Happy Holidays, irisbleufic!

[goe_mod]

Title: The Final Piece.

Recipient: Irisbleufic

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley

Rating: T

Warnings: M/M, OC/OC, minor character death, very mild violence (not graphic) in keeping with genre.

Summary: Newspaper photographer Anthony J. Crowley was out of work and in a rut. His life seemed to be going nowhere… Until he met the Bookseller. His life was never going to be quite the same again.
Human spy AU, modern day.


The Final Piece


Part One. Down in the Park.

"Another day and yet more bills to pay," mused Anthony Crowley as he sat on the bench in the Park, feeding a few bread crusts to the ducks and wearing a morose expression. It was mid-September and had been 3 months now since his job as a photographer at the local newspaper offices had been terminated. All down to technology, he grumbled to himself. No need for a journalist and a photographer to attend a story these days, the journo just took decent quality shots on his 'phone and the story plus photographs were back at the office within the hour. He had contemplated calling in a few favours from his old friend and former colleague who had moved on and was now working for a large 'Society' magazine. He'd suggested that Crowley might find work at a similar publication - they always wanted photographers for their studio shoots and to cover the more glamorous society events where the rich and famous always seemed to prefer their image being captured whilst posed and using a 'proper' camera rather than being caught at an embarrassing moment by a person wielding a mobile 'phone. Crowley had contemplated the suggestion, but somehow the idea of rubbing shoulders with the predictable herd of M'Lords and Right Honourables didn't really appeal. Clichéd though it may sound, Crowley preferred to ply his trade amongst the real people, down on the streets. Still, he needed to find something soon. His bills needed paying and money was not going to just drop into his lap.

With the last bit of crust gone and the ducks' interest waning in favour of a passing child with a loose grip on an ice-cream cone, Crowley settled back in the sun to leaf through the Situations Vacant columns of the newspaper, and to indulge himself in a little people-watching. He was almost ashamed to admit that he was there so often these days that he had learned to recognise most of the Park regulars and used to often let his mind drift into a semi dream world where they were all spies and were using the Park as a place to conduct their feats of espionage. He never spoke to them, of course. He had built up such a strong character set for most of them that he knew that he would be disappointed to find that they didn't have a strong Russian accent. Besides that, he always felt distinctly uncomfortable in face to face situations when he wasn't able to hide behind a camera.

One man had actually made the effort to speak to him before. He'd been a slightly built, dark haired man in an immaculately tailored suit, his moustache and beard trimmed to within an inch of their lives and round, wire framed spectacles. His whole aura screamed office clerk, but something about his voice and manner had made Crowley's flesh crawl slightly. He'd sat on the same bench as Crowley and engaged in small talk whilst leaning closer to see what Crowley was reading and had then started asking all sorts of questions about what sort of job was Crowley looking for. In the end, Crowley had simply folded up his paper and given a feeble excuse before standing up and leaving the inquisitive companion behind.

There was one regular though that had Crowley baffled. It was hard not to notice him, reasonably tall, blond wavy hair, bespectacled and with an alarmingly fussy, yet bad, fashion sense which didn't so much scream out "SPY" as "University Professor stuck in the 1940s"… Maybe even earlier. He was often seen in the queue for the refreshments kiosk which Crowley often frequented to grab a double espresso, leastways, when he could afford it. Things were getting so tight financially that he was going to have to forego the luxury of the kiosk and start bringing a thermos of home made instant instead. He gave an involuntary shudder at the mere thought.

"The Prof", as Crowley had found himself calling the blond man in his head, always ordered a cup of cocoa and a shortbread biscuit, which he would gather up and carry hastily away, eyes downturned. That day though had been different. Crowley had rummaged through numerous pockets and desk drawers at home and found sufficient loose change to treat himself. He found himself in the queue right behind the Prof and was about to step up to the kiosk with his order when the blond man turned and collided with him, narrowly avoiding sending scalding cocoa down the shirt front of the alarmed Crowley, and jabbing him firmly in the side with a bag containing the shortbread. Crowley was unable to refrain from giving a soft "Ooof" at the impact.

"Oh, my dear fellow… I am most frightfully sorry. Are you alright?"

Crowley looked up hastily and found himself looking into a pair of concerned blue eyes and a worried frown.

"Yes… Erm… Yes, I think so."

"Please, do allow me to get that for you - by way of an apology for my clumsiness. Would you care for anything to eat? I can recommend the shortbread… It's very good."

"I… er… Thank you."

Crowley stood in a sort of trance as the blond man pressed a paper mug of coffee and a bag of shortbread into his hands then turned to pass money to the young girl on the kiosk that day.

"Please forgive me having to rush away. Have to get back to my shop before my assistant sells one of my rare books to the wrong sort of person!" He gave a chuckle, but Crowley had a feeling that he wasn't actually joking. He managed a shaky nod and watched as the blond man hurried away towards the Park gates, threading his way through the crowds and finally vanishing beyond the shrubs. So, not a Professor then… A bookshop owner. Well, that figured. The tartan cravat though… Oh dear.


****

Every morning, Crowley would go through his morning routine with bored resignation. Get up, get coffee, get toast, check mail, check on-line job adverts, apply for at least two jobs promising mediocre wages for doing something mind-numbingly boring, get more coffee, get showered, shaved and dressed before sitting down to search for any new employment web sites and to trawl through the new job listings for a second time. It was dull.

This morning though was different. He rushed through his ablutions, gulped down a cup of black coffee, decided against the toast and left his apartment, grabbing his jacket as he went and picking the newspaper off the mat. He headed down the street towards the Park. Today felt, for some unfathomable reason, different. He parked himself on his usual bench and scanned the area for people, noting the usual array of regulars shuffling along in pairs in almost slow motion, deep in whispered conversation about whatever clandestine subjects that these sorts usually talked about. Crowley had to admit that he hadn't got a clue, despite being an avid fan of fiction in the spy genre and having shelves full of Le Carre, Fleming, Conrad and Childers, a collection reflected in his racks of DVDs and audiobooks. No sign of the blond bookseller though. Crowley felt almost disappointed but was certainly not going to pause and give that feeling any more consideration. He opened the paper and, after a cursory glance at the headlines, settled down to go through the list of available jobs.

"May I join you?"

Crowley looked up in surprise to find the blond bookseller standing by the bench with a politely questioning expression.

"Er… Yes, yes of course. Please do."

"Thank you. I hope you don't mind, I took the liberty of getting you a coffee. A double espresso, I believe is your beverage of choice?" The man held out a cup of coffee then rummaged in a pocket and produced a small bag containing a biscuit which was also passed into Crowley's waiting hands.

"Any luck with finding employment?"

"How…?"

"Well, you are looking at the sits vac columns and drawing circles around some of the items. It doesn't need a massive amount of deductive capability to assume that you are, therefore, seeking employment and circling possible avenues of interest. Unless, of course, you just have a strange hobby…" Again, that warm chuckle which tempered the questioning. Crowley gave a resigned shrug and sighed.

"Yes, you are right, and no, no luck so far. I need to find something soon though, before my bank manager sends me another letter informing me of my lamentable financial state and charging me some ludicrous amount for the privilege of receiving said letter." Crowley frowned at himself. He wasn't usually so open about his private life, especially to someone who he had only met once before, but there was something about this man, a sort of warm affability which broke down barriers straight away and just seemed to encourage conversation.

"So, what sort of work are you looking for?"

"Well, I was a press photographer up until a few months ago, so ideally something along those lines. Not a great number of vacancies for proper photographic work these days though. Nowadays it's easy for the photos to be grabbed on a mobile 'phone and transferred straight to the editing department for enhancing and manipulating. No photographic skill involved, it's all a bit depressing really."

"Manipulation? You mean we can't believe all we see in the papers? You do surprise me!" The voice was full of amusement. Crowley managed a weak laugh in response.

"Forgive me, what am I thinking? My name is Aziraphale by the way. Yes, I know… bizarre name… Blame my parents! I like to think that they had been going to have me christened Raphael but the priest sneezed during the naming part of the ceremony and Aziraphale it was… " he laughed softly.

Crowley wasn't sure whether to laugh or not. Was the man serious? "Crowley," he ventured. "Anthony Crowley."

"No relation to the 'Great Beast', I assume?"

"What? Oh, him. No, thankfully not."

"Shame. I have a few of his works, first editions mainly, and it is amazing how many rare books are to be found lurking on the shelves of distant relatives. Do you prefer to go by Anthony or Tony…or...? "

"Actually I prefer just plain Crowley."

Crowley watched intrigued as the other man fished into a waistcoat pocket and produced an elegant pocket watch which he flipped open. The action was followed immediately by a loud sigh.

"Oh dear, time has beaten us yet again, Mr Crowley." He stood and brushed a few biscuit crumbs from the front of his jacket. "I must be getting back to work."

"Where do you…" began Crowley, then bit his lip into silence, feeling awkward at his question.

"I have a shop in Soho. Nothing special but it is mine own. Good luck with your search for employment. I'm sure something will come along soon." With a smile and a brief wave, he turned and walked away, vanishing into the crowds beyond the gate. Crowley gave a little shiver and returned to his scanning of the paper.


****

He had managed to eke out the time for a further 2 hours after which time he was starting to feel chilled as the London weather did one of its mercurial changes typical of that time of year, and he was sure that his backside had the markings of the bench's slats firmly embossed upon it. He was just placing his pen into his jacket pocket when someone else sat on the bench next to him. Crowley glanced sideways to see the slim, dark-haired man of the previous encounter carefully smoothing an imaginary crease from his immaculate trousers and continuing to stare straight ahead, as if Crowley wasn't even there. He reached into his inside pocket and withdrew what Crowley at first thought was a silver cigarette-case, but which he quickly realised was in fact a card case. Still silently staring ahead, the man opened the case and withdrew a single business-type card which he held towards Crowley, clearly expecting him to take it. Crowley reached out warily and took the card. It was a plain white with a black embossed border and a few words in exquisite copperplate written in ink across it.

'Flat 2. Paradise Mews, Belgravia.'

Crowley turned the card over but the other side was blank. He frowned at the other man who was already starting to stand up.

"Sorry… what exactly…?"

"It would be to your … advantage to call in at that address. In your own time, of course. You will be expected." With that, he gave a curt nod and walked away, leaving Crowley holding the card and wondering what was he supposed to find at this address.

His mind ran rapidly through a list of possibilities starting with a planned mugging due to a case of mistaken identity through various scenarios involving physical harm in varying degrees and finally landing on being abducted and sold to the highest international bidder as a sex slave. He went to throw the card into the nearby waste bin along with his cup and biscuit wrapper, but at the last moment changed his mind and pocketed it instead before heading for home, his mind still swirling with a mixture of his two conversations.



Part Two. Into Unknown Territories.

Three days had passed since Crowley's last trip to the Park. He had to admit that the strange conversation with the dark-haired man had spooked him slightly and he was concerned that he might be approached again should he chance to sit there for any length of time. There was also the fact that he had run out of bread and so had a shortage of crusts. He didn't think he could face the imploring looks of the quite clearly starving waterfowl and the inevitable glares of disgust when he failed to provide a few scraps for them.

Three days spent holed up in his flat with only a selection of DVDs, books and a small selection of houseplants for company, however, was at least two days too many. The television programmes seemed banal and his radio was picking up all sorts of interference leading to crackling and hissing, with the occasional burst of words in a language which Crowley didn't recognise. He had to get out of the flat, if only for a brief stroll. He was going stir crazy.

The weather, as was its wont, had decided to be Autumnal that day. The wind had swung round to blow in from the East, and the temperature had dropped as a result. The first of the falling leaves were skittering along the streets, accompanied by the occasional crisp packet or sheet of newspaper which had managed to avoid the early-morning street sweepers. At least it was dry, although the grey skies and amassing darker clouds suggested that this would soon change.

Crowley grabbed a warmer jacket, studiously ignored a utility bill (which had landed on his doormat an hour ago) and trotted out onto the street. Turning his collar up in an attempt to lessen the effects of the chill wind, Crowley thrust his hands deep into his pockets and, eyes towards the pavement, started to walk with no real direction in mind. He should have been surprised to find himself walking along Great Marlborough Street and heading into the heart of Soho, but for some reason, he wasn't.

After a few minutes just casually strolling along various streets and pausing outside a few of the shop windows, he turned down a small alley and emerged onto a street where the majority of shops catered for a more specialised clientele. Crowley found himself almost blushing as he passed one such shop where a middle aged lady with a motor scooter helmet hanging off one wrist was standing at the doorway holding something in fur-lined leather which might have been for a pet, or equally could be a torture device. An eager young shop assistant was hovering at her shoulder as she examined the article and tutted over it.

"Hmmmm, no dear," she was muttering. "Now I see it in proper light it isn't the right colour. It would clash with most of my gentlemens' skin tone. Lime isn't right for everyone. Did you say you have it in fuchsia?"

Crowley coughed politely to attract the assistant's attention before he could rush back into the shop.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for a bookshop."

"We do have a few books in the back room, Sir, If you wish to come in and browse?" The assistant's voice was couched in respectful tones, a definite hint of a natural East End accent skulking below the surface.

"Er… thank you, no. I'm looking for a proper bookshop… not a… a…" Crowley's vocabulary failed dramatically at that point and he just made a vague flapping motion towards the shop with his hand. The assistant's expression moved from politely helpful to slightly annoyed.

"Only ten proper bookshops in this area, Mate. If you're only after books that is. The others sell books as a sideline. You'd class them as more sort of improper if you get my drift!" The man's accent had become more pronounced.

Crowley frowned. "Er… The owner is …" he was about to say "called Aziraphale", but his brain jammed on the brakes before he could stumble over the name… "a tall man, blond hair… glasses… fob watch…?"

"Ah. You want 'Fell's Antiquarian Books and Ephemera'. He don't sell anything of a dubious nature though. Squeaky clean apparently. His neighbour though, well, if you're after something with a bit of bite, just go in there and ask for a special b…"

"Thank you!" Crowley interrupted, cheeks darkening at the direction in which the conversation seemed to be heading. Did he really look like he was seeking that sort of shop? He'd have to do some serious re-thinking about his image. "Can you tell me where this Fell's bookshop is?... Please?"

"Yeah, Mate. See that shop with the pink awning and the inflatable in the window? Go past that and turn left, then second right and it's about five doors down. Can't miss it."

"Thanks." Crowley gave a weak smile and turned to go.

"And if you DO visit his neighbour's shop, just tell him Roj sent you and you'll get a good discount!" He gave Crowley a slow and very theatrical wink before ducking back into his shop in search of things fuchsia.

Crowley grimaced and headed down the road, carefully avoiding casting any looks towards shop windows and ignoring the few shop owners who were standing at their doors muttering about their enticing special offers, which quite often seemed to be along the lines of 'buy one, get one free'.

After a short while, Crowley found himself in front of a small shop frontage, the sign over the door proclaimed it to be the shop described to him by the young assistant. He hovered nervously outside for what seemed like ages, looking at the array of titles on display in the window and trying to think of a plausible reason for being there. Oh come on, Crowley… He gave himself a mental kick and walked into the shop, flinching as the bell above the door jangled loudly to announce his arrival.

"I'm sorry, I'm closing in five minutes!" came a slightly peevish voice from behind a set of shelves.

Crowley wondered whether to just dash straight back out. He started to stammer out a quick apology but was interrupted by a crash as a pile of books toppled and fell across the floor, accompanied by a mild curse and the appearance of one tall, blond figure wearing a somewhat disgruntled expression. This changed to one of delighted recognition as he realised who the intruder was.

"My dear Mr Crowley. What brings you to my humble little retail outlet?"

"I… erm… I was just passing… I thought I might buy a book… Perhaps…"

"Well, you're in the right place… " Aziraphale said with a grin. "Are you after a particular title, or will any book suffice?"

"Look, I'm sorry. You're obviously about to close so maybe I should leave you in peace and come back another day."

"Certainly not. I mean, you would be welcome at any time, but please, feel free to browse for as long as you want. You will excuse me if I tidy this up though, won't you?"

"Would you like a hand?"

"If you don't mind. Thank you. Just stack them on the table there, I'll put them in order tomorrow morning."

They fell into silence as they retrieved the fallen books and Aziraphale paused to stare out of the window as he turned the shop sign to read 'CLOSED'. "The weather doesn't look very inspiring," he muttered. "It's just started to rain. You can't possibly go out in that. Look, I was about to make some cocoa. Would you care for a cup… unless you have to be elsewhere, of course…"

"No… I haven't any pressing engagements. A cocoa would be nice, thank you."

Aziraphale beamed at him. "Excellent. Don't stand on ceremony. Why don't you go through to the back room and make yourself at home while I get the drinks. Are you driving?"

"Er… no. I don't have a car at the moment. I walked over."

"Well then, I'll bring the brandy in as well. Can't beat a drop of brandy to give a cup of cocoa that extra je ne sais quoi," said the bookseller. "I won't be many minutes. The fire is lit in there so it should be nice and warm. If you could just pop another couple of logs on if it needs them."

Crowley nodded and walked through into the back room. He was pleasantly surprised. He'd expected a dusty, cold space with packing boxes and fluorescent lighting, but instead it was a medium sized room done out like a study with two comfortable looking armchairs near to the fire, a small sofa covered with a sumptuous throw, a wooden filing cabinet, a leather topped desk and the sort of lighting which just looked warm and comfortable. Crowley couldn't resist taking a quick stroll around the room, stopping at the desk. His attention was caught by two photographs which were sitting, propped up against a Miller's price guide and a book devoted entirely to snuff boxes of the Regency Period.

Unable to resist the temptation, Crowley carefully picked up the photographs and studied them. They were both black and white, and both clearly of the same subject, a man of around 50 years old, attractive, wearing smart casual dress, apparently unaware of being photographed. In one, the man was leaning back against a set of railings which could have been anywhere, and was gazing at something, a leaflet or a map, in his hands. On the back of the photograph the letters 'AJ' were printed lightly in pencil. In the other photograph, the man was walking through crowds and, as often happened with amateur crowd shots, the camera had focussed on the person walking past him, leaving a slightly surreal blurring of the target subject.

Crowley stared at the pictures and while part of him itched to suggest ways of improving the shots, another part of him, albeit a fairly small part, felt a slight pang of disappointment. The man in the photo must be Aziraphale's other half. It seemed a logical reason for having a picture of someone sat in plain view on your desk. The room, for some reason, felt a little less warm and the little tendril of hope which had just started to creep upwards in Crowley's soul, curled in on itself and retreated to its dark sanctuary once more.

A polite cough at his shoulder dragged Crowley rapidly back to reality and he turned too quickly, a look of guilt galloping across his face and pausing to kick its heels up and prance around to draw attention to itself.

"I… er… Sorry, I was just… I wasn't prying… Photographer… habit… you know… Sorry…" Crowley stammered.

Aziraphale carefully removed the photos from Crowley's rigid fingers and gave him a slightly frosty look. Crowley stepped away, wishing he had just sat down by the fire and hadn't even seen the wretched photos. The silence was like a chasm, and Crowley found himself babbling hastily.

"If you wanted to take some better shots of your… er… friend… I could give you a few tips? Really, it would be no trouble."

He had never seen Aziraphale frown before, but he was getting a front row seat this time. Aziraphale opened a drawer and placed the photos carefully inside, before shutting it and pointedly turning a key to lock them away.

"Now, shall we get that cocoa before it gets cold? I can't abide tepid cocoa," Aziraphale said, clearly closing that particular conversation before it had a chance to begin.

Crowley allowed himself to be ushered to a chair by the fire and found a steaming mug placed carefully into his hands. A generous shot of brandy was added to both mugs and the bookseller sank into the other chair with a sigh, stretching his feet out towards the fire, a gentle smile once again on his features.

"So, Crowley. Did you have far to walk?"

"Not far. I have a flat in Mayfair." He saw the other man's eyebrows rise at the comment. "I inherited it from a distant relative."

"Ah, I was starting to think that perhaps I was in the wrong profession and should consider taking up photography!" Aziraphale remarked, reaching for the brandy and pouring another splash into both mugs of cocoa. Crowley took a sip and only just managed to avoid choking as the fumes hit him. Rather than a drink of cocoa with a dash of brandy, the last addition had transformed the drink into a mug of brandy with a dash of cocoa. Not that Crowley had any complaints. It was an exceptional brandy, smooth and rich, and it was just starting to make him relax as a warm glow spread through him. The prospect of going back out into the cold evening air and returning to his own, somewhat cold, flat didn't appeal in the slightest. He frowned at the thought.

Aziraphale noticed the frown and misinterpreted it. "I am sorry. That was thoughtless of me. Have you had any luck with your job search?"

"Not really. I've sent off a few letters and spoken to a few people in the field, but nobody seems to be hiring at the moment. I did think about setting up as a freelance and running my own studio, but the overheads are too much, especially if I want to stay in this area."

"I'm sure something will be just around the corner. Just be ready to grab any opportunity with open arms!"

Crowley managed a weak smile. He was pretty sure that the only thing he was likely to find just around the corner was a London bus, out of control and heading straight towards him. His feeling of comfortable euphoria floundered and sank beneath the waves of depression. He downed the last of his brandied cocoa and gave a resigned sigh.

"I had better be heading back."

He was sure that the blond man looked almost disappointed.

"Oh, that's a shame. But I suppose that if you are expected back…"

"I'm not… I mean, I live alone so my time's my own. It's just that… well, I had a few chores to do." Crowley bit his tongue. He felt sure that the bookseller wouldn't want to know that he was down to his last pair of underpants and needed to get his laundry done. "And I don't want to keep you from your evening's plans."

Aziraphale beamed. "Well then, my dear boy, can I tempt you to postpone your chores and stay for a second cup? It's no trouble, and I promise that it will not affect my evening's plans in the slightest."

Crowley knew that he really should turn down the offer and head for home, but his legs refused to move and he found himself nodding and holding out his empty mug towards the blond man.


****

Crowley finally got back to his flat at 11pm. He felt warm and comfortably contented after the second cup of cocoa had been followed by an offer to try a new bottle of brandy (which Aziraphale had bought at an auction that week) and a quick dash to the local sushi restaurant for an impromptu meal. Aziraphale had refused to accept any offer of payment for his share of the food, telling Crowley that he would be able to set it off against his expenses budget. The meal was followed by a return to the bookshop and yet more brandy and a conversation which he couldn't fully recollect, although he was sure that it had made perfect sense at the time. Dolphins? Well, whatever…

He stumbled into his kitchen to find the pile of laundry sitting in the middle of the floor, mocking him. He decided that he had better put it on before going to sleep, so began emptying jeans pockets and hurling everything into the machine, hoping vaguely that it would all be okay on a 30 degree cool wash… A receipt fell to the floor from his jeans, along with a white card. Crowley picked the card up and studied it.

Flat 2. Paradise Mews...

Well, Crowley mused, today had been a day for firsts. He might as well make tomorrow the same. He decided that he would take a trip to Belgravia the next day.

Once his underpants were dry, that is.



Part Three. A Taste of Paradise.

The following morning, Crowley woke to the sensation akin to something having crawled into his mouth and died. A slightly blurred memory of the previous night's drinking exploits pushed its way into his mind and he hoped that he hadn't said, or indeed done, anything too embarrassing in front of the bookseller. It had been an enjoyable evening all in all. In itself, this was worrying because surely to enjoy an evening sitting with a middle-aged bookseller, drinking cocoa and discussing the merits of cetacean intellectual qualities was a damning indication of the state of his social life. But he had enjoyed it. He'd felt more comfortable in that small back room just talking than he had felt in years of attending various office parties where he had spent the whole time checking the time, wondering how soon he could leave and desperately hoping that nobody would ask him to dance. Socialising with groups of people, Crowley decided, was not his strong point.

Crowley headed for the kitchen, switching on the coffee machine and reaching for the coffee, cursing silently to himself when he discovered that there was only a single pod remaining and that in his current financial state, he was going to have to resort to one of the cheaper supermarket own brands of instant. Still, needs must… as the saying goes.

Placing his final, cherished cup of coffee on the table, Crowley spotted the card which he had leant against a vase in the centre of the table and picked it up, frowned at it and drummed his fingers on the table, seized by a moment of doubt. Last night, he had felt confident and determined to see what it was all about. This morning, the confidence had flowed away and doubt was stamping across his mind in a pair of size 12 hob-nail boots. He lay the card back down and went to shower and shave before returning to the card which he turned over and over in his hands, biting his lower lip. Well, it wouldn't hurt to take a walk past the place and see what it was, would it? Of course not… There was nothing to say that he had to stop… He slipped a precautionary fork into his jacket pocket and sallied forth into the wilds of Belgravia…


****

Flat 2, Paradise Mews was nothing out of the ordinary. It was a basement flat, accessed via a set of hard stone steps with an ornately designed handrail leading to a dark blue door with a brass knocker and a keypad with swipe-card access. So why did he feel so worried about the whole thing? Steeling himself and fingering the fork which was, even then, providing a small feeling of security as it jabbed him in the thigh, he adopted a casual air, took a deep breath and sauntered vaguely downwards.

The door was opened by an official looking man in a suit with a 2-way radio attached prominently to his lapel and a brusque manner. He held the door open and stepped back, gesturing for Crowley to enter the building. Crowley took a hesitant step inside and gazed around in surprise. He was in a large, white entrance hall with several doors leading off it and a sweeping staircase towards the rear of the hallway. A rope barrier was across the foot of the stairs. The suited man had closed the front door and turned to Crowley with a disinterested look on his face. Crowley gave an apologetic smile and swallowed nervously.

"My name is…" he began to say.

"We are aware of your name, Mr Crowley," said the man, pressing a button on his radio and speaking into it. "Mr Crowley is here, Sir," he muttered.

"Very good. Just run him through security, label him and bring him through, please," came a slightly crackly voice in reply.

"Yes, Sir." The man turned to Crowley and nodded. "If you would be so good as to walk through the detector doorway, please Mr Crowley."

Crowley walked forward, totally bemused and with his stomach twisting in knots. As he passed through the doorway, an alarm went off which was enough to wake the dead and resulted in four more men in dark suits appearing from nowhere, reaching under their jackets and producing handguns which were suddenly pointing towards a quaking Crowley who was unceremoniously flattened against a wall and patted down non too gently by the first man. With a grunt of triumph, the man delved into Crowley's pocket and removed… a small, silver pickle fork. He turned Crowley around and raised the item, casting a suspicious look which was clearly a request for an explanation. Crowley shrugged helplessly.

"I…er… Well, you never know when you might need to use one, " he muttered, lamely. To his relief the guns all vanished and he was posted through the detector door again, with no alarm activated.

"Thank you, Mr Crowley. You may collect the… item… when you leave. Please put on this badge and please do not remove it while you are in the building."

"Er… thank you. Sorry, but what… I mean… What is this place?"

"Please follow me, Mr Crowley." It would seem that an answer was not going to be given. Crowley trailed after the man as they headed down several corridors and finally reached a large oak door where the man gave Crowley a cursory nod and indicated for him to go in.

A dark haired woman of around 45 was sitting at a desk behind a computer. She smiled in a polite but detached manner at Crowley and pressed a button on her desk 'phone.

"Mr Crowley is here, Sir."

"Thank you, Helena. Send him in would you please."

"Of course, Sir." She rose to her feet and smiled blandly at Crowley who was starting to feel rather worried. "Mr Forsyth will see you now. This way, please."

Crowley was led into a large room which was pleasantly decorated in blue and white, with large floor to wall bookcases and a massive desk in front of a large window. The man at the desk was, Crowley estimated, around 60 years old, slim, elegant and with silvering hair cut painfully short at the back and sides but left slightly longer on the top. His eyes were a brown so dark that they almost seemed black. He rose gracefully, extending a long-fingered hand in greeting.

"Mr Crowley. How nice to finally meet you. Please, sit down. Would you like a tea? Or coffee?"

Crowley frowned. It was all so surreal.

"Coffee, please." He took a seat, feeling self-conscious and more than a little bemused. "Who… what…"

The other man interrupted him by holding a hand up before pressing the communication button. "Helena? Would you be so kind as to fetch us two coffees, please? Oh, and a copy of Form 134B as well please. Thank you."

He sat back down and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and regarding Crowley with an appraising look.

"Well, Mr Crowley. I daresay you are wondering why you are here? Of course you are. My name, for the purposes of this meeting, is Forsyth. Before I go any further Mr Crowley, I must inform you that anything discussed in this room today is to go no further than this room. Do you understand this?" His face was suddenly dark, stern.

Crowley nodded slowly, his mind in a whirl as he tried to make sense of it all. The door opened and the woman walked in with a tray containing two cups, a milk jug, a sugar bowl and a large pot of coffee. There was also a plate of biscuits which, Crowley noted ruefully, were of the same sort seen in most offices, uninspiring and coated with hard pink icing. Given the surroundings, he would have expected something a little more up-market. She placed the tray on the desk, passed a sheet of paper to Forsyth and left the room.

Forsyth pulled the tray towards him and looked up at Crowley. "Shall I be Mother¹?" he said, pushing the plate of biscuits towards Crowley with the other hand. "Help yourself to milk and sugar." He carefully poured two cups of coffee, helped himself to milk, and sat back once more. Crowley gingerly reached out and took a small pink wafer biscuit from the plate, wondering if it was safe to eat.

"Now, Mr Crowley, before we go any further, I need you to sign this form. Don't worry, it is a mere formality, just to maintain our… security levels, you understand. Please do read it through, then sign… here."

Crowley took the form and read through it carefully. It seemed clear enough, but…

Forsyth seemed to detect his uncertainty. "There are no hidden issues, Mr Crowley, I can assure you. You know how it is though, forms for everything." He smiled across the desk and casually pushed a pen towards Crowley. Crowley picked it up and gritted his teeth then signed. Forsyth seemed to relax at that point and reached for a biscuit.

"I understand from a colleague of mine, that you are currently between jobs?"

"I am, yes. I'm a …"

"Photographer, formerly working for the local news group, born and raised in the Home Counties, educated at Charterhouse before going on to Cambridge where you gained a first class degree in History and English… Your father was a decorated veteran in the Royal Navy and passed away seven years ago. You have one sister, married and currently living in Edinburgh with her husband and two children. You have an interest in the writings of Nikolai Gogol and in the works of Leonardo da Vinci." He paused and smiled at the expression of almost horror on the face of the man opposite.

"But… How…?"

"Oh, Mr Crowley. Believe me when I say that we know all about you. Even down to what you had for breakfast this morning - a single cup of coffee, by the way - and the exact number of books on the shelf in your Mayfair flat… Please, don't be alarmed, it is simply our job to know things." The smile accompanying the remark did nothing to ease Crowley's anxiety, especially with the implications that someone had probably been inside his flat and he hadn't even been aware of the fact.

"So why…"

"…Did we invite you here?" Forsyth finished for him. Crowley was beginning to wonder if he was ever going to be able to finish a sentence.

"Yes. I mean, I'm a bit confused."

"Oh quite understandable, Mr Crowley. Quite understandable. Put simply, we are in the business of observation and… well, we'll call it 'data collection' for now, shall we? You have a certain set of skills and potential capabilities which we are interested in utilising. My colleague spoke highly of you and seemed to think that you would fit into our little family quite nicely. Would you be interested in joining us, Mr Crowley?"

"I… Are you offering me a job?"

"It would appear so."

"But… You… Without even an interview?" Crowley was having trouble getting his mind around this strange turn of events. Was this some bizarre dream brought on by a surfeit of brandy?

"Oh, you've already had your interview, Mr Crowley. You passed with flying colours." Forsyth raised an eyebrow and inclined his head slightly, giving a short bark of a laugh. He leant forward again. "So… Do you have an answer, or do you require a little time to consider the offer? I believe that you will find the salary and benefits packages quite acceptable."

Crowley opened his mouth to speak. His natural caution had crept out of its hiding place and was war-dancing across his mind like a demented weasel, but before he had a chance to reply, asking for more time and further details, he heard a voice in his head.

" I'm sure something will be just around the corner. Just be ready to grab any opportunity with open arms!"

Crowley swallowed nervously and blinked across the desk at Forsyth, who was sitting with a look of polite indifference on his face.

"Yes. I mean, I would like to accept your offer. Thank you," he found himself saying, mind numb and voice a little strained.

"Splendid!" said Forsyth reaching out and grabbing another biscuit. He pressed his communication button again and glanced at Crowley as he spoke. "Ah, Helena. I'm pleased to say that Mr Crowley is going to be joining us. Could you take over and get the paperwork sorted please. Most kind. Now, Mr Crowley, I must bid you good day for now. Just go with Helena and she will sort out signing your contract, arranging a start date and… other things." He stood up and extended a hand which Crowley shook carefully. Forsyth had started leafing through a large file, his interest in Crowley's departure apparently no longer an issue.

Crowley followed Helena along several corridors and down a set of stairs to a small office with no windows and the overall dankness of a basement flat. The walls were a stark white and the room was lit by a single exposed bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. There was a single desk and three chairs, but no other furniture. Crowley was reminded of an interrogation cell from some of the more formulaic films of his DVD collection. He shivered and threw a nervous smile in the direction of his guide, but it was not reciprocated.

"Please take a seat Mr Crowley. I need to collect some papers for you to sign. It won't take many minutes." She stalked out of the room, closing the door behind her and leaving Crowley sitting alone and starting to seriously question his sanity. What the Hell was he playing at? He'd gone into a house on an anonymous recommendation, met a man who implied that he had been under surveillance in his own flat and had accepted a job doing who-knows-what for God-knows-who. A feeling of anxiety was starting to get a grip on him again until the door opened and Helena walked back into the room waving a file of papers. She sat down opposite him and began sifting through the file.

"Now, Mr Forsyth asked me to get you started as soon as possible, so would you be available to commence work next Monday, the 22nd?"

"I believe so. But what exactly will…"

"Good. Now as for the job description, obviously we will be drawing that up with a mind on your strengths and your skill set and this will be discussed with you on your first day. You'll find, however, that there are no rigid guidelines for the position you will take up. We will expect you to be capable of exercising a degree of fluidity in carrying out your work."

Crowley nodded. The woman was telling him about the job, but giving him no facts at all. What sort of place had he landed in? He became aware that she was still speaking.

"…and all expenses, provided you have proof of purchase. Any questions, Mr Crowley?"

Crowley drew a breath with the intention of asking at least one, but was interrupted before he could even begin to speak.

"Good. Well, the last thing is for you to sign The Act. Obviously all work you will be involved in will fall under the guidelines of The Act and must not be discussed outside these walls unless to a fellow employee of senior clearance levels. That includes today's meeting, as I believe Mr Forsyth mentioned previously. Just sign here, and here… and here, if you don't mind."

Crowley signed in silence and pushed the paperwork back across the desk. Helena gathered them together and switched on a radiant, but totally false smile.

"Thank you, Mr Crowley. Welcome to the team. Now, allow me to show you out." The smile switched off and Crowley found himself once again walking down several corridors until he was herded through a door and back into the normal world once more.

Crowley walked along the streets in a daze. What the Hell had that all been about? Too late, he realised that he had forgotten to collect his fork. He found himself at the gates to the Park and wandered in, heading to his usual seat which he found, to his surprise, was already occupied.

"Aziraphale. Hello, I wasn't expecting to see you here at this time of day. Book sales on a downward trend today?"

"Ah, hello Crowley. Actually yes. I decided to alleviate the boredom by taking a stroll and thought I'd drop in and say hello to the ducks."

"I'd offer to buy you a cocoa, but… " Crowley shrugged and indicated that he had no money on him to do so.

Aziraphale stood up and gestured for Crowley to take a seat. "Then let me do the honours. Double espresso?"

"I can't… You got them last time and…"

"Well, once you are gainfully employed once more, you can buy me cocoa AND biscuits, how does that sound?" He smiled at Crowley and was heading for the kiosk at a brisk pace before Crowley could take a breath to voice any sort of objection.

On his return, after handing a mug of viciously dark coffee over to Crowley, along with the inevitable biscuit, Aziraphale took a seat and busied himself crumbling a biscuit into smaller pieces. Crowley frowned at the action and Aziraphale caught the look, blushing slightly and looking a little sheepish.

"I… er… I bought an extra two biscuits… for the ducks. Well, the poor things always look so hungry and the weather is getting colder so they need a little help getting through it and…

"It's okay, you don't need to convince me," Crowley said, finding a grin sneaking onto his face. "And, hopefully I should soon be able to buy you that cocoa and biscuits. Once my first pay packet goes into the bank!"

"First pay… You've found a job?" Aziraphale beamed.

"It would seem so." Crowley felt a strange spark of pride at being able to report this to the bookseller. After all, it had been his encouragement to grab any opportunity which had led to him taking the chance instead of dithering and losing it.

"Well, congratulations, my dear. I was sure that something would come along. What job is it?"

Crowley took a deep breath and remembered the serious warnings by Forsyth about secrecy. "I… Er… I can't really say at the moment. The details aren't finalised yet… Not even sure myself yet…" He gave a slightly nervous laugh and pointed hurriedly to the ducks which were ambling in a hopeful manner in their direction, clearly able to hear the breaking of a biscuit at a good 100 metres. Aziraphale threw a few crumbs to the floor and the amble became an undignified dash as around 20 ducks flapped across the grass, quacking with excitement and anticipation. Crowley breathed a sigh of relief. The ducks seemed to have managed to halt that topic of conversation.

They sat in comfortable silence as the ducks sought out the remaining crumbs, then Aziraphale took his watch out, glanced at it and sighed.

"I'm sure that the Laws of Physics must work differently in this place," he muttered. Crowley raised a questioning eyebrow. "Well, it always seem as though time goes past more quickly here. I'm sure that dear Einstein would have been able to write a whole series of papers on the phenomenon. I'm afraid that work calls and I must be going. Good news about the job though. Look… Feel free to say no if you want to but… Well, will you let me buy you dinner by way of a celebration?" A slight blush had settled on the bookseller's cheeks.

Crowley felt himself flinch back in surprise. Really, he barely knew this man. He felt a twisting sensation of almost fear in his stomach as his mind raced away in several different directions at once. "I… I… I can't let you do that!" he stammered. When had it become so hot in the Park?

"Why not? I would enjoy the company, and it is something worth celebrating, is it not?"

"Yes, but…"

"Please don't use a lack of funds as a reason to say no."

"But…" Crowley began, then sighed and shrugged. "Okay, but nothing too much! Just fish and chips or a kebab would be fine, honestly."

"Excellent! Shall I meet you at your flat? I know of a decent little local place, nice food, good wine list… Yes?"

Crowley nodded weakly. He scribbled his address on a scrap of paper and passed it to the blond man who gave it a cursory glance and tucked the paper into his waistcoat pocket.

"I'll call round at eight, if that suits you? Now, good day to you, Crowley," he said, smiling as he turned and melted away into the crowd.


****

The "decent little local place" as Aziraphale had put it, turned out to be The Ritz. Crowley was horrified when they turned in from the pavement and climbed the steps to the door, where a doorman gave a polite bow and muttered a quiet "Good evening, Sirs" as they entered the opulent interior. He was even more horrified when they were shown through by a member of staff who said "Your usual table, Sir." as he guided them towards a quieter area and seated them before providing them with a menu and slipping away on silent feet to leave them to make their choices.

"When you said little local place, I thought you meant something like 'Tony's Tapas Bar', not here! And they know you. Do you often eat here?" Crowley's eyes were like saucers as he tried to take in the surroundings without looking like an over eager tourist.

"Well, I like to come here when I can, and they do have an excellent wine list."

Aziraphale stared at the menu. "Oh good, they have the sole Véronique back on. They really do it remarkably well here. Perfect for an Autumn evening."

Crowley winced as he saw the prices. He felt slightly, no very awkward. "I erm… Aziraphale, this is way too much. I can't let you spend that sort of money on my meal!"

"Nonsense my dear. I've told you before, I do have a little fund set aside for work expenses, and I believe we can make a tenuous link with work in this instance. Now, order whatever you want, please… Although I do recommend the sole."

"Yes… I'll have that then, thanks," muttered Crowley, keen to end this embarrassing interlude even though he had never personally been able to reconcile fish with grapes under any circumstances.


****

The meal, once Crowley had come down from highly to slightly embarrassed, was turning out to be a very enjoyable experience. Grapes notwithstanding, the sole was excellent and Aziraphale was a fascinating conversationalist. Leastways, he was up until about half way through the main course when he had been in the middle of a sentence and had suddenly ground to a halt and was staring over Crowley's shoulder and frowning.

"Is everything okay?" asked Crowley, concerned by the sudden silence and wondering if his companion was feeling ill. Aziraphale continued to gaze over his shoulder, squinting slightly.

"Sorry? Oh, yes. Everything's fine." Aziraphale dabbed his lips with his napkin and placed it carefully next to his plate. "Would you just excuse me for a couple of minutes?" With that, Aziraphale stood and walked away from the table leaving Crowley bemused and trying to twist round in his seat to see where the bookseller had gone. He returned around 3 minutes later, carrying his mobile phone which he placed carefully into an inside pocket, still wearing a slight frown.

"I'm sorry about that," he said, picking up his fork again and spearing a piece of fish. "I thought I recognised someone. So, where were we? Ah yes, the Biblical errata…" He continued the conversation as though nothing had happened, but Crowley was aware that the man kept flashing a worried look over his shoulder several times… He had to admit that it was slightly un-nerving, but in all it was an enjoyable evening and he was almost disappointed when it came to an end and he found himself back in his flat with just a malfunctioning radio, memories of the evening's conversation and a selection of houseplants for company.



Part Four: Not quite an Aston Martin…

Waiting for the rest of the week to pass, Crowley found himself heading for the Park on several occasions, hoping that he might run into the blond bookseller again. Not that he was developing any sort of interest in the man, no, Heaven forbid!! But he did find his company enjoyable, and did keep catching himself day-dreaming about those blue eyes and blond hair.

On the Thursday afternoon, however, he spotted the now familiar figure threading his way through the crowds and, upon seeing Crowley, giving a wave, pointing to the kiosk and miming drinking a coffee. Crowley did an overly dramatic thumbs up sign and sat down to wait.

Aziraphale wound his way through the queuing people, gingerly balancing two cups and several packs of biscuits in his hands. He arrived at the bench looking slightly anxious.

"Would you believe it, they're out of shortbread! I've had to get Hobnobs. Do you think the ducks will mind?"

Crowley had to admit that he suspected that the ducks would devour anything if it came out of a paper bag, and settled to watch Aziraphale breaking the biscuits into what equated to bite-sized pieces for the ducks, who even now were massing at one corner of the lake and forming into ranks in order to march towards their intended meal. Crowley thought that he looked a little distracted.

Aziraphale looked up from his task with a slightly embarrassed expression.

"I'm glad I caught you," he said. "I just wanted to wish you the best of luck for the new job on Monday. I'd hoped to maybe catch up with you for a drink on Monday evening to hear all about it, but I just found that I have to drop everything and fly out to Japan this evening. Work related, I'm afraid."

Crowley suspected that his attempt to hide the slight flare of disappointment had failed.

"Oh. That's a shame. Er… when will you be back? Perhaps we could meet up then?"

"I'm not sure how long I'll be out there. Hopefully not for long, but you know how it is with… erm… book sales…" The man gave Crowley a smile and turned back to the crumbling of biscuits, falling silent as he scattered the crumbs around his feet. Eventually, he stood up and gave a resigned sigh.

"Well, I had better get back and sort out my packing and things." He reached out and shook Crowley's hand, almost formally. His other hand reached up and clasped Crowley's forearm, giving it a squeeze and holding on, blue eyes suddenly serious.

"Take care, Crowley."

Crowley nodded, puzzled. His hand and arm felt chilled as the other man moved away slightly, taking the touch with him. Aziraphale gave a slightly sad smile, a strange little bow, then turned and hurried away without looking back.

Crowley sat and stared after him. He shivered as though a chill wind had knifed through him. Although the word hadn't been spoken aloud, Crowley had the distinct feeling that Aziraphale had just said 'goodbye'.


****

Monday came around quickly and found a nervous Crowley once more at the door to Flat 2, Paradise Mews. The security measures were as rigorous as before, but at least this time there was no fork in his pocket waiting to create chaos. Once through these, he found Helena Michaels waiting for him, and she led him away to what would be his office, slapped a pile of files on his desk and told him to start off by reading through the files to get up to speed while she went to sort out his security badge and inform Mr Forsyth of his arrival. Crowley blinked at her and nodded, sitting carefully down and angling the desk-lamp to a better position. He listened to the click of her heels as she walked away down the corridor before turning his attention to the files she had left for him. Each file appeared to be relating to a different individual and comprised numerous photos (mostly blurred or over-exposed) and copious lists of dates and locations which in some cases were cross referenced to a photo or to another file. Someone had obviously started to look through the files before him and had started to highlight some locations and make notes in the margins. Crowley wondered vaguely what had happened to his predecessor whose notes he was now reading.

His thoughts were interrupted by the return of Helena who bustled in bearing yet more files and an ID swipe card which she clipped to his lapel before pointing to the files.

"If you would start by transferring the written notes onto computer, firstly making sure it is all pushed through the encryption software and then backed up onto the central data banks AND the departmental storage facility. This is your access code which you will need to get into the system. If you need help sorting out the encryption application then call me immediately. Please DON'T try to sort it out by pressing all the buttons in the hope that it will work, because it won't, and we don't want to cause a major internal security crisis, do we, Mr Crowley!"

Crowley shook his head. Apparently satisfied with this as a response, Helena relaxed slightly and even managed something approaching a smile.

"I'm sorry if things seem somewhat extreme at first, Mr Crowley. As you will understand, we are dealing with subjects of vital importance to national security, and the results of any mistakes can be catastrophic. Now, I think you'll find a coffee machine down the corridor. There is a canteen in Section 5 which is just along this corridor to the right, past the toilets. Most people bring their lunches in and eat in their offices, so feel free to do that if you wish. It's 10.00 now - Mr Forsyth would like to see you at 12.00 to discuss your work assignments and there is a meeting at 14.00 in the laboratory, which you get to by going past the canteen and down the stairs to Level 1A. Punctuality is a watchword here Mr Crowley. Please make sure that you aren't late for arranged meetings. I'll leave you to it then," and with that, Crowley found himself alone with a stack of files for company.

The meeting with Forsyth turned out to be little more than a welcome to the department and a brief discussion about the way they liked to get things done. Crowley found that his use of time was up to himself, so long as things got done and reports got written up. He was given a set of 'cases' to work on and basically told to get on with things. 'Things' appeared to consist of monitoring the activities of certain individuals and reporting these back to the department. It sounded fascinating and Crowley went for his lunch with a certain spring in his step. Move over, James Bond… Anthony Crowley is on the case!


****

Crowley wasn't sure what to expect when he went for his meeting in the lab. He was greeted by a young woman in a white coat, who was clutching a charred clipboard and wiping what looked like soot marks off her spectacles.

"Ah, Mr Crowley. Yes, you are expected. If you would just wait here, I'll go and find the Boss. I'm not sure where he is… " Her words were interrupted by a loud bang and the sight of smoke billowing from one of the side rooms. "Ah, he's in there. I'll fetch him." She vanished into the smoke and emerged moments later towing a man out by the sleeve. It was hard to estimate his age, but Crowley reckoned he was well over normal retirement age. He was stooped and slightly frail, but the handshake when given was strong, and the pale, grey eyes still flashed with keen intelligence.

"You'll be the new lad then, come in, come in, I haven't got all day you know."

Crowley nodded a greeting and extended a hand, which was studiously ignored.

"My name is Godfrey Dagon, but most people just call me D. I run this department, for my sins. Forsyth, wretched fellow, wants me to kit you out with a few of the basics so who am I to argue? Now pay attention, Mr Crowley…"

Crowley stood wide-eyed as the man shuffled to a large cupboard and rummaged around in a drawer. He gave a sharp exclamation and beckoned Crowley to join him.

"This, Mr Crowley, is your watch."

"I already have a watch, Sir."

"I daresay you have, Mr Crowley, but does it give you the time in 21 capital cities of the world?"

"Well, er.. no…"

"No, neither does this one, but it does have the times in the 5 most important ones! It also turns into a magnifier, and if you press these two buttons simultaneously, it becomes a compass." He delved into the drawer again, retrieving a sleek black fountain pen which he waggled at Crowley enthusiastically. "I'm rather proud of this one. If you remove the lid and press one of these buttons, it becomes a powerful telescope."

"Which button?"

"I think it was the top one. Although that might be to refill the ink. You'll need to fiddle around with it in your own time." He pressed the pen into Crowley's hands and picked up a pair of what appeared to be top range designer sunglasses. "Now these have a built in photographic and video capability. The buttons along the side of the left arm allow you to take photos or videos of what ever you are looking at through them. The right-hand ear hook is removable and functions as a micro-USB port, and this button on the right is your connection to our own satellite link, enabling you to send files directly to any compatible computer or mobile device. I'm afraid that the focusing can be a little hit or miss, but we're working on a new version with full autofocus. Wiggins tried them out in a Soho night club last week. Worked jolly well. We're thinking of selling the resulting film to Naughty Nick's Porn Emporium."

Crowley opened his mouth to speak but the words refused to emerge. The man was as eccentric as Hell. Mad as a box of frogs to be brutally frank.

"Where were we? Watch, pen, shades… I'm sure there was something else. Ah yes. You'll need a vehicle. Need I remind you, Mr Crowley, cars are not cheap, so please look after it." He walked to a console and pulled a lever. To Crowley's amazement, the centre part of the floor began to open up. Slowly, like some strange creature emerging from the depths, a dais rose through the floor, carrying a… car.

Crowley had waited in enthralled anticipation for an Aston Martin or maybe a DeLorean to appear. He had NOT been expecting a vintage Bentley.

D grinned proudly. "Get in then. I'll run through some of its more interesting points."

Crowley swore that he heard someone snigger as he climbed in. How could he be taken seriously in THIS? But as soon as he got behind the wheel, he realised that it just felt right… It had character… style… and a… cassette player???? Crowley frowned and prodded the eject button, jumping slightly when a cassette shot out. Crowley looked at it. "Bach?" he muttered.

D gave an apologetic cough. "I'm afraid that the cassette label must be wrong because it isn't Bach."

Crowley pushed the cassette in and turned up the volume slightly…

"…♫ a little silhouetto of a man - Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?♫♪"

That most certainly was not Bach.

D winced and switched the machine off hastily. "There is a handful of other cassettes in the glove compartment and they all seem to be by the same artist," he muttered. "However, the cassette player is also our main way of communicating with you, Crowley. Voice-only links, naturally."

Crowley nodded and reached to press a button on the facia. D grabbed his hand and stopped him with a squawk of panic.

"Don't touch that button!"

"Ngh… Erm, okay… Might I ask why not?" Crowley had an immediate mental image of the car turning into a plane and realised that the sudden appearance of wings in the lab might be tricky to deal with due to limited space.

"It's the control to open the sun roof and it took us all yesterday to get the damned thing closed, so I would rather you just leave it alone!!" growled D.

Crowley felt a little disappointed. "Does it transform into a speedboat or jet ski or maybe a small light aircraft?"

D turned slightly in his seat and gave Crowley a long, cool look. "You've been watching too many trashy spy films, Mr Crowley. It's a car… nothing more, nothing less."

"No ejector seat?"

D gifted him a more serious look. "No ejector seat."

Crowley subsided slightly, and D continued. "However, the gear stick does unscrew and contains a hypodermic of truth serum, and the handbrake - NO, Mr Crowley, that's the…"

Crowley found himself catapulted back into a prone position. D rolled his eyes dramatically. "… the seat adjustment lever… The handbrake is there. "

Crowley struggled back to an upright position and looked to where D was pointing.

"It detaches by pressing the small button on the left of the grip, and if you turn the end clockwise, pull out the inner sleeve and twist the hand grip you will see that it transforms into a lightweight sniper rifle. It takes these bullets… They fit into this cigarette lighter which also doubles as a small acetylene torch. Please do not get the two functions mixed up."

"Does the fuel gauge actually work?"

D leant over and tapped the glass vigorously. "Apparently not. You'll just have to keep it topped up."

Crowley let his gaze wander across the wood dashboard and spotted a car cigarette lighter. He was fascinated to know what would this do. An emergency beacon? A flare? A small explosive device? He extended a cautious finger to touch it and turned to look at D, brows raised. "What does this do?"

D gave him a withering look.

"It lights cigarettes, Mr Crowley…"



Part Five. Tinker, tailor, soldier… bookseller?

Crowley had been there for a month so far and, if he were to be honest, he'd been a little less than enthralled by life at the "Agency". The films all made out that it was a life packed with action, car chases and being heroic in the face of any number of cat-owning maniacs bent on world domination. So far though, he'd be sent on surveillance just once (sitting outside a butcher's shop run by a florid-faced individual from Bavaria). Crowley had sat in the rain for 48 hours, got a chill and ruined his new Fedora… and concluded that the shadiest activity the butcher was likely to be involved in was the acquisition of water fowl by illicit means. The rest of his time had been spent delving into files and records to no avail. However, the first pay packet had gone into his bank account and had more than paid off his debts, leaving him with enough spare cash to be able to afford a double espresso in the Park during his lunch breaks. He gazed across the grass towards the gate, the glimpse of a tall, blond individual catching his eye and causing a little flutter of hope in his mind, but it wasn't the bookseller…

Crowley sighed and faced the fact that he had been right about that last meeting. It had been a goodbye. Crowley had even walked past the bookshop a couple of times, just to see if there were any signs of life, but it remained closed and a light layer of dust was building up on the books in the window. Typical, he thought, glumly. First person he'd met in years that he felt comfortable with and the blasted man had just vanished. He threw the empty cup into the bin with a little more force than was strictly necessary and trudged back to his office.

He walked in to find Helena Michaels in his office, tapping her fingers on the desk in agitation.

"Helena?"

"I have no idea what this is about," she said, glowering at Crowley, "but we've had a request from Upstairs. They want to see you this afternoon. They've scheduled a meeting for 15.00 hours and you are to attend. God knows what they're playing at."

"Upstairs?" Crowley frowned.

"The Agency's other department. They have a slightly different remit and usually want nothing to do with us."

"Why me?"

Helena gave a slightly contemptuous sniff. "You are obviously highly favoured!"

"Where is the meeting?"

"Upstairs. Room 7."

"Are you or Mr Forsyth going to be there?"

Helena gave what sounded like a derisive snort. "Mr Forsyth hasn't stepped into a room with Winterton for over five years, ever since the unfortunate incident with the Greek Ambassador and the incendiary olives. Besides, our presence was not requested! Don't be late - Winterton is a stickler for meetings starting on time."

Crowley was sure that he heard her mutter "Pompous oaf" under her breath as she stomped out of the room, heading for Forsyth's office.

He had an hour to kill, so grabbed another coffee from the machine and sat flipping through one of the files before digging out a new notebook and pen, and heading for the ornate stairs leading off from the entrance hall. The security guard at the bottom unhooked the rope and stood to one side to allow him to pass before closing the barrier behind him. Crowley trotted up the stairs and along the white-walled corridor until he reached a door with 'Room 7' on it. He knocked tentatively, being a couple of minutes early, and heard a voice from inside call out.

"Come in!"

Crowley pushed the door open and walked in to a dimly lit room where a projector and screen was already set up and four chairs were set out in front of the screen. A table and chairs was situated in one side of the room, and in front of a large fireplace was a desk occupied by a man who was bent over some papers, studying them intently. He glanced up as Crowley closed the door. Crowley suddenly found himself unable to move. He stood in the middle of the floor, mouth open and eyes staring in disbelief.

"A… A… Aziraphale?"

"Indeed."

"What are you doing here?"

"I… er… I work here."

"What??? You work h… You mean… You're a sss… sss… spy?" Crowley blurted out.

"Well, in truth, my dear, the preferred term is 'intelligence operative' but I suppose you could use either term as you will." He smiled at Crowley who was still in the middle of the room, a picture of angular shock. "I'm sorry if this has been a bit of a surprise. I hope all will become clear during the meeting. The others will be here shortly, I imagine. Please, take a seat."

Crowley made a conscious effort to close his mouth and slumped into one of the chairs. His mind was a whirl. He felt sick. Time seemed to slow down, the air felt thick, like syrup. Cloying. Surely this was a dream. In a moment he'd wake up and everything would be back to normal. Wouldn't it?

Somewhere in the room, a clock struck the hour, dragging Crowley's mind back to reality. The door opened and two people walked in; a tall, dark-haired man in an immaculate suit and a woman with blazing red hair and the sort of figure which Crowley suspected was a more lethal weapon than any firearm that might be handed out to the workforce. They both gave Crowley a long look as they walked in and took seats as indicated by Aziraphale, who remained standing near the screen. Aziraphale cleared his throat and smiled a little nervously.

"I'll begin by introducing you all. Crowley, this is the Head of our Department, Gabriel Winterton, and our Senior Field Operative, Miss Mona Rydehard. Gabriel, Mona, this is Anthony Crowley, from downstairs."

Polite nods of acknowledgement were passed around before Winterton glanced meaningfully at his watch and gave a not very subtle cough, indicating that Aziraphale should get on with things. Aziraphale fumbled around on his desk and finally located the remote control for the slide projector. Winterton gave a gusty sigh of impatience and Crowley felt almost embarrassed for the blond man who was clearly uncomfortable in his presence.

"Thank you all for coming at such short notice," began Aziraphale, "but I think you will find that the information I have does warrant rapid response." He glanced up, a worried expression on his usually placid face.

"I happened to be taking dinner at the Ritz a short while back…"

There was a groan from Winterton who rubbed his forehead wearily and said, "Oh great. So I can expect another of your ludicrous expenses claims this month then? Really, this department isn't a bottomless pit of money, Aziraphale!" He had never really forgotten, or forgiven, Aziraphale for misplacing a prototype weapon during his first week at the Agency, although he did have a grudging respect for the man who had proven to be an excellent cryptanalyst and a good field operative. Besides, he hadn't lost any other equipment since then. If he would just smarten himself up a bit…

Aziraphale gave him a cool look. "As I was saying…" he growled. "I was taking dinner there and I saw an old acquaintance of ours. An acquaintance that we haven't seen over here for a few years and who I suspect we would rather not have seen again."

Winterton's expression had changed to one of interest, and he leant forward. "Well?"

"Jordt," said Aziraphale, simply.

"Jordt? I thought he had been eliminated a few years ago. That little incident in Colombia…" Winterton was frowning.

"That was the general opinion," replied Aziraphale. "It would seem, however, that rumours of his demise were grossly over exaggerated."

"Damn," muttered Winterton. "I almost sent flowers to his funeral!"

"Excuse me," Mona interrupted. "Can you fill us in a little, Aziraphale. The name isn't well known to me. I assume he was operational before my time here?"

"Yes. Just a moment, I'll run through his profile for you." Aziraphale dimmed the lights slightly and brought up the first slide. Crowley barely managed to prevent an audible gasp escaping. The picture on the screen was the same man that had been in the photograph on Aziraphale's desk those weeks ago and who he had assumed might be Aziraphale's partner.

Aziraphale stared at the image for a while, before turning to the audience again.

"Andreas Jordt. Son of a government scientist but raised by his Scandinavian grandparents after being orphaned at the age of 4. Now operates as a freelance hired by various clients for either information acquisition, sabotage or to perform assassination. Travels under the alias of Andreas Christensson.

Height 5ft 10½, age around 50, dark fair hair peppered grey, eyes blue, medium build.

Jordt has a wide skill set and is a top marksman. He knows his way around computers and can allegedly hack into any security system so far invented. Reputed to have no emotions and will kill in cold blood if the money is right."

Winterton huffed. "I'd heard he'd kill in cold blood if you just looked at him in the wrong way, never mind the money."

"Apparently, yes," Aziraphale agreed. "He does seem to have taken it to an almost fanatical level."

Mona stretched her legs out and frowned at the screen. "So, I guess the question is - why is he over here? Assuming that he still is."

Aziraphale took a deep breath. "After the Ritz, I tracked him and followed him to Kyoto. I managed to keep him under observation for a few days and, initially, it appeared that he was just there on an extended vacation with a friend. However, on the last day there, I was tailing him and lost him during a visit to a sushi bar. I made a few enquiries and was told that Jordt was heading back to the UK. I believe that his reason for being in Kyoto was, in fact, to obtain a rare poison which he may be planning to use in a hit."

"Poison? Any ideas which one?" Winterton looked somewhat worried.

"No, leastways not yet," replied Aziraphale, voice tinged with regret. "I did find the name of the supplier that Jordt had visited and went to see him to find out a few more details."

"And?" Winterton was on the edge of his chair.

"And… I got there to find him dead and bundled into an industrial-sized rice cooker. Looks as if he had been given a lethal dose of his own poison. The CIRO are looking into it and have promised that they will get back to me once they've identified the poison used."

Crowley sat and simply gawped at Aziraphale. He was still reeling from the discovery that the affable bookseller was, in reality, a spy - an intelligence operative, and to find that he was also involved in trying to catch an internationally important assassin and had been spending the past few days dicing with possible death and discovering dead bodies was mind blowing. He realised that Winterton was speaking.

"Do we know where he is? If we can find his operational base then Mona could intercept him - sweet talk him into revealing a little more information… "

Mona nodded, a little too enthusiastically for Crowley's liking. Her grin had become almost predatory. "I could go along with that idea…" she said, pouting slightly for emphasis. Crowley felt a momentary pang of pity for any man who was on the receiving end of Miss Rydehard's investigative procedures.

"I'm afraid that idea would be doomed to fail from the start," said Aziraphale, looking a little flustered and blushing slightly.

"She does have some excellent methods of persuasion!" snapped Winterton, with the air of a man who, at some time in the past, had sampled these methods for himself.

Aziraphale scowled. "Persuasion is the issue, I'm afraid, Miss Rydehard. Which brings me on to my second point of the meeting." Aziraphale clicked the button of the slide projector and the image changed. Crowley recognised this image too. He'd seen a photo of the man before, in a street scene, and had assumed that it was an accidental capture of a passer-by. Aziraphale turned and looked at the photograph.

"Meet Aleksey Demitrovich. Mixed Eastern European and North African origins, he's the disinherited son of a wealthy textiles magnate from Minsk. Trained as a medic but went off the radar after a series of suspicious deaths in the hospital where he worked.

Height 5ft 11½, age around 35, dark hair, hazel eyes, slim build.

Travels under the alias of Alain Mednovikov. Ostensibly acts as a PA to Jordt, always seems to travel with him. We have no actual evidence of him being directly responsible for any deaths or acts against any government, but clearly he is aware of Jordt's actions so must be treated as a high risk. Mr Demitrovich is the reason why you are not going to succeed in any attempt to get information from Jordt in the form of pillow-talk, my dear Mona."

"He's his body guard?" Winterton frowned.

"No. He's his lover."

Winterton and Mona Rydehard both sat gaping at Aziraphale. For some reason, Crowley wanted to laugh.

"Any questions so far?" asked Aziraphale. Crowley looked fleetingly towards the other two listeners and raised a hesitant hand.

"Er. What is my role in all this? I mean, I don't think that I have enough experience to merit inclusion in…"

Winterton interrupted with a noise that sounded like "Pffft." He continued, a sarcastic tone underlying the words. "Our dear Seraph is impossible to work with. Too fussy by half, yet he seems to think that he'd be able to work with you on this one." He shook his head resignedly. "I daresay he has his reasons."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in amusement. "Two sets of eyes are better than one, Gabriel… And I suspect that in the sorts of places that Jordt may go with his dear Aleksey, two men in close company will be less noticeable than a man and a woman. Obvious, really."

"Oh, of course! Obvious!!" said Mona. Crowley detected a subtle nuance under the words and glanced up at her. She was giving Aziraphale a look which bordered on being a leer. Aziraphale's responding look was like ice. Mona smirked and looked away. "Well," she said, voice more normal now, "you'd better get a list of requirements to me as soon as possible. Remember that Lee-Ting is on sick leave, so any papers you need creating will take longer than usual. Do you have a ferret² in mind?"

"Dawson seems the most likely choice. He gets results."

A questioning glance towards Winterton led to a nod of agreement. "Okay, he's on the case. Now, time flies and I have a meeting with the Ambassadorial security advisors in 30 minutes. Top priority on this one, Seraph! Keep me in the loop!"

Aziraphale nodded and watched Winterton and Mona Rydehard leave the room before turning to Crowley and sucking in a deep breath, expelling it with a whistle.

Crowley looked at the man and wrinkled his brow. "Er… Seraph?"

"My codename. Blond hair, name that sounds biblical… It was either that or Angel. Somehow Agent Angel didn't quite trip off the tongue." He grinned and switched off the projector. Crowley didn't admit it out loud, but he thought that Angel actually suited the man rather well. "Now, my dear Crowley. I seem to recall that before I left for Japan, I had been considering buying you a drink to celebrate your first day at work. I know it's a little after the event now, but how about I buy you one tonight instead? I don't know about you, but I could do with one after this afternoon."

"Yes… Yes, that would be lovely."

"Great. We could grab something to eat too. I know a fantastic little chippy³, just a short walk from here!"

"Er… I'm not going to find myself walking into Claridge's or something, am I?"

"What? Ha, no my dear. There's a chip shop a couple of streets away from here. Used to be a Harry Ramsden's until recently, but I hear that it does good food. We can get a meal and cut through to the Park to eat it. Er, if you'd like that…"

Crowley nodded, finding it impossible to wipe the grin off his face.

"I'll meet you outside at 18.00 then? Now, please excuse me, but I need to get a few things set in motion. Obviously, we can't discuss this in much detail outside this office, but perhaps we could schedule a meeting for tomorrow morning? Would 10.00 be okay for you, in this office? I'll get Gabriel to clear things with your boss."

Crowley nodded again. "I… er… I didn't think I'd see you again after that Thursday in the Park. I thought you'd gone for good." Now where did that come from?

Aziraphale frowned at him. "I knew who I was following. There was a high probability that I wouldn't be coming back. " The frown was replaced by a warm smile and a flash of blue eyes.

Maybe this was all a dream, but at that moment, Crowley found himself hoping that he wouldn't wake up too soon.



Part Six. Shaken and Stirred.

They were in Aziraphale's office, the following morning.

"So, what's the plan? I assume you have got a plan?" Crowley mumbled, staring down at a pile of files and maps which had been spread across the desk in Aziraphale's office. Aziraphale was rummaging through them impatiently.

"What? Oh, yes. It's all pretty much done by the book, I'm afraid. Contrary to popular belief, this work isn't all trips to exotic locations, fast cars and even faster women."

"Thankfully," murmured Crowley under his breath. "So… I'm all ears."

"Well, stage one is pretty much tied up. We think we know where Jordt is staying at the moment, so the next step is surveillance and data gathering. Your photographic skills are going to be useful here, my dear." Aziraphale pulled a map from the pile and opened it out, leaning over it and running a finger along one of the main roads. "This is where we believe he can be found." He pointed to a spot on the map and Crowley peered at it. He couldn't help but notice that the other man had perfectly manicured fingernails.

"That looks like a very small place. I would have thought he would be in a posh hotel in London. Are you sure it's the right one?" Crowley frowned.

"Pretty certain. The intel I've been given all seems to point to here anyway. So our first action will be to travel to this location and try to get a few positive results to confirm the findings so far. You have a car, I presume?"

"Yes. I have one from the Agency." Crowley felt a flutter of excitement at the thought of actually getting that vehicle out on the road.

"Good, good…" Aziraphale sounded slightly distracted as he started searching through desk drawers and muttering. Finally, he found what he was looking for and held a small box up in triumph. "Got it. Now, if we get a positive ID on Jordt, we will need to get some surveillance equipment installed immediately. This should cover what we need. I'll need to sign our weapons out with the firearms unit before we do anything else. Do you have any preferences? Are you right, or left handed?"

"Er. no preferences… left handed… Firearms? We're carrying guns?" Crowley blinked in surprise at the idea.

"Standard procedure again. Don't worry, they are just there in case we need them as a last resort. It's unlikely to come to that. Yet…" He tapped something into his computer.

Crowley felt a chill ripple through him. He chewed his lip as a question floated, unbidden, into his mind.

"H… Have you… Er… Have you ever … killed someone?"

Aziraphale studied Crowley's face intently for a moment, blue eyes suddenly less open, as though a mask had crept across his face.

"We do a job, Crowley. We do what it takes to get a satisfactory outcome. It doesn't mean that we enjoy some aspects of the work." He turned his attention back to the desk and pushed a metal case towards Crowley. When he looked up again, the mask had gone and the affable bookseller had returned. "Can you have a look at the contents of this and see if it is suitable? If there is anything else you need then let me know and I'll get it sent up immediately."

Crowley clicked the case open and studied the contents, a decent DSLR camera and a selection of lenses. He checked each of them carefully, nodding his satisfaction. He glanced up at Aziraphale who was watching him intently.

"I could do with two extra things."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow in question.

"A window-mounted tripod and a photographic support bean-bag. It's just that if I have to use the 500mm in low light… Camera shake…" Crowley didn't like to admit that his hands were likely to be shaking too, given the circumstances.

Aziraphale nodded and picked up the phone, giving Crowley's requirements and then turned his attention to checking the surveillance devices. He was interrupted by the door opening to admit Gabriel Winterton and a serious-looking man who carried a locked case which he placed on the desk. He held a clipboard out wordlessly for Winterton to sign, then passed it to Aziraphale, who in turn passed it to Crowley. Crowley glanced briefly at it. It was a firearms usage licence. His hands shook slightly as he signed. This was all becoming a little too real.

Winterton gave both of them a dark look as he headed back out of the door. "We need this putting to bed quickly, Aziraphale. No fuck ups, please!"

Aziraphale threw him a glowering look and returned to gathering the necessary bits and pieces for the mission, stacking them neatly at one end of the desk. He turned to the locked case and undid it, pulling out two shoulder holsters and two handguns and magazines.

"Now, let's get you fitted with this. Take off your jacket please, my dear."

Crowley peeled his jacket off and stood while the blond man slid the holster onto him and made a few adjustments. For a moment, Crowley was glad that the man was standing behind him, because the sensation of those delicate fingers brushing against him was making the colour in his cheeks rise embarrassingly. Much more of this and it wouldn't be the only thing rising embarrassingly.

"Does that feel alright?" asked Aziraphale, standing back to scrutinise the positioning of the holster.

Crowley restricted himself to a brief nod. "Oh yes," he thought to himself, more than alright, but I can hardly tell you that , can I?"

Apparently satisfied with the adjustments, Aziraphale let his hand drop to pat Crowley on the hip. "There we are. Armed and dangerous!" he quipped, moving back to the desk and donning his own holster.

"Ngk," said Crowley, wishing that his Bond-like suavity and eloquence hadn't chosen that moment to abandon him totally.

Aziraphale had grabbed a pile of things from the desk and was heading towards the door. "Well, come on then… Agent Dante."

"Dante?"

"Your code name. I think it rather suits you, actually. Car downstairs?"

"Er... Yes, in the office parking lot."

They trotted down to the sub-basement parking facility and Crowley led them to where the Bentley was parked, paintwork shining in the artificial lights. Crowley couldn't quite suppress the feeling of pride that swirled through him as he climbed behind the wheel and waited while his companion arranged the equipment and himself in the car. Crowley reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the sunglasses which D had provided. He slipped them on, gave Aziraphale a slightly nervous grin and drove.


****

The London sprawl had turned to leafy lanes and quiet back roads as the Bentley headed for the little village where Aziraphale was convinced they would locate their target. Aziraphale put the map to one side and produced a notebook which he leafed through carefully.

"You know, you could put the information on an iPad. Step into the modern data storage era?"

"Says the man driving a vintage Bentley!" muttered Aziraphale, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Ah, there it is. Dawson says that they might be staying at the pub on The Green; the Harp and Pitchfork. That should be down that road."

Crowley took the turning and pulled up at the front of a large pub which looked warm and inviting, with golden sandstone walls and old leaded windows. A board outside proudly listed a selection of real ales available. Maybe this assignment had its benefits.

"So, what now?" Crowley hoped the answer would be to go and get a drink and some food. He hadn't eaten all day and his stomach was starting to make some embarrassing noises. He started to assemble the camera and lens in the hope that it would help him to forget the hunger pangs.

"We wait and keep wa…" Aziraphale was interrupted by a particularly loud rumble from Crowley's stomach. He looked at Crowley in astonishment. "Was that you?"

Crowley nodded. He was about to bemoan his lack of nutritional intake when Aziraphale elbowed him in the side and pointed towards the other end of the car park, where a silver Lexus had pulled up and two men had climbed out and were walking towards the rear door of the building. Despite only seeing one photograph of the man, Crowley recognised one of them instantly. Jordt. He hefted the camera and fired off a few shots of them entering the pub.

"Wait here," Aziraphale hissed, almost throwing himself out of the car and jogging to the door. Crowley watched him go in and sat with camera poised, hunger forgotten. He sat and waited for around five minutes and was just about to start to panic when Aziraphale emerged from the door and returned to the car. He slumped into the passenger seat with a loud sigh.

"Well, I managed to find which room they are in. Now it's just a waiting game. When they go out, I'll go in and place the surveillance devices. Oh, and I got you these." He rummaged in his pocket and produced a packet of crisps which he handed to Crowley with a small smile. "Did you get any decent shots?"

Crowley scrolled through the photos and passed the camera to Aziraphale, who studied them closely. "Yes, no doubt that is Jordt. His companion is definitely Demitrovich. Now, I'll run a quick check on the surveillance gear and we need to be ready to move in as soon as they leave. I'll go in and plant the bugs, you wait out here and keep watch, just in case."

Crowley nodded, fumbling his way into the crisp packet. He had a feeling that this was going to be a long evening.

After about two hours, he felt Aziraphale's hand land on his forearm. "Look!"

Jordt and Demitrovich were strolling casually across the car park, chatting as they went, their smart attire suggesting an evening out. Crowley instinctively sank down in his seat. They watched as the car drove out of the car park and disappeared down the road before Aziraphale gathered his box of tricks and opened his door. "Keep watching. If there's a problem then buzz me. Okay?"

"Yes. What shall I do if…" but he didn't get the sentence out before Aziraphale was out of the car and heading into the pub. Crowley drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and chewed his lip nervously. Aziraphale had been gone less than five minutes but it felt more like twenty. A movement caught his attention and to his horror, he looked out to see Jordt's car driving back into the car park.

"Ohshitohshitohshit," he muttered, watching as Demitrovich leapt out and jogged towards the door of the pub, leaving Jordt in the car with the engine running. Crowley grabbed his communications device and frantically pressed the buttons.

"Yes? What's wrong?" Aziraphale's voice sounded distant and crackly.

"Get out of there! They just came back and Demitrovich is on his way in, fast!"

"Oh FUCK!"

Crowley wasn't sure whether to be shocked or amused by the uncharacteristic curse which floated from his comms device. He was sure that the next thing he heard would be a gun shot, or Demitrovich shouting for Jordt to help… His eyes drifted to where Jordt sat in the car. The man seemed calm and relaxed, his gaze apparently focused on the pub door, arm hanging out of the car window, fingers tapping a rhythm on the outside of the car door.

Crowley wasn't sure what to do. He didn't dare attempt to contact Aziraphale on the comms device in case Demitrovich heard it, so all he could do was wait and hope that Aziraphale had managed to hide somewhere. He was surprised when, moments later, a grinning Demitrovich emerged and hopped back into the car, and the two men drove away again.

So what had… His thoughts were interrupted by the passenger side door being thrown open to reveal Aziraphale with a grumpy look on his face, dirt on his shirt and several leaves and twigs in his hair.

"What…? Are you okay? What happened?"

"Close call. Nowhere to hide in the room… Had to climb out of the window… Landed in the herbaceous perennials! Those delphinium stalks are quite sharp, you know." Aziraphale brushed himself down and slid into the passenger seat.

"Did you manage to do what you wanted?"

"Partly. Managed to place the audio device but you called before I had time to place the other one. I daren't go back in, the staff member who let me in the first time was a bit suspicious about a Safety Inspector turning up and just wanting one specific room. We'll just have to manage with what we've got. I did find something else, however." Aziraphale pulled his phone out of a pocket and thumbed through some images. He passed the phone to Crowley.

"A room reservation for a single day and night. That's for next week."

"Indeed. I'll send the image in to the office now and get Dawson to follow it up, see what he can dig out for us. Now, while the target is away, shall we grab a meal? It might be the last chance we get for a while."


****

By nine o'clock that evening, Crowley was glad that they had managed to get a meal. He'd stocked up on a few packets of crisps and nuts by way of emergency rations, and the pub landlord had very kindly provided them with a flask of hot coffee. Crowley was starting to wish that the Bentley was equipped with heated seats, or at least some form of blanket. The temperature had dropped when the sun went down and the knowledge that there was a blazing fire in the hearth inside the pub wasn't helping his mood. He had given up trying to get comfortable and was passing the time playing Snake on Aziraphale's clunky old mobile phone. Aziraphale's hand landed on his arm with a crash, shattering Crowley's attention. The snake crashed into a wall and the screen merrily announced "Game Over" in what Crowley felt sure was a very sarcastic tone.

Aziraphale pointed to where a car had pulled into the car park and disgorged its two occupants who headed for the pub door and went in.

"That's them," he hissed, reaching for the headphones and modulator. "Now… let's hope we learn something from this little escapade!" He donned the headphones and settled back to eavesdrop.


****

The door to the room swung open. Aleksey Demitrovich strolled in casually, casting a smiling glance over his shoulder at his companion.

"That was a good interpretation of the work, don't you think? Drink?"

"Hmm, a Scotch would be acceptable. You enjoyed the play then? I had a feeling that you would. All that mystery and intrigue, just your thing."

The older man walked past, pulling his tie loose and discarding it on the dressing table while Demitrovich set out two glasses and poured a generous amount of whisky into each one. He grinned across at Jordt. "Well, you know me and intrigue."

"Ah, so I'm just here to satisfy your craving for the mysterious?" Jordt's blue eyes took on a reproachful look. Demitrovich shrugged out of his jacket and threw him a decidedly smouldering look.

"That, and a few other cravings… "

Jordt gave a small huff of amusement, picking up his drink and walking to the window.

"Aleksey?"

"Mmm?"

"When you came back for your wallet, did you look out of this window at all?" Jordt's expression altered totally. His eyes hard, intense.

"No. Why?"

Jordt bent to study the area more closely.

"Andr…" Demitrovich began. His words halted by Jordt turning to face him with a finger to his lips. Demitrovich frowned as Jordt stepped over to him and brought his lips close to the younger man's ear.

"Be casual…" he whispered. He turned away, putting his drink down and beginning to walk systematically around the room, eyes scanning every crevice, fingers carefully skimming along shelves and behind every object in the room. All the time he continued a light discussion about the play, their meal, the weather. After a thorough sweep of the room, Jordt stood in the centre. He had found nothing. Maybe it was just paranoia… Gut instinct told him otherwise. He closed his eyes for a moment, then let his gaze drift around the room again. Just a moment… That book…

Jordt walked quietly to the small bookshelf in the corner of the room. Eidetic recall could be a curse or a blessing. On this occasion, for Andreas Jordt, it was a blessing. That book had definitely not been there earlier. He removed it whilst keeping up a continual appraisal of the evening while Demitrovich watched him, eyes wide, shoulders tense. Jordt placed the book on the bed and picked up his drink, downing it in one and holding the glass out to be refilled. As Demitrovich did that, Jordt rummaged around in his suitcase and produced a small leather case which he unfurled to reveal a selection of implements. He selected a small blade and, discussing the merits of single versus blended malt whisky, began to carefully slice along the spine of the book. Demitrovich watched closely, adding comments here and there, giving the occasional laugh…

"Of course," muttered Jordt, "the Islay single malts are probably the best. Remind me to get us a bottle…" His voice was level as he used a pair of forceps to delve into the slit he had made in the book. He withdrew them and held them out for Demitrovich to see. In their grip was a small black button with a filament protruding from it. Demitrovich gave a slow nod as Jordt dropped the device into his palm and placed it very carefully on the table beside the bed. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the device for a few moments, before reaching out and catching Demitrovich's wrist in a firm grip. His expression became distinctly predatory as he pulled the man closer to the bed.

"Yes, it was a good play tonight. Makes you realise how important it is to give one's audience something to remember!"

Demitrovich glanced briefly at the little black button then back at his partner, a look of amusement on his face. "Oh yes. I agree," he murmured, and allowed Jordt to pull him onto his lap, unable to stifle a soft groan as a hand slid under his shirt and the other began to work eagerly to undo the buckle of his belt.


****

In the quiet of the Bentley, Aziraphale was wearing the headphones while Crowley sat with his eyes closed. From what Aziraphale had reported so far, there was nothing of interest being said, Jordt apparently being more interested in talking about food, drink and theatre than in disclosing any information about his reason for being in the country. Crowley let his mind drift slightly, wondering just what the assassin was planning. His thoughts were interrupted by Aziraphale giving a startled gasp and blurting out,

"Oh… Good Heavens!"

Crowley looked across at him. Aziraphale had gone a quite interesting shade of pink and his eyes had gone wide as saucers.

"What? What are they saying?"

"Er… not much." Aziraphale coughed and winced. "Oh dear…"

"Aziraphale! What's happening?"

Aziraphale looked decidedly flustered as he handed the headset to Crowley with an almost apologetic look. Crowley slipped the headset on and … His eyebrows shot up so far that they were in danger of going into orbit.

"Well, at least we can confirm that Jordt and Demitrovich are lovers…" he muttered, blushing. "And that the pub needs to get those bed springs sorted." He took the headphones off again and frowned at Aziraphale. "It seems wrong to listen," he said.

Aziraphale nodded and sighed. "Unfortunately, we have to. Just in case…"

Crowley winced and put the headset back on, trying to ignore what was obviously going on very loudly in the bedroom. He eventually tried to pass it back to Aziraphale who sat rigidly, trying to study a map. Aziraphale waved the headphones away with a feeble excuse about needing to get a fix on their position on the map… Crowley mused that if Aziraphale wanted to know about positions then he could learn a few interesting ones from the current shenanigans inside the target bedroom. Eventually, the noises from the room decreased, to Crowley's relief.

"I think they've er… finished."

"Thank God…"

"Oh, hold on. No, my mistake. They… er… seem to have started again…"

"Good grief, is the man insatiable or something?" Aziraphale glowered, pink-cheeked, out of his window.

"Apparently. You have to admire their stamina though." Crowley winced as he heard a resounding slap and a cry that was somewhere between agony and ecstasy through the headset. "I suppose there is one good thing."

"Oh? What's that?" Aziraphale glanced up at him.

"Well, at least you didn't manage to set up the video device. Imagine…"

Aziraphale gave Crowley a decidedly pained look. "I'd rather not, thank you very much!"

Crowley turned away to hide a smirk, and went back to his surveillance duties.


****

In the small hours of the morning, in a darkened bedroom, a small amount of light creeping in from a street light in the road outside, Andreas Jordt stifled a yawn and stretched an arm out to look at his watch. He gently untangled a long arm from around his waist, ignoring the mumbled protest, and turned to sit on the edge of the bed. He picked up the little device from the bedside table and frowned, standing up and heading for the bathroom where he wrapped the device up in a sheet of toilet tissue and dropped it into the toilet bowl with a thin-lipped smile. As he flushed it and watched the little package swirl around and vanish, he gave a little wave and muttered "Goodbye," before turning and heading back into the main room. He walked to the window and looked out into the night, standing to one side.

"Mmmm. Come back to bed, Andreas. I'm cold!" muttered a sleepy Demitrovich.

Jordt sighed and took a final look out of the window. "I know you're out there, Seraph," he murmured, before crossing the room and sitting down. "I have something I need to do. Don't worry, I won't be long." He dragged on a pair of trousers, a jacket and his shoes then slipped silently out of the room.


****

Crowley frowned and glared at the headphones in his hands. Aziraphale raised a questioning eyebrow.

"What's wrong?"

"Not sure, but it's gone all fuzzy, as if it's underwater…"

"Under.. What? Let me hear… Damn!" Aziraphale thumped the front dashboard angrily. "He's flushed it. That means he knows he's being watched. We'll need to re-plan our strategy."

"Re-plan our… Can't we just replace the bug with another one? If the landlord knows you then I could maybe do it inste… Oh shit!"

Crowley had looked up to see a tall figure creep out of the back door and walk into the car park, heading directly towards the Bentley. One hand was ominously hidden in a pocket of the jacket… Crowley's brain raced. He couldn't start up and drive off, there wasn't enough time. Jordt's long legs were striding across the intervening space, there was no escape. He glanced up to see Aziraphale staring at the approaching figure with something akin to horror on his face. With a muffled whimper of desperation, Crowley did the only thing that his terrified brain could think of. He grabbed Aziraphale by the lapels and twisted around, sliding to straddle the blond's lap and pulling his own jacket down off one shoulder.

"What the … Mmmph! " Aziraphale started to say, but he was silenced by Crowley pressing his lips against his and holding his head in place with one hand around the back of his neck.

"Extemporise!" growled Crowley hastily, hearing the crunch of gravel under feet nearing the car. He leant into the kiss and added a slightly serpentine wiggle of the hips for added measure. Aziraphale gave a slightly startled squeak but Crowley suddenly realised that Aziraphale's hands were on his hips and pulling him closer, then one arm slid around his back and a hand up under his shirt… Not only that, but Aziraphale was kissing him back…

The footsteps stopped beside the car… Crowley held his breath, waiting for the car door to be wrenched open. His skin was prickling but he wasn't sure if that was due to the fear of finding an assassin's gun pointing at him, or the effect of what Aziraphale was doing with his tongue. Then footsteps again, a measured tread, but now heading away from the car.

"What's he doing?" he muttered, leaning forwards and feeling Aziraphale move to peer over his shoulder.

"He's going back into the pub."

Crowley pulled back and frowned. He extricated himself from Aziraphale's lap and slumped back into his seat, his body complaining at having the warmth stolen from it just as it had started to enjoy itself. Aziraphale straightened his clothes and gave a small, awkward cough.

"That was quick thinking… Well done."

"I'm sorry. I... er… I couldn't think of anything else. Sorry…"

"No… I… It… Do you, er… do you think we fooled him?"

"Well, we're not dead… So it would appear so." Crowley stared out of the window at nothing in particular and reflected that maybe Andreas Jordt hadn't been the only one fooled for a moment during that cold Autumn night. He felt suddenly very cold, very tired and incredibly foolish. His attention was caught by something balanced on the bonnet of the Bentley. "What's that?"

Aziraphale climbed out to retrieve the object and got back in with a serious look on his face.

"It's the book. The one I left in their room with the surveillance device in it. Look, the spine is sliced open."

"So… Maybe not fooled after all then."

"No. Not fooled after all," repeated Aziraphale. "Well, there is little point in waiting around now. We might as well go back to London and we'll have to hope that Dawson comes up with something for that location and date." He sighed, seeming to fold in on himself, saying very little as Crowley drove them both back to their homes.



Part Seven. The Ultimate Price.

Crowley felt utterly wretched when he reported for work the following afternoon. He had not slept well, partly because his mind was buzzing with the thrill of the previous evening, but mainly because he could not get the feel of Aziraphale's hands on his hips and the taste of him during that kiss, out of his mind. He spent the entire walk in to the office reminding himself that there were probably strict rules against relationships between colleagues and that this fact was irrelevant in any case because Aziraphale had only been acting for the benefit of the assassin approaching their car. Crowley was not surprised to find a note attached to his computer screen, summoning him to meet Aziraphale in his office as soon as possible. He suspected that this was going to be a stern reminder that such behaviour must not happen again. Ever.

He knocked on the door of Room 7 and walked in, feeling awkward. Aziraphale was sitting at his desk, eyes fixed on his computer screen and a frown on his face. He looked up and to Crowley's surprise, broke into a broad smile.

"Crowley, my dear chap. Thank you for dropping in"

"Yes, I'm sorry it is a bit late, I didn't get in until lunchtime."

"Of course. No problems. I just thought you might be interested to know the latest on the Jordt case. I've already briefed Gabriel."

Crowley blinked. No mention of the incident in the car. "Er, yes. Yes."

"Well firstly, I've had the report through from the CIRO. They've identified the toxin used in the Kyoto killing. It's an interesting one. Fairly newly developed, known as MZ5k, a fast-acting neurotoxin. Autopsy tests always return showing presence of MZ5k breakdown products in all the vital organs. Basically, the body just shuts down. Now, the interesting thing is this… MZ5k has only been reported as being the weapon of choice in seven cases so far, not including the Kyoto murder, and all of those have been linked to a secret government organisation of this particular country." Aziraphale prodded a map, picking out a small, but strategically important region of Eastern Europe.

"So, is Jordt working for them then?" Crowley asked, frowning.

"We don't know yet. I know of no affiliation between Jordt and this particular organisation, but as you know, he is a freelance operative so, theoretically, open to offers."

Crowley pondered for a moment. "Surely though, if this organisation has used this toxin in previous killings, they must have their own agents to do the dirty work? Why pay the sort of fees that Jordt is sure to command when you have your own home-grown operatives to do the work? It doesn't make sense."

"Aye, there's the rub. As you rightly point out, it doesn't really add up. I'm hoping that the info from Dawson will shed some light on things."

"You've heard from him?"

"Yes, he sent a message earlier telling me he had some information about that image that I sent through yesterday. In fact, he should be here soon. I thought you'd like to be in on the meeting as you've been heavily involved so far."

Crowley nodded and glanced at his watch. He still felt a little awkward, but Aziraphale was busily sifting through various files rather than allowing any uncomfortable silence to descend. Crowley wondered if Aziraphale felt as awkward as he did. He strolled to the window and stood, staring at the rain.

After several minutes, the rain had become a torrential downpour which battered against the window. Aziraphale gave a loud sigh and extracted his watch from his waistcoat pocket, clicking the case open and frowning at it.

"It isn't like Dawson to be late. I'll try calling him to see where he's got to." Aziraphale reached for the 'phone, dialled and stood listening to the ring tone. He tried a few times but was re-directed to voicemail each time.

"Maybe he's delayed by the weather?" suggested Crowley. "It's pretty grim out there."

"Hmmm. It shouldn't stop him answering his mobile. I think I'll go and pay him a visit."

"I'll come with you. Do you think something's…" Crowley's voice tailed off. Aziraphale said nothing, grabbing a coat and heading for the door at a fast walk, pausing in the outer office to tell his PA where he was going. Crowley had to jog to keep up as they walked out into the rain, heading for Dawson's apartment.


****

The apartment was in a block of depressing flats which were a sad reminder of the housing standards of the 1970s. Flights of concrete steps, bearing the stains and smells of years of people using them as a urinal, led to bleak open landings with identical doors leading off them. Many of them had metal grilles over them in an attempt to improve security. Those which didn't were displaying a wide selection of marks denoting attempts at forced entry, or had windows covered with cardboard or just left as broken glass. Nearly every wall had some sort of graffiti scrawled across it, ranging from the more pleasing artistic type, through harsh satire to the inevitable mis-spelled comments by those who felt the need to tell all passers-by about their sexual prowess or just to illustrate this with a large drawing.

Eventually, they reached a door and Aziraphale stopped and motioned Crowley to do likewise. The door had seemed closed, but as he stood there, Crowley noticed that it was slightly open. Aziraphale held a hand up to warn Crowley to stay away from the door before pushing it open and darting back behind the wall. As this caused no reaction from within, Aziraphale walked carefully into the flat with Crowley a step behind him. In the small, dark living room, there was a half-eaten meal on a tray, balanced on the sofa. The television in the corner was switched on, the voice of the host of a banal daytime programme droning on into the otherwise silent room. In the brown-tiled hearth, the electric fire was still on, its single bar glowing in the gloom.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley. He sighed loudly. This did not look good. He took a deep breath and carefully pushed open the bedroom door, stopping on the threshold with a muttered oath. Crowley tried to push past his arm but Aziraphale stopped him and gently pushed him back away from the doorway and the scene within.

"No. Stay there, we're too late."

Crowley peered over Aziraphale's arm into the little room to see a man sprawled face up across the bed, arms hanging over the edge as if he had been a marionette and his strings had been cut to allow him to fall. Crowley tried, and failed, to ignore the more unpleasant details, fighting down the bile that rose in his throat. A handgun was still loosely clasped in the dead man's hand. It was at that point that Crowley realised that the victim in front of him was the man who had given him the address card that day in the Park. Somehow the memory of the perfectly dressed, dapper man seemed incongruous with the squalid scene in front of them.

Aziraphale carefully entered the room, warning Crowley to remain outside to avoid contaminating the scene. He glanced round the room, lips in a thin line and a deep frown on his face. There were few obvious signs, but Aziraphale could see that someone had been through the place, clearly looking for something.

"Jordt?" Crowley asked from the doorway.

"I'd be prepared to put money on it, " replied Aziraphale, continuing to look around carefully.

"The gun… in his hand. Is it the one that killed him?"

"I doubt it, though it'll take a ballistics report to show for sure. I suspect that our friend Jordt came looking for whatever Dawson had found and Dawson pulled his own gun on him. He wouldn't have stood a chance. I doubt he would even have had time to realise that Jordt was armed…"

"Surely the neighbours would have heard…" Crowley began.

"Silencer. Even if it had been loud enough to hear, you'll find that everyone will say that they assumed it was shots on a TV… Nobody will have seen or heard anything. Nobody ever does." Aziraphale looked tired and ragged.

"Should… Should we call the police?" asked Crowley.

"No. I'll call it in to Winterton. Best to let our chaps get a look at things first, before plod comes in and stomps all over vital information."


****

Back at Paradise Mews the atmosphere was, understandably, subdued. Despite not being a particularly popular member of the team, Dawson had been good at his job, and the apparently senseless loss of one of their own was sufficient to cast a black mood across the whole establishment.

In Room 7, Crowley and Aziraphale sat opposite each other at Aziraphale's desk. It was nearly 6pm, and the gloom of the weather created an even more sombre atmosphere. Neither man spoke, both still trying to process the afternoon's events and both still failing. Eventually, Crowley said what was on both of their minds.

"I wonder what he wanted to tell you," he said, quietly.

Aziraphale shrugged. "Who can say? Clearly something important enough for Jordt to go looking for it." He put his head in his hands with a groan. "If only I hadn't asked him to…"

"Aziraphale, it isn't your fault. It was his job. You can't take the blame!"

"But I know what Jordt is capable of. I should have foreseen…"

"No, you shouldn't. You couldn't."

Aziraphale ran agitated fingers through his hair. Crowley reflected that under other circumstances, the spiky result of this action would have been amusing, but at that moment it just served to make Aziraphale look even more worn and beaten.

"Crowley?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't feel you have to, but… would you like to come back for a drink at the flat, maybe grab a meal on the way back? I honestly don't feel like going back to an empty flat this evening."

Crowley felt a wave of sheer relief go through him. He'd been dreading the thought of going home to spend the whole evening with his mind re-playing the day's events.

They walked back towards the bookshop in silence, pausing on the way to get a meal and dropping in to the local off-license to pick up several bottles of liquid anaesthetic. In truth, neither of them felt in any way hungry, it was simply going through the motions. Aziraphale clearly still held himself partly responsible for Dawson's demise and Crowley just knew that nothing he could say would ease that feeling.

The back room was chilled and dark. Aziraphale busied himself setting the fire and switching on the lights while Crowley rummaged in the kitchen for cutlery and some glasses. By the time he had returned to the main room, there was a decent blaze in the hearth (courtesy of a couple of firelighters) and the room was beginning to look more comfortable. Aziraphale was standing in front of the fire, staring into the flames, leaning a hand on the mantel. He turned to watch Crowley as he carefully put the cartons of food on the table and sat down, pushing one of the cartons towards him and holding out a fork. Strangely, his work had never affected him like this before. He'd seen co-workers, other operatives, in dangerous situations and some, though not many thankfully, had not come back from assignments. It was part and parcel of that line of work. Now though, it hit him that he had been the one responsible for getting the man sitting opposite into a situation which was potentially life threatening. It was a fact which sat uneasy upon him.

Crowley finished his final mouthful of special fried rice and sat back in his chair. Aziraphale went to the fire, stacking logs onto the embers and watching as they started to burn. He turned the lights down and the room was lit by the flames of the fire which flickered on the walls and reflected in Crowley's eyes as he sat.

"Shall we sit in comfort?" he said, gesturing to the sofa. Crowley nodded and grabbed two glasses before sitting down. Aziraphale picked up a bottle of brandy and sank down onto the adjacent seat of the sofa, taking one of the glasses from Crowley and pouring a generous amount of brandy into it, then repeating the action with the second glass. He raised his glass and stared solemnly at it.

"To those who pay the ultimate price," he said, quietly.

Crowley raised his glass in a silent gesture.

They sat, steadily working their way through the bottle. Neither man spoke much, a few comments about the weather and the news headlines, but then, neither felt the need to talk. Somehow it seemed so trivial at that time. Crowley gave a little shiver as the fire began to die down. Aziraphale hurled a few more logs on and grabbed a large rug which he unfolded and draped across their knees.

"I'm sorry, I don't have more than one rug. Are you okay like that?"

"Mmmm fine thanks," Crowley said. The warmth and the drink were starting to make him feel decidedly drowsy and it was becoming difficult to keep his eyes from just closing… Just to rest them… It had been a difficult day. He was totally unaware of the moment when sleep took him and his head fell sideways to rest on Aziraphale's shoulder. Aziraphale carefully pulled the rug higher up to cover their chests, closed his eyes and, against the odds, drifted into sleep.



Part Eight. The Final Dance

Crowley had woken to a feeling of total confusion and it had taken him a few seconds to register that he was still in the back room of the Soho bookshop, that he had been there all night and that the nice feeling of warmth down his left side was due to the close proximity of a blond-haired bookseller who was slumped against him, breathing deeply and steadily, giving an occasional low mumble. Crowley was just contemplating how he was going to move without waking the sleeping shop owner when the doorbell made the decision for him, its shrill tones causing Aziraphale to wake with a start and to stand up hastily, muttering something under his breath and staggering out into the shop with all the athletic grace of a drunk rhinoceros with its feet tied together. Crowley heard the man greeting the postal delivery man with a slightly weary few words before hearing the footsteps heading back to the back room.

"I am sorry," Aziraphale muttered, slightly awkwardly. "I must have fallen asleep after the drinks. You should have woken me up." He walked to the desk and sat down, extracting a paper knife from a drawer and using it to open the hand-written manila envelope which had just been delivered.

Crowley stretched and yawned. "I would have done, but I was asleep too."

"Would you like some tea, or coff… " Aziraphale stopped mid sentence, drawing in a shaky breath.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Dawson, you sly so-and-so… " Aziraphale waved a few sheets of paper in the air and beamed at Crowley across the table. "He used one of the oldest tricks in the book. He must have suspected that Jordt was onto him, so he hid the information by posting it to me before Jordt caught up with him." Aziraphale began to read through the papers and Crowley meandered into the kitchen to make them both some coffee. When he returned, he found Aziraphale bent over a map and a diary.

"I think he was onto something. If I'm right, we should know exactly who and where Jordt is planning to hit!" He gulped down a few mouthfuls of hot coffee and grabbed his jacket from the chair. "Come on, Crowley. No time to lose, we need to get to the office."


****

For the first time in many years, Winterton and Forsyth had been herded into the same room although they were sitting as far away from each other as possible, each trying to appear unperturbed by the other's presence. Aziraphale had summoned them to a meeting to discuss his information and was secretly taking a great deal of pleasure from their discomfiture.

"The information passed to me by Dawson before his tragic demise strongly suggests that there will be an assassination attempt on the Ambassador, using the neurotoxin MZ5k. This will implicate those in opposition to the Ambassador, with the intention of starting civil unrest and potential retaliatory action."

"So it will appear that the hit has been carried out by an opposing government agency?" stated Winterton.

"Yes. As MZ5k has only ever been used by a black ops organisation of one specific country, the blame will automatically be levelled at them. And it will come as no surprise to find that this specific country borders that of the Ambassador and that there has been a good deal of sabre-rattling going on for some time. The assassination of the Ambassador could prove to be the spark that ignites war between the two countries."

Winterton and Forsyth both sat in mute horror as their minds worked through the implications. Aziraphale gave a polite cough and continued. "I believe that we have a good idea of Jordt's mission and enough details to be able to thwart his plans. Crowley and I will need to have access to the evening gathering to be held at the Embassy on the South Bank in two days' time."

"Are you certain of the facts Aziraphale?" Winterton said, his voice a drawl of thinly disguised irritation. "That meeting is extremely high level and, as such, the security in place is so tight that you couldn't even squeeze a cigarette paper through it. I should know, I was involved in organising the security details myself."

At this, Forsyth gave a muted snort which earned him a poisonous glare from Winterton, who continued. "All the guests have been given top level clearance and will be scanned and double-checked on arrival. No outsiders are to have access, no press coverage, no last minute changes of plans, the security detail is armed and is provided by ourselves and all the catering is being provided in-house by the Embassy itself. It would take a miracle for anyone to get through the security there."

Aziraphale sighed wearily and rubbed his brow. "Under most circumstances, yes… But we are dealing with Andreas Jordt and nothing is certain when he is involved. For pity's sake, Gabriel, the man is one of the top three operatives in the world, not just some amateur out to make a name for himself."

Winterton took a deep breath and was obviously about to continue with his defence of his security plans but was interrupted by Forsyth, who had seen a perfect opportunity to needle his colleague.

"Perhaps your man is right to be wary, Gabriel," purred Forsyth. "After all, even the best plans can have loopholes." He smiled sweetly at Winterton, enjoying the fact that his comment had made Winterton clench his fists and go a peculiar shade of red. "I think it would be good policy for them to attend, don't you?"

Winterton made a face as though he had just bitten an extremely sour lemon but said nothing, waving a hand in the air and slumping back into his seat, deflated. You could almost hear Forsyth chalking a mark up on his board for that particular victory. He turned his gaze on Aziraphale and Crowley. "I hope you both have a tuxedo!"


****

Aziraphale arrived at Crowley's Mayfair flat and was waiting in the living room in a state of nervous, albeit well-dressed, tension. After several minutes Crowley emerged from his bedroom looking slightly flustered.

"I feel like a right idiot!" he mumbled, tugging at his sleeves and nervously trying, and failing, to tie his bow tie. He glowered at Aziraphale who was standing by the window, the epitome of calm, although Crowley had to admit, a tux wasn't really the best form of attire for the blond, spy or not. Somehow, he looked as though he had fallen into it by accident and although he did look smart, Crowley couldn't help feeling that the man looked more natural, more relaxed, in his usual boffinish attire.

After four more failed attempts, Aziraphale took pity on Crowley and stepped forwards, reaching out and tying the bow tie quickly and effectively. Crowley mumbled a thank you and glowered at his reflection in the mirror.

"I still feel like an idiot!" he growled, pouting at his reflection.

"Actually," Aziraphale said, almost too quietly to be heard, "I think you look rather dashing. It suits you." He gave a slightly embarrassed cough and blushed as he spoke. "Come on, the cab's downstairs already," he added, hastily. He turned to head out the door, leaving a stunned and open mouthed Crowley to follow.


****

Inside the Embassy, Crowley stood and stared. His previous job had taken him to a few grand houses, but nothing to compare with this setting. Everything oozed opulence, from the décor to the sumptuous furnishings, even to the immaculate gold-braided uniforms of the staff who were drifting around proffering coupes of champagne and trays of hors d'oeuvres to the guests. He was sure that he recognised a few of the guests from appearances in the Society pages of some of the more up-market magazines. Aziraphale paused to select a crab puff from a tray as it drifted past him, then turned to Crowley and indicated that they should move to one side.

"Have you seen any sign of him yet?" Crowley hissed, leaning towards Aziraphale in an attempt to be heard over the increasing swell of noise as more guests arrived and began to chat amongst themselves.

"Jordt? Not yet. No sign of Demitrovich either."

"Maybe we're wrong. Besides, how will he get through the security? It's impenetrable, isn't it?"

"If you remember when I was telling you about Jordt in that meeting, I did mention that he had a certain talent at cracking security systems? Well, I wasn't exaggerating. Getting into the computer system and altering the guest details would be a stroll in the park for him. He could earn a massive salary as a security advisor, had he the mind to do so, but I suspect that would be too boring for him."

Crowley nodded. He had a feeling that, deep down, Aziraphale had a grudging respect for the mysterious operative. Aziraphale bit into the hors d'oeuvre and gave a little sigh of pleasure. "These are superb! You should try one, Crowley," he muttered, spraying a couple of crumbs towards Crowley who stepped carefully back to avoid them.

"I'll give them a miss, I think. Shall I get you a drink though? I see a gap in the crowds!"

Aziraphale nodded and Crowley snaked his way through the people to the table where a selection of wines were being uncorked and poured into a selection of exquisite cut glass goblets. Crowley didn't consider himself to be a wine buff of any sort, and was just debating whether to go for red or white, not really caring what particular label it was under.

"Allow me to recommend the '88 Dom, Mr Crowley. It is an excellent year and has been stored in perfect conditions." The voice beside him made Crowley jump. It was smooth, deep and well modulated but with an edge that could cut through diamonds. He turned to face the speaker and found himself looking into a pair of startling blue eyes which bored into him with an intensity that made Crowley flinch.

Jordt.

Crowley found himself standing with his mouth open slightly in surprise. Jordt let his eyes drift over him and gave a slightly quirky grin.

"And I believe that my dear old friend, Seraph, is partial to that vintage too. It does marry well with the crab puffs… " Jordt reached over and took two glasses of the drink as they were poured, placing them in Crowley's hands, eyes still holding those of Crowley. He retrieved two further glasses and inclined his head in a small bow. "Now, Mr Crowley, forgive me but I really mustn't take up any more of your time. Give my regards to your… partner," he purred, and was gone, leaving Crowley wide eyed and slightly shaken.

Crowley pushed through the crowd back to where Aziraphale was standing, about to pop another crab puff into his mouth. Crowley held a drink out to him with a hand which was shaking so badly that there was a risk that the drink would spill. Aziraphale frowned at him worriedly.

"He's here!" Crowley blurted. "Jordt. I just met him and he knows we're here. He knows Aziraphale! Now what?"

"Now we wait and we watch."

"You think he'll actually still try to carry out the deed knowing we are onto him? Surely he's not that stupid?"

"Oh, he's not stupid at all. However, one thing about Andreas Jordt is that he enjoys a challenge." Aziraphale took a sip from his glass and his eyebrows rose dramatically. "I say, is this an '88 Dom? Splendid. Now, I think it might be best to split up and try to keep an eye on Jordt and Demitrovich if he is here. Okay?"

Crowley nodded in agreement and watched as Aziraphale moved away, noticing with a small smile of amusement that he had elected to take up a position adjacent to the buffet table. Crowley piled a few items of food onto a plate and moved away to skulk beside a large parlour palm, which gave him a decent view of most of the room. He spotted Jordt and Demitrovich standing together on the opposite side of the room, heads close and in deep conversation. To most observers, they simply appeared to be an innocent couple of guests. Crowley gave an involuntary shudder. He blinked and looked away for a fraction of a second, but when he looked back, Demitrovich was standing on his own. Jordt had disappeared.

Crowley craned his neck and looked around desperately. Where the Hell… He wondered whether Aziraphale had noticed and glanced anxiously in his direction, but the blond man was apparently unaware of anything apart from a large slice of devil's food cake which was balanced precariously on a plate before him. Crowley scanned the room hurriedly, pushing his way through the crowds towards the stairs where he would surely get a better view. Yes… He spotted the Ambassador and his entourage moving slowly around the various groups, unhurried, unconcerned, his security officials close by, watchful. They would shortly be passing where Aziraphale was standing. Closer… closer…

The Ambassador was smiling. The reception was going well. It was almost time to call for silence and to make the toast to welcome everyone and initiate the second part of the evening's planned schedule. He gestured for a waiter to bring him a glass of champagne and smiled around at the assembled guests.

Crowley watched in disbelief as the scene played out in front of him. A waiter headed towards the Ambassador with a single glass held aloft on a tray. As he approached, Crowley realised that Jordt was on an apparent intercept course and when the waiter was a mere few feet from the Ambassador, Jordt seemed to stumble, knocking the waiter's arm slightly and, quick as a flash reaching to steady the tray, his hand steadying the glass, passing across the top of it… Jordt bowed in apology and melted away into the crowd. Crowley saw him signal to Demitrovich and the two men moved away, heading for the staircase on the opposite side of the room. Crowley looked back to where the Ambassador had taken the glass and had come to a stop next to where Aziraphale was waiting. It was at that point that he realised what had happened. Jordt had used the excuse of colliding with the waiter and had poisoned the drink.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention!" the Ambassador began, waiting for the hubbub to die away. His words went virtually un-noticed amidst the noise.

Crowley began to work his way through the crowds as fast as he could, trying to keep an eye on Aziraphale and the Ambassador. To his horror, he watched as the Ambassador seemed to notice that Aziraphale didn't have a drink to hand for the toast, and pressed his own glass into Aziraphale's hand.

"You don't seem to have a drink, Sir. Please, take mine, I'll call for another for the toast."

Aziraphale took the glass with a smile and a nod of acknowledgement. Crowley almost choked. He called out to warn Aziraphale not to drink it, but his voice was unable to be heard over the numerous other conversations and noises. He felt panic surge through him as he began to fight through the crowds to warn Aziraphale.

The Ambassador had acquired a second drink and was climbing onto a step.

Aziraphale, oblivious to his predicament was raising the glass to his lips…

Crowley pushed, shoved, cried out in frustration… He wasn't going to reach him in time.

"Aziraphale!"

The glass was near his lips. Nearer… Nearer… Almost touching…

"Aziraphale! NO!!!"

There was a muffled sound. Aziraphale stepped back in shock as the glass he was holding shattered into fragments. He recognised that sound. He'd heard it too many times before. Instinctively, Aziraphale looked up to the second floor landing. A figure stepped from behind a pillar, gun and silencer being slipped quickly out of sight. For a second, Andreas Jordt stared directly at Aziraphale, then gave a nod and turned, disappearing into the shadows.

Crowley arrived at Aziraphale's side within a second. He was panting and his eyes were wild and frantic. All around them, the security forces had sprung into action, hustling the Ambassador away, guns drawn and shouting orders.

"Did you drink anything?" Crowley had grabbed Aziraphale by the arm and was visibly shaking.

"No. I… I didn't get a chance…"

"It was poisoned! I saw Jordt do something with the drink. I couldn't get to you to warn you!" Crowley glanced around the room. "They'll catch him, surely… Won't they?"

Aziraphale glanced back to the landing where several security officers were milling around and looking confused.

"No, but I think we might… Follow me, quickly!" He headed out of the room with Crowley in pursuit, flashing a security pass at the guard on the door, and headed for the Bentley. He paused at the car and looked up the street. "There! See, that car? That's the one they were using at the Harp and Pitchfork."

They scrambled into the Bentley and pulled out into traffic, the Lexus a short way in front of them.


****

As car chases go, it wasn't quite what Crowley had envisaged. In his various DVDs, the chase was always at breakneck speed, swerving round corners with squealing tyres and causing all sorts of mayhem by going straight through the middle of a garden party and ending up in a swimming pool or knocking piles of crates and boxes out of the way as they sped through narrow alleyways. What he was involved in now could hardly even be said to merit the term "chase". Whatever laws Andreas Jordt was accustomed to breaking, apparently speeding and driving without due care were not on the list and the Lexus drove at a sedate pace through the London streets, crossing the Thames and eventually heading out of the city, going West into more open countryside.

It appeared that they were heading for the village where they had been staying, but as they swept round a bend in the road, both Crowley and Aziraphale cursed when they looked and saw no sign of the Lexus on the road ahead. Crowley eased off the accelerator and slowed to a crawl, both men looking around for a sign of the silver car. Aziraphale nudged Crowley and pointed to a small track, almost hidden by overgrown bushes and signposted as being the access route to a small nature reserve. Cautiously, Crowley edged the Bentley up the narrow dirt track and they found themselves in a large car park. It was empty, save for one single car. The silver Lexus was parked half behind a bush.

"Let me out here. You drive along to the end of the car park and block the route that way," said Aziraphale, opening the passenger door while the car was still moving. Crowley waited for him to get out and drove a little further.

Aziraphale drew his gun and crept closer to the Lexus. It seemed to be empty. Their quarry was clearly now on foot. He walked slowly forwards. The snap of a twig underfoot somewhere behind him made his blood run cold. Aziraphale turned very slowly to find himself looking into the face of Andreas Jordt who was standing with his gun trained unerringly on Aziraphale. Aleksey Demitrovich was standing a few feet from him and looked worriedly from Jordt to Aziraphale.

"Agent Seraph," Jordt purred, an amiable smile on his face, although it did not reach his eyes which remained cold and calculating. "What a pleasant surprise. A word of advice my friend, if you are going to insist on following someone then it would be best to choose something a little less obvious than a vintage Bentley." He glanced towards where the Bentley was parked further down the car park.

Aziraphale's mouth had gone dry. His hand and gun hung by his side. One movement of that hand and he knew Jordt would react.

Then.

Time.

Seemed.

To.

Slow.

Down…

Crowley, unaware of the situation, walked into view from behind the Bentley and looked up, stopping in horror as he saw what was happening.

Noticing the movement in his peripheral vision, Jordt swung round, gun held perfectly steady as he turned to aim at Crowley. Aziraphale reacted immediately. He knew that Jordt wouldn't miss, he never did. This was his only chance. Aziraphale lifted his own gun to fire and prayed that he didn't miss.

Aleksey Demitrovich had seen Aziraphale raise his gun and take aim. With a cry of warning he also moved, lunging forwards to push Jordt out of the line of fire. Jordt fired twice, but his accuracy was compromised by the sudden impact. The two bullets narrowly missed Crowley and perforated the front windscreen of the Bentley as Crowley swore and dodged back behind his car opening the door and rummaging around trying to remember what D had said about the sniper rifle but in his panic his mind had gone totally blank. He groped around in a daze and finally grabbed something from under the seat… This would have to do for now!

Jordt turned in annoyance, but stopped as he saw Demitrovich's look of wide eyed astonishment as he swayed and crumpled to the ground, a red stain slowly suffusing his shirt down one side. Jordt looked up at Aziraphale, seeing the gun still pointing towards him. Demitrovich groaned and Jordt dropped to his knees beside him, dropping his own gun which Aziraphale stepped towards and kicked quickly out of reach. Crowley arrived at the scene in a flurry of long limbs and anxiety, armed with a tyre iron.

"Aziraphale! Are you okay?" Crowley gasped.

Aziraphale nodded, not taking his eyes off the scene before him. Demitrovich was shaking with shock. To Aziraphale's astonishment, Jordt pulled the injured man close to him and took his hand.

"Andreas?" Demitrovich sounded panicked.

"I'm here. I'm here…"

"Go. You must go…"

"And leave you here? I don't think so… "

"But… " he stopped speaking as a wave of pain hit him again.

Jordt looked up at Aziraphale. Blue eyes met and held blue eyes. Jordt's eyes, normally unreadable and ice cold, burned with a fierce intensity, full of raw emotion.

Jordt gave an almost sneer. "If you are going to exact justice, Seraph, then do so, but make it quick…"

Demitrovich clutched Jordt's arm, grimacing with the pain, adding "And take us both…"

Crowley looked at Aziraphale with something akin to horror. Surely…

Aziraphale shook his head slowly. He carefully put the safety catch back on and slipped the gun back into its holster at his side, stepping forwards and kneeling beside the fallen man. He carefully lifted the clothing away from the wound and peered intently at it, before looking up at Jordt, who was pale and visibly shaking.

"It looks worse than it is. It's just a flesh wound. He'll be fine. It will need to be cleaned and treated as soon as possible though."

Jordt, bewildered, frowned at Aziraphale who merely nodded slowly and indicated towards the Lexus with a brief movement of the head. He leaned forward to assist in getting Demitrovich to the car, but Jordt hoisted the slender frame easily and carried him carefully to the Lexus, placing him in the passenger seat and giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze before closing the door and turning to face Aziraphale and Crowley.

Aziraphale could feel Crowley's discomfort radiating from him as he looked Jordt squarely in the eyes.

"At that party - the drink you shot out of my hand. It was poisoned, I assume?"

"You assume correctly."

"Then why…?"

Jordt shrugged his shoulders. "You were not my target," he said, in a matter of fact tone.

"As simple as that?"

"As simple as that. What good would it do my reputation if it were to be said that I took out the wrong man?"

"An opportunity missed though, surely…"

"Oh, there will always be other opportunities." Jordt smiled in a way that made Crowley's skin crawl. "Believe me, Seraph, if I had wanted to kill you, we would not be here now, having this conversation."

"A threat, Mr Jordt?"

"Let's just call it a word of cautionary advice, shall we?"

"I assume that it was you that shot Dawson…"

"The man in the little flat? That was regrettable, but it was self-defence. He drew his gun, what else could I do?" Jordt opened the driver's side door and looked at Aziraphale, his eyes suddenly cold and hard.

"Until next time…" Jordt said.

Aziraphale huffed and nodded. "Indeed. And be sure, next time you will not be walking away." His voice was suddenly cold. Crowley shivered at the sound of it.

Jordt gave Aziraphale a long, cool look and nodded slowly. He climbed in and drove away, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale staring at each other. Aziraphale glanced down at the object in Crowley's hand.

"Is that one of D's latest inventions?" he asked, frowning with curiosity.

"What? Oh, this? Er… No. It was the first thing I could lay my hands on when the shots started flying." Crowley drew a deep breath. "He shot the Bentley, you know. Two holes straight through the bottom of the front windscreen."

"Well, you'll be able to get it replaced. It can go on expenses." They began to amble back towards the waiting Bentley.

"Actually," muttered Crowley, blushing slightly, "I thought I might leave them. They look quite… cool…"

The two men reached the Bentley and stopped, Crowley leaning back against the car and Aziraphale standing a few feet away. Crowley looked up at Aziraphale whose suit was now dusty and creased. He tried to ignore the dawning realisation that this had been a close call. Questions pushed their way into his mind.

"Why didn't you kill him? Why allow a cold blooded murderer to just walk away?"

"Could you have done so?"

Crowley shrugged. "I don't know. I'd like to think that I could if it was necessary."

"Even when that cold-blooded murderer as you put it proves to be not quite so cold-blooded? I don't think so. I think that, deep down, you are too nice a person." Aziraphale gave him a tired smile, his eyes fixed on Crowley's. Crowley felt that somehow there were two conversations happening at the same time. One audible, but the most important one unspoken.

"Ssssh don't let my bosses hear you say that! They'll never let me out into the field again. I'll end up making the tea for the next five years!" Crowley rolled his eyes dramatically.

Aziraphale gave a soft laugh. He dusted the front of his jacket off, looking hesitant as his fingers flicked at a few specks of dirt.

"Well, now that we have successfully averted a disaster of apocalyptic proportions, what say you to dinner? My treat."

"Your treat?" Crowley raised his eyebrows in mock amusement.

"Well, you know. My expenses claim… The Ritz?"

"I could be tempted."

"Good…" Aziraphale cleared his throat with an awkward little cough, "because I did have a few other temptations to suggest after dinner." Aziraphale fixed Crowley with a look which made his legs feel weak and his heart pound.

"The Ritz it is… I'm all yours."

"I was hoping that you might say that," murmured Aziraphale taking the two steps needed to close the distance between them.


********

Epilogue

Three months later…

It was a dark, Winter's evening and Crowley was sitting in the cosy backroom of the little bookshop in Soho. He spent a lot of time there these days. It felt right somehow, as did those mornings when he woke up and found a tousled blond head on the pillows beside him, and a pair of gentle arms wrapped protectively around him.

He could hear the sounds of Aziraphale bustling around in the kitchen and the smell of dinner was starting to waft through into the sitting room. Crowley smiled and stretched his feet out towards the fire, allowing himself to slide into a relaxed stupor. His peace was shattered by the sound of the doorbell and Aziraphale calling out to ask him to get it.

He opened the door to find a courier standing on the step, a package in one hand and a clipboard in the other.

"Package for you, Sir. If you could just sign for it. Thank you."

Crowley wandered back into the sitting room where Aziraphale was just arranging a few dishes of food on the table.

"I guess it's for you. Post mark from Japan?"

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and carefully opened the package. He paused for a moment then gave a short laugh as he pulled a large, and clearly very old, book from the package. He opened the cover and found an envelope which he opened, pulling a card from it and reading it. A smile spread across his face.

"What is it?" asked Crowley.

"Well, this," Aziraphale patted the book almost lovingly, "is one of those Erroneous Bibles which I mentioned to you once. A bit of a hobby of mine. And this ," he held the card out to Crowley, "is self explanatory really."

Crowley took the card and looked at it. He grinned. The note said, simply "Thanks!" and was signed Andreas and Aleksey Jordt (retd.).

"Hmmm. Looks like Aleksey has finally made an honest man of him then…"

"Somehow I doubt that even marriage would manage that!" said Aziraphale with a laugh.

"Admit it. You're pleased," Crowley said, handing the note back to Aziraphale who re-read it and grinned.

"Yes, I suppose I am in a way."

"You think he's really retired?"

"Well, of course time will tell, but I think he has, yes. It isn't as if he can't afford it and I think he's realised that there are other, more important, things in life."

Aziraphale paused, his hands nervously plucking at the paper napkin on the table in front of him.

"Crowley, on that subject… There is something I wanted to talk about."

"Hmmm?"

"The future… Us…" Aziraphale was in danger of turning the napkin into a bizarre sort of doily. "Would you be interested in… well… " Aziraphale lapsed into nervous silence. He went to the desk and retrieved a couple of sheets of paper which he pushed across the table towards Crowley. It was the details for several properties, all in villages in the South of England.

Crowley looked into worried blue eyes and nodded slowly, a broad grin spreading across his face.


****

Dinner was finished, the table cleared and the fire crackling in the hearth. Crowley sat back and smiled. It was as though the final piece of the jigsaw which had been lost for so long, had finally dropped neatly into place. He looked up to where Aziraphale, part boffin, part bookseller, part spy, all his was sitting, as usual, book in hand.

And his mind drifted to the future. A quiet village with a good pub with a roaring fire in Winter, a flower scented garden in Summer and a selection of real ales all year round; a comfortable cottage with a garden filled with flowers and the sound of bees, and with a gate at the front where he would sell herbs and home produced honey; a warm bed shared with an even warmer person…

He had a feeling that, at some point, they would open the door of that cottage to welcome some very special guests, old friends, all the way from Japan. Their talks would go on into the early morning over a few drinks of the finest brandy, talks of times past and memories of things shared but never to be discussed. And when those visitors arrived, Crowley would thank them…

He sighed. For probably the first time in his life, Anthony J. Crowley felt complete.


The End

____________________________________________


Footnotes

¹ A phrase most commonly heard in the UK and basically meaning "Shall I pour the tea?" as in the household, it was usually the mother's task to wield the teapot.

"Mother" was also a character in the 1960s British television programme "The Avengers" and was the codename for the spymaster.

²Ferret - an employee of the Agency whose main skill is in ferreting out information.

³A "chippy" is another name for a "fish and chip shop". Not to be confused with the same word used to describe someone in the carpentry trade. Getting the terms muddled can lead to a lot of confusion and potentially embarrassing misunderstanding.