Archive of Our Own ^beta

Stopping at the bookshop had been a mistake.

It was a bruise of a thought, one that would never heal because Aziraphale would never stop poking at it. Not until Crowley came back again.

On that late morning in the park, after surviving their attempted executions and returning to their own bodies, Aziraphale had asked if they might stop at the bookshop on their way to the Ritz. Just for a few minutes, he had assured Crowley, so that he could confirm for himself that his bookshop, which only yesterday had burned to the ground, was once again very much intact. A gift, like Crowley's Bentley, from the Antichrist.

But once inside, consumed with exploring the changes made to his collection—some wonderful, some acceptable, some abysmally awful—Aziraphale had soon lost himself amongst the shelves. When the bell had rung out, he had called out a terse, "We're closed. Please return another day." He ought to have noticed that the bell had not rung again, which usually meant one-way traffic: someone who had come in and not left; usually Crowley—or someone who had gone out and not returned; also, usually Crowley. No one had been about when he reached the door and turned the sign over. It had never occurred to him that Crowley, who had been smiling and laughing such a short time before, might have taken offense at being disregarded to the point of walking out without saying anything. Aziraphale had believed that he was waiting in the backroom, patient as always.

It had come as a dreadful surprise, then, when Aziraphale had finally come back to himself, only to realize that several hours had passed. Full of apologies, he had hurried to the backroom, expecting to find the demon asleep on the sofa or intently engaged with his phone—only to find him gone.

Minutes of nervous searching had followed while Aziraphale called out Crowley's name and scurried from one aisle to another. In his panic some time had passed before he remembered the earlier chiming of the doorbell. The only possible answer was that Crowley must have grown tired of waiting and returned to his flat.

Chagrined, Aziraphale had immediately made calls to both of Crowley's phones, only to be shunted to the demon's answering machines, where he had left deeply contrite messages. The fear that Crowley had decided to indulge himself with a lengthy sulk was unbearable. It had taken eighty years for him to get over the last one, and Aziraphale hadn't wanted to go without him for even another day.

Crepuscular shadows were stretching across the pavement when he had arrived at Crowley's block of flats. There had been no answer to his buzzing of the doorbell, nor to his knocking, which had started calmly enough but, when unanswered, had soon become frantic.

He had at last let himself inside. Not a whisper of sound had greeted him. A room-by-room search had proven that Crowley was not there; had probably not been there since they had parted earlier that morning in each other's corporations. Only the plants had taken notice of him, perking up at his arrival. Aziraphale had accorded them a few minutes of angelic comforting, as much for himself as for them.

And then, suffused with soul-deep regret and with no excuse to linger, he had locked up the flat and taken the lift to the ground floor. A last-minute, thorough search up and down the street outside the apartment block had painfully confirmed what he had suspected: the Bentley was missing and, in its absence, there was no longer any doubt: Crowley had gone away.

Aziraphale had slowly walked crowded streets lit by lamplight and the headlamps of passing cars back to the bookshop, his feet growing heavier with each step. Inside its usually comforting walls, amidst familiar smells and empty silence, he had sat in his chair, lowered his head into his hands, and quietly castigated himself for his selfishness and his stupidity.

In the long, empty days that followed, Aziraphale did not abandon his search. His one consolation was his assurance that Crowley was still on Earth. He might not be able to sense exactly where he was, but neither was there the vacuum that indicated that Crowley was paying a visit to Hell.

Unless—and this occurred to him early one morning nearly a week in, while staring emptily out of the window overlooking the street—Crowley had been taken by Hell, or even Heaven, and was being held somewhere on Earth. Their former masters would undoubtedly want to know how they had survived their executions. But, if that were the case, surely they would have taken Aziraphale as well?

Reason said they would have. After all, it was evident by Michael's presence in Hell that Gabriel and Beelzebub were now working together. Yet here he was, safe in his shop, unmolested by either Heavenly or Hellish forces. If Crowley were being detained in Heaven, Hell, or on Earth in order to coerce Aziraphale, he would have been notified days ago—or summarily snatched up for interrogation and, quite possibly, torture himself.

Which meant that he must face facts: Crowley was somewhere other than here—here being anywhere Aziraphale might normally find him—by his own design. It was a crushing thought which led to other, equally demoralizing considerations.

Perhaps Crowley would never come back; perhaps, without the Arrangement, he no longer wanted or needed Aziraphale. After all, it was Aziraphale who had countless times denied their friendship, who had told Crowley that he didn't even like him.

But they had moved past that! Hadn't they? Even after Aziraphale had dramatically declared their friendship and their Arrangement over, Crowley had tried to persuade him to go away with him a second time. Rejected yet again, and rather than take himself to safety, he had driven his beloved car—in flames—to the airfield purely on Aziraphale's say-so, with only the slimmest of chances that they might do anything to forestall the end of all things. Surely that meant Aziraphale had been forgiven?

Would he truly abandon Aziraphale now?

Of course it was possible that he had annoyed Crowley one too many times, had left him waiting alone while he indulged his love of the bookshop he had thought lost forever. He ought, of course, to have been indulging the being who had been there all along, his oldest friend, his rescuer, his co-conspirator, his love.

There was nothing for him to do but wait and hope. And when he came back—he had to come back—Aziraphale would make it up to him. He would apologize. And he would declare his feelings.

The days stretched into weeks, one miserable day after another. During that time, Aziraphale did not step foot outside the shop, not even to breathe in the damp morning air, nor to greet the sun on the rare days it put in an appearance.

He made daily calls to both of Crowley's devices. His ansaphone soon reported its inability to accept any more messages. The mobile number seemed to have no such restriction, so Aziraphale poured his heart out in every call, beseeching Crowley to ring him back, to please come back. There was never a reply.

After a full month had gone by, Aziraphale ventured forth. His first stop was at a local phone store. He monopolized the young salesperson for more than an hour before committing to a plan and the new phone that fit perfectly in his trousers pocket. Crowley had mentioned that modern technology enabled one's home phone to ring through to one's portable—mobile—phone. With the assistant's help, he programmed his new mobile and secured her instructions for mirroring the process on his landline (which he effected after stepping outside the shop, a wave of his hand accomplishing the deed in an instant). In that way, should Crowley deign to call, he would not miss him, no matter where Aziraphale was or what he was doing.

His next foray was to Crowley's flat, where he tended his plants. He had left them under a blessing to survive his and Crowley's absence and not one exhibited any signs of decline, though he sensed their overt relief when the blessing was removed and they were allowed once more the normal flow of life.

"I do apologize," he declared, standing a little uncomfortable between the two ranks of greenery. "I had hoped that Crowley would be home by now and would be able to see to you himself. But I promise I will do what I can to keep you in good health until that happy day arrives."

He then proceeded to offer a reassuring word or two to each plant in turn, while providing both mist and water to restore their spirits. When he was done, he dispensed with the blessing and hoped that his meager efforts had not done more damage than good. It seemed that he would need to learn at least the basics of plant care in order to see them through. Even so, he felt guilty leaving them all alone in this grim, unfriendly place. He understood its appeal for Crowley, whose innate snakiness preferred the shadows; but the severe Brutalist interior, with its cavern-like walls and floors, always gave him a chill despite the ambient temperature approaching tropical levels.

With phone in pocket, assured that he would not miss Crowley's call, Aziraphale continued on to the park. The ducks appeared to be just as pleased to see him as they were aggrieved by his lack of companion, which meant that they had been shorted a provider.

The day was nippy to the point of making Aziraphale regret his lack of a scarf. The early mists had cleared away, encouraging runners, ramblers, and tourists, as well as the ever present besuited men on benches communing out of the corners of their mouths with other besuited men, some of whom replied with thick foreign accents. None of them knew how close they had come to the absolute end, no more than vermin in the eyes of Heaven and Hell. If not for Crowley, if not for his unparalleled strength of will, they would all be dead, their souls fodder for Heaven or Hell—or nowhere, depending on which side had won.

Aziraphale had rarely paid attention to the humans who shared the capital with him, other than to avoid their encroaching too closely, as all well-bred Londoners knew to do. He studied them now, imagining himself prominent in his aloneness. To them he might have been invisible, at the very least unnoteworthy: a plain, middle-aged man, dressed rather formally, standing aloof. It was Crowley who stood out, of course, tall and rakish, eye-catching in both form and affectation, his constantly pulsing energy almost tangible. But Crowley had chosen him, and when they were together, there were never uncomfortable puddles of dew on their bench, because he would snap it away without a second thought. Nor were the leaves allowed to drip on them after a rain. And humans always knew to walk around them, never impeding their progress, lest they experience Crowley's intimidating glare. He looked after Aziraphale's comfort without a second thought, as if the angel were the most important thing in his world

So how could Aziraphale have been such an idiot as to neglect him for even a moment, not after they were free, not after they could be openly together? Sighing, he quit the still squabbling ducks and walked back to the shop.

That became the pattern of his empty life, varying only in the places he visited. He wasn't sure why he bothered going out at all, as it never gave him any cheer and distracted him only while his gaze, his mind, was bent on things that should delight him but couldn't, not without Crowley beside him. But he doggedly visited art galleries and museums, parks and restaurants, and even attended a few plays and concerts. The rest of his time he devoted to his shop, to the updating of its inventory, which had changed and grown in so many unexpected ways, thanks to Adam.

When evening came, he often sat with a book and a mug of cocoa, revisiting old favorites. But he had difficulty concentrating, alerting to every tiny sound that drifted inside from the street, especially the muffled grumble of an engine or the blare of a horn. His one source of accomplishment was his mobile. With the help of the phone shop's assistant, he had discovered an app that could identify each of Crowley's plants—which was lovely in and of itself, as he could then address each by its name—but which also described the proper care and, as it were, feeding of each one.

It was a weepy, dank day in the middle of October when Crowley's replacement accosted him in the British Museum. Standing in front of the bas-reliefs of the Assyrian lion hunt, Aziraphale, in a dark mood, stormed inwardly on behalf of the wretched creatures slaughtered by the king to display his prowess, even though they had already been dead for thousands of years.

The sense of something wrong entering his space snapped him out of his reverie, and he turned cautiously but quickly round to face its approach. The demon was an older woman in appearance. She might have been a headmistress of years past, her clothing dull, her body stolid, her hair grey and wound in a crown of braids on the top of her head, not a tendril out of place. In her eyes, however, there was nothing of humanity; they gleamed black and shone dangerously. "Angel." Her voice, however, was low and velvety, a chocolate voice, he thought.

Summoning a polite smile, Aziraphale said, "My name is Aziraphale. And you are?"

The demon frowned. "My name is not yours to know."

"Then I shall call you demon. What brings you here, demon?"

She scowled at him with sudden animosity. "It's Gressil." Her teeth, far too many and all terribly sharp, were fleetingly on display. "Don't try your blandishments on me, angel. They won't work."

"I wouldn't think of it," Aziraphale assured her calmly. And then he folded his hands together and, tilting his head interrogatively to one side, silently encouraged her to continue. Despite evincing his usual composure, his pulse had leaped at sight of her and now was running fast and thready in his veins. Did her appearance imply that Crowley really had been taken? This, despite Aziraphale's certainty that he was still somewhere on Earth? When she did not speak, he filled the silence. "So, Gressil, why are you here?"

Her next words stole his breath away. "To give a message to your lap dog, the traitor Crowley. I've taken his place on Earth. Hell won't have him back."

"I see." Aziraphale's heart was doing other strange things now. He had to will away the smile that threatened to break out on his face and forced a sternness there instead. "And you've not given him this message in person because—?"

She snarled. "Can't find him. No doubt you've hidden him somewhere."

At this, Aziraphale allowed himself the tiniest of smiles. "Wouldn't want to give away any secrets."

"Yeah, I was told you'd say something like that. Let's be clear. Stay out of my way, angel. It's time for humans to learn what a real demon does."

Aziraphale raised a peremptory finger. "About that. I am still a principality, and it is my purpose to protect all of humanity. You can't imagine that has changed. No matter what you were told."

"According to Heaven, you're an outcast, too."

"In communication with Heaven, are you?" He gave her a measuring look, an intentionally haughty sweep of his eyes from the top of her head to the soles of her functional shoes. Her mouth compressed but she did not respond. "No matter. My assignment was given to me by God Herself. Humans remain under my protection. You will do well to remember that."

A flicker of uncertainty crossed the demon's face, only to be instantly replaced by a spiteful grimace. "Whatever," she said in her incongruously rich voice. "There's a lot of world to cover and you can't be everywhere."

"That depends on what you do." There was steel in Aziraphale's voice and in his no longer remotely genial expression. "Take care that you do not overstep, Gressil." Her name came out coldly laced with warning. She sneered at him, all teeth and attitude, and disappeared on the spot.

"Crowley." Aziraphale exhaled heavily. Hell didn't know where he was—did that mean that Heaven did? If not—and please God let that be the case—it would seem that Aziraphale was correct in believing that the demon simply wanted time away from him. It hurt to think that, like a wound that couldn't heal. But— Let him be safe. The majestic lions, straining to live, swam before his eyes. And let him come home.

At the beginning of November, on a fiercely cold day under a crisp, clear sky, he met Heaven's new angel on Earth; technically, he supposed, his replacement, though it stung to think so. She came up to the rail overlooking the lake to stand alongside him. He knew what she was, of course; her ethereality was barely contained in her human form. An inch or two shorter than he, she was smartly dressed in the style of modern businesswomen everywhere. Over a dark green silk blouse, she wore a tweedy jacket in shades of jade and sienna, and her trousers were a dense shade of pine, all of which complimented her flawless milk-and-coffee complexion.

"Principality."

Aziraphale glanced across at her. "Hello." He continued to throw peas to the ducks, affecting an air of calm, even though her presence unnerved him.

"Why are you doing that?"

"Hm? Oh, habit, I imagine." He forced a smile of welcome. "I'm Aziraphale, if you don't already know."

She inclined her head graciously. "Adriel." She spent a moment unselfconsciously watching him, her expression assessing, much as he had done with the demon Gressil. When their eyes met again, she said, "Is this a good moment for us to speak?"

"Yes, of course. I should tell you—as I've already told your counterpart—that I shan't stop looking after humans. That is, if you've come to replace me."

The ducks fell into a squabble, their raucous cries and flaring wings drawing the new angel's attention. "Why should you continue to oversee humanity? You are no longer of the Host." Despite her blunt words, there was nothing of malice in her manner. Aziraphale flinched all the same.

Trying to keep hold of his smile, he said, "Has my name been scratched from the Book of Records, then? Am I now listed among the Fallen?"

The other angel looked shocked. "Good Heavens, no." A small line appeared between her finely shaped brows. "But you do stand apart. Surely you take responsibility for that?"

"Of course. Though I believe the circumstances should be considered mitigating." The ducks had settled down, ruffled feathers lying sleek along their backs. He tossed a few peas out over the water, and a small flotilla, iridescence gleaming in the sunlight, broke away to root for them. "I assisted in averting the Apocalypse, something I should have thought Heaven would have wanted." The memory of that rejection still rang like a dull bell inside his chest. "Instead, Gabriel attempted to execute me. Without convening a tribunal, I might add."

One of Adriel's brows flicked up, and her study of him grew even more intense. "An attempt that you uncannily survived." But then she waved a hand as if to dismiss her words. "It might comfort you to know that there were—" Her voice became very soft, barely audible, though there was no one near enough to overhear. "Reprimands were issued. To him and his lieutenants."

Gabriel had been reprimanded? "Is that so?" he murmured, pretending to concentrate on delving into the packet so as to conceal his raw expression.

"In point of fact, I am not here to replace you, Aziraphale. Oh, may I?" She extended a hand, palm up.

"You want to—?"

"Please."

Softening despite himself, Aziraphale spilled the last of the small green vegetables into her waiting palm. "Gently," he advised, and then watched with approval as she carefully served peas to the anxious ducks, her face betraying only a simple fascination at their response.

"Are you here to check up on me, then?" He reduced the empty packet into small folds, its coolness damp in the close confines of his fist.

"In part, yes." Adriel nodded equably. "I have been assigned to report on you and your demon. But that is not my primary function."

Aziraphale swallowed hard. "I can understand your interest in my doings, but what business have you with Crowley? My, er, demon."

Adriel's lips curved into the benevolent smile sculpted in marble the world over. "You have both proven to be unpredictable, though the consensus is that your love of humanity would never allow you to abuse your positions or your power."

"Um—"

"We, of course, do not know the specifics of your alliance with him, only that you risked your lives, along with your stations among your own kind, to undertake what you believed to be God's wishes."

Aziraphale swallowed nervously again. In fact, initially they had been looking after their own self interests in their efforts to avoid the war. That God's agenda had apparently, luckily, thankfully dovetailed with theirs had been an unanticipated—and literal—godsend. "She made no objection."

"She did not." Adriel seemed captivated by the ducks. "But I think you will agree that She did express her approval."

"How so?"

Adriel's smile felt like a sacrament. "Those reprimands I mentioned. They came directly from Her."

"Ah." Gathering his wits at this momentous information, Aziraphale spoke the first words that came to mind. "So Crowley is safe from Heaven?"

The other angel's head swung round, the celestial fire in her eyes apparent. "As are you, if you wish to think of it that way. From Heaven and Hell, both."

Aziraphale's mind was spinning. "You said that overseeing us is only part of your purpose, your function. May I know the rest?"

She regarded him with approval. "I was told that you are clever. Yes, you must know, actually, as you may need to act as my liaison." Aziraphale raised his brows. "It has to do with the child Adam."

"Adam." He ruthlessly suppressed another flinch. There was no other creature on Earth—well, save Crowley—for whom he had such unresolved feelings. It was impossible not to harbor a lingering guilt for almost murdering the child. And then there was his terrifying power, the full extent of which Aziraphale could only guess and, quite frankly, quail at.

"The Antichrist. I'm sure you haven't forgotten. He has exhibited no further demonic ability, but we feel it prudent to keep an eye on him as he grows. You understand humans, Aziraphale. It has been said that the young ones undergo radical changes as they transition into adulthood, something none of us of Heaven truly understand."

Discreetly releasing a breath he had been unaware of holding, Aziraphale said ruefully, "That is unfortunately true. Puberty can be very trying for them."

"He knows you. You and your demon. We may—"

"He met us. But we didn't really—"

"He trusted you," Adriel argued gravely. "You and the demon both. That was in your report."

"Well—" He hesitated. "Yes, he trusted us; and I suppose you could say that he knows us—he could read the hearts of everyone he met. But our involvement with him was a transient thing, under extremely harrowing conditions. And—"

She stared at him expectantly. "And?"

"And then he changed everything. Perhaps I should say he reset everything, so that all of the death and destruction of the final days were erased. People who died on Saturday were alive again on Sunday with no memory of anything untoward having befallen them. He even restored my bookshop!" Aziraphale steadied himself. "We haven't seen him since that day. Almost no one—except some of those who were there—has any memory of what happened. I have, um, spoken with one of them, but she has, well, gifts of a supernatural nature which may account for her memory being intact." He didn't want to reveal too much about Anathema for fear of calling down Heaven's interest, if not outright wrath, on her. "She said that Tadfield—where Adam and she live—appears to be a sleepy little village once more. It's too soon to know whether his love for the place, his unwitting influence, has anything to do with that."

"I do understand, Aziraphale," Adriel said indulgently. "That, too, was in your report."

That report, Aziraphale recalled, had been written in the first week of Crowley's absence, when he had been aspiring to a normality that didn't exist while inwardly his entire being knitted itself into knots of guilt, regret, and worry. To be baldly honest, amidst the turmoil of his emotions and the quite considerable quantities of wine imbibed, he had forgotten all about it. Summoning a weak smile, he said, "I will of course be happy to perform as your liaison—if needed."

Her face began to glow, and Aziraphale felt the fullness of her grace. "You do understand," she said, "that you are welcome to return to Heaven, if you wish. Now that things are different."

A strange sensation seized Aziraphale's chest, heavy but invisible, a counterweight to his ethereal wings. A Heaven in which Gabriel and his "lieutenants" had been reprimanded. Would a changed Heaven call to him in a way that it never had in all the millennia he had lived on Earth? Would he want to be welcome there, not just merely tolerated during his dutiful visits to defend his use of miracles? "No." Both of Adriel's brows shot up at the brusqueness of his reply; he even surprised himself. "Dear me," he said more temperately, "I suppose I really have gone native. I—thank you. It's good to know that I might visit without being threatened with destruction. But, you know, I love the Earth, and all of the humans upon her; all of her creatures, truly."

There was something like satisfaction on Adriel's face, as though a bet had been settled in her favor. "As well as your demon?"

Denial leaped to the tip of his tongue, always waiting, it seemed, and in a myriad of forms: amused denial, embarrassed denial, adamant denial, affronted denial. He's not my friend. We're not friends. The words tasted of ash. "Yes," Aziraphale said, his throat unbearably tight. "Him above all the rest." And he swore to himself again that as soon as he saw Crowley he would first apologize for all the lies, on his knees if the demon asked it of him, and then he would declare his love—in words, in kisses, in whatever way he wished.

The other angel's smile held a flint of admonishment. "Save Herself, of course."

"But of course."

"I had hoped to meet him. Everyone says you're always together."

"We—he's away." Aziraphale clenched his back teeth together. "When I see him again, I will tell him what you said, that you'd like to meet him. But, um, well, I can't speak for his—" He shrugged. "—his reaction."

Adriel laughed. "I won't bite. And, of course, I would expect the same courtesy in return."

Aziraphale managed a small laugh as well. He was not used to angels for whom humor was not a bludgeon. "I can vouch for him."

Their conversation had come to an end. With a gracious nod and a small wave, Adriel unhurriedly walked away, leaving Aziraphale feeling both relieved and unsettled. So he was no longer the only angel on Earth, no longer Earth's angel—although Adriel had indicated that she would act more as an observer than a field agent. But it niggled, a little, this change. It would be so much better if Crowley were here and he could talk through his pettiness; for surely it was petty to resent someone who had been friendly and kind and needlessly agreeable. But Crowley would understand. He always understood Aziraphale better than Aziraphale understood himself.

The ducks had grown bored and dispersed across the water. Feeling doubly abandoned, Aziraphale sighed, dropped the empty packet into a bin, and turned for home.

"She was very friendly, really—Anthurium." The plant quivered at his recognition of its name. According to the app on his phone, it required little attention during the winter months, but it seemed to enjoy a bit of misting, and Aziraphale was happy to accommodate. "She said I could return to Heaven, if I wanted to." He lowered his voice and bent nearer. "As if I would! I am quite happy here, you know." He ran a fingertip under the bottom of a leaf. "There you are, all done."

Every other day he spent an hour or more at Crowley's flat, taking great care to ring the serpent bell on the outer door first, and when—inevitably—the door went unanswered, to enter with appropriate caution. Talking to Crowley's plants kept the demon present in his mind, though he was under no misapprehensions that he would approve Aziraphale's loving approach to plant care. A bit of angelic attention had caused the makeshift conservatory to overflow with not just lush but vibrantly lush plants. There was not a spot nor a drooping leaf to be seen, but neither was there trembling when he walked into the room. Indeed, every one of them, so uncertain that first day he had released them from his blessing, had grown taller; added leaves and, some of them, blossoms, stretching out their lovely plant limbs in every direction. He suspected that Crowley would employ pruning shears to curb their enthusiasm, but he didn't have it in his heart to make the attempt in his stead.

They even seemed to thrive amidst his idle chatter. He recounted stories from the past, of the humans he had known, of the events in history in which he had participated. But mainly he spoke about Crowley. At first his name had seemed to unnerve them, even when Aziraphale told them about his many kindnesses, his attentiveness, his inerrant ability to appear when Aziraphale needed him most. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought they had begun to preen a little now, when he sang Crowley's praises, as if they had come to comprehend that theirs was an elite little group, that they had been chosen specifically by Crowley, whom Aziraphale, his—and their—angel, adored.

The days grew shorter, the nights darker, the air chillier and more often damp. Aziraphale went to the park, to the theater, even once to the cinema. He tackled a couple of intricate restoration works, which occupied his mind and time for a few days. And he wandered the nighttime streets of London as magnificent displays of light and ornamentation were mounted overhead in anticipation of the season.

One evening, on his way back to the shop after caring for Crowley's plants, he spotted Adriel with her head tipped back and a look of quiet marvel on her face as she contemplated the angels shining over Regent Street. Her delight soothed him. He was not surprised when she sensed his presence and swung round to pin him with her gaze. He nodded politely and she responded in kind. The plants heard about it the next day, as well as getting glowing descriptions of the festive decorations.

Another day, he came across Gressil performing a mischief at a busy street intersection. Unobserved, he watched her for a while, noting that the humans shrinking away from a noxious odor with no apparent source were not being actively harmed. And they certainly didn't suspect the plainly dressed, older woman standing alongside a storefront, smiling darkly to herself.

Yet another time, on his way out of the park, he was stunned to spot Adriel ambling arm in arm with Gressil over the Blue Bridge. It was Gressil who saw him that time, and she cast a smug grin his way that sent a shiver down his spine. He went from stunned to astonished when Adriel playfully tapped the demon's forearm while giving Aziraphale a wry shrug. That day, he opened a couple of bottles of not terribly expensive or very good wine which he downed with the sole purpose of getting himself thunderingly intoxicated.

At the beginning of the second week in December, he turned the Closed sign toward the street and fixed his attention on starting his taxes. In the previous months, despite frequent treks to Crowley's flat to oversee his plants and his own occasional lonely wanderings about town, he had managed to get a good handle on his new inventory. Between the items lost from his old holdings and the new ones Adam had provided, the overall value was very nearly the same. But he was scrupulous in his documentation, and that in turn demanded a lot of effort on the part of his ancient computer, which chugged along crunching data like oxen pulling a harrow. The equally ancient dot matrix printer sometimes required hours to produce his completed forms. He was just thankful that the printer ribbon had yet to run out of ink—and never bothered to question why.

While the computer plodded along, Aziraphale entertained himself at the pop-up stalls in Covent Garden, sampling ginger biscuits, roasted chestnuts, and mulled wine. Wandering amidst the bright and colorful lights, he wondered where Crowley was and what he might be doing. His heart ached for him, and all the wine and sweets in the world could do little to compensate for his absence.

Mid-morning the following day, it was with a sigh of relief that he tied the strap on the year's tax ledger book (heavy and old, purchased as part of a job lot of more than a hundred in the early 1900s; only a handful remained) in the last week before Christmas. His Self Assessment tax return documents were neatly printed out and set aside in an envelope to be mailed later. Crowley had told him some years ago that HM Revenue and Customs preferred electronic filings these days, but his computer could do only basic computations, the internet far beyond its scope. Aziraphale, of the mind that HMR&C plundered excessive amounts of his time already, deemed it a frivolous miracle to upgrade his computer. So his return would go by post, as usual; HMR&C would audit him sometime next year, as it did almost every year; and all would be well.

A glance at his mobile, which had never yet received a response to any of the messages he had left on Crowley's phones, informed him that today was the twenty-first of December. Tonight would mark the winter solstice. To celebrate, he had planned a walk in the park, a visit to Crowley's plants, a quiet lunch at a favorite bistro, and perhaps, at the end of the day, a little private observance in the backroom with a mug of cocoa and dried fruits and nuts.

But his steps were leaden as he took the ledger upstairs for storing in his small business office. From long habit, he snapped his fingers as he went through the flat door, to dispel the latest accretion of dust. He walked past the tiny kitchen and the small bedroom, heading for the room where he kept his filing cabinets. And stopped, frozen for a few seconds, before spinning back around so quickly the movement dizzied him, as his brain belatedly registered what his eyes had glimpsed. Or was it a hallucination? Had his mind conjured the one thing in all the world that he longed to see?

As the dizziness faded and his vision cleared, the figure on the bed appeared before him in utter clarity. Unmistakable clarity. The ledger slipped from nerveless fingers and met the floor with a resounding bang—and the figure on his bed rose straight into the air, still horizontal, still lying on its side.

Crowley.

The demon came down on the edge of the bed, sitting loosely upright, eyes dazed and hazy with sleep. Scraping a hand over hair that was at least two inches longer than the last time Aziraphale had seen it, Crowley mumbled, "Hey, angel. Ready to go?"

It took a long time to form words, longer still to work lungs which declined to function properly. Crowley, mouth open in a cavernous yawn as he clambered to his feet, took advantage of the delay, widening his eyes exaggeratedly and stretching out his long arms as he shook off his slumber.

Finally mastering speech, Aziraphale rasped, "You've been asleep all this time?"

Crowley smacked his lips and shrugged. "Just a nap. They'll hold our reservation."

Aziraphale tried to swallow and couldn't, any more than he could steady his heartbeat or fully inflate his lungs. His struggles caused Crowley's brows to climb his forehead. Standing more or less on both feet, he ran his hand through his hair again, this time frowning vaguely to himself. "C'mon, angel. Even you have to admit it's been a rough week."

"A rough—"

Crowley jammed his hands into his pockets. "Well, it was. And it's not a big deal, all right? There'll be a table for us, even if we're late."

A sound escaped Aziraphale's lips that might have been a sob or a laugh. He himself couldn't have said which. But his body decided for him and, for the first time in his life, he burst into tears.

Crowley surged forward as if yanked on a cord. "Angel?" Tentatively extending a hand, he said, "Aziraphale? Are you—?" His hand hovered a few inches away. "Why are you crying?"

Shuddering hard, Aziraphale backed away a step. He swiped the tears from his cheeks with brusque hands. "Am I?" he warbled at last. "Surely not."

But Crowley was leaning nearer, his eyes raking over him: the collar that was missing a bow tie, the shirt open at his throat, the forearms exposed by rolled-up sleeves. "Why aren't you ready?" His voice was low and tense.

Aziraphale clapped both hands over his mouth as a fresh flood of tears assaulted his eyes. Crowley stared at him in horror. Aziraphale had never betrayed himself like this before, and he could only imagine what the demon was thinking. As Crowley edged nervously closer, Aziraphale continued to back away. "I'm sorry," Aziraphale blurted out at last. "I owe you so many apologies."

"What in Heaven are you talking about?" Spreading his hands wide, Crowley said evenly, "I overslept. It's not the end of the world. Why all the drama?"

Another of those horrible sobs leavened with a snort-laugh racked Aziraphale's body. He tried to will his rioting emotions to calm but discovered that they had devolved into chaos. "Drama," he hiccuped, hearing the note of hysteria in his own voice. "Oh, Crowley."

This time Crowley moved forward more quickly than Aziraphale could retreat. He caught Aziraphale's upper arms in bruising fingers and held him still while he narrowed the space between them. Desperately attempting to blink away the tears, to wish away the wetness on his cheeks and upper lip, Aziraphale struggled to break his hold. But Crowley gave his head a shake and jerked Aziraphale right up against him. Long, long arms folded around Aziraphale's body, so that they were pressed tightly together, and Crowley's chin was hooked over his shoulder, trapping Aziraphale in place. He could feel Crowley's nervousness in the erratic breaths lifting his chest, feel his anxiety in the twitching of the fingers that grasped the back of his waistcoat. "Is that your taxes on the floor?" Crowley asked, sounding baffled. "You've done them awfully early, haven't you?" When this set off a fresh onslaught of teary emotion, Crowley wrapped himself like a constrictor around him and pleaded, "Tell me what's wrong, angel."

For all the embarrassment, for all the shock, Aziraphale was exactly where he wanted to be. Sighing as the vise round his heart loosened for the first time in four months, he burrowed impossibly closer, his own arms encircling the demon's slender form, his cheek caught on an angular shoulder, his nose tucked against a sleep-warm throat, his entire body reveling in the demon's incredible heat. Just like that, from one second to the next, his world had righted itself. His tears evaporated, his breathing steadied, and his heartbeat resumed its usual rhythm. "I'm sorry I said those things," he croaked. "About us not being friends. I'm sorry I lied. Crowley, I love you."

Crowley stopped breathing. His hands stopped moving. His heart even stopped beating. "Aziraphale—"

But Aziraphale dared not let him complete whatever he meant to say. "Today is the solstice."

Crowley gasped, a tiny sound of dismay. When he finally spoke, which was only a few seconds but seemingly centuries later, his voice was small and shocked. "Same year?"

"Yes."

And then the long fingers were moving again, one set fidgeting with the hem of Aziraphale's waistcoat, the other clutching lightly at Aziraphale's flank. "Why didn't you wake me?" he asked, in what he probably believed was the epitome of a measured tone.

Closing his eyes and brushing his cheek against the bared skin just above where neck met shoulder, Aziraphale murmured, "I didn't know where you were."

Crowley swallowed audibly. "And where did you think I'd go without my car?"

"It wasn't at your flat," Aziraphale informed him tetchily, with just a hint of whine. "I did look."

Breathing out a laugh, which once more stirred the small hairs on the back of Aziraphale's neck, Crowley said, in that same, even manner, "That's because it's parked out in the courtyard. Or, it better be." Without disengaging any part of them, he snapped his fingers. Almost immediately a dejected tootle rose up from behind the bookshop.

"Oh." Aziraphale grimaced but did not let go. Despite his best efforts, he could hear the peevishness in his own voice. "You know I never go back there."

"Or come up here, apparently." One of Crowley's hands cupped the back of Aziraphale's head, his fingers furrowing into his hair. "You were at my flat?"

"I watered your plants. Oh, Crowley." Aziraphale sucked in a deep breath. "I thought you were angry with me. I thought you'd left without saying a word—but that really was, somehow, just a customer. I thought you couldn't forget all those awful things I said. All those awful, stupid things. I was afraid you would never come back—"

Crowley interrupted him firmly. "Angel. I was never gone." He was applying steadying strokes now, one hand laying down a path from the top of Aziraphale's spine all the way to the small of his back. Down and up. Down and up. All while his other hand was holding Aziraphale's head in the cradle of his fingers.

Melting against him, Aziraphale moaned. "I didn't know that! I looked for you. I phoned you. I talked to Heaven and Hell."

Crowley stopped breathing again. "You—"

"They've replaced us," Aziraphale explained hurriedly, not understanding Crowley's shiver as he spoke against the demon's throat. "Gressil said Hell is looking for you—but only to tell you to stay away. Adriel wants to meet you—"

"What?"

"She's nice. Lovely, even. I saw her and Gressil walking together last week. It was the oddest thing, they looked so—"

Crowley raised his head and said his name, cutting him off. "What you said? Just a minute ago. About, um, love?" He brushed his thumb against Aziraphale's lower lip, and Aziraphale gulped. "Did you mean it?"

Afraid that his voice would break if he tried to speak, Aziraphale merely nodded.

A tiny smile tugged at the corners of Crowley's mouth. He kept their eyes locked together as he moved close again and lowered his head until their lips were only a kiss away. Aziraphale, heart stampeding in his chest, tilted his chin up to meet him.

Crowley's mouth was exquisitely soft and gentle, undemanding but encouraging a response. When they broke apart, he dropped his forehead to Aziraphale's shoulder and let out a long sigh. "Angel, I've wanted to kiss you for so long."

Still not trusting his voice, Aziraphale whispered, "Maybe we can do that again sometime?"

Crowley snorted. He immediately began to plant light kisses from the base of Aziraphale's neck to beneath his ear and with worshipful slowness around the soft curve of his jaw. When he reached the corner of his mouth, he waited until Aziraphale, breathless, turned to welcome his lips. This time they kissed for longer, their mouths languid, searching, discovering each other. As their lips separated again, with a tiny moist sound, Crowley murmured, "Was that too soon?"

Aziraphale let out a dreamy sigh. "Perfect. It was perfect."

"Again?"

"Hm."

Some moments passed and the only sounds in the flat were the quiet rustle of clothing as they explored each other with modest touches, and the low murmurings of pleasure as they kissed and kissed.

"My ringer was off," Crowley stated, when they paused again for breath.

"Hm?"

"You said you phoned me."

"Oh, yes." Thoughtfully licking his lips while utterly unaware of the effect it was having on Crowley, Aziraphale said lightly, "You'll find a number of calls from me in your, um, voicemail."

"You know about voicemail?" Crowley's mouth was an inch from Aziraphale's, and Aziraphale's eyes were shuttering closed again.

"Oh, yes." He leaned closer. "I even have a … mobile."

Crowley's amused exclamation was smothered by yet another kiss. When they released each other this time, he said throatily, "I believe I offered you lunch."

"I believe you did."

Nibbling on Aziraphale's earlobe until he squirmed, he drew away for a short pause, then said, "There is now a table waiting for us at the Ritz. Half an hour. Do you think you can be ready?" A wicked glint sparked in his eyes. "I'll help."

"I think," Aziraphale observed with less tartness than intended, "that if you help, we'll be late."

Crowley dropped his hands to Aziraphale's hips. Baring far too many teeth in far too predatory a manner, he began, "If we're late, they'll—"

Aziraphale laid a finger across his lips. Crowley kissed it as if that was the only acceptable response. "I've waited almost four months for this, you devil. For you." He glanced meaningfully across at his bed, which still bore the imprint of the demon's long sleep; Crowley followed his gaze with interest. "But first I think we should have lunch."

Crowley's smirk wavered. His eyes, huge and yellow, were suddenly vulnerable. "I won't ever leave you, Aziraphale, you know that, don't you? I'm sorry you—" Aziraphale placed his finger over his mouth again.

"Hush," he whispered. "You have nothing to be sorry for." He widened his eyes, imploring. "But you must let me make it up to you for all those times I—"

Crowley shook his head again, harder, so that his hair fell over his forehead, beguilingly disheveled. "Angel, don't. I'm not angry. I'm not upset. Never was, not really." He laid his hand flat upon Aziraphale's chest. "You said it's the solstice. New beginnings, right? Then—let's start again. Clean slate for both of us."

Aziraphale felt his eyes moisten and dropped his head so that Crowley wouldn't see. "Clean slate," he repeated against Crowley's shoulder. "I do love you, you know."

"Of course you do." Crowley leaned back, and his eyes were warm with affection, his mouth winsomely undemonic. He stepped away, then, though his hands dragged, apparently reluctant to release him. "Go on, get ready. I'll wait out here."

Aziraphale beamed at him. "Two ticks, I promise."

"Not going anywhere," Crowley assured him again. "And Aziraphale—"

Aziraphale stopped at the door, staring back at Crowley with helpless adoration. "Hm?"

Crowley's voice dropped a register, the words coming out with husky sincerity, "Love you, too, angel."