Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

LONDON, JUNE, 2020

Being human is hard.

These bodies, they smell, they gain unsightly and unhealthy weight, they leak fluids, they are vulnerable to disease (and what a bloody nuisance that's become in the past three months). They chafe, they itch, they bleed. Sometimes what they've consumed, food-wise, doesn't agree with them, and then there's an undignified evening of stomach ache, loo, and antacid. Or, if they've consumed too much alcohol, something similar might happen. Basically, if it feels good to a human, there is a price to pay for it. Truthfully, having a human body is disgusting, 'cause a human can't just snap its fingers and clean up its messes. The human body comes with all sorts of tedious limitations, rules both medical and social, not to mention maintenance. Maintenance, maintenance, maintenance!

But being human has one huge, huge advantage: not having to answer directly to Heaven nor Hell, at least for now.

And the fact that Aziraphale and Crowley, formerly of Heaven and Hell respectively, were now free to be what they wanted to most to be, that was an incredible boon for them. Aziraphale wanted to be an English dandy bookseller in Soho, and Crowley wanted to be, frankly, a Kept Man (though he was currently working as a journalist, sort of).

But what they wanted most to be was together. As humans, they could do this, mostly unfettered. As long as they avoided public displays of affection in particularly backward parts of the planet, they were accepted, sometimes even celebrated, and most importantly, left the fuck alone.

They were both rather acutely aware that being human and being free meant that they now had only about forty or fifty years in which to enjoy each other, then they would die, and be right back in Heaven and/or Hell, and in the same boat as always, though in a much more restricted capacity. But they were choosing, at the moment, not to talk about it, nor think too hard about it. The Archangel Michael had visited them last summer, and had said the choice would eventually be theirs… but it was too difficult to contemplate just now.

And so, they went about their lives, as much as could be gone-about in the middle of a pandemic. Of all moments in history for them to become human, it had to be seven months before a plague broke out! It was not, of course, their first plague, but this one presented an actual threat to them. Not to mention putting a serious damper upon their restaurant-going, museum-and-concert-frequenting lifestyle.

At least they'd got to go on holiday to Mallorca, and had found and moved into their new flat before all (figurative) hell had first broken loose, and then gone into lockdown. They were glad not to be cooped-up in Crowley's old, darkly-chic abode; here, they had some outdoor space of their own, and even could have cocktails with neighbours from a safe distance.

And they were closer friends than ever with Anathema Device and Newton Pulsifer. These were the only humans allowed in their home, just now, pandemic protocols and all. Although later today, that rule would be relaxed a bit.

Crowley was currently in his brand-new, mostly exposed-brick kitchen with young Newt, who was sitting at the table, pouting. The kettle was roaring from the stove, and Crowley was placing tea bags into the Earthenware mugs Aziraphale had chosen for their new digs. He poured the water, bobbed the teabags a couple of times, then delivered them to the table. He knew that Newt took his tea white, so he returned to the fridge for some milk, and set it where the distraught aspiring computer engineer could reach it, then sat down himself.

An hour or so before, Newt had phoned Crowley with a problem: he was angry, for the first-ever time, with his first-ever girlfriend, and had no idea how to handle it. Crowley and Aziraphale often speculated as to how often their friends must quarrel in quarantine together, but they had never asked, nor seen evidence of quarrelling. They themselves were wont to have a spat here and there, though they were quite good at finding their own spaces in which to cool down, then reconvening to talk things through. Truly, the timing of purchasing a new flat had been so fortunate! But as far as their friends, they reckoned that Newt mostly did what Anathema wanted.

Until now, apparently.

As strange luck would have it, when Newt's call had come in, Aziraphale was in a huff, and was gathering himself to leave the flat for a while. He and his former demonic partner had had one of their tiffs – though this one felt a bit bigger than normal. Aziraphale had been rather in the wrong, and he knew it, but he wasn't completely ready to own up yet, so he'd planned to go for a walk.

"You might as well come round now," Crowley told his friend on the phone. "You were supposed to be here in two hours anyway. We'll see if we can work out what to do about your partner. Failing that, I'll tell you about mine."

"Don't go airing our dirty laundry!" Aziraphale demanded with a stomp of the foot.

"Oh, unclench. It's just Newt," Crowley replied with a wave of the hand.

"Well, then tell him to ask Anathema if she wouldn't mind if I drop over to their flat," Aziraphale said, as he opened the front door.

"Did you hear that?" he asked Newt.

Newt had heard. Crowley waited a moment, then, "She says it's fine."

"Fine. I'll be back in time for the party."

"Don't be late, angel," Crowley warned.

"Oh, shut up," the former angel tutted as he closed the door behind him.

And now, tea.

"What's happening on your end?" asked Crowley, who took his beverage black.

"She holds all the cards. She's got all the power. It's humiliating," the other man whimpered.

"Okay… walk me through it."

"She tried to give me money."

"What a bitch!" Crowley exclaimed, exaggeratedly.

"Seriously! She opened a bank account for me, and gave me half a million pounds' seed money," Newt complained.

"How is this a bad thing?"

"It gives her the upper hand! Which she's always got anyway because she's… she's…"

"Way out of your league?"

"Yes! And her family are minted, of course, and that's always been sort of looming in the background. I didn't want her to buy me a car, but she did… with your help. I didn't want to move into a fancy flat, but she bought one anyway. I didn't want her to buy me new designer clothes, but she did."

"I've always wondered – where did that money come from?"

Newt frowned, nonplussed by the question. "Erm, Agnes. She had the family invest in Apple in 1980."

"Oh, yeah… that'd do it."

"And now, she goes and does this!"

"Okay…" Crowley said, sitting up straight, focusing. "The car was a gift. The flat she bought because she knew she had a future with you, and she's a city girl, only living in a small town because of a now-defunct family prophecy. The clothes were… well, we'll just call them a necessity, all right? All of that is fine. She loves you, she wants to give you things – don't you get that?"

"Yes, but she always talks about how gifts are a way to manipulate people. They're used to tip the balance of power."

"Does she manipulate you with gifts?"

"I don't think so. With sex, maybe, but…"

"And what is this money for? Why did she open an account for you?"

"She said so that I could have some independence," he said. "So that I could follow my dreams, if I wanted, and not have to ask her for the means to do so. So that I could start a business, or plan a holiday abroad if it's ever safe to travel again, or learn to SCUBA dive, or something."

"What's the catch?"

"The catch is that it's her money!"

"Well, is her name on the new account?"

"No."

"Then it's not hers anymore. She's given it to you. If her name's not on it, then you really can do whatever you want, and she doesn't even have to know."

"Oh, blimey," Newt whined, and buried his head in his arms on the table. Then he sat up. "Also… did you know she's bisexual?"

Crowley laughed. "I figured as much. I'm pretty good at sussing out that sort of thing in people."

"Yeah, well, you might've informed me, mate. I just found out yesterday!"

"Listen, Newt, it really sounds to me like she's trying. She knows there's some lopsidedness in your relationship, and there's really no good way to remedy that. So, she's trying to give you a piece of your own power. I think you should take it."

"It feels weird having money."

"Yeah, well… to me, it feels weird having a beating heart, but what're you gonna do, eh?" He sipped his tea poignantly, and sat back in his chair, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. "Look, you didn't really think that you could keep your finances separate from hers forever, did you?"

"Well, no, but…"

"She's got twenty million in the bank, which is more than enough for her lifetime and yours. And you're a clerical functionary who barely makes enough to support yourself and maybe a cat. But the two of you, you're sharing your lives. And she's offering you a lot of your own life! Let her share! Including the cat… do you have a cat?"

"No, no cat," Newt answered, pouring milk into his tea. He took a sip. "I mean, I'm not a moron. I know that I can't give back the money or anything. I was just hoping to be righteously indignant about it for a while, and then never, ever spend it."

"That's ridiculous," Crowley told him.

"I know," the other man pouted.

"Well, perhaps you'd feel better if you used it on some endeavour that benefits the both of you," Crowley suggested. "That way, you won't feel like you constantly have to thank her for whatever comes of it."

"That's a good point," Newt said, sipping again. Then he set the mug down. "What about you? What was Aziraphale all twisted-up about?"

Crowley exhaled in a way that caused his lips briefly to make a blwublwublwub sound. His face set into bitterness, he took a breath and said, "Aziraphale is pissed off because he fucked up, and I'm not accepting his half-arsed apology just yet."

"Oh. So, you're the one who's really pissed off."

"Yes, and rightly so."

Newt took a sip of his tea, then twisted up his face. "It doesn't feel right – you two fighting. I don't like it. Worries me."

"Aw, Breaks-Things Guy, it's all right. It's nothing new," Crowley said with a shrug. "We've been like this for millennia. It's just the humanness, and the, er… well, the nature of the relationship, that are new."

"You've been like an old married couple since the Great Flood, eh?" Newt chuckled.

"Well… yeah, more or less. But back then, we'd bicker, and stay angry for decades, and just wait for the row to fade. These days, we know we haven't got time for that, and we're under the same roof now, so we actually bother to try and work things out. Preferably within a day or so."

"So what did he do, that he's trying to apologise for?"

"It's kind of a long story, but… well, you might recall that a little less than a year ago, the Apocalypse descended upon the Earth?"

"I do, vaguely, remember some Apocalypse-like events, yes."

"Well, Aziraphale and I spent the final week before the event itself, trying to locate the Antichrist. When he was a newborn, I'd been asked to deliver him to… you know what? That part doesn't matter. The point is, we were having trouble finding him. Until, apparently, that very Saturday. Aziraphale phoned me to tell me he knew where the antichrist was. I barely had the wherewithal to feel anything about it in the moment because when he phoned, I was in my flat, battling to the death with a couple of fellow demons who wanted to drag me back to Hell."

"Oh. Wow. Being friends with you guys is weird."

"So, this morning, as we were setting up for the party, I was hanging a string of lights over the front windows, and this kid walked by on the street outside, and he really reminded me of the Antichrist himself - Adam, I mean. And it definitely wasn't him, but he sort of had the same look… anyway, I started wondering aloud what Adam was up to, hope he's all right, not too traumatized, and all that."

"From what I hear, he's doing fine. Tracy and Shadwell see him and his friends in town, mucking about all the time."

"Good - glad to hear it. So then I started speculating about whether we should visit him, check up on him, now that we know where he lives. I said something really bloody lame like, seeing as how we have his address now, thanks to you, angel, who so cleverly found him just in the nick of time! Truth be told, I wasn't even thinking about what I was saying. Then Aziraphale said, even cleverer than you think, as I'd actually known about him for at least twenty-four hours by the time I phoned you about it! And then he bit his lip, and got this dead guilty look on his face, because he realised he'd let something slip."

"Ah – that he had kept that information from you?"

"Yep. He worked out how to find Adam sometime between Thursday night and Friday morning. I asked him several times over the course of Friday if there was any news about the boy, his identity, whereabouts, whatever, he kept telling me no."

"Why would he do that?"

"He thought he could still work with Heavenly forces to avert the Apocalypse. He couldn't quite get it through his head that both sides wanted the war, until… here's the part that pisses me off. Ready?"

"Yes. I think."

"Until three archangels attacked him on the street and made it clear that he was no longer welcome amongst them, and then the Metatron rebuked him."

"What's a Metatron?"

"The Metatron is an entity which serves as the voice of God. No-one can really talk to Her directly, except for the archangels… everyone else has to deal with the middle-man, unless She decides to reach out."

"Makes sense. Every CEO needs a PA to vet their calls."

"And the Metatron had told Aziraphale the war was inevitable, and it was time to suit up and fight. And I know that appealing directly to the Almighty had been a big hope of his… he really thought She would fix it."

"Ah, so, you're upset because he didn't come to you until he had absolutely nowhere else to turn. Until every last shred of hope was lost."

"Yes! It was literally The End of The World, and he was still holding me at arm's length. On purpose. And clearly he knew it would make me upset, because he'd got that sheepish look when he let it slip. But when I actually got upset, he just made a bunch of excuses!"

"Like what?"

"Like, the Apocalypse was something far too big with which to play fast-and-loose with information."

"Oh. And?"

"And, he was desperate, frightened, not thinking clearly. That he'd put 'his people' onto it, which turned out to be you, and he was convinced it was going to be fine." Crowley shuddered. "Ugh – what a bloody…"

"Well, I know you guys pretty well at this point, and I can't imagine Aziraphale withholding anything from you unless he had no choice."

"He had a choice!"

"But if he was super scared and thinking chaotically, and still scrambling to try and get things done in what he thought was the right way… I mean, I can relate. I had some similar feelings during those last days."

"But we've confided in each other for thousands of years!"

"But there had only ever been one Apocalypse," Newt counselled. "Only one event, in all that time, that could actually end the Earth, end life as we knew it… how was he supposed to know how to behave? Something like that would have just about anyone balls-to-the-wall panicked. Even an angel. Especially an angel who was desperate to hold onto life on Earth. Desperate to hold onto you, too, I think. Because… well, I've never thought about this before, but I reckon if the world had ended, the two of you would have had to go your separate ways and never see each other again, yeah?"

"Yeah. We would have. Still gives me chills to think about."

"Well, I know you didn't ask what I think, but I say desperate times call for forgiveness."

Crowley sighed, and looked sideways at Newt. "You know, I didn't tell you this so you could get all rational on me."

"I'm just trying to help you not feel so resentful… unless, sorry, you like the resentment. Okay, erm… that arsehole! How dare he!"

Crowley chuckled. "Okay, okay. We'll work on your trash-talking skills."

"And oi, I didn't tell you about the bank account thing so that you could bring up a lot of good points and make me feel as though my girlfriend isn't trying to sabotage my life."

"And yet…"

"And yet." There was a pause, and then Newt looked at his watch, and said, "Well, I wouldn't presume to think that I've cured you of your resentment of your partner, but I will ask if you can put it aside so that we can all enjoy this lovely party you two are about to throw."

"I can," Crowley announced, standing up.

"We're supposed to be celebrating an engagement, not lamenting bygone days," Newt said, also standing up. "Can I help you with the food?"

"Yeah… all the stuff is in the auxiliary fridge around the corner in the white dishes. If you could just arrange them here on the table…"

"You have an auxiliary fridge?"

"Yes, I live with a gourmet of the highest order, and he's got more money than good sense. There's an auxiliary fridge."

"Er, okay."

"The cake and cheese courses are supposed to be delivered right as the party starts, so everything will be fresh, so do leave some room. I'm going to go change."

"Right," said Newt.

"By the way," Crowley said. He looked Newt up and down, and said, "Nice duds."

"Thanks," said the young man delightedly. He had been modeling his look after Crowley, trying to do so subtly, so as not to let on that he was doing so. But he was definitely trying to take a page from his former-demon friend's sartorial bag of tricks, and felt extremely satisfied when said friend complimented him. He had got rid of his glasses, in exchange for contact lenses… at least for special occasions like this one. Tonight, he was wearing dark, fitted jeans, Doc Martens, a tee-shirt that said "Keep Calm and Wear A Mask," with a grey tweed blazer over it. His face was unshaven, his hair mussed as usual.

"Where did the blazer come from?"

"Er… thrift shop. Don't tell Anathema."

"It's a good find."

"I'm glad you think so," Newt said. "I wasn't sure what to wear. Never been to an engagement party before."

"There's a first time for everything. See you in a mo'," said Crowley, as he disappeared around the corner, and headed upstairs.

Chapter Text

“Hello?” Aziraphale called out, as he entered the flat, about ninety minutes after he’d left in a huff. In his hands, he carried a cake, and behind him entered Anathema Device.

“Oh, hi,” said Crowley, coming down the steps, rolling up his sleeves. He was wearing a black dress shirt with silver lammé pinstripes, untucked over a pair of fitted black polished cotton chinos, and patent leather dress shoes. He looked, as usual, dark and chic, and overdressed for summer weather. “What’re you doing with the cake?”

“Penelope phoned to ask if we could pick it up, rather than have her deliver it,” Aziraphale answered. “Apparently, she’s got a full boat of weddings today, and she’s two men down in the bakery.”

“The place was a zoo,” Anathema added, with wide eyes. She was dressed in black shorts and an emerald-green button-up shirt – the colour was quite becoming on her.

“Yikes,” Crowley said. The entryway of the flat and the staircase both emptied into the same area, so when they met up, he reached out and asked, “Want me to take it?”

“No, I can handle it, thanks,” Aziraphale said, striding into the kitchen. Crowley and Anathema looked at each other uneasily, and followed.

Aziraphale complimented Newt on the spread – the young man from Dorking had elected to place the vegetable and fruit trays, plus the Summer Salad and lemonade on the kitchen table, while laying out the turkey and roast beef sliders (with fancy aiolis and Dijon mustards), crisps, casserole, and condiments on the bar, which was in the parlour/living area. That was, of course, also where the alcohol was.

“I remembered my mum complaining about throwing a party, and everyone ended up standing about in the kitchen,” Newt said with a smile. “So I thought we’d put the main bit in the actual seating area, and see if people don’t gather there.”

“And if they do begin to gather in the kitchen, we can open the door and invite them onto the patio,” Aziraphale added, opening the sliding glass door. The entire western wall of the kitchen was glass, and on either end, there was a way in and out. “It’s probably safer to open the place up anyway.”

Aziraphale was fairly meticulous about avoiding the plague. Though, like everyone else, he was dying to let go, just a little.

“Erm, how many people are coming?” Anathema wanted to know, eyeing the copious amounts of food.

“Oh, just eight of us,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “Possibly nine, if Craig wants to stay. Speaking of which, he’s late.”

“First party in the flat,” Crowley said to Anathema. “Only natural he’d have enough food to feed an army.”

Aziraphale carefully lifted the cake out of its box, and laid it out on the table. It was round, and almost ten inches high, and looked as expensive as it was. It was covered with white fondant, with a shockingly red cluster of roses on one side. It said “Happy Engagement” in a stylish script, and there were dyed-red shavings of white chocolate decorating the base of the cake, all the way round.

“How gorgeous,” he mused. “It’s going to be a shame to cut it open.”

“You didn’t get red velvet, did you?” asked Crowley.

“No, no, don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale answered. “It’s ginger spice cake with cinnamon dolce crème between the layers.”

He then turned around to face the rest of the kitchen. He and Newt were standing beside the table. Anathema was near the window-wall, and Crowley was still just in the doorway. The four of them looked at each other, and the silence, given the circumstances, became palpable.

“So, erm…” Anathema said, breaking the silence. “Aziraphale and I would like to know… are we forgiven? I mean, we talked, and we both agreed that we might need to apologise for some stuff.”

“Yeah…” Crowley said, running one palm nervously across his freshly shaven cheek and chin. “Newt and I talked, and both realised we might have overreacted a bit. Not seeing the big picture and whatnot.”

“Well, I don’t think we should all just say, bygones be bygones and leave it at that, because we all still have some discussing to do,” Aziraphale said curtly, authoritatively. He turned to Crowley, and said, “But for the moment, can we just celebrate a happy occasion, and not be cross anymore?”

Crowley smiled in concession. “Course we can.”

“Wonderful!” chirped the former angel. “Who would like a glass of wine?”

There was then a knock at the front door.

“That’ll be the cheese. I’ll get it, angel,” Crowley said, already walking toward the foyer. “You pour the wine.”

Crowley opened the door, and there stood a lovely, lovely man: Craig Huling. He owned a cheese shop in Soho, just a couple of blocks from Aziraphale’s bookshop. He was not a tall man, but he was well-built and robust, and had incredibly expressive eyes, not to mention a very kind heart. What Crowley found most interesting about this man, though, were his flaws. There were his asymmetrical features of course; Craig had a crooked nose and mouth that lent his handsome face a rugged air, plus a certain intelligence and character. But he also had a somewhat fascinating gambling addiction, and a relentless crush on Aziraphale.

However, today, his asymmetrical, intelligent nose and mouth were covered by a grey cloth mask. He stood there on the front step, holding a plastic tray with a glossy white domed cover.

Crowley said, “Hey, Huling… hang on,” and he stepped back into the foyer to grab one of a dozen black masks he had around the flat. He always kept one by the door, for just such an occasion. Once he had it on, he asked, “I’ve got a mask - are you doing hugs these days?”

“I am,” Craig said with a warm smile in his eye. “For people I like.”

The two of them embraced, being careful not to upend the cheese tray.

Ordinarily, save for Aziraphale, human Crowley wasn’t a hugger. He only hugged Anathema if and when she initiated it (and she usually did, being effusively friendly, and American), and he and Newt, though they were pretty close friends now, still only ever shook hands. The estate agent who had found them their flat had tried to hug him, and it had made him incredibly uncomfortable. In fact, while many people cited “hugs” as one of the things they missed most during the pandemic, Crowley felt the opposite.

But Craig Huling wasn’t ordinary to Crowley.

Huling was, as Crowley had told Aziraphale numerous times, bloody lovely. His feelings for Aziraphale had, paradoxically, endeared him to Crowly quite a bit (if nothing else, it showed that the man had excellent taste), and the formerly supernatural couple had invited him in for one night. Just one. One exceptionally explosive sexual encouter as a trio, practically a perfect evening, that had indelibly left its imprint on all three of them. For Crowley and Aziraphale, it left them with a deeper appreciation for each other, and gratitude and affection for Huling. For Huling… well, Crowley didn’t know what impression they’d left, but he could guess that it was probably bittersweet, and scorching hot.

“Come on through,” Crowley said, ushering his friend inside toward the kitchen.

As Crowley and Huling entered the area, Newt, Anathema, and Aziraphale each pulled a mask out of a pocket and put it on. Aziraphale walked right up and hugged their friend, then asked him to place the cheese tray on the table.

“Happy engagement,” Craig muttered, glancing at the cake. He stood up straight. “Oh! Are you… are congratulations in order?” and his hand gestured back and forth between Crowley and Aziraphale.

“No, it’s not us,” Aziraphale said. “We’re throwing the party on behalf of some friends.”

Crowley made introductions, and tried awkwardly to explain who everyone was, without mentioning the words Apocalypse, witch, or threesome. It really wouldn’t have been so difficult if Crowley hadn’t got it into his head that he couldn’t say those words, but as it was, he became tongue-tied, and Aziraphale swooped in.

“You know, it’s good to see you, Craig,” the former angel said cheerfully. “Haven’t spoken to you since lockdown.”

“Yeah, sorry, just been trying to stay afloat,” Huling sighed. “Weirdly, gourmet cheese is not considered ‘essential.’”

“Shame, that,” Aziraphale said, though no-one in the room could quite tell whether he was serious or not. One way or the other, Crowley chuckled at him.

Huling continued, “My sister had to take a step back from the shop because she’s got the three kids at home and all of a sudden, they were home-schooling. So, she sold her half to someone she knew a while back while she was doing PR, and I have a new business partner now. Jason.”

“Oh! How’s that going?” Aziraphale asked.

“It’s all right… he’s a bit of a closed book at the moment. I barely know anything about him, other than he has a history as a responsible businessperson, so I guess that’s all I need to know, right? He doesn’t seem to know anything about the product, at all. But, he’s quite tech-savvy, and he built us a website for remote orders, without which, I’d probably be working in a grocery at this stage.”

“Gotta love the tech-savvy,” Newt commented, with a bitter chuckle.

“We’ve had to do something similar with my bookshop,” Aziraphale confessed. “I don’t like it at all.”

“Well, desperate times, eh?” Huling said.

“Huling, we were going to invite you to stay for the party,” Crowley said. “Have some drinks with us, maybe later we can catch up.”

“Thanks, but believe it or not, I’ve got two more deliveries this afternoon,” Huling answered, smiling with his eyes. “But I’ll take a rain check. Maybe when things open back up again.”

Crowley had got so tired of hearing that phrase, he simply nodded and said, “Sure, definitely.” It was now his go-to answer.

Craig said goodbye to the room, then Crowley walked him to the door.

“Is that the guy?” Anathema whispered to Aziraphale.

“Yes. Shhh,” he answered.

“What guy? What’re you on about?” Newt whispered.

“I’ll tell you later,” Anathema said.

And then, Crowley reappeared in the kitchen with a man that none of them had ever seen before, wearing a mask of course, and an ill-fitting Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts.

“Everyone, this is Sam Narker,” Crowley said. “Sam, this is Newton Pulsifer, formerly Witchfinder Private Pulsifer.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” said the man quite seriously, holding out his hand. Newt didn’t mind shaking it, though he did find it odd being called sir by a man who appeared to be forty years his senior.

“Likewise,” said Newt.

“And er… are you the host?” he asked Crowley, holding out a bottle of wine he had brought. The man spoke with a cockney accent, and everything about him suggested that even if one put him in the finest tailored Armani suit, he would still look a bit shabby. His hair was untidy and a skosh too long (though, at this point in the pandemic, many people had shaggy hair), his face halfway between stubble and beard, and his posture suggested he’d spent a long time sitting, hunched over a desk.

“Well, I live here,” Crowley shrugged in response to his question. “But my better half over there is really the host.”

“Your better… half…?” the man barely said as Aziraphale stepped forward with his hand out.

“Thanks very much, Mr. Narker. I’ll take that. Does it need to be chilled?”

Narker looked at Aziraphale as though he had nine heads, then looked back at Crowley. He looked back and forth at the two of them for a few beats too long, and Crowley asked, “Oi, everything ok?”

“Oh, er… yeah. Everything’s fine,” he said. “Er, I dunno if it needs chilling. I dunno much about wine – just wanted to be a gracious guest.”

“And indeed you are! Would you like me to open it?” Aziraphale asked. “Or something else to drink? We do have a full bar.”

“I’ll have a Scotch.”

“Rocks?” Crowley asked.

“Yeah.”

“Coming up,” he said, and walked around the corner to the bar. Newt followed, claiming to want to help.

Immediately, they could hear Anathema begin to schmooze, at which she was quite good.

“Who the hell is this guy?” Newton said.

“A friend of Shadwell’s,” Crowley whispered. “His father was Shadwell’s cell mate.”

“His what?” Newt practically spat. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” Crowley said. “Not kidding.”

“Well what…”

“…did Shadwell do to get locked up? I don’t know, I wasn’t there… although, from context, I’m guessing a robbery of some sort. The point is, supposedly that guy’s dad taught the good Sergeant everything he knows about Witchfinding. And he’s one of the few actual acquaintances Shadwell has, outside of us, and of course Tracy’s circle of weird.”

"He seems like a bloody troglodyte."

"What?" Crowley asked, with a chuckle.

"The 'your better half' thing?"

Crowley shrugged. “There are lots of folks who still aren’t used to it.”

"It's the twenty-first century. Twenty years into the twenty-first century."

“Some people just don’t get out much. Even before the pandemic. And Narker, I didn’t get judgement off of him, just surprise."

“How can you not care?”

Crowley smiled. "You care enough for all of us, and I appreciate that," he said. Then, he sighed. "And you know what? I’m very, very old, Newt. What I've seen in my time... I’m talking mobs with pitchforks, quarter horses, chasing the 'sodomites' out of town while literally casting stones at them. Sometimes, I caused it to happen - it was my job."

"Right."

"And now, my life is very, very short… at this stage, I just take relief that we’ve come so far. Society, I mean. Plus, I’ve been giving people the benefit of the doubt lately, and I find it works pretty well for me."

"So you're saying to give Narker the benefit of the doubt?"

"Yes. Please. In your own home, you can be as judgmental as you like, okay? But here..."

"Yeah, I get it."

When they re-entered the kitchen, Narker was actually smiling, charmed by Anathema, though he did accept his Scotch rather gratefully. He assured everyone in the room that he hadn’t been outside of his little flat, nor really interacted with other human beings, in at least a month, and removed his mask. He took a long, warm pull of his Scotch, and the relief on his face was quite visible.

“Would you like to have a seat? Outside on the patio, or perhaps the parlour?” Aziraphale asked him.

“Whichever.”

Anathema picked up the wine she’d been drinking, then took Narker by the arm, and said, “Come on, let’s sit outside and you can tell me more about your cats.”

And because Anathema did, Newt grabbed his drink and went outside, as well. He immediately removed his blazer and draped it over the back of the outdoor sofa he now shared with Anathema. Crowley and Aziraphale shrugged at each other and followed, each taking a chair. And for the next ten minutes or so, Mr. Narker spoke rather happily about his feline companions, Gabriel and Lucifer. “Because I reckon one’s an angel and one’s a demon,” he said, laughing.

Everyone else laughed along, slightly uncomfortably.

And then, Newt’s phone made a ping. “Oh… they’re here. She says they’re arguing about which house it is.”

“Of course they are. I’ll show them in,” Aziraphale said, getting to his feet. “Anathema, would you mind giving me a hand?”

“Er… no, not at all.”

Aziraphale walked round to the side of the house, through a very narrow alley, and Anathema walked behind him. When they were halfway between the front and back of the building, Aziraphale stopped, turned around and said, “Now remind me: they’ve been informed of who Crowley and I actually are, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And what was the reaction?”

“Well, Tracy thought it answered a lot of questions,” she told him. “Shadwell… remains to be seen. We think he’s basically okay with it, but it might take a while for him to settle into it.”

“Understandable,” Aziraphale declared. “The poor man.”

And the two of them continued their journey to the front of the house, where they found the woman they’d known as Madame Tracy, a man they’d previously known as Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, and a third person – a middle-aged woman – unknown to them, clustered, talking about which house was theirs.

“Hello!” Aziraphale called out, in a friendly, boisterous voice. “It seems you’ve found us after all!” He said this, even though it was clear that they were identifying the wrong houses. He couldn’t blame them – the numbers were not clearly marked. Part of the chic mystery of the neighbourhood.

“Oh, hello dear!” Madame Tracy said, approaching Aziraphale with open arms. Her hair was now white/blonde (a bit like Aziraphale’s) hanging past her shoulders, with a gentle curl. She was dressed in what looked like a red and white flowered linen kimono, open in the front, with a beige linen jumpsuit underneath. The two embraced, forgetting for a moment that “social distancing” was a thing,

Anthema and Shadwell greeted each other with a wave.

When Tracy stepped back, she made a grand gesture toward the woman with them. “Mr. Aziraphale, Miss Anathema, this is my sister, Claudia Potts. Claudia, this is Mr. Aziraphale – also known as Mr. Fell – and Anathema Device.”

Claudia had salt and pepper hair, twisted up into a knot and pinned high on the back of her head. Like her sister, she was attractive, stylish, and congenial. Although, her sleeveless white blouse and black skirt suggested a demurer personality.

She gave a little bow in lieu of a handshake, and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Aziraphale. Marjorie tells me you used to be an angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide as saucers. “Erm… Marjorie?”

“Yes, that’s my given name, dear,” Tracy said with an eyeroll. “My sister still insists.”

“Oh, well… she told you that, did she?” Aziraphale said with his tight smile, caught off-guard.

“It’s all right,” Tracy said, patting his hand. “My sister knows all about me, all about Mr. S., all about everything.”

Claudia said, “And you live with the ex-demon, am I right?”

Aziraphale, still flummoxed, opened his mouth to answer, but found that nothing came out. Finally, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

She then turned to Anathema, and took a stance feigning to look her over, and said, “And you’re the witch.”

“Erm… occultist,” Anathema corrected.

“The one that gave them the cottage!”

“Yes,” answered Anathema, reluctantly.

“You know you might’ve saved their lives, helping them get out of the city before the pandemic hit,” Claudia commented. “I must thank you for that.”

“Oh… I hadn’t thought of it that way, but… okay. You’re welcome, I guess.”

“What with the virus not touching Tadfield, and all,” Tracy commented. “We have been so very lucky!”

Aziraphale and Anathema looked at each other with a mix of confusion and dread.

“What’s this now?” Anathema asked. “The virus hasn’t touched Tadfield?”

“Not a single case reported in town,” Tracy confirmed. “Nor at the U.S. airbase. The hospitals and infirmaries were ready for a deluge, but so far…” And she shrugged to show empty hands.

“Interesting,” Aziraphale, said, frowning. “Are you sure – not a single case?”

“I’m sure, love. The school stayed open, restaurants and shops, too.”

“Not even people who’ve come into town from outside? People who’ve visited relatives in other cities who have had the virus?”

“No-one.”

“And the town is not locked down? People can come and go?”

“Yes! It’s been remarkable!”

“Remarkable, indeed,” he muttered, again looking at Anathema with a frown. “Why haven’t we heard about it?”

Anathema shrugged. “I’m not the person to ask.”

“Now, are there any party guests who don’t know about all this?” Tracy asked, switching the conversation, and clapping her hands. “The angels and demons and occult and whatnot?”

“Yes, Mr. Narker,” Aziraphale responded.

“Ah, Sam!” Shadwell called out with a huge smile, speaking for the first time since they had arrived. “Such a good lad! Son of a grea’ man!”

“Well, Anathema was able to charm him somewhat, but overall, he seems a bit unnerved as it is. So if we could just keep all talk of the supernatural and whatnot under our hats, I think that would be best,” Aziraphale said to the group.

Everyone agreed. Specifically, Claudia made a gesture of zipping her lips, locking them, and throwing away the key.

“Shall we just go down the side of the house?” Anathema asked, turning and walking that way before anyone could answer. Tracy followed, then Claudia, then Shadwell, and Aziraphale took up the rear, and they all filed into the garden where Crowley and Newt sat uncomfortably with Narker.

Crowley quickly put a drink in everyone’s hand, and then his partner proposed a toast.

“To Madame Tracy and Sergeant Shadwell,” Aziraphale said, holding out his glass. “Congratulations on a long-overdue engagement! Here’s to an uneventful wedding with no outbreak – though I suppose if you get married in Tadfield, the issue will be moot – a relaxing honeymoon, and most of all, to a long, lovely life together. We all truly hope that you find happiness, comfort, and succor in one another.”

Crowley reached out and took his hand, and squeezed it, and Newt did the same to Anathema.

Everyone raised their glasses and toasted, the strange but adorable couple.

Chapter Text

The following day was a Sunday.

A former angel and a former demon sat on the rooftop terrace of the flat they now shared, and enjoyed Sangria, made with the wine Mr. Narker had brought to the party. The table red had proven unnuanced and undrinkable (read: cheap), so they’d mixed it with some soda and lemonade, some brandy and cut-up fruit and ice, and they had themselves a decent libation for a summer evening.

They could no longer transform it into a Châteauneuf du Pape, but they could sure as Hell turn it into a tasty cocktail.

Crowley lounged in a hammock, in loose black trousers and a black tank top. Aziraphale sat upon a teak sofa with weather-proof cushions, wearing a light beige button-up tunic with matching trousers. Crowley had a laptop on his chest, and Aziraphale had a yellow legal pad on the coffee table in front of him, and a pen in-hand.

“Okay what’s next?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley scrolled down the page. “Next order is five separate titles,” he said. “Number one, ‘Northanger Abbey,’ by Jane Austen, trade paperback. Number two, ‘Kane and Abel,’ by Jeffrey Archer, mass market paperback.”

“Ugh,” Aziraphale groaned, nevertheless jotting down the details. “Both the title, and the author. Next?”

“Number three, ‘All The Light We Cannot See,’ by Anthony Doerr, trade paperback,” Crowley continued.

“Of course,” his partner groaned. “Every third person that orders anything orders that.”

“Just be glad the Oprah book club is no longer in its heyday,” Crowley muttered. “Number four, ‘The Splendid and the Vile,” by Erik Larson, hardback of course.
And finally, ‘Two-thousand and Twenty Home Craft Ideas,’ by Diane Aveugle, hardback. What a weird combination.”

“It’s probably a family,” Aziraphale said, finishing writing the info. Then, “Ready for name and address.”

Crowley read out the name and address of the person who had ordered those five books from A.Z. Fell and Company’s website, which had become a necessity since the pandemic had kicked off in England. This was a nightly ritual, as Aziraphale wanted to stay in business, but wanted as little to do with the internet as possible. Tomorrow, he would happily go to the bookshop with his list, pack up the books that needed shipping, and ship them. At the same time, he would receive a shipment from the distributor, and he would shelve them. Then, he would fuss with his antiques for a bit, do a bit of cleaning, do a few hours of reading, and return home. Once a week, he and Crowley would go over the trend data for the past seven days, and replace the titles that needed replacing, by ordering direct from the publisher.

Truth be told, he found himself enjoying this work just as much as having customers wandering in the store, if not more. The only drawback was that in order to keep income flowing, he’d had to begin selling mainstream books, in addition to his rares and antiques (which he was never much wont to sell anyway). He had saved a great deal of money over the years, and probably had enough for the rest of their lives, but he wanted to be gainfully employed, contributing to, and interacting with the economy, not just surviving. It was only fair. He was very keen on that point, now that he was human.

So, he had had an entire new annex built onto the back of the store, along with its own entrance, just before the pandemic had struck. He had barely had time to see what it was like to run a mainstream bookshop, and that was fine with him. Though, he supposed he’d eventually have to learn how to do it, and get accustomed to it.

“Right,” Crowley said, getting up out of the hammock surprisingly nimbly. “Another drink?”

“Yes, please,” answered Aziraphale, holding up his glass.

Months ago, they had promised each other that they would begin hedging their alcohol intake, in deference to their middle-aged human bodies. But they had not done so.

Crowley walked swiftly down the stairs, leading into an atrium full of plants, which they were both still learning how to care for properly. If he had turned and gone behind the stairs, it would have led into a sitting room customised for the two of them, complete with wall-to-wall books, a large television, comfy leather sofa, and a large wooden coffee table. Crowley’s semi-erotic sculpture of a demon subduing an angel was there, as well.

But instead he went straight, headed down the stairs and into the main part of the flat, where they had entertained a group of people the day before, and where there was still a mess that could not be cleaned up with a wave of the hand.

He filled both glasses with sangria from a pitcher in the refrigerator, then returned to the terrace, where Aziraphale now had the laptop in front of him. There was really only one reason why he ever did this.

“Aw, come on, angel,” Crowley groaned. “Can’t we just have one night without this?”

“You know how it works, Crowley,” retorted his partner. “We do the orders, then we study the prophecies for one hour. We can’t afford not to. For the good of everyone.”

Crowley set one of the Sangrias on the coffee table, and took a big swig out of the other. “It’s Sunday. Don’t your people think it’s not okay to work on Sunday?”

“My people? Funny how they’re only ‘my people’ when you’re trying to make a point that suits you. Now, shut up and pull up the document on your phone,” tutted Aziraphale. “And when we’re done, we can do something that you want.”

Crowley chuckled. “Well, we both know what that’s gonna be.”

Aziraphale looked up at him half-sheepishly, half-annoyed, whereupon Crowley fluttered a very naughty eyebrow at him. “Yes, we do,” Aziraphale said. “So, let’s keep our eye on the prize, shall we?”

Crowley now smiled, and settled into a comfortable chair that matched the weatherproof teak sofa. “All right. Tempting me into reading prophecy with the promise of… a prize. Well-played, angel!”

------------------------------------------------------

And so, the two of them committed their brains to ‘Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter.' They had used time-travel (on a relatively small scale) to retrieve the original manuscript from Anathema before she had a chance to burn it. Then, they had photographed every page and transferred it to the laptop so as to have a record of it, then turned it over to the Archangel Gabriel, just before the two of them were stripped of their supernatural status.

It, like its predecessor, was dense, unhinged, and sometimes inscrutable. But they had to assume that, like its predecessor, it was also… well, accurate. Even Crowley agreed that its potential foreshadowing of events to come, it could be a hugely valuable tool for the continued existence of humankind.

For six months, they had been poring over prophecies, interpreting, discussing. Though, interpretation was rarely easy. In Crowley’s case, sometimes it helped to say it out loud, because the written language was so, in his words, “old-timey-witch barmy.” Once in a while, they seemed to find a prediction for the world at-large, concerning what they interpreted to be social media and politics. Quite often, they ran across information about Anathema and Newt, which they kept to themselves, so as not to burden the young woman once again with any kind of life beholden to prophecy. She had wanted to burn the manuscript for a reason. (Incidentally, the couple were destined to have between two and four children, never live in the States again, and eventually run a soap and perfumes shop together).

They kept notebooks with their own projections and wonderings, especially on large-scale events. They took a lot of time researching word origins, archaic meanings of things, archetypal symbols (with which they were both, admittedly, already quite familiar), history, philosophy, Wiccan lore… anything that could help unlock Agnes’ brain. Or whatever it was within her that saw the future. Usually, they landed somewhere that seemed somewhat logical, and satisfied them both. But it was a task. Blimey, was it a task!

“Oh!” Crowley said, using two syllables. “Erm… I think… this could be something.”

Aziraphale shifted his eyes up from the screen to Crowley’s lovely brown eyes. “Let’s hear it then,” he said, sitting up straight to listen.

Crowley, as always, adjusted his voice to sound high-pitched and witch-like. Aziraphale wondered if he fully realised he was doing it.

“’Divergente Forces shall incite with Vengeance the Right of the Younge Beast and the Lesser Beast. Conflicte and Tormente, in tandem the Scourge of Mankind, shall surge alle anew, recommencing the Ende of Days, and the Children of Adam shall come to the Precipice of Peril! But regard closely, as the Method shall be circuitous and serve its Needs with the Instruments of the Day. Take thee Heart, Reader, and place no Ire on the Younge Beast himself – he is merely a Pawn in a vicious Game.’”

When Crowley stopped reading, the two of them sat and contemplated for a few moments. Certain words rang out in both of their minds, but the big picture, the true meaning, was not yet clear.

“Read it again,” Aziraphale ordered.

Crowley obliged, only with his own voice, set in a much more dire tone.

“Well, bugger,” Aziraphale said, surprisingly evenly.

“It certainly seems that way,” Crowley sighed.

“Where did you find it? Which page?”

Crowley gave him the information he needed to locate the prophecy with his laptop. He had become rather adept at navigating through Agnes’ writings using the dread apparatus.

Aziraphale read it out loud now. “’Divergente Forces…’”

“Heaven and Hell, obviously,” Crowley said.

“’…shall incite with Vengeance the Right of the Younge Beast and the Lesser Beast. Conflicte and Tormente, in tandem the Scourge of Mankind, shall surge alle anew, recommencing the Ende of Days…’”

“They’re going to stir up his powers. Again. And let a fucking war ensue. Again.”

“’…and the Children of Adam shall come to the Precipice of Peril!’ Do you suppose that just means that humankind is doomed?”

“What else?” Crowley asked.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, contemplatively. “But that phrase bothers me a bit. Why would she say ‘the children of Adam,’ rather than just mankind?”

“Because she was barking mad?”

“Perhaps. But the fact that she used ,his name, Adam cannot be a coincidence. Just as it is not a coincidence that she used his surname, Young, to describe him.”

“Okay, so again, I ask you, what else? What else could it mean, Aziraphale?”

“Again, I tell you, I don’t know, but let’s think on it, shall we? ‘But regard closely, as the Method shall be circuitous and serve its Needs with the Instruments of the Day.’”

“The method shall be circuitous,” Crowley said. “She thinks we won’t see it coming.”

“Or at least is trying to warn us not to turn our sights to Tadfield Airbase or the fields of Megiddo again,” Aziraphale countered. “It will ‘serve its Needs with the Instruments of the Day.’ That stumps me a bit as well, I must admit.”

“’Take thee Heart, Reader, and place no Ire on the Younge Beast himself – he is merely a Pawn in a vicious Game.’”

“They’re going to do something to him,” Aziraphale said, with dread permeating his voice. “Force him to end the world! And they may not take 'no' for an answer this time."

“Come on, you know as well as I do that no-one can make that kid do anything. He’ll be all right,” Crowley said, not sounding particularly convinced.

“He’s just a child, Crowley!”

“Yeah, and he’s also the Antichrist,” Crowley retorted. “He brought down Satan himself, and empowered his friends to wipe War, Famine, and Pollution off the face of the planet… temporarily. The boy didn’t want to end the world then, and I’ll bet you anything, he doesn’t want to now.”

“But what if they wait until he’s grown, and he sees with more mature eyes what this world is really like?”

“I hate to say it, angel, but there might be nothing we can do,” Crowley said. “These bodies aren’t going to last forever, and Adam is only… well, not even twelve years old yet.”

Aziraphale looked at the screen, and cursed mildly.

“I did warn you,” Crowley reminded him. “There’s a big one coming.”

“And a lot sooner than we think, if it’s going to happen in Adam’s lifetime,”

“I have to admit, I don’t like the idea of the Head Offices going about it in any way circuitously,” Crowley said. “Insidiously fucking around with a kid. What does that even mean? It just seems like a special brand of arseholery.”

“Predatory,” Aziraphale said.

“At the very least. And at least one of those Offices is supposed to be 'good.'”

A silence ensued, and when Crowley didn’t say anything else for a longer-than-usual span, Aziraphale looked up at him. He found the former demon sitting with his elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling between, and his face fixed in a deep frown. He was grinding his teeth, and Aziraphale could clearly hear him trying to regulate his breathing.

“This is really getting to you,” said Aziraphale, gently.

Crowley’s hands immediately covered his face. “Yeah.”

Aziraphale crossed over to the other side of the coffee table, and sat down in the armchair beside his distressed partner. He reached over and ran his fingers through what little of Crowley’s red hair was not stiff with product – namely the back.

“It’s all right,” he said, just as gently. “You said it yourself: the boy is the Antichrist – not just some waif they’re going to steal off the streets. He’s going to be fine.”

Crowley dropped his hands. “Having powers doesn’t stop him from being a child. They won’t be able to force him to destroy the planet, but he’ll still be frightened. He’ll still want his mum and dad – even if he doesn’t let on. And there’s no telling what they’ll resort to, to get him to cooperate.”

“Again, maybe they’ll wait until he’s grown. In fact, if they want a better chance at actually convincing him to end the world, they actually should wait. It’s what I would do, having seen what we saw at the Airbase. I mean, it’s bad news for the world, but at least the child will be preserved.”

“Yeah, I guess. Maybe. I just wish they would leave him alone."

“I know,” Aziraphale said, putting his hand back in his lap. “You know, Crowley, I’ve always rather admired the soft spot you’ve got for children.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“I’m serious – it’s forever been one of the most human things about you. You’d have made an excellent father.”

“Yeah, probably. Can we keep our eye on the ball here?” Crowley snapped, irritated.

“Well, how might we mitigate this? Do you think we should warn him?” Aziraphale said. “If we did that, would it make you feel better?”

Crowley thought about this. “Yes, I think it would. Can we really do that?”

“I don’t see why not,” Aziraphale said. “We’re just two blokes studying prophecy. Who would stop us? Who would smite us?”

“We’d have to work out how to get him away from his parents.”

“He and his chums wander about that town like a band of thieves, and there's no pandemic nor lockdown there - it's all business as usual, as Madame Tracy tells it. Adam won’t be difficult to find without his parents. And the other kids already know who and what he is. After a fashion.”

“Okay then,” Crowley said, standing up suddenly. “Tomorrow afternoon, we head to Tadfield.”

“Afternoon? Shouldn’t we get a head start in the morning?”

Crowley sighed. “I have to go to work for a bit,” he said. “We’re on limited in-person staff, sort of rotating who comes in, and who works from home.”

“Ah – yes, I remember your telling me they were trying a new scheduling experiment.”

“I’ll meet you at the bookshop around 3, and we can go then.”

“All right. I don’t suppose you happen to have memorised the train schedule between London and Oxfordshire?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh yeah… train,” Crowley sighed.

A few months earlier, the two of them had realised reluctantly that using a large ninety-year-old Bentley for regular transportation was quite cumbersome for two blokes in the city. So they’d made the decision to hire a climate-controlled storage space and retire the beautiful black car. As neither of them had the powers necessary to keep the thing running without a huge amount of maintenance and worry, they thought it would be best simply to purchase a newer vehicle, and keep their favourite vintage auto as a museum piece. Since then, because of the pandemic, there hadn’t been a lot of places for them to go, so they hadn’t got round to actually acquiring a new vehicle yet…

Aziraphale grabbed the laptop and pulled it across to where he was now sitting. “How do I use this infernal machine to find a train schedule?”
Crowley reached down and snapped it shut. “Later.”

“Later?” Aziraphale asked, looking up at him with surprise.

“Yeah, later. Or, we’ll just get an Uber. Nothing we can do until tomorrow anyway,” Crowley said. Then his voice dropped to something exaggeratedly smoky. “Right now, I’ll need some consoling.”

“Consoling?”

“Mm-hm. The prophecy has me all tied up in knots.” Crowley said, and he held out his hand for his partner to take.

Aziraphale obliged, and stood up. “I see. Poor dear.”

Crowley pulled him in for a kiss, though they were always careful never to get too carried away whilst on the rooftop patio. They had had at least one tryst in every other room of the flat, but here, they could be seen, and that just wouldn’t do.

When Crowley broke the kiss, he stepped forward and took the back of his angel’s head in one hand, and wrapped his other arm around him. Three times, with a bit of tongue, he kissed the flawless fleshy neck beneath the jaw, so often obscured by a starched collar, but tonight unfettered. Aziraphale took a deep breath, and gave a subtle, pleasured groan.

Quite low in Aziraphale’s ear, Crowley said, “Yes, I’m definitely harbouring quite a bit of worry over this Antichrist thing, and I’m going to need it banged out of me.”

“Oh?”

“Or sucked. Slowly and torturously,” he said, biting his angel’s ear. “Whichever you prefer.”

Aziraphale moved to pick up the laptop, and Crowley led him down the stairs into the greenhouse/atrium. Aziraphale shut the trapdoor and turned out the lights on the terrace atop, while Crowley disappeared through the doorway that would eventually lead to the bedroom. He was off to collect on Aziraphale’s promise to do something he wanted, after they were done studying prophecy.

Though the bit about being tense over tonight’s prophecy, and needing a distraction, had not been a total lie.

Chapter Text

The bedroom was, like the rest of the flat, lined with exposed brick, and had tasteful accents throughout. Though, unlike the rest of the flat, it was not well-lit during the day. It had only one small window with a grey, light-cancelling curtain hanging over it, and even at high noon, the room could get dark, dark, dark.

But that’s the way they liked it – even Aziraphale. The inner reaches of his bookshop could get quite cavernous, and quite dark during the day as well, and it always had always made him feel safe and ensconced, in spite of his usual inclination. Besides, he realised that the part of himself that relished in anything bedroom-related was the same part of him that relished in Crowley, so it was only natural to conflate bedrooms with darkness.

So, he had allowed his darkly chic partner to make most of the decisions about bedroom décor.

As he had in his previous flat, Crowley had chosen a bed on a platform, rather than on legs or wheels. He had had it sensibly bolted to the floor, at the same time has he’d had a set of eight-foot-tall mahogany shelves built in, in lieu of a headboard. On right side of the shelves, Aziraphale generally kept books, of course, an ever-changing rotation of both modern and antique novels, history, prophecy, philosophy, psychology, herbal healing, foods, gardening, design, and interestingly, auto repair. On the lowest shelf, there was a clock, a pen and pad of paper, his Smartphone (which only occasionally moved from that spot), reading glasses, and usually a cold cup of tea and a plate with crumbs from a cake or pastry or something.

Crowley’s side did have a few books (two mystery/thrillers he’d tried to read during lockdown to stave off boredom, a couple of confectionery cookbooks, a plumbing manual, and a book of Victorian erotica that Aziraphale seemed to enjoy hearing read aloud as a precursor to their own erotic adventures). He also had two shelves dedicated to small sculptures (mostly angels, but a few abstract carvings). Two or three shelves simply held odds and ends, like a tiny model of his Bentley, half-a-dozen pairs of sunglasses thrown about, sometimes an empty cordial or wine glass, an iPad, a five-hundred-year-old painted clay pot half-full of random coins that Crowley tended to find in his trouser pockets, and the glove from a suit of armour he had once worn, and quite fancied.

In contrast to Aziraphale’s bottom shelf, Crowley’s held a black lacquer container whose dimensions were roughly the size of a breadbox. Aziraphale had given it to him for a very specific purpose, having got tired of looking at the bawdy, multi-coloured display of a dozen or more sex toys on that shelf. Crowley had been reluctant to accept it, which Aziraphale suspected might happen, as the former demon (of course) took a perverse pride in the collection and would not want to hide it away. So Aziraphale had purchased a sampler set of six flavoured lubricants to put in the box as incentive.

“Fine, but can I keep the spade on display?” Crowley had asked, pouting a bit.

“Well, all right, but only because it’s made of glass, and one would never suspect what it is,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley had smiled indulgently, knowing very well that “the spade” looked quite obviously like what it was – an anal plug – but he didn’t say so. And so, it was kept out on the shelf in plain sight, clear and shiny. To both of them, it was a weirdly cosy reminder of the beginnings of their carnal relationship.

The bedspread was black, as were the throw rugs on either side of the bed, though they had something of a greyish geometric pattern. There was a red, black, and grey Mark Rothko print on one wall, and spray of white silk flowers with artificial wild greens on the mahogany dresser.

The dresser also had candles. Four of them, to be exact – two black (spicy Cedar) and two white (vanilla). When lit together, it gave the room a sweet, musky, heavy, sexy smell. Both partners had now been trained like Pavlov’s dog to salivate at the first hint of that combination.

--------------------------------------------

Tonight, Aziraphale entered the bedroom, where Crowley was already lighting the candles on the dresser and stepping out of his trousers. He threw them aside with flourish and closed the curtain over the lone window in the room.

“I can see how stressed-out you are, my love,” Aziraphale said, with a measure of deadpan sarcasm, but also with softness in his voice. He was referring to the fact that Crowley’s sexual overture on the terrace had been based on his worry over the Antichrist, and what might be about to happen to him.

“Oi, don’t mistake my appreciation for a glowing lovemaking ambience for not being concerned about the boy.”

Aziraphale walked up behind him, and curled his arms around Crowley’s very sinewy middle. He kissed the back of the snake-like neck and whispered, “I know you’re concerned. So am I.” Then he reached down with one hand, and felt a developing bulge in the front of Crowley’s black nylon boxer-briefs. He stroked it, squeezed gently, and said, “But I also know that this – what we’re doing – is nothing to do with any of that.”

Crowley laughed, and leaned back into the embrace, feeling another rather formidable bulge against his lower back. “Yeah, fair cop, I suppose. It’s really more about knowing that I have an incredibly slutty partner, and I’d like to take full advantage of that fact. Is that wrong?”

Aziraphale felt a frisson. He rather delighted in being called “slutty.” By the right person, of course.

“Not wrong in the least.”

“But I know better than anyone, this is hedonism, and hedonism is escapism, in which case… well, I’m incredibly distraught.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” Aziraphale commented, exaggeratedly, with his bottom lip sticking out.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, pathetically. He turned his head toward Aziraphale, who kissed his lips tenderly. “Help me escape. You’re the only one who can.”

“Aw, well, then, why don’t you lie down, and let me tend to you?”

Aziraphale let go then, and gestured to the bed. Crowley turned round, smiled, and did as suggested. He stretched out on his back, in the middle of the king-size bed, in his pants.

Aziraphale kicked off his shoes, and with a little smirk, lay down on his side beside his lovely, lovely partner, with his shoulder beside Crowley’s hip. He wasted no time peeling back the black Calvin Kleins and letting a prodigious erection spring free. He took firm hold and slid his mouth over it, groaning as though he’d been starving for it.

“Oh, angel,” came Crowley’s crackling groan. He sucked in air through clenched teeth, and marvelled at how skilled the formerly skittish angel had become over the past ten months, in the art and craft of love. “Fuck, that feels good!”

“Mm-hm,” Aziraphale confirmed, as though he had no doubt of his own abilities. He leaned forward and took the hard, leaking cock down this throat for a few moments to illustrate his point, squeezed Crowley’s balls, and listened to his tempting lover make another roaring expletive, jaggedly across the velvety cedar-scented air.

Then he settled into a tight, gorgeous rhythm of sucking; pulling his lips taut, producing saliva, and sheathing Crowley’s engorged dick over and over again. It was delicious in every way. And Crowley had, if nothing else, control. Therefore, he lay back with his hands behind his head, closed his eyes, and moaned leisurely as he got sucked off by his favourite being in this world, or any other.

He imagined he could see stars behind his eyes. Alpha Centauri, perhaps.

“You know, angel, someday we will have to do this on the roof,” he sighed. “I don’t give a toss who can see us.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale said, and released the throbbing member for a few moments, and licked its underside from root to tip. “I very much doubt that will happen, unless one of us can build quite an efficient shade, guaranteeing no prying eyes.”

“Why does it matter?” Crowley asked. “So people see us… maybe some of them get off on it. Maybe some get inspired! All the better for them, and for us, eh?”

Stroking with one hand, Aziraphale said, “Would you just live in this moment, and enjoy yourself, please?”

Crowley smiled. “You know, if we still had our powers, we could fuck our brains out up there all day long, and make it so no-one noticed.”

“But we don’t have them, so it’s moot,” Aziraphale retorted, seizing Crowley’s cock once more with his mouth, hungrily, with a bit of a moan.

Aziraphale played with the head of the long, gorgeous cock with his tongue. He encircled it, licked it, teased at it, before burying it again in his mouth and throat, and causing spasms of delight in his sinewy lover.

“Ugh... you're so bloody good at that, angel,” he mused, before groaning hard and jagged again.

Aziraphale found a rhythm once more – tease, tease, lick, kiss the shaft, et cetera, then deep in the throat a few times until he could taste salty leaks, then start over.

Eventually, he paused for a few seconds to release his grip, suck his own fingers, and also tug Crowley’s black underwear the rest of the way off. Resuming his mouth’s zealous actions, he began to pry open his partner’s back door, sliding in three fingers, stretching the hungry, twitching hole nice and wide. Crowley had said he needed the blues banged out of him, and Aziraphale had always been an excellent listener, as well as a compassionate angel/man. Though he knew that Crowley’s wanting or needing a sound fucking wasn’t truly about his worries over the prophecy, he did not intend to disappoint in any way.

And so, as Crowley spread his legs willingly, his angel pushed three fingers into his tight hole and scissored them. The soft, heavenly digits slid in and out steadily, rather firmly, aggressively, while the tight, wet mouth continued to pump Crowley’s hard, shaft toward bursting. Crowley moaned hard, and clawed at the grey bedspread beneath him. He wasn’t sure how much either one of them needed this prep work, after ten rather intense months together, including the past three under quarantine. But they almost always afforded each other this little courtesy – a preparatory fingering, or insertion of the spade, before the main event. It was a fun, considerate gesture, and if done right, it could make either one of them ooze with excitement and anticipation. Sometimes it was the ends in its own right

Just as Crowley began in earnest the climb toward orgasm, the sucking paused, Aziraphale withdrew his fingers, and sat up.

Crowley groaned in disappointment. “Ugh, why the fuck did you stop?”

Aziraphale pulled his linen tunic over his head and discarded it on the floor. As he did so, he said, “Now, now, if I could keep your cock in my mouth and undress simultaneously, I would, but I can’t. Just be patient, you horny thing.”

“You know I don’t do patient particularly well,” Crowley whined. “Not anymore, anyway.”

“Well, darling, earlier you gave me a choice. ‘Bang,’ or suck it out of you. I choose the former,” said Aziraphale.

Aziraphale now moved to the edge of the bed, where he sat and wriggled free of his trousers and pants.

“’I choose the former,’” Crowley said, with Aziraphale’s intonation and accent. He giggled. “Only you could say something so bloody RP, and have it mean you’re going to fuck me into next Thursday.”

Aziraphale reached toward the head of the bed, and searched in the lacquer box by hand, until he found a tube of unflavoured lubricant.

“If you’d like, I can resume what I was doing,” said the former angel, calmly. “But if you erupt into my mouth, I don’t know whether you’ll fully benefit from what I’m about to do to you.”

Crowley half-laughed, half-growled, tossed his head back, as though his partner’s words were torture. He didn’t – couldn’t – say any actual words.

Aziraphale knelt on the bed between Crowley’s feet, then moved forward, bending and spreading apart Crowley’s knees as he did. He drizzled a generous amount of slippery lube over his own tightly pulsing dick, then placed the head just there, at the entrance to Crowley’s lovely, readied, pink hole.

Still kneeling upright, he gave two hard shoves forward, and was buried to the hilt. Both men groaned with temporary satisfaction, and stayed still for a few seconds, savouring the moment, holding each other’s eyes.

“Talk to me like the slut that you are,” Crowley commanded, with a whisper, knowing that his angel had a formidable appetite, loved to wallow in deep pits of messy pleasure, and had, on occasion, a mouth as filthy as any Crowley had ever heard.

“Oh, I think you’re the slut tonight, my love,” Aziraphale responded, more than happy to oblige the demand for dirty talk. He spread the knobbly knees apart even further, and looked down at his own dick as he began to impale Crowley’s arse with it, to fuck him with (initially) controlled mastery. He pulled back and gave a good hard shove, then did it again, before Crowley could catch his breath. “You’re the one who practically begged for this.”

“I did,” Crowley agreed, breathily. "Oh, I wanted it!"

Slow shoves, hard ones, continued, as far into Crowley as Aziraphale could muster. Crowley grabbed the shelf above his head, and braced himself for the repeated impacts of his partner’s increasingly insistent body.

“Good that you know how much of a bloody slag you are,” Aziraphale said, his voice cracking a bit with breathiness. “These knees spread so wide apart, that chafed, bright pink arsehole, the whorish way you’re panting for it… that purple-headed cock of yours, stiff as a rail… how could you think that you’re anything but a slut?”

Aziraphale repeated and repeated his action, slamming his cock into Crowley’s arse, holding his knees apart, over and over, over and over, until the sound of flesh slapping flesh was the dominant noise in the room… second only to the abandoned grunts and nasty dialogue coming from partners caught in ecstasy.

“You’re right, you’re right,” Crowley panted. “I’m the slut. I’m the one who fucking begged for it, and I always want more. I want it all the time! In fact, give it to me harder!”

“Harder?”

“Harder!”

Aziraphale adjusted his angle and gained a bit of leverage as he gave his insatiable lover what he had asked for, and began thrusting with even more power and an increased speed. Crowley’s eyes were crossing a bit as the trajectory of Aziraphale’s shoves began to ram and massage just the right spot again and again.

“There… you like that?” Aziraphale asked, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.

“Uhhh… fuckkk yesss….” the jostled voice came out of Crowley.

“Of course you do.”

“Of course… I do…”

“And look at that big hard thing there, bobbing on your belly. It’s ready to blow, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I love this so much…”

“Love it so much that you’re going to empty those tight bollocks all over stomach quite soon?”

“Yes, yes…”

Crowley repeated those words yes, yes, over and over, and Aziraphale watched him writhe, relished in the power he had, and in the deliciousness of what would happen. He anticipated seeing Crowley come all over himself and hearing the very human, yet slightly demonic cry he would emit as pleasure ripped through him. Suddenly, Aziraphale struggled to hang onto his control. It was too much!

But he had to last until he’d given Crowley a big, chaotic orgasm! He had to wait for his moment… oh dear, oh dear… he closed his eyes.

…'The Sound of Music,' the Archangel Gabriel, jug wine, Winston Churchill, the films of Jerry Bruckheimer, rugby…

He forced himself to think of these things while trying to hold back. Absently, there was the thought, "Honestly, Crowley, the things you make me do…"

And then there was a hissing, popping cry of “Shit!” from his prone partner, and the beautiful sight of thick, slippery cream spurting out of his cock, hands-free, depositing ropes of creamy come across the heaving stomach. The steel-hard member bobbed and spasmed, and seemed to burst over and over. Crowley groaned as he released and watched the same spectacle, cursed some more, shuddered a bit more…

Aziraphale had learned over the past few months that there was almost nothing better. Crowley’s body so well-primed, his arse so expertly fucked, that his dick simply doesn’t need to be stroked or coaxed in any way. Rather, he simply can’t hold onto his load and it spills all over the place. It brings both of them absolutely exquisite and obscene pleasure, and makes a mess of the sinewy flesh. The two of them had got quite good at this little trick over the past six months.

And before Crowley was even finished oozing his last, Aziraphale let go of his unsexy thoughts and immersed himself in the moment, immediately letting jets of his own come fill up Crowley’s well-used chute. He thrust hard, grunted and watched Crowley drag his fingers through the splatters of his own salty pleasure and suck it off. Spasms absolutely blinded him, and he bore down, and shuddered, then gave his last throb before exhaling large, and falling forward. He caught himself on his hands, and planted a firm kiss on his lover’s mouth, and they both gave a satisfied sigh.

--------------------------------------------------

Forty-five minutes later, Aziraphale was sitting up in bed, reading a book about the ancient Sumerians (he’d forgotten what scamps they were!) when Crowley emerged from the bathroom with a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, and foam lining his lips.

“Da ya ta ma ah-ya, ya nee hap wa a… bach sha-ma ah samma?” he asked.

Aziraphale peered over his reading glasses and smirked. “Bach, shaman, asama? If this is your attempt at Aramaic, Crowley, it’s dreadful.”

Crowley yanked the toothbrush out of his mouth. “It’s not bloody Aramaic.”

“Then as I’ve said on many occasions, do not try to speak with something in your mouth.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I said, did you tell me earlier that you need help with a box, or shipment, or something?”

“Oh,” said the prim former angel, taking his glasses off, and folding them, and his hands, upon his lap. “Yes, if you please. I’ve got an extra several dozen copies of ‘Utopia Avenue’ coming in tomorrow. I’ll just need another pair of hands. I can stack four of those large boxes on a dolly, but not six.”

“Okay, what time?”

“What time can you get free?”

“I dunno… lunchtime?”
“Fine,” said Aziraphale. “Let’s meet up for Korean – been craving Arang, and they’re open now for takeaways – and eat in the park, then we’ll go pick up the boxes, head back to the bookshop, and you can return to work.”

“Sounds good. Just… would you remember to bring your phone with you tomorrow, just in case something comes up after you’ve already gone out and about from the shop? You know my job can be… unpredictable. One daft, bored bloke in a bathrobe can cause the whole thing to blow up."

“Yes, of course. I hate that blasted thing, but I do see the need of it in a situation such as this.”

"And in other situations, I hope," Crowley lilted with one eyebrow raised.

He then went back into the bathroom. He spat in the sink, ran the water, gargled, then returned to the bedroom.

Much to his surprise, his angelic partner had not resumed his reading. Rather, he was sitting, staring at a point beyond, looking fretful.

Crowley looked over to make sure that the candles had been snuffed out, the shade had been closed, and that the overhead light had been turned off – these were the usual things that caused Aziraphale to fuss from the bed.

But he couldn’t find anything wrong.

“What?” he asked.

“Crowley, about yesterday…”

“What about it?”

“About that row we had…”

“Oh, that. Yes?”

“Well, I just wonder… am I forgiven? I understand if not, and I shall try to make amends as best I can.”

Crowley smirked. “I think you’ve already done that, angel.”

Aziraphale blushed, which made Crowley smile from ear-to-ear. For millennia, they had been steadfast friends, and pined for one another. And now, they had spent almost a year together, in a state of honest, carnal bliss. They had spent three months in lockdown, somewhat bored, experimenting with sex toys. They had had some of the most intense, explosive sex of Crowley’s life. He had heard this gorgeous creature spew some of the filthiest poetics possible in the English-speaking world. He had watched his partner, countless times, devolve into a complete trollop, a panting, heaving, supplicating mass of desire, then slowly regain his priggish Victorian mannerisms and climb back into his starched suit and tartan bowtie. And as such, he still occasionally rouged at the mention of the things he had done – and thoroughly enjoyed doing – to and with his lover.

“Well, Crowley, I didn’t… I mean… that wasn’t… Crowley, I didn’t just… well…”

Crowley laughed. “You didn’t ‘bang it out of me’ just to win my forgiveness?”

“Yes, that’s right. That was just because… well, I quite adore you, and it’s what you said you wanted.”

“It was. And you did a masterful job, as you could plainly see.” He unconsciously rubbed his belly just above his waistline, from which he had wiped away a slippery mess just half an hour before.

Aziraphale gulped watching him do this, then resumed his train of thought.

“All right, but the other thing… that thing I confessed to yesterday that got you rightly riled at me, about how long it took me to tell you about having located the Antichrist child…”

“Yeah, you’re forgiven,” Crowley said, now moving across the room to his side of the bed. As he talked, he turned out the reading lamp on his side, kicked off his slippers, and downed a vitamin. “But for that, you can thank Newt, not the magnificent drilling you just gave me."

"Newt? You forgive me because of him?”

Crowley crawled in between the sheets. “Yes, and he’s forgiving Anathema because of me.”

“Oh?”

“I helped him see that he really had no reason to be pissed off at her, and he helped me see that you had plenty of reasons for doing what you did. And none of those reasons were self-serving, or because you didn’t care about me. Or about us. So… forgiven, angel,” Crowley said, and he leaned to his right and kissed a perfect, smooth cheek. “Good night.”

“Okay. Yes, good night.”

Crowley settled in beside him, and closed his eyes. “Mm,” he sighed, rather deeply, relaxing.

“Mind if I read for a bit longer? And maybe nip down to the kitchen for a bit of Tracy and Shadwell’s cake?”

“Nope,” mused Crowley, already halfway gone.

Chapter Text

As pleasant as the night had been, the morning brought worry. There was something on the horizon, and Crowley wondered as he poured coffee into a travel tumbler whether he and Aziraphale would be in any sort of position to stop it, or even live long enough to see it. Adam was only eleven, and was, for all intents and purposes, human. If Heaven and Hell were going to execute something within his lifetime, that was relatively soon, and it would already be in the works. But it still could be fifty, sixty, seventy years on, in which case, Crowley and Aziraphale would be… well…

Fifty years felt like the blink of an eye to celestial beings. Which brought up a whole new upheaval of feelings about the nature of time and humanity, love, and living life.

“Bollocks,” he muttered to himself, taking a bracing, hot swig of coffee that actually hurt going down. Once he swallowed, he hissed to himself, “Oh, yes!”

It was then that he heard the phone, currently resting in the front pocket of his bag, go ‘ping’ with a text. He glanced inside and saw that the display said “Book Girl,” a/k/a Anathema, and he shut the bag again. As long it wasn’t from work, it could wait, he reckoned.

Aziraphale had already left for work by the time Crowley had stepped out of the shower that morning, so all he had to do was find a mask to throw into his messenger bag to put on when he got to work, lock the front door, and pull it shut behind him. The way to work was about 812 Tube stops, including a transfer, took 47 minutes. He missed his car, but overall, he didn’t mind. Having a commute again was a bit of a novelty, as work-from-home-for-all was now abating, living outside the absolute heart of Central London was quite nice, and the journey gave him time to think.

But today, he took a taxi.

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The offices of ‘The Piccadilly Detail’ were on the first and second floor of a non-descript building on Brewer Street, just above a small sporting goods shop and a trendy Italian trattoria. (Aziraphale had long-since dismissed the trattoria as an all-glamour-no-substance, flash-in-the-pan after having sampled their lacklustre Ravioli Bottone).

Crowley had begun working for ‘The Detail’ just after he and Aziraphale had arrived back home from their Mallorcan holiday in January, and just before moving to their new flat. He had only had about eight weeks to acclimate to the prospect of his first new job in 6,000 years (and the fact that working in an office on Earth wasn’t entirely unlike working in Hell), before lockdown had occurred and everyone had been asked to work from home. Fortunately, Crowley’s job was as head of their web-team, so working from home required almost no adjustment. Except for drinking too much coffee in his underpants, and getting fussed-at by Aziraphale for putting his feet on the coffee table, not a lot changed when Crowley’s job became home-based. In fact, like a lot of humans during this time, Crowley began to wonder why bother having an office at all.

‘The Detail’ had a web-team comprised of three people: Lou Khoury, Elisa Lenning, and of course, Crowley. Lou was a thirty-year-old with a wife and five kids. He had spent the bare minimum of time at work before lockdown, and did almost nothing from home after lockdown. Crowley knew very little about him, except for the five-kids situation, and reckoned that it wasn’t the ideal set-up for at-home productivity, so had left him pretty much alone for the past three months.

And truth be told, Crowley appreciated the fact that Lou kept mostly to himself, because he found Elisa wholly annoying and devoid of any discernible personal boundaries.

Unfortunately, at the beginning of June when the pandemic began to give the world a bit of breathing room (just a bit), and ‘The Detail’s’ owner had asked anyone who “could safely do so” to come back to work, stir-crazy Elisa had jumped at the chance. Crowley had tried to make a case for continuing to work from home himself, but ultimately, not living with any elderly nor infirm individuals (and not having a germ-carrying brood at home) had determined his fate.
And so, Monday morning, he arrived at his desk near the coffee machine in the corner of a surprisingly dark office, and flipped on the light over his desk, hoping he’d have at least an hour before Elisa rolled in.

“So, how did the engagement party go?” a voice said, about ninety seconds after Crowley’s bum touched his desk chair.

Crowley sighed hard. This was week-two back at work, and Elisa had grilled him about his week-end plans until he’d caved and fessed up all about their Saturday soirée for Shadwell and Tracy, featuring friends from America, Dorking, and the son of Shadwell’s old cell-mate.

“Fine,” he said, waiting for his computer to warm up, and opening a paper dossier of today’s press releases, which he would sift through before the electronic ones. The hard copies were usually local stories from right there in Soho, or at least written by Soho journalists, though there were exceptions to this. The e-releases tended to be national, or international.

“Just... fine?” she asked, throwing her rucksack onto her chair fifteen feet away, then crossing the space to Crowley’s desk. She sat down upon it and looked at him with a big smile.

He had to admit her smile was infectious, even though it was currently behind grey and pink flowered mask. She smiled with her eyes, and made her seem, if nothing else, sincere.

Otherwise, she was rather plain-looking with short dark hair and copious eyebrows. She was about five-foot-two, and just this side of plump. Her clothes were generally ill-fitting and twenty years out-of-style, which Crowley found curious for someone who was only about twenty-five.

He smiled back (behind a black mask) at her and asked, “What do you want from me?”

“Details!”

“About an engagement party for a couple of pensioners?” he asked.

“Yeah! Was there drama?”

“No, of course not.”

“None? None at all?”

“Well, okay, yes, you’ve cornered me. Hold onto your hat for this one,” Crowley said to her.

“Yeah?”

“The bakery was swamped so we had to pick up the cake instead of having it delivered.”

Elisa laughed “Shut the front door! That is some quality drama!” she shouted, exaggeratedly, the laughed some more at Crowley’s (apparently highly entertaining) sarcasm. “So did Mr. A. wind up getting the red velvet?”

“No, ginger spice with… I don’t remember, some kind of fancy crème frosting.” Crowley said. “I was told ‘not to be ridiculous’ when I asked about the red velvet.”

Elisa laughed. “Aw, that’s so him.”

Crowley sighed again. Elisa had, in point of fact, never met Aziraphale, but she quite frequently said things like, ‘that’s so him’ in referring to him, and fancied that she could predict what Aziraphale would say or do, based on whatever trivia she had managed to force out of Crowley. Her avid interest in them as a couple was curious. And sometimes tedious.

She called Aziraphale “Mr. A.,” because in the first few days of their knowing each other, Crowley had spoken about him as “my, er… other half,” whenever prompted to speak about him. Elisa had asked why he never called him by name, so he had told her the truth (or, a partial truth as he knew it). That is to say, because Aziraphale’s legal name since becoming human was Aaron Fell, but no-one ever called him that. Crowley, himself, called him “angel” more often than not.

Elisa had found the “angel” revelation so chuffing sweet, that Crowley had thought she might turn herself inside-out with squeals.

“Can I call him ‘angel’ as well?” she had asked.

“No,” he had told her, flatly.

“Okay, I’ll call him Mr. A.,” she had replied. “For Aaron, or angel, take your pick.”

The A was even more apt than she knew, but Crowley couldn’t very well tell her that.

Within his first week on the job, she knew all the basics about them (at least the “official story” about them, as the truth was not fodder for telling) – how they met, how long they’d been together, et cetera. She had asked ten thousand more questions about them over the subsequent month and a half, and had given a bit too much info about herself as well.

And when lockdown happened, her weirdness didn’t stop then. It just went on Zoom.

But today, she was there, in-person, commenting about Mr. A. and frosting. Crowley agreed with her and said, “Actually, yeah, it is very him.”

Elisa seemed to be waiting for him to continue talking. “And?” she asked, at last, with wide eyes.

“And… nothing. It was a dinner party at our flat. End of.”

“You’re no fun,” she tutted, standing up and crossing back to her desk.

“That is frequently true,” he sighed. “Especially these days. Case in point: work! Tully wrote another editorial praising Boris Johnson last week, so there are about a billion comments to curate.”

He hated the word "curate" as it was currently used, but it was the lingo, so he said it reluctantly.

“On it,” she chirped, and fired up her computer.

Someone else wrote (and/or edited or spiced-up, put a spin on) the articles for the print version of the ‘Detail,’ based on the press releases. Crowley’s job was to pare it down to less than fifty words for social media, post a link to an AP source, then manage the fallout, if there was any. Once in a while, there as an online exclusive article, which he or Elisa or Lou would write it. More and more often lately, he was called upon to fact-check a story, and in the process he could a little digging of his own, which he found rather entertaining.

Unsurprisingly, he had a good relationship with his counterparts who worked for competing publications – he reckoned this must be a strong suit of his. They sometimes helped each other get the facts right, and navigate through the mire of the dreaded ‘comments section.’ If they could cross-reference comments, screen names, etc, it was easier to block the trolls and keep a clean page.

He also vetted what went on social media, out of the fifty-or-so press releases they received per day; on a given day he would choose anywhere between a dozen, and twenty-five. First priority were stories about health and safety of course, then politics and crime, then social news, which would leave very little room for new products for your dog, or reviews of the Unicorn Frappuccino.

He was also charged with posting poignant memes, quizzes, and videos, as a way of building a rapport with the public. He and Elisa and Lou did this several of times per day (he’d set the limit at five times each), and never, ever revealed a political position.

Crowley and Elisa worked in silence for about twenty minutes, and then Elisa stood up and crossed the room to get a cup of coffee. As she walked behind Crowley, she looked over his shoulder at what he was writing, and said, “Ooh, sexting.”

“Mm. It’s about how a lot of relationships have been reduced to it, during the pandemic, and it is now considered an art form.”

“Yeah, my guy and I have been doing a lot of sexting since lockdown.”

“Got to keep things fresh,” he said, frowning at his screen, trying to look earnest and busy, hoping not to have to hear anymore.

“He lives with his mum, and she’s got some sort of autoimmune disease, so we can’t really see each other,” she told him.

“So you’ve told me,” he said.

“Not seeing each other has been really hard on the ol’ nervous system, if you get my drift.”

“I do, because you’ve told me this, as well, and you’ve been graphic about it.

Pouring cream into her coffee, she said, “But sexting can be great fun! It really brings out the writer in me. An art form, indeed.”

“Lovely.”

“I make a game of never using twice in one session the same euphemism for…”

“That’s enough, Elisa.”

She chuckled, and paused. Then, “You and Mr. A. ever do any sexting?”

“No,” he replied.

“Well, if you ever need a way to spice things up, I’ve got some tips that I got from…”

“Get back to work, would you?” he said, without any harshness in his voice, and in fact, a bit of an incredulous smirk.

She chuckled again, and said, “All right.”

They worked in silence for another few minutes, until Crowley’s phone pinged.

He fished it out of his back pocket. It was a text from Aziraphale.

In the process, he was reminded that Anathema had texted him earlier.

But seeing his angel’s name on the display and thinking about sexting got him thinking… and subsequently, involuntarily distracted.

“Are we still on for lunch and post office?” the text asked, followed by a sandwich emoji, a box, and a kissy face. This made Crowley chuckle. Aziraphale had shown a slight interest in text messaging only after he’d been shown the selection of emojis (his slight interest having risen from zero interest).

“Yes,” Crowley answered. “Count on me.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale’s text said. Another kissy face and a thumbs-up. Then, “Are you having a good morning?” Sun emoji, coffee emoji, two heart emojis of different colours.

“Good enough. Elisa is at it again.”

“What is it today?” Deep-thought emoji.

“Wants to know if we do any sexting. I told her no.”

After this, there was a two-minute pause before another text came in: “Why do you lie to her, you vixen?” Lips emoji.

“I miss being bad.” And just for kicks, Crowley sent Aziraphale a vampire emoji, and an aubergine.

He posted the story, then took a loo break.

When he came back, Elisa said, “Jesus, you were gone a long time. Are you all right?”

“You’re timing my trips to the toilet?” he asked, sliding back into his seat. In point of fact, he knew he’d been gone longer than usual.

“I’m nosy,” she shrugged.

Crowley now looked at the first story in the electronic queue, just now coming in from the associated press.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, reading the headline.

“What?” Elisa asked.

“I’ve got a very bad feeling about this,” he said, absently, continuing to read the story. It was currently only a few hundred words because the AP apparently didn’t have much information yet. “Like, very, very bad… and that’s something, coming from me.”

---------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale waited in Golden Square for Crowley, and he had had designs on a Korean Barbecue nearby that was now open for take-aways. They were doing good business since the Square had opened back up for socially-distanced hanging-about. It was a popular spot for friends to meet up, after not having seen one another for months.

It felt like a million other such occasions when one or the other of them would wait to meet up on a park bench, and someone was tardy. This had happened plenty of times before - Aziraphale was not worried.

And indeed, ten minutes after the appointed meeting time, his phone pinged in his pocket. Rather, he heard it sing, “Angel, baby you make my dreams come true!” It was a notification ringtone Crowley had programmed in for his own incoming texts for a laugh, because he knew Aziraphale would find it obnoxious, but wouldn’t know how to undo it.

It had rung such a way three times in a row when Aziraphale had still been in the shop, an hour previously, about ten minutes after Crowley’s text about missing being bad. In quick succession, the texts had read, “Do you know all I can think about just now? Last night, and what you did to me. And what machine you can be."

Immediately, Aziraphale was blushing like a schoolboy, and daftly looking about the totally empty, locked-down shop to make sure no-one could see.

Apparently talking about sexting at work had got under Crowley’s skin. But even though Aziraphale felt the texts all over his body, the bookish former angel had had a deadline to meet, an extra-large order to pick up later on. He had been too frantically putting together the day’s shipment to be in any position to concentrate on an electronic assignation on his faux-antique sofa.

“I simply can’t, Crowley,” he had answered. “I’ll have to owe you.” This was followed by a heart, a tongue emoji, and curiously, a pagoda.
Crowley had responded, “Well, I knew it was only fifty-fifty. See you at lunch.”

And now, Aziraphale’s phone was playing that ridiculous song in the inside pocket of his Victorian coat, which was, admittedly, too warm to be wearing today.
“Can you come to the ‘Detail’ office instead of meeting in Golden Square?” the text asked.

“Of course,” he answered. “Why?”

“There’s something you need to see.”

“I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” Aziraphale answered, followed by a sheep emoji and a man running, and then he shoved the phone back in his breast pocket.

But no sooner had he stood up from the bench did the phone ping again. He knew upon hearing the ringtone that it was not Crowley texting him.

“Anathema,” he muttered.

And when he saw what she had to say, he spat, “Damn it!” and got to his feet. With a deep scowl, he walked with purpose the quick two blocks to the office of the ‘Piccadilly Detail.’ There was absolutely no way that this revelation could wait another minute.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale walked purposefully up a flight of stairs, and walked through the first door on the right, which was labelled “Web Team.” On the immediate left, there was a woman sitting at a desk. Short, dark hair, borderline-Frida-Kahlo eyebrows.

“Hello, yes, excuse me, Miss,” he said. She looked up at him, and was struck by him. The brows raised, the eyes widened, and she was, for a moment, at a loss for words.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, seeing her reaction. He reached into his pocket and extracted a khaki-coloured mask, and put it on. “Is that better?”

“Er… yes,” she said. “Are you… erm… are you…”

“I’m looking for Crowley,” he said. “Do you know him? Anthony Crowley, head of the web team?”

“Yeah, I know him…”

“Well, would you have any idea as to where he’s got to?”

He could see her eyes smiling behind her mask. “You are!” she squealed.

“I am?”

“You are!” she repeated. And she came around the desk and threw her arms around Aziraphale’s neck in a hug that seemed all-too-comfy for her, but all-too-impromptu for him. Not to mention wholly inappropriate, mid-pandemic. “You’re him! You’re Mr. A.! It’s so nice to meet you! You are just so, so flipping adorable! Look at you with your little bowtie! Oh my God!”

“Ah,” he said as she pulled away. “You must be Elisa.”

“At your service,” she said, with a bit of a curtsy. “And I think Crowley went upstairs to talk with the editor. But you can wait here for him. Sit down! Tell me about yourself!”

“Well, I’d love to, dear, but I’m afraid that I need to find Crowley to discuss something that simply cannot wait.”

She put one hand on her hip and sang, “Oh?”

“Oh. Yes. Would it be all right if I went up to try and locate him?”

“Wow, you aren’t kidding that it can’t wait,” she teased. “Hang on, I’ll come with you.”

“It’s not… no, it’s nothing… er…”

“You don’t have to explain,” she said. “What two gents get up to on their lunch break is none of my business.”

“No, er… you see…” he began, and then stopped himself. Even if she were to let him finish, what would he tell her? The truth? So he settled upon, “Thank you.”

He followed Elisa back out to the stairs, and then up one flight, down a longish hallway, and into a largeish room with low ceilings, and charcoal-black and lime-green walls. Numerous people worked at desks in this space, some of them on the phone, some of them typing furiously, some of them reading… doing the business of journalism, it could be assumed. On the opposite side of the room, there was an office whose front wall was all glass, and it had vertical blinds standing open. At the desk sat a dark-haired woman in a purple blazer, fortysomething, well-coiffed, quite thin. In front of her desk, there stood a man in black, also fortysomething (or six-thousand-something, depending upon one’s perspective), well-coiffed, and quite thin. He had his hands on his hips and one of his legs crooked. It was an angry and/or exasperated stance, Aziraphale would have recognised from miles away.

“All right, look,” Crowley was saying to her. “What do I have to do? What would it take, eh?”

The woman laughed. “What, to make me sacrifice my journalistic integrity? There is no price on that, Crowley!”

“Oh, come on! It’s not about journalistic integrity, it’s…”

“Of course it is,” she answered, simply. “The news happens, and we report it. Especially when the course of a human life has been altered. Doubly so when children are involved. Simple as that. And if the ‘Piccadilly Detail’ wants to be taken seriously…”

“This is not altering the course of a human life,” Crowley argued. “This is… this is… a prank! It’s got to be!”

“It will sell papers, Crowley,” she retorted. “Besides, have you had a close look at that press release? It’s really odd – the whole thing. What’s that about, eh? Who the hell wrote this thing?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s weird, that’s why I say it’s kids having a laugh!”

“Kids having a laugh by fucking around with the Associated Press?”

“Happens more often than you might think,” Crowley riffed. “Probably all a bloody hoax!”

“You have no evidence of that, and you’ve already told me you have no source! Why the hell are you so keen to squelch this thing, anyway?”

Crowley couldn’t answer that, and wound up instead giving a mild growl of disapproval. He spun around on his heel, and saw Aziraphale standing there with Elisa, paused for a second, then turned back to his editor.

“Look, Vanessa… please? For me? For the best damn head of the best damn web-team in town?”

“I’m not denying you’re the best, but I am denying your request, Crowley,” Vanessa said, standing up from her desk. “The answer is no.”

“Fine,” he pouted. “Who are you putting on the story?”

“None of your business,” she said with a smile. She pointed at the door. “Now go do your actual job.”

“My actual job, right,” he muttered, grabbing a piece of paper off her desk and leaving her office. Vanessa shut her office door behind him, and Crowley walked right up to Aziraphale. “Damn it. I must be losing my touch. Not as persuasive as I used to be.”

“Well, that’s understandable, all things considered,” Aziraphale said, shyly. Then he cleared his throat a bit nervously. “Look, Crowley, there’s an issue we need to discuss…”

“I’m going to have to give you a rain check on the post office thing – maybe you can hire a courier. I’m so sorry, but I’ve suddenly got a hell of a lot on my plate, and I might need your help,” Crowley said.

“Yes, fine, but Crowley, I received a text message from Anathema…” Aziraphale tried, as he searched through his pockets for his phone.

“Look at this,” Crowley demanded, and held up the paper in his hand. It was a press release.

“Crowley…”

“Angel, just read it.”

Elisa said, “Aw,” upon hearing ‘angel,’ but neither of the men responded.

She had already read the deeply weird press release that Crowley had begged their editor to quash, though he wouldn’t tell anyone why. For now, she contented herself to look back and forth at the two of them, and admire. Being in the presence of the pair was a boon for her, a bit like meeting a celebrity. All in all, she was missing the whole point of the moment, and she knew it. And she was fine with it.

Aziraphale read aloud, “’A human child of one-hundred-forty-one months and six days, is missing from a village in Oxfordshire. The name that the child’s human parents chose is not known, and its sex has not yet become common knowledge to the human populace or the sources of information upon which they rely.’ This is exceedingly odd, this turn of phrase.”

“Gee, do you think?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale continued. “’The parents testified to the police about the disappearance in the late hours of Sunday night, after their child ominously remained absent, even long after sundown, and the flouting of other markers of time used to keep human children in a behavioural pattern.’ What the hell does that mean?”

“The kid was out past curfew, I guess,” Crowley shrugged.

“Well, good grief. Even I know this is bizarre,” commented Aziraphale. “’A thorough attempt at hunting down the child through the family’s building-of-dwelling, and the proprietary earth surrounding, revealed naught except completely ordinary, unremarkable dirt. Witnesses report having seen a number of sinister non-locals in town Sunday, many of them in dark, shabby clothing. It is notable that the child’s rather vicious canine companion has gone missing as well. The dog is a Jack Russell Terrier, a small but fierce, angry breed.”

Aziraphale’s eyes jumped up to Crowley’s as the latter lowered the page. “Yeah,” Crowley said.

“It’s definitely got more detail and flowery language than your average press release,” Elisa commented. “Uber weird. Maybe English isn’t their first language?”

“Mm,” Crowley said. “Or human isn’t their first… anything.”

“Well, it’s not so bad as to be inhuman,” she chuckled.

“Sure about that?” he asked her.

She frowned.

“That… that… that’s the text I got from Anathema,” Aziraphale said, holding up his phone.

It occurred to Crowley then that they were standing in the middle of a newsroom – a small one, but still a newsroom – talking about the Antichrist being kidnapped by demons.

“Let’s talk about this somewhere else,” Crowley said, grabbing Aziraphale’s hand.

Elisa followed them out of the room, down the hall, and into the stairwell, where she was promptly thanked, then dismissed back to her desk.

“Oh, come on!” she whined. “Let me help! Whatever it is, I want to be a part of it!”

“I can’t let you do that, I’m sorry,” Crowley said. “Not now, anyway. Will you please just get back to work, and do NOT post the Oxfordshire story. If at all possible, can you try and find out which print reporter is on it? And if I can, I’ll fill you in later.”

“Fine,” she sighed.

Then she turned to Aziraphale and hugged him around his middle so tightly it made him croak, “Oh, goodness me.”

She laughed. “Oh, goodness me. So, so adorbs.” She let go and waved at them. “Bye, Mr. A. So nice to finally meet you!”

“Er, yes… er, thank you… Elisa,” Aziraphale said awkwardly.

The formerly supernatural pair then descended the stairs the rest of the way, and walked outside.

“So you got a text, eh? From Book Girl?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale pulled up the message in question and handed the device over to his partner. The text read, “JFC, where are you guys? Can’t get Crowley to return my text, you’re not in your bookshop, not answering phone at home! Adam Young has been kidnapped, and the two of you are just cooling your heels in the city?”

“It came in whilst I was waiting for you in Golden Square,” the former angel explained, returning the phone to his inside pocket.

“Yeah, yeah, I got one too, early this morning before I even left home,” Crowley confessed. “I had my mind on work, and just figured whatever Anathema had to say could wait, so I dismissed it until later.”

“How did Anathema find out, I wonder?”

“I imagine Tracy and/or Shadwell rang in an eccentric frenzy.”

“Crowley, why wouldn’t you want your editor to publish the story?” Aziraphale asked. “It would seem to me that shedding light on the problem might diffuse it.”

Crowley shook his head. “No, I don’t think so, angel. You said yourself, the turn of phrase was odd. Awkward. Stilted. And the oddness of it has nothing to do with mistakes, like ones made by a non-native English-speaker. It goes deeper than that. They called the child an ‘it’.”

“So you’re saying…”

“I’m saying that press release has got Hastur written all over it,” Crowley said, teeth clenched. “I think that arsehole – or another arsehole of a similar ilk – snatched the kid off the street, and the Home Offices, both sides, want the whole world to know about it. This is just the beginning, angel.”

“So what do we do?”

“We’ve got to keep a lid on the story, can’t let it get out,” Crowley said. “The fewer people who know about it, the better. At least until we can rescue Adam.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I’ve got contacts at just about all the local papers – both web teams and print media. If I can get some momentum, I’ll bet I can keep it under wraps for just long enough,” he said, his eyes darting about, scheming. “Especially if we can get Anathema and Newt’s help.”

“What do you need from me?”

Crowley thought about this. “Could you arrange a dinner tonight? For about fifteen people? I’ll give you their contact info… just pretend to be my assistant or something, and invite them for early cocktails and then a nice meal, and we’ll wine them and dine them straight away after work. Tempt them into doing the right thing for humanity, even if it’s the wrong thing for their jobs.”

“I can,” Aziraphale said. “Where? At home, or at a restaurant?”

“Better make it at home,” Crowley said. “Walls have ears. And you should probably get on it straight away.”

“Do I tell them that you want to discuss the story before they print?”

“Yes,” Crowley said. “So, definitely do it ASAP.”

“I’m on it,” Aziraphale said, pulling out his phone again. “Now, can I use this blasted thing to order the dinner? And hire a courier?”

“Gimme,” Crowley said, extending his hand. “I’ll show you.”

Just then, a window above them opened, and a voice said, “Oi.”

Crowley looked up and saw Elisa looking down at him. “Oi, yourself,” he replied.

“It’s Miranda Devenish,” she told him. “Something tells me you might be able to finagle some compliance out of her.”

“Thank you, Elisa,” he said. “Really.”

Elisa saluted, and disappeared back inside, shutting the window.

“What’s… who’s Miranda Devenish?” Aziraphale asked.

“She’s the print reporter who’s apparently got the Oxfordshire story,” Crowley said. “And a tick in our column: she fancies me.”

“So you’re going to manipulate her into keeping quiet.”

“To potentially save the world? Yeah.”

“Fine, just… don’t do anything stupid.”

“Are you trying to tell me to keep my clothes on?”

“That, and… don’t get sacked. Or killed by a jealous boyfriend. Or start some sort of fatal attraction thing. When you tamper with people’s emotions, terrible things can happen.”

Crowley smirked. “Oh, trust me, I remember.”

Chapter Text

By and large, the Archangel Gabriel was not as knowledgeable, nor as high in the Almighty’s favour, as he claimed, and he knew it. But he had been, once upon a time. The Supreme Being of the Universe was fickle, as it turned out, and as time passed, She suffered fools less and less gladly.

Way back when, Gabriel had been chosen for the distinct honour of delivering the Message of Messages to the Virgin Mary, and before that, to build an ark to preserve all the species of God’s Earth. Although, he’d been called back to service in Heaven, and the mortal Noah had got the ark-building nod instead. At that time, he’d been told that he was too valuable in Heaven to spend years ministering to mortals. Plus, they’d needed someone to play the horn in the Celestial Harmonies.

Although, now that he knew what he knew about angels who spend time on Earth, he couldn’t help but wonder what might’ve been.

But these days, once in a while, he was reminded that his relationship with the Almighty had grown just a bit chilly over the last few hundred years. Today was one of those days. Rather, the past few days had been one of those days.

Her intentions and instructions hadn’t been clear (as if they ever were) and her motivations were even murkier. Her plan was, of course, Ineffable, but that particular Ineffable Plan had gone by the wayside, thanks to a rogue principality (whom, until that day, Gabriel would have considered a “minor” personality in the grand scheme of things) and his demonic BFF.

By the wayside, indeed. Although, had it really?

Was a fussy, albeit intelligent, soldier like Aziraphale really capable of taking down two entire armies, even with a little help from a friend? And the armies' Creator? More compelling was the question of whether said soldier could really have been consorting with the enemy for six millennia without the Creator knowing about it? It didn’t seem likely. So, why would She allow Aziraphale to meet up with Crowley to do whatever it was that they did for thousands of years, if She hadn’t meant for them to conspire?

These are questions Gabriel had been asking himself quite a lot over the past few months. Along with, how had Aziraphale survived his execution? (Gabriel was now of the opinion that the Almighty had saved him, though whether that had been a last-minute decision or whether She had planned to do so all along, was still a mystery. As was whether she had also saved Crowley.)

And what in tarnation was Her new Plan?

Well, Gabriel had asked Her outright just a few days ago, and Her answer had made things confusing, to say the least. It could have been interpreted as a go-ahead to start another war, or as a command to stand down. Or, it could have been interpreted as a request for the Archangels to commission the construction of a new river in South Africa. One of the Associate Angels had thought it was an explicit command to end all reality television on Earth, so... who knew?

But Gabriel chose to believe it was the first option, because this was what made sense to him. She was God. God had designed the Heavens and Earth with Apocalypse in mind. The Apocalypse had been derailed, so let’s try again. Aziraphale and Crowley were out of the celestial (and infernal) picture, which eliminated them as a threat, so… all systems ‘go.’ It was simple, and it was how Gabriel and the other Archangels understood the universe. End of story.

And so, he stood at his favourite perch, looking out onto the strange tableau of God’s personal favourite human-made structures (and there was nary a church in the bunch) that She had seen fit to replicate all at once, for Her personal viewing pleasure. And he waited.

After an unspecified amount of time, two of his fellow Archangels came into the room.

“Sandalphon, Michael,” he said, turning to face them. “Is it done?”

“It is,” answered Sandalphon.

“Thank you,” Gabriel said. “Was it messy?”

“Well,” said Sandalphon. “The boy was with his friends, so it took me, plus three demons, to drag them from a clearing in the wood, so as to prevent any of them from alerting the authorities straight away.”

“Yikes,” winced Gabriel. “You had to take all four of them?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“And you are the one who did the actual… er, hands-on work?”

“Indeed. Along with Hastur, Dagon, and one minor minion called Analosima. Pleasant enough chap. For a demon. Good with a joke.”

“Well, more pleasant than Hastur anyway,” Michael muttered.

“And what was your part in all of this, Michael?” Gabriel wanted to know.

The Archangel Michael was surprised, and her eyes shot wide open. “I’m sorry?”

“Well, while Sandalphon and the others were wresting the kids away from their woods, what were you doing?”

Michael looked at Sandalphon, who seemed to be wondering the same thing.

“Oh, er… I was, erm, making sure the coast was clear,” she said. “Making sure that no humans were actually witnessing the kidnapping. Couldn’t have them finding out about it too soon, could we?”

“No, indeed,” Gabriel chirped. “Good work, Michael.”

She sighed with relief. In actuality, she had had nothing to do with the physical kidnapping, but it was for a different reason altogether.

Back to Sandalphon, Gabriel asked, “Were you able to ascertain what powers he still possesses?”

“Who, the Antichrist?”

“Yes, of course, the Antichrist. I mean we know that Pestilence has not been able to touch Tadfield at all – not even one case reported in town – and that makes us all nervous, right?”

“It doesn't seem as though he has conscious control over his powers. He was not able to extricate himself from the kidnapping,” Sandalphon said in his slow, unnuanced cadence. “Although, perhaps he does have his powers, and it’s because of my status that he was not able to escape me.”

“He’s the Antichrist. He was built to destroy the Earth. If he had his full powers, he’d have been able to wriggle away from an Archangel, no problem. And his friends, too.”

“Good point,” Sandalphon said, slightly crestfallen.

“Sounds like his prowess is incomplete. Faded from underuse, perhaps. But the important thing is, though, the boy is in custody, yes?”

“Yes,” Michael chimed in. “He and his friends are being held in a protected location.”

"They are together?"

"Yes, we thought it would be rather cruel to separate them, under the circumstances. We just want to keep them quiet, not terrify them."

"Not all of us thought that," Sandalphon muttered.

“And all of the security protocols are in place?” Gabriel asked.

“They are,” Michael answered, reluctantly, but truthfully. “The celestial technicians did a wonderful job.”

“Good, good,” Gabriel commented. “Now that the Almighty is allowing another war, and the forces of Heaven and Hell are churning again, his abilities will most likely manifest fully again, sooner or later. It’s imperative that we have tight security.”

“I’m sorry, just one question,” Michael said.

“Yes?”

“Are you certain that the Almighty is, as you said, allowing another war? It just doesn’t jibe with some of the intel I’ve received of late.”

“What else could her orders have been, Michael?” Gabriel wondered, with a bravado he did not truly feel. “Stand down and never battle again? Keep peace on Earth, and let butterflies be free and birds sing for the rest of eternity? Does any of that sound like God to you?”

“Well, no, but…”

“We all know the plan. The first time, the wheels came off the wagon. But now, the wheels are back on, and the saboteurs have been dispatched, so we’re giving it another try,” he shrugged. “Tell me that’s not what makes sense.”

She frowned. Based on what she knew, it didn’t make a lot of sense, but Gabriel was in charge. And if she argued too much, her true feelings might be guessed at, and she could not afford that.

“Besides,” Gabriel continued. “We all know that the resurgence of Pestilence means something. It’s a Harbinger. A Horseman of the Apocalypse doesn’t just randomly come out of retirement a few months after the Apocalypse fails. Things are in motion.”

“It wasn’t random,” Michael argued. “He came out of retirement because he was disgusted at War, Famine, and Pollution having cocked it up at the airbase.”

“Well, potato, po-tah-to,” Gabriel sighed. “The point is, he’s back, and it’s a big deal.”

“Okay. And, just so as I’m clear,” Michael said. “How, exactly, does kidnapping Adam Young help?”

Gabriel sighed. “We’ve been over this, Michael.”

“I know, I know… it’s just… confusing.”

“We can’t trust Adam to do his job anymore,” Gabriel explained, annoyed. “That idiot Crowley fucked up the exchange when the kid was born, so the Antichrist got corrupted by parents who love him, and a thoroughly pleasant childhood. Not to mention Ying and Yang titillating each other on Earth for six thousand years and literally stopping time so they could keep the romance alive.”

“I, er… wasn’t there,” Michael practically whispered.

Gabriel didn’t hear her. He ploughed on. “The little brat is a freaking unreliable mess! So, we have to count on humans to destroy their own planet… might be easier if Pollution hadn’t harumphed and stomped off the scene like a toddler, but whatever. They’ll be back. The point is, the new plan can’t work with Adam alive and free. He’s got to be contained, or else he’ll save the Earth again.”

“Ah,” Michael said. “I see. Very sensible. Mightn’t it be a bit soon, though?”

“Michael, if I didn’t know better I’d say you’re trying to avoid the Apocalypse this time.”

“Oh! Oh, no, absolutely not. No, I’m on-board,” she said, with a strained smile. “Count me in!”

---------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale had left the offices of the ‘Piccadilly Detail’ with a list of contacts from other newspapers in the area, then went home to invite them all to dinner, cast about for a caterer, and suppliers of other fine things (especially wine). The bookshop orders would just have to be a day late. Much like a 1960s-era sit-com wife, he had to create the perfect impromptu dinner party for his partner and said partner's colleagues, and, oh dear, it absolutely HAD to go well.

He was to pretend to be Crowley’s assistant (and would explain later that he is also Crowley’s companion), and say that Crowley wanted to discuss the story about the missing child in Oxforshire, before they went to print. He was to remind these folks of the fact that Crowley had been nothing but collegial, accommodating, and a good relationship with him behooved everyone. Aziraphale was not to take ‘no’ for an answer – if their guests had to bring their spouses, children, grandchildren, pets, whatever, get them to come! They would have dinner on the roof, to keep things safe and pandemic-friendly. Very few people have plans for a Monday evening – most would probably be free to accept the invitation, Aziraphale reckoned.

It was not a fool-proof plan, but without his magical powers, Crowley was helpless to stop the whole world from finding out about Adam Young’s disappearance, one city at a time, until all literal Hell broke loose. As a human, he had some sway – mostly just good looks, charm, cool, benefits of long, long years of experience, and some fairly formidable smarts – but nothing like snapping his fingers and making it so. Some days he really, really missed that. Actually, if he was honest, most days.

Nevertheless, Crowley trusted that his companion would do as asked, and do his absolute best at it, as he was fully aware of the possible stakes. Not to mention, Aziraphale was the most amazing being in the known world, could do almost anything, with or without powers, and WOULD do anything for Crowley. All the former demon could do now was smile thinking about it, and wait at an outdoor table for his ‘Piccadilly Detail’ colleague to turn up at the café across the street from the bookshop. And also wish that the place served hard liquor. He wondered if he had time to sneak into the bookshop and clandestinely remove a few ounces of Scotch, and sneak back to the coffee shop in time…

But then he glanced across the street, and standing in front of the bookshop’s main door, facing the road, was a tall woman with curly blonde hair cut into a bob around her ears. She was wearing a sleeveless, flowing emerald green dress and high heels, and had huge, smoky sunglasses covering her eyes.

This was Miranda Devenish, one of the better, and better-paid, print reporters for the ‘Detail,’ who had apparently been assigned the story of the young boy who had disappeared from a small town in Oxfordshire. And, who had a demonstrative crush on Crowley.

She waited for the street in front of her to clear, then began to cross. As she did so, she spied Crowley, smiled warmly, and waved.

“Blimey, here we go,” he muttered to himself, as he stood up and smiled, hoping against hope that he could go through with using his "sway" on someone like her.

She stepped inside the little cordoned-off area in front of the café, stopped dramatically, tore off her sunglasses, and gazed at him with a flirty smile. “Crowley,” she said.

He smiled a similar flirty smile, and retorted, “Hey, Miranda.”

Some switched flipped inside him. Suddenly, he was back in his demon days, tempting someone he didn’t particularly like, pretending to fancy them, tell them what they want to hear until they relent. This felt familiar, and he had missed this, too.

And yet, something about it felt a little off.

“I was beginning to think you would never invite me out for coffee,” she said, holding out her hand.

Ordinarily, he would have kissed it, but it was a pandemic, he was human, and he was wearing a cloth mask over his mouth. So he simply squeezed it, and asked, “Why would you think a daft thing like that?” He also made a mental note to sanitize his hands at the first opportunity.

“Well, I lose my head sometimes,” she lilted, batting her formidable eyelashes.

“Take a seat,” Crowley said, pulling out a chair for her. She took it, and he asked, “What’s your poison?”

“Nonfat lattè, extra foam,” she responded.

“Coming up,” he said, and he walked inside the coffee shop and up to the counter.

Three minutes later, he emerged with two disposable cups. He set the appropriate one down in front of Miranda Devenish, who had removed her mask, and was now giving him her most dazzling smile. He sat down across from her with his own drink.

He took the lid off, blew across the surface of the liquid, and took a sip.

It burned his lip. Damn these heat-susceptible bodies!

“So, you take your tea white,” she said. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“Nonfat lattè, extra foam,” he responded. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“I sincerely hope you have occasion to,” she said, winking at him. “I even dare to say, at breakfast sometime. But I have a feeling, Mr. Crowley, that you didn’t ask me here to chat me up.”

“What would make you say that?”

“Well, you’ve been cordial in the past, but have been downright uncomfortable, anytime I’ve tried flirting with you. I winked at you in staff meetings before lockdown, and you just sort of smiled back with this ‘oh, shit’ look in your eye.”

He had no idea he had reacted this way to her, and inwardly he cursed himself for having relinquished so much of his “cool” to domesticity and humanity.

Nevertheless, he smiled sheepishly. And it was a very calculated smile. “I have enjoyed the flirtation, I admit. But I haven’t known how to respond to you.”

“Why? You can’t tell me I’m the first person to approach you the way I have.”

“No, but… well…” Crowley said, again, purposefully acting diffident, staring into his cup. “Are you going to make me say it?”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, sweetheart,” she said, grasping his wrist with affection. “But a bit of transparency would be quite nice.”

He took a long time to think about what to say here. On the one hand, he might be able to get her to do just about anything, because she rather fancied him, and he was (or at least used to be, and could become so again) very adept at manipulating people. On the other hand, she was a journalist, the only one on staff who taken a step ‘down’ from a larger paper, in deference to what she felt was a journalistically under-served neighbourhood, so she was not likely to buy a line of bullshit improperly delivered. Also, there was such a thing as professional courtesy.

“I like you a lot, Miranda,” he said. He reckoned that this could be interpreted in a few different ways. “As a colleague, and as a person.”

He looked up at her from his tea, and put on his ‘sincere’ face. One good thing about being human was that it was easier to seem heartfelt, because he didn’t have to hide his eyes. As it turned out, having soulful brown ‘windows to the soul’ was a major advantage, in all sorts of ways.

“I’m very glad to hear it,” Miranda responded with a wink. “I like you a lot too, Crowley.”

“And I’m hoping we can become closer friends. Much closer. Like the kind who do things for each other.” Laying the groundwork to ask a favour.

“What kind of things?” she wondered, with an air of both suspicion and flirtation, still with her hand grasping Crowley’s wrist.

“Well, in a close friendship, Miranda, all sorts of possibilities arise,” he told her, covering her hand with his free one.

“Do they, now?”

“Or so I’m told,” he smirked. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in a… close friendship.”

The lie made him wince inwardly. The ends justifies the means, he reminded himself.

“You don’t say.”

For a moment, he couldn’t tell if she was buying it. His colleagues on the web-team knew a thing or two about his personal life, and Elisa wasn’t exactly the most discreet person alive… how could Miranda NOT know that he was already in a relationship… with a man? It seemed unlikely for an investigative mind like hers, and yet here she was, submitting to a coffee date.

He’d have to tread incredibly carefully.

“Well, I suppose it depends upon what we mean by ‘close,’” he said, again, going ambiguous.

She smiled, and launched into a story, at that point, about how long it had been since she’d been “close” with anyone. Turned out that she was interpreting his innuendoes exactly correctly. She’d been divorced five years, had sole custody of her seven-year-old daughter, and had been in only two relationships since splitting from her ex-husband. The most recent one had ended last fall, and she absolutely hated being single.

The demon in him, or rather the side of him that was good at screwing with people and knew that he had to do it for a larger purpose, was telling him, “Adam Young has been kidnapped – save the world, save the world, save the world!”

But Crowley’s humanity was shouting at him, “Retreat, retreat! Divorced single mum, looking for companionship! Remember what Aziraphale said about bad things happening when you fuck around with people’s affections?”

He buried his face in his hands and said, “Oh, Miranda. I feel bloody awful.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale had spent the afternoon at home, on the phone, preparing for their second dinner party in three days.

First he had secured a courier to pick up his shipment from the post office, and deliver them to the bookshop at an appointed time later in the day. Crowley was there in Soho, so he had agreed to meet the shipment and, at the very least, inspect the boxes to make sure that the contents matched the manifest. Today had begun with a plan for the two of them to go to the post office because Aziraphale needed an extra set of hands, but that had gone awry as a result of the Tadfield revelation (as all things tended to do when Revelations happened in Tadfield). They were expecting not just the usual restocking fodder, but also thirty-six extra copies of “Utopia Avenue,” the current most popular book on the shelf.

Next, he had spoken to thirteen different journalists and journalists’ spouses and secretaries, left a few messages, sent a few texts, and had managed to secure a dinner party for twenty-one, including himself and Crowley. He had called upon Craig Huling for help finding a caterer who would work on incredibly short notice.

“What are you doing planning another dinner party? Didn't you just have one two days ago?” Huling had asked over the phone. “And why is it on six hours’ notice?”

Aziraphale sighed. He hated lying, especially to someone as nice as Craig, and most especially to win the cooperation of someone who fancied him, but the ends justified the means. Crowley would do it, he told himself.

“Crowley has friends in Oxfordshire – absolutely lovely people, he’s known them for ages,” Aziraphale riffed. “Their son has gone tragically missing. Foul-play is suspected, and they have asked Crowley, pleaded with him, in fact, to try to keep the story out of the papers. They reckon it would hurt the investigation – hurt their chances of getting their son back, that is – and it would undoubtedly cause them tremendous mental anguish.”

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” Huling gasped. “That’s terrible!”

“Isn’t it just?” Aziraphale said. “So, Crowley, charmer that he is, is going to wine and dine his fellow journalists into waiting to print the story, in hopes that perhaps the lad is found and returned to his parents in the next day or two… perhaps then, they can print it as a human-interest story.”

“What about the TV? The BBC and whatnot?”

“As far as we know, it’s only in print media at the moment – not big enough for the national outlets yet. But as the story gains traction, Crowley thinks it will spread,” Aziraphale said. This part was true. "He thinks we might be able to slow that particular process down."

“Well, I don’t know how all of that works, but you know you can always count on my help,” Craig told him. “I have a caterer friend who orders cheese trays from me for his functions quite a bit. I know his business is suffering because of the pandemic – I’m sure he’d be delighted for the work, even if it’s on short notice. And I should think that a party of twenty-one would be doable.”

“I’m willing to pay whatever it will take,” Aziraphale said. “Tell him so.”

“Will do,” Craig said. “I’ll ring you back in a while.”

They ended their call, Aziraphale went down his to-do list again from his work-station in the kitchen. Not thirty seconds later, the phone rang with, “Angel, baby you make my dreams come true!”

“Crowley?” he said into it, after having answered.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Are you at the bookshop?”

“Yep.”

“Has the shipment arrived yet?”

“Yep.”

“Is everything accounted for?”

“Oh… I haven’t looked in the boxes yet.”

“Well, then why did you ring?”

“To tell you the shipment got here.”

“Would you open the boxes please?” Aziraphale requested with a bit of exasperation. “You said you would do.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Hang on.”

“Wait, no… first, have you done it? Convinced Ms. Devenish not to print the story?”

“Yeah,” the former demon said flatly.

His last few ‘yeah’ answers had been thus. Like someone pounding the lower keys of a piano with their palms. Something was up.

“Oh no,” Aziraphale said. “What did you have to do to get her to relent?”

“Nothing,” Crowley said. “Not a damn thing.”

“What do you mean, not a damn thing? Didn’t have to… you know… agree to some sort of seamy payoff at a later date?”

“Nope,” Crowley sighed. “I was all set to do so, then I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Just couldn’t. Conscience got the better of me.”

“Conscience? Really? Just for a temptation? To possibly save the world?”

“Yep. So I just told her the truth. That I had asked her to coffee, hoping to manipulate her into killing the Oxforshire story.”

“You told her that?”

“I did. I said I’d been hoping to use the fact that she fancied me against her, and she scolded me at first, but then said that all I’d ever need do is ask. So I asked. Nicely.”

“And she said she would do it?”

“She did. It was the weirdest thing.”

“Weird that a person would respond to a concession of truth from a friend? Not really, Crowley.”

“If you say so,” Crowley sighed.

“But what about the boss… the editor. What’s her name? Vanessa?”

“Miranda said she’d find a way around Vanessa. Said she does it all the time to delay stories… tells her she’s checking a source or something.”

“So we’ve got them both in our corner, in a manner of speaking.”

“I guess so,” Crowley said, still very flatly.

“Are you all right?”

“I’ve lost my demonic touch, angel.”

“Yes. And?”

“Yes, and? That’s all you’ve got to say about it?”

“What would you like me to say?”

“Show some surprise! Tell me you haven’t noticed I’ve lost my edge!”

“We both became human at the same time, Crowley. Why are you just now getting exorcised over it? Sorry… poor choice of words.”

“It’s not like I’m just now noticing I’m human,” Crowley said. “It’s… I couldn’t bring myself to tempt her. And not even into doing anything actually illegal or immoral. I couldn’t just, you know… lie through my teeth to a human being over whom I have some sway. I found out more about her situation, her life, her existence, and I crumbled.”

“That’s a good thing!”

Crowley sighed, and a bit of a growl in his throat. “Fine, fine. But why can’t I be a human, and not be…”

“What, nice? You’ve always been nice.”

“Yeah, thanks to you,” grumbled the former demon.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind, just plan the party.”

“But I’ve already…”

“Yeah, whatever, I’ll talk to you later, Aziraphale.”

"But what about the shipm..."

But Crowley was gone.

It could have been three seconds or three minutes that Aziraphale sat there in their kitchen, holding the phone to his ear after the abrupt cut-off, shocked and a little saddened.

He pondered the implications of what he had just heard. He had thought that he and Crowley were on the same page, as it were, regarding their evolution as humans. They were both witnessing the evolution of the humanity that had been present in them all along. If Crowley didn’t want to be “nice” anymore, and now blamed him, Aziraphale for it, then…

His reverie was cut off by that annoying musical ringtone again, denoting another call from Crowley.

“Crowley, I’m sorry…”

“Angel, I looked in the boxes.”

“Oh good, you did. And?”

“Er… what was the name of the book you were expecting three dozen extra copies of?”

“’Utopia Avenue.' Are they there?”

“No,” Crowley said. “But we do have thirty-six copies of ‘Shadows to Light,’ by Michael Engelbreit.”

Aziraphale was nonplussed, and silent for a few heavy moments. “Who the devil is Michael Engelbreit?”

“No idea. You’re Book Dude. I’m just Book Dude’s incredibly alluring partner who happened to be in the neighbourhood today.”

“Well, goodness me, I’ve never even heard of that book! Or that author! And being in the trade for modern titles has been much more interesting than I ever thought… I have a head even for the newer tomes! And I certainly would know if I had ordered thirty-six copies of something!”

“Okay… what do you want me to do?”

“I’ll call the distributor tomorrow and have them take them back,” Aziraphale said. “Oh, good grief, what a bother!”

“I could call them, if you tell me where to find the info. I’m right here.”

“Don’t you need to go back to work?”

“No, I’m not going back there. Vanessa might ask me why I haven’t posted the Oxfordshire story, and I don’t fancy running into Miranda. Or Elisa. Anyone, really.”

Aziraphale described where contact information for the book distribution centre could be found, and specifically the people he dealt with directly. He thanked Crowley, who muttered that he had nothing else to do, and that Aziraphale was bending over backwards to plan another party, so he might as well…

Aziraphale sighed as the call cut off, still feeling agitated knowing that the former demon was out-of-sorts over his temptation mojo waning. Aziraphale knew that his own angelic benevolence, his sense of others’ needs was waning as well. They’d both had, in addition to magical powers they could consciously wield, unconscious, ineffable qualities that aided in their evil- and good-doing, even when they acted on behalf of one another in their “Arrangement” capacities. But they had traded it all so that they could be together.

Of course, Crowley was still diabolically charming, and had the sharp, blistering good looks, and impish personality. Aziraphale was still sweet, loving, morally-centred, a bit beatific, and the sort of person with whom others felt at-ease. And they would always both be a bit above-average in all of those areas… but they were undeniably human now, with all of the weaknesses and normalcy that that entailed. And until now, he had been convinced that they both were fine with it.

Was Crowley having second thoughts?

He’d been pining for his supernatural powers quite a bit lately, though Aziraphale had been dismissing it as bawdy bedroom talk, and good, old-fashioned human laziness. But now that he couldn’t carry out a temptation, perhaps the void and desire were deeper than Aziraphale had guessed.

He resolved to speak with Crowley seriously about this, at the first reasonable opportunity.

Over the next forty-five minutes, Aziraphale talked with Craig Huling three times; the first time so that Huling could tell him that his caterer friend (Barnard) wouldn’t be able to do a party of twenty-one on this short notice.

“He doesn’t have any prior bookings because it’s a Monday night, but he's on skeleton staff as it is, and Monday is their night off,” Huling explained. “It would just be him and his husband, and that’s not enough.”

“Thanks anyway,” Aziraphale had said, crestfallen.

The second time they talked was so that Huling could recommend a second caterer friend who could possibly help.

The third time was three minutes later, when Huling called to tell Aziraphale that Barnard could do the party after all, if he had an extra set of hands, and Huling had volunteered to lend his.

“That is, if you don’t mind having me at your party,” Huling said, with a bit of sheepishness.

“Of course not, Craig!”

“And you have to agree to vegetarian lasagna, Ambrosia salad, garlic bread, and Flan for dessert. No amuse-bouches, he said. But if you want that sort of thing, I could provide a cheese course, either for before or after.”

“That all sounds fantastic, and far too much to ask, on just a few hours’ notice,” Aziraphale conceded. “Thank you so much!”

“Anything for you,” Huling sighed. “Now, I’m going to let you get back to party-planning, because I told Barnard I’d be at his place in twenty minutes. See you tonight.”

After that, it was another five minutes before Crowley called again.

“Did you speak to the distributor?” he asked his partner, whose voice had now come out of the doldrums in order to graduate to something a bit higher and nonplussed.

“Yeah, angel, but you’re not going to like it.”

“Not going to like what?”

“He said he didn’t have any record of your having ordered the Utopia book, but rather, an invoice signed by you, for that bloody Engelbreit book.”

“What?” Aziraphale practically shouted. “That’s absurd!”

“Indeed,” Crowley sighed. “So he suggested I call the publisher.”

“And?”

“And I did. The publisher has never heard of the book.”

“Oh, come on, now, Crowley, you’re having me on.”

“No, I swear I am not. Himmelfelder Books. I talked to the receptionist, an editor, a buyer, and eventually the president… not one of them has heard of ‘Shadows to Light,’ or Michael Engelbreit.”

“And the book says Himmelfelder on the title page?”

“It does.”

“So, I’m assuming since they’ve never heard of the book, they won’t take it back.”

“You’re assuming correctly,” Crowley said. “I checked.”

“Well, thanks for looking into it,” Aziraphale said, sweetly. “You really are indispensable to me, you know.”

“Thanks, angel.”

“I suppose we’ll have no choice but to put it on display and try and sell a few copies,” Aziraphale said. “What’s the book about?”

“How should I know? Hang on, I’ll read you the blurb on the dust jacket.”

Aziraphale could hear some rustling on Crowley’s end, and then, “’Shadows to light. Secrets brought out of darkness. Government conspiracies exposed. In this book Michael Engelbreit shows and tells just how desperate our world leaders are to gain the right kind of attention, and dispel other kinds. To that end, how is the press used to distract? How are these distractions used in cover-ups? How are outright lies used as discussion fodder, as social media chum for the public to chew on, in order to drum up just the right sort of outrage? Engelbreit knows how they are exploiting you, dear reader, as an unwitting pawn in the game of chess that is world politics, and will prove it! You’re not paranoid – it’s all very real.’”

“Oh, good Lord,” Aziraphale sighed. “I don’t want that sort of pap in my shop.”

“Doesn’t look like you’ve got a choice. You don’t have put out all thirty-six copies at once… just see if you can reduce the price and make it a feature, sell it online as a bundle… or something. But for now, I think you’re stuck with it. You can order more of 'Utopia Avenue' later in the week, if you still want to.”

“All right then. I guess now we do a lot of rubbish we don't want to do, and have to solve problems dreadfully slowly. This is the life now."

“It sure as shootin’ is,” Crowley sighed, voice reverting to depressed. “Is, is, is.”

“Crowley, this malaise of yours is really distressing.”

“You don’t say.”

“Oh, dear, it hurts to hear your voice like that.”

“I’ll get over it, angel, don’t worry about me,” Crowley insisted, trying to put on his best devil-may-care tone. “By the way, I talked to Anathema a little while ago. She doesn’t have any more details about Adam, but she did say that she and Newt are staying back in Jasmine Cottage, to keep an eye on things.”

“With Shadwell and Madame Tracy? Well, if that isn’t a full house.”

“Right? Anyway, she’s got her ear to the ground.”

“All right. Crowley, I’m serious when I say that when you hurt, I hurt.”

“I know. I feel that way too.”

“Can you express to me exactly what’s bothering you?”

“Oh, just… nostalgic for the good old days.”

“Are you unhappy living this life? With me? Our new flat?”

“No, just… well, I did a thing for six thousand years, and now I’m finding I can’t do that thing anymore – in fact, there are a few things I don’t seem able to do anymore – and it’s disconcerting. I don’t know what to do with myself if I’m not… you know, tempting.”

“You’re tempting to me. Quite so.”

“I know, angel, thanks.”

-----------------------------------------------------

Twenty-one people dined on the roof of Aziraphale and Crowley’s new flat, served by three handsome gentlemen, Huling, his friend Barnard, and the latter’s husband Louis, all well-versed in the arts and crafts of food, and foodservice. Guests were regaled with the same lie that Aziraphale had told Huling: that Crowley’s dear friends’ son had been abducted, and that the police have suggested that investigation could go more smoothly if the press could keep it quiet. Crowley and Aziraphale both laid it on thick with the pathos and the “journalistic integrity,” and the “collegial favours,” and “think of the child.”

With the help of expertly-prepared vegetarian lasagna, Ambrosia, garlic bread, not to mention deliciously creamy Flan, cases of expensive wine flowing, and a cheese course that would have impressed Charles DeGaulle, Crowley managed to convince thirteen different journalists to kill the Oxforshire story for the time being. Many of them even offered to either order, or try to convince, their colleagues to do the same. They all pledged to deflect their editors as best they could, until they got the go-ahead from Crowley. How many of them actually meant all of it was a different question altogether, but under the circumstances, this was the best they could do.

Ever the sensitive soul, Huling had waited for a moment alone with Aziraphale, and had asked, “What’s going on with Crowley?”

“Oh, er, he’s distressed because of his friends’ dilemma in Oxfordshire,” Aziraphale riffed, rather proud of himself for the quick lie.

“Really? It seems like something else,” Huling said, using a spatula to transfer flan onto small square plates. “I mean, you can tell me to mind my own business, but I know you guys pretty well, and it seems like there’s a… well, a rift of some sort between you.”

“You’re sensing that?”

“Yeah,” Huling said, looking at him squarely. “Look, trust me, I know what it looks like when the two of you are getting on. And not just because I’ve watched you… really getting on. I know it’s none of my concern, exactly, but you can’t fool me. Something’s amiss with you two.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Well, you’re not wrong. The discomfort Crowley is feeling began before he found out about the child. The abduction.”

“I’m really sorry,” Huling said. “You know I care a lot about you two. I mean, as much as I’d like to have you for myself, I’d rather that you just be happy.”

Aziraphale smiled. “What a lovely sentiment, Craig.”

And with step-one of solving the Antichrist-crisis cleared, Aziraphale’s mind was free to churn. And Huling’s words echoed loudly.

Chapter Text

As much as he hated to admit it, being around Craig Huling gave Aziraphale a shot in the arm of confidence and virility. Crowley too. Neither much dared think too hard on it, but both were always glad to take advantage of the moment.

And so, even though they had had a spectacular shag the night before, and today had been difficult for them emotionally (or perhaps precisely because it had been so), they seized the mood as soon as Barnard, Louis, and Craig were out the door.

“Got something on your mind, angel?” Crowley asked breathlessly, as Aziraphale set about planting delicious sucking kisses just under and behind his ear, and squeezing his bum for good measure.

The erstwhile angel took his time answering. He continued what he was doing until he was good and ready to stop, then took Crowley's hand and led him across the room to the sofa.

Aziraphale sat down. “First, bring me a plate with a few crumbles of blueberry Stilton, and maybe a couple slices of the double-cream Camembert.”

“All right,” Crowley said, smirking, and leaving the room, rather liking where this might go. He opened the fridge and found a little saucer already prepared with the requested nibbles. He brought it out to the spacious parlour and handed it to Aziraphale. “Funny how the precise thing you asked for was all ready to go.”

“I like to plan ahead.”

“Minx.”

Aziraphale popped a piece of blueberry Stilton in his mouth, savoured it for a couple of seconds, then said, “Kneel, and service me, Crowley. And lots of eye-contact, if you please.”

Crowley smiled wickedly and practically purred with delight as he lurched forward and got to his knees for his delectable lover. He wasted no time unzipping the light beige glen-tartan trousers and pulling forth a half-hard member. And nothing more than his mere touch made it furiously hard.

But from there, he moved slowly, and as requested, studied his angel’s eyes, as they sometimes made contact, and other times rolled back in utter, gluttonous bliss. Aziraphale delighted in the pairing of flavours and sensation – and this was not the first time he’d been "serviced" while tasting something gourmet (lockdown had been mightily interesting in their home). He rolled the creamy morsels about in his mouth, swallowing periodically, smacking his lips, commenting on how “scrumptious” it all was. He moaned often, though whether any given moan was over the lusciousness of the cheeses or the fuckable lips sliding back and forth over his cock, it was impossible to tell.

When there was one last strip of Camembert on the plate, Crowley picked up the pace.

“Oh… oh, Crowley, that’s lovely,” Azirpahale panted, feeling a big rush of urgency come over him as the expert sucking grew quicker, and the brown eyes between his thighs grew narrow and intense. He picked up the last bit of cheese and laid it almost performatively on his tongue. “Mm… mmm… that’s gorgeous, yes…”

Within a minute he began digging his fingers into the cushions, thrusting his hips, and cursing. And twenty seconds after that, Crowley was gratefully swallowing a large, salty gush of come, moaning as he did so, and practically bursting out of his own trousers.

Aziraphale leaned his head back on the back of the sofa, and caught his breath. When he opened his eyes, to his surprise, his partner had not moved from his kneeling position. “Why are you still on the floor? I'd expect you to be undressing, at the very least!"

“I dunno,” Crowley shrugged. “I guess I like watching you, even if all you’re doing is cooling down.”

But this was, though true, not the reason why Crowley had not moved from that spot.

“Well, thank you for that sentiment – it’s bawdy as well as emotional. And that little amenity you just administered to me was chuffing brilliant, as always,” Aziraphale commented, then leaned forward to plant a sweet kiss on the lips that had just given him juddering sheets of pleasure. “Though, I must say, I do feel a tad guilty getting such enjoyment from Craig’s cheeses in my mouth, and my throbbing truncheon in yours.”

Crowley chuckled. “Victorian erotica really has had an effect on you, doesn’t it? And no, you don’t feel guilty, you fucking exhibitionist. That’s why you did this. And if I’m honest, it’s why I did it, too.”

Aziraphale blushed, then sighed. “Well, speaking of you, my love… how can I relieve you of this?” He reached down and pressed a hand against the solid bulge in the front of Crowley’s trousers. “Please, instruct me.”

To his utter shock, Crowley took that hand in his, squeezed it, and said, “It’s all right. Don’t worry about it, angel.”

“Pardon?”

“I was going to hop into the shower before bed anyway,” Crowley shrugged, getting to his feet. “So… two birds.”

And with that, he began to walk toward the stairs.

“Crowley, wait!”

Crowley stopped and turned around. “Yeah?”

Aziraphale now stood up as well. “You wouldn't like some company? In... in the shower, I mean?"

"I'll be fine on my own."

"Are you sure? I know you’re feeling – what’s the phrase? – out of your match lately…”

“Off my game, Aziraphale, off my game. For crying out loud.”

“But you never refuse… reciprocation.”

“Yeah, well, it was the least I could do for your setting up yet another amazing dinner party.”

“I did that because the world depends upon it. And because I love you, and you asked me to. I did not do it to get something in return. And I thought you were pleasuring me because you love me, not as some sort of recompense.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it sound… transactional. It’s not about any of that,” Crowley said. He seemed to be grasping at words, and having difficulty holding onto them. “Isn’t it all right for me just to give you a special treat, and leave it at that?”

“I suppose.”

“Okay. Then… I’ll see you upstairs in a while. Mind turning off the lights before you come up?”

“No, of course not.”

“Thanks, angel.”

Aziraphale had made a pact with himself earlier in the day to speak frankly with Crowley about his malaise at the first possible opportunity. But he was too stunned to say anything helpful or impactful just now, and too hurt to be angry.

-------------------------------------------------

When Crowley woke, it was Tuesday morning, and the space next to him on the bed was empty. He cursed softly when he saw this. Though, within a few seconds he did notice that on the bottom shelf of their custom-made headboard, there was a small plate with the last remnants of some flan, as well as a half-full tumbler of wine that hadn’t been there last night when he’d turned in. So, he was now reasonably sure that he hadn’t scared Aziraphale into sleeping somewhere else.

Though to his dismay, Aziraphale’s smartphone was lying next to the plate, so he hadn’t taken it with him. This was nothing new, but things being what they were, Crowley was worried that it was a sign that his companion didn’t want to be bothered. Plus, it was annoying because things were up in the air in Tadfield again, and it would be wise for all players to be available upon a moment’s notice, and not tethered to a hundred-and-fifty-year-old desk by a ninety-year-old handset.

He did have regrets about the previous evening, and refusing Aziraphale’s offer of reciprocation – for the sake of harmony, he should have just done it. He’d probably have felt better, in the end. But though his body had been plenty inflamed, his soul was tired. Worn out. Sick of losing its mojo. Engaging in sex, at that moment, would have been a huge reminder of why he was less-than, and the thought of it had absolutely murdered any true desire he had harboured. He thought about what it would be like to tell his partner all of this, and then realised that he had, in fact, talked about it with Aziraphale a bit over the phone the previous day, after he had failed to properly tempt Miranda Devenish (but she had relented of her own accord). The pair of them had then been distracted by the thirty-six copies of a random book that no-one ordered, that they were now, apparently, stuck with.

Of all bloody times for that to happen, eh?

But today was a new day, and hopefully, he could be forgiven (though he still cringed at the thought of it), shake off some of the disquiet in his heart and mind, get on with life, and get on top of the Adam Young situation.

To that end, he phoned Anathema Device before even crawling out of bed.

“Hey,” she said, answering the call. “About time I hear back from you guys!”

“Oi!” he protested. “We’ve been busy doing damage control over here, as well. Don’t think you’re the only ones doing stuff, just ‘cause you’re there in Tadfield!”

“Really? What’ve you been doing?”

“A press release about Adam’s disappearance came across my desk yesterday, and since then, I’ve been working my lovely little round arse off to get the story killed. Or at least delayed!”

“Why?”

“Come on, Book Girl,” Crowley said. “Don’t you think it’ll be a bloody clusterfuck if the world finds out about it? Adam Young isn’t just any kid, as you know. The rest of the world doesn’t know it of course, but having the Antichrist, who is also an innocent child, in distress, and it being front-page news… it can’t be good. It can’t end well!

“Maybe calling attention to it will…”

“No, it won’t,” he interrupted. “Because if you read the press release, you would realise, as we did, that this was not something cooked up by humans. The cadence, rhythm, and just the utter fucking weirdness of it made clear to me that it had to have been written by some minion of Hell… probably this demon I used to know, named Hastur. They WANT attention called to it, which means WE don’t! And all that is even before you take the prophecy into account.”

There was a long, pregnant silence. Then, “What prophecy?”

“Oh, er, yeah… we ran across a prophecy about all this, in Agnes’ book. The new one. The book that you, Book Girl, were going to burn until Book Dude and I took it off your hands. Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” she said, sounding a little nonplussed. “I had kind of forgotten about it, to be honest.”

“And that’s the way we thought you’d want it, so we haven’t said anything about it in a while, but… desperate times, Anathema,” Crowley insisted.

“Well, can you tell me the prophecy?”

“Yeah, I can go find it, but… are you sure you want to go down that road?”

“Yes! If it will help save Adam, and prevent another Apocalypse, I’m all over it!”

“Okay, hang on. I’ve got it here on my phone, but it might take me a minute,” he told her, and he put the phone on speaker. “Meanwhile, the reason I called was to find out what’s happening on your end, now you’ve got your ear to the ground in Tadfield.”

He poked at his phone, trying to find the series of downloaded images they had saved to the device ten months previously.

“Well, the four of us took turns yesterday trying to eavesdrop on the police, to see if they had any leads, or had found something weird in their investigation that would tell us where to look, or what’s going on,” she said. “I hung around the station for a while, and just sort of acted like I was flirting with the officers, but got nothing."

"You acted like a police groupie?"

"Shut up, you got any better ideas? Anyway, then Newt went in to report a jar of mustard stolen, or something like that. Then Tracy went and tried to sell them a bunch of homemade… I don’t know, something with olives and cheese. And Shadwell went and… well, frankly almost got himself arrested for real.”

“He’s a man who throws himself into his work,” Crowley said, still poking around on his phone. “Always has been.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve got squat. Each of us spent about an hour… it was as much as we could manage without arousing suspicion, and we never let them see us together.”

There was no answer on Crowley’s end, and after ten seconds of silence, Anathema said, “Hello?”

“Oh, er… yes. Sorry. You know what? I’m just going to go downstairs and try to find the prophecy on the laptop which is, I think, on the kitchen table. Phone seems to be moving at half speed. Give me a mo’, though, ‘cause I’m not wearing anything… er…”

“Dude, TMI,” she said. “We’ve been over this. Move in your own time, just keep the details on a need-to-know.”

“Yeah, sorry,” he said, throwing aside the bedclothes and standing up. “Sorry, what were you saying before? Something about going to the station together?”

“No, I said we made sure not to be seen together,” she told him. “Just in case… later on…”

“Good idea. Although it is a small town…” he said, pulling on a pair of trousers.

“Yeah, I know, they probably already know we’re messing with them, but it’s all we can think to do.”

“What are your plans for today?” he asked, now leaving the bedroom.

“Try again, I suppose,” she said. “Tracy made a batch of biscuits… I’m going to hand them out for free, and hope to hear something.”
Crowley was now reaching the bottom of the stairs, and he briskly crossed the living room to the kitchen. He found the laptop on the kitchen table where Aziraphale had left it, after making all the necessary plans for their impromptu dinner party.

“Okay, I’ve got the laptop. Stand by,” he said to her. She waited in silence, and then he said, “Here we go. ‘Divergente Forces shall incite with Vengeance the…’”

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you do it without the voice?” she asked, having become immediately irritated at the high-pitched way in which he read aloud Agnes’ prophecy.

“Er… I don’t think I can. Force of habit. Plus, it’s not like it reads like a Stephen King novel.”

“Can you send the digital file to my phone?”

“Oh. Yeah. Hang on.” He made a few clicks and then said, “There you go.”

He could hear her phone ping then, with a notification. She asked him to hold on, and put him, in turn, on speaker phone.

Then she said, pronouncing words in modern English, with her crisp, amenable American accent. “’Divergent forces shall incite with vengeance the right of the Young Beast and the Lesser Best. Conflict and torment, in tandem the scourge of mankind, shall surge all anew, recommencing the End of Days, and the children of Adam shall come to the precipice of peril. But regard closely, as the method shall be circuitous and serve its needs with the instruments of the day. Take the heart, reader, and place no ire on the Young Beast himself – he is merely a pawn in a vicious game.’”

“I like it better the way I do it.”

“It means that another Apocalypse is coming - the children of Adam on the precipice of peril... that's humankind on the brink of destruction!"

"Yeah, we know."

"And it's also a reference to Adam and his friends. Aomething is going to be done to them, to Adam, that won’t be his fault!”

“Again, we know. We worked that out already, and something HAS been done to him that’s not his fault! Oh, whoa… hang on…”

“What?”

Crowley squinted at the screen and concentrated on the penultimate sentence. “’The method shall be circuitous and serve its needs with the instruments of the day.’ This is the part that Aziraphale and I got hung up on the other night… we aren’t sure what it means, but it’s got to be important.”

“So, like you said, clusterfuck. If the method is going to be circuitous, then it will be complicated and a big freaking mess, if I understand these Heaven-and-Hell types,” she sighed.

“Yeah, you’re probably right, but… no, there’s something else about that phrase that I feel like… it’s on the tip of my brain. The method shall serve its needs with the instruments of the day.”

“The way they’re going to do it, bring about the end of the world, will use… what?”

“Instruments of the day… oh! This is rubbish! Come on, Book Girl, she’s your ancestor! Your family spent centuries making sense out of this word salad! Can’t you come up with something?”

“Hey! No-Longer-A-Demon-Guy, you said it yourself: centuries! It takes time! And the revelations have come to us at the proper times! I can’t just snap my fingers and magically know what Agnes meant!”

Her words stung him a bit, though she had meant to do nothing of the sort, he knew.

“Fine, just…” he sighed. “Let me talk with Aziraphale. It’s been a couple days since we looked at the prophecy. Now that we have the new development, Adam’s kidnapping, the press release and whatnot, perhaps his mighty, though no-longer-angelic, brain will see something we don’t.”

“Okay. Call me if he comes up with anything earth-shattering. Sorry… bad word choice. Talk later.”

“Yeah,” he said, and they ended the call.

Chapter Text

“Should I try to disguise myself? You know, wear something different, put my hair up, put on my glasses?” Anathema asked, just after cutting off her call with Crowley. She was standing in front of the full-length mirror in the guest room of Jasmine Cottage, holding up a yellow and coral-coloured sun dress her mother had given her, but that she had never worn. “I mean, yesterday, I was in dark colours, hair down. Maybe..."

“My guess is that it won’t make any difference,” Newt told her, sitting on the bed behind her. “I’m thinking those guys, well… I think it might have been the first time anyone like you has ever flirted with them, and they will have memorised everything about you. A costume change won’t… what?”

He had stopped talking because she had turned to look at him with a wistful smile. “Nothing it’s just… you’re very sweet.”

“No, I’m just being truthful. You’re the sort of woman who gets remembered. Especially if you batted your formidable eyelashes at the rememberers in question, and/or moved your lips in their presence.”

She turned back to the mirror. “I find that I’m happy about what you’re saying, but also discouraged.”

“Sorry,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“It just means that I’ll have to get a bit more creative if I want to get more out of them today than yesterday,” she said. “Braided hair and a pair of specs won’t do it. If you’re right, it means they’ll remember me, and think it’s weird that I’m still hanging around the police station.”

“Sorry,” he repeated, because that was his nature. “It's almost too bad there's no mask-mandate in Tadfield. It would be easier to hide who you are."

"Yeah well... every silver lining has a cloud."

"Well, if you think it might work, give it a go with a different look, then. You never know, maybe one of those chaps is gay. Or failed to notice you for some other unfathomable reason. Or maybe there are some women there.”

She nodded, and immediately climbed out of her pyjamas and into the coral dress. Even after almost a year, to Newt, watching her do this still felt slightly illegal, and also like the biggest bloody boon of his life. That lovely, tan skin, the long, obsidian hair, and those curves – My God, those curves – seeing it all laid bare, even for five seconds, made him swallow hard, and feel a guilt-inducing tug, which he knew should not induce guilt at all. But feeling guilt over things that felt good was his nature as well. The bottom line was, he still could not believe his luck, even though it appeared as though his union with Anathema Device had been destined ever since their ancestors had killed each other.

She turned her back to him and got close, saying, “Zip me up?”

He stood up and did so, and thought absently that if he were a different sort of man, he would take this opportunity to kiss her neck or shoulder, run his hands over her in some sort of exploratory way…

“Thanks,” she said, before stepping into a pair of knickers, and sliding her feet into a pair of white flat sandals.

He then watched in awe as she took all thirty feet of her hair, twisted it into a knot and pinned it to the top of her head with one small, strategically-placed clip. She then put on her glasses, and struck a pose, asking what he thought.

“You know what I think,” he said, dreamily.

“This dress is so not-me, but maybe that’s a good thing, eh?” She kissed his cheek, and left the room. He followed.

She led him to the cottage’s kitchen where Madame Tracy was spatula-ing up a fresh batch of ginger spice biscuits, and depositing them into a basket.

“Are those for me?” Anathema asked.

“Yes, dear,” said Tracy, finishing up. “Offer these to the gentlemen… this time for free, and see if that doesn’t grease the wheels a bit.”

“Awesome,” Anathema exclaimed. “Thank you!”

Just then, Shadwell made his way into the kitchen. “Ach, what a deligh’ful aroma! What sor’ of tasty, sugared indulgences ha’ ye been buildin’ today, Jezebel?”

“Ginger spice biscuits, Mr. S. You know, the ones I usually save for Christmas,” Tracy said. Shadwell reached into the basket to take one, but his fiancée slapped his hand. “These are for Anathema to take to the station today, to get the gents down there talking. They’re not for you!”

“Well, kids, I don’ wanna be indelicate,” Shadwell said. “But if anythin’s gonna make the lads talk, it’ll be the lovely lass in the sundress. Men who cannot be swayed by that are not gonna be bribed with ginger snaps.”

It was one of the more sensible, sobre things Shadwell had said… well, ever.

“Indelicate though he is, I must admit he’s probably right,” Newt told Anathema.

“Still, sweetening the pot can only add honey to the trap,” Anathema said, watching Tracy cover the basket with a white cloth. “Or… something.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

P.C. Dylan Brown arrived a few minutes early for work, knackered as usual. He was not knackered because of any sort of undue exertion (read: fun), such as football, or late-night drinking. He was knackered because he was the newest person on the Tadfield police force, and he never got weekends. Hardly any police officers (apart from very senior ones) could count on Saturdays and Sundays off, but most got two days in a row, at some point during the week.

Not P.C. Brown. Rather, he usually got two random days off, most often Monday and Thursday, which technically was fine, but in reality, it left no time for anything. One could not properly rest nor accomplish something, nor have any real fun, when one always has to think of being at work bright and early(ish) the following day.

The previous night, he had chosen to accept the dinner invitation from his mother, which she had been extending week after week for the past month and a half, in favour of catching up on sleep, doing laundry, seeing friends, or any of the other things that had been on his to-do list ever since starting his new job. She had asked him, uselessly, whether he had a girlfriend. He had laughed resignedly and said, “No,” as usual. Then he had added, “But don’t worry – podgy plebian underpaid public servants with no time off rake in girls left and right. It’s literally a matter of days before I’m married off, mum.”

His mother had scolded him for his cheek, and then offered him another heap of mashed potatoes. Now, in the light of day, he felt a little bad for his sarcasm, and resolved to phone a bit later, and perhaps apologise.

Today, the mood in the station was tense. People were moving about at a quick pace, muttering things – a sense of urgency was gripping the whole room. It was thrilling somehow, and also tied his stomach in knots.

He wondered what was up, naturally, so he looked in his mailbox, and extracted bulletins from his day off (yesterday), and today. He didn’t really have a desk, so he stood about awkwardly between the main door and the mailroom, and read up, as he waited for the Sergeant to call the shift meeting. The principal thing on everyone’s minds, of course, was the four kids who had gone missing. He had heard about it, even on his day off, and was, shamefully, a bit excited about it. The pandemic had not touched the area, for whatever reason, so there were no mask-wearing protests, no-one belligerent about their favourite pub having to close, no-one running naked in the street, swearing that the whole thing was a hoax.

So the kidnappings were not only, by far, the most interesting thing to happen in Tadfield since he’d been hired in February, but perhaps THE ONLY interesting thing to happen. And he couldn’t wait to find out if he’d be allowed to touch the case in some way. He wasn’t a detective, and there were only three of those in Tadfield anyway (four towns in Oxfordshire shared them), but he could handle rubbernecking crowd-control, couldn’t he? He could maybe direct traffic as the town filled up with press vans… should that ever happen. He could bring tea to the “war room” while the higher-ups worked on the case, couldn’t he?

He was imagining the possible things that someone like him could do on a case like this, and how, possibly, it could lead to a promotion, and two consecutive days off, and rekindled relationships with his friends, maybe a girlfriend, and even a hobby… he sighed and continued to read.

“Whoa,” he said, his eyes falling over the most interesting thing, by far, of the most interesting occurrence, by far, to have happened in Tadfield since he joined the force. It seemed so absurd that he read it three times, then smiled, and looked around the room to see if someone was having him on. To his surprise (and also not), no-one seemed to know he was there at all. The tension in the room was palpable, people bustled, hustled, barked… and no wonder. This was incredibly weird. His body buzzed with nervousness and anticipation…

And then he smelled it.

The perfume came before the scent of the ginger biscuits, but once the two combined, they married in the most heavenly aroma he had perhaps ever experienced.

He turned his head to the left, and there she stood. Miles of black hair piled on top of her head, and the sort of exotically darkish skin one simply did not see around these parts. She was looking at him squarely from behind a pair of dark-rimmed glasses, with stormy eyes, and a mouth that smirked a bit sideways, enticingly. And that lovely skin-tone was complemented by a bright yellow and coral-coloured dress with straps that came to a point just below… oh, the cleavage. Uh-oh…

“Hello,” she said.

And if he wasn’t mistaken, the accent was non-local as well.

Suddenly, he realised what he was doing, and his eyes snapped back up to hers, right where they ought to be. He mentally chastised himself for ogling her, but over the next few seconds, his eyes ran over her face and shoulders again, and he gave himself a pass.

“Erm, yes, hi-lo,” he said to her, again mentally chastising himself. He had begun with “hi,” and changed to “hello” halfway through. He cleared his throat pointedly, and corrected, “Hello.”

She smiled, and held up the basket she had hanging off one of her forearms. “Ginger biscuit?”

“Oh, erm, thank you,” he said, feeling that he might die of happiness right then and there if he could just say yes to her. But he was on duty, so he said, “But no. Best not.”

“Are you sure? They’re homemade.”

American! That’s why she seemed so much more crisp and sprightly and orchid-like than anyone he had seen in Tadfield before…

He crumbled a bit. He looked about. As expected, no-one was paying him any attention whatsoever – the whole room was distracted and ready to blow. And so he accepted a biscuit that smelled like Christmas.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The whole station was abuzz – something was definitely up. There had to be a new development in the kidnapping case, otherwise, what would have a whole room of police officers all wound up like spools of magnetic thread?

Before walking into the main room, Anathema hung back at the door to the outside and inspected as many of the personnel as possible. As far as she could see, there were eight men in the room, and two women, and she knew that the morning/midday shift was to begin soon. Under her breath, she cursed, as she realised that these were all folks who had seen her the day before, and she remembered their names. She wondered why it hadn’t occurred to any of them to send in Tracy or Shadwell now, as they hadn’t been seen by everyone on this shift.

But she was here now – no sense in wasting time. Adam, his friends, and the entire world might be at-stake, and it was doubtful that this police force could do anything to help. But they might know something, have a bit of info that she, or her friends, would know how to interpret.

She thought quickly about how to handle this. She was having second thoughts about her so-called “disguise,” because if Newt was right, and everyone remembered her, then that could rightly be seen as suspicious, especially on a day like today, when everything was tight in the air, and ready to snap.

And then someone stepped into view, just to the right of the main doorjamb. He was on the chunky side, clean-cut, young, and was reading something. He stood awkwardly, it seemed, away from the other officers, possibly waiting for something. His aura was pulsing greenish-yellow, which meant that he was dissatisfied, envious, and insecure. The pulsations in this rhythm meant that he was exhausted. The aura was flickering a bit, as his consciousness struggled, on some level, to hang onto it.

She didn’t like taking advantage of folks like him, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

And when she realised that she hadn’t seen him before, her heart leapt, and she took it as a sign from the universe that she was meant to chat this guy up.

She sidled up next to him, and his eyes went immediately to her cleavage. She didn’t mind – she’d chosen this dress for a reason.

“Hello,” she said.

“Erm, yes, hi-lo,” he answered. She stifled the giggle, fortunately, which gave him room to correct. “Hello.”

“Ginger biscuit?”

“Oh, erm, thank you. But no, best not,” he responded.

“Are you sure? They’re homemade.”

The young officer seemed to take a glance around the room, then said, “Well, all right then.”

She handed him one of Madame Tracy’s ginger spice biscuits from underneath the white cloth napkin, and watched him take a bite.

“It’s good,” he said, clumsily.

“So, er… what’s going on today? Seems like the place is on fire, only no-one can see the fire,” she asked, leaning against the wall beside him, conspiratorially leaning in. She read the name off the plate on his uniform. “P.C. Brown?”

“You can call me Dylan.”

“And you can call me Ana… Anna. My name is Anna.”

“Well, Anna… why would you ask?” Dylan said, with a delighted smile.

His aura began to fade into a deeper shade of yellow, which meant that he was getting happier. That was good. It didn’t necessarily mean he was falling for her flirtatious ruse, but she was at least softening him up.

“Just wondering,” she said. She made a concerted effort to seem relaxed, and as though any question she might ask would be a non-sequitur. “I know you guys have been working extra hard ever since those kids went missing, and I just wanted to show my gratitude. Well, me and my, er, grandmother. She’s the one who made the biscuits.”

“Well, tell your grandmother they are delicious,” said Dylan. “And that we appreciate it.”

“So do you guys know anything about who took the kids?” she asked, wide-eyed… going for it.

“Oh, erm… well… I probably shouldn’t…”

“You shouldn’t what?” she asked, trying not to sound too keen. She had never really tried cloak-and-dagger-flirtation before, and it was proving more difficult than she had thought. Especially since today, she was trying not to be noticed by anyone except for P.C. Brown. She tried to relax again. “Shouldn’t what? Talk about a case with a harmless woman who brought you biscuits to say thank you for working extra hard on this thing that affects our entire town?”

She was incredibly sweet as she spoke these words. And, as an afterthought, she took another biscuit from the basket, and fed it to him.

“Mm, still delicious,” he said.

“I’m just curious, is all. But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”

His aura swelled orange, then came back again to a deep gold.

He chewed and swallowed second biscuit, then cleared his throat, and lowered his voice. “Well, here’s the thing: it looks like someone has taken credit for the kidnappings. Weird, eh?”

“Yeah, totally!” she said, again, trying not to sound too keen. “Who is it?”

He looked at the sheet, then looked around the room. He whispered, “Some... agency. Possibly government.”

“What?” she asked, unable to hide her shock and disgust. Then she said again, “What?” in confusion.

“I know, right? I guess it’s some super-secret, multinational agency. They think one of the kids might be…”

“Might be what?”

Dylan Brown’s eyebrows went up. “It’s daft. Never mind. I’m sure it’ll all be debunked in a day or two.”

“No, tell me!” she demanded. Then, caught herself. “I mean… I’m super-interested!”

He smiled and chuckled and said, “The bulletin says they think one of the kids might be harboring secrets. Like, paranormal secrets.”

“You mean like, aliens?”

“Yeah, I guess, I mean… I’m just P.C. Plod from Tadfield. No way they’re gonna tell me more than that!”

“Do they think he IS an alien or something?” she asked.

“You’ve got me,” he said.

“Brown!” came a voice from across the room. It was a female voice, one of the detectives working on the kidnappings. The rest of the officers were settling in for a meeting… apparently, in his distraction, he had missed the call to gather. “You and your girlfriend solving the world’s problems or what?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “She’s not my girlfriend, ma’am. Just a friend. Erm, Anna.”

“Fine,” said the detective. “Get your arse in a chair and your friend Anna out of here.”

“Yes, ma’am, sorry,” he said. To Anathema, he said, “Sorry, gotta go. Thanks for the biscuits.”

She adjusted her glasses to hide her face as much as possible from anyone who might be gawking, and she turned away.

Just as she stepped out of the room and into the main foyer, she heard the detective’s voice say, “Now, as you all know, an underground agency has taken responsibility for the kidnappings, which is, to say the least, really bloody weird. We need, among other things, to work out the validity of it. We’re hoping to get some CID backup, but in the meantime, in an hour, we’re going to do a press conference, detailing everything we know. No need to keep this under wraps – if they’re claiming credit, we’re taking it to the public, damn it!”

From there, she started barking out orders.

“Shit!” Anathema spat, and she left the basket on a bench, and hurried out of the station. She got round the corner before she pulled her phone from her bra, and ordered it to call Crowley.

“What?” he asked, picking up the call. “Tell me you have good news.”

“No. The news is interesting, at best, and I think our lives just got a hell of a lot more complicated.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

“But first of all, can you populate a press conference with your own people?”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale was having a hard day. Well hard-ish.

Nothing had happened, technically, but there was a lot he did not understand, and he didn’t like it one bit. And the one person he could usually go to with things he did not understand was the very thing he did not understand.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. He did understand, he thought, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

Crowley’s behaviour was bizarre, and it hurt the pedantic bookseller for more reasons than one. One being, of course, he felt rejected. But another being, he didn’t know how to help. Back in the old days, these kinds of conflicts between them… well, they simply pretended that nothing of the sort existed, and the knots would untie themselves in a decade or two. Now, they clearly did not have that kind of time, and so it weighed heavily on the former angel’s soul, that his beloved was suffering, and there were no easy answers.

He did wish Crowley would talk to him about it, though, instead of being surly and walking away, but he supposed that was in his partner’s nature, and he had always known that. However, he knew Crowley had it in him to be vulnerable and honest, as he had seen it over the course of their relationship, numerous times. This time, the sadness in his heart must be bigger than even love could remedy. For now, anyway.

But as cumbersome as all of this was, he still had to remind himself that there might very well be another Apocalypse nigh, and his petty relationship angst paled in comparison. And all of it was just bloody inconveniently timed.

But bless it if the fact that Crowley, clearly aroused, had refused his favours last night, wasn’t brighter and bigger in his mind than any global disaster. That’s the human animal, he supposed. It was the sort of weakness that Crowley had preyed on for millennia, and the sort of thing of which he, Aziraphale, as an angel, had tried to relieve the humans to whom he had been sent to bring miracles.

He felt helpless to be sure – about both problems, as a matter of fact. He currently didn’t know the status of the situation with Adam Young, and he hadn’t bothered to ask for an update yet today. For now, he just wanted to swim in the books, and feel like himself for a bit. He reckoned that if he needed to know, someone would tell him. And so, that morning, he had left home just after dawn, and had immersed himself in the smell of ancient prophecies and dusty old tomes. He had intended to get right to work catching up on orders from the previous day, as well as today, but he found that he couldn’t concentrate on work because he was depressed, worried, angry, and overall distracted.

When this happened, he historically relied on two things. He relied on three things overall, the third having been added quite recently. The first was meditation. The second was reading. The third was sex, and it had more or less replaced meditation. (He had, in fact, realised that a great deal of his meditation as a celestial being was in the interest of working through and/or casting off sexual desire. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this, but there it was.)

Since sex wasn’t an option at the moment (not even solo, the mood he was in), and he was out of practice with meditation, he decided to read. He cast his eyes about for something to sink his teeth into, and they fell, much to his dismay, upon a large pile of “Shadows to Light,” by Michael Engelbreit.

“Well, I guess I’d better know what I’m selling if I’ve got no choice but to sell it,” he sighed, and picked up a copy. He looked at it in his hand with disdain, and asked it, “Who the hell asked for you, anyway?” before sitting down, and grudgingly commencing at page 1.

---------------------------------------------------------------------
Three hours later, his eyes were wide as saucers, he was seventy-five-per-cent finished with it, and he had barely breathed since he’d begun.

Which was why, when the shop’s phone rang, he nearly fell out of his chair.

“H-hello?” he asked, voice shaking.

“Angel! Things are about to blow the fuck up!” Crowley shouted into the phone. “We need damage control in Tadfield ASAP!”

“Tadfield again, okay… er…” Aziraphale stuttered. “I have something I need to tell you, Crowley.”

“Some government agency is claiming responsibility for the kidnappings,” Crowley ploughed on. “Something about the paranormal, or aliens, or some other rubbish.”

“Really? Oh, dear...”

“And they just did a press conference, and I couldn’t stop it! I mean, not stop it, but… I couldn’t get enough of my people in line for it! They’ve gone public with this whole bloody thing, Aziraphale, and I have no idea what we do! The world has found out about the kidnappings – what the fuck next?”

“Crowley, slow down. We don’t even know the implications of the world having found out.”

“Oh, angel, the implications are… bad! Just bad!”

“All right. Start from the beginning. Well, not the beginning, but the beginning of today. And then we need to talk about something that I’ve come to suspect! Really!”

“I just stepped out of the Tube,” Crowley said. “I’m two blocks away – I’ll see you in a few. Fire up the laptop – we’ve got to watch the press conference.”

“Well, all right, but…”

“And I’m going to need a Scotch.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Or a hug. Or a crack pipe or a blow job or a great big knock to the head with a cricket bat – I haven’t decided.”

“Erm, well, I’m better equipped to deliver some of those things than others, but…”

“I’ll see you when I get there.”

And Crowley cut off the call, leaving Aziraphale to sigh at light static coming through the receiver.

Within two minutes, Aziraphale heard a key slide into the lock, and the door burst open. The bookseller had opened up the laptop, and had discovered its battery running dry, and was in the process of plugging it into the wall.

“Goddamn it,” Crowley was hissing as he stomped through the door, and shut it behind him. “All that effort, all that we did, trying to keep this thing quiet…”

“It bought us eighteen hours,” Aziraphale said, moving toward the back of the shop where he kept an eighty-year-old Scotch in a three-hundred-year-old crystal decanter. “That’s nothing to sneeze at, apocalyptically speaking. It allowed Engelbreit to get his book out."

"What?" Crowley called out from the other room.

"Well, er, I’m still not totally clear on what’s happening. But before this thing starts, Crowley, you need to know…”

“I’m going to lose it, Aziraphale. And not in a good way,” Crowley growled, having forgotten that his companion was speaking. Again.

“Yes, I can see that,” said the white-haired half, as he brought a tumbler of Scotch over to the sofa, in front of which Crowley was now pacing. “Now would you…”

Crowley had grabbed the tumbler and drained it in two large gulps. “After we watch the press conference, we have to hit the prophecies again, because I talked to Book Girl this morning, and we combed through that one about Adam, the one that you and I discovered Sunday night, and there’s something about it… something on the tip of my brain, and hers. And if even Anathema Device can’t suss it out, it must be really bloody esoteric.”

“You think there’s something more in it? Other than what we already know?”

“I do,” Crowley said, resignedly. “But this isn’t exactly my area. It’s yours.”

“All right, we will, as you say, ‘hit’ the prophecies again. I think you’re quite right about our needing to do that, because, Crowley, I’ve been reading that book by Michael Engelbreit.”

Crowley sat down on the sofa in his usual spot and threw open the laptop. “Yeah?” he asked, absently.

“Yes, and I think the prophecies and Engelbreit’s book are decidedly linked,” Aziraphale continued, sitting down beside his distracted partner. “Which makes me wonder just who the hell this Engelbreit person is.”

“Right, better find out about that,” Crowley muttered, as he typed in a search for the Tadfield press conference.

“And do you know what, Crowley? I think the squirrels in our neighbourhood are starting to develop human qualities. They’re growing in size, and starting to lose their hair and walk upright. Some of them have been singing arias in the square on Sundays.”

“Yeah, wow, that’s weird.”

“And this morning I picked up a cinnamon bun from the tea house down the street, and a gigantic ant stole it from me as I was walking. But it was all right because he was ever so polite about it. Spoke with a high-German accent – it was quite curious.”

“Yeah, that’s… wait, what?” Crowley asked, finally registering something – anything – that Aziraphale was saying. “Giant ant? Are you serious?”

“No!”

“Well, for Somebody’s sake, what do you want from me? That last time, Atlantis surfaced, and the Kraken came to life, so what the fuck do I know?”

“I said all of that to see if you were paying attention! Clearly you are not!”

They were shouting now, but not too intensely. Both were simply exasperated. And frightened.

“I’m sorry, angel, I’m a little preoccupied.”

“But if you’d give me a chance, you’d… all right, never mind. I’ll tell you in a bit, when I have your full attention. Let’s just get this news meeting over with,” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes, and shifting his bum upon the cushion, settling in to watch and listen.

Crowley clicked on a video posted less than ten minutes previously, and the image of a thin woman came up on the screen. She was forty or younger, had short, slicked-down hair, was wearing a light blue pantsuit, and spoke crisply.

“It’s less than five minutes long,” Crowley muttered.

The camera stretched out to show the crowd of reporters gathered on the front steps of the tiny police station in Tadfield. Crowley estimated about 25 people there, including folks he had begged to try and attend, in hopes they could continue to try and quell the story’s momentum.

The picture zoomed in on the woman again, and her name popped up at the bottom of the screen: DS Karen Combs. She began by greeting the press, and telling the story, in a detached, factual manner, of four children having disappeared from Tadfield on Sunday evening, and how witnesses reported seeing some dark, bizarre-looking figures lurking about the area. At present, they withheld the names out of respect for the families, but they did concede to show a photo of Adam Young.

Aziraphale found that seeing the lad’s curly hair, and mischievous young face again, choked him up a bit. He gasped involuntarily, feeling affection for the young Antichrist, and being reminded of how he was, after all, just a child.

Mercifully, there was no hint of the incredibly weirdly-worded press release that had most likely come from Hastur or some other minion of Hell… that would undoubtedly bring more attention to the story, possibly from the wrong sort. Which is to say, folks who are attuned to the occult. Which is to say, the right sort.

“An underground organisation have claimed responsibility for the kidnappings,” DS Combs said. She brandished a piece of paper and read from it. “They’re asserting that they are an unnamed agency, run, quote, by two superpowers, who have concerns outside of their own boundaries, end quote. They have also disclosed – though we have no comment at this time on the veracity of this declaration – that the children are being held in an undisclosed location, and that two factions have an interest in the children’s well-being, and other-being.”

The press clamoured for information at this point.

“Shit,” Crowley spat, pausing the video.

“Other being? What does that mean?” Aziraphale asked.

“It means that he is ‘other,’ he is supernatural,” Crowley said. “But it also means his well-being, and other… his not-so-well-being. And it’s just bloody cryptic enough to cause a tsunami of questions and speculation.”

Crowley continued to play the video.

DS Combs called upon a reporter for a question.

“What does it mean that two factions are interested in the children?”

“At this time, we are not sure,” Combs replied.

Another reporter piped up. “Are these political factions?”

“We can only speculate,” said Combs. “Which we are not doing at the moment. Yes, in the back?”

A reporter in the back asked, “What does ‘the children’s other’ mean?”

“No idea,” Combs told him. “Yes, you, in the purple jumper?”

“Do investigators currently believe that ‘two superpowers,’ and ‘two factions’ are the same thing? And could this be classified as an international crisis?”

Crowley paused. “Okay, are we on the same page in thinking that the two factions are Heaven and Hell?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said, emphatically. “It could not be any more transparent. But also calling themselves superpowers – they mentioned the two forces twice. Do you think that means something? Do you think they could be framing it as, like the woman said, an international crisis?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, bitterly. “As you know, I’m losing my sense of these things.”

“That’s all right, darling,” Aziraphale lulled, then patted his partner on the leg. “Let’s just watch some more.”

“We are not ruling anything out,” Combs said, in response to the previous reporter’s question. “Right, so, lady down front in the red dress?”

The reporter in the red dress stood up.

Crowley paused the video again. “That’s Miranda!”

“It is?” Aziraphale asked. "Miranda who you work with, who fancies you?"

"Yeah!"

"The one you met with, whom you asked to kill this story?"

“Yeah! I phoned her as soon as I knew there was going to be a press conference! Blimey, I knew I could count on her! I mean… not that it’s going to do any good because she’s just one woman and there are two dozen other reporters there, but, well... it’s good to have an ally, right?”

“Right.”

He played the video once more, and they heard his ‘Picadilly Detail’ colleague, Miranda Devenish, ask, “DS Combs, to what extent do you feel that flagrantly disclosing these details, as you have just done, will hinder the investigation?”

Combs blinked twice. “Beg pardon?”

“Giving details of a case muddies the waters, does it not? Public knowledge can cause copycat crimes, make it more difficult to smoke out a perpetrator, and with four individual children involved, it could become quite the disarray of facts and info.”

“Well…” Combs began, slowly.

“And since this crime occurred on Sunday, and it is now Tuesday, someone in your midst must have had the prudence to realise this,” said Miranda with feigned innocence. “What made you decide to go public just now?”

A uniformed officer, a beefy man of about fifty, stepped into the frame and began whispering with DS Combs.

Folks in the room started to get restless, and to mumble. A din was forming.

Miranda did not sit down.

“DS Combs? What will you tell the families if this little press conference accidentally gives a detail that causes the wall between investigator and perpetrator to blur, and it results in, God forbid, the loss of these precious children?”

More reporters began to shout questions of the same ilk, and not just Crowley’s friends. "How will you suss out copycat crimes? How is this being handled differently from a missing persons case involving adults? Will you add more manpower to the case now? How is this being investigated differently than if it were one child missing? What detail would be the most dangerous? Would you suggest..."

“This conference is over,” Combs announced, and turned around, re-entering the police station. She was followed by the uniformed officer, and two others who had been standing with her. Reporters could be seen trying to open the front doors, but they had been promptly locked.

Miranda, in her striking red dress, moved, salmon-like, away from the station, against the crowd, with an unmistakably satisfied look on her face.

The video ended then, and the former demon and his former angel companion sat in silence in the bookshop for a few moments.

Then, Aziraphale said, “She’s clever.”

“Yes, she is!” Crowley answered, getting excitedly to his feet.

“But you put the bug in her ear to get her to ask that question, to keep them quiet for time! To make possibly outlets think twice about what they print, in an age when no-one thinks twice.”

“Yeah, but angel, she’s a bear! Like a one-woman army! They underestimate her because she works for a smallish paper, but she came from the big leagues! Put her on the scene, and she can slow the trickle… oh… she’s an ally indeed!”

“Well, it appears that having others who fancy us is quite the tactical advantage,” Aziraphale chirped. “Huling put us in touch with last-minute caterers, and now..."

Crowley was suddenly struck by something. It seized him like a ton of bricks, suddenly built up like a coffin around him. Temporarily, anyway. And then it crumbled, and something seemed quite clear.

He had an idea. A mad, illegal, semi-suicidal, demonic idea.

It wasn’t even a particularly clever idea, but it was insane and exciting, and that was enough…

And Miranda had put the story on a temporary delay. Very, very temporary. He needed to seize the moment.

The past ten months had brought about one kind of insane and exciting, but he’d had a hankering for the other kind. For adventure of the devilish sort…

In his moment of clarity, it became obvious that it was the only thing at the moment that had a shot at working. It was not only completely bonkers, but it could actually help free Adam, Brian, Pepper, and Wensleydale (that’s right – he remembered their names). But he groaned inwardly, because he also knew that it would not be easy to pull off.

And neither would ending this conversation.

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked, noticing Crowley staring at the wall with eyes as wide as dinner plates.

“Erm… just… well, nothing. I’m going to need to talk to Anathema about the prophecies and such.”

“Well, I’ll help.”

“Actually, angel,” Crowley said, getting to his feet. “This might be something I need to do on my own. Well, on my own-ish.”

“What? What might be something you need to do? What is something?”

“Just… an idea I’ve had, that might help Adam and the others.”

“Okay, so, what is it?”

“Maybe it’s best if you don’t know.”

“Best if I don’t… maybe it’s… if I don’t know… are you joshing me? Why, that's ridiculous!”

“No, just… pretend it’s the old days, angel. You’ll be happier if you just close your eyes and pretend you don’t know who and what I am, and when it’s over, we’ll have a good meal together, with wine.”

“Bollocks!” spat Aziraphale, now getting to his feet. “If this is a Heaven/Hell apocalyptic do, I want to be of service! And I will be, by God!”

“Ugh,” Crowley groaned. “Don’t say shit like that.”

“Well, what do you want from me? Better question: what DON'T you want from me? And why don’t you want it?”

Aziraphale was shouting again, but more importantly, he was supplicating. He was asking a question about what Crowley had planned for freeing up Adam, but also about everything he was feeling about his partner in that moment. The past few days had been difficult, and Aziraphale was begging for a reprieve.

Crowley studied his best friend in the universe, his unfailing companion, his lover, this paragon of perfection, as far as he was concerned. “Oh, angel.” He leaned forward and embraced Aziraphale, who embraced back, of course, but in a half-hearted, confused sort of way.

“Crowley, you’re scaring me. What have you got on your mind?”

“Please don’t worry about me. Could you just trust me?”

“I trust you, darling. But you’re being cryptic and demonic, and I’m worried for you. I know you don’t like being reminded of it, but you’re not immortal any longer, and you don’t have magical powers, and so if you do something daft and wind up dead, then… then…”

“I’m not going to wind up dead.”

“Or in prison.”

“Aziraphale…”

“Being distant with me, and surly over losing your powers is one thing, and not wanting me to touch you last night is another. But if you’re about to risk your entire existence, and then shut me out of it..."

“I’m not shutting you out,” Crowley said, pulling back, but keeping his hands on his partner’s shoulders. “Not in any significant way. All right? There’s just something I’ve got to do, and you will be happier not knowing about it. Besides, I need someone sane to stay grounded for me.”

“Is this about your powers?”

Crowley sighed. “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t. But it’s not just that… it’s a legitimate thing. I’ve had a revelation, angel, and I want to follow it. Without having to slow down and answer questions. Without risking you. I won’t risk you, in any way. Just this once, can you simply give in?”

Aziraphale bit his bottom lip, and nearly whimpered, “Do I have a choice?”

“Go home. Open a bottle of wine, and don’t bother with a glass. Finish off that loaf of rosemary bread, and before you know it, it’ll be morning, and I’ll be right by your side. I’ll make you Eggs Benedict - with Bechamel instead of Hollondaise, just the way you like it - and tell you anything you want to know.”

“It’s noon.”

“You’re human now. Alcohol and carbohydrates in the right proportions will put you out until tomorrow morning. Haven’t we learned that the hard way?”

Aziraphale turned away. “Just… go. Do whatever you want,” he said flatly. “Who am I to stop you?”

And he disappeared behind a stack of books, and began bustling about, filling orders.

With a determined brain but sinking heart, Crowley left the shop.

Chapter Text

To Crowley’s surprise (and a bit to his dismay), calls from the bookshop did not start coming in for over an hour. By then, the former demon was already sitting in a café at the train station, with the ticket in his pocket, and a cooling cup of tea between his palms, and a sandwich in a white paper sack. With the Bentley in storage, and the couple not having purchased a new automobile yet (and Aziraphale being not at all sure that such a thing was even necessary in twenty-first century London), the two of them spent a lot of time on one train or another. It had been nigh on a century since Crowley had seen the insides of so many depots.

He was currently waiting to board an Intercity to Tadfield, which was on a popular hourly route between London and Oxford. However, with pandemic restrictions, trains were only running at half-capacity, so he had to wait for four more trains to depart, which would put his derrière in a carriage seat four hours from now, and would put the rest of him in the weird little town right before dark. He had considered getting an Uber, but thought that the timing of this train trip was actually better, forcing him to wait until dark to do his thing. Not to mention, the paper trail created through Uber, whereas a London-Oxford train ticket could be purchased with cash.

But the waiting itself was beyond tedious. Crowley’s fingers tapped on the tabletop, his feet danced against its legs, he shifted in his chair, and played a dumb game on his phone, trying to avoid looking at the news. He was Hell-bent on getting there and ploughing through this Adam-mess, ending it now… but he couldn’t, until his train came in.

Blimey, being human is a lot of helpless waiting.

For the moment, he ignored Aziraphale’s calls, wishing his partner had his Smartphone on him, so he could send a reassuring text. But just now, while he was still a sitting duck in London, he was in a position to be talked out of his plan. More importantly, he was vulnerable to the pain in the voice of Aziraphale, which was liable to bring him screaming back to the bookshop. Therefore, he did not want to talk – it was too risky. He would ring back once he was safely on the train, definitively headed to Oxfordshire.

There was one other person whose help he would need, and he decided to wait to let him know just before coming knocking. But first, he had to make sure that his friend was still in town.

He texted Newt, “Are you two still in Tadfield?”

“Yes, until A.Y. and Company are home safe,” came the answer, five minutes later.

Crowley responded with a thumbs-up, but no words. When Newt asked “Why?” Crowley did not answer.

Half an hour, and three more unanswered calls from the bookshop, later, another text came in. This time it was from Anathema.

“Why is Aziraphale calling me, frantic?”

“Do me a favour and ignore him for now,” Crowley responded.

“He says you’re headed to Tadfield to possibly do something stupid.”

Crowley chose not to answer. In fact, he switched off notifications, and opted to play Minesweeper until it was time to board.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was approaching six p.m., and ten minutes into the train trip when Crowley rang Aziraphale at last.

And quite contrary to being cryptic about what he was scheming, he explained his entire plan, such as it was. He tried to hide how exhilarated he felt by the prospect of real, proper danger, though he wasn’t sure why. His angel knew him well, and he had already admitted that having lost his powers was part of this insane equation, so Aziraphale probably knew everything that was on his mind now: adventure, danger, risk, otherworldly finesse…

Badness.

Predictably, Aziraphale nearly turned himself inside-out begging Crowley to reconsider, and threatened to board the next train to stop him. Crowley calmly pointed out that he had a five-hour head-start, and that in case his tow-headed partner had forgotten, he, too, was without magical powers to accelerate movement, grease any metaphorical wheels, or slow down time.

After arguing for several long minutes, and a full thirty-six hours of wringing his hands over Crowley’s behaviour, and being unsure of what else to say, Aziraphale spat, with true venom in his voice “You fucking demon.”

“Yeah, I know,” Crowley groaned. The words, or rather their tone, was like a punch to the gut.

“Crowley, with all of the absurdity you’re about to perpetrate, all of the unscrupulousness you’re going to unleash upon this situation, do you know what is truly the worst of it?”

“Enlighten me,” Crowley said, sardonically, having some idea of what Aziraphale was about to say.

“It’s the fact that if I lost you, it would kill me.” With this statement, Aziraphale’s voice broke slightly. “Do you hear me? Kill. Me.”

“Angel…” Crowley breathed. He had been unprepared for how the anticipated words would impact him.

“Quite apart from the fact that I’m begging and pleading with you to think with your head, instead of your heart or your gut, or whatever part of your body that makes you want to be an ornery prat, and you’re not listening to a bloody word I’m saying, and indeed sound as though you couldn’t care less about what I have to say…”

“That is not true.”

“Over and above all of that fuckery, Crowley, you are risking yourself.”

“Listen…”

“You are risking the demolition of the thing I hold most dear in existence, and therefore, risking the utter ruin of my life and happiness. And you didn’t even bother to explain yourself until you felt it was too late to take it back. Until you knew that I could not have a say in what happened next.”

Crowley sighed, choking back an unexpected sob of his own. Partially because he knew Aziraphale was right. “Oh, angel, I…”

“I clearly don’t mean as much to you as whatever is on your mind now.”

“Aziraphale, come on.”

“And so I find that for the second time today, I must simply turn my back and give you leave to do what you’re going to do.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Have fun,” Aziraphale said. “I hope you’ll deign to telephone me as soon as you’re clear, to let me know that you’re still alive. Good night, Crowley.”

And with that, Aziraphale was finished with this conversation.

Crowley wasn’t stupid… he did try three times to ring the bookshop again, but to no avail. He wound up leaving a message on Aziraphale’s Smartphone’s voice mail, though he knew that his other half only ever checked it if he, Crowley, was there to remind him. The message contained a lot of “I’m sorry,” and “Don’t worry,” and “I love you,” and promises of what he would do to make up for it, when it was all over (mostly involving food).

But something inside of him sank even deeper than before.

He ended the voice mail, and muttered to himself, “This better bloody well work.”

And he shut his eyes and refused to watch the countryside pass, as a reminder of getting further away from the only being in existence he had ever loved.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The train was delayed in Reading, so when Newton Pulsifer collected Crowley from the train station in Tadfield it was nearly 9 p.m., and the sun had all but disappeared behind the horizon.

“Thanks for the lift, mate,” Crowley said as the powder-blue American muscle car made its way toward a B-road.

“Mm-hm,” responded his friend.

“Tight-lipped,” Crowley muttered.

“It’s because I know that you don’t just want a lift,” Newt said, surprisingly calmly.

“I know it sounds utterly bonkers what we’re about to do…”

“It does,” Newt interrupted. “And I wouldn’t be here at all if Anathema didn’t think it was a good idea for some completely mad reason. Wish you could bring her and not me, on this little mission of yours.”

“I’ve explained. It can’t be her, it has to be you, because…”

“I know why,” Newt half-spat.

“If I could do it alone, I would, but I can’t. Not anymore.”

“Yep.”

“Ironically, you now have more ‘supernatural’ power than I do.”

“It’s not a supernatural power. It’s just me being unlucky.”

“Near enough, mate. It helped get us out of one Apocalypse… hoping it can help us avoid another.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

They both sighed, and maintained about a half-minute’s silence.

Then, Crowley tried, “Well, Anathema is psychic, so she must be right, which means I am right.” Though he felt none of the conviction with which he spoke.

“Her ancestor was psychic,” Newt corrected. “I’ve seen no hard evidence that Anathema herself has any sort of insight into what’s coming, without that stupid book. Unless seeing auras is also a fortune-telling thing.”

“Well, I think it could be,” Crowley shrugged. “But I wouldn’t assume it works unless you’re in the presence of the person involved. By that, I mean me. Perhaps if she looked at me, she could see whether it’s going to work or not, after a fashion, but…”

“As it is, she’s just guessing, like the rest of us.”

“Well, okay, but it’s a bit better than a guess!”

“No, it’s really not,” Newt argued, still mostly calm, but Crowley could hear the tension rising in his voice. Certainly the annoyance.

“Did you watch the press conference?”

“Yeah! And it’s still just a guess, Crowley!”

“There were loads of hints…”

“What? Two superpowers? Two factions?”

“Yes! Heaven and Hell, and…”

“I’m not disputing that bit! You clearly know more about Heaven and Hell than I do, but, holy shit, mate… underground government? Superpowers translating to the U.S. and Britain? It’s a long-shot!”

“No, it’s not a long shot.”

“Do you really think the forces of the universe would do the same thing twice? In the same place twice?”

Crowley began to shout now. “I don’t know for sure, do I? This is my best, educated guess! But what I can tell you for sure is that both ‘factions’ lack imagination, so yeah, it’s a possibility that they would, in fact, do the same thing twice, in the same place.”

“But…”

“And oi, while we’re on the topic, what are your suggestions, Breaks-Things Guy? Eh? Tell me what to do next, because without this daft idea of mine, I’m at a loss! We are totally fucked, unless we do something, so if you’re so bleeding practical, please tell me… what is that something?”

A bitter silence enveloped the car, and in spite of himself, Newt drove forward toward the American Airbase just outside of Tadfield.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was dark, and Newt didn’t have great night vision, but he still managed to find the fallen Ash tree that had allowed him and Anathema to breach the Airbase before. They had had to drive past the area four times, but they found it. The large tree had pulled down a section of fencing, and for whatever reason, the Americans had yet to fix it. God only knew how long it had been this way. It was a testament to how truly forgotten this place was… or else how confident were the prevailing powers (Americans, Brits, Heaven, Hell, whoever they were) about how the place could not be mucked-about with.

“Maybe Adam’s got something to do with it,” Crowley muttered as they exited the car. “He has kept this area totally as-is since his birth. With the exception of a small Apocalypse last year.”

But for Crowley and Newt, it was fortuitous, because no-one on “their” side currently had the powers or the know-how to get past a human guard at the front gate. So a clandestine back-entrance was necessary. When they put their feet on the other side of the barbed wire that had been pressed into the ground, hurdle number one was cleared: entry.

“Blimey, it’s dark,” Newt commented. “I don’t suppose you’ve still got snakey infrared vision or something?”

“Nope,” Crowley answered. “And that’s not a thing.”

“Sorry.”

“I had the ability to see pretty well in the dark, but it was from being a demon, not from being an erstwhile reptile. And now I’m an erstwhile demon, so… yippee.”

Both men simultaneously pulled their mobile phones from their pockets, and began to walk forward through the rotten leaves via the light provided by their electronic torches.

They walked about two hundred yards diagonally up a hill, as this was how Newt had remembered last time finding the site of the impending End, before they came to the top of the hill. Stretched before them, they found a plateau of manicured lawn, completely devoid of trees or shrubbery, probably a couple miles square. Interspersed in the area were patches of blacktop, and military buildings, the odd Jeep…

“No personnel,” Crowley commented, killing his mobile phone light (Newt doing the same). They now relied on the scant illumination provided on the base. Crowley dropped down with his belly to the ground like a snake, and pulled Newt down to the same position.

Once flat, Newt squinted at the tableau before them. “Yeah, you’re right. Weird.”

“Just as daft as I thought. They made a big noise about an underground agency, two superpowers, clearly trying to give the impression that the government is involved, and yet they have no guards. No-one policing the periphery. Even if there’s no-one here, and it hasn’t been touched since last summer… when was the last time you saw a military facility with zero humans guarding it? Idiots.”

“Never. Though this is the only military facility I’ve ever been in.” Then Newt realised how foolish this all actually was. Again. “Crowley, what might we have done if there actually had been personnel guarding the place?”

Crowley said, “We act like our car broke down, we got lost and wound up here, and then I take their taser for future use against other guards. Possibly we would have to throw a punch or two, which I have never fancied doing, but you do what you gotta.”

“What? Are you mad?”

“Yes, clearly,” Crowley said, calmly. “But you’re missing the point. I had a very, very strong suspicion that the place wouldn’t be manned. Because I know exactly who we’re dealing with.”

“It might be a sign that the kids are not being held here!” Newt said, at full voice.

Crowley slapped him on the shoulder. “Keep your voice down! It’s not manned, but it’s almost certainly surveilled, and that’s why you’re here. And no, I think you’re wrong. It’s not a sign that the kids aren’t here. It’s a sign that this place is not run by humans anymore, Newt. Call me an optimist, but with no human presence here, it actually lends credence to my theory that the kids are here.”

“I hate to say it, but that makes a twisted kind of sense,” Newt admitted, now rather breathless with fear and anticipation.

“Shall we?” Crowley said, then made to get up and move.

Newt panicked a little, his heart beating a million miles per hour. He pulled Crowley back down, and asked, “But if the place is being surveilled by… non-humans, then what makes you think that I can be of any help?”

“In my experience, the non-humans in question use a combination of technology and supernatural channels to do their surveillance. For a place like this, with a lot of the technology in place already, they’ll almost certainly use it, to make things easier, and so as not to call attention to themselves until they’re ready for it. Also, they can’t sense the presence of specific humans the way they can specific angels and demons. So, the answer is, you can be a lot of help. I don’t know anyone who can short out supernatural surveillance anymore… you’re the best hope I’ve got.”

Newt sighed, and buried his head in his arms on the ground. “Oh, my God.”

“Exactly. Shall we go rescue some kids?”

“Ugh,” Newt grunted, then lifted his head. “Yeah. Question is, where? Where do we even start?”

The two of them were quiet for a few moments, then Crowley said, “For my money, it’s that building there. The biggest one of the lot.” He pointed to the squat, domed building (like all the others) in the middle of the facility, which just happened to have a larger square footage than the others.

“Tally-ho,” Newt sighed. “So what? We try and stay in the shadows?”

“Indeed.”

Crowley got to his feet, and helped Newt to do the same, even though it wasn’t necessary. He just wanted to be reassuring. Plus, the human contact was calming for him, damn it.

Crowley went first, and Newt followed. They cut to the left, and stayed on the periphery of the manicured area for as long as possible, but the moment came when they had to dash across.

“Let’s make a run for it, staying between those two lights, and duck into the shadow on that side of the smaller building, yeah?”

“On three,” Newt replied.

They counted to three, and dashed fifty yards, and pressed themselves against a dark wall.

“I think, from here, we can stay hidden if we’re careful. And look… I think that’s an electronic keypad on the front door of the main building,” Crowley whispered, slapping Newt lightly on the chest with the back of his hand.

“Yay,” Newt groaned, just before Crowley began creeping forward again, and he followed.

They moved stealthily across the bit of lawn to the largest building in the complex, and both tucked themselves into the shadows under the canopy of the little inlet where the front door appeared to be. Surely enough, there was a keypad, with a small sign that said, “Give authorization code to gain entry.”

“All right, you,” Crowley whispered. “Do your thing.”

Newt sighed. “All right, but… I’d feel better if I had a sonic screwdriver.”

“A what?”

“It’s… never mind. Bad joke,” Newt said, and he reached out to touch the keypad. “What do you think? Five digits? Seven?”

Crowley shrugged. “How should I know? Does it matter?”

“In the end, I suppose not.”

Newt typed in 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, before there a tiny red light came on, and an unpleasant beep sounded.

“So apparently, it’s eight digits,” Crowley commented.

Newt tried, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, and the same thing happened.

Mind you, Newt did not think in any way that these were the proper numbers that would lead them into the building…

He tried again with, 3, 0, 0, 3, 2, 3, 0, 9. Crowley asked, “What’s that?”

“Anathema’s birthday and mine.”

“Ah.”

There was a pause, then he reached out for the keypad for another try, but he received a shock when his fingers were still a foot away. The keypad seemed to short out, sparks flew out of it, causing both men to jump and exclaim, and small fire started. But within ten seconds, the fire was out, and what was left was a charred keypad.

Crowley tried the door, and lo and behold, it opened. He said, “See, now, a normal person would have been simply locked out of the system, or escorted away by guards. See how valuable you are?”

“Shut up,” Newt muttered, and they both walked inside, shutting the door behind them. Crowley tested the door to make sure it could still be opened from the inside.

They went down the hall in front of them, and eventually on the right, there was a door that said, “Military holding cells,” with a computer on a desk, as well as cameras quite obviously pointed at the area. Both men stopped short of walking into the sights of the cameras.

“Think the cameras are run by the computer?”

“Let’s find out,” Newt said. “Give me a boost.”

Crowley laced his hands together and Newt stepped into them, raising himself up high enough to take off the back panel of one of the cameras.

He moved a few wires around, unplugged a thing that was in his way, and said, “I can’t tell if it’s…”

And the camera shorted out.

He hopped back to the floor, and said, “Well, that’s done.”

They looked at the other cameras, and the lights had gone out on all of them.

“Now the door,” Crowley said. He crouched down and picked the lock, and the two of them walked inside.

Two more checkpoints like this, computerised but not manned… cameras, keypads, scanners and the like. Newt was able to short out all of them before any alerts sounded.

When they walked through the final door, what they saw took their breath away. It was a large, dark cell, lit only by one small night light, and four sleeping children. Two bunks on each side of the room, along with some board games, books, and debris from Nerf guns in the middle. There was a door in the cell, which both assumed led to a loo, and evidence of meals past on plates pressed against the front bars.

“Part of me was really hoping I wasn’t right,” Crowley muttered.

Chapter Text

Crowley and Newt had infiltrated the airbase, and it hadn’t been difficult. When there’s no personnel in sight, and you’ve got a man who can short out even military computers, walking into a locked-down facility was relatively simple.

But when they walked through the final door, what they saw took their breath away. It was a dark cell, lit only by one small night light, and four sleeping children. Two bunks on each side of the room, along with some board games, books, and debris from Nerf guns in the middle. There was a door in the cell, which both assumed led to a loo, and evidence of meals past on plates pressed against the front bars.

“Part of me was really hoping I wasn’t right,” Crowley muttered.

“All of me was hoping you weren’t right,” Newt replied.

And with that, one of the kids sat up. Predictably, it was Adam Young.

“Hey, guys,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

“Adam!” Newt exclaimed.

Both Crowley and Adam shushed him. Adam hopped down onto the concrete floor from the top bunk on the left, and came over to the bars. He was wearing light green cotton pyjamas. “What are you two doing here?”

“You don’t seem surprised to see us,” Crowley said.

“Nothing surprises me much,” Adam shrugged. “I thought someone like you might eventually try to come rescue us. How’d you get in?”

“Well, your superpower is being the Antichrist,” Newt said. “My superpower is shorting out any computerised equipment I attempt to manipulate.”

Adam smiled. “Heh. Cool! But why are there two of you? Doesn’t that just draw more attention?”

Newt and Crowley looked at each other. “Well, I wasn’t bloody well going to do this on my own,” Newt said. “And Crowley can’t do it on his own.”

“Makes sense,” Adam nodded. “Shall I wake up my friends?”

“Too late,” a girl’s voice said from the top bunk on the right. Pepper sat up and swung her legs over the side, looking groggy and annoyed.

The other two boys on the bottom bunks did the same. As it turned out, all four kids were wearing the same pyjamas.

“What’s happening?” asked Brian.

“These two are going to break us out of here,” Adam said.

“Wicked!” Brian replied.

“They can do that?” Pepper asked?

And all four kids were very soon standing at the bars.

“We’re going to try, okay?” Newt said, trying to quell their anticipation. “Are you guys okay?”

Adam shrugged. “I guess so. Considering we’re prisoners. I feel kind of bad for my mum and dad, though. Do they knew where we are?”

“No,” Newt said. “No-one does. Except us.”

“This is a total injustice,” Pepper proclaimed. “I mean, we have the right to know why we’re here, don’t we? And we have the right to representation.”

“Erm, you haven’t been arrested, Pepper…” Newt began.

“All the same,” she continued. Then she sighed heavily. “Well, at least we get to play games and read and stuff, to pass the time.”

“Actually,” Wensleydale chimed in. “I’d very much like to go home. But I’m really quite glad that Adam doesn’t have to go through this alone.”

“I second that,” Brian announced.

“I third that,” Pepper said.

“You can’t ‘third’ something,” Brian told her. “That’s not a thing.”

“Of course it’s a thing, if you can ‘second something,” she argued.

Adam watched them, and chuckled.

“So, business as usual, then,” Newt said, marvelling at the bickering. For four people held against their will, they seemed to be okay, well-enough-kept, not abused nor particularly frightened. He wondered if Adam’s presence and/or his powers were keeping the others calm.

“What’s with the look?” Adam asked. He was studying Crowley quite closely.

Crowley hadn’t said much, because he had been staring at an apparatus on the floor, at the base of the bars. “This is the mechanism that opens the bars.”

“Yeah, all you gotta do is step on it, and this thing comes out…” Adam said.

“It won’t work,” Crowley said darkly.

“’Course it will,” Adam protested. “That’s how they always bring us our food and games and milkshakes and stuff.”

“Yes, actually, we’ve watched it work quite a few times now. No matter who comes…” Wensleydale began, squinting, as he did not have his glasses.

“They bring you milkshakes?” Newt asked, incredulous. "No-one brings me milkshakes!"

“Some of them do,” Brian said.

“Actually, some of them seem to know what we’d like,” Wensleydale explained. “You know, things that are tasty and fun and the like. But some of the others…”

“They try, but they get it wrong,” Brian finished.

“Someone else brought us a turtle,” Pepper said, rolling her eyes. “And another brought a roll of burlap.”

Newt couldn’t help but chuckle. “Why?”

Brian shrugged. “Thought we’d like to play with them. But turtles don’t do much of anything…”

“Actually, they’re quite cute,” Wensleydale corrected.

“You think turtles are rubbish, try burlap!” Pepper declared. “Why does that stuff even exist?”

Adam’s attention, however, was still focused on Crowley. “Come on, what are you waiting for?” he asked, actually reaching through the bars, to touch Crowley’s arm.

“It won’t work for me,” Crowley said, barely moving his lips.

“Why not?” Adam wanted to know.

Newt offered, “Maybe I can…”

“It won’t short out either,” Crowley said. A pregnant pause, and then, “Shit.”

“How do you know?”

“You see that symbol there, on the corner?" he asked, pointing to a diamond shape with two lines through it, one near each acute end. "That’s the Unearthly insignia. It’s used for artefacts and relics on Earth that Heaven or Hell don’t want humans to be able to access until a proper time. Sometimes information, as well. It’s a vault that only a supernatural being can open. Most mortals can’t even perceive it… unless they’re looking for it, or it’s pointed out to them. I guess I was looking.”

“Are you certain?” Newt wondered.

“Yeah. Watch.”

Crowley stepped on the floor panel, and a white rectangular box rose out of it, as he thought it would. It looked like a hologram.

“Right, now it scans you with this light-ray thingie,” Adam said.

“And the light will either turn red or blue,” Brian added. “And then the bars will disappear.”

The white box seemed to stretch then, and it morphed to fit around Crowley’s body, and it enveloped him. For about a minute, the light around him simply pulsed.

“Why’s it taking so long?” Adam wanted to know.

“It’s confused,” Crowley said, waiting for the white field to abate, or change, or whatever it was going to do. He stood still and tried to watch it. His eyes were narrow with suspicion, his jaw tight.

But then, the light turned purple, and gave off a noise as if a terrible error had been made. Then it turned white again and disappeared like a comet back into the floor panel.

“What was that?” Newt asked.

“It scans for… well, let’s say, authorised personnel.”

“Oh. An angel or a demon,” Newt said.

“Wicked!” Pepper exclaimed with a big smile.

“But since I am neither,” Crowley sighed. “I’m neither red nor blue, so…”

“So the people holding us here are angels and demons?” Brian asked, a bit incredulous.

“Yep,” Crowley answered, expressionlessly.

“Mate, you owe me a packet of Tim-Tams,” Adam said to Brian, punching his arm. “I told you, didn’t I?”

Crowley pressed on. “When the light turns blue, you’re dealing with an angel. When it turns red, it’s a demon. When it’s purple, apparently it’s a human. Or, perhaps a being who has been both angel and demon at different times, but is now nothing.”

“Oh,” Adam said, crestfallen. “How did that happen? I mean, why aren’t you…”

“It’s a long story,” Crowley sighed. “Let’s just say that Hell decided I’m more trouble than I’m worth, and cut me loose.”

“What about your angel friend?”

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked. “Him, too.”

“So, Heaven cut him loose? Just because he’s a bit of a troublemaker? Doesn’t sound very Heavenly to me,” Adam said, with a touch of righteous indignation.

“Oh, it’s very Heavenly, my boy,” Crowley told him, his voice exhausted and resigned. “Heaven is no better than Hell. Both sides are rigid and controlling, they see only in black and white. And the Almighty notwithstanding, the only true interest any of them have in humanity is manipulating it to serve their needs. Both sides have armies of minions – of which Aziraphale and I used to be among the ranks – who are not allowed to put even one toe out of line, and if they do, the punishment is severe. But to make matters worse, they don’t even pay that much attention, so you can go millennia and get lazy and comfy in your role as something of an anarchist, and they don’t even notice. Until one day, you try to do something daft like save the human race, and you get a bath of holy water for your trouble. Or a shower of hellfire. Arseholes.”

“Yikes,” Adam said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. The other three kids’ eyes were as wide as saucers. They were listening.

Crowley sighed. “Yikes indeed. The only difference between Heaven and Hell, honestly, is tone, and who they're answering to. Heaven keeps things light. Hell, not so much. That’s it.”

Adam thought about this for a few long moments, then said, “But if you don’t have bosses anymore, doesn’t that mean you can be together?” asked the very observant Antichrist.

“What do you mean?” Brian wondered.

Newt chimed in. “Crowley used to be a demon, and Aziraphale used to be an angel, and they were in love for, like, millennia, before teaming up to avert the Apocalypse – which, might I add, they could not have done without the five of us, right kids?”

Pepper asked, “Aziraphale… is he the one with the white hair and the bowtie? The one Adam had to pry away from that lady with the poncho and too much makeup?”

“Blimey, that sounds dodgy,” Crowley muttered.

“It was dodgy!” the girl responded.

Newt squinted. “No, it really wasn’t. Especially if you know her. But yes, that’s Aziraphale.”

"Actually, I think I understand,” Wensleydale said to Crowley. “Now you’ve both been fired for insubordination!”

Crowley couldn’t help but smile.

“Exactly,” said Newt. “Which means they’re free to be a couple. Which they are. And it’s bloody beautiful.”

“Yes, yes, free of our respective gangs, we rode off into the sunset together,” Crowley sighed. “It’s all very ‘West Side Story,’ only with a happy ending. Can we focus, please? We’re back to square one!”

“I’m just sayin’,” Adam said. “Being free is nothing to sneeze at. It’s probably worth it, even if you’ve lost your powers.”

“Except it means I’m useless to you lot! The only supernatural being here is you, Adam,” Crowley told him, arms spread wide with despair, voice piercing. Then he calmed a smidge, and said, “And possibly Pulsifer here, though the jury’s still out on that.”

Newt shrugged, and stepped on the floor panel. The white box appeared, scanned Newt in the same way it had scanned Crowley, but the same thing happened: it turned purple and disappeared, without giving them access.

“Worth a shot,” Newt said. “Maybe Adam…”

“I already tried it,” Adam said, sticking one leg through the bars and trying it. “Couple days ago. See? It doesn’t respond to me at all.”

“Actually, we all tried it,” Wensleydale said. “It’s like it’s age-coded or something. A mechanism like that would not be difficult to program.”

Crowley nodded, deciding not to mention that the normally bespectacled youngster was completely missing the point.

“It’s all right, Crowley,” Adam said. “Thanks for trying.”

“It’s not all right!” Crowley shouted.

“It is. We appreciate you no matter what,” Adam said.

Being placated by a child was the last straw. He knew the lad meant well, and he wasn’t just any child. And Crowley liked children, but this was too much. All of it… too bloody much.

The kids and Newt looked on with sympathy, mixed with curiosity, as the former demon began to pace, and breathe erratically.

An anger was rising in Crowley’s chest, an extension of the disappointment and frustration he’d been feeling (in spite of himself) to varying degrees over the past ten months – and most acutely over the past few days. Being human meant being left alone, being in love, feeling unfettered, but it also meant that everything is slow and tedious, and everything, EVERYTHING, requires maintenance. And just now, he felt weak, impotent.

As he paced, he thought about bottles of Scotch lined up against the backsplash of their bar at home, that he would have to drink an ounce at a time, rather than in huge gulps, to avoid alcohol poisoning. He thought about using the toilet a dozen times a day, but also having to drink water in order to stay hydrated. Talk about a wasteful design flaw! He thought about feeling jittery after a cup of strong coffee, and the hunger that appeared in his gut if he didn’t eat for a few hours. He thought of the odours that emanated from his body if he didn’t bathe, and the soreness he felt after yoga, or an hour of calisthenics. He thought of the mask he had to wear when he went out and about in London these days, to make it less likely that he would contract, or spread, a virus that could kill him or someone else. A disease – how fucking rubbish was it that he had to be afraid of a disease?

And he thought vaguely of the forty-or-so years he had left with Aziraphale, after six-thousand years of pining and in their way, earning it. Being human afforded them this time to just BE together, without fear of retribution, but a human life was so fleeting, over in the blink of an eye…

He breathed hard, and looked around the room for something to kick or throw. He thought about the stone walls of this place that he could not punch just now, or else he might break his hand.

And most of all, he thought about four helpless children who had only each other now, whom he could not save.

He leaned forward with his hands on his knees, and very nearly hyperventilated.

“All this work… all that bloody work to kill the story and it gets out anyway!” Crowley breathed. As he spoke, his voice gained strength and eventually became a shout. “All this work to break in here… everything is work! Just being alive in this body is work, work, work! And now, I’ve done everything I can, everything I’m now capable of doing – and I had help! – and it comes down to this! This, right here! I’m fucking useless! Useless!”

“Crowley, calm down,” Newt said. “We’ll think of something else. This doesn’t mean we’re giving up. Anathema won’t have it… and actually, neither will I.”

“I’m so sorry, guys,” Crowley said to the kids. He was now near tears. “I can’t help you.”

“We’ll need a plan B,” Newt said to them.

“A really, really clever plan B,” Crowley practically muttered.

“Yes, I would say so,” said a gruff voice behind Crowley and Newt. They turned around, and there stood the demon Hastur, with a smug look on his face.

Chapter Text

“I’m so sorry, guys,” Crowley said to the kids, now near tears. “I can’t help you.”

“We’ll need a plan B,” Newt said to them.

“A really, really clever plan B,” Crowley practically muttered.

“Yes, I would say so,” said a gruff voice behind Crowley and Newt. They turned around, and there stood the demon Hastur, with a smug look on his face.

“Oh, fucking lovely,” Crowley sighed.

Newt glanced back at the kids, and noticed once more that they were not worried at all, and wondered again whether Adam was giving off a bubble of calm protection or something.

Hastur smiled at his former colleague, turned adversary. “You didn’t really think there was a chance we wouldn’t know you were here? Just because you short out the computers…”

“Well, we got in, didn’t we?” Crowley shrugged, with a lot more nonchalance than he felt.

“Honestly, Crowley. You’ve always been a pain in the arse, but you used to be cleverer than that.”

“Who’s this?” Newt asked Crowley.

“Hastur,” said Hastur. “Duke of Hell. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Mr. Pulsifer, is it?”

“Y-yes,” Newt said. “How do you know that?”

“Don’t worry about it, Newt,” Crowley said. “Heaven and Hell know all kinds of shit they don’t need to. It’s what they think allows them to meddle. Funny how they still have zero fashion sense, however.”

The only thing that kept Newt’s blood from running to complete ice in his veins was the fact that Crowley did not seem bothered by this ghostly, grotesque being standing before him. He had long been looking to Crowley as a model for “cool.” He put all of his focus on his friend’s demeanour now, more than ever.

“You’re hilarious, Crowley,” Hastur said. “Well, I suppose if I stooped as far down as you, I’d cope by using humour, as well.”

Crowley chuckled. “Stooped? You mean becoming human? Nah – far as I’m concerned, mate, I’ve had an upgrade!”

Hastur laughed. “Upgrade! You went to all the trouble to come here and valiantly save these children, and can’t. Because of your… upgrade.”

“A temporary state of affairs, I assure you,” Crowley said. Though he wasn’t, truthfully, entirely sure what he meant by it.

“We’ve got humanity on our side,” Newt said. His voice trembled, but he persevered. “We will work out how to free them.”

Hastur kept on smiling. “Oh, indeed.”

There was a silence.

“Indeed what?” Crowley asked, sounding annoyed, but really feeling rather terrified.

“Humanity is on your side. Humans are ever so good at getting indignant about how other humans are treated,” Hastur pointed out. “Especially children! We’re counting on that.”

“Are you now?” Crowley asked, the wheels in his brain beginning to turn.

“But don’t for a moment think that all of humanity will fall on your side. Or any side. Because they’re great at getting pissed off, but really rubbish at agreeing on anything. And in the past fifteen years, it’s only got worse! That’s down to us. Heh, heh, that little invention was ire in the bank.”

“I see,” Crowley said, rather flatly. He was now only responding so that he could stay engaged, and show his adversary that he was paying attention. His mind was now racing, and a revelation was dawning on him, and he did not like it at all.

But Hastur didn’t see his flat comment as flat at all. “You don’t see! You don’t see nothing! How could you see, Crowley, you incompetent, soul-having, angel-loving, good-deed-doing, humanity-advocating…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Like any of that is an insult anymore,” Crowley shouted, rolling his eyes. “Sing me some new ones, would you?”

“Point is, you’re out of the loop now, Crowley. You might as well go home to your boyfriend and drink wine, and wait for the End. Again. Because there’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing a human can do about any of this,” Hastur said, gleefully. “And you, Mr. Pulsifer, I’d advise the same.”

“How could we believe that you’re just going to let us walk out of here?” Newt asked.

“I’m not going to let you walk out of here,” Hastur said. With that, he clicked his fingers.

And when Newt blinked, he found himself standing on a dark road, beside Crowley, his powder-blue Chevy just there, in front of them. It was right where they had parked it, beside the fallen Ash tree.

“What the fuck?” he shouted.

Crowley sighed. “Well, that was a waste of a journey.”

“Seriously, what the fuck?”

“Oh, relax. Just a bit of infernal magic. Aziraphale and I both used to be able to do stuff like that, too.”

Newt breathed hard, and grasped at his chest, and felt his stomach and thighs to make sure he was still solid. “My God. My God!”

“Newt, mate, listen, you’re missing the big picture! Again! Stop fussing over the teleportation, and focus!”

“On what?”

“Hastur made a big noise about how we, as humans, are not a threat to their operation,” Crowley said. “And yet, he said they’re counting on humans to get pissed off and start disagreeing.”

“Oh… you’re right.”

“I have to get back to London,” Crowley said, moving toward the passenger door. “I’ve got to look at that prophecy again. Something is starting to gel – I can feel it.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Once Crowley was gone, Hastur stood and stared at the four children in front of him. Then, awkwardly, he said, “Everyone all right? Anyone need one of those... erm, Slorpy Dogs?”

“Do you mean Slush Puppy?” Brian asked, with a smirk.

“Actually, that’s not the sort of thing one has in the middle of the night,” Wensleydale said. “It’s especially bad for the teeth.”

“Speak for yourself, mate,” Brian chuckled.

“Fine, whatever,” Hastur growled. Then he shrugged. “They told me not to be a bastard. I thought kids liked sugar. That’ll teach me to listen to bloody archangels.”

“Where’d you send them?” Adam asked him, for the first time sounding nervous.

“Who?”

“Crowley and Newt.”

“What do you care?” Hastur wondered.

“They’re my friends. They’re on my side. They actually care about us.”

“No, they don’t. No-one cares about you.”

“You just said you’re counting on the human race to care about us!”

“Shut up,” Hastur commanded.

“But you said it!”

“So what? Now, go back to sleep.”

“Fat chance of that,” Pepper said, turning away from the bars, and nevertheless, returning to bed.

“Clever girl,” Hastur said, sweeping his arm sideways, and cleaning up their dirty dishes. “Cleverer than her friends.”

The boys followed Pepper’s example and went back to their bunks.

But no-one slept.

Hastur didn’t necessarily know this, and definitely didn’t care. He just wanted them docile, and as far as he was concerned, if they were prone, they were out of commission for now.

He turned and opened the heavy door leading out of the cell room, and shut it behind him, locking it soundly. He turned to his left and went down the hall to a room that had been specially rigged as a portal room to both Heaven and Hell. It was burning up a great deal of energy, but all of that would be moot soon enough.

He stepped across the threshold and found himself in one of the damp, dank hallways of Hell, with countless souls walking, walking, walking about…

“Hastur,” a voice said. And within a moment, Lord Beelzebub was standing in front of him.

“Lord Beelzebub,” he said, seeming slightly nonplussed to see her.

“Anything to report on your shift thus far?” she asked. She looked at her wrist as though there were a watch on it, but there was not. Nevertheless, she said, “You appear to have knocked off a few hours early. Why are you being such a tosser?”

“I haven’t knocked off. I just came to tell you that Crowley turned up,” he said.

“You’re kidding.”

“No,” Hastur replied, again, seeming nonplussed. “I don’t kid. Don’t really know how.”

“Shit,” Beelzebub spat. “I thought he was out of the picture.”

“He’s not out of the picture, he’s just human now.”

“Same thing. What did he say?”

“He and another human tried to break the kids out of their cell,” Hastur said.

“Another human? Was it that… angel? The puffy one?”

“Aziraphale? No, it was someone else. A true human. From birth. A man. I think. With glasses.”

“If it’s not Aziraphale, then I don’t care. Crowley tried to rescue the Antichrist?”

“Yeah. He can’t, of course, but…”

“…but just the fact that he knows where the kids are is a bloody messy state of affairs!”

“My thoughts exactly,” Hastur agreed.

“Who leaked?”

“Humans are always leaking something. Sweat, tears…”

“No, I mean, who told him where to find the kids, Hastur, you great bloody cretin!”

“Oh. I don’t know who told him,” Hastur replied. Then, “Bless it, I should have kept him in custody. Now that I look back upon my actions…”

“No, no, you did the right thing, Hastur. Or… the wrong thing. Or, whatever it is when things didn’t get fucked up for us. If you’d kept Crowley and his friend against their will, we’d have another kidnapping on our hands, and things would get even messier. There’d be no way Crowley could just disappear without his little boyfriend realising it, and raising some fucking alarm. Plus, Crowley knows us. He knows too much. He’d be a liability on the inside like this.”

“But as you said, he knows too much. Especially now. Isn’t he a liability on the outside, as well?”

“I suppose he is, isn’t he?”

They were quiet for a few moments. Well, as quiet as you can be when there are tortured souls walking around you, bumping into you, moaning with the weight of Hell on their shoulders.

Then, Hastur said, “I hate to even suggest it, but… perhaps the Archwankers would know what to do.”

“About what?”

“About how to neutralise humans without things getting messy.”

Beelzebub, the perpetually Bored Lord, rolled her eyes, and said, “Yeah, yeah, they probably would know.” And she pulled a device from her pocket which, to a casual observer, would look like Smartphone. In reality, it was a piece of black slate that acted as a totem for communicating with celestial beings. She saw that the Archangel Michael had a piece of clear glass that she had cultivated for such a purpose and had thought it a good idea. Not that Beelzebub would ever admit that in a billion years.

Hastur watched her wait for an answer, and wondered aloud, “What does Gabriel use to talk to us?”

“Fuck if I know,” Beelzebub shrugged. Then, she seemed to hear a voice. “Yeah, hi, Gabriel? Mm-hm, it’s me. We need to talk. Something’s happened.
Crowley has happened, to be exact.”

“Crowley,” Hastur growled. “Satan’s horns, that guy is annoying.”

Beelzebub listened to what Gabriel was saying, then said, “Yep… right. Bye.” And she shoved the piece of slate back into her pocket. Then, she grabbed Hastur by the lapel of his torn brown jacket, and said, “You’re coming with me.”

Next thing they knew, they were standing on a city street at night, all “cleaned up” for viewing by humans (that is to say, no insects nor reptiles on their heads, their hair appeared as human hair, and their clothing was, as far as they knew, contemporary human).

“What city is this?” Hastur asked.

“Does it matter? They’re all the same,” Beelzebub whined.

“If it’s London, that could hold a certain tactical advantage.”

That was when the Archangels Gabriel and Uriel appeared beside them, in their usual light blue/beige color scheme. They were also wearing cloth masks that covered their noses and mouths, matching their ensembles, of course.

“Oh. Hello,” Beelzebub said to them, looking at them sideways.

“Beelzebub,” Gabriel said by way of greeting, crisply as usual. “You’re going to need these.” He waved a hand at them, and black cloth masks appeared on the faces of the Lord and Duke of Hell.

“What’s this rubbish?” Hastur asked. “We can’t get sick, nor make anyone else sick. Well, not just by breathing on them.”

“But these folks don’t know that, do they?” Gabriel answered, turning on his heel and heading toward the coffee shop on the corner.

Hastur and Beelzebub looked at each other with bemused disgust, and followed the Archangels into Café de Flore. Gabriel held up four fingers to the woman at the door, who was dressed in a black and white uniform, and they were led to a cramped table toward the back of the establishment.

The woman tried to hand them each a menu, and Gabriel said, “Non, merci. On ne va prendre que du café ce soir.”

“Oui, monsieur. Quatre?”

“Oui, merci,” Gabriel said, and the young woman disappeared.

“So this is… Moscow?” Hastur asked, looking around.

“It’s Paris, you rube,” Gabriel told him. “Good grief.”

The four of them removed their masks, and Gabriel did a minor bit of magic to make sure that no-one would understand them as they spoke. Thanks to the efficacious work of Pestilence, having come out of retirement with something to prove, they were already guaranteed a berth of two metres between them and other patrons, but their plans could not be overheard.

“So, we understand that there’s been a snake in the chicken coup,” Uriel said.

“Indeed,” Beelzebub said. “He and another human snuck onto the Airbase, got through all the electronic barriers, and found the kids.”

“When you say, another human, do you mean Aziraphale?” Uriel wondered.

“No, it was someone called Newton Pulsifer,” Hastur told her. “He was about last time – a minor player.”

“So what does any of this have to do with us?” Gabriel wondered. “I mean, I get that having Crowley in the mix is kind of a pain in the ass, but what can Uriel and I do about it?”

“Well, we sure as Hell don’t know what to do about it,” Beelzebub said a bit loudly. “And I mean that literally! We don’t know anything about neutralising humans without causing a fuss. Causing a fuss is our job. But how do we make sure that neither Crowley, nor Aziraphale for that matter…”

“Nor Newton Pulsifer, now we’re on the subject,” Hastur interrupted.

“…fuck up our plans? We can’t kill him because we don’t bloody want him back down there one second earlier than necessary. But, we can’t kidnap him – either of them – without someone missing them, alerting the authorities.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Gabriel sighed. “The two of them have made friends on Earth. They’re bound to notice eventually. And there would be an investigation. I mean, I suppose we could manipulate dissemination of information. Come to that, we could wipe the memories of their friends, if we wanted to.”

“Oh, yes, good, let’s do that!” Beelzebub exclaimed.

Just then, the server returned with a tray of four French-style coffees, and a basket of bread. She set them on the table, along with a receipt, Gabriel thanked her, and she left. The supernatural quartet waited until she was gone to say anything more.

None of them, of course, had any intention of touching any coffee nor bread.

“No, we can’t do that,” Gabriel told Beelzebub in response, as soon as the coast was clear. “That’s unethical.”

Beelzebub burst out laughing, and Hastur chuckled along awkwardly. “That’s rich! You helped us kidnap four children and hold them in a secure facility in order to start a war! And now you’re talking unethical?”

Gabriel smiled bemusedly. “You’ll never understand the morality of the Almighty. Which is why you live where you live, and do what you do, and are who you are. The point is, Crowley and Aziraphale’s friends, such as they are, are innocents in this. We do not mess with brain function (among other things) unless it is in the service of performing a miracle. We try not to get frivolous, and we take responsibility.”

Beelzebub gave him a big, loud raspberry with her lips and tongue, and an exaggerated thumbs-down. When she was finished, she said, “Fine, you great burning pain in my arse. Then, what do you suggest?”

There was a long silence, and then Gabriel said, “I might have an idea.”

“Oh, fantastic,” Beelzebub bleated.

“Well, as far as Crowley goes, I think know a way to take him out of the equation. Aziraphale will be trickier, though.”

“One thing at a time,” Beelzebub said. “What’re you thinking?”

The Archangel Gabriel then illustrated an idea that had just come to him, for making sure that Crowley did not influence what happened next, and his “friends” would not be able to help him. They also discussed how to cancel out any impact Aziraphale might have on the situation. Hastur suggested that a temptation might be in order, but Uriel argued that the “bookish little worm” was clever, and would see right through something like that.

“Besides,” Uriel said. “According to the surveillance taken on Earth the last thousand years or so, Aziraphale has performed more than a few temptations himself.”

“Really?” Beelzebub said. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Gotta respect him for that.”

“As you like,” Uriel said, annoyed. “But it means, in addition to being clever, he’s experienced, and he’d definitely see a temptation for what it was.”

They decided to stick a pin in that question for now, and concentrate on Crowley.

The four of them then laid out their plan, step-by-step, including the “ethical” magic that would have to be performed in order to get it done. That is to say, without jeopardizing the plan already in motion, the one with Adam and his friends.

“Speaking of which, are your operatives in place?” Gabriel asked Beelzebub.

“Operatives? What do you think this is, a Town Cryer situation?” she asked, bored and biting.

“Whatever,” Gabriel dismissed. “I just need to know that the message is being distributed to the masses.”

“It is,” Beelzebub said. “I’m not an idiot.”

“And Hastur, you’re okay with being the face of one faction?”

“I suppose so,” responded the Duke.

“And I’ll be the face of the other,” Gabriel said, with some finality. Then, “Uriel, are you sure this is going to work? It seems awfully… intangible. Which is a weird thing to say coming from someone who only has a corporeal form once or twice a year, I realise.”

Uriel nodded. “It will work. Humans are intensely political. And we know that as a rule, they do not like the exploitation of children one bit, but they also cannot abide the unknown. Outrage and fear are powerful weapons that they use against themselves all the time.”

“Well, Uriel, you’ve never failed me before,” Gabriel said, with a smile, and a pat on her back. “Got no reason to doubt you!”

“Thank you,” Uriel said, beatifically. Then she added, “Well as long as we’re all here, shall we actually do it? Launch the campaign, as it were?”

“Just tell us where to stand,” Gabriel said, clapping his hands loudly.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

One hour later, in Tadfield, Crowley had just boarded the train bound back to London, and was sitting in a seat, trying to exhale for just a few minutes, before going back to fretting mentally over what a bloody failure was everything he had tried so far.

A ‘ping’ on his phone got his attention. He cursed mildly, but pulled the apparatus from his pocket. “Oh, fuck me. What is it now, Book Girl?” he whined.

“Check social media RIGHT NOW!” her text insisted.

Chapter Text

A copy of “Shadows to Light” by Michael Engelbreit was lying on the left side of the bed. Certain pages had been marked with post-It notes, and certain passages had been underlined, and a few notes had been made in the margins, in blue pen. He had finished the book hours ago, and had gone back to reread certain bits. Lying next to it, there was a spiral notebook open, with notes, and two different coloured pens on top of it.

On the right side of the bed, there sat a man with whitish hair, in light grey silk pyjamas, with the covers pulled up to his waist. He was worried about his partner and unable to sleep. So, he was poring over prophecy by way of a laptop computer sitting on his knees. At shoulder level, on the bottom shelf of the bookcase that loomed over the bed behind him, there was a bottle of wine and a half-full glass next to it, and a small plate with three different partially-consumed desserts. He had ordered in, and hadn’t been able to decide between the Tiramisù, the elderberry cheesecake, and the chocolate lava cake, so he had asked for all three.

“’Take Ye Note, Agents of Equilibrium,’” he read aloud. “’A Tome (tho’ not This One) shall come into Being quite suddenly, as if from ethereal Sources. Indeed the Assumption of ‘As If’ should be regarded with Doubt. This Work can feed the Minds of suspicious Men, can dispel Mendacities, can lay bare the Surreptition of the Powerful, and when remarked well by sufficient Intelligences, rescue Ye all. Spread the Word of Angels far and Wide.’”

He grabbed his notebook and pen and scratched out the words, “Doubt = suspicion. Wide is capitalized!”

“My inkling is confirmed!” he said aloud. “Oh, Agnes, you beautiful, beautiful creature!”

He was so agitated, and excited… he couldn’t wait to show it all to Crowley. But then he realised, Crowley was out-of-reach at the moment, both literally and figuratively. Even if and when his companion returned, he could not be guaranteed, frankly, to care about any of it.

There was nowhere for this raw feeling to go. He leapt out of bed, and began to pace. “What do I do? What do I do?” he wondered. In the old days, he would have called Crowley and endured a tirade of sarcastic resistance, but it would have been fun. Being bombarded with and slathered in Crowley-ness was always fun, it just wasn't happening the last few days, for better or for worse.

Or, he would have got drunk, or eaten something decadent to tie up his hands and brain.

But he had already done a bit of that. He contemplated the trio of half-eaten desserts on the shelf, and thought that a big sugar-rush might be just what he needed. However, he had been reading a bit lately in the media about “Pandemic eating,” and pandemic-related alcoholism, and had made a mental note to be careful, because he was definitely in danger of becoming plump beyond the point of no return, if he didn’t curtail his tendencies just a bit. And he and Crowley both were far too accustomed to drinking with impunity, which was not a good state of affairs for two men with blood that could be poisoned, livers that could be damaged, and brain cells that could be killed.

He tried to argue with himself that tonight, of all nights, with so much worry churning in his guts, that his guts deserved a deluge of deliciousness and euphoria. But miraculously, he refrained, and simply paced.

In mid-pace, he heard a noise, and stopped, glancing about the room – he had received a text message. It pinged with a generic notification, not with the ridiculous “Angel, baby you make my dreams come true!” song that indicated Crowley’s correspondence, so his heart sank just a little, and he wondered silently, “Crowley, where are you? What are you up to?”

He had left the dreaded Smartphone up on one of the higher shelves, and he grabbed it with a sigh. The message was from Anathema, and it said, “Watch this. NOW!” It came with a video attached, and a second text with instructions on how to play it, with sound. Aziraphale smiled softly at his friend Anathema, who knew him well.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Fuck,” Crowley spat, finishing his first viewing of the most disturbing video he had ever seen.

Anathema’s text had indicated that something was getting fired-up on social media. Crowley had a Twitter account that he almost never used, but his job was to post associated press stories on behalf of the ‘Piccadilly Detail’ on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. So, he had no trouble logging in via his phone, and seeing what Anathema wanted him to see.

He had had a feeling that something terrible would happen if the story ever got out onto the global stage, and now, he was more correct than ever. This was why he had put in so much effort at the dinner party, with trying to manipulate Miranda Devenish, with trying to talk his boss Vanessa into letting him delay the story...

But what could he tell them? That he had his finger on the pulse of the Apocalypse? Right.

And what had he expected? To beat the Double H at their own game? As a human? Without using large-scale violence?

Heh. Not bloody likely.

And so,in spite of his best efforts, and those of Miranda, guilting the Tadfield police into holding onto information for just a little bit longer, the story about the kidnapped kid (and his friends), and the "agency" claiming credit, was everywhere. Everywhere, as in, worldwide. Some outlets were simply reporting the story straightforwardly with the facts (thus far, anyway) – even those whose reporters had promised not to do so. But, as Aziraphale had pointed out, Crowley’s actions had bought them at least another day, which had allowed him and Newt to break into the Airbase, and learn some things they needed to know… which is to say, that they could do nothing to help. But tactically, it could be said that the extra day was an advantage. Couldn’t it?

Other outlets, with a particular socio-political-cultural bent, were reporting with a less straightforward tone, and basing most of their chatter upon the video Crowley had just watched, which had appeared on YouTube from an encrypted account, twenty-five minutes previously. Crowley marvelled at how quickly it was all happening. Not even a half-hour, and it seemed the whole planet knew, and had a damn opinion. He had no doubt that divine/infernal intervention had helped launch this thing, but he also had no doubt that humans could take a small mess and turn it into one of global proportions.

By now, the video had been shared and reshared over a million times, and counting. Crowley sighed, closed his eyes, and tried for about a minute just to concentrate on the movement of the train, now pulling out of the station in Tadfield, headed back to London.

After a breather, he dived into the comments.

“this is a travsty these ppl should be hanged for there crimes,” Crowley read from a woman in California (which he only assumed because her screen name was CaliGrrrl88).

“Their, genius,” someone responded.

“hanged gutted and set of fire no one does that to kids and gets away w/it,” another responded. This person had a cartoon police officer wearing an American flag like a shawl, as his profile picture.

“Tru Dat,” said another.

“Hundo P.”

“Careful. Big brother gonna ban u from the site for makin threats LOL,” said someone whose screenname was truthjustice177312.

“i dont give a fck,” wrote Cartoon Police Officer with Shawl. “hanged gutted set on fire dicks cutoff & there wifes raped and decapted.”

“Amen, sista. Come do that do my kids, and see what happen to you.”

One after another after another, after another. Crowley groaned, noting that these were just the Americans so far. Europe was asleep, and there was still more of this to come. He scrolled down a bit futher.

A new posting. “Good on the Intelligence Community for keeping us safe at Home. All you sheep who think this is a ‘travesty’ need to get a fucking clue,” came from a man in Michigan.

One of his respondents agreed, “100%. BLM libtards.”

Then, “God bless America, and our police, and our boys oversees. Thank U for keeping us safe. Stand up for the Anthem or leave!”

After this, someone wondered, “WTF?”

“Hellz yah. That kid kidnaped is prolly Antifa. Those assholes start ‘em young.”

“You guys are idiots. He’s an ALIEN – it’s right there in the video. Did you even WATCH it? ROTFLMAO!” This was followed by a facepalm emoji.

“Jesus saves, and God Bless President Trump.”

“What are you nazis ? Anyone whose different should be emprison?”

“These r the Trumpanzees, what did u expect?”

Crowley was used to this highly academic level of debate, as it was his job to moderate it. But this made him want to cry.

He forced himself to read several more exchanges like these. There were a smattering of Brits, French, Spanish, Middle Easterns, etc. though their deluge was still coming up with the sun in about five-to-eight hours. The majority right now were Americans, though South America, Canada, and Australia (where it was already tomorrow) were chiming in just fine. Eventually, the bile would come from everywhere on the planet where government reign, human rights, religion, and proper punctuation were in question. So, everywhere on the planet.

Once in a while, someone who seemed to have some education and a clue about the actual implications of this, tried to speak out. They were drowned in the din of not only the usual detritus of social media, but other semi-educated, semi-informed folks with an opinion – and there were plenty of those, as well.

It was a bloody, gooey mess, about to get gooier.

The seeds of a revelation had been growing for the past day or so, and he finally realised what he was supposed to realise about that prophecy from Sunday night: Agnes had written that the method of bringing about the Apocalypse would be “circuitous,” and “serve its Needs with the Instruments of the Day.” It did not mean that he and Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to detect it, it just meant that the End of the World would be a big, convoluted clusterfuck, instead of a well-documented, predictable procedure involving Satan and the Four Hoursemen. And it would involve using the modern world’s biggest instrument of chaos. It would take advantage, as Hastur had indicated, of the quickness of humankind’s tendency to get pissed off about stuff they didn’t fully understand, and blast information about it all over the internet with the touch of a button, along with their half-baked theories and uninformed, poorly-spelled, grammatically-incorrect, impulse rhetoric. It was one of the most dangerous things to come out of the twenty-first century so far… Crowley was actually a little surprised (and shamefully, a little impressed) that someone in Heaven and/or Hell had realised this.

Wishing he had a stiff Scotch to cushion the blow, he pressed “play” on the video-in-question for the second time, and once again embarked on the madness that was the Apocalypse, part 2.

On the screen, he saw Hastur. His hair was combed, and his face was pale, but more or less human-looking. He was wearing a suit (which, to Crowley, was one of the more disquieting things about this video), which was grey, ill-fitting, and his dress shirt was misbuttoned, his tie poorly-tied, and a boring white and blue pattern. But he was also wearing a lapel pin which seemed to morph every few seconds, and appear all at once to be a CIA bald eagle insignia with its red star, a British intelligence badge with its red poppy and crown, the logo of DRM in France, with its red geometric design. Sometimes the red faded away, and a gold and blue design would appear, as the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service emblem. None of it was well-defined, of course, and no human who had not once been a supernatural being would perceive the subtle change, nor the ambiguousness of Hastur’s origins.

To the untrained eye, there was no reason to think that he was not a human “authority” of some sort, as the caption below his image said, “Duke Hastur, Intelligence Official.”

“The child has not been abducted,” Hastur was saying, managing not to sound unhinged for once. “He has been arrested and detained. We believe he is a threat to national security.”

A voice that Crowley recognised as that of the Archangel Uriel asked, from off-camera, “But how can an eleven-year-old child be a threat to national security?”

“We have reason to believe that he might carry secrets of an extraterrestrial nature.”

“Can you comment of what kind of secrets they might be?”

“We believe the child may, in fact, be the secret.”

“So you’re implying that the child is an alien?”

“We don’t know. We think perhaps parts of him might be of non-terrestrial or supernatural origin.”

“Does that mean, say, that he might have a Martian spleen? Or a ghost liver?”

“We simply aren’t sure,” Hastur responded, no doubt from a script. “That’s what we aim to find out.”

“What about his friends?”

“His friends were collateral damage, unfortunately. The child could not be isolated, so it became necessary to arrest them all.”

“What do you say to their parents?”

“The child’s friends will be returned to their parents safely, after we have ascertained what threat the original child poses to our safety, and what can be done about it.”

“Mustn’t you also ascertain that the friends pose no threat?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Will experiments be done on them?”

“I cannot disclose that at this time.”

At that point, a voice took over, speculating what Hastur might’ve meant by that, and who the kid’s friends are. In true talking-head manner, the voice narrated a non-substantive, convoluted explanation of what had been said, what had happened, what could happen next, and asked a series of rhetorical questions meant to incite as much ire from the public as possible.

The voice, Crowley realised, was that of the demon Dagon, and he marvelled at how “normal” his former colleague sounded, and how savvy all of this was. He wondered whose idea it had been.

Next on the screen was a man in a light blue suit, identified in the caption as “Gabriel Archer, Vice-President of the Human Rights Conglomeration.” It was, of course, the smirking face of the Archangel Gabriel, and the Human Rights Conglomeration was not a thing. Though, Crowley had no doubt that if he Googled it right now, he’d find a whole ant farm of a website, complete with external links, historical facts, and bullshit rhetoric.

“We at the Human Rights Conglomeration are doing absolutely everything we can to make sure that these innocent children are brought home safely,” Gabriel said.

An off-camera voice, also that of Uriel, asked, “Does that mean a full-on human rights campaign to ensure their release?”

“Absolutely,” Gabriel assured the world. “Children have no place inside of a cage. No entity has any authority, moral or otherwise, to hold minors without the participation of their parents or other guardians.”

“Their parents are not present?”

“Their parents have no idea where they are, or why they’re there! Until this morning when the Agency took credit for the kidnappings, they were completely, and utterly in the dark about any of it! These kids have no advocates, and no hope without the exertion of human rights. Full stop.”

“What do you say to those who insist that the children have not been kidnapped, but rather, arrested?”

“I say, these children are eleven and twelve years old. They. Are. Children. And even if it made any sort of sense to discuss them as legitimately under arrest, they would still need guardians, advocates, people who can see to their needs. But that’s absurd, because children cannot be arrested in this manner.”

“The law is your concern, then? Are we talking about human rights norms established in the Hague?”

“Yes, we are. But in addition to that, think of what this has done. Think of morale. Think of sadness and horror. Think of people weeping for their babies, for God’s sake. There are four families out there who are devastated. Crying every day. Every hour. Wondering what on Earth could be happening to their precious little ones. This is a travesty, not just against those children, but against anyone who loves them. Loves any child. Believes that children are beautiful, and worthy of love.”

“You unimaginable areshole,” Crowley muttered at the screen, at Gabriel’s performative pathos, meant to make him look like a humanitarian when he was actually trying to destroy humanity. It was sickening, even to Crowley, who had spent a good chunk of his existence being two-faced.

“So, what should people do?” Uriel’s voice asked.

The video switched back to Hastur, in his suit, in his awkwardness (but not too-awkward-to-be-convincing) and staunchness.

“People should realise that an alien and/or supernatural presence in this world is not something that any reasonable person would abide, unchecked,” he said. “It could be a conspiracy. It could be malevolent. It could be anything – we just don’t know. It may not be of this world, and I ask you, the public, what are you willing to risk. Your own children, to save these children? Your own lives, to ensure the freedom of these four lives? Think on it.”

Then Gabriel. “What should people do? Get fighting mad, that’s what they should do! Take to social media! Take to your loved ones, and implore them to support you! Take to the streets, if you have to! We are not willing to trade any one human life, especially that of a child, for the safety of others. We will find another way, by God. And if we cannot, then what have we become? Anarchists? No. Humanists! Chaoticians? No. Compassionate! Merciful. Grateful. I tell you, one and all, loving one another is the only way, otherwise, we will destroy our world.”

“Fuck you,” Crowley said, knowing that this was the end of the video, and also knowing it wouldn't be the last of its kind.

He opened up his text messages and wrote to Aziraphale, “Hi angel. Don’t suppose you’ve seen the video?”

To his surprise, the answer came back in less than fifteen seconds. “I have, and I may be having a nervous breakdown.”

“So is the planet - early stages. Where are you?”

“Home. Are you headed here? Please say you’re headed here – I can’t bear it any longer not seeing you. What the hell are you up to?”

“I’ll be back in London in an hour. I’m headed to wherever you are.”

Chapter Text

It was just after two a.m. when Crowley stumbled in the front door. Aziraphale had been pacing back and forth in the living room between the opening to the kitchen and the foot of the stairs. He had held his breath whilst the key turned in the front lock.

“Good grief, Crowley, I’m so glad you’re home!” he half-shouted, half-moaned, holding his arms out and moving forward toward his mortal beloved.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley sighed wearily, and he let himself be enveloped.

They fell into a relieved embrace and were silent, tense, and cautiously joyful for a long minute.

“I’ve been beside myself,” Aziraphale said, after that satisfying pause, and he turned his head and kissed the warm skin below Crowley’s ear. Twice. Then three times. Then he pulled back and kissed the pouty lips.

“There’s really no need,” Crowley said, with a tight smile. “I was never in any danger.”

“Well, that’s complete tommyrot, but it’s also not entirely the point.”

“It’s not?”

“No, you daft old demon!” Aziraphale said, pulling away, and smacking Crowley lightly on the chest. “It’s not just about the danger! I mean, I hate the danger, and I hate the fact that you risked your life, which is now incredibly short, but we’ve already talked about that.”

“Yes, we have.”

“Now, it’s also about… well, the steps you’re taking. The recklessness. The forces you’re messing about with. And the fact that you’re excluding me from all of it!”

Crowley sighed heavily. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

“And excluding me not just from that, but from… everything,” Aziraphale said, sheepishly. And in spite of himself, he blushed a little. "Especially the more personal matters."

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that too – I’ll make it up to you. But for the moment, can we just agree that we have bigger fish to fry?”

“You’re the biggest fish in my pond, Crowley. You always have been. By far,” Aziraphale said, quite seriously. He wanted to make it known that the question of their relationship, and Crowley’s reluctance to participate in certain aspects of it, was still a priority he was not willing to relinquish. “But I also recognise that if the world comes to an end, there will be no pond. And, as long as you’re distracted and desperate to help (as am I), then there can be no frying. Sizzling. Whatever.”

Crowley smirked. “Excellent stab at a sexual metaphor. I like it."

“It was clumsy, at best. So… what do you make of the video?”

“It’s doing exactly what it’s supposed to,” Crowley said, with a gulp, suddenly in quite a different frame of mind.

“Which is?”

“Creating a shit storm,” he replied, pulling his phone from his pocket. He showed Aziraphale ‘The Piccadilly Detail’ Facebook feed, and the fact that the video had been shared, pinned, posted, or reshared by just about everyone who followed the paper. Then he said, “Click on some of the comment sections. Dare you.”

Aziraphale frowned, and did just that. And his frowned immediately leapt into a look of shock and wonder, then intense distaste, then dread, and back again. “Oh, my! Oh… my! What… what words! What… what… what… well, Crowley, this is a horror!”

“Yes, it is.”

“Is social media always like this?”

“To varying degrees, yes. Welcome to the twenty-first century.”

“People are just horrible to each other!”

“Yeah! They can hide behind their anonymity. If you’re in Adis Ababa, you can tell someone in Toronto to go fuck himself sideways with a Barbary Fig, and what’s he gonna do? Besides say something worse?”

“Oh, my goodness…”

Aziraphale stood transfixed in the middle of the living room in his light grey silk pyjamas, staring at Crowley’s phone, scrolling as though it were a trainwreck he couldn’t quite bear not to look at. Meanwhile, Crowley realised he hadn’t had any dinner, and was famished. He wandered into the kitchen, threw a few slices of deli meat and a slice of Provolone onto a napkin, and took a bag of potato crisps from the cabinet. He also grabbed the last of a container of Kalamata olives, and a sparkling water, and sat down at the table.

He slowed for a moment, exhaled, and studied the late meal/snack he’d just pulled for himself. He promised his exhausted body (how annoying) that he would eat quickly (but not so quickly as to wind up with indigestion) and then get some sleep, for crying out loud. He enjoyed sleep, but now found it supremely irritating that he needed it so much – he missed the days when he could crash for weeks, months on-end, and on his own terms. But tonight, his only consideration for slumber was that he’d be no good to anyone if he didn’t rest his brain – he was starting to feel a bit addled.

Nevertheless, he reckoned he’d take a swig or two of Brandy before heading upstairs. It was a cheat, but it was pretty well guaranteed to work.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The following morning, Aziraphale was awakened by a noise, which he immediately recognised as Crowley’s standard ringtone. Not Crowley’s ringtone for Aziraphale’s phone, but Crowley’s phone ringing.

He looked about, and realised that Crowley himself was just there, beside him, sleeping hard, straight through the racket of his blasted Smartphone.

Aziraphale reached across the dead-to-the-world ex-demon to answer it. The display read, “Elisa.”

“Hello?” he said.

“Mr. A?” said an excitable woman’s voice.

“Er… yes, I suppose that’s me.”

“Hey! It’s Elisa!”

“Yes, I know.”

“Look, what’s going on over there? Everything okay?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Crowley hasn’t been at work, hasn’t been in touch, nor has he posted anything in two days,” Elisa said. “Ever since the two of you disappeared from here on Monday before lunch, there’s been no word, and it’s almost ten a.m. on Wednesday.”

“Oh, damn!”

“I’ve had a few calls asking what’s happened to the social media presence of ‘The Piccadilly Detail,’” she said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t presume.”

“Yes, yes, of course you’ve had calls, Elisa. We apologise.”

“I’d love to think it’s because the two of you were swept away in a fit of passion and have been holed up at the Connaught Hotel with no clothes for the past forty-eight hours, but something tells me that’s not the case.”

“It is, indeed, not the case,” Aziraphale said, worriedly.

“Well, I’ve been trying to cover for Crowley, but as it turns out, he’s pretty difficult to imitate,” she said. “I did some scant last-minute posting at the end of the day yesterday because I wasn’t sure what else to do, and I told Vanessa that Crowley had told me to it, so she wouldn’t think he’d gone AWOL, but I can’t do that forever.”

“Thank you, Elisa. Thank you very much.”

“Well, among other things, he’s got a meeting with the section heads today, and Vanessa is going to want a statistics report. Especially since that story about the kids from Oxfordshire has gone global, despite his best efforts. Social media is blowing the fuck up over it.”

“Damn,” Aziraphale whispered. “My dear, Crowley is not well. I can’t really explain right now, but…”

“Do you guys need some chicken soup or anything?”

He smiled. “No, but thank you so much for offering. Elisa, is there any way that you can, er… give the statistics report yourself? Tell Vanessa he’s ill, and get her out of his valise for a while?”

“Out of his valise?” Elisa asked. Then she chuckled. “Do you mean, ‘off his case?’”

“Yes. I just don’t think Crowley is going to be up to it today, or tomorrow… probably the rest of the week.”

“I’d need his passwords,” she said. “And I know some of what a statistics report entails, but not all of it. There’s some math that needs doing, especially with the recent pickup in activity… she’s going to need info about baseline traffic on each of the platforms, plus adjusted for the pandemic, and now adjusted for the Oxfordshire story, pandemic baseline, plus adjustment…”

“Okay, first things first… password. Would that be a word that's important to him? Something that people he works with wouldn't necessarily know, or be able to guess?"

"In theory, yeah."

"I suppose I could try to guess."

“Ooh, this should be fun!”

Aziraphale sighed, thinking of Crowley’s recent state of mind, missing the way things used to be. To Elisa, he said, “Try… Bentley. Or Bentley1934.”

“Why?”

“Just try it,” he told her.

“It didn’t work,” she said. “But let me try a few combinations… like substituting E for 3, and… hang on.”

He heard her keyboard clicking for a half-minute or so, then she said, “I don’t think that’s it. Any other guesses?”

“Try variations on Apocalypse and Armageddon. Or maybe serpent. Demon. Eden6000, something like that?”

“Wicked,” she said. “Crowley goes Biblical.”

“I won’t tell him you said that, and you’ll owe me one,” Aziraphale muttered.

He listened to clicking over the phone for a bit more, then Elisa said, “No luck. But the possibilities for variations on those are almost endless…”

Aziraphale sighed, and said, “Hold on.” He leaned over and shook Crowley gently by the arm. “Crowley? Crowley, wake up… just for a moment.”

“Ngk. No.”

“Come on, Elisa is on the phone. She’s been covering for you at work. The least you can do is sit up and answer a question.”

Crowley grumbled a bit, and then the realisation of what Aziraphale had said seemed to sink in. “Oh. Shit.” And he sat up.

“She needs to know your password, and if you can manage it, some information about statistics and traffic.”

“I’ve got more than one password,” Crowley said, trying hard to focus on the tow-headed being before him.

It was upon first waking, like this, when Aziraphale missed Crowley’s yellow, reptilian eyes the most.

“Then tell her,” Aziraphale said, handing him the phone.

“And I forgot all about the fucking section heads meeting,” he grumbled, taking the phone, and pressing the speakerphone button. “Elisa? Thanks for covering for me.”

“No prob. I got your back,” she said, for some reason, with an exaggerated American accent.

“What’s Vanessa saying?”

“Nothing much yet, but she’s bound to notice if you don’t show up at the meeting and she doesn’t get her stats this afternoon,” said Elisa, back to normal.

“I… ugh, I can’t do it right now,” Crowley said. “Just… can you tell her I’m ill?”

“I can and will,” Elisa said. “But it will go a lot more smoothly if you can tell me how to get into your terminal, and all of the separate accounts. I’ll pull stats, but you’ll have to do the math stuff later on. Hopefully, Vanessa can live without it for a few days. I’ll just suggest that knowing the full stats during a huge surge would be useless anyway.”

“Right. Huge surge,” Crowley grumbled, remembering the social media clusterfuck he had witnessed the night before, knowing it had probably only got worse in the last eight hours, since Europe had now awakened to the news, and joined the din. He felt his own huge surge of toads tapdancing in his stomach.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley sat at the kitchen table, for a change, while Aziraphale prepared a simple brunch. The erstwhile angel poached four eggs and a piece of salmon, and put some mixed greens in bowls with balsamic vinegar and some olive oil beside Screwdrivers that were a tad too strong. Truth be told, Crowley was a much better cook, but he had more motivation to be so.

They ate while they studied the phenomenon exploding on Facebook, Twitter, Instgram, Snapchat, TikTok, WhatsApp, YouTube, and everywhere else where people could post uninformed comments and incite the hatred and vitriol of their fellow man.

But what they learned this morning, much to their chagrin, was that the “news” was no longer really about the kids kidnapped in Tadfield. It was now about the two factions (the vaguely-named “Intelligence Agency,” which no-one seemed to realise had no particular origin, and the “Human Rights Conglomeration,” which seemed to have sprung up overnight), their perceived crimes, values, stupidity, righteousness, history of violence, history of moronic decisions, etc.

“People are literally arguing Heaven versus Hell, and they have no idea they’re doing it,” Aziraphale marvelled, shaking his head.

“Look at this,” Crowley said, chewing on a bland mouthful of what he thought of as edible weeds. “This gets about as close to the truth as anything I’ve seen.”

Aziraphale took the phone out of Crowley’s hand saw a screen still of Gabriel, with a comment that said, “This Archer dude is so clearly IN ON the whole thing, it’s ridiculous. He’s like a talking piece of wood. No-one is that well-polished. If you dig deeper on this guy, I’ll bet you’ll find that he’s a paedophile. Probably that Hastur guy is, as well.”

He clicked on the comments section.

“Gabriel is the name of the cherub that blows horns. Cherubs, children. Blowing. Doesn’t take a genius. It’s not his real name. It's not anyone's real name. It's a code name that signals to other paedos.”

“how would you know, asshat?” asked a comment.

“Gabriel is my nephew’s name,” commented someone else. “Shut the hell up, all of you.”

Someone then responded with a link to a site curated by the Archdiocese of New York, explaining each of the Archangels and what they do (most of it inaccurate).

“What good do they think this is going to do?” Aziraphale asked.

“That, my friend, is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” Crowley responded, without moving his lips.

“The what?”

“It was a game show I invented back in… never mind,” Crowley said. “The point is, none of it has a point. It’s all pointless. It’s all just people making noise. And this particular noise is going to turn into a big throbbing war. If it’s evolving this fast already, they’re going to be launching nukes by the week-end.”

“There’s loads more here about how both Gabriel and Hastur are paedophiles, and are keeping the children for nefarious purposes, and all of the alien business is bunk,” Aziraphale said. “Some people are really buying into it… others are calling them vicious names for even considering such a thing. And here’s a chap who is defending paedophiles… oh, now, he’s going to get an earful. Metaphorically.”

“Well, he should,” Crowley said.

“Oh, my goodness, here is a link to an article called ‘In Defence of Child Sexuality,’” Aziraphale practically shouted. “And people are threatening to break down this man’s front door and gut him in the street! All right, of course paedophilia is deplorable, but how can anyone be so graphically cruel?”

Aziraphale handed the phone back to Crowley, and returned to the laptop computer. After a moment, “More paedophile stuff… here’s someone who has supposedly enlarged the image of Hastur’s lapel pin, and is claiming that it bears the insignia of NAMBLA. What is that?”

“You can probably guess, based on context, angel.”

“As I saw it, the insignia kept changing.”

“It did,” Crowley said. “It was meant to make the viewer think they’re seeing the logo of U.S. or British or French or Russian intelligence. I guess it probably just morphs into whatever the viewer wants to see, or thinks they’re seeing. Diabolical. Also clever.”

“But this close-up is clearly just a blob!”

“If people want to believe it’s NAMBLA, they’ll see it!” Crowley said. “I’m telling you, angel, that is the world we live in right now!”

“You’re right, I can see that, but it’s terrible! People are buying it! The comments are just horrific! When did humans become so gullible?”

“They’ve always been this way,” Crowley said. “It’s just that the internet has caused it to happen a lot faster, and therefore, more intensely. Just look at all the bullshit that got spread about Covid. Without the internet, we could’ve licked this thing in two weeks.”

“My faith in humanity is waning,” Aziraphale grumbled. “Can’t trust heaven, can’t trust humans… what’s left?”

“Right?” Crowley mumbled, by way of agreement. Then, “Ah, here’s a new angle! ’Human Rights Paedo is Actually Corporate Shill. But Which Corporation is Behind It?’ Uh-oh. Flip a coin – Disney or Apple? Which one will be sacrificed first?”

Aziraphale dropped his fork on the table for effect. “I’m sorry, Crowley, I understand that this is terrible, what’s happening. But I’m just failing to see how this starts a war that will end the world.”

“Never underestimate the power of social media,” Crowley said. “There’s a reason why every news outlet on the planet now has someone like me curating the content. The ‘Detail’ is small, so it’s just the three of us – me, Elisa, and Lou – but the ‘Times’ has a twenty-man webteam, and the ‘New York Times’ has even more than that! Their team work around the clock, even. I'm only not curating right now because we need to see what else happens.”

“Well, thank goodness for them. For you, and them.”

“The legitimate journalistic webteams of the world will do their best to hedge this thing, angel, but it’s already out of control,” Crowley said, calmly. He took a pause. “You know, I was thinking last night about how ingenious this actually is. I mean, I’m pretty sure social media was created by Hell in the first place – not me, but some colleagues. But I’m still surprised the Double-H thought of it, realised how quickly things would unravel if they used the Instruments of the Day, as Agnes called it. Neutralising the Antichrist in a cage is very them, but this…”

“Oh! Agnes! Prophecy! Speaking of prophecy, Crowley, there’s something I need to show you!” With that, Aziraphale was on his feet and rushing out of the kitchen. In a few seconds, Crowley heard the impeccably polished brown boots tromping quickly up the stairs, and bustling through the TV room into the bedroom.

When Aziraphale returned, he had a book and a notebook in his hands. He set them on the table in front of Crowley, with the notebook opened to a specific page of notes, then poked at the laptop’s keyboard until the prophecy of choice popped up.

“What did you find?”

“Ran across this last night. Read it,” Aziraphale said, shoving the machine to his left.

“’Take Ye Note, Agents of Equilibrium,’” Crowley read aloud, in a more subdued version of his usual Agnes Voice. “’A Tome (tho’ not This One) shall come into Being quite suddenly, as if from ethereal Sources. Indeed the Assumption of ‘As If’ should be regarded with Doubt. This Work can feed the Minds of suspicious Men, can dispel Mendacities, can lay bare the Surreptition of the Powerful, and when remarked well by sufficient Intelligences, rescue Ye all. Spread the Word of Angels far and Wide.’”

“Yes, I’ve been trying to tell you about this, Crowley!”

“About what?”

“The tome! It has come into being quite suddenly, as if from ethereal sources!” Aziraphale exclaimed, pointing to the book he had brought downstairs. “The tome, entitled ‘Shadows to Light,’ by Michael Engelbreit, of which I received over two-dozen copies, without having ordered it, and which I am unable to send back to the distributor because no-one has ever heard of it!”

“Oh, right.”

Aziraphale now indicated the notes he had made. “And look at what I wrote here!”

Crowley looked at the open notebook. He said, reading aloud, “Doubt equals suspicion. Wide is capitalised.”

“Yes! Wide is capitalized in the prophecy.”

“So?”

“You see, in the Germanic languages, of which English is one, and older versions of English being more so, nouns are often capitalised. But ‘wide’ is not a noun, it is an adjective. So why is it capitalised in Agnes’ book?”

“I give up.”

“Because it’s important! Michael Engelbreit wrote this book, Crowley! I'd wager there is no such person, but do you know what Engelbreit means?”

Crowley frowned, now realising that this was, indeed, going somewhere. “No. Tell me.”

“’Engel’ is German for ‘angel’, and ‘breit’ is German for ‘wide.’ Wide angel. As in Archangel. As in, the Archangel Michael!”

Crowley’s gaze fell upon the book. “Holy shit. Sorry – poor choice of words.”

“I read the book yesterday, cover to cover, and then went back and marked certain things. All along, I was suspicious – well, almost certain, really – that it was part of events, but now I’ve read that prophecy, I’m completely certain of it!”

Crowley’s jaw was agape as he stared at ‘Shadows to Light,’ lying on the table. “It’s about government conspiracies, isn’t it?”

“Indeed! The prophecy says that ‘the Tome’ can dispel mendacities… and that’s what it does: debunks so-called conspiracies. Well, that’s some of what it does.”

Crowley opened the cover, and read the blurb on the dust jacket. He had already read it two days prior, but it seemed like it bore reading again. “’Shadows to light. Secrets brought out of darkness. Government conspiracies exposed. In this book Michael Engelbreit shows and tells just how desperate our world leaders are to gain the right kind of attention, and dispel other kinds. To that end, how is the press used to distract? How are these distractions used in cover-ups? How are outright lies used as discussion fodder, as social media chum for the public to chew on, in order to drum up just the right sort of outrage? Engelbreit knows how they are exploiting you, dear reader, as an unwitting pawn in the game of chess that is world politics, and will prove it! You’re not paranoid – it’s all very real.’”

“The book is surprisingly well-written. My fear is that it won’t get nearly enough attention.”

“The prophecy says to spread the word of angels wide, and you received a big, unsolicited shipment of these things… promote the hell out of it in your shop!”

“I shall, but… that’s just one shop. How do we make it into a New York Times bestseller? I dearly hope it falls into the right hands.

"The hands of who it's intended for, you mean?"

"Well, yes, but... In a sense, I think the book is aimed at us – you and me. Because think about it: if Michael wanted to give me a tool, what better tool than a book, which I’m likely to devour and know how to comprehend and apply to life at-large, but I’m also able to distribute? But I believe it’s also aimed at academics, politicians, people who are intelligent enough to see its principles mirrored in the dilemma they see before them, happening now on the social media.”

“Well, those people are bound to get drowned out.”

“I can see that,” Aziraphale said.

“But the info in it is enough to stir the pot the right way?”

“Yes!”

“Is the language accessible to normal people?”

“Well… it didn’t strike me as overly ornate, nor riddled with jargon. I suppose time will tell. I’m going to start by accidentally-on-purpose throwing in a free copy with all of the last two days’ book orders, and acting like it’s a mistake. I’m hoping the right sort of folks will have it, and be curious enough to crack it open.”

“Good idea. I feel like the sort of folks who frequent your store are the right sort of folks. What else?”

“Maybe your newspaper chums can do write-ups on it?”

"Yes! I’ll get on the phone as soon as we’re done here.” Crowley opened the book to a page marked by his partner. “Ha! There’s an entire chapter called ‘Hoaxes: Trolls Don’t Just Live Under Bridges Anymore.’ I love it!”

“There’s another chapter all about things that fall under the false guise of National Security, and the threat of the too-vague threat.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

By noon, Elisa had shared the Engelbreit book with all of Crowley’s journalism colleagues all over the city, and its existence was spreading like wildfire. Miranda Devenish had texted, promising to read the book as soon as possible, and do a write-up that she would make accessible to the entire reputable journalism community.

Crowley was parked on the sofa with his phone in-hand, unable to tear his eyes away from the increasingly complicated horror on social media.

“Oh, bloody hell, now the LRA is pissed off!” came a text from Newt.

He, Anathema, Tracy and Shadwell were all sitting in Tadfield, doing the same thing. Well, actually, according to Anathema, Shadwell was actually scouring newspapers, with some success, but spending most of his time pacing around the cottage muttering to himself about The Darkness, and the Powers That Be.

Anathema had phoned her mother in America to tell her to read the Engelbreit book, and to give it to all of her friends, not necessarily in that order. Her mother had not understood the task fully, but Anathema assured her that it was “an Agnes thing,” and that a lot depended upon it.

“We’ve also got family in South America,” she had texted Crowley. “Mom’s on it. She’s gifting everyone she knows with a digital copy on Amazon, or whatever.”

Aziraphale had gone upstairs to gather his things to head to the bookshop, in order to send out orders, including errant copies of ‘Shadows to Light.’ He also wanted to dip into his holy and ancient texts, to research how a human might contact an Archangel. He reckoned, if all else failed, he could try what he had always tried, and hope for the best.

“What’s up with the LRA?” Crowley asked, in response to Newt’s text.

He had been following the progress of the book online, and what people were saying about it. For the moment, the comments were superficial, as very few people had had enough time to read the entire thing yet… but that certainly didn’t stop modern Twitter-users from shooting off their mouths, for better or for worse. Crowley crossed his fingers that in a day or two, actual intelligent insights might come from those who had bothered to internalize it in its entirety.

“The LRA is a terrorist group… militia insurgents or something in Central Africa,” said Newt’s next text.

“I know that. A colleague of mine started it,” Crowley said. “What’re they pissed off about?”

“Someone posted a video comparing the Adam situation to the LRA and the child soldiers. Exploitation of children and whatnot.”

“Fantastic.” Crowley texted.

“Now humans are making videos about this thing, too,” Aziraphale said, coming down the stairs with the laptop balanced on his palm.

“The LRA thing?”

“No, what’s the LRA? I’m seeing one blaming the Islamic Republic for the kidnappings… something about a conspiratorial connection between U.S. Homeland Security and the 9/11 attacks, and the basic tendencies of terrorists to do the worst thing possible. I’ll admit, I can’t follow it – it’s all very convoluted.”

“That’s because it’s unhinged bullshit,” Crowley muttered. “But good to hear someone has pissed off the Islamic states, and brought 9/11 into it. That’ll end well, for sure. Can’t wait to see what Trump’s America has to say about it.”

“Yes, the comments are vicious and threatening, and graphic. And poorly-spelled. And alarming number of them are coming from neither America nor the Islamic Republic.”

“Anyone mentioning that Iran has nukes yet?” Crowley asked.

“Hang on,” Aziraphale said, scrolling. Then, “Yes. Yes they have. And oh dear, it’s coming from the Iranian embassy in Buenos Aires.”

Crowley gave a sarcastic thumbs-up. “Awesome.”

“But… do they really have nukes?”

“No, but haven’t you learned yet that in this day in age, reality is not only subjective, but actually quite often frowned-upon?”

Chapter Text

The “western world” had glommed onto the parallel between the LRA and those responsible for the kidnappings straight away, as well as the connection between Iran, a/k/a, the Islamic Republic, 9/11, and some convoluted theory about Iranian responsibility (and by extension, all of Islam, of course) in this treachery. It had become a shouting match between the Iranian embassies of the world, and representatives of the LRA, and surprisingly, the Congolese government, who had both turned it into some sort of “holy” war between so-called Christians and Muslims. Everyone threatening violence, everyone claiming that “God” was on their side, and wanted the others to suffer.

Oh, and Iran has nukes.

After a few hours, both groups were claiming to have “operatives moving” in the west, and that the U.S., Canada, France, Germany, Spain, Italy, and especially the U.K., should watch their step, and their words. This, of course, caused citizens of all nations mentioned to respond with “Bring it on, arseholes!” (America’s response was a lot of drawings of mean-looking bald eagles with talons that could rip a man’s head off, and snakes asking others not to “tread on” them) which didn’t help matters.

Crowley so dearly desired to get bitterly drunk as he watched it unfold, but he refrained for now, reminding himself for the umpteenth time that he couldn't just wish to sober up, and make it so. He was also fielding texts from Newt, Anathema, Aziraphale, Elisa, and Miranda. Even Craig Huling texted at one point to express his sorrow about Crowley’s “friends” and their poor kidnapped child now being at the centre of a global “mire pit.” Vanessa texted to comment at what “bloody inconvenient timing” it was that Crowley had fallen ill just now, when social media was exploding like never before.

“Do you have the ‘Rona? You can be honest with me,” she had asked. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“I do not,” Crowley replied, waiting a well-calculated 92 minutes before doing so. “But thanks for your concern.”

On the up-side, to Crowley’s amazement, the book ‘Shadows to Light’ was picking up steam, as apparently it had now been released in 14 more languages: Spanish, French, Arabic, Italian, German, Farsi, Hindi, Korean, Japanese, Russian, Portuguese, Greek, Hebrew, and for some reason, Latin. (Crowley wondered if the Archangel Michael had not yet noticed that Latin had died out.) Sometimes he cursed Michael for not being more aggressive, but he always quickly realised that she had to work in secret, and gently, or risk being found out. The Archangel Michael was their only hope, and they couldn’t afford to have her cast out at poorly-placed moment in history!

The big turning point came around teatime when the first tricklings of ire came from China. It was part of Crowley’s job to know that China had had a huge social media explosion over the past few months, due to the pandemic. However, most Chinese citizens only had access to their in-house Chinese networks – less than ten per cent could get onto the world-wide social networks like Facebook and Twitter. But that was still just under a hundred-million people who could now chime in with their own sheltered, nationalistic point of view, even if there was a delay in doing so.

Also, China has nukes, too, and they were not shy about saying so.

This prompted more “bring it on” from around the world, which Crowley and Aziraphale found absolutely baffling.

Sometime within that hour, there was a news article from one of Miranda’s close contacts in New York, that ‘Shadows to Light’ had now been translated and released in Cantonese and Mandarin. The Chinese government was now trying to suppress its distribution just for the hell of it, but most of its copies were digital, so they weren’t having much luck.

World leaders were now chiming in, most calling for peace (notably, France, Germany and Canada), some issuing veiled threats of their own (Russia, Brazil, and of course the U.S.). The LRA, while not affiliated with any government officially, were surprisingly loud and prolific with their production of videos, denouncing Islam, the west, and the Chinese.

And when the first words came from the State Council of China, it came first in Chinese. Then, “L’état noble de la République Populaire de Chine ne sera pas insulté. Ceux qui menacent le bien-être, la dignité, et la vertu de notre peuple devraient craindre notre colère. Nous pouvons, et voulons, relâcher de la pression au niveau global, si poussés à le faire. La Grande Bretagne et les Etats-Unis feraient mieux de reculer, ou ils en subiront les conséquences. The noble state of the People’s Republic of China will not be insulted. Any who threaten the well-being, dignity, and virtue of our people should fear our wrath. We can, and will, release pressure on a global scale, if pushed to do so. Great Britain and the United States would be better off backing down, or they will suffer the consequences.”

“Shit,” Crowley spat. “Cue North Korea.”

And surely enough, within the hour, the North Korean government had chimed in with its support. North Korea was small, but noisy, and its leader was fairly unhinged.

He was now in a group text with Aziraphale, Anathema, and Newt (programmed into Crowley's phone, respectively, as Angel, Book Girl, and Breaks Things Guy). A text came through from the latter, the non-computer-engineer from Dorking. “Why does China think the UK and the US are responsible?”

Absently, Crowley marvelled at how Newt was able to send texts with no problem. Apparently, his fatal effect upon electronics did not apply to Smartphones?

“I guess because of Hastur and Gabriel?” Crowley replied. “One sounds British and one sounds American for whatever reason, though both are neither.”

“But neither of them said anything about China!”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” Crowley typed. “But you’ve all been watching the Great Apocalyptic Clusterfuck in real time just like I have. You see what’s happening.”

"Heretofore known as the GAC," from Newt, with a laughing emoji.

“Wires getting crossed, information splattering across the world like brains that met a shotgun,” Anathema said.

“An apt metaphor,” Crowley told the group.

“So now we have a direct threat of nuclear strike upon Britain and the U.S. from China and North Korea?” Aziraphale asked, from his perch at the bookshop.

“Looks like,” Crowley responded.

“As an American citizen, I can hold out hope that my President will soon make a calm, collected statement that will soberly diffuse the situation,” Anathema offered.

Crowley answered with “LOL,” as did Newt.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Around 6pm, Aziraphale phoned to say that he had had zero luck in finding any concrete way for a human to contact an Archangel.

“If we can get hold of her, then maybe she can tell us more about the phases of her plan, and we can help,” said the bookseller.

“Or better yet, maybe she can work out a way to get in there and break Adam out herself, since she’s a supernatural being… she can do that,” Crowley said. “We’ll back her up, of course. Even take responsibility if we have to.”

“That solution might be a bit too audacious for her. Too risky. She’s got to step extremely lightly. If she could just bust him out, then why bother with the book at all?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve got a point,” Crowley muttered. “Hey, look angel, I need a break from all this. Among other things, my eyes are starting to hurt. I’m going to run a little errand.”

“Good grief, Crowley, what now?”

“Nothing insane, don’t worry. I’m just going to go talk to a priest.”

“Oh dear. You’re more upset than I realised if you’re going to talk to a priest! I know you’ve been pining for our old life, but…”

“No, I've been thinking that if you aren't able to work out how to contact Michael, maybe a priest might know."

“Interesting idea. Have you got someone in mind?”

“Of course not,” Crowley shrugged. “But there’s a church two blocks away from here, and I can go in there now without fear of bursting into flames. One of the few actual advantages to being human.”

“There are many advantages to being human, and you know it,” Aziraphale retorted, very eager to encourage his beloved to see the bright side of his own humanity.

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley grumbled. “And you, angel, are the biggest advantage. I haven’t lost sight of that.”

“Really?”

“Of course, really.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, rather quietly, touched. “Would you consider waiting, so that I can come with you?”

“Are you finished with orders and whatnot?”

“Yes, actually.”

“You did three days’ worth of orders already?”

“Just two days – Monday and yesterday. Today isn’t over yet, so I thought I’d leave it for now.”

“Okay, then. But if we’re going to talk to a priest, we’ll have to pretend to be just friends,” Crowley muttered. “Annnd, there goes that advantage.”

“But it’s all right because it’ll be just like the old days, won’t it?”

Crowley sighed. “Suppose so.”

“To be honest, darling, I don’t think it matters that much. Priests these days are modern men.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale took a taxi, and was home in about twenty minutes. They didn’t stand long upon ceremony when he arrived, and simply locked their flat door behind them.

Our Lady of Mount Carmel and Saint Joseph was an unassuming parish church, a ten-minute walk from their home. Its play yard and front windows were covered in children’s religious graffiti, and there was a giant archway out front with a sign that said “All Are Welcome!” The priest’s name was Father Caleb Eugene, a man of about sixty, exceedingly clean-looking, kind and friendly.

They had found his office just off to the left of the sanctuary, and Aziraphale had poked his head in. “Father? Might we have a word with you?”

“Of course,” the priest had said, standing, waving them in from the other side of his desk. “Close the door, if you’d prefer to have privacy.”

“Oh, no, not necessary,” said Aziraphale. “This shan’t take too long.”

“I’m Caleb,” said Father Caleb. “And I don’t believe I’ve ever seen either of you at mass before.”

“No, indeed not,” Aziraphale said. “I used to be a regular attendee, but… well, I was forced not to continue. By circumstances...” He cleared his throat uneasily, and willed himself to stop talking before he gave away too much. Truth be told, he hadn’t meant to say any of it, but felt an inexplicable need to justify himself to the holy man, why he no longer engaged with the work of the Almighty…

The priest’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men standing before him. “Oh, I see,” he said, knowingly. “It’s a shame when one’s associations cause one’s community to recoil.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Crowley muttered, before he could stop himself.

Father Caleb smiled rather warmly. “Well, rest assured, you will most definitely find a home here, the both of you, if you choose. All sorts of people attend mass here. All sorts!”

“That’s very kind of you,” Aziraphale said to him, with an equally warm smile.

But Crowley found that no matter how inviting the priest was, he felt uneasy around a man who had devoted his entire existence to the service of God, and would have exorcised him out through a turret window if given the chance back in the old days. He was glad Aziraphale had decided to come.

There in the office, they discussed what they had seen online recently, the social media circus surrounding the children in Tadfield, which had been all but lost in the bigger circus, now involving nuclear threats. Eventually, Aziraphale said, “My companion has a theory as to how to overcome this ugliness. Crowley?”

Crowley looked at him with surprise, and an open, “o” shaped mouth. The priest looked at Crowley expectantly, with his sparkly brown eyes.

“Oh, er, erm… yes, well, I’ve been thinking, in my own mad, convoluted way, that there might be a way out of this if we could contact an Archangel directly.”

He felt daft just saying it.

Caleb said, “Interesting.”

“Is something like that possible? For a human to contact, say, hypothetically, the Archangel Michael?” Crowley asked.

“Certainly it’s possible!”

“How?”

“Well, first things first,” Caleb said. “The Archangel Michael might not be the most efficient choice.”

Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other, and seemed to communicate wonder at why neither of them saw this coming.

Caleb went on, “Michael is described in the sacred texts to possess great strength, power, and courage. He is called upon frequently for spiritual protection and cleansing. He can release you from fear and doubt. While these are powerful attributes, it seems to me that what the two of you are looking to pray for is much more specific. Possibly even more proactive.”

“Proactive,” Crowley muttered. “Lovely.”

“You might consider Sandalphon,” Caleb said. “He has been known to deliver people from aggression.”

Aziraphale longed to say, “That’s because he’s a bloody milquetoast, and a moron,” but he refrained.

Instead, he said, “All right, interesting idea. Deliverance from aggression is most definitely a thing that is needed just now.”

If only this man understood that all of the Archangels other than Michael were instigating the aggression.

“The Archangel Uriel’s priority is to enlighten our minds with new ideas, epiphanies, and insights. It might not be a bad idea to call on him for help in planning.”

Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other again, with an epiphany. Both understood in this moment that Uriel had been the one to orchestrate the social media frenzy that would eventually destroy the world. New ideas, indeed. Talk about using one’s powers for evil.

The priest went on to suggest other saints and angels to appeal to other than Michael (including Gabriel, whose essence was said to be closely associated with child well-being), and even to suggest specific prayers. Then he led the two of them into the sanctuary, and the three of them sat in the last pew. He had them kneel, and led them (or, led Aziraphale) in a frank and earnest prayer to the Archangel Ariel to oversee the environmental impact of this global crisis, Azrael to help heal the families of the children lost. Lastly, they prayed to Chamuel to bring about world peace.

Crowley stood up and left the sanctuary in a minor huff before they were even finished, and settled in for a pint across the street at the Masons Arms. The outdoor patio was open for “dine-in,” so Crowley sat beside some well-tended shrubs in box planters, and waited to see his partner emerge through the “All Are Welcome!” archway.

When it finally happened, Aziraphale looked left and right, then spotted the pub, then Crowley. He waited for traffic to give him an opening, then jogged across the street.

He sidled up to Crowley’s table. “You’re despondent.”

“So you noticed,” Crowley muttered, taking a big, long pull from the deep black Stout he had chosen.

“Was it the priest? Still uneasy in a church? The praying?”

“Yeah, it was all of that,” Crowley said. “And the fact that he didn’t have any bloody answers. Reflective prayer to the ‘correct’ Archangel is his idea of contacting them directly. Shit, what did I expect?”

“It just means we try something else.”

“Aziraphale, what fucking planet are you on? I’ve already tried something else! I’ve already tried numerous ‘something elses!’ I tried to kill the story so it wouldn’t get out. I tried to get my colleagues to kill the story – we went to great lengths to do it, dinner party, ill-advised coffee and a failed temptation, but did it work? Any of it? Anathema tried flirting with the police department, and all it did was put us a few minutes ahead of a press conference, and give us a small piece of intel that either one of us could’ve figured out anyway.”

“Crowley…”

“So, then I tried to go to the source: to rescue the kids directly, and that proved bloody useless, because I am, in fact, bloody useless. And as a latch ditch effort at making something – anything! – happen, I thought perhaps we might be able to talk directly to Engelbreit Michael, and have her tell us what we can do to actually make a dent in the wall of brick-hard horse shit that has been built across the world via social media. But no – can’t do that either. All I’ve been good for is watching the insanity mount, and being able to see the ire and the trolls and the manipulation, the misinformation, the morphing of the media entity, for what it is! Fat lot of good.”

“Listen…”

"Oh, and make scathing sarcastic comments. Can't forget that!"

"Crowley..."

“Angel, it’s my job to curate social media. It was once my job to convince people to do things. And now, living proof on a planetary scale that I can’t do either of those jobs!”

Aziraphale tutted. He had heard enough. “Crowley, belt up and get some bloody perspective, for crying out loud! You are not in charge of the entire internet! And what’s more, we are two mortal men, trying to fight against the forces of Heaven and Hell. Granted, you and I are better equipped than any other humans in existence to do so, but it’s still long odds. We’re doing our best, but our view of things is narrow now, and our reach is short. And at one point, we found those facts to be exceedingly freeing.”

“Freeing. Yes, in fair weather. What are we supposed to do when storms come?”

“No state of being is perfect. But we keep trying. We won’t give up. We will not consent to letting that child, nor his friends, down. Nor the world.”

“You keep trying. I’m done.”

“Don’t do that, Crowley. You’re not done, you’re just…”

“No offence, angel, but keep your sympathy just now. I’m not in the mood.”

Aziraphale sighed, and glanced around him. “Okay, wait here.”

“Not planning on moving my arse from this spot any time soon.”

Aziraphale turned around and walked into a food and wine shop just across a patch of bricked pavement.

Crowley finished his pint over the next ten minutes while Aziraphale was shopping. He was fitting his mask over his face so that he could go back into the pub and ask for the same again, when his partner emerged with a paper sack.

“I’m having another one,” Crowley told him. “You can join me, or I’ll meet you at home later.”

“No, you’re not having another one,” Aziraphale said.

“Excuse me?” Crowley said, removing the mask with angry flourish.

“Listen, did I tell you I had a little chat with Craig Huling in the kitchen, just after our party on Monday evening?”

“No. Though it’s not surprising, given the randy cheese-eating mood you were in when he left.”

“Oh, stop it, you. All that does is remind me that you were decidedly NOT in the mood that evening, but I digress. What we talked about in the kitchen, Crowley, was the fact that he could see your despondency. He could see you being not quite yourself, and the fact that it was weighing heavily on me. On our relationship.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. And do you know what he said? He said he was sorry, and that he wished he could do something to help you. Because, he said, as much as he might like to have me for himself, he just wants me to be happy. Presumably because, well…”

“He’s a bit in love with you.”

“Yes. And that lovely sentiment really resonated through me... not just from Craig to me, but from me to you. You see, that’s how I’m feeling just now, because I’m more than a bit in love with you, Crowley.”

“I don’t understand what you're saying. Just get to the point.”

“We’ve got another Apocalypse to solve, and you’ve been behaving a bit childishly lately… at the very least, you’ve been impulsive and standoffish. It’s inefficient, reckless, tedious, and I’d like you to stop.”

“Oh, okay, problem solved!”

“No, listen to me. What I’m saying is, as much as I’d selfishly love for this whole thing to stop, for you to be yourself, to snap out of this funk that you’re in pining for our supernatural powers, and the good old days… as much as I want us to just go back to our life of good food and drink, a lot of mutually satisfying sex and then some… well, more than any of that, I want you happy. I want to give you what you want. So, I think I have an idea to that end. I’m going to try, anyway.”

“How?” Crowley wondered, sceptically.

“It’s fair to say that you’ve been missing your demon days, yes? Missing the way things were before we became human? Missing your old dark self, the hellion in you? Even perhaps having to see me clandestinely, because it made you feel sexy and mischievous?”

“Yes, clearly."

"Right, then. Come with me,” Aziraphale said, holding out his hand.

Chapter Text

It had been about forty-eight hours since anything sexual had transpired between them. This in and of itself was not unusual, but these particular forty-eight hours had felt like decades. Especially considering that at the time of their last tryst on the sofa in their living room, Crowley had refused Aziraphale’s favours for the first time ever, which had frankly confused and upset them both.

And, it felt like a million-and-one things had gone on, and/or gone wrong, in that time. Prophecies, the Engelbreit book, a global social media disaster, Elisa, Miranda, press conferences, filling orders, watching videos, breaking into a military base, a run-in with Hastur, a conversation with an accommodating but clueless priest… It felt like Aziraphale had been emotionally separated from his beloved for much longer than two days. The gap between them had been growing wider by the hour, and Crowley’s misery and worry had been growing deeper.

Although, for a few weeks even before that, the former demon had been lamenting his status as just that: a FORMER demon. He missed his powers. He missed having eternity to look forward to. He resented his mortality, fragility, limitations, and having to look after himself – having to wear a mask through a pandemic hadn’t helped at all. He was pissed off that he and Aziraphale only had “a few years,” in his words, to enjoy each other. And certainly, he pined for his supernatural ability to make people do what he wanted. Sure, he was still handsome, charming, cool, intelligent, et cetera, et cetera, and frankly, far more seductive and persuasive than the vast, vast majority of humankind. But he no longer had the power of Hell behind him. Not that he particularly wanted the power of Hell behind him on principle, but the potency it had given him as an individual demon (as compared with humanity) had been awfully advantageous, and he had taken it for granted for six thousand years.

The state of things now felt dire to Aziraphale, especially now that Crowley’s mortality was the very thing keeping him from directly helping Adam Young and his friends. He was now deciding that two days was long enough, and it was time to take the moose by the antlers, and fix this.

They were outside a pub near their home. Aziraphale had just purchased some things from a food and wine mart a few yards away.

“It’s fair to say that you’ve been missing your demon days, yes?” he was asking Crowley. Missing the way things were before we became human? Missing your old dark self, the hellion in you? Even perhaps having to see me clandestinely, because it made you feel sexy and mischievous?”

“Yes, clearly.

“Right, then. Come with me,” Aziraphale said, holding out his hand.

Crowley was a bit sceptical, but fascinated. Ordinarily, he’d take his lover’s hand without question nor hesitation, but the frame of mind he had been in lately made him wonder if anything, even Aziraphale, could fix his gloom and doom.

But all in a few seconds, he realised, not for the first time, that being human was hard, nothing was perfect, and nothing was ever really fixed. Their fragile bodies were the soft, smelly, prone-to-deterioration, living proof of that.

And if anything could help him seize a bit of joy, take a victory where he could find it, and make him feel better, though not perfect, it was this magnificent man in front of him. And if anything could crush them both, it would be a rejection at this moment.

Luckily he did not want to offer rejection. Not at all.

And so, he took the hand offered to him, and allowed himself to be led away from the Mason’s Arms terrace, back toward their home.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

They walked hand-in-hand for a while, wordlessly, a few times looking at each other with alternately worried, and knowing, smiles. They were tentative – at least Crowley was, but so very intrigued.

Aziraphale passed their street without turning, and pulled Crowley along with him.

“Wha… did you miss something, angel?” the latter asked.

“No, we’re not going home,” Aziraphale said, letting go of his companion’s hand.

Crowley wondered if the non-holding of hands at this stage was part of whatever plan Aziraphale was hatching, but he said nothing. He simply walked on Aziraphale’s left, with both hands in the pockets of his stark black jeans, occasionally sneaking looks at him, for a clue.

And after walking another three blocks, he had an idea of where they were headed, and he smiled privately.

Just as Crowley had suspected, they then turned right, and went down an alley, at the end of which, there was a gate. Aziraphale pulled keys from his pocket and let them through the gate, locking it again behind them. They were now in front of more alleys lined with long, squat brick buildings, dotted with heavy lifting doors. They walked to the appropriate door, and again, Aziraphale worked a key into a lock, and twisted.

“I can’t cure you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “But I do know you well, and perhaps for now, that will have to be enough.”

Once again, Crowley said nothing, but he nodded in assent, and helped Aziraphale lift the heavy green steel door.

And when it was all the way up, the light from the beginnings of dusk poured into a confined space, which held Crowley’s second-favourite thing: a big, shiny, black 1934 Bentley, which he had owned from new.

“Aw, hello, old friend,” he breathed to it, as he stepped inside the space.

Aziraphale stepped past him, and turned on the light in the storage space, which consisted of one exposed lightbulb that did very little to actually illuminate the room. But once Crowley closed the heavy door behind the car, and all indicators of time were shut out, it glowed warmly like candlelight.

“Get in,” Aziraphale said, opening the left-side door. He slid into what was once his usual spot, and placed the bag of whatever he had purchased on the floor.

Crowley did likewise, and shut the car door, putting his hands on the wheel reverently, as though it had been centuries since he had done so. In reality, it had only been about four-and-a-half months, but they had been an eventful four-and-a-half months. And, for several months before that, it had slowly become clear that the Bentley played a very different role in their lives, and on the streets of London. But, at a time when Crowley was more acutely aware than ever that his life was not as it used to be… the Bentley was a welcome sight. It had once been like an appendage. It made him feel sexy and cool, and weirdly protected.

“Does it feel good?” asked Aziraphale.

“It does,” Crowley said. “I’ve missed it. So much. I guess I hadn’t realised how much until right now.”

“I’m glad.”

Crowley closed his eyes, and continued to grip the wheel. “It made me feel whole, you know? At least, it made the demon feel whole. Big, black, powerful, unique, dashing... attention-grabbing. When I found it, it was like I’d been waiting all those millennia for something like it, to transport myself, my baggage, to be the outward symbol of what I felt like on the inside.”

“Very eloquent, Crowley.”

Crowley turned now and looked squarely at his partner. “You, of course, complete the man in me. The sentient being. The person. The one who loves… the Earth, creature comforts, even this car.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I feel the same way, Crowley.”

Crowley let his eyes run languidly over the dashboard. “But the car completes the persona. Like your bookshop.”

“I understand.”

“And the fact that it barely runs now, it just kills me.”

“It runs as well as it ever did…”

“I know. I just can’t make it exceed its own limitations, is all. Same goes for myself, and it’s daunting.”

“Forget about that,” Aziraphale said. “We’re here. It’s you and me, and the Bentley. Hiding from the world, cloistered together in spite of an impending Apocalypse. And I’ve taken the liberty…”

He opened the paper sack he had been carrying, and extracted a bottle of wine, and a corkscrew. He opened it, took a big swig, and handed it to Crowley.

With a flutter in his stomach (a pleasant, excited one), Crowley slunk down in his seat, threw his arm casually over the back of the bench, and accepted the bottle. He too took a good solid pull of the wine, then let it rest in his lap.

“Ah, that felt good, too,” Crowley said. “I’ve been looking for something warm like that all day. Screwdrivers and beer aren’t the same.”

“Which reminds me, hand me your phone.”

Crowley obeyed, and Aziraphale turned it completely off, then tossed it into the backseat.

“Been needing THAT all day, too,” Crowley commented. “Thanks.” And he handed back the wine.

Aziraphale took a drink, and then said, “It’s long past teatime. I bought some nibbles for us, in that shop… actually it was far more gourmet than I thought it looked from the outside.”

“Well, yeah, it’s in a trendy neighbourhood.”

“I procured us some charcuterie treats – prosciutto and melon, and some peppered Genoa salami, and a little basket of strawberries. Plus some rustic Italian bread that the shopkeeper recommended dipping in rosemary-infused olive oil. Though, for that, we'll probably have to wait for home," Aziraphale said, looking about. "It hadn't occurred to me that this environment is not conducive to dipping. Nor slicing bread."

"Yeah, I've never needed to keep kitchen knives and dipping saucers in the car, sorry."

"Thought we could have a light dinner here, perhaps in a little while. There’s also a second bottle of wine, if we’re so inclined. Oh, and one other thing…” He reached into the paper sack and pulled out a pair of sunglasses, very close to the kind Crowley usually wore. “I didn't think you had yours with you, so I bought these. Put them on.”

Crowley smiled, and removed the tags with his teeth. He put on the glasses, which made the storage space seem incredibly dark. But it was worth it. He felt more like himself than he had in months.

For the next hour, the two of them sat in the front seat of the Bentley, side by side, sharing a bottle (though drinking it markedly more slowly than they might have done in the old days), and talking about whatever came to mind. It was fantastic. It was exactly the sort of thing Crowley had been needing, short of getting his powers, and his demonic status, back within his sights. Technically they weren’t supposed to be “idling” here in the storage space - they had signed a contract stipulating that they would engage in no activities not related to the management of items stored here, which was meant to keep people from using the space for parties, serial killing, or as a home. But that being the case, they were hiding again, breaking the rules as they always had, and that was fantastic, as well.

Even the oppressive, unmoving air and musty smell was a reminder of the old days.

And they were fully, deeply, violently in love… only not necessarily acting like it. Just as it had been for so many, many, many centuries.

Both had to resist the urge to reach out and squeeze the other’s hand, for fear of breaking the spell too soon.

Eventually, their conversation turned back round to Father Caleb, and how nice, but ultimately unhelpful he was. The first bottle of wine was mostly gone, and both men were pleasantly tipsy.

“Par for the course for that sort of thing, I'm afraid,” Aziraphale muttered. “Try to turn to Archangels to solve your problems, you’re going to be disappointed.”

From there, there was a sort of theological discussion, variations upon which they had had hundreds of times… often sitting in these very seats.

And as it tends to do, the conversation took a lull. It was a comfortable lull, so the two of them rode it out contentedly.

After a few minutes, Aziraphale asked, “Would you like something to eat?”

"I'd rather wait."

"Wait. All right. Why?"

“Because dinner is not really part of the scenario,” Crowley said lightly.

“Pardon?”

Crowley turned his head coolly and looked at his companion through dark glasses, and smirked. “If the idea is to evoke feelings of old, then having charcuterie nibbles here in the car is not part of it.”

“Oh… sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. This has been absolutely a perfect evening, angel. I didn’t even know I needed this. Thank you.” He stretched his arms sideways even further, and laid is head back for a few moments.

“You’re welcome.”

Then his tone changed to something tempting and low. “But you know, our new life does have its advantages.”

“Yes. But I’m having a difficult time following you… it seems you’ve changed tack.”

“Nah, I haven't. Needing to eat dinner reminds me of the less-pleasant aspects of the way things are now – being human and fragile and having to engage in maintenance. All that bloody maintenance!”

“I see. Not part of the scenario. Not part of the old days.”

“But the big advantage is you. Us. Our thing.”

“Our thing?”

“Yes, our thing that we have together. Our various and sundry things.”

“Oh?”

Crowley smiled, and his voice dropped even lower. “All those years, Roman Empire onwards, sitting in restaurants with you, you know quite well that I had fantasies, angel.”

“Yes… we’ve acted some of them out,” Aziraphale said, a bit shyly.

“Mm-hm, see?” Crowley crooned, then began to run his fingers through the curls on the back of his partner’s head. “I’m talking about having the old days, with the advantages of today.”

“I’m listening.”

“There’s some phrase about having your cake and eating it too, but all I can think about is YOU eating cake, and having you.”

A warm flush came over Aziraphale. “Oh, my.”

“All that time of watching you make love to your food, eat your meals pornographically, and wondering how I might refrain from unzipping then and there, and making an unrighteous mess of myself underneath the table."

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed softly, as he sometimes did, even now, when Crowley’s language began to spiral into filth. It delighted him, and still had the power to surprise him on occasion. And this evening, he had no problem reverting back to the timid, experimenting angel, in over his head with a demon in his Bentley.

Crowley continued, softly, naughtily. “And then to actually get to do it! To actually have you in front of me, pleasuring yourself in the mouth with that ravioli, and in the arse with that glass spade, and letting you watch me wank off all over myself… oh, what a thing to have done, angel.”

“Indeed. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. I did, as well.”

“And the Roman oyster fantasy,” Crowley went on speaking slowly, but surely. “You feeding me oysters, ordering me to suck. So I suck, taste the meat, and I swallow, and you give me another, and another… until you’re tenting your toga. So you strip the thing off and lay on the table in front of me, presenting your pristine, untouched, pink hole to me, begging me to stretch it open…”

Crowley then groaned, and leaned over, grasping the front of Aziraphale’s trousers. He found there, as expected, a certain hardness pressing against it from inside, and he squeezed it, eliciting a gasp from his angel.

“I’m sorry I never quite acquired the number of oysters we’d need to recreate it…”

“Who cares? I got to fuck you on a table, and that’s all I really wanted,” Crowley leaned back. “It was bloody cathartic, too. I mean, a few greasy foods to slick things up might’ve been nice, but we can’t have everything, can we?”

“A-apparently not.” His voice trembled as his questions and anticipations mounted.

“And you were magnificent, angel. So abandoned and insatiable.”

“Slutty? Th-that is the word you like."

“Oh, yes.” Crowley began to squeeze the bulge at the front of his own trousers now. He did so rather performatively, in fact, smirking at Aziraphale, almost the way a predator might do.

“Are you trying to tell me you have another fantasy, Crowley?”

“I am, angel. And I have. We’ve spent a lot of tête-à-tête time with this car over the past ninety years. How could my thoughts not run there?”

“As did mine, as you know.”

“I do know. We did some filthy things in the Bentley when our relationship was new, to help you live out some of your long-held desires, but mine, I still harbour. Images and sequences in my mind that used to torture me in this car, that used to be a big part of the car ride for me.”

“Ah. I can now see the benefit of combining nostalgia for the old, with advantages of the new.”

"Good. Get out of the car, and bring the other bottle of wine with you."

Chapter Text

“What is that thing?” Aziraphale asked. “Although, I suppose a more accurate question is, how did it get here?”

“Dunno,” answered Crowley, with a bit of a contented sigh. “I guess the previous occupant left it. Or the one before that, or the one before that.”

“Or the one before that. Honestly, it looks like it’s been here since Macmillan.”

“And has had things rubbing up against it intermittently since then.”

“Right.”

Weirdly, on the front wall of the rough, old storage space where the Bentley had been housed for the past several months, there were the faded, tattered remains of a vintage poster of Piccadilly Circus in the sixties. The former supernatural entities were now sitting outside of the car, lounging a bit on its wheel wells, passing the wine back and forth, admiring the scene before them – in this case, the admittedly interesting poster. They had done this plenty of times before, watching or admiring various things… usually a body of water, or just people passing by.

The Bentley had its rearview mirrors perched there on the wheel wells, so, in order to accomplish the positions they were in, they had to sit in front of the mirrors, and brace one knee behind the headlight and the other heel on the bumper. Aziraphale, true to form, sat upright most of the time, and Crowley rather leaned over the bonnet on one cool elbow, with the side of his head against his fist.

“What d’you reckon? 1967?” Aziraphale asked, taking the first sip out of the second bottle of wine he had purchased at the mart across from the church.

“Nope. It’s got to be sometime between 1962 and 1965,” Crowley said.

“What? How could you know that?” Aziraphale wondered, handing the wine over.

Crowley took a drink, then, “The Circlorama.”

“The what?”

“The Circlorama. It was a movie theatre of sorts, where the screen surrounds you.”

“Oh, that sounds amusing!”

“It was… well, very ‘meh’. And as such, it was only there from ’62 to ’65.”

Aziraphale’s eyes roved over the poster. I don’t see it. I see Coca Cola, Guinness, Air India, three different types of beer… but there’s no Circlorama.”

“There is. Over to the left. Yellow. And if you look down, you’ll see the actual ticketing booth, and the entrance.”

Aziraphale took a moment. “I don’t see it!”

Crowley gave an exasperated groan, stood up, and crossed over to the other side of the poster. He handed the wine bottle back to his partner, then pointed out a long yellowish (now very pale yellow) strip of the scene that said, “Here Now! First British Circlorama…” and then had a long arrow that pointed to the entrance to the attraction. It was a three-storey-high advert for the novelty entertainment, very much in keeping with the style of Piccadilly Circus in the 1960s.

“Here. See it now?”

“Oh! Yes! Yes, I do see it now! Funny I’ve never noticed it before!”

“Funny you couldn’t see it right in front of you, and I’m the one wearing the light-muting dark glasses.”

“Well, can you blame me? This poster is absolutely dazzling!” Aziraphale said, and then took a shallow sip from the bottle for effect. “Just look! Like I said, I see Coca Cola and Guinness… but then also Skol Lagers, Youngers Scotch Ales, Gordon’s Gin, Martell’s Brandy. There’s cigarettes, chewing gum, lipstick, more cigarettes, and the buses are advertising beer! It’s all indulgences!”

“A circus of temptation, one might say,” Crowley lilted, still standing.

“Perhaps, yes,” Aziraphale said, studying the poster happily.

Crowley looked at it. “So many things to put in, on, or near the mouth.”

“Indeed!”

“Almost as though advertising to a population with an oral fixation, in a repressive culture, still recovering from Victorian, and then wartime, mores,” Crowley added.

“Well, I've been accused of having a problem recovering from Victorianism, but I don’t have an oral fixation,” Aziraphale said, feigning a bit of propriety as he drank from the bottle once again.

Crowley smirked, watching him the way a snake watches a rat. “’Sall right. I do. Got enough of a fixation for the both of us. Do that again, angel.”

“Do what?”

“Take a drink. And do it slowly.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. He was doing a bit of acting. “I beg your pardon? Take a drink? You mean…”

“Yes. Wrap your lips around that bottle, seal them up tight, and take a drink. Slowly.”

“Crowley, I really…”

“Just do it,” Crowley interrupted, then he winked at his adorable, amenable companion.

Aziraphale tried not to smile, and he did as asked. “Like so?” he asked, when finished.

“How is it?”

“The wine?”

“Yes, the wine.”

“Well, it’s wine. Sweet. Intoxicating.”

“Feels good going down?” Crowley asked, again with a smirk.

“Y-yes,” Aziraphale stuttered a bit. “Feels warm. Hot.”

“Mm. Take another sip.”

Aziraphale, who was no novice at this stage, and no idiot, kept eye-contact. His eyes dug into Crowley’s as he wrapped his lips sensually around the mouth of the bottle, and tipped it back, taking a tiny sip. He didn’t want to get too much drunker, given where things were headed, and he knew that the objective here was about the bottle, not the wine itself. And as he pulled the bottle away, he pursed his lips as though kissing it gently. He even let his tongue be seen tapping at it a bit.

“How’s that, Crowley?”

Crowley smiled. “Lovely. Almost as though you’ve sipped from a bottle of wine before.”

“Well, a time or two, I daresay,” Aziraphale told him, fluttering his eyelashes momentarily.

“You’re goddamn adorable.”

“And you’re…” Aziraphale said, looking him over. “You’re diabolical. And irresistible.”

“Don’t forget orally fixated,” Crowley growled, then grabbed one of Aziraphale’s lapels, and pulled him up to standing. He wrapped his hand roughly round the back of the white curls and slammed his mouth against his companion’s. He plunged his tongue in with a groan, and Aziraphale sucked at it dutifully. They sucked at each other's mouths for a minute or so, fixating orally, and then retreated reluctantly. And when Crowley pulled away, he treated Aziraphale’s mouth as the latter had treated the bottle… he kissed it lightly, sensually, then licked the soft lips as though sculpting them with his tongue. Aziraphale closed his eyes and shuddered as this happened.

“Yes, orally fixated. C-can’t forget th-that.”

“Take another sip, angel,” Crowley demanded. The former angel put the bottle to his lips, but Crowley stopped him. “Wait... let me see you run your tongue around the rim.”

Aziraphale did as asked, two or three times, keeping, once again, eye-contact. This time, though, they were standing only inches apart.

Crowley moaned at this, then said, “Put the tip of your tongue into the opening… toy with it a bit.”

Aziraphale licked the rim of the bottle, jetting his tongue in and out of the hole a few times, shuddering all over with the innuendo, with the action, with being watched, with anticipation…

"That's bloody gorgeous, angel,” said Crowley, and he took a step back. He unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his jeans, and plunged his hand behind the waistband of his black underpants. He stroked himself, and said, “Keep it up… show me your technique.”

“My technique, yes. How’s this?” Aziraphale asked, not stopping, only managing to get words out. “Do you like what my tongue is doing?”

“Get the lips involved, angel, and get the tongue in deeper.”

Aziraphale kissed the mouth of the bottle heartily, then plunged his tongue in. His cock throbbed in his clothes as he did this, and it made him moan. Crowley answered in kind.

“Is this how you want me to drink wine, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, innocently, as though he had no idea what was happening.

“Forget the fucking wine. Tongue that little hole, angel,” Crowley growled, his fist in his pants, moving up and down, unseen.

“Like this?” And with that, the imperfect angel licked the small opening three times sensually, with three wanton moans, then vibrated his tongue in the narrow circle.

“Almost perfect,” Crowley said, freeing his hand. “But not quite. I'll show you how it's done.”

He spun Aziraphale around by the shoulders, and faced him toward the front of the big shiny car. “Oh! All right – you want me to face this way now?”

The Victorian tailcoat had been discarded into the backseat shortly after they arrived. So, all Crowley had to do was reach around his lover’s body with both hands, unhook and unzip the trousers. He got to his knees, and pulled the garment down to the wearer’s trembling knees, followed by the linen pants. Aziraphale’s oozing, leaking cock now bobbed in front of him, steel-hard and ready, but he knew from context that it would not see any attention for a while.

“Put your hands on the bonnet of the car, angel. And learn,” Crowley demanded.

Aziraphale obeyed, lodging the heels of his palms against the chrome frame atop the car’s grill. He discovered his hands were trembling as well. He was more aroused, more nervous, and more excited than he had realised. And when he felt Crowley’s hands spread apart his arse cheeks and that semi-reptilian tongue begin to lap at his puckered hole, that mounting excitement sizzled all over his body, and he gave an obscene grunt, and let the word, “Fuck,” escape from his lips, which only made Crowley respond with his own hungry, slutty grunt.

Crowley licked and teased at the musky rosebud, in the same way he had asked Aziraphale to tease at the mouth of the wine bottle. He listened to the panting of his partner, felt the trembles. He vibrated his tongue right on the spot, and Aziraphale’s knees nearly buckled.

“Ooh, you see how it is when it's done well? You like that,” Crowley said. With that, he adjusted the placement of Aziraphale’s feet so as to spread wider, bend further. And he repeated the vibrating action.

Again, Aziraphale’s knees went a little weak, this time accompanied by an expletive.

Crowley plunged his tongue in as far as it would go, and tried to tongue-fuck his partner as best he could. Aziraphale moaned, and whimpered, “Oh yes, now I see.”

“Do you?” Crowley asked between licks, strokes, teases at his lover’s back door.

“Oh yes, Crowley," he moaned. "I do!”

“I don’t know, I think you need a longer demo.” Crowley lapped over and over again, giving a hungry “mmmnhgk” with each one. Then, “You taste so fucking sweet, angel. Did you know that?”

“I’ve never been told…”

“I fucking hope not,” Crowley told him. “I don’t want to find out that anyone else’s tongue has been in your arse.”

“No, no, of course not, Crowley. No!”

“Tell me now – anyone else tongue-fucked you, angel?” He asked, of course, knowing perfectly well the answer.

“No!” Aziraphale insisted, knowing it was all a game.

“Are you sure?” Crowley asked, smacking one of the rounded cheeks in front of him.

“Positive!”

"It's hard to believe. Look at you, loving this.”

“I do SO love what you're doing to me, but you're the only one who has ever done it! There’s no one but you, Crowley, ever! No one else has ever, ever touched me!”

“Good. You’re mine. Remember that, angel.”

“Yes. Yours. All yours.”

“Ngk,” said the man on his knees feigning surliness, who then busied his mouth, continuing to give wicked sensations to his lover feigning greenness. Flicking and licking, tongue-fucking, sometimes slapping the rounded cheeks, sometimes holding them open, sometimes stroking himself.

“Now,” Crowley said, after a few more minutes of licking and moaning and cursing. “Do you see how this is done?”

“Yes… oh yes,” Aziraphale moaned, tightly, dearly wishing for relief for his aching, swollen cock. Crowley’s tongue-teasing at his backdoor was driving him insane, and precome was oozing out of him like a leaky faucet.

At last, Crowley said, “I can’t do this for much longer, angel.” And with that, Aziraphale heard a smacking sound, as though something was being removed from Crowley’s mouth, then he felt two slippery fingers slip past this twitching rim and enter his arsehole.

“Oh no?” he asked, innocently.

“Nope,” Crowley said, scissoring those fingers, making short work of stretching his partner’s tight passage.

"Why not? What are you doing?"

“I thought I could be content to have you show me what you learned from drinking wine with me all these years, and what you learned from me just now, but... I don't think I can be. I know I can't."

"Erm, all right. I'm here for whatever you need, my dear.” Aziraphale’s words came out trembly, but kind and angelic.

Crowley marvelled at how perfect a specimen he was, in every way, and wondered how he could ever have walked away from this, two nights ago. He added one more finger and vibrated them back and forth, making his partner involuntarily whisper, "Oh, I love that...", but also ripening him for what was to come.

"Good that you love that... ready to take more of it angel? Only harder and faster? And bigger?" Crowley asked him.

"Y-yes, Crowley."

Crowley stood up quickly, and moved over to the passenger door. He leaned inside, and came back with the small bottle of infused olive oil, which Aziraphale had purchased a couple of hours before. He opened the flap at the nozzle with the flick of one thumb, and drizzled it performatively onto Aziraphale’s waiting, open arsehole, then frantically unzipped his trousers the rest of the way. He poured out a bit more oil and slicked up his dick…

Then without warning his lover, he placed his cockhead at the tight (but primed) entrance, and gave a shove, followed by a grunt, and a hiss of “Holy shit.”

The power of his thrust forced Aziraphale forward, and he lost his leverage for a moment. His hands slipped past the Bentley’s serpentine car mascot, and his abdomen was now more or less pressed against the grill. When Crowley pulled back, then filled his arse again, all the way to the hilt, with a big, filthy grunt of, “Oh, angel!” Aziraphale’s fingers tensed to find purchase against the black waxed bonnet, but to no avail. He realised he was powerless to find control now… the thrusts were slow for the moment, but he knew his partner (even though he was sort of pretending not to) and knew that the slowness would not last.

And so, he enjoyed the in and out, being filled with long, hard, semi-demonic dick over and over, feeling his partner’s loins press against his arse cheeks as the member dug into him absolutely as deeply as it could (which was pretty damn deeply). He bit his lip and surrendered to an eye-watering, body-undoing, forget-your-own-name kind of fuck.

The delicious, inevitable slapping noise began as Crowley’s strokes, thrusts grew in power and quickness.

And in these moments, he understood that this exact act had been the objective all along. It made a kind of hedonistic sense that Crowley had always desired to do this… to sit on the wheel wells with some wine as they had frequently done, let the conversation take its lusty course. Eventually it would veer toward him bending a submissive (but enthusiastic) Aziraphale over the bonnet of the Bentley, and HAVING him as he liked. Wantonly, noisily, unapologetically.

And HAVE him Crowley did, hard and fast. He slammed his aching dick into the welcoming, submitting arse over and over, grunting every time, and every now and then, hissing, whispering, groaning, or spitting, “Fuck! Fuck yes,” or, “Take it, angel!”

Aziraphale loved this fantasy, loved everything about this moment, even feeling dominated, and maybe a bit used. He did not mind in the least being possessed by a demon (or former demon), being claimed, being ordered to “take” what Crowley gave. Aziraphale could not help but pump his arse back to meet the pummeling cock, and would have, in fact, “taken” that hard piece of flesh however Crowley wanted to give it. Especially here, over the Bentley, entrenched in the old days, taking big gulps of nostalgia and their erstwhile life.

Only now did Aziraphale realise he missed it as much as Crowley did. The clandestine nature of this act (the fact that they were not supposed to just “hang out” here in the storage space, and here they were, having a Bentley-and-wine date in it, using it for talking, reconnecting, for fucking) was fantastic! And Aziraphale missed the naughtiness of it, and felt so gorgeous and sexy and slutty having snuck in here, and allowed himself to be seduced by his dark, Machiavellian counterpart.

Suddenly, Crowley stopped what he was doing, and took a moment to slick up his cock again, as well as the sensitive hole he was fucking. Aromatic oil dripped all over Aziraphale’s backside, and he moaned, loving it.

When Crowley resumed, he asked, “Want more?” but of course, didn’t wait for a response.

“I always want more," Aziraphale answered, jutting his hips backward to accept more and more.

The slapping was loud, fast, and took up every space inside the storage unit.

“Take it, angel!” Crowley's voice was now shaking with the power of vibration and thrusting and straining.

“Yes, Crowley.” Aziraphale's voice was in the same state. He dug his fingertips into the hard black surface, struggling to hold on.

“Fuck, I love that sweet little hole of yours, do you know that?"

“Yes, Crowley," answered Aziraphale, sweetly, lustily.

“Oh shit, I’m gonna… I’m gonna…”

“Going to what, Crowley? Tell me. Tell me!”

“I love that sweet hole, angel,” Crowley panted. “I love it too much... I'm gonna lose my load!"

“Oh! Inside of me, Crowley?”

“Yeah! In about thirty seconds, you're gonna be full of my come. What do you think about that?"

"I think I can't wait that long!" answered the former angel breathlessly.

Aziraphale continued to edge his bum backwards and relish the roughness, swallowing the plunging cock with his slippery chute.

“Oh, here it comes, angel…”

“Yes, come… give it all to me now!"

“Oh, you’re mine, you fucking beautiful angel, you!”

“I’m yours, yes, I’ve always been yours!”

"Bloody right! Nnnnggggk!"

The former demon threw his head back when he made that tight, almost angry cry, and creamy come began to spurt out of his dick in profuse, heady spasms, straight into Aziraphale’s waiting, twitching arse.

Aziraphale grunted, feeling the throbs, the extra slippery, the tight grip of Crowley's hands at his hips, the exhale of, "I love you so fucking much," that came from behind him as his lover gave more, and more fresh come flowed and oozed...

But the shudders and grunts went on seemingly for days, and under his breath Aziraphale whispered, "Damn blazes, that's so good, don't stop... oh, don't ever stop..."

And then, the final tremors, the final seepings of milky pleasure, the last of Crowley groaning, orgasming, taking the pinnacle of his own enjoyment from his partner’s begging, and his willing body.

"Can you feel that?" Crowley asked, finishing, feeling a bit turned inside-out as his vision returned to normal.

Aziraphale bore down and gripped Crowley's cock inside of him in response. “I feel it, and I love being yours."

“Do you?” Crowley breathed, pulling Aziraphale by the shoulder up to a standing position.

“Oh, yes!” said the former angel, who leaned his head back, and was obliged with a passionate kiss.

“How much do you love it?” Crowley asked, pulling away.

But before he could answer, Aziraphale felt Crowley's hand around his cock. It was ready to blow.

"That much," Aziraphale said, choked.

“Turn around again,” Crowley demanded, stepping back. His cock popped out, and Aziraphale almost immediately felt trickles of come rolling down the insides of his thighs. It would eventually be all over the clothing bunched around his knees, but he didn’t care. He liked it. It was messy. It was Crowley. It was Crowley’s mess. It was fantastic.

Crowley then helped him turn his back to the Bentley again, then eased him back down onto the wheel well. His well-fucked hole now pressed into the smooth black steel, sullying the perfect wax and paint job, and smearing bodily fluids all over this "appendage" of Crowley's, this extension of his cool, sexy personality. It felt filthy, and also a new kind of delicious.

But before he knew it, Crowley had got to his knees, was emptying the olive oil into his hand, and was saying, “Show me how much you love being mine.”

Crowley dug his gaze into his blue-eyed partner, and began to stroke the purple mushroomed cock in front of him. Slowly, intensely, just so. Aziraphale gave his own grunt of “Oh, fuck…” as orgasm rose immediately.

“Mm-hm, you vixen, it's not going to take much, is it?" Crowley asked with a delighted smile. Then he licked the aching member from root to tip, and keeping the straining cockhead on the tip of his tongue while never missing a stroke with his hand...

And Aziraphale lost control. He grunted, "Oh dear, oh dear," and found himself coming hard, shooting his load uncontrollably, groaning obscenely, as Crowley would say, like a slut. Most of his warm cream jetted straight to the back of Crowley's mouth, but as his body twitched and pulled away involuntarily, spatter landed on the Bentley's headlight and grill, and the last bits on Crowley's cheek and chin.

With his body literally twitching all over, awkwardly grabbing at waxed surfaces, sliding and adjusting… it was magnificent. It was the perfect bizarre end to a scenario which pitted him literally against the Bentley, and he became Crowley’s plaything. He wondered absently if Crowley’s fantasy had seen him this undignified in the end, and/or wanted him as much of a submissive pool of jelly as he felt.

He reckoned it probably did.

Crowley wiped the creamy emissions off his face with two fingers, then sucked them, with a wicked, naughty smirk aimed straight at his totally used and spent lover. Then he stood up, pulled up his trousers and tucked his softening dick back into them.

He helped Aziraphale stand up, then simply to pull up his pants and trousers, saying, "Blimey, we've really made a lovely mess of things. And I don't think we're quite finished, do you?"

"You don't?"

"I don't."

Aziraphale smiled weakly, feeling eviscerated (in a good way) by the experience. His orgasm had been delayed, and therefore body-shaking. He wanted to wind up for another go with Crowley, as filthily as possible on the Bentley, but also knew that he had had a huge release a moment ago, and also alcohol. It might be a while.

“Do you know what I wish I had?” Crowley asked.

“The mind boggles,” Aziraphale said, buttoning himself, shirt untucked.

“The spade.”

"The, er, anal plug?" Aziraphale asked, clearing his throat shyly.

"Mm-hm," Crowley sang.

“Now? Why?”

Crowley slithered up close. “So you could keep my come inside you, and feel nice and filled, and slippery warm when you walk or shift your body."

"Oh my."

"I bet you would just fucking love talking all politely to people like an angel, none of them knowing you let a demon come in your arse, and you corked it up like fine champagne."

Aziraphale’s body shivered with these words, and he couldn’t help but close his eyes and sigh. “Oh, good Lord, Crowley. The things you do to me.”

Crowley smiled wickedly, and reached into the backseat of the car for Aziraphale's long suit coat. “You’ve got a bit of a messy walk home, but we can clean you up when we get there... hop into the shower and see how things go?"

“All right,” Aziraphale said, shyly, while his body lit up again in anticipation.

They cleaned out the car of the remains of what they had eaten and drunk and used, and briefly discussed bringing back cleaning agents to erase what they had done to the car. Aziraphale put his coat back on, and asked if anything was amiss with the back of his trousers.

"Are there oil stains, or... anything else?"

"It's all covered up by your fussy, proper clothing, angel. I love it."

"Excellent," Aziraphale sighed. "Still, it's a good job we've only got a five-minute walk home."

Crowley asked, “Shall we?” and held out his free hand (the other holding a paper bag of rubbish they'd purged from the car).

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale said, taking his hand.

They opened the large rolling door to the storage space, and were greeted by one of the cruelest shocks of their very long lives.

Chapter Text

It had been dusk when they had arrived. They fully expected to find it dark in the alleyway as they opened the door to the storage space. They were feeling amourous, incredibly naughty – they had already had an explosive tryst this evening, were headed home for possibly another, if they could walk off the effects of the alcohol…

…but they snapped out of it as soon as the heavy door came up.

Though the night had indeed fallen, bright lights greeted them. Lights of the “search” variety. Of the “put your hands where I can see ‘em” variety. And it was a big, fat, bucket of cold water all over their lascivious mood, and their just-enough tipsiness.

Absently, Crowley tried to file away this trick for the next time he needed to sober up in a hurry. Or, for some reason, kill the mood in a hurry.

They couldn’t completely see who was holding the light, but within five seconds a voice answered a few questions for them.

“Anthony J. Crowley,” it said. It was male, crisp, authoritative, and American. “This is First Lieutenant Jason Kelsey of the United States Air Force. Please identify yourself.”

“Er, I think you just did that,” Crowley said.

“Don’t give me lip,” Kelsey said, surprisingly calmly.

“Seriously! It’s not lip, you’ve already said my name! Anthony J. Crowley! Why identify myself again?”

“Mr. Crowley, you are under arrest. Place the bag on the ground, your hands on your head, and your feet apart. Mr. Crowley's friend, take a giant step to your right, and keep your hands visible.”

Both men's eyes went wide as saucers, and they did as asked, too confused to do anything else. Crowley had been holding a paper bag, and he placed it about a foot away from himself on the pavement before assuming the position. Three men and one woman emerged out from behind the blinding lights, all of whom were dressed in camouflage, and a beret. The woman kept a gun trained on Crowley, while one man frisked him, took his phone, wallet and keys, then carefully opened the bag with the front end of a torch, inspecting the contents. The second man frisked Aziraphale, and inspected his personal effects, but did not take them. The last man stood there smugly, watching, and doing nothing.

Crowley was cuffed, and Aziraphale was told not to move, and the men stepped away.

“Er, Lieutenant,” Aziraphale said. “What is this about?”

“That’s not your concern, sir,” Kelsey said to him, again, rather calmly. Once Crowley was securely bound with his hands behind his back, he told the woman, “Lower your weapon, but be on guard.”

She did as told, then stood up very straight, just where she was.

“But surely we have the right to know…” Aziraphale tried, politely.

“He has the right to know,” Kelsey said, indicating Crowley. “You have the right to remain on the scene without handcuffs, if everyone is nice to me.”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, and read panic in his eyes. They had been in hairier situations than this, but never without their powers. They felt truly buggered, without the possibility of divine or demonic intervention.

"Lieutenant..." Aziraphale began again.

“It’s all right, angel, don’t get yourself into trouble,” Crowley sighed.

“Anthony Crowley, you are being arrested for breaking into a United States military facility, and attempting to tamper with dangerous assets of the U.S. government,” said Kelsey. He pronounced the name with a soft “th” in Anthony, and “crow” as though it rhymed with “plow.” Americans almost always did this, and it drove the former demon mad.

“Could you at least say my name correctly, Lieutenant?”

“There’s an H in the middle of your first name, and there’s no F in Lieutenant. I know how to speak English, Mr. Crowley,” Kelsey told him a bit smugly, still not bothering to pronounce the surname as requested.

“So, a straw man in the middle of a field is called a scare-crow?” Crowley asked, pronouncing “crow” like “plow.”

“Crowley, remember your situation,” Aziraphale said, rather low and quiet, his voice trembling a bit. “Americans with guns pose a much greater threat to you than the last time we encountered them. Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’m not allowed to tell you not to be an idiot,” Kelsey said to Crowley. “But I can say, listen to your friend. You have the right to remain silent, and I suggest you exercise it.”

“I know, I know, but it may harm my defence if I do not mention when questioned something which I later rely on in court,” Crowley said. “Anything I do say may be used in evidence against me.”

“We have a different way of saying pretty much the same thing, so… yeah. Come with me, please,” Kelsey said. He turned to Aziraphale and said, “You, go home.”

“Go home? And do what?”

“I don’t know,” Kelsey said, taking Crowley by the arm, and leading him down the alley toward the gate. “Do you have any hobbies?”

“Lieutenant Kelsey, I really must…”

“Angel, stop,” Crowley said, turning his head. “It’s all right. Don’t get tangled up in this. You’ve got to stay unencumbered.”

“Good advice,” Kelsey said, as they all walked. “By the way, Lucero, what’s in the bag?”

Lucero, the officer who had frisked Crowley, said “Nothing but some open packets of food, empty bottles of wine and olive oil.”

“Fine,” said Kelsey. “You can give it back to the friend.”

Two officers with the spotlights were heading up the group, then Kelsey and Crowley. Aziraphale was following behind them, and Lucero and two other officers (including the one with the gun) was behind him. Lucero reached out and tapped him on the shoulder, so Aziraphale turned and took the bag rather absently.

His mind was racing… how had this happened? What were the implications of this? Why is it taking six soldiers to arrest one Crowley? How would he ever get Crowley out of it? How could he possibly fight against another potential apocalyptic event without him? Were these “people” even human? Or were they angels and/or demons, or some other agents of Heaven and/or Hell? Would they next be finding reasons to arrest him, Aziraphale?

And overhanging all of that was sadness… a sense of despair. Not two minutes ago, they had been ecstatically happy, glad to have re-established their rapport, and looking forward to more antics at home. But, the mention of the empty bottles had brought him to a dark place, where his life with Crowley, both versions of it, seemed like a distant dream. They had had cathartic, vulgar, fantastic, disordered sex, just minutes ago, and Aziraphale vaguely thought about how he could still feel the effects of it in and on his body. Crowley’s hands digging into his hips, the grill pressing against his chest, the slippery sensation he felt when he walked…

But now, they would have to work hard to earn back everything they had built, and it might be a long, long row to hoe. And oh dear, how long had these military chaps been waiting for the two of them to emerge from the storage space? He simply could not bear the idea that they were aiming search lights at the door whilst he had been bent over the bonnet of the car and Crowley was…

…and the next thing he knew, he heard, “Angel!”

He had drifted off while following the soldiers toward the gate, and they had reached the end of the alley and were now out on Brynmaer Road. Crowley’s top half was hanging out of a black SUV ten metres away, calling out to him.

“Oh! Sorry! Yes!” Aziraphale said, rushing toward him. But two officers got in his path, and stopped him.

"Agnes. Call upon Agnes. She might be able to help with this,” Crowley said.

“Oh, er… yes,” Aziraphale said. "She very well might."

"Keep your nerve, yeah? We're going to need you."

"I will."

"You've been through far worse."

"Have I, though?" Aziraphale asked, poignantly.

“And angel, I… erm…” Crowley began, then realised a whole bunch of strangers were listening, so he stopped, a little choked.

“I know. Me too,” Aziraphale said, sadly, waving. “I’ll see you as soon as I can, Crowley.”

“Right. Thanks,” Crowley said, and then he disappeared inside the SUV, and someone shut the door.

As soon as the vehicle had peeled away from the kerb, there was an officer in his face with a clipboard. It was Lucero.

“Hi, I’m Master Sergeant Lucero, and I’ll need some information from you.”

“All-all right,” Aziraphale stammered a bit, distracted.

“Are you next of kin?”

“I suppose so.”

“What is your relationship to Mr. Crowley?”

“Well… he’s my other half. My better half, ironically,” Aziraphale answered, solemnly.

“Okay, so, not married?”

“No,” Azirpahale sighed. “Though I suppose things might be easier if we were.”

“Legally, yes,” Lucero said. “But don’t worry, it just means a longer list of questions.”

“Fantastic.”

"Does Mr. Crowley have any children or siblings?”

“No.”

"Neither?"

"Neither."

“Then, as long as no other next of kin shows up, we can probably get you clearance to visit him tomorrow, after he’s processed.”

“Thanks,” Aziraphale said flatly, though the Master Sergeant’s words were of no comfort.

“Now, what is your name and date of birth?”

Absently, Aziraphale recited the English name and birthdate that the Archangel Michael had arranged for him. But he was much more concerned with squinting at a spot beyond Lucero’s shoulder where the SUV disappeared into traffic. It carried away from him, into unknown circumstances, the only thing in this world, or any other, he had ever really loved.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Ironic. All the mischief Crowley had done and caused in his life, and this was his first time riding in the back of a vehicle, handcuffed, and on his way to some form of incarceration. Human, and trying to do good.

As the SUV pulled away, he looked back, which was a mistake. The look on Aziraphale’s face nearly killed him. It was all he could do not to groan in agony, seeing what he saw, and imagining his angel’s dispairing thoughts in these moments. He was determined not to show any weakness or dismay; he wouldn’t give Hastur or Beelzebub or Dagon or any of the other damned minions of Hell the satisfaction. This could not be purely a U.S. military operation, could it? These guys (and gal) had to be demons, didn’t they?

Well, that was the problem – he just didn’t know. Some part of him felt that it would make things easier if the soldiers who had accosted/arrested him actually were from Hell. He’d know how to deal with that. “Americans with guns,” as Aziraphale had called them, might seem, on the surface, to be more innocuous, but Crowley was actually quite maladroit with them.

He swore silently, swallowed hard, sat back in his seat, closed his eyes, and prepared to put his mind on something else. He would have to find some mental exercise to avoid panic, to avoid the ghost of his partner’s harried, pained expression haunting him for the next hour, or however long it took to get to Tadfield.

But to his surprise, the vehicle pulled out onto Prince of Wales drive, right up against Battersea Park, and turned right. This was the opposite direction that one might go, in order to get to Oxfordshire. He had assumed they were headed to the airbase, but within a few minutes, they had jogged over to Nine Elms Lane, and were seeing a familiar building. He looked up at it and cursed out loud.

The driver chuckled at him in what seemed to be an aggressively American way (which was probably all in Crowley’s mind). “Yeah, it’s weird, but they don’t know where else to put you, at the moment. It’s just temporary, until the higher-ups finish questioning you.”

“Bloody fantastic,” Crowley muttered.

It was only a mile and a half from their home, so of course Crowley had seen it a hundred times. It was a newish, stylised construct that Crowley had always privately thought looked like columns of phalanges stacked lengthwise on top of each other, then arranged in columns. It evoked memories of catacombs, ossuaries of the deeper pits of Hell to which he had been subjected, in his darker moments.

This was merely the U.S. Embassy, but it was weird and formidable and official and no-nonsense, and he didn’t have his powers.

And no matter how many nostalgic evenings he spent with Aziraphale in the Bentley, it wouldn’t give him his powers back.

They drove through a gate Crowley had never noticed before, went down a paved path Crowley had never noticed before, then through a garage door under the Phalanges building, which opened silently, then closed just so behind them.

Someone opened the car door for him, welcomed him to the Embassy, calling him Mr. Crowley, and pronouncing it correctly this time.

He was photographed and fingerprinted in the same room where employees register and receive their security badges. He was asked to remove his belt, glasses, jacket, and shoelaces. Crowley cursed under his breath at the indignity of it, but he did as he was told.

Then he was led to a room that was clearly an unused office for lower-ranking functionaries, that had in it a military cot with a blanket and pillow, a plant, and a desk and chair in the corner. On the wall were an American flag and a Union Jack, side-by-side. Someone had also provided a large pitcher of water with some cups, a basket with a dozen or so snack-size bags of crisps, and a few books to read.

“Sorry for the makeshift accommodations,” said the officer who had led him here, a woman, almost as tall as he. “We aren’t equipped for prisoners. But this is just temporary…”

“…yeah, I know, until they are finished questioning me.”

“Yes, and/or until the morning when you’ll be transferred to a real containment facility.”

Crowley gulped. “T-transferred. I see. Where is that?”

“I honestly do not know, Mr. Crowley.”

"How can you not know?"

“I don’t need to know, so no one will tell me, and that is fine with me. I assume you’ll be notified as to anything you are required to be aware of.”

“So… need-to-know basis.”

“Yes, that’s what I said. So, as you can see, there’s water and snacks, and an intercom on the wall. Just press that button if you need to use the bathroom, and someone will escort you. We can take you upstairs to the fitness center for a shower in the morning, if you’d like.”

“Great,” he said flatly.

“Right. Any questions?” she asked as he stepped into the room.

“Do I get any kind of representation?”

“Of course, if you choose. Shall I make a few calls?”

He sighed, thinking it probably wouldn’t do him any good to have a lawyer, if he was dealing with Hell. He’d just wind up getting someone killed, or getting a Hell-appointed solicitor. Now there was an interesting prospect… a literal Devil’s Advocate.

Besides, he reckoned that the first thing Aziraphale would do was try to engage a solicitor, so he thought it would be prudent to wait.

“No, not yet. Ask again later,” he said.

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Will I be allowed to have visitors?”

“Once you’re in-place tomorrow, your next of kin will be notified as to how, where, and when they may visit. Have you had dinner, Mr. Crowley?”

“Yeah,” he answered, though all he had eaten were a few slices of salami, cheese, and a couple of strawberries. Though he'd had plenty of wine.

“Then someone will be by to talk with you in a while, probably with a toothbrush and stuff. Help yourself to snacks.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, then,” she said. “Bye.” And she shut the door.

He walked around the room and looked about, trying to stave off despair. And he couldn’t help but try the door – it was locked solidly, of course, and there was an armed guard outside, as he could see through a narrow window. A large man in military garb stood just to the left of the door, with a gun at his hip.

As places of incarceration went, it wasn’t bad – larger and softer than your average jail cell, but no windows. He noticed with mild interest that Michael’s book, “Shadows to Light” was among those provided to him. On any other day, that might’ve been interesting news.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Aziraphale took the less-than-five-minute walk home, like an automat or a zombie. He was in total disbelief at what had happened.

He had the horrible feeling that Crowley had been accosted and arrested by actual humans, the U.S. Military, no less, and not, in fact, agents of Heaven and Hell. Which actually made things so much worse. As he well knew, angels and demons were often inept. The U.S. government (like most governments, in fact), however, was extremely competent in the art of incarceration and building impenetrable walls of bureaucracy, once someone was on the inside. It was huge, stubborn, and not generally very friendly.

Overall, that is. The officer named Lucero was a nice chap. Aziraphale appreciated being treated with respect under the circumstances. And he wondered how Crowley was being treated. He didn’t reckon any of the folks personally handling Crowley would have any particular “beef” with him… at least, that’s what he tried to tell himself.

As soon as he had understood what was happening, just there, outside of the storage space when Crowley was being cuffed, Aziraphale began to plan, began to mentally run through his list of resources. Briefly, he had wondered whether Anathema could help… though for no other reason than being an American citizen (if reluctantly these days), and her family being quite wealthy. He also had a vague idea that Anathema’s feminine wiles were effective against some men (and some women, probably, as well), but he wasn’t a good judge of these things.

But somehow, he doubted that in a situation such as this, even an attractive, rich American would be of help. Especially one who was, what? Twenty years old? Twenty-two?

No, they were, after all, still in Britain, and Crowley was legally a British subject – thank Somebody for the Archangel Michael for her provisions to that end.

So, rather than think “American,” Aziraphale was more inclined to think, “clever.” There was Agnes, of course. But who else did they know who was intelligent, resourceful, savvy, with connections, moxie, and any sort of interest in what might happen to Crowley?

Chapter Text

Over the millennia, Crowley and Aziraphale had always had disparate modus operandi, disparate temperaments, and outwardly disparate motivations. But at times, they had got into each other’s heads, cross-performing duties to save time and energy, and for the sake of convenience. But as analogues, best friends, six-thousand-year-long mutually desirous colleagues, and lovers often do, they had reached real sympathy and clarity, and at this stage, each was thoroughly well-versed in what made the other tick.

But they still had their filter of “self” to look through, as well, which meant that they still, once in a while, had a small moment of epiphany into one another’s hearts and minds.

And tonight, Aziraphale had one. He was desperate to try anything now, and understood why Crowley had grasped at any straw he could find when Adam was kidnapped and the world came into peril again. Run a mental list of all human resources, reach out to them, ask for favours. Aziraphale had understood on one level all along, but now, it was deep, intuitive comprehension.

Crowley was in peril, and Aziraphale felt slightly hysterical in his need to DO something – anything – about it.

After all, the alternative was to wait, do nothing, and watch the world burn without his best friend and great love at his side.

When he arrived home, he paced in the parlour for about five minutes, trying to breathe normally (failing), and counting his resources. Then he made a call. Then he paced some more.

“Hello, this is Miranda Devenish,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “I was contacted by Elisa Lenning regarding…”

“Yes, the arrest of a fellow journalist, Anthony Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice rather more desperate than he might have liked.

He had already spoken with Elisa about some alternatives. There was clearly no slowing the story down, and she could only do so much on the webteam at the 'Piccadilly Detail.' So, Elisa had suggested lawyering up, possibly taking to social media to lament the unjust arrest of a journalist amidst a global crisis, and trying to get in to visit Crowley to talk strategy with him. She had also suggested Miranda.

“Indeed,” said the businesslike Miranda herself. “She asked me to phone you, said you might have some details for me, and might need my help.”

“Thank you so much for ringing back, Ms. Devenish,” Aziraphale said, relief flooding his voice. “Crowley was arrested by a First Lieutenant Jason Kelsey, a little less than an hour ago, and…”

“I’m sorry,” she interrupted. “But, who are you, exactly? Are you his solicitor?”

“Oh no, I’m his partner,” Aziraphale said quite quickly. “We were out, erm, having dinner, when it happened. I was there when he was arrested, and I can tell you that…”

“Wait. You’re his what?”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale complained, lightly. He had spoken too quickly, and in his haste, had forgotten that Crowley had consciously kept the most important detail of his personal life from Miranda, because he needed her help. He sighed, and said, “Just as well."

“What is? What’s just as well?” Miranda asked, annoyed and surprised.

“Never mind,” Aziraphale said. “I’m his partner. His companion.”

“Crowley. Has a partner.”

“Yes.”

"And that's you."

"Yes."

“I’m guessing you don’t mean ‘partner’ in the sense that you own an accounting firm together or something.”

“No, I'm afraid not.”

“Partner as in… like, you share a bed, and fight over the remote, and possibly file your taxes together?”

“Er… yes. Except for the bit about the remote. I mostly just let him have it.”

There was a long pause. “Anthony Crowley, the journalist? The head of the webteam at the ‘Piccadilly Detail?’ Tall guy, red hair? Almost infernally sexy?”

“A very apt description of him, Ms. Devenish, and yes… that’s him.” Aziraphale gave a sigh. “I realise he has never told you about me…”

“No, he has not!” she practically shouted. “All this time, I’m firing both barrels at him, giving him my best material, and I find out he’s playing on the other pitch?”

“Er, well… to be fair, Crowley has been known to play every sport on just about every pitch available to humankind. However, at the present moment, as it happens, he is committed to a match with me, and has been for quite some time,” Aziraphale said, rather proud of himself for his extension of Miranda’s sport metaphor.

“I see.”

“B-but, I can see we’ve got off-topic,” Aziraphale said. “The fact is, he’s been arrested by powerful people with weapons, put into a big black vehicle and transported Who Knows Where. And Ms. Devenish, when we got into a pickle earlier in the week, you’re the first person he thought of to help him, because of your prowess as a journalist, and as a human being. You’re clever, you're moral, you’re well-connected, and you’re bloody tough. We watched you on that press conference – you tried hard to get the story killed, and you did buy us some crucial time!”

“Buying time… what the hell are you on about? I just thought they could delay reporting any details of the investigation another day or two so that the kidnappers wouldn’t have any sort of advantage! What has any of it got to do with you? Wait, are you a journalist, too?”

“No, I own a bookshop. But I am, now, in the largest pickle of my time as a human, and it’s Crowley himself on the line, I’ve thought of you again, just as he did. And I am asking nicely, will you help me? Help him. Help us. I know it was wrong of Crowley to lead you on, but he has his reasons, and not all of them are self-serving. It made him feel terrible to lie to you, and make you think… well, that he was unattached, and perhaps…”

“Stop it, stop it. None of it matters now, if he’s in trouble,” Miranda said, gently. “I would help a fellow journalist who has been unjustly incarcerated, no matter how I felt about them, or what they had said or done to me. And… I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Oh, er… Aaron,” he said awkwardly, for the second time in a half-hour. He disliked saying it. “My name is Aaron Fell.”

“Well, Mr. Fell, the thing with Crowley and me, I’ll get over it. It might take a couple bottles of wine, but… anyway, the point is, he’s a colleague who needs me. I’ll call my ex-husband – he’s a barrister. A really fucking nasty one. And if there’s anything un-kosher about the charges or the means of arrest, he’ll work out how to get Crowley out of it.”

“Oh goodness! Thank you! Thank you so much!” Aziraphale gushed. “It’s so kind of you!”

“Crowley would do the same for me, I think,” she said.

“He would! Indeed! I’ve just been wondering, Miranda, is there some sort of loophole in the law, like, say, a leniency for a journalist who breaks the law in the pursuit of a story? In pursuit of a truth that could save lives?”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing, unfortunately. Something like that could be abused all the way up the block and back,” Miranda said. “What are the charges?”

“Breaking into a United States military facility, and… oh, something like, tampering with military assets.”

There was another incredulous silence. “Excuse me?”

“Oh… he and a friend of ours thought they worked out where the kids were being held, and they…”

“They what?”

“…and they broke into a U.S. airbase in Oxfordshire to try and get them out.”

“Holy shit! What about your friend, has he been arrested, too?”

“Er… I wouldn’t think so. To be honest, now you mention it, I don’t actually know. He’s in Oxfordshire at the moment with his own partner, and I haven’t heard from either one of them this evening, so, I’m assuming all is well. Perhaps his face didn’t show up on the surveillance.”

“Well, Jesus,” she said, exasperated. “Breaking into any government facility has got to be… well, it’s a charge that’s got heft… Why does he think the U.S. military’s got anything to do with it? Is this something that needs exploring?”

“It’s a long story, Miranda,” Aziraphale sighed. “It has to do with some things… well, from Crowley’s past. And mine. You know we’ve got a past connection to the kidnapped child, and his family, don’t you? Well, please believe me when I say, that given the great Tempest of Excrement the global media has made of the story, your reporting on the involvement of the U.S. military will not be of help.”

Actually, Aziraphale knew, the U.S. military was blameless in all of this, and was simply being manipulated somehow into letting the forces of The Double H, as Crowley sometimes called them, to use their facility. And they were being used as a way of getting Crowley out of the way.

“Well, I guess I believe you, there,” Miranda muttered. Then she chuckled. “Did you just say Tempest of Excrement? Heh. Most people just say ‘shit storm.’ I love it!”

“I’ve been told I have a way of taking modern colloquialisms and warping them.”

She laughed again. “It’s wonderful! Mind if I use that one? ‘Tempest of Excrement’?”

Aziraphale chuckled now himself. “Not at all. Please do so with my compliments.”

Miranda opined a bit on the implications and next steps, while Aziraphale ruminated over the situation. He made a mental note to check in with Newt and Anathema as soon as he could, but he also reckoned that Newt would not be arrested because he would not be seen as a threat. Heaven and Hell would not have tipped off the US government about him, because they were only concerned with Crowley – what Crowley knew, and could do, and WOULD do, to foil their plans.

He thanked Miranda, and hung up, actually hopeful that her ex-husband might have a shot…

And happy that he had at least tried SOMETHING.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

At some point, the effects of alcohol, heavy foods, sex, and overall mental exhaustion must’ve caught up with him, because when the phone rang with Elisa on the other end, it startled him awake. He nearly fell off the sofa.

“Yes, hello, good morning, Elisa,” he said, trying to sound alert.

“Did you get any sleep?”

He looked at the sofa quizzically, as though it could answer the question for him. In the end, he settled upon, “Apparently.”

“Well, I called to tell you that I just spoke to our boss, Vanessa, and she’s speaking to the company lawyers now,” Elisa reported. “She thinks that someone might call you later, to find out more about the arrest and whatnot. If they can get enough details, they might be able to get Crowley released on some sort of freedom-of-the-press technicality.”

“Excellent idea,” Aziraphale said, standing up and wandering into the kitchen to make himself an espresso. “Miranda Devenish says her ex-husband is a bulldog barrister, and may be able to help.”

“Ooh! Yeah, great! Maybe we should put him in touch with our company lawyers.”

“I’d have to count on you to do that.”

“I’m on it. Is there anything else?”

“Er… give me a moment, would you please?”

“Sure.”

Aziraphale took a pause while he twisted the tamped espresso filter into the machine, and pressed “brew.” He then leaned against the kitchen island, and his gaze fell over onto the table, where the Archangel Michael’s book lay.

“And I’ve just had another idea, Elisa.”

“Oh yes?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “There’s a book called ‘Shadows to Light,’ and the author is Michael Engelbreit.”

“Yeah, I’ve definitely heard of it.”

“Can you get in touch with some of your press colleagues and ask them, in Crowley’s name, to promote the Hell out of that book?”

“I can. But, I haven’t read it yet – what’s it got to do with the kidnapped kids?”

“Just trust me that it’s crucial. I can’t really explain…”

“Okay, whatever you say, Mr. A.,” Elisa said. “Crowley trusts you, so I trust you. I’ll make a couple of calls, and post about it myself on our social media. I’ll read it, if I can. Why don’t you get Miranda to spread the word, too? She can do a better job of it than I can.”

“Thank you so much, Elisa. I just hope it’s not too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“Er… too late to promote the book.”

“Well, it’s already pretty well-known,” she said. “But some exposure from the right kinds of journalists might have an effect upon the right kinds of minds sinking their teeth into it. Influential intellectuals, if there is such a thing these days.”

“Thanks ever so, Elisa.”

Within a minute, the call was over.

“Right. That’s three things that are being tried,” Aziraphale said aloud to himself. “What’s next?"

What, indeed? Break in just the way Crowley did, and try to rescue him, and the kids, and get into more trouble? Might be worth it if the kids could be safe.

Send in Anathema to flirt with the officers? Nah, that's a cheap trick, and unworthy of Anathema's brains and talent. And it wouldn't work. Probably.

Send in Newt to flirt with the officers?

Dig up dirt on Lieutenant Kelsey, or any of the other arresting officers? Maybe, maybe... not the worst idea. Kind of dirty, but desperate times call for desperate measures... file it away for later.

Find some bureaucratic and/or diplomatic loophole, whereby a Brit cannot be arrested by Americans? Well, he'd need lawyers for that. Miranda's ex would probably think of that first.

Elisa's idea of complaining about the arrest on social media might have some merit, but if the Tempest of Excrement wasn't convincing Gabriel/Beelzebub/Hastur/Uriel and whoever else was involved to free four relatively innocent children, it sure as pie wouldn't convince them to release Crowley (who was far from innocent... at least in their eyes).

Again, his eyes fell upon the book on the table, and Crowley’s laptop. He picked up the latter, remembering again Crowley’s advice as he was being carted off by Lieutenant Kelsey, and headed out the front door.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale caught a taxi just outside their home. He made brief small talk with the driver, including asking whether he'd mind if Aziraphale made a call.
Aziraphale informed him, feigning casualness, that he needed to phone a friend who had grown up in South America, then asked, matter-of-factly, whether the driver spoke any Spanish. The driver chuckled derisively, and bragged that he knew no languages other than the Queen's English, mate (even though his brand of speaking would confuse the Queen, Aziraphale felt sure).

And then Aziraphale said, "Excuse me, please," and made a call to a friend whose mother, a descendant of pure Lancashire Nutter stock, had grown up in Peru and raised her daughter in Los Angeles.

“Hello there,” Aziraphale said into the phone, in Spanish. “Are you two all right?”

"Why are you doing that?" Anathema asked, in English.

"No quiero ser entiendido. ¿Están bien?" he replied, meaning, "I don't want to be understood. Are you all right?"

"Oh. When did your Spanish get so good?"

"I'm six thousand years old, dear," he told her. "Also, Crowley and I just went to Mallorca a few months ago."

"Oh, I love Mallorca!"

"Anathema, focus. Are you and Newt all right?"

"We're fine, why?"

“Both of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he with you? Within your sights?”

“Yes, he’s right here,” she said. “What’s this about?”

“Crowley’s been arrested,” he said, as calmly as he could.

Gritting her teeth, Anathema asked, “For breaking into the airbase?” She had now adopted a language that was halfway between Spanish and English.

“Of course.”

“Shit. What do we do?”

“Well, first of all, I think Newt is safe. I think Heaven and Hell won’t see him as a threat – it’s Crowley they want.”

“Are you sure about that?”

"If they wanted him, they’d have him already. I know angels and demons. They’re uniquely dense, and uniquely advantaged to make things happen.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. So what, did demons come and kidnap him in the middle of the night?”

“No – U.S. Air Force. He was properly arrested. By humans with guns and authority and brash American accents. No offence, dear.”

“So again, I ask, what do we do?”

“I’ve got a few calls in, to Crowley’s journalist friends, lawyers, etc. I've got a few ideas that could be tried. And I’m in a taxi at the moment, on my way to the bookshop to fulfill orders, and hopefully promote the Engelbreit book myself by sending out free copies. After that, I’m going to bury my nose in the metaphorical spine of your ancestor’s prophecy book.”

“Good man.”

Aziraphale’s voice broke a bit. “I don’t have access to lawyers or soldiers or even angels anymore… but I bloody well know prophecy. It’s the one thing I, personally, can do to help him. Maybe.”

“I’ll do the same,” she said. “Two sets of eyes on Agnes’ musings, we should be able to find something that will help Crowley. Or Adam. Or both.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The taxi ride was a bit longer than usual, as the driver insisted on going via Millbank, rather than the fastest route via Grosvenor Place. He wanted to avoid the summer tourist traffic around Buckingham Palace, and Aziraphale said that was fine. He did not bother pointing out that there was hardly any traffic anywhere, even around the tourist attractions these days, due to the pandemic. He didn’t mind the extra few minutes to try and decompress. And he had an idea that this fellow was in a bit of denial about the pandemic anyhow, as he was wearing his face mask below his nose, and as he spoke, it creeped down his mouth. He also had a large round pin that said “Re-open my Pub!” on the dash.

Unfortunately at decompression, Aziraphale had limited success. Thinking about relaxing, joyful things usually led him to thoughts of Crowley. And today, thoughts of Crowley led to doom and gloom. This arrest seemed particularly cruel, coming literally minutes after the two of them had so well reconnected. And given the vulnerable state they were both in, still newly human, newly fragile, new to a specific type of helplessness, to have Crowley taken from him in the midst of another global disaster… well, it felt like someone was doing it to them on purpose.

He had hoped that his trepidation from last night would subside with his efforts at problem-solving. But quite the contrary – when he looked at the situation without the initial shock, with fresher eyes and the benefit of a night’s sleep (brief, uncomfortable, and unintentional though it may have been) he was now trying to push down the fear that he might never see Crowley again. He knew what Heaven and Hell were capable of. And Heaven and Hell knew that Crowley was human now. All squishy, and human. They would have utter contempt for his life, at this stage. If they should decide to execute him again, they would bloody well get it right this time – they wouldn’t screw around with holy water. They could use the American soldiers to do it, make it look like an escape attempt, an accident… whatever they liked. And the soldier would never be the wiser, and Aziraphale would never know the truth.

This made him feel physically ill. He took a deep breath, and tried to take comfort in things that they had finally got to do together and say to each other, and in the fact that no other couple in the known universe had ever had a six-thousand-year run, as they had (even if they had spent most of it as “friends,” or whatever they’d been before). They had said “I love you,” just about every day of the past ten months. They had reached out to each other in lust and comfort in an unfettered manner, without consequence, or fear of judgement or rejection. They had learned together about what it meant to be in a relationship, to actually share love, and take advantage of what humanity and life had to offer.

But things they had NOT done got in the way.

They had individually covered most of the planet, but as a couple, they had only experienced southern England and Mallorca. That left six continents to explore! Seeing Africa, the Middle East, Japan, the Americas, and Australia with a loved one, and through their eyes, could be magical! They had never had oysters together, except that one time, when everything was still repressed. Neither of them had ever tried Turkish coffee, somehow. They had not had the opportunity to care for one another during an illness (perhaps the standard influenza, preferably not the current “plague”) or injury. They had not, in any serious way, discussed marriage. They had mentioned it flippantly, and he reckoned they both thought it was coming someday. But given the way the world was at the moment, and the newness of their union, it just didn’t seem to be in the cards for a while. But should he, Aziraphale, have asked already? He had to suppress a groan, in wondering.

And for some reason today, the fact that they had not made love on the roof was weighing heavily upon Aziraphale’s mind and heart. It was something Crowley had joked lecherously about (though, not really joking maybe) numerous times over the past couple of weeks, and Aziraphale, if he was honest, would have liked to give it a try. Only, without their powers, they could be seen by all manner of human beings in adjacent buildings, most of them currently quite bored, armed with cameras, and would not hesitate to broadcast their bare arses (and who knew what else) all over the planet. Not to mention the legal implications.

But it was a fun thing to think about, and Aziraphale had not really entertained the thought with Crowley yet. He now regretted having shut Crowley down each time it had come up. The two of them, he knew, could still have great fun TALKING about what they might do up there, if being seen and reported were no factor. He resolved to find a way to explore the idea with Crowley, if they ever had a chance… either pitch a tent and have some fun, try to do things clandestinely, or use it as a reason to drive each other into a lustful stupor with dirty talk.

Of all the things to promise oneself when it came to a relationship, and making time count, and affirming love, he reasoned that this was a pretty strange one. But given the proclivity of their relationship, and what a hedonist his partner tended to be, he reckoned it was right. It felt right.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once arrived at the bookshop, Aziraphale fulfilled 35 book orders in record time. Interestingly, 18 of those orders were for “Shadows to Light,” while the other 17 were for other things… but they all received a complimentary copy of the book anyhow. It was a small effort, but it was something.

Even more interestingly, Aziraphale noticed that he had 48 copies of the book on-hand when he had arrived in the shop, and he had 48 copies when he returned to the shop, after having made two trips to the post office, to drop off all the boxes.

“Thank you, Michael,” he said, aloud. He was still. He stood reverently in the middle of the bookshop, where he had once stood to call upon God’s mercy, in the matter of the first (failed) Apocalypse. He didn’t really expect anything, but he was sincere, heartfelt in his thanks. “You’ve really come through for us in the past, in spite of your not liking me very much. I just hope you’re given enough latitude to save us again. We really, really need your help…”

And as if on-cue, there came a knock at the bookshop door.

Chapter Text

Crowley’s arrest aside, the world was in turmoil. The holding captive of one child (well, really four children) had caused a Blitzkrieg of misinformation, disinformation, nuclear threats, half-truths, grandstanding, and generally all the worst of humanity coming out and splattering its brains all over social media…

…and Heaven and Hell feeding the fire, hoping the human race will destroy itself. And having started the disaster in the first place, by kidnapping the not-quite-twelve-year-old Antichrist and his mates, and keeping them under lock and key, and using a military facility as its battleground. Again.

And in all of this, the one saving grace had been a book called, “Shadows to Light,” by an author known as Michael Engelbreit, which Aziraphale now knew was really the Archangel Michael. The book was meant to feed into a different weakness of the human psyche: suspicion of authority, and/or paranoia about government conspiracies. It was an impressive play on the part of an Archangel, whose kind ordinarily didn't know what made humans truly tick. The book purported that so-called “disasters” were created by military and government operatives, meant to distract from the “real” problems, whatever they may be. The book was trying to convince the populace (in all 41 languages in which it had now been published, including Klingon), without coming out and saying so, that the big bluster over the kidnapped child was a whole lot of nothing, and that we should all calm down, and worry about real problems, like everyday social inequity and corruption.

Interestingly, it was gaining steam, especially amongst academics (and people who will read anything published in Klingon). Unfortunately, academics are not the loudest people on the internet (not by a longshot), so its mitigating effect was slow, though sure. As such, Michael was adding new languages all the time, finding new corners of the Earth where the book could be distributed.

Even more interestingly, Aziraphale noticed that he had 48 copies of the book on-hand when he had arrived in the shop today, and he had 48 copies when he returned to the shop, after having made two trips to the post office, to drop off all the boxes (35 of which contained copies of it).

“Thank you, Michael,” he said, aloud. He was still. He stood reverently in the middle of the bookshop, where he had once stood to call upon God’s mercy, in the matter of the first (failed) Apocalypse. He didn’t really expect anything, but he was sincere, heartfelt in his thanks. “You’ve really come through for us in the past, in spite of your not liking me very much. I just hope you’re given enough latitude to save us again. We really, really need your help…”

And as if on-cue, there came a knock at the bookshop door. It startled Aziraphale out of his prayerful state, and he made the nudged-off-a-chair noise to match.

He shook it off, and with a pounding heart, opened the door. And there stood the Archangel Michael, looking, as always, sharp and beatific.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” she said, with a little smile. “And, you’re welcome.”

He swallowed hard. “Oh, Michael,” he said, trying not to sound too, too surprised by this visit. “You heard me.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve been hearing you for days. Apologies for only being able to get in touch just now. May I come in?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, stepping aside, and gesturing for her to enter the bookshop. “May I get you some tea?”

“I don’t really do that, Aziraphale,” she said. “As well you know.”

“Ah. Yes. Of course. Do sit down, though.”

She did take advantage of this offer, and moved over to the sofa near the rolltop desk. Aziraphale bristled for a moment, thinking of the person who usually sat there, and the things they had done on it. He wondered if Michael would care, if she knew. She had shown herself to be more gracious and tolerant than any of the archangels recently, being the ONLY Heavenly being to have changed or evolved at all, that Aziraphale knew of. Apart from himself, of course.

“So, have you been on social media today?” she asked him, folding her hands daintily in her lap.

“I’m afraid not,” Aziraphale said, sitting down in his desk chair across the coffee table from her. “Mercifully, I don’t really have access to it without Crowley. And Crowley has been…”

“…arrested. Yes, I know,” she sighed. “I’m so sorry. I tried to stop it, I honestly did. But as you might have noticed, no-one is really listening to me up there. Gabriel is just ploughing ahead, doing his thing, and if I spoke any louder, he’d get onto me.”

“You mean, onto the fact that you’re working against them?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Although, I suppose we didn’t notice you doing the same, for the longest time, even though the signs were there.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Er, indeed.”

“Anyway, I’m counting it as a miracle they haven’t noticed the book yet. Especially Uriel.”

“The book is so, so clever, Michael.”

“Thank you,” she sighed. “But I’m terrified that it’s not enough.”

“It’s gaining some traction.”

“But as of this morning, the insanity with the kidnapping, and all the other rubbish that’s been bouncing around on social media has been conflated into the pandemic."

"What?"

She nodded. "The nuclear threat from China saw to it. Actually, it’s a bit surprising that it took this long. All someone had to do is point out that the novel coronavirus originated there, and that they are now posing a very real nuclear threat, and the implication that the Chinese are trying to destroy the world went mainstream. So, that little bit of chaos was off to the races, and degenerating just as quickly as you can imagine. Of course, there’s a large faction of the occidental population that think the virus is a hoax, so of course, they’re all over the Chinese-are-the-cause-of-all-our-problems-and-the-rest-of-you-are-gullible-as-sheep angle. And when you threaten China, the North Koreans always pipe up, and that leader of theirs is totally unhinged. The Americans are as noisy as ever, also with an unhinged leader up for re-election this year (which allows them to make everything about them, even more than usual), and the Russians, don’t get me started. And now, somehow, Russia and China are in a nuclear standoff.”

“What?” Aziraphale repeated, though now more alarmed than before.

“Yes. Most of the world is now digging in its fingernails, waiting for a nuclear strike. Followed by nuclear winter over large parts of the eastern hemisphere. Which is more or less what is desired by... you know.” Michael now pointed upwards, indicating her bosses.

“Oh, my Lord, what… what…”

“The anti-nuke groups all over the world are starting to become very vocal, which, oddly enough, isn’t making things better. They mean well, but they’re still human, prone to anger and idiocy, amplified with access to the internet, just like the rest.”

“I hate to say it, but I think you’ve just summed up the state of humanity in the twenty-first century. Is it any wonder I choose to live in the nineteenth?” Aziraphale asked, nervously adjusting his bowtie.

“And the paedophile angle still hasn’t disappeared. There is now a rumor that the coronavirus only affects paedos, because of some enzyme carried by adults who find children sexually attractive (which of course, spectacularly doesn’t exist). This is causing people to not get tested in certain places, because if they emerge from a test clinic, they are attacked in the street for being a, quote, ‘kiddie-fiddler.’ Which, then, of course is liable to cause more spreading of the virus and more hospitalisations, more deaths…”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. He knew that Crowley, who had seen, and induced at times, the worst of humanity, would know what to say. He would have some sort of scathing, and also weirdly insightful, comment to make, that would ease the tension just now. Aziraphale, however, had no such talent.

Michael didn’t mind. She plowed forward. “I have never seen anything like this, Aziraphale, and mind you, I’ve seen humanity fall prey to a bit of everything. You and I both have.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Now you know why I’ve been talking to you since Monday. I just feel so damned helpless. I can’t do anything about this. I mean, good gracious, I can’t even get Crowley out of jail without calling in multiple levels of journalist and lawyer…”

“Aziraphale, you’re a bookseller. Book dude, yes?”

He sighed. These were Crowley’s words, and he liked them, in spite of himself. “Yes.”

“Then, the best thing you can do is sell books. And perhaps make a whole bunch of mistakes at it.” Michael made a sweeping gesture over the coffee table, and three stacks of padded, addressed, packing envelopes appeared. “Keep sending out copies of the book, even if no-one has ordered anything from you at all! Just get it into people’s hands. Preferably, the right people. Or the semi-right people.”

“The semi-right people. Michael…”

“If we can pinpoint a sector of the population who have some level of education and brains, a certain sense of level-headedness, but also with enough trashy media savvy to cause the book to go even more viral, it could be more influential. Neil DeGrasse Tyson!"

“He's already read it, from what I understand, and people are listening to him as much as they ever do. But Michael, do you really think this book could ever be more influential than the threat of nuclear war?”

“Aziraphale, this is what I’m capable of doing,” she said, her very even voice beginning to rise just a bit. “You and I are in the same boat, when it comes to being helpless. Don’t you remember what it’s like to be an angel within the ranks of an organisation that wants to blow up the Earth? It’s really bloody hard to convince them to stop!”

“I remember, but…”

“And you had Crowley! You had help! You had someone to lean on… you’ve always had that. I have nothing like that, Aziraphale! I’m on my own!”

“I know, Michael, and that’s why I tried to appeal directly to the Almighty Herself! Have you done that yet?”

“I’ve tried, but…”

“I stood on that exact spot over there, in the middle of that pentagram, and called upon Her, and got stonewalled by the Metatron! I see that something similar is happening to you. And yes, you don’t have anyone to lean on just now, but what you don’t realise is that at that time, neither did I! I had rejected Crowley in favour of my duty, after a fashion, and thank Somebody he was relentless and came back for me over and over again… otherwise, who knows what might’ve happened?”

“All right, Aziraphale, I think we’re getting a bit off-track here.”

“No, we’re not,” he insisted, getting to his feet. “Because Crowley.”

“Because Crowley?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale began to pace. “He’s relentless! And he must’ve had a sense that if he could just break Adam out of that airbase, things would go back to normal. Why else would he do something so daft? I mean, neither of us has our powers anymore, but we both still have a perspective, a broader sense of the consequences of things, than any other human, just because of having been around so long, and knowing the ins and outs of Heaven and Hell… Crowley must’ve felt that it would do some good!”

“I don’t think so, Aziraphale. That is to say, I don’t believe Crowley was correct about that. Adam’s kidnapping started out as a way of neutralizing him, so that they could summon the horsemen again, and start the whole thing over, but it wound up going... differently.”

“And when you say ‘they,’ you mean…”

“Gabriel, Uriel, Sandalphon, Remiel, plus Beelzebub, Hastur, and Dagon… the whole gang.”

“Ah.”

“They thought, with the Antichrist reluctant to do what he was created to do, they had to get him out of the way, make him oblivious to what was happening.
And then, the horsemen could lead the battle and destroy the world themselves. But the rub was, the horsemen couldn’t be found… everyone except Pestilence had gone into hiding. They weren’t gone, just camouflaged. In shame, I suppose.”

“And aren’t we glad to see Mr. Pestilence come out of retirement?” Aziraphale said bitterly, watching the passers-by on the street, the very few that there were, most wearing masks.

“If that plan had worked, then yes, perhaps freeing Adam would have had some mystical effect on the whole thing. But when Beelzebub reported that War, Famine, and Pollution were nowhere to be found, Uriel suggested that perhaps the humans could be manipulated into destroying themselves, and then Heaven and Hell could rule the Earth as partners… though that arrangement wouldn’t last long, I can tell you. It was perhaps the strangest meeting I’ve ever attended. Archangels do not dream, as you know, because we do not sleep, but I actually wondered for a moment if I was locked in a nightmare.”

“Yes, I could see that,” Aziraphale muttered. Then he took a deep breath and said, “So, one way or another, Adam needed to be kept out of the fray, so he wouldn’t be able to save the world, and his kidnapping just happened to be a really handy tipping point to rile up human ire.”

“Indeed. Anyway, it’s so out-of-hand now, I don’t know whether freeing Adam would have any effect. It’s not even about him anymore. Uriel’s plan has succeeded beyond even her wildest expectations.”

At that, the phone in Aziraphale’s pocket went “ping.”

“Excuse me, please,” Aziraphale said, as he moved to glance at it. He knew it couldn’t be Crowley, but on a day like today, he was not about to ignore any communiqués.

“Of course,” said Michael.

It was a text from Anathema. It said, “I’ve been looking at Agnes’ new prophecies. I might have something. Could help Adam. Could help Crowley. Could help everyone.”

Aziraphale responded with a heart emoji, a thumbs-up, a book, and a smile.

He then updated Michael on what had been said.

Anathema immediately responded with, “Dude, you and your emojis. Want to call me?”

“I have company, but I can do so in a bit,” he responded.

“Who?”

He sent an angel emoji, a rainbow, hands in prayer, then the word “Michael.”

“Can he not know what we’re talking about?”

“She. She can. She’s on our side.”

“R U sure?”

Aziraphale sent a shrugging emoji, then, “I’ve got to be. It’s all I have.”

The next thing he knew, the phone in his hand was ringing with a call from his psychic friend.

“Hello, Anathema,” he said. “You’re on speakerphone with me, and the Archangel Michael.”

“Wow. Seriously.”

“Hello Anathema,” said Michael. “To what do we owe the privilege of speaking to you?”

“Erm… wow. You mean, you don’t already know?”

“No, dear,” said Michael. “Many, many things in the human realm are a mystery to us. And in the hearts and minds of other angels… to which Aziraphale can attest, yes?”

He smiled sadly. “Yes, I can.”

“Wow,” Anathema repeated. “Well, okay… there’s a prophecy humming at me.”

“Humming at you?”

“Yes, it’s been known to happen. It’s vague, and I don’t know what causes it, but sometimes Agnes’ prophecies have hummed at me. Because of their importance, their poignancy… because they want me to pay attention to them. Because I’m connected to them, and I have a similar poignancy in me, I don’t know.”

“You and the prophecies are begotten from the same woman, who was psychically connected to all of time,” Michael said, matter-of-factly. “The prophecies are like living ancestors to you, and all of you are connected across time. It’s not a wonder that you can communicate with them, as could many of Agnes' descendants."

“Which prophecy is humming at you, Anthema?” Aziraphale asked.

“It says, ‘Liberation weaves Webs of greyish Elucidation. But when comes a Culmination of mystical Wills, a second Trial, it is clear as Aire. Liberation untangles Knots tied by the Great Mass of those Dancing the Paphian Jig, as coined by a Man of demonic Recall.’”

“Certainly the bit about a Man of demonic Recall speaks to me,” Aziraphale said, quietly.

"Right. It seems to suggest a man who has the memories of a demon. It seems to suggest Crowley. But that’s all I can glean, that applies to us! Do you think Agnes is trying to get Crowley’s attention? Like, he needs to read the prophecy, and it’ll make sense to him, and that’s the only way to get it interpreted?”

Aziraphale shut his eyes tight. “No, I don’t think so. Something is dawning on me. Read it again.”

Anathema repeated, “Liberation weaves Webs of greyish Elucidation. But when comes a Culmination of mystical Wills, a second Trial, it is clear as Aire . Liberation untangles Knots tied by the Great Mass of those Dancing the Paphian Jig, as coined by a Man of demonic Recall.”

“Well, I can tell you that in my line of work, we definitely know that liberation weaves webs of greyish elucidation, without a doubt,” Michael offered.

“What does that even mean?” Anathema asked her.

“It means free will is nice, but it causes things to get complicated. With freedom comes allowances of interpretation, of doctrine, of law, of one’s own freedom, in fact! Black and white become greyer,” Michael explained.

“Okay, that makes sense,” Anathema said, and they could hear a pencil on her end of the phone scratching against paper. “The next part is, ‘But when comes a Culmination of mystical Wills, a second Trial, it is clear as Aire.’ ‘It’ in this case is the freedom, yes? It is clear?”

“I should think so,” Michael answered. “A culmination of mystical wills, a second trial, is now: Heaven and Hell, both putting forth their greatest effort, trying for a second time.”

“Ah ha! And so, in this time, right now, in the question of freedom, the answer is clear. It does not cause a web of complex interpretation and grey-area, right?”

“Right,” Michael said. “But as to the rest of it, I’m afraid that I’m at a loss. What it says about freedom is understandable to me, but whose freedom it is referring to, and what it might have to do with Crowley…”

“Is it about freeing Crowley?” asked Abathema.

“I simply don’t know.”

“Wow, Agnes, even a freaking Archangel can’t figure out what you mean. Bravo,” Anathema said, flatly.

Aziraphale’s eyes were still shut tightly. “Anathema, read the last part again.”

Anathema said, “Liberation untangles Knots tied by the Great Mass of those Dancing the Paphian Jig, as coined by a Man of demonic Recall.”

“As coined by… as coined by…” Aziraphale said. “If the man of demonic recall is Crowley, then it’s about something he’s said.”

“Liberation untangles Knots tied by the Great Mass of those Dancing the Paphian Jig,” Anathema repeated. “Which part did Crowley say? And when?”

“I can’t remember Crowley ever talking about a jig, but who’s to say he didn’t? I mean, he’s old… as old as me. And contrary to popular belief, we haven’t spent every moment of the last six thousand years together…”

“But what good is it to anyone, including Agnes, if she writes something we can’t interpret? It must be something that one of us knows about,” Anathema offered. “Think. You’d know better than anyone.”

There was a long silence. Aziraphale racked his brain, and looked at Michael. She shrugged, and said, “I’ve given you everything I can. I suspect the rest is tied up in human lingo and mores that are beyond the comprehension of the likes of me.”

“Okay, human lingo,” Anathema said. “If we’re going to go there, I don’t even know what ‘paphian’ means. Hang on.”

“It refers to the city of Paphos on Cyprus,” Aziraphale said. “Sacred to the cult of Aphrodite.”

“Great, now we’re down the rabbit hole. It’s got to mean something else,” Anathema said, now shuffling about. Then she could be heard to call out, “Madame Tracy? Do you have a dictionary?”

“In the parlour, dear,” said the sweet voice in the background. “On the shelf next to the piano.”

In the background, again, they heard shuffling. Then, the voice of Sergeant Shadwell. “Wha’re ye serchin’ fer, lass?”

“The word ‘paphian,’ referring to the city of Paphos on Cyprus, apparently,” she told him, rifling through pages. “I’m trying to find out if it has some other meaning.”

Sergeant Shadwell laughed. “I know what it means.”

“What? What does it mean?” Anathema said.

“Ach, ‘tis no’ fittin’ the delicate ears of a young filly,” he responded.

“Come on, Mr. Shadwell, this is important,” she begged. “And trust me, my ears are not that delicate.”

Shadwell laughed again. “Can ye use it in a sentence?”

“Liberation untangles Knots tied by the Great Mass of those Dancing the Paphian Jig,” she said to him.

He laughed even more. “Well, lass, I cannae know anythin’ abou’ yer liberation or yer knots untyin’, but I can tell ye that dancin’ the Paphian jig is an ol’-timey way of sayin’… you know…”

“Saying what?”

Shadwell now hesitated. “I seen it in ol’ tomes describin’ the comportmen’ of witches. Came into bein’ nigh about 1650 er so. A favori’ euphemism for a century er more.”

“What does it mean, Mr. Shadwell?” Anathema asked, losing patience.

“Ye know. That thing. That people do.”

“What? Eating? Whistling? Playing the harmonica?”

“He means sex, dear,” Madame Tracy said. “He’s squeamish about saying it.”

“Liberation untangles Knots tied by the Great Mass of those… having sex?” Anathema asked.

Aziraphale jumped to his feet. “The Great Mass. Mass of those having… oh! A clusterfuck!”

“Oh! Oh my God!” Anathema cried out.

“Crowley’s been calling this conflict the Great Apocalyptic Clusterfuck!”

“Right! The GAC! It’s in a group text!” Anathema shouted. “Yes, I found it… it’s right here!”

“So, is the prophecy saying that freeing Adam will clear things up, and unravel the knots caused by the GAC?”

“Yes! My God, yes! Or… is it about freeing Crowley?”

Aziraphale felt a pang. It was so, so tempting to think so. Earlier today, he had been feeling maudlin and had thought there was a good chance he would never see his beloved again, given the circumstances. But he said, “Oh, Anathema. As much as I would love for a prophecy to tell me to move the Earth to rescue him, I daresay it’s got to be about Adam. Adam’s kidnapping was done by mystic forces, to keep him ignorant of what’s going on in the world, to keep his powers in check. Once he’s free…”

“Oh!” Anathema said, excitedly. “Oh! Oh! I see!”

“Adam is the key to Crowley. And to everything else. Crowley was right about that, and that’s why they locked him up!”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Michael,” Aziraphale said, turning to the Archangel on his sofa. “We’ve got to free the children!”

Chapter Text

According to the clock on the wall, it was 8:17 a.m. on Thursday, when Crowley woke. His first thought, after “Where am I? Oh yeah. Shit,” was that he could smell Aziraphale. It sent a pang of longing and sadness through him. It was like a knife. He realised the scent was on him, lingering in his clothes and hair, and on his hands. It was a sweet combination of aftershave, sweat, and sex, and it made Crowley not want to move from his cot for quite a while.

Around an hour later, an officer appeared, and Crowley forced himself to get upright. He noted at this time that being arrested was a bad circumstance under which not to be able to see the bottom half of people’s faces – it made his “captors” seem like shadowy figures, even though they were not, particularly. They were just clean-cut Americans, stationed in London, doing their jobs, and their accents, under normal conditions, would make them seem the opposite of shadowy. And they were basically innocents, pawns in a silly game orchestrated by the Double H, but the masks made them all look alike, and military being conformist by nature, Crowley gave up trying to tell people apart long ago. Well, he could distinguish men from women, and discern hair colour, but that was about it.

This officer gave Crowley a pre-packaged toaster pastry (that was not toasted), and a cup of coffee (that was actually pretty strong - from Starbucks, Crowley suspected). Then he asked if Crowley might like to avail himself of the gym upstairs, and/or the shower. He also promised to provide tools for shaving, and a change of clothes. Then he informed Crowley that he would be questioned at noon, and subsequently moved to a different facility once that was finished. Crowley briefly thought about declining the offers, as he did not want to wash away any of what he could feel and smell, and he really did not want to wear whatever these folks were planning to loan him.

But it wasn’t sensible not to take this opportunity. Yesterday hadn't been the cleanest day of his life, and without magical powers to mask one’s bodily emissions, he couldn’t stay unshowered forever. Plus, he wondered if a run (as much as he hated running) would help with the crushing despair he felt. He had got used to regular exercise as a way to stave off pandemic boredom, stress, and anger. Thank Somebody for Anathema’s guidance. So, he accepted.

After he ate a quick, unhealthy breakfast, he was led to a locker room and shown a change of clothes for a workout. He was asked his shoe, shirt and trouser size, and within a few minutes, the officer returned to the locker room with a pair of trainers and socks. “They’ve been worn before, but they’re disinfected for your protection,” he said. “Which reminds me, you’ll need to wear your mask on the gym floor.” He also promised to be back later with a change of clothes for afterwards.

Crowley climbed grumpily out of his black jeans and charcoal grey tee-shirt, and put on a pair of navy-blue shorts with “USAF” printed across the thigh, and a navy blue tee-shirt with “USAF” printed in giant letters across the chest, and the socks and trainers provided. He went out to the floor, and noticed that the other way out was blocked by an armed guard, who had his eye on Crowley. Otherwise, the place was loud and bustling like a gym ought to be, not super crowded, and Crowley chose a treadmill that faced out onto the street, several stories below.

And for forty-five minutes, he alternated running and walking. He ran when he felt despair creeping up, as though he could flee from it, or plough through it, or run it off somehow. He could see the streets of London, and given where they were, in the U.S. Embassy, he was looking down upon his own neighbourhood. That was of comfort, but he knew that in a few hours, he’d be questioned and moved to Who Knows Where, removing the advantage of knowing exactly where he was (such as that advantage was). He increased the treadmill’s speed, and tried to run away from the anxiety he felt at this thought.

First and foremost on his mind, of course, was would he be able to speak to Aziraphale, and if so, how could they maximise their time? He thought there might be a chance they could see each other in-person before Crowley’s move to another facility, but he vowed not to get his hopes up. He reckoned they wouldn’t be able to pass any materials back and forth, nor would they be able to exchange information about Crowley’s situation, the social media clusterfuck (and what they planned to do about it next) without talking in very clever code. He wished he had hung onto some of his Aramaic from the old days, as Aziraphale had.

Crowley remained more convinced than ever that Adam’s freedom (and that of his friends) was priority numero uno, but he was currently incarcerated for acting upon that very hunch. There was no way he’d be able to express that to his companion without being shut down, questioned again, more jail time, and possibly getting Aziraphale into trouble as well. Come to that, Crowley realised that he hadn’t yet told Aziraphale about the mechanism that had ultimately kept him from rescuing the children. It was a stone on the floor, adorned with the Unearthly insignia, which allowed only supernatural being to step on it, and cause the bars to disappear. The kids’ cell had been made into a kind of reliquary that mortals could not touch. And so, unless somehow they could contact the Archangel Michael and convince her to risk her very existence to thwart an apocalypse as they had, he had no idea how to free Adam, Pepper, Wensleydale, and Brian.

But there had to be a way, didn’t there?

---------------------------------------------------------------------

He stepped off the treadmill of his own accord around 10:30, and returned to the locker room. He found that someone had bagged up the clothes he had been wearing upon arrival and left them there, except for his black Ferragamo Tramezza Derby shoes, which were simply sitting side-by-side on a bench. Hanging on the front of a locker, there was also a pair of military-issue black trousers in his size, and a dark (but not quite navy) blue button-up shirt.

He had also been left a towel, a toothpaste-ready disposable toothbrush, some shampoo and body wash, some shaving cream and a razor, so he took them, walked into a shower, cleansed, shaved, and brushed. He really enjoyed a hot shower, and tried to use visualisation techniques he had employed as a demon (and a regular, if reluctant, practitioner of yoga) to imagine his muscles relaxing, his depression, anxiety, and fear all being washed down the drain along with his sweat, but it only marginally worked. Eventually, he stepped back out, dried off, and went back to the bench. He put on the clothes that had been offered. They fit him well. He wore the shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, and with the top three buttons undone. He put his Ferragamaos back on, mussed his hair, and looked in the mirror. He sort of looked like himself. Sort of. Though, he wished he had a comb, and maybe his Sigma Royal blazer with the dark blue lammé weave.

He tossed the towel and gym clothes in a bin marked “laundry,” left the trainers and toiletries on the bench, picked up the plastic bag with his own clothes in them, and walked out through the door to the hallway. He found the officer there waiting, and asked, “Okay, now what?”

---------------------------------------------------------------------

The interrogation, to Crowley's general surprise, happened on-time, and lasted less than twenty minutes. The Lieutenant only had ten questions, which were written on a steno pad in his hand: 1) Are you Anthony J. Crowley? 2) Did you break into the Tadfield Airbase on Tuesday night? 3) Why? 4) How? 5) What did you see? 6) Whom have you spoken to since? 7) Specifically, have you spoken to your partner about what you saw? 8) Are you involved with the kidnappings? 9) Do you know Adam Young? 10) What were you doing in the storage space last night, on Brynmaer Road?

He answered the first one truthfully, but upon being asked the second question, he replied, “I invoke my right against self-incrimination.”

The Lieutenant sighed. “You’re on U.S. soil.”

Crowley said, “Fine, then I take the Fifth. That’s what you lot say, isn’t it?”

Not surprised, the Lieutenant said, “Okay,” then proceeded with the rest of the questions. Only number seven did Crowley answer at all (in the negative), and after that, he only listened. The Lieutenant informed him that they had footage of him committing the crime of which he is accused, and that no right against self-incrimination, nor any Fifth Amendment, were going to save him from hard evidence such as that. Crowley noted with gratitude to Whomever that Newt’s name was not mentioned, nor was the presence on-camera of anyone other than himself. He wondered if the video had been doctored, or even manufactured, to exclude Newt. Either way, he was sure that the U.S. military (nor any other Earthly organisation) had not had anything to do with it. Everyone in this building with whom he had come into contact was being ordered and manipulated by supernatural forces.

He was then given a second chance to explain himself, but he declined. The Lieutenant then expounded calmly on what would happen next, using far more words than he needed to. Crowley would be transferred to another location for incarceration, awaiting formal charges. He would then stand trial in a U.S. military court, afforded all the rights of a U.S. and/or British citizen, including the right to speedy due process, and representation. If found guilty, he would probably serve a year for the break-in, though perhaps more if he still refused to speak, and a few more years for tampering with equipment.

“Understood,” Crowley said with a hard swallow. A “few years” didn’t sound like much, but he was already on a short clock, being human and all. And it would shorten his time with Aziraphale, and with all the creature comforts this world had to offer. Somehow, for him, he who had lived millennia, and had spent literally decades asleep and/or drunk, it was a harder pill to swallow than for someone who had begun this life knowing they only had about ninety years to work with.

Though, none of it mattered if the human race was to destroy itself, and its planet, sometime in the next few days.

“And if you insist on stonewalling us, we might haul in your boyfriend, because we don’t believe it’s possible that he doesn’t know at least something," said the Lieutenant.

“He doesn’t. But go talk to him if you want. He can handle himself,” Crowley said. It was true, but still, the thought of it made him a little sick.

He wondered if bringing Aziraphale into this was part of the plan, or if he, Crowley, was just digging a deeper hole by not cooperating.

Too soon to tell.

“Yeah, well, lucky for you, I'm a nice guy. One way or the other, we’re going to try to get Mr. Fell on the phone for you. Hang tight, someone will be right in.
Have a nice day.”

He left, and two minutes later, a female officer came in, plugged a phone into the wall, dialled from a piece of paper in her hand, and gave Crowley the receiver. She sat down in the chair across from him, signalling that she would not be giving him privacy for the call.

Weirdly, Crowley felt flustered and nervous. This was happening fast… what the Hell was he supposed to say?

It rang nine times, and then, Crowley heard a click. “Hello. You’ve reached A.Z. Fell and Company Booksellers,” said Aziraphale’s recorded voice. Ordinarily, Crowley would just cut off the call now, but he waited to hear the rest of the message… it might be the last time he got to hear this voice for quite some time.

He'd had had no intention of leaving a message, but once the recording was over, on impulse, he said, “Angel, it’s me. I’ll assume you’re out, being productive, working on the project. I hope it’s going well… I don’t even want to think about the alternative if it doesn’t go well. I’m still in custody, obviously.

"Listen, I don’t know when I’ll have another opportunity to phone you… I really hope it’s soon, though, because I’m having a hard time not being with you. For multiple reasons, actually, but mainly because, well, I’ve just always had a hard time not being with you. For time immemorial, as they say. And angel, if we aren’t able to see each other on the other end of this thing, the GAC, the crisis we face, just know…”

And he stopped. He was trying to find the right words to say to the only man, woman, angel, demon, animal, vegetable, mineral, object, or entity he had ever truly loved, in the event that the world should end, and they should die, and be separated forever. He had been down this road before, but the stakes were higher this time for him and Aziraphale as a pair, so whatever he said had to be good. Poignant. And he was trying to work it out in the time it took for an answerphone to allow a message, and in front of a stranger.

“…just know… I love you. I always have. And I don’t know what more I can say. I love you. That’s it. Bye, angel.”

'I love you.' The three most powerful words in the English language, when used in the right order, together. Simple, to the point. What better thing was there to say?

And yet, he felt empty.

He handed the receiver to the woman, who said, “That was nice,” as she placed it back into the cradle.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

She unplugged the phone, and said, “The transport vehicle is being readied. We’ll come get you when it’s time to go. You can have some lunch during the ride.”

“Fine,” he said flatly, and then she left the room locking it behind her. He sat in a chair and stared at the wall.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the bookshop, Aziraphale kept a hard copy, a print-out of Agnes’ second volume.

The Archangel Michael studied it. She scrutinsed a few prophecies, including the one that seemed to indicate that Adam’s liberation would unravel the “clusterfuck” currently gripping the planet.

“I just don’t see what you’re seeing,” Michael said to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale sighed. “Which part?”

He had been through a few of the prophecies word-by-word with her, and was surprised at how obtuse she was. “I understand that ‘Liberation untangles Knots tied by the Great Mass of those Dancing the Paphian Jig,’ means that freedom will undo, as Crowley calls it, the Great Apocalyptic Clusterfuck. What I do not understand is how you know that it’s Adam’s freedom, and not Crowley’s.”

“Believe me, Michael, I would love to believe that freeing Crowley is the answer to all of our problems, because every fibre of my being is screaming at me to help him. As always has been the case, as a matter of fact,” Aziraphale said to her, quite seriously.

“So, what is it? Something in your gut telling you it isn’t so?”

“Yes, after a fashion,” he said.

“I don’t understand the human gut.”

“And well you should not. But think of it not as gut, but as logic. Crowley was arrested well after it all started. Logic tells me that Crowley’s incarceration is PART of the GAC. Or, at the very least, a by-product. It’s certainly not the cause. Adam’s incarceration, or kidnapping, or whatever, is the cause. It all started…”

“But the damage is done, Aziraphale,” Michael said. “Adam’s kidnapping may have been the kickoff to all of this, but it has now become about much more than that.”

“You didn’t let me finish. It all started as a way to keep Adam oblivious to what was going on, yes? But once he’s free, he will see what’s going on!”

“And?”

“And he will fix it, just like he did before!” Aziraphale practically shouted. “He won’t be able to stop himself!"

“What do you mean, he won’t be able to stop himself?”

“I mean, he’ll be horrified by what he sees! He’ll start to develop opinions and notions, even if he doesn’t realise it, and the world will change.”

“But how can you be sure?”

“Because it's happened before! A year ago, the first time around, he believed in saving the rain forest, and a rain forest popped up in the middle of a commerce centre in Brazil. He believed the Kraken is real, so it became real. The lost continent of Atlantis, as well. Tibetans began popping up out of the road in Oxfordshire, because Adam believed Tibetans were spying on him. He recorporated me just by saying something like, 'it’s not right that you don’t have your own body,'” Aziraphale explained. “If Heaven and Hell wanted him neutralised, doesn’t that mean that his powers come back into being when the Apocalypse begins to rise, one way or another?”

“Yes, that’s the theory.”

“Then, Adam being Adam, he’ll be, as I said, horrified by what’s going on. He’ll know that nuclear war is wrong, and will wish the tension to quell. He will think something like, social media should be better regulated, and it shall be. President Trump should belt up, China needs to calm down, things like that.”

Michael now sighed in exasperation. “But Aziraphale, how can you know what Adam will think?”

“Because he’s a child, Michael, and he wasn’t reared to be the Antichrist – he was reared to be a human being. And that’s what he is: human incarnate, age eleven, nearly twelve. He just wants to play with his friends, eat crisps, and go home to a loving mum and dad at the end of the day. Because we watched him will away Armageddon once more, and it was as easy for him as falling off a log!” Aziraphale insisted. Then he raised his voice in irritation and said, “And because it’s right there in the bloody prophecy!”

“Prophecy,” Michael repeated, staring at the paper.

“Yes. Agnes Nutter was never, ever wrong.”

“So it would seem.”

Aziraphale sighed and intentionally caught Michael’s eyes, whereas he had always avoided them before. “Will you please help me?”

“I’m risking my very existence. You know that.”

“I know that quite well.”

“And I don’t have the option of swapping bodies with a demonic buddy if things don’t go well.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard. “You worked it out. How we survived.”

"Yes, I decided to analyse the holy water that I retrieved from Hell that day. Your ambient presence was lingering in it, like an aura. Or if you'd been human then, like DNA. Given that I know I definitely saw Crowley in that bathtub, I put two and two together."

"Oh."

"Then I tossed the water on the pyre they tried to use on you, which undoubtedly held traces of Crowley, and the whole damned thing melted. So, two birds."

"Oh. Thank you," he said, sheepishly. "Thank goodness you're the clever one, Michael."

"Indeed. And I can’t believe you made me miracle you a towel," she said with a frown.

“Sorry. Please don’t tell anyone,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know. You’ve been known to be a stickler in the past.”

“I’m evolving,” she said. Then she took a deep breath, and continued, "Which brings us back to the task at hand. I'm evolving, Aziraphale, but be that as it may, I don’t know if I’m evolved to the point of… this.”

“What is the point of evolution if we don’t use it to better ourselves? The world around us? Those whom we care about? Take risks?” he asked her.

"Ugh. I knew you'd say something like that."

“Well, are you, or are you not, an Archangel? Aren’t you, by definition, good? Aren’t you supposed to care about the human race? Why bother making me and Crowley comfortable as humans if you don’t care?”

“I care…”

“I know you do,” he said. “You’re intelligent. You’re outside the box. You don’t enjoy following Gabriel’s orders any more than I did. You’ve done well, so far… but you’ve gone as far as you can go under-cover. Now it’s time to unmask and be all you can be.”

She smiled. “Be all I can be?”

“It’s human rhetoric, but it’s clichéd for a reason,” he shrugged.

“I’m on duty this evening for a few hours with the kids.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, I’m the one supposed to guard them.”

“Oh!”

“I might have an opening.”

“Oh, Michael!”

The Archangel stood up. “I make no promises, about unmasking myself to Gabriel and the others, mind you."

“Let’s go!”

“No, too many cooks. I’ll go alone. Give me a chance to work out a way to do it so that...”

“No! You are not shutting me out of this! Not you, too!”

“Aziraphale, you’re human now.”

“So?”

“They might shoot you!”

“They won’t shoot me,” he dismissed. “Not unless I attack them or give them other cause. I can be a distraction while you do what you need to do.”

"What? That's barmy."

“Michael, I’m coming with you. Besides, if you get caught, you can blame me. Gabriel and Uriel and the others will have no trouble believe I’m the one who came up with this cockamamie scheme.”

“Oh, I’m going to regret this,” she said, moving toward the bookshop door.

He followed her. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

“How shall we do this? Travel, I mean?”

By then, the door was open, and Aziraphale locked it, and shut it behind them as they stepped out onto the Soho street. She lifted her hand, and a black taxi came around the corner on demand. “Tadfield Airbase, please,” she said, and they were off.

What she and Aziraphale didn’t know was that as just as the taxi was pulling away from the kerb, the phone was ringing inside the bookshop.

Chapter Text

The Archangel Michael had no problem, of course, waving the cameras non-functional at Tadfield Airbase.

“Are you sure they won’t catch you? Disabling the surveillance system could be interpreted as an act of rebellion,” Aziraphale said.

“I’ll just make new footage,” Michael shrugged. “How do you think they got Crowley arrested?”

“If they did it, won’t it occur to them that you did it?”

Michael looked at him with tedium, as if to ask, “Really? Have you learned nothing?”

“Right. Sorry.”

The two of them were now standing on a patch of grass, looking at a large, arched-over building. Michael had used her “credentials” to get them through the gate, and had instructed the taxi to bring them here. It had driven away only moments ago.

“Is this building where the kids are?” Aziraphale wondered.

“It is.”

“When does your shift begin?”

“In a couple minutes.”

“Are you ready to go in?” he asked her.

“Are you?”

“Well, no. But we’ve got to.”

“So you keep telling me,” Michael sighed. And with that, she began walking forward with her usual soldier-like gait. She kept her eyes fixed on the door.

When they reached it, she peeked inside through a narrow window.

“Oh, damn,” she whispered. “There’s a guard inside. I forgot about that.”

“Oh?”

“They began using a human guard here at the main entrance a day or two ago, while one of us – angel or demon – handles the actual
containment area."

"Why?"

"It all had to do with having Crowley arrested, and then suddenly feeling as though manipulating the U.S. military wouldn't be the worst idea, given the end goal. Don't get me started."

“Is the human guard even aware of what’s here?”

“To varying degrees,” Michael shrugged. “Depends upon the rank and Gabriel’s assessment of their intelligence level.”

“Gabriel’s assessment. Of intelligence? Oh, good grief,” Aziraphale said, cynically, rolling his eyes.

"Don't get me started on that either," she muttered. “Well, anyway, it might be best if you stay here.”

“Stay here? Outside?”

“Yes, Aziraphale. I can’t just miracle you unseen! And you can’t teleport any longer!”

“But if the guard is human, then he won’t recognise me,” Aziraphale said. “Just say I’m your associate. Or a child psychologist. Or a magician, come to entertain the kids!”

Michael looked him over. “That last one might be the only thing that works, given what you’re wearing.”

Aziraphale looked himself over now. He was donning his usual light-coloured tan-and-tartan ensemble, including the topcoat, a bit warm for this weather. “I like what I’m wearing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it, but you do look like a novelty act in the twenty-first century. No offence.”

Aziraphale frowned. “So, am I a magician or not, then?”

“No, because what will happen is, we’ll say that you’re here for the kids or whatever, and he’ll call his superiors for clearance.”

“But you’ll have to take one hundred per cent of the blame if you don’t let me come with you! You can disappear later, but you won’t be able to, unless you’ve got holdup.”

“Holdup? Do you mean backup?”

“Oh. Yes.”

She regarded him contemplatively. “You’re right. Blast it.”

“And you’re going to need an extra set of hands… there are four kids. What if one of them is injured? What if they’re scared stiff?”

“Fine, fine, just… keep your mouth shut unless absolutely necessary,” she said, moving one last time toward the entrance. She waved her hand over the keypad, and the door clicked open.

Aziraphale recognised the man inside immediately.

“Good afternoon, Agent Michael,” said the American airman at the front post, whose nametag read Deisenberger. “I trust you are reportaging for your shift.”

“I am,” said Michael. “Oh, er, this is Mr. Fell. He’s here to entertain the children.”

“I was not informated on any entertainmenting of…”

“Yes, it was a last-minute decision, already been cleared with the higher-ups.”

“Still, ma’am, I think…” he replied, picking up the phone on the wall.

“Sergeant Deisenberger, step aside, and put that communications device down. Now.” Michael spoke cleanly, clearly, but calmly. Though, Aziraphale had known her a long time, and could detect a hint of nervousness in her voice.

Deisenberger put the phone back in its cradle, stood upright and saluted. “Ma’am,” he said curtly.

Michael looked at Aziraphale meaningfully, and moved without a word toward a hallway, just behind the Sergeant. Aziraphale followed, briefly glancing at the face of the soldier standing at attention, and wondering how long he would stay that way.

“That’s the chap that I snapped to God Knows Where,” Aziraphale whispered as they walked.

“Yeah, you miracled him home to Iowa,” Michael said. “God did, in fact, know where, and She immediately had him brought back here to finish out his enlistment. The normal way, of course. After he’d had a day or two to recover from the shock.”

“Oh, my. If you see Her, tell her I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

Michael chuckled. Then it occurred to her to ask, “Why didn’t he recognise you? Humans don’t forget a thing like the face of the person who teleported them across the planet.”

“I was sharing a body with Madame Tracy at the time,” Aziraphale said, matter-of-factly.

“You were what? Never mind.”

They were about to come to a widening in the hallway. Michael clicked her fingers, and there was a subtle tinkling sound, then a quiet snap.

“Shorting out the cameras again?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yes,” she said, approaching the area. She then strode through to the door and waved her hand in front of the card-reader panel, it gave an approving beep, and the door marked ‘Military holding cells’ buzzed, and was ready to open. They walked through, and Michael muttered, “Right. Past checkpoint number two.”

“Hello?” said a voice as they did so.

Down a hallway came another American officer, a bit less dim-looking than Deisenberger.

“Erm, hello,” Michael said to him, in as friendly a manner as she could.

“Agent Michael, nice to see you,” he said, as he approached. His nametag said Miller, and he looked at Aziraphale with disdain. “And you are?”

“Oh, erm, Mr. Fell,” Aziraphale said, pleasantly. “Pleased to meet you. I’ve come as an entertainer for the children. I do magic tricks.”

“I see,” said Miller. “Who authorised this?”

“Erm… Agent Gabriel?”

“I’ll have to call…” the man began, and his hand went to his belt.

Michael then made a gesture at him as though she were flicking liquid in his face with all five fingers.

“Oh no… what did you do?” Aziraphale asked, voice trembling.

Suddenly, Miller smiled and said, “So, how long have you been practising magic?"

“Erm, a while now. Years and years,” Aziraphale answered.

“Heh, did you go to Hogwarts?”

Aziraphale smiled pleasantly. “I rather wish I had.”

“Would you show me a trick?”

“Sure, if you’d like,” Aziraphale said, scrambling in his mind to come up with something. Michael miracled a coin into his hand, then turned, and walked toward the next checkpoint. She disappeared, and from around the corner, Aziraphale heard the telltale click of getting past the surveillance, and then the unmistakable buzz of a door opening. After that, it was quiet… she was through.

Aziraphale was disappointed, but understood that he was now the decoy. They had unexpectedly run across a random guard, and he was now in charge of occupying this person’s attention.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

To Crowley’s surprise, he had been transported in an SUV with tinted windows and the child locks enabled, rather than in some sort of armoured car. The female officer who had been in the room when he’d phoned Aziraphale sat in the backseat with him, and unlocked his cuffs after everyone was securely inside, and the vehicle was moving. He was glad to be able to see where they were going, not that he reckoned it made any difference. He felt a pang of longing as they drove past Battersea Park, as it was the landmark that best represented where he and his partner lived. The neighbourhood went past as though it were indifferent to Crowley’s plight, and before they knew it, they were driving through Hammersmith, headed toward the M4.

Once they cleared Ealing, the driver (who was on the left, as it was a U.S. vehicle) reached into a box on the seat beside him, extracted two smaller boxes, and handed them to the backseat.

The officer took them and handed one to Crowley. “I’ve tested Covid negative in the last three days, but I will keep my mask on while you eat your lunch, if you’d like.”

“No, it’s all right,” he said, quietly. “It’s more fun to take meals with another person.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

And they both took down their masks and had lunch: a tuna sandwich, two Clementines, a small bag of Doritos, a miniature bottle of water, and a Tollhouse chocolate chip “cookie.” They had a conversation to pass the time. She had been in the military for two years, had received this posting at the Embassy in London because she had studied here during uni (pre-law). She was hoping to serve four years, then go to law school. She wanted to get certified to practise law on both sides of the pond, but she wasn’t entirely sure yet how to do that… at the moment, she was just trying to get through this posting, and this pandemic.

Crowley gave her the cover story he gave anyone who asked: forty-five years old, born and raised here, used to do a corporate-fixer sort of job, during which he met his partner, twelve years ago. He was fired from that job and switched to online journalism. On occasion, he helps run a bookshop, and really misses the nightlife, since London went into lockdown.

"How did you graduate to, guy who breaks into a military facility and tampers with U.S. government assets?" she asked, half-whimsically, half in a perhaps-I-can-get-something-out-of-you sort of way.

"No comment," he said, with a smirk.

She shrugged, and continued eating her lunch.

And as expected, in about an hour and a half, they arrived in Oxfordshire, and the roads they were on once leaving the M4 indicated clearly to Crowley that they were headed for Tadfield.

“It’s weird that you’re going to incarcerate me in the very place you’ve arrested me for breaking into. Aren’t you lot afraid I’ll run amok and try to find what I was looking for in the first place?”

“Not really,” she said. She indicated the driver. “Jeremy is armed, and so am I. I’m pretty sure you’ll go where you’re told, and stay there.”

He chuckled. “Okay. You are… well, probably not wrong.”

----------------------------------------------------------------

Rusty as he was, Aziraphale had been able to execute a few fun coin tricks for Sergeant Miller. He made it disappear out of his hands in about eight different ways, and reappear in the Sergeant’s ear. He made it switch from one of his hands to the other, in another eight different ways. The man was outlandishly delighted by it, and eventually walked away laughing, no longer on-guard for intruders in the facility.

By then, he assumed that Michael had come into contact with the kids… minutes had passed, and he wondered what was up. Just about on-cue, the door through which Michael had disappeared re-opened, and she stuck her head out. “We’ve run into a snag.”

“A snag?”

“Yes,” she said, beatifically, with a little smile. “The kids won’t leave.”

Aziraphale frowned hard. “Excuse me?”

“They won’t leave. I opened the cell to usher them out, but they wouldn’t even step across the threshold. Which is to say, Adam wouldn’t, and the others followed suit.”

“Why?”

Her smile turned bitter. It was an expression Aziraphale had seen on the face of the Archangel Michael many, many times. “They don’t trust me.”

“Why not?”

“Because they know me – and Gabriel, Uriel, Sandalphon, Hastur, Dagon, Analosima, and a dozen other angels and demons – as their captors. They don’t understand why they’re here, which is by design, and all they know is there’s a group of people who bring them things from time to time, but who are keeping them captive. We don’t speak to them much or try to relate to them or socialise. Most of us are a little bit afraid of Adam… but he’s a child. So he doesn’t trust any of us. He’s afraid of being lied to. That they’ll be ushered out of here, to other, worse conditions, or their doom. And I can't really blame him."

“Damn,” Aziraphale spat. “So what do we do?”

“Well, I asked him whether he had been prepared to leave with Crowley and Mr. Pulsifer when they came to rescue him, and he said, that situation was different. So, I had an idea. I don't know how you'll feel about it..."

"Well, he has seen both Crowley and Newt shrugging off the forces of Heaven and Hell, rather than colluding with them."

"Exactly, so..."

"Crowley very much supported him in who he is. Which is to say, not just the Antichrist, but Adam Young. Son of Arthur Young. A human child."

"You and Crowley did that together, yes?"

“Yes! Then what are we waiting for?” Aziraphale practically shouted.

“Shhhh! Aziraphale, it’s not that simple.”

“I don’t care what it takes, let me in there!” he said, charging for the door. Michael let him through two more card-swipe points, and he stepped into a lit space…

The air was still, but at the same time, it vibrated somehow. In one or two seconds of silence, Aziraphale made note of how oppressive the sound-proof room actually was. The air seemed to absorb and dissolve and remove from existence his exhales.

“It’s you!” he heard from a child’s voice to his right. It was the voice of Adam Young.

Aziraphale looked at him. He was painfully childlike - smooth-cheeked, plump-lipped, small, and clean. He had intelligent, but innocent, eyes – just as Aziraphale remembered.

“Yes, it’s me,” Aziraphale said to him with a smile. It was an auspicious moment.

Pepper then asked, “Wait, are you on her side, or is she on yours?”

Aziraphale said, “Michael? She’s on my side. At great personal risk.”

“Why?” Adam wondered.

“Angels are created imperfect,” he said, rather softly. “And evolution is a part of existence. Some just take longer than others to realise what true virtue is.”

“That makes... a kind of sense,” Adam replied, a bit uncertainly. “Doesn’t it, guys?”

“How do you know she’s not lying?” Brian wondered, uncharacteristically ignoring a question from his ringleader.

“I don’t. I have to trust her because right now, she’s the only hope I’ve got.”

“And how do we know you’re not lying?” Pepper asked.

“Same answer. I’m all you’ve got,” he told her. “But Adam knows me. Adam knows that I honour him for who he is. Don’t you?”

“I do," Adam said. It seemed as though he was consciously realising it for the first time.

“What in the name of blueberry flapjacks does that mean?” Brian wondered, cynically.

Adam said, “He helped me become sure of what I wanted – and didn’t want - the rest of my life to be.”

“And what is that?” Pepper wondered.

“I wanted to be me. A kid. Just Adam. I didn’t want to be the… well, I didn’t want to destroy the world.”

“That’s right,” Aziraphale said. “And you still don’t.”

Adam nodded, keeping his eyes on Aziraphale. “I learned a lot about myself because of you and Crowley. I did a lot of thinking after that day.”

Aziraphale smiled widely. “Oh, Adam, I’m ever so glad to hear it!”

“And not just because you told me I’m better than Heaven and Hell, that I’m human incarnate,” Adam continued. “But because I could feel those things in your presence. Like I was swimming in it. When you took me away…”

“What? When did that happen?” Brian asked, loudly.

“Just before the devil turned up,” Adam told him flippantly.

“You can explain it all later, Adam. The point is, you know I’m on the up and up,” Aziraphale said. “Yes?”

“I reckon so,” the boy answered.

“So will you come with me? All four of you?” Aziraphale asked them.

Brian, Pepper and Wensley looked at Adam, who nodded, and said, “But not if she is anywhere nearby. Michael. Or any of them.”

“We might need her to help get us out of here,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“We will go nowhere with any of the deengel squad,” he said.

“The what?”

“Demons and angels… deengels. Makes it easier to say. And they’re all rubbish, and we don’t trust them, do we guys?” Adam said.

“Nope, no way, no,” the other three of The Them said, in different ways.

Aziraphale groaned. He thought about the stakes, and the prophecy, and the nuclear threat looming over the world. This would be worth it, even if he had to do it without Michael’s help, which it made it a hundred times harder to get out of here. “Fine, I’ll just ask her to leave.”

“Right, but you see, there’s that,” Adam said, pointing at the floor. “The mechanism that opens the cell.”

And that was when Aziraphale saw it: the diamond with two lines through either long end. The Unearthly insignia.

“Ah,” he said flatly. “This was why Crowley and Newt couldn’t get you out.”

“Yes,” Adam said.

Aziraphale, with a sinking heart, stepped on the insignia, and as expected, a holographic white box emerged from it. He swallowed hard, and stuck his hand inside. The box stretched around his arm, then shoulders, then morphed to envelop Aziraphale’s body, then the light pulsed for about ten seconds.

At the end of the ten seconds, the light turned purple, there was a terrible noise, and the light disappeared back into the floor, as though it had never been there at all. And the bars remained in place, keeping the children contained.

Aziraphale was crestfallen. “And you’ve tried stepping on it yourself, Adam?” he asked, already suspecting the answer.

“Yes. It doesn’t work for me. See?” And he demonstrated.

“Just a moment,” Aziraphale said. “I will be back. I promise.”

----------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale stepped through the door and shut it behind him. Michael was sitting on a padded chair in a dank square room that someone had tried (and failed) to make look homey. At least it had a plant. It was fake, but all the same.

"Hi," she said a bit bitterly. "Not surprised to find you alone."

“We have a problem.”

"Do we?"

“They won’t leave unless you, Michael, are nowhere in the vicinity. They don’t even want you helping us escape.”

“Oh. That is a problem.”

“And I can’t step on that Unearthly insignia, and expect any kind of result.”

“Yes, yes, I realise that. It’s a problem.”

They were silent for a few moments, and Aziraphale said, “Well, maybe you could earn their trust somehow.”

“We don’t have time for that," she said. She took a deep breath then, and said, "Aziraphale, do you remember when I visited you and Crowley at the bookshop almost a year ago, just after you became human?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you remember what I said then?”

“About what?”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale stepped out of the oppressively quiet room where the four children were being held captive, and into an equally oppressive waiting-room-like area where the Archangel Michael was waiting smugly.

“We have a problem. They won’t leave unless you, Michael, are nowhere in the vicinity. They don’t even want you helping us escape. And I can’t step on that Unearthly insignia, and expect any kind of result,” he said, referring to the seal on the floor. The kids were in a vault that only a supernatural entity could breach.

“Yes, yes, I realise that. It’s a problem.”

They were silent for a few moments, and Aziraphale said, “Well, maybe you could earn their trust somehow.”

“No, we don’t have time for that. Aziraphale, do you remember when I visited you and Crowley at the bookshop a year ago, just after you became human?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you remember what I said then?”

“About what?” he asked, and his stomach started to flutter. Because he knew.

“About the Almighty’s forgiveness? And Her possible plans for you? About choices she’s willing to give you?”

He said, breathily, “Yes.”

“She gave you a year. And it’s been… well, close enough, I should say. Summer to summer.”

“Oh, dear.”

“What are your thoughts, Aziraphale?”

“My thoughts are all over the place. I have a thousand questions, a thousand reservations.”

“It’s your choice, but are any of your reservations more important than those kids?”

“I suppose they’re not… although…”

“Are any of them more important than saving the world from plunging itself into a degenerative nuclear Armageddon?”

“No. It’s just, it’s not a decision I feel I have the right to make on my own.”

“I know, Aziraphale, but we don’t have time to go get Crowley and have a heart-to-heart.”

“I know, I know!” he spat, in frustration.

There was a long pause, and Michael softened, stood up, and said, “Aziraphale, I feel that I can anticipate, and even understand, some of the questions and reservations you are having… some of them will remain questions until much later in the game, I’m afraid. I wish I could reassure you further.”

“But if I opt to…” Aziraphale said, swallowing hard. “Do what I need to do to free the children, won’t I need your help?”

"Well... perhaps. Perhaps not."

“And if I do that, won’t the Almighty suspect the reason why?”

"Probably.”

“And won’t that get you into trouble? And me?"

Michael shrugged. "Again, perhaps. Perhaps not."

“How? How can you say, perhaps not?”

“Gabriel and the others, they will be pissed off, certainly. But they are not the Almighty.”

“So, the Almighty would just step in and… poof? And never tell them?”

"She doesn't answer to them, nor feel that She owes them anything,” Michael replied, still smirking a bit. “She stood back and watched while the Apocalypse got derailed, and doesn’t seem much the worse for wear for it… it took me a while to understand that.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Ineffable, Aziraphale. She is mysterious indeed. The dealer at the high-stakes table who smiles all the time, and refuses to divulge the rules.”

“What if the reason She won’t tell you the rules is that, she’s planning to sic Gabriel on you, first chance She gets?”

“That’s my problem, not yours. And certainly not Adam’s, nor Pepper’s, nor Brian, nor Wensleydale’s. And it’s not the world’s problem. If an Archangel cannot risk a sacrifice, then what is the good of us?”

“I just asked you that a couple of hours ago.”

“I know.”

“You seem confident.”

“I’m not, particularly. But I’m not afraid, either. Even though perhaps I should be." She paused, then, "So what’s your choice, my friend?”

“I’ve got to go in there and save them,” he said, voice trembling, worried, reserved, doubtful, fearful. “I’ll never be able to live with myself in any state of being, if I pass up this chance.”

“Good man,” she said. “Which might be the last time anyone can say that to you.”

“What do I have to do, to… you know? Or is it you who have to get in touch with... you know?”

She smiled calmly, took a deep breath, exhaled and said, “If it’s going to happen, it’s already done. She knows what your choice is. She understands what’s really in your heart.”

“I suppose She does.”

“I’ll see you around, yeah? If the kids want me gone, then I’m gone.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Thanks for the help,” he said sincerely, then turned back around. Michael waved her hand and opened the door, and Aziraphale entered the children’s containment area. He didn’t look back to make sure she was gone… he just knew it.

“So? What’s going to happen now?” Adam asked.

“Get ready to move quickly,” Aziraphale said, a little shell-shocked.

“Really? You can get us out? And the others are gone?”

“As gone as I can make them.”

“And you’re not messing us about?”

“I would never do that, Adam. Not to you. Nor any child.”

"Adam, it’s like he said: it seems like he’s all we’ve got,” Pepper pointed out. “Let’s do this.”

Adam nodded. “Okay.”

Aziraphale smiled weakly, and stepped up to it. He looked at the Unearthly insignia, the mechanism used by both Heaven and Hell to keep valuable artefacts and relics under lock-and-key, to guarantee that no human could accidentally access them until the proper time. Only supernatural beings (who are not the Antichrist, apparently) may open them. He had already stepped on it once just a few minutes ago and been rejected, and now Michael was gone. If this didn’t work, he didn’t know what he’d do.

“Here goes nothing,” Aziraphale muttered, and he placed his foot upon the insignia once again.

The white box of holographic light came out of the floor.

Once more, Aziraphale gulped and put his hand inside it, and once more, the light spread over his form, and seemed to examine him.

This time, it felt different. This time, he felt the light infusing him, not just judging or examining him. It was taking hold of something within him, and empowering him. It felt warm, affirming, safe, and normal.

But not particularly human.

Aziraphale realised he had closed his eyes to brace for the impact of whatever was going to happen. He opened them, and saw that his hands, arms, chest, legs, and feet were bathed in a bright blue light. He knew instinctively that this light was coming from inside of him, from his true nature. He understood that the white box was a kind of scout, set to analyse a body and search within it for supernatural energy it could augment and radiate, thereby balancing the power of the reliquary, and dissolving its locks.

How did he know this? He just did. Just as he used to “know” a lot of things he had since forgotten.

He glowed with Heaven’s light. He hummed. He celebrated the Almighty’s mercy. He thought about the life he had built for himself, and felt horribly guilty for what was happening now, but he couldn’t help it. This was pure joy! Joy, at least for the moment…

“Oi! What’re you waiting for?” came a voice. Adam’s voice. Then the boy nudged him hard on the arm.

“What?” he asked. “Oh!”

Aziraphale’s concentration broke, and the light disappeared. For a split second he was dismayed because the bars were back in place. Then he realised that the children were on the outside of the bars – all four of them. They were looking at him expectantly, no doubt wondering how to get the Hell out of there.

“You’re out! Oh, thank goodness, you’re out!” he shouted. On impulse he reached out and grabbed the nearest child, which turned out to be Pepper, as Adam was already moving toward the door. He hugged her tightly.

“All right, all right,” she said, uncomfortably, patting him on the back. “Erm… you’re squeezing me…”

He let go of her, and said, “Sorry, dear. Now, children, we might have to fight our way out… or we may not. We may be able to sneak out, or maybe not. We may be able to use a ruse… or perhaps not. I know WHO we’re dealing with, on a broad scale, but not WHAT – I’ve been out of the loop for quite some time. Just do exactly as I…”

And with that, he felt something powerful come over him. His eyes opened wide with surprise, and he stared off into the distance.

“Do exactly as you say?” Brian asked him. “Erm, hello?”

“Yes… exactly as I say,” Aziraphale said lightly, distracted.

“What’s wrong?” Adam asked, coming back to the group.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale answered. “He’s here. Nearby. I can feel him.”

“You can… FEEL him?”

“Yes, it’s happened before,” Aziraphale said, his voice still airy, and unfocused. “Back in the old days, sometimes – though not always – I could feel… because I was a scout on Earth, in the trenches, and I was trained to… but no, it’s…”

“Well, if he’s here, let’s get him out!” Pepper shouted, practically bouncing up and down. “He tried to break us out… let’s return the favour!”

“I agree!” Adam exclaimed. “What better time?”

“Actually, that makes sense,” Wensleydale commented. “It’s just logic.”

“Because what else would you do? Go home, and then try to break back in another day?” Brian asked, rhetorically.

“No, that’s daft,” Pepper declared.

“Exactly, so let’s go!” Brian said, taking Aziraphale’s hand, and pulling hard.

“But he was arrested in London,” Aziraphale protested, not moving.

“So? They’ve got cars!” Adam told him.

“Actually, that’s true,” said Wensleydale.

“But no, he was arrested for breaking in here! Why would they bring him back here?” Aziraphale asked them. “It doesn’t make sense!”

"Oh, come on! If we start operating on what makes sense, we’ll just have to stand here all night," Pepper insisted.

“Come on!” Adam shouted, taking Aziraphale’s other hand. “Let’s get Crowley!”

This time, with both Adam and Brian tugging, it was impossible for Aziraphale to ignore, though he noted that as a fully-grown human male, he would have been able to resist two adolescent boys just by pulling back a bit. In his current state, they couldn’t move him involuntarily even if they had a bulldozer.

But he let them move him. They went for the door, Aziraphale first, children behind.

And they were out.

Now came the hard part.

And absently, Aziraphale thought, “The prophecy was right, of course. Rescuing Adam is allowing us to unravel everything else.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------

A military jail cell. So much more severe, and jail-like, than a locked office in the U.S. Embassy. Even he looked military-issue now, with his blue trousers and blue shirt. Thank Somebody they fit well, and he was allowed to wear the shirt untucked.

The walls were black, the bars were black. There was a cot, a sink, a mirror, a toilet, and a wooden table and chair… and that was it. No basket of nibbles, no flags on the wall, no indication whatsoever that this room was meant for anything other than keeping someone locked up, possibly for a long time.

Outside the bars, there was a small rectangle of space, perhaps five feet by ten feet, and a locked door along one of the walls. A half-hour ago, he had seen someone disappear through that door, and that had been his last contact with another being.

Upon arrival, he had had a headache, and his thighs and calves were starting to scream at him about the uncharacteristically long, fast run he had had this morning on the treadmill. He had asked for some Ibuprofen at that time, and an officer had assented, but clearly they had forgotten. So, for the moment, he was simply lying on the cot with his hands folded behind his head, but he resolved to stand up in a little while, and stretch out the kinks. He knew, as Anathema had shown them, that the only real cure for sore muscles is more movement - a bit of the hair of the dog.

To his surprise, and relief, when he stood up, all of the aches were gone. No sore thighs, no creaky knees. No more headache either, which was miraculous, because the smell of whatever pungent combination of meat and vegetable matter the soldiers were planning on having for dinner, it was stronger than ever. It occurred to him that this would probably be his dinner as well…

Standing in mid-cell, facing the back of the room where there was a small vent, through which the aroma wafted. “Hm. Corned beef hash. Onions. And green beans, I think. Out of a can.” He shuddered, realising that he didn’t feel hungry in the least (though it had been three hours since a tuna sandwich in an SUV with a nice-enough female officer who nevertheless cuffed him and led him to the cell with an uncocked weapon at her side).

The scent was disgusting, but it didn’t make him feel any worse for wear. With all aches gone, he decided to try and look on the bright side.

But then, he noted that this was the first time he could readily identify foods that he could smell, and it made him ache in a completely different way. Of course, this was the influence of Aziraphale, the gourmet, the one who always insisted on fine meals (and failing that, at least fresh meals), who had turned Crowley onto the art of eating. And Crowley appreciated it more; not as much as his partner, of course, but he’d got quite used to anticipating meals (even without alcohol) and having actual opinions about what he was tasting. Absence and homesickness was rearing its head now, and made Crowley want to cry.

“Stop it, stop it,” he chided himself, through gathering tears. “Got plenty of time for that rubbish…”

And then something struck him. He could feel something new in his bones, in his senses. Well, not something new. More accurately, it was something old. Very old, very familiar. Something that grated on his senses a bit, like stroking an animal against the grain of its fur. But despite himself, he liked the feeling, and always had…

Tears flowed. He couldn’t help it now. He felt such a mishmash of wonder and despair, love and longing, it just came out.

And then behind him, the door opened in the small space beyond the bars. “Mr. Crowley, I have some Ibuprofen for you,” said a male voice. Like the others, no-nonsense, crisp, American. Pronounced his name as though "crow" rhymed with "cow."

“Shit!” he spat at himself, and went to work burying his knuckles in his eyes, wiping his cheeks quickly, and making desperately certain that these people never got the satisfaction of seeing him upset and vulnerable.

He gathered himself shoddily, and stood up straight, and turned to face the officer.

And as he did, the officer let out a yelp, and backed himself up against the wall. “Whoa! Whoa, there!”

“What?” Crowley asked. “You okay?”

“I’m… yeah. Sorry. Erm, here’s your Ibuprofen,” the man said, his hand shaking as he stepped forward again and pushed a tiny paper cup, the kind one sees in some people’s washrooms near the toothbrushes, through the bars. Crowley took it with thanks. All the while, the man never took his eyes off Crowley's. And then, he could not get out of the room fast enough.

Crowley sighed. “Okay, whatever.”

He looked at the cup in his hand with two little brown pills in it. He didn’t have anymore physical pain just now, but he reckoned he could save it for another time. He set it on the little shelf above the chrome sink, and set about pacing.

Because that grating feeling would not go away.

What is it, what is it?

Well, Crowley knew deep down what it was, but… no, it couldn’t be. The timing would just be bloody weird.

Just couldn’t be…

Then again…

Chapter Text

Alone in his cell, thinking his thoughts, relieved of body aches, finding that he could quite easily discern what was for dinner, and feeling a feeling he hadn’t fully experienced in a while…

What the Heaven is happening? Crowley paced back and forth, and wondered.

And then two beams of light appeared in the area just outside the cell. One of the beams was so purely white, it was almost blue. The other beam was… well, it looked as though it used to be white, but was now muddy and unkempt. The beams became humanoid figures then, and Crowley groaned.

“Crowley,” said Beelzebub’s voice, cutting across the silence like a very dull knife. “Just the MAN we wanted to see.”

“Crowley,” the Archangel Gabriel said, crisply. “Hope you’re enjoying your accommodations.”

Crowley continued to pace, and made a point not to look either one of them in the eye. He did not want to give them the satisfaction of thinking they were worth stopping his pacing, but also for another reason. There was something he needed to know, and making eye-contact would ruin the game.

“Hi guys,” he said, hands on hips, chin thrown toward the ceiling, walking to the side wall of the cell. “Thanks for putting me up here. Five-stars. Really.”

Gabriel laughed. “All that time, we thought killing you was the answer, when really, all we had to do was stick you in a cage to get you out of the way! Beelzebub, why didn’t we think of this before?”

Beelzebub answered, “Because you’re a knob.” Then, she said, “But not wrong. And you, Crowley, once again, have made your own bed.”

Crowley sighed. “So it seems,” and he walked the other direction, eyes to the floor.

“Breaking into a United States military facility holds a mandatory one-year sentence, which you will serve right here…”

“After a fair trial, of course,” Gabriel interrupted.

Crowley laughed out loud, still not stopping. “Fair trial! Ha! That’s rich, coming from you!”

“But by then, it won’t matter,” Beelzebub lilted. “The Earth shall be a barren, radioactive wasteland, and you’ll probably be dead.”

“Back in Hell with you lot,” Crowley said. “Can’t wait.”

"Oh, we've got special plans for you down there. Again,” she replied. “One way or another, you’re neutralised.”

“That’s right,” said Gabriel. “President Trump has just Tweeted that the U.S. has its nuclear weapons armed and ready to fire at basically anyone who disses them at this point, so it’s just a matter of a few days now. And you’ve been a formidable opponent in the past, Crowley, but there is nothing you can do about it from your little bird cage here. Tell me, when you were a snake, did you ever live in an aquarium?
Under one of those little heating lamps? I’ve always wondered what that might be like.”

“Funny,” Crowley muttered.

“Not really, of course,” Gabriel said. “Angels don’t wonder about stuff like that. Which you probably know. I can’t remember… er, have you ever met any angels? Spent any quality time with one?”

“An excellent question, Gabriel,” Beelzebub said, darkly.

“You know what?” Gabriel said. “If memory serves, you have! You have spent time with an angel… quality time indeed. Sorry, I’ve been meaning to get you guys a house-warming gift.”

“Ah, but that’s over now, isn’t it?” Beelzebub mocked.

Gabriel laughed loudly. “Oh, I should think so!”

“Oh, for the love of… Do the two of you have something of note to say, or did you just come to annoy me?” Crowley asked. He now stopped pacing, but he stood back, in the shadow with his hands on his hips, and his eyes pointed down at the corner of the room.

“Just thought we’d relish in having neutralised the Antichrist, and now you,” Gabriel said.

“Right, putting us both under mystical lock-and-key… bravo,” Crowley said, sarcastically.

“Oh, no. No, no. For you, there’s no need for mystical lock-and-key. No demons, certainly no angels. Just computers, metal, and guys in uniforms with guns. Because as of now, Crowley, you’re no longer our problem,” Gabriel said. “Once again, we wash our hands of you.”

“Interesting,” Crowley muttered.

“Things will be disintegrating by next week,” Beelzebub added.

“That’s right. And either Donald or Vladimir or Jong Un or Jinping will be pushed over the edge soon…”

“And we’ll watch as other countries try to salvage peace, before one of the other ones retaliates. By then, the only habitable place will be Australia, and perhaps the southern half of Africa.”

“Only if Antarctica hasn’t melted yet,” Gabriel qualified. “Which it will.”

“Quite true,” Beelzebub decided. “So, yeah. It’s been good seeing you, Crowley.”

“And if we can get him on something, we’ll get Aziraphale into a cage as well. Not this one, mind you, but a good, solid one, where he too can rot,” Gabriel said. “We’ll be looking in to him in a few minutes. I was thinking of putting Michael on the task.”

Crowley laughed. “So you two really did just come here to poke at me!” He began his pace again.

“More or less,” Beelzebub said.

“Well, the only thing you were ever good for was getting on my fucking nerves, so I suppose it stands to reason. Thanks for stopping by for old time’s sake.” Crowley now faced one of the side walls again, and gestured sideways toward them.

And with that, they both became beams of light again, and vanished.

Crowley stared now at the space they had occupied a few moments ago, and muttered, “Wankers.”

But he was actually somewhat pleased. Their visit just to mock him betrayed the fact that he was still considered a threat, and the fact that Aziraphale was still free. They had also unknowingly let slip another key piece of intel that Crowley thought might come in handy later, though he wasn’t yet fully sure how.

He stood still, thinking his own thoughts once again, feeling that feeling, stronger and stronger… and he was startled by yet another noise.

It was the door clicking open. For a moment, he felt dread, but then Adam Young’s delightful little face appeared in the crack, exclaiming, “Hi!”

----------------------------------------------------------------

Luckily, military personnel were relatively few in this facility, considering the size of it. Aziraphale attributed this to the pandemic, and to Heaven and Hell being largely clueless about what they were doing, in this arena.

The two individuals he ran into were human (one of them was the one for whom he had done the magic tricks with a coin on his way in), and could be quite easily hypnotised. As soon as they realised the children were out of their cell, Aziraphale somewhat reluctantly clicked his fingers, and they fell into a kind of stupor. He had never before manipulated a human in this way, but he had seen Crowley do it numerous times, most recently with Mary Hodges, formerly known as Sister Mary Loquacious, at Tadfield Manor.

He quite well remembered the way out through the front – it would not be difficult to find. But he was allowing himself to be led by something other than his memory and his eyes.

They came to a cross in the hallway, and very soon after, a stairwell that lead down. Something told Aziraphale to take it. “Come on,” he said to the kids. “This way.”

They all followed him, trusting that he could feel out where they were headed.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, where one could turn either direction. Aziraphale stopped. The kids were silent, expectant. His senses told him to go right. At the end of the hall, there was a secure door. Just as they went for it, an officer came up from behind them and shouted, “Hey, the ki….”

Aziraphale turned silenced him non-violently, then waved his hand at the door, and it clicked, allowing the closest person to open it, which was Adam. He stuck his head inside, and exclaimed, “Hi!”

“Oh! Oh… er, hi!” Crowley replied. He could not have been more surprised to see Adam, if the young man had risen out of the floor in a Carmen Miranda costume.

“Come on, guys,” Adam whispered, and he ushered his three friends into the small area outside of Crowley’s cell.

“What are you lot doing here?” Crowley asked, surprised, but also concerned.

“Aziraphale got us out,” Adam reported.

“And now he’s busy hypnotising someone into not remembering anything they’ve seen,” Pepper added, rolling her eyes. “How unoriginal.”

“He got you out, eh?” Crowley asked.

“Yes! One of the angels tried to do it – the woman with the hair all piled on top of her head…” Brian said.

“Michael,” Crowley guessed.

“Yes, but we don’t actually trust her at all,” Wensleydale asserted.

“Or any of ‘em,” Adam said.

“Can’t fault you for that,” Crowley said rather absently. Though, it was hardly the most interesting thing they had said.

And that’s when the door clicked open and Aziraphale came through it, and pulled it shut. “Oh, I don’t like doing that. Not at all,” he said, shuddering.

“Angel!” Crowley exclaimed with a heavy exhale, throwing himself toward the bars, before he could stop himself.

“Oh, Crowley, I’m sorry it took me so long!” Aziraphale replied, reaching through the bars to grasp his lover’s head.

“I could feel you,” Crowley breathed.

“I could feel you too,” Aziraphale replied, and he planted a long-awaited, long kiss on those lovely, lovely lips.

“Oh, dear,” Wensley sighed.

“Shut up, it’s beautiful,” Brian said. “Let them have this.”

Several times in the last five days, Crowley and Aziraphale had been in a situation where twenty-four hours had gone by in an eternity, and it had felt like ages since they’d touched. It had not even been a full day since they had been in the storage space in their own neighbourhood, reconnecting with their past, and having a cracking shag over the bonnet of the Bentley. But so much worldly angst, regret, worry, encounters with Archangels, talking, learning, waiting, having revelations, changing, running, and rage had happened since then, they were absolutely ravenous for each other’s company. Not even sexually at this stage; their hunger was just to know that the other was all right. To know that they were still available to each other, alive, and well, and belonging to one another, no matter what other rubbish had occurred.

A few seconds went by, with the kiss growing increasingly passionate, and the kids growing increasingly uncomfortable. At last, Adam said, “Guys?”

“Yeah, er, children present!” Pepper said. It sounded like more of a question than an exclamation.

“You three are such prudes,” Brian declared, with a hint of exasperation.

Their protestations did, indeed, cause Aziraphale to pull away from the kiss, but not to let go of Crowley’s head. Their foreheads touched through the bars now, their eyes shut tight with the brightness of the occasion.

“I’ve been worried sick,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Me too,” Crowley said.

“Has it been horrible?” Aziraphale wondered, putting his hands at his sides.

“Well, it’s the U.S., not Afghanistan, so at least everyone is English-speaking and have some discernible sense of humour, and they don't shout a lot. But they interrogated me, and threatened to come after you if I didn’t cooperate. That was the worst part.”

“They can’t do that, Crowley. I’m fine, see? And I'm glad to hear you haven't been mistreated."

"I've been relatively decently accommodated, angel, but I thought I might never see you again. That's all that I could think about, and it wouldn't have mattered if they'd given me a four-star suite in Santorini."

“I thought the same thing, but I’m here now, and I’m going to get you out.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale affirmed, and he let go, took two steps back, waved his right hand sideways, as though gently washing a window, and suddenly, Crowley was outside the bars.

“Finally!” Pepper shouted.

For Crowley, it was the second shock inside of a minute. Sort of

But it was most definitely a propitious moment, heavy with meaning and consequences. Everything had changed. Again. They should have hugged once more, but instead, Crowley just stood there, jaw agape, staring at his angelic partner in utter disbelief.

Unfazed, Aziraphale looked him over. “Crowley, what are you wearing?”

“It’s military issue,” Crowley answered, barely moving his lips.

“I’m not a fan,” Aziraphale said, eyes still working their way back up Crowley’s body. “It’s all right, once we get home… Crowley! Your eyes! I was so relieved to see you, I didn’t even notice!”

Semi-puzzled as to what to say, Crowley began with, “M… well, what…. my…” before he was interrupted.

“The hallway is actually totally clear,” Wensleydale said, peering through the little window. “I think we should take advantage!”

“Right,” Aziraphale said. “We’re going to have to make a solid run for it.”

“At least,” Crowley agreed. “Let’s go, if we’re gonna go.”

He moved toward the door, and opened it, looking ahead, and to his left. The coast was clear.

He stepped out into the corridor softly, and the other five stepped out behind him, with Aziraphale last.

When they reached the staircase, Aziraphale whispered, “Go up!” and pointed.

Crowley began his ascent, with Adam and Brian coming up behind him.

Suddenly, they heard, “Hey, you! What’re you… oh my God! He’s out! Oh my God!” shouted frantically from midway down the hall way. His voice was jittery, and he wholly had the air of a man not temperamentally equipped for this job.

Crowley was almost to the top of the stairs.

“Run!” Aziraphale screamed.

----------------------------------------------------------------

“What was that?” asked the Archangel Gabriel.

He was in a room inside Tadfield Airbase that was, nevertheless, in a different dimension. It could be accessed through a standard hallway door, but led to a sort of War Room, on a different plane – neither Heaven nor Hell. It looked rather like a Starbucks, and sported stylish, ironically Earth-toned chairs in a circle around a table. The windows seemed to show an outdoor scene, though not like the one in Heaven… it could be a barren desert, or a pine forest, a swamp, or a pond, depending upon who was in the room.

In the room now was Gabriel, of course, Beelzebub, Hastur, and the Archangel Uriel. The scene outside was a swamp, but it had some Cypress trees which were lovely to look at, some sunshine, and a little waterfall came in and out of view from time to time.

Michael, they assumed, was on duty with the kids. They trusted in that knowledge.

“What was what?” Hastur asked.

“That noise,” Gabriel said, sitting up straight. “A bang.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Uriel said.

“I heard it too,” said Beelzebub. “You don’t suppose one of those idiots has discharged their weapon?”

“That’s certainly what it sounded like,” Gabriel said. “Uriel, go check it out, would you?”

“Hastur, you too,” Beelzebub ordered.

Uriel and Hastur stood up, and went dutifully through the door.

Gabriel sighed. “Oh, I hope it’s nothing messy. I’m exhausted.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------

The officer, whom Crowley now recognised as the nervous fellow who had brought him Ibuprofen a while ago, was now at the bottom of the stairs. The man practically hyperventilated with panic. Crowley and Aziraphale both separately eyed the radio device clipped to his epaulet, and hoped against hope that he’d be too frazzled to use it. Aziraphale couldn’t get in front of him to hypnotise him, and Crowley was too high up to get squarely into the man’s sight line.

It also occurred to both of them that this problem was easily solvable, if they could get all the kids gathered in one place, and to be still for a moment, but that moment was not now.

“Run run! Go go!” Aziraphale encouraged. “Up up! Hurry!”

Adam and Brian both shouted indistinctly, frightened, and began to run up the stairs past Crowley. Crowley waited momentarily for them to go, and gestured to Pepper and Wensley to follow. But the two of them were only on the second and third steps, and like Aziraphale, they froze when they saw the officer unholster his weapon.

It all happened so quickly, and before anyone could say or do anything, there was a huge, loud bang. They all screamed, including the officer.

All except for Crowley who was hit.

And now, an incredibly fast sequence of events turned over on itself and suddenly felt like slow motion. Aziraphale saw the bullet hole through Crowley’s upper chest, the look of shock on his face, then he watched in horror as his partner tumbled down the stairs.

Chapter Text

The kids were out of their cage, and the hardest part, getting out of the building, was in full swing. Even with, apparently, their powers back, it was going to be difficult. Teleporting was one thing, but teleporting with four scared children in tow, and guns blazing? Whole different kettle of fish.

The officer, whom Crowley now recognised as the nervous fellow who had brought him Ibuprofen a while ago, was now at the bottom of the stairs. The man practically hyperventilated with panic.

“Run run! Go go!” Aziraphale encouraged. “Up up! Hurry!”

Adam and Brian both shouted indistinctly, frightened, and began to run up the stairs past Crowley. Crowley waited momentarily for them to go, and gestured to Pepper and Wensley to follow. But the two of them were only on the second and third steps, and like Aziraphale, they froze when they saw the officer unholster his weapon.

It all happened so quickly, and before anyone could say or do anything, there was a huge, loud bang. They all screamed, including the officer.

All except for Crowley who was hit. And now, an incredibly fast sequence of events turned over on itself and suddenly felt like slow motion, Aziraphale saw the bullet hole through Crowley’s upper chest, look the look of shock on his partner’s face, then watched in horror as he tumbled down the stairs.

“No!” Adam shouted. “No, no, no!”

He ran back down the stairs with a horrified look on his face.

“Adam, mate, we’ve got to keep going!” Brian said, from further up. “He took that bullet so we wouldn’t have to!”

“How could you?” Adam asked, now in tears, trying to throw himself at the shooter, who was now simply staring at the body of the tall man at his feet, unable to believe he'd killed someone. “How could you!”

Aziraphale waved his hand gently, and Adam was sent reeling away from the man, and against Aziraphale himself, who took him gently him by the shoulders from behind him, and said, “Calm down, Adam. Please. We just need to wait a minute."

"I... I... I don't... how..." the soldier stuttered, far from being on-alert for anyone else moving about.

Adam turned and buried his head in Aziraphale’s chest, and his body shook.

Pepper and Wensley encircled him and tried to comfort him. Brian’s eyes were wide as the moon as he made his way back down, and stared at Crowley’s body.
Aziraphale hugged the child to him, and waited, his guts all twisted up…

… so much happened in that time, it was difficult to know how long it was, though later on, they figured it was perhaps fifteen seconds between when Crowley was shot, and when he stood up.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Aziraphale breathed. “I was afraid you’d be discorporated!”

“Nah, just knocked out and addled. Thank somebody this bloke is a rubbish shot. Hurts like Hell, though” Crowley said. He pressed his hand against the wound, and winced. It was just above the pectoral, just below the clavicle. He showed the blood to the man who had shot him, who was now staring at him in disbelief. “Seriously? You bring me medicine, and then you shoot me? I find that incredibly counter-productive!”

“I… I…” the man began to answer.

“Away with you,” Crowley muttered, waving his hand at the shooter as though he were brushing crumbs off his sleeve, and the man disappeared.

“Wha…” Adam said, jaw agape, tears still wetting his cheeks. “So you both…”

“Ssshhh,” Crowley said. “Yes. Evidently. Not sure how it happened…”

“No time for that now,” Aziraphale said. And he stepped forward and placed his hand on Crowley’s shoulder near the wound. “You all right?”

“It’s just a nuisance,” Crowley said softly, and he felt the wound close, and the pierced bones repair themselves.

Aziraphale then opened his opposite palm, and the bullet appeared there. He put it in his breast pocket for now.

Crowley snapped his fingers, cleaning up the blood on the floor, and his clothing.

“Listen, Crowley, maybe you could stop time so we can get out of here."

"That's not a great idea, angel," Crowley said, clicking his fingers and miracling sunglasses onto his face.

"Erm... wh...."

The newly minted old demon opened his mouth to elaborate, but two flashes appeared in the hallway, one light was heavenly, the other dingy and Hellish.
Hastur and Uriel were suddenly there, in front of them. Both Crowley and Aziraphale moved strategically to put the kids behind them.

“Well, well,” said Hastur. “I guess the Archwanker Gabriel was not hearing things after all.”

“Where’s the gun, Aziraphale?” Uriel asked.

“Gun? I don’t do guns, Uriel,” Aziraphale said, sounding more flippant than he felt. “What do you take me for?”

“Gabriel heard a gunshot,” she insisted.

“Really? In a military facility - a U.S. facility, no less - you’re accusing the British civilians of having guns? Wow,” Crowley said to her, with a chuckle, and he turned exaggeratedly sideways to look at Aziraphale and the kids as though to ask, ‘can you believe these people?’ He continued, “Nah, this a good, old-fashioned, relatively non-violent jailbreak.”

While he turned, unbeknownst to anyone, Crowley miracled a mobile phone into his own hand. He hoped he’d be able to acquire his own, from wherever it was being kept.

“Give back the kids, Crowley, and no-one gets hurt,” the messy, mouthy demon threatened.

“Well, Hastur, before anyone does or says anything rash, don’t you think that Adam has a right to know why he’s here?” Crowley asked, stepping to his left, leaving a risky open path between Hastur and the young Antichrist. Aziraphale tried to fill in the gap using his arms spread. Hastur and Uriel both fixed their eyes on Adam, while Crowley spoke... and seemed to be sending a text message at the same time. “I mean, you did hold him against his will so you could start World War fucking Three. The least you can do is explain yourselves.”

His yellow eyes were shaded now, but they fixed themselves upon Aziraphale, and the latter's phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it.

“Aziraphale, are we getting in the way of your social life?” Uriel asked him.

“No,” he told her. “But you started a great big blooming mess on social media. Forgive me for having a few notifications set up.”

Crowley was impressed with this lie. He didn’t even know that the angel knew what a “notification” was, in that context.

Hastur began speaking to Adam about what an insolent little bastard he was, and Uriel chimed in, as well. Adam’s friends had been paying attention to Crowley and Aziraphale’s behaviour, and had caught on that this was a diversion. Though they didn’t understand what the diversion was for, they began chiming in against the supernatural forces as well, keeping their attention.

Aziraphale looked at his phone. Crowley’s text said, “We’re going to have to punch our way out.”

Uriel looked at Aziraphale with narrowed eyes. “Punch your way out, eh?”

“Shit,” Crowley spat. “Aw, come on! That’s not sporting! You can’t read my texts!”

“Apparently, she can, and so can I,” Hastur said, with a smirk. Then, he went back to berating Adam.

Crowley went back to his phone.

A thought suddenly occurred to Aziraphale. He interrupted Hastur. “Adam, you need to know what’s happened. They kidnapped you to neutralise you, so that you wouldn’t know what they’re doing on the outside. As Heaven and Hell get wound up to bring about another Apocalypse, your powers would return, and they knew you could, and would, will away any trouble they caused.”

“Shut up, Aziraphale,” Uriel said. “Why are you even here? Don’t you have some tea to drink? Some books to read? Some sex to have? Some human-being to be?”

That’s when another text came in. Aziraphale looked again at his phone. This time, Crowley had sent emojis. A red circle with a slash through it, fireworks, a top hat, a halo, and another circle with a red slash.

Crowley was trying to tell him not to do any magic. And his eyes snapped to Crowley’s as he understood it all at once: Hastur and Uriel don’t know they have been restored to their supernatural status! If possible, they needed to get out of there without anyone finding out. They would both be safer that way, not to mention more helpful to the human race. And free.

“What the fuck are you two doing?” Hastur asked, seeing the emojis in his mind. “What are these, hieroglyphics?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Crowley said.

“What does it mean?” Uriel wanted to know. “Tell us right now!”

Aziraphale kept talking to Adam. “They posed as two factions that were using you as collateral for some international crisis control, and started a kerfuffle on social media so big, that four of the world’s superpowers are now at a standoff, with nuclear weapons at the ready.”

“Aziraphale, you idiot!” Uriel yelled. As much as she ever yells.

“That’s barbaric!” Pepper shouted. “How could you do something like that? Aren’t you supposed to be angels?”

“For God’s sake, we’ve only got one planet!” Brian protested. “You can’t just… just…”

“Actually, he’s right,” Wensleydale declared. “It is unfair.”

Adam stepped forward, and his face turned red. “And you stuck me in a cage, because you knew I’d fix it if I knew anything about it!”

Uriel smiled, and for some reason, attempted to be nice. “Adam, sweetheart, we just wanted to keep you safe.”

“Rubbish!” Adam shouted at her. “Keeping me safe would mean the world keeps on turning!”

“But you’re one of us, boy,” Hastur said to him.

“I am not! I will never be one of you!”

“Like it or not, it’s what you are.”

“No!” Adam shouted. “I’m never going to be on the same side as people who shut me and my friends up in a cage with mystical bars and some sort of bloody demonic fail-safe!”

“It was an angelic fail-safe as well,” Uriel said.

“Speaking of which, how did you get out?” Hastur asked him. He rushed forward toward the boy, and grabbed him by the shoulders roughly. “Tell me! What powers have you got now!”

All three of Adam’s friends protested that anyone should touch their friend, and all moved forward. But it was Crowley who began rather calmly, but surely, physically prying Hastur’s hands off Adam’s person.

“I don’t have any powers!” Adam insisted. “I gave them up!”

“Step away from the child, Hastur,” Crowley warned, pushing on the other demon’s chest. “Now.”

“You can’t give them up! Your powers are part of who you are!” Hastur insisted still hanging onto Adam. “It’s clear! It’s clear you still have them! It’s why you’re here! It’s why you exist! It’s why we captured you, you presumptuous little brat! Your powers rise when Hell does!”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Crowley said, and elbowed Hastur in the face. He used nothing but whatever physical strength he had as a man, but it surprised the Hell out of Hastur, who was not used to anything physical. It caused Hastur to let go, and go reeling back into the wall. He was so stunned, that when he stood up again, he didn’t do anything for a few seconds. His eyes were wide, and he looked at Crowley like he was from another planet.

Crowley stole a look at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale understood.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be leaving now,” Crowley said, exaggeratedly straightening his rubbish blue shirt, and wishing he had his own clothes just now.
He didn’t feel particularly cool in these duds. “Kids, let’s go.”

The kids turned to go back up the stairs.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Uriel said, and made a motion as though she were pulling on a rope with one hand. Adam, Pepper, Wensleydale, and Brian all tumbled down the stairs backwards. It was just two or three steps, but it was enough.

The kids cried out, grunted, hurt… but not maimed.

“Here’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time,” Aziraphale said, in response, and he approached Uriel with a maniacal look in his eye, and punched her in the stomach.

She actually doubled over and grunted. She waved her hand, and Aziraphale went flying back into a rubbish bin. Hastur did the same to Crowley, and the kids tried to help them up.

“You’ll never make it out of here, Crowley,” Hastur said. “Six humans against a Duke of Hell and an Archangel? Good bloody luck!” And then he started to laugh.

Crowley got to his feet and again said, “Let’s go!” to the kids.

The six of them made it halfway up the stairs, before a barrier appeared and sent them all tripping back down again.

Hastur cackled, and Uriel laughed a low, aggravating laugh.

“Adam, you have power,” Crowley said, helping Adam and Brian get to their feet. “More than you know.”

“But I don’t!” the boy protested.

“You have anger!”

“Fat lot of good!”

“Concentrate, Adam!” Crowley encouraged. “You can get us out! Feel the anger… feel it!”

Adam stood up and faced Uriel and Hastur. “You bunch of wankers,” he said. “Think you can just kidnap people.”

“Anyone with powers can kidnap someone without powers,” Aziraphale said. “But only a coward uses magic against humans.”

“I dare you to properly catch us,” Crowley said. “Come up the stairs and catch us.”

“Why should we do that?” Hastur said.

“Because otherwise you’re a fucking milquetoast, Hastur, that’s why,” Crowley said. “Ooh, big, powerful demon, putting forcefields up to keep humans in line!”

“You expect me to punch my way out of this, like you said?” Hastur asked “Or like your… apparatus thing said.”

Crowley smirked. “Well, I understand. In order to do that, you'd have to catch us, and you're just not up to it. Go!"

And with that, he, the kids and Aziraphale all tried again to mount the stairs. “Go, go, go!” Aziraphale cried out. “That’s it, kids!”

There was a slight delay while Hastur and Uriel looked at each other, but they pursued, rising to Crowley’s dare. It was almost comical to watch.

When they reached the landing, Crowley called out, “Adam! Look! Now!”

“Huh?” Adam said, and he turned and looked at the supernatural entities pursuing him, just five steps behind.

And suddenly, a set of mystical bars appeared between him and them, and Uriel and Hastur ran smack into them, and fell back down the stairs. They both cried out in protest, and got to their feet.

“You’re dead, you little brat!” Hastur cried out. The bars disappeared, and he came charging after Adam, who was staring at him in disbelief.

The bars appeared again at the last moment, and he was, again, sent tumbling back down.

“Bloody Antichrist!” he spat, getting back up. He looked at Uriel, “You try now, Archwanker!”

“I don’t think so!” she smirked. “Adam, come down now. Nice and easy.”

“No,” he said.

Uriel took a couple steps forward, and she was, again, stopped by bars.

She made them disappear straight away, but now looked stymied.

She tried again, and the same thing happened.

“What’s going on?” she asked, now angry.

“I told you have power, Adam!” Hastur screamed. “It was given to you by Hell, and now you have the audacity to use it against us? You lowlife! You sorry excuse for a fucking Antichrist!"

A wall went up in front of Hastur as he tried to move, and he waved it away. But now he understood what would happen if he or Uriel tried to move toward Adam. Or move magic against him. Or...

Crowley had been standing just above the landing, just out of sight of Hastur and Uriel, watching the proceedings. By now, Aziraphale and the other three kids were gone. He assumed that any incidental military personnel the angel had encountered had been miracled back to their homes, nice and neatly, with a click of the fingers.

“Come on, Adam,” he said.

Adam seemed surprised that he was still there. But he said, “Bye, you two,” and came up the stairs with Crowley. They ran, while Hastur and Uriel stood still wondering what to do next.

“This isn’t over!” they heard from Hastur as they reached the top of the stairs. “Your powers can’t last forever! You get them from Hell, and Hell can take them away!”

They sprinted down the corridors, and found an exit, and stumbled out the door.

They found Aziraphale, Pepper, Wensley, and Brian, somewhat concealed behind a shrub.

“Thank goodness!” Aziraphale said, as Crowley and Adam joined them. “Now, let’s not dawdle. Join hands. Everyone calm.”

And they disappeared from sight, a split second before the Archangel Gabriel, Beelzebub, and two soldiers came through the door, guns blazing, looking for their “asset.”

Chapter Text

A bright light overtook them as they all held hands, and then it retreated.

“Well, that was risky,” Aziraphale said, nervously.

“Cool!” exclaimed Pepper, looking up at the building now in front of her. She recognised it as the home of her friend Adam, and his mum and dad, approximately two-and-a-half miles from the Airbase.

Adam was across the circle from her with his back to the house, and when he turned around to look at it, he smiled warmly, and said, “Wicked!”

The front door opened within ten seconds, and his parents came spilling out, all gasps and noises and relief and hugs. The other three kids went in for hugs as well, as Mr. and Mrs. Young were incredibly happy to see all four of them.

Even Arthur Young, who rarely showed much emotion other than discomfort or annoyance, was sobbing, and hugging his son’s friend, Brian.

“Oh my goodness, oh my goodness!” Mrs. Young kept repeating, tearfully, happily, as she embraced all of the kids, overwhelmed with relief and joy. “Well, you three, you’ve got to call your parents. Now!”

They did so, and within just a few minutes, Pepper’s mother, Brian’s parents and brothers, and the Wensleydales were all gathered in the Youngs’ front garden in the porchlight, crying, hugging, asking a thousand questions. They all had their phones out, and the kids were getting updated on what had been going on, on social media, on the BBC website, on international platforms. This confirmed what they had been told inside the Airbase, and they were horrified.

“This cannot stand,” Adam declared, quite seriously. “It just can’t.”

Crowley and Aziraphale had been sitting upon the front stoop of the house, enjoying the reunion scene.

“Wish we had some champagne to celebrate,” Crowley said.

“We’ll have some when we get home,” Aziraphale replied. “Or something even stronger.”

“And a spectacular quantity of it, because we can!”

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale scolded like an appalled auntie, but he suppressed a smile as well, and it caused the demon to chuckle.

Every once in a while, one of the parents would walk over and shake their hands in thanks, without asking who they were (Adam’s doing?), then rejoin the group. Neighbours began to join the gathering and congratulate Adam… before long, it felt like the entire town of Tadfield was in the Youngs’ garden.

Adam wandered over to the supernatural entities seated in front of his home, looking a bit worried. “I don’t think I can set things right the way I did last time.”

“Well, Adam, I hate to admit it,” Crowley said. “But I think Hastur might have been right: when Hell rises, so do you. Hell’s been acting a lot in the world this past week… your opinion might still have some effect on reality.”

“It just doesn’t FEEL like it did before,” the child protested. He was quiet for a moment, studying Crowley. “It was you got us out of the Airbase, right there at the end. Your powers, not mine. Yeah? You’re the one kept throwing up bars and walls and whatnot?”

“Yeah,” Crowley confessed. “But no-one knows that. Not even the minions of Heaven and Hell.”

“The two of you saw to that, didn’t you?” Adam said, with a smile.

“We’d like them to leave us alone, yeah,” Crowley whispered.

“There’s nothing that says you don’t still have a lot of sway,” Aziraphale reminded the boy. “You may have wanted to give up your powers, but that doesn’t mean you did. Or that they can’t come back to you. The Antichrist is, for better or for worse, inextricably linked with the will of Hell when it comes to Apocalyptic events. That’s why they tried to smother you.”

Adam sighed. “Can’t I just… not? I mean, can I not be the… ugh, I can’t say it. Can’t I just not be?”

Crowley shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s kind of who you are.”

“But I meant it a year ago when I told you that you are better than all of us, Adam,” Aziraphale said. “That you are human incarnate. As long as you never lose that humanity, you won’t lose yourself, and you’ll have it within your ability to save us all. Maybe not the same way as last time, but you’ll work it out.”

Adam was contemplative for a few moments. “What if they never stop? Messing with me and the Earth and all of existence, I mean?"

Aziraphale answered, "You’ve got us. For as long as you need us, even after you die. Remember that. Just, you know… don’t let our secret slip.”

The child smiled. “Safe with me. Thanks, guys. I mean, really. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Adam,” Crowley said, and the boy walked away, rejoining his family and friends.

“Do you suppose that might be our cue to move on?” Aziraphale asked his partner sitting to his left.

“I think it might,” Crowley answered.

“Bus bench?”

“Er… yeah.”

“And on the way, you can explain to me how you escaped.”

They stood up. “Meh, nothing much to explain,” Crowley said, taking the angel’s hand. The two of them began to walk off the Young property toward the church. “Hastur was already convinced the boy still had powers, and you heard me dare them to come after us physically… so I just told Adam to concentrate on his anger, and threw up some bars in front of him to send Hastur and Uriel reeling back down the stairs. Just kept doing it until we were out. Let them think it was Adam.”

“Very clever, my love,” Aziraphale sang.

“Hang on,” Crowley said. He looked about to make sure they were out of sight of anyone, and he clicked his fingers. Suddenly, his military-issue blue was gone, and he was back in black jeans, a silvery silk v-neck, his favourite black blazer. He adjusted his sunglasses, and sighed with relief. “Ahh… that feels so much better.”

Aziraphale smiled. “For me, too.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ordinarily, the both of them would have collapsed into bed upon arrival at home, and slept well into the next day. However, they decided to take advantage instead of not actually NEEDING sleep, and opted instead to spend the night in their own back garden. They downed a lot of Scotch, watched the stars, snogged a bit, and talked. They sat with their feet up, and discussed the last few days (and their future) until morning light.

They planned to have a dinner party for all of the folks involved, as a cathartic celebration of Adam, Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale’s freedom, and to thank everyone who had helped, or tried to. They also took cautious relish in the fact that they now, once again, had forever to enjoy one another, and dared to hope that they might be free from their Heavenly and Hellish burdens of old.

"What if a hundred years goes by, and someone notices that we haven't turned up in Heaven nor Hell as afterlife spirits?" Aziraphale asked, at this stage only mildly concerned.

"Angel, it took them six thousand years to realise what you and I were doing, and that's only because Michael worked it out. If she doesn't rat on us, we could have another six thousand years. Besides, there are so many billions, hundreds of billions of souls down there, and up there, there's no way!"

Aziraphale laughed. "You're right, Crowley! You're completely right! Cretins, they are!"

"The real challenge will be averting Apocalypses without them noticing us, hundreds of years down the line," Crowley muttered. "But let's not go there, because tonight is a night to celebrate! For a couple of reasons!"

"End of the world thwarted, and you and me returning to form?"

"Yep!" Crowley said, clinking his glass against his partner's.

Still, Aziraphale felt a little guilty.

“I’m sorry I made the choice without consulting you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He actually began the sentence three times before getting it right. Being an angel did not mean he could speak clearly when drunk. “Although, to be fair, Michael didn’t tell me that the Almighty would change you, as well.”

“Well…”

“Although, I suppose, even if She hadn’t changed you as well, it’s still a decision I should have made with your input.”

“Well…”

“Because me being an angel again affects us both. If I were supernatural and you weren’t, I mean… think of the implications.”

“Well…”

“I can’t even fathom the implications. They are unfathomable. Not able to be fathomed,” Aziraphale rambled. Then he stopped.

Crowley waited a few seconds. Then, “Are you done?”

“Er… yes.”

“Well, it’s fine. Clearly, Michael helped you change back because the kids didn’t trust her, and there would have been no-one else to activate the Unearthly insignia. And when that happened, the Big Gal must’ve just assumed I’d want to change with you. And I’m loath to give Her credit for anything much, but she was on-the-money there. And I’m… I’m reluctantly, but definitely, grateful.”

“And you’ve got to hand it to Her for not telling the others. Gabriel and… I’m too tired to name all the deengels we know, but you know what I’m saying.”

“Deengels,” Crowley repeated, and laughed. “Ah, kids say the darndest things.”

“Crowley, seriously! Fancy us being free of all that rubbish now!”

“And fancy it being a gift from God. Wouldn’t have seen that coming.”

They talked about things they could, and would, do now. They could get the Bentley out of storage, now that it could be magically manoeuvred in London again. They didn’t have to sell “normal” books in the bookshop (not that they ever really needed the income, human Aziraphale just did it to feel part of things) anymore. They didn’t have to worry about catching or transmitting Covid.

“But we will still wear our masks, to keep up appearances,” Aziraphale said.

“Meh. If we feel like it.”

“We don’t have to exercise anymore,” Aziraphale offered, with a relieved tone. “That’s nearly enough in and of itself.”

“You never did it anyway!”

“I did, er… some. Sometimes.”

“I don’t have to eat,” Crowley said. “Though I probably will, with you. And I'll be more than happy to watch you, of course."

“Nor do I have to sleep,” Aziraphale said. “But I'll be more than happy to spend time in bed with you."

"I'll probably still eat good stuff. No more Cup-o-Soups in the break room, though," Crowley decided lightly, staring at the top of a tree.

"And I'll probably still have a kip now and then... it definitely can be rejuvenating, even to a supernatural being."

“No more headaches or muscle strain.”

“No more bathing," Aziraphale offered.

“Unless, again, it’s together,” Crowley said, with a tilted eyebrow.

“That goes without saying,” Aziraphale agreed, blushing just a bit.

“And speaking of nudity, d’you know what?” Crowley said, naughtily, conspiratorially. He lolled his head to the right to rest it against his partner’s shoulder. “Now that we’re back, if we want, we can get blind drunk, and still fuck.”

Aziraphale laughed out loud at how vulgar it sounded at this moment. “It always comes down to those two things with you!”

“Yes, it does! I'm a demon, a hedonist! And my two favourite things are getting absolutely legless with you, and making both of our eyes cross in relentless unholy ecstasy. Until now, I’ve not been able to do both at once! Rubbish human bodies…”

“Oh, goodness, think of the mess, with both of us drunk!”

“I love the mess, angel,” Crowley practically growled.

Aziraphale laughed again, tightly. Then, he caught his breath, and exhaled an emphatic “Hooo!” Then, “We have been given such a boon – a benevolent bequest from the Almighty Herself. We are old, and madly in love. After wondering for millennia if we would ever be together the way we want and need to be, we at last have eternity to do and say and experience everything together – the whole world, the whole universe, if we choose. And all you can think about is booze and shagging!”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“How very lofty of you, Crowley!”

Crowley smiled. He couldn’t help but be delighted at his partner’s laughter. “Well, I love you so much, sometimes I can’t see straight. So, yeah, I’m thinking about us enjoying each other absolutely maniacally, and in my mind, there really is nothing loftier. Being loved by an angel is the highest honour I can imagine.”

--------------------------------------------------------------

When the sun came up, they kicked off their Friday morning with tradition, mixed with modernity (rather like their time in the Bentley a couple of days previously). Or, at least, they tried. Crowley prepared a decadent breakfast for Aziraphale - poached eggs and asparagus because Aziraphale requested them, and bangers and peppered Béchamel sauce because Crowley enjoyed watching him eat them. Then, Crowley sat and drank coffee, and fondled himself under the table while he experienced the meal merely as a voyeur. The angel gave a stellar performance, being accidentally-on-purpose just slightly careless with sauce at the corners of his mouth (but primly cleaning it up with his tongue), and not bothering to cut the bangers into roundels before devouring them. As usual, there was a lot of moaning and smacking of lips, saying Crowley’s name slowly, like a chant.

The whole thing would have undoubtedly degenerated into a sloppy kitchen tryst, were it not for the call that came in, just before eight o’clock. Today being what it was, it was not a good time to ignore a ringing phone.

Crowley zipped himself back up reluctantly, stood from the table, and went across to the stove to find his phone, as he had left it there on top of a cookbook.

“Anathema,” Crowley said. Then he whined, “Oh, why now? A perfectly lecherous breakfast gone to waste."

“It’ll have to wait,” Aziraphale smirked, tapping his mouth lightly with a napkin. “We’ve got time for more filthy breakfasts, darling.”

Crowley swept the green button on his phone display, tapped “speaker” and said, “Book Girl!”

“Good morning Mr. Crowley, head of the web-team of the ‘Piccadilly Detail,’” she chirped. “Have I got a story for you! I could have just sent it to you, but I wanted you to hear me say, HOLY SHIT, you guys!”

“Holy shit, what?” Crowley asked.

“I mean, how you got out last night! Run-ins with demons, angels, Crowley escaping from jail… and, well, is it true?” she asked, carefully.

“Everything you’ve said so far is true,” Crowley told her.

“No, I mean… have you been… you know, restored?”

“Ah,” said Crowley, looking at Aziraphale with a smile. “Yes, we have.”

“Rather spur-of-the-moment. There was no other way,” Aziraphale added.

“So you guys have your powers back? Immortality, angel-slash-demon status renewed?”

“Far as we can tell,” Aziraphale said.

"Is that why no one is coming after you, after escaping from a military jail?" she wondered.

"Er, in a nutshell," Crowley said with a shrug.

“Do I say congratulations?” she asked, again, carefully. “I mean, if you’re beholden to the Powers That Be, then…”

“Oh, no, that’s the best part!” Crowley practically chirped. “Only God knows!”

“Only God knows?”

“Yes! She restored us, but didn’t tell any of the others! Except Michael, and I think she’ll keep it a secret! But Gabriel doesn’t know, Beelzebub doesn’t know, et cetera, et cetera.”

“So… you’ve got your powers, and your forever-ness, but you’re not on the payroll anymore because the middle-management types are idiots?”

“Exactly!” Crowley confirmed.

“So no-one expects anything from you, and you’re free?”

“So it would seem,” Aziraphale said, quite softly, again, locking eyes with his golden-eyed partner.

“Wow,” Anathema said. “That’s… wow. A gift from God. Never thought I’d say that and mean it quite so literally.”

“Right?” Crowley asked, loudly.

“Anathema, how do you know about any of this?” Aziraphale wondered.

“Oh, I’ve got Adam here with me,” Anathema said. “He told us everything!”

“Oh, Adam,” Aziraphale lilted. “Hello, lad.”

“Hi!” said the young voice over the line.

“That’s why I called, actually,” she said. “We made a video. Just finished it a few minutes ago.”

“Really?” Crowley said. “What sort of video?”

“Well,” Adam said. “Remember I said it doesn’t feel like it did before? And how you guys told me I’d work out a way to do it? I just thought, if reality listens to me, maybe people might do, also.”

“Thought it could be a ‘Piccadilly Detail’ exclusive,” Anathema told them. “That is, until it goes viral and saves the world. But hey, Mr. Crowley, feel like being the guy who breaks the story first? A hero and an ace reporter?”

Crowley smiled. “Sure. Send it our way.”

“Here it comes,” she said.

He opened her text message, and played the video without cutting off the phone call. On the screen, Adam Young sat, all fresh-faced and adorable, upon what Crowley and Aziraphale recogised as the front steps of Jasmine Cottage. His cute, five-kilo hellhound was next to him, pawing at him for some attention. Absently, he stroked the dog, then spoke to the camera.

“Hello everyone,” he said, genially. “My name’s Adam, and five days ago, me and three of my friends were kidnapped from the streets of our town here in Oxfordshire, and kept prisoner for a while in an undisclosed location.” At that point, a photo of him popped up on the screen. It was the photo of Adam that had been first used by the Tadfield police, then subsequently by the national, then international press, then by everyone on the planet as shareable social media fodder. It was clearly there to show the world that this was the same kid whose face they had been seeing all over their devices for several days.

Adam continued, “As I understand it, from that point, the world went into some kind of chaos trying to work out why and who and where and how, and all that… and then it got worse and worse. But I’m here to tell you, there’s no need. Please stop. Stop with the name-calling – that sort of rubbish doesn’t do anyone any sort of good. I’ve been looking at what you lot are saying to each other online, and it’s like we’re seven billion five-year-olds shouting at each other on the playground! No-one wants that, do they? Not even the five-year-olds. And you can stop worrying about me, because look: I’ve been released,” he said, and he stood up. He turned in a three-hundred-sixty-degree circle whilst Dog moved excitedly all the way around him, tail a-wag. He was wearing shorts and a short-sleeved t-shirt, so his skin could be seen. “You can see me – arms, legs, neck, head, and I’m fine. No scrapes, no bruises, not even any super bad memories. My friends, Brian, Pepper, Wensley and me, we were all released last night, with no harm done. I spent last night in my warm bed, with my mum and dad down the hall, and so did my friends. Well, in their own beds, with their own parents. The Intelligence Officials who were holding me because of whatever National Security thing they were on about, well, they discovered everything they needed to know, and they let us go. They discovered that I am not a threat, and made good on their word.

“And, I just want you to know that we were treated fine – we were fed well, entertained, never abused, and certainly no-one who was in charge of us was a… well, no-one ever touched us, all right? No-one even did anything impolite just to find out if I was human or whatever. No probing, or that sort of thing. We were never apart from one another, so I can attest that my friends were treated the same.

“So you can stop. Just stop – it’s not worth it to create war in the name of one kid. Or even four kids. Actually, it’s not worth it to make war over anything, really. You lot, you, with your fingers on the nukes… just don’t. Stand down. Tell your soldiers and ministers and cabinets to stand down, too,” he said, staring dead into the camera now, with a serious expression on his face. His eyes were fixed, intelligent, and powerful. “I’m not worth it. Nothing is worth that.

“You see, there are some who think that humankind was created to make war. And I can’t blame ‘em. Sometimes I think I was created for war, and then I remember that there are people in this world who can push down that desire in me. I get mad, sure, and I want to wreck things, but people I love can talk me down. You might even say that love, just love, can talk me down. And if it can work for me, trust me when I say, it can work for you. So, if there’s anything you can learn from this past week, and my ordeal, that’s what it is. It’s not that there are murderers and nuclear weapons and despots and paedophiles and shadow governments in the world. It’s that I was kidnapped, but I have no vengeance in my heart… partly because I’m fine, but mostly because it’s too much energy. I just want to get back to hanging out with my family friends, so you shouldn’t need to have vengeance in your heart either. And if you people force me to make another video, and take more time away from my childhood to calm a planet full of adults acting like toddlers, I shall be very cross.

“So… oi, you! Yes, you! If you’re about to post something vicious on social media right now, stop and think before you do… or just don’t do it. Nothing will make war rise inside of you faster than that. Just go hug someone you love instead. Be safe and socially-distanced, but go say something nice to a human being, instead of hiding behind your computer screen and being all snarky in some comments section. All that is nothing but trouble. Share this video, make sure your family and friends see it, and then go outside and watch a bird, or rescue a beetle from a storm drain. Okay? Just… stop with the violence and the pride and whatnot. You can trust me, okay? Everything is going to be fine.”

And then he smiled, and the video stopped.

And they were silent, Crowley and Aziraphale, plus Anathema and Adam on the other end of the phone. And whoever else was with them.

At last, Aziraphale asked Crowley, “Do you think it will work?”

“It’ll work,” Adam said, with certainty.

“Guys, I think if Adam says it will work, it will work,” Anathema said, uneasily. “Plus, Agnes seemed to think so.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Crowley said.

“But we live in cynical times,” Aziraphale protested. “Won’t people think that Adam is a twin or a body double or something, and that the real child is still in containment? Or that the entire thing was a hoax, from beginning to end? Or that Adam is the real child, and he has been kidnapped, but he’s being forced to say all those things? And how will this cause China and North Korea and Russia and Trump’s America to not feel disrespected by the planet, when all of that wartime rubbish came to be, after and independently of Adam’s kidnapping?”

“It’ll be all right,” Adam declared. “Maybe thinking those things will keep people busy, and maybe that’s a good thing. I just want things to go back to normal so I can get back to the woods with my friends and Dog.”

“A noble sentiment, indeed, Adam,” Crowley chuckled. “So, you lot want me to be the one to disseminate the video?”

“Well, yeah, it seems to make sense,” Anathema said.

“Would you mind terribly if I passed it off to a colleague?”

“No,” she said. “Long as it gets out there. Just thought you’d like to be the one.”

“I don’t need to do that anymore,” he said. “I know a couple of journalists who are much more deserving of a dish like this.”

Chapter Text

Later that day, a video entitled, “Kidnapped Child Returns Home Safely, Begs For Peace,” appeared on the social media accounts of ‘The Piccadilly Detail,’ with a curation credit to Elisa Lenning. It provided a link to the online paper, where an expertly written article about the entire incident, including Adam’s video, plus a couple of poignant quotes from his parents, had been posted by Miranda Devenish of the ‘Detail,’ and an abridged version disseminated via the Associated Press. It was to be part of an exclusive series, beginning with the kidnapping itself, delving into the parties responsible (she wouldn’t be bound to find much, but Crowley would make sure she had at least something to work with), and how it ballooned into a social media Blitzkrieg that nearly provoked nuclear war. She intended it as a “cautionary tale” of what social media can do, unchecked. She had been in touch with a journalist in Washington D.C., an old friend as it turned out, who had agreed to dig into the White House’s involvement, in exchange for a by-line credit on one of the articles.

Within an hour, Elisa hand Miranda had begun receiving calls from all over London, then England, then the world. There were congratulatory messages, as well as questions about how they got the story when even the Oxfordshire presses were struggling to catch up, and no-one could seem to locate the children, the families, nor any witnesses. There was the odd job offer, and Vanessa had made sure to compensate them both well enough that neither of them would consider leaving for quite some time. Elisa and Miranda responded to all inquiries by crediting an anonymous source with ties to ‘the Detail,’ and to Tadfield.

“Got a rise in salary!” Elisa texted to Crowley. “Might actually be able to move away from my parents’ house.”

“You and Miranda might be the only people in the world to receive rises in the pandemic! Congrats.” Crowley responded.

“Thank you,” she texted, along with a couple of heart emojis.

As expected, the video went viral staggeringly quickly, and had been seen by over one-hundred-million people inside of an hour. The video popped up with subtitles in twenty languages within two hours. People began posting analyses of the video straight away, and as predicted, a fair number of them dismissed it as a hoax. Others didn’t care whether it was a hoax or not, and argued over what the actual take-away was from the video itself, and how it should be used in future. Crowley’s personal favourite was a meme that appeared with Adam’s face, that said “Vote Adam For Prime Minister.”

"I'd do it," he muttered, smiling as he scrolled by.

All of it caused a few exchanges of, “you’re bloody stupid,” and “I’ll pray for you,” “fuck off,” and the like, but nothing on the scale of what had happened before.

In fact, Vladimir Putin, Kim Jong-un, and Xi Jinping were all claiming that the threat of nuclear strike had never been serious, that it had been a light-hearted international volley of muscle-flexing, PR efforts, jokes, missteps and grandstanding for which they, themselves, were not personally responsible. All of them threw their ministers, secretaries, and media representatives under the bus, claiming they had overstepped their bounds, et cetera, et cetera. Russian and Chinese spokespeople apologised in droves. In North Korea, a couple of journalists were scapegoated, and disappeared.

In the U.S., President Trump denied that there had been any sort of threat of nuclear anything by him or anyone in his administration, nor any engagement in the debacle. He announced that it was all a hoax perpetrated by CNN, and that his administration had known it all along, and had merely tried to do damage control. He claimed not to know who Adam was (which was possible, actually), and that the U.S. continued to be unwaveringly well-respected and on supremely great footing with all of its friends and enemies throughout the world. A weak attempt was made by the press to call his attention to deleted Tweets and whatnot, but unsurprisingly, most of them felt it would probably be better to move on, and redirect their attention back to the pandemic, and the Black Lives Matter movement.

French, German, Australian and Canadian heads of state responded to all of this with what amounted to a very diplomatic eyeroll and “Whatever. Let’s just get on with our lives.” Boris Johnson was surprisingly quiet on the subject, perhaps not sure where to land. His people reached out to ‘the Detail’ a couple of times to ask questions, but were given the same canned response as everyone else.

-------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale and Crowley caught up on backlogged book orders within a few hours, with a tiny bit of help from magic. They noticed, with not too much shock, that all but one copy of “Shadows to Light,” by the illustrious Michael Engelbreit, had disappeared. The book still existed for sale, if they wished, but they were no longer saddled with three dozen copies to be distributed erratically and desperately.

They actually slept for a good chunk of the weekend, because it sounded like good, relaxing fun. Then, they spent the rest of the ensuing week getting their lives back. Crowley retrieved his Bentley and parked it illegally on the street again, though weirdly, no-one noticed it. Aziraphale ensconced himself in the bookshop, and happily, carelessly, read his arse off for forty-eight hours straight, until Wednesday afternoon when Crowley phoned and reminded him to come home. Upon his return, they had some pretty good shower sex, and found a new Netflix series to binge.

They spent the second half of the week on the logistics of the dinner party they wanted to throw for friends and colleagues who had helped save the world. Again. Though, many of them had no idea the global impact their actions had had. It was an outdoor, Sunday-afternoon affair, as there was still a pandemic to be considered… for their guests, anyway.

Their friends from Tadfield were present, including not just the current residents of Jasmine Cottage, but also all four enigmatic, formerly kidnapped children, and their families. Miranda Devenish was there with her daughter (aged seven, currently being entertained by a group of four eleven-and-twelve-year-olds, plus Brian’s teenaged brothers, who were letting her win at football), and her lawyerly ex-husband Nate, who had agreed to help Crowley through the process of a trial, and keeping his job, if need be. He claimed he was not afraid of the company barrister, because no-one could prove Crowley had done anything wrong anyhow.

“Oh?” Crowley asked, putting a Martini in the man’s hand.

“Yeah, you know, it’s the weirdest thing,” Nate told him. “I’ve got an American friend who is a military lawyer and should rightly be able to get access to the surveillance footage. But he says it’s completely gone. They even gave him physical access to the database, and he can’t find it.”

“Really?” Crowley asked, eyes wide, though shaded from view by dark glasses. He was not, in fact, terribly surprised.

“I suppose it’s possible it’s been moved…” Nate said, taking a long sip of his drink.

“I suppose,” Crowley agreed. “Or maybe someone deleted it, just to help me out.”

“Heh, right,” Nate chuckled. “Also, your name… Anthony J. Crowley, yes?”

“Yes.”

“All standard spelling?”

“Yes,” Crowley answered, slightly warily.

“What does the J stand for?”

“Er... it's Jay. J-A-Y," he replied. And it was, at least according to the documentation Michael had given him upon becoming human.

“I tried that. Hm. I can’t find you in the system, as it were. Do you own this flat, or is it in your partner’s name?”

“Er…”

“And your National Insurance ID number… I think Miranda might have got it wrong when she read it out to me. Before I leave, I’d like to verify it, because we’re having a difficult time with your case.”

At the same time, Aziraphale introduced himself to Miranda for the first time in-person, and the two of them got on quite well. It took her attention away from the conversation about Crowley’s seeming non-existence as of now, and thank Somebody that she had already had a couple of Sangrias.

Elisa had come with her boyfriend, and some new clothes to which she had treated herself, with her first raised paycheck.

She gave Crowley and Aziraphale an awkward, simultaneous hug and said, “You know, there’s something different about you guys.”

“You think so?” Aziraphale asked, as he and Crowley looked at each other.

“Yeah, you’re glowing. Oh… I know what it is. Say no more!”

"Oh, fuck me," Crowley sighed in exasperation.

"What? What's happening? Why are we glowing?" Aziraphale asked in confusion, momentarily panicked, wondering if Crowley had told Elisa the truth.

“Quit playing dumb,” she whispered. “Very clever, by the way, to get it done before folks start arriving. That way you don’t have to disappear during the party.” She smiled wickedly, and pointed back and forth between the two of them. Her boyfriend seemed mortified.

“Would you two like a drink?” Aziraphale asked, not waiting for an answer before he rushed inside to pour them both some Sangria.

Craig Huling and his caterer friends Bernard and Louis were in attendance again, though this time as guests. The hosts had prepared the food themselves, with the help of Anathema and Newt. Beforehand, Craig had texted Aziraphale to ask if it was all right to bring a “plus one.” Aziraphale responded emphatically that it was completely fine, and they looked forward to meeting whomever Craig had chosen to accompany him.

And upon arrival, Craig introduced his plus-one as “John,” who shook hands heartily with Crowley, just before disappearing with him into the kitchen for a drink.

“He looks familiar,” Aziraphale whispered. “Who is he?”

“That’s John Kepney. He’s a journalist,” Craig responded. “That’s why he and Crowley seem to know one another."

"Because they do!" Aziraphale said, with a smile.

Craig nodded. "He was here last week when Crowley was making his appeal to squash the story about Adam being kidnapped. He was the only person who came without a spouse or companion, and we started talking…”

Aziraphale continued to smile. “That’s wonderful!”

“We’ve known each other less than two weeks, but we’ve been together most days since we met. Granted, we’ve not had any dates indoors yet because of the pandemic, but we’ll both get tested for Covid as soon as we can, and hopefully then move things, dare I say it, into the parlour! Or perhaps a well-lit dining room!”

Aziraphale placed his hands over his heart exaggeratedly. “Be still my heart!”

“It’s just been so long since I’ve, you know… had someone in my life. I’ve been… preoccupied.”

“I know. I’m so happy you’ve met someone, Craig,” Aziraphale commented with a sincere, huge smile.

Craig seemed to lose himself for a moment, and admired the smile. “You know what? There’s something different about you.”

“That’s a popular opinion today,” Aziraphale said, sheepishly.

“If possible, you glow even brighter than before,” said Craig, quite fondly.

“Oh?” Aziraphale had to resist the urge to say, 'you knew me before I was human... this should be no different from before.' But of course, for loads of reasons, he refrained.

“Yes,” said the fine cheese merchant, before catching himself getting wistful. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right. But do be careful.”

Craig nodded. “He doesn’t know about you… John, I mean. You know, how I… and how you and I became friends, or any of it.”

“That’s all right. You don’t owe him any of that just yet. Your secrets are safe with me. And Crowley’s quite savvy – he won’t let anything slip.”

“Thanks. And, just so you know… I haven’t quite moved on yet. I feel I should tell you that. I still feel… what I’ve always felt, in your presence. In my heart, and in… well, other areas of my person,” he said, shyly, with a little chuckle. “And today, it seems magnified for some reason. Maybe it’s because John is here with me, and I feel self-conscious about it.”

“Or maybe it’s because you are moving on, in fact, and you may be grieving for what might have been. Or what used to be,” Aziraphale said. He took a pause and the said, “I’m ever so sorry that you’re hurting.”

“It’s all right. All part of the human experience, eh?”

“I suppose it is,” Aziraphale agreed. Then he moved in close, and said, “Craig, let me ask you. Tell me honestly. If, by, let’s say, a miracle, you could be rid of those feelings for me, whatever they may be – call it lust, call it pining – would you?”

“Be rid of it? Today? By a miracle?”

“Yes.”

“Would I have to forget your existence? Forget what I once shared with you? And Crowley, of course?”

“No, not necessarily.”

Craig thought about it, and squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. A little choked-up, he said, “No. I’d rather be a grown-up and continue to work through it on my own. I’d rather move forward – maybe with John, maybe with someone else, I don’t know yet, too soon to tell – and hopefully let it leave me naturally as I find love, and devotion to and with another person. Without that, my one evening with you will seem out-of-context and… cheap? Is that the word?”

“I don't know what the word is,” Aziraphale said.

“No, my friend, even if someone could magically click their fingers and remove that particular bundle of emotion, I wouldn’t let go of what I feel. I love IT, as much as… well, as much as I love anything else that’s part of my life. And the gambler in me doesn’t actually want a sure thing. There’s no meaning or sport in it, do you know what I mean?”

Aziraphale smiled mildly, and said, “I'm afraid that particular comparison eludes me. But thank you, Craig, I’m glad to have a clear answer.”

----------------------------------------------------------

The dinner party for twenty-three total guests eventually moved up to their rooftop patio (at least for the sixteen adults), and as before, they set out a table there, and dined on dill-and-lemon-infused Tilapia, risotto, Caesar salad, and wine that was older and finer than anyone at the table fully realised. The cheese course followed, of course, and then they took a break, each person fetching their own drink (more wine, sparkling water, espresso, a cocktail), in preparation for dessert. The kids made the choice to stay down in the garden and have their meal on a blanket in the grass. For them, Crowley had prepared sandwiches, crisps, and macaroni, and they were happy as clams.

For dessert, Madame Tracy had brought a chocolate cake, much to Aziraphale’s dismay, as he had baked a cheesecake, and had mixed his own salted caramel sauce to drizzle on top – it had taken him three tries to get right. Most folks ate a bit of both, and Tracy didn’t seem any the wiser that she had made a faux pas.

Anathema and Newt stayed to help with clean-up, though eventually, the hosts insisted they had done enough, and shooed them out.

"Okay, but you'll come for game night on Wednesday, right?" Anathema asked, giving Crowley a hug.

"Sure, just don't make me play Charades," the demon responded.

"How do you feel about Cards Against Humanity?" she asked.

He smirked. "In spite of the title, I rather like it."

"Good," she said, patting him affectionately on the cheek, and making to leave.

"Oh, did you tell them what Shadwell told us?" Newt asked, just before the front door was shut.

"Right," Anathema said. "They've set a wedding date: New Year's Eve. Save the date."

Crowley and Aziraphale gave a thumbs-up, said good night, and returned to the roof to finish tidying up. For the moment, the enjoyed moving about, talking, even the chore itself - it didn't occur to them to use magic just now.

And now, all that was left on the table were the remnants of Huling’s cheese course (as Aziraphale thought he might still like to finish it off), a small bowl of the caramel sauce that Aziraphale had used performatively to decorate the plates and cheesecake, their own wine glasses, and the last quarter of a bottle of wine. The sun had gone down, and the decorative lights had come on. Crowley gestured to the seating area, and said, “Shall we take a load off, and clean up the rest later?”

“All right,” Aziraphale said, and they sat down beside one another on the loveseat-style teak sofa, with weatherproof cushions.

Crowley threw his arm around his companion, and Aziraphale leaned in. “So, John and Craig. Seems like a good enough match. It'll do for now, anyway."

“Yes, I think so.”

“Who’d have thought? It surprised me, how about you?”

“Yes, it did. Most definitely.”

Crowley was quiet for a moment, then he turned and looked at his lover, whose face was only a few centimetres away, and resting on his shoulder. “He’s not over you, you know. I can tell by the way he looks at you.”

“I know. He’s trying.”

“Mm. Just hope he doesn’t treat John like the rebound guy, or something.”

“I don’t think he will.”

“I don’t either,” Crowley said.

“I had a talk with him tonight,” Aziraphale sighed. “Just when they arrived, and you’d taken John to the kitchen for a drink. It seems to me, from his tone, that he’s quite aware of the danger of that, and you and I both know that he’s not interested in hurting anyone. Physically or emotionally.”

Crowley nodded slowly. If he’s anything, he’s self-aware. They’ll be okay. But he’s got his work cut out for him. Getting over you.”

“He’ll manage.”

“I don’t know… you’re quite a thing to attempt to ignore. Especially now you’re under his skin, angel. I’ve tried it myself, getting over you, getting past you, and it’s bloody hard. As you can see, I’ve failed miserably.”

Aziraphale’s blue eyes met his partner’s yellow ones. “You’re different.”

“Why, because I’m a demon?”

“No, because… well…”

Crowley chuckled. “Face it, angel. You’re irresistible, and that’s saying a Hell of a lot, coming from me.”

And his head dipped down, and they fell into another of their deep, searching snogs, that, if they’d had breath, would have left them both breathless. Aziraphale’s hands found Crowley’s lapel, and pulled. Crowley’s entire body moved sideways to meet the demand, and their arms curled round each other like enveloping wings, while their tongues danced, and promising moans came forth.

Crowley began to nip and suck at the angel’s perfect, smooth, fleshy neck. “Shall we take this into the bedroom?” he whispered.

“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you go fetch another case of wine, and meet me back here?”

“Back here? On the roof?”

“Yes, darling.”

“Seriously?” Crowley asked, amber eyes wide with anticipation.

“Yes. What have we got to lose?”

“Absolutely nothing, angel.”

Chapter Text

Crowley carried a wooden crate from the storage room off the kitchen all the way up the stairs to the roof. Once there, he set it on the table where they had just hosted dinner, pulled a bottle of wine out of the box, miracled the cork out, and began swigging Aziraphale’s favourite 1921 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. He shed his silk-lined silver blazer, threw it over the back of one of the dinner chairs, and sat down on the waterproof teak sofa with his beverage.

Within a minute, blonde curls appeared in the opening to the atrium of their home, and it began to rise as Aziraphale walked up the stairs. He was wearing a charcoal-grey cashmere robe that he had purchased in the 1950s, and it made Crowley grin from ear to ear.

The story went that in the early 1940s, there had been yet another momentous moment of terrifying clarity over the nature of their feelings.
It was a moment in, of all places, the burned-out ruins of a church, that had taken their mutual sentiment to a whole new level, and neither of them was ever quite the same again. Aziraphale's wrestling with his "personal" demons began to abate a bit, and Crowley swore off all non-solo sexual activity unless and until the love they shared could be realised. He had had to wait seventy-eight years for another canoodle.

Intermittently, the feelings would suppress themselves then resurface. One moment of lucidity occurred around 1955 or so, when Aziraphale felt the urge to be enveloped, as it were, in Crowley’s presence, but couldn’t “have” him the way he wanted. So, some errant, misdirected imperative had caused him to purchase a dark, soft, sensual garment that he could wear with no other clothing. It would caress his skin with nothing in-between, and he could feel connected to his beloved… without really even consciously knowing it.

Well, now he consciously knew it. They both understood quite well what the robe represented, and what it meant when Aziraphale wore it.

Equally interesting was the box the angel held in his hands. It was not a wooden crate of wine, however. It was a black lacquer box from Crowley’s side of their shelf/headboard. This, too, caused Crowley to grin like an idiot, and his body to flex and tighten in the best way possible.

Aziraphale brought the box to the coffee table, and sat down across.

“Well, angel, you’re going all-out. I’m very impressed.”

Aziraphale reached out for the wine, and Crowley passed it to him, and he took a long pull that included several large gulps. Absently, he noted that they’d have to open a new bottle soon (they had already been through half a dozen bottles, what with their dinner party, but they themselves had not overly partaken). He set it back on the table, and folded his hands in his lap.

“Yes, I am going all-out, Crowley,” he said, quite seriously. “Because when you were incarcerated, I was simply beside myself thinking we might never see each other again.”

“So was I, angel.”

“And one of the things weighing heavily on me was the fact that I had continually relegated as nonsense your idea of making love on the roof.”

Crowley smiled, and sang, “Ahhh,” with understanding.

“I mean, one could look at it as simply a lascivious suggestion, as perpetrated by an oversexed hedonist…”

Crowley laughed. “Wow, judgemental much?”

“…or one could look at it as what it was: a man in love, making his desires known to his partner. Anathema once told me that any and all desires deserve to be at least heard-out by the people who love us most, and she is right. And the last time I heeded that advice, we ended up in our lovely mad tryst with Craig Huling! I can’t bear to think of having missed out on that, can you?”

With a smile, and another swig of wine, Crowley responded, “No, indeed.”

“The more I thought about you, and fretted over our future together or apart, the more terrible I felt that I hadn’t entertained your sex-on-the-roof desire, and had always treated it as something that was silly, and could never happen.”

“Well, to be fair, angel, at the time, it could not happen. Not unless we were willing to become amateur porn stars.”

“Be that as it may, I promised myself that I would find a way to make it happen, in some way, shape, or form. I spent a bit of time running through in my mind how we might accomplish it as humans.”

“I appreciate that, angel. More than you know.”

“It’s important that we listen to each other, Crowley. And I’m sorry that I didn’t do so.”

“It’s all right.”

“And now that I have you back, I want to make it up to you, and go, as you said, all out.”

“So, you were actually thinking of ways we could come up here and have a good canoodle, as humans?”

“I was. I didn’t know we’d have our powers back by the time we got home on Thursday.”

“And what did you come up with?”

“I’m sure everything that occurred to me has also occurred to you,” Aziraphale said, breaking eye-contact, and blushing a bit.

“Wha... yeah, probably. But I want to hear you tell me,” Crowley said, sitting back against the sofa, with the bottle between his legs, and his arms spread out wide. “Especially if you’re going to be all cute and diffident like that.”

“Well,” Aziraphale began, nervously adjusting his robe over his shins. “I thought of a tent.”

“Mm-hm, that would’ve been fun.”

“I thought of a blanket. A tarp. Pretty much the same as a tent.”

“Yes, and?”

“I also thought of bringing food up, and having one of our gourmand-and-voyeur encounters at the table over there, and you could, you know…”

“…ooh, wank under table, with no-one the wiser. An excellent idea, angel!”

At that point, Crowley began to feel his trousers tightening a smidge. Just the thought of that particular activity was usually enough to at least cause general swelling of that sort.

“I also thought it could be great fun just to speculate. Just to TALK about what we would do up here, if we got the chance. Talk about people seeing us, and how they would react, and how much of a show we would put on for our neighbours. I think that if we did that, our descriptions would get more and more graphic as time went on, the language would get filthier and filthier...”

“Oh, it definitely would!”

“Having experienced phone sex with you, I wondered if perhaps just the conversation about physical pursuits on the roof would serve as a satisfying way of… you know…”

“I think it would,” Crowley said, looking at his partner with admiration. “Very clever.”

“But now we’re here, and we have our powers, and we don’t need to be seen by everyone who happens to look our way,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Quite true. Do you want to do the honours, or shall I?”

“Allow me,” said the angel, and he waved his arm in an overhand motion. A dome appeared over their entire rooftop terrace momentarily, sparkling, then seemed to disappear.

“Now we can’t be seen?” Crowley said.

“Only by those who will be inspired by us. And, if I…” Aziraphale said, and he waved his fingers individually, all in one slick motion, toward the invisible dome. “…do that, I can add a filter that will wipe it from memory within a minute or two, and make it impenetrable to camera devices. Wow, it’s been a long while since I’ve done anything so elaborate. I hope Home Office doesn’t notice.”

Crowley smiled. “I love it. And I love you.”

“I love you, as well, Crowley. I’m here for you. For whatever you desire.”

“So, naturally, you’ve brought a box of sex toys.”

“Naturally,” Aziraphale responded with an irreverent smirk, and wiggled his bottom in his chair, as he often did when happy.

“Let’s see,” Crowley said, pulling the black lacquer receptacle toward him. “What have we here?”

And he began to explore the contents of the box, a collection of various and sundry adult toys they had collected over the course of the past year, most of which they had acquired in the three months since lockdown. Crowley had subscribed them to a mail-order service that sent a box with two or three high-quality toys every two weeks. Services like that had been flourishing in Pandemica.

The first thing he pulled out was a standard, clear bottle of lubricant, and set it on the table. “Gotta love the classics,” he said. They peered into the box together, and he asked, “Anything in this box stirring your fancy?”

“Well, as you've just said, there are the classics, of course,” Aziraphale said, picking up their first glass anal plug out of the box, along with a pink silicone one of identical size and shape. Except, the latter seemed to have some of its silicone sheath gathered under the head, like a spring.

“Mm,” Crowley said. “If memory serves, there’s more to that pink one than meets the eye.”

Aziraphale reached in and removed something that looked like a battery-operated torch. “Oh, good grief. Certainly not this vulgar thing,” he said. He took a lid off the wide end, and uncovered a surface of flexible silicone, moulded and coloured to resemble a human mouth.

“Ah, the Fleshlight Stroker,” Crowley chuckled. “I do appreciate its ribbed, dishwasher-safe insides."

Aziraphale shuddered. "Have you ever used it?"

“No, I’ll have a real mouth, thanks.” And then, he pulled out a small box that held six sampler-size bottles of varying colours. “Ah, more lube, the flavoured ones… we still haven’t tried strawberry nor Piña Colada.”

“I didn’t fancy the flavours much. They were so artificial,” Aziraphale commented.

“Fuck's sake, angel, one does not get one’s kicks from flavoured lube because it’s a culinary masterpiece. Case in point… come here.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Are we doing this?” Crowley asked, and he swept the coffee table to the side to make room in front of him, though left it within reach, quite on purpose.

Aziraphale stood up sheepishly, and one could quite plainly see that the conversation and setting had been arousing to him. His robe tented in front just a bit, but noticeably, and Crowley licked his lips while his eyes fixated on it.

From his seat on the sofa, he reached out and picked up the Piña Colada lube, and the pink spade-shaped plug Aziraphale had laid on the table, then untied his partner's cashmere robe. To his delight, as he suspected, there was zero clothing in the way, once the garment was open. He drizzled the slippery liquid all over the toy, to which Aziraphale responded with a short, tight gasp. Crowley said, low and huskily, “Spread your legs, angel.”

Aziraphale obeyed nervously, and stood with his feet apart. Crowley reached up between his thighs placed the head of the toy between those lucious, angelic cheeks, searching for the opening. It didn’t take but a few seconds, and the pink plug found a niche, and Aziraphale yelped just a little, then groaned hard as the demon began to press it inside of him.

“Just relax,” counselled Crowley, and then he filled his mouth with the long, thick dick that had been bobbing in his face. Immediately, Aziraphale let go of his qualms, and he moaned with the dual pleasure. The exhale allowed Crowley to lodge the anal plug the rest of the way, and he let go of it.

Then he drizzled more of the Piña Colada lube over Aziraphale’s throbbing cock, and stroked it tightly with his hand, occasionally licking the head, tasting the novelty flavour, as well as his delicious partner’s salty ooze.

Aziraphale pumped his hips in response, basically transitioning to fucking Crowley’s hand. He moaned, “Oh, yes, Crowley, oh yes,” and allowed his cashmere robe to slide off his shoulders, and drape across his back and elbows. He placed his hands on his hips, leaned his head back, and continued to thrust.

Crowley looked up at him, and smiled. “You vixen.”

“I can’t help it. The sensations are exquisite, and I feel like spoiled royalty.”

“Ah, you like that thing in your arse, while your dick gets attention, don’t you?”

“Of course,” the angel moaned.

“Well wait until you feel this,” Crowley growled. With his free hand, he reached into the box, and came up with a little pink remote control.
He pressed the button.

“Oh, fuck!” Aziraphale spat, in a very Crowley-like manner.

“What’s it doing?” Crowley wanted to know, hand still busy.

“Vibrating,” Aziraphle responded, breathless. “Oh… oh!”

Crowley pressed the button again. “How about now?”

“Vibrating harder. Oh! Oh, my…”

He pressed it again. “Now?”

“It’s… shuddering. At intervals.”

“You like it?”

“It’s magnificent! So filthy what it’s doing to me…”

“Good, angel. Feel it. Feel it shudder right on that spot, you know the one I’m talking about?”

“Oh, I do.”

And for a minute or so, Aziraphale enjoyed the intensity of this moment, moaned over it, cursed a time or two. Crowley watched, and pleasured his lovely angel with a slippery hand while his trousers grew uncomfortably tight.

Then, Crowley pressed the button one more time, and asked, “What’s it doing to you now?”

“Oh, fuck… it’s thrusting! It’s thrusting!”

“Mm-hm, that’s what the spring does. And you thought the shudders were filthy.”

“Oh, Crowley…”

“Yes?”

“Crowley it’s like… it’s like… oh, I can’t… I can’t…”

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t hold on!”

And that’s when the first white streams of come erupted from Aziraphale’s well-handled cock. He groaned in release, and Crowley growled, “Ah, yes, just like that angel, keep coming… keep coming…” Crowley pumped the now supernaturally empowered instrument, and jet after jet came forth, splashing the his neck and chest, sullying one of his favourite silk shirts. But he didn’t mind.

And when the last bits of cream were leaking out the tip, and Aziraphale was practically whimpering, Crowley stuffed the sensitive member back into his mouth all the way, and savoured the flavour and the mouthfeel. Aziraphale juddered and clawed his partner’s shoulders, at the overwhelming sensation of being stimulated and sucked, just after orgasm.

And the thing in his arse was still thrusting. And he was still loving it. The combination nearly made his eyes nearly cross with the intensity.

“Mm, so good,” Crowley moaned around the piece of flesh he was sucking.

“Oh yes?” Aziraphale panted. “Like lounging in the tropics with a Piña Colada?"

“No, like sitting in London with an absolutely luscious cock my mouth, that tastes slightly like coconut, and makes me want to suck harder," Crowley answered. “You see, that’s the real appeal of the flavoured lube, angel.”

Aziraphale chuckled, then lilted, “Touché,” as the demon gave a few last mouth-bobs on his cock, released his grip, and sat back on the sofa, spread his legs. He clicked his fingers, and all of the slippery emissions from his neck and chest dissipated into the air, and his silk shirt was good as new. Then, Crowley undid his belt, followed by the clasp and zip of his trousers. And he reached inside and extracted his own long, hard-as-stone, leaking dick. And he just leaned back, and let it jut up from his lap, as though it made its own statement. And it did.

Aziraphale admired the view, then took a few steps away, took up and finished the rest of their first bottle of wine. Then, he crossed to the table, extracted, and opened another.

“Feeling loose?” Crowley asked, watching his half-naked angel take a few gulps.

“Starting to get there,” Aziraphale answered, handing the bottle to his partner.

Crowley drank, then smirked, and said, “Thanks, but I don’t mean from the alcohol.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, concentrating on the continued thrusting in his rear hole. “That, too. It’s heavenly, Crowley.”

He looked Aziraphale over, and said, “It’s keeping you hard as a fucking steel girder, so it’s got to be good. Though your body does perform differently now…”

“Indeed. But can you switch it off for the moment?"

Crowley obliged, and the tool became still. Crowley then drank a bit more, and began to handle his own cock with his fist. Seeing this made Aziraphale drool just a little.

"Stand up," said the angel, with authority.

Crowley did so coolly, setting the bottle down, though he was bursting with excitement. His amber eyes narrowed and fixed on Aziraphale. The latter waved his hand, magically removing his companion’s clothing, leaving him nude, sinewy, gorgeous, with a raging hard-on. “Very un-angelic of you.”

“Turn around,” Aziraphale ordered.

“Even better,” Crowley muttered, delighted.

Aziraphale peered once again into the black lacquer box, and extracted a device that he had tried back in March when they had received their first naughty shipment. It was black, about four inches long, and curved. It, too, came with a remote.

"Get on the settee, knees apart, and lean on the back."

Once again, Crowley obliged him, and thought his dick might explode then and there from the anticipation. But he held it in check and wriggled his bottom a bit, wondering what kind of punishment or pleasure it would be taking.

He got his answer when he felt cold, slippery lube dripping between his firm cheeks, then slide naturally into his surprisingly tight hole. He moaned, “Mmm, strawberry?”

“Mm-hm,” Aziraphale, now on his knees, managed to say, just as his tongue began lapping at that puckered, strawberry-flavoured hole, one lick after another, after another. Once again, Crowley moaned. Over the next minute or so, he swore at his angel several times, over his “fucking magical” arse-licking.

“Oh, shit, Aziraphale, I’ve been needing this,” he panted. “Ever since I watched you give a rim-job to that wine bottle, I’ve needed your tongue up my arse. Oh, fuck, yeah.”

He spread his knees wider apart, and leaned harder forward, offering up more of what the angel wanted. Aziraphale burrowed his tongue into the fuckable, rosy opening where his partner felt unholy pleasures, and wriggled it, then vibrated it at the flexible ring. Crowley uttered some phrase that was unrecognisable in any language, as his brain turned to mush.

“Oh dear, the strawberry flavouring is about to wear off,” Aziraphale said. “But I do see what you mean Crowley. This is absolutely scrumptious, and has nothing to do with the lubricant. I see the appeal.” He said this as if he hadn’t known all along it was true, and it made Crowley smile.

And the angel went back to work tongue-fucking a demon.

A few minutes, and several dozen expletives later, Aziraphale gave his last lick and stood up. He placed both hands on the bum cheeks he loved so very much, and said, “Oh Crowley, I think I have a dilemma. Quite a delectably obscene one.”

“Talk to me, tell me your dilemma. Be delectably obscene,” Crowley panted, still bent forward obediently, arse pointed backward, well primed.

“Now that I’ve tasted and prepped your sweet little puckered hole and made it as slippery as I can, I find that I want very badly to fuck it,” as he rubbed the mushroomed head of his cock up and down Crowley’s crack, skimming over his arsehole teasingly. “Fuck YOU, in fact. Now, over this sofa. I want to… oh, so badly, Crowley.”

“You do?”

“Yes, my love. Probably quite roughly, and with a lot of noise. Such is the state of my body, and the irresistibility of yours.” He rubbed Crowley’s bum cheeks as he spoke.

“Oh, shit, angel,” Crowley whined. “Do it. Please do it. Please!”

“I must admit, the thought of it, of fucking you crudely and then blasting yet another gush of cream into your waiting arse is almost more than I can bear.”

“Then do it, angel. Fuck me blind! Now!”

“But here’s my dilemma, Crowley. A few moments ago, you showed me that mighty iron weapon you’ve got there, and looked at me as though daring me to take it," Aziraphale said, reaching around to stroke the iron-hard weapon in question. "And Crowley, your dick is so long and lovely and pink and powerful, I can’t not want it digging into me over and over again until my eyes cross.”

“Ngk,” Crowley said, swallowing hard. “Interesting dilemma.”

“You see the problem? I feel it in my hand, think of you sitting there with it sticking up out of your trousers, looking at me with that ‘come ride me’ expression on your face, and that’s what I want to do. Touching this magnificent thing, all I can think of is riding you. Sinking down and sheathing it with my hot little arse, and pumping it until I am once again slick between my cheeks with your luscious, warm cream that slips when I walk, and reminds me of whom I belong to."

Crowley was speechless. In the throes of desire, this so-called angel had probably the filthiest mouth he had ever encountered. Though Aziraphale probably did feel a bit torn about what to do next, this was clearly a performance, this graphic, debauched monologue done for Crowley’s benefit. They both loved when Aziraphale acted the slut, and he could do it so well. It was a perplexing and arousing mix of a proper Victorian RP speaking just the right intoxicating combination of English words. It all married into perfect, ‘scrumptious’ smut.

“You’re fucking killing me, Aziraphale,” Crowley whined, with nevertheless, a smile.

“So what should I do?” the angel asked, letting go of Crowley's dick, and standing up straight, once again, pressing his hands and groin against the hungry lubed-up arse.

Crowley couldn’t help but laugh. “I… I… can’t decide. I’m crippled… I…”

Apparently not willing to wait for an answer, Aziraphale once again drizzled lubricant all over the demon’s twitching, waiting opening. Crowley sighed with relief. Then the angel picked up the curved black plug he had selected, and worked it in. Crowley was surprised, but happy, and groaned with the naughty sensation of a foreign object being inserted. Aziraphale adjusted the instrument, and Crowley only then realised it was curved, because the crooked end grazed his prostate, and it made him nearly bite his tongue off. Aziraphale repeated the action, and then settled the tip of it against that perfect spot, for maximum twists and turns.

Then Aziraphale said, “I’ll need to remove the pink one you put in me earlier. Would you…?”

In a flash, Crowley was sitting again, and pulling the pink thruster out of his partner’s body. He tossed it on the mat beneath their feet.

Aziraphale moved the coffee table back to its original position about two feet from the sofa. The angel stood over the demon, and squeezed out the last of the strawberry lube over the latter’s cock, now practically purple with anticipation.

Crowley spread the liquid all over the extended member while Aziraphale crawled up on him, knees on either side, and held it, guiding it as the angel found it with his stretched, primed hole, and eased himself down over it. Crowley groaned hard, cursed as usual, and Aziraphale licked his ear, and whispered, “That feels absolutely wicked, my darling.”

“Mm-hm,” Crowley grunted, unable to articulate words at the moment.

“Let’s give this a try, then.” Aziraphale then reached back to the table, picked up the black remote, and pressed the button.

Crowley’s eyes crossed momentarily, and he threw his head back with a reflexive laugh. “Oh, shit!”

“If I’m right, this is the toy that inflates, yes?” Aziraphale asked.

“Mm-hm. Oh, shit,” Crowley repeated.

“Let’s see if we can find a pleasing setting for you, my love. How’s this?” And he pressed the button twice.

“Oh, fuck, angel! Leave it there. Leave it there!”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes!”

“Is it pulsating, inflated, then deflated, again and again?”

“Mm-hm,” Crowley answered, his head still back.

Aziraphale kissed and lightly bit at the long, exposed neck. “Would you like me to ride your cock whilst you enjoy the pulsations?”

“Ah… yah…”

Aziraphale smiled, and began to do just that. He watched his partner lean back, groaning, cursing inarticulately as he moved up and down.
He braced one hand behind him on the coffee table and magically (temporarily) bolted the piece of furniture to the floor while he rode and milked his partner's aching dick, and began to stroke his own. He watched, pleasuring them both, feeling, seeing, hearing sensations mount.

"Fffffuck..." Crowley let leak out of his mouth inarticulately, at intervals. "Ugggh, ngk..."

Faster and faster Aziraphale moved, deftly. The sound of slapping flesh began, both of their favourite sounds in the world. Aziraphale was beginning to pant and perspire a bit, not caring that he could stop himself doing both anytime he chose. He enjoyed the very humanness of the exertion that came with sex, the effort it took, the breathlessness, the sweat, saliva, the musk. It all served a purpose, to make them feel grounded, entrenched in one another, entrenched in the flesh, the Earth, the creature comforts. It all made him feel closer to the moment, and closer to Crowley.

He grabbed Crowley around the neck and braced himself - it gave him leverage to move faster and harder. He served them both consciously, milking Crowley's hair-trigger weapon forward and forward toward an eruptive release, and giving himself the incredible pleasure of slamming his arse down hard over Crowley’s cock. Over and over, the long, hard dick dug into him more roughly and deeply, and he himself began to moan. "Glorious" was a word that often popped into his mind when they were fucking, and tonight was no exception. Deliciousness permeated his body, slippery pleasure, shuddering... even their moans felt like they come from their very souls.

Suddenly, Crowley’s head snapped back up into place, and his hands gripped at Aziraphale’s powerful thighs.

“Oh, angel,” he said, boring his reptilian eyes into his partner’s. “I’m just there. Don’t stop what you’re doing."

"Don't stop?"

"No! Not ever.”

“Are you sure? Not ever?” the angel panted, returning now to jerking his own cock, bouncing, bracing himself, coiling, reaching a pinnacle…

“Not ever… oh, shit…”

Aziraphale held his eyes. “Are you sure wouldn’t like to come? And watch me come? And then take a nice long wine break, so we can start again in a while?”

“Oh… angel…”

“We can do that now. Drink and fuck. Over and over again, my darling, you said so yourself!”

“We can… yes…”

“Oh, don’t be daft, Crowley. How can you hold onto that load, with that thing in your arse, massaging you so nicely, and me on your cock? Just come in me… fill me up! You can’t hold on, my love, you simply can’t!”

Crowley smiled, and looked around momentarily at the buildings surrounding them. As catharsis mounted, he marvelled at the moment, the rooftop fantasy being lived just now, and the generosity of his angel…

And then he proved Aziraphale right, and gave them both what they wanted. He wanted release, and Aziraphale wanted to be filled with with Crowley's warm milky pleasure. He came with a loud half-scream, half-grunt, and Aziraphale continued to pump, using his arse to tightly pump the cream out of his gorgeous companion. He smiled watching the event, even as his own come came spurting out onto Crowley’s stomach. Momentarily, his vision blurred, but he was very much in the moment, feeling his own slide and pop, his partner's as well, hearing both of their curses and groans and heavy, laboured breaths.

The demon seemed to come and come, forever giving pulse after pulse, spurt after hot slippery spurt to Aziraphale’s body, straight into that precious, tight hole that had learned so very recently to appreciate these depraved pleasures. It was, in fact, nothing less than "glorious," this simultaneous release. And neither of them, in spite of their addled, drunken, pleasure-soaked state, was taking it for granted.

Chapter Text

“D’you know what I've always found interesting? Some think that all of Creation is a cosmic accident. Or a cosmic joke,” an angel said softly, sitting uncharacteristically reclined in a teak armchair, on the roof of the flat he shared with a demon. That demon had taught him first and foremost, and in various and sundry ways, about temptation. But he had also taught the angel all about love, hate, anger, conflict, the nature of good and evil, humanity, and the universe.

Case in point, “What, so like, God got drunk one day and went ‘whoops! I just made a planet! Oh look, there’s another one! Ha ha, that’ll show the other gods! Oh wait, there aren’t any!’” the demon speculated. He was lying on his back on the teak waterproof sofa, on the other side of a coffee table loaded with sex toys that weren’t finished being used yet. His ankles were crossed and his feet were up on the armrest.

They were drunk. On very good wine. On even better sex. On each other. And they were quite naked, both of them. They were taking a breather before more wine and more sex, and both stared up at the stars, which were visible in London, contrary to what many people say about big cities. (One might argue that Pollution’s disappearance in the wake of Pestilence’s return was causing them to shine more brightly and smog-free than usual, but Aziraphale and Crowley had always felt that they shone plenty bright in London, even after the streetlamps were installed.) They also stared up at the few high-rise flats near their home from which people, under normal circumstances, could easily see them, their bare bodies, and whatever they decided to do with them on the roof.

But it was not normal circumstances.

With the two of them, it was almost never normal circumstances.

Aziraphale chuckled at his best friend and lover’s depiction of how the Almighty might’ve cosmically, accidentally created the Heavens and the Earth perhaps in a state of intoxication. But then, he said, “No, that’s not what is meant at all. But if you think about it, Crowley, how else would you explain you and me?”

“You and I are a cosmic joke?” Crowley asked, lifting his head to look at his partner quizzically.

“No, but perhaps an accident,” Aziraphale said. “A product of the cosmic accident. Or, at the very least, evidence that God does, in fact, play dice with the universe.”

“Defend.”

“Well, God creates the Heavens and the Earth, with sentient beings on both planes. Originally, the concept of Heaven was to watch over the Earth. Guard the Eastern Gate, that sort of thing, yeah? And there’s a hierarchy – seraphim, dominions, archangels, principalities and all that. It’s all very well organised. And we’re meant to keep in line, keep the Earth running steady, cleanse and welcome souls into our midst and whatnot, but then… there’s a rebellion! I mean, what kind of Almighty God creates angels to police the world, and then rebel?”

“Oh, angel. I think you know the answer to that.”

“Yes, She’s benevolent, intelligent, blah, blah, blah. But why create a moronic Archwanker like Gabriel, who has no bloody idea what’s actually going on, but is in charge of us? Middle management without a blooming clue! Why not create angels with more control, perhaps with less free will? Humans, sure, test them until the cows come home, but in Heaven, there should be order! And yet… there’s Hell. The Anti-Heaven.”

“Indeed, there is.”

“And there are angels who are violent with one another. Who lie to one another, who are immovable pillars of idiocy. Some who literally fall from Her grace… it does beg the question, what was She thinking? If She was thinking at all! It does sound like an accident, doesn’t it? It doesn’t make any sense. And it does make one wonder if She made a mistake with the current order, and wants to eradicate it all and start again.”

“Aziraphale, don’t go there. Can't bear to think about that right now."

“Because then there’s me. I’m supposed to Guard the Eastern Gate and see to Adam and Eve, but as soon as they’re gone from the Garden, I embark on a six-thousand-year journey in which I do what? Remain dedicated to my virtue? No. Evolve as a spiritual being? No!”

“Yes! Of course you’ve evolved as a spiritual being!”

“No, the most significant thing that I’ve done in all this time is fall in love. With you. With a being from Hell. With one of the blasted rebels… such as you were. And the most significant things I’ve learned have been from you, about even more ways for an angel to be imperfect! Like getting drunk and having a series of orgasms on a roof!”

Crowley laughed. “I see your point.”

"It’s got to be an accident, don’t you think?”

“Nah,” Crowley dismissed. “I don’t think it’s accidental at all. And I don’t think it’s all that ineffable either.”

“Careful, Crowley. Those are fighting words.”

“If it were an accident, She would have alerted Gabriel to it a long time ago – you and me teaming up, spending time together, helping each other out. If it were an accident, She would have reassigned you... I don't know, to halo inventory or something."

"That's not a thing."

"Whatever. If it were an accident, She would have let Beelzebub and the gang know that you and I were reinstated a week ago. If it were an accident, She would have let them kill us a year ago. If it were an accident, She wouldn’t have let us be human, and try out this life with each other. She wouldn’t let Michael operate the way she does. She’s God, the Supreme Being of the universe – do you really think she couldn’t just stop everything and set things the way She wants them? The only explanation is that She really doesn’t necessarily want things a certain way.”

“Hm. Maybe She gets a kick out of watching what happens, just like the rest of us do,” Aziraphale mused.

“I think She does. And Aziraphale, you just said that the most meaningful thing you’ve learned in the last six thousand years has been the ways of hedonism as I have taught them to you. It’s a lovely sentiment that has a bit to do with me, and a Hell of a lot to do with embracing, as a sentient being, the necessary dichotomy between good and evil. Because you indulge in the pleasures of the flesh, but you’ve never lost your goodness. We’ve both learned that good cannot exist without evil and vice versa. And we work here on Earth, and have more contact with humans than any other supernatural beings, and the dichotomy is an important lesson for humans, as well. And I’m sorry, angel, but I think it’s all been intentional.”

Aziraphale sat up straight and smiled. “That’s beautiful Crowley. Perhaps you’re right.”

Crowley sat up as well. “The real question is, does it make it more or less sexy to know that our relationship is sanctioned by God?”

“Does it matter?”

Crowley smirked. “Not in the grand scheme of things,” he said, picking up a purple silicone item off the table, shaped like a distorted horseshoe. He pressed a button, and it began to vibrate. “Because one way or another, I’m going to enjoy the Hell out of this. Ready, angel?”