Happy Holidays, edna_blackadder!

[goe_mod]

Title: Mea Maxima Culpa
Recipient: edna_blackadder
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley, Beelzebub/Gabriel
Rating: T
Warnings: Celestial/infernal abduction, controlling behaviour.
Notes: Many thanks to luminousgloom for the beta job.
Summary: A re-imagining of series 2, with an amnesiac Beelzebub relying on Crowley for protection. Well, it can scarcely end much worse than the original, right?

Right?

The record came to an end and Aziraphale sighed, content. It really was an excellent recording, and well worth forgiving poor dear Maggie the rent. Perhaps he could assist her further by redirecting customers from the bookshop towards the Small Back Room. Records were much more modern than books, weren’t they? Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether humans would find that a convincing argument, but Crowley would know.

He hadn’t seen Crowley for a few days, but it seemed like a good enough reason to call him. Not that he really needed an excuse any more, but old habits die hard.

‘Sorry, angel, in the middle of something. Call you back.’

Aziraphale frowned at the receiver. Crowley had hung up on him, how awfully rude. What was keeping him so busy anyway? He didn’t actually do anything, except shout at houseplants and annoy people on social media. No matter, that was Crowley’s business, of course. Aziraphale was quite capable of entertaining himself.

‘Well of course it wasn’t an emergency,’ said Crowley, when he finally called back. ‘You were just bored.’

‘How do you know? You barely gave me a chance to speak,’ said Aziraphale, more testy that Crowley was so sure of himself than concerned that Crowley would actually have kept him waiting if he’d really needed him

‘Tone of voice,’ said Crowley. ‘You only call me for one of three reasons: you're bored, you need to tell someone about something clever you did before you pop, or something's wrong. This was your “entertain me” voice.’

Aziraphale smiled to himself. ‘Yes, I can see you’d be cross that I only call when I’ve got good news, bad news, or no news,’ he said. ‘I’ve been neglecting you terribly, most remiss of me.’

‘So you are bored?’

‘There’s a new production of the Tempest on at the Globe,’ said Aziraphale. He didn’t feel much like admitting he’d wanted Crowley’s advice, not when he was in one of these moods, and he had been hoping for a chance to mention it. ‘If you get a wiggle on we could still make it.’

‘Ach, sorry angel, no can do,’ said Crowley. ‘I’m just leaving Dartmoor now. Might take me a couple of hours to get back to London.’

Oh, so that was why Crowley had been too busy to talk. He’d been enjoying a nice day out in the countryside, that was far more important. Aziraphale bristled. ‘Did you have a nice trip?’

‘Not really, no,’ said Crowley. ‘Look, how about tomorrow? We can go for dinner after, your choice. Shall I pick you up around six?’

Mollified, Aziraphale agreed. ‘That sounds very nice.’

Crowley did not pick him up at six the following day, and by seven Aziraphale was getting really quite huffy at being stood up. Crowley did, eventually, call to apologise - without explaining himself - but he didn’t show up for the late drinks or the promised brunch at the Wolseley the day after.

By the time the bell over the shop door rang around tea-time Aziraphale was quite ready to give Crowley a piece of his mind.

‘Aziraphale!’ called a voice. It very much was not Crowley.

‘Gabriel.’ Aziraphale startled. ‘To what do I owe - what are you doing here?’

‘Hello, traitor,’ said Uriel from behind Gabriel. Michael just scowled.

‘Aziraphale, today is your lucky day,’ said Gabriel, which seemed unlikely, considering he’d just arrived in it. ‘A unique opportunity to prove yourself in the eyes of Heaven by performing a service for which you are uniquely qualified.’

Training his expression to remain neutral, Aziraphale stared back at him. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too much longer before Gabriel got around to making some sort of sense.

‘Two days ago Beelzebub attempted to invade Heaven,’ said Michael. ‘They were apprehended, of course, but managed to escape to Earth.’

‘We can’t think of a better angel to track them down than our favourite Principality. No-one knows Earth better than you, am I right?’ Gabriel beamed, landing a playful punch to Aziraphale’s shoulder, like they were old buddies.

‘Or demons,’ said Uriel. ‘Where is that boyfriend of yours?’

‘I don’t know anything about Beelzebub!’ said Aziraphale, deflecting the jibe about Crowley on instinct. ‘I don’t know what sort of demon sanctuary you think I’m running here, but the last I knew Beelzebub was in Hell. Where they belong.’

Michael shook her head. Well, she’d know, the amount of time she spent on the phone gossiping to Dagon.

‘You and I may have had our differences, Aziraphale, but consider the bigger picture,’ said Gabriel. ‘You find Beelzebub for me and I will be grateful. Very grateful. You hear me?’

‘Most certainly.’ Aziraphale nodded tightly. ‘If I do happen across any runaway Grand Dukes of Hell, you’ll be the first to know.’

Gabriel took it in better part than Michael or Uriel, but finally they did at least leave. The door was barely closed behind them when Aziraphale picked up the phone to dial Crowley’s number.

This absolutely was an emergency, and he wasn't about to let Crowley fob him off again.

#

It was uncomfortably reminiscent of the old days of the Arrangement, a hastily convened clandestine meeting somewhere public and anonymous, but Crowley had insisted. High Street Kensington tube station wouldn’t have been Aziraphale's choice of rendezvous point either, but Crowley found him easily enough and all but dragged Aziraphale out of the station and down the street.

‘I hope there’s a very good reason for this,’ Aziraphale complained as he sped up to keep pace with Crowley. ‘We have rather more pressing matters to attend to than dashing about all over London. Having me run errands to the shops for you does not seem like a priority.’

Crowley slowed to turn back at him, glancing down at the Selfridges bag in Aziraphale’s hand. ‘You went to… of course you did, I don’t even know why I’m surprised,’ he said. ‘When I asked you to grab some sweets on the way I thought you’d get some from one of the kiosks at the station.’

‘You wouldn’t say what you wanted them for,’ said Aziraphale. Crowley hardly ever asked for anything, he wasn’t going to give him just any old rubbish. ‘Besides, it was practically on the way.’

‘Hm.’ Crowley scowled. ‘Wait, you did get actual sweets, not some frou-frou dark chocolate marzipan affair with artisanal rose petals?’

He snatched the bag and inspected the nougat, fruit jellies, and various flavours of fudge, with a critical eye. Aziraphale just had time to miracle a small box of Niederegger Marzipan with Kirsch Cherry into his own pocket to enjoy in a less judgemental atmosphere at a later date.

‘It’s fine,’ said Crowley, thrusting the bag back into Aziraphale’s hands. ‘You’re gonna regret going to so much trouble though.’

‘I regret allowing you to drag me out here when we have far more important things to discuss,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Bee - your former boss can’t be left wandering around Earth unchecked. We need to work out what we’re going to do.’

‘Exactly.’ Crowley came to a sudden halt in front of a lift. There was no button, as the lift wasn’t open to the public and staff used a key. It opened at a wave from Crowley, who glanced around before pushing Aziraphale in ahead of him.

‘What do you mean, “exactly”? Have you got some sort of a plan for what we’re going to do about Beelzebub?’

‘Not exactly,’ conceded Crowley, earning himself a warning glare from Aziraphale. ‘Look, there’s no need to panic. Beelzebub doesn’t present a danger at the moment. Not directly, anyway.’

He knows something, Aziraphale realised, feeling foolish for not having put the pieces together sooner. The lift stopped. ‘Crowley, what have you done?’

‘Urm.’ Crowley avoided looking at him as the lift door opened. ‘Probably best if you see for yourself, actually. C’mon, it’s this way.’

Aziraphale followed, his annoyance having given way to a creeping sense of unease. The roof garden had once been rather lovely, a tranquil oasis hidden above the city, but years of closure and stalled attempts at refurbishment had dulled its charm.

‘Crowley!’ a voice called from beyond an overgrown wisteria. The owner of the voice ran towards Crowley, all but leaping on him and throwing their arms around his chest. From where Aziraphale stood Crowley was being embraced by a young, possibly not fully-grown, person wearing some sort of fancy dress.

‘Ivy,’ said Crowley, extracting himself from their embrace. ‘I’d like you to meet my friend Aziraphale.’

“Ivy” turned and eyed Aziraphale with an expression of deep distrust. They were, he could see now, neither young nor, strictly speaking, a person. The shock of recognition startled Aziraphale so much that he very nearly toppled backward into a rhododendron bush.

‘Lord Beelzebub,’ he croaked out.

‘You said that,’ Beelzebub said to Crowley. ‘Before you drove into that lamppost.’

Crowley appeared more annoyed at the mention of crashing his Bentley than he had by being rugby-tackled by a Prince of Hell. ‘That’s just a joke, your name’s Ivy, remember? Now mind your manners, or Aziraphale might not want to help.’

Beelzebub - or Ivy, as Crowley insisted - looked at Aziraphale with a degree of hostility that he more than returned. They scowled and sniffed heavily. ‘He smells funny.’

‘It’s fine, don’t worry about it,’ said Crowley. Rather vexingly, he directed the reassurance at Beelzebub, before turning to Aziraphale. ‘Angel, the sweets.’

Aziraphale reluctantly handed over a small box of vanilla fudge. Crowley’d been right about him regretting the trouble; he wished he’d just gone to Tesco. The offering did the trick though, as Beelzebub snatched it and gleefully scarpered back behind the wisteria.

‘They don’t remember anything,’ confided Crowley in a low voice as soon as Beelzebub was out of earshot. ‘And they’re… well, you saw.’

In all honesty, Aziraphale wasn’t certain what he’d seen. ‘That… that is Beelzebub? What happened to them?’

‘No idea,’ said Crowley. ‘I’ve tried asking, they don’t remember anything. I tried getting rid of them, no luck. First time I drove straight to Dartmoor and left them there, they found me again by the morning. Tried sending them to Brussels on the Eurostar, they were waiting in the carpark when I left the station. I’ve put them on cruise ships, in supermarkets, convinced them to jump off the Severn Bridge, everything. I even left them outside a children’s home in the hope the humans would take them in.

‘Crowley! That was very irresponsible,’ admonished Aziraphale. The Prince of Hell in an orphanage, it was like something out of a pantomime. ‘They’re hardly a child.’

‘They’re small and weird!’

‘That’s really no excuse,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Incidentally, why are they dressed like that?’

On closer inspection, Ivy's outfit wasn’t all that strange. The black jumper, dark blue jeans, and trainers were nondescript enough not to attract a second glance. The enormous pair of sparkly fairy wings not so much.

‘I had to miracle up something that the humans wouldn’t pay attention to,’ said Crowley. ‘They actually asked for the wings. Some muscle memory of being a demon, I suppose. Or a fly.’

‘That doesn’t explain the shocking pink,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Or the glitter. It’s hardly subtle.’

‘I’ve had a very trying couple of days,’ said Crowley. ‘I’m entitled to some fun. Plus Beelzebub’s never patient enough to just pretend to be OK with something like that, so I’m pretty sure it’s real.’

Aziraphale frowned, pondering. The amnesia could be genuine, somehow sustained during Beelzebub’s failed attack on Heaven, or it could just be an act. He supposed it didn’t really matter; the important thing was getting Crowley well away from Beelzebub before they remembered how much they wanted to destroy him.

‘You did the right thing, bringing me here,’ he told Crowley. ‘You leave now, I’ll give you time to get well away before I contact Gabriel.’

‘Absolutely not.’ Crowley’s expression was resolute, and it only hardened in response to Aziraphale’s obvious surprise. ‘I am not handing anyone over to face Heaven’s idea of justice.’

‘Beelzebub should face some sort of justice,’ said Aziraphale. ‘They tried to destroy you.’

‘Oh, I remember,’ said Crowley, low and furious. ‘I also remember what Heaven tried to do to you. I’m not likely to forget Gabriel’s vicious, smug face telling you to shut your stupid mouth and die already.’

Aziraphale swallowed heavily. ‘I’m very sorry that you had to witness that,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it was quite distressing.’

‘Hell might do Heaven’s dirty work for them but I don’t,’ said Crowley. ‘I’m not surrendering anyone to Gabriel, not even Beelzebub. I don’t work for Heaven, angel. I didn’t think you were taking orders from them anymore either.’

‘Ordinarily, no, but this is an exception,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Beelzebub is dangerous.’

‘Beelzebub was dangerous, but Ivy is just an amnesiac idiot who, for some bizarre reason, thinks they can trust me,’ said Crowley.

‘They’re still a Prince of Hell,’ said Aziraphale. ‘What makes you so sure this isn’t a trick? They’re probably manipulating you.’

Crowley shook his head. ‘I’ve known Beelzebub for a long time, this isn’t them,’ he said. ‘Besides, what makes you so sure? You reckon Ivy deserves whatever Heaven will do to her? Prove it.’

He clicked his fingers and in a moment he held something that looked like a gun, possibly a toy - all brightly coloured and apparently made out of plastic. He tossed it to Aziraphale.

‘It’s called a super soaker,’ explained Crowley. ‘Just ordinary water in there now, but you could bless that easy enough, right? Then pow, quick blast of holy water’s enough to take out any demon at thirty paces.’

‘I will do no such thing,’ said Aziraphale, recoiling at the very idea. ‘Holy water could hurt you.’

‘I’ll stand well back,’ said Crowley. ‘While you get on with the execution.’

‘You’re being ridiculous.’

‘Am I?’ said Crowley. ‘You know as well as I do that’s the best they can hope for from Heaven. At least you’ll make it quick. Painless. Call it a mercy killing if it makes you feel better about it.’

Aziraphale looked down at the oversized water gun, surprised to see that his hands were trembling slightly. Perhaps he should call Crowley’s bluff and just do it; if anyone deserved death by holy water it was Beelzebub, surely? It might be a kind of poetic justice, considering that’s exactly what they tried to do to Crowley. Aziraphale had been a warrior once and, in spite of everything, he was an angel still: why should he hesitate to strike down a Prince of Hell?

And yet… it didn’t feel righteous, and not just because of the ridiculous weapon Crowley had pushed upon him. A short distance away Beelzebub - Ivy - whoever or whatever they were - was sitting on the ground. They were writing or scribbling something - Aziraphale couldn’t see clearly from this distance - and seemed to be muttering to themselves. The absurd fairy wings sat askew on their back, bright spots of glitter shining in the sun.

In a fair fight Aziraphale wouldn’t hesitate. But not like this.

‘Very well,’ he said, shoving the super soaker back at Crowley. ‘We’ll leave Heaven out of it.’

Crowley nodded. ‘Hell can’t find them either. Beelzebub might technically still be a Grand Duke but they wouldn’t last five minutes downstairs in this state.’

‘No,’ agreed Aziraphale. ‘We can’t stay here, though. We’ll take them to the bookshop.’

‘Thank you.’ Crowley sounded relieved, and Aziraphale noticed suddenly how tired he looked. Whatever he said about not handing Beelzebub over to Heaven, he must’ve been terrified. Of course Aziraphale had to help him.

It was disarming, the way Beelzebub - Ivy, he really must think of them as Ivy - skipped over when Crowley called, and took his hand when they stepped back out onto the street below. Their manner was curiously innocent, and if they truly were as vulnerable as they seemed then Aziraphale couldn’t deny them protection.

And however reluctant Crowley might be to consider it, Aziraphale also had a duty to protect him. Someone had to put Crowley’s safety first, because Crowley certainly wouldn’t.

He said very little on the journey back to Soho, barely noticing the music or the state of Crowley’s driving.

‘Welcome to my bookshop,’ he told Ivy when he unlocked the door. ‘You’ll be staying here for a little while.’

‘Go on,’ Crowley encouraged when Ivy looked back at him for reassurance. ‘Go in and have a look around. There’s probably some sherbet lemons hidden in there, see if you can’t find them.’

Ivy hurried inside, and Aziraphale stepped quickly to block the doorway behind them.

‘You can go now,’ he said. ‘I’ll take care of everything from here.’

‘Angel, what are you talking about?’ Crowley took a step forward, ready to push his way past, but Aziraphale put out a hand to stop him.

‘I won’t let any harm come to Ivy. They’re safe with me,’ he said, his words a solemn promise. ‘But it’s not safe for you to be near them.’

‘Don’t be stupid, I’m coming -’

‘You are no longer welcome in this bookshop!’ Aziraphale cried, ducking inside before Crowley could say anymore. In spite of his haste, he couldn’t miss Crowley's shocked expression as Aziraphale slammed the door in his face.

‘Angel!’ Crowley yelled, fists banging on the door. ‘Aziraphale!’

It was no use, of course. Crowley wasn’t getting over the threshold without an invitation no matter how much he yelled.

‘What’s all that noise?’ asked Ivy, emerging from under a table where they’d presumably been hunting for sweets.

‘Oh, that’s just Crowley playing a game,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Don’t worry about him.’

‘Crowley likes games. One time, he told me to jump over a bridge and then screamed when I tried to do it,’ Ivy said solemnly. ‘He’s very silly.’

‘He certainly is,’ agreed Aziraphale, casting a quick miracle to muffle the sounds of Crowley’s temper. A bolt of lightning flashed past the window. ‘Why don’t we go and have a look in the kitchen? I’m all out of sweets, I’m afraid, but I think there might be a few squares of fruit slice¹ left in the biscuit tin.’

Ivy was easily won over, and Aziraphale tried not to dwell on Crowley’s anger. He could cope with Crowley’s fury - the old serpent’s hiss was worse than his bite and he never stayed angry for long. He was not, however, prepared to compromise on Crowley’s safety.

#

Maintaining an amnesiac runaway Grand Duke of Hell in the bookshop turned out to be rather less intimidating than Aziraphale might have feared, but far more irritating.

Ivy screamed at the sight of cobwebs or any of the extended families of spiders Aziraphale had encouraged to make themselves at home on the most prominent bookshelves, the better to deter customers. Aziraphale understood their antipathy (they were the Lord of the Flies, after all) but he could do without them stomping arachnids into a bloody mess all over his rugs.

They ate all the biscuits and turned their nose up at any food which wasn’t at least 60% sugar. They complained that they were bored of the fairy wings, until Aziraphale gave in and miracled them a set of pretend parrot wings, which they flapped enthusiastically until the shop was covered in multi-coloured feathers. They were clumsy, knocking over cups and books at every turn.

All of which Aziraphale could’ve just about tolerated, until he caught them drawing on one of his books.

‘Whatever do you think you’re doing?’ he cried. ‘That’s a first edition - oh, I’ll never get the marks out properly.’

‘It needed some pictures,’ said Ivy definitely. ‘It was really boring.’

‘Crowley will be very upset if he finds out you’ve damaged my books,’ said Aziraphale, a little guiltily. Crowley might be upset, but only because Aziraphale was, and even then not half as upset as he was that Aziraphale had thrown him out.

‘I thought it looked nice,’ said Ivy, pouting.

Aziraphale glanced down at the book he’d just snatched from Ivy’s grasp. The sketches of parsley, daisies, and vines were technically quite good, if wholly unwelcome in their current location.

‘Do you like drawing, Ivy?’ he asked. ‘So do I. I’ve got some proper art supplies around here somewhere. Mostly I like drawing people.’

‘I don’t like people,’ said Ivy, not wholly a surprise. ‘But I do like plants.’

Aziraphale found a sketchbook, some nice pencils, and a small tin of watercolours. Ivy seemed genuinely delighted, and spent most of the morning diligently working on a picture of some sunflowers. Looking at them, concentrating intently and humming to themself, it was hard to believe they were any sort of demon at all, far less one of the most feared rulers of Hell.

‘Everyday, it’s a-gettin’ closer…’ Ivy sang under their breath.

‘What was that?’ asked Aziraphale.

‘What was what?’

‘That… what were you singing?’

‘Oh.’ Ivy blinked back at him. ‘It’s a song.’

Well that much was obvious. ‘Do you remember where you learnt it?’ asked Aziraphale. In the Bentley, perhaps, but it doesn’t seem all that likely. ‘Did Crowley play it, in the car?’

Ivy shook their head. ‘I don’t think he knows it,’ they said. ‘It’s my song.’

‘I’m sure it’s lovely,’ said Aziraphale, though he wasn’t sure of anything at all.

Ivy’s smile brightened as they turned their attention back to their sunflowers and carried on, ‘Goin’ faster than a rollercoaster…’

Aziraphale watched, deep in thought. Whatever could it mean?

#

It took Aziraphale a moment to realise why his phone was making such a peculiar sound; it only deployed that particular ringtone for calls from Heaven and, well, they weren’t exactly a common occurrence.

He could, perhaps, turn that to his advantage.

‘For goodness sake, Crowley, stop panicking,’ he said, with a bite of exasperation which wasn’t entirely fabricated. ‘I highly doubt there’s any chance of Beelzebub finding you now.’

‘Trouble at the demon sanctuary?’ asked Michael. ‘My, my Aziraphale, it’s a wonder you find time to sell any books at all.’

‘Michael, what a surprise,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Good news, I hope? I didn’t think it would be long until you tracked down Beelzebub.’

He could practically feel Michael’s scowl down the phone. A small consolation.

‘We’re prepared to use Extreme Sanctions against anyone found assisting Beelzebub,’ said Michael. ‘Book of Life. Thought you and your… associate might like to know.’

‘Well that is… yes.’ Aziraphale swallowed heavily as he cast his eyes across the bookshop, to where Ivy was crawling under tables, attacking cobwebs with a pair of scissors. ‘Quite proper. We can’t have errant Dukes of Hell running around unchecked now, can we?’

‘Indeed. Let me know if you hear anything.’ Michael hung up without saying goodbye, which at least allowed Aziraphale some peace for his approaching panic attack.

‘When’s Crowley coming back?’ demanded Ivy, who had apparently completed their efforts at shredding every cobweb in the building. ‘I’m bored.’

Why did they have to have this peculiar devotion to Crowley? Aziraphale couldn’t hand them over to Heaven now even if he wanted to, not knowing they’d implicate Crowley the moment they opened their mouth. Perhaps Crowley had been right that Beelzebub didn’t present a direct danger; but the indirect danger was so much worse than either of them had realised.

‘Tell you what, why don’t I give him a call?’ suggested Aziraphale. ‘Ask him if he’d like to come over.’

‘Yay!’ Ivy punched the air. ‘Tell him to bring sherbet.’

#

Aziraphale’s joy at seeing Crowley again very nearly eclipsed his shame at having shut him out of the bookshop in the first place. Crowley brushed off Aziraphale’s awkward attempt at apologising with curt disinterest, but he refrained from recriminations and Aziraphale supposed that was the best he could hope for.

‘Crowley, what if we each did half a miracle? I could hide Ivy from your former people, and you could hide them from mine. It would barely move the dials.’

‘Yes. Yeah, that could work. Yes, okay,’ Crowley agreed. ‘Ivy, c’mere, give me your hand… now give the other one to Aziraphale. You ready, angel?’

Aziraphale nodded and let Crowley count them in. He moved his free hand, delicate as a surgeon, and cast the gentlest, tiniest, fractional half-miracle he could manage.

‘Do you think it took?’ he asked.

‘Probably.’ Crowley clambered over a chair, poking at the ceiling. ‘I think it took. That was a class-A surreptitious half a miracle.’

‘Oh good,’ said Aziraphale, with a nervous bubble of laughter.

Crowley grinned back at him, making something twist strangely in Aziraphale’s chest. ‘We are so sneaky.’

#

With Crowley back to keep an eye on the bookshop, Aziraphale had the chance to nip across the road to ask Maggie about Ivy’s song. She did know it, and the information, along with a copy of the single, was worth the rather awkward conversation about Nina in the coffee shop.

Human emotions were so complicated, Aziraphale reflected as he strolled back to the bookshop. At least that was one thing he didn’t have to deal with.

The pair of archangels strolling towards his shop were problem enough for one day.

‘Back again?’ he said, hurrying past Michael and Uriel. Aziraphale spoke loudly, hoping that Crowley would hear and keep Ivy out of sight, just in case their miracle didn’t stand up to close scrutiny. ‘I certainly didn’t expect another visit from Heaven so soon.’

Glancing around, he saw Crowley sprawled across a sofa, leafing through a collection of Ivy’s drawings. Crowley sat up just a fraction and whispered something at Ivy, who giggled and dropped to the ground. They crawled across the floor and hid (badly) beneath a table.

So much for sneaking, Aziraphale thought to himself. Between them they really had all the subtlety and understatement of a French farce. In spite of which, somehow, Michael and Uriel didn’t notice a thing.

‘What’s that demon doing here?’ asked Uriel, nodding towards Crowley. ‘I thought you said you weren’t running a sanctuary.’

‘Now really, I don’t think there’s any cause -’ Aziraphale began, but Michael brushed him aside.

‘I thought you were meant to be hiding from Beelzebub,’ she said, addressing Crowley directly. ‘I hope the pair of you aren’t plotting something untoward again. For both your sakes.’

Crowley rose up from the sofa with his usual snakey disregard for gravity and the proper arrangement of human body shapes. ‘I am hiding,’ he said.

‘I can see you quite clearly.’

‘I’m not hiding from you.’ Crowley grinned toothily at Michael. ‘In fact, I couldn’t be happier that you’ve popped in. And you, Uriel, it’s been too long.’

Michael snorted but didn’t seem to have an immediate response.

‘No better place than a celestial embassy if you want to avoid… my old boss,’ Crowley spoke lazily as he strolled across the bookshop, pausing briefly to pass Ivy a toffee. ‘And with a couple of archangels visiting to boot! Not much chance of any runaway Princes of Hell getting past you. Even Heaven’s not that incompetent.’

‘What we didn’t miss was the huge burst of miraculous activity,’ said Uriel, very deliberately addressing Aziraphale directly. ‘Not even an hour ago. From this shop.’

‘Did you think we wouldn't see the plume?’ said Michael. ‘Bit showy for someone trying to hide.’

‘I’m hiding!’ called Ivy from under their table. ‘I’m really good at it.’

Michael and Uriel both stared at Ivy, then back to Aziraphale for an explanation.

Since he didn’t, in fact, have any explanation to give them, Aziraphale ignored the archangels in favour of leaning down to address Ivy directly. ‘That is a very good start, but for really excellent hiding you need to be quiet as a mouse. Can you manage that?’

Ivy slapped both hands over their mouth and nodded.

‘Miraculous plume, you say?’ he said, turning back to Michael.

‘Nearly 25 Lazarii,’ she replied. ‘Don't tell me you did it?’

Aziraphale fidgeted, turning over the record in his hands as he played for time. ‘I, I suppose I… might have done a miracle.’

‘And what was this miracle for, Aziraphale?’ demanded Uriel. ‘Something that powerful must have been important.’

‘It was, um, well.’ Aziraphale thought very fast. ‘It was for… love!’

‘Love?’ Michael and Uriel sneered in unison. Crowley made a strangled choking sound. Ivy hummed into their palm.

‘Love,’ confirmed Aziraphale, adopting his best be not afraid expression of angelic propriety. ‘I can explain everything.’

#

The following morning Crowley bounded back into the bookshop bright and early, carrying a large cardboard box full of pot plants.

‘Mornin’, Cupid,’ he called. ‘Got those poison arrows locked and loaded?’

‘Nina and Maggie will have to wait,’ said Aziraphale, snapping his briefcase shut. He had the record, a sheaf of newspaper clippings, and his reporter’s notepad all ready. ‘Today is dedicated to investigating the Clue.’

Crowley groaned at the implied capitalisation, but it didn’t seem to put any real dent on his enjoyment. ‘Whatever you say, angel. I’m just the driver,’ he said. ‘Lead on, Miss Marple.’

‘Oh, I’m more of a Poirot, surely.’

‘Mm, I can see it.’ Crowley frowned. ‘Just need a bit more Brylcreem and a silly little tache.’

‘I suppose that makes you Captain Hastings,’ suggested Aziraphale.

‘Oh please, I’m clearly Ariadne Oliver,’ said Crowley. ‘Well, minus the teetotal part of course.’

‘I’M A DRAGON,’ announced Ivy, jumping out from behind a bookcase and miming a clawing motion with their hands. ‘I’m very fierce.’

Of course they looked, somewhat ironically, far less fierce than their usual self ever did.

‘Outstanding,’ said Crowley, clicking his fingers to give Ivy a suitably scaly set of pretend wings. ‘Shall we go?’

It was, Aziraphale reflected as Crowley swerved between double decker buses at breakneck speeds, a somewhat eccentric outing. A semi-retired angel, his semi-retired demon companion, and an amnesiac Prince of Hell - dressed in toy dinosaur wings and displaying the personality of a semi-feral yet exceedingly spoilt human child - driving to Edinburgh to investigate a jukebox. He was jolly excited about the investigation part, although there was really no reason why he couldn’t do that alone. He could’ve taken the train; that would’ve been fun. But he could scarcely expect Crowley to manage Ivy alone for so long and, well, he didn’t really want to leave Crowley either.

Guilt prickled the back of his neck as he recalled Crowley’s expression when Aziraphale slammed the door in his face, making a liar out of himself for all those times he’d assured Crowley that he was always welcome in the bookshop. It’s a nasty habit of his, pushing Crowley away like that. He never set out to be so cruel, always caught on the defensive or convincing himself that it was for Crowley’s own good. His own justifications seemed terribly hollow as he replayed his own words: We’re not friends. I don’t even like you. You are no longer welcome.

It wouldn’t happen again, Aziraphale was determined. He cast a sideways glance at Crowley, who seemed to be enjoying himself, miracling traffic lights to his whim and complaining about other road users who have the nerve to get in Crowley’s way.

Aziraphale helped himself to a barley sugar, to calm his nerves, and tossed one to Ivy. They caught it in their mouth with a snap.

‘Yum.’ Ivy giggled. ‘I think I like you better than Crowley’s other friend.’

‘What other friend?’ demanded Aziraphale, before he could stop himself. Well, it was a legitimate question. Of course Crowley was allowed to have other friends, even friends he, for some reason, kept secret from Aziraphale. But no-one else was supposed to have met Ivy.

‘I had to hide under the plants,’ said Ivy. ‘It was very difficult because they kept jiggling about. She brought Crowley’s post but it was all really boring so he let me rip it up later for littering practice. And then she asked about the boiler before she FUCKED OFF, FINALLY!’

That last part was probably a direct quote from Crowley, but the rest was so much more informative.

‘Shax isn’t my friend,’ said Crowley, paying uncharacteristically close attention to the road ahead. ‘She’s… Hell needed a new representative. Don’t worry, she didn’t notice a thing. Not very observant.’

Aziraphale nodded slowly. Apparently this new demon wasn’t the only one capable of missing the obvious. ‘So Hell gave this Shax your old job?’ he clarified. ‘Your flat too, I suppose, that’s why she had your post?’

‘Not like I wanted the job anymore,’ said Crowley, conspicuously avoiding any mention of his flat. He might have resigned, but he surely never asked to be evicted from his home.

‘In that case, there’s really no reason why you can’t move into the bookshop full-time,’ said Aziraphale, aiming for a lightness he didn’t feel. ‘At least for the time being. It’s hardly fair to leave me looking after Ivy on my own, after all.’’

‘OK. Well. If you like,’ said Crowley, eyes on the road, expression unreadable. He didn’t seem displeased with the idea at least. ‘I could hang around for a bit.’

‘Splendid. That’s settled, then.’ Glad that Crowley agreed so easily, Aziraphale decided against pressing the question of why Crowley hadn't told him that he’d lost his flat. And Aziraphale had gone and shut him out of the bookshop, even if it had only been for one night. The prickle of guilt turned hot and angry; he’d let his dear friend down dreadfully, there really was no excuse.

With some difficulty, Aziraphale put his self-recrimination to one side and turned his attention back to Crowley now. They’d reached the long, dull, stretch of motorway and Crowley paid scant attention to the road ahead, twisting in his seat to give Ivy an impromptu - and somewhat garbled - lesson about photosynthesis. Aziraphale smiled fondly at how patiently Crowley answered Ivy’s barrage of questions. As huffy as it made the demon to hear it, he really was the dearest thing.

Aziraphale really must take much better care of him.

#

After much deliberation, Aziraphale decided to call into the Resurrectionist alone. It might’ve been helpful to see if Ivy recognised anything or anyone, but hardly worth the risk of Beelzebub suddenly remembering themself in the middle of a public house. Reluctantly, he agreed to part company with Crowley and Ivy for a short while.

‘Stop fretting, you’ll give yourself indigestion,’ said Crowley. ‘Here, this might make you feel better. It’s about time you joined the twenty-first century, we’re almost a quarter way through.’

He handed Aziraphale a mobile phone, sleek and flat like his own, only this was brilliant white with silver apple on the reverse. Aziraphale turned it over, not wanting to seem ungrateful but thinking it wasn’t really his style.

‘I don’t know how it works,’ he said.

‘Angel, you don’t know how any technology more advanced than the wheel works,’ said Crowley. ‘Just do what you always do: ask politely and it’ll do whatever you want.’

‘Oh, I suppose you’re right.’ Aziraphale smiled. Things did usually work that way. ‘If only demons were so obliging.’

‘That wouldn’t be any fun,’ said Crowley. ‘Now you go and get on with your sleuthing while I introduce Ivy to the joys of tablet. Call me when you’re done, yeah?’

It didn’t take long, and Aziraphale’s new phone dutifully called Crowley on request less than an hour later. It was only a short walk to the park where they’d agreed to meet, but the journey was awash with memories, and not happy ones.

The last time he and Crowley had visited Edinburgh together hadn’t exactly been Aziraphale’s finest hour.

He found Crowley lounging on a park bench, close to the pond where Ivy was throwing peas, one at a time, to the ducks. Crowley’s pose was relaxed, indifferent, and it took all of Aziraphale’s skills in advanced Crowley-watching to recognise that he was on high alert, watching and listening for the first sign of danger.

Aziraphale sat down beside him, handing over the coffee he’d picked up at a café on the way. ‘Looks like you and Ivy managed to keep out of trouble.’

‘Unfortunately, yes,’ said Crowley. ‘Went through the cemetery. That ridiculous statue of Gabriel’s still there.’

That was definitely not a happy memory. Strange that Crowley would want to revisit it. ‘Why wouldn’t the statue still be there?’

‘Might have been struck by lightning. Demolished to make way for parking. Vandalised.’ Crowley shrugged. ‘A demon can dream. Anyway, enough of that - tell me about the investigation, Inspector Clouseau. Found any more clues? Or even a Clue?’

‘It went very well,’ said Aziraphale, pleased enough by his modest success at the Resurrectionist to ignore Crowley’s teasing. ‘The barman recognised Beelzebub. They’d been in before, and in company!’

Crowley looked at him expectantly. ‘In company with…?’

‘Oh, well, he couldn’t really say,’ admitted Aziraphale. ‘Some business type, according to the barman, possibly a banker. Perhaps they were plotting some form of financial instability? Insider trading or a run on the pound. That sort of thing has caused a lot of trouble in the past.’

‘Sounds a bit subtle for Beelzebub,’ said Crowley.

Subtlety isn’t something Beelzebub was known for, true enough. Cruelty and violence was more their style, at least from what Aziraphale had heard. He’d avoided asking, and Crowley had certainly avoided telling exactly how Hell operated, but the swirling power of memory provoked his curiosity.

My side doesn’t send nasty notes, he’d said another time and then, Trust me, if Hell noticed that little display, I'd already be...Ah... I'd already…

And then he had gone, and stayed that way for far too long.

‘What did they do to you?’ Aziraphale asked softly. ‘The last time we were in Edinburgh, I can’t help but be reminded of it. You saved Elspeth’s soul. Did they… did Beelzebub hurt you?’

‘What do you think, angel?’ said Crowley with a flash of annoyance. He took a breath and looked away. ‘Not directly.’

Not directly. Just like he’d said Beelzebub wasn’t a danger to him now, not directly.

‘But they gave the orders,’ Aziraphale persisted. ‘For something so terrible you can’t say what it was, even now.’

For a while Crowley didn’t answer, and Aziraphale wondered if he’s pushed too hard or not hard enough. When he did speak, he kept his gaze firmly averted. ‘It wasn’t… personal. It never is. Well, it can be - some demons love to bear a grudge and they’ll make it personal. Beelzebub not so much. But we all had our jobs to do.’

‘Right.’ The word came out clipped and furious, as Aziraphale bit back everything he’d like to say, to shout, about Beelzebub torturing Crowley - No, ordering Crowley’s torture, with cold indifference, all part of the job.

‘Hell’s not a nice place, angel,’ said Crowley. ‘For any of us. It’s made for torment and punishment. She decided that.’

‘Oh really, you can scarcely blame the Almighty for Beelzebub!’ said Aziraphale, hearing, a beat too late, what a sanctimonious prig he sounded like.

‘Can’t I now?’ Crowley turned back to face him. Even behind the sunglasses his glare was furious.

‘Well… of course… I didn’t mean,’ Aziraphale fumbled, aware he’d horribly overstepped. Of course it was an uncomfortable subject. ‘Only… Beelzebub has treated you so cruelly. I can’t excuse that.’

Crowley shrugged, but the movement was too heavy to be casual. ‘Nothing I couldn’t handle. Besides, not like I was the only one getting it from my own side. I’ve seen how Heaven treated you, angel, and I’m not a fan. Gabriel’s no better than Beelzebub when it comes down to it.’

That was scarcely true: Gabriel might be petty and unkind, but he’d never tortured Aziraphale, never sent him back to Earth with a limp and an urgent request for Hellfire. It was touching, but worrying, that Crowley seemed to view rudeness to Aziraphale as a crime on a par with violence against himself; he was so sweetly protective, but so blind to his own worth. Aziraphale refrained from pointing it out, acutely aware he’d already caused Crowley enough pain by dragging up unpleasant memories. It was scarcely the time for another debate about the relative merits of Heaven versus Hell, a subject which Crowley tended to be unreasonable about at the best of times.

‘I shouldn’t have said anything. That was… insensitive,’ Aziraphale said by way of apology. ‘I won’t mention it again.’

‘Forget about it.’ Crowley stood abruptly, and for a moment Aziraphale thought he might walk away, but he just turned on the spot, twisting his long limbs as though shaking out the tension. ‘Do you want to go somewhere? Spot of lunch - late lunch, maybe. Afternoon tea, we haven’t done one of those for a while.’

Aziraphale smiled weakly. ‘That sounds lovely, but perhaps we should be getting back? It’s already been a long day, and we wouldn’t want to run into anyone who might recognise Ivy.’

‘Probably best,’ agreed Crowley. ‘Right, c’mon Ivy, those ducks must be full by now. We’ve got to get moving!’

Aziraphale fell behind, watching in silence as Ivy bounced alongside Crowley, chattering about the ducks and a family of swans. It had been a difficult day, he thought. Once he - and more importantly, once Crowley was back in the safety of the bookshop - they’d all have a chance to relax.

#

They’d planned to drive straight through, but by some point midway through the Midlands Ivy was fractious and hungry enough to be a real nuisance. Crowley pulled into a motorway service station, an ugly, anonymous place that felt like the literal middle of nowhere.²

‘You sure you’re up to wrangling Ivy on your own?’ asked Crowley. Doubtless only asking out of manners, as he was obviously desperate for a break from Ivy’s incessant chatter.

‘Of course,’ Aziraphale assured him. ‘Can I get you anything?’

‘Coffee,’ said Crowley. ‘As many shots of espresso as they can fit in a cup.’

Inside, the service station somehow combined the blinding brightness of Heaven with the ill-organised despair of Hell. Aziraphale consoled himself that at least no-one was likely to be on the lookout for a wayward angel babysitting an amnesiac Prince of Hell somewhere like this. He allowed Ivy to burn off some energy by running laps of the courtyard, while he stocked up on colouring books and bags of jelly worms to keep them entertained for the rest of the journey.

The pastries didn’t look inspiring, but Aziraphale ordered some anyway, to go with Crowley’s coffee and hot chocolates for him and Ivy.

‘Can I take a name for the cup?’ asked the glass-eyed young woman behind the counter. Aziraphale suspected he’d already tried her patience with his questions about how many shots of espresso could fit in a cup.

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ he said. Although “Mr Fell” had served quite well for dealings with humans for centuries, Aziraphale had the idea that such formalities were frowned upon in these modern places. ‘Just put “Ivy” on all of them.’

‘Good idea,’ said a voice behind him. ‘They’ll never fit “Aziraphale” on one of those little cups.’ ³

Glancing around, Aziraphale saw a woman - who probably wasn’t a woman at all - dressed in a rather natty deep red wool suit and looking altogether too pleased with herself.

‘You have the advantage on me,’ said Aziraphale.

‘I do!’ She seemed very pleased about it. ‘I’m Shax. Former Admissions demon, senior grade. Now Hell's ambassador plenipotentiary to this corner of the planet. Replacing the demon Crowley.’

‘Ah.’ Aziraphale sniffed. ‘He did say something about a trainee.’

Shax looked gratifyingly annoyed, but was undeterred as she advanced on Aziraphale. ‘Crowley’s got Beelzebub, hasn’t he?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Aziraphale, backing away. ‘What would Crowley want with Beelzebub?’

‘Sometimes people call me Beelzebub,’ announced Ivy. ‘Lord Beelzebub.’

Aziraphale kept very still as Shax stared at Ivy. Ivy stared right back, and then stuck out their tongue. It appeared to confuse Shax well enough, as she shook her head and turned back to Aziraphale.

‘One of you is hiding Beelzebub,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. What would I do with Beelzebub?’ said Aziraphale. He reached into the little paper bag of pastries and handed Ivy a croissant. ‘Ivy, dear, why don’t you take this and hide under that table over there?’

Ivy obligingly stuffed the croissant into their mouth, before diving under the table. It would take a very generous interpretation of the word to describe their position as “hiding” but at least they were a little less likely to blurt out anything incriminating.

‘You know what? Sometime in the last 80, 90 years, I remember hearing that you and Crowley were an item. I didn't believe it then. Not really.’ Shax’s smirk faded and she looked almost wistful. ‘Poor old Furfur. He thought you were his ticket to the big time. Now he's in requisitions.’

‘I really have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Aziraphale. Furfur, he wondered. And now this one? What kind of a peculiar fanclub did Crowley have down there?

‘Thank you,’ said Shax. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Hell will be pleased.’

‘How?’ asked Aziraphale, confused. ‘How did I help you?’

Shax just smiled. Her teeth looked sharp, predatory. ‘Enjoy your drink.’

Aziraphale’s attention was distracted by the barista placing a third cup on the counter. By the time he looked back, Shax had already disappeared. That couldn’t be a good sign.

‘Come along, Ivy,’ he called, gathering up the drinks quickly. ‘Time to go. Hurry now, no dawdling.’

Ivy raced ahead, narrowly avoiding a van as they sped out into the car park. Aziraphale was a few metres behind by the time they reached the Bentley, where they stood knocking on the driver’s door and calling Crowley’s name.

Aziraphale dropped the too-hot cups and hurried the last few steps.

‘He’s hiding again,’ announced Ivy, sounding excited and exasperated all at once. ‘He’s very silly.’

‘Crowley?’ Aziraphale pushed Ivy aside and opened the car door, as though Crowley really might just be crouching out of sight. The car was empty, of course, with no sign of how or where Crowley might have gone. The keys dangled from the ignition.

‘CROW-LEY!’ yelled Ivy, in a sing-song voice that was loud enough to be heard across counties. ‘Where are you?’

Temper snapping, Aziraphale grabbed Ivy and pushed them against the car. ‘Will you be quiet?’ he demanded in a furious whisper. ‘This is all your fault!’

Ivy whimpered, bottom lip jutting out. They looked like they might cry. ‘I didn’t do anything! Why are you so angry with me?’’

‘That’s… no… oh do settle, my dear,’ said Aziraphale. He felt rather more like a bully than a vengeful demon-smiter. And more frightened than angry.

Doing his very best to block out Ivy’s complaints and his own rising panic, Aziraphale focused, reaching out, all senses channelling a single thought: Crowley. All he found were distant echoes of Crowley in the Bentley, the bookshop, St James’s Park; spiritual fingerprints but nothing solid. Perhaps he’d been hidden? In desperation he consulted the mobile telephone Crowley had given him earlier, but despite Aziraphale asking very nicely it only yielded a recording of Crowley’s voice telling him to send a text and a map bearing the legend “Crowley: location not found”.

It scarcely mattered. Aziraphale knew where Crowley was, he’d known since the moment he’d realised Crowley wasn’t in the Bentley. There’s only one reason why Crowley would ever disappear like that.

Hell had taken him.

Ivy yanking insistently at his sleeve pulled Aziraphale’s attention back to them. ‘What’s happening? Where is Crowley?’

‘Ivy, I need you to do something for me,’ said Aziraphale. ‘For Crowley. It’s very important. No-one can know that Crowley’s been helping you, do you understand? If anyone asks, anyone at all, you need to… You need to convince them that you’re enemies. That you call him a traitor.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Ivy.

‘You don’t need to understand, you just need to do it,’ said Aziraphale. He had neither the time nor the patience to explain. ‘Or something terrible will happen. You have to tell anyone who asks that Crowley’s a traitor and you hate him.’

‘That’s really mean.’

‘I’m sure you can manage it,’ said Aziraphale, not bothering to conceal the acerbic bite in his voice. ‘You will do it. Promise me.’

Chastened, Ivy nodded. ‘I promise.’

Precious little their promise was worth, but it was the best Aziraphale could hope for. He straightened and made to walk back into the service station, gesturing for Ivy to follow. They scampered to catch up, and surprised Aziraphale by grabbing his hand.

Ivy isn’t real, he reminded himself as he headed back into the neon glare of overpriced fast food and exhausted tedium. Beelzebub was real, and so were all their crimes, no amnesia or twinset of diet miracles could change that. He needed to put aside emotion, and focus on the facts.

Hell had Crowley. Aziraphale had Beelzebub. The solution was quite obvious.

It couldn’t have been a coincidence that Shax made herself known just as Hell snatched Crowley away, practically beneath Aziraphale’s nose. What was less certain was whether she was a simple distraction, or perhaps even an opportunist who’d spied her chance to start something. No matter; she’d doubtless jump at the chance to broker an exchange. Hell really would be delighted.

Several meticulous circuits of the motorway services later, Aziraphale was ready to accept that Shax wasn’t lying in wait, about to spring out from behind an insurance hoarding and demand he hand over Beelzebub in exchange for Crowley’s safe return. She might not have engineered the whole thing after all, although it was equally possible that she was simply being difficult.

‘I’m tired,’ said Ivy, and they looked it.

‘Let’s get back to the car,’ said Aziraphale. ‘I’ll drive.’

Ivy looked surprised and a little suspicious, but apparently Aziraphale’s tone had put them off arguing. At least that was some small mercy. The journey ahead - to Crowley’s flat in Crowley’s car, with no Crowley and only the slender hope of being able to barter for him - was challenge enough.

Night was breaking by the time they went back outside, but the car park was still a dishwater dirty dark, blotchily illuminated by headlights, fluorescent signs, and flickering overhead lamps. Aziraphale held on to Ivy, lest they dart in front of a moving vehicle and earn themselves a one-way solo discorporation ticket to Hell. They were almost there when every light in the motorway services - possibly the entire county - flared and faded, a bright light followed by a moment of darkness. The humans blinked and missed it, but Aziraphale could feel the sizzle of dark energy and his head whipped around, scanning the area of demonic activity.

There was only one demon present though and he’s familiar, climbing out of the Bentley and leaning against the door with practised insouciance.

‘Crowley!’ If Aziraphale had been further away he might have run to him. ‘You came back.’

Crowley looked startled, which might have had something to do with the way Aziraphale had latched on to him, one hand holding Crowley’s jacket and the other curled over the back of Crowley’s wrist. It wasn’t an embrace, as such, it wasn’t really anything Aziraphale could explain. However awkward, he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go.

Ivy chose another wonderful moment to interrupt, yawning theatrically and glaring at Crowley. ‘You’re a traitor and I hate you.’

‘Oh well done,’ said Aziraphale, looking at Ivy but not letting go of Crowley. ‘Why don’t you have yourself a rest in the back of the car? You’ve done very well.’

‘Yeah, good job,’ agreed Crowley, picking up on Aziraphale’s lead easily.

For once, Ivy obliged without questions and climbed into the back seat, leaving Aziraphale alone with Crowley at last.

‘What happened?’ he asked quietly.

For a moment it seemed like Crowley might brush the question aside, as he looked away and half-shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps he sensed how unwilling Aziraphale was to be fobbed off. ‘The Dark Council wanted to talk to me. About Beelzebub.’

‘Did they hurt you?’

‘What? No, of course not,’ said Crowley. ‘Apart from the obnoxiously dramatic summons it was fine. Really. Nothing I can’t handle.’

Aziraphale still had doubts. He hadn’t let go of Crowley. ‘Did they threaten you?’

‘Ehh, not as such,’ said Crowley, and it sounded an awful lot like prevarication. ‘Actually, all things considered, they were practically friendly. Said if I found Beelzebub for them they’d generously consider forgiving my traitorous ways and promoting me to Grand Duke.’

‘Gracious,’ said Aziraphale. ‘How’d you get out of that?’

‘Fed them the same load of rubbish that you gave your lot,’ said Crowley. ‘Of course I don’t know anything about Beelzebub, but there’s nothing I’d like more than to see them apprehended and made to face infernal justice.’

Of course, that all made perfect sense, but somehow it still didn’t put Aziraphale’s mind at ease. ‘And they just let you go?’

‘Yes,’ Crowley insisted. ‘Angel, look at me, I’m fine. No injuries, no damage done. It was just annoying, nothing to worry about.’

‘I suppose I panicked a bit,’ admitted Aziraphale. ‘You just disappeared… and I couldn’t find you. I knew…’

‘I know,’ said Crowley. His expression softened. ‘I know. You discorporated, remember? When the bookshop caught fire.’

He did remember, Crowley drunk and tearstained, saying he’d lost his best friend. Aziraphale had played dumb, and they’d never mentioned it again. Another memory to add to the pile of times he should’ve treated Crowley more kindly.

‘I really am fine,’ Crowley said again. His tone was gentle, tinged with warmth. Aziraphale still hadn’t managed to let go of him, or even make his grasp any less awkward. Looking up at Crowley’s face he could feel the intensity of his gaze despite the cover of his sunglasses and the pre-dawn gloom. Aching for reassurance, Aziraphale titled his face towards Crowley, like a flower seeking the sun. Unbidden, his eyes fluttered shut as Crowley moved slowly, almost imperceptibly closer…

… until a car horn rudely announced the presence of a BMW in a hurry, and the moment shattered like an overheated lightbulb exploding. Aziraphale jumped back like he’d been scalded.

‘Really,’ he said as he strode around to the passenger door. Indignation served as an excellent cloak for embarrassment. ‘There’s no call for that sort of rudeness.’

‘Seemed to be in a bit of a hurry,’ said Crowley, craning his neck to watch the departing interloper. ‘Shame he’ll be held up when he realises his front tires are flat. Then again a few miles later when his back tires are flat. And when he runs out of petrol even though he just filled up.’

Aziraphale smiled in spite of himself. ‘Wicked creature.’

‘Making sure all his devices play nothing but Baby Shark ⁴ for a fortnight taking things a bit far?’ suggested Crowley.

‘A harsh but beneficial lesson in the virtues of patience,’ said Aziraphale. ‘I approve’

The remainder of the journey was unremarkable, giving Aziraphale ample opportunity to reflect on the day’s events. Ivy slept, peaceful and trusting in the back seat, the ridiculous toy dino wings poking out from their back and a strangely innocent expression on their face. Aziraphale felt a twinge of - not guilt, precisely, but perhaps discomfort at how quickly he’d resolved to surrender them to Hell if it meant getting Crowley back. He’d told himself that Ivy wasn’t real, but who were they really?

‘I was thinking, I never spent much time with Beelzebub before. In Heaven, I mean,’ said Aziraphale, carefully pitching his tone to be as light as possible. ‘I suppose you must’ve known them quite well?’

‘Yeah,’ said Crowley. It wasn’t the flat-out denial that Aziraphale feared, though he was unmistakably wary. ‘Why are you so interested all of a sudden?’

‘Just curious,’ said Aziraphale, because he was. He hoped it didn’t sound accusatory - Crowley could be awfully touchy about any mention of his own time in Heaven. ‘It’s hard to see many similarities between Ivy and Beelzebub and I wondered… well, if they used to be more like that. Before.’

‘Before they Fell? Nah, not really,’ said Crowley. He drifted off, and for a while it seemed that the conversation was over. When he spoke again his voice was softer, perhaps laced with a hint of nostalgia or even fondness. ‘They used to be funny. Hard to believe, isn’t it? They could make anyone laugh. Surprisingly good for recruitment, that. Oh, the speeches and whispers from Lucifer were all well and good, but he didn’t half bang on sometimes. You need someone who could lighten things up.’

‘And that was Beelzebub?’ asked Aziraphale, honestly astonished.

‘Yep. Like I said, hard to believe now. They haven’t been exactly all sunshine and good times for the past few millennia,’ said Crowley. ‘Still, that’s Hell for you. Presiding over torments in the deepest pit doesn’t do much for anyone’s sense of humour.’

‘No,’ Aziraphale agreed weakly. ‘I don’t suppose it does.’

For a moment he almost felt sorry for Beelzebub, to think that there might have been some joy in them that Hell had extinguished. Any tender feelings he might have entertained for the Prince of Hell were swiftly put to rest by the realisation that, not only had Beelzebub used their position in Hell to harm Crowley, they may well have recruited him to the rebellion that had led to him being cast out of Heaven in the first place.

How much Beelzebub’s casually indifferent cruelty was a cause or a result of Hell’s monstrosity, Aziraphale wouldn’t like to say. What he was more certain of than ever, though, was that Crowley did not belong there.

#

Aziraphale had been right about one thing: everything was much better once they were both back in the bookshop. Crowley made himself at home almost at once, lounging across his favourite chair as he drank wine and bickered amiably about how to get Nina to fall in love with Maggie.

‘I’m telling you, angel, it cannot fail,’ Crowley insisted. ‘Spot of rain, awning, one fabulous kiss and va-voom! Sorted.’

‘I must say, it’s awfully good of you to take such an interest in this,’ said Aziraphale. ‘I had no idea you were such a romantic.’

‘Ngh.’ Was it just wishful thinking, or did Crowley look a tad flustered? ‘Someone’s got to make sure Heaven doesn't find out you’ve been fibbing to them again, angel. It’s very motivating.’

‘Well, I’m very grateful.’ Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile at him fondly, perhaps a touch too fondly. ‘I’m sure Nina and Maggie will be too.’

Sadly Nina and Maggie were not grateful, and ended up running, swearing and unkissed, from the rain. No va-vooming whatsoever.

‘Waste of a perfectly good tempest,’ muttered Crowley, looking rather downcast that his downpour hadn’t produced the desired results.

‘It was a very good rainstorm,’ said Aziraphale encouragingly. ‘And they did shelter together for a moment. It seems like they’re getting closer.’

‘Goin’ faster than a rollercoaster,’ sang Ivy cheerfully. They’d been less of a bother since the return from Edinburgh, especially since Aziraphale had convinced them to draw illustrations for his books on a separate sheet of archival paper, rather than directly onto the page.

‘So you keep saying. Singing.’ Crowley threw Ivy a toffee before turning back to Aziraphale. ‘Right, OK, I concede, the rain and awning was a washout. It’s your turn.’

‘Very well,’ said Aziraphale. ‘In that case, Whickber Street Traders and Shop-keepers Association monthly meeting, here we come.’

‘You’re really going through with that?’

‘Indeed I am.’ Aziraphale smiled. He had plans. Plans that might divert, somewhat, from what Mr Brown (of Brown’s World of Carpets) had in mind when he’d asked Aziraphale to host, but no matter. It was all in a good cause.

#

Aziraphale worked his way through his list of Whickber Street traders methodically, very much enjoying the company as Crowley circled him, teasing and cajoling at every step, but without a hint of malice. It was nice to bask in the simple pleasure of Crowley’s company, and every accepted invitation buoyed Aziraphale’s optimism that it really would be a night to remember.

The memory of the night in the service station car park played at the back of his mind. Might Crowley have kissed him if they hadn’t been interrupted by that rude motorist? Did Aziraphale wish that he had? No, on reflection it was better this way. Crowley deserved better than an awkward, panicked fumble under fluorescents and surrounded by traffic. He deserved the best - music, candlelight, something special. Something wonderful, to make up for how Aziraphale had let him down in the past.

An older memory sparked in the magic shop, Crowley’s dramatic intervention with the church and the books and the bullet catch. Aziraphale had had his moment too, his sleight of hand out-manoeuvring that dreadful oaf Furfur’s attempts to have Crowley recalled to Hell. Really, though, the night had belonged to Crowley: He’d been brave, clever, and kind, and so terribly dashing to boot. That night had awakened the secret that Aziraphale still carried half-a-century later, of how very much in love he was with Crowley.

Only a little longer. Aziraphale smiled as he ticked another name off the list. Tonight there would be music, and dancing, and a chance to put aside past mistakes and misunderstandings. Tonight Crowley would finally realise just how much Aziraphale cared for him.

#

‘Good eventide,’ Arnold greeted the guests as he played, doing a fine job of earning the annual Aziraphale had promised him. ‘Tonight is a meeting of the Whickber Street Traders and Shop-keepers Association. We are partaking of the hospitality of Mr Fell.’

It was all going splendidly. A chandelier twinkled overhead, the music played, and soon it would be time for dancing. Ivy, dressed in an iridescent blue suit which Crowley had completed for them with dragonfly wings, carried a silver platter of hors d'oeuvres to offer to guests, and seemed to be enjoying the company. The assembled traders and shopkeepers sparkled in their finery, and soon forgot their concerns about bin collections and the Christmas lights as the ball got under way.

‘Making it rain is one thing, but a Ball… look there's something wrong.’

Aziraphale smiled. This was his moment. ‘Why don’t you tell me about it,’ he said. ‘While we dance.’

‘You don’t dance -’ Crowley began, but Aziraphale had already taken his hand to pull him to the dance floor.

In spite of his protestations, Crowley danced perfectly, looking every bit as handsome and elegant as Aziraphale had imagined he would. He moved with such effortless grace, lithe and debonair, and it was all Aziraphale could tear his eyes off him when the dance demanded it.

‘Angel, we need to work out what to do,’ said Crowley. ‘There are demons milling around outside the bookshop.’

‘There are demons inside the bookshop,’ replied Aziraphale. ‘I trust they can behave themselves for one evening.’

‘If we don’t do something quickly, people could get hurt,’ said Crowley. ‘This charade for your neighbours can wait.’

He turned, as the dance moved them apart, step, step, turn, until they came to the end of the row of dancers and were joined once again for the right hand balancé.

‘Nina and Maggie aren’t the only ones dancing,’ said Aziraphale. He just kept time to step back, half-turn before offering his left hand.

Crowley took it, fingers curling into something more intimate than the barely-there touch of Regency propriety. ‘Oh.’ His voice sounded like a sigh. ‘Oh, angel.’

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. The music swelled. Crowley’s face shone golden in the light of the chandelier.

And then a brick thrown by the forces of Hell shattered the window and another moment.

#

‘I have to tell you, you can all leave now, and nobody will be hurt.’ Aziraphale addressed the invading horde with cold fury. How dare Hell send demons into the bookshop, their home and place of safety? True, an electric candelabra might not look as formidable as a flaming sword, but Aziraphale spoke with all the righteous fury of Heaven. ‘Stay back.’

Some of the demons, the weaker - or possibly more sensible - ones faltered, and one even tried to turn back. Shax was quick to bully them on again; Aziraphale was getting to really dislike her. Still, he could hold her and this rabble off until Crowley got back from taking the humans to safety.

‘Shax, I charge you to leave this place, with all your people, and to jolly well hurry up about it, or I'm going to have to take severe measures.’

‘Aziraphale, what are you?’ taunted Shax. ‘Crowley's emotional support angel?’

Fizzing with anger, Aziraphale took a step forward. ‘I said back. Get out of here.’

‘Or you’ll do what?’ said Shax, sneering. ‘Bring me -’

She was cut off by the sound of trumpets, loud enough for humans and demons to hear as clearly as angels. Light shone, bright and pure, through the doorway.

‘Nevermind what he’ll do. You better worry about what I’m about to do.’

Shax let out a furious gasp and the bookshop was flooded with light, so brilliant even Aziraphale covered his eyes to avoid being blinded by it. In an instant the demon intruders were flung up and away, disappearing into the portal in another dazzling blast of light.

There was a dull, metallic clink as one of the fire extinguishers Nina and Maggie had armed themselves with rolled across the floor. Nina swore under her breath, and Ivy yelped as they dived under the nearest table.

Blinking, Aziraphale moved towards the door. ‘Gabriel?’

‘No need to thank me,’ said Gabriel as he strolled into the bookshop. ‘Lucky I was in the neighbourhood.’

As Aziraphale’s vision cleared, it became apparent that Gabriel was not alone.

‘Yeah, and he was feeling smite-y,’ said Crowley. He was remarkably nonchalant, considering Gabriel had him in a chokehold, the short blade of a dagger pointed at his throat. There was a faint, ethereal light coming from the dagger - a holy weapon, then, and one that might destroy Crowley at a stroke.

‘Gabriel.’ Aziraphale kept his voice low and steady with some effort. He ought to feel afraid. He was livid. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Oh, this?’ Gabriel looked at Crowley as though he’d forgotten he was there. ‘Another stroke of luck! Been quite a night for them, hasn’t it? I found him wandering around outside, really bad idea when angels are feeling… what was it, now, “smite-y”? So I thought I’d bring him along while I call in to pick up Beelzebub.’

Aziraphale’s eyes flickered between Gabriel’s stupid, smug face and the blade he held against Crowley’s neck. He’d tolerated aeons of Gabriel’s petty cruelty but he couldn’t tolerate this. ‘You have no right -’

‘I have every right,’ said Gabriel. ‘I am right. I’m the Archangel fucking Gabriel.’

‘You are getting on my fucking nerves,’ yelled Aziraphale, surprising himself almost as much as he seemed to surprise Gabriel. ‘Unhand him this instant.’

Crowley laughed, giving every indication he was having a grand old time with an archangel holding a deadly weapon to his throat. ‘You tell him, angel.’

For perhaps the first time in his long life, Gabriel didn’t escalate in the face of provocation. He groaned, more exasperated than angry, and lowered his weapon. ‘You know what? Fine, have it your way.’

Aziraphale caught Crowley’s arms as Gabriel shoved him forward, holding him for just a moment as he spun Crowley behind him before turning back to face Gabriel. The archangel tossed the dagger into the air, where it spun once before disappearing into the ether.

‘There, I’m unarmed,’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘I’ve returned your demon to you. Now give me Beelzebub.’

‘Aziraphale doesn’t know anything about Beelzebub and if he did he wouldn’t tell you,’ said Crowley. He circled around Aziraphale as he spoke, until he was standing closest to Gabriel. Aziraphale jostled him aside, angling himself in front of Crowley.

‘I didn’t hurt him,’ said Gabriel. ‘I don’t want to hurt Beelzebub. I just need to find them.’

There was an unusual gentleness to Gabriel’s tone, and in his gaze as he looked at Aziraphale. Soft, almost pleading, like he was looking to Aziraphale as someone who understood. But he couldn’t possibly…? Uncertain, Aziraphale turned back to Crowley, his expression questioning. Crowley shook his head, the unspoken don’t trust him all too obvious.

No-one was paying attention to the back of the shop, where Nina and Maggie stood frozen, half in fear and half fascination, as they watched the scene unfold before them. No-one noticed Ivy, bored, as they wandered over to the gramophone. The first bars of music surprised everyone, but Gabriel was transfixed.

Ivy began to sing. ‘Every day, it's a-getting closer.’

‘Goin’ faster than a rollercoaster,’ continued Gabriel, as he walked towards them. He stopped in front of Ivy and pulled something from his pocket, kneeling, like a man about to propose. ‘I think I have something that belongs to you.’

A single fly took to the air, buzzing lazily as it circled Ivy’s head. They smiled and held out their tongue. Another soft, heady buzz, and the Lord of the Flies was back in the room.

‘Hello.’ Beelzebub smiled at Gabriel, their expression warm and soft. ‘I was looking for you and… I forgot.’

‘The alarms went off in Heaven. I distracted the Host while you got back out, but then I couldn’t find you,’ said Gabriel. ‘At least we know whose fault that was.’

He and Beelzebub both turned back to Crowley and Aziraphale, though with rather less animosity than when Gabriel said something very similar at Upper Tadfield Airbase. Crowley did the silly wave back at them again anyway.

‘In case you’re wondering, Crowley, you’re still a traitor and I do hate you,’ said Beelzebub. ‘Thank you.’

Crowley dipped in an elaborate mock bow, which only seemed to amuse Beelzebub.

‘Er, if you don’t both mind me asking, what are you planning to do now?’ Aziraphale twisted his hands as he moved forwards, anxiety returning now that the immediate danger had passed. ‘Only Heaven and Hell are both very interested in finding you, Lord Beelzebub. Hell, especially, I’d wager, especially after the unpleasantness with Shax and Gabriel getting, ah -’

‘- Smite-y,’ supplied Crowley, helpfully.

‘I don’t think we need to worry about that. You’ll think of something,’ said Gabriel. He turned and took hold of Beelzebub’s hand. ‘We have more important things to worry about. But first, my sweet, what are you wearing?’

Beelzebub glanced down, frowning at the shimming blues and greens of their suit for the Ball. Their frown deepened to a scowl then they lifted their free arm to examine the now slightly tattered costume dragonfly wing. ‘Crowley, what the fuck am I wearing?’ they demanded. ‘Helping me hide from Hell doesn’t mean you’re allowed to play dress up with me.’

Crowley huffed and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Oh, Satan forbid a demon have a hobby.’

With a click of their fingers, Beelzebub was once again dressed in their familiar black and red, and looking much happier for it. They took Gabriel’s other hand, and beamed up at him. ‘Every day seems a little longer…’

‘Every way, love's a little stronger,’ continued Gabriel.

Do you ever long for true love from me? The music played out as Gabriel and Beelzebub, apparently oblivious to anything but each other, faded out and disappeared.

Astonished, Aziraphale turned back to Crowley, who was still staring at the spot in shock.

What the fuck was all that about?’ asked Nina.

Oh, bother. In all the excitement, Aziraphale had forgotten that she and Maggie were still there. ‘Nothing to worry about, best to forget it ever happened,’ he said, waving a hand at them distractedly. Both women blinked, and Aziraphale was only vaguely aware that the miracle didn’t seem to have taken.

‘Quite right, I’m sure you’ve both had a long night and can’t wait to get out of here. Must be time you were opening up.’ Fortunately Crowley managed to take charge, hurrying Nina and Maggie back out of the bookshop while Aziraphale was deep in thought. Had they really just seen…? Gabriel and Beelzebub? Well, it was a lot to take in.

‘Right, angel, c’mon now, we need to go,’ said Crowley, closing the bookshop door behind the humans. ‘Quickly.’

‘What do you mean, go?’

‘I mean, go, away from here, as far and as fast as we can,’ said Crowley. ‘Before either side realises they’re missing princes of Heaven and Hell and coming looking for answers. Ugh, I should’ve let you hand Beelzebub over to Gabriel in the first place, would’ve saved us a lot of trouble. Well done me, trying to do the right thing, won’t be making that mistake again in a hurry. Right, too late for that now, we need to get going.’

He was panicking, pacing back and forth as he spoke, which only served to heighten Aziraphale’s anxiety. The bookshop was in disarray, remnants of the Ball - the chandeliers, and opulent red velvet curtains now out of place in the cool light of day. Here and there were empty and half-empty fire extinguishers, puddles of dissolving foam marking the floor. There were disturbed books and half-eaten canapés on every surface. The place was a confused mess, much like the inside of Aziraphale’s mind.

‘We can’t just leave,’ he said. The place needed a jolly good tidy up for starters.

Crowley stopped pacing and turned to Aziraphale. ‘We can. We absolutely can. I mean, if Gabriel and Beelzebub can do it, go off together, then we can. Just the two of us. We need to get away from Heaven, away from Hell.’

‘I don’t…’ Aziraphale began. Was this another of Crowley’s ridiculous notions, running off to Alpha Centauri without the first notion of what to do when they got there, or was there something else, something more? If Gabriel and Beelzebub can do it …

Oh, what did it matter? There was no outrunning Hell, Aziraphale reflected bitterly, nowhere to hide. Hell snatched Crowley from the Bentley, invaded the bookshop, had no concept of mercy or peace, and would never let him go.

‘They can’t… abscond,’ he insisted. ‘Beelzebub going missing caused enough fuss, but now Gabriel’s on the lam too - Heaven and Hell will be after both of them.’

‘Good!’ said Crowley. ‘Better them than us. Angel, I don’t think we have much of a choice here. Gabriel just blasted dozens of demons straight back to Hell and they are going to want answers. But, please, if you can come up with a way to explain all this to the Dark Council’s satisfaction, go right ahead and share it, because right now I’ve got nothing.’

‘Ah, yes, I don’t suppose they’d appreciate the… the truth of the matter.’ Aziraphale swallowed heavily. ‘I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to explain it to Heaven either.’

There was something warm behind him, a soft light and a gentle hum, something that had been there for a very long time. How had Aziraphale stopped paying attention? He turned, and saw that the portal was open again, or perhaps it had never closed. They were being watched.

‘Heaven appreciates the truth, Aziraphale,’ said the Metatron, distant and terrible, the image of his face projected across the ceiling. ‘May I?’

Aziraphale nodded and murmured his assent, and then the Metatron stood before him with both feet on the ground. He was rather less imposing in life-size scale, dressed in ordinary human clothing with an expression that was almost kindly.

‘Aziraphale didn’t do anything,’ said Crowley quickly.

If the Metatron heard Crowley he gave no sign of it.

‘Congratulations, Aziraphale,’ he said. ‘You’ve done an excellent job.’

‘I did?’

‘Of course!’ the Metatron offered him a proud smile. ‘Gabriel had made some unfortunate decisions lately, but without your intervention we might never have discovered the true extent of his corruption. You’ve done Heaven a tremendous service, we’re all terribly grateful to you.’

It was a good thing that Crowley was standing out of his line of vision, because Aziraphale wasn’t sure he could react appropriately if their eyes met. He cleared his throat, struggling for a suitable response. ‘That’s… most kind.’

‘Nonsense, I speak as I find,’ said the Metatron bracingly. ‘I do have a favour to ask. It’s so rare that I have an opportunity to visit Earth, and I confess myself curious about your neighbour’s coffee shop. Perhaps you would be so good as to act as my guide? We could do with a chat, just the two of us.’

Aziraphale glanced around, uncertain. Crowley had draped himself over his favourite chair, the casual insouciance of his pose suggesting he was relaxed to the point of torpor. It was an act, of course, but Aziraphale recognised the signs that he was plotting rather than panicking. He shrugged, given tacit permission for the meeting. ‘Day can’t get any weirder.’

Well, at least Crowley wasn’t about to bolt. And Hell surely wouldn’t launch another attack with the voice of God so close by. Aziraphale really didn’t have a reason not to hear the Metatron out.

#

Despite his long years of practice, Aziraphale still found keeping his true thoughts under wraps during his dealings with Heaven a trial. He prevaricated and demurred, playing for time as he wondered however he was going to evade a direct summons to return to Heaven without causing too much trouble.

Until the Metatron offered the very thing that Aziraphale had been searching for so frantically. An escape route. A get-out clause.

Salvation.

‘Well then, go and tell your friend the good news.’

Aziraphale hesitated one last time. He wouldn’t be hurried, though, this was too important. His final chance to make everything right.

‘All in good time,’ he said, agreeable. ‘There’s something I need to do first.’

#

Evening was drawing in by the time Aziraphale returned to the bookshop. He hadn’t meant to be so long; he did hope Crowley wasn’t worried.

‘You alright?’ Crowley sprang up the moment Aziraphale opened the door. There was a thrum of nervous energy about him, though the fear which had been evident before seemed to have dissipated. He’d tidied the bookshop, the mess of the previous evening vanished, and looked to have made a good start on reorganising the section on late 18th Century poetry.

‘Quite satisfactory,’ said Aziraphale. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’

Crowley made a dismissive arm gesture, like waiting was the least of his concerns, before stopping and taking a deep breath. ‘Look, I suppose, um... I've got something to say. It's probably best if I start off doing all the talking, you do all the listening, 'cause if I don't start talking now, I won't ever start talking, right?’

It really was awfully tempting to jump in and tell Crowley his own news but, under the circumstances, it seemed only polite to let him have his say. Aziraphale bit his tongue and nodded encouragingly. He kept smiling and nodding as Crowley continued, in broken sentences and awkward definitions, struggling through a speech that clearly hadn’t been made easier by the hours he’d had to practise it.

‘You and me,’ Crowley finished, his expression pleading, hopeful. ‘What do you say?’

He hadn’t said - perhaps couldn’t say - love or romance or couple but he’d made his meaning plain enough in spite of the difficulty. What did a lack of finesse matter when his declaration was so brave and so sweet, just like Crowley himself?

‘Oh, Crowley,’ Aziraphale sighed. ‘I love you too.’

Crowley’s expression went through a rapid and bizarre series of changes, ricocheting between shock and delight, as though he couldn’t work out quite how to react. The overall effect was rather like he was choking but somehow ecstatic about it.

‘Is that a “yes” then?’ he asked. He lurched forward, as though to embrace Aziraphale, but stopped himself at the last moment and forced his hands into his pockets. ‘Yes, good, fabulous. We should… celebrate. Breakfast at the Ritz. Well, dinner now. Champagne. You and me, angel, yes?’

‘That does sound tempting,’ said Aziraphale. ‘You were right before, though, we can’t stay here. It’s not safe. Hell will come after you and… Crowley, you must understand, I can’t lose you, I couldn’t bear it.’

‘Hey - hey, it’s alright. You want to leave, then we’ll leave.’ Crowley’s smile was gentle, full of reassurance. ‘Anywhere you want to go.’

‘Heaven,’ said Aziraphale, resolutely. ‘We’re going home. To Heaven.’

Crowley shook his head, confused. ‘What are you talking about?’ he said. ‘Heaven isn’t your home. It certainly isn’t mine. Demon, remember? I couldn’t go back to Heaven even if I wanted to.’

‘You can.’ Aziraphale took a step forward, reaching for him. His hand brushed Crowley’s arm, just for a moment. ‘That’s what the Metatron wanted to talk to me about. To ask me to take over from Gabriel and you… you can be an angel again.’

‘No.’ Crowley shook his head again, harder this time. ‘You didn’t. You wouldn’t. Tell me you said no.’

‘It’s the only way,’ said Aziraphale. ‘We can be together. Safe.’

‘It’s no way at all!’ Crowley exploded. ‘Safe? Heaven isn’t safer than Hell. They tried to destroy you, angel. We need to get away from both of them.’

Aziraphale let out a low sigh of frustration. Oh, dear, this was all going rather poorly. It was always so hard for him to express himself, to explain when Crowley got like this, angrily insisting that Heaven and Hell were no different from one another. Aziraphale wished he knew how to convince him that it simply wasn’t true; Heaven was offering them a second chance, something that Hell would never do. They had to take it.

It would all be so much easier if Crowley would just agree.

‘Get away where, Crowley, Alpha Centauri? Be reasonable,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Think about what I’m offering here.’

‘Maybe you should think about what you’re asking,’ countered Crowley. ‘What it is you’re giving up. You said… that you… What happened to being on our own side?’

‘There is no our side, there never was,’ said Aziraphale. ‘It’s just a pipe dream. There is Heaven and there is Hell and we don’t have the luxury of just… making something else up. It’s Heaven or Hell, there is no other choice.’

Crowley looked at him, his expression so pained that Aziraphale flinched, and turned away.

‘No,’ Crowley muttered, so quietly he might have been speaking to himself. ‘No, that’s…’

But he never did explain what that was. Instead he took two quick, bold steps across the room, grabbed Aziraphale by his lapels, and kissed him. It was a rough, awkward sort of kiss, with clanging teeth and no elegance. Aziraphale felt everything that Crowley poured into the kiss, the jagged, frantic desperation, the frustration, but also love, so much love, there was no chance he could ever pull away. He was reeling, cast adrift on uncharted seas.

He’d imagined so many ways the conversation could go, but nothing had prepared him for this.

He’d imagined, so many more times, what kissing Crowley might be like, but nothing had prepared him for this. It was so much better and so much worse than anything he could ever have imagined.

Aziraphale allowed himself a moment of indulgence, letting his fluttering hands come to rest on Crowley’s shoulders, pulling him closer and falling into the kiss. Should he be doing this? Should he push Crowley away? It was over before he knew what to think about it. Crowley released him as quickly as he’d begun.

‘There’s always a choice,’ said Crowley, breathless, his eyes a golden blaze. ‘Choose us.’

Aziraphale faltered: it would be easy, so easy, to acquiesce. To say yes. To pull Crowley into his arms and kiss him again, and kiss him, and kiss him. They could hold hands while they drank champagne at the Ritz. Drive all the way to Alpha Centauri if that’s what made Crowley happy. He could tell Crowley he loved him once, twice, a hundred times a day, a thousand declarations to make up for all the times he’d foolishly pushed Crowley away.

And then what? Run from Heaven and Hell until they were erased from existence? Watch the world burn, and them with it, powerless to act? Wait for Hell to take their revenge, dragging Crowley back one last time and leaving Aziraphale with eternity to regret that Crowley was suffering once again because Aziraphale had been too weak and too selfish to protect him?

No, not anymore. He was a Guardian. He would keep Crowley safe.

Aziraphale gave the signal with a click of his fingers. Michael and Uriel appeared as ordered. Standing either side of Crowley they bound his arms in strings of golden light, holding him before Crowley had a chance to resist.

Crowley yelled, and tried to shake them off, but it was already too late. Aziraphale activated the miracle blocker as soon as he started struggling. Strange, he’d pondered many times over the years if it was possible to add some nuance to the miracle blocker, so that it worked only infernal miracles or some other limitation; turned out Aziraphale simply had to ask it nicely to block Crowley’s miracles alone.

‘Angel! Aziraphale what… argh,’ Crowley struggled uselessly, kicking out at Michael and Uriel. They were unmoved. ‘What the fuck?’

‘I’m sorry that it had to come to this,’ said Aziraphale, aiming for authoritative but suspecting he’d hit petulant. His throat felt tight. ‘But it really is for the best.’

‘No! Nonononononono. Aziraphale!’ Crowley must’ve known it was pointless, but he tugged and thrashed against the Heavenly restraints anyway, grunting like a caged beast. Then he stopped, suddenly, as though hit by realisation, and stared at Aziraphale. ‘Angel, what did they do? Whatever it is, whatever they’ve threatened you with, we can deal with it. Just, ugh, call off the Chuckle Brothers and we’ll sort this out. You and me.’

Uriel groaned. ‘You sure he’s worth all this trouble?’

‘Quite sure,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Crowley did more good as a demon than any of the archangels in Heaven.’

‘We’re archangels,’ said Michael, sniffing. ‘And we’re right here.’

Aziraphale regarded her coolly. ‘I’m quite aware.’

‘Right, enough celestial office banter. Angel, c’mon. Tell them to let me go.’ Crowley was sneering, but there was an unspoken plea in the way he looked at Aziraphale, hopeful and trusting in spite of everything.

‘No,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Whatever you - or anyone else - has to say about it, you are coming back to Heaven.’

‘NO!’ repeated Crowley, furious now. ‘No. After all this time… six thousand years. Everything we’ve done, everything you said. Us. You are not giving all of that up for a fucking promotion.’

‘A promotion? Oh, my dear Crowley, no.’

Crowley’s expression was wild, more… well, more demonic than Aziraphale had ever seen him. His mouth was twisted into a rictal snare. High spots of colour illuminated his cheeks. His hair was a mess. His eyes blazed amber, red rimmed, and wet.

Aziraphale reached out and brushed a fallen lock of hair back off Crowley's face, hating the way Crowley recoiled from his touch. He put his hands back behind his back.

‘You must know,’ he said softly. ‘I will do anything, anything at all, to make sure that Hell never gets its filthy claws into you ever again.’

Quickly, he stepped back and nodded to Michael. At once she and Uriel were gone, taking Crowley with them, his final outraged howl cut short as he vanished.

The bookshop seemed so quiet without him, curiously empty. Aziraphale looked around one last time, wondering how his home of over two centuries had gone from sanctuary, to battleground, to mausoleum in less than a day. He’d wanted Crowley to be safe here. He’d thrown a Ball to show Crowley he was loved here. And now…

It was done now, no going back. Aziraphale straightened his tie, dried his eyes, and took a deep breath before stepping outside. He handed the keys and a letter containing further instructions to the scrivener angel waiting outside ready to mind the bookshop for him. Take over, really; Aziraphale didn’t suppose he could ever bear to return. Not now.

Crowley’s safe, he reminded himself as he walked towards the celestial elevator on unsteady feet. Furious, hurt, and betrayed but ultimately out of Hell’s reach at last. Aziraphale could bear the pain of losing Crowley’s friendship, his love, for that.

Perhaps, in spite of everything, he’d be more than safe. Perhaps Crowley would be happy again in Heaven. Free from the dictates of Hell to corrupt and destroy, able to revel in his joy at Creation once again, he wouldn’t have to hide his goodness, his kind heart. Do good without making excuses for it. He’ll be reconciled with the Almighty, and perhaps Her love would heal and comfort Crowley as Aziraphale’s never could.

Perhaps, in time, he’d even find a way to offer the forgiveness that Aziraphale knew he didn’t deserve.

---

1. Otherwise known as fly cemetery, because Aziraphale also felt he deserved his little joke. return to text

2. Between Coventry and Northampton. Close enough. return to text

3. They probably couldn’t spell it either, but then, neither could Shax. return to text

4. Obviously Aziraphale hadn’t heard of Baby Shark and assumed Crowley was referring to the cries of a deep-sea infant, which just goes to show that a stubborn refusal to engage with popular culture has its advantages. return to text