Happy Holidays, Aethelflaed!

[goe_mod]

Title: Epiphany
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Crowley & Aziraphale
Summary: The reality of Aziraphale and Crowley’s new-found freedom takes a while to sink in.
Warning: Non-graphic mentions of the deaths of a human and an animal.
Thank you: To Chaosmanor for beta.
For: Aethelflaed, who asked what Crowley and Aziraphale were doing with their retirement.

“I said, ‘Oh, that I had wings like a dove! I would fly away and find rest. How far away I would flee! In the wilderness I would remain.’” Psalms 55:6-8.

Crowley had never met a hair he couldn’t split.

It was a skill he’d honed to a knife-edge, perhaps even the most important skill he’d invented in the six thousand years he’d been wandering the Earth. Hair-splitting was how he could make Hell think he was following orders, while creating just enough wiggle room to make his own choices.

Hair-splitting was his thing.

Not that he was thinking about hairs, split or otherwise, as he made his way to the Bentley, off to his breakfast rendezvous with Aziraphale. It was a crisp morning, streets abustle, as though the world hadn’t almost ended a handful of days before. The sky was a fragile blue, threatening to become downright summery once the sun was a little higher. Shop doors were being unlocked and shutters opened. Freshly showered pedestrians were streaming into the city on their way to work, smoothing out ties that had been left crumpled in pockets overnight and applying lipgloss as they hurried along, worrying about lunch with their ex and whether they’d get back the ‘69 Led Zeppelin vinyl they’d stupidly left behind when they moved out, the upcoming make-or-break deadline with the 3M people, or if they had time for a quick fag before the boss got in. Two pigeons were pecking at a crust of someone’s breakfast toast that had missed the curb-side rubbish bin, and a mangy cat was watching them covetously from the cover of an alley. It was a tatty-eared stray, all skin and bone and too-big eyes, and a belly swollen with kittens.

Crowley’s gaze skated over the cat, barely noticing it, soaking in the morning’s petty irritants like a flower sucking up water. His fingers itched. (Not for soft fur and a warm, purring lapful of kittens). His fingers itched for a coin and some glue. For mischief. He slid a hand into his pocket. It would only take a moment, and then he could head off to the bookshop.

A coin had just found its way to his fingers when he was jostled by a twenty-something blonde scarfing down an egg and bacon sandwich, dressed in a pinstripe suit that wasn’t as expensive as it looked. The man wouldn’t have been worth a second glance if not for the lack of apology and the thoughts chiming through the demon like a bell... If I knick a few grand from Cheryl’s house deposit account, she won’t notice for ages. Then I could pay Bill back, and the outstanding rent, and make a dent in the AMEX, maybe buy a few shares, maybe even some chocolates for Cheryl…

Blondie’s soul was already tarnished around the edges, well on his way to increasing Hell’s tally when his time came due. In fact, it was entirely likely that Blondie’s actions would flow on to Cheryl of the about-to-be-pilfered house deposit account, and push her on to a downward path as well. Crowley could already tell that Cheryl would not feel particularly charitable about the consolation chocolates once she realized she’d paid for them. In fact, she’d quite likely take extreme offense. With a kitchen knife to the chest. Forty-seven times.

Taking a mental note about Blondie and Cheryl so he could include them in his next report if it needed a bit of fleshing out, Crowley pulled the coin out of his pocket and cast around for the most irritating place to stick it. The report entry would practically write itself. He could split a few hairs, take credit for tempting Blondie to venality and Cheryl to wrath. He paced over to the rubbish bin and considered how bad it was likely to smell by midday. The sun was heating up, and Crowley expected that someone had thrown a half-eaten kipper sandwich in there. Yes, perfect.

Crowley pulled a tube of glue out of his improbably svelte pocket just as a little grey missile rocketed to the bin and leapt inside. Wrappers rustled and soft drink cans clanged, and the sound of frantic chomping and licking echoed out of the bin’s depths.

Leaning forward, Crowley peered into the darkness.

The tatty-eared cat had already eaten most of the kippers. It glared up at Crowley and hissed, clearly unwilling to share.

Crowley was still engaged in the stare-down, ignoring the itch he felt to reach into the bin and give the thing a pat, when something slammed into him.

Blondie didn’t even pause, just barrelled on by without any acknowledgement, now clutching a bag with the logo of the chocolate shop next door. He flung his not-quite-empty coffee cup into the bin before dashing across the street towards the nearest Tube station.

Crowley clicked his fingers, and Blondie tripped over his untied shoelace and fell into the path of a double-decker bus.

“Fucking, fuck!” Blondie screeched as the bag of chocolates went flying, and came to rest near Crowley’s feet. They were Aziraphale’s favourite kind.

While traffic snarled to a stop and all the nearby pedestrians turned to gawk at the accident, Crowley peered down to find the cat cowering, its dirty fur clumped into wet spikes. Was it burned? Crowley reached into the bin to check. The cat hissed and swiped at him, scoring three deep scratches along his palm. Crowley cursed and leapt back as the cat sprang out of the bin in an olympic-level vault and dashed away to safety in the alley.

As he ruefully flicked his hand until the scratches disappeared, Crowley thought, So much for that report entry. But he’d still be able to get some mileage out of it when he told Aziraphale of Blondie’s untimely demise. Aziraphale would no doubt tut, and give him that secretly-pleased look he reserved for Crowley’s accidental non-evil moments. Crowley shivered at the thought.

And then, standing in the middle of Seymour Place on a glorious sunny morning, Crowley experienced an Epiphany. It felt rather like he imagined a gong would after it had just been struck by a giant hammer. It reverberated.

He didn’t need to write a report.

He didn’t need to take mental notes of things to fill it with.

He didn’t need to spin a few grains of mischief and a handful of split hairs into a convincing recount of evil deeds.

He didn’t need to get Aziraphale to cover him for his nasty little Goodness habit.

He didn’t need to nudge anyone along the path of evil intentions if he didn’t want to.

He didn’t need to fill his itchy hands with coins and glue if he wanted to fill them with something soft.

He didn’t work for Hell anymore!

Crowley staggered over to the Bentley which obligingly opened the door for him. He fell into the driver’s seat and rested his head against the steering wheel. Blimey. He could do anything he wanted to.

~

Persuasion sat like the stroke of an accusing exclamation mark, with his now-cold mug of cocoa providing the dot. Aziraphale intended to re-read it. Had been intending to since the world didn’t end, but somehow he hadn’t quite picked it up on any of the handful of days since then. Each evening as he settled into his armchair he meant to, and then he’d end up with another of his old favourites. Each morning, he’d start to pick it up as he dunked a piece of toast into his soft-boiled egg, and then end up perusing the daily paper instead – just to make sure there were no strange occurrences making the headlines. However, the awareness of the need to re-read it was niggling in a way that rather spoiled his pleasure in the normal routines of his day. The delightful little book club he attended at the French creperie down the street was only two days away so he was running out of time. And now it was mid-morning, and the shop was quiet, only a lone customer browsing the shelves and showing no inclinations to buy. A perfect time for reading a novel. He reached out, hand hovering, but just before touch-down he jerked back and tapped his mug instead, re-heating his cocoa.

He picked up the mug, taking in the familiarity of cocoa-scented steam.

The book sat there, now an exclamation without a point, full to the brim of edifying lessons in How to Be Human and In Love.

Feeling attacked, he sniped, “No need to look at me like that,” to the illustration of a woman gazing wistfully into the middle distance on the front cover.

Before he could take a comforting sip from his mug, a woman with hair in a sharp bob sharked towards the counter. For the last hour she had been demurely browsing various volumes of Ancient History and Literature, but now she was clutching a dusty, worn-leather volume in a way that raised Aziraphale’s hackles.

“This has been here a while,” she said, brimming over with avaricious glee she probably thought she was hiding. She slid the volume onto the counter, one hand resting on it. “Do you give discounts? I can nip down the street and get cash if it helps.” Her lips stretched to reveal even, white teeth. It was probably meant to be a charming smile.

Aziraphale was not charmed.

In fact, Aziraphale felt a frosty calm descend. El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha. First edition. It shouldn’t have even been on the public shelves. Aziraphale had his demon-shaped suspicions of how it had got there.

Clacking the mug back down on the counter, Aziraphale straightened to his full height. “I don’t know where you found that,” he said, “but it is most definitely not for sale.”

The woman’s smile dropped. “I’m sure we can come to some kind of—“

“Absolutely not.”

Nostrils flaring, the woman gritted, “It was on the shelves. It has a price inside!”

“Be that as it may…” Aziraphale reached out to snatch up the book, but the woman was quicker, jerking it back and clutching it to her bosom.

“I’m buying it!” She started to scrabble in her enormous handbag, the book still clutched tightly.

“Unhand that book, or I’m calling the police.”

“For what?! Attempting to buy a book in a bookshop.” With a sound of triumph, she brandished her credit card.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, with a total lack of any real dismay. “We don’t take credit.” He picked up the telephone and pointedly dialed a one.

The woman’s eyes widened and her bottom lip trembled. “Look, I’m sorry I asked for a discount. I love this book. It’s obviously worth full price.”

Aziraphale hooked his finger into the zero and pulled the dial around.

“Fine.” The lip tremble disappeared. “I’ll pay double.”

He let go, and the rotary dial loudly clattered back into place. “I believe I made my stance clear.”

“Name your price, then! I don’t care. A hundred now, the rest when I get back from the bank.”

Aziraphale put his finger back into the one and dragged it around.

The woman made a muffled shrieking sound at the back of her throat. “Fuck you!” she hissed. “What kind of bookshop is this?” She thumped the book onto the counter and marched towards the door.

Aziraphale re-cradled the phone, and picked up the book. He sighed in relief when it was clear no damage had been done.

Hand on the door, the woman paused on the threshold. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad Amazon is putting bookshops out of business. Even their customer service is better than this. It can’t fucking happen fast enough!”

With a sniff, Aziraphale pointedly opened the book as the woman flounced off, and was greeted by…
… the above-named gentleman whenever he was at leisure (which was mostly all the year round) gave himself up to reading books of chivalry with such ardour and avidity that he almost entirely neglected the pursuit of his field-sports, and even the management of his property; and to such a pitch did his eagerness and infatuation go that he sold many an acre of tillageland to buy books of chivalry to read, and brought home as many of them as he could get…

“That’s quite enough from you.” Snapping the book closed, Aziraphale dumped it on the shelf beneath the counter, and then, for good measure, shoved Persuasion in to join it. With a click of the fingers, the door sign flipped to CLOSED, and in a low mood, Aziraphale took himself off to find his stash of chocolate Hobnobs and a fresh cup of cocoa.

~

Crowley had never noticed before, but on Wingpole Street, just a few shops up from the Sugar Daddy bakery that made Aziraphale’s favourite éclairs, was a pet shop. He screeched to an illegal stop, as usual, right outside the bakery entrance, and then stopped, mid-pavement, staring at the pet shop’s sign and causing the stream of morning pedestrians to crankily part around him. The sign read Cats’ Meow, in a faux childish font, complete with a cat paw print for the M.

Crowley abandoned the éclairs and sauntered on to the pet shop. Inside, a shop assistant was busy with a harried-looking woman and two small children. Crowley made his way past without attracting attention, heading towards the rows of cages. A bright green budgie chirped at him in greeting, but Crowley ignored it. He found the rats next, and they started squeaking hello as soon as they spotted him. “Hello, trouble.” Grinning Crowley clicked his fingers, and the latches on the whole set of cages sprung open. A few cages down, a white snake lazily unwound itself from a branch and eyed him measuringly. "Tch," Crowley said. "A beauty like you doesn't belong in a cage." Another flick of the fingers, and a dozen snakes began nosing their way out of their cages. He walked past the dogs and rabbits without paying much attention, and finally reached the cat cages. Most of them ignored him, but one hooked its claws in the cage door and yowled at him. It looked like a giant mop had had a run-in with the lint trap in a clothes dryer, and it stared Crowley down without fear.

The sign on its cage door read, "Hi! I'm Klaus! I'd love to go home with you! I’m a Main Coon. I like children and hugs, and I'm okay with dogs too!"

A few aisles over, something tumbled off a shelf followed by a hiss, and a rat appeared scampering up a string of fairy lights towards the ceiling.

"Tell you what, Klaus," Crowley said. "I need some intel. If you point out your favourite things," Crowley waved towards the scratching posts, snacks and toys, "I'll let you out of the cage. Deal?"

Klaus stretched and flexed his claws and then settled near the door expectantly.

Crowley snapped his fingers and the cage door popped open. Klaus jumped down, rubbed itself against his legs despite Crowley’s hiss of disapproval, and then strolled over towards the accessories aisle.

“What do you like to eat?” Crowley asked.

Klaus made straight for a set of shelves with bins full of bite-sized treats. He leapt up and dived into a bin with thumb-sized dried twigs labelled Tender Meaty Sticks for Dogs and ate four with barely a pause.

At the other side of the store, someone screamed, "Oh my god, there's a snake!"

Crowley glanced up in time to see the sales assistant dashing off towards the scream.

"I hate to interrupt you -- always like to watch someone enjoy a meal -- but how do you feel about cat trees?"

After a baleful look at Crowley and a peremptory wash, Klaus leapt down and headed for a luxe four-story cat tree. Crowley grabbed a couple of handfuls of the Meaty Sticks and jammed them into his impossible pockets, then followed along behind.

Klaus took a few swipes at the coir post on the giant cat tree, and gave Crowley a disdainful look.

Crowley grinned at him. “Duly noted.”

Turning his back on the cat trees, Klaus trotted over to a cardboard box that was half-full of stuffed toys. He jumped in, almost managing to schooch himself into the empty space, and then set to disembowelling the stylised rodents left in the box.

"But I want a raaaaat!" a kid wailed a few aisles away.

"Ta, Klaus," Crowley said, grabbing one of the stuffed rodents off the nearby shelf. "A pleasure doing business with you." He clicked his fingers, sending the giant cat tree to his apartment, along with a couple of empty cardboard boxes. He paused for a moment, tentatively holding out two fingers. Klaus sniffed them, and then went back to killing his stuffed toy. Crowley stroked gently between Klaus’s ears.

Soft.

Klaus started up a rusty purr.

Crowley shivered, pulling back and rubbing his thumb against his fingers to discharge the feeling. "A word of advice. You should probably make a break for it in the next few minutes if you're going to."

Klaus mewed at him, and renewed his efforts with the mouse.

“Suit yourself.”

Across the room a woman was having hysterics as she snatched off her hat and flung it away from her, the rat clinging to it looking rather cheerful as it sailed across the store. Several children were chasing after more rats that were scampering towards the food bins, the harried sales assistant looked like she was about to break into tears, a snake clutched in each hand. Another snake had slithered up some shelves and was about to escape into an air duct.

Crowley smirked, surveying what he had wrought. He clicked his fingers and the latches on a dozen more cages mysteriously fell open all at once, letting loose cats, dogs, rabbits, hamsters lizards, birds and frogs. With a spring to his step he sauntered out, miracling fifty quid into the cash register as he went.

~

Normally thwarting a buyer left Aziraphale feeling buoyed up for the rest of the day, but this time he was filled with an odd, restless discontent. He picked up his well-loved copy of The Waste Land and settled down in his reading chair, thinking Perhaps a bit of Eliot… as he read he found his gaze wandering from the page and coming to rest on the empty settee. It happened as he pondered on the cruelty of April, and again as he considered the fecundity of stone gardens. After two pages he lay the volume down again without bothering to bookmark his place. He got up and wandered into the small kitchen, flicked the kettle on and poured his cold cocoa down the sink. He stared at his shelf of tea. No, not Jasmine -- too floral. Chamomile was too grassy. Rosehip too much like apples. None of them appealed. After a while the boiling kettle turned itself off, and he abandoned his empty mug on the sideboard. Perhaps a snack would do the trick and dissipate this odd feeling. He pulled his secret biscuit tin out of its hiding spot -- he’d just filled it with fresh shortbread the day before. Opening the lid, he breathed in the familiar buttery-sweet smell, hand hovering, but his stomach felt sour at the thought of food, and after a moment he closed it up again.

He drifted back into the main shop, the dusty gloom pressing in like a weighted blanket. Instead of feeling reassuring and familiar, he felt caged in, his feathers itching for the rush of wind.

It was clearly time for more drastic measures.

Aziraphale climbed up the spiral staircase to the first floor, and then headed to the door that led up and out onto the roof. There was rather more space between the oculus skylight and the edge of the roof than physics could explain, and the entire space was covered in a delicate wrought iron filigree, filled with perches, water feeders and a variety of shrubs and flowers in pots, and two very comfortable low-slung garden chairs, angled to catch the sun. One of the chairs was well-used and slightly saggy. The other was crisp and new, as though rarely used.

Oscar cooed in greeting, fluttering over and landing on his shoulder. Dorian was sitting on her nest and paid him no heed.

“Hello, my friend.” Aziraphale gently patted the dove, who allowed it but seemed a little subdued. “Are you having a bit of a bad day too?”

Aziraphale made his way over to the bird bath and refreshed the water, and then wended around a statue of a lion and a lamb to the herb garden. “Have you been enjoying the parsley I planted for you? I think I’ll try a miniature fruit tree next. What do you think of pears?”

Oscar affectionately tweaked a strand of Aziraphale’s hair and then hopped down to investigate an ant which had incautiously decided to climb one of the herbs.

“Good-oh.” Aziraphale filled the watering can with a click of the fingers and gave the herbs a drink. Then he picked a sprig of parsley to take over to Dorian.

“Hello, my dear. How are you doing?” Dorian ignored him, sitting quietly on her nest. When he laid gentle fingers on her head, he found her still and cold.

“Oh no.” He sat abruptly in the nearer of the two chairs, his corporation feeling unaccountably shaky. His birds had lived with him for so many years -- longer, in truth, than an entirely natural span. He had spent many sunny days within the rooftop aviary reading excerpts from his latest books out loud as their chicks grew and thrived, before sending them off to other aviaries so they could find their own mates. There had been times when the only kindness in his life had been Oscar’s cooing request for a pat or Dorian proudly showing him her eggs. They had seen him through Gabriel’s harsh notes, snide comments about his corporation, polite angelic shunning, and his own shame at being such a poor angel. Aziraphale loved them. They were such dear friends.

And now Dorian had left them and returned to Her.

Aziraphale doubled over, hands pressed to his face trying to hold in the sobs he could feel in the back of his throat.

“Oh Lord,” he whispered, a small prayer, rocking back and forth. “Take care of my dear little one.”

~

Crowley went straight into the bakery and bought a box of éclairs. In the few minutes it took, the chaos within the pet shop had migrated to the street. Customers and animals were fleeing, and bystanders were filming it on their phones.

Placing the cake box on the Bentley’s back seat, Crowley turned to watch as the flashing lights of a police car appeared. It pulled up outside the store and the sales assistant ran to meet it, still clutching a snake in each hand, the crowd of bystanders hastily shuffling out of the way.

Smirking to himself, Crowley shut the Bentley’s back door before sliding into the driver’s seat, already thinking about how he’d tell the story to Aziraphale. He drummed the steering wheel, watching as a child grabbed at a rabbit and got a nip for its trouble, the bunny darting off to hide beneath a car. The steering wheel beneath his hands was smooth and warm from the sun, and his fingers still tingled with the sense memory of softness.

The éclairs would be okay sitting in the car for few minutes if they knew what was good for them.

Leaving pandemonium behind, he tore off back towards his flat.

After a bit of a search, he found the cat hiding in a scraggly hedge in the no-man's land between two houses. It stared out at him with big eyes, and didn’t seem especially impressed with his offering of Tender Meaty Sticks for Dogs. Crowley held out his hand invitingly. The cat hissed and swiped at him.

Crowley jerked away in the nick of time. “Why do I always fall for bastards?” he said, sitting back on his heels. He had the lowering suspicion that the cat wanted a rather slower-paced wooing than Crowley had anticipated.

As he was already at ground level, Crowley fished out glue and a coin and stuck it on the pavement right next to the bush. Job done, he stood up and nudged the coin with his shoe. Stuck fast. He nodded in satisfaction.

The cat glared at him.

Crowley dropped a final handful of Meaty Sticks in front of the bush. “I’ll be back tomorrow, so don’t think this is me conceding defeat,” he said, as he sauntered back to the Bentley.

It took twice as long as usual to get to Soho because of the traffic jam around Wingpole Street, but he still made it in good time for morning tea. He picked up the box of pastries, grinned at the CLOSED sign on the bookshop door, and let himself in. The moment he entered, he knew there was something wrong. The room was dimmer than it should be, given the light streaming through the oculus.

“Angel?” Crowley set the pastry box on the counter and prowled to the back room. Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen, but The Waste Land was sitting on the arm of his favourite chair. “Well, that’s not good.” Aziraphale only read Eliot in his more melancholy moods. It looked like an intervention was in order.

Before the apocalypse, Crowley had rarely ventured to the upper floor of the bookshop. Harder to pass off if one of their sides had ever spotted him there. Now he ascended the stairs two at a time, and then followed his nose to a door that led up to the roof. He opened it to reveal a wonderland -- bird baths and topiary and reading nooks, all overarched by a soaring cage of wrought iron flowers and vines. Aziraphale looked entirely at home perched on a comfortable-looking chair, gently patting the white dove on his lap.

He looked up at the sound of the door opening, his face red and eyes woebegone, still damp with tears. At the sight of Crowley a tremulous smile wavered and then collapsed back into sorrow.

A moment later, Crowley was on his knees before him, one hand already outstretched before he caught himself, realising he was about to over-step. Before he could retreat, Aziraphale captured his hand, pulling it up to rest against his cheek.

The bird fluttered away. Aziraphale closed his eyes, nestling into Crowley’s touch. He sighed, the kind of sigh he gave at the end of a good book or a favourite meal.

Crowley was transfixed, unsure how this was happening: Aziraphale’s cheek beneath his palm was soft, the slip of curls between his fingers softer. He doubted the sense-memory of it would ever leave him.

“Angel?” Crowley whispered. “What--”

Aziraphale pressed a soft kiss to Crowley’s palm.

“Ngk,” Crowley said.

“My dearest,” Aziraphale murmured, gazing on him adoringly with far too many eyes. “You’ve been so patient with me--”

“No,” Crowley protested weakly, more out of habit than any real resistance, even as he found himself drifting further into Aziraphale’s embrace.

“So patient,” Aziraphale insisted, his knees parting to let Crowley in. “And I think I’m ready to take you up on your offer now.”

“What uh…” Crowley licked his lips. ”Which offer would that be, then?”

“I find I can’t bear to stay in this Faraday cage I’ve built for myself any longer.” Aziraphale spared a rueful glance at the wrought iron, bird baths and reading nooks. “It’s served its purpose and kept me safe, but I don’t want to hide anymore. You once offered to take me anywhere I want to go, and I want to go somewhere new. Somewhere we can stretch our wings, and lie in the sun drinking wine, and perhaps share a little house with big windows, a garden and a dozen pets.” Aziraphale turned beseeching eyes on him, as though afraid that might be a wish too far. “Is that something you’d like?”

Positively giddy with this turn in the conversation, Crowley said, “Are you asking me to come live with you and be your love, Angel?” And then, in sudden fear that it might be taken back: “Yes! The answer’s yes. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. In fact, pack a bag and we can go now!”

Aziraphale was tearing up again, but he was also pressing another kiss to Crowley’s hand, so Crowley wasn’t too worried he’d got the wrong end of the stick.

“I always suspected Kit Marlowe was one of yours,” Aziraphale said, that spark of bastardry shining through the tears. “All those emotions, and the worst judgement in the world.”

Crowley considered protesting that, but really... “Yeah, he was a bit of a pillock. Pretty good in a bar fight though.”

~

They made it back down to the shop eventually, after a cuddle that Crowley rather hoped was a sign of things to come, and a brief pit-stop to Aziraphale’s closet to pack a few essentials in a ridiculously old-fashioned carpet bag.

“You brought me éclairs!” Aziraphale said, bee-lining over to the counter and opening up the box. His look of anticipation morphed into a frown. “Did you…?”

Crowley put down Oscar’s birdcage and shifted the carpet bag from one hand to the other -- it was heavier than it looked. “What?”

Aziraphale flipped the box around, revealing a gnawed éclair and a slick of cream that had spilled out and covered most of the bottom of the box. “Did you eat one?”

“No!” Crowley said, offended. “I bought them for you!” He dropped the bag and stalked over, pulling out his phone to take some snaps he could shove in the face of the server back at the bakery. Someone was going to pay for this. No-one got to eat Aziraphale’s cakes but Aziraphale. Preferably while Crowley watched.

When Crowley looked up, Aziraphale’s face had rounded into an “o” of surprise, and he was no longer looking at the éclairs. Turning to follow his gaze, Crowley found himself looking out at the Bentley. Inside, pressed up against the passenger side window, was a cat’s fluffy, cream-covered face and two paws which were leaving greasy streaks on the glass.

“There’s a cat in your car, Crowley!” Aziraphale sounded delighted by this discovery, and not for the first time Crowley found himself pondering how much truth there was in the aphorism that evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction.

Crowley slid his phone back into his pocket, seeing as the Mystery of the Gnawed Éclairs had been solved. “That’s Klaus,” he said, already resigned to his fate. “We met this morning and came to an Arrangement.”

“Dearest,” Aziraphale cooed at him, and Crowley found himself pressed up against his softness again and entirely content with his life choices. “You always were one step ahead of me, you old speed demon.”

~~~