"'I've been living to see you... dying to see you but it shouldn't be like this...  This was unexpected.  What do I do now?  Could we start again, please?'" JenniAnn sang quietly to herself as she dusted a few objects in the hallway before heading towards Joshua's room, watering can in hand.
 
JenniAnn had an ambivalent relationship with Joshua's room.  She loved that it was there.  She felt peaceful in it.  But... its emptiness sometimes made a lump form in her throat.  However, there were plants that needed to be watered and she wasn't about to let them die because she was feeling sentimental.
 
"'I've been very hopeful so far.  Now for the first time, I think...'"
 
JenniAnn's voice drifted off when she spotted something laying on Joshua's pillow.
 
A letter... with hers and Andrew's name in familiar script.
 
"Joshua..." she murmured with tears in her eyes before snapping the envelope up.  She was sorely tempted to read it right then and there... but it was addressed to her AND Andrew.
 
And so, plants temporarily forgotten, JenniAnn fled the room, tore down two flights and stairs, and ran towards Andrew's carpentry shop.  She was out of breath when she entered.
 
"Laja!" Andrew cried, hurrying towards her and grabbing her arms.  "Are you al..."
 
JenniAnn thrust the letter at him.
 
"That's Joshua's handwriting," Andrew recognized.

"I found it.  On his bed."
 
"What does it say?"
 
JenniAnn shrugged.
 
"Didn't read it.  It's addressed to both of us so..."
 
Touched, Andrew kissed her hair.
 
"All right.  Let's sit down and how about I read it out loud?" he offered.
 
JenniAnn gave an eager nod then gratefully collapsed onto the couch that Andrew had led her to.
 
The angel of death settled beside her, gently squeezed her knee to calm her, and then opened the letter with care.
 
"'To my beloved Andrew and JenniAnn,'" he began.
 
"Joshua..." JenniAnn murmured, gazing out a window at the sky.
 
"'I love you both so much and I'm so proud of the love you have for each other and for your family... a family you've built a beautiful, warm, welcoming home for.  The times that I've stayed with you have meant so much to me... and I know the times to come will be just as wonderful," Andrew continued.
 
"The times to come..." JenniAnn echoed, hope in her voice.
 
Andrew smiled at her before refocusing on the letter.
 
"'The reason for me writing to you today is because I have a request to make.  There are two individuals I would love for you to host at Willowveil.  It would be helpful for them to experience the beauty, warmth, and love that all who cross your threshold do.'"
 
"Oooh... house guests.  Interesting!" JenniAnn chirped.
 
"No need to extend an invitation.  They'll make their way to you.  Their names are Aziraphale and Crowley and I think you'll love them... I know I do.  But there's something I need you to know first.  Aziraphale is an angel, a principality to be exact.  And Crowley...  Well, Crowley's a...'"  Andrew paused and dragged a hand through his hair.
 
"A..."  JenniAnn peeked over Andrew's should.  "A demon!" she exclaimed.
 
"'So-called,'" Andrew read.
 
"So what does that mean?  'A demon... so-called?'  Joshua obviously knows who is and isn't a demon!"  JenniAnn shook her head.  "I mean it's gotta be okay.  Joshua wouldn't ask if it wasn't but... weird."
 
"Definitely weird," Andrew agreed.  "There's more.  So..."
 
JenniAnn hugged his arm as he resumed reading.
 
"'You're actually familiar with Crowley... albeit by another name.  He was the serpent in the Garden of Eden."
 
"What?!"  JenniAnn laughed at the insanity of it.  "But wait... wasn't that Satan?"

Andrew shook his head.
 
"I always heard it was someone else... a different fallen angel.  But we didn't really talk about it.  Genesis definitely doesn't say it was Satan."
 
"This is true," JenniAnn agreed.  "But still... *the* serpent!  Coming here!"
 
Andrew chuckled.
 
"Laja, that came out almost... fan-girl-esque."
 
"Well, I'm not a fan!" JenniAnn protested.  "But... I mean... he's, like, someone I've known of since I was what?  Three?  Someone I’ve known about for nearly as long as I’ve known about God!  He's kind of a big deal... for good or ill.  And for Joshua to be sending him here...  Do you think this is like Yehuda 2.0?"
 
"Maybe.  Let's see what else he has to say."
 
"Definitely."
 
Andrew wiped at his eyes then began to read again.
 
"'I know that's shocking.  I do.  And a little scary.  But... I also know you trust me.  I know Crowley would never harm either of you.  Or anyone in your home.  I wouldn't send him there if I knew otherwise.  I know him to the depths of his soul.'"  Andrew's voice cracked before he continued.  "'He's not like the demons who tormented you.  I promise you that.  And I need you to help him see that... to help both Aziraphale and Crowley regain their faith in me, in my Dad.  And... I think they would be well served by learning a thing or two about anam caras from you.'"
 
JenniAnn beamed.
 
"We definitely know a thing or two about anam caras..."
 
Andrew returned her smile and kissed her forehead before resuming.
 
"'It's going to be a balancing act, however.  If they get wind of how involved in Dyeland I am, they will try to leave.  So... even though it'll feel strange... please remove all photos of me.  It's just for a week. I promise. I need for them to not leave. I'll come visit when it's time. I can't wait to hug you both and thank you for your help which I value so very much as does Dad. I'll see you soon.  I love you both so very much. Always, Joshua.'"
 
Andrew and JenniAnn were quiet for a few moments as they let the contents of Joshua's letter sink in.
 
"Wow..."  Andrew again dragged a hand through his hair.
 
"Yeah...  Not every day the Son of God asks you to help bring the serpent of Eden back into the fold...  And this Aziraphale fellow...  And anam caras...  Do you think they're anam caras?  An angel... and a demon so-called?"
 
Amazed, Andrew shook his head.
 
"After that letter... anything seems possible!"
 
"Agreed."  JenniAnn rose from the couch.  "Well... we have some photos to move."
 
"Yeah... yeah, we do."
 
Andrew stood and pulled JenniAnn into an embrace.
 
"I'm glad I'm doing this with you," he murmured.
 
JenniAnn stretched up and kissed him.
 
"Likewise, my love."
 
Hand-in-hand, the two left the workshop and prepared for this most interesting of assignments.


For over two centuries, A.Z. Fell and Co was known to the general population to be unusable. The fact that its proprietor, a portly and white-haired man who resembled his father and grandfather so closely it was uncanny, was able to keep it running without so much as a single sold book baffled all. Not for a lack of trying from potential customers, who for decades had attempted to purchase from the shop’s wide array of valuable merchandise to no avail. Not only did the store boast outrageously confusing opening hours, but the products themselves were wildly expensive. Even so, the store remained as it had always been, standing and unchanged no matter how much time passed. Urban legends circulated throughout the generations: the store was a front for money laundering, Nazi spies used it as a base during the Second World War, or even that Mr. Fell was an immortal from the eighteenth century who was kept alive by feasting upon the souls of anyone who could offer the asking price of his books. None of them—except for the grateful hearts of a certain marginalized community who affectionately dubbed Mr. Fell “The Angel of Soho” without any seriousness, came close to the actual truth. And for that, Crowley won this year’s bet.

“I wouldn’t claim your victory so soon,” Mr. Fell—whose actual name amongst the supernatural crowd was Aziraphale—pouted as he passed over the metaphoric winnings pool.

“There’s still six more days left, someone might get the crowd chattering.” Half-hearted and an expected part of the game by now, the argument was aided on by the seasonal mulled wine in his glass. He fully understood he would lose this year, as he gladly did the past few times he and his companion had made their wagers, but not fighting about the loss just seemed inorganic. Created in 1803, the bet was based entirely on whether the humans could correctly guess and spread an urban legend that the proprietor was an angel. None of them knew they were part of a game, of course, as that would ruin the charade entirely. Instead, the duo got their results from slinking around local pubs and teenage gatherings. Aziraphale would always vote yes, Crowley would say no.

Aziraphale reclined back into his chair with a smile, the warm glow of the fireplace making the night even better. On the sofa across from him, the tall, red-haired demon Crowley—a title in only name and actions but not in soul—snorted out a laugh.

“We both know that’s a terrible tree to hang your tinsel on, angel. The humans walk around inebriated from now until New Year's Day.” He took a long swig from his own drink, his rumpled clothes and mussed up hair betraying who was the actual subject of his previous statement. “Besides, you’ve sabotaged yourself multiple times before. What happened with those gang members back in the nineties?” Crowley rolled off the couch and assumed a dainty stance, then cleared his throat to make his voice a few octaves higher. “I’m the angel Aziraphale, I’d like you to kindly leave my shop, become better people, and to not mention this night to anyone.” A devilish grin swept across the demon’s face as he plopped back down.

“That was the fourth time they came; it was getting rather ridiculous at that point to let them continue in their ways!” The angel grumbled as he attempted to hide his own smile. “I couldn’t let word actually get around; you know. Then Gabriel would have a reason to call me up.” The air in the room became more serious at the mention of the former superior, sobering up the two more than actual sobriety ever could. Crowley sighed as he poured himself some more wine, not drunk enough to deaden any lingering fears from the past summer. Aziraphale seemed to be zoned out, most likely thinking about all the unimportant opinions the heartless twit had to say about their newly formed side. An unlikely duo aligned with humanity against the forces of Heaven and Hell.

The break from Hell, while liberating for Crowley, did not translate over well for Aziraphale. Over the past seven months the angel found himself praying the bare minimum to his Creator for a myriad of reasons, was becoming increasingly lost in thought at any mention of Heaven and saw the same levels of anxiety as before getting free. Crowley was able to heal himself, but it seemed as if his companion was still engaged in battle. Wanting to pull his friend from his spiraling, even if it meant yielding his former stance on the matter, Crowley said “Angel. If you’d like, we can keep it going until the new year. I wouldn’t mind the extension. I’ll even throw in an extra meal at whatever restaurant you’d like.” It was a mocked-up jovialness that he hadn’t felt a moment ago but would if the despair within Aziraphale’s eyes would lift. Leaning forward, he carefully took the half-full glass away from the shaking owner’s hands. At the right time too since the force in which it was being held would have caused it to shatter under the pressure.

Dragged from his thoughts, the ethereal being glanced over at the demon. Aziraphale nodded as he blinked back watering eyes and softly responded in agreement. He tentatively reached out a hand. “Wonderful,” Crowley whispered back, lowering his voice to match, and offering out his hand. The angel took it with a deep strength at first, as if he wanted nothing more than to be free of the restrictions that come from sitting in a plush chair and a couch divided by a side table. Unfortunately, these did exist, and because of that, Aziraphale began to adjust his grip from painfully bone crushing for a human—not for Crowley—to the recipe for a perfect handshake. For a good while, that was how the two remained. They didn’t dare move any closer but were also unwilling to let go.
On January first, Aziraphale won for the first time in two hundred years. How it happened was irrelevant, but when the stories of angelic capitalist ventures came rolling in on New Year’s Eve, they all suspiciously preceded with the same tagline of validity: that the storytellers all got the information from a man in sunglasses who boasted a bitter rivalry with the subject. Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley decided to comment on this unusual occurrence, and instead went on their way reserving spots at Seven Park Place for the following evening. Which, upon their call they were given a singular table for two. Unheard of, according to the hostess, in all her fifteen years of serving since the restaurant had been booked up for months.

That same night, when Crowley drove them home for a few celebratory hours of music and drinks, the letter was waiting for them on Aziraphale’s desk. However, thanks to the rest of the betting pool—which forced the loser to accompany the winner to whichever places they wished to go—the two were kept occupied with hours of rare book finding. It was only until January sixth, when Aziraphale decided a break was in order to examine all his new purchases, that the book connoisseur caught sight of faint glowing coming from his desk. 

Peeking out from underneath a pile of eighteenth-century literature, the angel could just make out a corner of paper, golden and glowing in the morning sun.

The only objects that glow like that are ones that come from…

Before he could finish his thought, Aziraphale haphazardly launched himself at the desk to disassemble the tower of books. He has enough self-awareness to stop himself just before his teacup soaked everything on his desk in the boiling liquid. Hugging the mug close to his chest as he shook away the thought of the imagined catastrophe, the angel carefully placed his drink to perch on the hutch above his head, just to the right of his rotary phone.

Able to continue, he excitedly began disassembling the tower of books so he could uncover the paper. Without a doubt, Aziraphale knew it was a message from the Almighty. She would do that sometimes—send messages to him in notes because he adored the art of writing, then hide those writings in wild places for him to stumble across. All of them would be loving praise, allowing him something tangible to hold instead of letting spoken words slip through his memories as sand between fingers. If anyone loved coming across unexpected and sought after finds, it would be the angel who scours the world for books. The Almighty knew that, of course. She was the one who started it all, sending him these notes in between verbal communication in both Heaven and on Earth, long before the humans considered the possibility of writing.

The spot She had chosen this time around was not as elusive as past ones had been, but Aziraphale hardly cared. This was the first letter he’d gotten since the summer, before the failed apocalypse began, and the long silence he’d been getting from the Almighty had been making him a nervous wreck. Heaven had seen him standing right next to—and collaborating with—a demon, yet from what Crowley said of the angel’s celestial trial, their partnership was not even mentioned. This letter—which was finally confirmed to be such when Aziraphale pulled out an envelope—calmed the angel’s nerves a bit, knowing that the Lord did not hate him enough at least to cease communication entirely. The contents, however, were another hurdle to jump entirely.

To be frank, he was terrified to open this letter. After months of silence from Her end, Aziraphale had begun to believe that the Lord was positively angry at him. After all, he had gone against his superiors, acted far more worldly than any angel he knew, and he had a longstanding friendship with a demon. He’d been certain that the lack of communication had just been the Almighty biding Her time, collecting all the evidence, and waiting for the perfect opportunity to lay it all out before him. His own time, he believed, was just borrowed. Soon he would be in the depths of Hell taking orders from Beelzebub and all the other bosses Crowley mocked. The letter he held in his hands now would either prove or disprove the theory, making the angel hesitant to open it. A coward, that’s what Gabriel would make of Aziraphale in this moment.

There he stood in front of his desk, feeling a mixture of apprehension and stupidity as he attempted to delay what was only the inevitable. “Maybe I could call Crowley, he could lend me some moral support,” he decided, reaching over towards his landline. He paused when his hand reached the receiver, debating on whether he should bother the demon for a letter he hadn’t even opened yet.

“Well,” he said, trying to reason with himself. “I can just open it up while on the phone with him, if it’s bad, at least he’ll be on the other line.” With that, he started to dial one of the two numbers he knew by heart.


Just under a mile away in Mayfair, Crowley’s day had not even begun when his cellphone started ringing. Playing an obnoxious tune that no one wanted to hear as they were waking up—no matter if it was three in the morning or three in the afternoon—Crowley at first tried to ignore it and fall back into the pit of sleep. However, as the fourth call began its round, the demon understood that he wouldn’t be left alone until he answered.

Cutting halfway through a ring, Crowley greeted with a growled, “What?”

“Crowley, I’m sorry for bothering you at this hour,” Aziraphale rushed out, as if he had been holding his breath through the entire process of calling. Not sounding contrite in the least, the demon noted. “What time is it that I’m apologizing for, anyway?” He asked, distractedly pausing for a moment, humming as he undoubtedly pulled his pocket watch from his trousers. “Maybe not,” he said, returning to the conversation. “It’s four in the afternoon. Is everything alright? I do have a problem, but I know…”

He’d be lying if he didn’t admit the sudden shift to his well-being warmed his heart. Aziraphale’s attention had latched onto a recent confession he made about nights where he couldn’t sleep, leaving him to haunt the streets of London after one distorted dream or another. It was certainly a subject that needed to be discussed, but from what he had heard in the beginning of the call, the time was not now. He felt a bit guilty answering so annoyed, here he was being needed by his nervous angel, and all he cared for was slipping into the abyss of unconsciousness. That just wouldn’t do.

Interrupting Aziraphale in his spiel, Crowley drawled, “No, no. I’m fine. Just had a late night of debauchery and exploits. Drawing the humans into the wiles evil, all that stuff. Might of stumbled in here at four in the morning, drunk off my arse smelling like sin itself and sleeping in.” Whether that was true or not is up to debate. He very easily could have also spent the evening watching a baking show for tips on his next culinary adventure. No one will ever know.

The demon could hear a soft giggle on the other end, effectively cutting off any worries the angel had over the demon’s dreams. Crowley turned over on his stomach, pushed the duvet off his legs and swung his feet around between bed and back. It was a perfect depiction of a stereotypical teenage girl ready to exchange secrets on a Friday night. “Now what’s the wake-up call for?”

“I’ve got a letter, Crowley.” Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it? He had heard about the hide and seek game that the Almighty liked to play with Aziraphale. Usually, it was a happy occasion, but now, the angel seemed almost terrified. He knew that with the apocalypse over and done with, as well as the miraculous escapes they performed with the holy water and hellfire, they had severed the relationships with their bosses—but the Almighty should be a different situation. Yes, Aziraphale wasn’t bound to Heaven’s whims any longer, but he was still dedicated to the Lord.

Crowley also knew that for the past six months, Aziraphale had been particularly concerned on where he stood with the Almighty. After all, the angel loved Them, devoted his life to serving out Their Will, and so it only made sense that he would be fearful when putting a single toe out of line. Dabbling in the Divine Plan involving the end of the world was short of putting an entire leg out of place. Add in consorting with a demon for as long as you’ve been alive and lying about it, well, that would be putting his entire body across the line. Of course, that doesn’t even touch the concept that the two of them were more than friends. Crowley was positive They would have something to say about that.

“Did you hear what I said?” Aziraphale asked, interrupting Crowley’s thoughts.

Better act as the level head in this, no matter what They have to say, Crowley thought, looking down toward his cuticles. Hopefully, he didn’t open it without me there.

“I was. You got a letter from the Almighty, but you certainly don’t seem happy about it. You’ve been waiting for it, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but.” The angel sighed, almost hesitating a bit. “I didn’t open it—”

Well, there’s that silver lining.

“—and I know I should have before calling and wasting your time.”

“No, you’re not. I much rather this scenario, truthfully. At least then you wouldn’t be alone.”

“Are you sure it’s from Her, though? Could be another bookshop owner trying to harass the competition again. Which, if it is, I want to be the one to confront them. I know you can take care of it,” he rushed out, stopping the protest he could physically see coming from Aziraphale’s side. “But I can still show them something hellish. If those walking embodiments of pride want a pissing contest, I’ll give them one,” Crowley smirked, beginning to list off activities he could do in front of unwanted competitors as aggravation tactics.

“No need,” the angel said, trying to hold in his laughter to upkeep his well accustomed serious appearance. "It’s definitely from Her. I saw it glowing.”

“Hmm, alright,” he replied, a bit grumpy that mischief making had been cut off so soon. A pregnant pause settled over the line.

Crowley went back to scrutinizing his cuticles. Picking at the chipped nail polish on his fingers, he decided that he either had to get them redone within the next day or wipe the remaining bits off. It looked horrendous as it was. After a full minute of waiting for Aziraphale to do the reasonable action of continuing on with the letter, he made himself give the angel a kick in the right direction. “So are you going to open it?”

How did he get so deep in his thoughts in such a short amount of time? Crowley asked himself when Aziraphale didn’t respond right away.

“What?” Agh, Crowley internally blessed the confines of his mind, which couldn’t seem to help imagining his angel. Aziraphale, blinking owlishly and shaking his head just a bit—using physical force to rid himself of mental images. He’d do that once every two hundred years, if the demon was lucky enough to spend over a week at the shop.

Crowley pulled a face at himself, disgruntled now that he was the one getting distracted. And bombarded with the sappiest daydream too. The only aspect that brought him back to reality was fake Aziraphale’s imaginings. Fire and brimstone, of course, to fit with the dire situation they were most likely going to find themselves in once that letter gets opened. If it ever does.

Should have just went there when he said he got the blasted thing. It’s clear he doesn’t want to open it alone. I should be over there encouraging him to get it over with and see that God is just fine. Tch, what kind of occult worker am I? Piss poor one, strengthening relationships and bonding.

“I said, are you going to open the letter,” Crowley repeated, not entirely expecting response. Aziraphale seemed to be distracted when he asked and was most likely drawn back into his thoughts.

Bugger this, I’ll just go over there.

Nestling the device between his shoulder and his ear, as he had seen humans do so many times in the past, Crowley rolled himself off his bed and started to tiredly pick through his wardrobe for something to wear. Taking a quick peek out at his alarm clock, he saw that it was an hour away from tea-time. They could go out to the local shoppe for some scones and those tiny sandwiches the angel liked so much after all this. If there isn’t the immediate threat of annihilation for any demons involved, that is. But if Aziraphale ended up getting cast out to Hell, they could still have some time. It wouldn’t solve anything when they went down below, but at least then, Aziraphale’s nerves would be slightly settled by all the comfort, and Crowley would have formulated a plan to protect the not-angel from his new co-workers.   

In the middle of slithering into black jeans, Crowley jumped when Aziraphale suddenly spoke after such a long stretch of silence. “I’ve opened it.”

The demon raised his eyebrows. “You’ve spent all this time quiet, and you’ve only opened it?”

“I got to the first paragraph!” The angel indignantly defended. The sound of shuffling paper resounded over the line, and there was no doubt in Crowley’s mind that Aziraphale was petulantly shaking the letter in front of the receiver. “Do you hear that?” He growled. “This is one piece of paper. Her usual letters are at least three pages front and back. I’ve never gotten something so short, and all I can think about is that this must be a strongly worded termination notice with all of my shortcomings,” he said, the anger in his voice starting to crack. “So sorry that I’m not jumping at the chance to read all about how disappointed She is in me.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley started, heart breaking as he listened to his friend’s rapidly failing attempt to hold in sobs. He faltered, unsure of what he could say that would possibly bring some sort of comfort. He settled on an offer he hoped the angel would accept. "Would you like me to keep you company while you read the rest?"

Content in waiting for an answer, the demon switched his phone to speaker mode and placed it on his nightstand as he worked on a button-down shirt.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, sounding touched. As if the angel’s problems were such a bother to deal with. “Oh, well… yes. Yes, I would,” sounding much better. “That is, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble for you.”

It was here that Crowley found himself needing to keep back his own tears, though these were from a overbearing feeling of love within his soul rather from sadness. His angel had been so fearful—still so upset underneath the elation that he wouldn’t be alone—and yet the first thing he considered was how it would impact Crowley—the one who offered in the first place. As if the demon would ever find him too troubling.

Not to say he doesn’t cause trouble, his is just the good kind, Crowley thought, shoving socked feet into stylish boots. “What kind of question is that? Of course it isn’t.”

Looking at his wardrobe for the final time, he considered whether his leather jacket would be enough against the weather. Picking his cell up, he returned it to hand held mode and brought it to his ear again. “I’ll start out now, but what do you suggest, leather jacket or overcoat? I heard it would get a bit nippy later.”

“You’re not a snake to enjoy the cold, my dear,” and Crowley rolled his eyes, knowing that Aziraphale was teasing him.

“Thank you, oh wise Principality. I would never know that without your insight,” he drawled. Splitting the difference, he decided to go with both. Finished dressing, he grabbed his keys on the kitchen table and twirled them around on his finger as he walked towards the door of his flat. “Already on my way, be there in two minutes,” he said, putting a bit of emphasis on how long he would take, hoping Aziraphale would take the bait. Stepping out and locking up, a devious smile tugged on the ends of his lips when he heard the angel sigh, knowing he had him.

Crowley imagined him pursing his mouth in concern, scandalized by how much damage a Bentley from 1933 could cause speeding through London.

Both knew that Crowley wasn’t exaggerating; he frequently ripped through the streets without much concern for any of the other drivers or pedestrians—mostly because he used his demonic powers to prevent any true harm. For him, it was nothing more than a bit of an inconvenience and mischief for the humans, and a time saver for himself. Which, he felt was necessary. Hypothetically, the distance between Soho and Mayfair was little more than five minutes without any traffic whatsoever if one was driving the appropriate speed limit. Realistically, however, when accounting for all the traffic, it was double that. Something that Crowley took as an offense.

“Drive the appropriate speed, Crowley,” Aziraphale warned. “I better not see you in less than ten minutes. Do some good and help an old lady cross the street,” he jested a bit, the happiest the demon had heard him since beginning the call. At least in this moment, he was able to forget his nervousness.

“Six minutes, and I’ll generously stop at the traffic lights,” he compromised, jogging down the stairwell instead of waiting for the elevator. Damn lift never works anyway.

“Alright,” and the call ended just as Crowley walked out of the building. Placing the phone in his pocket, he resolved that he could drive as fast as he’d like, as Aziraphale was clearly too distracted to time him. Was it going against his word? Of course, but just as all his other excuses, his concern over the angel’s well-being won out over any sense of morality he had.

He got there in just under a minute, and Aziraphale never noticed.



“Alright,” Aziraphale said, then he heard the click of the line disconnecting. For just a moment he stood there, the phone still pressed firmly against his ear as he collected himself. He hadn’t wanted Crowley to hang up—not when he could feel the curl of terror creep up around him once more. He felt as if he needed some sort of witness, so that if the Almighty decided to sweep him up into Her heavenly anger, there would be someone else who saw it happen. Someone who could point to the ashes and say, “Look, that was Aziraphale”. And, while rationally the angel knew he could always call back, it felt like such a needy thing to do. The demon was already doing so much by making his way over and helping—Aziraphale shouldn’t make himself seem to be too much of burden. Straining to ignore his urge to redial the number, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath in, and held it for a seven second count. On the shuddering exhale, he resolutely placed the receiver back down in its cradle. His hand lingered, driven by a mind of its own that Aziraphale did not have the energy to fight. But eventually, he tore himself way. 

Pointedly refusing to look at his desk where the letter rested, words peeking out from its folded form, Aziraphale let his eyes drift towards the bookshelf to the left of him, reading the assorted titles and their respective authors as he thought. Despite his morose demeanor, he could help but let a small smile creep onto his face as he considered Crowley’s offer in detail. It truly was such a selfless thing to do. Even though the pair had officially broken off from their old sides to form their own—about six months now at least—the angel felt sometimes that their misconduct in thoughts and actions were being monitored by an unseen oppressive force. Even though Heaven and Hell had been reasonably cowed into leaving their former minions alone, Aziraphale couldn’t say that they had changed their stance. The angel’s skin prickled whenever his brain considered the possibility, forcing him to stamp it down now as he had done all the other times.

But it made Crowley kind, regardless of the demon’s reservations towards the word, and in the case that Aziraphale’s fears were correct, incredibly foolish. More so in the present than ever before, because while the demon has always been like this when it came to Aziraphale—selfless, catering, protective, positively enraptured and devoted—back then Crowley was able to maneuver around Hell’s ever-seeing eyes with such precision that there was never any suspicion. Now, it was almost guaranteed that Crowley’s old side was observing his every move with fervor, lying in wait for the perfect moment to snatch him up again. Biding their time, compiling a list of undemonlike activities that would damn him to the lowest pits of Hell. The same could be said for Heaven and Aziraphale, but the arrival of the letter would have made institutional retribution redundant. After all, what terrors can co-workers unleash that rival what the boss can bring? Yet, while Aziraphale felt nothing but terror thinking about Heaven’s meddling, found his stomach clench with ice at reading his Mother’s scathing condemnation, he found that nothing compared to imagining what Crowley would be put through once Hell got their bearings. 

The situation made being within a few feet of each other dangerous, their dance around the true meaning of their relationship was a death sentence. If they were ever brave enough, affirming with a verbal or physical show of the love begging to be released from their chests instead of their reeled in gestures and meaningful glances would be—Aziraphale shivered and diverted that unpleasant train of thought onto another track.  

Crowley was selfless in that he was hurting, Aziraphale knew he had to be. Any other time that these letters had been discussed and offered up, Crowley had declined and changed the subject, very obviously uncomfortable. That wasn’t to say that the demon never mentioned their Mother—matter of fact, he had no qualms about listening to Aziraphale’s woes regarding Her, even suggesting that Aziraphale approach Her in person with matters that bothered him. He would often suggest some words to say—not that the angel ever did. He was even sure that he had heard Crowley talk to Her sometimes when he thought Aziraphale couldn’t hear—little whispers and what not. But when I came to actually hearing Her voice or reading the notes She wrote, that was where Crowley drew the line. It brought him too close to Her and having to separate himself after immersing himself in Godliness had to kill him inside. 

Aziraphale would have never asked him to read the letter, and yet here the demon was volunteering himself for a hurt that had been hammering at his heart for thousands of years. For the angel to get such a proposal uncoerced was an unexpected and unabashedly loving thing to do—though Aziraphale would be unable to say it out loud without having to face Crowley’s griping. 

Aziraphale’s frazzled thought process was cut off by the unmistakable roar of the demon’s Bentley and the squealing of tires ripping through pavement at a breakneck speed. There was a shriek of the engine and nearby humans as the Bentley slammed to a stop in its self-designated spot outside the shop. Which, while not officially marked as a parking space, had become one as soon as Crowley came in possession of his vehicle. 

With the snap of the demon’s fingers, the front doors flew open, and the demon marched in with the determinate gait of someone not feeling a shred of nerves. However, the sunglasses upon his face did not hide the gleam of anxiety evident within his eyes, and for some reason, it made Aziraphale relax just a bit. 

Crowley smirked at him, let out a quick greeting of “Angel” before sprawling out onto a plush seat. Without much fanfare, he conjured up a bottle of wine and two glasses then gestured for the other to sit down.  

But Aziraphale did not, instead fiddling with the buttons of his shirt nervously. Crowley watched him from over the rims of his sunglasses, seemingly trying to puzzle out what was going on in the angel’s brain. After a few moments of the same, the demon filled his glass and took a swig. Enjoying the warmth, he sat back to observe. “This is what we’re going to do?” he questioned after another moment, “I thought we were reading a letter.” His eyes were glued to those fiddling fingers. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale nodded, “we are.” He continued to remain where he was. 

Crowley’s eyes narrowed, and he made a get on with it gesture, swinging his arm to the seat across from him. Yet still, Aziraphale did not move. 

It was then that recognition lit up in Crowley’s eyes and a smirk snaked its way across his face. “Are you stalling?” He pointed a finger out at the angel. 

Aziraphale scoffed and, after not coming up with a better subject change, lamely asked, “What’s the alcohol for?”

The smirk became a full grin. “Oh, you are. Come on now,” he coaxed, dropping his voice to just above a whisper. “I’m here, we can do this to together.” However, this approach only made Aziraphale become indignant.  

“Don’t patronize me! I was getting to it. I just didn’t feel like wine was needed,” he sniffed, trying to put on a front. Going back to his desk, he grabbed the parchment in his left hand and his cooled mug in the other before turning back to address Crowley. “Would you like some tea instead?” And to show the superiority of a nice cup, Aziraphale downed the drink as if he was taking a shot, then promptly winced as he swallowed. 

“Was the tea cold?” Crowley asked knowingly and his grin only grew when the angel glared. 

“Absolutely not,” he said, lying through his teeth. In fact, I could go for another after we finish this bottle,” Aziraphale lowered himself into the plush loveseat across the demon, inclining his head towards the other. Obliging, Crowley filled the other glass and handed it over, topping off another of his own. Aziraphale let their eyes meet, adding, “wouldn’t want to waste it, after all.”

Crowley shook his head. “Perish the thought from your mind,” then summoned the letter with a crook of his fingers. The folded parchment flapped open, drifting through the air until it hovered right next to them. “Are you reading it, or should I?” Aziraphale took that moment to take an extremely long sip from his drink. Crowley took his cue and read.

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