Golden, golden.

Aziraphale swallows past a knot of fear high up in his throat. Is extremely glad he switched off the emotion centre of himself before it got this far. If this is what it’s like with it closed off…
But he knows he can’t hold the human itching of himself off forever. He has only a limited time to face this new Crowley (and yet how familiar! Shut up you ridiculous angel, shut up) and his glorious consort without sabotaging everything he’s worked for. It would also be so very nice if he could make it out of this new, appallingly wonderful version of Hell without breaking into anxiety hives. He remembers reading that is a thing human bodies do. They hyperventilate also, when panic overtakes them. The overflow of uncontrollable emotion drowning the necessary rationality of conscious thought.
So, he’s got to complete what he came for. Everything depends on it.

“Allow me to present Their Disgrace, the duke Murmura, leader of the factions of Lower Sheol, Mastress of Imperfect Glories and leader of the Seventh Urge.”

Crowley leads the Consort down to the sunken lounge. Murmura greets Stavazel and Muriel courteously, and when they turn to Aziraphale there is in their face the long airless regard of a prairie at midday.

“Archangel. I confess I was not keen on you coming here. I did not like the idea and I like even less the fact of it.”

Aziraphale’s turned off his high emotion centres and thank Mother he did. Because he feels in the phantom limb part of his self that he’d quite like to backhand whoever this creature is into the next realm.

Crowley on the seat next to Murmura leans in and soothes them. “These angels have come in good faith, Mastress. They have brought a gift, and we have assurances. They and we stand only to gain.” His voice, while solicitous and smooth, has nonetheless something that Aziraphale, only through millennia of exposure to Crowley, suspects is amusement. Crowley’s amusement, at least for Aziraphale’s part, can either be a thing to be savoured or dreaded.

This is not the first thing.

Murmura does not look at Crowley at her side. They have their eyes so hard on Aziraphale that he fancies he can count the filaments in their astonishingly green irises.

“Do you know why you are here, Archangel?” they ask softly. “Not the official line, which I’m sure is comforting to you while you try to approximate calmness up in the sorry state of heaven. Do you know why they sent you? “

Aziraphale is outraged at the sheer scorn of this. It ignores the fact he’s important. He’s the Supreme Archangel after all. He has real power now. He is in a position to do something, to help to…

(“If I’m in charge… I can make a difference!”)

Okay so no.

“I’m here to make concrete our alliance in the last days of existence”, he says to Murmura, the Consort of his one and only great love. He says it and realises as he says it that a small rebellious part of him doesn’t care if this whole embassy works. He’s turned off all the major emotional works and still, and still, this revolting love is seeping through the edges, oozing through the cracks. How dare this happen. How dare this human affectation make him like this.

Murmura looks at him with those enormous green eyes.
Then Crowley sighs.

It’s a sound Aziraphale has heard many times. In the bookshop, at taverns and agoras and restaurants and bath houses and deserts and rainforests and oh god Crowley. Why. Why Crowley, why did you leave me.

(I didn’t leave you, you, you stupid clever angel. I never will)

Aziraphale blinks. That … was strange. Surely Crowley didn’t… couldn’t…

The smooth face Crowley shows him gives nothing away.

Well then. Heigh ho. Play the cards he’s dealt himself and see what The Dealer makes of it.

“The Second Coming will happen. It’s in all our interests that it happens smoothly, quickly, peacefully. We all of us want to avoid unpleasantness. Our communiques with Hell indicate that you and all of yours would prefer a smooth transition. Its why we come to you now, and offer a prize taken in great secrecy from the mortal realm. It is formed in the essence of your satanic soul and made by one in thrall to you.”.

This is the gift the Heavenly council had him bring to offer The Regent of Hell to sweeten the deal. He’s only now realizing how terrible and embarrassing this is. Heaven had him steal the real statue from a crowded square in Spain and now it’s here, having left a fake up in its place. Can imagine how that’s going to set the art critic world on fire, he thinks sarcastically in the part of his brain that’s not taken up with how Crowley is circling that gift now. It’s a very large sculpture, and the thing is, it’s very much revealing the fact that he chose it. Theres a bloody snake winding its way up the angel’s leg for a start.

“Rather fetching thing,” Crowley says softly. Aziraphale snatched it base fountain and all. “Fountain of the Fallen angel. Madrid.” * He shoots a small shard of smile over to Aziraphale. Familiar, so familiar.
“You don’t remember? After my nap. 1880 if I recall.” Of course he recalls, what a joke. Crowley’s memory is of the two of them the more accurate and unerring. “That student who worked it up. Made a dreadful scandal at the time. Had it said it was venerating The Devil, all that stuff.” The words “The Devil” are uttered in a kind of chuffing exhale of mirth. Aziraphale swallows. Now he does remember. He’d thought he’d chosen a rather obscure artwork. Not important enough to seem obsequious: just meaningful enough to curry favour for purpose.
Aziraphale, Aziraphale. The mortifying ordeal of starting to know yourself.

“But it’s not Himself, is it?” says Murmura, eyes still pinning Aziraphale.

Crowley clicks his tongue softly. “No. For my sins and forgotten graces, no. It’s me.”

How badly Aziraphale wants to loosen the first button on his crisp dress shirt.

“Do you remember his little quirk then?” Crowley addresses Aziraphale here. “Bellver, that was his name. Sculptor fellow. Poor sod. Had the funny inspiration to have this resting at six hundred and sixty-six metres above sea level. Number of the Beast, all that. True story.”

Another small chuffing laugh.

“And I didn’t even tempt him to it. Humans, eh?”

Just as he thinks he can’t take the horrible shame at having been so unconsciously pinned out in his disgusting love, Crowley brings up his hand in a familiar gesture and the sculpture goes elsewhere. “To my chambers” he says, with a bitter quirk to his lips “the one where I keep all the failed attempts at figuring out the snake and Eve and Eden.”

They are all of them sitting in a very strange and strained atmosphere of a lover’s breakup Aziraphale realises. And isn’t that the worst sad thing. To never have been a lover but have him who was so close, so near, so right there… and now it’s come to negotiations and diplomacy.

It is, as always, Crowley who saves it.

“Down to it then. Second Coming.”

Aziraphale has his plans in motion. And here’s where we reveal that of course he is working against the bureaucracy of Heaven. As if that was a surprise! The hedonistic, slightly pudgy, very bitchy celestial creature that’s grown so close to his human body that he has in in a hidden drawer of his bookshop desk a large bore ring that might look good on a large hand with long fingers that he purchased a good few centuries ago because it had a snakish aspect and then he thought well. It doesn’t matter now what he thought.

Because he’s faced now with a jolt in his plans.

He can still save this. He looks over at Muriel and they snap into action. A lot of throat clearing and fingering the neck of their jumper happens alas, but they do eventually find and swallow down their pressure. They look over to Aziraphale. He sighs.

“Yes Muriel. Read the accord”.

They look down at the crisp bit of printout (Heaven, as Crowley sussed out, is still very much about all the paper printouts you can get).

“Regent of Hell. Heaven enters this accord with all its million eyes wide open. Signed with feathers, wheels and the jaws of the lion Samson slew. “

Theres a space to sign. Aziraphale already has. The top line has The Metatron’s handle upon it.

It’s funny: Crowley hasn’t once said anything about that day, that time, those feelings. Aziraphale was so sure, so awfully sure that they would have it out. Had been practicing in his mind various ways and means of response and defence. Had looked forward to it. Had even anticipated the anger and recriminations, the hurt in those hell yellow eyes. To be met with this cheerful, amiable cooperation…

Is for the best. Of course it is.

So why does Aziraphale feel like, despite the “Screen off” he’s done, that he’s being choked?

Crowley and his Consort now have signed, flaring arcs of their various sigils, his smoky orange, Murmuras in acrid green.

A very strange sort of silence settles on the room.

It’s the consort Murmura who moves first.

They sway up and hook a whiskey tumbler in their fingers. “Sad, and silly, somewhat strange”, they mutter, as they pause over Crowley’s face. They drop a small kiss to the top of his brow and move off elsewhere. Crowley’s face does something odd and not entirely pleasant for a very brief microsecond.

Then there’s just Crowley and Aziraphale and his subdued assistants in this room.

Aziraphale, panic settled, is starting to see exactly how and what Crowley has done to Hell.

“You- Crowley- this is- “

It’s so beautiful. Thing is, Crowley has made it so that Hell is clear of religious toing and froing. They’ve been around for all human history, so they know intimately what it means when people reject a style in favour of another. “Art appreciation” is small potatoes to someone who stood there and watched while Dante shivered and sweated over his last canto. So, the thing is of course, Heaven is terrible and the original prototype of an Apple store. Aziraphale isn’t oblivious to the fact he hates what Heaven is like. It’s nothing new. He’s tried to do something about this as well he could. But aesthetic comforts only have so much priority when the bloody End of All Things is nigh. The thing is, he’s old enough to remember a Heaven that WASN’T awful. That offered more than the bathing dumbing soft whiteness of nothing, the scent somehow always of hand sanitizer. It didn’t used to be so: And Hell used to be awful: putrid, boring, dank. That was just correct. Good, bad. Virtuous and Evil. Allow us to express our duality, sirs and madams, and take one of two escalators when jolly- faced Death comes to collect you. That was how it was alright. But now Hell is… better.

It looks like a rococo feast because that’s what Crowley imagines paradise feels like. (This is what Aziraphale thinks and he’s almost actually right. But as well as he knows Crowley, he doesn’t know all the parts that matter. Don’t worry; he will.)

It’s not even ironic. For a demon, Crowley is very short on the negative impulses. He thinks Hell should look like a great big overindulgent festival of colour and shape and Aziraphale can’t help but think this Rococo indulgence is the shape of Crowley’s own frantic heart. A far cry from that slate smooth echo chamber of his in Mayfair.

Crowley sits forward, long wrists relaxed over his smooth dark clad knees.

“Rather better than your last trip down I imagine?”

Here he is again, addressing things that Aziraphale clutches to him like worrisome pearls in his private moments. Where has all the reticence gone? Even after the cancelled Apocalypse, the failed Antichrist, even after they’d worn each other like the closest fitting of coats: there had been hesitation. Small glancing steps toward each other and shy moments of vulnerability. Moments of “You oughtn’t to drive now, do take the bedroom”, and “A weekend to the seaside sounds simply wonderful!” Small steps that seemed huge after centuries of tiptoeing.

Shows how much he knew.

Aziraphale clears his throat.

“Yes, quite.”

He slides his gaze to his two aides. Stavazel has taken his offered drink and is sitting upright, his light blue eyes clear and bright. He is the picture of professional. He inhabits his mint green polo neck and slim fit grey slacks as though he were born in them. For all Aziraphale knows, he was. He wears upon his hand a very good, very elegant watch and in his ears reside a few rows of gold shapes. Among them Aziraphale thinks he can see a star and a dolphin.
Aziraphale has had some thoughts about this new aide, but he now has a few dozen more because young Stavazel seems like he’s enjoying this quite a bit. He looks fascinated, eyes darting hither and yon.
Muriel on the other hand, is not happy. They are withdrawn and pale under their usually café au lait complexion.

Crowley shifts himself. Just as he used to on a thousand different benches in a hundred different countries, he pushes his long abdomen back and flings upon one thigh so he can lean back.

Aziraphale feels his traitor mouth go dry. Now the consort is gone of their own volition, but there is still the inevitable to address.

“Prince Crowley.”

This is Stavazel. Aziraphale nearly chokes on his shock. It’s clear Crowley is also surprised. But then again it seems that the new aide has assigned himself the boss’s helper tonight.

Stavazel has another printout in his delicate hands and is looking at the regent of Hell with very little fear or trepidation. And Crowley looks back, with nothing more than a slight quirk in his mouths left side to betray his interest.

“Scrivener Stavazel. Once more than you are now. I too have my sources. I shan’t say though, don’t worry. I, unlike you, don’t believe that what you were informs what you are.”

The bitterness behind this isn’t reserved merely for Stavazel. Aziraphale feels something in him cringing. He had his suspicions that Stavazel had been demoted to take up position as his second assistant, but to have it confirmed by his (nominal) opposite number is all sorts of embarrassing.

Stavazel doesn’t seem the least bit ruffled. “Quite right, Prince Crowley. It is your cordial approaches to The Kingdom of Heaven which have led us here. A rapprochement that may be to the good of us all. As we all know, our mission here is to smooth the way not just for truce or for vague cooperation.”

Stavazel sits back as far as his totally correct posture will allow. He looks over at his boss in anticipation that his boss will take over now.

His boss, Aziraphale, the Supreme Fucking Archangel of All Fucking Heaven:

Has no bloody idea what he means.

He’s looking right into Crowley’s face while this is happening. And he realizes very suddenly that he’s been duped. He’s been manipulated here by Heaven because Stavazel got some information that nobody gave to him. This doesn’t shock him of course. He knows he’s in so deep that triple crosses would be a thing most natural. It’s just that its happening in front of Crowley and Aziraphale, for all he can’t bring himself to believe even this new aspected Crowley would … hurt… them, this is still Hell. And a lifetime- many thousands of mortal lifetimes- of habitual reactive fear response is very hard to break
He genuinely has no idea how this is going to play out. And the thing is he sees the realization of all this happen to himself because his face isn’t built for stoicism. It is a soft face he knows. Round cheeks, friendly eyes, upturned nose for maximum approachability.
And he sees it happen on Prince Crowley’s face. Because there’s a thing Crowley’s face does when he feels sympathy: he would deny it unto death and discorporation but it happens. Small crinkles in the already extant crows’ feet at the side of his eyes, a tuck to the mouth, a tightening of the jaw. He’s seen it a thousand, a million times. He’s never seen it directed at him though.

He likes it a lot more than we will ever admit.

Crowley brings his long body up and tilts his finger into a tent under his sharp chin.

“Cooperation is what you’ll get, alright.”

In a long, glorious swoop he stands up, and beckons the rest of them up to follow him.

Crowley always had only so much time for formalities.

“Hell’s working with your lot. Saves time and hassle. My lot have better things to do than fighting. I’ve got big plans here. More planets than Earth. Expansion is the end point, well the sort of end point, anyway. The goal.”
Aziraphale’s mind catches on the lip of that: “My lot.” From Crowley, who once cheerfully dubbed himself “former demon”. A swell of bitterness. No use, no use. Hypocrite angel.

Crowley is talking as he’s leading them through wide, long halls. Those halls are festooned with a bizarre combination of soft pastel colours and rich gilded fretwork. The intense union of the soft base colours and the sumptuous heat of red and gold make him draw to a stop. He simply must stop to look. He can’t help it. So much of the last four years since he committed to this cause has been without proper beauty. And lo and behold: It’s Crowley who is the one to provide it.

Aziraphale, who doesn’t feel very much like he’s Supreme of anything right now, feels like he’s going to cry.

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut and as soon as he does, there’s a pressure on his wrist.

“Archangel. Aziraphale.”

Crowley looks at him. He’s not holding his hand. They’ve only done that a couple of times and most of those times were fuelled by either desperation or wine. But at least its familiar.

Crowley clears his throat, squeezes his hand one more time. It feels like it shoots the most stimulating electric points to every part of Aziraphale’s human body.

“The rest of them can’t hear us right now.”

A great wind blows through Aziraphale. Tell him now! Tell him you’d burn down all the realms for him! Tell him you’ll wear black wings and like it as long as he’s there! Tell him how much you know is wrong and then he can help you and that you’re very jealous of that glorious, horrible creature he’s taken as his!”

“Crowley, something is wrong here.”

Is what he says. He can’t fathom why he does.

The Prince of Hell looks at him for a long moment.

The he stands up, flexes his long fingers and affixes Aziraphale with a gaze.

“That’s one way of putting it, I guess. Aziraphale. Follow me down.”

This isn’t fair, thinks Aziraphale. Crowley knows Heaven. He was an angel once. For all the angst and posturing, he was an angel. He knew what to expect. Although although….

He follows The Prince of Hell. He has only Stavazel with him. Muriel, he feels ought to better stay up in the upper reaches. They are suffering distinctly from aesthetic overload.

It’s common to young angels. It’s common to most angels. Gabriel, he remembers had it too. The delight of clothing, the overwhelming feel of that friction against skin.

I am trying to fix it; his mind says in loud indignant shouts.

Stavazel though is a steadying force. He murmurs “Well Sir, it’s certainly well lit”.

And it is. The lower levels of Hell (which, embarrassingly, Aziraphale had in his head as being “Sheol” for some reason: for a well-read being, he realizes now he’s woefully uninformed about the physical, tangible nature of Hell. He just… never asked. Was too afraid to find out, maybe).
But whatever it’s called properly (Crowley flings a casual “Outskirts of the suburbs of Treachery” which… alright?) seems rather lovely.

It seems the efforts of the luxurious makeover Hell’s gotten has stretched to this non-essential stretch of space too.

“Sir- that’s ...” Stavazels murmur is downright quivering with excitement. What am I to do with you, Aziraphale wonders. Shelves the thought for now.

Aziraphale sighs. He knows it is. The Swing* . Decadent as nearly overwhipped cream flavoured with bourbon vanilla. It’s a glorious painting. It’s also the original; he can tell.

“Really Crowley? Art theft?”

Crowley is standing a respectful measure of space away from him. But the reply makes him shudder horribly. “Takes one to know one, Archangel.”

Stavazel is writing stuff down. Looking at the painting. Poking it even.

Crowley raises one dark eyebrow. “Archangel. Compliments on your choice of help”. He regards Stavazels industry with a distinctly amused fascination. Aziraphale understands his slight surprise. Angels by and large have always been incurious about human creations. Attentive when needed (The Renaissance of course was a boom period for angelic involvement on Earth, and even that was at a detached inspirational remove). But as we’ve noted, every society is subject to a generational wave… even though it’s taken Heaven millennia to experience one, it seems Stavazel is one of its breakers.

Aziraphale breathes very hard out his nose.

“I don’t know why I’m here, Crowley.” He really doesn’t. It’s not been offered as a private tour, there’s something more and he’s pretty sure he’s not going to like what the something is.

Crowley stills.

He sees a thing happen. He knows Crowley very well. He’s seen Crowley wear many facades. Female, animal, a lake of fire: Crowley always was good at transfiguration. But right here, Crowley is stripped bare in a way that’s both entirely snake and wholly man. Isn’t that something.
He can’t help but think it’s his fault.

“The Second Coming is here with us. He’s got a guardian.”

The weird snaky thing Crowley is doing is interesting.

“Crowley. Crowley.”

He perceives that Crowley’s doing something. Showing him something. Maybe like what he did up in the reception chamber? Right now, it’s a private showing, a glimpse into another set of quarters not far from where they are now. But secret, oh so secret and safe. On brand, in that the rooms are plush, inviting, almost suffocating in their indulgent folds and curlicues. And Aziraphale’s being shown the atmosphere as well, of the persons and emotions taking place there.

They’re cross at each other again.
And then the force, the kick and shove of emotion.

“Christ above!” Aziraphale shouts, ducking his head and pushing his hands to his temples. What a bloody invasive mental jolt that was.

Beside him he hears that so well-loved soft bark of laugh.

“Um. Well, no. Not above. As such.”

I see you! You’re an angel. You’re from THERE. Oh, yes. I see now. I see. “Eggs without salt.” “You can’t leave this bookshop”.

Aziraphale’s blood, which he absolutely has because he is stubborn and ensures he always has it, runs as the saying is, very cold.
Whoever is speaking to him- and that’s what happening, something is speaking to him directly, almost harshly but for its flat tone- it knows him. His mind flashes quickly, “Adam Young?” but Crowley catches that, and he feels rather than sees the terse headshake of negation.

So, what are you waiting for? Want to see you. See him too. Him. Doesn’t like looking at me. I know why. I know alright. They fight all the time, but he never fights. Just watches. Waits. Maybe it’s you he’s waiting for. Come see me. I’m so bored. Want to get out. You can see for yourself, yes that’ll be good.

Come see me.

Abruptly flung out of whatever has been grasping his mind, Aziraphale stumbles into Crowley’s side. He might imagine a slight curl of a long arm around him just for a moment: a small gust of breath in now tamed curls.
Imagination was never his strong suit, but you never know. Seems he’s getting more human every day.

Before he can ask, before he can demand in the name of All Heaven what that abominable power was that just seized and battered him about, Crowley heads him off.

“It’s better if you come and see.”

“Quoting Revelations now?” Aziraphale hears how shaky his voice is.

Crowley smiles. Small, edging on sour. “Well. Fitting, isn’t it?”

Usually, knowledge of a thing will result in certainty and as further result, lead to security.
Aziraphale read a lot about psychology. Theoretically he’s well versed in all sorts of situations a man (man like being with many of the same processes) can find himself.

The knowledge of what’s happening, of what is before him, what has been concealed from him:

There’s no security or comfort to be found here.
Irrationally he wants to lash out and blame Crowley. But then, he’s had four years of that impulse. It’s as unfair now as it was then.

He regards the people inside these chambers through a glaze of rising dismay.

“Don’t worry” says Judas.

“I thought one of them would at least like me” Jesus says.

“They will!” says Judas.*

Aziraphale takes in what he sees. Judas is slim, black clad, with the same immaculate cheek bones and dancing movements as Crowley. He has slicked back black hair. His shirt underneath is blood red. Crowley never wears leather though and Judas’ leather jacket is upon him like second skin, like wings upon a bat. He is very handsome.
Oh, like it's a shock.
Aziraphale accepted a long time ago that he had a leaning towards the kind of image he cultivated. “The Southern Pansy” has no illusions that he presents a certain way. And thing is, the more you live a certain way, the more it come naturally.
He looks but does not touch. That goes without saying. But Form always, always, follows Function. Skating the line between Evolution and Creationism has always been difficult, knowing what he knows. But what he does know for certain is that if you put a creature in a certain place in a certain way, it will change.

He’s living proof.
This Judas is what would happen if you took Crowley and made him slightly French, clad him in leather. Made his hair to lie flat and be totally slickly black all the time. Aziraphale has watched a LOT of Jesus Christ Superstar. He’s not ashamed of it, because Crowley was usually there for every version, usually singing “Pilates song” under his breath and then denying it with venom afterwards.

The 2000 version had been something of a shock to both. Stumbled upon mostly because Crowley had a very odd fixation on Rick Mayall, the productions Herod.
(“Eat the Rich”, Angel? Ever watch that? I helped that get made you know. Don’t think many going to watch it. But still. What a thing it just exists!”)

They’d both been a wee bit up their noses about the cheapness, the Jesus of the show for a bit…. And then…

“Jerome Pradon, my freckled arse.”
Crowley is triumphant. Holds up his Hellphone. (It’s how he calls it don’t blame your humble writer. Like any modern demon Crowley believes in fit for purpose devices.)

“He is fucking Judas!”

This confuses Aziraphale for a bit. Because Crowley doesn’t swear as much as he likes to think people think he does. So, when he does its for emphasis. And then for another thing, the syntax could mean… well…

“I’m not surprised he is. Was. Whatever. That love was. Something. Big. Very you know. But also. Doom. Very much doom”.

(There was a lot of wine and very old whiskey involved in a lot of this friendship. Your humble scribe must beg apology just reporting the news).

Crowley chucks in his last bit of Tallisker and huffs his small laugh.

“Yes. Lots of the worst kind of love. Ends in sorrow every time, Angel. Anyway. I know my Damned when I see them. That man, he’s the real deal. Guarantee he’s been let up. Up to fill some quota.” Crowley’s face ripples a bit with disgust. “At a guess. The Big Man himself. Likes Judas. Keeps him close. “
Small silence.
“This movie- very honest. Most honest I’ve seen of this show you like.”

Aziraphale is flattered. He knows his weaknesses are for the kind of unchallenging musicals that Crowley tends to scoff at. He LIKEs supper theatre. He likes things with edges sanded off. He sees sometimes how this propensity to avoid edges fashes Crowley.
“Most honest?” he asks. Almost afraid of the answer.
Beside him he feels Crowley stiffen with a kind of greyhound alertness.

“It’s him, Aziraphale. I could swear to it. I don’t know how, don’t ask me. But I saw him. Not just. Saw him. I was there.”

In a rush Aziraphale knows.

“Thirty pieces of silver.” “You’ll find him there. With his other… his other men.” “Don’t hurt him you said it was a trial!”

“Judas. One of yours?”
He breathes it as close to Crowley’s skin as he can. He has never been sure of limits. He doesn’t ask he´d rather assume. In his mind, Crowley and Judas Iscariot have had all sorts of astonishing relations. Ones he doesn’t care to examine.

Crowley’s reply is strange.
“This guy the real deal. And so yes, Angel. The real deal. The Arrangement stands.”

That’s not answering Aziraphale’s question.

Theres a sudden snap in the room. Imagine all your appliances going off at the same time. Coupled with a powerful clap of storm clouds, on top of that the slight unsteadiness one feels when you jump a bit late for a train.

Then he sees Judas. He sees this Judas as Crowley saw him. Misunderstood. Wanting the best. Utterly unprepared for the death of the love of his life.

Aziraphale hasn’t any feeling for the various political feelings humans get up to.

An existence of over six millennia makes you a wee bit cynical.

But he wants to take care of this Judas.

This Judas is very sweary. Sulky. Very French.
Stands to reason.

He doesn’t really remember who he is. He remembers being an actor named Jerome Pradon who starred in a thing and had very avid fans. But after that, he has no recollection.

Here in this lavish set of quarters (prison? Hacthery? God above what is going on with this situation?) Judas (for indeed it is he) remembers.

There's not a word uttered by the man. A long slow appraissal in from those sulky light brown eyes from a chair that positively drips with overdone filigree. Aziraphale feels strongly he should be questioning this man: it's like stumbling into some bizarre passion play when all you expected was a board meeting with an awkward twist. But as we've already established, Aziraphale has a lot to learn about how bad things can get before (if ever) they get better. He feels Crowley slide up beside him. He's vaguely aware he's been staring and is sort of horrified at his own bad manners. Its all just abandonment of niceties all the way down for Mr Supreme bigshot Archangel it seems today. Crowleys been apparently conferring a little with Stavazel. About what Aziraphale can't even imagine: but knows he'll have to worm it out of one of them. Not a task he looks forward to. Crowley clears his throat overly loudly as if for effect. "He's not going to answer you. Whatever you ask. However you ask it". Read my bloody mind why don't you Crowley. This thought with no rancour but a certain sullen mental sigh. "He'll only talk to the kid. Sometimes to me. Depends on... what I ask. Say. And when." There's something Crowley isn't saying there. But theres no time to sniff it out even if he cared to. Because, like some kind of unreal and unfunny joke, a lunatic walks into the room..

The kid comes out of another chamber and casts its eyes upon them..

“Judas!”

Azirpahale shakes out his brain more.

“They’re here!” The kid (boy? girl? Does it matter?) with a tone of such delight that it almost, almost hides the fact that the owner of the voice is undeniably mad. Insane. Just all kinds of horribly round all sorts of twists. And pretty happy about it. Aziraphale, he who is the big boss (nominally) and is going to have to figure out how to work this particular revelation into things, can't do anything but stare. The Second Coming is a child: or something that likes to look like one. And is wanting to talk. Oh yes: it wants to chat. .

Muriel’s right. This is all wrong.

Theres a lot of different realms where Jesus and Judas do the “We’re husbands, but” dance. In This realm, where we have our two supernatural beings, they know that the death of Jesus has lots to do with not blaming Judas Iscariot. They differ sometimes on the particulars but that is something they both know to be true. Judas is lots of things, but a total villain, he is not. He didn't do this. My God, my God: Aziraphale isn't even sure who he's talking to in his head but it's all he can think. He looks into those eyes that are colours and no colour and then just pure black holes lined with blood and he feels a deep kind of cowardice. This is what it's come to. A perversion of all that is good, all that was worthy once. They have made it so. And I have to put on my best inoffensive look and act as thought his creature is another action item on my list. A deep shudder runs through him. He feels for some reason Crowley still near his side. He feels for one breath the urge to round on the Prince of Hell and let fly with murderous intent. Just as he used to. ("Your doing demon! Look at this pestilence!" "Your doing, I presume? Paris and all these Nazis?" "Really Crowley, to target the homosexual community. Bad form old man.") None of it true. Well some of it only true through coincidence. Its a reactive urge: blame Crowley. Then your own job has meaning. Your Adversary, Your Other half, is there, present, waiting to greet you with his insouciant shrug and raised brow. But he always drew comfort from the fact he didnt really believe it: Crowley did bad with a lower case b. It was... a game. Arranged. Understood. This though... this is beyond anything he can grasp. He has to to withdraw, for diplomacy sake if nothing else. Further exposure to the severity of the presence in these rooms will make for some sort of awful incident he's sure.

He sees Stavazel and asks

“Judas is the guardian?”

And of course he is. Stavazel, a functionary and part of the new wave, is unashamed at having more answers than his boss. His shrug is eloquent.

Here’s where the accord lives. The proper spawn of Heaven and Hell get to set it all off.

"Who? Who sanctioned this?"

He hears himself and immediately wants to edit the record. Alas for real time witnesses.

Stavazel is utterly calm.

"Unknown Sir. The Clearance is above our levels to access. "

Something in Aziraphale relaxes. At least it wasnt Crowley. At least it want him ordering whatever it is that thing was back there.,

“Crowley.”
“Yes?”
“Judas is babysitting the New Christ. In Hell.”

“Yes.”

The tight band of control he’s had snaps. Its almost a relief. Its too much. Gullible angel, lovesick angel, fretful angel: he’ll win back his self-control in a bit. But just at this very moment he gives into the absurdity.Can’t stifle a small snort of unbelieving laughter.

“Are you alright Archangel?”

Grand. Just grand my dear fellow. Tickety fucking boo. Lets put that on our bingo card shall we.

“Why won’t you come back with me. To Heaven.”

Theres a very stiff moment.

“Because you’re wrong.”

Here he is. Tall and long and full of spite.

Aziraphale, he is still great in Heaven, and cool in all the in between realms….

He laughs.

“Okay.”

He would like to kiss him but that’s not how this goes. He forfeited that along with many other things. He can’t resist anymore though. Leans slightly into the give of Crowley’s chest. Crowley’s chest is firm, slim muscles under a slight give, dusted with darkish hair he knows about because of those few hours spent hugging Crowleys form close to his own essence. He hears a slight hitch in the chest there.
He leans closer.
He hears Crowley’s breath beating in his ear. Everything about this is a bad idea he knows. But he keeps leaning into it. Doesn’t even pause to think about what Stavazels going to make of all this.

“Stop.” Crowley’s is just for him to hear.
“Why?”
“Because. I think you are in a bad way.”
“I’m not.”
“You seem sad. Angry.”
“I am. Those things.”.
“Yes. I gathered.”
“Crowley.”
“Stop. I don’t really want you to stop. But you should. Oh… Angel please stop.”
“Why. I want to touch… Crowley?”
“Aziraphale. Please, please stop. Stop.”

Aziraphale stops.

Aziraphale forgot how powerful Crowley can be.

The thing is: Crowley has imagination. It should be what all of them have. But it’s mostly only Crowley who retains and uses them.
All limits are your very own self. Crowley has no limits.

Crowley’s power extends to that which he touches in his intensive imaginative embrace.

Aziraphale realizes something. He’s furious. Just so cross.

Crowley looks him full in the face.

“Your people are still here.”

And of course, there they are. Muriel and Stavazel.

Crowley is still looking at him without any kind of shame.

Nobody will ever know you the way I do.

The thought shoves it way into his mind. He does his best to force it away,

“Muriel. Stavazel.”

Saying their names is enough to beckon them inwards.

Aziraphale compliments the clinging ivy that Crowley has made to live on the walls. Pretty little spade shaped yellow leaves.

The demon looks at him with a flat yellow stare.

“Aziraphale.”

They look at each other over the memory of an unsatisfactory kiss. Of anger. That was a very bad day. To be honest it’s not much better now.

It’s very awkward. They don’t know how to kiss. Neither of those two have ever met in congress apart from handholding.

As he does, usually, Crowley is the one to try fix it. He pushes his mouth up to meet Aziraphale’s.

A just sealing the deal accord. Kisses of binding; so very old testament. The’ll love it Up There.

It’s very chaste. Just a warm meeting of lips. They’re not very happy with it. There must be more surely.

“I’m- is that”-

It’s still not a good kiss. It’s nothing. But it’s warm. Aziraphale gets to take in the smoke and citrus smell that has always been Crowley: the smoke always just one or two tiptoes into “too much”, hellfire can also be a scent, a feeling.

And it’s something to take away with them.

“In the interests of our Celestial and Infernal agenda: Thanks be to the Prince Regent Crowley and his consort Murmura.”

This he says off cuff, wanting a hot assam tea gosh that’d be good right now.

I think I did my job.

Crowley seems paralyzed. His voice usually is just a slightly gravelly tenor: deep inside, Aziraphale knows, trusts that Crowley never done this. His brain gets bit frantic,

Crowley’s consort. Lovely they are. Crowley himself. Gosh.

He wishes he knew for sure though. Crowley’s always been curious: (“It’s basically just rotten milk! Look Angel, Look! Bacteria! I tell you this is going to be BIG!” We can… I guess, I don’t know… take credit? How about a spot of lunch. Know a good place. Nice dolmos. You need the fresh made. They have. So”)

I’d know you in any shape, Aziraphale. I’d know you if we were the tiniest of atoms, if we were solar dust returning to the outer edges of the stars I helped build. I’d know and find you anywhere.

That rips through him.

Because he knows it’s true.

And he knows he must leave.

“Aziraphale.”

And here is Crowley. Outside the lift area. Lovely softish creamy lighting. Smooth accents of turquoise and very deepfish green on the walls everywhere.

“Crowley, everything you touch gets more beautiful.”

The demon, Aziraphale’s old adversary, he who now is taking care of Hell and doing his bloody best:

“I’ve always had a soft spot for beautiful things.” A tongue moves over a sharp canine. Slides his eyes to the side for a moment.

“We have formalities to discuss, Archangel. Check your mobile.”

Said dry and blank.

Aziraphale is in no way okay. He’s had a lot happen to him tonight.

(Shall we have a perspective shift? About time? Quite so.) 

The Prince Crowley feels an urge. Urge to bundle Aziraphale up in his arms. He knows what his corporation looks like. Slim unto skinny, a walking cliché sometimes in women’s jeans. But he’s strong. He can draw on hell, but he has also the underlying brute power of earth that every demon has. His legs and arms are slim but the core of him burns with the earthy strength of the Fall.

Crowley, who was Crawley and now is Crowley: Aziraphale is his weakness.

He is also working to fix things.

This story has a happy ending. Well:

Let’s be very honest here. A hopeful ending.

But there’s work to get there.

So, let’s let Crowley stretch out his arms.

One small subtle beckoning gesture brings an Eric.

“Hullo Eric.”

The Eric shuffles bit. “Hullo My lord”

Nothing will get An Eric comfortable with the chance of random discorporation. Crowley keeps trying.

“Eric. Could you get me the vellum envelope in the fifth drawer. My desk. You know? You’ve been there”.

The Eric blinks. Very pretty eyelashes. Some part of Crowley that wasn’t so much awake before the chats with Aziraphale, before the various awakenings, seem to respond in tiny ways (“I like how Adams apples move when the arousal hits: I like the shift of a torso: I like a lovely mans face under some delicate makeup”).

Crowley shakes himself.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And now….

Aziraphale The Supreme Archangel of Heaven is angry. He’s anxious.

“Muriel. Are you alright?”

He wishes he liked them more. He sighs when they mumble and prevaricate.

“Stavazel. I assume you appreciated our trip?”

Stavazel starts to enumerate the positives of his trip. Then stops.

“Supreme Archangel Sir.”

Aziraphale tilts his head up. He knows, he knows that Crowley is on his way. It doesn’t matter what happens. The heat death of the universe could rip through everything, and they’d still be Crowley going “Hallo Angel. Lunch?”

But this isn’t a lunch date. This is going to be business.

And it is.

He accepts the envelope. It has to do with the Demon Angel hybrid that’s going to wreak upon the realms second coming atrocities.

“The Bible’s not a fun read, for the most part. The guys who wrote it were so buttoned up. Loved the David and Jonathon bits. Truthful, that. And the psalms! Beautiful.”

“Crowley. The Bible isn’t meant to be a manual. Just some inspiration with some history there.”

“Yeah, tell them that.”

They’re waiting for the lift back up. He feels Crowley’s absence. He doesn’t really have human analogies but if he did, we’d allow him the feeling of being deprived of a limb.

Think I’m exaggerating?

Crowley and Aziraphale have been together on Earth since before the first of us knew how to procreate and make more. Imagine, if you will, someone just in your position. Your seeming opposite. Thin where you are thick. Glib where you are serious. You are an angel: trying to hang onto the idea of not being a whirling mass of eyes and cogs and light. Trying to coax your new body to “Stay, behave”.

Worries about your mistake and then a snake emerges into a man.

“You wot?”

No judgment. Just admiration.

Of course. Of course its love.

Is it love? For Aziraphale? Of course it is.

But love doesn’t light the campfire.

Love, their love, doesn’t save the world.

Not as far as he knows, anyway.

He waits for his two aides. They have enough now to return Upstairs.

Here’s Aziraphale, The Supreme Archangel of Heaven, Master of The Second Coming.

He’s got a staff meeting that includes the Prince of Hell Crowley coming up for his own little visit. He’s got to sit for a while and ponder the matter of his coworkers and one assistant in particular. He’s slow, is this former Eastern Gate sentinel. He ruminates, cogitates and a lot of other fun words for “thinks rather slowly”. But, as the saying is, if the mills of the lord grind slowly they also grind very fine.

And Aziraphale’s mind, not to mention his heart, have been grinding powerfully in the background for a long, long time.

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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fuente_del_%C3%81ngel_Ca%C3%ADdo

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https://www.britannica.com/topic/The-Swing-painting-by-Fragonard

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y7o_4h-eNa0