Happy Holidays, kirathaune!

[goe_mod]

A gift for kirathaune. I hope I did your prompt justice. Enjoy your gift. :)

Summary: New Year’s Eve, 1988. Aziraphale attends the annual charity ball for the Strike a Prose foundation as an honoured guest, and is pleasantly surprised to run into Crowley. Just as the evening begins to drift into exciting yet unfamiliar territory, Gabriel shows up and assigns Aziraphale a time-sensitive blessing.

How can Aziraphale keep Crowley safe from the knowledge that they’d almost been caught together while he also tries to find the target of his blessing? Why is it proving to be so difficult to find one particular human?

Most importantly, why is Crowley being so charming, flattering, and hands-on tonight?

Rating: T for mild language

talk to me of things to come

December 31^st, 1988
London
6:00 PM

Aziraphale, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate, absolutely loves parties.

He also loves charity.

That’s why, earlier this year, when the Strike a Prose Foundation had sent him an invitation to attend their New Year’s Eve charity ball—with honoured guest status, too, as he was one of their highest-donating patrons—Aziraphale had immediately penned his response and had it in the post within the hour.

Aziraphale has been a patron of the Strike a Pose Foundation since its inception in 1972. The organisation’s mission is to spread literacy across the globe, and Aziraphale holds that mission near and dear to his bibliophilic heart. He has a sizable sum in his accounts just idly building interest; several centuries of running a business without needing to spend any of the earnings on things like utilities or taxes has left him with heavy purses and nothing to lighten the load with.

Now, New Year’s Eve has arrived, and Aziraphale strolls into the ballroom of a 5-star hotel, all checked in and brimming with excited energy. With pep in his step and a smile of delight on his face, the angel begins his rounds.

The ballroom is immaculately decorated in black and gold, the grazing buffet of canapés is lavish and brimming with beautifully crafted nibbles, and a man plays tasteful music on a grand piano near the stage. The ballroom is full of other guests, all dressed to the nines and mingling amongst themselves, drinks in their hands and greetings on their lips.

Aziraphale begins to make a beeline for the canapés, his priorities already firmly established, but a voice grabs his attention halfway there.

“Mr. Fell! How marvellous to see you again!”

“Ah, Mrs. Woodcock, it is a pleasure to see you as well,” Aziraphale says once he finds the source of the voice.

Mrs. Woodcock is a woman dancing the line between middle-aged and elderly, but she presents herself with the flawless cosmetics and fanciful furs of the young and wealthy. As she walks over to Aziraphale from a few feet away, he wonders how she manages to float around so majestically on such tall heels.

“It’s been too long since we last saw each other,” Mrs. Woodcock says as she approaches, tone as refined as her attire, and they exchange a kiss to the air above each cheek in greeting. “Tell me, how is your bookshop doing?”

“Quite well,” Aziraphale responds giddily. “I recently acquired a complete set of Defoe’s Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, all first editions!”

“Dear, you add more books to your collection than you sell,” Mrs. Woodcock teases, and Aziraphale has never been able to tell if she is truly making fun of him or not. “You’re practically running a library.”

“A library suggests I actually let people read the books,” Aziraphale stage-whispers, and they both share a titter of amusement.

“I must introduce you to an acquaintance of mine,” Mrs. Woodcock says. “He’s the CEO of a nonprofit that specialises in restoring old texts for display at museums and such. That’s right up your alley, yes? Oh, where has that young man gone off to?”

Mrs. Woodcock cranes her neck to look around the room. Aziraphale does the same, though he’s unsure who or what he’s looking for. He takes in the crowd of socialites and VIPs chatting and drinking merrily, and his eyes linger on the spread of canapés that are so close yet so far away. He’s wondering how he can manage to slip away from Mrs. Woodcock to grab one of the delightfully arranged stuffed dates when he feels it.

Something behind him, a wash of energy that raises the hair on his arms and stings his nose like a whiff of cayenne. It feels like a bolt of lightning tenderly caressing his spine, dangerous yet lovely.

Something familiar.

Something infernal.

Aziraphale spins on his heel, eyes scanning the crowd hurriedly, looking for the source. It doesn’t take long to spot the shock of red hair in the middle of the room.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, half a whisper, half a sigh.

Anthony J. Crowley, former Serpent of Eden, stands next to a well-known author that Aziraphale recognises as Jared Whitman, who just so happens to also be a well-known womaniser. He doesn’t spare Whitman a second thought as all of his attention is set on Crowley. The demon talks to Jared with sweeping motions of his hands and a charming smirk, and Whitman looks absolutely entranced by Crowley’s words.

Crowley is dressed sharply in an all-black suit, the only pop of colour a blood-red tie secured around his neck, slim waist accented by the feminine cut. His hair is tousled in a casually messy style that is all the rage these days, and Aziraphale can see the glint of an expensive watch on his wrist and the sway of an earring dangling from one of his ears.

It only takes a few seconds, enough to count on one hand, before Crowley’s smirk drops and he pauses mid-sentence. Then, with a twist of his head, he is looking straight at Aziraphale. Even through the darkness of his glasses, Aziraphale can feel the demon’s gaze on him.

The angel freezes, mentally chastising his corporeal body’s chemistry for sending signals to his knees, turning them to gelatine. He doesn’t enjoy the clamminess of his palms or the beading of sweat at his hairline either.

He’s nervous.

He’s been nervous since 1941.

Crowley is the last being he’d expected to run into at this event. For starters, it’s been almost two years since the last time Aziraphale had seen the demon. Once the orders had come in for Crowley to report to the USSR on a long-term mission, the demon had visited the bookshop to let him know in person.

That exchange had been full of unspoken tension. Since the evening Aziraphale had handed Crowley a thermos of holy water, they hadn’t been apart for more than a few days at a time. While they weren’t spending every day in each other’s company, they could at least always tell if the other was in the city.

Aziraphale hasn’t felt Crowley’s presence in twenty-one months.

Crowley is grinning now, saying two words to the author at his side and giving him a single pat on the back before he’s sauntering across the room in Aziraphale’s direction like a snake hunting prey.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley greets warmly when he’s within hearing distance, wolfish grin intact. “Like the suit, it’s definitely your colour.”

Aziraphale feels the tips of his ears warm. He’s gone for a midnight blue ensemble this year, significantly darker than his normal shades of cream and beige, but the yellow tartan bow tie at his collar brightens the outfit. He tries to hold back a smile threatening to break free at the compliment, but the corners of his mouth quiver just a bit anyway.

“My tailor did a magnificent job,” Aziraphale manages to say evenly, tugging at the end of his waistcoat. “The cut is exactly the same as another suit I have from the 1870s, which is becoming exceedingly rare to find these days.”

“A shame.” Crowley’s tone indicates it is in no way or shape actually a shame that fashion over a century old is not easy to find.

“My, my, Mr. Fell, will you introduce me to your handsome friend here?” Oh, Aziraphale had completely forgotten about Mrs. Woodcock. Now, she’s at his side, already extending her fingers to Crowley.

“Oh, we’re not—”

“Anthony J. Crowley, madam,” Crowley interrupts quickly, politely taking Mrs. Woodcock’s fingers with his, flashing her a brilliant smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Eileen Woodcock. Charmed.” Mrs. Woodcock lets Crowley shake her fingers delicately, smiling coquettishly when she pulls her hand back. Aziraphale doesn’t like that smile. “How do you know my esteemed bookseller friend, Mr. Fell, here?”

“Why, I’m his oldest friend.” Crowley’s voice is syrupy sweet and laced with amusement. He looks overly pleased with himself when he slaps a hand down on Aziraphale’s shoulder in a show of familiarity. “We’ve known each other for what feels like aeons.”

Aziraphale doesn’t immediately refute Crowley’s claim, the hand on his shoulder seeming to weigh down his tongue. Instead, he smiles weakly as he fidgets with the ends of his sleeves.

“How marvellous! Mr. Fell, where have you been hiding such charming company?” Mrs. Woodcock is practically batting her eyelashes at Crowley.

“You hear that, Aziraphale. I’m charming.” Crowley looks like the cat that got the cream, twisting to direct his grin at Aziraphale, tilting his head down to peer at the angel over his dark glasses with mischief in those snake eyes.

Well.

“Charming, indeed,” Aziraphale says, unimpressed. “Mrs. Woodcock, weren’t you going to introduce me to an acquaintance of yours? The young CEO? I believe Crowley would be delighted to meet him as well.”

“Yes, of course! However, Ricky seems to have disappeared into the ether, so I fear I must go search for him. Be a darling and wait here, will you?” Mrs. Woodcock is six feet away from them before either can answer, and is completely absorbed into the crowd in the blink of an eye.

“I like her,” Crowley says, looking entirely too pleased.

“When did you get back?” The why didn’t you tell me you were back hangs heavy between the syllables of the angel’s question.

“Three days ago.” Crowley frowns, having the good sense to look at least a little guilty. “Slept for two of them, got assigned a new temptation this morning.”

“Is that why you’re here? At a charity ball for spreading literacy?”

“Yep. M’working.” Crowley tilts his head in the general direction of the author he’d been speaking to just a few moments before.

“I see.” Aziraphale tugs at the end of each of his sleeves, smoothing wrinkles that were never there. “You must be quite busy, then. I shall leave you to it.”

Aziraphale doesn’t want to walk away. Twenty-one months without so much as a postcard from the demon has left a raw, aching feeling in his inconvenient heart, and all Aziraphale wants is to catch up with Crowley over a glass of wine.

But Crowley is already on a new mission, and Aziraphale will not allow himself to interfere. The foundation of their Arrangement centred around allowing the other to operate unhindered, and Aziraphale will not risk Crowley’s safety if Hell decided to check in just for his own selfish desires.

“Trying to get rid of me already, angel?” Crowley gasps in mock offence. Aziraphale feels a pleasant warmth at hearing the moniker for the first time in almost two years.

“I don’t want to see you in trouble if we were to be spotted together.” Aziraphale’s voice is heavy with reluctance, and the angel hides a wince at how obvious he must sound.

“Good thing I’m actually done working for the night, innit?” Crowley is grinning again, all charm and dazzle. “I’m here to party with the book nerds now, and who better to accompany me than the biggest nerd here?”

“Well,” Aziraphale begins hesitantly, though it’s mostly for show. He wonders if Crowley can see the relief in his eyes. “If you’re sure…”

Crowley’s grin drops as he tips his head downward to set golden-yellow eyes on the angel over his glasses. There is something heated—molten—in the way he looks at Aziraphale, and it sets all of Aziraphale’s worries aside.

“Very.”

Oh. Goodness.

Aziraphale clears his throat.

Then, the trance is broken when Crowley slaps his hand down on Aziraphale’s shoulder again, leaning against the angel, giving a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s New Year’s Eve, angel. A night for new beginnings, for tossing pretences in the bin where they belong.” Crowley’s voice is dark and low, close to Aziraphale’s ear, heavy with something they’ve both refused to acknowledge for decades, centuries, millennia. “A night to talk of things to come.”

“Right,” Aziraphale agrees, nodding rapidly, trying to keep the wavering out of his voice. “New beginnings and—all that.”

There’s a small puff of air next to Aziraphale’s ear, a short exhale of amusement, not quite a laugh but more than a sigh.

Then, Crowley pushes himself off Aziraphale’s shoulder, that endearing smirk back in place. Aziraphale fights off a sudden chill creeping down his spine at the loss of contact.

“Wait here,” Crowley says, already turning on his heel. “I’ll get you a drink, you’re entirely too sober for this kind of soirée.”

Crowley gives Aziraphale no time to agree or protest, disappearing into the crowd before the angel can collect his thoughts.

Well, that was something.

Aziraphale does as he’s told, waiting in the same spot Crowley left him, greeting the occasionally familiar passer-by with a bright smile and kind words. All the while, his thoughts are racing.

Crowley’s sudden reappearance after two years is…well, it is welcome. More than welcome. Aziraphale tries not to dwell on how lonely it had felt to sit in his bookshop with a glass of wine and no snarky demon to share it with.

In the past, they’d gone centuries without seeing each other, and it had always been fine. Back then, Aziraphale might have spared a thought or three too many about the demon while they were apart, but Crowley’s absence hadn’t felt like a glaring void in his chest.

Not until 1941.

Something had changed that night, something that Aziraphale is still too afraid to give words to. Something had shifted, highlighting the empty spaces left behind when Crowley was away—the sofa in the back room of the bookshop, the seat next to Aziraphale at the theatre, the bench at St. James Park.

Something had settled after a six-thousand-year uproar, crumbling Aziraphale’s resolve, allowing a thermos of holy water to be taken from shaking fingers, prying words from behind his teeth that brought his innermost fears to the surface.

And now, tonight. Crowley’s charismatic smile, intent heavy in the weight of his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, promises laced in each of his words.

What kind of shift is Crowley trying to make tonight?

Aziraphale realises that he dearly wants to find out.

Aziraphale is waving goodbye to a group of scholars who had their hand in translating some ancient Coptic papyri, wondering what’s taking Crowley so long to return, when a stiffly jovial voice calls from behind him.

“Aziraphale!”

The angel’s blood runs cold.

Aziraphale turns to face the voice, working to keep the terror off of his face.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, trying to mask the shakiness of his tone with something he hopes sounds like a welcome surprise.

The Archangel Gabriel stands before Aziraphale, a wide grin dripping with intimidation plastered on his face, violet eyes pinning Aziraphale in place with their intensity.

“We need to talk.”

7:00 PM

“What was that annoying squawking noise?”

Gabriel grimaces as Aziraphale hurriedly ushers him out of the grand ballroom and into a quiet corridor, away from the prying eyes of curious humans and charming demons.

“Oh, that was, er…it’s called jazz piano, you see, and—”

“It’s much better out here,” Gabriel interrupts, condescending cheer in every word. “No humans. No dying goose noises.”

“…right.” Aziraphale flashes a nervous smile of agreement, his eyes shifting between the door they had walked out of and the archangel in front of him. Does Gabriel know that Crowley is here? Is this where they finally get caught? “To what do I owe the…pleasure, Gabriel?”

“We have an urgent assignment for you.” Gabriel clasps his hands together and grins like he’s giving Aziraphale the greatest news he’s ever heard. “A time-sensitive blessing that absolutely needs to be performed before midnight tonight.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Oh, but I’ve just arrived to the charity ball, you see, and I’m a VIP guest—that means ‘very important person’, by the way—and I’m supposed to give a speech about the importance of literacy in—”

Gabriel sighs and holds up a hand, silencing Aziraphale, expression sombre. “That is very unfortunate, Aziraphale, and I feel for you. You always take on the gruelling tasks no other angel would ever ask for in order to blend in with the humans, and you do it with a smile.”

Aziraphale can’t stop his mouth from hanging open, but Gabriel doesn’t seem to notice.

“However, we must ask you to bear with this unsightly mass gathering of humans until the blessing has been completed. The recipient is in attendance of this…what do you call it?”

“A charity ball.”

“Ah, yes, a cherry bowl.”

Aziraphale does his best not to wince.

“The man you’ll be blessing is at a crossroads, and tonight he will choose the path he will follow for the rest of his life. Without divine intervention, he will spread blasphemy across the planet. However, with a spark of divinity, we can ensure he uses his power and influence to spread the Good Word instead. Sound good?”

“Er, yes?”

“Fantastic! We expect great things from you, Aziraphale.” Gabriel lands a heavy hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and Aziraphale tries not to flinch at how wrong it feels. “Remember, this is extremely time-sensitive. You only have until midnight tonight. Don’t make me regret giving this mission to you.”

Gabriel turns around and begins to walk away, the conversation apparently over. Aziraphale has approximately two seconds to feel relieved before he realises something, calling for Gabriel who is halfway down the corridor, “Er…who am I supposed to be blessing?”

“Pardon?” Gabriel turns around, a look of annoyance on his face as if Aziraphale has just asked a ridiculous question. Then, his face dawns with understanding. “Ah, that’s right, you need to know his name. He goes by F. Gleason. Remember, midnight tonight!”

Gabriel resumes his exit down the hallway, turning down a path that Aziraphale is almost positive only leads to a supply closet. He still can’t help the wave of relief that floods through him when Gabriel disappears out of sight.

They don’t know about Crowley.

Aziraphale looks at the door leading back to the ballroom. Crowley must be looking for him already. He twists his hands together nervously as he thinks of the demon sauntering through the crowd, drinks in his hands, looking bemused as he searches for an absent Aziraphale.

What could have happened if Gabriel had shown up only a few minutes earlier? Or a few minutes later to see an angel and a demon sharing drinks and each other’s company?

Aziraphale frowns. He would leave, the risk too great, if he hadn’t been assigned a blessing. He can’t risk Crowley’s safety. But the demon gets tetchy when Aziraphale talks about Heaven, especially when it’s related to Gabriel. He doesn’t want to ruin the mood of the evening, not after two years without the demon’s company, not when Crowley’s attention has been so…flattering.

Aziraphale sighs. Gabriel is already gone, and the archangels never check in before the mission is meant to be complete. Perhaps they are safe for the night.

Perhaps, Crowley doesn’t even have to know.

7:15 PM

“Oi, Aziraphale, there you are.”

Crowley is standing in the spot Aziraphale had promised to wait for him, a drink in each hand—whiskey for the demon and a lovely glass of port for the angel. Crowley had been looking around the room when Aziraphale had spotted him after returning to the ballroom, a frown pressed deep into his brow above his dark lenses. Upon spotting Aziraphale, Crowley’s face had brightened, and the frown slid into an easy smile.

“Here I am,” Aziraphale confirms with a tight smile of his own, trying to hide the turmoil raging inside of him. Crowley’s unusually casual attitude, Gabriel’s sudden appearance with a last-minute mission, and the overwhelming need to protect Crowley are all working his nerves into a right mess. That’s why when Aziraphale reaches out to take the glass of port from Crowley’s hand, he can’t keep the heat from flooding his face when the demon pulls the glass back towards his shoulder, keeping it out of Aziraphale’s grasp and forcing their bodies into close proximity.

Crowley leans in, a delightfully teasing smirk on his face that Aziraphale would have liked to admire if it wasn’t currently directed at him. Their faces are close, the room is suddenly much too warm, and Aziraphale is frozen in place by Crowley’s serpentine gaze peeking over his dark glasses. Aziraphale forgets he still has a hand in the air, reaching for the glass of port Crowley holds back from him, when Crowley asks in a mischievously dark voice, “Now, angel, where did you run off to?”

Aziraphale swallows nervously.

“Oh, I saw an old acquaintance of mine,” Aziraphale says, and the underlying truth helps keep his voice steady. “They told me about a new project that I couldn’t resist listening to and time got away from me. Apologies, dear boy, for keeping you waiting.”

Crowley arches a brow, taking a moment to let his eyes roam across Aziraphale’s face as if he’s searching for something. It takes a moment, but then Crowley seems satisfied with what he sees, and suddenly he’s pressing the glass of port into Aziraphale’s waiting grasp, their fingers brushing together.

“Apology accepted. No dance required.”

Oh, Aziraphale doesn’t know how much more his nerves could take. He’d been looking forward to this night for months, and the evening had taken an unexpected yet pleasantly welcome turn when Crowley had appeared. Now, he has a mission to complete before the night ends and he has to somehow hide it all from Crowley in order to preserve the good mood of the evening.

And on top of all of that, Aziraphale realises he doesn’t actually know who F. Gleason is.

The second he has a firm grasp on the glass of port, he brings it to his lips and downs the entire serving in one go.

“The port isn’t going to jump out of the glass and run away,” Crowley says with an amused snort when Aziraphale pulls the empty glass from his mouth with a light smack of his lips. “What’s got your knickers in a twist?”

“The state of my knickers is of no concern to you,” Aziraphale replies haughtily.

“Oh, is that so?” Crowley takes a sip of his whiskey, letting his gaze travel from Aziraphale’s face down the length of his body, then back up again. “I’m sure I could tempt you to make them my concern.”

“Angels can’t be tempted.” Aziraphale turns up his nose, giving Crowley a prim look.

“Maybe we should test that theory out again.” Crowley’s debonair grin and suggestive tone make Aziraphale’s heart race.

Is Crowley…no, he couldn’t be. This is not flirting.

Right?

Aziraphale is still trying to come up with a deflective retort when Crowley’s grin suddenly drops. Even though his head doesn’t actually move, Aziraphale can tell that behind his dark glasses, Crowley is tracking something in the distance behind him.

“Ricky! How many years has it been since you’ve joined us for one of these events?”

“I was here last year, Martin.”

“Oh, were you? I was in St. Lucia and unfortunately couldn’t make it to the ball.”

“With your family? Or your mistress?”

“Would you believe me if I told you, it was both?”

Aziraphale can hear the conversation going on somewhere in the crowd behind him, and he’s halfway through turning around to try to see what has caught Crowley’s attention when the demon’s hand lands on his shoulder. Crowley pulls him forward so that they’re facing each other again, then he slides his hand down Aziraphale’s arm, fingers grazing over the back of Aziraphale’s hand before plucking the empty port glass from his fingers.

Aziraphale barely manages to suppress the shiver threatening to run down his spine.

“You need another drink,” Crowley murmurs, dangling the empty glass between them as he sips at his whiskey. “Come with me.”

“I’m quite fine where I am.” Aziraphale would love to follow Crowley around all night, but he also needs to find the human he’s meant to bless as quickly as possible. Someone here must know who Gleason is, and if he could make short work of it without Crowley catching on, then the sooner he could get back to enjoying his evening.

“Come ooonnn,” Crowley whines, tilting his head back dramatically, the earring dangling from one ear glinting in the light. “I only have two hands, so how am I supposed to get you a drink and some of those stuffed dates you love so much?”

“Stuffed dates, you say?” Aziraphale’s interest is fully piqued. He still hasn’t had the opportunity to visit the artfully designed buffet of canapés, and he really does love a good stuffed date. There’s still quite a bit of time before dinner, and the ice sculpture of the muse Calliope towering over a range of chilled seafood has been calling his name since he’d first stepped foot into the ballroom.

“Let’s get you something to nibble on,” Crowley says, and then he’s standing at Aziraphale’s side, holding both his whiskey glass and empty port glass in one hand and letting the other hand hover over the small of Aziraphale’s back. “Wouldn’t want you to get too peckish, nothing good ever happens when you do.”

Crowley guides Aziraphale through the crowd toward the buffet, and the barely-there press of his hand on Aziraphale’s back feels like a white-hot brand through his suit. The crowd parts before them like the Red Sea as they walk, and Aziraphale knows that it’s Crowley’s doing. He thinks it’s rather sweet, and something in his chest does a little flip.

“Wait here for me,” Crowley murmurs directly into Aziraphale’s ear once they’re in front of the lovely spread of canapés. “No wandering off this time, got it?”

“Quite,” Aziraphale says, turning his head to look directly at Crowley, holding his breath when he realises their noses are mere inches apart. Crowley once again lets his gaze travel down the length of Aziraphale’s body, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake before he’s looking back into Aziraphale’s eyes.

“You really do look quite stunning tonight.” Crowley’s voice is just above a whisper now, low and heavy with meaning. “You should wear dark colours more often.”

Aziraphale only nods, not trusting his voice. Crowley smirks, and then he’s walking away, disappearing into the crowd with a last, “Get me some of those little tarts with the caviar and crème fraîche, will you?”

Aziraphale sighs once Crowley is out of sight, letting his eyes rest on the ice sculpture of Calliope in front of him, dual platters of neatly arranged seafood in each of her hands and more at her feet. He picks up an empty plate in front of him, grabs one of the gleaming silver tongs, and begins to load it up.

Lost in thought and mindlessly picking up the first thing his tongs land on with each pass, Aziraphale tries to formulate a plan. Maybe if he whisks away from Crowley for a bit, he can ask some of his many acquaintances who F. Gleason is? What kind of excuse could he give Crowley? Certainly, ‘I need to visit the loo’ wouldn’t work, as he doesn’t even have the internal plumbing needed to visit the loo in the first place. Maybe he can tell Crowley he forgot something at the bookshop? Or better yet, he can ask Crowley to go to the bookshop for him. He’s been in such an accommodating mood this evening.

Aziraphale can’t help but wonder if something had happened while Crowley was away for the last two years. Ever since they both took up residence in London, their shared proximity had been at its closest since the Arrangement had been made. After 1941, that proximity had grown even closer, and they started to enjoy more and more social events together, going to dinner or watching a play without any prior connection to the Arrangement.

They’d just enjoyed each other’s company.

However, Crowley has never been so…hands-on, before tonight. The charming smiles, the flattering compliments, the touching. Aziraphale can’t make rhyme or reason of Crowley’s behaviour, except that maybe the two years apart had changed something. Something had shifted the night of the Blitz, and now something seems like it’s shifting again.

Is this going to be the new normal? Or is Crowley just getting swept up in the mood of the evening?

Should Aziraphale give in to it?

Why is he even considering giving in to it?

Miraculously untouched books among the smouldering remains of a church, the pleading look of a demon as he aimed a rifle in an angel’s direction, the sound of chains rattling to the floor of a dirty dungeon in France while the guillotine sliced the head off another aristocrat outside, the anywhere you want to go as a demon holds a thermos full of holy water.

Aziraphale knows exactly why he’s considering it.

“Mr. Fell, there you are!”

Aziraphale snaps out of his thoughts at the sound of his name, and suddenly Mrs. Woodcock is at his side again, plucking at the spread of nibbles on the table in front of them with her bare fingers instead of the plethora of utensils available.

“Ah, Mrs. Woodcock. Did you manage to find your friend?”

“Was I looking for someone?” Mrs. Woodcock stuffs a giant prawn into her mouth, shell on, and chews thoughtfully. “Oh yes, Ricky! Ricky Gleason, you must meet him.”

“Gleason?” Aziraphale freezes, his full attention on Mrs. Woodcock. “Did you say Gleason?”

“Why, yes, that is his surname after all.” Mrs. Woodcock quirks a brow. “Have you heard of him?”

“Er, yes,” Aziraphale stammers, thinking quickly. Maybe this Ricky Gleason is the man he was meant to bless, or at least some sort of relative. He tries to remember what Mrs. Woodcock had said about him earlier in the evening, but his mind can only recall the charming smile Crowley has been wearing the entire evening, aimed in Aziraphale’s direction. “He’s, er, very influential. I should like to meet him. Would you introduce me to him?”

“Introduce you to whom?” Crowley sidles up behind Aziraphale, close enough to feel his warmth without touching, speaking over Aziraphale’s shoulder. He reaches around Aziraphale’s side, leaning in that much closer, and presses a glass of red wine into the hand not holding a plate full of nibbles.

“Ricky Gleason, Mr. Crowley. Mr. Fell here just said he would love to meet him.” Mrs. Woodcock offers helpfully. “Do you know him?”

“Can’t say that I do,” Crowley responds briskly, then his hand is on Aziraphale’s shoulder, angling their bodies so that they make a V facing the buffet table. “Aziraphale, I saw the most delightful looking snapper crudo at the end of the—”

“Oh, Mr. Fell, there’s Ricky! Ricky dear!” Mrs. Woodcock is loudly calling the man’s name and haphazardly waving her arms high in the air, shamelessly drawing the attention of the guests around them.

Aziraphale ignores Crowley, who has cut off his sentence to glare at Mrs. Woodcock’s obnoxious flailing. Aziraphale, however, looks toward the crowd in the same direction Mrs. Woodcock is facing even though it means turning out of Crowley’s grasp on his shoulder.

“Which one is Ricky Gleason?” Aziraphale asks hurriedly, eyes bouncing between the guests giving them wary glances.

“Over there, in the lavender—ahh!” Mrs. Woodcock, in all her flapping, is suddenly tumbling over as if she’s tripped over nothing. She lands into Aziraphale, bumping into the arm holding the glass of red wine with more force than he’d expect from such a slip of a woman, knocking the glass against his chest and spilling the dark liquid all over the front of his suit.

Aziraphale makes a noise of distress, feeling the wine soak through the layers of his immaculately tailored suit. Mrs. Woodcock clings to his arm for dear life lest she fall face-first to the floor, the tumble knocking her nice updo slightly askew. The sounds of gasps and rushed whispering swirl around them.

“Oh, oh dear,” Mrs. Woodcock cries, using Aziraphale’s arm to right herself up again, and the only thing keeping Aziraphale standing is the firm press of Crowley’s hand between his shoulder blades. “I am so sorry, Mr. Fell. I’m not sure how I lost my balance when I was standing still.”

Aziraphale thinks “standing still” isn’t the exact description of what she was doing, but he’s too busy fretting over his soaked outfit to care.

“Come on, angel,” Crowley says softly, his voice a comforting timbre, reaching over to take the now empty glass of wine out of Aziraphale’s hand to place it on an empty space on the buffet table. “I know a foolproof trick to get that out before it sets, but we need to be quick. Follow me.”

Crowley takes Aziraphale’s free hand in his, clasping the angel’s fingers in a sure grip, and begins leading him away from the clamour with barely a “pardon me” to Mrs. Woodcock. Before Aziraphale can stop his head from spinning from all of the commotion, he’s standing in the empty loo, back against the sinks while Crowley pulls off his glasses, exposing eyes blown almost completely yellow.

Crowley snaps his fingers with a scowl, muttering about keeping nosy humans away. Then, for the first time that evening, the background noise of constant chattering is gone, and they watch each other in the relative silence of the empty toilet for a few tense moments.

Aziraphale doesn’t know where this tension came from. The sudden commotion? The spilt wine? Their relative closeness this entire evening?

Aziraphale swallows thickly.

“The benefit of dark colours,” Crowley says, breaking the silence after a few moments, taking a step closer to Aziraphale in order to drag a finger down the wine-damp lapel of his dark suit jacket, “is that it can hide a stain very well.”

Aziraphale frowns, looking down at his outfit. The midnight blue of his suit is mottled a deep purple where the wine ran down his front, the crisp white shirt and yellow tartan bow tie splattered with dark red stains.

“I’ll never be able to get this out,” Aziraphale sighs, watching as Crowley takes his lapel between his forefinger and thumb.

“You’re an angel,” Crowley replies, voice low. “You can miracle the stains out.”

“But I’ll always know it’s there.” They’ve had this conversation many times over the last six thousand years, and they will again for as long as there is left before Armageddon. Aziraphale complains about some blemish or other, Crowley reminds him he has the power to fix said blemish with a mere thought, and Aziraphale pouts that if he does it himself, he will always know the blemish was there, somewhere underneath.

That’s why it isn’t a surprise when Crowley miracles the wine off of his clothing, leaving his suit as pristine as it was the day that he bought it. No, the surprise comes from how close Crowley steps into Aziraphale’s space when he performs the miracle, the drag of Crowley’s fingers against the fabric like he’s erasing the stains with his fingertips. It comes from how those fingers linger on Aziraphale’s chest, the heaviness of Crowley’s perfect yellow gaze pinning Aziraphale in place.

When did it get so warm in here?

“There. All gone.” Crowley doesn’t break his gaze or remove his fingers. Aziraphale doesn’t have the capability to form words at the moment, so he just nods rapidly. It causes something at his side to rattle, which catches Crowley’s attention. He looks toward the source of the noise, and the smirk finally returns to his face. “Really, Aziraphale? Oysters?”

That’s when Aziraphale finally realises he’s still holding the plate he’d loaded with nibbles in his hand, and when he looks in the same direction, he sees that the plate is filled with nothing but oysters.

“Oh, I, hm…” Aziraphale stammers, no recollection of actually putting the oysters on the plate as he’d been so lost in thought at the time. “Those aren’t stuffed dates, are they?”

“Nor are they little tarts with caviar and crème fraîche,” Crowley says with a throaty chuckle. “Maybe they’re as good as the ones we tried in Rome?”

“Nothing has been as good as those oysters,” Aziraphale breathes, and then they’re looking at each other again.

“Nothing?” Crowley cocks a brow, the playfulness from earlier filtering back into his voice. “Does that mean sharing oysters with me is the…best you’ve ever had?” The suggestion hangs in the air between them.

Aziraphale finds himself stammering again, the brain that powers his corporeal body firing off in too many directions, doing nothing effective except letting a flush colour his face. Crowley is so, so close, and he still hasn’t removed his hand from Aziraphale’s suit. The plate in his hand rattles slightly as his hand trembles.

Crowley smirks, and Aziraphale panics.

“I need you to help me find Ricky Gleason,” Aziraphale blurts out, already regretting the words when Crowley finally takes a step back, the smirk dropping from his face as quickly as his fingers drop from Aziraphale’s suit.

“What for?” Crowley is frowning darkly, his words laced with something Aziraphale doesn’t want to identify.

Crowley? Jealous? Impossible.

“He has a first edition I’ve been trying to find for decades,” Aziraphale says in a rush, the lie bitter on his tongue. “I must try to get him to sell it to me before the night ends. That’s why Mrs. Woodcock was trying to introduce me to him, but I don’t actually know what he looks like.”

Crowley’s eyes narrow, eyeing the angel like he’s waiting for him to change his story, but Aziraphale doesn’t falter. If he wants the evening to get back to the way it was as quickly as possible, he’s going to need help. Crowley has a knack for finding people, and if they work together, then they can get back to the wonderful evening they’d been enjoying as quickly as possible.

“I’d really appreciate your help,” Aziraphale says quietly, looking down at his shoes. He doesn’t know if the discomfort he feels comes from Crowley’s reaction to the ask, or from the underlying feeling of guilt for not telling Crowley about the blessing.

“I’ll help you, angel,” Crowley finally relents, and Aziraphale looks back up at him just as he’s sliding his dark glasses back into place and taking a couple of steps back. “All you gotta do is ask.”

“Oh, thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale’s smile is genuine and warm, and Crowley lets the corner of his mouth do the equivalent of a half-shrug.

“How do we find this bloke?” Crowley asks with a sniff, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Well, I heard he’s wearing lavender…”

9:00 PM

They are never going to find this bloke.

How hard can it possibly be to find one man at an event? There can’t be more than a few hundred people in attendance, surely it shouldn’t be too difficult?

Wrong.

Aziraphale hadn’t been able to find Mrs. Woodcock again, and she is his biggest lead. He’d been unsure if she’d left the venue entirely after the wine incident or if Crowley’s chaotic idea of “helping” had been the problem.

One after another, Crowley had steered Aziraphale towards a person dressed in some shade of purple—an aubergine dress, a fuchsia shawl, a plum shirt—and none of them had been remotely close to what Aziraphale would deem as lavender. In fact, Aziraphale hadn’t spotted a single article of lavender clothing in the entire time he’d been at the ball, and he was beginning to suspect that Mrs. Woodcock didn’t actually know what the colour lavender actually looked like.

It didn’t help when Crowley would pull him away before he could ask anyone if they knew who Ricky Gleason was, ushering him to the next purple-hued target. At one point, they’d ended up outside in the freezing night air, asking a waiter with a mauve cummerbund, who was just trying to enjoy his break, if he went by Gleason.

Back inside and feeling a tad defeated at having wasted over an hour with nothing to show for it, Aziraphale stands close to the arrangement of well-decorated tables in front of the main stage, watching the showrunners prepare for the dinner and award ceremony soon to begin, polishing off a third glass of mediocre white wine. Crowley is off chasing a lead on a woman wearing maroon trousers, and Aziraphale doesn’t have the energy to tell him once again that women weren’t normally named “Ricky” and that Mrs. Woodcock had explicitly stated that Ricky Gleason was a man.

Well, at least Crowley is trying, and Aziraphale can’t be frustrated with him for that.

“Frederick!” A voice behind him calls out, close enough to be too loud for Aziraphale’s preference. He tries to ignore it. “There you are, where have you been?”

“I had to step out and make a phone call.” The response is monotone, distracted. It’s the same voice Aziraphale had heard earlier asking about family and mistresses in St. Lucia.

“Wanda?” The first voice asks.

“Yeah. She has Jenny tonight. I wanted to wish them a Happy New Year.”

“Did she pick up?”

“…no.”

“Shit, Ricky, that’s tough.”

Aziraphale snaps to attention, spinning on his heel to try and find the voice. Finally, he spots two men standing next to each other, both appearing to be in their mid-thirties. The taller of the two, with a head of sandy-brown hair and dark eyes, is wearing a lavender-coloured tie.

Ricky Gleason. Frederick Gleason.

This was the man Aziraphale was meant to bless before midnight.

Aziraphale sets his wine glass down on an empty table, ready to make his way toward the man who goes by Ricky Gleason in familiar company, when the lights suddenly dim. A woman on the stage announces that dinner is set to begin, and the guests begin to migrate toward the tables set with gold dinnerware atop black tablecloths.

Aziraphale keeps his eyes on the lavender tie, trying to track him through the thickening crowd. He’s about to start walking in the man’s direction, a random blessing on his tongue just to have the thing over with already, when his view is blocked by a familiar blood-red tie.

“Dinner’s starting,” Crowley says, seeming to have appeared from the ether. “I heard they’re serving some sort of lamb dish. You like lamb.”

Aziraphale gapes like a fish, trying to look around Crowley for the lavender tie. Gleason is gone, though, having disappeared into the darkness of the now dimly lit venue and the crowd making their way to their assigned seats. He’s lost Gleason again.

“Angel?” Crowley sounds confused, almost worried. Aziraphale looks back at him, offering an apologetic smile at the sight of his creased brow.

“You’re right,” he says, patting Crowley on the arm. “I do like lamb.”

That’s how, thirty minutes later, Aziraphale finds himself seated at a table directly in front of the stage, flanked on one side by Mrs. Woodcock, who had finally reappeared for the evening. She’d managed to fix her nice updo and get three glasses of merlot down since he last saw her. Crowley sits on Aziraphale’s other side, having waved his fingers to ensure the name on the card next to his read ‘Anthony J. Crowley’ instead of some author Crowley kept calling ‘Barry Hatchet’, whom Aziraphale had never heard of.

A woman stands on the stage behind a podium, a microphone carrying her voice across the ballroom as she announces the start of the awards ceremony while dinner commences. The ballroom lights have been dimmed while the stage is brightly lit, and each guest has a steaming plate of braised lamb or vegetable pasta in front of them, depending on their dietary preferences.

Aziraphale has both, though he had only specified the lamb on his invitation. He eyes Crowley at this, and the demon only gives him a sly smirk as he takes a pull from a glass of wine. Aziraphale can feel his face heat up at the blatant admission, and he busies himself with tucking into the lamb to distract himself from the weight of Crowley’s gaze.

While the ceremony continues and the guests split their attention between their dinners and the stage, Aziraphale sweeps his eyes across the tables, trying to find Ricky Gleason. He can’t make out all of the name cards in the dim lighting, but he does manage to spot the man Gleason had been conversing with before dinner had started. There’s also an empty chair next to him.

Aziraphale sighs inwardly as he continues to glance around the room, trying to see if a lavender tie stands out in the sea of people while fighting off an overwhelming sense of unease at the entire situation. How could finding one human in a controlled environment be so difficult?

“What’s got you distracted?”

Aziraphale, who had definitely been distracted, tries not to startle at the warmth of Crowley’s breath suddenly against his ear.

“I’m not distracted,” Aziraphale says, turning back to his meal, purposefully avoiding looking at Crowley, who is now leaning in close from his seat, an elbow propped on the table next to Aziraphale’s hand and his other arm wrapped around the back of Aziraphale’s chair. If Aziraphale moves just a couple of inches to the side, he’ll be flush with Crowley’s front.

“Lying isn’t very harps and halos of you,” Crowley huffs, amused.

“You know I don’t have a harp.”

“You know that’s not the point.”

Aziraphale sighs, setting his cutlery down. Finally, he looks over to Crowley, who is peering at him over his dark glasses. Aziraphale has seen his eyes more times this evening than he has in almost half a century, and they never cease to capture the unnecessary breath from his lungs. Only Crowley can make the eyes of a snake look so enchanting when they’re directed at Aziraphale with such genuine concern.

“I’ve found Gleason, but I’m afraid he might have left,” Aziraphale admits solemnly. Crowley lifts an unimpressed brow, and Aziraphale remembers the story he’d fabricated in the loo. “I was really hoping to get that first edition tonight. The man is nearly impossible to pin down, even for a quick chat.”

Crowley’s mouth sets into a moue of distaste at the mention of the other man, his posture going tense, his jaw clenching tightly. It all disappears just as quickly as it had set in, replaced by an air of nonchalance, but his reaction burns itself into Aziraphale’s memory.

Crowley, it seems, doesn’t like Aziraphale mentioning Ricky Gleason. Paired together with the demon’s reaction in the toilet, the constant proximity throughout the evening, the endearing smiles and suggestive words…well, Aziraphale knows his arithmetic quite well, but he refuses to add Crowley’s behaviour up into something that makes any actual sense.

It’s for Crowley’s sake, he tries to remind himself. It’s always been for Crowley’s sake.

“Don’t worry too much about it,” Crowley murmurs, laying a comforting hand on Aziraphale’s arm. “We’ll get you your first edition before the night is done, I promise you that.”

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says with a small smile of appreciation, hoping that Crowley can see how truly grateful he is for the demon’s help.

“Shut up and eat your dinner.” Crowley leans back into his own seat, and the air around Aziraphale seems colder.

Aziraphale does just that after taking a few extra seconds to watch Crowley slouch into his chair, crossing his ankle over his knee and throwing his arm across the back in a blatant display of well-crafted insouciance. When Crowley just gestures towards Aziraphale’s dinner with his chin and a raised brow, Aziraphale smiles once more and turns back to his plate.

The rest of the awards ceremony passes by in relative peace as each recipient takes the stage and gives their thanks, describing the project they worked on or the organisation they started. Aziraphale lets himself get caught up in the speeches and applause, truly proud of the accomplishments these humans have made in their unfortunately short lifetimes.

Every time he sneaks a glance over at Crowley, the demon’s gaze is set on him instead of the stage, though his lackadaisical sprawl over the chair suggests he might be sleeping instead. Aziraphale smiles to himself each time.

The last award is announced, a community award in honour of an exemplary contributing member of the Strike a Prose foundation, and A. Z. Fell is finally called to the stage to accept his award.

With one last glance at the slouching demon, who mouths, “Get along, then,” when Aziraphale takes a few extra seconds to stand up from his seat, Aziraphale makes his way to the stage.

Aziraphale accepts the shiny plaque with his name engraved on it, shakes the hand of the woman leading the ceremony, and begins the speech he’d had prepared for weeks now. He speaks of his love for books, his love for telling others about books, and his desire to see the Strike a Prose foundation succeed in its goal to spread literacy across the globe. He speaks of how close the foundation has been to his heart since its inception, how much he enjoys volunteering, and how he will be supporting the foundation until they get tired of him—which gets a titter out of the audience, as he had hoped.

As he speaks, Aziraphale keeps an eye on the crowd, the differences in lighting posing no obstacle to an ethereal creature such as himself. He moves his gaze from table to table, the words flowing flawlessly from his memory as he uses this opportunity to search for Ricky Gleason, his view unimpeded from this vantage point. Then, his eyes land on the table he’d been sitting at.

Where Crowley sits.

Crowley, who is now sitting up tall in his chair, back almost ramrod straight.

Crowley, whose gaze is locked onto Aziraphale, unwavering.

Crowley, who when Aziraphale finishes his speech without breaking eye contact with the demon, claps for him with the rest of the audience, giving him a little nod of acknowledgement.

Crowley, who is smiling at him like Aziraphale has just hung the moon.

Something warm and buoyant rises in Aziraphale’s chest, a feeling he’s been trying to tamp down for nearly half a century, a feeling that is wonderful and beautiful and terrifying. This time, he doesn’t resist, and he doesn’t fight off the affection in the smile he returns back to Crowley either.

That’s when it catches his attention from the corner of his eye—the flash of a lavender tie.

Gleason.

Aziraphale glances in Gleason’s direction. He is making his way to an empty seat at the table next to the man he’d been speaking to earlier, a dark coat draped over his arm. He whispers something into the man’s ear, and the man pats Gleason’s arm in what looks like to be a farewell. Then, Gleason hurriedly makes his way toward the exit.

Aziraphale would swear if he were so inclined.

Everything happens within a matter of seconds, and before he knows it, Aziraphale is being guided off the side of the stage by a cheery volunteer while an announcement about champagne being served is made to the crowd. He’s ushered to a section of the ballroom partitioned off from the rest of the room by flimsy barriers where a photographer awaits to take his picture.

He needs to catch up to Gleason. If Gleason leaves the hotel and gets onto the busy streets of London on New Year’s Eve, Aziraphale will never be able to find him. He can’t fail this mission, not if he wants to keep Gabriel off his trail.

Not if he wants to keep Crowley safe.

There’s the flash of a bulb, the photographer’s antique-looking camera going off, but Aziraphale barely notices. Instead, he makes a decision, and before the photographer can stop him—all right, can we take one where you’re looking into the camera? Hello? Sir, are you all ri…where is he going?—Aziraphale makes a break for the back exit nearby.

If he can find Gleason before he exits the building, the evening may be salvaged.

Aziraphale makes his way out of the ballroom through the back exit, clutching his plaque tightly in one hand as he makes his way down the narrow corridor toward the entrance of the building. Gleason couldn’t have possibly gotten too far, could he?

I’m sorry, Crowley, but I’ll be back in a jiffy, I promise.

“Aziraphale.”

Speak of the devil.

Aziraphale has just rounded a corner when he’s greeted with a familiar blood-red tie, and he startles, skidding to a stop before he can collide with its owner, holding the plaque in front of him like a shield.

Crowley stands before him, and Aziraphale knows that Crowley is peering down his nose at him, even if the demon’s eyes are completely hidden by the dark glasses this time. Crowley stands firm and unmoving, effectively blocking Aziraphale’s way forward.

He isn’t smiling anymore, either.

“Where are you off to?” Crowley’s voice, while inquisitive, is darkly so, as if he knows the answer to the question already but wants Aziraphale to confirm it.

“I, well—” Aziraphale can’t help but stammer, unsure of how Crowley not only saw him sneak out the back exit, but how he managed to block Aziraphale’s path so quickly. He presses the plaque against his chest, as if it could protect him from being found out. “My plaque, you see—it’s beautiful, and I didn’t want to hold on to it for the rest of the evening for fear it might be damaged. You know how humans get when they’ve been drinking. I’m taking it back to the coatroom to have it checked.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything immediately. He’s always been a few inches taller than Aziraphale, but at this moment, he is practically looming, and something in the back of Aziraphale’s head is telling him that something is wrong.

“I can hold it for you,” Crowley says, and reaches out one hand, palm up expectantly.

“No, er, I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that.”

“I’m offering.” This time, Crowley does smile, but it’s sharp and predatory with too many teeth.

“Oh, but, my dear,” Aziraphale breathes, thoughts running a mile a minute, trying to find the best way to extricate himself from this situation. He’ll worry about Crowley’s sudden change in behaviour later. “You only have two hands, as you said. How will you be able to get both of us some champagne to toast the new year with if you’re holding a plaque?”

Crowley’s smile falters.

“Is that what you want, angel?” Crowley takes a step forward, and Aziraphale feels like a mouse about to be fed to a snake. “To toast champagne with me?”

Why did that sound like some sort of challenge?

“I do,” Aziraphale says, offering a kind smile, which is easy to do because he is telling the truth. Aziraphale wants nothing more than to count down the seconds until 1989, standing next to Crowley with a flute of champagne, smiling and laughing with his oldest friend. “I would like that very much.”

Crowley's nostrils flare out on his next exhale.

“Then, off to the coatroom with you,” Crowley says after a few long seconds, and he steps to the side, unblocking Aziraphale’s way. “I’ll get us that champagne while you’re away.”

“Thank you, my dear!” Aziraphale is halfway down the corridor before his sentence is finished, hoping he doesn’t look too desperate to get away. But if there is any chance that Ricky Gleason still hasn’t left the building, he needs to make haste.

“Aziraphale!”

It’s Crowley calling his name, and Aziraphale looks over his shoulder, slowing his pace but not coming to a complete stop. Crowley’s expression is bordering on forlorn.

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

All Aziraphale can do is nod.

10:25 PM

A church.

Thirty minutes of huddling in his coat in the freezing night air, weaving and bobbing through crowded streets full of Londoners getting ready for the final countdown of the year, and Aziraphale has tailed the ever-elusive Ricky Gleason to a church.

Technically, Gleason is standing outside of a telephone box in front of the business building adjacent to the church, smoking a cigarette and looking at the public phone like it personally offended him—but that’s irrelevant.

Crowley is going to be so cross with him.

From across the road, just far enough to evade Gleason’s notice, Aziraphale watches as the man takes drag after drag of the cigarette until he’s practically burning through the filter, before he stomps it out on the concrete below and immediately lights up another one.

Aziraphale doesn’t know this man’s story. He doesn’t know why Ricky Gleason has spent the entire evening speaking in a defeated, monotone voice and looking like he hasn’t slept in a week. He doesn’t know why this man is standing at some sort of crossroads, or why Heaven is so concerned with saving his soul. Aziraphale doesn’t have an inkling about Ricky’s history—the family he grew up with, the friends he made along the way, the people he has hurt, the people who have hurt him.

What he does know, though, is that when the background noise of hundreds of other human beings is removed from the picture and Ricky Gleason smokes a cigarette outside of a telephone box while glaring at said box, Aziraphale can finally feel them.

The love, and the heartache.

Ricky Gleason is living with a broken heart.

Aziraphale watches as the second cigarette burns away, and this time after Gleason stomps it out on the concrete, he wrenches open the telephone box and steps inside.

He makes a phone call.

Despite the distance between them, Aziraphale can hear every ring through the receiver, every nervous breath out of Ricky’s mouth.

“You’ve reached the residence of Wanda Daniels, please leave your name, number, and a message after the tone, and I will return your call as soon as I can.” Beep.

Ricky inhales deeply.

“Hey, Wanda,” Frederick Gleason begins on the exhale, and Aziraphale can hear the strain of trying to keep a steady voice. “It’s me again. I’m sorry I missed you, I really wanted to wish you and Jenny a Happy New Year.”

A long pause.

“You have every right to ignore me, you know. I get it. I was a shit husband, a shittier father. I put money before my family, thinking I was giving you two the world. But I wasn’t, huh? I was just throwing money in both of your faces when you asked for anything from me, even when it was just for my time.”

Frederick inhales, exhales; inhales again.

“I said some crappy things to you when you left. Really shitty stuff. I want to say that I didn’t mean them, but I think I did—back then, I mean. That was almost a year ago, wasn’t it? Since then, I’ve been seeing a counsellor, you know. They got me on some pills that are kind of helping too, but the counsellor is the one who’s helped the most. He’s helped me see some of the shit I was doing, is helping me find ways to…change.

“I stopped drinking.”

Frederick sniffs, clears his throat, begins again.

“Three months sober. Can you believe it? I…I’m sorry, I’m probably taking up all the space on the ansaphone. I just…Wanda, I’m sorry. I hope you know that. After all of this, that’s all I really want you to know. I want to see you again, to see Jenny again. I want to talk. I want to tell you everything I’ve learned in counselling. But you don’t owe me that, I know that now.

“I’m, er, I’m outside the church. You know the one—where we first saw each other in primary school. I think I need to have a few words with God, you know. Maybe He’ll listen to me this time. I got a lot to say to Him, after all. Look, I know this is, er, untoward, but if you hear this before the end of the night, I’ll be here. Just…just know that. I’m…sorry, again.

“Happy New Year, dove.”

Ah.

Aziraphale watches as Ricky hangs up the phone and steps out from the box, his breath clouding on the cold air as he sighs. Ricky turns in the direction of the church, eyeing the high walls surrounding it, before walking in that direction and disappearing around the corner of the entrance as he heads inside.

Aziraphale knows what he must do.

Then, he can get back to Crowley before the year comes to an end. If he pleads enough with the demon, maybe Crowley will forgive him quickly and they can enjoy that champagne together as the clock winds down to midnight. The thought has him smiling at himself, and it gets his feet moving to cross the roadway and heading toward the church entrance himself.

Except, just as Aziraphale steps onto the pavement, someone is rounding the corner of the church’s entrance, appearing from behind the church’s wall.

Except, Aziraphale feels the hair on his arms raise and the caress of lightning down his spine, and it is familiar and infernal.

Except, Aziraphale freezes in his tracks when he’s greeted by the sight of a blood-red tie peeking out from a black overcoat that now hides an all-black suit.

Except:

“Crowley?”

“Aziraphale.” There is nothing of the Crowley from earlier this evening in his voice—the charm, the confidence, and the mirth have all been replaced by something darker.

A warning.

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale has to stop himself from blurting out the did you follow me that currently itches between his shoulder blades.

“You kept me waiting.”

“Crowley, I apologise, but we can talk about this later, I need to—” Aziraphale is already trying to walk past the demon, partly because he still has a mission he needs to complete, but mostly because the shame he feels has him in a chokehold and is trying to avoid having this conversation.

However.

Everything comes to an abrupt stop when Aziraphale’s wrist is snatched in a painful grip, as quickly as a snake’s strike, just as he passes by Crowley’s side. Crowley’s fingers press tightly into Aziraphale’s pulse, pulling him back so that they’re facing each other, holding him in place when Aziraphale tries to break free.

“Unhand me!” Aziraphale struggles, but Crowley’s grip on his arm does not relent.

“Can’t,” is all Crowley says.

“And why, pray tell, not?” Aziraphale is genuinely upset, glaring at Crowley’s unaffected expression, fighting against the confusion and fear bubbling up inside of him. Crowley never acts this way. No, his demon—friend, his friend—wouldn’t be so cold over something like this. Jealousy be damned, if that’s what this is really all about, but Aziraphale is beginning to suspect something more sinister is behind this.

“Told you. M’working.”

Oh.

“You said…you said you were done for the night.”

“I’m a demon. I lied.”

Aziraphale stills. “Then the mission you got this morning was…”

“To prevent Heaven from blessing Frederick Gleason before midnight tonight.”

Aziraphale lets his arm go slack with a shaky exhale. Crowley’s grip loosens as their arms fall between them, but he doesn’t let go.

“You knew,” Aziraphale says, barely above a whisper but an accusation all the same. “The entire time, you knew.”

There’s a moment of stiff silence between them, the street empty and quiet on this side of town, the wind an icy tickle against their faces.

Then, finally, Crowley sighs. “I think I knew before you did.”

“So, everything tonight, it was…”

The charming grins. The hand on the small of his back, on his shoulder, down his arm. The warm breath against his ear, the suggestion in the words murmured there.

Why, I’m his oldest friend.

It’s New Year’s Eve, angel. A night for new beginnings…

The genuine smile; the applause.

Being whisked away at the sound of a voice that unknowingly belonged to Frederick Gleason. Mrs. Woodcock, tripping on nothing. Greeting person after person wrapped in every shade of purple that was decidedly not lavender.

We’ll get you your first edition before the night is done, I promise you that.

Oh.

Aziraphale’s eyes sting, and he doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he looks to the ground and clears his throat, trying to loosen the knot forming there, trying to keep his face from crumbling.

He feels like such a fool.

Crowley remains silent.

“Why does Hell want him?” Aziraphale asks after a few moments of tense silence. Crowley is still holding onto his wrist. “What happens at midnight?”

“He loses his faith.” Crowley’s chest rises as he takes in a deep breath, unnecessary for survival but always necessary for preparing to give bad news. “Frederick Gleason will run a nonprofit organisation that will restore many religious texts over the next forty years, that’s already set in stone. However, he’s either gonna do it with his faith intact and the praise of God on his lips, or with his faith destroyed and the need to admonish God overtaking his life as he tries to prove the texts as fakes. Either way, he’s gonna influence many important people, all over the world, for many years to come.”

Then, Crowley lets go of his wrist.

Aziraphale looks up, surprised. “What are—”

“I’m not going to stop you, Aziraphale.” Crowley sighs and shoves his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, shuffling his feet a bit. “I won’t follow you onto consecrated ground either. Not unless…not unless your existence is in danger again.”

Aziraphale hugs his aching wrist to his chest with his other hand, rubbing at it soothingly. “Why not?”

Crowley pauses, exhales, then removes his glasses with one hand, shoving them into his pocket. He looks at Aziraphale with bared eyes, and Aziraphale can finally see.

The regret. The conflict. The loyalty. The plea.

Oh.

“I was at the ball because I was ordered to be there,” Crowley says, and he closes the distance between them with a single step. “I was ordered to keep you in check, that’s all true. But everything else, angel…everything else, that was real.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say.

Was Crowley disobeying Hell’s direct order…for him?

Over the years of the Arrangement, they’d both toed the line between obedience and insubordination for their respective sides, but that was because they’d always shared the same viewpoint at the end, even if it took a little coaxing from one or the other. However, this is the first time one of them had been ordered to interfere with the other directly.

One’s success meant the other’s failure.

And Hell did not take very kindly to failure.

“You can’t,” Aziraphale says, shaking his head. “Hell will—”

“I know what Hell will do.”

Crowley leans in just a bit closer, tentatively reaching up with one hand toward Aziraphale’s wrist. He doesn’t touch Aziraphale’s skin, letting his fingers hover in the air scarcely an inch away, while his eyes ask for permission. Aziraphale can’t find it in himself to deny the demon, so he gives a single nod of consent.

Crowley trails a single finger down the back of Aziraphale’s hand, from the middle knuckle down past his wrist, leaving a trail of fire behind that dissipates just as quickly as it appears. When Crowley removes his finger, Aziraphale realises that his wrist no longer aches.

“I need you to believe me more than I need to follow Hell’s orders.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. His thoughts are racing, trying to come up with anything, anything that will protect Crowley. His mind keeps recalling images of Crowley in a nearly catatonic state, having finally reappeared thirty years after Hell had pulled him under in Edinburgh just after he’d saved Elspeth’s soul. He wouldn’t tell Aziraphale anything about those thirty years in Hell, no matter how many times Aziraphale had asked.

After that, Crowley had started asking about holy water.

That can’t happen again. Aziraphale won’t allow it.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says on an exhale, searching Crowley’s lovely eyes. There is no deception there. “Your orders—tell me what they are again.”

Crowley’s brow pinches together, a questioning look on his face as he repeats from earlier, “Prevent Heaven from blessing Frederick Gleason before midnight tonight.”

“Only Frederick Gleason, correct?”

Still confused, Crowley nods. “Yeah.”

Aziraphale makes a decision. He clears his throat, straightens his posture, and lifts his chin.

“Come along, then,” Aziraphale says, straightening his coat, expectation in his voice. When Crowley just gives him an incredulous look, Aziraphale flashes a sly smile.

“I need you to find someone for me, dear boy, and we don’t have all night.”

11:30 PM

When Frederick Gleason walks out of the church that he’d just spent the last hour kneeling at a pew, asking a God he wasn’t sure really existed if he was worthy enough for redemption, he expects to find the same empty street that had greeted him earlier. God hadn’t seemed like He was in a talking mood, and Frederick thinks that’s the story of his life.

The street is indeed quiet and empty, save for the shadow leaning against the outer walls of the church, dressed in a familiar leather jacket.

It’s the one he’d given her for her birthday two years ago.

“Wanda?”

“Hey, Freddy.” Wanda Daniels kicks herself off of the wall, the street lamps casting her in a pale glow. She closes the distance between them in a few long, careful steps, her hands tucked tightly into the pockets of her jacket. She stops a respectable distance away, close enough to see her clearly, too far away to touch. “I got your message.”

“Oh.” Frederick is speechless. For a brief moment, he considers that he might be dreaming. Did he fall asleep at the pew? Is God taunting him with a miraculous dream? But the cold air biting at his skin and the rapid pulse of his heartbeat in his chest convince him that he is indeed not dreaming.

“I wasn’t gonna listen to it,” she continues, kicking at some stray pebbles with the toe of her boot. “I didn’t want to know what crazy thing you were going to accuse me of next.”

“That’s fair…” Frederick looks down at his shoes, shame heavy in his gut. The screaming matches they’d had leading up to their separation had been full of hateful words spat between them like a corrosive acid. The things he’d accused her of…

“Yeah, it is,” Wanda says with a sniff. “But, I don’t know…something told me I should listen this time. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I really needed to hear what you had to say.”

Frederick looks back up, but has no words. Wanda is looking at him with tired eyes, but there’s something else there on her face, something he hasn’t seen in a long time.

Hope.

“You said…you said you got a counsellor.”

“Yeah, I did. Do, still do.”

“And that you’re sober?”

“Three months now, yeah.”

Wanda bobs her head up and down in acknowledgement, rocking back and forth on her heels, looking like she’s trying to find the right words to say. Finally, she plants her feet firmly on the ground and straightens up, looks Frederick straight in the eye.

“Look, I know it’s late, but maybe you can come tell me more about it over some coffee at home. Jenny’s still up, too. She’s been asking about you.”

Frederick’s mouth hangs open, unsure if he’d heard her correctly. Is this really happening? Is it something he deserves?

“We can do the countdown with her, if we go now,” Wanda continues, pointing over her shoulder in the general direction of her flat. “Five-minute walk from here.”

“I—” Frederick has to clear his throat, as the emotion welling up from his chest is threatening to choke him up. “Yeah, Wanda. I’d like that.”

“Okay.” Wanda nods her head again, like she’s trying to reassure herself that this was happening. Frederick wonders if she’s hesitant, if he should offer to stop by in the morning instead, or even just start with a phone call. But then, his wife looks up at him again with a warm smile that softens her eyes and says, “Let’s go, Freddy.”

And so, they go.

From across the street, unnoticed underneath the glow of a lamp post, an angel and a demon watch the entire thing. When the couple are out of sight, they look at each other. The demon nods, and the angel smiles in relief.

The wind begins to pick up, and the angel pulls his coat tighter around his body, the corner of a plaque buried deep in a seemingly endless pocket digging into his thigh. The demon steps in front of the angel, back against the wind, shielding him from the icy sting.

“What now, angel?”

“I think I’d like to go home.”

“Yeah. Okay, all right. Want a lift?”

“I…sure, I’d like that.”

And so, they go.

11:55 PM

The ride back to Soho is quiet.

The crowds of people and cars clogging the roadways pose no issue for the Bentley or the demon behind the wheel, so they make it back to the bookshop in record time.

Crowley parks across the street, the spot always vacant for him, and kills the engine.

They do not speak.

Aziraphale hasn’t stopped looking at his hands since he got in the car. He watches as his fingers twist together nervously. They haven’t spoken to each other since they left the church, and as the city lights had passed by in a blur during their short trip back, the events of the night had begun to settle in his head and paint a telling picture.

Crowley had lied.

Aziraphale had lied.

They’d lied to each other.

Even if Aziraphale thought he’d been protecting Crowley by not telling him about the mission, even if Crowley thought he’d defy Hell to protect Aziraphale even if it was against the angel’s wishes—they still weren’t talking to each other, and that had always been their biggest problem.

Aziraphale had been enjoying the evening. Crowley’s attention at the ball had been…thrilling. Flattering. Lovely. It had made him feel warm and seen, and he’d wanted nothing more than to share champagne and countdown the new year together with his oldest friend.

Now, he only feels the lingering ache of something like betrayal. Could they not trust each other? Were they only ever going to end up hurting each other in the end?

Crowley clears his throat, takes off his glasses.

“Look, Aziraphale, I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t,” Aziraphale whispers, but there is no heat behind his words, just fatigue. “There’s no need to apologise. We were both just doing what we were told.”

Aziraphale watches as Crowley bobs his head up and down in assent, but he also notices how the demon’s knuckles have gone white from his grip on the steering wheel.

Silence sits heavy between them again, and it’s Aziraphale who breaks it this time. “Did you mean it?”

Crowley looks at him questioningly. “Mean what?”

“That tonight was…real.”

Crowley doesn’t answer immediately. He just watches Aziraphale, his expression soft and endearing, like he could do nothing but look at Aziraphale all night and be perfectly content. It makes Aziraphale’s heart race.

But.

Then, Crowley looks like he realises something, like some grand truth has made itself known to him in that very instant—and it terrifies him. Aziraphale watches as Crowley begins to close up, the soft expression replaced by something unreadable, like a blank slate, and the smile that appears doesn’t reach his eyes.

Crowley puts his glasses back on.

“Sorry angel, just following orders.”

Oh.

“Indeed.”

They’re still lying to each other.

“I think it’s time for me to retire for the evening.” Aziraphale turns in his seat and opens the door to the Bentley, trying his best to keep the disappointment and hurt welling up inside of him off of his face. He throws a curt “goodnight” over his shoulder without looking at Crowley, exits the Bentley, and crosses the road to get to his bookshop.

Aziraphale quickly twists his key into the lock of the bookshop, his hand on the knob, wanting nothing more than a glass of wine to calm his nerves. The door is halfway open when he hears it.

“Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale looks over his shoulder. The door to the Bentley is open and Crowley is leaning across the top of it with one arm, looking at him.

“I might have been following orders, but I enjoyed tonight,” Crowley says. He looks like he’s bracing himself for what he says next. “I had a lot of fun, actually. I always have fun when it’s with you.”

Aziraphale is feeling a little overwhelmed, but he manages to nod his head anyway. He wants nothing more than to be able to invite Crowley inside where they can finally toast flutes of champagne and celebrate the arrival of a new year, smiling and laughing and talking of things to come. To enjoy new beginnings together. To throw pretences in the bin together.

Instead, all Aziraphale can do is offer Crowley a small, watery smile.

“Me too, my dear.”

January 1^st, 1989
London
Midnight

The door to a bookshop in Soho closes tightly shut at the same time a classic Bentley speeds away down the road.

---

December 31^st, 2028
South Downs
6:00 PM

Aziraphale is in the garden.

His garden.

Their garden.

Aziraphale is in the garden, and he’s walking along the rosebushes, stopping to whisper words to the blooms and the thorns alike, a gentle smile on his face as he does.

Crowley watches him from the kitchen window, and he thinks, not for the first time, this was worth it.

All the walls they’d put up between themselves, and how they’d been constantly knocked down and rebuilt in a seemingly endless cycle for six thousand years. Thwarting two Armageddons together, even if they’d tried to push each other away each time, all for the sake of protecting the one they cared for most.

Walking on consecrated ground; saving a case of books from burning in the rubble of a church.

I forgive you.

Don’t bother.

Crowley is the first to admit that if they’d pulled their heads out of their arses a little earlier—say, maybe two thousand years earlier or so—that things may have gone a bit smoother. Who would have thought that communication of all things was the key to a successful relationship?

How many times did they keep the truth buried inside, too afraid of the consequences of voicing it where someone could overhear? How many times had Aziraphale pushed him away for fear of Crowley’s safety, too scared of the consequences Crowley could face if they were ever found together?

How many times had Crowley defied Hell for Aziraphale?

Memories of a New Year’s Eve forty years in the past bubble up, and Crowley remembers a night of softly murmured promises and an angel who couldn’t hide how much Crowley made him blush. He also remembers the guilt twisting in his gut when he led Aziraphale in every direction but the right one, knowing that Aziraphale would suffer the consequences of Heaven, all because of him.

He remembers the hope in Aziraphale’s eyes when he asked if everything Crowley had done—had whispered, had promised—was real. He remembers how that hope had been snuffed out when Crowley forced himself to bury whatever he felt for his angel for the sake of protecting him and lied to him one last time.

Now, though, as Crowley watches the angel move on from the rosebushes to the hydrangeas, he knows that everything that had led up to this point had been worth it.

Crowley opens the back door of their cottage and slinks into the garden, long legs carrying him silently across the grass.

“…and he doesn’t mean it, I’m sure you know, when he says he will salt and burn the soil. He just gets a little, hm, rambunctious sometimes when—oh!”

Crowley lets his hands drag over the soft, plush fabric of Aziraphale’s jumper as he circles his arms around the angel from behind, pulling the angel back to his chest.

“What kind of drivel are you feeding my plants?” Crowley asks, face buried in Aziraphale’s neck as he presses his front flush against Aziraphale’s back. He feels it the second Aziraphale leans into him, letting Crowley’s hands press deep into his jumper, holding him close. Aziraphale lets out a soft sigh.

“It’s not drivel,” Aziraphale pouts, letting his arms come to rest atop Crowley’s, letting his fingers graze across the back of Crowley’s hands. “I was just making sure they were in high spirits for the new year.”

Crowley hums into Aziraphale’s neck, making the angel shudder. Crowley smirks. “Stop coddling the plants.”

A gasp. “I don’t coddle.”

“Mmhmm.” Crowley presses a chaste kiss against Aziraphale’s neck, then another underneath his ear. “Don’t let me catch you doing it again.”

Aziraphale huffs a small laugh, then turns himself in Crowley’s arms so that they’re facing each other. Crowley lets his hands rest on Aziraphale’s hips, and Aziraphale lets his fingers dance up and down Crowley’s forearms. There’s a glint of mischief in Aziraphale’s eyes when he asks, “And what if you do?”

Bastard.

Crowley loves it.

“Then I won’t share the Special Cuvée I picked up this morning with you tonight.”

“Oh, well then,” Aziraphale says, putting on a look of faux admonishment. “I can’t let that happen, now, can I?”

“Absolutely not.”

They’re both smiling when Crowley leans in and sets a soft kiss against Aziraphale’s lips.

“I like it when you wear dark colours,” Crowley murmurs, pressing their foreheads together. His fingers skim across the soft cashmere of Aziraphale’s midnight blue jumper.

“Something told me you might,” Aziraphale says cheekily, and Crowley grins.

“Yeah? Any other guidance from the ether?”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

A loud beeping noise begins to sound from the open kitchen door.

“Oh, the Yorkshire Puddings!”

Aziraphale escapes from Crowley’s arms, easily avoiding recapture when Crowley tries to pull him back, laughing playfully as Crowley chases him back into the cottage while making grabby hands at his husband.

Hours later, when the moon is high in the sky and the last minutes of the year are quietly ticking away, an angel and a demon share a bottle of expensive champagne in the kitchen of their cottage, smiling and laughing and talking of things to come.

Comments

[kirathaune]

Oooh, how lovely! You did a marvelous job with my prompt, and centering it around New Year's Eve was inspired. (And thank you, dear mods, for posting my gift on New Year's Eve!)

Thanks so much for my prezzie, I really enjoyed it!

[maniacalmole]

Oh my gosshhh, I’ve never read such an amazing description of Aziraphale feeling Crowley’s ‘infernal energy’, you can see how angels who just assume it MUST be bad would find it off-putting, and yet it’s so alluring to Aziraphale!
““Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, half a whisper, half a sigh.” Isn’t that always the way?
He’s been nervous since 1941 :O screaming
LOVE Aziraphale’s outfit
CHERRY BOWL
““Lying isn’t very harps and halos of you,” Crowley huffs, amused.” Lol
The way you’ve written Aziraphale noticing Crowley watching him while he gives his speech stands out so well—they really glow here :)
“Crowley’s expression is bordering on forlorn.” AHHH
““I need you to believe me more than I need to follow Hell’s orders.”” !!!!!
Awww, they give a marriage hope again! I’m guessing they blessed Wanda, instead, which is so sweet
“and he doesn’t mean it, I’m sure you know, when he says he will salt and burn the soil. He just gets a little, hm, rambunctious sometimes when” lol
Ohhhh, all of the lies, and confessions, and taken-back confessions, and lies again, it ACHES. I was SO relieved when I saw the timestamp for 2028 after all of that! And that happy ending :) It’s so achingly SWEET this time, but also such a relief. So happy. I loved this, thank you so much :D

Fabulous

[holrose]

I loved this so much. You created such a great atmosphere of mistrust and longing between them, and the characterisation was wonderful. I was very grateful for the New Year coda at the end. Wonderful work.

[shoebox_addict]

I adored this, you painted such a vivid picture of this party, I felt like I was there. Also love the way you wrote their dynamic. And the coda at the end in the cottage! Perfect!