Archive of Our Own ^beta

There are no lovers, dear, in the under world,

No love but here.

- To His Mistress, Asklepiades, trans. Dudley Fitts

Aziraphale’s never been unconscious before, so it all comes as a bit of a shock when he comes to on the dirty floor of an unfamiliar place. He spends a few minutes staring at what’s in front of him, which eventually coalesces from a throbbing multicolor patchwork into a rough-hewn wood floor with a thick coating of dust. Further off, splashes of dull color are, apparently, rugs. They make his head throb uncontrollably. He makes a noise of disapproval. Way off to the right stand what might be table legs; to the left, the flagstones of a hearth. Aziraphale seems to be on top of something. Another rug, maybe, except it’s rather bony, and starting to move rather alarmingly, and saying something like, “Ow, what the bloody-”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, and the thing he’s laying on stops moving. Then it groans. “Crowley, get up,” says Aziraphale, ignoring the physics of the situation. The thing - which must be Crowley - groans again. Then it says, slightly muffled, as if pressed into the floor, “Aziraphale, what are you doing here?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. I don’t even know where here is,” Aziraphale says. Aziraphale’s vision is lurching in time with his corporation’s heart rate. His head aches. He’s really not in the mood for demonic mysteries. “What I ought to ask is what are you doing here,” he says, accusingly. “I thought you were off in - Paris, or something.”

Crowley sputters a bit, then says, “Oh, because it’s got to be me, right, demon, source of all evil-”

“No, that’s not what I - you know what-” Aziraphale rolls off Crowley. It’s a short fall. He knocks the side of his face off the floor, which sets off fresh thunder in his head. He pushes himself up to sitting, watches Crowley roll over onto his back and stare up at the ceiling. “Ow,” Crowley says again. He’s glassesless, and his yellow eyes are very wide. Aziraphale looks around. They appear to be in some sort of a small cottage, roughly paneled and sparsely decorated. He can see the whole thing at a glance: a stove, a hearth, a table and benches; a washstand, a chair, and a bed. He doesn’t recognize the place. It’s not somewhere he’s ever been before.

It’s dim in there; two windows, and that’s all. He can’t tell what time of day it is. It might be night. Then again, it might be mid-day. The wind whistles outside, a high, lonesome sound. It’s cold. Freezing, in fact. There’s no fire. Their breaths puff out white in front of their faces. He focuses. There’s the smack of - something angelic, he thinks. Or maybe something demonic. He can’t fix on it; it weaves in front of him, like a drunk. Whatever it is, it makes him uneasy. Aziraphale gets to his feet, slowly, brushing himself off; Crowley groans some more, and pushes himself up. Aziraphale looks him up and down. He’s in all black and red, of course, with dreadfully slim trousers on, and a short coat, and a - “good Lord, what is that on your face?” Aziraphale says in real alarm.

Crowley scowls. “S’a mustache, angel. S’all the rage.”

“It’s - rising up against you,” Aziraphale says, pointing. Its ridiculous shape only serves to accentuate the flatness of Crowley’s mouth, which now disappears into thinness entirely.

“I don’t have to take this from someone who’s never, not once, worn real facial hair. Muttonchops don’t count,” he says, before Aziraphale can speak. “Y’know what they used to call you back in Greece - called you-”

“The Nitrian Desert. Yes! Fourth century,” Aziraphale says, loudly, to cut Crowley off. Crowley blinks, pulls his head back, eyebrows furrowing. A snake perplexed. “What?” he says.

“If you must know, I appeared to Anthony,” Aziraphale says, haughtily. “Meant to - er. Inspire him with confidence. I had quite the beard then. Stretched all the way down to-” he gestures, and Crowley looks on with real interest. “Ah, never mind,” Aziraphale says. “It was meant to make me look pious and trustworthy.”

Crowley says, frowning, “I didn’t see you there.”

“Oh, was that - of course that was you. Tempting the poor man with all those women-”

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up. “That was all him. All I did were the wild beasts.” He mimes creeping. “Bit of fun, that was.” His hair is slicked down rather aggressively, and he holds in one hand the shattered remains of his dark glasses. He’s got a nasty bruise forming on his temple; Aziraphale touches his own, gingerly, suspecting he’s got much of the same. Crowley’s eyes are drawn to it. “What happened to you?” he asks.

“Rather the same as what happened to you, I expect,” Aziraphale says, dryly, and looks around. ¹ “Where are we?”

“Blessed if I know,” Crowley says, “but it feels…” He trails off.

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” says Aziraphale.

Crowley curses. Aziraphale turns around, ² and sees Crowley gesture at his sunglasses. Nothing happens. He tries again. “Miracles aren’t working,” he mutters, brief and low, and looks at Aziraphale. Aziraphale sucks in a breath. He pulls down, lightly, and over, just describing the shape of glasses in the air, and feels - nothing. He reaches out. He can’t even feel where his power is. No, that’s not quite right. He can feel it, but it’s as if it’s far off, behind a plate of smudged glass.

“Neither are mine,” Aziraphale says. “Can you feel-” he gestures up, circles his finger around. Crowley nods, lips coming back from his teeth-

“Aziraphale! Demon!” A voice booms through the cabin, literally on top of them, all around them. Crowley flinches.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale hisses. He and Crowley stare at each other. Then, there’s a sound like a scuffle outside, and what might be some muttered cursing. ³ “Oi, Crowley, get your snakey arse out here!” a voice yells.

“That’ll be Beelzebub,” Crowley says, a little faintly. He looks like he’s going to be sick. ⁴ They stare at each other some more, then Aziraphale steps once, twice, putting some distance between them. Then they scramble for the door.

It’s. It’s Aziraphale’s worst nightmare outside, if Aziraphale slept, which he doesn’t, because he’s heard about nightmares, ⁵ and hasn’t wanted to risk one of his own. Because if he did sleep, he’s fairly certain he would have nightmares, and then this would be happening to him. Perhaps it’s the bump on the head. He touches it gingerly, then a little harder, hoping it will make him wake up, and perhaps he’ll be in the bookshop again. But no. Gabriel, wearing a fine suit of blue velvet and more diamonds than the fourth quadrant has stars, standing next to what Aziraphale presumes is Beelzebub, looking around impatiently. They’re standing on the far side of a small gray pond, waters heavy and dark with winter. Winter, which is the season it had been back in London, so they likely haven’t lost time, just place.

“Lord Beelzebub,” Crowley says. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Get over here, wanker,” Beelzebub says.

They make their ways over to their respective bosses, being very careful not to look at each other, as if it might help. Oh no oh no oh no Aziraphale says to himself as he goes we’ve been found out how foolish to think we’d never be found out that was why I held out as long as I did-

Gabriel’s smiling, but perhaps it’s the clothes. “Aziraphale, why the long face?” he says when Aziraphale gets in front of him. Aziraphale and Crowley are perhaps a meter apart, Crowley a long dark stain in the left side of his vision. He can feel the demon vibrating from here.

“Well, I, ah, suppose my head hurts a bit. I wouldn’t suppose you-”

“Oh,” Gabriel says and clasps his hands together, makes a face of contrition. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that, but only way to get you both here, I’m afraid. You’ll recover quickly, won’t you,” he says, clapping Aziraphale on the shoulder. Aziraphale winces. “Aziraphale, cheer up! Now is your time to finally shine.”

“What do you mean?” he says.

“You have been chosen!”

Aziraphale gestures at himself, wordlessly.

“Yes, you!” Gabriel says. “You’ve been chosen by-” he points up, and Aziraphale swallows, following his finger - “to show all of Heaven and Hell the true triumph of an angel over evil.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale says. He can’t look at Crowley. He looks at Crowley, whose darting yellow eyes meet his gaze, then dart away.

“Not if a demon triumphzzz over good,” Beelzebub says.

“What?” Crowley says. Beelzebub sighs. Gabriel says, to Beelzebub, not quietly at all, “Is he always this stupid?” Crowley snarls, lips drawing back from his teeth.

“Is he?” Beelzebub asks, nodding at Aziraphale. Gabriel makes a face that is really terribly insulting. Beelzebub shrugs. They say, “Look, apparently your Lord and Master and-” they glance up - “wanted you two to - y’know - sort it out.”

“Since you’ve been on Earth so long, and still haven’t gotten the better of him,” Gabriel says. “Well - I-” Aziraphale says.

“And, well, you know how the Almighty likes betting,” says Gabriel. ⁶ “So there is - let’s say a bet - about the outcome of a contest between you two.”

“A contest?” Aziraphale says, faintly. He’s never been sick a day in his life. ⁷ He thinks he’s going to be sick now.

“Ere’s the good bit,” Beelzebub says, leering at Crowley.

“You’ll like this part,” Gabriel says to Aziraphale.

“One of you’s got to kill the other in a month, or you both die. Why a month?” Beelzebub says now, turning to Gabriel, over the sounds of Crowley sputtering. “Should make it a week. An hour.”

“It’s not for us-” Gabriel says, gesturing at himself and Aziraphale - “to question the Almighty. Even though you might.” Beelzebub sneers, a showing of dark teeth. “It’s a human thing. Very symbolic, months are.”

“Excuse me, what?” Aziraphale says.

Beelzebub stares at him like he’s stupid. “You two got a month.” They look between him and Crowley. “Yeah? One of you’s got to kill the other one, or both of you die.”

“Oh, and you can’t leave,” Gabriel says. “Equalizes the playing field. We’re really looking forward to this, you know.”

“We?”

“All of Heaven.”

“And all of Hell. So don’t muck it up, Crowley,” Beelzebub sneers.

“What - and then what happens?” Aziraphale says. “When we’ve. You know.” He gestures, and laughs, nervously.

“Oh, it’s not permanent,” Gabriel says, with every appearance of great disappointment. “Just discorporation. Our God is a kind and merciful God,” he says to Aziraphale, who nods in confusion, his mouth a little open. Beelzebub makes a retching noise behind him, and Crowley snorts. “Anyway,” Gabriel says, “Apparently the victor gets to leave? And the loser will be, and I quote - do you have that contract?” Beelzebub manifests a scroll from somewhere on their person, and hands it to Gabriel,⁸ who unrolls it and reads. “Ah, yes,” he says. “Tormented with a thousand aching pains in the core and extremities of their person.”

“Filing,” says Beelzebub, and grins. Crowley twitches beside him.

“Try to make sure it’s not you, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says. “We’ve already given away your desk.”

“I had a desk?” Aziraphale says. No one answers him.

“Out of curiosity,” Crowley says, “Who, ah, who bet on who?”

“Well, it appears that Satan bet on Aziraphale successfully ending your rotten damned existence,” Gabriel says cheerfully.

“Which means…” Crowley says, trailing off. “You mean-” Crowley swallows. “She bet on me? Killing him?” Crowley says.

Beelzebub sneers. “Apparently,” they say.

And then Crowley starts to get angry. Aziraphale can see it, rising up his throat, turning his face red. Soon that vein on his forehead is going to - oh dear, there it goes. Aziraphale can feel his anger too, filling the atmosphere, a white-hot fork of lighting, feeling rather like the time he and Crowley had gone flying up before that terrible storm, high up in the clouds, kilometers up, where the lightning started, a long hair-raising crackle running along the clouds.⁹ Gabriel doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he does, because his smile hardens, just a bit. Beelzebub just shakes their head.

“We’ll be back in a week, sunshine,” Gabriel says. “And try to do it outside if you can. We can’t see in that - hovel,” he says, his nose wrinkling. With that, he starts to shimmer, and he’s gone. Beelzebub sneers at Crowley. “Don’t muck it up,” they say again, and in a short sharp pull, they’re gone.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, turning towards the demon, and stops in his tracks. Crowley’s teeth are bared, his eyes blazing, and he’s breathing short shallow breaths in through his teeth. “Don’t,” he growls. “Don’t say anything.”

So Aziraphale doesn’t, just wrings his hands, and looks around at the bleak gray moor all around them, only slightly darker than the bleak gray sky hanging low above them. Aziraphale can’t help but notice the moon’s rising, still full and ghost-white, waning even as he looks at it. Time’s passing. A month. That’s not long, not long at all.

Crowley slithers off on a round of the moor that stretches all around them. Aziraphale follows him, at a great enough distance to be plausibly deniable, if anyone’s watching, which, apparently, they are. Aziraphale’s got his hands clasped behind his back, seemingly casual, but the entire time, on the other plane, he’s reaching out every meter or so to tap on the glass, so to speak. Because there is glass, in a way, a great, impenetrable barrier in a rough circle around the bounds of what is, apparently, their cage. A sharp, cold wind picks up, making Aziraphale’s eyes water, bringing the smell of the pond over to him, heavy and brackish in the back of his throat. The enclosure, as they circle, Aziraphale following Crowley’s increasingly weaving movements, consists of roughly a hectare of gray grassy moorland, made darker and more inhospitable by winter. There’s the cottage, looking even smaller and shabbier from the outside, the dark gray pond, which is deep enough to drown in, if Aziraphale’s any judge, ¹⁰ watched over by a ghostly weeping willow, its long thin lash-like branches nearly kissing the water below. Far off, across the long, lonely moor, the dark rise of mountains they can see but not reach.

Aziraphale catches up with Crowley back where they’d started. Crowley’s brooding. “Up?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley nods, and they both let out their wings, each an individual rush of wind, and soar up, up. The same barrier’s above them, some sort of dome. On another plane, the dome looks like - not that Aziraphale can see it - a snow globe, a fishbowl,¹¹ a gumball machine. The barrier itself, as they reach it, is repulsive and sparking, sending a nasty little shock through Aziraphale’s entire corporation, tingling out from his fingers to rejoin the barrier. Crowley curses beside him, and shakes his fingers out, so Aziraphale imagines he’s felt the same thing.

They fly the entire dome. There’s no way out. Aziraphale hadn’t thought there would be. When She decides to do a thing, She usually does it All the Way. Like the Flood. Or all of Job’s children. Or Her son.¹²

They admit defeat, and go inside, where at least there’s a fire.

“At least there’s plenty of wood,” Aziraphale says, and tries a laugh.

“Guess Someone doesn’t want us freezing to death. Might spoil the fun,” Crowley mutters.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, as he stares into the flames, “it ought to be you who does the killing.”

“Excuse me?” Crowley says, in his most dangerous tone, the one that gets low and comes out entirely through his teeth.

“Well, it can’t be me. If you’re discorporated, there’s no telling when Hell will let you out again. At least if it’s me I’ll get a new body soon enough. Just have to fill out the proper paperwork.” He turns to Crowley, then, and is startled. Crowley’s staring at him, his eyes blazing, absolutely furious, his lips pulled back from his teeth.

“You think I can. You think. You think I can kill you?”

“Well, you are a demon, aren’t you? Shouldn’t it, you know, come naturally?”

Crowley lets out a literal howl of frustration and storms out of the cottage.

He’s gone for hours. Aziraphale doesn’t worry. There’s nowhere the demon can go, although Aziraphale does peer out the windows once or twice to see Crowley sitting under the willow tree on the shores of the pond, throwing things into the water. He looks like he might be having an argument with himself.¹³ Still, Aziraphale wishes he’d come back in, so they could talk about it, like rational beings. It’s awfully cold out there, and only getting colder, Aziraphale thinks, as the day slips into dusk. Crowley has to come back in eventually. He won’t spend the whole night out there. In the meantime, Aziraphale pokes at the fire. He rereads the contract until he’s got it memorized, because there’s nothing else to read. He looks in the direction of the door, and sighs, every now and again, as if Crowley can hear him.¹⁴ It’s nighttime when Crowley storms back into the cottage, storms over to the table, where Aziraphale is sitting, leans on it, right in Aziraphale’s face.

“If anything, it sssshould be me who diessss,” he hisses. His hair is wild, pulled out of its slicked-down slick curve as if he’s been tugging at it. “You get killed by a demon, they might take you off Earth forever, put you on desssssk duty. Jusssst can’t cut it. Angel killsss a demon, happens all the time. No one batssss an eye. You’re sssupposed to win. Expected to.” His eyes are wild, huge, yellow, his chest heaving.

Aziraphale doesn’t respond, just stares pointedly over his shoulder at the door he’s left swinging open. Crowley snarls and gestures at it. When it doesn’t close, he gets angrier, stalks over to it, and slams it shut. “Really,” Aziraphale says, and then freezes, because Crowley’s suddenly in his face, at his throat, one hand on the table, the other on the bench, close to his leg.

“Sssay I kill you,” Crowley says. “You’re doomed to an eternity of torment and pain. You think you dessserve an eternity of torment and pain?”

“And you do?” Aziraphale says.

Crowley freezes. They stare at each other, both breathing hard. Aziraphale looks around.

“How on earth do they expect us to kill each other without weapons, anyway?” Aziraphale says.

Crowley grins, and in an instant, he’s transformed, or perhaps revealed,¹⁵ teeth sharpening and crowding to fill his mouth, nails lengthening and darkening into claws. He snarls, familiar face turned threatening and monstrous.

Aziraphale gives him a look. “I hardly see how that’s fair,” he says, primly. “What do I have?”

“Y’know, your whole big strong guardian thing,” says Crowley promptly.

“What am I going to do, sit on you?”

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up, and all the claws and teeth, combined with that expression, make him look foolish, a monster surprised. Aziraphale feels such a rush of - something - that it makes him nearly breathless. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face, but something certainly seems to, because Crowley cocks his head a bit, then lets the enhancements slip away, until he’s just Crowley again, nothing daemonic about him.¹⁶ They stare at each other. The fire crackles in the fireplace. It would almost be merry, if they weren’t trapped here, under a death sentence.

Aziraphale says, gently, “I’m sure it won’t come to that.” Crowley snorts. “We have a month, Crowley,” he says, a little pleadingly. “We can figure this out in a month. We just need to-” he turns back to the contract, parchment rattling under his fingertips, and lifts it up to his eyes. Crowley sighs, and stalks over to the mattress in the corner, dropping down on it. It’s in shadow; the moonlight coming in through the window misses it, is instead thrown across the floor. “Wake me up when you figure it out,” he says, but he doesn’t sleep. Aziraphale can hear him breathing, can feel him watching Aziraphale, all night long.

They fall into a routine. There’s nothing to do but kill time. Crowley sleeps, most of the time, a sullen, petulant lump on the mattress, which he drags in front of the fire on the second day, and leaves there. Aziraphale reads the contract over and over again, looking for a loophole, a way out. He reads it out loud in case there’s something he missed, while Crowley groans.

“Be it therefore thus: the Angele Aziraphale and the daemon Crowley, formerly known as the angel ‡-Ø-∏-‡-‡-°-¿-˜-ı-◊-ÍÍ - Aziraphale’s eyes burn ¹⁷ reading it, and Crowley hisses in warning. He moves hastily on. “-are hereby bound to engage in physical contact - I’m sure they meant combat,” Aziraphale says. “-until one or the other, but not both, have suffered the tremors of death, be it ever so small, this death necessarily being caused by the actions of the other aforementioned party. Signed by hand and by hoof, God and Lucifer.”

“Aziraphale,” says Crowley, “If you read that one more time out loud, I’ll kill you myself.” And the thought’s, well, it’s tempting, but-

Aziraphale puts the contract under an empty water jug on the table and leaves it there. He’ll read it later, when Crowley goes to sleep. There has to be something he’s missed. He knows it. God wouldn’t want them to do this. If God knows - well, the jury’s still out on whether God knows everything and just turns a blind eye, or whether God knows everything, and approves, or whether God doesn’t know everything, which seems, somehow blasphemous. He doesn’t think God would ask them to do - this. It doesn’t seem right.

On the fourth day, Aziraphale’s outside for a walk, namely, dipping his feet in the pond, which is freezing. He’s only doing it because he Ought to, it’s Bracing, Quite Enjoyable, Really. He grimaces as he tries these out in his head, his toes already going numb, the cold biting at his ankles.¹⁸ It’s one of the nicest days they’ve had so far, the sun burning bright and sullen behind the thick gray clouds. Aziraphale has never felt so far away from the heavens as he does right now. A small cold wind shivers the grass. When he goes back in, Crowley’s lounged sideways in the armchair, his socked feet dangerously close to the fire, glowering at the flames. Aziraphale steels himself for a recurrence of their latest argument. Aziraphale’s already forgotten what it was about.¹⁹ Except - Crowley’s unusually rigid with nervousness.²⁰ Aziraphale blinks. Something’s different about the demon, something lighter, something less demonic. Crowley’s mouth twitches, perhaps in irritation, and Aziraphale’s eyes are drawn to his lips. That’s it. The horrendous mustache is gone. An apology, perhaps.²¹ His entire posture dares Aziraphale to say something. Aziraphale doesn’t, not then, but about six, seven hours later, when they’re both in front of the fire - Aziraphale in the chair, Crowley sprawled on the mattress haram-style,²² Aziraphale says, “My dear-”

“Don’t,” Crowley growls.

The days go on. Crowley sleeps in front of the fire on the mattress; Aziraphale sits in the chair, feeds the fire. They try to come up with ways to get out of it.²³

“You could always do the-” Aziraphale gestures with his fingers, a twiddling suggesting the winding of a clock.

“Nah,” says Crowley. “Tried that already. First day. You could kill Gabriel.”

“Don’t be preposterous,” Aziraphale says.

They each have bad days, like the day Crowley spends railing at God, Satan, and the entire Great Plan, and no matter how much Aziraphale cringes, the roof doesn’t cave in, no great sweeping storm comes to carry them away, the pond waters don’t rise to Flood levels.²⁴ Or the day Aziraphale, having paced the cottage so thoroughly he knows every rough splinter, every knot of wood, bursts out, “We’re trapped here! Like, like-”

“Garden was a kind of trap, too,” Crowley points out, and Aziraphale opens his mouth, closes it again. He doesn’t have anything to say. Crowley’s probably right. He usually is.

In between outbursts like these, they talk about Greece, about Rome, about Constantinople, about the American West, where Crowley has recently been. “The stars,” he says to Aziraphale one night. “You wouldn’t believe.” They don’t talk about the bet, don’t talk about Edinburgh, don’t talk about holy water. One night, lying on the mattress, Crowley says, “You think they’re telling the truth about not seeing in this place?”

“Well, I suppose we’ll find out,” Aziraphale says, and lets out a nervous little laugh. Aziraphale is incredibly aware of the days ticking past in a way he hasn’t been since the ark, since those three days in Rome, since the time Crowley had been taken down in Edinburgh, and Aziraphale had gone back to London, eventually, and sat in the shop, helpless, clenching and unclenching his hands, dusting and re-dusting the books, waiting for Crowley to be returned. They’ve twenty-two days left. Then nineteen. The moon is weakening, slipping smaller and smaller each night. It never really seems to leave the sky, here. Even in the middle of the day it hangs, ghostly and pale. Still, it’s fine. They’ve got plenty of time to figure it out. Except Aziraphale is beginning to worry that figuring it out will mean figuring out which one of them will die at the hands of the other. It should be him. It just makes more sense. Heaven goes in - generally - for less eternal punishment and pain.²⁵ Aziraphale can take a bit of humiliation, can take a dressing-down, can take a few dozen years in the buzzing white emptiness of Heaven. Heaven is a pure, empty heart, a clean vessel.²⁶ He tries to explain this to Crowley, who refuses to listen to him. Every time Aziraphale brings it up, tries to persuade him, even pulls out the Eyes.²⁷ Crowley says, “No, Aziraphale,” patiently, tiredly, like he could repeat it all month. Aziraphale is beginning to worry neither of them will be able to do it. He can’t do it. He couldn’t even give Crowley holy water. And then the end of the lunar month will come, and they’ll both die, and be punished, forever.

It seems Crowley’s had rather the same idea, the stubborn bastard, because he’s trying his hardest to needle Aziraphale into killing him. Crowley says all sorts of awful things about God, about the ineffable plan, and some really unspeakable things about Aesop, which Aziraphale is certain he doesn’t believe, not really, and which certainly will not drive Aziraphale to kill him, although the angel does have to go outside and stand in the frigid pond until he stops gritting his teeth. The cold leaves him feeling drained and empty,²⁸ and when he goes back inside and sees Crowley sulking in front of the fire, his arms crossed, their eyes meet. Crowley’s are ancient, watchful. The oldest serpent in the cosmos. Crowley says, “Get that murderous rage all out of your system, angel?”

Aziraphale says, “You know I’ve never had a moment of murderous rage in my life,” which they both know is a lie, because they were both there for Nero.²⁹

It doesn’t help that there’s no food. Aziraphale rather misses food. He doesn’t need it of course, but Crowley must get sick of him sighing wistfully at eleven o’clock, three o’clock, seven o’clock, and nine o’clock,³⁰ because one day, the demon disappears outside for a while, and when he comes back inside, his hands and shirtsleeves and trouser knees and vest are dirty and there’s a smear of dirt on his cheek. His hands are full of things that look like knobbly white rocks. Aziraphale peers at them.

“Potatoes,” Crowley says, shortly. “Found em in the - used to be a garden, I think. From the last poor bastards who got stuck here, I bet. You can eat em. Might be weird,” Crowley says gruffly.

“Oh, my dear, I’m sure they’ll be wonderful,” Aziraphale says.³¹ He’s already warming up a pan of water for Crowley to wash off with, and he means to look away, he really does, but when Crowley strips to the waist to wash his arms, shirt hanging down behind him, his shoulders and back working in the firelight, which flickers on his damp skin, shadows like wings-

That night Crowley falls asleep on the mattress, blanket pulled up around his chin, his face strangely relaxed in sleep, and it’s a bizarre thing, for an angel to want - physically-

It’s not a thing that angels do.

It’s not a thing that angels are.

To be drawn to this very specific, physical, created thing, a mirage, an image-

The two of them, of course, look very different on another plane: right now, perhaps, the cottage is a locked box, with two beads rattling around inside it, one black, one white. Or: a sewing box with a single scrap of fabric in it, the same fabric, only one end of it is stained, singed, perhaps, by a cigarette-burn hole - not a perfect circle, something a little ragged. Or it’s a cage with tight shining bars with deep gouges on them from attempts to get out. Inside, a giant serpent sleeps, while something with too many eyes watches guard.³² Or, it’s a shabby little cottage, with the fire flickering lower and lower, and a red-haired man-shaped being sleeps, a long arm thrown above his head, his blanket slipping down, while a white-haired man-shaped being watches him fiercely, breathing shallowly.

This place is going to be the death of him, Aziraphale thinks, in more ways than one.

Aziraphale is taking a turn around the moor, as he does thrice a day, to take the air, and Crowley is accompanying him, as he does, thrice a day, because what else has he got to do, as he says each time, when they feel a frisson of Heavenly energies. “Urgh,” says Crowley, and they each shuffle away from the other.

“Best to get it over with,” Aziraphale suggests. They round the corner of the cottage and see their respective bosses standing an appropriate distance apart. Beelzebub’s got their arms crossed, eyeballing Gabriel, who is staring haughtily back.

“Oh,” says Beelzebub, with clear disappointment, when they get closer. “You’re still alive. Both of you.”

“Yes, well, you didn’t give us any weapons,” Aziraphale says. “To, ah, smite my mortal enemy.”³³

“Didn’t think a principality would need any weapons, but okay,” says Gabriel. “Did not the Lord create you with no fewer than seven weapons at your disposal?”³⁴

“In the interest of - efficiency,” Aziraphale tries.

Gabriel, whose hands were spread, now clasps them together. “But of course.” He gestures, and Aziraphale is suddenly holding a great big sword.³⁵

“It’s not your issued one,” Gabriel says. “That one can’t be found.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. “That’s - odd. Must be buried in the bookstore somewhere under the Pliny. Makes it rather difficult to find.”

“Right,” says Gabriel, in the tone of someone who doesn’t believe his subordinate, at all, but who also doesn’t care in the slightest.

“Hey!” says Beelzebub. “If the angel gets a weapon, so does he.” They gesture, and suddenly Crowley’s holding a great big nasty rusty spear. The tip of it oozes with something unspeakable. As Aziraphale watches, a drop falls to the ground, and the dead grass begins to smoke.

“Perhaps, ah,” Aziraphale says. “Perhaps the month, could, ah, reset - I mean, really, now that we have weapons-”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gabriel snaps. Then he says, “I like that you want to drag out his suffering. Shows initiative. Something that’s been lacking in the Earth outpost lately, don’t you agree?” He looks around. Beelzebub nods. Aziraphale flushes, but says nothing.

“Well,” says Gabriel, clapping his hands together. “We’ll leave you to it, huh! This is all highly anticipated by Heaven, you know.”

“And Hell,” Beelzebub says, quickly.

Gabriel steps forward, drops his voice, but is still clearly audible to everyone. Beelzebub and Crowley look on with interest. Clearly the first requirement for being a demon is rudeness..³⁶ “Don’t embarrass us, Aziraphale. Not that a member of the host could ever embarrass themselves, of course.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, and smiles tightly.

A shimmer, and both Gabriel and Beelzebub fade out. Aziraphale waits a second, two, as the weight of their presence dissipates, a lightening of pressure that feels like a relief.

“Wish I got to pick which angel I killed,” Crowley says. He touches the tip of his spear, where it’s still oozing, then licks his finger. “Eurgh,” he says. “Poison.” He hefts the spear, then turns, and throws it into the pond. Aziraphale’s so caught up in watching him turn, a graceful pivot on the balls of his feet, that it takes him a second to say, “Crowley! Why would you do that?”

“Not gonna use it, am I?” Crowley shrugs. “Sides, that’s a nasty poison. Angel-killer. Don’t want to leave it around where someone can run into it by accident.”

Aziraphale flushes. “That was one time!”³⁷

Crowley tuts.

“I don’t know what you expected when you filled that castle with all those horrible weapons.”

“S’art, angel.”

“No, the unicorn tapestries. That’s art.”

For some reason, Crowley flushes.³⁸

They go in, because it’s getting cold, and a cold heavy rain is starting, and Crowley lays down on his mattress in front of the fire, and Aziraphale wishes he could join him, but he can’t, so after he puts the sword behind the door, he sits in the chair instead, looking down at Crowley, his hands in his lap. He half-listens while Crowley tells him a long meandering story about gold found in the American mountains, and Aziraphale tries to think how they can possibly get out of this, because it is looking more and more likely they are going to have to do something about this, after all.

The days pass, slowly. It rains for three days, a heavy, driving thing, hard gusts driving the rain against the side of the cottage. It’s so cloudy and dim they can’t see the moon, can’t track it, but Aziraphale can feel the time pass, and time isn’t even one of his. Trapped in the cottage, as they are, Aziraphale is acutely aware of Crowley’s presence at all times. He is never more than a meter and a half away, and Aziraphale can’t help but watch him, his long, graceful limbs, those wilesome hips, the great gleam of his eyes bright in the cabin, brighter than the fire, than any moon in the sky.

The weather breaks, finally, and Crowley escapes outside, immediately. Crowley has never done well with being caged, and his agitation is increasing, daily. Aziraphale, looking out at the gray and sodden world, wants to join him, but he doesn’t. Instead, he shuts the door behind him, places his hands together, and prays.

There’s no response, of course, but Aziraphale thinks he knows, now, what this is about. God wants Crowley to live. That’s clearly what the bet means. And if Satan wants Aziraphale to win, doesn’t that mean it’s wrong for him to survive, that his very survival would be Bad? Would be Evil?

Except Crowley doesn’t see it that way, of course. He explains it to Crowley that evening. It is, he thinks, a test by God to redeem Crowley. To banish Aziraphale to Hell where he belongs, consigned to an eternity of punishment and torment. Perhaps he will even Fall. “Surely,” Aziraphale says, desperately, “if God has bet on you being the victor, that means She wants you to live, and me to die. I’m sure you would even be forgiven."

“I don’t want to be forgiven,” Crowley snarls.

“Of course you do,” Aziraphale says, carelessly. There’s a second where he thinks Crowley might actually do it, a wild look in his eyes, a sudden surge of demonic rage. The temperature in the cottage shoots up a few hundred degrees. The table starts to smoke. Crowley lets out an incoherent noise, tugs on his hair, and escapes outside into the dark night.

A little while later, Aziraphale goes outside. He can see Crowley in the moonlight under the willow tree, a small, huddled shape. It’s clear and cold out, a sharp, biting cold. If he were back in London, he’d be in the bookshop, snug in his chair, the gas lamps turned up to a warm yellow glow. Perhaps Crowley would even be - but no. Crowley hasn’t been by in almost four decades. A length of time that’s nothing to them, not really, so why does it feel like an eternity, like time had felt before Time began, when they were all just still morningstars, all innocent as the - well, as a very innocent thing?

Aziraphale looks up at the moon: just over half-full, the dark crescent an ever-constant shadow clinging to the rest of it. Crowley appears at his side, suddenly, as he always does. His own ever-constant shadow. Crowley doesn’t say anything for a minute, just looks up, head tilted back.

Then Crowley says, “We’re going to have to choose, Aziraphale. You or me.” His voice is surprisingly soft.

“How on Earth could we possibly choose?”

“Could flip a coin,” Crowley suggests.

“You cheat.”

“Not always,” Crowley says.

It’s the following afternoon when he realizes, looking up, suddenly, from the contract, that it’s dreadfully quiet. The kind of quiet that means a serpent is up to no good. He’d heard that hush in the Garden, even the very wind in the trees seeming to cease, while Crowley whispered to Eve, just a vague susurration on the edges of Aziraphale’s hearing. He hadn’t spoken to Crowley since that morning, when Crowley’d woken and laid there awhile staring at the ceiling, and Aziraphale had tried not to watch him, even when he’d finally gotten up and washed at the washstand, and Aziraphale certainly hadn’t watched him then, no, hadn’t watched his back over it long and lean, his eyes closed as he rubbed his hands over his face just seen in quarter-profile, his lips parting as he gasped from the water gone cold overnight-

Then Crowley had dried off and said something short about going out, and Aziraphale had murmured something in response, and Crowley had skulked out the door into the raw day and Aziraphale had sat here and stared into the fire, until - now.

He picks his head up. It’s been hours, and Crowley hasn’t come back in yet. Aziraphale tells himself he’s fine. He’s a demon. There’s nowhere for him to go, after all. Still, Aziraphale gets up, sticks his head out the door. He can’t see him. “Crowley?” he calls out, but there’s no response. He ventures outside, wishing Gabriel had zapped him here with his greatcoat on, because it really is terribly cold. “Crowley?” he calls again, but Crowley’s not at the foot of the willow tree, not digging in the long-abandoned garden, not pacing the boundary-

Aziraphale’s head whips back around to stare at the tree. At the pond. And then - he sees it, a large dark spreading stain like oil on the water. No, it’s in the water. And it’s not moving.

Aziraphale starts to run.

He can barely make out Crowley in the dark waters, just a limp dark figure like a drowned bird. Aziraphale wades into the pond, splashing noisily, the water, absolutely frigid, taking his breath away as it races up his trouser-legs, drenching him. “Crowley!” he says, wading out to the center of the pond, and then the bottom drops out from under him, abruptly, and he loses his footing, and goes down into the water. The middle of the pond drops suddenly and sickeningly, ten foot, taller than Aziraphale, taller than even Crowley. Aziraphale’s sinking, Falling. Aziraphale flails his arms, opens his eyes, which burn and sting in the water. He can’t see a damned thing. So he grits his teeth, and opens his eyes in all the other Planes, and Looks.

And Sees. It is, of course, not really a pond after all, or rather, it is not just a pond. He curses himself for not seeing it before. It looks like nothing so much as a miniature black hole.³⁹ If Crowley’d had full use of his miracles he’d have been fine. No black hole could’ve affected an occult creature so quickly. But now, when Crowley’s rather defenseless, Aziraphale can see where it’s sucking away his core essence, reducing him down to only his weak corporation. Aziraphale wonders if he was supposed to use this to drown Crowley.⁴⁰ Unfortunately, the demon seems to be doing a fairly decent job by himself. He sees Crowley on one level on the edge of the black hole, atoms leaching into the hole faster than he can pull himself away. On another level, he sees Crowley Falling, a long, endless streak through space, and on another, very real level, he sees Crowley drowning, his lungs filling up with water.

Aziraphale reaches out on all levels, until he feels solid flesh and bone. He grabs and pulls.

They break the surface of the water as Aziraphale gasps for breath he technically doesn’t need. Crowley is slumped in his arms, a heavy weight, not quite a dead weight. Aziraphale has handled enough dead human bodies to know. All the same, Crowley’s not breathing. His lips are turning blue. Aziraphale says something extremely blasphemous.⁴¹ Then he says, “You stupid, stupid serpent," and drags him to shore, where he hauls him up out of the water, streaming onto the grass below, and slings him onto the ground, dropping on his knees beside him. Water pours off him. He’s shivering. He looks at Crowley’s slack, pale face, and slaps him, hard. Then he does it again. There’s nothing, just the sickening rock of Crowley’s head. "Come on, Crowley,” he mutters bracingly. “You don’t need to breathe.” Still, there’s nothing, no sign that Crowley’s heard him. Aziraphale dithers a few seconds. Then he reaches out in the other plane and gives Crowley the metaphysical equivalent of a slap.⁴²

Crowley convulses, gasps, a huge, heaving breath, swelling his thin chest. Then he chokes, and starts to flail. Aziraphale reaches out to help him as Crowley sits upright and vomits an extremely alarming amount of water. “That’s it, let it out, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his hand on Crowley’s soaked jacket.⁴³ Crowley fixes his yellow eyes balefully on Aziraphale when he’s done, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then spitting, then wiping his mouth again. Aziraphale is so relieved he could do something quite inappropriate. Instead, he hisses, “What were you thinking, you stupid serpent, you could’ve killed yourself! I mean really - oh my Lord, you were trying to kill yourself!” he accuses.

“No! I wasn’t! S’not on,” Crowley says. When Aziraphale glares at him, he says, “Wouldn’t do any good, anyway. She wants us to kill each other.” He shoves Aziraphale away from him, stumbles to his feet, swaying a little. Aziraphale reaches out for him, hands fluttering, but doesn’t take hold of him. Crowley turns his face up to the sky as water streams down him to patter on the ground below. “Couldn’t leave us alone, could you?” he yells, his voice hoarse and scratchy. Aziraphale startles, looks around. There’s nobody there, just the great endless moor, stretching in all directions. But he can’t shake the feeling that someone’s watching.⁴⁴ “Bollocks to your bloody bet!” Crowley yells out at the low gray sky, his head thrown back, hands balled into fists. Water drips from his hair, his clothes. “Bet on this-” Crowley raises both hands to do something extremely rude, and Aziraphale reaches out, finally grabbing his arms, and forcing them down.

“Yes, well, let’s just,” he says to Crowley, tugging on him. Crowley stumbles into him, off balance. “I won’t kill you,” Crowley says hoarsely to him, his eyelashes wet, with lake water or tears, Aziraphale doesn’t know. “I can’t.”

“I know,” Aziraphale says. “I know. Come on.” He looks around them, starts tugging Crowley towards the cottage. Crowley babbles as they go.

“Angel, s’an accident, I swear - just wanted to go for a swim, looked nice - remembered I couldn’t-”

“Can’t you swim?” Aziraphale says, incredulously.

“Snake, ‘member?” Crowley says. His teeth are beginning to chatter.

“Plenty of snakes can swim!”

“S’just a rumor.”

Aziraphale begins to list them all, pulling Crowley towards the cottage as fast as he can. His own limbs, weighted down with wet wool, feel heavy as stone. Crowley weaves and stumbles and Aziraphale’s got to pull him the last few steps, half-carrying him across the threshold, praying⁴⁵ no one’s watching at this exact moment. He practically shoves Crowley through the door and slams it shut behind him, then bars it. The thin heat of the cottage is almost suffocating after the clear cold chill of outside. He pushes the chair over to the fire, gets the blanket off the bed. When he turns around, Crowley’s slumped against the wall by the door where Aziraphale’s left him, his eyes closed. With his hair wet, and his eyes closed, his colors are muted; against all the black, he is incredibly pale. Aziraphale muscles him over to the fire, strips off his soaking clothes and dries him off, briskly, with the blanket. Crowley sways, gently, like a stiff breeze might do him in. “Almost done,” Aziraphale says, gently, and kneels to dry Crowley’s legs and feet, feeling his own wet clothes pull across his back as he does so. “Lift,” he says, and Crowley obediently lifts one leg, then the other, hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder to keep himself steady. Crowley’s eyes are very large and very yellow, watching him the entire time, and he really must be feeling very bad, because he doesn’t make any sort of comment at all. When Aziraphale’s done, he wraps the blanket, slightly damp, now, around Crowley’s shoulders, pulling it tight around him, and, with a hand on his shoulder, pushes him down in the chair. “Stay,” he tells Crowley, and Crowley, miracle of miracles, does.

Aziraphale fusses about, adds more wood to the fire, takes Crowley’s wet clothes outside and wrings them out. When he comes back in, Crowley’s asleep, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling under the blanket.⁴⁶ Aziraphale lays Crowley’s clothes out in front of the fire, where they start steaming. And then, because he’s just as soaked as Crowley was, he strips down himself, lays his clothes out next to Crowley’s, and stands in front of the fire to dry. The heat feels pleasant, just this side of too hot, and it dries his skin rapidly as he turns himself like a goose on a spit. Eventually, he just stands there, watching the wood burning, trying to think of a way out of this. All he can think of is Crowley’s still chest on the dead wet grass, Crowley’s face, turned to his, eyes wet. I won’t kill you.

After a while, there’s a choked-off noise behind Aziraphale. He turns. Crowley’s staring at him. His hair, drying, is half-wild, his blanket slipping down. “What are you - you can’t-” Crowley sputters, nodding at Aziraphale, who looks down at his nude body. He says, a trifle petulantly, “It’s perfectly natural. Besides, my clothes got wet pulling an ungrateful serpent out of the water, and now he’s got the only blanket in this forsaken place.”

Wordlessly, Crowley holds out a portion of his blanket. Aziraphale can see, revealed, the slump of his belly, his long lean thighs. Aziraphale goes over to him, stands above him. Crowley looks up at him, his face dark and shadowed in the flickering light. Aziraphale reaches out, a little dismayed, but not surprised, to find his hand trembling, and takes the edge of the blanket from Crowley. Their fingers brush. He tugs, gently, then a little harder. Crowley doesn’t seem to want to let go, then he does, and Aziraphale wraps the blanket, snugly, back around Crowley, tucking it in against itself. The backs of his fingers brush Crowley’s chest, his skin fire-warmed. He can feel Crowley’s breath ghosting over his face. He’s holding his own breath. Crowley looks up at him. No, first, Crowley glances down along Aziraphale’s body, as if he can’t help it, as if drawn against his will.⁴⁷ Then he looks up, his eyes huge and yellow.

“There,” says Aziraphale, and pats Crowley’s shoulder. “You just sit there awhile, there’s a dear.” And Crowley does, but Aziraphale can feel the heavy weight of his eyes following Aziraphale around the cottage, heavier than the weight of water, than the weight of all the heavens.

Evening slides into night. It’s some time later when Aziraphale gets Crowley into bed, under the blanket, and puts his own clothes, mostly dry, back on. Crowley falls asleep, and the crackling of the fire and Crowley’s slow breathing are peaceful. Comforting. Some time later, the wind begins to scrape and howl outside. He’s rereading the contract for the fifty-third time, sitting at the table, his forehead leaned on one hand, when Crowley says, “Don’t you have that thing memorized by now?”

Aziraphale jumps, a little. He says, “There has to be something I’ve missed.”

“You’ll figure it out, angel. You always do.” Crowley’s looking at him, blankets pulled up to his chin. His limbs and body under the covers are tangible. Aziraphale can make out the long line of a leg. He’s naked under there, Aziraphale thinks, the rough blanket against his skin. All of it.

“Well,” Aziraphale says. He wishes he had his glasses to fiddle with. “Not every time, surely-”

“S’true,” Crowley says. “Job’s kids, ungrateful little-” Aziraphale clears his throat. Crowley continues. “That bit with Cleopatra. That time in Prague. Venice.” Aziraphale looks down, modestly. “If there’s a way out of this, angel, we’ll get it.” His voice is low, earnest, all the mockery and harshness tossed aside. The fire throws strange, deep shadows across his face. Funny, Aziraphale should look at him and see a creature of darkness. Should feel repulsion. Instead, he just sees his friend. Feels - well.

Crowley sits up, the blanket slipping down his shoulders and off his chest to pool in his lap. Aziraphale swallows, thinks of his body against Aziraphale’s in the lake, closer than they’d been in Edinburgh, closer than they’ve ever been. He stands up, suddenly. Crowley watches him as he steps slowly, hesitantly, across the room to him, wringing his hands as he does it. Then he’s there, standing over Crowley. Crowley’s hair’s dried into curls, his bare shoulders exposed and pale against the dark blanket. Aziraphale sits down, gingerly, on the edge of the bed. As he does so, Crowley takes a big breath, and Aziraphale a little one. “Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and the softness of his voice is a giveaway but he can’t modulate it, not now. “You do understand why I can’t give you the holy water?”

“Won’t,” Crowley says.

“What?”

“You can. You just won’t. And no, I don’t understand.”

“Crowley, I can’t.” He twists his hands together. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

“Selfishness, angel? That’s unlike you.” Crowley studies him. Crowley’s eyes are like patterned porcelain in the firelight, fixed on him. “Have you ever considered,” Crowley says, “what’ll happen to both of us, if I don’t have insurance?”

“It’s the same thing. You can kill me. But you won’t.”

“No,” Crowley says. “I can’t. I can’t do it. I can’t kill you.”

“I can’t kill you either,” Aziraphale says, helplessly.

“Then where does that leave us?” Crowley says.

“Here,” says Aziraphale. “It leaves us here.”

Time’s running out, and they know it. Both of them. There’s no fix to this. One of them is going to die, and the other is going to have to do it. Aziraphale’s stomach is tied into knots. He’s distracted, losing half of Crowley’s sentences to worries. Crowley’s snappish and brooding, stalking around the cabin like he could wear a hole down through the floor, through the center of the earth, and pace them back up on the other side again. Crowley doesn’t seem to want to let Aziraphale out of his sight. The feeling’s mutual, after Crowley’s little trick with the pond. “When we get out of here, you’re learning how to swim,” Aziraphale tells him. “Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve made it this long on Earth without it. The place is 71% water.”⁴⁸

“What’re you going to do, toss me into the pond at the park?”

“Don’t tempt me, demon,” Aziraphale snaps.

They stay inside for three days, because it’s miserable out, a howling snowstorm that leaves drifts against the door they have to fight their way out of. They spend the time staring at each other and trying to come up with new ways to get out of the bet.

“Time loop,” Crowley suggests.

“I could Fall,” Aziraphale suggests.

Gabriel and Beelzebub come back again. Aziraphale asks for wine this time, to better incapacitate his mortal enemy. Gabriel frowns and says, “You don’t-”

“Oh no!” Aziraphale laughs nervously. “Of course not.” He hears Crowley snort. Aziraphale doesn’t look at him, as Gabriel, frowning, miracles up a jug of wine. Beelzebub gestures, and the jug quivers, then goes still. “Just a little taste of Hell,” they sneer.

“Still got that sword?” Gabriel asks.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale says, through gritted teeth.

“Only I know how they sometimes walk away on you.”

“No, I know exactly where that one is. Just - waiting - to be used.”

“Good!” says Gabriel. “Good. Keep it that way. Until you use it, of course.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says.

Before they leave, Gabriel pulls Aziraphale aside. “Make sure you do use it,” he says. “No one thought it was going to take the full month.”⁴⁹

He grimaces in comedic dismay.

“I’m just, ah, trying to really honor the terms of the bet. I mean, if She gave us a month-”

“You,” says Gabriel. “She gave you a month.”

“Ah,” says Aziraphale. “Yes. Right. Me. That’s what I meant.”

“Well,” Aziraphale says, when their respective bosses have disappeared with a promise to return in only four days’ time. Crowley stares at him bleakly. Two dogs in a cage. They’ve got four days left. Almost three. And then, whatever happens, they’ll be - Aziraphale doesn’t know the next time he’ll see Crowley, but he doesn’t think it’ll be on the American plains. Decades. Centuries. Maybe not til the very end of things. Maybe not at all. He doesn’t believe that, he won’t.

“What shall we do now?” Aziraphale asks.

“I say we get blazing drunk,” Crowley says, and so they do.

“M’rather - m’drunk,” Aziraphale says and, gesturing, ends up planting a hand on Crowley’s thigh. Crowley jumps and gulps. Aziraphale can see it. They’re both sprawled on the mattress, because Aziraphale’s gone a little too boneless for the chair,⁵⁰ and he and Crowley are close enough that when Crowley gesticulates his arms knock into Aziraphale’s, or his ankles kick out into Aziraphale’s legs.

“Should’ve saved it,” Crowley says. “Last supper n’all.”

“It won’t come to that,” Aziraphale says, and hiccups.

Crowley rolls his head to look at him. “You really think that?”

Aziraphale swallows. “I have to.”

“Faith in Her?” Crowley says. He doesn’t sneer.

“In us,” Aziraphale says, faintly.

Crowley looks at him a beat, two, his lips half-parted, wet with drink. Aziraphale looks at them, back up. Crowley gives one of his rare slow blinks.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, and tries a little smile. “M’happy you’re here. Not - not like this. But.” He presses his lips together. “I missed you,” he admits.

“Yeah,” says Crowley, hoarsely. He looks away. He straightens his legs out, crosses them at the ankles. “Y’know,” he says, “whole time I was out West, kept thinking maybe I’d meet you out there on the plains.” Aziraphale holds his breath. “You always turn up when I - you always turn up. S’all.” Some time later - a long time later, so long it’s hard to believe it’s the same day, and if this day just wants to go on forever and ever Aziraphale’s just fine with it - they wander outside, because Crowley, quite stubbornly, insists on seeing the stars. Aziraphale’s arms are wrapped around himself. Crowley’s got his head thrown back so far his neck looks broken and he’s looking at the sky as if he’ll never see it again. The moon, very nearly full, throws a bright light into the room, lights Crowley in a ghostly glow, almost Heavenly.

“Crowley,” he says, suddenly, turning to him in the moonlight.

“Don’t,” Crowley says harshly, the moonlight throwing strong shadows across his face. “Angel, don’t, not until-”

Until there’s no hope left, Aziraphale thinks, and nods, and nods.

It’s the day before the full moon when Aziraphale finally figures it out.

He cries out, rushing over to the table, where the contract rests, nearly stumbling over Crowley’s legs from where he’s sprawled across the mattress. “Angel-?” Crowley says, and leans up on his elbows, looking at him. Aziraphale doesn’t answer, just grabs the contract, holding it up to his face, the words wavering in front of him, back and forth, in his shaking hands. “Of course!” he says. “Oh, how could I have been so stupid. Only, oh. Oh dear.”

Crowley’s there, then, in front of him, a dark, reassuring slice of night. “Care to share with the class, angel?” Aziraphale flushes, instantly. Takes a deep breath, then another. Crowley waits patiently, eyebrow raised. Aziraphale adjusts his waistcoat, straightens his shoulders, holds the contract out so he can read it.

“Really, the wording is very vague,” he says, and begins, “-are hereby bound to engage in physical contact, until one or the other, but not both - that part’s underlined - have suffered the tremors of death, be it ever so small, this death necessarily being caused by the actions of the other aforementioned party.”

“Yep,” says Crowley. “Got that.”

“Be it ever so small,” Aziraphale says and taps the paper, and flushes, even further.

“I don’t want to die just a little,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes. “Did that in the thirteenth century. Was all - hungover.” He makes a face, smacking his tongue as if he can still taste it. Aziraphale clears his throat.

“What,” says Crowley. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“You may not be aware, but I have taken extensive French classes-”

“What’re you gonna do, bore me to death?”

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, and he’s aware that he’s scarlet. “How familiar are you with something called la petit mort?”

Crowley gapes. There’s an unfortunate flush climbing his neck. He stutters, then says, “Ah. Passingly. You?”

“I’m aware of the concept,” Aziraphale says, stiffly. “Being an angel, I have not, of course-”

“No, right, course.” Crowley says, and snatches the contract from Aziraphale’s hands. As he reads it, he flushes a color to rival his hair. He hands the contract back over to Aziraphale, careful not to brush his fingers. He clears his throat. “You really think She wants us to-” Crowley makes a little noise, like he’s choking on his own tongue.

“I think we ought to try,” Aziraphale says. “Unless you have a better idea. Do you?”

“Do I-” that strange choking noise again. “Yeah, no, yeah, sure-” Crowley goes through about three or four different facial expressions in the course of the sentence, and finishes with sheepishness. ⁵¹

“Jolly good,” says Aziraphale, and doesn’t move, just stands there, fidgeting. It’s one thing to say it, of course, and another thing entirely to - to-

Crowley’s eyes narrow on his, and Aziraphale suddenly knows exactly how it might feel to be the target of one of Crowley’s temptations. ⁵² Crowley stalks closer, closer, a wriggling side-to-side bend, until he’s there, right in Aziraphale’s face. “Angel,” he says, the whites of his eyes, oh, great vast marbles, the eternal empty promise of Heaven. “Are you sure.” Aziraphale watches his lips form the words. Crowley’s eyes dart all over Aziraphale, over his eyes, his mouth, his hair, Aziraphale’s nervously flexing hands. Crowley’s pupils are two long dark slits widening by the second. Staring into them, Aziraphale is falling, falling.

“Yes,” he says, and tilts his chin up. “I’m quite sure.”

Crowley’s nostrils flare; he sucks in a nervous breath, two. Then he pushes Aziraphale, suddenly, two hands to his chest, and Aziraphale, startled, stumbles back, and nearly falls into the armchair behind him. Crowley drops to his knees in front of Aziraphale, a slow saunter, really, and his hands are on Aziraphale’s knees, sliding up, up-

“Wait!” Aziraphale squeaks. The hands stop. Crowley looks up at him expectantly, with the patience of a saint. “Shouldn’t we, ah - it could be you! Aha. Yes. With the, ah.” He gestures. Crowley raises an eyebrow, like he’s going to make a comment about what exactly it is that Aziraphale’s picturing them doing, based on that little hand gesture, and -

Crowley sighs, just a half-noise, really. Funny, he’s so close, his breaths keep ghosting over-

“You ever done this before, Aziraphale?”

“Of course not. Have you?”

Crowley doesn’t answer, but a muscle jumps in his jaw. His fingers flex on Aziraphale’s thighs, stay still.

“We could flip a coin!” Aziraphale says, desperately.

“We could - you know what, fine. Y’happen to bring a - course you did,” he says, as Aziraphale shifts and shoves a hand into his pocket, pulls out a farthing. ⁵³ Crowley raises an eyebrow, and smirks.⁵⁴

“Tails,” Crowley says, lazily.

“Heads,” says Aziraphale, primly. He flips. Crowley’s hand flashes out, quick as anything, and he turns it over onto Aziraphale’s thigh. “Heads,” he says. “Would you look at that. You win.” He knocks the coin onto the floor and slides his hands up-

“Luck of the angels,” Aziraphale says faintly, and then Crowley’s hands are sliding higher, and his thumbs are dipping down between Aziraphale’s legs, and Aziraphale gasps, and shifts, and his legs fall apart, and Crowley brushes his thumb just so, and Aziraphale’s eyes, which have fallen closed, fly open. “Good Lord,” he says, with feeling, and then, “Crowley.” Crowley’s lips are parted, his sharp white teeth showing, as he stares, as if mesmerized, by his own hands, as he rubs his thumb again, and then again, and Aziraphale whimpers, and pushes up into him, oh Lord, it’s as good as a drink, sharp hot cognac sliding down his throat, as good as meat, smoky and greased on his tongue, and oh, his tongue, he sits up, reaches for Crowley, grips his jacket, tries to pull him up, pull him close, to taste him, he has wondered what Crowley tastes like for oh so long, but Crowley says, eyes already half-lidded, a little breathless, “Better not, the contract-”

“Right,” Aziraphale gasps, “The contract,” and it’s, it should put a damper on things, it really should, but his body’s on fire, all the bones and muscles, and Crowley’s mouth is on his neck, his throat, Aziraphale’s tipping his head back as Crowley’s unbuttoning his vest, his shirt, and then when Crowley’s got it all unbuttoned he sits back on his heels and just looks at Aziraphale, and the look on his face - it looks like - looks like-

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale says, “I’m sure this isn’t necessary” - and then Crowley presses his mouth, and then his tongue, and his teeth, to one of Aziraphale’s nipples, and Aziraphale cries out and bucks up. Crowley grins, pulls back, his mouth wet. “Trust the demon,” he says.

“Done this a lot?” Aziraphale says, trying to keep his voice light. He wants to touch Crowley’s wet mouth so badly.

Crowley visibly struggles, then says, simply, “No.”

“Ah,” says Aziraphale, and then he does touch Crowley, after all, because he wants to, contract be damned. Crowley gasps, surging up on his knees, turning his cheek, pressing it into Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale brushes a thumb over his wet mouth, and Crowley’s got one hand loosely on the side of his neck, the other touching Aziraphale, pressure that’s almost enough, that is nowhere close to enough, “Please,” Aziraphale gasps, writhing on the chair, not sure exactly what it is he’s begging for, “Please, oh please, Crowley-”

And then he finds out exactly what it is he’s begging for when Crowley tugs on his trousers, their fingers tangling together as Aziraphale tries desperately to help, and then Crowley’s mouth is so hot and wet around him and Aziraphale’s seen this hundreds, thousands of times before, humans had discovered it pretty much right away; he’d always wondered, and it’s incredible, he, he might not turn his back on Heaven for this, but - he thinks, and then Crowley does something with his tongue and Aziraphale doesn’t think much at all anymore, except Oh God and yes, please, Crowley, and, once, Fuck, most of which apparently makes it past his lips because Crowley grins around him, he can feel it, and Crowley pulls him closer, to the edge of the chair, pulls one of Aziraphale’s legs over his shoulder. Crowley stops to press his mouth to the inside of Aziraphale’s thigh in open-mouthed biting kisses, little nips, really, and the air is cold on Aziraphale’s wet cock, and Aziraphale gasps, and threads his hand through Crowley’s hair, and Crowley whimpers, shifting desperately, knees spread wide, he’s so hard it looks like it hurts, he’s got no purchase, nothing to rut against, and he raises his head, looks up at Aziraphale, his eyes blazing, mouth parted, and the look in his eyes takes Aziraphale’s breath away. They stare at each other a beat, two. Then Crowley slowly raises his hand to his mouth, and sucks one long finger in, and Aziraphale watches, dazed, and then Crowley lowers his hand, finger slick and shining, and he grins, the most wicked, the sweetest, shyest little grin Aziraphale’s ever seen out of him, and he tugs Aziraphale a little further to the edge of the chair, and he takes Aziraphale in his mouth again, and his hand - Aziraphale howls. He is totally pliant under Crowley’s hands and mouth, under his spell. Crowley’s making all sorts of noises, his wide yellow eyes looking up, their gazes locked, and Aziraphale traces a hand over his cheek, his jaw, brushing his lip, the base of his own cock, and Crowley’s eyes go very wide and then squeeze shut, a look of desperation passing over his face, and all Aziraphale wants is more, more, he pleads, hand tangling in Crowley’s hair, more, as he rocks between Crowley’s mouth and his clever clever fingers, moving between his legs, and it feels, oh, it feels Heavenly, it feels divine, rocking down into Crowley’s clever hand and up into his mouth and he’s so close, oh, God, he’s going to Fall over the edge, just there - and Crowley gasps around him, Aziraphale can feel it all the way through his entire body, and Crowley freezes, his fingers and tongue stop moving, briefly.

“Did you just-” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley pulls off, his eyes and mouth wet. “Aziraphale,” he gasps, “I’m sorry, oh, I’m so sorry-”

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale says, and it is, it truly is, but he has to clench his fists and breathe in and out, mustering every single ounce of his angelic self-control to stop himself just at the edge. Aziraphale is an angel of the Lord, he has had plenty of practice at denying himself, but never this close, never when Crowley had just been - Crowley’s shaking, his eyes squeezed shut. “It’s alright, Crowley, it’s alright,” he says, and pets Crowley’s sweating forehead, smoothing his hair back. Crowley whimpers, and nuzzles his thigh and Aziraphale gasps, bucking up before he can stop himself. Crowley opens his eyes. His eyelashes are wet. “You know,” he says, in his smoothest voice, a temptation they both know isn’t really a temptation, it’s only a temptation because Aziraphale wants him so badly. He’s resting his head on Aziraphale’s thigh, looking up at him with those wicked eyes, his breaths ghosting across Aziraphale’s wet cock. Aziraphale shivers with each one, biting his lips together. “We can just do this again tomorrow. Or even later today if you want. There’s still-”

Aziraphale’s cock bobs and they both stare at it as a bead of liquid wells up. Crowley licks his lips and slowly reaches out and touches the tip of his finger to it and Aziraphale cries out, half in pain. “Aziraphale,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale claps his hand over Crowley’s mouth because if he has to hear Crowley say his name in that hoarse voice one more time he’s not going to make it. Crowley doesn’t fight him, just stares up at him with those great yellow eyes, and Oh, Lord, there’s no coming back from this, is there. Aziraphale breathes, and breathes again, fists clenched at his sides, Crowley’s dark yellow eyes, full yellow, staring at him, snakelike and startling, not moving, fixed in. The greatest temptation. Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut, can only hear the harsh sound of his breath, the near-deafening throb of his pulse. He counts. He runs through the mental inventory of his ancient cookbook section back in the bookshop once, then again. Even with his eyes closed, he can feel Crowley there, between his legs. Aziraphale is standing on the very edge of Heaven, looking down into the abyss, a quarter step away from a great Fall, like when he had been in Heaven, staring down at the angels as they’d fallen into night. He is just as afraid as he had been then. It’s not just his standing as an angel at stake - for who’s to say what might happen if he allows himself to fall? It’s Crowley’s fate, too.

When he feels he’s mastered himself, he opens his eyes. And he’s nearly undone. Crowley’s looking up at him with the most naked devotion Aziraphale has ever seen, and he has been alive a very, very long time. Crowley puts it away when he sees Aziraphale open his eyes, slips on a cool mask, a little smirk, but it’s too late, too late, Aziraphale has seen it all. “Oh,” he says, his voice shaking, and it’s revealed in him too, he’s afraid, because Crowley’s eyes skate over his face, something half-opens in Crowley’s face, as he leans forward - “Oh, my dear,” as Aziraphale reaches out, his hand trembling, to put one hand on Crowley’s dear beloved face-⁵⁵

And then - there’s a great shifting and grinding like a bank vault opening, both physical and metaphysical. There’s a sudden release of pressure. Aziraphale winces as his ears pop, and Crowley puts his hands over his ears. “Oh,” says Aziraphale, when the feeling has settled. “Is that - are we-”

“Think so,” Crowley says. He’s still a little hoarse. They look at each other. “We should-” Crowley says, and half-gestures to the door.

“Oh, yes, ah, of course,” Aziraphale says, and as they both scramble to get up they stumble together, Crowley’s legs even more wobbly than usual. Aziraphale whimpers at the rough brush of Crowley’s clothes against him. Crowley looks at Aziraphale slowly, up and down, where he’s fumbling with his trousers, hands shaking, and the whole long brush of it is like a full-body press. Aziraphale, without thinking, sways towards him a little; Crowley leans in, his eyes half-closing, Aziraphale sucks in a little breath-

Crowley jerks himself away. “Angel, we, we should go, while we still can.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, breathlessly. “Right you are.”

It looks exactly the same outside: bleak sky, bleak moor, dreadful black-hole pond. Crowley flexes his fingers, then pulls up, a gesture that ends in a flicking of his fingers, like he’s dispersing water. There’s a horrid sucking sound from the pond, and the waters simultaneously boil and recede into the ground, until the pond’s dry, an empty, sunken, muddy pit. “Really, my dear,” Aziraphale says.

“Power’s back,” Crowley says.

“We should get out of here,” Aziraphale says nervously, looking around. “Before Gabriel and Beelzebub come back and see we’re both alive.” And indeed, there’s something just shimmering off in the distance, over the mountains, getting closer every second. “Go,” he says, turning suddenly to Crowley. “Go to the bookshop, lock the doors. Wait there. I have an Idea.”

Crowley groans, opens his mouth to argue. “Go!” Aziraphale hisses, pushing him, and Crowley rolls his eyes, and gestures, and he’s gone.

Not a moment too soon. In a flash, Gabriel and Beelzebub show up. Beelzebub scowls, looking disappointed. Gabriel looks as pleased as ever. “Aziraphale!” he says. “Well done. I knew you could do it. Some of the other archangels had their doubts, but you know how they are.” He knocks Aziraphale on the shoulder. Aziraphale wobbles a little.⁵⁶

Beelzebub looks - well, if Aziraphale didn’t know better, Aziraphale would say they were worried. They’re not, of course. “What’d you do with ‘im then?” They look around suspiciously, eyes lingering on the patch of mud where the pond used to be.

Aziraphale’s heart pounds. If they’re going to get away with this- “Ah, in the, over there, the cottage-” Aziraphale points, vaguely, and they turn to look. “I think you’ll find everything to explain it in there.”

Gabriel stares at him suspiciously, then laughs, and says, “Okey dokey.” He heads toward the cottage. Beelzebub sneers at him. “Haven’t seen ‘im back in Hell yet.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be along any minute,” Aziraphale says. “Cottage, yes?” He wriggles his fingers, raises his eyebrows. Beelzebub glares at him, then stalks off to the cottage, catching up with Gabriel at the door, where they shoulder check him, pushing in. Gabriel huffs, then follows. Aziraphale squeezes his eyes tight, so he doesn’t have to see it - some sort of plausible deniability - and gestures. The door swings shut behind them with a sudden sound. It could even have been the wind. Then Aziraphale turns his hand, and the door locks. ⁵⁷ “Oh dear oh dear oh dear,” Aziraphale says, and gestures quickly, brings himself outside of the barrier, which - yes, looks, from the outside, like a great big fishbowl, an almost visible quivering boundary. He traces it without touching it. It’s - yes, it’s still warded. Keeping whatever’s inside it inside. He looks up. The moon, still visible in the sky, hangs there, bearing witness. They’re shut in. And with any luck-

Aziraphale takes one last look around, and pulls his hand down, sending himself back to the bookshop.

(Twenty years later, Crowley’s called down to Hell for a performance review. The lights throb sullenly as he takes one breath in a little run-down absinthe bar in Paris egging on Scott’s poor behavior, and the next breath sitting across from Beelzebub. “Crowley,” they say in their usual bored tone. “You’re fired.”

“Am I?”

“No. It’s Hell. You can’t be fired. Just a little joke.” Beelzebub bares their teeth.

Crowley can’t not ask. He says, “How long’d it take you to get out, then?”

Beelzebub shrugs. Crowley can hear the buzz of flies, a constant irritated drone. “Got right out, didn’t I.” They sneer. “Less than ‘alf the time it took you. Gone soft on Earth.” ⁵⁸

“How’d you figure it out?”

The buzzing picks up in intensity. “Figure what out?” If Crowley’s not mistaken, there’s a tiny flush to their cheeks. Odd. He hasn’t seen them anything but wan since they’d worked on the black hole thing, way back up in Heaven, and Beelzebub was so thrilled with their success they’d nearly gone puce with delight. “Just let us right out. Wasn’t meant for us, was it.”

“Right,” Crowley says, slowly. Beelzebub glances around, then leans forward on the desk. “For what it’s worth,” they hiss at him, “I think She’s got a nasty sense of humor.”

“Tell me about it,” Crowley says, fervently.

Beelzebub sits up, stamps his paperwork firmly.⁵⁹ “And don’t let me see you back here.”

“Out of curiosity,” Crowley says, when he’s at the door, because he’s got no preservation instinct whatsoever, “which one of you was it…?”

Beelzebub throws the stamp at him. Crowley dodges as it leaves a six-inch dent in the door, and slips through the hallways, snorting, to himself, before they can send anyone after him.)

(Up in Heaven, a very similar conversation is taking place, albeit with a lot more forced smiles and a great deal more stamps, embossed paperclips, and forms in triplicate.

Gabriel says, stiffly, in response to Aziraphale’s question, “The demon died, of course.”

“Ah,” says Aziraphale. “Of course.” He watches Gabriel shuffle all his reviews - Satisfactory, they all say, which irritates Aziraphale more than it should - into a folder and then gestures the folder into the ether.

“And you?” Gabriel says, looking at him suddenly, his violet eyes piercing and unreadable.

“Mmm,” says Aziraphale. There’s a pause.

Suddenly, Gabriel leans over the desk. “What’s it like?” he asks.

“It’s, ah. Well. I believe the humans are big fans of it,” Aziraphale says, sagely. “Causes rather a lot of policy decisions down there. For better or worse, I’m afraid.”

Gabriel’s upper lip curls. “Right,” he says, but he doesn’t say any more. Aziraphale takes his leave. He turns around just at the door to say something to Gabriel, like, “See you next time,” or, “Take care,” but he stops when he sees the archangel. Gabriel’s got his back to Aziraphale looking pensively out his window, which, being in the corner office,⁶⁰ has a large wraparound feature with a view directly into the depths of Hell. Aziraphale’s always hated it, always hated seeing the Pit, a great, dark, seething place which makes his eyes burn when he looks at it. Although he knows Crowley’s likely on the upper levels, he can’t help but let his eyes linger on the window, looking for a slice of familiar red hair, of dark black. Unfortunately, it’s Hell. Everything there is either red or black, down in the Pit, and he never sees Crowley. He usually just ends up getting in trouble, instead, because he’s not paying attention to Gabriel. Gabriel, who now leans forward, suddenly, palm and forehead pressing to the glass, looking down into Hell as if searching for something. Aziraphale feels like he’s seeing something he’s not supposed to. He slips out of the room, unobserved.)

(Twenty years later, in a bookshop in Soho, after a church rescue and a magic bullet trick and an entire cask of Chateauneuf du Pape, Crowley and Aziraphale tell each other the above.

“D’you think…” Crowley says.

“No. Preposterous,” Aziraphale says.

“Gross,” suggests Crowley. Their eyes meet, then turn, one looking up, the other down, considering looks on their faces. Then…

“Nah,” says Crowley.

“Absolutely not,” says Aziraphale. But they both stare in the respective directions of their offices. Then Aziraphale wriggles, and sits up a little. He turns to Crowley. “There are more things, in Heaven and Earth-”⁶¹

“Aw, not Hamlet, don’t you quote Hamlet at me, I made Hamlet!” Crowley says, and if they’re sitting on the sofa, together, and fall into each other, just a little, and Aziraphale’s arm is awfully close to Crowley’s leg, well, there’s something left unfinished between them, isn’t there, something that burns between them when they meet each other’s eyes, something Aziraphale will rectify, one of these days.)

1. Slowly, and he mostly just shuffles in a circle and moves his neck to look at things instead of his eyes. He hears Crowley snort behind him but notices he’s not moving much either. Aziraphale’s sense of unease ticks up a notch. Whatever’s going on here, it’s not good. Although it may be Good. He’s not sure. He’s getting mixed signals here. back

2. Slowly. back

3. Which, amplified as it is, is actually quite loud, so both Aziraphale and Crowley hear mutters of “You absolute-” “You know, you really make me-” “Shove over, wankwings-” back

4. Aziraphale knows that look. He’s seen it thrice before, and lost a really nice pair of shoes to it, once. Through a series of misguided, drunken miracled apologies, they had, apparently, prompted a new human tradition.

“St Nicholas my arse,” Crowley grumbles, every time Christmas comes around, now. back

5. From Crowley, who’d had more than a few on the bookshop sofa, and refused to tell Aziraphale what they were about. “Had to watch you eat that blancmange again,” he’d say instead, or, “You were wearing that awful sackcloth-”

Once, he had woken up with tears tracking wetly down his cheeks, his yellow eyes glossy, and when Aziraphale had said, throat aching, “My dear-” and reached out for him, he’d jumped up, grabbed his glasses, and fled.

Aziraphale hadn’t seen him for a dozen years after. They’d never talked about it again. back

6. She really does. God feels about whales the same way She feels about Las Vegas. Her weakness is cards, but She also has a particular fondness for pull-tabs. Horses had only been created for the Preakness.

Once, She took a wager She couldn’t create the Earth in less than a month. She’d done it in seven days. Show off.

In fact, that was the only reason the universe existed in the first place. The ultimate casino; where you can’t see out, don’t know what time it is, and the waitresses, who really just want to go home, and whose feet hurt, circulate eternally, offering you free apples, as long as you keep playing. back

7. A lie. He’d drunk until he’d thrown up on Queen Mary’s coronation procession. The really unfortunate thing was that they’d been perched on a Catholic church* at the time, which had led to some unfortunate associations and persecutions.

Aziraphale had drunk so much he couldn’t remember it, so he maintained Crowley was lying every time he teased him about it.

*Catholic churches at the time barely counted as churches, really. With his and Aziraphale’s cloak doubled up beneath him, Crowley was fine. back

8. Their hands brush. Gabriel makes a show of wiping his hand off on his suit jacket. Beelzebub rolls their eyes. back

9. It had been the Flood. Aziraphale had had all sorts of notions about staying down on Earth and tending those left behind, but as it would have meant disobeying a direct order, and besides, as there was really, despite his efforts, no one left to save, after the floodwaters had gotten so high, he had, in the end, miracled himself onto the boat, miracled Noah into thinking he had gotten on days ago (although Noah’s daughter had looked at him suspiciously). Days which he had, in reality, spent in the rising waters, with the dying, with those who would, ultimately, be swept away.

After a day on the ark, he’d felt a frisson of miracle energy, still just a little unfamiliar, still like the one he’d known before, but different, now, like a game of cat’s cradle gone twisted and wrong.

Ah, Aziraphale had thought.

He’d found Crowley down in the hold with the animals, where it was dark, and smelly, and softly noisy, the stamp of hooves, the soft croon of lonely animals. As Aziraphale crept closer, he could hear the sound of water pattering off Crowley onto the wooden floor below as he wrung out his long hair. Aziraphale stood in the doorway, watching him in the dim light, watching the movement of his long arms, sopping wet robes hanging heavy against him. “Anyone?” Aziraphale asked. His voice was hoarse from disuse.

Crowley stiffened and finished wringing out his hair. Aziraphale would find out years later he’d been out of miracles by then, utterly exhausted. Crowley turned, his eyes the brightest, the most alive thing Aziraphale had seen in a week. “No,” he’d said, and that had been that.

But then they’d gone out flying, weeks later, the two of them, because Crowley had said if he’d had to listen to Aziraphale fuss over the animals anymore he’d shipwreck all of them, and Aziraphale had admitted that perhaps Crowley had gotten a little testier than usual, not quite so pleasant to be around, so, squabbling, they’d risen up in flight and flown through the storm, and found land, after all. Not a moment too soon. back

10. There had been that assignment among the pearl divers of Qatar. In order to really commit to the part, Aziraphale had gotten rather good at it himself, having, of course, no real need to breathe, although he refused to use any sort of miracle to achieve it.

He’d found some lovely lustrous pearls, large as marbles, and if he’d gotten them made into a necklace, for a friend of his, he told the jeweler, well, he certainly wasn’t imaging them laying against a flat, thin chest, on a black velvet backdrop-

He hadn’t given them to anyone either, so what did it really matter. They sat in the wardrobe upstairs alongside a really fantastic black silk kimono and a truly stunning red-trimmed fur coat. Sometimes you see things and think of someone, and they’re just so perfect you have to get them, even if the time never seems right to present them- back

11. A fishbowl, perhaps, containing two lost souls. They’ve been there for years. They will be there for many more. back

12. On the other hand, She’d really half-assed the whole Moses thing. Not that Aziraphale was going to point that out. back

13. Aziraphale wonders who’s winning. back

14. He can. He’s grinding his teeth outside every time Aziraphale sighs like that. back

15. Aziraphale’s never liked to ask. It seemed a particularly tender subject, and besides, poor Crowley was so vain-

And, of course, it wasn’t like it was what they really looked like, after all. As a matter of fact, they couldn't really be said to look like anything. Something Crowley liked to get drunk and go on about. Particular physicks, or something. Something about the true nature of particles being unobservable, etc. etc.-

“’S’no excuse for being two’f’you,” Aziraphale had said reprovingly, shaking his finger in the direction of one of the Crowleys. The other Crowley made a rude noise at him. back

16. Well. Except for that dreadful mustache. back

17. Literally, and a faint puff of smoke leaves his mouth. back

18. Really, he’s doing it because if he hadn’t gotten out of the cottage right then he’d have fulfilled the bargain and Satan would’ve won, and he couldn’t have that, now could he?

He knows the Lord made all creatures Great and Small, but very occasionally, he wonders if She’d had to make Crowley so contrary. back

19. Lawn sports. back

20. It’s a little-known fact that even overcooked pasta can be immediately reverted to al dente if one merely stresses it a little, perhaps by suggesting that its quarterly reviews are due, and Things Aren’t Looking Good. back

21. Or, perhaps, the mustache itself was controlling Crowley’s temper, and with it removed…? Something to consider. back

22. Crowley had spent a few years in the Persian court, causing all manner of havoc with Queen Scheherazade. He’d come out of it absolutely spoiled, with more black eyeliner than strictly necessary, and the closest thing to an opioid addiction Aziraphale had ever seen in an occult being. He’d had to lock Crowley up in a traveling trunk for two weeks on the back of a camel to get him through it. Crowley hadn’t forgiven him for a century for that. back

23. They have, after all, spent most of their combined time on earth Trying to Get out of Something or Other. back

24. “Relax,” Crowley says. “Not going to bring down Divine Punishment on us. Then we’ll both be dead.” back

25. Although Hell has a shorter attention span. back

26. That is just the understanding of what Heaven Ought to Be. In reality, Heaven is full of Rooms, individual and separate, one for every angel who has ever been called into being. They are each being’s perfect Heaven, and they are very, very dangerous. Angels, once they have stumbled into their own Room - although it is very rare indeed - never come out. They are trapped there, forever.

Aziraphale’s Room is a rare and used bookshop, with slanting yellow sunlight, and a little chime over the door, and a constant bustle on the pavement outside. The only things to give it away as Aziraphale’s Heaven and not just another day in Aziraphale’s life are a miraculously warm cup of hot chocolate - which happens for him anyway - and the constant presence of a particular red-haired demon lounging on his couch. It may seem incongruous that a demon could be present in Heaven, but that’s just how it is.

If Aziraphale found this Room, he would never leave. That is the problem, sometimes, with these rooms.

Funnily enough, the demon’s room in Heaven - for all the demons still have a room in Heaven; they are not that forsaken - looks almost exactly the same, except with one difference: the demon and the angel are sitting on the sofa together. Quite close, actually. One day, they might even… back

27. The first time they haven’t worked. Aziraphale must be losing his touch. back

28. And just a little hopeless. Aziraphale has no cause to be hopeless, he thinks. They will get past this. They will. back

29. Funnily enough, it didn’t have anything to do with the burning of Rome. Nero was just an extremely insubordinate student. And tone-deaf. back

30. And sometimes two o’clock - the first one - five o’clock, and midnight. back

31. And indeed, they could’ve been, with a bit of salt, some pepper, perhaps some rosemary, and a nice, slow bake. Or, failing all of those things, a minor miracle. Unfortunately, they had none of the above. And, of course, neither had ever learned to cook. They’d never needed to. “Mmm,” says Aziraphale, swallowing thickly.* “S’good, really.”

Crowley’s upper lip curls and he pushes his plate away, and so Aziraphale has to finish his, too. It’s the first time in his life he has ever regretted having to finish Crowley’s plate for him. He begins to wonder perhaps if this is his eternal punishment, that She will make him go through all of the sins: Sloth - Gluttony - Covetousness - in this manner, trapped in this cottage.

He refuses to think about Lust.

*And then again, and then a third time. It’s rather like wallpaper paste. back

32. According to some. Aziraphale would suggest, primly, it’s merely everyone else who doesn’t have enough eyes.

He’s personally offended by deep sea creatures, the ones so far down they don’t have enough eyes, or he had been, until Crowley had suggested shortly it wasn’t their fault they were mired so far down in the darkness, and they had only adapted, is all, and we weren’t all so privileged to be creatures of the light.

Which had given Aziraphale something to think about, after all, and the next time they had gone to the park, he had thrown some worms* into the pond for the fish, out of solidarity.

*It was alright. They didn’t have eyes, either. back

33. “Immortal, I hope,” Crowley mutters beside him. Aziraphale discreetly steps on his toe. Crowley yelps. “What are you gonna do, step on me to death?” Aziraphale ignores him with all the patience of a martyr. back

34. Off to the side, Aziraphale can see Crowley ticking off his fingers, frowning and mouthing numbers. back

35. He shoots Crowley a sideways look. Crowley’s only gotten to four, and seems to be struggling to get to five. The poor dear.

To be fair, Aziraphale’s not really sure what the sixth and seventh weapons are. back

36. Actually, the first requirement for being a demon is Falling. The second is rudeness. The third is the animal thing, which Aziraphale had asked Crowley about once curiously. Crowley had muttered something about D & A damage, and then hadn’t spoken to Aziraphale for a month. back

37. The paperwork had been dreadful. It’s a bit hard to explain how you’d discorporated yourself running into a suit of armor with an extremely sharp halberd in a demon’s sham-Grail castle. Heaven didn’t really understand the idea of being piss-drunk. Pity. back

38. Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, Crowley had spent a great deal of time in the Netherlands as Lady Crowley working endlessly with a group of other women on a set of seven tapestries. He had nearly gone blind by the end of it. Two other women did, and one had gone mad. When they were finished, the tapestries were an exquisite ode to the unicorn, which, of course, no longer existed, had never existed, as far as these women’s great-great-great-great-great-great-great - you get the point - grandmothers were concerned.

Crowley is well-versed in the art of penance. back

39. As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what it is. He can’t believe he didn’t notice. That Crowley didn’t. back

40. He can smell Michael all over it. back

41. Beneath him, the water starts, very lightly, to boil. back

42. In reality, Aziraphale, in his panic, overestimates a little, and gives Crowley the metaphysical equivalent of the people’s elbow. Er. The angel’s elbow. back

43. When what he really wants to say is, “Eurgh, that’s disgusting, Crowley, must you?” Crowley’s been through a lot, he thinks, and discretion really is the better part of valor. back

44. Or Someone. back

45. Not literally. Prayers from angels have weight, are watched. back

46. Thank Someone. back

47. Crowley still hasn’t forgiven him for that time in Bangladesh where they’d had to pose as a snake and a snake charmer, respectively, to get out of the city alive. Aziraphale had accidentally managed to charm him with the music, and had kept it up for perhaps a little longer than necessary, amused by the dazed swaying red-and-black serpent, who, after all, really just seemed to resemble Crowley when terribly drunk.

Crowley sulked all night after they’d gotten out of the city. Aziraphale had only made it up to him by getting him terribly drunk. To this day, Crowley still couldn’t see a pungi without getting terribly shirty. back

48. Clear proof that God really does prefer the whale.

As a matter of fact, no one has ever actually seen Her true form. It’s entirely possible that it’s rather larger than expected. Brain City, whales. back

49. Behind him, he can hear Beelzebub giving Crowley a very similar speech. back

50. “S’this what you feel like?” he asks Crowley accusingly.

“All the time,” Crowley says. “S’. S’. Unnerving, is what it is,” he says decisively. Crowley nods in consideration. “What was in this wine, anyway? Taste of Hell?”

“Just yer standard.” Crowley frowns, squints an eye at him. “Might get you a little extra - y’know.”

“Nah,” says Aziraphale, and toasts the ceiling* cheerfully.

*Well, he means to. In reality, he toasts the table and spills half of his wine on the floor. back

51. It’s one of Aziraphale’s favorite looks of Crowley’s. He is, as will be pointed out over a hundred years later, a bit of a bastard at heart. back

52. A proper one. That bit with the ox didn’t count. Nor the bit in Barcelona, or Versailles, or Athens, or… back

53. And discreetly readjusts certain, ahem, matters. Or one particularly vexing bit of matter, really. back

54. Not so discreet, then. back

55. Somewhere, a stack of chips is slid across a table to an open hand, the universal symbol for pay up. Behind the chips, God curses, heartily. A certain angel’s name might be involved. Aziraphale shudders, but he blames it on Crowley. back

56. Well, his legs are still awfully shaky. back

57. From the outside. back

58. That wasn’t Crowley’s problem at all. Rather the opposite, actually. back

59. It takes both hands. back

60. In a manner of speaking. Heaven is, on some levels, a perfect sphere, which means there are no corners at all. back

61. And, also, in a small cottage on a vast desolate moor with a strange barrier around it.

A year after, Beelzebub comes back. Gabriel’s there, standing on the edge of the pond, which has miraculously filled back up again. He looks up as Beelzebub walks over.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Beelzebub says.

Gabriel says, “This place has a strange attraction, doesn’t it.”

“Yeah,” says Beelzebub. “Strange.” They eyeball the cottage. “Shall we-” says Beelzebub, cocking their head at the cottage. Gabriel holds out his arm. Beelzebub tucks a hand into the crook of his elbow. “Care to check it out?” Gabriel says.

They go back once a year, when they can each get away from their respective responsibilities. They even take turns. back